J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (7 page)

There was something not right about the way he stood, the odd, unnatural angle of his head and neck. His arms dangled, useless-looking, from his body.

"Mossoud ... are you okay?"

Mossoud didn't answer, just looked at her with eyes she did not recognize.

She screamed at him, at once furious and terrified that he would not reassure her. "Answer me, Mossoud!"

Mossoud opened his mouth and answered with a strange, unearthly moan, horrible, meaningless sounds.

She sobbed and backed away from him into something yielding and slickly wet. Before she could turn to look at it, something whiplike and incredibly strong fastened itself around her arms, her neck, and exerted crushing force on her windpipe. Fear gave way to simple astonishment.

FOUR

"I know I chose your resume over the others," Harrison said. They had left the older, one-story brick building and were walking in the brilliant sunshine again, cutting across the thick grass instead of taking the sidewalks that connected the buildings. The older brick structures gave way to newer, sleeker edifices. The Institute had the sprawled-out feel of a college campus, and the atmosphere was certainly relaxed. Other than Dr. Jacobi, Suzanne hadn't spotted another researcher wearing a tie; the conservative gray gabardine suit she wore no doubt marked her as an outsider. Maybe Deb wasn't the only one who needed new clothes.

Blackwood turned to regard Suzanne with those disarming pale blue eyes. "But I looked over so many. Could you remind me a little about your background?"

As the sun warmed her face, she began to understand how he had acquired his tan. "I'm flattered you chose me, but my background is pretty unsen-sational."

He seemed amused by that. "That's your opinion."

"Yes, well, I did my postgrad at NYU and MIT, then worked for the Smithsonian, then Rand for a few years, then a research facility in Ohio."

"I thought you worked with NASA." Blackwood watched her reaction.

"Yes . . . it was a joint project with Zubrovski Labs. I explained it all to Dr. Jacobi." Her tone was slightly reproachful.
So why didn't you bother to get the details from him sooner?

"Ah." Blackwood nodded. "Of course; I remember now."

"And your background?" Suzanne asked.
So I can try to figure out why you've hired me.

He shrugged cavalierly. "Oh . . . astrophysics. UCLA." He gazed at the grounds with tangible fondness and gestured sweepingly. "I've spent my whole career at this place. Even grew up here. It's almost like home."

No wonder he acted as if he owned the place and had such a casual, easy attitude toward Jacobi. "I wouldn't mind finding a home," she said, feeling wistful, then realized she had revealed too much and covered with a question. "What about your family— your parents?"

"They both worked here too." His expression didn't change, but it seemed a shadow passed over his features.

She was silent for a moment, unwilling to ask the obvious. They took several steps without speaking, then Suzanne asked, "Tell me, Dr. Blackwood. . . about your projects that need someone in my field—?"

He smiled, the darkness dispelled as quickly as it had come. "Not Doctor. Harrison. I dislike formality ... and I
hate
titles."

She refused to be distracted so easily. "Look, Harrison, I've come all the way from Ohio, and no one has told me anything about the project we're supposed to be working on. It can't be
that
secret!"

"Close to it," he said cheerfully, and turned his head sharply to look at her. "Will there be any problem with your putting in a little overtime?"

She tensed. Dammit, she knew the job offer was too good to be true! "Yes, as a matter of fact. I explained to Dr. Jacobi—I have a young daughter. I avoid working nights and weekends. But Monday through Friday, I give a hundred and fifty percent."

"That's a mathematical impossibility," he replied, but he smiled.
"A
daughter. That's nice. How old is she?"

His interest seemed so genuine that she relaxed a little. "Debi's eleven. Already a sixth-grader."

"Eleven, huh? Pretty difficult age if I remember correctly. Not quite a baby but not really a teenager either."

She shook her head and smiled a little ruefully. "Difficult is an understatement... but then, I don't remember any age as being particularly easy."

"I suppose not." He paused. "Look, maybe we can

work something out, but I'm not going to lie to you. There could be times when we'll need you to work late. Maybe if your husband's willing to help out—"

"He's not," she snapped, and then in a calmer, lower voice, "We're divorced."

"Oh. Sorry." He looked sheepish.

"I'm not," Suzanne replied, trying hard to sound as if she meant it. They had arrived at the entrance to another building; she stopped in her tracks as he held open the glass door. "But you still haven't told me what this project is about."

He smiled and gestured her through. "There's someone I'd like you to meet first."

He led her down a corridor to a door marked
communications center.
The instant he opened it, she was greeted by the overwhelmingly seductive fragrance of coffee.

Inside, the room was filled with enough sophisticated equipment to make NASA and SAC jealous. Consoles, computers, transmitters, and receivers lined the walls and counters; a series of photographs on the wall showed a muscular black man in a wheelchair with a racing number pinned to his jersey, and beneath, in careful hand-lettering, the legends:
marine corps marathon, 1
984;
boston marathon, 1
986;
la marathon,
1987. In the far corner of the room a man sat peering intently at a computer monitor.

"Norton," Harrison began, "I want you to—"

His focus still on the monitor, Norton raised a coffee-colored hand in a plea for silence, but it was too late. He groaned, his concentration broken.

"Maybe we should come back another time,"

Suzanne whispered in Blackwood's ear, but he propelled her over to where Norton sat.

"Six under, one to go," Norton complained bitterly, staring into the flashing screen. "Harrison, didn't anyone ever teach you any manners? You're not supposed to interrupt a man when he's standing at the tee."

Suzanne was close enough now to see the graphics on the screen: a little golfer wearing a funny hat and checked knickers stood, his club resting on his shoulder while Norton's score flashed in the upper right-hand corner. She shot Harrison a narrow look:
Important secret project. Lots of overtime, huh?
Harrison shrugged, his expression innocent.

