CHAPTER TEN
On Fridays the aboveground pilots did test runs. By the time Al arrived in the morning, the first of them were starting. He parked the Corvette and sat back in his seat, watching the sleek silver plane of the day zip down the runway and take off with the grace of a swallow. It would rise above him, circling to find the path of least resistance, and then accelerate, travelling faster and faster until it vanished into the rising sun or the retreating blue of the west or the crimson hues to either side. It was a glorious sight. Inspiring. And though he wouldn't admit it, it made him jealous. He wished he was up there in that sleek aerial bullet, not sitting on asphalt about to descend into the depths of the earth to spend his whole day in confined corridors and tiny offices.
Eventually, as always, he tore himself away and went inside to meet Tony for breakfast. An apology for his tardiness was on his lips, but it proved unnecessary, because Wendell hadn't shown up yet. Al ordered coffee and a French omelette and sat back to wait. The food came, but his friend didn't. Al ate leisurely, but there was still no sign of Tony. Then he realized that he hadn't informed him that he was up and about—as Penvenen had put it, ambulatory—again. He finished his meal and set off for the elevators.
When he reached the Administration Wing Eulalie sprung from her seat. "Oh, Captain!" she exclaimed in a breathless whisper. "Thank goodness you're feeling better!"
Al chuckled as he sauntered over and petted her cheek. "Take it easy, kiddo. It was just a little stomach bug. Nothing serious."
"No, no, you don't understand!" she said. "Senator Shevchuk! The Committee!"
Al's brows furrowed. "Huh?"
"Senator Shevchuk arrived yesterday!" Eulalie exclaimed. "He wasn't happy you weren't around, not at all!"
"What? Why didn't anybody tell me? I would've broken out the dress whites and the fancy hardware."
It was Eulalie's turn to look puzzled. "But I asked H.R. to phone and let you know."
Al paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Aw, well; must've got lost in the shuffle. Listen, honey, has he said what he wants?"
She shook her head. "He and Commander Prysock were downstairs for most of the day. I don't know what was going on. He spent the night in the executive suite, and he should be up here any minute."
"Well, I'll be waiting," Al said, kissing her hand with a flourish and moving for his door. "Send him through when he's ready to face me."
Inside, he did a quick sweep for dust and debris, gave his nameplate the quick spit-and-polish treatment, and settled down at the desk to start methodically on yesterday's accumulated paperwork.
Not twenty minutes had passed when there was a sharp rap on the door. "Come in!" Al said cheerfully. The knob turned and the head of the Senatorial committee in charge of Starbright entered.
In another lifetime, Maxwell Shevchuk had been a starting quarterback at Notre Dame University. He still retained the memory of those glory days in his powerful shoulders and immense bull neck, but too many years of good home cooking and desk job after desk job had eaten away at the rest of his physique. He carried a lot of weight in the Senate—most of it around his middle—and most people found the combination of his build and his personality intimidating.
Al Calavicci was not most people.
"Good morning, senator!" he said sunnily, looking up briefly from his work. "Eulalie told me you were in the neighborhood!"
"Good morning, Captain," Shevchuck boomed, far less chipper than the Naval man. "You're looking well this morning."
"Much better than I was yesterday," Al said, not falling for that one. "My wife takes good care of me."
"I'm sure. I was disappointed when you weren't here to greet me yesterday."
"Yes, I'm sorry about that," Al said blithely. "Next time call ahead, and I'll be sure to schedule my illnesses around your visits."
Shevchuck scowled at the subtle dig. "The amount of money that we're shelling out for this little project, Calavicci, I think we're entitled to stop by whenever we feel like it."
"Oh, absolutely," Al agreed. At least, his tone suggested he agreed. In reality, he found these visits to be an immense nuisance, and wished to God that he didn't have to deal with them, especially without warning and at a time when he was already a day behind. "Did Prysock take good care of you?"
"He was most helpful. I see you took the time to train a competent assistant."
Al tried to read into the tone there, not sure if it was praise or criticism. "Well, when your subordinates can do their job, life's easier for everyone. As I'm sure you know, managing your own staff."
Shevchuk grunted in acknowledgement, then wandered over to the cabinet full of physics texts, chemistry manuals and scientific journals. "The Committee is concerned with the lack of progress Starbright has shown over the last few months," he said. "I am here to make sure that the public's money is going to good use. As soon as you can spare a minute, I'd like to take a walk through the bottom floor and see what's going on down there."
"I'll have to file for clearance and get you a badge," Al said. "That'll take at least an hour, if you want to go grab a coffee or check out the action on the surface or something."
Shevchuk deposited his not inconsiderable mass in the chair across from Al's desk, folding his arms resolutely over his barrel chest. "Oh, no, Captain, that won't be necessary," he said. "I'll just wait here until you're ready for me."
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMThe Senator was clearly not pleased with what he saw. After spending most of the day dragging Al through every single department, interrogating the staff and disrupting operations so much that they'd be lucky to be back on schedule in a month, he delivered his ultimatum.
