Still, Spartan did not respond.

"Look," Crane went on, hearing the urgency in his own voice. "I don't know what's down there exactly-I only know that it's unimaginably dangerous. Is it worth jeopardizing the Earth to find out what's down there? Because the stakes might be at least that high."

At last, Spartan roused himself. "And you're convinced of that?"

"I'd bet my life on it."

"And this deliberate erasing of Asher's hard drive-are you sure of that, as well?"

Crane nodded.

"Your talents seem to extend beyond the medical profession. Did you resurrect the data yourself?"

Crane hesitated. "I had assistance."

"I see." Admiral Spartan looked back at him, expression still unreadable. "Would you know where Hui Ping is?"

Crane kept his tone neutral. "No idea."

"Very well. Thank you, Doctor."

Crane blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You may go. I'm rather busy at the moment."

"But everything I've said-"

"I'll consider it."

Crane looked at Spartan in disbelief. "You'll consider it? Another dive, maybe two, and it'll be too late to consider anything." He paused. "Admiral, there's more at stake here than your mission, than what's down at the bottom of that shaft. There's also the lives of everyone on board this Facility. You have a duty, a responsibility, to them as well. Even if there's only a remote chance that I'm right, you owe it to them to examine my findings, the report I'm preparing. Because the risk is simply too great to do otherwise."

"You're dismissed, Dr. Crane."

"I've done my job-I've solved the mystery. Now you do yours! Stop this fool's task, save this Facility, or I'll-"

Dimly, Crane became aware that he was raising his voice, and heads were turning. He abruptly fell silent.

"Or you'll what?" Spartan asked.

Crane did not reply.

"I'm glad to hear you've done your job. Now I suggest you leave the Drilling Complex on your own accord, Doctor. Before I have an armed detail escort you out."

For a moment, Crane stood where he was, rooted in place by anger and disbelief. Then, without another word, he spun on his heel and exited the observation chamber.

45

Michele Bishop sat at the desk in her tidy office. She was intently scrutinizing an X-ray on her monitor, her dark blond hair falling over her eyes, chin perched lightly on carefully varnished fingernails. Outside, the Medical Suite was draped in a profound stillness.

Inches from her elbow, the phone rang, shattering the silence. Bishop jumped in her seat. Then she reached for the phone. "Medical, Bishop."

"Michele? It's Peter."

"Dr. Crane?" She frowned. It sounded like him, all right; but his normally phlegmatic, almost lazy voice was rushed and breathless. She pressed the power button on the edge of her monitor, then sat back in her seat as the screen went black.

"I'm in the temporary infirmary on deck four. I need your help, badly."

"Very well."

A pause. "Are you okay? You sound…preoccupied."

"I'm fine," Bishop said.

"We've got a crisis on our hands." Another pause, longer this time. "Look. I can't tell you everything yet. But what's down below us-it isn't Atlantis."

"I guessed that much."

"I've discovered what we're digging toward is something incredibly dangerous."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you that. Not yet, anyway. There's no time to waste. One way or another, we have to make Spartan stop. Look, here's what I need you to do. Round up the scientists and technicians-the ones you know best. Rational, nonmilitary. Reasonable people you can trust. People who are well connected. Any names come to mind?"

She hesitated a moment. "Yes. Gene Vanderbilt, head of Oceanographic Research. And there's-"

"That's fine. Call me back on my mobile when they're assembled. I'll come up and explain everything then."

"What's going on, Peter?" she asked.

"I've figured it out. What's making people sick. I've told Spartan, but he won't listen. If we can't convince Spartan, we'll have to get a message to the surface, tell them what's happening down here, get them to exercise higher authority. Can you do this?"

She did not reply.

"Michele, look. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye. But it's the safety of the entire Facility we're talking about here-and maybe a lot more than that. With Asher gone, I need help from his staff-those that believed in him and what he stood for. Spartan's men are only days, hours, away from their goal. We're doctors, we took an oath. We have to keep the men and women in our care out of harm's way-or at least try our best. Will you help me?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"How long will it take?"

She paused, eyes darting around the room. "Not long. Fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour."

"I knew you'd come through."

She bit her lip gently. "So Spartan's not going to stop the dig?"

"You know Spartan. I gave it my best shot."

"If he won't stop of his own accord, nobody else is going to be able to convince him."

"We have to try. Look, call me back, all right?"

"I will."

"Thanks, Michele." And the phone abruptly went dead.

Silence returned to the office. Bishop sat in her chair, motionless, looking at the phone for perhaps sixty seconds. Then, slowly, she returned it to the cradle, a thoughtful-almost resigned-expression on her face.

46

By Facility standards, Admiral Spartan's quarters on deck 11 were relatively commodious. The fact they were so sparsely furnished made them appear even larger. The suite of rooms-office, bedroom, conference area-were dressed in a rigidly militaristic style. Instead of paintings, the walls were decorated with commendations. An American flag hung limply beside the brilliantly polished desk. The single bookshelf behind it held numerous Navy manuals and treatises on strategy and tactics. In addition-the only evident window into Spartan's private soul-it also held half a dozen translations of ancient texts: the Annals and Histories of Tacitus, the Strategikon of Emperor Maurice, Thucydides' account of the Peloponnesian war.

Korolis had seen it all before. His good eye took everything in, while the other drifted away in a myopic haze. He closed the door quietly behind him and stepped forward.

The admiral was standing in the middle of the office, his back to Korolis. At the sound, he turned. And now Korolis stopped in surprise. Because he now saw, over Spartan's shoulder, one of the sentinels their excavation had uncovered. It hovered placidly in the center of the room, white light pointing toward the ductwork on the metal ceiling. The admiral had apparently been studying it.

Korolis reflected that perhaps he should not be surprised, after all. The admiral had been behaving a little out of character the last day or two. Normally, Spartan took his recommendations almost automatically, without question. But recently the admiral had been overriding his suggestions, almost taking him to task on certain issues. Like that business about putting Ping in the brig, for example. His change in behavior seemed to date from the time of that business with Marble One. Or perhaps the admiral, too, was being affected by…

But Korolis decided not to follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

Spartan nodded at Korolis. "Have a seat."

Korolis walked past the sentinel without giving it another look and seated himself at one of two chairs before the admiral's large desk. Spartan walked around the far side of the desk and settled himself slowly into his leather armchair.

"Everything is proceeding according to schedule," Korolis said. "In fact, far ahead of schedule. With the retasked procedures in place, there have been no further, ah, glitches. It's true that operating in manual mode, with checksums on vital processes, has slowed the digging somewhat, but this has been more than offset by the lack of xenoliths in the sediment, and-"