Fade Out (53 page)

Coming to America, the street-level crash course in communication, competing against the homegrown boys on the block, using his native cunning wherever he lacked physical strength, citizenship, changing his name, recreating the past – it had all helped spin a protective cocoon around himself. This time, he had been well and truly nailed. The photographs in front of him, supplied by a Red well-wisher in Washington, had exposed him for what he was, the principal agent and instigator of a deliberate attempt by the government of one nation to
deceive another – a nation with whom he had worked for years in a genuine effort to achieve better relations.

He'd come a long way from the case of the missing fifty cents but the pain he felt was as fresh as it had been thirty years ago. Connors took a deep breath and started again. ‘What is it you want to know?'

‘Everything,' said Leonovich. ‘Our friend has kept us well informed on the Crusoe Project but we'd like to hear it again from you.'

The only way out of that situation was to tell the truth. It would be an interesting experience. ‘I think this would be a good time to bring in the rest of our team,' said Connors.

‘Good… we'll move next door.' Leonovich stood up. Connors and the others followed suit.

Marshal Rudenkov approached Fraser with an amused twinkle in his eye and said, in heavily-accented English, ‘No more double-cross – finish, okay?' He held out his hand.

‘Okay…'

‘Good.' Rudenkov gripped Fraser's hand and pumped it up and down as if he was trying to raise water from a fifty-foot well. He picked up his pack of Camel cigarettes and showed it to Fraser. ‘American fantastic. You – we fight German together. Is good. Now we fight again.' Then speaking in rapid Russian, with Tibor translating, Rudenkov said, ‘If we don't get rid of these two blackheads soon, we will all end up planting rice.' He made a swift hammer movement with his fist. ‘I think it's vital we hit them both at the same time.'

‘I agree,' said Fraser. ‘It's our only chance.'

Marshal Rudenkov patted Fraser on the arm and walked out of the study with Premier Leonovich. Tibor followed.

‘It looks as if we struck out with all bases loaded,' said Chaliapin.

Connors smiled. ‘Don't worry, Dan. We may still come out even at the end of the series.' He put the President's rejected message back in his briefcase and wondered how to pull himself clear of the wreckage. They'd achieved their objective – Russian co-operation – but his artful plan had fallen flat on its face, casting doubts on the President's integrity and badly weakening his own credibility as a negotiator with the Russians. It could even mean an end to his usefulness. Yet there was still no joy in it for Fraser, for it was the photographs stolen by someone with access to highly sensitive areas of the Defense Department that had demolished their negotiating position. Whoever it was had to be on, or close to, the Crusoe Project. All the photographs connected with the Project were processed in the mobile lab on Crow Ridge, then forwarded to the Defense Department for strictly limited ‘eyes only' distribution.

Fraser picked up the stolen envelope. ‘When I get back, I swear I'm going to track down the son of a bitch who did this. I don't care if I have to take the Pentagon apart brick by brick.' He slipped it into his case and snapped down the locks. ‘Otherwise we might as well give them the keys to the whole fucking building.'

‘It looks as if they've already got them,' said Connors.

Throughout the rest of Thursday, Crusoe continued to change shape, and by Friday morning, the last vestiges of the dome had disappeared. The spherical hatch was completely enclosed within the black crystal hull. The hull itself now had the profile of a shallow, smooth-tipped Islamic dome made up of four curving sections. Neame
supervised the dawn survey and reported that Crusoe was now thirty-three and a half feet tall and eighty-six feet wide. He had grown some ten and a half feet taller in the last eighteen hours. The figures were plotted on a graph. It showed that the growth curve, although still rising steeply, was beginning to arc over to the right. It was an encouraging sign. If the line continued to curve into a sloping S-shape, it meant that the growth rate would slacken and then peter out altogether as Crusoe reached his full height.

‘Can you project the curve to give us some idea of where that point might be?' asked Wedderkind.

‘Not yet,' said Neame. ‘We really need to plot a couple more measurements on the graph before we can extrapolate with any degree of accuracy.'

‘I don't think we ought to overlook the possibility that if the curve
does
level out, the period of zero growth might merely be a prelude to a new growth cycle,' said Page.

