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McCrae had unbuckled his harness and slipped out of it. He stood bent over,
looking back at Ruckerman.
"It could be just my native caution." He turned away and left the compartment
but his voice was still audible to Ruckerman. "Damn! I should've demanded to
make my own inspection of this bird!"
Ruckerman turned and looked out the windscreen. Their flight path was taking
them diagonally across a deep chasm in the clouds, a gray glimpse of ocean
through the screening mists far below.
This was insane. This whole trip did not ring true, suddenly. He was tempted
to tell McCrae to turn back. But would McCrae obey him? And even if McCrae
agreed, would they be allowed to return?
"This is a one-way trip until we find the cure," Saddler had said.
Ruckerman thought of the deep banks of antiaircraft missiles around
Washington. One MUSAM with its multi-headed heat-and-motion-seekers . . .
McCrae slipped back into his seat and buckled his harness. "I can't find a
damn thing." He checked his instruments and looked then at Ruckerman. "How'd
they rope you into this?"
"I was the obvious choice."
"Yeah? For what?"
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"I have the confidence of the President and his chief advisors. I have the
scientific background to, well, assess . . . things."
"My friends say you may be a patsy."
"What do you mean?"
"There's a lot of hate going around against science and scientists. How'd you
get contaminated, anyway?"
Ruckerman swallowed. This was the tricky part. "I . . . it was a stupid
thing. I went through a wrong door at one of the quarantine stations. They
should not have left that door unlocked!"
"And maybe you should've been more careful."
Ruckerman searched in his mind for a way to divert the conversation, then:
"How were you chosen as my pilot?"
"I volunteered."
"Why?"
"I have an uncle in Ireland, a real oddball. Never married. Rich enough to
pay off the national debt." McCrae grinned. "And I'm his only living
relative."
"Is he still . . . I mean, alive?"
"He has a ham radio. Ham operators have been passing along his messages.
Uncle Mac's got himself a private estate over there. And this'll get you.
He's reviving the religion of Druidism -- tree worship, the whole magilla."
"He sounds crazy."
"Not crazy, just weird."
"And you're his only heir? How can you be sure of that or that inheritance
will . . . Things have changed, you know."
McCrae shrugged. "Uncle Mac and I are look-alikes. He was always pretty fond
of me. Things being the way they are, what better thing do I have on my plate
than to go over and look after my own interests?"
"Well, I wish you luck."
"You, too, Will. You're gonna need it."
"I still don't understand what made you suspect a . . . bomb?"
"I know things about Turkwood that most people don't even whisper."
"You know him?"
"From before the plague and since then . . . by phone. That's what worries
me, Will. I know things he might want erased. You, though, I can't figure
why he might want you out unless it's just another write-off."
Ruckerman tried to swallow in a dry throat, remembering how cautious Saddler
had been. Not a word of what he carried in his case, the special search
program from DA, none of that must get to Turkwood. That had been the reason
for the ridiculous charade at the quarantine station. Accidental
contamination!
"You okay?" McCrae asked. "You look sorta peaked."
"This is insane," Ruckerman muttered. "It's vital that I get to England! And
you must get to Ireland, find out if they really have O'Neill. My God! If
it's O'Neill and he could be persuaded to talk!"
"If," McCrae said. "If they really have O'Neill and if the son-of-a-bitch is
still alive. I dunno, Will. If I were in Ireland and I had that guy in my
hands . . ."
"They know how important it would be to preserve him!"
"Do they? And what difference does it make to them? What've they got to
lose?"
McCrae released his harness. "I'm going back for another look around. Same
drill. Don't touch anything, Will."
"Mister McCrae?"
"Call me Mac."
"Yes, well, Mac . . ." Ruckerman shook his head. "No, it's too wild."
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"Nothing's too wild. What's making you nervous?"
"Both Doctor Saddler and the President were very anxious that . . . ahhh, this
trip be kept secret from Turkwood, that is, until . . ."
"Secret? Why?"
"I, uh, don't know."
"You do know but you're not saying. Christ! I've got myself another hot
cargo!"
"I'm sorry, Mac, but this is all probably just our active imaginations. These
are times for . . ."
"These are times for active imaginations." He stared at the instrument panel.
Presently, he touched a white button above the throttle console. A red light
went on above the button. "That could be because we're going too fast," he
muttered. He disengaged the autopilot, grasped the throttles and eased them
back.
Ruckerman watched the airspeed indicator crawl back into the green band,
stopping at 120.
Again, McCrae touched the white button. Again, the red light flashed.
"Could be a circuit malfunction," McCrae said.
"What're you doing?" Ruckerman asked.
McCrae pushed the throttles forward, checked their course and restored the
autopilot. They were out over open ocean, only a thinly scattered cloud cover
underneath. The sun was bright, throwing white sparkles off the waves.
"There's a little barometric switch gadget that's been used a few times,"
McCrae said. "My friends once said Turkwood likes it. It's attached to a wad
of plastic explosive and the whole thing's seated in a landing gear
compartment. It's armed when you lower the gear and, if you go below a set
altitude, kapowie!"
"What . . . what set altitude?"
"Maybe a couple hundred meters. Right down there when you're on final, the
field in front of you and not a damn thing you can do about it. No time to
jump out with a parachute, provided you even have a parachute, which we don't.
Right down there where you're sure to smear yourself all over the landscape.
Real helmet-funeral stuff."
"Helmet funeral?"
"They recover just about enough of your body to fill a standard flight
helmet."
"What evidence do you have that . . ."
"That little red light there. Emergency confirmation circuit. Green says
gear's up and seated, or down and seated, whichever shows on this indicator up
here." McCrae pointed to another switch above his right knee. A green "gear
up" light glowed above the switch. "When I test, the light says gear's not
up, but we're flying as though everything's in order."
"Could there be some other explanation?"
"Circuit malfunction. But Jesus! A whole platoon of mechanics checked out
this bird."
Ruckerman thought about this for a moment. He took a deep breath and shook
his head. "It's paranoid!"
"With Turkwood? That's the safest way to go."
Ruckerman felt anger taking over. It was an emotion he loathed. The mind did
not work clearly with any strong emotion. Rational thought -- the world's
only future lay in rational thought. Science failed when rational thought
failed. The anger continued to mount.
"What the hell can we do about it?" he demanded. "How can we be sure your
suspicions are even . . ."
"Let me think about it, Will." McCrae checked his instruments and the
autopilot, confirmed their position and leaned back in his seat. He closed
his eyes.
Ruckerman watched him, embarrassed by the angry outburst. A patsy! McCrae's
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