I wonder if Bonnie’s home. Maybe she never left for Charleston. Then another thought hit him. What if they’re waiting for me when I get off the plane?
The plane landed and taxied up to the terminal. Lou put himself in the middle of the ninety-some people who were getting off and tried to look invisible in the crowd. He stayed in the crowd until he was well into the terminal, then headed straight for the exit, looking over his shoulder a few times to see if anyone was following him. No one. Outside in the blazing sunlight, he wondered if his car was still in the parking lot. Better leave it alone. He waved for a cab, and-one pulled away from its parking stall and glided to the curb where he stood.
Inside, after he firmly shut the cab door, Lou told the autodriver, “Genetics Institute.”
If Bonnie wasn’t picked up by the police, she’ll be at the lab. And Dr. Kaufman and the others… they’ll help me.
The cab drove out away from the city, into the farmlands, along one of the main irrigation lines. For the thousandth time, Lou tried to puzzle out why the police wanted him. The Federal marshal said he was under arrest. The Norseman at the UN building said he wasn’t. But they were going to take him to Messina. Why? Better check with Greg at the Institute and see if he knows a good lawyer.
Finally, Lou could see the familiar white buildings of the Institute. Almost immediately, he could tell that something was wrong.
The place looked deserted. The parking lot was empty. Nobody was walking around outside. Nobody was visible in the big glass-fronted lobby. And as the cab pulled up to the outer fence, the gate did not slide open automatically.
Lou looked at his wristwatch. It was still on Albuquerque time; he hadn’t changed it. It said nine-thirty.
Why is it… wait a minute! What day is it? Sunday or Monday? I took off… it must be Sunday, got to be.
He thumbed the window button down and felt the heat of the outdoors invade the cab. To the gate control box he said, “Code one-five, Christopher. Open up.”
The gate rattled open. The cab drove smoothly up to the lobby door. Just to be safe, Lou gave a phony name and credit number to the cab’s simple-minded computer. It had no camera equipment and therefore no way to check on who its passenger really was.
As the cab drove away, Lou stood squinting in the brilliant sunshine. For a moment, a flash of fear knifed through him.
Even for a Sunday the Institute seemed utterly deserted. Usually there was somebody around.
“Well,” he said to himself in a deliberately loud, firm voice, “I can hide out here until some of the staff shows up tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll call Greg or one of the other guys—”
The main doors into the lobby were locked also, but Lou’s name and code symbol were enough to open them. He stepped into the quiet, cool darkness of the lobby; the sun’s glare was screened out by the polarized windows. He hesitated a moment, then walked through the open doorway and into the building’s main corridor. His footsteps against the plastic flooring and the whisper of the air conditioning were the only sounds he could hear.
First thing to do is call Bonnie, he thought, find out if she’s okay.
His own office was down at the end of the corridor, next to Ramo, the big computer. Suddenly Lou realized, Not even Ramo’s making any noise! Usually, the computer was humming and chattering electronically; it was almost always working on something, even on weekends and late at night.
Lou looked through the glass partition that surrounded Ramo. The computer was silent. No lights flashing on its main board.
“Ramo, you awake?” Lou called.
From a speaker in the ceiling overhead came Ramo’s baritone voice. “Yes, Lou. I’m fine. What can I do for you?” A single row of lights on the main board flickered to life.
Lou breathed a relieved sigh. “You were so quiet I thought somebody had shut you down.”
“All programs are completed at present.” Ramo answered.
“All programs? What about the zygote modeling calculations?”
“That program was temporarily shut down by Dr. Kaufman.”
“Shut down? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Lou stood there watching the flickering row of lights, uncertain, feeling something like panic forming in the pit of his stomach. He fought it down. “Okay… uh, get Bonnie Sterne on the phone for me, will you? Her home phone.”
“Shall I place the call on your office phone?” Ramo asked.
“No… I’ll be in the cafeteria. Anybody been in today?”
“No one. Except for Big George, of course.”
Shaking his head in puzzlement, Lou went back up the corridor and turned down a side hall to the cafeteria. His head was throbbing with pain, and despite his nap on the plane he felt dead tired. And hungry.
Lou was surprised to see Big George sitting in the cafeteria, eating a huge plate of fruit salad.
Big George was an eight-year-old mountain gorilla, taller than Lou, even in his hunched-over, ground-knuckling posture. No one had weighed him for several months, since he playfully ripped the big scales they had used out of the wall of his special quarters. His face was all ferocity—fanged mouth, low beetling brow, black muzzle, and blacker hair. His arms could reach across the table without his ever getting up from the chair he was sitting on. The plastic chair itself was sagging dangerously under his weight. It was hard to believe that Big George was a gentle, even a timid, animal.
“Who let you in here?” Lou asked from the doorway.
“Let myself in. Uncle Lou,” George whispered. “Got hungry. Nobody here to feed me. Opened the pen gate and came in for food.”
Lou went over to the selector wall and punched buttons for a real steak dinner. “You mean nobody’s been around to feed you since yesterday?”
“Nobody, Uncle Lou.” George stuffed half a cantaloupe into his toothy mouth. Big George was one of the Institute’s great successes. The geneticists had managed to give the gorilla a large measure of intelligence. George tested out to the intelligence level of a human six-year-old. It seemed that he would not go any further. The surgical team that worked with the Institute had altered George’s vocal equipment so that he could speak in a harsh, labored whisper. It was the best they could do.
Lou carried his steaming tray to the end of the table where George was sitting. He was glad of some companionship, but it was best to give George plenty of room. Not that he was dangerous—just sloppy.
Looking up at the ceiling, Lou called, “Hey, where’s that phone call, Ramo?”
“There is no answer,” came the smooth reply.
“She’s not home?”
“Evidently not,” said Ramo.
“What’s her phone say?”
“Nothing. No reply whatsoever. No forwarding number, no request to leave a message.”
Lou stared down at his steak. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore.
“Ramo!” he shouted. “Where is everybody?”
“All of the scientific staff has been taken into custody by Federal marshals,” Ramo said calmly. “Everyone else has been sent home.”
Before it could really register on Lou’s mind, George growled, “Somebody coming in the hallway, Uncle Lou. Strangers.”
“Federal marshals,” Ramo said. “I was programmed to call them when you returned to the Institute.”
7
Lou stood up, hot fear burning through him. “Federal marshals?”
“They have locked all the doors and are searching the building for you,” Ramo said without emotion.