Dozens of similar photographs hung scattered around the room, depicting people, animals, and intriguing scenes from the far distant past. To the uninformed observer they might appear to be ordinary pictures with actors posing for the camera, the scenery created by special effects in some movie extravaganza, but Matt knew the people and places were real. Hanging about him were moments from the history of man, snatched from the grip of time by the guileless lens of a camera. Here Rome, Egypt, and Babylon were portrayed as they had actually existed, complete with the squalor as well as the grandeur. It gave him a feeling of awe to be standing in the presence of so many ghosts from humanity's long vanished history.
His eyes drifted slowly about the room, finally stopping on the bookshelves that lined an entire wall. More artifacts sat at random intervals between the books. Small statues of men and women attired in the dress of their times faced outward from between volumes of written history. Some had been expertly carved from the purest ivory, onyx, and jade, while others were of simple wood, their rough lines indicative of the crude tools used by the long-dead artists. He recognized a small bust of Julius Caesar created from white marble. As customary in Roman statuary, Caesar's eyes were smooth and sightless, the face stoic, showing no emotion.
He walked into the bedroom and looked around. Unlike the living room, it was devoid of relics. A small gold-framed picture of him sat on the dresser. Beside it was a larger photo of the two of them with their parents sitting in front of a Christmas tree, arms across one another’s shoulders. He picked it up and felt a wave of nostalgia. Their father was holding out his wrist, showing off the new watch Edward had given him that year. His father could not have known what an appropriate gift it was.
He put the picture down and looked through the rest of the apartment. There was nothing unusual in any of the drawers or closets. A sport shirt, probably the last one he had worn, lay tossed carelessly across the bed. On the floor beside the bed was a pair of tan loafers with run down heels. His razor and a can of Foamy shaving cream were still sitting on the bathroom vanity where he had last used them. He picked up the can and scraped some of the crusty residue off the spout with his thumbnail. A good deal of time had passed since it had been used. Absently, he wondered how the time travelers shaved while they were in the field. It would be infeasible to use a can of Foamy and a safety razor in front of people who shaved with knives, if they shaved at all.
Back in the living room he sat down on the sofa and propped his feet on the coffee table. His eyes roamed across the walls, once again studying the multitude of cities, landscapes, and faces long since obliterated by time. A book lying on the table attracted his attention. He picked it up and looked at the cover. On the front was an artist's conception of an Egyptian wearing a tall, pointed helmet. In the classic style of ancient Egyptian art, he was naked from the waist up, his upper body facing front with the face and legs in profile. Religions of the Pharaohs was embossed in gold letters along the spine. It was interesting to note that the author was Dr. John Kasdan.
He opened the cover and began flipping randomly through the pages. Near the middle, a small piece of notepaper fell out. He picked it up and looked at it. BABYLON STATION was written on it in what looked like Edward’s handwriting. Except for those words, it was blank. He looked back at the page it had marked. The text dealt with a battle fought between the Egyptians and another faction identified only as the sea people. One paragraph had been underlined in pencil:
In an account steeped in myth and exaggerated for effect, Pharaoh Ramses II found himself confronted by a contingent of enemy troops most likely made up of Hittite soldiers, though there is no evidence that this was the actual case. The story refers to the opposing force as the "sea people," but they are not specifically identified as to origin. Taken by surprise, the elite Egyptian Division was routed and fled before the attack of this mysterious army. Having been at the head of his troops when the attack came, Pharaoh found himself cut off and facing the enemy alone. In his moment of peril he beseeched his father, the god Amen, for help, saying that Amen was greater in battle than a million soldiers and chariots all standing united against the foe. Strengthened by his prayer, Pharaoh charged alone into the enemy ranks. But before the first javelin was cast, Amen sent a great chariot with a voice like thunder to aid him. The god spoke in the language of the sun, and the enemy fled in terror before Pharaoh. In the words of Ramses, "Their weapons were useless against me, and they could not find strength to hurl their lances.” There is obvious distortion in this account as other records from the same period speak of a great defeat for Ramses.
The story went on for several paragraphs, but nothing else was underlined. He stuck the note back inside the book and tossed it onto the table.
He got up and took one last look around before going to the door. Being in the room made him feel closer to Edward, and he hated to leave it. For an interminable time he stood beside the door, his finger on the light switch, just listening and looking, half expecting Edward to appear. At last he flipped the switch and plunged the room into darkness. He was still too keyed up to sleep, so he walked back to the pool and stood staring into the shimmering water.
"Hello again," said a female voice from behind him.
The unexpected voice startled him and he whirled to face its owner. He had been so deep in thought that he had not heard Gail Wilson approach. She was wearing a white pool robe and carrying a towel.
"I didn't mean to startle you," she said, putting her hand on his arm.
He smiled and shook his head. “No, no, it’s okay. I was just taking a walk around the pool before turning in."
She filled her lungs with night air and said, "It's nice out tonight." She spoke as she exhaled, giving her voice a whispery tone. "I always take a swim before going to bed. It helps me sleep. Why don't you join me?”
