Micro - Michael Crichton [15]
“You never know,” Rick said. “Phone records don’t lie.”
“Okay.” It was easier to keep the card than argue. He slipped it in his pocket.
“By the way,” Rick said, “about your brother…”
“What about him?”
“You think he’s on the level?”
“About his company?”
“Yeah, Nanigen.”
“I think so,” Peter said. “But to be honest I don’t know a lot about it.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He’s been pretty secretive about the whole thing.”
“But you think it’s innovative?”
Yes, I think it’s innovative, Peter thought, peering through the scanning microscope. He was looking again at the white pebble, or micro-bot, or whatever the thing was. Trying to account for his brother’s explanation that it wasn’t a cockpit but just a slot for a micro-power-pack, or a control unit. It didn’t look like a slot for anything. It looked like a seat facing a tiny, highly detailed control panel.
He was still puzzling over this when he became aware that the lab around him had become absolutely silent. He looked up, and saw that the microscope was also displaying on a large flat-panel screen mounted on the wall. Everybody in the lab was staring at it.
“What the hell is that?” Rick said.
“I don’t know.” Peter flicked off the monitor. “And we’re not going to find out, unless we go to Hawaii.”
Chapter 3
Maple Avenue, Cambridge
27 October, 6:00 a.m.
One by one, all seven of the graduate students decided to take Vin Drake up on his offer. They collected data, they wrote out descriptions of their research, and they sent letters and information to Alyson Bender at Nanigen. One by one, they were informed that Nanigen would fly them to Hawaii; and for simplicity they would travel as a group. As October ran to its end, their days were devoted to preparations for departure. All seven had a lot to do—finishing experiments, getting their research projects in shape to leave them for a while, and, of course, packing. They planned to leave early on a Sunday morning out of Boston’s Logan Airport, with a connection through Dallas, arriving in Honolulu that same afternoon. They would, by general agreement, stay four days, returning toward the end of the week.
Early on a gray, cold Saturday morning, the day before the flight, Peter Jansen was in his apartment working at his computer. Erika Moll was there, too, cooking bacon and eggs and singing “Take a Chance on Me.” Peter abruptly realized that he had forgotten to turn on his phone that morning—he’d turned it off the night before, when Erika had unexpectedly shown up. He turned on the phone and placed it on his desk. A minute later, the phone buzzed. It was a text message from his brother, Eric.
He stared at the message. Was this a joke? Had something happened? He typed back:
He watched the screen, but there was no answer. After a few minutes, he dialed Eric’s number in Hawaii, but got his voice mail. “Eric, it’s Peter. What’s up? Call me.”
From the kitchen, Erika said, “Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody. Just trying to get my brother.”
He scrolled to the message from his brother. It had come in at 9:49 p.m. So it had arrived last night! Which had been afternoon in Hawaii.
Peter dialed his brother again, but again got voice mail. He hung up.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Erika said.
He brought the phone to the table, set it beside his plate. Erika wrinkled her nose; she didn’t like phones at meals. She was scooping eggs onto his plate, saying, “I followed my grandmother’s recipe, with milk and flour—”
The phone rang.
He grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Peter?” A woman’s voice. “Peter Jansen?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“It’s Alyson Bender,” she said. “From Nanigen.” He had an image of the blond woman with her arm around Eric’s waist. “Listen,” she said, “how soon can you get over here to Hawaii?”
“We’re scheduled to fly tomorrow,” he said.
“Can you come today?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“It’s important.”
“Well, I can check the flights—”
“Actually, I took the liberty of booking you on one that leaves in two hours. Can you make it?”
“Yes, I think—what’s this about?”
“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news,