Michael Crichton - Binary

`Don't you know it all already? It's about you.'

`No,' Graves said. `It's what somebody else thinks of me. There's a difference.'

Lewis shrugged. The third and final sheet came from the printer. Graves read it.

IN SUMMARY WE CAN SAY THAT JOHN GRAVES IS A HIGHLY INTELLIGENT, IMAGINATIVE, AND CONVENTIONALLY MORAL MAN WITH AN ASTOUNDINGLY STRONG COMPETITIVE DRIVE. HIS NEED TO COMPETE IS ALMOST HIS MOST OUTSTANDING TRAIT. IT SEEMS TO OVERWHELM EVERY OTHER ASPECT OF HIS PERSONALITY. IT IS HIGHLY DEVELOPED, AND RUTHLESS IN THE EXTREME. THERE IS NO QUESTION THAT HE IS A GOOD BETTOR, GAMBLER, POKER AND CHESS PLAYER - TO NAME HOBBIES HE PROFESSES TO LIKE.

IF THERE ARE ANY DEFECTS OR HIDDEN FLAWS IN HIS BEHAVIOUR, THEY ARE HIS IMPULSIVENESS AND HIS DESIRE TO FINISH A TEST SITUATION RAPIDLY. HE FREQUENTLY PERFORMS BELOW HIS MAXIMUM LEVEL BECAUSE OF A DESIRE FOR SPEED. HE OFTEN FEELS THAT A PROBLEM IS SOLVED WHEN IT IS ONLY HALF FINISHED, OR TWO-THIRDS FINISHED. THIS SITUATION MUST BE GUARDED AGAINST BY HAVING A LESS BRILLIANT BUT MORE THOROUGH PERSON CHECKING HIS WORK AT INTERVALS.

Graves stared at the last page. `Is that all?'

Lewis nodded at the photoprinter, which had turned itself off, the roller no longer spinning. `Looks like it.'

`I'll be damned,' Graves said. He folded the sheets carefully, put them in his pocket, and left the police station.

The radio crackled. `701, this is 702. We are following the limo east on Route Five.'

Graves picked up the microphone. `Who's in the limo?'

`Only the subject, 701. And the chauffeur.'

`Nobody else?'

`No, 701.'

`When did they leave the apartment?'

`About five minutes ago.'

`All right, 702. Out.'

Graves looked at Lewis. `Where now?' Lewis asked.

`Route Five, east,' Graves said. `And step on it.'

The White Grumman Gulf Stream jet landed gracefully and taxied to a stop near a small hangar. The side door went down and two men climbed off. Several workmen in coveralls boarded the plane. After a moment they began unloading two large cardboard boxes.

Standing near the end of the runway of the small private field in El Cajon, Graves squinted through binoculars. The heat made everything shimmer; San Diego was hot, but El Cajon, twelve miles inland, was much hotter. `Can you make it out?' Graves asked.,

Beside him Lewis leaned against the-roof of the sedan to steady his arms as he held the binoculars. He pulled his elbows up quickly. `Ouch,' he said. He held the binoculars freehand. `I don't know what they are,' he said. `But I know what they look like. They look like mattress boxes.'

Graves lowered his glasses. `That's what they look like to me. Where did this flight originate?'

`Salt Lake. A private airfield.'

`Mattresses from Utah? Did the plane make intermediate stops?'

Lewis shook his head. `I don't know. But it certainly wouldn't have to stop: it's got a cruising range of just under four thousand miles.'

While they watched, they heard the tinny sound of the car radio saying, `The President is due to arrive at any moment. The delegates are tense with anticipation. No one yet knows what he intends -'

Graves reached in and clicked it off.

Meanwhile, the workmen carried the two mattresssized boxes into a green hangar.

`He rented that hangar last week,' Lewis said. `Moved a lot of equipment in.'

`What kind of equipment?'

`Nobody's had a look yet.'

Graves bit his lip. That was an opportunity they'd missed. Several days ago somebody should have been in that hangar at midnight, taking pictures.

`Do you want to move in on him now?' Lewis asked.

Graves shook his head. `He's got five or six workmen there. There's two of us, and two in 702. None of us have guns.' He sighed. `Besides, what if they really are mattresses?'

`They can't be.'

Graves didn't think it possible either. But he wasn't willing to take a chance. He found himself worrying about Wright's new apartment in San Diego. Perhaps this was all a diversion, a feint to get him away from the apartment while something important was done there. He had no confidence in the men sitting across the street, observing and filming. Like every organization in the world, the State Department hired mundane men to carry out mundane jobs. Stationary surveillance was the most mundane. If the men weren't dull when they started, they soon became that way.

`We'll wait,' he said.

The mattresses were taken into the hangar, and the limousine was driven inside. The doors were closed.

`Time?'

`Twelve forty-one,' Lewis said.

A minute passed, and then something remarkable happened. The men came out of the hangar and walked over to the aeroplane. They stood alongside it, ostensibly checking it over but actually doing nothing at all; just waiting.

Wright was not among them.

`I don't get it,' Graves said. `Where's Wright?'

`He must still be inside.'

Their sedan was parked more than 200 yards from the hangar. But the wind was blowing in their direction, and they heard a faint mechanical sound. A kind of thumping or chugging.

Lewis. opened the trunk and took out a directional microphone. It looked like a miniature radar antenna - a dish two feet in diameter, with a central barrel protruding. He put on earphones and tuned in the microphone.

`What are you getting?'

Lewis shifted the direction of the mike slightly. It was quite sensitive, but had to be aimed precisely.

`Wind.'

`Can you get that not -'

`Here.'

He gave Graves the earphones. Graves listened. With the microphone aimed directly, the mechanical sound was clear. It consisted of a low hum with an intermittent pulsing thump.

`Sounds like a pump to me,' he said. He listened to the sound for several seconds more. `What do you make of it?'

`A pump,' Lewis said, glancing at his watch. `It's been going five minutes now.'

Graves turned from the hangar to the aeroplane and the men who were clustered around it. They had broken up into small groups of two and three, talking quietly, occasionally glancing at the hangar. George, the chauffeur, was among them. Several of the workmen asked George questions. George kept shaking his head.

Graves set down his binoculars. Why would you clear everybody out of the hangar? He could think of only one reason: Wright didn't want them to see what was going on. But as he thought about it, he saw a second reason: that Wright was engaged in something very dangerous and wanted the others a safe distance away.

Dangerous how? Radiation? Explosives? What?

`Ten minutes now,' Lewis said.

Graves scratched his head. He lit a cigarette and stared at the others by the aeroplane. It didn't make sense, he thought. Whatever Wright intended, it didn't make sense. If he didn't want the workmen around, he could easily have timed it so that they would be out to lunch. Instead he'd aroused their curiosity. They'd talk about this episode for days, maybe weeks afterwards.

Apparently Wright didn't care about that. Why not? And then as he watched, the workmen began walking back to the hangar. He had seen no signal, but they all moved at once.

Lewis took off the earphones. `Fifteen minuses,' he said. `The pump's stopped.'

Graves checked his watch. It was a few minutes before 1 PM. He was beginning to feel tired. It had been a long day already, starting with the call from Phelps at 4 Am and the trip to Los Angeles.

He tit another cigarette and watched the hangar. And then things began to happen very fast. The limousine drove out and off towards the entrance to the airfield. And a second vehicle emerged from the hangar.

A moving van. It followed the limousine.

Graves got onto the intercom. `702, this is 701. You got them?'

`Got them, 701.'

`Stay with them. If they split up, follow the limousine; forget the van.'