"No trunks," he answered, pulling his suit coat open.
"Is that a problem?" she said suggestively, her voice low. With a shrug of her shoulders she let the robe fall around her feet. She had the body of a chorus girl, and her skimpy bikini left little to the imagination.
Leahy felt his face flush. He was glad it was too dark for her to see the redness of his cheeks. "It's uh.........the air's a little too cool for me anyway," he stuttered. Under other circumstances he might have been responsive to her forwardness, but at this particular moment she made him feel uncomfortable. For some reason Taylor Griffin’s face flashed through his mind.
"Will you wait while I take a few laps? It's early yet. Maybe we could talk."
"Sure," he answered with a shrug. He really did not want to, but he hated to be impolite.
She walked to the end of the pool and balanced on the edge. Leahy watched as she stretched her hands over her head and made an expert dive into the water. The interior pool lights made her body shimmer and writhe as she swam its length underwater. She kicked off the opposite end and started back, swimming on the surface. After another lap she got out and slipped the robe back on.
"What kind of VIP are you, Matt?" she asked as she sat down in one of the pool chairs. The robe fell away from her legs, exposing them to mid-thigh. She wrapped the towel around her head like a turban and leaned back in the chair. He shot a quick glance toward the windows in Taylor's apartment, but they were dark. His quarters were next to hers, and he found himself wishing she would come out. He had no experience at cloak and dagger situations, and was not at all sure he could handle this one for very long.
"VIP?" he answered.
"You're with the NSA aren't you?"
"No.....yes. I guess you could say that."
"Sounds exciting. I'll bet you're here to catch a spy or something." She hugged herself, wrinkled her nose, and looked from side to side as though they might be in danger of attack by enemy agents.
Her silly attempt at humor irritated him, but he tried not to show it. He knew she was putting on the dumb blonde act for his benefit.
"A spy? What makes you think th
at?"
"Well, you're the NSA. Don't you handle spies and things like that?"
"I think the FBI does that."
"Oh. Then what does the NSA do?"
"A lot of paperwork. What do you do?"
"You'd be bored. I'd rather talk about you."
"I'm flattered."
"Where are you from? You have such a wonderful accent."
"Georgia. A little town called Marietta."
"Sounds wonderful. Like in Gone With the Wind, or someplace like that."
"Not quite. The ladies don't wear those kind of dresses anymore."
"Oh. How long will you be staying with us?"
"Probably just a few days."
"Will you be working in the main research building?"
"I expect so."
"Good. Maybe we'll get a chance to work together or have lunch. What kind of security clearance do you have?"
"I don't know if it's been assigned yet."
"Well, what kind of work will you be doing?"
"Like I said, a lot of paperwork."
"You don't look like a paperwork man."
"What do I look like?"
"Like someone who's here for a special purpose. Nobody comes to Apache Point to do paperwork."
"Do you always ask this many questions?"
"Sometimes. Would you like a drink?"
"I'd love one, but it's been a long day. I think I'll turn in."
"Already?"
"I guess I'm getting old."
She laughed. "Sure you are!"
"See you later, Gail." He started to walk away, then turned back and smiled at her. "By the way, I really like that bathing suit."
"Thanks." She stood up, smiled broadly, dropped the robe, and presented him with a panoramic view.
Leahy shook his head and grinned. "Goodnight," he said.
"Goodnight, Matt." She smiled, but sounded disappointed.
He had walked only a few feet when she called after him.
"Matt?"
He turned to look at her. The smile was gone, replaced by a serious expression.
"Be careful with yourself. You're a stranger in a strange land, you know."
He nodded, puzzled, then walked the rest of the way to his quarters without looking back. Inside, he stood with his back against the door thinking about her ominous warning. Was it really a warning or just her quaint way of saying goodnight? After a few seconds he turned off the lights, closed the curtains, and peered through a small crack between them. She was still at the pool, sitting with her back to him. He scanned the rest of the courtyard, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Satisfied, he closed the curtain completely and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.
"Matt, you are getting old," he said aloud to himself. He took off his clothes without turning on the lights and slipped into bed. The fatigue of the long day caught up with him, and he was asleep almost immediately.
The narrow tunnel stretched away to infinity. It had no end, only a deception of ending where the walls appeared to come together in the distance. He ran as fast as he could, but the uneven floor made him stumble and grasp for handholds on the rough-cut stone walls. The air was stale and stank of decay, but he pulled great draughts of it into his burning lungs to fuel his exertion. Far behind him a whirlwind of green fire broke the darkness, writhing and screaming in pursuit. He dared not look over his shoulder for fear of falling, but he knew the fire was slowly gaining on him. His legs were as heavy as lead, but he forced the aching muscles to move through sheer willpower.
There was something in the tunnel ahead of him, but the distance was too great to make it out. His heart pounded in his ears and the bitter taste of fear fouled his mouth. He was soaked with sweat, so he pulled off his suit coat and threw it away. As he ran, the objects ahead became clearer. He saw that it was three people standing shoulder to shoulder across the width of the tunnel. Their backs were toward him and as he reached them he staggered to a stop, crying out for help. As the three slowly turned toward him he saw that their flesh was ghastly white with a red-rimmed third eye in the center of their foreheads.
