Epstein didn’t reply, simply stood there deep in thought, his unfocused eyes becoming more alert when they fell on the medics. They were at the rear of the ambulance, one inside, one on the ground, Irving Jacobs strapped tightly to the stretcher that was tilted between them. Dr Epstein stepped forward, touched his friend’s face with his fingertips, shook his head from side to side as if bewildered, then stepped back and just watched. The stretcher was hoisted up, the gleaming doors were slammed shut; the remaining medic ran around to the driver’s seat and waved once and climbed in. The ambulance roared into life, the wheels churned the dust up, then it reversed and turned around and moved off along the desert road. Epstein watched it departing, didn’t move until it was gone, then he sighed and returned to young Stanford, who was looking perturbed.
‘Jesus,’ Stanford said, ‘that was awful. How the hell could he do it?’
Epstein opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, shrugged forlornly, glanced around and tightened his lips with distaste when Captain Toland approached him.
‘That’s it,’ Toland said. ‘We’re going back now. They’ll do the autopsy in Phoenix. You have any more questions?’
‘No, Captain,’ Stanford said. ‘No more questions. Thanks for your help.’
‘No sweat,’ Toland said, the sweat pouring down his face, dabbing at his neck with the handkerchief, his grin directed at Epstein. ‘It’s all part of the service.’
He turned away and walked off, his broad hips rolling rhythmically, a pistol slapping up and down on one fat thigh, flicking sweat from his brow. The other cops were in their cars, the cars reversing in clouds of dust, then screeching, wheels churning up more dust as they burned off down the road. Toland turned back and waved, his flushed face split by a grin, then he clambered awkwardly into his own vehicle and it rumbled away. Stanford stood beside Dr Epstein. They watched the cops drive away. They waited until all the cars had disappeared in the distance, then they turned, the dust settling around them, and walked back to the waiting helicopter.
‘Okay?’ the pilot asked.
‘Okay,’ Stanford said. ‘Homeward bound.’
They strapped themselves into their seats and Epstein loosened his tie, wiping sweat from his neck with his hand as the helicopter took off. They ascended toward the sun, the sky dazzling, a blinding haze, Epstein glancing down on Route 66, the drifting dust of the wilderness.
‘How’s your love life?’ Epstein asked.
‘Pretty regular,’ Stanford said.
‘You’re picking up a bad reputation.’
‘I know it. I love it.’
‘I thought you were marrying some girl.’
‘Yes, I was. I just changed my mind.’
‘You could never make decisions,’ Epstein said. ‘That’s your major weakness.’
Stanford grinned and nodded agreement. Epstein smiled and patted his arm. The helicopter climbed higher, the land spreading out below, and Epstein suddenly leaned forward, his eyes widening, filled with shock, and reached out to take Stanford by the shoulder and shake him impatiently.
‘Your flap!’ he snapped. ‘New Mexico and Arizona. You mentioned the Coolidge Dam.’
‘That’s right,’ Stanford said.
‘Any more?’ Epstein snapped. ‘Apart from Coolidge! Did you have any more?’
Stanford was startled. ‘Shit, yes,’ he said. He stared hard at his old friend, at his flushed, impatient face, and was taken aback to see the brightness in his eyes, an almost feverish intensity. ‘All over the place,’ he said. ‘A constant flap the past three days. Over Glendale, over Prescott, over Tucson and Eloy, over Flagstaff and Sedona and Sunset Crater – the whole goddamned show.’
‘
Look down there! ’ Stanford hissed.
Stanford looked down. He saw US 66. He saw the spot where Irving Jacobs had been found, the rocky earth all around it. Then he blinked and looked harder. A shiver ran down his spine. He suddenly saw the rippling soil, the concentric rings of dust and sand, the rings surrounding the spot where Irving had been found and running out a great distance. It was like the thumbprint of a giant, the rings like whorls on the earth, as if the dust and sand had been blown away by some awesome explosion. Stanford blinked and looked again. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The thumbprint was half a mile in diameter, the earth scorched at its edges.
‘Oh, my God!’ Stanford said.
The helicopter climbed higher, turning away from the sun, and neither Stanford nor Epstein said a word as they flew back to Winslow.
