Analog SFF, March 2012
Author: Dell Magazine Authors
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Science Fiction. 74510 words long.

Dell Magazines
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Copyright ©2012 by Dell Magazines

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Cover Art by Tomislav Tikulin

Cover design by Victoria Green

CONTENTS

Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: WHAT'S TECHNOLOGY FOR? by Stanley Schmidt

Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

Novelette: THE EDIACARIAN MACHINE by Craig DeLancey

Science Fact: THE EARTH DIES SCREAMING: RADIATION THREATS FROM BEYOND by Adrian L. Melott

Novelette: MOTHER'S TATTOOS by Richard A. Lovett

Department: BIOLOG: ALEC NEVALA-LEE by Richard A. Lovett

Novelette: ERNESTO by Alec Nevala-Lee

Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: MU NEUTRINOS AS TACHYONS? by John G. Cramer

Novelette: UPON THEIR BACKS by Kyle Kirkland

Novelette: TRIGGERS: PART II OF IV by Robert J. Sawyer

Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Don Sakers

Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS by Anthony Lewis

* * * *
Vol. CXXXII No. 3
MARCH 2012
Stanley Schmidt, Editor
Trevor Quachri, Managing Editor

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* * * *

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Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: WHAT'S TECHNOLOGY FOR? by Stanley Schmidt

It depends. Are you buying or selling?

For most of us, technology is to help us do something better, faster, or more easily, or to do something we couldn't do at all without it. The horse collar enabled people to plow fields more efficiently, to go places faster and with less personal exertion, and to haul heavier goods longer distances, than they could with only their own muscles. The automobile gave the same advantages, but to a dramatically greater degree. The airplane gave us a whole new ability: to fly, to move much faster than by any ground- or water-based conveyance, unencumbered by obstacles such as mountain ranges or oceans, and without the need for roads or other large-scale infrastructures. Computers gave us (among other things) the ability to do huge amounts of computation in a time that would have been impractical without them, which led in turn to brand-new lifesaving abilities like CT scans.

For other people (developers and entrepreneurs), technology is a way to make money, by making it possible for the first group (users) to have access to the tools they need to do things like those I've just mentioned. Companies like Ford, General Motors, Toyota, and Honda have revolutionized our cultural landscape by providing the general public with access to sophisticated, efficient means of transportation. Companies like IBM and Apple not only developed big, powerful computers for industry, but made little (yet still powerful) computers into common household appliances for a wide range of applications.

Both groups—users and providers—need each other. Sometimes they're the same—sometimes people develop new technologies to serve their own needs—but if the new technologies are really good at serving their own needs, other users will soon adopt them and developers will profit from selling them. Usually, or at least often, that mutual feedback benefits both groups. Developers have an incentive to keep improving their products, and users have access to better and better tools.

Occasionally, though, developers get carried away, so caught up in the fun of developing or the lure of selling snazzy new products that they become cavalier about the importance of what users actually want. They develop what they'd like to sell, try to persuade users to buy it, and ultimately force it upon them by discontinuing earlier stuff and refusing to provide support for it long before it becomes unusable.

Sometimes that's not a serious problem, particularly with “standalone” technologies. How satisfactory an automobile is, for instance, is essentially independent of how earlier models were built or what they could do. Within rather broad limits, cars as different as a 1910 Ford Model T, a 2011 Lexus, and a 2012 Hummer can use the same roads and serve many of the same functions. If you decide to adopt one of them as your primary mode of transportation, it doesn't matter what you were driving before or what you did with it. If a company makes changes in its new models that improve fuel efficiency, safety, and comfort, while reducing emission of pollutants and keeping prices comparable to what they were, people are likely to embrace the changes eagerly, with little if any grumbling about “This isn't like the old ones.” (Of course, there are other considerations, mainly psychological: to some people style is important, and almost anyone may resent having to pay extra for unnecessary features that they don't want.)

When technologies interact, things get a little more complicated. If a manufacturer of railroad cars decided to start building cars with six inches more space between left and right wheels, he'd find it impossible to sell them. Railroad cars have to be able to run on existing tracks, and cars that don't fit them would be completely useless. They could be used if all the existing tracks were replaced, but that would be a huge, expensive job that I seriously doubt anyone would consider worth doing just to get cars six inches wider. [1]

That example probably strikes you as so patently ridiculous that you can't imagine that any businessman would actually try to sell such cars and get people to invest in thousands of miles of new track to use them. But there's an analogous situation, in some ways subtler but in others even more bizarre, involving a whole broad category of technologies that practically all of us use, and frequently depend on. I refer to the whole collection of fields, long regarded as distinct but rapidly merging into a more or less unified whole, dealing with the collection, storage, accessing, and processing of information.

The most familiar historical examples include sound recording, photography, cinematography, word and graphics processors, and database systems. Until recently, at least some of these were complementary sets of recording and playback equipment, like cameras and projectors or recorders and phonographs. Now all of those functions, along with word processing, graphics, and database management, are often combined into a single system incorporated into or built around a computer.

And manufacturers keep developing new versions of those systems, which are often incompatible with work produced using earlier versions, and forcing users into a position where they have to buy the new ones whether they want them or not.

In the short term, this is fine and dandy for those who think the purpose of technology is to help them make money by selling it. It's not always so good for those who see technology as a tool for doing something else—a means to other ends, not an end in itself.

What developers too often forget—and many users let them get away with it because of their own shortsightedness—is that information technologies are an inherently and crucially special case. One generation of technology creates records that may still need to be used much later, and the utility of later generations must be judged in part by how well it preserves access to those. On that test, many of our most impressive new technologies—and the companies that make them—fail dismally, while older ones do much better. Stone tablets from thousands of years ago are still readable, by those who know how. I can still read books, or look at photographic prints, that my grandparents acquired in their youth. I can easily combine 35-mm slides from two years ago with others from fifty years ago, using projection equipment made anytime in that period (assuming, of course, that it has been well maintained). If no projector is available, the images are still viewable with a simple light source and a simple hand lens.

Digital pictures, on the other hand, are completely dependent on a complex technological infrastructure. If that collapses, or manufacturers decide to promote “new, improved” software incompatible with the old formats, those pictures may become unusable in just a few years, unless they are converted to a new format. That process is a time-consuming nuisance at best, and practically impossible at worst. The same consideration applies to all records stored in digital form—which, these days, means practically all of them. A great many have already been, for all practical purposes, lost to posterity simply because they're stored in old electronic formats and nobody has the time or equipment to translate them to new ones. In creating a civilization with far more information-handling ability than any before it, we may also be creating the most ephemeral civilization in history.[2]

Let no one misread any of this as meaning that I oppose progress or change. Many upgrades really do incorporate multitudes of impressive and useful new features. But the people developing them need to be reminded periodically that the primary purpose of their technologies is not to make them money, but to serve the needs of people who use them. In the case of information technologies, this means ensuring that records created with older versions remain at least as accessible and useful as when they were created. The fundamental reason for storing information is that you think you or others may want or need to use it later, and “improvements” that make that more difficult or impossible are, to the extent they do so, not improvements, but the opposite.

That's why I find it disturbing to read things like an article called “Last word on Lion[3] and application compatibility,” by Christopher Breen, which appeared on Macworld.com, an online magazine for Macintosh users, on June 27, 2011. In part, it's a useful piece, giving users of older operating systems advice on how to make sure they can continue using their older applications and files if they switch to the new operating system. But toward its end, it admits that, while sometimes they can do that pretty easily, sometimes they can't. After conceding that salvaging some kinds of files—including some of the kinds most likely to need long-term accessibility—will be “challenging,” Mr. Breen says his proposed way of dealing with the problem is, “Not a perfect solution, but at least it's a more forward-looking solution than clinging to an old OS (and, perhaps, old hardware) to keep a zombie application shambling along."

I've been a Mac user myself for a long time, by choice; I recommend Macs to anybody who asks; and on the rare occasions when I've had to use Apple tech support I've been impressed by its quality and efficiency. But I find the sneering attitude implicit in Mr. Breen's closing remarks, frankly, offensive. He seems to believe, and to imply that Apple also believes, that users have some obligation to welcome a new tech just because its developer wants them to buy it, with little or no regard for what it's going to do to their ability to keep using old records. But if the hardware and software a person has is doing a good job of serving his or her needs, why should he cheerfully accept the “need” to waste time and money on an “upgrade” that makes his job harder rather than easier? If the old system still works, it's only a “zombie” because the company that made it chooses to treat it as one, hoping the user will feel obliged to buy a newer one.

That expectation seems to me a blatant case of misplaced priorities. Technology is to do useful jobs, not just to provide income for people who would like to sell us ever-newer versions of it. Information is special, and an “upgrade” that removes access to data we still need is no upgrade, no matter how many snazzy new bells and whistles it has. It is, to the extent that it does that, a giant step backward.

Copyright © 2011 by Stanley Schmidt

* * * *

1 For an idea of what our lives might be like if automobiles had developed that way, see Christopher Anvil's story “Bugs” (June 1986).

2 This is not a new problem. I discussed it earlier in “Continuity” (August 1991), which was in turn inspired by a real news story about the difficulties the National Archives were having in keeping old documents readable.

3 For the non-Mac-users among you, Lion is Apple's pet name for yet another new operating system released near the time of the article.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

In recent years there has been much talk and concern about invasive species—and countertalk about whether “invasive” species are necessarily bad. Susan Forest leads off our April issue with a thought-provoking novelette about “The Most Invasive Species” and the elusive relationship between quality of intentions and quality of results. Craig DeLancey also has a novelette, “Ecce Signum,” which is the latest (and last?) in his series about “Marrion's Children,” bred and raised for a unique and very special quality—with, of course, the best of intentions.

Richard A. Lovett offers a fact article which is far out in the most literal way: It's about Pluto, recently demoted from official “planet” status, other Pluto-like objects, and all the other stuff making up the Kuiper Belt, way out on the fringes of the Solar System—but offering new insights into the origins of the part we live in.

We'll also have stories by Kevin J. Anderson, Stephen L. Burns, and Jerry Oltion, plus Part III of Robert J. Sawyer's novel Triggers.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: THE EDIACARIAN MACHINE by Craig DeLancey

Ancient history may be much more ancient—and more contemporary—than you think.

Karen Regan found me out in the parking lot, where I shouted orders at the security guards who carried bulging cardboard boxes onto the U-Haul. The guards ignored me. They had somehow figured out that all my authority had evaporated, and they were the type to switch in an instant from obeisance to contempt. They dropped my boxes roughly onto the hard steel bed of the truck, and shuffled off resentfully for the next cartons.

When I saw Karen coming towards me, her smart black pumps clacking on the tarmac, I suddenly felt very sorry that I had worn sweatpants and a hoody to work. It no longer seemed to announce that I was so hip and necessary that my clothes didn't matter. It seemed instead to just announce: unemployed.

"Hey, Worry,” she said. Worry was a college nickname that stuck for a few semesters, a consequence of my excessive studying. But for years since I had been just Steve.

"Ah,” I said, “now this really is the worst day of my life."

She frowned, hesitating, eyes flicking around as if looking for something.

But, just like in the old days, I never could bear feeling that she was uncomfortable. I broke the silence. “Your hair is short now."

"Has been for years."

"It's been years? You've managed to avoid me that long?"

She let that pass with an easy laugh. She still emanated that same charisma. Even standing on the pale old pavement behind the factory, she seemed a person with a direction, a person on her way somewhere, and you instinctively felt you'd be lucky to tag along.

She pointed at the boxes and said, “Moving?"

"I was fired, just fifteen minutes ago. These somber gentlemen, who used to show me daily deference, are now forcibly ejecting me. These boxes contain the swag of a thousand trade shows, which is all that I have been allowed to keep for myself. My files and my designs and my prototypes are property of the company.” I brushed my hands together. “What do you want, Karen? You picked a very bad time to show up again."

