The Genesis Machine

by James P. Hogan

  "What's going on?" he asked Paul Newham, one of the senior mathematical physicists, later on in one of the cafeterias over lunch.

  "Oh, just another closed-doors meeting, I guess," Newham told him.

  "Another one?"

  "Washington bigwigs. They've been coming and going all week. Must be something big in the wind; Jarrit's been involved in all of them from what I hear. You didn't know?"

  Clifford sat frowning uneasily with his fork frozen in midair.

  "No, I didn't," he said slowly. "So, what's it all about?"

  "Haven't a clue. Bill Summers did ask around but was politely advised to mind his own business. I guess whatever is going on doesn't concern the likes of us, Brad." Newham started to drink his coffee and then looked up suddenly as if he had just remembered something. "Although Edwards's secretary did mention something when she was having a drink with one of the guys the other day. What did he say she said now . . . ? Something to do with k . . . k . . . k-something or other. Didn't ring a bell at the time."

  * * *

  Two days after that, Sarah mentioned that she had made an Infonet call to Lisa Clancy, the wife of Clifford's former tutor at CIT and an old friend of the family. Lisa had told her that Bernard—her husband—was due to travel to New Mexico to attend a scientific conference of some kind. He hadn't been very forthcoming as to exactly where he was going or what the purpose of the conference was, but she had a feeling that the meeting might be at ACRE. Eager to renew his old acquaintanceship and, perhaps, at last to get access to some inside information, Clifford called Bernard that same evening.

  "Well . . . that's a bit difficult, Brad . . ." Bernard's face contorted with visible discomfort as he looked out of the screen. "It's a pretty tight security issue . . . know what I mean? Don't get the wrong idea, I'd love to see you again but . . ." he shrugged and made an empty-handed gesture. "you know how it is."

  "Hell, I don't want to know what your business is," Clifford protested. "All I wanted to know was if you'd be in the area and if so, whether we could get together for a beer."

  "Yeah, I know." Bernard was looking acutely embarrassed but at the same time helpless. "It's awfully nice of you to think of it, but really . . . I can't. Some other time when I'm traveling that way socially, sure, but . . . this'll be business and the schedule's pretty tight." Bernard suddenly tightened his features into an expression of seriousness. "Give my regards to Harry Cottrill if you see him around there." Then he relaxed. "Well, gotta go, Brad. Nice to hear from you again. Keep up the good work, eh? Look us up if you find yourselves back in California. Regards to Sarah."

  "See you around." Clifford accepted the situation and flipped off the terminal irritably. He sat for a while staring moodily at the blank screen.

  "Who's Harry Cottrill?" Sarah asked from the far side of the room. "We don't know anybody by that name do we?"

  "Huh?" Clifford half-turned and sat back to face her. "That's the funny part. I was just wondering about it. . . . We don't know him, but I do. He was a guy I used to know at CIT."

  "CIT?" Sarah looked puzzled. "Why should we see him around here? Did he move here or something?"

  "Not that I know of. Last place I saw him was CIT."

  "That's crazy." Sarah returned Clifford's nonplused look. "Why should Bernard go and say a crazy thing like that?"

  "I don't know," Clifford said slowly and thoughtfully. "But I think he was trying to tell us something. His face became rather serious as he said it—you know—as if he was trying to make a point."

  "Who was this Harry Cottrill?" Sarah asked after a few seconds of silence. "Another physicist or suchlike?"

  "No, nothing like that. . . . He was a biologist . . . had a thing about termites. He was an entomologist there . . . always talking about termites . . ."

  "Bugs. Ugh. Nasty things."

  "Bugs!" Clifford looked up abruptly. "That's what it was. Bernard was afraid of his line being bugged. That's why he wouldn't say anything." He stood up and sent the chair spinning on its swivel with a sudden blow of his fist. "Bastards! What are they turning this damned world into?"

  * * *

  Bernard Clancy did come to ACRE. Clifford was walking along the corridor outside the conference room when the door opened and a party of visitors, several of whom he recognized as prominent mathematicians and physicists, was ushered through. Clancy just had time to catch Clifford's eye and shrug with a brief apologetic grin before he and the rest were herded hurriedly away by Corrigan and a troupe of minions. They departed from ACRE within minutes.

