would be like prying up that one vital corner. It would give him a place to set his chisel. Just that one laugh. It would make them insiders together, it would make them a committee in secret session. Two against the house.
But so far he hadn’t been able to get that one laugh, and Rainbird admired her for that more than he could have said.
2
Rainbird put his ID card in the proper slot and then went down to the orderlies” station to grab a cup of coffee before going on. He didn’t want coffee, but it was still early. He couldn’t afford to let his eagerness show; it was bad enough that Norton had noticed and commented on it.
He poured himself a slug of mud from the hotplate and sat down with it. At least none of the other nerds had arrived yet. He sat down on the cracked and sprung gray sofa and drank his coffee. His blasted face (and Charlie had shown nothing but the most passing interest in that) was calm and impassive. His thoughts ran on, analyzing the situation as it now stood.
The staff on this were like Rammaden’s green safecrackers in the supermarket office. They were handling the girl with kid gloves now, but they weren’t doing it out of any love for the girl. Sooner or later they would decide that the kid gloves were getting them nowhere, and when they ran out of “soft” options, they would decide to blow the safe. When they did, Rainbird was almost sure that they would “kill the money,” in Rammaden’s pungent phrase.
Already he had seen the phrase “light shock treatments” in two of the doctors” reports-and one of the doctors had been Pynchot, who had Hockstetter’s ear. He had seen a contingency report that had been couched in such stultifying jargon that it was nearly another language. Translated, what it boiled down to was a lot of strongarm stuff: if the kid sees her dad in enough pain, she’ll break. What Rainbird thought the kid might do if she saw her dad hooked up to a Delco battery and doing a fast polka with his hair on end was to go calmly back to her room, break a waterglass, and eat the pieces.
But you couldn’t tell them that. The Shop, like the FBI and CIA, had a long history of killing the money. If you can’t get what you want with foreign aid, go in there with some Thompsons and gelignite and assassinate the bastard. Put some cyanide gas in Castro’s cigars. It was crazy, but you couldn’t tell them that. All they could see where RESULTS, glittering and blinking like some mythical Vegas jackpot. So they killed the money and stood there with a bunch of useless green scraps sifting through their fingers and wondered what the hell had happened.
Now other orderlies began to drift in, joking, smacking each other on the fat part of the arm, talking about the strikes they made and the spares they converted the night before, talking about women, talking about cars, talking about getting shitfaced. The same old stuff that went on even unto the end of the world, hallelujah, amen. They steered clear of Rainbird. None of them liked Rainbird. He didn’t bowl and he didn’t want to talk about his car and he looked like a refugee from a Frankenstein movie. He made them nervous. If one of them had smacked him on the heavy part of the arm, Rainbird would have put him in traction.
He took out a sack of Red Man, a Zig-Zag paper, and made a quick cigarette. He sat and smoked and waited for it to be time to do down to the girl’s quarters.
All things taken together, he felt better, more alive, than he had in years. He realised this and was grateful to the girl. In a way she would never know of, she had given him back his life for a while-the life of a man who feels things keenly and hopes for things mightily; which is to say, a man with vital concerns. It was good that she was tough. He would get to her eventually (tough cracks and easy cracks, but no impossible cracks); he would make her do her dance for them, for whatever that was worth; when the dance was done he would kill her and look into her eyes, hoping to catch that spark of understanding, that message, as she crossed over into whatever there was.
In the meantime, he would live.
He crushed his cigarette out and got up, ready to go to work.
3
The thunderheads built up and up. By three o'clock, the skies over the Longmont complex were low and black. Thunder rolled more and more heavily, gaining assurance, making believers out of the people below. The grounds-keepers put away their mowers. The tables on the patios of the two homes were taken in. In the stables, two hostlers tried to soothe nervous horses that shifted uneasily at each ominous thud from the skies.
The storm came around three-thirty; it came as suddenly as a gunslinger’s draw and with all-out fury. It started as rain, then quickly turned to hail. The wind blew from west to east and then suddenly shifted around to exactly the opposite direction. Lightning flashed in great blue-white strokes that left the air smelling like weak gasoline. The winds began to swirl counterclockwise, and on the evening weathercasts there was film of a small tornado that had just skirted Longmont Center and had torn the roof off a shopping-center Fotomat in passing.
The Shop weathered most of the storm well. Two windows were driven in by hail, and the windstorm picked up a low picket fence surrounding a quaint little gazebo on the far side of the duckpond and threw it sixty yards, but that was the extent of the damage (except for flying branches and some ruined flowerbeds-more work for the groundskeeping force). The guard dogs ran between the inner and outer fences crazily at the height of the storm, but they calmed down quickly as it began to slack off:
The damage was done by the electrical storm that came after the hail, rain, and wind. Parts of eastern Virginia were without power until midnight as a result of lightning strikes on the Rowantree and Briska power stations. The area served by the Briska station included Shop headquarters.