Her forced smile collapsed.

"How can you be fired? It's your company. You founded it. You're CEO."

The guards shoved the last boxes into truck. They turned away without salutation. I pulled the clattering door closed, then told Karen, “Most of it is owned by venture capitalists and they just decided that my microbots will be better weapons than surgeons. I disagreed. I was voted out."

She looked back at the factory building, from which I now was banned. The guards went through the steel exit door as we watched. They didn't even deign to look back once. I imagined them throwing the deadbolt after the door clicked shut.

"Sorry,” she said.

"So am I.” I fished in my pocket for the key to the rental truck, hanging from a dingy glow-in-the-dark keychain. I had to admire the cold calculation with which my company's board had prepared: the truck was rented and waiting here in the parking lot while they fired me. “Well, this reunion has been great."

"Wait.” She took a step forward. “I came to ask for your help."

"With what?"

"Something unbelievable."

"You coming back here is unbelievable. But here you are."

"You know I wouldn't come back here, to bother you, unless it was something . . . unless it was so big that you and I don't matter in comparison."

"Is there something that we did matter in comparison to?” I asked. Seeing Karen now only piled a sense of failure atop my sense of righteous anger. I really wanted to turn away. It would be nice if, this time, I was the one with the dignity and indifference. And yet, I couldn't help myself. Before she could answer my sarcasm, I added, “Tell me about it."

"I couldn't possibly.” She looked toward a silver Audi waiting on the pavement a few dozen paces away. “I'd have to show you. But it . . .” She sighed, then started over. “I know I haven't been a good friend these last couple years, Steve. But I need your help. And I promise you, I promise you, you won't regret it. I promise you that I can show you the most amazing thing you have ever seen. Only . . . I need to take a couple days of your time."

I laughed. “Yesterday that would have been utterly impossible. I wouldn't have thought I could spare a couple hours in the next year. So maybe this is your lucky day. Follow me home, let me change into something more dignified, and then tell me what you can."

* * * *

"This is too long,” I told Karen, late the next afternoon, as she turned the car off the narrow paved road that we'd been climbing, and onto a pitted dirt track. We were moving slow enough now that I rolled down the window. Tall pines crowded the narrow way, and their scent quickly filled the car.

"I told you it would take a few hours to drive out here,” she said. The road narrowed to a path. The bottom of the car scraped over a root. An Audi coupe was not the car for this kind of driving.

"Yes. You did. But five hours is longer than I remembered. I've been working night and day on that start-up company for a year. Time is new to me. I've forgotten what it's like for it to shamble along."

She'd followed me home the previous morning, told me what to pack, and picked me up again the next day at dawn. I'd turned my phone off; an evening of sympathy phone calls from former employees and fellow engineers was all I could stomach. Breakfast on the road and a long drive had passed with us reminiscing about graduate school. But the whole time, she managed to deflect every question about the waiting surprise. She displayed impressive will power.

We came to the top of a rise, and she took the car out of gear. When it drifted to a stop, she jerked the emergency brake on.

"Is this it? The middle of a single-lane dirt road in the forest? We've arrived?"

"Almost. But first, I need your word of honor that you'll keep secret what I'm about to show you."

"Come on, Karen, this is too much. Whatever it is can't be that big a deal."

"It's the biggest deal ever. Now, come on, I'm not pulling out non-disclosure agreements and asking you to sign, even though I should. I'm only asking for your word."

I looked down the road, where it turned around some firs with branches nodding now in the September breeze. Karen was a paleontologist. The idea that she found something in the Adirondacks worth this much overture seemed ridiculous. I started to worry I was an easy dupe: first the venture capitalists make a fool of me, now my old love makes a fool of me. . . .

"Come on,” I said. “You find a dinosaur skull or something? Who would I tell about that? I don't know anyone who would care. But you have my word. Your cryptosaur bones are safe with me."

"No dinosaurs in here. The rock up in these hills is more than five hundred million years old. It's Ediacarian. What do you know about the Ediacarian?"

"Never heard the word before."

"It's an era. Pre-pre-Cambrian."

"Alright. So. Nothing around back then but bacteria, right? What do you call those colonies of bacteria? Stromatolites?"

"There might've been a bit more than that in the Ediacarian. Some complex structures that might be proto-animals, or at least unusually complex bacterial colonies, have been found in Ediacarian rock in Australia and Africa. Spongelike creatures."

"Okay,” I said, “so you found a big sponge?"

"No.” She opened the door, climbed out, closed it, and leaned down in the open window. She looked me in the eye a full ten seconds before she said, “I found a machine. A five-hundred-and-fifty-million-year-old machine."

* * * *

I followed her down the narrowing path, our steps silent on the thick layer of soft pine needles. A wind had started. The path wound through an outcropping of smooth stone surrounded by bending pines, and then descended toward a narrow depression. I heard fabric snapping in the wind before I saw the tent. But then we turned a bend and before us, in a small clearing, a large blue tent stood by a black heap of campfire ashes. Shards of pale stone were strewn on the ground around the ashes and the tent. The clean, sharp flakes had no lichen on them: they had been chipped off of some other stone very recently.

Karen looked around, visibly relieved that no one was here. Then she zipped the tent flap up, and I stepped inside.

She had cut the floor of the tent away. At our feet lay exposed stone. The close air of the tent smelled of powdered stone and hydraulic oil, mixed still with the scent of pine. Most of the stone beneath us had been chipped away with precision jackhammers. It looked like she had been working to remove a sample, cutting a neat rectangle out of the bedrock.

But there, in the center of the square cut, something shimmering and gold stuck out of the newly exposed stone.

It looked like a flattened nose cone, sleek and smooth, about fifty centimeters long, and sticking about ten centimeters up out of the rock. I bent over and stared. Pale gold lines traced complex patterns on the surface. The patterns reminded me of a silicon chip, except that the lines crossed back and forth at every angle.

I stared for what seemed an eternity. Probably ten minutes. My mouth became dry, because I stood there so long with it hanging open. Walking down from the car, I had pictured some gray lines in stone that she was going to claim were the impression of a machine. I didn't expect something . . . intact.

"What is it?” I finally whispered.

"Old,” she whispered back.

"It looks . . . aerodynamic. Like it flew here and crashed."

"This stone has no signs of unconformities, no sign of being moved by an impact. This stone formed around the machine."

"We don't know that it's a machine,” I said.

"Oh, come on.” She pointed at it emphatically. “I grant that the Design Argument fails. But still, you find a watch on a beach and you know it's been designed. You find this thing in the rock, and you know it's been manufactured. This is not a fossil. It's not an organism, right? It's a machine."

It sure looked like a machine.

"How long have you . . . had this exposed?"

"Three weeks."

"And where's your team?"

"I had students working on the cut. There were surface features we wanted to pull out. But then their summer semester ended. By myself I pulled the stone that had rested on this. I used a winch. I thought I was just cleaning up. But instead I found this."

"Wow."

So her mind had been racing with the possibilities for weeks. And, I thought with a pang, it had taken her weeks to decide to come to me. Had she tried to get help from other people before getting around to asking me? Maybe some other past lovers?

Focus, I told myself. Try to bring some perspective. “It looks to be in excellent condition. It can't be five hundred million years old. Suppose it is a machine. Could it have . . . burrowed here?"

"There are no fractures. No cracks. No powdered stone. Nothing like that."

"Could it have . . . teleported here? Into the rock?"

"I . . . “ she hesitated, squinting in thought. “I didn't think of that. I mean, teleportation. That's kind of off the wall, right?"

"Yes. But so is a five-hundred-million-year-old-but-still-intact machine."

"Five hundred and fifty,” she said. “Anyway, if this thing beamed down or whatever, what about the rock that was here then? It should have been pushed aside or something, right? So we'd see fractures."

"Who knows?” I said. I was just trying to pressure test her claim. Who could judge which was the most parsimonious hypothesis: a machine that could survive more than five hundred million years of crushing geological changes, or a machine that teleported from somewhere—another dimension? outer space?—and maybe switched with the matter already there?

I stared. I paced around it in a circle, pondering. But finally another question intruded into the wonder of it.

"What are you planning to do? I mean, you have to get a team up here, right? Or wait for your students to come back. Or something."

"No team,” she said. “This is state land here in the Adirondacks. We announce the machine, the government takes this away from us immediately."

"You want to cut it out, tote it away?"

"Maybe. But who knows how big it is? How far into the stone it goes? It may not be an easy matter to cut it out."

"Hey—wait—hasn't the semester started already?"

"I called in sick."

"For the whole semester?"

"I told them I had cancer."

I shook my head. I didn't know where to begin on that one. A lie that big was going to cause her trouble. But another question struck me as more pressing: “Why do you need me?"

She bent over and pointed at the front of the sleek nose cone. We had to get down on our hands and knees on the hard stone to peer at it: a small square outline was just visible. A strange pattern of dots surrounded it, mirror imaged on each side:

.

. .

. . .

. . . . .

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Primes,” I said.

She nodded, and tapped the small square area with her finger thirteen times.

It disappeared, leaving a gaping square of dark about the size of two postage stamps.

"Whoa,” I said. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. It still . . . does things."

She nodded. “The front door."

"Oh,” I moaned, shocked as everything fell into place. I sat back on my knees and pressed my hands to my forehead. “I thought you were going to ask me for money. I thought you were going to ask me to fund you."

"No,” she said.

"You want my robots."

She nodded. “I want your robots."

"You want to go in,” I said.

"I want to go in."

The next day we stood on a busy sidewalk in Boston, staring up at a dingy factory building.

"I'm having second thoughts,” Karen said.

"Don't,” I told her.

"We bring in another person, we exponentially increase our chances of a leak. Let's just do it the slow way."

"You asked for my help, this is the way I say we have to do it. This guy is the best. With him, we'll be exponentially more efficient. Besides, three is a good number. One for base while two ride the bots. Come on."

I pulled her along a pitted sidewalk to a heavy green door. Thick wire-threaded windows, the muntins caked along their edges with a heavy history of dimly colored industrial paints, looked onto a dim hall and stairs. I pushed an old-fashioned black buzzer that hung uneasily in its mount. There was no sound: no way to know if the thing worked. But after a moment the door hummed and clicked, then drifted open.

We climbed the broad steps. A door stood ajar on the first landing. Through it we could see a big room punctuated with tall windows rising over a procession of work benches. Halogen bulbs strung on naked wires blazed down at us.

We went in, then pressed the door closed behind us. The space seemed even bigger now. I-beams thrust through the floor at seemingly random places held up a two-story ceiling clotted with exposed ducts and wires and pipes. Tools hung along the walls between the windows, below flat wall monitors displaying strange algorithms working silently. The air smelled of solder and—it took me a minute to place the smell—sage.

We took a few steps toward the windows. “Is that them?” Karen asked, nodding toward a rack of what looked like black clothes, standing by a tool cart.

"Best VR suits in the world. Unbelievably smooth pressure feedback. But those are off the rack. The point is that this guy's software is even better. This guy is the best interface man on the planet."

"Hey!” a voice called from a far corner. A wheelchair shot toward us. A heavy man with long black hair and a thick beard slammed his palms into the wheels, speeding forward. He seized the wheels and skidded to a stop just inches before our shins.

"How are things, Steven?"

He held out a hand. I shook. “Things are interesting."

"Poor bastard. I saw what those venture capitalists did to you."

"That's on the boards already? Well. So: Daltry Ericson, this is Karen. Karen and I went to grad school together."

Daltry looked at her frankly, shook her hand, and then turned back to me. “You want something to drink? Cappuccino? While I make it you can tell me the deal."

