Douglas Preston - Thunderhead

“It’s not impossible,” Nora said in an undertone. “You give me the application, I fill it out, and you do what you have to do.”

But Holroyd was still staring at the image: the shining ivory shuttle drifting through space, the stars hard as diamonds, the earth endless miles below. It was always like that. The excitement of discovery that he had longed for growing up, the chance to explore a new planet or fly to the moon—all those dreams had withered in a cubicle at JPL, while he watched someone else’s adventure unfold on a dirty monitor.

Then he realized with a start that Nora had been staring at him. “When did you join JPL?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“Eight years ago,” he said, “right out of graduate school.”

“Why?”

He stopped, surprised by the bluntness of the question. “Well,” he said, “I always wanted to be part of the exploration of space.”

“I bet you grew up wanting to be the first man on the moon.”

Holroyd blushed. “I was a little late for that. But I did have dreams of going to Mars.”

“And now they’re up there, orbiting the earth, and you’re sitting here in a greasy pizza parlor.”

It was as if she had read his mind. Holroyd felt a surge of resentment. “Look, I’m doing just fine. Those guys wouldn’t be up there if it weren’t for me and others like me.”

Nora nodded. “But it’s not quite the same thing, is it?” she said softly.

Holroyd remained silent.

“What I’m offering is a chance for you to be part of what might be the greatest archaeological discovery since King Tut.”

“Yeah,” said Holroyd. “And my part would be to do for you just what I do for Watkins: crunch some data and let someone else run with it. I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

But the woman never took her hazel eyes from his. She was silent, and it seemed to Holroyd that she was making some kind of private decision.

“Maybe I can offer you more than that,” she said at last, her voice still low.

Holroyd frowned sharply. “Like what?”

“A place on the expedition.”

Holroyd felt his heart accelerate. “What did you say?”

“I think you heard me. We’ll need a remote sensing and computer specialist. Can you handle communications gear?”

Holroyd swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Then he nodded. “I’ve got gear you’ve never even dreamed of.”

“And how are you set for vacation? Could you take two, maybe three weeks off?”

“I’ve never taken a vacation,” Holroyd heard himself say. “I’ve got so much time accrued, I could leave for six months and still get paid.”

“Then that’s it. You get me the data, and I get you on the expedition. I guarantee it, Peter, you won’t be sorry. It’s an adventure you’d remember for the rest of your life.”

Holroyd glanced down at the woman’s hands, tapered and beautiful, clasped together expectantly. He had never met anyone so passionate about something. He realized he was having a hard time catching his breath.

“I—” he began.

She leaned forward quickly. “Yes?”

He shook his head. “This is all too sudden. I have to think about this.”

She looked at him, appraisingly. Then she nodded. “I know you do,” she said softly. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Here’s the number of the friend’s apartment where I’m staying. But, Peter, don’t think too long. I can only stay a couple of days.”

But Holroyd barely heard her. He was putting something together in his head. “I’m not necessarily saying I’ll do it, you understand,” he said in a lower tone. “But here’s how it could work. You wouldn’t need to put in a request. The shuttle’s devoting the last three days of the mission to radar sweeps, sixty-five orbits at varying latitudes. There’s this mineral exploration company that’s been wanting a sweep of some areas of Utah and Colorado. We’ve put them off for a while now. I could fit them into the lineup. Then I’d extend their run slightly to get the areas you need. The only thing you’d have to do is put in a purchase request as soon as the data is downloaded from the shuttle. Normally the data is proprietary for a couple of years, but the right kind of academic requests can get around that. I’d lead you through the red tape when the time comes.”

“A purchase request? You mean I have to pay?”

“It’s very expensive,” said Holroyd.

“What are we talking here? A couple of hundred bucks?”

“More like twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thousand dollars! Are you crazy?”

“Sorry. That’s something not even Watkins can control.”

“Where the hell am I going to get twenty thousand dollars?” Nora exploded.

“Look, I’d be arranging an alteration in the orbit of a United States spacecraft for you. That’s bad enough. What else do you want me to do, steal the damn data?”

There was a silence.

“Now there’s an idea,” said Nora.

7

IF NORA HAD EVER WALKED INTO A HOTTER, stuffier place than Peter Holroyd’s apartment, she couldn’t remember it. The air was not just dying here, she decided; it was dead and decomposing.

“Got any ice?” she asked.

Holroyd, who had walked down the four flights of stairs to retrieve his mail and open the door for her, shook his shaggy head. “Sorry. Freezer’s busted.”

Nora watched him sort through his mail. Below the mop of sandy hair, the very white skin of his face was stretched over two prominent cheekbones. As he moved, his limbs never seemed to be in the right place, and his legs seemed a little short for his narrow torso and bony arms. And yet the overall impression of melancholy was countered by a pair of intelligent green eyes that looked hopefully out on the world. His taste in clothes was questionable: striped brown polyester pants, topped by a V-neck short-sleeved checkered shirt.

Grimy yellow curtains flapped apathetically in the travesty of a breeze. Nora walked to the window, glancing south toward the dusky boulevards of East L.A. Then she looked down toward the nearby intersection and the front window of Al’s Pizza. She’d spent the last two nights at a friend’s house in Thousand Oaks. This was an ugly little corner of L.A., and she felt a sudden sympathy for Peter and his longing for adventure.

She took a step back. The apartment was so barren she was unable to determine what kind of housekeeper Holroyd was. A small bookcase, made up of plywood strips balanced on cinderblocks. Two elderly Adirondack chairs, festooned with back issues of Old Bike Journal. An ancient motorcycle helmet on the floor, scarred and scuffed. “Is that your bike I saw chained to the lamppost?” Nora asked.

“Yup. An old ’46 Indian Chief. Mostly.” He grinned. “Inherited a basket case from my great-uncle, and scrounged the rest of the parts here and there. You ride?”

“My dad had an old dirt bike I used to ride around the ranch. Rode my brother’s Hog once or twice before he laid it down on Route 66.” Nora looked back toward the window. There was a row of very strange-looking plants: black, crimson, a riot of drooping stalks and pendulous flowers. Must be the only things around here that enjoy the heat, she thought.

A small plant with dark purple flowers caught her attention. “Hey, what’s this?” she asked, reaching out curiously.

Holroyd looked over, then dropped the mail. “Don’t touch that!” he cried. Nora jerked her hand away.

“It’s belladonna,” Holroyd said, bending to pick up the scatter. “Deadly nightshade.”

“You’re kidding,” Nora said. “And this?” She pointed to a neighboring plant, a small flower with exotic maroon spikes.