Ancient Shores

by Jack McDevitt

  Maybe Little Ghost had been right.

  She turned left, toward the western exit. It was a long run across the top of the escarpment, several hundred yards during which she was exposed to the full bite of the storm. But she kept the wheel straight and opened the driver’s door so she could see the ruts other cars had made. The wind died when she arrived finally among a screen of elms and box elders.

  She passed an abandoned Toyota and started down.

  Snow piles up quickly in a sheltered section, and one has to maintain speed to avoid getting stuck. It obliterates markers and roadsides and hides ditches. To make matters worse, this was the second road, just opened by police, and April wasn’t used to it.

  She struggled to keep moving. She slid down sharp descents and fought her way around curves. She gunned the engine through deep snow, but finally lost control and slid sidewise into a snowbank. She tried to back out, but the car only rocked and sank deeper.

  Damn.

  She buttoned her coat, opened the door cautiously against the wind, and put one foot out. She sank to her knee. Some of the snow slid down inside her boot.

  An hour and a quarter later, scared and half frozen, she showed up at the security station. “Thank God for the fence,” she told her startled hosts, “or I’d never have found you.”

  Andrea Hawk was a talk show host on KPLI-FM in Devil’s Lake. She’d worked her way through a series of reservation jobs, usually exploiting her considerable Indian-maiden charm to sell baskets, moccasins, and canoe paddles to well-heeled tourists. She’d done a year with the reservation police before discovering her on-air talents, which had begun with a series of public-service pleas to kids about drugs and crime. She was still selling automobiles, deodorants, CDs, and a host of other products to her dewy-eyed audience. Along the shores of Devil’s Lake, everybody loved the Snowhawk.

  She was twenty-six years old and hoping for a chance to move up. Two years ago a Minneapolis producer had been in the area, heard her show, and made overtures. She’d gone to the Twin Cities thinking she had a job, but the producer drove his car into a tractor-trailer, and his replacement, a vindictive middle-aged woman with the eyes of a cobra, did not honor the agreement.

  Andrea was planning to do several of her shows on the scene from Johnson’s Ridge. It was clear to her that she was sitting on a big story, and she planned to make the most of it. She’d got Adam’s permission, worked out her schedule so that it would not conflict with her air time, and stocked the security module with equipment.

  It was cold inside, despite the electric heater. The modular buildings were well insulated, but they weren’t designed to withstand winter conditions atop a North Dakota escarpment. The wind blew right through the building. Andrea sank down inside her heavy woolen sweater, wishing for a fireplace.

  She wondered whether she’d be able to keep her teeth from rattling when she went on at nine o’clock via her remote hookup. As was her habit, she had begun making notes on subjects she wanted to talk about during the broadcast, and she was reviewing these when April stumbled in.

  Little Ghost caught her and lowered her into a chair. “Hello,” she said with an embarrassed smile. And then she recognized her old friend. “Andrea,” she said, “is that really you?”

  “Hi,” said the Snowhawk.

  When April woke, the windows were dark, and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of potatoes and roast beef. A bank of monitors flickered in a corner of the room. “How are you feeling?” asked Andrea.

  “Okay.” April pushed the toes of one foot against the other ankle. Someone had put heavy socks on her feet. “What are you doing here?” She vaguely remembered having asked the question before but couldn’t recall the answer.

  Andrea pulled her chair forward so April could see her without having to sit up. “Security,” she said. “It pays well.”

  “Why didn’t you come see me?”

  “I would have, eventually. I wasn’t sure it was appropriate.” She felt April’s forehead. “I think you’re okay,” she said. “What were you doing out there?”

  “Waited too long to leave.”

  Andrea nodded. “How about something to eat? We only have TV dinners, but they’re decent.”

  April decided on meatloaf, and Andrea put one in the microwave. “Max called,” she said. “We told him you were here.”

  There was a coziness in the hut that warmed April. Little Ghost didn’t talk much, but he was a good listener, which is a faculty guaranteed to make people popular. He stayed close to the monitors, although they showed little more than dancing blobs of light and curving shadows. They talked, and April saw that Andrea was fascinated by the Roundhouse.

  “I’m going to do the show on it,” she explained.

  April smiled. “The Snowhawk at the cutting edge.”

  “That’s right, babe. I was wondering whether you’d be interested in going on tonight. Want to be a guest?”

  April considered it. She owed the woman, but she didn’t want to face phone calls. “I think I’d better pass,” she said.

  But she was interested enough to stay and watch.

  The Snowhawk’s show ran from nine until midnight. If the subject for the evening was the excavation, it didn’t stop people from calling in to comment on the new property tax initiative, the schools, the tendency of the county to run up postage costs unnecessarily, or other nongermane topics. The Snowhawk (funny how Andrea seemed to change personalities and become more dominant, even confrontational, in front of her microphone) dealt with these callers summarily, slicing them in midsentence. “Eddie,” she might say, “I’m on Johnson’s Ridge, freezing my little butt off, and you are out of here. Please try to stay on the rails, folks. We’re talking about the Roundhouse tonight.”

