Pesticide sprayed from the wing tanks in toxic twin streams, expanding into a noxious white cloud. The poisonous liquid coated the helicopter's windshield and blinded the pilot, then flowed through
the open vent windows, transforming the chopper's cockpit into a flying gas chamber.
The pilot screamed in pain and took his hands off the controls to wipe the stinging liquid from his eyes. The helicopter slipped sideways, the rotors clipping the trees. The blades disintegrated, and the fuselage whipped around, careened into the woods and broke apart. Spraying fuel ignited and the chopper exploded in a huge orange -and-white fireball.
Flying ahead of the blast, Austin came out of the tunnel like a cannonball. He pulled back on the elevator and the plane rose out of the woods. As the Aviatik slowly gained altitude, Austin looked over his shoulder. Smoke and fire belched from the mouth of the tunnel and the blaze had spread to the trees.
He switched the intercom back on. “We're in the clear,” he said.
“I've been trying to talk to you,” Skye said. “What happened back there?”
“I was doing a little pest control,” Austin said.
In the distance he could see beads of light marking roads and towns. Before long, car headlights were moving below them. Austin searched until he found a road that was well lit enough to land on, yet empty of traffic, and brought the plane down in a bumpy but safe landing. He taxied the plane off the highway and left it at the edge of a meadow.
As soon as their feet were back on ground, Skye embraced Austin and planted her lips on his in a kiss that was more than friendly. Then they began to walk. Despite their cuts and bruises, they were in a lighthearted mood after their escape. Austin breathed in the smell of grass and barns, and put his arm around Skye.
After about an hour of walking, they came upon a quaint auberge. The night clerk was half-asleep, but he sat up at full attention when Austin and Skye walked into the lobby and asked if they could have a room.
He stared at Austin's torn jester costume, and then at Skye, who looked like an alley cat that'd been in a fight, then back at Austin. “Americain?” he said. “Oui,” Austin said with a weary grin.
The clerk nodded his head sagely and pushed the guest book across the desk.
TROUT WAS STRETCHED out on the cramped bunk with his hands behind his head when he sensed that a barely audible vibration had replaced the low-end rumble of the sub's engines. He felt a soft jolt, as if the submarine had come to a cushioned stop. Then there was silence.
Gamay, who was dozing off on the top bunk, said, “What was that?”
“I think we've docked,” Trout said.
Prying his long body off the tight sleeping platform, Trout got up and pressed his ear to the door. He heard nothing, and he surmised that the sub had reached its destination. Minutes later, two armed guards unlocked the cabin door and told them to get moving. Sandy was waiting in the corridor under the watchful eyes of a second pair of guards. She had been moved to another cabin and it was the first time they had seen the Alvin's pilot since MacLean visit.
Trout gave Sandy a wink of reassurance and she greeted him with a nervous smile. Sandy was holding up well, but Trout wasn't surprised at her resilience. Anyone who piloted a deep submergence vehicle on a regular basis might be frightened, but not intimidated. With guards in front and behind, they climbed several levels to a hatchway that took them out onto the submarine's deck forward of the conning tower.
The sub was around four hundred feet long. It was anchored in a cavernous submarine pen that had a high arched roof. At the far end of the chamber, an intricate system of conveyor belts and ladder hoists disappeared into the wall. The guards prodded them across a gangway. MacLean was waiting on the dock.
“Good day, my fellow passengers,” the chemist said, with a genial smile. “Follow me, if you will, as we enter the next phase of our adventure.”
MacLean led the way to a large freight elevator. As the door closed, he glanced at his watch and his smile vanished.
“You've got about thirty-two seconds to talk,” he said.
“I only need two seconds to ask you where we are,” Trout said.
“I don't know where it is, but I suspect from the climate and the terrain that it's in the North Sea or Scandinavia. Maybe even Scotland.” He checked his watch again. “Time's up.”
