Another rending of timber; the old structure gave out a scream.
Suddenly, without thinking, Logan dashed forward, making for the front door. He ran ten feet before being restrained by a policeman.
“No!” Logan said, struggling furiously.
“It’s no good,” the cop said, tightening his hold.
Just then, the roof of the house collapsed in an inferno of sparks. Embers, ash, bits of fiery matter rose in a mushroom cloud of ruin. And — as the policeman relaxed his grip — Logan collapsed as well, sinking slowly to the pavement, staring on in grief and horror, the death of the house reflected on his face in streaks of yellow, orange, and black.
38
Early morning light streamed through the windows of Gregory Olafson’s spacious office, illuminating the dust motes that hung in the air. Olafson was bent over his desk, scratching out a note with an expensive fountain pen on cream laid paper. While he was quite comfortable with computers, he still preferred to send personal memorandums by hand; he found more attention was paid to them that way.
As he was writing, he heard the door to his office open and somebody step in. Without looking up, he said, “Ian, I would appreciate it if, when my secretary isn’t yet in, you would knock before entering.”
A voice replied: “Ian?”
Olafson glanced up quickly. Jeremy Logan stood in the shadows just inside his office, one hand still on the doorknob.
“Ian Albright,” he said. “Maintenance chief. He’s due here for a meeting about the approaching storm. It’s strengthened into a hurricane, Hurricane Barbara, and we have to take precautions against—”
Logan held up a hand to interrupt. “You need to open that safe,” he said.
Olafson blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me, Gregory. We have to see what’s inside.”
“I thought I was quite clear about that,” Olafson said. “Opening that safe prematurely would be breaking my promise to the Lux charter. Going against seventy years of compliance.”
“And I think I was quite clear. If you refused, more lives would be lost.” And Logan approached Olafson’s desk.
Now Olafson saw Logan clearly for the first time. The enigmalogist’s clothes and face were streaked with what appeared to be soot, and his eyes looked red and raw, as though he hadn’t slept at all. Though he appeared exhausted, his mouth was set in a firm, determined line. Olafson quickly connected the dots. “Good God. You aren’t implying that last night’s disaster — that the fire at the Flood residence…” He fell silent as the soot on Logan’s clothes suddenly made sense.
“Do you think it’s a coincidence, Gregory? Strachey, the calmest of men, abruptly going psychotic and killing himself. The general contractor for the West Wing job, retiring suddenly immediately afterward, current whereabouts unknown. And Pamela. Pamela told me she’d been harassed months ago by somebody trying to get their hands on the Lux blueprints. Now, she helps us discover how to access the room…and the very next evening, she’s killed.”
“In a tragic accident.”
Logan waved a hand as if to brush off a pesky insect. “I don’t believe that. And neither should you.”
Olafson took a deep, even breath. “Jeremy, you’re talking about a conspiracy.”
Logan nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry, but I find that absurd. I know you were fond of Pamela Flood, that much was obvious, and I feel truly awful about what’s happened, but you can’t simply transfer—”
Logan quickly approached the desk, leaned over it. “It’s your moral duty to open that safe.”
Olafson looked at him without replying.
“First Strachey, then Wilcox, and now Pam Flood. How many lives are going to be ruined, or cut short, before we get to the bottom of this?”
“Jeremy, I think that’s rather—”
“I might be the next to die. I’m the logical choice, after all. It’s quite possible one attempt has already been made on my life. How would you feel if the next one was successful?”
“There’s no reason to think that what’s in the safe will—”
Logan leaned in still closer. “Pam’s blood is on your hands. Your hands. You brought me in, Gregory. You asked for my help. And now we’re going to see this goddamned thing through. I’m going to learn what’s in that safe if I have to dynamite it myself.”
A silence descended over the office. For a long moment, neither man moved. Then, with a quiet sigh, Olafson picked up the phone, dialed an internal number, waited for the south London accent of the answering party. “Ian? Dr. Olafson here. Can we push that meeting back an hour? Right. Thanks.” Then he hung up the phone and his eyes swiveled back toward Logan’s.
