Taylor could feel the walls closing in. “I don’t mean we should simply seize it. We can recompense them. Buy them off.”
“Sir, I think our best strategy is to wait it out. Not get stampeded into doing something that’ll come back to haunt us.”
Taylor was by nature inclined to act at the first sign of trouble. But he’d been around politics long enough to know the value of patience. And anyway, he wasn’t sure of the right course. He didn’t like the idea of maneuvering Native Americans off their land. That had a bad taste. And it was bad politics. But so were collapsing markets.
“It’ll blow over,” Peters assured him soothingly. “Give it time. We may not really have a problem. Let’s not create one. What we need to do is concentrate on Pakistan.”
“Pakistan?”
“No voters in Pakistan. But a lot of people are getting killed. Make another statement. Deplore the violence. Maybe offer to act as an arbitrator. It looks as if it’s going to play out soon anyway. Both sides are exhausted. We might even be able to get credit for arranging a settlement.”
The president sighed. Peters was a hopeless cynic, and it would have been easy to dislike him. It was a pity that American politics degenerated so easily to such blatant opportunism. Even where good people were concerned.
Arky Redfern grew up near Fort Totten on the Devil’s Lake reservation. He was the youngest of five, the first to collect a degree. That his siblings had pursued early marriages and dead-end jobs had broken the heart of his father, who’d promised to do what he could to support any of his children seeking a higher education. Redfern was given his father’s bow to mark the occasion of his graduation from the law school at George Mason University.
He had also received encouragement from James Walker, one of the tribal councilmen, who had remarked proudly that the government no longer had all the lawyers. Redfern was fired with the idea of becoming the defender of the Mini Wakan Oyaté, as the Devil’s Lake Sioux called themselves in their own language. (The term meant People of the Spirit Lake.) He’d passed the bar exam on the first try, and he returned to North Dakota to establish a practice writing wills and overseeing divorces, which paid reasonably well. He also became the tribal legal representative, which didn’t pay so well. But it had its rewards.
At about the time Matt Taylor was looking for a course of action, Redfern was taking Paxton Wells into the reservation to make a new offer in person. Wells, wrapped in a somber mood, had apparently decided that the lawyer was hopelessly against him and had given up all efforts to placate the younger man. He sat staring moodily out the window at the flat countryside.
It had finally turned warm. Piles of melting snow were heaped along the side of the road, and there was some flooding.
The tribal chambers were located in a blue brick single-story structure known as the Blue Building. Old Glory and the flag of the Mini Wakan Oyaté fluttered in a crisp wind. Redfern pulled into the parking lot.
“This it?” said Wells, gazing at the open countryside stretching away in all directions.
Redfern knew Wells’s type: Unless he was dealing with those he knew to be his superiors or those in a position to injure him, he wore an air of restrained selfimportance. That attitude was in place now because he perceived the lawyer as no more than a means to an end, a guide to the Sioux equivalent of a CEO. That was, of course, a mistake.
They climbed out of the car, and Redfern led the way inside.
The Blue Building was home to the post office, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Indian Health Service, and the tribal offices. Redfern let the tribal secretary know they were there and headed for the chairman’s office.
James Walker would not have been easy to pick out of a crowd. He was less than average height, and might have struck Wells as a man more likely to be at home in a grocery store than in a council hall. There was no hint of authority in his mien or his voice, nor was there a suggestion of the steel that could manifest itself when the need arose. His eyes were dark and friendly, his bearing congenial. Redfern believed Walker’s primary strength lay in his ability to get people to tell him what they really believed, a talent as rare among Native Americans as among the rest of the population.
Walker rose from his desk as they entered and offered his hand to his visitor.
Wells took it, pumped it summarily, commented on how happy he was to have a chance to visit the reservation, and sat down.
The office was decorated with tribal motifs: war bonnets, totems, medicine wheels, and ceremonial pipes. A bookcase and a table supporting a burbling coffee pot flanked the desk. Sunlight flooded the room.
Wells cleared his throat. “Chairman,” he said, “I represent an organization that would like to help the tribe achieve prosperity. Great possibilities are opening before us.”
“Arky tells me,” Walker said, as if Wells had not spoken, “you have an interest in buying some of our land.”
“Yes, sir.” Wells looked like a man trying to appear thoughtful. “Chairman, let me not mince words. The National Energy Institute is a consortium of industrial and banking interests that would like to offer you a great deal of money for the property known as Johnson’s Ridge. A great deal, sir.”
Walker showed no expression. “You wish to buy the property outright?”
“That’s correct. And we are prepared to pay handsomely.” He smiled. It was a thin smile, and conveyed no warmth. Defensive. Redfern decided that Wells had been one of those kids whom everybody beat up. “Let’s put our cards on the table,” he said.
“By all means.”
“Chairman, it’s doubtful that there is anything of real value on that ridge. You know that. I know that. The government’s been there and they’ve already decided there’s no need for them to be concerned.” Redfern doubted that was true. “So it’s a shot in the dark. But on the off chance there might be something that could be turned to a profit, we are willing to pay for the chance to look. And pay quite well, I might add.”
