He followed his usual ritual whenever camping in rich digs. Both kitchen faucets were turned on full and left running. Water roared out, clean and fresh. No murky, half-pressure rations here. Maybe the clean flow would somehow flush into a faraway ditch and help a Cee-Dee family struggle through one more day.
Trennt wantonly flipped on every light he could find and cranked up a wall-mounted stereo. Cable music filled the air. Next came the bathroom. Piled thick with towels and scarce toiletries, an indoor crapper all to himself seemed vaguely obscene. Still, Trennt eagerly peeled off his threadbare duds and tossed them in a trash can.
He touched tender fingers to the bug bites and bumps from his crash, checked the stitching job on his thigh, still smeared bright orange with dried surgical soap. The ugliness of wounds had long ago ceased bothering Trennt. But what always would bother him and could not be avoided was his reflection in the mirror.
Looking at himself had become a stark confrontation Trennt abhorred. No longer did he see any face he knew; instead, one of a callous and indifferent stranger. A man bent on his own slow destruction.
Beneath the bleary, unshaven mess still lingered origins of a face once called handsome. Now though, his blue eyes, once said to have sparkled, shone back flat and drained of vigor. His skin had grown stiff as old jerky; his disposition, stiffer yet.
Trennt brushed an idle hand across his mandatory health department crewcut. Bits of dried turf skipped comically free of his dishwater blond hair, like fleas abandoning their dog in an old cartoon. Somehow, he still found the ability to grin.
A long scalding runoff did wonders for his aches. Minutes were spent soaking in the shower before Trennt even cared to soap up. Afterward, his skin blushed comfortably with the result. A couple aspirins fixed the rest.
On an adjacent table waited several full changes of clothes, casuals to relax in and, to the side, a separate packing of new field utilities and boots, made ready for his eventual trip. At the same time, his nose caught the unmistakable aroma of roast beef.
Sometime during his shower a stainless dinner service had arrived: tossed salad, heaped with shredded lettuce, tomato chunks, sweet onions, red cabbage, and green peppers. Hot biscuits, whipped butter and the pièce de résistance—a steaming, two-inch-thick slab of prime rib. Perfectly marbled and set in just the right shade of pink, it alone oozed more calories than an entire Cee-Dee family might see in a month.
German chocolate cake, coffee decanter, brandy flask, and after-dinner cigarettes were included. The only thing absent was a mealtime companion, but even that was covered by a small envelope tucked subtly between the dessert and smokes. Inside, was a business card offering a phone number for the "conversational companionship" of a VIP hostess. Though he wasn't at all comfortable with Corealis, Trennt admitted a true respect of the man's well-oiled operation. He devoured the meal.
Sometime after, a nap followed. Trennt woke about dusk, aware of the low, mellow sound of old fashioned citylike traffic. Outside, a splendid burble of expensive internal combustion engines had replaced the lesser whine of daytime electric carts.
He peeked through the curtains and down the street. Sure enough, heavy cars were about. A legion of old Caddys, Buicks, and Lincolns filled the pavement, all polished like brand new.
Suited doormen and elegant nightwear abounded. Calling to mind an old-fashioned Hollywood gala, the air was a spray of flashing sequins and crisp taillights, fine machinery and well-tuned female hindsides. Pretentious as hell, yet intriguing. A world of chemical suntans and healthy teeth, soap and perfume, square jaws and plenty of cleavage.
Thousands of families were living in stripped-out cars, thankful to be eating stale ration crackers and hoping just to survive the next ozone inversion. Yet here was a chunk of ancient society, its gold and diamonds undimmed by all the suffering just beyond these tidy grounds.
In the distance, Trennt recognized Royce Corealis, in the midst of a greeting line, pumping hands and grinning with heaps of plastic good cheer. Rubbing elbows with elitist strangers held no interest for Trennt. Neither did the invitation for an evening's personal female companionship. He had his work to fill the void. And strict penance to maintain.
Letting the curtain drop, Trennt lit a cigarette and spread the contents of his mission folder on the room's coffee table.
