EPILOGUE

Crane rinsed his razor under a stream of hot water, gave his face a cursory examination in the bathroom mirror, then stowed his toiletries away and stepped back into the bedroom. He dressed quickly in white shirt, brown tie, and tan chinos: civilian attire, or as near as the Navy could come to it. Plucking the oversize ID badge from a nearby bureau, he clipped it to the pocket of his shirt. He gave the room a last once-over, then dropped his toilet kit into the suitcase and lifted it from the bed. Like everything else, it had been issued to him by a Navy quartermaster, and it weighed next to nothing in his hand. Not surprising, he thought, since it contained next to nothing: he'd taken nothing with him from Deep Storm except the sentinel, and even that he'd handed over-after a little soul-searching-to McPherson.

McPherson. The man had called just a few minutes earlier, asking Crane to stop by before heading to Administration.

Crane hesitated a moment longer. Then, taking a final look around, he exited the room, walked down the dormitory corridor, and stepped out into the July sunshine.

He'd been at the George Stafford Naval Base, twenty miles south of Washington, for just three days. Yet already he felt familiar with the layout of the small, highly secure facility. Squinting in the bright light, he walked past the motor pool and the machine shop to the gray, hangarlike structure known simply as Building 17. He showed his ID to the armed marine stationed outside, but this was a mere formality: Crane had come and gone so frequently in the last few days everyone knew him by sight.

Inside, Building 17 was brilliantly lit. There were no internal walls, and the cavernous space had the hollow echo of a basketball court. At the center, in a cordoned-off area guarded by more marines, lay a vast riot of mangled metal: the remains of Deep Storm, or at least those portions safe to retrieve-most remained on the sea floor, too radioactive to approach. It looked like some kind of giant's nightmare jigsaw.

At first-when it had been necessary for him to help with tagging and identification-he'd been overcome by a sense of horror. Now, the sight merely made him sad.

At the far end of Building 17, a series of cubicles had been assembled, tiny in the huge space. Crane walked across the concrete floor to the closest one, and-though it was doorless-rapped on its wall for formality's sake.

"Come," said a familiar voice. Crane stepped inside.

The cubicle's furniture consisted of a desk, a conference table, and several chairs. Crane saw that Hui Ping was already seated at the table. He smiled, and she smiled back: a little shyly, he thought. Immediately, he began to feel better.

Since their arrival at Stafford, the two had spent most of their waking hours together: answering endless questions, reconstructing events, explaining what had happened-and why-to a succession of government scientists, military brass, and several mysterious men in dark suits. This time had only served to cement the bond that, in retrospect, had already begun to form on the Facility. While Crane didn't know exactly what the future held for him-a research position, probably-he felt confident that Hui Ping would enter into it in one way or another.

McPherson sat behind the desk, gazing at his computer screen. One end of the desk was piled with classified documentation, the other with graphs and bulky printouts. In the center sat a hollow cube of clear Plexiglas. Inside it, Crane's sentinel hovered.

Crane supposed McPherson must have a first name; that he must have a house in suburbia somewhere, perhaps even a family. But if McPherson did have a life beyond the naval base it seemed to have been put on permanent hold. Whenever Crane had been in Building 17, McPherson had been there as well, attending meetings, writing reports, or huddling in whispered consultation with naval scientists. As the days had passed, the man-reserved and formal to begin with-had grown more and more remote. Lately, he'd taken to watching the video feed from the Marble's final descent again and again, the way someone might worry at a sore tooth. Crane noticed it playing on the monitor even now. He wondered, in passing, if the Facility had been McPherson's responsibility; if he might ultimately be held accountable in some way for the tragedy.

"Mind if I sit down?" he asked.

For a minute, McPherson remained glued to the grainy video feed. Then he pulled himself away. "Please." He paused, glancing from Crane to Ping and back again. "You're all packed?"

Hui nodded. "It didn't take long."

"You'll be processed at Administration. Once the exit interviews are completed, a car will take you to the airport." Then McPherson reached into his desk. Crane assumed that yet more forms requiring their signatures would be forthcoming. But instead the man drew out two small black leather cases and handed them formally across the desk. "There's just one more thing."

Crane watched as Hui opened hers. Her eyes went wide, and she caught her breath.

He turned to his own case. Inside was an official commendation, signed not only by half a dozen of the highest-ranking admirals in the Navy but also by the president himself.

"I'm not sure I understand," he said.

"What's there to understand, Dr. Crane? You and Dr. Ping determined the true nature of the anomaly. You kept your heads when others didn't. You helped save the lives of-at the very least-one hundred and twelve people. For that, this government will be eternally in your debt."

Crane closed the lid. "This is what you wanted to see us about?"

McPherson nodded. "Yes. And to say good-bye." He stood up, shook their hands in turn. "They're waiting for you in Administration." And he sat down, returning his gaze to the monitor.

Hui rose, headed for the cubicle exit. Then she turned to wait for Crane. He rose slowly, his gaze moving from McPherson to the monitor. He could just make out the image of Korolis, hunched over the Marble's viewscreen; Flyte working the robotic arm. McPherson had the volume low, but Crane could nevertheless make out the old man's birdlike voice: "It's a weapons dump, the fruit of some intergalactic arms race…"

"Let it go," Crane said quietly.

McPherson stirred, glanced over at him. "Sorry?"

"I said, let it go. It's over."

McPherson returned his gaze to the monitor. He did not reply.

"It's a tragedy, but it's over now. There's no need to worry about others accessing the site. No foreign government can approach the dig interface; it's too heavily irradiated."

Still McPherson did not reply. He seemed to be struggling with some inner conflict.

"I can guess what's eating at you," Crane said gently. "It's the thought of a weapons dump like that, something capable of such extreme destruction, buried within our own planet. It bothers me, too. But I remind myself that whoever entombed those devices also has the power to protect them-to make sure they are never tampered with. Korolis found that out the hard way: the video you're watching proves it."

McPherson stirred again, seemed to come to a private decision. He glanced over at Crane once more. "That's not what's bothering me."

"Then what is?"

McPherson gestured at the screen. "You heard Flyte. It's a weapons dump, he said. A burial spot, off-limits, never to be broached again."

"Yes."

McPherson reached for the keyboard, typed in a command. The video rewound, characters moving furiously backward across the screen. With another command, he restarted the playback. Crane listened to the taped conversation: "…two black holes in very tight orbit around each other…at a furious rate…one matter, one antimatter…if the force that held them in orbit was removed, the resulting explosion would destroy the solar system…"