Twistor

by Cramer, John; Wolfe, Gene;

  'You can stop there,' said Victoria. 'His encryption key has to be "HOLOSPINWAVE." That's the area of condensed-matter physics he's been working in for the last several years. I guess his finger made an extra "D" when he typed the "S." '

  'Great!' said Flash. 'Now, Victoria my dear, we can delve into your Professor Saxon's innermost secrets. He is now com-plete-ly in our pow-waaa! Ain't hackin' fun-o!' He grinned.

  David sighted up through the forest canopy. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the cover of branches and leaves overhead. He could see blue sky, with a few clouds sliding slowly by in a direction he judged to be north. There was a south wind. He could feel it cooling the light beading of sweat on his face and neck. At home in Seattle a south wind usually meant that bad weather was coming, that a low-pressure area parked out in the Pacific was spiraling a storm front in from the south. David wondered if the topography of this planet was similar enough for the same weather rules to work. If a storm front was on the way, their new cistern would soon be ready for it.

  He picked up the makeshift shovel again, an aluminum plate clamped with a lever-jaw wrench to a piece of pipe, and lifted more dirt from the floor of the scooped-out area, spreading it against the rough rock wall. Beside him Jeff was smoothing and packing the dirt in place against the wall with his hands.

  'David,' said Jeff.

  'Yeah,' David answered as he worked the shovel blade into the dirt again.

  'I think I know where those colors on the ground come from,' Jeff said. 'You know, the ones around the tree that are all in a line.'

  'Yes,' said David. 'So where do they come from?'

  'Those colors're treebird poop,' Jeff said, then giggled.

  David stopped and looked at the boy. 'How do you know?' he asked.

  'This morning I was dragging a big dead branch up for the fire, and when it dragged across the line of colors, I noticed that it kinda rubbed them out. I didn't think much about it until I saw the treebird fly down from the tree and land just where I'd dragged the branch. It kinda walked around, pecking at the ground and scratching it with its front claws. Then it sorta did a waddle dance along the line, and I noticed that it was making poop on the ground. David, it can poop in colors!'

  David looked at Jeff, then speculatively up at the tree. He could see the green treebird at work, busily grooming the bark along the broad wall of the trunk. The line must be a border,' he said.

  'You mean like countries have?' Jeff asked.

  'Yeah,' said David. 'It's to mark and claim territory. Have you noticed how each tree has only one treebird? It must be that they mark off their territories with these colored lines, surrounding their own tree with a color-coded circle to warn other treebirds that this tree is taken and off limits. On Earth, birds make birdcalls in the morning for the same purpose. In this world Nature seems to have found, er, another method.'

  Jeff nodded and began again to pat the dirt into the wall. Melissa was leveling the dug-out floor, stamping it down with her feet. There was a kind of logic to it, he thought. The healthier and more successful the bird was in its ecological niche as tree groomer and insect eater, the more vigorously and distinctly it would be able to mark off its territory and discourage intruders. David paused to survey their own border-work, a curving rock wall delineating the wide dirt-lined basin against the side of the big tree. He swatted ineffectually at a blue flying insect that seemed interested in him.

  'That will just about do it, kids,' he said, smoothing the dirt he had just shoveled. 'I'll go up and get the plastic liner and some tools, and you two can finish the smoothing over here.'

  'OK,' said Jeff, patting more dirt with his hands. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  'Oomph,' Melissa grunted as she stamped. 'I'm glad we're almost done.' She lifted a pink jewel-headed worm from the loose dirt and tossed it over the wall. Then she stamped again.

  David vaulted the low rock wall and walked to the foot of the ladder hanging from the treehouse door-hole. He started upward. As he climbed, something flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision. There might have been a brown something moving in a nearby tree. He turned toward it, but there was nothing. He blinked, then continued the climb to the treehouse. At the door-hole he tied a long wire around the folded sheet of five-mil black polyethylene he'd placed there and lowered it to the ground. Then he gathered hammer, nails, wood strips salvaged from the old Helmholz coil supports, and a few other items, and climbed back down.

