“I know.”
Harry got to the library minutes before his messenger arrived, cleared through with his green card, and signed a receipt for the package. Inside the Hercules storage room, he removed from their plastic sleeves the discs that Rimford had erased and locked them in the credenza. Then he unwrapped his parcel. Gambini had done a good job. The replacements were virtually identical to the ones he’d just hidden away, even to the lowercase identification labels.
When he’d finished, he signed out, returned to his office, and found some paperwork on his desk. Rimford had checked out and gone home.
Though Oscar DeSandre thought of himself as a White House staffer, he was physically based in the Executive Office Building. He was not happy: he had only one assistant and a part-time aide available to help with the Hercules Project. And the aide was of limited value, since she had not yet received her clearance.
Gambini’s first package had arrived just moments after he walked in the door. DeSandre’s responsibility was to read through the transcript, assure himself that it contained nothing that would adversely affect the national interest, and release it to the press. That seemed simple enough, but he realized there were terrible bear traps hidden in this type of job. It was a position with negative potential; he could do well only by staying out of trouble. If he missed something, his whole career could very easily go up in one magnificent blast. Moreover, his time was horribly constricted just now. Hell, it was always horribly constricted. The new flap over lie detector tests routinely used in some high-level security clearance procedures would take most of his efforts for a while. And he had problems at Fort Meade as well. So DeSandre leafed quickly through the ninety-five-page document that Goddard had sent over, to get the flavor of it. Then he called in his assistant. She brought several telephone memos with her, calls to be returned. He glanced quickly through them and put them aside. “Look for technical stuff,” he told her. “Most of it reads like chunks of a philosophical tract. There’s no problem with any of that. But we don’t want anything going out that could conceivably have military implications. Okay?”
The assistant nodded.
And that was how the existence of a series of alien philosophical precepts came to make the news next evening. It did so in a relatively modest way, taking second billing to a congressional vote that had defeated an administration-backed attempt to remove price supports from the electronics industry.
The precepts did not have the sort of effect they might have had, because the version released to DeSandre was literal and bore little resemblance to Leslie’s more poetic translations. Furthermore, ethical and aesthetic similarities with human values were apparent, and the media concerned themselves with that facet of the story. It was a full two days later that NBC produced a set of translations into modern English prose, which created a mild sensation. Cass Woodbury, in her studied, resonant voice, gave some of the lines pointed meaning:
I am alone. I make life, handle the atom, and speak with the dead. And God knows me not.
There was a great deal more, along similar lines. At home, watching the telecast, Harry shivered.
So did the Cardinal.
His phone began ringing at about nine-fifteen, and he called in his staff at ten. Barnegat couldn’t be reached; he was in Chicago. Cox and Dupre arrived within a few minutes of each other and were already in a heated argument when Jesperson arrived with Joe March, who was archdiocesan head of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith. March was not part of the Cardinal’s inner circle; but it had long been his custom to introduce persons to these meetings who he felt could make a contribution. Dupre, who had seen the program, was indignant. “Communication with the dead! It’s absurd! I keep hoping,” he continued, “that the press will one day develop a sense of responsibility. They’ve put the most sensational reading on all this that they can. But the transcripts released by Goddard don’t justify any such interpretation.”
“I’m damned if I can see what all the fuss is about,” Cox said. “These things happened a million years ago. But if there’s a possibility that people will be misled by these stories, then we have a responsibility to act.”
Dupre’s heavy eyebrows came together. “I can’t see that anyone will take any of this seriously unless we take it seriously. Will the Vatican issue a statement?” he asked.
“In due time. They don’t want to look as if they’re being stampeded.” Jesperson allowed himself a smile. “They must have got His Holiness up in the middle of the night. There was a meeting of some sort. I talked with Acciari this morning. He thinks the whole thing is a plot by the Western powers in retaliation for the See’s refusal to cooperate in the Philippines.”
Cox looked bored. “Do you have any idea what the official line is going to be?”
“They haven’t decided yet. But Acciari believes His Holiness will question the validity of the interpretation and throw in a few choice remarks about the direction modern society is taking.”
“In other words,” said Cox, “they’re just going to tell everyone to ignore it.”
“A sensible position,” said Dupre. “We should do the same.”
“Come on, Phil,” objected Cox. “What better way could you find to call attention to the fact that we’re a little jittery about it all?” He squinted at Dupre as if he were examining a balance sheet. “They can probably get away with that in Italy. But not here.”
“Jack,” Dupre said with rising heat, “I’m not suggesting we tell people to look the other way. But I think we need to be very careful about getting everyone stirred up. I think we’ll be all right if we don’t create problems for ourselves. But if we make an issue of this, people are going to demand answers. And I don’t think we have any, because there’re really no questions.”
“The whole thing is ridiculous,” said March, a man utterly secure in his black cassock. “People talking to the dead. God wouldn’t allow any such thing.”
Dupre was drawing small circles on a notepad. “I suspect we would be wise,” he said without looking up, “to avoid declaring what God will or will not allow.”
“Phil.” In times of stress, the Cardinal’s eyes seemed to take on a scarlet glow that matched the color of his office. He radiated that vaguely infernal light now. “What is the theological status of communication with the dead? Is it prohibited?”
