The Forge of God (4 page)

"Do I have to bait my own hook?" Marty asked.

"That's part of the game," Harry said. Harry Feinman was stocky and muscular, six inches shorter than Arthur, with premature ash-gray hair receding on all fronts but his neck, where it ventured as stiff fuzz below the collar of his black leather jacket. His face was beefy, friendly, with small piercing eyes and heavy dark eyebrows. He reeled in loose nylon vigorously and propped the pole between the bait can and a tackle box. "You don't earn your fish without doing the whole thing."

Arthur winked at Marty's dubious glance.

"Might hurt the worms," Marty said.

"I honestly don't know whether they feel pain or not," Harry said. "They might. But that's the way of things."

"Is that the way of things, Dad?" Marty asked Arthur.

"I suppose it is." In all the time they had spent living by the river, Arthur had never taken Marty fishing.

"Your dad's here to break things easy to you, Marty. I'm not. Fishing is serious business. It's a ritual."

Marty knew about rituals. "That means we're supposed to do something a certain way so we won't feel guilty," he said.

"You got it," Harry said.

Marty put on the vacant look that meant he was hatching an idea. "Peggy getting married… is that a ritual, because they're going to have sex? And they might be guilty?"

In the morning, Francine and Martin would drive to Eugene to attend her niece's wedding. Arthur would have accompanied them, but now there were far more important things.

Arthur raised his eyebrows at Harry. "You've done all the talking so far," he said.

"He's your son, fellah."

"Getting married is celebration. It's a ritual, but it's joyous. Not at all like baiting a hook."

Harry grinned. "Nobody's guilty about having sex anymore."

Marty nodded, satisfied, and took a hooked line from Arthur. Arthur gingerly pulled a worm out of the carton and handed it to his son. "Twist it around and hook it several times."

"Blecchh," Martin said, doing as he was told. "Worm blood is yellow," he added. "Squishy."

They fished in the hollow for an hour without luck. By nine-thirty, Martin was ready to put the pole down and eat a sandwich. "All right. Wash your hands in the river," Arthur told him. "Worm juice, remember."

"Bleechh." Marty bent over the gunwale to immerse his hands.

Harry leaned back, letting his knees grip the pole, and locked his hands behind his neck, grinning broadly. "We haven't done this in years."

"I don't miss fishing much," Arthur said.

"Sissy."

"Dad's not a sissy," Marty insisted.

"You tell him," Arthur encouraged.

"Fishing's gross," Marty said.

"Like father, like son," Harry lamented.

Harry's floppy fisherman's cap cast a shadow over his eyes. Arthur suddenly remembered the dream, with Harry's head a full moon, and shuddered. The wind rose cool and damp in the tree shadows of the hollow with a beautiful, mourning sigh.

Marty ate his sandwich, oblivious.

October 4

Beyond the wide picture windows and a curtain of tall pines, the river eddied quiet and green around a slight bend. To the west, white clouds rolled inland, their bottoms heavy and gray.

In the kitchen, amid hanging copper pots and pans, Arthur cracked eggs into an iron skillet on the broad gas stove.

"We've known each other for thirty years," he said, bringing out two plates of scrambled eggs and sausage and laying one on the thick oak table before his friend. "We don't see nearly enough of each other."

"That's why we've been friends for so long." Harry tapped the end of his fork lightly on the tabletop. "This air," he said. "Makes me feel like thirty years ago was when I last ate. What a refuge."

"You're cramping my sentimentality," Arthur said, returning to the kitchen for a pitcher of orange juice.

"The sausages…?"

"Hebrew National."

"God bless." Harry dug into the fluffy yellow pile on the round stoneware plate. Arthur sat down across from him.

"How do you ever get any work done here? I prefer concrete cells. Helps the concentration."

"You slept well."

"I
snore
, Arthur, whether I sleep well or not."

Arthur smiled. "And you call yourself an outdoorsman, a fisherman." He cut the tip from a sausage and lifted it to his mouth. "Between consulting and reeducating myself, I've been trying to write a book about the Hampton administration. Haven't even seriously started on chapter one. I'm not sure how to describe what happened. What a wonderful tragic comedy it all was."

"Hampton gave science more credibility than any President since… Well," Harry said, "since." He lifted one hand and splayed his fingers.

