Psychlone (20 page)

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Authors: Greg Bear

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fantasy, #Horror

BOOK: Psychlone
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Beckett brought the cup of coffee and sat beside him again. “Maybe we should call it a day, go have some supper and turn in."

“No. There's too little time, as you said. Give me a few minutes to call my wife. I have to tell her to do some things in the greenhouse. I forgot to do them myself before I left. Then you can take me through the labs. I'm very interested."

His conversation with Millicent over an Army phone in the clinic office was attended by a security officer and lasted five minutes. He was careful to say nothing and answer all her questions obliquely. He was allowed to tell her he couldn't say much for the moment, and she didn't press him. The garden was doing well, she said, despite the cold weather. It had rained a little, not enough to matter. His publisher had called. Was the second third of his new book ready for final typing, and could it be sent off to satisfy the editors? He supposed it was, and told her to carefully correct his spelling and grammar. She always did that. She was the only person he trusted to clean up his often sloppy prose. She had once said, “Franklin is the strength, I am the finesse,” and that was true.

“You sound tired,” she said toward the end of the call. “Are they treating you all right?"

“Sure. By the way, Arnold and ... Arnold is going to be in Albuquerque, in fact, he's probably there already. He can't tell you any more than I, but call him and remind him we're thinking of him."

He self-consciously hid his mouth and whispered a few obligatory sweet nothings, then hung up. “It's not enough to talk with loved ones over the phone,” he told Beckett as they walked down the main corridor of the clinic. “Where is your husband, by the way?"

“In Alaska, on a little island called Afognak, just off Kodiak."

“It must be very secluded."

“It is. We haven't talked in two weeks. He's a zoologist, studying elk herds in isolated areas. We went to school together at Stanford."

“Sounds like an interesting relationship."

Beckett brightened and took him by the arm. “I think Dan would like to meet you. He'd tear you apart in a debate, or try to, though. He's even more of a realist than I am. But he was the one who brought your books home. He scoffed and snorted, but he read them."

“Many of my readers are like that. It's fashionable to scoff and snort, but curiosity is primal, above all fashion."

She showed him a lab module—a balloon, actually, fitted with remote-control manipulating arms, encased in a box of transparent lucite. It was eight feet on a side, and within were several dozen boxes filled with a variety of laboratory animals. The module wasn't in use at the moment. “We were hoping what happened would happen again. If it affected the animals—like it did the first time—we might determine the cause. The plastic cube is filled with sterilizing gas at a lower pressure than the outside air. The balloon's pressure is slightly higher, but still below the outside. Two lines of defense."

Other modules contained gardens and vats of various algae. Still smaller units carried complete culture equipment for microorganisms.

One cubicle, larger than the others, was filled with a foggy gas. Dimly visible in its interior was a human cadaver. Beckett didn't elaborate.

“Whether time is short or not, I think that's enough for today. You're walking like a zombie. Why not have dinner with me, then I'll escort you to your room. Silvera will probably want you up early tomorrow."

Jacobs agreed and followed her to the cafeteria, several olive-drab mobile homes parked and connected lengthwise. The food was plain but acceptable, nothing like what Millicent would have fixed at home.

“My wife always does the sauces and plans the menu, and I do the mechanics of cooking,” he explained as they walked back to the inn. “That's the secret of success in marriage—both partners must be master chefs."

Beckett laughed.

Silvera was standing in the lobby. He greeted them and Beckett left for the communications trailer.

“I'm waiting for a special phone call,” Silvera said. “Did you find the tour educational?"

“That's not the word, exactly,” Jacobs said.

“No, I suppose not. This call may interest you."

“If it concerns Trumbauer and Miss Unamuno, yes."

“It does. I'm sure we can use you on the project, if only as a backup man in case science doesn't save the day. The Army likes to cover its tracks."

“But you aren't so sure about Arnold and Miss Unamuno."

“Why do you always call her ‘Miss'?"

“I don't know. It's the name she prefers, and Arnold senses that, and I follow Arnold's lead. Am I right about them?"

“Yes."

“That's why you sent them to Albuquerque."