Chapter Two
The man who stepped off the luxury cruiser onto the Puerto Banus yacht harbour near Marbella, southern Spain, was tall and sophisticated, wearing a black shirt and slacks, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, his hair silvery but plentiful, parted neatly on the left and falling down over an oddly seamless forehead. He stood briefly on the dock, surveying the massed boats of the rich, then he turned in a sharp, decisive manner and walked alongside the many restaurants. Most tables were taken, the clientele suntanned and elegant, wearing bikinis and gaudy shirts and sunglasses, gazing up at the mountains’ haze. The man in black ignored them, walking slowly and thoughtfully, only stopping when he arrived at the Sinatra Bar, looking in, entering warily.
The interior was bright and cool, almost empty, quiet, one young lady at the far end of the bar, a single man near the entrance. This man was middle-aged, rather plump, dressed in a white suit, the jacket bulging slightly just above his left hip where a pistol was undoubtedly strapped. He glanced up and grinned, a practised smile, nervous, then he lightly patted the high stool to his left, his fingers glittering with rings.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Mr Wilson!’ Wilson nodded curtly, but remained in the doorway, removing his glasses and blinking azure eyes, staring along the bright room. The young woman was tanned and lovely, blonde hair trailing down her spine, breasts and crotch emphasized by her bikini, the long legs crossed invitingly. Wilson stared at her, studied her, saw the indolence of the rich, and then, satisfied that she was harmless, he stepped forward to take a high stool beside the white-suited man.
‘ Buenas días,’ the white-suited man said. ‘It’s been a very quiet time, señor.’
‘That sounds promising,’ Wilson said.
‘I think so, Mr Wilson. There’s been nothing unusual at all. The
work’s all been routine.’
‘No visitors?’
‘Not a knock on the door.’
‘I feel better each minute.’
A short, dark Spanish girl emerged from a door behind the bar;
seeing Wilson, she started moving towards him. Wilson smiled pleasantly, but shook his head from side to side, and the girl, with a slight, knowing nod, turned away to clean glasses.
‘You’re not drinking?’ the man in white said. ‘Your trip didn’t give you a thirst?’
‘Not for wine, Fallaci. Just for rest. I am here to relax.’
Fallaci nodded and sipped his vino, his rings glittering around the glass, then he glanced at the young lady along the bar and slowly turned back to Wilson.
‘I had a telephone call this morning. From our friends in Arizona. They said to tell you that Irving Jacobs is dead. It’s been announced as a suicide.’
‘How unfortunate,’ Wilson said. ‘At least for him. I would like to leave now.’
Fallaci licked his lips, turned away and snapped his fingers, causing the Spanish girl to smile and walk up to him, blue-jeaned hips swaying sensually.
‘Cuanto?’ Fallaci said.
‘Ciente pesetas, señor.’
Fallaci put his money down on the counter. ‘Muchas gracias,’ he said.
Sliding his legs off the stool, he followed Wilson through the doorway, the sun blinding, flashing off the white walls, the rolling boats, the blue water. Fallaci blinked and squinted around him, at tanned thighs, a string-bikini, then he saw the upraised hand of Mr Wilson, heard the snap of his fingers.
‘Where’s the car?’
Wilson asked.
‘This way,’ Fallaci said.
‘We’re not in public now,’ Wilson said.
‘Sorry, sir. This way, sir.’
They walked along a narrow street, the high walls painted white, the balconies of the apartments overhead casting shadows around them. The street was cool and short, but opened out to a monstrous heat, a dazzling haze that enveloped the parking lot and shimmered over the dusty cars. Fallaci walked on ahead, his leather shoes kicking stones, one hand upraised in agitated motion, flicking sweat from his brow. He stopped at a black limousine, opened the rear door, waited patiently, let Wilson slip inside and settle down before closing the door. When this was done, he glanced about him, a portly figure, no longer suave, then he opened the driver’s door and clambered in and switched on the ignition.
‘How was Paraguay, sir?’
‘It was hot,’ Wilson said. ‘Now please get me there as quickly as possible. I have much work to do.’
