ThirteenThey hadn’t gone five steps down the corridor when the last person in the world Slava wanted to see saw them: Pierre Jules César Balard, the director general of ITER himself. Slava turned away too late.
“Dr. Archangelsky,” the nearly two-meter-tall Balard greeted him with a heavy French accent. “No one told me you were visiting.”
Slava accepted the extended hand, which fully engulfed his own. “Was in area. Just thought I’d drop in to see Dima.”
The bald Balard’s reputation was of a brusque, intransigent tyrant who’d been inspired by his own name. It might be necessary if you are coordinating a project involving thirty countries, Slava conceded. Inevitably, Balard brought up events at CFRC.
“Give my best to Krieg-Zuber.” From the way Balard frowned and rebuttoned his jacket, Sla
