But the bonus meant he wouldn’t need to work again for a couple of years. He specialized in large jobs. He’d done two skyscrapers in New York, an oil refinery in Delaware, an amusement park in Ohio, and two huge housing projects elsewhere, earning a reputation for bringing things in early and under budget not a bad rep for someone in his business. He parked his Jeep Cherokee, and checked notes for the things remaining this afternoon. Yeah, the window-seal tests in Building One. He used his cell phone to call ahead, and headed off, across the landing strip, as he called it, where the access roads came together. He remembered his time as an engineer in the Air Force. Two miles long, and almost a yard thick, yeah, you could land a 747 on this road if you wanted. Well, the company had a fleet of its own Gulfstream business jets, and why not land them here instead of the dinky little airfield at Ellsworth? And if they ever bought a jumbo, he chuckled, they could do that here, too. Three minutes later, he was parked just outside of One. This building was complete, three weeks early, and the last thing to be done was the environmental checks. Fine. He walked in through the revolving door-an unusually heavy, robust one, which was immediately locked upon his entry.
“Okay, we ready, Gil?”
“We are now, Mr. Hollister.”
“Run her up, then,” Charlie Hollister ordered.
Gil Trains was the supervisor of all the environmental systems at the project. Ex-Navy, and something of a control freak, he punched the wall-mounted controls himself. There was no noise associated with the pressurization the systems were too far away for that-but the effect was almost immediate. On the walk over to Gil, Hollister felt it in his ears, like driving down a mountain road, your ears clicked, and you had to work your jaw around to equalize the pressure, which was announced by another click.
“How’s it holding?”
“So far, so good,” Trains replied. “Zero point-seven-five PSI overpressure, holding steady.” His eyes were on the gauges mounted in this control station. “You know what this is like, Charlie?”
“Nope,” the superintendent admitted.
“Testing watertight integrity on a submarine. Same method, we overpressure a compartment.”
“Really? It’s all reminded me of stuff I did in Europe at fighter bases.”
“What’s that?” Gil asked.
“Overpressurizing pilots’ quarters to keep gas out.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I guess it works both ways. Pressure is holding nicely.”
Damned well ought to, Hollister thought, with all the hell ire went through to make sure every fucking window was scaled with vinyl gaskets. Not that there were all that many windows. That had struck him as pretty odd. The views here were pretty nice. Why shut them out?
The building was spec’d for a full 1.3 pounds of overpressure. They’d told him it was tornado protection, and that sorta-kinda made sense, along with the increased efficiency of the HVAC systems that came along with the seals. But it could also make for sick-building syndrome. Buildings with overly good environmental isolation kept flu germs in, and helped colds spread like a goddamned prairie fire. Well, that had to be part of the idea, too. The company worked on drugs and vaccines and stuff, and that meant that this place was like a germ-warfare factory, didn’t it? So, it made sense to keep stuff in – and keep stuff out, right? Ten minutes later they were sure. Instruments all over the building confirmed that the overpressurization systems worked-on the first trial. The guys who’d done the windows and doors had earned all that extra pay for getting it right.
“Looks pretty good. Gil, I have to run over to the uplink center.” The complex also had a lavish collection of satellite communications systems.
“Use the air lock.” Trains pointed.
“See you later,” the super said on his way out.
“Sure thing, Charlie.”
It wasn’t pleasant. They now had eleven people, healthy ones, eight women and three men-segregated by gender, of course-and eleven was actually one more than they’d planned, but after kidnapping them you couldn’t very well give them back. Their clothing had been taken away in some cases it had been removed while they’d been unconscious-and replaced with tops and bottoms that were rather like prison garb, if made of somewhat better material. No undergarments were permitted-imprisoned women had actually used bras to hang themselves on occasion, and that couldn’t be allowed here. Slippers for shoes, and the food was heavily laced with Valium, which helped to calm people down somewhat, but not completely. It wouldn’t have been very smart to drug them that much, since the depression of all their bodily systems might skew the test, and they couldn’t allow that either.
