Staff economist, Hampton. Chief meteorologist, Shields. Medical officer, Ashton. Transport manager, Clausen. Quinsel of Census and Demographics. Marquart of Communications. Security head and chief intelligence officer, Welton. All reliable and efficient to a fault, they were the nucleus of covert power in modern devastated America.
Sitting in their midst, Royce Corealis never felt he could truly call any one of them friend. But that seemed a fair enough compromise for the monumental task they'd shouldered together in the name of their country—a task which now teetered, pointless and floundering.
"Just like that?" protested the first voice to thaw. "Warrington decides to surrender, so it's all over?"
"He can't!" joined a second. "It's . . . unconstitutional."
"The Constitution is a tired old piece of paper without much current relevance," snorted a third. "Like the man said, Emergency Order 8D966 puts him in the driver's seat on any decision of national concern he chooses to orchestrate. That includes surrendering the entire country for its believed betterment, unless somebody cares to stop him."
"Regardless of what he wants—or thinks he can do," returned the second, "ours is a project that doesn't officially exist in the first place. So he has no control over it."
"Maybe. But surrendering national sovereignty to the World Finance Council is something he has plenty of control over. There's no dedicated Congress or Senate to oppose things anymore. All the regional governing groups have gravitated to practical matters closer to their own homes—and that's their individual survival.
"Face it, through disregard, the presidency has reverted back to its original father figure supremacy. Just like a monarchy, with all the now tragically obvious potential for dictatorship."
"Wait a minute," said the meteorologist, Shields, walking over.
"Royce never really did bring up the project, did you, Royce? So maybe we're just getting the cart before the horse. If we take Warrington aside and explain things as a group, he'll see it our way. He's an objective person and, deep inside, still every bit a politician."
Welton, the intelligence man retorted. "Objective? Objective enough to have been totally bypassed up to now for the sake of project security. He's always been a borderline progressive. And from what Royce says, he's gone over all the way now.
"What happens if we do take the chance, show our cards, and can't bring him into the fold? We stand to lose a lot more than just wasted dollars and a lost cause if this comes to light.
"The world court is always looking to make public examples of covert actions detrimental to the Manna Project—let alone what might be considered an entire secret society like ours."
Clausen spoke up. "If we're really committed to this program, we can't allow either possibility. Until the opportunity presents itself for an organized election or some chance for us to replace him with a more agreeable successor, the man is in power indefinitely. We need to face the plain fact: If Warrington can't be brought in, he needs to be diverted."
"How?"
"By any means required."
"And what do you suggest, lock the President of the United States in his room like some naughty little boy?"
Clausen's blue eyes iced over. "If it can be done simply that way, yes. If not, whatever it takes."
The implication smothered further talk.
Outside the debate to this point, Corealis' eyes rose slowly in the heavy silence. Looking back, Quinsel gave voice to the wall of flushed faces encircling the director.
"Royce? What do you say? You've spearheaded this project from day one. How do you call it?"
"Yes," Shields chimed in. "You know him better than the rest of us. You're the only one who he's ever gotten close to. Is he actually serious about this nonsense?"
The director nodded soberly.
"Blame me. There simply wasn't enough busywork to keep him occupied. It left him with too much free time on his hands. All his reading and radio room eavesdropping seemed a harmless enough diversion and it kept him from being underfoot. Who could've guessed where it would lead?"
"So, we have no alternative then," said Shields, spreading upturned palms and walking away. "No matter how close we are to the end, for the sake of our own skins we'd better just pull the plug on the program here and now, count our blessings, and not look back."
"And what about the country club members?" added another voice. "What do we do with them?"
"Same thing that's been planned all along. Parcel off the team and bury them in isolated labs."
"Uh-uh. That was the plan only once the work was successful. Think it over. If we abandon this thing now, we'd have a handful of people thought dead for three years just reappear. Regardless of where we put them, word would get out. Sure, we can stop, all right. But we can't quit."
There Corealis finally entered the fray. "The first thing we do is keep our heads," he declared. "It's a matter of finding some quick means to get and keep the upper hand in this problem. And we start by forgetting our individual emotions and remembering our pledge—to the project and each other."
His tone braced the group's flagging mettle.
"Okay, Royce," agreed Clausen. "What do we do?"
"The same as was planned all along. We let the team finish up their work. In the meantime, we make preparations for the close-down of the base."
Thom Ashton, the team physician, up to now removed from the discussion, spoke up.
"Once again, from a purely medical point of view, I vigorously emphasize the need for an immediate removal of the station personnel—regardless of how close to finishing up they are."
Marquart looked over impatiently. "You're not going to drag on again about their sniffles, are you, Thom?"
The medic kept an even tone in spite of the familiar antagonism.
"Minimize the situation if you like, Brad, but my primary responsibility has been to ensure the project's success by maintaining the physical and mental well-being of its researchers, not to mention their basic value as human beings."
The doctor's eyes moved accusingly about the room.
"I also remind everyone here that it's been anything but an easy chore monitoring those people long distance, like I've had to do. A smattering of periodic saliva dabs and respiratory felts is no way to do business.
"That research team has been working with very potent plant toxins out there. Their so-called 'sniffles,' Brad, are—again—elevated blood allergens. Trace alkaloids are present in many of the exotic grasses they've been blending; not to mention all the synthetic concentrates and extracts they've been subjected to.
"The heartiness of Sudan grass alone has made it a keystone in their studies. Yet, immature plants have toxic levels of naturally occurring prussic acid—cyanide. The country club has been distilling and genetically altering great quantities of that same grass extract since the start."
