Killing Time

CHAPTER 23

As the rest of us continued to wait for Malcolm to emerge from his laboratory and announce that it was time to move on to some new deceptive enterprise, patience at times became difficult to sustain— though I'll admit that it was, as Leon Tarbell repeatedly pointed out, easier for Larissa and me than for the others. In fact, so agitated did Tarbell become over the mere thought that members of our group other than himself were engaged in a physical relationship that he first almost fatally electrocuted himself in a supposed "virtual reality sex suit" (really nothing more than thin rubber long Johns embedded with powerful electrodes) and then, a few days later, took a small jetcopter that was stored in one of the mock barns of the compound and headed off for Edinburgh. As he prepared to lift off, I pointed out that Glasgow was closer, but this only brought a look of supreme disdain to his mercurial features.

"Drunken laborers and heroin addicts!" he bellowed. "No, Gideon, the prostitutes of Edinburgh service sex-starved lawyers and deviant politicians — they have immense sexuality, they are for me!"

And with a roar of the aircraft's engines he was gone.

So began a most remarkable evening. I was, unusually, alone, because Larissa had decided to keep watch through the night by her still ailing brother's bedside, to make sure that he spent the time resting rather than working in his laboratory. Again I found myself speculating about what could possibly be consuming the man so ravenously; and it occurred to me that while Larissa had said she didn't know, the ever-secretive and reticent Colonel Slayton might. On asking around I discovered that Slayton had ensconced himself in the compound's communications monitoring room. So I set off to see whether or not, with my supposed psychological guile, I could maneuver him into revealing something about Malcolm's activities.

The monitoring room was located in a mock tavern opposite the church that housed the projection unit of Malcolm's ozone weapon. Beneath the tavern was an underground chamber some hundred yards square, which housed the equipment that did the actual work of listening in on the world's electronic communications, both official and private. The governments of the United States and its English-speaking allies had for decades operated a similar system called Echelon that required several such monitoring installations, each made up of acres of equipment: once again, Malcolm had achieved the next level of technological development.

I knocked on the simulated wood exterior of the room's door several times without receiving any answer. But as I could hear unintelligible chattering noises within, it seemed safe to assume that the colonel was indeed at work. So I quietly entered — only to be faced with one of the stranger tableaux that I had come across since my arrival.

The overhead lights in the room were out, but the darkness in the windowless chamber was cut by the light of some twenty monitors, most not particularly large but a few taking up the better part of a wall. The flashing shapes on these screens at first appeared nonsensical, but as my eyes adjusted to the gently stroboscopic light I realized that they were rapidly changing bodies of text, both encrypted and decoded, as well as an occasional blueprint or diagram. Each screen's contents varied from the next, and the cacophony that I'd heard outside, which became quite deafening once I entered, was being produced by dozens of audio signals — again, some intelligible and some encoded — that were playing at the same time.

Slayton sat at a console in the midst of all this, facing the largest pair of monitors and staring at them, even though the information that was flashing across their screens was clearly moving too fast for him to comprehend fully. Wanting to ask what in the world he was doing and unable to gain his attention even through the loudest and most absurdly theatrical of throat clearings, I took one or two steps further into the room. But then I froze:

As I came around his side, I could see that the long scar on his face had been moistened by a thin stream of tears. His expression, however, was as dispassionate as ever: only the slightest quiver of his grimly set jaw indicated any emotion at all. In such a man, however, even so tiny a movement bespoke volumes.

It was a moment of profound embarrassment for me, and I tried to end it by slowly retracing my steps to the door. But before I'd gotten halfway there I saw the colonel's hand reach slowly for a keypad, and touch one of its glowing keys with a finger. The volume in the room came quickly down to a level that only intensified my embarrassment. Then, without turning, Slayton said quietly:

"What you're hearing and seeing, Doctor, are the transmissions of various defense and intelligence agencies around the world."

"Ah" was all I could think to answer.

"Tell me," Slayton went on. "Is it true that the human ear is not sensitive enough to detect dishonesty?"

There seemed to be nothing to do but continue the conversation. "Most of the time, yes," I said. "Those kinds of interpretations are usually emotional judgment calls, not perceptive certainties."

The colonel grunted. "Perhaps. Perhaps my ear has simply become finely turned over the years. But I can tell you with absolute certainty, Doctor, that this" — he raised the volume in the room again—"this is the sound of lying…"

I don't know how long I stood there, watching Slayton's rigid form as he continued to stare at the enormous monitors. Eventually he reached out to knock the volume back down, and then, after quite openly dabbing at his scar as well as his opposite cheek with a handkerchief, he turned his chair to face me. "Something I can do for you, Dr. Wolfe?" he asked, scrutinizing me with curiosity.

"I–I was wondering—" As I fumbled for words, it occurred to me that Slayton might be taking pleasure from my discomfort; but further inspection of his features revealed nothing to support such a suspicion. "I was wondering about Malcolm, actually. If I could be of any medical assistance."

"You think he needs psychiatric help?" Oddly enough, the question seemed entirely sincere.

"That wasn't what I meant," I answered. "But I am a doctor, I can recognize chronic pain when I see it. And Larissa's told me his— story."

"Has she?" Slayton's eyes narrowed. "Well, if she's told you that, Doctor, then you must already have concluded that there's nothing you or anyone else can do. Pain medication and rest — that's all there is for him. That's all there ever has been."

"And clearly he has no trouble taking medication," I said, detecting an opening. "But why isn't he getting enough rest?"

Something vaguely approximating a smile seemed to creep into one corner of the colonel's mouth. "Clever, Doctor," he said. "But I can't answer that. None of us can. For the simple reason that none of us, not even Larissa, knows what work is keeping him from sleeping."

"I see." Glancing around the room I asked, "And you?"

The phantom smile seemed to gain some substance. "Jonah and I have been assembling and installing a holographic projection mechanism for the ship. It should allow us to move about unseen and avoid messes like the business in Florida."

"That's possible?"

Slayton inclined his head judiciously. "We were close at the Pentagon. Malcolm believes he's worked out the details."

"Ah." I stood my ground, shuffling a bit. "But that — that really doesn't explain all this, does it?" I indicated the screens.

I don't know what kind of a reaction I expected to such a direct question, but it certainly wasn't the one I got. Slayton chuckled good-naturedly, then held one hand out to an empty chair that was next to his. "Sit down, Doctor, and I'll explain," he said. "Since the entire idea depends on you. ."