The Biofab War Read Online Free PDF Page B

mean?”
    “Oh? I told you that? It was seafood buffet day—real scallops.”
    A triumphant “Eureka!” turned them toward Greg, who was dancing an impromptu jig before a large oblong outcropping that fell from the hill’s brow to their feet.
    “What’s so unusual about that piece of granite, sir?” demanded Bob, walking over to tap the rock with his stick.
    “Several things,” the geologist said with a smile, fondly stroking the outcropping. “One, it shouldn’t be here. Granite in this quantity shouldn’t occur on transient geological structures like this sandy peninsula. But we could probably explain it away, except that it isn’t granite. It’s not even rock—I doubt any of this hill is.”
    “Feels like rock,” said Bob, touching the surface.
    Greg extended his rock hammer. “Prove it—chip off a sample for analysis.”
    Rising to the bait, Bob took the chisel-pointed tool and swung hard at a rounded edge. There was no visible effect. Mumbling, “Obdurate matter,” he handed his stick to John. Seizing the hammer with both hands, he braced his legs, aimed carefully, and swung at the offending rock with all of his not inconsiderable bulk. The hammer rebounded, its target unblemished in the morning light.
    “I yield,” he said with more humility than either John or Zahava had ever heard. “What is it?”
    “Well,” said Greg, recovering the pick, “according to spectrum analysis of a small portion—which I freed after three hours’ work with a laser torch—it’s an alloy with the density of titanium, but ten to the fourth titanium’s tensile strength.”
    “What is it?” repeated Bob.
    “I’ve no idea—neither does the lab that ran the tests. But here’s the show stopper.” He took a flashlight from his daypack. “I stumbled onto this while adjusting the laser.” Flicking on the beam, he flashed it onto a dark upper corner of the outcropping, a spot the sun never touched. A tiny green flash responded.
    The lower quarter of the outcropping noiselessly swung aside. A neatly finished opening the width of two men yawned before them, dust-laden stairs dropping into the hill’s stygian gloom. Two sets of fresh boot prints, one up and one down, told of recent entry.
    For a long moment, only the sound of wind and tide playing against the weather side of the hill was heard.
    “Oh my,” Bob managed, a quiver to his voice. “The implications of this, if it’s what I believe, are so vast, so sweeping . . .”
    “Wait’ll you see the rest,” said Greg.
    “Yours?” John asked, pointing to the boot prints.
    “From the day before my banishment. Care for a tour?”
    “Try to stop me,” said John. “Someone should stand guard,” he added, carefully avoiding Zahava’s return glare. “Hate to get trapped in there.” Relenting only after heavy pleading, she turned to go, pouting. “Better get the Uzi out of my car trunk,” he added, tossing her the keys.
    “Expecting another attack?” asked Greg.
    “At least,” said John.
    Greg led the way with his big hand torch, followed by Bob and John. He counted 150 steps down before the rock-hewn passage turned sharply right, widening into a vaulted chamber, its center dominated by a rough stone altar. The walls tiered upward into equally rude stone benches. In all, John guessed the small chamber might have held fifty people.
    “Do you know what this is?” asked Greg, his tone implying they didn’t.
    “It would appear to be an altar chamber sacred to Bel of the Celtiberians—the Celtic peoples,” Bob said evenly. He brought out his own light from a baggy tweed pocket and played it over the oval altar stone. “Seeing the earlier sample from here, I was expecting something like this. This chamber could probably be dated around 100 AD, if certain huge conflicts didn’t exist.”
    “Such as?” asked John, knowing of at least one: sophisticated technology guarding the entrance to a rude temple contemporary with Augustus