impressive layout of silver switches and red and black dials with white calibrated markings. Taking up most of the space in the middle of the trailer was a bulky cylindrical shell, metal at the far end, transparent at the end nearest them, connected by flexible silver tubes to a coil from which came soft bubbling and swishing sounds, rhythmical and sinister.
Now they could see the foreshortened shape of a man inside the metal-and-plastic shell. He was bald and gaunt-cheeked, his rib cage clearly outlined in the emaciated torso.
The door of the trailer clicked shut behind them. Sturges unhooked a pencil microphone from the wall and thumbed the button. 'I have them, Mr. Gelstrom. They're here.'
Chase saw pale skeletal fingers inching toward a keyboard that was positioned vertically, allowing Gelstrom to view it without lifting his head on its stalk of a neck from the foam pillow. The fingers tapped and on an angled screen above the shell a moving white dot spelled out:
is the site suitable, dr. chase?
Sturges handed the microphone to Chase. The pump gave a long-drawn-out
Chase released his clamped jaw. His voice was tight and hoarse. 'Nobody said anything about the JEG Corporation being involved in this project.'
The fingers touched the keys.
my stipulation to prothero. i thought you would refuse outright. emotion overcoming rational behavior. but you have accepted and as l'm funding the project personally i have a right to know your verdict. suitable or not?
The trailer was cool and yet Chase could feel pinpricks of sweat between his shoulder blades. 'Yes, it's suitable.'
good. are you willing to go ahead?
The pump churned and sighed
Chase gripped the microphone, which felt cold and slippery. He couldn't think straight. The past was all mixed up with the present. And the future.
When he didn't answer, Sturges said over his shoulder, 'A few months ago Mr. Gelstrom suffered an attack that left him dependent on drugs and this respirator lung. The condition was diagnosed as acute anoxia. Mr. Gelstrom is prepared to back the project with all the resources, personal, financial and corporate, at his disposal.'
Chase bent forward, his shoulders shaking. Spittle hung on his beard. He was laughing so hard he nearly choked. Gelstrom caught in his own trap. He'd helped inflict the damage and now he was trying to buy his way out. Ten million dollars for the promise of salvation. No, make that fifty million. Or better still, a hundred million. Two hundred. Whatever it takes. As much as you need. Just name your price.
But there was a fatal flaw and Chase exulted in it. With a deep gloating satisfaction he spelled it out, as plainly as the words on the screen.
'It won't work, it's too late,' he said, wiping his mouth. Hysterical laughter quivered in his throat. 'You've reaped the profits from all this and you've reaped your own destruction in the bargain. What did you think, Gelstrom? That if we succeeded you'd get your life back? Is that it?' Chase shook his head. His triumph was exhilarating, like a surge of adrenaline through his bloodstream, and it also disgusted him. 'Your disease is terminal. You're going to die, Gelstrom, and there's nothing you can do about it--not even if you spent every last cent you possess.'
The big blond man at his shoulder said, 'That isn't what--'
But Chase cut him short. 'It's too late, too fucking late! This project, even if it succeeds, is a lifetime too late for him! Don't you understand? He's got years and this will take decades, perhaps centuries.'
He stood over the transparent shell, fists clenched, staring down into two sightless eye sockets in the shriveled face. The hand moved, felt for the keyboard, tapped. The dot raced across the screen.
i know all this. i expect nothing for myself. like you, dr. chase, i have a son. nine years old. i want him to live, to have somewhere to live. you want your son to live. i have money. you have knowledge. together we can save them. perhaps.
Chase said nothing. The silence in the trailer was broken only by the rhythmic churning sound of the pump and its sighing
It happened just as Prothero got out of the car, on the steps leading up to the entrance, inside the bulletproof screens. There must have been fifty of them, milling around in their black robes and chanting one of their meaningless repetitive dirges.
For a few moments Prothero was completely surrounded, almost submerged. He struggled through them, jostled from side to side, not making much headway until three UN security guards pushed forward, casting bodies aside, clearing a path.
Prothero had been an atheist since the age of fourteen. He never had and never could understand how rational and supposedly intelligent people could fall for such claptrap. It was a spiritual crutch, that was his opinion. But what depressed him more was the fact that most of these were kids, in their teens and early twenties. As for what they believed in--or what crank sect they belonged to--he hadn't the faintest notion. There were so many quasi-religious groups about these days that he couldn't be bothered to differentiate between them.
That's supposing there was any difference.
The green overalls hid his robes. The face mask and respirator (nonfunctioning) gave him the appearance of any other member of the maintenance staff. He carried the cylinder in plain sight across his shoulder so that the guard in his glass cubicle at the subbasement entrance hardly spared him a glance before returning to his glossy porn magazine.
In a deserted locker room Mara threw off the mask and respirator and stripped off the overalls. He fitted the cylinder into its harness and arranged his robes to cover it. He attached the hose and nozzle to his right arm with tape and made sure the butane lighter was in the small leather pouch at his waist.
There was no need to rehearse. Mara had practiced the sacred ritual many times in dummy runs. In his mind the sequence was sharp and exact, the operational manual's instructions etched into his memory as if he had the page in front of him.
1. Left hand/grasp/flick--ignition
2. Right hand/extend/twist--jet
3. Left hand/apply/withdraw--flame
4. Right hand/advance/aiin--target
5. Right hand/aim/sweep--burn
6. Right hand/sweep/approach--conflagration
7. Right hand/retract/end--death
Mara came out of the locker room and moved hunchbacked to the elevators. There he paused, his finger hovering over the panel of buttons. Direct route to the assembly hall unwise. Guards. Official passes. Access points under surveillance. Corridors patrolled.
His crouching shadow slid along the wall. He turned a corner and eventually came to an illuminated sign: emergency exit.
Underneath it a printed notice, red capitals on white.
CAUTION!
sealed enclosure ends here.
oxygen level in stairwell.
below tolerable limit.
respirators required.
Mara closed his eyes. His awareness shrank to a single glowing point. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat became like the slow ponderous beat of a drum. Gradually the world became distant and faded away. Everything was quiescent.
He had to use both hands to release the door from its thick rubber seal and to overcome the pressurized air inside the building. The stairwell was lit by caged red globes. The door hissed and thumped solidly shut behind him, and Mara began to climb the steps in the red gloom.
