Labyrinth of Night (13 page)

‘We are convinced that the mission was necessary to preserve the safety and well-being of American, Japanese and European scientists working on Mars,’ Ms. Nile said at the press conference. ‘It was a dirty job, but it had to be done.’

Several Russian scientists are also involved in the Cydonia Expedition. At press time, no comment has been made by officials in Minsk, although a top Russian representative from the Washington embassy has privately condemned the action as ‘a criminal outrage’ and has promised ‘a swift response by the people of the Commonwealth.’

The same official said that it is possible that such a response may include a demand for immediate action by the United Nations Security Council…

M
INSK,
June 16—The Russian news agency Glasnost announced today that President Andrei Nasanov has issued a formal letter of protest to President George White, demanding both an official apology and reparations for ‘the unjustifiable sneak attack’ launched on Saturday by United States space forces against Russian armor units on Mars. Glasnost also claimed, in a terse written statement issued to members of the foreign press here, that the director of the space agency Glavkosmos, Alexsandr Karpov, has given instructions to Russian members of the international science team presently exploring the alien ruins that they shall ‘cease cooperating in the expedition’ and prepare to leave Cydonia Base ‘at the soonest possible opportunity.’

The CIS is also preparing to make a formal complaint to the Security Council of the United Nations, demanding that the UN condemn American actions on Mars as an act of ‘criminal trespass’, according to unnamed sources at the UN headquarters in New York. The CIS may also ask for UN sanctions against American and Japanese space corporations for their support of the strike by the First Space Infantry of the United States Marines. (See sidebar, page two.)

White House spokesperson Mary Nile gave no comment on the Russian demands and actions at the daily news conference today. Administration officials privately said that President White is studying Nasanov’s demands, but that White is satisfied with the withdrawal of Russian scientists and mission support members from Cydonia Base.

‘If this is what it takes to get the CIS out of our hair, then we’re very happy how things have turned out,’ said a top White House official. ‘We’re breaking out the champagne.’

Ms. Nile said that the President will address the issue during a press conference on Wednesday morning, when White is scheduled to return from vacation at Camp David…

‘O
KAY, LAST STOP.’

W. J. Boggs halted Ben Cassidy in the low-ceilinged corridor outside Room C4-20. The underground passageway was lighted only by a few lamps; its dimness, the downward-sloping floor, the ancient stones lining the rock walls, the intangible yet oppressive sensation of the Pyramid’s weight about them…all reminded Cassidy of photos he had seen of the galleries inside Khufu’s Pyramid in Egypt. The original stone door had been propped open with a hydraulic jack; in front of them, Miho Sasaki checked the LCD register on the portable airlock which had been vacuum-fitted into the doorway. She pushed down the locklever on the hatch and pulled it open, stepping to one side.

‘Step inside please, gentlemen,’
she said formally.

Boggs paused.
‘Miho, sweetheart, can’t we try that one more time, with feeling? Like “Getcha butts in there” or something less…’

‘Please, Waylon, we’re wasting time here.’
They all heard Shin-ichi Kawakami’s voice through the comlink with the monitor center.
‘Mr Cassidy, if you will please…?’

‘Right.’ Cassidy hesitated for a moment, then squeezed past Sasaki into the tiny chamber. Boggs crushed himself into the airlock behind him, pulled the hatch shut and locked it, then touched the controls which began the cycling process.

‘She’s in love with me,’
Boggs murmured as they waited for the chamber to pressurize.
‘I’m telling you, she doesn’t show it, but the lady is absolutely infatuated with me.’

‘Stop lying,’
Sasaki said coldly, invisible behind the hatch but audible over the comlink, along with Paul Verduin’s distant laughter from the habitat.
‘Ben, we will be here. If something goes wrong, return to the airlock and we’ll rescue you from this side.’

Sure thing, Cassidy thought. But it didn’t help Hal Moberly when he was in here, did it? Of course, this test—that was the way the science team termed it, a test—was going to be significantly different. First, C4-20 had been pressurized, if only because it would have been difficult if not impossible for Cassidy to perform while wearing a skinsuit; the suit’s gloves simply weren’t dexterous enough. Even if another CAS had been available, he couldn’t possibly have worn it and played his guitar at the same time. And they needed the extra acoustical qualities of an Earth-normal atmosphere, if this attempt at communication was going to be successful.

