Garth said, “The technicians in the police lab who did that analysis tell me there’s only one place in the world where that kind of soil is found: the Amazon rain forest. But we found the traces of soil that were used for the analysis in an envelope, and that envelope had been dropped into a mailbox somewhere in the greater New York metropolitan region. We’re a long way from Brazil, Doctor, and it occurred to Mongo and me that there might be one other place where that kind of soil might be found—right here, at the Botanical Garden. We were hoping you might know if there’s soil like that here; and, if so, who might be working with the plants that are growing in it.”
Zelaskowich pushed his glasses back up on his forehead, pursed his lips, then shook his head. “No, Mr. Frederickson,” he said after a few moments. “I would say not.”
“Are you sure, Doctor?” I asked. “It’s very important. If that didn’t come from here, Garth and I don’t have the slightest idea where to start looking next. We’ve checked with some florists, but they tell us that there’s virtually no chance that a tropical plant sold here would have been potted in its native soil. This is the only place we could think of that might use it. You yourself said that you don’t know how many plants you have here. Isn’t it possible that there’s some rain forest soil dumped someplace and you don’t know about it?”
Again, the botanist shook his head. “If tropical plants potted in soil like this were left out in the open, they wouldn’t survive; and there is no soil in any of our terrariums that resembles this. You see, we just have no need for this kind of soil—and, if we did, we would have a good deal of trouble obtaining it.”
“Why?” I persisted. “Why couldn’t you just have someone over there dig up a barrel or two of the stuff and ship it to you? I can’t imagine that there’s a shortage of dirt in Brazil.”
“Indeed not, but the very high microbial count would present a problem. The Customs Service would frown on the importation of such soil in even relatively small amounts. In fact, that’s just about what happened a few months ago.”
“What happened a few months ago, Doctor?” Garth asked, his sudden excitement and tension clearly evident in his voice even as I felt my own heart begin to beat more rapidly.
Samuel Zelaskowich shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, you see, for some years a number of our staff members have served as consultants to a company called Nuvironment, Incorporated.”
I asked, “Is that normal procedure for you people to do outside consulting work?”
“Actually, it’s rather unusual. But this is a rather special circumstance. Nuvironment happens to be owned by a very rich—and, I’m told, very eccentric—man by the name of Henry Blaisdel. I’m sure you’ve both heard of him.”
I’d heard of him, all right—as had anybody who even occasionally scanned the business pages of any newspaper or magazine, or read the kinds of tabloids that specialize in fantastic stories, virtually all of them made up, about bizarre personalities. According to Fortune magazine’s last compilation, Henry Blaisdel ranked in the top ten of the world’s billionaires, having just been nudged out of the top five by a couple of members of the Saudi royal family. Blaisdel owned lots of things—corporations, land, and people—all over the world, including a sixty-eight-story skyscraper, the Blaisdel Building, on the primest real estate in America, Fifth Avenue in midtown Manhattan. The building, among other things, was the corporate headquarters of the Blaisdel Holding Corporation, an umbrella company that coordinated Blaisdel’s global operations. The fact that he hadn’t been seen in public for almost a decade only increased the legendary aura that had grown up around him. His aversion to the public obviously hadn’t affected his business acumen; his holdings, his fortune, just kept growing.
“Nuvironment, apparently, is Henry Blaisdel’s pet company,” Zelaskowich continued. “It would certainly have to be, considering the tens of millions of dollars he’s poured into it over the years.”
“You seem very well informed about the company, Doctor,” Garth said in a neutral tone.
“Well, that’s because Nuvironment has been using various members of the staff here as consultants since the company’s founding—which was before I got here, but I’m well aware of the importance our board places on cooperating with the Nuvironment people. Henry Blaisdel is our biggest benefactor—as he is for many of the large cultural and scientific institutions in the city. In any case, about six or seven months ago we were asked to allow them to import one hundred tons or more of that particular type of soil under our aegis—using our contacts and knowledge, that sort of thing.”
I asked, “Why couldn’t they just import it themselves?”
