Latimer’s room was on one of the topmost floors and was larger and somewhat more tastefully furnished than the room at Auk House. From a window, he saw that the conformation of the coastline was much the same as it had been at Auk House. The dirty gray of the ocean stretched off to the east and the surf still came rolling in to break upon the boulders. Some distance off shore, a school of long-necked creatures were cavorting in the water. Watching them more closely, Latimer made out that they were catching fish. Scattered reptilian monstrosities moved about in the hills that ran back from the sea, some of them in small herds, some of them alone.
Dwarfed by distance, none of them seemed unusually large. The trees, he saw, were not a great deal different from the ones he had known. The one thing that was wrong was the lack of grass.
He had been a victim of simplistic thinking in believing, he told himself, that when he threw himself into the rift he would be carried to present time or prime world or whatever one might call it. In the back of his mind, as well, although he had not really dared to think it, had been the idea that if he could get back to the real world, he could track down the people who were involved and put a stop to it.
There was no chance of that now, he knew, and there never had been.
Back on prime world, there would be no evidence that would stand up, only highly paid lackeys who performed necessary chores. Private investigators, shady operators like the Boston realtor and the Campbell who had listed Auk House for sale or rent. Undoubtedly, the sign announcing the house was available was posted only when a potential so-called customer would be driving past. Campbell would have been paid well, perhaps in funds that could not be traced, for the part he played, offering the house and then, perhaps, driving off the car left behind by the customer. He took some risks, certainly, but they were minimal. Even should he have been apprehended, there would be no way in which he could be tied into the project. He, himself, would have had no inkling of the project. A few men in prime world would have to know, of course, for some sort of communications had to be maintained between this operations center and prime world. But the prime-world men, undoubtedly, would be solid citizens, not too well known, all beyond suspicion or reproach. They would be very careful against the least suspicion, and the communications between them and this place must be of a kind that could not be traced and would have no record.
Those few upright men, perhaps a number of hired hands who had no idea of what was being done, would be the only ones in prime world who would play any part in the project. The heart of the operation was in this building.
Here the operations were safe. There was no way to get at them. Gale had not even bothered to deny what was being done, had merely referred him to Breen for any further explanation. And Breen, should he talk with him, probably would make no denial, either.
And here he stood, David Latimer, artist, the one man outside the organization who, while perhaps not realizing the full scope of the project, still knew what was happening. Knew and could do nothing about it. He ran the facts he had so far acquired back and forth across his mind, seeking some chink of weakness, and there seemed to be none.
Silly, he thought, one man pitting himself against a group that held the resources of the earth within its grasp, a group at once ruthless and fanatical, that commanded as its managers the best brains of the planet, arrogant in its belief that what was good for the group was good for everyone, brooking no interference, alert to even the slightest threat, even to imagined threat.
Silly, perhaps absurdly quixotic—and, yet, what could he do? To save his own self-respect, to pay even lip service to the dignity of humanity, he must make at least a token effort, even knowing that the possibility of his accomplishing anything was very close to zero.
Say this much for them, he thought, they were not cruel men. In many ways, they were compassionate. Their imagined enemies were neither killed nor confined in noisome prisons, as had been the case with historic tyrants.
They were held under the best of circumstances, all their needs were supplied, they were not humiliated. Everything was done to keep them comfortable and happy. The one thing that had been taken from them was their freedom of choice.
But man, he thought, had fought for bitter centuries for that very freedom.
It was not something that should be lightly held or easily relinquished.
All this, at the moment, he thought, was pointless. If he should be able to do anything at all, it might not be until after months of observation and learning. He could remain in the room for hours, wallowing in his doubt and incompetency, and gain not a thing by it. It was time to begin to get acquainted with his new surroundings.
The parklike grounds surrounding the buildings were ringed by the fence, twelve feet high or more, with a four-foot fence inside it. There were trees and shrubs and beds of flowers and grass—the only grass he had seen since coming here, a well-tended greensward.
Paths of crushed shell ran among the trees and underneath them was a coolness and a quiet. A few gardeners worked in flower beds and guards stood at the distant gate, but otherwise there were few people about.
Probably it was still office hours; later on, there might be many people.
He came upon the man sitting on the bench when the walk curved sharply around a group of head-high shrubbery. Latimer stopped, and for a moment they regarded one another as if each was surprised at the appearance of the other.
Then the man on the bench said, with a twinkle in his eye, «It seems that the two of us are the only ones who have no tasks on this beautiful afternoon. Could you be, possibly, the refugee from Auk House?»
«As a matter of fact, I am,» said Latimer. «My name is David Latimer, as if you didn’t know.»
«Upon my word,» said the other, «I didn’t know your name. I had only heard that someone had escaped from Auk House and had ended up with us. News travels swiftly here. The place is a rumor mill. There is so little of consequence that happens that once some notable event does occur, it is chewed to tiny shreds.
«My name, by the way, is Horace Sutton and I’m a paleontologist. Can you imagine a better place for a paleontologist to be?»
«No, I can’t,» said Latimer.
«Please share this bench with me,» invited Sutton. «I take it there is nothing of immediate urgency that requires your attention.»
«Not a thing,» said Latimer. «Nothing whatsoever.»
«Well, that is fine,» said Sutton. «We can sit and talk a while or stroll around for a bit, however you may wish. Then, as soon as the sun gets over the yardarm, if by that time you’re not totally disenchanted with me, we can indulge ourselves in some fancy drinking.»
Sutton’s hair was graying and his face was lined, but there was something youthful about him that offset the graying hair and lines.
Latimer sat down and Sutton said to him, «What do you think of this layout? A charming place, indeed. The tall fence, as you may have guessed, is electrified, and the lower fence keeps stupid people such as you and I from blundering into it. Although, there have been times I have been glad the fence is there. Comes a time when a carnivore or two scents the meat in here and is intent upon a feast, you are rather glad it’s there.»
«Do they gather often? The carnivores, I mean.»
«Not as much as they did at one time. After a while, the knowledge of what to keep away from sinks into even a reptilian brain.»