Текст книги "Ancient Shores"

Автор книги: Jack McDevitt

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Taylor laughed. “Don’t know,” he said. “There’s plenty of precedent for giving away private property. But it really doesn’t matter. It would be wrong.”

“It would also be political suicide.”

“So you think all that’s happening here is that we’re being sent a message?”

“No. Of course not. Everybody’s scared. But there are still a lot of people who wouldn’t want to miss a chance to embarrass us.”

“They’re doing a hell of a good job of it.” The president refilled his sherry glass and offered the bottle.

Peters shook his head.

“Tony, who would have believed there’s oil in paradise?” Matt Taylor sighed. “We just don’t get a break.”

“It shouldn’t matter,” the aide said. “How much oil can you throw into the world market bringing it through that whatsis one barrel at a time?”

That was a point, and the President seemed happy for that small bit of good news. “But it will matter,” he said. “Eventually. If there’s a lot of the stuff out there, we’ll find a way to get it back. And everybody knows it. But that isn’t really the problem, is it?”

“No.”

Taylor understood there was more at stake here than economics and elections. Incredibly, a stairway into the sky had opened. He hardly dared consider the implications. He did not want to close it down. The man who did that would not look good a century or two from now. And Matt Taylor, like any president, was determined that history think well of him. He had believed attaining the White House would be enough. But once in the door, he began to envy Washington, Lincoln, the Roosevelts, and Truman. Theirs was a rank he had thought would be denied him because greatness is possible only in crisis. Every administration had its problems, but until the Roundhouse surfaced, his had been relatively mundane: no government to establish, no Union to save, no Hitler to oppose.

Now the crisis was here. In spades. And he had only to choose the right course.

What in hell was the right course?

“Tony,” he said, “I think we’ve had enough. The Sioux won’t cooperate, so we’re going to have to find another way to close the operation down. I don’t care what it takes, but I am not going to let this country come apart on my watch.”

Walhalla, ND, Mar. 27 (AP)—

A North Dakota man died this morning when he ran out of the woods off Route 32 south of here, directly into the path of a moving van. The victim was John L. McGuigan of Fort Moxie, who was apparently hunting out of season. His snowmobile was found abandoned about a mile away. It was reported to be in good working order. Police have not explained why he left the snowmobile or why he was running. An investigation is continuing.

McGuigan is survived by his wife, Jane, and two children.

“Dr. Deekin, are you absolutely certain about what you saw?”

Cass looked into the TV cameras. “Yes,” he said. “Absolutely.”

“Why haven’t the people at Johnson’s Ridge said anything about this? Is there a cover-up?”

Deekin thought it over. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, this thing, whatever it was, was invisible. They may not know it exists.”

“So what you’re saying is that something that cannot be seen came through the port.”

“I believe so.”

“And is now loose in North Dakota.”

“Yes. I would think that is true.”

The interviewer turned toward the camera. “So we may have an invisible visitor. We’ll be back in a minute to try to determine whether there’s a connection between Dr. Deekin’s experience, the reports today of a disembodied voice at a remote railroad terminal, and the mysterious death of a hunter near Johnson’s Ridge.”

25

It is I who travel in the winds,

It is I who whisper in the breeze.

–Ojibwa poem

Excerpt from The Newshour with Jim Lehrer, March 28. Conversation with Doctor Edward Bannerman, of the Institute for Advanced Study, on the subject of the “Dakota port,” with Jim Lehrer. Dr. Bannerman is a two-time Nobel prize-winning physicist.

Bannerman: It might actually be what physicists call a bridge, which is to say a connection between separate universes. The Horsehead Nebula in the skies of Eden, for example, need not be our Horsehead at all. We don’t really know. And, to be quite honest, we may never know the truth of any of this. Incidentally, I should observe that were this to be the case, those people who are hoping to use this technology to travel from San Francisco to New York are going to be disappointed.

Lehrer: They will not arrive in New York?

Bannerman: Oh, I suspect they would. But it wouldn’t be our New York.

Jeri Tully was eight years old. Mentally, she was about three, and the experts cautioned her parents against hoping for much improvement. No one knew what had gone wrong with Jeri. There was no history of mental defects on either side of her family and no apparent cause. She had two younger brothers, both of whom were quite normal.

