Artifact

by Gregory Benford

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think we have here only part of the solution.”

  “The thing in the cube fits this one-twist model,” John said patiently, sure he was right about that.

  “You are crafty, eh?” Sergio’s eyes shifted liquidly from the convoluted equations to John. “You ignore the fact that these twists should attract each other, cancel these nice cubic forms you have found.”

  “Let’s say I put it on the back burner for now.”

  “My mathematics shows they must come along for the ride.”

  “Oh, right. But I think that’s just an alternate choice.”

  “Something is different about this strange twist of yours. The thing in the cube should not be. It should have matched up with another twist and made something different. More stable than this.”

  “Maybe some other force that intervenes? Keeps the twists apart.”

  To John’s surprise, Sergio did not launch an attack. Instead, he sketched quickly with yellow chalk some abstruse symbols. “Perhaps, perhaps. Only an idiota eats every berry that pops off the bushes. You must take from the mathematics carefully. Many solutions, they look good…but nature does not want them.” He stopped, staring pensively at his drawing. “They should attract, should marry each other. Quarks, they do not exist in isolation. We are missing something here. What? A puzzle.”

  Zaninetti still followed the habits of his home country, and so left around 1:30 for a large lunch rich in pasta and wine, with a riposo afterward to recover. John worked on, nibbling virtuously on nuts and some Castilian oranges, all bought at absurd expense in a fancy, Boston-insiders’ market on Newbury that Claire frequented.

  The point that troubled him had also struck Zaninetti. Suppose, as the equations said, this new attractive force, operating on truly microscopic scale, did disguise the masses of the small black holes. The system achieved a balance by taking a huge attractive potential energy, and subtracting from it a nearly equally enormous repulsive one.

  What if they got out of kilter? How fragile was the balance? A slight mismatch, and the particle could lose its stable cubic space-time formation. If only a little of its mountainous mass was annihilated, it would produce a stupendous explosion. Far worse than a hydrogen bomb.

  At the moment the singularity was perched at the center of that stone cube, apparently happy to remain suspended in its vacuum cavity. It floated there, kept aloft by some residual forces, perhaps magnetic in origin. It must have sat there for thousands of years without breaking out. Then the fall down that shaft had upset things.

  John suspected that the stability problem was now the most important aspect. He was worried about Abe’s steadily higher readings of gamma-ray flux. Did that mean a rise in activity, perhaps enough to destroy the balance of forces inside? Or was the rock being eaten away? It occurred to him that the gamma-rays might be destroying the light pipe. That could break the seal open.

  He tired of calculations in late afternoon and decided to go jogging along Storrow Drive despite the chill. He called Abe, told him the worries about the light pipe, and promised to come into the lab before noon tomorrow, Sunday. He put on his running things without any sense of anticipation. Exercise in winter’s frigid grip was an effort of will, a building of moral character appropriate for the land of Cotton Mather. Muscles stretched unwillingly and sweat evaporated, leaving a prickly cake. He jogged along the river beneath the unblinking scrutiny of Beacon Street picture windows. The sky was cobalt blue and his breath made great plumes as he ran along the black pathways of the Esplanade, eyes glazed, mathematical notations drifting uselessly in his mind.

  Much as he liked working with Sergio, he was wary. A major figure could move into a subject and appropriate it by bringing to bear better mathematical techniques, or simply by publicizing it, talking it up, working out further ramifications. Give an invited talk at an important conference, highlighting your own approach. Edit the first book on the subject; books are always referenced by the editor’s name, so you eclipse the actual authors. The early days of black hole theory had seen such maneuverings. Lacer, the American who first proposed electrodynamic methods of extracting energy from black holes, found himself relegated to the sidelines as a competitor took up the subject, using his superior skills at boundary value problems, employing his connections in the astrophysical community, and simply traveling and talking more. Though John liked Sergio, he would have to be careful to keep his work distinct from the prominent Italian’s.

