The sudden appearance of the planes and crewmen following a seventy-year absence deepens one of the consuming mysteries of the twenty-first century. Compounding the mystery is the fact that the pilots appear not to have aged a single day and to a man believe the date is still December 5, 1945.
Fifty miles west of Socorro, New Mexico, two visitors were waiting in the small lobby of the Jansky Very Large Array Radio Telescope command centre. One of the men was Gianni Becarria, who, in the estimation of his travelling companion, was exceptional in about twenty different ways. This Tony Clarke had decided after only the second ley jump they had made together. Now, after more than a dozen leaps, Tony was convinced that exceptional was too small a word. “Brother Becarria,” he said, his tone approaching reverence, “you are a genuine wonder. I cannot imagine what this must be like for you.”
Momentarily puzzled, Gianni’s brow furrowed. “Scusami?”
“Coming here . . . seeing all this . . .” Tony gestured out the observation windows at the radio telescope’s array of antennae—twenty-seven enormous, white, track-mounted satellite dishes arranged in a gigantic Y-shaped pattern—spread out across the flat, empty plain of the New Mexico desert. “For you, this is all the future. It must be a continual shock to someone born—what? Over two hundred years ago?”
“But last week I was here,” Gianni pointed out.
“Yes—but still. It must take some getting used to.”
At last, the Italian priest understood. “We are all of us travellers in time, no?” He smiled. “Some of us travel more rapidly than others, yes, but we all will inhabit the future one day.”
“Very true.” Tony turned his gaze back to the telescope and the empty desert plain sweltering beneath a crystal-blue cloudless sky. “As to that, you must have an inbuilt future-detector. I would never have believed we could return here less than a week after our first visit.” Tony shook his head with admiration. “Pure genius.”
“I may have learned a few tricks over the years,” the priest cheerfully conceded. Waving a hand at the desktop computer at the receptionist’s station, he added, “Though I admit, those machines still perplex me no end.”
Tony laughed. On their first visit, Gianni had spent almost an hour chatting with one of the techies who obligingly gave the astronomer priest a crash course in IT 101, explaining computers as one would to a five-year-old. To his credit, the techie did not appear the least perturbed by the priest’s questions, nor think it odd that someone like Gianni should demonstrate such ignorance about electronic computational capabilities of the twenty-first century. Come to think about it, Tony concluded, Gianni’s clerical collar probably helped; young Kyle was of a generation that did not expect much of priests.
Though he may not have been on the razor edge of computer technology, Gianni’s personal computational powers were supremely tuned and extremely accurate. Even including the half-day drive out from Sedona, they had managed to arrive, by Tony’s estimation, only six days and seven hours after their last visit, when they had come seeking independent confirmation of what Tony had described as an anomaly in certain calculations that might, if proven, indicate a slowing of cosmic expansion. Now, as they stood at the large picture window in the reception lobby of the Jansky VLA facility waiting for Gianni’s guest pass to materialise, Tony had a chance to marvel anew at how fluid time seemed to be when one became a ley traveller.
“They are beautiful,” said Tony, watching all twenty-seven of the gargantuan white dishes swivelling in synchronised motion to align themselves to a new trajectory. “It never fails to get the juices flowing.”
“Do you think they have had time to conclude the survey we discussed on our previous visit?” wondered Gianni.
“If not, they’ll have made a start at least—providing they got the green light from the powers that be.” Tony heard voices behind him and turned toward the reception desk. “We’ll speak to the OD right away and get a status report.”
A young man with a round face fringed in chin whiskers and wearing a green Gravity Sucks T-shirt and cargo trousers had just entered the lobby; he hurried over to meet them. “Dr. Clarke?” He held out his hand. “Really sorry to keep you waiting. We just found out you were here. Dr. Segler sent me to bring you up.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m Jason—third-year graduate assistant. I have to say, this is huge for me—I love your work. Big fan.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jason,” said Tony, taking the offered hand. “And this is Fra Becarria.” The two shook hands and Tony said, “We’re anxious to see Dr. Segler, so why don’t you lead the way.”
“No problem,” replied Jason, taking a step backward. At the check-in desk, he paused. “Oh, here. I almost forgot.” He handed Gianni a blue nylon lanyard with a plastic tag bearing the word Visitor in red letters. Lifting the little aluminium barrier tube at the side of the desk, Jason ushered his charges into the corridor, saying, “I don’t know why it always takes so long to get a pass around here. You’d think they had to carve each one out of stone or something.”
“Do you still get tourists wandering in over here from Roswell?” wondered Tony.
“Now and then,” Jason told him. “Unless there’s a convention in town.”
“An astronomical convention?” wondered Gianni.
“Nah, a UFO convention. They’re up to two or three a year over there these days. You ever been? The place is an absolute riot, man. It’s like Mecca for all the LGM hunters who believe aliens routinely visit the planet.” He looked to Gianni. “Don’t you have UFO freaks over there in Italy?”
“Perhaps,” replied Gianni. “Italy has always been a popular tourist destination.”
