The fragmented information I'd gathered the day before about the "no search warrant" and the damaged vehicle left me with a lingering feeling of unease. It wasn't the kind of thing a serial writer usually encountered, unless he made it up. The problem was that this time, reality seemed determined to surpass fiction. I spent the night in my cubicle, reviewing my notes and the scant information I had about Dr. Hanson and Aqua-Sol's operations. My brain, more accustomed to constructing plots than unraveling real conspiracies, was working overtime.
My strategy for the next day was to try to approach the research area indirectly, under the guise of researching material on the technological Hansons in cryogenic ice extraction. It's reasonable cover for a science fiction writer, and it would allow me to observe who was entering and leaving that section of the base.
Access to the research level was preceded by a checkpoint manned by a particularly imposing, stony-eyed security guard. I approached with my datapad open to a screen displaying my "notes" on the extraction technology, forcing a smile that I hoped seemed enthusiastic rather than nervous.
"Good morning," I said, my voice echoing lightly in the austere corridor. "I'm Jaxson Cole, the visiting writer. I was wondering if it might be possible to take a look at the research area, even from the outside. I'm gathering information on the technical aspects for my novel."
The guard looked me up and down, not a hint of emotion on his face. His uniform looked immaculate, almost as if it weren't subject to the same grime and wear as the rest of the base. "Restricted access. Authorized personnel only."
"I understand, of course," I replied, keeping my tone friendly. "But perhaps I could speak to someone here, a scientist or technician, to ask them some general questions. Just to make my story more realistic."
"Any interview requests must be channeled through administration. Your visiting hours are limited to the accommodation, recreation, and cafeteria areas, unless you have a specific pass." His voice was flat and final. The conversation was over before it began.
I failed in my direct attempt, but the rigidity of their response gave me another piece of the puzzle. The research level was very well protected, more so than one would expect for a simple technological development facility. What were they hiding up there?
I spent the rest of the morning wandering through the designated areas, trying to appear like a writer fascinated by his surroundings, but in reality, observing with more keenness than ever. I stopped near a group of workers repairing a control console in a hallway. They were whispering among themselves, their gestures tinged with frustration. I caught stray words: "again," "glitch," "this isn't normal." They were the same terms I'd heard the day before. The recurrence of the "glitches" suggested a pattern, not simple accidents.
Later, in the cafeteria during lunchtime, I looked for new faces. I sat at an empty table with my tray of bland food and listened. The cafeteria was a hive of conversation, but most of it revolved around mundane topics: the quality of the food, how long until the next break, complaints about the cold. However, at a nearby table, a couple of administrative staffers were talking quietly, their heads close together. I couldn't hear their words clearly, but their expressions were genuinely concerned. One of them shook his head repeatedly, as if disapproving of something serious. The discretion with which they spoke suggested they didn't want to be overheard. Yet another tight knot in the plot.
I began to feel watched. Several times, I looked up and found myself met with glances that quickly shifted. It wasn't unfounded paranoia; it was the instinctive feeling of being the object of unwanted attention. Was it just the security officer who had searched me, or did someone else know that my presence here wasn't as innocent as my alibi suggested? Dick had warned me that there were many people with interests at stake.
In the afternoon, I decided to try a different approach to getting information about Dr. Hanson. I located the personnel administration office, a location with less visible security but equally efficient at deflecting unwanted questions. I introduced myself as writer Jaxson Cole, explaining that I wanted to coordinate a possible future visit to Dr. Hanson's lab for my literary research.
The administrative clerk, a woman in an impeccable uniform and with a professional but cold smile, tapped a button on her terminal. "Dr. Hanson has a very busy schedule, Mr. Cole. Her research projects are high priority. Any request for a visit must be submitted in writing and weeks in advance."
"I understand, of course," I said, not entirely discouraged. "But perhaps I could leave you a message. Just to introduce myself and express my interest in your work."
"We don't handle personal messages for senior investigative staff, Mr. Cole. If you have official business, please submit it through the appropriate channels."
Another wall. Firm but polite. It was clear that reaching Dr. Hanson wouldn't be as simple as a walk and a friendly chat. She was isolated, protected. Was this to protect her or to keep her under control? The refusal to accept a simple personal message inclined me to think the latter.
As I left the administration office, my mind was still working. The recurring "glitches," the secret conversations, the surveillance glances, the difficulty in contacting Dr. Hanson—everything pointed to a far more complex situation than Dick had initially told me. It was no longer just a matter of observing; it was a matter of beginning to connect the dots, of finding a way through the web of secrecy. The 73P base, beneath its icy surface and metallic structure, pulsed with a pulse of intrigue and danger that was both fascinating and terrifying. My "fact-finding trip" was quickly turning into something far riskier. And I felt like I'd barely scratched the surface.
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