The Lure

by Bill Napier

  Tricks of the light: be rational. He turns up the collar of his fleece jacket and walks further into the forest, his mouth dry.

  Somewhere ahead, a dog barks. It’s a big dog, heavy on the low frequencies, and it’s more of a howl than a bark. Maybe a mile ahead, maybe less. His breath is misting in the cold, and his footsteps are muffled; the acoustics remind him of a tomb inside a pyramid.

  The path still easily visible, but dark shapes are now everywhere. More tricks of the light. Of course.

  A low whistle, off to the right, on the limit of hearing.

  Nonsense. Just a sound in his head.

  Petrie feels his nerve going. He thinks he must be a mile from the castle. He wonders where the path ends: at a lodge house? Or does it wind into …

  ‘Stŭj!’ Stop!

  The voice, all Slavic intonations and deep-chested, cuts into the stillness. He freezes. Suddenly, half a dozen soldiers in camouflage gear are emerging from the trees. They look like sixteen year olds. They are carrying rifles which resemble black plastic toys. Petrie thinks a burst from one of them would probably cut you in half.

  One of the soldiers approaches to within a couple of feet of Petrie. He is older than the others, maybe in his late twenties, with a grey, thin face. He smells of stale nicotine. ‘You are not allowed here, Englishman. Get back to the castle.’

  Petrie knows the answer but he tries it anyway. ‘Why should I? These woods belong to the Academy of Sciences. I’m their guest and I have every right to be here.’

  The officer’s expression becomes one of amazed disbelief. He gives some order without taking his eyes off Petrie. Two of the teenage boys step forward. They are plainly nervous, but their expressions are heavy with truculence. Then: ‘Turn back now while you can. Rozumíte mi?’ Understand me?

  Somewhere, in some magazine, Petrie has read about the best response to an armed opponent: don’t discuss, don’t argue, do what you’re told. He shrugs, says, ‘Rozumím,’ understood, and turns back on the path. A simple fact fills his mind: he has his back to half a dozen nervous teenagers with rifles. His mouth is parched and his shoulder-blades ache with tension.

  Stroll. Don’t run.

  A light glimpsed through the trees; lights have been switched on in some of the castle rooms. He glances back, casually. The path is empty; he is alone in the woods. Petrie wonders about another experiment: leave the path, take off at some angle, run clear to God knows where. But then his imagination sees dogs unleashed, the chase through the woods, kids with nightscopes and black plastic toys that cut you in half. Rain starts pattering on leaves.

  The dog again. A lot closer, maybe half a mile behind him, maybe a couple of hundred yards. The castle is half a mile ahead. The temptation to break into a run is becoming irresistible, but he keeps strolling, his nerves at breaking point and a light sweat inside his gloves. His ears strain for the sound of running dogs but the rain is now battering noisily on the leaves.

  By the time Petrie reaches the glorious front door of the castle it is dark, the rain is teeming down, and he is shaking with fright.

  * * *

  ‘They intend to kill us.’

  Shtyrkov was putting together something which he had described as ‘monastery stew’. A handful of finely chopped carrots went into an outsize frying pan. It sizzled as it hit the oil, and he stirred it with a big wooden spoon.

  It fitted.

  ‘You can’t mean that.’ Worry lined Svetlana’s face, but she had clearly followed the same logical route as the fat Russian. ‘I mean, governments don’t do things like that. Not nowadays. Not in civilised Europe.’ She turned to Hanning as if for reassurance. The civil servant was draining water away from diced potatoes and pretended not to notice her anxious gaze.

  ‘Pass me the mushrooms, Svetlana, and don’t be so naive.’

  ‘You can’t be right,’ Petrie said, but he had already made the same deduction. It must have been a multinational decision, taken at the highest level.

  ‘Why not? It fits like a coffin.’ Shtyrkov was now waving a big pepper mill over the frying pan.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Now the onions and the olives, please. Fear of the unknown, Svetlana. The fools think the signallers are trying to flush us out, to see if we have reached a level of technology where we might threaten them in a century or two.’

  Svetlana brought two Pyrex bowls over to the Russian. She seemed close to tears. ‘Why don’t we confront them?’

