The Hercules Text

by Jack McDevitt

  “I think we’re in for an interesting year. What’s the problem, Sam?”

  “The phones are swamped. I brought Donna and Betty in again to help out. That gives us three, plus I’ve drafted a couple other people. By the way, most of the calls are complimentary. People think we’re doing a nice job here.”

  “Good.”

  “We’re also getting some cranks. One lady down in Greenbelt, for God’s sake, claims she has a flying saucer in her garage. Somebody else told us that a bunch of Arabs in pickup trucks were on their way to seize the place.” His smile faded. “But some of what we’re hearing is eerie. There are rumors around that we’re tied in with the devil. People are saying we’re doing Satan’s work and looking into stuff that God doesn’t want known and, well, you know. It’s kind of unnerving for a girl to sit there and listen to that.”

  “We ought to put Pete on TV,” said Harry. “That’d really bring them out.”

  “Listen, there’s something else, and I suspect it’s tied in with the devil syndrome. That funny-looking picture of the thing with all the arms and legs—it scared a lot of people. They want to know what it is, and it’s hard to explain to them how far away the Altheans are.”

  “What are we telling them?”

  “Ted Parkinson told somebody that he thought it might be a battery cable or something. We’ve been responding along those lines.”

  “Good. That’ll be the position we take until events catch up with us.”

  “Uh, Harry?” Fleischner’s voice suddenly changed.

  “Yes?”

  “You think that’s what the little bastards really look like?”

  “Probably. Got anything else?”

  “Yeah, we’re taking more heat for not releasing everything. I understand they’re having trouble at the White House, too. A lot of it over there is apparently coming from Democratic congressmen who are trying to use the issue as a stick to beat the President.”

  It figured, thought Harry, as he backed his car out of its parking space a few minutes later. Politicians always seemed to be willing to sacrifice the general welfare to win votes. And the fact that there would be a presidential election the following November would magnify every decision made with regard to the Hercules Text. It was curious to think that events that had occurred more than a million years ago could have an impact on a twentieth-century presidential campaign.

  One of Dave Schenken’s first acts had been to construct a cyclone fence around the Visitor Center, sealing it off from the rest of the facility. Harry parked in the lot outside Building 17 and used an auxiliary gate to get through. Parkinson had not exaggerated: a holiday crowd overflowed the approach road and parking area. They carried balloons and banners, lunch bags and coolers. Greenbelt police had arrived outside, on Conservation Road, and were trying to keep traffic moving on the normally sedate two-lane blacktop.

  The visitors had spread out over the grounds and, on the north side, pressed against Schenken’s fence. Most showed no interest in trying to get to the Visitor Center; rather, they wandered about in idle conversation, devouring sandwiches and Cokes. It looked like a good-natured crowd. The few signs evident among them bobbed up and down from strategic positions on hilltops, but no one seemed to be paying much attention.

  This, he thought, was the way it should be: a quiet, friendly celebration of an achievement that, in a sense, belonged to them all. He’d intended to enter the Visitor Center through the rear door, avoiding the crowd. Instead, he went around to the front, and walked among them.

  They were all ages and both sexes. A lot looked suspiciously like government executives who’d taken the day off. A special day, perhaps; not a day to be passed in the confines of an office, in the manner of a thousand others. They sang and held kids on their shoulders and took pictures. But mostly, they just sat in the warm sunlight and looked at the dish antennas.

  The Reverend Robert Freeman, D.D., finished the draft of a fund-raising letter that would go out with the hospital appeal at the end of the week. He read it over, satisfied that it would enlist the sympathies (and money) of his two million followers, and dropped it into the OUT box to be typed.

  Freeman was not unlike most of his colleagues, in that he heartily disapproved of other television preachers, but his annoyance was not based on doctrinal differences, or on the natural irritation with a rival who also has his hand in the pot. The simple truth was that Freeman didn’t like fakes. He objected in strenuous terms to the flimflammery practiced so brazenly on Sunday TV. “It makes us all suspect!” he’d roared at the Reverend Bill Pritchard during the celebrated confrontation between the two leading media preachers at Pritchard’s annual revival, which, until then, had been held in Freeman’s home state of Arkansas.

  Backwoods Bobby was a rarity on the Fundamentalist circuit. He tried never to say anything he didn’t truly believe, a policy that was difficult to pursue since he could see there were a few problems with Fundamentalist interpretations. Nevertheless, if there was an error or two buried somewhere in Scripture, he knew it was nothing more than a translator’s blunder or a transcriber’s oversight. A divine typo, he’d said once. Not to be allowed to invalidate the Gospel simply because we’re not sure where the problem might lie. Scripture should be seen as a river. The banks and currents change over the centuries, but the flow is surely toward the Promised Land.

  He pushed a button on his intercom. “Send Bill in, please, Barbara,” he said.

