All right, Brent.
Several days passed with no entries at all. Then, on June 29—just a fortnight past—came a rush of writing, full of apocalyptic imagery and ominous ramblings. Several times Burt mentioned a “key factor,” never explaining what it was. Carson shook his head. His predecessor had obviously gone delusional, imagining solutions his rational mind had been unable to discover.
Carson sat back, feeling the trapped sweat collecting between his shoulder blades and around his elbows. For the first time, he felt a momentary thrust of fear. How could he succeed, when a man like Burt had failed—not only failed, but lost his mind in the process? He glanced up and found de Vaca looking at him.
“Have you read this?” he asked.
She nodded.
“How ... I mean, how do they expect me to take this over?”
“That’s your problem,” she responded evenly. “I’m not the one with the degrees from Harvard and MIT.”
Carson spent the rest of the day rereading the early experiments, staying away from the distracting convolutions of Burt’s lab notes. Toward the end of the day he began to feel more upbeat. There was a new recombinant DNA technique he had worked with at MIT that Burt hadn’t been aware of. Carson diagrammed the problem, breaking it down into its parts, then further breaking down those parts until it had been separated into irreducibles.
As the day drew to a close, Carson began to sketch out an experimental protocol of his own. There was, he realized, still a lot to work with. He stood up, stretched, and watched as de Vaca plugged her notebook into the network jack.
“Don’t forget to upload,” she said. “I’m sure Big Brother will want to check over your work tonight.”
“Thanks,” said Carson, scoffing inwardly at the thought that Scopes would waste time looking over his notes. Scopes and Burt had clearly been friends, but Carson was still just a grade-three technician from the Edison office. He uploaded the day’s data, stored the computer in its cubbyhole for the night, then followed de Vaca as she made the long slow trip out of the Fever Tank.
Back in the ready room, Carson had unbuckled his visor and was unzipping the lower part of his biohazard suit when he glanced over at his assistant. She had already stowed her suit and was shaking out her hair, and Carson was surprised to see not the chunky señorita he had imagined underneath the bluesuit, but a slender, extremely beautiful young woman with long black hair, brown skin, and a regal face with two deep purple eyes.
She turned and caught his look.
“Keep your eyes to yourself, cabrón,” she said, “if you don’t want them to end up like one of those chimps in there.”
She slung her handbag over her shoulder and strode out while the others in the ready room erupted into laughter.
The room was octagonal. Each of its eight walls rose ponderously toward a groined ceiling that hung fifty feet above, softly illuminated by invisible cove lighting. Seven walls were covered with enormous flat-panel computer screens, currently dark. The eighth wall contained a door, flush with the wall, small but extremely thick to accommodate the room’s external soundproofing. Although the room stood sixty stories above the Boston harbor, there were no windows and no views. The floor was laid in rare Tanzanian mbanga slate. The colors were a spectrum of muted grays, ashes, and taupes.
The exterior of the door was made of a thick, banded metal alloy. Instead of a handle, there was an EyeDentify retinal scanner and a FingerMatrix hand geometry reader. Next to the door, beneath a sterilizing ultraviolet light, sat a row of foam slippers, their sizes imprinted in large numbers on the toes. Below an overhead camera that swiveled ceaselessly to and fro, a large sign read, SPEAK SOFTLY AT ALL TIMES PLEASE.
Beyond lay a long, dimly lit corridor leading to a security station and an elevator bank. On either side of the corridor, a series of closed doors led to the security offices, kitchens, infirmary, air-purifying electrostatic precipitators, and servants’ quarters necessary to fill the various requirements of the octagonal room’s occupant.
The door closest to the octagon was open. The room inside was paneled in cherry, with a marble fireplace, a parquet floor covered with a Persian rug, and several large Hudson River School paintings on the wall. A magnificent mahogany desk stood in the center of the room, its only electronic device an old dial telephone. A suited figure sat behind the desk, writing on a piece of paper.
