by Greg Cox
Roberta nodded slowly. Don't want to seem too eager, she remembered. Ronnie Neary would be a little overwhelmed right now. “At least I get to sleep on it,” she murmured hesitantly. “It's a lot to think about, though.”
“I certainly hope you'll decide to join us,” Takagi urged her. His youthful face beamed at the prospect, and his voice conveyed a sincere warmth and cordiality. “It would be great working with you.”
I'll bet, Roberta thought, wondering what the male-to-female ratio at the project was like. Probably a lot like the conference, I'm guessing.
“I wish as well that you give our offer serious thought,” Lozinak added. He started to slide the upside-down napkin across the table, then paused, his bony, liver-spotted hand still holding down the vital piece of paper. Roberta bit down on her lip to conceal her impatience, even though the suspense was killing her. “My apologies,” the old scientist said, “but before we proceed further, I must ask you one more thing: Do you have any skeletons in your closet?”
“No,” she lied breezily. “Just a cat.”
CHAPTER SIX
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
MAY 15, 1974
ISIS WOULD NOT CARE FOR THIS PLACE, GARY SEVEN THOUGHT, SEVERAL hours later, standing at the corner of two dimly lit, rather unattractive streets. This particular corner of Brooklyn looked neither cozy nor clean enough to satisfy the feline's fastidious standards. By day a busy commercial district, the neighborhood had been all but abandoned after hours. Lowered steel gratings, bedecked with graffiti, covered the closed ground-floor storefronts, while unspooled razor wire ran along the edges of the rooftops, discouraging prowlers. A light breeze rustled the litter strewn upon the streets and sidewalks; Seven glanced down at his feet to see portions of a discarded newspaper blow against his ankles. An inky black headline informed him that authorities continued to search for kidnapped heiress-turned-terrorist Patty Hearst. “FBI TO ‘TANIA’: TURN YOURSELF IN!” shouted the New York Post.
Seven shook his head, admitting to a bit of culture shock himself. Even after six years living among primitive humans, he still sometimes found himself discomfited by the rampant squalor and irrationality of this era. Twentieth-century Earth was a far cry from the enlightened community, many light-years from here, where he'd been born and trained. Sometimes he found himself nostalgic for that urbane and smoothly run utopia, where a stimulating mixture of sentient species managed to challenge each other to achieve their highest potential, without all the pointless aggression and competitive nonsense that seemed to color every relationship on Earth, from the personal to the political. He missed the regular company of old friends and colleagues, not to mention the numerous small comforts and conveniences that came from living in an advanced technological society. Why, this planet was still centuries away from developing such necessities as personal replicators or portable nano-intelligences. . . .
On the other hand, he admitted, I can't deny that precivilized Earth is strangely fascinating in its own right, no matter what Isis says.
A northbound subway rattled beneath his feet, causing minor tremors in the pavement. The occasional automobile whizzed through the deserted block, barely stopping for the broken traffic light at the intersection. Seven glanced at his watch; it was about five minutes to midnight. Late enough, he judged.
Making sure that he was unobserved, he approached the entrance to a five-story brick office building. He examined the metallic numerals posted over the doorway, checking them against the address listed on Ralph Offenhouse's business card. In theory, the man's professional offices should be located on the top floor of the building.
He tried the door, confirming that it was locked, then withdrew his servo from his jacket pocket. A pair of delicate targeting sensors sprang like antennae from opposite sides of the slender instrument. Seven selected the appropriate setting, then aimed the servo at the rigid doorknob. A momentary hum was followed by the satisfying click of a door unlocking itself. Seven waited for a passing car to drive by before letting himself in.
He took the stairs to the fifth floor, where the servo granted him access to a closed office bearing Offenhouse's name. From outside he had observed no lights in the upper windows, let alone the rest of the building, so he felt confident that the businessman's chambers would be unoccupied; nonetheless, he listened briefly at the door until he was certain that there was no activity within.
