The Green Trap by Ben Bova Page A

toward the town of Oracle, but turned off at a sign that pointed to Biosphere 2. Both sides of the turnoff road were filled with housing developments so new that much of the land was still raw, not yet landscaped, an open wound in the desert where still more houses would be planted. They looked like expensive homes to Cochrane, all neatly laid out like brand-new chess pieces on a board. Scrawny young trees plantedprecisely the same distance apart from each other lined the road on both sides. They’re putting in grass lawns, in the desert, Cochrane saw. Their water bills will be astronomical, he thought.
    Biosphere 2 was a collection of weird-looking white and glass buildings, including a big dome-topped tower and a stepped-back pyramid, with more conventional wooden barracks-type buildings running up a flanking hillside. Cochrane remembered that the place had been built to simulate various ecological regions of earth: tropical rain forest, desert, they even had a miniature ocean inside one of the buildings. All completely sealed from the outside world. A group of volunteers had tried to live for a year inside this artificial world; they lasted only a few months. Or was it weeks? Cochrane couldn’t remember.
    Kensington parked the SUV in front of a brick two-story building just inside the compound’s gates. Cochrane slid the door on his side open before Kensington could get out of the driver’s seat. Looking out at the bleak expanse of brown hills baking in the morning sunshine, he realized there was no sense trying to run, nowhere to run to. So he climbed down onto the gravel of the parking lot and helped Sandoval get out of the Lexus. The heat of the desert sun felt like an iron weight on his shoulders.
    Wordlessly, Kensington led them into the building. The lobby was empty; the entire building seemed deserted.
    â€œNo one here?” Sandoval asked.
    â€œWe’re here,” said Kensington. Then he nodded toward a closed door at the end of the corridor. “And Mr. Gould is in there, waiting for you.”
    Feeling a little like a kid who’d been sent to the school principal’s office, Cochrane led Sandoval down the corridor. He rapped once on the unmarked door, then opened it.
    Inside was a small office, air-conditioned so heavily it sent an instant shiver up Cochrane’s spine. Sitting behind the desk was a heavyset man with thinning gray hair. His jacket had been thrown carelessly on the couch by the window, his vest unbuttoned, his shirt collar open and florid tie pulled loose. Still the man’s fleshy face was sheened with perspiration. He was staring intently into the screen of a laptop, opened on the desk. He didn’t bother to look up when Cochrane pushed the door shut behind Sandoval and himself.
    Despite the air-conditioning, the room smelled stale, dusty, as if it had been sealed shut for a long time. Cochrane saw a parade of dust motes dancing in the sunshine slanting in through the window at one side of the desk.
    They stood there uncertainly in the bitingly chill office for several long seconds. Finally the man behind the desk nodded hard enough tomake his cheeks waddle, then snapped the laptop shut. He looked up at them and smiled without showing his teeth.
    â€œMs. Sandoval,” he said, in a slightly rasping voice. “And you must be Dr. Cochrane. My condolences on your brother’s untimely demise.”
    â€œDid you have something to do with it?” Cochrane snapped before he could stop himself.
    â€œMe?” The man’s thin gray brows shot toward his scalp. “Heavens, no! Why should I want him dead? We were partners—or we would have been if he hadn’t been killed.”
    â€œYou are Lionel Gould?” Sandoval asked.
    â€œYes, yes, I am indeed Lionel Gould.” He spread his arms and indicated the wooden chairs in front of the desk. “Please sit down. Make yourselves comfortable. I regret that I can’t offer you