Go To Part Four
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“I can see that I was wrong to assume that the restriction limiting you to a party of strictly Earth-appearing humanoids would spare me from the interference of any telepaths,” Lindstrom fumed as he stalked down the pathway taking them back towards the Administration Building.
“Empath,” Vale corrected hotly.
The director spun on him. “What?”
Sulu smoothly inserted himself between the two. “Lieutenant Vale is an Indiian.”
“Oh.”
“Actually my engineer is a telepath,” the captain informed him unapologetically.
“He’s not human either?” Lindstrom asked, exasperated.
“He is.” Despite the tension of the moment, Sulu’s mouth quirked as he tried to think of a succinct explanation of his engineer’s persona. “Del just doesn’t act that way sometimes.”
The director paused in his forward progress and turned to him with a frown. “So you brought a party of sensitives because you suspected that..?”
Sulu met his gaze evenly. “I brought sensitives because they are good officers and I trust them to do their jobs well. I brought them because I thought they would be the best people I had to get at the truth of what’s going on here as quickly and efficiently as possible.”
The captain paused and purposefully took a moment to take in the serene street scene surrounding them, letting the tranquility of his surroundings calm and center him. As much as he would like to wring Lindstrom’s neck at the moment on their behalf, Sulu knew that getting protective of his team wouldn’t do anything to pull his former shipmate out of the defensive crouch he’d assumed.
“Because I was here ten years ago,” Sulu continued, “I knew it was going to be a complicated situation, but I expected you to tell me the truth, Lindstrom. You were always an honest guy. You always spoke your mind – even when that wasn’t the best move for your career.”
The tactic worked well enough to elicit a marked change in the director’s demeanor. Lindstrom blew out a long breath and ran a hand through his sandy hair. “That’s certainly been the story of my time here.”
Knowing that the personal connection Lindstrom had formed with the woman who had born his child was going to prove a tender spot in the Director’s armor, Sulu began carefully, “Look, I can understand an emotional bond suddenly going somewhere… unexpected…” As soon as the echoes of these words hit his ears, he had to pause. Given his own marital situation and personal history, the Drake’s captain hated himself for having to exploit this particular vulnerability. He silently cursed whichever genius at Headquarters had unknowingly or maliciously picked him for this particular mission. “But once you could see where things were headed, why didn’t you immediately….?”
“Captain.” Vale interrupted flatly. “Director Lindstrom’s situation isn’t an isolated instance.”
Lindstrom squeezed his eyes closed with an agonized wince. “Damn…”
Sulu turned to Vale. “What?”
“There are other offspring resulting from unions between other team members and natives,” the Indiian confirmed.
Sulu turned back to his old shipmate unsmilingly. “Lindstrom…”
The director turned on Vale. “Lieutenant, you certainly have a gift for taking conversations in startling directions at warp speed.”
“Director, my personal attributes would not be an issue if you were more forthcoming with the truth,” the Indiian replied, his eyes cold, grey fire.
“Easy, Vale.” Sulu placed a light, belaying hand on his arm. “Lindstrom….”
“Captain.” The director shook his head and put his hands up as if he could wave away this onslaught of unwelcome revelations. “I really would have prefer to discuss this with the individuals involved before having this conversation.”
“You and your team have had around ten years to talk about the possibility that some day someone from Star Fleet was going to find this out,” Sulu replied, no hint of compromise in his voice. “That day has come. We’re all on the other side of that bridge as of this moment. There’s no going back -- no matter what kind of discussion you have with your people. What we need to talk about now is why this happened.”
Lindstrom gave a grunt of anguished frustration and kicked at a cobblestone, but made no other reply.
Sulu took in a deep breath, trying to keep his temper. Reasons for outrage, though, kept crowding his thoughts like a team of demons prodding him with a thousand pitchforks.
“For God’s sake, you’re sociologists,” he burst out, giving in partially to the temptation. “Your team was made up of Social Science specialists. You are the ones who do the research and make the recommendations that the regulations the rest of us have to follow are based on.”
Lindstrom opened his mouth to reply, paused, and then closed it. He sighed as the weight of this entire chaotic world seemed to settle on his broad shoulders.