"I'm hoping Crockerman."

"That name. A president."

"May not be so bad. He's part of the reason I invited you out here."

Harry raised a bushy eyebrow. The two were as much a contrast as any classic comedy team—Arthur tall and slightly stooped, his brown hair naturally tousled; Harry of medium height and stocky to the edge of plumpness in his middle years, with a high forehead and a friendly, wide-eyed expression that made him seem older than he was. "I told Ithaca." Ithaca, the lovely, classically proportioned wife, whom Arthur hadn't seen in six years, was a decade younger than Harry.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her you used the tone of voice that means you have some job for me."

Arthur nodded. "I do. The bureau is being revived. In a way."

"Crockerman's reviving Betsy?"

"Not as such." The Bureau of Extraterrestrial Communication—BETC or "Betsy" for short—had been Arthur's last hurrah in Washington. He had served as science advisor and Secretary of BETC for three years under Hampton, who had appointed him after the Arecibo Incident in 1992. That had turned out to be a false alarm, but Hampton had kept Arthur on until his assassination in Mexico City in August of 1994. Vice President William Crockerman had been sworn in on a train in New Mexico, and had immediately moved to place his own stamp on the White House, replacing most of the Cabinet with his own choices. Three months after the swearing—in, the new chief of staff, Irwin Schwartz, had told Arthur, "No little green men, no lost ships off Bermuda… might as well go home, Mr. Gordon."

"Is he going to make you science advisor?" Harry asked. "Kick out that idiot Rotterjack?"

Arthur shook his head, grinning. "He's forming a special presidential task force."

"Australia," Harry said, nodding sagely. He put down his glass of orange juice without taking a sip, braced as if for an assault, his eyes fixed on the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table. "Great Victoria Desert."

Arthur was not surprised. "How much do you know?" he asked.

"I know it was found by opal prospectors and that it's not supposed to be there. I know that it could be a virtual duplicate of Ayers Rock."

"That last part isn't quite true. It differs substantially. But you're right. It's recent, and it shouldn't be there." Arthur was relieved to know that Harry hadn't heard of the incident much closer to home.

"What do we have to do with it?"

"Australia is finally asking for advice. The Prime Minister is going public with a report in three days or less. He's under some pressure."

"Little green men?"

"I can't even comment on that until I've asked you the questions, Harry."

"Then ask," Harry said, still braced.

"The President has put me in charge of the civilian science investigation team. We work with the military and with State. You're my first choice."

"I'm a biochemist. That means…"

Arthur shook his head slowly. "Hear me out, Harry. I need you for biochemistry, and as my second-in-command. I'm pushing for Warren from Kent State for geology, and Abante from Malibu for physics. They've agreed, but they have to go through political examination."

"You think I'd pass Crockerman's political pop quiz?" Harry asked.

"You will if I insist, and I will."

"You need a biochemist… really?"

"That's the rumor," Arthur said, his grin widening.

"It would be lovely." Harry pushed his chair back with only half his eggs and one sausage eaten. "Old friends, working together again. Ithaca would agree. Hell, even if she didn't… but…"

"There will never be another chance like this;" Arthur said, emphasizing each word as if he were putting some essential point across to a dunderhead student.

Harry wrinkled his forehead, staring up at Arthur. "Dupres at King's College?"

"I've asked for him. He hasn't answered yet. We may not be able to get extranationals on the team."

"I wouldn't turn you down lightly," Harry said. Arthur saw his friend's eyes were red. He appeared close to tears. "You need somebody reliable."

"What does that mean?"

Harry looked out the window, hand tensing on a fork handle, relaxing. "I just told Ithaca three weeks ago."

Arthur's face became placid, clear of all the excitement he had exhibited seconds before. "Yes?"

"Chronic leukemia. I've got it. It has me."

Arthur blinked twice. Harry would not look straight at him.

"It's not good. In a few months, I'll be spending most of my time fighting this. I can't see how I'll be anything but a hindrance."

"Terminal?" Arthur asked.

"My doctors say perhaps not. But I've been reading." He shrugged.

"These new treatments…"

"Very promising. I have hope. But you must see…" Harry turned his bright gaze on Arthur. "This thing's as big as Ayers Rock, and it's been there how long?"

