Deep Storm

7

Crane stood in the silence of his quarters on deck 10, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The room was small, and-like the rest of the Facility-softly lit. There was a narrow bed, two chairs, a walk-in dressing alcove, and a desk with a terminal that was linked to the Facility's central network. Beside the desk, a comm unit set into the wall allowed Crane to dial the Medical suite, reseve a lane at the bowling alley, even order a pizza delivery from Times Square. Save for a large flat-panel television, the light-blue walls were devoid of prints or decoration.

There were two doors of the same strange platinum-hued metal he'd seen elsewhere, but here they were tastefully edged in blond wood. One led to the outside corridor, the other to the bath he shared with Roger Corbett. The mental health officer had offered to take him to lunch at Top, the prosaically named mess on deck 11. Crane said he'd meet him there. He wanted a few minutes alone first.

A sealed folder lay on the desk, his name and a bar code imprinted along one edge. Crane picked up the folder, broke the seal with a fingernail, and dumped the contents onto the desk. Out fell a bulky name tag with a magnetic stripe and pocket clip; another copy of Code of Classified Naval Conduct; a two-page bibliography of books on Atlantis, all available in the library or for download to his terminal; and an envelope that contained a list of temporary passwords for the general and medical computer networks.

He clipped the ID to his pocket. Then he sat down at the desk and stared a moment at the blank screen. At last, with a sigh, he booted up the terminal and logged on with his temporary password, pausing to massage the spot on his upper arm where the radio tag had been inserted a few minutes earlier. Opening the text editor, he began to type.

Non-specific symptomology:

physiological- amp; neurological??-deficits

amp; psychological-detachment / dissociation

Check clinical presentations

Look for index case?

Atmospheric / environmental?

Poisoning: systemic or general?

Preexisting condition(s)?

He pushed back from the desk and glanced at the screen. Caisson disease? Nitrogen narcosis? he'd asked Asher from the Storm King oil platform. More the former than the latter, had been the reply. Crane was only now beginning to understand just how evasive that answer had been. In fact, Dr. Asher-as affable and open as he appeared to be-had so far told him next to nothing.

This was annoying, maybe even a little alarming. But in one respect it didn't really matter. Because, at last, Crane was beginning to understand why Asher had so specifically requested him-

"Is it all becoming clear, then?" asked a voice at his shoulder.

Crane almost leapt out of his seat in surprise. He wheeled around, heart racing, to see a rather astonishing sight. An old man in faded bib overalls was standing there. He had piercing blue eyes, and a shock of silvery hair stuck up, Einstein-like, from his forehead. He was very short-no taller than five feet-and gaunt. For a moment, Crane wondered if he'd come to repair something. The door to the room was closed. There had been no knock, no sound of entry. It was as if the man had materialized out of thin air.

"Excuse me?"

The man looked over Crane's shoulder at the screen. "My, my. So few words, so many question marks."

Crane cleared the screen with the touch of a key. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting," he said drily.

The man laughed: a high, piping sound like the twitter of a bird. "I know. I came to make your acquaintance. I heard there was a Dr. Crane on board and that intrigued me." He held out his hand. "The name's Flyte. Dr. Flyte."

"Pleased to meet you."

An awkward silence followed and Crane sought a neutral, polite question. "What's your role here, Dr. Flyte?"

"Autonomous mechanical systems."

"What's that?"

"Spoken like a true newcomer. The Facility is like a frontier town-and, if you're a fan of Western movies, as I am, you would know that in a frontier town there are two questions you don't ask: Where do you come from? And: Why are you here?" Flyte paused. "Suffice to say, I'm indispensable-more's the pity. My work is highly classified."

"That's nice," said Crane lamely, at a loss for a reply.

"You think so? Not I. This is no happy assignment, Dr. Crane, here so far beneath."

Crane blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"Bless me, not another!" Flyte raised his eyes skyward. "Does no one speak the mother tongue anymore? There was a time when ancient Greek was sung upon every civilized lip." He wagged a finger at Crane. "'Ocean, who is the source of all.' Homer, you see, was a countryman of mine. You would do well to read him."

Crane resisted an impulse to glance at his watch. Roger Corbett was waiting for him in Top. "It was nice meeting you-"

"And you," Flyte interrupted. "I am a great admirer of any practitioners of the noble art."

Crane began to feel a swell of annoyance. He wondered how a man like Flyte had managed to slip through the vetting process everyone must have undergone before being admitted to the Facility. The best way to handle things, he decided, was to cut short any attempts at friendship on his part.

"Dr. Flyte, I'm sure you've got as busy a day ahead as I do-"

"Not at all! I've all the time in the world…at the moment. It's only when the drilling resumes that they might need me and my artistry." He held up his small hands and wiggled his fingers as if he were a concert pianist.

The man's bright eyes began to wander and fell once again on the open duffel. "What have we here?" he asked, reaching down and picking up a couple of books peeking out of the open duffel. He held up one of them, An Anthology of Twentieth Century Poetry.

"What is the meaning of this?" the man demanded crossly.

"What does it look like?" said Crane, exasperated. "It's a book of poetry."

"I have no time for modern poetry, and neither should you. Like I said: read Homer." The man dropped the book back onto the duffel and glanced at the other volume, Pi: Its History and Mystery. "Aha! And this?"

"It's a book about irrational numbers."

The man laughed and nodded. "Indeed! And how appropriate, no?"

"Appropriate for what?"

The man looked up at him in surprise. "Irrational numbers! Don't you see?"

"No. I don't see."

"It's so obvious. A number of us here are irrational, aren't we? If we're not, I fear we soon will be." He extended a wiry index finger and tapped Crane on the chest. "That's why you're here. Because it's broken."

"What's broken?"

"Everything is broken," Flyte repeated in an urgent whisper. "Or at least, will be very soon."

Crane frowned. "Dr. Flyte, if you don't mind-"

Flyte held up one hand. The mood of sudden urgency seemed to pass. "It hasn't occurred to you yet, but we have something in common." He paused significantly.

Crane swallowed. He was not about to ask what it was. But it seemed that Flyte needed no encouragement.

The man leaned forward, as if to share a confidence. "Our names. Crane. Flyte. You understand?"

Crane sighed. "No offense, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I have a lunch appointment I'm already late for."

The tiny old man cocked his head to one side and grasped Crane's hand. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr. Crane. As I said, we've got something in common, you and I. And we need to stick together."

With a parting wink he ducked outside, leaving the door open. A moment later Crane went to close it, and he glanced curiously down the long corridor. It was empty, and there was no sign of the strange old man. It was as if he'd never been there at all.