“That is strange,” Skye said. She tried the front door and smiled. “Look here, Mr. Worrywart. We can leave anytime we want to.”
They stepped out onto the terrace and walked across the courtyard to the gate. The drawbridge was still down, but the portcullis, which had been up when they entered, had been lowered. Austin put his hands on the bars and gazed through the iron grating.
“We won't be leaving anytime soon,” he said with a grim smile. The Rolls-Royce had vanished from the driveway.
THE ALVIN HAD RISEN like a seagull atop a rolling billow before it dropped in a free fall that ended with a bone-jarring clang of metal against metal. The impact threw the three people inside the Alvin from their seats. Trout tried to avoid a collision with Gamay and the small-framed pilot, but his six-foot-eight physique was ill suited for acrobatics and he slammed into the bulkhead. Galaxies whirled around inside his head and when the stars cleared he saw Gamay's face close to his. She looked worried. “Are you all right?” she said with concern in her voice. Trout nodded. Then he pulled himself back into his seat and gingerly explored his bruised scalp with his fingers. The skin was tender to the touch, but he was not bleeding. “What happened?” Sandy said. “I don't know,” Trout said. “I'll take a look.” Trout tried to ignore the sick feeling in his gut and crawled over to a view port. For an instant, he wondered if the bump on his head was making him see things. The scowling face of a man stared at him. The man saw Trout. He tapped on the acrylic view port with
the barrel of a gun and jerked his thumb upward. The message was clear. Open the hatch.
Gamay had her face pressed against another view port. “There's a real ugly guy out there,” she whispered. “He's got a gun.”
“Same here,” Trout said. “They want us to climb out.”
“What should we do?” Sandy said.
Someone started banging on the hull.
“Our welcoming party is becoming impatient,” Gamay said.
“So I see,” Trout said. “Unless we can figure out how to turn the Alvin into an attack sub, I suggest that we do whatever they want us to.”
He reached up and opened the hatch. Warm, damp air rushed in and the same face he had seen in the view port was framed in the circular opening. The man gestured at Trout and pulled out of view. Trout stuck his head and shoulders through the hatch and saw that the Alvin was surrounded by six armed men.
Moving slowly, Trout climbed out onto the sub's hull. Sandy emerged and the color drained from her face when she saw the reception party. She froze in place until Gamay gave her a nudge from below and Trout helped her down to the metal deck.
The Alvin had come to rest in a brightly lit compartment as big as a three-car garage. The air was heavy with the smell of the sea. Water dripped from the Alvin's hull and gurgled down drains in the deck. The muted hum of engines could be heard in the distance. Trout surmised that they were in the air lock of an enormous submarine. At one end of the chamber, the walls curved to meet each other in a horizontal crease like the inside of a large mechanical mouth. The submarine must have gulped the Alvin down like a grouper eating a shrimp.
A guard punched a wall switch and a door opened in the bulkhead opposite the mechanical mouth. The same guard pointed the way with the barrel of his gun. The prisoners stepped through the door
way into a smaller room that looked like a robot factory. Hanging from wall racks were at least a dozen “moon suits,” whose thick joined arms ended in grasping claws. From his work with NUMA, Trout knew that the suits were human-shaped submersibles used for diving for long periods at extreme depths.
The door hissed shut and the prisoners marched along a passageway between three guards in front and three taking up the rear. The navy-blue jumpsuits the guards wore had no identification markings of any sort. The men were muscular, hard-looking types with close-cropped hair, and they moved with the assurance of trained military men. They were in their thirties and forties too old to be raw recruits. It was impossible to guess their nationalities because they had kept silent, preferring to communicate their wishes with gun gestures. Trout guessed they were mercenaries, probably special warfare types. The parade made its way through a network of passageways. Eventually, the prisoners were shoved into a cabin and the door clicked shut behind them. The small stateroom had two bunks, a chair, an empty closet and a head.
