Isaacs considered for a moment. There was an important asymmetry in his relation with this sharp, inquisitive old gentleman. Isaacs’ responsibility was to learn all that he could about the current situation from Phillips and his colleagues. But there were limits to which the converse was true. He thought about Korolev and his interview with Zamyatin, but decided that only some general reply was in order.
“You understand that this sort of decision is out of my hands; it would be decided by the NSC. I have the same reservations you do about prematurely bringing this problem to the attention of the NSC and the President. Those reservations apply doubly to communicating with our allies. We must be very sure of our situation before spreading any possible alarm. I think we must proceed very cautiously. If, as you say, there is little prospect of immediate resolution by quick action, then we can afford to go slowly and carefully.”
“I was thinking not only of our allies,” put in Phillips. “From a scientific point of view, I have several colleagues in the Soviet Union who would make valuable consultants.”
Isaacs stared at Phillips a brief moment, eyebrows raised. He could foresee a situation developing in which a cooperative effort with the Soviets at some level would precede notification of formal allies. He saw no point in raising this possibility with Phillips at this early stage.
“I believe that’s out of the question just now.”
Phillips pressed the issue.
“It may not be our prerogative to bring this problem to the attention of others. Don’t the Soviets have the same capability as we do to monitor seismic activity? Or perhaps even the People’s Republic, where there is a long history of interest in earthquakes and related phenomena. You mentioned this Russian aircraft carrier. Should we not move as soon as is feasible to forestall the possibility of further misinterpretation?”
Damn this sly old dog, Isaacs said to himself. He was strongly tempted to tell Phillips the whole story of Korolev and the Novorossiisk, but he thought of the uneasy truce Drefke had forced between him and McMasters. He had no authority to disclose the details of these geopolitically charged events. The last thing he wanted to do was to open another procedural dispute with McMasters. He was sensitive to the hypocrisy, but felt compelled to head off this line of discussion.
“I’ve considered such questions, Professor Phillips,” Isaacs replied, forcing a trace of coolness into his voice. “I don’t believe we disagree in principle, but the issue of when communication of intelligence to other countries becomes feasible or desirable must be weighed most carefully. You surely appreciate that such decisions cannot be made in the context of one isolated set of events. All possible ramifications must be considered simultaneously. The ultimate decision is not within your province, nor even mine. I can assure you that the points you raise will be given due consideration.”
“Please!” said Phillips raising a hand in protest. “Don’t think I’m trying to dictate your actions in an area outside my competence. It’s just that I can foresee yet other situations developing that will prove difficult to contain. I’m sure you and your organization are most competent to take appropriate action.”
Both men lapsed into silence, consciously attempting to quell the mood of confrontation that had threatened to develop. They sipped their sherry quietly for a long moment, each pursuing private thoughts.
Phillips stirred and proffered the decanter once again. Isaacs smiled saying, “Just a little,” and then flashed a halt sign as Phillips refilled his glass anyway. Isaacs followed the neck of the decanter encased by Phillips’ deeply lined knuckles as it tilted up from his glass, crossed to the other and dipped to release more amber liquid. He spoke as Phillips carefully replaced the stopper in the decanter.
“There is one more point.”
“Please.”
“You mentioned the question of hostility a while ago, or lack thereof. There was some talk about the possible origin of a black hole this afternoon. Runyan seemed to feel such a thing must be artificially manufactured.”
Phillips’ eyes were half closed in concentration, but he did not speak. Isaacs continued.
“To my mind that raises two issues. One is whether we’re endangered. If there is a black hole down there, the answer is yes, we are, although I gather the exact nature of the peril and the time scale remain to be worked out. The second issue is whether this dangerous situation was intentionally created. If that’s the case, then it seems to me that is by far the greatest threat, and we mustn’t lose sight of it.”
Phillips swiveled again to look out the window. He cupped the glass of sherry in both hands in his lap and replied in a ruminative tone.
“Which is the greatest danger? The bullet streaking toward our heart—or the man who pulled the trigger?”
He was silent for a long moment and then said, “I cannot help you there, Mr. Isaacs. The discussion this afternoon was inconclusive because we don’t know enough. I understand your concern. None of us will rest easily for a long while.”
Phillips continued to gaze out the window. Isaacs studied his profile for a time and then broke his own reverie by throwing down the sherry at a gulp. Phillips made no move. After a moment Isaacs rose and crossed the room. As he closed the door behind him, he glanced one last time at the old man, his vision still locked on some distant point.
Danielson opened the door at the knock and smiled a greeting at Isaacs.
“Hi. Just a second, let me get my purse.” She turned back into the room and reappeared shrugging into a sweater as she juggled her purse by the strap. Isaacs reached to help with the sweater.
“Thanks,” she said as they headed down the hall. Her glance at him took in a bit of damp, mussed hair over his temple. Despite this evidence for a recent face washing and attempt to freshen up, she thought he looked tense and drawn. “You feel up to this?” she inquired. “Going out?”
His smile put some life back in his face. “Of course. Besides, I’m hungry as a bear. I always pick at that airline food I had for lunch.”
