by Greg Bear
19
October 10
Edward Shaw learned of the Guest’s death two days later, when they all received a visit from Colonel Phan. After a ten-minute warning, in which time Edward quickly dressed, the curtains were drawn and all four of them faced the small, muscular brown man in his pin-neat blue uniform, standing in the central laboratory.
“How long have we got, Doc?” Minelli asked. He had been getting more and more flippant, less predictable, as the days passed. He talked often of the President and how they would soon be “outta this dump.” His speech more and more resembled a comic imitation of James Cagney. Minelli had never reacted well to overbearing authority. Edward had heard of a time, years before Minelli came to Austin, when he had been jailed on a minor dope charge, and had bloodied his face against a jailhouse door. Edward worried about him.
“You are all healthy, with no signs of contamination or illness,” Phan said. “I plan no more tests for you. You have heard from your duty officer, I believe, that the Guest is dead. I have finished the first level of autopsy, and found no microbiologicals anywhere within its system. It appears to have been a completely sterile creature. This is good news for you.”
“No bugs, m’lady,” Minelli said. Edward winced.
“I have recommended that you be released,” Phan said, staring levelly at each in turn. “Though I do not know when they will do so. As the President said, there are security concerns.”
Edward saw Stella Morgan through her window and smiled at her. She did not return the smile; perhaps the light was wrong and she did not see him; perhaps she was feeling as depressed as Reslaw, who seldom said anything now.
The combination of free interaction through the intercom and separate confinement seemed to undermine the camaraderie Edward thought was typical of prison camp inmates. They were not being abused. They had nothing really solid to fight against. Their confinement, until now at least, had not been senseless. Consequently, they were not “drawing together” as Edward thought they might. Then again, he had never before been held in long-term detention. Maybe his expectations were simply naive.
“We are preparing papers that you will sign, promising not to speak of these last few days—”
“I won’t sign anything like that,” Minelli said. “There aren’t any best-sellers if I sign that. No agents, no Hollywood.”
“Please,” Phan said patiently.
“What about Australia?” Edward asked. “Are you talking with them?”
“Conferences begin today in Washington,” Phan said.
“Why the wait? Why didn’t everybody start talking weeks ago?”
Phan did not answer. “Personally, I hope all is made public soon,” he said.
Edward tried to control a building anger. “Why can’t we get together? Take us out of here and put us in a BOQ or something.”
“Barbecue?” Minelli snorted.
“Bachelor officer’s quarters,” Edward explained, his lower lip trembling. He was beginning to cry. He checked that response immediately, putting on an air of indignant rationality. “Really. This is hell. We feel like we’re in jail.”
“Worse. We can’t make zip guns or knives,” Minelli said. “Bottom of the world, Ma!”
Phan regarded Minelli with an expression between irritation and concern. “That is all I have to tell you now. Please do not worry. I am sure you will be compensated. In the meantime, we have new infodisks.”
“Goody,” Minelli said. As Phan turned away, he shouted, “Wait! I’m not feeling well. Really. Something’s wrong.”
“What is it?” Phan asked, gesturing to a watch supervisor behind him.
“In my head. Tell them, Reslaw.”
“Minelli’s been disturbed recently,” Reslaw said slowly. “I’m not doing too well, myself. He doesn’t sound good. He’s different.”
“I’m different,” Minelli concurred. Then he began to weep. “Goddammit, just put us back out where the rocks are. Let us go in our truck. I’ll sign anything. Really. Please.”
Phan glanced at them all, then turned and left abruptly. The curtains hummed back into place. Edward’s drawer opened and he removed a newspaper and the new packet of infodisks. Hungrily, he read yesterday morning’s headline.
“Christ,” he muttered. “They know about the President. Stella!” He punched her number on the intercom. “Stella, they know the President came out here!”
“I’m reading,” she said.
“Do you think your mother got through?”
“I don’t know, really.”
“We can hope,” Edward said.
