The Forge of God (16 page)

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."

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?"

"Eminently," Rotterjack said.

"I'm curious as to why Mr. Hicks is here," Forbes said. "I admire Trevor's work enormously, but…" He didn't finish his thought. Arthur looked at Hicks, and realized he genuinely liked and trusted the man. He could understand the President's choice. But that would cut no ice with McClennan and Rotterjack, who clearly wanted Hicks away from the center.

"He's here because he's as conversant on these subjects as anybody in the world," Crockerman said. "Even though we do not see eye to eye."

Rotterjack ineffectively masked his surprise, sitting up in his chair and then awkwardly leaning his elbow on the arm. Arthur watched him closely.
They thought Hicks might be behind the President's attitude.

"I'm glad Trevor's here," Arthur said abruptly. "I welcome his insights."

"Fine with me," Forbes said, smiling broadly.

PERSPECTIVE

The New York Daily News, October 12, 1996:
Sources in the State Department, on condition that they not be named, have confirmed that there is a connection between the disappearance and alleged government captivity of four people and the secret visit by President Crockerman to Death Valley earlier this week. Other informed sources have confirmed that both of these incidents are connected with the Australian extraterrestrials. In a related story, the Reverend Kyle McCabey of Edinburgh, Scotland, founder of the Satanic Invader's League, claims that his new religious sect now numbers its followers at a hundred thousand throughout the United Kingdom and the Irish Republic. The Satanic Invader's League believes that the Australian extraterrestrials are representatives of Satan sent to the Earth to, in the Reverend's words, "soften us up for Satan's conquest."

October 13

On the Hollywood Freeway, neck and back stiff from the early morning flight into LAX, Arthur Gordon grimly steered the rental Lincoln, listening to a babble about national lottery results on the radio.

His mind was far away, and visions of the river outside his Oregon home kept intruding into his planning. Smooth, clear green water, steady and unaware, working its natural way, eroding banks. How did each particle of dirt stripped from its place feel about the process? How did the gazelle, caught in the slash of a lion's paws, feel about becoming a simple dinner, all its existence reduced to a week or so of sustenance for another creature? "Waste," he said. "Goddamn waste." Yet he wasn't sure what he meant, or what all his thoughts were pointing to.

Cat's paws. Playing with the prey.

Suddenly, Arthur missed Francine and Marty terribly. He had spoken with them briefly from Washington before leaving; he had told them very little, not even where he was or where he was going.

Did a gazelle, caught in the meshing gears of a lion's paws, worry about doe and fawn?

Harry's home was a spacious split-level "stick-built" ranch house from the early 1960s, wandering over much of a eucalyptus-covered quarter-acre lot in Tarzana. He had purchased the home in 1975, before his marriage to Ithaca; it had seemed hollow then, with only one occupant, and was still a place of vast white walls and rug-dotted linoleum floors, a little chilly and severe for Arthur's taste.

Ithaca beyond any doubt ruled the roost. Tall, with dark red hair and features more suited to a Shakespearean actress than a Tarzana homemaker, her quiet presence balanced the broad rooms. Harry had once told Arthur, "Wherever she is, there's enough, and never too much." Arthur had known exactly what he meant.

She opened the door at Arthur's knock, smiled warmly, and extended her hand. Arthur took the fingers and kissed them solemnly. "Milady," he said ceremoniously. "Is the good doctor in?"

"Hello, Arthur. Good to see you. He's in and being insufferable."

"His treatments?"

"No. Something else, having to do with you, I presume." Ithaca would never inquire. "Can I get you coffee? It's been cold this winter. Today is especially dreary."

"Yes, please. The office?"

"Sanctum sanctorum. How's Francine? Marty?"

"They're fine." He stuck his hands in his pockets, obviously anxious to join Harry. Ithaca nodded.

"I'll bring the coffee into the office. Go."

