The final hop was by a helicopter we boarded at a totally nondescript little airfield in British Columbia. It took us over the mountain boundary between Canada and southeast Alaska, whose craggy peaks protrude above vast fields of ice and snow. But as one descends to the labyrinthine coastline of Alaska 's Inside Passage, the landscape changes dramatically. Indeed, in the summer, few from the "lower forty-eight" are prepared for the lushness of the temperate rain forest—a gift of the kuroshio, the Pacific's equivalent of the Gulf Stream.
Our low-flying helicopter was approaching Juneau from the southeast. But Juneau wasn't our destination. Instead, the pilot passed it northward, proceeding over the titanic Mendenhall Glacier and up the Lynn Inlet in the direction of Skagway—which wasn't our destination either.
In later years, we would have looked down on cruise ships off the dramatic fjord coast. But at that time Alaska, nearing the end of its fifth year of statehood, was still out of the way to the point of near inaccessibility. No works of man were to be seen as we passed Point Bridget, and Berners Bay opened out before us. At this point the pilot took a turn to starboard and we headed east following one of the streams that fed the bay, upcountry into regions that would remain remote even in the busiest years of the tourist boom. Soon a small, level valley opened out before us, almost entirely occupied by what was, to all appearances, a military post about as undistinguished as the Canadian landing strip had been.
"Why don't you people just make this whole base invisible?" I asked Renata Novak, shouting above the noise of the descending chopper. She'd said as little as possible, or maybe even a little less than that, in the course of the trip, and I wanted to get a rise out of her. I failed.
"It would be expensive," she explained shortly. "Also superfluous, given the remoteness of this location."
I couldn't disagree with that. I also reflected that the place would soon be practically inaccessible, with winter coming on. These people—the "Prometheus Project," about which I still knew nothing more than the name—could do anything to me they damned well wanted, in total privacy. That didn't bother me as much as you might think. I'd had time to pretty much adjust to being at their mercy. Besides, they weren't all like Renata Novak, if the older guy I'd encountered under Washington's Chinatown was any indication. I consoled myself with the thought as I got out of the helicopter, zipping up my parka against the Alaskan November.
The installation was mostly Quonset huts, but there were a few honest-to-God buildings. Renata Novak led me to one of these, through a chill drizzle that was rapidly turning to snow. Inside, it looked as standard-issue as everything else. There was no magic in evidence, and not even any obtrusive security—it probably wasn't necessary here. Most of the people I saw wore utilitarian military-style dress, but without insignia. This wasn't really a military base, at least not of the military as I knew it.
Renata Novak left me in what was clearly a waiting room, to do what one spends most of one's time doing in institutional settings: wait. I did just that, not even wasting mental energy by contemplating escape. I had no desire to try and traverse the Alaskan boonies on foot—not, I suspected, that I had the slightest real chance of getting far enough to make the attempt.
After a while, Renata Novak returned and motioned me through an inner door. I entered an office so bare of all personal touches and work-related clutter that it clearly had no purpose except interviews. A man seated behind a small desk motioned me to take a chair. My escort sat in another, in a posture of icy primness.
"Welcome to the Prometheus Project, Mr. Devaney," the man greeted, extending his hand. I saw nothing to be lost by taking it. He was well into distinguished-looking middle age. He wore a reassuring smile and the first suit I'd seen here.
"So this is it?" I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice as I made a gesture that took in the installation around us.
"Oh, there's more to the Project than this. A lot more." He chuckled. "This is just one facility. It houses Section One, which is devoted to administrative functions, including indoctrination and training. You'll be staying here a while. Oh, by the way, my name is Dennis Dupont. I'm responsible for orientation of newly recruited personnel like yourself. I say 'like yourself' even though your case appears to be somewhat unique."
"Because I was invited here by Mr. Inconnu?"
Dupont gave me a sharp look. "So you know about that. Tell me, Mr. Devaney, how much do you know about Mr. Inconnu?"
