Fade Out (56 page)

‘Yes, but it's not just the system,' said Brecetti. ‘The scientific community is threatened too. When something like Crusoe starts defying our natural laws, the whole scientific house of cards threatens to come crashing down around our heads. We can only explain what is happening in terms of what we already know. But if the basic principles on which that knowledge is founded are rendered obsolete, we have to throw all the textbooks out of the window and start again.'

‘And that could be very inconvenient,' said Wetherby.

‘It would ruin a lot of reputations.'

‘And make publishers a fortune. What would you do with your Nobel Prize, Phil, hand it back?'

‘It's okay for you to smile, you English bum,' said Brecetti. ‘How would you geographers feel if someone produced conclusive proof that the Earth was flat?'

‘It's a potent combination,' said Wedderkind. ‘When Man is inconvenienced by something he doesn't understand, he reacts in the only way he knows how. And all the reasoned argument in the world isn't going to stop him.'

They reached Crusoe and paused to consider his shape. He was now over forty-five feet tall – three times his original height. The position of the cortex, now buried deep within the huge angular block of crystal, could only be gauged by the blue wisps of light that flickered fitfully across its surface. Wedderkind listened once more to the sounds coming from within the hull, then stood back and looked up at Crusoe.

‘It's curious. This sudden growth cycle – the sheer size of this thing – is so overpowering, yet the sound it's making is so innocuous. I don't know how it affects you but I find it calming – almost soporific…'

Brecetti nodded. ‘I know what you mean. It's a pity he cut off our power; we could have recorded it. The tinkling sound and the underlying hum both have slight variations in pitch. It produces an interesting counterpoint.'

‘That's right. Almost melodic.' Wedderkind turned to Collis and Wetherby. ‘Does it do anything for you?'

Wetherby shrugged. ‘Not really, but then I'm tone deaf.'

‘Ray?'

‘I'm more concerned about the percussion section in
the basement,' said Collis. ‘Can't you feel the ground beating under your feet? It's fantastic.'

‘It's oscillating at a pretty high frequency, but the vibrations aren't all that strong,' said Wetherby.

‘You must have thick-soled shoes on,' said Collis. ‘What's setting them off, the growth cycle?'

‘Most probably. He's loosening up the ground to give himself room to move.'

‘So those earth tremors that have been keeping us awake mean that Crusoe's also growing
underground.
'

‘Not necessarily,' said Wetherby. ‘Eastern Montana often gets an odd tremor or two.' He smiled at Collis. ‘I share your reservations over what might be about to happen, Ray, but there's no point in worrying. Look on the bright side. At least we're not about to be subjugated by seven-foot-tall spiders.'

‘I don't think we were ever in danger of that, Al,' said Wedderkind. ‘I've been going over everything that happened with Friday and I think I've worked out what he was.'

‘And what was that?' asked Wetherby.

‘A toy.'

‘A
toy
?' Wetherby looked surprised.

‘Oh, come on, Arnold, you've got to be kidding,' said Brecetti.

‘No, I'm serious, Phil. I think Crusoe gave him to us to play with. To examine and evaluate, to try to take apart. To occupy our minds while Crusoe got on with the real business of settling in. It's not so crazy when you think about it. And it would explain why Crusoe didn't protect Friday with a cutoff zone when Max's roughnecks attacked it. Friday was expendable. It was our reactions that Crusoe was interested in. The way we handled Friday would have told Crusoe a great deal about us, in the way
a child psychiatrist can judge the development of an infant by watching him at play.'

‘Assuming he's interested in us at all,' said Brecetti.

‘I don't think you really doubt that.'

‘Okay, let's accept it, the next question is – what kind of interest? Clinical, or fatherly? There's a big difference. You once lectured us about the use of downgrading terminology. We may have committed a psychological error in upgrading both these artefacts by conferring human status on them. Crusoe, Friday, he, him… Perhaps it would have been smarter to call them X-One and X-Two,' Brecetti waved towards Crusoe. ‘Instead of coming here, as you imply, to sit in judgement upon us, this… thing might be nothing more than a superbly animated gizmo whose sole purpose is to analyse the atmospheric gases, pressure, and humidity, measure our magnetic field, check soil content and acidity, probe the geological structure of the Earth's crust, observe the flora and fauna, and puzzle over the curiously eccentric behaviour of a small group of carbon-based vertebrate bipeds. To Crusoe, we may be nothing more than grotesquely shaped packets of water, iron, copper, calcium, and other assorted minerals, salts and vitamins, wrapped in varying percentages of animals, vegetable, and synthetic fibres.'