“Sometimes being the expert is just having a very clear idea of exactly how far things are off from where they should be…” he explained with infinite sadness. He gestured towards the peaceful streets around them. “The people here… They are very vulnerable emotionally, but also very, very… volatile. Landru’s “festival” system left them with the belief that…uhm… extreme impulsivity in relationships was completely normal. The sort of interpersonal relationships that these people have are very different from anything any of us had encountered before.”
Sulu frowned, considering for the first time how a team of Academy-trained scientists might react when stranded in a culture where attempted or completed sexual assault was typically dismissed with a nod and a smile the next day.
“It’s one thing to appreciate this kind of emotional explosiveness intellectually, but when it’s directed towards you personally…” Lindstrom spread his hands helplessly. “Well, it can be overwhelming…”
The captain of the Drake nodded, assuming this characterization was probably something of an understatement.
“So, from the start, there were incidents, miscommunications…” The director sighed and shook his head at memories of disasters that he chose not to share. “Our “Big Events,”… our large community gatherings are very tame now – ice cream socials and picnics. At first, though, we had trouble keeping them from turning into…”
“Festival,” Sulu speculated with a high degree of confidence.
“Yeah,” Lindstrom confirmed. “So things occasionally got messy. There were lots of...”
“Misunderstandings,” the captain supplied tactfully.
His former shipmate confirmed his guess with a grateful nod for Sulu’s discretion. Lindstrom gestured for the Drake officers to follow him down a pathway that differed from their original heading. “At the same time, the planet had…. still has…. a population problem. It looks like the Landru computer reasoned that the best way to control the population was to not have that many people to control.”
“I remember than from our original scans.” Sulu nodded. “Beta III was down to one very lightly populated continent.”
“Speculation was that the computer would wipe out entire towns or villages if the number of “immunes” got too high,” Vale chimed in; bringing up the rear of the group.
“The entire planet was limited to just a few big population centers,” Lindstrom confirmed. “Then ten years ago, after the Enterprise shut Landru down, we had all those deaths – all the suicides.”
This sad memory put a temporary end to the director’s tale. As the corridor they were travelling down opened into the intersection of two broad streets, Sulu could see that they seemed to be headed once more back in the direction of the hospital.
“And the population dropped to critical levels…” he prompted.
“We were pushing repopulation efforts,” the director said, recovering from his sad reverie. “We were also trying to re-focus them on family units because we thought that might ease some mental health issues.”
“However,” Sulu hypothesized, “your native associates began to notice that your team was not participating in any repopulation efforts…”
Lindstrom smiled ruefully and tapped his nose to indicate that the Drake’s captain had hit the crux of the problem exactly on his first guess. “Right – When it came to repopulation, my team was not practicing what we were preaching -- Even when we were… enthusiastically invited to participate.”
“Ahhh…” Sulu closed his eyes and shook his head as the predicament of Lindstrom’s team became painfully clear to him. “You were not ‘of the Body.’”
“Exactly!” Lindstrom exclaimed, shaking his fists skywards in a gesture that was equal measures gratitude at the captain’s ability to comprehend and frustration at the situation’s damnable peculiarity. “There’s a reason the Landru computer chose that kind of language – talked about their society as a “Body.” To these people, it’s not just manipulative claptrap slapped together by an algorithm. Idioms like that speak powerfully to deeply-held cultural beliefs that pre-date even the original Landru. That kind of language resonates with how these people feel about how the universe should function. They are essentially Bio-utopian at heart. That’s how they were controlled.”
Inside Sulu’s head, a tiny part of him that had been sending off Red Alerts since they had arrived on Beta III relaxed a fraction. This man, he knew. The sociologist ranting about centuries-old societal memes hi-jacked by a power-mad computer – This was a Lindstrom he recognized.
Lieutenant Vale crossed his arms. “So, you and your team decided to take partners and have children in order to demonstrate an investment in the community?”
“You decided to become part of the Body for the greater good of your mission here long term?” Sulu echoed, re-phrasing his summary in a more positive framing. He did so first because he knew that a sympathetic tone might be more persuasive with Lindstrom. Knowing the proud and fiery nature of the Indiian temperament, Sulu also half-suspected that Vale’s dubiousness might be due to the lieutenant still being miffed about the director’s dismissive attitude towards sensitives.
“Essentially,” Lindstrom confirmed to Sulu, ignoring Vale. “Because many of us are sociologists, psychologists, and the sort of specialists who – like you say, do the research that help determine what the regulations are going to be – we took this step and made this commitment with the strong belief, bolstered by our expertise that what we were doing would be beneficial and that when this moment came and we would have to explain ourselves, we would have a balance of positive results to argue in favor of the choice we made.”
