INTROIT:
KYRIE ELEISON
June
26, 1996
Arthur
Gordon stood in the darkness by the bank of the Rogue River, having
walked
a dozen yards away from his house and family and guests, momentarily
weary
of company. He stood six feet two inches in height, losing no more than
an
inch to a slight stoop. His hair was a dusty brown color, his eyebrows a
lighter
shade of the same. He had a well-proportioned frame and a sufficient
amount
of muscle, but he lacked any trace of fat; his muscles showed clearly
beneath
the skin, giving him an appearance of thinness.
The
same leanness added intensity and, falsely, a hint of villainy to his
face.
When he smiled, it seemed he might be thinking something unpleasant or
planning
mischief. But when he spoke or laughed, that impression was quickly
dispelled.
His voice was rich and even and calm. He was and always had been—
even
in his year and a half in Washington, D.C.—the gentlest of men.
The
clothes Arthur Gordon owned tended to the professorial. His favorite
outfit
was an old brown pair of corduroy pants—he wore them now—a matching
jacket,
and a blue checked long-sleeved shirt. His shoes were few and sturdy,
running
shoes for wear around the house, and for work solid brown or black
leather
wing tips.
His
only ostentation was a wide rectangular belt buckle showing a turquoise
Saturn
and silver stars set in rosewood above brass and maple mountains. He
had
done little actual astronomy for five years, but he kept that job
description
close to his heart and quick to his lips, still thinking it the
noblest
of professions.
Kneeling
in the starshadow of ash and maple, he dug his fingers into the rich,
black
leaf-crusted cake of humus. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the water and
the
tealike tang of rotting leaves and the clean soapy scent of moist dirt. To
be
alone was to reappraise. To be alone and know that he could go back, could
return
at any moment to Francine and their son, Marty, was an ecstasy he could
hardly
encompass.
The
wind hissed through the branches overhead. Looking up, peering between the
black
silhouettes of maple leaves, Arthur saw a thick spill of stars. He knew
every
constellation, knew how the stars were born (as much as anyone did) and
how
they grew old and how a few died. Still, the stars were seldom more than
lights
on deep blue velvet. Only once in a great while could he make them fill
out
and see them for what they were, far participants in an intricate play.
Voices
carried over the woods. On the broad single-story cabin's porch,
vaulting
on sturdy concrete pillars above the fern- and tree-covered bluff,
Francine
talked about fishing with her sister Danielle and brother-in-law,
Grant.
"Men
love hobbies full of guts and grease," Danielle said, her voice high and
sweet,
with a touch of North Carolina that Francine had mostly abandoned.
"Nonsense,"
Grant countered cordially, pure Iowa. "The thrill lies in killing
God's
innocent creatures."
Below
Arthur, the river flowed with a whispering rumble. Still squatting, he
slid
down the bank on the heels of his thoroughly muddy running shoes and
dipped
his long-fingered hands into the cold water.
_All
things are connected to a contented man._ He looked up again at the sky.
"God
damn," he said in awe, his eyes moistening. "I love it all."
Something
padded close to him in the dark, snuffling. Arthur tensed, then
recognized
the eager whine. Marty's three-month-old chocolate Labrador, Gauge,
had
followed him down to the river. Arthur felt the pup's cold nose against
his
outstretched palm and rumpled the dog's head and ears between his hands.
"Why'd
you come all the way down here? Young master fickle? Not paying
attention?"
Gauge
sat in the dirt, rump wriggling, tail swishing through the damp leaves.
The
pup's moist brown marble eyes reflected twin star-glints. "Call of
thewild," Arthur said on the pup's behalf. "Out here in the savage
wilderness."
Gauge
leaped away and pounced his forepaws into the water.
Arthur
had owned three dogs in his life. He had inherited the first, a ragged
old
collie bitch, when he had been Marty's age, on the death of his father.
The
collie had been his father's dog heart and soul, and that relationship had
passed
on to him before he could fully appreciate the privilege. After a time,
Arthur
had wondered if somehow his father hadn't put a part of himself into
the
old animal, she had seemed so canny and protective. He hoped Marty would
find
that kind of closeness with Gauge.
Dogs
could mellow a wild boy, or open up a shy one. Arthur had mellowed.
Marty—a
bright, quiet boy of eight, spectrally thin—was already opening up.
He
played with his cousin on the sward below and east of the patio. Becky, a
pretty
hellion with more apparent energy than sense—excusable for her age—had
brought
along a monkey hand puppet. To give it voice she made high-pitched
chattering
noises, more birdlike than monkeylike.
Marty's
giggle, excited and girlish, flew out through the tops of the trees.
He
had a hopeless crush on Becky. Here, in isolation—with nobody else to
distract
her—she did not spurn him, but she often chided him, in a voice full
of
dignity, for his "boogy" ways. "Boogy" meant any number of
things, none of
them
good. Marty accepted these comments in blinking silence, too young to
understand
how deeply they hurt him.
The
Gordons had lived in the cabin for six months, since the end of Arthur's
stint
as science advisor to the President of the United States. He had used
that
time to catch up on his reading, consuming a whole month's worth of
astronomical
and scientific journals in a day, consulting on aerospace
projects
one or two days a week, flying north to Seattle or south to Sunnyvale
or
El Segundo once a month.
Francine
had gladly returned from the capital social hurricane to her studies
of
ancient nomadic Steppes peoples, whom she knew and understood far more than
he
understood the stars. She had worked on this project since her days at
Smith,
slowly, steadily accumulating her evidence, pointing toward the (he
thought,
rather obvious) conclusion that the great ecological factory of the
steppes
of central Asia had spun forth or stimulated virtually every great
movement
in history. Eventually she would turn it all into a book; indeed, she
already
had well over two thousand pages of text on disk. In Arthur's eyes,
part
of his wife's charm was this dichotomy: resourceful mother without,
bulldog
scholar within.
The
phone rang three times before Francine could travel from the patio to
answer
it. Her voice came through the open bedroom window facing the river.
"I'll
find him," she told the caller.
He
sighed and stood, pushing on the corduroy covering his bony knees.
"Arthur!"
"Yeah?"
"Chris
Riley from Cal Tech. Are you available?"
"Sure,"
he said, less reluctantly. Riley was not a close friend, merely an
acquaintance,
but over the years they had established a pact, that each would
inform
the other of interesting developments before most of the scientific
community
or the general media had heard of them. Arthur climbed the path up
the
bank in the dark, knowing each root and slippery patch of mud and leaves,
whistling
softly. Gauge bounded through the ferns.
Marty
watched him owlishly from the edge of the lawn, under the wild plum
tree,
the monkey puppet hanging loose and grotesque on his hand. "Is Gauge
with
you?"
The
dog followed, ears and eyes locked on the monkey, which he wanted
passionately.
Becky
lay on her back in the middle of the yard, luminous blond hair fanned
over
the grass, gazing solemnly at the sky. "When can we get the telescopeout,
Dad?" Marty asked. He grabbed Gauge's collar and bent down to hug him
fiercely.
The dog yelped and craned his neck to nip air as the monkey's
plastic
face poked him in the withers. "Becky wants to see."
"A
little later. Tell Mom."
"She'll
get it?" Marty was passing through a stage of doubting his mother's
technical
skills. This irritated Arthur.
"She's
used it more than I have, buddy."
"All
_right!_" Marty enthused, releasing the dog, dropping the puppet and
running
for the steps ahead of Arthur. Gauge immediately grabbed the monkey by
the
throat and shook it, growling. Arthur followed his son, turned left in the
hallway
past the freezer chest, and picked up his office extension.
"Christopher,
what a surprise," he said affably.
"Art,
I hope I'm the first. "Riley's voice was a higher tenor than usual.
"Try
me."
"Have
you heard about Europa?"
"Europe?"
"Europa.
Jupiter's sixth moon."
"What
about it?"
"It's
gone."
"I
beg your pardon?"
"There's
been a search on at Mount Wilson and Mauna Kea. The _Galileo's_ still
going
strong out there, but it hasn't been aimed at Europa for weeks. JPL
turned
the cameras to where Europa should be, but there's nothing big enough
to
photograph. If it were there, it would come out of occultation again in
about
ten minutes. But nobody expects to see it. Calls from amateurs have been
flooding
JPL and Mount Palomar for sixteen hours."
Arthur
couldn't shift gears fast enough to think how to react. "I'm
sorry...?"
"It's
not painted black, it's not hiding, it's just _gone._ Nobody saw it go,
either."
Riley
was a rotund, crew-cut, plaid sports-coated kind of scientist, shy in
person
but not on the phone, deeply conservative. He had always been
critically
deficient in the humor department. He had never pulled Arthur's leg
on
anything.
"What
do they think happened?"
"Nobody
knows," Riley said. "Nobody's even venturing a guess. There's going
to
be
a press conference here in Pasadena tomorrow."
Arthur
pinched his cheek speculatively. "Did it explode? Something hit it?"
"Can't
say, can we?" He could almost hear Chris's smile in his voice. Riley
did
not smile unless he was faced with a truly bizarre problem. "No data. I've
got
about seventy other people to call now. Keep in touch, Arthur."
"Thanks,
Chris." He hung up, still pinching his cheek. The smoothness of the
moment
by the river had passed. He stood by the phone for a moment, frowning,
then
walked into the master bedroom.
Francine
reached high to rummage through the top shelf of the bedroom closet,
Marty
and Becky at her heels.
In
their seventeen years together, his wife had moved over the line from
voluptuous
to _zoftig_ to plump. The physical contrast between Arthur and
Francine,
all curves and fulfilling grace, was obvious; equally obvious was
the
fact that what others saw in them, they did not see in each other. She
tended
to wear folk art print dresses, and much of her wardrobe was a stylish
acquiescence
to matronliness.
Yet
in his thoughts, she was eternally as he had first seen her, walking up
sunny
white-sanded Newport Beach in southern California, wearing a brief one-
piece
black swimsuit, her long black hair loose in the breeze. She had been
the
sexiest woman he had ever known, and she still was.
She
pulled down the bulbous canvas Astroscan bag. Bending over, she rummaged
for
the box of eyepieces under a pile of shoes. "What did Chris want?"
sheasked.
"Europa's
disappeared," Arthur said.
"Europe?"
Francine smiled over her shoulder and straightened, passing the bag
to
him.
"Europa.
Sixth moon of Jupiter."
"Oh.
How?"
Arthur
made a face and shrugged. He took the telescope and its painted gray
metal
base and carried them outside, Gauge snorting at his heels.
"Uh-oh,
kids. Dad's in robot mode," Francine called from the bedroom. "What
did
Chris really say?" She followed him down the stairs and onto the lawn,
where
he pressed the telescope base into the soft grass and soil.
"That's
what he really said," Arthur replied, dropping the big red ball of the
reflector
gently into the three hollowed branches of the base.
Gray,
dignified Grant and lithe blond Danielle stood by the railing on the
east
side of the rear deck, overlooking the yard and the plum tree. "It's a
lovely
night," Danielle said, holding Grant's arm. Arthur thought they most
resembled
models in upscale real estate ads. Still, they were good people.
"Stargazing?"
"It's
not secret or anything, is it?" Francine asked.
"I
truly doubt such a thing can be kept secret," Arthur replied, peering into
the
eyepiece.
"One
of Jupiter's moons has disappeared," Francine called up to them.
"Oh,"
her sister said. "Is that possible?"
"We
have a friend. An acquaintance, really. He and Arthur keep each other up-
to-date
on certain things."
"So
he's looking for it now?" her sister asked.
"Can
you see Jupiter from here? I mean, tonight?" Grant asked.
"I
think so," Francine replied. "Europa is one of the Galilean moons.
One of
the
four Galileo saw. The kids were going to—"
Arthur
had Jupiter in view, a bright spot in the middle of the blue-gray
field.
Stars formed a resolving fog in the background. Two pointlike moons,
one
bright and one quite dim, were clearly visible on one side of the brighter
planet.
The dim one was either Io or Callisto, the bright probably Ganymede.
The
third was either in transit across the planet or in Jupiter's cone of
shadow,
eclipsed —or behind the planet, occulted. He tried to remember
Laplace's
law regarding the first three Galilean moons: _The longitude of the
first
satellite, minus three times that of the second, plus twice that of the
third,
is always equal to half of the circumference_...He had memorized that
in
high school, but it did him a fat lot of good now. He murmured the
consequences
of the law to himself: "The first three Galileans—that includes
Europa—can
never be all eclipsed at once, nor can they all be in front of the
disk
at once. If Io and Europa are eclipsed or occulted simultaneously, or in
transit
simultaneously...Ah, hell." He couldn't remember the details. He would
just
have to sit and wait for the four to be visible all at once, or for only
three
to make an appearance.
"Can
we see?" Marty asked.
"Sure.
I'm going to be out here all night, probably," Arthur said.
"Not
Becky," Danielle said.
"Oh,
Mooommm! Can't I see?"
"Go
ahead," Arthur encouraged, leaning back. Marty squatted next to the
telescope
and showed his cousin how to look into the eyepiece. "Don't knock
it,"
Arthur warned. "Francine, can you get me the field glasses?"
"Where
are they?"
"In
the hall cupboard, above the camping gear, in a black leather case."
"What
would cause a moon to disappear? How big a moon is it?" Grant asked.
"It's
quite large as moons go," Arthur said. "Rock and ice, probably with a
liquid
water layer under an ice shell.""That's not like our moon, is
it?" Danielle asked.
"Very
different," Arthur said. Francine handed him the glasses and he trained
them
on the sky in the general vicinity of Jupiter. After a few moments of
sweeping
and focusing, he found the dot of light, but couldn't hold the
glasses
still enough to make out moons. Becky pulled away from the telescope,
rubbing
her eye and making a face. "That's hard," she said.
"All
right. Let me use it again," Arthur said.
Marty
asked his cousin if she had seen it.
"I
don't know. It was hard to see anything."
Arthur
applied his eye to the eyepiece and found a third moon visible, also
comparatively
dim. Callisto, Io, and bright Ganymede. No sign of a fourth.
The
rest of the family soon tired of the vigil and went inside, where they
played
a noisy game of Scrabble.
After
two hours of straining his eyes, Arthur stood up. He felt dizzy. His
legs
tingled painfully from the knees down. Francine returned to the backyard
around
ten o'clock and stood next to him, arms folded.
"You
have to see for yourself?" she asked.
"You
know me," Arthur said. "It should be visible, but it isn't."
"Pretty
big thing to lose, a moon, isn't it?"
"Unheard
of."
"Any
idea what it means?"
Arthur
looked up at her. "There's only three. I know I should have seen four
by
now."
"What
does it mean, Arthur?"
"Damned
if I know. Somebody's collecting moons, maybe?"
"It
scares me," Francine said. "If it's true." She looked at him
plaintively.
He
said nothing. "Then it's true?"
"I
suppose it is."
"Doesn't
it scare you?"
Arthur
stretched to relieve cramped muscles and took his wife's hands in his.
"I
don't know what it means yet," he said.
Francine
moved almost as easily and blissfully in the sciences as he, albeit
on
a more instinctive level. He valued her insights, and the thought of her
fear
sobered him further. "Why are you scared?"
"A
moon is bigger than a mountain, and if a mountain, or the river,
disappeared
without a trace, wouldn't you be afraid?"
"I
might," he conceded. He picked up the telescope and replaced its aperture
cover.
"That's enough for tonight."
Francine
wrapped her arms around herself. "Bed?" she asked. "Grant and
Danielle
and the children are asleep. Gauge is with Marty."
Arthur's
mind raced as he lay next to Francine. The wide bed's flannel winter
sheets
hadn't been changed to the regular percale spring and summer sheets. He
was
glad for their fuzzy comfort. His emotions had caught up with him.
Europa
had been around for billions of years, silently orbiting Jupiter. Some
scientists
had thought there might be life there, but that had never been
proved
or disproved.
_If
a mountain or the river disappears, that's much closer to home..._
Arthur
dreamed of fishing with his best friend, Harry Feinman. They sat in a
boat
on the river, lines trailing in the current, wearing wide-brimmed hats
against
a sun that was not all that bright. In the dream, Arthur remembered
Harry
playing with Martin at the house, lifting the boy high in the air and
making
an airplane noise as he ran around the tree in the backyard. Harry's
wife—tall,
stately Ithaca—had watched in this dream memory, her smile carrying
a
slight edge; she was barren, and had never given Harry the child he wanted.
Only
occasionally did Harry seem to regret the missed opportunities. _I
haven't
seen Harry in over eight months,_ Arthur thought. _Yet here he is._
_How
are you doing, fellah?_ Arthur asked Harry in the boat. _Any nibbles?_ Itwas
curious to realize that the figure of Harry, sitting with hat slouched
over
his face, was part of a dream. Arthur wondered what the dream Harry would
say.
_You asleep?_
He
reached over to lift the hat.
The
Earth's moon lay under Harry's hat, bright and full. Harry's face was in
the
craters and seas of its surface. _Wow,_ Arthur said. _That's really
beautiful._
But
he worried for the merest instant that he was not dreaming, and awoke with
a
start.
QUID
SUM, MISER! TUNC DICTUROS?
PERSPECTIVE
_AP/Home
Info Service, September 2, 1996:_ WASHINGTON, D. C. -Scientists are
convening
at the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS)
Conference
to listen to speakers presenting papers on subjects ranging from
"Lack
of Proof for Supermassive Intergalactic Gravitational Lenses" to
"Distribution
of Wild Rodent Plague Through Ground Squirrel Fleas (_Diamanus
Montanus_)
in Southern California." Yesterday, one of the most hotly debated
papers
was presented by Dr. Frank Drinkwater of Balliol College, Oxford
University.
Dr. Drinkwater maintains that there are no intelligent
extraterrestrial
civilizations. "If there were, we would certainly have seen
their
effects by now." Dr. Drinkwater maintains that one civilization,
creating
self-reproducing planet-visiting spacecraft, would permeate the
galaxy
in less than a million years.
No
conclusion was reached by conference scientists regarding the recent
disappearance
of Jupiter's sixth moon, Europa. Professor Eugenie Cook of the
University
of Washington, Seattle, maintains that the moon has been displaced
from
its orbit by collision with a massive and heretofore unknown asteroid.
Famed
astronomer Fred Accord maintains that such a collision would have
"shattered
the moon, and we would still be able to see the orbiting
fragments."
No such sightings have been reported. Many scientists remarked on
public
apathy over such an unprecedented event. After a month, the story of
Europa
has almost vanished from the media. Accord commented, "Obviously, more
provincial
difficulties, like the U. S. presidential election, loom larger. ".
September
28-29
Camped
beside the mountain that should not have been there, wrapped in cold
desert
darkness, Edward Shaw could not sleep. He heard steady breathing from
the
still forms of his two companions, and marveled at their ease.
He
had written in his notebook:
The
mound is approximately five hundred meters long and half as wide, perhaps
a
hundred meters high, (apparently) the basaltic cinder cone of a dead
volcano,
covered with boulder- and cobble-sized chunks of dark black scoria
and
surrounded by fine white quartz sand. It is not on our maps nor in the
1991
Geosat directory. The flanks of the cone are steeper than the angle of
repose,
as much as fifty and sixty degrees. The weathering is haphazard at
best—
some parts open to the sun and rain are jet black, shiny, and other
areas
are only mildly rusty. There are no insects on the mound—specifically,
lift
any rock and you will _not_ find a scorpion or millipede. There are no
beer
cans.
Edward,
Brad Minelli, and Victor Reslaw had journeyed from Austin, Texas, to
combine
a little geology with a lot of camping and hiking across the early
autumn
desert. Edward was the eldest, thirty-three; he was also the shortest
and
in a close race with Reslaw to lose his hair the fastest. He stood five
feet
nine inches in his hiking boots, and his slender frame and boyish,
inquisitive
features made him seem a lot younger, despite the thinning hair.
To
see objects closer than two feet from his round nose, he wore gold wire-framed
round-lensed glasses, a style he had adopted as an adolescent in the
late
seventies.
Edward
lay on his back with his hands clasped behind his head and stared up at
the
clear steady immensity of the sky. Three days before, dark and gravid
clouds
had conspired in the flaming sunset to drop a true gully-washer into
Death
Valley. Their camp had been on high ground, but they had seen
basketball-sized
boulders slide and roll down freshly gouged channels.
The
desert seemed once again innocent of water and change. All around the camp
hung
a silence more precious than any amount of gold. Not even the wind spoke.
He
felt very large in the solitude, as if he might spread his fingers over
half
the land from horizon to horizon, and gather a mica coat of stars on his
fingers.
Conversely, in his largeness, he was also a little frightened. This
inflated
magnitude of self could easily be pricked and shrink to nothing, an
illusion
of comfort and warmth and high intellectual fever.
Not
once in his six-year career as a professor of geology had he found a major
error
in the U.S. Geological Survey Death Valley charts. The Mojave Desert and
Death
Valley were the Mecca and Al Medina of western U.S. geologists; they had
tramped
over the regions for well over a century, drawn by the nakedness and
shameless
variety of the Earth. From its depths miners had hauled borax and
talc
and gypsum and other useful, unglamorous minerals. In some places, niter-
lined
caves wedged several hundred feet into the Earth. A spelunker need
descend
only twenty or thirty feet to feel the heat; creation still lay close
under
Death Valley.
There
were hundreds of dead volcanoes, black or sullen red on the tan and gray
and
pink desert, between the resort at Furnace Creek and the small town of
Shoshone,
yet each one had been charted and was likely featured in some
graduate
research paper or another.
This
mountain was an anomaly.
That
was impossible.
Reslaw
and Minelli had shrugged it off as an interesting if unique error on
the
maps; a misplacement, like the discovery of some new island in an
archipelago,
known to the natives but lost in a shuffle of navigators' charts;
a
kind of Pitcairn of volcanic mounds.
But
the cinder cone was too close to routes traveled at least once or twice a
year.
Edward knew that it had not been misplaced. He could not deceive himself
as
his friends did.
Neither
could he posit any other explanation.
They
walked once again around the base of the mound at midmorning. The sun was
already
high in the flat, still blue sky. It was going to be a hot day. Red-
haired,
stocky Reslaw sipped coffee from a green-enameled Thermos bottle, a
serviceable
antique purchased in a rock-and-junk shop in Shoshone; Edward
chewed
on a granola bar and sketched details in a small black cloth-bound
notebook.
Minelli trailed them, idly chipping at boulders with a rock pick,
his
loose, lanky form, unkempt black hair, and pale skin giving him the
appearance
of a misplaced urban scrounger.
He
stopped ten yards behind Edward. "Hey," he called out. "Did you
see this?"
"What?"
"A
hole."
Edward
turned back. Reslaw glanced back at them, shrugged, and continued
around
the mound to the north.
The
hole was about a meter wide and slanted upward into the mass of the mound.
Edward
had not seen it because it began in deep shadow, under a ledge
illuminated
by the warm rays of the sun. "It's not a flow tube. Look how
smooth,"
Minelli said. "No collapse, no patterns."
"Bad
geology," Edward commented. _If the mound is a fake, then this is the
first
mistake._
"Hm?""It's
not natural. Looks like some prospector got here before us."
"Why
dig a hole in a cinder cone?"
"Maybe
it's an Indian cave," Edward offered lamely. The hole disturbed him.
"Indians
with diamond drills? Not likely," Minelli said with a faint edge of
scorn.
Edward ignored his tone and stepped on a lava boulder to get a better
look
up into the darkness. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and squeezed
it
to shine a beam into the depths. Smooth-bored matte-finish lava walls
absorbed
the light beyond eight or ten meters; to that point, the tunnel was
straight
and featureless, inclining upward at about thirty degrees.
''Do
you smell something?" Minelli asked.
Edward
sniffed. "Yeah. What is it?"
"I'm
not sure..."
The
odor was faint and smooth and sweet, slightly acrid. It did not encourage
further
investigation. "Like a lab smell," Minelli said.
"That's
it," Edward agreed. "Iodine. Crystalline iodine."
"Right."
Minelli's
forehead wrinkled in a mock fit of manic speculation. "Got it," he
said.
"This is a junkie rock. A sanitary junkie cinder cone."
Edward
ignored him again. Minelli was infamous for a sense of humor so strange
it
hardly ever produced anything funny. "Needle mark," Minelli explained
in an
undertone,
realizing his failure. "You still think this isn't a map mistake?"
"If
you found a street in New York City, not on any map, wouldn't you be
suspicious?"
"I'd
call up the mapmakers."
"Yeah,
well, this place is as crowded as New York City, as far as geologists
are
concerned."
"All
right," Minelli conceded. "So it's _new._ Just popped up out of
nowhere."
"That
sounds pretty stupid, doesn't it?" Edward said. "Your idea, not mine."
Edward
backed away from the hole and suppressed a shiver. _A new mole and it
won't
go away; a blemish that shouldn't be here._
"What’s
Reslaw doing?" Minelli asked. "Let’s find him."
"This-a-way,"
Edward said, pointing north. "We can still catch up."
They
heard Reslaw call out.
He
had not gone far. At the northernmost point of the mound’s base, they found
him
squatting on top of a beetle-shaped lava boulder.
"Tell
me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing," he said, pointing to the shade below
the
rock. Minelli made a face and hurried ahead of Edward.
In
the sand, two meters from the boulder, lay something that at first glance
resembled
a prehistoric flying creature, a pteranodon perhaps, wings folded,
canted
over to one side.
It
was not mineral, Edward decided immediately; it certainly didn’t resemble
any
animal he had seen. That it might be a distorted plant, a peculiar variety
of
succulent or cactus, seemed the most likely explanation.
Minelli
edged around the find, cautiously giving it a berth of several yards.
Whatever
it was, it was about the size of a man, bilaterally symmetric and
motionless,
dusty gray-green with touches of pastel flesh-pink. Minelli
stopped
his circling and simply gaped.
"I
don’t think it’s alive," Reslaw said.
"Did
you touch it?" Minelli asked.
"Hell
no."
Edward
kneeled before it. There was a definite logic to the thing; a kind of
head
two feet long and shaped rather like a bishop’s miter, or a flattened
artillery
shell, point down in the sand; a knobby pair of shoulder blades
behind
the fan-crest of the miter; short thin trunk and twisted legs in squat
position
behind that. Stubby six-digit feet or hands on the ends of the limbs.
_Not
a plant._
"Is
it a corpse, maybe?" Minelli asked. "Wearing something, like a dog,
youknow, covered with clothes—"
"No,"
Edward said. He couldn't take his eyes away from the thing. He reached
out
to touch it, then reconsidered and slowly withdrew his fingers.
Reslaw
climbed down from the boulder. "Scared me so bad I jumped," he
explained.
"Jesus
Christ," Minelli said. "What do we do?"
The
snout of the miter lifted from the sand and three glassy eyes the color of
fine
old sherry emerged. The shock was so great that none of the three moved.
Edward
finally took a step back, almost reluctantly. The eyes in the miter-
head
followed him, then sank away again, and the head nodded back into the
sand.
A sound issued from the thing, muffled and indistinct.
"I
think we should go," Reslaw said.
"It's
sick," Minelli said.
Edward
looked for footprints, hidden strings, signs of a prank. He was already
convinced
this was no prank, but it was best to be sure before committing
oneself
to a ridiculous hypothesis.
Another
muffled noise.
"It's
saying something," Reslaw said.
"Or
trying to," Edward added.
"It
isn't really ugly, is it?" Minelli asked. "It's kind of pretty."
Edward
hunkered down and approached the thing again, edging forward one booted
foot
at a time.
The
thing lifted its head and said very clearly,"I am sorry, but there is bad
news."
"What?"
Edward jerked, his voice cracking.
"God
almighty," Reslaw cried.
"I
am sorry, but there is bad news."
"Are
you sick?" Edward asked.
"There
is bad news," it repeated.
"Can
we help you?"
"Night.
Bring night." The voice had the whispering quality of wind-blown
leaves,
not unpleasant by itself, but chilling in context. A waft of iodine
smell
made Edward recoil, lips curled back.
"It's
morning," Edward said. "Won't be night for—"
"Shade,"
Minelli said, his face expressing intense concern. "It wants to be in
shade."
"I'll
get the tent," Reslaw said. He jumped down from the boulder and ran back
to
the camp. Minelli and Edward stared at each other, then at the thing canted
over
in the sand.
"We
should get the hell out of here," Minelli said.
"We'll
stay," Edward said.
"Right."
Minelli's expression changed from concern to puzzled curiosity. He
might
have been staring at a museum specimen in a bottle. "This is really,
wonderfully
ridiculous."
"Bring
night," the thing pleaded.
Shoshone
seemed little more than a truck stop on the highway, a caf6 and the
rock
shop, a post office and grocery store. Off the highway, however, a gravel
road
curved past a number of tree-shaded bungalows and a sprawling modern one-
story
house, then ran arrow-straight between venerable tamarisk trees and by a
four-acre
swamp to a hot-spring-fed pool and trailer court. The small town was
home
to some three hundred permanent residents, and at the peak of the tourist
season—late
September through early May—hosted an additional three hundred
snowbirds
and backpackers and the occasional team of geologists. Shoshone
called
itself the gateway to Death Valley, between Baker to the south and
Furnace
Creek to the north. To the east, across the Mojave, the Resting
Spring,
Nopah and Spring ranges, and the Nevada state line, was Las Vegas, the
closest
major city.Reslaw, Minelli, and Edward brought the miter-headed creature into
Shoshone
after
joining California state highway 127 some fifteen miles north of the
town.
It lay under moistened towels in the back of their Land Cruiser on the
spread
fabric of the tent, where once again it seemed dead.
"We
should just go into Las Vegas," Minelli said. He shared a front seat with
Reslaw.
Edward drove.
"I
don't think it would last," Edward said.
"How
can we find help for it here?"
"Well,
if it really _is_ dead, there's a big meat locker in that grocery."
"It
doesn't look any more dead than before it spoke," Reslaw said, glancing
back
over the seat at the still form. It had four limbs, two on each side, but
whether
it stood or walked on all four, none of them knew.
"We've
touched it," Minelli said mournfully.
"Shut
up," Edward said.
"That
cinder cone's a spaceship, or a spaceship is buried underneath,
obviously—"
Minelli blurted.
"Nothing's
obvious," Reslaw said calmly.
"I
saw that in _It Came From Outer Space._"
"Does
that look like a big eye floating on a tentacle?" Edward asked. He had
seen
the movie, too. Its memory did not reassure him.
"Meat
locker," Minelli responded, his hands trembling.
"There's
a phone. We can call ambulances in Las Vegas, or a helicopter. Maybe
we
can call Edwards or Goldstone and get the authorities out here," Edward
said,
extending his actions.
"What'll
we tell them?" Reslaw asked. "They won't believe the truth."
"I'm
thinking," Edward said.
"Maybe
we saw a jet plane go down," Reslaw suggested.
Edward
squinted dubiously.
"It
spoke English," Minelli commented, nodding.
None
of them had mentioned that point in the hour and a half since they had
hauled
the creature away from the base of the cinder cone.
"Hell,"
Edward said, "it's been listening to us out there in space. Reruns of
_I
Love Lucy._"
"Then
why didn't it say 'Hey, Ricky!'?" Minelli asked, covering his fear with
a
manic grin.
_Bad
news. Like a mole that shouldn't be there._
Edward
pulled the truck into the service station, its heavy-duty tires
tripping
the service bell. A deeply tanned teenage boy in jeans bleached to
nondescript
pale gray and a Def Leppard T-shirt walked out of the garage
attached
to one side of the grocery and approached the Land Cruiser. Edward
warned
him back with his hands. "We need to use a phone," he said.
"Pay
phone right there," the boy drawled suspiciously.
"Anybody
got quarters?" Edward asked. Nobody did. "We need to use the store
phone.
This is an emergency."
The
boy saw the towel-shrouded shape through the Land Cruiser windows.
"Somebody
hurt?" he asked curiously.
"Stay
back," Minelli warned.
"Shut
up, Minelli," Reslaw whispered through gritted teeth.
"Yeah."
"Dead?"
the boy asked, one cheek jumping with a nervous tic.
Edward
shrugged and entered the grocery. There, a short and very wide woman
clerk
in a muumuu adamantly refused to let him use the phone. "Look," he
explained.
"I’ll pay for it with my credit card, my phone card," he said.
"Shoa
me the cahd," she said.
A
tall, slender, attractive black-haired woman came in, dressed in unfaded
jeans
and a white silk blouse. "What’s wrong, Esther?" she asked.
"Man’s
givin’ us a royal payin," Esther said. "Woan use the pay phone
ahtside,but sayes he’s gaht a credit cahd—"
"Jesus,
thanks, you’re right," Edward said, glancing between them. "I’ll use
my
card on the pay phone."
"Is
it an emergency?" the black-haired woman asked.
"Yeah,"
Edward said.
"Well,
go ahead and use the store phone."
Esther
glared at her resentfully. Edward sidled behind the counter, the clerk
moving
deftly out of his way, and punched a button for an open line. Then he
paused.
"Hospital?"
the black-haired woman asked.
Edward
shook his head, then nodded. "I don’t know," he said. "Maybe the
Air
Force."
"You’ve
seen an airplane go down?" the woman asked.
"Yeah,"
Edward said, for the sake of simplicity.
The
woman gave him an emergency hospital number and suggested he use directory
assistance
for the Air Force. But he did not dial the emergency number first.
He
dithered, glancing nervously around the store, wondering why he hadn’t
planned
a clear course of action earlier.
_Goldstone,
or Edwards, or maybe even Fort Irwin?_
He
asked directory assistance for the number of the base commander at Edwards.
As
the phone rang, Edward hunted for an excuse. Reslaw was right: telling the
truth
would get them nowhere.
"General
Frohlich's office, Lieutenant Blunt speaking."
"Lieutenant,
my name is Edward Shaw." He tried to be as smooth and calm as a
television
reporter. "I and two of my friends—colleagues—have seen a jet go
down
about twenty miles north of Shoshone, which is where I'm calling from—"
The
lieutenant became very interested immediately, and asked for details.
"I
don't know what kind of jet," Edward continued, unable to keep a slight
quiver
from his voice. "It didn't look like any I'm familiar with, except
maybe...Well,
one of us thinks it looked like a MiG we've seen in _AvWeek._"
"A
MiG?" The lieutenant's tone became more skeptical. Edward's culpable
squint
intensified.
"Did you actually see the plane go down?"
"Yessir,
and the wreckage. I don't read Russian...But I think there were
Cyrillic
markings."
"Are
you positive about this? Please give me your name and proof of identity."
Edward
gave the lieutenant his name and the numbers on his license plate,
driver's
license, and, for good measure, his MasterCard. "We think we know
where
the pilot is, but we didn't find him."
"The
pilot is alive?"
"He
was dangling on the end of a chute, Lieutenant. He seemed alive, but he
went
down in some rocks."
"Where
are you calling from?"
"Shoshone.
The...I don't know the name of the store."
"Charles
Morgan Company Market," the black-haired woman said.
Edward
repeated the name. "The town's grocery store."
"Can
you lead us to where you saw the aircraft?" the lieutenant asked.
"Yessir."
"And
you realize the penalty for giving false information about an emergency
of
this sort?"
"Yessir,
I do."
Both
women regarded him with wide eyes.
"A
MiG?" the slim, black-haired woman asked after he hung up. She sounded
incredulous.
"Listen,"
Edward said. "I lied to them. But I'm not going to lie to you. We
might
need your meat locker."
Esther
looked as if she might faint. "What's happenin' heah?" she asked.
"Stella?
What's this awl abauht?" Her drawl had thickened and her face wassweaty
and pasty.
"Just
you," Edward said to Stella.
She
examined him shrewdly and pointed to his belt and rock hammer, still slung
in
its leather holder. "You're a rock hound?"
"A
geologist," he said.
"Where?"
"University
of Texas," he said.
"Do
you know Harvey Bridge from—"
"U.C.
Davis. Sure."
"He
comes here in the winter..." She seemed markedly less skeptical.
"Esther,
go
get the sheriff. He's at the caf6 talking to Ed."
"I
don't think we should let everybody in on this," Edward suggested. _Bad
feeling._
"Not
even the sheriff?"
He
glanced at the ceiling. "I don’t know..."
"Okay,
then, Esther, just go home. If you don’t hear from me in a half an
hour,
go get the sheriff and give him this man’s description." She nodded at
Edward.
"You’ll
be okay heah?" Esther asked, short thick fingers rapping delicately on
the
counter.
"I’ll
be fine. Go home."
The
store had only one customer, a young kid looking at the paperback and
magazine
rack. With both Stella and Edward staring at him, he soon moved out
through
the door, shrugging his shoulders and rubbing his neck.
"Now,
what’s going on?" Stella asked.
Edward
instructed Minelli to drive the Land Cruiser around to the back of the
store.
He motioned for Stella to follow him through the rear door. "We’ll need
a
cool dark place," he told her as they waited.
"I’d
like to know what’s happening," she repeated, her jaw firm, head inclined
slightly
to one side. The way she stood, feet planted solidly on the linoleum
and
hands on her hips, told Edward as plain as words she would stand for no
more
evasion.
"There’s
a new cinder cone out there," he said. Minelli parked the vehicle
near
the door. Talking rapidly to keep his story from crashing into splinters,
Edward
opened the Land Cruiser’s back gate, pulling aside the tent and moist
towels.
"I mean, not fresh...Just new. Not on any charts. It shouldn’t be
there.
We found this next to it."
The
miter-head lifted slightly, and the three sherry-colored eyes emerged to
stare
at the three of them. Reslaw stood by the store’s far corner, keeping a
lookout
for gawkers.
To
her credit, Stella did not scream or even grow pale. She actually leaned in
closer.
"It’s not a fake," she said, as quickly convinced as he had been.
"No,
ma’am."
"Poor
thing...What is it?"
Edward
suggested she stand back. They unloaded it and carried it through the
delivery
door into the refrigerated meat locker.
PERSPECTIVE
_East
Coast News Network interview with Terence Jacobi, lead singer for the
Hardwires,
September 30, 1996:_
ECNN:
Mr. Jacobi, your group's music has consistently preached—so to speak—the
coming
of the Apocalypse, from a rather radical Christian perspective. With
two
songs in the Top 40 and three records totaling ten million sales, you've
obviously
hit a nerve with the younger generation. How do you explain your
music'
s popularity?
Jacobi
(_Laughing, then snorting and blowing his nose_): Everybody knows,
between
the ages of fourteen and twenty-two, you've got only two best friends:your left
hand and Christ. The whole world's out to get you. Maybe if the
world
went away, if God wiped the slate clean, we could get on with just being
ourselves.
God' s a righteous God. He will send his angels to Earth to warn
us.
We believe that, and it shows in our music.
October
3
Harry
Feinman stood near the back of the boat untangling line from the spindle
of
his reel. Arthur let the boat drift with the slow-moving water. He dropped
anchor
a dozen yards south of the big leaning pine that marked the deep,
watery
hollow where, it was rumored, fishermen had pulled in so many big ones
the
past few years. Marty played with the minnows in the bait bucket and
opened
the cardboard containers full of dirt and worms. The sun was a dazzle
outlined
by thin high clouds; the air smelled of the river, a fresh, pungent
greenness,
and of coolness, of the early fall. In the calm backwater of the
hollow,
orange and brown leaves had collected in a flat, undulating clump.
"Do
I have to bait my own hook?" Marty asked.
"That's
part of the game," Harry said. Harry Feinman was stocky and muscular,
six
inches shorter than Arthur, with premature ash-gray hair receding on all
fronts
but his neck, where it ventured as stiff fuzz below the collar of his
black
leather jacket. His face was beefy, friendly, with small piercing eyes
and
heavy dark eyebrows. He reeled in loose nylon vigorously and propped the
pole
between the bait can and a tackle box. "You don't earn your fish without
doing
the whole thing."
Arthur
winked at Marty's dubious glance.
"Might
hurt the worms," Marty said.
"I
honestly don't know whether they feel pain or not," Harry said. "They
might.
But that's the way of things."
"Is
that the way of things, Dad?" Marty asked Arthur.
"I
suppose it is." In all the time they had spent living by the river, Arthur
had
never taken Marty fishing.
"Your
dad's here to break things easy to you, Marty. I'm not. Fishing is
serious
business. It's a ritual."
Marty
knew about rituals. "That means we're supposed to do something a certain
way
so we won't feel guilty," he said.
"You
got it," Harry said.
Marty
put on the vacant look that meant he was hatching an idea. "Peggy
getting
married...is that a ritual, because they're going to have sex? And
they
might be guilty?"
In
the morning, Francine and Martin would drive to Eugene to attend her
niece's
wedding. Arthur would have accompanied them, but now there were far
more
important things.
Arthur
raised his eyebrows at Harry. "You've done all the talking so far,"
he
said.
"He's
your son, fellah."
"Getting
married is celebration. It's a ritual, but it's joyous. Not at all
like
baiting a hook."
Harry
grinned. "Nobody's guilty about having sex anymore."
Marty
nodded, satisfied, and took a hooked line from Arthur. Arthur gingerly
pulled
a worm out of the carton and handed it to his son. "Twist it around and
hook
it several times."
"Blecchh,"
Martin said, doing as he was told. "Worm blood is yellow," he
added.
"Squishy."
They
fished in the hollow for an hour without luck. By nine-thirty, Martin was
ready
to put the pole down and eat a sandwich. "All right. Wash your hands in
the
river," Arthur told him. "Worm juice, remember."
"Bleechh."
Marty bent over the gunwale to immerse his hands.
Harry
leaned back, letting his knees grip the pole, and locked his handsbehind his
neck, grinning broadly. "We haven't done this in years."
"I
don't miss fishing much," Arthur said.
"Sissy."
"Dad's
not a sissy," Marty insisted.
"You
tell him," Arthur encouraged.
"Fishing's
gross," Marty said.
"Like
father, like son," Harry lamented.
Harry's
floppy fisherman's cap cast a shadow over his eyes. Arthur suddenly
remembered
the dream, with Harry's head a full moon, and shuddered. The wind
rose
cool and damp in the tree shadows of the hollow with a beautiful,
mourning
sigh.
Marty
ate his sandwich, oblivious.
October
4
Beyond
the wide picture windows and a curtain of tall pines, the river eddied
quiet
and green around a slight bend. To the west, white clouds rolled inland,
their
bottoms heavy and gray.
In
the kitchen, amid hanging copper pots and pans, Arthur cracked eggs into an
iron
skillet on the broad gas stove.
"We've
known each other for thirty years," he said, bringing out two plates of
scrambled
eggs and sausage and laying one on the thick oak table before his
friend.
"We don't see nearly enough of each other."
"That's
why we've been friends for so long." Harry tapped the end of his fork
lightly
on the tabletop. "This air," he said. "Makes me feel like thirty
years
ago
was when I last ate. What a refuge."
"You're
cramping my sentimentality," Arthur said, returning to the kitchen for
a
pitcher of orange juice.
"The
sausages...?"
"Hebrew
National."
"God
bless." Harry dug into the fluffy yellow pile on the round stoneware
plate.
Arthur sat down across from him.
"How
do you ever get any work done here? I prefer concrete cells. Helps the
concentration."
"You
slept well."
"I
_snore_, Arthur, whether I sleep well or not."
Arthur
smiled. "And you call yourself an outdoors-man, a fisherman." He cut
the
tip from a sausage and lifted it to his mouth. "Between consulting and
reeducating
myself, I've been trying to write a book about the Hampton
administration.
Haven't even seriously started on chapter one. I'm not sure
how
to describe what happened. What a wonderful tragic comedy it all was."
"Hampton
gave science more credibility than any President since...Well," Harry
said,"since."
He lifted one hand and splayed his fingers.
"I'm
hoping Crockerman—"
"That
name. A president."
"May
not be so bad. He's part of the reason I invited you out here."
Harry
raised a bushy eyebrow. The two were as much a contrast as any classic
comedy
team—Arthur tall and slightly stooped, his brown hair naturally
tousled;
Harry of medium height and stocky to the edge of plumpness in his
middle
years, with a high forehead and a friendly, wide-eyed expression that
made
him seem older than he was. "I told Ithaca." Ithaca, the lovely,
classically
proportioned wife, whom Arthur hadn't seen in six years, was a
decade
younger than Harry.
"What
did you tell her?"
"I
told her you used the tone of voice that means you have some job for me."
Arthur
nodded. "I do. The bureau is being revived. In a way."
"Crockerman's
reviving Betsy?"
"Not
as such." The Bureau of Extraterrestrial Communication—BETC or
"Betsy"for short—had been Arthur's last hurrah in Washington. He had
served as
science
advisor and Secretary of BETC for three years under Hampton, who had
appointed
him after the Arecibo Incident in 1992. That had turned out to be a
false
alarm, but Hampton had kept Arthur on until his assassination in Mexico
City
in August of 1994. Vice President William Crockerman had been sworn in on
a
train in New Mexico, and had immediately moved to place his own stamp on the
White
House, replacing most of the Cabinet with his own choices. Three months
after
the swearing-in, the new chief of staff, Irwin Schwartz, had told
Arthur,
"No little green men, no lost ships off Bermuda...might as well go
home,
Mr. Gordon."
"Is
he going to make you science advisor?" Harry asked. "Kick out that
idiot
Rotterjack?"
Arthur
shook his head, grinning. "He's forming a special presidential task
force."
"Australia,"
Harry said, nodding sagely. He put down his glass of orange juice
without
taking a sip, braced as if for an assault, his eyes fixed on the salt
and
pepper shakers in the center of the table. "Great Victoria Desert."
Arthur
was not surprised. "How much do you know?" he asked.
"I
know it was found by opal prospectors and that it's not supposed to be
there.
I know that it could be a virtual duplicate of Ayers Rock."
"That
last part isn't quite true. It differs substantially. But you're right.
It's
recent, and it shouldn't be there." Arthur was relieved to know that
Harry
hadn't heard of the incident much closer to home.
"What
do we have to do with it?"
"Australia
is finally asking for advice. The Prime Minister is going public
with
a report in three days or less. He's under some pressure."
"Little
green men?"
"I
can't even comment on that until I've asked you the questions, Harry."
"Then
ask," Harry said, still braced.
"The
President has put me in charge of the civilian science investigation
team.
We work with the military and with State. You're my first choice."
"I'm
a biochemist. That means..."
Arthur
shook his head slowly. "Hear me out, Harry. I need you for
biochemistry,
and as my second-in-command. I'm pushing for Warren from Kent
State
for geology, and Abante from Malibu for physics. They've agreed, but
they
have to go through political examination."
"You
think I'd pass Crockerman's political pop quiz?" Harry asked.
"You
will if I insist, and I will."
"You
need a biochemist...really?"
"That's
the rumor," Arthur said, his grin widening.
"It
would be lovely." Harry pushed his chair back with only half his eggs and
one
sausage eaten. "Old friends, working together again. Ithaca would agree.
Hell,
even if she didn't...but..."
"There
will never be another chance like this;" Arthur said, emphasizing each
word
as if he were putting some essential point across to a dunderhead
student.
Harry
wrinkled his forehead, staring up at Arthur. "Dupres at King's
College?"
"I've
asked for him. He hasn't answered yet. We may not be able to get
extranationals
on the team."
"I
wouldn't turn you down lightly," Harry said. Arthur saw his friend's eyes
were
red. He appeared close to tears. "You need somebody reliable."
"What
does that mean?"
Harry
looked out the window, hand tensing on a fork handle, relaxing. "I just
told
Ithaca three weeks ago."
Arthur's
face became placid, clear of all the excitement he had exhibited
seconds
before. "Yes?"
"Chronic
leukemia. I've got it. It has me."Arthur blinked twice. Harry would not
look straight at him.
"It's
not good. In a few months, I'll be spending most of my time fighting
this.
I can't see how I'll be anything but a hindrance."
"Terminal?"
Arthur asked.
"My
doctors say perhaps not. But I've been reading." He shrugged.
"These
new treatments—"
"Very
promising. I have hope. But you must see..." Harry turned his bright
gaze
on Arthur. "This thing's as big as Ayers Rock, and it's been there how
long?"
"No
more than six months. Survey satellites mapped that area just over six
months
ago and it wasn't there."
Harry
grinned broadly. "That's wonderful. That's truly wonderful. What the
hell
is it, Arthur?"
"A
piece of Europa, perhaps?" Arthur's voice was far away. His friend still
wouldn't
meet his gaze.
Harry
laughed out loud and flung his napkin on the table. "I'll not be sad and
weepy.
Not with this."
Arthur's
throat tightened. He had practically grown up with Harry. They had
known
each other for thirty years. He couldn't possibly be dying. Arthur
coughed.
"We'll become adults with this one, Harry. The whole human race. I
need
you very much—"
"Can
you take on a might-be invalid?" Now their eyes met, and this time Arthur
glanced
away, shoulders stiff. With an effort, he looked back. "You'll make
it,
Harry."
"Lord,
speak of will to live."
"Join
the team."
Harry
wiped his eyes with the forefinger of his right hand. "Travel? I mean,
much—"
"At
first, but you can stay in Los Angeles if you wish, later."
"I'll
need that. The treatment is at UCLA."
Arthur
offered his hand. "You'll make it."
"After
this, maybe it won't be so bad," Harry said. He took the offered hand
and
squeezed it firmly.
"What?"
"Dying.
What a thing to see...Little green men, Arthur?"
"Are
you with us?"
"You
know I am."
"Then
you get the big picture. It's not just Australia. There's something in
the
Mojave Desert, Death Valley, between a resort called Furnace Creek and a
little
town called Shoshone. It resembles a cinder cone. It's new. It doesn't
belong
there."
Harry
grinned like a little boy. "Wonderful."
"And
yes, there's an LGM."
"Where?"
"For
the moment, Vandenberg Air Force Base."
Harry
glanced at the ceiling and lifted both arms, tears spilling from his
eyes.
"Thank you, Lord."
PERSPECTIVE
_WorldNet
USA Earthpulse, Octobers, 1996:_ Almost all's well with the world
today.
No earthquakes, no typhoons, no hurricanes approaching land. Frankly,
we'd
say today was bright and glorious, but for early light snows in the
northeastern
United States, rain by tonight in the Pacific Northwest, and the
confirmation
last week that the ever-popular El Nino has returned to the South
36
• Greg Bear
Pacific
. Australians are bracing for another long drought in the face of this
climactic
scourge.When Trevor Hicks told Shelly Terhune, his publicist, that the morning
interview
with KGB was on, she paused, snickered, and said, "Vicky won't like
you
turning traitor." Vicky Jackson was his editor at Knopf.
"Tell
her it's FM, Shelly. I'm going to be squeezed between the surf report
and
the morning news."
"The
KGB do a surf report?"
"Look,
it was on your list of stations," he said, mock-exasperated. "I'm not
responsible."
"All
right, let me look," Shelly said. "KGB-FM. You're right. You've
confirmed
the
slot?"
"The
news manager says ten or fifteen minutes, but I'm sure it'll end up about
thirty
seconds."
"At
least you'll reach the surfers. Maybe they haven't heard of you."
"If
they haven't, it's not for want of your trying." He tried to put on a
petulant
tone. He was in fact quite tired; he was sixty-eight years old, after
all,
and while comparatively hale and hearty, Hicks was not used to such a
schedule
anymore. Ten years ago, he could have done it standing on his head.
"Now,
now. Tomorrow we have you set up for that morning TV talk show."
"Confirmed,
tomorrow morning. Live so they can't edit."
"Don't
say anything rude," Shelly admonished him. This was hardly necessary.
Trevor
Hicks gave some of the most polite and erudite interviews imaginable.
His
public image was bright and stylishly rumpled; he resembled both Albert
Einstein
and a middle-aged Bertrand Russell; what he had to say was consensus
technocracy,
hardly controversial and always good for a short news item. He
had
founded the British chapter of the Trojans Society, devoted to space
exploration
and the construction of huge orbiting space habitats; he was a
forty-seven-year
member of the British Interplanetary Society; he had written
twenty-three
books, the most recent being _Starhome_, a novel about first
contact;
and last but not least, he was the most public spokesman in the so-
called
"civilian sector" for manned exploration of space. His was not quite
a
household
name, but he was one of the most respected science journalists in
the
world. Despite spending twelve years in the United States, he had not lost
his
English accent. In short, for both radio and television he was a natural.
Shelly
had taken advantage of this by booking him on a generic "whirlwind"
tour
of seventeen cities in four weeks.
This
week, he was in San Diego. He had not been in San Diego since 1954, when
he
had covered the flight trials of the first jet fighter seaplane, the _Sea
Dart_, in San Diego Bay. The city had changed
greatly since then; it was no
longer
a sleepy Navy town. He had been booked in the new and stylish Hotel
Inter-Continental,
on the harbor, and from his tenth-story window could see
the
entire bay.
In
those years, he had been a wire service reporter with Reuters,
concentrating
on science stories whenever possible. The world, however, had
seemed
to fall into a deep and troubled sleep in the 1950s. Few of his science
stories
had received much attention. Science was equated with H-bombs;
politics
was the sexier and more easily encompassed subject of the time. Then
he
had flown to Moscow to cover an agricultural conference, as part of the
background
for a planned book on the Russian biologist Lysenko and the
Stalinist
cult of Lysenkoism. That had been in late September.
The
conference had dragged on for five excruciatingly dull days, with no meat
for
his book and worse, no stories to convince Reuters he even had a clue as
to
why he was there, On the last day of the conference, news of the launch of
the
world's first artificial moon, a 184-pound silvery metal ball called
_Sputnik_,
had come just in time to save his career. _Sputnik_ had returned
science
to the forefront of world journalism. Trevor Hicks had suddenly found
his
focus: space. He had buried his book on Lysenkoism and forged aheadwithout a
backward glance.
He
had shed a wife—there really was no kinder word for it—in 1965, and had
lived
with and broken up with three women since. Currently, he was a confirmed
bachelor,
though he had fancied the reporter from _National Geographic_ he had
met
at the _Galileo_ flyby celebration in Pasadena last year. She had not
fancied
him.
Trevor
Hicks was not just accumulating a greater store of historical memories;
he
was growing old. His hair was solidly gray. He kept in shape as best he
could,
but...
He
drew the draperies on the bay and the glittering, Disneylandish
conglomeration
of shops and restaurants called Seaport Village.
His
portable computer sat silent on the room's maple-veneer desk, its unfolded
screen
filled with black characters on a cream background. The screen looked
remarkably
like a framed sheet of typing paper. Hicks sat on the chair and
gnawed
a callus on the first knuckle of his middle finger. He had gained that
callus,
he thought idly, from thousands of hours with pencil in hand, taking
notes
that he could now just as easily type on the lap-sized computer. Many
younger
reporters did not have calluses on their middle fingers.
"That's
it," he said, turning the machine off and pushing the chair back.
"Nothing
for it. Chuck it." He closed the screen and put on his shoes. The
evening
before, he had seen an old sailing ship and a maritime museum on the
wharf,
just a short hike.
Whistling,
he locked the hotel room behind him and walked on powerful short
legs
down the hallway.
"What
do you expect mankind to find in space, Mr. Hicks?" asked the news
manager,
a young, bushy-haired man in his late twenties. The microphone on its
tilting
arm and spring suspension poked up under Hicks's nose, forcing him to
lift
his chin slightly to speak. Hicks dared not adjust it now; it was live.
The
interview was being taped on an ancient black and gray reel-to-reel deck
behind
the news manager.
"The
war for resources is hotting up," Hicks said. More romance than that.
"The
sky is full of metals, iron and nickel and even platinum and
gold...Flying
mountains called asteroids. We can bring those mountains to
Earth
and mine them in orbit. Some of them are almost pure metal."
"But
what would convince, say, a teenage boy or girl to study for a career in
space?"
"They
have a choice," Hicks said, still cold to the microphone and the
interviewer,
his mind elsewhere. Call it a reporter's instinct, but he had
been
feeling uneasy for days. "They can elect to stay on Earth and live an
existence,
a life, very little different from the lives their parents led, or
they
can try their wings on the high frontier. I don't need to convince the
young
folks out there who are really going into space in the next ten or
twenty
years. They know already."
"Preaching
to the choir?" the news manager asked.
"Rather,"
Hicks said. Space was no longer controversial. Hardly the sort of
topic
likely to get much air time on a rock-and-surf radio station.
"Did
fears of 'preaching to the choir' lead you to write your novel, perhaps
in
hopes of finding a wider audience?"
"I
beg pardon?"
"An
audience beyond science books. Dabbling in science fiction."
"Not
dabbling. I've read science fiction since I was a lad in Somerset. Arthur
Clarke
was born in Somerset, you know. But to answer your question: no. My
novel
is not written for the masses, more's the pity. Anyone who enjoys a
solid
novel should enjoy mine, but I must warn them"—oh, Lord, Hicks thought—
not
just cold; bloody well frozen—"it's technical. No ignoramuses admitted.
Dust
jacket locks tight on their approach."
The
manager laughed politely. "I enjoyed it," he said, 'and I suppose
thatmeans I'm not an ignoramus."
"Certainly
not," Hicks allowed.
"Of
course you've heard of the Australian reports—"
"No.
Sorry."
"They've
been coming in all day."
"Yes,
well, it's only ten o'clock in the morning and I slept late." His neck
hair
was standing on end. He regarded the news manager steadily, eyes slightly
protruding.
"I
was hoping we could get a comment from you, an expert on extraterrestrial
phenomena."
"Tell
me, and I'll comment."
"The
details are sketchy now, but apparently the Australian government is
asking
for advice on dealing with the presence of an alien spacecraft on their
soil."
"Pull
the other one," Hicks said reflexively.
"That's
what's been reported."
"Sounds
loony."
The
manager's face reddened. "I only bring the news, I , don't make it."
"I
have been waiting all my life for a chance to report on a true
extraterrestrial
encounter. Call me a romantic, but I've always held out hope
as
to the possibility of such an encounter. I have always been disappointed."
"You
think the report's a hoax?"
"I
don't know anything about it."
"But
if there _were_ alien visitors, you'd be among the first to go talk with
them?"
"I'd
invite them home to meet my mum. My mother."
"You'd
welcome them in your house?"
"Certainly,"
Hicks said, feeling himself warming. Now he could show his true
wit
and style.
"Thank
you, Mr. Hicks." The manager addressed his microphone now, cutting
Hicks
out. "Trevor Hicks is a scientist and a science reporter whose most
recent
book is a novel, _Star home_, dealing with the always-fascinating
subjects
of space colonization and first contact with extraterrestrial beings.
Coming
next on '90's News: another attempt to capture drift sand in Pacific
Beach,
and the birth of a gray whale at Sea World."
"May
I see these Australian reports?" Hicks asked when the news manager had
finished.
He thumbed through the thin sheaf of wire service printouts. They
were
sketchy at best. A new Ayers Rock in the middle of the Great Victoria
Desert.
Geologists investigating. Anomalous formation.
"Remarkable,"
he said, returning the sheaf to the news manager. "Thank you."
"Anytime,"
the manager said, opening the door.
A
bright yellow cab awaited him in the station parking lot. Hicks climbed into
the
back seat, neck hair still prickling. "Can you find a newsstand?" he
asked
the
driver.
"Newsstand?
Not in Clairemont Mesa."
"I
need a paper. A good paper. Morning edition."
"I
know a place on Adams Avenue that sells the New York _Times_, but it's
going
to be yesterday's."
Hicks
blinked and shook his head. His technological reflexes were slow. "To
the
Inter-Continental, then," he said. Large parts of his brain still lived
twenty
years in the past. On his desk in the hotel was a device that could get
him
all the news he needed: his computer. With its built-in modem, he could
access
a dozen big newsnets within the hour. He could also peek into a few
esoteric
space bulletin boards for information the newspapers might not deem
reliable
enough to print. And there was always the enigmatic _Regulus_. Hicks
hadn't
accessed _Regulus_ during his periodic ramblings through the boards and
nets,
but he had been given the number and ID code by a friend, Chris Riley atCal
Tech.
_Regulus_,
Riley had told him, knew unholy things about space and technology.
To
hell with promoting a book. Hicks hadn't felt this charged since 1969, when
he
had covered the lunar landing for _New Scientist_.
Arthur
lay in bed, arms folded behind his head. Francine sat against bunched
pillows
beside him. She and Martin had returned the day before, to find him
preoccupied
with deep secrets. A preliminary task force scheduling and
planning
book was spread open but unread in his lap.
He
was assessing a life without Harry. It seemed bleak, even when charged with
mystery
and events of more than historic significance.
Francine,
black hair loose around her shoulders, glanced at her husband every
few
minutes, but did not interrupt his reverie. Arthur intercepted these
glances
without reacting. He almost wished she would ask.
He
had spent all of his adult life knowing that Harry was available for
discussion,
by phone or letter; available for visits on a day's notice,
whenever
they weren't both too involved in work. They had matured together,
double-dated
(quaintly enough); Harry had approved wholeheartedly of Francine
when
a much younger Arthur had introduced them. "I'll marry her if you
don't,"
Harry
had said, only half joking. Together, for ten years, Francine and Arthur
had
arranged meeting after meeting of various eligible and sensible women and
Harry,
but Harry had always politely drifted away from these good matches. It
had
surprised everybody when he met and married Ithaca Springer in New York in
1983.
The marriage, against all predictions, had prospered. Young socialite
banker's
daughter and scientist; not a likely success story, yet Ithaca had
proved
remarkably adept at keeping up with the rudiments of her husband's
work,
and had brought Harry a most useful dowry: loving, persistent training
in
the social graces.
Both
had kept a stubborn independence, but Arthur had sensed early on that
Harry
could no longer do without Ithaca. How would Ithaca get along without
Harry?
Arthur
hadn't told Francine yet. Somehow, the news seemed Harry's property, to
be
dispensed with his permission alone, but that prohibition was silly and
Arthur's
wall of resistance was wearing thin.
Tomorrow
morning he would fly to Vandenberg and be introduced to the
"evidence."
That would be the biggest moment of his life, bar none, and yet
here
he was on the edge of tears.
His
best friend might be dead within a year.
"Shit,"
he said softly.
"All
right," Francine said, putting down her own book and rolling to lay her
head
on his shoulder. He closed the notebook and stroked her forehead. She
wound
her fingers through the thick salt-and-pepper patch of hair on his
chest.
"Are you going to tell me? Or is it more security stuff?"
"Not
security," he said. He ached to tell her about that. Perhaps in a few
weeks
he could. News was leaking rapidly; he suspected that soon even the
Death
Valley find would be public knowledge. Everybody was too excited.
"What,
then?"
"Harry."
"Well,
what about him?"
The
tears started to come.
"What's
wrong with Harry?" Francine asked.
"He
has cancer. Leukemia. He's working with me on...this project, but he might
not
see it through to the end."
"Jesus,"
Francine said, laying her palm flat on his chest. "Isn't he getting
treatment?"
"Of
course. He just doesn't think it will save him."
"Five
more years. We keep on hearing five more years, and it won't be a killer
anymore.""He
doesn't have five years. He may not have one."
Francine
hugged him closer and they lay together in silence for a moment. "How
do
you feel?" she finally asked.
"About
Harry? It makes me feel..."He thought for a moment, frowning. "I
don't
know."
"Betrayed?"
she asked softly.
"No.
We've always been very independent friends. Harry doesn't owe me
anything,
and I don't owe him anything. Except the friendship, and..."
"Being
there."
"Yeah.
Now he's not going to be there."
"You
don't know that."
"He
does. You should have seen him."
"He
looks bad?"
"No.
He looks pretty good, actually." Arthur tried to imagine one's entire
body
a battleground, with cancer spreading from point to point, or through the
blood,
unchecked, a kind of biological madness, a genetic suicide aided by
mindless,
lifeless clumps of protein and nucleic acid. He hated all errant
microscopic
things with a sudden passion. Why could not God have designed
human
bodies with seamless efficiency, that they might face the challenge of
everyday
life feeling at the very least internally secure?
"How
was the visit?" Francine asked.
"We
had a good couple of days. We'll see each other tomorrow, too, and that's
all
I can tell you."
"A
week, two weeks?"
"I'll
call if it's longer than a week."
"Sounds
like something big."
"I'll
tell you just one more thing," he said, aching with greater intensity to
reveal
it all, to share this incredible news with the person he loved most on
Earth.
(Or did he love Francine less than Harry? Different love. Different
niches.)
"Don't
spill the beans," she warned him, smiling slightly.
"No
beans, no cats, just this. If it wasn't for Harry, right now I'd be the
happiest
man on Earth."
"Jesus,"
she said again. "Must be something."
He
wiped his eyes with a corner of the flannel bed sheet. "Yup."
Edward
Shaw swirled the spoon in the cup of coffee and stared at the glass
port
mounted at head level in the sealed chamber door. He had slept soundly
during
the night. The chamber was as quiet as the desert. The clean white
walls
and hotel-style furniture made it reasonably comfortable. He could
request
books and watch anything he wished on the TV in one corner: two
hundred
channels, the chamber supervisor informed him.
By
intercom, he could speak with Reslaw or Minelli or Stella Morgan, the
black-haired
woman who had given him permission to call from the grocery store
in
Shoshone, seven days before. In other rooms, Minelli had told him, were the
four
Air Force enlisted men who had investigated his call and seen the
creature.
All of them were undergoing long-term observation. They might be "in
stir"
for a year or more, depending on...Depending on what, Edward was not
sure.
But he should have known the creature would mean enormous trouble for
all
of them.
The
threat of extraterrestrial diseases was sufficiently convincing that they
had
submitted to the rigorous two-day round of medical tests with few
complaints.
The days since had been spent in comparative boredom. Apparently,
nobody
was quite sure what their status was, how they should be treated or
what
they should be told. Nobody had answered Edward's most urgent question:
What
had happened to the creature?
Four
days ago, as they were being led to the sealed chambers by men in white
isolation
suits, Stella Morgan had turned to Edward and asked,conspiratorially, "Do
you know Morse code? We can tap out messages. We're
going
to be here for a long time."
"I
don't know any code," Edward had answered.
"It's
okay," an attendant had said from behind his transparent visor.
"You'll
have
commlink."
"Can
I call my lawyer?" Stella had asked.
No
answer. A shrug of heavily protected shoulders.
"We're
pariahs," Morgan had concluded.
Breakfast
was served at nine o'clock. The food was selected and bland. Edward
ate
all of it, at the recommendation of the duty officer, an attractive woman
in
a dark blue uniform with short, bobbed hair. "Any drugs in it?" He
had
asked
the question before; he was becoming boring, even to himself.
"Please
don't be paranoid," she said.
"Do
you people _really_ know what you're doing?" Edward asked. "Or what's
going
to happen to us?"
She
smiled vaguely, glanced to one side, then shook her head no. "But nobody's
in
any danger."
"What
if I start growing fungus up my arm?"
"I
saw that one," the duty officer said. "The astronaut turns into a
blob.
What
was its name?"
"_The
Creeping Unknown_, I think," Edward said.
"Yeah.
'Creeping' or 'Crawling.'"
"Goddammit,
what will you do if we actually get sick?" Edward asked.
"Take
care of you. That's why you're here." She didn't sound convinced.
Edward's
intercom panel buzzed and he pushed the tiny red button below a
blinking
light. There were eight lights and eight buttons in two corresponding
rows
on the panel, three of them live.
"Yeah?"
"This
is Minelli. You owe us another apology. The food here is terrible. Why
did
you have to call the Air Force?"
"I
thought they'd know what to do."
"Do
they?"
"Apparently."
"They
going to shoot us up on a shuttle?"
"I
doubt it," Edward said.
"I
wish I'd majored in biology or medicine or something. Then I might have
some
idea what they're planning."
Edward
wondered aloud whether they had isolated all of Shoshone, blocking off
the
highway and the desert around the cinder cone.
"Maybe
they've put a fence around California," Minelli suggested. "And maybe
that's
not enough. All of the West Coast. They're building a wall across the
plains,
not letting fruits and vegetables through."
The
intercom system was wired so they could all talk at once or privately.
They
could not exclude the watch or the chamber duty officers. Reslaw joined
them.
"There's only four of us, plus the four investigators—they didn't
isolate
that clerk, what's her name."
"Esther,"
Edward said. "Or the kid at the service station."
"That
must mean they're holding only those people who might have touched it,
or
came close enough to breathe microbes in the air."
Morgan
joined in. "So what are we going to do?" she asked.
Nobody
answered.
"I'll
bet my mother is frantic."
None
of them had been allowed to make calls out.
"You
own the store?" Edward asked. "I've been wanting to thank you
..."
"For
letting you call? Really smart of me, wasn't it? My family owns the
store,
the cafe, the trailer court, propane distributorship, beer
distributorship.
It's not going to be easy keeping this quiet. I hope she'sokay. God, I hope she
hasn't been arrested. She's probably called our lawyer
already.
I sound just like a spoiled rich kid, don't I? 'Wait'll my mommy
hears
about this.'" She laughed.
"Well,
who else here has connections?" Edward asked.
"We're
supposed to be gone for two more weeks," Reslaw said. "None of us is
married.
Are you...Stella?"
"No,"
she said.
"There
it is," Minelli concluded. "You're our only hope, Stella."
"Don't
be so glum," the chamber supervisor intruded. He was in his mid-
twenties,
a first lieutenant.
"Are
we being bugged?" Edward asked, angrier than he had any real right to be.
"Of
course," the supervisor replied. "I'm listening. Everything's being
recorded
on audio and video."
"Are
you running security checks on us?" Stella asked.
"I'm
sure they are."
"Damn,"
she said. "Count me out, guys. I was a student radical."
Edward
cut through his anger and frustration and forced a laugh. "You and me
both.
Minelli?"
"Radical?
Hell, no. First time I voted it was for Hampton."
"Traitor,"
Reslaw said.
"Speak
not ill of the dead," Edward cautioned. "Hell, he was good for
science.
He
boosted the space program."
"And
cut the hell out of domestic spending," Morgan added. "Crockerman's
no
better."
"Maybe
we'll meet the President," Minelli said. "Get on TV."
"We're
going to be here for the rest of our lives," Reslaw predicted with
Vincent
Price intonation. Edward couldn't tell whether he was being serious or
melodramatic.
"Who's
the oldest?" Edward asked, deliberately asserting leadership and moving
them
on to less timely subjects. "I'm thirty-three."
"Thirty,"
Minelli said.
"Twenty-nine,"
Reslaw said.
"Then
I'm the oldest," Stella said.
"How
old are you?" Edward asked.
"None
of your business."
"_They_
know," Reslaw said. "Let's ask."
"Don't
you dare," Morgan warned, laughing.
_All
right_, Edward thought, _we're in good spirits, or as good as can be
expected.
We're not being tortured, beyond a few pinpricks. No sense learning
everything
about each other right away. We might be here for a long time_.
"Hey,"
Minelli shrieked. "Supervisor! Supervisor! My face...My face. There's
something
growing on it."
Edward
felt his pulse quicken. Nobody spoke.
"Oh,
thank God," Minelli said a few moments later, milking the situation for
all
it was worth. "Just a beard. Hey! I need my electric razor."
"Mr.
Minelli," the supervisor said, "no more of that, please."
"We
should have warned you about him," Reslaw said.
"I'm
known to be something of an asshole," Minelli explained. "Just in
case
you
might be having second thoughts about keeping me here."
PERSPECTIVE
_AAP/NBS
WorldNet, Woomera, South Australia, October?, 1996 (Octobers, USA)_:
Despite
Prime Minister Stanley Miller's decision to "go public" with news of
extraterrestrial
visitors in South Australia, scientists at the site have
heretofore
released very little information. What is known is this: The object
discovered
by opal prospectors in the Great Victoria Desert is less than
eighty
miles from Ayers Rock, just over the border into South Australia. Itlies some
210 miles due south of Alice Springs. Its appearance has been
disguised
to resemble the three great granite tors of the region, Ayers Rock
and
the Olgas, although it is apparently smaller than these well-known
formations.
The Department of Defense has surrounded the site with some 90
miles
of razor wire in three concentric circles. Current investigations are
being
carried out by scientists from the Ministry of Science and the
Australian
Academy of Science. Help has been offered by officials at the
Australian
Space Research Center at Woomera and NASA's Island Lagoon tracking
facility,
although scientific and military cooperation with other nations is
by
no means certain at present.
The
dark gray Mercedes bus took Arthur Gordon and Harry Feinman from the small
Air
Force passenger jet through a heavily guarded gate into the Vandenberg
Space
Operations Center. Through the window, over a concrete hill about a mile
north,
Arthur could see the top half of a space shuttle and its mated rust-
orange
external tank and white booster rockets poised beside a massive steel
gantry.
"I
didn't know you were prepared for this sort of thing, I mean, to bring
specimens
here," Arthur said to the blue-uniformed officer sitting beside him,
Colonel
Morton Hall. Hall was about Arthur's age, slightly shorter, husky and
trim,
with a narrow mustache and an air of quiet patience.
"We
aren't, speaking frankly," Hall said.
Harry,
seated in front of them next to a black-haired lieutenant named
Sanborn,
turned and peered around the neck rest. Each member of the civilian
group
was accompanied by an officer. "Then why is everything here?" Harry
asked.
"Because
we're the closest, and we can improvise," Hall said. "We have some
isolation
facilities here."
"What
are they used for, under normal circumstances?" Harry asked. He glanced
at
Arthur with an expression between roguishness and pique.
"I'm
not at liberty to discuss that," Hall said, smiling slightly.
"It's
what I thought," Harry said to Arthur. "Yes, indeed." He nodded
and
faced
forward.
"What
were you thinking, Mr. Feinman?" Colonel Hall asked, still smiling,
albeit
more tightly.
"We're
moving biological weapons research into space," Harry said tersely.
"Automated
modules controlled from Earth. Bring them back here, and they'll
have
to be isolated. Son of a bitch."
Hall's
smile flickered but, to his credit, did not vanish completely. He had
sprung
his own trap. "I see," he said.
"We
all have the highest clearances and presidential authorization," Arthur
reminded
him. "I doubt that there's anything we can be kept from knowing, if
we
press hard enough."
"I
hope you appreciate our position here, Mr. Gordon, Mr. Feinman," Hall
said.
"This
whole thing was tossed into our laps just a week ago. We haven't
straightened
out all of our security procedures, and it'll be some time before
we
decide who needs to know what."
"I
would think this takes priority over practically everything," Arthur said.
"We're
still not sure what we have here," Colonel Hall admitted. "Perhaps
you
gentlemen
can help us clear up our priorities."
Arthur
grimaced. "Now the ball's in _our_ court," he said. "_Touche_,
Colonel."
"Better
your court than mine," Hall said. "This whole thing has been an
administrative
nightmare. We have four civilians and four of our own men in
isolation.
We have no warrants for arrest or any other formal papers, and
there
is no—well, you can imagine. We can only stretch national security so
far.""And
the LGM?" Harry asked, turning back again.
"He's—it's—our
star attraction. You'll see it first, then we'll interview the
men
who found it."
"'It,'"
Arthur said. "We'll have to find a less ominous name for that soon,
certainly
before 'it' becomes common knowledge."
"We've
been calling it the Guest, with a capital g," Hall said. "It almost
goes
without saying, we'd like to avoid any leaks."
"Not
likely to avoid it for long, with the Australians having gone public,"
Harry
said.
Hall
nodded, facing up to practicalities. "We still don't know whether they
have
what we have."
"What
we have, the Russians probably already know about," Harry said.
"Don't
be cynical, Harry," Arthur admonished.
"Sorry."
Harry grinned boyishly at the officer beside him, Lieutenant Sanborn,
and
then at Hall. "But am I wrong?"
"I
hope you are, sir," Sanborn said.
On
a concrete apron a mile and a half from the shuttle runway stood an
implacable
concrete building with inward-sloping walls, covering about two
acres
of ground. The tops of the walls rose three stories above the
surrounding
plain of concrete and asphalt. "Looks like a bunker," Harry said
as
the bus approached a ramp inclining below ground level. "Built to
withstand
nuclear
strike?"
"That's
not really a priority here, sir," Lieutenant Sanborn said. "It would
be
next to impossible to harden the launch sites and runway."
"This
is the Experiment Receiving Lab," Colonel Hall explained. "ERL for
short.
ERL holds our civilian guests and the specimen."
In
a broad garage below ground level, the bus parked beside a rubber-buffered
concrete
loading dock. The front passenger door opened with a hiss and their
escorts
led Harry and Arthur out of the bus, across the dock, and into a long,
pastel
green hallway lined with sky-blue blank-faced doors. Each door was
described
by numbers and cryptic acronyms on an engraved plastic plaque
mounted
in a small steel holder. Somewhere, air conditioners hummed quietly.
The
air smelled faintly of antiseptic and new electronics.
The
hall opened into a reception area equipped with two long brown vinyl-
upholstered
couches and several plastic chairs spaced around a table covered
with
magazines—scientific journals, _Time_ and _Newsweek_, and a lone
_National
Geographic_. A young alert-looking major sat behind a desk equipped
with
a computer terminal and a card identification box. One by one, the major
cleared
all four of them and then punched a code into the keypad lock of a
broad
double door behind his desk. The door opened with a sucking hiss.
"The
inner sanctum," Hall said.
"Where
is it?" Harry asked.
"About
forty feet from where we are right now," Hall said.
"And
the civilians?"
"About
the same distance, on the other side."
They
entered a half-circular room equipped with more plastic chairs, a small
wash-up
area and lab table, and three shuttered windows mounted in the long
curved
wall. Harry stood by the bare lab table and rubbed his hand along the
shiny
black plastic top, examining his fingers briefly for dust—the gesture a
professor
might make in a classroom. Arthur's mouth twitched in a brief smile.
Harry
caught the twitch and lifted his eyebrows: So?
"Our
Guest is behind the middle window," Hall said. He spoke into an intercom
mounted
to the left of the middle window. "Our inspectors are here. Is Colonel
Phan
ready?"
"I
am ready," a soft, almost feminine voice replied over a speaker.
"Then
let's get started."
The
shutters, mounted on their side of the window, clacked and began to rise.The
first layer of glass behind was curtained in black. "This is not a one-way
mirror
or anything fancy," Hall said. "We're not concealing our appearance
from
the Guest."
"Interesting,"
Harry said.
"The
Guest has requested a particular environment, and we've done our best to
meet
its requirements," Lieutenant Sanborn said. "It is most comfortable
in
conditions
of semidarkness, at a temperature of about fifteen degrees Celsius.
It
seems to enjoy a dry atmosphere with approximately the same mix of gases
found
in our own air. We believe it exited its normal environment at about six
o'clock
on the morning of the twenty-ninth of September to explore...well,
frankly,
we don't know why it left, but it was caught by daylight and
apparently
succumbed to the glare and heat by about nine-thirty."
"That
doesn't make sense," Harry said. "Why would it leave
its...environment...without
protection? Why not make all the necessary
precautions
and plan the first excursion carefully?"
"We
don't know," Colonel Hall said. "We have not interrogated the Guest
or
caused
it any undue strain. We supply it with whatever it requests."
"It
makes its requests in English?" Arthur asked.
"Yes,
in quite passable English."
Arthur
shook his head in disbelief. "Has anyone called Duncan Lunan?"
"We
haven't 'called' anybody but people with an immediate need to know," Hall
said.
"Who is Duncan Lunan?"
"A
Scottish astronomer," Arthur explained. "He made a fair mess of a
controversy
about twenty-three years ago when he claimed to have evidence of
an
alien space probe orbiting near the Earth. A probe he thought might be from
Epsilon
Bootis. His evidence consisted of patterns of anomalous returned radio
signals
that seemed to have been bounced from an object in space. Like a great
many
pioneers, he had to face disappointment and recant, after a fashion."
"No,
sir," Hall said, again with his enigmatic smile. "We haven't spoken
to
Mr.
Lunan."
"Pity.
I can think of a hundred scientists who should be here," Arthur said.
"Eventually,
perhaps," Hall allowed. "Not right now."
"No.
Of course not. Well?" Arthur gestured at the dark window.
"Colonel
Phan will give us a direct view in a few minutes."
"Who
is Colonel Phan?" Harry asked.
"He's
an expert in space medicine from Colorado Springs," Hall said. "We
couldn't
find anyone better qualified on such short notice, although I doubt
we
could find a better man for the job even if we searched all year."
"You
didn't ask us," Harry said. Arthur nudged him gently in the arm.
The
lights in the viewing room dimmed.
"I hope someone's making videotapes of
our
Guest," Harry whispered pointedly to Arthur as they pulled their seats
close
to the window.
"We
have a digital recorder and three high-resolution cameras working around
the
clock," Lieutenant Sanborn explained.
"All
right," Harry said.
Harry
was obviously nervous. For his own part, Arthur felt both alert and
vaguely
anesthetized. He could not quite accept that an age-old question had
been
answered affirmatively, and that they were about to see the answer.
The
black curtain drew aside. Beyond another thick pane of glass framed in
stainless
steel, they saw a small, dimly lighted, almost empty square room,
watery
green in color. In the middle of the room was a low platform draped
with
what appeared to be blankets. A plastic beaker of clear water sat in one
corner.
In the right-hand corner nearest their window was a meter-tall
transparent
cylinder, open at the top. Arthur took all this in before focusing
on
what lay under the blankets on the low table.
The
Guest moved, raised a forward limb—clearly a kind of arm, with a three-
fingered
hand, each finger divided in two above the middle joint—and then satup slowly,
the blanket falling free of its wedge-shaped head. The long "nose"
of
its head pointed at them and the golden brown eyes emerged from the blunt
end,
withdrew, emerged. Arthur, mouth dry, tried to see the being as a whole,
but
for the moment could only concentrate on whether the eyes were lidded, or
actually
withdrew within "pools" of pale gray-green flesh.
"Can
we speak to it?" Harry asked Hall over his shoulder.
"There's
two-way communication with the room."
Harry
sat in a seat near the window. "Hello. Can you hear us?"
"Yes,"
the Guest said. Its voice was sibilant and weak but clearly
understandable.
It lowered itself to the floor and stood uncertainly beside
the
low table. Its lower limbs—legs—were jointed in reverse, yet not like a
dog's
or horse's hind legs, where the "knee" is the analog of a human
wrist.
The
Guest's articulation was quite original, each joint actually reversed,
with
the limb's lower half dropping smoothly, gracefully, to split into three
thick
extensions, the tip of each extension splayed into two broad "toes."
The
legs
made up much of its height, its rhinoceros-hide "trunk" occupying
only
about
half a meter of its full meter and a half. The end of the long head,
thrust
forward on a thick, short neck, dropped a few centimeters below the
juncture
of legs and trunk. The arms rose from each side of the trunk like the
folded
manipulators of a mantis.
