by Greg Bear
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Fowler pulled change out of his pocket and counted the quarters to see if he had enough to complete the call. He fit the stack of coins into the telephone slot and waited for the switching-equipment sounds to give way to strong ringing. It was seven o'clock; he was trying Burnford's home phone. George Burnford had been a party-going acquaintance in the early days of Fowler's marriage. Since then they'd talked over the phone off and on. It wasn't the sort of friendship that allowed the kind of request he was about to make, but Burnford was the best choicethe only choicefor what he had in mind. Hello. It was Burnford's wife, Sheila. Fowler remembered her clearlytall, classically proportioned, with a hard-edged beauty that was almost masculine, and a warmth that was entirely feminine. Fowler had often daydreamed about her, but he was an honorable man. He had never actively moved in on married women. Not even his wifebut he cleared the accusation away quickly. Sheila, this is Larry Fowler." Larry ... good to hear from you. It's been kalpas." Uh ... yes, yes. Long time. He had always felt a bit inferior to George and Sheila. Their minds seemed to absorb knowledge on a plane quite different from his own. Something important has come up and I have to speak with George." Sure. He's in the garagejust a moment and I'll bring him to the phone." Fowler waited in the booth, looking across the restaurant at Prohaska's back. They'd just finished dinner and the reporter was having a last cup of coffee. There wasn't much else to do in Bishop, not when they couldn't keep their minds off the cabin. Dorothy had eaten with them and was now back in the hotel room. She and Fowler had made love the night before. It hadn't been very good for either of them. She wouldn't talk about it, but Fowler thought he knew what was going on. She was even more of a realist than he was, a confirmed agnostic with a distaste for anything religious. She had been brought up in Catholic schools and had been, in her own words, inoculated against religion, and now the antibodies are very, very strong." Burnford approached the phone, shouting something to one of their children. Larry! I thought you had a big sale going in Antarctica. Haven't heard from you in" George, I'm about to impose on you." Burnford paused, wary. Oh? What is it, you need advice on semiconductors for your fifth-generation computers?"
Nothing so easy. Before I ask, do I sound crazy to you?"
No more than usual. You still going with the woman in that Greene and Greene house?"
Still going."
Good. I like her."
'She's here with me nowin Bishop. I'd like you to come up here, too."
Something happen, Larry?"
No accidents, nothing like that. But we need your experience and advice. Hell, I'll be truthfulwe need your prestige." What's going on? Where the hell is Bishopno, wait, is that up past Lone Pine, out in the boonies?" Sort of. I've found something very interesting up here and I need you to confirm my ideas on it." Don't tell me. You've found a meteorite and you don't want to let anybody know until you've had it assayed and sold." No. Good guess. Something maybe much older than a meteorite, not nearly so solid." Burnford paused again. You willing to spring for plane fare?" Absolutely." Put me up for a couple of nights in a ritzy hotel?" You've got it."
Hell, this is beginning to sound like a free vacation. I have a seminar to finish up, then I have about a week free before ... wait a sec, let me look at the calendar here. No, Jesus, Christmas break is coming up. All the time in the world. My seminar is over tomorrow. Is this as important as you make it sound?" It is indeed. I couldn't hope for anything more important. I think you'll be impressed. So far, it's been very reliable." Larry, are you drunk?" Sober as a judge. Too much coffee, in fact." I'll ask Sheila" George, wait. I don't think you should bring Sheila. This is business."
Sheila knows my business and enjoys it." I'm having trouble with Dot. She saw what I'm talking about. It's upset her quite a bitI don't want to get anybody else involved if I can avoid it."
You're sounding ominous now. What in hell do you have up there?"