Daltry always started right in. He didn't really know how to do small talk. Or maybe didn't care to do it.

"That'd be great,” I said.

"Wet or dry?"

I looked at Karen. When she shrugged I explained: “Lots of milk or not much milk?"

"Wet,” she said.

"Three wets. Follow me. Talk."

We walked quickly, struggling to keep up as he sped across the heavy planks of the old industrial floor and into a corner kitchen. The kitchen was surprising clean for the pad of a bachelor ubergeek. Polished tile stretched into dust-free corners. Bright copper pans hung over a low gas stove. There were flower pots on the windowsill, and they were full of herbs. While Daltry worked a frightening Italian chrome machine, I told him, “We have a device. Unknown provenience. Unique, in every possible sense you can imagine. We want to reverse engineer it in a non-destructive way."

"A dive inside?"

"Right. My bots, your suits. Secret location, very tight non-disclosure agreements."

He sniffed. “Sounds dubious."

"I can promise you it is not illegal,” Karen said.

"Well, careful,” I said. With Daltry, it was important to be very precise. He was screwed a few times on contracts, and so he thought now that anyone he caught fudging was secretly a pathological liar. “There is a chance that the government could try to claim the machine from us, or at least complain that we didn't share earlier."

Daltry nodded. I knew the idea of beating the government to something would appeal to his anarchistic side.

"I could do it in the Spring,” he said. “Maybe. I'd need to know more."

"We have to do it now,” Karen said, looking at me. There was a hint of anger in her voice: I had dragged us all the way to Boston for this.

"She's right,” I said. “It must be now. The day after tomorrow. I'll need tomorrow to gather the robots and the other equipment we'll need. But then we pick you up and we leave."

"I have such responsibilities that starting anything new the day after tomorrow would cost an insane amount, just to pay off the contractual obligations I have."

"No,” I said. “Here's the deal. You come with us, bring all the gear you can. Give us a week. I'll pay your expenses."

"Now you're insulting me,” he said. He started frothing milk. The machine roared. I waited till it quieted down before I finished: “And, and, if you don't say, on the first day—no, if you don't say in the first hour—'Steven this is the most interesting, the most important thing I have ever done in my life,’ then I'll pay you whatever you want."

"I want a lot."

"I still own 38 percent of my company. I'll give it to you."

"I.P.O. date?"

"June."

He looked at me, at Karen, back and forth, the metal frothing cup forgotten in his hand. “Man, you must think you got something really interesting."

"Oh,” Karen said, “you have no idea."

* * * *

Daltry wouldn't let me push his wheelchair. When we finally returned to the camp—his van following Karen's Audi—and climbed down from the cars, he shot ahead of us and half-slid down the hill to the tent, wheels churning pine needles.

"This is it?” he asked dubiously, as I reached for the zipper on the tent flap. “You decided to hide your machine in the woods?” He spun in place, working his arms in contrary directions, crushing pine needles under wheel as he took in the whole rustic scene. “There's nothing here. What if that fuel cell of yours doesn't pump enough juice? This is a stupid way to hide your device."

"We're not hiding it,” I said. “It's stuck in the stone."

"What?"

I held up the flap. He rolled in. He stopped at the edge of the cut, his wheels balanced precariously on the lip of stone. He stared a long time, silent. Then he circled the device slowly, wheeling around the pit. Finally he whispered, “It's extraterrestrial, isn't it? Is it extraterrestrial? It's alien."

I shrugged. Karen told him, “It's five hundred and fifty million years old. So if it isn't from outer space, then it's from someplace even weirder."

He stared, mouth hanging open.

"Well?” I asked.

"Get the equipment."

"But?"

"But yeah what you said."

"I can keep my shares in my company?"

"Not if I die here of anticipation. Get the goddamn equipment."

"Aye, aye, captain."

* * * *

I held my open palm out before Daltry. All three of us were dressed in his VR suits. Daltry's was a specialty he'd rigged up: it went down only to his waist. He'd built special hand controls to simulate leg pressure and walk a robot.

Karen bent over to peer down into my palm.

"Not so close,” I told her. “Don't breath on them, you might blow one away. We'll be in big trouble trying to find it in all these pine needles."

"Sorry,” she said. She backed off. “It's just, I can barely see them. They look like three dead fruit flies."

I nodded. “That's about the size. Just over three millimeters long. They're heavier than flies, of course. Internal atomic power source. They can run about a week without replacement of the battery."

I looked over at the device. We had set a dish antenna out before it, the bell aimed straight at the tiny opening on the front. “These robots should be able to transmit clearly to that antenna, at least till we're in there a few centimeters. But we can carry line in with us if we have to. We should practice on something, shouldn't we?"

"No practice,” Karen said. “I've waited long enough. We go in."

"Right,” Daltry agreed. “This is a probe drop, not an astronaut launch. I want in there now."

"You were supposed to be ground control."

"The hell with that,” Daltry said. “We're all ground control. You want ground control, pull your helmet off. This is VR. Worse case scenario we lose some of your toys there."

"Worst case scenario this thing spits out green men who eat our brains."

"And with that, ground control is going to help you how?"

I shook my head. There was no arguing with him. We were a rogue mission anyway. Dropping more protocols could not make the mission more improvised than it already was.

"Okay, we go in. But a short dive. A few centimeters. We see what we see and then we back out, we assess, we plan our next steps."

"Just drop the bots in the slot,” Daltry said. He pulled on his helmet. They were ungainly helmets, with bulges over the eyes and ears, and a cut that left the mouth and nose exposed. He looked like a seated insect with a human mouth.

I had air tweezers to lift the robots. I placed each individually on the rim of the small open rectangle on the Ediacarian machine. Each bot had gecko feet, carbon nonfiber tubules that could clench onto nearly any material. They held. When the three bots were lined up, I stepped back and pulled my helmet on.

In a few moments my eyes adjusted to the pale colors of the robot-eye-view, flanked by dark readouts. “Karen? Daltry?"

"Here,” Karen's voice sounded like it came from my right. Instinctively I turned my head. I saw the bug-eyed twin sensors of her own microbot avatar look back at me.

"Your software is good, Daltry,” I whispered.

"I know,” he said. His voice seemed to come from the left, and I turned and looked at his robot. The voice of course did not come from the robot, but directly over radio. But the software placed it in space so that it seemed to come from his robot. It was hard to overestimate how helpful such smooth interface features could be. Humans have a lot of hard-wired capabilities in their brains, and it was better to take advantage of those abilities instead of trying to learn to fight them. Little tricks like this—placing the other robots in sound space—could save time and energy when you wanted to find the other robot. It was far better than having to look at a three-dimensional map, for example. We already had three-dimensional maps in our head; good software exploited those maps.

The same was true for the bodies. They were roughly humanoid, and of human proportions. That was not because human form was optimal for a small bot, but rather because it meant that we needed negligible time to prepare to run a humanoid robot. Something with twelve arms would have required years of practice for competent control. Two legs, two arms, twin forward facing eyes, and you could run it in minutes.

Karen's robot lurched forward. “This is weird, controlling the legs."

"Just walk in place till you feel comfortable with the pressure sensors,” I told her. The suits allowed control of perambulation by sensing the electrical nerve impulses to muscle control, and then interpreting them as commands. At first, you had to walk to make it work, but with practice it seemed you just had to think about walking—sending minimal efferent nerve signals to your leg muscles—and the bot would walk.

I walked my bot over and stood beside Karen's, right on the threshold of the door to the machine.

"All right,” I said. “I go first. You all follow a step behind. We stay together until we agree as a group to part. If you see something, even if you think the rest of us must have seen it, sound out. We need to be sure we're all on the same mission while in there. And remember. I've got only four of these robots. Take it easy."

"Yeah, yeah,” Daltry said. “Let's go.

I took a step forward.

And the lights came on.

Daltry whistled. “Man, it's got power. It as old as the oceans and it's got power."

We stood there, staring. I could hear Karen and Daltry breathing. Finally, Karen said, “It looks like a city."

I would have said it looked like a three dimensional circuit board, but once she said it I had to agree. “It does."

Before us a long line of lights stretched out into what, at our scale, was a distance like a city block. From this “floor” rose blocks of gold and white structures. Lines of light shot up and down their frames.

"Wait a minute,” Daltry said. “We've got signal in the low frequency bands."

"I thought you checked for whether this thing was transmitting radio when we set up the antenna,” I told him.

"I did."

"Okay,” I said. “Let's pause the mission and look at these signals."

"No way,” Karen and Daltry said simultaneously.

"It's not like we're going to just be able to decode them,” Daltry said. “We're here, the bots are set to walk, let's take a few steps."

Reluctantly, I did not argue. We moved another centimeter inside.

"You know,” Daltry said, “I've changed my mind. Karen can't be right. This thing can't be five hundred million years old. It can't be a thousand years old. Nothing, nothing could stay like this, in working shape, for that long."

As an engineer, I was inclined to agree. We stared at the complex structures and the traveling lights. They seemed . . . new, somehow. All the angles sharp, all the lights of equal luminosity. Matter just wasn't that resilient. Entropy always won, and won quickly.

"It's in the rock, and it's working,” Karen said.

"That's just evidence that it got into the rock somehow,” I said. “I agree with Daltry. Nothing lasts that long and keeps structural form."

"What if they had some kind of . . . field, or something, that reduced nuclear decay?” Daltry asked.

"A kind of stasis field? An anti-entropy field. Wait a minute. Karen, put your robot in neutral and pull off your helmet."

"Why?"

I called up and tapped at a virtual keyboard. In a few seconds I had what I needed.

"Do it. Then close the door to the device."

She did it. Her robot stopped moving, failing to emulate the small motions of her head in the VR suit. Then, after a moment, my view went black.

"Can you hear me?” I called out loudly.

"No need to shout,” she said. Now I heard her voice only through the muffled sound that penetrated my helmet, not over radio.

"Count to ten, then open the door. Then get back into your robot."

She did a countdown aloud. After “Zero!” my vision sputtered back as contact with the robots resumed.

"What did that accomplish?” Daltry asked.

"These bots have internal clocks.” I looked at the display. I'd synchronized and set side by side displays of the robot's clock and my suit's clock. “Twelve seconds lost."

Daltry said in a rush, “Oh my god we have to find that thing."

"What thing?” Karen asked.

"Daltry's right. There's some kind of stasis field, some kind of time-stopping-field, in this thing. That's how it lasted so long. When you shut the door, time stopped, or really slowed, in here."

"Or,” Daltry said, “this thing slowed the atomic motion that your robot's clock uses to measure time."

I nodded, making my robot's head bob. “It might just be, Karen, that you're right. That this thing is more than five hundred million years old."

We all just breathed a moment.

"I'm scared,” I said.

"Why?” Karen asked.

"This thing can stop time, or entropy. I can't imagine how that works but I'd bet it takes a lot of energy. And all that's in here too. This thing is dangerous. We should call in the government—"

"No way,” Daltry said.

"Okay, something, someone with more resources than us. MIT."

"Let's get in a team of choice people,” Daltry said. “People we know and trust. Get them to give us some real-time feedback."

"You're crazy,” Karen said.

"Better than bringing in some schmucks from MIT,” Daltry said.

"You're both crazy,” she said. “This is my show. We go on. Alone."

I took a breath. We could have this argument later. “Okay. A few more centimeters in. Then we stop, reconsider, and discuss next steps."

Daltry's robot stepped forward. Before us the lights formed what looked almost like a boulevard, with two lanes divided in their center by a narrow trench. I walked over to this trench and reached down inside. It had an inverted T shape.

"Maybe we shouldn't go any farther in,” I said, but it was too late: Daltry and Karen were separating, wandering ahead.