Her father was a border patrolman, her mother a former legal secretary who had given up all hope of a career when she followed her husband to Fort Moxie.

Jeri went to school in Walhalla, which had the only local special-education class. She enjoyed school, where she made numerous friends, and where everyone seemed to make a fuss over her. Mornings in the Tully household were underscored by Jeri’s enthusiasm to get moving.

Walhalla was thirty-five miles away. The family had an arrangement with the school district, which was spread out over too vast an area to operate buses for the special-ed kids: The Tullys provided their own transportation, and the district absorbed the expenses.

Jeri’s mother, June, had actually grown to enjoy the twice-daily round trip. The child loved to ride, and she was never happier than when in the car. The other half of the drive, when June was alone, served as quiet time, when she could just watch the long fields roll by or plug an audio book into the sound system.

Curt Hollis’s adventure had taken place on a Thursday. Jeri’s father worked the midnight shift the following night, and his wife was waiting for him with French toast, bacon, and coffee when he got home in the morning. While they were eating breakfast, an odd thing happened. For the only time in her life, Jeri wandered away from home. It seemed, later, that she had decided to go to school and, having no concept of distance, or of the day (it was Saturday), had decided to walk.

Unseen by anyone except her two-year-old brother, she put on her overshoes and her coat, let herself out through the porch door, walked up to Route 11, and turned right. Her house was on the extreme western edge of town, so she was past the demolished Tastee-Freez and across the interstate overpass within minutes. The temperature was still in the teens.

Three-quarters of a mile outside Fort Moxie, Route 11 curves sharply south and then almost immediately veers west again. Had the road been free of snow, Jeri would probably have stayed with it and been picked up within a few minutes. But a light snowfall had dusted the two-lane. Jeri wasn’t used to paying attention to details, and at the first bend she walked straight off the highway. When, a few minutes later, the snow got deeper, she angled right and got still farther from the road.

Jeri’s parents had by then discovered she was missing. A frightened search was just getting under way, but it was limited to within a block or so of her home.

Jim Stuyvesant, the editor and publisher of the Fort Moxie News, was on his way to the Roundhouse. The story that an apparition had come through from the other side was going to be denied that morning in a press conference, and Jim planned to be there. He was just west of town when he saw movement out on Josh McKenzie’s land to his right. A snow devil was gliding back and forth in a curiously regular fashion. The snow devil was a perfect whirlpool, narrow at the base, wide at the top. Usually these things were blurred around the edges; they possessed an indefiniteness, and they floated erratically across the plain. But this one looked almost solid, and it moved patiently back and forth along the same course.

Stuyvesant stopped to watch.

It was almost hypnotic. A stiff wind rocked the car, enough to blow the snow devil to pieces. But it remained intact.

Stuyvesant never traveled without his video camera, which he had used on several occasions to get footage he’d subsequently sold to Ben at Ten or to one of the other local TV news shows. (He had, for example, got superb footage of the Thanksgiving Day pileup on I—29 and the blockade of imported beef at the border by angry ranchers last summer.) The snow devil continued to glide back and forth in its slow, unwavering pattern. He turned on the camera, walked a few steps into the field, and started to tape.

He used the zoom lens and got a couple of minutes’ worth of pictures before the whirlwind seemed to pause.

It started toward him.

He kept filming.

It approached at a constant pace. There was something odd in its manner, something almost deliberate.

The crosswind ripped at his jacket but didn’t seem to have any effect on the snow devil. Stuyvesant’s instincts began to sound warnings, and he took a step back toward the car.

It stopped.

Amazing. As if it had responded to him.

He stood, uncertain how to proceed. The whirlwind began to move again, laterally, then retreated a short distance and came forward to its previous position.

He was watching it through the camera lens. The red indicator lamp glowed at the bottom of the picture.

You’re waiting for me.

It approached again, and the wind tugged at his collar and his hair.

He took a step forward. And it retreated.

Like everyone else in the Fort Moxie area, Stuyvesant had been deluged with fantastic tales and theories since the Roundhouse had been uncovered. Now, without prompting, he wondered whether a completely unknown type of life form existed on the prairie and was revealing itself to him. The notion forced him to laugh. It also forced him to decide what he really believed.