I don't know. But if you can figure out what it is, you'll probably get a Nobel. Either that, or you'll be banned from every university in the country." There was silence on the other end of several seconds. Larry, tell me truly noware you imposing on me, or is this really important?" It couldn't be more important. He decided to use his trump card. It may help us understand what happened in Lorobu. Having said it, he almost regretted it. And Haverstock. Prohaska had read stories about the closing off of several square miles in the Illinois suburb; they had put two and two together. Nobody's supposed to know about the connection with Haverstock, Burnford said. Then how do you know? Fowler asked, suddenly catching the physicist's change in tone. Larry, we could all get in a lot of trouble if this is a hoax. Can you tell me any more about it?" Not a thing. You'd stay away from here like it was the plague if I came out and told you." Shit. The expletive was quiet and deliberate. Never mind paying for expenses. I'll take care of it. I'll
Psychlone leave Sheila here, and I'll give you three days to show it to mewhatever it is. Fair enough?" Perfect." I'll call you when I get plane reservations. No, wait, I can give them to you now. I'll be there at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon, a private flight. We'll talk then. He hung up without saying good-bye. Fowler put the receiver on its hook and stared at the black phone book for a moment. Something funny was going on. There was no way Burnford could afford to privately charter a plane. And Burnford was apparently not used to the idea yet, either. Fowler walked back to the counter and sat on the seat beside Prohaska. Well? the reporter asked. He's coming tomorrow. It sounds like he's canceling an important seminar to be here. And he's coming in a privately chartered plane." You didn't say he was rich." He isn't." So?" I think we're getting in deeper than we thought." That's pretty deep, Prohaska said, lifting his cup to drain it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The biological laboratory was housed in Lorobu's clinic. Special modular units had been brought in to supplement the clinic's meager facilities, and trailers filled the parking area and a dirt lot behind the building. Generators hummed monotonously in the still afternoon air. Jacobs was very tired. Since breaking for lunch, the apparently tireless Beckett had taken him through ten or twelve buildings, and now was prepared to show him the heart of the project. He held up a hand in-protest, took a deep breath, and sat in one of the chairs in the clinic lobby. This is too much, all at once, he said. Give an old man a chance to rest." Beckett sat beside him and apologized. We just don't have much time." The third name on our listafter Percher in Haverstockthat man lived in Dayton, Ohio. There was a gap of three weeks between Lorobu and Haverstock. How long before something happens to Dayton?" You think the connection is that clear-cut? Whatever it is is going to follow Miss Unamuno's list?" I would hate to gamble that it won't." Why would it follow any list?" I don't know, Jacobs said. Do those coffee machines work? He pointed across the lobby to a bank of vendors along one wall. No, they're off-limits. Silly that they should be, but they are. I'm sure the staff has some coffee brewing. I'll get you a cup." Make it strong, Jacobs said. I'll wait here. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Facts and figures whirled inside. All the men died at Hiroshima or Nagasaki or both. Where did they die in the cities? Were they executed before or after the bombings, or were they killed by the bombs themselves? Beckett wasn't sureshe wasn't privy to such important dataand he couldn't make any worthwhile guesses until he knew. Still, a theory was already forming, one so incredible he was unwilling to voice it. The spirits of the dead did not behave in such a fashion. Unless... He sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. That way led to madness. All his life he had believed that there was life after death, and his experience with mediums and psychics had reinforced that belief. At the same time, the world had become increasingly more materialistic, less willing to make a commitment regarding things beyond matter and simple energy. The usual flurries of spiritual reawakening had swept the country, but they had been weak outbursts, hardly affecting the practical side of the nation's life. His career had been looked upon by friend
s and critics with a kind of impatient, liberal tolerance, much as Jacobs looked upon any homosexual dalliance Trumbauer may have engaged in in the past. Each to his own... And he himself had often looked upon his work with the same amused indecision. Even regarding his own death, he had never felt impelled to fear the possibility of total extinction. Any existence afterward was icing on the cake. Now he felt more than half a fool. The world was so full of disasters, fears, hatredsto actively suggest that ghosts of dead servicemen were responsible for the deaths of several thousand people was more than he could do. But he couldn't do otherwise. He believed in Miss Unamuno and Trumbauer and what they had found, along with their reluctant comrades. He couldn't help but believe in the correlation between Miss Unamuno's list and the names scrawled in many of the houses. Most vivid in his mind was the shack of Kevin Land, an alcoholic. Lieutenant William Skorvin, USN had been written all