Odd Interlude Part Two by Dean Koontz
Authors: Dean Koontz
contaminated with alien DNA.”
If I ever wondered what it might feel like to have a live eel squirming around in my stomach—which actually isn’t anything I have wondered, but supposing I did—well, right when I hear the words
contaminated with alien DNA
, I know the feeling
vividly
.
“Ed, be straight with me. Might we be contaminated?”
“I think that possibility is slight, Jolie Ann Harmony.”
From behind the dead control console, gazing out into the sphere room, I watch the witchy shadows leap and spin through the terrible red light beyond the veined rock-crystal windows of the artifact—if it actually is rock crystal, and if they are windows.
“How slight?” I ask Ed.
“I lack the knowledge of alien biology that would allow me to make such a calculation with confidence. But I do not believe that Dr. Norris Hiskott became contaminated simply by close contact with the ETs. Evidence exists to suggest that Dr. Hiskott determined that the aliens removed from the sunken vessel were not dead but in a state of suspended animation, that he isolated what he believed to be alien stem cells of some particular function, and that he secretly injected himself with these stem cells because he wasconvinced that he would thereby greatly increase his intelligence and longevity.”
“Good grief. Was he a nut or something?”
“Everyone considered for a position in Project Polaris had to go through exhaustive psychological testing before reporting to work. Dr. Hiskott was diagnosed as afflicted with narcissism, which is intense self-love, and megalomania, which is delusions of grandeur and an obsession with doing grand things. He was also found to suffer from occasional periods of depersonalization, which is a state of feeling unreal, accompanied by derealization, which is a state of feeling that the world is not real, though these never lasted longer than two or three hours.”
“So he
was
a total nut, but they hired him anyway?”
From his cozy nest of Cray supercomputers in a distant building, Ed reassures me: “None of his conditions is a psychosis. They are all neuroses or mild personality disorders that do not necessarily interfere with a scientist’s work. In Dr. Hiskott’s case, his peers nationwide were in almost unanimous agreement that he was one of the most brilliant men in his field. Furthermore, his brother-in-law is a United States senator.”
“Okay, well,” I say, “no one in my family
injected
himself with alien blood or anything, so how long will the FBI quarantine us?”
“Forever.”
“Don’t you think that’s a teeny-weeny littlest-bit extreme?”
“Yes, I do. However, what I think will not matter to them. They will isolate all of you until you die. Then they will dissect all of you. Finally, they will burn every scrap of your bodily tissue in an ultra-high-temperature furnace.”
Let me tell you, I am finding it difficult to stay upbeat. I’m sort of flirting with a funk.
I say, “Then except for Harry, we’re still alone. There’s no one else to help us.”
After a silence, Ed says, “There is someone else.”
EIGHTEEN
Having committed my second act of terror, one with the truck and one with the propane tank, in the first half hour of the still-pink dawn, I reach the feathery shade of the first trees that shelter the ten cottages. There I encounter a potbellied man with a Friar Tuck fringe of red hair. Although the morning is slightly cool for his ensemble, he looks primed for leisure in a banana-yellow polo shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, white socks, and sandals.
“What’s happening over there?” he asks excitedly as we approach each other.
I babble at him breathlessly: “Eighteen-wheeler went over the edge, crashed down through the meadow, like bombs going off, driver’s probably dead, there’s fire. Man, it’s all crazy.”
He’s so thrilled at the prospect of spectacle that he amps up from a fast walk to a run.
In addition to the cottages that Annamaria
If I ever wondered what it might feel like to have a live eel squirming around in my stomach—which actually isn’t anything I have wondered, but supposing I did—well, right when I hear the words
contaminated with alien DNA
, I know the feeling
vividly
.
“Ed, be straight with me. Might we be contaminated?”
“I think that possibility is slight, Jolie Ann Harmony.”
From behind the dead control console, gazing out into the sphere room, I watch the witchy shadows leap and spin through the terrible red light beyond the veined rock-crystal windows of the artifact—if it actually is rock crystal, and if they are windows.
“How slight?” I ask Ed.
“I lack the knowledge of alien biology that would allow me to make such a calculation with confidence. But I do not believe that Dr. Norris Hiskott became contaminated simply by close contact with the ETs. Evidence exists to suggest that Dr. Hiskott determined that the aliens removed from the sunken vessel were not dead but in a state of suspended animation, that he isolated what he believed to be alien stem cells of some particular function, and that he secretly injected himself with these stem cells because he wasconvinced that he would thereby greatly increase his intelligence and longevity.”
“Good grief. Was he a nut or something?”
“Everyone considered for a position in Project Polaris had to go through exhaustive psychological testing before reporting to work. Dr. Hiskott was diagnosed as afflicted with narcissism, which is intense self-love, and megalomania, which is delusions of grandeur and an obsession with doing grand things. He was also found to suffer from occasional periods of depersonalization, which is a state of feeling unreal, accompanied by derealization, which is a state of feeling that the world is not real, though these never lasted longer than two or three hours.”
“So he
was
a total nut, but they hired him anyway?”
From his cozy nest of Cray supercomputers in a distant building, Ed reassures me: “None of his conditions is a psychosis. They are all neuroses or mild personality disorders that do not necessarily interfere with a scientist’s work. In Dr. Hiskott’s case, his peers nationwide were in almost unanimous agreement that he was one of the most brilliant men in his field. Furthermore, his brother-in-law is a United States senator.”
“Okay, well,” I say, “no one in my family
injected
himself with alien blood or anything, so how long will the FBI quarantine us?”
“Forever.”
“Don’t you think that’s a teeny-weeny littlest-bit extreme?”
“Yes, I do. However, what I think will not matter to them. They will isolate all of you until you die. Then they will dissect all of you. Finally, they will burn every scrap of your bodily tissue in an ultra-high-temperature furnace.”
Let me tell you, I am finding it difficult to stay upbeat. I’m sort of flirting with a funk.
I say, “Then except for Harry, we’re still alone. There’s no one else to help us.”
After a silence, Ed says, “There is someone else.”
EIGHTEEN
Having committed my second act of terror, one with the truck and one with the propane tank, in the first half hour of the still-pink dawn, I reach the feathery shade of the first trees that shelter the ten cottages. There I encounter a potbellied man with a Friar Tuck fringe of red hair. Although the morning is slightly cool for his ensemble, he looks primed for leisure in a banana-yellow polo shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, white socks, and sandals.
“What’s happening over there?” he asks excitedly as we approach each other.
I babble at him breathlessly: “Eighteen-wheeler went over the edge, crashed down through the meadow, like bombs going off, driver’s probably dead, there’s fire. Man, it’s all crazy.”
He’s so thrilled at the prospect of spectacle that he amps up from a fast walk to a run.
In addition to the cottages that Annamaria