  The rest of the construction went swiftly. Against the tree he secured one edge of the plastic sheet, now sandwiched between the wood strips, driving long nails through wood and plastic into the upthrust scales of the bark. The remaining sheet was unfolded to form a watertight lining for the rock and dirt basin. The edges of the plastic sheet were folded down over the cistern's rim and secured against the outer wall with sharpened wooden pegs. A second sheet of black plastic formed a lid stretching over the top of the cistern. It was pegged into place at the rim, one unsecured edge butting loosely against the back wall near the tree. Wings attached to the tree extended outward and upward to catch additional rainwater, while the central cover would reduce evaporation of the water already collected. It would also be lightless inside, so that algae and slime mold would not grow in their water supply.

  David stepped back, inspecting their handiwork. It looked good. There remained only the matter of the water to fill it. He looked across at the children. 'You two have been working very hard,' he said. 'Time for a break now.' Jeff nodded and smiled. Melissa wiped her hands and looked down at her clothes. They were all rather dirty, David thought. When they had more water, he would use their limited soap supply to do something about that.

  They sat in a row, relaxing with their backs against the tree. 'Have you two ever seen the old Disney movie Fantasia?' David asked.

  Jeff looked doubtful, but Melissa said, 'Yes, Daddy took us to see it when it was shown again last year. I liked it. It had dancing flowers and fairies and witches and centaurs and flying horses. It was lovely. I liked the music, too.'

  'Yeah,' Jeff spoke up, 'and I liked the dina-sawer fight.'

  'Yes,' said David, 'I saw it first when I was about your age. Do you remember the sorcerer's apprentice part, where little Mickey has to carry water for the wizard?'

  'Yeah!' said Jeff. 'That was nice too.' Melissa nodded agreement.

  'Well,' said David, 'I want you guys to pretend that I'm the sorcerer and you're my apprentices. Here's a big plastic jug for each of you. I want you to go to the spring, fill the jug with as much water as you can easily carry, bring it back here, and pour it into the cistern. That will give us a water supply even if it doesn't rain soon.' Melissa looked thoughtful. He wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps she was remembering the movie.

  She stared off into the woods, then smiled and picked up one of the jugs, walking off in the direction of the spring. Jeff followed. David wiped his hands on his jeans, sat down on the big rock before the crude table, and picked up a pencil. He wasn't doing too well as the sorcerer, he thought ruefully. The daylight wouldn't last much longer, but it hardly mattered. The more he studied the circuit drawings, the more impossible it looked to use the equipment he had to make a twistor field.

  * * *

  As if returning from a long way off, Allan Saxon came slowly awake with daylight filtering redly through his closed eyelids. Ugh. His head felt terrible, there was a ringing in his ears, his tongue was numb, and there was a vile taste in his mouth. He struggled to remember. It must have been some party . . .

  No! He had not been drinking. The recent events snapped into register. He had driven across the lake on 520 and taken the usual exit. There had been a flagman on the road, then . . . nothing? Something cold and wet had struck his face, something with a taste like . . . oysters? He couldn't remember anything else.

  He tried to move and failed. His arms felt oddly constrained. He opened his eyes, then waited while they focused. He was in a room with white walls. Sla
nting sunlight was filtering through gauzy white curtains. The foot of the bed was brown particle board and had an institutional look. Beyond it was a closet. A plain chair and table were beside the bed. There was no other furniture in the room. Opposite the window was a brown wood door, presently closed.

  Looking down at his own body, he discovered the cause of the curious immobility of his arms. He was wearing a canvas straitjacket, his arms strapped across his chest.

  Straitjacket! A wave of fear swept through him. Was this a mental institution? Had he had some kind of breakdown? Was he crazy? 'Help!' he yelled. 'Let me out of here!'

  He heard approaching footsteps. The door opened and two men came in. One wore fairly ordinary clothing: brown slacks, white dress shirt, dark red tie. Only one thing was odd: the man was wearing a ski mask. A terrorist? The other man was much larger, and had to stoop a bit when he came through the door. He was also wearing a ski mask, which stretched tightly over his large head, and where one of his hands should be there was a white bandage. Saxon remembered the blood in the laboratory and wondered.

