The Source - Michael Cordy [4]
His personal assistant, Gail, was pacing the floor. As soon as she saw him her face relaxed. 'Ross. Thank God you're here. How was Uzbekistan?'
'Good, but I'd have got more data if I hadn't had to rush back for this.' He checked his watch: ten twenty-two. 'Where's the meeting?'
She took his suitcase from him. 'In the conference room. It's already started.'
'Didn't you tell them my plane was delayed?'
'They don't care.'
'What about Bill Bamford?'
'Gone. Ross, all the old Xplore board have gone.'
'What about the handover?'
She lowered her voice. 'There's not going to be one. All that talk about Alascon respecting Xplore's specialist expertise and wanting a partnership was garbage. It's a good old-fashioned takeover. Bill Bamford, Charlie Border and the rest have cleared their desks. They were escorted out of the building this morning.'
'How about you?'
'I can get a job anywhere. I only work here because of you.' She smiled. 'So, tell me if you're planning to leave.'
'You'll be the first to know, I promise.'
'Good. Now, if you want to save your ancient-oil project you'd better get going. These guys take no prisoners.' She shrugged. 'But I guess you already know that.'
'Yup.' Ross grimaced. When Xplore had headhunted him three years ago, he had been working as a geologist in Alascon's respected earth-sciences division. Xplore had offered good money but that wasn't why he'd joined the small oil consultancy. As one of the world's biggest oil companies, Alascon offered excellent training, but they were inflexible, arrogant and risk-averse. Xplore's visionary board had offered him the opportunity for genuine exploration and discovery that Alascon couldn't match. Now he'd be working for Alascon again and that troubled him. He smoothed his hair again and walked down the corridor to the conference room.
As he approached, he heard his own voice. He stopped and peered through the glass. The lights were dimmed but he could see three Alascon executives sitting round the table, watching a plasma screen on which he was presenting his ancient-oil theory. He didn't 11 THE SOURCE recognize two of them: an older, bald guy with round glasses, and a freckled man with curly, greying ginger hair. At the sight of the third, a blond man in a charcoal grey suit, his heart sank. George Underwood was the main reason he had left Alascon. As Ross studied his old boss he couldn't help noticing that his suit was immaculate.
On screen, a sulphurous, molten ball of fire rotated in the blackness of space. Vast meteorites, like red-hot missiles, rained down on it, scarring and deforming its already cratered surface. The charred planet seemed the last place in the universe where life could survive – let alone take hold. Ross heard his voice again, calm and authoritative, describe the computer-generated images: 'In its infancy, four point five billion years ago, Earth was a primeval inferno, bombarded by asteroids and comets, its surface scorched by ultraviolet radiation while volcanic eruptions spewed noxious gases into the primitive atmosphere. But these asteroids and comets that rained down on our planet were loaded with amino acids, vital for the formation of life. Even today, forty thousand tons of meteorites fall to Earth every year. More than seventy varieties of amino acids have been found inside these space rocks, eight of which are the fundamental