The Lucifer Sanction

The Lucifer Sanction - By Jason Denaro

CHAPTER ONE The Dig Site

Andermatt, Switzerland January 4 2044 10:04 A: M



A dismal day. Drizzle.

Gray Swiss skies surrender to a broad canvas

of cerulean blue, a perfect backdrop for the snow-laden conifers that stand like giant sentinels along the perimeter of the dig site.

Guardians.

On this morning of January 4th, 2044 a heavy cover of white powder blankets the ground. At one time the region consisted of towering mountains, but now-adays it resembles the devastated site of the 1908 Tunguska explosion at Krasnoyarsk Krai in Russia. The Tunguska Event, a massive explosion near the Podkamennaya Tunguska River in what is now Krasnoyarsk Krai of Russia, occurred at around 7:14 A:M on June 30, 1908, and has been the focus of much speculation over the past hundred years. Theories such as the end of the world, a natural H-bomb, a black hole, antimatter explosion and even the crash of a UFO the size of Tokyo had all kept the speculators busy. Preliminary evidence indicated the cause to be an air burst of a large meteoroid or comet-fragment at an altitude of 8 to 14 miles above the Earth’s surface.

An international research team consisting of members from the Moscow State Lomonosov University, Italy’s Bologna University and Germany’s Center for Environmental Research investigated the Tunguska Event. During their research they added another piece of evidence

- traces of acid rain in the region.

Extremely high temperatures occurred when the meteorite entered the atmosphere. Oxygen reacted with nitrogen causing a buildup of nitrogen oxides. Given the event’s time period, it went relatively unnoticed despite the fact the explosion was felt as far away as the UK.

Twenty years later in 1927 a research team led by Leonid Kulik, a leading meteorite expert at the Soviet Academy of Sciences made its way to the remote Siberian region. The team took statements from locals in the area and though they speculated the explosion was the result of a meteorite, they were unable to find a crater.

A little under 3 years later, a British astronomer suggested the blast was caused by a small comet composed specifically of ice and dust, leaving no recognizable presence. One theory proposed the Tunguska object was a fragment of Comet Encke. This ball of ice and dust was responsible for a meteor shower known as Beta Taurids. It cascaded into Earth’s atmosphere in late June and July, around the same time of the Tunguska event.

During the press conference in Krasnoyarsk, Yuri Lavbin, head of an earlier expedition, confirmed that parts of an extraterrestrial device had been discovered. The new expedition, organized by the Siberian Public State Foundation Tunguska Space Phenomenon completed its work on the scene of the Tunguska meteorite fall on August 9.

Members of the Tunguska Space Phenomenon managed to uncover blocks of an extraterrestrial technical device that crashed into Earth on June 30th, 1908. In addition, expedition members found the so-called “deer”... the stone, which Tunguska eyewitnesses repeatedly mentioned in their stories. Explorers delivered a piece of the stone to the city of Krasnoyarsk to be studied and analyzed.

The 2004 expedition set off for Evenkia in July of that year to solve the mystery behind the popular phenomenon known as the Tunguska meteorite.

Organized by the Siberian Public State Foundation, on August 9 the ‘Tunguska Space Phenomenon’ completed its work on location, the first expedition to the region since 2000. The researchers scanned a wider territory in the vicinity of the Poligusa village using satellite photos as a road-map.

The aerial explosion that transpired near the Tunguska River in Siberia on June 30, 1908, felled an estimated sixty million trees over 2000 square miles. Residents observed a huge fireball almost as bright as the sun as it moved across the sky. Moments later a flash lit the sky followed by a shockwave knocking people off their feet and shattering windows nearly four hundred miles off. It registered on seismic stations across Eurasia and produced fluctuations in atmospheric pressure strong enough to be detected by recently invented barographs in Britain. Over the next few weeks, night skies over Europe and western Russia glowed bright enough for people to read by. In the United States, the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory and the Mount Wilson Observatory observed a decrease in atmospheric transparency lasting several months.

The size of the blast was later estimated between ten and fifteen megatons. More recent expeditions have failed to find further remains of the object that caused the devastation.

Had the Tunguska Event taken place a mere 4 hours and 47 minutes later, St. Petersburg would have been completely obliterated.

