Zero Cool

by Michael Crichton

  They were alone.

  Cautiously, they stepped out of the bushes. The moon was up, bathing the grounds in silver light. It was unearthly, the silent buildings, the placid ponds, a fantasy under the light of the moon.

  “Beautiful,” Angela said, looking around.

  “Shhhh.”

  He led her off, stealthily, through the buildings. They were headed back toward the Court of Lions. Ross wanted to have another look at the statues around the base.

  “Where do you suppose the professor is?” Angela whispered.

  They came out into the court, silent, peaceful.

  “Right here,” said a voice. They turned and saw a faint figure in the shadows. “And I still have my gun.”

  21. The Hole

  “WELL, PROFESSOR.”

  “Well, Doctor. We meet again, and under such auspicious circumstances. I am afraid I need your help.”

  “You won’t get it.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  There were two whooshing, spitting sounds, and the dirt in front of Ross was kicked up in tiny chunks.

  “You see, I am not joking about the gun. Nor am I joking about your help. I need it.”

  “What for?”

  “The gas,” the professor said. “You must handle the gas.”

  “Why don’t you have one of your friends help you?”

  “Because,” the professor said, “they are busy with other matters. This is a complex problem; I warned you before. Besides, I knew I could count on you. Please walk off to your right, and follow the path.”

  He directed them through the palaces, the ghostly moonlit rooms, to a small shack in a corner of a garden. It was obviously a workman’s toolshed.

  “Now then. Stand back.”

  They did. The professor took aim and fired the gun. The lock was shattered, and the doors creaked open.

  “Look inside,” he said. “You will find a tank, a pair of gas masks, and several large flashlights.”

  Ross looked. He found everything. The tank was fitted with a harness so it could strap over your back; there was a hose leading to a nozzle, like a flamethrower.

  “I suppose you had this brought in specially?”

  “Heavens no. You give me too much credit. This is all the property of the Spanish government.”

  “Oh? What’s the gas?”

  “A chlorothion derivative of some sort. Nerve gas, essentially. They spray most of the buildings here once a month, during the evenings.”

  “For the rats?”

  “Yes. A serious problem. Can’t have rats showing up in Spain’s largest tourist attraction, can we?”

  “And you’re going to use this gas underneath, in the hole?”

  The professor smiled. “No,” he said. “You are.”

  Standing in the courtyard of the fortress, staring down at the hole, he felt like a visitor from another planet. The tank was strapped on his back; he wore heavy gloves to protect his hands from the concentrated spray near the nozzle; over his face, the mask was fitted, black and snoutlike.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” the professor said. He pulled on a second mask, and it muffled his voice. “I fear we have only two masks, so Angela will wait up here. You will go down first, Doctor. I will follow some distance behind, with an extra light, and the gun.”

  He turned to Angela. “I shall expect you to wait here patiently, my dear. I don’t need to tell you that if we come back up and you are not here, I will shoot the good doctor. Immediately.”

  Angela nodded, bit her lip, said nothing.

  “All right then. Let’s get started. Down you go, Doctor.”

  Ross clambered to the edge of the hole and jumped into the darkness.

  He landed, clanging the tank on the stone floor, and got up. He switched on the electric torch; it gave a reassuringly bright light. Behind him, he heard the professor clambering down, breathing heavily through the mask, his breath hissing into the canister in front of the nosepiece.

  “Lead on,” the professor said, switching his own light on.

  Ross set out.

  In a sense, it was better at night. Wearing the mask, he smelled nothing but rubber and metal, none of the dank smells of the cellar. And at night, the darkness was somehow less terrifying. He went forward quickly and only slowed when he heard the clicking and chattering. It made his skin crawl.

  “I hear it,” the professor said. “Keep going.”

  They did, and the sounds grew louder, until finally they rounded the corner and saw the body, covered with squirming furry bodies.

  “Now,” said the professor, his voice tense. “Do it now!”

  Ross turned on the gas.

  It jetted out with a sizzling, sputtering sound, a thin white mist that ran along the floor. The rats responded instantly. The gas caught the first animals unaware, and as the vapors reached them, they went into twitching, spastic convulsions, flopping onto their backs, baring their teeth, urinating and defecating in the final moments. The other rats panicked and fled, chattering as they went.

  “Spray everything. The corpse, the whole room. We don’t want them back.”

  Ross moved forward, kicking aside the fallen bodies on the floor. He fought his nausea: Christ, it wouldn’t do to vomit in the mask. He sprayed as quickly as he could, and then stepped back.

  “All right,” the professor said. “Good enough.”

  He moved forward, toward the corpse. Now Ross could see clearly the extent of damage. In many places the shroud had been eaten away. The professor took out a knife and opened the shroud in a single smooth movement. The body was not pretty, and he turned aside for a moment before continuing.

  Ross moved closer and concentrated on the incision he had made several days before. But before he had a good look, the professor had sliced down the sutures and peeled back the skin to expose the heart.

  “Ah.”

  His hands reached forward and came up with the box. It was the same one Ross had originally inserted.

  “At last,” the professor said. He held the box in his hand, feeling its weight. “At last.”

