Project J Read Online Free PDF Page B

Smilodon?”
     
    Tamara thanked him, and left shaking her head.
     
    “See, I told you we had some fantastic results from the Machine,” Carla said.   “Come on, now, I’ll take you over to Personnel and they’ll get you assigned an apartment in Mountain View.   That’s what the apartment building is called.”
     
    It was done as Carla said.   After going through the usual red tape and delays, Tamara found herself later that afternoon standing in a second story apartment, looking out over the Dry Wells Project.   The apartment reminded her of a small studio apartment she had in West LA once.   Small kitchen, small bathroom but a fair sized single room with TV, desk, computer terminal, a picture on the wall of a fiery red sunset at the beach scene, and a sofa that opened out into a bed.   Nothing fancy, but good enough for her.   It made her nervous when some company tried to put her up in an expensive place, and wine and dine her.
     
    The sun was low in the sky, but it was on the other side of the building so she saw its rays illuminating the low mountains to the east.   If the mountains were a higher and had more snow, they would have reminded her more of her home.
     
    A great deal was going through her mind.   Usually she absorbed the technical details of a project while maintaining an intellectual attitude and remained impartial towards the possible results of them.   But this project was different.   It made her feel uneasy.   She tried to tell herself it was just because this one was such a giant leap in technology, but a nagging portion of her mind told her it was more than that; more than just high level technology.   Illogical as it might seem to an educated person such as herself, but she could not help but wonder if this was a tool that could be terribly misused in the wrong hands.
     
    She had trouble getting to sleep that night, and it was because of more than a strange bed.
     

 
     
    Chapter 5:   Questions
     
     
     
    The man sitting back in the chair, legs outstretched and hands crossed on his lap, looked older than his thirty-six years.   His hair was long, a dark brown, as was his full beard, although traces of gray appeared at the temples and some in the beard.   His eyes were closed as he sat in the warm sunshine, absorbing its heat as it chased away the last of the night’s coolness.   His face was worn, creases radiated out from his eyes, and the skin was tanned as with someone who had spent most of his life out of doors.   He wore tan slacks and a blue UCLA sweatshirt.   His feet were in sandals.   Had he stood up, he would be barely over five feet in height.
     
    The scene was a courtyard, twice the size of a tennis court and adorned with shrubs and several small, incongruous palm trees.   It was surrounded by a high wall, broken only by a few windows and two doors.
     
    “Good morning,” said another man, walking slowly up to the seated man.   This man was easily least twice as many years, yet they both looked much alike.   The newcomer had a beard, neatly trimmed, almost totally gray matching his thinning hair, and more than a few lines creasing a face with pale blue eyes.   He walked with a cane and a pronounced limp.   He spoke not in English but in the native language of the seated man.
     
    The seated man slowly opened his eyes to look at the newcomer, and then closed them again.   “You are come to ask more questions,” he said wearily.   It was not a question.
     
    “If you feel like it.   There is much I would still like to learn.”
     
    “Why is it you wish to know so much about me?” he asked.   “I failed.   What was to be, did not happen.   I was wrong.”
     
    “You did not fail.”   When that did not evoke a response, he continued with, “You did what you could and what you believed in.”   Still there was no response.   The man eased himself down into the adjoining lawn chair and changed the subject.
     
    “I would like to know