He started forward.

It withdrew again.

He kept going. The snow got deeper, filled his shoes and froze his ankles.

The snow devil continued to back away. He hoped he was getting the effect on camera.

It whirled and glittered in the sun, maintaining the distance between them. He slowed, and it slowed.

Another car was pulling off the highway. He wondered how he would explain this, and immediately visualized next week’s headline in the News: “Mad Editor Put Under Guard.”

But it was a hunt without a point. The fields went on, all the way to Winnipeg. Far enough, he decided. “Sorry,” he said aloud. “This is as far as I go.”

And the thing withdrew another sixty or so yards. And collapsed.

When it did, it left something dark lying in the snow.

Jeri Tully.

That was the day Stuyvesant got religion. The story that actually appeared in the Fort Moxie News would be a truncated version of the truth.

Unfortunately, there was no ready-made church at hand in Fort Moxie. But the Lord provides, and in this case He provided Kor Yensen. Kor was going to Arizona to move in with his son and daughter-in-law on a trial basis. But he was reluctant to dispose of his oversized house until he saw how things went. The opportunity to rent it to the TV preacher on a short-term basis arrived at precisely the right moment. It never occurred to him that the action would cause a permanent rift with his neighbors, who were mostly Methodists and Lutherans, and who preferred a more sedate form of worship than the hosannahs and oratorical thunder provided by Old-Time Bill.

In order to fulfill its function, Kor’s house needed some renovation. The Volunteers tore out three walls to get adequate meeting space. (They posted bond with Kor, promising to restore everything.) They installed a backdrop of dark-stained paneled walls and crowded bookshelves to maintain Bill’s signature atmosphere. They put in an organ and a sound stage and installed state-of-the-art communication equipment. Two days after their arrival, and just in time for the regular Saturday night service, the Backcountry Church was ready to go.

At precisely 7:00 P.M. local time, Bill’s exuberant theme music, “‘Tis the Old-Time Religion,” rocked the house, and Bill himself, about thirty bars in, walked out in front of the cameras and welcomed the vast television audience to Fort Moxie. He explained that the Volunteers had come to do battle with the devil, and he led a packed house of eighteen (which, through the wonders of electronic enhancement, sounded like several hundred) in a thundering rendition of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” The choir, whose location in an upstairs bedroom was disguised by drapes and handrails, joined in, and everybody got into the mood very quickly.

“Brothers and sisters,” Bill said, raising his hands, “you may wonder why the Volunteers have come to the Dakota border. Why many of us felt the Lord wanted us here.

“Tonight we are in the shadow of Johnson’s Ridge.” He looked beyond the camera lenses, out into living rooms around the country, where the believers were gathered. People at home always said that they thought he was talking directly to them. “Only a few miles from here, scientists have opened their port to another—” He paused, drawing out the moment. “—place.

“Another place.

“And what kind of place have they found? They speak of trees and pools, of white blossoms and harmless creatures, of beautiful skies and warm sunlight. They speak in terms that are very familiar to anyone who has looked at Genesis.” He smiled. “The scientists, of course, don’t realize this. They don’t recognize the place because they are too much of this world.

“But we know where they are, brothers and sisters.”

“Amen,” chanted his audience.

A reporter from the Winnipeg Free Press, Alma Kinyata, cornered him after the service. “Reverend Addison,” she asked, “do you really believe that we’ve discovered Paradise?”

They were in his office, upstairs at the back of the converted church. It was spartan by any measure and particularly humble when contrasted against the power and influence of its occupant. He’d brought in a desk and a couple of chairs. Copies of the Bible, Metcalf’s The Divine Will, and the Oxford Theological Studies stood between marble bookends. A picture of Addison’s mother hung on the wall.

“Yes,” he said, “I honestly believe we have. There is no way to know for certain, although I think that if I were to go there, I could give you a definitive answer.”

Alma felt good about this one. He was responsive, and it was going to be a solid story. “Are you planning to go up there? To Eden?”

“No,” he said. “I will not set foot in the Garden. It is forbidden to mortal man.”

“You say you would know Paradise if you saw it?”

“Oh, yes. Anyone would.”

“But the people who have been there haven’t drawn that conclusion.”

