“Civilian, they sure as hell won’t let you go back anywhere with notions like that.”
Dryly: “I wouldn’t expect a bonus for them.”
“Well, I guess not!”
Kathryn van Hise stepped into the breach.
“Please, gentlemen. Appointments have been made for your final physical examinations. I will call the doctor and inform him you are coming now.
Chaney grinned and snapped his fingers. “Now.”
She turned. “Mr. Chaney, if you will stay behind for a moment I would like more information on your field data.”
Saltus was quickly curious. “Hey — what’s this?” She paged through the pile of mimeographed papers until she found the transcript of Chaney’s tape recording. “Some parts of this report need further evaluation. If you care to dictate, Mr. Chaney, I will take it in shorthand.”
He said: “Anything you need.”
“Thank you.” A half turn to the others at the table. “The doctor will be waiting, gentlemen.”
Moresby and Saltus pushed back their chairs. Saltus shot Chaney a warning glance, reminding him of a promise. The reminder was answered with a confirming nod.
The men left the briefing room.
Brian Chaney looked across the table at Katrina in the silence they left behind. She waited quietly, her fingers laced together on the table top.
He remembered her bare feet in the sand, the snug delta pants, the see-through blouse, the book she carried in her hand and the disapproving expression she wore on her face. He remembered the startlingly brief swim suit worn in the pool, and the way Arthur Saltus had monopolized her.
“That was rather transparent, Katrina.”
She studied him longer, not yet ready to speak. He waited for her to offer the next word, holding in his mind the image of that first glimpse of her on the beach.
At length: “What happened up there, Brian?”
He blinked at the use of his given name. It was the first time she had used it.
“Many, many things — I think we covered it all in our reports.”
Again: “What happened up there, Brian?”
He shook his head. “Seabrooke will have to be satisfied with the reports.”
“This is not Mr. Seabrooke’s matter.”
Warily: “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“Something happened up there. I am aware of a departure from the norm that prevailed before the trials, and I think you are too. Something has created a disparity, a subtle disharmony which is rather difficult to define.”
“The Chicago wall, I suppose. And the JCS revolt.”
“They were shocks to us all, but what else?”
Chaney gestured, searching for an escape route. “I found the barracks closed, locked. I think the Major and myself have left the station.”
“But not Commander Saltus.”
“He may be gone — I don’t know.”
“You don’t seem very sure of that.”
“I’m not sure of anything. We were forbidden to open doors, look at people, ask questions. I didn’t open doors. I know only that our barracks have been closed — and I don’t think Seabrooke let us move in with him.”
“What would you have done if it was permissible to open doors?”
Chaney grinned. “I’d go looking for you.”
“You believe I was on the station?”
“Certainly! You wrote notes to each of us — you left final instructions for us in the room downstairs. I knew your handwriting.”
Hesitation. “Did you find similar evidence of anyone else being on station?”
Carefully: “No. Your note was the only scrap.”
“Why has the Commander’s attitude changed?”
Chaney stared at her, almost trapped. “Has it?”
“I think you are aware of the difference.”
“Maybe. Everybody looks at me in a new light. I’m feeling paranoiac these days.”
“Why has your attitude changed?”
“Oh? Mine too?”
“You are fencing with me, Brian.”
“I’ve told you everything I can tell you, Katrina.”
Her laced fingers moved restlessly on the tabletop. “I sense certain mental reservations.”
“Sharp girl.”
“Was there some — some personal tragedy up there? Involving any one of you?”
Promptly: “No.” He smiled at the woman across the table to rob his next words of any sting. “And, Katrina — if you are wise, if you are very wise, you won’t ask any more questions. I hold certain mental reservations; I will evade certain questions. Why not stop now?”
She looked at him, frustrated and baffled.
He said: “When this survey is completed I want to leave. I’ll do whatever is necessary to complete the work when we return from the probe, but then I’m finished. I’d like to go back to Indic, if that’s possible; I’d like to work on the new paradox study, if that’s permissible, but I don’t want to stay here. I’m finished here, Katrina.”
Quickly: “Is it because of something you found up there? Has something turned you away, Brian?”
“Ah — No more questions.”
“But you leave me so unsatisfied!”
Chaney stood up and fitted the empty chair to the table. “Every thing comes to every man, if he but has the years. That sounds like Talleyrand, but I’m not sure. You have the years, Katrina. Live through just two more of them and you’ll know the answers to all your questions. I wish you luck, and I’ll think of you often in the tank — if they’ll let me back in.”
A moment of silence, and then: “Please don’t forget your doctor’s appointment, Mr. Chaney.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Ask the others to be here at ten o’clock in the morning for a final briefing. We must evaluate these reports. The probe is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”
“Are you coming downstairs to see us off?”
“No, sir. I will wait for you here.”
Major William Theodore Moresby
4 July 1999
TWELVE
Moresby was methodical.
The red light blinked out. He reached up to unlock the hatch and throw it open. The green light went dark. Moresby grasped the two handrails and pulled himself to a sitting position, with his head and shoulders protruding through the hatchway. He was alone in the lighted room, as he expected to be. The air was cool and smelled of ozone. Moresby struggled out of the hatch and climbed over the side; the step stool was missing as he slid down the hull to the floor. He reached up to slam shut the hatch, then quickly turned to the locker for his clothing. Two other suits belonging to Saltus and Chaney also hung there in paper sheaths waiting to be claimed. He noted the locker had collected a fine coat of dust. When he was fully dressed, he smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles in the Air Force dress uniform he had elected to wear.
Moresby checked his watch: 10:05. He sought out the electric calendar and clock on the wall to verify the date and time: 4 July 99. The clock read 4:10, off six hours from his launching time. Temperature was an even 70 degrees.
Moresby decided the clock was in error; he would rely on his watch. His last act before leaving the room was to direct a smart salute toward the twin lenses of the monitoring cameras. He thought that would be appreciated by those on the other side of the wall.
Moresby strode down the corridor in eerie silence to the shelter; fine dust on the floor was kicked up by his feet. The shelter door was pushed open and the overhead lights went on in automatic response. He stared around, inspecting everything. There was no ready evidence that anyone had used the shelter in recent years; the stores were as neatly stacked as he had found them during his last inspection. Moresby lit a gasoline lantern to check its efficiency after so long a time; he watched its steady flame with satisfaction and then put it out. The supplies were dependable, after all. As an afterthought, he broke open a container of water to sample the quality: it tasted rather flat, insipid. But that was to be expected if the water had not been replaced this year. He considered that something of an oversight.