The Andromeda Strain Read Free Page B

corner.”
    Across the room, the green face of the scope displayed a jagged dancing white line—the summated sound of static.
    “Then,” Comroe said, “we cut in the computer. Like so.”
    He punched a button on his desk console. The oscilloscope line changed character abruptly. It suddenly became quieter, more regular, with a pattern of beating, thumping impulses.
    “I see,” Manchek said. He had, in fact, already identified the pattern and assessed its meaning. His mind was drifting elsewhere, considering other possibilities, wider ramifications.
    “Here’s the audio,” Comroe said. He pressed another button and the audio version of the signal filled the room. It was a steady mechanical grinding with a repetitive metallic click.
    Manchek nodded. “An engine. With a knock.”
    “Yes sir. We believe the van radio is still broadcasting, and that the engine is still running. That’s what we’re hearing now, with the static screened away.”
    “All right,” Manchek said.
    His pipe went out. He sucked on it for a moment, then lit it again, removed it from his mouth, and plucked a bit of tobacco from his tongue.
    “We need evidence,” he said, almost to himself. He was considering categories of evidence, and possible findings, contingencies …
    “Evidence of what?” Comroe said.
    Manchek ignored the question. “Have we got a Scavenger on the base?”
    “I’m not sure, sir. If we don’t, we can get one from Edwards.”
    “Then do it.” Manchek stood up. He had made his decision, and now he felt tired again. An evening of telephone calls faced him, an evening of irritable operators and bad connections and puzzled voices at the other end.
    “We’ll want a flyby over that town,” he said. “And a complete scan. All canisters to come directly. Alert the labs.”
    He also ordered Comroe to bring in the technicians, especially Jaggers. Manchek disliked Jaggers, who was effete and precious. But Manchek also knew that Jaggers was good, and tonight he needed a good man.
    At 11:07 p.m., Samuel “Gunner” Wilson was moving at 645 miles per hour over the Mojave Desert. Up ahead in the moonlight, he saw the twin lead jets, their afterburners glowing angrily in the night sky. The planes had a heavy, pregnant look: phosphorus bombs were slung beneath the wings and belly.
    Wilson’s plane was different, sleek and long and black. It was a Scavenger, one of seven in the world.
    The Scavenger was the operational version of the X-18. It was an intermediate-range reconnaissance jet aircraft fully equipped for day or night intelligence flights. It was fitted with two side-slung 16mm cameras, one for the visible spectrum, and one for low-frequency radiation. In addition it had a center-mount Homans infrared multispex camera as well as the usual electronic and radio-detection gear. All films and plates were, of course, processed automatically in the air, and were ready for viewing as soon as the aircraft returned to base.
    All this technology made the Scavenger almost impossibly sensitive. It could map the outlines of a city in blackout, and could follow the movements of individual trucks and cars at eight thousand feet. It could detect a submarine to a depth of two hundred feet. It could locate harbor mines by wave-motion deformities and it could obtain a precise photograph of a factory from the residual heat of the building four hours after it had shut down.
    So the Scavenger was the ideal instrument to fly over Piedmont, Arizona, in the dead of night.
    Wilson carefully checked his equipment, his hands fluttering over the controls, touching each button and lever, watching the blinking green lights that indicated that all systems were in order.
    His earphones crackled. The lead plane said lazily, “Coming up on the town, Gunner. You see it?”
    He leaned forward in the cramped cockpit. He was low, only five hundred feet above ground, and for a moment he could see nothing but a blur of sand, snow, and yucca trees. Then, up