  He joined Claire for dinner. She was wound up by the preparations for her lecture the next day. She had spent the day working on it at the Hilles Library at Harvard, leary of going to BU. The Hilles was empty except in exam time, when the undergraduates suddenly rediscovered it.

  The Museum had insisted that the cube itself be displayed, but Abe ruled that out immediately. This had meant long telephone calls and a final compromise: Claire would show a few slides of the cube in its present state, even though it was mostly covered by Abe’s diagnostics.

  “I’ll shoot some photographs in the morning,” Claire said, lounging back in a wicker chair at her apartment. “That’ll give the Museum time to make the slides. Go over with me, won’t you? I’ll need help with the lighting.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks. God, what a day.” She stubbed out her last cigarette and looked longingly at the butt. “There’s so much to put into the talk. I have no idea what significance the cubic form has. And that metallic stuff at the bottom of the chisel marks—I think it’s due to paint that was caught in there, and the gamma radiation from inside the cube transformed it, made it glisten. But I’m not sure yet. Should I include it?”

  “Might as well. You don’t have to nail down every corner of the grand tapestry, y’know.”

  She nodded and sighed. “Also. I got a call from my mother.”

  John said diplomatically, “Ummm?”

  “She saw a notice about the lecture. She’s coming.”

  “Good. You’ll bowl them over, have the city at your feet.”

  She grimaced. “Or my throat. I’m afraid Kontos will show up.”

  “Could be. He’ll probably take diplomatic action by Monday anyway.”

  “I’m sure he can get the artifact back.”

  “We’ll face that later.” No need to let her dwell on it. “What’s it matter if Kontos comes to your talk?”

  “He can leap up in the audience and denounce me. Create a scene. That’ll make an even better news story, and he knows it.”

  “Get that Museum director to stop Kontos at the door. Assign a security guard to him.”

  “Maybe put out a contract? Break his legs?” She smiled wanly, peering into the flames of her living room fire. It snapped energetically. “I guess that bothers me more than Kontos, you know? Looking bad in front of my mother.”

  “You’ll be a smash.”

  “How’d you like to have your mother attending your talks?”

  “She’d stop listening after the first ten minutes and take out a romance novel.”

  Claire chuckled. “That’s how those southern girls handle adversity? Lapse into fantasy?”

  John said guardedly, “They have their strong points.”

  “Such as?” There was an edge to her tone.

  “Fewer conflicts about—what’re they called?—traditional roles.”

  “Why didn’t you bring one along up here to keep you warm?”

  “Low boredom threshold.”

  “I see. Yet I see you at dinner parties talking to women about their children, not a common practice in razor-sharp, competitive Cambridge.”

  “Aw shucks.”

  “You prefer stiff-necked northern women?”

  He smiled sardonically. “Fire and ice. Flashy combination.”

  Later, getting ready for bed in her bitterly cold bedroom, Claire said, “Turn out the light.”

  He picked his way among the fragile antiques which threatened to disintegrate at a he
avy, masculine touch. Her study was efficient, Spartan, but the bedroom had frilly blue curtains, flowery wallpaper, ample cushions and even a yellow stuffed giraffe. He switched off the bureau lamp, his skin prickly from the cold, and returned to bed, kneeling momentarily in the darkness to find his way.

  She said, “Here’s a trick I’ll bet those aw-shucks girls don’t know,” and he felt a warm circle enclose him, tighten, flex deliciously.

  “Aw shucks,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  Sunday’s silence was oddly unsettling in the streets John knew only during bustling weekdays. They parked in a small lot with chain-link borders and walked three buildings down Vassar Street. Clouds blotted out most of the sun and a cutting breeze gusted up from the Charles. The quiet seemed to hang nearby, a hovering buffer against the hum of the city beyond. They took a shortcut between two anonymous buildings and John let himself into a side corridor of small offices in Building 42, using the key Abe had given him. They walked down a short hallway and turned a corner toward the laboratory bay. John had to unlock the side door. He turned the knob and stepped in ahead of Claire.

