Fade Out (45 page)

‘They probably saved themselves a few aeroplanes,' said Connors. He shook his head, remembering a particularly close shave that, even now, caused a shiver to run down his spine whenever it came to mind – usually when he lay in bed, trying to get to sleep. ‘All that was a long, long time ago.'

‘It was indeed,' said Allbright aimiably. ‘In fact, you weren't even called Connors then.'

‘That's right,' replied Connors, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. ‘The thing was, I always had to keep spelling my other name.'

Connors and Wedderkind left Crow Ridge just after 1 P.M. At the base camp, they went through the regular medical checks. By now, the NASA team had streamlined their techniques and the careful processing only took thirty-five minutes instead of the original sixty. Apparently satisfied that Connors and Wedderkind were still 100 per cent human, the NASA team passed them through the gate into the outside world.

At Glasgow AFB, the now-familiar Jetstar was waiting to take them back to Washington.

The moment they became airborne, Connors unstrapped his wristwatch and wound it forward to 5:15 P.M. Washington time.

He looked across the table at Wedderkind and wondered if he had any inkling that he was preparing to sell the project down the river. He tried to analyse his decision. Was it fear – or frustration at their failure to make any headway? But then, what gave them the right to expect they could understand everything the universe contained?

The Jetstar's captain ducked through the door from the
flight deck and walked down to where Connors and Wedderkind were sitting. ‘Ah – I thought you might like to know we just lost our radar and UHF frequencies.'

Connors exchanged a startled glance with Wedderkind, then looked back at the captain. ‘Fade-out?'

The captain nodded. ‘Yes. Looks like it's back again. But don't worry, we shouldn't have too much of a problem. We still have short-wave and medium-wave band radio links.'

‘That may take care of us,' said Connors. ‘But all hell must be breaking loose in Chicago, New York, and Washington.'

‘Oh, God, yes,' said Wedderkind. ‘I hope this doesn't turn into another day of disaster.'

‘It won't be as bad. The airlines have all cut back their schedules.'

‘Do you want us to push on, or divert to the nearest Air Force Base?' asked the captain.

‘Do you think you can make it?'

The captain grinned at Connors. ‘If I didn't, I wouldn't give you the option. The way I read it, by the time we get into Washington air space everything else should be on the ground – one way or the other.'

‘How's the weather up ahead?' asked Connors.

‘Pretty good. There shouldn't be too much trouble if everyone sticks to the emergency procedures.'

‘Yes,
if
,' said Connors. ‘Still – I think we ought to try for Washington. Okay, Arnold?'

‘Sure, go ahead. You know my philosophy. When your time comes it comes – whether you're in the air or in the bathtub.'

Connors nodded to the pilot. ‘We're in your hands.'

‘Okay. We're going to take her up to thirty-five thousand to keep well clear of the mess. I'll keep you posted on any further deterioration.'

‘Thanks.' Connors watched the captain go back on to the flight deck. He looked at Wedderkind. ‘The last fade-out was to cover Crusoe's landing. What does this new one signify – takeoff?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Is that the best you can do?'

‘I'm not a mindreader, Bob. He could be preparing to leave. Is that what you want him to do?'

‘I think it would save us a lot of trouble,' said Connors. It was a seductive scenario. Crusoe would go away. The project would be quietly buried and everyone would just go home. The world need never know about his visit. There would be no need for any dramatic decisions on Connors' part. He would be freed from that Montana rockpile that hung round his neck like the Ancient Mariner's albatross. He could go back to the relatively simple earthly traumas of the White House, go to sleep without worrying, go on vacation with Charly.

‘It would also rob Man of the chance of finding out the truth about himself,' said Wedderkind. ‘Crusoe could hold the key to the questions we've been asking for centuries. Don't you want to know the answers?'

