Crane shook his head. “Go right ahead.”
He watched Asher stroke the ball toward the front wall with a hard, clean swing. He fell back, balancing on the balls of his feet, waiting for the return. The ball bounded back, and he hit a volley, aiming for the far corner.
For several minutes they played without speaking, gauging each other’s skill, experience, preferred strategies. Crane figured Asher had at least twenty-five years on him, but the older man seemed in better practice. At least, Crane was playing miserably; half his volleys were going out.
“Is there something unusual about this court?” he asked at length, as he retrieved the ball and tossed it back to Asher.
The scientist caught it deftly in his racquet hand. “Actually, there is. We had to accommodate the floor plan of the Facility. The ceiling’s about twelve inches shorter than regulation. To compensate, we’ve made the court a little deeper than usual. I should have mentioned it before. Once you’re used to it, you’ll actually find the dimensions a little forgiving. Some more practice?”
“No, let’s try a game.”
Crane won the spin of the racquet, chose his side, and fired off a serve. Asher countered with a quick volley to the far corner, and the game began in earnest.
As they traded volleys, Crane had to admire the scientist’s game. Squash was part sport and part chess match—a mixture of wits, strategy, and stamina. Asher was excellent at controlling the T and—particularly impressive—at firing the ball straight along the sidewall, keeping Crane constantly on the defensive. He’d assumed the scientist’s stiff and painful left hand would make playing difficult, but Asher seemed to have mastered using his right hand for balance as well as swing. Almost before he knew it, Crane had fallen hopelessly behind.
“That’s the game,” Asher said at last.
“Nine–four. Not a very good showing, I’m afraid.”
Asher gave an easy laugh. “You’ll do better next game. Like I said, the unusual dimensions tend to grow on you. Go ahead, your service.”
During their second game, Crane found Asher was right: as he grew more used to the shorter, deeper court, he found it progressively easier to control the ball. He made fewer outs and was able to rebound the ball behind the service box, forcing Asher to play the backcourt. Now he was no longer forced to concentrate simply on returning the ball, but could move back to the T after playing shots, thus setting himself up in better position. The game ran long, and this time he beat Asher, nine–eight.
“See what I mean?” Asher said, puffing. “You’re a quick study. A few more games and you’ll need to find a more challenging partner.”
Crane chuckled. “Your serve,” he said, tossing Asher the ball.
Asher caught the ball, but made no move to serve it. “So. How’s Waite?”
“Still sedated. A cocktail of Haldol and Ativan. Antipsychotic and anti-anxiety.”
“I understand you used a unique method of talking him down. Bishop said something about a striptease.”
Crane smiled faintly. “Somebody that florid needs to be shocked out of his psychotic loop. I did something he didn’t expect. Bought us a little time.”
“Any idea what happened?”
“Corbett is running a complete psych profile—at least, as complete as the meds will currently allow. As of yet, we can’t settle on a diagnosis. It’s strange. For the most part, the man’s now completely lucid, if sedated. But earlier, he was grossly disorganized, responding to internal stimuli.”
“Excuse me?”
“Out of control. Hallucinating. Now he can’t remember the incident. He can’t even remember the terrible sounds that apparently brought it on. Eyewitnesses and friends said they saw little preindication other than general moodiness. And Waite has no history of psychological problems. But then, you no doubt know that.” Crane hesitated. “I think you should get him off the Facility.”
Asher shook his head. “Sorry.”
“If not for Waite’s sake, then for mine. I’m getting really tired of having Commander Korolis or one of his minions in the Medical Suite day and night, babysitting Waite, making sure he doesn’t say anything he’s not supposed to.”
“I’m afraid it’s out of my hands. As soon as you clear Waite for discharge, I’ll have him confined to quarters. That should make Korolis go away.”
Crane thought he detected an undercurrent of bitterness in Asher’s tone. It hadn’t occurred to him that the chief scientist might be chafing equally under Deep Storm’s culture of secrecy.
