"Everything that can possibly be done," Stacy said. He had raised himself into an erect position on the edge of the bed.
There was a long, ugly silence.
"Which means you're doing nothing," Brack said.
"No, it doesn't mean I'm doing nothing. I've beefed up security all over the area; Tve posted new warning signs to keep out trespassers; and I'm putting in television monitors to keep an eye on things."
"Great," Brack sneered. "We're getting shot at, and you're hanging up signs and television sets. Swell."
There was more silence before Joey spoke.
"What about this O'Sylvan, Roger?" she said. "Did you really have to inflict him on us?"
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"It wasn't my doing," Stacy said. "The government sent him. I thought he was supposed to help us here. Instead, he turns out to be another goddamn bureaucrat."
Brack laughed. "Help us? He couldn't tell a tree from a turnip. It's all kind of typical of the way things are going here," he said.
"I can see there isn't much use talking to you about this tonight," Stacy said: He looked elaborately at his watch. "I have something important to see to tonight, so if you'll excuse me ..."
Stacy stood up and walked toward the door. As he passed Brack, he said, "I want you in my office at eight o'clock in the morning—sharp."
"What?"
"You heard me. Eight o'clock sharp." His voice had a razor's edge in it. "Do you understand?"
Brack swallowed, then nodded.
"Oh, and one other thing," Stacy said.
"What's that?" asked Brack, not even bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice.
"I think I should have you examined by a second doctor. I want to make sure that wound's as bad as it's supposed to be. The company is tough on malingerers."
He didn't wait for a reply. As soon as he finished speaking he pulled the door shut behind him.
Brack jumped to his feet and stared at the door. "Malingerer," he said. "That bastard . . . that . . ." He started for the door.
Joey called to him softly, "Oscar."
He turned to her, but she said, "Forget it. Just forget it."
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"I should have left him back there in the jungle to die," Brack said. "I should have had that pilot turn his plane around and fly right the hell out of there. I never should have landed and saved his worthless Ufe. What did I get for it? Tell me. What did I get out of it?"
Joey laughed. "Me?" she suggested.
Brack thought for a moment, then nodded. "Rights you. Joey, you make it worthwhile."
He sank back into the. chair and Joey returned to sit on the bed.
"I've been thinking," she said, "about this Remo O'Sylvan."
"Yes?"
"When I came in here, I was all steamed up that the government had just sent someone to bother us and mess up the project. But I'm beginning to think that there's nobody as dumb as this O'Sylvan wants us to think he is."
"Yeah, he is. He's that dumb. You heard him. The son of a ward leader."
"Nephew," she corrected.
"Nephew, son, it doesn't matter," Brack said.
"I don't think so," Joey Webb said. "But think about it. We both know that the oil people and the nuke people own a lot of the government, and both of them are trying to stop this project. Right?"
"Maybe," Brack said. "Probably. I wouldn't be surprised."
"Well, I wouldn't be surprised either if Mr. Remo O'Sylvan is somebody from the government, but who's really working for the oil companies or the nukes."
"Good theory," Brack said. "But how do you prove it?"
61 '
Joey looked at him, arched one eyebrow, threw out her chest, and very quickly thrust her tongue into her cheek, then removed it. "I'll find out," she said. "Don't you worry. I'll find out."
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CHAPTER SIX
The mountains played tricks with the sounds, leading them up one slope and dropping them over another, bending them back and forth around crests and whipping them down valleys, and then stirring the whole thing in eddies of frosty air and sending them out into the night.
It took Remo ten minutes before he found what he was looking for, and when he did, his thin-soled black Italian loafers were still dry, even though he had traveled more than two miles over snowdrifts that were higher than his head.
In the end, it wasn't so much the sound that led him where he wanted to be, but the smell. At first he thought he was back in Times Square again or maybe on the Santa Monica Freeway, so strong was the smell of burning gasoline.
He had come tramping up a steep incline, gliding smoothly across the face of the powdery snow, hooked around a natural stone wall, and there it was: a valley, maybe a hundred yards long and twice that deep. And in the valley there was no snow, and it was not winter. Instead, grass was growing luxuriantly and a hundred trees were in full foliage.
Warming the valley, creating its artificial summer,
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and filling the air with stench and noise were what looked like nine vastly oversized gasoline heaters, each a 15-foot-square box that burned fuel at a blue-white heat and, through connected fans and ducts, blew the warm air down into the valley.
Remo stopped to study what lay beside him, scratching his 'head and twisting it from side to side at the same time. Whatever it was, it looked impressive. Then he sensed something.