Alex Gore - The Cube

“This is a dumb system”, Hans murmured. “And why is Alan here then?”

“By all three criteria Allen is among the top places and his total score is quite impressive”, Sergey replied.

“Ha! Did you hear that, Hans?”, Allen said self-complacently. “We are not all of us geeks with a PhD. I like your system, congratulations. I promise to make a TV show about it.”

“I am sorry, but I have to warn you that the system and the entire mission are top secret”, Norman interfered.

“I, at least, have some objective recognition, unlike you”, Hans remarked.

“What is it that you want from us, actually?”, Marcela asked, trying to cut their stupid squabble. All men are like kids, whatever the system of evaluation.

“We need answers, it is as simple as that! The accident with the submarine is unique so far and the government demands an explanation”, Norman said and nodded to the Russian to go on.

“The third indicator is related to the subjective capacity of the individual for interpreting new/strange facts or, to say it in a simpler way, to the possibilities and strength of your imagination.”

“Look, Alan is the champion in this respect, especially when he needs not only to imagine but to lie”. Hans snarled at Allen, who did not retort this time but only shook his head ruefully.

“I find your attitude to the task quite irresponsible. Be warned that I will not tolerate this among my men!” Norman said in a grave tone. “We are entering the goddamn submarine, assessing the situation, removing potential dangers, and you, on your part, prepare your scientific report and after a couple of days we clear out of there. That’s all that is expected from you as a team.”

“I don’t want reports and childish fantasies. I just need to understand what, for Christ’s sake, our submarine is doing in the middle of the Sahara”, the voice of the second man in the dark corner thundered when Ivanov got up and stepped forward, at which point everybody was silent. He was a real giant – over six feet three inches tall, with massive limbs like of a heavy weight wrestler, you wouldn’t want to fuck with. His face was chiseled as if with an axe and his eyes seemed to be able to scan all the people in the room at the same time. His bald head only underlined the dimensions of the square skull. His fists resembled hammers, ready to squash any insurgencies, while his enormous body exuded Biblical power and destructive potential. He looked like a picture of a Russian gigant from a fairy tale about monsters and heroes.

“Oh, is it a Russian submarine then?” Alan raised his brow.

The giant cast him a look of dismissive annoyance and answered in a perfectly serious manner:

“It is Russian all right. And it is not in production yet. The first one of this model will be released from the production dock only after sixteen months.”

There’s nothing more beautiful than sunrise in the desert , Marcela thought. She was the first to go out and was now gazing at the infinity of the newborn day.

If one watches the horizon in the morning from the deck of a sailing ship, one sees the play of the ocean and the sun in the blue and white colors of the newborn morning. The performance of this duo is quite brief and then the sun starts on its way up the sky, while the sea remains down there, pensive and a little lonely. At least till they join again in the red sunset. The impartial observer next to you on the sailing ship is free to choose whether to admire the dark waters down or the golden rays up in the sky.

While here, among the sands, the sun and the desert walk together friendly, hand in hand, for the entire day, until the night separates them with its cold cleaver. Everything is in a golden fiery frame, reaching the point of melting, and all this lethal beauty squashes your mind like a cheap narcotic.

In the sea the wind carries pleasant coolness, while here in the infernal desert it burns and destroys like the touch of white-hot steel.

The sun had just brushed the sand horizon with reddish-yellow gentle hand and was spreading its divine embrace on all nature. The billions of sand grains reflected the tufts of sunlight, refracting it into all the colors of the rainbow.

It was hot, even though it was only seven in the morning. They knew that just an hour standing unprotected under the beautiful rays equaled to being in a burning house.

The ocean was too far away, as was the luxury of philosophical contemplation of nature. Marcela turned back. Everybody else was here already.

It was time to go.

The engines of the Range Rovers were running, awaiting their task. The major waved to the group and all together went to the black angular trucks which from here on were going to be their only refuge in the sand oven.

The luggage was loaded, now the passengers needed to take their seats.

And they did not seem in a hurry to go. Their movements were slow, as if subconsciously they felt the threat of the unknown reality lying ahead.

Still, because of the shadows, falling in one direction, or because of their gazes, focused on the same singular point on the horizon, they looked for the first time as a unit. As a group of friends who are starting into the unknown and are able to conquer it.

Alan was the last to come out of the bungalow, dressed in a thin white shirt and smart linen trousers, just right for the occasion, which could not be said about the posh dark glasses, perched on his nose. He held a cup of coffee in his left hand and with his right he was waving to Marcela. Alan approached her with a steady step as if the sand under his feet was no challenge for him. “Hey, Miss, how are you this morning? Did you sleep well?”

Marcela was like an image from an ancient myth about forest nymphs and sensual goddesses: a fine face with a classical Roman nose, imparting both gentleness and sternness to her beauty, white, almost chalky skin, immune to the sun rays. Her large and dominating eyes were radiating waves of greyish-green light that could easily enchant any man.

Alan stopped and looked her over – he could not help enjoying what he saw even with the objective stare of a man not yet in love. Even a woman would not be indifferent to Marcela’s beauty. Her figure was slender and elegant, her firm body emanated intelligent passion, without any trace of provocative perkiness.

The small and well-formed breasts added a charming childish nuance to her feminine sex-appeal, complemented with emancipated gait and a touch of introvert haughtiness.

Hans, who had just appeared from somewhere, could not take his gaze off her, while Alan was addressing the woman with the sleek phrases of a practiced womanizer. He was sipping his coffee, swaggering and dropping banal jokes.

“Alan, stop trying to be attractive, you suck at it”, Hans said to him in lieu of a greeting.

“Good morning, Professor Rosenstein, glad to see you too”, Alan replied.

“Boys…”, Marcela tried to restrain them.

“There’s the other boy.” Norman waved to Michael, who had just emerged from the building. “Come on. Mike, we’ll be off.”

The undergraduate approached the group also holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“I see something like an informal meeting here. Good morning, Madam”, he said, smiling at Marcela.

“With all these gentlemen around your stay in the desert might prove less unpleasant than you expected, Miss”, Norman said to her.