Then he went stiff. There he was: his younger self, on the lower catwalk surrounding the meteorite, madly working the levers of the power-control console, which adjusted the tension on the chains and hawsers and kept the rock snug and tight in the cradle.
Only it wasn’t snug anymore. As the ship rolled—an angle-meter in the power-control console showed the degree of pitch—the rock was moving, the chains slipping a little, the wood flexing, the iron groaning. He felt a wave of shock and nausea roll over him as he watched. And then he saw a shadow on a catwalk above, a furtive scurrying, and he suddenly remembered the Cape Horn native they’d brought on board for his local knowledge. What was his weird name? Puppup. John Puppup. There he was, staring down with a maniacal grin on his face: a grin of satisfaction, even triumph. The figure faded back into the forest of struts. And then there was so much sound in the hold, such a roaring and screeching, that nothing else could be heard. It was a mere five-second image—then the video cut back to the bridge.
Now Captain Britton turned and gestured, and Palmer Lloyd approached. The audio had been obviously enhanced, but it remained distorted, full of echoes and digital artifacts—the words, however, were chillingly clear.
“Mr. Lloyd,” she said, “the meteorite must go.”
“Absolutely not,” Lloyd replied.
“I am the captain of this ship,” Britton said. “The lives of my crew depend on it. Mr. Glinn, I order you to trigger the dead man’s switch. I order it.”
“No!” screamed Lloyd, seizing Glinn’s arm. “You touch that computer and I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
“The captain gave an order,” shouted the first officer.
“Only Glinn has the key, and he won’t do it!” screamed Lloyd. “He can’t, not without my permission! Eli, do you hear me? I order you not to initiate the dead man’s switch.”
The argument about whether to initiate the “dead man’s switch,” which would jettison the meteorite into the sea, became increasingly heated. Garza had not been present at the argument—he had been down in the hold—and he strained to hear over the increasing roar of the sea. As the argument reached its height, McFarlane, the meteorite hunter, spoke clearly, and his sudden interjection seemed to take everyone by surprise. “Let it go.”
Even as Lloyd was protesting, the ship began yet another roll—but this one was different. The wave lifting the ship was truly staggering in size. All talk ceased. One of the bridge windows blew out, the high-impact plastic flying away in shards as the wind shrieked through. Then a terrible sound began. The bridge slanted, slanted some more, the ship now thirty degrees on its side, while everyone clung desperately to whatever handholds were available, the vessel wallowing broadside-to. Nothing but black water could be seen through the windows. A moment of stasis—and then, with an immense shudder, the ship began to right itself.
This was the moment that changed everyone’s mind.
As soon as the deck leveled, Lloyd released his grip. “All right,” he said. “Let it go.”
There was more discussion, lost in the roar of the wind as the ship came up to the summit of the following wave. Glinn was at the keyboard, ready to enter the command, the code that only he knew, which would open the dead man’s doors and drop the meteorite. But he wasn’t typing—as Garza knew he wouldn’t. His long white hands fell away from the keys, and he turned slowly to face the others. “The ship will survive.”
Cut back to the hold. There he, Garza, was again. The meteorite had shifted, several wooden beams had splintered, and the cradle looked bent. “Eli!” he was calling into the radio. “The web is failing!”
He heard Britton’s voice on the ship’s radio, ordering him to throw the dead man’s switch. His voice answered, “Only Eli has the codes.”
Britton’s furious answer: “Mr. Garza, order your men to abandon stations.”
Cut back to the bridge: Glinn refusing steadfastly to jettison the meteorite, despite now universal entreaties.
And then came the key command, from Captain Britton to the first officer: “All hands, abandon stations. We will abandon ship. Initiate 406 MHz beacon, all hands to the lifeboats.”
As First Officer Howell broadcast the order over the ship’s intercom, Britton left the bridge.
27
AT THE REQUEST of Ronald—a request it had seemed wise to comply with—Sam McFarlane left his battered roller bag in Dr. Hassenpflug’s office and followed the burly, red-haired orderly down echoing corridors and beneath the ornately carved archways of the Neo-Gothic mansion named Dearborne Park. At last, a door of heavy steel sprang open with the clicking of locks, revealing an elegant reception room. Yet as McFarlane looked around he realized this was an orchestrated illusion. The expensive landscapes in oil that hung on the walls were encased in clear Plexiglas. The plush armchairs and sofas had their legs discreetly bolted to the floor. There were no sharp objects anywhere in sight. This, he realized, was not only a reception room, but also an asylum—a lavish, expensive asylum.
At the far end of the room, an elderly man sat in a high-backed chair. The stiffness and rigidity of the man’s posture radiated a pride that was at odds with the straitjacket snugged tightly around his arms and torso. The man looked at him, his blue eyes glittering with recognition. An orderly had been feeding him some kind of crimson liquid through a plastic cup fitted with a straw. “Take that away,” Palmer Lloyd said in a sharp aside. Then he turned his focus back on McFarlane.
“Sam. Come closer.”
But McFarlane did not move. He’d recognized Lloyd’s distinctive voice immediately, of course, when he’d received that call on his cell phone in Santa Fe. Ever since, he’d been mentally preparing himself for this meeting. But now, actually seeing the man in person, he was unprepared for the storm of emotions—anger, hatred, guilt, remorse, grief—that washed over him.
“What the fuck do you want?” he asked, his voice sounding strange and husky in his own ears.
Lloyd’s seamed but still vigorous-looking face broke into a smile. “Ha ha!” he laughed. “That’s the Sam I remember.” He pierced McFarlane with his eyes. “That’s the Sam I need. Come closer.”
This time, McFarlane complied.
“Guess who came to see me a few weeks ago, Sam?” Lloyd asked.
McFarlane did not reply. He was shocked by the look in the man’s eyes. The failure of the expedition, the sinking of the Rolvaag, had, he knew, touched all its survivors in one way or another. He’d heard Lloyd had taken it particularly badly. But to see this powerful, confident billionaire reduced to such a state was difficult to take in.
“Eli Glinn came to see me,” Lloyd said.
“Glinn?”
“Ah! Ah, ha! I can see just by looking at your face that you hate him as much as I do.”
McFarlane grasped the arms of a nearby chair, lowered himself into it. “What did he want?”
“What do you suppose the son of a bitch wanted? What we all want.” Lloyd glanced at the two orderlies, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “To kill that thing.”
McFarlane went rigid. For the past five years, as he’d drifted from one place to another—unable to hold a job, disdainful of attachments, restless, aimless, yet never for one minute at peace—he’d been haunted by their shared past. He knew that “thing” Lloyd was referring to. It had never been far from his mind.