One of them was a woman with long dark hair. She reached out to him, her lips forming words without sound. He forced himself to look at the dark eye in her forehead. It stared back at him, and he bit off the scream forming in his throat. He saw that it was not an eye at all, but a ragged hole where her skull had been pierced by a bullet. She took a step toward him and he recoiled in horror from the decayed flesh of her hand. Shudders convulsed his body and he wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to go.
The roaring maelstrom was almost upon him now, filling the corridor with cold green radiance. The turbulence of its approach blew the three specters away like dead leaves, leaving him to face it alone. The roaring changed to a deep throb as translucent tendrils from the entity reached out to encircle him in an icy embrace. He had no strength left to run or fight, and with the resolve of total surrender, he slowly turned to look into the bony face of death.
He sat bolt upright in the bed. A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek and caught in the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and strained to see into the darkness. His chest was heaving as though he had been running, and his shirt was soaked with perspiration. After a few seconds the fog in his brain began to clear and he realized he was in his bedroom. A dream, he thought. I was dreaming. He concentrated, but could not remember exactly what the dream was about. He removed his damp tee shirt, wiped his face with it, and tossed it onto the floor. When his breathing returned to normal he lay back down and closed his eyes. After a few minutes he fell asleep again.
This time there were no dreams.
Chapter 7
He was up the next morning before dawn. After showering he went to the closet, removed one of the jumpsuits and put it on. It was almost a perfect fit. He noted that the lining was a thin, silver-colored quilting that felt warm against his skin. Several pockets of various sizes were sewn onto the garment across the chest and along the legs. Next he put on the boots and laced them tightly. He walked over to the bedroom mirror and appraised himself. Looks like a cross between a commando and a jet pilot, he thought. His instructions were to wait for Taylor before leaving his quarters, so to kill time he sat down and went through Edward's dossier again. The file contained a mini-history of his brother’s work at Apache Point. Most of the entries were only a few lines long, referring to geological explorations at various locations in Asia. After each entry was the word FILE followed by a number. Matt surmised the number indicated the existence of a more extensive document, probably covering each expedition in detail. He wondered where those files were kept, and made a mental note to question Taylor about them. If they were detailed reports, they might contain the names of other agents with whom Edward had worked, or at least reveal some clue that would be helpful in solving his disappearance.
Following that was a small, bordered box containing numbers. The one he was looking at read 1112.01250. The numbers were meaningless to him, so he added them to his list of questions for Taylor. He counted the number of entries in the dossier. If each one represented a different expedition, Edward had made thirty-three trips into the past. The last one was dated December 11, the day of the disastrous Egyptian expedition that had ended in the murders of the agents. Today was January 9. If a day in the past was equal to a day in the present, then the event had occurred almost a month ago. No wonder Durant's investigator could not tell exactly how the agents had died; their bodies were probably in an advanced state of decomposition by that time.
Before closing the folder, he looked again at the personal information sheet with Edward's photograph. The center section contained spaces for family references. One of them requested the name and address of someone to be notified in the event of an emergency. Written on that line in Edward's neat handwriting were Matt's name and the address of the Atlanta police department.
Taylor's knock interrupted his reverie. He opened the door an
d was surprised to see that she, too, was wearing one of the jumpsuits. The black material and dark hair made her bright green eyes a striking focal point.
"Ready?" She gave him a wide smile.
"Where to?" He stepped outside and closed the door, Edward's file tucked under his arm.
"First breakfast, then the linguistics lab. We have a lot to get done." They started off down the walkway toward a large building.
"Linguistics lab? What's that for?"
"Well, you won't be very effective where we're going unless you know something about the language, will you? So today you go to school. And I'm the teacher, so raise your hand before asking any more questions." She punched him playfully in the ribs with her elbow.
"Okay, Teach," he said, laughing. "I don't want my palm rapped with a ruler."
The sun was just above the horizon, ascending into a clear blue sky. Had it not been for the situation in which he found himself, he would be looking forward to a beautiful day in the company of a beautiful woman.
The above ground cafeteria used by the civilian workers was located just beyond the living quarters. As they passed the swimming pool he recalled his conversation with Gail Wilson. As they walked he recounted it to Taylor, leaving out the sexual overtones.
"That's a weird conversation even for Gail," she said when he had finished. "What's the reference to 'a stranger in a strange land'?"
"Seems to me it's a verse from the Bible, but I can't remember chapter and verse. You said she was a systems analyst. Exactly what is that; what's her job?"
"Just that, really. There are hundreds of people assigned to various research projects here, but most of them are support personnel. Very few are involved directly in Chronocom operations. In fact, outside of the agents themselves, and the scientists who operate the machinery, no one even knows of its existence. Gail's job is to monitor computer information systems to make sure the individual research units stay coordinated with each other."
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