23

Passing through the Barrier into the restricted section of the Facility was much less traumatic the second time: with the newly minted ID card clipped to his breast pocket and a near-silent Admiral Spartan at his side, the process took just a few minutes. The MPs guarding the airlock stepped back smartly; the two made the brief descent to deck 6; the hatch sprang open onto a narrow corridor. Spartan stepped out and Crane followed.

The last time he had been down here, he'd been running to a floridly psychotic Randall Waite, and he'd had little time to notice anything. This time, Crane looked curiously around. Yet as they passed through the corridors the only outward indication they were inside the classified area was the abundance of warning signs on the pearlescent walls, the marines that seemed to be posted everywhere-and the heavy rubber seals around all the door frames.

Spartan led the way to a waiting elevator, ushered Crane inside. Unlike the elevators in the upper floors, the control panel here had buttons for only decks 1 through 6. Spartan pressed the button labeled 2 and they began to descend.

"You still haven't told me," Crane said, breaking the silence.

"There are a lot of things I haven't told you," Spartan said without looking at him. "Which one are you referring to, exactly?"

"Why you changed your mind."

Spartan considered this. Then he turned and gazed impassively at Crane. "You know I've read your dossier, right?"

"Asher said as much."

"The captain of the USS Spectre was most impressed with your conduct. He said you single-handedly saved the sub."

"Captain Naseby likes to exaggerate."

"I have to say, Dr. Crane, I'm a little unclear on what you did."

"The mission was classified. I can't speak about it, sir."

Spartan gave a mirthless chuckle. "I know all about the mission. It was to provide firsthand intel on the construction of a uranium enrichment plant on the shores of the Yellow Sea. And, if necessary, destroy it with a dirty torpedo in such a way as to make it look like an accidental explosion."

Crane looked at Spartan in surprise. Then he realized the government probably had very few secrets from the military leader of something as classified as the Facility.

"I didn't mean the mission," Spartan continued. "I meant, I'm unclear as to your role in saving the vessel."

Crane was silent a moment, remembering. "Crewmen began to die," he began, "in a particularly horrible way. Their sinuses were eaten away, and their brains turned to a kind of furry jelly. It happened in a matter of hours. Two dozen died on the first day alone. We were operating under a communications blackout, couldn't leave our patrol. There was panic on board, talk of sabotage, of poison gas. When a dozen more died overnight, chaos resulted. There was a breakdown in the chain of command, incipient mutiny. Lynch mobs began roaming the sub, looking for the traitor."

"And your role?"

"I realized that what everyone assumed to be the effect of some kind of poisonous gas might instead be mucormycosis."

"I'm sorry?"

"A rare but deadly fungal disease. I was able to cobble together the necessary materials to test tissue from the dead crew members, and I found their bodies were riddled with Rhizopus oryzae, the fungus responsible."

"And that's what was killing the crew of the Spectre."

"Yes. A particularly noxious variant of the fungus had incubated in the bilges of the sub."

"How did you stop its spread?"

"I medicated the rest of the crew. Brought them into a state of controlled alkalosis that the spores could not tolerate."

"And saved the ship."

Crane smiled. "Like I said, Admiral. Captain Naseby likes to exaggerate."

"It doesn't appear to be exaggeration. You kept your head, found the cause, then worked with the materials at hand to effect a solution."

The elevator doors whispered open and they stepped out. "What does that have to do with our current problem?" Crane asked.

"Let's not be disingenuous, Dr. Crane. The parallels are numerous, and you can see them as well as I." Spartan walked briskly to an intersection, turned down another corridor. "I've been monitoring your progress, Doctor. And I've decided it would be prudent to afford you another level of trust."

"That's the reason you've given me classified access," Crane said. "It'll help me crack this more quickly."

"The reason, as you say, lies beyond that door." And Spartan pointed to a hatchway at the end of the corridor, flanked by the omnipresent marines.

At a gesture from the admiral, one of the marines cranked open the hatchway and pulled it wide. Crane began to move forward, then stopped again. Beyond the hatch lay a well of blackness.

Spartan stepped through the hatch, then glanced back. "Coming?"

Crane ducked through the dark hatchway. He looked around in astonishment.

They were in a long, narrow observation chamber, overlooking a vast equipment hangar that stretched beneath them. Technicians sat in two long lines on either side of Crane, monitoring banks of terminals. There was a beeping of electronics, the clatter of keys, the murmur of hushed voices. Beyond the glass wall of the observation chamber, down on the hangar deck, other technicians in white coats scurried around, pushing equipment or making notations on palmtop computers. But Crane ignored all this. His eyes were focused on the thing suspended by incredibly heavy cable, just over the floor of the hangar.

It was a sphere of metal-titanium, perhaps, or something even more precious-roughly ten feet in diameter. It was polished to a mirror finish, so bright it shone like a second sun within the confines of the bay, and Crane could only look at it through squinted eyes. It appeared to be absolutely round. The only blemish on its surface was a tiny forest of sensors, lights, and robotic equipment that hung from its underside like moss on a ship's hull. Two other identical metal spheres sat in cushioned and reinforced berths against a far wall.

"What is that?" he asked in a whisper.

"That, Dr. Crane, is the Marble. It's what everything else here-everything else-works in support of."

"Is that what is doing the digging?"

"No. A double-shielded tunnel-boring machine, depth modified, does that. The Marble's current job is to follow the boring machine, shoring up the fresh sections of shaft with steel bands. Later-when the shaft is complete-the Marble's job will shift to exploration and, ah, recovery."

"Is it autonomous?"

"No. There is no way all its functions can be automated. It has revolving crews of three."

"Crews? I don't see any hatch."

Admiral Spartan gave a dry bark that might have been a laugh. "At the depths we are working, Doctor, there can be no 'hatch.' Because of the pressure, the Marble must be perfectly round-it can't depart from the spherical in any way."

"So how do you get the crew in and out?"

"Once the crew is inside, the skin of the Marble is welded shut, then the weld is polished to a mirror finish."

Crane whistled.

"Yes. That's why each shift is twenty-four hours: entry and exit is so time-consuming. Luckily, as you can see, we have two backups, so while one is at work another can be prepped and resupplied. That way, work can continue around the clock."

They lapsed into silence. Crane found himself unable to take his eyes from the brilliantly shining sphere. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Even so, it was hard to imagine three people crammed into such a tight space. He noticed a nearby viewscreen, showing a grainy image of the technicians hovering around the Marble: apparently, it was a video feed from inside the Marble itself.

"I gather you're not convinced it's Atlantis we're after," Spartan said drily. "But what we're after is not your concern. The medical situation, on the other hand, is very much your concern. You're not just answering to Asher anymore-you're answering to me. It goes without saying that you are to discuss none of what you see here with anyone in the unclassified section. Your movements here will be monitored and you will need escorts to the more sensitive locations-at least at first. We'll of course provide the tools or instruments you require. You've done classified work before, so you know the privilege-and responsibility-it entails. Abuse that privilege, and the next set of lights you're hauled before won't be for taking your photograph."