The Asian man staggered back, but somehow managed to keep his feet. Nevertheless, he had lost the advantage. Nora’s scream, coupled with the fact that several people strolling along the waterfront had witnessed an automatic pistol skittering across the pavement, was magnetically attracting attention. The man thrust his blade back into its scabbard, then took something else from the recesses of his suit jacket and hurled it onto the ground.
There was a blinding flash, and when the spots cleared from Hurley’s vision his assailant was gone, but in his place were two men wearing military uniforms, adorned with the insignia of the Portuguese National Republican Guard and brandishing Browning Hi-Power 9 millimeter pistols.
One of the gendarmes shouted: “Você está sob a apreensão!”
“You are under arrest,” his partner translated.
“Well, that’s different,” Hurricane chuckled, raising his hands.
Nora gaped at him, incredulous. “Different? How’s that?”
“Usually things go from bad to worse.”
Newcombe sipped from his snifter slowly, as if it was scalding coffee, but he barely tasted the potent liquor. Strangely, he had almost forgotten about the brush with death. Just as he had, at the time, treated it like a problem to be solved, he now was able to file it away with all of the other thorny problems he had worked out over the course of his academic life; never mind that, in this particular instance, the consequences of failure would have been absolute and permanent. Rather, his mind was now occupied with the gravity of Lafayette’s accusation, and what it portended. If it was even true.
The writer sat nearby, uncharacteristically quiet, though he was imbibing his cognac with considerably more enthusiasm. Lafayette had said nothing more about the subject, but his body language bespoke a persistent distrust of almost everyone. He hadn’t even touched the cognac Fiona decanted for him until both she and Newcombe had tasted it first.
Sorensen was nowhere to be found. Newcombe presumed that he was off investigating the circumstances behind the near disaster, but if the dark man really had tried to send Lafayette plunging into the Atlantic, what would his next move be? Would he try again? Or would he, perhaps fearing that his intended victim might expose him, make an audacious escape attempt? And then of course, there was the question of motive. Newcombe could think of no reason for the chief pilot to want to harm the writer, and that by itself was a powerful argument that Lafayette had perhaps remembered events in the wrong order.
It was another puzzle for the scientist to figure out, but unfortunately it was an equation with few constants and riddled with the variables of human behavior.
Barron swept into the room a few moments later. “Gentlemen, I’ve just heard of your unfortunate accident. I trust no one was harmed?”
“Just some rattled nerves,” Fiona answered. “Findlay saved the day, but it was a close thing. What happened, Walter?”
“We hit an unexpected updraft, just as we were beginning to ascend back up to our cruising altitude. As they say, all’s well that ends well, but I would nevertheless like an opportunity to make… ah, amends, as it were.”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Lafayette answered, sullen.
“Hear me out please. Or rather, let me show you what I’m talking about.” He made a half-turn and gestured to the door.
Fiona was on her feet immediately. “Well, come on, gents. Let’s give Walter a chance to make things right.”
She said it with her customary enthusiasm and humor, but neither of the two men at the table smiled. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Barron addressed her. “Miss Dunn, would you please excuse us? What I have to say is for Dr. Newcombe and Mr. Lafayette alone.”
Fiona’s smile faltered and it was plainly evident that she was unused to being left out of anything. Nevertheless, she left the room without comment.
Fiona’s dismissal gave Newcombe a pang, but he focused his attention on Lafayette, curious to see how he would react. Finally, after several awkwardly silent seconds, the writer relented. He downed the last of his cognac, and stood up.
Barron led them along the central corridor, and as they neared the aft end, Newcombe feared that their host planned to take them back up to the platform. He was relieved when Barron instead opened the last door on the left side and escorted them into a large open room that Newcombe immediately recognized as a laboratory.
The scientist quickly identified most of the equipment and apparatuses stored on shelves around the perimeter of the lab, but the device that occupied a large table in the center was not familiar to him. It bore a vague resemblance to a photographic projector, the device used to project the images from a film negative onto chemically treated paper to produce photographs, but Newcombe suspected the device was used to project something other than light.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” The scientist hastened over to it and began inspecting the machine closely. “This is the prototype resonance wave generator?”
“I thought you might like to see it in operation.” Barron went to one of the storage shelves and fetched a large metal pail. Newcombe glanced at the contents as the other man emptied the pail onto a metal tray under the projector; several pieces of brown rock — sandstone by the look of it, but without his correct prescription eyeglasses, Newcombe couldn’t make out details of the rock grain.
Barron took three pairs of goggles from a drawer and passed them around. When all had donned the protective eyewear, their host directed them to stand well away from the device. “The resonance waves can induce mild nausea, so you’ll want to keep your distance. Otherwise, it’s quite safe as long as you don’t put any part of your body under the emitter.”
He threw a switch on the projector, and Newcombe immediately felt a pulsing vibration pass through his body, like the deep beat of a bass drum but without any sound. The sensation was particularly strong in his abdominal cavity, and as Barron had warned, he felt himself growing queasy. But that was nothing compared to what happened to the sandstone pieces under the projector.
For a few seconds, the rocks merely rattled together, but then, without any sort of violent eruption, they slumped into a pile of fine sediment. The sand quickly formed into a broad circle on the tray, and rippled like the surface a puddle struck by raindrops until Barron switched the device off.
“Astonishing.” Newcombe stepped forward and, with a nod from Barron indicating that it was now safe, ran his finger through the powdered rock.
“The waves completely break down all the molecular bonds,” Barron said. “It literally liquefied the rock.”
“The possible applications for this are limitless. Hard rock mining, tunnels for transportation…”
“What would have happened if we had gotten too close?” Lafayette asked.
A tight smile crossed Barron’s face and he pointed to the sand. “Imagine those are your bones.”
Lafayette swallowed nervously. Newcombe recalled that Barron’s motive in building the device was not at all altruistic. As if sensing Newcombe’s thoughts, their host continued: “Dr. Newcombe, you are correct. This is a technology, and as such might be used for any number of purposes, many of which would be beneficent. It might surprise you to learn that my intention in developing this device is not what it seems.”
Newcombe chose his words carefully. “Are saying that you don’t plan to turn this into a weapon?”