Harry
scowled and shook his head, temporarily unable to speak. He waved a hand
in
front of his mouth, glancing at Arthur, and coughed.
"We
don't know quite what to say to you," Arthur finally managed. "We've
been
waiting
a long time for someone to visit the Earth from space."
"Yes."
The Guest's head swung back and forth, the jewel-bright, moist, sherry-
colored
eyes fully revealed. "I wish I could bring better words on such an
important
occasion."
"What...ah,
what words do you bring?" Harry asked.
"Are
you related?" the Guest asked in turn.
"I'm
sorry—related?"
"There
is a question about my communication?"
"We
are not of the same family—not siblings, brother or father and son
or...whatever,"
Arthur said.
"You
have a social relationship."
"He's
my boss," Harry said, pointing to Arthur. "My hierarchical superior.
We're
friends, also."
"And
you are not the same individuals in different form as the individuals
behind
you?"
"No,"
Harry said.
"Your
forms are steady."
"Yes."
"Then..."
The Guest made a sharp, high-pitched whistling noise, and the long
crest
above the level of the shoulders appeared to inflate slightly. Arthur
could
not see a mouth or nose near the eyes, and surmised such openings might
be
on the head below the neck and facing the chest, in the area corresponding—
if
such correspondences were at all useful—to a long "chin." "I
will relate my
bad
news to you, as well. Are you placed highly in your group, your society?"
"Not
the highest, but yes, we are highly placed," Harry said.
"The
news I bring is not happy. It may be unhappy for all of you. This I have
not
spoken before in detail." Again the whistling noise. The head lifted and
Arthur
spotted slitlike openings on the underside. "If you have the ability to
leave,
you will wish to do so soon. A disease has entered your system of
planets.
There is little time left for your world."
Harry
pulled his chair a few inches forward, and the Guest, with an awkward
sidling
motion, came closer to the thick glass. Then it sat on the floor,
leaving
only its upper arms and long head visible. The three eyes pointed
steadily
at Harry, as if wishing to establish some unbreakable and facilerapport, or as
if commiserating...
"Our
world is doomed?" Harry asked, somehow avoiding all melodrama, giving the
last
word a perfectly straightforward and unstrained emphasis.
"Unless
I sadly misknow your abilities, yes. This is bad news."
"It
does seem so," Harry said. "What is the cause of this disease? Are
you
part
of an army of conquest?"
"Conquest...Uncertain.
Army?"
"Organized
group of soldiers, fighters, destroyers and occupiers. Invaders."
The
Guest was silent and still for a few minutes. It might have been a statue
but
for the almost invisible throbbing of its upper crest. "I am a parasite, a
happen-by
voyager."
"Explain
that, please."
"I
am a flea, not a soldier or a builder. My world is dead and eaten. I travel
here
within a child of a machine that eats worlds."
"You've
come on a spaceship?"
"Not
my own. Not _ours_." The emphasis there was striking.
"Whose,
then?" Harry pursued.
"Its
forebears made by very distant people. It controls itself. It eats and
reproduces."
Arthur
trembled with confusion and fear and a deep anger he could not explain.
"I
don't understand," he said, blocking Harry's next words.
"It
is a traveler that destroys and makes the stars safe for its builders. It
gathers
information, learns, and then eats worlds and makes new younger forms
of
itself. Is this clear?"
"Yes,
but why are _you_ here?" Arthur almost shouted.
"Shh,"
Harry said, holding up one hand. "It just said that. It's hitched a
ride.
It's a flea."
"You
didn't build the rock, the spaceship or whatever it is, in the desert?
That's
not your vehicle?" Colonel Hall asked. Obviously, they had heard none
of
this before. Young Lieutenant Sanborn was visibly shaken.
"Not
_our_ vehicle," the Guest affirmed. "It is powerful enough not to
fear
our
presence. We cannot hurt it. We sacrifice..." Again it whistled. "We
survive
only to warn of the death our kind has met."
"Where
are the pilots, the soldiers?" Harry asked.
"The
machine does not live as we do," the Guest said.
"It's
a robot, automatic?"
"It
is a machine."
Harry
pushed his chair back and rubbed his face vigorously with both hands.
The
Guest appeared to observe this closely, but otherwise did not change
position.
"We
have a couple of names for that kind of machine," Arthur said, facing
Colonel
Hall. "It sounds like a von Neumann device. Self-replicating, without
outside
instructions. Frank Drinkwater thinks the lack of such machines proves
there
is no intelligent life besides our own in the galaxy."
"Playing
devil's advocate, no doubt," Harry said, still massaging the bridge
of
his nose. "What scientist would want to _prove_ intelligence was
unique?"
Colonel
Hall regarded the Guest with an expression of mild pain. "It's saying
we
should be on war alert?"
"It's
saying..." Harry began angrily, and then controlled his tone, "it's
saying
we haven't got the chance of an ice cube in hell. Art, you read more
science
fiction than I do. Who was that fellow—"
"Saberhagen.
Fred Saberhagen. He called them 'Berserkers.'"
"I
am not being spoken with," the Guest said. "Have you become aware of
the
results
of this information?"
"I
think so," Arthur replied. They had not asked a perfectly obvious
question.
Perhaps
they didn't want to know. He appraised the Guest in the silence that
fell
over them. "How long do we have?""I do not know. Perhaps less
than an orbit."
Harry
winced. Colonel Hall simply gaped.
"How
long ago did your—did the ship land?" Arthur continued.
The
Guest made a small hissing sound and turned away. "I do not know," it
replied.
"We have not been aware."
Arthur
did not hesitate to ask the next question. "Did the ship stop by a
planet
in our solar system? Did it destroy a moon?"
"I
don't know."
A
short, powerfully built Asiatic man with close-trimmed black hair, dark
pockmarked
skin, and broad cheekbones entered the room. Arthur slapped his
hands
on his knees and glared at him.
"I
beg your pardon, gentlemen," he said.
Sanborn
cleared his throat. "This is Colonel Tuan Anh Phan." He introduced
Arthur
and Harry.
Phan
greeted each with a reserved nod. "I've just been informed that the
Australians
are releasing news photos and motion pictures. I believe this is
important.
Their visitors are not like our own."
PERSPECTIVE
_InfoNet
Political News Forum, October 6, 1996, Frank Topp, commentator_:
President
Crockerman's rating in the World-News public opinion polls has been
a
rocksteady 60 to 65 percent approval since June, with no signs of change as
Election
Day approaches. Political pundits in Washington doubt that anything
can
derail the President ' s easy victory in November, not even the hundred-
billion-dollar
trade imbalance between the Eastern Pacific Rim nations and
Uncle
Sam...or the enigmatic situation in Australia. I, for one, am not even
wearing
campaign buttons. It's going to be a dull election.
QUARENS
ME, SEDISTI LASSOS
7—
Hicks,
bleary-eyed, clothing rumpled, sat on the straight-backed hotel desk
chair
and scanned the contents of the file he had marked "Hurrah."
"Hurrah"
contained
the choicest bits of information from twenty-two hours and perhaps
three
hundred dollars' worth of accessing specialist bulletin boards around
the
world. He did not care about costs. He was still high.
Australia
did indeed have an artifact in their Great Victoria Desert,
something
apparently disguised to resemble a huge chunk of red granite. The
Australian
government had kept the find secret for about thirty days, until
leaks
through investigating military and scientific agencies threatened to
scoop
them on the greatest story of all time. This much and more—speculation,
rumors—had
been repeated again and again on all the networks he had accessed.
While
the government had not released full details, they were expected to do
so
any day.
The
_Regulus_ bulletin board was used solely by radio astronomers belonging to
the
21cm Club, of which he was an honorary member. After searching through the
general
and special interest messages, in a small area headlined
"Irresponsible
Murmurs," Hicks had found a cryptic and unsigned note: "Ham
fanatic,
right? Say no more about identity. Picked up unscrambled transmission
to
AFI"— that, Hicks decided, must be _Air Force One_, the President's plane—
"concerning
'our own bogey in the Furnace.' The Man's heading west to
Vandenberg.
Could this be...?"
Hicks
frowned again, reading that. He knew several shuttle pilots currently
flying
out of Vandenberg. Dare he call them up and ask if anything untoward
had
been happening? Dare he mention "our own bogey in the Furnace"?
A
knock interrupted his reverie. He was heading for the door when it opened
and
a young Asian woman in lime-green blouse and slacks backed in.
"Housekeeping,"
she announced, seeing him. "Okay?"Hicks looked over his room
abstractedly, relieved that he had chosen to wear a
robe.
He often worked in the buff, paunch, gray chest hairs, and all—the habit
of
a bachelor of long standing. "Please, not yet."
"Soon?"
she asked, smiling.
"Soon.
An hour."
She
shut the door behind her. Hicks paced back and forth from curtained window
to
bathroom door, chin in hand, face as clear and guileless as an infant's.
"I
cannot
think straight," he muttered. Turning on the television and selecting a
twenty-four-hour
news station, he sat on the corner of the bed.
For
a moment, he thought he had tuned to a movie channel by mistake. Three
shiny
silver objects, shaped like long-necked gourds, hovered above arid sandy
ground.
Nearby squatted a large van topped by an array of electronic sensing
equipment.
The van gave the objects scale; each was as tall as a man. Hicks
reached
over to turn up the volume, joining a male announcer in midsentence:
"—from
four days ago, shows the three mechanical remote devices which the
Australian
government claims emerged from a disguised spacecraft. The
government
says these devices have communicated with their scientists."
The
video of the silvery gourds and van was replaced by a typical press
conference
scene, with a slender, thirtyish man in a brown suit standing
behind
a clear plastic podium, reading a prepared statement: "We have
communicated
with these objects, and we can now affirm that they are not
living
creatures, but robots, representing the builders of the spacecraft—it
is
now confirmed to be a spacecraft—buried within the rock. While the actual
communications
are still being analyzed and will not be released immediately,
the
substance of the information supplied was positive, that is, not
threatening
or alarming in any fashion."
"Jesus
bloody Christ," Hicks said.
The
image of the hovering gourds returned. "They're flying," Hicks said.
"What's
holding them up? Come on, you bastards. Do your job and say what the
bloody
hell's going on."
"Commentary
from world leaders, including the Pope, after these messages—"
Hicks
flung his arms out and swore, kicked the cabinet holding the television,
and
punched the set off. He could spend another three hundred dollars chasing
rumors
across all the networks and bulletin boards in the world, or—
Or
he could stop being a novelist wallah and start being a journalist again by
finding
the news behind the news. Certainly not in Australia. The Great
Victoria
Desert, by now, had representatives of the media three-deep, trying
to
interview every grain of sand.
A
faint memory of some obligation suddenly flared into consciousness. He had
had
an appointment this morning. "Damn." That single word, said almost
happily,
adequately expressed his slight irritation at having forgotten
68 •
Greg Bear
the
local television interview. He should have been at the studio five hours
ago.
It hardly seemed to matter. He was on to something.
The
"Furnace"...Where in hell would that be? Somewhere near Vandenberg,
apparently.
He had visited Vandenberg seven times in his career, twice
covering
important combined civilian-military shuttle launches to polar orbit.
Hicks
pulled out his pocket compact disk player from a suitcase and hooked it
into
the computer. He indexed the World Atlas sector on his reference disk and
searched
through the F's in the gazetteer. "Furnace, furnace, furnace—"
He
quickly found several Furnaces, the first in Argyll County, Scotland. There
was
also Furnace, Kentucky, and Furnace L ("What is L, lake?") in County
Mayo,
Ireland.
Furnace, Massachusetts...And Furnace Creek, California. He entered
the
map number and coordinates. In less than two seconds, he had a detailed
color
map of an area a hundred kilometers square. A flashing icon in the lower
left-hand
corner indicated a comparative satellite photograph was available.
His
eye searched the map until an arrow appeared, flashing next to a tiny
dot."Furnace Creek," he said, smiling. "On the edge of Death
Valley proper, not
far
from Nevada actually..." But not very close to Vandenberg—across the state
from
it, in fact. He switched disks and keyed in a request for Automobile Club
of
Southern California information. The computer found a year-old listing.
"1995L
Brief: Furnace Creek Inn. 67 units. Golf, riding. Long-established,
picturesque
location overlooking Death Valley. Three stars."
Hicks
thought for a moment, very much aware that the facts were not coming
together
perfectly. Operating solely on instinct, he picked up the phone,
punched
a button for an outside line, and requested the area code for Furnace
Creek.
It was the same as San Diego's although it was hundreds of miles north-
northeast.
Shaking his head, he called information and asked for the number of
Furnace
Creek Inn. A mechanical voice informed him, and he jotted it down,
whistling.
The
phone rang three times. A sleepy-voiced, young-sounding girl answered.
Hicks
checked his watch again, for the fourth time in ten minutes. For the
first
time, he actually paid attention to the dials. One-fifteen p.m. He
hadn't
slept all night. "Reservations, please."
"That's
me," the girl said;
"I'd
like to book a room for tomorrow."
"I'm
sorry, sir, we can't do that. We're completely full."
"Can
I make a reservation for your dining room, then?"
"The
inn is closed for the next few days, sir."
"Big
traveling party?" Hicks asked, his smile broadening. "Special
reservations?"
"I
can't tell you that, sir."
"Why
not?"
"I'm
not allowed to give out that information now."
Hicks
could almost see the girl biting her lip. "Thank you." He hung up and
fell
back on the bed, suddenly' exhausted.
Who
else would have tracked this down?
"Can't
sleep," he resolved, sitting up again. He called room service and asked
for
coffee and a substantial breakfast—ham, eggs, whatever they had. The clerk
offered
a three-egg concoction with ham and bell peppers mixed in—a Denver
omelet,
as if pigs and peppers might be special to that city. He agreed, held
down
the button, and called the downstairs travel agency listed in the hotel
directory.
The
agent, an efficient-sounding woman, informed him that there was a private
airstrip
near Furnace Creek, but the closest he could fly in commercially
would
be Las Vegas.
"I'll
take a seat on the next flight out," he said. She gave him the flight
number
and departure time—about an hour from now, cutting it close—and the
gate
number at Lindbergh Field, and asked if he would need a rental car.
"Yes,
indeed. Unless I can fly directly in."
"No,
sir. Only small airfields out that way, no commuter flight service. The
drive
between Vegas and Furnace Creek will take about two or three hours," she
said,
adding, "if you're like everybody else who drives on the desert."
"Madmen
all, eh?" he asked.
"Madwomen,
too," the agent said briskly.
"Mad,
all mad," Hicks said. "I'd like a hotel room for the night, as well.
Quiet.
No gambling." It would be late afternoon by the time he arrived in Las
Vegas,
and he would not be able to make it to Death Valley before dark. • Best
to
get a good night's sleep, he thought, and start out in the morning.
"Let
me confirm your reservations, sir. I'll need your credit card number.
You're
a guest at the Inter-Continental?"
"I
am. Trevor Hicks." He spelled the name and gave his American Express
number.
"Mr.
Trevor Hicks. The writer?" the agent asked."Yes, indeed, bless
you," he said.
"I
heard you on the radio yesterday."
He
pictured the travel agent as a well-tanned blond beach bunny. Perhaps he
had
been unfair to KGB-FM. "Oh, indeed?"
"Yes.
Very interesting. You said you'd take an alien home to meet your mum.
Your
mother. Even now?"
"Yes,
even now," he said. "Feeling very friendly toward extraterrestrials,
aren't
we all?"
The
agent laughed nervously. "Actually, it frightens me." "Me, too,
dear,"
Hicks
said. Delicious, lovely fright.
8—
Harry
stood before the glass, hands in his pockets, staring at the Guest.
Arthur
conferred with two officers at the rear of the room, discussing how the
first
physical examination was going to be conducted. "We won't be entering
the
room this time," he said. "We have your photographs and...tissue
samples
from
the first day. They'll keep us busy."
Harry
felt a small flush of anger. "Idiots," he said under his breath. The
Guest,
as usual, was curled beneath the blankets on the low platform, only a
"foot"
and "hand" sticking out from the covers.
"Beg
pardon, sir?" asked the current duty officer, a tall, muscular Nordic-
looking
fellow of about thirty.
"I
said 'idiots,'" Harry repeated. "Tissue samples."
"I
wasn't there, sir, but we didn't know whether the Guest was alive or
dead,"
the
Nordic man said.
"Whatever,"
Arthur broke in, waving his hand at Harry: slack off. "They're
useful,
however they were taken. Today, I'm going to ask the Guest to stand
up,
allow us to photograph it...him—"
"It,"
Harry said. "Don't coddle our prejudices."
"It,
then, from all sides, in all postures, while active. I'll also ask if it
will
submit to further examinations later—"
"Sir,"
the Nordic man said, "we've discussed this, and considering the warning
the
Guest has delivered, we believe absolute caution is called for."
"Yes?"
"We're
revealing a great many things about ourselves. It could be an
information
conduit to the object in Death Valley, and how we carry out our
examinations,
X rays, whatever, could tell them a lot about how advanced we
are
and what our capabilities are."
"For
God's sake," Harry said. He ignored Arthur's sharp glance. "They've
been
listening
to our broadcasts for who knows how many decades. They know
everything
there is to know about us by now."
"We
don't believe that's necessarily so. A lot of information is simply not
conveyed
in civilian broadcasts, and certainly not in military broadcasts."
"They
can type us down to our toenails just by the fact that we still
broadcast
analog radio waves," Harry said, not moving from the window.
"Yes,
sir, but—"
"Your
warnings are well taken, Lieutenant Dreyer," Arthur said. "But we
can't
get
anywhere unless we examine the Guest. If this means some two-way
exchanges,
so be it. If the Guest is a conduit to the ship, we might be able
to
learn how through the exams."
"It's
an interesting idea," Harry conceded in an undertone.
"Yes,
sir," Dreyer said. "I've been told to pass these on to you—your
itineraries
for the Commander in Chiefs visit. We're at your disposal."
"All
right. Let's have two-way back on." Arthur walked down the slightly
sloping
floor to the window and stood beside Harry. He pushed the button
activating
the intercom to the Guest's chamber.
"Excuse
me. We'd like to continue our questions and examinations.""Yes,"
the Guest said, pushing aside the blankets and standing slowly.
"What
is the state of your health?" Arthur asked. "Are you feeling
well?"
"Not
altogether well," the Guest said. "The food is adequate, but not
sustaining."
The
Guest had been allowed to choose between a variety of carefully prepared
"soups."
The first tissue samples had revealed that the Guest could
conceivably
digest dextrorotary sugars and proteins generally found in Earth
life
forms. Purified water was being supplied in beakers passed through with
the
"food." Thus far, the Guest had not excreted anything into the wide
stainless-steel
sample tray left open in another corner. The Guest had eaten
sparingly,
and without apparent enthusiasm.
"Can
you describe substances that would please you?"
"In
space, we hibernated—"
Harry
emphasized the "we" in his notepad.
"And
our nutrition was provided by synthesizing machines throughout the
voyage."
Arthur
blinked. Harry scribbled furiously.
"I
am not aware of the names of substances in this language to describe them.
The
food you provide seems adequate."
"But
not enjoyable."
The
Guest didn't respond.
"We'd
like to conduct another physical examination," Arthur said. "We are
not
going
to take any more tissue samples."
The
Guest withdrew its three brown eyes and then produced them again, but said
nothing,
standing in what might have been a dejected posture—if the Guest
could
feel dejected, and if body language was at all similar...
"You
do not have to cooperate," Arthur said. "We don't want to force
anything
on
you."
"Difficulties
with speaking, with language," the Guest said. It stepped
sideways
in one fluid motion to the far right corner of the room. "There are
questions
you do not ask. Why?"
"I'm
sorry, I don't understand."
"You
do not ask questions about interior thoughts."
"You
mean, what you are thinking?"
"Interior
states are far more important than physical construction, are they
not?
Is this not true for your intelligences?"
Harry
glanced at Arthur. "All right," Harry said, putting down his notes.
"What
is your interior state?"
"Disorganized."
"You're
confused?" Harry asked.
"Not
at ease. Mission is completed. We will not survive this incident."
"You
won't..." Arthur searched for clear words. "When the ship leaves, you
won't
be aboard?"
"You
are not asking proper questions."
"What
questions should we ask?" Harry tapped his pencil on a chair arm. The
Guest
appeared to focus its three sherry-colored eyes on this gesture. "What
questions
should we ask?" he repeated.
"Process
of destruction. Past deaths of worlds. How you fit into the scheme."
"Yes,
you're right," Arthur said quickly. "We haven't been asking those
questions.
We experience fear, a negative emotional state, and we do not
really
want to know. This may be irrational—"
The
Guest lifted its "chin" high, revealing the two slits and a shadowed,
two-
inch-wide
depression on the underside of the miter. "Negative emotions," it
repeated.
"When will you ask these questions?"
"Some
of our leaders, including our President, will be joining us tomorrow.
That
might be a good time," Harry said.
"I
think we'd better hear it now, first." Arthur was uneasy at the thought ofblindly
springing information on Crockerman. He had no idea how the man would
react.
"Yes,"
the Guest said.
"First
question, then," Arthur began. "What happened to your world?"
The
Guest began its story.
OFFERTORIUM
9—
"You're
privileged, folks," the new duty officer, a young, slender black woman
in
gray blouse and slacks, told her four isolated charges.
Ed
Shaw sat up on his bunk and blinked.
"The
President's coming here this evening. He wants to talk with you and
commend
you all."
"How
long until we get out of here?" Stella Morgan asked, her voice hoarse.
She
cleared her throat and repeated her question.
"I
have no idea, Miss Morgan. We have a message from your mother. It's in your
food
drawer. We can relay any message from you to her that does not carry
information
as to your whereabouts or why you are here."
"She's
putting on the pressure, isn't she?" Minelli said. They had been
discussing
Stella's mother, Bernice Morgan, a few hours earlier. By now,
Stella
was convinced, Mrs. Morgan would have marshaled half the lawyers in the
state.
"She
is indeed," the duty officer said. "You've got quite a mother, Miss
Morgan.
We hope to get this all straightened out quickly. Labs are running
tests
around the clock. So far, we haven't found any foreign biologicals on
you
or the Guest."
Edward
lay back on his bunk. "What's the President going to do here?" he
asked.
"He
wants to talk to the four of you. That's all we've been told."
"And
see the alien," Minelli said. "Right?"
The
duty officer smiled.
"When
are you going to tell the press?" Reslaw asked.
"Lord,
I wish we could do it right now. The Australians have told just about
everything,
and their case is even weirder than our own. They have _robots_
coming
out of their rocks."
"What?"
Edward sat on the edge of the bunk. "Is it on the news?"
"You
should watch your TVs. There are newspapers in your food drawers now.
Starting
tomorrow, you'll be getting CD machines. Infonet players. We don't
want
you to be ignorant when the President gets here."
Edward
pulled open his food drawer, a stainless-steel tray that shuttled
through
the walls of the isolation unit, and pulled out a folded newspaper.
There
were no personal messages for him. His off-and-on girlfriend in Austin
didn't
expect him back for a month or two; he hadn't spoken to his mother in
months.
Edward began to regret his fancy-free life-style. He unfolded the
newspaper
and quickly scanned the headlines.
"Jesus,
are you reading what I'm reading?" Reslaw asked.
"Yeah,"
Edward said.
"They
look like chrome-plated gourds."
Edward
flipped through the pages. The Australian Armed Forces had gone on
alert.
So had the United States Air Force and Navy. (Not the Army? Why not the
Army?)
Shuttle launches had been canceled, for reasons not clearly spelled
out.
"Why
robots?" Minelli asked after a few minutes of silence. "Why not more
creatures?"
"Maybe
they found out they can't take the atmosphere and the heat," Minelli
suggested.
"So they send remotes."
That
seemed to make the most sense. But if there were two disguisedspacecraft—and
why disguised?—then there could certainly be more.
"Maybe
it's an invasion," Stella said. "We just don't know it yet."
Edward
tried to recall the various science fiction scenarios he had read in
books
or seen in television and movies.
Motivations.
No intelligent beings did things without motives. Edward had
always
sided with the scientists who thought Earth too puny and out of the way
to
be of interest to potential spacefarers. Of course, that was geocentrism in
reverse.
He wished he had read more on SETI, the Search for Extra-Terrestrial
Intelligence.
Nearly all of his science reading was in geology now; he seldom
read
magazines like _Scientific American_ or even _Science_ unless he needed
to
catch up on relevant articles.
Like
most experts, he had grown insular. Geology had been his life. Now he
doubted
whether he would ever again have a private life. Even if the four of
them
were released—and that question worried him more than he wanted to admit—
they
would all be public figures, celebrities. Their lives would change
enormously.
He
shut off the player and turned to the comics page of the Los Angeles
_Times_.
Then he lay back on the bunk and tried to sleep. He had slept enough.
His
anger was getting to the point where he didn't think he could control it.
What
would he tell Crockerman? Would he rattle the bars of his cage and hoot
miserably?
That seemed the only appropriate response.
"But
look at the big picture," he murmured to himself, not caring whether
anybody
else heard. "This is history."
"This
is _history!_" Minelli yelled from his cell. "We're _history!_ Isn't
everybody
thrilled?"
Edward
heard Reslaw clapping slowly, resolutely. "I want to see my agent,"
Minelli
said.
10-
Harry
looked over the President's itinerary—and their own, neatly appended
with
a plastic clip—and sighed. "The big time," he said. "You're used
to it.
I'm
not. Stifling security and appointments timed by the minute."
"I've
grown accustomed to being away from it," Arthur said. They shared a room
in
the Vandenberg Hilton, as the blocky, elongated, three-story concrete
officer's
quarters had been dubbed by the shuttle pilots who generally
occupied
the austere rooms. Harry handed him the paper and shrugged.
"Mostly,
I'm just tired," he said, lying back and clasping his hands behind
his
neck. Arthur regarded him with some worry. "No, not because I'm ill,"
Harry
said testily. "It's all this thinking. Coming to grips."
"Tomorrow's
going to be very busy. Are you sure you're up to it?" Arthur
asked.
"I'm
sure,"
"All
right. Tonight we brief the President and whichever members of his staff
and
Cabinet he's brought along, and then sit in on the President's interviews
with
the Guest and the citizens."
Harry
grinned and shook his head, still dubious.
Arthur
put the papers down on the table between their beds. "What will he do
when
he hears the story?"
"Christ,
Art, you know the man better than I."
"I
never even met him before I was canned. When he was Veep, he stayed in the
background.
To me, he's a riddle wrapped in an enigma. You read the papers;
what
do you think?"
"I
think he's a reasonably intelligent man who doesn't belong in the White
House.
But then, I'm a radical from way back. I was a communist when I was
three
years old, remember. My father put me in red sweaters—"
"I'm
serious. We have to soften the blow for him. And it _will_ be a blow,
however
much he's prepared by his staff. Seeing our Guest. Hearing from itsown lips, or
whatever..."
"That
Earth is doomed. Lambs to the slaughter."
It
was Arthur's turn to grin. The grin almost hurt. "No," he said.
"You
don't believe it?"
Arthur
stared up at the ceiling. "Don't you feel something's not right
here?"
"Doom
is never right," Harry said.
"Questions.
Lots and lots of questions. Why does this spacecraft allow 'fleas'
to
ride on its back and warn the populace before it can destroy their home?"
"Smugness.
Absolute assurance of power. Assurance of our weakness."
"When
we have nuclear weapons, for Christ's sake?" Arthur asked sharply. "A
fighter
pilot down in some jungle should show respect for the natives'
arrows."
"It
probably—it _should_ have weapons and defenses we know nothing about."
"Why
hasn't it used them?"
"Obviously,
it used _something_ to land huge rocks without being detected by
radar
or satellites."
Arthur
nodded agreement. "If what landed wasn't something small, to start
with...But
that would contradict our Guest's story."
"All
right," Harry said, propping himself up against the wall with a pillow as
a
cushion. "It doesn't make sense to me either. This Australian statement
that
_their_
aliens have come in peace for all mankind. Same group of invaders?
Apparently;
same tactics. Bury themselves in a duck blind. One ship has
'fleas,'
the other doesn't. One ship has robot publicity agents. The other
keeps
silent."
"We
haven't seen the complete text from the Australians."
"No,"
Harry admitted. "But they seem to have been candid so far. What's the
obvious
answer?"
Arthur
shrugged.
"Maybe
the powers behind these ships are incredibly unorganized or
inconsistent
or just plain callous. Or there's some sort of dispute within
their
organization."
"Whether
to eat the Earth or not."
"Right,"
Harry said.
"Do
you think Crockerman will make this public?"
"No,"
Harry said, fingers wrapped on his ample stomach. "He'd be crazy if he
did.
Think of the disruption. If he's smart, he's going to sit back and wait
until
the very last minute—he's going to see how people react to the Good News
spaceship."
"Perhaps
we should be bombing Death Valley right now." Arthur stared at a
painting
over the nightstand between the two single beds. It showed four F-104
fighters
climbing straight up over China Lake. "Cauterize the whole area. Act
without
thinking."
"Make
them madder than hell, right?" Harry said. "If they are being
incredibly
arrogant,
then it means they have some assurance we can't hurt them. Not even
with
nuclear weapons."
Arthur
sat in a straight-backed chair, facing away from the windows and the
painting.
High-tech fighters and bombers. Cruise missiles. Mobile laser
defenses. Thermonuclear weapons. No better than stone
axes.
"Captain
Cook," he said, and then gently bit his lower lip.
"Yes?"
Harry encouraged.
"The
Hawaiians managed to kill Captain Cook. His technology was at least a
couple
of hundred years more advanced than theirs. Still, they killed him."
"What
good did it do them?" Harry asked.
Arthur
shook his head. "None, I guess. Some personal satisfaction, perhaps."
President
William D. Crockerman, sixty-three, was certainly one of the most
distinguished-looking
men in America. With his graying black hair, penetrating
green
eyes, sharply defined, almost aquiline nose, and lines of goodwillaround his
eyes and mouth, he might be equally the revered head of a
corporation
or some teenager's favorite grandparent. On television or in
person,
he projected self-confidence and a trenchant wit. There could be no
doubt
that he took his job seriously, but not himself—this was the image
portrayed,
and it had won him election after election along his twenty-six-
year
career in public office. Crockerman had only lost one election: his
first,
as a mayoral candidate in Kansas City, Missouri.
He
entered the Vandenberg isolation laboratory accompanied by two Secret
Service
agents, his national security advisor—a thin, middle-aged Boston
gentleman
named Carl McClennan—and his science advisor, David Rotterjack,
soporifically
calm and thirty-eight years of age. Arthur knew the tall, plump
blond-haired
Rotterjack well enough to respect his credentials without
necessarily
liking the man. Rotterjack had tended toward science
administration,
rather than doing science, in his days as director of several
private
biological research laboratories.
This
entourage was ushered into the combination laboratory and viewing room by
General
Paul Fulton, Commander in Chief of Shuttle Launch Center 6, West Coast
Shuttle
Launch Operations. Fulton, fifty-three, had been a football player in
his
academy days, and still carried substantial muscle on his six-foot frame.
Arthur
and Harry awaited them in the central laboratory, standing by the
Guest's
covered window. Rotterjack introduced the President and McClennan to
Harry
and Arthur, and then introductions were made in a circle around the
chairs.
Crockerman and Rotterjack sat in the front row, with Harry and Arthur
standing
to one side.
"I
hope you understand why I'm nervous," Crockerman said, concentrating on
Arthur.
"I haven't been hearing good things about this place."
"Yes,
sir," Arthur said.
"These
stories...these statements about what the Guest has been saying...Do
you
believe them?"
"We
see no reason not to believe them, sir," Arthur said. Harry nodded.
"You,
Mr. Feinman, what do you think of the Australian bogey?"
"From
what I've seen, Mr. President, it appears to be an almost exact analog
of
our own. Perhaps larger, because it's contained within a larger rock."
"But
we haven't the foggiest notion what's in either of the rocks, do we?"
"No,
sir," Harry said.
"Can't
X-ray them, or set off blasts nearby and listen on the other side?"
Rotterjack
grinned. "We've been discussing a number of sneaky ways to learn
what's
inside. None of them seem appropriate."
Arthur
felt a twinge, but nodded. "I think discretion is best now."
"What
about the robots, the conflicting stories? Some folks in my generation
are
calling them 'shmoos,' did you know that, Mr. Gordon, Mr. Feinman?"
"The
name occurred to us, sir."
"Bringers
of everything good. That's what they've been telling Prime Minister
Miller.
I've spoken to him. He's not necessarily convinced, or at least he
doesn't
let us think he is, but...he saw no reason to keep everybody in the
dark.
It's a different situation here, isn't it?"
"Yes,
sir," Arthur said.
McClennan
cleared his throat. "We can't predict what kind of harm might come
if
we tell the world we have a bogey, and it says doomsday is here."
"Carl
takes a dim view of any plans to release the story. So we have four
civilians
locked up, and we have agents in Shoshone and Furnace Creek, and the
rock
is off limits."
"The
civilians are locked up for other reasons," Arthur said. "We haven't
found
any evidence of biological contamination, but we can't afford to take
chances."
"The
Guest appears to be free of biologicals, true?" Rotterjack asked.
"So
far," General Fulton said. "We're still testing.""In short,
it's not happening the way we thought it might," Crockerman said.
"No
distant messages in Puerto Rico, no hovering flying saucers, no cannon
shells
falling in the boondocks and octopuses crawling out."
Arthur
shook his head, smiling. Crockerman had a way of coercing respect and
affection
from those around him. The President cocked one thick dark eyebrow
at
Harry, then Arthur, then briefly at McClennan. "But it _is_
happening."
"Yessir,"
Fulton said.
"Mrs.
Crockerman told me this would be the most important meeting of my life.
I
know she's right. But I am scared, gentlemen. I'll need your help to get me
through
this. To get _us_ through this. We are going to get through this,
aren't
we?"
"Yes,
sir," Rotterjack said grimly.
Nobody
else answered.
"I'm
ready, General." The President sat
straight-backed in the chair and
faced
the dark window. Fulton nodded at the duty officer.
The
curtain opened.
The
Guest stood beside the table, apparently in the same position as when
Arthur
and Harry had left it the day before.
"Hello,"
Crockerman said, his face ashen in the subdued room light. The Guest,
with
its light-sensitive vision, could see them perhaps more clearly than they
saw
it.
"Hello,"
it replied.
"My
name is William Crockerman. I'm President of the United States of America,
the
nation you've landed in. Do you have nations where you live?"
The
Guest did not answer. Crockerman looked aside at Arthur. "Can he hear
me?"
"Yes,
Mr. President," Arthur said.
"Do
you have nations where you live?" Crockerman repeated.
"You
must ask important questions. I am dying."
The
President flinched back. Fulton moved forward as if he were about to take
charge,
clear the room, and protect the Guest from any further strain, but
Rotterjack
put a hand on his chest and shook his head.
"Do
you have a name?" the President asked.
"Not
in your language. My name is chemical and goes before me among my own
kind."
"Do
you have family within the ship?"
"We
are family. All others of our kind are dead."
Crockerman
was sweating. His eyes locked on the Guest's face, on the three
golden-yellow
eyes that stared at him without blinking. "You've told my
colleagues,
our scientists, that this ship is a weapon and will destroy the
Earth."
"It
is not a weapon. It is a mother of new ships. It will eat your world and
make
new ships to travel elsewhere."
"I
don't understand this. Can you explain?"
"Ask
good questions," the Guest demanded.
"What
happened to your world?" Crockerman said without hesitating. He had
already
read a brief of Gordon and Feinman's conversation with the Guest on
this
subject, but obviously wanted to hear it again, for himself.
"I
cannot give the name of my world, or where it was in your sky. We have lost
track
of the time that has passed since we left. Memory of the world is dimmed
by
long cold sleeping. The first ships arrived and hid themselves within ice
masses
that filled the valleys of one continent. They took what they needed
from
these ice masses, and parts of them worked their way into the world. We
did
not know what was happening. In the last times, this ship, newly made,
appeared
in the middle of a city, and did not move. Plans were made as the
planet
trembled. We had been in space, even between planets, but there were no
planets
that attracted us, so we stayed on our world. We knew how to survive
in
space, even over long times, and we built a home within the ship, believingit
would leave before the end. The ship did not prevent us. It left before the
weapons
made our world melted rock and gaseous water, and took us with it,
inside.
No others live that we are aware of."
Crockerman
nodded once and folded his hands in his lap. "What was your world
like?"
"Similar.
More ice, a smaller star. Many like myself, not in form but in
thought.
Our kind was many-formed, some swimming in cold melt-seas, some like
myself
walking on ground, some flying, some living in ice. All thought alike.
Thousands
of long-times past, we had molded life to our own wishes, and lived
happily.
The air was rich and filled with smells of kin. Everywhere on the
world,
even in the far lands of thick ice, you could smell cousins and
children."
Arthur
felt his throat catching. Crockerman's cheek was wet with a single
tear.
He did not wipe it away.
"Did
they tell you why your world was being destroyed?"
"They
did not speak with us," the Guest said. "We guessed the machines were
eaters
of worlds, and that they were not alive, just machines without smells,
but
with thoughts."
"No
robots came out to speak with you?"
"I
have language difficulties."
"Smaller
machines," Rotterjack prompted. "Talk with you, deceive you."
"No
smaller machines," the Guest said.
Crockerman
took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. "Did you have
children?"
he asked.
"My
kind were not allowed children. I had cousins."
"Did
you leave some sort of family behind?"
"Yes.
Cousins and teachers. Ice brothers by command bonding."
Crockerman
shook his head. That meant nothing to him; indeed, it meant little
to
anybody in the room. Much of this would have to be sorted out later, with
many
more questions:—if the Guest lived long enough to answer all their
questions.
"And
you learned to speak our language by listening to radio broadcasts?"
"Yes.
Your wasting drew the machines to you. We listened to what the machines
were
gathering."
Harry
scribbled furiously, his pencil making quick scratching noises on the
notepad.
"Why
didn't you try to sabotage the machine—destroy it?" Rotterjack asked.
"Had
we been able to do that, the machine would never have allowed us on
board."
"Arrogance,"
Arthur said, his jaw tightening. "Incredible arrogance."
"You've
told us you were asleep, hibernating," Rotterjack said. "How could
you
study
our language and sleep at the same time?"
The
Guest stood motionless, not answering. "It is done," it finally
replied.
"How
many languages do you know?" Harry asked, pencil poised.
"I
am speaker of English. Others, still within, speak Russian, Chinese,
French."
"These
questions don't seem terribly important," Crockerman said quietly. "I
feel
as if a nightmare has come over us all. Who can I blame for this?" He
glanced
around the room, his eyes sharp, hawklike. "Nobody. I can't simply
announce
we have visitors from other worlds, because people will want to see
the
visitors. After the Australian release, what we have here can only
demoralize
and confuse."
"I'm
not sure how long we can keep this a secret," McClennan said.
"How
can we hold this back from our people?" Crockerman seemed not to have
heard
anybody but the Guest. He stood and approached the glass, grimly
concentrating
on the Guest. "You've brought us the worst possible news. You
say
there's nothing we can do. Your...civilization...must have been moreadvanced
than ours. It died. This is a _terrible_ message to bring. Why did
you
bother at all?"
"On
some worlds, the contest might have been more equal," the Guest said.
"I
am
tired. I do not have much more time."
General
Fulton spoke in an undertone with McClennan and Rotterjack. Rotterjack
approached
the President and put a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. President, we
are
not the experts here. We can’t ask the right questions, and clearly there
isn’t
much time remaining. We should get out of the way and let the scientists
do
their work."
Crockerman
nodded, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. When he opened
them
again, he seemed more composed. "Gentlemen, David is correct. Please get
on
with it. I’d like to speak to all of you before we go out to the site. Just
one
last question." He turned back to the Guest. "Do you believe in
God?"
Without
a moment’s hesitation, the Guest replied, "We believe in punishment."
Crockerman
was visibly shaken. Mouth open slightly, he glanced at Harry and
Arthur,
then left the room on trembling legs, with McClennan, Rotterjack, and
General
Fulton following.
"What
do you mean by that?" Harry asked after the door had closed. "Please
expand
on what you just said."
"Detail
is unimportant," the Guest said. "The death of a world is judgment of
its
inadequacy. Death removes the unnecessary and the false. No more talk now.
Rest."
11——
_Bad
news. Bad news._
Edward
awoke from his dreaming doze and blinked at the off-white ceiling. He
felt
as if somebody very important to him had died. It took him a moment to
orient
to reality.
He
had had a dream he couldn't remember clearly now. His mind shuffled palm
leaves
over the sand to hide the tracks of the subconscious at play.
The
duty officer had told them an hour before that nobody was sick, and no
_biologicals_
had been discovered in their blood or anywhere else. Not even on
the
Guest, which seemed as pure as the driven snow. Odd, that.
In
any ecology Edward Shaw had heard of, which meant any _Earth_ ecology,
living
things were always accompanied by parasitic or symbiotic organisms. On
the
skin, in the gut, within the bloodstream. Perhaps ecologies differed on
other
worlds. Perhaps the Guest's people —wherever they came from—had advanced
to
the point of _purity_: only the primaries, the smart folks, left alive; no
more
little mutating beasties to cause illness.
Edward
sat up and drew himself a glass of water from the lavatory sink. As he
sipped,
his eyes wandered to the window and the curtain beyond. Slowly but
surely,
he was losing the old Edward Shaw, and finding a new one: an ambiguous
fellow,
angry but not overtly so, afraid but not showing his fear, deeply
pessimistic.
And
then he remembered his dream.
He
had been at his own funeral. The casket had been open and somebody had made
a
mistake, because within the box was the Guest. The minister, presiding in a
purple
robe with a huge medallion on his chest, had touched Edward on the
shoulder
and whispered into his ear,"This is Bad News indeed, don't you
think?"
He
had never had dreams like that before.
The
intercom signaled and he shouted,"No! Go away. I'm fine. Just go away. I'm
_not
sick_. I'm not dying."
"That's
okay, Mr. Shaw." It was Eunice, the slender black duty officer who
seemed
most sympathetic to Edward. "You go ahead and let it out if you want. I
can't
shut off the tapes, but I'll shut down my speaker for a while if you
wish."Edward
sobered immediately. "I'm all right, Eunice. Really. Just need to know
when
we're going to get out of here."
"I
don't know that myself, Mr. Shaw."
"Right.
I don't blame you." And he didn't. Not Eunice, not the other duty
officers,
not the doctors or the scientists who had spoken to him. Not even
Harry
Feinman or Arthur Gordon. The tears were turning to laughter he could
barely
suppress.
"Still
all right, Mr. Shaw?" Eunice asked.
"I'm
a _victim of coicumstance,'_" Edward quoted Curly, the plump and shave-
pated
member of the Three Stooges. He punched the intercom button for
Minelli's
room. When Minelli answered, Edward imitated Curly again, and
Minelli
did a perfect _"Whoop hoop ooop."_ Reslaw joined in, and Stella
laughed,
until they sounded like a laboratory full of chimpanzees. And that
was
what they became, chittering and eeking and stomping the floor. "Hey, I'm
scratching
my armpits," Minelli said. "I really am. Eunice will vouch for me.
Maybe
we can get the sympathy of Friends of the Animals or something."
"Friends
of Geologists," Reslaw said.
"Friends
of Liberal Businesswomen," Stella added.
"Come
on, you guys," Eunice said.
At
eight o'clock in the evening, Edward glanced at his face in the shaving
mirror
over the sink. "Here comes the Prez," he murmured. "I won't even
vote
for
the man, but I'm primping like a schoolgirl." They wouldn't be shaking
hands.
Yet the President would look in upon Shaw and Minelli and Reslaw and
Morgan,
would see them—and that was enough. Edward smiled grimly, then checked
his
teeth for food specks.
12—
The
Secretary of Defense, Otto Lehrman, arrived at seven-fifteen. After
Crockerman
had had a half hour alone with him and Rotterjack—sufficient time
to
gather his wits, Arthur surmised—they entered the laboratory around which
the
sealed cubicles were arranged, and onto which their windows all opened, a
larger
version of the central complex that held the Guest. Colonel Tuan Anh
Phan
stood before the isolation chambers' control board.
Crockerman
shook the doctor's hand and slowly surveyed the laboratory. "One
more
civilian witness and they'd have had to double up with the military,
right?"
he asked Phan.
"Yes,
sir," Phan said. "We did not plan to incarcerate entire towns."
This was
evidently
a struggling attempt at humor, but the President was not in a
bantering
mood.
"Actually,"
Crockerman said, "this isn't funny in the least."
"No,
sir," Phan said, crestfallen.
Arthur
came to his rescue. "We couldn't ask for better facilities, Mr.
President,"
he said. Crockerman had been behaving strangely since the meeting
with
the Guest. Arthur was worried; that conversation had upset them all on a
deep
psychological level, but Crockerman seemed to have taken it particularly
to
heart.
"Can
they hear us?" Crockerman asked, nodding at the four steel shutters.
"Not
yet, sir," Phan said.
"Good.
I'd like to get my thoughts in order, especially before I talk to Mrs.
Morgan's
daughter. Otto, Mr. Lehrman here, was delayed by his duties in
Europe,
but Mr. Rotterjack has briefed him on what we've already heard."
Lehrman
took a shallow but obvious breath and nodded. Arthur had heard many
things
about Lehrman—his rise from microchip magnate to head of the
President's
Industrial Relations Council, and only two months before, his
confirmation
as Secretary of Defense, replacing Hampton's more hawkish
appointee.
He appeared to be a philosophical twin to Crockerman.
"I
have a question for Mr. Gordon," Lehrman said. He looked at Arthur
andHarry, standing beside each other near the lab's hooded microbiologicals
workbench.
"Ask
away," Arthur said.
"When
are you going to authorize a military investigation of the Furnace?"
"I
don't know," Arthur said.
"That's
your area, Arthur," the President said in an undertone. "You make the
decision."
"Nobody
has put the issue to me before now," Arthur said. "What sort of
investigation
did you have in mind?"
"I'd
like to find the site's weaknesses."
"We
don't even know what it is," Harry said.
Lehrman
shook his head. "Everybody's guessing it's a disguised spaceship. Do
you
disagree?"
"I
don't agree or disagree. I simply don't know," Harry replied.
"Gentlemen,"
Arthur said, "I think this isn't quite the time. We should
discuss
this after the President has talked with the four witnesses and we've
all
seen the site together."
Lehrman
conceded this with a nod and gestured for them to continue. General
Fulton
entered the lab carrying a thick sheaf of papers in a manila folder and
sat
to one side, saying nothing.
"All
right," Crockerman said. "Let's have a look at them."
Eunice's
voice came over Edward's intercom speaker: "Folks, you're going to
meet
the President now." With a hollow humming noise, the window cover slid
down
into the wall, revealing a transparent panel about two meters wide and
one
high. Through the thick double layers of glass, Edward saw President
Crockerman,
two men he didn't recognize, and several other faces he knew
vaguely
from television.
"Excuse
me for intruding, gentlemen and Ms. Morgan," Crockerman said, bowing
slightly.
"I believe we know each other, even if we haven't been introduced
formally.
This is Mr. Lehrman, my Secretary of Defense, and this is Mr.
Rotterjack,
my science advisor. Have you met Arthur Gordon and Harry Feinman?
No?
They're in charge of the presidential task force investigating what you've
discovered.
I suspect you have a few complaints to pass on to me."
"Pleased
to meet you, sir," Minelli said. Crockerman changed his angle. Edward
realized
they were all facing into the central laboratory. In the farthest
window,
at the opposite end of the curved wall, he could see Stella Morgan,
face
pale in the fluorescent lighting.
"I'd
shake your hands if I could. This has been hard on all concerned, but
especially
hard on you."
Edward
mumbled something in agreement. "We don't know what our situation is,
Mr.
President."
"Well,
I've been told you're in no danger. You don't have any...ah, space
germs.
I'll level with you, in fact—you're probably here more for security
reasons
than for your health."
Edward
could see why Crockerman was called the most charming of presidents
since
Ronald Reagan. His combination of dignified good looks and open manner—
however
illusory the latter was—might have made even Edward feel better.
"We've
been worried about our families," Stella said.
"I
believe they've been informed that you are safe," Crockerman said.
"Haven't
they,
General Fulton?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Ms.
Morgan's mother has been giving us fits, however," Crockerman said.
"Good,"
was Stella's only comment.
"Mr.
Shaw, we've also informed the University of Texas about you and your
students."
"We're
assistant professors, not students, Mr. President," Reslaw said. "I
haven't
received any mail from my family. Can you tell me why?"Crockerman looked
to Fulton for an answer. "You haven't been sent any," Fulton
said.
"We have no control over that."
"I
just wanted to stop by and tell you that you haven't been forgotten, and
you
won't be locked away forever. Colonel Phan informs me that if no germs are
discovered
within a few more weeks, there will be no reason to keep you here.
And
by that time...well, it's difficult to say what will be secret and what
won't
be."
Harry
glanced at Arthur, one eyebrow lifted.
"I
have a question, sir," Edward said.
"Yes?"
"The
creature we found—"
"We're
calling it a Guest, you know," Crockerman interrupted with a weak
smile.
"Yes,
sir. It said it had bad news. What did it mean by that? Have you
communicated
with it?"
Crockerman's
face became ashen. "I'm afraid I'm not allowed to tell you what's
happening
with the Guest. That's irritating, I know, but even I have to dance
to
the tune when the fiddler plays. Now I have a question for you. You were
the
first to find the rock, the cinder cone. What first struck you as odd
about
it? I need impressions."
"Edward
thought it was odd before we did," Minelli said.
"I've
never seen it," Stella added.
"Mr.
Shaw, what struck you most?"
"That
it wasn't on our maps, I guess," Edward answered. "And after that, it
was...barren.
It looked new. No plants, no insects, no graffiti new or old. No
beer
cans."
"No
beer cans," Crockerman said, nodding. "Thank you. Ms. Morgan, I plan
on
seeing
your mother sometime soon. May I take any personal message to her?
Something
uncontroversial, of course."
"No,
thank you," Stella said. _Atta woman_, Edward thought.
"You've
given me something to think about," Crockerman said after a moment's
silence.
"How strong Americans are. I hope that doesn't sound trite or
political.
I mean it. I need to think we're strong right now. That's very
important
to me. Thank you." He waved at them, and turned to leave the
laboratory.
The curtains hummed back into place.
13—
October
7
The
sky over Death Valley was a leaden gray and the air still carried the
chill
of morning. The presidential helicopter landed at the temporary base set
up
by the Army three miles from the false cinder cone. Two four-wheel-drive
trucks
met the party and drove them slowly over the paved roads and unpaved
Jeep
trails, and then off the trails, lurching and growling around creosote
bushes
and mesquite and over salt grass, sand, chunks of lava, and desert-
varnished
rocks. The false cinder cone loomed a hundred yards beyond their
stopping
point, the edge of a bone-white desert wash that had been filled with
water
just ten days before. The perimeter of the mound was cordoned off by
Army
troops supervised by Lieutenant Colonel Albert Rogers from Army
Intelligence.
Rogers, short, wiry, swarthy-skinned, and gentle-eyed, met the
presidential
party of eight, including Gordon and Feinman, at the cordon
perimeter.
"We've
had no activity," he reported. "We have our surveillance truck on the
other
side now, and a survey team on the top. There's been no radiation of any
sort
beyond the kind of signature we expect from sun-heated rock. We've
inserted
sensors on poles up into the hole the three geologists found, but we
haven't
sent anybody past the bend. Give us the order, and we will."
"I
appreciate your eagerness, Colonel," Otto Lehrman said. "I appreciate
yourcaution and discipline more."
The
President approached the cinder cone's tall black north face, accompanied
by
two Secret Service agents. The Marine officer who carried the
"football"—
presidential
wartime codes and emergency communications system in a briefcase—
stayed
by the truck.
Rotterjack
dropped back a few paces to snap a series of pictures with a
Hasselblad.
Crockerman ignored him. The President seemed to ignore everybody
and
everything but the rock. Arthur worried about the expression on his face;
tense
yet slightly dreamy. _A man informed of a death in the immediate
family,_
Arthur thought.
"This
is where the alien was found," Colonel Rogers explained, pointing to a
sandy
depression in the shadow of a lava overhang. Crockerman walked around a
big
lava boulder and knelt beside the depression. He reached out to touch the
sand,
still marked by the Guest's movements, but Arthur restrained him. "We're
still
nervous about biologicals," he explained.
"The
four civilians," Crockerman said, not completing his thought. "I met
Stella
Morgan's granddaddy thirty years ago in Washington," he mused. "A
real
country
gentleman. Tough as nails, smart as a whip. I'd like to meet Bernice
Morgan.
Maybe I could reassure her...Can we arrange something for tomorrow?"
"We
go to Furnace Creek Resort, after this, and tomorrow you're meeting with
General
Young and Admiral Xavier." Rotterjack looked over the President's
schedule.
"That's going to fill most of the morning. We're to have you back at
Vandenberg
and aboard the Bird at two p.m."
"Make
a slot for Bernice Morgan," Crockerman ordered. "No more
arguments."
"Yes,
sir," Rotterjack said, pulling out his mechanical pencil.
"They
should be here with me, those three geologists," the President said. He
got
to his feet and walked away from the overhang, brushing his hands on his
pants.
The Secret Service agents watched him closely, faces impassive.
Crockerman
turned to Harry, still clutching his black notebook, and then
nodded
at the cinder cone. "You know what my conference with Young and Xavier
is
all about."
"Yes,
Mr. President," Harry said, matching Crocker-man's steady gaze.
"They're
going to ask me if we should nuke this whole area."
"I'm
sure that's going to be mentioned, Mr. President."
"What
do you think?"
Harry
considered for a moment, eyebrows meeting. "The entire situation is an
enigma
to me, sir. Things don't fit together."
"Mr.
Gordon, can we effectively retaliate against this?" He indicated the
cinder
cone.
"The
Guest says we cannot. I tend to accept that statement for the time being,
sir."
"We
keep calling him the Guest, with a capital G," Crockerman said, coming to
a
halt about twenty yards from the formation, then turning to face south,
examining
the western curve. "How did that come about?"
"Hollywood's
absorbed just about every other name," McClennan observed.
"Carl
has been an avid watcher of television," Crockerman explained candidly
to
Arthur," before his duties made that impossible. He says it lets him keep
in
touch with the public pulse."
"The
name obviously evolved as a way to avoid other, more highly colored
words,"
McClennan said.
"The
Guest told me he believes in God."
Arthur
chose not to correct the President.
"From
what I understand," Crockerman continued, his face drawn, eyes almost
frantic
above a forced calm, "the Guest's world was found wanting, and
eliminated."
He seemed to be searching the faces of Arthur and those nearest
to
him for sympathy or support. Arthur was too stunned to say anything. "If
that's
the case, then the agency of our own destruction awaits us inside
thismountain."
"We
_must_ have more cooperation from Australia," McClennan said, clenching
one
fist and shaking it in front of him.
"They're
telling quite a different story down there, aren't they?" The
President
began walking back to the trucks. "I think I've seen enough. My eyes
can't
squeeze truth out of rocks and sand."
"Making
tighter arrangements with Australia," Rotterjack observed, "means
telling
them what we have here, and we're not sure we can risk that yet."
"There's
a possibility we're not the only ones who have 'bogeys,'" Harry said,
giving
the last word an almost comic emphasis.
Crockerman
stopped and turned to face Harry. "Do you have any evidence for
that?"
"None,
sir. But we've asked for the NSA and some of our team to check it out."
"How?"
"By
comparing recent satellite photographs with past records."
"More
than two bogeys," Crockerman said. "That would be something, wouldn't
it?"
14—
Trevor
Hicks slowed the rented white Chevrolet as he approached the small town
of
Shoshone—little more than a junction, according to the map. He saw a
cinder-block
U.S. post office flanked by tall tamarisk trees and beyond it, a
stark
sprawling white building housing a gas station and grocery store. On the
opposite
side of the highway was a coffee shop and attached to it, a spare
building
with neon beer advertisements in its two small square windows. A
small
sign spelled out "Crow Bar" in flickering light bulbs—a local tavern
or
pub,
obviously. Hicks had always been partial to local pubs. This one,
however,
did not seem to be open.
He
pulled into the post office's gravel parking lot, hoping to ask someone if
the
coffee shop was worth a visit. He didn't trust local American eateries any
more
than he liked most American beer, and he did not think the appearance of
the
coffee shop—or cafe, as it styled itself on an inconspicuous sign—was very
encouraging.
It
was almost five o'clock and the desert was already chilly. Twilight was an
hour
or so away and a mournful wind blew through the tamarisk trees beside the
post
office. His morning and afternoon had been frustrating— a rental car
breakdown
fifty miles outside Las Vegas, a ride in the tow truck, arranging
for
another car, and as a lagniappe, a heated conversation with his
publisher's
publicist when he thought to call and explain his missed
interview...Delay
after delay. He stood near the car for a moment, wondering
what
sort of idiot he was, then chose the glass door on his right. As it
happened,
that led him into the local equivalent of a branch library—two tall
shelves
of books in a corner, with a child-sized reading table squatting
before
them. A counter stood opposite the shelves, and beyond it the furniture
and
apparatus—so a small plaque read—of the Charles Morgan Company. The door
on
the left led into a separate alcove that was the post office proper. The
air
of the office was institutional but friendly.
Beyond
the counter, seated before an old desktop computer, was a stately woman
of
about seventy-five or eighty years, wearing jeans and a checked blouse, her
white
hair carelessly combed back. She spoke into a black phone receiver
cradled
between her neck and shoulder. Slowly, she swiveled on her chair to
glance
at Hicks, then raised one hand, requesting patience.
Hicks
turned to examine the books in the library.
"No,
Bonnie, not a word," the woman said, her warm voice cracking slightly.
"Not
a word since the letter. I'm just about at my wits' end, you know. Esther
and
Mike have quit. No. I'm doing fine, but things are kind of sliding
here..."The
library held a fair selection of science books, including one of his own,
an
early popular work on communications satellites, long since out of date.
"It's
all crazy," the woman said. "We used to worry about Gas Buggy, and
all
the
radiation from the test site, and now this. They closed down our meat
locker.
It's enough to scare the hell out of me. Frank came in with Tillie
yesterday
and they were so nice. They worried about Stella so much. Well,
thank
you for calling. I've got to start closing up now. Yes. Jack is in the
warehouse
and he'll walk me down to the trailer park. Thanks. Goodbye."
She
replaced the phone and turned to Hicks. "Can I help you?"
"I
didn't mean to interrupt. I was wondering about the coffee shop across the
street.
Is it recommended?"
"I'm
not the one to ask," the woman said, standing.
"I'm
sorry," Hicks said politely. "Why?"
"Because
I own the place," she answered, smiling. She approached the counter
and
leaned on it. "I'm prejudiced. We serve good solid food there. Emphasis
sometimes
on the solid. You're English, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"On
your way to Las Vegas?"
"From,
actually. Going to Furnace Creek."
"Might
as well turn back. Everything's sealed up that way. The highway's
closed.
They'll just turn you around."
"I
see. Any idea what's happening?"
"What's
your name?" the woman asked.
"Hicks.
Trevor Hicks."
"I'm
Bernice Morgan. I was just talking about my daughter. She's being held by
the
federal government. Nobody can tell me why. She writes to say she's well,
but
she can't say anything about where she is, and I can't talk to her. Isn't
that
crazy?"
"Yes,"
Hicks said, his neck hair prickling again.
"I've
got lawyers all over the state and in Washington trying to find out
what's
going on. They might think they're tangling with some small-town yo-
yos,
but they're not. My husband was a county supervisor. My father was a
state
senator. And here I am, talking your ear off. Trevor Hicks." She paused,
examining
him more closely. "Are you the science writer?"
"Yes,
actually," Hicks said, pleased at being recognized twice in as many
days.
"What
brings you out this way?"
"A
hunch."
"Mind
if I ask what sort of hunch?" Clearly, Bernice Morgan, for all her warm
voice
and hospitable manner, was a tough-minded woman.
"I
suppose it could connect with your daughter," he said, deciding to go for
broke.
"I'm following a very thin trail of clues to Death Valley. Something
important
has happened there—important enough to draw your President to
Furnace
Creek Resort."
"Maybe
Esther isn't hysterical," Mrs. Morgan mused.
"I'm
sorry?"
"My
store clerk. She says some men talked about a MiG crashing in the desert."
Hicks's
heart fell. Was that all it was, then? Some sort of unusual defection?
No
connection with the Great Victoria Desert?
"And
Mike, he's a young fellow who worked in our service station, he says some
men
came to the store in a Land Cruiser and talked to my daughter. They had
something
covered up in the back. Mike sneaked a look when they took it around
the
rear and he thought it was something green—dead-looking, he said. Then the
government
comes in here and sprays this awful stuff all over the inside of my
meat
locker, closes it off, and says we can't use it...We lost five hundred
dollars
in meat. They carted it away, said it was spoiled. Said the locker was
contaminated
with salmonella."Hicks's intuition made his skin crawl. "Where were
you when this happened?"
"In
Baker visiting my brother."
Bernice
Morgan gave not the slightest impression of frailty, despite her
years.
Nor did she appear leathery or "grizzled." She was the last sort of
person
Hicks expected to find in a small American desert town. But for her
manner
of speech, she might have been the elderly wife of an English lord.
"How
long has your daughter been missing?"
"A
week and a half."
"And
you're certain she was taken by federal authorities?"
"Air
Force types, I've been told."
Hicks
frowned. "Have you heard of anything odd in the area—around Furnace
Creek
Inn, perhaps?"
"Only
that it's closed off temporarily. I called about that, and nobody knows
anything.
The phone service went out this afternoon."
"Do
you think that's where your daughter is?"
"It's
a possibility, isn't it?"
He
pursed his lips.
"I
don't think they're holding her so she can talk to the President about
business.
Do you?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow.
An
old, battered primer-gray Ford truck pulled off the road and into the
parking
lot with a spray of dust and gravel. Two young men in straw cowboy
hats
jumped from the back, while a third boy and a heavy-paunched, bearded man
with
oversized wire-framed MacArthur sunglasses stepped down from the driver's
seat.
They all came through the glass door. The bearded man nodded at Hicks,
then
faced Mrs. Morgan. "We've been out and back. Road's still closed. George
is
out there, like Richard said, but he doesn't know what's going on."
"George
is one of our highway patrol boys," Mrs. Morgan explained to Hicks.
"Ron,
here, thinks his Lisa is still in Furnace Creek," the bearded man
continued.
A doe-eyed, thin young man nodded wearily. "We're going to take the
plane
and fly over. Find out what the hell's going on."
"They've
probably got the airstrip out there closed," Mrs. Morgan said. "I'm
not
sure that's smart, Mitch."
"Smart,
hell. I never let no government folks push me around before.
Kidnapping
and shutting down public roads for no good reason—it's time
somebody
did something." Mitch stared pointedly at Trevor Hicks, surveying his
suede
jacket, slacks, and running shoes. "Mister, we haven't met."
Mrs.
Morgan did the favor. "Mitch, this is Mr. Trevor Hicks. Mr. Hicks, Mitch
Morris.
He's our maintenance man and drives the propane truck."
"Pleased
to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hicks," Morris said in a formal tone.
"You're
interested in this?"
"He's
a writer," Bernice said. "Pretty well known, too."
"I
have an idea something is happening near Furnace Creek, something important
enough
to bring the President here."
"President
like from the White House?"
"The
same."
"He
thinks Stella might be at Furnace Creek," Mrs. Morgan said.
"All
the more reason for us to fly over there and find out," Morris said.
"Frank
Forrest has his Comanche ready to go. We have room for five. Mr. Hicks,
are
you interested in coming with us?"
Hicks
realized he was becoming much too involved. Mrs. Morgan continued her
protest
about the risks, but Morris paid her only polite attention. His mind
was
made up.
There
was no other way to see what was happening in Furnace Creek. He would be
stopped
on the highway as everybody else had been.
"There's
too many of us here, with a pilot, already," Hicks said.
"Benny
doesn't fly," Morris said. "He gets terrible airsick."
Hicks
took a shallow, spasmodic breath. "All right," he said."It's not
far at all. A few minutes there and back."
"I
don't like it. Don't do this just for Stella," Mrs. Morgan said. "I'm
still
trying
other ways. Don't get foolish and ..."
"No
heroics, no daring rescues," Morris assured her. "Let's go. Mr.
Hicks...?"
"Yes,"
Hicks said, following them out the glass door. Mrs. Morgan laid her
hands
on the counter top and watched them grimly as they climbed into the
truck,
Benny giving up his shotgun seat to Hicks and sitting in the back.
He
had never done anything so stupid in his life. The Piper Comanche's wheels
pulled
free of the runway and the twin-engine aircraft leaped into the air,
leaving
the weathered asphalt landing strip and corrugated metal hangar far
behind
and below.
Mitch
Morris turned to regard Hicks and Ron Flagg in the back seat. Frank
Forrest,
in his mid-sixties and as burly as Morris, banked the plane sharply
and
brought them around to an easterly direction, then banked again before
they
had time to catch their breath. Morris hung on to Forrest's seat with a
huge,
callused hand. "You all right?" he asked Hicks, with barely a glance
at
Ron.
"Fine,"
Hicks said, swallowing an anonymous something in his gullet.
"You,
Ron?"
"Ain't
flown much," Flagg said, his skin pale and damp.
"Frank's
an expert. Flew Sabres during the war. Korean War. His daddy flew
Buffaloes
at Midway. That's where he died, wasn't it, Frank?"
"Goddamn
planes were flying coffins," Forrest said.
Hicks
felt the Comanche shudder in an updraft from the low hills below. They
were
flying under five hundred feet. A cinder-covered hill near Shoshone
passed
below them with breathtaking closeness.
"I
hope you don't think we're impetuous," Morris said.
"Perish
the idea," Hicks returned, concentrating on his stomach.
"We
owe a lot to Mrs. Morgan. We like Stella just fine, and Ron's Lisa is a
great
girl. We want to make sure they're okay, wherever they are. Not like
they've
been spirited off to the Nevada test site to be used as guinea pigs or
something,
y'know?"
Whether
Morris was suggesting this or dismissing it as a possibility, Hicks
couldn't
decide.
"So
what do you think they've got in Furnace Creek?" Forrest asked. "Mike
the
garage
boy says they've got a dead Russian pilot. That why you're here—to
scoop
everybody on a dead Russian pilot?"
"I
don't think that's what they have," Hicks said.
"So
what is it, then? What would bring ol’ Crockerman out here?"
Hicks
thought for a moment about the possible unpleasant effects of discussing
visitors
from space with these men. He could almost sympathize with any
government
efforts to keep such things secret. Yet Australia was loaded with
men
like these: tough, resourceful, valiant, but not particularly imaginative
or
brilliant. Why would Australia trust public reaction, and not the United
States?
"I'm
not sure," he said. "I've come out here on a hunch, pure and
simple."
"Hunches
are never pure and simple," Forrest shot back. "You're a smart man.
You've
come out here for a reason."
"Mrs.
Morgan seems to think you're important," Morris said.
"Well..."
"You
a doctor?" Flagg asked, looking as if he might need some medical
assistance.
"I'm
a writer. I have a Ph.D. in biological science, but I'm not an M.D."
"We
get all sorts of Ph.D.'s in Shoshone," Morris said. "Geologists,
archaeologists,
ethnologists—study Indians, you know. Sometimes they come into
the
Crow Bar and sit down and we get into some real interesting conversations.
We're
not just a bunch of desert rats.""Didn't think you were," Hicks
responded. _Oh?_
"All
right. Frank?"
"Coming
up on Furnace Creek shortly."
Hicks
looked through the side window and saw tan and white sand and patches of
scrub,
HO-scale dirt roads and tracks. Then he saw the highway. Forrest banked
the
Comanche again. Hicks's stomach kept its discipline, but Flagg moaned.
"You
got a bag?" he asked. "Please."
"You
can keep it down," Morris assured him. "Hold up on the aerobatics,
Frank."
"There
it is," Forrest said. He inclined the plane so Hicks was staring
practically
straight down at a cluster of buildings spread among rust-brown
rocks,
copses of green trees and low hills. He could make out a golf course
spreading
lush green against the waste, a tiny airstrip and an asphalt parking
lot
filled with dark cars and trucks, and rising from the parking lot, a green
two-seat
Army Cobra helicopter.
"Shit,"
Forrest said, pulling back sharply on the wheel. The plane's engines
screamed
and the Comanche swung around like a leaf in a strong wind.
The
helicopter intercepted them and kept pace with the Comanche no matter what
twists
and turns Forrest executed. Flagg threw up and his vomit struck the
side
windows and Hicks and seemed to have a life of its own, hobbling about
between
surfaces and air. Hicks wiped it away frantically with his hands.
Morris
yelled and cursed.
The
Cobra quickly outmaneuvered them. A uniformed and helmeted copilot in the
rear
seat gestured for them to land.
"Where's
your radio?" Hicks demanded. "Turn it on. Let them talk with
us."
"Hell
no," Forrest said. "I'd have to acknowledge—"
"Goddammit,
Frank, they'll shoot us down if you don't go where he says,"
Morris
said, beard curling up and then back with the aircraft's motion.
The
helicopter's copilot meticulously pointed down to the road below. Green
cars
and camouflaged trucks raced along the highway.
"We'd
better land," Forrest agreed. He peeled away from the helicopter,
descended
with astonishing speed, pitched his Comanche nose-high, and brought
the
aircraft down with at least four hard jounces on the gray asphalt
airstrip.
Quietly
heaving without issue, Hicks tried to control himself. By the time
they
were surrounded by what he took to be Secret Service men—in gray suits
and
brown— and military police in dark blue uniforms, he had his nausea
largely
under control. Flagg had bumped his head and lay stunned in his seat.
"God
damn," Morris said, none the worse for wear.
15—
Arthur,
stooped even more than usual, walked down the inn's flagstoned
hallway,
barely glancing at the adobe walls and black, white, and gray Navajo
carpets
hung above antique credenzas. He knocked on Harry's door and stepped
back,
hands in pockets. Harry opened the door and swung his arm impatiently
for
him to come in. Then he returned to the bathroom to finish shaving. They
were
all joining the President for dinner in the resort's spacious dining room
within
the hour.
"He's
not taking it well," Arthur said.
"Crockerman?
What did you expect."
"Better
than this."
"We're
all staring down the barrel of a gun."
Arthur
glanced up at the bright open doorway of the bathroom. "How are _you_
feeling?"
Harry
came out lifting one ear to poke the razor beneath it, his face lined
with
remnants of shaving cream. "Well enough," he said. "I have to
leave in
two
days for treatment. Warned you."Arthur shook his head. "No problem.
It's scheduled. The President's leaving
day
after tomorrow. Tomorrow he confers with Xavier and Young."
"What's
next?"
"Negotiations
with the Australians. They show us theirs, we show them ours."
"Then
what?"
Arthur shrugged. "Maybe our bogey is a
liar."
"If
you ask me," Harry said, "the—"
"I
know. The whole thing stinks."
"But
Crockerman's swallowed the message. It's working on him. Young and Xavier
will
have seen the site...Ah, Lord." Harry wiped his face with a towel.
"This
is
not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. Isn't it a bitch? Life is
always
a bitch. We were so excited. Now it's a nightmare."
Arthur
raised his hand. "Guess who was captured riding an airplane with three
desert
types?"
Harry
blinked. "How the hell should I know?"
"Trevor
Hicks."
Harry
stared. "You're not serious."
"The
President is reading his novel now, which is trendy enough, and not quite
pure
coincidence. He obviously felt it was research material. The three desert
types
have been returned to Shoshone with a stiff reprimand and the loss of
their
plane and license. Hicks has been invited to dinner tonight."
"That's
insane," Harry said, turning off the bathroom light and picking up his
dress
shirt from the corner of the bed. "He's a journalist."
"Crockerman
wants to talk things over with him. Get a second opinion."
"He
has a hundred opinions all around him."
"I
last met Hicks," Arthur mused, "three years ago, at Cornell."
"I've
never met him," Harry said. "I suppose I'd like to."
"Now's
your chance."
Arthur
left his friend's room a few minutes later, feeling worse than ever. He
could
not shake the sensibilities of a disappointed child. This had been a
wonderful
early Christmas present, bright and filled with hope for an
unimaginable
future, a future of humans interacting with other intelligences.
Now,
by Christmastime, the Earth might not even exist.
He
took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, not for the first time hoping
by
physical effort to shake the gloom.
The
waitresses and cooks behind the white walls and copper-paneled pillars of
the
dining room had come up with a formal repast of prime rib, wild rice, and
Caesar
salad, the salad greens a trifle wilted because of the halt in
deliveries,
but all else quite acceptable. Around a rectangular table
assembled
from four smaller tables sat the principals of the action at the
"Furnace,"
plus Trevor Hicks, who acted as if he were taking it all in stride.
_I
have stumbled into a jackpot,_ he thought as the President and the
Secretary
of Defense entered and took their seats. Two Secret Service agents
ate
at a small table near the doorway.
Crockerman
nodded cordially at Hicks, seated beside the President and across
from
Lehrman.
"These
people have really done a fine job, haven't they?" the President said
after
the main course had been served and the dishes cleared. By a kind of
silent
and mutual decree, all talk during dinner had been of trivial things.
Now
coffee was brought out in an old, dented silver service, poured into the
owner's
personal Wedgwood bone china cups, and served around the long table.
Harry
declined. Arthur loaded his coffee with two cubes of sugar.
"So
you are acquainted with Mr. Feinman and Mr. Gordon," Crockerman said as
they
sat back with cups in hand.
"I
know them by reputation, and met Mr. Gordon once when he was in command of
BETC,"
Hicks said. He smiled and nodded at Arthur as if for the first time
this
evening."I'm sure our people have asked you what moved you to come to
Furnace Creek
Inn."
"It's
an ill-kept secret that something extraordinary is happening here,"
Hicks
said. "I was working on a hunch."
The
President gave another of his weak, almost discouraged smiles, and shook
his
head.
"I
am amazed I was brought here," Hicks continued, "after the way we
were
initially
treated. And I am truly astounded to find you here, Mr. President,
even
though I had deduced you would be, by a chain of reasoning I've already
described
to your Army and Secret Service agents. Let us say, I am astounded
to
find my hunch proving out. What _is_ happening here?"
"I'm
not sure we can tell you that. I'm not sure why I've invited you to
dinner,
Mr. Hicks, and no doubt the other gentlemen here are even more unsure
than
I. Mr. Gordon? Do you object to the presence of a writer, a reporter?"
"I
am curious. I do not object."
"Because
I think we are _all_ out of our depth," Crocker-man said. "I would
like
to solicit outside opinions."
Harry
winked without humor at Arthur.
"I
am in the dark, sir," Hicks said.
"Why
do you think we are here?"
"I
have heard—never mind how, I will not tell—that there is a bogey here. I
presume
it has something to do with the Australian discovery in the Great
Victoria
Desert."
McClennan
shaded his eyes with one hand and shook his head. "The unscrambled
transmission
from _Air Force One_. This has happened before. They should all
be
shot."
Crockerman
dismissed this with a wave of his hand. He pulled a cigar from his
pocket,
then asked by an inclination of eyebrows whether anyone would share
his
vice. Politely, all around the table declined. He clipped the cigar and
lit
it with an antique silver Zippo. "I trust you've been cleared to enter
military
bases and research laboratories."
"Yes,"
Hicks said.
"You're
not a United States citizen, however."
"No,
Mr. President."
"Is
he a security risk, Carl?" Crockerman asked McClennan.
The
national security advisor shook his head, lips pursed. "Other than being a
foreign
national, he's got a good record."
Lehrman
leaned forward and said, "Mr. President, I believe this conversation
should
end now. Mr. Hicks has no formal clearance, and—"
"Dammit,
Otto, he's an intelligent man. I'm interested in his opinion."
"Sir,
we can find and clear all sorts of experts for you to talk to,"
McClennan
said. "This sort of thing is counterproductive."
Crockerman
slowly looked up at McClennan, lips drawn tight. "How much time do
we
have until this machine starts dismantling the Earth?"
McClennan's
face reddened. "Nobody knows, Mr. President," he said.
Hicks
stiffened his back and glanced around the table. "Excuse me," he
said,
"but—"
"Then,
Carl," Crockerman continued, "isn't the time-consuming, formal way of
doing
things counterproductive?"
McClennan
stared pleadingly at Lehrman. The Defense Secretary held up both
hands.
"You're the boss, sir," he said.
"Within
limits, I am," Crockerman affirmed peevishly. "I have chosen to bring
Mr.
Hicks into our confidence."
"Mr.
Hicks, if I may say so, is a media celebrity," Rotterjack said. "He
has
done
no research, and his qualifications are purely as a journalist and a
writer.
I am amazed, sir, that you would extend this kind of privilege to a
_journalist_."Hicks,
eyes narrow, said nothing. The President’s gentle, dreaming smile
returned.
"Are
you finished, David?"
"I
may very well be, sir. I agree with Carl and Otto. This is highly irregular
and
dangerous."
"I
asked if you were finished."
"Yes."
"Then
allow me to repeat myself. I have decided to take Mr. Hicks into our
confidence.
I assume his security clearance will be processed immediately?"
McClennan
did not meet the President’s eyes. "I’ll get it started."
"Fine.
Mr. Gordon, Mr. Feinman, I am not expressing any doubts about your
capabilities.
Do you object to Mr. Hicks?"
"No,
sir," Arthur said.
"I
have nothing against journalists or writers," Harry said. "However
wrong
Mr.
Hicks’s novel has turned out to be."
"Fine."
Crockerman mused for a moment, then nodded and said, "I believed we
turned
down Arthur’s request for a Mr. Dupres, simply because he is a foreign
national.
I hope none of you mind a little inconsistency now…
"We
do indeed have a bogey, Mr. Hicks. It released an extraterrestrial visitor
we
call the Guest. The Guest is a living being, not a robot or a machine, and
it
tells us it rode a spaceship from its world to this one. But—" The
President
told Hicks most of the story, including his version of the Guest’s
dire
warning. Again, nobody corrected him.
Hicks
listened intently, his face white. When Crockerman finished, puffing at
the
cigar and blowing out an expanding globule of smoke, Hicks leaned forward,
placing
his elbows on the table. "I’ll be damned," he said, his voice low and
deliberately
casual.
"So
will we all if we don’t decide what to do, and soon," Crockerman said. All
others
kept their counsel. This was the President’s show, and few if any were
happy
with it.
"You’re
speaking with the Australians. They know about this, of course," Hicks
said.
"They
haven’t been told yet," Crockerman said. "We’re worried about the
effect
the
news might have on our people if it leaks."
"Of
course," Hicks said. "I … don’t know quite what to make of it myself.
I
seemed
to have stepped into a real hornet’s nest, haven’t I?"
Crockerman
stubbed out his cigar half smoked. "I’ll be returning to Washington
tomorrow
morning. Mr. Hicks, I’d like you to come with me. Mr. Gordon, you
also.
Mr. Feinman, I understand you won’t be able to accompany us. You have an
important
medical appointment in Los Angeles."
"Yes,
Mr. President."
"Then
if you will, after your treatment—and my sincere good wishes go with you
there—I
would like you to recommend a group of scientists to meet with the
Guest,
conduct further interrogations—that doesn’t sound good, does it? Ask
more
questions. This team will be our liaison with the Australian scientists.
Carl,
I’d like you to arrange with the Australians for one of their
investigators
to be flown to Vandenberg and sit in on these sessions."
"Are
we sharing with the Australians, sir?" Rotterjack asked.
"I
think that’s the only rational approach."
"And
if they’re reluctant to go along with our stance on security?"
"We’ll
climb that wall when we come to it."
A
tired-looking young man in a gray suit entered the dining hall and
approached
Rotterjack. He handed the science advisor a slip of paper and stood
back,
eyes darting nervously around the table. Rotterjack read the paper, the
lines
around his mouth and on his forehead deepening.
"Colonel
Phan sends us a message," he said. "The Guest died at eighteen
hundred
hours this evening. Phan is conducting an autopsy at midnight. Mr.Feinman and
Mr. Gordon are requested to attend."
Silence
around the table.
"Mr.
Gordon, you are free to do so, and then please come to Washington as soon
as
you can," Crockerman said. He put his napkin next to his plate, backed his
chair
• away from the head of the table, and stood. He appeared very old in
the
dining room’s subdued light. "I’m retiring early tonight. This day has
been
exhausting, and there is much to think about. David, Carl, please make
sure
Mr. Hicks is comfortable."
"Yes,
sir," McClennan said.
"And
Carl, make sure the staff here realizes how much we appreciate their
service
and the hardship."
"Yes,
sir."
PERSPECTIVE
_AAP/UKNet,
Octobers, 1996; Woomera, Local Church of New Australia:_
The
Reverend Brian Caldecott has proclaimed the Australian extraterrestrials
to
be "patent frauds." Caldecott, long known for his fiery harangues
against
all
forms of government, and for leading his disciples in a return to "the
Garden
of Eden," which he claims was once located near Alice Springs, came to
Woomera
in a caravan of thirty white Mercedes-Benzes to hold a tent rally this
evening.
"These 'aliens' are the Country Party's attempt to mislead the
citizens
of the world, and to make the Australian Government, under Prime
Minister
Stanley Miller, the center of a world government, which I of course
deplore."
Caldecott's crusade suffered a public relations setback last year
when
it was discovered he was married to three women. The Church of New
Australia
promptly declared bigamy to be a religious principle, stirring a
legal
stew as yet unsettled.
AGNUS
16—
Octobers,
12:15 A.M.
Colonel
Tuan Anh Phan, wearing a white helmeted suit with self-contained
breathing
apparatus, stood beside two assistants in similar garb in the
isolation
chamber once occupied by the Guest, and now by its corpse. Harry
Feinman
entered the chamber in his own suit, stepping with some awkwardness
around
the others. With four in the chamber, and equipment brought in for the
autopsy,
there was little room for maneuvering. Arthur sat in the laboratory
beyond
the glass and observed.
The
Guest lay on its back on the central table, now elevated a meter above the
floor.
Its long head extended full length with "chin" paralleling the
tabletop.
The four limbs were splayed outward, held against a natural
resilience
by plastic straps.
Phan
indicated with a sweep of one plastic-gloved hand the three video cameras
behind
their protective plastic plates. "Beginning twelve-seventeen a.m.,
October
eighth, 1996. I am Colonel Tuan Anh Phan, and I am beginning an
autopsy
of the extraterrestrial biological specimen found near Death Valley,
California.
