Polar Shift (25 page)

Arbatov shrugged. "Sato and Ito, but we claimed ownership because we helped remove it to the shed and it's on Russian soil."

"Wasn't there an agreement to govern this sort of thing?"

"Yes, but no one thought we'd ever find a specimen so perfect," Maria said.

"We're all rational people," Arbatov said. "Maria was instrumental in helping us curb our male tempers. We've had some spirited discussions, and talked at great length whether we should even tell you. We decided that it would be impractical to hide it from you, as well as intellectually dishonest. We are still at a loss at what to do."

"You're right. You
do
have a problem," Karla said.

Four heads nodded in agreement.

"But it's not an unsolvable problem," she added, and the heads froze in midnod.

"Please, don't tell us to play Solomon and split the baby down the middle," Arbatov said.

"Not at all.
The answer seems fairly obvious. Go out and find another specimen. There may be others like this in the same vicinity. I'll help you. I've done extensive topographical studies of Ivory Island going back to the Pleistocene period, when the steppes here teemed with the creatures. I think I can place you at the areas of greatest concentration and environmental conditions, increasing the odds in your favor."

Dr. Sato said, "In our country, we value consensus over confrontation. I propose that we look for second specimen. If we have not found it when the ship returns, we will tell our respective sponsors about the situation and let them fight it out in court."

Maria diplomatically deferred to her husband. "Sergei? As project director, what do you think?"

"I think that Ms. Janos has offered a solution that we can all live with."

"There's a quid pro quo," she said. "Maybe you can help me with
my
project."

"My apologies," Dr. Sato said. "We've been so self-absorbed with our own issues that we've become impolite. What exactly do you hope to find here?"

"An answer to the riddle of the mammoth."

"The Pleistocene extinction?"
Maria said.

Karla nodded. "Picture this island twenty thousand years ago. The land outside our tent was green with vegetation. The earth shook with the thunder made by the feet of vast herds of
Mammuthus.
These creatures stood up to fourteen feet tall, making them the largest of all the elephants. Their great herds roamed the ancient world, going back more than three million years. They were in North America, from North Carolina to Alaska, in most of Russia and Europe, and even in Britain and Ireland. But by eight thousand B.C., they were nearly gone, except for remnants here and there. The herds of mammoths vanished, along with hundreds of other species, leaving their frozen bones to puzzle scientists like us."

"The extinction is one of the greatest mysteries in the world," Maria said. "Mammoths, mastodons, saber-toothed tigers—all disappeared from the face of the earth ten to twelve thousand years ago, along with nearly two hundred other species of large mammals. Millions of animals died on a global scale. What do you hope to find here?"

"I'm not sure," Karla said. "As you know, there are three theories explaining the extinction. The first is that the Clovis people hunted them to extinction."

"The main problem with that theory is that it doesn't explain the extinction in the rest of the world," Arbatov said.

"There is also no fossil evidence to support this idea, so we move on to theory
two, that
a killer virus swept through the mammal populations of the world."

"So you think the virus theory is the most plausible?" Dr. Sato said.

"Yes and no. I'll get back to it after we discuss the third theory, drastic climate change. Near the end of the period, the weather changed suddenly. But that theory has a big hole in it. Creatures on a number of islands survived. They would have died out if the extinction were weather related."

"So if it wasn't overhunting, or a virus or climate change, what was it?" Sergei said.

"The argument has always boiled down to two schools of thought.

Catastrophism, which says that a single event or a series of events caused the extinction.
And uniformism, which maintains that
extinction
happened over a long period of time, from a number of causes."

"Which are you, a catastrophist or a uniformist?" Arbatov said.

"Neither. No single theory fits all the facts. I think it is all of the above, with the extinction set in motion by a cataclysm or series of cataclysms.
Tsunamis.
Volcanic eruptions that produced killing clouds and gas, altering the pattern of vegetation."

"There's a hole in that theory too," Arbatov said. "The evidence suggests that extinction occurred over a period of hundreds or thousands of years."

"That wouldn't be a problem. My theory takes into account the discovery of vast numbers of mammoths found tumbled in a common grave, and explains why some of the creatures survived long after that. Evidence demonstrates that many were killed by sudden violence. But we also know that a few mammoth species were around when the Egyptians were building the Pyramids. The cataclysm weakened the mammoth herds to a point where disease and hunters could polish them off. The extinction of certain species had a ripple effect. The predators that preyed on the mammoths and other creatures would lose their food source."

"I think you're onto something, but you're saying that this worldwide cataclysm occurred suddenly. One minute, the mammoths were peacefully chewing on grass. The next, they were on their way to extinction. Isn't that far-fetched?"

"Not at all.
But I would be the first to admit that the theory of polar shift is controversial."

"Polar shift?"

"A realignment of the poles."

"None of us is a geologist," Arbatov said. "Please explain."

"I'd be glad to. There are two types of polar shift. A 'magnetic polar shift' would involve a reversal of the magnetic poles, causing all sorts of unpleasantness but nothing we couldn't survive. A 'geologic polar shift' would mean actual movement of the earth's crust over its molten core. Something like that could create a cataclysm like the one I believe killed the mammoths as a species."

Arbatov was unconvinced. "You're basing your extinction theory on the theoretical shifting of the poles? You'll have to admit that it's unlikely that such a disruption could occur."

"On the contrary.
It has happened, and could happen again."

Arbatov made a show of taking Karla's glass. "Our guest has had a little too much vodka."

