“No idea.”
“Where did they bunk?”
Gonzalez shrugged. “C Level, I think. Anyway, there’s extra berths there that no military ever used.”
There was a brief silence before Logan spoke again. “From the background research I’ve done, it seems neither of the other two early warning bases had any detachments of scientists.”
Instead of replying, Gonzalez pointed at the warning bolted to the wall.
“What’s F-29 clearance?” Logan asked.
“Never heard of it. Now, Doctor, shall we head back upstairs?”
“One last question. How often do you come down here?”
“As little as I can. It’s cold, it’s dark, and it stinks.”
“Then I’m sorry to have put you to the trouble.”
“And I’m sorry you came all the way up here for nothing.”
“That remains to be seen.” And Logan gestured. “After you, Sergeant.”
23
Marshall strode down the corridor toward Conti’s quarters, Penny Barbour at his side. He’d wanted to bring along more of his fellow scientists, if only for a cosmetic show of numbers-to display a solidarity that, in fact, did not exist-but it had been impossible. Sully’s whereabouts were still unknown. And Marshall hadn’t wanted to disturb Faraday and Chen from their analysis. And so, ultimately, it had come down to him and the computer scientist.
As they stopped before the door, Marshall became aware of a murmur of conversation in the room beyond. He glanced at Barbour. “Are you ready for this?”
She looked back. “You’re going to do the talking, luv. Not me.”
“But you leveled with me, right?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Okay.” Marshall raised his hand to knock.
Just as he did, one of the voices on the far side of the door grew abruptly louder. “It goes beyond decency!” Marshall heard Wolff say. “I absolutely forbid it!”
Marshall rapped on the metal door.
Instantly, a hush fell. Ten seconds went by before Wolff’s voice sounded again, calm this time. “Come in.”
Marshall opened the door for Barbour and stepped in behind her. Three people were standing in the center of the elegant room: Conti, Wolff, and Ekberg. Marshall stopped, looking at them. Conti was very pale, and Ekberg’s eyes were red and puffy. Both of their gazes were cast downward. Only Wolff stared back at Marshall, his narrow face inscrutable.
Marshall took a deep breath. “Mr. Conti, the deadline you imposed still has an hour to run. But I don’t need any more time.”
Conti looked up at him briefly, then looked away.
“I’ve spoken to my colleagues. And I’m convinced that none of them had anything to do with the cat going missing.” This was mostly true: Barbour had almost bitten his head off when he’d asked if she knew what happened to the cat, and if Faraday was responsible he wouldn’t be in his lab now, studying its disappearance. Marshall still hadn’t found Sully-and the climatologist had been acting a little strange-but Sully surely couldn’t have acted alone.
Conti didn’t answer, and Marshall continued. “Furthermore, I find your bullying tactics and intimidation insulting. And this insistence that somebody sabotaged your show-that there’s some conspiracy to force you into leaving the site-borders on the paranoid. Go ahead and make your revised documentary if it will help soothe your vanity. But if you say, or intimate, or allege anything about me or my colleagues that in any way deviates from pure fact, you and Terra Prime can expect to hear immediately from a large and very angry group of lawyers.”
“All right,” said Wolff. “You’ve made your point.”
Marshall didn’t reply. He looked from Conti to Wolff and back again. He realized his heart was hammering and he was breathing hard.
Wolff continued to look at him. “Now if there’s nothing else, would you mind leaving?”
Marshall returned his gaze to Conti. At last the director looked up at him, nodded almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t even clear whether he’d heard a single word of the exchange.
It seemed there was nothing else to say. Marshall glanced at Barbour, gestured toward the door.
“Aren’t you going to tell them?” Ekberg asked, very quietly.
Marshall looked at her. The field producer was looking from Conti to Wolff, a haunted expression on her face.
“Tell us what?” Marshall asked.
Wolff frowned, made a small suppressing gesture.
“You can’t keep it secret,” Ekberg said, her voice louder now, more self-assured. “If you don’t tell them, I will.”
“Tell us what?” Marshall asked.
There was a brief silence. Then Ekberg turned toward him. “Josh Peters. One of our PAs, assistant to the supervising editor. He was found outside the security fence ten minutes ago. Dead.”
Shock lanced through Marshall. “Frozen?”
At this, Conti at last roused himself. “Torn apart,” he said.
24
The Fear Base infirmary, a confusing, claustrophobic network of small gray rooms, was located deep in the south wing military quarters. Marshall had been here only once before, for a butterfly bandage and a tetanus booster after gashing his arm on a rusty fairing. Like most of the base, the place looked like something out of an old movie set. Ancient inoculation schedules and posters warning against lice and athlete’s foot were pinned to the walls. Half a dozen fresh bottles of Betadine and hydrogen peroxide had been hastily stored in glass-fronted cabinets beside ancient, semi-fossilized beakers of iodine and rubbing alcohol. And over everything lay a faint shabbiness that clung to the fixtures and furniture almost like a coating of dust.
Marshall glanced around. The space that had once served as office-cum-waiting room was full of people- Wolff, Conti, Ekberg, Gonzalez, the carrot-haired PFC named Phillips-making the cramped space feel even more confined. Sully had finally turned up-he had, he said, been studying weather data tables in a remote lab-along with the gloomy news that the current blizzard wasn’t due to abate for forty-eight hours. He was standing in a far corner, his flushed face agitated. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to look through the open doorway to the south. The space beyond had once been an examining room. Now it was a makeshift morgue.
Sergeant Gonzalez was questioning the unlucky production assistant who had found the body: a gangly youth in his early twenties with a wispy goatee. Marshall knew nothing about him except that his name was Neiman.
“Did you see anybody else in the area?” Gonzalez asked.
Neiman shook his head. He had a dazed, glassy-eyed expression, as if he’d just been hit with a bat.
“What were you doing out there?”
Long silence. “It was my shift.”
“Shift for what?”
“To search for the missing cat.”
Gonzalez rolled his eyes, turned angrily toward Wolff. “Is that still going on?”