"Thanks." He always felt like complimenting Ithaca on her appearance, which was, as usual, wonderful—but she did not take kindly to compliments. How she looked and dressed was as natural to her as breathing. He smiled awkwardly and headed down the hall to the office.

Harry sat in an overstuffed chair, fire crackling brightly in the grate. His office had originally been the master bedroom, and after his marriage, he had kept it there. There were three large bedrooms with fireplaces in the house, enough to go around. Stacks of books rose beside his chair, some of them huge, old, and well thumbed. An Olympia typewriter hung keyboard down over the fireplace like a hunting trophy, while from its return key dangled three carbon-encrusted test tubes looped together by a red ribbon. The story behind this had to do with Harry's doctoral thesis and was seldom told when Harry was sober.

In Harry's lap rested a copy of Brin and Kuiper's book on the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. McClennan and Rotterjack had kept copies of the same book on their office desks. Arthur also noticed Hicks's novel on the corner of a roll-around table, almost crowded off by stacks of infodisks.

"Finally, by God," Harry said. "I've been stuck here getting over nausea and waiting for the word. What's the word?"

"I'm to go to Australia with most of the task force. I'm leaving in three days, with a couple of hours stopover in Tahiti. We should just be able to put out a short report."

"The newshounds are on our trail," Harry said, raising his thick eyebrows.

"The President thinks we should release the story within a month. Rotterjack and the others aren't enthusiastic."

"And you?"

"Newshounds," Arthur concurred, shrugging. "We may not have much choice soon."

"They'll have to release those folks at Vandenberg. Can't hold them forever. They're physically clean and healthy."

Arthur closed the office door. "The Guest?"

Harry's face worked. "Bogus," he said. "I think it's as much a robot as the Australian shmoos."

"What does Phan think?"

"He's good, but this has stretched him. He thinks it's a product of a biologically advanced civilization, kind of a future citizen, sterile and largely artificial, but still
bona fide
an individual."

"Why do you disagree?"

"It was never meant to process wastes. Planned obsolescence. The Guest poisoned itself and broke down. There was no evidence of any way to void the wastes through any sort of external dialysis. No anus, no urinary tract. No valves, no exit points. No lungs. It breathed through its skin. Not very efficient for a creature its size. And no sweat glands. Unconvincing as hell. But—I'm not so convinced that I'm going to stand up and shout howdy before all the President's men. After all, that just complicates things, doesn't it?"

Arthur nodded. "You've read Colonel Rogers's report and seen his pictures?"

Harry held up a new infodisk, the security plastic sticker Day-Glo orange on its label. "An Air Force car brought it by yesterday. Impressive."

"Frightening."

"I thought you'd be spooked," Harry said. "We think alike, don't we?"

"We always have, within limits," Arthur said.

"Okay, I say the biology's a ringer. What about the rock?"

"Warren's brought in his report on the externals. He says it appears authentic, right down to mineral samples.

However, he agrees with Edward Shaw about the suspicious lack of weathering. Abante can't make heads or tails of the interior. He says it looks like a set from a science fiction movie—pretty but nonspecific. And no sign of any other Guests."

"So what do we conclude?"

Arthur pulled a folding stool from behind the door, opened it, and squatted. "I think we see the outlines of our draft, don't you?"

Harry nodded. "We're being played with," he said.

Arthur held up an extended thumb.

"Now, why would they want to play with us?" Harry asked.

"To draw us out and discover our capabilities?" Arthur ventured.

"Are they afraid we can beat them if they aren't careful?"

"That might be an explanation," Arthur said.

"Lord. They must be thousands of years ahead of us."

"Not necessarily."

"How could it be otherwise?" Harry asked, his voice rising an octave.

"Captain Cook," Arthur offered. "The Hawaiians thought he was some sort of god. Two hundred years later, they drive cars just like the rest of us… and watch TV."

"They were subjugated," Harry said. "They didn't have a chance, not against cannon."