The Hercules Text
Page 24
Gambini’s gaze never left his notepad.
“Ask a cosmologist,” said Hakluyt, “and you’re asking someone who really understands about time. Well, I’ll tell you why you break down so quickly: because your DNA shuts you down.”
“Please explain,” said Wheeler.
“It’s simple.” Harry felt as if Hakluyt would at any moment announce a quiz. “We used to think that aging was really just an accumulation of wear and tear, diseases, damage, and misuse, until the body’s ability to repair itself was simply overwhelmed. But that’s not what happens. The DNA we carry controls evolution. Some people are inclined to think of it as a kind of external being that seeks its own development and uses other living creatures as”—he looked around the walls, seeking a term—“bottles. Houses. In any case, one of its functions is to ensure that we are safely out of the way of our progeny. So it kills us.”
“In what way?” asked Majeski.
“It shuts off the repair mechanism. I would guess that’s happening in you, Cord, right about now.” Hakluyt adjusted himself more comfortably, adjusted his glasses, and adjusted his expression, which now faded to a more somber glow, like a coal in a dying fire. “If you want to avoid aging, all that’s necessary is to tinker with the instructions your DNA puts out. The Altheans seem to know quite a lot about the technique for doing just that.”
“How much,” asked Wheeler, repeating Harry’s question, “do you know about it?”
“You mean how much have I learned from the Text? Some. Not a lot, but some. There hasn’t been time yet, and there’s still too much material we can’t read. But I’ll tell you this: it’s in there. And so is a lot more.”
Near the end of the meeting, the door opened and Rosenbloom put his head in. “Gentlemen,” he said, “And Dr. Davies, I know you’re busy, but I wonder if we could have a few minutes outside.”
The people in the operations center had been gathered together, and Patrick Maloney stood at their head. A gold clasp anchored a gray-black tie, and his black pointed shoes were polished to a mirrorlike shine. He was, Harry thought, a man of glossy qualities.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Rosenbloom, “I think most of you know Pat Maloney, from the White House. Pat, this is the Hercules team.” Harry caught the pride in Rosenbloom’s voice. It was a good moment.
Maloney, however, had possibly presided at too many public occasions. Despite the nature of his responsibilities, he projected the image of a public man, a failed politician, possibly, a man too honest for the calling and not subtle enough to hide his handicap. He spoke and acted in a manner that seemed almost reflexive. “I think I’ve met most of you at one point or another,” he said, “and I know how busy you are. So I won’t take much of your time.” He rose slightly on his toes and sank again. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure, and we know it hasn’t been easy for you. But we wanted you to be aware how important your contribution is.
“Let me begin by telling you that Hercules has already paid an enormous dividend: we may now have the means to defend our cities against nuclear attack.”
Maloney paused for effect. He received polite applause, hardly what the occasion seemed to demand; it was a sober reflection of the scientists’ resentment of the government’s policies, of which he had become a symbol. Toward the rear of the room, a mathematician from American University showed his disdain by walking out.
“Over the last few weeks,” Maloney continued, choosing not to notice, “the President has been under considerable pressure because he would not release the Hercules Text. We know that has made your job more difficult and that it has created personal problems for many of you. But we can now see the wisdom of that position. Some of you may not yet know that Dr. Wheeler has learned how to extract enormous amounts of energy from the magnetic belts that circle the earth.
“Dr. Wheeler, would you come forward, please?”
The priest stood uncertainly near the rear. His associates parted for him, and he approached Maloney with the enthusiasm of a man getting on close terms with a scaffold.
“We are now in a position to launch ORION.” Maloney rose again on his toes and settled slowly. “By this time next year, the arms race will be over. The long night of mutual terror will have ended, and the United States will have restored a measure of sanity to international relations.” He extended an arm to the reluctant Wheeler and drew him into an open circle. “This will have been made possible by Dr. Wheeler’s contribution.
