“Maybe I’ll look him up,” he said.
12. SPACE
“Do you see anything?” the pilot of the shuttle asked the co-pilot. “Our beam says we’re close, but I can’t see a thing. We should be seeing something. Some glint, some reflection. The sun is straight behind us.”
“I see nothing,” said the co-pilot. “I thought I did a minute or so ago. But there’s nothing now.”
“I’d hate to run into the damn thing,” the pilot said. “Why don’t you get on the horn, check with the station?”
The co-pilot picked up the mike. “Station,” he said. “Station, this is Shuttle. Can you tell us where we are?”
“Shuttle,” said a voice, “our readings put you right on top of it. Don’t you see anything at all? Can’t you spot it?”
“Negative. We cannot see it.”
“Sheer off,” said Station. “To the left. You’re too close. Try an approach from another angle.”
“Sheering off,” the pilot said. “We’ll get out and try a new approach.”
The co-pilot grabbed his arm. “My god,” he said, “do you see what I see? Will you look at that!”
13. WASHINGTON, D.C.
Once again, as he always did, to his continuing gratification, Dave Porter felt a deep, quiet pride in Alice Davenport, pride in being seen with her, in knowing that this splendid, lovely woman would consent to spend some time with him. She sat across the table from him in one of the dim, far corners of an intimate Washington restaurant, with candles on the table and music coming from some place far away. She lifted her glass and looked across it at him.
“It can’t be too bad yet,” she said. “You’ve not taken on that terrible haggard look that I see too often. Did everything go all right today?”
“The news briefing went off fine,” he said. “They didn’t beat me up. They were almost buddy-buddy. There were no awkward moments. I hope it can keep on that way. I’ve told the President that on this one, we have to come out clean. No holding back on anything. The meeting with the President and his men was something else again. Some of those bastards are positively paranoid.”
“They want to muffle the news?”
“Well, not really. Although I suspect some of them would be happy if I did. No, it was other things. Sullivan screaming off his head about a few trees being cut down, as if a few trees are of any great account. State insisting that we immediately set up a policy for dealing with the visitor. The CIA counseling that we keep secret all that we may learn from it. Whiteside worrying about how we can defend ourselves against it.”
“Dave, you say the President and his men, as if you were not one of the President’s men. You don’t really like these men, do you? The men the President has around him.”
“It isn’t a question of whether I like them or not. I have to work with them. But on my own terms. More and more I am seeing that I have to do that. Some of them I like. Jack Clark, the presidential military aide—I like him. We generally see eye to eye.”
“Actually,” said Alice, “we don’t know what our Minnesota visitor is.”
“No, of course we don’t. Not the slightest idea. It seems quite apparent that it came from space, but that is all we know. Some of these men we were talking about aren’t even willing to admit that much, including our science advisor. Not knowing what it is is not to be wondered at. It landed a little more than twenty-four hours ago. We’ll be lucky if we have any real idea of what it is by this time next week. It may take months to know.”
“If it stays that long.”
“That, too. It may not stay more than a day or two. If that should be the case, it will give us something to talk about and argue about for years. All sorts of conjecture. All sorts of ideas about how its reception could have been handled differently. All sorts of theories about what we should have done. I hope it stays long enough for us to get a few things nailed down.”
“What I am afraid of, if it stays long enough,” said Alice, “is that we’ll get angry at it, for cutting down some of our precious trees or for some other reasons. Dave, we can’t afford to hate this thing. We can’t allow ourselves to become filled with a blind hatred for it. We may not love it, but we must respect it as another life form.”
“There,” said Porter, “speaks the true anthropology student.”
“You can make fun of me if you want to,” she said, “but that’s the way it has to be, for our own good. There probably is other life in the universe and if there’s life, there should be some intelligence—but it’s unlikely there are too many intelligences . . .”
“Alice, we don’t even know if this thing is alive, let alone intelligent.”
“There must be intelligence. It landed on a road; it picked its landing site. It is cutting down trees and extracting cellulose. That would argue some intelligence.”
“A pre-programmed machine . . .”
“I can’t accept that,” said Alice. “It requires too much. A preprogrammed machine would have to be programmed to respond to millions of situations and environments. I doubt that could be done. When the visitor landed, it could have had no preconceived notions of what kind of planet it was landing on. A general idea, maybe, but that is all. Even if it were only a machine and was capable of all these things that seem so impossible there would have to be, somewhere, an intelligence that put the program into it.”
“I know. You can talk around in circles on it.”
“You cannot sidetrack the conclusion,” said Alice, “that an intelligence somehow is involved. We shy away from it, of course, because of our biological bias. Such a thing as that big black box, we say, cannot be alive. There’s no living thing on Earth like it, so it cannot be alive. It’s so illogical, too. That’s another reason we recoil from it. It’s processing cellulose and why should it want cellulose? We use cellulose to make paper and perhaps other things as well. I’m not up on cellulose. But this thing can’t be intending to make paper, so it makes sense. No one has stopped to consider that cellulose may be a treasure to it, that trees are a bonanza. Just like gold or diamonds would be to us. It may have traveled across many light-years to find a planet where cellulose exists. There wouldn’t be, throughout the galaxy, too many planets where trees, or the equivalent of trees, would grow in abundance.”
