The Khufu Equation (21 page)

"What, are you trying to kill me!?" There was no rage in his eyes, but only pity.

"Hey, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

Slaiker extended a hand to his friend, who rose to his feet and rotated his shoulder back into place.

"A little bit, but you're in bad form."

"Yes, I've missed.

"Your mistake was this: You always begin to calculate the parameters of the source dot and the receiving dot. It's enough to imagine the end point and put your intention toward it. As a matter of fact you got it, but I caught you just near the eyelashes." Brett Li touched the right eyelid. "When all this is over, I'll teach you."

"And you'll teach me to trim a fly's wings in flight?"

"There won't be enough flies for you. But hey, what do we have here?" The commissioner nodded toward the vacant seats. Slaiker nodded "no," whereupon he quickly retrieved the ace of spades from behind Brett's ear.

"Nothing! But remember this card, because I know where to find them."

Joint flights with John Garrett taught Bill Wesson a lot, including the benefit of keeping one's tongue behind the teeth. John's view of life primarily consisted of himself. He didn't easily accept other opinions, particularly criticism, which he took as an affront.

Youth is quickly spent a team under Garrett's leadership, like a fruit that ripens too fast. The main thing was avoid contradicting him, or the chance to mature in experience and responsibility could be ignored. One's future would then be left to rot on the tree.

The doorbell interrupted Wesson's thoughts. Rita came in, and the blush in her cheeks betrayed great excitement.

"Captain," she said to Garrett, "a old woman needs urgent medical help. It's her heart.

"Is there a doctor on board?" Garrett asked hopefully. A heart attack was the kind of responsibility he could have done without.

"No, there isn't. Moreover, only surgery can help her now. She has an artificial valve, and they can clog and fail."

"She just couldn't choose another time for that," the pilot hissed.

"What did you say?" asked Rita in surprise.

"Oh, that was nothing," he said, hoping she wouldn't pursue it. "How old is the woman?"

"She's seventy six," answered Rita with a heavy sigh.

"Oh, Lord! She's seventy-six, with a heart valve, and still she goes out looking for fun and excitement. That's just great!" The thought of such a carefree attitude--in someone other than himself--pissed him off. "God has just decided to throw this old bird into our engine!?"

The next moment, Rita felt her mouth opening and closing reflexively in an attempt to ask a question, but despite her quick mind she couldn't put together the words. She was shocked, empty; she was utterly deprived of any wit.

An abrupt silence engulfed the cabin, and all attention was fixed on Captain Garrett. He had never been one to squabble in front of the personnel. Rita couldn't believe what he had said, and he acted as if he had a right to say it. If someone had told her the man had a heart, she wouldn't have believed it. At last she came to herself and indignantly said everything that had built up within her over the years.

"You . . . you . . . cold, unfeeling person. I have never met such a nasty, mean-spirited man as you are, Captain Garrett.

Tears streamed down Rita's cheeks. She turned to leave the area of the cockpit, and as she did a wicked voice hissed, "You'll be sorry, bitch. I promise you . . . very sorry!"

Garrett, following Rita's departure, got in touch with a controller on the Maldives, explained the situation and requested a landing. The answer was affirmative. The captain directed the plane there. The compulsory touchdown was to take place in the capital, Male.

The moment the Boeing 747 crossed into Maldives' airspace, all four of its GE type CF6-45A2 engines suddenly refused to function.

Sleep could not restore the strength that Jeff had lost. However, with newly opened eyes he discovered that his full power of realization had returned. The residual pain of all the thousands of brain stings, which had torn through him in waves of heat, was now a dull pulsation that reverberated at his temples. The pressure thus reduced, thought was rushing beyond cranium, but the past remained in its clutches as if in a concrete shell, so he was not fully free. He tried to sit, but his head encountered an obstacle. Fumbling around with his hands, he discovered that he was in a wooden trap constructed of narrow planks. The boy placed his feet against the structure and pushed as hard as he could.

The squeak of a lock mechanism was heard. He gave another push, but there was no result. The third try, however, did manage a small development: In a crack between the cover and the box, electrical light flashed. Jeff looked through the crack and saw the outlines of steel boxes. He turned his attention to his hands, set against the floor. There was something soft and suspiciously familiar under them. Feeling around, the boy discovered they were sacks. Each had two straps and a system of connecting knots. Thus the boy started to understand.

Before going down by lift to a luggage compartment a short dialogue happened between the friends.

"Clear, the ace of spades," said Brett with a nod. "But maybe me?"

"No," said Slaiker firmly. "If the Beast is really here, I have to fight first. You take care of the monk. Besides . . . ." He put his hand on Brett's shoulder. "You'll know what to do, if I fail."

"You can count on me," said Brett, and then the elevator door opened.

The two men entered the luggage compartment. It was lit with weak lamps, and along the walls there were luggage containers fixed to the floor with steel devices.

The two proceeded in accordance with the plan they had devised. Brett hid behind a container near the elevator, and Slaiker, having turned on the main lighting, moved toward the tail of the plane. The cargo boxes were pressed close together along with walls.

It seemed as if Slaiker was walking down Broadway, but behind his portrayal of calm a leopard was concealed, enraged to the point of fever. The detective was ready to repel any attack, but he didn't know just what kind of role his physical prowess would have in a battle with the Beast.

The detective scanned the lines of objects in the depths of that place, and as he went along he analyzed the probable scenario of future events. Any physical object in the vicinity could soon reveal an adversary of volcanic power and proportion.

