by Cramer, John
George did so. The object had a slightly rough surface and felt warm in his hand. “I see you used our table top in your molecular rearrangements,” he said.
“Yes,” said Tunnel Maker. “I hope the object that provided the donor atoms was not of great value to you. It was necessary to damage it in order to produce the Egg. You must now take the Egg and follow the instructions I will give. The survival of your species depends on you. I hope you believe this.”
George looked at Alice, then at the small white sphere in his hand. “What is it you want us to do with this thing?,” he asked.
“The second phase of contact involves teaching you new skills. This cannot easily be accomplished through a microscopic Bridge. The Egg you hold, if placed in the proper environment, will grow to become a Maker Emissary, a temporary replica of me, complete with my mental processes and memories. I have designed the Egg to grow in an environment that is common on your planet, a body of water that is rich in minerals and marine life. I believe you call it an ‘ocean’. Ours is a race of amphibians, and this seems natural to us. You should take the Egg to such a body of water, and select a relatively private place. For your own benefit, it should be well away from what you call the ‘news media’. You should throw the Egg into the water and wait 24 hours. At the end of that time our Emissary will emerge at the same location where the Egg was placed.”
“You want us to drive to an ocean and throw in the Egg?” said George. “Why? Why did you make the egg so that it needs an ocean? Why do we need privacy?”
“I did what I could do quickly with the resources available to me,” said Tunnel Maker. “The environment of privacy is best for the communication and learning that must take place. I hope you trust me. I mean you only good, and time is short, for reasons that you will learn about soon.”
“It goes against my good judgment to blindly follow orders,” said George.
“I understand,” said Tunnel Maker, “but I urge you to at least find a place such as I suggested while you are considering your proper course of action. It would be better for you to be in a place that is less public than your present location.”
George frowned.
Alice pointed at the Egg and nodded.
“OK, dammit,” said George, “We will do what you ask, at least the first part. What about this communication apparatus?”
“It will continue in operation,” said Tunnel Maker. “I believe there are others of your Team Snark who can see to its operation . But it would be better for the two of you to take the Egg and leave now.”
“OK,” said George. He took a large sheet of laboratory tissue, folded it around the Egg, and slipped the packet into his jacket pocket. Then he began stuffing papers into his briefcase.
Alice folded her lapstation and prepared to leave.
George called for replacements from Team Snark, giving the excuse that an unexpected emergency in Seattle had come up. Then together George and Alice walked through the limestone tunnel to the elevator.
When the elevator doors opened at ground level, there was Roger, who had been waiting to descend.
“Roger, you’re supposed to be at home resting,” said George.
“I’m all right,” said Roger. “Where are you going?”
He was wearing his perennial backpack. George noticed how pale and weak he looked. George was silent for a moment and looked inquiringly at Alice.
She nodded.
“Walk with us to the parking lot, and I’ll explain,” said George. He told Roger about the Egg and Tunnel Maker’s instructions.
“I’m going with you,” Roger said abruptly as they reached Alice’s car.
“But, you can’t, Roger,” Alice objected, “You’re ill. You should be home in bed.”
“I owe you an explanation about that,” said Roger. “Let’s drive.”
“Where?” asked Alice.
“Hm,” said George, taking at a Texas map from the glove compartment and studying it. “I think we should go to Interstate 45 and head south to the Gulf Coast area beyond Houston. The Gulf of Mexico is the nearest piece of ocean. Do either of you need to pack clothes or anything?”
Roger shook his head. “I can make do with what’s in here,” he said, patting his backpack.
“Reporter’ habits die hard,” said Alice. “I always keep a jump bag packed and ready in the trunk of my car. What about you?”
“I’ll buy some things when we get there,” said George. “Let’s go.”