  On the whole, however, April was impressed by the level of dialogue. She wasn’t sure what she had expected. The Snowhawk’s callers were reasonably rational. They were excited by the mystery surrounding the find, but by a ratio of about four to one resisted far-out resolutions in favor of the more mundane. It’ll turn out to be a mistake, they said, one after another. April was reminded of Max.

  Toward the end of the show the storm began to weaken. April could make out the dome of the Roundhouse rising over the blowing snow.

  It seemed to be glowing.

  She turned away and looked back.

  It was a trick of the security lights. Had to be. But they were dull and indistinct in the general turmoil of the storm.

  Furthermore, the snow looked green.

  It was hard to see clearly from the illuminated interior of the security station. She pulled on her boots and took down her jacket. Little Ghost glanced at her. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, and walked out the front door.

  April caught her breath. A soft emerald halo had settled over the Roundhouse.

  The Snowhawk saw that something was happening, but she was talking with Joe Greenberg in Fort Moxie and did not have a portable mike. She frowned at John Little Ghost and nodded at the door by which April had just left.

  “It’s lit up,” Little Ghost said.

  “What is?”

  “The Roundhouse.” This exchange, of course, went out live. No damage yet. That came a moment later: “Son of a bitch, I hope it’s not radioactive.”

  14

  Fear has many eyes.

  —Cervantes, Don Quixote

  Walhalla, Cavalier, and Fort Moxie, like prairie towns across the Dakotas, are social units of a type probably limited to climatically harsh regions. They are composed of people who have united in the face of extreme isolation, who understand that going abroad in winter without checking the weather report can be fatal, who have acquired a common pride in their ability to hold crime and drugs at arm’s length. From Fort Moxie, the nearest mall is eighty miles away, and the nearest pharmacy is in Canada. The closest movie theater is within a half-hour, but it’s open only on weekends, and not even then during the hunting season. Consequently these communities have
developed many of the characteristics of extended families.

  Mel Hotchkiss was sitting in the kitchen of his home on the outskirts of Walhalla half-listening to the Snowhawk and enjoying his customary bedtime snack, which on this occasion was cherry pie. He was just pouring a second cup of coffee when she conducted her exchange with the unfamiliar voice. Something untoward was obviously happening. He put the pot down, intending to walk over to the window and look out toward Johnson’s Ridge, when Little Ghost delivered the remark that galvanized the area: Son of a bitch, I hope it’s not radioactive.

  An eerie green glow did hang over the top of the promontory.

  Ten minutes later, having paused only to call his brother and a friend, Mel, his wife, his three daughters, and their dog were in their pickup with a couple of suitcases, headed west out of town.

  Within an hour the population was in full flight. Beneath the baleful light atop the escarpment, they loaded kids, pets, jewelry, and computers and took off. Those few who, out of principle, refused to believe in anything having to do with astrology, numerology, crop circles, or UFOs were nevertheless bullied into leaving their warm homes by frightened spouses and well-meaning teenagers. They headed southwest toward Langdon, east to Fort Moxie, and north to the border, where the closed port was defended only by warning signs and highway cones. But nobody planned on stopping for international niceties, and the flood rolled into Canada.

  State police flew in a Geiger counter and by about one-thirty in the morning pronounced the area safe. Radio and TV stations broadcast the news, but by then it was too late. The town lay effectively deserted, and its roads were littered with wrecked and abandoned vehicles.

  April, John Little Ghost, and the Snowhawk listened to the reports and watched the long lines of headlights moving away on the two-lane roads with a growing sense of horror.

  Fortunately, nobody died.

  There had been three fires and a half-dozen heart attacks. Several men had intercepted Jimmy Pachman as he was trying to get out of his driveway and forced him to open his gas station. The men paid for the gas, but Pachman claimed he’d been kidnapped. Police, fire, and medical facilities had been strained to the limit and would announce before the end of the week sweeping reviews of their procedures. The City of Walhalla spent nine thousand dollars to rent equipment and pay for overtime out of its perennially hard-pressed treasury. And there was talk of lynching some of the people on Johnson’s Ridge.

  Max found out over breakfast. It was, he decided, the same effect that had lit up the boat in Tom Lasker’s barn and scared the bejesus out of Ginny. Except this time it was on a wider scale. This time there would be lawsuits.

  He left his bacon and eggs, called the security station to talk to Adam, and got April. “It has not been a good night,” she said.

  “I don’t guess.” Max took a deep breath. “I’m on my way.”

  He passed several wrecks along the highway.

  Police helicopters roared overhead.

  At the turnoff to the access road, a man in a Toyota was arguing with the cop on duty. The cop spotted Max, rolled his eyes, and waved him around. This action infuriated the driver of the Toyota.

  Max took his time going up, noting the large piles of snow on either side where the plow had gone through. At the crest he passed one of the Sioux security people. This was the topside traffic coordinator, looking cold, carrying a radio in one hand, waving Max on.

  The 8:00 A.M. shift had arrived and begun removing the tarps. Max took a long look at the Roundhouse. In direct sunlight it was hard to see whether it was putting out any illumination of its own. He stopped the car in his accustomed place and sat holding one hand over his eyes, trying to get a good look.

