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“Mr. Phelps, Senator Swanson is here to see you,” Ms. Jackson, the nameplate on her desk read, pressed the intercom button on her desk phone, and spoke into the small microphone attached to the earpiece she wore over her left ear.
“Yes, sir,” she continued after a moment. “Please have a seat. He’ll be with you in a moment.”
So, they had finally flooded enough rodent holes that a few of them have come to the surface, John Logan Phelps, Sr., thought. He gathered a few photos from his desk and slipped them into a file folder. Moving a paperweight that was a miniature globe inside a larger, clear, resin dome on top of the urgent phone message from Abner Genetics, and then clicking on another screen to bring up a benign picture of a cabin in the woods, John pressed the button under his de
