Clausen's blue eyes iced over. "If it can be done simply that way, yes. If not, whatever it takes."
The implication smothered further talk.
Outside the debate to this point, Corealis' eyes rose slowly in the heavy silence. Looking back, Quinsel gave voice to the wall of flushed faces encircling the director.
"Royce? What do you say? You've spearheaded this project from day one. How do you call it?"
"Yes," Shields chimed in. "You know him better than the rest of us. You're the only one who he's ever gotten close to. Is he actually serious about this nonsense?"
The director nodded soberly.
"Blame me. There simply wasn't enough busywork to keep him occupied. It left him with too much free time on his hands. All his reading and radio room eavesdropping seemed a harmless enough diversion and it kept him from being underfoot. Who could've guessed where it would lead?"
"So, we have no alternative then," said Shields, spreading upturned palms and walking away. "No matter how close we are to the end, for the sake of our own skins we'd better just pull the plug on the program here and now, count our blessings, and not look back."
"And what about the country club members?" added another voice. "What do we do with them?"
"Same thing that's been planned all along. Parcel off the team and bury them in isolated labs."
"Uh-uh. That was the plan only once the work was successful. Think it over. If we abandon this thing now, we'd have a handful of people thought dead for three years just reappear. Regardless of where we put them, word would get out. Sure, we can stop, all right. But we can't quit."
There Corealis finally entered the fray. "The first thing we do is keep our heads," he declared. "It's a matter of finding some quick means to get and keep the upper hand in this problem. And we start by forgetting our individual emotions and remembering our pledge—to the project and each other."
His tone braced the group's flagging mettle.
"Okay, Royce," agreed Clausen. "What do we do?"
"The same as was planned all along. We let the team finish up their work. In the meantime, we make preparations for the close-down of the base."
Thom Ashton, the team physician, up to now removed from the discussion, spoke up.
"Once again, from a purely medical point of view, I vigorously emphasize the need for an immediate removal of the station personnel—regardless of how close to finishing up they are."
Marquart looked over impatiently. "You're not going to drag on again about their sniffles, are you, Thom?"
The medic kept an even tone in spite of the familiar antagonism.
"Minimize the situation if you like, Brad, but my primary responsibility has been to ensure the project's success by maintaining the physical and mental well-being of its researchers, not to mention their basic value as human beings."
The doctor's eyes moved accusingly about the room.
"I also remind everyone here that it's been anything but an easy chore monitoring those people long distance, like I've had to do. A smattering of periodic saliva dabs and respiratory felts is no way to do business.
"That research team has been working with very potent plant toxins out there. Their so-called 'sniffles,' Brad, are—again—elevated blood allergens. Trace alkaloids are present in many of the exotic grasses they've been blending; not to mention all the synthetic concentrates and extracts they've been subjected to.
"The heartiness of Sudan grass alone has made it a keystone in their studies. Yet, immature plants have toxic levels of naturally occurring prussic acid—cyanide. The country club has been distilling and genetically altering great quantities of that same grass extract since the start."
A couple of members groaned over the well-covered ground. But the medic continued: "Even with adequate safeguards, you cannot simply leave people continually immersed in an adverse environment. Minute amounts of compounds, as they've been working with, are bound to get absorbed into their systems. The body can flush out a certain amount of contaminants on its own, sure. But even so, trace levels have a cumulative effect. And after three years, those people have crested the limits of acceptable tolerance. For their own good, they must be removed from that environment and detoxified immediately."
Corealis exchanged a sidelong glance with Welton, the security man, then drew a breath, addressing the doctor.
"Thom, once again, I appreciate what you're saying. But you've just agreed yourself that this project has been an arduous maneuver. We've made the best balance possible under the circumstances facing us."
The security man joined in reassuringly. "That's right. We're so close to wrapping this whole thing up, surely a few more days can't matter. Besides, they're the experts who better understand what they've been dealing with than we ever could. Has anyone heard complaints? When they're done we'll give them all a nice long vacation."
The doctor wasn't swayed. "A few days lounging about some R and R center won't fix things. Long term, they may already be in line for a degree of irreversible liver or kidney damage."
Abruptly matching tones, Corealis cut to the chase. "And short term?"
Realizing his disadvantage, the medic remained determined. "At the very least, the distinct possibility of mental impairment, hampered decision-making—confusion. After the withering momentum and complete isolation of their last thirty-six months, it's not too late in the game for some sort of individual—or even group—mental breakdown."
"You're saying that this close to the end, they might actually become dangerous; destructive?"
"Unintentionally, yes; possibly. Anyone familiar with the psychological profiles of hard-core researchers knows they are a narrowly focused bunch, individuals who have to be handled in a very sheltered and kid-glove sort of way. Most aren't equipped to deal with issues as commonplace and practical as food and shelter—let alone ever being confronted by the potential for a dark side of their work."
Economist Hampton muffled a snort.
"That's part of the reason they were stuck out in the middle of nowhere to begin with. We'd feed them. We'd clothe them. They'd have each other, but be totally dependant on us.