‘I don't know quite what you mean by grotesquely shaped, but I hope it isn't me,' said Wedderkind. ‘It's a nice idea, Phil, but I have a feeling you're whistling in the dark. You know there's more to it than that.'

‘Yes,' said Wetherby. ‘What about all that business with the hatch – and Spencer's message?'

Brecetti didn't reply.

‘I think we were being offered an easy way to find out what Crusoe was all about,' said Wedderkind.

‘I agree,' said Collis. ‘But the trouble is, Crusoe was only selling one-way tickets.'

The Pontiac from the White House car pool arrived outside Connors' door at a quarter to six. Charly helped Connors into his coat and handed him his briefcase. She was wearing his bathrobe.

‘This is almost like being married,' she said.

‘Yeah… what does it feel like?'

Charly put her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Mmm… I guess I could get used to it. But if we were going to stay here, I'd want to have a Philippine couple living in. Or some Vietnamese boat-people. They're cheaper, but of course there's the communication problem.'

‘Yes. And it's not just with Vietnamese…' Connors picked up his zipped travel bag. ‘Will you remember to mail that cheque to the power company for me?'

‘Sure.' Charly hugged him once more before letting go.

‘And turn everything off before you leave?'

‘Of course.'

‘Okay… well, g'bye, Charly. I'll call you when I get back. I'm not quite sure when that'll be. Take care.'

‘You too.' Charly gave him a wifely peck on the mouth and hid behind the front door as she opened it.

Connors walked down the path without looking back.

The driver started the car. ‘Do you want to go straight to Andrews Field?'

‘No, I want to stop off at the Rochester Towers.'

The driver pulled into the hotel forecourt and stopped alongside Greg. Greg dropped his luggage into the trunk and got in beside Connors. Dan Chaliapin and the two Russians were sitting in another green Pontiac parked just ahead of them.

‘All set?'

‘Yes, fine.' Greg leaned towards the driver. ‘They're going to follow us.'

They cleared the car in front and turned left into the street. Both pavements were lined with cars but there was little other traffic. At the intersection the driver swung right and headed down towards Fifteenth Street.

‘Did the General get fixed up?'

‘Yes. A discreet dark grey worsted. Conservative cut. Amazing. Put these guys in the right clothes and they wouldn't look out of place on the board of the Chase Manhattan.'

Their plane left Washington at 6:30 A.M., arriving at Glasgow AFB, Montana, at 8 P.M., local time. Colonel Zwickert, the Base Commander, and Major Jessup, the SAC Communications link man between Crow Ridge and Washington, were there to meet them. General Allbright had briefed Zwickert on the project shortly after the Air Force had got their hands on the Ridge.

Grigorienko and General Golubev changed into crisp new sets of olive-drab fatigues. Supplied by the Air Force, the uniforms came complete with stencilled name tags, red bands around the epaulettes and, in the case of the General, five gold stars on the cap and collar.

One of the yellow Corporation helicopters lifted them over to the civilian airport at the town of Glasgow, some eighteen miles south of the base. The Twin Comanche
from the Miles City air-taxi outfit touched down a few seconds after they did. Harvey Korvin was at the controls. Connors saw him do a marvellous double take as Golubev and Grigorienko climbed in and began talking to each other in Russian.

The word about Connors' aquaphobia had obviously got around, because Korvin's flight path was angled clear of the Fort Peck dam. Once across the Missouri, he followed Highway 24 south through McCone County. Ahead, Connors could see the T-junction where Highway 24 met the east-west road running from Sydney to Lewistown. If they flew more or less straight on, they would pick up Highway 22 angling in from the northwest, and Broken Mill would be just off the starboard wing. Korvin crossed the T-junction at a height of two thousand feet. It was one of those days when you could see forever. The sky was clear and cloudless.