Fallaci flushed, feeling reprimanded, released the hand brake, stepped on the gas, and the car moved off smoothly, winding out of the parking lot, eventually turning onto the road to Fuengirola and picking up speed.
Wilson sighed and sat back, glanced through the window, saw the traffic, the parched brown-and-ochre hills rolling up to the sky, desecrated by white-walled urbanizationes, the influx of foreign wealth. Wilson grimaced with distaste, lowered his gaze, looked straight ahead, saw the dark hair on the back of Fallaci’s head, the road racing toward him. Then he smiled and leaned forward, pressed a button in the back of Fallaci’s seat, heard a humming as the glass pane slid down and cut him off from his driver.
The rear of the car was soundproofed, air-conditioned, well cushioned, with a drinks cabinet, telephone and Video-TV recording system all built into the back of the front seats. There was a mirror above the cabinet. Wilson studied his own reflection. He saw a deeply tanned, strangely ageless face, blue eyes cold with intelligence. Wilson sighed, feeling removed from all his years, then he unhooked the cassette-recorder microphone and started to talk.
‘One. General. The British Mercantile Airship Transportation Company, in collaboration with Plessey, are presently working on an experimental prototype of a Thermo Skyship. The Skyship, which has been developed under the general leadership of Rear Admiral David Kirke, is shaped like a flying saucer with its engines positioned right around the rim. Estimated diameter: six hundred and fifty feet. Approximate weight: five hundred tons. The machine is reputed to get its lift partly from helium and partly from hot air generated by the swivelling jet engines. Envisaged speed at the moment is one hundred miles per hour, but almost certainly this will be improved upon. The British Defence Ministry has expressed interest in this machine with a view to speeding the Rhine Army into battle in any future conflict; and it has been confirmed that the Royal Navy has also expressed interest in the possibility of using the Skyships for North Sea Oil defence… File for review.
‘Confirmation received that for the past ten years the United States Air Force has been observing and photographing the secret Soviet laboratory at Semipalitinsk where it is believed the Russians are developing an extremely powerful beam weapon capable of destroying intercontinental missiles at almost the speed of light. The beam is thought to comprise atomic or sub-atomic particles – electrons, protons or ions – equivalent to billions of volts of electricity and accelerated toward the target at just under one hundred and eighty thousand miles per second. John Allen, senior US government scientist, has stated that a weapon of this type now appears to be possible; and both George J. Keegan, head of USAF Intelligence, and Dr Willard Bennett, member of the US team that was obliged to abandon beam-weapon work in 1972, believe that the Russians are well ahead of the Americans in this field… Regular surveillance of the Semipalitinsk laboratory is recommended.
‘In July of 1985 NASA plans to launch a new, solar-powered, ionengine space craft whose purpose is to fly to Halley’s Comet and circle Temple 2. A space shuttle will carry the spacecraft into Earth orbit and then a dual-engine Inertial Upper Stage booster will propel the one thousand six hundred kilogram probe into an interplanetary orbit, after which the fuel boosters will drop off and the solar-powered ion engine will take over the three-year, low-thrust voyage to Temple 2… File for review.’
Wilson switched the mike off, pursed his lips, glanced outside, saw the towering apartment blocks sweeping past, the mountains soaring beyond them. This stretch of road was ugly, scarred by hotels and building sites, the original villages now bustling, gaudy towns, filled with tourists and drifters. The old Spain was dead and the new expanded every day, spreading out along the Costa del Sol like a malignant cancer. It was the dawn of Democracy, that old dream that devoured itself, and Wilson, with his ruthless intelligence, was appalled by the sight of it. He a sighed, pursed his lips, heard the humming of the limousine, then sank deeper into his seat and switched the mike on and started talking again.
‘Two. Prosthetics. Work is progressing at a dangerous rate on the artificial heart, lung, gut and gill, as well as artificial cells, blood vessels, intestines and even skin. Artificial bones, joints and sockets are being used with increasing success, the main alloys being of the cobalt and chromium variety: tantalum, titanium, niobium and molybdenum. Blood vessels, heart valves, bone, skin, blood and the cornea of the eye have all been preserved artificially. Skin, stored in DSMO for periods of years, has been successfully grafted to the human body by researchers at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine. Bone frozen for years and then revived with cobalt radiation has also taken when grafted to the body. Likewise, red blood cells have been freeze-dried for years, and now tissue banks are disturbingly common. Indeed, it has been pointed out that the US Navy tissue bank recently supplied some three thousand square inches of human skin to Brazilian fire victims… Request further research.
