path to conquest (15 page)

“Well, how can we possibly stop them?” said Mitchell, chin cradled in his pudgy hands.

The old lab director twitched her lips into that familiar impish half grin. “What the Visitors
don’t
know about oil may stop them.”

Pete’s eyes narrowed. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

She ignored the accusation, her fingers steepling as she continued. “Their nasty little bacterium was developed with
refined
oil. I did a few experiments on my own and found out it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do when it’s mixed with
crude
oil.”

Neville’s jaw dropped. “What? How is that possible? The Visitors are so bloody advanced—”

“Yes, but they’re far from perfect,” Hannah said in a satisfied tone. “We call them aliens for a good reason. This world is our home, not theirs. They’ve been—ahem
—visiting
for a while now, but they’ve made a key mistake. It’s pretty obvious their invasion’s been directed by soldiers, not scientists.”

“But Diana
is
a scientist,” Neville pointed out.

“With a rather military frame of mind,” Hannah countered.

“What makes you so sure?” asked Peter.

“Because they’ve been so busy conducting a military war they haven’t taken the time to properly explore this planet. What they know about Earth they’ve picked up on the run, a little here and there as they’ve needed it. If we could sneak a peek at their
Encyclopedia Terra
, we’d probably find so many gaping holes in basic knowledge we’d fall down laughing.”

“Which means?” Sari prompted.

“Which means I’d guess our lizard friends have never run across oil before, at least not like our petroleum. There’s nothing in the rulebook about every world having the same geology. And in its current form, the Visitors’ oil-chomping bacteria won’t quite work in our crude. If it did work, it would be even worse in crude than in refined. It would be much more toxic. Downright deadly, in fact.”

“How do you know that?” asked Neville.

“I had the computer reformulate it, then did a simulation.

The way it is now, it’ll gum things up, but it won’t be terribly lethal. Ah, but
my
way—that’s another story. See, what the Visitors don’t seem to know is that refined oil has certain unstable compounds added to it. Also has a different specific gravity than crude.”

Pete scratched his head in confusion. “Lemme see if I’ve got this straight. A, the Visitors didn’t know there was such a thing as crude oil
and
refined oil. B, they tailored this designer bacteria to work in refined oil. C, you think they really want to use it on underground oil fields, which is crude, but they don’t know there’s a difference. And D,
you’ve
figured out a way to reformulate their bacteria so it works on crude even better than it already works on refined.”

There was a long pause while Hannah waited to see if Forsythe was done. Then she nodded with finality. “Right.” “Well, Hannah, if I were you, I’d sell ’em your formula. You’d be set for life,” said Pete, deadpan.

Mitchell waved his hands. “Wait, wait, I’ve got a question. Why would they have developed the bacteria to work on refined oil?”

“Serendipity, son. Of course, I’m guessing, but they needed a sample to analyze, a starting point. I think they just happened to pick refined oil for that initial sample. From that, they drew up a performance profile, and from
that,
knowing how that sample behaved, they created the bacteria which’d have the desired effect.”

Sari was troubled. “What if they turned around and tested their bacteria on crude?”

Hannah shrugged. “They’d eventually figure all this out, make the corrections on their formula for the bacteria, and cook up a new soup that was as deadly as they’d intended from the start. Their carelessness buys us some time.”

Mitchell cackled softly to himself. “Hee, hee! We know something they don’t know.”

“Right,” said Hannah, “and as long as that’s the case, we’re okay. But the moment they find out what we know, the countdown begins, and zero will most likely mean the destruction of Earth’s oil resources—forever.”

“Is, uh, is all this in the computer?” Neville asked.

“Bits and pieces,” said Hannah. Then she tapped her head with her forefinger. “I’ve got me a good computer right up here. That’s where I do most of my work—never leave home without it.”

With a yawn and a stretch, Pete looked at his watch. “Well, you don’t really need me anymore. Right, Hannah?”

“I suppose not, but you were quite a help today, Peter. Anytime you want to come here and work full-time . . .”

He leaned down and they traded pecks on the cheek; then he moved toward the door. Neville and Sari waved good-bye and finished their tea while sitting on the couch. Mitchell edged over to intercept Pete, then spoke in a low voice.

“Urn, Pete, can I talk to you?”

