The Third Gate

8

The airboat slowed to a crawl, gave a blast of its horn. Almost at once, a rectangle of lights came on beneath one of the huge tarps. Logan watched, fascinated despite his weariness, as a bank of mosquito netting was drawn back from beneath the tarp like a curtain from a theater stage. Slowly, they glided beneath the tarp and into a covered marina. To their left was another huge airboat identical to the one they were on; to their right, moored to short, floating piers, were numerous smaller craft and Jet Skis.

Plowright maneuvered the vessel into its slip, and somebody in shorts and a flowered shirt trotted down the pier to tie them up. With a whisper, the external netting was drawn back into place. Logan glanced at it: beyond the glow and sparkle of the marina lights, the Sudd was a wall of blackness.

Dr. Rush led the way down the gangplank and onto the pier. “This way,” he said, ushering Logan onto a walkway made of stamped metal, then through a doorway and down a long, tunnel-like floating pier and onto what seemed to be an immense, bargelike structure covered by another vast sheet of what appeared to be opaque Mylar, almost in the fashion of a circus tent.

“Seven p.m., local time,” Rush added. Even at this hour the air was sticky and oppressive. From the darkness beyond the netting, Logan could hear, amid the patter of raindrops, a strange fugal drone of insects, frogs, and other less-identifiable creatures.

He looked around. “Does this thing have a name?”

Rush laughed. “Nothing official. Most people just call it the Station-after Heart of Darkness, I suppose. The six primary floating structures, the ‘wings,’ that make up the base are color coded, and they’re referred to by their colors. The one we’re entering now is Green. It’s where the back-office work of the expedition is done: interfacing with suppliers, transportation coordination, vessel and equipment maintenance, that sort of thing. It’s also the, ah, public face of the expedition-such as it is.”

They were now walking down a narrow passageway, rather grimy and scuffed, studded with open doors. It was cooler inside this enclosed structure, and Logan noticed that the walls were, in fact, painted green. He peered curiously into the rooms on either side. They were full of computers, video cameras on tripods, whiteboards covered with diagrams and legends. Messy-looking laboratories-apparently, ecological and biological setups-had complete suites of scientific equipment and paraphernalia for collecting samples. The rooms all had one thing in common: they were dark, devoid of any activity.

“What’s all this?” Logan said, nodding toward one of the open doors.

“The public face I mentioned.”

Logan shook his head. “Unique or not, why study something as godforsaken as this place?”

Rush chuckled. “That’s exactly what the local government thinks-and what we want them to think. Why document a swamp that’s been universally reviled ever since it was first discovered? But of course they were happy to take some money in exchange for the necessary permits. That’s probably the only benefit of being situated here-nobody’s likely to drop in for a surprise visit. We had an official flown in when the site first went active. We didn’t make it easy to get here, and we were sure to turn off the air-conditioning while he was on location. We don’t expect any future interruptions-but of course, if necessary, these decoy labs and offices could be up and running within five minutes.”

They made their way along Green’s central passageway, now passing offices that were, it appeared, real: Logan made out someone typing at a terminal, another speaking into a field radio. They turned down another passage, which led to a dark, circular opening covered by wide, ceiling-to-floor strips of semiopaque plastic. Logan was reminded of the mouth of a baggage carousel. Rush pushed his way past the plastic strips, and Logan followed. Suddenly, he was outdoors again, in a narrow tube of mosquito netting, supported by pontoons. It was pitch-black, and-if anything-the insect noise had increased, completely overwhelming the drone of the generators. Listening, Logan didn’t think he could bear to spend a night outdoors with such an infernal racket.

As they traversed the long walkway, it rocked back and forth, and Logan could hear sucking, sopping noises emanating from beneath their feet. Clearly, they were moving from one of the primary floating barges to another.

“All these structures are anchored to the bed of the Sudd,” Rush said. “Very precisely anchored, too-there can be no shifting, not even by so much as half a meter. Our work is dependent on GPS positioning. But you’ll see that for yourself soon enough.”

