Inside, the Great Rotunda, accustomed to silence at this advanced hour, was resounding with the echoes of a thousand expensive shoes crossing its marble expanse between the rows of palm trees leading to the Hall of the Heavens. The Hall itself held towering stands of bamboo in massive tubs festooned with violet lights. Clusters of drooping orchids had been artfully fixed to the bamboo, recalling tropical hanging gardens.
Somewhere deep inside, an invisible band briskly played “New York, New York.” An army of waiters in white tie threaded their way expertly through the crowd, [296] carrying large silver platters crowded with champagne glasses and ranks of hors d’oeuvres. Streams of incoming guests joined the ranks of Museum scientists and staff already grazing on the free food. Spotlights, muted blue, caught the glitter of long sequined evening dresses, strings of diamonds, polished gold cufflinks, and tiaras.
Almost overnight, the opening of the SuperstitionExhibition had become the preferred event among fashionable New York. Coming-out balls and fund-raising dinners took a backseat to the chance to see, firsthand, what all the fuss was about. Three thousand invitations had gone out and five thousand acceptances had come back.
Smithback, wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo with the twin faux pas of wide, spiked lapels and a frilled shirt, peered into the Hall of the Heavens, scanning for familiar faces. At the far end of the hall, a giant platform had been erected. Along one side was the elaborately decorated entrance to the exhibition, currently locked and guarded. A massive dance floor in the center was quickly filling up with couples. Once inside the hall, Smithback immediately found himself surrounded by innumerable conversations, all conducted at a painfully high volume.
“... that new psychohistorian, Grant? Well, she finally fessed up yesterday, told me what she’s been working on all this time. Get this: She’s trying to prove that the wanderings of Henry the Fourth after the second crusade were really just a fugue state brought on by acute stress response. It was all I could do to keep from telling her that ...”
“... came up with the ridiculous idea that the Stabian Baths were really just a lot of horse stables! I mean, the man’s never even been to Pompeii. He wouldn’t know the Villa of the Mysteries from a Pizza Hut. But he’s got the gall to call himself a papyrologist ...”
“... that new research assistant of mine? You know, the one with the enormous hooters? Well, yesterday she [297] was standing by the autoclave, see, and she dropped this test tube full of ...”
Smithback took a deep breath and made the plunge, cutting a path toward the hors d’oeuvres tables. This is going to be great, he thought.
Outside the main doors of the Great Rotunda, D’Agosta saw more rapid-fire flashing from the group of photographers, as yet another VIP came through the door, a wimpy handsome guy with an emaciated-looking woman clinging to each arm.
He stood where he could keep an eye on the metal detectors, the people coming in, and the throngs moving through the single door into the Hall of the Heavens. The floor of the Rotunda was slick with rainwater, and the coatcheck counter was stowing umbrellas briskly. In a far corner, the FBI had set up its forward security station: Coffey wanted a ringside seat from which to monitor the evening’s events. D’Agosta had to laugh. They had tried to make it inconspicuous, but the network of electrical, telephone, fiber-optic, and ribbon cables snaking out like an octopus from the station made it as easy to ignore as a bad hangover.
There was a rumble of thunder. The tops of the trees along the Hudson River promenade, new leaves still budding, were sawing about wildly in the wind.
D’Agosta’s radio hissed.
“Lieutenant, we got another argument over at the metal detector.”
D’Agosta could hear a shrill voice in the background. “Surely you know me.”
“Pull her aside. We gotta keep this crowd moving. If they won’t go through, just pull ‘em out of the line. They’re holding things up.”
As D’Agosta holstered his radio, Coffey walked up with the Museum’s Security Director in tow. “Report?” Coffey asked brusquely.
“Everyone’s in place,” D’Agosta said, removing the [298] cigar and examining the soggy end. “I’ve got four plainclothes circulating in the party. Four uniforms patrolling the perimeter with your men. Five controlling traffic outside, and five supervising the metal detectors and the entrance. I got uniformed men inside the hall. Two of them will follow me into the exhibition when the ribbon’s cut. I got one man in the computer room, one man in the Security Control Room...”
Coffey squinted. “These uniformed men going into the exhibition with the crowd. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“It’s nothing formal. I just want us to be at or near the front of the crowd as they go through. You wouldn’t let us do a sweep, remember?”
Coffey sighed. “You can do your thing, but I don’t want a goddamn escort service. Unobtrusive, not blocking the exhibits. Okay?”
D’Agosta nodded.
He turned toward Ippolito. “And you?”
“Well, sir, all my men are in place, too. Exactly where you wanted them.”
“Good. My base of operations will be here in the Rotunda during the ceremony. Afterward, I’ll deploy. Meanwhile, Ippolito, I want you up front with D’Agosta. Get up there near the Director and the Mayor. You know the routine. D’Agosta, I want you to stay in the background. No glory-boy shit, don’t fuck up your last day. Got it?”
Waters stood in the cool of the computer room, bathed in neon light, his shoulder aching from the heavy shotgun. This had to be the most boring assignment he’d ever caught. He glanced at the geek—he had started thinking of him as that—tapping away at the computer. Tapping, tapping, for hours the guy had been tapping. And drinking Diet Cokes. Waters shook his head. First thing in the morning, maybe he should ask D’Agosta for a rotation. He was going crazy in here.
[299] The geek scratched the back of his neck and stretched.
“Long day,” he said to Waters.
“Yeah,” said Waters.
“I’m almost done. You won’t believe what this program can do.”
“You’re probably right,” said Waters without enthusiasm. He checked his watch. Three more hours until his relief.
“Watch.” The geek hit a button. Waters moved a little closer to the screen. He peered at it. Nothing, just a bunch of writing, gibberish that he supposed was the program.
Then, the image of a bug appeared on the screen. At first it was still. Then it stretched its green legs and started walking across the lettering on the screen. Then another animated bug appeared on the screen. The two bugs noticed each other, and moved closer. They started screwing.
Waters looked at the geek. “What isthis?” he asked.
“Just watch,” the geek said.
Soon, four bugs were born, and they started screwing. Pretty soon the screen was full of bugs. Then, the bugs began to eat the letters on the screen. In a couple of minutes, all the words on the screen were gone, and there was nothing left but bugs walking around. Then, the bugs started eating each other. Soon, nothing was left but blackness.
“Pretty cool, huh?” the geek said.
“Yeah,” said Waters. He paused. “What does the program do?”
“It’s just ...” the geek looked a little confused. “It’s just a cool program, that’s all. It’s doesn’t doanything.”
“How long did it take you to write that?” asked Waters.
“Two weeks,” said the geek proudly, sucking air through his teeth. “On my own time, of course.”
The geek turned back to his terminal, and the tapping resumed. Waters relaxed, leaning against the wall [300] nearest the Computer Room door. He could hear the faint sounds of the dance band over his head, the thump of the drums, the low vibration of the basses, the whine of the saxophones. He thought he could even hear the sounds of thousands of footsteps, shuffling and sliding. And here he was, stuck in this psycho ward with nothing but a key-tapping geek for company. The biggest excitement he had was when the geek got up for another Diet Coke.