Humphreys stopped and took a sip of his drink. Runyan, his mind churning, fixed him with a stare.
“You would need an intense source of light then,” said Runyan, gesturing with his good left hand as if trying to conjure up such a source on the spot.
“Yes,” answered Humphreys, “and it needs to be focused since the target is so small.”
“A laser then,” said Phillips quietly.
“Right,” Humphreys addressed him. “We think a super powerful laser could be fashioned that could siphon off some of the mass of the hole. Even more,” he paused, “there are hints from Krone’s notes that such a process could be even more efficient than the basic first order theory would indicate. We haven’t worked it all out yet, but certain of his data suggest the existence of nonlinear effects that could improve the efficiency of the stimulated emission dramatically.”
“Just how dramatic is that?” asked Runyan. “You don’t want to liberate too much energy too fast—Mc2 for that hole is a lot of E.”
“There is no way to eliminate the hole in one step with any foreseeable technology, and, indeed, we would not want to if we could, as you rightly point out,” replied Humphreys. “If what I’m suggesting works at all, the best we can hope for is to peel a little bit of mass off at a time and to repeat the process many, many times.
“Viktor has also devised an interesting variation on that theme. A properly shaped initiating blast may cause the bulk of the energy to be liberated in one direction. We might be able to guide the impulse in such a way to offset the drag and keep the hole from settling prematurely completely into the Earth. Our hope is to boost the orbit so that it is totally outside the Earth. Then little by little we could widen the orbit and eventually set it adrift into interstellar space.
“If the process must be repeated a thousand times to gain control, we have hope. A million times? Well, we should begin looking for a new home.”
“Do you have any idea how effective the process will be?” inquired Phillips, maintaining his quiet demeanor.
“It depends on the relative efficiency for the production of photons and particles with mass: electrons, protons, neutrons. There will also be neutrinos. The particles are the most efficient repository for mass and momentum, from our point of view. The neutrinos can in principle carry off a large amount of energy. If the process works at all, there should be a large explosion.
“To answer your question, Wayne,” Humphreys continued, “our current estimates are that the hole could be nudged out of the Earth with about a hundred thousand repetitions, each releasing about the explosive energy of a ten megaton bomb. Those numbers are very tentative. They could be off by a factor of a hundred either way.”
“Your recommendation then?” Phillips wanted to know.
“Put every talented scientist available on the analysis of Krone’s notes, and begin the design and engineering of the necessary laser. The first goal is to run a field test to see whether it works. Then go into full scale mass production. The lasers will be immense and expensive, and, if the process works, you’ll destroy them every time.”
“We must also worry about the others,” rumbled Korolev, “the three he made first.”
“As I understand it,” Runyan said, “our government and yours are analyzing every scrap of seismic and sonar data available. I think one of them has been found.”
Phillips swirled his drink and took a reflective sip of it.
“Viktor,” he said, “I think there’s no question that you and Clarence are to be congratulated for coming up with such a clever and positive sounding approach. What about the practical problems, though? It strikes me that what you have suggested is going to be fiendishly difficult to accomplish in reality.”
Korolev gave Phillips a long frank look devoid of the self-effacing geniality he had been displaying.
“This frightens me,” he said. “I can think of no other way to proceed, but what we ask, to hit a rapidly moving, vanishingly small particle in just the right way—this is very difficult. By comparison, the Moon is huge, your Apollo program a trivial exercise.”
The Russian paused to rub his chin. “The stakes are very much higher now,” he said in a ruminative tone. “If we fail, it is not just the prestige of a country that is at risk, but the future of all life.” His head sank on his chest, and he lost himself for a moment in the flicker from the grate. “We must try,” he continued, “but some projects are too complex, too difficult, to be solved by any number of talented people, any amount of resources.”
He was silent again for awhile. Then his head came up, and he leaned forward with a more earnest air. He gestured with an extended forefinger.
“Here are some of the problems we face. How do we make a laser that works at the energies most destructive to the black hole? The lasers must be huge, but they must swivel rapidly while maintaining infinitesimal accuracy. How do we do that? The operation must be computer controlled, but the task is monumental. I fear a new generation of computers must be invented just for that purpose alone.”
The four men talked late into the night, analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of the plan and solutions to unprecedented engineering problems. The next morning they caught an early shuttle to Washington.
Four months later, on a Saturday afternoon, Pat Danielson shouldered her way through the door of her new condominium, kicked the door shut with her foot, and set the bulky box of kitchen utensils down in the middle of the disarray. The room was piled with cardboard boxes pilfered from liquor and grocery stores. The only piece of furniture was a sofa bed that would have to do double duty until she could buy more furniture. She walked down the hallway to the left, sniffing the acrid, clashing odors of new carpet and paint, past the small bedroom she would use as a study and the bathroom opposite, and into the larger bedroom with its own bath and dressing area. She walked the length of the room to the curtainless window that faced the front of the complex and opened it to the fresh spring air. Looking straight down six stories, she could see the security guard structure at the front gate. Craning her neck to the right she could see, just past the small balcony jutting from her front room, the swimming pool sauna complex, and the tennis courts beyond. What a swinger, she kidded herself.
