“They’ll ask you to show them what you have in there when you leave,” Harry said.
“The guard’s already seen it. He wasn’t impressed.”
“Pete, you’re going to get caught.”
“I know.”
“What about the assurances you gave Ed? You led him to believe you wouldn’t do anything like this.”
“Gambini isn’t in charge anymore.” He shook his head. “All bets are off, Harry.”
“You were worried about scandal before. Don’t you care about that anymore?”
“There might have been no likelihood of scandal if you’d been willing to help,” he said accusingly. “Anyway, the stakes are too high now. It would be scandalous not to act.”
“I’ll help,” said Harry. “I can find a pretext to shut the library down in the morning—power failure, maybe; we’ve had them before—so nobody would find out for at least another twenty-four hours.”
“That would give us time,” said Wheeler, “to get the other set at our leisure, after operations have been terminated for the move.”
“Yes.” Wheeler bent over Harry’s shoulder and looked at the monitor. Binary characters filled the screen. “It’s Data Set forty-two,” said Harry. “The end of the world. It doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
“There are seven discs in that series,” said Wheeler, “starting with forty-one, the one that upset Baines. And yes, it is indeed the end of the world, in many colors and quite a few different shapes.”
Harry removed the silver disc and shut off the computer. “Here,” he said.
The priest set the briefcase down on the table beside the master file. “Put it back,” he said. “With the rest of them.”
Harry nodded and inserted it into its slot.
Wheeler released the snaps on his briefcase and opened it, revealing the electromagnet. To Harry’s surprise, it looked like an ordinary electric motor that one might pick up in a hobby shop. It was attached to a pair of lantern batteries.
The discs gleamed, clean and bright and full of promise for the future. Wheeler’s thumb rested on a toggle switch.
“Go ahead,” said Harry.
“There’s something terribly symbolic about this,” said Wheeler.
“The priest on the destruct button? Maybe there’s another way.”
“No. There is no other way.” He pushed the toggle, and Harry heard the whine of the electromagnet.
At 6:00 A.M., when he could be sure that Gambini was not there, Harry stopped by the lab. An hour later he closed down the library for a surprise inspection of the physical plant. He arranged to send two inspectors over from Logistics to make it look good, and then he answered a summons to Rosenbloom’s office, where he was asked to wait until Gambini arrived. Then the Director made it official. “What the hell were you guys thinking of?” he demanded. “All our careers are in the toilet now. Dumb sons of bitches.”
“Is that really what you’re worried about?” asked Gambini. “Your career?”
“It’s my own fault,” he said. “I should have kept on top of this thing.” He turned angrily to Harry. “I trusted you, Carmichael. I really thought I could depend on you.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably under the unrelenting gaze. Rosenbloom looked genuinely hurt. Why the hell was everyone always laying the blame at his feet? Harry wondered. He was paid to keep the power on, maintain personnel records, and see that the checks arrived on time. Where in his job description did it say that he had to accept responsibility for decisions of national and global significance? “I did what needed to be done,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Rosenbloom. “Whatever. When this is over, Harry, I’m going to break you. Understand?” He tugged at his belt. “Anyhow, the NSA people will be here in two hours. They’ll want both sets of discs, all notes, and anything else associated with the project, special computer configurations, everything you have.” His eyes locked with Gambini’s. “If it helps, Ed,” he said, “there was no way to win with this. That’s what I tried to tell you in the beginning. I’m sorry I didn’t follow my first impulse, and turn it all over to NSA right away.”
“I assume,” asked Gambini, “they want us to help them pack?”
“Do what you can. I understand they’re going to want to keep you on. You and a few others. I’ve got a list here somewhere.” He searched around on his desk, found a piece of paper, and held it out. “Technicians mostly. They don’t seem to think much of your team. I’m planning a move into private industry myself.”
Harry was relieved that there was no talk yet about federal prisons.
