He caught disjointed bits of conversation, but none of it made any sense. He was not sure that the words being spoken were in English, though he had a vague sense of comprehending what was being said even as it slipped out of his memory. Each time it happened, he knew that it would not last. Brief moments of lucidity were a common occurrence when under the influence of anesthesia. When he was able to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds, he knew he was finally coming up for good. The drug, whatever it was, had worn off. Sousa dosed me. Why the hell did he do that? The obvious answer, namely that there was a conspiracy to hide the truth about Flight 815’s fate and that Sousa was part of it would have made perfect sense if not for the fact that, up until the moment he felt the needle prick his skin, Professor had been prepared to accept the ATSB investigator’s explanation for the disappearance of Flight 815. “What the hell…?”