  Hanning, at the sink next to Shtyrkov, emptied a big saucepan of water and rice into an orange colander. Steam was rising. ‘You really are being absurd.’

  ‘We have to give it fifteen minutes.’

  ‘How can you think of food?’

  ‘We need to keep our sugar levels up. This is no time for slow thinking.’

  Potatoes and rice were transferred over to the brew. Shtyrkov sprinkled salt, and then half a bottle of wine was going into the mixture. Back at the kitchen table, he poured the remaining wine into glasses. He seemed almost euphoric, as if he was involved in some sort of game. Then Petrie caught him looking in the wine glass, reflecting light from the overhanging chandelier.

  Freya broke the tense silence. ‘What now?’

  Petrie said, ‘We have one advantage. They think we don’t know.’

  She swept long blonde hair back over her shoulders.

  Gibson rubbed his chin. ‘The fact is, we don’t know. Maybe we’re getting steamed up over nothing.’

  Automatically, the scientists looked over at Hanning, the insider in the counsels of government, the man who would know about things like this.

  ‘This place must be getting to you. These things just aren’t done.’

  ‘How would you see it from Lord Sangster’s chair?’ Petrie asked.

  Hanning sighed. ‘If, as a matter of policy, it was decided that knowledge of the signal poses an unacceptable risk to humanity – or even to the country – then yes, we pose a problem. An awkward problem.’

  * * *

  ‘All present and correct?’ Gibson said to nobody in the administrator’s office. The office was brightly lit with standard lamps commandeered from alcoves and corners. The video camera atop a computer terminal stared at them from the polished teak table.

  He tapped at a keyboard. Snow appeared on the terminal.

  ‘We’re cut off?’

  ‘Nonsense, Svetlana.’ Hanning typed in a string of numbers again slowly, with one finger. Then a mature, white-haired female, all cashmere sweater and pearls, appeared. ‘Lord Sangster’s office.’

  ‘Sandra? Jeremy here. I’d like to speak to Lord Sangster, please, on the video conference circuit.’

  There was a hesitation. Then: ‘A moment, Mr Hanning.’

  The face disappeared. They sat in silence, watching the background of bookshelves on the monitor. Shtyrkov started to strum his fingers noisily on the table. Hanning gave him a look and the Russian finished his strumming with a defiant roll. Then suddenly a round face appeared on the screen. Sangster’s smooth, plummy voice came over clearly: ‘We’re secure, Jeremy?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Who is with you?’

  ‘Just the scientists.’ Gibson panned the camera around the little group. Petrie, at the corner of the table, studied Sangster’s face closely; it was serious, sagging, his cheeks tinged a little red which might have told of an outdoors life or an excessive love of alcohol. The expression gave nothing away. Hanning, on the other hand, had just a touch of anxiety in his expression. Or so Petrie thought; it was hard to be sure.

  Hanning said, ‘Simon, we have a strange situation here.’

  Gibson swivelled the camera slightly to centre on Hanning. Sangster’s face had acquired a grim look. Petrie felt his own face going pale, began to feel nauseous.

  Hanning was saying, ‘We can’t get out of the castle, Simon. The Slovaks have put a brigade of soldiers round it. Do you know anything about this?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

&nb
sp; Petrie’s nausea intensified. He wondered if he would have to flee the table.

  ‘I think you owe us an explanation.’

  ‘It’s a simple security precaution.’

  Shtyrkov muttered, ‘Yob tvou mat.’ Svetlana gasped. Then, unaccountably, Shtyrkov laughed. ‘They want us to die and the secret with us. That is what they want for humanity. To live in slime for ever.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  Gibson swivelled the camera.

  Hanning said, ‘Vashislav Shtyrkov. A Russian citizen.’

  ‘You do not intend to let us leave the castle. We are to die here and the signal with us.’

  Sangster’s expression was one of incredulity. ‘That really is nonsensical of you, Mr Shtyrkov.’

  ‘What about my country?’ Shtyrkov asked. ‘Was Ogorodnikov consulted? Did he push for it?’