“Partly,” Silvera said. “But there was another reason. If we can use them, we'll want to send them someplace, and we can move them faster from there than from here."

“Where would they go?"

“I'm not free to say. Not right now. Just be sure you understand my position."

“I'll try. In the meantime, I'll rest for tomorrow. Mrs. Beckett—Judith—tells me there's a long day ahead."

He walked up the stairs with a heavy tread. He doubted he would sleep very well. His mind was engaged, running full speed, even though he was exhausted. The facts weren't connecting properly. He didn't have the expertise. But then, who in the world did?

Psychlone
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tim stood in the Albuquerque bus terminal, shivering, staring at the rack of magazines. Faces of pretty women stared back, smiling happily. He wiped a tear off his cheek and swore under his breath.

This was it. This was the end of the trip. It was too cold outside to go anywhere with the clothes he was wearing. He was already sniffling. Off and on, he wished he had stayed in Salt Lake City, but that was purely selfish and he knew it. He would have killed somebody if he had stayed there much longer. He had to face the fact that he was not equipped to get very far in the world. Nor could he solve the problems that had ruined his family, his life. They were beyond him.

It was hard to take. Being twelve years old and powerless was something Tim had never thought about before, and he resented the force of the realization. Kids were put upon, but more than that, they were sequestered, controlled, looked after, given the secrets about survival piece by piece instead of in one grand, practical course. And kids were small, weak, born victims.

It would be years before he was grown up.

It won't be that way with us

It wasn't that he was afraid of dying—though he didn't like the idea of being where his parents were now—but giving up when he had come this far made him furious. The tears started to flow freely. He tried to stop them, to be a man, to be tough like his father had been (except when Grandmother had died) but it didn't work. Until now, he hadn't cried at all. It was all bottled up.

He kicked the magazine stand and hurt his foot. He bent down and ripped at the faces of the pretty women, scattering bits of them across the dirty tile floor. A clerk tried to grab him, but he kicked and clawed and broke away, screaming with rage and grief, then ran through the swinging doors into the cold.

It was dark and the stars were out. Wind blasted around the corners of the buildings, luffing his sweater as he ran. His face stung. A group of Mexican boys in ragged coats and parkas turned in unison to watch him. He stopped. Something warm to wear.

You can get it

He didn't want to, but he was cold.

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw a heavy-set man in a long tan coat. “Tim Townsend?” the man asked. Tim ran and collided with a tall black man in a dark suit. He pinned Tim's arms effectively. Tim glared. The tears came again and he opened his mouth in a silent wail.

“Here, boy,” the black man said, taking off his suit coat and wrapping it around Tim. “Come with us. We have warm food and hot cocoa for you."

Psychlone
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“What will it do if the rivers freeze?” Prohaska asked.

“I don't know. The water runs pretty fast, and it isn't that cold at night yet. We should have a few more days.” The wind whipping across the small airport runway was sharp. Fowler could feel the winter getting deeper; when the ice was frozen, he knew the thing would be free again. He didn't want to think about it. Dorothy watched them from the windows of the small airport restaurant, bundled up in a coat with a fur collar. Prohaska lit a cigarette and puffed on it quickly, leaning his head back. “At any rate,” he said, “with the whole valley to run around in, it'll come after us if we go back to the cabin. It hasn't failed us yet."

“Maybe it's been frightened by the trap. Maybe it won't come near the place again, just hide in the woods."

“Be optimistic. Either way, we win. If it doesn't show, we don't have to face it again. If it does, we'll be vindicated and Burnford will get his Nobel."

“If it doesn't show,” Prohaska said, “I won't have any story to write and my station will fire me. You'll look like a fool. Hell, the sheriff is already denying he saw anything."

“When did you hear that?"

“Stories have leaked out. Parkins is doing his civic best to keep the town from storming the valley, or panicking, or whatever he thinks they'll do. But I know him better than that. He's sure there's something up there. I doubt he'll go back with us."

A speck broke through the scudding clouds. Fowler pointed at it. “There he is, I think.” It was a twin-engine Cessna, banking to make the turn to the runway. The wind knocked Prohaska's cigarette ash away.