Maloney was with them when they came. He rode in the front car, gazing stolidly ahead, as de Gaulle must have done going into Paris. Two other men with expensive suits and granite expressions rode with him. It was difficult to tell who was in charge. The three GSA vans trailed behind.
They circled the lab and came at it from behind, backing the vehicles in close to the rear entrance. The doors of the vans popped open, and half a dozen men in coveralls climbed down onto the asphalt. Each had his name and picture on a plastic badge. The driver of the car talked briefly with Maloney, and then left in the direction of the library.
Harry couldn’t resist a smile as he parked his own car and followed the NSA team inside. Their bearing was a mix of military and Ivy League, drill-squad precision and casual talk of quantum mechanics. And, Harry realized, these were the men who, after collecting the Hercules data, would continue the project.
Gambini was deep in conversation with Leslie Davies when the NSA team entered the operations center. He appeared unaware of their presence until Maloney planted himself in front of him. The others were spreading out. A few investigators and technicians stopped work to look up at the interlopers.
“Ed,” Maloney said uncomfortably, “I thought you’d have been prepared for us.”
“I guess we assumed that Hurley would come to his senses,” Gambini said.
“I’m sorry about this. We still want you to head up the operation.”
“Under whose control?” asked Harry.
“It’d be no different from what it was here. Project guidelines would be set by the Director, of course. Otherwise, you’ll be on your own, Ed. Now, would you ask your people to help with the move?”
Gambini turned away without a word, walked into his office, picked up a sweater, retrieved a gold pen he’d left on his desk, and came back out. “Good-bye, Harry,” he said, offering his hand. “You’ve done a hell of a job.” The operations center had grown quiet behind him; Leslie and Wheeler, Hedge and Hakluyt, and the systems analysts and communicators and linguists had stopped what they were doing and were watching him. Some eyes were wet. “You’ve all done a hell of a job,” he said. “I’m proud to have worked with you on this. Some of you have been invited to continue with this project. I know how much it means to you, and I want to tell you that it would be no disgrace to do so. I’ll understand. I think we’ll all understand.”
Then he was gone, and there was an awkward silence, filled finally by Maloney, who cleared his throat and asked for attention. “I wish I could extend to everyone,” he said, “an opportunity to continue with the Hercules project. Unfortunately, our requirements are limited. In any case, Mr. Carmichael informs me that Goddard has need of most of you. We’ve asked specifically for some, and a list has been distributed. We urge those whose names are on the list to stay with the project. Please inform Mr. Carmichael of your decision by the end of the week.” He looked at Harry, who was staring angrily back.
They started with the computers. Some had been especially configured to work with the Text; so they removed the discs they found, carefully recording where they’d been found, carried the units out, and placed them in the vans. Systematically, Maloney led a search through desks and filing cabinets that produced a mountain of notes and formal documents. Harry was surprised that, even in the computer age, the project had generated so much paper.
They labeled everything ac
cording to location: “Gambini’s desk, 2nd left-hand drawer,” and so on. “It’s the way archaeologists do a dig,” said Wheeler. “I don’t think Maloney expects us to be much help.”
Hakluyt looked as though he had a thundering headache. He approached Harry at his earliest opportunity. “It’s our last chance. You’ve got to get them out now,” he said, referring to the data set Gambini had locked away, the discs on which the DNA-altering information was stored. “If these bastards get their hands on it, we’ll never see it again.”
“Don’t worry,” said Harry. “I’ll take care of it.”
Hakluyt wiped the sweat off his face. He was drenched. “When?” he asked, trying to keep his voice down. “They’ll get to the cabinet anytime! It may already be too late.”
“Cy, I said I’ll take care of it. Try not to worry.” He turned away.
The NSA people were returning discs to the master storage file and the various supplementary files maintained by each department. One of the men who’d ridden with Maloney, a wrinkled individual with splotched skin and flaxen hair, approached Harry. “We’re missing one,” he said.