All good reasons, yet it meant placing Cassidy in a highly vulnerable situation. The portable airlock was a compromise, but not a very good one. If something really wanted to get into the airlock…

‘Just remember to knock first,’
Boggs added; Cassidy caught a sly wink from him through the faceplate of his helmet.
‘It may be occupied, y’know. Okay, we’re at full pressure, hoss. Might as well get yourself comfortable.’

Cassidy removed his helmet and harness, then unzipped and began to peel out of his skinsuit. Going through the physical and mental procedure of desuiting helped to distract him not only from his own fear, but also from Boggs’ good-ol’-boy joshing. Having observed that the pilot had struck up a rapport with the musician, Arthur Johnson had allowed Boggs to escort him into the Labyrinth, believing that Waylon could help take Cassidy’s mind off the ordeal to come. It didn’t help very much, though; Ben knew that Boggs was trying to defuse his nerves, and he only felt more tense despite W. J.’s presence.

Under the skinsuit he wore drawstring cotton trousers, high-top slippers, and an old Working Blues tour sweatshirt. Boggs, who had removed his helmet but remained suited, studied his face. As Cassidy turned to the second hatch in the airlock, the airship pilot stopped him with his arm. ‘Hold it there, bud,’ he said. ‘Lemme give you something for good luck. Hold out your right hand.’

Puzzled, Cassidy put out his hand. Boggs reached behind him, then pulled out his own right hand, cupped as if he was holding something in his palm, and slapped it into Cassidy’s hand. The musician looked down at his hand and found it empty.

Boggs winked again, although his face remained dour. ‘That’s an authentic Tennessee cootie-catcher. Guaranteed effective against bug-eyed monsters or your money back.’

Cassidy had to grin. ‘You finally said something funny, W. J.,’ he replied as he slipped the cootie-catcher into his pocket.

‘I’ll try harder.’ Boggs turned, yanked down the handle on the airlock’s second hatch, and pushed it open. ‘Okay, then, enough of this crap. Let’s go catch us some cooties.’

Room C4-20, despite pressurization, was cold; Ben could feel the chill cut through his clothes, see it turn his breath into fog. The room hummed. The low, monotonous sound had commenced the moment the door had been propped open and the portable airlock inserted, about three hours earlier that morning. According to Kawakami, though, nothing had happened except for a slight electromagnetic surge, detected by the sensor pod which had been placed on a tripod inside the room. The sound—like the drone of a beehive, or to Cassidy’s ears like the expectant static one hears from monitor speakers in a recording studio—seemed to come from everywhere at once, from the intricately patterned metal walls of the room.

Rubbing his arms with his hands to warm himself, Cassidy let his eyes wander around Room C4-20. Rows of jury-rigged tanks fed an oxygen-nitrogen mix into the chamber. Power cables snaking across the floor led from a portable RTG generator to the lights, the sensor pod, two tripod-mounted TV cameras and, finally, to the six-channel soundboard for his electronic guitar and its two monitor speakers. The guitar itself lay on a small folding table, along with his belt unit and a communications headset. Standing next to them, like a posted sentry, was Sasha Kulejan.

‘I believe all is in readiness,’ the Russian scientist said as he picked up the headset and fitted it on Cassidy’s head, carefully adjusting the mike. Cassidy noted that his hands were trembling, and not from the cold; Kulejan had cycled through the airlock an hour earlier to set up the equipment, and he obviously hadn’t wanted to be in here by himself. Yet, while the chamber door had been jacked open, nothing had disturbed him during his work. Either the door was a trigger-mechanism…

…or the room had been specifically waiting for Cassidy.

‘Don’t be alarmed if this fails and you don’t hear anyone,’ Sasha said. ‘It frequently occurs during a test. Say something now.’

‘Test one, two, three,’ Cassidy said.

‘We are receiving you well,’
Tamara Isralilova replied in his ears.
‘You are looking good.’

‘Thanks.’ Cassidy looked back at Kulejan. ‘I thought your government had ordered all the Russians not to cooperate in this. What are you and she doing here?’

