The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  His face was long and thin, his chin square, and his nose tapered in the best aristocratic sense. He resembled the sort of character actor who specializes in playing well-to-do uncles, Presidents, and corporate thieves.

  The storm shook the house.

  Next door, Wally Jackson stood at his window, framed by his living-room lights. His hands were shoved into his belt, and he looked bored. There was a push on now to shore up the beach. Harry was behind that. They were losing ground because of the frequency of the storms. People were simply giving up. Real estate values on Amity had dropped twenty percent in the last three years. No one had any confidence in the island’s future.

  Directly across Penobscot, the McCutcheons and the Broadstreets were playing pinochle. The hurricane game had become something of a tradition now. When the big storms came, the McCutcheons and the Broadstreets played cards. When Frances hit the year before, a Force 5, they’d stayed on while everyone else cleared out. Water got a little high, McCutcheon had remarked, not entirely able to disguise his contempt for his fainthearted neighbors. But no real problem. Tradition, you know, and all that.

  Eventually, the McCutcheons and the Broadstreets and their game would get blown into the Atlantic.

  Darwin at work.

  The commlink chimed.

  He strolled across the room in his socks, paused to refill his glass. Something thumped on the roof.

  Three-page message waiting in the tray. The cover sheet caught his interest: the transmission had originated on Quraqua.

  From Henry.

  Odd.

  He snapped on a lamp and sat down at his desk.

  Richard,

  We found the attached in the Temple of the Winds. Est age 11,000 years. This is Plate seven of twelve. The Tull myth. Frank thinks it’s connected with Oz. Date is right, but I can’t believe it. Any thoughts?

  Oz?

  The next page contained a graphic from a bas-relief. An idealized Quraquat and a robed figure. Page 3 was a blow-up of the features of the latter.

  Richard put down his glass and stared. It was the Ice-Creature!

  No. No, it wasn’t.

  He cleared off his desk and rummaged for a magnifying glass. This was from where? Temple of the Winds. On Quraqua. Oz—The structure on Quraqua’s moon was an anomaly, had nothing in common with the Great Monuments, other than that there was no explanation for it. Not even a conjecture.

  And yet—He found the lens and held it over the image. Too close to be coincidence. This creature was more muscular. It had wider shoulders. Thicker proportions. Masculine, no doubt. Still, there was no mistaking the features within the folds of the hood.

  But this thing is a Death-manifestation.

  He slipped into an armchair.

  Coincidence, first. Somebody had once shown him an image on the outside of an Indian temple that looked quite like the long-departed inhabitants of Pinnacle.

  But something had visited Quraqua. We know that because Oz exists. And the evidence is that the natives never approached the technology needed to leave their home world.

  Why the Death personification?

  That question chilled him.

  He punched up an image of Quraqua’s moon. It was barren, airless, half the size of Luna. One hundred sixty-four light-years away. A little less than a month’s travel time. It was a nondescript worldlet of craters, plains, and rock dust. Not much to distinguish it from any other lunar surface. Except that there was an artificial structure. He homed in on the northern hemisphere, on the side that permanently faced the planet. And found Oz.

  It looked like a vast square city. Heavy and gray and point-less, it was as unlike the works of the Monument-Makers as one could imagine.

  Yet many argued no one else could have put it there, Richard had always dismissed the proposition as absurd. No one knew who else might be out there. But the Tull discovery was suggestive.

  He called the Academy and got through to the commissioner. Ed Horner was a lifelong friend. He, Richard, and Henry were all that was left of the old guard, who remembered the Pinnacle earthbound archeology. They’d gone through the great transition, had been mutually intrigued by million-year-old ruins. Horner and Wald had been among the first to get down on Pinnacle. Today, they still made it a point to get together for an occasional dinner.

  “I don’t guess you’ll be jogging tonight, Richard.” That was reference to the storm. Ed was slightly the younger of the two. He was big, jovial, good-humored. He had thick black hair and brown eyes set too far apart, and heavy brows that bounced and rode when he got excited. Horner looked reticent and inoffensive, someone who could easily be cast aside. But that pleasant smile was the last thing some of his enemies remembered.

  “Not tonight,” said Richard. “It’s brisk out there.”

  Ed grinned. “When will you be coming to D.C.? Mary would like to see you.”