They had reached the entrance of the hospital they had toured previously. The director slowed as they approached the entryway.
Lieutenant Vale stepped between Lindstrom and the door.
“And do you believe that you do, sir?” the Indiian asked pointedly.
The director drew in a deep, painful breath.
“At this point, I have to say our results are decidedly…. mixed,” he admitted quietly. “Things worked very, very well…” The door creaked ominously on its heavy hinges as he opened it. “… Until they didn’t…”
“According to the field manual,” Lian Rendell pronounced judiciously as she accepted the menu offered to her. “I believe that under circumstances such as these, we are allowed to partake of local libations -- in moderation, of course -- in order to maintain necessary appearances.”
“All-righty then,” Noel DelMonde said, following suit. “Seein' it all in th' line o' duty… an' under medical supervision, o' course… I will indulge.”
“In moderation,” she stipulated piously.
“Oh, very moderately…” he agreed in suit.
The menu turned out to be a very obstinate sort of thing. It did not switch to a more attractive, legible font even when one shook it to wake it up, nor did there seem to be any obvious way to make it realize that it needed to provide a wider selection of drink options.
Rendell was in the midst of running her finger around the edge of the menu to search for a cleverly hidden touch control panel when she became aware she was being observed. Rather than being at the ready with a useful suggestion, though, her engineer companion was merely sitting back with a rather provoking smile on his face.
“It jus' a piece o' paper, Lian,” he informed her. “They not no ‘open Sesame’ button gonna pop up at th' edge or not'ing.”
“How annoyingly quaint,” she replied with an exasperated sigh. “It might be amusing to visit a museum, but is much less so to be asked to live in one.”
DelMonde gave a snort of polite agreement and went back to perusing his choices. However there remained an upward curve to one side of his lips that was still a shade too satirical for Rendell’s liking.
The paper menus represented one of the few aspects of the establishment where they were seated to which a descriptor as mild as “quaint” might be applied. The atmosphere of rest of the cabaret fell more into the category of the loudly bizarre. In stark contrast to the muted colors that ruled the day in the shops on the street above them and governed the conservative dress of their patrons, the décor of the place was a violent, gothic clash of blacks, blood reds, belligerent pinks, brutal oranges, and bestial magentas. The room was a large, rounded, two-story hall with a stage area at one end with a backdrop of stained fuchsia curtains. The venue looked as though it might have been previously employed as a dungeon or an operating theatre at one time… or a rather shocking combination of both.
The impression of a dungeon was reinforced by the stone walls and the fact that parts of the seating areas for the patrons as well as the main floor that served as the stage were enclosed by bars. The utility of these cage-like structures might have been puzzling to the officers from the Drake had they not arrived at the cabaret during the closing moments of a floor show.
From the entrance-way of the underground speakeasy, they observed that it was the accepted practice of the audience of the establishment to demonstrate their approbation or displeasure by tossing bottles of partially consumed spirits in the direction of the performers or other patrons. This riotous method of audience recognition for its performers gave the cabaret an immediate and viscerally distinctive sight, sound, and near-to-overwhelming smell.
Given this rather lively ambience, DelMonde and Rendell opted to pay the extra fee necessary to secure seats on the row of enclosed tables on the second story tier of cages overlooking the stage.
“Hmm…” Rendell tapped her lip thoughtfully as she waited for the next hail of bottles to fall. When she was relatively sure she was going to be audible to their waiter, she pointed to a line on the menu. “The Tears of Landru. That’s evocative. I think I’ll give that a try.”
The waiter nodded and opened a grating in the cage parallel to the tabletop. He held out his hand for the drink menu.
DelMonde surrendered his copy of the menu as well. “Look, I not be from 'round here,” he informed the native. “Jus' give me a glass o' whatever grain alcohol ya’ll got. As li'l colorin' or flavorin' as possible.”
“A linteen, friend?” the waiter suggested.
“Yeah, that be fine.”
Nodding slightly, the waiter disappeared down the metal catwalk providing access to the upper tier seating.
On the floor below, a quartet of native instruments that sounded akin to a piano, trombone, drum set, and xylophone brayed in dubious harmony as team of sweepers prepared the stage for the next attraction.