The Andermatt explosion of April 4, 2015 created strange phenomena and it too was attributed to a meteor blast. The result reshaped the topography of a massive area, suspending dust in the atmosphere and illuminating night skies for several months. There was continual daylight that spread from Switzerland to Austria, into France and across Germany. Scientists at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory recorded the unbelievable decrease in atmospheric transparency well into the spring of 2015.

****

Goldstone Deep Space Communication Complex Mojave Dessert 8:12 P: M

2042

On a midsummer evening of 2042 a faint transmission registered at the Goldstone Deep Space Communications Complex in California’s Mojave Desert. The Goldstone Deep Space Communications Complex was operated by ITT Corporation for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Its main function was to track and communicate with space missions including the Pioneer Deep Space Station.

Goldstone antennae had been used as sensitive radio telescopes for scientific investigations such as radar mapping of planets, of the moon, of comets and asteroids. It mapped quasars and other celestial radio sources, locating asteroids and comets threatening to impact earth. Goldstone’s reliability was beyond question, especially its large-aperture radio antennas that detected ultra-high energy neutrino lunar interactions. When the Mojave facility pinpointed the faint bleep – bleep – bleep transmission near the Andermatt coordinates, there was no hesitation in undertaking an excavation rivaling any since the discovery of King Tut’s tomb.

*****

Dr. Craig Drummond pressed his finger on a faded orange button. The winter freeze had delayed excavation over the final weeks of 2044, and the welcome siren turned frustration to glee as it bounced about surrounding snowfields. A web of cellular phones announcing resumption of the dig quickly alerted those who didn’t hear its call to arms. Brightly clad volunteers set out from nearby ski resorts, chalets and small cabins spread about the Andermatt area, all coming together at the dig site, elated at the opportunity to witness what was rumored to be the find of the century. Within minutes of hearing the siren, a glut of media arrived in two buses and noisily crowded about the excavation site. A man resembling an aged Sean Connery stormed from the entry of the tunnel. He stood at attention, raised a megaphone to his mouth and shouted with a booming Scottish brogue, “Quiet please! We must have orderly conduct here!”

The crowd hushed and inched forward. The Scotsman lowered the megaphone and passed a superficial glance over excited faces. “I’m Doctor Craig Drummond. I have the pleasure of leading the research team for this project.” He extended a palm toward them. “Please, stay back. We can’t risk a collapse or contamination by one of you tumbling into God knows what.”

A camera crew jostled about for prime position. A female news anchor called out in a gingerly tone, “Doctor, we’ve heard you’ve located a UFO?”

“No comment, lassie,” Drummond said with impunity.

“But you have found something unusual down there,” and she made a jabbing pointing gesture at the tunnel entrance, “down at the bottom of the hole.” She jabbed again, this time with more resolve. “Is that correct, Doctor?”

Drummond gave a bemused glance, hesitated fractionally then snorted, “A hole! A bloody hole is it, girlie?” The word offended him. It berated the dig team’s efforts. “We’ve located an object at the lower level of the excavation, yeah. I can’t elaborate beyond that.”

The media core fell silent for a few long seconds, and then a young reporter, waving a pocket recorder pleaded, “Please Doctor, throw us a bone here.”

Drummond considered his reply with indignation. He allowed seconds to slip by.

“Two years ago,” Drummond said, “we received information from the Goldstone Deep Space people concerning the transmission of a signal emanating from this area.” Cameras rolled and pocket recorders were shoved as close to Drummond as to almost touch the speaker. “Please,” he baulked, “a little space here, move back a few paces.”

They did.

“In May of 2043,” he continued, “we gathered at this location. We began a search for the source of that transmission.” The Scotsman had their attention. “We’ve excavated to a depth of three hundred feet. Sonar and infrared scanning has turned up an object of eh, well, let me just say it appears to be an object of enormous proportions.”

He relished their enthusiasm as the camera recorded his every word. He straightened up, gestured to the dig area, then pointed to the clear blue sky. “With the inclement weather gone we’re finally able to continue on with our work here. In answer to your question, hmm, forestalling the inevitable seems...” and he searched for the words as cameras persistently clicked, “aye, aye, aye, alright then, we have in fact located an object. This is history. You’re all privileged to be a part of it.”

There was a buzz among the press core.

“Doctor,” a voice called, “I’m Claus Liebman from Zurich News. Will you allow a group of us to go down with you – maybe with a camera crew? It’s only a matter of time before the military is all over this . . . then none of us will get near it.”

