Odd Interlude Part Two by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page A

levitating, if it was resting on the floor, it would crush the foundation, drop through to the earth underneath, and crumple the entire building into a pit on top of it.
    This isn’t the most unique thing I’ve ever seen, because the word
unique
is an absolute, there can’t be degrees of it. A thing is unique or it isn’t. It’s not
very unique
or
pretty unique
or
more unique
. Just
unique
. That’s one of the sixty million facts you have to learn when you’re homeschooled by parents who’ve read a library’s worth of books and think about just everything. But this sphere is unique for sure.
    The thing is silent, but it gives off this ominous vibe that makes me feel like I would be the world’s biggest idiot if I touched it. Maybe I’ve made myself out to be the Indiana Jones of the seventh grade, but the truth is that I get the phlegm of fear in my throat again, thicker than before, and I have to keep swallowing hard to be able to breathe right. Don’t ask about my heart. It’s just thudding like some pneumatic hammer.
    Out of the almost-liquid pooling darkness comes that cold smooth voice again, just as pompous as ever. I want to smack him, I swear I do. “Jolie Ann Harmony does not have project clearance.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Jolie Ann Harmony does not have project clearance.”
    “Where are you?”
    He clams up.
    Whoever this guy is, I’m sure he’s just as dangerous as any axe murderer and I should pussyfoot around him and be polite, but he really annoys me. He’s judgmental. He’s bossy. He won’t engage in a conversation.
    “You’re judgmental,” I tell him, “bossy, and just generally impossible.”
    He’s silent so long I don’t expect a reply, but then he says, “Nevertheless, you do not have project clearance.”
    “Well, I think I do.”
    “No, you do not.”
    “Do, too.”
    “That is incorrect.”
    “What’s the name of your project?”
    “That is classified information.”
    For a minute, I stand listening to the silence and watching the glowing sphere, which now looks like a giant crystal ball, though I’m pretty sure it’s metallic. Then I give him a little what-for: “If you really want to know, I don’t even think you have a project. The whole thing’s a silly load of cow dung. It’s just something you made up so you’d feel important.”
    “Jolie Ann Harmony does not have project clearance.”
    “Has anyone ever told you how tedious you are?”
    If I’ve wounded him, he’s not going to admit it.
    “So if you have a project, where are the workers and all? Projects have workers of one kind or another, you know, guys in overalls or uniforms, or lab jackets, or some other getup. I don’t see anyone. This whole place is deserted.”
    He gives me the silent treatment again. I’m supposed to be intimidated, but it doesn’t work.
    “In the room before this one, there’s six dead guys wearing airtight suits, look like they’ve been dead for years. All I’ve seen are gross dead people, and you can’t have a project with just dead people.”
    Finally Mr. Mystery speaks: “I am authorized to terminate intruders.”
    “No, you’re not.”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “If you were, you’d already have terminated me.”
    He seems to have to brood about that one.
    I’m not sure that was the smartest thing I could have said, so I give it another shot: “Anyway, I’m not an intruder. I’m like an explorer. A refugee and an explorer. Where is this stupid place—somewhere on the southern edge of Fort Wyvern? Wyvern’s been closed since before I was born.”
    After a hesitation, he says, “Then you must be a child.”
    “What a staggering feat of deduction. I’m overwhelmed. I really am. Genius. Here’s the thing—your project was abandoned a long time ago, and you’re just like some watchman who makes sure nobody steals the expensive equipment and sells it for scrap.”
    “That is incorrect. The project was never abandoned. It was mothballed pending a new