“I mean, any Christian. I’m sorry, I tend to think in terms of believers.”

“How would you know?”

Addison’s eyelids fluttered. “Paradise partakes of the divine essence. Adam and Eve were sent packing early. That was a smart move, if I may say.” He grinned, rather like a large, friendly dog. “It kept the Garden unsullied. Pure. Oh, yes, that place is sacred, and I think anyone who pays attention to the welfare of his soul would recognize that fact immediately. You will recall the angel.”

“The angel?”

“Yes. ‘And he set an angel with a flaming sword.’ I can tell you I wouldn’t want to be among those who have trespassed into the things of God.”

Alma left convinced that Addison beleived none of it. But she got her story and scared the devil out of a substantial portion of the countryside.

And she was, by the way, wrong about Bill. He believed every word.

Andrea Hawk gave Max a hand with the travel kit and then stood aside.

The video record of the rings icon had revealed a wall with a long window. The window was dark. The wall was plain. They knew nothing else about the last of the possible destinations tied into the Roundhouse.

Somehow the place had looked chilly, so they were all warmly dressed. “You know,” said Arky, “it’s just a matter of time before we get stuck out there somewhere.”

“That’s right,” said Andrea. “We should devise a test. A way to make sure we can get home.”

“If you can think of a way to do it,” said April, “set something up.” Max knew she had no intention of waiting around. She wanted to look at the last of the places that could be reached from the Roundhouse; and he knew she would go on from there to Eden and begin exploring its connections. Eventually, he believed, they would lose her.

Andrea stood by the icons while April, Max, and Arky took their places on the grid. “Ready to move out,” said April.

She pressed the rings. “Usual routine,” said Max, waving a spade. “We’ll check the return capability before we do anything.” And to Andrea: “We’ll send the spade back. If it doesn’t work, we’ll post a message.”

Andrea nodded.

Max tried to relax. He closed his eyes against the coming light and took a deep breath. That was probably what saved his life.

He’d discovered there was less vertigo if he closed his eyes. He watched the familiar glow against the inside of his lids, felt the unsettling lack of physical reality, as if he himself no longer quite existed. Then the light died, weight came back, his body came back.

And he couldn’t breathe.

A wall of cold hit him and he went down onto a grid. His ears roared and his heart pounded.

Vacuum. They’d materialized in a vacuum.

April’s fingers clawed at him. She staggered away, off the grid. He went after her.

They were in a long, cylindrical chamber filled with machines. The black panel they’d seen in the video was a window, the night beyond it unbroken by any star.

Several windows along the opposite wall admitted the only illumination: light from an enormous elliptical galaxy. Even in his terror, Max was awestruck by the majesty of the scene.

Arky stumbled through the silver glow to the rear of the transportation device, which was supported by a post like the one in Eden. From his angle, Max could see two columns of icons.

Arky looked at the icons and caught Max’s eye. Max saw reproach in the distorted features. And something else.

Now.

Max read the tortured stare.

Go.

The dark eyes flicked to the grid. Max seized April while Arky pressed the icon display. One of the symbols lit up, but his fingers stuck and would not come loose.

The terrible cold pushed what air Max had left out of his lungs. The world was slipping away, fading, and he just wanted it to be over.

But April’s hand held onto him. Drew him back. He staggered onto the grid, and she collapsed behind him.

Arky was on his knees, watching them.

The chamber began to fade, and Max would have screamed against the coming light if he could.

The tape, played on NBC’s Counterpoint, had caught everything. A nationwide audience watched the eerie column of snow move with purpose across its screens. If any program in the history of television had been designed to terrify its audience, this was it.

“And the child,” asked the moderator gently, “was found in the field when you drove this thing away?”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what happened,” said Stuyvesant.

“What exactly did happen, Jim?”

“It was more like it was trying to show me where the child was.”

The moderator nodded. “Can we run that last portion again, Phil?”

They watched the whirling snow systematically retreat and pause and advance and retreat again. Unfortunately, the audience could not see the connection with the movements of the man holding the camera, but they saw enough.

“Is it true,” asked the moderator, “that Jeri never before did anything like this?”

“That’s what her folks say. If they say it, I’m sure it’s so.”

“Why do you think she wandered off this time?”

