CHAPTER FOUR
The process by which a civilian is granted access to restricted areas of a top-secret government project is a slow one. When one has to go through the alternate channel—that channel not ultimately involving the consent of the Project Administrator, it is still slower. So it was that Sharon did not make her first visit to the Starbright compound until six weeks after the wedding.
Al brought her with him on a Monday, because usually the beginning of the week was slower, before the small daily excess accumulated into an unmanageable heap of paperwork that usually kept him late on Fridays. She couldn't quite believe how long the drive actually took, though she did revel in the speed of the Corvette as it zipped through the evolution of a desert dawn.
They met Tony for breakfast, which passed with fewer lewd comments than usual. Then Al brought her down into the depths of the Project.
His office on Sub-Level Five was their first stop. He introduced Sharon to his secretary, Eulalie Pharris, and then had to endure a lot of feminine cooing over his medals while he got a start on his day. Sharon accompanied him on his rounds of the chem labs on Sub-Level Four. Lunch was indifferent tuna fish sandwiches in the Sub-Five mess, and by then Sharon was beginning to wilt, unaccustomed to such an early start, so Al took her up to Sub-Level Three and unlocked his quarters.
Every member of the staff deemed "essential" had quarters on-site. Some, like Doctor Wendell, used them as waystations to break up the brutal multi-day shifts sometimes put in by the scientists. Others, like Doctor Eleese, made their permanent residence in the tiny subterranean apartments. Personally, Al hadn't even used his since the early days of trailer-hunting—at which time he'd been housed in still smaller rooms. Now he had the Administrator's quarters: a kitchenette, a sitting room, a tiny study and a small bedroom. They were the best on site, equipped with a computer, one of the Project's five outside telephone lines, and, for no apparent reason, a strong television signal.
Sharon wandered through the very institutional rooms with a curious look on her face. Al wandered into the kitchenette, where he remembered Mac had left a bottle of old scotch. He poured himself half a tumbler of the amber fluid. It was good stuff. He sipped at it, then wandered through to the bedroom, where Sharon was staring at the large, blank white walls.
"You know," she said as he came up behind her; "you could do an awful lot with these walls."
"No you don't!" Al said. "I'm not letting you turn this place into a reprise of your van!"
Sharon's van was a Volkswagen with a beautifully-kept body and a sorely neglected engine. It was also, hands down, the most distinctive vehicle Al had ever driven—and he was by no means one to spring for inconspicuous cars. Aside from its mammoth size and box-like proportions, there was the bodywork. Whatever color that sucker had been born was long since lost to posterity. At some point in its undoubtedly checkered career it had been done over in a vivid electric purple. Even this, though, was difficult to discern under the decoration lavished upon the vehicle by its creative owner. The front was painted like a butterfly, with the headlights as spots and the circular hallmark as the head. On the driver's side was a mural of a wooded landscape that started in winter at the front, then passed through spring and summer to autumn at the back. The passenger's side was an abstract inferno of angular geometrics that continued up onto the top. The back bore a coat of arms that Sharon described as "a field sable, deux chevrons argent and a paintbrush rampant". Not content with leaving any useable surface blank, she had enameled the hubcaps in spirals and nexuses that had to be a genuine roadway hazard when the thing was moving. Al wasn't sure if his wife was still living in the sixties, or just trying to cause a pileup.
"It's boring!" Sharon said.
"I don't care. This is a military establishment, and you can't just go around painting the walls," Al told her.
"The military is overrated," she pouted. She sauntered towards him, hips swaying beneath her smooth abdomen, and twined her arms around his neck. Al carefully set the whiskey down on the empty bureau, then gave in to the kiss she was trying to start up. "At least let me put up some paintings," she murmured.
"We'll see," Al mumbled, one hand holding her as close to himself as he could, and the other fumbling with Sharon's zipper. "One thing I've always wanted to do," he confided as she pulled his shirt down around his waist.
"Which is?" Sharon breathed.
With a single quick motion, Al flung her down on the bed and settled on top of her.
"Test the springs in this mattress," he said.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMSharon sighed contentedly as Al slipped out from under her arm and began to get dressed. Her eyes closed and she curled herself into a ball. Al carefully pulled the white blanket over her. He would've liked to nap, too, but the fact was that he was on duty, and really should be downstairs working. He moved into the study, found a pad of paper, and scrawled a quick note leaving Sharon the extension she should call when she awoke, and strict instructions not to go wandering around the Project on her own.
Out in the corridor, he made his way directly to the elevators. One of Starbright's minor security features to help confound and hinder intruders was that the lift controls were deliberately confusing. You pushed the "up" button to go to a Sub-Level with a higher number than the one you were on. Inside, the buttons were randomized and labeled with Greek letters proceeding backwards from Omega—which wasn't even accessible by elevator. Al depressed the "up" button, and waited patiently.
There was the sound of practical pumps on the linoleum. "Captain Calavicci!" a firm, imperious voice exclaimed.
Al turned to see Doctor Donna Eleese, quite possibly the foremost quantum physicist in the world, hurrying towards him. She was a drop-dead gorgeous brunette with long, shapely legs and handsome casabas that were always obscured by the broad lapels of her immaculate lab coat. She had a stainless steel clipboard in the crook of one arm, and the other hand in her coat pocket.
