Singer chuckled. “There’s no radiation left. But we bring along Geiger counters anyway, to reassure the nervous.” He looked up at the sound of approaching motors. “Come on, you can ride with me.”
Soon a dozen Hummers, their tops down, were jostling over a faint dirt track that led like an arrow toward the horizon. The water truck followed last, trailing a firestorm of dust.
After an hour of steady driving, Singer pulled the lead Hummer to a halt. “Ground zero,” he said to Carson.
“How can you tell?” Carson asked, looking around at the desert. The Sierra Oscura rose to the west: dry, barren desert mountains, run through with jagged sedimentary outcrops. It was a desolate place, but no more desolate than the rest of the Jornada.
Singer pointed to a rusted girder, twisting a few feet out of the ground. “That’s what was left of the tower that held the original bomb. If you look carefully, you’ll see that we’re in a shallow depression scooped out by the blast. Over there”—Singer pointed to a mound and some ruined bunkers—“was one of the instrument observation posts.”
“Is this where we picnic?” Carson asked a little uncertainly.
“No,” said Singer. “We continue another half mile. The scenery’s nicer there. A little nicer, anyway.”
The Hummers halted at a sandy flat devoid of brush or cactus. A single dune, anchored by a cluster of soapweed yucca, rose above the flat expanse of desert. While the workmen wrestled the stock tank off the pickup, the scientists began staking out positions in the sand, setting up chairs and umbrellas and laying out coolers. Off to one side, a volleyball net was erected. A wooden staircase was shoved up against the tank; then the water truck maneuvered up to its rim and began filling it with fresh water. Beach Boys harmonies blared from a portable stereo.
Carson stood to one side, watching the proceedings. He’d spent most of his waking hours in Lab C, and he still did not know many of the people by name. Most of the scientists were well into their tours and had been working together for close to six months. Looking around, he noticed with relief that Brandon-Smith had apparently stayed behind in the air-conditioned compound. The previous afternoon, he’d stopped by her office for an update on the chimps, and she’d practically taken his head off when he accidentally disturbed the little knickknacks she’d obsessively arranged along the edge of her desk. Just as well, he thought, as the unwelcome image of the scientist in her bathing suit intruded into his imagination.
Singer caught sight of him and waved him over. Two senior scientists that Carson barely knew were sitting nearby.
“Have you met George Harper?” Singer asked Carson.
Harper grinned and held out his hand. “We bumped into each other in the Fever Tank,” he said. “Literally. Two bio-suits passing in the night. And, of course, I heard your fetching description of Dr. Brandon-Smith.” Harper was lanky, with thinning brown hair and a prominent hooked nose. He slouched in his deck chair.
Carson winced. “I was just testing the global function of my intercom.”
Harper laughed. “All work stopped for five minutes while everyone shut off their own intercoms to, ah ...” He glanced at Singer. “Cough.”
“Now, George,” Singer smiled. He indicated the other scientist. “This is Andrew Vanderwagon.”
Vanderwagon wore a conservative bathing suit, his sallow, sunken chest looking dangerously exposed to the sunlight. He scrambled to his feet, removing his sunglasses. “How do you do,” he said, standing and shaking Carson’s hand. He was short, thin, straight, and fastidious, with blue eyes bleached to faded denim by the desert light. Carson had noticed him around Mount Dragon, wearing a coat and tie and black wing tips.
“I’m from Texas,” Harper said, putting on a thick accent, “so I don’t have to get up. We don’t got no manners. Andrew here is from Connecticut.”
Vanderwagon nodded in return. “Harper only gets up when a bull deposits a load at his feet.”
“Hell, no,” Harper said. “We just nudge it out of the way with a boot.”
Carson settled in a deck chair provided by Singer. The sun was brutal. He heard several shouts, then a splash; people were climbing up the stairs and jumping into the water. As he looked around he saw Nye, the security director, sitting well off to one side and reading the New York Times under a golf umbrella.
“He’s as odd as a gelded heifer,” Harper said, following Carson’s gaze. “Look at him out there in his damn Savile Row suit, and it must be a hundred degrees already.”