“Oh, Mitchell, I’m really in a hurry. I’m still wearing last month’s clothing here, I haven’t shaved in days, and I’ve got a dinner date with Lauren and her father. So unless it’s earthshaking stuff, I’d just as soon pass on it till tomorrow.” Pete didn’t really wait for a response. He patted the scientist’s round cheeks. “Good. Thanks to you, I can get home in time to take a shower so my friends won’t shun me.” He tipped his hand in salute and was gone before Mitchell could protest.

“What was that all about, Mitchell, old boy?” asked Neville with his most charming—and superior—smile.

“Nothing,” Mitchell mumbled. Then he left the lounge.

More clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. “I think this calls for some sort of celebration.”

In unison, Sari and Hannah turned to stare at him. “Are you nuts?” Sari asked, disbelieving. “Finding out that the Visitors are on the verge of destroying our energy supplies is cause for celebration?”

He struck a pose. “All right, then, how about a farewell dinner?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Sari sarcastically.

Neville’s head inclined, a sheepish expression on his face. “All right. Actually, I’ve just been looking for an excuse to cook up a special dinner for all of you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a gourmet chef on top of all your other talents,” said Hannah.

“Not gourmet, perhaps, but pretty bloody good, I think.”

“In all modesty,” Sari kidded.

“Well, Neville, we don’t have a huge variety of eatables here, you know,” Hannah warned.

“Ah, my dear Dr. Donnenfeld, I have a confession. I’ve already checked your stores and you’ve got everything I need. So, what say I don the chef’s cap for the evening? Hm?” Hannah waved a hand in casual approval. “Who am I to object? I can barely boil an egg m’self.”

True to his word, the Englishman created a simple but elegant meal, served on the conference tables in the underground lounge area—chicken in wine sauce, rice, and fresh vegetables.

After she had finished, Donnenfeld pushed back from the table, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and raised her wineglass toward Neville. “That was the best meal I’ve had in ages, Mr. More. A toast to you and your culinary magic.” The dozen staff members joined her salute.

“Well, thanks, Hannah. It’s always a pleasure to see happy faces and chewing mouths.”

“Don’t forget expanding waistlines,” Sari added.

Neville waggled an admonishing finger. “Tut-tut, Sari. This was a high-fiber, low-fat meal. Very healthy, I assure you.” “Wherever did you learn to cook like this?” asked Hannah. Leaning back in his seat, Neville smiled in fond reminiscence. “Back in my Oxford days. I shared this amazingly cramped flat with two other blokes. Up to then, the extent of my kitchen forays encompassed frying a hamburger and opening cans. You might say I was a culinary illiterate.” Hannah snorted. “And you went from that to
this?
How?” “Well, I wasn’t paying much attention to my schoolwork, and I met this girl. Damned good cook herself. But she maintained that any man who wasn’t a professional chef was quite simply incapable of learning to cook anything not out of a package.”

“You learned this”—Hannah gestured at the meal’s remains—-“just because of a challenge?”

“At the risk of sounding immodest,” Neville went on, "I’ve always believed I can learn any skill, conquer any obstacle.

dominate any field I cared to take on. I think any intelligent person can do the same.”

Mitchell leaned both elbows on the table, licking his fingers after putting down a denuded chicken bone. “Just for personal satisfaction?”

“Oh, no, no, Mitchell. I envy people who don’t need any more motivation than that. But I’m not one of them. I’m a gambler at heart. The stakes have got to interest me.” Mitchell nodded. “And what were the stakes in your cooking challenge?”

Neville arched one eyebrow. “Ahh, Mitchell. So bright, yet so naive. This young lady who figuratively slapped my face with her glove and dared me to the duel was—how shall I put it, at least somewhat delicately?—rather fetching. And not the least bit forthcoming. So we made a bet. If I could create a meal that would bedazzle her taste buds, she’d agree to a night of . . . er . . . other pleasures.” He smiled seductively, his tantalizing blue eyes focused on Sari. “I won the bet. Neither of us was disappointed.”

She met his gaze, and he broke off first, looking around at the rest of the dinner company. “I, uh, I hope I didn’t offend anybody with that little tale of decadence.”

Hannah’s half smile reappeared. “The things some folks will do for a good meal. What other sorts of gambling do you dabble in, Neville?”

He straightened stiffly, the humor draining from his lips. The smile lingered, but it was cold as chilled steel. “When I gamble, I don’t dabble, Hannah. I take my games seriously. That’s why I usually win.”

