Deep Storm

16

"Are you almost done, Doctor?"

Crane turned to see Renault, the executive chef, hovering nearby, arms crossed, a look of strong disapproval on his face.

"Almost." And, turning back to a rack holding at least a hundred small tubs of butter, he selected one at random, peeled the plastic wrapping from its top, and scraped about a teaspoon into a small test tube.

The walk-in cooler of Central had been a revelation. It was stocked not only with typical restaurant fare-poultry, beef, eggs, garden vegetables, milk, and the like-but also ingredients that would be more at home in three-star establishments on the Continent. Black and white truffles; near-priceless aged balsamic vinegar in tiny glass bulbs; pheasant, grouse, goose, plover; large tins of Russian and Iranian caviar. And everything was packed into a space no larger than ten feet by twenty. Given such an embarrassment of riches, Crane had been forced to limit his samples to the most common items that most people were likely to ingest every day. Even so, almost all the two hundred test tubes of his sampling kit were now full-and the hour-long process had strained the patience of the executive chef to the breaking point.

Replacing the tub of butter, Crane moved to the next rack, which contained the basic liquids for the house vinaigrette: fine old French white wine vinegars and cold-pressed olive oil.

"It's from Spain," Crane said, picking up a bottle of the oil and glancing at the label.

"The best," Renault said simply.

"I would have thought that Italian-"

Renault made a half-scornful, half-impatient sound with his lips. "C'est fou! There is no comparison. These olives are all hand picked, from first-growth trees planted no more than thirty to an acre, sparsely watered, enriched with horse manure-"

"Horse manure," Crane repeated, nodding slowly.

Renault's face darkened. "Engrais. The fertilizer. All natural, no chemicals." He had taken Crane's approach as a personal affront to the quality of his kitchen, as if Crane were an inspector from the board of health and sanitation instead of a doctor tracking down a medical mystery.

Crane pulled the top from the bottle, drew out a fresh test tube from his kit, poured in a dram, then stoppered the tube. He replaced the oil, drew out another bottle from another row. "So much of the foodstuff here is fresh. How do you keep it from spoiling?"

Renault shrugged. "Food is food. It spoils."

Crane filled another tube. "What happens to it?"

"Some gets incinerated. The rest is packed up with the other waste and gets sent up in the Tub."

Crane nodded. The Tub, he had learned, was a large, unmanned supply module that made daily shuttles between the Facility and the support station on the surface. Officially known as the LF2-M Deeply Submersible Resupply Unit, it was a prototype of a Navy design to provide crippled subs with emergency supplies. It had gotten its nickname from its ungainly oblong shape, highly reminiscent of a monster bathtub.

"And your fresh provisions come down on the Tub, also?" he asked.

"Of course."

Crane filled another tube with vinegar. "Who orders your new supplies?"

"Food Service Purchasing, based on inventory control and advance menu planning."

"And who physically moves the supplies from the Tub to the kitchens?"

"The inventory officer, under my direct supervision. Today's shipment is due shortly. In fact, we should already be on our way to Receiving." Renault frowned. "If you are suggesting, Docteur, that-"

"I'm not suggesting anything," Crane replied with a smile. And, in fact, he wasn't. He had already spoken with the nutritionists and dieticians, and their voluntary meal plans seemed healthful and sensible. And although Crane had taken the time to carefully sample dozens of items from the pantries of Top and, now, Central, he didn't hold out much hope of finding anything harmful. It seemed unlikely anything was being introduced into the food, either accidentally or deliberately. More and more, his suspicions were settling on heavy metal poisoning.

The symptoms of heavy metal toxicity were vague and non-specific, just like those cropping up all over the Facility: chronic fatigue, gastrointestinal upset, short-term memory loss, joint pain, disorganized thought processes, and a host of others. Already, he had two members of the medical staff investigating the work and leisure environments of Deep Storm for the presence of lead, arsenic, mercury, cadmium, and a host of other heavy metals. Meanwhile, all those patients who had complained of symptoms were being asked to return to Medical to provide hair, blood, and urine samples for testing. The exposure would naturally have to be acute, not chronic: people hadn't been on the Facility long enough for anything else…

Crane stoppered the final test tube, then placed it in the portable rack and zipped up his analysis bag with a faint sense of satisfaction. If heavy metal poisoning or mercurialism was found to be the culprit, strong chelators like DMPS and DMSA could be used not only for challenge testing but also for treatment. No doubt he'd have to request the necessary quantities be sent down in the Tub: there wouldn't be enough in the pharmacy to treat all patients on the Facility.