Phillips, Runyan, and Gantt awaited them in the foyer. Runyan’s attention immediately focused on Danielson.
“I’ve suggested a little Japanese place downtown. Not your flashy knife-juggling kind, but excellent sashimi and tempura. And not so expensive that it will do violence to our government per diems.”
Danielson’s eyes swept him quickly. He had swapped his beach clothes for loafers, dark slacks and an expensive Italian shirt unbuttoned to show matted grey hair on his chest.
“That sounds fine,” she responded.
Runyan busied himself herding the group out. When they reached the car, he insisted that Phillips ride in front, in deference to his age. He ushered first Isaacs then Danielson into the back seat and then squeezed his own limber form in next to Danielson. He leaned forward to back-seat drive until Gantt had the Thunderbird safely headed southward on the interstate. Then he leaned back and drew Phillips into a good natured, if somewhat embarrassed, reminiscence of Phillips’ encounter with a lady of the evening at one of their scientific meetings.
The meeting had been held in a hotel dominated at the time by a convention of salesmen. In the bar, Phillips had mistaken the woman for a waitress and the call girl had mistaken him for one of the salesmen with whom she had previously made an appointment. Runyan related both sides of the conversation that had proceeded at total cross purposes before the misunderstanding was revealed.
Gantt had seen Runyan use this tack before, relating a story with sexy overtones to check the reaction of a new female acquaintance. Seems to be working, he thought. He glanced in the rear view mirror and could see Danielson’s broad grin as she followed Runyan’s animated delivery.
“And do you remember that look she gave you as she was leaving and patted you on the head? I think she would have preferred you to her paying client.”
“Now, Alex,” Phillips chuckled with embarrassment.
“Whoops—here’s Washington Avenue; turn off here,” Runyan dire
cted at Gantt, reverting to navigator. “Okay, now left under the interstate. There it is, on the left, just beyond. See it? I’m not sure where to park. You always have to scrounge a place here.”
“Well, why don’t I let you out here while I go find a place,” volunteered Gantt.
They piled out of the car and then crossed the street. There was a small queue on the sidewalk, but they were admitted shortly after Gantt rejoined them, having left the car in the lot of a gas station that was closed for the night.
Despite the somewhat crowded space, Runyan managed adroitly to get them seated around a table intended for four, drawing up a fifth chair for himself at the end of the table by Danielson and Phillips.
The meal was all Runyan had advertised. Dish followed excellent dish and when they all felt full, a new and interesting plate would arrive, served by a quiet, cheerful woman in traditional geisha garb. Runyan ordered a steady flow of saki and Japanese beer and always ensured that Danielson was liberally supplied. He helped her with playful solicitation to mix the cube of wasabi into the tiny dish of soy sauce to make the dip for the bits of raw fish. He was very adroit with chopsticks and insisted on feeding her a bite from every new dish as it arrived.
Danielson found herself basking in the attention Runyan lavished on her and greatly enjoying his company. She mused to herself that, although he was about forty-five, as close in age to her father as to herself, in terms of physique he reminded her of the beach bum whom she had thought of marrying so long ago. She realized she was greatly attracted to Runyan’s radiant sense of well-being and self-confidence, the spirit that had drawn her to Allan. But Allan had no purpose in life, no goal beyond mastering the next wave. Runyan was completely different in that regard. He operated on an intellectual plane Allan would never even glimpse. She was also fascinated by the inner security she thought Runyan must possess that enabled him to range from the terrifying creative tour de force he had displayed that afternoon to the wellspring of joie de vivre presently at her side.
As they left the restaurant, Runyan tried to drum up enthusiasm to go dancing. Danielson was in a mood to go along, but quickly followed Isaacs’ lead when he demurred.
The ride back to La Jolla was, nevertheless, made in good spirits. Danielson mostly listened as the men traded anecdotes about Washington politics. The perspective of the three scientists was similar, deriving from the National Academy of Sciences and experience with certain congressional liaison committees. They were highly entertained, therefore, by the different view Isaacs provided from his wife’s exploits as a lawyer.
When they arrived back at the Bishop’s School, their spirit of camaraderie spilled out of the car into the absorbing stillness of the campus. Runyan locked arms with Danielson and escorted her up the stairs of the dormitory to her door. Isaacs followed along behind. He had enjoyed the evening, but had continued to view with some jaundice Runyan’s attention to Danielson and her ready response. He forced a grin as Runyan stopped with Danielson at her door and proceeded with comic formality to kiss her hand in farewell. Isaacs made sure Danielson was safely in her room, then walked on down to his.
Runyan climbed the stairs to his own room. He switched on the light and stood for a moment viewing the casual disarray. The desk was strewn with books. Many were opened face down, others were face up with any convenient object—calculator, coffee cup, pencil—used as a place holder. Soiled and clean clothes were intermingled in a pattern discernable only to the occupant.