"No more than six months. Survey satellites mapped that area just over six months ago and it wasn't there."

Harry grinned broadly. "That's wonderful. That's truly wonderful. What the hell is it, Arthur?"

"A piece of Europa, perhaps?" Arthur's voice was far away. His friend still wouldn't meet his gaze.

Harry laughed out loud and flung his napkin on the table. "I'll not be sad and weepy. Not with this."

Arthur's throat tightened. He had practically grown up with Harry. They had known each other for thirty years. He couldn't possibly be dying. Arthur coughed. "We'll become adults with this one, Harry. The whole human race. I need you very much."

"Can you take on a might-be invalid?" Now their eyes met, and this time Arthur glanced away, shoulders stiff. With an effort, he looked back. "You'll make it, Harry."

"Lord, speak of will to live."

"Join the team."

Harry wiped his eyes with the forefinger of his right hand. "Travel? I mean, much…"

"At first, but you can stay in Los Angeles if you wish, later."

"I'll need that. The treatment is at UCLA."

Arthur offered his hand. "You'll make it."

"After this, maybe it won't be so bad," Harry said. He took the offered hand and squeezed it firmly.

"What?"

"Dying. What a thing to see… Little green men, Arthur?"

"Are you with us?"

"You know I am."

"Then you get the big picture. It's not just Australia. There's something in the Mojave Desert, Death Valley, between a resort called Furnace Creek and a little town called Shoshone. It resembles a cinder cone. It's new. It doesn't belong there."

Harry grinned like a little boy. "Wonderful."

"And yes, there's an LGM."

"Where?"

"For the moment, Vandenberg Air Force Base."

Harry glanced at the ceiling and lifted both arms, tears spilling from his eyes. "Thank you, Lord."

PERSPECTIVE

WorldNet USA Earthpulse, October 5, 1996:
Almost all's well with the world today. No earthquakes, no typhoons, no hurricanes approaching land. Frankly, we'd say today was bright and glorious, but for early light snows in the northeastern United States, rain by tonight in the Pacific Northwest, and the confirmation last week that the ever-popular El Nino has returned to the South Pacific. Australians are bracing for another long drought in the face of this climactic scourge.

When Trevor Hicks told Shelly Terhune, his publicist, that the morning interview with KGB was on, she paused, snickered, and said, "Vicky won't like you turning traitor." Vicky Jackson was his editor at Knopf.

"Tell her it's FM, Shelly. I'm going to be squeezed between the surf report and the morning news."

"The KGB do a surf report?"

"Look, it was on your list of stations," he said, mock-exasperated. "I'm not responsible."

"All right, let me look," Shelly said. "KGB-FM. You're right. You've confirmed the slot?"

"The news manager says ten or fifteen minutes, but I'm sure it'll end up about thirty seconds."

"At least you'll reach the surfers. Maybe they haven't heard of you."

"If they haven't, it's not for want of your trying." He tried to put on a petulant tone. He was in fact quite tired; he was sixty-eight years old, after all, and while comparatively hale and hearty, Hicks was not used to such a schedule anymore. Ten years ago, he could have done it standing on his head.

"Now, now. Tomorrow we have you set up for that morning TV talk show."

"Confirmed, tomorrow morning. Live so they can't edit."

"Don't say anything rude," Shelly admonished him. This was hardly necessary. Trevor Hicks gave some of the most polite and erudite interviews imaginable. His public image was bright and stylishly rumpled; he resembled both Albert Einstein and a middle-aged Bertrand Russell; what he had to say was consensus technocracy, hardly controversial and always good for a short news item. He had founded the British chapter of the Trojans Society, devoted to space exploration and the construction of huge orbiting space habitats; he was a forty-seven-year member of the British Interplanetary Society; he had written twenty-three books, the most recent being
Starhome
, a novel about first contact; and last but not least, he was the most public spokesman in the so-called "civilian sector" for manned exploration of space. His was not quite a household name, but he was one of the most respected science journalists in the world. Despite spending twelve years in the United States, he had not lost his English accent. In short, for both radio and television he was a natural. Shelly had taken advantage of this by booking him on a generic "whirlwind" tour of seventeen cities in four weeks.