For his part, as soon as Major Gant heard the name Tall Company he felt a sense of reluctance of his own, particularly in regards to the conglomerate's Sciences Division, which he knew operated at Moreno Valley.
Friez told Twiste, "You will receive specialized training and then will join Major Gant's detachment at Red Rock."
At that point the general stood, grabbed his hat from a hook, and held open the office door.
"You are to consider yourselves under the direct command of General Borman for the duration of this assignment."
Twiste headed for the door, scratching his head. Gant stopped before exiting and looked Friez in the eye.
"Of course we will do as ordered, but is there anything else we should know?"
Friez clenched his teeth and grumbled, "If you require additional information it will be provided to you by General Borman at his discretion."
Gant walked out. Friez turned off the lights to his office, shut the door, and marched along the hall, seemingly en route to either the surface elevator or one of the stairwells. His gait suggested that he aimed to leave the facility as fast as possible.
"Well, that was interesting," Twiste said. "He sure was in a mood."
Gant kept his eyes on the hall in the direction Friez had walked off. He heard the unmistakable clang of a heavy door shutting from somewhere around a corner.
"I would say so, yes. I don't think I have ever seen him like that."
"So I get a trip to The Tall Company. Great. I wonder what insanity they're cooking up this time around."
"They get to cook up anything they like without oversight. The benefits of being a private company. That's why the people in charge of our kind of work like them so much. Still, if I had a dollar for every time I've swept away one of their messes …"
The image of a gored body dressed in a white coat and insane lab monkeys clawing anything within reach flashed into his mind.
Twiste mused, "'Specialized training,' he said. Can't wait to see what that's all about."
Gant turned to him. "Watch your back over there. I do not trust them. And considering how bent out of shape Friez seems … let's just say I have a heightened sense of awareness."
"What's wrong, Thom — being a cog in the machine showing a downside?"
Gant smiled — a little — and nodded his head as if to admit touché, then told his friend, "I guess I sometimes worry that the machine might crush a cog or two along the way."
"Relax, I'll see you in a few days at Red Rock Mountain. You ever heard of it?"
Gant thought about that. The name did strike a chord, but he could not place it.
"I don't know. Maybe. I can't remember."
"A place more secret than Darwin? I bet it's really something."
Gant thought about that and replied, "I'm sure it will be a lot of fun."
5
Lieutenant Colonel Liz Thunder faced piles of folders again, but things had changed drastically in the last couple of days. Instead of boredom, she felt excited, but not the fun kind of excited. More like a test pilot flying an experimental plane at insane speeds at high altitude, wondering if the rocket beneath her seat would fly straight and true or blow to smithereens.
Instead of one pile of files waiting to be reviewed, her new desk held two piles that were separated by a lot more than just a few inches on her desk. No, those two piles might as well be light-years apart.
In her hand she held yet another folder, scanning the information inside. The next few minutes would decide if this particular folder ended up in the pile to the left or the pile to the right, and whether her signature would go on the top line.
After saying "hmm" and "okay" a few times, she shut the folder and returned her attention to the soldier sitting on the business side of the desk.
"Okay, Private Evans, let’s see here." She thought for a moment, then continued, "So you’re a Pittsburgh Steelers fan?"
The young man — little more than a kid, really — nodded with a stiff upper lip, an expression that conveyed the seriousness with which he viewed the session. At the same time, Liz felt that he was surprisingly at ease, considering that she sat in the chair that once had belonged to this kid's commanding officer, a man this kid had helped gun down a few days ago.
It must have occurred to Private Evans that nodding was not the correct way to answer a superior officer, so he added, "I mean, yes ma’am, a real diehard, ma'am."
"Good, okay, well then," she shut the folder and slid a photograph across the desk to Evans. It was a black-and-white picture of a street scene including cars, pedestrians, buildings, an intersection, street vendors, and the like. Just an ordinary photograph from an ordinary day in Chicago, or New York, or somewhere.
"I want you to look at this photograph, Private. It is very important that you stay focused on this photograph. Do you understand?"
"Ma’am, I think so."
"Good. Because I’m going to ask you questions about this photograph. I’m also going to ask you other questions about other things. How quickly you answer the questions about the photograph is important, and how accurately. The other questions are not as important, but I will want correct answers. Do you understand? Your focus must be on the photograph and what’s pictured there."
He half-nodded then caught himself, "Yes, Colonel."
"There’s a vendor in the photo. What is he selling?"
"Hotdogs." He squinted and added, "Hotdogs with sauerkraut."
"There’s a brick building to the right. How many stories tall is it?"
As he counted the floors she asked, "Who’s your favorite Steeler?"
He lost count and told her, "Probably the quarterback this year, I think he—"
"How many floors in that building, private?" A little sterner. That threw his attention to the picture again.
"Six stories, ma’am."
"This photo was taken at eight o’clock in the morning. What direction is the man crossing the street facing?"
The soldier scanned the photograph for—
"Boy, the Cowboys really kicked the Steelers’ ass in the ’93 Super Bowl, didn’t they?"
"Um," he scanned the photo.
"What was the score? Something like 30–0, right?"
"No, actually, it was—"
"Which way is he facing, soldier? Study the fucking photograph and stop thinking about how the 'Boys just whipped those pussy Steelers."
"He’s facing west — no, no, east."
"Why? How do you know that?"
"It was 27–17. No way is that an ass-kick—"
"You said he was facing west. Why is he facing west?"
"Because he’s holding his hand above his eyes to screen away the sun."
She nearly yelled: "But it’s eight in the goddamn morning On my planet the sun rises in the east, not the west."
"I said the east. I mean, I meant the east."
Damn, she hated this. She chose psychology to help people. Nothing like a career opportunity and a little rank to change those priorities. It was no longer about helping people; the army had made it about deconstructing them. Of course, along the way she tended to deconstruct herself, too.
He told her, "And it was the ’95 Super Bowl. Or, rather, after the ’95 season when—"
"There’s a woman in the photograph with a short skirt on. What color are her eyes?"
He looked, squinted, and told her, "Brown."
"Brown? What are you, clairvoyant? It’s a black-and-white photograph. How can you tell her eyes are brown?"
Private Evans said nothing. She took the photograph from his hands.
"Ma’am, it really was a lot closer than the final score."