“You look like hell,” Helen Cavinaugh greeted him two weeks later as he opened the door of his apartment.
“Appropriate, don’t you think?” Walkeden stifled a yawn, then made a grand gesture. “Please come in.”
She stalked in and looked around the cluttered living room with distaste. Fast-food cartons, hardcopy, beer bottles and datasticks competed for space on the coffee table.
Walkeden followed her gaze and shrugged. “I’ve been too busy on our little project to clean house.”
“It is finished, I trust?”
“Pretty well. I’d like to fine-tune it if I have time, but...” He led her into his study, even more cluttered than the living room, with trash teetering precariously on every flat surface. “Have a seat.”
Mrs. Cavinaugh sat gingerly in the swivel chair in front of the terminal. Walkeden h