  Sangster’s head was shaking at the absurdity. ‘Please, be realistic. Perhaps the isolation is doing things to you. We are dealing with civilised governments, not gangster states.’

  Shtyrkov giggled. ‘You are a very simple organism, Lord Sangster. You want the knowledge about an intelligent life form out there to be buried. You know that we won’t be gagged. The conclusion is inevitable. And of course you lie to us, to keep us pacified.’

  Petrie was startled to find that he was daydreaming, fantasising about Colditz-like escapes from the castle. He forced the absurdity out of his mind, dragged himself back to reality.

  There was silence round the table. Then the camera lens was zooming to give Sangster a panoramic view. He adopted a sorrowful tone. To Petrie, he was hamming it up like a third-rate actor. ‘I’m deeply sorry that you are suffering from this delusion, Mr Shtyrkov. All I can do is repeat that the Slovaks have kindly agreed to put soldiers round the castle as a simple security precaution. The stakes are just too high for, let us say, agents of another state getting hold of the signal you are deciphering.’

  Gibson’s tone was despairing. ‘The signallers are extending the hand of friendship. And we’re too steeped in barbarity to—’

  Sangster interrupted. ‘Possibly, even probably. But decisions on such issues are not your domain and further discussion is pointless. We shall require additional progress reports from you. I suggest we make contact at noon tomorrow, your time, and then again at midnight.’

  For a moment uncertainty was flickering across the face on the screen, as if Sangster wanted to add something. But then he gave a little nod of finality and his image dissolved into snow.

  Svetlana rushed out of the room.

  Gibson dived over to a computer and started tapping briskly. Then he slapped the keyboard angrily. ‘I can’t get out.’

  In a minute Svetlana returned, out of breath. She was holding a small mobile phone. ‘It’s dead.’

  Petrie buried his face in his hands. Then he heard:

  ‘My oh my oh my oh my

  Here we stay until we die.’

  He looked across the table at Shtyrkov. The Russian caught the look, grinned ghoulishly back. ‘My temporal lobe damage, it progresses, does it not?’

  28

  Where Are They?

  For an incredible second, she thought she glimpsed Logie Harris, the famous evangelist, through the trees. What is this, Jurassic Park? the Science Adviser asked herself. Surely Bull isn’t taking advice from that old dinosaur? But then the figure had gone and she carried on towards Laurel.

  Hazel had always thought that the word ‘cabin’, applied to a building with three conference rooms and a mass of communications to the outside world, was stretching the English language a bit. Maybe, she surmised, it had been a cabin in the days when it had housed the Head of the Secret Service detail. But at least, unlike the Oval Office, the President’s office in Laurel Cottage was small and workmanlike.

  The Chief sat behind his L-shaped desk with a computer and a clutter of papers. A man – a stranger – faced him across this desk, sitting uncomfortably upright. He was thin, intense, and looked as if he had slept in his cheap suit. He glanced briefly at Hazel and then looked away. Hazel thought that someone invited to the desk of the world’s most powerful man might at least have made an effort with the suit. Probably a bachelor, she guessed, living in some enclosed little world of his own.

  The President waved in the general direction of the man. ‘Hazel, I want you to meet Professor Cardow, from Stanford. He’s with some think-tank which tries to predict future trends. He’s made a special study of the alien question – whether some day we’ll meet up with little green men.’ The thin man grinned nervously, stood up, touched Hazel’s extended hand briefly then sat down again. Hazel groaned inwardly. Another high-powered genius who couldn’t boil an egg.

  ‘Sit yourself down and listen to what the Professor has to say.’

  Cardow glanced uncertainly between the President and his Scientific Adviser. His voice, when he spoke, was nasal and high-pitched. Hazel found it irritating almost from the first word. ‘I’ve been asked by the President to give an opinion on whether there’s intelligent life out there. My answer is No.’

  ‘And he can prove it with mathematical certainty,’ the President stated. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Stanford University, don’t let me do it again.’

  Cardow resumed. ‘The problem is this, ma’am: where are they?’

  Bull said, ‘That’s what I’ve been saying all along. Where are they?’

  Hazel waited patiently. It occurred to her that Cardow, although addressing both the President and her, was avoiding eye-contact with both.