“Don’t know. I guess it just happened.”

“Jim, is there any truth to the rumor that she was lured? That this thing was trying to get her away from the town?”

“I don’t think so,” Stuyvesant said.

The cameras moved in for a closeup of the moderator, who turned a quizzical expression to the audience.

26

O my son, farewell!

You have gone beyond the great river—

–Blackfoot poem

If, during that period, a true injustice was committed against any of the persons living in and around Fort Moxie, the victim was Jeri Tully. Jeri also received a gift of inestimable value, and the gift and the injustice were one and the same.

For reasons unknown to the corps of specialists who had examined her, Jeri had never grown properly, and her skull had never become large enough to house her brain. Consequently, the child had suffered not only a diminution in height but retardation as well. Her world was a confused jumble, a place that was arbitrary and unpredictable, in which the principle of causality seemed scarcely to operate at all.

Jeri’s pleasures were limited largely to tactile experiences: her mother’s smile, an astronaut doll to which she had become particularly attached, her younger brothers, and (on Friday nights) pizza. She had little interest in television, nor was she able to participate in the games normal children might play. She was delighted when a visitor paid attention to her. And she enjoyed Star Wars films, although only in theaters.

June Tully sensed a change in her child after Jim Stuyvesant brought her home on that cold April day. But she could not pin it down. The feeling was so ephemeral that she never mentioned it to her husband.

Jeri, by the nature of her misfortune, would never really grasp her deficiencies, and therefore they could give her no pain. This simple view provided unlimited consolation to her family. But something unique had happened to her when she sank half frozen into the snow off Route 11. She was frightened, but not for her life, because she did not understand danger. She was frightened because she did not know where she was, where her home was. And she could not stop the cold.

Suddenly something had invaded her world. Her mind opened, not unlike a blossom directed toward the sun. She had risen into the sky and ridden the wind, had known a flood of joy unlike anything she’d experienced before. She had reached far beyond her own pale limitations.

During those few moments, Jeri understood the interplay between wind and heat and the tension between open sky and swollen clouds. She soared and dipped above the land, as if she were herself a storm, a thing made equally of sunlight and snow and high winds.

For the rest of her life, her crippled brain would cling to the memory of the sky, of the time when the darkness and the chaos and the weakness had receded. When Jeri had known what it was to be godlike.

Adam and Max went back in pressure suits to retrieve Arky’s body. They said good-bye to him two days later in a quiet Catholic ceremony at the reservation chapel. The priest, who was from Devil’s Lake, said the ancient words of farewell in the Sioux tongue.

The mourners were equally divided between Native Americans and their friends. There were a substantial number of attractive young women, and nine members of a teenage basketball team for which Arky had been an assistant coach.

Max was informed that, as one of the beneficiaries of Arky’s sacrifice, he would be expected to say a few words recounting the event. So he used a notebook to record his thoughts. But when the time actually came to speak, the notebook, which was in his pocket, seemed a long way off. It embarrassed him to have anyone think he could not, without help, describe his feeling for the man who had saved his life. “Arky did not know April or me very well,” he said, speaking from the front of the chapel. “A few months ago we were strangers.

“Today she and I are here not only because of his courage but also because under extreme conditions he kept his head. He must have known he could not save himself. So he devoted himself to saving us.”

Max took a deep breath. His audience leaned forward attentively. “When I first visited his office, I noticed that he kept a bow in a prominent place on the wall. It was his father’s, he explained. I could see his pride. The bow is a warrior’s weapon. My father was also a warrior. And he would have been proud to claim such a son.” Max’s voice shook. He saw again the little girl in the aircraft window.

He had thought that memory had been laid to rest when he’d gone through the port after April. But he understood in the cold clarity of that moment that it would always be with him.

It is the custom among the tribes of the Dakotas and the Northwest at such times to deemphasize their sense of loss. Rather than mourn, they celebrate the life and accomplishments of the spirit that had taken flesh and lived temporarily among them. Part of that celebration is a ritualized gift-giving by members of the family.

At the end of the ceremony, Max was surprised to be called forward by a teenager who identified himself as Arky’s brother. “We have something for you,” the boy said.

