nothing like our year, is it? I mean, there’s a hell of a lot more
than three hundred sixty-five numbers in that lot, and a lot more
than twelve months, or whatever they are-aren’t there?”
“I know. Interesting?”
“Hey. I’m still here,” said a small voice behind them. They moved
apart and half turned to let her in on the proceedings.
“Sorry,” Hunt said. “Getting carried away.” He shook his head and
regarded her with an expression of disbelief.
“What on Earth made you say a calendar?”
She shrugged and pouted her lips. “Don’t know, really. The book
over there looks like a diary. Every diary I ever saw had calendars
in it. So, it had to be a calendar.”
Hunt sighed. “So much for scientific method. Anyway, let’s run a
shot of it. I’d like to do some sums on it later.” He looked back
at Lyn. “No-on second thought, you run it. This is your discovery.”
She frowned at him suspiciously. “What d’you want me to do?” “Sit
down there at the master console. That’s right. Now activate the
control keyboard. . . Press the red button-that one.”
“What do I do now?”
“Type this: FC comma DACCO seven slash PCH dot P sixty-seven slash
HCU dot one. That means ‘functional control mode, data access
program subsystem number seven selected, access data file reference
“Project Charlie, Book one,” page sixtyseven, optical format,
output on hard copy unit, one copy.”
“It does? Really? Great!”
She keyed in the commands as Hunt repeated them more slowly. At
once a hum started up in the hard copier, which stood next to the
scanner. A few seconds later a sheet of glossy paper flopped into
the tray attached to the copier’s side. Gray walked over to collect
it.
“Perfect,” he announced.
“This makes me a scope expert, too,” Lyn informed them brightly.
Hunt studied the sheet briefly, nodded, and slipped it into a
folder lying on top of the console.
“Doing some homework?” she asked.
“I don’t like the wallpaper in my hotel room.”
“He’s got the theory of relativity all around the bedroom in his
flat in Wokingham,” Gray confided, “. . . and wave mechanics in the
kitchen.”
She looked from one to the other curiously. “Do you know, you’re
crazy. Both of you-you’re both crazy. I was always too polite to
mention it before, but somebody has to say it.”
Hunt gave her a solemn look. “You didn’t come all the way over here
to tell us we’re crazy,” he pronounced.
“Know something-you’re right. I had to be in Westwood anyway. A
piece of news just came in this morning that I thought might
interest you. Gregg’s been talking to the Soviets. Apparently one
of their materials labs has been doing tests on some funny pieces
of metal alloy they got hold of-all sorts of unusual properties
nobody’s ever seen before. And guess what-they dug them up on the
Moon, somewhere near Mare Imbrium. And-when they ran some dating
tests, they came up with a figure of about fifty thousand years !
How about that! Interested?”
Gray whistled.
“It had to be just a matter of time before something else turned
up,” Hunt said, nodding. “Know any more details?”
She shook her head. “Fraid not. But some of the guys might be able
to fill you in a bit more at the Ocean tonight. Try Hans if he’s
there; he was talking a lot to Gregg about it earlier.”
Hunt looked intrigued but decided there was little point in
pursuing the matter further for the time being.
“How is Gregg?” he asked. “Has he tried smiling lately?”
“Don’t be mean,” she reproached him. “Gregg’s okay. He’s
busy, that’s all. D’you think he didn’t have enough to worry about
before all this blew up?”
Hunt didn’t dispute it. During the few weeks that had passed, he
had seen ample evidence of the massive resources Caldwell was
marshaling from all around the globe. He couldn’t help but be
impressed by the director’s organizational ability and his ruthless
efficiency when it came to annihilating opposition. There were
other things, however, about which Hunt harbored mild personal
doubts.
“How’s it all going, then?” he asked. His tone was neutral. It did