  He motioned to Ross. “We can leave now. After you, Doctor.”

  Ross looked back at the body. “You’re leaving now? Like this?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s—”

  “Now, Doctor.” He wagged the gun.

  Ross walked back toward the entrance to the hole. The professor, with the gun, followed behind. A few minutes later, they scrambled up to the surface. Angela was there.

  The professor pulled off his mask and said, “You can take all that off now.”

  Ross removed his mask but left the tank on. He turned to Angela. “You all right?”

  She nodded.

  “Sure?”

  She nodded again, rather nervously, he thought.

  Ross looked around. The square was brightly lit; the moon overhead was round and full. Suddenly, a dark shadow passed over them.

  “What was that?”

  The professor looked up irritably. “Just some bird, I expect.”

  Ross looked up and saw it, slowly circling in the sky.

  “Damned big bird,” he said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the professor said. He looked at the box and sighed.

  “Well now,” the professor said. “Since you’ve both gone to so much trouble, I suppose it’s only fair I give you a look, eh?”

  He bent over and placed the package on the ground. He removed the cloth and exposed a metal box. There was a small hinged lid.

  “Well now,” he said. In the torchlight, his fingers trembled. “Here we go.”

  He lifted the lid. For a moment, all they saw was white cotton. The professor removed this, exposing the green peak of a stone.

  “That’s it,” the professor said, sucking in his breath. He removed the rest of the cotton packing and lifted the emerald from the metal box.

  It was huge, larger than a softball. It gleamed in the torchlight, reflecting its co
lors. The professor held it delicately.

  “The Emerald of Cortez,” he said. “At last.”

  And then he frowned.

  “Just a minute,” he said. “Just a minute, just a minute …”

  He peered closely at the stone.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Shut up.”

  He turned the glass in his hand, very slowly, staring at it. Then he set it on the ground.

  “Son of a bitch!” he said.

  He raised his heavy torch and swung it down hard on the pyramid. There was a shattering crunch as it struck.

  “Hey! What are you doing?”

  The professor stepped back and shone his light down on the splintered fragments.

  “Just as I thought,” he said. “Glass. A glass pyramid.”

  22. Hunting

  FOR A LONG TIME, THEY STOOD in silence, looking at each other. The professor was furious, muttering and stomping in his rage. Ross asked Angela for a cigarette, and she gave it to him. He lit it and looked up at the sky.

  “That bird’s still up there.”

  “Damn the bird!” the professor snorted. “I want the emerald!”

  Ross shrugged. “How do you propose to get it?”

  “Somebody,” the professor said darkly, “made a switch. I want to know who.”

  “I don’t have any idea,” Ross said mildly. He was thinking of Hamid and what he had said about one being real and the other false, one by the Washington Irving and the other by the lions. Hamid must have made a switch.

  “I am sorry to say,” the professor said, “that I believe you know exactly what I want to know. And I intend that you shall tell me.”

  His voice was tight. He stepped forward with the gun.

  And then it happened.

  Something struck Ross from behind, clanging hard against the metal gas tank. He was knocked to the ground and felt beating wings near his face, then nothing. He rolled over.

  “What was that?” Ross said.

  “The bird,” the professor said in an awed voice. He was looking up. So was Angela, her pretty face turned to the sky.

  Ross picked himself up. “A bird did that?”

  “That bird did,” the professor said.

  They watched it wheel effortlessly in the sky, circling high above them.

  “What is it?”

  “A falcon. A trained falcon.”

  Suddenly, the bird closed its wings and began to drop.

  “Run!” the professor shouted. Ross grabbed Angela’s hand, and they sprinted away. The professor followed, but the bird struck him on the back, and he fell, fighting, flailing his arms.

  Ross ran with Angela. He ran for everything he was worth. She let go of his hand and ran alongside him, surprising him by her ability to keep pace. Looking back, he saw the professor getting slowly to his feet as the falcon climbed skyward in preparation for another dive.

  They ran out of the fortress, into another courtyard, shaded and protected by trees. Ross stopped and leaned against a trunk, gasping for breath, his chest tight with exertion and fear.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll be safe here, for a while.”

  He turned to Angela.

  She was not there.

  “Angela?”

  Silence. Nothing but the sound of a light wind in the trees.

  “Angela!”

  There was no answer. He was alone. Panic seized him. He ran back, retracing his steps, leaving the protected cover of the trees, returning to the fortress steps.

  He was sweating now, hot and damp, and the sticky-sweet odor of the insecticide was strong in his nostrils. It was an odd smell for an insecticide, he thought. Odd and somehow familiar. Above, wheeling, he saw the bird.

  It circled over him, and he ducked into the shadows. For a moment, it seemed to linger over his head, and then it moved away.

  He looked back at the steps, and the fortress.

  No one there, not even the professor.

  Angela had run in a different direction and now found herself alone in a deserted part of the Arab Palace, some distance from the fortress. Breathless, she stopped, leaned against a wall. And waited, listening. She heard no sound; apparently she was alone.

