Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake - Страница 13
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“In Latin.”
“Yeah. And it freaked him out. Everyone else too. So he asked me, in Latin, how I knew Latin. So I told him I knew about ten different languages. And he said that it’s a miracle, that God has blessed me with the gift of tongues. I told him, in English, God didn't bless me, I studied my ass off!”
Sun laughed.
“Needless to say, the family never took me with them again. When I got into college, I read a lot of religious texts—for the language, not the content. But some of the content leaked through, obviously. And in every case, whether I was translating Hebrew, Latin, Greek, Arabic, Hindi, whatever, I found the same theme within the writing.”
“Which was?”
“Scared men, looking for answers. I think that as a species, being self-aware means we have questions. Some of those questions are: What created the universe, where do we go when we die, and why do bad things happen? These questions don't have answers, but need to be answered. That's why men, all men, every people and tribe from Cro-Magnon on up, had to create gods. To answer these questions.”
“So here we are, two atheists, trying to find the origin of a demon.”
Andy grinned. “Almost seems as if God put us here, to show us the truth, doesn't it?”
Sun could tell Andy was joking, but she got a chill. That was what it seemed like. A second chance at faith.
“So what does St. Pius say in the letter?”
“That the Vatican was sending over a bishop, and if President Roosevelt was wise he would not let Bub's existence be known because the panic could destroy the western world. And that he was praying for everyone involved.”
Andy took the paper back and ran his finger over the Vatican seal.
“Funny, yesterday I was wondering how I was going to pay my electric bill, and now here I am holding a letter that is probably worth more than I make in a year. Sotheby's would kill for it.”
“Sotheby's? You're thinking historical worth. Try the media. You could make a fortune, up until you were executed for treason.”
Andy filed the paper away and Sun suggested they quit and go take a look at the capsule. She felt pretty good for someone who'd just recounted the biggest tragedy of her life. And for once, there was no guilt to accompany feeling good. Was there a statute of limitations on grieving?
Andy held the door for her and they took a short walk from Red 3 to Red 6. The room was small and brightly lit. It reminded Sun of an autopsy room. A small dehumidifier ran nonstop in the corner, humming quietly. In the center, sprawled out like a baby elephant corpse, was the capsule.
It was pale gray, so pale that it seemed to absorb the fluorescent light. Sun was again intrigued by the shape: it was a tube with rounded ends, almost like giant sausage, but the curves were perfect in their simplicity. It had been measured back in the '70s, and the scientist in charge found it was symmetrical to within ten thousandths of an inch.
“It looks like a sarcophagus,” Andy ran his hand over the carvings on top. “And it's so smooth! How can it feel so silky when it has all of these glyphs engraved into it? You can barely feel them. What's it made of?”
“A lot,” Sun laughed. “Analysis came back with traces of everything: carbon, ferrite, silicon, lead, silver, iridium, petroleum, ivory...”
“Like elephant tusks?”
“Yeah. And here's the kicker. It's something like ten percent nylon.”
“Nylon.”
“Nylon was invented in 1939. So how did it get in something found in 1906, and buried for who knows how long before that?”
“Weird. So how does it open? I don't see any seams.”
“Watch this.” Sun ran her hand along the side of the capsule facing them. She found a small notch the size of a pin head and pressed inward. The top came up on hinges, opening like the lid of a casket.
“Secret button. Found by accident around forty years ago, if you hear Race tell it. Before that they were using a crowbar to get it open. See the marks on the edge here?”
Andy didn't look when she pointed out the pry marks. He was totally absorbed in studying the inside of the capsule.
“This is odd.” Andy said.
“No kidding.”
“No, I mean, see these markings? Demotic Egyptian hieroglyphs. They were using these in 3000 BC. But on the cover, those are Maya glyphs. Used until about 1500 AD. Four and a half thousand years difference.”
“So it's old.”
“Not just that. How the hell did it cross the Atlantic and get from Egypt to Central America?”
“Maybe the Spanish brought it. Conquistadors.”
Andy nodded and ran his hands inside the capsule. “Different texture. Not smooth, but...”
“Soft,” Sun said. “I found some old pictures. Bub fit in here perfectly. I mean perfectly. Like it was made from a cast of his body. But it's kind of spongy and springy. Like foam.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“I have no idea. Not too much call for translating hieroglyphs in today's market. Hasn't anyone tried before?”
“Race said yes. The inside, not the outside. The work is buried in Red 3 somewhere.”
“Might be easier to start from scratch. I could translate the dead sea scrolls quicker than it would take to find anything in that mess.”
“What do you think Bub was speaking? Was that Maya?”
“Kind of. There are more than twenty different dialects that descended from the Maya language, I think Bub was speaking one of them. We're allowed to have Internet access, right?”
“Sure. It's monitored somehow, I'm guessing. For security. There are three computers you can use in the Octopus, the Cray in Red 14, and there's a room in the Green Arm, Green 4, with a link if you want privacy.”
Andy stared at the capsule, apparently lost in thought.
“Hungry?” Sun asked.
“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, I am actually.”
“We all pretty much fend for ourselves around here, except when Race cooks up a batch of chili or stew. Want to grab an early dinner?”
Andy grinned. “Sure. But only if it's not mutton.”
Sun led Andy to the Mess Hall and began to school him on the intricacies of microwave defrosting. From the massive walk-in freezer they selected some boneless chicken breast, cauliflower, pea pods, and green peppers. After thawing, Sun showed off her substantial wok skills.
Whenever Sun cooked, she thought of her mother, and how embarrassed of her she was while growing up. Her friends' mothers baked cookies and went to the PTA and had college educations. Sun's mom spoke heavily accented, grammatically incorrect English, and wove baskets. The childhood taunts and teases were unrelenting.
Sun now realized what a graceful, introspective woman her mother had been. Hopefully she'd find that same inner peace some day. But even if she never did, her mother had passed a trickle of her wisdom on to her daughter: Sun could wok like a fiend.
Dinner conversation with Andy was upbeat and impersonal. He knew an alarmingly large number of dumb blonde jokes, and rattled off two or three good ones that almost made Sun choke on her stir fry. Dessert was a large can of fruit cocktail, dumped rather inelegantly into a mixing bowl.
They shared the bowl.
“So, I take it you've decided to stay.”
“I don't think I'll be present at any more feedings, but yeah, I'm staying. I'm not captivated by Bub like some of the others are, but I can't pass up the challenge he represents.”
Sun offered her hand. “Well then, welcome aboard, Andrew Dennison.”
“Glad to be here, Sunshine Jones.”
They shook, but Andy didn't drop her hand. The moment stretched. Sun watched Andy’s pupils widen, wondered if hers were doing the same thing. They’d gone from zero to intimacy in less than five seconds.
Fast. Too fast.
Sun took her hand back.
“Andy...”
“Sorry...”
“It's just that...”
“I know.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
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