Once inside, he adjusted the servo so that it emitted a beam of light well within the visible spectrum. The miniature spotlight revealed all the accoutrements he expected: an expensive walnut desk, telephones, a separate desk for a secretary or receptionist, a couch for visitors, recent editions of the Wall Street Journal, and file cabinets. Seven sighed at the sight of the latter, anticipating much time-consuming grubbing through paper. Hopefully, he thought, someone on this benighted planet will get around to inventing personal computers shortly ; it would make this sort of covert information-gathering much easier.
Earlier that day, after Offenhouse's departure from Seven's office on Sixty-eighth Street, the Beta 5 had conducted a thorough voice analysis of the businessman's statements to Seven, a process far more accurate than the ridiculously unreliable polygraph devices employed at this point in human history. The computer had concluded that Offenhouse had told the truth, as much as he knew it, but Seven felt that there was still more to learn from the combative capitalist, hence this nocturnal expedition.
He began with the file cabinet located directly across from Offenhouse's own desk. The top drawer was locked, which struck Seven as extremely promising. His servo opened it easily, and he discovered several dated folders labeled “Chrysalis Project.” Seven nodded in satisfaction, quite certain that the files pertained to the same mysterious project that Roberta had been asked to join several hours ago in Rome; thankfully, the time difference between here and there had given her plenty of opportunity to brief him on her meeting with Lozinak. Our separate investigations appear to be converging rapidly, he thought. This can't be a coincidence.
Starting with the most recent folder, he was gratified to find invoices and shipping bills for large quantities of scientific apparatus: everything from test tubes and petri dishes to computers and X-ray diffraction equipment. As Roberta would say, Seven reflected, bingo.
Much of the hardware and medical paraphernalia, he saw, had been purchased through a series of dummy companies, thus obscuring their ultimate destination, which appeared to be a location somewhere in northwest India. Interesting, Seven thought; the Indian subcontinent had already produced several outstanding biochemists, most notably Har Gobind Khorana, a co-winner of the Nobel Prize for his research on the chemistry of the genetic code and its function in protein synthesis. Only four years ago, Seven recalled, Khorana had successfully assembled an artificial yeast gene from its raw chemical components, an important first step in the development of genengineering technology. Khorana himself was not among the roster of missing scientists, but perhaps some of his countrymen were determined to take his work to a dangerous new level?
As if the threat of reckless genetic manipulation weren't worrisome enough, Seven was dismayed to discover shipping manifests for large quantities of peptone, a substance used to cultivate bacteria. The amount of peptone being shipped to India was far more than was needed for ordinary research purposes; a typical university course might use maybe one liter of peptone a year, yet, according to his records, Offenhouse had arranged for over two thousand liters of peptone to be shipped to India in nearly two hundred large metal drums. There was only one purpose, Seven realized, for which anyone would need to propagate that much bacteria: full-scale biological warfare.
Genetic engineering mixed with germ warfare? What kind of nightmarish scenario was Chrysalis working toward, he wondered anxiously, and what sort of viper's nest were Roberta and Isis trying to infiltrate?
“All right, Seven. Get away from those files.” The harsh command, accompanied
by the sudden illumination of the overhead lights, caught Seven by surprise. He looked up from the documents to see Ralph Offenhouse standing in the doorway, pointing a semiautomatic pistol at the snooping alien operative.
Seven cursed himself for his carelessness. He had been so engrossed in Offenhouse's highly informative files that he hadn't even heard the gun-wielding businessman arrive. But what in the cosmos was Offenhouse doing here after midnight? This entire block had given every indication of being closed for the night.
“I said, get away from my files,” Offenhouse repeated angrily. He seemed just as surprised as Seven to find the other man here, and a good deal more indignant. “I thought we had a deal: No questions. So what the hell are you doing in my office?”
Given the hour and the neighborhood, Seven did not find it remarkable that Offenhouse had arrived armed with a weapon. Not wanting to provoke the man into shooting, he raised his hands and stepped away from the files. His servo remained gripped in his right hand, its narrow spotlight rendered unnecessary by the room's interior lighting. He rolled the silver wand between the pads of his fingertips, making a minute correction to its setting. His face maintained a neutral expression as he watched the irate Earthman carefully.