He turned around to find that Renault had already left. Picking up his analysis bag, he stepped out of the cooler and closed the door behind him. He found Renault on the far side of the kitchen, talking to somebody wearing chef's whites. As Crane approached, Renault turned toward him.

"You are done," he said. It wasn't phrased as a question.

"Yes, except for a few questions I have about the cook who was taken ill. Robert Loiseau."

Renault seemed incredulous. "More questions? That other doctor, the woman, she asked so many before."

"Just a few more."

"You will have to walk with us, then. We are overdue at Receiving."

"Very well." Crane didn't mind-it would give him a chance to observe the transfer of foodstuffs from the Tub to the kitchens, set his mind at ease, remove this as a potential source of contamination. He was quickly introduced to the man in chef's whites-Conrad, the inventory officer-and to two other members of the kitchen staff carrying large food lockers. Then Crane fell in behind the small group, and together they left the kitchen and made their way down the echoing corridors to the elevator.

Renault was busy discussing a shortage of root vegetables with the inventory officer, and Crane had only managed to get in a single question about Loiseau by the time they arrived at deck 12.

"No," Renault said as the doors swept open and he stepped out. "There was no warning. No warning at all."

Crane had not been here since his arrival, but he remembered the way to the Compression Complex. Renault, however, struck out in the opposite direction, threading an intricate path through a maze of narrow corridors.

"The man is still comatose; we haven't been able to ask any questions," Crane said as they walked. "But you're sure nobody saw anything strange or out of the ordinary?"

Renault thought a moment. "I recall Tanner saying that Loiseau looked a little tired."

"Tanner?"

"Our pastry chef."

"Did he elaborate?"

Renault shook his head. "You will have to ask Monsieur Tanner."

"Do you know if Loiseau abused drugs of any kind?"

"Certainly not!" Renault said. "Nobody in my kitchens uses drugs."

Ahead, the corridor ended at a large, oval hatch, guarded by a single marine. Above was a sign that read ACCESS TO OUTER HULL. The marine looked at them in turn, examined a form that Renault passed over, then nodded the group through.

Beyond the hatchway was a small steel passage, illuminated by red bulbs recessed into thick housings. Another hatch lay ahead, closed and barred from the far side. The hatch clanged shut behind them. There was the sound of retractors being swung into place. Slowly, the echoes died away. As they waited in the dim crimson light, Crane became aware of a damp chill, and a faint, briny odor that reminded him of a submarine's bilge.

After a few moments there was another loud scraping noise, this time from in front of them, and then the forward hatchway drew back. They stepped into a smaller chamber. Once again, the hatch behind swung shut, locking automatically. The chill and the smell were more noticeable here. At the end of the chamber, a third steel hatch-larger and heavier than the others-was set. Huge, swinging bolts anchored the hatch shut, and it was guarded by a brace of armed marines. Several signs warning of danger and listing numerous restrictions were fixed to the chamber walls.

For a moment, they waited in silence while the marines again examined Renault's paperwork. Then one of them turned and pressed a red button on a console. A shrill buzzer sounded. With obvious effort, the marines swiveled each of the heavy bolts half a revolution, then together turned the hatch's massive wheel in a counterclockwise direction. There was a clank, then a hiss of escaping air, as the hatchway unsealed itself. Crane felt his ears pop. The marines pushed the hatch outward, then gestured for the group to proceed. The kitchen workers carrying the food lockers stepped through first, followed by Conrad and Renault. Crane fell into place behind them, ready with another question. But then he froze in the hatchway, staring straight ahead, question abruptly forgotten.