The specimen, also called the Guest, died at five fifty-eight
p.m.,
October seventh, in isolation room three of the Vandenberg Emergency
Retrieval
Laboratory, Shuttle Launch Center Six, Vandenberg Air Force Base,
California.
"There
is no evidence of physical injury or any apparent sign of internal
trauma."
Phan removed a scalpel from a tray proffered by an assistant. "I've
already
collected external culture samples from the Guest when it was alive. I
will
now take samples from sites along its limbs and on its body and head to
see
if terrestrial microorganisms have begun to multiply on its external
tissues."
Using the scalpel to abrade the skin, and swabs to pick up the
samples,
he carried out this task. Each swab was dropped into a tube which wasthen
stoppered. "As you can see, the body exhibits no signs of lividity, or
indeed
of any decay or change, external or internal." Phan lifted a forward
limb.
"There is resilience, but no stiffness. Indeed, the only visible
evidence
of death is a lack of movement and no reaction to stimuli.
"There
is no sign of electrical activity within the Guest's cranium, or
anywhere
else in the body. As such activity existed before, we can only assume
that
this is another indicator of death. The Guest has not moved in ten hours
and
thirty-one minutes. Dr. Feinman, do you concur that the Guest is now dead,
by
any measurements we can make?"
"I
concur," Harry said. "There are no reflexes. The Guest's body
previously
exhibited
a living tension when touched. In its present state, there is no
living
tension in evidence."
"Obviously,
this is more in the nature of an exploratory dissection than a
true
autopsy," Phan continued, his voice weary. "We have already conducted
a
thorough
examination of the Guest through external means, including X ray,
ultrasound
exploratory, and NMR imaging. We have located several shapes which
might
be organs, a few small cavities, some fluid-filled and some apparently
empty,
within the Guest, and using these printouts as maps"—he pointed a
scalpel
at several sheets of paper hung on the outside of the viewing windows—
"I
will investigate the Guest's interior more directly.
"The
Guest's thoracic skeletal structure differs substantially from our own.
It
appears to be made of a series of spines—in the porcupine sense of the
word—connected
by collagenous flexible joints, all wrapped around the internal
cavity.
There are no hollow lungs. In fact, there are few hollows of any
kind."
Phan drew the scalpel along a pronounced ridge running the length of
the
"breast" and revealed a clean gray-green surface with the sheen of
bathroom
tile. The sliced edges of skin were coppery blue-green in color.
"Here
is the central breast 'bone' or 'process' we first saw in our X rays."
He
peeled back the skin, cutting delicately at adhering tissue, until one side
of
the thorax was exposed. "These joined processes provide a flexible but
efficient
cage around the thoracic organs. As you can see, the cage is fairly
rigid
in one direction"—he pushed with his finger toward the Guest's head,
producing
no movement—"but flexible in another." He pressed down and the cage
sank
slightly. "There is an obvious similarity between the Guest and ourselves
at
this point, with a protective cage around the thorax, but the similarity
ends
there."
Phan
took a small electric circular saw and cut through the processes on the
Guest's
left side, facing the window. Working the saw twenty centimeters
across
the top, then down on two sides another twenty centimeters, then across
the
bottom, he was able to lift free a glutinous section of the thoracic cage.
Below
lay a pearly membrane.
Arthur
sat rooted in his chair, fully focused on the opening to the Guest's
thorax.
Phan maneuvered past Feinman and the assistants around the table,
pausing
for a moment to glance at the printouts. He then reached for a syringe
and
inserted it into the pearly membrane, withdrawing a sample of fluids.
Harry
pushed a slender biopsy core sampler through the membrane a little lower
and
removed a long, slender tube of tissue.
This
he passed to an assistant, who sealed it in a glass phial and passed it
with
the other samples to the outside through a stainless-steel drawer.
"The
temperature is now twelve degrees centigrade. We are reducing that to
several
degrees above zero, to inhibit terrestrial bacterial growth. The core
and
fluid samples will be analyzed and the autopsy will continue at a later
hour.
Gentlemen, it is time I rested. My assistants are going to make further
measurements
and take core samples from the limbs. Later this morning we will
begin
on the head."
Hicks
sat at the table across from the President, smiling at the waitress as
she
poured him a cup of coffee. They were alone in the dining hall; it wasearly,
just past seven in the morning. The President had called him at
midnight
and requested his presence at breakfast for a private discussion.
"What's
your pleasure, Mr. Hicks?" Crocker-man asked him.
"Toast
and scrambled eggs, I think," he said. "Can you make a Denver
omelet?"
The
waitress nodded.
"The
same for me," Crockerman told her. As she left, Crockerman pushed his
chair
back a few inches and bent to pull papers from an open valise beside
him.
"I'll be meeting with a distraught mother at nine o'clock, and with an
admiral
and a general at eleven. Then I fly back to Washington. I've been
making
notes all night long, trying to put my thoughts in order. I hope you
don't
object to my bouncing a few ideas off you."
"Not
at all," Hicks said. "But first, I must make my situation clear. I'm
a
journalist.
I came here for a story.
All
this—your request that I stay here, instead of being booted out with the
others—is...well,
it's extraordinary. I must honestly say that under the
circumstances,
I..." He ran out of words, looking into Crockerman's rich brown
eyes.
Lifting his hand, he gestured vaguely at the door of the dining room.
"I'm
not trusted here, nor should I be. I'm an outsider."
"You're
a man with imagination and insight," Crockerman said. "The others
have
expertise.
Mr. Gordon and Mr. Feinman have imagination and expertise, and Mr.
Gordon
has been very close to this kind of problem, as administrator of BETC.
Perhaps
he's been too close, I don't know. I've been wondering whether or not
we're
dealing with extraterrestrials, as he would have us believe. You have a
distance,
a fresh perspective I could find very useful."
"What
is my official capacity, my role?" Hicks asked.
"Obviously,
you can't report this story now," Crocker-man said. "Stay here,
work
with us until the story is about to be released. I suspect we'll have to
go
public soon, though Carl and David strongly disagree. If we do go public,
you
have your exclusive. You get first crack."
Hicks
frowned. "And our conversations?"
"For
the time being, what we say to each other is not to be discussed
elsewhere.
In the fullness of history, in our memoirs or
whatever..."Crockerman
nodded to the far walls. "Fine."
"I'd
like some more details," Hicks said, "especially if Mr. Rotterjack
and
Mr.
McClennan or Mr. Lehrman have control over me or my story. But for the
time
being, I'll agree. I will not report what we say to each other
privately."
Crockerman
put the papers on the table in front of him. "Now, here are my
thoughts.
Either we've been invaded twice in the last year, or somebody is
lying
to us."
"The
choice seems to be between doom and a hands across space policy," Hicks
said.
The
President nodded agreement. "I've made some logic diagrams." He held
up
the
first sheet of paper. "Venn diagrams. Scant remnants of my college math
days."
He smiled. "Nothing complicated, just drawings to help me sort the
possibilities
out. I'd appreciate your criticisms."
"All
right." Hicks glanced at the piece of paper before the President. Brief
notations
of possible scenarios lay within nested and intersecting and
separated
circles.
"If
these two spacecraft have similar origins, I see several possibilities.
First,
the Australians are dealing with a splinter group of extraterrestrials,
some
kind of dissident faction. But our information is correct, and the
primary
aim of the overall mission is to destroy the Earth, and the Guest does
indeed
represent survivors of their last conquest. With me so far?"
"Yes."
"Second,"
the President continued, "we are dealing with two separate events,
which
by some literally astronomical chance are happening simultaneously. Twogroups
of aliens, unacquainted or only marginally acquainted with each other.
Or
third, we are not dealing with aliens at all, but with emissaries."
Hicks
raised an eyebrow. "Emissaries?"
"I'm
not completely comfortable with the vastness of the universe." Crockerman
said
nothing for ten or fifteen seconds, staring at the table, his face
passive
but his eyes darting back and forth between the candle and his cup of
coffee.
"I suppose that you are."
"I'm
human," Hicks said. "I'm limited, too. I accept the vastness without
truly
understanding it or feeling it."
"That
makes me feel better. I'm not doing too badly, then, am I?" Crockerman
asked.
"No,
sir."
"I
wonder if, perhaps, in charting our universe from a scientific perspective,
we
haven't lost something...an awareness of..." Again he paused, searching
for
words.
"Transgressions. If we think of God as a superior intelligence, not
human,
but demanding certain obediences...Do you follow me?"
Hicks
nodded once.
"Perhaps
we are no longer satisfying this superior intelligence. He, or more
accurately,
It, sends Its emissaries, Its angels if you will, to brandish the
kind
of sword we understand. The end of the Earth." Crockerman raised his eyes
to
meet Hicks's.
The
waitress brought their breakfast and asked if they wanted more coffee.
Crockerman
refused; Hicks accepted a warm-up. When she had gone, Hicks
investigated
his omelet with a fork, no longer very hungry. His stomach
knotted,
acid. He could feel a kind of panic coming on.
"I've
never been comfortable with religious interpretations," he said.
"Must
we classify this as a religious interpretation? Couldn't this just as
easily
be an alternative to theories of conflicting aliens, or factionalized
invaders?"
"I'm
not sure what your theory is."
"The
moving finger, having writ.' That."
"Ah.
_'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin,'_ or whatever."
"Precisely.
We've screwed up. Polluted, overarmed. The twentieth century has
been
a mess. The bloodiest century in human history. More needless human death
than
at any other time."
"I
can't argue with that," Hicks said.
"And
now, we move outward. Perhaps we've been suffered only so long as we
remained
on Earth. Now—"
"It's
an old idea," Hicks interrupted, his unease converting rapidly to
irritation.
"Does
that mean it's invalid?"
"I
think there are better ideas," Hicks said.
"Ah,"
Crockerman said, his own breakfast still untouched. "But none of them
convince
_me._ I am the only judge I can truly rely upon in this situation, am
I
not?"
"No,
sir. There are experts—"
"In
my political career, I have ignored the advice of experts many times, and
I
have prevailed. This made me different from other, more standard aspirants
to
high office. Now, I grant you, such a ploy has its risks."
"I'm
getting lost again, sir. What ploy?"
"Ignoring
experts." The President leaned forward, extending his hands across
the
table, fists clenched, his eyes moist. Crockerman's expression was a
rictus
of pain. "I asked the Guest one thing, and received one important
answer,
from all of our questions...I asked it, 'Do you believe in God,' and
it
replied, 'I believe in punishment.'" He leaned back, looking at his fists
and
relaxing them, rubbing the palms, where fingernails had dug deep. "That
must
be significant. Perhaps the Guest is from another world, another placewhere
transgressors have been dealt with severely. That thing out there in the
'Furnace,'
Death Valley of all places...We have been told it will render the
Earth
down into slag. Total destruction. We have been told we cannot destroy
it.
I believe in fact we cannot."
Hicks
was about to say something, but Crockerman continued, his voice low.
"God,
a superior intelligence, sculpts us all, finds us wanting, and sends our
material
back into the forge to be reshaped. That thing out there. The
Furnace.
That's the forge of God. That's what we're up against. Might be up
against."
"And
the Australian artifact, the robots, the messages?"
"I
don't know," Crockerman said. "It would clearly sound insane to claim
the
Australians
were dealing with an adversary...But perhaps."
"Adversary...a
kind of Satan?"
"Something
opposed to the Creator. A force that hopes we will be allowed to
continue
our transgressions, to put all creation out of balance."
"I
think there are better explanations, Mr. President," Hicks said quietly.
"Then
please," Crockerman pleaded, "tell me what they are."
"I
am not qualified," Hicks said. "I know almost nothing about what's
happened.
Only what you've told me."
"Then
how can you be critical of my theory?"
The
way Crockerman spoke, like a child though using grown-up words, chilled
Hicks
to the bone. A friend had once spoken to Hicks in a similar tone in
London
in 1959; she had died by her own hand a month later.
"It
is not realistic," he said.
"Is
anything about this situation realistic?" Crockerman asked. Neither had
done
much more than push the food around on his plate.
Hicks
took a bite. The omelet was cold. He ate it anyway, and Crockerman began
to
eat his. Neither spoke again until the plates were empty, as if engaged in
a
contest of silence. The waitress took the plates away and poured more coffee
into
Hicks's cup.
"I
apologize," the President said, wiping his lips with the napkin and
folding
it
on the table. "I've been rude with you. That's unforgivable."
Hicks
mumbled something about the strain they were all under, and how it was
understandable.
"You
give me a kind of perspective, however," Crockerman said. "I can see,
just
watching your reaction, how others would react. This is a very difficult
time,
in more ways than one. I've had to interrupt my campaign schedule. The
election
is less than a month away. Timing is very important. I see I need to
trim
the rough edges from my phrases..."
"Sir,
it is not phrasing. It is perspective," Hicks said, his voice rising.
"If
you pursue these theories of cosmic recrimination, I can hardly imagine
the
damage you might cause."
"Yes.
I see that."
_Do
you?_ Hicks asked himself. And then, examining Crockerman's suspicious,
half-lidded
expression, _Yes, perhaps you do...but that won't stop you._
17—
Octobers
Arthur
unfolded a newspaper as the Learjet taxied across the runway. On a far
apron,
B-l bombers lined up, their sleek tan, gray, and green shapes obscured
by
a layer of early morning sea haze. It took a few seconds for him to focus
on
the headlines. His thoughts were still on Harry Feinman, and on the
autopsy.
The
Guest had no discrete internal organ structure. Stuffed within the
thoracic
cage was shell-pink tissue continuous except for occasional cavities,
more
like a brain than anything else. The head consisted of the Lexan-like
articulated
bone material, arranged in large solid masses, with no discerniblecentral
nervous system. Small nodes the size of BBs interrupted the continuity
of
the bone; they appeared to be made of some sort of metal, perhaps silver.
Harry
would soon be undergoing his own probing and examination in Los Angeles.
The
plane completed its taxi and began to accelerate down the runway, small
jets
screaming thinly beyond the insulated walls.
Arthur
focused on the newspaper. The front page headline read,
PRESIDENT
ON SECRET
DEATH
VALLEY VISIT
Details
Unclear:
May
Be Related to Australian Aliens
The
same unscrambled transmission that had brought Trevor Hicks to Furnace
Creek
had led other reporters, just hours later, to reach similar conclusions.
Hicks
had struck a mother lode. The others had had to make do with testimony
from
inhabitants of Shoshone and one phone call to Furnace Creek Inn that had
gotten
through to the apartment of a maid who spoke only Spanish. Bernice
Morgan
had not been interviewed. _Perhaps Crockerman persuaded her,_ Arthur
thought,
tracking the story several times to see if he had missed any telling
details.
General
Paul Fulton, Commander in Chief of West Coast Shuttle Operations, was
on
the flight with Arthur. He came forward as soon as they were in the air and
had
finished their climb to 28,000 feet.
"Ah,
the good old free press," he commented, taking the neighboring seat.
"Pardon
me, Mr. Gordon. We haven't had time to just sit and talk."
"You're
going back to testify?"
"Before
some key congressmen, before the Space Activities Committee senators—
God
only knows what Proxmire is going to make of this. How he got on that
committee
in the first place is beyond me. The man's politically immortal."
Arthur
nodded. He felt as if his brain were mush. He had hoped to sleep
through
the entire flight, but Fulton seemed to have something on his mind.
"A
lot of us are worried about Crockerman's choice of Trevor Hicks. He's a
science
fiction writer—"
"Only
recently," Arthur said. "He's quite a decent science writer,
actually."
"Yes,
and we actually don't fault the choice of Hicks, but we wonder about the
President's
need to go beyond the...primary group. His staff and advisors and
Cabinet.
The assigned experts."
"He
wanted a second opinion. He mentioned that a couple of times."
Fulton
shrugged. "The Guest shook him."
"The
Guest shook me, too," Arthur said.
Fulton
dropped the subject abruptly. "There will be two of our Australian
counterparts
in Washington when we arrive. Flown in fresh from Melbourne. They
were
spare parts down there, I suspect. The really important man—Quentin Bent—
is
staying behind. Do you know him?"
"No,"
Arthur said. "There's something of a gap between the Northern and
Southern
Hemispheres, science-wise, in all but astronomy. Bent's not an
astronomer.
He's a sociologist, I believe."
Fulton
looked dubious. "Your colleague, Dr. Feinman...Is he going to be able
to
keep up?"
"I
think so." Arthur recognized that he was taking a disliking to General
Fulton,
and wondered how reasonable that was. The man was only trying to
gather
information.
"What
does he have?"
"Chronic
leukemia."
"Terminal?"
"His
doctors think it's treatable."
Fulton
nodded. "I wonder if that's not a good diagnosis for the Earth."
Arthur
didn't catch his meaning.
"Cancer,"
Fulton volunteered. "Cosmic cancer."Arthur nodded reflectively and
looked out the window, wondering when he would
find
time to call Francine, talk to Marty, touch base with the real world.
Lieutenant
Colonel Albert Rogers took the radio message in hand and climbed
out
of the rear door of the communications trailer, down the corrugated metal
steps
to the crunchy white sand. He didn't really want to think about the
implications
of his orders; thinking on such an esoteric level would do him no
good
whatsoever. The Guest was dead; Arthur Gordon had ordered his team to
investigate
the interior of the Furnace. Rogers would not allow anyone but
himself
to do it.
He
had been planning for such a mission. He had drawn incomplete diagrams of
the
bogey's interior in a small notebook, little more than suppositions based
on
length, height, width, and the angle and length of the tube running through
solid
rock. Climbing the tube would present no problem—even where it angled
straight
up, he could take it like a rock climber in a chimney, back against
one
side, legs/jackknifed and feet pressed against the other, inching his way
up.
He would carry a miniature digital video recorder, smaller than the palm
of
his hand, and a helmet-mounted finger-sized video camera. A Hasselblad for
high-resolution
pictures and a smaller, lighter automatic film-packed 35mm
Leica
completed his equipment. He doubted the investigation would take more
than
a day. There was, of course, the possibility that the bogey was
honeycombed
with interior spaces. Some-how, he doubted that.
As
a sergeant and corporal brought the supplies he requested from the stores
trailer,
he drew up his itinerary and discussed emergency measures with his
second-in-command,
Major Peter Keller. Rogers then donned the chest pack and
heavy
climbing boots, coiled three lengths of rope neatly and hung them from
his
belt, and walked around the south side of the bogey.
He
checked his watch and set its timer. It was six a.m. The desert was still
wrapped
in gray dawn, high cirrus stretching from horizon to horizon in a thin
layer.
The desert smelled of clean cold air, a hint of dry creosote bush.
"Give
me a lift," Rogers instructed Keller. The major meshed the fingers of
both
hands to make a stirrup and Rogers stepped into the stirrup with his left
foot.
With a heave-ho, Keller lifted him into the tunnel. Rogers lay on his
back
in the angled shaft for a moment, staring at the first bend, about forty
feet
into the rock. "Okay," he said, punching the button on his watch for
the
timer
to start. "I'm off."
They
had decided against unwinding a telephone wire and communicating directly
with
him as he climbed. The video recorder was equipped with a small lapel
mike,
into which he would make oral observations; the video camera would make
an
adequate record of what he saw from moment to moment. If time and
opportunity
presented, he would take pictures with the other cameras.
"Good
luck, sir," Keller called as. he began his low-angle ascent up the
tunnel.
"The
hell with that," Rogers grunted under his breath. The first thirty feet
were
easy, a wriggling crawl. At the bend, he paused to shine a light up into
the
darkness. The tunnel angled straight up after the first thirty feet of
incline.
He noted this aloud for the record, then looked down over his stomach
and
legs at the cameo of Keller's face. Keller made an okay sign with circled
thumb
and index finger. Rogers blinked his light twice.
"I'm
going into the belly of an alien spaceship," he told himself silently,
grimacing
fiercely to limber his tense jaw and face muscles. "I'm crawling up
into
an unknown. That's it. Don't be afraid." And he wasn't—a kind of
energetic
calm, almost a high, came over him.
He
thought of his wife and four-year-old daughter living in Barstow, and a
variety
of scenarios stacked up behind their faces. Heroic dead father and
lifetime
benefits. Actually, he wasn't clear on the benefits. He should be. He
vowed
to check that out immediately when he got back. Much better thought:
heroic
live father and retirement at twenty years and going into somebusiness, defense
contract consultant maybe, though he had never thought of
that
before. First man inside an alien spaceship. Real estate was more likely.
Not
in Barstow, however. San Diego, maybe, though being ex-Navy or ex-Marine
would
be more help there.
He
began to climb, rubber-soled boots grabbing the rock and hands bracing
against
the opposite wall. A foot at a time. No damaging the spacecraft; not
even
a scratch. He heaved himself up with a grunt, again locking his boots and
hands
against the rock. Smooth surface, nothing like lava. Featureless and
gray,
amorphous. Astronauts had been trained in geology when they landed on
the
moon. No need to train an Army colonel. Besides, this wasn't a natural
place;
what good would geology do?
At
least it wasn't slippery.
He
had climbed fifteen feet when he paused and shined his light forward.
Another
bend above him, beyond which they had not probed with the pole-mounted
cameras.
Truly unknown. Rogers conjured up the few science fiction movies he
had
seen. He had never been a big fan of science fiction movies. Most of his
buddies
had enjoyed _Aliens_ when they watched it on a VCR just out of boot
camp.
He tried to forget about that one.
The
Guest was dead. What if that made the others angry? What if they knew,
somehow,
and were waiting for him?
He
was still calm, still slightly high, eyes wide, pupils dilated in the dark,
face
moist with exertion. Up, up, and then over the lip of the bend. He rested
in
the nearly level tunnel beyond the bend, shining his light into
impenetrable
darkness. Pulling out his notebook, he worked quickly to figure
angles
and distances. He was about fifteen or twenty feet from the outer
surface.
Shining his light on a notebook page with the chart of the interior,
he
drew in the level tunnel. His path resembled a dogleg tire iron, thirty
feet
into the mound at an upward angle, then straight up twenty feet or so,
and
now horizontally into the interior.
Silence.
No sounds of machinery, no voices, no air moving. Just his own
breathing.
When he had rested a few minutes, he crawled, flashlight strapped
to
one wrist sweeping the tunnel with every motion.
Ninety
feet ahead, the tunnel opened into a larger space. He did not hesitate.
Eager
to be out of the confinement, Rogers scrambled forward and grabbed the
lip
of the tunnel with both hands, pulling his head out. He played the light
across
the enclosed volume.
"I'm
in a cylindrical chamber," he said aloud, "about thirty feet long and
twenty
across. I'm probably in the middle of the mound"—he referred to his
sketch—
"below the peak maybe sixty or eighty feet. The walls are shiny, like
enamel
or plastic or glass. Dark gray, with a bluish tint. The tunnel opens
near
the rear of the cylinder, and at the front"—he consulted his chart—
"pointing
northwest, there is another space, even larger. No sign of quarters
or
inhabitants. No activity."
He
stood up in the cylinder, testing the surface with his boots. There was
still
enough traction to walk easily. "I'm going forward."
Rogers
walked to the edge of the cylinder, keeping his light shined ahead.
Then
he opened his chest pack and pulled out two superbright torches. Holding
them
away from his eyes, he flicked the switches on both.
Mouth
wide open, Rogers surveyed a cavern at least a hundred feet long and
eighty
feet high. The cylindrical chamber was squarely in the center of one
end,
placing him about twenty feet above the bottom. "It's full of shiny
facets,
like a gem," he said. "More like glass, not mirrors but shiny. Not
just
facets, either, but structures— beams, supports, braces. It's like a
cathedral
inside here, but made of blue-gray glass." He took several dozen
pictures
with the Hasselblad, then lowered the camera and just stared, trying
to
impress the memory and make sense out of what he was seeing.
From
the end of the cylinder to the ornate gleaming surface below was a dropof at
least thirty feet. No rappelling down; there was nothing to tie the rope
onto,
and he would not even try to hammer a piton into place.
"I
can't go any farther," he said. "There's nothing moving. No place I'd
call
living
quarters. No machinery visible, even. And no lights. I'm going to turn
off
the torches and see if anything glows afterward." He plunged himself into
complete
darkness. For a moment, his throat constricted and he coughed, the
sound
breaking into a chatter of echoes.
"I
don't see anything," he said after a few minutes of darkness. "I'm
going to
turn
the torches on to take more pictures." He reached for the switches and
then
paused, squinting. Directly ahead, burning dimly and steadily, was a tiny
red
light, no more than a star in the vastness. "Wait. I don't know if the
video
can pick that up. It's very weak. Just a single red light, like a
pinprick."
He
watched the gleam for several more minutes. All motions it made were easily
explained
by optical illusion; it changed neither in position nor brightness.
"I
don't think the ship is dead. It's just waiting." Then he shook his head.
"But
maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, just because of one little red light."
Turning
on his wrist flashlight, he mounted a telephoto lens on the Hasselblad
and
set the camera to a long exposure, then rested it on the lip of the
cylinder,
facing the red light. With a remote button, he opened the camera
lens.
When the exposure was complete, he reset for even longer and shot
another.
Then he turned on the torches and sat down to fill his memory with as
much
detail as he could. "It's still silent," he said.
After
fifteen minutes, he got to his feet and instinctively brushed off his
pants.
"All right. I'm going back."
To
his enormous relief, nothing interfered with his return journey.
19—
October
10
Edward
Shaw learned of the Guest's death two days later, when they all
received
a visit from Colonel Phan. After a ten-minute warning, in which time
Edward
quickly dressed, the curtains were drawn and all four of them faced the
small,
muscular brown man in his pin-neat blue uniform, standing in the
central
laboratory.
"How
long have we got, Doc?" Minelli asked. He had been getting more and more
flippant,
less predictable, as the days passed. He talked often of the
President
and how they would soon be "outta this dump." His speech more and
more
resembled a comic imitation of James Cagney. Minelli had never reacted
well
to overbearing authority. Edward had heard of a time, years before
Minelli
came to Austin, when he had been jailed on a minor dope charge, and
had
bloodied his face against a jailhouse door. Edward worried about him.
"You
are all healthy, with no signs of contamination or illness," Phan said.
"I
plan no more tests for you. You have heard from your duty officer, I
believe,
that the Guest is dead. I have finished the first level of autopsy,
and
found no microbiologicals anywhere within its system. It appears to have
been
a completely sterile creature. This is good news for you."
"No
bugs, m'lady," Minelli said. Edward winced.
"I
have recommended that you be released," Phan said, staring levelly at each
in
turn. "Though I do not know when they will do so. As the President said,
there
are security concerns."
Edward
saw Stella Morgan through her window and smiled at her. She did not
return
the smile; perhaps the light was wrong and she did not see him; perhaps
she
was feeling as depressed as Reslaw, who seldom said anything now.
The
combination of free interaction through the intercom and separate
confinement
seemed to undermine the camaraderie Edward thought was typical of
prison
camp inmates. They were not being abused. They had nothing really solid
to
fight against. Their confinement, until now at least, had not beensenseless.
Consequently, they were not "drawing together" as Edward thought
they
might. Then again, he had never before been held in long-term detention.
Maybe
his expectations were simply naive.
"We
are preparing papers that you will sign, promising not to speak of these
last
few days—"
"I
won't sign anything like that," Minelli said. "There aren't any best-
sellers
if I sign that. No agents, no Hollywood."
"Please,"
Phan said patiently.
"What
about Australia?" Edward asked. "Are you talking with them?"
"Conferences
begin today in Washington," Phan said.
"Why
the wait? Why didn't everybody start talking weeks ago?"
Phan
did not answer. "Personally, I hope all is made public soon," he
said.
Edward
tried to control a building anger. "Why can't we get together? Take us
out
of here and put us in a BOQ or something."
"Barbecue?"
Minelli snorted.
"Bachelor
officer's quarters," Edward explained, his lower lip trembling. He
was
beginning to cry. He checked that response immediately, putting on an air
of
indignant rationality. "Really. This is hell. We feel like we're in
jail."
"Worse.
We can't make zip guns or knives," Minelli said. "Bottom of the
world,
Ma!"
Phan
regarded Minelli with an expression between irritation and concern. "That
is
all I have to tell you now. Please do not worry. I am sure you will be
compensated.
In the meantime, we have new infodisks."
"Goody,"
Minelli said. As Phan turned away, he shouted, "Wait! I'm not feeling
well.
Really. Something's wrong."
"What
is it?" Phan asked, gesturing to a watch supervisor behind him.
"In
my head. Tell them, Reslaw."
"Minelli's
been disturbed recently," Reslaw said slowly. "I'm not doing too
well,
myself. He doesn't sound good. He's different."
"I'm
different," Minelli concurred. Then he began to weep. "Goddammit,
just
put
us back out where the rocks are. Let us go in our truck. I'll sign
anything.
Really. Please."
Phan
glanced at them all, then turned and left abruptly. The curtains hummed
back
into place. Edward's drawer opened and he removed a newspaper and the new
packet
of infodisks. Hungrily, he read yesterday morning's headline.
"Christ,"
he muttered. "They know about the President. Stella!" He punched her
number
on the intercom. "Stella, they know the President came out here!"
"I'm
reading," she said.
"Do
you think your mother got through?"
"I
don't know, really."
"We
can hope," Edward said.
Minelli
was still weeping.
2O-
Hicks
lay back against a pillow in the Lincoln Bedroom, a foot-high stack of
reports
on the round draped night-stand beside him, a small glass-globed lamp
glowing
softly above the reports. The late Empire-period pendulum clock on the
marble
mantelpiece ticked softly, steadily. The large, high-ceilinged room
looked
haunted, in a cozy sort of way; haunted by history, by association.
This
had been Abraham Lincoln's Cabinet room originally; here he had signed
the
Emancipation Proclamation.
He
shook his head. "I'm crazy," he said. "I'm not here. I'm
imagining all of
it."
For a moment, he hoped desperately that was true; that he was dreaming in
the
hotel room at the Inter-Continental, and that he would soon be promoting
his
novel for six minutes or less on another radio show, before another young
announcer...
On
the other hand, what was so undesirable about being in the White House
inWashington, D.C., personally chosen by the President of the United States to
advise
him on the biggest event in human history? "The man doesn't listen,"
he
murmured.
Hicks
picked up the topmost report on the stack, a thick sheaf of photocopied
papers
on the Death Valley site, the Guest, and all that was known about the
Great
Victoria Desert site.
The
Guest's interim autopsy report was third in the stack. Using a talent
acquired
across years of research, he skimmed the first two papers quickly,
stopping
only for essential details. The reports, not unexpectedly, were
"safe"—hedged
through and through with ambiguous language, craftily defused
theories,
prompt second-guessing. Only the autopsy report showed promise of
being
substantive.
Colonel
Tuan Anh Phan, a man Hicks would like to meet, was clear and to the
point.
The Guest's physiology was unlike that of any living thing on Earth.
Phan
could not conceive of an environment that would evolve such a physiology.
There
were structures that reminded him, again and again, of "engineering
shortcuts,"
totally unlike the more intricate, randomly evolved structures
terrestrial
biology exhibited. His conclusion was not hedged in the least:
"The
Guest's body does not appear to be in the same biological category as
Earth
life forms. Some of its features are contrary to reasonable
expectations.
The only explanation I can offer for this is that the Guest is
an
artificial being, perhaps the product of centuries of genetic manipulation
combined
with complex bioelectronics. Since these abilities are far beyond us,
any
suppositions I might make as to the actual functions of the Guest's organs
must
be considered unreliable, perhaps misleading."
A
chemical analysis of the Guest's tissues followed. There was no cell
structure
per se in any of the tissues; rather, each area or organ in the
Guest's
body appeared to have a separate metabolism, which cooperated with,
but
was not part of, other areas or organs. There was no central waste-
disposal
system. Wastes appeared to build up without relief in tissues. Phan
thought
this might have been the cause of death. "Perhaps nutrients
unavailable
in an Earth environment triggered processes below the level of
detail
our investigation can uncover. Perhaps the Guest, in its native
environment,
was attached to a complex life-support system that purged its
body
of waste products. Perhaps the Guest was ill and certain body functions
were
inactive."
Buried
in a footnote: "The Guest does not appear to have been designed for a
long
life span." The footnote was signed by Harold Feinman, who had not
attended
the final parts of the autopsy. There was no further elaboration.
Despite
the report’s clarity, Something was being left unsaid. Feinman, at
least,
seemed to be hinting that the Guest was not what it appeared...
In
the bottom report of the stack was an Australian booklet, prepared with
obvious
haste and considerable deletions. This booklet began with a synopsis
of
statements made by the mechanical visitors that had emerged from the Great
Victoria
Desert rock.
Hicks
rubbed his eyes. The light was poor for reading. He had leafed through
this
booklet once already: Yet he needed to feel completely prepared for the
next
morning, when he accompanied the President into the Oval Office to meet
with
the Australian representatives.
"The
comprehensibility of the mechanical beings’ statements to our
investigators
is astonishing. Their command of English appears to be perfect.
They
answer questions promptly and without obfuscation."
Hicks
studied the glossy color photographs inserted into the booklet. The
Australian
government had just two days before provided a set of these
photographs
along with video disks to every news organization in the world;
the
images of the three silvery, gourd-shaped robots hovering near a wood-
posted
razor-wire fence, of the great smooth water-worn red rock, of the exithole,
were in every civilized household in the world by now.
"The
robots, by their every word, convey a sense of goodwill and benevolent
concern.
They wish to help the inhabitants of the Earth to ‘fulfill your
potential,
to come together in harmony and exercise your rights as potential
citizens
of a galaxy-wide exchange.’"
Hicks
frowned. How many years of fictional paranoia had conditioned him to be
dubious
of extraterrestrials bearing gifts? Of all the motion pictures made
about
first contact, only a bare handful had treated the epochal event as
benign.
How
often had Hicks’s eyes misted over, watching these few films, even when he
tried
to keep a scientific perspective? That great moment, the exchange
between
humans and friendly nonhuman intelligences...
It
had happened in Australia. The dream was alive.
And
in California, nightmares.
_The
Guest does not appear to have been designed for a long life span,_
He
put the Australian booklet on the top of the stack and reached awkwardly
over
the stack to turn off the light. In the darkness, he disciplined himself
to
take regular, shallow breaths, to blank his mind and go to sleep. Even so,
sleep
came late and was not restful.
21—
October
11
Crockerman,
wearing slacks and a white shirt but no coat or tie, a powdery
patch
of styptic pencil on his chin from a shaving cut, entered the office of
his
chief of staff, and nodded briefly, at those assembled there: Gordon,
Hicks,
Rotterjack, Fulton, Lehrman, and the chief of staff himself, plump and
balding
Irwin Schwartz. It was seven-thirty in the morning, though in the
windowless
office time hardly mattered. Arthur thought he might never get out
of
little rooms and the company of bureaucrats and politicians.
"I've
called you in here to go over our own material on the Great Victoria
Desert
bogey," Crockerman said. "You've read their booklet, I presume?"
Crockerman
asked. All nodded. "At my request, Mr. Hicks has been sworn in, and
his
security clearance has been processed..."
Rotterjack
looked dyspeptic.
"He's
one of us now. Where's Carl?"
"Still
in traffic, I think," Schwartz said. "He called a half hour ago and
said
he'd be a few minutes late."
"All
right. We don't have much time." Crockerman stood and paced before them.
"I'll
play his part. We have 'one or more' agents at the Australian rock. I
need
not tell you all how sensitive this fact is, but take this as a
reminder..."
Rotterjack
threw a very pointed glance at Hicks. Hicks received it calmly.
"Ironically,
the information passed on to us only confirms what the
Australians
have been saying in public. Everything's Pollyanna as far as
they're
concerned. We're about to enter a new age of discovery. The robots
have
already begun to explain their technology. David?"
"The
Australians have passed on some of the physics information the robots
have
given to them," Rotterjack said. "It's quite esoteric, having to do
with
cosmology.
A couple of Australian physicists have said the equations are
relevant
to superstring theory."
"Whatever
that is," Fulton said.
Rotterjack
grinned almost maliciously. "It's very important, General. At your
request,
Arthur, I've passed the equations on to Mohammed Abante at Pepperdine
University.
He's arranging for a team of his colleagues to examine the
equations
and, we hope, file a report in a few days. The robots have not been
confronted
with the fact of our bogey. The Australians may want to leave it to
us
to tell them."Carl McClennan entered the office, topcoat hung over his arm
and briefcase
half
hidden in the folds. He looked around, saw there were no available seats
besides
the two reserved for the Australians, and stood by the rear wall.
Hicks
wondered if he should stand and give the national security advisor his
seat,
but decided it would win him no affection.
Crockerman
gave McClennan a rundown of what had been discussed so far.
"I
finished the first round of negotiations with their team leaders and
intelligence
experts last night. They've agreed to keep it secret," McClennan
said.
"The discussion today between the Aussies and ourselves can be open and
aboveboard.
No forbidden territory."
"Fine,"
Crockerman said. "What I'd like to work toward, gentlemen, is a way of
presenting
all the facts to the public within a month's time."
McClennan
paled. "Mr. President, we haven't discussed this—" Both Rotterjack
and
McClennan cast unhappy glances at Hicks this time. Hicks kept his face
impassive:
_Not my show, gentlemen._
"We
haven't discussed it," Crockerman agreed, almost nonchalantly.
"Still,
this
is what we should aim for. I am convinced the news will leak soon, and
rather
our citizens learn the facts of life from qualified personnel than from
gutter
gossip, don't you agree?"
Reluctantly,
McClennan said yes, but his face remained tense.
"Fine.
The Australians will be in the Oval Office in about fifteen minutes. Do
we
have any questions, disagreements, before we meet?"
Schwartz
raised his hand and wriggled his fingers.
"Irwin?"
"Mr.
President, is Tom Jacks or Rob Tishman on our list yet?" Schwartz asked.
Jacks
was in charge of public relations. Tishman was White House press
secretary.
"If we truly are going public in a month, or even if we're just
thinking
about it, Rob and Tom should be given some lead time."
"They
aren't on the list yet; by tomorrow they will be. As for my esteemed
Veep..."
Crockerman frowned. Vice President Frederick Hale had had a falling-
out
with the President three months before; they hardly spoke now. Hale had
involved
himself in unsavory business dealings in Kansas; the resulting
scandal
had dominated newspapers for two weeks and nearly resulted in Hale's
being
"thrown to the wolves." Hale, as slippery and adept as any man in the
Capital,
had floundered ungracefully in the storm, but he had weathered it. "I
see
no reason to put him on the list now. Do you?"
Nobody
indicated they did.
"Then
let's adjourn to the Oval Office."
22—
Seated
in chairs around the President's desk, the men listened intently as
Arthur
summed up the scientific findings. The Australians, both young and
vigorous-looking,
tanned in contrast to the pale features of the Americans
around
them, appeared serenely untroubled by what Arthur had just told them.
"In
short, then," he concluded, "we have no reason to believe our Guest
is
being
less than truthful. The contrast between our experiences is pretty
sharp."
"That's
true understatement," said Colin Forbes, the senior in age and rank of
the
two. Forbes was in his early forties, weathered and vigorous, with white-
blond
hair. He wore a pale blue sports coat and white slacks and smelled
strongly
of after-shave. "I can see what the fuss is about. Here we are,
bringing
a message of hope and glory, and your little green man tells you it's
all
a sham. I'm not sure how we can resolve the discrepancy."
"Isn't
it obvious?" Rotterjack asked. "We confront your robots with what
we've
been
told."
Forbes
nodded and smiled. "And if they deny it all, if they say they don't
know
what the hell's going on?"Rotterjack had no answer for that.
Gregory
French, the junior Australian, with neatly combed and trimmed black
hair
and dressed in a standard gray suit, stood up and cleared his throat. He
was
obviously not comfortable in this high level of company. To Arthur, he
looked
like a bashful student.
"Does
anybody know if there have been other bogeys? The Russians, the
Chinese?"
"No
information yet," Lehrman said. "That's not a negative. Just a
temporary
'we
don't know.'"
"I
think if we're the only ones blessed or cursed, we should get the issue
resolved
before any public release," French said. "This could tear people
apart.
Standing between devils and angels."
"I
agree," Arthur said.
"There
are problems with waiting," Crockerman said.
"Pardon
me, sir," McClennan broke in, "but the possibility of unofficial
release
is much less disturbing than the impact of..."He waved his hands
energetically
through the air. "The confusion. The fear. We're sitting on a
real
time bomb. _Do you truly understand this, Mr. President?_" he practically
shouted.
McClennan's frustration with the President had come to a painful
head.
The room was silent. The national security advisor's tone had been far
stronger
than anyone would have expected, coming from the cautious Carl
McClennan.
"Yes,
Carl," Crockerman replied, eyes half lidded. "I believe I do."
"Sorry,"
McClennan said, slumping slightly in his seat. French, still
standing,
seemed acutely embarrassed.
"All
right," Forbes said, gesturing with an elegant flip of his finger for
French
to be seated. "We confront our bogeys. We'd better get on with it. I
invite
as many of your people as you can spare to return with us. And I think
I'll
recommend to Quentin that we start shutting the doors again. Fewer press
reports.
Does this seem reasonable?"
"Eminently,"
Rotterjack said.
"I'm
curious as to why Mr. Hicks is here," Forbes said. "I admire Trevor's
work
enormously, but..." He didn't finish his thought. Arthur looked at Hicks,
and
realized he genuinely liked and trusted the man. He could understand the
President's
choice. But that would cut no ice with McClennan and Rotterjack,
who
clearly wanted Hicks away from the center.
"He's
here because he's as conversant on these subjects as anybody in the
world,"
Crockerman said. "Even though we do not see eye to eye."
Rotterjack
ineffectively masked his surprise, sitting up in his chair and then
awkwardly
leaning his elbow on the arm. Arthur watched him closely. _They
thought
Hicks might be behind the President's attitude._
"I'm
glad Trevor's here," Arthur said abruptly. "I welcome his
insights."
"Fine
with me," Forbes said, smiling broadly.
PERSPECTIVE
_The
New York Daily News, October 12, 1996:_ Sources in the State Department,
on
condition that they not be named, have confirmed that there is a connection
between
the disappearance and alleged government captivity of four people and
the
secret visit by President Crockerman to Death Valley earlier this week.
Other
informed sources have confirmed that both of these incidents are
connected
with the Australian extraterrestrials. In a related story, the
Reverend
Kyle McCabey of Edinburgh, Scotland, founder of the Satanic Invader's
League,
claims that his new religious sect now numbers its followers at a
hundred
thousand throughout the United Kingdom and the Irish Republic. The
Satanic
Invader's League believes that the Australian extraterrestrials are
representatives
of Satan sent to the Earth to, in the Reverend's words,
"soften
us up for Satan's conquest."October 13
On
the Hollywood Freeway, neck and back stiff from the early morning flight
into
LAX, Arthur Gordon grimly steered the rental Lincoln, listening to a
babble
about national lottery results on the radio.
His
mind was far away, and visions of the river outside his Oregon home kept
intruding
into his planning. Smooth, clear green water, steady and unaware,
working
its natural way, eroding banks. How did each particle of dirt stripped
from
its place feel about the process? How did the gazelle, caught in the
slash
of a lion's paws, feel about becoming a simple dinner, all its existence
reduced
to a week or so of sustenance for another creature? "Waste," he said.
"Goddamn
waste." Yet he wasn't sure what he meant, or what all his thoughts
were
pointing to.
Cat's
paws. Playing with the prey.
Suddenly,
Arthur missed Francine and Marty terribly. He had spoken with them
briefly
from Washington before leaving; he had told them very little, not even
where
he was or where he was going.
Did
a gazelle, caught in the meshing gears of a lion's paws, worry about doe
and
fawn?
Harry's
home was a spacious split-level "stick-built" ranch house from the
early
1960s, wandering over much of a eucalyptus-covered quarter-acre lot in
Tarzana.
He had purchased the home in 1975, before his marriage to Ithaca; it
had
seemed hollow then, with only one occupant, and was still a place of vast
white
walls and rug-dotted linoleum floors, a little chilly and severe for
Arthur's
taste.
Ithaca
beyond any doubt ruled the roost. Tall, with dark red hair and features
more
suited to a Shakespearean actress than a Tarzana homemaker, her quiet
presence
balanced the broad rooms. Harry had once told Arthur, "Wherever she
is,
there's enough, and never too much." Arthur had known exactly what he
meant.
She
opened the door at Arthur's knock, smiled warmly, and extended her hand.
Arthur
took the fingers and kissed them solemnly. "Milady," he said
ceremoniously.
"Is the good doctor in?"
"Hello,
Arthur. Good to see you. He's in and being insufferable."
"His
treatments?"
"No.
Something else, having to do with you, I presume." Ithaca would never
inquire.
"Can I get you coffee? It's been cold this winter. Today is
especially
dreary."
"Yes,
please. The office?"
"Sanctum
sanctorum. How's Francine? Marty?"
"They're
fine." He stuck his hands in his pockets, obviously anxious to join
Harry.
Ithaca nodded.
"I'll
bring the coffee into the office. Go."
"Thanks."
He always felt like complimenting Ithaca on her appearance, which
was,
as usual, wonderful—but she did not take kindly to compliments. How she
looked
and dressed was as natural to her as breathing. He smiled awkwardly and
headed
down the hall to the office.
Harry
sat in an overstuffed chair, fire crackling brightly in the grate. His
office
had originally been the master bedroom, and after his marriage, he had
kept
it there. There were three large bedrooms with fireplaces in the house,
enough
to go around. Stacks of books rose beside his chair, some of them huge,
old,
and well thumbed. An Olympia typewriter hung keyboard down over the
fireplace
like a hunting trophy, while from its return key dangled three
carbon-encrusted
test tubes looped together by a red ribbon. The story behind
this
had to do with Harry's doctoral thesis and was seldom told when Harry was
sober.
In
Harry's lap rested a copy of Brin and Kuiper's book on the search
forextraterrestrial intelligence. McClennan and Rotterjack had kept copies of
the
same
book on their office desks. Arthur also noticed Hicks's novel on the
corner
of a roll-around table, almost crowded off by stacks of infodisks.
"Finally,
by God," Harry said. "I've been stuck here getting over nausea and
waiting
for the word. What's the word?"
"I'm
to go to Australia with most of the task force. I'm leaving in three
days,
with a couple of hours stopover in Tahiti. We should just be able to put
out
a short report."
"The
newshounds are on our trail," Harry said, raising his thick eyebrows.
"The
President thinks we should release the story within a month. Rotterjack
and
the others aren't enthusiastic."
"And
you?"
"Newshounds,"
Arthur concurred, shrugging. "We may not have much choice soon."
"They'll
have to release those folks at Vandenberg. Can't hold them forever.
They're
physically clean and healthy."
Arthur
closed the office door. "The Guest?"
Harry's
face worked. "Bogus," he said. "I think it's as much a robot as
the
Australian
shmoos."
"What
does Phan think?"
"He's
good, but this has stretched him. He thinks it's a product of a
biologically
advanced civilization, kind of a future citizen, sterile and
largely
artificial, but still _bona fide_ an individual."
"Why
do you disagree?"
"It
was never meant to process wastes. Planned obsolescence. The Guest
poisoned
itself and broke down. There was no evidence of any way to void the
wastes
through any sort of external dialysis. No anus, no urinary tract. No
valves,
no exit points. No lungs. It breathed through its skin. Not very
efficient
for a creature its size. And no sweat glands. Unconvincing as hell.
But—I'm
not so convinced that I'm going to stand up and shout howdy before all
the
President's men. After all, that just complicates things, doesn't it?"
Arthur
nodded. "You've read Colonel Rogers's report and seen his pictures?"
Harry
held up a new infodisk, the security plastic sticker Day-Glo orange on
its
label. "An Air Force car brought it by yesterday. Impressive."
"Frightening."
"I
thought you'd be spooked," Harry said. "We think alike, don't
we?"
"We
always have, within limits," Arthur said.
"Okay,
I say the biology's a ringer. What about the rock?"
"Warren's
brought in his report on the externals. He says it appears
authentic,
right down to mineral samples.
However,
he agrees with Edward Shaw about the suspicious lack of weathering.
Abante
can't make heads or tails of the interior. He says it looks like a set
from
a science fiction movie—pretty but nonspecific. And no sign of any other
Guests."
"So
what do we conclude?"
Arthur
pulled a folding stool from behind the door, opened it, and squatted.
"I
think we see the outlines of our draft, don't you?"
Harry
nodded. "We're being played with," he said.
Arthur
held up an extended thumb.
"Now,
why would they want to play with us?" Harry asked.
"To
draw us out and discover our capabilities?" Arthur ventured.
"Are
they afraid we can beat them if they aren't careful?"
"That
might be an explanation," Arthur said.
"Lord.
They must be thousands of years ahead of us."
"Not
necessarily."
"How
could it be otherwise?" Harry asked, his voice rising an octave.
"Captain
Cook," Arthur offered. "The Hawaiians thought he was some sort of
god.
Two hundred years later, they drive cars just like the rest of us...andwatch
TV."
"They
were subjugated," Harry said. "They didn't have a chance, not against
cannon."
"They
killed Cook, didn't they?"
"Are
you suggesting some sort of resistance movement?" Harry asked.
"We're
getting way ahead of ourselves."
"Damn
right. Let's stick to basics." Harry folded the book on his lap.
"You're
wondering
about my health."
Arthur
nodded. "Can you travel?"
"Not
far, not soon. Yesterday they pumped me full of magic bullets. Bullets to
restructure
my immune system, to strengthen my bone marrow...Thousands of
little
tame retroviruses doing their thing. I feel like hell most of the time.
Still,
I've got what's left of my hair. We're not doing radiation or heavy
chemicals
yet."
"Can
you work? Travel around California?"
"Anywhere
you want me, within a two-hour emergency hop to UCLA Medical Center.
I'm
a wreck, Arthur. You shouldn't have chosen me. I shouldn't have agreed."
"You're
still thinking clearly, aren't you?" Arthur asked.
"Yes."
"Then
you're useful. Necessary."
Harry
looked down at the folded book in his lap. "Ithaca's not taking this
well."
"She
seems cheerful."
"She's
a good actress. At night, in her sleep, her face...she cries." Harry's
own
eyes were moist at the thought, and he seemed much younger, almost a boy,
glancing
up at Arthur. "Christ. I'm glad I'm the one who might die. If things
were
the other way around, and she was going through this, I'd be in worse
shape
than I am now."
"You're
not going to die," Arthur said sternly. "We're almost into the
twenty-
first
century. Leukemia isn't the killer it used to be."
"Not
for children, Arthur. But for me..."He raised his hands.
"You
leave us, and I'm going to be pretty damn inconsolable." Completely
against
his will, he felt his own eyes grow damp. "Remember that."
Harry
said nothing for a moment. "The Forge of God," he finally commented,
shaking
his head. "If that ever gets into the papers..."
"One
nightmare at a time," Arthur said. Harry called Ithaca to prepare a guest
bedroom
for Arthur. As she did that, Arthur placed a collect call to Oregon,
the
first he had had a chance to make in two days.
His
conversation with Francine was brief. There was nothing he could tell her,
except
that he was well. She was polite enough, and knew him well enough, not
to
mention the news reports.
The
call was not enough. When it was over, Arthur missed his family more than
ever.
24—
October
20, Australia (October 19, USA)
A
newsreel preceded the feature film on the Qantas flight to Melbourne,
projected
over the heads of passengers onto a tiny screen. Arthur looked up
from
his disk reader and open ring binder. Beside him, an elderly gentleman in
a
gray herringbone wool suit dozed lightly.
A
computer-animated graphic of Australia Associated Press News Network filled
the
screen, backed by a jaunty jazz score. The rather plain, rugged middle-
aged
face of AAPN anchor Rachel Vance smiled across the darkened seats and
inattentive
heads. "Good day. Our lead story today is, of course, still the
Centralian
extraterrestrials. Yet another conference was held yesterday
between
Australian scientists and the robots, familiarly known as Shmoos,
after
comic artist Al Capp's remarkably generous characters, which theyresemble in
shape. While the information exchanged in the conference has not
been
released, a government spokesman acknowledged that scientists are still
discussing
theoretical physics and astronomy, and have not yet begun
discussions
on biology."
The
spokesman appeared, a familiar face already. Arthur half listened. He had
heard
it all by now. "We have received no information about the density of
living
things in the galaxy; that is, we still do not know how many planets
are
inhabited, or what types of creatures inhabit them..."
His
picture faded to a shot of the three Shmoos in motion down a dirt path to
conference
trailers set up in fields of dry spinifex grass near the huge false
rock.
The robots' floating propulsion was still eerie, deeply disturbing. In
that
motion could be signs of an immensely advanced technology...or of some
sort
of visual trick, a show for the primitive natives.
Vance
returned, her smile warmly fixed in stone. "The Washington _Post_ and
_The
New York Times_ reported today that the remnant of an old volcano near
Death
Valley, California, has been closed off to the public. The _Post_ makes
a
connection between this closing and the disappearance of three men and a
woman,
all allegedly held by military authorities in California."
Nothing
new, but closer...perilously closer. Arthur leaned back in his seat
and
stared out of the window at the ocean and clouds passing in review tens of
thousands
of feet below. _Immense,_ he thought. _It seems to be all there is.
Ocean
and clouds. I could spend my entire life traveling and not see all of
it._
This did not necessarily demonstrate the size of the Earth, but it did
put
his life and brain in perspective.
He
tried to nap. They would be in Melbourne in a few hours, and he was already
exhausted.
The
Rock, still unnamed, stretched for half a mile across the horizon in the
early
morning light, gloriously colored from the bottom up in layers of purple
and
red and orange. The sky overhead was a trembling dusty blue-gray, hinting
at
the heat to come. It was spring here, but there had been little rain. There
was
hardly a breath of wind. Arthur jumped down from the bulky, big-tired gray
Royal
Australian Army staff vehicle into red dust and stared across the golden
plain
at the Rock. The science advisor, David Rotterjack, stepped down behind
him.
Less than a dozen meters away, the first circle of razor-wire-topped
hurricane
fence began, curving in broad scallops through silver-gray mulga
scrub
and spiky spinifex.
Quentin
Bent walked with a short-legged, almost eager waddle along the red
dirt
path to the edge of the road. Bent was in his mid-forties, heavy and
florid-faced,
with a forward-swept bush of gray hair, an easy smile, and
sharp,
pessimistic blue eyes. He extended his hand to Rotterjack first. In
another
Army vehicle, Bent's assistants, Forbes and French, accompanied
Charles
Warren, the geologist from Kent State.
"Mr.
Arthur Gordon," Bent said, shaking Arthur's hand. "I've just finished
reading
the draft American task force report. Your work, and Dr. Feinman's,
largely,
am I correct?"
"Yes,"
Arthur said. "I hope it was clear."
"All
too clear," Bent said, lifting his chin as if smelling the air, but
keeping
his eyes on Arthur. "Very disturbing. Gentlemen, I've received a
message
from our Shmoos— we all call them that now, they can't really be
offended,
can they?—and we're scheduled to have a meeting with them at noon
today
in trailer three." Almost breathlessly, he said, "Each day...they
travel
from
the Rock to our conference trailer. They never leave the vicinity of the
Rock.
Before then, we will have breakfast in the mess trailer, and then a tour
of
the site, if you're up to it. Did you get enough sleep, Dr. Gordon, Mr.
Rotterjack,
Dr. Warren?"
"Sufficient,"
Rotterjack said, his eyes dark.
Bent
flashed a smile and waddled into place ahead of them. "Follow me,"
hesaid.
Arthur
fell in step beside Warren, a man of middle height and build with
wispy,
thinning brown hair brushed across a bald spot and large eyes above a
long
nose. "What does it look like?" he asked.
"A
lot like Ayers Rock, only smaller," Warren answered, shaking his head.
"It's
less convincing than the cinder cone in Death Valley. Frankly, I
wouldn't
have been surprised to find it at Disney World."
The
breakfast went smoothly. They were introduced to several of the scientists
measuring
and analyzing the Rock, including the head of the materials team,
Dr.
Christine Carmichael. She explained that the minerals making up the Rock
were
all clearly earthbound—none of the surrounding "camouflage" material
had
arrived
from space. Arthur tried to visualize the construction of the Rock,
away
from all human witnesses; he could not.
Other
discussion was brief. Bent asked only three questions: how they planned
to
release the news (Rotterjack replied that at present there were no such
plans),
how they interpreted the Guest's story about planet-eating spacecraft
(it
seemed straightforward), and whether they believed there was a connection
between
the Death Valley cinder cone and the Rock. Rotterjack was unwilling to
commit
himself. Warren did not believe he had spent enough time on the project
to
render a useful opinion. Arthur nodded once; there was a definite
connection.
"Can't
have too many interstellar visitors in one year, eh?" Bent asked.
"It
seems very unlikely," Arthur said.
"But
not impossible?" Bent pursued.
"Not
beyond possibility, but difficult to conceive."
"Still,
we're all quite ignorant about what's out there, aren't we?" Forbes
asked,
smoothing back his white-blond hair with one hand.
"There
could have been a wave of machine migrations, finally reaching this
vicinity,"
French added. "Perhaps whole civilizations have grown up along an
evolutionary
timetable, and like rain precipitating out of a cloud, the time
has
come ..."
Bent
leaned over his now empty plates of steak, eggs, and fruit. "We're an
optimistic
bunch, Dr. Gordon. Our nation is younger than yours. Let me say,
right
out, that we have an interest in this being a good thing. The P.M. and
the
Cabinet—not to mention the Reverend Mr. Caldecott..." He glanced around,
grinning
broadly. Forbes and French mimicked his grin. "We _all_ believe this
could
lift us into the forefront of all nations. We could be a center of
immense
activity, construction, education, research. If the Furnace is
something
horrible, which it seems to be, we might still cling to the notion
that
the Rock is different. Whether it serves us ill or not. Am I clear?"
"Perfectly
clear," Rotterjack said. "We’d like to agree with you." He
glanced
at
Arthur.
"We
can’t, however," Arthur said.
"For
the moment, then, amicable disagreement and open minds. Gentlemen, we
have
a helicopter waiting."
In
the late morning light, the Rock’s colors had been subdued to a bright
russet
mixed with streaks of ocher. Arthur, looking through the concentric
networks
of tiny scratches in the helicopter’s Plexiglas windows, shook his
head.
"The detail is astonishing," he shouted above the whine of the jets
and
the
thumping roar of the blades. Warren nodded, squinting against a sudden
glare
of sun. "It’s granite, all right, but there’s no exfoliation. The
banding
is vertical, which is entirely wrong for this area—more appropriate to
Ayers
Rock than here. And where are the wind features, the hollows and caves?
It’s
a reasonably convincing imitation—unless you’re a geologist. But my
question
is, why go to all the trouble to disguise the Rock, when they knew
they’d
be coming out in the open?"
"They
haven’t explicitly answered several of our questions," Bent
admitted."Directly below us is the opening through which our Shmoos emerge
to confer
with
us. There are two other openings we know of, both quite small—no more
than
a meter wide. Nothing has emerged from them. We haven’t sent anybody in
to
investigate the openings. We think it best to trust them—not to look gift
horses
in the mouth, no?"
Arthur
nodded dubiously.
"What
would you have done?" Bent asked, showing a flash of irritation and
perplexity.
"The
same, probably," Arthur said.
The
helicopter circled the Rock twice and then landed near the conference
trailer.
The engine noise declined to a rhythmic groaning whine and the blades
slowed.
Arthur, the Australians, and Rotterjack walked across the red dust and
pea
gravel to the gray and white trailer. It rose a meter above the ground on
heavy
iron jacks and concrete blocks, its eight rugged tires dangling sadly.
Bent
pulled out a key ring and opened the white-painted aluminum door,
ushering
Gordon, Rotterjack, and Warren in, but going ahead of Forbes and
French.
Inside, an air conditioner hummed quietly. Arthur mopped his brow with
a
handkerchief and reveled in the cool air. Forbes and French pulled seats up
to
the spare conference table. French switched on a monitor and they sat to
watch
the opening in the Rock, waiting intently for the Shmoos to emerge.
"Have
they ever asked to travel elsewhere?" Arthur asked.
"No,"
Bent said. "As I said, they don’t leave the vicinity."
"And
they haven’t revealed whether they’re going to land others soon?"
"No."
Arthur
raised his eyebrows. Three gleaming gourd-shaped objects emerged from
the
two-meter-wide hole, descending to hover thirty or forty centimeters above
the
rugged ground. Bobbing and weaving gracefully, the Shmoos traversed the
half
kilometer between the trailer and the Rock, three abreast, reminding
Arthur
of gun-slingers approaching a showdown.
His
hands trembled. Rotterjack leaned toward Arthur and said matter-of-factly,
"I’m
scared. Are you?"
Bent
looked at them both with a drawn, ambiguous expression.
_We’ve
brought him into our nightmare. He was innocent until we arrived. He
was
in a scientist’s heaven._
A
wide hatch opened on the opposite side of the trailer, letting in a draft of
hot
air and the hot, dusty-sweet smell of the mulgas. In the sunlit glare
outside,
the Shmoos ascended a wide ramp and floated into the trailer,
arraying
themselves on the opposite side of the conference table. The hatch
swung
down again. The air-conditioner compressor rattled faintly on the roof.
Arthur
surveyed the gleaming robots. Beyond their shape and the bluish-
gunmetal
gleam of their surfaces, they were featureless; no visible sensor
apparatus,
no sound-producing grilles or extruding arms. Blank.
Bent
leaned forward. "Welcome. This is our fifteenth meeting, and I've invited
three
guests to attend this time. More will be attending later. Are you well?
Is
everything satisfactory?"
"Everything
is satisfactory," the middle robot replied. Its voice was
ambiguously
tenor, neither masculine nor feminine. The inflections and assumed
Australian
accent were perfect. Arthur could easily picture a cultured and
prosperous
young man behind the voice.
"These
gentlemen, David Rotterjack, Charles Warren, and Arthur Gordon, have
traveled
from our ally nation, the United States of America, to speak with you
and
ask important questions."
"Greetings
to Mr. Rotterjack and Mr. Warren and Mr. Gordon. We welcome all
inquiries."
Rotterjack
appeared stunned. Since he was clearly unwilling to speak first,
Arthur
faced the middle Shmoo and said, "We have a problem."
"Yes.""In
our country, there is a device similar to your own, disguised as a
volcanic
cinder cone. A biological being has emerged from this device." He
related
the subsequent events concisely, marveling at his own apparent
equanimity.
"Clearly, this being's story contradicts your own. Would you
please
explain these contradictions to us?"
"They
make no sense whatsoever," the middle robot said. Arthur controlled a
sudden
urge to flinch and run; the machine's tone was smooth, in complete
control,
somehow superior. "Are you certain of your facts?"
"As
certain as we can be," Arthur said, his urge to flee replaced by
irritation,
then anger. _They're actually going to stonewall. God damn!_
"This
is very puzzling. Do you have pictures of these events, or any recorded
information
we can examine?"
"Yes."
Arthur lifted his briefcase onto the table and produced a folio of
color
prints. He spread the pictures before the Shmoos, who made no apparent
move
to examine them.
"We
have recorded your evidence," the central robot said. "We are still
puzzled.
Is this perhaps attributable to some friction between your nations?"
"As
Mr. Bent has said, our nations are allies. There is very little friction
between
us."
The
room was quiet for several seconds. Then Rotterjack said, "We believe that
both
of these devices—yours and the cinder cone object in California—are
controlled
by the same—people, group. Can you prove to us that we are
incorrect?"
"Group?
You imply that the other, if it exists, is controlled by us?"
"Yes,"
Arthur said. Rotterjack nodded.
"This
makes no sense. Our mission here is clear. We have told all of your
investigators
that we wish to gently and efficiently introduce humans to the
cultures
and technologies of other intelligences. We have made no threatening
gestures."
"Indeed,
you have not," Bent said placatingly. "Is it possible there are
factions
among your kind that oppose your actions? Someone perhaps trying to
sabotage
your work?"
"This
is not likely."
"Can
you offer any other explanation?" Bent asked, clearly frustrated.
"No
explanations are apparent to us. Our craft is not equipped to dismantle
worlds."
Arthur
produced another packet of photos and spread them before the robots.
"Half
a year ago, a moon of the planet we call Jupiter—are you familiar with
Jupiter?"
"Yes."
"The
sixth moon, Europa, disappeared. We haven't been able to locate it since.
Can
you explain this to us?"
"No,
we cannot. We are not responsible for any such large-scale phenomenon."
"Can
you help us solve these mysteries?" Bent asked, a hint of desperation
coming
into his voice. He was clearly experiencing the same sense of dread
that
had long since come over all associated with the Furnace bogey. Things
were
not adding up. Lack of explanations at this stage could be tantamount to
provocation...
"We
have no explanations for any of these events." Then, in a conciliatory
tone,
"They are puzzling."
Bent
glanced at Arthur: _We're getting nowhere._ "Perhaps we should begin with
our
regular schedule of discussions for the day."
The
robot did not speak for several seconds. Visibly unnerved, Bent tensed his
clasped
hands on the desk.
"Possibly
there is a problem of communication," it said. "Perhaps all of these
difficulties
can be overcome. Today's session is not important. We will cancel
this
meeting and meet again later."With no further word, ignoring the polite
objections of Quentin Bent, the
Shmoos
rose, backed away from the table, and passed through the hatchway.
Desert
heat once again beat in on the men in the trailer before the hatch
closed.
Stunned
by the sudden end of the interview, they simply stared at each other.
Bent
was on the edge of tears.
"All
right," he said, standing. He glanced at the TV monitor perched high in
one
corner. Cameras conveyed the Shmoos' return to the Rock. "We'll see—"
A
sharp crack and a roar rocked the trailer. Arthur fell from his chair in
seeming
slow motion, bumping into Rotterjack's chair, thinking on the way
down,
_It's begun._ He landed on hands and butt and quickly got to his feet,
pulling
on a table leg. Bent pointed to the monitor, still functioning though
vibrating
in its mount. The Shmoos were gone.
"They
blew up," he said. "I saw it. Did anybody else see it—on the screen?
They
just exploded!"
"Jesus,"
Rotterjack said.
"Is
somebody shelling them?" Forbes asked, looking sharply at Rotterjack and
Arthur.
"God
knows," Bent said. They scrambled outside the trailer and followed a
raggedly
organized team of scientists and soldiers down the path to where the
Shmoos
had last been seen. Fifty meters down the path to the Rock, three
craters
had been gouged in the dirt, each about two meters in diameter. The
robots
had left no sign—neither fragments nor burn marks.
Quentin
Bent stood hunched over with hands on his knees, sobbing and cursing
as
he looked up across the blinding noonday plain at the Rock. "What
happened?
What
in bloody hell happened?"
"There's
nothing left," Forbes said. French nodded vigorously, his face beet
red.
Both kept glancing at the Americans: their fault.
"Do
you know?" Bent asked loudly, turning on him. "Is this some goddamned
American
thing?"
"No,"
Arthur said.
"Airplanes,
rockets..." Bent was almost incoherent.
"We
didn't hear any aircraft..." French said.
"They
destroyed themselves," Arthur said quietly, walking around the craters,
careful
not to disturb anything.
"That's
bloody impossible!" Bent screamed.
"Not
at all." Arthur felt deeply chilled, as if he had swallowed a lump of dry
ice.
"Have you read Liddell Hart?"
"What
in God's name are you talking about?" Bent shouted, fists clenched,
approaching
Arthur and then backing away, without apparent aim. Rotterjack
stayed
clear of the men and the craters.
"Sir
Basil Liddell Hart's _Strategy._"
"I've
read it," Rotterjack said.
"You're
crazy," French said. "You're all bleeding crazy!"
"We
have the incident on tape," Forbes said, holding up his hands to calm his
colleagues.
"We must review it. We can see if any projectile or weapon struck
them."
Arthur
knew very well he was not crazy. It was making sense to him now. "I'm
sorry,"
he said. "I'll explain when everybody's in a better frame of mind."
"_Fuck_
that!" Bent said, regaining some composure. "I want the physics group
out
here immediately. I want a message sent to the Rock now. If there's a war
beginning
here, let's not give the impression we started it."
"We've
never sent or received transmissions from the Rock," Forbes said,
shaking
his head.
"I
do not care. Send transmissions, as many frequencies as we can handle.
_This_
message: 'Not responsible for destruction of envoys.' Got that?"
Forbes
nodded and returned to the trailer to relay the orders."Mr. Gordon, I'll
try very hard to put myself in a suitable frame of mind.
What
the hell has strategy to do with this?" Bent asked, standing on the
opposite
side of the three craters.
"The
indirect approach," Arthur said.
"Meaning?"
"Never
come at your adversary from an expected direction, or with your goals
clear."
Bent,
whatever his state of mind, caught on quickly. "You're saying this has
all
been a ruse?"
"I
think so."
"But
then your Guest is a ruse, too. Why would they tell us they're going to
destroy
the planet, and then make that seem like a sham...tell us they're
going
to save us, and that's a sham, too?"
"I
don't know," Arthur said. "To confuse us."
"Goddammit,
man, they're powerful beyond our wildest dreams! They build
mountains
overnight, travel across space in huge ships, and if what you say is
true,
they dismantle whole worlds—why bother to deceive us? Do we send
greetings
to bleeding ants' nests before we trample them?"
Arthur
could not answer this. He shook his head and held up his hands. The
heat
made him dizzy. Oddly—or not so oddly—what worried him most now was how
the
President would react when he learned what had happened here.
"We
have to talk to Hicks first," he told Rotterjack as they climbed aboard a
truck
to be taken back to the outer perimeter.
"Why?
Aren't we all in enough trouble already?"
"Hicks...might
be able to explain things to the President. In a way he'll
listen
to."
Rotterjack
lowered his voice to a whisper in the back of the vehicle. "All
hell's
going to break loose. McClennan and Schwartz and I will have a real
fight...Whose
side are you on?"
"I
beg your pardon?"
"Are
you voting for Armageddon, or do we have a chance?"
Arthur
started to reply, then shut his mouth and shook his head.
"Crockerman's
going to flip when he hears about this," Rotterjack said.
Arthur
called Oregon from Adelaide's airport while waiting for the Army limo
to
pick up the United States group. He was exhausted from the day and the long
flight
back. It was early in the morning in Oregon and Francine answered with
a
voice full of sleep.
"Sorry
to wake you," Arthur said. "I'm not going to be able to call for a
couple
of days,"
"It's
lovely to hear from you. I love you."
"Miss
you both desperately. I feel like a man cut loose. Nothing is real
anymore."
"What
can you tell me?"
"Nothing,"
Arthur said, pinching his cheek lightly.
"Well,
then, I've got something to tell you. Guess who called?"
"Oh,
I don't know. Who? Not—"
"You
guessed it. Chris Riley. He told me to write it down. 'Two new unusual
objects
the size of asteroids have been discovered, each about two hundred
kilometers
in diameter. They have the albedo of fresh ice—almost pure white.
They
are traveling in highly unusual orbits—both hyperbolic. They may or may
not
be huge, very young comets.' Does this make any sense to you? He said it
might."
"Fragments
of Europa?"
"Isn't
this romantic?" Francine asked, still sleepy. "He said you might
think
that."
"Go
on," Arthur said, his sensation of unreality increasing.
She
continued to read the message. "'If they are fragments of Europa, they aretraveling
along virtually impossible paths, widely separated. One of them will
rendezvous
with Venus next year, when Venus is at...' Just a second. Got
another
page here...'at superior conjunction. The other will rendezvous with
Mars
in late 1997.' Got that?"
"I
think so," Arthur said.
"Marty's
asleep, but he told me to tell you that Gauge will now sit and heel
at
his command. He's very proud of that. Also, he's finished all the Tarzan
books."
"Attaboy."
His eyes closed for a moment and he experienced a small blackout.
"Sweetheart,
I'm dead on my feet. I'm going to fall over if I don't get to
sleep
shortly."
"We
both hope you're home soon. I've gotten used to having you around the
house.
It seems empty now."
"I
love you," Arthur said, eyes still closed, trying to visualize her face.
"Love
you, too."
He
climbed into the limo beside Warren and Rotterjack. "What have you heard
about
two ice asteroids?" he asked them.
They
shook their heads.
"One
will probably resurface Venus, and the other will wreak havoc on Mars,
both
next year."
Warren,
despite his exhaustion, gaped. Rotterjack seemed puzzled. "What's that
have
to do with us?" he asked.
"I
don't know," Arthur replied.
"Funny
damned coincidence," Warren said, shaking his head.
"They're
going to hit Venus and Mars?" Rotterjack asked, the implications
sinking
in slowly.
"Next
year," Arthur said.
The
presidential science advisor drew his lips together and nodded, staring
out
the window at passing traffic, light this late hour of the evening. "That
can't
be coincidence," he said. "What in the name of Christ is going
on?"
25—
November
1, Eastern Pacific Time (November 2, (ISA)
Walt
Samshow moved with a long-accustomed grace on the ladders of the Glomar
_Discoverer,_
sliding his hands along the rails as his feet pumped in a blur
down
the steps, stuffing his chin into his clavicle to remove his leather-
brown,
freckled, and sun-spotted bald pate from the path of passing bulkheads.
Whatever
effects of age dogged him on shore vanished; he was more spry at sea
than
on land. Samshow, a long-legged, narrow-faced beanpole of a man, had
spent
more than two thirds of his seventy-one years at sea, serving ten years
in
the Navy from 1942 to 1952, and then moving on to forty years of research
in
physical oceanography.
Deep
in the ship's hold, spaced across an otherwise empty cargo bay, were his
present
crop of children: three upright, man-high, steel-gray cylindrical
gravimeters
measuring the gravity gradients of the trench ten thousand meters
below.
The _Discoverer_ was on its sixth pass over the Ramapo Deep. The sea
outside
the hull was almost glassy, and the ship moved forward at a steady ten
knots,
as stable as bedrock, ideal for this kind of work. They could probably
get
accuracy to within plus or minus two milligals over the average of all six
runs.
Samshow
descended into the hold, his feet hitting the cork-covered steel deck
lightly.
His much younger partner, David Sand, smiled at him, face a
corpselike
green and purple in the glow of the color monitor. Samshow
presented
the covered aluminum plate he had carried down from the mess.
"What's
the bill of fare?" Sand asked. He was half Samshow's age and almost
half
again his weight, strong and wide-faced, with eyes pale blue, a tiny
Scots
button of a nose, and a full head of wiry auburn hair. Samshow removedthe
plate's cover. Deep in the elder oceanographer's thoughts, Sand had become
one
of many sons; he treated younger assistants with the tough-minded
affection
he would have bestowed on his own child. Sand knew this, and
appreciated
it; in his entire career, he would probably have no better
teacher,
partner, or friend than Walt Samshow.
"Fried
sole, spinach pie, and beets," Samshow said. The ship's Filipino cook
took
pride in his special Western meals, served twice a week.
Sand
grimaced and shook his head. "That'll make me pretty heavy—might affect
the
results." Samshow set the plate down beside him and glanced at the
gravimeters,
spaced in a triangle in two corners and the middle of the
opposite
bulkhead.
"Wouldn't
want to ruin an incredible evening," Sand murmured. He tapped a few
keys
intently, nodded at the display, and applied a fork to the beets.
"That
good?"
"Damned
near perfect," Sand said. "I'll eat and you can spell me in an
hour."
"Your
eyeballs are going to fall right out on the floor," Samshow warned.
"I'm
young," Sand said. "I'll grow another pair."
Samshow
grinned, returned to the ladder, and ascended through the maze of
corridors
and hatches to the deck. The Pacific lay around the ship as thick
and
slow as syrup, rippling iridescent silver and velvet black. The air was
unusually
dry and clear. From horizon to horizon the sky was filled with stars
to
within a few degrees of a fresh sliver of moon, a tiny thing lost in the
yawn
of night. Samshow rested his feet on the anchor chain near the bow and
sighed
in contentment. The week's work had been long and he was tired in a way
he
enjoyed, contented, deep in the mellowness brought on only by satisfactory
results.
He
glanced at his pocket navigator, tied in to a Navstar signal. The first
approximation
on the illuminated display read, >E142°32'10" N30°45'20"<,
which
put
the _Discoverer_ about 130 kilometers east of Toru Island. In four more
hours,
they would swing around again for a seventh pass.
He
belched contentedly and began to whistle "String of Pearls."
Samshow
had outlived one wife after thirty years of stormy, blissful marriage,
the
true love of his life, and now had two fine women who doted on him when he
was
ashore, about seven months out of the year. One was in La Jolla, a plump
rich
widow, and another was in Manila, a black-haired Filipina thirty years
younger
than he, distantly related to the long-gone and lamented President
Magsaysay.
It
was a warm, strange dry night, quiet and still, a night for deep thinking
and
old memories. He felt a sudden onslaught of laziness; the hell with
science,
the hell with perfect results and plus or minus two milligals. He'd
rather
be walking some beach watching breakers explode with phosphorescence.
The
feeling passed but left its mark; it was one of the few ways his body told
him
he was getting old. He turned and stepped over the chain, then froze,
catching
something odd in the upper half of his vision.
He
jerked his head back. A tiny point of light arced rapidly from the north: a
satellite,
he thought—or a meteor. He could barely see it now. The point had
almost
lost itself among the stars when it suddenly brightened to blowtorch
intensity,
throwing two distinct flares southward at least three degrees. The
flares
lighted the entire sea in stark, eerie pewter, and then went out. The
much
dimmer object passed directly overhead. He made a mental note of the
position—about
four o'clock high— and was working on which constellation it
had
appeared in, when the object brightened again about twenty degrees farther
south,
much smaller, barely a pinprick. He had never seen a meteor like it—a
real
stunner, an on-again, off-again fireball.
"On
the bridge! Heads up!" he yelled. "Hey! Everybody, look at
this!"
The
prick of light fell slowly enough to track easily. In a few minutes, it
met
the horizon and was gone, leaving tiny patches of green and red swimmingin his
vision.
Where
it had struck, a column of water and steaming spray arose, barely
visible
in the moonlight, radiating a halo of cloud about ten degrees above
the
horizon.
"Jesus,"
Samshow said. He started for the bridge to ask if anyone else had
seen
it. Nobody had replied to his shout. He was halfway up the steps when a
horrendous
gonglike shudder rang through the ship. He paused, startled, and
finished
his climb to the bridge.
The
first officer, an intense young Chinese named Chao, glanced at Samshow
from
the controls. The bridge and most instrumentation were illuminated in
dull
red, not to impair night vision. "Big storm coming," Chao said,
pointing
to
the ship's status display screen. "Fast. Typhoon, waterspout. Don't
know."
Four
men leaped onto the bridge from three different hatches, and voices
squawked
on the intercom from around the ship.
"A
meteor," Samshow explained. "Went down just like that, made a big
spout
about
thirty kilometers due south."
Captain
Reed, twenty years younger than Samshow but even more gray and
grizzled,
came onto the bridge from his cabin, nodded curtly, and gave him a
dubious
glance. "Mr. Chao, what is this coming?"
"Blow,
Captain," Chao said. "Damn big storm. Coming fast." He pointed
to the
enhanced
radar images. Clouds rushed at them in a blue and red scythe. The
storm
was already visible through the glass forward.
David
Sand came from belowdecks huffing, red-faced, and swearing. "Walt,
whatever
that was, it's just screwed up everything. We have a—Jesus Christ!"
He
recovered from the sight of the approaching front and began swearing again.
"It
was going just fine, and now there's a jag on the graph."
"Jag?"
Captain Reed asked.
"Extremely
short wavelength anomaly. Deep decline, zero for an instant, then a
slow
increase—it's ruined! We'll have to recalibrate, maybe even send all
three
tubs back to Maryland."
The
captain ordered the ship turned bow-on to face the storm. Warnings,
whistles
and shouts and electric bells, sounded all around the ship.
"What's
happening?" Sand asked, concern finally replacing his anger.
"Meteor,"
Samshow said. "Big one."
The
front hit seven minutes after Samshow saw the fireball strike the horizon.
The
ship fell forward into canyonlike wave troughs, its bow knifing ten and
fifteen
meters into the black water, and then rode upward over the crests, the
bow
now pointing at the rain-lashed sky. Samshow and Sand tightly gripped
rails
mounted on the bridge bulkheads, grinning like fools., while the crew
worked
to control the ship and the Captain stared stonily forward.
"I've
been through worse!" Samshow shouted at his partner over the roar.
"I
haven't, I don't think," Sand shouted back.
"It's
exhilarating. Something truly exotic—a real first. An observed large
meteor
fall in midocean, and its results. We'd better alert all coasts."
"Who's
going to write the paper?"
"We'll
do it together."
"I
locked down the equipment after the anomaly. We'll have to make another run
when
this clears up."
The
_Discoverer_, Samshow thought, would weather the storm easily enough. It
was
not going to be a long blow. When he was sure of this, as the violent rain
and
waves declined, he retired to his quarters to look up the facts and
figures
and equations he would need to understand what had just happened. Sand
staggered
down the stairs and corridors, stopping in Samshow’s hatchway long
enough
to say he was going to check again on his blessed gravimeters.
The
next day, when it was their turn to present the story by radio to the
expedition’s
chiefs in La Jolla, they had still not sorted out their findings.
One
thing puzzled them both immensely. All three gravimeters had registeredthe
"jag" simultaneously. Shock had not caused the anomaly; the
gravimeters
had
been designed to be carried aboard aircraft as well as ships, and could
weather
relatively rough treatment handily. Besides, the shock had occurred
after
the appearance of the spikes.
Sand
put together a list of hypotheses, and revealed one candidly to Samshow
when
they were alone. "It’s simple, really," he said in the galley over a
late
breakfast
of corned-beef hash and butter-soaked wheat toast. "I made some
calculations
and compared the spikes on the three traces. The three tubs
aren’t
really far enough apart to make the results authoritative, but I
checked
the digital record of each spike and found a very small time interval
between
them. I can explain the time interval in only one way. Doing a tidal
analysis,
and subtracting the ship’s reaction as a gravitated object, the
traces
show an enormous mass, about a hundred million tons, traveling in an
arc
overhead."
"Coming
from what direction?" Samshow asked casually.
"Due
north, I think."
"How
far away?"
"Anywhere
from a hundred to two hundred kilometers."
Samshow
considered that for a moment. Whatever the fireball had been, it had
been
far too small to mass at anything like a hundred tons, much less a
hundred
million. It would have spread the Pacific out like coffee in a cup if
it
had been a mountain-sized meteoroid. "All right," he said. "We
ignore it.