"Not a damned thing," I admitted cheerfully, "aside from the obvious fact that it's a pseudonym. I was hoping you'd tell me who he is . . . and what the hell the 'Prometheus Project' is."
"The answer to the second question is bound up with the answer to the first." Dupont appeared to consider his options. "Let me ask you this: what do you think the Prometheus Project is all about?"
I considered what I'd seen, and made a wild stab into facetiousness. "Men from outer space?"
"Quite right." Dupont smiled, and spoke into the stunned silence he'd created. "Or, at least, man, singular. Mr. Inconnu is quite human, but of unknowable origin. His own explanation—which we have no basis for doubting—is that he is a descendant of humans transplanted from Earth to an extrasolar planet by aliens, for reasons of their own, in the distant past. He himself, he tells us, was able to escape from his people's servitude to warn us of the danger which the Project was subsequently founded to meet.
"And speaking of unusual backgrounds," Dupont continued, for I was still in no condition to interrupt him, "I've been studying your own dossier, which arrived while you were in transit." He peered at a stack of papers on his desk. "Let's see: you were in the Army, assigned to the Special Forces, until fairly recently, when—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Suit yourself. But I can hardly help observing that you were no ordinary soldier—even on the standards of the Special Forces. Your education, for one thing, was such that the Army considered it worth extending still further, particularly in the direction of Asian languages and cultures. All in all, you have quite a variety of skills for a man your age." Dupont gave me an odd look. "A pity for the Army that you didn't stay in."
"I said I don't—"
"Yes, I know. At any rate, ever since your separation from the service you've operated a one-man private security agency, with a rather unusual clientele. Sometimes even a slightly questionable one."
"A man must eat," I philosophized.
"No doubt. But your most regular client has been Mr. Stafford, who was instrumental in getting you your license despite . . . that which you don't want to talk about. As you have probably surmised, he is a member of the White House staff—one of the members unknown to even the knowledgeable segment of the public."
Actually, I hadn't surmised that, although it had always been pretty clear he was something in the government. I didn't let my surprise show, but merely cocked my head as though inviting Dupont to continue.
"Stafford handles clandestine matters, usually through unattached intermediaries like yourself. This has caused him to have contact with the Project. He knows very little of us, and nothing of what we exist to do. But what little he has seen gives him cause to be nervous."
"So I've noticed."
"At any rate, we're now in what I believe is called a 'flap'. The Project's existence is a secret known, in its entirety, only to the President. Therefore, it must be handed down in private from each President to his successor. This has happened twice so far. Unfortunately, as a result of what has occurred in Dallas, the secret can't be passed to Mr. Johnson in the traditional way. We've had to start over from scratch, as it were, and make other arrangements, acting through Stafford. It was for this purpose that Miss Novak was in Washington."
"And should be there now," she broke in with tight-lipped asperity.
"We've been through that," said Dupont mildly, though I caught a note of annoyance. "It's being taken care of. You delivered the . . . exhibits, and that's the important thing."
"Someone else could have been detailed to escort him here," she persisted, not deigning to refer to me by name.
"It wasn't just that. You're needed back here. The attack on you brings the Tonkuztra matter to a head. . . ." Dupont came to the halt of a man who knows he's said too much.
"I've been wondering about that," I said with as much casualness as I could muster. "Who were those people who attacked us? And how did they pinpoint us? You mentioned . . . uh, 'Tonkuztra'? That's a new one on me."
"It would be. It's a name I shouldn't have mentioned in your presence. But you'll learn what it means. You'll learn a great many things after you join the Project."
"But I haven't decided whether or not I'm going to join it."
Renata Novak's exasperation surfaced as she addressed Dupont. "Oh, let's not waste any more time with—"
Dupont raised a silencing hand, without letting my eyes go. "As I understand it, Mr. Devaney, we are supposed to make every effort to allow you freedom of choice in this matter. But think a moment: if you don't accept recruitment, you will never, ever learn any more about the things you've only seen glimpses of or heard vaguely hinted at. Aren't you the least bit curious?"