The evening’s look of merriment was gone from Runyan’s face. He relieved himself in the bathroom and then sat at the desk. His first thoughts were of Pat Danielson. Bright woman. He unquestionably wanted to get in the sack with her. He pondered the dilemma of the modern age. How do you treat a competent woman professionally when your cave-man hormones are singing their atavistic song? In Danielson’s case, he could sense she was ripe. If the circumstances had been a little different, a chance for some intimacy, one of them might at this very moment be sneaking down the hall toward the other’s room. He pictured her face as he gently unbuttoned the blouse she had worn today. Whoa! He shook his head. Enough torture of that sort. Let’s try another. He rummaged for a pencil and a pad of lined paper on which he began to scratch a long series of calculations. After an hour he rose and stretched and then moved to a softer chair next to a reading lamp. A journal devoted to astrophysics lay open on the arm, draped face down. He retrieved it and began to read. As he read, he half consciously waited for someone to come and explain where he had gone wrong in his thinking. No one did.
By three in the morning, his fatigue ran deep. He tried to replace the journal on the chair arm, but he was well over half through, and the unbalanced volume slipped to the floor. He swore, straightened the pages and marked his place with a dirty sock. Then he undressed, fell into bed, thought briefly again of Pat Danielson, and drifted into a fitful sleep.
Nine o’clock the next morning found the group reassembled in Gantt’s room. Danielson and Runyan were talking in quiet tones on the sofa. Gantt had conferred his swivel desk chair to Phillips and taken the seat near the door. The others took their accustomed places.
Phillips broke off his conversation with Isaacs, who was seated next to him, as Noldt, the last to arrive, came in swinging the door against Gantt’s chair and causing him to slosh some of his post-breakfast coffee into his lap. Noldt dithered in helpless apology while Gantt waved him off and dabbed the spot with a handkerchief. After Noldt took his chair, Phillips cleared his throat and began.
“We have no formal agenda this morning. Would anyone care to add to yesterday afternoon’s discussions?”
“That is to say,” broke in Runyan, “can anyone put a quick and merciful end to Runyan’s folly?”
There were several chuckles that died away into silence as it became clear that no one was about to volunteer a viable counterhypothesis or cite an obvious failure in Runyan’s logic.
“With all due respect to you as our resident astrophysical pundit, Alex,” said Fletcher, breaking the silence, “if you’re on the right track, don’t we need to call in some expert help on this problem, someone who knows about this particular subject of small black holes?”
“Absolutely,” answered Runyan. “There are several individuals whose advice would be invaluable, for instance, Korolev in Russia or Pearlby in England. I’d love to discuss this problem with Korolev over a glass of vodka.”
Isaacs straightened perceptibly, startled by this sudden injection of Korolev’s name. But of course, he thought, these people are probably old friends, cronies.
Phillips saw Isaacs start and took the lead.
“There is, ah, a question of security here, of course,” Phillips said.
“Surely not in the classical sense,” said Noldt with some bewilderment. “This isn’t just a national issue. The whole bloody world is being sucked up.”
“There’s no proof of that yet, Ted,” reproached Phillips. “In any case, there seems good reason to proceed cautiously at this point.”
“What about a colleague of mine at Princeton,” suggested Fletcher, “Clarence Humphreys?”
“Of course,” Runyan enthused, “Clarence could be very helpful. I don’t know about his stand on security matters, but he should be approached.”
“There seems to be a consensus, then,” summarized Phillips, “that we will proceed on the assumption that Alex has provided the correct explanation of the events reported. We will try to enlist the support of an expert on black holes, particularly the miniature variety—starting with Humphreys. We’ve already established that Gantt will set up a gravimeter experiment to seek direct evidence for or against the black hole theory. Alex, you mentioned the need for detailed orbit calculations. Can you see to that end of things?”
“The best way to proceed there would be to make use of the computer facilities and programs at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory,” said Runyan. “I could move up to Pasadena for the rest of the summer. As for security, w
e can’t simply ask them to calculate a black hole orbit inside the Earth. I must have special personal access to the computers, but I’ll need to consult with the experts on the relevant codes that require modification. Someone will have to do some arranging for me.”
Phillips looked at Isaacs who nodded in confirmation. Phillips then addressed the group again. “Anyone have anything else to add?”
After a moment Zicek spoke up.
“Our course of action is just as you have outlined, Wayne— some straightforward steps to better define the situation. Last night I took a different tack and spent a good deal of time pondering Alex’s basic premise. He not only wants a small black hole careening through the Earth, but he led us to the brink of concluding that such a thing must have been artificially manufactured. Despite his logic, like many of us here, I found that idea prima facie absurd. And granting that absurdity, I questioned the whole scheme. My apologies, Alex.”
Runyan shrugged and waited for the point to which all this was preamble.
“This morning,” Zicek continued, “I am not so sure.”
His eyebrows compressed together as he paused to formulate his words.
“I do not see how to create such a little monster, but I am no longer so positive that to speak of such a process is absurd.
“As many of you know, I am actively involved in Project Antares at Los Alamos. Our goal is to create controlled thermonuclear reactions by imploding a pellet of deuterium and tritium. The present scheme has six gas lasers the size of locomotives producing seventy-two laser beams that are brought to focus on the pellet. The pellet is drastically compressed, creating high enough temperatures and densities to trigger the fusing of deuterium into helium.
The Krone Experiment Page 27