  * * *

  "Hey, I'm sure that's Walter Massey and his wife over there, Brad." Sarah's voice came down at him from the same direction as the heat bathing his prostrate body. He mumbled something unintelligible and raised his head a few inches to scan the nearby parts of the sloping tiled area that surrounded the pool. Everywhere was a sea of tanned arms, legs, and bodies, sunshades, and a few tables; the pool was crowded and noisy.

  "Mmm . . . where?" he asked after a second.

  "There . . ." She pointed. "Walking this way from the pool. She's got a blue bikini on."

  "Yeah . . . I think you're right." He allowed his head to flop back on the towel, closed his eyes again, and gave every indication of having dismissed the matter from consciousness.

  "Want me to call them over?" he heard Sarah ask, and then, before he had made any reply: "Hey! Sheila . . . Walter . . . Over here . . ." She turned back to her husband. "They've seen us. They're coming over."

  Clifford flinched as drops of icy liquid peppered his skin. He opened his eyes to find the lower half of Sheila Massey's bikini—surely it had been sprayed on—staring down at him over the top of a magnificent pair of suntanned thighs. A few seconds later he noticed that Sheila was there too, removing her swim-cap to allow cascades of jet-black hair to tumble out onto her shoulders. Walter was close behind.

  "Hi," Sarah greeted, gathering together some of their things to make room. "Come and make it a party." Sheila sat down, accepted a towel from Sarah's outstretched hand and began drying herself.

  "Thanks," she said. "Hi, people. Just enjoying the sun?" She looked up. "Pull up a pew, Walt."

  Walter Massey was looking toward where they had been heading. "I'll just go on up and get my cigarettes," he said. "Be back in a minute." With that he disappeared from Clifford's field of vision.

  As the girls began chattering back and forth over him, Clifford became acutely aware of Sheila's sinuous movements on one side and Sarah's curvaceous form on the other, and he began suddenly to wonder if, perhaps, the Arabs had got it right all along after all. What was so bad about camels and tents anyway? Who needed civilization? Maybe polygamy ought to be compulsory—then perhaps everybody would forget about making bombs. Interesting thought. His reverie came to an end when he realized that Sarah was speaking to him.

  "Did you know that, Brad?"

  "Uh . . . ? What?"

  "What Sheila just said—about the big stir-up at ACRE."

  "Stir-up?"

  "Walt's been saying he thinks there are big changes in the offing," Sheila told him. "Some big new project connected with scientific outfits all over the place . . . Moonbases . . . Some people somewhere out in California. Stuff like that."

  "Oh . . ." Clifford's tone made light of it. "Yeah—I heard one or two things."

  "Never told me," Sarah said.

  "Just rumors," he murmured vaguely. "I didn't take a lot of notice."

  "Walt doesn't think they're just rumors," Sheila added. "He thinks a few of the top guys at ACRE have been interviewed for jobs on it . . . top scientific guys."

  "Him too?" Clifford tried to sound less interested than he was but couldn't prevent himself from half sitting up as he spoke.

  "I don't think so . . . at least, if he has, he hasn't said. The project's supposed to be very secret—security and all that stuff. But he figures there's going to be a major reshuffle right down through ACRE. All kinds of promotion prospects for everybody
. . . That's what he's interested in. He could use a change."

  "Well nobody's talked to me about it," Clifford declared, falling back again to gaze up into the sky. "When somebody does, I'll tell you about it. Until then it's just rumors."

  But there was anger burning in his eyes. Harems, he had somehow suddenly decided, were strictly for other times and other places.

  Chapter 7

  "Mode 3 with positive phi. Again all the even terms of the k-spin function come out zero. How about that?" Aub stared out of the screen in Clifford's den and waited for a response.

  "What's he talking about?" Sarah whispered from the chair that she had pulled up next to Clifford.

  "They've been running more experiments at Berkeley," he whispered back. "It looks as if more of the theory's predictions are coming out okay. It's fantastic news." He looked back at the screen. "That's great, Aub. Sustained rotations are real then, eh? How about mode distribution frequencies?"