  Bill Lum was his public relations specialist, and Freeman’s brother-in-law. Many of his subordinates believed the latter fact to be Bill’s sole qualification for his job. But Lum was dedicated to his family and his God. He was handsome, good-humored, undaunted by personal calamity. (His wife—the preacher’s sister—had contracted Hodgkin’s, and he had a retarded daughter.) Lum projected, in fact, precisely the sort of image that Freeman wished to believe typical of his adherents.

  “Bill,” said Freeman, after Lum had made himself comfortable with a cigar and a Coca-Cola, “I have an idea.”

  Lum always dressed in knit open-collar sports shirts. He still looked muscular at an age when most men had begun to slide into their belt buckles. “What’s that, Bobby?” he asked. His enthusiasm was never far from the surface.

  “There’s a lot of attention directed at Goddard these days,” the preacher said. “But the real significance of what’s happening over there is going to get lost in all the scientific jargon. Someone needs to point out that we’ve found another branch of the family of God.”

  Lum took a long pull at the Coke. “You going to do another sermon on it next Sunday, Bob?”

  “Yes,” said Freeman, “but not next Sunday. I’d like to get an outing together with some of our people in the Washington area. We should go to Goddard. Hold a rally.”

  Lum looked uncertain. “I’m not sure I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable at a place like that,” he said. “Why bother? I mean, we covered it last week on the show. And I thought you did a hell of a job, Bobby.”

  The preacher blinked “Bill, the story of the age is happening at Goddard. Someone needs to put it into perspective for the nation.”

  “Do it from the studio.”

  “There’d be no impact. The ones we need to reach don’t watch the Old Bible Chapel. No, we need a wider pulpit. And I think the only place we can hope to find it is on the front steps of the Space Center.”

  “Okay,” Lum said. “But I think it’s a mistake. You got no control over the crowd, Bob. You remember that mob in Indianapolis last year? There was no talking to them at all.”

  The preacher looked at his calendar. “The Christmas season would be a good time. Set it up a few days before Christmas.

  Four to six buses.” He closed his eyes, picturing the Visitor Center. “Better keep it to four. We don’t want to create a crush. We’ll want to get there about midafternoon, okay? I’ll lead it myself.”

  “Bob, did you want to get a release out on this? If we notify the White House, t
hey’ll clear the way.”

  Freeman considered it. “No,” he said. “If Hurley knew in advance, he’d tell me to forget it.”

  When Lum was gone, the preacher conjured up an image of himself carrying the ages-long battle between science and religion into the camp of the enemy. It was his opportunity to take his place among the prophets.

  Soviet Foreign Minister Alexander Taimanov had been at the United Nations when Ted Parkinson announced the reception of the second signal. He’d immediately requested a meeting with the President, to which the White House acceded. It was set for 10:00 A.M. Tuesday.

  Taimanov was a harsh, uncompromising man in public, an inveterate foe of the Western world. He came of peasant stock, had risen to power during the Khrushchev regime, and had survived. Despite his unrelenting hostility, Taimanov was viewed by U.S. diplomats as predictable and as a force for stability in the Soviet Union. “Taimanov understands the missiles,” they said, echoing a remark the foreign minister had made about Hurley. He could be counted on to resist the encroachments of the younger commissars (who, unlike him, did not recall the horrors of the Great Patriotic War) and of the army.

  Hurley, himself an ardent nationalist, had found it possible to deal with Taimanov, and he even developed, reluctantly, an affection for the man whom the press had dubbed the Little Bear. He and the foreign minister had cooperated on at least two occasions to defuse potentially explosive situations. Hurley, summing him up for a political reporter, had observed that, as long as Taimanov remained in a position of power, relations with the U.S.S.R. would always be tense, but there would be no resort to war.

  That statement had been made for Soviet consumption rather than because the President really believed it.

  The foreign minister had aged visibly during the last year. The CIA had been unable to confirm rumors that he’d contracted cancer. But anyone observing his recent public appearances could have had no doubt that something was seriously wrong. The cold, intelligent eyes peered out from deep wells of despair. His flesh had loosened, and the sense of humor with which he’d parried thrusts by Western newsmen appeared to have deserted him.

  “Mr. President,” he said, after several minutes of diplomatic small talk, “we have a problem.”

  Hurley had learned early not to talk to Russians from behind his desk. For reasons he did not entirely understand, they interpreted the act as defensive and invariably became more aggressive. He’d left only one comfortable chair in the room, a wingback placed near the window, to the left of the desk. When Taimanov settled into it, Hurley offered his favorite brand of scotch and then seated himself casually on the desktop, looking down on the foreign minister.

  At Taimanov’s remark, he leaned forward slightly, but said nothing. They were alone, of course. The meeting without aides or advisers was intended as a symbol of the President’s regard for his Soviet guest. Taimanov knew that ordinarily only a head of state could expect such an arrangement.

  “Your action in withholding the Hercules transmissions from the general public is quite correct.”

  “Thank you, Alex,” Hurley said. “The editorial writers at Tass don’t seem to agree.”

  “Ah, yes.” He shrugged. “They will be spoken to. Sometimes, Mr. President, they tend to act reflexively. And not always responsibly. It is the price we pay for their autonomy under the present leadership. In any case, I’m sure you’ve already recognized that the current state of affairs creates severe difficulties for both of us.”