“Cozy,” Gamay said, taking in the tight accommodations. “This must be the third-class cabin,” Trout said. He had a dizzy spell and put his hand against the bulkhead to steady himself. Seeing the concern in Gamay's face, he said, “I'm okay. But I need to sit down.”
“You need some first aid,” Gamay said.
While Trout sat on the edge of a bunk, Gamay went into the head and ran cold water over a towel. Trout placed the towel on his temple to keep the swelling down. Sandy and Gamay took turns going back to the sink to replenish the cold-water compress. Eventually, the swelling was reduced. With great care, Trout adjusted his bow tie, which was hanging half off his neck, and he combed his hair with his fingers.
“Better?” Gamay said.
Newly refreshed, Trout grinned and said, “You always told me that I'd get a big head someday.”
Sandy laughed in spite of her fears. “How can you two be so calm?” she said in wonder.
Trout's unflappability was less bravado than pragmatism and faith in his own abilities. As a member of NUMA's Special Operations Team, Trout was not unused to danger. His laid-back academic demeanor disguised an innate toughness passed down by his hardy New England forebears. His great-grandfather had been a surf man in the Lifesaving Service, where the motto was “You have to go out, but you don't have to come back.” His fishermen grandfather and father had taught him seamanship and respect for the sea, and Trout had learned to rely on his own ingenuity.
With her slim athletic body and graceful movements, her luxuriant dark red hair and flashing smile, Gamay was sometimes mistaken for a fashion model or an actress. Few would have believed that she had been a tomboy growing up in Wisconsin. Although she had grown into a woman who possessed every desirable feminine trait possible, she was no hothouse flower. Rudi Gunn, the assistant director at NUMA, had recognized her intelligence when he suggested she be brought into the agency with her husband. Admiral Sandecker readily accepted Gunn's suggestion. Since then, Gamay had displayed her intelligence and cool resourcefulness on many missions with the Special Assignments Team.
“Calmness has nothing to do with it,” Gamay said. “We're simply being practical. Like it or not, we're stuck here for the time being. Let's use deductive reasoning to figure out what happened.”
“Scientists are not supposed to draw any conclusions until we're ready to support them with facts,” Sandy said. “We don't have all the facts.”
“You learned the scientific method well,” Trout said. “As Ben Jonson said, there's nothing like the prospect of a hanging to focus a person's mind. Since we don't have all the facts, we can use scientific dead reckoning to get us where we want to go. Besides, we don't have anything else to do. First, we know for sure that we've been kidnapped and we're being held prisoner in a large submarine of curious design.”
“Could this be the vehicle that made those tracks through the Lost City?” Sandy said.
“We don't have the facts to support that theory,” Trout said. “But it wouldn't be impossible to design a submersible that could crawl along on the sea floor. NUMA had something like that a few years ago.”
“Okay, then what's it doing here? Who are these people? And what do they want with us?”
“I have the feeling that those questions will soon be answered,” Gamay said.
“You're talking more like a swami than a scientist,” Sandy said. Gamay touched her finger to her lips and pointed at the door. The handle was turning. Then the door opened and a man stepped into the cabin. He was so tall he had to duck his head under the jamb. The newcomer was dressed in a jumpsuit like the others, except for its lime-green c
olor. He closed the door quietly behind him and gazed at the captives.
“Please relax,” he said. “I'm one of the good guys.” “Let me guess,” Trout said. “Your name is Captain Nemo and this is the Nautilus.”
The man blinked in surprise. He had expected the prisoners to be cowed.
“No, it's Angus MacLean he said with a soft Scottish burr. ”Dr. MacLean I'm a chemist. But you're right about this submarine. It's every bit as wonderful as Nemo's vessel."
“And we're all characters in a Jules Verne novel?” Gamay said. MacLean replied with a heavy sigh. “I wish it were that easy. I don't want to unduly alarm you,” he said with a quiet seriousness,
“but your lives may depend upon our conversation in the next few minutes. Please tell me your names and what your profession is. I plead with you to be truthful. There is no brig on this vessel.”
