She had no notion where Les Brand was today, or what he might be doing. He was her last love, several years ago.
Her call to Holland’s lab in the no-man’s land of a Southern swamp was no quirk of fate. She had known of the existence of the lab—which had been kept out of popular science journals—due to the government’s participation in the funding of whatever Holland was doing. But not even government files revealed the nature of his work. That, she had deduced from a study of his past achievements.
Three years ago, Holland had reconstructed the primal atmosphere of earth and in it, using Frankenstein-like surges of lightning, he had caused carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, sulphur and phosphorus to form a living compound. Holland had built an amino acid to order, and he had watched one of his primal cells (some called them “artificial cells”) divide.
When last heard from and written about, Holland was proposing to develop microscopic organisms that would devour disease-causing microbes. “Is this how we’ll cure the common cold?” asked one journal in headlines. “Could this mean the end of humanity?” asked another. A last item on the subject indicated that Holland had shelved such experiments “until such time as genetic engineering provides more answers than it does questions.” The hidden lab, Cable reasoned, had to be carrying on Holland’s controversial research with recombinant DNA—away from the prying eyes of the press. The government involvement in funding suggested there might be military implications in his work. His need for an electronics expert suggested an endeavor that was highly complex, indeed.
Her predecessor had been eaten by an alligator? The notion was so absurd, and suggested such carelessness, that the fact also struck her as funny.
As she stepped onto dry land, she suddenly wondered: What had the electronics man been doing out in the swamp? She had thought the scientific team would stay close to the lab.
But she did not ask the question because “dry land” turned out to be mud, and she sank in it to her ankles.
Several armed men approached from the underbrush.
“Where’s Sam?” Bill Darkow asked them.
“Said he wanted to check on something,” said one of the men. “One of the sensors, probably. Welcome back, sir.” The man turned his attention to Charlie. “I see you brought us a pretty lady.”
“That I did,” said the Project administrator.
The men smiled at Cable but seemed more interested in Charlie.
“What did they say in Washington?” another asked.
Charlie offered Cable his arm, to help her pull herself out of the glue-like mud. “That’s confidential, Teddy. But, well, you can almost start packing your toothbrush.”
“All right!” Teddy said exuberantly. “Then why send us another electronics man . . . woman?”
Cable answered this herself. “Instrumentation and computation are never more vital than when a project is being wrapped up. Whatever we don’t do now may never get done.”
“The boss doesn’t know, does he?” another of the men asked. “This morning he was acting like we’ll all be here till hell freezes over.”
“I don’t suppose he does know,” said Charlie. “And don’t you say anything to him; it’s my job—and too complicated to talk about by phone or radio. That’s why I didn’t call ahead. Hell, I might as well tell you. Government funds are being withdrawn, but some of the private endowments will continue. Holland can go on for a while longer, if he wants to, with a reduced staff.”
Cable looked with dismay at her expensive muddy boots. They should have told me we’d be roughing it, she muttered internally; but then again, I should have guessed it.
It was easy to see—now that she knew to look—what land was dry path and what around her might be less than solid.
Off to her side of the path were more rows of tilted, eroded gravestones. Parts of a vine-wrapped fence showed how the graveyard had once befen made private. Decades ago, she suspected, the water table was lower here, and the land was drier. Something about the unkempt tumble-down graveyard gave her a chill. The graveyard itself was dead.
So was the church; but now a bright electric parasite dwelled within it. In the late afternoon light, which was dimming through the thick live oak and cypress overhead as the sun neared the horizon, the front windows of the old church cast beams of brilliance into the gloomy swamp. Pieces of stained glass still clung to the leading.
Of weather-warped frame, the old church had a listing steeple and a bell that was rusted tight to its axle. Missing boards, like wounds, suggested that new interior walls had been erected and that the lab was mainly taking advantage of the stone foundation. There were gaping holes in the roof through which trusses could be seen—telling Cable in advance that the lab would be a large and high enclosure unobstructed by columns or supporting walls.
There was a rock chimney, and a wisp of smoke rose from it—residue from some experiment, Cable guessed, as there was no need for heat in the sultry swamp.
There were several dilapidated frame shacks—complete with verandas and porch swings—near the church. Charlie led her toward one of them.
“Why the cutback?” Cable asked him. “Just budget cuts, or is Washington paranoid about having a hand in what’s going on here?”
Charlie shot her a diplomat’s benign smile and said only, “This cabin is your place, and it’s also the electronics command center.”
The porch planks gave and the screen door screeched, but inside Cable found herself in clean, comfortable quarters—two good-sized rooms and a kitchen and bathroom. Four bunks in the bedroom indicated that a concession had been made to her womanhood; the three men who might be sharing had been placed elsewhere. The living room was really a workroom, her own lab.
There a row of workbenches held state-of-the-art analyzers and computation equipment. Cable pointed offhandedly for her baggage to be put in the bedroom and stepped directly to the instruments.