“No,” said Dupre, drawing the word out while he considered how to continue. “Many of the miracles are, after all, no more than such events. Fatima. Lourdes. Postmortem appearances by many of the saints have been officially accepted into the record. And Jesus himself talked with Moses and Elias in the presence of witnesses. What, after all, is prayer but an attempt to communicate with the next world?”
“Except in this case,” said Cox, “the next world answers.”
“Yes.” Dupre touched his lips with his index finger. “As uncomfortable as that may be, such notions are not new, and I think we’d do well to suggest that we’re not at all upset. If, that is, we suggest anything. I would still recommend we just ride it out.”
“Nonsense!” March said with a chuckle. “It smells too much of fortune tellers and spiritualism. The Vatican is right: we should denounce the entire business. God only knows what they’ll be claiming to hear next!”
“It occurs to me,” said Cox, “that the ability to communicate with the Church Triumphant may have been one of the preternatural gifts lost by Adam’s sin. We talked about this before—but I wonder whether we are not seeing a culture whose founder was wiser than ours.” The remark was followed by an uncomfortable scraping of chairs: Cox seldom strayed into the spiritual uplands.
Jesperson turned toward him. “Jack, do you consider that a possibility?”
Cox seemed surprised at the effect his remark had induced. “Of course not. But it is theologically tenable.”
March sat straighter in his chair but said nothing. Though the Cardinal seldom looked directly at him, he nevertheless observed the elderly pri
est carefully, as though gauging his reactions. March remained skeptical and unblinking throughout. Anyone who had been watching Jesperson closely might have noted that he seemed visibly relieved by what he saw.
“All we have,” continued Cox, “is a rumor. And we don’t know how things are going to go. I agree with Phil that we don’t want to get caught looking foolish. On the other hand, I think we need to recognize that some people may have trouble with these events. Consequently, we should be reassuring. Surely we’ll be safe in pointing out that whatever happens on Mars, or wherever this place is, is of no concern to us. We’ve seen nothing that should disturb any good Catholic.”
Jesperson listened until the arguments began to repeat themselves. Then he intervened. “I’d be less than honest with you,” he said, “if I did not confess a certain amount of anxiety over this business. We may be entering a new age. And new ages are traditionally uncomfortable for those doing the steering.
“It strikes me as an odd paradox that the princes of the Church have traditionally resisted scientific advance. We, who should always have been in the forefront of the search for truth, have historically dragged our feet. Let’s not get caught at it again. At least not in this archdiocese. We should take Jack Cox’s position that we have nothing to fear from the truth, that we are as interested as anyone else in new revelations of the majesty of God’s work.”
“I didn’t say that,” objected Cox.
“Odd,” said the Cardinal. “I thought you had. We will not suggest, directly or otherwise, that the people at Goddard are twisting the facts or that they are misinformed. We will allow this thing to play itself out. And perhaps, if we put ourselves in the hands of the Lord, we may even enjoy the experience.
“We won’t address the matter officially at all, because we consider the Goddard project none of our business.”
“George,” said Dupre, “if the Vatican puts out a statement—”
“I know,” said the Cardinal, smiling. “But no one listens to the Pope anymore. Why should they start now?”
Harry, who might not have been as interested in Althean philosophy as he’d allowed Leslie to believe, settled in for the evening with the bulky binder she’d given him. He read for three hours, but it was difficult going. Some terms were not yet solved; syntactical relationships were not always clear, and Harry sensed that even a perfect translation in simple English would have been baffling. It reminded him of a cross between Plato and haiku; but there was no escaping the overall sense of gloomy intelligence or, paradoxically, the suggestion of a wry wit that was just beyond his grasp.
The Altheans were concerned with many of the problems that obsessed his own species, but there were subtle differences. For example, a discussion of morality explicated in considerable detail the responsibilities an intelligent being has toward other life forms and even to inanimate objects; but his obligations to others of his own species were ignored. Then, too, a philosophical treatise on the nature of evil examined only the catastrophes caused by natural forces, overlooking those that result from human (or inhuman) malice.
Gamma must have been a world of oceans. Again and again, there appeared the metaphor of the seas, of the wandering ship, of the questing mariner. But the waters are calm. Nowhere do squalls rise; nor does one feel the surge of heavy tides. There are neither rocks nor shoals, and the coasts glide peacefully by.
Too peacefully, perhaps.
“The great islands in the gulf are uniformly cold. And the shores are dark.”
MONITOR
Sec. 102(a) The Congress hereby declares that it is the policy of the United States that activities in space should be devoted to peaceful purposes for the benefit of all mankind.