Asher, he realized, had just given him an opening; he wasn’t likely to get a better chance to say what had to be said. It’s time, he thought. He took a deep breath.
“I think I’m finally beginning to understand,” he began.
Asher, who was staring at the squash ball in his hand, glanced up. “Understand what?”
“Why I’m here.”
“That was never in doubt. You’re here to treat our medical problem.”
“No. I meant why I was chosen for the job.”
Asher stared at him, his face blank.
“See, at first I was confused. After all, I’m not a pulmonary specialist or a hematologist. If the workers were suffering some form of caisson disease, why ask me to make the house call? But it turns out that’s not what they’re suffering from.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s the one thing I am sure of.” He paused. “Because it just so happens there’s nothing exotic or unusual about Deep Storm’s atmosphere, after all.”
Asher continued to hold his gaze but said nothing. Crane, taking in the man’s expression, began to wonder if speaking up had been a wise idea after all. But now that he’d begun, he had to say everything.
“I had one of the TIA patients put in a hyperbaric chamber,” he went on. “And guess what we found.”
Still Asher did not reply.
“We found it didn’t help in the least. But that wasn’t all. The chamber’s readout showed us that the atmosphere was normal, inside and out.” Crane hesitated a moment before speaking again. “So this talk about pressurization, special air mixtures—it’s all bull, isn’t it?”
Asher began to study the ball again. “Yes,” he replied after a moment. “And it’s very important you keep that information to yourself.”
“Of course. But why?”
Asher bounced the ball off the floor, caught it, squeezed it thoughtfully. “We wanted a reason why nobody could leave the Facility in a hurry. A security precaution against information leaks, espionage, that sort of thing.”
“And all this talk of proprietary atmospherics, of a long acclimation process, and an even longer cool down, provides a nice cover story.”
Asher gave the ball another bounce, then tossed it into the corner. Any pretense of game playing had now fallen aside.
“So those rooms I had to wait in when I first got to the Facility. They’re completely phony?”
“They’re not phony. They are functional decompression chambers. Just with their atmospheric functions turned off.” He glanced over. “You were saying you know why you were chosen for the job.”
“Yes. After seeing the readout from the hyperbaric chamber, I finally put two and two together. It’s what I did on the USS Spectre, right?”
Asher nodded.
“I’m surprised you heard about that.”
“I didn’t. The mission is still classified. But Admiral Spartan knew about it. He knew all about it. Your skill as a diagnostician, your past experience dealing with—shall we say?—bizarre medical situations under extremely stressful circumstances are unique assets. And since for security reasons Spartan would only allow one person access to Deep Storm, you seemed the best choice.”
“There’s that word again: security. And that’s the one thing I haven’t figured out.”
Asher threw him a questioning glance.
“Why all the secrecy? What, exactly, is so vital about Atlantis that you need such drastic measures?
And for that matter, why is the government willing to front so much money, and such expensive equipment, for an archaeological dig?” Crane waved an arm. “I mean, look at this place. Just to run something like the Facility must burn a million dollars of taxpayer money each day.”
“Actually,” Asher said quietly, “the amount is rather higher.”
“Last time I checked, the bureaucrats at the Pentagon weren’t big on ancient civilizations. And agencies like NOD usually have their caps out, thankful for whatever crumbs the government will toss them. But here you’ve got the most sophisticated, most secret working environment in the world.” He paused. “And that’s another thing: the Facility is nuclear powered, isn’t it? I’ve been on enough boomers to know. And my ID badge seems to have a radioactive marker embedded in it.”
Asher smiled, but did not reply. It was funny, Crane thought, how closemouthed the man had become in recent days.
For a minute, the squash court was filled with a tense, uncomfortable silence. Crane had one more bomb to drop, the biggest of all, and he realized there was no point delaying it any longer.