Atmospheric anomalies had become commonplace during the nine years of Skylock. Whipped into a frenzy by a continuous spectrum solar flare, cantankerous skies chewed away at both wireless and cable-strung communications. Also stalling all commonplace electronics, Skylock had generally ended Mankind's grand dominion over electricity.
But throughout the event, a tiny spot of the sun's exterior remained oddly uncontaminated by the churning disturbance around it. That same calm eye orbited continually within the solar storm, never dissipating and offering a brief window of electronic stability that fell on the earth with a tidal rhythm.
This "clean air" window ran on a 21-day cycle, allowing a nominal 72-hour period free of EM interference. In its eclipse, everything of electromagnetic origin functioned normally. Pocket compasses to computer circuitry came back on track. Earthbound radio signals shot as far as their surviving transmitters could hurl them. And listening posts worldwide eagerly trained on the sky, gobbling up news, scientific updates, and just plain eavesdropping.
Then all too quickly, the tide of interference would rise. Radio receivers would once more clog with white noise. Compasses would grow confused. Electronics would stall.
As expected, that familiar monthly window was again drawing shut. Yet in these early morning hours one faint distress signal struggled among the thickening static waves. Aided by fluke solar currents, it hopped about the atmosphere, was magnified and reached out to any and all listening ears.
Director Corealis had lain awake for hours. But his sleeplessness went leagues beyond the simple strangeness of a guest-room bed. His mind was in high gear.
Even with adequate babysitters on line, he still wasn't comfortable rushing the camp shutdown. Time was against him. There wasn't enough to iron out details—or devise an adequate reserve plan. And too many bodies, too many trails, too much evidence. How to contain Warrington's new utopianism—or Doc Ashton's weak knees?
Royce had spoken with Clausen in depth on the nuclear airplane's intriguing capabilities. Its blending of self-contained intelligence and unlimited flight potential were priceless commodities, but its best employment hadn't yet come to mind when he finally dropped off from pure fatigue.
Even so, the director's sleep was anything but restful and he bolted fully awake when the phone rang. Three-forty shone on his bedside clock.
He rolled to its shrill buzz and grabbed at the receiver.
"Yes!"
On the other end was Marquart, the communications manager. His voice sounded recently raised from its own sleep, but also tense and frazzled.
"Royce, we've got big trouble. Something's come in over the radio that sure sounds like a mayday from the country club."
Corealis shot erect in the darkened bed. "What!"
"About fifteen minutes ago."
"Are you sure?"
"Not absolutely, no. It was fragmented and not in any wording they were instructed to use. But team members were mentioned by name in a woman's voice screaming for help."
Ashton's words rang cruelly prophetic.
"It can't be. We're too close!"
"The ion wash did smother it," added Marquart. "But even worse trouble may be right here. Warrington's damn insomnia was acting up again. He was camped out on the radio room graveyard shift with my boys tonight. He heard it come in, same as them, over an open speaker."
The director felt an icy grip take hold deep in his gut. "He did."
"My guys didn't even know what they were hearing. So there wasn't a thing they could've done to conceal it."
Corealis felt the ice climb up his chest. "Did Warrington?"
"The names clinched it. He ordered my boys to make a tape copy and stormed out of here with it a few minutes ago. I wouldn't be surprised if he shows up at your door any time now, wanting answers."
Corealis nodded uncertainly. "That's okay. Might be the best way to finally bring this whole thing into the open."
The director hung up and waited. Within moments a hard rap of knuckles rattled his door. Outside was the president's voice: Curt, firm.
"Royce, wake up. I want to see you."
"Just a minute."
Corealis grabbed his robe. Opening the door, the president brushed passed him. A cassette player was clenched tightly in his hand.
"What's the problem, Eugene?"
Warrington tossed the player onto the director's bed.
"I had insomnia again tonight. So I sat in with the night shift radio boys. Not long ago, pieces of a message came in. One you should find interesting."
The president keyed the machine and a hysterical female voice filled its speaker.