Minelli was still weeping.
20
Hicks lay back against a pillow in the Lincoln Bedroom, a foot-high stack of reports on the round draped night-stand beside him, a small glass-globed lamp glowing softly above the reports. The late Empire-period pendulum clock on the marble mantelpiece ticked softly, steadily. The large, high-ceilinged room looked haunted, in a cozy sort of way; haunted by history, by association. This had been Abraham Lincoln’s Cabinet room originally; here he had signed the Emancipation Proclamation.
He shook his head. “I’m crazy,” he said. “I’m not here. I’m imagining all of it.” For a moment, he hoped desperately that was true; that he was dreaming in the hotel room at the Inter-Continental, and that he would soon be promoting his novel for six minutes or less on another radio show, before another young announcer…
On the other hand, what was so undesirable about being in the White House in Washington, D.C., personally chosen by the President of the United States to advise him on the biggest event in human history? “The man doesn’t listen,” he murmured.
Hicks picked up the topmost report on the stack, a thick sheaf of photocopied papers on the Death Valley site, the Guest, and all that was known about the Great Victoria Desert site.
The Guest’s interim autopsy report was third in the stack. Using a talent acquired across years of research, he skimmed the first two papers quickly, stopping only for essential details. The reports, not unexpectedly, were “safe” — hedged through and through with ambiguous language, craftily defused theories, prompt second-guessing. Only the autopsy report showed promise of being substantive.
Colonel Tuan Anh Phan, a man Hicks would like to meet, was clear and to the point. The Guest’s physiology was unlike that of any living thing on Earth. Phan could not conceive of an environment that would evolve such a physiology. There were structures that reminded him, again and again, of “engineering shortcuts,” totally unlike the more intricate, randomly evolved structures terrestrial biology exhibited. His conclusion was not hedged in the least:
“The Guest’s body does not appear to be in the same biological category as Earth life forms. Some of its features are contrary to reasonable expectations. The only explanation I can offer for this is that the Guest is an artificial being, perhaps the product of centuries of genetic manipulation combined with complex bioelectronics. Since these abilities are far beyond us, any suppositions I might make as to the actual functions of the Guest’s organs must be considered unreliable, perhaps misleading.”
A chemical analysis of the Guest’s tissues followed. There was no cell structure per se in any of the tissues; rather, each area or organ in the Guest’s body appeared to have a separate metabolism, which cooperated with, but was not part of, other areas or organs. There was no central waste-disposal system. Wastes appeared to build up without relief in tissues. Phan thought this might have been the cause of death. “Perhaps nutrients unavailable in an Earth environment triggered processes below the level of detail our investigation can uncover. Perhaps the Guest, in its native environment, was attached to a complex life-support system that purged its body of waste products. Perhaps the Guest was ill and certain body functions were inactive.”
Buried in a footnote: “The Guest does not appear to have been designed for a long life span.” The footnote was signed by Harold Feinman, who had not attended the final parts of th
e autopsy. There was no further elaboration.
Despite the report’s clarity, Something was being left unsaid. Feinman, at least, seemed to be hinting that the Guest was not what it appeared…
In the bottom report of the stack was an Australian booklet, prepared with obvious haste and considerable deletions. This booklet began with a synopsis of statements made by the mechanical visitors that had emerged from the Great Victoria Desert rock.
Hicks rubbed his eyes. The light was poor for reading. He had leafed through this booklet once already: Yet he needed to feel completely prepared for the next morning, when he accompanied the President into the Oval Office to meet with the Australian representatives.
“The comprehensibility of the mechanical beings’ statements to our investigators is astonishing. Their command of English appears to be perfect. They answer questions promptly and without obfuscation.”
Hicks studied the glossy color photographs inserted into the booklet. The Australian government had just two days before provided a set of these photographs along with video disks to every news organization in the world; the images of the three silvery, gourd-shaped robots hovering near a wood-posted razor-wire fence, of the great smooth water-worn red rock, of the exit hole, were in every civilized household in the world by now.