While an expectant stir ran through the party, he produced a long, narrow box wrapped in hand-woven fabric. Max thanked him and opened the package. It was the bow.

“I can’t take this,” Max protested.

James Walker stood and turned so the crowd could hear him. “In your own words,” he said, “the bow is a warrior’s weapon.”

Everyone cheered.

“I’m no warrior,” Max said. “I’m a businessman.”

The tribal chairman smiled. “You have a warrior’s spirit, Collingwood. Arky gave his life for you, and it is the family’s decision you should have the bow.” When Max still hesitated, he added, “He would wish that it find its home with you.”

One of the students showed the visitor in, looked inquisitively at April, and withdrew.

She rose and extended her hand. “Mr. Asquith?”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Cannon.” Asquith’s grip was uncertain. He seized her by her fingers. “I don’t know whether you’ve heard of me.”

The tone carried just enough self-deprecation to imply that Asquith understood he was in fact a person of no small significance. He was, of course, Walter Asquith, two-time Pulitzer prize-winning critic, essayist, poet, and novelist, best known for a series of scathing social commentaries, the most recent of which, Late News from Babylon, had topped the New York Times best-seller list for six months. April remembered from her college years a guest instructor who was at the end of a long career as an editor and writer. They’d been assigned Asquith’s Marooned in Barbary, a collection of blistering attacks on various literary personages and efforts, in one of which the instructor surfaced briefly to take an arrow between the eyes from the great man. He had proudly pointed out the page and line to his students, and April understood that the assault had been the apex of his career. Rather like being Dante’s barber.

“I know of your work, Mr. Asquith,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

He was big, round-shouldered, meaty. His hair was white and combed over a bald spot. He spoke in short, authoritative bursts and would, April thought, have made a good judge.

“I want to spend some time in Eden,” he said.

April wrote down the scheduler’s phone number and passed it over to him. “They’ll be happy to put you on the list.”

“No, I don’t think you understand. I’ve already been there. I want to go back. To be honest, I’d like to pitch a tent and move in. For a while.”

April glanced quite deliberately at her watch. She was no longer impressed by credentials. An outrageous request was outrageous, whatever its source. “I’m sorry, Mr. Asquith. I don’t think we can permit—”

“Dr. Cannon, I’m aware of the scientific significance of the Roundhouse. I wonder whether you grasp the psychological and philosophical implications. The slow, generally upward course of the human race has forked. We have plunged into a broad forest. The world as we know it is waiting for something to happen. But it is uncertain what that something will be. That is why the world’s financial markets are in chaos; why demonstrators are in front of the White House; why the United Nations is locked in its most acrimonious debate in a decade. When you stepped across the gulf a couple of weeks ago into whatever place that was, you began a new era.

“Someone needs to record all this. To tie the daily events to their historical and literary significance. We used to think that if the twentieth century would be remembered for any single moment, it would be the moon landing. But—” He looked steadily at her. “The moon landing is small potatoes, Dr. Cannon. The decisive moment, not of the century but of recorded history, is now. I know you have begun to bring in experts, mathematicians, geologists, astronomers, and whatnot. And that is all to the good. We need to do that. But we also need someone whose sole function will be to consider the meaning of what is happening here. To stand back while others measure and weigh and speculate, to apply these events against the progress of the human spirit.” He placed his hands together and laid his chin against them. “I think that I am uniquely qualified for such a role. I have, in fact, already compiled extensive notes. And I would be honored to be allowed to participate.”

Asquith had a point, April thought. “What did you have in mind? A series of news reports?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. I would want to do a major work. My magnum opus.”

“Let me think about it,” she said. “I’ll get back to you.”

“The working title would be Ancient Shores.” He gave her a card. “We should start without delay.”

He let himself out. April decided she would do it. That kind of publicity couldn’t hurt them. But she’d run it past Max first.

She picked up her messages. Peg Moll, their scheduler and event coordinator, had received a call from a man identifying himself as the agent for Shaggy Dog. The rap group wanted to do a concert on Johnson’s Ridge. “They’re promising to sell two hundred thousand tickets,” Peg said.

When the phone rang, Max and April were discussing plans to send a repair crew into the chamber that had taken Arky’s life. (Already it had outdistanced Eden as the place that researchers most wanted to visit.)