  'Ah, Professor Saxon,' said the man before him. 'At last you're awake.' The voice sounded crisp and professional, slightly muffled by the wool.

  'Where am I?' Saxon asked. 'What time is it?'

  'This is Friday afternoon,' the man said. 'You were out for over twenty-four hours. Our dose level was a bit high, I'm afraid.'

  'Why am I here?' Saxon's voice rose. 'And who the Hell are you?'

  'I'm afraid I can't answer your questions, Professor,' the man said. 'I can only tell you that this is a matter of national security. We work for a special secret agency of the federal government. It would be very dangerous for you to know too much about us. That's why we've concealed our identities with these masks. It's for your own protection.'

  Saxon felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Oh shit, he thought, it's about the missing card from that military computer. They've found out somehow. 'Look, goddammit,' he said, more aggressively than he felt, 'I'm cleared for secret information. I've had my loyalty checked eight ways from January. I hold top-secret clearances for consulting at Livermore and Los Alamos, and I've served on presidential commissions and DOD panels. Don't pull that secrecy shit on me! Where do you bastards get off, kidnapping me and tying me up like this. Release me immediately!' He felt the itching sensation at the rear of his scalp. Blood pressure too high. He took deep breaths, trying to remain calm.

  'The strait jacket was only for your protection, to prevent you from doing anything rash before we could advise you of the situation,' the man said. 'We'll take it off now.' He gestured to the big man to undo the strait jacket's straps, then apparently decided to do it himself instead.

  The big man must have lost the hand only recently, Saxon concluded. Interesting. He shrugged out of the canvas sleeves and sat up, rubbing his arms. He saw that underneath he was wearing a white hospital gown. 'What the hell did you use to knock me out?' he asked. 'I feel awful.' He massaged his forehead and groaned.

  'It's a selective nerve-blocking protein combined with a penetrant agent, strictly nonlethal,' the man said affably. 'Comes in a nice little aerosol can. The government finds many uses for it. Didn't kill you, did it? Believe me, you'll feel better soon.'

  *OK, enough of this,' Saxon said. 'Show me your federal agency IDs now, please.' Perhaps these bastards were on to him, he thought, but he must continue to act innocent and offended.

  'Sorry,' the man said, 'I told you the secrecy is to protect you. Sure, we could produce any ID you'd care to believe, but there's no need for such games, is there, Professor? We've got more important business. We have lots of talking to do.'

  Saxon's head hurt. He tried to shake it clear and instantly regretted the move. 'What talking? What do you want to know?' he asked.

  The man placed a little digital disk audio recorder on the bedside table and depressed two buttons. 'For starts,' the man said, 'tell me about everything you've done in the past month . . . '

  Victoria was disappointed and impatient. Decrypting the files in Saxon's most protected subdirectory was taking a long time. She had wanted to get back to the university before Sam left for the day. The decryption process itself was time consuming, even on the HyperVAX, and the decoded files concerned irrelevant items: personnel evaluations, salary lists, and rejected NSF and DOD proposals.

  'Hmmm, this looks more interesting,' said Flash. He was working on a file with the unpromising name of MCEVAL.TEX. Vickie read the text over his shoulder. The document concerned the evaluation of a classified military control computer. The work had been done for the Megalith Corporation of San Francisco, California. What was Saxon doing evaluating secret military hardware? Then Victoria remembered that Megalith was the outfit that had loaned Saxon money. 'William,' she said, 'what do you know about the Megalith Corporation?'

  'Hmm, Megalith . . . ' Flash mused. 'Yeah! You're talking el big bucks-o. Those guys have supercomputers all over the place, big mainframes, top-of-the-line IBMs, HyperVAXes, Suns Crays . . . lots of networking, lots of military work-o. Some of the more talented of my former associates cracked their big systems a few times just to show it could be done. But Megalith has real heavy security. The cracks never lasted more than a coupla days.

  'And Megalith has the rep of being a bad outfit to mess with. Two of the guys "visited" a Megalith mainframe and bragged about it on the net. Not long after that some big mean guys showed up at their place. Got their heads broken and their systems trashed. The word is: Leave Megalith A-lone-O.'