The plane wobbled on its approach, then swerved, but made a good touchdown and taxied to the apron. Fowler walked over and stood nervously by the wing until the props were still. He waved at Burnford. The doors opened and the physicist and his pilot stepped onto the wing, then down to the cement.

“That's a government plane,” Prohaska said, walking up behind Fowler. He pointed to the letters on the door and the side.

“Larry, good to see you,” Burnford said, shaking hands. Fowler introduced him to the reporter. The pilot walked around the plane and joined them. “Larry, Sam, this is Fritz Williams. He's my sidekick for this trip."

“George, are you working with the government on something?” Fowler asked, squinting at him suspiciously.

“You better believe it,” Burnford said. “Let's go inside where it's warm."

“This way,” Fowler said, pointing to the restaurant. Inside, Dorothy was gone. As the others seated themselves at a table. Fowler asked the waitress about her. She had called a cab and left a few minutes before. “Did she say where she was going?” The woman shrugged. He rubbed his neck and returned to the table. Prohaska raised his eyebrows but Fowler shook his head.

“What are you involved with?” he asked Burnford.

“I'm not at liberty to discuss that, as the screenwriters put it,” Burnford said, looking through the menu. He hadn't changed in ten years. He was still youthful-looking, with tanned, smooth skin and a meticulously neat, short haircut. His moustache was full and added weight to a stubby nose and heavy eyebrows. “Iced tea,” he told the waitress, “and a tuna sandwich."

The pilot shook his head. “Nothing so chilly for me. Hot coffee, a bowl of soup—if it's bean soup like the menu says—and a cheese sandwich."

“We've already eaten,” Fowler said.

Williams stacked the menus and handed them to the woman, then waited until she was gone. “Gentlemen, Mr. Burnford is in my care, and I take my duties seriously. He's less used to government red tape than I am, so I may interrupt him or tell him to shut up occasionally. Please don't take offense. I'm just doing my job."

“Now you understand why I said you'd better be serious, Larry,” Burnford said. “These people mean business. What do you have for us?"

Fowler looked warily between them. “I don't know if it has anything to do with Lorobu,” he began. “But the modus operandi is the same. A friend of mine and his father were driven to murder-suicide in a cabin not far from here. We stayed in that cabin for several days."

“And?"

“We know they weren't responsible for what they did. Something got into their minds, drove them mad. I think we've captured it now."

“Captured what, and how?” Williams asked.

“It's natural, it's not anything mystical or from a horror movie—"

“Bullshit, pardon the expression,” Prohaska said. “You scientists will spend all day trying to tell us what it isn't.” He looked at Williams. “It's a demon. Maybe not in the modern conception, but in the Greek conception. A demon. An immaterial being."

Burnford took his iced tea from the waitress and drank a sip, waiting for her to leave. “Okay,” he said, putting down the glass. “Do you have any hard evidence?"

“Several days of chart record from thermometers and a microwave detector, plus some film we haven't developed yet. We saw it; it beat up Sam pretty badly."

“I was wondering about those bruises,” Williams said. “What did it look like?"

“At first, nothing. Then, a giant pig, a boar with tusks. I think it took the image from our minds, or perhaps from the Taggarts’ minds—the people who were killed. Jordan and Henry, father and son. I went to school with Henry and he asked me up here to investigate odd things around the cabin. This was before Lorobu—or maybe about the same time, I'm not sure."

“You think they're directly connected?” Williams asked.

“No, I don't,” Fowler said. “But I won't rule out an indirect connection. I believe it stays in the valley. But now it has an even smaller range. A few days ago, a new dam started trickling water through the valley as part of a planned runoff. The water forms two creeks around the cabin, which is on a rise. The thing doesn't seem to be able to cross running water."

“The water will freeze soon,” Prohaska said, glancing at Fowler. “We don't know if it can get across frozen water. We'd like you to see the place as soon as possible."

“What kind of a demon is it?” Burnford asked.

“You ask that so calmly,” Fowler said, smiling. “You aren't just humoring us?"

“We're dead serious, Mr. Fowler,” Williams said.

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