Project U.L.F. by Stuart Clark Page A

of that for at least the next four months, not where I’m going.”
    He pulled off his top and clambered out of his pants, almost falling over in the process, before climbing into the bed. He laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Not where I’m going,” he muttered again to himself. He was asleep in seconds.
    Wyatt had made no attempt to leave the room all evening. He could not have done so even if he had tried. The door to his quarters was magnetically sealed.
     
    *    *    *    *    *
     
    Robert stepped into the room and strode over to the table where the half-empty bottle stood. Picking it up by the neck, he glanced at it and then raised his eyebrows, as if he’d expected nothing less from his charge. He walked into the bedroom to find Wyatt, wearing only a pair of pants, frantically pulling on his shirt.
    “Two minutes. Give me two minutes and I’ll be there,” Wyatt muttered.
    “Very well. Two minutes.” Robert turned and walked out of Wyatt’s bedroom.
    Five minutes later Wyatt emerged from his room. Striding across to his bag, he stooped and lifted it off the floor in one movement. “Okay, let’s go,” he said.
     
    *    *    *    *    *
     
    After Wyatt had acquired his U.L.F. issue kit bag and clothing, he and Robert had walked down to engineering almost in silence. Wyatt preferred it that way. He was thinking about the mission and besides, he had very little to say to Robert anyway. Any attempt at chat between them now would be identified as exactly that and was therefore pointless.
    The pair turned into a new corridor to be confronted with a huge archway beyond which was the main engineering concourse. What looked like a building seemed to mold itself out of the wall to their right. Offices, computer rooms, technicians’ rest rooms—all here. To their left the area was clear except for the few buggies that sat between the yellow lines segregating the floor.
    Robert raised his hand and shouted and the driver of the nearest vehicle pulled over to where they stood. He pulled the door open and motioned for Wyatt to get in before clambering in beside him.
    “Bay 12,” Robert said. The driver said nothing, just nodded his understanding before the vehicle lurched away down the monstrous corridor, which, despite the lighting, disappeared out of sight.
    Bay 12 was one of the furthest launching bays from the main concourse and, despite its speed, it took the buggy at least five minutes to turn off into the relevant area in the maze of corridors. The large metal door with a huge “12” embossed on it rolled up in front of them at their approach. The buggy entered the launch bay, weaving its way through the dozens of engineers who milled around the gigantic room and the base of the huge craft standing at its center. Wyatt placed his face against the rounded window of the buggy and craned his neck to look up at the awesome ship. It was an old model. A Caravel craft.
    As the buggy came to a stop at the front of the ship Wyatt saw its name, painted in bold black lettering on its hull, just beneath the bridge windows— Santa Maria . Columbus’ ship. The relevance of the first comment Robert had made to him after he stepped off the shuttle now became clear. Columbus—discoverer of the New World, Wyatt thought.
    Wyatt stepped out of the buggy, never taking his eyes off the ship and thanking the driver only as an afterthought. For an old ship it was in exceptionally good condition but the fact remained that it was an old ship.
    The craft itself was massive, taller than a ten-story building and occupying probably eighty-five percent of the space in the bay. It was pale gray in color and chunky in design. It looked like a huge block of granite from which someone had chipped away mammoth chunks.
    In some areas, mainly at the ship’s base, conduits and ducts emerged through the exterior paneling and ran short distances before turning and disappearing out of sight again. These appeared