He listened closely to the space, and from out of the quiet din of mechanical sounds and random noises he hoped to discern anything that was suspicious. He could smell things, too, both familiar and strange. The odors of dust, aviation lubricant, rubber and plastic were all apparent. The smell of burnt marzipan, however, seemed to rise and recede like a mysterious tide, present one moment and gone the next.

Information was being gathered in memory, placed within the context of a strict mathematical algorithm for decision of Slaiker's most important task: to find his little boy Jeff.

The detective's brain, this biological mechanism for controlling the mind and body, got a weak pulse. His attention was drawn to a box between two containers. A sixth sense told him that the search was a last over. He had found his son.

The top of the box Slaiker bore the words "Property of Icar Aviation Club." It was bolted and locked, and as he searched for some way to open it he suddenly noticed the strangest thing. Next to the box were the remains of a human, almost mummified. It was a piece of dead flesh, visible among the folds of a black velvet dress.

Damn it! The Beast had moved to a different body! He was no longer the singer from the hotel. He . . . .

"Yes, you're right. I am no longer a singer," announced a female voice, answering his thoughts. Slaiker turned. Five steps away was the flight attendant; the same one who had smiled at him as she passed with the coffee cart.

A cascade of fair hair fell past the woman's shoulders onto the languid fabric of her blouse, ably supported by her breasts. Slaiker felt the heaviness lift, whereupon his consciousness became clouded with warm gray mist. Somewhere in the depth of his "me" he heard a voice yell, "Fight it! You must resist!"

It took a superhuman effort not to look into those eyes. The pressure to give in was so great, but instead Slaiker raised the ace of spades.

Brett clearly remembered the hotel singer, so the appearance of the flight attendant was more an unplanned occurrence than a red flag. He decided not to come out of concealment and restrain the woman. It was the right choice, because from his vantage point he could see her stop behind Slaiker; when the latter turned, Brett saw the ace of spades in his hand.

Brett now understood that the Beast had taken another body. He wasn't the hotel singer anymore, he was the woman there in the cargo hold.

The commissioner jumped out of concealment and rushed toward the elevator. He pressed the button for the topmost level, but the next moment the floor swam from under his feet. He was pushed aside, his head bounced against the elevator platform and he lost consciousness.

Captain Garrett, with the plane at an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet, went into a left curve. He believed it would allow him to avoid two dangers: First, the plane would enter a tight turn and the unbuckled passengers wouldn't fall upward because centrifugal force would keep them in place. Secondly, he thought of other planes, following the same course but at a lower altitude.

The airliner was no longer simply flying; instead, it was dropping like a pigeon wounded by a falcon. On the control desk a green lamp glowed, signaling that the landing gear was down. This spontaneous action served as a speed brake and sharply changed the plane's trajectory. The altimeter raced backward, counting off the distance till ground contact.

Garrett switched on the radar at two-seven and issued a mayday. The 747 was about to crash. .

Brett Li was tossed up toward the ceiling just at the moment the engines refused and the plane was in a pitch. The Lord had placed figures on the chessboard in such a way that Brett would never again see his friend Slaiker. As for Slaiker, he moved not a jot when the plane went into that pitch. Resilient air, like compressed steam, beat against his chest and kept him from falling. There before the power of the Beast, the law of universal gravitation had no influence on the detective's body.

Keeping the right angle to the relation of the plane under his feet, Slaiker was suspended midair. Every cell of his being fought for its life. Neither a muscle nor an idea could provoke or dissuade his strength, will and spirit. The qualities so necessary to his survival were inexorably knotted together. Slaiker kept his eyes open. In the icy pupils of the demon he saw his own reflection, like a ship stuck in the ice, starved for water. Cold of polar intensity compressed his chest and blood. It beat in his temples, forcing his consciousness beyond the limits of reality.

The Beast was trying to tear through the invisible envelope that somehow protected this new human sacrifice. The demon, however, had no interest in organic flesh; the stuff could be set afire with just a look. Instead, he desired the spiritual essence. He sought that little clot of energy that dared to interfere with his plans. The Beast would split it into atoms, electrons and neutrinos and summarily disperse it to all sides of the galaxy.

Slaiker, it seemed, had a secret reserve; a generator of power with which to fight the onslaught.

"I am stronger, and you won't take me," he told himself over and over, and clenched his teeth.

. . . Having thrown the sack aside Jeff peered through the crack. He could see metal boxes and someone's feet. Those sandals of crocodile skin seemed familiar.

"Those are my father's," thought Jeff, and at that moment he sensed the depth of the situation. Fate, like a noose, was tightening around his neck.

"One more minute and he'll die," Jeff warned himself. "But if I help him, probably my brain won't be able to take the punishment and then I'll die."

Jeff remembered the incident in the kitchen. Rage emerged and grew within him.

Forget being reasonable. It was better to go mad than be a coward.

"No-o-o!"

A wave of anger filled his entire being. Bringing forth a power of the kind Jeff had never before known, he kicked the side out of the crate It was carried deep into the plane toward the elevator, and Jeff, in defiance of gravity, flew outward against the container. He saw the fair-haired stewardess, and he saw his father.

A bead of perspiration rolled down the man's face, which was inflamed from great tension. The veins fought their way to the surface of his temples. His bitten lips were bleeding, and his eyes were nearly out of their sockets.

Jeff wanted to cry out for his daddy, but he decided not to say a word. To distract his father could mean the death of them all.

Jeff inclined in energetic channel of the stewardess, and like a stone blocking the flow of a stream, he placed his mind between his father and the Beast. In such a way, he would take the blow instead of his dad.