  “Thanks. Tell Mary I said hello.” Richard raised his glass toward his old friend. “Nowhere I’d rather be. But probably not for a while. Listen, I just got a transmission from Henry.”

  “He sent it here, too. I haven’t seen it. Something about a Grim Reaper?”

  “Something about the Monument-Makers,” Richard explained. Ed began to look uncomfortable.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he said. “You know we’re getting ready to pull the plug on Quraqua.”

  Richard knew. Quraqua was first in line to be terraformed. It was to be the New Earth. (No other world offered hope of supporting a settlement, save Inakademeri. Nok. But that garden world was already home to a civilization.) Now, a wide group of powerful interests saw Quraqua as a laboratory, a place to establish a Utopia, a place to start over. “When?”

  “Six weeks. A little less. Henry was supposed to be out of there by now. But you know how he is. Hell, Richard, once they start, we’re finished. Forever.”

  Well, for a half-century anyhow. Might as well be forever. “You can’t let it happen, Ed. The situation’s changed.”

  “I can’t see how. Nobody gives a damn about the Monument-Makers. Not really. You and me, maybe. Not the taxpayers. And certainly not the politicians. But a lot of people are excited about terraforming. There won’t be any more delays.”

  “Have you spoken to Caseway?”

  “No. And I don’t intend to. That son of a bitch wouldn’t give us the time of day. No.” Homer’s eyes flashed. Richard read his old friend’s frustration. “Look, you know I would if I thought there was a chance. Why don’t you try talking to him?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. He thinks you’re the big hotshot with this outfit. He’s read your books. Always speaks highly of you. Asked me why the rest of us couldn’t be more like you. Wald wouldn’t put his own interests first, he says. Thinks you have a sense of decency. Unlike me, apparently.”

  Richard grinned. “Can’t argue with him there.” The wind howled over the house. “Ed, can you get me transportation to Quraqua?”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re running out of time. I’d like to see the Temple. And Oz. Can you do it?”

  “We have a flight going out to pick up Henry and his people.”

  “When?”

  “When can you be ready?”

  “Soon as the storm blows over. Thanks, Ed.”

  The comers of Homer’s mouth rose. “I want you to do something for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Two things, actually. I would like you to consider talking to Caseway. And, when you get to Quraqua, make sure Henry gets off with time to spare. Okay?”

  NEWS DESK

  NO END IN SIGHT FOR MIDWEST DROUGHT

  Small Farm Bankruptcies Up Ninth Straight Year

  NAU, Quebec Promise Help

  INFLATION SOARS TO 26%

  October Figures Fueled by Food, Medical Costs

  Housing, Energy Down Slightly

  GREENHOUSE GROUP PESSIMISTIC

  Natural Processes Have Taken Over, Says Tyler

  “
We Waited Too Long”

  President-Elect Announces Wide-Ranging Agenda

  How You Going to Keep Them Off the Farm?

  EUROPEAN URBAN POPULATION HITS NEW LOW

  71% Now Live in Rural or Suburban Areas

  Similar Trend in NAU

  (See related story following)

  FOXWORTH REASSURES MAYORS ON FOOD TRANSPORT

  Insists Breakdown Cannot Happen Again

  Will Implement Ad Campaign To Halt Flight from Cities

  BRITAIN, FRANCE REVEAL PLANS FOR NEW INNER COUNCIL

  “We Can Avoid the Old Mistakes,” says Kingsley

  Cites “Executive Group with Teeth”

  Haversham Warns of World Government

  572 DIE IN MIDAIR COLLISION OVER MED

  Massive Search on for Black Box

  HORNCAF ARRESTED WITH PROSTITUTE

  Holovangelist Claims Interest Only in Her Soul

  Sex Scandal Latest in Series

  WET YEAR PREDICTED FOR MEXICO

  Rainfall Expected to Double

  Summer Planting in Danger

  THIRD WORLD GROUP CALLS FOR SHUTDOWN OF MOONBASE

  “Insult to World’s Starving Populations”