A couple of members groaned over the well-covered ground. But the medic continued: "Even with adequate safeguards, you cannot simply leave people continually immersed in an adverse environment. Minute amounts of compounds, as they've been working with, are bound to get absorbed into their systems. The body can flush out a certain amount of contaminants on its own, sure. But even so, trace levels have a cumulative effect. And after three years, those people have crested the limits of acceptable tolerance. For their own good, they must be removed from that environment and detoxified immediately."
Corealis exchanged a sidelong glance with Welton, the security man, then drew a breath, addressing the doctor.
"Thom, once again, I appreciate what you're saying. But you've just agreed yourself that this project has been an arduous maneuver. We've made the best balance possible under the circumstances facing us."
The security man joined in reassuringly. "That's right. We're so close to wrapping this whole thing up, surely a few more days can't matter. Besides, they're the experts who better understand what they've been dealing with than we ever could. Has anyone heard complaints? When they're done we'll give them all a nice long vacation."
The doctor wasn't swayed. "A few days lounging about some R and R center won't fix things. Long term, they may already be in line for a degree of irreversible liver or kidney damage."
Abruptly matching tones, Corealis cut to the chase. "And short term?"
Realizing his disadvantage, the medic remained determined. "At the very least, the distinct possibility of mental impairment, hampered decision-making—confusion. After the withering momentum and complete isolation of their last thirty-six months, it's not too late in the game for some sort of individual—or even group—mental breakdown."
"You're saying that this close to the end, they might actually become dangerous; destructive?"
"Unintentionally, yes; possibly. Anyone familiar with the psychological profiles of hard-core researchers knows they are a narrowly focused bunch, individuals who have to be handled in a very sheltered and kid-glove sort of way. Most aren't equipped to deal with issues as commonplace and practical as food and shelter—let alone ever being confronted by the potential for a dark side of their work."
Economist Hampton muffled a snort.
"That's part of the reason they were stuck out in the middle of nowhere to begin with. We'd feed them. We'd clothe them. They'd have each other, but be totally dependant on us.
"Be realistic, Thom. These are lab nerds for Pete's sake, not dock workers. Keener's breed doesn't walk off the job or revert to savagery. If you know their kind as well as you claim, you'd also know the one thing they'd never do is abandon or sabotage their work. It's all they have in life. It
is
their life.
"Hell, if you pumped that whole garden party full of LSD I still doubt they'd know how to get rowdy. And remember, we threw in a 'housekeeper' to sweeten the pot. That fact alone has got to knock your data off kilter."
Nervous grins flashed around the room as Hampton finished.
But the doctor maintained his dignity, adding a final declaration. "Exhausted people in normal, healthy surroundings make catastrophic mistakes when pushed. We've taken already-spent persons and turned the speed up on them."
"Only through necessity," countered Quinsel. "You know Skylock's breaking, same as the rest of us. We're in a race to finish the product, get it in a can, and on the shelf."
There, the doctor jabbed an emphasizing finger to the table.
"The facts of what I say remain and I'm telling everyone here. Either we get them out now, regardless of how close the project is to completion or I swear I will quit this program and personally go to Warrington to get them out."
Brows raised and bodies stiffened.
"The hell you say!" challenged one voice. "You signed in on this thing, same as the rest of us!"
"In for a penny; in for a pound!" joined another.
Corealis got to his feet, diplomatically intervening.
"Easy, everyone, easy. Going at each other will serve no purpose. Let's all take a deep breath."
He patiently addressed the defiant medic. "No one is criticizing your ethics, Thom. I personally appreciate your professional concern and frustration. It means you care and that's the glue that's united us from the start. But we have to stay realistic, if we hope to finish.
"I also applaud what you speak of from a personal level. Doctor Keener has indeed undergone some obvious attitude changes, turned somewhat critical and antagonistic. I've had my own hands full trying to keep him on track."
Feeling the medic settle back, Corealis offered a morsel of indulgence.
"Would you be satisfied if someone was sent out to babysit them, Thom? It's the best I can offer."
The medic mulled it over, giving a reconciled nod. "That's a start, yes. But right away. Someone who could issue concentrated diuretics to start flushing their renal systems. And I personally don't care what kind of excuse is made for his appearance there."
Corealis nodded in return. He looked about the group, agreeably. "For starters, how about yourself?"
The doctor's eyes flared in surprise. But he didn't object.
"We need field agents to chaperon the base shutdown anyway," reasoned the director. "If you say we should have someone out there, okay. And I have no problem with sending people a little early—including you as the man best equipped to treat our scientists."
Royce watched a dazed sort of vindication settle over the now quiet medic. He then looked to the meteorologist. "Ryan, I understand the latest SHAPP data confirms that the ion storm we banked on is brewing prematurely over Greenland?"
Shields nodded. "It's also grown to a number ten magnitude cell that will slide right down over the east-west corridor in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The usual high power EM forces will be dumped all along the route. But this one will also carry a lot of supplementary weather which will come down hard in the far west. The lead elements will definitely mask an excursion. But if your team can't beat it back, they'll have to find some place to weather out the secondary effects. And they will be rough. There still is some time left in the clean air window. But that's also closing fast. So any radio transmissions you might want to send in advance had better go soon."
Corealis shook his head. "Better that our people show up unannounced." He turned to Clausen, the transportation manager. "You're certain your special bird can handle something this strong?"
"In its stride," replied the lean hawk-faced man. "When we christened it an all-weather flier, we meant it. Including the worst-case EM hurricane. No need to risk a crew at all if you don't want. With its self-contained decision making, we can key in its flight parameters from here, let her go out empty and bring the people back. That bird is the closest thing to perpetual motion any of us will ever see."
Corealis had heard the proud litany before. But this time something new struck him. He tabled the notion for later, addressing the chief of security. "Refresh my memory on the base dismantling, Dick. Precisely, how is it to be handled?"