“Soil is considered an agricultural commodity, or component, and special clearances and permits would be required for a shipment of that quantity. In effect, we were asked to serve as importing agent for the shipment, the reasoning being that our stature would make it easier to get the various permits required. Well, it just couldn’t be done, even under our aegis. The Customs Service frowns on the importation, in large quantities, of any foreign soil, and the high microbial count in this particular soil led to adamant objections. Nuvironment dropped its request.” Zelaskowich paused, raised his thin eyebrows slightly. “That makes this analysis you’ve brought me most curious. You’re absolutely certain it was obtained from a sample found in this country?”
“Yes,” Garth replied.
“Then it appears that the Customs Service must have relented and given Nuvironment itself the permits, and they used a different purchasing and shipping agent.”
“What if they just went ahead and imported it without the Customs Service even knowing about it?” I asked. “Blaisdel certainly has the resources—probably including his own piece of jungle—to do it himself, without ever going outside Blaisdel Holding Company.”
Zelaskowich pursed his lips and grimaced slightly, as if I had said something that wasn’t fit to be heard by decent company. “That’s certainly true, Dr. Frederickson, but Nuvironment is an outstanding company, with an impeccable reputation. They just wouldn’t do something like that.”
It was clear that Samuel Zelaskowich had spent a lot more time on his hands and knees in the dirt than he ever had in the business community, but I decided not to tarnish his illusions. “Maybe some other company imported the soil.”
The botanist tentatively scratched his left temple, shrugged. “I suppose anything is possible, but if that’s the case I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you. Nuvironment is the only concern I know of that would have any possible use for that type of soil in such large quantities.”
I glanced at Garth, who seemed to be only half listening. My brother had taken Vicky Brown’s letter out of his pocket and was rereading it yet again. I wished he would stop; I didn’t think it was good for him.
“What did Nuvironment plan to do with the soil, Dr. Zelaskowich?”
“Please, call me Samuel.”
“All right, Samuel. I’m Mongo, and my brother’s name is Garth. What use would Nuvironment have for soil from the Amazon?”
“Nuvironment is not a profit-making corporation, Mongo; indeed, I suspect that it must draw financing from other Blaisdel holdings—lots of financing—in order to maintain its operations. It exists for the sole purpose of researching—and one day, hopefully, building—biospheres.”
“Biospheres?” It was Garth; it seemed my brother was paying attention after all.
“Yes,” Samuel Zelaskowich replied. “Biospheres are totally self-contained, self-sustaining environments—small worlds, really, that regulate themselves much as the earth does, producing and recycling everything from oxygen, food, and water, to waste. Someday, Nuvironment hopes to be able to produce such biospheres on a massive scale, each one encompassing many acres. It’s theoretically possible to construct such a facility, which would be enclosed under a giant plastic dome that would let in only sunlight, if you had all the necessary components in exactly the right proportions. You see,
a very delicate balance would have to be maintained if one cycle was not to eventually overwhelm the others—production of waste overwhelming the system’s capacity to biodegrade, for example, or an incorrect ratio of air-breathing, carbon-dioxide-producing animals to plants that would absorb the carbon dioxide and produce oxygen. Nutrients would have to be able to sustain life inside the biosphere, while at the same time there must be resources—microbes, for example—available to biodegrade and recycle those things that die. It’s a very complex problem, this finding of just the right balance, especially when you plan to maintain human life inside the biosphere. Fruit bats and hummingbirds would be natural choices to pollinate various plants, but you would need more than three thousand blooming plants just to supply the nectar needed to sustain a single pair of hummingbirds. And you can’t use just any species of hummingbird; your hummingbirds would have to be low fliers, so that they wouldn’t bump into the top of the dome and injure themselves. Even termites, which you would need for the proper balance of life forms, could pose special problems; certain species might develop a taste for the epoxy compound which would be needed for properly sealing the various plastic and glass panels to each other and to a steel supporting structure.”
“So the soil would be used to degrade waste products?” I asked.
“Yes. But there’s more to it. In theory, you would also need the rain forest itself, albeit on a very small scale, to produce both sufficient oxygen and rain.”
“Rain?”
