The Forge of God

by Greg Bear

  "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 sonofabitch when 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 café, 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 responsibility it 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 café 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."

  "Nan, 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 café 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 résumé." 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 Snally 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 she's in Angola. Lord, what a place to be now. Me, I'm just a capitalist like all the rest."