"James Rollins - Subterranean" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

"Over the years, I've led bushels of tourists into caves, and . . . well, I can smell trouble. Since our night
out dancing, I've been watching you. Both in that crowded bar and now here among the caves, you've
been awfully edgy. Shallow breathing, sweaty palms, pale face." Ben saw her eyes sink to the stone floor
with his words. "That's why I came out to talk to you alone. I thought maybe there was something you'd
like to get off your chest."

She raised her face to him, her eyes rimmed with tears. "You're right, Ben. I have a problem with tight
places."

"Claustrophobia?"

She rubbed at her forehead, eyes down again, and nodded.

"During the trip ahead, there are going to bemany tight places. A panicked team member could
jeopardize all of us."

"I know. But I'm on medication and have been through years of therapy. I can handle this."

"Even that tango bar in Buenos Aires shook you up."

"Because I didn't take my pills. Didn't think I would need them. The bar with its packed crowd and loud
music just caught me off guard. I can handle this mission."

He reached over and held her shoulders. "You're sure?"

She looked at him. "I'll be fine. I can do this."

A fish jumped again. This time the splash failed to startle Linda. She continued to stare Ben straight in the
eye.

Silent for several breaths, he weighed her resolve. "Did you pack a fishing pole?" he finally asked.

"Why?"

"You'll need it if you want to collect specimens during this trip."

"Right," she said with a smile. "So you won't mention this to anyone?" She wiped at her eyes.
Ben released her and picked up a flat stone. He skimmed it across the smooth lake surface. "Mention
what?"

The more life changes, the more it stays the same, Ashley thought, staring at her plate. Before her,
cheese bubbled and white pasta floated in a steaming marinara sauce. Waves of garlic assaulted her
nose. Lasagna again. Ashley smiled, remembering the last lasagna dinner, when Blakely first proposed
this mission. The food was the same, but not the surroundings. Linen, bone china, crystal chandelier,
mahogany dining table. Not her trailer's kitchenette. She speared a forkful of the pasta.

"Professor Carter," Blakely said. "I've arranged a research associate, Dr. Harold Symski, to guide you
on a tour of the north wall. He'll be calling on you around eight o'clock tomorrow morning."