Close Up the Sky (13 page)

The roaring maelstrom was almost upon him
now, filling the corridor with cold green radiance. The turbulence of its
approach blew the three specters away like dead leaves, leaving him to face it
alone. The roaring changed to a deep throb as translucent tendrils from the
entity reached out to encircle him in an icy embrace. He had no strength left
to run or fight, and with the resolve of total surrender, he slowly turned to
look into the bony face of death.

He sat bolt
upright in the bed. A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek and caught in the
corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and strained to
see into the darkness. His chest was heaving as though he had been running, and
his shirt was soaked with perspiration. After a few seconds the fog in his
brain began to clear and he realized he was in his bedroom.
A
dream
,
he thought.
I was dreaming
. He
concentrated, but could not remember exactly what the dream was about. He
removed his damp tee shirt, wiped his face with it, and tossed it onto the
floor. When his breathing returned to normal he lay back down and closed his
eyes. After a few minutes he fell asleep again.

This time there
were no dreams.

H
e was up the next morning
before dawn. After showering he went to the closet, removed one of the
jumpsuits and put it on. It was almost a perfect fit. He noted that the lining
was a thin, silver-colored quilting that felt warm against his skin. Several
pockets of various sizes were sewn onto the garment across the chest and along
the legs. Next he put on the boots and laced them tightly. He walked over to
the bedroom mirror and appraised himself.
Looks
like a cross between a commando and a jet pilot
,
he thought
.
His
instructions were to wait for Taylor before leaving his quarters, so to kill
time he sat down and went through Edward's dossier again. The file contained a
mini-history of his brother’s work at Apache Point. Most of the entries were
only a few lines long, referring to geological explorations at various
locations in Asia. After each entry was the word FILE followed by a number. Matt
surmised the number indicated the existence of a more extensive document,
probably covering each expedition in detail. He wondered where those files were
kept, and made a mental note to question Taylor about them. If they were
detailed reports, they might contain the names of other agents with whom Edward
had worked, or at least reveal some clue that would be helpful in solving his
disappearance.

Following that was
a small, bordered box containing numbers. The one he was looking at read
1112.01250. The numbers were meaningless to him, so he added them to his list
of questions for Taylor. He counted the number of entries in the dossier. If each
one represented a different expedition, Edward had made thirty-three trips into
the past. The last one was dated December 11, the day of the disastrous
Egyptian expedition that had ended in the murders of the agents. Today was
January 9. If a day in the past was equal to a day in the present, then the
event had occurred almost a month ago. No wonder Durant's investigator could
not tell exactly how the agents had died; their bodies were probably in an
advanced state of decomposition by that time.

Before closing the
folder, he looked again at the personal information sheet with Edward's
photograph. The center section contained spaces for family references. One of
them requested the name and address of someone to be notified in the event of
an emergency. Written on that line in Edward's neat handwriting were Matt's
name and the address of the Atlanta police department.

Taylor's knock
interrupted his reverie. He opened the door and was surprised to see that she,
too, was wearing one of the jumpsuits. The black material and dark hair made
her bright green eyes a striking focal point.

"Ready?"
She gave him a wide smile.

"Where
to?" He stepped outside and closed the door, Edward's file tucked under
his arm.

"First
breakfast, then the linguistics lab. We have a lot to get done." They
started off down the walkway toward a large building.

"Linguistics
lab? What's that for?"

"Well, you
won't be very effective where we're going unless you know something about the
language, will you? So today you go to school. And I'm the teacher, so raise
your hand before asking any more questions." She punched him playfully in
the ribs with her elbow.

"Okay,
Teach," he said, laughing. "I don't want my palm rapped with a
ruler."

The sun was just
above the horizon, ascending into a clear blue sky. Had it not been for the
situation in which he found himself, he would be looking forward to a beautiful
day in the company of a beautiful woman.

The above ground
cafeteria used by the civilian workers was located just beyond the living
quarters. As they passed the swimming pool he recalled his conversation with
Gail Wilson. As they walked he recounted it to Taylor, leaving out the sexual
overtones.

"That's a
weird conversation even for Gail," she said when he had finished. "What's
the reference to 'a stranger in a strange land'?"

"Seems to me
it's a verse from the Bible, but I can't remember chapter and verse. You said
she was a systems analyst. Exactly what is that; what's her job?"

"Just that,
really. There are hundreds of people assigned to various research projects
here, but most of them are support personnel. Very few are involved directly in
Chronocom operations. In fact, outside of the agents themselves, and the
scientists who operate the machinery, no one even knows of its existence. Gail's
job is to monitor computer information systems to make sure the individual
research units stay coordinated with each other."

"Then she
knows nothing about the Chronocom?"

"Absolutely
nothing. She isn't even cleared for entrance to level 10."

"Level 10?"

"The
Chronocom operations floor. It's in the basement, so to speak."

"Am I cleared
for that level?"

"You will
be."

"Does Gail
have any kind of personal relationship with someone who
does
know about the Chronocom?"

"Gail's the
kind of girl who might have a personal relationship with almost anybody. But
even if she did, no one would be foolish enough to reveal any information about
it." She stopped walking and gave him a quizzical look. "Why do you
ask that?"

“She asked me if I
was looking for a spy. It made me think she may have known more than she was
saying. Maybe about the sabotage of the stellarite?" Taylor pondered his
question for a few seconds, then started them walking again. "No, I don't
see how that’s possible," she responded. "Except for the FBI and our
security chief, Colonel Pope, no one but the operations staff and the agents
know about it. In fact, she shouldn’t even know what stellarite is.” She shook
her head and said, “It must have been simple curiosity about you personally and
she was making small talk."

"Maybe, but
it seems to me she got pretty close to the truth for small talk."

She stopped again
and looked at him. "You suspect she's involved?"