Kulejan stoically
tsked
as he taped dime-size medical scanners to Cassidy’s chest and temples. ‘My government is a long way from here. Besides, Russian science has a long history of…um, patriotic non-compliance. The military and the scientists, we often do not agree on every issue. With mutual respect, of course.’

‘I like your attitude. I wish some of our scientists felt the same way more often.’ Cassidy grinned. ‘Good morning, Dickie. Are you listening?’

If Dick Jessup was in the command center, he did not deign to respond to the stab, but Kulejan smiled briefly as he tested the med scanners with a hand-held instrument. Cassidy fitted the control unit in the waistband of his trousers, then picked up the Yamaha. He pulled the embroidered strap across his left shoulder and briefly ran the fingers of his right hand across the rows of recessed plastic switches before pushing the power switch on the control unit. There was the tinny
chuk
from the monitors of the guitar coming on-line. A moment later, almost imperceptibly, the hum from the walls rose a note higher in pitch.

‘Slight EM surge,’
Kawakami said.
‘I think your audience is waiting for you.’
Everyone glanced toward the stone door. The hydraulic jack was holding firm, keeping the door open. Some other force besides simple mechanics had determined that it was time to begin the test.

‘I hear ’em.’ Cassidy felt a cold current run down his spine. He looked at Kulejan and Boggs. ‘You guys better get off the stage. I think the house is getting restless.’

Kulejan patted him on the shoulder, then picked up his helmet and headed for the airlock. Boggs lingered for a moment, the anxiety he felt for another expatriate Southerner now plain on his face. ‘Taking requests?’ he asked.

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s a crummy song.’ His humor fell flat and he knew it. Boggs shook his head and headed for the airlock, then paused and looked around again. ‘Look, Tex, if it gets hairy, get your ass out of here. You don’t owe these guys nothing.’

Cassidy stared down at his guitar. Boggs gave him a salute before ducking into the airlock and slamming the hatch shut behind him.

Cassidy took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Somehow, in spite of his fear, it was a relief to be alone at last. Despite the anticipatory hum of the walls, it was as if he were back in his first days as an artist. The cheap garage studio in Brownsville where he had cut his first demo tape: the walls lined with old egg cartons, the old framed photo of Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee on one wall and the hilarious black-velvet painting of Elvis on the other. The raw days, before the fame, the concerts—and the cocaine. The good, hungry days. Everyone was gone and he was alone with his axe, his mind, and his hands. The nervous anticipation was there, but the fear was gone. He was waiting, like a master guitarist waiting for an unfamiliar road band to put down their beers and get their act together.

Now it was just him and a different room. He knew what to do.

‘Come on, sucker,’ Cassidy breathed. ‘Gimme a lick I can play.’

It began.

There was an inquiring trill of notes slithering up and down the scale, backed by the hum which turned into an insistent, single-minded throb. Cassidy shut his eyes and listened to the complex pattern. At first it seemed as if the notes were random, but as he concentrated, he picked up a faint rhythm. Okay, there it was. He moved his hand to the Yamaha’s keyboard, inched the pitch wheel up a taste, and played the first few bars of
Crossroads Blues,
an old song which seemed to match the Room’s rhythm.

It segued perfectly and it even fitted his own mood, but the Room was apparently not satisfied. The throb rose sharply into a harsh, reverberating yowl, then lapsed into an almost rock-like three-quarter-time backbeat behind a moody chord sequence in B-flat.

‘Don’t worry about it,’
Kawakami said.
‘Relax and try to talk to it.’

‘Right,’ Cassidy murmured. ‘I’m doing Robert Johnson and it wants the Beatles.’ That remark gave him another idea. He thought for a moment, then switched to the fretboard, fuzzed the pitch, and burned out the simpler first refrain of
Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?,
playing the
rump-bum-bum-bum-bum-rump-bum
backbeat on his keyboard, then letting the memory replay the sequence indefinitely as he repeated the refrain.

It was a tasty little number and for a moment it seemed as if the Room was going to mime him, repeating the bars twice. Then, in the middle of the second bar, it warbled a shrill, discordant note which arced upwards into infinity before flattening out again and resuming the near-random pattern it had begun in the first place.