The elevator door hissed open and they stepped out into a small room. The armed guard who was waiting for them barked into his walkie-talkie, then ushered them outside to a waiting minibus. The guard motioned for them to climb aboard, and then he followed, sitting in the back where he could keep an eye on the passengers. Before the guard pulled the window blinds down, Trout caught a glimpse of a long narrow cove far below the edge of the road.
After a ride of about twenty minutes over unpaved roads, the bus stopped and the guard ordered them off. They were in a complex of buildings surrounded by high barbed wire fence topped with electrical transformers. There were guards everywhere and the complex was disturbingly reminiscent of a concentration camp. The guard pointed toward a squat concrete building about the size of a ware
house. To get to it, they had to pass through more barbed wire. As they neared the building's entrance, an unearthly scream from inside the structure pierced the air. A chorus of shrieking howls followed.
Sandy's face registered her alarm. “Is this a zoo?” she said.
“I suppose you could say so,” MacLean said. His grim smile was not especially reassuring. “But you'll find creatures here that the London Zoo never dreamed existed.”
“I don't understand,” Gamay said.
“You will.”
Trout grabbed the chemist by the sleeve. “Please don't play games with us.”
“Sorry at the poor attempts at humor. I've been through this little orientation one too many times and it's starting to get to me. Try not to be too alarmed at what you're about to see. The little dog and pony show is not meant to harm you, only to scare you into submission.”
Trout gave him a faint smile. "You don't know how good that makes us feel, Dr. MacLean
MacLean raised a bushy eyebrow. “I can see that you're not without a bleak sense of humor yourself.”
“It's my Yankee upbringing. Our long crummy winters discourage a sunny view of the world.”
“Good,” MacLean said. “You'll need every bit of pessimism you can summon if you are to survive this hellhole. Welcome to the strange island of Dr. Moreau,” he said, referring to the fictional story of the mad scientist who transformed men into beasts.
The guard had opened the double steel security doors and the stench that poured from inside the building overpowered all thoughts. The foul odor was a minor annoyance compared with the sounds and sights in the large room.
The walls were lined with cages occupied by manlike beasts that clawed and bit at the bars. The cages held twenty-five to thirty of the
creatures. They stood on two legs and wore filthy rags, and were stooped over in a half crouch. Their long stringy white hair and beards obscured much of their faces, but there were glimpses of wizened and wrinkled features, the skin covered with dark age spots. Their mouths were open in a feral howl of rage and anger, displaying ragged and stained teeth. Their eyes were blood red and glowed with a terrifying luminosity.
Sandy had had enough. In a display of common sense, she bolted for the door, only to be blocked by a tall man dressed in army camouflage. He easily caught her by the arm and led her back into the building. He had a large nose, a sharply tapered chin and a leering mouth filled with gold teeth. A black beret was perched rakishly on his head. His presence had astrange effect on the caged creatures. They went silent at his arrival and retreated to the back of their cages.
“Good day, Dr. MacLean he said, speaking in a European accent. He eyed the Trouts, letting his gaze linger on Gamay. ”These are our newest recruits?“ ”They are experts in our fields of study," MacLean said.
There was a flurry of activity at th
e door.
“What luck. You and our new guests arrived at feeding time.”
A crew of guards entered, pushing a dolly stacked high with rat traps, the humane type that catches rodents without killing them. The guards unloaded the dolly, carried the traps and their squeaking occupants to the cages and released the rats.
Eyes glittering like rubies, the white-haired creatures had returned to the front of the cages. They must have been familiar with the drill because they were ready when the rats darted out of the traps. They pounced on the unfortunate rodents with the speed of panthers. Growling ferociously, they ripped the rats to pieces and devoured them with all the gusto of a gourmet in a five-star restaurant.
Sandy ran for the door again. This time, the man wearing the
beret stood aside and let her go, roaring with laughter. Gamay was tempted to follow, but she knew she would rip the man's arm off if he laid a hand on her.