Drummond thought for a moment. He realized the coverage could accelerate his aspirations, even put him in the running for a Nobel.

“Fine, fine, alright then,” he said, in an impatient Scottish brogue. “But any media release gets approved by me. We can’t allow hyperbole to set off civilian hysteria.” He made a gruff sound, flipped a hand toward the gathering, “Four of you. Go ahead. Choose four to come down there with me,” and the hand flipped from the group to the dig site.

The group entered a huddle and argued among themselves for several minutes. One stepped forward, along with a young lady and two prepubescent looking young men.

“My name’s Fellini,” he said. “Andre Fellini, photographer with Blick.” He nodded at his associates. “These three are journalists.”

“Well, Andre Fellini photographer with Blick,” Drummond said gesturing at the camera and waging a finger. “No camera.”

“Please Doctor,” the Blick man said in a pleading voice, “A little footage for posterity.”

“We can’t have live streaming, laddie. We just don’t know what to expect.”

Another of the gallery stepped forward, an alternate camera in hand.

“Thanks, Stephan,” Fellini said. “This one isn’t a live feed. It’ll record but won’t transmit live images.” When we’re through you can edit whatever’s in it.”

“Very well, but no direct broadcast, agree?”

Fellini grinned and nodded to Stephan.

Mateo Montez was a young assistant who’d accompanied Drummond on two previous digs. Montez passed a helmet to the reporter and Fellini clumsily positioned it on his head. Montez adjusted the chinstraps and flicked the helmet-mounted light to the on position.

The doctor snapped his fingers at Mateo. “You sure they’re fully charged?”

“Yes, I checked them just ten minutes back.”

“I eh, I have to warn you all,” Drummond said to the cameraman and his three friends, “it’s a very steepincline; it’s no walk in the park.” He jabbed a finger at Fellini, studied his reaction. “We’ve encountered a few tunnel collapses during the fifteen months of excavation.”

Fellini asked, “Have there been any injuries?”

Drummond took a timely pause and entered a more solemn mood. “We lost one of our people when we came across a gas pocket.”

“A gas pocket,” Fellini inquired with a touch of fear.

“Methane.”

“Methane?”

“Over many centuries carbonaceous rocks and tarsands have resulted in unpredictable methane pockets,” Drummond explained. “We call them methane belching. Gas builds up within the strata, and eh, once accumulated to a dangerous level it applies stress on the weakest point and eh - unfortunately we encountered one of those gas belches.” He paused and searched for words appropriate for confused press group. “The gas migrated from an area adjacent to the one currently under excavation.” Pause. “Do you follow?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Doctor. But you do test the tunnel,” Fellini probed, “to make sure the air’s safe?”

“Safe?”

“Yes Doctor, is it safe?”

Drummond waved his hand in the direction of the dig. “We don’t bloody-well go down there with a canary, laddie. Even if we did revert to nineteenth century technology, a dead canary would hardly solve the problem.”

Fellini shrugged like a confused schoolboy.

“We run tests as often as necessary, ensuring the atmospheric pressure contains at least nineteen-and-onehalf percent oxygen and not more than twenty-two percent. It’s very precise. Is that clearer?” Drummond nodded verification at his blank faced audience. “We uphold constant monitoring to be sure hydrogen sulfide doesn’t reach ten-parts-per million. When that level’s approached, our crew’s notified immediately.”

Enjoying his intellectual hammering of the media, Drummond decided to push the topic a little farther. “At concentrations of twenty ppm’s, an alarm sounds and respirators are used. That’s when we engage our air pumps for increased ventilation to maintain proper exposure levels. We feel that since the, uh . . .” he paused, removed his glasses and slowly polished the lenses. He took time to gather his thoughts. Once gathered he slid the glasses back and gave a demure look. “Since the incident,” he said, “we’ve appropriated air-monitoring units,” and he waved an impatient hand toward the tunnel entry. “To summarize... yeah, we supply fresh air to all underground work areas in sufficient amounts as to prevent dangerous accumulation of gases. But there are inherent dangers other than gasses when tunneling a collapsed site.” He took a few long seconds to savor the looks of fear, or anticipation. “This area is far less stable than solid strata. Beside the fear of the methane belching we’ve the ever present problem of ground movement.”

Fellini raised a hand to quell the chatter. “The ground you’re burrowing, has it stopped moving?”