  Demonstrations Scheduled in NAU, UK, Russia, Germany, Japan

  MARK HATCHER BURIED IN LONDON

  Dead With Six-pack,

  A Poetic Tour Through the Great Famine

  Won Pulitzer in 2172

  Had Been in Seclusion 30 Years

  MILLIONS DEAD IN INDOCHINA

  Drought Worsens Throughout Subcontinent

  Council to Consider Options

  REBELS SEIZE KATMANDU

  Hundreds Die in Street-Fighting

  NAU POPULATION REACHES 200 MILLION

  Foxworth Promises Action

  Propose More Benefits for Childless Couples

  POPE ON THIRD DAY OF FRENCH TOUR

  Says Mass at Notre Dame Nouveau

  Exhorts Faithful on Advantages of Celibacy

  GROUND WATER DESTROYING EGYPTIAN MONUMENTS

  Ancient Heritage at Risk

  Restoration Groups Mobilize

  GUNMAN KILLS SEVEN IN LIBRARY

  Shoots Self as Police Close In

  Former Girlfriend Hides in Stacks

  POLL REVEALS AMERICANS TURNING OFF POLITICS

  Voters Cynical in Wake of Sex, Money Scandals

  ISRAELI LEADER DENOUNCES QURAQUA RELOCATION PLAN

  “We Will Wait for a World of Our Own”

  NAU WILL CUT BACK STAR FLIGHTS

  Move Forced by Budgetary Constraints

  (See two related stories following)

  LIVABLE WORLDS EXTREMELY SCARCE

  Odds Astronomical Commission Recommends Resources Go Elsewhere

  Quraqua To Be Ready in Fifty Years

  “One New World Is Enough,” Says Hofstadtler

  PROTEST PLANNED BY NEW-EARTH SOCIETY

  “Don’t Abandon the Hunt,” Warns Narimata

  3.

  Arlington. Saturday, May 8; 0915 hours.

  The chime brought her out of a warm, silky dream. She fumbled at the lamp stand and touched the commlink. “Yes?”

  “Hutch?” Richard’s voice. “They tell me you’re the pilot for the Temple flight.”

  “Yes,” she said sleepily.

  “Good. I’ll be going with you.”

  She came awake. That was a pleasant surprise. She had not been looking forward to a month alone rattling around in Wink. “I’m delighted to hear it,” she said. But she wondered why he’d bother. This was strictly an evacuation run.

  “I’d have asked for you in any case,” he was explaining.

  “And I’d have appreciated the business.” Hutch was a contractor, not an employee of the Academy. “Why are you going?”

  “I want to see Oz,” he said.

  Richard signed off. Below, a tour boat with a canvas awning circled Republic Island, leaning to port while its passengers crowded the rail. They carried umbrellas against a light rain that had been falling all morning. They munched sandwiches, and dragged windbreakers for which they had no need. A fat man in a misshapen gray sweater sat in back, feeding gulls.

  A brisk wind disturbed the surface of the river. Richard watched from his air taxi. Brightly colored pennants fluttered along both beams. A young couple on the starboard side paid far more attention to each other than to the monument. On the island, a group of kids, shepherded by a harried woman with a cane, trailed blue and red balloons. The fleet of sailboats that usually filled the river had not appeared. The fat man crumpled a white bag and opened another. He looked at peace with the world.

  Richard envied him. Feed the gulls, and enjoy the monuments.

  The taxi banked west. Constitution Island lay to his right, with its cluster of public buildings. The old Capitol had all but vanished into the rising mist. The Lincoln, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Brockman monuments stood serenely on their embankments. And the White House: nothing in D.C. quite stirred the emotions like the sight of the former executive mansion, defiant behind its dikes. Old Glory still flew, rippling above the green and white banner of the North American Union. This was the only site in the country where the national colors gave precedence to another flag.

  Lights burned in the towers along the Arlington shore.

  The air taxi swung in a wide arc toward the Virginia side. Richard reluctantly turned his thoughts to the coming ordeal. He disliked confrontations. He was accustomed to deference, to people who listened politely and, if they disagreed, knew how to respond without being disagreeable. Norman Caseway, CEO of Kosmik, Inc., was the prime mover behind the Second Earth initiative. And he could be expected to show no such fastidiousness. Caseway was no respecter of persons. He was an alley fighter, a brawler who enjoyed leaving hoofmarks on opponents. He particularly relished assaulting academic types, as several of Richard’s colleagues had discovered to their dismay.