In fact, that didn't begin to describe it. Curiosity was gnawing at my gut like some ravenous animal. Deep down, I knew my coyness was just a bluff—a display of the sheer, habitual contrariness that got me in trouble with depressing consistency. That was why I hadn't wanted to admit to these people my desire—no, my need—to know more. Maybe I hadn't even admitted it to myself . . . until that moment.
I probably let it show, because Dupont smiled. "Besides, assume for a moment that we simply took your word that you'd never speak of these matters, and let you go." Renata Novak made a small strangling noise, which Dupont ignored. He lifted the papers significantly. "What would you have to go back to? You have no attachments. Your professional future is cloudy. After what's happened, Stafford will be skittish about employing you, even for 'normal' jobs. And don't forget, your car was left at the scene of that shoot-out. You're the only person involved whom the DC police will be able to identify. So you'll have to bear the entire brunt of their doubtless considerable curiosity about that incident."
Actually, that last part had already occurred to me. I'd had other things on my mind, but finally the implications came home to me in all their unpleasantness.
"I tell you what," I temporized. "You mentioned something about 'orientation' at this facility. Maybe, if I could be exposed to a little of the basics, I'd be in a better position to make an intelligent decision."
It was just a shot in the dark. I was fully prepared for Dupont to sternly explain that I'd have to make a definite commitment before even the "basics" could be divulged to me. But instead, he simply smiled . . . and I could tell that he knew he'd won. I was hooked, and once I'd heard those "basics" there was no way I'd want to turn back even if I could.
"It happens that we can accommodate you very well. A new group of recruits just arrived earlier today, and they're due for an initial presentation at nineteen hundred hours this evening. We'll just fit you in with them." Dupont stood up. "I'll send for someone who can direct you to your temporary quarters and arrange for you to get something to eat."
"Thanks." I also rose to my feet. "I can hardly wait to learn something about your organization. I mean, so far I really have no idea of what you do . . . what you're for."
"Well, let me satisfy your curiosity to this extent: as far as the dominant civilizations of the universe are concerned, we are the government of Earth." Dupont smiled, and extended his hand for the second time. "Welcome to the Prometheus Project, Mr. Devaney."
The "initial presentation" took place in one of the Quonset huts—well heated, thank God. Not until much later would I learn that there was a lot more to the base—"Section One" as everyone called it, for lack of any other name—than met the eye. Most of it was subterranean, like what I'd briefly experienced beneath a row of Chinese restaurants in Washington, only far more so. But the newbies were restricted to the aboveground facilities. To this day, I don't know whether that was a form of hazing or just a well-meant desire to shield us from an overload of strangeness.
I filed in and sat down along with a small group of others, mostly about as young as myself, or nearly so, but otherwise immune to generalization. At least a third were women and two or three were nonwhite, which was noteworthy in 1963. We all gave each other slightly uneasy side-glances, for no one seemed to know anyone else. No conversation took place, and there were clearly no cliques. It began to occur to me that the circumstances of my own presence might not be quite as out of the ordinary as I'd assumed. Indeed, the term "ordinary" might be of very limited applicability here.
In front of us was a slightly raised wooden platform that you couldn't really call a dais, holding a screen, a slide projector, and two chairs. Dennis Dupont occupied one. The occupant of the other was . . . more interesting.
She looked younger than me, and—I ungrudgingly admitted—a lot prettier. Her figure was maybe a trifle on the sturdy side, but I'd never been attracted to the stick-figure ideal of high fashion. (Renata Novak came a lot closer to that.) Her medium-long hair was light brown, and framed a heart-shaped, high-cheekboned face with blue eyes and what I think novelists call a generous mouth . . . or at least it gave the impression that it could be generous, when she was a little less serious than she currently looked.
Dupont stood up, interrupting my agreeable thoughts. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I won't ask you to call out your names, since you'll all be getting to know each other over the next few months. At present, you're all strangers, having been recruited in various ways and various places. So I thought you might be interested to meet someone who was not recruited for the Project. Instead, she was practically born into it. And she can give you a uniquely personal perspective on its origin. I give you Miss Chloe Bryant."