The Trouts understood the unspoken message. No brig meant no prisoners. Trout looked into MacLean kindly blue eyes and decided to trust him.
“My name is Paul Trout. This is my wife, Gamay. We're both with NUMA. This is Sandy Jackson, the pilot of the Alvin.”
“What's your scientific background?”
“I'm an ocean geologist. Gamay and Sandy are both marine biologists.”
MacLean serious face dissolved into a smile of relief. “Thank God,” he murmured. “There's hope.”
“Perhaps you'll answer a question for me,” Trout said. “Why did you kidnap us and hijack the Alvin?”
MacLean replied with a rueful chuckle. “I had nothing to do with it. I'm as much a prisoner on this vessel as you are.”
“I don't understand,” Sandy said.
“I can't explain now. All I can say is that we are fortunate that they can use your professional expertise. Like me, they will keep you alive only as long as they need you.”
“Who are they?” Trout asked.
MacLean ran his long gray fingers through his graying hair. “It would be dangerous for you to know.”
“Whoever you are,” Gamay said, “please tell the people who kidnapped us and took our submersible that our support ship will have people looking for us the second we're missed.”
“They told me that won't be a problem. I've no reason to disbelieve them.”
“What did they mean?” Trout said.
“I don't know. But I do know that these people are ruthless in the pursuit of their goals.”
“What are their goals?” Gamay said.
The blue eyes seemed to deepen. “There are some questions it is not wise for you to ask or for me to answer.” He rose from his chair and said, “I must report the results of my interrogation.” He pointed at the light fixture and touched his fingers to his lips in a clear warning of a hidden microphone. “I'll return shortly with food and drink. I suggest you get some rest.”
“Do you trust him?” Sandy said after MacLean left them alone once more.
“His story seems crazy enough to be true,” Gamay said. “Do you have any suggestions on what we should do?” Sandy said, looking from face to face.
Trout lay back in a bunk and attempted to stretch out, although his long legs hung off the edge of the mattress. He pointed to the light fixture and said, “Unless someone wants this bunk, I'm going to do as MacLean suggested and get some rest.”
MacLean returned about half an hour later with cheese sandwiches, a thermos of hot coffee and three mugs. More important, he was smiling.
“Congratulations,” he said, handing around the sandwiches. “You are now officially employed in our project.”
Gamay unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. “What exactly if this project?”
“I can't tell you everything. Suffice it to say that you are part of a research team. You will each be working on a need-to-know basis. I've been allowed to give you a tour as a way of acclimating you to the task ahead. I'll explain on the way. Our babysitter is waiting for us.”
He rapped on the door, which was opened by a grim-faced guard who stood aside to let MacLean and the others out. With the guard trailing behind, MacLean led the way along a network of corridors until they came to a large room whose walls were covered with television monitors and glowing arrays of electronic instrument panels.
The guard took up a position where he could keep a close eye on them, but otherwise didn't interfere.
“This is the control room,” MacLean said.
Trout glanced around. “Where's the crew?”
“This vessel is almost entirely automated. There is only a small crew, a contingent of guards and the divers, of course.”
“I saw the moon suits in the room near the air lock.”
“You're very observant,” MacLean said with a nod of his head. “Now if you look at that screen, you'll see the divers at work.”
A wall screen showed a picture of a column typical of the Lost City. As they watched, there was movement at the bottom of the screen. A diver clad in a bulbous moon suit was rising up the side of the column, propelled by vertical thrusters built into the suit. He was followed by three other divers, similarly equipped, all clutching thick rubber hoses in the mechanical manipulators that served as their hands.
Soundlessly, the grotesque figures floated up until they were near the top of the screen. Like bees collecting nectar, they stopped under the mushroom-shaped mantle rocks.
“What are they doing?” Trout said.
“I know,” Sandy said. “They're collecting bio-organisms from the microbe colonies that live around the vents.”
