"Meteors?"
"I've seen meteors, and these wasn't them"
"End of the world, no doubt," Edward said.
"No doubt," Minelli echoed.
"How are you feeling?"
"Rested. Better. I must have given everybody a bad time back there."
"They gave us a bad time," Edward corrected. "I was feeling a little nuts myself."
"Nuts." Minelli shook his head and cocked a dubious glance at Edward. "Where's Reslaw?"
"Still sleeping." He and Reslaw had shared a middle bedroom.
"These folks are real nice. I wish I'd had a mother like Bernice."
Edward nodded. "Are we going, to stay here," he asked, "and keep imposing, or are we going back to Texas?"
"We're going to have to face the music eventually," Minelli said philosophically. "The press awaits. I watched television a little last night. The whole country's gone nuts. Quietly, mind you, but nuts all the same."
"I don't blame them."
The phone rang.
"What time is it?" Minelli asked. Edward glanced at his watch.
"Seven-thirty."
On the second ring, the phone was silent.
They stared at it apprehensively. "Bernice must have answered it in the back bedroom," Minelli said.
A few minutes later, Stella came out, followed by her mother, both unselfconsciously attired in flannel pajamas and flower-print robes. Bernice smiled at them. "Breakfast, gentlemen? It's going to be a long day."
"That was CBS," Stella said. "They keep sniffing."
"We can only fool them so long," Bernice said.
Edward looked across the quiet, frosty field. A pickup truck parked just off the highway held two men in brown coats and cowboy hats—locals sworn to keep "snoops" from setting up cameras and interfering with the Morgan family's privacy. Even at a hundred yards' distance, they looked formidable.
Stella shook her head. "I don't know what to say. We didn't do anything important. I didn't, anyway. You found the rock."
Edward shrugged. "What's to say about that?"
Reslaw, dressed in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped long-sleeved shirt, walked out of the hallway, past the entrance alcove and the baby grand piano in an adjacent corner. "Somebody ask about breakfast?"
"Coming up," Mrs. Morgan said.
"You know," Edward said, "it was probably a bad idea to come here. For you two. We all need our rest, but your mother has been through a lot."
Bernice Morgan walked stiffly into the kitchen. "It was exhilarating, really," she said. "I haven't had a fight like that in years."
"Besides, she got to talk to the President," Stella said, grinning.
"Makes me ashamed to be a Democrat," she said. "Mike and the boys are keeping a watch. I just have to make sure they don't get too zealous. You stay as long as you want."
"Please stay," Stella said, looking at Edward. "I have to talk. To all of you. I'm still confused. We should help each other out."
"What about the fireworks?" Minelli asked. "Maybe there's something on the news now."
He stretched and swung his legs off the lounger, then stood and walked across the linoleum floor and wide Navajo rugs to the living room, a few steps from the marble-top pedestal table in the open dining area. He sat in front of the television. Slowly, as if it might be hot, he turned it on, then backed up, licking his lips. Edward watched him with concern.
"Just cartoons," Minelli said quietly. Without changing channels, he lay back to watch, as if he had forgotten his original purpose. Edward walked over and changed channels for him, looking for news. On the twenty-four-hour News Network, an announcer was finishing a story on conflict between the Dominican Republic and Haiti.
"Nothing," Minelli said pessimistically. "Maybe I was seeing things."
Then, "Astronomers in France and California have offered varied explanations for last night's unprecedented meteor activity in the solar system's asteroid belt. Seen throughout the Western Hemisphere, clearly visible to the naked eye in areas with clear skies, bright explosions flashed throughout the ecliptic, the plane occupied by the Earth's orbit and the orbits of most of the sun's planets. Speaking from his phone in Los Angeles, presidential task force advisor Harold Feinman said it might take days to analyze data and learn what had actually happened deep in space, beyond the orbit of Mars. When asked if there was any connection between the meteor activity and the alleged spacecraft and aliens on Earth, Feinman declined to comment."
"Smart man to admit he's an idiot," Minelli said. "Asteroids. Jesus."
Edward flipped past other channels, but found nothing more.