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about all this. And the only answer I can come up with is that it’s not Atlantis down there. It’s something else.” He glanced at Asher. “Am I right?”
Asher looked at him speculatively for a moment. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Well? What is down there?” Crane pressed.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I can’t tell you that.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because if I did, I’m afraid Spartan would have to kill you.”
Hearing this cliché, Crane began to laugh. But then he looked at Asher and his laughter died. Because the chief scientist—who always laughed so easily—wasn’t even smiling.
13
At the uttermost frontiers of Scotland—beyond Skye, beyond the Hebrides, beyond even the tiny battered chain of islands known as the Seven Sisters—lies the archipelago of St. Kilda. It is the remotest part of the British Isles, rough hummocks of brown stone struggling to rise above the foam: a bleak, sea-torn, savage place.
On the westernmost point of Hirta, the main island, a thousand-foot granite promontory rises above the bitter Atlantic. Seated on its crown is the long, gray line of Grimwold Castle, an ancient and rambling abbey, hardened against weather and catapult alike, surrounded by a star curtain of local stone. It was built in the thirteenth century by a cloistered order of monks, seeking freedom from both persecution and the growing secularization of Europe. Over many decades, the order was joined by other monks—Carthusians, Benedictines—looking for a remote place for worship and spiritual contemplation, fleeing the dissolution of the English monasteries. Enriched by the personal contributions of these new members, the library of Grimwold Castle swelled into one of the greatest monastic collections in Europe.
A small fishing population grew up around the skirts of the monastery, serving the few earthly needs the monks could not fulfill themselves. As its fame spread, the monastery hosted—in addition to new initiates—the occasional wanderer. At the castle’s zenith, a Pilgrim’s Way led from its medieval chapter house, across a grassy close, through a portcullis in the curtain wall, and then down a winding path to the tiny village, where passage to the Hebrides could be found.
Today the Pilgrim’s Way is gone, visible only as an occasional cairn rising above the bleak stonescape. The tiny supporting village was depopulated centuries ago. Only the abbey remains, its grim and storm-lashed facade staring westward across the cold North Atlantic.
In the main library of Grimwold Castle, a visitor sat at a long wooden table. He wore a pair of white cotton gloves and slowly turned the vellum pages of an ancient folio volume, set on a protective linen cloth. Dust motes hung in the air, and the light was dim: he squinted slightly to make out the words. A pile of other texts stood at his elbow: illuminated manuscripts, incunabula, ancient treatises bound in ribbed leather. Every hour or so, a monk arrived, removed the books the man had finished with, brought another set he had asked to view, exchanged a word or two, and then retired. Now and then, the visitor paused to make a cursory jotting in a notebook, but as the day went on these pauses grew less and less frequent.
At last, in late afternoon, a different monk stepped into the library, carrying yet another set of books. Like the others of his order, he was dressed in a plain cassock bound with a white cord. But he was older than the rest and seemed to walk with a more measured tread.
He proceeded down the center aisle of the library. Approaching the visitor’s table—the only occupied table in the room—he laid the ancient texts carefully upon the white linen.
“Dominus vobiscum,” he said with a smile.
The man rose from the table. “Et cum spiritu tuo.”
“Please remain seated. Here are the additional manuscripts you requested.”
“You are very kind.”
“It is our pleasure. Visiting scholars are few and far between these days, alas. It seems creature comforts have become more important than scholarly enlightenment.”
The man smiled. “Or the pursuit of truth.”
“Which is frequently the same thing.” The man pulled a soft cloth from his sleeve and lovingly dusted the ancient books. “Your name is Logan, correct? Dr. Jeremy Logan, Regina Professor of Medieval History at Yale?”
The man looked at him. “I am Dr. Logan. Currently, though, I’m on academic leave.”