“That's correct. They are removing entire colonies,” MacLean said. “The living material and the liquid it grows in are transported through the hoses to holding tanks.”
“Are you saying this is a scientific expedition?” Gamay said.
“Not exactly. Keep watching.”
Two divers had broken off from the others and moved on to the top of another column; the pair that was left began to dismantle the column itself, using handsaws.
“They're destroying the columns,” Sandy said. "This is criminal!
MacLean glanced over at the guard to see if he had noticed Sandy's outburst. He was leaning against the wall with a bored, detached expression on his face. MacLean waved to get the guard's attention and he pointed at a door off the control room. The guard yawned and nodded his approval. MacLean escorted the others through the door, which opened into a room full of large circular plastic vats.
“We can talk here,” MacLean said. “These are storage vats for the biological material.”
“The holding capacity must be huge,” Gamay observed.
“It's very hard to keep the organisms alive away from their natural habitat. That's why they're taking down some of the columns. Only a small percentage of the harvest will be useful by the time we get back to land.”
“Did you say land}” Trout said.
“Yes, the collected specimens are ultimately processed in a facility located on an island. We make periodic trips to unload the tanks. I'm not sure where it is.”
MacLean saw the guard looking at them. “Sorry. Our babysitter seems to have stirred from his lethargy. We'll have to continue our discussion later.”
“Quickly tell me about the island. It may be our only chance to escape.”
“Escape? There's no hope of escape.”
“There's always hope. What's it like on this island?”
MacLean saw the guard walking toward them and lowered his voice, making his words sound even more ominous. “It's worse than anything Dante could have imagined.”
AS AUSTIN'S GAZE swept the steep walls and sturdy battlements that enclosed the Fauchard chateau, he felt an enormous respect for the artisans who had layered the heavy blocks into place. His admiration was tempered by the knowledge that the efficient killing machine those long-dead craftsmen had built to keep attackers at bay worked equally well to prevent those inside from getting out.
“Well,” Skye said. “What do you think?”
“If Alcatraz w
ere built on land, it would look something like this.”
“Then what do we do?”
He hooked his arm in hers. “We continue our stroll.”
After they had discovered the portcullis closed and their car gone, Austin and Skye had sauntered around the courtyard perimeter like tourists on a holiday. From time to time, they would stop and chat before ambling on. The casual veneer was meant to deceive. Austin hoped that anyone watching would think they were completely at ease.
As they walked, Austin's coral-blue eyes probed the enclosure for weaknesses. His brain cataloged every minute detail. By the time
they had circled the courtyard and returned to their starting point, he could have drawn an accurate diagram of the chateau complex from memory.
Skye stopped and rattled a wrought-iron gate blocking a narrow stairway to the battlements. It was bolted shut. “We're going to need wings to get over these walls,” she said.
“My wings are at the dry cleaner's,” Austin replied. “We'll have to think of something else. Let's go back inside and nose around.”
Emil Fauchard greeted them on the terrace. He flashed his toothy smile and said, “Did you have a pleasant tour of the chateau?”
“They don't build them like this anymore,” Austin said. “By the way, we noticed our car was gone.”
“Oh yes, we moved it out of the way to make room for our arriving guests. The keys were in the ignition. We'll pull it around when you're ready to leave. I hope you don't mind.”
“Not all,” Austin said with a forced grin. “Saves me the trouble of doing it myself.”
“Splendid. Let's go inside then. The guests will be arriving soon.” Emil ushered them back into the chateau and up the wide staircase in the veranda to the second floor and showed them to adjoining guest rooms. Austin's room was actually a suite with bedroom, bath and sitting area, decorated in Baroque, heavy on the scarlet plush and gilt, like a Victorian brothel.
His costume was laid out on the canopied bed. The costume fit well except for snugness around his broad shoulders. After glancing at himself in a full-length mirror, he knocked on the door connecting his suite to Skye's. The door opened partway and Skye poked her head through. She broke into laughter when she saw Austin wearing the black-and-white-checked costume and belled cap of a court jester.