into clean-burning fuel in special chambers. Then it’s piped out to the two external generators. It’s also usedas fuel for everything from the boats to the Bunsen burners. We’re almost completely energy independent.”
“That’s amazing. Why doesn’t everyone do it?”
“Well, rotting vegetation doesn’t cover the rest of the earth—thank God.”
“Of course.” Logan laughed. “Isn’t it a little dangerous?”
“Having natural gas pipes running through your house is probably dangerous, too. It’s a closed system, monitored twenty-four seven, the whole thing set up with a safety mechanism that’s fully automatic. And flying in thousands of gallons of oil and gas on a regular basis might raise eyebrows. Besides, Stone not only likes to fly below the radar but prefers to leave no trace behind, do as little damage to the environment as possible. This helps accomplish that.”
They passed through another barrier into a second vast enclosure, this one painted a pale azure, the dome high overhead arching over cubicles with seven-foot walls. “This is Blue,” Rush said. “Crew quarters.”
Activity here was more pronounced. They passed a recreation room with pinball machines and shuffleboard layouts; then a mini-library with comfortable chairs, magazines, and racks of paperbacks; next, a lounge where several groups of four were sitting around card tables, immersed in games. Logan could hear laugher, snippets of conversation in French, German, and English.
“Believe it or not, bridge has become a tradition on Porter Stone’s digs,” Rush said. “It’s encouraged during off-hours. Stone believes that it gets people’s minds off the day’s stress, helps prevent brooding over the isolation and the separation from loved ones, while at the same time keeping the mind sharp.”
“How many people are on the site?”
“I don’t recall the exact number. Somewhere around a hundred and fifty.”
They paused outside what appeared to be half commissary, half mess. “Want a bite to eat before I show you to your quarters?” Rush asked.
Logan shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Let me get you something anyway, just in case.” Rush disappeared inside. Logan waited in the corridor, observing the activity within. There were at least a dozen people in the mess, eating dinner. The atmosphere was remarkably heterogeneous: scientists in lab coats were practically bumping elbows with rough-looking roustabouts begrimed by mud or motor oil.
Rush reappeared in the doorway with a paper bag. “Here’s a BLT, an apple, and a can of iced tea,” he said. “Just in case you get peckish.”
He led the way around a bend and into a dormitory area. The chatter was louder here: conversations, laughter, the blare of music from digital players, movies playing on laptops or flat-screen monitors.
Rush stopped before a closed door marked 032. “This is yours,” he said, opening the door and ushering Logan inside. Beyond lay a room, spartan but neat, furnished with a desk, bed, two chairs, a closet, and a set of drawers flush with the wall.
“They’ll bring your luggage ’round in a few minutes,” Rush said. “And tomorrow we’ll get you officially processed and start the orientation. But now you must be tired.”
“Make that overwhelmed.”
Rush smiled. “I have to check in with Medical. Want to meet for breakfast? Say, eight o’clock?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll see you then.” Rush grasped his shoulder, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.
The soundproofing was better than expected: the noises in the hallway immediately sank to a murmur. Logan was setting his watch to local time when there came a knock on the door and his luggage was brought in by a young man with a thatch of carrot-colored hair. Logan thanked him, closed the door, then lay down on the bed. He wasn’t fatigued, exactly, but he needed a while to sort out in his head all the surprises and revelations of the last thirty-six
“That’s amazing. Why doesn’t everyone do it?”
“Well, rotting vegetation doesn’t cover the rest of the earth—thank God.”
“Of course.” Logan laughed. “Isn’t it a little dangerous?”
“Having natural gas pipes running through your house is probably dangerous, too. It’s a closed system, monitored twenty-four seven, the whole thing set up with a safety mechanism that’s fully automatic. And flying in thousands of gallons of oil and gas on a regular basis might raise eyebrows. Besides, Stone not only likes to fly below the radar but prefers to leave no trace behind, do as little damage to the environment as possible. This helps accomplish that.”
They passed through another barrier into a second vast enclosure, this one painted a pale azure, the dome high overhead arching over cubicles with seven-foot walls. “This is Blue,” Rush said. “Crew quarters.”
Activity here was more pronounced. They passed a recreation room with pinball machines and shuffleboard layouts; then a mini-library with comfortable chairs, magazines, and racks of paperbacks; next, a lounge where several groups of four were sitting around card tables, immersed in games. Logan could hear laugher, snippets of conversation in French, German, and English.
“Believe it or not, bridge has become a tradition on Porter Stone’s digs,” Rush said. “It’s encouraged during off-hours. Stone believes that it gets people’s minds off the day’s stress, helps prevent brooding over the isolation and the separation from loved ones, while at the same time keeping the mind sharp.”
“How many people are on the site?”
“I don’t recall the exact number. Somewhere around a hundred and fifty.”
They paused outside what appeared to be half commissary, half mess. “Want a bite to eat before I show you to your quarters?” Rush asked.
Logan shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Let me get you something anyway, just in case.” Rush disappeared inside. Logan waited in the corridor, observing the activity within. There were at least a dozen people in the mess, eating dinner. The atmosphere was remarkably heterogeneous: scientists in lab coats were practically bumping elbows with rough-looking roustabouts begrimed by mud or motor oil.
Rush reappeared in the doorway with a paper bag. “Here’s a BLT, an apple, and a can of iced tea,” he said. “Just in case you get peckish.”
He led the way around a bend and into a dormitory area. The chatter was louder here: conversations, laughter, the blare of music from digital players, movies playing on laptops or flat-screen monitors.
Rush stopped before a closed door marked 032. “This is yours,” he said, opening the door and ushering Logan inside. Beyond lay a room, spartan but neat, furnished with a desk, bed, two chairs, a closet, and a set of drawers flush with the wall.
“They’ll bring your luggage ’round in a few minutes,” Rush said. “And tomorrow we’ll get you officially processed and start the orientation. But now you must be tired.”
“Make that overwhelmed.”
Rush smiled. “I have to check in with Medical. Want to meet for breakfast? Say, eight o’clock?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll see you then.” Rush grasped his shoulder, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.
The soundproofing was better than expected: the noises in the hallway immediately sank to a murmur. Logan was setting his watch to local time when there came a knock on the door and his luggage was brought in by a young man with a thatch of carrot-colored hair. Logan thanked him, closed the door, then lay down on the bed. He wasn’t fatigued, exactly, but he needed a while to sort out in his head all the surprises and revelations of the last thirty-six
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