“You heard me, Seven. I want some answers and I want them now.” The muzzle of Offenhouse's pistol followed Seven as he moved away from the metal filing cabinet. “I'd be within my rights to shoot you,” Offenhouse warned. “This is breaking-and-entering, you know.”
“Nothing is broken,” Seven stated calmly. “As for the rest of it, I'm a government agent, investigating a suspected threat to national security.” When in doubt, he had learned, appeal to this era's paranoid nationalism.
His false declaration seemed to undermine the man's belligerence and self-confidence. “National security?” Offenhouse echoed uncertainly, sounding like a man with plenty of reason to be concerned. Then his aggressive bravado reasserted itself, as though he'd resolved to brazen his way through this confrontation. “How do I know this is on the level?” he asked accusingly.
“I can show you my identification,” Seven replied, lowering his hands gradually. He routinely carried phony CIA credentials for just such circumstances. Not to mention FBI, NSA, IRS, and assorted national and international press passes, each concealed in its own hidden pocket.
Offenhouse didn't buy it. “Keep your hands where I can see them!” he barked, gesturing upward with his gun. His teeth ground together noisily as he debated with himself as to what to do next. Seven was not surprised that summoning the police did not appear to be among the options Offenhouse was considering; the unscrupulous businessman had too many of his own secrets to hide.
“Fine,” Seven agreed, raising his hands once more. “Let me give you a phone number for my superior officer. You can verify my credentials yourself.” He fixed a stern gaze on the so-called entrepreneur. “Trust me, Mr. Offenhouse, it's in your best interests to cooperate. You don't want to get in deeper trouble than you already are.”
Despite his obvious efforts to present a firm and unworried facade, Offenhouse's Adam's apple bobbed nervously. “All right,” he said after a couple of moments, sliding a blank memo pad across the desk toward Seven. “Just write down the number. Don't try anything else.”
“I wouldn't think of it,” Seven promised. He lowered his writing hand until the tip of his “pen” was aimed directly at Offenhouse's skull. “You won't regret this,” he lied.
The servo hummed for less than a second, but the effect on Offenhouse was immediate. His eyes glazed over and his tense expression relaxed into blissful contentment. His shoulders sagged and he began to slump toward the hardwood floor. Returning the servo to his pocket, Seven stepped forward briskly and removed the loaded pistol from the other man's flaccid grip, then gently guided Offenhouse to a seated position against the doorframe. “Just stay right there,” he instructed the anesthetized businessman, who wasn't going anywhere. “I'll be with you in a second.”
Seven engaged the safety on the pistol before placing it atop Offenhouse's desk, safely out of reach. He turned off the lights, to avoid piquing the interest of any passing police cars, then crouched down beside the sitting man so that he could look directly into Offenhouse's dreamy, unfocused eyes. Might as well make the best of the situation, Seven decided; the servo's tranquilizer beam induced a highly suggestible state, much like sodium pentothal, but without any of the crude chemical side effects.
“Tell me more about Chrysalis,” he prompted. “Who are they? What do they want?”
“Bunch of egghead do-gooders,” Offenhouse murmured, slurring his words slightly. “Trying to make a better world through chemistry, or something. Don't know, don't care. Making a bundle, though. Taxfree. Plenty of venture capital, just like I need. Got big ideas for that dough, big ideas. Gonna be a millionaire before I turn forty. . . .”
Seven scowled. When was the human race going to learn that there were more important things than profit? He tried to steer the other man's reminiscences down less financial avenues. “Chrysalis,” he reminded. “What are their names? Where can I find them?”
“Whole thing's run by this Indian woman,” his unwitting informant revealed. “Don't know her real name, only met her once. Really scary broad, supergenius freak. Has secret lab in India somewhere.
Everything goes through Delhi, her people take it from there. New shipment going out this morning, from JFK. . . .”