It’s
an official anomaly."
"On
all three gravimeters?" Sand asked, grinning damnably.
PERSPECTIVE
_NEC
National News Commentator Agnes Linder, November 2, 1996:_
The
newest twist in a very twisted election year, the arrival of visitors from
space,
almost defies imagination. United States citizens, recent polls show,
are
in a state of rigid disbelief.
The
Australian extraterrestrials have arrived on Earth too soon, some pundits
have
said; we aren' t ready for them, and we cannot begin to comprehend what
they
might mean to us.
Presidential
candidate Beryl Cooper and her running mate, Edgar Farb, have
been
on the offensive, charging that President Crocker-man is hiding
information
provided by the Australians, and questioning whether in fact the
United
States is not behind the destruction—some say self-destruction—of the
robot
representatives in the Great Victoria Desert.
The
American people are not impressed with these charges. How many of us, I
wonder,
have fixed any emotional or rational response at all? The scandal of
the
destruction of the extraterrestrials refuses to spread; the Australian
government's
accusations of American complicity have been practically ignored
around
the world.
We
have lived our lives on a globe undisturbed by outside forces, and now we
are
forced to expand our scale of thinking enormously. Western liberal
tradition
has encouraged an inward-turning, self-critical kind of politics,
conservative
in the true sense of the word, and President Crockerman is the
heir
to this tradition. The more forward-looking, expansive politics of Cooper
and
Farb have not yet struck a chord with Americans, if we are to believe the
recent
NEC poll, which gives Crockerman a rock-steady 30 percent lead just
three
days before voters go to the polls. This, without the President issuing
any
statements or making any policy regarding the Great Victoria Desert
incidents.
26—
Novembers
Mrs.
Sarah Crockerman wore a solemn, stylishly tailored gray suit. Her thickbrown
hair was carefully coiffed, and as she poured Hicks a cup of coffee, he
saw
her hands were immaculately manicured, the fingernails painted a metallic
bronze,
glinting softly in the gray winter light entering through French
windows
behind the dining table. The dining room was furnished in coffee-
colored
Danish teak, spare but comfortable. Beyond the second-story windows
lay
the broad green expanse of the U.S. National Arboretum.
Except
for a Secret Service agent assigned to Hicks, a stolid-faced fellow
named
Butler, they were alone in the Summit Street apartment.
"The
President kept this flat rented largely at my insistence," she said,
replacing
the glass pot on its knitted pad. She handed him the cup of coffee
and
sat in the chair catercorner from him, her nyloned knees pushing up
against
the table leg as she faced him. "Few people know it's here. He thinks
we
might be able to keep the secret another month or two. After that, it's
less
my private hideaway, but it's still here. I hope you appreciate how much
this
secret means to me."
Butler
had gotten off the phone and now stood by the window, facing the
doorway.
Hicks thought he resembled a bulldog, and Mrs. Crockerman a
moderately
plump poodle.
"My
husband has told me about his preoccupations, naturally," she said.
"I
can't
say I understand everything that's happening, or...that I agree with all
of
his conclusions. I've read the reports, most of them, and I've read the
paper
you prepared for him. He is not listening to you, you know."
Hicks
said nothing, watching her over the rim of his cup. The coffee was very
good.
"My
husband is peculiar that way. He keeps advisors on long after they've
served
their purpose or have his ear. He tries to maintain an appearance of
fairness
and keeping an open mind, having those about him who disagree. But he
doesn't
listen very often. He is not listening to you."
"I
realize that," Hicks said. "I've been moved out of the White House.
To a
hotel."
"So
my secretary informs me. You're still on call should the President need
you?"
Hicks
nodded.
"This
election has been sheer hell for him, even though he hasn't been
campaigning
hard. Their 'strategy.' Let Beryl Cooper hang herself. He's
sensitive,
and he doesn't like not campaigning. He's still not used to being
top
dog."
"My
sympathies," Hicks said, wondering what she was getting at.
"I
wanted to warn you. He's spending a lot of time with a man whose presence
at
the White House, especially during the campaign, upsets many of us. Have
you
ever heard of Oliver Ormandy?"
Hicks
shook his head.
"He's
well known in American religious circles. He's fairly intelligent, as
such
men go. He's kept his face out of politics and out of the news the past
few
years. All the other _fools_"—she practically spat out the word—"have
turned
themselves into clowns before the media's cyclops eye, but not Oliver
Ormandy.
He first met my husband during the campaign, at a dinner held at
Robert
James University. Do you know of that place?"
"Is
that where they asked for permission to arm their security guards with
machine
pistols?"
"Yes."
"Ormandy's
in charge of that?"
"No.
He leaves that to one of the bellowing clowns. He glad-hands politicians
in
the background. Ormandy is quite sincere, you know. More coffee?"
Hicks
extended his cup and she poured more.
"Bill
has seen Ormandy several times the past week. I've asked Nancy, the
President's
executive secretary, what they discussed. At first she wasreluctant to tell me,
but...She was concerned. She was only in the room for
the
second meeting, for a few minutes. She said they were talking about the
end
of the world." Mrs. Crockerman's face might have been plastered on, her
anger
stiffened it so. "They were discussing God's plan for this nation. Nancy
said
Mr. Ormandy appeared exuberant."
Hicks
stared at the table. What was there to say? Crockerman was President. He
could
see whom he pleased.
"I
do not like that, Mr. Hicks. Do you?" •
"Not at all, Mrs. Crockerman."
"What
do you suggest?"
"As
you say, he doesn't listen to me anymore."
"He
doesn't listen to Carl or David or Irwin...or me. He's obsessed. He has
been
reading the Bible. The _crazy_ parts of the Bible, Mr. Hicks. The book of
Revelation.
My husband was not like this a few weeks ago. He's changed."
"I'm
very sorry."
"He's
called Cabinet meetings. They're discussing economic impact. Talking
about
making an announcement after the election. There's nothing you could
tell
him...?" she asked. "He seemed to place great trust in you at first.
Maybe
even now. How did he come to trust you? He talked about you often."
"It
was a difficult time for him," Hicks said. "He saw me after he met
with
the
Guest. He'd read my book. I never agreed with his assessment..."
"Punishment.
In our bedroom, that's the key word now. He almost smiles when he
talks
about Ormandy's use of the word. Punishment. How very trite that sounds.
My
husband was never trite, and never a sucker for religious fanatics,
politically
or otherwise."
"This
has changed all of us," Hicks said softly.
"I
do not want my husband undone. This Guest found his weakness, when nobody
in
three decades of politics— and I've been with him all that time—has ever
gotten
to him. The Guest opened him wide, and Ormandy crept into the wound.
Ormandy
could destroy the President."
"I
understand." _He could do worse than that,_ Hicks thought.
"Will
you _please_ do something? Try talking with my husband again? I'll get
you
an appointment. He'll do that much for me, I'm sure." Mrs. Crockerman
stared
longingly at the French windows, as if they might be an escape. "It's
even
strained our marriage. I'll be with him on election eve, smiling and
waving.
But I'm thinking about staying here now. I can only take so much, Mr.
Hicks.
I cannot watch my husband undo himself."
The
air in the chief of staff’s office was thick with gloom.
Irwin
Schwartz, face long and forehead pale, startling in contrast to his
florid
cheeks, sat on the edge of his desk with one leg drawn up as far as his
paunch
would allow, raised cuff exposing a long black sock and a few square
inches
of hairy white calf. A small flat-screen television perched on his desk
like
a family portrait, sound turned down. Again and again, the screen
replayed
the single videotaped record of the explosion of the Australian robot
emissaries.
Schwartz finally leaned over and poked the screen off with a thick
finger.
Around
him, David Rotterjack and Arthur Gordon stood, Arthur with hands in
pockets,
Rotterjack rubbing his chin.
"Secretary
Lehrman and Mr. McClennan are with the President now," Schwartz
said.
"There's nothing I can say anymore. I don't think I have his
confidence."
"Nor
I," Rotterjack said.
"What
about Hicks?" Arthur asked.
Schwartz
shrugged. "The President moved him out to a hotel a week ago and
won't
see him. Sarah called a few minutes ago. She spoke with Hicks this
morning,
and she's working on getting an appointment for him. Everything's
tight
now. Kermit and I have had it out several times." Kermit Ferman was the
President's
appointments secretary."And Ormandy?"
"Sees
the President every day, for at least an hour. Off the calendar."
Arthur
couldn't get Marty out of his wandering thoughts. The boy's grinning
face
was detailed and sharp in memory, though static. Heir apparent. He could
not
conjure an overall picture of Francine's face, just individual features,
and
that bothered him.
"Carl's
got one last chance," Rotterjack said.
"You
think he's giving him the good old 'presidential' speech?" Schwartz
asked.
Rotterjack
nodded.
Arthur
glanced between them, puzzled.
"He's
going to talk to the President about what it means to be presidential,"
Schwartz
explained. "Taking coals to Newcastle, if you ask me. The Man knows
everything
there is to know about presidentiality."
"The
election's day after tomorrow. Time to remind him," Rotterjack said.
"You
and I both know he's got this election sewed up, as much as any election
_can_
be. You don't understand what's going on in his head," Schwartz said.
"You're
supposed to be his cushion, his buffer, goddammit," Rotterjack
shouted,
one arm shooting out suddenly and almost hitting Arthur. Arthur
backed
away a few inches but did not react otherwise. "You're supposed to keep
the
crazy idiots away from him."
"We've
done everything we can to save him from himself," Schwartz said.
"McClennan
tried ignoring his suggestions about national preparation. I pushed
the
meetings with the governors back in the schedule, lost the timetable the
President
drew up, changed the subject in Cabinet meetings. The President just
smiled
and tolerated us and kept hammering on the subject. At least
everybody's
agreed to hold off until after the election and the inauguration.
But
between now, and whenever, we have to put up with Ormandy."
"I'd
like to talk with him," Arthur said.
"So
would we all. Crockerman doesn't specifically forbid it...but Ormandy
never
lingers long enough for any of us to confront him. The man's a goddamn
shadow
in the White House."
Rotterjack
shook his head and grinned. "You'd think Ormandy was one of
_them._"
"Who?"
Schwartz asked.
"The
invaders."
Schwartz
frowned. "See what's going to happen if the President goes public?
We're
even beginning to think like gullible idiots."
"Have
you thought what could be happening?" Rotterjack persisted. "If they
'manufactured'
the Guest, couldn't they make robots that look human, human
enough
to pass?"
"I'm
more frightened about what that idea can do to us than I am about it's
being
true," Arthur said.
"Yeah,
well, there it is," Rotterjack said. "Take it for what it's worth.
Somebody
out there is going to think of it."
"It'll
tear us apart," Schwartz said. "Just what _they_ might want. Christ,
now
I'm talking like that."
"Maybe
it's just as well we bring it out in the open," Arthur said. "We
haven't
accomplished anything keeping it quiet."
"Not
the way _he'd_ release it," Rotterjack said. "What'll you do if
McClennan
fails
to get his point across—again?" he asked Schwartz.
"Eventually,
after the election, I could resign," Schwartz said, his tone
flat,
neutral. "He might want to put together a wartime Cabinet anyway."
"Will
you?"
Schwartz
stared down at the sky-blue carpet. Arthur, following his gaze,
thought
of the myriad of privileges suggested by that luxurious color, so
difficult
to keep clean. A myriad of attractions to keep men like Schwartz andRotterjack
working.
"No,"
Schwartz said. "I'm just too goddamn loyal. If he does this to me—to us,
to
all of us—I'll resent him like hell. But he'll still be the President."
"There
are quite a few congressmen and senators who'll work to change that, if
he
does go public," Rotterjack said.
"Don't
I know,"
"They'd
be the real patriots, you know, not you and I."
Schwartz's
face filled with pained resentment and frank acknowledgment. He
half
nodded, half shook his head and stood up from the desk. "All right,
David.
But we've got to keep the White House together somehow. What else is
there?
Who'll take his place? The Veep?"
Rotterjack
chuckled ironically.
"Right,"
Schwartz said. "Arthur, if I make an appointment—if I ram it down the
President's
throat— can you get Feinman out here, and can you and Hicks and he
do
your best to...you know? Do what we can't?"
"If
it can be in the next day or so, and if there are no delays."
"Feinman's
that sick?" Rotterjack asked.
"He's
in treatment. It's difficult."
"Why
couldn't you have found...never mind," Rotterjack said.
"Feinman's
the best," Arthur replied to the half-stated query.
Rotterjack
nodded glumly.
"We'll
give it a try," Arthur said.
Arthur
walked through the afternoon crowds at Dulles, suit hanging on him,
hands
in pockets. He knew all too well that he resembled a scarecrow. He had
lost
ten pounds in the last two weeks, and could ill afford it, but
e
was seldom hungry now.
Glancing
at the American Airlines screen of arrivals and departures, he saw he
had
half an hour until Harry's plane landed. He had a choice between forcing
down
a sandwich or calling Francine and Marty.
Arthur
was still trying to remember his wife's face. He could picture nose,
eyes,
lips, forehead, the shape of her hands, breasts, genitals, smooth warm
white
stomach and breasts the color of late morning fog, the texture of her
thick
black hair. He could recall her smell, warm and rich and breadlike, and
the
sound of her voice. But not her face.
That
made her seem so far away, and him so isolated. He had spent ages, it
seemed,
in offices and in meetings. There was no reality in an office, no
reality
among a group of men talking about the fate of the Earth. Certainly no
reality
surrounding the President.
Reality
was back by the river, back in the bedroom and the kitchen of their
house,
but most especially under the trees with the smooth hiss of wind and
the
rushing music of water. There he would always be in touch with them, could
be
isolated and yet not alone, out of sight of wife and son yet able to get
back
to them. If death should come, would Arthur be away from them, still
performing
his separate duties...?
The
airport, as always, was crowded. A large tight knot of Japanese passed by.
He
felt a special kinship with Japanese, more so than with foreigners of his
own
race. Japanese were so intensely interested, and desirous of smooth
relations,
one-on-one. He walked around the knot, passed a German family,
husband
and wife and two daughters trying to riddle their boarding passes.
He
could not remember Harry's face.
The
open phone booth, with its ineffective plastic half bubble, accepted his
credit
card and thanked him in a warm middle-aged female voice, teacherlike
and
yet less stern, impersonally interested. Synthetic.
The
phone rang six times before he remembered: Francine had told him the night
before
that Marty would have a dentist's appointment in the morning.
He
hung up and crossed a central courtyard to a snack shop, ordering a turkey-
pastrami
sandwich and Coke. Twenty-five minutes. Sitting on a tall stool by adiminutive
table, he forced himself to eat the entire sandwich.
Bread.
Mayonnaise. Bird taste of turkey beneath an overlay of pastrami. Solid
but
not convincing. He made a face and took the last meatless dry double wedge
of
bread into his mouth.
For
a moment, and no more, he felt himself slide into a spiritual ditch, a
little
quiet gutter of despair. To simply give up, give in, open his arms to
the
darkness, shed all responsibility to country, to wife and son, to himself.
To
end the game—that was all it was, no? Take his piece from the board, watch
the
board swept clean, a new game set up. Rest. Oddly, coming out of that
gutter,
he took encouragement and strength from the thought that if indeed
they
were going to be swept from the board, he could then rest, and there
would
be an end. _Funny how the mind works._
At
fifteen minutes after two, he stood at the gate, to one side of a crowd of
waiting
friends and families. The open double doors brought forth business men
and
women in trim suits gray and brown and that strange shade of iridescent
blue
that was so much in fashion, peacock's eyes Francine called it; three
young
children holding hands and followed by a woman in knee-length black
skirt
and austere white blouse, and then Harry, clutching a leather valise and
looking
thinner, older, tired.
"All
right," Harry said after they hugged and shook hands. "You have me
for
forty-eight
hours, max, and then the doctor wants me back to blunt more
needles.
Jesus. You look as bad as I do."
In
the small government car, winding through the maze of a bare concrete
parking
garage, Arthur explained the circumstances of their meeting with the
President.
"Schwartz is putting aside half an hour in Crockerman's schedule.
It's
getting very" tight. He's supposed to be in New Hampshire this evening
for
a final campaign rally. Hicks, you and I will be in the Oval Office with
him,
undisturbed, for that half hour. We'll do what we can to convince him
he's
wrong."
"And
if we don't?" Harry asked. Had his eyes lightened in color? They seemed
less
brown than tan now, almost bleached.
Arthur
could only shrug. "How are you feeling?"
"Not
as bad as I look."
"That's
good," Arthur said, trying to relax that anonymous something in his
throat.
He smiled thinly at Harry.
"Thanks,"
Harry said. "I have an excuse, at least. Is everybody else around
here
going to look like extras in a vampire movie?"
"What
do you weigh now?" Arthur asked. The car moved out into watery sunlight.
Snow
threatened.
"I'm
back to fighting trim. I weigh what I weighed in high school. Graduation
day."
"What's
the prognosis?"
Harry
crossed his arms. "Still fighting."
Arthur
glanced at him, did a frank double take, and asked, "Is that a wig?"
"You
guessed it," Harry said. "Enough of that shit. Tell me about
Ormandy."
The
wide double doors to the Oval Office opened and three men stepped out.
Schwartz
nodded at them. Arthur recognized the chairman of the Securities and
Exchange
Commission and the Secretary of the Treasury.
"An
emergency meeting," Schwartz murmured after they had passed. Hicks raised
his
eyebrow in query. "They're thinking of implementing Section 4 of the
Emergency
Banking Act, and Section 19a of the Securities and Exchange Act."
"What
are those?" he asked.
"Temporarily
close the banks and the stock exchanges," Schwartz said. "If the
President
makes his speech."
The
President's secretary, Nancy Congdon, came to the doors and smiled at the
four
of them. "Just a few minutes, Irwin," she said, silently easing them
shut."Do
you need a chair?" Schwartz asked Harry. Harry shook his head calmly. He
was
already used to people being solicitous. _He takes it with something
beyond
dignity —with aplomb._
The
secretary opened the doors and invited them in.
Mrs.
Hampton had redecorated the President's office, hanging the three windows
behind
the President's large, ornately decorated desk with white curtains and
ordering
a new oval green rug with the presidential seal. The room seemed
filled
with light, verdant and springlike despite the gray winter skies
outside.
Through the windows, Arthur caught a glimpse of the snow-patched Rose
Garden.
He had last been in the Oval Office a year and a half before.
Crockerman
sat behind the Victorian-era desk, looking over a stack of briefs
tucked
into brown folders. Some of the folders, Arthur noticed, were marked
DIRNSA—
Director, National Security Agency. Others were from the offices of
the
Secretary of the Treasury and the Securities and Exchange Commission.
_He's
not going off half cocked. He's preparing, and he deeply believes in
what
he's doing. He hasn't stopped being presidential._
"Hello,
Irwin, Arthur..." Crockerman stood and reached across the desk to
shake
their hands. "Trevor, Harry." He pointed to the four
leather-bottomed,
cane-backed
chairs arranged before the desk. Addressing Hicks in particular,
he
said, "Sarah mentioned I might be meeting with you."
"I
think we've all joined forces, Mr. President," Schwartz said.
"Are
you feeling up to this, Harry?" Crockerman asked, politely solicitous.
"Yes,
Mr. President," Harry replied smoothly. "I'm not needed back with the
mice
and monkeys until the day after tomorrow."
"We
need you here, Harry," the President said earnestly. "We can't afford
to
lose
you now."
"That's
not what I've been hearing, Mr. President," Harry said. Crockerman
showed
some puzzlement. "You haven't been listening to anybody I trust around
here,
much less myself."
"Gentlemen,"
Crockerman said, raising his eyebrows. "Time to speak openly. And
I
apologize for being inaccessible recently. Time has been precious."
Schwartz
leaned forward on his chair, clasping his hands. As he spoke, he
raised
his eyes slowly from his feet to Crockerman's face. "Mr. President,
we're
not here to mince words. I've told Harry, and Trevor, and Arthur, that
it's
going to take some powerful persuasion to move you back onto a rational
course.
They've come loaded for bear."
Crockerman
nodded and rested his hands lightly on the edge of the desk, as if
he
might push away at any moment. His expression remained pleasant, alert.
"Mr.
President, the First Lady did indeed speak to me," Hicks said.
"She's
not speaking to me, you know," Crockerman said levelly. "Or not
often,
at
any rate. She doesn't share our convictions."
"Yes,"
Hicks said. "Or rather, no...Mr. President, my colleagues—" He cast a
pleading
look at Arthur.
"We
assume you're still planning to tell the public about the Death Valley
bogey,"
Arthur said, "and about the Guest."
"The
story will break soon one way or the other," Crockerman said. "It
must be
kept
quiet past the election and the inauguration, but after that..." He
lifted
three fingers from their grip on the edge of the desk and shrugged
slightly.
"We're
not at all sure about your emphasis, sir..." Arthur paused.
"Surrender
will
not sit well with the country."
Crockerman
hardly blinked. "Surrender. Accommodation. Nasty words, aren't
they?
But what choice have we against superhuman forces?"
"We
do not know they are superhuman, sir," Harry said.
"It
would take us thousands, perhaps millions of years to rival their
technology—if
indeed we can even call it technology. Think of the power to
destroy
an entire moon, and push its fragments into collisions with
otherworlds..."
"We
don't know that these events are connected," Arthur said. "But I
think we
could
equal them with a couple of hundred years of progress."
"What
does it matter, two centuries or two millennia? They can still destroy
our
world."
"We
don't know that," Schwartz said.
"We
don't even know of whom we speak when we say 'they,'" Hicks said.
"Angels,
powers, aliens. Whatever they might be."
"Mr.
President," Hicks said, "we are not facing God's wrath."
"It
seems we face something equivalent in force, whatever the ultimate
source,"
Crockerman said. "Can something so catastrophic happen to the Earth
without
God's approval? We are His children. His punishments are not random,
not
when they're on such a huge scale."
Hicks
noted that the President's pronoun for God had assumed traditional
gender
now. Was that Ormandy's doing?
"We
have no evidence the Earth can be destroyed," Harry said. "What we
need .
.'.
we need a smoking gun, something that proves that the power they claim to
have
does indeed belong to them. We don't have a smoking gun."
"They
reveal their intentions clearly enough," Crockerman said. "The self-
destruction
of the Australian robots shows them to be bringers of false
testimony.
When their lies are discovered, and pointed out to them, they
vanish.
Their message of hope is a deception. I believe I knew that, sensed
it,
before the news from Australia arrived. Ormandy certainly did."
"None
of us puts any faith in Mr. Ormandy," Schwartz said.
Crockerman
was obviously irritated by this, but kept his calm. "Ormandy does
not
expect the accolade of scientists. He—and I—believe affairs have passed
out
of the control of our particular witch doctors. Not to show disrespect for
your
hard work and expertise. He and I realized there was a job to do here,
and
that we are the only ones capable of doing it."
"What
exactly will your job be, Mr. President?" Arthur asked.
"Not
an easy one, I assure you. Our country doesn't believe in giving up
without
a fight. I acknowledge that much. But we cannot fight this. Nor can we
go
to our fate ignorant of what is happening. We have to face the music
courageously.
That's my job—to help my country face the end bravely."
Crockerman's
face was pale and his hands, still pushing on the edge of the
desk,
trembled slightly. He might have been close to tears.
Nothing
was said for several long seconds. Arthur felt a blanket of shock
closing
around him. _Microcosm of what the country will feel. The world. Not a
message
we want to hear._
"There
are alternatives, Mr. President. We can take action against the bogeys,
both
in Australia and Death Valley," Harry said.
"They're
isolated," Schwartz said. "The political repercussions...almost nil.
Even
if we fail."
"We
can't simply do nothing," Arthur said.
"We
can do nothing effective, truly," Crockerman said. "I think it would
be
cruel
to raise false hopes."
"More
cruel to dash all hope, Mr. President," Schwartz said. "Are you going
to
close
the banks and stock exchanges?"
"It's
being seriously considered."
"Why?
To preserve the economy? With the end of the world in sight?"
"To
keep calm, to maintain dignity. To keep people at their jobs and in their
homes."
Hicks's
face was flushed now. "This is insanity, Mr. President," he said.
"I
am
not a citizen of the United States, but I cannot imagine a man in your
office...with
your power and responsibility..." He waved his hands helplessly
and
stood. "I can assure you the British will not react so mildly."
_Ganging
up on him,_ Arthur thought. _Still can't see her face._Crockerman opened the
folder marked DIRNSA. He pulled out a group of
photographs
in Mylar envelopes and spread them on the table. "I don't think
you've
seen the latest from the Puzzle Palace," he said. "Our NSA people
have
been
very busy. The National Reconnaissance Office has compared Earth
satellite
photographs from the last eighteen months for almost all areas of
the
globe. I believe you initiated this search, Arthur."
"Yes,
sir."
"They've
found an anomaly in the Mongolian People's Republic. Something that
wasn't
there a year ago. It looks like a huge boulder." He gently pushed the
photographs
at Schwartz, who examined them and passed them on to Arthur.
Arthur
compared three key photographs, beautiful computer-enhanced
abstractions
of blue-gray, brown, red, and ivory. A white circle about an inch
wide
surrounded a bean-shaped black spot in one photograph. In two earlier,
otherwise
practically identical photos, the black spot was absent.
"That
makes a triad," Crockerman said. "All in remote areas."
"Have
the aliens talked with the Mongolians, the Russians?" Arthur asked. The
Mongolian
People's Republic, despite a fiction of autonomy, was controlled by
the
Russians.
"Nobody
knows yet," the President said. "If there are three, there could
easily
be more."
"What
sort of...mechanism do you envisage them using?" Harry asked. "You
and
Mr.
Ormandy."
"We
have no idea. We do not second-guess the agents of supreme power. Do you?"
"I'm
willing to try," Harry said.
"Will
you disband the task force?" Arthur asked.
"No.
I'd like you -to keep on studying, keep asking questions. I am still
capable
of admitting we might be wrong. Neither Mr. Ormandy nor I are
fanatics.
We must talk with the Russians, and the Australians, and urge
cooperation."
"Can
we ask you to postpone your speech, Mr. President?" Schwartz asked.
"Until
we are more sure of our position?"
"You
already have almost two months. I do not know to the day when the speech
will
be delivered, Irwin. But once it becomes clear to me when I must speak,
it
will not be postponed. I must go with my convictions. Ultimately, that's
what
this office is all about."
The
four of them stood in the hallway outside, their half hour concluded,
clutching
copies of the NSA report.
"Fat
lot of good my being here did," Harry said.
"I'm
sorry, gentlemen," Schwartz said.
"He's
going to be very effective on television," Hicks said. "He almost
convinces
me."
"You
know the worst of it?" Arthur asked as they left through a rear door,
Schwartz
following them out to their cars. "He's not crazy."
"Neither
are we," Schwartz said<
An
hour after they left the White House, Hicks, Arthur, and Feinman ate lunch
at
Yugo's, a steak and rib restaurant favored by those in the know, despite
its
location in one of Washington's less decorative neighborhoods. They ate in
silence,
Hicks finishing his plate while Arthur and Harry barely picked at
theirs.
Harry had ordered a salad, a wilted and blue-cheese-overloaded
mistake.
"We've
done everything we can," Arthur said. Harry shrugged.
"What
next, then?" Hicks asked. "Carry on scientists?"
"We
haven't been shut down," Harry said.
"You've
just been ignored by your Chief Executive," Hicks commented dryly.
"You've
always been the odd man out here, haven't you?" Harry said. "Now you
know
how we feel. But at least we had a definite niche to fill."
"A
role to play in the grand comedy," Hicks said.Harry began to bristle but
Arthur touched his arm. "He's right." Harry nodded
reluctantly.
"So
begins phase two," Arthur said. "I'd like for you to join us in a larger
effort."
He stared at Hicks.
"Outside
the White House?"
"Yes."
"You've
made plans."
"My
plans take me back to Los Angeles, and nowhere else," Harry said.
"Harry
will consult," Arthur said. "Presidents' minds can be changed any
number
of ways. If the direct approach doesn't work..." He smoothed his
fingers
across the granite-patterned Formica tabletop with a squeak. "We work
at
a grass-roots level."
"The
President's a shoo-in, as you say..." Hicks reminded.
"There
are ways of removing standing presidents. I think, once he makes his
speech—"
Harry
sighed. "Do you realize how long impeachment and a trial would take?"
"Once
he makes his speech," Arthur continued, "all of us at this table are
going
to be in big demand on the media circuit. Trevor, your book is going to
be
the hottest thing in publishing...And we're all going to be on talk shows,
news
interviews, around the world. We can do our best..."
"Against
the President? He's a very popular figure," Hicks said.
"Schwartz
hit the nail on the head, though," Arthur said, picking up the tab
from
its plastic tray. "Americans hate the thought of surrender."
Hicks
looked over the neatly folded clothes in his suitcase with some
satisfaction.
If he could pack his belongings with dignity and style, while
all
about him hung their laundry out to dry...
The
number of stories about the self-destruction of the Australian aliens and
the
Death Valley mystery had declined in both newspapers and television.
Election
eve was gathering all the attention. The world seemed to be taking a
deep
breath, not yet consciously aware of what was happening, but suspecting,
anticipating.
Hicks
jumped as the desk phone beeped. He answered with a nervous jerk of the
handset,
fumbling it. "Hello."
"I
have a phone call for Trevor Hicks from Mr. Oliver Ormandy," a woman
stated
in
pleasant, well-modulated midwestern American.
"This
is Hicks."
"Just
a moment, please."
"I'm
pleased to speak with you," Ormandy said. "I've admired your
writings."
"Thank
you." Hicks was too surprised to say much more.
"I
believe you know who I am, and the people I represent. I've been discussing
some
things with the President, as a friend and advisor...sometimes, as a
religious
counselor. I think we should meet and talk sometime soon. Could you
make
a space in your schedule? I can have a car pick you up, bring you back,
no
difficulties there, I hope."
"Certainly,"
Hicks said. "Today?"
"Why
not. I'll have a car pick you up at one."
Precisely
at one, a white Chrysler limousine with a white landau roof drove up
in
the hotel loading zone and Hicks climbed in through the automatically
opened
door. The door closed with a quiet hiss and the driver, a pale, black-
haired
young man in a conservative dark blue business suit, smiled pleasantly
through
the glass partition.
Snow
lay in white and brown ridges, rucked up at the street edges by plows.
This
was one of the coldest and wettest falls in memory. The air smelled
unusually
sharp and clean, intoxicating, pouring against his face through the
window,
opened a small crack by the driver at Hicks's request.
The
car took him out of the concentric circles and confusing traffic loops of
the
Capital and into the suburbs, along expressways lined with young skeletalmaples
and out to country. An hour had passed when the Chrysler turned into
the
parking lot of a modest motel. The driver guided him through the lobby to
the
second floor and knocked on a room at the rear comer of the building. The
door
opened.
Ormandy,
in his middle forties and balding, wore black pants and a gray dress
shirt.
His face was bland, almost childlike, but alert. His greeting was
perfunctory.
The driver closed the door and they were alone in the small,
spare
room.
Ormandy
suggested he take an armchair by a circular table near the window.
Hicks
sat, watching the man closely. Ormandy seemed reluctant to get down to
business,
but since he could obviously manufacture no small talk, he turned
abruptly
and said, "Mr. Hicks, I have become very confused in the past few
weeks.
Do you know what is happening? Can you explain it to me?"
"Surely
the President—"
"I'd
like you to explain it to me. In clear language. The President is
surrounded
by experts, if you know what I mean."
Hicks
drew his lips together and leaned his head to one side, organizing his
words.
"I assume you mean the spacecraft."
"Yes,
yes, the invasion," Ormandy said.
"If
it is an invasion." Now he was being overly cautious, reluctant to be
pushed
into conclusions.
"What
is it?" Ormandy's eyes were childlike in their openness, willing to be
taught.
"To
put it bluntly, it seems that we've fallen in the path of automatons,
robots,
seeking to destroy our planet."
"Could
mere machines do such a thing?" Ormandy asked.
"I
do not know. Not human-made machines."
"These
are Godlike powers you're discussing."
"Yes."
Hicks started to rise. "I've been over all this with the President. I
do
not see the point in bringing me here, when you've advised the President to
act
contrary to—"
"Please
sit. Be patient with me. I'm hardly the ogre you all think I am. I am
way
out of my depth, and just two nights ago, that really came home to me.
I've
talked with the President, and made my conclusions known to him...But I
have
not been at all sure of myself."
Hicks
sat back slowly. "Then I presume you have specific questions."
"I
do. What would it take to destroy the Earth? Would it be significantly
harder
than, say, destroying this place called Europa?"
"Yes,"
Hicks said. "It would take much more energy to destroy the Earth."
"Would
it be done all at once, a cataclysm? Or could it begin in one place,
spread
out, like a war?"
"I
don't really know."
"Could
it begin first in the Holy Land?"
"There
don't seem to be any bogeys in the Holy Land," Hicks said dryly.
Ormandy
acknowledged that with a nod, his frown deepening. "Could there be a
way
of saying, scientifically, whether aliens can be considered angels?"
"No,"
Hicks said, smiling at the absurdity. But Ormandy did not see the
absurdity.
"Could
they be acting on behalf of a higher authority?"
"If
they are indeed robots, as they seem to be, then I presume they are acting
on
the authority of biological beings somewhere. But we can't even be sure of
that.
Civilizations based on mechanical—"
"What
about creatures that have gone beyond biology —creatures of light,
eternal
beings?"
Hicks
shrugged. "Speculation," he said.
Ormandy's
childlike face exhibited intense agitation. "I am way out of my
depth
here, Mr. Hicks. This is not clear-cut. We're certainly not dealing withangels
with flaming swords. We're not dealing with anything predicted in
apocalyptic
literature."
"Not
in _religious_ literature," Hicks corrected.
"I
don't read science fiction much," Ormandy said pointedly.
"More's
the pity."
Ormandy
smirked. "And I'm not in the mood to cross knives with you or anybody
else.
What I'm saying is, I'm not sure I can present this to my people in a
way
they'll understand. If I tell them it's God's will...How can I be sure of
that?"
"As
you said, there seem to be Godlike forces at work," Hicks offered.
_Perverse,
perverse!_
"My
people still think in terms of angels and demons, Mr. Hicks. They dearly
love
halos of light and brilliancies, thrones and powers and dominations. They
eat
it up. They're like children. And no one can deny there is beauty and
power
in that kind of theology. But this...This is cold and political,
deceptive,
and I don't feel comfortable attributing such deception to God. If
this
is a work of Satan, or of Satan's forces, then...The President, with my
help,
I admit, is about to make a tremendous mistake."
"Can
you get him to change his mind?" Hicks asked, less eagerly than he might
have.
"I
doubt it. Remember, he called me, not the other way around. That's why I
say
I'm out of my depth. I'm not so proud I can't admit that."
"Have
you told him your misgivings?"
"No.
We haven't met since I...became unsure."
"Are
you fixed in a theological interpretation?"
"Emotionally,
by all that my parents and teachers handed down to me, I must
believe
that God intervenes in all our affairs."
"What
you're saying, Mr. Ormandy, is that when push comes to shove, and the
end
of the world comes on apace, you no longer yearn for apocalypse?"
Ormandy
said nothing, but his frown intensified. He held out his beseeching
hands,
ambiguous, opinion fixed neither one way nor the other.
"Can
you talk to the President again, at least _try_ to get him to change his
mind?"
Hicks asked.
"I
wish he'd never involved me," Ormandy said. He hung his head back and
massaged
his neck muscles with both hands. "But I'll try."
27—
November
5
Arthur
was in a late night conference with astronomers in Washington,
discussing
the appearance of the ice objects and their possible connection
with
Europa, when word came that William D. Crockerman was projected to win
election
as President of the United States. Nobody was surprised. Beryl Cooper
conceded
the next morning, at one a.m., while the conference was still
proceeding.
No
conclusion was reached by the astronomers at the meeting. If the ice chunks
had
come from Europa, which seemed undeniable given their paths and
composition,
then their present almost straight-line orbits had to be
artificial,
and some connection with the extraterrestrials could be assumed.
The
facts were clear enough: both were fresh, almost pure water-ice; the
smaller
of the two, barely 180 kilometers in diameter, was traveling at a
velocity
of some 20 kilometers per second and would strike Mars on December
21,
1996; the larger, some 250 kilometers in diameter, was traveling at about
37
kilometers per second and would strike Venus on February 4, 1997. Whatever
had
caused Europa's destruction had not warmed the objects substantially,
perhaps
because ablation had carried away the heat. Both were quite cold and
would
lose little of their mass to vaporization by the sun's energy.
Consequently,
neither would show much of a cometary coma, and both would bevisible only to
sharp-eyed observers with telescopes or high-powered
binoculars.
Arthur
left Washington the next day, convinced that his team now had solid
evidence
for making a connection. He had sufficient time, he thought, to
prepare
a case and present it to Crockerman, that all of these events were
linked,
and that some grand strategy could now be worked out.
He
could not convince himself the President-elect would listen, however.
November
10
Major
Mary Rigby, the latest in their series of duty officers, buzzed them all
at
six-thirty in the morning to listen to the radio. Shaw bunched his pillows
up
and sat in his cot as "Hail to the Chief" played—a true Crockerman
touch—
and
the Speaker of the House listened gravely to the announcement of the
appearance
of the President-elect of the United States.
"Maybe
the old fart's going to write our ticket out of here," Minelli said,
his
voice raspy from a night of protests and shouting. Minelli was not doing
well
at all. This infuriated Edward. But cold, subdued fury had been his state
of
mind for the last two weeks. This experience was going to leave all of them
warped
in one way or another. Reslaw and Morgan said very little anymore.
"Mr.
Speaker, honorable members of the House of Representatives, fellow
citizens,"
the President began. "I have called this emergency conference after
weeks
of deep thought, and many hours of consultation with trusted advisors
and
experts. I have an extraordinary announcement to make, and a perhaps even
more
extraordinary request.
"You
have no doubt been following with as much interest as I the events taking
place
in Australia. These events in the beginning seemed to bring hope to our
stricken
planet, the hope of Godlike intervention from outside, of those who
would
act to save us from ourselves.
We
began to feel that perhaps our difficulties were indeed only those of a
young
species, faltering in its early footsteps. Now these hopes have been
dashed,
and we find ourselves in even deeper confusion.
"My
sympathies lie with Prime Minister Stanley Miller of Australia. The loss
of
the three messengers from outer space, and the mystery surrounding their
destruction—
perhaps self-destruction—is a deep shock to us all. But it is
time
to confess that it has been less of a shock to me and to a number of my
advisors.
For we have been following a similar series of events within our own
country,
kept secret until now for reasons which will soon become clear."
Disembarking
from a shuttle bus at Los Angeles Inter: national Airport, on his
way
to Death Valley and then to Oregon for three days' rest, Arthur entered a
lounge
area to await his taxi and heard the President's voice. He sat before a
color
television with eleven other travelers, his face ashen. _He's jumping
the
gun._
"Late
last September, three young geologists discovered a hill in the desert
not
far from Death Valley, in California. The hill was not on their maps. Near
this
hill they found an extraterrestrial being, an individual in ill health.
They
brought this individual to a nearby desert town and notified authorities.
The
extraterrestrial being—"
Trevor
Hicks listened from his Washington hotel room, the remains of breakfast
spread
on a serving tray at the foot of the bed. Just yesterday, he had
learned
that Mrs. Crockerman had moved to her flat permanently. Later that
afternoon,
he had heard the first rumors of David Rotterjack's resignation.
The
President-elect's version of what happened in the Vandenberg laboratory
was
clear enough; he could find no fault so far.
"...And
as I spoke with this being, this visitor from another world, the story
it
told me was chilling. I have never been so deeply and emotionally affected
in
my life. It spoke of a journey across ages, of the death of its home world,
and
of the agency of this destruction—the very vehicle which had brought it
toEarth, now landed in Death Valley and disguised as a volcanic cinder
cone."
Ithaca
called Harry in from the bathroom, where he had just finished taking
his
shower. She wrapped him in a thick terry robe as he stood before the
television,
feeling how warm his skin was. "Great fucking birds flapping in
the
air," he breathed.
"What?"
Ithaca asked.
"He's
making the announcement now. Listen to him. Just listen to him."
"When
I asked the Guest if it believed in God, it replied in a steady, certain
voice,
'I believe in punishment.'" The President paused, staring across the
fully
attended house. "My dilemma, and the dilemma of all my advisors,
military
and civilian, and of all our scientists, was simple. Could we believe
that
our extraterrestrial visitor and the visitors in Australia were linked?
They
told such different stories ..."
There
was a knock on Trevor's door. He closed his robe and hurried to open it,
hardly
even seeing who was outside, his attention still focused on the
television.
"Hicks,
I owe you an apology." It was Carl McClennan, dressed in a raincoat
and
clutching a bottle of something wrapped in a brown paper bag. "That's him,
isn't
it?"
"Yes,
come in, come in." Hicks didn't bother to ask why McClennan was here.
"I've
resigned," McClennan said. "I read his speech last night. The bastard
wouldn't
listen to any of us."
"Shhh,"
Hicks said, holding his finger to his lips.
"I
wish that I brought news of some comforting solution to all who listen to
me
today. But I do not. I have never been a faithful churchgoer. Still, within
myself
I have held my own faith, and thought it wise, as the leader of this
nation,
not to impose this faith on others who might disagree. Now, however,
through
these extraordinary events, I have had my faith altered, and I can no
longer
keep silent. I believe we face incontrovertible evidence, proof if you
will,
that our days are numbered, and that our time on Earth—the time of the
Earth
itself—will soon be at an end. I have sought advice from those with more
spiritual
experience than I, and they have counseled me. I now believe that we
are
facing the Apocalypse predicted in the Revelation of John, and that on
Earth,
the forces of good and evil have made themselves known. Whether these
forces
be angels and demons, or extraterrestrials, seems to be of no
importance
whatsoever. I could say that I have spoken with an angel, but that
does
not seem literally true—"
"He's
even departing from his text. _Damn_ him," McClennan shouted, sitting
with
a bounce on the bed next to Hicks. "Doesn't he understand what he's
unleashing?
What social—"
"Please,"
Hicks admonished.
"I
can only conclude that in some fashion, our history on Earth has been
judged,
and we have been found inadequate. Whether the flaw lies in our
bodies,
or in our minds, it is clear that the history of human existence does
not
satisfy the Creator, and that He is working to wipe the slate clean, and
begin
again. To do this, He has sent mighty machines, mighty forces which
could
begin, at any moment, to heat this Earth in God's forge, and beat it to
pieces
on a heavenly anvil."
The
President paused again. Raised voices on the floor of Congress threatened
to
drown him out, and the Speaker had to rap his gavel many long minutes. The
camera
pulled back to show Crockerman surrounded by a phalanx of Secret
Service
men, their faces grim, trying to look in all directions at once.
"Please,"
the President pleaded. "I must conclude."
The
noise finally subsided. Sporadic shouts of anger and disbelief rose from
the
representatives.
"I
can only say to my people, and the inhabitants of Earth, that the time has
come
for us all to pray fervently for salvation, in whatever form it mightcome,
whether we can expect it or not, or even whether we truly deserve
salvation.
The Forge of God cannot be appeased, but perhaps there is hope for
each
of us, in our private thoughts, to make peace with God, and find a way
out
from under the blows of His anger and disappointment."
Sitting
in the airport lounge, a woman weeping softly beside him, several men
loudly
arguing with each other and the television screen, Arthur Gordon could
only
think of Francine and Martin.
"All
hell's going to break loose," a bulky middle-aged black man shouted as he
stalked
out of the lounge.
"We'd
better not fly now," a young man told the pregnant girl, hardly more
than
a teenager, sitting next to him. "They should ground all flights."
Trying
to stay calm, angry at how deeply the speech had affected him, Arthur
made
his way through the morning crowds to an airline counter to again check
his
reservations to Las Vegas.
McClennan
had stopped his tirade of swearing and now stood by the blank
television,
fumbling at a cigarette and lighter. He still wore his raincoat.
Hicks
had not moved from the edge of the bed.
"I'm
sorry," McClennan said. "Christ, I haven't smoked in five years. I'm
a
goddamned
disgrace."
"What
will you do, now that you've resigned?" Hicks asked. _What an amazing
situation.
Straight inside line on this story._
McClennan
gave up on the cigarette in disgust. He flung it into the hotel
ashtray,
on top of an unused book of matches, and more gently lay his plastic
lighter
beside it. "I suppose the President will appoint replacements for
David
and myself. I imagine Schwartz will stay on. I imagine just about
everybody
will stay on." McClennan looked at Hicks with suspicion. "And you'll
write
about all of it, won't you?"
"I
suppose I might, in the long run."
"Do
you think he's crazy?" McClennan asked, pointing at the blank screen.
Hicks
considered the question. "No."
"Do
you think..." and here the rage returned, making McClennan's hands
tremble,
"he's violating his oath of office, to carry out the United States
Constitution
and promote the general welfare?"
"He's
calling them as he sees them," Hicks said. "He thinks the end of the
world
is at hand."
"Christ,
even if it is..." McClennan pulled out the desk chair and sat down
slowly.
"He's in trouble. He's showing his weakness. I wouldn't be surprised
if
there's a move now to block the inauguration, or to impeach him."
"On
what grounds?" Hicks asked.
"Incompetence.
Failure to promote the general welfare. Hell, I don't know..."
"Has
he done anything illegal?"
"We've
never had a President go nuts in office. Not since Nixon, anyway. But
then,
you think he isn't nuts.
Listen,
he disagreed with you, even after he brought you into the inner
circle...What
is he trying to do?"
Hicks
had already answered that question, after a fashion, and saw no reason
to
do it again.
"All
right," McClennan said. "What he's doing, what it all comes down to,
is
he's
surrendering without a single shot being fired. We have no idea what
these...bastards,
these machines, these aliens, can do. We can't even be sure
they're
here to destroy the Earth. Is that even _possible!_ Can you tear a
world
apart, or kill everything on its surface?"
"We
ourselves can kill all life on Earth, if we so choose," Hicks reminded
him.
"Yes,
but the Guest talked about leaving nothing but rubble behind. Is that
possible?"
"I
suppose it is. You'd have to unleash enough energy to place most of theEarth's
mass into orbit about itself, so to speak, or to give it escape
velocity.
That's an awful lot of energy."
"How
much? Could we do it?"
"I
don't think so. Not with all the nuclear weapons we have now. We couldn't
even
begin to."
"How
advanced would a...Jesus, a civilization have to be to do that?"
Hicks
shrugged. "If we posit a straight line of development from where we are
now,
with the rate of major breakthroughs increasing, perhaps a century,
perhaps
two."
"Could
we fight them off? If they have that ability?"
Hicks
shook his head, uncertain. McClennan took the answer for a negative. "So
he
calls them as he sees them. No way out. What if they aren't here to destroy
the
Earth, just to confuse us, set us back, keep us from competing...You know,
like
we might have done to the Japanese, if we'd known what they'd put us
through,
in the twentieth century...?"
"The
aliens are doing a good job of that, certainly."
"Right."
McClennan stood again.
"What
are _you_ going to do?"
The
ex-national security advisor stared blankly at the window. His look
reminded
Hicks of the expression on Mrs. Crockerman’s face. Bleak, close to
despair,
beyond tears.
"I’ll
work in the background to save his ass," McClennan said. "So will
Rotterjack.
Damn us all, we’re dedicated to that man." He raised his fist. "By
the
time we’re done, that son of a bitch Ormandy won’t know what happened. He
is
going to be one dead albatross."
With
three hours until his flight to Las Vegas, Arthur decided there would be
time
to take a taxi to Harry’s house in the Cheviot Hills.
The
cab took him up the San Diego Freeway and through a brightly decorated but
impoverished
Los Angeles barrio.
"D’ya
hear what the President said, man?" the driver asked, glancing over the
seat
at Arthur.
"Yes,"
Arthur said.
"Isn’t
that something, what he said? Scared the piss out of me. Wonder how
much
of it is true, or whether, you know, he’s gone off his nut."
"I
don’t know," Arthur replied. He felt strangely exhilarated. Everything was
coming
into focus now. He could actually see the problem laid out before him
as
if on a road map. His weariness and resignation had vanished. Now he was
enriched
by a deep, convicted fury, his distance and objectivity scorched
away.
The air through the cab window was sweet and intoxicating.
Lieutenant
Colonel Albert Rogers finished listening to the recording of the
broadcast
and sat in the back of the trailer for several minutes, numb. He
felt
betrayed. What the President had said could not possibly be true. The men
at
the Furnace had not yet heard the speech, but there was no way he was going
to
keep it from them. How could he soften it for them?
"The
bastard’s surrendered," he murmured. "He’s just left us here."
Rogers
stood in the rear door of the trailer and looked at the cinder cone,
dark
and nondescript in the full morning light. "I can take a nuke right up
inside
that son of a bitch," he said quietly. "I can carry it in and stand
over
it until it goes off."
_Not
without the President’s authority._
Actually,
that wasn't entirely true.
But
the President wouldn't actually stop them from making an attempt to defend
themselves...would
he? He hadn't said as much. He had simply stated that he
thought
it unlikely...what were his words? Rogers returned to the TV monitor
and
ran the tape back. "...The time has come for us all to pray fervently for
salvation,
in whatever form it might come, whether we can expect it or not..."
What
did that mean?And who would give Rogers his orders, the proper orders, now?
"He's
feeling weak today. The trip to Washington didn't help him any," Ithaca
said,
leading Arthur to the bedroom. Harry lay back on thick white pillows,
eyes
closed. He looked worse than when they had parted a week ago. His facial
flesh
was sallow and blotchy. His breathing was regular, but when he opened
his
eyes, they seemed washed out, unenthusiastic. He smiled at Arthur and
grasped
his hand firmly.
"I'm
going to resign," Harry said.
Arthur
started to protest, but Harry waved it off. "Not because of that
speech.
I'm not going to be much use. I'm still fighting, but...It's getting
worse
very fast. I'm on a short rope. I can't leave town anymore, and I'm
going
to be in a hospital all the time by next week. You don't need that kind
of
grief now."
"I
need _you,_ Harry," Arthur said.
"Yeah.
God knows I'm sorry. I'd much rather be up and about. You have a tough
fight
now, Arthur. What are you going to do?"
Arthur
shook his head slowly. "McClennan and Rotterjack have resigned. The
President
hasn't given any orders to the task force."
"He
wouldn't dare disband the group now."
"No,
he'll keep us together, but I doubt he'll let us do anything. I talked to
Hicks
a few hours ago, and from what he says, Crockerman's even gone a step
beyond
Ormandy. Apocalypse. Get your papers in order. Here comes the auditor."
"He
can't be all that..." Harry shook his head. "Can he?"
"I
haven't talked to him since we went into the Oval Office together. Now
comes
the media sideshow. We are going to be roasted alive over a slow fire.
Since
I have no specific orders, I'm going to check into the Furnace, and then
go
back to Oregon for a few days. Hide out."
"What
about the people in detention? Why are we holding them? They're
healthy."
"They're
certainly no security risk," Arthur agreed.
"We
have the authority to let them go, don't we?"
"We're
still ranked just below the President. I'll call Fulton," He still held
Harry's
hand. He hadn't let it go since sitting on the bed. "You've got to win
this
one, Harry."
"Feeling
mortal yourself, huh?" Harry's face was serious. "You know, even
Ithaca...She
cries openly sometimes now. We cried together last night after
she
drove me back from the tests."
"Nobody's
giving up on you," Arthur said with surprising vehemence. "If your
damned
doctors can't...we'll find other doctors. _I need you._"
"I
feel like a real shit, letting you down," Harry said.
"You
know that's a—"
"I
mean it. I am very sick now. I don't feel it yet, but in a week or two
they'll
start other treatments, and I'll be a wreck. I won't be able to think
straight.
So let me tell you now. We have to start fighting back."
"Fighting
the Furnace, the Rock?"
"They've
got us confused. They've accomplished that much...whoever they are.
Blowing
up their emissaries. Jesus! What a masterstroke. Giving us two
stories,
then making both seem like lies. And we've been a real good audience.
It's
time to do what we can."
"What
is that?"
"You
haven't been thinking about it?"
"All
right," Arthur admitted. "I have."
"You
have to reestablish your channels of communication with the President.
Encourage
McClennan and Rotterjack to stay on. If that's out of the question—"
"Too
late now."
"—Then
talk to Schwartz. He knows damn well what the public reaction is goingto be. Americans
won't accept this easily."
"I'd
hate to see the polls as to how many people believe anything is
happening."
"Leadership,"
Harry said, his voice husky. "He has to assert his leadership.
And
we have to fight back."
Arthur
nodded abstractedly.
"Killing
Cook. Remember?"
Arthur
shook his head. "Only if they're not omnipotent."
"If
they are, why would they try to confuse us?" Harry asked, his face
darkening.
He gripped Arthur's hand more tightly. There was a time when
Harry's
grip could have ground knuckles. Now it was a steady, insistent
pressure;
no more. "They have to believe we can hurt them somehow."
Arthur
nodded. Another conclusion had occurred to him, however, and it
frightened
him. He could hardly put it into words, and he certainly would not
reveal
it to Harry now. _Poke a stick in the ants' nest,_ he thought. _Watch
them
scurry around. Learn about them. Then stomp the nest._
"Have
you thought about what will happen to me if you don't pull through?"
Arthur
asked.
"You'll
invite Ithaca up to Oregon, get her settled up there. Introduce her to
friends.
Find somebody promising who needs a good woman. Marry her off."
"Christ,"
Arthur said, crying now.
"See,"
Harry said, tears running down his own cheeks. "You really care."
"You
bastard."
Harry
rolled his head aside and pulled up a pillow cover to wipe his eyes.
"I've
never been jealous of you. I could go for years without seeing you,
because
I knew you'd be there. But Ithaca. He'd better be a damned good
fellow,
the one you introduce her to. If anybody's going to lie between her
thighs
but me, I'd better like him a hell of a lot."
"Stop
this."
"All
right. I'm tired. Can you stay around for dinner? I'm still able to eat.
I
won't be able to keep it down much after next week. The old-fashioned
treatments."
Arthur
told him he had to catch a plane shortly. Dinner was out of the
question.
"Give
me a call tomorrow, then," Harry said. "Keep me informed."
"You
bet."
"And
talk some more with Hicks. He could replace me."
Arthur
shook his head at the whole idea.
"I
don't want you to get the impression I've been pinned to the mat by this,"
Harry
said. "I've been thinking crazy thoughts for days now. I'm going to
write
them down soon."
"Crazy
thoughts?" Arthur asked.
"Putting
it all in perspective. The aliens, my cancer, the Earth, everything."
"That's
a tall order."
"You
bet. Keeps my mind off the rest of this nonsense." He thumped his chest
and
abdomen with his hand. "Might even be useful, sometime..."
"I'd
like to hear it," Arthur said.
Harry
nodded. "You will. But not now. It still hasn't jelled."
29—
November
15
The
blue and white taxi roared and jerked along the winding road up the slope
of
the hill with frightful speed and efficiency. Samshow sat rigid in the
back,
leaning this way and that against the curves, wondering if he should
have
accepted the invitation when there was so much work to be done. Outside,
night
jungle rushed by, relieved by lighted entrances to private roads and
ghostly
houses floating out above the hillside. Below, visible occasionallythrough the
trees, lay the bright spilled jewel box of Honolulu.
Sand
had told him there would be interesting people at the party. He had gone
on
ahead two hours before. The Glomar _Discoverer_ had put in at Pearl Harbor
that
morning, and the invitation from Gina Fusetti had come by telephone at
ten
o'clock. Mrs. Fusetti, wife of University of Hawaii physics professor
Nathan
Fusetti, was known across the Pacific for her parties. "We can't turn
this
one down," Sand had said. "We need a few hours' rest, anyway."
Samshow
had reluctantly agreed.
Fingers
faltering through a palm full of dollar bills and change, he paid and
tipped
the driver and stepped back quickly to avoid a spray of gravel from the
rear
wheels. Then he turned and looked at a broad, split-level pseudo-Japanese
house
draped with hundreds of electric folding paper lanterns, its stone
walkway
flanked by carved lava tikis with candle-burning eyes.
Even
from where he stood, he could hear people talking—but no loud music, for
which
he was profoundly grateful.
A
tall young woman opened the door at his knock and smiled brightly.
"Mom!"
she
called out. "Here's another. Who are you?"
"Walt
Samshow," he said. "Who are you?"
"Tanya
Fusetti. My parents...you know. I'm here with my boyfriend."
"You
must be Doctor Samshow!" Gina Fusetti stalked intently through the
archway
leading to the sunken dining room, rubbing her hands and smiling
gleefully.
In her late sixties, hair gone completely white, she regarded Sam-
show
with smiling, squint-eyed worship, ushering him inside, equipping him
with
a beer (Asahi) and a paper plate of hors d'oeuvres (teriyaki tuna and raw
vegetables).
"We're very pleased to have so distinguished an author and
scientist
with us," Mrs. Fusetti said, smiling her thousand-watt smile. "Mr.
Sand
is in a back room with some friends...He told us you'd be here."
Sand
came through a side door. "Walt, glad you've finally come. Something
extraordinary—"
"Ah,
there he is!" She nodded at both of them, still smiling. "Such a
pleasure
to
have men capable of saying something when they talk!" Another arriving
guest
drew her away. As she departed, she gave him an ushering wave of both
hands—party,
enjoy.
"_She's_
pretty extraordinary," Samshow said.
"Acts
like that with everybody. She's a charmer."
"You've
been to her parties before?"
"I
dated her older daughter once."
"You
never told me that."
Sand
shook his head and grinned. "Do you know Jeremy Kemp? He says he knows
you."
"We
shared a cabin years ago, I think—some expedition...no, it was during a
seminar
at Woods Hole. Kemp. Geophysicist, earthquakes, isn't he?"
"Right."
Sand pushed him forward. "We all have to talk. This is a real
coincidence,
his being here, our being here. And I sort of broke our rules. I
brought
up our sighting."
"Oh?"
"We've
already sent our data to La Jolla," Sand said, by way of an excuse.
Samshow
was not completely mollified. Sand opened the door to a back bedroom.
Kemp
and two other men sat on chairs and on the bed's Polynesian print
coverlet,
beers and cocktails in hand. "Walt! Very good to see you again."
Kemp
stood, shifted his cocktail, and shook Samshow's hand firmly.
Introductions
were made and Samshow stood in a corner while Sand encouraged
Kemp
to explain his own scientific problem.
"I'm
in resources discovery for Asian Thermal, an energy consortium in Taiwan
and
Korea. We're keeping track of Chinese oil, for Beijing—it's official—and
we're
trying to chart the whole southwestern Pacific all the way south to the
Philippines.
Partly we chart through seismic events and analysis of the wavepropagation
through the deep crust. Now this is at least as proprietary as
what
you've told me...Understood?" He glanced conspiratorially at the door.
Sand
closed it and latched it.
"My
group has listening stations in the Philippines and the Aleutians. We're
also
tapped in to the U.S. Geological Survey Earthquake Information Center in
Colorado
and the Large-Aperture Seismic Array in Montana. We have an anomalous
seismic
event. We think it's a bad reading or a screwed interpretation. But
maybe
not. It's from the vicinity of the Ramapo Deep. We got it on the night
of
November first, Eastern Pacific Time."
"The
night of our skyfall," Samshow said.
"Right.
We place the time at about eight-twenty p.m. Right?"
"That's
our time, within ten minutes," Sand acknowledged.
"Okay.
Not an earthquake per se. Not a fault slide. More like a nuclear
detonation—and
yet, not. We get a PcP—reflection off the outer core—in Beijing
and
reflections from the P260P and P400P in Colorado, then we get P-prime-P-
prime
waves at the LASA in Montana. Not only that, but we get persistence in
the
high-frequency P-waves. No Love or Rayleigh surface waves, just body
waves.
No immediate shear waves. Just compression waves and lots of really
unusual
microseisms, like something _burrowing._ Right in the Ramapo Deep.
What
could that be?"
Sand
grinned like a small boy, mischievous. "Something that weighs perhaps a
hundred
million tons."
"Right,"
Kemp said, mirroring his grin. "So let's talk crazy. Anything that
masses
in at ten to the eighth metric tons, strikes the ocean like a mountain.
But
all you get is a minor squall. So it didn't transfer much of its energy.
Very
small profile. Just shot right through, lost a tiny, tiny percentage of
its
velocity to the water, maybe some heat as well. Something less than a
meter
wide."
"That's
ridiculous," Samshow said.
"Not
at all. A plug of superdense matter, probably a black hole. Hitting the
ocean
nearby, falling to the bottom of the Ramapo Deep, _voila!_ Burrowing."
"Incredible,"
Sand said, shaking his head, still grinning.
"All
right. We both have anomalies. My people have a nuclear event profile
that
isn't, and you have a jag." Kemp lifted his drink. "Here's to shared
mysteries."
Sand
had his electronic notebook out and was busy entering figures. "A black
hole
that size would be a strong source of gamma rays, right?"
"I
don't know," Kemp said.
Sand
shrugged his shoulders. "But it's so dense and so small it falls directly
to
the center of the Earth. Actually, it bypasses the center because of
Coriolis,
and bounds up the other side. There's very little effective drag.
It's
just like passing through thin air."
Kemp
nodded.
"When
it reaches the core, it's traveling about ten kilometers per second. Can
you
imagine the shock wave coming off that thing? The whole Earth would ring
like
a bell—your microseisms. The heat released would be incredible. I don't
know
how to calculate that...We need somebody conversant in fluid dynamics.
Its
period— the time it takes to 'orbit' in its closed loop around the center
of
the Earth—would be about eighty, ninety minutes."
"Wouldn't
whatever sound it makes get lost in background noise?" Samshow
asked,
feeling years out of date.
"Oh,
we're hearing it, all right," Kemp said. "Chattering like an imp. Can
I
borrow
your notebook?"
Somewhat
reluctantly, Sand handed it to him. Kemp figured for a moment. "If we
assume
no factional effects, it would come right up out of the antipodes of
its
entry point. But I don't know whether there would be drag— it's sucking in
matter
and releasing some of it as gamma rays, creating a plasma, or maybeit's...Hell,
I don't know. Let's assume the core has very little drag effect
on
it. Maybe it doesn't break the surface..."
"But
the shock wave does," Sand said.
"Right.
So we'd have tremendous effects in..." Kemp's brow furrowed.
"South
Atlantic Ocean," Samshow said. "Thirty south and forty west. About
eleven
hundred nautical miles east. of Brazil, somewhere along the latitude of
Porto
Alegre."
"Very
good," Kemp said, his smile fixed now. "Some seismic events there,
and
then,
it swings back to Ramapo eighty or ninety minutes later. And again and
again,
until its motion is damped by whatever drag it feels and it rests right
in
the center of the Earth. Do you realize what a black hole could do at the
center
of the Earth?"
Samshow,
suddenly troubled, stood and walked through an open sliding glass
door
to the veranda. He looked deep into the night jungle behind Mrs.
Fusetti's
house, quiet except for the noise of the party and the whirring of
insects.
"How in hell would something like this get to the Earth? Wouldn't our
radar
spot it, our satellites?"
"I
don't know," Kemp said.
"There's
definitely some correlation, Walt," Sand said. "Our gravimeters were
working
perfectly." He joined Samshow on the veranda.
"The
party's full of talk about the President's announcement," Kemp said,
standing
in the open doorway. "What I've been thinking..."
Sand's
eyes widened. "Oh, Jesus," he said. "I hadn't even..."
"So?"
Samshow asked.
"Maybe
it's not just a fantasy," Kemp said. "You have a jag we can't trace,
a
meteor
strike you can't explain, and we have compression waves we can't
explain.
And the President has aliens."
"Now
wait," Samshow interrupted. "We haven't got any information about the
South
Atlantic."
"Could
this black hole, or whatever it is, cause substantial damage to the
Earth?"
Sand asked.
"It
would eventually eat it up, swallow it completely," Kemp said.
"Then
we'd better tell somebody," Samshow said.
Kemp
and Sand looked at him like children chastised for being caught in a
dirty
game.
"Shouldn't
we?" Samshow asked. "Who's going to San Francisco, to the American
Geophysical
Society convention?"
"I
am," Kemp said.
"I'd
like to," Samshow said, running on instincts now. Sand regarded him with
some
confusion. Perhaps he felt like backing down now, having carried things
too
far and seeing the Old Man take them all seriously. "Can we swing it,
David?"
"I...want
to try some calculations."
"We
obviously don't have the expertise," Samshow said. "But somebody
there
will."
"Right,"
Kemp said. "I know just the fellow. Jonathan Post will be there."
The
Furnace was now surrounded by three concentric wire fences, the innermost
electrified.
Troops patrolled the perimeter in Jeeps and helicopters. Beyond
the
barricades, hundreds of the curious sat idle in their cars, Jeeps, and
trucks,
binoculars trained on the black mound five miles or more distant.
Still
more hikers circled the forbidden area, none finding a way to get any
closer.
A
makeshift pressroom—little more than an unheated shack—stood at the main
gate
to the Furnace. Here, nine preselected reporters waited in abject boredom
for
news releases.
Except
for the ubiquitous helicopters, the site itself was quiet. In thesteady late
morning sun, the cinder cone loomed black and purple, lava
boulders
and flows still in place, nothing changed, all silent and eternal.
As
the blades and turbines on Arthur's helicopter ride from Las Vegas slowed,
Arthur
climbed down from a hatch and approached Lieutenant Colonel Rogers
across
the salty sand and gravel landing strip. Rogers greeted him with a
handshake
and Arthur handed him a folder.
222 •
Greg Bear
"What's
this?" Rogers asked as they walked alone toward the electronics
trailer.
"These
are orders telling you and your men to stay out of the bogey and do
nothing
to disturb the site," Arthur said. "I received them in Las Vegas.
They're
from the office of the President."
"I
already have orders to that effect," Rogers said. "Why send
more?"
"The
President wants to make sure you understand," Arthur said.
"Yes,
sir. Tell him—"
"We
aren't communicating regularly," Arthur said. He glanced around the area
and
put his hand on Rogers's shoulder. "We're going to have senators and
congressmen
all over this place in a few days. Senate subcommittees are
inevitable.
Congressional oversight committees. Anything you can imagine."
"I
heard that senator from Louisiana, what's his name —Mac something."
"MacHenry."
"Yeah,"
the colonel said, shaking his head. "On the radio. Calling for
impeachment."
"That's
the President's problem," Arthur said coldly. "MacHenry's not
alone."
They
stopped twenty yards from the trailer. A path had been cleared between
the
landing strip and the complex of Army equipment. Bored soldiers had
bordered
the path with uniformly sized, whitewashed lava boulders. "I have
something
important to ask you. In private. This seems to be as good a place
as
any."
"Yes,
sir."
"Is
there any way to destroy the bogey?" Arthur asked.
Rogers
stiffened. "That option hasn't been mentioned, sir."
"Could
you do it?"
The
colonel's face was a battleground of conflicting emotions. "My team can do
damn
near anything, sir, but it would take specific orders to even discuss
such
an option."
"This
is off the record," Arthur said.
"Even
off the record, sir."
Arthur
nodded and looked away. "I'm only going to be here for a few hours,"
he
said.
"You have your orders— but frankly, I don't have any specific orders.
And
I believe my authority supersedes yours here, am I correct?"
"Yes,
sir, except where you might contradict direct orders from the
President."
"You
have no orders to prevent _me_ from entering the bogey, do you?"
Rogers
thought that over. "No, sir."
"I’d
like to do that."
"It’s
not difficult, sir," Rogers said.
"Only
difficult if you’re the first one in, right?"
Rogers
smiled faintly.
"I’ll
have your lead to follow. Tell me what I need to know, and what sort of
equipment
will be necessary."
PERSPECTIVE
_AP
News Network in Brief, November 17, 1996, Washington,.D. C. :_
Representative
Dale Berkshire, R-V., recommended before the full Congress
today
that the House Judiciary Committee begin hearings on President-elect
Crockerman's
actions with regard to the Death Valley spacecraft. "There isstrong
sentiment among my people for impeachment," Berkshire said. "Let the
process
begin here and now." Berkshire and numerous other congressmen have
reportedly
asked the House and Senate to delay the President-elect's
inauguration
ceremonies. No action on a delay has been taken at present.
30--
November
17
Mary,
the duty officer, greeted them over the intercom with a smile in her
voice.
"Rise and shine," she said. "You're getting out today. I just
heard it
from
Colonel Phan."
Edward
had been awake for hours. He had not been able to sleep much the last
couple
of days. The cool clean plastic smell of cubicle air filled his entire
body;
he could not remember what real air tasted like. Minelli had been worse
than
usual, babbling sometimes, weeping, and Edward's anger had curled up
inside
him, helpless, hot, yet anesthetic, slowing him down rather than
pushing
him to action. Action resulted in nothing.
"You're
a liar, Mary, Mary," Minelli said. "We're prisoners for life."
An Air
Force
psychologist had spoken with Minelli and concluded the man was suffering
from
"extreme cabin fever." So were they all.
"We're
not security risks anymore?" Reslaw asked.
"I
guess not. You're healthy and the President's announcement makes the rest
pretty
unnecessary, don't you think?"
"I've
been thinking that for days," Reslaw said.
At
ten a.m. Colonel Phan appeared with General Fulton. The isolation chamber
window
covers were withdrawn and Fulton greeted them all solemnly, apologizing
for
the inconvenience. Minelli said nothing.
"We've
announced your release," Fulton said, "and made arrangements for a
press
conference at two this afternoon. We have new clothes for you and all
your
confiscated personal effects."
"A
cheap suit and ten bucks in pocket," Minelli said.
Fulton
smiled grimly. "You're free to say whatever you want. There's no sense
our
stonewalling; we've had perfectly good reasons for everything we did. I
hope,
even now, that you can see those reasons. I don't expect sympathy."
Edward
bit his lip gently, eyes focused on Fulton's cap. Then he looked in the
direction
of Stella's window and saw her standing in the white fluorescent
light,
gaunt, almost ghostly. She had lost a lot of weight. So had Reslaw.
Minelli,
strangely, had become almost plump.
"I've
taken the liberty of having Mr. Shaw's Land Cruiser given a thorough
check-over
at our motor pool garage. The oil's been changed, engine tuned, and
a
new set of tires put on. Think of it as the least we can do. We've also
arranged
for monetary compensation for your time here. Should you need any
medical
attention in the next few years, that's on us, too. I assume one or
more
of you will sue us." Fulton shrugged. "All right. Your hall doors
will be
opened
in five minutes. If you're up to it, I'd like to thank each of you
personally
and shake your hand. My gratitude is sincere, but I won't require
you
to acknowledge."
"Shake
the fucking President's hand," Minelli roared. "Ah, Christ, let me
out."
Fulton
walked with the watch supervisor down the connecting corridor between
the
cells, his face ashen. "This whole thing...has become the worst
screwup...of
my entire career," he said, eyes half closed.
Within
half an hour, the four stood in sunshine outside the smooth concrete
walls
of the Experimental Receiving Laboratory, blinking. Edward made a point
of
keeping close to Stella. She seemed frail, excessively quiet, her face
drawn
and haunted like that of a starved child.
"You
going to make it?" Edward asked.
"I
want to go home. I'm clean, but I want to take a shower at home. Does thatmake
sense?"
"Perfect
sense," Edward said. "Wash off all the prison cooties."
She
smiled broadly, then opened her arms wide and held them out to the sky,
making
an ecstatic feline wriggle. "God. The sun."
Minelli
covered his eyes with one hand against the sun, stretching the other
hand
out palm-up to catch the rays. "Beautiful," he said.
"What
do you want to do, Edward?" Stella asked.
"Take
a hike," Edward said without hesitating. "Get back out to the
desert."
"If
any of you wants to spend some time in Shoshone..." Stella paused.
"It
might
be silly, you probably want to get as far away from here as possible,
but
you can stay at our house. I realize you must have other things to do."
"We're
at loose ends," Reslaw said. "I am, anyway."
They
passed General Fulton and Colonel Phan as the watch supervisor escorted
them
into a small auditorium near the base public information office. An Air
Force
lawyer talked to them about their immediate future and offered legal
assistance,
including the agenting of book and movie offers, without fee. "I
think
I'm pretty good, and so does the Air Force," he said. "Nothing
mandatory,
of course. If you don't like me, the service will pay for any
lawyer
you choose, within reason."
The
press conference, though an ordeal, was mercifully brief—only half an
hour.
They sat alone at a long table while approximately three hundred
reporters
competed to ask questions, one at a time, through remote
microphones.
For Edward, the questions blurred into one another: How did you
find
the alien? Were you actually looking for spaceships and aliens? Are you
going
to sue the Air Force or the United States government? ("I don't
know,"
Edward
replied.) What do you think of the Australian spaceship? Of the
President's
address to the nation? ("If we are being invaded," Minelli said,
"I
think his message sucks.") Bernice Morgan, Stella's mother, sat in a
roped-
off
section. She wore a belted print dress and carried a broad white sun hat.
Her
face was calm. Beside her sat the Morgan family lawyer, older and much
more
grizzled than the military counsel, in a dark blue suit, clutching a
briefcase.
By
three, they were back hi the auditorium. Stella stood beside her mother
while
their lawyer discussed the circumstances of their release. He then
offered
to represent all four of the detainees, as he referred to them.
A
staff sergeant handed Edward a bag containing the keys to his Jeep, and they
were
all given their packets of personal effects. "I can drive you all right
out
of here," Edward said. "If we can avoid the reporters..."
"That's
going to be difficult. If you'd like an escort..." the military
counsel
offered.
"No
thanks. We'll manage."
Reslaw
and Minelli went with Edward. Stella accompanied her mother to the
lawyer's
limousine. "Where are we going?" she asked Edward.
"I'll
take up your offer if it's still open," Edward said. Minelli and Reslaw
agreed.
"Open
to all."
The
Jeep and the limousine pulled away from Vandenberg's main eastern gate,
away
from the crush of reporters. A few valiant camera trucks and press cars
followed
them, but Edward managed to shake them off by taking a devious route
through
Lompoc.
*
* *
The
climb up the shaft was not difficult; Rogers had indicated it was a much
more
impressive journey mentally than physically. Yet Arthur was not entirely
certain
why he was making the trip. What could the hollow interior tell him,
that
he hadn't already seen in Rogers's photographs and video?
Still,
he had to do it. His inner confusion had to be resolved. He half hoped
for
some intuitive breakthrough. And perhaps something would have changed—achange
that might indicate where the truth actually lay.
Arthur
clambered around the second bend and crawled on all fours along the
last
stretch of tunnel. In a few minutes, he emerged into the broad
cylindrical
antechamber, switching on the video camera mounted over his ear.
His
lamps played off the complex faceting of the opposite side of the main
chamber.
Walking to the lip of the antechamber, circling the beam of his torch
over
the faceted cathedral vastness, he tried to make out the red light Rogers
had
photographed. He couldn't see it. Taking a deep breath—as he imagined
Rogers
had done before— he turned off all his lights and settled into a squat
a
couple of meters from the edge.
_Circular.
Designed for weightless conditions? How could all this crystalline
structure
survive planetfall? What in hell is the function?_ After five
minutes,
he still couldn't make out a red light in the vastness. "One change,
at
least," he noted aloud for the recorder.
He
switched on the torch again and scrutinized the faceting intently, moving
his
eyes a few degrees, then again, trying to discern some pattern or evident
function.
It was beautiful, which implied a pattern, but beyond that...
Could
all the facets be used to focus some sort of radiation drive? If so,
then
was the throat of the drive where he was now standing, in the (presently)
closed
antechamber? Would the tunnel into the mound then represent a kind of
relief
valve, left open to evacuate the contents of the chamber after landing?
There
were no traces of hot exhaust blast outside. Perhaps all that had been
obscured
after the landing, during the time the craft was camouflaged.
If
he stood on tiptoes, he still could not hold the torch high enough to put
it
in the focal center of the antechamber cylinder, which was about two meters
above
the greatest stretch of his arms. A simple stepladder...and he could see
if
the facets reflected the beam directly back at him.
Even
from where he stood, that didn't seem likely.
What
would Marty think, knowing his daddy was even now standing inside an
alien
spacecraft? What would Francine think?
_If
it is a spacecraft. Everybody seems to assume that. Perhaps the spacecraft
left
machines to construct this, and it was never in space at all. If so, why?
The
cool dark quiet was profound, almost comforting. _Reminds me of an
anechoic
chamber. Maybe the facets are dampers of some sort._ He whistled
sharply.
The whistle returned, muted but clear. His voice, however, did not
return.
He shut off the microphone and shouted several times to make that
point.
The first two shouts were wordless, mere yells, apelike, and somehow he
felt
better after them. The third shout came out of him so rapidly he had no
time
to think.
_"What
the hell are you doing here? What are you doing to us, goddammit?"_
Embarrassed,
his face hot, Arthur approached the lip again and pointed his
torch
at the facets directly below. He thought of the Guest's triple sherry-
colored
eyes, protruding from the surrounding dusty gray-green flesh. _What a
nightmare.
All of it. Day by day we learn and it means nothing, has no
pattern.
We are befuddled being befuddled. Deliberate._
He
tried to subdue his unreasoning rage. Surely there were ways to bring a
nuclear
weapon into this chamber. Backpack nukes hadn't been manufactured for
twenty
years, and had never been field-tested. What else was in the arsenal
that
could be hauled into the chamber by one or at most two men?
Lieutenant
Colonel Rogers knew. He had thought of just such a contingency
before
Arthur had broached the subject. His reaction—immediate, brusque—made
that
clear. If two were thinking of it, then others were, as well. How could
they
circumvent Crockerman's authority over all nuclear weapons?
What
good would it do?
"I'd
like to ask you a few more questions," he said, leaving the mike off.
"Just
between one human individual and whatever, whoever you are. Are we no
more
to you than a nest of ants? You go to the trouble to create an
artificialbeing..."He was convinced of that, though the proof was not
absolute. "You
feed
us two stories, maybe more. What are you telling the Russians in
Mongolia?
Are you telling them the universe is run on socialist principles? We
thought,
years past...we thought the arrival of something like you would
change
us all. You've taken advantage of that. You seem to know us better than
we
know ourselves. Or are we just so simple you can predict our behavior? If
you're
superior, then why are you torturing us? _How many civilizations have
you
destroyed?"_
He
did not expect an answer. The circular gray-faceted cathedral interior
gloomed
around him, silent and implacable, unreal despite his intense
scrutiny.
"You're
going to eat the Earth, and spit it out, and move on," he continued,
his
voice trembling. His rage was almost overwhelming; he wanted to smash
things.
With some haste, he retreated to the tunnel, to reach the outside
before
his decorum vanished completely and he wept in frustration.
Once
through the twisted tunnel and standing in the desert sun, he immediately
faced
Rogers and two sergeants and weeping was again out of the question.
"Your
red light has gone out," he said, doffing his gear. "Nothing else has
changed."
"How
did it feel, sir?" Rogers asked softly.
"Like
I was of no consequence whatsoever," Arthur said.
The
officer smiled grim agreement and helped him remove the camera.
PERSPECTIVE
_New
York Times editorial, November 20, 1996:_ The election of President
William
D. Crockerman may have been a colossal blunder. Had the nation been
given
the complete facts about the present situation—facts concerning the
existence
of yet another alien device in Death Valley, California—and had we
been
informed about the President's attitude to these alien devices, how many
Americans
would have voted for a President who seems to accept impending
destruction
with open arms? Perhaps there is no hope. Perhaps the Earth is
doomed.
But for the President of the United States to admit defeat and urge us
all
to say our prayers is—and we do not hesitate to use the word—treasonous.
The
_Times_ Editorial Board is unanimous in recommending that the House
Judiciary
Committee investigate the President-elect's actions, and vote on
whether
or not to recommend impeachment.
31—
It
took Reuben Hordes three weeks to come to grips with his mother's death,
and
it happened in a bizarre and darkly comic way.
His
father, as tall as Reuben but getting plump about the middle, had for the
time
being given up on life, his rough bearded face dark grayish olive from
grief
and stress, sitting in the ragged lounger in the living room, napping
before
a dark TV.
It
was up to Reuben to keep the house clean and make sure all the chores were
done
as his mother would have wished. He took that upon himself as a duty to
the
both of them. His father would recover. Life would go on. Reuben was sure
of
that.
On
a Wednesday, three weeks exactly after the funeral, Reuben pulled out the
old
upright vacuum cleaner and plugged it into a herniated wall socket. The
plug
threatened to fall out, but held long enough for Reuben to kick the
button
with his naked toe and switch the machine on. He then methodically ran
the
vacuum over the patchy Oriental-design carpet and the wood floors,
swooping
down on dust kittens and moving chairs and coffee table when
necessary.
He vacuumed around his father, who smiled up at him and tried to
say
something, but could not be heard over the racket. Reuben patted his
shoulder
in passing.In the bathroom, as he passed the machine carefully over the
almost-new throw
rug,
the vacuum started laboring. He thought he smelled hot metal and
electricity.
Punching the button with his toe, he tipped the machine over,
flipped
two latches, and removed the bottom metal cover. In some amazement, he
stared
at the roller brush and belt.
Thick
strands of his mother's fine, long crinkly black hair had wrapped around
the
entire length of the roller, filling the groove of the rubber belt and
impeding
its progress.
Reuben
picked the hair off delicately with long, spatulate fingers, examining
broken
pieces of it in his palms. He pulled loose a thick tangle and made a
motion
to drop it into the wastebasket. He couldn't follow through.
He
sat back against the kitchen door, holding the tangle to his cheek. For a
moment,
his thoughts were filled with a velvet nothingness.
Then
it came. His head thumped against the door and he wept quietly, not
wanting
his father to hear, finally covering up by switching the vacuum on
again.
With his mother's hair removed, it ran smoothly and loudly.
Warren,
Ohio, lay acquiescent under an old blanket of snow, some of it still
clean,
some pushed up in dirty brown and black-spotted ridges by the roadways.
Skeletal
trees stood out against the yellowing dusk, and gusts of sharp cold
wind
leaped around him like invisible dogs, glad to see you, happy to have you
here.
Reuben clutched the two library books under his arm, one on how to pass
the
civil service exam for the Postal Service, another containing the short
stories
of Paul Bowles. Reuben, who had fancied himself a Muslim in his early
teens—to
his mother's horror—had steeped himself in the lore of Africa and the
Middle
East. Bowles intrigued him even more than Doughty or T. E. Lawrence.