Not really, Arnold, thought Connors. He was tired of the constant speculation, frustrated by the lack of tangible progress and, above all, frightened by Crusoe's disruptive powers and the dangerous situation created by his continuing presence. And on a more personal level, a grasp of the cosmic realities wasn't going to remove the small wart on the back of his neck, reduce the astronomical bill he'd recently received from the power company, or replace the handle that had fallen off his freezer. Arnold had this insane idea that if they tried hard enough and long enough, the secrets of the universe would be revealed to them. Connors didn't want to understand. He didn't want to know the answers. Knowing would make life too
difficult. Impossible. But there was no point in telling Wedderkind that.

‘Of course I want to know,' said Connors. ‘Isn't that what this whole operation's about?'

The manner of Friday's death gave the research group plenty to talk about, and they decided to reassemble the hull platform around the hatch to see if it would still open. Within a few seconds of the decision being voiced Crusoe blanketed the whole of the Ridge with a new improved force field that shut off everything from the overhead TV cameras to Allbright's electric iron.

It caught them totally unprepared, and it took a couple of hours to get everything straightened out and for everybody to get used to the idea and to the scale of the problem. This new cutoff zone was no five-hundred-yard affair. It had immobilized a couple of jeeps three miles away on the dirt road up to the Ridge.

When Connors arrived at the White House a few minutes after nine o'clock, he found that nearly everybody except the duty staff had gone home. Marion Wilson, however, was still at her typewriter. She told him that the President was upstairs in his private apartment and that Connors was expected.

‘Did the fade-out give you any problems?'

‘It was a little bit hairy on the way in,' admitted Connors. ‘But by the time we got to Washington, the emergency procedures were in force. Has the boss had an up-to-date situation report?'

‘Yes,' said Marion.

‘Have there been many bad accidents?'

‘Not too many. The airlines have shut down again. The State Department has been in contact with our embassies, and Defense got a roundup from our overseas bases. The fade-out is worldwide and building. People are stranded everywhere.'

‘Yeah, the last two months haven't been too good for the travel business,' said Connors. He flicked a corner of the pile of papers next to Marion's typewriter. ‘Looks like you're going to be here all night.'

Marion peeked at Connors over the top of her glasses. ‘In that case, we may yet have breakfast together.'

‘My office or yours?' asked Connors.

‘Make it the canteen,' said Marion. ‘What the hell, let's tell the world.'

Connors went up to the President's apartment. The President shook his hand and took him through into his study.

‘Marion told me you've had a situation report.'

The President nodded. ‘Yes. Mel Fraser tells me the characteristics of the fade-out are the same as before.'

‘That's good. It means we've got about a week before we lose the medium waves and twelve days before the last of the long-wave transmissions are wiped out. That should give us plenty of time to get ourselves organized.'

‘What was Arnold's reaction?'

‘He's worried, obviously. I tried to drag out a prediction that this new burst of interference was a prelude to Crusoe's departure, but Arnold wouldn't commit himself. How could he? He didn't ask to be written in as the oracle on this project. The interesting thing is that a lot of his guesses have been right on the nose. He was right about Crusoe radiating ultraviolet light, for example.'

‘What are his views about this telepathic contact with Crusoe?'

The question took Connors by surprise, but he managed not to show it. ‘Where did you get that story from?'

‘I think it was something Allbright mentioned to Fraser.'

‘That must have brought back the colour to his cheeks. Hell, I've come back here to recommmend termination. If I'd been brainwashed, I'd be telling you everything was under control.'

‘Yes, I suppose you would…'

‘It's true the idea's been kicked around on the Ridge,' said Connors. ‘But so have a lot of other outlandish ideas. Whatever any of us may have thought previously, that one was finally killed yesterday – along with Friday.' Connors related how Friday, long considered an immovable object, had met the irresistible force of Lee Ryder's sledgehammer. ‘And God knows, it wasn't as if they didn't telegraph their intentions. Friday just didn't get the message until the jeep ran him over.'

‘So they
are
vulnerable.'

‘Friday was. We thought he was made from the same virtually indestructible material as Crusoe, but he caved in like a cheap tin toy – and then evaporated. Crusoe, though, is something else. He's built like a bank vault. But even they've been blown open from time to time.'