“The robots, by their every word, convey a sense of goodwill and benevolent concern. They wish to help the inhabitants of the Earth to ‘fulfill your potential, to come together in harmony and exercise your rights as potential citizens of a galaxy-wide exchange.’”
Hicks frowned. How many years of fictional paranoia had conditioned him to be dubious of extraterrestrials bearing gifts? Of all the motion pictures made about first contact, only a bare handful had treated the epochal event as benign.
How often had Hicks’s eyes misted over, watching these few films, even when he tried to keep a scientific perspective? That great moment, the exchange between humans and friendly nonhuman intelligences…
It had happened in Australia. The dream was alive.
And in California, nightmares.
The Guest does not appear to have been designed for a long life span,
He put the Australian booklet on the top of the stack and reached awkwardly over the stack to turn off the light. In the darkness, he disciplined himself to take regular, shallow breaths, to blank his mind and go to sleep. Even so, sleep came late and was not restful.
21
October 11
Crockerman, wearing slacks and a white shirt but no coat or tie, a powdery patch of styptic pencil on his chin from a shaving cut, entered the office of his chief of staff, and nodded briefly, at those assembled there: Gordon, Hicks, Rotterjack, Fulton, Lehrman, and the chief of staff himself, plump and balding Irwin Schwartz. It was seven-thirty in the morning, though in the windowless office time hardly mattered. Arthur thought he might never get out of little rooms and the company of bureaucrats and politicians.
“I’ve called you in here to go over our own material on the Great Victoria Desert bogey,” Crockerman said. “You’ve read their booklet, I presume?” Crockerman asked. All nodded. “At my request, Mr. Hicks has been sworn in, and his security clearance has been processed…”
Rotterjack looked dyspeptic.
“He’s one of us now. Where’s Carl?”
“Still in traffic, I think,” Schwartz said. “He called a half hour ago and said he’d be a few minutes late.”
“All right. We don’t have much time.” Crockerman stood and paced before them. “I’ll play his part. We have ‘one or more’ agents at the Australian rock. I need not tell you all how sensitive this fact is, but take this as a reminder…”
Rotterjack threw a very pointed glance at Hicks. Hicks received it calmly.
“Ironically, the information passed on to us only confirms what the Australians have been saying in public. Everything’s Pollyanna as far as they’re concerned. We’re about to enter a new age of discovery. The robots have already begun to explain their technology. David?”
“The Australians have passed on some of the physics information the robots have given to them,” Rotterjack said. “It’s quite esoteric, having to do with cosmology. A couple of Australian physicists have said the equations are relevant to superstring theory.”
“Whatever that is,” Fulton said.
Rotterjack grinned almost maliciously. “It’s very important, General. At your request, Arthur, I’ve passed the equations on to Mohammed Abante at Pepperdine University. He’s arranging for a team of his colleagues to examine the equations and, we hope, file a report in a few days. The robots have not been confronted with the fact of our bogey. The Australians may want to leave it to us to tell them.”
Carl McClennan entered the office, topcoat hung over his arm and briefcase half hidden in the folds. He looked around, saw there were no available seats besides the two reserved for the Australians, and stood by the rear wall. Hicks wondered if he should stand and give the national security advisor his seat, but decided it would win him no affection.
Crockerman gave McClennan a rundown of what had been discussed so far.
“I finished the first round of negotiations with their team leaders and intelligence experts last night. They’ve agreed to keep it secret,” McClennan said. “The discussion today between the Aussies and ourselves can be open and aboveboard. No forbidden territory.”
“Fine,” Crockerman said. “What I’d like to work toward, gentlemen, is a way of presenting all the facts to the public within a month’s time.”
McClennan paled. “Mr. President, we haven’t discussed this — “ Both Rotterjack and McClennan cast unhappy glances at Hicks this time. Hicks kept his face impassive: Not my show, gentlemen.