Reuben
had quit high school the year before to work. His formal education had
been
fitful, but his intelligence, when focused, was a devouring and almost
frightening
thing. When Reuben Bordes latched on to a question or a book or a
subject
that interested him, his short, broad face tightened with an intent,
fixed
expression and his eyes enlarged until it seemed they might fall out of
his
head.
He
was tall and strong and feared nobody. His route through the darkening
streets,
between the dirty brick buildings and along narrow service alleys
behind
businesses, was not chosen for its shortness or logic. Reuben needed to
delay.
Getting back to his father was necessary, but he did not relish the
intensity
of pain he felt at home.
Halfway
there, pacing through slush puddles behind a liquor store, he saw a
silvery
glint in the shadows beside a dumpster. He walked on, turfiing his
head,
thinking it was nothing more than a broken bottle. But the glint
persisted.
He returned to the dumpster and peered into the shadows. A
glittering
toylike thing, perhaps a kid's broken robot, rested on a dark brown
and
nondescript lump. He peered closer.
The
toy sat on a dead mouse or a small rat. Very slowly, the toy lifted one of
six
jointed shiny legs, and then brought it down again. The leg pierced the
rodent's
skin.
Reuben
stood up and backed away. Night was almost on him.
The
way the spider or whatever it was had raised its leg—with a clockwork
precision,
an oily smoothness—scared him. It was not a toy. It was not an
insect.
It was something spider-shaped and made of metal and it had caught and
killed
a mouse.
With
slow grace, the spider stepped off the mouse and turned to face Reuben,
two
front legs held high as if to defend itself. Reuben backed up against a
rough
board fence, eight or nine feet away, twenty feet from the street. He
glanced
to his left, ready to run.
Silver
flashed on the fence boards behind him. Reuben screamed and pushed off
with
his arms and shoulders but the flash followed, sitting on his shoulder
where
he couldn't see it clearly. He brushed it away and felt its heavy,resisting
sharp legs let go of his shirt. The spider fell into the slush with
a
splash and leaden clunk.
"Oh,
Jesus, help!" Reuben screamed. The street beyond the alley was empty of
pedestrians.
A car drove by but the driver didn't hear him. "Help!"
He
ran. Two spiders ambled into his path and he tried to stop, feet sliding
out
from under him in a patch of wet ice. He fell on his back in the dirt and
slush.
Moaning, he rolled over, the wind knocked out of him, and lifted his
head.
A spider waited with front legs raised not a foot from his face, a small
line
of green luminosity drawn between the legs where its eyes might have
been.
Its body was smooth, a single elongated egg shape. Its legs were jewel-
fine.
_No
joke.
Nobody
makes things like that._
He
faced the thing, breath coming back in sharp jerks, his arms tingling from
the
fall. Something moved along his back, gently pinching, and he could not
reach
up to grab it or brush it off. He could not scream again; there wasn't
enough
air in his lungs. Then the weight and the legs were in his hair.
Something
sharp brushed his scalp. Pricked.
Reuben
moaned and lay his head down in the slush, his eyes closed, his face
masked
with a rictus of fear. After a few minutes, he felt himself getting up
and
lying back against the fence, his movements poorly coordinated. Nobody
came
by, or if they did, they did not stop. He was still behind the liquor
store.
He was dirty and wet and he looked like a filthy drunk. A cop might
come
along to investigate, but nobody else.
He
was very cold but not frightened anymore. There was a high vibration in his
skull
that reassured him. Reuben suddenly decided to fight the reassurance and
his
whole body stiffened, slamming his head against the fence so hard the wood
cracked.
That
sobered him. What parts of his head could still think, urged caution. He
could
taste blood in his mouth. _This is how an animal feels in the wild when
the
zoo people come,_ he thought.
The
vibration continued, waxing and waning, lulling him even through the bone-
chilling
cold and damp. He tried several times to get up, but he had no
control
over his limbs; they tingled as if asleep.
He
felt a crawling behind his head. A spider delicately climbed down the front
of
his coat, legs prodding and lifting the edge of his hip pocket where it lay
rucked
up in his lap. The thing disappeared into the pocket, legs folding as
it
entered. The bulge it made was barely noticeable.
His
legs stopped tingling. With some effort, Reuben stood, wobbling back and
forth
uncertainly. He checked himself over and found no injuries, no blood or
evidence
of abrasions, and only a few tender bruises. When his hand went
toward
his pocket, he thought better of it—or rather, something else urged
caution—and
slowly withdrew his arm. Hand held idly out, shivering and
puzzled,
Reuben looked around the alley for more of the spiders. They were
gone.
The
mouse lay still beside the dumpster. Reuben was allowed to kneel and
examine
the tiny carcass.
It
had been neatly dissected, its purple, brown, and pink shiny organs laid
out
to one side, incisions made here and there, as if samples had been taken.
"I
have to go home," Reuben said to nobody or nothing in particular.
He
was allowed to finish his walk home.
32—
Arthur
was delayed three days unexpectedly in Las Vegas to speak informally
with
three congressmen from the House Judiciary Committee. His first evening
back
home, back with his family and the river and the forest, he sat on the
living
room throw rug, legs curled into a lotus. Francine and Marty sat on thecouch
behind him. Marty had laid the fire in the grate all by himself,
lighting
the carefully placed tinder with a long match.
"Here's
what's happening, really, as much as I know," he said, raising himself
on
his arms and sweeping his locked legs around to face them. And he told
them.
The
heater came on at midnight and blew warm air over Arthur and Francine as
they
lay in bed in each other's arms. Francine's head rested on his shoulder.
He
could feel her eye movements as she stared into darkness. They had just
made
love and it had been very good, and against all his intellectual
persuasions,
he _felt_ good, at home, at rest. Not a word had been said
between
them for fifteen minutes.
She
lifted her head. "Marty—"
The
phone rang.
"Oh,
Christ." She rolled out of his way. He reached across her to pick up the
phone.
"Arthur,
Chris Riley here. I'm sorry I woke you up—"
"We're
awake," Arthur said.
"Yes.
This is a bit of an emergency, I think. There are some guys in Hawaii
who'd
like to talk with you. They heard I knew your home number. You can call
them
now or I—"
"I'd
like to be incommunicado, Chris, at least for a couple of days."
"I
think this could be very important, Arthur."
"All
right, what is it."
"From
the little they've told me, they might have found the—you know, what the
press
is talking about, the weapon the aliens might use against us."
"Who
are they?"
"One
is Jeremy Kemp. He's a conceited son of a bitch and hell to deal with,
but
he's an excellent geologist. The other two are oceanographers. Ever hear
of
Walt Sam-show?"
"I
think so. Wrote a textbook I read in college. He's pretty old, isn't he?"
"He
and another fellow named Sand are with Kemp in Hawaii. They say they saw
something
pretty unusual."
"All
right. Give me a phone number." He switched on the light over the
nightstand.
"Samshow
and Sand are on board a ship in Pearl Harbor." Riley enunciated the
number
and name of the ship for him. "Ask for Walt or David."
"Thanks,
Chris," Arthur said, hanging up.
"No
rest?" Francine asked.
"Some
people think they might have found the smoking gun."
"Jesus,"
Francine said softly.
"I'd
better call them now." He got out of bed and went into the den to use the
extension
there. Francine followed a few minutes later, wrapped in her robe.
When
he had finished with the call, he turned and saw Marty standing beside
her,
rubbing his eyes.
"I'm
going to San Francisco this weekend," he said. "But I've still got a
couple
of days with you guys."
"Show
me how to use the telescope, Dad?" Marty asked sleepily. "I want to
see
what's
going on."
Arthur
picked the boy up and carried him back to his bedroom.
"Were
you and Mom making love?" Marty asked as Arthur lay him down in the bed
and
pulled the covers over him.
"You
got it, Big Ears," Arthur said.
"That
means you love Mom. And she loves you."
"Mm-hm."
"And
you'll go away but you'll come back again?"
"As
soon as I can."
"If
we're all going to die, I want you both here, with me, all of ustogether,"
Marty said.
Arthur
held his son's hand for a long moment, eyes moist, throat gnarled with
love
and a deep, inexpressible anguish. "We'll start with the telescope
tomorrow,
and you can look tomorrow night," he finally said in a harsh
whisper.
"So
I can see them come," Marty said.
Arthur
could not lie. He hugged his son firmly and stood by the bed until
Marty's
eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly.
"It's
one o'clock," Francine said as he slipped under the covers beside her.
They
made love again, and it was even better.
November
22
"Gauge!
Bad dog! Dammit, Gauge, that's a _frozen_ chicken. You can't eat that.
All
you can do is ruin it." Francine stomped her foot in fury and Gauge slunk
from
the kitchen, berry-colored tongue lolling, ashamed but pleased with
himself.
"Wash
it off," Arthur suggested, sliding past Gauge to stand in the kitchen
door,
grinning.
Francine
held the thoroughly toothed but whole bird in two hands, shaking her
head.
"He's mangled it. Every bite will have his mark."
"Bites
within bites," Arthur said. "How recursive."
"Oh,
shut up. Two days home and _this._"
"Blame
it on me, go ahead," Arthur said. "I need a little domestic
guilt."
Francine
put the bird back on the countertop and opened the sliding glass
door.
"Martin! Where are you? Come chastise your dog for me."
"He's
outside with the telescope." Arthur examined the chicken sadly. "If
we
don't
eat it, that's one bird's life wasted," he said.
"Dog
germs," Francine argued.
"Hell,
Gauge licks us all the time. He's just a puppy. He's still a virgin."
Dinner—the
same bird, skinned and carefully trimmed —was served at seven.
Marty
seemed dubious about his portion of leg and thigh, but Arthur warned him
his
mother would not take kindly to their being overfastidious.
"You
made me cook it," she said.
"Anything
interesting?" Arthur asked his son, pointing up.
"It's
all twinkly out there," Marty said.
"Clear
night tonight?" Arthur asked.
"It's
slushy and cold," Francine said.
"Lots
of stars, but I mean...you know. Twinkly like faraway firecrackers."
Arthur
stopped chewing. "Stars?"
"You
told me only supernovas would get bright and go out," Marty said
seriously.
"Is that what they are?"
"I
don't think so. Let's go look."
Francine
dropped her wing in disgust. "Go ahead. Abandon dinner. Arthur—"
"Just
for a minute," he said. Marty followed. After hanging back by the
service
porch door for a minute in protest, Francine joined them in the
backyard.
"Up
there," Marty said, pointing. "It's not doing anything now," he
protested.
"It's
awful cold out here." Francine looked at Arthur with an unexpressed
question
on her face. Arthur examined the sky intently.
"There,"
Marty said.
For
the merest instant, a new star joined the panoply. A few seconds later,
Arthur
spotted another, much brighter, a couple of degrees away. The sparkles
were
all within a few degrees of the plane of the ecliptic. "Oh, Christ,"
he
muttered.
"What now?"
"Is
this something important?" Francine asked.
"Daddy,"
Marty said nervously, glancing at his parents, alarmed by the tone of
their
voices."I don't know. I don't think so. Maybe it's a meteor shower."
But the sparkles
were
not meteors. He was sure of that much. There was one person he could call
who
might know—Chris Riley. Always Riley, a still point in the moving world.
In
the darkened den, he dialed Riley's home phone. On the first attempt, it
was
busy. A few moments later, Riley answered, breathless.
"Chris,
hello. This is Gordon, Arthur Gordon."
"My
man. Just the man." Riley paused to catch his breath. "I hear you set
up a
meeting
with Kemp and Samshow. I'd like to be there, but it's getting real
busy
here. I've been running out to the telescope and back. I should get a
phone
out there."
"What's
happening?"
"Have
you seen it? All through the plane of the ecliptic—asteroids. They're
blowing
up like firecrackers! Since dusk, apparently. I just got confirmation
from
Mount Laguna and somebody left a message a few minutes ago from Pic du
Midi
in France. The asteroid belt looks like a battlefield."
"Damn,"
Arthur said. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Marty and Francine
standing
in the doorway, Marty with his arms wrapped tight around his mother's
waist.
"When
is this task force going to come clean?" Riley asked. "Lots of people
are
really angry, Arthur. The President shoots his mouth off, and nobody else
is
talking."
"We
can't be sure this is connected."
"Arthur!
For God's sake! Asteroids are blowing up! How the hell could it not
be
connected?"
"You're
right," Arthur said. "I'm flying to San Francisco tomorrow. How many
sparkles
so far?"
"Since
I've been watching, at least a hundred. Got to run now."
Arthur
said good-bye and hung up. Marty was owl-eyed, Francine only slightly
more
restrained. "It's all right," he said.
"Is
it starting?" she asked. Marty began to whimper. Arthur had not heard his
son
whimper in recent memory —months, a year.
"No.
I don't think so. This is far away, in the asteroids."
"Are
they sure it's not shooting stars?" Marty asked, a very adult
rationalization.
"No.
Asteroids. They're out beyond Mars, most of them between Mars and
Jupiter."
"Why
out there?" Francine asked.
Arthur
could only shake his head.
33—
November
23
Minelli
had spent the night lying in a lounger by the broad picture windows.
He
was there now, head lolling, snoring softly. Edward tightened the knot on
the
bathrobe he had borrowed from Stella and walked past the lounger to stand
by
the glass. Beyond a concrete patio and a dried-up L-shaped ornamental
fishpond,
frost whitened several acres of winter-yellow grass.
Coming
here had been a good idea. Shoshone was peaceful, isolated without
being
cut off. For a few days at least, they could rest, until the crowds of
reporters
found them again. The few townspeople aware of their return were
making
sure nobody knew where they were. They spent most of the day indoors,
and
only Bernice answered the phone.
He
heard Minelli stir behind him.
"You
missed the show," Minelli said.
"Show?"
"All
night long. Like a parade of lightning bugs."
Edward
raised an eyebrow.
"No
joking, and I'm not crazy. Out over the mountains, all night long. Clearas a
bell. The sky twinkled."
"Meteors?"
"I've
seen meteors, and _these_ wasn't _them._"
"End
of the world, no doubt," Edward said.
"No
doubt," Minelli echoed.
"How
are you feeling?"
"Rested.
Better. I must have given everybody a bad time back there."
"They
gave _us_ a bad time," Edward corrected. "I was feeling a little nuts
myself."
"Nuts."
Minelli shook his head and cocked a dubious glance at Edward. "Where's
Reslaw?"
"Still
sleeping." He and Reslaw had shared a middle bedroom.
"These
folks are real nice. I wish I'd had a mother like Bernice."
Edward
nodded. "Are we going to stay here," he asked, "and keep
imposing, or
are
we going back to Texas?"
"We're
going to have to face the music eventually," Minelli said
philosophically.
"The press awaits. I watched television a little last night.
The
whole country's gone nuts. Quietly, mind you, but nuts all the same."
"I
don't blame them."
The
phone rang.
"What
time is it?" Minelli asked. Edward glanced at his watch.
"Seven-thirty."
On
the second ring, the phone was silent.
They
stared at it apprehensively. "Bernice must have answered it in the back
bedroom,"
Minelli said.
A
few minutes later, Stella came out, followed by her mother, both
unselfconsciously
attired in flannel pajamas and flower-print robes. Bernice
smiled
at them. "Breakfast, gentlemen? It's going to be a long day."
"That
was CBS," Stella said. "They keep sniffing."
"We
can only fool them so long," Bernice said.
Edward
looked across the quiet, frosty field. A pickup truck parked just off
the
highway held two men in brown coats and cowboy hats—locals sworn to keep
"snoops"
from setting up cameras and interfering with the Morgan family's
privacy.
Even at a hundred yards' distance, they looked formidable.
Stella
shook her head. "I don't know what to say. We didn't do anything
important.
I didn't, anyway. You found the rock."
Edward
shrugged. "What's to say about that?"
Reslaw,
dressed in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped long-sleeved shirt,
walked
out of the hallway, past the entrance alcove and the baby grand piano
in
an adjacent corner. "Somebody ask about breakfast?"
"Coming
up," Mrs. Morgan said.
"You
know," Edward said, "it was probably a bad idea to come here. For you
two.
We all need our rest, but your mother has been through a lot."
Bernice
Morgan walked stiffly into the kitchen. "It was exhilarating,
really,"
she
said. "I haven't had a fight like that in years."
"Besides,
she got to talk to the President," Stella said, grinning.
"Makes
me ashamed to be a Democrat," she said. "Mike and the boys are
keeping
a
watch. I just have to make sure they don't get too zealous. You stay as long
as
you want."
"Please
stay," Stella said, looking at Edward. "I have to talk. To all of
you.
I'm
still confused. We should help each other out."
"What
about the fireworks?" Minelli asked. "Maybe there's something on the
news
now."
He
stretched and swung his legs off the lounger, then stood and walked across
the
linoleum floor and wide Navajo rugs to the living room, a few steps from
the
marble-top pedestal table in the open dining area. He sat in front of the
television.
Slowly, as if it might be hot, he turned it on, then backed up,licking his
lips. Edward watched him with concern.
"Just
cartoons," Minelli said quietly. Without changing channels, he lay back
to
watch, as if he had forgotten his original purpose. Edward walked over and
changed
channels for him, looking for news. On the twenty-four-hour News
Network,
an announcer was finishing a story on conflict between the Dominican
Republic
and Haiti.
"Nothing,"
Minelli said pessimistically. "Maybe I was seeing things."
Then,
"Astronomers in France and California have offered varied explanations
for
last night's unprecedented meteor activity in the solar system's asteroid
belt.
Seen throughout the Western Hemisphere, clearly visible to the naked eye
in
areas with clear skies, bright explosions flashed throughout the ecliptic,
the
plane occupied by the Earth's orbit and the orbits of most of the sun's
planets.
Speaking from his phone in Los Angeles, presidential task force
advisor
Harold Feinman said it might take days to analyze data and learn what
had
actually happened deep in space, beyond the orbit of Mars. When asked if
there
was any connection between the meteor activity and the alleged
spacecraft
and aliens on Earth, Feinman declined to comment."
"Smart
man to admit he's an idiot," Minelli said. "Asteroids. Jesus."
Edward
flipped past other channels, but found nothing more.
"What
do you think, Ed?" Minelli asked, slouching back in the corner of the
broad
L-shaped couch. "What the hell did I see? More end-of-the-world shit?"
"I
don't know any more than they do," Edward said. He entered the kitchen.
"Do
you
have a doctor in town? A psychiatrist?" he asked Bernice.
"Nobody
worth the name," she answered, her voice as low as his. "Your
friend's
still
not doing too well, is he?"
"The
government got rid of us in a real hurry. He should be in a hospital
somewhere,
resting, cooling down."
"That
can be arranged," she said. "Did he actually see something?"
"I
guess so," Edward said. "I wish I'd seen it."
"_Day
of the Triffids,_ that's what it was," Minelli said enthusiastically.
"Remember?
We'll all go blind any minute now. Break out the pruning shears!"
Stella
stood by the stove, methodically cracking eggs into a pan one by one.
"Momma,"
she said, "where's the pepper mill?" She brushed past Edward, tears
in
her eyes.
34—
Walt
Samshow stepped from the cab on Powell Street under the shadow of the St.
Francis
Hotel awning and turned around briefly to look across at long, silent
lines
of hundreds of marchers parading around Union Square, a cable car
grumbling
by covered with swaying tourists, spastic traffic of cars and more
cabs,
civilized mayhem: San Francisco, other than the marchers, not terribly
different
from his memories of it in 1984, the last time he had been downtown.
In
the spacious, elegant lobby of the St. Francis, with its polished black
stone
and dark lustrous woods, Sam-show began hearing the rumors practically
the
moment he set his luggage down by the front desk.
The
convention of the American Geophysical Society was in full swing. Kemp and
Sand
had gone ahead, and apparently big things had happened since their
arrival
Thursday. Now it was Saturday and he had a lot to catch up on.
As
he checked in, two professorial young men passed by, engaged in earnest
conversation.
He caught only three words: "The Kemp object—"
The
bellhop carted his luggage over thick carpet to the elevator. Samshow
followed,
unwinding his arms and stretching his fingers. Two other
conventioneers—an
older man and a young woman—stood near the elevators,
discussing
supersonic shock waves and how they might be transmitted through
mantle
and crust.
Reporters
and camera crews from three local television stations and as many
national
news networks were in the lobby when Samshow returned from his roomto check in
at the convention desk. He avoided them deftly by walking around
several
pillars.
With
his badge and bag of pamphlets and program guides came a note from Sand:
Kemp
and I will meet you in Oz at 5:30. Drinks on Kemp.
D.S.
Oz,
Samshow learned from a desk clerk, was the bar and disco at the top of the
"new"
tower of the St. Francis. He looked at his frayed sports coat and his
worn-out
running shoes, decided he was easily ten years behind the times and
thousands
of dollars short in refurbishing his wardrobe, and sighed as he
entered
the elevator.
The
trip from Honolulu to La Jolla had been arranged by the Scripps
Institution
of Oceanography. He had paid for that by lecturing the night
before
at UCSD. It never ceased to dismay him, after twenty-five years, how
popular
he was. His huge, expensive book on oceanography had become a standard
text,
and hundreds of students were only too pleased to listen to, and shake
hands
with, the modern Sverdrup.
On
his own tab, he had taken a flight out of Lindbergh Field to San Francisco.
Not
yet did he have a clear idea what they were all doing here; there was
still
much work to be done on the Glomar _Discoverer,_ beginning with the
collation
of billions of bits of data from their passages over the Ramapo
Deep.
He
suspected much of that data would be pushed aside indefinitely now. Sand's
gravimeter
anomaly would be the key element. Somehow, that saddened him.
Braced
against the ascent of the high-speed elevator, he realized he had been
feeling
his age for the past week. Psychologically, he had been caught up in
the
national malaise that had followed Crockerman's announcement. He felt no
different
from the young people carrying their blank signs just across the
street.
What was there to protest? Apocalypse could not be repealed by the
democratic
process. Even now, the instrument of that destruction—or _an_
instrument—might
be lancing through the Earth's core.
The
Kemp object. _That_ attribution, he assured himself, would change shortly.
Sand-Samshow
object...Not a catchy name, but it would have to do. Yet...why?
Why
lay claim to the discovery of the bullet that might have _everyone's_ name
on
it?
The
elevator door opened and Samshow stepped out into a blare of noise. Oz
glittered,
silver and gray, glass-walled and high-ceilinged. Young people in
elegant
dress danced across the central floor, while drinkers and talkers sat
and
stood on the surrounding raised carpeted areas. The sweet smells of wine
and
Bourbon wafted from a passing waitress's tray.
Samshow
winced at the noise and glanced around, looking for Sand or Kemp. Sand
stood
in a corner waving to catch his eye.
Their
round table was barely a foot across, and five people were crowded
around
it: Kemp, Sand, two others he did not recognize, smiling as if they
were
old friends, and now himself. He shook hands as Sand introduced Jonathan
V.
Post, an acquaintance of Kemp's, dark and Levantine with a gray-shot curly
beard,
and Oscar Eglinton from the Nevada School of Mines. Post declaimed a
brief
and embarrassing poem on meeting the legendary Old Man of the Sea. When
he
was finished, he smiled broadly.
"Thank
you," Samshow said, not very impressed. The waitress came and Post
sacrificed
his own Corona that Samshow might have a drink sooner.
He
had once downed a case of Corona in two days while whale-watching at
Scammon's
Lagoon. That had been in 1952. Now more than one beer gave him
heartburn.
"We
have to fill you in, Walt," Sand said. "Kemp talked with
seismologists in
Brazil
and Morocco. One of them is here—Jesus Ochoa. We have the nodal traces.October
thirty-first. The disruptions and shock waves. There's been high surf
in
some very suspicious places, and seismic events like nobody's ever
seen..."
"Thirty-five
south, forty-two west," Kemp said, with the same smug grin he had
worn
a week ago in Hawaii.
"He
convinced me that was good enough evidence to talk to Washington. They
referred
me to Arthur Gordon—"
"The
President isn't interested, apparently," Kemp said, his grin vanishing.
"We
couldn't even talk to the new national security advisor, what's his
name..."
"Patterson,"
said the muscular, dark-tanned Eglinton.
"But
Gordon says he'll be here tonight to talk with us. There's going to be a
lot
to discuss. Post here has spoken to some physicists and space scientists.
Chris
Riley, Fred Hardin. Others. Asteroids are on their mind."
"You're
all convinced we've got something appropriate, a true extraterrestrial
bullet?"
"We
have more than that," Kemp said, leaning forward. Sand put a hand on his
arm,
and Kemp nodded, falling back into his seat. Sand leaned over to Samshow
as
if to explain something delicate.
"There
was a central Atlantic fireball sighted by a cargo ship four days ago.
Like
the previous object, as far as we can discover, _nobody_ picked it up on
radar
coming in. Similar phenomenon—deep-ocean splash, small storm, and
peculiar
seismic traces. This fireball was much brighter, though—blinding,
huge,
leaving a glowing tail behind it. Captain and crew were treated for
retinal
burns. The doctors treating them noticed hair loss and strange bruises
and
questioned them, and they admitted to having bloody stools. Everyone on
deck
is suffering from severe radiation exposure."
"Meteors
don't do that," Kemp said. "And then...we have records of another
seismic
event in the same area as the cargo ship. Burrowing," he added
triumphantly.
"Trace like a bomb explosion. And then…microseisms and deep P-
waves."
Samshow
raised his eyebrows. "And?"
"More
nodal traces," Sand said, "and even stronger microseismic
activity...This
was either a bigger object, more massive, or..."
"It's
different," Kemp said. "Don't ask me how."
"They're
talking about a Kemp object downstairs," Samshow said. "Far be it
from
me to worry about attribution—"
"We'll
straighten that out at the symposium tomorrow morning," Kemp said.
"Gordon
will attend, and everything we know will be laid before the
convention."
"And
the public?"
"Nobody's
told us to keep it secret," Sand said.
"There
are camera crews downstairs."
"We
can't hold this back," Kemp said.
"Can't
we wait until it's confirmed?"
"That
could be months," Sand said. "We may not have the time."
Samshow
frowned deeply. "Two things bother me," he said. "Besides this
god-
awful
noise. One." He held up a single finger. "How in hell can any of this
theorizing
do us any good? And two." A second finger. "Everybody here seems to
be
having such a _fine_ time."
Sand
glanced at the others. Post appeared suddenly crestfallen.
"The
gods are dancing on our grave," Samshow said, "and here we are, like
kids
in
a toy store."
35—
Reuben
Bordes stood by the screen door, staring out at the cold rain washing
the
streets of Warren, half smiling and half frowning. His lips moved slowly
to
some inner song, and his eyes longed for something far away."Close the
door, boy," his father demanded, standing in the hallway, dressed
in
ragged pajamas. "It's _cold_ outside."
"All
right, Pop." He swung the door closed and turned to watch his father
settle
into his easy chair. "Can I bring you anything?"
"I’ve
eaten lunch, and I’ve had my nap, and I’ve been a lazy s.o.b. all day.
Why
should you bring me anything?" His father looked at him through rheumy,
exhausted
eyes. He was still crying at night, still sleeping with his arms
wrapped
around a pillow. Reuben had seen him in the morning, fast asleep, his
face
wreathed in empty bliss, his dead wife’s thick feather pillow clutched
firmly
to him under the scattered blankets.
"Just
asking," Reuben said.
_"I’d
invite them to meet my mum. My mother."_
_But
she's dead._
"You
could turn on the tube."
"What
channel?" Reuben asked, kneeling before the television.
"Find
me that show where everybody argues about the news. Take my mind away."
Reuben
found the Worldwide News Network and waddled back, still crouched,
hands
dangling between his knees.
"You
know, you don't have to hang around to keep me happy," his father said.
"I'm
working out Bea's death. I'm getting it straight in my head. I'll live."
Reuben
smiled over his shoulder. "Where would I go?" he asked. But he knew
he'd
be leaving soon. There were necessary things to do. He had to carry what
was
in his coat pocket; he had to find the person that something was for. He
had
been given memories of a voice, a distinct English accent, but little
more.
He
leaned back against his father's knees and listened as the hosts of
_Freefire_
squared off against each other, bristling even as they announced
their
guest. The young liberal's stiffly formal visage seemed to soften.
"He's
acted as advisor to the President on the Death Valley spaceship, and
he's
well known in scientific and journalistic circles. He's had over forty
books
published, including his recent prophetic novel, _Starhome,_ a
scientific
romance about first contact. His name is Trevor Hicks, and he's a
native
of Great Britain."
"Citizen
of the world, anymore, actually," Hicks said.
Reuben
stiffened.
Voice.
_I'd
take them home to meet my mum. My mother._
"That's
him," he said.
"Who?"
Reuben
shook his head. "Where is he?"
"They're
in Washington, like always," his father said.
"—Mr.
Hicks, are we to understand that it was you who first advised President
Crockerman
to reason with these invaders?" the eager-faced conservative asked.
"Not
at all," Hicks said.
Reuben's
brow furrowed with the intensity of his concentration. _That's the
one.
He's Trevor Hicks. His name, his voice._
"Then
what did you tell the President?"
"Gentlemen,
the President would not have listened to me no matter what I said.
He
hoped for a sympathetic ear, and I tried to provide that, but I am as
adamantly
opposed to his policy regarding the spacecraft as I imagine you are,
Mr....Mr...."
"What
_do_ you recommend we do with the spacecraft? Should we destroy it?"
"I
doubt that we could, actually."
"So
you _do_ hold defeatist views—"
Reuben
trembled with excitement. _Washington, D.C._
He
had enough money saved to go there. Big town, though. Where would Trevor
Hicks
be in Washington, D.C.?He listened closely, hoping to pick up clues. By the end
of the show, he had a
fair
idea where to begin.
The
next morning, at dawn, Reuben stood in the door to his parents', his
father's,
bedroom. His father stared at him from the bed, blinking at the
orange
hall light behind his son's silhouette.
"I've
got to leave now, Pop."
"So
sudden?"
Reuben
nodded. "It's important."
"Got
a job?"
Reuben
hesitated, then nodded again.
"You'll
call?"
"Of
course I'll call," Reuben said.
"You're
my son, your momma's son, always. You remember that. Make us proud."
"Yes,
sir." Reuben went to the bed and hugged his father and was surprised
again
at how light and frail he seemed. Years past, his father had loomed a
muscled
giant in Reuben's eyes.
"Good
luck," his father said.
Reuben
pulled the overcoat around him and stepped out into the early morning
frost,
his boots crunching and slipping on the glazed steps. In one deep side
pocket,
the metal spider lay curled tight as an untried puzzle. In the other
jingled
two hundred dollars in change and bills.
"Good-bye,
Momma," he whispered at the locked door.
36—
The
afternoon had been tiring and the early evening showed signs of being even
more
strenuous. Samshow had already attended the public presentation of two
papers
in rooms filled half with geologists and half with TV correspondents
and
camera crews, ever hopeful of finding new revelations. What they got for
the
most part were technical presentations on resources discovery, migration
of
metallic ores in deep crust, and discussions of pinpointing Middle Eastern
underground
nuclear tests.
Samshow
had left the last presentation and wandered into the spacious white-
tiled
men's rest room of the St. Francis.
He
glanced up at his image in the mirror. Two young men in business suits,
hair
trimmed short, faces shaved so clean they might have been beardless
adolescents,
took positions at the urinals.
"This
oxygen reading bothers the hell out of me," said one.
"Not
just you," said the other.
"There's
no place for it to come from. Increase by one percent." He shook his
head
as he zipped up. "More of that, and we'll all be drunk."
He
rejoined Kemp and Post and they walked to the elevator, squeezing in beside
four
bewildered elderly tourists and two middle-aged geologists dressed in
jeans
and old sweaters. Arthur Gordon had arrived too late on Saturday to
attend
their first scheduled meeting. He had invited them to come to his room
at
seven, to talk and perhaps join him for late dinner after.
The
hotel room was small. Post and Kemp sat on the bed, leaving the two guest
chairs
for Samshow and Gordon. Arthur shook Samshow's hand firmly and offered
ice
water. As he poured the glass in the bathroom, he asked, "Is there any
consensus
on this object supposed to be burrowing through the crust?"
He
returned and handed Samshow the glass.
"None,"
Post said. Samshow agreed with a small nod.
"Maybe
there's no consensus, but nobody doubts that something's there," Kemp
said.
"Are
you convinced your meteor sighting and the seismic traces are connected?"
Arthur
asked Samshow.
"I
suppose I am," Samshow replied. "The South American traces we
predicted did
occur.""And
the object is still making noise."
"I
talked with my company stations in Manila and Adak this morning," Kemp
said.
"Still grumbling like an old bear."
"Are
the sounds weakening at all?"
"We
think so. Our measurements aren't so precise we can be sure at the
moment."
Post
removed an electronic notepad from his pocket. "That's probably
deceleration
because of drag."
"And
the second object...?" Arthur prodded.
Somebody
knocked at the door. "That's Sand, probably," Samshow said. Post got
up
to open the door.
Sand
came in clutching a thick bunch of computer printouts. "Naval Ocean
Systems
just came through. I pulled these off the conference printer after
setting
up a data link." He spread the sheets out on the table. "There's half
a
dozen folks downstairs who can't wait to look these over, but since Mr.
Gordon
made the arrangements, I thought he should be the first. I've also got
more
on the oxygen figures, and Coomaraswami in Sri Lanka has distributed a
paper
on..." He pulled a stack of copies from his briefcase and handed them
around
the room. "On reduction of mean sea levels."
"Jesus,"
Samshow said. He took a copy and scanned it quickly. "Jesus H.
Christ."
Arthur
hefted the printout and pursed his lips. "What about the second
object?"
he asked again.
"Actually,
that's shown..." Sand stood beside his chair and riffled through
the
sheets. "Right here. Wave analysis of the microseisms. There are two
objects,
orbiting around the center of the Earth—within the mantle and the
inner
and outer cores. They are slowing down at the rate of about one percent
a
day..._and,_" Sand said, almost triumphantly, "the supercomputers at
UCSD
have
duplicated the effects using several different models. The best model
requires
an object less than a few centimeters wide, very long—hundreds of
meters
long—traveling at between two and three kilometers a second."
"What
in _hell_ would do that?" Samshow asked.
Nobody
answered.
"Eventually,
because of drag the objects will settle down at the center, right
next
to each other, right?" Arthur asked.
"Inevitably,"
Sand said.
Samshow
finished his glass of water and set it on the table. He held a cube of
ice
in his mouth, bouncing it back and forth from the hollow of one cheek to
the
other with his tongue. "Would the President understand this, Mr.
Gordon?"
he
asked.
"_I_
don't understand it," Arthur replied.
"Two
objects," Samshow said, "orbiting inside the Earth, missing each
other, I
presume,
their harmonic motions being damped until they meet at the center.
What
does that remind you fellows of?"
Kemp
didn't answer. Sand shrugged. Post's expression was one of extreme
puzzlement,
then slow enlightenment. "A fuse," he said. "It's like a timer.
Is
that
what you're thinking?"
"I
don't know what I'm thinking. We're all running around so fast, we're bound
to
fall flat on our butts...But yes, I suppose, a fuse or a bomb comes to
mind."
"A
timer powered by gravity," Post mused. "That's elegant."
"So
what happens when they meet?" Kemp asked. "You might get one black
hole.
Nothing
more exciting about one black hole, compared with two..."
"If
they are black holes. The computer analysis says they can't be. They're
drawn
out now, elongated like worms, and the second one is different," Sand
said.
"Look at its traces. High radiation in the atmosphere. It's making more
noise
than the first. And remember the sighting—it sparked like a sonofabitchwhen it
came through the air. Walt? How did you describe the first?"
"Two
long, bright flares at first. Then small, much less bright."
Post's
hand worked restlessly with his shirt collar. "Hell, it could be a
plain
old meteor, too," Arthur said. "Meteors spark. Would an amateur know
the
difference?"
"But
what about the radiation? Every guess we make, we go out on a limb," Sand
said.
"No
kidding," Post chuckled.
Samshow
leaned forward. "But let's assume the second one was a more
spectacular
fall. Bigger object?"
"The
traces could indicate a slightly bigger object. Or...explosive
disturbances
along its path?" Sand suggested.
Arthur
listened, amused by the creative confusion. "What would release
radiation?"
"Small
black holes might," Post said. "But they'd be considerably smaller in
cross
section than a few centimeters, if they massed in at only a hundred
million
tons. I don't think they'd make much of a show at all. And if they're
putting
out gamma rays at a high enough level to irradiate sailors dozens of
kilometers
away..." His face fell. "They're not going to last very long.
Besides,
they can't be black holes, remember?"
"What
do you mean, about them not lasting very long?" Samshow asked.
Post
made a frustrated face. "They're not black holes. We can be pretty sure
of
that. But, all right, black holes put out radiation all the time. When
they're
big, they're colder than the universe around them, but they're not at
absolute
zero...Still, the effect is a net intake of energy. But after tens of
billions
of years, or if they were created small to begin with, they become
much
hotter, and lose their mass much more rapidly, percentage-wise. When they
drop
down to about ten thousand tons of mass, they explode all at once—ten
thousand
tons of pure energy." He worked quickly on his calculator. "Not
enough
to cause much damage if they're deep inside the Earth, actually."
"But
what we have is a hundred _million_ tons," Sand said. "Or maybe twice
that,
if we count the second object."
"I
was getting to that," Post said, holding up a hand. "The worst case
is that
the
black hole, or holes, could suck up mass inside the Earth, grow, and
eventually
suck up all of the Earth."
The
group looked at each other, wondering how much they were willing to
believe,
how far out they might be willing to go.
"That
wouldn't make sense if the aliens had any intention of using the Earth's
raw
material to make more spaceships," Post said.
"What
about something else, something we know nothing about?" Arthur
persisted.
Samshow
laughed. "You're saying we know anything about black holes?"
More
silence.
"Maybe
it's trivial," Samshow finally said. "But I'd like to discuss this
oxygen
increase and decrease in mean sea level...what are the figures?"
"Oxygen
level up one percent, mean sea level decreased by one centimeter. What
if
they're related?"
"I'm
sure we've all been thinking about that," Arthur said. "Something
might
be
dissociating seawater into hydrogen and oxygen, on a huge scale."
"So?"
Sand prompted. "Where's the hydrogen?"
"I
haven't the slightest idea," Samshow said. "Just thought I'd mention
it."
Post's
frown intensified. "Very interesting," he said.
"Has
anybody got any _good_ news?" Arthur asked. "Something to cheer us up
before
we go to dinner?"
Nobody
did.
37—November
24
On
a rare, dangerous but necessary outing to the town, Edward sat in the cafe,
a
plate with the remnants of a large hamburger and fries pushed to one side,
and
looked over the papers sent by his department head in Austin. Chits for
release
of back pay, amended W-2 forms, suggested teaching schedules for the
next
semester. A liability waiver from the school's attorneys, asking that the
school
be released from whatever slight responsibilityit might have had for
their
being in Death Valley. The implication was, of course, that signing all
these
papers— especially the last—would mean his reinstatement and the
resumption
of his career.
Minelli
entered the caf6 and sat down quietly beside him. "You going to
sign?"
"I
don't see why not," Edward said. "You?"
"Sure.
Back to normal." He grinned wanly and lifted a thumb, then looked at
the
thumb intently. "Hitchhiking back into life. The old school's acting as if
they're
afraid of us."
The
waitress, young and plump and bright-faced, came out of the kitchen with a
keypad.
"You want to order something?" she asked.
"How's
the meat loaf?" Minelli asked.
The
waitress lifted her eyes heavenward. "Not recommended," she said.
"We
don't
have any, actually."
"Nah,
nothing for me."
"Anything
else?" she asked Shaw. He declined. She issued a printed bill from
the
front of the keypad and he handed her his charge card.
"We
should cut our book deals soon," Minelli said.
"There
haven't been any offers," Edward reminded him.
"They're..."
Minelli seemed to lose his train of thought. "Reslaw thinks we're
just
lying too low to get any offers. We should talk to that Air Force
attorney,
or maybe to Mrs. Morgan's lawyer."
"You
really want to write a book now?" Edward asked softly. "Go back over
all
we've
been through, when _nobody_ really knows what's going on yet?"
"You
mean, why try anything until it's all over..."
Edward
nodded. "We can stay here for another couple of days, spend some time
out
in the desert—"
"Away
from Death Valley."
"Right.
And then get back to Austin and hope the reporters have forgotten
about
us."
"Fat
chance," Minelli said.
Reslaw
came into the cafe and slid into the seat beside Minelli. He withdrew a
folded
New York _Times_ from under his arm and spread it in a clear space on
the
table. The headline read:
MYSTERY
OBJECT MOVING WITHIN EARTH
"That's
where we should be," Reslaw said, pointing to the picture of a meeting
room
in the St. Francis Hotel. "Talking to these people." There were
pictures
of
Kemp, Sand, and Samshow on the next page.
"What
could we tell them?" Edward asked. "What do we know that they
don't?"
Reslaw
shrugged. "At least we'd be doing something useful."
"If
they wanted to talk to us, they'd let us know."
"The
President came to talk to us," Minelli said. "Look what he's done.
We're
a
jinx. Did you ever think perhaps the alien put something in all of our
minds...?"
He made a vague gesture toward his temple, eyes wide. "Something
that
makes us stupid and weak? Maybe it's making the President say things he
doesn't
mean."
Edward
looked at Reslaw. "Anything in your head?"
"Not
that I can feel."
"It's
not impossible," Minelli said.
"No,"
Edward admitted, "but it's paranoid as hell, and that's the last thing
we
need, more fear."Minelli turned the paper around to face him and read the
article quietly.
"Stella
says there have been more people on the highway, stopping at the
motel,
the trailer park," Reslaw said. "Most are going out to the cinder
cone."
He bit off an ironic laugh and shook his head. "I remember an old
'Peanuts'
cartoon with Snoopy. The end of the world is coming, so let's hide
under
a sheet. With eyeholes cut out." He made circles around his eyes with
his
fingers and peered at Edward.
"Stop
it," Minelli said pleasantly. "You're acting like me. Only one crazy
fellow
allowed in this group."
"What
gives you privileges?" Reslaw asked, equally pleasant.
"Weak
character. It's on my resume." Minelli handed the paper to Edward.
"This
is
really going to send them into a tailspin. They call it the smoking gun,
whatever
the hell it is. We've already been shot in the head, maybe, and we
just
haven't died yet."
"You
do have a way with words," Reslaw said, staring at the palm of one hand.
The
waitress approached and he ordered a milkshake and a hamburger.
Edward
finished the article and stood, dropping his tip on the table. "If
everybody's
going to be camping on the desert, there's no sense our looking
for
solitude. We should clear out of here and get back to Austin and leave
these
good people alone."
"Makes
sense to me," Minelli said.
"What
about your book deals?" Reslaw asked.
"Fuck
fame and fortune. Who'd have time to spend the money?"
Stella
had invited Edward to join her on a horseback ride that afternoon. They
loaded
four bales of alfalfa into the Morgan Company jeep and drove to a run-
down
corral a mile outside town. Three horses—a roan, a chestnut quarter
horse,
and a small, energetic pinto-stood with ears attentive in the middle of
a
broad pasture.
"I
haven't had time to ride for months," Stella said, lifting a bale from the
back
of the Jeep and hefting it to a half-demolished feed pen within the
fence.
All three horses approached warily, tails swishing. "They're half wild
by
now." She smiled at him, flicking straw from the sleeves of her Pendleton.
"Up
to a challenge?"
"I'm
an amateur. I haven't ridden in years."
The
horses gathered to snuffle at the alfalfa, then settled in to feed. Stella
hugged
the pinto's neck and it regarded her with a wild pale eye, though not
resisting
her caress. "This is Star. Used to be my horse all the time. When I
came
back from school, I'd ride her all over the desert, out to the opal beds
and
down to the Indian digs, across the dry creek beds. We had a good old
time,
didn't we?"
Star
munched.
"You
should ride the chestnut gelding, that's Midge," she suggested.
"Midge is
even-tempered.
Get acquainted."
Edward
approached the chestnut and stroked its neck and mane, murmuring "Good
horse,
nice friendly horse."
After
a few minutes of reacquainting the horses with human company, Stella
brought
two blankets and saddles from the Jeep, Star accepted the blanket
skittishly,
Midge with resignation.
"I'll
get on them both first," Stella said. "Try them out and get them used
to
riders."
She adjusted the cinch on Star and mounted easily. The pinto backed
away
from the alfalfa and paced around the feed pen nervously, then stood
still
and hoofed the soft dirt and old straw in a corner. Stella dismounted
and
approached Midge. Edward backed away.
She
mounted Midge just as gracefully. Midge bucked from the feed and reared,
throwing
Stella on her back in the dirt. Edward yelled and grabbed the reins
and
kept his feet clear of the prancing hooves. When he had guided the horse
away,
he sidled it into a corner and went to help Stella to her feet."I'm fine.
Just embarrassed." She brushed her jeans with quick, disgusted
strokes.
"Gentle,
hm?" Edward asked.
"He's
your horse, obviously."
"I'll
try to convince him of that."
A
few minutes later, Midge accepted Edward's weight without protest, and
Stella
rode the pinto beside them. They rode to the far end of the corral and
she
dismounted to lift the wire loop on a sun-bleached gate.
Shoshone,
like most of the desert resorts in the area, sat on a thermal hot
spring
that poured hundreds of gallons of water a minute out across the
desert,
and had done so, without letup, for decades. The runoff formed a creek
that
meandered under California 127, borax pans covered with grass and scrub,
throwing
up thick fringes of cattails along its banks.
They
rode across the creek and into the dry desert beyond, coming finally to a
borax-topped
decline. With some prodding, the horses slid down the decline.
They
rode in shadow through the Death Valley sage of a quiet gully, glancing
at
each other and smiling but saying nothing.
The
gully spread out onto a broad plain and the sage gave way to hummocky
yellow
salt grass. Part of an old narrow-gauge mining railway ran to their
left,
rails rusting on a long embankment of cinders and gray dirt. Birds
called
out in the stillness and a thick rat snake slid its meter length
through
the scrub.
"All
right," Stella said, reining her horse up short and facing him. "I'm
just
about
cured. How about you?"
Edward
nodded. "This sure helps."
She
sidled the pinto closer to him and patted its shoulder. "I've lived here
all
my life, with a few years at school and traveling. Europe. Africa. Peace
Corps.
My mother and sister and I have done everything we could to keep the
town
together after my father died. It's become my life. Sometimes it's an
awful
responsibility—you wouldn't think that, would you, since it's so small?
But
it weighs on me. Mother takes it in her stride."
"She's
a wonder," Edward said.
Stella
leaned her head to one side, looking sadly at the gravel. "You know, I
said
I was a radical. It was my sister who was the real radical. She went to
Cuba.
She has a complete set of Lenin and Marx on her bookshelves. She loves
Shoshone
as much as I do, but she had to leave. We think shers in Angola.
Lord,
what a place to be now. Me, I'm just a capitalist like all the rest."
"Hard
on your mother, I guess."
"Who,
me or my sister?" Stella smiled.
"I
meant your sister. I suppose both of you."
"What
about your family?"
"None
to speak of. My father vanished more than twenty years ago, and my
mother
lives in Austin. We don't see much of each other."
"And
your connections at the university?"
"I'm
not sure I'll stay there, now."
"No
long-term plans?"
Edward
brushed at a buzzing horsefly and watched it veer across the hummocks
until
it vanished. "I don't see why."
"Mother
and I have been making plans for selling mineral rights. We'll redo
the
town's sewage line with a government loan, but this extra money—that could
keep
the town going for years, even if the tourists keep flocking over to
Tecopa."
"The
big resort."
She
nodded. "What a disaster for us all. Tecopa used to be a bunch of shacks
built
over hot springs. Rowdy. Now it's plush. The desert is like that."
"It's
beautiful here. Something big could happen to Shoshone."
"Yes,
but would we want it to?" She shook her head dubiously. "I'd like
tokeep it the way it was when I was a girl, but I know that's not practical.
The
way
it was when Father was alive. It seemed so permanent then. I could always
come
back." She shook her head slowly, looking out across the grass to a lava-
covered
hill beyond. "What I'm getting around to saying is, we could use a
geologist
here. In Shoshone. To help us work out the mineral rights and figure
out
what we have, exactly."
"That
would be nice," Edward agreed.
"You'll
think it over?"
"Your
tourist business should be real good for the next few months," he said.
Stella
made a face. "We're just getting the freaks now. Religious nuts. All
going
out to the cinder cone. Who needs them? Everybody else is going to stay
at
home and wait it out. Do you think it's all going to go away?"
"I
don't know." But he did know, in his gut. "That's not true, actually.
I
think
it's all over."
"The
things inside the Earth?"
"Maybe.
Maybe something we don't even know about."
"It
makes me so goddamned mad," Stella said, her voice breaking.
"Helpless."
"Yeah."
"But
I'm going to keep on planning. Maybe the whole deal will fall through.
The
commodities markets are going crazy. Maybe nobody will want to buy mineral
rights
now. But we have to keep working."
"I
don't think I can stay," he said. "It sounds wonderful, but..."
Her
eyes narrowed. "Restless?"
"I
don't think I can really have a home now. Not even here, nice as this is."
"Where
will you go?"
"I'll
travel. Probably break away from Reslaw and Minelli. Go out on my own."
'Sometimes
I wish I could do that," she said wistfully. But my roots are too
deep
here. I'm not enough like my sister. And I have to stay with Mother."
"There
was a place," Edward said, "where my father took my mother and me
before
he ran away. My last summer with him, and the best summer I've ever
had.
I haven't been back since. I didn't want to be disappointed. I wondered
if
it would have changed...For the worse."
"Where
was that?"
"Yosemite,"
he said.
"It's
beautiful there."
"You've
been there recently?"
"Last
summer, driving through on the way to the wine country. It was really
lovely,
even with all the people. Without crowds, it would be wonderful."
"Maybe
I'll go there. Live on my back salary. I've dreamed about it, you know.
Those
peculiar dreams where I go back and it's completely different, but still
something
special. I think to myself, after all those years of just dreaming
about
being there, I'm finally back. And then I wake up...and it's a dream."
Stella
reached out to touch his arm. "If...it works out, you can come back
here
after."
"Thank
you," Edward said. "That would be nice. My teaching position will
certainly
be closed by that time. I can't expect them to wait forever."
"Let's
strike a deal," Stella said. "Next summer, you come back here and
help
Mother
and me. After you go to Yosemite, and after the world gets its act
together."
"All
right," Edward said, smiling. He reached out and touched her arm, and
then
leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. "It's a deal."
PERSPECTIVE
_Compunews
Network, November 29, 1996, Frederick Hart reporting:_
Here
in the winter desert, only a few miles from Death Valley proper, it gets
bitterly
cold at night, and thousands of campfires light up the grass and sand
around
the government-declared National Security Site. In the middle of thesite,
rising against the clouds of stars like a great black hump, is the so-
called
Bogey, the imitation extinct volcano that has burrowed into the
national
imagination as the Kemp objects have burrowed into the Earth' s core,
and
into our nightmares. People have come here from around the world, kept
back
a mile from the site by barbed wire and razor-wire barricades. They seem
to
have come to worship, or to just sit quietly under the warm desert sun and
stare.
What does it mean to them, to us? Should they wish to storm the site,
will
the Army be able to keep them back?
Among
their numbers are approximately ten thousand Forge of Godders, with
their
various prophets and religious guides. The American branch of this cult
has
arisen in just three weeks, sown in the fertile religious ground of the
American
South and West by the President's blunt, uncompromising words. I have
spoken
with these people, and they share the President' s convictions. Most
are
fundamentalist Christians, seeing this as the Apocalypse predicted in the
Bible.
But many come from other faiths, other religions, around the world.
They
say they will stay here until the end. As one cultist told me, "This is
the
center. This is where it's at. Forget Australia. The End of the World
begins
right here, in Death Valley."
38—
December
1
Lieutenant
Colonel Rogers, in mufti of hunter's cap and bush jacket and
denims,
hands in jacket pockets, stood at the edge of the Furnace Creek
airstrip.
A sleek eight-passenger private LearFan Special coasted to a stop
twenty
yards beyond, its two in-line props swishing the air with a diminishing
chop-chop-chop.
The plane's landing lights were extinguished and its side door
opened.
Two passengers—a man and a woman—stepped down almost immediately,
peering
around in the darkness, then approached Rogers.
"The
President refuses to see any of us," said the man. Dressed in a recently
donned
and still disarrayed overcoat, black suit, and a silk shirt, he was
very
portly, late middle-aged, and completely bald. The woman was slender, in
her
forties, with large attractive eyes, a narrow jaw, and full lips. She,
too,
wore an overcoat and beneath that a dark pants suit.
"What
does your group plan now?" the woman asked.
Rogers
rubbed his jaw reflectively. "My group...hasn't fixed its plans yet,"
he
said. "We're not used to this kind of activity."
"Congress
and the committees are really on Crockerman's tail. They may bring
him
down," the man said. "We still haven't gotten McClennan and
Rotterjack to
join
us. Loyalists to the last." The bulky bald man curled his lip. Loyalty
beyond
pragmatism was not something he understood. "Even so, it may be too
late.
Have you talked to the task force?"
"We're
going to keep them out of this, as much as possible," Rogers said. "I
talked
to Gordon, and he even broached this sort of plan to me, but we don't
know
which of them might have supported his decision covertly."
"Do
you have the sleeping bag?" the woman asked.
"No,
ma'am."
"Do
you know where you'll get it, if the time comes? Oak Ridge is in my
district..."
"We
will not get it from civilian sources," Rogers said.
"What
about the codes, the complications, the authorization you'll need...the
chain
of command?" the woman persisted.
"That's
on our end. We'll take care of it. If the time comes."
"They
have the smoking gun, goddammit," the man said. "We've already been
shot."
"Yes,
sir. I read the papers."
"The
admiral should know," the man said, with the air of drawing their
conversation
to a conclusion," that our group can do no more in a reasonableperiod of
time. If we do bring the President to ground, it will take months.
We
can't stop or delay the swearing in. The recommendation from the House
Judiciary
Committee will take weeks. The trial could drag on for half a year
beyond
that. He's going to hold out for at least that long. That puts the ball
in
your court."
Rogers
nodded.
"Do
you know when you'll act?" the woman asked.
"We
don't even know if we can, or whether we will if we can. It's all up in
the
air."
"Decisions
have to be made soon," she reiterated. "Everybody's too
upset...this
is too extraordinary a conclave for it to stay secret long."
Rogers
agreed. The two returned to their LearFan Special and the plane's
counterrotating
props began to spin again, with eerie softness. Rogers
returned
to his truck and drove away from the airport as the plane whined into
the
blackness and silence of the overcast night.
Around
the bogus cinder cone, for a distance of several hundred yards,
soldiers
patrolled well-lighted squares of the desert in Jeeps and on foot.
Beyond
the patrols and the fences, a mile from the object of their interest,
the
civilians gathered in trucks and vans and motor homes. Even this late,
almost
into the morning, campfires burned in the middle of wide circles of
mesmerized
watchers. Raucous laughter in one area was countered by gospel
singing
in another. Rogers, maneuvering his truck down the fenced approach
corridor
to the site, wondered if they would ever sleep.
39—
December
15
Two
o'clock in the morning, the phone beside their bed rang, and Arthur came
awake
immediately, leaning forward to pick up the receiver. It was Ithaca
Feinman.
She was calling from a hospital in Los Angeles.
"He's
going fast," she said softly.
"So
soon?"
"I
know. He says he's fighting, but..."
"I'll
leave..." He looked at his watch. "This morning. I can be down there
by
eight
or nine, maybe earlier."
"He
says he's sorry, but he wants you here," Ithaca said.
"I'm
on my way."
He
hung up and wandered into the living room to look for Francine, who said
she
had not been asleep, but had been sitting on the living room couch with
Gauge's
head in her lap, worrying about something, she wasn't sure what.
"Harry's
going, or at least Ithaca thinks so."
"Oh,
God," Francine said. "You're flying down there?"
"Yes."
She
swallowed hard. "Go see him. Say...Say goodbye for me if he's really...Oh,
Arthur."
Her voice was a trembling whisper. "This is an awful time, isn't it?"
He
was nearly in tears. "We'll make it through," he said.
As
Francine folded some shirts and pants for him, he slipped his toiletries
into
a suitcase and called the airport to book a flight for six-thirty. For a
few
seconds, dithering in the yellow light of the bedside lamp, he tried to
gather
his wits, remember if he had left anything behind, if there was anybody
else
he should notify.
Francine
drove him to the airport. "Come back soon," she said, then, realizing
the
double implication, she shook her head. "Our love to Ithaca and Harry.
I'll
miss you."
They
hugged, and she drove off to get Marty ready for school.
At
this hour, the airport was almost deserted. Arthur sat in the sterile black
and
gray waiting area near his gate, reading a discarded newspaper. He glanced
at
his watch, and then looked up to see a thin, nervous-looking woman, hardlymore
than a girl, standing a few feet away, staring at him. "I hope you don't
mind,"
she said.
"Beg
pardon?"
"I
followed you from your house. You're Arthur Gordon, aren't you?"
Arthur
narrowed his eyes, puzzled. He didn't answer.
"I
know you are. I've been watching your house. I know that sounds terrible,
but
I have. There's something I have to give you. It's very important." She
opened
the shopping bag and took out a cardboard box large enough to hold a
baseball.
"Please don't be alarmed. It's not a bomb or anything. I showed it
to
the airport security people. They think it's a toy, a Japanese toy for my
cousin.
But it's for you." She held out the box.
Arthur
looked her over carefully, then said,
"Open
it for me, please." He seemed to be operating on some automatic program,
cautious
and calm at once. He hadn't given much thought to assassination
attempts
before, but he could be a likely target for Forge of Godders or
anybody
tipped over the edge by the news of the last few weeks.
"All
right." She opened the box and removed an ovoid object, steel or silver,
brightly
polished. She held it out to him. "Please. It's important."
With
some reluctance—it _did_ resemble a toy more than anything sinister—he
took
the object. Quickly, it unfolded its legs, gripped his palm, and before
he
could react, nipped him on the fleshy part of the thumb. He stood up and
tried
to fling it away, swearing, but it would not let go. Warmth spread
quickly
up his arm and he sat down again, face pale, lips drawn back. The
young
woman retreated, shaking her head and crying. "It's important," she
said.
"It really is."
"All
right," Arthur said, more calm on the exterior than deep in his mind. The
spider
crawled into his suit coat, cut through the fabric of his shirt, and
nipped
him again on the abdomen.
The
woman walked off quickly. He paid her little attention.
By
boarding time, he was beginning to receive information, slowly at first. On
the
aircraft, as he pretended to nap, the information became more detailed,
and
his fear subsided.
40—
Hicks
had stayed in Washington, hoping with a kind of desperate hope that
there
was still something he could do. The White House did not summon him.
Beyond
the occasional television interviews, fewer and fewer since the fiasco
on
_Freefire_, he was woefully unoccupied. His book had sold in a fresh spurt
the
past few weeks, but he had refused to discuss it with anybody. His
publishers
had given up on him.
He
took long, cold walks in the snow, ranging a mile or more from the hotel in
the
gray midafternoons. The government was still paying his expenses; he was
still
ostensibly part of the task force, although nobody on the task force had
talked
with him since the President's speech. Even after the extensive reports
of
explosions in the asteroids, he had been approached only by the press.
When
he was not out walking, he sat in his room, dressed in an oatmeal-colored
suit,
his overcoat and rubbers laid out on the bed and the floor, staring at
his
image in the mirror above the desk. His eye tracked down slowly to the
computer
on the desktop, then to the blank television screen. He had never
felt
so useless, so _between_, in his life.
The
phone rang, He stood and picked up the receiver. "Hello."
"Is
this Mr. Trevor Hicks?" a young male voice asked.
"Yes."
"My
name is Reuben Bordes. You don't know me, but I've got a reason to see
you."
"Why?
Who are you, Mr. Bordes?"
"I'm
just a kid, actually, but my reason is good. I mean, I'm not dumb orcrazy. I'm
in the bus station right now." The youth chuckled. "I went to a lot
of
trouble to find you. I went to the library and learned your publisher, and
I
called them, but they couldn't give your address...you know."
"Yes."
"So
I called them back a couple of days later, I couldn't think of anything
else
to do, and said I was with the local television station, and we wanted to
interview
you. They wouldn't give me your address even then. So I figured you
might
be staying in hotels, and I started calling hotels. I've been doing that
all
day. I think I got lucky."
"Why
do you need to talk to me?"
"I'm
not a nut, Mr. Hicks. But I've had some odd things happen to me in the
last
week. I've got some information. I know somebody...well, who wants to get
in
touch with you,"
The
lines in Hicks's face deepened. "I don't think it's worth the bother, do
you?"
He started to put the phone down.
"Mr.
Hicks, wait. Please listen and don't hang up just yet. This is important.
I'd
have to come out to the hotel and find you if you hung up."
_Oh,
Christ_, Hicks thought.
"I'm
being told something now, something important." The youth didn't speak
for
a few seconds. "All right. I got it now. The asteroids. There's a battle,
there
was a battle going on out there. There's this place called Europa, it's
a
moon but not our own, isn't it? That wasn't a battle. We have friends
coming.
They needed the...what was it, water under the ice in Europa? For
power.
And the rock way under the water and ice. To make more...things. Not
like
the machines in Australia and Death Valley. Do you understand?"
"No,"
Hicks said. A spark went off in his head. Something intuited. The boy's
accent
was urban, middle-western bland. His voice was resonant and he sounded
convinced
and rational, words crisp. "You could be a complete nut, whoever you
are,"
Hicks said.
"You
said you'd take them home to meet your mom. Your mother. They heard you
out
around Europa. When they were building. Now they're here. I found one
dissecting
a mouse, Mr. Hicks. Learning all about it. I think they want to
help,
but I'm very confused. They haven't hurt me."
Hicks
remembered: he had made that statement in California, on a local radio
show.
It would have been very difficult for a midwestern teenager to have
heard
it.
There
was something earnest and truly awed and frightened in the young man's
voice.
Hicks glanced at the ceiling, licking his lips, realizing he had
already
made his decision.
He
had always been something of a romantic. To stay in journalism so long, one
had
to secretly believe in events full of drama and significance, key moments,
points
of turnaround in history. He was beginning to shake with excitement.
_Instincts
conflicting—reporter's instincts, survival instincts._
"Can
you come out to the hotel?" he asked.
"Yeah,
I can take a cab."
"I’ll
meet you in the lobby. I’d rather be careful, you know. I’ll be in the
middle
of lots of people." He hoped the lobby was crowded. "How will I know
you?"
"I’m
tall, like a basketball player. I’m black. I’ll be in an old green army
coat."
"All
right," Hicks said. "In an hour?"
"I’ll
be there."
PERSPECTIVE
KNBC
man-in-the-street interview, December 15, 1996, conducted at the gate to
the
Universal Studios tour
"Earthbase 2500" attraction_: Anchor: We’re
asking
people what they think about the President’s proclamation. Middle-agedMan
(_Laughs_): I don’t know...I can’t make heads or tails, can you? (_Cut
away_)
Anchor:
Excuse me, we’re asking people what they think about the President’s
statement
that the Earth is going to be destroyed. Young Woman: He’s crazy,
and
they should get him out of office. There aren’t any such things as what
he’
s talking about. Anchor: Standing here, in the shadow of a giant invading
spacecraft,
its weapons aimed at the crowd, how can you be so sure? Young
Woman:
Because I’m educated, dammit. He’ s crazy and he shouldn’t be in
office,
Anchor (_Moving on to an adolescent boy_): Excuse me. What do you
think
of the President’ s statement that aliens have landed and are intent on
destroying
the Earth? Adolescent Boy: It scares me. Anchor: Is that all?
Adolescent
Boy: Isn’t that enough?
41—
What
Arthur saw, in the bed, was already a ghost: thin wrinkled arms pale on
the
counterpane, face blotched, pale translucent green oxygen tube going to
his
nose, drugs seeping into his arm controlled by a small blue box with a
flat-screen
readout.
His
oldest and dearest friend had become ancient, shrunken. Even Harry’s eyes
were
dull, and the grip of his hot hand was weak.
A
curtain had been stretched between Harry’s bed and the room’s other
occupant,
a heart patient who slept all during Arthur’s visit.
Ithaca
sat in a chair at Harry’s right, face tightly controlled but eyes
rimmed
in sleepless red, hair drawn into a bun. She wore a white blouse and
skirt
with a reddish-brown sweater. She would never wear black, Arthur knew;
not
even to Harry’s funeral.
"Glad
you could come," Harry said hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper.
"I
didn’t think it would be so soon," Arthur said.
"Magic
bullets missed their target." He gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders.
"Status
report: I’d cash in, but who stole my bag of chips?"
Simply
talking tired Harry now. He closed his eyes and let go of Arthur’s
hand,
withdrawing his slowly until it dropped to the sheet. "Tell me what’s
going
on in the real world. Any hope?"
Arthur
spoke of the conference and the objects within the Earth.
Harry
listened intently. "Ithaca reads from the newspapers...I’ve been
watching
TV," he said when Arthur finished. "I finished my essay...about two
days
ago. Dictating. It’s on tape." He pointed to a portable recorder on the
nightstand.
"Good thing, too. I can’t concentrate now. Too many...ups and
downs.
Sons of bitches. Can no more will them away...than I can make myself
healthy,
huh?"
"I
guess not," Arthur said.
"All
the king’s men." He drummed his fingers softly on the bed. "Anybody
willing…to
kill Captain Cook?"
Arthur
smiled, his cheek twitching.
"Hope.
Let’s hope." Harry rolled his head to one side, facing a framed poster
of
sequoias to the left of the window. "The essay is for you alone. I don’t
want
it published. It’s not my best work. Use it…as you see fit." He closed
his
eyes. "Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m dreaming or not. I wish I was
dreaming
now."
Arthur
turned to Ithaca. "Harry and I have to speak alone for just a few
minutes."
"All
right," Ithaca said, with barely concealed resentment. She stood up and
went
into the corridor.
"Something
juicy?" Harry asked, opening his eyes again.
"Do
you remember when we were eleven, and I played that trick on you?"
"Which
one?" Harry asked.
"I
said I had been inhabited by a spaceman. That my body was being used tohelp
investigate the Earth."
"Jesus,"
Harry said, shaking his head, smiling. "I’d forgotten about that one.
You
really took it to extremes."
"I
was a kid. Life was dull."
"You
spent three weeks acting like an alien whenever you were around me.
Asking
all sorts of weird questions, telling me about life on your planet."
"I
never apologized for pulling that on you."
Harry
held up one hand.
"You
told me you had prayed to God to tell you whether I was a spaceman or
not,
and God had said—"
"God
had told me you were a fraud." Harry’s face seemed almost healthy now,
with
the memories coming back. "I was a pretty rampant little theologian then.
So
you ducked out."
Arthur
nodded. "I said I’d be going away, and never coming back—the alien
inside
me, rather. And it did."
"You
refused to acknowledge you had ever acted like an alien. Total memory
blank.
What a scam."
"Our
friendship survived. That surprised me a little, years later, thinking
about
it…"
"I
wouldn’t have believed you if I hadn’t wanted to. As you say, life was
dull."
Arthur
looked down at Harry’s shriveled arms. "It wasn’t right. I deeply
regretted
it. It might be the only thing between us I do regret…"
"Besides
stealing Alma Henderson from me."
"That
was a favor. No. I mean it. I especially regret doing that to you now,
because...I’m
about to do it again."
Harry’s
grin took an edge of puzzlement. Arthur’s expression was deadly
serious,
but enthused; his arms fairly twitched with holding something in, and
he
reached up to pinch his cheek, as he always did when thinking.
"All
right," Harry said.
That
brought the tears to Arthur’s eyes. The way Harry accepted whatever was
coming
from him, without hesitation, forthrightly. _You could be married a
million
years and such instant rapport would be impossible._ Arthur loved
Harry
fiercely then. The tears slid down his cheek and he took a deep breath,
then
leaned over and whispered in his friend’s ear.
"Christ,"
Harry said when he had finished. He stared earnestly at Arthur. One
finger
slowly tapped the blanket. "Now I know I’m dreaming." He blinked at
the
cloud-filtered
sunshine coming through the window curtains. "You wouldn’t…"
Abandoning
that question, he said, "When did this happen to you?"
"This
morning."
Harry
looked at the curtain. "Ithaca. She can tell me. I’ve been confused. She
left…"
Arthur
took the metal spider from his pocket and held it before Harry’s face,
resting
it in his palm. It moved its legs in a slow, restless dance. Harry’s
eyes
widened and he made an effort to back up against the pillows.
"Christ,"
he
repeated. "What is it? What is it doing here?"
"It’s
a miniature von Neumann probe," Arthur said. "It explores, recruits.
Does
research. Gathers samples. It makes copies of itself." He returned the
spider
to his pocket. "Captain Cook has his own enemies," he said.
"So
what are you, a slave?"
Arthur
didn’t respond for a moment. "I don’t know," he said.
"Who
else…?"
Arthur
shook his head. "There are others."
"What
if it’s another…layer of deception?" Harry asked, closing his eyes
again.
"I
don’t think it is."
"You’re
saying there’s hope."Arthur’s expression changed to puzzlement.
"That’s not the word I’d use. But
there’s
a new factor, yes."
"And
this is all you know."
"All
I know," Arthur said. He touched Harry’s arm. They sat quietly for a few
moments,
Harry thinking this over. The effort tired him.
"All
right," he said. "I’ve known you long enough. You told me so I could
die
with
some good news, maybe, right?"
Arthur
nodded.
"They
let you tell me."
"Yes."
Harry
closed his eyes. "I love you, old buddy," he said. "You’ve
always
managed
to come up with the craziest things to keep me amused."
"I
love you, too, Harry." Arthur stepped outside the room to call Ithaca in.
She
resumed her seat, saying nothing.
"I
think you must...have a lot of work to do," Harry said. "I can’t
think
straight
and...I’m too tired to talk much now." He waved his finger: time to
go.
"Thanks
for coming by," Ithaca said, handing him the tape from the small
recorder.
Arthur hugged her tightly, then bent over the bed and took Harry’s
head
gently between his hands.
_Thirty
years. I can still recognize him behind the mask of sickness. He's
still
my beloved Harry._
Arthur
squinted, trying to hold back the flooding warmth in his eyes, trying
to
_will_ another world where his friend would not be dying—ignoring for the
moment
the Earth’s own illness, ignoring the general for the particular, a
more
human scale of magic—and knowing he would fail; Also trying to memorize
something
already passing: the shape of Harry’s face, the set of his eyes,
slightly
athwart one another, even more elfin in his illness, though glazed;
unable
to imagine this fevered face with rounded nose and high forehead and
strawlike
patchy hair, even this ill frame, decaying in a grave.
"I’ll
carry you around with me wherever I go," he said, and kissed Harry on
the
forehead. Harry reached up slowly and hooked his hand around Arthur’s
wrist,
touching his heated lips to Arthur’s right palm.
"Same
here."
Arthur
left the room quickly, eyes forward. In the parking lot, he sat behind
the
wheel of the rental car, stunned, his head seeming stuffed with sharp
twigs.
"Thank
you for letting me do that, I’d like to go back to my family, if
there’s
time."
As
the sun rose high over Los Angeles, nothing constrained him from returning
to
the airport and taking the next available flight back to Oregon.
42—
Hicks
leaned against a massive marble-covered pillar, watching dozens of
people
enter and leave the hotel lobby. Most were dressed in business suits
and
overcoats; the weather outside was brisk and there had been cold rain just
an
hour before. Many others, however, seemed ill equipped for the weather;
they
were out-of-towners, gawkers.
Much
of official Washington had seemed to come to a standstill. With the
Senate,
the House of Representatives, and the White House in open conflict
now,
such petty considerations as budgets had to wait. The tourist trade,
oddly,
had momentarily increased, and hotels through much of the city were
jammed.
_Come see your Capital in an uproar._
After
an hour, he still had not spotted Bordes, so he checked for messages at
the
desk. There were none. Feeling more isolated than ever, his stomach sour
and
his neck tense, he returned to the pillar.
It
was remarkable how life went on without apparent change. By now, most ofthe
people on Earth were aware the planet might be under sentence of death.
Many
had neither the education nor the mental capacity to understand the
details,
or judge for themselves; they relied on experts, who knew so very
little
more than they. Yet even for those with more education and imagination,
life
went on—conducting business (he imagined the events being discussed over
expense-account
lunches), politics almost as usual (House investigations
notwithstanding),
and then back at the end of the day to family and home.
Eating.
Visits to the bathroom. Sleeping. Lovemaking. Giving birth. The whole
cyclic
round.
A
tall, gangly black youth in a green army overcoat passed through the
rotating
front door, paused, then walked ahead, looking right and left
suspiciously.
Hicks clung to the security of not moving, not making himself
conspicuous,
but the boy’s head turned his way and their eyes met and held.
Bordes
raised one hand tentatively in greeting and Hicks nodded, pushing away
from
the pillar with his shoulder.
The
youth approached him quickly, coat swishing around his ankles. An
embarrassed
grin crossed his face. He stopped two yards from Hicks and offered
his
hand, but Hicks shook his head angrily, refusing to touch him.
"What
do you want from me?" he asked the boy.
Reuben
tried to ignore Hicks’s discomfiture, "I’m pleased to meet you. You’re
an
author, and all, and I read...Well, forget that. I have to say some things
to
you, and then get back to work." He shook his head ruefully. "They’re
going
to
work all of us pretty hard. There’s not much time."
"All
of who?"
"I’d
feel better talking where nobody will pay attention," Reuben said,
staring
steadily at Hicks. "Please."
"The
coffee shop?"
"Fine.
I’m hungry, too. Can I buy you lunch? I don’t have a lot of money, but
I
can get something cheap for both of us."
Hicks
shook his head. "If you convince me you’re on to something," he said,
"I’ll
spot _you_ lunch."
Reuben
led the way to the hotel cafeteria, emptying now as the lunch hour
ended.
They were led to a corner booth, and this seemed to satisfy the boy’s
need
for privacy.
"First,"
Hicks said, "I have to ask: Are you armed?"
Reuben
smiled and shook his head. "I had to come here as soon as I could, and
I’m
almost broke now as it is."
"Have
you ever been in a mental institution, or...associated with religious
cults,
flying-saucer cults?"
Again,
no.
"Are
you a Forge of Godder?"
"No."
"Then
tell me what you have to say."
Reuben’s
eyes crinkled and he leaned his head to one side, his mouth working,
"I’m
being given instructions by, I think they’re little machines. They were
dropped
all over the Earth a month ago. You know, like an invasion, but not to
invade."
Hicks
rubbed his temple with a knuckle. "Go on. I’m listening."
"They’re
not the same...whatever you’d call the things that are going to
destroy
the Earth. It’s hard to put in words all the pictures they show me.
They
don’t show me everything, anyway. They asked me to just come to you and
give
you something, but I didn’t think that was fair. The way they came on to
me
wasn’t fair. I didn’t have any choice. So they say, in my head"—he pointed
to
his forehead with a long, powerful forefinger—"they say, all right, try it
your
way."
"How
do they oppose these enemies?"
"They
seek them out wherever they go. They spread out between the … stars, Iguess.
Ships with nothing alive, not like you and me, inside them. Robots.
They
visit all the planets they can, around stars, and...They learn about
these
things that eat planets. And whenever they can, they destroy them."
Reuben’s
face was dreamy now, his eyes focused on the water glass before him.
"So
why haven’t they come forward sooner? It may be too late."
"Right,"
Reuben said, glancing up at Hicks. "That’s what they tell me. It’s
too
late to save the Earth. Almost everybody and everything is going to die."
Despite
his skepticism, these words hit Hicks hard, slowing his blood, making
his
shoulders slump.
"It’s
awful. They came too late. They had to stop off at this moon, this place
with
water and ice—Europa. They converted it into hundreds of thousands,
millions,
of themselves, of ships to spread out. They use hydrogen in the
water
for energy. Fusion.
"It’s
not just the Earth that’s being eaten. The asteroids, too. And really,
there
was more danger, I guess, of these planet-eaters getting away from the
asteroids.
Easier to move away from the sun. Something...Damn, I wish I knew
more
about what they’re showing me. They fought them in the asteroids. Now
they
can focus on Earth...The trouble is, they can’t explain all of it to me
in
words I understand! Why they chose me, I don’t know."
"Go
on."
"They
can’t save the Earth, but they can save some of it. Important animals
and
plants, germs, some people...They tell me maybe one or two thousand. Maybe
more,
depending on the odds."
The
waitress took their order, and Hicks leaned forward. "How?"
"Ships.
Arks, like Noah’s," Reuben said. "They’re being made right now, I
guess."
"All
right. So far, so good," Hicks said. _Damn...he's actually convincing
me!_
"How do they speak to you?"
"I’m
going to put my hand in my pocket and show you something," Reuben said.
"It’s
not a gun. Don’t be afraid. Is that okay?"
Hicks
hesitated, then nodded.
Reuben
drew out the spider and put it on the table. It unfolded its legs and
stood
with the glowing green line on its "face" pointed at Hicks.
"People are
meeting
up with these things all over, I guess," Reuben said. "One of them
got
me.
Scared the shit out of me, too. But now I can’t say I’m doing anything
against
my will. I almost feel like a hero."
"What
is it?" Hicks asked softly.
"No
name," Reuben said. He picked it up and secured it in his pocket again as
the
waitress approached. She laid their food on the table. Hicks paid no
attention
to his baked fish. Reuben brought the spider out again and laid it
down
between them. "Don’t touch it unless you agree, you know, to be part of
all
this. It sort of stings you, to talk." The boy bit into his hamburger
voraciously.
_Stings?_
Hicks pulled back a scant inch farther from the table. "You’re from
Ohio?"
he finally managed to ask.
"Mm."
Reuben rocked his head back and forth in satisfaction. "God, it’s good
to
eat again. I haven’t eaten in two days."
"They’re
in Ohio?"
"They’re
all over. Recruiting."
"And
now they want to recruit me. Why? Because...they heard me on the radio?"
"You’d
have to talk to it, them," Reuben said. "Like I said, they don’t tell
me
everything."
The
spider did not move. _Doesn't look like a toy. It's so perfect, a
jeweler's
fantasy._
"Why
are they doing this?"
The
boy shook his head, mouth full.
"Let
me...well, at the risk of putting words into your mouth, let me see if
Iunderstand what you’re saying. There are two different kinds of machines in
our
solar system. Correct?"
Reuben
nodded, mouth full again.
"One
type wants to convert planets into more machines. We’ve been told that
much.
Now there’s an opposing type that is designed to destroy these
machines?"
"Exactly,"
Reuben said after swallowing. "Boy, they were right to pick you."
"So
we’re dealing with von Neumann probes, and probe killers." He pointed to
the
spider. "How can these pretty toys destroy planet-eating machines?"
"They’re
just a small part of the action," Reuben said.
Hicks
picked up his fork and flaked away a bite of fish. "Incredible," he
said.
"You
got it. At least you’re learning about it the slow and easy way. Me, this
thing
nearly blew my mind."
"What
else do you know?"
"Well,
I see things, pretty clear sometimes, really muddy sometimes. Some
things
have already happened, like the arrival of the machines that want to
save
us. They destroyed Jupiter’s moon, to, like, make more of themselves, and
for
energy. But the cavalry arrived a little late—just after the Indians
occupied
the fort." He shrugged his shoulders. "After the bogeys came down on
Earth.
I suppose it’s stupid to make jokes, but it’s all crazy in my head, and
I
don’t want it to make _me_ crazy. Some things I see haven’t happened yet,
like,
I see the Earth being blown into little rocks, more asteroids. And then
these
spaceships mining the rocks, eating them, making more machines."
"What
do the machines look like?"
"That’s
not too clear," Reuben said.
"How
is the Earth going to be destroyed?"
Reuben
paused and lifted a finger. "At least two ways. This is pretty clear,
actually.
I hope I can find the right words. There are things, bombs, whizzing
around
inside the Earth. I think we know about these, right?"
"Maybe,"
Hicks said.
"And
there are machines crawling deep in the ocean. Are there ditches in the
ocean?"
"Trenches?"
"Yeah,
that’s it. Crawling along ocean trenches. They turn water into gases,
hydrogen
and oxygen, I think...H2O. The oxygen bubbles off. These machines put
the
hydrogen into more H-bombs. And then they lay these bombs along the
trenches,
thousands of them. All over the Earth. I think they make the bombs
go
off all at once."
Hicks
stared at the boy. "I’d like to have you talk to some other people,"
Hicks
said.
The
boy looked uneasy. "All I’m supposed to do is give you this." He
pointed
to
the spider. "Am I making sense so far?"
Hicks
stared at the silvery machine. "You’re scaring the hell out of me."
"Is
that good?"
"You’ve
earned your lunch. If I make a phone call, will you be here when I
come
back?"
"Order
me another hamburger, I’ll stay here all day."
"You’ve
got it," Hicks said. He flagged down the waitress. Again, Reuben
pocketed
the spider.
Outside
the cafeteria, near the entrance to the men’s rest room, Hicks found a
phone
booth. He had inserted his card into the slot and picked up the
mouthpiece
when he realized he hadn’t the slightest idea whom to call. He had
some
vague notion to talk to Harry Feinman or Arthur Gordon, but he didn’t
know
where they were, and it would probably take hours to track them down.
Besides,
Feinman was reputed to be very ill, perhaps dying. The task force had
been
scattered to the four winds after the President’s speech.Dithering, he replaced
the mouthpiece and stared at a potted palm, biting the
corner
of a fingernail. _I am excited, and I am absolutely terrified._ He
lifted
one eyebrow and glanced across the lobby. _Hidden dramas._
He
could take the boy’s spider and open himself—make himself vulnerable—to
whatever
the boy was experiencing. But he wasn’t at all clear on what that
meant.
Would he give up his free will, become an agent of whoever controlled
the
spiders? Perhaps the spiders controlled themselves—more examples of
machine
intelligence.
There
was no way of knowing whether or not they were controlled by the
machines
threatening the Earth. Another layer of deception.
Hicks
sought the safety of the men’s room and locked himself in a stall. Even
after
he had urinated, he stood behind the door, trying to control his
shivers.
_Why a spider? Not the most reassuring shape to choose._
_A
battle in the asteroids. But perhaps it's not a battle at all; just part of
the
demolition and making of more planet-killer probes._
He
closed his eyes and saw a shower of huge starships radiating outward,
leaving
behind the rubble of a ruined solar system. Would even the sun become
part
of this interstellar disease?