“Burrowing!” Drummond retorted. “We’re not bloody rodents, young man.”

Fellini cowered a little.

“The settlement of soil layers is ongoing. Unfortunately it’s been exacerbated by last summer’s snow-melt, as well as recent heavy snowfall.” The Scot stared hard at his open mouthed audience. “We’ve strategically positioned pumps in an attempt to remove water from further affecting these areas. The explosion that caused these mountains to collapse pushed the surrounding forest into matchsticklike layers creating massive unpredictability. It’s left us with extensive mushy areas of pulp-like bark that’s unable to support the ceiling weight of the tunnel.” He stared at the tunnel entrance, tossed the megaphone onto a pile of equipment and motioned for them to follow.

*****

The descent took a full thirty minutes. On arrival at the tunnel’s end, Drummond readjusted his headgear, turned to the camera and spoke directly at it. “A lot of people will be fascinated by what we’ve discovered,” and he gestured at surrounding wooden support-beams. “When the mountains shifted, all of this stuff was buried under a million tons of rubble. The rubble suffocated every living thing in the valley of Andermatt.”

Fellini stood back, gazed at the exposed section of the metallic object and gave a peripheral nod to Drummond as though asking permission to shoot video. A minute later he lowered the camera, reluctantly placed a hand on the object’s surface and whispered in a quivering voice that only the doctor could hear, “This - this object, do you think it’s extraterrestrial?”

“No laddie. It’s more likely man-made. We’ve taken days to clear away rubble around this section,” and he waved a hand over the exposed area.

Fellini crooked his eye away from the viewfinder, lowered the camera. “But what if it’s actually not

extraterrestrial? What if it’s from, well - from this planet?”

“In that case,” Drummond snorted, “we’ll have a bloody good time asking many, many more questions, won’t we laddie?”

Mateo moved away from the group and found a quiet spot to ponder the situation. As he stretched he inadvertently dislodged a piece of rubble. His eye caught a glimpse of a metal rod that until now had been hidden from view.

“Doctor!” he called aloud, “look here!”

Silence slipped on by as Drummond inspected the metal rod. “Could be a lever,” he whispered, “perhaps a handle?”

He gave a slight tug as the group huddled about anxiously hypothesizing. An opening appeared on the metallic surface and the doctor clutched it, pulled, pulled, and could feel it give a little. He gestured to Mateo who quickly slid the handle of a pick into the narrow opening.

Fellini positioned the camera high above Drummond’s head, angling for the best shot. The Scot threw a look of irritation at Fellini, causing the Blick man to grin anxiously and plead his case. “Please, Doctor, for posterity . . . after all, history is being made here.”

Drummond grumbled at the cameraman and applied more leverage. “Just a little more, just a . . .”

The opening widened. He held a hand upward as those around him scrambled back in a feverish effort to move away. Mateo used a foot to push a large rock into the crack to prevent it closing.

Drummond glanced back, reached for a pebble and flipped it through the opening, listening as it rattled on the metallic floor. It echoed for a while, then silence. He placed a hand on the edge of the opening and guardedly peaked inside, a one eyed observation; edgy, ready to pull back. He half-stepped through with one leg, then his entire left side while maintaining his balance in readiness for a quick withdrawal. He held this position for six tense seconds, seven, eight, and then, letting out an unsteady breath – stepped on in.

Fellini held back, fearful Drummond would evaporate in a flash of light. Nothing happened. Drummond moved deeper inside the sphere followed by Fellini, his three journalists and Mateo.

One of the journalists, Ansell Portman, an American student attending the University of Zurich, stood alongside Fellini and called aloud, “Hello!” His shout reverberated. “Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello.”

Fellini lurched to one side as Drummond twirled about and angrily jabbed a finger at Portman. “When will you comprehend who’s in charge here? That kind of foolishness can be dangerous, who knows what’s further inside this...”

“I’m sorry, Doc,” Portman said. “My eagerness got the better of me.”

“It’s getting late in the day,” Drummond said squinting at his watch. “The surface light’s dwindling.” “Wha’dya think?” Portman whispered to Mateo. “Think it’s a UFO?”

Mateo made a nervous face and scanned about, wide-eyed. “I think we should call it a day,” he said, “that’s what I think.”

Portman: “Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”

“You’re joking of course,” Fellini mocked in a tone of disbelief. He paced nearer the doctor. “Doctor, this is the find of all time. We have to move onward.”