"Be realistic, Thom. These are lab nerds for Pete's sake, not dock workers. Keener's breed doesn't walk off the job or revert to savagery. If you know their kind as well as you claim, you'd also know the one thing they'd never do is abandon or sabotage their work. It's all they have in life. It is their life.
"Hell, if you pumped that whole garden party full of LSD I still doubt they'd know how to get rowdy. And remember, we threw in a 'housekeeper' to sweeten the pot. That fact alone has got to knock your data off kilter."
Nervous grins flashed around the room as Hampton finished.
But the doctor maintained his dignity, adding a final declaration. "Exhausted people in normal, healthy surroundings make catastrophic mistakes when pushed. We've taken already-spent persons and turned the speed up on them."
"Only through necessity," countered Quinsel. "You know Skylock's breaking, same as the rest of us. We're in a race to finish the product, get it in a can, and on the shelf."
There, the doctor jabbed an emphasizing finger to the table.
"The facts of what I say remain and I'm telling everyone here. Either we get them out now, regardless of how close the project is to completion or I swear I will quit this program and personally go to Warrington to get them out."
Brows raised and bodies stiffened.
"The hell you say!" challenged one voice. "You signed in on this thing, same as the rest of us!"
"In for a penny; in for a pound!" joined another.
Corealis got to his feet, diplomatically intervening.
"Easy, everyone, easy. Going at each other will serve no purpose. Let's all take a deep breath."
He patiently addressed the defiant medic. "No one is criticizing your ethics, Thom. I personally appreciate your professional concern and frustration. It means you care and that's the glue that's united us from the start. B
ut we have to stay realistic, if we hope to finish.
"I also applaud what you speak of from a personal level. Doctor Keener has indeed undergone some obvious attitude changes, turned somewhat critical and antagonistic. I've had my own hands full trying to keep him on track."
Feeling the medic settle back, Corealis offered a morsel of indulgence.
"Would you be satisfied if someone was sent out to babysit them, Thom? It's the best I can offer."
The medic mulled it over, giving a reconciled nod. "That's a start, yes. But right away. Someone who could issue concentrated diuretics to start flushing their renal systems. And I personally don't care what kind of excuse is made for his appearance there."
Corealis nodded in return. He looked about the group, agreeably. "For starters, how about yourself?"
The doctor's eyes flared in surprise. But he didn't object.
"We need field agents to chaperon the base shutdown anyway," reasoned the director. "If you say we should have someone out there, okay. And I have no problem with sending people a little early—including you as the man best equipped to treat our scientists."
Royce watched a dazed sort of vindication settle over the now quiet medic. He then looked to the meteorologist. "Ryan, I understand the latest SHAPP data confirms that the ion storm we banked on is brewing prematurely over Greenland?"
Shields nodded. "It's also grown to a number ten magnitude cell that will slide right down over the east-west corridor in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The usual high power EM forces will be dumped all along the route. But this one will also carry a lot of supplementary weather which will come down hard in the far west. The lead elements will definitely mask an excursion. But if your team can't beat it back, they'll have to find some place to weather out the secondary effects. And they will be rough. There still is some time left in the clean air window. But that's also closing fast. So any radio transmissions you might want to send in advance had better go soon."
Corealis shook his head. "Better that our people show up unannounced." He turned to Clausen, the transportation manager. "You're certain your special bird can handle something this strong?"
"In its stride," replied the lean hawk-faced man. "When we christened it an all-weather flier, we meant it. Including the worst-case EM hurricane. No need to risk a crew at all if you don't want. With its self-contained decision making, we can key in its flight parameters from here, let her go out empty and bring the people back. That bird is the closest thing to perpetual motion any of us will ever see."
Corealis had heard the proud litany before. But this time something new struck him. He tabled the notion for later, addressing the chief of security. "Refresh my memory on the base dismantling, Dick. Precisely, how is it to be handled?"
Welton, a stocky crewcut man, paused in lighting a cigarette. Their eyes touched speculatively before he spoke. "Nuclear clean sweep. A small fusion device was implanted to scour the area after the team extraction."
"How small?"
"A plum-sized chunk of Californium 252 packed in a conventional explosive tamper. Typical neutron-type result; total vaporization of a few hundred yards with little detectable radiation afterward. The magnifying effect of the upward sloping canyon walls about the station will act like a naturally drafting chimney. Complete incineration of the site.
By the time atmospherics would ever be normal enough for free travel, all anyone would see would be just another barren hunk of table ground somewhere out west."
"And you're sure this device is safe?"
"Buried beneath the foundation of the main storage vault. Safe as a baby. And to keep the research team from being nervous about it—completely unknown to them."
"But it does need to be triggered by an outside source?"
"Correct. A matching pearl of 252 set inside a mechanical detonator is to be brought in by an army ranger team when it's time to close up shop."
Corealis brightened. "Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. Send out the detonator with Thom and the chaperones. But without a special forces team."
"It's their mountain."
Corealis shook his head. "Not anymore. Warrington's decision has changed the flavor of this whole thing. I want those teams disbanded and separated. Any files or records on them, regardless of how innocent, need to be destroyed."