over the ragged walls, along with rough pictures. The instrument had been a marking pen. Before it had run out of ink, to be discarded under the metal frame bedwhere it still lay, secured with a piece of masking tapeLand had recorded an astonishing history of boyhood in Lorobu. Since Skorvin had lived in Lorobu, Beckett guessed they had been boyhood friends. In the hours before his death, before mortally wounding the sheriff, Land had relived those years. The record was heartbreaking. Schoolrooms, constructing a clubhouse, double-dating, repairing old cars ... and then Skorvin getting married, going off to war, his wife dying in an automobile accident in 1944 (the year came from old town records). Land, after the war, realizing the world would never be the same, guessing that Skorvin's body lay rotting in some jungle in a tangle of rusted metal (that drawing was particularly clear), had become disgusted with the world. Drink and delusion followed. For twenty-five years, Land had worked at odd jobs, with long periods of abstinence alternating with equally long periods of binge. Now they were gone, leaving only the pictures. And not even in death could they rest, if Trumbauer's early guess was accurate. The psychlone had snatched them up, forced them along. But how could the souls of a few dozen, even a few hundred, men do such a thing? In all the history of psychic phenomenon, there was no parallel. Lorobu and Haverstock were completely new. Why? Beckett brought the cup of coffee and sat beside him again. Maybe we should call it a day, go have some supper and turn in." No. There's too little time, as you said. Give me a few minutes to call my wife. I have to tell her to do some things in the greenhouse. I forgot to do them myself before I left. Then you can take me through the labs. I'm very interested." His conversation with Millicent over an Army phone in the clinic office was attended by a security officer and lasted five minutes. He was careful to say nothing and answer all her questions obliquely. He was allowed to tell her he couldn't say much for the moment, and she didn't press him. The garden was doing well, she said, despite the cold weather. It had rained a little, not enough to matter. His publisher had called. Was the second third of his new book ready for final typing, and could it be sent off to satisfy the editors? He supposed it was, and told her to carefully correct his spelling and grammar. She always did that. She was the only person he trusted to clean up his often sloppy prose. She had once said, Franklin is the strength, I am the finesse, and that was true. You sound tired, she said toward the end of the call. Are they treating you all right?" Sure. By the way, Arnold and ... Arnold is going to be in Albuquerque, in fact, he's probably there already. He can't tell you any more than I, but call him and remind him we're thinking of him." He self-consciously hid his mouth and whispered a few obligatory sweet nothings, then hung up. It's not enough to talk with loved ones over the phone, he told Beckett as they walked down the main corridor of the clinic. Where is your husband, by the way?" In Alaska, on a little island called Afognak, just off Kodiak." It must be very secluded." It is. We haven't talked in two weeks. He's a zoologist, studying elk herds in isolated areas. We went to school together at Stanford." Sounds like an interesting relationship." Beckett brightened and took him by the arm. I think Dan would like to meet you. He'd tear you apart in a debate, or try to, though. He's even more of a realist than I am. But he was the one who brought your books home. He scoffed and snorted, but he read them." Many of my readers are like that. It's fashionable to scoff and snort, but curiosity is primal, above all fashion." She showed him a lab modulea balloon, actually, fitted with remote-control manipulating arms, encased in a box of transparent lucite. It was eight feet on a side, and within were several dozen boxes filled with a variety of laboratory animals. The module wasn't in use at the moment. We were hoping what happened would happen again. If it affected the animalslike it did the first timewe might determine the cause. The plastic cube is filled with sterilizing gas at a lower pressure than the outside air. The balloon's pressure is slightly higher, but still below the outside. Two lines of defense." Other modules contained gardens and vats of various algae. Still smaller units carried complete culture equipment for microorganisms. One cubicle, larger than the others, was filled with a foggy gas. Dimly visible in its interior was a human cadaver. Beckett didn't elaborate. Whether time is short or not, I think that's enough for today. You're walking like a zombie. Why not have dinner with me, then I'll escort you to your room. Silvera will probably want you up early tomorrow." Jacobs agreed and followed her to the cafeteria, several olive-drab mobile homes parked and connected lengthwise. The food was plain but acceptable, nothing like what Millicent would have fixed at home. My wife always does the sauces and plans the menu, and I do the mechanics of cooking, he explained as they walked back to the inn. That's the secret of success in marriageboth partners must be master chefs." Beckett laughed. Psychlone Silvera was standing in the lobby. He greeted them and Beckett left for the communications trailer. I'm waiting for a special phone call, Silvera said. Did you find the tour educational?" That's not the word, exactly, Jacobs