As he brought out the binoculars, Depeaux wondered idly where the “wild” Indians had been slaughtered. The noise of the waterfall was quite loud about fifty feet to his right. He rested on his elbows, brought up the binoculars.
The farm buildings were farther away from him this time and the large barn-studio concealed all but the western wing of the house. A crooked stretch of stream was clearly visible from this new vantage. Its surface remained mirror calm, as though stagnant, reflecting the trees and brush at its verge. The view opened up at the valley’s far end, revealing the rolling grasslands and clumps of trees, the patches of distant cattle.
Why wouldn’t the cattle venture nearer into the rich grass closer to the end of the valley? There was nothing visible to keep them away: no fence, no ditch—nothing.
Depeaux became aware of a vehicle moving in a dust cloud far off beyond the cattle. That was the narrow track he and Tymiena had taken. Who was coming down there? Would they see the van-camper? Tym would be out there with her paints drawing pictures of the stupid landscape, of course, but still . . . Depeaux focused his binoculars on the dust, made out presently a large covered truck. It was following the crazy meander track toward the valley and moving fast. He tried to locate Tymiena, but the hill to his left blocked off that vista, and they’d taken the camper into tree shade along a side road. The oncoming truck might not come close enough to see her. It made no difference, anyway, he told himself. A strange excitement gripped him.
He brought his attention back to the farm buildings. Surely, someone would come out and greet the truck. He would get his first look at the occupants of this odd place. He studied the scene intently.
Nothing moved within the valley.
They must hear the truck. He could hear it himself even from this greater distance and above the waterfall’s intrusion.
Where were the farm’s occupants?
The binoculars had collected dust again. Depeaux paused to reflect on the situation while he applied the linen cloth once more to the lenses. He knew it might appear ridiculous, but the absence of surface activity in the presence of so much evidence that people carried on an active life here filled him with disquiet. It wasn’t natural! Everything was so damned motionless in the valley. He experienced the skin-creeping sensation of being watched by countless eyes. When he rolled over and peered backward through the brush, he could see not one moving thing. Why did he expect trouble from these conditions? He did, though, and his inability to explain the expectation filled him with irritation. What were they hiding here?
Despite Merrivale’s attempts to present this case as a plum for the chosen agent, Depeaux had tasted the sourness of it from the beginning. Shorty Janvert obviously had shared that sense of something profoundly wrong. This thing was sour! And it was not the sourness of green fruit and easy pickings. It was a prickling of the senses that came from knowledge of something overripe and rotten, something stewed too long in its own sour juices.
The truck was just beyond the valley now, making its final climb up the easy slope to the north fence. Depeaux brought his binoculars to bear on it once more, saw two white-clad figures in the cab. They were visible only dimly through sun reflections on the windshield.
And still, no one came from the farm buildings.
The truck turned close to the north fence, revealing large words on its fiat white side: N. Hellstrom, Inc. The machine made a wide turn until it was heading away from the farm, stopped then, and backed up to the gate. Two blond young men emerged from the cab. They trotted briskly to the rear, dropped the gate that extended to a ramp on rollers. They clambered up into the open cave of the bed, slid a tall yellow and gray box from the shadows there. The box appeared heavy from the way they strained. They tipped it onto the gate’s rollers, let it slide swiftly to a jolting, dusty stop on the ground.
What the hell was in that box? It was big enough for a coffin.
The men hopped down, strained against the box until they brought it teetering upright. They walked it then to a position clear of the tail gate, closed up the truck, got back into the cab, and drove away.
The box remained about ten feet outside the north gate.
Depeaux examined the surface of the box through his binoculars. It was taller than the men from the truck and it was heavy. It appeared to be made of wood and was bound by what seemed to be flat metal straps that ran around it from the top to the bottom.
A delivery, Depeaux mused. What in hell could be delivered to this farm in a box that shape?
Hellstrom had his own truck to bring things to the farm, but he didn’t worry about his deliveries waiting in the sun outside his gate. There might be nothing unusual about that, on the surface of it. The Agency’s dossier carried considerable information about Hellstrom’s film company. That was the N. Hellstrom, Inc. Hellstrom was both owner and manager. He made documentary films about insects. Sometimes, Hellstrom’s film efforts were incorporated into quite substantial productions which were distributed through other companies in Hollywood and New York. It was all easily explained until you sat on this hillside and watched the operation, as Depeaux was doing now and as Porter had done before him. What had become of Porter? And why wouldn’t Merrivale permit a straightforward missing person investigation?
There was something else about Hellstrom’s operation.
His nonoperation.
From the Hive Manual.
The relationship between ecology and evolution is extremely close, deeply implicated in organic changes among a given animal population, and profoundly sensitive to the density of numbers within a given habitat. Our adaptations aim to increase the population tolerance, to permit a human density ten to twelve times greater than is currently considered possible. Out of this, we will get our survival variations.
The conference room held an air of detached waiting as Dzule Peruge strode in and took the Chief’s chair at the head of the long table. He glanced at his wristwatch as he put his briefcase on the table: 5:14 P.M. In spite of it being Sunday, they were all present, all of the important men and the one woman who shared responsibility for the Agency.
Without any of the usual preparations, Peruge sat down and said, “I’ve had an extremely trying day. To cap it, the Chief called me just two hours ago and told me I would have to deliver his report to you. He had to take care of some questions from upstairs. That, of course, took priority.”
He swept his gaze around the room. It was a quiet and cushioned place, this penthouse board room. Gray curtains covered the double windows on the north side, giving the sun’s afternoon rays a feeling of cool, underwater light as they filtered through to the dark, polished wood of the tabletop.
There were some impatient coughs around the table, but they took the replacement without objection.
Peruge squared the briefcase in front of him, extracted its contents—three thin folders. He said, “You’ve all seen the Hellstrom file. The Chief tells me he circulated it three weeks ago. You will be glad to know that we have now cracked the code on page 17 of the original papers. It was a rather interesting code based on a four-unit configuration that our people tell me was derived from the DNA code. Very ingenious.”
He cleared his throat, pulled one thin sheet from the top folder, scanned it. “Again, this refers to Project 40, but this time distinctly in terms of a weapon. The exact words are ‘a sting that will make our workers supreme over the entire world.’ Very suggestive.”