Welton nodded. "I'll see to it personally. But non-military personnel means civilian field agents, correct?"
Concerned eyebrows raised about the room.
"Freelancers?"
"Contract mules," Corealis replied. "From the courier stable. People with good track records, some military history, and no previous knowledge of the project. We'll keep them in reserve right here until the final details are ironed out, then fly them in to chaperon the extraction. I've taken the privilege of having a check made through our database. The field is narrowed down to some impressive semifinalists."
Corealis pointed to the crisp personnel folders held underarm by his aide and glanced about: "Everyone is free to examine the dossiers and cast their vote for a selection."
But spurred by his renewing shot of confidence, group members settled back wordlessly, Doctor Ashton included.
The director purposely singled out his security man.
"Dick? How about you?"
Welton declined. "Royce, I don't think there's anyone in this room who doesn't have complete faith in your choices. I'll have my inside people keep their eyes and ears open. Just let me know if there's anything special you need help with."
Corealis smiled. He patted the man on a shoulder, signalling him to remain, after the meeting's adjournment.
"We will proceed in our more public tasks as if this gathering had never occurred," Royce declared to the group. "In the name of our continued work, I will accept the president's appointment to the second office."
The director glanced at Doctor Ashton. "But we must keep our poker faces at all times."
The doctor lagged behind the others in leaving. His agressive tone was now flavored with contrition.
"I apologize for seeming harsh in front of everyone, Royce. My frustration got the best of me. But I do have a job and oath to uphold. And we all need to remember, that long after this project is over, those same people are still going to have years of life to live. They shouldn't be ones destined for crippling ailments or a bed-ridden existence."
Corealis nodded his concurrence. "Yes, Thom, I understand and agree. No hard feelings."
The doctor hesitated still. "What is our plan, Royce? We can't hope to keep Warrington in the dark forever. And those team members—they . . ."
Corealis clasped the man's shoulder with practiced ease.
"In all honesty, I haven't quite figured the answer out yet. But I promise, I'll come up with something quick and workable—on all counts. Meanwhile, you can get a bag packed and be ready to pitch in."
The director solemnly studied the physician's departure, coolly making an observation after the door closed.
"Our good doctor's reliability has become highly suspect. He seems bent on needlessly complicating matters at a time when we certainly don't need it."
The security man nodded. He knocked the ash from his cigarette in an empty coffee cup and asked, "We planning to stay with the girl for shutdown?"
"It's the best way."
Corealis pointed to the personnel records. "Since you're here, Dick, let's see what kind of candidates John's found us."
The aide offered two manila folders.
"The list came down to seven finalists. Of those, one's missing, another's dead from job-related injuries, and three are out in the field on extended assignment. Fortunately, that leaves us with the two probably most skilled."
Corealis shrugged. "As long as they're top mechanics."
"Best of the litter," pledged the aide. "Survivors and mechanics, both. One's a courier; the other, an expediter. Talked to the second already and, interestingly, they go way back. So they already know each othe
r's personal ins and outs."
"Background?"
"Army infantry trained. Served together on long-range recon missions in the Peru-Ecuador police action of 2034. Both decorated for bravery. Neither has family. The courier saved a district boss's nephew from a mob beating during the big city riots and was rewarded with an entry level slot in the city messenger network. Worked his way to 'Special Ops' status in less than a year."
Corealis nodded, appreciating go-getters like himself.
"The other?"
"An efficient and methodical expediter. He's reliably handled a number of delicate personnel 'retirements' for other jurisdictions without any fuss. A trouble shooter in every sense of the word."
"How soon can you get them around for an interview?"
"Immediately. Both happen to be on the compound grounds this very moment. One is in the hospital, though."
CHAPTER 5
Pans were clattering. Juices were being mixed. The smell of frying potatoes, sausage, and eggs came to Trennt. Breakfast. He swept a hand across her side of the bed and came away empty. She was already up. Just as he should be. But the covers felt extra inviting this morning, comforting in the security of his own house after all those crazy dreams.
Then she was there, calling to him. "Hey, sleepy head."
Lustrous red hair and liquid green eyes loomed in the bedroom doorway. Valleys and rises flowed in just the right spots of her silky nightgown as she breathed. Trennt ached with longing; like he'd been away for ages. He reached out, beckoning, needing to draw her in, to touch and be assured.
She came to him in that familiar, fluid glide. Smooth arms going about his head, drawing and cradling his ragged breath to the creamy warmth of her bosom.
"Say, Pard."
Trennt jangled awake.
There was no perfumed skin. Just the harsh clinic smells of rubber and carbolic. And again, as always, there was no Dena. Only a fast-fading image in the back of his eyes.
Looking about, Trennt discovered himself in a hospital bed. He ached all over. His teeth felt too big for his desert-dry mouth, and his head, somehow not firmly screwed to his shoulders. He tried to lift a bracing hand, but found it wired to an intravenous bottle. At the foot of his bed a familiar, spare figure had materialized—Baker.
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