by Greg Bear
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 are traveling 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.