Deep Storm

"Specify," the admiral said at last.

"We've always assumed-based on rough visual inspection and other factors-that the entombment happened ten thousand years ago or even longer. Easton took that assumption a little too far. He never bothered to date the site using magnetic field reversal."

"Using what?" Korolis said.

"A method for dating the vulcanism around the burial site. Not to get into the scientific details"-and here Asher glanced at Korolis-"but once in a great many years, the earth's magnetic field reverses. Flips. The north pole becomes the south, and vice versa. Our original dating of the burial event would have placed it in the last magnetic reversal. But it seems we were wrong."

"How do you know that?" Spartan asked.

"Because when the earth's crust becomes molten, its iron particles swivel around, align themselves with the planet's magnetic field. Then, as the rock cools, they stay aligned. It's like tree rings in a way: you can date geologic events by examining that alignment."

"Well, maybe it's far older, then," Korolis said. "Two magnetic reversals ago. The north pole would have still been north then, correct?"

"Correct. But the event was not far older."

"So it wasn't as old as you thought," Spartan said.

Asher nodded.

"I presume that, since we're here, you were able to get a more accurate date."

"I had Easton send out a rover, equipped with a highly sophisticated magnetometer. It can measure, very accurately, the drift of a magnetic field. We used samples from the burial site as a starting point."

Spartan frowned, shifted again. "And?"

"The site isn't ten thousand years old, or fifty thousand. It's six hundred years old."

There was a moment of frigid silence.

Spartan was the first to speak. "Does this-oversight have any bearing on our chances of success?"

"No."

Asher thought he detected a fleeting look of relief cross the admiral's face before the expressionless mask descended again.

"Then what, exactly, is the bottom line?"

"Isn't it obvious? This has gone from an event in the unthinkable past to an event within recorded history."

"And your point, Doctor?" Korolis said.

"My point? My point is that there may have been eyewitnesses to the burial event. There may be written accounts."

"Then we should dispatch a researcher to look into it," Spartan said.

"I've already done that."

Spartan frowned. "With the proper credentials? And discretion?"

"His credentials are excellent-medieval historian from Yale. And, yes, he has no clue as to the real reason I'm interested."

"Good." Spartan rose. "Then if there's nothing else, I'd suggest you return to Medical and see if Dr. Crane has made a miracle diagnosis."

Asher stood, as well. "He'll need to be brought inside," he said in a low voice.

Spartan's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"He should be fully briefed. He'll need access to the classified levels. Unrestricted access. And not with a phalanx of MPs, either."

"That's impossible, Dr. Asher," said Korolis. "We could never allow such a security risk."

Asher kept his gaze on the admiral. "Crane needs to talk to the patients, learn their movements, search for vectors, identify possible exposures. How can he do that if we keep him both gagged and blindfolded?"

"I have the greatest faith in your choice of specialists, Dr. Asher," Spartan said mildly. "You should, too."

For a moment Asher just stood there, breathing heavily, mastering himself. "We were given a mandate, Admiral," he finally said, voice husky. "A joint mandate to run this Facility. Together. So far, I haven't pushed the point. But if it comes down to a question of secrecy or the safety of this installation, I'll put aside secrecy in a heartbeat. And you'd be wise to remember that."

Then he spun on his heel, pulled open the door, and was gone.

12

There were two squash courts on Deep Storm, and a three-day waiting list to get court time. It was an example of Asher's clout, Crane thought, that the man had been able to get them a half-hour slot with a few minutes' notice.

"I never figured you for a reader of poetry," Asher said when they met on the court. "But your being a squash player is a no-brainer."

"Maybe it's my gazelle-like physique," Crane replied. "Or maybe you've just been re-reading my jacket."

Asher, juggling the little gray ball idly in his serve hand, laughed.

Crane wasn't surprised Asher wanted a meeting. After all, he'd been on station now over thirty-six hours: the chief scientist would want a report. The only surprise was the suggested location. But then, he was already getting used to Asher's modus operandi: maintain an affable exterior, imply a low-key atmosphere; but make it clear that results were expected, and expected right away.

That was fine with Crane; in fact, part of him welcomed the meeting. Because he happened to have an agenda of his own.

"Let's warm up for a minute or two," Asher said. He held out the ball. "Serve?"

Crane shook his head. "Go right ahead."

He watched Asher stroke the ball toward the front wall with a hard, clean swing. He fell back, balancing on the balls of his feet, waiting for the return. The ball bounded back, and he hit a volley, aiming for the far corner.

For several minutes they played without speaking, gauging each other's skill, experience, preferred strategies. Crane figured Asher had at least twenty-five years on him, but the older man seemed in better practice. At least, Crane was playing miserably; half his volleys were going out.

"Is there something unusual about this court?" he asked at length, as he retrieved the ball and tossed it back to Asher.

The scientist caught it deftly in his racquet hand. "Actually, there is. We had to accommodate the floor plan of the Facility. The ceiling's about twelve inches shorter than regulation. To compensate, we've made the court a little deeper than usual. I should have mentioned it before. Once you're used to it, you'll actually find the dimensions a little forgiving. Some more practice?"

"No, let's try a game."

Crane won the spin of the racquet, chose his side, and fired off a serve. Asher countered with a quick volley to the far corner, and the game began in earnest.

As they traded volleys, Crane had to admire the scientist's game. Squash was part sport and part chess match-a mixture of wits, strategy, and stamina. Asher was excellent at controlling the T and-particularly impressive-at firing the ball straight along the sidewall, keeping Crane constantly on the defensive. He'd assumed the scientist's stiff and painful left hand would make playing difficult, but Asher seemed to have mastered using his right hand for balance as well as swing. Almost before he knew it, Crane had fallen hopelessly behind.

"That's the game," Asher said at last.

"Nine-four. Not a very good showing, I'm afraid."

Asher gave an easy laugh. "You'll do better next game. Like I said, the unusual dimensions tend to grow on you. Go ahead, your service."

During their second game, Crane found Asher was right: as he grew more used to the shorter, deeper court, he found it progressively easier to control the ball. He made fewer outs and was able to rebound the ball behind the service box, forcing Asher to play the backcourt. Now he was no longer forced to concentrate simply on returning the ball, but could move back to the T after playing shots, thus setting himself up in better position. The game ran long, and this time he beat Asher, nine-eight.

"See what I mean?" Asher said, puffing. "You're a quick study. A few more games and you'll need to find a more challenging partner."