“What is all this?” the woman demanded of Dr. Archer.
“It’s a medical test,” Barbara replied, filling out the form. “You volunteered for it, remember? We’re paying you for this, and after it’s over you can go back home.”
“When did I do that?”
“Last week,” Dr. Archer told her.
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, you did. We have your signature on the consent form. And we’re taking good care of you, aren’t we?”
“I feel dopey all the time.”
“That’s normal,” Dr. Archer assured her. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
She-Subject F4-was a legal secretary. Three of the women subjects were that, which was mildly troubling to Dr. Archer. What if the lawyers they worked for called the police? Letters of resignation had been sent, with the signatures expertly forged, and plausible explanations for the supposed event included in the text of the letters. Maybe it would hold up. In any case, the kidnappings had been expertly done, and nobody here would talk to anybody about it, would they?
Subject F4 was nude, and sitting in a comfortable cloth-covered chair. Fairly attractive, though she needed to lose about ten pounds, Archer thought. The physical examination had revealed nothing unusual. Blood pressure was normal. Blood chemistry showed slightly elevated cholesterol, but nothing to worry about. She appeared to be a normal, healthy, twenty-six-year-old female. The interview for her medical history was similarly unremarkable. She was not a virgin, of course, having had twelve lovers over the nine years of her sexual activity. One abortion carried out at age twenty by her gynecologist, after which she’d practiced safe sex. She had a current love interest, but he was out of town for a few weeks on business, and she suspected that he had another woman in his life anyway.
“Okay, that about does it, Mary.” Archer stood and smiled. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Can I get dressed now?”
“First there’s something we want you to do. Please walk through the green door. There’s a fogging system in there. You’ll find it feels nice and cool. Your clothes will be on the other side. You can get dressed there.”
“Okay.” Subject F4 rose and did as she was told. Inside the sealed room was – nothing, really. She stood there in drugged puzzlement for a few seconds, noting that it was hot in there, over ninety degrees, but then invisible spray ports in the wall sent out a mist . . . fog, something like that, which cooled her down instantly and comfortably for about ten seconds. Then the fog stopped, and the far door clicked open. As promised, there was a dressing room there, and she donned her green jamms, then walked out into the corridor, where a security guard waved her to the door at the far end – he never got closer than ten feet – back to the dormitory, where lunch was waiting. Meals were pretty good here, and after meals she always felt like a nap.
“Feeling bad, Pete?” Dr. Killgore asked in a different part of the building.
“Must be the flu or something. I feel beat-up all over, and I can’t keep anything down.” Even the booze, he didn’t say, though that was especially disconcerting for the alcoholic. Booze was the one thing he could always keep down.
“Okay, let’s give it a look, then.” Killgore stood, donning a mask and putting on latex gloves for his examination. “Gotta take a blood sample, okay?”
“Sure, doc.”
Killgore did that very carefully indeed, giving him the usual stick inside the elbow, and filling four five-cc test tubes. Next he checked Pete’s eyes, mouth, and did the normal prodding, which drew a reaction over the subject’s liver
“Ouch! That hurts, doc.”
“Oh? Doesn’t feel very different from before, Pete. How’s it hurt?” he asked, feeling the liver, which, as in most alcoholics, felt like a soft brick. “Like you just stabbed me with a knife, doc. Real sore there.”
“Sorry, Pete. How about here?” the physician asked, probing lower with both hands.
“Not as sharp, but it hurts a little. Somethin’ I ate, maybe?”
“Could be. I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Killgore replied. Okay, this one was symptomatic, a few days earlier than expected, but small irregularities were to be expected. Pete was one of the healthier subjects, but alcoholics were never really what one could call healthy. So, Pete would be Number 2. Bad luck, Pete, Killgore thought. “Let me give you something to take the edge off.”