  Sergeant Petrakos was standing fifteen feet away, looking straight at them. John stopped. Claire, unable to see, butted into him.

  Beyond Sergeant Petrakos he instantly took in a frozen scene: Two men in blue jeans maneuvering the cube into its crate, using the ceiling hoist. Kontos, holding the cord for the hoist control, his face startled. Another man at the far end of the bay, where the hoist track ended, working at the lock on the big vertical lift doors there. All wore blue jeans and plain cheap shirts, the jeans tucked into military boots. They were, of course, the team which had been here Friday, sizing up the place.

  Kontos swore. Sergeant Petrakos compressed her lips and snapped into a defensive posture like something from the movies—feet at right angles to each other in a kind of T stance, and arms forming another T, left arm high and horizontal, right arm below it and vertical, hand open. John looked at her rigid hands, thick and calloused.

  None of the men moved. The cube dangled from its chains, encased in padding, nearly submerged in the wooden case. Into the silence John said, “You could’ve won it all diplomatically.”

  Kontos said, “Your system? It would rob us. Like the Elgin marbles.”

  “Times have changed.”

  “You stole it yourself—you and the bitch.”

  “Rescued is more like it.”

  Sergeant Petrakos made a hissing sound, her breath squeezed out between lips drawn back into a thin, bloodless line.

  Claire stepped to the side, speechless. Kontos looked at her. “I believed Americans went to church at this time. Or slept off their drinking.”

  John opened his mouth to say something and Sergeant Petrakos took two steps forward, moving tightly, and kicked him expertly between the legs.

  He had never fought with a woman before, hadn’t even been in anything serious since high school, and she took him completely by surprise. A wave of sudden nausea swept up into his belly and the pain following it jolted him into a split-second awareness. He had an irresistible desire to double over, to clutch for the part of him filling now with lurching, sick agony and a bottomless weakness. He had been hit this way three times in football scrimmages. The worst was the stabbing pain and emptiness coming together, the terrible fear like lightning scratched across a black sky, making you curl up, a little boy again.

  He doubled halfway over and knew that if he did not do something Sergeant Petrakos would damage him a lot more. He had seen it in her eyes, the set mouth—eager expectation, looking forward to something she was going to enjoy.

  He sensed that if he straightened up she would hit him, probably chop him with those hands. His left foot was forward, barely catching his collapse. He slid his right foot out and kept doubled over, head down, until he had his balance and some forward movement. Then he came up from the floor fast. He looked up to see Sergeant Petrakos near, too near, gazing down at him with a look of satisfaction. His left hand came up and caught her on the shoulder, slapping her sideways, surprise coming into her face.

  Her right hand struck him a numbing blow on the chin, off target a fraction so that the hard edge of it glanced off, not delivering its full punch. She aimed the heel of her hand at his neck. He shifted heavily to the left, trying to look off balance. His right hook came around and over her guard and landed solidly at the hinge of her jaw. Sergeant Petrakos dropped. She was already off balance but then her legs went out and she fell solidly to the concrete, cracking her head.

  John stood up fully and let the blood rush of pain wash over him, trying to put his mind far away from it and not succeeding very well. Sergeant Petrakos was dazed but not out; still, she would not be capering around in the near future. Neither would he. She had used the most devastating opener there is against a man, but then she had watched the effects rather than following them up. On most men it would have worked. Not on a quarterback who had taken a lot of dumpings from 250-pound linebackers, even if he had been only second rate and not worth even a hustle from the college scouts.

  There was a lot more to do, he realized dimly, but when he managed to focus Kontos was walking across the lab with an automatic in his right hand. John leaned against the wall and hugged himself, breathing deeply to try and make the spreading pain go away. Claire said something to him and shouted at Kontos.

  She lunged, ignoring the pistol. Sudden fear leaped into John’s heart. His eyes riveted on the pistol. Kontos stepped wide, dropping the muzzle down, and cuffed her hard across the jaw. Claire yelped angrily and staggered. Kontos swore at her and struck again. She dodged and hit him square on the nose. A man came up behind her and grabbed for her arms. Kontos backed away, one hand cupped to catch the blood dripping from his nose, the other leveling the automatic, his face red.