said. No, I suppose not. This call may interest you." If it concerns Trumbauer and Miss Unamuno, yes." It does. I'm sure we can use you on the project, if only as a backup man in case science doesn't save the day. The Army likes to cover its tracks." But you aren't so sure about Arnold and Miss Unamuno." Why do you always call her Miss'?" I don't know. It's the name she prefers, and Arnold senses that, and I follow Arnold's lead. Am I right about them?" Yes." That's why you sent them to Albuquerque." Partly, Silvera said. But there was another reason. If we can use them, we'll want to send them someplace, and we can move them faster from there than from here." Where would they go?" I'm not free to say. Not right now. Just be sure you understand my position." I'll try. In the meantime, I'll rest for tomorrow. Mrs. BeckettJudithtells me there's a long day ahead." He walked up the stairs with a heavy tread. He doubted he would sleep very well. His mind was engaged, running full speed, even though he was exhausted. The facts weren't connecting properly. He didn't have the expertise. But then, who in the world did?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Tim stood in the Albuquerque bus terminal, shivering, staring at the rack of magazines. Faces of pretty women stared back, smiling happily. He wiped a tear off his cheek and swore under his breath. This was it. This was the end of the trip. It was too cold outside to go anywhere with the clothes he was wearing. He was already sniffling. Off and on, he wished he had stayed in Salt Lake City, but that was purely selfish and he knew it. He would have killed somebody if he had stayed there much longer. He had to face the fact that he was not equipped to get very far in the world. Nor could he solve the problems that had ruined his family, his life. They were beyond him. It was hard to take. Being twelve years old and powerless was something Tim had never thought about before, and he resented the force of the realization. Kids were put upon, but more than that, they were sequestered, controlled, looked after, given the secrets about survival piece by piece instead of in one grand, practical course. And kids were small, weak, born victims. It would be years before he was grown up. It won't be that way with us It wasn't that he was afraid of dyingthough he didn't like the idea of being where his parents were nowbut giving up when he had come
this far made him furious. The tears started to flow freely. He tried to stop them, to be a man, to be tough like his father had been (except when Grandmother had died) but it didn't work. Until now, he hadn't cried at all. It was all bottled up. He kicked the magazine stand and hurt his foot. He bent down and ripped at the faces of the pretty women, scattering bits of them across the dirty tile floor. A clerk tried to grab him, but he kicked and clawed and broke away, screaming with rage and grief, then ran through the swinging doors into the cold. It was dark and the stars were out. Wind blasted around the corners of the buildings, luffing his sweater as he ran. His face stung. A group of Mexican boys in ragged coats and parkas turned in unison to watch him. He stopped. Something warm to wear. You can get it He didn't want to, but he was cold. A hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw a heavy-set man in a long tan coat. Tim Townsend? the man asked. Tim ran and collided with a tall black man in a dark suit. He pinned Tim's arms effectively. Tim glared. The tears came again and he opened his mouth in a silent wail. Here, boy, the black man said, taking off his suit coat and wrapping it around Tim. Come with us. We have warm food and hot cocoa for you."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
What will it do if the rivers freeze? Prohaska asked. I don't know. The water runs pretty fast, and it isn't that cold at night yet. We should have a few more days. The wind whipping across the small airport runway was sharp. Fowler could feel the winter getting deeper; when the ice was frozen, he knew the thing would be free again. He didn't want to think about it. Dorothy watched them from the windows of the small airport restaurant, bundled up in a coat with a fur collar. Prohaska lit a cigarette and puffed on it quickly, leaning his head back. At any rate, he said, with the whole valley to run around in, it'll come after us if we go back to the cabin. It hasn't failed us yet." Maybe it's been frightened by the trap. Maybe it won't come near the place again, just hide in the woods." Be optimistic. Either way, we win. If it doesn't show, we don't have to face it again. If it does, we'll be vindicated and Burnford will get his Nobel." If it doesn't show, Prohaska said, I won't have any story to write and my station will fire me. You'll look like a fool. Hell, the sheriff is already denying he saw anything." When did you hear that?" Stories have leaked out. Parkins is doing his civic best to keep the town from storming the valley, or panicking, or whatever he thinks they'll do. But I know him better than that. He's sure there's something up there. I doubt he'll go back with us." A speck broke through the scudding clouds. Fowler pointed at it. There he is, I think. It was a twin-engine Cessna, banking to make the turn to the runway. The wind knocked Prohaska's cigarette ash away. The plane wobbled on its approach, then swerved, but made a good touchdown and taxied to the apron. Fowler walked over and stood nervously by the wing until the props