“Remarkable.”

“The most remarkable part isn’t even visible. As you might imagine, a swamp like the Sudd throws off a lot of methane. There are collection devices underneath each of the wings. The methane is concentrated and processed into clean-burning fuel in special chambers. Then it’s piped out to the two external generators. It’s also used as fuel for everything from the boats to the Bunsen burners. We’re almost completely energy independent.”

“That’s amazing. Why doesn’t everyone do it?”

“Well, rotting vegetation doesn’t cover the rest of the earth-thank God.”

“Of course.” Logan laughed. “Isn’t it a little dangerous?”

“Having natural gas pipes running through your house is probably dangerous, too. It’s a closed system, monitored twenty-four seven, the whole thing set up with a safety mechanism that’s fully automatic. And flying in thousands of gallons of oil and gas on a regular basis might raise eyebrows. Besides, Stone not only likes to fly below the radar but prefers to leave no trace behind, do as little damage to the environment as possible. This helps accomplish that.”

They passed through another barrier into a second vast enclosure, this one painted a pale azure, the dome high overhead arching over cubicles with seven-foot walls. “This is Blue,” Rush said. “Crew quarters.”

Activity here was more pronounced. They passed a recreation room with pinball machines and shuffleboard layouts; then a mini-library with comfortable chairs, magazines, and racks of paperbacks; next, a lounge where several groups of four were sitting around card tables, immersed in games. Logan could hear laugher, snippets of conversation in French, German, and English.

“Believe it or not, bridge has become a tradition on Porter Stone’s digs,” Rush said. “It’s encouraged during off-hours. Stone believes that it gets people’s minds off the day’s stress, helps prevent brooding over the isolation and the separation from loved ones, while at the same time keeping the mind sharp.”

“How many people are on the site?”

“I don’t recall the exact number. Somewhere around a hundred and fifty.”

They paused outside what appeared to be half commissary, half mess. “Want a bite to eat before I show you to your quarters?” Rush asked.

Logan shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Let me get you something anyway, just in case.” Rush disappeared inside. Logan waited in the corridor, observing the activity within. There were at least a dozen people in the mess, eating dinner. The atmosphere was remarkably heterogeneous: scientists in lab coats were practically bumping elbows with rough-looking roustabouts begrimed by mud or motor oil.

Rush reappeared in the doorway with a paper bag. “Here’s a BLT, an apple, and a can of iced tea,” he said. “Just in case you get peckish.”

He led the way around a bend and into a dormitory area. The chatter was louder here: conversations, laughter, the blare of music from digital players, movies playing on laptops or flat-screen monitors.

Rush stopped before a closed door marked 032. “This is yours,” he said, opening the door and ushering Logan inside. Beyond lay a room, spartan but neat, furnished with a desk, bed, two chairs, a closet, and a set of drawers flush with the wall.

“They’ll bring your luggage ’round in a few minutes,” Rush said. “And tomorrow we’ll get you officially processed and start the orientation. But now you must be tired.”

“Make that overwhelmed.”

Rush smiled. “I have to check in with Medical. Want to meet for breakfast? Say, eight o’clock?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you then.” Rush grasped his shoulder, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.

The soundproofing was better than expected: the noises in the hallway immediately sank to a murmur. Logan was setting his watch to local time when there came a knock on the door and his luggage was brought in by a young man with a thatch of carrot-colored hair. Logan thanked him, closed the door, then lay down on the bed. He wasn’t fatigued, exactly, but he needed a while to sort out in his head all the surprises and revelations of the last thirty-six hours. It seemed almost unbelievable: here he was, in a vast complex of platforms, connected by walkways, shrouded by canvas and mosquito netting, and everything floating atop a dismal swamp, hundreds of miles from anywhere…

Five minutes later he was fast asleep, dreaming that he was standing atop a pyramid, alone and marooned, surrounded by an endless sea of heaving, steaming quicksand.