The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

The man with the widow's peak and bright black eyes nodded toward Tommy Carling. 'Our ponytailed friend here has been talking to you about me, hasn't he? Tommy really loves to gossip; I'll never understand how he got a security clearance. They must tape his mouth shut every day when he leaves here.'

'What would you like to discuss with me, Mr. Braxton?'

'Please don't patronize me, Frederickson,' Marl Braxton said evenly, and then sighed. 'I'm just crazy; I'm not simple. I've read many of your monographs on the so-called criminally insane, and I found them most impressive. You're a professor, with a doctorate in criminology; you're an ex-circus headliner, a noted private investigator; you have a black belt in karate. I just wanted to talk.'

'Then let's talk. Maybe we can get some coffee, and-'

'No,' Braxton said curtly. 'Not today; not when the air has been poisoned the way it has. Perhaps some other time.'

Marl Braxton turned on his heel and walked quickly away, disappearing into one of the rooms that radiated off the commons area. When I looked back at Tommy Carling, the male nurse's expression was thoughtful.

'Well, now you've met Marl Braxton,' he said dryly.

'This Mama Baker was afraid of him.'

'Oh, yes. Baker's real name is Marion, incidentally, in case you're interested. He insists everyone call him Mama, and we oblige. Anyway, there's a pecking order here, just like there is in all groups.'

'And here, Marl Braxton is at the top of the pecking order.'

'You've got it.'

Suddenly, I heard the door to the unit bang open. I turned, saw the director of the clinic, his face flushed with anger, hurrying toward us. Dr. Charles Slycke was a man in his late fifties or early sixties, and most of the time acted like an extremely stressed individual in need of a good psychiatrist-at least that's how he seemed to me. He was a couple of inches under six feet, overweight but not obese, with thinning gray hair that stuck out at odd angles from his head and watery gray eyes with dark pouches under them. At the moment, those eyes were flashing with anger-and, I thought, perhaps just a touch of insecurity.

'What is this man doing here?!' Slycke snapped at the male nurse.

'Sir, he has a Z-13 identity badge, and I just thought-'

'I'm well aware of what kind of badge he's wearing, and I don't care what you thought! Sometimes you go too far, mister! Do you think this is some kind of a game?!'

Carling shook his head. 'I don't know what you mean, sir,' he said evenly.

Slycke sucked in a deep breath, took a step backward, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his checked sports jacket. 'Did he ask you to bring him into the secure unit?'

'No, sir, but-'

'Excuse me, Doctor,' I said to the psychiatrist in what I hoped was a properly soothing and thoroughly deferential tone. 'There seems to have been a misunderstanding, and it's my fault.'

Slycke continued to ignore me as he glared at Tommy Carling. 'Why wasn't I even informed that this man was in the building?!'

'Sir, with his Z-13, I didn't think-'

'That is correct! You didn't think!' 'Excuse me, Doctor,' I said a bit more forcefully. 'I apologize for any inconvenience or trouble I've caused, and I'll try to make certain it won't happen again. I'll be more than happy to follow any procedure you want to lay out. Mr. Carling was just trying to be-'

'Come with me, Frederickson,' Slycke snapped, abruptly wheeling around and heading back toward the door, which was being held open by two nurses. 'We have to talk.'

4

Feeling like nothing so much as an unruly student in tow behind a stern principal, I dutifully followed Charles Slycke out of the secure unit and back to his dimly lit office, which was off a small foyer leading to the fire stairs. I sat down in a chair without being asked as the portly man went behind his scarred wooden desk, nervously ran both hands through his unruly hair, then sank down in a leather swivel chair and opened a thin, pale green folder. He seemed highly agitated, and I strongly suspected that his distress sprang from a lot more than his having found me in the secure unit.

'Frederickson,' the director of the clinic mumbled without looking up, 'this is your brother's file I have here. I'd like to ask you a few questions about his medical history.'

'I'll be happy to answer your questions, Dr. Slycke, but I filled out an extensive set of medical questionnaires on Garth yesterday. Don't you have them in the file?'

Now the other man looked up, fixed me with his pouched, rheumy eyes. 'Are you certain there's nothing you've left out?'

Nothing that Slycke would believe, and nothing that would be of any use to him; the formula for, and all samples of, the serum that had twisted everything in us but our minds horribly out of shape during the Valhalla affair had been destroyed in a volcanic explosion in Greenland. If and when Garth regained consciousness, he might well feel the need to talk about our experiences; until then, there was nothing I could say about Valhalla that could serve as anything other than an unnecessary distraction.

'No,' I replied. 'He had the usual childhood diseases, tonsils and appendix out, and a few broken bones. You've got it all in the forms I filled out.'

Slycke closed the file and pushed it to one side, then folded his hands on top of the desk and studied me. For the moment, at least, he seemed to be holding his hostility toward me in abeyance. 'We've found a curious anomaly in your brother's blood chemistry, Dr. Frederickson, and I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter.'

'What's the anomaly?'

'He has some very strange antibodies which aren't listed in any reference book; their chemical makeup is quite unlike anything the medical profession has ever seen. Are you sure your brother never suffered from some peculiar affliction? Perhaps he picked up a tropical disease while he was traveling, or in the service?'

'Not that I'm aware of. You can always check his service medical records, but I'm sure he would have told me about anything like that. Does it make a difference? We know he suffered his breakdown after he was poisoned with NPPD.'

'Frederickson, your brother seems to possess antibodies in his blood for a disease that doesn't exist.'

A disease called the Valhalla Project, I thought, now mercifully banished from the face of the earth-except, obviously, for antibodies left in Garth's blood. And mine. 'Could the existence of those antibodies-or whatever caused the antibodies-have something to do with Garth's present condition?'

'That's impossible to say until we know what it is we're looking at. It's somewhat perplexing to discover, in your brother's case, that we're dealing with not one, but two unknowns; the effect of nitrophenylpentadienal ingestion, combined with what may be long-term, lingering effects from whatever disease caused those antibodies.'

'I can't explain it,' I said. 'Maybe the antibodies are a reaction to the NPPD in his system.'

Slycke shook his head impatiently. 'There are many things about nitrophenylpentadienal we don't know-it may or may not have a long-range toxic effect on internal organs, and it may or may not be able to penetrate the blood- brain barrier. However, since it is an inorganic chemical, it cannot possibly create antibodies. Your brother was definitely exposed to some kind of exotic disease at some time in the past.'

'I'm sorry I can't help you, sir.'

'Your brother is in a profound catatonic state, Frederickson, and it's not going to be at all helpful to him if you play games with me.'

I stiffened in my chair. 'Games?'

'I require your full cooperation, and it would be most troubling to me if I thought. . you were keeping something from me I should know.'

'Look, Dr. Slycke,' I said carefully, 'I've sensed your suspicion and hostility toward me from the moment we