"You're sure?"
"It's the one thing I am sure of." He paused. "Because it just so happens there's nothing exotic or unusual about Deep Storm's atmosphere, after all."
Asher continued to hold his gaze but said nothing. Crane, taking in the man's expression, began to wonder if speaking up had been a wise idea after all. But now that he'd begun, he had to say everything.
"I had one of the TIA patients put in a hyperbaric chamber," he went on. "And guess what we found."
Still Asher did not reply.
"We found it didn't help in the least. But that wasn't all. The chamber's readout showed us that the atmosphere was normal, inside and out." Crane hesitated a moment before speaking again. "So this talk about pressurization, special air mixtures-it's all bull, isn't it?"
Asher began to study the ball again. "Yes," he replied after a moment. "And it's very important you keep that information to yourself."
"Of course. But why?"
Asher bounced the ball off the floor, caught it, squeezed it thoughtfully. "We wanted a reason why nobody could leave the Facility in a hurry. A security precaution against information leaks, espionage, that sort of thing."
"And all this talk of proprietary atmospherics, of a long acclimation process, and an even longer cool down, provides a nice cover story."
Asher gave the ball another bounce, then tossed it into the corner. Any pretense of game playing had now fallen aside.
"So those rooms I had to wait in when I first got to the Facility. They're completely phony?"
"They're not phony. They are functional decompression chambers. Just with their atmospheric functions turned off." He glanced over. "You were saying you know why you were chosen for the job."
"Yes. After seeing the readout from the hyperbaric chamber, I finally put two and two together. It's what I did on the USS Spectre, right?"
Asher nodded.
"I'm surprised you heard about that."
"I didn't. The mission is still classified. But Admiral Spartan knew about it. He knew all about it. Your skill as a diagnostician, your past experience dealing with-shall we say?-bizarre medical situations under extremely stressful circumstances are unique assets. And since for security reasons Spartan would only allow one person access to Deep Storm, you seemed the best choice."
"There's that word again: security. And that's the one thing I haven't figured out."
Asher threw him a questioning glance.
"Why all the secrecy? What, exactly, is so vital about Atlantis that you need such drastic measures? And for that matter, why is the government willing to front so much money, and such expensive equipment, for an archaeological dig?" Crane waved an arm. "I mean, look at this place. Just to run something like the Facility must burn a million dollars of taxpayer money each day."
"Actually," Asher said quietly, "the amount is rather higher."
"Last time I checked, the bureaucrats at the Pentagon weren't big on ancient civilizations. And agencies like NOD usually have their caps out, thankful for whatever crumbs the government will toss them. But here you've got the most sophisticated, most secret working environment in the world." He paused. "And that's another thing: the Facility is nuclear powered, isn't it? I've been on enough boomers to know. And my ID badge seems to have a radioactive marker embedded in it."
Asher smiled, but did not reply. It was funny, Crane thought, how closemouthed the man had become in recent days.
For a minute, the squash court was filled with a tense, uncomfortable silence. Crane had one more bomb to drop, the biggest of all, and he realized there was no point delaying it any longer.
"Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about all this. And the only answer I can come up with is that it's not Atlantis down there. It's something else." He glanced at Asher. "Am I right?"
Asher looked at him speculatively for a moment. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Well? What is down there?" Crane pressed.
"I'm sorry, Peter. I can't tell you that."
"No? Why not?"
"Because if I did, I'm afraid Spartan would have to kill you."
Hearing this cliché, Crane began to laugh. But then he looked at Asher and his laughter died. Because the chief scientist-who always laughed so easily-wasn't even smiling.
13
At the uttermost frontiers of Scotland-beyond Skye, beyond the Hebrides, beyond even the tiny battered chain of islands known as the Seven Sisters-lies the archipelago of St. Kilda. It is the remotest part of the British Isles, rough hummocks of brown stone struggling to rise above the foam: a bleak, sea-torn, savage place.
On the westernmost point of Hirta, the main island, a thousand-foot granite promontory rises above the bitter Atlantic. Seated on its crown is the long, gray line of Grimwold Castle, an ancient and rambling abbey, hardened against weather and catapult alike, surrounded by a star curtain of local stone. It was built in the thirteenth century by a cloistered order of monks, seeking freedom from both persecution and the growing secularization of Europe. Over many decades, the order was joined by other monks-Carthusians, Benedictines-looking for a remote place for worship and spiritual contemplation, fleeing the dissolution of the English monasteries. Enriched by the personal contributions of these new members, the library of Grimwold Castle swelled into one of the greatest monastic collections in Europe.
A small fishing population grew up around the skirts of the monastery, serving the few earthly needs the monks could not fulfill themselves. As its fame spread, the monastery hosted-in addition to new initiates-the occasional wanderer. At the castle's zenith, a Pilgrim's Way led from its medieval chapter house, across a grassy close, through a portcullis in the curtain wall, and then down a winding path to the tiny village, where passage to the Hebrides could be found.
Today the Pilgrim's Way is gone, visible only as an occasional cairn rising above the bleak stonescape. The tiny supporting village was depopulated centuries ago. Only the abbey remains, its grim and storm-lashed facade staring westward across the cold North Atlantic.
In the main library of Grimwold Castle, a visitor sat at a long wooden table. He wore a pair of white cotton gloves and slowly turned the vellum pages of an ancient folio volume, set on a protective linen cloth. Dust motes hung in the air, and the light was dim: he squinted slightly to make out the words. A pile of other texts stood at his elbow: illuminated manuscripts, incunabula, ancient treatises bound in ribbed leather. Every hour or so, a monk arrived, removed the books the man had finished with, brought another set he had asked to view, exchanged a word or two, and then retired. Now and then, the visitor paused to make a cursory jotting in a notebook, but as the day went on these pauses grew less and less frequent.
At last, in late afternoon, a different monk stepped into the library, carrying yet another set of books. Like the others of his order, he was dressed in a plain cassock bound with a white cord. But he was older than the rest and seemed to walk with a more measured tread.
He proceeded down the center aisle of the library. Approaching the visitor's table-the only occupied table in the room-he laid the ancient texts carefully upon the white linen.
"Dominus vobiscum,"he said with a smile.
The man rose from the table. "Et cum spiritu tuo."
"Please remain seated. Here are the additional manuscripts you requested."
"You are very kind."
"It is our pleasure. Visiting scholars are few and far between these days, alas. It seems creature comforts have become more important than scholarly enlightenment."
The man smiled. "Or the pursuit of truth."