“You probably haven’t seen half of this stuff,” Charlie said. “It’s all new. This—” he laid his hand on a knob-encrusted green-metal box “—just arrived when I was leaving to pick you up in Washington. It’s a—”
Cable nodded. “It’s a laser-induced subsonic field generator.” Her smile told Charlie that she was showing off a little and enjoying it. “It gives double readings in the 3200 band, right? I’ve got a trick for fixing that.”
Charlie stared at her, surprised, and then laughed. “Just our luck,” he said. “They send someone who knows what she’s doing the very week they start pulling us out.”
“I may stay awhile,” Cable said casually. “If I’m needed.”
“You can’t tell me all this appeals to you!”
“I brought my bug spray.” She added, more seriously, “Besides, I’ve got to know what kind of project can use such a fantastic array of equipment. What’s he working on—specifically?”
“Who?”
“Holland. You must know more than you’ve told me so far.”
Charlie leaned against the back of a metal folding chair. “He’s doing something so hush-hush no one even asks. It has something to do with plants.”
“What?”
Charlie squirmed uneasily; he did not know how much he was at liberty to say. Before he could deliver a guarded answer, there was an insistent buzz.
“Intercom,” Charlie explained. He lifted a conventional wall telephone mounted by the kitchen door and said, “Hi, boss. We’re getting settled.”
While Charlie reported on pleasant flights, good weather, an effective landing and an organized reception committee, Cable moved closer to the equipment. She stumbled over a pair of boots and two stuffed duffle bags that had been tossed under the bench. She looked at Charlie inquiringly.
He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and told her: “Bill and Sam, the twins, stayed here till recently. Apparently one of them hasn’t finished moving out.”
As Charlie returned to his conversation, Cable began switching on pieces of equipment. A sma
ll CRT monitor lighted up with a message. In simplified computer type, it said: “SENSOR OUT/SECTION THREE.”
She found a clipboard on the bench that listed twelve sectors, with twelve sensors that recorded sound, wind velocity, light level, and air mixture with emphasis on toxic gasses, temperature and humidity. Number three seemed to be out—unless the display was being misled by an internal problem.
Cable made a mental connection but thought very little of it: They said Bill’s brother went out to check on something; maybe it was the sensor.
Charlie said, “Sure, Alec, right away,” and dropped the phone back onto its cradle. “C’mon,” he said to Cable, taking her arm, “the emperor wants to meet you.”
“Charlie,” she started to say, “there’s a sensor—”
“You can get to work a little later,” he said impatiently. “Incidentally—” he flipped a switch at the door “—this is a master that cuts off most of what’s running in here. Saves your having to hit ’em one at a time.”
“But computer core—”
“Depends on where things are plugged in. This doesn’t turn off your refrigerator either.”
Between the cabin and the church—no more than sixty feet—ran a reed-lined stream over which there was a rickety wooden bridge. The stream widened into an inlet leading to the east side of the peninsula. A man Cable had not met stood on the bridge and yelled instructions to several men in a blue boat approaching from the inlet. “Get that thing out of sight! You want it picked up on a spy satellite? No boats in sight; you know that.”
The boat nosed in to the shallow bank; the men jumped out and hauled it toward a shelter of camouflage net that was stretched among trees to the side of the church.
Cable frowned. This looked more and more like a military installation—something she had not been led to expect.
The man on the bridge—in his fifties, dark-haired, wearing khaki trousers and shirt—sized up Cable as she came near. She did not like the way he looked at her; he was not taking her seriously. When he smiled, it was insolent, assuming, insulting by virtue of being flattering.
He spoke to Charlie first. “Charlie. Welcome back.”
“Harry,” Charlie said with a polite nod.
“This the new electronics officer?”
Charlie nodded. “Cable, this is Colonel Harry Ritter, project field supervisor.”
Cable and Ritter shook hands. She said, “Why so cautious?”
“Because it’s necessary,” Ritter said evenly.
“Why?” she persisted.
“Standard operating procedure,” he said.
“Standard, for what?”
“For operations such as this.”
Ritter and Charlie walked briskly toward the church; Cable hung back, puzzled, watching the men camouflage the harmless blue boat; then she ran to catch up with Charlie and Ritter. She slapped a mosquito that was drinking from her forearm.
The two men were not speaking. Cable said, “I want to run a check on all the sensors right away. At least one is reading malfunction.”
Ritter said peremptorily, “That’s no surprise. They rot in a week in these damn swamps.” To Charlie he said, “Did they change their minds?”
“They?”
“The sub-sub-committe on whatever we are.”
“No. They feel that Holland’s done pretty much what he came down here to do. As much as is practical, anyway. Now they want him, his substance and all the materials, back in Washington where they can keep them safe.”
Ritter slowed his steps. “You mean, don’t you Charlie, that the money’s run out, and they want the stuff not to keep it safe but to lock it away for good? Or kill it?”
Charlie said uneasily, “I don’t think that’s exactly what I mean, but I suppose it’s close.”
They stopped at the big double doors to the church.
Ritter said, quietly, “Charlie. Out with it. Is there anything wrong that you know of? Why now, why so suddenly?”
Charlie bit his lip. “A rumor,” he said with a shrug. “Somebody told somebody that Arcane’s got wind of the project.”