Jason’s pleasant face screwed up into a puzzled frown; he could not work out if Gianni was pulling his leg or not. “Cool,” he concluded with a shrug. Pushing open a door, he led them up three flights of stairs to the third floor and across a carpeted foyer to a glassed-in office; he knocked once on the door and pushed it open without waiting for a reply. “Here they are,” he announced. “Delivered safe and sound.”
Jason stepped aside, allowing Tony and Gianni to enter. A man in a crisp white short-sleeved shirt and red bow tie jumped up from behind the desk. “Tony! You’re back. Great.” He crossed the room with quick strides, holding out his hand to shake. “Good to see you again, Gianni. Welcome.”
Before either man could reply, he waved them to seats. “Please, sit down. I’ll bring you up to speed. A lot has happened since you were here.” To Jason, who was still lingering hopefully by the door, he said, “Thanks, Jaz—get these guys some coffee, please. And one for me.”
“Sure thing, chief. I’m on it.”
Jason disappeared, and the director of operations turned his attention to his desk, which was heaped with papers and graphs—all of them covered in numbers and diagrams of bewildering incomprehensibility. He pawed through them for a moment, picked up a single page, cleared his throat, and said, “I don’t mind telling you, Tony, you’ve made my cosy little life a nightmare.”
“No need to thank me,” Tony replied. “That’s what friends are for.”
“I mean it. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since you let off your bombshell—and I know I haven’t had a minute’s peace. We have every man on board working overtime here, and I’ve put on extra shifts. This is big stuff. Really big. I hope you’re planning on staying around. I could use the extra help.”
“Is anything beginning to emerge?”
“Emerge! I’ll give you emerge—” He shoved the paper in his hand at Tony. “Just look at this!”
Tony took the page and perused it briefly. “Very interesting,” he said, passing it on to Gianni, who studied it intently.
“You are kidding, right?” replied Segler. He thrust a finger at the paper in Gianni’s hands. “That little bit of interesting has the ether vibrating from here to Tokyo. The White House wants to be kept in the loop, and the NSA as well. Ten
minutes ago I was informed that we’re to expect a delegation from NASA sometime tomorrow, and I don’t think they’re coming for the fifty-cent tour.”
“It might mean a little more to us if you told us what we’re looking at,” Tony suggested, tapping the page with a finger. “What is this exactly?”
“That, my friend, is the smoking gun.”
“Gun?” wondered Gianni aloud.
“Confirmation of the scan completed yesterday—the scan conducted at your suggestion, I might add.”
“Confirmation,” echoed Tony. He glanced at Gianni, who looked over the paper once more and handed it back.
“Correcto-mundo,” declared Segler, tossing the page onto the heap once more. “I consider we now have preliminary verification of those initial readings—”
“The anomaly we pointed out,” said Tony.
“Yes, verification that the background radiation differential in sector B240-22N altered significantly since close monitoring began.”
“So it would not appear to be a system glitch.”
Segler was shaking his head. “Not a glitch, not an equipment malfunction, not a mathematical abnormality—nothing like that. Something is definitely happening out there.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Segler,” said Gianni. “What does your interpretation of the data tell you is happening out there?” He lifted his eyebrows toward the ceiling.
“Too early to tell,” replied Segler. “What I am saying is that our baseline readings are correct and that the anomaly you brought to our attention has now been confirmed. In the immortal words of Dave downstairs, ‘It ain’t no freakin’ blip.’ ”
“Then our assumption is essentially correct,” concluded Tony. “The technical equipment is not responsible for the data discrepancy.”
Segler shook his head. “Nope—not unless three separate telescopes on three separate continents experienced the same technical malfunction simultaneously.”
Jason returned with a plastic tray on which were balanced three Styrofoam cups. “I put milk in all of ’em,” he said as he handed them around. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Thanks, Jaz. You can go.” The director took a sip of coffee and then shuffled through his papers once more. “Now then—where was I . . . ?”
Jason, hovering by the door and looking hopeful, asked, “Anything else?”
“Yes, find out from Delores when the government guys are due to arrive, and tell Miranda to get guest passes made up now so we don’t have them standing around cooling their heels in the lobby half the day.”
“No problem, chief. I’m on it.” He left, closing the door behind him.
“Okay,” said Segler, digging another scrap out of the mass of paper spread before him. “Here’s the project schedule for the next forty-eight hours. On the strength of the aforementioned numbers, I’ve bumped this up to the top of our project list and given it highest priority. Officially, it is project number JA-60922.” He handed Tony the schedule. “I’ve made room for as many sessions as necessary.”
Tony glanced at the page. “How long does each pass take?”
“An observation session takes anywhere from two to ten hours—not including calibration,” Segler answered. “As you can see, we’re in the middle of the ninth session right now. I’m running three shifts to minimise downtime. Weather is not much of a consideration here, so we’re able to run flat-out most of the time.”
Tony nodded. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Sam. You seem to have covered all the bases. Who is in charge of data coordination and analysis?”
“We’re doing some, of course. The rest is being handled at Cal Tech right now, but I’ve got calls in to Rudin at Illinois–Urbana and Yeoh at UT–Austin for independent analysis and support. And this morning I put in calls to Puerto Rico, England, and Australia for backup and suggested they might want to mount their own projects. The more heads, the better.”
