He gripped the stainless-steel range handle tightly as a spasm of indigestion lanced through his stomach. The dizziness returned and-with a faint sense of alarm now-he shook his head to clear it. Maybe he was getting sick, after all. Maybe he was coming down with the flu. When he went off shift, he'd stop by Medical. Either way, nerves or illness, they could help.
With an effort he went back to whisking the sauce, backing it carefully off from the boil, trying to concentrate as he checked it for color and aroma. As he did so, he noticed a "runner"-one of the workers assigned to Bottom, the mess located in the Facility's deepest depths-heading out with a tall stack of prepared dishes. Bottom had only a small galley of its own and frequently used runners-who worked and lived in the classified section of Deep Storm and had the necessary clearance-to bring dishes prepared in Central down to the lower levels.
That was something else that bothered Loiseau: all the security. It was a lot more noticeable down here than it had been in Top. He could always tell the ones who worked in the classified areas: they huddled together at a table away from the others, heads together, talking in low tones. Why did a scientific expedition have to be so hush-hush, anyway? With all the secrecy, he had no idea how the expedition itself was going or what kind of progress they were making. And that meant he also had no idea when he would be able to get out of here and go home again.
Home…
Suddenly, a stronger wave of dizziness washed over him. Loiseau staggered, grabbing for the range handle again. This was no fit of nerves: this was something else. Something serious. Fear stabbed through him as he fought to keep upright.
Abruptly, his vision began to dim. Around the kitchen, people were pausing their work, putting down their knives, spatulas, and wooden spoons to stare at him. Somebody was speaking to him, but sound had attenuated to a murmur and he couldn't make it out. Reaching out to maintain his balance, Loiseau grabbed for the heavy pot full of béchamel but just missed, slipping off its side. He felt nothing. Yet another wave of dizziness, even more overpowering. And now an unpleasant scent rose to his nostrils: the smell of singed hair and overcooked meat. He wondered if it was a hallucination. People were running toward him. He glanced down and noticed, with a distant curiosity, that his hand had pushed the béchamel pot aside and fallen over the open range. Blue flames licked up between his fingers. Still he felt nothing. A curious blackness enfolded him like a blanket-and then to Loiseau it seemed the most natural thing in the world to sink to the floor and slip into dark dreams.
16
"Are you almost done, Doctor?"
Crane turned to see Renault, the executive chef, hovering nearby, arms crossed, a look of strong disapproval on his face.
"Almost." And, turning back to a rack holding at least a hundred small tubs of butter, he selected one at random, peeled the plastic wrapping from its top, and scraped about a teaspoon into a small test tube.
The walk-in cooler of Central had been a revelation. It was stocked not only with typical restaurant fare-poultry, beef, eggs, garden vegetables, milk, and the like-but also ingredients that would be more at home in three-star establishments on the Continent. Black and white truffles; near-priceless aged balsamic vinegar in tiny glass bulbs; pheasant, grouse, goose, plover; large tins of Russian and Iranian caviar. And everything was packed into a space no larger than ten feet by twenty. Given such an embarrassment of riches, Crane had been forced to limit his samples to the most common items that most people were likely to ingest every day. Even so, almost all the two hundred test tubes of his sampling kit were now full-and the hour-long process had strained the patience of the executive chef to the breaking point.
Replacing the tub of butter, Crane moved to the next rack, which contained the basic liquids for the house vinaigrette: fine old French white wine vinegars and cold-pressed olive oil.
"It's from Spain," Crane said, picking up a bottle of the oil and glancing at the label.
"The best," Renault said simply.
"I would have thought that Italian-"
Renault made a half-scornful, half-impatient sound with his lips. "C'est fou! There is no comparison. These olives are all hand picked, from first-growth trees planted no more than thirty to an acre, sparsely watered, enriched with horse manure-"
"Horse manure," Crane repeated, nodding slowly.
Renault's face darkened. "Engrais. The fertilizer. All natural, no chemicals." He had taken Crane's approach as a personal affront to the quality of his kitchen, as if Crane were an inspector from the board of health and sanitation instead of a doctor tracking down a medical mystery.
Crane pulled the top from the bottle, drew out a fresh test tube from his kit, poured in a dram, then stoppered the tube. He replaced the oil, drew out another bottle from another row. "So much of the foodstuff here is fresh. How do you keep it from spoiling?"
Renault shrugged. "Food is food. It spoils."
Crane filled another tube. "What happens to it?"
"Some gets incinerated. The rest is packed up with the other waste and gets sent up in the Tub."
Crane nodded. The Tub, he had learned, was a large, unmanned supply module that made daily shuttles between the Facility and the support station on the surface. Officially known as the LF2-M Deeply Submersible Resupply Unit, it was a prototype of a Navy design to provide crippled subs with emergency supplies. It had gotten its nickname from its ungainly oblong shape, highly reminiscent of a monster bathtub.
"And your fresh provisions come down on the Tub, also?" he asked.
"Of course."
Crane filled another tube with vinegar. "Who orders your new supplies?"
"Food Service Purchasing, based on inventory control and advance menu planning."
"And who physically moves the supplies from the Tub to the kitchens?"
"The inventory officer, under my direct supervision. Today's shipment is due shortly. In fact, we should already be on our way to Receiving." Renault frowned. "If you are suggesting, Docteur, that-"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Crane replied with a smile. And, in fact, he wasn't. He had already spoken with the nutritionists and dieticians, and their voluntary meal plans seemed healthful and sensible. And although Crane had taken the time to carefully sample dozens of items from the pantries of Top and, now, Central, he didn't hold out much hope of finding anything harmful. It seemed unlikely anything was being introduced into the food, either accidentally or deliberately. More and more, his suspicions were settling on heavy metal poisoning.
The symptoms of heavy metal toxicity were vague and non-specific, just like those cropping up all over the Facility: chronic fatigue, gastrointestinal upset, short-term memory loss, joint pain, disorganized thought processes, and a host of others. Already, he had two members of the medical staff investigating the work and leisure environments of Deep Storm for the presence of lead, arsenic, mercury, cadmium, and a host of other heavy metals. Meanwhile, all those patients who had complained of symptoms were being asked to return to Medical to provide hair, blood, and urine samples for testing. The exposure would naturally have to be acute, not chronic: people hadn't been on the Facility long enough for anything else…
Crane stoppered the final test tube, then placed it in the portable rack and zipped up his analysis bag with a faint sense of satisfaction. If heavy metal poisoning or mercurialism was found to be the culprit, strong chelators like DMPS and DMSA could be used not only for challenge testing but also for treatment. No doubt he'd have to request the necessary quantities be sent down in the Tub: there wouldn't be enough in the pharmacy to treat all patients on the Facility.