“Coffee’s on!” she heard Janine shout from the kitchen.
Coffee? “How are you making coffee?” she called back as she retraced her steps down the hallway. Her old coffee pot was in the box she had just carried in. As she entered the front room she inhaled the delicious aroma and followed it into the kitchen. The cabinets were bare except for a new automatic drip coffee maker and a bag of freshly ground mocha java.
“Where did that come from?” Pat marveled.
“House present,” Janine said. “From Alex Runyan. He stopped by while you were gone. He tried to call the apartment, but I guess you weren’t there yet, or had left. Did you know he was in town?”
“I’m not too surprised. There’s a meeting next week that I thought he’d be involved in, but he’s not a great one for advance notice.”
“He said he had some business this afternoon, but would call you later.”
“Great, and I’m supposed to hold my Saturday open until the last minute in case he shows up.”
Janine was embarrassed by her friend’s predicament and covered up by grabbing a couple of glasses off the counter.
“Well, at least we can drink his coffee. I couldn’t find the cups. Can we make do with these?” She brandished the tumblers.
“Sure,” Pat conceded. “It smells marvelous.”
Janine filled the glasses three-quarters of the way to the top. “Watch out,” she warned, “they’ll be hot with no handles. Hold the top.” She handed one to Danielson, and they moved through the tableless dining area into the living room.
Pat looked around at the piles of boxes, the sofa heaped with clothes, laughed, and sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, crossing her legs in front of her. Janine perched on the edge of a bo
x. She lifted her glass, held gingerly by the upper rim.
“Here’s to your promotion and new home, ex-roomie; may it become the den of iniquity you’ve always wanted.”
Pat chuckled, “Fat chance of that.”
They sat quietly, sipping the rich coffee, each lost in her own thoughts.
“Pat?”
“Um?”
“What’s the matter between you and Alex? He’s always seemed so charming to me.”
Pat was silent for a moment.
“Would you go out with him?”
“Sure, I guess so.”
“That’s the problem. He’d take you up on it. Roommate or not. The truth is, of course, that I still find him fascinating. He knows so much about so many things. He’s warm and engaging and can focus some sort of personal intensity that makes it easy to fall into the illusion that you’re the only interesting person in the world.”
Pat stopped to take a drink of coffee. “I think he really does like me. But he’s got enough ‘like’ to spread it around pretty liberally. He separated from his wife, but, as they say, the chances of him settling down are between slim and zero.”
Janine took a sip of her coffee and rolled the glass between her palms.
“Is he good in bed?”
“Hey!” Pat laughed. “What kind of question is that?” She leaned her head back against the wall staring at the white ceiling. She could feel Runyan’s hands on her waist, his lips near her navel. “Yes, damn it,” she said with resignation, “he’s pretty good.”
“Well, then,” said Janine, with an impish sidelong glance at the sofa, “I suggest that we prepare yon piece for its proper initiation.”
She drained her glass, set it down, and went to grab an armload of clothes off the sofa.
Pat laughed again as Janine disappeared down the hall.
“Thank you, lord,” she said in a loud stage voice, “for delivering me at last from nosey, interfering roommates.”
Then she stood and looked around. The last shall be first, she decided. She hefted the box of utensils she had most recently deposited and headed for the kitchen, bent on the task of imposing order in her new abode.
The following Friday, Robert Isaacs put the finishing touches on his report to Drefke as the setting sun sent lances of light through the blinds of his office windows then dropped below the wall of trees. He was tired, but exhilarated. The report concerned the epochal meeting that had begun early Monday and wound up after lunch Friday, a complete success. A small coterie of scientists from both sides of the Iron Curtain and a larger group of diplomats had come to unprecedented, unanimous agreement. The public confrontation would continue, but driven to a close and desperate cooperation, the two countries would, in complete secrecy, launch a massive joint effort to rid the world of Krone’s creations.
If all went according to plan, in three or four years an international armada of ships would form a circle a hundred miles in radius in the expanse of the north Pacific. In the center of the circle would float an artificial, portable island. On the island would be an immensely powerful and complex piece of machinery designed for a suicide mission. The product of a dedicated, cooperative effort between the superpowers, it would produce intense beams of laser light, finely tuned and aimed by the gravitational pull of the black hole itself. Since there would be no way to control the orbit of the hole, the device would be located where orbit perturbations by irregularities in the Earth were minimal. The position of the device would be precisely fixed by accurate orbital calculations to be steadily refined over the years.