We searched the space. Relative to our scale, it was like an airplane hanger. The floor, the walls, the ceiling were covered with fine lines through which lights shot and flickered. The shapes, which I couldn't help but think of now as buildings, were all geometric solids. We followed the track or trench in the floor to its end at the far wall. The track went into the wall, which was covered with a pattern of geometric shapes and dots.

"It seems almost like a puzzle,” Daltry said. He reached out.

"Don't touch it!” I told him. But he had already pressed a rhombus shape, and a portion of the wall slipped aside.

"Something's coming!” Karen shouted. A glint of gold showed in the dark space beyond the gap. Sound at our tiny scale was strange: although amplification tried to respect the scale, sounds still came as somehow thin, tiny. Something rattled noisily toward us. We backed up quickly. That was an awkward motion, one that made clear how differently the robot walked compared to human walking—the feet gripped strongly and the robots scurried back quickly, causing a disorienting visual.

Through the new opening, a blur of motion came. It was over in a second. Before us, a long row of things like boxes lined up in a neat row along the track in the center of the space. They were probably a centimeter on a side, with a centimeter separating them. It looked, I suddenly realized, like a train. A train of cubes that had move faster than the eye to stretch from this new doorway to the entrance behind us. The trench or T had indeed been a kind of track.

We waited in silence. When nothing more happened, Karen took a step toward them.

"Please,” I said, “please don't touch them."

"No,” she said. “It's just . . . do you see motion in there?"

The boxes looked mostly opaque to me, their surface like the walls in the room: like a gold etched silicon chip. But I stepped closer and, as I watched, it did seem that, dimly visible, something twitched below the surface.

"God that is frightening,” I whispered.

I looked up the row. “These things are aimed at the door,” I said. “We're getting out of here, now. We're going to close the door. And we're going to think this through."

For once, they didn't argue with me.

* * * *

I was disoriented when I pulled the helmet off. It seemed I was still in the VR. Then I realized the sun had set and it was dark in the tent. We'd spent so much time that day preparing the suits that our short hour in the device had taken us to sundown. Karen closed the door of the device. As my eyes adjusted, I took the rest of the suit off, and then pushed outside the tent.

The sky was still blue, but darkening. The forest was full of shadow, the sun far behind a hill—mountain?—to our west.

"It's starting to get cold,” I said to Karen as she came to my side.

"Don't complain,” she said. “You should see this place in black fly season. I'll start a fire."

"Isn't that my job?” I asked.

"Get real."

* * * *

We roasted hot dogs on sticks. Daltry was appalled. We discovered he was a food snob of a ferocity rare, perhaps unique, to a coder. He hadn't eaten a hot dog—"nor processed food"—since he was a teen. Karen laughed at him and handed him a tube of mustard and a bun. Daltry rolled his chair so close to the fire that moisture steamed out of the damp wheels. Then he dutifully impaled his hot dog on a stripped stick, and thrust it into the flames.

I tried to get them to talk about the radio signals coming from the device, but they weren't interested. None of us had the skills really to analyze the output. And they were mesmerized now by the romance of exploring the machine. Staring at the signal seemed so pedestrian in comparison. “We can do that later,” Karen said.

"Alright,” I said. “Let's talk about the real issue. I think we need to go to the UN. We could drive there tomorrow. This is too big for just the three of us. This thing is old. It's extraterrestrial or extrasomething. And it's functional."

Karen and Daltry stared at me.

Finally, Karen's eyes slipped to Daltry. She gave him a pleading look. After a pause, Daltry said to her, “So tell me about this pre-Cambrian."

I had forgotten this about her. She had this way of winning loyalty—almost a sense of conspiratorial familiarity—from people she'd only just met. It had made me jealous, and eventually furious, when we were lovers. She could always make me feel the outsider, the one left out.

"Pre-pre-cambrian,” she said. “Ediacarian."

"Right."

"Well. Some paleontologists think it was an Eden. No predators had evolved yet. Just colony organisms. The oceans would have been full of colony organisms, different filter feeders floating about, with a few creeping alone the shallows as slow as slime mold."

"So our machine arrives, and things are a bit boring, and so it decides to wait for some intelligence to show up."

"We can't assume that,” I said.

"And,” Karen said, “it may have been on Earth a billion years already. I can only promise you the rock it's in is five hundred and fifty, maybe five hundred and sixty, million years old. I can't say how old that thing is."

"So what do you think it was meant to do?” Daltry demanded, squirting mustard on his hot dog. He bit into it with gusto. I resisted teasing him about it.

They talked through it for hours, even though there was really nothing to be said. We could infer nothing about the device's true age, its purpose, its origin. Daltry and Karen almost shouted at each other about whether it was a crashed probe or whether it had held—still held, Karen wondered—tiny organisms. Karen wondered if it had even seeded Earth; “We might be its children,” she said. Daltry laughed at both those possibilities, and explained that organisms were primitive “version 1.0 hardware,” doomed to stay on their planets.

"Space exploration belongs to software, woman."

Finally Daltry wheeled off to the tent that he and I were going to share. It was big, a four man, so that he could wheel inside and park his chair. Karen had a single tube tent set up near it.

Karen put her tablet computer on her knees and began typing.

"What are you writing?"

"Just notes.” She smiled. “We're immortal now, you know. We're the first explorers of the Ediacarian machine."

"Taking notes for the ages?” It came out more sarcastic than I meant it, but Karen did not rise to taking offense. Instead, she shrugged, still typing. “Better to form good habits from the beginning. I imagine I'll spend the rest of my life studying this thing."

That seemed delusional to me. I imagined that any day now this thing was going to be taken away from us by the federal government, if not New York State. It was on public land, after all. Instead of saying that, though, I just frowned.

Karen glanced up, and took that as a sign I was unhappy she was writing instead of talking to me. She set the tablet aside.

"So, you glad I brought you in on this?"

I nodded. “Perhaps. Partially. Yes. As odd as it sounds, I may even be glad that I was fired. Otherwise I never would have come up here. But I'm upset you two won't talk through the social implications of this—our responsibilities."

"We can learn a bit more before we have to settle anything. We know nothing yet. Come on, Worry, you know how this goes. No one in the world is going to know more about this machine than you and I and Daltry do. This is totally new here. So they'll take it away from us and then they'll stumble around. So why shouldn't we get to do the stumbling?"

I sipped at the tea we'd made. It was hard to deny that she was right about that. What bothered me was not some fear that we were not best suited to the task, but the idea that we were attempting to seize responsibility for something so important to the whole human race.

We stared at the fire a while in silence. I looked over to the tent I shared with Daltry. He'd turned on a light, and his silhouette showed starkly on the tent fabric as he lifted himself from the wheelchair and flopped down on his sleeping bag.

"Why did you leave?” I whispered to Karen.

She hesitated, eyes meeting my own. Then she looked back at the red embers of the dying fire. Such a long time passed that I thought she wasn't going to answer. I thought of other things I would like to say: things had been going so well when we were together; I had thought we were meant for each other; we could have been business partners; I had wanted to marry her.

But before I mustered the courage to say any of those things, she said, “I didn't love you."

"What?” We both knew I meant no question by that.

"I didn't love you. And I thought maybe you loved me. I thought it would be . . . cruel to stick around. It was getting awkward."

"Ah.” I opened my mouth. Suddenly I wanted to spit out something the opposite of what I had just meant to say: thank you very much for your heartfelt concern, or, I never even liked you much, or, you really did me a favor because I did so much better after you left. But I didn't manage to produce any stupid, sarcastic comeback before Karen said, “Goodnight,” and rose up from her seat. She disappeared into the dark, heading toward her tent.

"Just for the record,” Daltry said to me, a few minutes later when I crawled into our tent, “I don't love you either."

"Go to hell,” I told him.

* * * *

I gave a long appeal, over a breakfast of tea and toast, for why it was selfish to make these decisions for the whole human race. Before I was even finished Daltry and Karen started suiting up.

"Crap,” I said, as wrap-up to my speech.

Within twenty minutes we were standing—our avatar robots were standing—where we had stopped the previous day: before the opening in the far wall where the train of boxes had come through. The room, as far as we could discern, had not changed. It no longer seemed that the “train cars,” as I had come to think of them, had something seething within.

"Our signal is still good,” Daltry said. “We should be able to walk into there without any problem for control."

"Let's go,” Karen said. She led the way.

We stepped over a narrow threshold. The “wall” separating the two spaces was thin. On the other side, the light was dimmer. I adjusted my controls until I could see better. Before us stretched a circular room; at our scale, the size of a small stadium. But it was empty. No geometric structures rose from the floor. Instead, the floor was formed of a scale pattern, radiating from the center of the room. And though lights shot through the walls and ceiling, as they did in the space behind us—and which we had started to call the “anteroom"—the floor had only a single light. A circle in the center of the room glowed pale green. Daltry set off toward it.

"Don't enter the circle,” I said. He reluctantly stopped at the edge, the black arms and torso of his robot leaning forward, as if straining to enter the circle.

"What do you think it is?” Karen asked.

"Maybe nothing,” Daltry said.

"I vote one of us steps onto it,” Karen said.

"Second,” Daltry said.

"All in favor say ‘aye,'” Karen said.

Both of them said, “Aye."

Before I could utter a sound, they were done with their mock parliament, and Daltry stepped into the circle.

The lights in the walls of the room changed, exploding into rainbow colors. Karen grabbed my arm and pulled me into the circle after her, as if she thought it safer there than outside.

We looked around, wondering what the change in the colors meant.

"Did you see that?” Karen asked.

"What?"

"Something streaked by, then faded. In the air."

As we watched, another colorful shape shot by, transparently blue. It looked like a graph—blue lines forming a tight network with blue spheres. The color darkened and then disappeared.

As we watched, more such figures appeared. Grids, geometric shapes, fluid dynamic forms. They were like dancing holograms, moving around the air above and around us, changing colors and fading into and out of view.

"It's projecting things. Information. Perhaps trying to communicate,” Karen said.

"What are the visual capabilities of these robots?” Daltry asked.

"A bit of infrared, a bit more ultraviolet. I can give them some artificial color and we'll about double our visible spectrum.” I pulled up a virtual keyboard and typed up the commands. When I was done, the number of figures multiplied in the air around us.

"Wow,” Daltry said.

"It doesn't know what we can see,” Karen said. “It's trying all kinds of spectra."

A pink grid floated by, the color of cotton candy, near the edge of the circle. Daltry walked over to it. The motion of the grid slowed and stopped.

"It sensed your motion,” I said.

Daltry reached out and touched it. His microbot's arm went straight through the light, of course, but instantly every colored shape in the room turned pink. And hundreds of pink shapes appeared with them. The whole space, above and around us, was crowded now with forms and things that looked like diagrams and graphs.

"It has determined that we can see this range of light,” I said.

"It is trying to communicate,” Karen said. She walked her bot over to stand next to Daltry. I followed.

"Wait a minute,” Daltry said. “Why would they have a planetarium inside the thing? Did they expect tiny visitors?"

I looked up. The ceiling of this space had a series of lines meeting directly above us. “I don't think so,” I said. “I think that this is a kind of projection machine. The ceiling opens, this unfolds outside. Look at the floor: it's like flower petals. They probably slide and can curve for focus. We set this thing off by entering the space."

"They're good engineers,” Daltry said, “if their machine works folded up or deployed, at tiny scales or large."

"I think we've established that they are good engineers,” I told him.

A vertex in the grid turned blue.

"Focus, geek boys,” Karen said. “Back to the task. Look at that."

Daltry touched the blue vertex.

The shapes all around us explode into a wide variety of colors.

"It just established some of the range of our visual acuity,” Daltry said. “Red to blue."

A pattern appeared in the grid: some of the vertexes turned blue, forming what looked like a random scattering.

