Sleepwalk

by John Saul

  The whole estate—for that was what it would have looked like, had it not been for the fence, the gate, and the guardhouse that sat in the center of the drive—was situated a quarter of a mile back from the road, and only a small sign at the main road identified it at all.

  A guard stepped out of the shack, and Judith gave her name, asking for Peter Langston. The guard returned to his kiosk and picked up a telephone. A few seconds later he came back to the car and handed Judith a plastic badge. It had Judith’s name embossed across the top. “I don’t believe it,” she murmured, staring at the badge.

  The guard grinned. “Computer. Once you’re okayed, I just type in your name and she spits the badge right out.” When Judith remained puzzled, he added: “Yellow just means you’re a visitor. Don’t forget to turn it in before you leave. There’s a magnetic strip on the back that can be detected from anywhere inside the fence. If you take the badge outside the fence, the computer knows it’s missing and alarms go off.”

  Judith stared at the badge, then turned it over. It looked for all the world like a credit card, right down to the brown stripe across the back. “Am I supposed to sign it?” she asked, only half in jest.

  The guard grinned again. “Only if you’re permanent,” he said. “Then you have to sign for it every day.”

  The guard watched as she clipped the badge to her blouse, then he stepped back into the kiosk. The gate rolled back, and Judith put the car into gear and drove onto the grounds of the institute.

  The heavy chain-link gate swung closed behind her, and a moment later, as the car approached the wooden doors of the building itself, the huge portals began to swing outward, allowing the car to pass between them, through a short tunnel that ran below the second floor and into an enormous courtyard.

  Judith’s eyes opened in shock.

  There was a parking lot at the near end of the courtyard, but beyond that a park had been constructed. Tropical foliage burgeoned everywhere, and there was an artificial brook meandering through the gardens, spanned here and there by low wooden bridges.

  Peter Langston, a tall, angular man with hair that was grayer than Judith remembered it, was waiting for her, apparently bemused by her shock at the jungle contained within the building. “I don’t believe this,” Judith said as she got out of the car. “How on earth does it survive in the winter?”

  Peter pointed upward. “There’s a roof—see? It retracts when the weather’s right.”

  “Incredible,” Judith said.

  “Isn’t it just?” Peter replied dryly. He gave her an affectionate hug before holding her away from him, his eyes growing serious. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I was going to call you tonight.”

  Judith shook her head. “I couldn’t wait. There’s too much going on, and I’m scared, Peter.”

  The last traces of his smile vanished. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go up to my office.” He led her up a flight of stairs to a broad loggia that ran around the entire second floor of the building’s inner wall.

  “I suppose there’s no point in asking you what’s going on out here, is there?” Judith asked. “From what happened out in front, I gather it’s all pretty secret.”

  Langston shrugged. “Some of it is, I suppose. But a lot of it’s only a secret if you have a financial interest in it, which Willard Brandt certainly does. We’re doing a lot of work with superconductors here, and there’s one group over in the east wing that’s supposed to be working on a new computer that’s going to make the best Cray look like a Model-T Ford.” He turned into an office, then gestured to a comfortable-looking chair before folding himself up into a wooden rocker that looked oddly out of place to Judith. “Back problems,” he said. “Now, what’s this all about? And why the sudden rush?”

  Judith explained what had happened in Borrego over the weekend and the odd behavior of some of her students that day. “I’m absolutely certain it has something to do with those shots,” she concluded. “But until you tell me what they are, I can’t prove anything.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact,” Peter said, “I just managed to get some time on the electron microscope this afternoon. Let’s go take a look.”

  He led Judith back out to the loggia, but this time they used an elevator instead of the stairs, descending to what was apparently the second of three underground levels. When the doors slid open, they emerged into a corridor tiled with glistening white porcelain and shadowlessly illuminated from fluorescent panels in the ceiling. All along the length of the corridor closed doors hid whatever activity was taking place down here from Judith’s view. “Real space-age, huh?” Langston asked.

  Judith made no reply, and at last Peter turned into one of the rooms and spoke to a technician who was studying a display on a computer monitor. “Is that my stuff?” he asked.

  The technician nodded. “But I can’t quite figure out what it is.”

  Judith stared at the image on the monitor. It looked like nothing she’d ever seen before, but at the same time it struck her as being vaguely familiar.

  It was roughly rectangular, with two nibs, almost like the tips of ballpoint pens, protruding from one end. The body of the thing seemed to be wrapped in wire, and at what Judith assumed was the base of the object, there was another pair of points, these two mounted to the body in such a way that they appeared to be able to swing toward each other.

  The technician, his expression as puzzled as Judith’s own, finally spoke. “I give up,” he said. “I can’t tell you what it is, but I can tell you what it isn’t. It isn’t cellular, and it isn’t organic. And it doesn’t look like any molecule I’ve ever seen either.”