The young woman, who now had everyone's rapt attention, stood up. She was, I finally noticed, wearing a dark gray-brown skirt and a light golden-brown turtleneck sweater which highlighted her healthy figure without any conscious affectation of fashion whatever.
"That's not strictly true about me being 'born into' the Project," she began in a pleasantly husky voice. "In fact, I was five years old when Mr. Inconnu arrived in 1946 . . . and I became one of the first people to see him."
That caused a stir. I did some quick mental arithmetic, and looked at Chloe Bryant with renewed interest. I'd known she was young . . . but twenty-two? She looked older than that. Maybe it was her seriousness, which nonetheless was of a very different sort from Renata Novak's.
She activated the slide projector, and an early-middle-aged man in Naval officer's khakis appeared on the screen.
"My father, Lieutenant Commander Curtis Bryant," she explained. "In the summer of 1946, he was in command of the destroyer USS Elijah Ashford. He was bringing his ship back to Norfolk, Virginia, after a training cruise. Off the Virginia Capes, they spotted a castaway in a . . . very unusual life craft."
I studied the image, and reflected on the fact that fathers' looks are not always a reliable guide to predicting those of daughters. Commander Bryant had the kind of face most charitably described as engagingly homely. In particular, the nose was unforgettable, with its bulbous, bifurcated tip. His crew must have sometimes found it hard to maintain proper military decorum, with that proboscis protruding from beneath the bill of the captain's hat.
"As you've probably surmised," continued Chloe Bryant, peering down a nose that bore absolutely no resemblance to the paternal one, "that castaway was Mr. Inconnu. By the time Ashford made port at Norfolk, he had demonstrated to my father that he was, indeed, what he claimed to be.
"I think I can be forgiven a little pride in my father—who, incidentally, was killed in the Korean War six years later. The world unknowingly owes him a great debt. If he hadn't been able to recognize the importance of what he was dealing with, and the absolute necessity of keeping it under wraps . . . Well, the consequences simply don't bear thinking about.
"My mother and I were waiting on the pier when the ship docked. Mother had brought a camera to catch Dad as he came ashore." Chloe Bryant paused. "Mr. Inconnu has always . . . discouraged the taking of photos of himself. This is one of the few in existence." She dropped another slide into the projector. It had been made from a clearly amateurish photo. It showed Commander Bryant, nose and all, coming off a gangway. Walking beside him was a taller, leaner man, also wearing khakis but without rank insignia—he'd doubtless been given them to wear aboard the ship. Beyond the obvious fact of his humanity, what stood out most was the hideous, freshly stitched gash on his left cheek.
"And that," continued Chloe Bryant, "was when I saw him. I ran up to Dad for a hug, and then noticed the man with him. I looked up at him. I was frightened at first, partly because of that disfiguring injury, but mostly because of a quality of unfathomable strangeness. But then he smiled down at me." Her voice changed, and she spoke more to herself than to us. "I've never forgotten that smile he gave me—nor have I ever been able to interpret it, except that I could have sworn it held a deep sadness. For a second, I thought he was actually going to cry. But I also sensed a great love." She suddenly remembered when and where she was, and gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Merely my imagination, of course. He was probably just trying to be nice to a little girl. And I've never seen him since.
"Anyway," she concluded briskly, "some of you already have a general idea of what happened after that. Dad turned Mr. Inconnu over to his superiors—who, thank God, could also be made to understand what was at stake. All of you will learn the details shortly, as part of your basic orientation. The upshot was the Prometheus Project. It was the beginning of a story you're now becoming a part of. It will be a very different life. You'll know things that the human race at large cannot be allowed to know—including the very existence of the Project, and the work we do. It's lonely. But I can promise you one thing. You'll have something most people will never have, although the intelligent ones wish they had it: the sure and certain knowledge that what you're doing matters." Amid a profound silence, she sat down.
And that was the first time I saw Chloe.
Chloe . . .
Chloe, where are you now?
o