“In May of 2043,” he continued, “we gathered at this location. We began a search for the source of that transmission.” The Scotsman had their attention. “We’ve excavated to a depth of three hundred feet. Sonar and infrared scanning has turned up an object of eh, well, let me just say it appears to be an object of enormous proportions.”
He relished their enthusiasm as the camera recorded his every word. He straightened up, gestured to the dig area, then pointed to the clear blue sky. “With the inclement weather gone we’re finally able to continue on with our work here. In answer to your question, hmm, forestalling the inevitable seems...” and he searched for the words as cameras persistently clicked, “aye, aye, aye, alright then, we have in fact located an object. This is history. You’re all privileged to be a part of it.”
There was a buzz among the press core.
“Doctor,” a voice called, “I’m Claus Liebman from Zurich News. Will you allow a group of us to go down with you – maybe with a camera crew? It’s only a matter of time before the military is all over this . . . then none of us will get near it.”
Drummond thought for a moment. He realized the coverage could accelerate his aspirations, even put him in the running for a Nobel.
“Fine, fine, alright then,” he said, in an impatient Scottish brogue. “But any media release gets approved by me. We can’t allow hyperbole to set off civilian hysteria.” He made a gruff sound, flipped a hand toward the gathering, “Four of you. Go ahead. Choose four to come down there with me,” and the hand flipped from the group to the dig site.
The group entered a huddle and argued among themselves for several minutes. One stepped forward, along with a young lady and two prepubescent looking young men.
“My name’s Fellini,” he said. “Andre Fellini, photographer with Blick.” He nodded at his associates. “These three are journalists.”
“Well, Andre Fellini photographer with Blick,” Drummond said gesturing at the camera and waging a finger. “No camera.”
“Please Doctor,” the Blick man said in a pleading voice, “A little footage for posterity.”
“We can’t have live streaming, laddie. We just don’t know what to expect.”
Another of the gallery stepped forward, an alternate camera in hand.
“Thanks, Stephan,” Fellini said. “This one isn’t a live feed. It’ll record but won’t transmit live images.” When we’re through you can edit whatever’s in it.”
“Very well, but no direct broadcast, agree?”
Fellini grinned and nodded to Stephan.
Mateo Montez was a young assistant who’d accompanied Drummond on two previous digs. Montez passed a helmet to the reporter and Fellini clumsily positioned it on his head. Montez adjusted the chinstraps and flicked the helmet-mounted light to the on position.
The doctor snapped his fingers at Mateo. “You sure they’re fully charged?”
“Yes, I checked them just ten minutes back.”
“I eh, I have to warn you all,” Drummond said to the cameraman and his three friends, “it’s a very steepincline; it’s no walk in the park.” He jabbed a finger at Fellini, studied his reaction. “We’ve encountered a few tunnel collapses during the fifteen months of excavation.”
Fellini asked, “Have there been any injuries?”
Drummond took a timely pause and entered a more solemn mood. “We lost one of our people when we came across a gas pocket.”
“A gas pocket,” Fellini inquired with a touch of fear.
“Methane.”
“Methane?”
“Over many centuries carbonaceous rocks and tarsands have resulted in unpredictable methane pockets,” Drummond explained. “We call them methane belching. Gas builds up within the strata, and eh, once accumulated to a dangerous level it applies stress on the weakest point and eh - unfortunately we encountered one of those gas belches.” He paused and searched for words appropriate for confused press group. “The gas migrated from an area adjacent to the one currently under excavation.” Pause. “Do you follow?”
“Yes, yes, yes, Doctor. But you do test the tunnel,” Fellini probed, “to make sure the air’s safe?”
“Safe?”
“Yes Doctor, is it safe?”
Drummond waved his hand in the direction of the dig. “We don’t bloody-well go down there with a canary, laddie. Even if we did revert to nineteenth century technology, a dead canary would hardly solve the problem.”
Fellini shrugged like a confused schoolboy.
“We run tests as often as necessary, ensuring the atmospheric pressure contains at least nineteen-and-onehalf percent oxygen and not more than twenty-two percent. It’s very precise. Is that clearer?” Drummond nodded verification at his blank faced audience. “We uphold constant monitoring to be sure hydrogen sulfide doesn’t reach ten-parts-per