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“Colonel.”  

Jack Crichton didn’t need to look to know who was behind him.  He could recognize the smarmy,
pretentious voice of the senator’s aide anywhere.  “Nice reception,” he said, turning around.  

“The senator wants some assurances that your son’s project is going to work as promised.  His
reputation is riding on it.”

Arrogant, ass-kissing prick.  Jack kept the thought to himself.  “John’s life is riding on it,” he said,
throwing the aide’s own words right back at him.  “He knows what he’s doing.  He’s run hundreds
of simulations.  The Farscape project is going to go off without a single problem.”


                                                        
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