“I have the horrible feeling,” said Porter, “that you are leading up to something.”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “A parallel in history that may teach a lesson. Here is a thing that plops down on top of us and begins to take what it wants, without asking us, ignoring us—doing the same thing the white men did when they came to the Americas or to Africa or wherever else they went. As arrogant as we were, as self-satisfied, as assured of our right to do it.”
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that there are others who will be saying the same thing. You are the first, but there will be others. The Indians, for one.”
“The native Americans,” said Alice.
“All right. Have it your way. Native Americans.”
“There’s another thing,” she said. “We have to make every effort to communicate with our visitor. It may have so many things to tell us. Some things, perhaps, that we have never even thought about, have never conceptualized. New viewpoints and perspectives. What we could learn from it may change our lives. Turn us around. I have always thought that somewhere along the way, we got off on a wrong track. The visitor, just possibly, could put us back on the right track.”
“I agree with you,” he said, “but how do we go about talking with it? To do any good, if it’s capable of doing us any good, it couldn’t be just pidgin talk. It would have to be a meaningful conversation. That might be hard to come by—if we can talk with it at all.”
“It would take time,” she said. “We’ll have to be patient. We must give it, and ourselves, a chance. Above all, we should do nothing to drive it away. We should hang in there, no matter what it takes.”
“So far, Alice, there has been no suggestion that we
should drive it away. Even if we wanted to, there’s no one who has the least idea of how to go about it.”
14. LONE PINE
Kathy woke in the middle of the night, huddling in the bed, cringing against the darkness and cold of the motel room pressing down upon her.
The cold, she thought, the cold and darkness. And knew that she was not thinking so much of the present cold and darkness, here in this small room, as of the cold and darkness through which the visitor had passed to arrive on Earth.
Had she been dreaming of it, she wondered, the dream, now forgotten, translating into this first waking moment? If so, she had no recollection of the dream.
But the thought of the visitor and of the chill emptiness of outer space still continued to persist. From how far out, she wondered, had it come? Perhaps across light-years, with the glint of unknown suns faint specks of hazy light in the all-engulfing darkness. Propelled across the cosmos, driven by a purpose of its own, driven by an emptiness of soul as deep and wide as the emptiness of galactic space, driven by a hunger unlike the hunger that an inhabitant of the planet Earth might feel, seeking, perhaps, the Earth or another planet like the Earth. And why the Earth, or a planet like the Earth? Because it would have trees? Fiercely, she shook her head, for it must be more than that. There must be something more than trees.
Maybe, she told herself, it was doing no more than exploring, mapping the galaxy, or following some dim, cobbled-together chart that some earlier traveler might have put together, following it in the fulfillment of a mission that the human mind might not even have the capability to grasp.
The cold and dark, she thought again, wondering why it was that she continued to come back to the cold and dark. But there would be more, she thought, than the cold and dark. There would be, as well, the loneliness, the smallness of one’s self in the never-ending gulf where there could exist no flicker of compassion or even of awareness, but only a great uncaring that took no notice of anything that moved or made its way across it. What kind of creature, she wondered, could stand up in the face of this great uncaring? What kind of creature could consign itself to the maw of nothingness? What sort of motive must it have to drive itself into the continuing emptiness? Perhaps it had a purpose—for to do what it had done, there must be a purpose. But if its purpose were the Earth, then it could not have known when it started out that it would achieve its purpose. Certainly, no one in even the most shallow depths of space could know of Earth, or have any inkling of Earth.
Poor lonely thing, she thought. Poor frightened eater of the trees. Poor creature of so far away, coming into Earth from the great uncaring.
15. WASHINGTON, D.C.
Porter had gotten into his pajamas and was turning down his bed when the phone rang. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table; it was almost two o’clock.
“This is Jack,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Jack Clark. Were you asleep?”
“In just another minute, I would have been.”
“Dave, I think this is important. Can you come down to the White House? Meet us in your office.”
“Who is us?”
“Me, NASA, the science advisor, Whiteside.”
“Not the President?”
“He’s asleep. We don’t want to wake him. There are a few things we should talk out.”
“Such as?”
“Your line is not secured. I can’t tell you. I repeat, it is important.”
“Be there in ten, maybe fifteen, minutes.”
“On second thought, maybe I should get the White House Chief of Staff in on this too. You have any objection?”
“Hammond? Sure. Why not? By all means, get him in.”
“All right, then. We’ll be expecting you.”
Porter put the phone back in the cradle. Now what the hell? he wondered. Clark was excited and concerned; it could be heard in his tone of voice. Perhaps, Porter thought, no one else could have known. But he did. He’d known Jack Clark for a long time.