‘Page,' said Neame. ‘I'm really getting pissed off with you – '

‘Now, gentlemen, gentlemen,' began Lovell.

Neame ignored him. ‘The only time you come alive is when you're spreading bad news. If you really want to tell us something, how about telling us how this thing does what it's doing? You're supposed to be a chemist. Shouldn't you be coming up with the answers?'

‘I've taken
my
share of the work as far as I can,' huffed Page. ‘My reports and analyses are all complete. I don't see why I should be made responsible for other people's incompetence.'

‘In other words,' said Neame, ‘you've got no fucking idea what's happening.'

‘Okay, okay, that's enough,' said Wedderkind. ‘Let's
just hold it right there,' He moved in between Neame and Page.

‘Totally unnecessary,' muttered Lovell. ‘I've rarely seen such infantile behaviour – '

‘Yes, okay, Mike,' said Wedderkind. Lovell, the senior, grey-haired member of the team, preferred a calmer, contemplative, pipe-smoking approach to all problems, no matter how pressing. ‘I guess we're all getting a little jumpy – '

‘Disgraceful…' Lovell was still puffing away in the background.

‘Mike…' Wedderkind silenced him with a look. ‘It's only natural in view of what's happened. The loss of three colleagues, the continued frustration of our research efforts and now, the tension due to the general deterioration of conditions here on the Ridge and the lack of sleep. Let's just keep calm and keep it together.' Wedderkind turned to Neame. ‘I don't think any of us can tell you what's happening, Rog. I certainly can't – in fact, I think it's time to admit that we are all way out of our depth. The best we can do is watch, in the hope of understanding something.'

Neame nodded and began to simmer down.

‘What do you want to do?' asked Wedderkind. ‘Go on checking at twelve-hour intervals?'

‘Yes. It'll save us getting up in the middle of the night,' said Neame. ‘Not that we're going to get much sleep with those tremors.'

‘No… I think I ought to mention that General Allbright has suggested that because of the tremors, the cutoff zone and the, ah – general air of uncertainty, we should begin a partial evacuation of the Ridge, starting with nonessential personnel. If any of you feel you fall into that category, let me know after breakfast.'

‘Do we just put down our own names, or can we
suggest other people?' Neame's question was aimed at Wedderkind, but his eyes were on Page.

At 6 P.M. Neame went out again with his team to check Crusoe's measurements. They found that Crusoe had grown five feet taller and four feet wider since their dawn survey. He was now thirty-nine feet tall and ninety feet wide. The ground around the base of the hull had been fractured and pushed back as his width had increased. The spherical hatch was now almost completely swallowed up by the underlying cortex which, as far as they could tell, was still its original size.

The new measurements were plotted on the graph and they showed that the growth rate was continuing to slacken.

‘What do you think, Rog?' asked Wedderkind.

‘Well, if we take the optimistic view, he could stabilize at a height of anything between fifty and sixty feet, somewhere around Tuesday or Wednesday. You can see the curve I've projected, but it's still just a guess. The line between the dawn plot and this evening's is not curving over to the right all
that
much.'

‘No, but it's going to have to start soon,' mused Wedderkind. ‘The Ridge isn't big enough for both of us.'

‘There's something else that's bugging us,' said Gilligan, one of the other three remaining engineers. ‘The angular difference between the four curved surfaces of the hull.'

‘What about it?' asked Wedderkind.

‘It's increasing.'

‘So -?'

‘Well, I know we have to accept the fact that Crusoe can grow, even if we don't know how, but with all this talk about a possible takeoff surely the logical end result would be a tall, streamlined shape.'

‘Yes,' said Vincent. ‘Like the nose cone of a rocket.'

‘With a circular cross section,' said Hadden.

‘But it's not happening,' said Neame. ‘This cat's growing corners.'

While the research group was busy discussing these latest observations, one of the Corporation's converted diesels came up to collect another batch of cadets for medical processing. The driver had a message for Allbright from the base camp. A cadet took it over to the command hut on horseback. Allbright was going over details of the temporary evacuation with his two senior cadets, Harris and Cameron, and Kirkonnen, the senior Air Force technician.