Inside the huge octagonal room itself, a spotlight was recessed into the very point of the vaulted ceiling, and it dropped a pencil beam of pure white light down to the midpoint of the room. Centered in the pool of light was a battered sofa of 1970s styling. Its arms were dark with use and wifts of stuffing protruded from the threadbare nap. Silver duct tape sealed the front edge. As ugly and frayed as it was, the sofa had one essential quality: it was extremely comfortable.
Two cheap faux-antique end tables stood guard at either side of the sofa. A large telephone and several electronic devices in black brushed metal boxes stood on one of the end tables, and a video camera, affixed to one end, was pointed toward the sofa. The other end table was bare, but it bore the legacy of innumerable greasy pizza boxes and sticky Coke cans.
In front of the sofa sat a large worktable. In contrast to the other furniture, it was breathtakingly beautiful. The top was carved from bird’s-eye maple, polished and oiled to bring out its fractal perfection. The maple was surrounded by a border of lignum vitae, black and heavy, in which was inlaid a strip of oyster walnut in a complex geometric pattern. This pattern showed the naadaa, the sacred corn plant, which was at the heart of the religion of the ancient Anasazi Indians. The kernels of this corn had made the room’s occupant a very wealthy man. A single computer keyboard lay on the table, a short remote antenna jutting from its flank.
The rest of the vast room was clinically sterile and empty, the only exception being a large musical instrument that stood perched at the periphery of the circle of light. It was a six-octave, quadruple-string pianoforte, supposedly built for Beethoven in 1820 by the Hamburg firm of Otto Schachter. The shoulders and lyre of the piano’s rosewood sound box were ornately carved in a rococo scene of nymphs and water gods.
A figure in a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and beaded Sioux Indian slippers sat hunched at the piano, head drooping, motionless fingers dead on the ivory keys. For several minutes, all was still. Then the profound silence was shattered with a massive diminished-seventh chord, sforzando, resolving to a melancholy C minor: the opening bars of Beethoven’s last piano sonata, Opus 111. The maestoso introduction echoed upward into the great vaulted space. The introduction evolved into the allegro con brio ed appassionato, the first motive notes filling the room with sound, drowning out the beep of an incoming video call. The movement continued, the slight figure hunched over the keyboard, his untidy hair shaking with the effort. The beep sounded again, unnoticed, and finally one massive wall screen sprang to life, revealing a mud-streaked, rain-spattered face.
The notes suddenly stopped, the sound of the piano dying away quickly. The figure rose with a curse, slamming the keyboard cover shut.
“Brent,” the face called. “Are you there?”
Scopes walked over to the battered couch, flounced down on it cross-legged, and dragged the computer keyboard into his lap. He typed some commands, then looked up at the vast image on the screen.
The mud-spattered face belonged to a man currently seated inside a Range Rover. Beyond the vehicle’s rain-streaked windows lay a green clearing, a fresh gash in the flank of the surrounding Cameroon jungle. The clearing was a sea of mud, churned into lunar shapes by boots and tires. Scarred tree trunks were pulled up along the edges of the clearing. A few feet from the Range Rover, several dozen cages made of pipe and hog wire were stacked into rickety piles. Furry hands and toes poked from the hog wire, and miserable childlike eyes peered out at the world.
“How you doing, Rod?” Scopes said wearily, turning to face the camera on the end table.
“The weather sucks.”
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“Raining here too,” Scopes said.
“Yeah, but you haven’t seen rain until you’ve—”
“I’ve been waiting three days to hear from you, Falfa,” Scopes interrupted. “What the hell’s been going on?”
The face broke into an ingratiating smile. “We had problems getting gas for the trucks. I’ve had a whole village out in the jungle, at a dollar a day per person, for the last two weeks. They’re all rich now, and we’ve got fifty-six baby chimps.” He grinned and wiped his nose, which only served to smear more mud across his face. Or maybe it wasn’t mud.
Scopes looked away. “I want them in New Mexico in six weeks. With no more than a fifty-percent mortality rate.”