We stared.

"Is this a puzzle?” Karen asked.

"I don't see any pattern here. If it's a problem of some kind, I can't see what it is."

Daltry nodded, the bug-head of the robot tilting forward and back. “I say we guess. If we fail, then if they programmed it even halfway decently, it'll dumb down its questions until we can answer them."

That was too speculative. “We could wait,” I said. “Pull off our helmets, check on the web, see if some mathematician somewhere could offer an interpretation."

"That could take days,” Karen said.

"I agree,” Daltry said. “I can't believe that they're smart enough to make this thing but not to have a self-adjusting interface. The fastest approach will be to interact with it now."

"But you don't know that it is an interface; you don't know that it's there for communication with you. Maybe that arms the weapons system. Maybe it vents the dilithium crystals."

Daltry touched the grid in the center.

The grid flipped over, and then the pattern changed. But nothing else in the room changed. We stared. The pattern was equally incomprehensible. After a long while, when none of us had an answer to offer, Daltry touched it again. Again, the flip, the change in pattern, and nothing else.

"I'm going to look at some of the other patterns. See if I see anything,” I said. Daltry and Karen followed me.

We spent an hour there, but none of the other patterns moved closer, our view of many of them was blocked, and nothing we could see had a clear interpretation as a puzzle or pattern.

Finally, in frustration, Daltry walked over to the grid again, and touched its center a dozen times in succession.

Behind us, a small and fast beat sounded out.

"What was that?” Karen said.

"I think we'd better look,” I said. We left the circle and headed for the door. After a few steps I could see through the portal. The small boxes, what I had called train cars, were not visible.

"They're gone. They—” I started to say, but then something slammed into my mouth. I started to choke. In the VR disorientation, I looked around the room, stunned and confused and expecting to see something striking the robot. But of course this was outside. My real body was choking.

I fell over. My robot, programmed to ignore extreme abrupt motions, stood motionless, staring at the doorway and the empty track beyond. I was suffocating. Something was in my throat. I wretched, feeling the need to vomit and unable to do so. Frantically I reached up and yanked violently at the straps to my helmet. I pulled it off.

The tent was still bright, though dimming in the afternoon. Karen stood before me, her helmet still on, convulsing. And, crowded around her mouth, four of the small boxes from inside the machine clung to her lips. A black gelatinous fluid oozed from them and into her mouth and nose.

I coughed. My throat was clearing. I slapped my hand across my own lips, and found it knocked away several of the small boxes. They were light, empty.

I could breath. I stood, and stumbled over to Karen. I knocked the boxes from her lips. She was choking, hacking. I tried to reach into her mouth, but whatever had gone in there was invisible, beyond reach.

She coughed, just as I had done.

"Oh god."

I pulled her helmet off.

"What . . . ?"

"The train cars.” I stumbled over to Daltry. But he had already taken off his helmet. His eyes were wet with tears from the force of his convulsions and coughing, but he looked otherwise healthy. He was holding cubes in the palm of his hands, looking at them.

"They must have—I don't know, flown over here and attacked us,” I said. “Affixed to us. They put something into us."

"Probes,” Daltry hacked. “They put their probes into us."

* * * *

We waited a while, fighting off panic, checking each other for any obvious signs of side effects. I couldn't feel anything, although I tried so hard to search my proprioception that I started to feel itchy and hot all over. I forced myself to be calm—it was likely psychosomatic. Daltry just stared at the device, breathing, thinking. Karen paced.

Finally I said, “We need to get out of here. We need to get to a hospital. They've infested us. Whatever it is, they've infested us."

"No, no, Steve, please,” Daltry said. “Just listen. I'm—I've got an idea. Suppose I'm right. Suppose these things are software."

"You don't know if—"

"I think I do. It'd be ridiculous to send bodies across space, when you can just send minds. But I'm asking you to just entertain the hypothetical."

"Alright,” I said.

"Then what they just did is no different than what you and Karen and I are doing. They sent some probes into us. Into our . . . hardware. Just as we sent probes into their hardware. They're trying to understand."

"Who is they?” I asked. “Maybe there's no they. Maybe it's dead. An automated weapon. A—"

"Probes,” Karen said. “They're in us, right now, trying to figure us out?"

"Even if that's true,” I said, “our bodies are not planned amusement parks like that thing is. You apply pressure to our heart, move this or that neuron around, and we're dead."

"They should be smart enough to understand that,” Steve said. “Surely they can see we're evolved, not manufactured."

"Again with the ‘they.’ We don't know there's a they. And we don't know what they know, or want, if there is a they. They could be working up to replace our brains with, I don't know, cannibalistic chefs hoping to serve man. You can't confirm your hypothesis."

"But maybe we can confirm it by going inside again."

"This isn't about exploration anymore. It's about survival. We've got responsibilities to the human race, to our planet, to these trees even. This is Earth we're talking about now. We've got to tell the UN."

"Look,” Karen said to me. “If you're right to be worried, and these things are hostile, then we can't just stroll into New York City carrying a pathogen."

"So we call them,” I said.

"We call the UN, tell them we may be experiencing an alien invasion. And that we'd come ourselves but we may be pod people. Can you imagine that call?"

Right. It was obvious that even our closest friends wouldn't believe a phone call like that from us.

"We put it online,” I said.

There was silence. Neither she nor Daltry expected that. Even I didn't expect it. But slowly Daltry started to nod.

"That's perfect,” he said. “It'll take a while for people to figure out its real, to figure out what's going on, but we meanwhile give the information out to everyone, where it can't be bottled up."

He pointed at a stack of harddrives by his equipment. “I've been recording everything. Video and audio transmissions from each of the microbots to the VR suits, and video of this tent. It's all there. It'd really just be a data dump, to put it online. An hour and a half, I can have it all up. And I can have what we do from here on out stream to the web too."

"Do it,” I said. “Do it right now. Do it before we start hankering to eat brains."

He pulled on his pocket VR glasses, and started typing at a virtual keyboard. “Net connection is slow out here,” he grumbled.

"No maps,” Karen said. “No locations. Don't tell people where we are."

"Okay,” Daltry said.

"No, wait,” I told him, “we need some way to tell people where this is, if we . . . if something happens to us. Write a script that will post our GPS coordinates in . . . two hours, if we don't reset the timer. We can reset it every hour or so, to keep pushing the reveal back in time."

He nodded.

I looked at Karen. She was unhappy but she wasn't going to argue. At some point she had to know that this was going to get beyond her control. She couldn't keep the biggest find in history to herself forever.

"Perfect!” Daltry said.

"What?” Karen asked.

"I just got the URL www.ediacarianmachine.org."

"Not dot com?” I asked.

"What, you gonna sell T-shirts?"

Karen sighed at our dot geek talk. “No one is going to look at a website called Ediacarian machine."

"I'll post links to Boing Boing. I'm known there. I got cred. I'm thinking a quarter-million hits by morning."

"Oh god,” Karen said. “Let's think this over."

But Daltry was typing away at blazing speed. In this, at least, he was going to side with me. He believed, down to his spine, in openness. Karen would not sway him to hide what could be posted. I pushed outside the tent, leaving him to his work.

I was hungry. There must be something still in the coolers that I could make into a meal. I could bring Daltry some food while he worked.

Karen watched me make sandwiches, silent. Finally she said, “I think this is a mistake. People will figure out our location. They'll recognize me, for example, and then find out where my dig is located."

"People have to come here eventually, Karen."

"No. Not like this."

I looked up at her. Her mouth was pressed closed, eyes fixed with a steely gaze on mine. We stared at each other a moment.

Something inside of me shifted. Or deflated. She had always seemed so confident, so sure of herself and her plans, that it awed me. I'd wanted to come along. I'd wanted her to feel as sure of being with me as she was of her other goals. And the truth is that for five years, every woman I met seemed so . . . scattered, diffuse, in comparison to Karen. But really, maybe it had just been that other women were open to possibilities, and Karen was the one I wanted because she was the one I couldn't have.

Taut with frustration that she wasn't getting her way, she watched me with cold calculation as she thought of how to take control of the argument again. And seeing her like that, she seemed somehow to shrink into something small and hard. She wasn't a genius, focused on changing the world. Her world was vivid and dynamic, but it was a tiny little world, populated only by herself, and the people who were useful to her.

I nodded, understanding dawning. I'd been like that, too, when we met. But I wasn't a boy anymore. I'd outgrown it.

"What?” she demanded.

"I was just thinking: I used to love you—"

"Steve, I don't think this is the time or—"

"Or, rather, I used to think I loved you. But now, I don't even like you."

I took Daltry his sandwich.

Two hours later, Daltry pulled off his VR glasses. I sat before him, on my camp chair, watching him.

"Hey,” he said, very quietly. His eyes were red from the VR glasses, bloodshot from the glare of code.

"Hey,” I said. “How do you feel?"

"No voices in my head, no overwhelming cannibalistic desires. Though I could use another sandwich."

I nodded. “I don't hear voices either. Though I keep thinking I might. Still . . . I do feel . . . sad."

Daltry's eyes widened. “Yes. Yes. So do I. Melancholy."

"That's it exactly,” I said.

"Like something has passed. Something I miss."

"Do you think it's them?"

"I wonder,” he said. “It could be that it's easier to decode and share emotions first. Emotions might be simpler than language. Because they're not arbitrary. Nothing about the word ‘sad’ is sad. But the feeling of pain and isolation, maybe that's universal."

We thought about that a moment, and then Daltry added, “So, uh, can I still get your shares in your company? Am I allowed to back up and change my mind about whether this was the greatest thing ever?"

I smiled. “I owe it to you, don't I?"

"That and a blood transfusion."

Our eyes locked. We'd been business acquaintances for half a decade, and I'd learned more about him in these last days than I'd learned in all those years. If I survived this, I was going to get to know him better. I was going to try to be his friend.

"Let's do it,” he finally whispered.

I nodded. “Karen!” I called. “Daltry's up for air."

She pushed into the tent seconds later, starting right into a prepared speech. “We have to go in. If it's hostile, sitting here accomplishes nothing. We can't spread whatever is in us, since we're not leaving this forest. And if it's not hostile, then another dive is all that we can do to try to communicate with it. We forge ahead. Try to understand. Try to communicate, if it's intelligent."

Only then did she notice that Daltry and I were already pulling on our suits.

"Oh,” she finished.

I didn't know if the web posting really helped anything, but I felt relieved that it was done. We had alerted the world. Others could investigate if we failed. Besides: I hated the crawling sensation that something was in me, the no-doubt-illusory sense that I could feel ants under my skull. I had no illusions that a hospital could help. We had to solve this or die trying.

"We're waiting on you,” Daltry said.

She suited up, and then we pulled our helmets on.

* * * *

My vision sputtered, linking to the robot, and then I looked straight into the face of an alien monster.

Or that was my first thought. The graphs and other figures of light were gone from the room Daltry had christened the planetarium. Instead, a single figure stood beside the glowing circle. It had six limbs, three on a side with bilateral symmetry. It stood erect on two of the limbs, and the other four were long and thin. The head was triangular, and crowned with six dark spots that might be eyes, and if so seemed capable of seeing in all directions at once. My first impression was of a strange cross between a primate and a crab.

"Do you think?” Daltry said.

"One of them,” Karen answered. “It must be."

We walked over to the image, and circled it. No tail. A long protruding ridge that I took to be a spine.

"Small mouth,” Karen observed, her robot bending over to look up from under the head. “I bet it evolved cooking its food, like us. That would be a neat case of convergent evolution: reduction in jaw size and jaw muscle frees space for more brain tissue."

"But if it has an exoskeleton,” I said, “does that issue even arise? I mean, the muscle might run right through the head."

"It might not be an exoskeleton,” Karen said.