Zelaskowich nodded. “Yes; produced by condensing coils mounted in the top of the dome, over your rain forest. Naturally, this rain forest would produce a great deal of organic waste, and that particular type of soil, with its high microbial count, would be required to break down the waste.”
“You’re saying this company planned to build a jungle under glass?” Garth asked, making no effort to mask his skepticism.
“Or plastic. Yes, Garth. And not only a rain forest, but also a desert, an ocean, a freshwater lake, and saltwater marshes as well; all of these things would be needed if they hoped to maintain a proper ecological balance inside the biosphere.”
“To what end? What would be the point?”
“One day—and that day could be far in the future—Nuvironment hopes to be the sole supplier of such biospheres to the world’s space agencies. Such a biosphere would enable humans to live on and colonize not only, say, the moon, but other planets as well. If and when that day comes, Henry Blaisdel’s long-term investment will, of course, be repaid many times over. But I don’t really think he worries about what Nuvironment is costing him, or future profits; after all, he’ll be dead for years, perhaps centuries, before biospheres could be in use throughout the solar system—if that day ever comes. Blaisdel is a philanthropist, with an apparently highly developed social consciousness. In my opinion, he sees Nuvironment, with its sole function of finding a way to build biospheres, as his bid for immortality. After all, there are lots of billionaires in the world, so that simply amassing great sums of money is not sufficient to guarantee that you will even be remembered, much less honored. For example, Howard Hughes is remembered by most people for his eccentricities, not his accomplishments. I suspect Henry Blaisdel doesn’t want to make the same mistake—although that’s only my opinion, as I say.”
Garth and I exchanged glances, and then Garth stepped up to the botanist and shook his hand. “Thank you, Samuel. You’ve been very helpful, and I can’t tell you how much Mongo and I appreciate your taking the time to share this information with us.”
Zelaskowich looked back and forth between us, a puzzled expression on his face. “But I haven’t been able to tell you where the soil sample could have come from.”
“You’ve shown us where to look next,” I said.
“Oh dear,” the botanist said, and he flushed slightly. “Are you going to question the people at Nuvironment?”
“Is that a problem?”
Samuel Zelaskowich took off his glasses and began to fumble with them; he looked decidedly uncomfortable. “It’s just that … well, I’m afraid they tend to be very secretive about their research activities; they want outsiders to know as little as possible about what they’re doing. In my enthusiasm to share my knowledge with you, I may have been indiscreet. Actually, I rather doubt that anyone there will even agree to talk to you, and the fact that I’ve leaked—that’s the word they’ll surely think of—information to you could reflect badly on the … Botanical Garden.” He paused, flushed again, put his glasses back on and pulled himself up straight. “What I really mean is that it could cause me some personal difficulties if you talk to the people at Nuvironment.”
“Don’t worry, Samuel. Neither Garth nor I will say where we got our information; your name won’t be mentioned.”
“But they will most definitely speak to us,” Garth murmured in a low, flat voice that was almost inaudible.
“Thank you,” Zelaskowich said, visibly relieved. “Uh, may I inquire as to just why it is that this information is so important to you?”
“We’re trying to find a little girl who’s in danger,” Garth replied simply as he headed for the door. “Merry Christmas,” he called over his shoulder.
“Merry Christmas, Samuel,” I said, and headed after Garth.
Zelaskowich caught up with us just as we were leaving the building. He’d been running. “Excuse me,” he said, red-faced and panting. “Can you wait just a minute? I may have something else for you.”
“What is it, Samuel?” I asked.
The botanist took a deep breath, slowly let it out. “Garth, you said there’s a little girl in danger?”
“A great deal of danger,” my brother replied evenly. “And she’s hurting very badly. Mongo and I have to find her in order to stop that hurting.”
“Oh, my,” the moon-faced man said as he made a birdlike motion with his hands that seemed surprisingly delicate for such a big man. “That’s terrible.”
“Yes,” Garth said in the same flat tone. “That’s terrible.”
“And you think that soil sample is a key to finding her?”
I nodded. “We’re certain of it, Samuel.”