“Don’t lose sight of who’s in charge here,” Drummond snapped.

The Blick man felt his pulse quicken as he addressed the two tentative young men. “Aren’t you excited to discover whatever might be deeper inside?”

Drummond smirked, turned and considered the look on Fellini’s face. He placed a gentle hand on top of the camera and lowered it. “Sounds like a journalist with Pulitzer Prize aspirations,” the Scot said. “You prepared to risk the lives of all of us to chase that prize? Are you hopeful of bagging wee green men in this camera?”

The reporter returned the grin. “Maybe we’ll run into Klingons,” and he looked about for backing from those behind him. They remained silent.

Moments later they inched along the passageway until they reached a large metal door. It had no visible handle, no means of gaining access. Fellini reached forward, placed a hand on the metal. “Ice-cold,” he muttered. “Feel this, it’s chilled.”

The door made a slow grating sound as it fractionally slid open, allowing chilled air to hiss through the narrow gap. Drummond took a tentative step into an illuminated frosty atmosphere. A half-minute later he turned and beckoned the others to follow. They moved forward and caught sight of two transparent chest-like objects spread a few feet apart, each partially filled with a white mist.

Fellini’s voice was fearful. “What are they?”

“Don’t move,” Drummond barked, raising a hand. “There could be some type of deterrent.”

“What?” Fellini quivered. “You think a rain of arrows will shoot across from the walls.”

Craig Drummond glanced at the Blick man, “Oh, we have a movie fan here, do we? You think protection like that couldn’t be in effect here, Fellini?” There was no reply. The doctor stretched a hand toward the darkness. “If you’re so curious, go on ahead – be my guest.”

*****

Drummond took a cautious step backward, nodded at the three box-like objects and gesticulated for the reporter to move on, but Fellini held his ground.

“They’re sarcophagi,” Drummond said.

“This will make you famous,” Mateo murmured. Drummond hesitated, relished the word – famous.

“Go ahead, laddie, role your bloody camera, for the record, as you said . . . for posterity.”

Fellini’s camera recorded the setting as the three sarcophagi became more visible through the settling mist.

Drummond made his way to the nearest container bearing the name Robert Campion. The doctor hesitantly worked a screwdriver around the perimeter of the casket, eventually separating the lid from its base. He took a nervous step back as a hissing vapor escaped.

The thought of arrows shooting from walls was now farthest from Fellini’s mind. The Blick man cautiously moved a little nearer as the doctor motioned to Mateo and Portman to come and help.

“Doctor, you sure it’s safe?” Portman asked. “The mist coming from the casket . . . could it be toxic, something like King Tut’s tomb?”

Drummond waved a hand through the haze and warily sniffed his fingers. “Hmm, good point, laddie. It appears to be some kind of formaldehyde. Don’t be worried, I’ve smelled similar during preservation research back in Glasgow.” He nodded at the lid. “I need you strong lads to lift this, lift it slowly, keep the opening as level as possible, just a wee bit at a time.”

Drummond took in Portman’s fear, and passed him an assuring shrug. “It’s only preservative, don’t be worried, watch what you’re doing now lad. Lift gradually, a wee bit at a time.”

Portman countered with a thin smile while Mateo gave a look of resentment as he sheepishly stepped forward. They raised the lid and eyeballed the mist as it hissed from the chamber.

Mateo lost his balance, staggered back, allowing the lid to slip from his grasp. It clattered to the floor and came to a rest at their feet. Drummond flashed his beam into the casket and caught his first glimpse of the remains of a medieval clad occupant.

Fellini recorded the surroundings with the mania of a Cecil B. De Mille. Drummond, somewhat amazed by Fellini’s over enthusiasm, gave the reporter a peripheral glance. But then, there was that carrot, Mr. Pulitzer, dangling mere inches from the Blick man’s lens.

A trickle of fear ran through Drummond’s veins. He put on a brave face while trying to believe his own formaldehyde theory. He moved nearer, focused his flashlight on the near skeletal remains of the medieval figure. He took a pencil, moved it to the edge of a front tooth. “Look at this,” and he tapped on the tooth with the tip of the pencil. “It’s a crown.”

“This eh . . .” and he took a closer look at the nameplate, “. . . this Robert Campion, he had better teeth than me,” Fellini said, as he tightened the shot. “I thought medieval teeth were decay ridden. This guy has great teeth.”

