“The richest people on earth are those who produce petroleum fuels. The second richest are those who sell them.”
Her first thought: He is disturbed. Paranoid. “Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying. Somebody from the petroleum industry killed Emily.”
“What is fundamental to the scientific method? Process of elimination. By that, I cannot discover another reasonable explanation.”
Too bizarre, she thought. “Are any of the scientists down here connected to Big Oil?”
“None that I’m aware of. But someone else is.”
“Who?”
“The station manager works for NASI. Which is owned by GENERCO. Do you know it?”
“Global Energy Corporation. They had that huge North Sea oil spill last year.”
“Petroleum interests all over the world. And if ever there was a man who followed orders, it is Graeter.”
“I don’t know, Fida. It seems a stretch.”
“Does it? He is unstable, to begin with. And taking one life to preserve billions — maybe trillions — in profits? I think they would do that like squashing a roach.”
A part of her kept thinking, No, too outlandish, a crazy conspiracy thing. But then she started remembering. A corporation had engineered her dismissal, in disgrace, from BARDA on trumped-up charges several years earlier. A corporate mole had killed three people, and almost killed her, on the Mexican cave expedition. And Bowman had told her things.
The more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that Fida’s suggestion was not impossible. One life for billions in profits. Maybe trillions. Wasn’t even really improbable. Sad, but true. The way things were. It was what it was. Business as usual. All those palliatives used to make the truth less ugly. And tolerating it less execrable. So now there was only the obvious next question:
“You realize the implications?”
“Of course. I might be next.”
“Who else knows about Vishnu?”
“We told only Agnes Merritt, as we were required to. But she gives Graeter regular reports on research projects, so he would know as well.”
“Anybody else?”
He shrugged. “Most research projects here are restricted-access. This one surely is. Reports to Merritt are supposed to remain confidential. But … who can know for sure?”
“I’m worried that she might be in danger, too.”
“And now she is not the only one.”
“Who else?”
“You.”
“Oh. Right.” She hadn’t thought about that.
“So now you see why I did not want to talk in the galley.”
“Yes.” All through their conversation, her feeling about Fida had been growing. Now she looked directly at him. “I don’t think Emily was killed.”
“What? But you just said—”
“I know she was.”
“How could you?”
“I saw it happen.”
As she described the video, he broke down and wept, repeating something over and over again in Urdu. A prayer, she thought. He found a crumpled paper towel, blew his nose, wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am not very strong-feeling these days.”
“You should have seen me after I watched that video.”
“And you could not tell who the killer was?”
“No. Only that it was a man.”
“But why?” he asked. “Why would anybody want to do that to her? I mean, even if someone wanted to kill her … why that way?”
“No normal person could do something like that.”
“So it could have been Graeter.”
Could it? Graeter was a stickler for rules, certainly, and irascible. But a psychopath? From what she had read, psychopaths who killed were more often charming, able to deflect suspicion for decades, in some cases. That was hardly Graeter. But again: make no assumptions.
“What do you know about triage?” she asked.
“I believe it is used in war and disasters to prioritize victim treatment.”
“Can you think of any way triage could be related to the station?”
“No,” he said, without hesitation.
“I found something else in Emily’s room. A video diary.” She recounted Emily’s narrative about somebody named Ambie and triage.
“This Ambie person said triage was coming soon? To this station?”
“Remember that this was all coming from Emily, and you know what shape she was in then. But I do think that’s what she meant.”
“A disaster is always possible here,” he said thoughtfully. “But it sounds like he might have known one was coming. Could that be why he was so afraid?”
“This is going to sound bizarre, but …”
“I think we are already beyond bizarre.”
“Suppose there’s secret research here. Something called ‘triage.’ If this man Ambie got drunk and blew the cover, he might have good reason to be afraid.”
“It is possible. Even with research, one has time on the hands down here. So I read some of the history of NSF. It was conceived by Franklin Roosevelt, and national defense was a big part of its reason to be in those early days. Have you talked to anybody else about this?”
“No.”
“Wise. The killer might still be here.”
“Yes.”
“Any man in the station.”
“With a head and two arms,” Hallie said.
“When did you decide it wasn’t me?”
“When you said Emily had been killed. The murderer wouldn’t have done that,” she said.
“I am glad you trusted me.”
“Me, too, Fida. This thing was getting heavy.”
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then Hallie asked, “Can you tell me about the night she died? I know it’s painful, but it could be important.”
“Yes. We finished in the lab at five and went back to our rooms. Emily said she was going to Thing Night, though.”
“What exactly is Thing Night?”
“You know that old horror movie The Thing? Where they find a creature from outer space frozen in the ice?”
“Sure.”
“It became a tradition to watch the movie. Then to watch the movie and drink and get high. And then, over time, to have a great party called Thing Night at the end of every month.”
“A blowout to let off steam.”
“It’s like Halloween and New Year’s Eve and Mardi Gras all wrapped together. People dress up. There’s a band. Free liquor and beer.”
“And drugs?” she asked.
“Of course drugs. Everybody has them. They grow pot in the greenhouse, even. It is great pot, by the way.” He blinked, coughed. “Or so I am told.”
“Did you go to Thing Night?”
“For a little while. My religion forbids alcohol. The band was good, though too loud to bear for long.”
“Did you talk to Emily?”
“No. But I saw her dancing with someone.”
“Do you know who?”
“The Frankenstein monster. An excellent costume.”
“That’s him. Do you have any idea who it was?”
“There must have been twenty Frankensteins. Very popular with Polies.”
“Did you see them leave together?”
“No.”
“Was Blaine at the party?”
“I did not see him. But—” He shrugged. “The costumes.”
“So he could have been a Frankenstein.”
“Do you think he killed her?” Fida asked.
“No. She wouldn’t have gone to her room with him.” She thought for a few moments. “I’m going to call Washington.”
“Maybe.” They looked at the satellite schedule on his computer. “Comms down. Maybe later. Always maybe.”