He smiled and took
her arm, continuing their walk. “Probably not. It's just my suspicious nature
at work."

"Well do me a
favor and stay away from her. I'm going to require all your concentration for
the next few days. I'll report the incident to Colonel Pope. Let him handle
it."

"I wish you
wouldn't do that just yet."

"Why
not?"

"You play
poker?"

"Not very
well, why?"

"Let's just
say I don't want any of the players to fold before the pot's big enough."

She gave him a
curious look. "What does that mean?"

"Trust
me."

"I do, but it
works both ways."

He nodded and
grinned. "Okay, Teacher. I think I just learned my first lesson. We don't
hold anything back. Pax?"

"Pax. Now,
what are you thinking?"

"Just that
until we know who and what we're dealing with, everyone is a suspect; including
Gail. Right now let's keep the information to
ourselves
and see what happens. You never can tell when some city slicker might try to
take advantage of a poor 'ol country boy from Georgia."

"Okay, but I
hope you know what you're doing."

"So do
I," he said in a somber tone. "By the way," he continued,
changing the subject. "I went over Edward's file again this morning. There
isn't much information in it."

"That's only
a journey record you have there." she replied, pointing to the folder in
his hand. "The complete narratives are kept in encrypted computer
files."

"Do those
files contain the names of other agents who may have been on expeditions with
him?"

"Sure. They're
complete reports. Why?"

"Would it be
possible for me to see them?"

"Which ones? There
are dozens of them."

"What does
this number mean?" They slowed their pace and he opened the folder to a
random page. He pointed to the digits inside the small box. They read
1604.0923.

"That's the
expedition target date," she explained. "The first four numbers
represent the day and month. This one is April 16th," she pointed to the
first group of numbers. "The next number indicates the year, 923 B.C. All
B.C. dates are preceded by a zero."

He nodded. "I
understand. I want to see all the files as soon as possible. Will you handle
that?"

"I'll take
care of it."

They crossed a small grassy area at the end of the building and walked up
the cafeteria steps, unaware that they were being watched. When they were out
of sight the watcher stepped from behind one of the tall, decorative bushes
lining the walls of the residential courtyard. A look of malevolent hate
twisted his features as he stared after them. Blind rage shook his body and he
bit down hard on his lower lip. After a few seconds the pain prevailed and he
regained control of his emotions. The salty taste of blood filled his mouth and
he spat red froth onto the ground. Soon he would have to deal with both of
them. Except for the support she might render the man, the woman was
inconsequential at the moment. The only danger she represented was her
knowledge and experience in the field. He could afford to ignore her until the
proper time. However, the man was a different matter. The watcher knew who he
was and why he was here. The short hairs on the back of his neck prickled
slightly as he thought about it. The man was not a novice to be taken lightly,
but then, neither was he. When the time was right, Matt Leahy would die. Yes,
in
time
. He chuckled softly at the
pun, and followed them into the cafeteria.

After six days and
nights of almost continuous tutoring, Leahy felt that he knew enough of the
Egyptian tongue to pass as an uneducated foreigner. He could understand most
sentences, and could converse in rudimentary terms. The Apache Point
linguistics lab had a staff of more than thirty scientists working on different
forms of ancient speech. It was equipped with state-of-the-art electronic aids,
including sleep and hypnotic teaching methods. Most of the material that the
technicians worked with came from tapes secretly recorded by agents during
actual conversations with the ancients, so
the teaching base
was not restricted by a language that had never been heard in its native form
.
Here was the actual way words had been pronounced, each consonant and vowel
rolling off the tongues of experts in their use.

He was filled with
wonder as he listened to the voices of men and women long since returned to the
dust from which they had sprung. He visualized their faces, his mind's eye
watching their body movements as they went about their everyday lives. He began
to know them as real people, all with decidedly different personalities and
mannerisms. One of the voices belonged to a man named Sut. From his gruff tone
and short way of speaking, Leahy imagined him as being in his forties, short
and stocky, with piercing black eyes. Sut was used to being in control and had
a sly way of dealing with the time agents, always getting more than he gave. Of
course the agents were willing to give Sut any price that he demanded so long
as excessive generosity on their part did not become suspicious. They had no
interest in making a profit through shrewd trade practices, only in the
acquisition of specific artifacts or knowledge.

It had been
standard operating procedure from the beginning that the agents disguise
themselves as traders when dealing with the ancients as that would be the most
effective way of accounting for language discrepancies and ignorance of local
customs. Most of the trade items consisted of synthetic fabrics, costume
jewelry, spices, and unguents manufactured in the Apache Point laboratories. All
trade goods were carefully chosen and matched to the time period in which each
expedition would be operating. Everything except food was manufactured using a
chemical
process which
ensured that nothing would
survive the test of time. Fabrics gradually disintegrated over a few years,
while other objects were designed to give no indication of their modern
origins, thus ensuring that no archaeologist would ever discover anything from
the twenty-first century during a dig. Leahy amused himself by wondering if the
women of the far past had been introduced to panty hose, and what they did when
the material developed runs.

Items of a
technical nature, no matter how simple, were strictly prohibited. It had been
learned early in the program that using trade goods the ancients could not
understand might bring disastrous results. One incident of such an occurrence
had become mandatory study for all newly appointed agents. That particular
disaster had happened during an attempt to acquire information about the dark
ages of Europe. Two agents were killed and another seriously injured when they
offered a box of wooden matches to a tribe of German barbarians in exchange for
an old Roman document. The agents knew nothing of the tribe's superstitions,
and when one of the small sticks of wood burst into flame they were attacked
and bludgeoned. They were unaware that in the barbarians’ religion, only demons
could produce fire by magic. It was a lesson learned at high cost, but one that
helped establish safety procedures designed to avoid similar mistakes in other
missions.