“To show his appreciation, the President has directed that the Hercules unit be granted the Jefferson Medal for Distinguished Achievement in the Arts and Sciences.” He unsnapped a black case, revealing a gold medallion on a striped green and white ribbon. “Unfortunately,” he added, “as is customary in awards of this nature, the discovery and the medal are both classified. There will be no mention of it outside the Hercules spaces. The medal itself will be displayed in an appropriate location here in the operations center.
“In addition, the President has expressed his wish that Dr. Wheeler be awarded the Oppenheimer Certificate for Outstanding Service.” The two dozen or so people present applauded, and Maloney held up a framed, beribboned parchment for their inspection, and then handed it gracefully to Wheeler. A flashbulb popped: the photographer was Rosenbloom.
“You have every reason to be proud, Pete,” continued Maloney. “You may well have made the decisive contribution to the cause of peace in this age.” Wheeler mumbled his thanks and smiled weakly at his colleagues. “The certificate,” Maloney added, “will be placed alongside the Jefferson Medal.”
After the ceremony, Wheeler lingered a moment with Harry. “The award is aptly named,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Harry.
“I keep thinking about Baines’s comment: Oppenheimer is the guy who should have said no.”
Harry had a long afternoon among the late shoppers. He wandered the downtown streets of the capital, hoping to lose himself in the crowds, loading up on game programs and books for Tommy and wondering about the etiquette of Christmas presents for an ex-wife. Eventually he bought a plant, a gift that seemed sufficiently neutral.
He arrived at seven. Julie always took Christmas very seriously: a bright, jeweled tree dominated the living room, wreaths were hung in all the windows, and colored lights were stretched in a bright sprinkle across the balcony. The scent of evergreen was on everything, and the woman herself seemed quite happy to see him. In the spirit of the season, she would have been reminiscing over past holidays. But Harry looked in vain for any real sign of regret.
She was properly grateful for the plant. After setting it near a window, she kissed him chastely and gave him his present. It was a gold pen. “Every rising executive should have one,” she said.
Tommy’s HO model train was on a platform in the living room. Julie had tried to add a set of switches to the familiar figure-eight layout, but she hadn’t tied the track down securely enough to allow them to work. Harry finished the job and sat for an hour with his son, while the little freight looped endlessly through a mountain tunnel, past a couple of farms, and down the main street of a peaceful snow-covered town with glowing street lamps.
She poured sherry for Harry and herself, and they drank a silent toast: Harry, to what might have been; Julie, to the future. Then, without touching her, he said good night. It was, they both knew, the last time they would meet as other than strangers.
If Jack Peoples had expected any visible change in church attendance as a result of the Goddard revelations, he was disappointed. The number of the faithful neither lessened nor increased.
He took his usual station just outside the doors after the nine o’clock mass, which was being celebrated by a young priest from the District who helped out on Sundays. It was cold, and Peoples had wrapped himself in his black overcoat. Across the street from the church, some adolescents were burning Christmas trees.
The Offertory bell rang, its bright silvery cadence floating in the s
till morning air. He thought of Pete Wheeler and his hopeless quest: Indeed, if man has a response at all to the gulfs beyond the earth, it is in the fragile sound of that bell on Sunday morning.
Then they were singing, and he could hear people moving toward the altar rail for communion. Their formal obligation completed, a few people emerged, and hurried past Peoples in embarrassed silence. The pastor was always sorely tried not to judge these parishioners, the same ones each week, who lived so close to the edge of their faith.
The second wave rolled out after the distribution of the Holy Sacrament, and then came the general exodus, to the energetic accompaniment of Sister Anne’s choir singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Peoples smiled and shook hands and exchanged idle talk. His parishioners seemed unchanged, untouched by the grotesque stories that now seemed to be proliferating on TV. With one exception, there was no sense that anything extraordinary had happened.