“Why did he come?” Carson asked.
“To watch us,” said Vanderwagon.
“What exactly might we do that’s dangerous?” Carson asked.
Harper laughed. “Why, Guy, didn’t you know? At any moment one of us might steal a Hummer, drive to Radium Springs, and sprinkle a little X-FLU into the Rio Grande. Just to hell around a bit.”
Singer frowned. “That kind of talk’s not funny, George.”
“He’s like a KGB man, always hovering,” said Vanderwagon. “He hasn’t left the place since ’86, and I guess it’s queered him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he bugged our rooms.”
“Doesn’t he have any friends here?” Carson asked.
“Friends?” Vanderwagon said, eyebrows raising. “Not that I’m aware of. Unless you count Mike Marr. No family, either.”
“What does he do all day long?”
“He struts around in that pith helmet and ponytail,” said Harper. “You should see the security staff when Nye is around, bowing and bending like a pig over a nut.”
Vanderwagon and Singer laughed. Carson was a little startled to see the Mount Dragon director joining in the mockery of his own security director.
Harper settled back, throwing his hands behind his head, and sighed. “So you’re from these here parts,” he said, nodding at Guy with his eyes half closed. “Maybe you can tell us more about the Mondragón gold.”
Vanderwagon groaned.
“The what?” Carson asked.
All three turned to look at him in surprise.
“You don’t know the story?” Singer asked. “And you a New Mexican!” He dove into the cooler with both hands and pulled out a fistful of beers. “This calls for a drink.” He passed them around.
“Oh, no. We’re not going to hear the legend again,” Vanderwagon said.
“Carson here has never heard it,” Harper protested.
“As legend has it,” Singer began with a humorous glance at Vanderwagon, “a wealthy trader named Mondragón lived outside old Santa Fe in the late sixteen hundreds. He was accused of witchcraft by the Inquisition and imprisoned. Mondragón knew the punishment would be death, and he managed to escape with the help of his servant, Estevánico. This Mondragón had owned some mines in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, worked by Indian slave labor. Rich mines, they say, probably gold. So when he escaped from the Inquisition, he snuck back to his hacienda, dug up the gold, packed a mule, and fled with his servant along the Camino Real. Two hundred pounds of gold, all he could safely carry on one mule. A few days into the Jornada desert the two men ran short of water. So Mondragón sent Estevánico ahead with the gourd canteen to replenish their supply, while he stayed behind with one horse and the mule. The servant found water at a spring a day’s ride ahead, then galloped back. But by the time he returned to the spot where he’d left Mondragón, the man was gone.”
Harper took over the story. “When the Inquisition learned what had happened, they began searching the trail. About five weeks later, right at the base of Mount Dragon, they found a horse, tied to a stake, dead. It was Mondragón’s.”
“At Mount Dragon?” Carson asked.
Singer nodded. “The Camino Real, the Spanish Trail, ran right through the lab grounds and around the base of Mount Dragon.”
“Anyway,” Harper continued, “they looked everywhere for signs of Mondragón. About fifty yards from the dead cayuse, they found his expensive doublet lying on the ground. But no matter how hard they looked, they never fou
nd Mondragón’s body or the mule laden with gold. A priest sprinkled the base of Mount Dragon with holy water, to cleanse the spot of Mondragón’s evil, and they erected a cross at the top of the hill. The place became known as La Cruz de Mondragón, the Cross of Mondragón. Later, when American traders came down the Spanish Trail, they simplified the place-name to Mount Dragon.” He finished his beer and exhaled contentedly.
“I heard a lot of buried-treasure stories growing up,” Carson said. “They were as common as blue ticks on a red heeler. And all equally false.”
Harper laughed. “Blue ticks on a red heeler! Someone else with a sense of humor around here.”
“What’s a red heeler?” Vanderwagon asked.
Harper laughed louder. “Why, Andrew, you poor damned ignorant Yankee, it’s a kind of dog used to herd cattle. Chases their heels, so they call it a heeler. Like when you heel a calf with a rope.” He pantomimed the whirling of a lasso; then he looked at Carson. “I’m glad there’s someone around here who isn’t just another greenhorn.”
