The Forge of God tfog-1 Page 20

  “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 occasionally through 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 wave propagation 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 incre
dible. 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 maybe it’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 the steady 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.

  “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 is strong 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 tod
ay. 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.”