In his office, Cap Hollister looked up in annoyance as the lights went off and the solid, unobtrusive hum of the air conditioner wound down to nothing. There were perhaps five seconds of shadowy semi-darkness caused by the power outage and the heavy stormclouds-long enough for Cap to whisper “Goddam!” under his breath and wonder what the hell had happened to their backup electrical system.
He glanced out the window and saw lightning flickering almost continuously. That evening one of the guardhouse sentries would tell his wife that he had seen an electrical fireball that looked as big as two serving platters bouncing from the weakly charged outer fence to the more heavily charged inner fence and back again.
Cap reached for the phone to find out about the power-and then the lights came on again. The air conditioner took up its hum, and instead of reaching for the phone, Cap reached for his pencil.
Then the lights went out again.
“Shit!” Cap said. He threw the pencil down and picked up the phone after all, daring the lights to come on again before he had the chance to chew someone’s ass. The lights declined the dare.
The two graceful homes facing each other across the rolling lawns-and all of the Shop complex underneath-were served by the Eastern Virginia Power Authority, but there were two backup systems powered by diesel generators. One system served the “vital functions”-the electrical fence, the computer terminals (a power failure can cost unbelievable amounts of money in terms of computer time), and the small infirmary. A second system served the lesser functions of the complex-lights, air conditioning, elevators, and all of that. The secondary system was built to “cross”-that is, to come in if the primary system showed signs of overloading-but the primary system would not cross if the secondary system began to overload. On August 19, both systems overloaded. The secondary system crossed when the primary system began to overload, just as the power-system architects had planned (although in truth, they had never planned for the primary system to overload in the first place), and as a result, the primary system operated for a full seventy seconds longer than the secondary system. Then the generators for both systems blew, one after the other, like a series of firecrackers. Only these firecrackers had cost about eighty thousand dollars each.
Later, a routine inquiry had brought back the smiling and benign verdict of “mechanical failure,” although a more accurate conclusion would have been “greed and venality.” When the backup generators had been installed in 1971, a senator privy to the acceptable-low-bid figures on that little operation (as well as sixteen million dollars” worth of other Shop construction) had tipped his brother-in-law, who was an electrical-engineering consultant. The consultant had decided he could quite handily come in under the lowest bid by cutting a corner here and there.
It was only one favor in an area that lives on favors and under-the-table information, and it was notable only because it was the first link in the chain that led to the final destruction and loss of life. The backup system had been used only piecemeal in all the years since it had been constructed. In its first major test, during the storm that knocked out the Briska power station, it failed completely. By then, of course, the electrical-engineering consultant had gone onward and upward; he was helping to build a multimillion-dollar beach resort at Coki Beach, on St. Thomas.
The Shop didn’t get its power back until the Briska station come on line again… which is to say, at the same time the rest of eastern Virginia got its juice back-around midnight.
By then, the next links had already been forged. As a result of the storm and the blackout, something tremendous had happened to both Andy and Charlie McGee, although neither of them had the slightest idea of what had happened to the other. After five months of stasis, things had begun to roll onward again.
4
When the power went off, Andy McGee was watching The
He had put on weight. Sometimes-more often when he was straight-he would catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror and think of Elvis Presley and the way the man had softly ballooned near the end of his life. At other times, he would think of the way a tomcat that had been “fixed” would sometimes get fat and lazy.
He wasn’t fat yet, but he was getting there. In Hastings Glen, he had weighed himself on the bathroom scale in the Slumberland Motel and had come in at one sixty- two. These days he was tipping the scales at about one-ninety. His cheeks were fuller, and he had the suggestion of a double chin and what his old high school gym teacher used to call (with utter contempt) “man-tits.” And more than a suggestion of a gut. There was not much exercise or much urge to exercise while in the grip of a solid Thorazine high-and the food was very good.
He did not worry about his weight when he was high, and that was most of the time. When they were ready to make some more of their fruitless tests, they would iron him out over an eighteen hour period, a doctor would test his physical reactions, an EEG would be taken to make sure his brain waves were nice and sharp, and then he would be taken into a testing cubicle, which was a small white room with drilled-cork paneling.
They had began, back in April, with human volunteers. They told him what to do and told him that if he did anything over enthusiastic-like striking someone blind, for instance-that he would be made to suffer. An undertone to this threat was that he might not suffer alone. This threat struck Andy as an empty one; he didn’t believe that they would really harm Charlie. She was their prize pupil. He was very much the B feature on the program.
The doctor in charge of testing him was a man named Herman Pynchot. He was in his late thirties and perfectly ordinary except for the fact that he grinned too much.