Carson grinned. “When I was a kid, we used to go out looking for the Lost Adams Diggings. This state’s supposedly got more buried gold than Fort Knox. That is, if you believe the stories.”
Vanderwagon snorted. “That’s the key: if you believe the stories. Harper’s from Texas, where the leading industry is the manufacture and distribution of bull shit. And now, I think it’s time for a swim.” He twisted his beer bottle into the sand and stood up.
“Me too,” said Harper.
“Come on, Guy!” Singer called out as he followed the scientists to the tank, pulling off his shirt as he trotted.
“In a minute,” Carson said, watching them crowd up the wooden stairs and jump in, jostling each other as they did so. He finished his beer and set it aside. It seemed surreal to be sitting in the middle of the Jornada del Muerto desert, a mile from ground zero, watching several of the most brilliant biologists in the world splashing about in a cattle tank like children. But the very unreality of the place was like a drug. This was, truly, how it must have felt working on the Manhattan Project. He pulled off his jeans and shirt and lay back in his swimming trunks, closing his eyes, feeling relaxed for the first time in days.
After several minutes, the merciless heat roused him and he sat up, digging in the cooler for another beer. As he cracked it, he heard de Vaca’s laugh rise above the scattered conversations. She was standing on the far side of the tank, pulling her long hair back from her face and talking to some of the technicians, her white bikini in stark contrast to her tawny skin. If she saw Carson, she gave no sign.
As he watched, Carson saw another person join de Vaca’s group. The odd hitch in the walk was familiar, and Carson realized it was Mike Marr, second-in-command of security. Marr began talking to de Vaca, his head thrown back, the wide languorous grin clearly visible. Suddenly he drew closer, whispered something in de Vaca’s ear. All at once, de Vaca’s expression grew dark, and she pulled away roughly. Marr spoke again, and in an instant de Vaca had slapped him hard across the face. The sharp sound reached across the desert sands to Carson. Marr jerked backward, his black cowboy hat falling in the dust. As he stooped to retrieve it, de Vaca spoke quickly, a scornful curl to her lip. Though Carson could not make out exactly what she was saying to Marr, the group of technicians burst into laughter.
The look that came over Marr, however, was alarming. His eyes narrowed, and the easy, amiable expression fled his features in an instant. With great deliberation, he placed the cowboy hat back on his head, his eyes on de Vaca. Then he turned quickly on his heels and strode away from the group.
“She’s a firecracker, isn’t she?” Singer chuckled as he returned with the others and noticed the direction of Carson’s gaze. Carson realized Singer hadn’t really witnessed the little scene that had just played out. “You know, she originally came out here to work in the medical department the week before you arrived. But then Myra Resnick, Burt’s assistant, left. With Susana’s strong background, I thought she’d make you a perfect assistant. Hope I wasn’t wrong.” He tossed a small pebble into Carson’s lap.
“What’s this?” The pebble was green and slightly transparent.
“Atomic glass,” said Singer. “The Trinity bomb fused the sand near ground zero, leaving a crust of this stuff. Most of it’s gone, but once in a while you can still find a piece.”
“Is it radioactive?” Carson asked, holding it gingerly.
“Not really.”
Harper guffawed. “Not really,” he repeated, clearing a water-clogged ear with the tip of his little finger. “If you plan to have children, Carson, I’d get that thing away from your gonads.”
Vanderwagon shook his head. “You’re a vulgar sod, Harper.”
Singer turned to Carson. “They’re best friends, although you’d never know it.”
“How did you get started at GeneDyne, anyway?” Carson asked, tossing the pebble back to Singer.
“I was the Morton Professor of Biology at CalTech. I thought I was at the top of the profession. And then Brent Scopes came along and made me an offer.” Singer shook his head at the memory. “Mount Dragon was going civilian, and Brent wanted me to take over.”
“Quite a change from academia,” said Carson.