  Peter Langston nodded in agreement, his bushy brows knitting as he concentrated on the strange object the screen displayed. “It’s definitely not a molecule,” he said. “It’s way too big. But it’s too small to be anything organic. That thing could fit right into any cell in the human body, with plenty of room to spare.”

  Judith glanced at Peter. “Okay,” she said, certain he already knew the answer. “What is it?”

  “Off the top of my head,” Peter replied, “I’d say it’s some kind of a micromachine.”

  Judith’s eyes left the display and fixed on Peter. “A what?” she asked.

  Peter smiled at her. “A micromachine. If I’m right—and I’d give at least a hundred-to-one odds I am—it’s a tiny mechanism, probably etched out of silicon.”

  Judith stared at him. “You mean it actually does something?” she asked.

  Peter’s finger moved to the screen and he traced along the twin protuberances at the object’s base. “I’d be willing to swear that those two things swing on those pivots,” he said, his finger stopping on what looked like the head of a tiny pin penetrating through the protuberance and fixed to the body of the object. “In fact,” he said, “that looks like some kind of a switch. See?” he went on. “Look how the ends of those are beveled. If you brought them together, the two beveled faces would match perfectly, making a contact point.”

  Judith stared at him. “But how big is it? If it can actually work …” Her voice trailed off as Peter glanced inquiringly at the technician.

  “A couple of microns,” he said, “one point eighty-seven, to be exact.”

  Peter whistled. “Small, indeed,” he said.

  “But what does it do?” Judith asked.

  Langston sighed heavily. “I’m going to have to get a lot of images of this thing, then have the computer put it together in three dimensions. At that point I should be able to get a pretty good sense of what it is.”

  Judith pulled her eyes away from the strange image on the screen to look worriedly at Peter. “How long will it take?” she asked.

  Peter shook his head. “I wish I could tell you. A few hours, probably. But once I know what it is, I’ll need more time to figure out how it works and exactly what it does.”

  “But I don’t have time,” Judith replied, fear sharpening her voice. “Peter, two people are alrea
dy dead up in Borrego, and two more might as well be. And now something’s happening to the children—”

  Peter held up a restraining hand. “I understand,” he said. “Look, I’ll find someone to help me, and if I have to, I’ll work all night, and all day tomorrow. Now, the best thing you can do is go find a hotel room and wait for me to call. All right?”

  Judith shook her head. “I have to go home. Frank needs me, and Jed—”

  Peter eyed her worriedly. “Look. Whatever’s going on, it’s got to be dangerous. And if anyone finds out you stole that syringe, it’s going to be especially dangerous for you.”

  Judith took a deep breath and slowly let it out. It did nothing to relieve her fear. But she still knew she had to go back to Borrego today. “I can’t stay,” she said. “I just can’t.”

  Peter started to argue with her, but knew by the look in her eye that it would do no good. “All right,” he said, reluctantly giving in. “But be careful, okay?”

  Judith nodded tightly. “I will,” she replied. “But promise me, Peter. As soon as you know what that thing is, call me. No matter what time it is.”

  Ten minutes later, after Judith had left, Peter Langston set to work. Within an hour, as the truth of what the micromachines were began to dawn on him, a cold knot of fear began to form in his stomach.

  The children of Borrego were in a lot more trouble than even Judith suspected.

  Jed stared at the dark brick mass of the four-story building that stood at the corner of First and E streets and felt a twinge of doubt. The Borrego Building, still the largest in town, seemed to have taken on an ominous look this afternoon, but Jed knew that its foreboding air was only a figment of his own imagination. The building itself, with its vaguely Gothic facade, looked as it always had—faintly dingy, like the rest of the town, but with a feeling of solidity to it.

  Still, as he pulled the pickup truck into an empty slot in front of the building, he hesitated. But he’d made his decision, and there didn’t seem to be any point in waiting until tomorrow. Once he was working for the company, he might be able to find out the truth about what they had done to his father.

  Jed swung out of the cab of the truck and walked through the door next to the bank that occupied the ground floor of the building, hurrying up the stairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs there was a glass-fronted directory. Jed scanned it quickly, then studied the numbers on the doors on either side of him. Finally he turned left and made his way down the narrow corridor until he came to Room 201, its number emblazoned on the opaque glass panel in flaking gold leaf. Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

  There were two desks in the room, but only one of them was occupied. Charlie Hodges, a gray-haired man of about fifty-five, whom Jed had known all his life, glanced idly up from his work, then smiled broadly as he rose to his feet and strode toward him, his hand out.

  “Jed!” Charlie said. “This is a coincidence.” His smile faded and his eyes grew somber. “I was just working on some of the forms regarding your father. Getting his insurance straightened out, and starting a disability claim.” He shook his head sadly. “This is one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do. Every time I think of Frank …” His voice trailed off, then he seemed to recover himself “How is he? Is there any change?”

  Jed shook his head. “I went out to see him this afternoon. He’s just the same. I—” His voice faltered, but then he managed to steady it. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet,” he said, leaving it to Hodges to figure out what he meant. Though he’d already thought about it, and was going to talk to Jude about it tonight, he still couldn’t accept the idea of deliberately letting his father die.

