bargelike structure covered by another vast sheet of what appeared to be opaque Mylar, almost in the fashion of a circus tent.
“Seven p.m., local time,” Rush added. Even at this hour the air was sticky and oppressive. From the darkness beyond the netting, Logan could hear, amid the patter of raindrops, a strange fugal drone of insects, frogs, and other less-identifiable creatures.
He looked around. “Does this thing have a name?”
Rush laughed. “Nothing official. Most people just call it the Station—after Heart of Darkness , I suppose. The six primary floating structures, the ‘wings,’ that make up the base are color coded, and they’re referred to by their colors. The one we’re entering now is Green. It’s where the back-office work of the expedition is done: interfacing with suppliers, transportation coordination, vessel and equipment maintenance, that sort of thing. It’s also the, ah, public face of the expedition—such as it is.”
They were now walking down a narrow passageway, rather grimy and scuffed, studded with open doors. It was cooler inside this enclosed structure, and Logan noticed that the walls were, in fact, painted green. He peered curiously into the rooms on either side. They were full of computers, video cameras on tripods, whiteboards covered with diagrams and legends. Messy-looking laboratories—apparently, ecological and biological setups—had complete suites of scientific equipment and paraphernalia for collecting samples. The rooms all had one thing in common: they were dark, devoid of any activity.
“What’s all this?” Logan said, nodding toward one of the open doors.
“The public face I mentioned.”
Logan shook his head. “Unique or not, why study something as godforsaken as this place?”
Rush chuckled. “That’s exactly what the local government thinks—and what we want them to think. Why document a swampthat’s been universally reviled ever since it was first discovered? But of course they were happy to take some money in exchange for the necessary permits. That’s probably the only benefit of being situated here—nobody’s likely to drop in for a surprise visit. We had an official flown in when the site first went active. We didn’t make it easy to get here, and we were sure to turn off the air-conditioning while he was on location. We don’t expect any future interruptions—but of course, if necessary, these decoy labs and offices could be up and running within five minutes.”
They made their way along Green’s central passageway, now passing offices that were, it appeared, real: Logan made out someone typing at a terminal, another speaking into a field radio. They turned down another passage, which led to a dark, circular opening covered by wide, ceiling-to-floor strips of semiopaque plastic. Logan was reminded of the mouth of a baggage carousel. Rush pushed his way past the plastic strips, and Logan followed. Suddenly, he was outdoors again, in a narrow tube of mosquito netting, supported by pontoons. It was pitch-black, and—if anything—the insect noise had increased, completely overwhelming the drone of the generators. Listening, Logan didn’t think he could bear to spend a night outdoors with such an infernal racket.
As they traversed the long walkway, it rocked back and forth, and Logan could hear sucking, sopping noises emanating from beneath their feet. Clearly, they were moving from one of the primary floating barges to another.
“All these structures are anchored to the bed of the Sudd,” Rush said. “Very precisely anchored, too—there can be no shifting, not even by so much as half a meter. Our work is dependent on GPS positioning. But you’ll see that for yourself soon enough.”
“Remarkable.”
“The most remarkable part isn’t even visible. As you might imagine, a swamp like the Sudd throws off a lot of methane. There are collection devices underneath each of the wings. The methane is concentrated and processed
“Seven p.m., local time,” Rush added. Even at this hour the air was sticky and oppressive. From the darkness beyond the netting, Logan could hear, amid the patter of raindrops, a strange fugal drone of insects, frogs, and other less-identifiable creatures.
He looked around. “Does this thing have a name?”
Rush laughed. “Nothing official. Most people just call it the Station—after Heart of Darkness , I suppose. The six primary floating structures, the ‘wings,’ that make up the base are color coded, and they’re referred to by their colors. The one we’re entering now is Green. It’s where the back-office work of the expedition is done: interfacing with suppliers, transportation coordination, vessel and equipment maintenance, that sort of thing. It’s also the, ah, public face of the expedition—such as it is.”
They were now walking down a narrow passageway, rather grimy and scuffed, studded with open doors. It was cooler inside this enclosed structure, and Logan noticed that the walls were, in fact, painted green. He peered curiously into the rooms on either side. They were full of computers, video cameras on tripods, whiteboards covered with diagrams and legends. Messy-looking laboratories—apparently, ecological and biological setups—had complete suites of scientific equipment and paraphernalia for collecting samples. The rooms all had one thing in common: they were dark, devoid of any activity.
“What’s all this?” Logan said, nodding toward one of the open doors.
“The public face I mentioned.”
Logan shook his head. “Unique or not, why study something as godforsaken as this place?”
Rush chuckled. “That’s exactly what the local government thinks—and what we want them to think. Why document a swampthat’s been universally reviled ever since it was first discovered? But of course they were happy to take some money in exchange for the necessary permits. That’s probably the only benefit of being situated here—nobody’s likely to drop in for a surprise visit. We had an official flown in when the site first went active. We didn’t make it easy to get here, and we were sure to turn off the air-conditioning while he was on location. We don’t expect any future interruptions—but of course, if necessary, these decoy labs and offices could be up and running within five minutes.”
They made their way along Green’s central passageway, now passing offices that were, it appeared, real: Logan made out someone typing at a terminal, another speaking into a field radio. They turned down another passage, which led to a dark, circular opening covered by wide, ceiling-to-floor strips of semiopaque plastic. Logan was reminded of the mouth of a baggage carousel. Rush pushed his way past the plastic strips, and Logan followed. Suddenly, he was outdoors again, in a narrow tube of mosquito netting, supported by pontoons. It was pitch-black, and—if anything—the insect noise had increased, completely overwhelming the drone of the generators. Listening, Logan didn’t think he could bear to spend a night outdoors with such an infernal racket.
As they traversed the long walkway, it rocked back and forth, and Logan could hear sucking, sopping noises emanating from beneath their feet. Clearly, they were moving from one of the primary floating barges to another.
“All these structures are anchored to the bed of the Sudd,” Rush said. “Very precisely anchored, too—there can be no shifting, not even by so much as half a meter. Our work is dependent on GPS positioning. But you’ll see that for yourself soon enough.”
“Remarkable.”
“The most remarkable part isn’t even visible. As you might imagine, a swamp like the Sudd throws off a lot of methane. There are collection devices underneath each of the wings. The methane is concentrated and processed
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