Deep Storm

12

There were two squash courts on Deep Storm, and a three-day waiting list to get court time. It was an example of Asher's clout, Crane thought, that the man had been able to get them a half-hour slot with a few minutes' notice.

"I never figured you for a reader of poetry," Asher said when they met on the court. "But your being a squash player is a no-brainer."

"Maybe it's my gazelle-like physique," Crane replied. "Or maybe you've just been re-reading my jacket."

Asher, juggling the little gray ball idly in his serve hand, laughed.

Crane wasn't surprised Asher wanted a meeting. After all, he'd been on station now over thirty-six hours: the chief scientist would want a report. The only surprise was the suggested location. But then, he was already getting used to Asher's modus operandi: maintain an affable exterior, imply a low-key atmosphere; but make it clear that results were expected, and expected right away.

That was fine with Crane; in fact, part of him welcomed the meeting. Because he happened to have an agenda of his own.

"Let's warm up for a minute or two," Asher said. He held out the ball. "Serve?"

Crane shook his head. "Go right ahead."

He watched Asher stroke the ball toward the front wall with a hard, clean swing. He fell back, balancing on the balls of his feet, waiting for the return. The ball bounded back, and he hit a volley, aiming for the far corner.

For several minutes they played without speaking, gauging each other's skill, experience, preferred strategies. Crane figured Asher had at least twenty-five years on him, but the older man seemed in better practice. At least, Crane was playing miserably; half his volleys were going out.

"Is there something unusual about this court?" he asked at length, as he retrieved the ball and tossed it back to Asher.

The scientist caught it deftly in his racquet hand. "Actually, there is. We had to accommodate the floor plan of the Facility. The ceiling's about twelve inches shorter than regulation. To compensate, we've made the court a little deeper than usual. I should have mentioned it before. Once you're used to it, you'll actually find the dimensions a little forgiving. Some more practice?"

"No, let's try a game."

Crane won the spin of the racquet, chose his side, and fired off a serve. Asher countered with a quick volley to the far corner, and the game began in earnest.

As they traded volleys, Crane had to admire the scientist's game. Squash was part sport and part chess match-a mixture of wits, strategy, and stamina. Asher was excellent at controlling the T and-particularly impressive-at firing the ball straight along the sidewall, keeping Crane constantly on the defensive. He'd assumed the scientist's stiff and painful left hand would make playing difficult, but Asher seemed to have mastered using his right hand for balance as well as swing. Almost before he knew it, Crane had fallen hopelessly behind.

"That's the game," Asher said at last.

"Nine-four. Not a very good showing, I'm afraid."

Asher gave an easy laugh. "You'll do better next game. Like I said, the unusual dimensions tend to grow on you. Go ahead, your service."

During their second game, Crane found Asher was right: as he grew more used to the shorter, deeper court, he found it progressively easier to control the ball. He made fewer outs and was able to rebound the ball behind the service box, forcing Asher to play the backcourt. Now he was no longer forced to concentrate simply on returning the ball, but could move back to the T after playing shots, thus setting himself up in better position. The game ran long, and this time he beat Asher, nine-eight.

"See what I mean?" Asher said, puffing. "You're a quick study. A few more games and you'll need to find a more challenging partner."

Crane chuckled. "Your serve," he said, tossing Asher the ball.

Asher caught the ball, but made no move to serve it. "So. How's Waite?"

"Still sedated. A cocktail of Haldol and Ativan. Antipsychotic and anti-anxiety."

"I understand you used a unique method of talking him down. Bishop said something about a striptease."

Crane smiled faintly. "Somebody that florid needs to be shocked out of his psychotic loop. I did something he didn't expect. Bought us a little time."

"Any idea what happened?"

"Corbett is running a complete psych profile-at least, as complete as the meds will currently allow. As of yet, we can't settle on a diagnosis. It's strange. For the most part, the man's now completely lucid, if sedated. But earlier, he was grossly disorganized, responding to internal stimuli."

"Excuse me?"

"Out of control. Hallucinating. Now he can't remember the incident. He can't even remember the terrible sounds that apparently brought it on. Eyewitnesses and friends said they saw little preindication other than general moodiness. And Waite has no history of psychological problems. But then, you no doubt know that." Crane hesitated. "I think you should get him off the Facility."

Asher shook his head. "Sorry."

"If not for Waite's sake, then for mine. I'm getting really tired of having Commander Korolis or one of his minions in the Medical Suite day and night, babysitting Waite, making sure he doesn't say anything he's not supposed to."

