Deep Storm by Lincoln Child

one respect it didn’t really matter. Because, at last, Crane was beginning to understand why Asher had so specifically requested him—
    â€œIs it all becoming clear, then?” asked a voice at his shoulder.
    Crane almost leapt out of his seat in surprise. He wheeled around, heart racing, to see a rather astonishing sight. An old man in faded bib overalls was standing there. He had piercing blue eyes, and a shock of silvery hair stuck up, Einstein-like, from his forehead. He was very short—no taller than five feet—and gaunt. For a moment, Crane wondered if he’d come to repair something. The door to the room was closed. There had been no knock, no sound of entry. It was as if the man had materialized out of thin air.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    The man looked over Crane’s shoulder at the screen. “My, my. So few words, so many question marks.”
    Crane cleared the screen with the touch of a key. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he said drily.
    The man laughed: a high, piping sound like the twitter of a bird. “I know. I came to make your acquaintance. I heard there was a Dr. Crane on board and that intrigued me.” He held out his hand. “The name’s Flyte. Dr. Flyte.”
    â€œPleased to meet you.”
    An awkward silence followed and Crane sought a neutral, polite question. “What’s your role here, Dr. Flyte?”
    â€œAutonomous mechanical systems.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œSpoken like a true newcomer. The Facility is like a frontier town—and, if you’re a fan of Western movies, as I am, you would know that in a frontier town there are two questions you don’t ask: Where do you come from? And: Why are you here?” Flyte paused. “Suffice to say, I’m indispensable—more’s the pity. My work is
highly
classified.”
    â€œThat’s nice,” said Crane lamely, at a loss for a reply.
    â€œYou think so? Not I. This is no happy assignment, Dr. Crane, here so far beneath.”
    Crane blinked. “Beg pardon?”
    â€œBless me, not
another
!” Flyte raised his eyes skyward. “Does no one speak the mother tongue anymore? There was a time when ancient Greek was sung upon every civilized lip.” He wagged a finger at Crane. “‘Ocean, who is the source of all.’ Homer, you see, was a countryman of mine. You would do well to read him.”
    Crane resisted an impulse to glance at his watch. Roger Corbett was waiting for him in Top. “It was nice meeting you—”
    â€œAnd you,” Flyte interrupted. “I am a great admirer of any practitioners of the noble art.”
    Crane began to feel a swell of annoyance. He wondered how a man like Flyte had managed to slip through the vetting process everyone must have undergone before being admitted to the Facility. The best way to handle things, he decided, was to cut short any attempts at friendship on his part.
    â€œDr. Flyte, I’m sure you’ve got as busy a day ahead as I do—”
    â€œNot at all! I’ve all the time in the world…at the moment. It’s only when the drilling resumes that they might need me and my artistry.” He held up his small hands and wiggled his fingers as if he were a concert pianist.
    The man’s bright eyes began to wander and fell once again on the open duffel. “What have we here?” he asked, reaching down and picking up a couple of books peeking out of the open duffel. He held up one of them,
An Anthology of Twentieth Century Poetry.
    â€œWhat is the meaning of this?” the man demanded crossly.
    â€œWhat does it look like?” said Crane, exasperated. “It’s a book of poetry.”
    â€œI have no time for modern poetry, and neither should you. Like I said: read Homer.” The man dropped the book back onto the duffel and glanced at the other volume,
Pi: Its History and Mystery.
“Aha!