Not true, Fairhaven thought to himself. I have already succeeded. I am Leng as he should have been. Only through me can Leng’s work attain its truest perfection…
“I know,”Pendergast said. “You’re thinking I’m wrong. You believe you have succeeded. But you have not succeeded, and you never will. Ask yourself: Do you feel any different? Do you feel any revivification of the limbs, any quickening of the life essence? If you’re honest with yourself, you can still feel the terrible weight of time pressing on you; that awful, relentless, bodily corruption that is happening constantly to us all.” He smiled thinly, wearily, as if he knew the feeling all too well. “You see, you’ve made one fatal mistake.”
The Surgeon said nothing.
“The truth is,” Pendergast said, “you don’t know the first thing about Leng, or his real work. Work for which life extension was just a means to an end.”
Years of self-discipline, of high-level corporate brinksmanship, had taught Fairhaven never to reveal anything: not in the facial expression, not in the questions asked. Yet the sudden stab of surprise he felt, followed immediately by disbelief, was hard to conceal. What real work? What was Pendergast talking about?
He would not ask. Silence was always the best mode of questioning. If you remained silent, they always talked out the answer in the end. It was human nature.
But this time it was Pendergast who remained silent. He simply stood there, leaning almost insolently against the doorframe, glancing around at the walls of the chamber. The silence stretched on, and the man began to think of his resource, lying there on the gurney. Gun on Pendergast, he glanced briefly at the vitals. Good, but starting to flag. If he didn’t get back to work soon, the specimen would be spoiled.
Kill him, the voice said again.
“What real work?” Fairhaven asked.
Still, Pendergast remained silent.
The merest spasm of doubt passed through Fairhaven, quickly suppressed. What was the man’s game? He was wasting his time, and there was no doubt a reason why he was wasting his time, which meant it was best just to kill him now. At least he knew the girl could not escape from the basement. He would deal with her in good time. Fairhaven’s finger tightened on the trigger.
At last, Pendergast spoke. “Leng didn’t tell you anything in the end, did he? You tortured him to no avail, because you’re still thrashing about, wasting all these people. But I do know about Leng. I know him very well indeed. Perhaps you noticed the resemblance?”
“What?” Again Fairhaven was taken off guard.
“Leng was my great-grand-uncle.”
It hit Fairhaven then. His grip on the weapon loosened. He remembered Leng’s delicate white face, his white hair, and his very pale blue eyes—eyes that regarded him without begging, without pleading, without beseeching, no matter how hideous it had become for him. Pendergast’s eyes were the same. But Leng had died anyway, and so would he.
So would he, the voice echoed, more insistently. His information is not as important as his death. This resource is not worth the risk. Kill him.
The man reapplied pressure to the trigger. At this distance, he could not miss.
“It’s hidden here in the house, you know. Leng’s ultimate project. But you’ve never found it. All along you’ve been looking for the wrong thing. And as a result, you will die a long, slow, wasting death of old age. Just like the rest of us. You cannot succeed.”
Squeeze the trigger, the voice in his head insisted.
But there was something in the agent’s tone. He knew something, something important. He wasn’t just talking. Fairhaven had dealt with bluffers before, and this man was not bluffing.
“Say what you have to say now,” said Fairhaven. “Or you will die instantly.”
“Come with me. I’ll show you.”
“Show me what?”
“I’ll show you what Leng was really working on. It’s in the house. Here, right under your nose.”
The voice in his head was no longer little; it was practically shouting. Do not allow him to continue talking, no matter how important his information may be. And Fairhaven finally heeded the wisdom of that advice.
Pendergast was leaning against the wall, off balance, his hands clearly in view. It would be impossible for the man, in the time it took to squeeze off one shot, to reach inside his suit and pull out a backup weapon. Besides, he had no such weapon; Fairhaven had searched him thoroughly. He took a fresh bead on Pendergast, then held his breath, increasing the pressure on the trigger. There was a sudden roar and the gun kicked in his hand. And he knew instantly: it had been a true shot.
FOUR