“The young lady evidently does not appreciate our recycling system. We control our rat infestation and feed our pets at the same time.” Turning to MacLean he said, “I hope you have told our guests what a lovely place this is.”
“You are far more eloquent and persuasive than I could ever be, Colonel,” MacLean said.
“That is true,” the man said. He turned to face Trout. “I am Colonel Strega, the commander of this laboratory facility. The filthy devils you see enjoying their fine meals were once men like you. If you and the ladies do not do as you are told, we can make you into one of these fine-mannered fellows. Or we can feed you to them. It will all be according to my mood and generosity. The rules here are simple. You will work without complaint and in return you will be allowed to live. Do you understand?”
Trout was trying his best to ignore the gnawing and belching that issued from the cages. “I understand, Colonel, and I'll pass your message along to my weak-stomached friend.”
Strega stared at Trout with his wolfish yellow eyes as if trying to memorize his face. Then he gave Gamay a 14-karat smile, clicked his heels, wheeled about and headed for the door. The guards prodded the Trouts out of the building, although they didn't need any persuasion. Strega was getting into a Mercedes convertible. Sandy was leaning against the building, vomiting. Gamay went over and put her arm around the Alvin's pilot.
“Sorry about all that,” MacLean said. “Strega insists on this orientation for newcomers. It's guaranteed to scare the pants off them.” “It scared more than that off me,” Sandy said. “Next time I'll know to wear a diaper.”
MacLean sighed. "We've all had a hard day. Let's get you settled
in your quarters. After you've had a chance to shower and change, we'll get together for a drink at my place."
The bus went another half mile, passing through more barbed and electrified fence, finally stopping at a complex laid out with a large round-roofed building surrounded by small flat-roofed structures.
“That's the lab where we'll be working,” MacLean said. He pointed to a building set off by itself. “That's Strega's place. The guards have their quarters right next door. The cottages are for scientific staff. They look like bunkers, but you'll find them quite comfortable.”
The guard ordered everyone off the bus and pointed the Trouts and Sandy to a pair of adjoining cottages. MacLean place was next door. Trout and Gamay went to their quarters, basically one room with an iron bed, a small table and chair and a bathroom. It was spartan but clean. They shed their clothes and took long hot showers. Trout shaved with the dull disposable razor left for him.
Two lime-colored one-piece coveralls lay neatly folded on the bed. They had no desire to get into a prison uniform, but their own clothes had smelled vile even before they visited the animal house. Trout's coveralls were somewhat short in the sleeves and legs, but not uncomfortable. The bow tie didn't match but he wore it anyhow. Gamay would have looked glamorous even in sackcloth.
They went next door to get Sandy, but she was sleeping and they decided not to awaken her. MacLean welcomed them to his cottage, which was identical to the others except for its well-stocked bar. He insisted that they call him Mac, then he poured three glasses of Scotch whiskey and took the bottle with him when they went outside. The air was cool but not uncomfortable.
“I think my quarters may be bugged,” MacLean explained. “Colonel Strega is a resourceful man.”
“I'm not sure I care for his sense of humor,” Gamay said.
"He's better known for his other qualities. The World Court
would like to talk to him in regard to some mass graves in Bosnia. How's your drink?"
“Fine. We couldn't do better at Club Med,” she said. “When I get too depressed, I pretend I'm on vacation in an out-of-the-way resort,” MacLean said.
“At the resorts I've visited, lunch wasn't delivered in rat traps,” Trout said.
There was an awkward silence, which was broken by Gamay. “What, or who were those loathsome creatures in those cages?” MacLean took his time answering. “Those were mistakes.” “As a fellow scientist, you'll understand when we say you have to be more specific,” Trout said.
“Sorry. Maybe I had better start at the beginning.” MacLean poured more whiskey into his glass, took a hearty swallow and stared into space with a far-off look in his eyes.
“It seems so long ago, but it's only been three years since I was hired by a small research company outside of Paris to work with enzymes, the proteins that are produced by living cells. We were interested in the role that enzymes play in the aging process. Our company had only limited resources, so we were ecstatic when a large conglomerate absorbed our lab.”