  “It faded with the dawn,” April told him a few minutes later.

  “Just like the boat.”

  “Yes. Except that this time it wasn’t just a set of running lights that came on. The entire building lit up.” They’d taped the early-morning news shows. April ran one of them for him. The segment included views from an aircraft. The top of the ridge glowed softly.

  “More like phosphorous than electricity,” he said.

  “That’s what we thought.” She sipped coffee. Outside, they heard a few cheers.

  Max looked through the window but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Any reaction yet from the city fathers in Walhalla?” he asked.

  “Reaction? What do you mean?”

  He sighed. “I think we threw a scare into the town last night. They are probably not happy with us.”

  She smiled. “Max, nobody’s dead. Although I’m going to see that Adam grounds the Snowhawk. We don’t need any more live broadcasts up here. At least not by our own people.”

  “The who?”

  “Andrea Hawk. One of the Sioux security people.” She explained how the incident had begun.

  “Well,” said Max, “maybe we can ride it out. Chances are that before this is over, Walhalla will have an NBA franchise.”

  The phone rang. April picked it up, listened, frowned. “You’re kidding.” She listened again. “Who?” She gave Max a thumbs up. “We’re on our way.”

  “What?” asked Max.

  “We’re inside,” she said.

  While the main effort was being made in front, one of the security people had got through a door near the rear. At the stag’s head.

  A crowd had already formed. At its center stood the man of the hour. “Well done, George,” said Adam Sky, who arrived simultaneously with Max.

  The man of the hour was George Freewater, a young Sioux with an easy smile. But Max saw no entrance. Tom Lasker came around the curve of the building from the other direction.

  Freewater, standing beside the stag’s head, beamed at them. Then, almost casually, he extended his right hand, tugged his glove tight the way a ballplayer might, and touched the wall. Directly over the muzzle.

  The stag’s head rode up and uncovered a passageway. The crowd applauded. They also backed away slightly.

  The passageway had neither windows nor doors, and it was short: After about twenty feet it dead-ended. There were no features of any kind, save for a half-dozen rectangular plates about the size of light-switch covers. These were mounted on the walls waist high, three on a side.

  April made for the opening, but Freewater grabbed her sleeve. “Let me show you something first.”

  “Okay. What?”

  “Watch.”

  Voices in back demanded to know what was happening. Someone was trying to identify herself as UPI.

  Without warning, the door came back down. No seam or evidence remained that it had ever been there.

  “What happened?” asked April.

  Freewater was looking at his watch. “It stays up for twenty-six seconds,” he said.

  “Thanks, George,” April said. She pressed the stag’s muzzle.

  The door didn’t move.

  She looked at Max. “What’s wrong?”

  Freewater ostentatiously removed one of his gloves. It was black and quite ordinary. “Try it with this,” he said.

  April frowned, pulled off the mitten she was wearing, and put on the black glove. “Does it really make a difference?” she asked.

  The smile was all the answer she needed. She touched the wall, and the passageway reappeared.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Lasker.

  Max noticed a wave of warm air at the opening. The interior was heated.

  April compared the glove with her mitten. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Freewater didn’t know. “It only works,” he said, “if someone is wearing my glove.”

  “How could that be?” asked Max.

  “Don’t know,” continued the guard. “Bare hands won’t do it, either.”

  “Odd.” April looked down the passageway and then again at the glove. “George, if you don’t mind, I’m going to hang onto it for a few minutes.” She stuffed it into a pocket and looked at Max. “You ready?”

  “To
do what?”

  “Go inside.”

  Max’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding?” he said. “We could get sealed in there.”

  “I’d like to go,” said Freewater.

  “No. No one else. I’ll feel better if you’re out here to open the door if we can’t do it from the inside. I assume both gloves work?”

  They tested the other one, and it did. “Give us five minutes,” April said. “If we’re not out, open up.”

  “April,” said Max, “you know how the Venus flytrap works?”

  She smiled at Max as if he were kidding and stepped into the passageway. Max hesitated, felt everyone’s eyes on him. And followed.

  The space was barely six feet high, maybe four across. It was too small, almost claustrophobic. The walls were off-white and so thick with dust it was hard to make out their composition. Dirt covered the floor.

  “We’re getting heat from somewhere,” said April. She held out her hands to detect air currents.

  Max was looking for a door opener. The only thing he saw that offered itself as a candidate was the series of six plates. Two pairs were directly across from each other. The fifth and sixth seemed positioned near either end of the passageway. He fixed the one closest to the entrance in his mind so he could find it when the door closed and they lost their light.

  April ran her palms across the wall and then wiped the dust from them. “Heat seems to be coming from everywhere,” she said.

  The door started down. Max resisted an urge to duck under it while he could, and watched it shut.

  The lights did not go out. A gray band running horizontally across the back of the door gave them enough illumination to see by. When Max wiped his sleeve on the band, it brightened, and in a moment he was looking through it at the people on the other side. “It’s transparent,” he said.

  April grinned. “Okay,” she said. She also had been studying the wall plates. She approached the one at the far end of the corridor and put on Freewater’s glove. “You ready, Max?”