were still. He waved at Burnford. The doors opened and the physicist and his pilot stepped onto the wing, then down to the cement. That's a government plane, Prohaska said, walking up behind Fowler. He pointed to the letters on the door and the side. Larry, good to see you, Burnford said, shaking hands. Fowler introduced him to the reporter. The pilot walked around the plane and joined them. Larry, Sam, this is Fritz Williams. He's my sidekick for this trip." George, are you working with the government on something? Fowler asked, squinting at him suspiciously. You better believe it, Burnford said. Let's go inside where it's warm." This way, Fowler said, pointing to the restaurant. Inside, Dorothy was gone. As the others seated themselves at a table. Fowler asked the waitress about her. She had called a cab and left a few minutes before. Did she say where she was going? The woman shrugged. He rubbed his neck and returned to the table. Prohaska raised his eyebrows but Fowler shook his head. What are you involved with? he asked Burnford. I'm not at liberty to discuss that, as the screenwriters put it, Burnford said, looking through the menu. He hadn't changed in ten years. He was still youthful-looking, with tanned, smooth skin and a meticulously neat, short haircut. His moustache was full and added weight to a stubby nose and heavy eyebrows. Iced tea, he told the waitress, and a tuna sandwich." The pilot shook his head. Nothing so chilly for me. Hot coffee, a bowl of soupif it's bean soup like the menu saysand a cheese sandwich." We've already eaten, Fowler said. Williams stacked the menus and handed them to the woman, then waited until she was gone. Gentlemen, Mr. Burnford is in my care, and I take my duties seriously. He's less used to government red tape than I am, so I may interrupt him or tell him to shut up occasionally. Please don't take offense. I'm just doing my job." Now you understand why I said you'd better be serious, Larry, Burnford said. These people mean business. What do you have for us?" Fowler looked warily between them. I don't know if it has anything to do with Lorobu, he began. But the modus operandi is the same. A friend of mine and his father were driven to murder-suicide in a cabin not far from here. We stayed in that cabin for several days." And?" We know they weren't responsible for what they did. Something got into their minds, drove them mad. I think we've captured it now." Captured what, and how? Williams asked. It's natural, it's not anything mystical or from a horror movie" Bullshit, pardon the expression, Prohaska said. You scientists will spend all day trying to tell us what it isn't. He looked at Williams. It's a demon. Maybe not in the modern conception, but in the Greek conception. A demon. An immaterial being." Burnford took his iced tea from the waitress and drank a sip, waiting for her to leave. Okay, he said, putting down the glass. Do you have any hard evidence?" Several days of chart record from thermometers and a microwave detector, plus some film we haven't developed yet. We saw it; it beat up Sam pretty badly." I was wondering about those bruises, Williams said. What did it look like?" At first, nothing. Then, a giant pig, a boar with tusks. I think it took the image from our minds, or perhaps from the Taggarts mindsthe people who were killed. Jordan and Henry, father and son. I went to school with Henry and he asked me up here to investigate odd things around the cabin. This was before Lorobuor maybe about the same time, I'm not sure." You think they're directly connected? Williams asked. No, I don't, Fowler said. But I won't rule out an indirect connection. I believe it stays in the valley. But now it has an even smaller range. A few days ago, a new dam started trickling water through the valley as part of a planned runoff. The water forms two creeks around the cabin, which is on a rise. The thing doesn't seem to be able to cross running water." The water will freeze soon, Prohaska said, glancing at Fowler. We don't know if it can get across frozen water. We'd like you to see the place as soon as possible." What kind of a demon is it? Burnford asked. You ask that so calmly, Fowler said, smiling. You aren't just humoring us?" We're dead serious, Mr. Fowler, Williams said. It behaves partly like a poltergeist, throwing rocks and stuff, making noises, causing hallucinations. I don't know if poltergeists can cause hallucinations, but this thing can. Delusions. It can move objects and shape them. The cabin has a gravel road. It manifests itself as a boar made out of gravel. The gravel fell on Sam and that's what bruised him." Damned thing threw a few hundred pounds of it right at me. My ribs are bandaged, but nothing serious. All the same, I'd like to get revenge." Psychlone Why does it do these things? Burnford asked. Because it hates people, or wants to be alone, Fowler said. How can we be sure of its motives?" I mean, is it evil or just like a wild animal?" More like a wild animal, Fowler said. I feel differently, Prohaska said. But Larry's right, we can't be sure." What do you think? Burnford asked. When that load of rocks landed on me, I could feel it controlling me, gloating. It hated my guts and it had fun hating me. It may be natural, but as far as I'm concerned, it's evil as hell." From hell, you think? Williams asked. No, Larry's right there. It seems to just stay in the valley, like a moose in its territory." Williams nodded slowly, then picked up his leather folio and brought out triplicate affidavits.