Allbright read the brief message. It was the signal he'd been waiting for. ‘Mr Harris, I'm going to leave you to supervise the rest of the evacuation to the base camp area,' He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go to Washington. The Defense Department has cancelled all further medical checks so you may need to modify the timetable we've set up.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Any further movement orders for Air Force personnel will come through the Corporation's office manager down at the base camp. In the meantime, I expect you and Mr Cameron to give Mr Wedderkind and Mr Connors your full co-operation. Is that understood?'

‘Yes, sir,' said Harris. ‘Shall I call up a diesel?'

‘No. It's a beautiful evening, I think I'll ride over to Broken Mill. If you'd care to escort me, we'll leave in thirty minutes.'

Harris, Cameron, and Kirkonnen were already on their feet before Allbright was halfway out of his chair. He pocketed his silver fountain pen, picked up the folding leather picture wallet containing the colour portraits of
his wife, son, and daughter, and shook hands with Kirkonnen.

‘Good-bye, Mr Kirkonnen. In case I don't get back in time to see you off, I'd like you to convey my thanks and appreciation to your team.'

‘Thank you, sir. Does this mean the project is closing down?'

‘I won't know till I get to Washington, Mr Kirkonnen. So until it's official, I'd like you to kill any rumours to that effect. It might turn out that you'll be here longer than you expect.'

‘I understand, sir.'

‘Good luck…' Allbright turned to his senior cadets. ‘A pack horse for the baggage, Mr Harris.'

‘Yes, sir.'

The guard detail turned out to salute Allbright as he rode through the main gate followed by Harris and Cameron. The pack horse, with Allbright's two Air Force-blue duffel bags, was hitched to Cameron's saddle. Allbright turned off the dirt road and headed down into the pines on the north flank of the Ridge. After fifteen minutes of weaving and ducking under branches, the pines thinned out and they rode into the open country east of Bodell's shack. It was unfenced prairie with a sparse covering of buffalo grass and patches of sweet-smelling sage.

Allbright heeled his horse into a canter and moved ahead, kicking up a line of dust that hung, glowing, in the still evening air. Harris and Cameron swung out on either side and stayed with him. To their left, the September sun had dropped into the last quarter of the sky, turning the distant sandstone buttes into slabs of gold. To their right, spaced-out lines of small, flat-bottomed heaps of cloud floated towards the North Dakota line.

A Twin Comanche from the Miles City air-taxi outfit
was waiting at the highway end of the emergency grass strip, and the posse of small boys who'd followed the arrival and departure of Connors was perched on the fence near the parked aeroplane. Some of them wore brown stetsons that were nearly as big as they were.

Allbright dismounted and patted his horse's neck and nose while Cameron loaded his baggage aboard the aeroplane. Allbright handed the reins to Harris.

‘Would you ride him back, Mr Harris?'

‘It will be a pleasure, sir.'

‘And when it's time, make sure he gets clear.'

‘Yes, sir. Good luck.'

‘Thank you, Mr Harris. We may all need some of that.' Allbright shook hands with him and ducked through the fence. Both engines of the Twin Comanche were already running. Allbright shook hands with Cameron, then climbed on to the low wing and settled in beside the pilot. He pulled the door shut and buckled himself into his seat. As he looked up, he found the pilot looking at him in surprise.

‘Well, I'll be damned… what the hell're you doing in this neck of the woods, General?'

‘Just visiting,' said Allbright. There was no point in denying his identity. He had no idea who the grizzled, square-faced pilot was. ‘Where did we meet?'

‘In the war. I was flying B-52s with the 92nd out of Guam. You paid us a visit with General Westmoreland. October '73. Just before we came back to the States. You flew with us on our last mission over ‘Nam.'

‘Ahh… yes.'

The pilot grinned, it's okay, you don't have to try and remember me. We weren't introduced then. The name's Korvin. I made major before I came out.'

Korvin took a good look around and pushed the throttles wide open. Cameron, who had moved ahead of
the aeroplane on the port side, gave them a double thumbs-up signal. Korvin replied with a raised hand, then released the brakes. The Twin Comanche gathered speed quickly, bumping gently over the uneven ground, then lifted into the air. Korvin retracted the undercarriage and flaps, trimmed the aircraft into a steady climb and banked gently around towards the north.