by Greg Bear
"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-aged Man (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 to help 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 niagic—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 of the 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.
Reuhen 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 steadilv 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, I guess. 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 m
eeting 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 I understand 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."