The interior of the tent was dark, the canvas walls obscured by something that seethed. They were coated with millions of tiny white grubs. The grubs covered every surface and they were feasting on the three bodies and devouring them piece by piece. In the middle of Fran's chest was a hole that pulsed whitely as the grubs burrowed inside.
Small, bald, and rotund, Art Hegler was at the communications desk with headphones around his neck listening over the desk speaker and making an occasional jotting. The message was in Morse, very fast, outstripping Chase's rudimentary knowledge, and the few words he did catch were jumbled and meaningless.
After a minute or two Hegler threw down the pen and arched back. His taut straining T-shirt read: "From the womb to the Tomb."
"Same code?"
Hegler nodded, dropped the headphones onto the desk, and waddled across to the coffeepot. "Want some?"
Chase shook his head. Two cups a day were his limit. "Is it military traffic?"
Hegler shrugged. Their conversations were usually terse and cryptic. Perhaps Hegler resented the fact that he was still nominally in charge at Desert Range, when everyone knew that the scientific basis for its existence had long since ended. With its empty labs and silent equipment, the lower levels sealed off, the installation was a shadow of its former glory.
Hegler sipped his coffee and paused to belch softly. "Whatever it is, it goes on night and day," he said, as if inwardly musing.
"At least it's not alien," Chase said, trying to lighten the mood. There had been a rash of UFO sightings over previous months and he'd even heard a few people speak seriously of an "invasion."
"The source is southwest," Hegler said, leaning over the desk and jabbing a stubby finger at the map. "I can't pinpoint it exactly, but I'd say between two and three hundred miles."
"Anything in that area?"
"Yosemite National Park, Death Valley, China Lake Naval Weapons Station, Fort Irwin, Las Vegas. Take your pick."
"So there is a military presence near the source of the signal," Chase said thoughtfully.
"Is. Was. Who knows what's there anymore?"
"And what about Emigrant Junction?" Chase said, studying the map. "Is that an actual location or just a call sign?"
Hegler shrugged again. "If it exists I can't find it."
Chase listened for a moment to the remorseless beeping coming over the speaker. "Does nothing in the message make sense? I thought I heard the word 'island.' Did you get that?"
"Comes up pretty often. That's in plain English, but then it's followed by a string of characters and digits." Hegler glanced at him sideways. "If you think you can crack it you're welcome to try."
"I'll leave it to the experts," Chase said, smiling and shaking his head. "Anyway, I wouldn't want to deprive you and Ron of hours of harmless amusement."
Art Hegler reached out to fine-tune the dial. Chase admired his persistence. It had been sheer accident that the signals were detected at all: Ron Maxwell had picked them up on a random sweep several months ago, and ever since he and Hegler had spent countless hours monitoring them and trying to crack the code. Why they went to all this time and trouble wasn't clear--even to them, Chase suspected.
Like most activity in the Tomb it had taken on the form of ritual, a way to get through the day.
They were all, himself included, on a journey with no destination. There was a time bomb ticking away inside every brain. The trick was to ignore it, to swamp it with ceaseless activity so that the ticking faded until it was no more intrusive than the background hum of the filtration plant. Of course one day--
"Hear that?" Hegler said suddenly.
Chase paid attention, but the Morse sounded the same as before, garbled and indecipherable. "What is it?"
"Answering message. They gave the call sign: Island-whatever-it-is to Emigrant Junction and then the coded message follows."
"Can you locate the island? If we knew who they were talking to--"
Hegler waved his pudgy hand impatiently. "It's a random signal, could be coming from practically anywhere, and we only have one directional fix on it. There's more than one island though," he added, frowning at the console.
"How do you know that?"
"The messages overlap. Emigrant Junction talks to three, four, or more simultaneously. Goes on nonstop without a break. Damn windbags."