"And,” Daltry said, “who said the brain is in the head?"

"I wonder how big it was?” Karen said.

Other figures appeared beside the alien. All three of our robots jerked back in surprise.

They were us. Or, rather, images of us: Karen, Daltry, myself. Naked, expressionless, and standing. The head of the alien stood up to Karen's shoulder.

"Well, that answers the size question,” I said.

"I am not that fat,” Daltry said.

"It understood my question,” Karen said. “It understood my question."

I nodded. “Either that or it was one hell of a coincidence."

"My god,” she continued, “those things in our head are . . . are they learning English?"

"Or,” I said, “Daltry had a theory earlier: maybe it doesn't understand our language yet, but understands things like confusion, interest, attention."

"The best interface,” Daltry said, “is one that you don't even know is there. Could we have that interface now? Built into our skulls?"

As if in answer, the dim glow of lights in the walls faded to darkness. Then a white line appeared in the far wall of the room, parallel to the floor. Our three images shrunk and moved away from us quickly, retreating to the wall. They stood now at the far right side of the line, at its very end. A red dot appeared on the line, near the left side, about a quarter of the way across the span.

"If that's a timeline,” Daltry said, “what's the scale?"

The alien began to shrink. Stars appeared, filling the room. Behind the shrinking alien, a glowing blue planet appeared. The figure shrunk and retreated toward the world, diminishing to the proper scale for the planet as it approached the surface.

"It's showing us its world,” Karen said.

"And it's location in space,” I said, turning in place. The stars around us formed brilliant constellations.

The planet began to shrink. In seconds it was gone, only its star visible. Then the stars moved, slipping towards the center of the room. We could only see stars in the dark, and without the timeline as a still reference, it would have been a disorienting, almost nauseating, experience. I noticed then that the red dot on the timeline was moving backwards.

The compressing of the stars accelerated. In seconds, they had collapsed into a roiling nebula that stood alone, and then the nebula imploded to a point. All was dark but the timeline, with the red dot on the far left, and our images on the far right.

Karen's robot turned in place. “Was that a . . . catastrophe of some kind?"

"No,” I said. “No. It's . . . I think it's setting the time scale for us. That was the big bang."

"In reverse,” Daltry said.

The stars exploded from the center of the room. The tracker on the timeline moved also. We watched gas clouds form and coalesce and set alight. Stars precipitated. Galaxies swirled into being. One galaxy formed and then spun before us, bright silver. A red dot appeared in it. A small image of the alien appeared above the dot. The red began to spread.

"Their age of exploration,” I whispered.

Other colors appeared as small patches in the galaxy. Other figures of organisms, and several that looked like machines, appeared above these colored zones. I wanted to stare at each small figure, examine it, but the events were too fast. The colors met, intermingled.

A rainbow band shot off to other galaxies, waiting near us.

I looked at the time line. The red dot had moved a quarter of the way along the scale. “We're about, what, three or four billion years into the history of the universe? This must be their age of expansion."

"Given the scale of evolution on Earth,” Karen said, “these must be the first intelligent organisms of the universe, evolved from the first life."

"Did one of the colors just disappear?” Daltry asked. “A green one?"

As we watched, other colors faded.

"The species icons are disappearing,” Karen said.

"They went extinct?” I asked, incredulous.

"Or . . . they went somewhere else, maybe?” Daltry suggested.

Soon, there was only one color left, stretching across galaxies. The original red of our aliens, their icon still floating in the air above. The limit of their empire began to shrink, diminishing back toward their home world. Then the view began to expand, so that their diminishing empire stayed the same size, but the galaxy grew and surrounded us. In moments their world floated again before us. From its surface, gold points spread out, forming golden trajectories shooting off in every direction. One of the gold threads came straight toward me. The scale shrunk again, and we saw what looked like a ship. A gold ship, sailing through space. It floated before us, a shape like an eagle with folded wings leaning forward. I recognized the front of it.

I glanced at the timeline. A third of the scale was crossed by the red dot. Five billion years into our universe's history.

"It's the probe,” Karen said. “At that scale, it looks like there's another . . . four meters of it in the rock."

"They . . . they had a golden age. And then it ended,” Daltry said. “But they sent out these probes before they all disappeared."

"They knew the universe was young,” I said. “They knew that other species would rise and fall, long, long after they had. They wanted to . . . what? See those species? Be part of the future? Take advantage of it somehow?"

"No,” Daltry said. “I think they're gone. I think they just wanted to . . . to talk. To talk to us, even after their passing. This might be a very complex, even an intelligent, monument."

Other possibilities flitted through my mind, of course. They might want to take over, consume us, replace us, reform us, parasitize us. . . . We still knew so little of their motives. And yet, it seemed somehow hard to believe they were pernicious, if once they'd had a civilization that spanned galaxies and included dozens of other races.

The image of the probe began to change. The front of it opened, flowering. Structures grew out of the new opening, strange golden machines.

The ground began to shake.

"What was that?” Karen asked.

"It wasn't in here,” I said. “Or not only. It was under our feet. Our real feet."

A deafening crack sounded out, followed by a series of booms of shattering rock. “Pull of your helmets! Now!"

I yanked mine off.

The disorientation lasted only a few seconds, as I adjusted to the bright light of day in the tent. The ground at our feet was splitting. I didn't hesitate. I yanked the cables free of my VR suit, and grabbed the handles to Daltry's chair. “Karen,” I shouted. “Pull up the side of the tent.” The probe was between Daltry and the door, and right there in the doorway the ground was splitting and crumbling.

Karen did it, grabbing the bottom of side of the tent—she had long before cut away the tent's floor—and yanking hard to pull it up and free of its stakes. I drove Daltry's chair through the gap. He seized the wheels hard, and before we were a pace outside the tent, he'd pulled away from me and turned around.

The tent fell over. The probe rose up out of the rock beside it, emerging from the ground, shedding great sheets of broken stone. The top of it opened, folding over. In a minute, it was done: the probe had emerged from the stone, moved forward to just before where the tent had been, and settled there. It sat like a gold eagle leaning forward. Out of the head, where our robots had entered the machine, a thing like an antenna had protruded and flowered open. That would be the room we had called the planetarium; it had, just as I expected, extruded and unfolded, perhaps creating a projector. Along the back of the machine, a strange structure, like a small tower covered in complex geometric shapes, began to rise. It stopped when it was two meters tall.

The image of one of the crablike aliens appeared before us. We stared.

"A virtual ambassador?” I wondered aloud.

"What's that sound?” Daltry asked.

In the distance came the whump, whump of approaching helicopters. Then we heard a shout in the forest not far away. On the rise above us, three young men, looking more like computer geeks than hikers, stood. They jumped up in victory, hands in the air.

"We found it!” one shouted.

The helicopters were quickly approaching. One shot over the rise of the next hill. A green military chopper.

"Oh,” Karen said, “it's all over."

The helicopter roared overhead, then banked to turn in the valley.

"No,” I told her. “It's only just begun."

We went and stood beside the image of the alien, like three ambassadors, and waited for the arrival of the rest of the human race.

Copyright © 2011 by Craig DeLancey

[Back to Table of Contents]

Science Fact: THE EARTH DIES SCREAMING: RADIATION THREATS FROM BEYOND by Adrian L. Melott

A Flash in the Sky

With no warning and with the suddenness of a camera flash, the sky goes off. There's blue-white light from horizon to horizon. Anyone looking at the sky at the time is blinded, some permanently. As the flash fades away, those on the night side of the Earth realize that the sky is glowing, in a sort of blotchy pale green. Science is mute on the cause because all the satellites that might measure and report what happened from above the atmosphere have gone into safe mode or are burned out, but the best guess is that it might be a gamma-ray burst that happened to be pointed at the Earth.

The glow fades after a few hours, but the sky begins to acquire the kind of tea-colored tint one used to associate with a bad smog attack from automobile exhaust—except it's everywhere. In the next few days, the word goes out that sunlight is dangerous. The levels of UVB have gone up, and exposure can cause serious sunburn within a few minutes—sunblock is almost useless. Working outdoors, even with protection, can lead to cataracts.

Serious problems begin to show up in some plants and wildlife. However, a greater potential threat exists: phytoplankton, which power the food chain in the ocean, are dying rapidly. It appears that a major drop in marine life is in the offing, because nearly all of it depends on the energy captured by the phytoplankton. On land, there is serious mortality to food crops, but some of them seem resistant to the UVB. It will take months or years to know how it will work out.

Famine greatly reduces the world population. After five years or so, things begin to recover. However, many species have vanished permanently.

* * * *

A Universe of Radiation

Geologists tend to like to think of the Earth in isolation. Therefore, they only grudgingly accepted the overwhelming evidence for a catastrophic impact about 65 million years ago, which was a key element in the vanishing of the dinosaurs (carried live on all the cable science channels!) along with many other species. This was one of many mass extinctions—up to 19 can be identified, depending on the criteria we use. Most people would identify the “Big Five” that stand out above the others in intensity. Often they are accompanied by a wholesale change in the ecology, even the kind of sedimentary rocks that are formed. In nearly all cases, the cause is controversial, with no consensus at all. There is a current idea that certain events may reach the “mass” extinction level when the biosphere is under an additional stress, and is hit by some sudden challenge.

I've become interested in this topic. I'm a physicist, and while the roots of my interest came from physics, it's led me into paleontology, and some very fruitful collaborations. One of the things we expect to happen to the Earth is it to be hit by some bursts of radiation from elsewhere. Our review of average rates of events has identified three major external radiation threats: supernovae, Solar proton events, and gamma-ray bursts.

For a long time, people have considered the threat from an “ordinary” supernova. As no doubt most readers know, there are many kinds of supernova. Typically, they constitute a large release of energy from a star collapsing at the end of its fuel-burning lifetime, or sometimes gradually adding mass from a companion until it exceeds the limit of stability. This was portrayed decades ago in a pair of science-fiction novels by Charles Sheffield, Aftermath and Starfire, with surprisingly accurate descriptions of the effects. Sheffield was a physicist who worked on application to space projects.

Even the Sun is a possible danger. The worst Solar flare we know of, in 1859, was called the Carrington Event. It's reasonably well documented. The problem here is that we don't know how much worse they get. A Solar proton event much worse than Carrington could be very bad for life on Earth, particularly humans.

However, my interest in and work on this topic began with gamma-ray bursts. In 2003, I changed fields and started this investigation. The story of how that happened will frame my description of the threat.

* * * *

In the Beginning

It began calmly enough, when a prospective physics faculty member was a candidate at KU. One of the things we do is have them give a talk about their research. He explained his research on the mechanisms of gamma-ray bursts, which are the most powerful known explosions in the Universe. I asked him, “So what would happen if one of these goes off in our Galaxy?” Laconically, he said “It's not good,” which brought a few laughs. So, he joined our faculty, and the next year we decided to have a look at the effects. It turned out that some work had already been done on this possibility, but there was room for a lot more.

I should explain that up to this point nearly all my work had been in cosmology, investigating the formation of structure on the largest scales where clumping is seen. When I got involved in the radiation burst threat, it proved so interesting that it completely changed my research. I haven't looked back.

My opening scenario at the beginning of this article was based on the effects of a dangerously-near gamma-ray burst.