"The Committee is convening to discuss your continued funding in the third week of January," he said. "By the first of the year, you will have to submit to us a full report on the Project's operations and progress. I want to see detailed statements from every member of staff with a clearance level higher than four. Each of the department heads must submit a full-length report. From you personally I expect a detailed but succinct summary of the composite findings—no grandstanding, just the facts. I'll have my office send over a full syllabus on Monday."
Al grinned enormously to hide the sinking feeling that came with the realization of just how mammoth a chore this was going to be. "Okey-dokey!" he said. "You'll forgive me if I don't see you off? I really should get back to my duty rosters."
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM
It was Al's first taste of what it really meant to be the head of such an enormous and diverse project. He started putting in at least four extra hours a day—sometimes not getting home until three in the morning. Saturdays were spent at the Project, too, catching up on the routine stuff that fell by the wayside as he scrambled to assemble the folio demanded by the funding committee. Every minute became precious, and luxuries like breakfast with Tony were no longer possible: he had to sacrifice them in favor of the far more valuable luxury of twenty more minutes' sleep. He often missed lunch, and not infrequently supper. It seemed like he hardly ever saw Sharon except when they were making love, which they did less frequently now but still often enough. Indeed only their liaisons and the roaring drunkenness that had become their Saturday nights was keeping Al sane. She was always fun, but when they were both three sheets to the wind… well, it was a blast!
It took some of the edge off of his working stresses, but could not completely counteract the pressure he was under. Extracting these statements from the staff was exactly like trying to get homework assignments out of a twelfth-grade English class. There were a few keeners who handed them in early, proofread and well written and in general ready for summarizing and duplication. Then there were the workhorses, who got them done, well and properly, exactly on time. There were the ones who slapped them together at the last minute, but still got them in on time. Then, of course, there were those who blew the whole thing off, and had to be hunted down and threatened into delivering.
The worst trouble came from the heads of the departments. They all felt themselves far too busy to be bothered with such ridiculous exercises. Al couldn't even really argue that: it was a waste of everybody's time. Except, of course, if they didn't deliver they'd have problems with the Committee, which would mean hard feelings at best, and funding cuts or even termination of Starbright at the worst. So he gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders and took the hard line with them.
It was on this topic that he had to speak to Doctor Eleese one Tuesday in October. She was down in the bowels of the synchrotron, only just visible from the observation deck where Al paced. Normally he loved Sub-Level Omega: it was a stunning blend of the mechanical and the theoretical aspects of science; ultimately concrete and ultimately abstract. Today it was an annoyance. He was tired, he was hungry, his back hurt from endless hours at his desk, and all he wanted to do was go home and curl up in bed with Sharon. He couldn't do that until he lit a fire under Eleese, and he was expecting a heated battle over that.
Presently one of the techs stepped out onto the floor far below, tapping his boss on the knee. She sat up, frowning. The kid explained hastily, pointing up to the Plexiglas window behind which Al stood. Even at this distance he could see Eleese scowl as she bit back. Al frowned back, gripping the railing in an imperious stance. She lay back under the laser, but after a minute she reached for the panel she had removed and began to replace it.
Al pinched the bridge of his nose, just below where the pain in his frontal lobe was smouldering mercilessly. He dragged in a deep breath and tried to forget how weary he was and how much he wished he didn't have to do this. He was going to have to be at his fighting best when she got up here, because God knew she would be.
Sure enough, she came striding onto the deck with her demands on her lips. "What do you want? And why do I have the feeling it's not important enough to drag me away from my work?"
"Good afternoon, Captain. How are you today? You're looking devilishly handsome, if I may say so. If there's one thing I can't resist, it's a man in uniform," Al said with good-natured sarcasm.
Donna Eleese frowned. "If you came down here for compliments, you're wasting your breath," she said.
"Relax!" Al said. "I'm not trying to put the make on you. I'm a married man, remember?"
"That doesn't seem to stop you from flirting with every female on the property," the scientist observed.
"You know, there's something I've always wondered about you," Al quipped conversationally. "Did you burn your bra back in the glory days, or have you ever worn one at all?"
The permafrost surged to the surface, forming an intractable shield over what was still a stunningly beautiful, intelligent face. "Captain, I don't need to put up with this. If you have something to say to me, I suggest you say it before I file complaints of harassment and unprofessional conduct."
"You wouldn't do that," Al said. Cold fish she might be, but Eleese wasn't the kind to go running to Human Resources with lies and unjustified accusations. "Fact is, you enjoy biting my head off as much as most ladies enjoy the compliments. I'm just giving you what you want, same as I do the rest of the girls on the Project."
Her lips thinned and twitched menacingly, but she schooled her features. "What I want," she said scathingly; "is an opportunity to get back to my work. So please get on with it so that I can pretend that this conversation never happened."