“It took me a while to adjust,” Singer said. “I’d always looked down on private industry. But I soon came to realize the power of the marketplace. We’re doing extraordinary work here, not because we’re smarter, but because we have so much more money. No university could afford to run Mount Dragon. And the potential returns are so much greater. When I was at CalTech, I was doing obscure research on bacterial conjugation. Now I’m doing cutting-edge stuff that has the potential to save millions of lives.” He drained his beer. “I’ve been converted.”
“I was converted,” Harper said, “when I saw the kind of dough an assistant professor makes.”
“Thirty thousand,” said Vanderwagon, “after six or eight years of graduate education. Can you believe it?”
“I remember when I was at Berkeley,” said Harper. “All my research proposals had to go through this decrepit bureaucrat, the chairman of the department. The fossilized SOB was always grousing about cost.”
“Working for Brent,” Vanderwagon said, “is like night and day. He understands how science operates. And how scientists work. I don’t have to explain or justify anything. If I need something, I e-mail him and it happens. We’re lucky to be working for him.”
Harper nodded. “Damn lucky.”
At least they agree on something, thought Carson.
“We’re happy to have you aboard, Guy,” Singer said at last, nodding and raising his beer in salute. The others followed.
“Thanks,” Carson smiled broadly, thinking about the quirk of fate that had suddenly landed him amongst the pride of GeneDyne.
Levine sat in his office, the door open, listening in silent fascination to a telephone conversation, his secretary Ray was having in the outer office.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Ray was saying, “I swear I thought you said the Boylston Street Theater, not the Brattle—”
There was a silence.
“I swear, I heard you say Boylston. No, I was there, at the front door, waiting for you. At the Boylston Theater, of course! No wait, hold on. Baby, no—”
Ray cursed and hung up the phone.
“Ray?” Levine said.
“Yes?” Ray appeared in the door, smoothing his hair.
“There is no Boylston Street Theater.”
Comprehension dawned on Ray’s face. “Guess that’s why she hung up.”
Levine smiled, shaking his head. “Remember the call I got from that woman at the Sammy Sanchez show? I want you to call her back, tell her they can book me after all. I’ll appear at their earliest convenience.”
“Me? What about Toni Wheeler? She won’t like—”
“Toni wouldn’t approve. She’s a stick-in-the-mud about those kinds of television shows.”
> Ray shrugged. “Okay, you got it. Anything else?”
Levine shook his head. “Not for now. Just work on your excuses. And shut the door, please.”
Ray returned to the outer office. Levine checked his watch, picked up the telephone for the tenth time that day, and listened. This time, he heard what he had been waiting for: the dial tone had changed from the usual steady tone to a series of rapid pulses. Quickly he hung up the phone, locked the office door, and connected his computer to the wall jack. Within thirty seconds, the familiar log-in device was on his screen once again.
Well, dust my broom, if it ain’t the good professor-man, came the words on his screen. How’s my mean mistreatin’ papa?
Mime, what are you talking about? Levine typed.
Aren’t you a fan of Elmore James?
Never heard of him. I got your signal. What news?
Good and bad. I’ve spent several hours poking around the GeneDyne net. It’s quite a place. Sixty K worth of terminal IDs, connected above and below. You know, satellites and dedicated land lines, fiber-optic networks for asynchronous transfer videoconferencing. The architecture is impressive. I’m something of an expert in it now, of course. I could give tours.
That’s good.
Yes. The bad news is that it’s built like a bank vault. Isolated-ring design, with Brent Scopes at the center. Nobody except Scopes can, see beyond their own profile, and he can see everything. He’s Big Brother, he can walk the system at will. To paraphrase Muddy Waters, he’s got his mojo working, but it just won’t work for you.
Surely that isn’t a problem for the Mime, Levine typed.
Have mercy! What a thought. I can stay cloaked without much effort, sipping a few milliseconds of CPU time here, a few there. But it’s a problem for YOU, professor. Setting up a secure channel into Mount Dragon is a non-trivial undertaking. It means duplicating part of Scopes’s own access. And that way danger lies, professor.
Explain.
Must I spell it out? If he happens to contact Mount Dragon while you’re in the channel, his own access may be blocked. Then he’ll probably run a bloodhound program back over the wire, and it’ll bay up the good professor, not Mime. ISHTTOETOOYLS.
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