* * * *

A First Look at Gamma-Ray Bursts

In the 1960's, most nuclear-capable nations signed a treaty not to test nuclear weapons in the atmosphere or in space. Naturally a way was needed to monitor compliance. The US launched the Vela series of satellites, which looked for bursts of X-rays and gamma-rays, which are associated with nuclear weapons. The surprise was in detecting such bursts within a few months of being operational; the consternation in the intelligence community was that there was no other evidence of explosions. No radiation in the atmosphere, no rumors, no seismic wave—nothing. Later, directional capability was added, and people were relieved to learn that the bursts were coming from the sky.[1]

The sources remained a mystery for a quarter-century. It was learned that one or so per day can be detected, and that they originate pretty much uniformly all over the sky. This means they are either local or cosmic. We see nearby, bright stars all around us. The distribution of faint, dim stars include the Milky Way, which is the disk of our Galaxy seen edge-on. But if we survey very distant galaxies, they are once again all around us. The gamma-ray burst distribution tells us they are not galaxy-wide, but could be either near us or at cosmological distances.

They are quite powerful. Their power enabled them to be mistaken for nuclear weapons on the ground! That's why most people assumed they were within a few light-years. In this case, the minority turned out to be right. In the late ‘90s a series of source identifications connected them with very distant galaxies and the large energies mentioned earlier. During the few seconds of the burst they radiate to us about 1045 Joules, more gamma-ray energy than the entire rest of the Universe.Later, it was deduced that they are beamed, with the energy going out to maybe .01 of the solid angle around them. So you can knock off two zeros from the energy, but there are one hundred going off for every one you see.

* * * *

Radiation at the Earth

It's not too difficult to figure out that if there are a few per day (pointed at us) in the Universe, then there should be some number, maybe one every few hundred thousand years, in our galaxy; then after some millions of years, you'd expect there to be one pointed at us. “This is not good,” as was recognized not long after the cosmological option, with its implied high power for the sources, was accepted.[2-4]

The implied energy release is something like the mass of the Sun converted to energy in a few seconds. Nowadays, there are two generally accepted theoretical explanations for the origin of the two kinds of GRBs. “Long” bursts, longer than two seconds, probably come from the collapse of very large, rapidly spinning stars to black holes when they run out of fuel. Energy is released in the material before the black hole state is reached. “Short” bursts, less than two seconds, probably come from the merger of pairs of neutron stars or possibly involve dwarf stars, with the two relics in orbit, gradually spiraling toward one another until they merge in a spectacular explosion. But for the Earth, it's the results that matter.

So could a gamma-ray burst be implicated in one or more mass extinctions? Is there any evidence to support such an idea?

* * * *

Mulling Over the Effects on Life

The University of Kansas happens to have a top-notch bunch of paleontologists, and it's an easy place to work across the artificial boundaries between academic disciplines. I invited a group of them, as well as Mikhail Medvedev, the plasma astrophysicist whose lecture had set this off, to get together and talk. Within a few meetings, we were able to get down to the physics of extinction. It turns out that the easiest way a gamma-ray burst can affect life on Earth is indirect: by modifying the atmosphere. Such energetic photons won't travel very far in the air, so life on the ground doesn't get hit. Instead, the energy is given up in tearing apart molecules of nitrogen, oxygen, etc. Unless the GRB is improbably close, on the ground you just get a burst of blue and UV light, possibly blinding, but only on one side of the Earth.

The effects of breaking up the nitrogen molecule (N2) are severe. Normally, life on Earth is surrounded by nitrogen in this form, but can't use it because the molecule is so tightly bound. So if you want to make plants grow, the first thing you probably do is add nitrogen fertilizer. The energy of gamma-rays and X-rays is easily enough to break up the nitrogen molecule; once you have done that, the nitrogen will react with everything it can. A large fraction of it will first encounter oxygen, and form oxides of nitrogen. There are many of these: Most familiar are the “nitrous” that some dentists use, and the brown component of smog that used to be produced in quantity by automobile engines. These normally exist in very small amounts in the atmosphere, but will be produced in great quantities under the conditions of a galactic GRB. My graduate student at the time, now Professor Brian Thomas, has done numerous computations of exactly what happens in the atmosphere.

These compounds are mostly produced high in the atmosphere. They might darken the sky just a little. As they are gradually removed, they will deposit a bit of nitrate on the ground. But the effect on the ozone layer can be devastating. High up in the stratosphere there is a layer of ozone. This ozone layer filters out about 90% of the Sun's ultraviolet-B, which has wavelengths about 380-420 nm. UVB can cause severe burning of skin. It is absorbed by protein and most importantly DNA. It breaks chemical bonds, and can lead to cancer and mutation. The main reason the world has been moving away from chlorofluorocarbons (such as early versions of Freon) is that it also depletes the ozone layer. Because of this problem, a lot of research has been done on the effects of UVB on phytoplankton, the creatures that live near the surface of the ocean and produce most of the basic food there. Even small increases, such as 10%, can produce measurable rates of mortality.

* * * *

A Profile of Extinction

KU paleontologists Bruce Lieberman and Larry Martin zeroed in on identifying what the characteristics of a GRB-mediated extinction would look like. Since a few meters of water will block most UVB, we realized that such an event would hit hardest those species living in shallow water or near the surface in the open ocean. That led immediately to the suggestion of the end-Ordovician extinction as a candidate for such a radiation event.6

That extinction, one of the top few in severity, came about 440 million years ago. Life had just begun to tentatively colonize the land. The extinction took out the majority of species that existed at that time. Trilobites were hard-hit. The thing that grabbed our attention was that it seemed to selectively target those organisms that would be hardest-hit by UVB—organisms that lived in shallow water, or lived near the surface of the ocean, or whose larvae lived near the surface. The event was also accompanied by glaciation, which is often blamed for the event. But glaciation happens all the time without bringing on mass extinctions. It's possible that the “smog” effect might have tipped the Earth over into glaciation, but this needs to be checked with global climate models.

* * * *

How Likely Is Such an Event?

Did it Really Happen?

It is possible to be more precise, using our computations of the effect of a GRB on the atmosphere. A long-burst GRB pointed at us from a distance of about 6,000 light years would produce about 30% global average ozone depletion. That's enough to easily double the amount of UVB at sea level, which would spell the end for many organisms. The atmosphere will recover in five to ten years, but that is many generations for phytoplankton. A food chain crash in the ocean could easily take place in such a time. Short-burst GRBs are less powerful, but more common, and so actually constitute a substantial threat as well. When we put all the numbers together,[7] we conclude that an average rate of something like one such intense extinction level event is expected every 200 million years from GRBs. In the 500 million years or so that we have a good fossil record, it is therefore unlikely that we have escaped having at least one such event.

How can we test this idea? There is bad news and good news. The bad news is that such events seem to be very “clean.” So far, no one has been able to figure out any marker. Any radioisotopes that might have been produced should have long since decayed away. We can calculate how much nitrate should be produced, and have even tested our work against deposits from Solar flares found in ice cores drilled in Greenland. Unfortunately, there's no ice on Earth older than about 800,000 years. We might get a handle on Solar flare rates, but it's unlikely that a gamma-ray burst would show up in that “short” a time interval. Since nitrates are so soluble in water, they'd be washed away from most of the land surface soon after the deposit started. So far then, no one has figured out the kind of residue that might constitute a “smoking gun” for such a radiation event.

The good news is that we can at least be a little more quantitative in what we expect in the pattern of extinction from astrophysically induced UVB. There are some regularities: the ozone-depleting compounds tend to stay in the hemisphere, northern or southern, where they are produced. The ozone depletion tends to be worse near the poles, and its pattern varies according to the latitude over which the burst went off. On the other hand, there's more sunlight near the equator. We can combine these to produce a pattern of UVB intensity on the post-GRB Earth as a function of latitude. So we can test the pattern against the Ordovician extinction event. It turns out that a study already existed in which extinction intensity was tabulated against latitude. (The latitude then—I'm sure all the readers of this piece know that the continents move around over hundreds of millions of years).

We decided to use the “falsification” approach. There are various fashions in the philosophy of science, mostly useless, but one fruitful method is to ask whether you can rule out an idea. In this approach, we can't prove anything is true, but we can disprove ideas, and the ones we can't disprove eventually become “scientific truth.” The ones that can't be tested at all are regarded as not scientific. Anyway, we can simulate the effects of GRBs at various latitudes. If none of them can reproduce the pattern found in the data, the idea is falsified.

We found[8] that we had an exact match—within the error bars of the data—if a burst went off over the South Pole. Therefore the idea survived this test, which it could have easily failed. This doesn't prove that it happened, but the idea continues to be viable.

* * * *

A Universe of Radiation: Stars Matter

Of course, Sheffield had to resort to some shenanigans in his novels to get a nearby star that has none of the characteristics we need for a viable supernova precursor to explode and irradiate the Earth. Over time, though, it's very likely that we were close enough to a supernova to sustain serious damage. If you run the numbers,7 again it's every few hundred million years that we're likely to be within the 30-odd light years needed for an extinction level event. Discovery of the deposits left as a result of the end-Cretaceous asteroid impact came as a side effect of the search for deposits from a supernova. Even more distant supernovae, which might have moderate effects on Earth, can leave deposits.[9]

There's likely to be a lot of background radiation. For every extinction-level event from a GRB or supernova, we expect about ten times as many more which are intense enough to stress the biosphere. (Our standard for such “stress” is to produce about as much ozone depletion as humans recently did with their “gas attack” on the atmosphere, which is known to have done some damage to phytoplankton, and possibly to amphibians as well.)

Supernovae are thought to be one of the primary sources of the “galactic” cosmic rays we observe—the highest energy group, that are mostly protons moving close to the speed of light. Their paths are bent and twisted by the galaxy's magnetic field. There are about three supernovae per century in our galaxy, and the cosmic rays’ travel time across it is in the order of 50,000 years at the speed of light. So we see a blended mix of cosmic rays from near and far, recent and past. If a supernova were very close, we would get an intense burst of cosmic rays, adding to the danger from the X-rays and gamma rays.

Cosmic rays produce air showers, in which they spawn a growing zoo of elementary particles until it hits the ground. Most of the big detector experiments study this zoo, and indirectly infer what kind of primary started it. We have been looking at the kind of high-energy air showers that might result from a nearby supernova. The thing that has emerged as a substantial new threat is muons.[10] Muons which are rather like a kind of heavy electron, can penetrate up to about a kilometer of water. So they don't interact much, but there are so many of them in the cosmic ray air showers that they contribute about half the biologically effective radiation dose from cosmic rays. In proximity to a nearby supernova, they would be greatly increased, and would constitute a direct radiation threat to all life except possibly that deep underground or in the deepest part of the oceans.

* * * *

"Beware of Your Friends” Jeremiah 9:4

And then there's the danger from our own Sun, described earlier as the Carrington Event. It's reasonably well documented. In 1859, the Sun was seen to visibly brighten. This was followed by a burst of protons emitted by the Sun. The aurora was seen in Jamaica! The protons collided with the Earth's magnetic field, causing large fluctuations, and an electromagnetic pulse on the ground. The new telegraph technology was affected: induced electric currents in wires set fires in a number of telegraph offices. An operator in England (in a kind of “hey, watch this” moment) showed that he could disconnect his battery and continue to send telegraph messages using “cosmic electricity.” The Carrington Event can be clearly seen as a nitrate spike in Greenland ice core data. We've done computations that show there would have been ozone depletion a bit worse than what we did recently with chlorofluorcarbons, but which would have healed in five years or so. There may have been a perturbation in the oceans, or an uptick in skin cancer rates, but the records apparently aren't good enough to detect these things.

Despite its severity, the amount of atmospheric ionization from Carrington is quite small compared with that which would result from an extinction-level GRB or supernova. We don't know just how bad Solar proton events have been, or how often. There just isn't very much information, except for events of Carrington intensity and below. There are hints of big flare events on some stars similar to the Sun, but the situation is poorly understood and confusing. Our lack of information on the rate of such events locally just sets in at about the level at which they become seriously dangerous to life.7 Of course, we can set some limits by observing that mass extinctions on Earth don't happen frequently. Larry Niven captured something of what might be expected from a huge event in his story “Inconstant Moon,” which later became an Outer Limits episode.