In addition to settling on the basic engineering attack, there had been a host of ticklish political problems to resolve. Paramount had been the continuing demand by the Russians that the United States cease work on beam weapons. Isaacs had admired the consummate skill of the team from the State Department. They had pointed out how item after item that the Soviets wanted banned was, after all, related to the massive effort before them. Other projects they discarded spontaneously, activities that had to take second seat to the main effort anyway. Neither country had the resources to devote to full scale development of beam weapons when faced with the resource-devouring assault on the black hole. In the final analysis, the Soviets had enough concessions to feel they had accomplished their goal, and the United States did not feel significantly weakened politically in the process.
Another issue had been the manner in which to treat the results of the test. If the project were successful, an explosion of considerable violence would ensue. Technically, it was not in violation of the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty, but in certain quarters all doubt must be forestalled, and that in turn called for an explanation of the predicament that demanded the undertaking. The NATO allies and Japan would be notified and sworn to secrecy and certain aid would be solicited from them. All would be allowed observers stationed at the site.
Dissension over the role of the Chinese had nearly split the meeting, but a precarious accord had been reached. When the time came, the Chinese would be informed of the test, but the underlying reason would only be hinted. The Soviet Union had chosen to inform none of the countries in its orbit, and the U.S. had not demurred.
Isaacs gathered up the report with its final corrections and headed for the outer office. His eyes skimmed the brass letters on the doorway—Deputy Director of Scientific Intelligence—and the ones below—Robert B. Isaacs. The report was virtually his last official act in that capacity. There had been no scandal, no public condemnation, just the gentle irrefutable suggestion. He thought of his new position with the Georgetown University Center for International Studies, amused at the irony. After years of suspicion and mistrust of academics, he would join their ranks. He was actually looking forward to it. Time to do some thinking. Some writing. “Forget it,” Martinelli had said. “You’ll be as busy as ever.”
Kathleen Huddleston was in the outer office. “Here’s the last of it,” he said to her. “I sure appreciate your staying late.”
She acknowledged his gratitude with a smile and flipped expertly through the pages. “This will just take a few minutes. It’ll be on Drefke’s desk when he comes in in the morning.”
“Great,” Isaacs replied.
He locked his office for the night, waved goodbye to Kathleen who was busy in front of the screen of her word processor and headed for the stairs. As he walked, his mind whirled with images of the fateful moment, the target of the gargantuan effort outlined in the report.
At zero hour the lasers would be triggered and the tiny hurtling particle would be immersed in a carefully designed cocoon of photons. In lightning response, the hole would emit a corresponding burst of particles and energy in rapid cascade and shrink a fraction in size. From the distance of the monitoring flotilla, this unprecedented set of events would look similar to another man-made holocaust.
Information of the blast would be fed nearly instantaneously to nerve centers around the world. Within hours it would be known whether the experiment was a success, whether the energy released and the shrinkage of the hole were as expected, or not. Only then would they have some concrete basis for the hope that the mass of the hole could be peeled away, little by little, that the orbit could be shifted until the menace was free of the Earth.
As Isaacs descended the stairs, he thought of the arguments he had heard from Runyan, Humphreys, Phillips, and Korolev. He trusted these men and believed them when they argued that this was the only rational approach, but their descriptions of the possible pitfalls were deeply troubling. The response of the hole was predicated on deductions from Krone’s data concerning previously unknown effects. Great effort would be put into developing theories to interpret the Krone experiments, but these theories could not be tested except by the ultimate event itself.
If the current expectations were overoptimistic, the experiment could be a dud, the black hole continuing on its rapacious path. They could err in the opposite sense. If too much mass were liberated from the hole, too much energ
y released, the explosion could be catastrophically powerful, threatening the Pacific basin with deadly tsunamis and perhaps the whole Earth with climactic changes.
Even if the expectations were correct, the required engineering feats were enormously complex. If the aim of the laser were not perfect, the black hole might be kicked inaccessibly beneath the Earth’s surface rather than boosted further above it.
Uncontrollably, Isaacs brooded on the implications if the experiment should fail. The warp and woof of human affairs were woven on a tapestry of time, comfortably stretched by geologists and astronomers to billions and billions of years. How would humanity change if the future were known to be abbreviated, longer than a single human life, but grimly truncated? Isaacs began to think of the future in its possible shortened version. Earthquakes beginning in several hundred years, growing ever stronger, more devastating. Then in several tens of thousands of years—nothing. A Sun, eight planets, and a small, dark marble.
Isaacs found himself in the foyer, headed outside. It was early on a spring evening as he pushed out through the door. No one was around as he paused at the head of the steps. The glass door swung shut behind him and the rubber, steel, and oil smell of man was replaced by the sweetness of growing things. The warm, heavily scented air engendered a feeling of being tugged gently but firmly downward, as if by a languid lover, but his eyes rose to the multitude of stars winking on in the deepening dusk.
An oasis, he thought. There must be another.
His eyes searched the bright points for a sign of welcome.
The Krone Experiment k-1 Page 39