Douglas Preston - Mount Dragon

Scopes shook his head. “This project is too important.”

“If you say so, sir. Can I get you anything else besides a new keyboard?”

Scopes waved his hand absently. As Fairley turned to go, Scopes suddenly spoke again. “Wait. There were two things, after all. Did you see the Channel Seven news last night?”

“As you know, sir, I don’t care for television or computers.”

“You crusty Beacon Hill fossil,” Scopes said affectionately. Fairley was the only man in the company Scopes would allow to call him sir. “What would I do without you to show me how the electronically illiterate half live? Anyway, last night on Channel Seven they discussed a twelve-year-old girl who has leukemia. She wanted to go to Disneyland before she died. It’s the usual exploitative crap we’re fed on the evening news. I forget her name. Anyway, will you arrange for her and her family to go to Disneyland, private jet, all expenses paid, best hotels, limos, the works? And please, keep it strictly anonymous. I don’t want that bastard Levine mocking me again, twisting it into something it isn’t. Give them some money to help with the medical bills, say, fifty thousand. They seemed like nice people. It must be hell to have a kid die of leukemia. I can’t even imagine it.”

“Yes, sir. That’s very kind of you sir.”

“Remember what Samuel Johnson said: ‘It is better to live rich, than die rich.’ And remember: it’s to be anonymous. I don’t even want them to know who did it. All right?”

“Understood.”

“And another thing. When I was in New York yesterday, this fucking cab nearly ran me over in a crosswalk. Park Avenue and Fiftieth.”

Fairley’s expression was inscrutable. “That would have been unfortunate.”

“Spencer, you know what I like about you? You’re so droll that I can never tell whether I’m being insulted or complimented. Anyway, the hack number on top of the cab was four-A-five-six. Get his medallion pulled, will you? I don’t want the son of a bitch running over some grandmother.”

“Yes, sir.” As the small door hissed shut with a muffled click, Scopes stood up and made his way thoughtfully back toward the piano.

A loud tone sounded in his helmet, and Carson jerked up from his terminal screen with a start. Then he relaxed again. It was only his third day on-site; he assumed that eventually he’d get used to the 6 P.M. reminder. He stretched, looked round the lab. De Vaca was in pathology; he might as well wrap up for the day. He laboriously typed a few paragraphs into his laptop, detailing the day’s events. As he connected the laptop to the network link and uploaded his files, he found himself unable to suppress a sense of pride. Two days of lab-work, and he knew exactly what had to be done. Familiarity with the latest lab techniques was the advantage he’d needed. Now, all that remained was to carry it out.

Then he hesitated. A message was flashing at the bottom of the screen.

John Singer@Exec.Dragon is paging.

Press the command key to chat.

Hurriedly, Carson went into chat mode and paged Singer. He hadn’t been plugged into the network all day; there was no telling when Singer had originally requested to speak with him.

John Singer@Exec.Dragon ready to chat.

Press the command key to continue.

How are you, Guy?came the words on Carson’s screen.

Good, Carson typed. Just got your page now.

You should get in the habit of leaving your laptop connected to the network the entire time you’re in the lab. You might mention that to Susana, too. Could you spare me a few moments after dinner? There’s something we need to discuss.

Name the time and place, Carson typed.

How about nine o’clock in the canteen? I’ll see you then.

Wondering what Singer wanted, Carson issued the network logoff. The computer responded:

One new message remains unread.

Do you want to read it now (Y/N)?

Carson switched to GeneDyne’s electronic messaging system and brought up the message. Probably an earlier message from Singer, wondering where I am , he thought.

Hello , Guy. Glad to see you in place and at work.

I like what you’ve done with the protocol. It has the feel of a winner. But remember something: Frank Burt was the best scientist I’ve ever known , and this problem bested him. So don’t get cocky on me , okay?

I know you’re going to come through for GeneDyne , Guy.

Brent.

A few minutes after nine, Carson helped himself to a Jim Beam from the canteen bar and stepped through the sliding glass doors onto the observation deck beyond. Early in the evening, the canteen—with its cozy coffehouse atmosphere and its backgammon and chess boards—was a favorite hangout for lab people. But now it was almost deserted. The wind had died down, and the heat of the day had abated. The deck was empty, and he chose a seat away from the white expanse of the building. He savored the smoky flavor of the bourbon— drunk without ice, a taste he developed when he drank his dinner cocktail from a hip flask in front of a fire out on the ranch—and watched the last of the sun set over the distant Fra Cristóbal Mountains. To the northeast and the east the sky still held traces of a rich shade of pearly rose.

He tilted his head backward and closed his eyes a moment, inhaling the pungent smell of the desert air, chilled by sunset: a mixture of creosote bush, dust, and salt. Before he’d gone East, he had only noticed the odor after a rain. But now it was like new to him. He opened his eyes again and stared at the vast dome of night sky, smoking with the brilliance of stars already in place above his head: Scorpio clear and bright in the south, Cygnus overhead, the Milky Way arching over all.

The bewitching fragrance of the night desert combined with the familiar stars brought a hundred memories crowding back. He sipped his drink meditatively.

He brushed the thoughts away at the sound of footsteps. They came from one of the walkways beyond the canteen, and Carson assumed it was Singer, approaching from the residency compound. But the figure that came silently out of the dusk was not short and squat, but well over six feet, and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. A safari hat sat incongruously atop hair that looked iron gray in the cold beam of the sodium walkway lights. A ponytail descended between his shoulder blades. If the man saw Carson he gave no sign, continuing past the balcony toward the limestone central plaza.

There was a thump behind him, then Carson heard Singer’s voice. “Beautiful sunset, isn’t it?” the director said. “Much as I hate the days here, the nights make up for it. Almost.” He stepped forward, a mug of coffee steaming in one hand.

“Who’s that?” Carson nodded toward the retreating figure.

Singer looked out into the night and scowled. “That’s Nye, the security director.”

“So that’s Nye,” Carson said. “What’s his story? I mean, he looks a little strange out here, with that suit-and-pith-helmet getup.”

“Strange isn’t the word. I think he looks ridiculous. But I advise you not to tangle with him.” Singer drew up a seat next to Carson and sat down. “He used to work at the Windermere Nuclear Complex, in the UK. Remember that accident? There was talk of employee sabotage, and somehow Nye, as security director, became the scapegoat. Nobody wanted to touch him after that, and he had to find work in the Middle East somewhere. But Brent has peculiar ideas about people. He figured that the man, always a stickler, would be extra careful after what happened, so he hired him for GeneDyne UK. He proved to be such a fanatic about security that Scopes brought him over here at start-up. Been here ever since. Never leaves. Well, that’s not true, exactly. On the weekends, he often disappears for long rides into the desert. Sometimes he even stays out overnight, a real no-no around here. Scopes knows, of course, but he doesn’t seem to mind.”