CHAPTER 10
Several days later, Twitchell sat and squirmed uncomfortably in the executive office style chair set up across the large mahogany desk from his boss, J. Thomas Crane.
He hated these meetings. Hated them with a passion that already rivaled his loathing for El Blanco. Both worm and boss had been responsible for his extended stay in what he occasionally called "Pain in the Ass Land." However, dealing with both of them was part of the territory, so he sat and waited, albeit impatiently.
The trick of submitting a perfectly written and creatively crafted report about the incident in Perfection hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped. Twitchell had intentionally been very vague in one area for a good reason; he didn't want to get 'volunteered' for similar missions in the future, thank you very much. This vague recounting of his involvement in the escapade was not, however, what had led Crane to call the agent into his intimidating presence.
Once more Twitchell sank a bit farther down in the seat. The problem with these face to face meetings, which invariably made him cringe, was the fact that Crane wasn't happy with pat answers. His boss usually wound up asking him questions he was ill-equipped to answer…not because he lacked the skills and knowledge to do his job, but because whenever Mixmaster was involved, nothing was written in stone. To put it simply, there were no cut and dried answers to give in may of those situations, just as there had been none for the latest mission. But Crane, being the typical supervisor, chose to ignore that one indisputable fact.
"So, did Mixmaster leave the protected environment or not?"
Twitchell felt his innards cramp unpleasantly. "I don't know." That answer popped out before he had time to craft one more tactful or upbeat.
"What do you mean, 'you don't know'. I don't want to hear that. I have to meet with my superiors by the end of this week. They're going to want better answers than "I don't know."
Gulping audibly, Twitchell fished for words that would mollify his supervisor. None were immediately forthcoming, so he ultimately settled on restating what he did know.
"Sir, it is impossible to tell. Yes, the creature is dead. Yes, we believe they are all dead. The one that got out did contaminate the environment on this side of the pass, but by all appearances we got it taken care of. The blood was incinerated, just as my report detailed. The carcass didn't decompose on the Bixby side either. Anything more than that would only be speculation. Such speculation would only foment unnecessary panic. All we can do is take a wait and see approach and not waste too much manpower or tax dollars trying to handle some problem that might never materialize."
Crane sat back in his leather chain, and steepled his fingers over his flat stomach. "Yes, yes, you're correct about the manpower and tax dollar issue. Gummer and Reed will keep monitoring the situation over there, right?
"That's right. And you can have complete faith in them. If any situation needs emergency attention, they're the best there is. Gummer is already working on monitoring devices to watch activity in hopes of preventing similar, uh, events like the one we just had."
Nodding his head, Crane said, "Sounds reasonable. Very well, Twitchell, I'm through with you for now. Continue to keep me posted."
With that, the DOI agent literally hopped to his feet, and made a hasty retreat before his boss had a change of mind.
In Perfection valley, not far below the surface, in the heart of a box canyon, lay the lengthy subterranean tunnel marking the passage of a graboid. Sunlight filtered in through the recently man-made hole, providing just an added touch of warmth through the next 30 feet or so of tunnel. It was just enough to touch the white, pulsing, circular lumps that completely filled that portion of the tunnel. As the sun's rays baked the hard dry ground, life swirled and grew within them, gaining strength and size as they prepared to meet life on the surface one day in the not so distant future.