Alice headed south on I-45. As she drove, Roger told them the tale of synaptine and his experiments with it. “Synaptine is wonderful and deadly,” he concluded. “Under its influence, I’ve been able to understand its actions far better than Susan had. It does create a kind of back-propagation loop in the human nervous system. And it also does other things. Have you ever wondered why large brains and intelligence are not more common in the animal kingdom?” He looked across at George and Alice.
“I suppose because it took time to evolve them,” said George.
“And then there’s the business of the head diameter and the birth canal,” Alice added.
“Which is nonsense,” said Roger. “Nature is extremely good at duplicating or enlarging an organ if it proves useful for survival. One can find thousands of examples of that in evolutionary biology. But only humans, dolphins, and whales have large brains, and in the latter two the brain structure seems more devoted to signal processing than intelligence. But, George, what happens when you make a neural network too big or give it too many layers?”
“Oh!” said George. “It goes unstable.”
“Exactly,” said Roger. “It has become clear to me that the problem with making big brains is not in producing them but in stabilizing them. It took nature a long time to evolve the stabilization mechanisms of the human brain. And it’s still not highly stable, as any psychiatrist can testify. We teeter at a delicate balance point on the edge of stability, and some of us fall over the edge into obsession, paranoia, manic-depressive cycles or epileptic fits.”
“And synaptine affects that stability?” asked George.
“Yes,” said Roger. “I’ve been having epileptic fits of increasing severity. During the last one my heart stopped, and an emergency team had to use an electric jolt to restart it. Susan’s rhesus monkey Elvis died last week of a similar seizure.”
“What about anti-epilepsy drugs?” asked Alice.
“My condition isn’t really epilepsy. That’s only a convenient label. The standard anti-epileptic drugs like ritalin have no effect on the problem and produce some really unpleasant side effects. I’ve tried them. I’ve been having about one seizure per week. The last one was a couple of days ago. I think the next episode, or perhaps the one after that, will probably kill me,” Roger said calmly.
“But why don’t you just stop taking synaptine?” asked Alice.
“A large concentration of synaptine was the trigger, not the ongoing cause,” said Roger. “Once the seizure syndrome is established, withdrawal of the drug has no effect. Besides, I’ve needed the intellectual boost I get from synaptine to understand the Snark problem. And I have a bit of it left. Perhaps I’ll need it again.”
George patted his pocket, where the egg lay nested. “Perhaps you will,” he said grimly.
CHAPTER 6.4
Venus from the Waves
ROGER hunched his shoulders and stretched. Alice had driven south from Waxahachie on Interstate 45. After several hours of rural Texas cropland and an hour of threading past the strip-mall suburban sprawl of Houston, they had crossed the long causeway beyond La Marque and entered Galveston on to Avenue J, otherwise known as Broadway, the backbone arterial of the island city. Broadway was lined with tall palm trees and knife-leafed oleanders adorned pink and white blossoms. Even with the car windows closed and the air-co
nditioner running, Roger could detect their over-sweet scent.
Roger consulted the screen of his lapstation, studying the detailed street map provided by its holo-ROM-based world atlas and travel guide. “Rosenberg Avenue is coming up,” he said to Alice. “I think you should turn right there, drive to the beachfront, and make another right along West Beach.” They were passing the long blue awning of the EZ Pawn pawnshop. At the intersection, Alice circled a monumental female figure brandishing an ivy-covered sword commemorated the Heroes of the Texas Revolution. The pawnshop awning bore the inscription “Loans - Guns - Tools - Stereos”, while the monument was carved with the words “Patriotism - Courage - Honor - Devotion”. There’s a moral there somewhere, Roger thought.
Alice followed the trolley tracks south to the Galveston seawall and the Gulf of Mexico. Roger opened his back-seat window, inhaling the salt smell of the gulf and getting a better view of the wheeling gulls above the gray-green water. He read aloud from the travel atlas entry on Galveston. “On September 6, 1900, a major Gulf hurricane hit Galveston, flooding the island, destroying much of the city, and killing 5,000 people. Up to this time, Galveston had been the largest city in Texas, but the flood ended the city’s role as a major Gulf seaport. A second flood in August 17, 1915 killed 275 people. The citizens of Galveston responded to these disasters by constructing a long seawall along the side of the long island fronting on the gulf, with elaborate jetties and breakwaters to tame hurricane-driven waves. Galveston has survived subsequent major hurricanes without significant damage.”