‘External prosthetics. Myoelectric control is advancing every day, with the Soviets reportedly making the greatest advances in this field. Intelligence indicates that the Soviets have already perfected a handarm prosthesis in which all five fingers are capable of closing around objects of variable shape with the precision of a human hand. British scientists have developed, among other items, myoelectric arms with interchangeable hands; while in the United States a team of scientists and engineers from Harvard, MIT and Massachusetts General Hospital have developed a sophisticated myoelectric arm that moves at any angle, speed or force simply by being thought into action. This arm picks up muscle signals generated to the natural stump, transmits them to a small amplifier, and uses them to drive a compact electric motor; the machinery for all this is housed inside a flesh-colored, fiber-glass casing that resembles a real arm.
‘Researchers at the Powered Limbs Unit of West Hendon Hospital in England have come up with what amounts to an implantable electrode, or transmitter, called an Emgor. This uses a resonator circuit that does not require batteries to detect myoelectric signals, thus obviating the need for frequent surgical intervention to replenish the power source. It is to be noted that amputees so treated are actually capable of unconscious gesticulations – and that similar lower-body prostheses have now been developed to the stage where some surgeons are willing to perform hemicorporectomies: amputation of the entire lower half of the body, including legs, rectum and genitalia. This procedure has already been offered to patients in a prominent New York hospital as an alternative to death by abdominal cancer… Request further research.’
The car turned off the main road, bumping over rough ground, and Wilson looked out to see the surrounding hills, the fields of olive trees and wheat. They passed a scattered urbanizatione, the villas whitewashed and gleaming, gardens parched by the sun, the earth hard, a fine dust on the Moorish walls. Wilson studied the place casually, noting the swimming pools and bikinis, the tanned limbs of the expatriates lounging in deck chairs, around low tables. Oblivious. And superfluous. The real world would pass them by. Wilson smiled and settled back, obse
rved Mijas high above, this his blue eyes turned bright and intense when he started to talk again.
‘Three. Gerontology. Dr Richard Hochschild of the Microwave Instrument Company of Del Mar, California, has discovered that adding DMAE to the drinking water of mice increases their life span significantly. Other researchers have successfully employed centrophenoxine to delay lipofuscin buildup in the brain of guinea pigs; likewise, phenoxene is being used experimentally in France to improve the mental abilities of senile patients.
‘Along the same lines, Dr Horace T. Poirier is closed to developing a number of compounds that increase life by as much as fifty percent in mice. These include Vitamin E, mercaptothylemine, BHT, Santoquin and sodium hypophosphite, an old drug used for the treatment of tuberculosis. Also being utilized is DMAE, dimethylaminoethalol, a lysome membrane stabilizer which strengthens cells against damage caused by lipofuscin accumulations… Eliminate Poirier.
‘An increasing number of scientists now believe that the program for ageing is encoded in the hypothalamus-pituitary system. Among these are Dr Joseph R. Wiseman of Chicago, who has successfully reactivated the estrus of aged female rats by stimulating the hypothalamus with electric impulses; he has also reactivated the ovarian cycles of the old females by feeding them L-Dopa, a dopamine stimulator also used in the treatment of Parkinson’s disease, as well as hormones such as progesterone, epinephrine and iproniazid… Eliminate Wiseman.
‘Dr Saul A. Terkel, director of the Gerontology Research Institute, Richmond, Virginia, now believes that if life-extension was to become a national priority like the space program, and if the Americans, Russians and Japanese were to join hands in a billion-dollar assault on aging and death, this could produce dramatic results in five years. Terkel has pointed out that such a program would cost no more than these countries now spend on the maintenance of old-age homes. Now, backed by the full authority of the Gerontology Research Institute, Terkel is lobbying Washington DC with disturbing success… Eliminate Terkel.’
GENESIS (Projekt Saucer) Page 3
