Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

"Was that published data?" Evans said.

"I don't remember offhand," Drake said, giving him an odd look. "It was in one of the briefing summaries I get."

Evans hadn't planned to ask questions like these. They had just somehow come out of his mouth, unbidden. And he was uncomfortably aware that his tone was skeptical. No wonder Drake was giving him an odd look.

"I don't mean anything," Evans said quickly. "It's just that I heard these rumors amp;"

"And you wanted to get to the bottom of it," Drake said, nodding. "As is only natural. I'm glad you brought this to my attention, Peter. I'll get on the horn with Henley and find out what's being disseminated. Of course it's an endless battle. You know we have those Neanderthals at the Competitive Enterprise Institute, and the Hoover Foundation, and the Marshall Institute to deal with. Groups financed by right-wing radicals and brain-dead fundamentalists. But, unfortunately, they have a tremendous amount of money at their disposal."

"Yes, I understand," Evans said. He turned to go. "Do you need me for anything else?"

"I'll be frank," Drake said, "I'm not happy. Are we back to fifty thousand a week?"

"Under the circumstances, I think we have no option."

"Then we will have to manage," Drake said. "The lawsuit's going fine, by the way. But I have to focus my energies on the conference."

"Oh, right. When does that start?"

"Wednesday," Drake said. "Four days from now. Now, if you'll excuse me amp;"

"Of course," Evans said. He walked out of the office, leaving his cell phone on the side table across from the desk.

Evans had gone all the way down the stairs to the ground floor before he realized Drake hadn't asked him about his stitches. Everyone else he had seen that day had made some comment about them, but not Drake.

Of course, Drake had a lot on his mind, with the preparations for the conference. Directly ahead, Evans saw the ground-floor conference room bustling with activity. The banner on the wall read, ABRUPT CLIMATE CHANGETHE CATASTROPHE AHEAD. Twenty young people clustered around a large table, on which stood a scale model of the interior of an auditorium, and the surrounding parking lot. Evans paused to watch for a moment.

One of the young people was putting wooden blocks in the parking lot, to simulate cars.

"He won't like that," another one said. "He wants the slots nearest the building reserved for news vans, not buses."

"I left three spaces over here for news," the first kid said. "Isn't that enough?"

"He wants ten."

"Ten spaces? How many news crews does he think are going to show up for this thing?"

"I don't know, but he wants ten spaces and he's told us to arrange extra power and phone lines."

"For an academic conference on abrupt climate change? I don't get it. How much can you say about hurricanes and droughts? He'll be lucky to have three crews."

"Hey, he's the boss. Mark off the ten slots and be done with it."

"That means the buses have to go way in the back."

"Ten slots, Jake."

"Okay, okay."

"Next to the building, because the line feeds are very expensive. The auditorium's charging us an arm and a leg for the extra utilities."

At the other end of the table, a girl was saying, "How dark will it be in the exhibition spaces? Will it be dark enough to project video?"

"No, they're limited to flat panels."

"Some of the exhibitors have all-in-one projectors."

"Oh, that should be all right."

A young woman came up to Evans as he was standing looking into the room. "Can I help you, sir?" She looked like a receptionist. She had that bland prettiness.

"Yes," he said, nodding toward the conference room. "I was wondering how I arrange to attend this conference."

"It's by invitation only, I'm afraid," she said. "It's an academic conference, not really open to the public."

"I've just left Nick Drake's office," Evans said, "and I forgot to ask him"

"Oh. Well, actually, I have some comp tickets at the reception desk. Do you know which day you'll be attending?"

"All of them," Evans said.

"That's quite a commitment," she said, smiling. "If you'll come this way, sir amp;"

It was only a short drive from NERF to the conference headquarters, in downtown Santa Monica. Workmen on a cherry picker were placing letters on the large sign: so far it said, ABRUPT CLIMATE CHA, and beneath, THE CATASTR.

His car was hot in the midday sun. Evans called Sarah on the car phone. "It's done. I left my phone in his office."

"Okay. I was hoping you'd call earlier. I don't think that matters anymore."

"No? Why?"

"I think Kenner already found out what he needed."

"He did?"

"Here, talk to him."

Evans thought, she's with him?

"Kenner speaking."

"It's Peter," he said.

"Where are you?"

"In Santa Monica."

"Go back to your apartment and pack some hiking clothes. Then wait there."

"For what?"

"Change all the clothes you are wearing now. Take nothing with you that you are wearing right now."

"Why?"

"Later."

Click. The phone was dead.

Back in his apartment, he hastily packed a bag. Then he went back to the living room. While he waited, he put the DVD back into the player and waited for the menu of dates.

He chose the second date on the list.

On the screen, he once again saw Drake and Henley. It must have been the same day, because they were dressed in the same clothes. But now it was later. Drake had his jacket off, hung over a chair.

"I've listened to you before," Drake was saying. He sounded resentful. "And your advice didn't work."

"Think structurally," Henley said, leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, fingertips tented.

"What the hell does that mean?" Drake said.

"Think structurally, Nicholas. In terms of how information functions. What it holds up, what holds it up."

"This is just PR bullshit."

"Nicholas," Henley said, sharply. "I am trying to help you."

"Sorry." Drake looked chastened. He hung his head a little.

Watching the video, Evans thought: Is Henley in charge here? For a moment, it certainly appeared that way.

"Now then," Henley said. "Let me explain how you are going to solve your problem. The solution is simple. You have already told me"

There was a loud pounding on Evans's door. Evans stopped the DVD, and just to be safe, removed it from the player and slipped it into his pocket. The pounding continued, impatient, as he went to the door.

It was Sanjong Thapa. He looked grim.

"We have to leave," he said. "Right now."

The helicopter thumped over the Arizona desert, twenty miles east of Flagstaff, not far from Canyon Diablo. In the back seat, Sanjong handed Evans pictures and computer printouts. Speaking of the Environmental Liberation Front, he said, "We assume their networks are up, but so are ours. All our networks are running," he said, "and we picked up an unexpected clue from one of them. Of all things, the Southwestern Parks Management Association."

"Which is?"

"It's an organization of state park managers from all the western states. And they discovered that something very odd had happened." A large percentage of the state parks in Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico were booked in advance, and paid for, to reserve them for company picnics, school celebrations, institutional birthday parties, and so on, for this weekend. In each case they were family affairs, involving parents and kids, sometimes grandparents, too.

True, this was a long three-day weekend. But nearly all the advance bookings were for Monday. Only a handful had been for Saturday or Sunday. None of the park superintendents could remember such a thing happening before.