Mount Dragon by Douglas Preston Page B

typed.
    How about nine o’clock in the canteen? I’ll see you then.
    Wondering what Singer wanted, Carson issued the network logoff. The computer responded:
    One new message remains unread.
    Do you want to read it now (Y/N)?
    Carson switched to GeneDyne’s electronic messaging system and brought up the message. Probably an earlier message from Singer, wondering where I am , he thought.
    Hello, Guy. Glad to see you in place and at work .
    I like what you’ve done with the protocol. It has the feel of a winner. But remember something: Frank Burt was the best scientist I’ve ever known, and this problem bested him. So don’t get cocky on me, okay?
    I know you’re going to come through for GeneDyne, Guy .
    Brent .

    A few minutes after nine, Carson helped himself to a Jim Beam from the canteen bar and stepped through the sliding glass doors onto the observation deck beyond. Early in the evening, the canteen—with its cozy coffehouse atmosphere and its backgammon and chess boards—was a favorite hangout for lab people. But now it was almost deserted. The wind had died down, and the heat of the day had abated. The deck was empty, and he chose a seat away from the white expanse of the building. He savored the smoky flavor of the bourbon—drunk without ice, a taste he developed when he drank his dinner cocktail from a hip flask in front of a fire out on the ranch—and watched the last of the sun set over the distant Fra Cristóbal Mountains. To the northeast and the east the sky still held traces of a rich shade of pearly rose.
    He tilted his head backward and closed his eyes a moment, inhaling the pungent smell of the desert air, chilled by sunset: a mixture of creosote bush, dust, and salt. Before he’d gone East, he had only noticed the odor after a rain. But now it was like new to him. He opened his eyes again and stared at the vast dome of night sky, smoking with the brilliance of stars already in place above his head: Scorpio clear and bright in the south, Cygnus overhead, the Milky Way arching over all.
    The bewitching fragrance of the night desert combined with the familiar stars brought a hundred memories crowding back. He sipped his drink meditatively.
    He brushed the thoughts away at the sound of footsteps. They came from one of the walkways beyond the canteen, and Carson assumed it was Singer, approaching from the residency compound. But the figure that came silently out of the dusk was not short and squat, but well over six feet, and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. A safari hat sat incongruously atop hair that looked iron gray in the cold beam of the sodium walkway lights. A ponytail descended between his shoulder blades. If the man saw Carson he gave no sign, continuing past the balcony toward the limestone central plaza.
    There was a thump behind him, then Carson heard Singer’s voice. “Beautiful sunset, isn’t it?” the director said. “Much as I hate the days here, the nights make up for it. Almost.” He stepped forward, a mug of coffee steaming in one hand.
    â€œWho’s that?” Carson nodded toward the retreating figure.
    Singer looked out into the night and scowled. “That’s Nye, the security director.”
    â€œSo that’s Nye,” Carson said. “What’s his story? I mean, he looks a little strange out here, with that suit-and-pith-helmet getup.”
    â€œStrange isn’t the word. I think he looks ridiculous. But I advise you not to tangle with him.” Singer drew up a seat next to Carson and sat down. “He used to work at the Windermere Nuclear Complex, in the UK. Remember that accident? There was talk of employee sabotage, and somehow Nye, as security director, became the scapegoat. Nobody wanted to touch him after that, and he had to find work in the Middle East somewhere. But Brent has peculiar ideas about people. He figured that the man, always a stickler, would be extra careful