passed through posts to be DNA-typed and scanned.
Watson commented, “You run a tight ship,” meaning to congratulate Cardston on the way his security team protected Tasman’s laboratory.
Cardston said, “This security station? This is just the part you see; sometime I’ll show you what’s behind the curtain.
“You know how we located that burner? It was hidden in a scan-proof case in the large closet in the Pentagon and we spotted it ten seconds after catalyzation began. I had six independent sensor arrays in that closet, and every one of them detected that bomb the moment Herman lit it up. He never even armed the damned bomb. My bomb removal team entered the closet forty-two seconds after catalyzation began.”
As they waited for a very thick mechanical door to slide open, Watson asked, “Would the explosion have reached the lab?”
“Probably not. Then again, it wouldn’t need to,” said Cardston. “Demolish enough of the building and everything else comes down, right? If the first floor and the second floor collapse, the third floor comes down.”
“Was the bomb big enough to do that?” asked Watson.
“No,” said Cardston. “Not even close.”
Once you got past the security station, entering the lab was like stepping into a bank vault. The door that cleared out before them was six inches thick with steel and chrome.
Six men in combat armor sat in a bulletproof booth on the other side of the door.
“More Marines?” asked Watson.
“Not Marines,” said the old man in the wheelchair sitting beside them. It was Howard Tasman. Watson recognized the cantankerous old bastard’s voice even before he saw him. As his motorized chair wheeled forward, he said, “However much time I have left, I wouldn’t want to shorten it by entrusting it to clones.”
Tasman was ninety-one years old, but he looked older. He had a full head of fine white hair, so fine that his scalp showed through it. His skin was white as paper, the blue veins running beneath it as visible as the streets on a city map. His eyes were clear and white though the rims had turned red. His head, neck, and arms were skeletal, bones held together by skin so thin that Watson suspected a strong wind might blow him apart.
He said, “How are you doing, Watson? It’s been a long time. I would have thought you’d visit an old comrade in arms more often.”
Watson didn’t like to look at Tasman. He didn’t like being reminded that men become decrepit before they die; seeing Tasman reminded him how cruel the years become. Watson didn’t like Tasman’s wrinkled, desiccated looks, and he didn’t like the old man’s odor, either. He smelled old and antiseptic, like the spleen of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh who has been washed, mummified, and stored for six thousand years in primitive formaldehyde. Watson thought,
“Comrade in arms” my ass, you old bastard.
He said, “These last few months have been spinning out of control.”
Tasman turned to Cardston, and said, “Watson and I have some catching up to do, Major. Would you mind if we chatted alone?”
Not wanting to be alone with the living fossil, Watson hoped Cardston would hold his ground. He didn’t know what he could tell Tasman.
Cardston said, “Keep it short, he has an important meeting coming up.” He made a show of checking his wristwatch and left.
Tasman said, “Let’s go to my office,” and started rolling away at top speed, forcing Watson to trot. The scientist steered his chair to a door at the far end of a hundred-foot-long hallway. Like every door in the lab—
possibly even the toilet,
Watson suspected—the door to Tasman’s office required DNA identification. Tasman touched a finger to it, and it opened.
The old scientist entered the office. Watson followed. When the door closed behind them, the scientist said, “If they exploded a thermonuclear bomb out there, it couldn’t break these walls. We’d be killed, of course, but not by the explosion.
“Do
Watson commented, “You run a tight ship,” meaning to congratulate Cardston on the way his security team protected Tasman’s laboratory.
Cardston said, “This security station? This is just the part you see; sometime I’ll show you what’s behind the curtain.
“You know how we located that burner? It was hidden in a scan-proof case in the large closet in the Pentagon and we spotted it ten seconds after catalyzation began. I had six independent sensor arrays in that closet, and every one of them detected that bomb the moment Herman lit it up. He never even armed the damned bomb. My bomb removal team entered the closet forty-two seconds after catalyzation began.”
As they waited for a very thick mechanical door to slide open, Watson asked, “Would the explosion have reached the lab?”
“Probably not. Then again, it wouldn’t need to,” said Cardston. “Demolish enough of the building and everything else comes down, right? If the first floor and the second floor collapse, the third floor comes down.”
“Was the bomb big enough to do that?” asked Watson.
“No,” said Cardston. “Not even close.”
Once you got past the security station, entering the lab was like stepping into a bank vault. The door that cleared out before them was six inches thick with steel and chrome.
Six men in combat armor sat in a bulletproof booth on the other side of the door.
“More Marines?” asked Watson.
“Not Marines,” said the old man in the wheelchair sitting beside them. It was Howard Tasman. Watson recognized the cantankerous old bastard’s voice even before he saw him. As his motorized chair wheeled forward, he said, “However much time I have left, I wouldn’t want to shorten it by entrusting it to clones.”
Tasman was ninety-one years old, but he looked older. He had a full head of fine white hair, so fine that his scalp showed through it. His skin was white as paper, the blue veins running beneath it as visible as the streets on a city map. His eyes were clear and white though the rims had turned red. His head, neck, and arms were skeletal, bones held together by skin so thin that Watson suspected a strong wind might blow him apart.
He said, “How are you doing, Watson? It’s been a long time. I would have thought you’d visit an old comrade in arms more often.”
Watson didn’t like to look at Tasman. He didn’t like being reminded that men become decrepit before they die; seeing Tasman reminded him how cruel the years become. Watson didn’t like Tasman’s wrinkled, desiccated looks, and he didn’t like the old man’s odor, either. He smelled old and antiseptic, like the spleen of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh who has been washed, mummified, and stored for six thousand years in primitive formaldehyde. Watson thought,
“Comrade in arms” my ass, you old bastard.
He said, “These last few months have been spinning out of control.”
Tasman turned to Cardston, and said, “Watson and I have some catching up to do, Major. Would you mind if we chatted alone?”
Not wanting to be alone with the living fossil, Watson hoped Cardston would hold his ground. He didn’t know what he could tell Tasman.
Cardston said, “Keep it short, he has an important meeting coming up.” He made a show of checking his wristwatch and left.
Tasman said, “Let’s go to my office,” and started rolling away at top speed, forcing Watson to trot. The scientist steered his chair to a door at the far end of a hundred-foot-long hallway. Like every door in the lab—
possibly even the toilet,
Watson suspected—the door to Tasman’s office required DNA identification. Tasman touched a finger to it, and it opened.
The old scientist entered the office. Watson followed. When the door closed behind them, the scientist said, “If they exploded a thermonuclear bomb out there, it couldn’t break these walls. We’d be killed, of course, but not by the explosion.
“Do
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