"I'll be glad to let you read my paper setting forth my theory, Dr. Arbatov. I think you'll find it enlightening.
Especially the equations showing how a disruption in the electromagnetic field of the earth could precipitate a polar reversal."

An argument broke out around the table between those who agreed with her theory and those who didn't. Despite their civilized veneer, it was evident that some tension remained among the group. She wasn't surprised. Scientists were no different from anyone else, except they were possibly more vain and petty. Maria's forcefully pleasant personality broke up the verbal brawl.

"My apologies for being so rude to a guest," she said, shooting dagger eyes at her husband. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

With Arbatov neutralized, the argument ended as quickly as it started.

"Maybe someone could show me where you found Babar."

She was told that it would not be a problem. Everyone helped Maria clean up.
A short while later, Karla was in her sleeping bag.

The old building was remarkably tight and warm, and, except for the scurrying of tiny animals, she felt quite comfortable. In her excitement over the baby mammoth, she found it hard to sleep.

She remembered a good-night poem her grandfather used to recite to her when she went to live with him after her parents died.

She hardly got past the first line before she fell fast asleep.

19

The Trouts flew into
Albuquerque late in the afternoon and drove to Santa Fe, where they stayed the night. Early the next morning, they got into their rental car and headed toward Los Alamos, which was located on a natural citadel atop the three mesas that extended from the Panaretos Plateau.

Trout noticed a change in his wife during the twenty-five-mile drive. She had been chatting about the scenery, wishing they had time to stop at an Indian pueblo, when she became uncharacteristically silent.

"A penny for your thoughts," he said.
"Adjusted for inflation, of course."

"I was just looking at this peaceful landscape, thinking about the work here with the Manhattan Project and the terrible forces it unleashed."

"Someone was bound to do it. Just be glad that we were the first."

"I know that, but it still depresses me to think that we still haven't learned how to control the genie that we let out of the bottle."

"Cheer up. Nuclear power may be old hat compared to whirlpools and waves on steroids."

Gamay gave him a sour look. "Thanks for pointing out the bright side."

Los Alamos had changed a great deal from the day when Robert Oppenheimer and his team of geniuses figured out how to put the power of the atom into a metal, finned cylinder. It was a bustling southwest town with malls, schools, parks, a symphony orchestra and theater, but it has never been able to—or wanted to—
escape
its dark past. Although the Los Alamos National Laboratory is engaged these days in a number of peaceful scientific explorations, the ghost of the Manhattan Project lingers still.

Lab buildings where research is conducted into the maintenance of nuclear weapons are still off-limits to the public, hinting that the town is still very much in the business of nuclear war. Tourists who drop into the laboratory's museum can touch replicas of "Fat Man" and "Little Boy," the first A-bombs, view various types of warheads and cozy up to life-size statues of Robert Oppenheimer and General Groves, the binary stars of the ultrasecret alliance of military and science that created the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The Trouts stopped at the national laboratory's research library and talked to a research assistant they had contacted earlier. She had prepared a folder with information about Lazlo Kovacs, but most of it was biographical and offered nothing beyond what they already knew about the scientist. Kovacs, it seemed, was pretty much a footnote. Like Tesla, about whom more was known, Kovacs had become a cult figure, the assistant explained, and his theories belonged more in the area of science fiction than science.

"Maybe we'll learn more at the Kovacs Society," Gamay said.

The assistant gave the Trouts a blank look, and then she burst into laughter.

"What's wrong?" Gamay said.

The assistant blushed and said, "I'm sorry. It's just that—well, you'll see."

She was still laughing when she ushered them to the door.

The contact at the Kovacs Society was an ebullient-sounding man whose name was Ed Frobisher. When they called Frobisher, he said he'd be out and about doing errands and suggested that they meet him at a surplus store called the Black Hole.

The shop was on the edge of town next to an A-frame with a sign out front designating it as the
omega peace institute, first church of high technology.
The church and the Black Hole were owned by a local named Ed Grothus, who had bought up decades of lab surplus that went back to the Manhattan Project days. He called it "nuclear waste," and advertised his wares for mad scientists, artists and pack rats.

The yard around the store was cluttered with empty bomb casings, turrets, office furniture and electronic gear. Inside the big warehouse there was aisle after aisle of shelves, all piled high with obsolete electronic gear, such as Geiger counters, oscilloscopes and circuit boards. The Trouts asked the cashier if he knew Frobisher. He led them to an aisle where a man was talking to himself as he rummaged through a stack of control panels.

"Look at this stuff," Frobisher said after they had introduced themselves. "This board probably cost a month's wages of the average taxpayer back in the fifties. Now it's junk, except to a few tech nuts like me."

Frobisher was a big man, over six feet tall, with a barrel chest that flowed into a belly that hung over his wide, military belt. He wore a yellow plaid shirt that would have hurt the eyes even if it hadn't clashed with the red suspenders that struggled to hold his pants up under the weight of his belly. The pants were tucked into knee-high, rubber fisherman's
boots,
although the day was desert dry. His thick, pure white hair was cut in bangs that hung over rectangular, horn-rimmed glasses.

Frobisher paid for the control board, and led the way out of the store to a dusty and dented Chrysler K-car. He told the Trouts to call him "Froby," and suggested that they follow him to his house where the Kovacs Society had its headquarters. As the vehicles headed out of town, Gamay turned to Paul, who was at the wheel.