(b)…Such activities shall be the responsibility of, and shall be directed by, a civilian agency…except that activities peculiar to or primarily associated with the development of weapons systems, military operations, or the defense of the United States…shall be the responsibility of, and shall be directed by, the Department of Defense…
(c) The aeronautical and space activities of the United States shall be conducted so as to contribute materially to…
(1) the expansion of human knowledge of phenomena in the atmosphere and space…
—National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958
13
IF THERE WAS anything particularly irritating about Cyrus Hakluyt, it was difficult to put a finger on. Yet people were inevitably uncomfortable in his presence. It might have been his eyes, which were unnaturally close together; it was easy to imagine them focusing on one through the barrel of a microscope. His speech was guarded, and he showed no real interest in the people he was working with. Harry suspected that he was somehow limited by the dimensions of the things he studied. Nevertheless, in his first report, given at Gambini’s daily staff meeting on Christmas Eve, he displayed an unexpected sense of the dramatic. “I can tell you,” he said, “what they look like.”
That got everyone’s attention. Gambini laid aside his glasses, which he had been polishing; Wheeler stiffened slightly; Majeski’s dreamy eyes focused. And Leslie glanced sharply at Harry.
“I isolated their DNA several days ago,” Hakluyt continued. “There’s still a great deal to be done, but I have a preliminary report. There’s a fair amount of guesswork involved, because I can’t be certain of some of the construction materials. To begin with, the Altheans are most certainly not human. I’m not quite sure how to categorize them, and it would probably be best if I didn’t try. I can tell you that these creatures could live quite comfortably in Greenbelt.” The thin smile drifted across his lips.
“Nevertheless they are unlike anything in terrestrial biology. The Althean appears to combine both plant and animal characteristics. For example, it is able to photosynthesize.” He looked directly at Leslie.
“Then they were never a hunting society,” she said. “That might mean no wars, or even a concept of war.”
“And consequently,” added Majeski, “no thought given to weapons potential.”
“Very good,” said Hakluyt approvingly. “My thoughts exactly. The Althean also appears to have no vascular system, no lungs, and no heart. It has teeth, however. Big ones.”
“Wait a minute,” said Wheeler. “How can that be? They have no stomach, have they?”
“Defense, Father Wheeler. I would guess they had some predators to deal with at one time. They do have nervous systems and controlling organs that have to be brains. Their reproductive systems are asexual. And, although I can’t be sure, I believe the creatures would be slightly larger than we are. Certainly on earth they would be. They have exoskeletons, probably constructed from chitinous material, and, of course, they have sense organs. I don’t think they hear quite as well as we do.” He leaned back smugly in his chair. “The eyes are especially curious: there are four of them, and two do not seem to be receptive to light.”
Hakluyt’s brow creased, and his voice was less pedantic when he continued. “There’s no lens, so I can’t see how it could function as a receptor for any kind of radiation. Moreover, the nerve that connects it to the brain doesn’t appear to be capable of an optic function. No, I think the organ collects something, or maybe projects something, for all I know, but not any kind of radiation I’m familiar with.”
“I’m not sure what that leaves,” said Majeski.
“Nor am I.” Hakluyt examined the tabletop. “I would estimate their life span at approximately a hundred fifty years. On a side note, we can be sure they’re capable of genetic manipulation.”
“How?” asked Harry.
“Because we can do it ourselves on a modest scale. I’m learning a lot from them, Carmichael. I don’t know what their limits are, but I have a good idea about their minimum capabilities. And that’s another curious thing: their life span, by any reasonable measure, is exceedingly short.”
“Short?” said Gambini. “You said it’s a hundred and fifty years!”
“That’s not much for a s
pecies that can dictate the architecture of its DNA.”
“Maybe it tacks on the extra years,” said Harry, “after birth rather than before.”
“No,” said Majeski. “That would be the hard way to do things.”
“Correct.” Hakluyt smiled. “Why perform adjustments for millions of individuals when you can do it once? I don’t understand it: they seem to have consciously chosen to wear out early.”
“I have a thought,” said Leslie. “Maybe we have a species that voluntarily accepts an unnecessarily early death. And if we read them right, they talk to their dead. That can’t be a coincidence. Cy, is there anything peculiar in their physical makeup that suggests a life cycle incorporating a second existence of some kind? A chrysalis effect?”
Hakluyt shook his head. “Not that I can see. But at this stage, I’m not sure how much that means. Unless there’s an unknown factor, and there easily could be, the creature that would develop from the DNA plan they sent us would meet an organic death in the same way that any terrestrial life form would. It would be dead. Period.”
Wheeler nodded and scratched out something he’d written on his notepad. “I’m surprised,” he said, “that they and we both use DNA to control genetic characteristics. Aren’t there other possibilities?”
“Yes.” Hakluyt bit off the word and let it hang in the still air. “Diacetylenes might work. Or crystals. But these alternatives are not as flexible or as effective as the nucleic acid group. Actually, the options open to nature in this matter are surprisingly limited.”
“Dr. Hakluyt,” said Harry, “you say they have the means to prolong life. Do you now grasp some of these means?”
“Carmichael, you look to be about, uh, fifty?”
“A little younger,” Harry said. “I’ve had a hard life.”
Hakluyt’s smile did not change. “You can expect maybe thirty more years. By then you will have whitened, your blood will be sluggish, and I suspect the memory of youth will be quite painful.” His eyes fell on Leslie. “And what will you be in thirty years, Dr. Davies?” he asked cruelly. “And why do you suppose that is? Why does the mechanism you inhabit fall apart in so short a time? Gambini, how long a period is eighty years?”
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