Mammoth

by John Varley

  He took encouragement from what was not there. No car batteries or generators with genital clamps attached. No manacles, ropes, whips, thumbscrews, vats of boiling oil, rubber hoses, or billy clubs. Any of those things could be brought in, of course.

  Only one feature of the room worried him, and that was a dark brown stain on the floor near the table. He tried to convince himself it was spilled food or drink. As the hours went by he kept looking at it, wondering if it was the source of the smell that tickled at his nostrils, over the sourness of the sheets and blanket and the gathering odor of his own fear. Was it blood?

  He later estimated they held him there for twenty-four hours before anyone came to question him. He couldn't be sure. The lights never went off. It could have been as little as twelve hours, or as many as forty-eight, he supposed.

  They fed him three times. It was the same each time: the door opened and a man in white coveralls and wearing a white bandanna over the lower part of his face entered with a steel tray and set it on the table.

  The first time Matt sat up from his reclining position on the cot.

  "I want to speak to a lawyer," he said.

  The man didn't even glance at him. He slammed the door behind him, and Matt heard a key turning in a lock.

  The food was a hamburger steak with gravy, mashed potatoes, peas, bread and butter, a slice of melon, and a cup of coffee. He ate it with the only utensil provided, a plastic spoon. The next two meals were pretty much the same.

  THE second time he woke up it was to find two men in suits sitting at the table.

  They were fairly unremarkable, with more of the bureaucrat than the cop or the torturer in their appearance and demeanor, perfect FBI types. One was blond, midthirties, tall and clean-cut, the only thing out of place about him being the argyle socks Matt could see above his black wingtips. The other was sixtyish, short and rather portly, with a rim of feathery white hair around a shiny pink dome of baldness, thick glasses, and a look of perpetual puzzlement on his smooth baby face. Matt felt somehow that he should know him. Later, when the questioning began, it was clear he was conversant with the higher mathematics needed to ask intelligent questions about time travel, so it was entirely possible Matt did know him; it was a small world. But he could never place the face with a name, and he finally put it down to a slight resemblance to Albert Einstein.

  Argyle went first.

  He started by emptying a box he had brought with him. It contained the things that had been in Matt's possession when he was abducted. He spread out the change, took every card and scrap of paper and dollar bill from the wallet, then opened the Swiss Army knife and meticulously opened all the seams of the wallet, searching for things that might be concealed there—a small display of arrogance and power that was not lost on Matt. He dumped the banded stacks of money from the canvas bag, riffled idly through them, and tossed them aside. He set out the three computers and turned them on.

  The last item to emerge from the box was an ordinary glass marble, red in color, in a tiny square cage. He held it up to the flickering overhead light and squinted at it, turning it this way and that. At last he put it down and pushed it toward Matt with his index finger, and for the first time looked Matt in the eye.

  "What is this?" he said.

  "It's a marble in a steel cage," Matt said.

  Neither Albert nor Argyle said anything for almost a minute, both of them looking down at the object on the table. Then Argyle looked up again.

  "What is this?" he said.

  Matt sighed. It was looking like it would be a long day. He had done nothing wrong, but he knew somehow that that would not matter to these people. He didn't really have a lot to hide, either.

  Just one small thing. But, of course, that was what they were after.

  "It is a component of a device I was hired to re-create for Howard Christian. He believed it would make it possible to travel backward in time. So to speak."

  Albert jumped in.

  "Explain that last sentence."

  "It's hard to. I mean, the phrase 'travel backward in time' is an attempt to put into language a concept that the language is not equipped to describe. 'Travel' is almost certainly not the correct verb, 'backward' may or may not be a useful modifier to the concept of traveling, and 'time' is a concept that I've come to realize is far from adequately defined." "But you did go somewhere."

  Albert was nodding. Argyle was gazing fixedly at Matt, mouth slightly open, apparently about as

  sentient as a cow. Argyle took over again.

  "Where is the time machine?"

  "I don't know." Truth.

  There was another pause.

  "Where is the time machine?"

  "It went somewhere I can't follow." Truth.

  "Or somewhen?" Albert asked.

  "Possibly."

  Another long silence. Matt had never been interrogated before. But no literate human in America could be totally unaware of a few interrogation techniques. He supposed he was meant to feel a kinship to Albert, who at least seemed to know a little math and was conversant with some of the quantum dichotomies present in the idea of time traveling, and it was plain as could be that Argyle intended to be menacing with his silent contempt and simple, repeated questions.

  Matt found he was indeed frightened of Argyle, very frightened. The man stank of suppressed violence and Matt felt sure that, if orders came from his superiors, Argyle would do absolutely anything to obtain the location of the missing time machine.

  If he was supposed to like Albert, though, the man wasn't doing his job.

  Albert spoke again.

  "Matthew, are you aware that it is no longer necessary to hook a man up to a lot of wires and

  clamps and springs to run a polygraph test on him?" "No, I wasn't, but I'm not surprised. Everything's high-tech these days, isn't it? I don't guess you

  need rubber hoses or thumbscrews or anything so primitive to torture a man today, either, do you?"