  "Well, we haven't done a lot of tests yet, so the statistical data's still pretty thin, but from the figures we've got it looks as if it might check out fine. I'll keep you posted on that; we're scheduling another run for tomorrow."

  "I'll call you again tomorrow then, okay?"

  "Great, man. See ya."

  "S'long Aub." Clifford slipped an arm round Sarah's shoulder and gave her a compulsive hug as he switched off the terminal. "Everything's working out fine, baby," he said, laughing. "We're gonna be famous yet." She brought her hand up and squeezed his fingers reassuringly. Her mouth smiled but she kept her eyes averted. In his excitement Clifford had momentarily forgotten their conversation with Sheila Massey, but Sarah hadn't.

  The following evening Aub called in again.

  "Man, we have news!" he announced jubilantly. "Another couple of positive tests today and mode distributions as predicted. The statistics are still from a small sample, but it's looking good. Opinion here is starting to firm up that the theory is well on its way to being validated." His expression changed to a frown. "Surely they must have told you about it at ACRE by now?"

  Clifford shook his head.

  "But Jeez . . . they sure know about it," Aub protested. "We've been sending the data through all along. . . . I know for a fact that that guy Edwards is up-to-date. Why are you of all people being kept in the dark, for Christ's sake?"

  "Don't ask me, Aub," Clifford said wearily. "Maybe I've told them too often what I think of their system. But there's no way they're gonna make me live in nice straight lines."

  "So what's bugging you? You wanted out and you got out. Sounds like it's okay."

  "I just feel I might have something to contribute," Clifford answered with a trace of sarcasm. "On top of that, I just don't trust them not to screw the whole thing up somehow. You know how their minds work . . . or don't. They'll sure as hell find a way."

  * * *

  The next day a more subdued Aub called. "All kinds of rumors flying around here—something to do with people being selected as candidates to work on some new top-security thing. My boss hinted this morning that I might be lined up for a move, but clammed up when I tried to pump him."

  "We had something similar going on at ACRE," Clifford said. "Any idea what's up?"

  Aub grimaced. "Couldn't get a lead on that . . . it's all political and everybody's getting neurotic about security. I'm pretty sure it's being set up from somewhere high up though—probably Washington." He frowned and cocked his head to one side. "So what's the score at ACRE? A reshuffle in the wind there?"

  "Looks like it," Clifford replied. "Some other places too, I hear."

  "Are you involved in it?"

  "What do you think?"

  Aub shook his head in despairing incredulity. "It's crazy," he declared. "What kind of an operation are those nuts going to be able to run with all wheels and no engine? Do you think they're doing what I think they're doing?"

  "Don't tell me, Aub," Clifford sighed. "Right now I don't wanna hear it."

  A few minutes later, after he had cleared down the call, Clifford turned toward Sarah, who had been watching from across the room.

  "Have I got two heads or something?" he demanded.

  "Not that I've noticed," she replied, then became more serious. "Oh, Brad, how can people be so stupid?"

  He thought for a second and growled. "I guess it doesn't matter which way the wheels go round, as long as they're all going round the same way together."

  * * *

  The Aub that Clifford grew to know better during this time turned out to be even better than his first impressions had suggested. Like Clifford, he was preoccupied, almost obsessed, with a compulsive urge to add further to the stock of human scientific knowledge; he had no political persuasions and few ideological beliefs, certainly none that could be classed as part of any recognizable formal system. He accepted as so self-evident that it was not worthy of debate the axiom that only the harnessing of knowledge to create universal wealth and security could provide a permanent solution to the world's problems. It was not, however, the desire to discharge any moral obligation to the rest of humanity that spurred him onward; it was simply his insatiable curiosity and the need to exercise his own extraordinary inventive abilities. He had no interest in impressing his beliefs on those who were not disposed to listen; in the end they would come to think his way anyhow, and whatever he did or didn't do in the meantime would make no difference that mattered.