"Doc," Al said brightly.
"I've been trying to track you down for over an hour," Eleese said, her voice jaded with annoyance. "We're having some difficulties with the computers in Omega, and the new technician doesn't seem to be up to the task of repairing them."
"If you're talking about Doctor Gushman," Al said; "he isn't a technician. What kind of difficulties?"
"If I knew that, I would fix it myself," she snapped.
It was a shame, Al thought, that such a beautiful young lady had such a big chip on her shoulder. Donna Eleese seemed to have some kind of a grudge against the world. When Al had first met her at Lakehurst, when she and Mac had come out to give him an interview for the Deputy Administrator position, he had been warned not to try his customary charm on her. So he had gone easy on the charisma and heavy on the jargon, and apparently won her approval, since he was here now.
That being said, though, Al never had the slightest idea where he stood with her. She was an impossible nut to crack. One moment she was treating him like an equal, in as much as she ever treated anyone like an equal, and the next she was talking down to him like he was nothing but a washed-up star jock who had somehow wound up where he really didn't belong.
The elevator arrived, negating the need for further discussion as they entered and Al depressed the "Psi" button. The door closed and Al's stomach lurched as they began their descent. Doctor Eleese turned to her clipboard, studiously ignoring him.
They disembarked on Sub-Level Five, and made their way quickly to the stairwell that led down to the synchrotron labs. Behind the locked door were two Marine guards, who stood aside on the narrow landing to allow Al and Eleese to pass. Halfway down there was another pair, these ones heavily armed. At last when they reached the bottom, there was a broad entryway with half a dozen men. Here they had to sign in before being admitted into the lowest level.
Al let Eleese brush past him, marching towards the control room where the computers and recording equipment were housed. Inside, the crew of physicists and theorists stood in a knot in the corner, grumbling discontentedly while the technicians wrestled with the mammoth machines. Bent over the main console was little Doctor Gushman, mumbling frenetically to himself as if by doing so he could make sense of the problem.
"Any progress?" Eleese demanded.
"N-no, Doc-oc-octor," Gushman stuttered.
Eleese's eyes flashed. "Why not?"
"I—I—I—"
Al had seen enough. He was the Project Administrator, and if anyone had the authority to take charge of this situation it was him. He didn't like the programmer's spineless attitude, but that didn't mean that the man should have to put up with an audience while wresting with the complex circuitry.
"All right," he said, striding further into the room and starting to herd the crowd of eggheads out. "You kids from the brain trust can all just take an unscheduled lunch hour. Get out topside and catch some rays or something."
Doctor Eleese stiffened. "You don't have the authority—"
Al favored her with his most dazzling smile. "Darling, I have the authority to shut this Project down on ten seconds' notice. I think I've got the authority to clear a room. Now, go put your feet up for a while. When we have everything back on line down here I promise you'll be the first to know."
She stared at him, and Al got the distinct impression that no one had ever taken that tone with her before. It took her a moment to find her voice.
"Very well," she said, the finest hint of scorn filtering into her voice. "I'll leave this situation in your capable hands."
She turned and left. Al looked around to ensure that only qualified personnel were present, then closed and deactivated the automatic doors. He turned to Gushman and his crew of techs.
"All right, Doctor," he said. "What seems to be the problem?"
The programmer stared at him in mute confusion. Al recognized the expression. He was paralyzed with stage fright. "Would it help if I left, too?" Al asked kindly.
"I—I—I mean… I…"
Al had to grit his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes. He had met some mighty insecure people in his time, but this was a new low. Not even capable of stringing together a coherent sentence. "Okay," he said. "I'll be right outside if you need me."
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAs it turned out, a little elbowroom was all that Gushman needed. Inside of an hour everything was back online. Al returned to his office and bent over the growing pile of paperwork.
When the intra-Project telephone rang, Al looked up to realize that the entire afternoon had slipped away, and it was now almost seven o'clock. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and picked up the receiver.
"Calavicci," he said.
"And what am I, chopped liver?" an irate voice demanded. "You wander off and let me nap for five hours—I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight!"
Al frowned. He had forgotten all about his wife. "Sharon… right…" he mumbled, his tired mind stumbling over itself. "Right. You ready to go home?"
As a matter of fact, she had a few choice words about just how ready she was, so as soon as he could hang up without running the risk of initiating divorce proceedings Al wrapped up his labors for the night and locked down his office.
The drive home was a quiet one, Sharon scowling disapprovingly and Al drowning the stresses of the day in the cold rush of man-made wind. Once inside, Al fed Chester and made a beeline for the shower, trying to wash away his frustrations and failing miserably.
Maybe it was all more trouble than it was worth. All this work, all this conflict, and what was the Project really accomplishing? The scientists hated each other, the military personnel chafed at the inaction and the Administrator couldn't even make peace with his unfathomable wife. What was the point?
Suddenly the glass door of the shower popped open and Sharon climbed in. Al grinned enormously as he moved over to admit her.
Maybe, he reflected philosophically, life wasn't so pointless after all.