Rising from the couch, he removed a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Seven. “Here’s a rundown of what I’m looking for, and in what quantities. You think you can meet this order?”
Seven unfolded the document and scanned its contents. He nodded to himself, seeing more or less exactly what he had expected. If I wanted to perform serious genetic resequencing using twentieth-century Earth technology, he thought, these are the rather crude instruments I would need to obtain. The large volume of apparatus requested was also ominous, implying experimentation on a disturbingly ambitious scale. “A quite impressive list,” he commented. “May I ask what you need all this equipment for?”
“Frankly, that’s none of your business,” Offenhouse stated bluntly. “Mine either, for that matter. All you need to know is that I’ve been commissioned by a private consortium to handle various business transactions for them, preferably without attracting a lot of attention.”
Seven feigned a worried expression. “This isn’t anything illegal, is it?”
“We’re not talking South American drug lords, if that’s bothering you.” Offenhouse never took his intent gaze off the man he was trying to convince, almost daring Seven to contradict him. “This is all about science, and research, and not letting some other crew of eggheads get the jump on you before you’re ready to go public with your big-deal discovery. Between you and me, Seven, I don’t care if my clients are trying to cure the common cold or clone Elvis Presley, just so long as I get my commission. If you’re smart, you won’t worry about it either. Just take the money and run.”
“I don’t know,” Seven hedged, hoping to draw more information from his visitor. “It all sounds a bit ... unorthodox.”
[46] Offenhouse slapped his palms down on the desktop between him and Seven, thrusting his scowling face forward. “Look, Seven, let me put all my cards on the table. I’m willing to pay you twice what you’re asking for everything on that list, provided there are no questions asked. So, do we have a deal or not?”
The more he heard, the more convinced Gary Seven was that this brash, overbearing businessman provided a link to whatever secret project was responsible for the disappearance of so many of the world’s top scientists. All he needed to do now was to let Offenhouse lead him one step closer to the truth.
“Very well, Mr. Offenhouse,” he said readily. “You’ve got a deal.”
CHRYSALIS BASE
LOCATION: CLASSIFIED
“You asked to see me, Director?”
“Yes,” Sarina Kaur answered from the midst of Chrysalis’s communal garden. Cool water sprayed from the lotus-shaped fountain at the center of a tiled courtyard surrounded by ferns and fragrant orchids. Now six months pregnant, Kaur sat upon a white cane bench beneath the leafy bough of a mango tree, genetically engineered to bear refreshing fruit all year long. Solar lamps installed in the high domed ceiling simulated the light of a pleasant spring afternoon. Kaur found the tranquil atmosphere of the garden highly conducive to contemplation; she often came here when, as now, there was a difficult decision to be made.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Singer,” she continued, putting aside the plate of chicken tikka she had been having for a late dinner. Despite a distinct Indian lilt, her English was impeccable. “Especially at such short notice, and at this hour.”
“Sure, no problem,” Joel Singer said a little too quickly. His white lab coat was stained from the day’s experiments and he shuffled nervously, not quite making eye contact with his superior at the project. “Er, what’s this all about anyway?”
Kaur inspected the youthful American biochemist. A slender white male with curly black hair, Singer had come to them directly upon [47] completing his postgraduate studies at Columbia and Johns Hopkins. At the time, he
Seven unfolded the document and scanned its contents. He nodded to himself, seeing more or less exactly what he had expected. If I wanted to perform serious genetic resequencing using twentieth-century Earth technology, he thought, these are the rather crude instruments I would need to obtain. The large volume of apparatus requested was also ominous, implying experimentation on a disturbingly ambitious scale. “A quite impressive list,” he commented. “May I ask what you need all this equipment for?”
“Frankly, that’s none of your business,” Offenhouse stated bluntly. “Mine either, for that matter. All you need to know is that I’ve been commissioned by a private consortium to handle various business transactions for them, preferably without attracting a lot of attention.”
Seven feigned a worried expression. “This isn’t anything illegal, is it?”
“We’re not talking South American drug lords, if that’s bothering you.” Offenhouse never took his intent gaze off the man he was trying to convince, almost daring Seven to contradict him. “This is all about science, and research, and not letting some other crew of eggheads get the jump on you before you’re ready to go public with your big-deal discovery. Between you and me, Seven, I don’t care if my clients are trying to cure the common cold or clone Elvis Presley, just so long as I get my commission. If you’re smart, you won’t worry about it either. Just take the money and run.”
“I don’t know,” Seven hedged, hoping to draw more information from his visitor. “It all sounds a bit ... unorthodox.”
[46] Offenhouse slapped his palms down on the desktop between him and Seven, thrusting his scowling face forward. “Look, Seven, let me put all my cards on the table. I’m willing to pay you twice what you’re asking for everything on that list, provided there are no questions asked. So, do we have a deal or not?”
The more he heard, the more convinced Gary Seven was that this brash, overbearing businessman provided a link to whatever secret project was responsible for the disappearance of so many of the world’s top scientists. All he needed to do now was to let Offenhouse lead him one step closer to the truth.
“Very well, Mr. Offenhouse,” he said readily. “You’ve got a deal.”
CHRYSALIS BASE
LOCATION: CLASSIFIED
“You asked to see me, Director?”
“Yes,” Sarina Kaur answered from the midst of Chrysalis’s communal garden. Cool water sprayed from the lotus-shaped fountain at the center of a tiled courtyard surrounded by ferns and fragrant orchids. Now six months pregnant, Kaur sat upon a white cane bench beneath the leafy bough of a mango tree, genetically engineered to bear refreshing fruit all year long. Solar lamps installed in the high domed ceiling simulated the light of a pleasant spring afternoon. Kaur found the tranquil atmosphere of the garden highly conducive to contemplation; she often came here when, as now, there was a difficult decision to be made.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Singer,” she continued, putting aside the plate of chicken tikka she had been having for a late dinner. Despite a distinct Indian lilt, her English was impeccable. “Especially at such short notice, and at this hour.”
“Sure, no problem,” Joel Singer said a little too quickly. His white lab coat was stained from the day’s experiments and he shuffled nervously, not quite making eye contact with his superior at the project. “Er, what’s this all about anyway?”
Kaur inspected the youthful American biochemist. A slender white male with curly black hair, Singer had come to them directly upon [47] completing his postgraduate studies at Columbia and Johns Hopkins. At the time, he
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