The exception was a child, a nine-year-old girl whom Peoples knew by name. She was intelligent, well-mannered, a credit to her family and her Church. And she wanted to know about the Altheans and their dead.
Phil Dupre’s prescribed response might have worked with a committed adult: “It has nothing to do with us.”
But the child, what could he tell her?
Of such are the kingdom.
MONITOR
SUBLIMINAL ALIENS
Blue Delta, Inc., a distributor of electronic novelties, announced today that it will begin next month to market a subliminal tape composed of selections from the Hercules Text. According to a press release, “Much of what the Altheans have to say about nature and courage is remarkably like the best in ourselves. However, they have a mode of expression that, once one gets beyond the difficulties of translation…”
COLLIE DOVER JOINS CONCERT GAMMA
Westend Productions, Inc., announced today that internationally acclaimed film and stage star Collie Dover will join an all-star cast set to open in Hollywood with Concert Gamma, a tribute to the Altheans. Ticket sales have been brisk…
STARSONG EXHIBIT TOMORROW AT NATIONAL
Everett Lansing’s collection of astronomical photographs, more than a hundred of which have been produced by the optical capabilities of SKYNET, will be on display tomorrow at the National Art Gallery. The collection includes “Views of Centaurus,” a series of stunning color portraits of the sun’s closest neighbor, which won the Kastner Award last year in the field of scientific photography.
LONGSTREET’S ANNOUNCES ALIEN CUISINE
…Diners with more exotic tastes might wish to visit Avery Longstreet’s Inn at either of its two locations, in the Loop or in Schaumburg. Instead of simply embellishing old favorites with new sauces, Longstreet’s has actually produced a few dishes, mostly (but not exclusively) meat-based, which do indeed seem to be completely novel. We particularly recommend…
WHITE LINES SCHEDULES INTERGALACTIC CRUISE
The view of the Hercules group is particularly lovely from the sea, according to White Lines Tours, which expects overflow booking for its Sea Star cruises. In addition to the view from the deck, passengers on the four-day voyage will be able to look through the giant reflector at Hobson Observatory in Arizona by TV hookup. Cast off for the stars by contacting your travel agent or White Lines…
CASS COUNTY TOYS WILL MARKET ALTHEAN FIGURES
Cass County, a small Nebraska toy and game manufacturer, will be first on the market with a wide range of movable Althean figures. Lydia Klaussen, announcing the coup to the company’s shareholders, said that the aliens will “somewhat” resemble the image thought to be a self-portrait. She did not elaborate.
14
MAJESKI GOT OUT of the oversize bed, padded across the wooden floor, and stood for a time near the window. The Adirondacks were lovely in the approaching dawn. Behind him, Lisa stirred. Her black hair was spread across the pillow, framing her face and a shoulder.
He was glad to get away for the weekend. Lately, Ed had become exasperating to work with. The political pressure never let up, and Gambini always took a beating no matter what he did. His health had never been very good; now it was deteriorating visibly. If Majeski were in Gambini’s shoes, he’d tell Carmichael and the White House to go to hell. And then he’d walk out!
He looked back into the room, at the Rensselaer portable generator set on a rubber mat on his coffee table. And at the rickety chest of drawers he’d bought at a garage sale over in Corinth years ago. He stared at it a long time: it was an unremarkable piece of furniture, scratched and chewed and discolored. And its bottom drawer stuck.
Who would have believed that it held, in that same bottom drawer among his socks and underwear, an alien device, a machine conceived on a world unimaginably far away?
Except that the alien device didn’t do anything.
He turned on a lamp, tilting the shade to keep the light off Lisa, and opened the drawer. The thing looked like a carburetor with coils, loops, and a circuit board. It had taken him almost two months to assemble, and he didn’t know yet whether he had it right. Or whether he could ever get it right.