"What do you think, Ed?" Minelli asked, slouching back in the comer of the broad L-shaped couch. "What the hell did I see? More end-of-the-world shit?"
"I don't know any more than they do," Edward said. He entered the kitchen. "Do you have a doctor in town? A psychiatrist?" he asked Bernice.
"Nobody worth the name," she answered, her voice as low as his. "Your friend's still not doing too well, is he?"
"The government got rid of us in a real hurry. He should be in a hospital somewhere, resting, cooling down."
"That can be arranged," she said. "Did he actually see something?"
"I guess so," Edward said. "I wish I'd seen it."
"Day of the Triffids, that's what it was," Minelli said enthusiastically. "Remember? We'll all go blind any minute now. Break out the pruning shears!"
Stella stood by the stove, methodically cracking eggs into a pan one by one. "Momma," she said, "where's the pepper mill?" She brushed past Edward, tears in her eyes.
34
Walt Samshow stepped from the cab on Powell Street under the shadow of the St. Francis Hotel awning and turned around briefly to look across at long, silent lines of hundreds of marchers parading around Union Square, a cable car grumbling by covered with swaying tourists, spastic traffic of cars and more cabs, civilized mayhem: San Francisco, other than the marchers, not terribly different from his memories of it in 1984, the last time he had been downtown.
In the spacious, elegant lobby of the St. Francis, with its polished black stone and dark lustrous woods, Samshow began hearing the rumors practically the moment he set his luggage down by the front desk.
The convention of the American Geophysical Society was in full swing. Kemp and Sand had gone ahead, and apparently big things had happened since their arrival Thursday. Now it was Saturday and he had a lot to catch up on.
As he checked in, two professorial young men passed by, engaged in earnest conversation. He caught only three words: "The Kemp object—"
The bellhop carted his luggage over thick carpet to the elevator. Samshow followed, unwinding his arms and stretching his fingers. Two other conventioneers—an older man and a young woman—stood near the elevators, discussing supersonic shock waves and how they might be transmitted through mantle and crust.
Reporters and camera crews from three local television stations and as many national news networks were in the lobby when Samshow returned from his room to check in at the convention desk. He avoided them deftly by walking around several pillars.
With his badge and bag of pamphlets and program guides came a note from Sand:
Kemp and I will meet you in Oz at 5:30. Drinks on Kemp.
D.S.
Oz, Samshow learned from a desk clerk, was the bar and disco at the top of the "new" tower of the St. Francis. He looked at his frayed sports coat and his worn-out running shoes, decided he was easily ten years behind the times and thousands of dollars short in refurbishing his wardrobe, and sighed as he entered the elevator.
The trip from Honolulu to La Jolla had been arranged by the Scripps Institution of Oceanography. He had paid for that by lecturing the night before at UCSD. It never ceased to dismay him, after twenty-five years, how popular he was. His huge, expensive book on oceanography had become a standard text, and hundreds of students were only too pleased to listen to, and shake hands with, the modern Sverdrup.
On his ow
n tab, he had taken a flight out of Lindbergh Field to San Francisco. Not yet did he have a clear idea what they were all doing here; there was still much work to be done on the Glomar Discoverer, beginning with the collation of billions of bits of data from their passages over the Ramapo Deep.
He suspected much of that data would be pushed aside indefinitely now. Sand's gravimeter anomaly would be the key element. Somehow, that saddened him.
Braced against the ascent of the high-speed elevator, he realized he had been feeling his age for the past week. Psychologically, he had been caught up in the national malaise that had followed Crockerman's announcement. He felt no different from the young people carrying their blank signs just across the street. What was there to protest? Apocalypse could not be repealed by the democratic process. Even now, the instrument of that destruction—or an instrument—might be lancing through the Earth's core.
The Kemp object. That attribution, he assured himself, would change shortly. Sand-Samshow object . . . Not a catchy name, but it would have to do. Yet . . . why? Why lay claim to the discovery of the bullet that might have everyone's name on it?