“Who was behind this conglomerate?” Trout asked. “We didn't know and we didn't care. It didn't even have a name. We received substantial raises. We were promised greater funding and resources. We didn't mind when new conditions were imposed.” “What sort of conditions?”
"Under our new management, guards constantly watched us. Men in lab coats and suits, but guards nonetheless. Our movements were restricted. We lived in housing close to the lab. Company vehicles picked us up every morning and night. Those with families were allowed visitors from time to time, but all of us were warned of the secrecy of our work. We even signed contracts agreeing to the strict
rules, but you have to understand, we were giddy. We were on a quest for the true Philosopher's Stone."
“I thought you were a chemist, not an alchemist,” Gamay said. “As I recall, the Philosopher's Stone was a substance that could transform base metals like lead into silver or gold.”
MacLean nodded. “That's a common wzwconception. Many ancients believed that the stone was the legendary 'elixir of life.” If you mixed this wonderful substance with wine, the solution could heal wounds, restore youth and prolong life. That's the stone we were looking for."
“The quest for immortality,” Trout mused. “It might have been easier to turn lead into gold.”
A faint smile crossed MacLean's lips. “Many times during our research I had the same thought. I often pondered the impossibility of the task we had set ourselves.”
* “You're not the first to fail in that quest,” Trout said.
“Oh no, Dr. Trout. You misunderstand. We didn't fail.” “Hold on, Mac. You're saying the elixir of life exists?”
“Yes. We discovered it at the bottom of the sea in the hydrothermal vents of the Lost City.”
They stared at MacLean wondering if the insanity of this island had turned the Scotsman into a madman.
“I've been poking my proboscis into sea mud for a long time,” Trout said after a moment. “I've yet to discover anything that resembles the Fountain of Youth.”
Gamay shook her head. “You'll have to excuse my skepticism. As a marine biologist, I'm more familiar than Paul with the vents, and to be honest, I don't have a clue what you're talking about.”
MacLean's blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “You know more than you thinly you do, lass. Please explain why scientists around the world are ex
cited about the microbes that have been found around the vents.”
“That's easy,” Gamay said, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Those bacteria are like nothing that's ever been found before. They're 'living fossils.” The conditions in the Lost City are similar to those that existed at the dawn of life on earth. If you figure out how life evolved around the vents, you can see how it could have started on earth, or even other planets."
“Exactly right. My work started with a simple premise. If you had something involved in the creation of life, maybe it could extend life as well. Our company had access to samples taken on earlier expeditions to the Lost City. The enzyme these microbes produced was the key.”
“In what way?”
“Every living creature on earth is programmed for one task, to reproduce itself as many times as possible. Once its job is done, it becomes redundant, thus all organisms have a built-in self-destruct gene that dispatches them to make way for future generations. In human beings, sometimes the gene is activated prematurely and you have Werner's progeria, where an eight-year-old child looks like an eighty-year-old. We reasoned that if this gene can be switched on, it could be switched off, with the result that you slow aging.”
“How would you test something like that?” Trout said. “You'd have to give it to test subjects and wait decades to see if they lived longer than your control group.”
“That's a good point. There would be patent issues as well. Your patent could expire before you got your product on the market. But this enzyme not only switches the gene off, it serves as a super antioxidant disarming free radicals. Not only can it retard the chemical processes that lead to aging, it can restore youth as well.” “The Philosopher's Stone?” “Yes. Now you understand.” “You actually succeeded in doing this?” Trout said.
“Yes, in lab animals. We took mice that were senior citizens by human standards and restored their youth dramatically.” “How dramatically?”
“We had mice whose age in human years was ninety and reduced it to forty-five.”
“You're saying you reversed the animal's age in half?” “Absolutely. Muscle tone. Bone structure. Energy levels. Reproductive capacity. The mice were even more surprised by it than we were.”