“I thought bourbon was your drink,” Rendell commented above the din. “Your order made it sound like you were describing something like vodka.”
“I not mind vodka ever' now an' then,” DelMonde allowed. “It my safety drink.”
Rendell raised an eyebrow. “You’re afraid they might try to poison us?”
“No, I jus' not wanna get served no goofy-ass sugar-y cocktail that taste like it left over from some baby-doll’s tea party.”
“That assumption could be taken as a stinging indictment on the character of the “dolls” of your acquaintance and the types of social events they typically organize,” the doctor observed.
“You might be on th' right track there, sugar,” the engineer conceded.
What might have been either been a fight, a celebration, or a combination of both broke out somewhere below where they were seated, increasing the noise to a level that did not allow for conversation.
Looking down to the stage area, Rendell was once more struck by the almost appalling and near-hypnotic synchronized efficiency of the sweepers as they cleared the new accumulation of debris, keeping better time to the accompaniment of the band than some of the musicians were managing.
Their job done, the cleaning staff was soon replaced by chanteuse whose entrance hushed the noisy crowd. The singer wore a daring low-cut black and crimson lace costume whose tantalizingly tailored skirts revealed all of her be-stocking-ed shins that were not concealed in fancy high-topped black and red boots. Her gorgeous bouquet of blonde curls spilled impudently from beneath a rakishly tilted top hat. Her lips were coated with a positively disrespectful shade of lipstick.
The crowd collectively licked its lips in anticipation as the band ground its way through a melancholy introduction and the lady began to half-sing, half-growl a peculiar little torch song titled, “First I Lost Landru, Then I Lost My Mind.”
“Hey..” After a moment of enjoying the serenade, DelMonde smiled, patted his jacket pocket, and then pulled out his forgotten cigarette case. “Does th 'libations' th' field guide mentioned extend t' partakin' o' some smokes?”
“Possibly,” the doctor replied, brightening. “However, strictly speaking, I think such an activity… engaged in the most scrupulous moderation, of course….”
“O' course,” the engineer agreed piously, handing her a cigarette.
“Should come under the heading of necessary investigation in our case,” Rendell concluded primly.
“I believe you are 100% correct, Doctor,” DelMonde concurred, offering her a light from their table’s candle.
Both officers took twin drags on their Rigellian, giving each other a virtuous nod that acknowledged the other’s superior devotion to duty.
“An' now,” DelMonde said, after blowing out a particularly perfect smoke ring. “I t'ink we gotta get down t' talkin' 'bout what we both been t'inkin' on since we step into that drug store.”
Rendell smiled and leaned back in her seat. “About how good I look in dark blue?”
The engineer returned her smile, but tapped his forehead as if puzzled. “We not already talk 'bout that?”
Rendell waved aside this concern with charming impatience. “That is a terribly poor reason to stop us from mentioning it again.”
“Lian, you are th' cutest trick in fancy shoe leather on this whole crazy planet,” DelMonde affirmed obligingly, and then gestured with the cigarette he held between two fingers. “But what I actually had in mind was narrowin' down where these drugs come from.”
“Well, I can assure you that they are not of Haven manufacture,” Rendell replied confidently as she flicked an ash over the edge of their cage.
“Oh?” The engineer raised an eyebrow. “You can, can you?”
“Despite the disparagement we endure from the rest of the galaxy,” the doctor began firmly, “my people do have a code of ethics to which we adhere. It may be difficult for those outside our culture to grasp fully, however there are standards and principles that unite us. We have made a commitment to the Federation, and I assure you that no Haven…”
“Lian…” DelMonde waved his cigarette apologetically. “Pardon me fo' interruptin' you, honey…”
Rendell drummed her fingers in annoyance at this unwelcome intrusion to what she felt was her rather poetically lovely defense of her race. “Yes?”
“You know why I t'ink you so sure these smokes not Haven?”
The doctor crossed her arms. “Do tell.”
The engineer took another drag and then held the cigarette out at arm’s length. “'Cause this shit is weak.”
“Embarrassingly so,” the Haven agreed, taking another grudging drag.
“Pitiful.” DelMonde shook his head as he blew out delicate ring of smoke. “Jus' pitiful.”