"You're late with your report," Al said abruptly, opting to stop mincing words. They were going to do enough bobbing and weaving over this one without prolonging the prelude any more. "I want it on my desk by noon Friday."
"That's impossible," she said. "We're eighteen tests behind, and I don't have time to start writing novels for you."
Al choked. "You haven't started yet?" he cried.
"No, I haven't. So what?"
"So, I've got to get that thing to the Committee! Are you trying to kill me?"
"That would get you out of those hearings," she pointed out. "Not to mention my hair."
"If you don't get that report together they could shut us down. It's mighty hard to run acceleration tests on the unemployment line," Al pointed out.
Eleese turned up her chin in that very becoming way she was wont to when waxing defiant. "There may be a surplus of womanising Naval captains," she said; "but quantum physicists are in short supply. I assure you, Captain, I would have no difficulty finding work in the private or academic sectors—even supposing that the government wished to terminate my contract. I'm not as dispensable as you think I am."
"You're not as indispensable as you think you are, either," Al pointed out. "I wouldn't have a hard time finding somebody qualified to replace you, which I might have to do if you don't start acting like more of a team player."
"That's an empty threat," she said dispassionately. "You wouldn't be able to find anyone to replace me."
Al frowned. He couldn't call her bluff: he had no idea if she was bluffing. It was something, he decided, that he should really look into someday when he had some free time. A voice in the back of his head cackled unpleasantly. Free time? What was that?
"Maybe not," Al said. "But if you don't get us that statement, I won't have to replace you, because the whole thing will be shut down. Come on, Doctor. Starbright's your brainchild as much as it anyone's. Do you really want her to be run to the ground?"
"It's ridiculous that they can't see we're making progress!" Eleese snapped, her frustration suddenly shifting from the handy scapegoat to a target nearer the source of the stress. "We've just reached a plateau! Those meddling bureaucrats are too impatient to have anything to do with scientific exploration!"
"Maybe," Al said. "So tell them that. Put it all in your report. Just write it. I don't care what you say!"
"Oh, really?"
"Really! I don't care if you get your secretary to write it! Just get it done!"
She looked at him coldly and inscrutably, and for a minute Al thought he had won. Then she smiled in a very self-satisfied manner. "If I have time," she said, then turned on her heels and vanished around the corner.
Al allowed himself the luxury of slumping against the wall, his headache thrumming afresh. He was so damned tired.
His stomach was growling, so he made his way towards the intolerably long staircase leading up to Sub-Level Six. By the time he reached the mess hall on Sub-Level Five he was shaking a little with enervation. He went through the cafeteria line, which at this time of the day wasn't much of a line, flirting almost automatically with the pretty blonde working behind it, then found his way to his customary table in the back corner. Try as he might, though, the chicken confetti held no appeal. He took two mouthfuls before he couldn't even taste the flat tomato sauce and the bland vegetables anymore. All he could feel was the starchiness of overcooked rice. It was lukewarm and had been left to sit too long… rice… cold, dirty, mouldering rice…
He swore he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he dug hastily into the food, looking for the source. He shivered. He was losing his mind. That bit of black pepper looked like the tip of a weevil's leg… He hated rice… God, how he hated rice. If he could just have something else, anything, anything at all. A bit of stale bread or an old, woody radish or a scrap of cast-off meat. If he could just once taste something that wasn't this mass of cold, glutinous grain, then he could die happy…
With a convulsive shudder, Al pushed the dish away. He held his head in his hands again. So much for eating. His appetite was gone. He got to his feet and trudged out of the room.
Halfway back to the elevator that would carry him back up to his office, Al had to stop. His legs wouldn't hold him up any longer. He was so tired, so damned tired. He knew he needed to eat something, but the thought of food was turning his stomach. His hands shook a little as he raked them through his hair. The short sleeves of his uniform seemed suddenly inadequate to keep him warm. He hugged his torso, trying to warm up. What he needed was a good stiff drink. That would wake him, warm him up, give him the energy to make it through the long, laborious evening ahead. Maybe with a little pick-me-up he could actually buckle down and accomplish something. But, of course, there was no such thing as a liquor store out here, and he sincerely doubted that the likes of Eleese and Gushman would have quality whiskey lying around their quarters—much less be willing to share.
Quarters. Al smiled. His quarters. There was a bottle of scotch there, a promotion present from Mac. He'd had a nip of it that day, months ago, when he'd brought Sharon here to show her the Project. It was still almost full. All he'd need is a glassful. Just one glass, and he knew he'd start feeling better.
The cheerful thought gave him the strength he needed to reach the elevator, and ultimately his disused suite. There it was, just as he had left it. He poured half a tumbler and drank it slowly, relishing the flavor and the bracing heat that spread from his torso into his limbs. His legs stopped shaking. The tremors in his hands were gone. He felt like a new man.
Al toyed with the idea of a second glass, but opted not to. Break time was over. He had to get back to work.
He put the bottle back in the cupboard in the little kitchenette.
He left the suite and locked the door.