The elevator door opened and Samshow stepped out into a blare of noise. Oz glittered, silver and gray, glass-walled and high-ceilinged. Young people in elegant dress danced across the central floor, while drinkers and talkers sat and stood on the surrounding raised carpeted areas. The sweet smells of wine and Bourbon wafted from a passing waitress's tray.
Samshow winced at the noise and glanced around, looking for Sand or Kemp. Sand stood in a corner waving to catch his eye.
Their round table was barely a foot across, and five people were crowded around it: Kemp, Sand, two others he did not recognize, smiling as if they were old friends, and now himself. He shook hands as Sand introduced Jonathan V. Post, an acquaintance of Kemp's, dark and Levantine with a gray-shot curly beard, and Oscar Eglin-ton from the Nevada School of Mines. Post declaimed a brief and embarrassing poem on meeting the legendary Old Man of the Sea. When he was finished, he smiled broadly.
"Thank you," Samshow said, not very impressed. The waitress came and Post sacrificed his own Corona that Samshow might have a drink sooner.
He had once downed a case of Corona in two days while whale-watching at Scammon's Lagoon. That had been in 1952. Now more than one beer gave him heartburn.
"We have to fill you in, Walt," Sand said. "Kemp talked with seismologists in Brazil and Morocco. One of them is here—Jesús Ochoa. We have the nodal traces. October thirty-first. The disruptions and shock waves. There's been high surf in some very suspicious places, and seismic events like nobody's ever seen ..."
"Thirty-five south, forty-two west," Kemp said, with the same smug grin he had worn a week ago in Hawaii.
"He convinced me that was good enough evidence to talk to Washington. They referred me to Arthur Gordon—"
"The President isn't interested, apparently," Kemp said, his grin vanishing. "We couldn't even talk to the new national security advisor, what's his name ..."
"Patterson," said the muscular, dark-tanned Eglinton.
"But Gordon says he'll be here tonight to talk with us. There's going to be a lot to discuss. Post here has spoken to some physicists and space scientists. Chris Riley, Fred Hardin. Others. Asteroids are on their mind."
"You're all convinced we've got something appropriate, a true extraterrestrial bullet?"
"We have more than that," Kemp said, leaning forward. Sand put a hand on his arm, and Kemp nodded, falling back into his seat. Sand leaned over to Samshow as if to explain something delicate.
"There was a central Atlantic fireball sighted by a cargo ship four days ago. Like the previous object, as far as we can discover, nobody picked it up on radar coming in. Similar phenomenon—-deep-ocean splash, small storm, and peculiar seismic traces. This fireball was much brighter, though—blinding, huge, leaving a glowing tail behind it. Captain and crew were treated for retinal burns. The doctors treating them noticed hair loss and strange bruises and questioned them, and they admitted to having bloody stools. Everyone on deck is suffering from severe radiation exposure."
"Meteors don't do that," Kemp said. "And then . . . we have records of another seismic event in the same area as the cargo ship. Burrowing," he added triumphantly. "Trace like a bomb explosion. And then . . . microseisms and deep P-waves."
Samshow raised his eyebrows. "And?"
"More nodal traces," Sand said, "and even stronger microseismic activity . . . This was either a bigger object, more massive, or . . ."
"It's different," Kemp said. "Don't ask me how."
"They're talking about a Kemp object downstairs," Samshow said. "Far be it from me to worry about attribution—"
"We'll straighten that out at the symposium tomorrow morning," Kemp said. "Gordon will attend, and everything we know will be laid before the convention."
"And the public?"
"Nobody's told us to keep it secret," Sand said.
"There are camera crews downstairs."
"We can't hold this back," Kemp said.
"Can't we wait until it's confirmed?"
"That could be months," Sand said. "We may not have the time."
Samshow frowned deeply. "Two things bother me," he said. "Besides this god-awful noise. One." He held up a single finger. "How in hell can any of this theorizing do us any good? And two." A second finger. "Everybody here seems to be having such a fine time."
Sand glanced at the others. Post appeared suddenly crestfallen.
"The gods are dancing on our grave," Samshow said, "and here we are, like kids in a toy store."
