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Chapter 8

We stopped in front of the first Quonset hut and parked the Duster among the VW microbuses and mou

bikes. Lars stood by the car and looked around the compound shaking his head. The hard lump under his jacket lo

like just another one of his muscles. I walked into the hut and asked to see Dr. O'Riordan. The hot air in the headqu

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uilding was thick with patchouli.

"But...but that's just not possible!" I wasn't going to take the word of any malnourished beatnik who wore glaci

lasses indoors. I suggested that he produce his superior officer post haste. To his credit, he recognized the voice

uthority. The Project Director wore the same pastel green jumpsuit that the lackey did and wasn't any more cooperativ

took two phone calls. One from the Quonset hut to the United States Ambassador to the U.N., and one from the Whi

ouse to the northern lip of New Mexico before I was ushered to the glass dome.

"You have to understand," the Project Director said, "that there is simply no direct communication with th

iospherians. They are totally sealed off from the outside world." He fussed around with his clipboard and acted like h

as about to have a petit mal seizure. "I hope you can appreciate that this authorization is most extraordinary. Simp

nheard of." I had to remind the lisping little faggot that future U.S. participation in the funding of any U.N. project ju

might depend on how much cooperation I got from him.

The deal we had worked was this: I could write a message on a leaf of official Biosphere stationery and hold it u

the outside of the glass dome. One of the econauts would see it and summon Dr. O'Riordan, and I could communica

ith her in like manner. If she wished, and only if she wished the headman was quick to point out, then she could brea

lence and communicate directly with me through the emergency network. It was the best I could do on such sho

otice.

"Dr. O'Riordan,

represent a private concern that has immediate need of your services. I have received authorization from the Secreta

eneral for you to discuss my proposal outside the confines of the Biosphere. If that is not acceptable to you, you a

lso authorized to break radio silence and to communicate to me via the emergency network. I emphasize that, upon th

rders of the Secretary General, these actions will in no manner jeopardize your position as a Biospherian and you w

e free to return to the experiment without your brief absence being noted in the daily logs.

I held the note up against the glass of the Biosphere and rapped my knuckles to get the attention of a wir

readlocked black man who looked like he was scattering goat turds on a garden. I remember thinking that the gla

ome was so thick that I might have to send Lars back to the plane for one of the depleted-uranium projectiles for th

nti-tank gun. Just in case we were forced to get the good Doctor out the old fashioned way. The eco-rasta read my no

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and, with a puzzled look in his eye, trotted off into the interior of the dome and was soon swallowed up by the

foliage.

Dense and brilliant green plantlife covered the floor of the Biosphere and I saw beads of moisture on the b

leaves. Condensation had gathered on the inside of the glass about twenty feet up and a thin, misty cloud cappe

inside of the dome.

In a few minutes, the jungle canopy parted and Dr. O'Riordan stepped gently through the foliage. She had o

same style jumpsuit as the others and peered at me through purple granny glasses. She must have stood six-two and,

though she had her clipboard clasped to her bosom in two crossed arms, I could tell that her figure was extraordin

even by my standards.

As I held up my note for her to read, I saw the project director out of the corner of my eye. He stood wit

fingers crossed and squinted up to heaven, praying softly, "Please say no! Please say no!".

As Dr. O'Riordan read my note, she brushed her lips softly with a lock of honey blond hair. Those gorgeou

turned down into a frown and then formed a silent, "No!". Her hair swung back and forth in a golden arc as she shoo

head emphatically. She tore a page from her clipboard and wrote me a note.

Whoever You Are,

Under no circumstances will I leave the Biosphere! Don't waste any more of my time trying to communicate wit

further. You look like CIA scum.

"Yes! Good girl!" The project director hissed like a viper. "She took vows, you know...to complete the experiment

so proud of her!"

On the way back to Nueva Celaya, I formulated Plan B. It took Sal and Mona just a couple of days to fa

information that I needed about the Biosphere project, which was a welcome development since I wasn't sure how m

longer I could stand living in that crackerbox of a room at the Siesta Buena Motor Lodge at the edge of the greater N

Celaya metroplex. It didn't take much longer than that for Tyrone to arrange for one of our drilling rigs -- and he

stroke of luck, it turns out that we had a good rig and a discrete company driller at a location only ninety miles from

Biosphere -- to spud in only a mile away from the dome on a section of land that I bought an oil lease on only

afternoon.

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I spent just enough time in N.C. to ride herd on the driller. I rented a chili-colored Ford pickup and drove to th

rill site to check on his progress. He was a burly man in greasy coveralls and he walked me over to the cuttings pile. H

owned as he showed me the residue that the drilling mud was bringing to the surface of the hole and read the well log

me. Be damned if I think theres any oil or gas down there, sir. She just aint actin like a producer. I assured him th

had a good feeling about this one, that my gut hadnt failed me yet and to just keep drilling. By the time Id driven ba

Nueva Celaya to fly back home, the desert had coated the shiny new Ford with a thick coating of dust that could on

e described, colorwise, as ecru vomit.

The driller was told that he would get a hefty bonus if he could complete his hole in three weeks and he just mad

in under the wire. When he pulled his rig, we had a six- inch, cased hole drilled into the aquifer that fed the wells in th

iosphere. According to the drilling log, the two tanker truckloads of liquefied carbon dioxide were pumped into the ho

, "fracture the oil bearing formation and to stimulate production."

We didn't get a teaspoonful of oil from that well. Just another dry hole that we could write off. What I did get

he satisfaction of reading, two or three days later, a banner headline in the Albuquerque paper that said, " BIOSPHER

VACUATED". The story told of an unexplained and dangerous increase in carbon dioxide as a constituent in th

iosphere's internal atmosphere. The Biospherians were evacuated, given medical checkups and told to stand down un

he source of the problem could be found. Scientists were arguing about leaf area densities and photosynthetic overloa

ngineers were talking about faulty design and pointing fingers at each other, lawyers were making contingency plans.

After it was determined that the carbon dioxide in the aquifer would dissipate naturally in about a year, th

iospherians hit the lecture circuit to bide their time by picking up heavy speaking fees. When the U.S. Geologic

urvey traced the problem to that dry hole, one of our little shadow drilling companies forfeited their bond and wen

uietly bankrupt, perfectly fulfilling its function as insulation.

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