He produced a blue folder and a leather-covered checkbook and took a gold pen from his pocket. “Why don’t we just settle it now? Say, five million?” He removed the cap from the pen. “You could do quite a bit with that kind of money. Truth is, Chairman, I’d like to come back in a few years to see how the reservation will have changed.”
Walker was able to conceal his surprise at the amount. He glanced at Redfern, who gave him no encouragement. Whatever they offer now, Arky thought, is too little. “A number of corporations,” the chairman said, “have already shown interest. They would like to build hotels up there. And restaurants. Disney wants to build a theme park. I would not wish to sound greedy, Dr. Wells, but five million is small potatoes at this stage.”
Redfern was proud of the chairman.
Wells’s eyebrows went up. “I see,” he said. “And you have firm offers?”
“Oh, yes. They are very generous. And these people only want to lease property. You want to get at the heart of the property’s value. If we were to sell to you, we would have nothing save the cash in hand. Dr. Wells, under the circumstances, that would have to be a lot of cash in hand.”
Wells looked down at his checkbook. “You drive a hard bargain, sir. But I understand your point. And I am authorized to compete. May I ask what you would consider a serious offer?”
Walker closed his eyes briefly. “Why don’t you simply go to your final offer and save us both some time?”
Wells looked uncomfortable. Arky could see the wheels going around.
“Fifty million.” He spoke in a voice the lawyer could barely hear.
“That’s very good,” said Walker. “And the money would be payable…?”
Redfern caught his eye. Don’t do it.
“Ten percent on signing the contract. The balance on the actual deed transfer.” He offered his pen to the chairman. “Do we have an agreement?”
This time Walker was unsuccessful in masking his shock. “You must understand,” he said, “that I cannot make the
decision. It will be up to the council.”
“Of course. But Mr. Redfern assures me you have considerable influence. I’m sure that if you are in favor of this action, the council will go along with it.”
Walker tried to look doubtful. But it wasn’t working. Wells smiled, confident the council could not resist so generous an offer. “Arky is inclined to overstate my influence, I think.” Walker glanced over at his lawyer. “I wonder, Dr. Wells, if you would excuse us for a minute.”
“Of course.” Wells threw a quick grin at Redfern. You son of a bitch, it said, you cost me, but let’s see you change his mind. “I’ll be in the other room,” he said. He opened the blue folder, which contained a contract, pushed it toward Walker, and left the office.
The chairman smiled broadly. He could barely contain his pleasure.
“I advise against it,” said Redfern.
“Why not?” Walker beamed. “Why in God’s name should we not take this kind of money?”
“The value isn’t going to go away. Why would they offer so much?”
“It might be worth nothing. We could wind up selling T-shirts over there. Listen, Arky, we don’t need more than fifty million. Do you realize what that could do for us? He’s right, you know. That kind of money could put a lot of logs on front porches. I think we should not get greedy. And I will so advise the council.”
“This is not a man,” said Arky, “who is going to give us anything. He’s offering fifty million because he thinks it’s worth more. Considerably more. Advise the council to seek a second offer. You might be surprised at the result.”
Walker’s delight began to drain away. “You seriously expect me to go before them and recommend against this kind of money? When we could conceivably end up with nothing? Even if I did take a stand against the proposal, they’d sweep me aside.” He took a deep breath. “Give me a real reason. If you have one.”
Arky did not like the position he was in. If things went wrong, he knew who would be hanging out there. “If Wells and his people get hold of it, they’ll treat it exclusively as a source of wealth. Who knows what might get lost?”
“That’s not exactly a war cry,” said Walker.
“No, it isn’t. But we may be looking at another Manhattan island.”
“Maybe you weren’t listening, Arky. He isn’t talking twenty-six bucks.”
“Maybe not. But if you want a war cry, keep in mind that we now possess a discovery that may release whole new technologies. The road to the future, Chairman, might run directly across the top of Johnson’s Ridge. And you’re ready to give it away.”
“I’d see it the same way,” said Max. “Take the money and run.”
Arky looked disgusted. “That is precisely what they will do.” He was working his way through a plate of fish and chips. April, Arky, and Max were in a back booth at Mel’s Restaurant in Langdon. It was no longer possible to get near the Prairie Schooner, which was overwhelmed with customers. “The council will feel that it would be criminal to turn down an offer of that magnitude. And, to be honest, I’m not comfortable advising against accepting it.” He looked extremely unhappy. “Do you have any idea what would happen to me if they took my advice and the ridge turned out to be worthless?”
“You’d get scalped?” Max asked innocently.
Arky didn’t seem to have heard. “Not that it matters. They’ll take the money and run. Just as you say.”
“Damn,” said April. “If the project gets sold off, we’ll be out the following day.”
“I don’t think there’s much question about that,” said Max. He listened to the low murmur of conversation around him, to the clink of silverware and occasional bursts of laughter.
“Arky,” April said, “I can’t deal with the prospect of not being here when the discoveries get made.”