Roger clicked on the atlas hyperlink “subsequent major hurricanes” and continued reading. “The major Gulf hurricanes that have impacted Galveston, Texas since World War II include Hurricane Audrey in 1957, Carla in 1961, Beulah in 1967, Camille in 1969, Celia in 1970, Allen in 1980, Alicia in 1983, and Barry in 2001.”
“Goodness,” said Alice. “I’ve been through more than my share of hurricanes in Florida, and I don’t need another one. Remind me to watch the weather reports while we’re here. With satellite pictures, we’d have plenty of time to evacuate.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said George. “It might be fun to watch a good hurricane from a vantage point on the beach and experience the forces of nature at firsthand.” He grinned at her.
She turned west on Seawall Boulevard at the beachfront. The seawall overlook provided a nice view of the now-tranquil waters of the Gulf. In the distance several ships could be seen heading for the eastern tip of the island and the Port of Galveston inlet beyond. Alice drove west, with the ocean on the left and beachfront shops, restaurants, and luxury hotels on the right. Finally the tourist-oriented businesses thinned and the highway, now called Termini Road, veered away from the ocean as the seawall ended. On the left was a strip of land overgrown with tall weeds that ended at the beach.
“Coming up is a cross street called 8-Mile Road,” said Roger. “From the satellite map, it looks as if it might have some beachfront houses on it.” As they approached the intersection they saw a prominent “For Rent” sign. Closer to the beach was a cluster of houses, all built atop tall poles. “Stilt houses!” said Roger. “One of the paintings that inspired Mussorgsky’s ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ was based on a Russian folk-tale about the hut of the witch Baba Yaga. It was built on stilts in the form of giant chicken legs, and the hut could walk around, carrying the witch across the countryside. I wonder if these houses can walk.” He grinned.
“Only during hurricanes,” said Alice, turning the car left toward the beach. “You’ll notice that they’re all relatively new. There are no old houses fronting directly on the Gulf. Hurricanes scrub the beaches clean every decade or so.”
They found the rental office, and George paid two weeks rent in advance for a furnished two bedroom beach-front stilt house that was well separated from the neighboring houses. He gave the real estate agent a personal check for the rent and deposit. Then they drove back to the Food King store on Rosenberg and Avenue P 1/2 and bought a good supply of food and other items. At a hardware store across the street, George bought a large blue plastic tarp to cover Alice’s car. They parked the car under the house between the stilts and Roger and George carefully covered it with the tarp to protect it from the salt spray but also to conceal its conspicuous Florida license plates.
Alice watched the ocean through the picture window that looked out over the beach and the ocean. The waves broke and rolled up onto the sand and into the wave-barrier rocks, making a soothing rush-and-flow sound. Gray-winged gulls wheeled overhead, sometimes diving into a wave and emerging with a fish. In the distance, a white pelican flew east. This view must have looked much the same for a million years, she thought.
She looked across the room. On the coffee table in its nest of white laboratory tissue lay the Egg. George sat on the couch, studying its rough surface as if looking for hidden meanings. The tension was thick in the room. The sound of the ocean’s roar and hiss from outside did not have the usual calming effect.
“It’s clear enough,” said Roger. “We throw the Egg into the water, wait 24 hours, and go back to the same spot. Sounds rather like a fairy tale, doesn’t it?”
“Too damn much like a fairy tale,” said George. “What if the thing carries a virus or something that infests the Gulf of Mexico? The Makers could be bent on taking over or destroying our planet.”