  Richard had never met Caseway. He’d seen his antics on NET. A few weeks ago, he’d watched him demolish poor old Kinsey Atworth, an economist whose tongue was not as quick as his brain. Caseway’s strategy was to attack the motives of anyone who opposed him, to mock, to sneer, to enrage. And then to back off coolly while his opponent sputtered and self-destructed. The man enjoyed humiliating people.

  Always speaks highly of you, Ed had said. He’s read your books.

  He passed over Potomac Island and the Pentagon, and descended toward Goley Inlet. The taxi rolled in a wide, lazy spiral and landed atop the Crystal Twins.

  Richard’s restraints snapped open, and the hatch slid back. He inserted his card into the reader. The taxi thanked him, wished him good day. He stepped out into warm, sluggish air, and the taxi lurched skyward, far more quickly than it would have with a passenger aboard. It turned south toward Alexandria and soared quickly over the hotels.

  Norman Caseway lived with his wife and daughter in what the Towers was pleased to call its Observatory Suite, a lush penthouse that occupied parts of two floors. He was greeted at the door by an attractive middle-aged woman. “Dr. Wald? We’re happy you could come.” The smile was perfunctory. “I’m Ann Caseway.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” She did not offer her hand, and Richard detected a stiffness which seemed alien to her appearance. Ann Caseway was, he judged, a woman both congenial and casual. Under normal circumstances.

  “My husband’s waiting for you in his office.”

  “Thank you.” He followed her into a reception room, tastefully decorated with embroidered wall-hangings and Caribbean basket-chairs, and a curved springwood table.

  Long windows overlooked the Potomac, and the ceiling was vaulted glass. The overall display of wealth and success was calculated to intimidate visitors. Richard smiled at the transparency of the tactic. Still, reluctantly, he recognized that it did affect him.

  “This must be difficult for you,” she said smoothly. “Norman hoped it might be possible to talk things out with someone at your level.” There was the barest hi
nt of regret, not unmixed with satisfaction, in her voice. Regret perhaps that Richard would be an unseemly victim to throw to her husband, satisfaction stemming from the end of the long argument with the Academy over Quraqua, with its threats of court battles and sequestration of funds. Nice to see the enemy at the door, hat in hand.

  Damn the woman.

  She led him through a conference room filled with Kosmik trophies and memorabilia, photos of Caseway with famous people, Caseway signing documents, Caseway cutting ribbons. Awards, certificates of appreciation from charities and public organizations, plaques from government agencies, were present in such profusion that they overflowed the walls and lay in piles. An antique dark-stained roll top desk dominated the room. It was shut, but a framed news bulletin, with a photo, stood prominently on its top. The bulletin, dated thirty years before, read: BRAINTREE MAN RESCUES BOY WHO FELL THROUGH ICE. The hero in the photo was a young Caseway.

  “This way, please.” She opened an inner door and sunlight blinded him. This wasn’t the feeble mid-May sunlight of Virginia. Nor even of a summer day in New Mexico. This was off-Earth sunlight. Naked white sunlight. She handed him a pair of dark glasses.

  “Welcome, Dr. Wald.” The voice, rich, precise, confident, came from within the glare.

  A sand dune half-blocked the doorway. A hologram, of course. Richard strolled directly through the dune (which was not playing the game), and stepped into a desert. The room was air-conditioned. Flat sand stretched to the horizon.

  A few feet away, Norman Caseway sat in one of two wing chairs behind a coffee table. A bottle of Burgundy and two goblets were on the table. One was half-full.

  He was well turned-out—red jacket, tie, neatly pressed dark blue trousers. Dark lenses hid his eyes. Behind him, rising out of the desert, was Holtzmyer’s Rock.

  Caseway filled Richard’s glass. “I hope you don’t mind that I started without you.”

  They were on Pinnacle. Holtzmyer’s Rock looked like a gigantic washed-out red onion rooted in the sand. It stood more than thirty meters high, eight stories. The original was composed of individual pieces of stone, so cunningly fitted that the seams were not visible without close inspection. The object had been dated at almost a million years. Arnie Holtzmyer, who’d stumbled on it almost twenty-two years ago, had been the least competent professional Richard had known. Had the sand been a little higher, Arnie would never have seen it.