‘What's that place on the right?' asked Connors.

‘Van Norman,' said Korvin. ‘That creek running almost underneath us is called the Little Dry.' As he said it, both engines of the Twin Comanche coughed and died.

Connors' heart missed a beat as the steady comforting roar was replaced by the soft whistle of air over the wings.

Red warning lights indicating power failure flared up along the top of the instrument panel and then faded abruptly. The needles of the flight instrument wavered and dropped to zero. Korvin switched on the emergency battery power supply, checked the fuel and ignition switches, primed the fuel pumps, and looked expectantly at the engines. The propellers continued to windmill but the engines didn't start.

‘What in hell's happening here…?' muttered Korvin.

Connors knew. He looked back at Greg. ‘Is it the electrics?' he asked Korvin.

‘Yeah, everything's blown,' said Korvin.

This is.impossible, thought Connors. They were over thirty miles away from Crow Ridge. But it was the only explanation. The cutoff zone had expanded – and they had flown right into it. From high up, the ground looked deceptively smooth. But if they didn't pick the right spot, there could be no second try…

Korvin pulled on fifteen degrees of flap, pumped down the undercarriage, and turned into wind. ‘Sorry about this, folks. Just tighten your seat belts, sit back, and relax. We'll all walk away from this one.'

Deputy Carl Volkert left Forsyth before eight, crossed over the Yellowstone, and drove north along the unsurfaced back road that climbed into the badlands north of the river. About twenty miles out, the road began to snake between sloping buttes topped with piles of flat weathered sandstone. Volkert broke out on to the higher part of the plain and got a chance to push the patrol car up to sixty-five. He rocked along with his left elbow out of the window, whistling tunelessly.

He topped a shallow rise and saw about two hundred head of cattle moving south over the range to his left. The herd had five outriders, and following it on the road were three pickups, one towing a trailer, and two Army trucks. All the vehicles were loaded with bedding and furniture.

Volkert swung off the road to take a closer look at the herd and recognized the horned-H brand of the Hiller ranch on the steers. The nearest cowboy turned out to be a teen-age girl. One of the Hiller boys rode up to him.

Volkert pushed back his stetson and grinned. ‘Where the hell are you going – Australia?'

‘No, the Army's movin' everyone clear of the Ridge. We got word the whole shootin' match is going right up in the air. They're evacuating everybody from here all the way to Cohagen.'

‘Hell, I didn't know that. How long's it been goin' on?'

‘Got word yesterday mornin'. They gave us till midnight tonight. Whole thing's top secret.'

Volkert smiled. ‘It was till they told you. Where's the rest of your stock?'

‘The Army trucked 'em out yesterday. We're heading down to Ma's cousin's place near Cartersville. Where're you aimin' for?'

‘Broken Mill. Official business.'

The Hiller boy grinned broadly. ‘Well, you're gonna have to do it standin' up. I was over there yesterday. Most of the widow lady's stuff was already packed and out in the yard.'

Volkert pointed at him. ‘Ross, next time you go through town, make sure you drive nice an' slow.'

Volkert got back on the dirt road and headed towards the loaded pickup. Two of them had the wives and kids aboard. Old Man Hiller was hauling the trailer. He leaned out of the window and waved to Volkert as he pulled up alongside him.

‘Where're you headin'?'

‘Broken Mill.'

‘You may not get through. They're settin' up road blocks back there.'

‘That's okay. Official business. Who's the girl you got back there?'

‘She's from Miles City. There's two of 'em out there. Bid for them at the last Jaycee's slave auction.' Hiller chuckled. ‘They thought they was comin' to clean out the kitchen. And you know what? Dang me if they ain't handlin' those steers almost as good as my two hands.'

‘Where's your other boy?'

‘National Guard called him out on Friday.' Hiller chuckled again. ‘Went down to Miles City yesterday morning, put on his uniform, and got himself detailed back to the ranch with a bunch of GIs to help move some of the hay. We're gonna need that this winter.'