“How ’bout a for instance?” the old woman insisted, her eyes probing his.

His tone and expression made it clear that More considered
this
to be a challenge. He accepted. “When I started my second company, we had cash-flow problems, as often happens. The whole business and computer world was watching me, waiting for me to fail. Hoping I’d fail, so they could laugh out loud and be secure in the knowledge that my first company had truly been a fluke, that I was incapable of sustained success. Do you know what it’s like when both the business pages
and
the gossip columnists relish in calling you a selfdestructive flash-in-the-pan? 1 do. It’s not jolly-good fun. But there I was, in dire need of money to make my payroll. I had some of the best software people in the world with me. They were mavericks like me, and I lured them in because
they
couldn’t turn down a challenge either. But if I stumbled badly enough, they’d pack up and leave faster than quicksilver.” Neville paused for effect, certain his listeners were being lured in, too. “So I flew to Las Vegas. I needed twenty grand to keep afloat.” He stopped again, taking a calm breath. “I won forty. The rest, as they say, is history.”

Now he smiled broadly, pleased to be in command of the gathering. “Dessert, anyone?” he asked brightly.

“Why me, Neville?” Sari said, her voice soft in the dim light that floated through the window of the boat shed. The two of them were nestled in their beachfront hideaway, inside a cocoon of blankets and chaise mattresses. Only their heads and bare shoulders were uncovered.

“You were something of a challenge.”

She laughed. “Me? I was awed when I met you.” “Well, it was a challenge to overcome that, to get you to see me as just a human being. Challenges pop up in some of the most unexpected places from time to time. Don’t you find that?”

“Mmm. I guess so.” Sari’s jaw clenched as a shiver rippled along her skin. “Brrr! I think it may be getting too cold for this, babe. I just turned into one giant goose bump.”

“I can attest to the fact that your toes and fingers
are
a tad on the chilly side.”

“Hey,” Sari chided, “it’s your job to warm me uhhhhhh—” Her sentence trailed off into a lengthy yawn. “Up,” she finally said.

“Sleepy?” Neville asked, cradling her head on his shoulder. “Mmmm,” she purred. “You usually have the opposite effect on me.”

“Perhaps it’s the long day everybody put in.”

Sari yawned again. Her tongue felt thick and fuzzy as she spoke. “Or maybe it was too much wine at dinner. Wine on top of the wine sauce you served with that chicken. By the way, my compliments to the chef. Hey, here’s one: you’re pretty cute, cheffy.”

Neville propped her up against the rough wooden wall. “I think it’s past your bedtime. What say we get you dressed and tucked in, hm?”

She found it increasingly difficult to keep her eyes open. “I . . . think maybe you’re right, Nevvy.” Then she giggled. “I never called you that before. Should I?”

“Not really,” he said as he pulled her sweater down over her head and helped her push her limp arms into the sleeves.

“Will you actually tuck me in, Neville?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t trust another living soul to do it. ” He burrowed down under the blankets.

Sari’s eyes opened wide. “Talk about icy fingers! What’re you
doing
down there?”

“Looking for your underthings and blue jeans,” he said, voice muffled by the covers.

“Oh. Well, if you find them, you c’n keep ’em.” Sari knew her words were slurring toward sleep. The way she felt, like a rag doll in need of added stuffing, sleep would be just fine with her. . . .

If sunlight could take on substance and sound, the morning brightness streaming through the window of Sari’s cottage would have been made of steel-bladed daggers stabbing her eyes to the accompaniment of heavy-metal rock played at full volume.

She tried shutting her eyes, only to find the light was invading her senses through eyelids already tightly closed. “Oh, God, why didn’t I pull the damn window shade down last night,” she moaned. Slowly certain realizations sidled back into her brain. Among them, the inability to recall going to sleep at all last night. The last thing lodged in her bleary memory was making love with Neville in the cold confines and warm blankets of the boathouse.

“Neville must’ve put me to bed,” she said out loud. She felt vaguely insulted that he hadn’t bothered to stay, even if she’d been totally zonked on wine. “Ohhh, that wine . . .” She gingerly clutched her head with both hands, as il making sure it was indeed still there. “It’s there, but I’m not sure what’s left inside it. Geez, what
was
that wine anyway, nine hundred proof?”