He removed it, carried it over to the coffee table, and tied it in to the Rensselaer. The portable allowed him to control the flow of power in a crude sort of way. But that didn’t seem to help much. He made some changes in the circuit board, proceeding in a methodical fashion so that he always knew where he’d been, and switched it on. He was still trying to get a response an hour later when he felt a prickling along his right arm, near the device. At about the same time, before he had a chance to think about the unusual sensation, Lisa gasped, threw off a quilt, cried out, and leaped from the bed, all in a single fluid motion. She cowered in a corner of the room, staring at the mattress and the rumpled blankets. Then her eyes found Majeski. They were full of fear.
“What happened?” he asked, glancing nervously behind him at the window. “What’s the matter?” And in that moment he noticed that, whether from shock or from some less obvious cause, the hairs on his right arm were erect.
It was a few moments before she found her voice. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “Something cold touched me!”
In another age, Corwin Stiles would have been picketing restaurants along Route 40 or lobbing bags of blood at draft offices. He thought of himself as an idealist, but Wheeler suspected that he simply enjoyed exposing other people’s defects. During the second Reagan administration, he had taken a master’s in communications from MIT and, after five uneventful years in commercial television, had won a post with Sentry Electronics, which supplied technical personnel for NASA operations. When Pete Wheeler began unraveling the possibilities inherent in planetary magnetic fields, Stiles had been with him. And if the priest was shaken by the fact that his discovery was being appropriated exclusively for military use, Stiles was incensed.
Through the late winter and into the early spring, he urged Wheeler, and anyone else who would listen, to mount a formal protest. “We should all show up outside the main gate,” he told Gambini one morning, “and shake our fists in the general direction of the Oval Office. Let the press know we’re going to be there, and tell them everything.”
Gambini never took the young technician seriously. He was accustomed to hearing preposterous proposals from the Hercules personnel. But Stiles learned to resent, also, the mindless inertia of his fellow workers. Even Wheeler, who understood the enormity of what was happening, refused to act.
Stiles gradually recognized that, if the truth was to get out at all, it would have to be his responsibility. But he was restrained by the habits of a lifetime, which had thrown up few opportunities to break rules for good causes. And now he would have to risk jail.
The catalyst came during the first week of March. An elderly husband and wife were found frozen in their farmhouse outside Altoona, Pennsylvania, after a local utility turned off their electricity for nonpayment of bills. The utility explained that it mistakenly believed the farmhouse to be abandoned because its occup
ants did not respond to correspondence and couldn’t be reached by telephone. An investigation was promised. But Stiles wondered how many more elderly couples were huddled in cold buildings against the bleak winter.
And where, he demanded of Wheeler, was there any sign that the administration was interested in tapping the colossal reserves of energy that had been made available to it?
On the following Sunday, Corwin Stiles met one of Cass Woodbury’s associates in a small restaurant in a remote town on the edge of the Blue Ridge.
A man is entitled to only one great passion in a lifetime. Whether it’s music or a profession or a woman, everything else pales in its afterglow. The searing shock so changes one’s chemistry that if the object is lost, the experience can never be repeated. Only anticlimax remains.
Cyrus Hakluyt, molecular surgeon, articulate observer of the natural order, and former third baseman, had, during adolescence, pursued a seventeen-year-old cheerleader named Pat Whitney. Her absence had, for many years, been the central reality of Hakluyt’s existence. Now, a decade and a half later, he was pleased to think that she, too, was advancing in age, that her DNA had shut down her repair mechanisms, and that no one was forever.
It was some consolation.
Hakluyt had grown up in Westminster, Maryland, a leafy college town west of Baltimore. Although he’d lived relatively nearby, he had not returned to it since his father’s death fifteen years before, during his first semester at Johns Hopkins. The girl, he knew, had married and moved on. His old friends were gone, too, and the town seemed desperately empty.
On the same Sunday that Corwin Stiles was having lunch in the shadow of the Blue Ridge, Hakluyt put aside his work and drove into western Maryland. He could not have said why, except that his research into Althean genetics had made him acutely conscious of the passage of time.