The Forge of God Read online

  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 exit hole, 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?" Schwart
z 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. Ì 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."

  23

  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 compli
ments. 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 for extraterrestrial 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."