“It could just as well be an airborne virus that has infested the planet already from Waxahachie,” said Alice.
“Exactly,” said Roger. “If Tunnel Maker and his people wanted to do us ill, they would not have needed to enlist our cooperation to do so. Your Egg could just as well have been a flock of nanomachines for converting the planet to gray goo, or into a new race of Makers. They are up to something else, and they are trying to minimize the impact of implementing it. I’m sure that’s why they wanted us away from the laboratory and out of the media spotlight. I’m convinced that we have to trust them, George. I see no alternative.”
George looked at him closely. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Roger, you’re dying anyway. Perhaps you’re more inclined to take risks than the rest of us.”
“George!” said Alice, shocked by his insensitivity.
Roger raised his hand. “No, Alice, it’s all right. George is correct, in a way. In my present condition I am perhaps a bit more inclined to take risks. My previous gamble with synaptine could certainly be taken as evidence of that. But, I assure you, George, I would not be willing to gamble with any life except my own. I believe our only rational course of action is to follow Tunnel Maker’s instructions. If there is a danger, it isn’t from him and his people.”
George stroked his beard for a time. “OK, dammit,” he said finally. “I suppose you’re right. In fact, I have a gut feeling that you’re right. I just needed to make sure that we had thought it through.”
“Maybe Tunnel Maker just wants to introduce himself to us, before revealing himself to the rest of the world,” said Alice.
George picked up the Egg from its nest on the table. “So, let’s get it over with.” He headed for the door.
“George,” said Alice as they were walking back from the beach, “we need to talk.”
For a moment George’s face took on a deer-in-the-headlights look. He took a deep breath and said, “Sure, Alice. What about?”
“I need to tell you about the kind of books I write, about the book I’m working on now,” said Alice.
George looked relieved, if a bit puzzled. “Books?” he said. “I don’t understand.”
Alice told him about her pseudonym, about her previous books, about the present fire-ant novel, and about how she had come to be commissioned by Search magazine to write an article on the SSC. She allowed him to read parts of the current manuscript from her laptop.
“The business with the press credentials was pretty devious, Alice,” he said with a look of
dismay. “Sneaky, even.”
“I know,” she said. “At the time I thought it was necessary. How would you have reacted if I’d approached you for information and told you I was working on a novel about giant mutant fire-ants attacking the SSC?”
“I can’t say,” said George. “I might have been willing to help, but it would clearly have been lower priority that helping you with an article for Search.” He was quiet for a while and finally said, “You know, when I think about it, our current situation is probably a lot more bizarre than anything you might have put in your fire-ant book. Fiction has been our-wierded by reality.” Then he looked closely at her. “What I don’t understand is why you choose to write bug-disaster novels, Alice. Somehow, you don’t seem the type.”
She looked at him and smiled. It was going to be all right, she thought. “I suppose I wandered into it, George. In my view, most mainstream literature is an extended and depressing description of losers in the process of losing. I never saw the point of that kind of writing, aside from the fact that it’s currently fashionable and ‘literary’.
“When I made the decision to produce a book, I seriously considered doing investigative reporting and making that into a book, perhaps an exposé of the Florida drug-money laundering scene. However, my late husband was against that because it might offend (or possibly even expose) some of his clients.
“Then I realized that I liked reading bug-disaster novels, as you call them, and that I would enjoy writing one. I sat down and analyzed why it was that I liked them. And I found the answer.
“It’s because they’re actually about change and how people react to it. In all of these novels something terrible happens, some unpleasant change occurs, and the people in the novel must deal with it. Some of them simply give up, lie down, and die. Some of them react, but they do all the wrong things, and they die too. But some of them, either through cleverness or instinct, somehow do the right things, successfully deal with the problem, and survive. Those are the characters we identify with, and when they get beyond their problems, we feel good about it. In some measure we adopt their attitudes, so that when we come to a real problem in real life, we’re perhaps better prepared to deal with it.”