“Please do not think I am prying, my son. I am Father Bronwyn, abbot of Grimwold Castle.” He took a seat on the far side of the table with a sigh. “In many ways it is a trying job. You would think an abbey as ancient as this would be free from internal bureaucracy and petty grievance. But the truth is just the opposite. And we are so remote, our life so simple and humble, that new initiates come only rarely to our gates. Our number is less than half what it was fifty years ago.” He sighed again. “But my position has its consolations. For one, I preside over all bibliographic and library matters, and, as you know, the library remains our only, and our most prized, possession—God forgive my covetousness.”
Logan smiled faintly.
“So naturally I am made aware of our comings and goings—especially of persons as well recommended as you. Your letters of introduction made impressive reading.”
Dr. Logan inclined his head.
“I couldn’t help but notice that, along with your application to visit our library, an itinerary was included.”
“Yes, that was an oversight on my part. I’ve been doing research at Oxford, and my departure was a hasty one. I fear my papers got a bit scrambled. I wasn’t trying to boast.”
“Of course not. That wasn’t my meaning. But I couldn’t help but be surprised at the places you’ve already visited on holiday. St. Urwick’s Tower, as I recall. Newfoundland, correct?”
“Just south of Battle Harbour, on the coast.”
“And then your second stop. The Abbey of Wrath.”
Dr. Logan nodded again.
“I’ve heard of it, as well. Kap Farvel, Greenland. Almost as remote a location as ours.”
“They are possessed of an ancient and exceedingly broad library, particularly in local history.”
“I’m sure they are.” The abbot leaned closer over the table. “I hope you’ll forgive my familiarity, Dr. Logan: as I said, we get so few visitors these days, and my capacity for social nuance is sadly atrophied. But you see, what surprises me most about these visits of yours is the timing. Those spots boast libraries that would reward weeks of study. And each is difficult, time-consuming, and expensive to get to. Yet according to the itinerary, this is only the third day of your trip. What are you looking for that requires you to move with such speed, and that requires such trouble and expense on your part?”
Dr. Logan glanced at the abbot for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “As I said, Father Bronwyn, my including the itinerary among the papers I sent here was an oversight.”
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p; Father Bronwyn sat back. “Yes, of course. I am an old and curious man, and I didn’t mean to pry.” He removed his glasses, raised a corner of his cassock sleeve, cleaned them with it, replaced them on his nose. Then he placed his hand on the ancient calfskin volumes he had brought with him. “Here are the books you requested. The Lay Anecdotes of Maighstir Beaton, circa 1448; Colquhoun’s Chronicles Diuerse and Sonderie, of a hundred years later; and of course Trithemius’s Poligraphia.” At this last title, the abbot shuddered slightly.
“Thank you, Father,” Dr. Logan said, nodding as the man rose and took his leave.
An hour later, the monk who had originally helped him returned, removed the manuscripts and incunabula, and took Logan’s written request for additional volumes. Within a few minutes he returned with still more moldering titles, which he laid on the crisp linen.
Dr. Logan placed the volumes before him and, one after the other, paged through them with white-gloved hands. The first volume was in Middle English; the second in the vulgate; and the third a poor translation of the Attic Greek dialect known as Koine. None of the tongues gave Logan much difficulty, and he read with ease. Yet as he continued, an air of depression settled over him. At last, he pushed the final book away, blinked his eyes, and rubbed the small of his back. Three days of grueling travel to godforsaken spots, three nights of sleeping in cold rooms of drafty stone, were catching up with him. He glanced up at the massively built library, with its Romanesque vaulted ceiling and narrow windows of crude but charming stained glass. Late-afternoon light was slanting through them now, daubing the library in a mosaic of color. The monks, as was their custom, would put him up for the night—after all, there was no other accommodation for many miles and no roads to bear him away. In the morning, a hired trawler would take him back to the mainland…and then where? He realized, with a sinking feeling, he did not know where to turn next.
In the silence behind him came the clearing of a throat. Dr. Logan turned to see the abbot, arms behind his back, regarding him. Father Bronwyn gave a kindly smile.
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