Last Gasp полностью

" 'Where on earth.' Most apt. First reported about five years ago in a group of islands somewhere in the Pacific. Nobody seems to know how they got there. Rumor has it they're the outcome of a genetic experiment that went wrong." Dr. Pazan shrugged, his eyebrows mimicking the movement. "Could be, I guess. Some lunatic attempting to create a new life-form and things got out of control."

"Don't they always?"

"Is that your innate cynicism coming out, Dr. Chase?" Dr. Pazan smiled. "You must be improving."

"I hope so, otherwise what's the point in drinking gallons of this weird and dreadful concoction?" Chase set the empty beaker aside with a sour expression. "You know, a dash of vodka wouldn't go amiss. A dash of diesel oil, come to think of it."

Dr. Pazan chuckled and went on to the next patient in the six-bed ward.

It was the blue crystalline light filtering dimly through the narrow smoked windows that Chase couldn't get used to--fluorescent-bright inside, nothing could be seen outside except an amorphous blue glimmer of spheres and tall steel spires giving off flaring highlights. Chase had pondered them for hours and remained perplexed. Exactly where the hell was he?

The explanation Dr. Pazan had given him about the "uncles" was the first and only time he'd answered a question directly. All other questions had been politely evaded, including the question about why the doctor refused to answer questions. Where was he? It was frustrating not to know.

Having finished his round, Dr. Pazan paused at the door and said, "How do you feel? Strong enough?"

"Strong enough for what?"

"Some answers."

"Great." Chase settled back against the pillows and folded his arms expectantly. "At long last."

Dr. Pazan wagged a slim brown finger. "Not now, later. I'll send your visitor up in an hour's time."

"Visitor? Who?"

"We'll let my concoction settle first," said Dr. Pazan and left with his enigmatic smile.

Men in silver suits. Ruth's face. Bleached desert divided by a grid. Art Hegler crucified on TV antennae. Jen with red-raw eyes. Daven-try's bloated head. Jungle. Swamp. Dr. Chase, I presume? Vegetation growing out of Nick's mouth. Himself immersed in a bath of glucose. Boris saying, The beard suits you. Most distinguished with the streak of gray . . .

His mind scurried over the fitful images, in his dozing state not sure whether they were actual memories or subconscious fantasies.

"How are you feeling, my friend?"

"Is it really you?"

"I think it must be." Boris Stanovnik touched the side of his lean face. "Yes, it's me all right."

Smiling broadly he clasped Chase's hand and eased himself down into a chair. He was still big, but more shrunken than Chase remembered him, his features honed finer so that they were sharper, more angular. The deep rumbling voice was the same. "Your son is well-- Ruth also. Dr. Pazan has told you?"

"That and little else."

Boris nodded. "He was very concerned about you. The poison had infected your lymphatic system. Some of the others with you were not so fortunate and did not respond to treatment. But now you are over the worst and the good doctor has allowed me to see you."

"How long have I been here?"

"This is the seventeenth day. For two weeks you were in a toxic coma." Boris smiled. "It must seem to you that you arrived here only a couple of days ago."

"It doesn't seem like anything. I've lost all orientation, both in time and geography. Boris, tell me, please--what is this place? It's driving me mad not knowing."

"This place is called Emigrant Junction," Boris said. "It was once a small town--no, hardly that--in Death Valley on the Californian border. Now it has become one of seven bases, three in the United States, two in Russia, one in Canada, and one in Sweden. Emigrant Junction now covers the length and breadth of Death Valley, one hundred twenty miles by sixty, and is isolated from the outside world by a gamma-ray protection system. The only way in and out is by air. For that purpose we have a fleet of almost three hundred transporters and tactical airborne craft."

"You mean gunships."

Boris gave a ghost of a smile. "You know how the military like their euphemisms."

Chase frowned and gnawed his lip. "So the rumors are true--about this being a concentration camp with a death-ray fence. 1 thought it was a scare story."

"True in part, and also a scare story," Boris said. "The story was deliberately devised and fostered to keep the prims and mutes away and anyone else who might want to come in uninvited. Yes, there is a 'death-ray fence,' but its purpose is defensive, not for containment. And Emigrant Junction is not a concentration camp but a colonization base."

"Oh, yes?" said Chase. "Colonizing what?"

"Space. The advance engineering teams are already at work. Six islands are in the course of construction as we speak and three more about to be started. Then we are to plan--"