The President eyed Connors. ‘Are you suggesting we give Crusoe the same treatment?'

‘Yes,' said Connors. ‘That's the easy part. The hard part is deciding just how we are going to do it. But maybe someone's already thought about that…'

‘Yes… do you think we ought to wait to see if Crusoe is going to take off?'

‘No. I think we ought to move right ahead. If it takes off before we're ready, then so much the better.'

‘Have you discussed this decision with Arnold?'

‘No, just Allbright. Arnold's bound to scream a little
when I break the news, but there's nothing we can do about that. Ordinarily he's tuned in on the political realities, but this time he seems to have got carried away. I don't like going behind his back, but…' Connors shrugged.

The President smiled. ‘You can always blame the decision on me.'

‘Don't worry,' said Connors cheerfully. ‘I will.'

‘Where is Arnold, by the way?'

‘He had to go up to Baltimore with his wife. It's either his sister or sister-in-law who's sick. I can't remember.'

‘Oh… that's a pity,' said the President. ‘I was going to ask him what happened to his contacts with the Russians.'

‘Karamatov went home,' said Connors. ‘And the Kremlin took everyone else's phone off the hook.'

The President nodded, consulted a notebook on his desk and dialled a number. Connors heard it ring four times before it was answered. ‘Hello, Mel?'

Connors wondered how long the President had been calling Fraser at his home number.

‘Mel, I've got Bob with me. He's put in an action recommendation which ties in with our thinking on the Crusoe Project. I think it's about time you two got together on this… Okay, how soon can you get over here?… Good, bring Chuck Clayson along. Oh, and Mel, I want to brief Bob on Commissar. Make sure you have all the information with you… Right, we'll meet in my downstairs office.' The President put down the phone.

‘Commissar?'

‘It's the code name we've assigned to a second craft that landed in Russia.'

Connors did his best to look surprised.

Arnold Wedderkind had a late supper with his wife Lillian at their home in Washington, looked at the latest pictures of his grandson, then took a quick nap while she drove him to Baltimore in the pouring rain. Wetherby was waiting for them at Wedderkind's sister-in-law's house.

Wetherby borrowed the sister-in-law's car, drove around to the alley at the back of the house, and picked up Wedderkind.

‘You don't really think anyone's following us, do you?'

‘I don't know,' said Wedderkind. ‘I just have an odd feeling that someone's plotting something and that we could be in danger.'

‘Who, the research group?'

‘Not all of them. You won't be involved.'

Wetherby smiled. ‘You've been reading the coffee grounds again…'

‘Has anything new come in?'

‘Yes, you're in luck,' said Wetherby, ‘Thillippe Kerjac just sent us the data from the
Prince Albert.'

Named after the royal Monegasque patron of oceanography, the
Prince Albert
was a French research ship operating in the Indian Ocean.

‘Does it fit into the pattern?' asked Wedderkind.

‘George is just finding out now. He's over in the research block. It's not far, but we'd better drive there. I know you hate getting wet.'

From experience, Wedderkind knew that by Wetherby's standard of measurement, not far meant anything up to three miles. Years ago, when he'd first met Wetherby in London, he had found himself striding beside him across Hampstead Heath without a coat, with the winddriven midsummer rain cutting into them horizontally. He had never forgotten Wetherby turning
to him with a happy grin and saying, ‘Marvellous, isn't it?' There were a lot of Englishmen like that.

It was a mile and a half to the research block. The rain had stopped by the time they got there. Wetherby unlocked the front door and led the way down to the basement and through the double set of doors into the faintly antiseptic environment that housed the computer.

‘I loathe these damn things,' said Wetherby. ‘But they really are amazing, Wait till you see what George has produced.'

York was sitting in front of a large twenty-one-inch visual display screen. Below it was an IBM keyboard which he was using to interrogate the computer. He gave them a little wave as they walked in but didn't get up.