He
fumbled at the stall latch and stepped out, brushing past a well-dressed,
elderly
gentleman with a cane. "Windy day out," the gentleman said, nodding
and
half turning to track Hicks with his gentle eyes.
"Yes
indeed," Hicks returned, pausing at the door, glancing back.
The
gentleman nodded at him again, and their gazes held. _God. Is he one?
Possessed
by a spider?_
The
old man smiled and proceeded into the stall Hicks had vacated.
Hicks
returned to the cafeteria and resumed his seat in the booth. "How many
people
have been recruited, so far?"
Reuben
had eaten nearly all of his second hamburger. "They haven’t told me,"
he
said.
Hicks
clasped his hands in front of him. "Do you feel that you’ve been
possessed?"
Reuben
squinted. "I honestly don’t know. If they’re not lying to me, they’re
helping
all of us, and I’d rather be doing this than something else. Wouldn’t
you?"
Hicks
swallowed hard. "Do you still have free will?"
"Enough
to argue. It takes my advice, sometimes. Sometimes, it doesn’t listen,
and
then it moves me around, so I suppose then I don’t have control. But it
seems
to know what it’s doing, and as it says, there isn’t time enough to
explain
to everybody."
"You
are extraordinarily persuasive," Hicks said.
"Thank
you. And thanks again for the food." Reuben dabbled a french fry
through
a smear of catsup and lifted it in salute before biting into it.
"Where’s
the spider?"
"Back
in my pocket."
"Can
I take it with me, make up my mind later, after I’ve talked to people?"
"No,
man, you touch that spider, it’s going to…you know. Have you. I’m obliged
to
tell you that much."
"I
can’t really agree under those circumstances," Hicks said. _Fear and
caution
win out._
Reuben
stared at him, disappointed. "It really needs you."
Hicks
shook his head, adamant. "Tell them, it, that I cannot be coerced."
"Looks
like I made a mistake, then," Reuben said.
Something
brushed Hicks’s hand where it lay on the seat’s vinyl. He had hardly
turned
his head to glance down when he felt a slight prick. With a scream, he
leaped
up out of the booth, banging one knee on the underside of the table. He
fell
over on the carpet and a tumbler of water spilled on his legs and feet.
Pain
shot up his leg and he held his knee with both hands, grimacing.Three other
patrons and two waitresses gathered around him as his vision
cleared.
Sharp warmth moved rapidly up his arm, into his neck, his face, his
scalp.
The pain subsided. He pulled his lips back and shook his head: so
stupid.
"Are
you all right?" a man asked, bending over him.
"I’m
fine," Hicks said. He searched rapidly for an explanation. "Bit my
tongue.
Very painful. I’m fine."
He
got up on an elbow and examined his hand. There was a tiny red spot on his
thumb.
_It stung me._
Reuben
was not in the booth. The man helped Hicks to his feet and he brushed
himself
off, thanking the others and apologizing profusely for creating a
fuss.
His hand touched an egg-sized lump in his coat pocket. "There was a
young
man with me. Did you see where he went?" He glanced nervously at the
floor
and the booth seat, looking for the spider. _But it's in my pocket,_ he
reminded
himself.
"There's
somebody leaving now," a waitress said. She pointed.
In
the archway to the cafeteria, Reuben glanced over his shoulder at Hicks and
smiled.
The
boy walked briskly into the lobby, turned, and vanished. There was no need
to
follow him, so Hicks picked up the check and paid the waitress. He was
shaking
all over and wanted to cry, but didn't know whether it was British
reserve
or the instructions flowing through him that helped him maintain.
_Doesn't
feel bad, actually. Of course, I'm not in control..._
He
returned to his room, lay back in the bed, and closed his eyes. His shaking
subsided
and his breathing became steady. He rolled over on his side. The
spider
climbed out of his pocket and attached itself to the base of his neck.
What
Reuben had tried to explain, then, unfolded before him in much more
detail.
An hour later, he wondered why he had even thought of resisting.
Sometime
in the evening, the spider released his neck and crawled across the
bed,
dropping to the floor. He watched with less than half his attention;
information
was still flowing into him, and while some of it was
incomprehensible,
within a few minutes the flow would change, and he could
understand
more.
The
spider climbed the television stand and quickly, with surprisingly little
noise,
drilled into the base. For an hour, sounds of cutting, stray beams of
light,
and puffs of smoke and dust issued from the television. All was quiet
and
still for another hour. Then two spiders dropped through the hole. Both
crawled
into Hicks’s pocket.
"Bloody
hell," Hicks said.
PERSPECTIVE
_The
Andrew Kearney Show (Syndicated Home Info Systems Net), December 19,
1996;
guest appearance by science fiction writer Lawrence Van Cott:_
Kearney:
Mr. Van Cott, you've written sixty-one novels and seven works of
nonfiction,
or rather, it says here, speculative nonfiction. What is that?
Van
Cott: Science fiction without characters. Non-fact articles.
Kearney:
We've been hearing for the last couple of months about the means by
which
the President's aliens will destroy the Earth. We've heard about things
falling
from the sky near the Philippines and in the Atlantic, passing into
the
Earth's interior. Two such objects have been sighted so far. Last night I
interviewed
Jeremy Kemp himself. He says that we have evidence the objects are
causing
a ruckus inside the Earth, below the crust. Van Cott: From what I've
heard,
you should be interviewing Walter Samshow and David Sand. They saw one
of
the objects first. Kearney: They're not available, apparently. (_Van Cott
shrugs_)
Kearney
(_Leaning forward_) : What could these objects be? You're a science
fiction
writer; perhaps you can speculate in ways scientists won't, or can’t.Van Cott:
It's a serious subject. I don't think speculation is what we need
right
now. I'd prefer to wait and see what the experts think.
Kearney:
Yes, but you have degrees in physics, mathematics... (_Glances at his
notes_)
I'd say you're as much an expert as anyone, if we assume you've kept
up
on the reports. Have you?
Van
Cott: I've read or listened to all that's been made public.
Kearney:
Out of professional interest? Van Cott: I'm always interested when
reality
catches up with me.
Kearney:
Surely you have some theories. Van Cott (_Silent for a moment, tamps
his
pipe with his finger, looks up at the overhead lights_): All right.
(_Leans
back, holding out the bowl of his pipe_) If these objects are as heavy
as
we think, they should be very big. But when they hit the ocean, they didn't
make
much of a splash. So they can't be both heavy...(_Clasps his hands
together
around the bowl of the pipe and shakes them, then withdraws them to
arm's
length_) and big. Heavy and small, that' s something else. Not much
energy
transfer to the ocean or the sea bottom. Not much of an impact area. So
we
can draw some logical deductions. One, each object is very dense. Say
they're
made of neutronium. That fits the bill. We may not need black holes.
Neutronium
is matter squeezed down to push electrons and protons together to
make
neutrons. Nothing but neutrons. Never mind where the aliens would get
this
neutronium. Don't ask me. I don't know for sure. I also don't know how
they
keep a lump of neutronium squeezed together. The second one throws off a
lot
of sparks and causes radiation poisoning. Some people say the second one
is
making most of the noise, inside. (_Pokes the pipe down at the floor_) That
speaks
to me. That tells me something. Two objects, let's assume one is
neutronium,
then the other might be made of antineutrons, antineutronium.
Kearney:
Neutrons are neutral particles, as I understand it. How can there be
antineutrons
if they're neutral? (_Music rises_)
Van
Cott (_Sighing_): That takes a while to explain. Why not break for a
commercial,
and then I'll tell you. (_Break_)
Van
Cott: Neutrons are electrically neutral, but that doesn't mean they can't
have
anti-particles. When two antiparticles meet, they annihilate each other
completely.
So now we have two objects, falling through the Earth. Neutronium
is
very dense compared with rock. The objects—let's call them bullets—would
orbit
within the Earth, passing through the core as if it were very thin air.
They
would be very cold—neutronium, being dense, would absorb lots of heat.
They
would not slow much at all during each orbit.
The
antineutronium bullet would interact with the Earth's matter and create
what's
called an ambiplasma, which would prevent the antineutronium from
blowing
up all at once. This bullet would slow down much more rapidly. So
finally
it comes to rest at the center of the Earth, spitting and sparking,
making
lots of noise. When the other bullet slows down enough to also come to
rest,
the two meet...and I'm not sure what would happen after that.
Kearney:
Maybe this anti—or whatever-plasma would keep them separated. Van
Cott
(Nodding): Smart thinking. Maybe, and then again—maybe not. Maybe the
pressure
at the Earth's core would hold them together long enough for them to
fuse.
Kearney: What would happen then? Van Cott: Complete or almost complete
annihilation
of a hundred or two hundred million tons of matter. (_Holds his
hands
clenched in a double fist, spreads his fingers, and moves the hands
slowly
apart_) Think of it as a kind of time-delay bomb with a fuse controlled
by
gravity.
Kearney
(_Considerably sobered_): That...Mr. Van Cott, that is a very
disturbing
thought. Have you spoken about this to anybody else?
Van
Cott: No, and I'll probably be sorry _I_ mentioned it here. It's my
private
speculation. I don't suppose it's private anymore.
43-December
23
Walt
Samshow and David Sand had been aboard the Glomar _Discoverer_ for only
an
hour when they received an urgent phone call from Jeremy Kemp. Otto
Lehrman,
the Secretary of Defense, had released pictures from three Navy
Kingfisher
subtracker satellites just that morning. Why the pictures had been
released
was not explained; Kemp surmised it was part of a power struggle in
Washington
between the President and his decimated Cabinet and the military.
Sand
quickly hooked up a computer slate to the phone and Kemp transmitted the
photos
from California. There were more than a hundred.
An
hour later, Samshow scrolled through the pictures on the slate screen while
Sand
asked Kemp about the details.
All
of the pictures were of deep-ocean regions, taken from low-Earth-orbit
submarine-tracking
satellites. The satellites were equipped with laser
spectrometers
to detect oil and other detritus from submarine operations and
ocean
weapons testing.
The
first fifteen pictures tracked the atmosphere and ocean surface above the
deep
trenches from south of the Philippines to the Kamchatka Peninsula, at
approximately
five-hundred-kilometer intervals, with little magnification. All
were
in false color to show concentrations of free oxygen in the near-ocean
atmosphere.
Within each picture were dozens of red dots against the general
blue
and green background.
The
next group of ten showed waters off the western coast of Central America,
with
similar dots. In groups of two or three pictures, the ocean surfaces
above
all the world's deep trenches were shown to be regions of high free-
oxygen
concentration. Several unenhanced color photographs of very high
magnification
focused on an area three hundred kilometers east of Christmas
Island
in the Indian Ocean. They showed several square kilometers of ocean
turned
white with what appeared to be froth or spume. Then Samshow reminded
himself
of the scale: each tiny bubbling speck would have to be tens of meters
across.
Here
was the source of the atmosphere's increase in oxygen. No natural
phenomenon
could be blamed for such a display.
"So
much for that," Kemp said. "Did you catch the _Andrew Kearney Show_
last
night?"
"No,"
Sand said. "We're not watching much TV here."
"Have
you ever met Lawrence Van Cott?"
Sand
hadn't.
"I
have. He's sharp. He said something on the _Kearney Show_ that's got
Jonathan
Post very excited. I haven't heard the tape yet, but Post says Van
Cott
may be on to something. Not black holes. Neutronium pellets?"
"Still
out of my league," Sand said. He wanted to get back to the satellite
data.
Kemp passed on a few more items of information and then hung up. Sand
reexamined
the photographs on the slate as Samshow scrolled through them
again.
"Why
oxygen?" he asked. "Volcanic activity?"
"I
don't think so," Samshow said. "Not in my experience. Something is
definitely
dissociating seawater into hydrogen and oxygen. But only the oxygen
is
showing up..."
_"Something!"_
Sand asked softly. "What, machines? Where?"
"There
don't appear to be bubbles above the ocean plains. Only in the
trenches,
and here and here, in known fracture zones." He scrolled back.
"Wherever
there are deep cracks in the crust, something is storing up hydrogen
and
releasing oxygen."
Sand
made a clench-jawed _tsk-tsk_. "Kemp says oxygen is up by another
percentage
point in the Pacific region, and half a percent in central
Eurasia."
"Approaching
dangerous concentrations," Samshow said. "We're going to
seeconflagrations...forests, cities."
"I've
already given up smoking, thank God," Sand said.
Edward
Shaw sat in a comfortable antique chair in the bar of the Stephen
Austin
Hotel—alone, with a whiskey sour in one hand and a fistful of
Smokehouse
almonds in the other. He had returned to Austin to straighten out
his
affairs, as might a man condemned to death by lingering illness. He found
himself
unable to cope with ordinary life any longer.
Austin
and environs had been his final effort to get in touch with the past
and
attempt at least a symbolic reconciliation. His last girlfriend—almost a
fiancée—had
married a bank vice-president and wanted nothing to do with him.
The
university had taken his departure philosophically.
He
had even broken free of Reslaw and Minelli in Arizona, though Minelli had
promised
to meet him in Yosemite in late March, weather allowing. He did not
want
his malaise to burden them. Reslaw, lightly bearded, hair cut to a thin
shag,
told them he was going to Maine to live with his half brother.
Edward
had come back to his hometown to discover that his two-bedroom
apartment
had been emptied and rented to another tenant the month before—
having
been forgotten by the government agents looking after his affairs
during
his quarantine. That seemed a rather major oversight. At least the
landlady
had been kind enough to store his belongings in the event of his
return.
He had sold the furniture, but—to his own amusement—learned he still
had
a few things he couldn't bear to part with. These he had stored in a
rental
shed at the exorbitant rate of one hundred dollars a month, paid in
advance
for five months.
These
things done, Edward became what he wanted to be, footloose and fancy
free.
He
had few doubts that the Earth would soon come to an end. He had bought a
small-caliber
pistol in case that end might prove too painful. (Pistols were
at
a premium now.) He had apportioned his savings and the government money to
allow
him a full five months of travel.
He
had no urge to step outside the boundaries of the United States. Purchasing
a
small motor home (trading in his Land Cruiser) had depleted his assets by
about
a third. Now, for his final day in Austin, he was spending the night in
the
hotel, wrapped in a peculiarly enervated melancholy.
He
was anxious to get moving.
He
would travel around the country, and in late March or April he would end up
in
Yosemite, where he would settle in. The first part of his journey would
give
him a great overview of North America, as much as he could cover—
something
he had always wanted to do. He would spend a few weeks in the White
River
Badlands of South Dakota, a few days in Zion National Park, and so on,
hitting
the geological highlights until by full circle he came back to his
childhood
and the high rocky walls of Yosemite. Having surveyed some of what
he
wanted to see of the Earth, he would then begin to catalog his interior
country.
Good
plans.
Then
why did he feel so miserable?
He
could not shake free of the notion that one spent one's life with a
treasured
friend or loved one. Edward had always been essentially a loner. He
felt
no need to see his mother; she had kicked him out of the house at
sixteen,
and he had lost touch with her years ago. But there was still the
myth,
the image of the dyadic cyclone, as John Lilly had called it...the pair,
facing
life together.
He
finished the whiskey sour and left the bar, brushing salt dust from his
hand
with the screwing motion of a bunched-up napkin. The doorman nodded
cordially
at him and he nodded back. Then he went for a two-hour walk around
downtown
Austin, something he had not done since he had been a student.
It
was Sunday and the town was quiet. He wandered past white picket fences
andblack iron fences surrounding old well-kept historic houses. He studied
bronze
historical
plaques mounted on pillars. Leaving the older neighborhoods, he
finally
stood in the center of concrete and stone and steel and glass pillars,
the
balmy midwinter Texas breeze rippling his short-sleeved shirt.
A
human city, yet very solid and substantial-looking.
How
could it just go away?
Not
even geology encompassed the instant demise of worlds.
The
next morning, having slept soundly enough and with no memorable dreams,
Edward
Shaw began his new life.
45—
December
24
Lieutenant
Colonel Rogers sat in his trailer, waiting for word from the
civilian
liaison, a small, dapper saintly faced NSA man named Tucker. Tucker
had
but one role in this conspiracy—there was no other word for it—and that
was
to convey whether or not the weapon had been acquired.
The
Sunday New York _Times_ lay spread across a desk below three blank
television
monitors. On the front page, three headlines of almost equal size
vied
for attention:
PRESIDENTIAL
CRONY ASSASSINATED
Reverend
Ormandy Shot by Lone Gunman in
New
Orleans
CROCKERMAN
VETOES ALIEN DEFENSE ACT
FORGE
OF GODDERS GATHER TO "PROTECT" ALIEN CRAFT
Gathering
of England-Based Cultists in California
The
whole world was going mad, and taking him along. In the past week, he had
three
times violated his oath as an officer. He was participating in a
conspiracy
that would ultimately subvert the expressed orders of the Commander
in
Chief of the United States Armed Forces. Within two weeks, sooner if all
went
as planned, he would attempt to destroy the very object the cultists
surrounding
the site wished to protect.
What
disturbed him most of all was that he was not more disturbed. He hated to
think
of himself as a hardened radical, but he had indeed been radicalized,
and
he was no longer able to see and think of opposite courses of action. All
he
could see was a threat to his nation and a government in complete disarray.
Extraordinary
times, extraordinary measures.
The
trailer phone rang. He answered and the command center operator told him
he
had an outside call from CINCPACFLEET—Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet.
Tucker's
voice came on the line. He was, more than likely, calling from the
aircraft
carrier _Saratoga_ operating a hundred miles due west of San Clemente
Island.
He had, more than likely, just finished speaking with Admiral Louis
Cameron.
"Colonel
Rogers, we have an arrow and all the feathers we need."
"Yes."
"Do
you understand?"
"I
understand."
"Your
next contact will be Green."
"Thank
you."
He
hung up the phone. Green was Senator Julio Gilmonn, Democrat, California.
Gilmonn
was chairman of the Senate Alien Defense Subcommittee. He would ride
in
a big limousine through the cordon of cultists and onto the site in
approximately
ten days. He would be heavily guarded.
In
the trunk of the limousine would be the "arrow," a three-kiloton
warhead
originally
designed for an anti-submarine missile aboard the _Saratoga_.
Carrying
this warhead in a custom sling, Rogers would enter the bogey.He folded the
newspaper neatly and stood to make his afternoon rounds.
PERSPECTIVE
_CBS
Daylight News, January 1, 1997, hosts Tricia Revere and Alan Hack_:
Revere:
Were you in Times Square or watching it on TV?
Hack:
TV. I value my life. Revere: I've never seen anything like it. An
absolute
frenzy.
Hack:
They think it's our last year on Earth. (_Shakes his head at comment off
camera_)
The hell with that. Let's be real. They do. So they're going to
party.
46—
Januarys,
1997
The
wonder of it was that Arthur still felt like a private individual. He had
driven
Marty through drizzling rain to school, in a fit of parental
solicitude—the
school bus was perfectly adequate and stopped less than fifty
yards
from the front door. Returning, while parking in the carport, he had
heard
distant voices, some speaking English, most not. He had sat in the car
with
eyes closed, listening as if he were on some ham radio or satellite dish
connection,
but the voices had stopped, replaced only by a humming expectancy.
He
had walked into the house, removing his overcoat. Francine had met him with
a
cup of hot cocoa. His eyes misting, he had sipped the cocoa, put it down on
the
kitchen counter, and hugged her. She had moved against him with more and
more
enthusiasm, verging on desperation, and he had led her into the bedroom,
where
they had made love.
He
had not been "watched."
When
not carrying out specific tasks, he was as free— within rational limits—
as
anybody he knew. He would not even contemplate leaving his zone of
activity,
the northwestern area of the United States. And if he tried to do
so,
he would be prevented. But there was plenty of work to do here, and more
would
be coming later on...
He
lay with his head on his wife's ample tummy, hand around one breast, dozing
lightly.
She curled a lock of his hair in one finger and watched him with that
womanly
calmness he had so often marveled at. There had been passion, even
obsession,
in their bed that morning, yet now she was as placid as a crockery
madonna.
He
could tell her about the spider. Nothing would prevent him. He lifted his
head
and was about to speak, but then stopped. _So who's in charge? Is it me,
hesitating,
or something else?_ It was him. She had enough to think about
without
learning her husband was possessed. That word amused and irritated
him.
It did not describe what was happening…
_Why
don’t they take her, too? Possess her?_
Because
they didn't need her, and their resources were limited. Suddenly his
spine
tingled and his neck tightened. Only one or two thousand...What if
nobody
in his family was among that chosen group? None of his friends,
colleagues,
acquaintances? What if _he_ was not?
"Something
wrong, Art?" she asked, stroking his forehead.
He
shook his head and caressed her nipple.
"You
make me feel like something other than a mother and PTA member," she
said.
"You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Oh,
I am," he said. "Thoroughly."
The
rain gusted against the windows and a cold wind howled under the eaves.
Ominous,
patently ominous, yet it made him feel safe and warm. He could lie
nude
beside his woman in an enclosed warm bedroom and feel himself a master of
infinite
space. His body did not yet understand.
A
network was being formed. Abruptly, he knew that libraries were being raided
in
New York, Washington, B.C., and elsewhere. What was their scheme? Wouldthey
literally pluck up the Sistine Chapel and disks of Bach and the entirety
of
the Parthenon or Angkor Wat and lift them into space, along with the
geniuses
of Earth? Somehow, that seemed obvious and very naive.
He
had listened many times to Harry's "essay" on the tape. Ever since,
he had
been
mulling it over, comparing Harry's ideas with what the nascent network
was
relaying to him.
In
his head, a concept more than a word: _grammars._
Hooked
to that concept was a maze of connotations: grammar of a planet's
ecosystem,
from genetic material on up, how the species fit together as
"words"
in a "book," the structure of evolving plots and the implications for
a
denouement...
Grammar
of society, how human groups interact as part of the overall
ecosystem...
Fruit,
gonads, a planet's reproductive system, a fertile pseudopod reaching up
into
space away from the surface and having to learn _Jesus Jesus._
To
learn about deep vacuum and gravitation and the wind between worlds, the
ecosystem
of Earth must evolve an "organ" or arm equipped with perception and
logic,
just as life had once adapted to the land by developing certain kinds
of
eyes and limbs and neurological structures. Sentences in Earth's book using
the
syntax of land-walking, space-walking, all implied by the original
ecosystem
grammar, all inherent. As on a thousand other worlds with similar
living
grammars. Humans were the Earth's organ for crossing between worlds and
stars.
_They
speak Life. They know what to take to keep the essence, the basic
meaning,
of the planet intact._
That
was what he was being told. Harry had said, on the tape,
_"I've
spent twenty years of my life as a biologist. You, Arthur, kept me up
to
date in other disciplines; you got my mind working fifteen years ago when
you
gave me Lovelock's book on 'Gaia.' Recent events have made me dig out some
of
my own old theories and speculations, made after reading Lovelock and
Margulis.
We've talked about them, off and on, but I was never so sure of
myself
that I put them down on paper. Now I'm pretty sure, but I'm too weak to
put
them on paper, so...this._
_"Gaia
is the entire Earth, and she's come alive, she's been an organic whole,
a
single creature, for over two billion years now. We can't make complete
analogies
between Gaia and human beings, or dogs or cats or birds, because
until
recently we've never studied actual independent organisms. Dogs and cats
and
birds—and humans-are not independent. We are bits and pieces of Gaia. So
is
every other living thing on the Earth. Imagine a single cell trying to make
analogies
between its cytoplasm and organelles, and the role it plays in a
human
body; it's going to be misled if it compares too rigidly._
_"So
Gaia, the Earth, is the first independent organism we've studied. I'll
call
her a 'planetism.' A planetism is made up of plants and animals and
microorganisms,
and these are made up of cells, or are themselves cells. Cells
are
made up of cytoplasm and organelles and so on. An organism regulates
itself
with hormones, neurotransmitters, and it does its work and gets its
nutrition
with enzymes and other substances...all organized, on schedule,
synergistic.
Self-controlled._
_"Gaia
does her work with ecosystems. Like any organism, a planetism has a
schedule
and certain goals to meet. She grows and develops and goes through
different
stages in her life. Sometimes she undergoes radical shifts,
destroying
whole ecosystems. Maybe she's experimenting in ways that smaller
organisms
cannot; she reaches a dead end, clears some of the slate, and starts
over.
I don't know. But ultimately she has to do what all living things do—
mature
and reproduce._
_"How
can a planetism make others like herself? She came into being—probably—
without
outside interference, though maybe she's the offspring of anotherplanetism.
Maybe life was seeded here a long, long time ago. I don't think so,
frankly.
I think most planetisms have no parents, at least not right now, and
so
they're free to develop on their own schedule. This takes a long, long
time,
but eventually she finds a way to reproduce. She develops a reproductive
strategy._
_"The
planetism has found ways to use more and more of her raw materials and
surface
area. She dominated the oceans, then spread plants and animals out to
conquer
the barren continents. These plants and animals had somehow become
specially
suited to life on land. I suspect more than random chance was at
work,
but I'm too weak to argue about that now. It's irrelevant to my scheme._
_"Now,
after ages, humans are here, and we're not doing too badly. We've got
an
organ as important as the legs on an amphibian—a highly developed brain.
Suddenly,
Gaia is becoming self-aware, and looking outward. She's developing
eyes
that can look far into space and begin to understand the environment she
has
to conquer. She's reaching puberty. Soon she's going to reproduce._
_"I
know you're way ahead of me now. You're saying, 'That means human beings
are
the Earth's gonads.' And I am saying that, but the analogy is weak at
best.
In time, Gaia would probably have sacrificed everything on Earth —all
her
ecosystems—to promote human beings. Because we're more than gonads. We are
the
makers of spores and seeds, we are the ones who understand what Gaia is,
and
we will soon know how to make other worlds come alive. We will carry
Gala's
biological information out into space, on spaceships._
_"You
know, this idea puts a lot of problems in perspective. Gaia has nurtured
us,
but she has also goaded us, and sometimes tormented us. She's used all of
her
resources to make sure we don't feel too comfortable. Diseases that used
to
help regulate ecosystems have suddenly become stimulants. We're working
hard
to control all the diseases that harm us, and in doing so, we're
understanding
life itself, and coming to understand Gaia. So Gaia uses
diseases
to stimulate and instruct. Is it any real coincidence, you think,
that
in the twentieth century, we've been hit by so many retrovirus and immune
system
epidemics? We can't solve these epidemics without understanding life to
the
nth degree. Gaia is regulating us, regulating herself, making herself
ready
for puberty._
_"Because
that's what would have happened. Gaia would have sent us out, and we
would
have carried her within our spaceships. Maybe we would have made Earth
unlivable,
and that would be one more reason to leave the seed pod, because
it's
all dead and shriveled. But that would only be natural. Maybe we would
have
preserved Earth and gone outward. It's like the dilemma for parents who
either
make life a hell for their kids to get them out, or the kids have
enough
gumption to get out on their own, to break loose. Not that I know these
problems
firsthand, as a parent...but I remember being a kid._
_"Of
course, Gaia isn't the only planetism. There are probably billions of
others,
some of them part of seeding networks—planetisms with parents. Some
are
independent. And when they get out into the galaxy, they find they are in
competition.
Suddenly they're part of an even larger, much more complex
system—a
galactic ecology. Planetisms and their extensions—intelligences,
technological
civilizations-then develop strategies to compete, and to
eliminate
competition._
_"Some
planetisms take the obvious route. They exploit and try to spread
rapidly.
They're like parasites, or young diseases that haven't learned how to
live
harmlessly within a host. Other planetisms react by seeking and
destroying
the extensions of these parasites. Eventually, I suppose, if the
galaxy
itself is to come alive—become a 'galactism'—it's going to have to knit
together
the extensions of all its planetisms, put them in order. So the
parasites
either fit in and contribute or they are eliminated. But in the
meantime,
it's a jungle out there._
_"You
talked to me a long while back about Frank Drinkwater. Drinkwater, andothers
like him, have maintained for years that there is no other intelligent
life
in our galaxy. He claims that the lack of radio signals from distant
stars
provides the proof. He also thought the lack of von Neumann machines
confirmed
that we are alone. He was too impatient. Now, obviously, he's
wrong._
_"We've
been sitting in our tree chirping like foolish birds for over a
century
now, wondering why no other birds answered. The galactic skies are
full
of hawks, that's why. Planetisms that don't know enough to keep quiet,
get
eaten._
_"I'm
just about done now. Too tired to elaborate. Maybe you've already
thought
this through. Maybe you can find it useful, anyway._
_"You've
been my own goad and barb sometimes, Art. Thank you for that. You are
my
very dear friend, and I love you._
_"Take
care of Ithaca, as much as she needs it._
_"My
love to Francine and Marty, too._
_"I
hope and pray you all make it, though for the life of me, I can't figure
out
how."_
Harry
had known, almost by instinct. He was still alive, hanging on in Los
Angeles,
too weak to do much besides sleep. Arthur suddenly felt a panic at
the
thought of a world without him. What would he do? Now, more than ever,
Harry
was necessary...
"Art,"
Francine said. He tried to relax and brought his gaze down from the
ceiling,
to her face. "Are you thinking about Harry?"
He
nodded. "But that's not all." Without considering the consequences,
moving
ahead
on an instinct he hoped was as good as Harry's, he had made up his mind.
"There's
something big going on," he said. "I've been afraid to tell
you."
"Can
you tell me?" she asked, squinting as if reluctant to hear. Enough
change,
enough shock in the news without it coming into her house any more
than
it already had.
"It's
not a government secret," he said, smiling. He told her about the
encounter
in the airport, the information in his head, the formation of the
network.
It spilled from him in a confessional torrent, and he interrupted
only
to let Gauge in when the pup howled miserably in the garage.
Francine
watched her husband's shining eyes and his beatific face and bit her
lip.
When
he was finished, he shivered and shrugged all at once. "I sound
completely
nuts, don't I?"
She
nodded, a tear falling down her cheek.
"All
right. I'll show you something very strange."
He
went to the locked upper-hall cupboard and drew down a cardboard box. In
the
bedroom, he drew off the lid. Within the box, to his surprise, lay not one
but
two identical spiders, motionless, their green linear eyes glowing.
Francine
backed away from the open box.
"I
didn't know there was another," he said.
"What
are they?"
"Our
saviors, I think," Arthur answered.
_Will
she be saved?_ he asked the humming expectancy in his head. She reached
out
to touch the spiders, and he was about to stop her, warn her, when he
realized
it didn't matter. If they had wanted her to be "possessed," the new
spider—wherever
it came from—would have already taken her. Hesitantly, she
reached
out to touch one. It did not react. She stroked the chromium body
thoughtfully.
The spiders moved their legs in unison, and she withdrew her
hand
hastily. The motion stopped.
"It's
like they're alive," she said.
"I
think they're just very complicated machines."
"They
take samples, store information...and they..." She swallowed hard and
wrapped
her arms around herself. She began to shiver, her teeth clacking."Ooo-o-h,
Arrthur ..."
He
reached out to hug her tightly, laying his cheek on the top of her head,
nuzzling
her.
"I'm
still here," he said.
"Everything
is so unreal."
"I
know."
"What...what
do we do now?"
"We
wait," he said. "I do what I must do."
Her
expression as she craned her head back to face him was a mix of
fascination
and repulsion. "I don't even know that you are who you say you
are."
He
nodded. "I can't prove that."
"Yes,
you can," she said. "Please, maybe you can. Maybe I know
already." She
folded
herself more compactly into his arms and hid her face against his
chest.
"I don't want to think...I've lost you already. Oh, God." She pulled
away
again, mouth open. "Don't tell Marty. You haven't told Marty?"
"No."
"He
couldn't take it. He has nightmares already about fire and earthquakes."
"I
won't tell him."
"Not
until later," she said firmly. "When we know for sure. What's going
to
happen,
I mean."
"All
right."
Then
it was time to dress and pick up Marty from the school. They drove
together
through the drizzle.
That
evening, after Marty had gone to bed and while they sat together on the
couch
in the living room reading, legs entangled, the phone rang. Arthur
answered.
"I
have a call for Arthur Gordon from President Crockerman."
Arthur
recognized the voice. It was Nancy Congdon, the White House secretary.
"Speaking."
"Hold
on, please."
A
few seconds later, Crockerman came on the line.
"Arthur,
I need to speak with you or Feinman, or with Senator Gilmonn...I
assume
you're in touch with him, or with the Puzzle Palace?"
"I'm
sorry, Mr. President...I haven't spoken with the senator or the NSA.
Harry
Feinman is very ill now. He's dying."
"That's
what I was told." The President said nothing for a long moment. "I'm
under
siege here, Arthur. They still can't get a vote through in the House,
but
they're maybe two votes down...I'm not sure I know everybody who's laying
siege,
but I thought you might be able to speak to them. You don't need to
admit
complicity...or whatever you would call it."
"I
may not be the right man, Mr. President," Arthur said.
"In
the past few hours, I have been denied access to the war room. I've fired
Otto
Lehrman but that hasn't stopped a thing. Jesus, they've actually
threatened
to withdraw the troops around the White House! All they've done is
clearly
illegal, but these people...They can afford to wait me out.
Something's
going on. And I _need to know what it is_, for Christ's sake. I'm
the
_President of the United States_, Arthur!"
"I
don't know anything about this, Mr. President."
"Right.
Hold to the party line. For whatever it's worth, I'm not a stubborn
idiot.
I've spent the last few weeks agonizing over this. I've spoken with
Party
Secretary Nalivkin. Do you know what they're doing? They're negotiating
with
the bogey in Mongolia. He says the world is on the brink of a socialist
millennium.
That's what the spacecraft in Mongolia is telling him! Arthur,
give
it to me straight...Is there anybody I can talk to who can put me back in
the
chain of command? I am not an unreasonable man. I can be reasoned with.
God
knows I've been thinking this all over. I'm willing to rethink myposition. Have
you heard about Reverend Ormandy?"
"No,
sir."
"He's
dead, for Christ's sake! They shot him. Somebody shot him."
Arthur,
face pale, said nothing.
"If
they aren't talking to you, then who would they be talking to?"
"Have
you called McClennan, or Rotterjack?" Arthur asked. Both of them had
sworn
allegiance to Crockerman even after their resignations.
"Yes.
I can't get through to them. I think they've been arrested or kidnapped.
Is
this a revolution, a mutiny, Arthur?"
"I
don't know, sir. I honestly don't know."
Crockerman
muttered something Arthur didn't hear clearly and hung up.
47—
January
4
Reuben
Bordes met the Money Man near the Greyhound bus terminal on Twelfth
Street.
The white-haired, paunchy stranger wore a dark blue wool suit, pin-
striped
golden silk shirt, and alligator-skin shoes. He seemed perfectly happy
to
pass Reuben a plump gray vinyl zippered bag filled with hundred- and
thousand-dollar
bills. Reuben shook his hand firmly, smiled, and they parted
without
a word said between them. Reuben stuck the envelope into the pocket of
his
olive-green army coat and hailed a cab.
Instructions
given, he sat back in the seat, happier than he had ever been in
his
life. With this money, he could be traveling in style now: taxicabs,
airplanes,
fine hotels wherever he went. But more than likely the money would
be
spent on other things. Still, the thought...
There
was an extensive shopping list in his head. His first stop would be the
Government
Printing Office Data Center. There he would purchase four sets of
data
disks containing the entire public-domain nonfiction records of the
Library
of Congress. Each set, on five hundred disks, occupied the space of a
good-sized
filing cabinet, and he did not know why four copies were necessary,
but
he would pay for them all in cash with about half of the money in the
envelope.
He
stood in line at the service counter of the Data Center for ten minutes,
and
then stepped up to the clerk, a young, balding man with a full red beard
and
a sharply appraising stare.
"Can
I help you?" the clerk asked.
"I'd
like four sets of number 15-692-421-3-A-G."
The
clerk wrote the number down and consulted a terminal. "That's nonfiction,
complete,
L.C.," he said. "Including all reference guides and indices?"
Reuben
nodded.
The
clerk's stare became more intense. "That's fifteen thousand dollars a
set,"
he said.
Reuben
calmly unfolded a roll of money and counted out sixty thousand-dollar
bills.
The
clerk examined the bills carefully, rubbing them, holding them up close.
"I'll
have to call my supervisor," he said.
"Fine,"
Reuben said.
A
half hour later, all the formalities cleared away, Reuben wrote down where
he
wanted the sets sent—a mailing address in West Virginia.
"What
will you _do_ with them all?" the clerk asked as he handed Reuben the
receipt.
"Read
them," Reuben said. "Four times." He regretted that flippancy as
he
walked
south on Seventh Street toward the National Archives, but only for a
moment.
Instructions were pouring in rapidly, and he had little time to think
for
himself.
January
5Lieutenant Colonel Rogers came out of a sound sleep at four a.m., just minutes
before
his wristwatch alarm was set to go off. He deactivated the alarm and
switched
on the small lamp at the head of his narrow bunk. For a luxurious
minute,
he lay still in the bunk, listening. All was quiet. All calm. It was
Sunday;
most of the Forge of Godders had moved to Furnace Creek the night
before
for a huge rally planned this morning by the Reverend Edwina Ashberry.
He
dressed quickly, putting on climbing boots and pulling two hundred-foot
lengths
of nylon rope from a knapsack in the trailer's corner. Rope in hand,
he
looked down, brows knitted, at the small desk and telephone. Then he
dropped
the ropes on the bunk and sat in the chair to write a letter to his
wife
and son, in case he did not make it back. That took five minutes. He was
still
ahead of schedule, so he spent five more minutes carefully shaving,
making
sure every long bristle on his neck was scraped off: military clean. He
brushed
his teeth and combed his hair meticulously, glancing at the letter.
Unhappy
with the wording, he quickly recopied the message onto a fresh piece
of
paper, signed it, folded it into an envelope, and posted the envelope on
his
message board with address and instructions.
At
four-thirty he descended the trailer steps and stood in the bitterly cold
desert
darkness, a steady wind dragging at his coat and pants legs. At the
east
end of the camp was Senator Julio Gilmonn's car, in a fenced-off square
reserved
for the munitions locker. Gilmonn himself stood with two aides, a
handsome,
stern-looking middle-aged black woman and a young white male, bulky
and
clean-cut, near the inner gate leading to the rock.
"Good
morning," Rogers said as he approached. Gilmonn extinguished a cigarette
after
taking one last frowning, concentrated drag and shook Rogers's hand.
"There
are still a few Forgers out there," the senator said, pointing to the
outer-perimeter
fence. "Have you made any plans for clearing them?"
Rogers
nodded. "In fifteen minutes we'll set off a siren and announce an
emergency
situation. Nothing specific. Then we'll evacuate the camp through
the
corridor. If the Forgers haven't cleared out by then..." He shrugged.
"The
hell
with them."
"That
could alert the...bogey," the young aide said.
Rogers
acknowledged that possibility. "It hasn't done anything for months that
we
know of," he said. "We'll just take the risk. There are about a
thousand
people
out there now."
The
woman regarded Rogers with an expression between severe doubt and motherly
concern,
but said nothing.
"Who
else is involved?" Gilmonn asked.
"I'm
having two of my staff officers help me carry the weapon to the entry.
They'll
evacuate at that point. And there's your expert, of course. Where is
he?"
Gilmonn
pointed to a figure walking through a spotlighted area a few dozen
yards
away. "He's coming now."
The
"expert" was a young naval lieutenant, lean and of middle height,
with
thin,
precise eyebrows and short-cut tight brown hair, dressed in civvies and
carrying
a large bag and a briefcase. He greeted the others quietly and asked
to
be taken to the weapon. Gilmonn opened the gate with the key Rogers had
entrusted
to him, and then lifted the trunk lid. Within was an orange-striped
silver
cylinder about a foot and a half wide and two feet long, lying in an
aluminum
cradle. The radiation-warning trefoil was prominently featured at
three
points on the cylinder.
"We
don't have a presidential authorization code," the lieutenant explained
matter-of-factly.
"So I've had to take an unarmed, stockpiled missile warhead
and
remove the PAL—the permissive action link, the code box. This causes a
fatal
mechanical failure in the detonator and proximity fuse—fatal to the
mechanism,
not to me. So I've had to engineer my own time fuse and detonator
and
match them with the warhead. With higher authorization, I've taken a Navyplane
wave generator and klystron and the necessary black boxes and cobbled
them
together. I can guarantee that it will work." He smiled almost
apologetically
and turned to Rogers. "Sir, you will be able to deactivate this
weapon,
should you encounter something unexpected, right up to the last second
before
it goes off. So pay close attention."
Rogers
listened carefully as the lieutenant removed a cover plate from one end
of
the cylinder and explained the procedure. He then explained it all over
again,
cheeking Rogers's face at each crucial point to make sure he
understood.
"Got that, sir?" the lieutenant asked.
''Yes,"
Rogers said.
"I
apologize we couldn't find a backpack nuke—a SADM—for you, sir," the
lieutenant
said. "But they've been out of stock for about twenty years.
They've
all been scrapped or dumped. This only weighs about a third again as
much
as a SADM—special atomics demolition munition," he explained for the
benefit
of the senator's aides. "But you should be able to haul it up with no
difficulty
if the shaft is as smooth as you've said. Then push and pull it for
the
next leg, and when you can stand, haul it into position using your
backpack.
You seem to be in good shape, sir, and you should be able to
complete
the mission..." The lieutenant shook his head. "Sorry. I don't mean
to
tell you your business, sir."
"No
problem," Rogers said.
"Just
one question. Nobody back home was able to answer something for me. How
strong
is this bogey, internally?"
"We
don't know," Rogers said.
"Strong
enough, possibly, to have survived a descent from orbit," Gilmonn
said.
"If
it offers even token resistance to the weapon, then I can't estimate the
effect
on the surrounding countryside," the lieutenant said. "Unless it
stays
integral,
which I really doubt, there's going to be hot rock and shrapnel all
over
this valley. I don't know how far away you'll have to be, sir."
"I'll
have a Jeep," Rogers said.
"Drive
like hell," the lieutenant recommended. "And another thing. What sort
of
drive mechanism might it have?"
Rogers
shook his head. "There's no outlets, no nozzles or...Nothing we've
seen."
"If
there is a drive mechanism—which seems logical, if we think of it as a
spaceship—then
the explosion could set it off."
Rogers
took a deep breath. "I've thought about that," he said.
"We've
detected no radiation in or around the bogey," Gilmonn said. "If
there's
any drive mechanism, I doubt very much they use rocket fuel."
"Yeah,
but what _do_ they use?" the lieutenant asked.
"Everything
we do here involves some risk," Gilmonn said. "And if they think
we
can be bamboozled by our own imaginations...How much stronger does that
make
them? What has that kind of thinking done to us already?"
The
sirens began to wail, echoing back from the mountains, painful and
terrifying.
Loudspeakers around the perimeter announced:
_"This
is an emergency. This is an emergency. Evacuate all personnel
immediately."_
The message repeated, louder than the sirens, until Rogers felt
he
might jump out of his skin. Around the site, car horns began to honk.
Headlights
flashed like the eyes of wary animals. Gilmonn held his hands to
his
ears. "Are we going ahead, or are we going to stand here and waffle?"
Rogers
nodded. "We’re on."
The
lieutenant reached into the bag and pulled out a white jacket with a
crotch
strap. "Residual radiation protection, sir. Put this on now," he
shouted
over the din. He pulled out another and donned it himself, connecting
the
crotch flap to a loop on the back.
The
jacket weighed perhaps twenty pounds and seemed reasonably flexible,
withoverlapping sheets of leaded plastic sewn into its fabric.
"You
do me, and I’ll do you." Rogers helped secure the straps and the
lieutenant
reciprocated.
"Let’s
go, sir," the lieutenant said. Together, they lifted the weapon from
its
cradle in the car’s trunk onto a hand truck. It weighed at least sixty-
five
pounds, perhaps seventy. "No need to be delicate, sir. It’s made to
withstand
missile launch and ocean impact. We’d have to take a sledgehammer to
it
to do any damage."
Rogers
opened the inner perimeter gate and they pulled the hand truck a
hundred
yards across the pounded sand and gravel trail to the entry hole.
The
lieutenant lifted the cylinder from its cradle by himself and lowered it
on
one end into the sand. The sirens continued to scream and the loudspeakers
repeated
the evacuation order, over and over, painfully monotonous.
The
first suffusion of dawn outlined the Greenwater Range in ghostly purple.
Bouncing
headlight beams still cut through the air around the site, but fewer
in
number now.
"Looks
like they’re moving out," Gilmonn said.
"Time
for the camp to evacuate," Rogers said. "I’ll need the lieutenant and
one
other, that’s it."
"I’m
staying until you’re in the tunnel and the arrow’s up there with you,"
Gilmonn
said.
"We
call it a ‘monkey’ now, sir, not an arrow," the lieutenant corrected him.
"Whatever
the hell," Gilmonn said.
"Monkey
on my back," Rogers said.
The
lieutenant pulled an inch-thick Teflon sheet from the weapon’s accessory
kit
and wrapped it tightly around the cylinder, belting it with three straps
and
a clasp. The top and bottom of the sheet projected over the ends of the
cylinder,
blunting any sharp edges that might hang up inside the tunnel. He
then
attached two ropes to sunken eyebolts in the upper end, on each side of
the
cover plate. "All set, sir?"
Rogers
nodded. "Let’s go."
The
lieutenant removed the cover plate and set the timer. "You have forty
minutes,
sir, from the time I flip this switch. We’ll stay down here for
fifteen
minutes. You’ll have your Jeep to drive clear after we leave."
"Understood,"
Rogers said.
He
climbed into the hole, paying out the ropes from loops in his belt, and
scrambled
to the first bend, then braced himself there. "Bring it up," he
said.
The lieutenant flipped the switch, closed the plate, and hefted the
weapon
up into the hole. Rogers pulled it up the length of the first segment
of
the tube, hand over hand on the rope.
He
then called down to the lieutenant and Gilmonn. "Around the first
bend," he
said.
"I’m climbing the vertical shaft."
"Thirty-five
minutes, Colonel," the lieutenant replied.
Rogers
glanced up the shaft and held his rasping breath momentarily, trying to
hear
something. Surely the bogey wouldn’t just let him haul the weapon in,
without
some resistance?
He
coiled the ropes and secured them to his belt, then suspended the monkey on
a
rope secured to a stake he hammered into the lava. He climbed the chimney as
he
had before, bracing back against one side and feet against the other,
inching
his way. That took an additional five minutes. Twelve minutes had
passed
and he was tiring, but not yet winded.
Crouching
in the low, almost horizontal tunnel, he jerked free the slipknot
attaching
the monkey to the stake, and began to haul it up the chimney as fast
as
he could. The cylinder weighed at least seventy pounds and the effort made
his
arm muscles knot.
With
the cylinder almost over the edge, he heard Gilmonn’s voice echoing from
below."How
are you doing, Colonel?"
"Almost
there," he answered. His arms were twin agonies. The radiation jacket
chafed
and was becoming a major irritation.
"We’re
going now."
"You
have twenty-five minutes," the lieutenant added.
"Gotcha."
He
switched on the electric torch, placed the warhead perpendicular to the
tunnel,
and rolled it ninety feet to the lip of the antechamber. Resting his
arms
for only a moment, he scrambled over the weapon, detached the ropes, then
lifted
it and waddled ducklike to deposit it in the center of the cylindrical
space.
He placed it on its end and opened the cover plate to see that the
timer
was still working. It was. He closed the cover plate.
As
he shined the torch at the larger chamber beyond, a grin flickered on his
rips.
The impassive gray faceting reflected the beam back in a myriad of dull
gleams.
"Here’s thanks for you," he murmured.
Twenty
minutes. He could be down the tunnel and two miles away. He pulled a
knife
from his trouser pocket and sliced away the crotch strap on the jacket,
then
shrugged it off and flung it aside. He slid along the horizontal tunnel,
ignoring
the heat of the friction on his elbows and butt, and stopped long
enough
to take a deep breath and prepare to shinny down the chimney.
Instinctively
wary of heading into even the most familiar darkness, he played
his
torch beam down.
Three
yards below, the beam met a dead end.
Rogers
stared at the blockage in disbelief.
It
might have been there through all eternity, a flat plug as dark and
featureless
as the walls of the chimney itself.
"Holy
Christ," he said.
Eighteen
minutes.
He
was out of the horizontal tunnel and beside the bomb before he could even
think.
With amazing dexterity, he had the cover plate open and his finger on
the
cutoff switch. And then he froze, his face wet with sweat, salty drops
stinging
his eyes.
No
way out. Even if he stopped the timer on the monkey, he could not think of
any
way he could escape. A dozen unlikely possibilities lined themselves up in
panicky
parade. Perhaps another opening had been made elsewhere. Perhaps the
bogey
was coming alive, finally, even preparing to lift off.
Perhaps
a bargain was being struck.
_Deactivate
the bomb, and we’ll let you go._
He
backed away from the cylinder, his torch swinging back and forth on the
floor
nearby. _Why did it close up? Has it been active all along, watching us,
guessing
everything we'd do?_
He
propped himself against the curve of the antechamber near the horizontal
tunnel.
Sixteen minutes.
In
five or six minutes, it probably wouldn't matter whether he got out or not.
He
wouldn't be far enough away from the bogey to survive the hail of shrapnel.
He
could not conceive of any vessel, even the size of a small mountain,
withstanding
an internal blast of three kilotons.
Rogers
shook his head slowly, trying to concentrate, keep his mind from
wandering.
He could turn off the weapon and see if the way was opened again.
_Tit
for tat. Scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Sorry, it was all a big
misunderstanding._
Kneeling
beside the monkey, he again reached out for the switch.
_You
know, this is the first time we've actually gotten a reaction._
He
thought that over, biting his lower lip, fingers tensing and relaxing over
the
switch.
"Maybe
you feel threatened," he said aloud. "Maybe for the first time we’re
getting
through to you."Somehow, that wasn’t convincing.
He
could not bring himself to flip the switch. He would not be able to reset
the
timer if he shut the weapon off; the lieutenant had not shown him how to
do
that.
Fourteen
minutes.
_The
first blow for our side. I’m in charge._
He
sat down beside the monkey, reaching out to bring up the radiation jacket
and
drape it over his knees. _Quandary._
The
silence within the chamber was absolute.
"If
you're listening, damn you, then talk to me," he said. "Tell me about
yourself."
He chuckled and that sound scared him worst of all, for it told him
how
close he really was to flipping the switch. He might see his wife and kid
again
if he flipped the switch; they might not have to receive and read the
letter
he had posted on his bulletin board. He could see Clare's face,
mourning,
and his chest hurt.
William's
face, sweet five-year-old deviltry pure.
What
would he think of himself if he deactivated?
His
career might as well be over. He would have fallen back in the face of
enemy
action and jeopardized their entire defense effort. Others had risked
their
careers, perhaps even their lives. Rogers did not, right now, want to
contemplate
how many people up the line had helped to procure this weapon, and
how
they felt at this moment: possible traitors, lawbreakers, risk-takers.
Acting
in defiance of the President. Mutineers, rebels,
"God
damn, you know us so well," he said to the darkness. "You've twisted
us
every
which way, so casual, and now you think you've got us again." No reply.
The
silence of deep space. Eternities.
Twelve
minutes.
How
many times would his hand reach out, the body pleading, and how many times
would
something undefined pull it back?
"I
won't touch it. Come on out and deactivate it yourself. Maybe I won't put
up
a fight. Maybe we have something in common now!"
He
was hyperventilating. Clasping his hands before his mouth, he tried to
rebreathe
each gulp of air and slow his frantic lungs. Did judgment of one's
courage,
valor, require the appearance of nobility, or was an act alone
sufficient?
If by the end of the—he checked—eleven minutes, he was on the
floor,
a screaming, weeping madman capable only of keeping his finger away
from
the switch, would he still get to the Army Valhalla and toss off a few
with
all the dead heroes? Or would he be turned away, sent to the showers?
_Wash
off that stink of fear, soldier._
He
didn't want Valhalla. He wanted Clare and William. He wanted to say good-
bye
in more words than he had put in the letter. In person.
"Please
God, let me be calm," he said hoarsely. He flattened his cupped hands
into
a gesture of prayer, pinching the tip of his nose between his index
fingers,
closing his eyes. It might have been easier if he had brought a
pistol
along. "Jesus Jesus Jesus Christ."
_Don't
let me fuck this one up. Dear God keep my hand from that switch. Hit
them
back hit them back in the face. God I know you don't take sides but I'm a
_soldier
_God and this is what I have to do. Take care of them please Lord of
all
of us and help us save our home our world. Let this mean something please
God._
Nine
minutes. He crawled down the horizontal tunnel again and saw the plug was
still
in place. To make sure it was solid, and not just an illusion, he jumped
the
three yards and landed his feet squarely on the flat grayness, flexing his
knees
to break the shock, slamming his elbows and lower arms against the
chimney
wall. Solid. He stomped on it several times. Nothing. Grimacing from
his
bruised heels, he braced himself and climbed out of the well, returning to
the
antechamber.He refused to allow himself to get closer than six feet from the
monkey.
_Another
way out._
_Not
likely._
_Tit
for tat._
"What
are you doing, learning more about us, setting up another experiment?
Will
I or won't I?" He stood on the edge of the antechamber, waving his torch
beam
across the semiglossy cathedral facets. "I can't make sense out of any of
this.
Why did you come here? Why can't you just go away, leave me with my wife
and
family?"
That
was enough talking, and a fine sentiment to end all the words he had ever
spoken.
_No more words,_ he vowed. He broke the vow immediately. Breaking
small
vows helped him keep to the big one.
"So
why don't we talk? I'm not going to push that switch. I won't be around to
tell
anybody. Talk to me, show me what you're all about."
Five
minutes.
"I
hear you might have gone clear across this galaxy, gone from star to star.
You're
part of a planet-eating machine. That's what the newspapers are saying.
Lots
of people speculating. Aren't you curious what we'd think, what I'd think
if
I knew the truth? So talk to me." _Give me something to hang on to. Some
reason._
"I'm not touching that switch! That bomb is going to go off."
What
if it didn't?
What
if he had to spend the next few weeks in here, dying of thirst, all for
nothing,
because the aliens had found some way to deactivate the weapon? What
if
they kept him there to starve just as punishment for trying?
Three
minutes.
"I'm
a dead man," he said, and realized the truth of that. He was a dead
soldier
already. There was no escape, no way out between his convictions and
his
duty. That thought calmed him considerably, and he sat on the lip of the
antechamber,
as he had sat once before, legs dangling out over the darkness.
"So
where's your light?" he asked. "Show me your little red light."
He
wouldn't even know when it had happened. He wouldn't hear anything, see
anything.
One
minute.
_Frozen
men become warm again_
_And
rabbits drug themselves in the wolfs jaws_
_God
gives us ways out_
_I'm
still thinking_
_But
it doesn't hurt now._
_I
know how very small and inconsequential_
_I_
From
six miles away, Senator Gilmonn put on the smoky gray glasses the
lieutenant
gave to him and looked across the desert at the distant black hump
that
was the bogey. The cultists had scattered all across the desert floor,
most
out of the area, farther away than his small group, but some hiding
behind
piles of rock and other cinder cones. He had no idea how many of the
diehards
would survive.
"He's
not out of there," the lieutenant said, removing a pair of radio
headphones.
Observers in the mountains had not seen Rogers leave the bogey.
"I
wonder what happened?" Gilmonn asked. "Did he plant the...it?"
Beams
of brilliant red light shot up from the false cinder cone, and the
desert
floor was illuminated by a small sun. Huge black fragments twisted
upward
in silhouette against the fireball, disintegrating, the smaller
fragments
falling back in smoking arcs. The sound was a palpable wall, more
solid
and painful than loud, and a violent blast of dusty wind progressed
visibly
over the scrub and sand and rock. When it hit, they had a hard time
staying
on their feet.
The
dust cleared momentarily and they saw a tall, lean pillar of cloud rising,a
fascinating ugly yellow-green, shot through with pastel pinks and purples
and
reds.
The
lieutenant was weeping. "My god, he didn't get out. Dear Jesus. What a
blast!
Like a goddamned pipe bomb."
Senator
Gilmonn, too stunned to react, decided he simply did not understand.
The
lieutenant understood, and his face was shiny with tears.
Fragments
of rock and glass and metal fell for ten miles around for the next
ten
minutes. At six miles, none of the fragments exceeded half an inch in
diameter.
They
took refuge in the trucks and waited out the shower, and then drove away
from
the site to the decontamination center in Shoshone.
49—
January
6
The
network between the Possessed was beginning to knit and connect. Arthur
could
feel its progress. This both excited and saddened him; the time he was
spending
with Francine and Marty might be coming to a close.
If
she could not accept what had happened, he would have to continue without
them.
Arthur
did not know quite how she was taking his revelation, until, in the
morning,
he overheard her talking to Marty in the kitchen. He had just
finished
a thorough check of the family station wagon and was wiping his hands
on
a paper towel before passing through the swinging door.
"Dad's
going to have a lot of work to do soon," Francine said. Arthur paused
behind
the door, crumpled towel in one hand, his jaw working.
"Can
he stay with us?" Marty asked.
He
could not see them, but he could tell that Francine was by the sink, facing
the
center of the kitchen, where the boy stood. "What he's doing is
important,"
she said, not answering Marty's question. She didn't know the
answer.
"He's
not working for the President now. He told me."
"Right,"
Francine said.
"I
wish he could stay home."
"So
do I."
"Is
he going someplace without us?"
"I
don't understand what you're asking, Marty."
"Is
he going to leave us here when the Earth blows up?"
Arthur
closed his eyes. The towel was a tight ball in his fist.
"He's
not leaving us anywhere. He's just...working."
"Why
work when everything's going to stop?"
"Everybody
has to work. We don't know everything's going to stop. Besides,
he's
working so that maybe it won't...stop." The catch in her voice made him
raise
his head to keep the tears from dropping down his cheek.
"Mr.
Perkins says there isn't much we can do."
"Mr.
Perkins should stick to arithmetic," Francine said sharply.
"Is
Dad ascared?"
"Afraid."
"Yeah,
but is he?"
"No
more than I am," she said.
"What
can he do to stop things?"
"Time
for us to take you to school now. Where's your father?"
_"Mo-ommm!_
Can he?"
"He's
working with...some people. They think maybe they can do something."
"I'll
tell Mr. Perkins."
"Don't
tell Mr. Perkins _anything_, Marty. Please."
Arthur
stepped back a few feet to make a noise, came through the door, and
dropped
the thoroughly wadded towel into the trash bag under the sink. Martystared at
him with wide eyes, lips pressed together and sucked inward.
"Everybody
ready?"
They
nodded.
"Have
you been crying, Daddy?" Marty asked.
Arthur
said nothing, simply staring between them.
"We're
a team, aren't we, honey?" Francine said, hugging him and gesturing for
Marty
to come. The boy was not of an age to be enthusiastic about physical
affection,
but he came and Arthur knelt, one arm around Francine's waist, one
arm
wrapped around his son.
"We
sure are," he said.
What
he received, in the way of messages, was a peculiar shorthand unlike
anything
he had ever experienced before. The flow of information came as
truncated
visuals, bits of spoken conversations (sometimes delivered by
separate
and identifiable voices, sometimes monotoned or not auditory at all),
and
as often as not, simply as memories. He could not remember receiving the
memories,
but they were there, and they informed his planning and action.
By
that evening, as he lay in bed again beside his wife, as yet more rain
pattered
gently on the roof and windows, he knew that;
Lehrman,
McClennan, and Rotterjack had formed a delegation to inform the
President
of the destruction of the Furnace bogey. (Lehrman was one of the
Possessed.)
The
President had listened to the information, delivered largely by
Rotterjack,
and had said nothing, simply shaking his head and gesturing for
them
to leave.
He
saw:
A
Soviet vacationer from Samarkand (Arthur did not know whether male or
female)
watching a conifer forest burn in the Zerafshan Mountains, sending
thick
white walls of smoke over the craggy alpine ridges.
Large
sections of New York (Queens and the Bronx), Chicago, and New Orleans on
fire,
with no sign of the blazes being brought under control. Much of Tokyo
had
been leveled by four major fires in the past week. Half of Beijing had
been
consumed by fire following an apparently natural earthquake.
Lying
awake, not knowing whether Francine was asleep or simply lying still,
Arthur
received these memories that were not his, and made decisions about his
family's
immediate future.
Wherever
he went, they would go with him; their unity was far more important
than
any home or security. In approximately a month, they would remove Marty
from
school and travel together.
He
would soon be called to Seattle. From there, he would work his way down the
Pacific
coast to San Francisco, performing his duties along the way.
Apparently,
most of his work would consist of gathering records of culture—
documents,
music, films, whatever was on a list that would be fed to him a
section
at a time. The decisions as to what should go on this list were being
made
by others on the network. _And who does the choosing?_
He
had again the nightmare thought:
_The
Possessed are simply being used. There are no saviors. There are only
plunderers,
and they use us as slaves to loot the Earth of all they can carry
away._
How
many were Possessed now?
_Ten
thousand._
A
round number, growing larger each day.
And
room on the arks for as few as _two thousand_.
If
he was chosen, he decided, and Marty and Francine were not, he would stay.
He
would refuse. _Won't I?_ And that was the worst nightmare thought of all.
Arthur
could not be sure that when the time came, given the opportunity denied
to
his wife and son, he would not leave them.
_I
can stay. I will stay._"Are they talking to you?" Francine rolled
over in the dark and faced him. He
smiled
at her and pulled her close.
"No,"
he said. "Not right now."
"Where
are the spiders?"
"In
their box." He had taken a wooden box and given the spiders a home on the
upper
shelf of the office closet. Neither of the spiders had moved for days.
"What
kind of people do they need?"
"I
have no idea," Arthur answered.
"Do
you remember that night, when Grant and Danielle and Becky were visiting,
and
Chris Riley called...To tell you about Europa?"
He
nodded.
"I
was really afraid then. I don't know why. I knew it was far away."
Arthur
saw Europa boiling, great chunks of ice flashing into linear rays of
steam,
other chunks lifting away, and beneath it all, a spreading, perfectly
smooth
sphere of light, as white and pearly as parachute silk and bright as
the
sun, _pushing_ the ice and steam out into space...
"What
really happened to Europa?" she asked.
"I
think our friends...our...friends, ate it," he said. "Turned it into
more
of
their own spacecraft." _And the huge chunks of ice, sent inward to Mars
and
Venus?_
No images or memories explained them.
"Then
I shouldn't have been afraid."
"Oh,
yes," Arthur said. "You were right to be afraid. You knew before I
did."
She
nodded in agreement, "I did, didn't I? What does that make me?
Psychic?"
She
was talking just to be talking. He knew that, and he didn't mind; her
words
soothed him.
"A
woman," he said.
"How
quaint."
He
grinned against her hair and kissed her.
"It's
funny, but in all of this, I've been thinking of you and Marty, and...my
book.
The Huns and Mongols and Scythians and Indo-Europeans...All those people
and
my book. I'll never get it finished."
"Don't
be so sure," he said, but it hurt him to say it.
"Do
you think these probes are like the hordes? Migrating, ravaging, pushed on
by
famine or overpopulation?"
"No,"
he said. "It's a big galaxy. We've seen nothing like that." _But
would
we
know where and how to look?_
"Why
are they doing it, then?" she asked.
"You
listened to Harry's tape."
"I'm
not sure I understood it."
"You
understand it as well as I do," Arthur said, squeezing her shoulders.
_Long
dark shape, a single needle, pointing at Europa's heart, the rocky core,
wrapping
long collecting fields around the ice and steam, gathering it in,
paring
away the hydrogen atoms from the oxygen, fusing them. Piercing the
core_...
And
again, no more.
"Have
you decided yet?" Francine asked softly.
"Decided
what?"
"Marty
asked this morning..."
"I
thought I'd made that clear."
"I
just need to be told again."
"Yes.
We're staying together. I'm taking you both with me, wherever I go."
"Good,"
she said.
Francine
finally slept, but Arthur did not. He was haunted by his "memory"—
Lehrman's,
actually—of the expression on the President's face.
_Do
you believe in God?_
_I
believe in punishment._PERSPECTIVE
_The
Los Angeles Electronic Times, unsigned editorial in the Opinion Track,
January
10, 1997_:
The
news of the Death Valley anomaly's destruction has spread around the world
like
a shock wave. At first, we have exulted—a blow struck against the enemy.
But
the bullets still rumble through the Earth's interior. The anomaly in
Australia
is still intact. Rumors of a Russian anomaly are rampant. The Earth
is
still besieged. The opinion of a well-known science fiction writer,
expressed
on a late night talk show, has rapidly become public dogma; that
these
"bullets" are superdense capsules of neutron matter and antimatter,
destined
to meet at the Earth's center and destroy us all .We have no way of
knowing
the truth of this. It seems clear, however, that there is little we
can
do, and however irrationally, our hope fades fast.
January
15
Walt
Samshow took his sandwich out on the starboard wing of the bridge of the
Glomar
_Discoverer_ and stared down at the bow wave and the sullen blue-black
ocean
as he ate. They had left Pearl Harbor the morning of the day before,
zigzagging
across the ocean in search of atmospheric oxygen concentrations
above
the Molokai Fracture.
Occasionally
an insignificant crumb of white bread would drift down from his
meal
into wet oblivion. He imagined some wandering zooplankton would soon know
where
it was, and partake of it. Nothing was ever truly lost, if you only had
access
to all the eyes and senses in the universe, as he sometimes imagined
God
did. God himself had no eyes; He made eyes and put living things in charge
of
them, that He might witness the majesty of creation from an objective
viewpoint.
David
Sand came up the stairs and leaned on the railing beside Samshow, eyes
red
from lack of sleep. "We're twelve hours from the fracture," he said.
"Captain's
turned in and Chao's going to stand deck watch from here on."
Samshow
nodded and chewed.
"Not
much enthusiasm, is there?" Sand asked.
"We're
working, at least," Samshow said after swallowing.
"Fanning
in the radio room says the Navy has three ships out here, just
cruising
back and forth..." He made two doubled-back sweeps with his hand.
"Back
and forth. Looking."
"Has
the House voted for impeachment yet?" Sam-show asked, straightening, legs
expertly
compensating for the gentle sway. He crumpled his sandwich wrapper
and
stuffed it into his shirt pocket, behind pens and pencils.
"Not
that I know of," Sand said.
"I
sometimes think we deserve to die, we're all so goddamned stupid."
Samshow's
tone was unperturbed, mild. He might have been making an observation
about
a seabird.
Sand
smiled uncomfortably and shook his head. "Voice of experience," was
all
he
managed to say.
"Yeah.
I've kept up with the news and I've read books and I've worked with all
sorts
of people for sixty-odd years, and I've seen one kind of stupid, and
another.
We all bump into each other every day of our lives, by guess and by
golly,
and we render our opinions whether we know anything or not, and if
anybody
catches us out we lie...Ah, shit on it." He shook his head. "I'm just
feeling
uncommonly sour today."
"Right."
Sand brushed his sun-dried hair from his eyes.
"They've
got us, you know that? We're down and we're weak and there's not a
goddamn
thing we can do now except go out and look..."—he raised his eyebrows
and
pursed his lips—"and say, 'yep, by golly, there it is. We're bleeding to
death.'
They knew exactly what to do. They used their decoys, and we fell for
them.
It's like they know stupidity from generations back, thousands of yearsback.
Maybe they've found stupid hayseed worlds all across the galaxy. So now
they
have us confused and on our backs kicking and they've got the knife at
our
throats, like slaughtering a goddamned pig." He gripped the railing and
rocked
on his heels gently. "I have never in my life felt so useless."
Sand
cocked his head to one side. "It still seems theoretical to me," he
said.
"I
can't believe anything's really happening."
"It's
been raining for two days in Montana, and they still can't put out the
fires,"
Samshow said. "Now there's a grass fire in central Asia that's burned
half
a million acres. They can't control it, needless to say. And the fire in
Tokyo.
We're not only stupid, all our crazy folks are going to burn us out
before
the world goes kablooey. All our sins hang around our necks."
Fanning,
barely twenty, a graduate student from the University of California
at
Berkeley, came onto the bridge and stuffed his hands in his pockets,
hunching
his shoulders in excitement. "I've just figured it out. Some of the
Navy's
coded messages," he said. "They're not working real hard to hide
anything.
They have a deep submersible somewhere out there." He removed a hand
from
one pocket and swept the horizon. "I think it's one of their biggies, a
nuclear.
With treads. They say it's crawling along the bottom."
"Anything
else?" Sand asked facetiously. "Or is it a secret?"
Fanning
shrugged. "Maybe we're going to do something," he said. "Maybe
we're
going
to try again. Knock out something important, not just a rock. Up the
President,
man," he said, and lifted an expressive finger.
January
30
Edward
stood in the parking lot of the Little America Restaurant and Motel,
motor
home idling nearby, and scanned the smoky northern horizon. The fire had
been
burning for five days now and was completely out of control. The orange
and
brown cloud stretched to the limits of east and west, turning the sun an
apocalyptic
flame red. Tendrils of gray smoke had passed over the highway and
motel,
dropping ghostly flakes of fine white ash. From what he had heard on
the
radio, there was no way he could go any farther north; two hundred
thousand
acres of Montana were ablaze, and yesterday the flames had stretched
hungrily
into Canada.
Seated
at the RV's dining table, he charted a southwesterly route on an auto
club
map with a yellow marker, then climbed into the driver's seat and
strapped
himself in.
The
cold northern air was delicious, even thickened by the smell of burning
timber.
He had never known air so invigorating.
Edward
pulled out of the parking lot and headed west.
He
hoped Yosemite would still be there when he arrived.
PERSPECTIVE
_Sky
and Telescope On-line, February 4, 1997_: Today, Venus is at superior
conjunction,
behind the sun and out of sight. Today is also the projected date
of
the impact of a huge chunk of ice, allegedly from Europa. What this will do
to
Venus is a fascinating question. The impact will cause enormous seismic
disruption,
perhaps even deep-mantle cracking and a rearrangement of the
planet's
internal structure. Venus has virtually no water; with the trillions
of
tons of water provided by the ice ball, and the renewed geologic activity,
the
planet could, in a few tens of thousands of years, become a garden of
Eden...
51—
February
19
"About
a third of the kids have been taken out of school," Francine said,
putting
the phone down. She had just phoned to tell the attendance office that
Marty
would be vacationing with them. Arthur carried a box of camping gearand—for no
particular reason—the Astroscan through the living room to the
station
wagon in the garage.
"Not
surprising," he said.
"Jim
and Hilary called to say Gauge is doing fine."
"Why
can't we take Gauge with us?" Marty called from the garage.
"We
talked about that last night," Arthur said.
"He
could sit on my lap," Marty offered, squatting beside the station wagon
and
sorting toys.
"Not
for long," Arthur predicted. "He's got kids to play with, good people
to
look
after him."
"Yeah.
But _I_ don't have _him_."
There
was nothing Arthur could say to that.
"I
called the auto club," Francine said, "and asked what traffic was
like
between
here and Seattle, and down the coast. They say it's really light.
That's
surprising. You'd think everybody would be off playing hooky, off to
Disneyland
or the parks."
"Lucky
for us," Arthur said from the garage. He rearranged the crammed boxes
in
the back of the wagon. Marty sat on the concrete, continuing to pick
halfheartedly
through his toys.
"This
is hard," he said.
"You
think you have problems, fellah," Arthur said. "What about my
books?"
"Are
we just going to lock up?" Francine asked, standing in the door from the
garage
to the house. She carried a box filled with disks and papers-—the notes
she
had made for her book.
"Just
like we're going on vacation," Arthur said. "So we're atypical."
"It
is strange, isn't it, that everybody's staying home, now of all times?"
She
crammed the box into a spare corner of the station wagon.
"How
many people really understand what's happening?" he asked.
"That's
a point."
"The
kids at school understand," Marty said. "They know the world's going
to
end."
"Maybe,"
Arthur said. Again, trying to reassure them hurt him. _The world is
going
to end. _You know it, and _they_ know it_.
"Maybe
everybody wants to be together," Francine said, returning to the
kitchen.
She brought out a box of canned and dried food. "They want to be
someplace
familiar."
"We
don't need that, do we?" Marty asked, shoving aside a pile of unwanted
metal
and plastic robots and spacecraft.
"All
we need is each other," Arthur agreed.
In
the office, he reached into the back of the closet's upper shelf and took
out
the wooden box containing the spiders. It felt peculiarly light. He opened
the
box. It was empty. For a moment, he stood with the box in his hand, and
for
some reason he could not understand he smiled. They had more work to do.
He
glanced at his watch. Wednesday. Ten a.m.
Time
to be on the road.
"All
packed?" he asked.
Marty
surveyed the pile of rejected toys and clutched a single White Owl cigar
box
filled with the chosen. The cigar box had come down from Arthur's father,
who
had had it from _his_ father. It was tattered and reinforced with tape and
represented
continuity. Marty treasured the box in and of itself.
"Ready,"
the boy said, climbing into the back seat. "Are we going to sleep in
a
lot of motels?"
"You
got it," Arthur said.
"Can
I buy some toys where we go?"
"I
don't see why not."
"And
some pretty rocks? If I find them, I mean."
"Nothing
over a ton," Francine said."The boulder that broke the Buick's
back," Arthur said, going into the house
for
a final check.
_Good-bye,
bedroom, good-bye, office, good-bye, kitchen. Refrigerator still
full
of food. Good-bye, knotty-pine paneling, elevated porch, backyard, and
wild
plum tree. Good-bye, smooth and singing river_. He passed Gauge's wicker
bed
in the service porch and felt a lump in his throat.
"Good-bye,
books," he whispered, looking at the shelves in the living room. He
locked
the front door, but did not turn the dead bolt.
52-
February
24
Trevor
Hicks, his work finished in Washington, D.C., had taken a train to
Boston,
single suitcase and computer in hand. At the station, he had been met
by
a middle-aged, brown-haired scattered-looking woman dressed in a black wool
skirt
and old flower-print blouse. She had taken him to her home in Quincy in
a
battered Toyota sedan.
There
he had rested for two days, watched owlishly by the woman's five-year-
old
son and seven-year-old daughter. The woman had been husbandless for three
years,
and the old wood-frame house was in severe disrepair—leaky pipes,
decrepit
wallboard, broken stairs. The children seemed surprised that he did
not
share her bedroom, which led him to believe she had not lacked for male
company.
None of this mattered much to Hicks, who had never been judgmental
even
before his possession. He spent much of his time sitting on the broken-
down
living room couch, thinking or interacting with the network, helping a
dozen
other people in the Northeast compile lists of people to be contacted,
and/or
prepared for removal from the Earth.
All
of his life, Hicks had worked with high-powered personalities—bright,
knowledgeable,
contentious, and often cantankerous men and women. Most of the
people
he now communicated with in the network fit this description. To his
surprise,
whatever maintained and governed the network did not discourage
high-powered
behavior among the network's members. There was considerable
debate,
even acrimony, as first the categories of contactees and "saved" were
decided,
then specific communities, and finally specific individuals.
The
Bosses (or Overlords or Secret Masters, all titles applied at one time or
another
to the anonymous organizers) had apparently decided that humans, with
broad
supervision, knew best how to choose and plan for their own rescue.
Hicks
sometimes had Ms doubts.
Over
a dinner of macaroni and cheese served on a bare oak table, as the
children
listened, Hicks asked his hostess about her role in the rescue.
"I'm
not sure," she said. "They got to me about six weeks ago. I took in
three
people
about a week after that, and they stayed here for a few days and then
left.
Some more people after that, and now you. Maybe I'm a den mother."
The
daughter giggled.
_They
could have chosen more hospitable lodgings_. But he kept that thought to
himself.
"What
about you?" she asked. "What are you doing?"
"Making
up a list," he said.
"Who's
going, who's not?"
He
hesitated, then nodded. "Actually, we're concentrating more on a list of
others
to recruit. There's a lot of work left to be done, and not nearly
enough
people to do it."
"I
don't think my kids and I are going," the woman said. She stared at the
table,
her face slack, then slowly lifted her eyebrows and stood. "Jenny,"
she
said,
"let's clear the table."
"Where
ain't we going, Mama?" the boy asked.
"Hush
up, Jason," the daughter ordered.
"Mama?"
Jason persisted."Nowhere, and you pay attention to your sister, what she
says."
_They
had to start somewhere_, Hicks thought. _She was one of the first. They
didn't
know where to begin_. The suspicion of her inadequacy—if that was the
right
word— of her inability to qualify for the migration, did not prevent her
from
seeing the good they were doing, or the necessity of their work.
_If
we have any free will at all now_.
That
question was still unanswerable. Hicks preferred to think they did have
free
will, which implied that this woman demonstrated a truly admirable human
quality:
selfless courage.
Two
days later, she drove him to the airport, and he boarded an airliner for
San
Francisco. Only on board the aircraft did he realize that he had heard the
names
of the woman's children, but not her own.
High
above the Earth, over the deck of obscuring clouds, Hicks napped and
typed
notes into his computer and realized he was not, for the moment, on
call.
The network had released him for these few hours and he was not privy to
the
ordered flow of voices and information. He had time to think, and to ask
questions.
_How did the spiders get through airport security?_ That seemed
easy
enough. They had departed his luggage in the scanners, crawled through
the
mechanisms, and reentered the luggage beyond the sensors' range. Or they
had
means of altering their X-ray shadows. Human sensory apparatus had failed
completely
from the beginning; if the bogeys could land on Earth without being
detected,
what was so amazing about a spider passing through airport security?
He
mused about these things behind his closed eyes, relishing the temporary
privacy.
Then, on impulse, he inserted a CD carrying the texts of his complete
works
into the computer and called up _Starhome_. Scrolling through page after
page,
he skimmed the long sections of characterization (reasonably adept and
no
more) and intrigue and politics and read in more detail the passages of
speculations
and extrapolations. _It's not a bad book_, he thought. _Even now,
two
years after I finished it, it engages my interest, at least._
But
the pride was largely masked by a sadness. The book dealt with a future.
What
future was there? Certainly not the one he had envisaged—a future of
humans
and extraterrestrials interacting on a vast mission of adventure and
discovery.
In some respects, that now seemed pitifully naive.
Life
on Earth is hard. Competition for the necessities of life is fierce. How
ridiculous
to believe that the law of harsh survival would not be true
elsewhere,
or that it would be negated by the progress of technology in an
advanced
civilization…
And
yet…
Somebody
out there was thinking altruistically.
Or
perhaps not.
_Altruism
is masked self-interest. Aggressive self-interest is a masked urge
to
self-destruction._
He
had written that once in an unpublished article on third-world development.
The
developed nations could serve their interests best by fostering the growth
and
development of less privileged, weaker nations...
And
perhaps that was what was happening here.
But
many experts on strategy had read his article and criticized it severely,
citing
many historical examples to prove him wrong. "Whose interests does the
Soviet
Union serve?" one reader had asked him. The Soviet Union, he had
acknowledged,
was stronger than ever— apparently—but faced enormous problems
coordinating
the nations and peoples it had absorbed, problems that others
thought
might prove fatal in the long run. "But not yet—and how many nations
last
for more than centuries?" the critic had responded.
_Now
apply the theory of necessary altruism to groups of intelligent beings
that
have survived tens of thousands of years. If only one of them launches
planet-eating,
civilization-destroying probes, and none of them respond by
launching
probe-killers—__Who wins?_
Probe-killers,
then, were definitely launched in self-interest. But why
attempt
to preserve possibly competing civilizations? Why not just destroy the
planet-eaters
and be done with it?
The
network was not available to him; all he had were implanted memories,
information
he was not always able to access without the help of the network.
He
often spurred thought by letting his fingers speak. Now he opened a file
and
began to type. The first few sentences came out as gibberish and he erased
them.
_There is an answer here, inside me. I know it._
But
try as he would, he could not bring it all together.
_I
don't know why they're trying to preserve us_.
When
he was outside of the soothing and persuasive direction of the network,
that
lack of an answer worried him.
Harry
Feinman could not make a connection with his past. That time, when he
had
been mobile and free of pain, was fiction, something concocted by his
imagination.
He could not conceive of ever having made love or of having eaten
a
full meal. In the few moments of lucidity left to him each day, he searched
his
body for any sign of that past and found nothing. All was failing. He was
a
different person; Harry Feinman had already died.
Most
of the time he spent sleeping or nearly asleep, heavily doped. He thought
or
dreamed vaguely of life after death and decided the question didn't really
matter;
anything, even complete oblivion, was better than this half-and-half
existence.
Ithaca
drifted in and out of the room like a cloud. When he was in pain,
between
medications, she sat by him sharp as a razor, saying nothing as he lay
rigid,
teeth clamped.
_You
pays your money coming in, going out. Ticket price for this ride: pain._
The
difference between day and night was not clear to him anymore. Sometimes
the
lights were down when he was awake, sometimes not.
There
was a miraculous hour when somehow his medication was perfectly
balanced,
and he felt almost normal, and in this time he cherished Ithaca's
presence.
He told her he wanted her to marry again and she accepted this
unintentional
but necessary torture with the calmness he had come to expect
and
rely on; then he remembered having told her several times before.
"Why
worry about it?" she asked quietly. "We'll probably all be gone soon
anyway."
Harry
shook his head as if disagreeing, but she looked at him with her "Oh,
come
on" look, one eyebrow arched, and he said, "I'd like to see that.
What a
show
that'll be, if it comes."
"If?"
Ithaca smiled ironically. "You're my favorite pessimist. Now you sound
hopeful."
"Just
barely hopeful," Harry said.
"What
did Arthur tell you?"
"Never
try to hide anything from my woman." Harry took a moment to remember.
"He
said the planet is covered by little spiders now."
Ithaca
leaned forward. "What?"
"The
cavalry is here, but it's probably come too late."
She
shook her head, not understanding.
"He
showed one to me. A little robot. They're harvesting the Earth before it
goes.
Trying to save a little breeding population, I'd guess. Like a zoo
expedition.
And they're destroying the machines that are doing this to us."
"Arthur
told you all this?"
He
nodded. "I thought he was nuts, then he showed me one of the spiders. He
seemed...not
happy, but he seemed to know he was doing something useful. He
thought
maybe they were controlling his thoughts, but he said he didn't mind,
and
he couldn't be..." Harry's weakness came on him and he closed his eyes for
several
minutes. "He said they knew what was best, probably."Ithaca studied
his face closely, leaning forward. "I saw one," she said
softly.
