Wiz held tightly to the samples of bone he had in his possession, and the bones, too, were smoldering with a weird, unnatural steam rising off the surface. Leonard quickly tucked the parchment he held inside his clothing, trying to protect it from the rain, fearful of it going up in smoke.
They stepped into the decontamination chamber one at a time, as it was no larger than a telephone booth. Wiz went first, hugging his bones. The irradiation shower was quick and painless and a man on the other side awaited with clothing for Dr. Wisnewski, who'd packed his showered protective wear in a disposable box inside the unit. Wiz was talking animatedly, in "high gear" on the other side, when Leonard went through the shower. Stroud was fatigued and thought of a real shower of warm water, while he waited patiently for Leonard; but Leonard didn't come out when the door on the other side opened. Men had to go in and help him out. He was being placed on a stretcher while the terrified Wiz looked on, and while Stroud, taking a deep breath, stepped into the chamber.
Inside, Stroud was instructed to remove the protective wear. There was a cushioned hanger on which to place the suit, and a chute through which it was to be placed after the bombarding rays hit it. Stroud felt like a microwave meal as the machine burned away bacteria on his epidermis, in his hair and pores, leaving a layer of white dust--dead cells--all over his body, along with a tingling, burning feeling. He wiped his white-powdered eyelids with his white-powdered hands. A jolt of unspeakable pain tore through the passages of his brain.
The people who'd been monitoring their progress through the ship, having been cut off as they had, were taking no chances with them, or the items they brought back with them, Leonard's parchment, Wiz's bones and Stroud's pickax--everything had to go through the chamber.
Even the metal in my head, he thought as the radioactivity began to create a ripple fluke through his cranium. He had been terribly worried about Leonard; now he worried about himself. His skull seemed suddenly afire with a bright, blinding light which triggered a total blackout, causing Stroud to fall out of the chamber when it was opened on the other side. Caught by a technician who had been holding his clothing, Stroud looked to have been converted into a wide-eyed zombie.
Wisnewski suddenly snapped, his bone samples flying as he grabbed the pickax that had fallen beside Stroud. Lifting the pick over his head, he was about to bring it down into Stroud's heart--in a blinding rage--when a policeman clubbed him into unconsciousness.
All three of the men who had dared the ghost ship below the earth had succumbed to its curse.
-4-
Sir Arthur Thomas Gordon moved quickly for so heavy a man. He instantly rushed from his limousine to that of Commissioner James Nathan where Nathan contemplated the scene that had exploded in his face. Knighted by the Queen of England, a self-made man after his father had pissed away the family fortune, Gordon didn't like standing down to any man. He'd wheedled his way in close to Nathan, buying off his man Perkins, and Perkins had kept Gordon apprised of Nathan's every move, and in turn Gordon had thought to use it against Nathan when he brought in this charlatan Stroud. Gordon was way past going through channels. He had been on the phone to every public official in the city, including the mayor, and he had been made to stand here and watch this ridiculous affair while the construction of his tower was held up for days. The costs were astronomical.
"Now, Nathan? Now will you bloody well listen to reason? Look at all you've accomplished with this vaudeville act! I hope you're satisfied."
"Shut up, Gordon!"
"Shut up? Shut up?"
"You heard what the fuck I said!"
Camera crews and microphones were jammed in at Sir Arthur as he lit into the commissioner of police. Questions flew from the reporters.
"What're your next plans, Sir Arthur?"
"Has anyone other than Stroud's party offered to go into the pit?"
"Will you blow the place now?"
"Commissioner Nathan? Will the city give in to Sir Arthur's demands at this point?"
"Get these damned reporters back!" shouted the C.P. to his uniformed officers, who moved in, barricading the press even as they snapped pictures of Stroud, Wisnewski and Leonard being carted off to waiting ambulances by men wearing protective gear. Another man entered the decon unit, retrieving the protective wear laid aside by the three archeologists. The tears in the clothing worn by the trio that had gone into the pit were noticeable, and Nathan shouted for this man to hold as he examined the rents. They looked like the work of sharp-toothed animals, shrews or minks.
"What the hell's down there?" Nathan wondered aloud in a whisper to a beat cop his own age, an old friend by the name of Harry Baker. Harry never had what it took to rise in rank, primarily because he was so damned pleased with doing what he was doing that he didn't want any of it ... didn't want the headaches and heartaches of command. Smart move, Nathan had told him many times over. Now Harry looked back at him with a queer, questioning look and said, "Jimmy, what's really going on here?"
"Wish to God I knew, Harry ... wish I knew." Then Nathan ordered the medics out. "Go ahead, get these men to St. Stephen's; see that they get into the hands of a Dr. Cline there. She's with the CDC." Nathan felt energized, standing in the rain in the dark, the street lit with police lights, a barricade thrown up. It was like old times, too, seeing Harry. Nathan felt like a detective again. He'd missed being on a street team and he was sick of having to deal with men like Gordon. And he was sick of the treatment shown him by people around him, kowtowing and bootlicking. Good ol' Harry never knew how. Nice to know some men always stayed the same...
Lloyd Perkins rushed along beside him now with a wide umbrella, trying to cover him. Nathan angrily pushed him aside, saying, "Lloyd, get the shit outa my way."
But then Arthur Gordon stepped into his way, spoiling for a fight, getting right into his face like an angry baseball manager at a Mets game, spittle foaming at the edges of his mouth. "I'm ordering my men in now!"
"You'll do no such thing, Gordon!"
Perkins was in James Nathan's ear, whispering, "Maybe we ought to let Gordon go ... let the bastard hang himself."
"Shut up, Lloyd! Now, you, Gordon, old chap, listen good, because I'm only saying this once--"
"Whom do you think you are speaking to?"
"A royal pain in the ass, asshole, now--"
"Just who do you think you are!"
"I'm the highest ranking officer in New York City! Do you have it straight now? Damn you!"
Gordon was visibly shaking with anger. He was not used to being treated this way. For a moment, he looked as if he might explode.
"You can't talk to me that way!"
"Is that all you can say?" Nathan burst out laughing at the man. "Listen, asshole, your money and influence do not change the fact I am in control here; I give the orders."
"Don't be so sure I can't buy you straight out of a job, mister!"
"Damn you, Gordon, this city and decisions affecting the welfare of the people in it are not up to you, and so help me, if you--or anyone in your employ--goes near that damned hole in the ground--"
"You'll what?"
Nathan grabbed the wealthy Gordon by his coat and doubled him over the wet, black limo. "I'll see that your bloody, limey butt is dragged into a civil court and I'll throw everything I can at you. Do you understand me, Englishman?"
Perkins was tearing at Nathan to release the man and finally Nathan did so. Gordon's workers looked on, a sensation of excitement flooding over them, all of them hoping, it seemed, to see Gordon truly crowned.
Perkins retrieved Gordon's hat from the mud and was handing it to him when Nathan shouted for him to come along. Nathan got into his limo and Perkins got in across from him, shaking his head, unable to meet Nathan's eyes. Nathan shouted for the driver to take him to St. Stephen's Hospital.