And Fellini could taste his Pulitzer.

Drummond moved to the second container, set the screwdriver down and stretched a hand to Fellini. “Pass me your flashlight. I see a skeletal hand in here; looks like it’s clutching a sword.”

“Mother of God, who are they?” Mateo asked.

Drummond removed his glasses, wiped them on the edge of his neck cravat, leaned forward and studied the nameplate on the casket. “Hmm, Dominic Moreau, a Frenchman, but his attire appears to be English, maybe 14th century.”

“Do you think there are more of these people further inside of this thing?” the Blick man asked as he unenthusiastically peered into the distance. “Maybe there’s some clue as to what this all means.”

Drummond considered the comment. He’s right, he thought. We should move ahead, search further, come back to this later. Maybe there are answers farther inside.

The Scot allowed a half-minute to pass while continuing to study the costumed man inside the cylinder. “Aye, laddie, we can come back to this room later,” and he evaded Fellini’s nod. “So eh - let’s move farther along the passageway.”

Craig Drummond gave an approving half-smile to Fellini. He admired his bravado, a quality he himself had once possessed. But that Indiana Jones persona was long gone. The Scot had developed a conservative manner, arriving at decisions with much trepidation unlike his young prodigies - unlike Fellini. There was a large dose of envy inside Craig Drummond and he wondered how far he would venture if he were alone in this environment.

He stared into the near blackness of the passageway, his mind chewing on itself. Fellini gave a look, and the doctor, feeling his querying eyes returned the expression. They stopped as the beam of Drummond’s flashlight illuminated another large door seemingly designed to accommodate wider objects, a wider opening similar to those found in medical facilities.

“Go ahead, open it,” Fellini said, as he raised the viewfinder to his eye.

Drummond paused momentarily then gingerly turned the handle. A moment of hesitation was followed by a barely audible click.

“It’s a stairwell,” Portman whispered.

“It looks, eh - sinister,” the Blick man said, “as though it’s separate to what we’ve seen so far.”

Drummond descended, his eyes tracking the flashlight beam as it snaked along the edge of each step, his mind hovering someplace between euphoria and terror. He pressed his body to the wall, uneasy as he took the final steps. The beam crept along a section of wall and finally came to rest on what appeared to be the door of a freezer.

“I’m feeling bad about this,” Mateo muttered, a few paces behind Drummond. “Maybe we should leave it until tomorrow. Who knows, it might be safer to have some military or . . .” and he paused for several long seconds, hoping another of the group would finish the sentence.

Silence.

“Maybe we should have some cops with us,” Mateo concluded. “What if there . . .”

They were hit hard by a blast of rank, icy air that carried the now familiar odor of preservative. Drummond jumped back, almost tumbling over Ansell Portman. They regrouped and Drummond pointed the flashlight into the blackness, directing the beam at two additional cylindrical containers.

“This one here . . .” and he lightly touched the nearest cylinder, “. . . is much smaller than the others.”

“It appears to be empty,” the Blick man exclaimed.

“Turn the camera off for God’s sake, laddie,” Drummond snapped. “Give a man some space here.”

Aggravated by the Blick man’s insensitivity, the Scot impatiently moved around the casket, lost his footing on the damp floor, slipped, fell, and winced as his helmetlight flickered on impact and died.

A shiny object caught his eye. His voice gained a tone of excitement. “Shine the light there . . . right there in the corner of the casing, on that red thing,” Drummond whispered. “My God, it looks like a dog’s collar. I can see the tags,” and the doctor reached for the collar and read the faded engraving.

“What’s it say?” Portman asked.

“Hmm, it says Bruno.”

Portman: “But why’s it empty?”

Fellini: “Where’s the dog that wore the collar?”

“Dunno. But one thing’s for sure,” Drummond replied, “it didn’t disintegrate like those two poor bastards upstairs.”

“Like Campion and Moreau,” Fellini mumbled, glancing at his notes.

“Looks like the dog was a wee bit more fortunate than his compatriots,” Drummond hypothesized.

“Maybe they were participants in some kind of weird experiment,” Fellini said, waving a hand at the empty chamber, “one that went dreadfully wrong.”

Excitement made an abrupt shift to melancholy.

Portman: “Maybe we’ll never know.”

Drummond moved nearer Bruno’s chamber. In a whisper he alone could hear he sighed, “Might be better if we never know.”