"I think I did. In the garden."
"One
what? Spider?"
"Silver."
She held up her open hand. "Big as this. It ran away before I could
see
it clearly, but when I looked—it had been on the trunk of the old live
oak-there
were cuts through the bark, knife cuts. I thought I was seeing
things,
or just mistaken. Harry, should we tell people?"
"What
good?" he asked. His thoughts were blurring again, so he said no more
and
only held her hand lightly in his.
Ithaca
called the Gordon house the next evening and received no answer. The
last
part of Harry had died, finally, at eleven in the morning.
53—
March
10
The
Glomar _Discoverer_, its engines in reverse against a steady surface
current
and a constant twelve-knot southwesterly wind, drifted at the edge of
a
vast sea of lime-green and gray and white foam. The air was filled with a
constant
churning roar. High overhead, peculiar clouds were forming—swirling
bands,
curving upward as if along the inside of a funnel.
Walt
Samshow scanned the foaming sea to the distant horizon and could see no
end
to it. He hardly needed to breathe at all now. Most of the men held wet
rags
over their noses and mouths. Nosebleeds were common; the delicate nasal
tissues
were deteriorating under the drying, burning effect of too much of a
good
thing: oxygen.
"We
can't stay here long," Sand said, standing beside him on the bridge.
"Do
we have our samples and readings?" Samshow asked. Sand nodded.
"Any
word from the Navy ships?"
"They've
left the area already. We've been listening for the deep submersible,
but
all we hear is the roar of bubbles."
"Tell
the captain we should pull back ourselves," Samshow said. "Can
anybody
fight
this?" He had directed his question out over the bridge railing, but
Sand
shook his head.
"I
doubt it."
"It's
like watching the whole ocean being dismantled," Samshow said. He pulled
a
bottle of eyedrops from his peacoat pocket and leaned his head back to
administer
them.
Sand
refused the bottle when Samshow offered it. "It's scary."
Samshow
grimaced. "It's goddamned _exhilarating_, and I don't mean the oxygen.
You
can see the end of things, you can see a plan—or at least some outline of
a
plan—and it's horrifying, it's grand."
Sand
stared at him, not comprehending.
"Forget
it," Samshow said, waving the almost empty bottle of eyedrops. "Tell
the
captain to get us the hell away from here."
Sand
bumped into Chao, the first mate, in the bridge hatchway. Apologizing, he
stood
back and Chao held out a scribbled note.
"From
Pearl Harbor, and from San Francisco!" he said.
"What?"
Sand asked.
"Report
of a seismic disturbance in Mongolia. Not an earthquake, a bomb.
Perhaps
ten megatons. Not an air burst, an underground or something like it."
Samshow
looked at the figures on the scrap of paper. "They're no fools," he
said.
"You
think they blew up the Russian bogey?" Sand asked.
"What
else?" Chao grinned broadly. "Maybe we can get them all! Maybe the
Australians,
too, eh?"
"Where
will they get a bomb?" Sand asked.
"If
they even want to," Samshow said.
"Only
a fool would hesitate now," Chao said. "Put the bastards out of
action,cut their lines of communication!"
"Hear
that freight train down there?" Samshow pointed figuratively and
emphatically
down through the deck and the ocean, and jabbed his finger to
deepen
the thrust to the mantle and core below. "As long as that's running,
we've
accomplished nothing."
"If
the theories are correct," Sand said.
"Still,
we got them!" Chao refused to have a wet blanket thrown over his
enthusiasm.
He stared defiantly at Samshow then dipped his head and raised one
leg
over the bottom of the hatchway to return to the bridge.
54—
Edward
Shaw drove the Itasca into Fresno and stopped for gas. The sky to the
north
was free of smoke but deeper blue than he had ever seen it at this
latitude.
There was a lot of fine ash in the air from the fires in the Soviet
Union
and China.
Winter
was coming to an end prematurely; across the Sierras, snow was receding
rapidly.
California—with
the exception of San Diego, where fires had spread north from
Tijuana—seemed
to have escaped the worst of the conflagrations. Yosemite was
intact.
That might be explained by the lack of tourists; the roads were
unnaturally
empty. A few radio stations had gone off the air, abandoned by
their
personnel. The news broadcasts he had heard driving into Fresno were far
from
encouraging.
The
Kemp-Van Cott objects within the Earth were slowing more rapidly than
before.
It seemed both scientific and public perception that the harmonic
swings
of these two (or more, some said) "bullets" were ticking away the
Earth's
final days. The current estimate was thirty days before they met at
the
Earth's core. Sentence of death.
He
bought basic groceries and several six-packs of beer in the convenience
store,
then drove through the city, stopping on impulse at a sprawling three-
level
shopping mall just off the highway in Pinedale.
"What
in _hell_ am I doing?" he asked himself after he had parked the RV. He
sat
in the driver's seat, looking across the half-filled parking lot. "I
_hate_
shopping centers." He got out and carefully locked up. In faded blue
jeans,
Pendleton jacket, and running shoes, he could have passed for any of
the
locals who wandered on the lowest level of the mall, going from window to
window,
alone or with girlfriends or family. Still unsure why he was where he
was,
Edward sat on a bench near a flower-shop kiosk and watched the people
passing,
concentrating on the men.
_Life
as usual? Not quite._
The
expressions on the men's faces, young or old, seemed fixed, dazed. There
was
no joy in their shopping. The children still showed enthusiasm, and the
women
for the most part appeared either calm or blank. _Why? Women are
supposed
to feel things more than the men. Why the difference?_
After
an hour of watching and puzzling, he stood and approached a bookstore,
the
only conceivable place in the mall he might find something of interest.
Looking
through the travel section and picking out books about Yosemite, he
heard
a commotion near the front counter. A florid, stocky man in white shirt
and
gray slacks came in shouting, "Hey, hey! Hear this? Hear about this
yet?"
He
flashed a newspaper around, his face wreathed with a smile. "The Russians
blew
up theirs, too. That's two down! Just the Aussies now, and we'll have
them!"
No
one showed much enthusiasm.
_We're
down and nearly out_, Edward thought. _The whole planet feels like the
four
of us did at Vandenberg. What does it matter if we take a small chunk out
of
them?_
He
bought the books and quickly left the mall.On California state highway 41,
driving north, passing a car perhaps every
five
minutes, he nodded his head and clenched his jaw, suddenly realizing why
he
had made the Pinedale stop. The books were of course superfluous; he had
gone
there to say good-bye to part of his culture.
_If
this is going to be an extended wake_, he thought, _might as well say my
farewells
to everybody._
Edward
followed 41 into the park and took the long, winding drive along a
nearly
empty Wawona Road, the shadow of Jeffrey and Ponderosa pines crossing
his
windshield. It was four o’clock and the cool, sweet, green-scented air
came
through his half-opened side window with strobing warm bursts of sun
between
stands of trees. Large patches of snow dripped by the roadside, edges
round
and glittering.
The
Wawona tunnel opened onto Inspiration Point and a view of the length of
the
valley. He parked the RV in the small paved lot, three spaces over from a
lone
unoccupied car. Climbing down, savoring the moment, he walked to the edge
and
stood by the railing, hands in pockets, a silly grin on his face.
_I’m
a kid again._
This
is what he remembered most clearly—the valley floor, green with thick
pine
growth, and in western shadow, the Merced River reflecting snake curves
of
clear blue sky. Bridal Veil Falls cut its famous brilliant white arc and
died
in foggy spray against the rocks below. Above the falls, the Cathedral
Rocks
framed granite monstrosities beyond. On the left, the face of El Capitan
glowered
gray and pure, dominating the valley from this perspective.
_Over
twenty years ago, I wondered what it would be like to wander through a
mass
made of that much granite. There are places inside no one has seen ever,
a
vast space of solid rock, silent and still, frozen._
Beyond
and behind El Capitan rose the Three Brothers and North Dome, from this
angle
a simple superfluity of rock capped with snow, sure to assume their
proper
characters when seen from below. Almost on a par with the white peak of
Clouds
Rest, and above the lower of the Cathedral Rocks, was the calm, bright-
faced
assertion of Half Dome.
The
cold wind drove up the valley and whipped Edward's hair. _I'm not
dreaming.
By God, I'm finally here, and this isn't a dream._ He felt compelled
to
make sure and kicked his boot lightly against a post rail.
For
more than twenty years, in his dreams, this had been the place of his
greatest
happiness, his peace. Nowhere else had he ever felt quite so much at
ease,
he thought; and his almost monthly returns in sleep to this valley,
these
monoliths, kept reminding him of what he had lost.
His
father, whom he had lost—who had lost him, as well—and his mother, who
ignored
him. The peace and self-assurance of childish ignorance, or perhaps it
was
enlightenment; he didn't care.
By
five-thirty, Edward had carried the last of his equipment from the Curry
Village
parking lot to the tent cabin he had reserved (needlessly) three weeks
before.
He checked out the cabin, a raised wooden platform covered with oft-
patched
white canvas, placed in isolation in the middle of trees close to the
talus
slope of Glacier Point. The cabin's single light bulb gave sufficient if
not
bright light, and the two army-blanketed metal-frame beds were in good
repair
and comfortable.
He
followed the road past the Curry Village shops and over a stone bridge and
then
crossed the meadow. A red-winged blackbird in a nearby bush took
exception
to his presence. He grinned and tried to chirp back in a friendly
manner,
but the bird would have none of his overtures. That didn't matter; he
knew
he belonged there as much as the bird.
From
the middle of a meadow, surrounded by tussocks of grass, he rotated to
survey
his new world. The valley was dark and quiet; the rich, deep blue
evening
sky hovered on motionless air. He heard the distant echoes of people
laughing
and talking, their voices bouncing from the granite walls of GlacierPoint,
Sentinel Rock, and the Royal Arches across the valley. At the base of
the
Royal Arches he could make out the lights of the Ahwanee resort hotel. To
the
west a few hundred yards, a few campfires and electric lights revealed the
extent
of Yosemite Village.
He
and his parents had lodged the last night of their journey in the Ahwanee,
after
spending a week in the tent cabins. He was still debating whether he
would
do that when the end approached.
_Sublime
peace._
How
would the people of the world fare if all could spend their lives in this
kind
of beauty? If humans were rare enough that almost any meeting was
precious?
He
turned on his flashlight and shone it ahead as he returned to the tent
cabins.
On a flat-topped granite boulder just down the slope from his cabin,
he
laid out the Coleman stove and a pot of water and fixed a quick supper of
ramen
soup, throwing an onion and a hot dog in with the noodles.
He
walked in darkness to the showers, wearing only an off-white knee-length
terry-cloth
robe, shaving kit in hand. A Steller's jay hopped along behind
him,
watching closely for dropped crumbs. "It's dark," he told the bird.
"Go
to
sleep. I've eaten already. Where were you? No food now. "The bird
persisted,
however; it knew humans were liars.
The
communal showers—a large wood-paneled building, women to the left, men to
the
right—were practically empty. An attendant at the towel and soap station
lounged
back on his stool and only leaned forward when Edward approached.
"Step
right up," the young man said, flourishing a small bar of soap and a
towel.
"No waiting."
Edward
smiled. "Must be dull."
"It's
_wonderful,_" the attendant said.
"How
many people here?"
"In
the entire valley? Maybe two, three hundred. At Camp Curry, no more than
thirty.
Perfectly peaceful."
Edward
showered in a clean, virtually unused stall, then shaved himself with a
disposable
razor in a mirror long enough to accommodate fifteen or twenty men.
One
other came in to shower, smiling cheerfully. Edward nodded cordially,
feeling
like privileged nobility, packed up his kit, and returned to the tent
cabin.
By
eight, he had had enough of reading the books he had bought in the shopping
mall
bookstore. He turned out the overhead light and plumped up the pillows,
and
then lay sleepless for an hour, thinking, listening.
Somewhere
in the valley, a group of kids sang folk songs, their young voices
rising
high in the starry darkness. They sounded like cheerful ghosts.
_I’m
home._
55—
Reuben
turned nineteen on March 15, in Alexandria, Virginia. He celebrated by
buying
himself a doughnut and a carton of milk in a small bakery, and then
stood
on the street, drawing suspicious glances. He had bought a new overcoat
and
a fedora, but tall, muscular young blacks, standing idle, dressed even in
inconspicuous
nonconformity, were not a favored attraction in the tourist
district.
He did not care. He knew what he was doing.
With
a flourish, he tossed the carton and the waxed-paper doughnut wrapper
into
a public trash can, wiped his lips delicately with the knuckle of his
index
finger, and unlocked the door of a faded silver 1985 Chrysler LeBaron.
He
had purchased the car with cash in Richmond and had already, in just three
days,
put four hundred miles on it. It was the first car he had ever bought,
and
he didn't care whether he owned it or not. He had sole use of it, and that
was
what counted.
The
remainder of the bag full of cash—about ten thousand dollars—he hadstashed in
the trunk under the spare tire.
"Okay,"
he said, listening to the engine smoothly idling. "Where to?"
He
squinted a moment. Now, the orders usually came from people, and not from
the
indefinite nonvoice of what those on the network called the Boss. Reuben
had
even come to recognize the "signatures" of certain human
personalities he
communicated
with, but this time, they were not familiar to him.
"Cleveland
it is," he said. He pulled several maps from the glove compartment
and
used a yellow marker to draw his course along the highways. He had spent
the
last few days stealing hundreds of books and optical disks from libraries
in
Washington and Richmond, and buying hundreds of others from bookstores. He
had
passed all of these on to three middle-aged men in Richmond, and he had no
clear
idea what they were going to do with them; he hadn't asked. Clearly, the
Boss
was interested in literature.
With
some relief—he did not enjoy thievery, even in a good cause—he took to
the
open road.
Spring
was coming fast. The hills surrounding the Pennsylvania Turnpike were
already
rich green, and trees were bringing forth leaves that they would not
have
time to shed. There would be no summer or autumn.
Reuben
shook his head, thinking about that, hands on the wheel. When he was on
the
road, the network rarely spoke to him, and that gave him plenty of time—
perhaps
too much time—to wonder about things.
He
refilled the LeBaron's tank in New Stanton and parked in front of a diner.
After
a quick meal of a hamburger and a small green salad, he paid his tab and
looked
over a rack of postcards, choosing one showing a big white barn covered
with
Pennsylvania Dutch hex symbols. Purchasing a few stamps from a machine,
he
scribbled on the back of the card,
Dad,
Still
working steady here and elsewhere. Thinking about you.
Take
care of yourself.
Reuben
and
dropped it into the box outside the diner.
He
made it to Cleveland by eight. A quiet rain fell as he checked into an old
hotel
near the bus depot. He parked the LeBaron in a public parking garage,
uncomfortably
aware that he would not be driving it to the final destination.
Somebody
would pick him up and take him there.
He
was no more than a couple of miles from Lake Erie, and that—so the network
had
told him—was where he would have to be in the early morning.
Reuben
regarded himself in the bathroom's spotty mirror. He saw a big kid with
a
patchy beard and strong, regular features. He saluted the big kid—and the
network
—and went to bed, but didn't sleep much.
He
was scared. Tomorrow, he would meet other people in the network—some of the
people
behind the voices. That didn't frighten him. But...
Something
in the lake waited for them.
How
much did he trust the Secret Masters?
What
did it matter?
He'd
be on the lake shore, at the Toland Brothers Excursion Terminal, at six
a.m.
, clean-shaven and freshly showered and dressed in the new suit he had
purchased
in Richmond for just such an occasion.
56—
Trevor
Hicks stepped out of the rental car under a big iron trestle and
screened
his eyes against the sun. He saw Arthur Gordon crossing the street.
Gordon
waved. Hicks, exhausted from the drive and still nervous, made a feeble
gesture
of acknowledgment. He had never become used to driving in the United
States.
Unable to find a quick route by surface streets, he had taken thefreeway to get
to the Seattle waterfront, then had driven in circles beneath
the
bridge for ten minutes, twice barely missing other cars in the narrow
aisles.
Finally he had managed to park just down the long concrete steps from
the
Pike Place Market. Across the street, warehouses converted into
restaurants
and shops vied with new buildings for views of the bay. Sea gulls
wheeled
and squeaked over a half-eaten hamburger in the street, lifting on
spread
wings to dodge passing cars.
Gordon
approached and they shook hands awkwardly.
Despite
having communicated recently on the network, they hadn't seen each
other
since their first meeting in the Furnace Creek Inn. "My wife and son are
in
the aquarium," Gordon said, pointing down the street. "That'll keep
them
busy
for a couple of hours."
"Do
they know?" Hicks asked.
"I
told them," Arthur said, "We're staying together, wherever I go.
We're
driving
to San Francisco next week."
Hicks
nodded. "I'm staying here. I hear there's going to be activity in the
sound
soon." He made a face. "If you can call it 'hearing.'"
"Any
idea what sort of activity?" Arthur asked.
Hicks
shook his head. "Something important. In San Francisco, too."
"I've
had that impression."
"I'm
sorry about your friend," Hicks said.
Arthur
stared at him, puzzled. "Sorry?"
"Mr.
Feinman. It was in the papers yesterday morning."
Arthur
hadn't thought of Harry much since leaving Oregon. "I haven't been
reading
the papers. He..."
"Monday,"
Hicks said.
"Christ.
I...Ithaca probably called, and we were gone." He lifted his head. "I
told
him about the network, too."
"Did
he believe you?"
"I
think he probably did."
"Then
maybe it helped...No, I suppose that's silly."
Arthur
stood with hands in pockets, shaken despite the months of preparation.
He
felt vaguely guilty for not thinking of Harry; he had called several times
before
leaving Oregon, and had been unable to speak to his friend. He took a
deep
breath and indicated they should climb the stairs to the market. "I
wanted
him to know that not everything was lost. I hope it helped. It's so
difficult
sorting everything out."
They
passed in silence through the mostly empty aisles, stopping at a bakery
to
buy coffee and sitting at a white wrought-iron table placed between shops.
"How
have they kept you busy?" Arthur asked.
"I've
been visiting libraries, universities. Locating people...That's how I'm
most
useful, apparently. I help find people the network is looking for,
scientists,
candidates."
"I
haven't been doing much of anything yet," Hicks said. "Do you
know...who
the
candidates are?"
"Not
really. There are so many more names than places. I don't think any of
_us_
are making the final choices."
"Terrifying,
isn't it?" Arthur said.
"In
a way."
"Have
you heard anything about the bogeys? On the network, I mean."
"Nothing,"
Hicks said.
"Do
you think we've slowed them down, done any good by blowing them up?"
Hicks
smiled grimly. "No. Just about as effective as Crockerman."
"But
he didn't...at least, I presume he had nothing to do with the action in
Death
Valley."
"That's
right," Hicks said. "He's done nothing. So have the hotheads.
Certainly,
they've boosted our morale a little...but nobody believes they'vefixed
anything. The bullets still spin."
"Then
what purpose did the bogeys serve?" Arthur asked.
"You
stated it once. They were a distraction, a misdirection. We've
concentrated
almost all our attention on them."
Arthur
blinked. "I didn't think they were just decoys."
Hicks
shook his head. "Neither did I."
Arthur
pushed aside his sweet roll, all appetite gone. "They dropped them
here,
to deceive us, _test_ us, as if we were laboratory mice?"
"I
would say so, now, wouldn't you?"
Arthur
shook his head. "That _burns_."
"Insult
before injury," Hicks said.
"Have
you discussed this with others on the network?"
"No.
We've been far too busy with other things. But the network has been given
no
instructions whatsoever by the Boss regarding the bogeys. We have not been
instructed
to recruit the President. You know that Lehrman is Possessed?"
Arthur
nodded.
"The
Boss has written off our entire military and government effort.
Obviously."
Hicks held out his hands and stood, gathering his foam-plastic cup
and
waxed-paper wrapper. "So I stay here, help with whatever effort is made in
Seattle.
And you move south."
Arthur
remained seated, stunned. He should have assembled all the facts. He
was
disappointed in himself to find he had still harbored some illusions.
"Sorry
to be the one to tell you about Mr. Feinman," Hicks said.
Arthur
nodded.
"Tonight
I'm joining a group staying on Queen Anne Hill," Hicks said. "We'll
reconnoiter
from there." He held out his hand. "Best of luck to you and your
family."
Arthur
stood and shook it firmly. "Good-bye," he said.
They
looked at each other, not voicing the single question too obvious to ask.
_Is
he chosen? Am I?_
Hicks
returned to his car. A few moments later, after surveying the fresh fish
stalls
and vegetable markets and purchasing a pound of smoked salmon and
several
bags of fruit, Arthur descended the stairs and crossed the parking lot
and
street to join Francine and Marty at the aquarium.
57—
March
20
An
ancient Chevy Vega with Texas license plates crossed the stone bridge in
the
opposite direction and honked at Edward. Edward turned and saw a collage
of
bumper stickers covering the back of the car, including the trunk and lower
corners
of the rear window. One glaring Day-Glo pink sticker immediately
caught
his eye: REGISTER PUSSY NOT FIREARMS. A faded yellow plastic square
hung
in the window's upper corner: CAUTION! CHILD DRIVING.
"Hey,
Edward!"
"Minelli!"
He walked to the window and leaned down to wrap his hand around the
back
of Minelli's neck. "You madman. You own this?" He spread his palm at
the
Vega.
"Bought
it three weeks ago, complete with decoration. A beauty, isn't it?"
"I
am genuinely glad to see you."
"I
am glad to be _seen_. It was rough for a while after we parted. You went
back
to Texas?"
"That's
right," Edward said. "How about you?"
"I
made a scene in the institute office. They pulled my papers and kicked me
out
and said go ahead, sue us. I was going nuts. I bought this and I've been
driving
around ever since. I went to Shoshone again and dropped by the grocery
store.
Said hi to everybody. Stella wasn't there. She was off in Las Vegas
talking
to lawyers about mineral deals. Bernice was there. She asked aboutyou. I said
you were fine. Are you?"
"I'm
great," Edward said. "Park and take a walk with me."
"Where
to?"
"I
hear there are rock climbers on El Capitan."
"Hot
damn. Just like Disneyland."
Minelli
parked the car under a cloud of blue exhaust. He patted the trunk
before
opening it. "Why spend lots of money on something that doesn't have to
last
more than a month or two?"
"Looks
like it could break down in the middle of nowhere," Edward commented.
"Hey,
I've always relied on the kindness of strangers."
"With
your sense of humor, that could be dangerous."
Minelli
shrugged and spread his arms out to the sun. "Ultraviolet rays, do
your
worst. I don't give a fuck anymore."
They
followed the asphalt road for two miles, past the Three Brothers, then
took
a trail for another mile and stood in the El Capitan meadow, looking up
at
the massive ancient wall of gray granite. A pale streak showed where a
sheet
of rock had broken off in 1990, revealing unweathered surface.
"It
is magnificent. I haven't been here in ten, twelve years," Minelli said.
"Why'd
you come?"
"Childhood
memories. Best place on Earth."
Minelli
nodded emphatically. "Wherever I am right now is the best place on
Earth,
but this is better than most. I don't see anybody up there. Where are
they?"
Edward
held up a small pair of field binoculars. "Look for ants trailing ropes
and
bags," he said. "There's five or six up there today, I hear."
"Christ,"
Minelli said, shading his eyes. "I see a black spot. No. It's a blue
spot.
Color of my sleeping bag. Is that one?"
Edward
drew a line with his finger from the tiny speck of blue. "Look above
that
a couple of degrees. Here." He handed Minelli the binoculars. Minelli
swept
them back and forth in decreasing arcs and stopped, brows rising above
the
eyepieces. "Got him. Or her. Just hanging there."
"There's
another above that one," Edward said. "They must be a team. You can
barely
see the ropes between them."
"How
long does it take to get to the top?"
"A
day, someone told me. Maybe longer. Sometimes they overnight up there,
hanging
in a bag, or on a ledge if they're lucky."
Minelli
returned the binoculars. "Makes me queasy just thinking about it."
Edward
shook his head. "I don't know. I could get into it. Think of the
accomplishment.
Standing up on top, looking out over everything. Be like
building
a skyscraper and knowing it was yours."
Minelli
made a dubious face. "What else is happening here? The place is
deserted."
"Practically.
There's a group meeting in the amphitheater at Curry Village
this
evening. A band is holding a concert tomorrow evening. The rangers are
really
loose. Some of them are giving tours on the weekend."
"Everybody's
staying home. Mr. and Mrs. Mom-and-dad huddling next to their
TVs,
huh?"
Edward
nodded, then raised the binoculars, spotting another climber. "Do you
blame
them?"
"No,"
Minelli said quietly. "If I had a home or anybody I cared about—a woman,
I
mean—that's where I'd be. I said good-bye to my sister and mom. They don't
know
what the hell's happening. They're too ignorant to be scared. Mom says,
'God
will take care of us. We're his children.' Maybe He will. But if He
doesn't,
I'm with you.
I
don't hold grudges. I can still admire the Old Dude's masterworks."
"It
might be nice to be ignorant," Edward said, lowering the binoculars.
Minelli
shook his head adamantly. "At the end, I want to know what'shappening. I
don't want that...panic, when it comes. I want to know and sit
and
watch as much of it as I can. Maybe that's the best seat in the house." He
pointed
to the mottled rock face. "Up on top somewhere."
Since
Edward's tent cabin had two bunks, he offered one to Minelli, but he
turned
it down. "Look," he said, "they're not even charging for them
now. I
asked
down at the village and the fellows there say go ahead, sleep in one,
just
keep it clean yourself. Me, I'm going to want someone of the opposite sex
with
me when it happens. How about you?"
"That
would be nice," Edward agreed.
"All
right, then. We party together, find women—some smart women, I mean, who
know
what's going on as much as we do—and we party some more. I brought some
food
in with me, and the village store is stocked to the rafters with beer and
wine
and frozen food. We're going to have a good time."
At
dusk, they showered and put on clean clothes and walked to the
amphitheater,
passing the wood-frame cabins. A middle-aged couple sat in
folding
chairs before the open door of a cabin, listening to a portable radio
turned
down low. They nodded greetings to each other.
"Going
to the meeting?" Edward asked.
The
man shook his head. "Not tonight," he said. "It's too peaceful
tonight."
"You'll
hear it from here, anyway," Minelli warned.
The
man and woman smiled and shooed them away.
"Tell
us if there's anything interesting."
"Casual,"
Minelli commented to Edward as they passed the Curry Village
administration
building and general store.
The
valley was wrapped in cool shadow. Straying clouds obscured the tops of
Half
Dome and the Royal Arches. Edward zipped up his suede jacket. The
amphitheater—benches
arranged in curves before an elevated log and wood-beam
stage—was
full, people of all ages milling while engineers worked on the sound
system.
The loudspeakers popped and hummed; echoes of the crowd and the
electronic
noises bounced back at varying intervals from several directions.
They
found a bench halfway out from the stage and sat, watching the others,
being
watched in turn. A scruffy gray-bearded man of about sixty-five in a
khaki
bush jacket offered them unopened cans from a half-empty case of Coors
and
they accepted, popping and sipping as the gathering came to order.
A
tall middle-aged park ranger climbed onto the stage and stood before the
microphone,
raising the stand to her level. "Hello," she said, smiling.
The
audience replied in kind, a low, warm murmur.
"My
name—some of you know me already—is Elizabeth Rowell. There are about
three
hundred and fifty of us in the Yosemite now, and a few more coming in
each
day. I think we all know why we're here. We're all kind of surprised
there
aren't more here, but some of us understand that, too. This is my home,
and
I plan on staying _home._" She thrust out her jaw and looked around the
audience.
"So do others, and not many people live here year-around, as I do.
Those
of you who have left your homes to come here, you're welcome to stay.
"We're
awfully lucky. Looks like the weather is going to be warm. It may
drizzle
off and on, but there's not going to be much rain and no snow at all
for
a week or so, and all the passes are open. I just wanted to say that the
park
rules still apply, and we're all behaving as if things are normal. If you
need
help, we're fully staffed with rangers. Park police are on duty. We
haven't
had any trouble, and we don't expect any. You're good folks."
The
man with the Coors box smiled and raised his can to that.
"Now,
I am here basically to introduce folks. First, there's Jackie Sandoval.
Some
of you know her already. She's volunteered to be our spokesperson, sort
of,
tonight and for the rest of our stay. Jackie?"
A
small, slender woman with long black hair and doll-like features came on
stage.
Rowell lowered the microphone for her.
"Hello,"
she said, and again the warm sound emanated from the crowd in theamphitheater.
"We're here to celebrate, aren't we?" Silence. "I think we are.
We're
here to celebrate how far we've come, and to count our blessings. If
what
the experts tell us is true, we have three to four weeks to live in this
wilderness,
to appreciate the beauty and to think back on our lives. How many
have
had a chance for that kind of retrospective?
"We
are a community—not just all of us here, but people everywhere. Some of us
have
stayed at home, and others have come here, perhaps because we recognize
that
all of Earth is our home. Each night, if we wish, if we all agree, we'll
gather
in the amphitheater and share our dinner, perhaps have people sing for
us;
we'll be a family. As Elizabeth said, all are welcome. I noticed some
bikers
camped at Sunnyside. They haven't caused any trouble, I've been told,
and
they are welcome. Maybe for once in our history we can all be together,
and
appreciate what we can share. Tonight, I've asked Mary and Tony Lampedusa
to
sing for us, and then there's going to be a dance at the Yosemite Village
visitor
center. I hope you'll come.
"First,
there's a couple of announcements. We're pooling our books and
videotapes
and such at the Ahwanee to make a kind of library. Anybody who
wants
to contribute is welcome. The park service has chipped in a lot of books
about
Yosemite and the Sierras. I'm the librarian, so to speak, so talk to me
if
you want to read anything, or donate anything.
"Oh.
We're also arranging for a music library. We have fifty portable optical
disk
players used for recorded park tours and about three hundred music disks.
If
you want to donate more, anything is appreciated. Now, here's Tony and Mary
Lampedusa."
Edward
sat with the half-full beer can between his knees and listened to the
high,
sweet folksinging. Minelli shook his head and wandered off before they
were
done. "See you at the dance," he whispered to Edward in passing.
The
dance began slowly on the open-air wooden deck of the visitors' center. A
ranger's
powerful stereo system provided the music, mostly rock tunes from the
eighties.
About
half the people in the park were single. Some who weren't single acted
as
if they were, and a few arguments broke out among couples. Edward heard one
man
telling his wife, "Christ, you know I love you, but doesn't this make
anything
different? Aren't we all supposed to be together here?" The woman,
shaking
her head tearfully, was having none of that.
Minelli
had no luck finding a partner. His appearance— short, on the edge of
unkempt,
his grin a little too manic—did not attract the fit, well-groomed
single
females. He glanced at Edward across the open-air pavilion and shrugged
expressively,
then pointed at him and held a hand out, thumbs up. Edward shook
his
head.
Everybody
was on edge that night, which was only to be expected. Edward stood
to
one side, unwilling to approach a woman just yet, willing only to watch and
evaluate.
The
dance ended early. "Not a great dance," Minelli commented as they
walked
in
the dark back to Camp Curry. They separated near the public showers to go
to
their separate tent cabins.
Edward
was not ready for sleep, however. Flashlight in hand, he walked west
along
a trail and came to the Happy Isles, where he stood on a wood bridge and
listened
to the Merced. In the distance, he could hear Vernal and Nevada falls
roaring
with snowmelt. The river ran high on the bridge pilings, black as
pitch
in the deeps, dark blue-gray in turbulence.
He
glanced up at the stars. Through the trees, just above Half Dome, the sky
was
twinkling again, tiny intense flashes of blue-green and red. Fascinated,
he
watched for several minutes, thinking, "It's not over out there. Looks
like
somebody's
fighting." He tried to imagine the kind of war that might be fought
in
space, through the asteroids, but he couldn't. "I wish I could
understand,"
he
said. "I wish somebody would tell me what this is all
about."Suddenly, his whole body ached. He clenched his jaw and slammed his
fist on
the
wooden railing, screaming wordlessly, kicking at a post until he collapsed
on
the wooden deck and clutched his throbbing foot. For a quarter of an hour,
back
against the rail, legs spread limp, he cried like a child, opening and
closing
his fists.
A
half hour later, walking slowly back to the camp, flashlight beam showing
the
way, he realized what he had to lose.
He
climbed the steps to his tent cabin and collapsed on the bed without
undressing.
Tomorrow night, he would not hesitate to ask a woman to dance, or
to
return with him and stay with him. He would not be shy or principled or
stand
on his dignity.
There
was simply no time for such scruples. He did not understand what was
happening,
but he could feel the end coming. Like everybody else, he knew it
in
his bones.
58—
Reuben
came awake at five o'clock. Eyes wide, he oriented himself: spread-
eagled
on a short single bed in a small, shabby hotel room. His nighttime
thrashings
had pulled the upper sheet and blankets loose and he was only half
covered.
Sitting
on the side of the bed, he put on his ballpackers (that's what his
father
always called jockey briefs) and a T-shirt and his pants. Then he
pulled
the curtains on the narrow window and stood in front of it, looking out
at
the predawn light coming up over the city. Gray buildings, old brick and
stone
darkened by last night's sleet and snow; orange streetlights casting
lonely
spots on wet pavement; a single ancient Toyota truck driving through
slush
below the window and slowly cornering past an abandoned and boarded-up
storefront.
Reuben
showered, put on his new suit, and was out of the hotel by five-thirty.
He
had paid his room tab the night before. He stood shivering for a moment by
the
abandoned storefront, listening to the network, getting his final
directions.
The old Toyota came down the street again and pulled to the curb
in
front of him. A man just a few years older than Reuben, dressed in overalls
and
a baseball cap, sat behind the wheel. "Need a lift?" he asked,
reaching
over
to open the opposite door. Heat poured from the cab. "You're heading down
to
the Toland Brothers Excursion Terminal. You're the second I've picked up
this
morning."
Reuben
slid into the passenger side and smiled at the driver. "Awful early to
be
out driving," he said. "I appreciate this."
"Hey,
it's in a good cause," the man said. His gaze lingered on Reuben's face.
He
did not appear happy that his passenger was black. "That's what I'm being
told,
anyway."
They
took East Ninth Street to the Municipal Pier. The driver let Reuben out
and
drove away without saying another word.
Dawn
was something more than a promise as he walked along the pier and
approached
the heavy iron bars and gate beneath the giant painted TOLAND BROS.
sign.
A plump, grizzled man of something less than seventy years and more than
sixty
stood behind the gate with a flashlight in hand, waggling a cigar
between
his teeth. He saw Reuben but did not move until the young man was less
than
two yards away. Then he pushed off from the bars next to the closed gate
and
shined his flashlight on Reuben's face.
"What
can I do for you?" he asked sharply. The cigar was soggy and unlighted.
"I'm
here for the morning excursion," Reuben said.
"Excursion?
To where?"
Reuben
stretched out an arm and pointed vaguely at Lake Erie. The man
scrutinized
him for several long moments in the flashlight beam, then lowered
the
lens and called out, "Donovan!"Donovan, a short, clean-cut fellow in
a cream-colored suit, about as old as
the
plump man but far better preserved, came out of a shed near the office.
Donovan
glanced quickly at Reuben. "Network?" he asked.
"Yes,
sir."
"Let
him in, Mickey."
"Goddamn
fools," Mickey muttered. "There's still ice on the lake. Making us go
out
before the season." He leaned his head to one side and concentrated on
keying
the padlock and releasing a chain from the gate latch. He tugged the
chain
out of the eye with a conspicuous machine-gun _snick-tink_, pulled the
gate
inward, and bade Reuben enter by swinging a large, callused red hand.
Halfway
down the pier, past an old, boarded-up seafood restaurant, a two-
decked
excursion boat named the _Gerald FitzEdmund_ belched diesel from twin
motors
through stern pipes just above the waterline. The boat was easily
capable
of carrying two or three hundred passengers, but at this hour it was
practically
deserted. Donovan walked ahead of Reuben and gestured for him to
cross
the roped boarding ramp.
"We'll
cruise the lake for an hour or two," Donovan said. "We've been told
to
leave
the three of you out there. Wherever 'there' is. It's mighty damned cold
to
be sailing today, let me tell you."
"What
are we going to do out there?" Reuben asked.
Donovan
stared at him. "You don't know?" he said.
"No."
"Christ.
_I presume_"—he used the word as if it had an official flavor, yet
was
not at all familiar to his lips—"I _presume_ that you'll find something
out
there before we drop you off. Or maybe you'll just freeze to death."
"I
hope to God we do," Reuben said, shaking his head dubiously. "Find
something
out there, I mean." _They haven't done me wrong yet._
He
walked toward the bow and joined a white boy some four or five years
younger
than he, and a well-dressed black woman about thirty. A stiff, icy
breeze
cut across the deck, blowing the woman's hair past her face. She
glanced
at him, then faced forward, but said nothing. The boy held out his
hand
and they shook firmly.
"My
name's Ian," the boy said, teeth chattering.
"Reuben
Bordes. Are both of you network?"
The
boy nodded. The woman gave the ghost of a grin but did not turn away from
her
view of the lake.
"I'm
possessed," Ian said. "You must be, too."
"Sure
am," Reuben said.
"They
make you do things?" Ian asked.
"They're
making me do this."
"Me,
too. I'm a little afraid. Nobody knows what we're doing."
"They'll
take care of us," the woman said.
"What's
your name, ma'am?" Reuben asked.
"None
of your damned business. I don't have to like any of this; I just have
to
do it."
Ian
gave Reuben a screw-faced glance and cocked an eyebrow at her. Reuben
nodded.
Donovan
and Mickey were climbing to the pilot house on the upper deck. A man
in
a dark blue uniform was already at the wheel. With only the six of them
aboard,
the excursion boat pulled away from the dock and headed out onto the
smooth,
lazy morning waters of the lake. Chunks of ice slid spinning past the
bow.
"We'd better go inside or we'll freeze, ma'am," Reuben suggested. The
woman
nodded and followed him into the enclosed passenger area.
Fifteen
minutes into the cruise, Mickey descended to the lower deck with a
cardboard
box and a Thermos. "The galley ain't open," he said, "but we
brought
these
things aboard with us." He peeled the top of the carton back to reveal
doughnuts
and three foam cups."Bless you," the woman said, sitting on a
fiberglass bench. Ian picked two
doughnuts
and Reuben followed his example. Mickey poured steaming coffee as
each
held a cup. "Donovan tells me nobody knows what's out there," he
said,
capping
the Thermos.
Reuben
shook his head and dropped sprinkles of powdered sugar from his
doughnut
into the coffee.
"So
what do we do if there's just water? Let you drown?"
"Something's
out there," the woman said.
"I'm
not doubting it. I just wish I didn't feel so damned creepy. Everything's
gone
to hell the last few months. Thank God it's not the season. No tourists.
The
President's going nuts. Whole world."
"Are
you part of the network?" Ian asked.
Mickey
shook his head. "Not me, thank God. Donovan is. He's told me about it,
and
he showed me the spider. Damned thing wouldn't bite me. Shows you what the
hell
I'm worth. I've thought about calling up the newspapers, but who would
believe
me? Who would care? Me and Donovan, we've worked the lakes for thirty
years,
first fishing smelt, then running geehawks—that's tourists—all around.
I
named this boat. It's a joke."
Nobody
understood, so he cleared his throat. "I tell people, 'Wreck of the
Edmund
Fitzgerald.' Remember that song? Ore tanker went down. Big wave or
something
broke its keel and it sank without a trace. But what the hell—
geehawks
don't know nothing about the lakes. They think lakes are puddles.
These
lakes are goddamned oceans, landlocked oceans. You could hide anything
at
the bottom, whole cities..." He glared at them for emphasis, one pencil-
thin
eyebrow raised. "So I've been thinking. No need to talk about what I've
been
thinking. I'll just let that sit with you, and with Donovan. If the
goddamned
spider doesn't bite me, sure I'll cooperate— he's my partner—but I
say
the hell with it, and with everything else."
He
walked aft with the box and Thermos, shoulders twitching. The woman ate her
single
doughnut delicately, leaning her elbow against the back of the bench,
watching
him leave. "So what have you two been doing?" she asked, suddenly
familiar
and friendly.
Ian
sat beside her, holding his coffee cup against the boat's gentle sway in
the
crook of one folded leg. "I've been looting the libraries at Cleveland
State,"
he said. "And you?"
"Case
Western," she said. "I and about six others. Two of them are hackers,
They
brought a truck into the data storage center at the main library and ran
cables
into the building and took everything they could get their hands on."
"I
sent records from the Library of Congress to this fellow in Virginia,"
Reuben
said. "And other stuff. I recruited Trevor Hicks." Neither Ian nor
the
woman
knew who Hicks was. "Have you met any of the ones below the bosses—the
humans
I've heard on the network, giving orders?"
"I
have," the woman said. "One of them's my husband. We were separated,
filing
for
divorce, when we were both possessed. I've had to work with him, and take
orders
from him, the last two months. He works for the State Department."
Cleveland
was no longer visible to the south. There was nothing but blue ice-
dotted
lake and a fast-disappearing mist from horizon to horizon. They had
been
on the water for over an hour.
"Do
you think there's anybody who's got the whole picture?" Ian asked.
"Any
human,
I mean."
"I
haven't met one if there is," Reuben said.
"My
husband gives orders, but he doesn't know everything."
Ian
licked crumbs and sugar from his fingers. "I hope they have a bathroom on
this
tub," he said, walking aft.
The
boat's motors cut back to a throaty gurgling rumble. The water had taken
on
a slight chop and as they circled, Reuben felt queasy. _I’m going to regret
that
doughnut._"All right," Donovan called on the loudspeaker from the
pilot house, "this is
where
we're supposed to be. Anybody getting messages?"
"Not
me," the woman said, standing and brushing doughnut crumbs from her coat.
"Christ,"
Donovan commented dryly.
They
had circled for ten minutes when Ian sang out, "Thar she blows!" He
had
ascended
to the upper deck and now leaned over the railing beside the pilot
house,
pointing east. Reuben and the woman returned to the bow and followed
his
point and saw a dead gray block rising from the water, about the size and
shape
of a moving van's trailer. The pilot gunned the motors and moved them
closer
to the protuberance.
"What
is it?" Ian shouted. "A submarine?"
"I
don't know," Reuben said, half laughing. He was excited and more
frightened
than
ever. The woman's face was a stiff mask, but her wide-eyed, glassy stare
gave
her away.
The
boat came to within a few yards of the gray block. The bow wash slapped
against
it.
A
square hatch about as tall as Reuben opened in the smooth dull surface at
the
level of the boat's bulwarks.
"It's
an elevator," the woman said. "No, it's a stairway. We're supposed to
go
inside.
You, me, and him." She pointed at herself, Reuben, and Ian on the
upper
deck. "Nobody else."
"I
know," Reuben said. _At least it's not rocking._
Donovan
stood by the port gangway and pulled it aside as the pilot brought the
boat
as close to the block as he dared. Mickey wheeled a shorter gangplank to
the
gangway and pushed it out to the block's entrance. It was safe enough and
no
more. The woman crossed first, impatient, buffeted by the wind, gripping
the
single raised handrail tightly; then Reuben, and finally Ian.
She
was already descending a spiral staircase within the block when Reuben
stopped
at the rear of the alcove. He peered down after her. Ian came up
behind
him.
"That's
it?"
"That's
it," Reuben affirmed.
"Better
go, then."
They
descended. Above them, the hatch shut with a gentle hum.
59—
There
was a wildly canted floor, smoke coming up through the boards and tile,
a
gout of steam and rock, and the walls falling away. He felt himself lifted
and
screamed.
Sitting
upright in the bed, Arthur blinked at the unfamiliar room. Marty was
on
his hands and knees crying hysterically in the next bed.
Francine
put her arms around Arthur.
"There's
nothing," she said. "There's nothing." She let him go and
crawled out
from
under the covers to embrace Marty. "Dad was having a nightmare," she
said.
"He's all right."
"It
was _here_," Arthur said. "I felt it. Ahh, _God_."
Marty
was quiet now. Francine came back to their bed and lay next to him.
"You'd
think they'd help you with your dreams or something," she said,
somewhat
bitterly.
"I
wish they'd blocked that one," he said. "I could—"
"Shhh,"
Francine said, wrapping her arms around him now. She was shivering.
"Bad
enough if we have to live through it. Why do we have to dream about it,
too?"
"Have
you dreamed about it?"
She
shook her head. "I will, though. I know I will. Everybody will, the closer
it
gets." Her shivers turned into something more. Her teeth clicked together
as
she held him. Arthur stroked her face with his fingers and tightened hisgrip on
her, but she was not to be consoled. Without tears, she shook
violently,
silently, her neck muscles locked with the effort of not making a
sound,
not scaring Marty.
"We-we-we
wou-would _die_," she whispered harshly.
"Shh,"
he said. "Shh. I'm the one who had the nightmare."
"We
would d-die," she repeated. "I w-want to scream. I n-n-need to
scream,
Art."
She glanced at Marty, still awake, listening, watching from where he
lay.
"Is
Mommy all right?" Marty asked.
Arthur
didn't answer.
"Mommy!"
Marty barked.
"I-I'm
fine, honey." Her shaking hadn't diminished.
"Your
mother's scared," Arthur said.
"Stop
it," Francine demanded, glaring at him.
"We're
all very scared," Arthur said.
"Is
it happening now?" Marty asked.
"No,
but we're worried about it, and that gives me nightmares, and makes your
mommy
shiver."
Francine
closed her eyes in an agony of maternal empathy.
"Everybody's
ascared," Marty declared. "Not just me. Everybody."
"That's
right," Arthur said. He rocked Francine gently. She relaxed her
wrinkled
brows but kept her eyes closed. Her shaking had slowed to an
occasional
shudder. Marty came from his bed to theirs and wrapped his arms
around
Francine, placing his cheek against her shoulder.
"It's
all right, Mom," he said.
"It's
all right to be afraid," Arthur said to nobody in particular, staring at
the
flowered wallpaper illuminated by a small night-light pointing the way to
the
bathroom.
They
were in a bed-and-breakfast inn a few miles south of Portland.
The
network was not active.
He
had been set on his course, given his instructions.
_I
could use a little sympathy, too._
But
none was offered.
PERSPECTIVE
_Excerpt
from New Scientist, March 25, 1997_: The emergence of a new and
radically
altered Venus from behind the sun has given planetary geologists
many
things to ponder. It was supposed that the impact of a block of ice two
hundred
kilometers in diameter would cause enormous seismic disruption, but
there
is no sign of that. Some, in fact—connecting the impact with events on
Earth—have
theorized that the block was artificially "calved" into many
smaller
chunks, distributing the impact more evenly around the solar system' s
second
planet.
What
we now see is a naked Venus, her atmosphere transformed into a cloak of
transparent,
superheated steam. Surface features thus revealed are little
different
from what we had expected from the evidence of past planetary probe
radar
scans.
Planetologist
Ure Heisinck of Gottingen University believes that the
atmosphere
may now have a built-in heat-transfer mechanism that will allow it
to
cool; that eventually the steam will condense and the resulting opaque
white
clouds will reflect more of the sun's heat into space than they will
absorb.
More cooling will occur, and eventually rain will fall, which will
turn
again into steam on the planet's surface. The steam will condense in the
upper
atmosphere, conveying heat back into space. In a few centuries,
Earthlike
conditions may prevail...
_LACRIMOSA
DIES ILLA!_
60—Smoky
haze hung high over the valley from fires in the east: Idaho, Arizona,
Utah.
The morning sun glowered bright orange through the pall, casting all
Yosemite
in a dreamy shadow-light the color of Apocalypse.
Edward
walked past the general store and saw Minelli sitting in the open
doorway
of his car in the parking lot, listening to the radio with one leg
drawn
up on the other knee, picking mud out of his boot tread with a twig.
"What's
the word?" Edward asked, leaning his walking stick on the car's
bumper.
"Nothing
close to us yet," Minelli answered. "Fires to the south, spreading
south
but not north, and fires to the east about three, four hundred miles."
"Anything
else?"
"The
bullets have dropped below microseismic background. Nobody can hear them
now."
He smirked and flipped the mud-tipped twig onto the asphalt. "Makes you
wish-
we were out there at work, doesn't it? Feeling the patient's pulse."
"Not
really," Edward said. "Walking today?"
"Been,"
Minelli said, gesturing to the west. "Since about five. It's nice
getting
up in the dark. The sunrise was spectacular. Lots of my habits are
changing.
I'm feeling very calm now. Does that make any sense?"
"Denial,
anger, withdrawal...acceptance," Edward said. "The four stages."
"I
don't _accept_ at all," Minelli said. "I'm just calm about what's
going to
happen.
Where are you going?"
"I'm
taking the Mist Trail up to Vernal and Nevada falls. Never been there."
Minelli
nodded. "You know, I've specked out where I want to be when the crunch
comes."
He raised a finger to Glacier Point. "You can see everything up there,
and
it's going to be spectacular. I'll hike up and camp out for a week or
however
long it takes, just to be ready."
"What
if you meet some kind female?"
"I
expect she'll go with me," Minelli said. "But I'm not holding out
much
hope."
He rubbed his beard and grinned fiendishly. "I'm not grade-A Choice."
Edward
glanced at a sticker in the side window: BORN TO RAISE HECK. "_Mazel_,"
he
called back over his shoulder, walking east.
"I'm
a Catholic boy. I don't know that stuff."
"I'm
Episcopalian," Edward said.
"When
are you coming back?"
"In
time for the meeting at five."
Edward
followed the switchbacks of the first leg of the Muir Trail, pausing on
rock-masonry
vantage points to gaze out over gorges filled with roaring white
water.
He was halfway up the steep Mist Trail by eleven. The smell of moss and
spray
and damp humus filled his nose. Vernal Fall bellowed constantly on his
left,
ghostly clouds of moisture soaking his clothes and beading on his face
and
hands. He grimaced against the chill but refused to wear a parka or
anything
else that would isolate him.
The
wet dark gray trail rocks reflected the sky and became a somber orange-
brown.
When the breeze blew thick fingers of mist in his direction, he seemed
suspended
in a warm amber fog, the fall and weathered, moss-covered granite
walls
lost in a general vaporous void.
_I
saw Eternity the other night_, he quoted, and not remembering the rest,
concluded
aloud with, "And it gave me quite a fright..."
At
the top of Vernal Fall, he walked across a broad, almost level expanse of
dry
white granite, one hand on an iron railing, and stood near the wide, sleek
green
lip of plummeting water. Here was the noise and the power, but little of
the
wetness; observation and immediacy and yet isolation. The true experience,
Edward
thought, would be sweeping down the falls in the middle of the water,
suspended
in cold green and white, curtains of bubbles and long translucent
vertical
surfaces distorting all sky and earth. What would it be like to live
as
a water sprite, able to magically suspend oneself in the middle of certain
death?He
looked across at Liberty Cap and thought again of the vast granite spaces
within
the domes, unseen. _Why an obsession with places out of view?_
He
frowned in concentration, trying to bring up the monstrous big thought he
had
so loosely hooked. _Living things see only the surface, can't exist in the
depths.
Life is painted on the surface of the real. Death is the great
unexplored
volume. Death rises from the inaccessible_, depth _and_ death
_sounding
so much alike_...
There
had been only three other people on the trail that morning, one
descending,
two climbing behind Edward. Another he had not seen, a blond-
haired
woman in a tan parka arid dark blue shorts lugging a big expensive blue
backpack.
She stood on the opposite side of the granite block, looking over
Emerald
Lake, the pool where water from 600-foot Nevada Fall rested before
slipping
over the shorter Vernal Fall. She must have camped overnight, or was
perhaps
on the morning leg of a long trek around the rim of the valley.
The
woman turned and Edward saw she was strikingly beautiful, tall and Nordic,
a
long face with perfectly cut nose, clear blue eyes, and lips both sensual
and
faintly disapproving. He looked away quickly, all too intensely aware she
was
outside his range. He had long since learned that women this beautiful
paid
little attention to men of his mild appearance and social standing.
Still,
she seemed to be alone.
Came
that high, painful interior singing he had always known when in the
presence
of the desirable and inaccessible woman, not lust, but an almost
religious
longing. It was not a sensation he wanted now; he did not wish to be
seduced
away from worshiping the land, the Earth, to focus on a single woman,
let
alone one he could not possibly have. The woman or women he had imagined
the
night before would not evoke this kind of response; they would be safe,
undemanding,
undistressing. Quickly, with nothing more than a polite smile and
nod,
he passed the woman where she stood by the bridge and continued along the
trail.
In
the rocky tree-spotted upland meadow beyond Emerald Lake, he found a
natural
granite bench and laid out his lunch of two processed-American-cheese
sandwiches
and dried fruit, very much like what he had eaten on hikes in the
valley
as a boy. Facing the white plume of Nevada Fall, still a few hundred
yards
distant, he chewed crescents from a leathery apricot and brewed hot tea
on
a tiny portable stove.
Someone
came up behind him, tread so light as to be almost undetected. "Excuse
me."
He
twisted his torso and stared at the blond woman. She smiled down on him.
She
was at least six feet tall. "Yes?" he asked, swallowing most of a
mouthful
of
half-chewed apricot.
"Did
you see a man here, a little taller than I, with a very black full beard
and
wearing a red parka?" She indicated the man's height with a hand held
level
above her head.
Edward
hadn't, but the woman's worried expression suggested that it would be
best
if he paused to consider before answering. "No, I don't think so," he
said.
"There aren't many people here today."
"I've
been waiting two days," she said, sighing. "We were supposed, to meet
here,
at the Emerald Lake, actually."
"I'm
sorry."
"Did
you see anybody like him down on the valley floor? You came up from
there,
didn't you?"
"Yes,
but I don't remember any men with black beards and red parkas. Or any
with
just black beards, for that matter—unless he's a biker."
"Oh,
no." She shook her head and turned away, then turned back. "Thank
you."
"You're
welcome. May I offer some tea, fruit?"
"No
thank you. I've eaten. I carried food for both of us."
Edward
watched her with an embarrassed smile. She seemed unsure what to donext. He
half wished she would go away; his attraction to her was almost
painful.
"He's
my husband," she said, staring up at Liberty Cap, shading her eyes
against
the hazy glare. "We're separated. We met in Yosemite, and we thought
if
we came back here, before..." Her voice trailed off and she made a
negligible
shrug of her shoulders and arms. "We might be able to stay
together.
We agreed to meet at Emerald Lake."
"I'm
sure he must be here someplace." He gestured at the lake and trail and
the
Nevada Fall.
"Thank
you," she said. This time, she did not smile, simply turned and walked
back
toward the head of Vernal Fall and the descending Mist Trail. He watched
her
go and took a deep breath, biting into his second sandwich.
He
stared at the sandwich ruefully as he chewed. "Must be the white
bread," he
told
himself. "Can't catch a beauty like that with anything less than whole
wheat."
At
three, the meadow and the perimeter of the lake, the falls and the trail
below,
were empty. He was the only human for miles, or so it seemed; might
even
be true, he thought. He crossed the bridge and lingered in the trees on
the
other side, with only the roar of the falls above and below and snatches
of
birdsong. He knew rocks of any description but little about birds. Red-
winged
blackbirds and robins and jays were obvious; he thought about buying a
book
in the general store to learn the others, but then, what use applying
names?
If his memories were soon to be scattered fine-ground over space,
education
was a waste.
What
was important was finding his center, or pinning down some locus of
being,
establishing a moment of purity and concentrated awareness. He did not
think
that was possible with people all around; now was a chance to try.
Prayer
perhaps. God had not been on his mind much recently, a telltale void;
he
did not wish to be inconsistent when all the world was a foxhole. But
consistency
was as useless now as nature studies, and not nearly so tempting.
The
valley was still in sun, Liberty Cap half shadowed. The smoke had cleared
some
and the sky was bluer, green at the edges of the haze, more real than it
had
been.
"I
am going to die," he said out loud, in a normal tone of voice,
experimenting.
"What I am will come to an end. My thoughts will end. I will
experience
nothing, not even the final end." _Rising rocks and smoke and lava.
No;
probably not like that. Will it hurt? Will there be time for pain?_
Mass
death; God was probably busy also with mass prayer.
God.
Not
a protector, unless there be miracles.
He
shuffled his booted feet in the dry trail dirt. "What in hell am I looking
for?
Revelation?" He shook his head and forced a laugh. "Naive
sonofabitch.
You’re
out of training; your prayer muscles, your enlightenment biceps,
they’re
all out of shape. Can’t lift you any higher than your goddamned head."
The
bitterness in his voice shook him. Did he really want revelation,
confirmation,
assurance of existence or meaning beyond the end?
"God
is what you love." He said this softly; it was embarrassing to realize
how
much he believed it. Yet he had never been particularly good at love,
neither
the love of people in all its forms nor the other kinds, except
perhaps
love of his work. "I love the Earth."
But
that was rather vague and broad. The Earth offered only unthinking
obstacles
to love: storms, rock slides, volcanoes, quakes. Accidents. Earth
could
not help being incontinent. Easy to love the great mother.
The
wind picked up and carried droplets of mist above the Vernal Fall and over
the
forest, landing cool and lightly stinging-tickling on his cheek. He
thought
of down on his cheek and not whiskers, and of wanting his father to
stay
with them, even then knowing (truly did he realize it then?) that theunknit
would soon separate.
That
time, in Yosemite, had not been altogether blissful. The memories he now
recovered
were of a young boy’s ignorant but sharp eye, observing a man and a
woman,
shakily acting the roles of mother and father, husband and wife, not
connecting
anymore.
The
boy had been unable to foresee what would happen after the separation so
obviously
but so deniably coming.
He
squinted.
_Earth
= mother. God = father. No God = no father = inability to connect with
the
after._
"That,"
he said, "cuts the fucking cake." He swatted at a gnat and hefted his
pack
higher on his back, descending along the wet dark gray rock steps carved
out
beside Vernal Fall, and then following the path above the foaming,
violently
full Merced.
Pausing
with a slight smile, he left the path and stood on a granite boulder
at
the very edge of the tumult, contemplating the lost green volumes of water
beneath
and between the white bubbles. The roar seemed to recede; he felt
almost
hypnotized. He could just lean forward, shift one foot beyond the edge,
and
all would end very quickly. No suspense. His choice.
Somehow,
the option was not attractive. He shook his head slowly and glanced
up
at the trees on the opposite side of the spill. Glints of silver shined
through
the boughs and moved along the trunks. It took him a moment to resolve
what
he was seeing. The trees were crawling with fist-sized silvery spiders.
Two
of them scuttled along a branch, carrying what appeared to be a dead jay.
Another
had stripped away a slice of bark from a pine trunk, revealing a wedge
of
white wood.
He
thought of the Guest, and did not doubt his eyes.
_Who
controls them?_ he asked himself. _What do they mean?_ He watched them
for
several minutes, vaguely bothered by their indifference, and then
shrugged—yet
another inexplicable marvel—and returned to the path.
Edward
was back in the valley, freshly showered and in clean jeans and white
shirt,
by five o'clock, as he had promised. The amphitheater was more crowded
than
it had been for yesterday's meeting. No music was scheduled; instead,
they
had a minister, a psychologist, and a second ranger arrayed before the
podium,
waiting their turn after Elizabeth's introduction. Minelli grumbled at
the
New Age lineup, but he stayed. There was a bond growing between all of
them,
even those who had not spoken; they were in this together, and it was
better
to _be_ together than otherwise, even if it meant sitting through a
handful
of puerile speakers.
Edward
looked for but did not see the jilted blonde in the audience.
61—
After
three days of interrogation by the FBI and agents from the National
Security
Agency, as well as six hours of intense grilling by the Secretary of
the
Navy, Senator Gilmonn had been set free from his office and apartment in
Long
Beach, California. He had ordered his chauffeur to drive east.
Nobody
had been able, or particularly willing, to hang anything on him, though
the
trail of the arrow or monkey or whatever from the U.S.S. _Saratoga_ to his
car
was reasonably well defined. Given more than a mere two and a half months
of
investigation and second-guessing, he might have been in some trouble, and
the
captain of the _Saratoga_ relieved of his command, but things had changed
markedly
now in these United States. It was a different nation, a different
government—functioning
to all intents and purposes without a head. The
President,
under impeachment, was still in office but with most of his strings
of
influence and therefore power severed.
Gilmonn's
incarceration, which might have been _pro forma_ half a year ago,
was
now simply out of the question.For all that, what had they accomplished? They
had killed Lieutenant Colonel
Rogers
and perhaps thirty Forgers who had refused to vacate the desert around
the
bogey. They had blown the bogey into scattered pieces. Yet few involved in
the
conspiracy believed, now, that they had done anything to even postpone,
much
less remove, the sentence of death placed on the Earth.
He
stood on the sand near the gravel road that passed within two miles of the
site
of the disintegrated bogey, binoculars hanging on a leather strap from
his
neck, face streaming with sweat under the brim of his hat. The white
limousine
that he had hired with his own money waited a few yards away, the
chauffeur
impassive behind his dark glasses and blue-black uniform.
Army
and government trucks passed along the road every few minutes, some
bearing
radiation stickers; many of those outward bound, he knew, carried
fragments
of the bogey. He was not privy to what they were finding. Basically,
his
presence was tolerated, but now that the conspiracy had accomplished what
virtually
everybody wanted, those directly involved, while not charged, were
being
shunned. Scapegoats might be too strong a word...and it might not be.
Gilmonn
unabashedly cursed Crockerman for having forced them all into an
untenable
and illegal no-man's-land of circumventions and conspiracies.
And
still, deep in the Earth, what some—mostly geologists—had called "the
freight
trains" and others "bullets" rumbled toward their rendezvous.
They
could
not be traced anymore, but few doubted they were there. The end might be
a
matter of days or weeks away.
Gilmonn
entered the limousine's rear door and poured himself a Scotch and soda
from
the dispenser. "Tony," he said, slowly twirling the glass between the
ringers
of his right hand, "where do you want to be when it happens?"
The
chauffeur did not hesitate. "In bed," he said. "Screwing my
brains out,
sir."
They
had talked a great deal during the drive from Long Beach. Tony had been
married
only six months. Gilmonn thought of Madeline, his wife for twenty-
three
years, and while he wanted to be with her, he did not think they would
be
screwing their brains out. They would have their kids together, and their
two
grandchildren, perhaps in the ranch house in Arizona. A huge family
gathering.
The whole clan hadn't been together in five or six years.
"All
that, and we didn't accomplish a _Goddamned_ thing, Tony," he said with a
sudden
deep flood of bitterness. For the first time since the death of his
son,
he felt like cursing God. "We don't know that for sure, Senator."
"I do,"
Gilmonn
said. "If any man has a right to know he's failed, I do."
HOSTIAS
ET PRECES TIBI, LAUDIS OFFERIMUS
62—
March
27
During
his last hours, Trevor Hicks sat at his computer skimming and
organizing
genetic records sent from Mormon sources in Salt Lake City. He was
staying
at the home of an aerospace contractor named Jenkins, working in a
broad
living room with uncurtained windows overlooking Seattle and the bay.
The
work was not exciting but it was useful, and he felt at peace, whatever
might
happen. Despite his reputation for equanimity, Trevor Hicks had never
been
a particularly peaceful, self-possessed fellow. Bearing and presentation,
by
English tradition, masked his true self, which he had always visualized as
frozen—with
extra memory and peripheral accomplishments—somewhere around
twenty-two
years of age, enthusiastic, impressionable, quick-hearted.
He
rolled his chair back from the table and greeted Mrs. Jenkins—Abigail—as
she
came through the front door, carrying two plastic bags full of groceries.
Abigail
was not possessed. All she knew was that her husband and Trevor were
involved
in something important, and secret. They had been working straight
through
the day and night, with very little sleep, and she brought in supplies
to
keep them reasonably comfortable and well fed.She was not a bad cook.
They
ate dinner at seven—steaks, salad, and a fine bottle of chianti. At
seven-thirty,
Jenkins and Hicks were back at work.
Being
at peace, Hicks thought, worried him somewhat...He did not trust such
flat,
smooth emotions. He preferred a little undercurrent of turbulence; it
kept
him sharp.
The
alarm went through Trevor Hicks's brain like a hot steel lance. He glanced
at
his watch—the battery had run down without his noticing, but it was late—
and
dropped the disk he had been examining. He pushed the chair back and stood
before
the living room window. Behind him, Jenkins looked up from a stack of
requisition
forms for medical supplies, surprised at Hicks's behavior. "What's
up?"
"You
don't feel it?" Hicks asked, pulling on a rope to open the curtains.
"Feel
what?"
"There’s
something wrong. I’m hearing from..."He tried to place the source of
the
alarm, but it was no longer on the network. "I think it was
Shanghai."
Jenkins
stood up from the couch and called for his wife. "Is it starting?" he
asked
Hicks.
"Oh,
Lord, I don’t know," Hicks shouted, feeling another lance. The network
was
being _damaged_, links were being severed—that was all he could tell.
The
window afforded a fine nighttime view of the myriad lights of downtown
Seattle
from Queen Anne Hill. The sky was overcast, but there had been no
reports
of thunderstorms. Still...The cloud deck was illuminated by brilliant
flashes
from above. One, two … a long pause, and by the time Mrs. Jenkins was
in
the living room, a third milky pulse of light.
Mrs.
Jenkins looked on Hicks with some alarm. "It’s just lightning, isn’t it,
Jenks?"
she asked her husband.
"It’s
not lightning," Hicks said. The network was sending contradictory pulses
of
information. If a Boss was on-line, Hicks could not pick its voice out
through
the welter.
Then,
clear and compelling, the messages came through to Hicks and Jenkins
simultaneously.
_Your
site and the vessel in the sound are under attack._
"Attack?"
Jenkins asked out loud. "Are they starting it now?"
"Shanghai
Harbor was an ark site," Hicks said, his voice full of wonder. "It's
been
cut from the network. Nobody can reach Shanghai."
"What...What..."
Jenkins was not used to thinking about these things, whatever
his
value to the network as a local organizer and procurer.
"I
believe—"
His
own inner thoughts, not the Boss's, said before the words could come out,
_They're
defending us but they can't stop everything from getting through.
They've
never told us this before, but they must have put ships or platforms
or
something in orbits to watch over the Earth—_
"—we’re
being bombarded—"
Light
fell through the clouds and expanded.
_this
is a war after all but we haven’t quite thought of it that way didn’t
suspect
they would do this to us_
"Jenks..."
Jenkins
hugged his wife. Hicks saw the flash of red and white, the lifting of
a
wall of water and rock, and the rush of a darkening shock wave across the
lights
of the city and houses on the hill. The window exploded and he closed
his
eyes, experienced a brief instant of pain and blindness—
On
the last leg of the marathon drive into San Francisco, speeding down an
almost-deserted
101 at well over the speed limit, Arthur felt a severe pain in
the
back of his head. He gripped the wheel tightly and pulled to a halt at the
side
of the highway, his body rigid.
"What's
wrong?" Francine asked.He twisted around, threw his arms up on the back of
the seat, and looked
through
the rear window of the station wagon. A hellish blue and purple glow
was
spreading to the north, above and beyond Santa Rosa and the wine country.
"What's
wrong?" Francine repeated.
He
twisted around to face forward again, and leaned over the wheel to peer up
at
the skies above San Francisco and the Bay Area.
"More
asteroids, Dad!" Marty cried out. "More explosions!"
These
were a lot closer and a lot brighter, however, as sharp as blowtorches,
leaving
red spots in his vision. The Bay Area was still over twenty miles
away,
and these flashes were high in the night sky. Some kind of action,
another
battle, was taking place perhaps no more than a hundred miles above
San
Francisco.
Francine
started to get out of the car but he stopped her. She stared at him,
face
twisted with fear and anger, but said nothing.
Four
more high flares, and then the night returned.
Arthur
was almost surprised to find himself weeping. His anger was a
frightening
thing. "Those bastards," he said, pounding the wheel. "Those
goddamn
bloody fucking bastards."
"Daddy,"
Marty whimpered.
"Shut
up, goddammit," Arthur shrieked, and then he grabbed his wife's arm with
his
left hand and reached for Marty in the rear seat with his right. He shook
them
firmly, repeating over and over again, "Don't ever forget this. If we
survive,
don't you ever, ever forget this."
"What
happened, Art?" Francine asked, trying to keep calm. Marty was screaming
now,
and Arthur closed his eyes in grief and sorrow, the anger turned inward
because
he had lost control. He listened to a few of the voices on the
network,
trying to piece things together.
"Seattle's
gone," he said. _Trevor Hicks, all the others._
"Where's
Gauge, Dad?" Marty asked through his tears. "Is Gauge alive?"
"I
think so," Arthur said, shaking violently. The enormity. "They're
trying to
destroy
our escape ships, the arks. They want to make sure there are no humans
left."
"What?
Why?" Francine asked.
"Remember,"
he repeated. "Just remember this, if we make it."
It
took him almost twenty minutes to become calm enough to pull back into the
slow
lane. San Francisco and the Bay Area had been adequately protected.
Suddenly,
and without reservation—without any persuasion whatsoever—he loved
the
Bosses and the network and all the forces arrayed to protect and save
them.
His love was fierce and primal. _This is what a partisan feels like,
watching
his countryside get pillaged._
"They
bombed Seattle?" she asked. "The...aliens, or the Russians?"
"Not
the Russians. The planet-eaters. They tried to bomb San Francisco, too."
_And
Cleveland, which had survived, and Shanghai, which had not, and who knows
how
many other ark sites?_ A fresh shiver worked down from his shoulders to
his
sacrum. "Christ. What will the Russians do? What will _we_ do?"
The
car's steering wheel vibrated. Above the engine noise, they heard and felt
a
shuddering groan. The rock-borne vibrations of Seattle's death passed under
them.
63—
At
two in the morning, Washington, D.C., time, Irwin Schwartz reached out for
the
urgently beeping phone from his office cot and punched the speaker button.
"Yes?"
Only then did he hear the powerful whuff-whuff of helicopter blades and
the
screaming roar of jet turbines.
It
was the late night White House military staff duty officer. "Mr. Schwartz,
Mr.
Crockerman is being evacuated. He wishes you to join him on the
helicopter."Schwartz
had duly noted the officer's reluctance to call Crockerman
"President."
He was now strictly "Mr. Crockerman." If you don't act the
office,
you don't get the title. "What sort of emergency?"
"There
have been strikes on Seattle and some kind of action over Cleveland,
Charleston,
and San Francisco."
"Jesus.
Russian?"
"Don't
know, sir. Sir, you should get out on the lawn as soon as possible."
"Right."
Schwartz did not even grab his coat.
On
the White House lawn, dressed in the undershirt and pants he had worn as he
slept,
Schwartz ducked instinctively under the high, massive rotor blades and
ran
up the ladder, his bald head unprotected against the chill downdraft of
spring
night air. A Secret Service agent stood by until the hatch was closed,
and
then watched the helicopter lift away to take them all to Grissom Air
Force
Base in Indiana.
The
staff officer and a Marine guard hugged Crocker-man's sides, the Marine
carrying
the "football" and the staff officer carrying a mobile data and
command
center— MODACC for short—hooked up to the helicopter's communications
system.
There
were three Secret Service agents aboard the craft, as well as Nancy
Congdon,
the President's personal secretary. Had Mrs. Crockerman been in the
White
House, she would have been evacuated as well.
"Mr.
President," the staff officer began, "the Secretary of Defense is in
Colorado.
State is in Miami at a governors' meeting. The Vice President is in
Chicago.
I believe the Speaker of the House is being airlifted from his home.
I
have some information regarding what our satellites and other sensors have
already
told us." He spoke louder than he needed to over the engine noise; the
cabin
was well insulated.
The
President and all the others aboard listened closely.
"Seattle
is gone, and Charleston is a ruin—the strike appeared to be centered
at
twenty klicks out in the ocean there. But our satellites show no missile
launches
from the Soviet Union or any fish at sea. No missiles at all were
detected
coming from the Earth. And apparently some sort of defensive system
came
into play over San Francisco and Cleveland, perhaps elsewhere as well..."
"We
don't have that kind of defense," Crockerman said hoarsely, barely
audible.
He fixed his eyes on Schwartz. Schwartz thought he looked two days
dead
at least, eyes pale and lifeless. The vote to impeach had taken the last
bit
of starch from him. Tomorrow would be—_would have been_—the beginning of
the
Senate trial on whether he would stay in office or be removed.
"Correct,
sir."
"It's
not the Russians," observed one of the Secret Service agents, a tall
black
Kentuckian of middle years.
"Not
the Russians," Crockerman repeated, his face taking on some color now.
"Who,
then?"
"The
planet-eaters," Schwartz said.
"It's
begun?" the young Marine lieutenant asked, gripping the briefcase as if
to
keep it from flying away.
"God
only knows," Schwartz said, shaking his head.
The
MODACC beeped and the staff officer listened intently over his sound-
insulated
headphones. "Mr. President, it's Premier Arbatov in Moscow."
Crockerman
stared once again at Schwartz for a long moment before reaching for
the
mike and headphones. Schwartz knew what the stare meant. _He's still the
Man,
damn us all to hell._
64—
Arthur
drove the car into the driveway of Grant and Danielle's hillside home
in
Richmond just before midnight. He was still shaken; the memory of the
network's
pain and loss lingered like a bizarre, bitter-sharp taste on thetongue. He sat
with hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead at the rough
wood
garage door, and then turned to Francine.
"Are
you all right?" she asked.
"I
think so." He glanced over the seat at Marty. The boy sprawled on the back
seat,
eyes closed, his head lolling slightly over the edge, mouth open.
"Thank
God he's asleep," Francine said. "You gave us both a scare."
"I
gave you a scare?" Arthur asked, his weariness breaking down before a
sudden
upwelling of anger. "Jesus, if you could have felt what I felt—"
"Please,"
Francine said, face deadly grim. "We're here. There's Grant now."
She
opened the car door and stepped out. Arthur stayed in the seat, confused,
then
closed his eyes for a moment, tentatively searching for the network,
trying
to learn what had happened. There had been little on the radio beyond
repeated
reports of some unknown disaster in-Seattle; it had been less than an
hour.
He
half expected the superpowers to stumble into nuclear war; perhaps members
of
the network were preventing that even now. But he had to go on faith. For
the
moment, he was cut loose from the circuit of network communications.
Arthur
took a murmuring Marty into his arms. Grant showed them to a bedroom
with
a queen-sized bed and a folding cot. Danielle—now asleep, Grant said—had
made
up the beds and laid out towels for them, as well as putting a late night
snack
of fruit and soup on the kitchen counter. Francine tucked Marty into the
cot
and joined Grant and Arthur in the kitchen.
"Have
you heard what happened?" she asked Grant.
"No..."
Grant's shirt and slacks were wrinkled and his silver-gray hair was
tousled;
he had apparently nodded off on the couch, getting up as he heard
their
car approach.
"We
saw a flash to the north," Arthur said.
"Arthur
thinks it was Seattle," Francine said. Her look was almost a
challenge:
_Go ahead, tell us you know. Tell us how you know._
Arthur
stared at her, dismayed. Then it came to him: she was suddenly amidst
family.
She did not have to rely completely on him. She could vent a few of
her
own doubts and tensions; Marty was asleep and wouldn't hear. He understood
this
well enough, but it still hurt. On top of the pain he had felt earlier,
this
small betrayal was almost more than he could stand.
"We
heard on the radio," Arthur said, taking the easy way out. "Something
happened
in Seattle."
Francine
nodded, her face bloodless, teeth clenched. "'Radio," she said.
"What,
for God's sake? I have a brother in Seattle," Grant said.
The
airborne sound of Seattle's death rattled the house windows. Grant glanced
warily
at the ceiling. Arthur checked his watch and nodded.
"It's
gone," Arthur told him. "The entire metropolitan area."
"Jesus
Christ!" Grant cried, jumping from his stool. He went to the wall phone
at
the end of the counter and fumbled at the keypad.
"We
didn't hear that on the radio," Francine said softly, her shoulders
slumping.
She stared past her folded hands at the carpet.
"It's
busy. Everything's tied up," Grant said. He loped into the den to switch
on
the television. "When did you hear this?"
"We
saw the flash about fifty minutes ago," Francine said, glancing up
guiltily
at Arthur. He held out his hand, wriggling his fingers, and she
grasped
it, covering her face with her other hand. She shuddered, but no tears
would
come.
The
commentator's voice came to them through Grant's expensive sound system,
resonant
and authoritative, but with more than a hint of fear. "—reports now
from
Seattle and Charleston, that the two cities have been destroyed by what
appear
to be nuclear explosions, but there are contradictory reports of no
accompanying
radiation. We still have no idea what actually happened although
it
is now clear that at least these two seaboard cities, on the East and
WestCoasts, have been leveled by unprecedented disaster. The government has
issued
statements
that our nation is not yet in a state of war, which leads some
sources
to state that the explosions were not caused by nuclear missiles, at
least
not those of the Soviet Union. Indeed, flashes over the cities of San
Francisco
and Cleveland have led some to speculate that the destruction of the
Earth
has begun, and that we are witnessing—"
"Tell
him," Francine said, keeping her voice low. "Tell him. I believe you.
Really
I do. They need to know."
Arthur
shook his head. She brought her hands over her face again, but her
trembling
had stopped. "I can't tell them, and you must not," Arthur said.
"It
would
only hurt them."
Danielle
appeared in the hallway door, wearing a long silk gown with a
chenille
robe thrown over it. "What's happened?" she asked.
Francine
embraced her and led her into the den. Arthur regarded the untouched
bowls
of soup, thinking, _Not yet...But it can't be much longer._
65—
A
knock on his tent-cabin door awakened Edward at eight o'clock. He glanced at
his
watch and scrambled into his pants, then opened the door to see Minelli
and
a plump black-haired woman in black T-shirt and black jeans. Minelli
reached
out a hand. "Congratulate me," he said. "I've found Inez."
"Congratulations,"
Edward said.
"Inez
Espinoza, this is my friend Edward Shaw. He's into rocks, too. Edward,
Inez."
"Pleased
to meet you," Inez said.
"We
met at the dance last night. Pity you weren't there."
"I
was depressed," Edward said. "I couldn't handle company."
"There's
a story going around about robot insects. Inez says she saw a bunch
of
them up behind Yosemite Village. What do you think they are?"
"I
saw some, too," Edward said. "Wait a minute. I'll get dressed and
we'll fix
breakfast."
Over
Coleman-stove toast and hard-boiled eggs, Edward told them what he had
seen
below the Mist Trail. Inez nodded and regarded him with her large brown
eyes,
obviously content to say little.
"What
do you think they are?"
"Hell,
if the bastards can make fake aliens, they can turn out robot spiders.
They're
surveying the Earth.
Conducting
a general assay before they blow it up."
Inez
spontaneously began to weep.
"Hey,
let's not talk about that shit," Minelli said. "She's sensitive. Her
old
man
was killed on a Harley on the highway a couple of days ago. She was thrown
clear."
Inez sobbed and dabbed at her eyes, revealing a nasty scrape and
bruise
on her forearm. "She hitched a ride here. She's a sweetheart."
Minelli
hugged
her and she hugged him back.
A
small, skeletally thin man with a high, square forehead walked past the rock
where
they breakfasted. He carried a baseball bat almost as big as himself and
seemed
bemused.
"What's
up, man?" Minelli asked.
"Just
heard it on the radio. The aliens nuked Seattle and Charleston and
Shanghai
last night. I was born in Charleston." He continued down the path,
bat
dangling from an unenthused wrist.
Inez
hiccuped spasmodically.
"What're
you going to do?" Minelli called after him.
"Going
to catch some of those fucking chrome bugs out in the woods and smash
them,"
the man answered, not stopping. "I want to get my licks in."
Minelli
set down his tin cup of tea and slid down from the rock. Inez took his
offered
hand and did likewise with surprising grace. "I think it's time wehiked up
to Glacier Point," Minelli said quietly. "Want to come?"
Edward
nodded, then shook his head. "Not yet. I'll be up there soon."
"All
right. Inez is coming with me. We'll tent out. Welcome to join us."
"Thanks."
The
pair walked down the path under the pines to Curry Village.
Edward
climbed the stairs into his tent cabin and pulled a topographical map
of
the valley and regions south from his map folder. Lying on his stomach
across
the beds, he fingered the Four Mile Trail up to Union Point, and then
on
to Glacier Point, and compared other vantages.
There
were none better and so accessible. Glacier Point offered some
facilities.
_But if things get rocking, won't it just split off and fall, and
take
us with it?_
Did
it matter? What was an hour or so, one way or another?
Edward
entered his card number into the pay phone keypad and dialed Stella's
home
number in Shoshone. After three rings, Bernice Morgan answered, and told
him
Stella was at the store, taking inventory. "Life goes on," she said.
"I
can
transfer you from here."
After
a few clicks and hums, the store phone rang and Stella answered.
"This
is Edward," he said. "I've been wondering what you're up to."
"The
usual," Stella answered. "Where are you now?"
"Oh,
I'm in Yosemite. Settled in. Waiting."
"Is
it what you thought it would be?"
"Better,
actually. It's beautiful. There aren't very many people."
"What
did I tell you?"
"You've
heard about Seattle and Charleston?"
"Of
course."
Edward
detected a hint of resolve in her voice. "Still planning on staying in
Shoshone?"
"I'm
a homebody," Stella said. "We heard from my sister, though. She's
coming
home
from Zimbabwe. We're picking her up in Las Vegas the day after tomorrow.
You're
welcome to join us..."
He
surveyed the riverbanks and trees and meadows beyond the clutch of pay
phones.
_This feels right. This is where I belong._ "I was hoping I could
convince
you to come here. With your mother."
"I'm
glad you asked, but..."
"I
know. You're home. So am I."
"We're
a stubborn pair, aren't we?"
"Minelli
is here. I don't know where Reslaw is. Minelli's found a girlfriend."
"Good
for him. How about you?"
Edward
chuckled. "I'm just too damned choosy," he said.
"Don't
be. You know..." Stella stopped, and there was silence over the line
for
several seconds. "Well, maybe you know."
"If
we could have more time," Edward said.
"Is
the deal still on?" she asked.
"Deal?"
"If
this all turns out to be a false alarm."
"We
still have a deal."
"I'll
be thinking about you," Stella said. "Don't forget."
What
would life with Stella be like? She was tough-minded, intelligent, and
more
than a touch willful; they might not get along, and then again they
might.
Both
of them knew they would not have the time to find out. "I won't
forget,"
he
said.
