Deep Storm by Lincoln Child Page A
Authors: Lincoln Child
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Atlantis, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Espionage, Body, Mind & Spirit, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, Technological, Atlantis (Legendary place), Lost continents, Geographical myths, Fiction - Espionage, Mythical Civilizations
Ads: Link
him.
Crane resisted an impulse to glance at his watch. Roger Corbett was waiting for him in Top. It was nice meeting you
And 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.
Dr. Flyte, Im sure youve got as busy a day ahead as I do
Not at all! Ive all the time in the worldat the moment. Its 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 mans 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.
What is the meaning of this? the man demanded crossly.
What does it look like? said Crane, exasperated. Its a book of poetry.
I 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! And this?
Its a book about irrational numbers.
The man laughed and nodded. Indeed! And how appropriate, no?
Appropriate for what?
The man looked up at him in surprise. Irrational numbers! Dont you see?
No. I dont see.
Its so obvious. A number of us here are irrational, arent we? If were not, I fear we soon will be. He extended a wiry index finger and tapped Crane on the chest. Thats why youre here. Because its broken.
Whats broken?
Everything is broken, Flyte repeated in an urgent whisper. Or at least, will be very soon.
Crane frowned. Dr. Flyte, if you dont mind
Flyte held up one hand. The mood of sudden urgency seemed to pass. It hasnt 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 Im going to have to ask you to leave. I have a lunch appointment Im already late for.
The tiny old man cocked his head to one side and grasped Cranes hand. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr. Crane. As I said, weve 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 hed never been there at all.
Chapter 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
Crane resisted an impulse to glance at his watch. Roger Corbett was waiting for him in Top. It was nice meeting you
And 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.
Dr. Flyte, Im sure youve got as busy a day ahead as I do
Not at all! Ive all the time in the worldat the moment. Its 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 mans 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.
What is the meaning of this? the man demanded crossly.
What does it look like? said Crane, exasperated. Its a book of poetry.
I 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! And this?
Its a book about irrational numbers.
The man laughed and nodded. Indeed! And how appropriate, no?
Appropriate for what?
The man looked up at him in surprise. Irrational numbers! Dont you see?
No. I dont see.
Its so obvious. A number of us here are irrational, arent we? If were not, I fear we soon will be. He extended a wiry index finger and tapped Crane on the chest. Thats why youre here. Because its broken.
Whats broken?
Everything is broken, Flyte repeated in an urgent whisper. Or at least, will be very soon.
Crane frowned. Dr. Flyte, if you dont mind
Flyte held up one hand. The mood of sudden urgency seemed to pass. It hasnt 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 Im going to have to ask you to leave. I have a lunch appointment Im already late for.
The tiny old man cocked his head to one side and grasped Cranes hand. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr. Crane. As I said, weve 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 hed never been there at all.
Chapter 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
Similar Books