“In that case, you don’t have to concern yourselves with keeping my name out of any discussions you may have. I wanted you to know that. And I’ll be happy to do whatever else I can to help, if you need me.”
“You’ve already helped, Samuel. Garth and I will have no need to mention your name. But thanks for the offer.”
“I thank you, but what I’m most concerned about right now is the possibility that nobody at Nuvironment will agree to talk to you. Perhaps I should call them and try to do something to pave the way.”
Garth shook his head. “The people at Nuvironment will be our concern, Samuel.”
“Well, there is somebody else who might know something about that soil sample.”
My brother glanced quickly at me, grunted slightly. “And who would that be, Samuel?”
“Craig Valley; Dr. Craig Valley.”
“Does Valley work here?”
“Craig used to, but I’m afraid he was fired about three months ago. He was our curator of orchids. As I mentioned, many staff members here have done consulting work for Nuvironment at one time or another, but Craig was the primary liaison between the company and the Botanical Garden. Indeed, more than a few of us suspected that Craig considered his efforts on behalf of Nuvironment more important than his regular duties. All requests from Nuvironment came through him, and he doled out the consulting assignments—which could be quite lucrative. It was Craig who received the initial request from Nuvironment for the rain forest soil; indeed, he’d already made preliminary shipping arrangements when the Customs Service intervened and stopped him. He took it personally; he was quite upset. I’m thinking that it’s possible Craig may have continued to work for Nuvironment after he left here, and that he may have finally persuaded the Customs Service to give him the required permits. In any case, he may have inf
ormation that could prove useful to you.” Zelaskowich paused, looked down at the floor, continued quietly, “Craig is a rather … uh, strange man. He can be very difficult to talk to, but I don’t see how he could refuse to cooperate with you on a matter of this importance, something that concerns the well-being of a child.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“The personnel department may have his address and phone number, and I’d be happy to check it out for you. I seem to recall that he lives in a town house on the East Side of Manhattan, somewhere in the sixties or seventies.”
“We’ll find him.”
Garth asked, “Why did Valley get fired?”
Again, the botanist lowered his gaze. “I don’t like to gossip, Garth. Do you really need to know that?”
“At the moment it’s difficult for us to be certain just what it is we’ll need to know in order to find the girl,” I answered. “Knowing something about Craig Valley before we go to talk to him might be helpful to us in ways we can’t anticipate now. You described him as a ‘strange man.’ Why? In what way is he ‘strange’?”
Zelaskowich sighed, then shoved his large hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “Well, in my opinion it was his religious zealotry that got him fired—although that wasn’t the official reason given; after all, the city and the Botanical Garden wouldn’t want to be charged with religious discrimination.”
“He was fired for religious reasons?”
“He was fired for incompetence and inattention to his duties.”
“But you said that the real reason may have been his religious zealotry.”
Zelaskowich shrugged. “I think it was a factor that, in the end, weighed against him. It wasn’t so much his religious beliefs in themselves so much as the way he tried to foist them on others. His behavior could make Craig … well, obnoxious on occasion. I believe he was one of those … what do you call them? Charismatics? Pentecostals? Whatever he is, I believe it’s much more fanatic than simple Christian Fundamentalism; that’s just my opinion, though, and I don’t claim to know that much about any religion. Craig was always warning us that we were going to be sent to hell very soon if we didn’t accept Jesus Christ as our savior and if we weren’t, as he put it, ‘born again.’ It seemed to me very odd behavior for an educated man. There are a number of Jews on the staff here, and a few Muslims. I’m a humanist, myself. At first, we used to dismiss Craig—condescend to him, and laugh among ourselves behind his back. I’m afraid that didn’t stop him from trying to ‘save us,’ if you will. I really believe that the man thinks the world is going to end soon, within our lifetimes, and that all sorts of demons are going to pop up out of the ground to make mischief. Then, it seems, Jesus Christ is going to descend from heaven to defeat the demons and start a new world in which only people who believe like Craig will be allowed to live. I know it sounds absolutely lunatic, but I think the man actually believes these things.”
The Cold Smell of Sacred Stone Page 32
