“Speaking of purpose...”
“We're getting to that.”
The hallway curved gradually to the right and Andy noted that the doors were all numbered in yellow paint with the word YELLOW stenciled above them. Andy guessed correctly that they were in the Yellow Arm of the complex, and was happy that at least one thing made sense.
“What's that smell?” Andy asked, noting that the pleasant scent of lemon and pine had been overtaken by a distinct farm-like odor.
“The sheep, over in Orange 12. They just came in last week, and they stink like, well, sheep. We think we can solve the problem with Hepa filters, but it will take some time.”
“Sheep,” Andy said. He wondered, idly, if he'd been brought here to interpret their bleating.
The hallway they were taking ended at a doorway, and Race ushered Andy through it and into a large round room that had six doors along its walls. Each door was a different color.
“Center of the complex. The head of the Octopus, so to speak. I believe you've got a call waiting for you.”
In the middle of the room was a large round table, circled with leather executive-type office chairs. Computer monitors, electronic gizmos, and a mess of cords and papers haphazardly covered the table top as if they'd been dropped there from a great height.
Race sat Andy down in front of a screen and tapped a few commands on a keyboard. The President's head and shoulders appeared on the flat-screen monitor, and he nodded at Andy as if they were in the same room.
“Video phone, got it in '04.” Race winked.
“Mr. Dennison, thank you for coming. You've done your country a great service.”
The President looked and sounded like he always did, fit, commanding, and sincere. Obviously he'd had a chance to sleep.
“Where do I talk?” Andy asked Race.
“Right at the screen. There's a mike and a camera housed in the monitor.”
Andy leaned forward.
“Mr. President, I'd really like to know what's going on and what I'm supposed to be doing here.”
“You were chosen, Andy, because you met all of the criteria on a very long list. We need a translator, one with experience in ancient languages. You've always had a gift for language. My sources say you were fluent in Spanish by age three, and by six years old you could also speak French, German, and some Russian. In grade school you were studying the eastern tongues, and you could speak Chinese by junior high.”
Only Mandarin, Andy thought. He couldn't speak Cantonese until a few years later.
“You graduated high school in three years and were accepted to Harvard on scholarship. You spent four years at Harvard, and wrote and published your thesis on giving enunciation to cuneiform, at age nineteen.
“When you left school in 1986 you lived on money left to you by your parents, who died in a fire three years before. After the money ran out you got a job at the United Nations in New York. You were there less than a year before being fired. During a Middle East peace talk you insulted the Iraqi ambassador.”
“He was a pervert who liked little girls.”
“Iraq was our ally at the time.”
“What does that have to do with—”
The President held up a hand, as he was so accustomed to doing with reporters.
“I'm not sitting in a seat of judgment, Andy. But you're entitled to know why you were chosen. After the UN fired you, you started your own freelance translation service, WTS. You've been making an average living, one that allows you to be your own boss. But business has been slow lately, I assume because of the Internet.”
Andy frowned. In the beginning, the World Wide Web had opened up a wealth of information for a translator, giving him instant access to the greatest libraries in the world. But, of course, it gave everyone else access to those libraries too. Along with computer programs that could translate both the written and the spoken word.
“So you know I'm good at my job, and you know I could use the money.”
“More than that, Andy. You're single, and you aren't currently seeing anyone. You don't have any relatives. Business is going poorly and you're behind on your Visa and your Discover Card payments, and you've just gotten your second warning from the electric company. Your unique mind, so active and curious years ago, hasn't had a challenge since college.
“You didn't talk to the media after the incident at the UN, even though reporters offered you money for the story. That's important, because it shows you can keep your mouth shut. In short, by bringing you in on this project, you don't have anything to lose, but everything to gain.”
“Why aren't I comforted that the government knows so much about me?”
“Not the government, Andy. Me. No one else in Washington is aware of you, or of Project Samhain. Only the incumbent President knows what goes on there in New Mexico. It was passed on to me by my predecessor, and I'll pass it on to my successor when I leave office. This is the way it's been since President Theodore Roosevelt commissioned construction of this facility in 1906.”
Andy didn’t like this at all. His curiosity was being overtaken by a creepy feeling.
“This is all very interesting, but I don’t think I’m your man.”
“I also know about Myra Thackett and Chris Simmons.”
Andy’s mouth became a thin line. Thackett and Simmons were two fictitious employees that Andy pretended to have under salary at WTS. Having phantom people on the payroll reduced income tax, and was the only way he’d been able to keep his business afloat.
“So this is a tax thing after all.”
“Again, only I know about it Andy. Not the IRS. Not the FBI. Just me. And I can promise you that Ms. Thackett and Mr. Simmons will never come back to haunt you if you help us here.”
“What exactly,” Andy chose his words carefully, “do you want from me?”
“First you must swear, as a citizen of the United States, to never divulge anything you see, hear, or learn at Project Samhain, under penalty of execution. Not to a friend. Not even to a wife. My own wife doesn't even know about this.”
Not seeing an alternative, Andy held up his right hand, as if he were testifying in court.
“Fine. I swear.”
“General Murdoch will provide the details, he knows them better than I. Suffice to say, this may be the single most important project this country, maybe even the world, has ever been involved with. I wish you luck, and God bless.”
The screen went blank.
“It's aliens, isn't it?” Andy turned to Race. “You've got aliens here.”
“Well, no. But back in '47 we had a hermit who lived in the mountains, he found our secret entrance and got himself a good look inside. Before we could shut him up he was blabbing to everyone within earshot. So we faked a UFO landing two hundred miles away in Roswell to divert attention.”
Andy rubbed his temples.
“You want some aspirin?” Race asked. “Or breakfast, maybe?”
“What I want, after swearing under the penalty of execution, is to know what the hell I'm doing here.”
“They say an image is worth a thousand words. Follow me.”
Race headed to the Red Door and Andy loped behind. The Red Arm hallway looked exactly like the Yellow Arm; white and sterile with numbered doors, this time with the word RED stenciled on them. But after a few dozen yards Andy noted a big difference. Race had to stop at a barrier that blocked the hallway. It resembled a prison door, with thick vertical steel bars set in a heavy frame.
“Titanium,” Race said as he pressed some numbers on a keypad embedded in the wall. “They could stop a charging rhino.”
There was a beep and a metallic sound as the door unlocked. The door swung inward, and Race held it open for Andy, then closed it behind him with loud clang. It made Andy feel trapped. They came up on another set of bars fifty yards further up.
“Why two sets?” Andy asked. “You have a rhino problem here?”
“Well, it's got horns, that's for sure.”
Race opened the second gate and the Red Arm came to an abrupt end at doors Red 13 and Red 14.
“He was found in Panama in 1906, by a team digging the canal,” Race said. “For the past hundred years he's been in some kind of deep sleep, like a coma. Up until last week. Last week he woke up.”