Tony raised his eyebrows. “Is that wise, do you think? Involving so many outsiders at this stage?”
“I’m gunning for nothing short of full corroboration from multiple independent sources,” Segler declared flatly. “We’re not messing around. Besides, if we’re right about all this, we won’t be able to keep it under wraps very much longer. There’s always the possibility that somebody else will discover it independently. And word is going to spread pretty fast once it gets out.” The director took another slug of coffee and stood. “Okay, shall we go see the Desert Rats?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Tony, getting to his feet.
The three men took the elevator down to a sub-basement level and emerged into a glass booth separating them from a large room crammed floor to ceiling with computer screens of every size—many linked up to form even larger panels. One continuous table formed a sort of ledge that ran around the perimeter of the room with arms poking into the centre; the surface of this ledge was stacked with keyboards and innumerable black boxes with myriad LEDs in blue, red, yellow, and green, all blinking away like Christmas.
A handmade sign taped to the glass door informed visitors that they were entering the domain of the Desert Rats: eight men and six women, the fourteen technical mavens inhabiting the moveable workstations scattered around the single, large open room.
Segler pushed through the door, and they instantly felt a ten-degree drop in temperature. “Ah, nice and cool. Good for the little grey cells.”
Heads swivelled as the newcomers entered, and several of those nearest the door rose to their feet to greet the visitors. Most of those present knew Tony Clarke—by reputation, if not by sight—and several hurried over to shake his hand. “Welcome, Dr. Clarke, it is a pleasure to meet you,” said a young man with prematurely grey hair cut short except for a ponytail at the back.
“This is Dr. Leo Dvorak,” said Segler. “He is TD for the facility, and he designed the program protocols we’re following on the scans. He also acts as floor manager, foreman, and union rep.”
“Keeping the rats happy, that’s me. I’m sorry I missed you before, but is there anything you’d like me to show you?”
“Gianni cannot seem to get enough of your gear,” Tony joked.
Dvorak’s eyes lit up. “Then step right this way, Gianni.” The technical director took over and proceeded to give his visitors a quick tour of the various stations, introducing the staff, who explained briefly what they were doing. Gianni gazed with unabashed fascination at all the glowing screens with their mesmerising dance of coloured graphs and diagrams, morphing blobs, coloured interference patterns, and blinking spreadsheets; in a state of continual amazement, the priest could only shake his head and murmur, “Benedicimi,” under his breath.
Tony too was impressed. “What kind of power are you using?” he asked at one point.
“We’ve got two Cray Zeus-10s linked to a multinode IBM Power8+ server, and that’s just for down here,” Dvorak told him, sounding pleased as a parent of a prodigy. “You could run the entire Northern Hemisphere from this room. Let’s just say we’ve got all the muscle we need for the job.”
“The next session is due to start at eleven,” said Dr. Segler. “Are we still on schedule, Leo?”
Dvorak called over to one of his team, who answered with a number expressed as a ratio. The technical director did a quick calculation and looked at his watch. “Yeah, we should make it,” he said. “This one runs another six hours. After that we’ll recalibrate and start number ten right away. I’m looking forward to that one.”
“Why?” wondered Tony. “What is special about scan ten?”
“It’s what I call a small bore scan of sector B240-22N,” he explained. “We’ve been getting some interesting numbers from that region, and I’m anxious to see if that represents a trend. If so, that specific region may be our canary in the coal mine.” At Gianni’s puzzled expression, he explained, “Our early-warning system.”
“A moment, please,” said Gianni. “Do you suggest that the event we are investigating is not uniformly sp
read over the cosmic horizon?”
“Doesn’t seem to be,” replied Leo. “If the preliminary results are anything to go by, it looks pretty lumpy.”
“Um, lumpy?”
“As in exhibiting a marked asymmetrical bias—which would be coherent with a category disorder unprecedented since . . .” He paused. “Well, since ever. Nothing like this has ever been seen before—”
“Thanks, Leo,” said Segler, interrupting. “We’ll let you get back to it.” He turned and, shepherding his visitors through the glass doors, led them to the elevators and up to his office once more. Gianni thanked him for allowing them to see the data centre and expressed the view that he still found it mind-boggling. Tony, however, wondered why the visit had been curtailed just when it was beginning to get interesting. “I got the feeling we were being hustled out of there,” he said. “How come, Sam?”
Segler looked up from below his brows. “Sorry about that, guys. I apologise. It’s just that Leo has a tendency to pick up the ball and run—sometimes without waiting to see which direction he should be running.”
“But if he’s right . . . ,” countered Tony.
“If he is right, we’ll all know it soon enough. If not, it would be best to refrain from upsetting people unnecessarily, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, there’s a long way to go before we know for sure what we’re dealing with.”
“I guess that’s what we’re here to find out,” replied Tony.
“How can we help?” said Gianni. “We put ourselves entirely at your service, Dr. Segler.”
The Fatal Tree Page 7