  Reaching beneath her skirt, she removed a small walkie-talkie. She pulled out the antenna and flicked it on.

  “Professor. Are you there?”

  A crackling and a buzz.

  “Professor? Answer me.”

  Finally, a tired, winded voice. “Yes, my dear. I’m here. Are you all right?”

  “So far. I’ve lost Ross. Where are you?”

  “Still in the fortress. The bird has me pinned down. And I can’t move my arm. Bleeding.”

  “Can you shoot it?”

  “No. Moves too fast.” There was a moment of heavy breathing. “Much too fast. But I’ll try to get to you. Did Ross tell you anything?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “All right. I’ll try to get there. Where are you?”

  She looked around, at the court, the curved arches, the serene porticoes. And above, at the sky. The bird could not be seen.

  “I don’t know. A court of some kind.”

  “Describe it.”

  She did, quickly. The professor seemed to recognize it. “I’ll be there as soon… as I can.”

  The intercom went dead. She telescoped the antenna and replaced it. Then she waited. The minutes ticked by, silent. Finally she heard footsteps. She dropped back into the shadows, tense, thinking it might be Ross.

  It was not. It was the professor, walking stooped, dangling one limp, lifeless arm. He was bleeding from a severe cut on his shoulder.

  “A fiend, an absolute fiend. Where’s the doctor?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I hope to hell the falcon gets him.”

  “So do I.”

  The professor put his good arm over her shoulder and leaned on her. “You’re a love. Help me a while. I know a place to hide that’s better than this.”

  They walked for several minutes in silence, moving slowly through the rooms, the small gardens, the gurgling moonlit fountains. Once, far off, they heard a voice cry, “Angela! Angela!”

  The professor chuckled. “Poor bastard.”

  “The falcon will get him,” Angela said.

  They came at last to a broad courtyard with a long pool. In the moonlight, the columns were reflected in the water.

  The scene was serene, peaceful. The professor stood by the edge of the pool. Blood dripped down from his arm.

  “We should be safe here, for a while,” he said.

  Angela let him go reluctantly. “You all right?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll manage.”

  Looking up, she saw the bird circling overhead. The professor saw it, too, reflected in the still pool. But it was too late.

  Before either of them could speak, the bird had dived, struck the professor on the neck, and slashed him, shook him, and dropped him.

  He pitched forward, face down, into the pool, and floated gently away.

  Angela sobbed and dropped back into the shadows.

  For Ross, everything had become a nightmare. He wandered frantic through the ghostly buildings, intensely beautiful in the moonlight. Yet he was lost, hopelessly lost. And Angela was gone. He thought of her, the gentle face, the soft skin.

  And he thought of the bird, plunging relentlessly out of the sky, talons spread, beak forward, ready to pierce and tear…

  He called to her. He called until his voice was hoarse, but had no response. He continued to run aimlessly through the courts, gardens, and buildings.

  Twice, the falcon came after him. The first time he was lucky, dropping into a crevice which the bird could not enter. It flapped and screamed above him, then lifted off again. He did not see it for several minutes, so he left the shelter and continued his search.

  The second time, it struck without warning, slashing obliquely through the air. He looked up just before he was hit and raised his
arm protectively. The falcon slashed his shirt and ripped at his skin, but he managed to beat it back.

  Now, it had been five minutes since he had last seen the bird. He looked frequently at the sky, and whenever he saw it wheeling, he ducked into the shadows.

  “Angela! Angela!”

  As usual, no response.

  Looking down at the ground, he saw blood, blue-black in moonlight. For a moment, he thought it was his own, but no—the spattered drops led him forward in a neat line.

  Whose blood? Angela’s? The professor’s?

  He followed the trail, pausing frequently to listen. The professor might still be alive, and might still have his gun. But he heard nothing as he went.

  Eventually, he came to the Patio de los Arrayánes, with the broad, placid central pool. At the far end of the court, he saw a body floating in the water, drifting gently. There were silver clouds reflected in the pool. It was a horrible scene.

  He stood for a long moment, and then a figure emerged from the shadows at the far end.

  “Angela.”

  She nodded, her body shaking.

  He ran toward her.

  As he approached, the falcon swooped down once more and struck her full in the face. The still evening was broken by the most horrible scream he had ever heard. The bird clung to her face, and she struggled briefly, trying to beat it away. Her shrieks mingled with the cries of the bird, and the beating of powerful wings.

  Then the bird climbed back toward the sky, and Angela crumpled to the ground.

  Even from a distance, he could see the terrible slashes down her face and the deep bleeding gash at the base of her neck.

  23. The Real Thing

  HE RAN FORWARD. WHEN HE reached her, she was no longer breathing, no longer moving. Nearby, the professor’s gun lay beside the pool; Ross picked it up and stuck it in his belt. If the bird returned, at least he would have some protection.

  He bent over Angela, feeling his emotions twist inside him. He lifted her head, now a dead weight in his hands. He caressed her black hair, stroked her cheek.

  And stopped.

  I am going insane, he thought.

  He looked at the body in the pool, the moon in the sky, and the circling bird. He looked back at Angela and touched her cheek once more.