He took another look at the bed. Why not just sack out, he asked himself, and to hell with Clark and the others? God knows, he needed the rest. In the last twenty-four hours, he had logged little sleep. But he knew that he was only trying the thought on for size. In fifteen minutes, he would be walking down the corridor toward the press office. He started taking off his pajamas, heading for the chest of drawers to get socks and underwear.
In the driveway, before he got into the car, he stood for a moment, looking at the sky. The night was crisp and clear. There were only a few clouds in the sky. Somewhere to the north some distance off, he could hear the mutter of a plane coming in to land. He looked for the blinking lights of the craft, but they could not be seen. Out in the street, fallen leaves made a rustling sound as they were driven along the pavement by the wind.
Everyone except Hammond was present and waiting when he entered the door of the press room. Against the wall, the wire machines made soft chortling noises. The kitchen had brought up coffee; a gleaming urn sat on one of the desks, with white coffee mugs ranged in a huddled group.
Whiteside had taken the chair behind Porter’s desk, was teetering back and forth in it. Crowell, the NASA man, and Dr. Allen sat side by side on a small sofa. Clark was filling coffee cups preparatory to passing them out. Hammond came striding briskly through the door.
“What is going on?” he asked. “You sounded urgent, Jack.”
“I don’t know how urgent,” said Clark. “It’s something we should talk over. The shuttle went out and the station has sent the word.”
“What kind of word?”
Clark gestured toward Crowell. All eyes in the room turned to the man from NASA.
“The new object in space,” said Crowell, “as many of us have suspected, but didn’t want to talk out loud about, very definitely has a connection with the visitor that came down in Minnesota.” He looked about the room.
“How connected?” asked Hammond.
“It’s not an object at all, in the classical sense of the term. It is a cluster of the visitors, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. No one so far has taken the time to compute how many there could be.”
“You mean a swarm of them clustered in the form of a wheel?” Crowell nodded. “We should have known without even going out to look. Telescopic observation from the station should have tipped us off. The observers saw no solid object, what they saw was a collection of discrete particles.”
“Not exactly discrete particles,” said Clark.
“From the distance of a thousand miles, they would have seemed to be.”
“But they still remain in the cluster,” said Hammond. “What I mean, they’re not beginning to break up.”
“We can’t be sure,” said Crowell. “The two men on the shuttle said they seemed to be sort of unraveling at the edge. All the visitors—visitors is an awkward word, but I don’t know what else to call them—all the visitors at the edge of the disc didn’t seem to be as neatly tucked away as they should have been. Whether this means the swarm is beginning to break up, we don’t know. If you carry the analogy to that of a swarm of bees, that situation could be quite normal. In a swarm of bees, while the swarm itself may be intact, there are always quite a number of bees in motion around the edges of the swarm, jockeying around to find a more secure place where they can fit themselves. That may be the case with our swarm out there. The men in the shuttle couldn’t be sure. They had trouble seeing.”
“Couldn’t see?” asked Whiteside. “What could prevent their seeing?”
“In space, objects often are hard to detect,” said Crowel. “There’s not a proper background against which to see them. You see mostly by reflected light.”
“But there’s the sun,” said Whiteside. “The swarm would have been in full sunlight. There should have been plenty of reflection.”
“General, there simply wasn’t. Which leads me to believe that we may be dealing with what amounts to black bodies.”
“Black bodies? I�
��ve heard the term, but . . .”
“Bodies that absorb all energy, in this case, the radiation from the sun. A perfect black body would absorb all energy, reflect none at all.”
“Why, certainly,” said Allen. “I should have suspected that. Should have known it, in fact. To navigate through space, a fair amount of energy is needed. That’s the way these things get their energy. There isn’t much, but they get all there is. Not only from the suns in space, however feeble the radiations from those suns may be, but from anything else from which they could extract energy. The impact of micrometeorites would give them some. Kinetic energy, of course, but probably they could transform that into potential energy. Cosmic rays, and cosmic rays have a lot of energy. All other kinds of radiation. They’d gobble it all up. They’d be energy sponges.”
“Doctor, you’re sure of that?” asked Hammond, drily.
“Well, no, not exactly. Certainly I’m not certain of it. But the hypothesis is sound. It could be the way it works. There’d have to be some such means for a space-going machine to extract sufficient energy for it to keep going.”
He said to Crowell, “Even before you told us what the object is, I had a hunch we’d find what you describe. My men at Lone Pine report the visitor there is sending out signals, modulated signals, which would argue that it is in communication with something. And I asked myself what could it be communicating with. The answer seemed to be others of its kind. No one else could decode the garbage that it’s sending.”
“Which means,” said Whiteside, “that it is telling all of its relatives out there what fine forests it has found. Inviting them in to eat their fill. In a little while, there may be others tumbling down, landing in our forests and tucking their napkins underneath their chins.”
“Henry,” said Hammond, “you’re jumping to conclusions again. We can’t be sure of that.”
“The possibility exists,” said the general, stubbornly.
The Complete Serials Page 163