  Unlike Clifford, Aub was not unduly perturbed by a situation in which the interests of pure science were subordinated to those of politics, a state of affairs that he looked upon as transient and one that would change nothing in the long-term history of the universe. He reacted to the warped world that others had shaped by extracting from it and using the things that he needed while remaining indifferent to and, for the most part, uninfluenced by the rest. Life was to be made the most of despite the follies of others, not by their license. Aub, the individualist, the opportunist, and the eternal optimist, would pursue unswervingly the path he had elected to follow, happily riding the tide when its direction happened to coincide with his own and just as easily striking out on his own when their courses diverged. For the time being, life at Berkeley suited him by affording ample opportunity for him to develop and refine his talents. Tomorrow—who could tell?

  Everything came to a head one day when Clifford was working at home in his study at the top of the house. He was staring at the screen of the upstairs terminal, digesting the meaning of a group of tensor equations out of ACRE's computers, when the chime sounded and a message superimposed itself on the display to inform him of an incoming call. He cursed, suspended the program, and touched a key to accept. It was Aub, looking angry and disturbed in a way that Clifford had never seen before.

  "I've just been talking to my boss and his boss," Aub informed him without preliminaries. His voice was seething. "So now I know what gives."

  "Hey, calm down, buddy," Clifford answered. "What's with all the bosses? Now you know what? What gives?"

  Aub seemed to take a second or two to compose himself. His heavy breathing came through clearly on audio. Then he explained. "There was a zombie from Washington here too. They want me to take another job."

  Clifford sensed the connection immediately. His brow creased into a frown of suspicion. "What kind of job?" he asked.

  "They didn't come too clean with the specifics, but it was obvious they intend taking further—a lot further—the experiments that we set up to prove your theories. They want me to set up a team and head it . . . to manage the whole thing formally and more thoroughly." He moistened his lips and asked: "Do you know anything about this yet . . . officially?"

  "No way."

  "That's what I thought. That's just what I damn well thought." Aub continued to glower while Clifford thought over what he had just said.

  "Where is this going to take place?" Clifford asked at last.

  Aub showed his hands and sighed. "Again, they wouldn't say. But what I did gather w
as that there are going to be lots of people in on it . . . from all kinds of places. Not just experimental particle guys like me, but the works—mathematical guys, physics guys, cosmology guys . . . you name it. They're getting a whole circus together."

  "I see . . ." Clifford murmured slowly.

  "But do you, Brad . . . really?" Aub's beard quivered with his indignation. "You can see what they're doing—they're setting up a whole high-power scientific team, on the quiet, to take your work apart and go through it. But they're not even telling you it's happening, let alone inviting you in on it. It's plain piracy. Next thing, they'll be setting up some stooge with his name in big lights all over as having started the whole business. You won't buy their apples so they're cutting you out."

  Clifford's initial calm turned to a cold, creeping anger that climbed slowly up his spine until it filled his whole being. The picture that he had long suspected was now clear. Fighting to keep himself under control, he asked, "So, what'd you do—take the job?"

  Aub shook his head firmly. "If I didn't know what I know I probably would have—it would have sounded pretty interesting—but as things were, I wanted to check out the score with you one more time. They told me the whole thing was politically sensitive and all that junk and not to breathe a word about it, but what the hell? I'm damn glad I did check it out too. Right now I'm in the right mood to go straight back upstairs and tell 'em to upstick it ass-wise."

  Clifford was still in an ugly mood ten minutes later when, downstairs in the living-room, he recounted the conversation to Sarah.

  "It's the end," he fumed, pacing from one side of the room to the other. "This time I've had it. First thing tomorrow I'm going straight in to see Edwards—and Jarrit too, if he's around—and I'm gonna spell out to the two of 'em just what I know about their setup and their neat little plans and their . . . their bullshit! They can throw me out if they like, but just to see their faces will be worth it . . . just to see them scurrying for the woodwork."

  Sarah contemplated the ceiling stoically and drummed her fingertips lightly on the arm of her chair until the pounding of his footsteps had stopped. When she sensed that he was looking at her again she lowered her eyes to meet his and shook her head slowly from side to side, at the same time smiling with a mixture of despair and amusement.