“Welcome, Mr. Glinn,” he said, coming from around the desk, hand extended. “Mr. Garza.” They shook hands.
“And you must be Dr. Crew. Welcome. I am Dr. Hassenpflug. Please, sit down.” He accompanied this with a gesture indicating the chairs in which they were to sit, arrayed comfortably around the fire. His easy warmth contrasted strongly with the unease that surrounded Garza and Glinn.
A brief silence ensued. Dr. Hassenpflug finally broke the ice. “I imagine you wish to hear how the patient is doing? I’m afraid the news is not encouraging.”
Glinn clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Thank you, but we’re not here to learn about the patient’s condition. As we discussed, our only purpose today is to see the patient. His prognosis is not our concern.”
Hassenpflug sat back. “I understand, but a word of caution might be in order—”
“I’m afraid any such word would be out of order.”
The doctor fell silent, a frown gathering on his face. Much of his amiable air was dissipating under Glinn’s curt and unfriendly tone. “Very well, then.” He turned to the orderly, who had been standing behind them, his hands clasped in front of his white jacket. “Ronald, is the patient ready to receive visitors?”
“As ready as he’ll ever be, Doctor.”
“Please show the visitors into his quarters. You and Morris remain close by.” Hassenpflug turned back to Glinn. “If the patient becomes excited, the visit may have to be terminated. Ronald and Morris will be the judges of that.”
“Understood.”
They crossed the parlor and great hall, passing beneath another arch into what had once apparently been a large reception room. At the far end was a door, not of wood, but of riveted steel, and toward this door they headed. The orderly named Ronald paused before it, pressing a small intercom button.
“Yes?” came a tinny voice.
“Mr. Lloyd’s visitors are here.”
The buzzer sounded and the door opened with a click, to reveal a long, elegant marble corridor, lined with ancestral portraits. There was nothing of the air of an institution about this place, although it was now clear to Gideon that it was, in fact, just that. The corridor gave onto an elegant room, ablaze with light. The room was furnished with dark Victorian sofas and armchairs, the walls covered with Hudson River School paintings of mountains, rivers, and other wilderness scenes. But what attracted Gideon’s attention most strongly was the robust man, about seventy years old, with a shock of white hair, seated on one of the sofas. He was wearing a straitjacket. An orderly—Gideon assumed this was Morris—sat next to him with a tray, on which sat an array of dishes, each holding a mound of pureed food. The orderly was spooning dark brown goop into the man’s mouth. Gideon noticed that a bottle of red wine sat on the tray—a Château Pétrus, no less. A plastic sippy cup filled with the wine stood adjacent to the bottle.
“Your visitors are here, Mr. Lloyd,” Ronald announced.
The man named Lloyd raised his massive, shaggy head, and two piercingly blue eyes widened—at Glinn. Despite the straitjacket and the man’s age, he still radiated strength and physical power. Slowly, slowly, the man stood up, staring at them and seeming to swell with a singular intensity, and now Gideon could see that his legs were cuffed and hobbled, rendering him unable to walk except in the tiniest of steps.
He leaned over and spat out the brown stuff that the orderly had just put in his mouth.
“Glinn.” He ejaculated the name the same way he had the puree. “And Manuel Garza. What a pleasure.” His tone indicated it was no pleasure at all. His voice was strange, quavering and deep, shot through with gravel. It was the voice of a madman.
And now those concentrated blue eyes settled on Gideon. “And you’ve brought a friend?”
“This is Dr. Gideon Crew, my associate,” said Glinn.
The air of tension had gone off the charts.
Lloyd turned to the orderly. “A friend? How surprising.”
He turned back to Glinn. “I want to look at you—up close.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lloyd,” said Glinn, “but you have to remain where you are.”
“Then you come to me. If you have the guts.”
“I don’t think that’s advisable…” Ronald began.
Glinn approached Lloyd. The orderlies stiffened but did not intervene. He halted about five feet away.
“Closer,” Lloyd growled.
Glinn took another step, then another.
“Closer,” he repeated. “I want to look into your eyes.”
Glinn walked forward until his face was only inches from Lloyd. The white-haired man stared at him for a long time. The orderlies shifted nervously and remained close, tensing, it seemed, for whatever might happen.
“Good. Now you can step back, please.”
Glinn complied.
“Why are you here?”
“We’re mounting an expedition. To the South Atlantic. The Ice Limit. We’re going to take care of the problem down there once and for all.”
“Do you have money?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not only criminally reckless. You’re an idiot, as well.”
A silence.
Lloyd continued. “It was five years and two months ago when I said to you, when I begged you, when I ordered you, to pull the dead man’s switch. And you, you crazy obsessed son of a bitch, you refused. How many died? One hundred and eight. Not counting the poor bastards on the Almirante Ramirez. Blood on your hands, Glinn.”
Glinn spoke in a calm, neutral tone. “There’s nothing you can accuse me of that I haven’t done the same a hundred times myself.”
“Cry me a river. You want agony? Look at me. For the love of God Almighty, I wish I’d gone down with the ship.”
“Is that why the straitjacket?” Glinn asked.
“Ha! Ha! I’m as gentle as a kitten. They’ve got me in this to keep me alive, against my will. Free one hand and give me just ten seconds and I’m a dead man. A free man. But no: they’re keeping me alive and burning through my own money to do it. Look at my dinner. Filet mignon, potatoes au gratin with Gruyère, lightly grilled cavolini di Bruxelles—pureed, of course, so I won’t attempt suicide by choking. And all washed down with a ’00 Pétrus. Care to join me?”
Glinn said nothing.
“And now, here you are.”
“Yes, here I am. Not to apologize—because I know no apology would be adequate or accepted.”
“You should have killed it when you had the chance. Now it’s too late. You’ve done nothing while the alien has grown, swollen, and engorged itself—”
“Mr. Lloyd,” said Morris, “remember your promise not to talk any more about aliens.”
“Glinn, did you hear that? I’m forbidden to talk about aliens! They’ve spent years trying to rid me of my psychotic talk of aliens. Ha, ha, ha!”
Glinn said nothing.
“So what’s your plan?” said Lloyd, recovering himself.
“We’re going to destroy it.”
“Excuse me,” said Morris, “but we’re not to encourage the patient in his delusions—”
Glinn silenced him with an impatient gesture.
“Destroy it? Brave talk! You can’t. You’ll fail just like you failed five years ago.” A pause. “Is McFarlane going?”
Now it was Glinn’s turn to pause. “Dr. McFarlane has not done well in recent years, and it seemed imprudent—”
“Not done well? Not done well? Have you done well in recent years? Have I?” Lloyd cackled mirthlessly. “So. Instead of Sam, you’ll take others with you, including this poor sap, what’s his name? Gideon. You’ll send them to a hell of your own making. Because you’ve no sense of your own bloody weakness. You figure everyone else out, but you’re blind to your own arrogance and stupidity.”