“Because on an energy scale equivalent, the power it should take to shatter these panes is comparable to that used by a jet plane to take off. But the amount of energy expended by the boy remains under ten — the amount it would take you or me to tie our shoes.”
Chilgers smiled faintly. “Let’s try it with all six slabs then, shall we?”
“No,” Davey moaned.
“Rather feel the black box, boy?”
Davey tried to shake his head.
Teke moved back toward the boy. “Give me input on the vitals.”
“Blood pressure up forty percent and climbing.”
“Pulse rate up same.”
“Blood pressure stabilizing, beginning to drop “
“It doesn’t make sense,” Teke said to himself. “Low energy expenditure and distinct rise in metabolic rates. Stress factor?” he called behind him.
“Settling down,” a voice returned. “Needle has yet to enter the red.”
“I want to know immediately if it does.”
“Let’s get on with it,” Chilgers ordered.
“No, don’t make me!” Davey pleaded. “I can’t! …”
Teke thought briefly. “Colonel, it may be best to call it here until tomorrow.”
“Concerned for the boy, Teke?”
“No, for the experiment. We’ve entered a new realm here. The figures aren’t as I expected them to be. Too many inconsistencies. I need time to evaluate the data.”
“Now you’re talking like Metzencroy,” Chilgers charged.
Teke noticed the boy was still trembling. “Colonel, I must suggest we hold off on any further testing until tomorrow.”
“We finish the experiment, Doctor, with or without you.”
Teke leaned over toward Davey. “Just one more time and it’ll be over.”
“My head,” the boy muttered. “Feels like it’s coming apart. Don’t make me. I can’t.”
But the two new lab assistants were already wheeling the final two slabs in place. Then the window pane was moved behind them.
“Just one more time,” Teke assured.
“No,” Davey moaned. “I can’t.…”
“The clock’s ticking,” Chilgers snapped and Davey watched his finger crawl over the red button. “Ten seconds.”
Davey tried for The Chill and his head seemed to split.
“I can’t!”
“Five seconds.”
“Levels rising, sir,” a lab technician shouted to Teke. “Eight-four, eight-five, eight-six …”
“Four,” said Chilgers, “three …”
“Stress needles into the red!”
“STOP! …”
“Two …” Chilgers’ finger settled on the button.
“Energy concentration ratio one hundred, one-oh-one …”
“Power levels at eight-eight, eight-nine, nine-flat. Still climbing.”
“NOOOOOOOOO!”
“Time’s up,” said Chilgers and he pressed the red button.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh…”
Davey’s scream punctured the room. The window pane didn’t shatter, it melted into nothing, just wasn’t there anymore.
The gauges popped, cracked, glass shattering over needles suspended forever in the red. Smoke rose from the machines’ backs. Red and green indicator bulbs exploded.,
“Sedate him! Sedate him!” Teke screamed and two lab technicians rushed forward only to be blown back as if struck by a hundred-knot gale. The syringe dropped by Davey’s feet. Teke crawled for it.
Chilgers tried to work the red button but he too had been blown backward against a row of knobs and dials which struck his spine low and hard, tearing his breath away. He slid slowly down, a grimace stretched across his face.
Teke reached out for the needle.
The fluorescent ceiling lights blew out, the sound like machine-gun fire. They showered hot sharp glass down on the technicians who had dived for cover or been dropped as they stood.
Teke grasped the syringe in a trembling hand. He was queasy and unsure of motion. Glass and broken equipment had clogged the air vent, turning the lab into a steam bath with practically no oxygen. Teke started to raise the needle toward the boy’s arm.
Davey just sat there, wires still running from his head but attached to nothing now. His eyes bulged, unblinking, though his stare remained vacant. He gazed ahead seeing nothing, unbothered by the destruction wreaked about him.
Teke touched the syringe to his arm.
Davey swung toward him. Their eyes met and Teke felt his skin scorch, starting to melt. He screamed horribly because of the terrible pounding of his own heart and jammed the needle home.
The boy’s eyes dimmed and his head slumped forward to his chest. Teke grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse, finding it incredibly near normal. Then the doctor struggled to his feet and moved toward Chilgers, who through it all had never lost consciousness.
“We pushed him too far,” Teke said, helping the colonel rise and then supporting him.
“No,” Chilgers countered between labored breaths. “We pushed him just far enough.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Anything new, George?”
Secretary of Defense Brandenberg reentered the Oval Office to find the President with his face smothered in his hands. The early morning darkness was broken only by a single lamp on the chief executive’s desk. Its light cast thin shadows in the room and made it seem smaller.
“We’ve received confirmation that Arthur was killed by a sniper shooting from the other side of the arena in a section of seats closed for repairs,” Brandenberg reported.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Art and I went back a long time, George.”
“I know.”
The President gazed up emptily. “What the hell happened there?”
Brandenberg sat down. “There’s only one man who can tell us that.”
“Bane …”
“And he’s disappeared again, with good reason I’m afraid.”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I’m merely continuing a theory I set forth yesterday afternoon. Let’s say Bane blamed Arthur for the fiasco at Penn Station. Tonight’s meeting then becomes an elaborate setup for him to gain revenge.”
“He was sitting right next to Arthur when the sniper fired.”
“I believe Bane hired the sniper. Why else wouldn’t he have been taken out as well? Besides, the idea of using someone else to kill Arthur furthers my theory that two distinct personalities are alive within Bane. One honestly and desperately believes it’s on to something catastrophic. The other has created the illusion of this coming catastrophe and has been behind everything, from the hit on the Center to Arthur’s murder, to reenforce it and justify the emergence of the Winter Man again.”
“In which case we’d have an extremely dangerous man on our hands, George.”
“In more ways than one. Bane’s got enough information stored in his head to make Watergate look like back-page news. If he talks, he could bring this entire government down, send it whirling out of control.”
“A perfect time for the Russians to force the issue,” the President reflected.
“My point exactly.”
“Then you don’t think we should even try to bring Bane in.”
Brandenberg shook his head. “The risk would be too great. Let him live and sooner or later he’ll talk to someone. We can’t live with that over our heads. Bane’s unsalvageable.”
“How I hate that term….”
“It’s accurate in this case, I’m afraid. Bane’s too dangerous to bring in, sir. We wouldn’t be able to control him. He honestly believes the shadows he’s boxing are real. Destroy that illusion and he becomes a hundred times more dangerous.”