This morning? Seven thought. That had possibilities. He was about to press Offenhouse for more details when the phone rang unexpectedly. Seven raised a quizzical eyebrow. A call after midnight? This office kept decidedly strange hours.
The answer occurred to him suddenly. India, he realized. There was a ten-and-a-half-hour time difference between Brooklyn and India; it would be approximately ten-thirty in the morning there now. That's why Offenhouse came in so late. He was expecting this call.
The phone rang again, its piercing alarum reaching Offenhouse even through his hypnotic daze. He stirred fitfully, making a halfhearted attempt to rise to his feet. Seven placed a firm hand on Offenhouse's shoulder, blocking his ascent. “Don't worry,” he assured the tranquilized businessman as he pressed Offenhouse back down onto the floor. “I'll get it.”
He wasn't lying this time. If this call was indeed from Chrysalis, as he had deduced, then Seven was very interested in finding out who was calling and why. He reached for the phone. “Hello?” he said, in a flawless impersonation of Offenhouse's own voice. Expert vocal mimicry was yet another skill the Aegis had taken pains to teach Gary Seven.
“Offenhouse?” said a masculine voice at the other end of the line. Seven heard a distinctly British accent. Upper-class, Oxford maybe, or Eton. “This is Williams. Just calling to confirm that today's shipment is on schedule.”
According to Offenhouse, it is, Seven remembered. “Everything's set,” he said, imitating the businessman's brusque tone. He rifled through the most recent folder, looking for the pertinent details. “From JFK, right on time.”
Williams sounded nervous, as though constitutionally unsuited for espionage and intrigue. A scientist, not a spy. “You're sure this line is still secure, right? There's no chance anyone's listening in?”
“That's right,” Seven improvised, guessing that Offenhouse had indeed taken precautions against wiretaps. The recent Watergate scandals had made the entire nation alert to the dangers of incriminating audiotapes. “You can speak freely,” he encouraged Williams.
“I hope you're right,” Williams said, sounding only slightly more at ease. “Did you get the replacement parts for those high-speed centrifuges? It's a bloody bother when the blasted things keep breaking down.”
“No problem,” Seven answered. “They're on the way.” Ah, here it is, he thought, locating the relevant itinerary among Offenhouse's papers. A private jet, leaving John F. Kennedy Airport at two A. M. for Delhi, with a stop in Rome en route. For Roberta and her new employers? he assumed. All roads do inde
ed seem to be leading to India, but where does the equipment go from Delhi?
“I have to go now,” he told Williams. The longer they spoke, the more chance he stood of making a careless mistake and raising Williams's suspicions. He glanced down at the Xeroxed document on the desk. “Expect the shipment at four-thirty tomorrow morning, your time.”
You can expect me there as well, he thought. Performing the necessary calculations in his head, he deduced that Williams, or his agents, would be meeting the flight roughly seventeen hours from now. Thankfully, Seven knew a faster way to get to Delhi, even if Roberta was in for a long flight. I imagine she'll be very surprised to hear she's going to India.
“Wait!” Williams interjected hurriedly, before Seven could hang up. “What about that uranium? I promised the director that I would remind you just how urgently we require that processed ore.”
Uranium? A startled expression transformed Seven's ordinarily inscrutable features. He hadn't seen anything about radioactive materials among Offenhouse's files, unless that particular cargo had been disguised somehow. He quickly leafed through the manifests until he found one highly suspicious item: a large shipment of lead “construction materials.” That must be it, he concluded, but what were Offenhouse—and Chrysalis—doing with potentially fissionable uranium? The discovery added an alarmingly nuclear dimension to what Seven already deemed to be an extremely hazardous situation.
Genetic engineering, germ warfare, nuclear proliferation. Sometimes, he brooded, it seems positively miraculous that humanity hasn't destroyed itself already. . . .
“Huh? Wha—?” Ralph Offenhouse came out of a daze to find himself in his Brooklyn office, seated behind his desk. Groggy and confused, he blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his thoughts. A lingering sense of blissful well-being swiftly faded from his mind, giving way to uncertainty and bewilderment.