In
the Curry Village general store, he stocked up on dried soups and various
pouches
of gourmet camp food. The supplies were running out. "Trucks haven't
come
in here for two days," the young woman clerk said. "We keep calling,
they
keep
saying they're coming. But nobody's doing much now. Just sitting back
andwaiting. Damned morbid, if you ask me."
He
added a pair of dark sunglasses and paid for the supplies with the last of
his
cash. All he had now were credit cards and a few traveler's checks. No
matter.
He
had hoisted the plastic bag and was about to leave when he saw the blond
woman
at the back of the store, picking through a bin of half-rotten apples.
Taking
a concealed deep breath, Edward replaced his bag on the counter,
motioned
with his finger to the clerk that he would be back, and walked to the
rear.
"Find
your husband?" he asked. The woman glanced at him, smiled sadly, and
shook
her head.
"No
such bad luck," she said. She held up a particularly bruised apple and
inspected
it ruefully. "I'm a fruito-phile, and look what they offer."
"I
have some pretty good apples in my...Back at the cabin. I'll be leaving for
Glacier
Point soon. You're welcome to them. Too heavy to carry more than one
or
two on a hike."
"That's
very kind," she said. She dropped the apple into the bin and held out
her
hand. Slender, cool, strong fingers; he shook the hand with moderate
firmness.
"My name is Betsy," she said, "and my maiden name is Sothern."
"I'm
Edward Shaw." He decided to go for broke. "I'm not with
anybody."
"Oh?"
"For
the duration," he said.
"How
long is that?" she asked.
"Somebody
said less than a week. Nobody knows for sure."
"Where's
your cabin?"
"Not
far from here."
"If
you feed me a nice, crisp, juicy apple," she said, "I'm liable to
follow
you
anywhere."
Edward's
smile was spontaneous and broad. "Thank you," he said. "This
way."
"Thank
_you_," Betsy said.
In
the tent, he found her the best red apple and polished it with a clean
dishcloth.
She bit into it, wiped away a dribble of juice running down her
chin,
and
416 •
Greg Bear
watched
him arrange the supplies in his backpack.
"I
hope you're not one of those ignorant people," she said abruptly. "I
don't
mean
to sound ungrateful, but if you think everything's rosy, and God's going
to
save us, or something like that..."
Edward
shook his head.
"Good.
I thought you looked smart. Sweet and smart. We don't have much time
left,
do we?"
"No."
He flipped the pack over and buckled it, glancing at her.
"You
know, if I had it all to do over again," she said, "I'd choose men
like
you."
This
pricked Edward a little. "That's what all the beautiful women say. There
aren't
any maidens in foxholes, or something to that effect."
"Jesus."
She smiled. "I like that. Do you...pardon me for asking...do you have
any
devastating, immediately fatal communicable diseases?"
"No,"
Edward said. "Hardly any."
"Neither
do I. Are you expecting anyone?"
"No."
"Neither
am I. Pleased to make your acquaintance." She held out her hand, and
Edward
shook it delicately by the fingertips, then grinned and pulled her
toward
him.
66—
The
network came alive in Arthur's head at eight in the morning. He opened hiseyes,
wide awake but feeling as if he had been stunned, and rolled over to
shake
Francine's shoulder. "We have to be going," he said. He got out of
bed
and
slipped into his pants. "Get Marty dressed."
Francine
moaned. "Yes, sir," she said. "What now?"
"I'm
not sure," he said. "We've been told to be a certain place in an
hour. In
San
Francisco."
Marty
sat up on the cot, rubbing his eyes. "Come on, sport," Francine said.
"Marching
orders."
"I'm
sleepy," Marty said.
Francine
grabbed Arthur's arm and pulled him close to her, staring up into his
face
with a stern expression. "I'm only going to say this once. If you're
crazy
and this is all for nothing, I'll..." She grabbed his nose, and not in
play;
the tweak she gave it was exquisitely painful. Eyes watering, Arthur
took
her hand in both of his and rubbed it. "Do you understand me?"
He
nodded. "We have to hurry." Despite his throbbing nose, he was almost
ecstatic.
_Why hustle all of us somewhere this early in the morning? They have
plans..._
His
ecstasy faded when he met Grant, wrapped in a robe, in the hallway, with
his
daughter following close behind. "You came in awful late to be getting
everybody
up so early," Grant said. "We've had quite a night. I don't think I
slept
more than an hour...Danielle may not have slept at all."
Danielle
sat at the kitchen counter, drinking a cup of coffee, when they
trooped
through the swinging door. Her face was pale and she had been smoking;
the
brimming ashtray told a plain tale of a full night of cigarettes. "Such
early
birds," she said unenthusiastically.
"We
have to be going," Arthur said.
Danielle
raised an eyebrow. "We thought you'd stay awhile."
"We
thought so, too. But I spent last night thinking, and we should be...out
of
here as soon as possible. There's a lot to be done."
Danielle
leaned her head to one side in query as Francine and Marty came into
the
kitchen. Marty smiled shyly at Becky; Becky ignored him, glancing between
her
mother and father.
"What
in hell is going on with this family?" Danielle asked, her voice sharp.
"Goddammit,
Francine, where are you going?"
"I
don't know," Francine answered bluntly. "Arthur's in charge."
"Are
you all crazy?" Danielle asked.
"Now,
Danny," Grant said.
"I've
been up all night trying to figure this out. Why are you leaving now?
Why?"
She was on the edge of hysteria. "Something's going on. Something with
the
government. Is that why you're here? You're going to leave us all, let us
die!"
Arthur's
heart sank. She might be close enough to the truth. All his
excitement
seemed to drain.
"We're
going into the city today," he said. "I have business there, and
Marty
and
Francine have to come with me."
"Can
we come along?" Danielle asked. "All of us. We're family. I would
feel a
lot
better if we all came along."
Francine
looked at him, eyes filled with tears. Marty's lower lip was
quivering,
and Becky stood beside her mother, one arm around her, confused
into
silence.
"No,"
Grant said. Danielle jerked her head around.
"What?"
"No.
We will not panic. Arthur has work to do. If it's work for the
government,
fine. But we will not panic in this house if I have anything to
say
about it."
"They're
_going someplace_," Danielle said softly.
Grant
agreed to that with a brief nod. "Maybe so. But we have no businesshorning
in."
"That's
goddamned reasonable of you," Danielle said. "We're your goddamned
family.
What are you doing for us?"
Grant
searched Arthur's face, and Arthur sensed his confusion and fear and
determination
not to let things get out of control. "I'm keeping us in our
house,"
he said, "and I'm keeping us civil, and dignified."
"Dignity,"
Danielle said. She upended her cup of coffee on the floor and
rushed
out of the kitchen. Becky stood by the spill and sobbed silently,
painfully.
"Daddy,"
she said between tight spasms.
"We're
just arguing," Grant told her. He kneeled beside her and wrapped an arm
around
her shoulder. "We'll be okay."
Arthur,
feeling like an automaton, gathered their things from the bathroom and
spare
bedroom. Francine sought her sister in the master bedroom and tried to
soothe
her.
Grant
confronted Arthur in the driveway. Morning fog was thick over the hills,
and
the sun was a promise of yellow warmth behind the mist. A few mourning
doves
sang their sweet, nostalgic stupid song behind the hedges.
"Are
you still working for the government?" he asked.
"No,"
Arthur said.
"They're
not taking you all into Cheyenne Mountain or something like that?
Putting
you aboard a space shuttle?"
"No,"
Arthur said, feeling a twinge. _What do you hope is going to happen...?
Something
not too far from what Grant is hypothesizing?_
"Are
you coming back here this evening? Just going into town, and
then...coming
back?"
Arthur
shook his head. "I don't think so," he said.
"You're
going to drive, wander until...it happens?"
"I
don't know," Arthur said.
Grant
grimaced and shook his head. "I've wondered how long we could keep it
all
together. We are all going to die, aren't we, and we can't do anything?"
Arthur
felt as if he were breathing shards of glass.
"We
face these things our own way," Grant said. "If you're in a car,
driving,
maybe
everybody can keep together. Keep going on. If we all stay at home,
maybe...too.
Also."
_Please,
you are powerful, you are Godlike_, Arthur prayed to the Bosses at
the
top of the network, _take us all, rescue us all. Please._
But
the information already passed on to him made that prayer a hollow thing.
And
he had no assurance his family was going to be saved; no assurance at all,
only
a strong, living hope. He reached out for Grant's hand and clasped it
between
his own.
"I
have always admired you," Arthur said. "You're not like me. But I
want you
to
know that I've always admired you, and Danielle. You are good people.
Wherever
we are, whatever happens, you are in our thoughts. And I hope we will
be
in yours."
"You
will be," Grant said, jaw clenched. Danielle and Francine came through
the
front door, Marty in tow. Becky did not come out, but watched through the
front
bay window, a small radiantly blond ghost.
Arthur
sat behind the wheel again after making sure Marty was strapped
securely
into the station wagon's back seat. Grant held Danielle tightly with
one
arm and waved with the other.
_Nothing
so different about this_, Arthur thought. _Simple family leave-
taking._
He backed the station wagon out of the driveway and maneuvered on the
narrow
street, glancing at his watch. One hour to get where they had to be.
Francine's
face was soaked with tears, but she made no sound, staring ahead,
her
arm hanging limply out the window.
Marty
waved, and they drove away.Winds from the ocean had driven the smoke of eastern
fires inland, and once
the
mist had burned off, the air was fine and blue and clear. Arthur drove
them
across the heavy, gray-girdered San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, almost
empty
of traffic, taking the 480 off-ramp to the Embarcadero and turning south
for
China Basin Street and the Central Basin.
"Do
_you_ know where we’re going?" Francine asked.
He
nodded; in a way, he did know. He was following directions, but he had a
picture
of a fifty-foot fishing boat. Twenty passengers sat in the sun on the
rear
deck, waiting for them.
He
parked the car in the lot at Agua Vista Park. "We’re walking from
here," he
said.
"It isn’t far."
"What
about the luggage?" Francine asked.
"My
toys?" Marty chimed in.
"Leave
them here," Arthur said. He opened the tailgate and pulled out the box
containing
Francine’s disks and papers. That was the only thing he would
insist
they bring. He let Marty hold it.
The
excitement was returning; he could feel sad later about those left behind.
Right
now, it seemed certain what he had most hoped for was happening. The
network
was not blocking his way, or telling him to go back; he was being
urged
on. Only a few minutes remained.
"We’re
taking a boat?" Francine asked. He nodded. She lifted her purse, and
Arthur
shook his head: leave it. She slipped a plastic pack of family photos
from
her wallet and tossed the rest aside almost angrily, face contorted.
"Aren’t
we going to lock the car?" Marty asked. Arthur hurried them away,
leaving
the tailgate open.
_You
do not need possessions. Bring nothing but the clothes on your back.
Empty
your pockets of change, keys, everything. Bring only yourselves._
He
tossed his keys and change, wallet and comb, onto the asphalt.
They
walked through an open gate in a chain link fence onto a long, broad
pier,
lined on each side with the gently bobbing masts of fishing boats.
"Hurry,"
he urged.
Francine
pushed Marty ahead of her.
"All
this for a boat ride," she said.
At
the end of the pier, the boat he had visualized awaited them. There were
indeed
about twenty people standing and sitting in the back. A young woman in
faded
jeans and a windbreaker guided them onto the ramp and they boarded
quickly,
taking their places in the back. Marty perched on a smelly pile of
worn
netting. Francine sat on a winch.
"All
right," the young woman shouted. "That's the last."
Only
now did Arthur dare to let his breath out. He glanced around at the
people
on the boat. Most were younger than he; four children were in the group
besides
Marty. There were no passengers past late middle age. As he looked
into
their faces, he saw that many had been involved in the network, and yet
they
were not being rewarded for their labors. Others on the network had been
left
behind; many not on the network, like Marty and Francine, were going
along.
Still,
nobody seemed to have any idea where they were headed. The boat pulled
into
the choppy bay waters and headed north. The sun cast welcome warmth, and
the
winds over the bay took most of it away.
The
young woman came around to each of them and held out her hand. "Jewelry,
please,"
she said. "Rings, watches, necklaces. Everything." Everybody handed
over
the valuables without complaint. Arthur removed his wedding band and
nodded
for Francine to do likewise. Marty surrendered his Raccoon wristwatch
without
complaining. He was very sober and very quiet.
"Do
you know where we're going?" a young man dressed in a business suit asked
the
woman as he handed her a gold Rolex.
"Out
near Alcatraz," she said. "That's what the skipper tells
me.""I mean, after that?"
She
shook her head. "Has everybody turned in everything?"
"Will
we get our things back?" a small Asiatic woman asked.
"No,"
the young woman in jeans replied. "Sorry."
"Is
Becky and Aunt Danielle and Uncle Grant coming with us?" Marty asked
solemnly,
watching sea gulls glide over the boat's wake.
"No,"
Francine answered, taking the word from Arthur's lips. "Nobody else is
coming
with us."
"Are
we going to leave the Earth?" Marty asked. The adults around him visibly
cringed.
"Shhh,"
the young woman said, maneuvering her way past him. "Wait and see."
Arthur
reached out and gently pinched Marty's ear between thumb and
forefinger.
_Smart boy_, he thought. He looked out across the water, feeling
the
bay's white-caps thump rhythmically against the boat hull. Several people
were
becoming seasick. A nut-brown, gray-bearded man of about forty came down
from
the pilot house and passed out plastic bags. "Use them," he said
gruffly.
"Everybody.
We don't need anybody sicker than they have to be, and we
certainly
don't need chain reactions."
Arthur
surveyed the city's skyline, blinking at the salt spray. _All that
work.
Around the world. Thousands of years._ He could not even begin to
encompass
the enormity. Francine came to him and wrapped her arms around him
tightly.
He leaned his cheek against her hair, not daring to feel as
optimistic
as he wanted to be.
"Can
you tell me what's going on now?" she asked.
Marty
snuggled up to them. "We're going away, Mom," he said.
"Are
we?" she asked Arthur.
He
swallowed and barely moved his head, then nodded. "Yes. I think we
are."
"Where?"
"I
don't know."
They
cut through the water under the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, Yerba
Buena
Island and Treasure Island to their right, tall mounds of dark green and
brown
on the slate-colored, white-flecked waters.
"See,
Marty?" Francine said, pointing up at the bridge's maze of girders and
the
huge piers and tower legs. "We drove over that just a while ago."
Marty
gave the wonder cursory attention. The sea was getting rougher.
Alcatraz,
a desolate rock cluttered with ancient buildings, a water tower
prominent,
lay dead ahead. The boat slowed, its motors cutting back to a
steady
chug-chug-chug. The young woman passed among them again, examining
everybody
closely for unnecessary belongings. Nobody protested; they were
either
numb with fear, seasick, exhausted, or all three. She smiled at Marty
in
passing to the rear again.
The
boat stopped, drifting in the chop. The passengers began to murmur. Then
Arthur
saw something square and gray rise beyond the port gunwale. He thought
immediately
of a submarine sail, but it was much smaller, barely as wide as a
double
doorway and no more than ten feet out of the water.
"We'll
have to be careful," the woman told them, standing on a short ladder
near
the pilot house. "The water's rough. We're all going to climb down
through
this doorway." An empty black square appeared in the gray block.
"There's
a spiral staircase going down into the ship. The ark. If you have a
child
younger than twelve, please hold its hand and be very careful."
A
burly fisherman in a black turtleneck sweater struggled to extend a short
gangplank
to the block's entrance.
"We
_are_ leaving," Francine said, her voice like a girl's.
One
by one, in silence, they crossed the none-too-stable plank, helped by the
fisherman
and the young woman. Each person vanished into the block. When his
family's
turn came, Arthur went first, then helped Francine lift Marty across,
and
grasped her hand firmly as she lurched over."Oh, Lord," Francine said
in a trembling voice as they descended the steep,
narrow
spiral staircase.
"Be
brave, Mom," Marty encouraged. He smiled at Arthur, walking before him,
their
heads almost level.
After
descending some thirty feet, they stepped through a half-oval entrance
into
a circular room with three doorways clustered on the opposite side. The
walls
were peach yellow and the lighting was even and warm, soothing. When all
twenty
stood in the room, the young woman joined them. The fisherman and other
crew
members did not. The half-oval hatch slid shut quietly behind her. A low
moan
rose from several in the room, and one man about ten years younger than
Arthur
sank to his knees, hands clasped in prayer.
"We're
inside a spaceship," the young woman said. "We have quarters farther
down.
In a little while, maybe a couple of hours, we'll be leaving the Earth.
Some
of you know this already. The rest of you should be patient, and please
don't
be afraid."
Arthur
clasped his wife's and son's hands and closed his eyes, not knowing
whether
he was terrified, or exalted, or already in mourning. If they were
aboard
a spaceship, and all the work he and the others in the network had done
was
coming to fruition, then the Earth would soon die.
His
family might survive. Yet they would never again breathe the fresh cold
sea
air or stand in the open beneath the sun. Faces passed before him, behind
his
eyelids: relatives, friends, colleagues. Harry, when he had been healthy.
Arthur
thought of Ithaca Feinman and wondered whether she would be aboard an
ark.
Probably not. There were so few spaces available, fewer still now that
the
ships in Charleston and Seattle had been destroyed. A breeding population,
little
more.
And
all the rest...
The
younger man prayed out loud, fervent, face screwed up in an agony of
concentration.
Arthur could very easily have joined him.
67—
A
loose group of ten took to the Four Mile Trail in the early morning, Edward
and
Betsy among them. They hiked through the shadows of Douglas fir and
Ponderosa
pine, pine pitch tartly scenting the still morning air. The climb
was
relatively mild at first, rising gradually to the vigorous Sentinel Creek
ford
some two hundred feet above the valley floor.
By
eleven they were on the steep ascending trail cut into the granite facade
to
the west of Sentinel Rock.
Edward
paused to sit and take a breather, and to admire Betsy in her climbing
shorts.
"They
used to charge to climb this,"' Betsy said, propping one well-made leg
against
a ledge to retie her hiking boot.
He
looked over the edge at the distance they had already climbed and shook his
head.
By noon, they had peeled out of their sweatshirts and tied the sleeves
around
their hips. They stopped for a water break. The ten, by now, were
spread
along a half mile of the trail like goats in a terraced-rock zoo
exhibit.
One young man a few dozen feet above Edward had enough energy to beat
his
chest and let loose a Tarzan cry of dominance. Then he grinned foolishly
and
waved.
"Me
Jane, him nuts," Betsy commented.
Their
good cheer continued as they stood at Union Point and looked down across
the
valley, leaning on the iron railings. The sky was only slightly smoky, and
the
air was warming as they ascended. "We could stop here," Betsy
suggested.
"The
view's pretty good."
"Onward."
Edward put on a valiant face and pointed to the goal. "One more
heavy
climb."
By
one o'clock they had hiked over a seemingly endless series of switchbacksup the
bare granite slope, stopping briefly to examine the manzanita growth.
They
then followed a much more reasonable, comparatively level trail to
Glacier
Point.
Minelli
and his companion Inez had already pitched tents in the woods behind
the
asphalt paths leading up to the point's railed terraces. They waved at
Edward
and Betsy and motioned for them to come over and share their picnic
lunch.
"We're
going to take in the view," Edward called to them. "We'll be with you
in
a little bit."
Leaning
on the rail of the lowest terrace, they surveyed the valley from end
to
end, and the mountains beyond. Birdsong punctuated the steady whisper of
the
breezes.
"It
is _so_ peaceful," Betsy said. "You'd think nothing could ever happen
here..."
Edward
tried to picture his father, standing by the railing more than two
decades
ago, waving his hands, clowning as his mother snapped his picture with
a
Polaroid camera. They had driven up to the point that time. An hour later,
they
had been on their way home, ending the last happy time of his childhood.
The
last time, as a child, he had felt he _could_ have been happy.
He
touched Betsy's arm and smiled at her. "Best view in the world," he
said.
"Grandstand
seat," Betsy agreed, shading her eyes against the high bright sun.
They
stood near the edge for several minutes, arms around each other, then
turned
and walked back to the tents to join Minelli and Inez.
The
afternoon progressed slowly, leisurely. Minelli had bought a stick of dry
salami
in the store, and two loaves of bread; Inez had somehow come up with a
large
wedge of Cheddar cheese. "We had a whole wheel a few days ago," she
said.
"Don't ask how we got it." Her smile was tough and childish and sweet
all
at once.
Minelli
passed around cans of beer, warm but still welcome, and they ate
slowly,
saying little, listening to the birds and the hum of the wind through
the
trees behind them. When they had finished, Edward spread a sleeping bag on
the
grass and invited Betsy to lie back and doze with him. The climb had not
been
exhausting, but the sun was warm and the air was sweet, and large fat
bees
were buzzing in lazy curves around them. They were well fed, and the beer
had
made Edward supremely drowsy.
Betsy
lay beside him, head resting in the crook of his arm. "Happy?" she
asked
him.
Edward
opened his eyes and stared up at white clouds against a brilliant blue
sky.
"Yes," he said. "I really am."
"So
am I."
A
few dozen yards away, other campers were singing folk songs and sixties and
seventies
tunes. Their voices drifted in the restless, warm air, finally
melding
with the wind and the hum of the bees.
68—
Walter
Samshow celebrated his seventy-sixth birthday aboard the Glomar
_Discoverer_,
cruising in circles a few kilometers beyond the zone where huge
gouts
of oxygen had once risen to the ocean surface. The bubbling had stopped
three
days before.
The
ship's galley prepared a two-meter-long birthday cake in the shape of a
sea
serpent—or an oarfish, depending on whether you asked the cook or Chao,
who
had seen several oarfish in his time, but no sea serpents.
At
five in the afternoon, the cake was cut with some ceremony under the canvas
awning
spread on the fantail. Bible-leaf slices of the serpent were served on
the
ship's best china, accompanied by champagne or nonalcoholic punch for
those
ostensibly on duty.
Sand
silently toasted his partner with a raised glass of champagne at thestern.
Samshow smiled and tasted the cake. He was trying to decide what flavor
the
peculiar mud-colored icing was—someone had suggested sweetened agar
earlier—when
the ocean all around suddenly glowed a brilliant blue-green, even
beneath
the intense sun.
Samshow
was reminded of his youth, standing on the beach at Cape Cod on the
night
of the Fourth of July, waiting for fireworks and tossing his own
firecrackers
into the surf just as their fuses burned short. The firecrackers
had
exploded below the surface with a silent puff of electric-green light.
The
crew on the rear deck fell silent. Some looked at their shipmates in
puzzlement,
having missed the phenomenon.
In
rapid succession, from the northern horizon to the southern horizon, more
flashes
illuminated the ocean.
"I
think," Samshow said in his best professorial tone, "we are about to
have
some
mysteries answered." He knelt to put his plate and glass of champagne
down
on the deck, and then stood, with Sand's help, by the railing.
To
the west, the entire sea and sky began to roar.
A
curtain of cloud and blinding light rose from the western horizon, then
slowly
curled about like a snake in pain. One end of the curtain slid over the
sea
with amazing speed in their direction, and Samshow cringed, not wanting it
all
to end just yet. There was more he wanted to see; more minutes he wanted
to
live.
The
hull shuddered violently and the steel masts and wires sang. The railing
vibrated
painfully under his hand.
The
ocean filled with a continuous light, miles of water no more opaque than a
thick
green lump of glass held over a bonfire.
"It's
the bombs," Sand said. "They're going off. Up and down the
fractures—"
The
sea to the west blistered in a layer perhaps a hundred meters thick,
scoured
by the snaking curtain, bursting into ascending and descending ribbons
of
fluid and foam. Between the fragments of the peeled sea—the skin of an
inconceivable
bubble—rose a massive, shimmering transparent of superheated
steam,
perhaps two miles wide. Its revealed surface immediately condensed into
a
pale opalescent hemisphere. Other such bubbles broke and released and
condensed
from horizon to horizon, churning the sea into a mint-green froth.
The
clouds of vapor ascended in twisted pillars to the sky. The hiss and roar
and
deep churning, gut-shaking booms became unbearable. Samshow clapped his
hands
to his ears and waited for what he knew must come.
A
scatter of calved steam bubbles broke just a few hundred meters to the east,
with
more on the opposite side. The turbulence spread in a high wall of water
that
caught the ship lengthwise and broke her spine, twisting her fore half
clockwise,
aft counterclockwise, metal screaming, rivets failing like cannon
shots,
plates ripping with a sound curiously b'ke tearing paper, beams
snapping.
Samshow flew over the side and seemed for a moment suspended in
froth
and flying debris. He felt all that he was a part of—the sea, the sky,
the
air and mist around him—abruptly accelerate upward. A much larger steam
bubble
surfaced directly beneath the ship.
There
was of course no time to think, but a thought from the instant before
lingered
like a strobed image, congealed in his mind before his body was
instantly
boiled and smashed into something hardly distinguishable from the
foam
around it: _I wish I could hear that sound, of the Earth's crust being
spread
wide._
Around
the globe, wherever the bomb-laying machines had infested the deep-
ocean
trenches, long sinuous curtains of hot vapor reached high into the
atmosphere
and pierced through. As the millions of glassy columns of steam
condensed
into cloud, and the cloud hit the cold upper masses of air and
flashed
into rain, the air that had been pushed aside now rushed back with
violent
thunderclaps. Tsunamis rolled outward beneath corresponding turbulent
expanding
concentric fronts of high and low pressure.The end had begun.
DIES
IRAE
69—
Below
San Francisco Bay, hours after boarding the ark, the young woman who had
guided
them on the fishing boat—her name was Clara Fogarty—went among the
twenty
in the waiting room and spoke to them, answering questions, trying to
keep
them all calm. She seemed none too calm herself; fragile, on the edge.
_Help
her_, Arthur was ordered. He and several others immediately obeyed.
After
a few minutes, he circled back through the people to Francine and took
her
hands. Marty hugged him fiercely.
"I'm
going to visit the areas where we'll be staying," he said to Francine.
"The
network is telling you this?"
"No,"
he said, looking to one side, frowning slightly. "Something else. A
voice
I've not heard before. I'm to meet somebody."
Francine
wiped her face with her hands and kissed him. Arthur lifted Marty
with
an _oomph_ and told him to take care of his mother. "I'll be back in a
little
while."
He
stood beside Clara Fogarty at the middle hatch on the side opposite where
they
had entered. The hatch— little more than an outline in the wall's
surface—slid
open and they passed through quickly, before they had a clear
impression
of what was on the other side.
A
brightly illuminated broad hallway, curving _down_, stretched before them.
The
hatch closed and they regarded each other nervously. More hatches lined
both
sides of the hallway.
"Artificial
gravity?" Clara Fogarty asked him.
"I
don’t know," he said.
At
a silent request, they stepped forward. They remained upright in relation
to
the floor, with no odd sensations other than the visual. At the end of the
hallway,
another open hatchway awaited them; beyond was a warm half darkness.
They
entered a chamber similar to the waiting room.
In
the center of this chamber rose a pedestal about a foot high and a yard
wide.
On the pedestal rested something that at first examination Arthur took
to
be a sculpture. It stood about half as tall as he, shaped like a hefty
square
human torso and head—rather, in fact, like a squared-off and slightly
flattened
kachina doll. Other than an abstracted and undivided bosom, it
lacked
any surface features. In color it was similar to heat-treated copper,
with
oily swirls of rainbow iridescence. Its skin was glossy but not
reflective.
Without
warning, it lifted smoothly a few inches above the pedestal and
addressed
them both out loud:
"I
am afraid your people will soon no longer be wild and free."
Arthur
had heard this same voice in his head just a few minutes ago, beckoning
them
through the hatches.
"Who
are you?" he asked.
"I
am not your keeper, but I am your guide."
"Are
you alive?" He did not know what else to ask.
"I
am not biologically alive. I am part of this vessel, which will in turn
soon
become part of a much larger vessel. You are here to prepare your
companions
for me, that I may instruct them and carry out my own
instructions."
"Are
you a robot?" Clara asked.
"I
am a symbol, designed to be acceptable without conveying wrong impressions.
In
a manner of speaking, I am a machine, but I am not a servile laborer. Do
you
understand me?"
The
object’s voice was deep, authoritative, yet not masculine.
"Yes,"
Arthur said."Some among your group might panic if exposed to me without
preparation. Yet
it
is essential that they come to know and trust me, and come to trust the
information
and instructions I give them. Is this understood?"
"Yes."
They answered in unison.
"The
future of your people, and of all the information we have retrieved from
your
planet, depends on how your kind and my kind interact. Your kind must
become
disciplined, and I must educate you about larger realities than most of
you
have been used to facing."
Arthur
nodded, his mouth dry. "We’re inside one of the arks?"
"You
are. These vessels will join together once we are all in space. There are
now
thirty-one of these vessels, and aboard twenty-one of them, five hundred
humans
apiece. The vessels also contain large numbers of botanical,
zoological,
and other specimens—not in most cases whole, but in recoverable
form.
Is this clear?"
"Yes,"
Arthur said. Clara nodded.
"Most
of my early communications with you will not be through speech, but
through
what you might call telepathy, as you have already been directed by
the
network. Later, when there is more time, this intrusive method will be
largely
abandoned. For now, when you go among your companions, I will speak
through
you, but you will have the discretion of phrasing and timing. We have
very
little time."
"Has
it begun?" Clara asked.
"It
has begun," the object said.
"And
we’re leaving soon?"
"The
last passengers and specimens for this vessel are being loaded now."
Arthur
received impressions of crates of chromium spiders being loaded from
small
boats through the surface entrance of the ark. The spiders contained the
fruits
of weeks of searching and sampling: genetic material from thousands of
plants
and animals along the West Coast.
"What
can we call you?" Arthur asked.
"You
will make up your own names for me. Now you must return to your group and
introduce
them to their quarters, which are spaced along this hallway. You
must
also ask for at least four volunteers to witness the crime that is now
being
committed."
"We’re
to witness the destruction of the Earth?" Clara asked.
"Yes.
It is the Law. If you will excuse me, I have other introductions to
make."
They
backed out of the shadowy room and watched as the hatchway slid shut.
"Very
efficient," Arthur said.
"The
Law.’" Clara smiled thinly. "Right now, I’m more scared than I ever
was
on
the boat. I don’t even know all the people’s names yet."
"Let’s
get started," Arthur said. They traversed the curved hallway. The hatch
at
the opposite end opened and they saw a cluster of anxious faces. The smell
of
fear drifted out.
70—
Irwin
Schwartz stepped into the White House situation room and nearly bumped
into
the First Lady. She backed away with a nervous nod, her hands trembling,
and
he entered. Everyone’s nerves had been frazzled since the evacuation the
night
before and the rapid return of the President to the Capital. No one had
slept
for more than an hour or two since.
The
President stood with Otto Lehrman before the high-resolution data screens
mounted
on the wood paneling covering the concrete walls. The screens were on
and
showed maps of different portions of the Northern Hemisphere, Mercator
projection,
with red spots marking vanished cities. "Come on in, Irwin,"
Crockerman
said. "We have some new material from the Puzzle Palace." He seemed
almost
cheerful.Irwin turned to the First Lady. "Are you here to stay?" he
asked bluntly. He
respected
the woman, but did not like her much.
"The
President specially requested my presence," she said. "He feels we
should
be
united."
"Obviously,
you agree with him."
"I
agree with him," she said.
Never
in United States history had a First Lady deserted her husband when he
was
under fire; Mrs. Crockerman knew this, and it must have taken some courage
to
return. Still, Schwartz had himself given long hours of thought to
resigning
from the administration; he could not judge her too harshly.
He
held out his hand. She accepted and they shook firmly. "Welcome back
aboard,"
he said.
"We
have photos about twenty minutes old from a Diamond Apple," Lehrman said.
"Technicians
are putting them on the screens any minute." Diamond Apples were
reconnaissance
satellites launched in the early 1990s. The National
Reconnaissance
Office was very zealous with Diamond Apple pictures. Usually,
they
would have been reserved for the eyes of the President and Secretary of
Defense
only; that Schwartz was seeing them indicated something extraordinary
was
in store.
"Here
they are," Lehrman said as the screens blanked.
Crockerman
apparently had been told what to expect. Lines of glowing white
rimmed
in red and blue-green laced across a midnight-black background. "You
know,"
Crockerman said softly, standing back from the screens, "I was right
after
all. Goddammit, Irwin, I was right, and I was wrong at the same time.
How
do you figure that?"
Schwartz
stared at the glowing lines, not making any sense of them until a
grid
and labels came up with the display. This was the North Atlantic; the
lines
were trenches, midocean ridges and faults.
"The
white," Lehrman said, "is heat residue from thermonuclear explosions.
Hundreds,
perhaps thousands, maybe tens of thousands—all along the Earth’s
deep-ocean
seams and wrinkles."
The
First Lady half sobbed, half caught her breath. Crockerman stared at the
displays
with a sad grin.
"Now
the western Pacific," Lehrman said. More white lines. "By the way,
Hawaii
has
been heavily assaulted by tsunamis. The West Coast of North America is
about
twenty, thirty minutes away from major waves; I’d guess it’s already
been
hit by waves from these areas." He pointed to stacks of white lines near
Alaska
and California. "The damage could be extensive. The energy released by
all
the explosions is enormous; weather patterns around the world will change.
The
Earth’s heat budget..." He shook his head. "But I doubt we’ll be
given
much
time to worry about it."
"It’s
a softening up?" Schwartz asked.
Lehrman
shrugged. "Who can understand the design, or what this means? We’re
not
dead yet, so it’s a preliminary; that’s all anybody knows. Seismic
stations
all over are reporting heavy anomalistic fault behavior."
"I
don’t think the bullets have collided yet," Crockerman said. "Irwin’s
hit
the
nail on the head. It’s a softening up."
Lehrman
sat down at the large diamond-shaped table and held out his hands:
your
guess is as good as mine.
"I
think we have maybe an hour, maybe less," the President said.
"There’s
nothing
we can do. Nothing we could have ever done."
Schwartz
studied the Diamond Apple displays with a slight squint. They still
conveyed
no convincing reality. They were attractive abstractions. What did
Hawaii
look like now? What would San Francisco look like in a few minutes? Or
New
York?
"I’m
sorry not everybody is here," Crockerman said. "I’d like to thank
them."
"We’re
not evacuating...again?" Schwartz asked automatically.Lehrman gave him a
sharp, ironic look. "We don’t have a lunar settlement,
Irwin.
The President, when he was a senator, was instrumental in getting those
funds
cut in 1990."
"My
mistake," Crockerman said, his tone almost bantering. At that moment, had
Schwartz
had a pistol, he would have killed the man; his anger was a helpless,
undirected
passion that could just as easily leave him in tears as draw him
into
violence. The displays conveyed no reality; Crockerman, however, conveyed
it
all.
"We
really are children," Schwartz said after the flush had gone out of his
face
and his hands had stopped trembling. "We never had a chance."
Crockerman
looked around as the floor shook beneath their feet. "I’m almost
anxious
for the end," he said. "I hurt so bad inside."
The
shaking became more violent.
The
First Lady held the doorframe and then leaned on the table. Schwartz
reached
out to help her to a chair. Secret Service agents entered the room,
struggling
to stay on their feet, catching hold of the table edge. After
Schwartz
had seated the First Lady, he sat down again himself and gripped the
wooden
arms of the chair. The shaking was not dying away; it was getting
worse.
"How
long will it take, do you think?" Crockerman asked nobody in particular.
"Mr.
President, we should get you out of the building and onto the grounds,"
said
the agent who had made the most progress into the situation room; His
voice
quavered. He was terrified. "Everybody else, too."
"Don’t
be ridiculous," Crockerman said. "If the roof fell on me now, it
would
be
a goddamn blessing. Right, Irwin?" His smile was bright, but there were
tears
in his eyes.
The
display on the screen went out, and the lights in the room dimmed shortly
after,
to return with less conviction.
Schwartz
stood. Time once again to be an example. "I think we should let these
men
do their job, Mr. President." He had a sudden heavy sensation in his
stomach,
as if he were in a fast-rising elevator. Crockerman stumbled and an
agent
caught him. The rising sensation continued, seemingly forever, and then
stopped
with a suddenness that lifted the White House a fraction of an inch
from
its foundations. The framework of steel beams that had been built into
the
White House shell in the late forties and early fifties squealed and
groaned,
but held. Plaster fell in clouds and patches from the ceiling and a
rich
wood panel split with a loud report.
Schwartz
heard the President calling his name. From where he lay on the floor—
somehow
he had rolled under the table—he tried to answer, but all the breath
had
been knocked out of him. Gasping, blinking, wiping plaster dust from his
eyes,
he listened to a hideous creaking and splitting noise overhead. He heard
enormous
thuds outside—stone facing coming loose, he guessed, or columns
toppling.
He was forcibly reminded of so many movies about the demise of
ancient
cities by earthquake or volcano, huge blocks of marble tumbling onto
crowds
of hapless citizens.
_Not
the White House...Surely not that._
"Irwin,
Otto..." The President again. A pair of legs walking with short jerks
near
the table.
"Under
here, sir," Schwartz said. He saw a brief portrait of his wife in his
mind,
her features indistinct, as if he looked at an old, badly focused
picture.
She smiled. Then he saw their daughter, married and living in South
Carolina...if
the ocean had spared her.
Again
the rising. He was pressed to the floor. It was brief, only a second or
two,
but he knew it was enough. When it stopped, he waited for the collapse of
the
upper floors, eyes scrunched tight. _Jesus, is the entire eastern seaboard
going
up?_ The wait and the silence seemed interminable. Schwartz could not
decide
whether to open his eyes again...or to wait out the long seconds,_feeling_ the
sway of the building above.
He
turned his head to one side and opened his eyes.
The
President had fallen and lay faceup beside the table, ghost-white with
dust.
His eyes were open but not aware.
The
White House regained its voice and screamed like a thing alive.
The
massive legs of the table buckled and exploded in splinters. They could
not
withstand the weight of tons of cement and steel and stone.
71—
Quaint,
Edward thought; quaint and touching and he wished he could muster up
the
emotion to join them; a group of twenty or more had gathered by now in a
circle
a hundred yards behind the Granite Point, singing hymns and more folk
songs.
Betsy clung to him on the asphalt path. Fresh tremors had subsided, but
the
air itself seemed to be grumbling, complaining.
Ironically,
having climbed the trail to have a good vantage, they now stood
well
back from the rim. A foot-wide crack had appeared in the terrace
stonework.
From where they stood, they could see only the upper third of the
opposite
wall of the valley.
"You're
a geologist," Betsy said, massaging his neck with one hand, something
he
had not asked her to do, but which felt good. "Do you know what's going
on?"
"No,"
he said.
"It's
not just an earthquake, though?"
"I
don't think so."
"So
it's beginning now. We just got up here."
He
nodded and swallowed back a lump of fear. Now that it had come, he was near
panic.
He felt trapped, claustrophobic, with only all of the Earth and sky to
move
in—not even that, lacking wings. He felt squeezed between steel plates of
gravity
and his own puny weakness. His body was forcibly reminding him that
fear
was difficult to control, and presence of mind in the face of death was
rare.
"God,"
Betsy said, placing her cheek against his, looking toward the Point.
She
was shaking, too. "I thought at least we'd have time to talk about it, sit
around
a campfire..."
Edward
held her more tightly. He imagined her as a wife, and then thought of
Stella,
marveling at the fickleness of his fantasies; he was grasping for many
lives,
now that his own seemed so short. Over his fear he thought of long
years
together with both of them.
The
tremors had almost passed.
The
hymn singers continued searching for a common key, hopelessly lost.
Minelli
and Inez came from the trees and climbed the hill between the close
switchbacks
of the asphalt path. Minelli whooped out loud and ran his hand
through
his hair. "Jesus, isn't adrenaline great?"
"He's
crazy," Inez said, breathing hard, her face pale. "Maybe not the
craziest
I've met, but close."
"Does
it feel warmer to you?" Betsy asked.
Edward
considered that possibility. Would heat transmit itself before a shock
wave?
No. If the bullets were colliding, or had collided only a short time
ago,
deep in the center of the Earth, the expanding and irresistible plasma of
their
mutual destruction would crack the Earth wide before heat could ever
reach
the surface.
"I
don't think it's warmer because of...the end," Edward said. He had never
felt
his mind racing so rapidly over so many subjects. He wanted to see what
was
happening in the valley.
"Shall
we?" he asked, pointing to the terraces and the still-intact rim.
"What
else did we come here for?" Minelli asked, laughing and shaking his head
like
a wet dog. Sweat flew from his hair. He whooped again and took Inez'splump
hand, dragging her across the gravel to the terraces.
"Minelli,"
she protested, looking back at them for help. Edward glanced at
Betsy,
and she nodded once, face flushed.
"I
am so _terrified_" she whispered. "It's like being high." They
walked
together
toward the edge. "I pity all those folks who stayed home. I really
do."
The
two couples stood alone on the terrace, looking down into the valley. Not
much
had changed; there was no visible damage, not at first glance, anyway.
Then
Minelli pointed to a thick column of smoke. "Look."
The
Ahwanee was on fire. Nearly the entire hotel was ablaze.
"I
love that old place," Betsy said. Inez moaned and wrung her hands.
"How
much longer, do you think?" Inez asked, her expression that of someone
about
to sneeze, or shriek. She did neither.
"It
seems real close," he said. Betsy raised her arms with a moan and he
hugged
her tightly, almost squeezing the breath out of her.
"Hold
me, dammit," Inez demanded. Minelli blinked at her, then followed
Edward's
example.
Ten
minutes after the meeting, Arthur and Clara had assigned the members of
their
group to the new quarters along the curved hallway. Two of the younger
children
were crying inconsolably and all were emotionally exhausted; Arthur
stood
in the confines of the cabin he and Francine and Marty would share,
pondering
the common sanitation facilities accessible through the first
doorway
on the right of the sealed hatch where they had met with the robot. A
few
had already used the lavatory; some had gone in there to be sick. Clara
was
one of the latter. She came to the Gordons' cabin and leaned against the
edge
of the hatch, rubbing her eyes with one hand. "All settled, I think,"
she
said.
"What's next?"
*
* *
Francine
had said little for the entire time they had been aboard. She sat on
the
bed, clutching her box of disks and papers with one hand. Marty held her
other
hand firmly. She stared at Clara with a vacancy that worried Arthur.
_Choose
four witnesses._ The restatement of the command in their minds was
polite
but unequivocal. _It is the Law._
Clara
jerked and stood upright. "You heard that?" she asked.
He
nodded. Francine turned to look at Arthur. "They want us to choose four
witnesses,"
he told her.
"Witnesses
to what?" Her voice was small, distant.
"The
end," he said.
"Not
the children," Francine said firmly. Arthur briefly conferred with the
voice.
_Two must be younger, to pass on the memories._
"They
want two children," he said. Francine clenched her fists.
"I
don't want Martin to experience that," she said. "It's bad enough if
we
have
to."
"They
want kids for what?" Marty asked, looking between them, wide-eyed.
"It's
the Law. Their law," Arthur said. "They need some of us to watch the
Earth
when it's destroyed, and two of them must be kids."
Marty
thought that over for a moment. "All the other kids are younger than
me,"
he said, "except one. That girl. I don't know her name."
Francine
turned Marty to face her and gripped his arms. "Do you know what's
going
to happen?" she asked.
"The
Earth is going to blow up," Marty said. "They want us to see it so we
know
what it's like."
"Do
you know who _they_ are?" Francine asked.
"The
people that talk to Dad," Marty said.
"He
understands pretty well," Arthur said.
"I'll
say," Clara agreed.
Francine
gave her an angry glance, then focused again on Marty. "Do you wantto
see?" she asked.
Marty
shook his head no. "It would give me nightmares," he said.
"Then
it's decided," Francine said. "He—"
"But
Mom, if I don't see, I won't know."
"Know
what?"
"How
mad I'm supposed to be."
Francine
searched her son's face slowly, and then let him go, wrapping her
arms
around herself. "Only four?" she asked softly.
"At
least four," he said. "All who wish to see."
"Marty,"
Francine said, "we'll share nightmares, okay?"
"Okay."
"You're
a very brave boy," Clara said.
"Are
you going to watch?" Arthur asked Francine.
She
nodded slowly. "If you and Marty watch, I can't chicken out, can I?"
_How
much longer?_ he asked.
_There
will be a gathering in the common viewing cabin in an hour and ten
minutes._
He
sat on the narrow lower bed beside Francine and Marty. "We'll be leaving
the
Earth soon," he said. "In a few minutes, probably."
"Can
we feel it when we take off, Dad?" Marty asked.
"No,"
he said. "We won't feel it."
Grant
had followed the Gordons' station wagon to the bay, and waited a hundred
yards
away, engine idling, as they parked and walked to the pier. Then he had
parked
his BMW beside the wagon, slung a pair of binoculars around his neck,
and
followed at a discreet distance, feeling like a fool, asking himself—as
Danielle
had asked when he left—why he didn't simply confront them and demand
answers.
He
knew he wouldn't do that. First, he could not really believe that Arthur
would
be part of a government escape into space. Grant couldn't believe such
an
escape was contemplated, or even possible. Nobody could travel far enough
away
to survive the Earth's destruction—not if such destruction was as
spectacular
as what he had seen in the movies. And even if they could—
traveling
out beyond the moon, for example—he didn't think they would be able
to
live very long in space.
But
he was curious. He believed as firmly as Danielle that the Gordons were up
to
something. In the curious kind of floating emotional state he now
experienced,
tracking the Gordons offered a possibility for diversion.
He
was otherwise powerless. He could not save his family. He felt what
billions
of others—all who knew and believed—were feeling now, a deep terror
surmounted
by helplessness, resulting in a dopey calmness, not unlike what his
grandparents
must have felt as they were led to the death pits in Auschwitz.
This,
of course, was vaster and more final than the Holocaust.
Nondiscriminatory.
Thinking such thoughts pressed him up against a wall of
ignorance;
he had never been particularly imaginative, and he could not
conceive
the means or motives behind what he nevertheless knew was coming.
He
stood on the concrete seawall and watched them board the fishing boat. The
boat,
covered with people, sailed out to the north.
Then
he sat on the concrete and rock, buttoning his coat and slipping on a cap
to
keep away the chill of the breezes off the bay.
Grant
had no clear plans, or clear idea what he was doing. If he waited,
perhaps
an answer would come.
Hours
passed. He doubled his legs up on the rock and pressed his knees against
his
chest, chin on the new denim of his pants. The afternoon passed very
slowly,
but he stuck with his vigil.
The
ground trembled slightly and the water level of the bay rose a foot
against
the seawall, and then fell until the rocks at the base of the wall
were
exposed—a drop of perhaps four or five feet. He expected—almost welcomedthe
possibility—that the water would rise again drastically and drown him.
It
did not rise again.
Like
a robot, he stood and walked through the unlocked gate to the end of the
pier,
where he leaned his elbows against the wood rail, staring north. He
could
barely see Alcatraz beyond the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. The
water
just south of Alcatraz appeared rougher than usual, almost white.
A
dark gray shape sat in the middle of the whiteness. For a moment, Grant
thought
a ship had overturned in the bay and was floating hull-up. But the
gray
bulk was rising higher in the water, not sinking. He lifted his
binoculars
and focused on the shape.
With
a jerk of surprise, he saw that it was already out of the water, and that
it
had a flat bottom. He had an impression of something shaped like a
flatiron,
or like the body of a horseshoe crab, four or five hundred feet in
length.
It rose above the span of the bridge, lifting on a brilliant cone of
blinding
green. Across the bay came a teeth-aching high-pitched hissing,
roaring
sound. The object accelerated rapidly upward and dwindled against the
late
morning sky. In a few seconds, it was gone. How many others had seen it?
he
wondered.
Could
the government really have had something in the works—something
spectacular?
He
bit his lip and shook his head, crying now, not knowing why. He felt a
peculiar
relief. Somehow, a few people were getting away. That was a kind of
victory,
as important as his parents surviving the death camps.
And
for those still condemned...
Grant
wiped the tears from his eyes and hurried back along the pier, bumping
into
an iron pole as he passed through the gate. He ran to his car, hoping he
would
be in time. He wanted to be home with his family.
The
bridge was practically deserted as he crossed. He could not see the spot
in
the bay where the water had been white.
He
did not know how he would explain this to Danielle. Her concerns would be
more
immediate, less abstract; she would ask why he did not try to find a way
to
save them all.
Perhaps
he would say nothing, just tell her that he had followed the Gordons
as
far south as Redwood City...and stopped, waited a few hours, and turned
back.
She
wouldn't believe him.
72—
The
ship, Arthur learned, contained 412 passengers, all boarded in secrecy
during
the morning and the previous night. The passengers had been divided
into
groups of twenty, and for the most part would not mingle until several
days
had passed, and they had grown used to their situation. The only
exception
would be the witnessing.
Out
of their group of twenty, nine had volunteered, two children, three women,
and
four men, including Arthur, Francine, and Marty. The nine followed the
stocky
copper robot through the chamber at the end of the curved hall.
They
walked along a narrow black strip in a cylindrical corridor. Arthur tried
to
make a map in his head, not entirely succeeding. The ship apparently had
compartments
that moved in relation to each other.
Passing
through a hatch ahead of them, the robot rolled abruptly to take up a
new
vertical. They found themselves doing likewise, with a few moans of
complaint
and surprise. In a cabin about a hundred feet long and forty or
fifty
feet deep, they faced a broad transparent panel that gave a view of
bright
steady stars. Marty kept close to Arthur, holding his arm tightly with
one
hand, the other clenched into a fist. The boy had sucked his lips inward
over
his teeth and was making small smacking sounds. Francine followed, tense
and
reluctant.Arthur looked down at his son and smiled. "Your choice,
fellah," he said.
Marty
nodded. This was no longer a youngster playing patsy to a pretty blond
cousin;
this was a boy feeling his way to manhood.
More
people entered through a hatch in the opposite side of the cabin in
groups
of four or five or six, children among them, until a small crowd faced
the
darkness and stars; Arthur estimated seventy or eighty. He seemed to
recognize
some from his time on the network, though that was hardly likely;
all
he had heard were their inner voices, which almost never matched physical
appearance.
He thought of Hicks's inner voice, robust and young and sharp, and
of
his white-haired, grandfatherly presence. _I'm going to miss him. He could
have
helped us a lot here._
Arthur
flashed on Harry, desiccated, decaying, buried deep in a coffin in the
Earth;
or had Ithaca had him cremated? That seemed to suit both of them
better.
A
tall young black man stood behind Arthur and Francine. Arthur nodded a
greeting
and the man returned the nod, cordial, dignified, terrified, his neck
muscles
taut as cords. Arthur examined the other faces, trying to learn
something
from the mix, how they had been chosen. Age? There were few older
than
fifty; but then, these were just the ones who had chosen to witness.
Race?
All types found on North America were represented. Intelligence? There
was
no way to tell that...
"We're
in space, aren't we?" the tall young man asked. "That's what they
said,
I
just didn't believe them. We're in space, and we're going to join with other
arks
soon. My name's Reuben," he said, offering his hand to Arthur. They
shook.
Reuben's hand was damp, but so was Arthur's. "This your son?"
"This
is Martin," Arthur said. Reuben reached down and shook Marty's hand.
Marty
looked up at him solemnly, still sucking his lips. "And my wife,
Francine."
"I
don't know how to feel," Reuben said. "I don't know what's real and
what
isn't
anymore."
Arthur
agreed. He did not feel like talking.
Something
flashed against the stars, turning in the sunlight, and then
steadied
and approached them. Francine pointed, awed. It was shaped like a
huge,
rounded arrowhead, flat on one side, contoured to a central ridge on the
opposite
side.
"That's
Singapore," said a woman behind them. Not all of the network received
information
at once, Arthur decided; that made sense. It would have flooded
them.
"Singapore,"
Reuben said, shaking his head. "I've never even been there."
"We
have Istanbul and Cleveland," said a young man at one end of the cabin,
hardly
more than a boy.
The
gray ship passed out of view above them. There was still no sensation of
motion,
nor any sound except for the murmurs and shuffling of the cabin's
occupants.
They might have been standing in an exhibit hall waiting for some
spectacular
new form of entertainment to begin.
The
stars began to move all in one direction; the ark was rotating. Arthur
searched
for constellations he knew, and for a moment saw none; then he
spotted
the Southern Cross, and as the rotation continued, Orion.
The
white and blue limb of the Earth rose into view and the occupants of the
cabin
gave a collective gasp.
_Still
there. Still looks the same._
"Jesus,"
Reuben said. "Poppa, Momma, Jesus."
_Danielle,
Grant, Becky. Angkor Wat, Taj Mahal, Library of Congress. Grand
Canyon.
The house and the river. Steppes of central Asia. Cockroaches,
elephants,
Olduvai Gorge, New York City, Dublin, Beijing. The first woman I
ever
dated, Kate—Katherine. The bones of the dog who helped me come to grips
with
the world and become a man._"That's the Earth, isn't it, Dad?" Marty
asked quietly.
"That's
it."
"It's
still there. Maybe we can go back and nothing will happen."
Arthur
found himself nodding. _Maybe so._
The
woman who had known about Singapore said, "They're still in the Earth.
They're
the last of the planet-eaters. They can't leave because we'll get
them."
Arthur glanced nervously at her, as if she were a dangerous sibyl; her
face
was pale and convulsed.
73—
"Rock
of a-a-a-ges..."
The
singing had taken a slightly frantic tone, sharper, higher, more
disturbing.
The column of smoke from the Ahwanee had risen above the Royal
Arches;
the hotel was almost consumed, and sparks from the blaze threatened to
ignite
the surrounding woods. From their vantage, they watched park fire
trucks
spraying water on the flaming ruins.
_Spend
your last few minutes trying to save something,_ Edward thought. _Not a
bad
way to go._ He envied the fire fighters and park rangers. The fire took
their
minds away from the inevitable. Up on Glacier Point, people had nothing
to
do but think about what would happen—and sing very badly.
The
rock beneath them shifted the merest fraction. Betsy returned from the
rest
room, sat firmly beside Edward on the lowest terrace, and placed her arm
through
his; they had not been separated for more than a few minutes the last
hour.
Still, he felt alone, and looking at her, sensed she felt alone as well.
"Do
you hear it?" she asked.
"The
grumbling?"
"Yes."
"I
hear it."
He
imagined the lumps of neutronium and anti-neutronium, or whatever they
were,
meeting at the center; perhaps they had already met, minutes or even an
hour
before, and the expanding front of raging plasma had just begun to make
its
effects known on the Earth’s mantle and thin crust.
In
high school, Edward had once tried to draw a scale chart of the layers of a
section
of the Earth, with the inner and outer cores, mantle, and crust
outlined
in proportion. He had quickly found that the crust did not show up as
more
than the thinnest of pencil lines, even when he extended his drawing to
an
eight-foot-long piece of butcher paper. Using his calculator to figure how
large
the drawing would have to be, he had learned that the floor of the
school
gymnasium might suffice to hold a drawing that gave the crust a line
one
third the width of his little finger.
Hidden
volumes and surfaces again.
Insignificance.
Geologists
dealt with insignificance all the time, but how many applied it
directly
to their personal lives?
"…cleft
for meeee...Let me hiiide myself in theeee …"
"The
air is getting hotter," Minelli said. The neckband of his black T-shirt
was
soaked and his hair hung down in black ribbons. Inez sat farther back, on
the
upper terrace, sobbing quietly to herself.
"Go
to her," Edward commanded, nodding in her direction.
Minelli
gave him a helpless look, then climbed up the steps.
"People
are all that matter," he said softly to Betsy. "Nothing else matters.
Not
in the beginning, not in the end."
"Look,"
Betsy said, pointing to the east. Clouds were racing across the sky,
not
billowing but simply forming in streamers at very high altitude. The air
smelled
electric and was oppressive, tangible, thick and hot. The sun seemed
farther
away, lost in a thin milky soup.
Edward
looked down from the clouds, dizzy, and tried to orient on the valley.He
searched for a familiar landmark, something to give him a fixed
perspective.
The
Royal Arches, in slow motion, slipped in huge curved flakes down the gray
face
of granite onto the burning hotel. Tiny trees danced frantically and then
fell
on their own isolated chips of rock, limbs raised by the passing air. The
roar,
even across the valley, was deafening. The scythe-shaped flakes, dozens
of
yards wide, crumpled like old plaster on the valley floor, extinguishing
the
Ahwanee, the fire trucks, fire fighters, and tiny crowds of onlookers in a
blossoming
cloud of dust and debris. Boulders the size of houses rolled
through
the forest and into the Merced River. New slopes of talus crept across
the
valley floor like an amoeba’s pseudopods, alive, churning, settling,
striving
for stability.
Betsy
said nothing. Edward glanced apprehensively at the crack in the terrace
nearby.
Minelli
had given up trying to hold on to Inez. She fled from the rim, her
breasts
and arms and hips bouncing as she leaped up steps and over rails. He
grinned
at Edward and held out his hands helplessly, then descended to sit
beside
them.
"Some
folks ain’t got it," he said over the declining rumble of falling rocks.
He
looked admiringly at Betsy. "Guts," he said. "True grit. Did you
see those
concentrics
come apart? Just like in school. Hundreds of years in a second."
"We
aare chiiildren in youuur haaands…" The hymn singers were self-absorbed
now,
paying no attention to all that was going on around them. Entranced.
_To
each his own._
"That's
how the domes are formed, that kind of concentric jointing," Minelli
explained.
"Water gets into the joints and freezes, expands, splits the rock
away."
Betsy
ignored him, staring fixedly into the valley, her and still locked in
Edward's.
"The
falls," she said. "Yosemite Falls."
The
upper ribbon of white water had been blocked, leaving the lower falls to
drain
what had already descended. To the right of where the upper Yosemite had
once
been, the freestanding pillar of Lost Arrow leaned several hundred feet
of
its length slowly out from the cliff face, broke into sections in midfall,
and
tumbled down the brush- and tree-covered slopes below. More rock spilled
from
the northeastern granite walls above the valley, obscuring the floor with
disintegrating
boulders and roils of brown and white dust.
"Why
not us?" Minelli said. "It's all on that side."
A
superstitious something in Edward wanted to shut him up. _Pretend as if
we're
not here. Don't let it know._
The
rock beneath them quivered. The trees beyond the hymn singers swayed and
groaned
and splintered, limbs whipping back and forth. Edward heard the
hideous
crack of great leaves of granite shearing away beneath the point.
Three
thousand feet below—he didn't need to look to know—Camp Curry and Curry
Village
were being buried under millions of tons of jagged rock. The hymn
singers
stopped and clutched each other to keep their balance.
"Time
to get away," Edward said to Betsy. She lay flat on her back, staring up
at
the twisted, malevolent overcast painted on the sky. The air seemed
thinner;
great waves of high and low pressure raced over the land, propelled
by
the minute shifting of continents.
Edward
reached under her arms and dragged her away from the lowest terrace, up
the
steps. The game now was to stay alive as long as possible, to see as much
as
they could see—to experience the spectacle to their last breath, which
could
be at any moment.
Minelli
crawled after them, face wrapped in a manic grin. "Can you believe
this?"
he said over and over.
The
valley was alive with the echoes of falling sheets of granite. Edwardcould
hardly hear his own words to Betsy as they stumbled and ran down the
asphalt
path, away from the rim.
A
scant yard behind Minelli, the rock split. The terrace and all that was
beneath
leaned away, the gap widening with majestic slowness. Minelli
scrambled
frantically, his grin transformed into a rictus of terror.
To
the east, like the great wise head of a dozing giant, Half Dome nodded a
few
degrees and tilted into a chasm opened in the floor of the valley. In arc-
shaped
wedges, it began to come apart. Liberty Cap and Mount Broderick, on the
south
side of the valley, leaned to the north, but stayed whole, rolling and
sliding
like giant pebbles into the mass of Half Dome's settling fragments,
diverting,
and then finally shattering and sending fragments through miles of
the
valley. Somewhere in the obscurity of dust were the remnants of the Mist
Trail,
Vernal Fall, Nevada Fall, and the Emerald Lake.
The
silt of the valley floor liquefied under the vibration, swallowing meadows
and
roads and absorbing the Merced along its entire length. The fresh slopes
of
talus dropped their leading edges into snakelike fractures and began to
spread
again; behind them, more leaves of granite plummeted.
The
air was stifling. The hymn singers, on their knees, weeping and singing at
once,
could not be heard, only seen. The death-sound of Yosemite was beyond
comprehension,
having crossed the border into pain, a wide-spectrum roaring
howl.
Edward
and Betsy could not keep balance even on their hands and knees; they
rolled
to the ground and held each other. Betsy had closed her eyes, lips
working
against his neck; she was praying. Edward, curiously, did not feel
like
praying; he was exultant now. He looked to the east, away from the
valley,
beyond the tumbling trees, and saw something dark and massive on the
horizon.
Not clouds, not a front of storm, but—
He
was past any expression of awe or wonder. What he was seeing could only be
one
thing: east of the Sierra Nevada, along the fault line drawn between the
mountains
formed by ages of wrinkling pressure, and the desert beyond, the
continent
was splitting, raising its jagged edge dozens of miles into the
atmosphere.
Edward
did not need to do calculations to know this meant the end. Such
energy—even
if all other activity ceased—would be enough to smash all living
things
along the western edge of the continent, enough to change the entire
face
of North America.
Acceleration
in the pit of his stomach. _Going up._ His skin seemed to be
boiling.
_Going up._ Winds blew that threatened to lift them away. With the
last
of his strength, he held on to Betsy. He could not see Minelli for a
moment,
and then he opened his tingling eyes and saw against a muddy blue sky
filled
with stars—the atmosphere racing away above them—saw Minelli
_standing_,
smiling beatifically, arms raised, near the new rim of the point.
He
receded through walls of dust on a fresh-hewn leaf of granite, mouth open,
shouting
unheard into the overwhelming din.
_Yosemite
is gone. The Earth might be gone. I'm still thinking._ The only
sensation
Edward could feel, other than the endless acceleration, was Betsy's
body
against his own. He could hardly breathe.
They
no longer lay on the ground, but fell. Edward saw walls of rock, great
fresh
white revealed volumes on all sides—thousands of feet wide—and spinning
trees
and disintegrating clumps of dirt and even a small flying woman, yards
away,
face angelic, eyes closed, arms spread.
It
seemed an eternity before the light vanished.
The
granite volumes enclosed them all.
74—
From
ten thousand miles, the Earth seemed as natural and peaceful and
beautiful
as it had over thirty years before, when Arthur had first seen it infull-frame
pictures from space. That view—a clouded jewel, opal and lapis
marbled
with rich whorls of cloud—had entranced him, made him more than ever
before
feel a part of some cosmic whole. It had changed his life.
The
witnesses were subdued. Nobody said a word or made a loud sound. He had
never
experienced such rapt concentration in a crowd. Marty stood by his side,
having
let go of his hand, a boy barely four feet eleven inches tall, standing
alone.
_How much does he understand?_
_Perhaps
as much as I do._
Nothing
compared with what they expected to see. Not the burning of an
ancestral
house, or the sinking of an ocean liner; not the bombing of a city,
or
the horror of mass graves in time of revolution or war. The crime that had
been
committed against humanity was virtually total. Except for them—the
occupants
of the arks, and the records saved for transport in the arks—the
Earth
would be no more.
He
could not wrap his thoughts around the totality. He had to take separate
losses
and mull them over. They were highly personal losses, things he would
regret;
but his single mind was not the holographic mind of humanity.
Essential
things would be destroyed that he had never known. Connections,
evidences,
histories as yet uncovered, irretrievable. All the arks could save
was
what humans had so far learned about themselves. Hereafter, they would be
refugees
with no hope of ever returning to a homeland, no hope of recovering
the
thread of the pasts they had lost.
They
would be dependent on the kindness, or whatever their motivations might
be,
of strangers, of nonhuman intelligences that so far had shown little
evidence
of being willing to reveal themselves; benefactors as mysterious as
their
destroyers.
Lives.
Billions of human beings, their existence always fragile, sharing
mutual
oblivion. There was no way Arthur could encompass that. He had to deal
in
abstractions.
The
abstractions were enough to sear him. Backed by the realization that what
he
saw was real and immediate, his soul burned. He had had months to come to
grips
with these facts and implications; those months had not done to him what
the
vision of the Earth, whole and bright, was doing to him now.
No
explanations came from the network. Later, when each of the witnesses had
faced
their private griefs, perhaps the details of the end would be made
clear,
and a planetary postmortem would be conducted.
Strange
images flashed through his mind. Television commercials from his
childhood,
smiling women in Peter Pan collars with tightly coiffed hair,
images
of motherhood tending perfect families. Faces of soldiers dying in
Vietnam.
Presidents standing one by one before the television cameras, ending
with
Crockerman, a very sad image indeed.
The
200-inch telescope at Mount Palomar. He had never worked there, but he had
toured
the historic site often enough. The 600-inch at Mauna Kea. His
dormitory
room at Cal Tech. The face of the first woman he had ever made love
to,
that first year in university. Professors lecturing. His joy on
discovering
the properties of a Mobius strip; he had been thirteen at the
time.
Equal joys on grasping the concepts of limits in calculus, and reading
the
first articles on black holes in the late 1960s.
Harry.
Always Harry.
The
first time he had seen Francine, in a skimpy black one-piece swimsuit, as
voluptuous
as a goddess from the sea, with long wet black hair, the backs of
her
legs and her inner thighs rough with damp sand, running to take a towel
from
her friend and collapsing on her back with a laugh not five yards from
where
Arthur sat. _Not all is lost._
Marty
touched his arm. "Dad, what's that?"
The
globe did not seem noticeably different. But Marty pointed, and others
among
the witnesses were murmuring, pointing.Over the Pacific, a silver-white mass
grew like mold in a petri dish. Over the
western
United States and what they could see of Australia, similar blossoms
of
condensing moisture expanded.
Within
minutes, the Earth blanketed itself in an impenetrable blanket of white
and
gray. Waves passed through the mass, ripples as visible as those in a
pond,
but moving with clockwork slowness. Above the north pole, frantic
curtains
of light played, guttering and re-forming like lines of candles in a
breeze.
They were aurorae. Something was wreaking havoc with Earth's interior
dynamo.
Arthur
pictured the explosion expanding through the superhot, highly
radioactive
inner core to the outer core, where the Earth's magnetic field was
born.
The dense molten material compressing even more highly on the edge of
the
expanding blast. Mechanical shock waves shooting out to the crust,
shifting
the ocean basins— already weakened by the chains of thermonuclear
explosions—and
shifting the continents, up to ten times thicker than the ocean
basins,
buckling them all, raising them a few hundred feet, or a few miles.
Oceans
receding, spilling out over the continents...All now hidden behind the
masses
of clouds.
The
Earth's surface extremely hot, atmosphere sloshing like water in a bowl.
Most
of humanity dead already, destroyed by earthquakes, horrendous
atmospheric
storms or floods. Soon the rock below would compress no more, and
the
Earth would—
"Jesus,"
Reuben said behind them. Arthur glanced at him; the young man's face
expressed
both fascination and horror.
The
clouds clarified. They glimpsed through smeared atmospherics a muddy,
churning
mass, lit in places with the hellish light of magma welling up
through
fractures hundreds of miles wide. Continental and ocean-floor plates
drove
together at their edges, fusing into solids no more able to keep their
shape
and character than gases or liquids, rippling like fabric.
Nowhere
could he see any of the works of humanity. Cities—if any still
existed,
which did not seem likely— would have been far too small. Most of
Europe
and Asia were on the other side of the globe, out of sight, their fate
no
different from what they saw happening to eastern Asia and the western
United
States and Australia. Indeed, these landmasses could no longer be
distinguished;
there were no oceans or land, only belts of translucent
superheated
steam and cooler cloud and tortured basins of mud, shot through
with
dull brown magma and, here and there, great white spots of plasma
beginning
to burrow out from the interior.
"Is
it going to blow up?" Marty asked.
Arthur
shook his head, unable to speak.
Despite
the growing distance between the ark and Earth, the globe visibly
expanded,
but again with clockwork slowness.
Arthur
checked his watch. They had been viewing for fifteen minutes; the time
had
passed in a flash.
Again
the Earth took on the appearance of a jewel, but this time a great
bloated
fire opal, orange and brown and deep ruby red, shot through with
spectral
patches of brilliant green and white. The crust melted, turning into
basaltic
slag adrift in slowly spinning patches on a sea of brown and red.
There
were no discernible features but the colors. The Earth, dying, became an
incomprehensible
abstraction, horribly beautiful.
Already,
with the appearance of long spirals of white and green, intensely
bright,
the final fate became obvious. The limb of the world no longer made a
smooth
curve; it had visible irregularities, broad low lumps distinct against
the
blackness. From these lumps, jets of vapor hundreds of miles high lanced
through
the turbid remnants of the atmosphere and cast pale gray fans into
space.
Such
volcanoes might have been seen in the early ages of the Earth'scoalescence, but
not since. New chains of released fire and vapor emerged
across
the face of the distorted globe. Slowly, a spiraling snake of white
plasma
shot chunks from its interior coils outward, the projectiles traveling
at
thousands of kilometers an hour but still falling back, being reabsorbed.
No
single piece of the Earth's crust had yet been flung out with a velocity
equal
to or greater than eighteen thousand miles per hour, orbital, velocity,
much
less escape velocity. But the trend was obvious.
Countless
island-sized bolides pocked the face of the Earth with a churning
effervescence.
These bolides rose hundreds, even thousands of miles, then
fell,
scattering broad trajectories of smaller debris. At the limb, the
increased
altitude of these molten projectiles was apparent. Energy rapidly
built
sufficient to toss them into orbit, and even to blow them free from the
bulk
of the globe.
_Home._
Arthur connected suddenly with all that he saw; the abstraction took
on
solidity and meaning. The stars behind the glowing, swelling Earth suddenly
filled
with menace; he imagined them as the glints of wolves’ eyes in an
infinite
night-bound forest. He paraphrased what Harry had said on his tape:
_There
once was an infant lost in the woods, crying its heart out, wondering
why
no one answered, drawing down the wolves..._
He
was past tears now, past anything but a deep blunt suffocating pain. _Home.
Home._
Marty
faced the panel with eyes wide and mouth open; almost the same
expression
Arthur had seen when his son watched Saturday morning cartoons on
television,
only slightly different: tighter, with a hint of puzzlement, eyes
searching.
The
Earth bloated horribly. Beneath the swelling crust and mantle, the spirals
and
fractures of white and green light widened into vast canals and highways
running
crazy random courses through a uniform dull red landscape. Huge
bolides
exited in long graceful curves, arcing thousands of miles—entire Earth
radii—out
in space, and not falling back to the surface, but tracing glowing
orbits
around the stricken planet.
Twenty-five
minutes had passed. Arthur's legs ached and he had drenched his
clothes
in sweat. The room filled with an awful animal stench, fear and grief
and
silent agony.
Virtually
everyone he had ever known was dead, their bodies lost in the
general
apocalypse; every place he had ever been, all of his records and the
records
of his family, all the children Marty had grown up with. Everyone on
the
ark was cut adrift in nothingness. He could distinctly feel the
separation,
the sudden loss, as if he had always known the presence of
humanity
around him, a _psychic_ connection that was no more.
The
brilliant highways and canals of the revealed plasma energy sphere now
stretched
thousands of miles, vaulting the molten, vaporized material of the
Earth
outward in a rough ovoid, the long axis at right angles to the axis of
rotation.
The tips of the ovoid spun away huge globules of silica and nickel
and
iron.
Against
the dominant light of the plasma, the twisted remains of mantle and
compressed
streamers of the core cast long shadows into near-Earth space
through
the expanding dusty cloud of vapor and smaller debris. The planet
resembled
a lantern in fog, almost unbearably bright. Inexorably, the ovoid of
plasma
pushed everything outward, attenuating, blasting, diminishing all that
was
left, scattering it before an irresistible wind of elementary particles
and
light.
Two
hours. He glanced at his watch. The moon shined through the vapor haze, a
quarter
of a million miles distant and seemingly aloof. But tidal bulges would
relax,
and even though the moon’s shape had been frozen by ages of cooling,
Arthur
thought the relaxation would at the very least trigger violent
moonquakes.He
turned his attention again to the dead Earth. The plasma glow had dimmed
slightly.
Distinct ethereal pinks and oranges and grayish blues gave it a
pearly
appearance, like a child’s plastic ball illuminated from within. The
diameter
of the plasma ovoid and the haze of debris had expanded to well over
thirty
thousand miles by now. The ovoid continued to lengthen, spreading the
new
belt of asteroids into the stubby beginnings of an arc.
The
transparent panel became mercifully opaque.
As
if released from puppet strings, fully half of the witnesses collapsed on
the
floor. Arthur hugged Francine and gripped Marty’s shoulder, unable to
speak,
then walked among his fellows, seeing what could be done to help them.
The
copper-colored robot appeared at the end of the cabin and floated forward.
Behind
it came dozens more survivors, bearing trays and bowls of water, food,
and
medicines.
_It
is the Law._
The
words echoed again and again through Arthur’s thoughts as he helped revive
those
who had fallen.
_It
is the Law._
Marty
stayed by his side, kneeling with him as he elevated a young woman’s
head
and held a metal cup of water to her lips.
"Father,"
the boy said, "where are we going now?"
AGNUS
DEI
_The
child, ravaged by wolves, falls quiet in the forest, and the long
darkness
is filled with an undisturbed silence._
PERSPECTIVE
_New
Mars Gazette, December 21, 2397; editorial by Francine Gordon_:
The
screen for today’s edition is filled with news from the Central Ark. Four
hundred
more of us, most from the Eurasian arks, have been revived from deep
sleep,
and prepared for their arrival on New Mars by the Moms. (Does anybody
remember
who first called the robots Moms? It was Reuben Hordes, then
nineteen,
revived eight years ago and now on the New Venus Reconnaissance
Mission.)
Our population today hit the mark of 12,250; the Moms say we are
doing
well, and I believe them.
New
Mars today celebrates its first year of autonomy. The Moms no longer
exercise
what my husband has called zookeeper’s authority. Already we begin to
factionalize
and squabble; but these are the signs of a reborn planetism
coming
once again to maturity. Does that bring us much cheer? Not the
politicians,
bracing for the arrival of more Marxists.
But
what we really celebrate, of course, is the four hundredth anniversary of
the
Ice Strike that began New Mars. This world has already become home to most
of
the human race. I feel a stronger connection to New Mars now than to Earth,
blasphemous
as that might seem; in our hearts I think we must acknowledge that
the
ten years since most of us came out of sleep have blurred the pain of
Earth’
s death. Not banished, just subdued...
We
cannot forget.
In
four days many of us will celebrate Christmas. On Earth, that was a time of
hope,
of the promise of resurrection. Even the atheists among us must feel the
power
of this particular season and holiday, especially now, for like Christ,
we
carry the weight of billions on our shoulders; and more, we bear the
responsibility
of an entire planet’s biosphere. We are like children dragged
prematurely
into parenthood, and the burden is frequently too heavy to stand.
Still,
the suicide rate on New Mars has dropped precipitously in the last
three
years. We are finding our feet once again; we are desperately weak, but
we
are determined. We will not perish.
We
will not forget our duties, nor will those who fly outward on the Ships of
the
Law to seek the home of the planet-eaters. My son is out there; what doeshe
have to celebrate, on his equivalent of December 21?
For
those of you who have supported this ofttimes undisciplined, wandering
little
journal, on this day of celebration, my husband and I extend our
heartfelt
thanks. We hope that our philosophy—that New Mars and New Venus are
and
will be our true homes—has provided some comfort.
All
of Earth has been reduced to one small town. Whatever our differences, we
are
all extraordinarily close. We love you all, and welcome our newly awakened
Eurasian
brothers and sisters.
*
* *
Arthur
put on his coldsuit and strapped a small tank of oxygen to his belt.
Even
in the past year, the air had grown richer, and not just in Mariner
Valley,
but on the green moss and lichen plains of the highlands as well.
Still,
it was best to be safe; if he should need to exert himself, the oxygen
tank
could save his life.
In
the small individual air lock, he could hear the distant, tinny sound of
the
celebration in the main hall of Geopolis. He had had enough company for
the
evening; he needed solitude now, time to think and reappraise.
The
hatch opened and he stepped out onto a patch of ubiquitous crisp lichen.
The
valley air at dusk was cold and still and the stars steady as crystal.
The
sky glowed a lovely, subdued mauve, edging toward blue at zenith. To the
southeast,
the high valley walls caught the last sunlight of the day, a thin
irregular
horizontal ribbon of intense orange.
New
Mars had recovered from its collision with the icy fragment of Europa in
the
390 years they had been in cold sleep, dropping its mantle of cloud after
two
centuries of almost steady rain. Floods had scoured the red and ocher
terrain,
and the increased temperature had released the frozen carbon dioxide
of
the poles, thickening the atmosphere. At that time, a century past, New
Mars
had been ideal for primitive plants. Up and down the valley, the dust and
rock
had been carpeted by lichens and mosses, and the new small seas had been
seeded
with phytoplankton.
Oxygen
soon returned in quantity to New Mars.
Farther
north, the impacted remains of Phobos and Deimos, rich in organic
materials,
supported highland farms of new wheat strains, and the first
experiments
at Earthlike forests, chiefly conifers. In a few decades, New Mars
would
have territories virtually indistinguishable from Earth. She—New Mars
had
adopted Mother Earth’s gender—promised to be a planet of broad green
prairies,
high semiarid forests, and deep, almost tropical oxygen-rich
valleys.
Eight
thousand were settled here, two thirds of the human race. The remaining
third
still lived on the Central Ark, some learning the theory of planetary
management,
some—a select few—waiting for their chance to ride more starships
and
carry out the judgment of the Law.
With
virtually unlimited power supplies, no weapons, and resources sufficient
for
a hundred times their number already, their life on New Mars held promise
of
being idyllic. As always, only their own cussedness could change that.
He
marched between the milky glass-walled greenhouses and up a low hill to a
point
where he could look down Feinman Rift. Far below, breeders tended the
first
range animals born out of genetic storage. It was warmer down there, and
it
rained far more often, and some complained that in a truly free society,
that
would be prime real estate, but the area was strictly reserved for the
breeders.
To give in to the community’s baser instincts now might bring the
Moms
down on their backs again; it had happened once before, on the Central
Ark,
when human political authority had broken down into anarchy. Arthur did
not
wish to see it happen again.
_Children
do so hate to be disciplined._
Nobody
knew who had sent these stern, dedicated robot guardians. Chances were
they
would never know. Arthur suspected that even benefactors had to besuspicious of
their charges; it was best, for the time being, to simply stay
hidden
and quiet.
Arthur
pinched his cheek and closed his faceplate against the cold. Then he
looked
to the east, above the pink haze of twilight, and saw the silvery point
of
Venus, still wrapped in a mantle of cloud.
Reuben
Hordes was in command of the first exploratory and diagnostic mission
to
Venus. Twenty years ago, the now-moist Venerean clouds had parted briefly,
and
a decade-long rain had fallen, driving the planet's surface acids into
chemical
battle with molten rock thrown up by three centuries of fresh
vulcanism.
The clouds had closed again, and the reconnaissance expedition had
been
launched from the Central Ark.
Arthur
did not envy Reuben his task. Venus was a hard case; it might be
centuries
more before humans could live in significant numbers on its surface.
What
he was actually seeking was a clear view of the Milky Way, so that he
could
look at Sagittarius. He missed Martin deeply. To be cut off from the
past
was to cherish the future all the more; Martin was much of Arthur's
future,
though they would never see each other again, and hadn't communicated
for
a year and a half, by Arthur's time frame.
Martin
had left on the seventh Ship of the Law, with fifty human crewmates,
only
eight years after Earth's destruction, before most of the survivors had
been
put into cold sleep. The ships had been traveling for centuries now,
accelerating
and decelerating, searching, refueling from dead ice moons.
He
found Sagittarius, the Archer, between Scorpius and Capricorn. He lifted
his
gloved hand and pointed: _somewhere there_. Within the arc subtended by
his
trembling finger lay the solar system of Earth’s killers.
How
terrifying the sky was now. Arthur wished he could share Harry’s vision of
united
solar systems forming vast "galactisms." Now, from what the Moms had
told
them, the galaxy was a vaguely explored frontier at best, a vicious
jungle
at the worst.
The
galaxy, too, was young.
The
planet-eaters had not come from such a great distance, after all. The
first
signs of their builders’ interstellar dissembling, their protective
coloration,
had become evident less than a hundred light-years from the sun.
Martin,
a quiet, solemn man who had grown to resemble his father, floated
among
a crowd of younger student-pilots on the observation deck of the
kilometer-long,
needle-thin Ship, of the Law. All the Ships of the Law had
been
hewn from the material of the dead Earth itself. With the galaxy’s center
in
view, still inconceivably faraway, he thought back to the debates he had
had
with the ship’s Moms at the beginning of the journey.
_"What
if we find the civilization of the planet-eaters, and it’s matured?
What
if it’s beautiful and noble and rich with culture, and it regrets its
past
mistakes? Do we still destroy it?"_
"_Yes,_"
the Moms had replied.
"_Why?
What good would that do?"_
"_Because
it is the Law._"
In
fact, the builders of the planet-eaters had come very early on, thousands
of
years ago, to realize their mistake. They had laced the planetary systems
around
their parent star with dozens of false civilizations, misleading
beacons,
even genetically engineered biological decoys, complete in every
detail
but one—the ability to mislead a Ship of the Law.
Three
ship-years before, Martin had walked the surface of one such decoy
planet,
marveling at the creativity, the sheer expenditure of energy.
The
planet had revealed sophisticated defenses. They had barely escaped the
trap.
Now
they were closing...
If
they failed, others would follow, more informed, more aware of the dangers
and
pitfalls of this neck of the galactic woods.Despite his intellectual
misgivings, Martin was committed. He thought often of
the
age-old Law, and of the hundreds of mature civilizations that had embraced
it.
In his heart, a cold, rational hatred and hunger for vengeance echoed the
demands
of justice.
He
knew, however strange and out of proportion it might be, that one of his
key
subconscious motivations was to avenge the death of a single,
uncomplicated
friend: a dog. He vividly remembered those soul-branding hours
in
the ark's observation cabin.
Many
of the humans aboard the Ship of the Law had been born in the Central Ark
and
had never known their home world. They were all dedicated to the search,
regardless.
Silently,
each day before the brief sleep of deep space, Martin swore an oath
he
had made up himself:
_To
those who killed Earth: beware her children!_
That
is how the balance is kept.