“We haven’t discussed it,” Crockerman agreed, almost nonchalantly. “Still, this is what we should aim for. I am convinced the news will leak soon, and rather our citizens learn the facts of life from qualified personnel than from gutter gossip, don’t you agree?”
Reluctantly, McClennan said yes, but his face remained tense.
“Fine. The Australians will be in the Oval Office in about fifteen minutes. Do we have any questions, disagreements, before we meet?”
Schwartz raised his hand and wriggled his fingers.
“Irwin?”
“Mr. President, is Tom Jacks or Rob Tishman on our list yet?” Schwartz asked. Jacks was in charge of public relations. Tishman was White House press secretary. “If we truly are going public in a month, or even if we’re just thinking about it, Rob and Tom should be given some lead time.”
“They aren’t on the list yet; by tomorrow they will be. As for my esteemed Veep…” Crockerman frowned. Vice President Frederick Hale had had a falling-out with the President three months before; they hardly spoke now. Hale had involved himself in unsavory business dealings in Kansas; the resulting scandal had dominated newspapers for two weeks and nearly resulted in Hale’s being “thrown to the wolves.” Hale, as slippery and adept as any man in the Capital, had floundered ungracefully in the storm, but he had weathered it. “I see no reason to put him on the list now. Do you?”
Nobody indicated they did.
“Then let’s adjourn to the Oval Office.”
22
Seated in chairs around the President’s desk, the men listened intently as Arthur summed up the scientific findings. The Australians, both young and vigorous-looking, tanned in contrast to the pale features of the Americans around them, appeared serenely untroubled by what Arthur had just told them.
“In short, then,” he concluded, “we have no reason to believe our Guest is being less than truthful. The contrast between our experiences is pretty sharp.”
“That’s true understatement,” said Colin Forbes, the senior in age and rank of the two. Forbes was in his early forties, weathered and vigorous, with white-blond hair. He wore a pale blue sports coat and white slacks and smelled strongly of after-shave. “I can see what the fuss is about. Here we are, bringing
a message of hope and glory, and your little green man tells you it’s all a sham. I’m not sure how we can resolve the discrepancy.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Rotterjack asked. “We confront your robots with what we’ve been told.”
Forbes nodded and smiled. “And if they deny it all, if they say they don’t know what the hell’s going on?”
Rotterjack had no answer for that.
Gregory French, the junior Australian, with neatly combed and trimmed black hair and dressed in a standard gray suit, stood up and cleared his throat. He was obviously not comfortable in this high level of company. To Arthur, he looked like a bashful student.
“Does anybody know if there have been other bogeys? The Russians, the Chinese?”
“No information yet,” Lehrman said. “That’s not a negative. Just a temporary ‘we don’t know.’”
“I think if we’re the only ones blessed or cursed, we should get the issue resolved before any public release,” French said. “This could tear people apart. Standing between devils and angels.”
“I agree,” Arthur said.
“There are problems with waiting,” Crockerman said.
“Pardon me, sir,” McClennan broke in, “but the possibility of unofficial release is much less disturbing than the impact of…”He waved his hands energetically through the air. “The confusion. The fear. We’re sitting on a real time bomb. Do you truly understand this, Mr. President?” he practically shouted. McClennan’s frustration with the President had come to a painful head. The room was silent. The national security advisor’s tone had been far stronger than anyone would have expected, coming from the cautious Carl McClennan.
“Yes, Carl,” Crockerman replied, eyes half lidded. “I believe I do.”
“Sorry,” McClennan said, slumping slightly in his seat. French, still standing, seemed acutely embarrassed.
“All right,” Forbes said, gesturing with an elegant flip of his finger for French to be seated. “We confront our bogeys. We’d better get on with it. I invite as many of your people as you can spare to return with us. And I think I’ll recommend to Quentin that we start shutting the doors again. Fewer press reports. Does this seem reasonable?”