  Quitting time, Sam Weston thought, walking back to the electronics shop. As he passed the large basement storage room, he noticed that a light was on inside. He halted and peered inside. Everything looked the same as usual: metal and plywood racks reached from the bare concrete floor to the low ceiling, groaning under the accumulated burden of obsolescent electronic equipment from the physics experiments of yesteryear. This was an instrumentation boneyard where old equipment from departmental research or the federal surplus lists was brought when it was too old or unreliable to be of use but too valuable to throw away. Every spring Sam would cull the most useless items from the collection and direct some work-study students to strip them down for parts. He glanced around. There were some real memories here, he thought.

  The grating sound of a moved chassis echoed from the back of the room. 'Who's in here,' Sam called, his reverberating voice sounding hard with authority.

  A shock of coppery red hair shone through a gap between boxes, then a pretty face peered out from behind the rack. 'Just me, Sam,' Vickie said. 'I didn't see you in the shop.'

  Sam walked around the rack. 'Whatcha doin', honey?' he asked. 'Lookin' for more stuff to make into big wood marbles?'

  She smiled like the sun coming out. 'As a matter of fact, Sam, that's more or less what I am doing.' She described her meeting with the chairman yesterday. 'So Weinberger gave me the OK to build what I want, as long as there's no impact on departmental funds or technical services.'

  Sam nodded. 'And now you're in here scrounging parts,' he said.

  'Right,' she said. 'I particularly need power supplies and anything that will drive high-power RF.' She gestured at the heavy chassis that she'd been removing from the rack. 'What do you know about this kludge?'

  He shook his head. 'You don't wanna have anything to do with that one, honey,' he said. 'Has an intermittent power transformer. Works fine when it's cold, but as soon as it gets hot the juice goes off. Took the Penning trap guys weeks last summer to find out that dang thing was their problem. Their trap would dump its antimatter load in the middle of the afternoon like clockwork. It was too hot to work days in their lab then, what with all the power they were dumpin' and no air conditioning, and they were home sleeping for the next all-night marathon. They thought for a while somebody was sneakin' in to sabotage their experiment. You don't want it.'

  Vickie nodded and shoved the chassis back to its place on the shelf, a discouraged look on
her face.

  Sam thought for a moment, weighing alternatives. 'Can you keep a secret, honey?' he asked finally.

  'Sure, Sam,' she said. Her raised eyebrows made twin arches.

  He walked to the rear of the room, fishing in his pocket as he went for the big key ring. 'I have a place,' he said, 'where I keep some of the better items.' He produced a key and inserted it in a round brass lock plate in a panel. The inconspicuous wooden panel, painted the same color as the wall and half concealed behind an adjacent rack, swung inward. 'You see,' he said, 'when the good stuff comes in from the surplus lists and nobody has an immediate use for it, I kinda put it in here for safekeepin'. If I left it out on the racks, no tellin' what might happen to it.'

  Vickie smiled. 'Right,' she said, peering into the dark opening, 'no telling . . . '

  Sam flicked a switch inside. New-looking power supply units bearing military stamps were stacked in neat rows. Several high-frequency radio transmitter racks were just behind them. The little alcove was quite deep, and it was nearly full.

  'Wow!' she said, 'This is a treasure trove! And it looks like just what I need. How much of it can I have, Sam?'

  'How much can you carry away, honey?' he asked. 'Business has been kinda slow lately.'

  Allan Saxon was frightened. The man who claimed to be a federal agent had questioned him closely all day yesterday. Saxon had managed to avoid the matter of the circuit board, but he'd told them everything he knew about the disappearance of the twistor apparatus. He'd explained that Harrison must have taken the equipment to a shadow universe, and that only by building new equipment could they get the old equipment back.

  But this morning the cooperative and even cordial atmosphere of yesterday was gone. The man had new orders, he said. The two of them, still wearing ski masks, had taken off all Saxon's clothes and tied him in this chair. The man who did the talking had set up a suitcase-mounted machine that had many wires. He'd attached flat electrodes at the ends of the wires to various parts of Saxon's body with adhesive tape. The wires were connected to his hands, feet, head, and genitals. They'd used a kind of gray paste. The man said it was silver, that it prevented telltale arc burns.