“Fifty percent! That’ll be tough,” Falfa said. “Usually—”
“Yo, Falfa!”
“Excuse me?”
“You think that’s tough? See what happens to Rodney P. Falfa if more corpses than live bodies arrive in New Mexico. Look at them, sitting out there in the goddamn rain.”
There was a silence. Falfa honked and an African face appeared in the window. Falfa cracked the window a half inch, and Scopes could hear the miserable screams of the animals beyond. “Hunter mans!” Falfa was saying in pidgin. “You cover up dat beef, you hear? For every beef dat ee go die, hunter mans get dashed out one shilling.”
“Na whatee?” came the response from outside the Range Rover. “Masa promise de dash of—”
“Do it.” Falfa snugged the window shut, locking out the man’s complaints, and turned to Scopes with another grin. “How’s that for prompt action?”
Scopes looked at him coldly. “Piss-poor. Don’t you think those chimps need to be fed, too?”
“Right!” Falfa honked the horn again. Scopes pressed a button, cutting off the video communication, and sat back on the sofa. He typed a few more commands, then stopped. Suddenly, with another curse, he winged the keyboard angrily across the room. The keyboard hit the wall with a sharp cracking sound. A single key, jarred loose, rattled across the polished floor. Scopes flopped back onto the sofa, motionless.
A moment later the door hissed open and a tall man of perhaps sixty appeared. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, with a starched white shirt, wing-tip shoes, and a blue silk tie. Between graying temples, two fine gray eyes framed a small, chiseled nose.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Scopes?” the figure asked.
Scopes gestured toward the keyboard. “The keyboard is broken.”
The figure smiled ironically. “I take it Mr. Falfa finally checked in.”
Scopes laughed, rubbing his unruly hair. “Correct. These animal collectors are the lowest form of human being I’ve encountered. It’s a shame the Mount Dragon appetite for chimps seems insatiable.”
Spencer Fairley inclined his head. “I wish you would let somebody else handle these details, sir. You seem to find them so upsetting.”
Scopes shook his head. “This project is too important.”
“If you say so, sir. Can I get you anything else besides a new keyboard?”
Scopes waved his hand absently. As Fairley turned to go, Scopes suddenly spoke again. “Wait. There were two things, after all. Did you see the Channel Seven news last night?”
“As you know, sir, I don’t care for television or computers.”
“You crusty Beacon Hill fossil,” Scopes said affectionately. Fairley was the only man in the company Scopes would allow to call him sir. “What would I do without you to show me how the electronically illiterate half live? Anyway, last night on Channel Seven they discussed a twelve-year-old girl who has leukemia. She wanted to go to Disneyland before she died. It’s the usual exploitative crap we’re fed on the evening news. I forget her name. Anyway, will you arrange for her and her family to go to Disneyland, private jet, all expenses paid, best hotels, limos, the works? And please, keep it strictly anonymous. I don’t want that bastard Levine mocking me again, twisting it into something it isn’t. Give them some money to help with the medical bills, say, fifty thousand. They seemed like nice people. It must be hell to have a kid die of leukemia. I can’t even imagine it.”
“Yes, sir. That’s very kind of you sir.”
“Remember what Samuel Johnson said: ‘It is better to live rich, than die rich.’ And remember: it’s to be anonymous. I don’t even want them to know who did it. All right?”
“Understood.”
“And another thing. When I was in New York yesterday, this fucking cab nearly ran me over in a crosswalk. Park Avenue and Fiftieth.”
Fairley’s expression was inscrutable. “That would have been unfortunate.”
“Spencer, you know what I like about you? You’re so droll that I can never tell whether I’m being insulted or complimented. Anyway, the hack number on top of the cab was four-A-five-six. Get his medallion pulled, will you? I don’t want the son of a bitch running over some grandmother.”
“Yes, sir.” As the small door hissed shut with a muffled click, Scopes stood up and made his way thoughtfully back toward the piano.
