against his thumb. 'Yes,' he said, feeling the heat starting to rise again. 'A very firm promise.'
Chase drove north along Interstate 5, skirting the fringes of the Los Padres National Forest. The few remaining acres of what had been a sizable timberland were being encroached upon by the sprawl of Los Angeles from the south and the ever-greedy Vandenberg Spaceport devouring hundreds of square miles inland from the coastal strip. He brought to mind his conversation with Binch and Ruth Patton. The JEG plant was conveniently near Vandenberg--too damn conveniently near for comfort. Was this fanciful paranoia on his part or was there some actual link between them? If so, he couldn't think what.
Once past Wheeler Ridge he turned onto highway 99 and headed for Bakersfield. The ridged folds of ocher- colored hills--twenty years ago bare and now dotted with houses--shimmered in the heat. The car's thermometer registered an air temperature of 102deg F. Chase drove in shirt sleeves, with the windows fully wound up against the searing blast, and blessed the marvels of modern technology. He felt as cool as a freshly picked mint leaf.
In Bakersfield he looked for the JEG Chemicals' sign and was directed by an arrow underneath a huge silver conch shell along a smaller road that followed the meanderings of the Kern River. The plant was eight miles the other side of Bakersfield, toward Lake Isabella, and clearly visible a good three miles away: gleaming multicolored aluminum domes, silver towers, and abstract sculptured pipework, resembling a lunar colony. In the distorting heat waves it looked surreal.
At the gate he showed his Scripps ID card, in the name of Dr. David Benson--a name Cheryl had either borrowed or invented, he wasn't sure which. The guard checked a clipboard and waved him through.
In the large semicircular reception hall he was asked to wait while they contacted Mr. Merrik's office. Chase spent the few minutes looking at an illuminated display framed in heavy molded bronze that took up a complete section of wall. Next to each name was a symbol, a kind of hieroglyph in bas-relief, supposed to represent that particular company's products and services. An oil derrick. A space probe. A truck, and so on. Chase let his eye roam over the family tree, impressed by the JEG empire in all its splendor:
JEG Electronics JEG Thermoplastics JEG Petroleum JEG Data Systems JEG Aerospace JEG Ranching JEG Lumber JEG Realty JEG Transport JEG Video JEG Communications JEG Franchising
He counted more than forty major companies, many of which branched into miniconglomerates of their own. It was big and rich and powerful, Chase reflected, and it would have influential friends in high places.
Merrik was of medium height with short sandy hair and a fledgling ginger moustache, wearing spectacles with heavy green frames that clashed badly with his coloring. Chase got the immediate impression that the moustache and glasses were an attempt to lend authority to what were essentially a babyish face and timid, retiring manner.
They shook hands across the desk and Chase sat down and fussily crossed his legs. He smiled in a bright, vague way, hoping to give the impression that he was all at sea in the mundane commercial world-- more the academic used to grappling with the higher reaches of conceptual thought. So much the better if Merrik thought him naive; it might just make him relax his guard.
And Merrik was apparently quite willing to accept him at face value, as an English marine biologist working at Scripps. He listened politely as Chase explained how the Marine Life Research Group was mounting a deepwater expedition (this Cheryl's brainchild) 'to investigate the systematics, evolution, and spatial distribution of the benthic foraminifera.'
Merrik's alert nods became perfunctory and his expression bemused, and after a while he raised both freckled hands. 'Forgive me, Dr. Benson, but I'm afraid you're losing me. Way outside my field.'
Chase showed surprise, as if benthic foraminifera were a topic of conversation in every supermarket. This was the reaction he'd hoped for. 'Well now,' he said, scratching behind his ear as he gazed at the ceiling, 'how best can I explain it? Let me see, yes. One of our requirements is a certain specialized type of flora control agent.'
'A marine herbicide?' Merrik broke in with evident relief, at last getting the drift. 'Oh, sure. We've got more than twenty patented brands.' He reached confidently for a plastic-bound manual and flipped it open.
'None of which is suitable.'
