Micro - Michael Crichton [36]
Drake didn’t seem to hear the man, and didn’t seem to care.
As each person tumbled down among the others in the bag, nobody got hurt. Apparently they now had too little mass to cause damage. “We’re almost weightless,” Amar commented. “We must weigh no more than a gram or so. Like a tiny feather.” Amar’s voice was cool, composed. But Peter thought he detected a tremor of fear.
“Well, I don’t care who knows it, I’m scared,” Rick Hutter blurted.
“We all are,” Karen King admitted.
“I think we’re in shock,” Jenny Linn said. “Look at our faces. Circum-oral pallor.” Blanched skin around the lips was a classic sign of fear.
The Nanigen man kept saying, “There’s been some mistake.” He couldn’t seem to believe what Drake had just done.
“Who are you?” someone asked him.
“My name is Jarel Kinsky. I’m an engineer. I operate the tensor generator. If Mr. Drake would just—just give me a chance to talk with him—”
“You’ve seen too much.” Rick Hutter cut him off sharply. “Whatever Drake does to us he’s going to do to you as well.”
“Let’s take an inventory,” Karen King snapped. “Quick—what weapons have we got?”
But they got no further; the bag was tossed around, throwing them into a tangle.
“Uh-oh,” Amar said, struggling to sit up. “What’s happening now?”
Alyson Bender pushed her face very close to the plastic bag; she was looking carefully at the individuals inside, apparently worried about them. Her eyelashes flicked against the plastic. The pores in the skin of her nose were alarmingly large, great pink pockmarks.
“Vin—I—don’t—want—them—harmed—Vin.”
That drew a smile from Vin Drake. Speaking slowly, he said, “I—wouldn’t—dream—of—harming—them.”
“You realize,” Karen King said, “that that man is a psychopath. He is capable of anything.”
“I realize it,” Peter said.
“That’s just not true about Mr. Drake,” Jarel Kinsky said. “There is a reason for this.”
Ignoring him, Karen said to Peter, “We should have no illusions about what Drake intends at this point. We’re witnesses to his confession, that he killed your brother. Now he’s going to kill us all.”
“Do you think so?” Danny Minot said plaintively. “We shouldn’t jump to—”
“Yes, Danny, I do think so. Maybe you’ll be first.”
“It’s just so hard to imagine—”
“Ask Peter’s brother about—”
At that moment, Vin picked up the plastic bag and walked quickly into the hallway. He was simultaneously arguing with Alyson Bender, but their words were too difficult to decipher; it just sounded like thunder rumbling.
They walked past several labs, and then Drake entered one. Even inside the plastic bag, they could immediately detect the difference in this lab.
A sharp, acrid odor.
Wood chips and feces.
Animals.
“This is an animal lab,” Amar said. And they could see, through the distortion of the plastic bag, that there were rats, hamsters, and lizards and other reptiles.
Vin Drake set the bag down on top of a glass tank. Now he was talking, apparently directing his remarks at them, but they could not understand what he was saying. They looked from one to another. “What’s he saying?” “I don’t understand.” “He’s crazy.” “I can’t make it out.”
Jenny Linn had turned her back on the group; she was entirely focused on Drake. She turned to Peter and said, “It’s you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s going to kill you first. Wait just a minute.”
“What… ?”
She unzipped her belt pack, revealing a dozen slender glass tubes, with rubber bumpers at each end. “My volatiles.” It was impossible to miss the devotion; these tubes represented years of work. She pulled one out. “I’m afraid it’s the best I can do.”
Peter shook his head, not understanding. She uncorked the tube and in a single quick motion, poured it over his head and down his body. There was a pungent odor; then nothing. He said, “What is it?”
Before she could answer, Vin Drake thrust his hand into the bag, and gripping Peter by the leg, lifted him out upside down. Peter yelled and waved his arms.
“It’s hexenol,” she said. “From wasps. Good luck.”
“Now—now—young—Master—Peter,” Drake said, his voice booming.