A loud tone sounded in his helmet, and Carson jerked up from his terminal screen with a start. Then he relaxed again. It was only his third day on-site; he assumed that eventually he’d get used to the 6 P.M. reminder. He stretched, looked round the lab. De Vaca was in pathology; he might as well wrap up for the day. He laboriously typed a few paragraphs into his laptop, detailing the day’s events. As he connected the laptop to the network link and uploaded his files, he found himself unable to suppress a sense of pride. Two days of lab-work, and he knew exactly what had to be done. Familiarity with the latest lab techniques was the advantage he’d needed. Now, all that remained was to carry it out.
Then he hesitated. A message was flashing at the bottom of the screen.
John [email protected] is paging.
Press the command key to chat.
Hurriedly, Carson went into chat mode and paged Singer. He hadn’t been plugged into the network all day; there was no telling when Singer had originally requested to speak with him.
John [email protected] ready to chat.
Press the command key to continue.
How are you, Guy? came the words on Carson’s screen.
Good, Carson typed. Just got your page now.
You should get in the habit of leaving your laptop connected to the network the entire time you’re in the lab. You might mention that to Susana, too. Could you spare me a few moments after dinner? There’s something we need to discuss.
Name the time and place, Carson typed.
How about nine o’clock in the canteen? I’ll see you then.
Wondering what Singer wanted, Carson issued the network logoff. The computer responded:
One new message remains unread.
Do you want to read it now (Y/N)?
Carson switched to GeneDyne’s electronic messaging system and brought up the message. Probably an earlier message from Singer, wondering where I am, he thought.
Hello, Guy. Glad to see you in place and at work.
I like what you’ve done with the protocol. It has the feel of a winner. But remember something: Frank Burt was the best scientist I’ve ever known, and this problem bested him. So don’t get cocky on me, okay?
I know you’re going to come through for GeneDyne, Guy.
Brent.
A few minutes after nine, Carson helped himself to a Jim Beam from the canteen bar and stepped through the sliding glass doors onto the observation deck beyond. Early in the evening, the canteen—with its cozy coffehouse atmosphere and its backgammon and chess boards—was a favorite hangout for lab people. But now it was almost deserted. The wind had died down, and the heat of the day had abated. The deck was empty, and he chose a seat away from the white expanse of the building. He savored the smoky flavor of the bourbon— drunk without ice, a taste he developed when he drank his dinner cocktail from a hip flask in front of a fire out on the ranch—and watched the last of the sun set over the distant Fra Cristóbal
Mountains. To the northeast and the east the sky still held traces of a rich shade of pearly rose.
He tilted his head backward and closed his eyes a moment, inhaling the pungent smell of the desert air, chilled by sunset: a mixture of creosote bush, dust, and salt. Before he’d gone East, he had only noticed the odor after a rain. But now it was like new to him. He opened his eyes again and stared at the vast dome of night sky, smoking with the brilliance of stars already in place above his head: Scorpio clear and bright in the south, Cygnus overhead, the Milky Way arching over all.
The bewitching fragrance of the night desert combined with the familiar stars brought a hundred memories crowding back. He sipped his drink meditatively.
He brushed the thoughts away at the sound of footsteps. They came from one of the walkways beyond the canteen, and Carson assumed it was Singer, approaching from the residency compound. But the figure that came silently out of the dusk was not short and squat, but well over six feet, and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. A safari hat sat incongruously atop hair that looked iron gray in the cold beam of the sodium walkway lights. A ponytail descended between his shoulder blades. If the man saw Carson he gave no sign, continuing past the balcony toward the limestone central plaza.
There was a thump behind him, then Carson heard Singer’s voice. “Beautiful sunset, isn’t it?” the director said. “Much as I hate the days here, the nights make up for it. Almost.” He stepped forward, a mug of coffee steaming in one hand.
“Who’s that?” Carson nodded toward the retreating figure.
Singer looked out into the night and scowled. “That’s Nye, the security director.”
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