Cable’s ears bristled. Arcane. She knew the name; he was wanted for every brand of industrial espionage known to the legal profession. “But I thought Arcane was dead,” she said.
“He is,” said Ritter.
“His body was never found,” Charlie reminded them, “and they say his financial resources—if he’s still alive—are virtually limitless.”
“Who said that?” Ritter asked sharply. “Who said that Arcane was onto this?”
Charlie fumbled for words and finally said, “Well, nobody’s exactly taking credit for it. You know Washington.”
Ritter rested his hand on the big, brass doorhandle. “I know something else: what Holland thinks of Arcane. Alec lost half-a-dozen patents to the man, if he’s alive. Remember that biodegradable solvent Arcane marketed for millions? All it takes is for one idiot to spill this to Holland and he’ll shut up shop like a clam . . . and everybody’s profits will go to hell in a handbasket. Do you agree?” Ritter’s narrow dark eyes bored a hole in Charlie’s.
“Yes,” said Charlie.
Ritter said to Cable, “That goes for you, too. Don’t tell him.”
She said, “I understand your concern.”
Ritter clearly wanted a more positive response from her, but he accepted what he got. He swung open the church doors.
3
With a squawk of rusted hinges, Cable, Charlie and Ritter passed inside. The doors were shut behind them by an armed man standing guard.
Cable faced an unadorned modern wall that was crisscrossed with pipe and conduit and wires. As she had suspected, a laboratory had been built within the shell of the old church—which would look like nothing more than an old church to the spy satellites Ritter seemed paranoid about.
Between her and the wall stood the guard’s desk, on which a radio played popular music, and a quiet but conspicuous electric generator the size of a small truck.
Of the red and green lights over the door, the green was lighted. It reminded Cable of television studios she had visited.
Ritter pointed out a glowing box by the door. He said, “I keep the number of people near him to a minimum. Your prints were programmed in this morning. Try it out.”
Cable thought: If so few can get in, I wonder if Holland goes out much. Does he know that there’s a small army guarding him out here?
She inserted her hand in the slot of frosted glass.
With a thunk of servo-motors, the door glided open.
Cable had not known what to expect; what she saw took her breath away. It was a bio/botanical laboratory, obviously, and much more. Gleaming, light-pulsing instruments were arrayed within towering tangles of glass and stainless-steel tubing. Rack upon rack of flasks contained rainbows of earth-colored fluids, and dark tanks bubbled vigorously.
Ladders were positioned at two-story-high shelves that contained bottles of chemicals, and other shelves holding a library’s supply of books. Taller ladders led to an upper balconied level that evidently housed living quarters.
Where a choir once sang, there now was an arboretum encased by jewel-like facets of glass and flooded with beams of blue light. The tall trees and flowering plants it contained were so perfect they seemed artificial; they stretched upward toward the sun.
The ceiling of the lab was a grid of glass panes that admitted sunlight through what was left of the old church roof. Through the integument, Cable saw the eroded planks and beams of the old church structure, which were moss-covered and draped with flowering vines. The oblique rays of the setting sun made the blossoms incandescent; the artificial suns over the arboretum were blue by comparison.
Charlie said something to her.
“What?” she said, distracted.
“I said, ‘Gotta hand it to Ritter.’ He certainly gave Holland everything he asked for.”
“Ritter built this?” Cable asked incredulously. “I thought he
was just in charge of security.”
“That is more or less all he does now. He was more active in the beginning. Even had something to do with funding.”
“I did my job,” Ritter said, returning from the door, where he had been double-checking the seal. He caught Charlie by the elbow and ushered him away from Cable, toward a private corner. “Charlie, I want to hear every detail of this Arcane business, now,” he said forcefully.
Cable began to follow them. “About that sensor out in sector three—”
Charlie stopped. “Uh, yes,” he said—annoyed not so much at Cable as at the fact that there was a problem—“you go out there and take a look.” He broke off with a shrug and hurried after Ritter.
Cable muttered aloud, but to herself, “Me? Go out in the swamp? Who with?” She turned and walked toward the arboretum. After a moment, she heard voices from inside.
“Any luck?” said a man.
“Try wiggling your fingers,” said a woman.
Cable saw the two before she passed through the open portal in the glass wall. They were on their hands and knees groping for something in a large rectangular tub of dark mossy water.
“I don’t feel a thing,” he said, shaking his head.
“It has to be in here,” said the woman.
They were, Cable assumed, lab assistants—youngish, blondish, dressed in jeans, lab coats and sneakers.
The man noticed Cable and said, “Hi.”
“Hi. Lose a contact lens?”
“Funny. Take a look, would you?” he asked her. “About in the middle. We dropped a cooper’s digger.”
The woman looked up at Cable and merely smiled; Cable thought she saw amusement in her eyes.
Cable pushed her sleeves up and knelt by the tub. A swampy odor rose from it, and there seemed to be little dead things floating on its surface. But if these two could put their hands in there, so could she. The water was cool.
“What is a cooper’s digger—some kind of shovel?” she asked. She watched her hands disappear from sight in the murky liquid.
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