"I'm afraid it's out of my hands. As soon as you clear Waite for discharge, I'll have him confined to quarters. That should make Korolis go away."

Crane thought he detected an undercurrent of bitterness in Asher's tone. It hadn't occurred to him that the chief scientist might be chafing equally under Deep Storm's culture of secrecy.

Asher, he realized, had just given him an opening; he wasn't likely to get a better chance to say what had to be said. It's time, he thought. He took a deep breath.

"I think I'm finally beginning to understand," he began.

Asher, who was staring at the squash ball in his hand, glanced up. "Understand what?"

"Why I'm here."

"That was never in doubt. You're here to treat our medical problem."

"No. I meant why I was chosen for the job."

Asher stared at him, his face blank.

"See, at first I was confused. After all, I'm not a pulmonary specialist or a hematologist. If the workers were suffering some form of caisson disease, why ask me to make the house call? But it turns out that's not what they're suffering from."

"You're sure?"

"It's the one thing I am sure of." He paused. "Because it just so happens there's nothing exotic or unusual about Deep Storm's atmosphere, after all."

Asher continued to hold his gaze but said nothing. Crane, taking in the man's expression, began to wonder if speaking up had been a wise idea after all. But now that he'd begun, he had to say everything.

"I had one of the TIA patients put in a hyperbaric chamber," he went on. "And guess what we found."

Still Asher did not reply.

"We found it didn't help in the least. But that wasn't all. The chamber's readout showed us that the atmosphere was normal, inside and out." Crane hesitated a moment before speaking again. "So this talk about pressurization, special air mixtures-it's all bull, isn't it?"

Asher began to study the ball again. "Yes," he replied after a moment. "And it's very important you keep that information to yourself."

"Of course. But why?"

Asher bounced the ball off the floor, caught it, squeezed it thoughtfully. "We wanted a reason why nobody could leave the Facility in a hurry. A security precaution against information leaks, espionage, that sort of thing."

"And all this talk of proprietary atmospherics, of a long acclimation process, and an even longer cool down, provides a nice cover story."

Asher gave the ball another bounce, then tossed it into the corner. Any pretense of game playing had now fallen aside.

"So those rooms I had to wait in when I first got to the Facility. They're completely phony?"

"They're not phony. They are functional decompression chambers. Just with their atmospheric functions turned off." He glanced over. "You were saying you know why you were chosen for the job."

"Yes. After seeing the readout from the hyperbaric chamber, I finally put two and two together. It's what I did on the USS Spectre, right?"

Asher nodded.

"I'm surprised you heard about that."

"I didn't. The mission is still classified. But Admiral Spartan knew about it. He knew all about it. Your skill as a diagnostician, your past experience dealing with-shall we say?-bizarre medical situations under extremely stressful circumstances are unique assets. And since for security reasons Spartan would only allow one person access to Deep Storm, you seemed the best choice."

"There's that word again: security. And that's the one thing I haven't figured out."

Asher threw him a questioning glance.

"Why all the secrecy? What, exactly, is so vital about Atlantis that you need such drastic measures? And for that matter, why is the government willing to front so much money, and such expensive equipment, for an archaeological dig?" Crane waved an arm. "I mean, look at this place. Just to run something like the Facility must burn a million dollars of taxpayer money each day."

"Actually," Asher said quietly, "the amount is rather higher."

"Last time I checked, the bureaucrats at the Pentagon weren't big on ancient civilizations. And agencies like NOD usually have their caps out, thankful for whatever crumbs the government will toss them. But here you've got the most sophisticated, most secret working environment in the world." He paused. "And that's another thing: the Facility is nuclear powered, isn't it? I've been on enough boomers to know. And my ID badge seems to have a radioactive marker embedded in it."

Asher smiled, but did not reply. It was funny, Crane thought, how closemouthed the man had become in recent days.

For a minute, the squash court was filled with a tense, uncomfortable silence. Crane had one more bomb to drop, the biggest of all, and he realized there was no point delaying it any longer.

"Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about all this. And the only answer I can come up with is that it's not Atlantis down there. It's something else." He glanced at Asher. "Am I right?"

Asher looked at him speculatively for a moment. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Well? What is down there?" Crane pressed.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I can't tell you that."

"No? Why not?"

"Because if I did, I'm afraid Spartan would have to kill you."

Hearing this cliché, Crane began to laugh. But then he looked at Asher and his laughter died. Because the chief scientist-who always laughed so easily-wasn't even smiling.