35
Reuben Bordes stood by the screen door, staring out at the cold rain washing the streets of Warren, half smiling and half frowning. His lips moved slowly to some inner song, and his eyes longed for something far away.
"Close the door, boy," his father demanded, standing in the hallway, dressed in ragged pajamas. "It's cold outside."
"All right, Pop." He swung the door closed and turned to watch his father settle into his easy chair. "Can I bring you anything?"
"I've eaten lunch, and I've had my nap, and I've been a lazy s.o.b. all day. Why should you bring me anything?" His father looked at him through rheumy, exhausted eyes. He was still crying at night, still sleeping with his arms wrapped around a pillow. Reuben had seen him in the morning, fast asleep, his face wreathed in empty bliss, his dead wife's thick feather pillow clutched firmly to him under the scattered blankets.
"Just asking," Reuben said.
"I'd invite them to meet my mum. My mother. "
But she's dead.
"You could turn on the tube."
"What channel?" Reuben asked, kneeling before the television.
"Find me that show where everybody argues about the news. Take my mind away."
Reuben found the Worldwide News Network and waddled back, still crouched, hands dangling between his knees.
"You know, you don't have to hang around to keep me happy," his father said. "I'm working out Bea's death. I'm getting it straight in my head. I'll live."
Reuben smiled over his shoulder. "Where would I go?" he asked. But he knew he'd be leaving soon. There were necessary things to do. He had to carry what was in his coat pocket; he had to find the person that something was for. He had been given memories of a voice, a distinct English accent, but little more.
He leaned back against his father's knees and listened as the hosts of Freefire squared off against each other, bristling even as they announced their guest. The young liberal's stiffly formal visage seemed to soften.
"He's acted as advisor to the President on the Death Valley spaceship, and he's well known in scientific and journalistic circles. He's had over forty books published, including his recent prophetic novel, Starhome, a scientific romance about first contact. His name is Trevor Hicks, and he's a native of Great Britain."
"Citizen of the world, anymore, actually," Hicks said.
Reuben stiffened.
&
nbsp; Voice.
I’d take them home to meet my mum. My mother.
"That's him," he said.
"Who?"
Reuben shook his head. "Where is he?"
"They're in Washington, like always," his father said.
"—Mr. Hicks, are we to understand that it was you who first advised President Crockerman to reason with these invaders?" the eager-faced conservative asked.
"Not at all," Hicks said.
Reuben's brow furrowed with the intensity of his concentration. That's the one. He's Trevor Hicks. His name, his voice.
"Then what did you tell the President?"
"Gentlemen, the President would not have listened to me no matter what I said. He hoped for a sympathetic ear, and I tried to provide that, but I am as adamantly opposed to his policy regarding the spacecraft as I imagine you are, Mr. . . . Mr. ..."
"What do you recommend we do with the spacecraft? Should we destroy it?"
"I doubt that we could, actually."
"So you do hold defeatist views—"
Reuben trembled with excitement. Washington, D.C. He had enough money saved to go there. Big town, though. Where would Trevor Hicks be in Washington, D.C.?
He listened closely, hoping to pick up clues. By the end of the show, he had a fair idea where to begin.
The next morning, at dawn, Reuben stood in the door to his parents', his father's, bedroom. His father stared at him from the bed, blinking at the orange hall light behind his son's silhouette.
“I’ve got to leave now, Pop."
"So sudden?"
Reuben nodded. "It's important."
"Got a job?"
Reuben hesitated, then nodded again.
"You'll call?"
"Of course I'll call," Reuben said.
"You're my son, your momma's son, always. You remember that. Make us proud."
"Yes, sir." Reuben went to the bed and hugged his father and was surprised again at how light and frail he seemed. Years past, his father had loomed a muscled giant in Reuben's eyes.
"Good luck," his father said.
Reuben pulled the overcoat around him and stepped out into the early morning frost, his boots crunching and slipping on the glazed steps. In one deep side pocket, the metal spider lay curled tight as an untried puzzle. In the other jingled two hundred dollars in change and bills.