Merrik stared at him, frowning. 'No?'
Chase raised his eyebrows with an air of mild apology. 'We've been through all the commercial and industrial catalogs and can find nothing to fit the specification. You see, what we're after is a special herbicide that is effective in deepwater conditions at extremely low temperatures.'
Merrik closed the manual with a snap. 'You mean specially formulated for that purpose? As you most likely know, Dr. Benson, research and development costs of producing a completely new chemical herbicide are substantial, from hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars. For what you have in mind the cost could be prohibitive.'
'Oh, let's not worry about that,' said Chase airily, waving it away. 'Cost isn't of prime importance. No indeed. Research organizations from all over the world are contributing, so money is the least of our problems,' and was gratified to see Merrik's eyes gleam with interest. 'And if the technique is successful,' Chase said, piling it on, 'it could become standard procedure for marine biology institutions throughout the world.'
Merrik was leaning forward, smiling now, hands clasped on the desk, thumbs weaving. 'Is that so?' This was looking bigger and juicier than he'd supposed. This kind of contract could be worth millions. Still beaming, he reached out to the intercom. 'I think at this point it would be most fruitful for you to meet our senior research chemist, Dr. Hilti. I'm sure you could have a most profitable--er, that's to say, worthwhile--discussion in respect to your precise requirements.' His eagerness was touching.
'Before we get to that, Mr. Merrik--'
'Burt.'
'There's one thing I ought to mention, Burt. Some of our people at Scripps expressed doubts that JEG Chemicals has the facilities and resources to undertake a project such as this one. To be frank, Burt, it was suggested that I get in touch with Dow or Monsanto and let them have a shot at it.'
Merrik looked distressed and leaped in at once, keen to reassure him.
'Have no fears on that score, Dr. Benson. We can handle it all right. True, we're not as big as some of the others, but we're still one helluva size. We've got the R and D facilities, the laboratories, the staff. Take my word for it, we can do it. Yessir!'
'I wouldn't dream of doubting it,' Chase said. 'You'll appreciate, Burt, that I have to satisfy the people at my end. Internal politics and so on. You know how it is.'
'Yes, I do. Absolutely.' Merrik spread his arms wide, sandy eyebrows arched above his green spectacles. 'Anything I can do to help, Dr. Benson. Just put a name to it . . .'
'Are your labs here, in this plant?'
Merrik nodded. 'Yes, all our research facilities are based right here. Look, why don't I arrange a tour, here and now, and then you'll be in a position to make a full report to your people at Scripps? How does that sound?' He waited anxiously while Chase glanced at his watch and deliberated. 'Shouldn't take more than, say, forty, fifty minutes. And if you can spare the time, why not stay and have lunch?'
His face lit up when Chase nodded at last. 'I guess I can manage that, Burt. I know they'll feel happier if I can say I've seen your labs for myself.'
After being conducted by Merrik and Dr. Hilti around the three-story building with its large brightly lit laboratories and being shown everything he asked to see (including a perfect zero vacuum chamber which alone must have cost half a million dollars), Chase expressed himself more than satisfied. He had no need to fake his admiration; the facilities, as promised, were impressive.
Dr. Hilti was a tall spare man in his early sixties with the austere, scrubbed look of someone who lived his life to a rigid, unswerving discipline. He wore a spotless white coat and had a prominent Adam's apple supported by a blue-and-white-checked bow tie. Here was a different caliber of intelligence to Burt Merrik's, and Chase knew he'd have to be extra careful: That piercing stare and tight prudish mouth advertised to the world that Dr. Hilti was nobody's fool.
Chase was less than happy, however. He hadn't expected to come across hard evidence that they were producing a banned chemical at the plant, but he knew that the manufacture of 2,4,5-T on a commercial scale required continuous laboratory monitoring and ultrahigh levels of precaution. Nowhere had he seen anything to set the alarm bells ringing. And Merrik and Dr. Hilti seemed quite willing to take him through the labs, floor by floor, never once hesitant or in the least evasive.