  Albert looked elaborately around the room, as if searching for instruments of torture.

  "Have you been threatened in any way?" Matt laughed.

  "You don't need a lawyer. You haven't been accused of anything. It's all perfectly legal. Haven't

  you heard of the Patriot Act? We just want you to answer some questions."

  "I have. You have more questions?"

  "Yes, but there's no point going on with them right now. Your responses have not been entirely

  forthcoming."

  "You mean you think I'm lying?"

  "No. You're telling the truth, but not all of it. You're hiding something." He gave Matt a small

  smile. "I'm afraid I need to regroup a little, too. It's just possible I'm not getting the right answers because I don't know how to ask the right questions."

  "Join the club," Matt said.

  The inquisitors put everything back into the cardboard box and left.

  MATT was not surprised when they drugged him. It was the logical next step.

  There was nothing to prevent them from simply tying him down and jabbing a needle into him, but they elected to put it into his food, or his water. And what could he do? He had to eat and drink,

  so he ate and drank, and then felt the strange feeling of euphoria overcome him.

  He laughed.

  They let him laugh for an hour, Albert and Argyle, and then came back in again. All they brought

  this time was his computers.

  "Good morning, Matt," Albert said. "How are you feeling?"

  "I'm feeling great," Matt said... and then realized he hadn't said anything at all. He had opened

  his mouth, he had taken a breath, he had sent the signals to his lips and tongue that should have produced words, but something had short-circuited and no words had come out.

  He laughed again. It was very funny.

  "You know you have to answer these questions, don't you?" Albert said.

  "Yes, I know," Matt didn't say, and laughed again. What was
so funny was, he wanted to answer the questions. Oh, there was a part of him, a part that seemed to have been deeply suppressed by the drugs—and what was this stuff? It was very good!—that wanted to keep his secret, that still felt it was important, but most of him was eager to spill everything. He knew it would make him feel very good to tell these fellows everything he knew. But, on the other hand, not telling them, not being able to tell them, didn't make him feel bad... so he laughed.

  "Where is the time machine?" Argyle asked.

  Matt tried to tell them. Without success.

  Albert drummed his fingers on the table, then abruptly got up and left the room.

  Matt and Argyle sat there for ten minutes, staring at each other. Argyle had absolutely no expression on his face, and no nervous mannerisms. Somehow, Matt found this scarier than if he had shown overt hatred, hostility, menace, even frustration. He felt Argyle could rip out his guts with absolute indifference.

  But he was not capable of worrying about such things at the moment. Thoughts, observations, conclusions entered his mind and were filed away impartially, with no emotional component. If Argyle had told him he intended to cut off Matt's arms and legs he would have filed that way, too, with no fear. Maybe Argyle knew that, and was saving his venom for a time Matt could appreciate it.

  Albert came back with a huge stack of paper under one arm. He slapped it down on the table in such a way that Matt could see what was printed on the front of the file: DR. MATTHEW WRIGHT. More psychology, Matt figured. All that paper could obviously have been put onto a computer and Albert could have consulted that. Albert wanted Matt to see the amount of documentation available to him.

  Albert flipped through the file and reached the page he wanted.

  "Aphasia," he said. "You've suffered from it before."

  Matt nodded.

  "He's faking," Argyle said.

  Matt shook his head.

  "I don't think he is," Albert sighed. "I think he really wants to tell us where it is. Don't you,

  Matt?"

  Matt nodded.

  "Then we'll just have to play twenty questions, won't we?" Albert said.

  BIG as the dossier with his name on it was, there was still more. They brought in stacks and boxes of paper, spread things around on the table. They made no attempt to hide any of it from him.

  Results: zero.

  The Esalen Institute had been—was still being—searched. When the government was done they'd have to rebuild the place practically from the ground up. Matt regretted bringing all that trouble on them.

  Every police force and fire department and National Guard unit and Boy Scout troop and, probably, the Brownies and Bluebirds, were beating the bushes along his entire route from Los Angeles to Big Sur, looking for a steel attache case. They had been joined by thousands of civilians spurred by a million-dollar reward.

  Results: a big pile of garbage. Thus the game of twenty questions.

  It can be an effective tool in the hands of a skilled questioner, and Albert was no slouch. But you have to know the right questions to ask, or you never even get on the right track.

  First they brought out a map. Did you leave the time machine here? No? Did you leave it here? Here? No, no, and no. All the way down the map, town by town.

  Albert thought about it.

  Well, did you last see it here? No, no, no, no... yes.

  The yes was Los Angeles. Albert brought out another map. Pointed to the tar pits.

  Yes.

  "OH, man," Susan said. "That was..."

  "About a week after our little adventure. I'm not sure precisely, since I didn't have a clock and the drugs screwed up my time sense a bit."

  "That was when they sealed off that whole area. A square mile, evacuated and decontaminated

  because of that dirty bomb."