  “How so?”

  “You are placing Chairman Roskosky in an untenable position. His situation is already precarious. Neither the military nor the Party is enthusiastic about his efforts to establish better relations with the West. Many perceive him as too willing to accept American guarantees. In all honesty, I must inform you that I concur with that perception.” His appearance took on a note of resignation, which said to Hurley, in effect: you and I recognize his naiveté; you have the advantage of us on this one. “His position is not improved by continuing economic difficulties.”

  “Your economic problems,” observed Hurley, “are part and parcel of any Marxist system.”

  “That is of no moment just now, Mr. President. What you have to keep in mind is the sensitivity of his situation and the potential for mischief in this business of the radio signals.” Uncomfortable in the chair, Taimanov looked around for an escape, but found nothing. “I do not personally believe you will find anything worth concealing—that is, anything of military value. I think we will learn that other intelligent species will be quite like ourselves. They will give away nothing useful.”

  “What is your concern?” asked Hurley.

  Taimanov’s head wobbled up and down. “Do you play chess, Mr. President?”

  “Moderately.”

  “That fact does not appear in your campaign biography.”

  “It would not have won any votes.”

  “I will never understand the United States,” Taimanov said. “A land that extols mediocrity and produces engineers of exceptional quality.”

  “Your concern?” asked the President.

  “Ah, yes, the point. The point, Mr. President, as any good chess player or statesman knows, is that the threat is of considerably more use than the execution. It does not matter whether, eventually, you find something of military or diplomatic value in the Hercules Text; it matters only that we fear you might. And the question for you to ponder, sir, is whether that fear is sufficiently deep to provoke actions that neither of us wishes to see.” He tilted his glass of scotch, examined it in the light, and finished it with evident satisfaction. The President would have refilled his glass, but Taimanov demurred. “It is all they allow me,” he said. “John”—the formality dropped from his tone, and Hurley glimpsed real concern in his eyes—“I urge you to dispel the fears of my government.”

  “And how can I do that?”

  “Provide us with a transcript—we could arrange a suitable forum, perhaps at the Soviet Academy—and let us work together on this project. There would be political advantage for all; and you yourself could negate much of the criticism to which you’ve been subject. Or, if you prefer, give us the transcript secretly, and we will be discreet.”

  “You want me to give you material that we’ve withheld from the American scientific community? Alex, you can’t believe I would gain anything by doing that.”

  “You would gain security, John. The world is dangerously unstable just now. These transmissions, with their terrible unknowns, could cause mischief.” While he spoke, he was occasionally afflicted with a spasm of coughing, which seemed to grow worse as the interview lengthened. Hurley got him some water, which at first he ignored. “I think we need to stop playing diplomatic games,” he said with difficulty. “This is an extremely serious matter. With a cooperative effort, we could solve the Text much more rapidly. And we could defuse the effort to unseat Chairman Roskosky. I’m sure you know who the probable successor would be, in such an event.”

  “Alex,” said Hurley, “my information is that the new chairman would be you.”

  Taimanov did not laugh, but his eyes showed an appreciation of the remark. “Consider this matter carefully,” he continued. “I understand that I am asking a great deal. But should you reject a conciliatory course, your action could only be interpreted as recalcitrance. It would underscore the failure of the Chairman’s policies. And I tell you honestly that, should he be deposed at this time, I fear the consequences for both our countries.”

  Hurley got down from the desk. He stood, not moving; the fingers of his left hand brushed the back of the chair in which Taimanov sat, and he pushed against it. The leather was soft and pliable. “You know I have the greatest respect for the Chairman,” he said. “But we are both aware that he has hardly been conciliatory except where his own best interests dictated. I understand your position, however, and I would like to do what I can to ease the pressure on him. But I have to wonder what you would offer as a quid pro quo.”<
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  Taimanov smiled. His teeth were not good. “I did not come prepared to strike a deal, Mr. President. The truth is that I had hoped you would see that everyone’s best interests are served by the course of action I have prescribed. However, I’m sure we could work out something that would be satisfactory.” Taimanov’s breathing was labored. He stopped to sip the water.

  “I wish I could say I’ll consider it, Alex,” Hurley said. “Unfortunately, I can see no way to comply with your request. To be honest with you, I’m sorry we ever received the goddam transmission. And if I had it to do over, I’d dismantle SKYNET, and we could go back to arguing over subs and warheads.

  “I would be willing, however, to make a gesture for the Chairman. We might, say, pull some missiles out of Western Europe.”

  “That could do no harm, Mr. President. But I think we have got far beyond that now.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sure we have.”

  Taimanov nodded slowly, got up, and pulled on his coat. “I will not be returning to Moscow until Wednesday…should you wish to speak further.”

  When he was gone, Hurley hurried to his next appointment, which was a photo session with some union people. His guests found him distracted. His usual ability to push problems aside to concentrate on the matter at hand had deserted him.

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