  He swore in Greek. The man’s eyes were cold, his mouth twisted. The automatic aimed at Claire’s heart.

  “Kontos! We quit!” John shouted.

  Kontos paused, seemed to think. He brushed at his nose, grimacing, and lowered the automatic.

  Claire twisted against the man holding her arms. “You—”

  “Claire, leave it be,” John said.

  They were all panting, staring white-eyed at each other, aware of what had almost happened.

  John breathed deeply. His legs trembled. Well, all right, he thought. The play was over, no yardage. Minor injuries, a little shaken up. Just breathe.

  “This is stupid,” John said bitterly.

  He and Claire were tied to chairs in the small computer terminal room. Kontos had assigned Sergeant Petrakos the job of tying them, and the woman had wrenched the knots tight with evident pleasure.

  “Kontos, you can’t get away!” Claire called.

  Through the glass partition they could see the cube, fully crated now, being lowered onto the bed of a blue quarter ton Ford truck. It had taken the Greeks less than ten minutes to decide what to do about Claire and John, finish the crating, raise the steel doors at the far end and back their truck in. They operated smoothly and with a minimum of talk. John had to admire their professionalism; the entire operation, even with interruption, would take less than an hour.

  Kontos came into the office and nodded approvingly at Sergeant Petrakos’s handiwork. “You will be discovered soon, I expect,” he said. “But not soon enough. We will fly away by then.”

  “You’ll never get it through customs,” Claire said.

  Kontos sniffed. “A paperwork issue only. I have also taken the laboratory notebooks here. You will apologize to Professor Sprangle for me. He is not to blame for this but he must suffer.”

  “Listen,” John said, “all this cops ’n’ robbers is fine, but this isn’t about archeology anymore, Kontos, it’s more important. That—”

  “Our national heritage is the greatest in the world. We will fight to preserve it.”

  “You’re talking like a press release. I—”

/>   “It is you who will be explaining to the press. There will come unkind questions.” Now that he had acted, Kontos was more dignified, though his persistent half smile betrayed his enjoyment.

  “Look, that cube is important for physics reasons, too. You should know it could be dangerous.”

  “Only to people who steal it,” Kontos said, amused.

  “Like you?”

  “We are reclaiming it. Under express orders of our government.”

  “When we’re through with the measurements—”

  “That was an obvious tactic, a stupid one. You would wait and explain and find a million reasons for delay.”

  Claire said quickly, “Donald Hampton must have explained to you—”

  “That we must wait, yes. Donald is a trusting man. But there are many reasons for the American government to keep such a beautiful thing. They insult us by keeping it, perhaps, yes?” Kontos’s eyes glittered. “But not now.”

  “Inside it,” John said. “there’s something we do not understand. I believe it might be a—a new kind of particle, potentially unstable. It’s already putting out a lot of x-rays, and it’s eaten most of the way through—wait, the light pipe. You pulled it out?”

  Kontos was puzzled. “The flexible tubing? Yes.”

  Claire said, “Then you heard it. The vacuum.”

  “One of my men removed the tubing. I heard nothing. There is a seal, apparently where you took a sample.”

  John said quickly, “That’s the self-sealing collar Abe put around the light pipe. It’ll fill in the hole. But there’s dangerous radiation….”

  Kontos glanced at his watch and nodded to Sergeant Petrakos. “Obviously, it has not hurt you. We will study this thing in Athens. If it is interesting for physics, is better still. Friday, Hampton remarked to me that this find could make us famous. Better for it to be in Greece, then.” He left.

  Kontos shut the door after him, to dampen their shouts. They both called after him as he marched across the lab, eyes scanning for anything useful he might have overlooked. Through the glass they watched the truck pull away and the men quickly lower the steel door, letting it bang loudly. In a moment came the distant sound of a revving motor. Then silence.