“It’s in Gambini’s office.” Harry, feeling Hakluyt’s eyes on his back, unlocked the filing cabinet and stood aside. Gambini was not organized and had a tendency to use file drawers the way other people use cardboard boxes. The wrinkled man worked his way gradually to the bottom and came out with two gleaming laserdiscs, both labeled DS101. “One of them,” Harry explained, “is from the library set.”
He turned guiltily. Hakluyt was contemplating him with pure malevolence. Then the microbiologist was gone, fleeing through the door and down the bleak gray-walled corridors.
Wheeler had gone to his cubicle. He came back with the leather case that contained the electromagnet.
“Is it on?” asked Harry.
“Yes.”
Harry gently took it from him. “My turn,” he said.
Wheeler smiled, relieved. “You sure?”
“There’s no question it’ll work?”
“As long as you get within a few feet.”
Harry carried the bag out into the corridor and stationed himself near a water cooler directly in the line of traffic. He leaned the briefcase against the wall, took a long, slow drink, and walked away from it.
He retreated past the doorway to the operations center, to a point where he could watch, but be out of the way.
The cartons were moving quickly now. Leslie and Gordie Hopkins and Linda Barrister and Carol Hedge and all the others who’d worked so hard on the project during the previous eight months stood in angry silence while the brown boxes bobbed along the corridor, past the water fountain, up one flight of stairs, and out into the sunlight.
By one o’clock everything was out of the building. The NSA car, of course, was long since back from the library, and the driver was careful not to leave it. Standard procedure, of course, with top secret material. The trunk would be full of discs. Maloney presented Harry with a signed inventory of what they’d taken. “The National Security Agency,” he said curtly, “will reimburse you.”
And then, under a brilliant sun, the four-vehicle convoy set off toward the main gate.
“It’s going to take them several hours to discover that their discs are worthless,” said Wheeler, as they passed out of sight. “Maybe several days. If we’re lucky, they’ll never figure out how it happened. Maybe we can get someone eventually to suggest a theory involving high-tension lines or something.”
“This is what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it, Pete?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You don’t look very happy.”
“It was a matter of survival, Harry. But we’ve paid a high price.” He squinted in the bright afternoon light. “No, I don’t feel very happy. I’ve violated everything I’m supposed to stand for.”
The air was very still. About a dozen of Gambini’s people had joined them in the parking lot. They all looked lost.
“I’d better get the briefcase,” said Wheeler.
“Destroy it,” said Harry. “The briefcase and the magnet. Eventually, there’ll be questions asked.”
Wheeler clasped Harry’s hand. “Thanks,” he said. “It would have been a lot harder to do alone.”
The guard’s station outside the library storage room was abandoned. Carrying a briefcase, a black one this time, Harry walked past it, inserted his card into the lock (which had not yet been removed), and opened the door. Hardly glancing at the empty space that the duplicate Hercules Text had occupied, he went directly to the credenza and knelt down before it. It was a battered old piece of furniture, its legs chipped and its veneer scored. Rings from coffee cups intersected across the finish, and one metal pull was missing.
It had come over from GSA six years ago, part of a large shipment retrieved when the Defense Department closed down a major portion of Maguire Air Force Base. No one had wanted the credenza, so Logistics had pushed it into a storage room in the lower level of the library. Where it was the hope of the world.
Harry took a small brass key from his pocket, unlocked the doors, and pulled them open. Silver discs gleamed inside. One by one, he removed them, placed them in individual sleeves he’d brought with him, and put them in the briefcase.
Most of the Hercules team gathered that evening at the Red Limit for a farewell dinner. They were not literally scattering: most of the technicians would be staying on at Goddard in various projects. Among the investigators, Carol Hedge and Pete Wheeler would be asked to assist in ongoing operations, although neither yet knew it. Harry did not expect that Pete would stay.
No one had yet opted for the NSA offer. That surprised Harry until he had a chance to think about it. And he wondered how it happened that a man as astute as Hurley could surround himself with people like Maloney.