  "I read about it later," Matt said. "It was a while before I added it up."

  "You think... the government set off the bomb?" "If there was a bomb."

  "What I meant was, if there was a dirty bomb. A radiological bomb, one that would take a while to decontaminate after it went off. The way I'd do it, I'd put some dynamite in a truck, call in a warning so the immediate area can be evacuated. Then I'd blow it up and release a small amount of some relatively harmless radioactive gas, enough to set off the Geiger counters. The story was the terrorists chose that area because of all the publicity with the mammoths. Then seal off and evacuate a square mile and ban all overflights because of the radiation danger, to give yourself a little privacy, and get to work looking. When I heard about it I figured it was too much for coincidence. What was it, three weeks before they let anyone back in? That's long enough to do quite a search."

  "Almost four weeks," came a voice. Susan gasped, turned, and saw Howard Christian standing on her deck, looking through her huge front windows.

  23

  SUSAN had been raised to offer food and drink to any guest, even if she'd really like to leave him out on the front porch looking in like a pathetic waif. But he was with Andrea de la Terre, and Susan liked Andrea. She had liked her before the woman—amazingly!—fell in love with Howard, first as a fan, later as an acquaintance. She knew a lot of famous people now and had learned that, for the most part, they were no better and sometimes a lot worse than your ordinary citizen.

  Andrea was different. She was one of those rare ones that could somehow transcend her celebrity, get close to just about anyone quickly, so that in no time at all you felt you'd known her all your life, and might even think of her as a friend. So she'd shown Andrea where to hang that ridiculous mammoth-fur coat in the front closet, and hurried into the kitchen to see if she had anything suitable to serve to a multibillionaire and the most famous movie star on the planet.

  Howard was easy. She knew that a handful of stale beer nuts would satisfy him. What she had was a bag of chips that was only three days past the sell-by date and an unopened bowl of pretty good guacamole dip that didn't smell bad.

  So what wine goes with chips and salsa, red or white? She dithered a while over the bottles, hearing the vague buzz of conversation from the living room behind her, wondering what the hell they could be talking about, given the fact that Howard hated Matt. But it wasn't her problem, she decided. Screw Howard. She grabbed a bottle of red and went back to the living room.

  Everyone had sat down again, Howard and Andrea side by side and facing Matt across a low glass table, the fire crackling off to one side. Susan set the tray down and opened the bottle in dead silence. Nobody reached for any chips. Oh, well, the important thing was to offer it. She poured wine into four glasses.

  "What should we drink to?" Andrea asked. "How about the return of old friends?" Howard suggested, glaring at Matt.

  "Disclosure of what?" Andrea said, brightly. She looked from Susan to Matt to Howard, obviously realizing she was way behind everybody else here, but not seeming too concerned about it.

  "I'd go for that," Howard said, looking back to Matt.

  "You first," Matt said. "Was that your dirty bomb?"

  Howard drained his wine and set the glass down on the table, hard.

  "You have entirely too high an opinion of me," he said. "Or too low, depending on how you look at it."

  "Can somebody catch me up here, please?" Andrea said.

  Matt kept staring at Howard, but finally sighed and looked away.

  "Might as well, I guess. Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes. After the people who may have been government agents or may have been employed by a certain Mr. Warburton couldn't get anything out of me with drugs..."

  CAUSE-and-effect was at the heart of the paradoxes of time travel, and Matt had had occasion to ponder the concept often in his ruminations while trying to construct a time machine for Howard Christian.

  A Jew from Germany observes an atom of a heavy metal split into two parts, releasing energy.

  Effect: The best minds of a nation are assembled in strict secrecy. A certain rare ore is mined at a fever pitch and trucked
to Tennessee, where the infinitesimal fraction of it that is of any use is painstakingly extracted. A city rises out of the sand of the New Mexico desert. A device is constructed and flown first to a remote island in the Pacific, then to a much larger island where, one fine August morning, it is detonated in the air over a city, incinerating eighty thousand Japanese, mostly civilians.

  A man sitting at a table in a room points to a particular spot on a map and says, "I last saw it here." In an adjoining room needles on a machine jump and twitch in a way that suggest the man is probably telling the truth.

  Effect...

  Three days later the operation had been planned out and preparations made. A truck was driven into position, a bomb threat was called in. When the local television news eyes in the sky were in place with good camera angles, the bomb in the truck was detonated, right in front of the old May Company building in the neighborhood known as Museum Row. Damage to the building was minimal. A cloud of smoke formed and drifted slowly eastward, toward the area where there had been that big hullabaloo two weeks earlier. Soon the police and special Homeland Security troops in their radiation gear were swarming all over the site, picking up every piece of wreckage.

  But still no cause for alarm. And, oh, yeah, we're evacuating six blocks in every direction now.

  No more "official" reports were really necessary after that. The only problem was to keep Angelenos from voluntarily evacuating the whole metropolitan area. Once again, someone had seriously underestimated the fear the public had of radiation, and of government reassurances.