  Hodges, though, understood immediately, and grasped his shoulder reassuringly. “It’s hard,” he said. “How’s that girlfriend of his doing? The teacher.”

  “Okay,” Jed replied. Then he gazed directly at Hodges. “I didn’t really come down here about Dad,” he said. “What I need to do is get a job.”

  Hodges looked at him in surprise, then repressed his automatic urge to ask Jed if he’d talked to his father about going to work. He nodded firmly. “Well, as you know, we’ve been laying men off all week, but I think maybe we can make an exception in your case. I mean, given the circumstances,” he added, sounding flustered.

  Waving to Jed to follow him, he returned to his desk, pulled a form from the bottom drawer and handed it to the boy. “You might start filling this out,” he said. “Let me just call upstairs.” He punched three digits into the phone on his desk, then waited.

  “Mr. Kendall?” he said a moment later. “Charlie Hodges, downstairs. I have someone here looking for work.” He was silent for a moment, nodding a couple of times as the other man spoke. “I know that,” he said after Kendall had finished speaking. “But I think this may be a special case. It’s Frank Arnold’s boy—Jed.” He listened again, then winked at Jed, and after a moment hung up. “Just as I thought,” he said. “One thing around here hasn’t changed this week. The company is still doing its best to look after its people.”

  Jed looked up from the application form he was filling out, his lips twisted in a wry grin. “How about the guys who are getting laid off?” he asked.

  Hodges shrugged. “It’s only temporary,” he said. But as he read the doubt in Jed’s eyes, he added, “Look, I know what your father thought about what’s happened, but he’s wrong. UniChem has big plans for this company. Within two years the refinery is going to be twice the size it is now, and there are plans to build a factory, as well.”

  “A factory?” Jed echoed. “Come on, Mr. Hodges. What kind of factory would they build out here?”

  Hodges shrugged. “All I know is it’s some kind of real high-tech deal. They’re talking about new kinds of fusion, and that kind of thing. Three years from now there are going to be more jobs out here than we can fill.”

  The application form completed, Jed pushed it across the desk. Could what Hodges had just said really be true? Had his father been wrong? But then an image of his father flashed into his mind, followed by another, this time of Gina Alvarez.

  His father, he decided, had not been wrong, but nothing in Jed’s expression revealed his doubts as he faced the personnel director. “Sounds great,” he said. “Maybe I’m getting in on the ground floor of something terrific.”

  Hodges’s head bobbed enthusiastically, and he handed Jed a card. “Take this over to the hospital. Then report to Bill Watkins tomorrow morning, up at the dam.”

  Half an hour later, at the small hospital on the edge of Borrego, Jed sat uneasily facing Dr. Banning for the second time that day. This time, instead of studying Frank Arnold’s tests, the doctor was looking at Jed’s own. Jed had already produced a urine sample, and the nurse had taken a blood sample as well. Jed had felt uneasy as the needle had slipped into his vein, and had had to fight down an urge to jerk away from the instrument in the nurse’s hand.

  “Well, I guess that’s it,” Banning told him at last. “We’ve got all the specimens we need, and you don’t seem to have any problems at all. And according to your records at school, you got your flu shot last week, so I guess we’re covered.”

  Almost automatically, Jed opened his mouth to correct the error in his school records, but then quickly shut it again. If they thought he’d already had his shot, he certainly wasn’t about to tell them otherwise. “Then that’s it?” he asked, standing up.

  Banning smiled. “That’s it. Not too bad, was it?”

  Jed shrugged, said good-bye, and hurried out of the hospital into the warmth of the late afternoon. As he started home, he felt a twinge of uneasy excitement.

  The answers to all his questions were somewhere within the company he now worked for.

  And somehow he would find out what those answers were.

  Chapter 25

  The man in the dark blue Chevy parked across the street from Frank Arnold’s house slouched low in the passenger seat as the glar
e of headlights swept his windshield. He hated having to sit by himself in a car in the middle of a residential neighborhood; he always had the feeling that eyes were watching him from every home. But his instructions had been explicit—as long as there was a light on in the Arnold house, he was to remain posted where he was, and he wasn’t to leave for at least an hour after the last light in the house went off. Well, maybe the teacher and the kid were the kind who went to bed early.

  The source of the headlights turned out to be the same pickup truck with the broken windshield that had left half an hour earlier, and the man in the car relaxed as he saw Jed Arnold, now accompanied by a girl he was sure must be Gina Alvarez, get out of the truck and disappear through the front door. When they were safely inside, he left his car and strolled up the street, glancing into the window of the house as he passed it. The two kids were talking to the Sheffield woman, but it didn’t look like any big deal—they just seemed to be chatting. He wandered on up the street, crossed, then walked back along the other side until he was even with his car. Glancing around, still with the uneasy sense that he was being watched from every window on the block, he got back in his car and decided it was time to ignore his orders.