The lawyer looked sympathetic. “I know. But I think the matter is past my being able to control events.”
“How long do we have?” asked April.
“Wells’s people probably have teams ready to go as soon as the paper gets signed. There’ll be a special council meeting late tomorrow afternoon to consider the offer. If they approve it, which they will, Wells will make a phone call, and you’ll be history.”
Devil’s Lake, ND, Mar. 15 (AP)—
A consortium of business interests is reported to be ready to offer fifty million dollars to the Devil’s Lake Sioux for the Johnson’s Ridge property on which the Roundhouse, an archeological find rumored to be of extraterrestrial origin, is located. According to informed sources, the tribal council will meet in extraordinary session tomorrow evening to consider the offer, which has been increased several times over the last few days. Officials on both sides declined to comment.
When they got back to the Northstar, there was a package waiting for Max. “Filters,” he explained. “For the minicam. Maybe we can get a better look at what happens when the lights come on.”
They retreated gloomily to their rooms. But minutes later April appeared at Max’s door.
“Come in,” he said. “I was going to call you.”
She looked frantic. “What do we do?”
There was only one chair in the room. Max left it for her and sat down on the bed. “I don’t think there’s much we can do. Not with all that money out there.”
“Max,” she said, “fifty million’s peanuts. Listen, we may have found a link to somewhere else.” She forced it out, as she might an appeal to the supernatural. “The chair did not just get annihilated. It went somewhere.”
“You think.”
“I think.” She rubbed her forehead wearily. “Did you know there’s a seventh icon?”
“No,” said Max, surprised. “Where?”
“Beside the ditch. Where they used to tie up the boat.”
Max pictured the area. “On one of the posts?”
“Yes. It’s got a design that looks like a kanji character. It doesn’t light up when you touch it. I even tried putting a chair in the ditch, and it still didn’t work. But Max, I think that’s the way they brought the boat in. Directly from wherever.”
Max shook his head. “I’m sorry. But I just can’t buy any of this. You’re talking Star Trek stuff. ‘Beam me up, Scotty.’”
They sat and listened to the wind blow.
“I think it’s really true, Max.”
“Well, good luck proving it. Whatever they are, the icons seem to work only once. What good is a long-range transport system that only works once?”
She pulled her legs up onto the chair and hugged her knees. “I think they work only once because the stuff we’ve been sending blocks the reception area. Somebody has to move it and clear the grid on the other end. If they don’t, the system shuts down.”
“That’s the wildest guesswork I’ve ever heard.”
“Max, we watched the chair fade out. It faded. It didn’t blow up. It didn’t disintegrate. It went somewhere. The question is, where?”
Max shook his head. “I think the whole idea is goofy.”
“Maybe.” April took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think we better tell Arky what we know.”
“You mean, tell him we think we have a portal to another dimension? Or to Mars? He’ll think what I think: It’s goofy.”
Her eyes were pools of despair. “He wouldn’t think that if we did a demonstration for him.”
“What kind of demonstration? All we can do is make things disappear. That doesn’t prove anything.”
Neither of them wanted to state the obvious.
19
Joyous we too launch out on trackless seas,
Fearless for unknown shores.
—Walt Whitman, “Passage to India”
April squeezed her eyes shut. The eternal prairie winds shook the windows. She was unnerved, but the conviction that she was right was going to help her get through it.
She heard a car pull up outside. The doors banged, and voices drifted in.
If there were time, she migh
t have devised a test that would remove some of the risk. But there was no time. She sighed. Use it or lose it.
Through the wall, she could hear the mindless burble of Max’s TV.
What were the dangers?
She might be annihilated. But no piece of the chair had remained, and there was no indication of a violent event. It had simply lost its corporeality. It had gone somewhere.
She might find herself in a hostile environment. For example, in a methane atmosphere. But the visitors had presumably thrived in North Dakota. Surely whatever lay on the other side, through the port, was essentially terrestrial.
She might be stranded. But who ever heard of a port you could enter from only one side?
At midnight she filled her thermos and put two sandwiches and some fruit into a plastic bag. She loaded her camera and pulled on her Minneapolis Twins jacket, feeling pleased with herself. Forty minutes later she passed the police blockade at the access road and drove up the winding incline and out onto the ridge. The glow from the Roundhouse, out of sight in its excavation ditch, seemed brighter tonight. She wondered if it was still charging its batteries and made a mental note to start logging the luminosity.
It was cold, down in the teens. She parked just outside the security gate, opened her glove compartment, and took out a notebook. She sat thinking for several minutes before she knew what she wanted to say. When she’d finished, she laid the notebook open on the passenger seat, picked up a flashlight, and got out.
One of the guards, a middle-aged man whom she knew only as Henry, appeared in the door of the security station. “Good evening, Dr. Cannon,” he said. “Forget something?”
“No, Henry.” Her breath misted in the yellow light of the newly installed high-pressure sodium lamps. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d come out and see if I could get some work done.”
He looked at his watch, not without a sense of disapproval. “Okay,” he said. “Nobody else here. From the staff.”
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