Deep Storm by Lincoln Child

the bath he shared with Roger Corbett. The mental health officer had offered to take him to lunch at Top, the prosaically named mess on deck 11. Crane said hed meet him there. He wanted a few minutes alone first.
     
    A sealed folder lay on the desk, his name and a bar code imprinted along one edge. Crane picked up the folder, broke the seal with a fingernail, and dumped the contents onto the desk. Out fell a bulky name tag with a magnetic stripe and pocket clip; another copy of Code of Classified Naval Conduct; a two-page bibliography of books on Atlantis, all available in the library or for download to his terminal; and an envelope that contained a list of temporary passwords for the general and medical computer networks.
     
    He clipped the ID to his pocket. Then he sat down at the desk and stared a moment at the blank screen. At last, with a sigh, he booted up the terminal and logged on with his temporary password, pausing to massage the spot on his upper arm where the radio tag had been inserted a few minutes earlier. Opening the text editor, he began to type.
     
    Non-specific symptomology:
     
    physiological& neurological?? deficits
     
    & psychological detachment / dissociation
     
    Check clinical presentations
     
    Look for index case?
     
    Atmospheric / environmental?
     
    Poisoning: systemic or general?
     
    Preexisting condition(s)?
     
    He pushed back from the desk and glanced at the screen. Caisson disease? Nitrogen narcosis? hed asked Asher from the Storm King oil platform. More the former than the latter, had been the reply. Crane was only now beginning to understand just how evasive that answer had been. In fact, Dr. Asher as affable and open as he appeared to be had so far told him next to nothing.
     
    This was annoying, maybe even a little alarming. But in one respect it didnt really matter. Because, at last, Crane was beginning to understand why Asher had so specifically requested him
     
    Is 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 hed 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.
     
    Excuse me?
     
    The man looked over Cranes shoulder at the screen. My, my. So few words, so many question marks.
     
    Crane cleared the screen with the touch of a key. I dont believe weve 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 names Flyte. Dr. Flyte.
     
    Pleased to meet you.
     
    An awkward silence followed and Crane sought a neutral, polite question. Whats your role here, Dr. Flyte?
     
    Autonomous mechanical systems.
     
    Whats that?
     
    Spoken like a true newcomer. The Facility is like a frontier town and, if youre a fan of Western movies, as I am, you would know that in a frontier town there are two questions you dont ask: Where do you come from? And: Why are you here? Flyte paused. Suffice to say, Im indispensable mores the pity. My work is highly classified.
     
    Thats nice, said Crane lamely, at a loss for a reply.
     
    You think so? Not I. This is no happy assignment, Dr. Crane, here so far beneath -.
     
    Crane blinked. Beg pardon?
     
    Bless 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