  Cardow cleared his throat. ‘Given enough time, space travel is easy, Ms Baxendale. If we take the modern scientific age as having started with Newton’s law of gravity, we’re only four hundred years old. From the first Model T Ford to the International Space Station was only a hundred years – a human lifespan. It’s doubtful if there will ever be a time from now on when there isn’t a human being in space. And who knows how long our civilisation will last? Maybe another ten thousand years, maybe a million…’

  Hazel shifted impatiently in her chair. ‘What’s your point, Professor?’

  ‘My point is that given a few million years, you can colonise the Galaxy easier than you can fall off a log. We’ve already sent the Pioneer spacecraft clean out of the Solar System. In another thousand years – in maybe a hundred years – we’ll have probes heading here, there and everywhere in interstellar space. Now there are a hundred billion stars out there and half of them are older than the Sun. Suppose there are civilisations out there millions of years old. Suppose there’s even one. It would have colonised the Galaxy long ago. We’d see plenty signs of it. The aliens would be here amongst us now. So where are they? If there was any intelligent life at all out there, the galaxy would be humming with radio signals. But all we hear is silence.’

  ‘You’re saying there’s nobody else in the whole Galaxy? We’re totally alone?’

  ‘Totally. We’re at the very beginning of our evolution as an intelligent species. Any other civilisation out there would be millions of years old, maybe tens of millions, maybe hundreds of millions. It would have taken over long, long ago.’

  ‘Did I hear you say hundreds of millions? Civilisations hundreds of millions of years older than us?’ the President asked.

  Cardow, still avoiding eye-contact with Hazel, turned to the President. ‘Mr President, any civilisation which takes the science route will explode in power. Look where we’ve reached in four hundred years. Where will we be in four thousand years? Or four million? And there are stars like the Sun four billion years older than us. Any intelligent life forms out there would have taken over our planet long ago, before there were even humans. But where are they? There’s no sign of them.’

  Hazel tried a line she’d read somewhere: ‘So you said. But absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence.’

  ‘But we have evidence,’ Cardow countered smoothly. ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘Let’s not get too smart,’ Bull growled.r />
  Hazel felt her jaw tightening. ‘There’s got to be something wrong with that argument. We know the Sun is an ordinary star. We know planetary systems must be common. There must be Earth-like planets out there in their billions, lots of them with water. And where there’s water there’s every prospect that life will evolve.’ As soon as Hazel mentioned the word ‘evolve’, she remembered that the President was a creationist, almost felt his negative body language. Shit.

  ‘That’s the NASA line,’ Cardow was saying. A slightly peeved tone was creeping into his voice; Baxendale suspected the man didn’t like being contradicted. ‘They push sub-surface oceans on Europa and permafrost on Mars, make out you’re a screwball if you don’t believe that’s a recipe for life, and use the prospect of finding it to squeeze megabucks out of Congress.’ He turned to Bull again. ‘The fact is, Mr President, there’s every reason to believe we’re alone. Take the idea that life was created out of a primordial soup.’

  ‘Soup? Life created from soup?’ Bull looked incredulous.

  ‘A primordial soup, formed by a chance combination of molecules. Now we’re made up of proteins and a protein molecule is made up of dozens to hundreds of amino acids, put together in a particular order. Suppose the soup is full of these amino acids. If we were to randomly shuffle these amino acids to get the full range of proteins that life depends on … well, the odds against getting it right first time are one in ten to the power forty thousand.’ Cardow looked triumphantly across at Baxendale. ‘That’s a one followed by forty thousand zeros.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor, but as a past Vice-president of the National Academy of Sciences I have some familiarity with power notation.’

  ‘Can you put that in layman’s terms?’ Bull asked.

  I thought I had, the Stanford man thought. ‘Ah, what it means is that there’s absolutely no chance that the process has been duplicated anywhere in the Galaxy or even anywhere else in the Universe. The odds are far too great.’

  The President opened a drawer and pulled out a cheroot. ‘That’s pretty persuasive to me, Hazel. We’re one-offs, God’s creation. His little fallen angels.’