“As I said,” the doctor continued, as if only slightly amending her original assertions about the unimpeachable integrity of her race. “We have standards – even when dealing with the most naïve off-worlders. After a certain point, bad product is bad business.”
DelMonde gave the cigarette between his fingers a reproving shake. “So who would be so crass as t' sell this weak-kneed weed t' th' yokels?”
Rendell shrugged. “There are always lots of independent traders in this sector….”
“An' when we talkin' 'bout this particular sector, when we say 'independent,' what we actually mean is…”
“Orion,” the Drake officers concluded in unison.
“I not know if I can see it, though.” The engineer frowned and shook his head. “Th' whole deal would be kind o' a pain in th' ass. Them Orions not be able t' come here in person ‘cause o' bein' green an' butt-ugly an' all -- So they not be able t' scout t' place out none in person fo' truly choice merchandise. They jus' have t' trust their instruments an' take whatever they get. An' I not even know what these locals here would have that would make th' Orions want to risk pissin' off th' Federation if th' deal wit' Lindstrom goes south… which it gonna do now.”
The doctor blinked in surprise. The amount of emphasis DelMonde placed on his prediction seemed to signify that he was unusually sure such a debacle was going to come to pass.
A general roar and crash from the crowd indicated that the chanteuse’s set had come to an end. One of the sweepers posted a placard announcing the next attraction. The promised entertainment was titled, “The Lamentable Execution and Death of the Blessed Landru by Abominable Archons.”
Rendell turned back to DelMonde, tilting her head to one side skeptically. “You think Sulu will squeal on Lindstrom to Headquarters if it turns out he’s cut a deal with the Orions to supplement the drug supply for the mentally unstable here?”
The engineer shrugged unsympathetically. “If Sulu don’t, I will.”
“Narc,” the Haven accused lightly, although she was more shocked at this promised perfidy than she would care to admit.
“It clearly state in th' field guide, that when I uncover heinous goin’s on like this, it my sworn duty t' report what I done seen,” DelMonde retorted with ironic self-righteousness.
“In moderation,” the doctor cautioned, surprised that the engineer would go so far to wreck vengeance on someone whose primary sin so far was probably having a personality the Cajun didn’t care for.
“Mais, we jus' have t' wait an' see how it all plays out,” the engineer replied, relenting only fractionally from his life-long course of retributive justice against all authoritarian assholes who had the misfortune to fall in his path. “Like, I figure Sulu gonna wanna fool 'round an' run an actual lab test on this shit t' figure out where it come from.”
Rendell blew out a contemptuous breath. “Waste of time and resources.”
“So you an' me not actually be so much 'tellin'' th' captain anyt'ing as we jus' givin' him a nudge in a certain direction.” The engineer illustrated this equivocation with a rolling gesture of the hand holding his cigarette.
“Well, that I can live with,” Rendell conceded. “Not that I have any great sympathy for Lindstrom personally, but…”
“I know, cher.” DelMonde blew out another enviably faultless smoke ring. “Standards an' principles, standards an' principles…”
“Tula Lindstrom” was the name on the chart at the foot of the hospital bed. The appellation made it sound as though she were Swedish. The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties. Her figure was petite. Her features were delicate. Conscious and in good health, she would have been very lovely.
The director did not bother to formally identify the catatonic patient as his wife. He merely crossed to side of the sleeper and tenderly brushed a lock of reddish-brown hair from her face.
Sulu had encountered neither Tula nor her father, Reger, in his visit to Beta III. He recalled their names from the Enterprise logs that the Drake team had included in the mission briefing. Remembering the unusual amount of detail and vehemence the sociologist had employed when describing the young woman and her circumstances, Sulu was not surprised the two had ended up together.
The captain turned to Vale as Lindstrom bent down to kiss his wife’s pallid forehead. A confirmation of the two’s relationship from the Indiian wasn’t actually necessary at this point. However, Sulu felt suddenly uncomfortable with their intrusion on the couple’s privacy.
Vale nodded his superfluous verification, his large grey eyes looking as uneasy as the captain felt.
Sulu smiled his thanks, knowing another trip through the emotional chaos that a psychiatric care ward represented couldn’t be easy on the Indiian’s delicate sensory system.
Lindstrom straightened, took in a deep breath, and turned to them.