Reaching into a pocket for his key ring, he selected a small brass key and fitted it to the lower left drawer of his desk. He unlocked the drawer, then opened it, revealing a dozen hanging files. He let his fingertips drift over them until he reached the last. Inside was a single tabbed folder, unlabeled and brown with age. He removed it, placed it on his desk, and let it fall open.
Within was an envelope, also unlabeled. It was closed with dark red wax that had been impressed with the Lux seal.
Olafson picked up the envelope. Then he glanced at Logan once again. The man looked back at him, his expression now blank and unreadable. Finally, taking a deep breath, Olafson slid one finger along the back of the envelope, breaking the seal.
Within was a single piece of light blue paper containing three numbers: 42, 17, and 54.
Now Olafson swiveled his chair around so that he faced the back wall of the office. Below the abstract expressionist paintings, a smaller, framed photograph hung on the dark wood: a formal portrait of the first director and all the Fellows, dating from 1892 — the year Lux was formally named. Olafson grasped the right edge of the frame and pulled gently. It swung away from the wall, hinged along the left side rather than hung from a wire.
Behind lay the combination dial of a small Group 2–style safe.
Holding the piece of blue paper in his left hand, Olafson grasped the dial with his right. He gave it several spins to the left, then slowed, making sure to stop when the crow’s foot was precisely at 42. Next, he turned the dial to the right, making two complete revolutions before stopping at 17. Then, turning the dial to the left once again, he made another complete revolution before stopping at 54. Finally, he turned the dial gently to the right until he felt the bolt retract. Releasing the dial and grasping the adjoining lever, he opened the safe.
Inside the small cavity beyond lay a thin dossier, one envelope placed atop it. Olafson lifted them gingerly out and placed them on his desk. Both were sealed in the same red wax.
Silently, Logan came around the desk until he was hovering at Olafson’s shoulder.
Now Olafson picked up the dossier, broke the seal, and looked inside. He saw a list of names; a few diagrams and photographs; a memorandum of some kind. Placing it back on the desk, he reached for the envelope, on which was written, in a bold hand: HIGHLY SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL — TO BE OPENED ONLY BY THE DIRECTOR OF LUX IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2035.
He broke the seal and removed the single sheet within, then held it up so that Logan could read it as well.
Newport, Rhode Island
December 30, 1935
To the Director of Lux, 2035:
You are no doubt aware of the circumstances under which this letter, and the attached précis and other assorted documentation, are being placed under lock and key. You are also undoubtedly aware at least in bold strokes of the research that has prompted such action, and which has of this date been abandoned.
Those few here at Lux who knew of it had high hopes for Project Synesthesia. As the work matured, however, it became increasingly clear that there was no certain way to divorce the beneficial effects of the project from the potentially destructive. In the wrong hands, this technology could prove uniquely devastating. I have thus, with no small amount of regret, determined that it cannot now continue.
The benefits, however, are so intriguing that I have not ordered the destruction of all work to this point. Instead, if you are reading this letter, one century has passed since its writing. No doubt human science has advanced to a great degree. It is your task, therefore, to examine the details of Project Synesthesia and make a determination whether it can be brought to conclusion in such a way that no potential harm could befall the human race.
This letter, and the documents that accompany it, do not detail the project or its aims; the extensive records held in the West Wing laboratory itself contain all relevant data. Rather, it provides a degree of background information and explains how the laboratory itself is to be accessed.
It is now your job to choose — and choose very carefully — four members of the board to assist you. Preferably, they should come from a variety of scientific, philosophic, and psychological backgrounds. You as a group are to study the records stored in the laboratory, examine the research that has been accomplished so far, consider the current state of technology as it exists in your own time, and then convene — in secret — to discuss and, ultimately, vote upon whether the work should be taken up again. In the event of a deadlock, you yourself are to act as tiebreaker.
If your decision should be in the negative, I strongly recommend that all records, materials, equipment, and anything else related to the project be immediately and thoroughly destroyed.
I wish you good luck and Godspeed on this most vital of tasks.
Sincerely yours,
Charles R. Ransom II
Director
Lux