Norton swiveled slowly to face them; for the first time Suzanne noticed the automated wheelchair. Norton's long-sleeved shirt hid most of the muscles that showed in the photograph, but he still looked square-shouldered and strong, in his late thirties. He peered up at Suzanne with large brown eyes set in a broad, friendly face.

"Who are you?" he asked point-blank. Yet another one who had no use for formalities.

She was slightly taken aback. "Suzanne. Suzanne McCullough."

"Norton Drake." He grinned with a sudden disconcerting warmth, and extended his hand. She gave it a firm shake. "Welcome to the PITS, Suzanne."

"I've already been given the standard welcome," she answered dryly.

"Suzanne is the new microbiologist Ephram's been promising us," Harrison explained.

Norton cocked his head and scrutinized her clinically. "Doesn't look like a microbiologist. Everyone in our micro department is nearsighted and losing his hair." He shook his head. "No, she looks more like a ... biochemist." He winked at Harrison. "Which reminds me, you
have
caught sight of the new addition to biochem, our esteemed colleague, Dr. Mona LaRue, haven't you, Harrison?"

Harrison grinned. "Later, Norton."

"Forgive me, I'm being a poor host. Coffee, Suzanne?"

"God, I'd love some. It smells wonderful."

Pleased, Norton raised a brow. "I believe I can work with this woman, Harrison." Then, in a different tone: "Gertrude—back three, right forty-five, forward ten." The wheelchair whined mechanically and started backing away from the monitor.

"Please don't bother," Suzanne began, "I can get it m—"

Norton shot her such a threatening glance that she broke off, ashamed of her patronizing attitude. "And miss the chance to show off?" he asked lightly.

Harrison was smiling, relaxed; apparently he knew Norton well enough to be completely unaffected by Suzanne's discomfort over his handicap. "Don't worry. Norton lives to show off his voice-activated dragster."

"Old news, Harrison," Norton said on his way to the drip coffeemaker on the low counter. "Got something better. Been working on the blend for months." The wheelchair rolled to a stop at the counter. Norton picked up a cup and poured steaming coffee into it.

He glanced over at Suzanne. "You like it black, I hope."

"I like it black," she answered quickly. At this point she was willing to drink it cold through a straw . . . and it
did
smell heavenly.

"Good. I'm afraid I don't stock the accoutrements. Gertrude—back three, forward ten." The chair began moving again. "None of these healthy California la-la types here touch the demon caffeine. They'd rather drink herbal teas with cutesy little names like Granny's Tummy Comfort or Sassafras Sunset. And this is a scientific institute. Shocking, isn't it? And here it is a well-known fact that caffeine improves brain function."

Harrison snickered. "Only up to a certain point, which you've definitely gone past. After that it's all downhill."

Norton sniffed at that. Suzanne forced herself to stand still and wait for him to return and hand her the cup. "What exactly do you do here, Norton?"

"You mean besides play computer golf?" Harrison quipped.

"Shut up, Blackwood. Dr. McCullough is asking a question." Norton cleared his throat and said with practiced glibness, "I collect and analyze radio transmissions from deep space, trying to separate natural phenomena from that which could be made by intelligent life."

She sipped the coffee—which tasted every bit as good as it smelled—as she listened. So ... an extraterrestrial project. She'd been right to assume she'd been hired on the basis of her NASA project experi-

The Resurrection
once.
"Sounds like interesting work. And this coffee is

heaven."

"Thank you."

She turned to Harrison. "Now, how do I fit in?"

But he was looking down at his watch. "Gee— where's the time gone?
I
'm sorry, but
I
have a meeting with Shulman in five minutes. Should last till lunch." He glanced apologetically at Norton. "Norton old buddy, could you help me out and show Suzanne to her new office?"

"Sure. Except I don't know where it is."

"You know the one. Clayton's old office." Harrison gave Norton a brisk pat on the shoulder, then turned to Suzanne. "I really wanted to take you to lunch today to discuss the project, but I'm afraid my fiancee has other plans for me today. Maybe we can get together for a talk after lunch."

"If it's not too much trouble," she said in very clipped tones. She was furious at him for ignoring her questions as if she didn't matter, and furious at herself for actually feeling a twinge when he mentioned his fiancee.

As usual, he ignored her frosty stare on the way out. "No trouble," he said pleasantly. "No trouble at all." He left, closing the door behind him.

Norton was shaking his head and grinning. "He's not singling you out, Suzanne. He drives us
all
crazy."

She gave Harrison until two o'clock—she doubted he'd be the type to arrive back from lunch any earlier—before she wandered down the hallway and knocked on his closed door.

No answer. How on earth did the man manage to procure such a prestigious job, taking two-hour lunches and playing practical jokes on his colleagues? Working with him was not going to be pleasant.

Suzanne was turning to go when she saw the light under the door, and raised her clenched fist to knock again, then decided she might as well start practicing the local customs. She turned the doorknob and pushed.

He was there all right, with his feet propped up on the desk, crunching on a granola bar. A small pony of lite beer sat on top of a stack of dusty, stained manila folders. One of the files lay open, its aging contents scattered randomly atop the desk. But Harrison was not studying the files; he was staring intently at a yellowed black-and-white photograph with curled-up ends. Suzanne got only a fleeting glimpse of his melancholic expression before it changed back to the good-humored mask.

She glanced disapprovingly at the granola bar and the beer. "I thought you had lunch with your fiancee."

He scrambled to sit up, nearly overturning the beer onto the files, and shoved the old photo into the top drawer, then closed the folder. "Well. .." He gave her another one of those boyish grins.