" . . . you . . . please hurry . . . ible acciden . . . plosion in . . . Carringer, Vonchek, Keener . . . may be dying . . . please! . . ."
Even somewhat prepared, Royce flushed as the voice faded. Most of the words were garbled. But every syllable of the researchers' names had come across clear as a bell. The two men stood in stark silence as the tape ground quietly on.
"That's it," said the president. "A grand total of seventeen seconds. Just a voice in the middle of the night, coming from nowhere, addressed to no one; accidently heard by a casual listener with insomnia.
"Not much different than any number of distress calls heard by any number of listening stations—except for the names in this one. Knowing them and looking at you now makes a lot more sense of your demeanor in our talk yesterday, doesn't it?"
Corealis settled back. A bit frayed by his sudden unmasking, he also welcomed the sudden opportunity for full candor.
"All right, Eugene," he began. "Maybe this is the best way to bring the matter to light. Lay out the truth, here and now. No pulled punches."
He pointed to the silently turning machine.
"I can't imagine how this message was sent or what, if anything, it really means. But yes, the names you heard are true. Those people . . ."
" . . . were supposed to have died three years ago in a plane crash!" snapped Warrington. "On their way to a Manna Project summit meeting!
"The whole world, including myself, knows of and grieved at their terrible loss. Now, that doesn't seem the case at all. And I demand to know what is going on!"
Corealis stood rigid to the truth.
"The crash was a ruse, the personnel diverted to a secret location to work on a project dedicated strictly to the future welfare of this country."
"Project!" bellowed the president. "On whose authority . . ."
But throwing his spread hands between them as a quick barrier, Warrington stopped Royce before he could answer. "No! I don't want to know. Good god, I can't know! I'd be going to the World Finance Council aware that my country has been part of a covert operation entirely opposed to the Manna Project!"
The president's hands wilted and plopped to his sides. A weariness stole his wind as he gazed at the director, disbelieving and totally deflated. "But what does that matter now? Just knowing those people are alive makes me and the whole country an accomplice. Royce, how could you, above all, ever be party to something like this!"
The director gazed back candidly.
"I could because I saw how that self-righteous U.N. steering committee was selling out on their pledge to this same country. And yes, to answer your next question, I'd do it again."
Warrington stood looking on, mute and pale. Without invitation, Corealis expounded.
"Shortly before the summit they were off to, Keener and his team stumbled on a unique alkaloid property in their work, blending Sudan grass with sorghum. Trying to merge the heartiness and saline tolerance of one with the millet production of the other, they inadvertently uncovered a whole new vista in population control.
"Just a couple of innocent paragraphs scribbled in a call report spoke of an unbelievable attribute: the likelihood of producing a grain catalyst which could, at will, be blended into select generations of cereal grasses and command the first ever workable balance of a country's birthrate.
"But maintaining Keener's team was essential to preserving and continuing the work. And they were marked for reassignment by the global board. So I took some drastic steps."
"Yes!" roared the president. "By staging their deaths, lying to the steering committee, and making this country party to a wholesale criminal action!"
Corealis matched stares with the man. His explanation marched on in a calm, reasoning tone.
"There's no call to go over the edge on this, Eugene. It was a brief message that we can investigate easily enough. No one knows what it regards or who even may have heard it."
Corealis shrugged indifferently. "From the start I've known that the existence of those researchers might become common knowledge. And when that happened the world alliances would certainly censure us. Considering their mentality, it's inevitable and expected. But a small price to pay and nothing to concern ourselves with—if we stick together on this and see it through. This undertaking has been methodically planned out from square one, Eugene. Certainly it's radical. Economic tactics are cutthroat by virtue of expediency."
"The world court—"
"Be damned!" snapped Corealis, barging forward to take the offensive. "That phony high and mighty rabble has no claim to any loftier moral ground than we do! Our researchers have dutifully submitted every nutritional benefit they've discovered. So we found a little something extra in the works to save for ourselves. So what? If we were discovered and refused to allow our own prosecution by their kangaroo court, what could they do? Blockade us? Cut off our foreign holdings? Refuse us aid?