Cyrus Hakluyt had checked out without a word to anyone.
And Leslie was going back to Philadelphia. “Then maybe to an island in the South Seas,” she said. “I’ve had enough for a while.”
There were no speeches, but several expressed themselves emotionally on how they felt. “It was,” said one of the systems analysts, “a little like being in combat together.” Harry thanked them for their loyalty and predicted that, when John W. Hurley had long been forgotten, the Hercules team would be legend. “They may not remember our names, but they’ll know we’ve been here.”
They applauded that, and, for the few hours they remained under the familiar beams and arches of the Red Limit, they believed it. And for Harry the comment marked yet another milestone: it was the first time he’d been disloyal in public to a man for whom he worked.
Farewell parties always impose a kind of funereal atmosphere he thought, occasioned by the symbolic close of an era. Every handshake, every brief meeting of the eyes, takes on special significance. But the relatively subdued affair staged by the Hercules team was especially intense in its emotions, perhaps because the thing that would not come again was unique in human history, and the forty-some men and women gathered in the modest restaurant off Greenbelt Road represented all who had ever looked at a star and wanted some answers. Well, they had by God found some answers, and maybe no one could really ask for much more.
Harry stayed till the end, until they’d broken up into small groups and begun to drift apart. Angela Dellasandro took a moment, around eleven, to tell Harry that he was inordinately good-looking. (She had, by then, put away several manhattans.) And she also said she was worried about Ed Gambini. Harry reassured her, and she drifted off.
“She’s right,” Leslie said. “He’s safer away from the project, but there’ll be a dangerous period until he makes the adjustment.”
“No,” said Harry. “He found his aliens. I think he’s satisfied now. He’ll be okay.”
They stood facing each other on this last of nights. “When are you leaving?” he asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll miss you, Leslie.” He found himself sudden
ly staring at the ice cubes in his empty glass. “I’d be happy if you stayed,” he said.
She squeezed his arm. “You’re not sure, Harry.” She smiled at him self-consciously. “Call me if you get to Philadelphia. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“I am sure,” he said. “I’ve just been married too long. Everything comes out sounding wrong because I still feel as if I shouldn’t be saying it.”
She buried her face in his shoulder, and he could feel her laughter. But when she looked up, he did not see amusement. “I love you, Harry,” she said.
Just before midnight, they came for Gambini. They walked up the stairs to the second floor, their footsteps muffled by the sullen roar of the Atlantic, and they knocked at his door. When he opened up, his eyes full of sleep, they showed him IDs, pushed into his living room, and stood aside to make room for an enraged Pat Maloney.
“What’s wrong?” Gambini asked.
MONITOR
CYRUS HAKLUYT REPLIES TO A CRITIC
Dr. Idlemann’s assertion that death is an integral part of nature’s plan for the ongoing renewal of the species assumes that there is, in fact, a design of some sort. One is hard-pressed to find anything that could be described as conscious intent in the harsh system into which we are born and which, in the end, kills us and our children. The only intelligence evident is our own. And one can only wonder at the sort of reasoning that regards blind evolution as benevolent and somehow wiser than we.
The truth is, we owe nothing to the future. We are alive now, and we are all there is. To paraphrase Henry Thoreau, we stand on the dividing line between two vast infinities, the dead and the unborn. Let us save ourselves, if we can. When we have done that, when we have ceased to hand to our children a legacy of cancer and aging and loss, then we can begin sensibly planning for the sort of existence that an intelligent species should have.
—Cyrus Hakluyt
Extract from Harper’s letter column, CXXXII, number 6, author’s response to a communication from Max Idlemann, M.D., an obstetrician in Fargo, North Dakota, who objected on numerous grounds to an article by Cyrus Hakluyt in the May issue. Dr. Idlemann seemed particularly incensed that Hakluyt had failed to recognize the long-range damage that would occur from any major breakthrough in prolonging the human life span.
The Hercules Text Page 32