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doors closed, and the elevator left, taking their guide with it. “No windows.”
    Bradshaw looked at her with surprise. “You don’t have windows in your lab.”
    She grinned at him. “Who needs windows there when you can see the entire universe?”
    “She’s got you there,” Cross said. He stepped deeper into the room. The air was climate controlled to a somewhat cool sixty-eight degrees. It smelled recycled, so he bet it was on its own system. Someone had laid out fresh pastries, and several kinds of coffee rested on a table against the far wall.
    There were small groupings of furniture, easy chairs mixed with end tables, in case people wanted to split up and have private discussions. But the rest of the conference room was dominated by the table.
    Cross walked over to it and ran his fingers across it. The surface was the same shaded glass that covered the walls. The chairs surrounding it were large, comfortable, and expensive. They were also the kind that, without prompting from their occupant, fitted themselves to the occupant’s body shape.
    And to think Cross had been worried about this neighborhood when he had driven into it. Some of the rioting was less than a block away. As he had turned into the parking garage, a military squadron had run past, bodies moving in unison, weapons clutched in the ready position.
    He hadn’t realized until he came down here that the presence of troops here had probably been very necessary. At least his car—which had gone through several security beams on its way to the assigned parking spot—would be safe.
    As was he. He was probably safer here than he had ever been in his life.
    “What is this place?” Britt asked.
    “It’s probably better not to ask.” Bradshaw glanced at Cross, who nodded once. Bradshaw got the same sense of this place that Cross had.
    The elevator doors purred open and three more people got out. Robert Shane, who headed the president’s Special Committee on Space Sciences, walked directly toward the pastries. He had clearly been here before. He was one of the cooler heads on the Project, and Cross had been relieved to have him at the meetings more than once.
    “Mmmm”, Shane said as he picked up a heavily frosted cinnamon roll. “Still warm.”
    This time Britt looked startled. No bakeries were open—no stores were open, not since the rioting had begun. The entire city was under martial law, like cities all over the world, and when the disturbances began, sensible people stopped going to their day jobs. That was why the streets had been mostly empty of other drivers, other cars. The only people outside right now were the looters and rioters, and people with a mission, like the members of the Tenth Planet Project.
    Yolanda Hayes, the president’s science adviser, examined the room the same way Cross had. Her dark eyes took in the glass, the modern furniture, the specialized table.
    Jesse Killius, the head of NASA, did the same.
    Cross looked at Shane again. If the women had never seen this room before, and they outranked Shane, then he had seen it for some other project.
    Long ago, Cross had learned that Shane had a high ranking in the Air Force. Perhaps he had seen this place in connection with his military work, not his relationship with the president.
    For some reason that thought sent shivers through Cross.
    “They are warm!” Britt said.
    Cross turned. She was standing beside Shane, a blueberry muffin in hand.
    “How’d they manage that?” she asked.
    “Probably baked special for us,” Shane said, grabbing a paper plate. “And I, for one, am not going to let them go to waste.”
    Baked special on the premises somewhere. Cross walked to the pastry table, saw some petit fours, which he usually despised, as well as cookies of all shapes and sizes, the huge cinnamon rolls—frosting melting off of them—and the muffins.
    He grabbed a muffin and poured himself some of the regular coffee that someone had already brewed. Britt had