“About three years ago, everything seemed to go sour,” he began. “The person who was our primary advocate in the council was reassigned. Our funding was cut.” The director paused, sighed deeply, and made a gesture of helplessness that encompassed the long ward of catatonics surrounding them. “A lot of things went sideways all at once….” Lindstrom stopped, looking down at the floor for a moment as if completely defeated. Rallying, he tried again to explain, “One of our goals all along has been to guide the people on Beta III towards independent social action…”
“But when they started to really assert themselves,” Sulu hypothesized, “the first thing they did was to rebel against you.”
“Yes.” The director nodded ruefully. “In concert with the difficulties we were having with the Federation, we had already started to see the rise of the Traditionalist movement who were very vocal about wanting the sayings of Landru incorporated into the education system… Wanted statues and important buildings restored. That sort of thing.”
“Not entirely a surprise,” Sulu commented, gesturing towards their veneer of antiquity that thoroughly muffled every surface surrounding about them.
Lindstrom looked around blankly, and then smiled apologetically, as if he had gotten so accustomed to the old-fashioned facades that he had forgotten about their presence. “Yes. Not exactly a surprise. On the other side, though, there are the Anarchists who want… I don’t know… just to burn it all down, maybe.”
“I’m guessing they want the Federation out?”
“Definitely,” the director confirmed. “Beyond that… I don’t know. They commit random acts of aggression then disappear. There are rumors that the leaders of the group are individuals who were Lawgivers under the Landru regime. Some of them dress as Lawgivers. That choice, of course, is designed to strike terror.”
Sulu repressed a shudder as a memory of robed figures inexorably blocking him into a doorway surfaced. “Yes.”
“These incidents are disturbing…” Lindstrom swallowed hard and touched his wife’s forehead gently. “Extremely disturbing. They put some people over the edge. However, so far, these flare-ups are still fairly rare. We don’t know much about the people responsible yet.”
“Like an ultra-conservative movement, though,” the captain prompted, seeing that the director’s personal reaction was about to overwhelm him, “a radical reactionary group is another predictable outcome of a growing independence of thought in this population…”
Lindstrom nodded. “Predictable, yes -- but difficult to manage. What we couldn’t predict was this….” He gestured at the line of beds filled with unconscious patients. “There was a second wave of… We don’t know… Mental illness as a reaction to the extreme societal upheaval? Suddenly there were hundreds of new cases of patients falling into catatonic states… including my….”
The director’s voice choked into silence. He picked up his wife’s hand and pressed it to his lips.
Sulu looked at Vale. “There’s more, right?” he mouthed silently, indicating Lindstrom with an inclination of his head.
The lieutenant affirmed his captain’s assumption with a discreet nod.
“Lindstrom,” Sulu suggested quietly. “Maybe we should continue this in your office?”
“Yeah…” The director gently placed his wife’s hand back on the bed and smoothed the sheet back over it. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I want to talk to her nurse.”
“Sure,” the captain agreed, motioning the lieutenant to follow him to the door. Once in the corridor, he turned to the Indiian. “So, what am I going to hear, Vale?”
“Lindstrom is...” The Communications Officer paused, trying to decide on how best to encapsulate the director’s tortured emotional state. “He is awash in grief, guilt, shame… conflicting impulses of duty…”
T his impression tended to confirm Sulu’s gut feeling that his old shipmate had another bombshell to drop on them. “Damn…”
“Captain…” Vale began hesitantly. “Like Mr. DelMonde and most sensitives, I find the presence of the mentally disturbed profoundly unsettling…”
“Hang in there, Tristan,” the captain replied, appreciative of discomfort the Indiian must feel. “We’ll be out of here soon.”
“It’s not that, Captain. What I’m trying to say is that I have no expertise in psychiatric disorders. However, there is a difference between these patients and those of the ward we were in previously.”
“Oh?”
“Although they are heavily sedated, it seems as though their minds are locked in a specific state such as anger, terror, or even bliss.”
The memory of being wrapped in a sudden, reason-erasing, beautifully silencing, sweetly soft blanket of delight washed through the corridors of Sulu’s brain. “Bliss…”
His subordinate tilted his head as if puzzled by this reaction. “I don’t know if this is significant, sir.”
“No, keep doing what you’re doing, Lieutenant.” The captain gave Vale an affirming nod before setting off down the corridor. “If what we’ve experienced thus far is any indication, we’re going to have to dig for every bit of truth we’re going to find here and pull it out by the roots.”