Deep Storm by Lincoln Child Page A

And this?”
    â€œIt’s a book about irrational numbers.”
    The man laughed and nodded. “Indeed! And how appropriate, no?”
    â€œAppropriate for what?”
    The man looked up at him in surprise. “Irrational numbers! Don’t you see?”
    â€œNo. I don’t see.”
    â€œIt’s so obvious. A number of us here are irrational, aren’t we? If we’re not, I fear we soon will be.” He extended a wiry index finger and tapped Crane on the chest. “That’s why you’re here. Because it’s
broken
.”
    â€œWhat’s broken?”
    â€œ
Everything
is broken,” Flyte repeated in an urgent whisper. “Or at least, will be very soon.”
    Crane frowned. “Dr. Flyte, if you don’t mind—”
    Flyte held up one hand. The mood of sudden urgency seemed to pass. “It hasn’t occurred to you yet, but we have something in common.” He paused significantly.
    Crane swallowed. He was not about to ask what it was. But it seemed that Flyte needed no encouragement.
    The man leaned forward, as if to share a confidence. “Our names. Crane. Flyte. You understand?”
    Crane sighed. “No offense, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I have a lunch appointment I’m already late for.”
    The tiny old man cocked his head to one side and grasped Crane’s hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr. Crane. As I said, we’ve got something in common, you and I. And we need to stick together.”
    With a parting wink he ducked outside, leaving the door open. A moment later Crane went to close it, and he glanced curiously down the long corridor. It was empty, and there was no sign of the strange old man. It was as if he’d never been there at all.

8
    Howard Asher sat at the desk in his cramped office on deck 8, staring intently at a computer screen. The wash of color from the flat-panel monitor turned his silver-gray hair a strange, ethereal blue.
    Behind him was a metal bookcase stuffed with technical manuals, textbooks on oceanography and marine biology, and a few well-worn collections of poetry. Above the bookcase were several framed etchings: reproductions of Piranesi studies taken from
Vedute di Roma
. Another, smaller bookcase, this one with a glass door, held a variety of maritime curiosities: a fossilized coelacanth, a battered handspike from a clipper ship, a tooth from the impossibly reclusive Blue Grotto shark. Neither the diminutive size of the office nor its eclectic collections gave any evidence its occupant was the chief scientist of the National Ocean Service.
    Faintly, through the closed door, came the sound of approaching footsteps. Then a face appeared in the glass window of the door. Glancing over, Asher recognized the red hair and freckled face of Paul Easton, one of several marine geologists at work on the reclamation project.
    Asher swiveled in his chair, leaned over, opened the door. “Paul! Good to see you.”
    Easton stepped in, closed the door behind him. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time, sir.”
    â€œHow often do I have to tell you, Paul? My name’s Howard. Here at the Facility, we’re on a first-name basis. Just don’t tell Admiral Spartan I said so.” And Asher chuckled at his little joke.
    Easton, however, did not laugh.
    Asher regarded him carefully. Normally, Easton was a puckish fellow, fond of practical jokes and very dirty limericks. Today, however, he was frowning, and his youthful features looked somber. More than that: Easton looked worried.
    Asher waved a hand at the lone empty chair. “Sit down, Paul, and tell me what’s on your mind.”
    Although Easton sat down immediately, he did not speak. Instead, he raised a hand to his forearm and began rubbing it gently.
    â€œIs something wrong, son?” Asher asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Easton said. “Maybe.”
    He was still rubbing his