would get too close to the rock, but he made sure nonetheless. Somewhere in the distance he could hear an occasional drip. Searching idly for the source, he glanced at the longitudinal bulkheads rising sixty feet to the top of the tank, ribbed and worked like a metal cathedral. Then he glanced down at the bottom girders. The hull plates were wet. No surprise there, under the circumstances. He could hear the measured boom of surf along the hull, feel the gentle, slow-motion rolling of the ship. He thought of the three membranes of metal that lay between him and the bottomless ocean. It was a disquieting thought, and he pulled his gaze away, looking now at the meteorite itself, inside its webbed prison.
Although from down here it looked more imposing, it was diminished by the vastness of the tank. Once again, he tried to comprehend how something so small could weigh so much. Five Eiffel towers packed into twenty feet of meteorite. Curved, pebbled surface. No scooped-out hollows like a normal meteorite. Stunning, almost indescribable color. He'd love to give his girlfriend a ring made out of that stuff. And then his memory flashed back to the various chunks of the man named Timmer, laid out in the command hut. Nope; no ring.
He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes. The work was estimated to take twenty-five. 'How's it going?' he called to the crew foreman.
'Almost there,' the foreman called back, his voice echoing and distorted in the great tank. Garza stood back and waited, feeling the ship rolling more heavily now. The smell of cooking steel, tungsten, and titanium was strong in the air.
At last the TIG welders began snapping off as the welders finished their work. Garza nodded. Twenty-two minutes: not bad. Just a few more critical welds and they'd be done.
Rochefort had designed things to keep those welds to a minimum. Whenever possible, he'd kept things simple. Less likely to fail. He may have been a prig, but he was a damn good engineer. Garza sighed as the ship began to roll again, wishing again Rochefort could have seen his plan become real here in this tank. Someone got killed on almost every job. It was a little like war; better not to make too many friends...
He realized that the vessel was still rolling.
Then he found himself lying on his back, in the pitchdark, pain coursing through him. How did he get there? A minute could have passed, or an hour; there was no way to tell. His head swirled: there had been an explosion. Somewhere in the blackness, a man was screaming — hideously — and there was a strong smell of ozone and burnt metal in the air, overlaid with a whiff of woodsmoke. Something warm and sticky coated his face, and the pain throbbed in rhythm with the beat of his heart. But then it began to go away — far away — and soon he was able to sleep once again.
8:00 A.M.
PALMER LLOYD had taken his time arriving on the bridge. He had to brace himself. He could show no lingering childish resentment.
He was received with polite, even deferential nods. There was a new feeling on the bridge, and it took him a moment to understand. The mission was almost over. He was no longer a passenger, a nuisance at a critical moment. He was Palmer Lloyd, owner of the most important meteorite ever discovered, director of the Lloyd Museum, CEO of Lloyd Holdings, the seventh richest man in the world.
He came up behind Britton. Over the gold bars on her shoulder, he could see a monitor displaying a global positioning diagram. He had seen this screen before. Their ship showed on the screen as a cross, the long axis indicating direction of travel. Its forward end was steadily approaching a red line that arced gently across the diagram. Every few seconds, the screen flickered as the chart information was updated via satellite. When they crossed that line, they would be in international waters. Home free.
'How long?' he asked.
'Eight minutes,' Britton replied. Her voice, though cool as ever, had lost the tightness of those harrowing final minutes at the island.
Lloyd glanced over at Glinn. He was standing beside Puppup, hands clasped behind his back, his face the usual mask of indifference. Still, Lloyd felt sure he could see a smugness lingering in those impassive eyes. As well it should. They were minutes from one of the greatest scientific and engineering achievements of the twentieth century. He waited, not rushing it.
He glanced around the rest of the company: the crew of the watch, tired but satisfied, anticipating their relief. Chief Mate Howell, inscrutable. McFarlane and Amira, standing together silently. Even the crafty old doctor, Brambell, had emerged from his hole belowdecks. It was as if, on some unspoken signal, they had assembled to witness something momentous.
Lloyd straightened up, a small gesture meant to attract attention. He waited until all eyes were on him, then turned to Glinn.
'Mr. Glinn, may I offer you my heartfelt congratulations,' he said.
Glinn bowed slightly. Smiles and glances went around the bridge.
At that moment the bridge door opened and a steward came in, wheeling a stainless-steel cart. The neck of a champagne bottle peeked out from an urn of crushed ice. A dozen crystal glasses were racked up beside it.
Lloyd rubbed his hands together delightedly. 'Eli, you liar. You may be an old woman about some things, but your timing today has been exquisite.'
'I did tell an untruth when I said I'd only brought one bottle along. Actually, I brought a case.'
'Marvelous! Let's have at it, then.'
'We'll have to make do with this single bottle. This
Lloyd strode over, slid the bottle out of the ice, and held it up with a grin.
'Don't drop it this time, guv,' Puppup said, almost inaudibly.
Lloyd looked at Britton. 'How much longer?'
'Three minutes.'
The wind beat against the windows. The
For a moment, the only sounds on the bridge were the moan of the wind and the distant thundering of the ocean. Then Britton looked up from the screen and glanced at Howell, who nodded his affirmation.
'The
A small cheer erupted. Lloyd popped the cork and began pouring judicious measures all around.
Suddenly the grinning face of Puppup appeared before Lloyd, his skinny arms holding up two glasses. 'Right here, guv. One for me and one for me friend.' He ducked his head.
Lloyd emptied the bottle into the glasses. 'Who's your friend?' he asked, smiling indulgently. The man's role, though not large, had been crucial. He would find him a good job at the Lloyd Museum, in maintenance perhaps, or even security. Or maybe, as the last surviving Yaghan Indian, there might be something even better. Perhaps he should consider some kind of exhibit, after all. It would be tasteful and correct — a far cry from those nineteenth- century exhibitions of primitive people-but it could be a draw. Especially with Puppup on hand as the last living example. Yes, he would have to think about it...
'Hanuxa,' Puppup answered, with another duck and grin. Lloyd looked up in time to see his rabbitlike retreat, drinking two-fistedly from both glasses.
The chief mate's voice broke through the hubbub. 'I've got a surface contact at thirty-two miles, bearing three one five true at twenty knots.'
Instantly, the conversation ceased. Lloyd glanced over at Glinn, eager for assurance, and felt a prickly sensation stir in his gut. The man had an expression on his face he had never seen before: a look of sick surprise.
'Glinn?' he said. 'It's some merchant vessel, right?'
Without answering, Glinn turned to his operative at the EES console and spoke a few words in an