But ancient life didn't have electromagnetic technology. An event like this today would seriously damage our infrastructure, causing failures of electrical power, destruction of transformers, and crippling or destroying many satellites on which we rely for communications and weather information.[11] Unshielded computer disks could be erased. A severe event could cripple the world economy for months at least. So modern humans are highly vulnerable to Solar proton events that would have earlier caused only a modest ozone depletion, from which life would easily recover. The extinction level threshold for modern humans, from such events, is much lower than that for any life form that has existed here before. How many of us would survive if there were no electricity for months?

* * * *

Advance Warning or Preparations?

We can easily spot large stars that are likely to go supernova, especially if they are close enough to do serious damage. None are. Gamma-ray bursts aren't completely understood by any means, but it's likely that a long burst precursor would be obvious to us, since it would have to be a large star with large angular momentum, in its last years before going supernova. It's likely that such an event close enough to harm us could be recognized, even if it is a few thousand light-years away. Unfortunately, our recent analysis7 suggests that the short burst type is a greater threat. This type is thought to originate in neutron star or dwarf star mergers. These could easily progress in the dark with next to no signals until near the end, if then.

Solar flares (and Solar proton events) are not well enough understood to predict. There are some regularities, but it's safe to say we would have at the most a few hours to days, once the protons were on their way to the Earth. Maybe we could harden some of our computer equipment, vital records, or power down the electric grids.

A very nearby supernova would definitely irradiate the Earth with muons on the ground, but that threat is not at all likely within the human time frame. The kind of event that could hit us in addition to crippling electromagnetic technology is ozone depletion and UVB damage—from either a Solar event or a short gamma ray burst. The rate of the former is unknown. The rate of the latter can be estimated, and it isn't likely to happen soon. But it is virtually certain to happen, and without warning.

For all of the extinction-level events, there are likely to be about ten times as many that would qualify as a disaster, with a substantial number of deaths and economic dislocations. Our historical time frame is only a few hundreds or thousands of years at best, depending on how willing we are to interpret accounts verging on mythology. Ice cores can give us information on atmospheric ionization and irradiation levels back a few hundred thousand years, but the interpretation is full of ambiguities. Isotopic anomalies might tell us about nearby supernovae back a few million years[9],[12]. We really don't have much good information on what has happened, or—what is bound to concern people most—what is likely to happen.

If there is some advance warning, preparations are possible. People would need to stay out of the sunlight and set up food stockpiles to last years. A government-level nuclear war shelter would do the job. However, a large greenhouse would make a fine shelter: Glass filters out nearly all the UVB, and given the right conditions, one could grow food inside. The Svalbard Global Seed Vault means that losses of terrestrial plants could be made up. Humans are clever, and no doubt many would muddle through.

Watch the skies! But don't forget your welder's goggles. . . .

* * * *

References

1 “Observations of Gamma-Ray Bursts of Cosmic Origin” Klebesadel R.W., Strong I.B., and Olson R.A. 1973, Astrophysical Journal Letters 182, L85

2 “Terrestrial Implications of Gamma-Ray Burst Models” Thorsett S.E. 1995 Astrophysical Journal Letters 444, L53

3 “Life Extinctions by Cosmic Ray Jets:” Dar A., Laor A., and Shaviv N. 1998 Physical Review Letters 80, 5813

4 “Astrophysical and Astrobiological Implications of Gamma-Ray Burst Properties” Scalo J.M., and Wheeler J. 2002 Astrophysical Journal 566, 723

5 “Phanerozoic Biodiversity Mass Extinctions", Bambach R.K. 2006 Annual Review of Earth and Planetary Sciences 34, 127

6 “Did a gamma-ray burst initiate the late Ordovician extinction?” Melott A.L. and 8 others, 2004 International Journal of Astrobiology 3, 51

7 “Astrophysical Ionizing Radiation and the Earth: A Brief Review and Census of Intermittent Intense Sources” Melott A.L. and Thomas B.C., 2011 Astrobiology 11, 343 doi: 10.1089/ast.2010.0603.

8 “Late Ordovician geographic patterns of extinction compared with simulations of astrophysical ionizing radiation damage” Melott A.L. and Thomas B.C, 2009 Paleobiology 35, 311

9 “Deep-Ocean Crusts as Telescopes: Using Live Radioisotopes to Probe Supernova Nucleosynthesis” Fields B.D., Hochmuth K.A., and Ellis J. 2005 Astrophysical Journal 621, 902

10 “Modeling high-energy cosmic ray induced terrestrial muon flux: A lookup table” Atri D. and Melott A.L. 2011 Radiation Physics and Chemistry, 80, 701-703 dx.doi.org/ 10.1016/j.radphyschem.2011.02.020

11 “Severe Space Weather Events—Understanding Societal and Economic Impact” National Research Council, Space Studies Board 2008 National Academy of Sciences, Washington, D.C.

12 “Penetration of nearby supernova dust in the inner solar system” Athanassiadou, T., and Fields, B. D. 2011 New Astronomy, 16, 229-241

* * * *

About the Author

Adrian Melott is currently Professor of Physics and Astronomy at the University of Kansas. He received his Ph.D. at the University of Texas in 1981. He was one of the pioneers in simulation of the formation of structure in a dark-matter dominated Universe. In 1996 he was named a Fellow of the American Physical Society “for groundbreaking studies of the origin and evolution of cosmic structure,” and in 2002 received the APS Joseph A. Burton Forum Award “to recognize outstanding contributions to public understanding or resolution of issues involving the interface of physics and society.” He was organizer and founder of Kansas Citizens for Science, which played a major role in restoring evolutionary biology to public science standards. Recently he has done research in “astrobiophysics,” publishing on the possible role of gamma-ray bursts and other astrophysical radiation sources in terrestrial mass extinctions, as well as investigating long-term biodiversity fluctuations. In 2007 he was named Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science “for distinguished contributions to cosmological large-scale structure, for organizing public support for teaching evolution, and for interdisciplinary research on astrophysical impacts on the biosphere.” Melott would like to acknowledge and thank NASA for funding the research described in this article. He would like to thank his many collaborators on this research for their insights, and Jim Gunn for helpful suggestions on the manuscript.

Copyright © 2011 by Adrian Melott

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: MOTHER'S TATTOOS by Richard A. Lovett

Where does diligence end and become something else?

I will never forget my mother's tattoos.

That was in the days before the nanospam, when your skin was your own and anything it said was yours. She had this multicolored starburst on her shoulder that she only showed in summer, when long sleeves gave way to short and then sleeveless. And there was a delicate gold watch on her wrist reading 5:45.

"Happy hour,” she said, when I was old enough to ask. “Because I always wanted to be at least forty-five minutes happy."

Then she'd hug me and add, in words I knew were good but whose subtext eluded me at the time, “It wasn't until you came around that I realized there was a better way."

I liked the watch best when I was young, before the dial started to move, before it turned digital. Even then, I'd been a retro-geek, though it would be a long time before I understood all the reasons simpler was better. And I liked the colors on her shoulder. Those were happy too. The right kind of happy. Though I didn't understand that for a long time either.

Perhaps that's why I took the job with Homeland Services. Their ‘wear isn't exactly retro, but you can style the emblem however you want and nobody dares spam you. Even the adwear you supposedly consent to each time you start your car or sip a mocha knows H.S. wearers, and keeps away. It's the job's greatest perk. Hell, it's the only perk. But at least it's a good one. I don't mind if my skin tells people I drive a nice car or wear designer jeans, but if I put on a pair of old sweats, I don't want it showing everyone the way to the nearest discount store. And the cheaper the product, the more garish its ‘wear.

But the perk came at a price. The alarm never seemed to go off except on Mondays when I was driving to work earlier than I wanted, having celebrated Saturday night on Sunday, if you know what I mean. As I said, this was before I figured out what my mother meant about the ways of being happy. What can I say? I was twenty-three and still on her old course, thankfully without a co-hab like my sire ("father” is too good a word) who'd vanished the moment his woman said “no” to an abortion. And yes, she told me that story. And yeah, it made me feel wanted. Or at least half-wanted. More than I'd have wanted me, which is another of those things you don't forget.

Anyway, it was Monday, and my ‘wear wasn't going to quit doing its job just because I wasn't in the mood. So I tapped the wake-up button on my satphone, glad I hadn't left the thing on my dresser top, the way I did the first time my ‘wear kicked in the alarm. That one nearly got me canned.

"Call Momma,” I said, then waited for the connection.

Okay, I wasn't really that far up the hierarchy. Just a contract ‘wearer. But I could set the phone to let me refer to the home office as anything I wanted, so long as it was nonpolitical. Political would probably have been okay, too, if it wasn't the wrong kind of political. The folks back there didn't have a sense of humor, but that was by choice, not edict. Saving the world every day's the type of thing that makes you take your work a bit seriously.

I picked “Momma” from some old vid. When you're young and near broke, pretending to be a secret agent is one of the few cool things you can do. Though now that I think about it, I bet half the beginning ‘wearers do something similar. Maybe the really cool thing would have been to just call it the office. Cool is relative.

"Hi,” I said. No need identifying myself. “My ears are burning."

There was a murmur in the background. The operator calling up my file, no doubt. Nobody likes Mondays. “Which ear?"

"Both.” I had no idea what that meant, and if prior experience meant anything, the H.S. drone wasn't about to tell me. One thing it did mean was the morning was shot. If I ever got a chance to make suggestions, the first thing I'd have told H.S. was that their tuning was too sensitive. My ears burned, my eyelids twitched, my hand turned lobster-red. Each presumably meant something different, but what they really meant was the police would be shutting down half of Harborside again, plus the Halsey overpass and who knew what else. Then the Channel Twelve Eye Team would somehow find out I was the one who'd snarked up the commute—and make everyone think it was my fault. For a measly grand a month, it really wasn't worth it.

It would help if they'd at least tell me what the hell my ears, eyes, or vermillion fingers were detecting, so I could keep away from obvious false alarms. I think red might have meant chlorine. There's a paper mill north of Harborside, and paper mills use bleach—I looked that up on my webwear—and the detection level for chlorine is down in the parts per gazillion. I looked that up too. Yeah, a gas bomb can be built with it, but hell, that's Word War I technology. My superiors treated it like the latest anthrax gene mod.

The first time the news team found me, they'd been reasonably polite. By the third, they were acting like I did it on purpose. And assuming I didn't drop dead in the next few minutes, this would be the fifth in as many months. Maybe I should have signed up with the Department of Environmental Quality. It paid less, but nobody shuts down the commute because of some jalopy's over-age CO2 scrubber.

* * * *

Of course, they wanted me to do a drive-around. If it really was some fast-acting derivative of anthrax, I'd be dead by the time they localized it.

One of the early times my ‘wear had done its thing I'd noticed another car making similar circuits. At first I thought it was the perps. Then I wondered how many of us H.S. had on payroll, even if it was always me the Eye Team blamed. Especially since that part was probably just the luck of an attention-catching name. Alphonse Blazac. Another of my mother's quirks. I mean, who else names a kid Alphonse? Not to mention it makes you an Alfie. Name like that, you've gotta have an edge.

This time, there was a battered green tow truck I passed about six too many times. He'd probably been on a call when his ‘wear sounded the alarm, leaving some poor schlub out on the freeway, wondering what the snark happened to his roadside assistance.

Still, a grand a month is a grand a month. There were worse ways to make a living. The office-drone job I'd been heading for when the alarm went off being Exhibit A. Though I could have done without also being Exhibit A on the why-the-commute's-all-snarked-up segment of the evening news.

* * * *

They never do tell you what it's about. I crisscrossed Harborside every way there is to crisscross it, then again for good measure. But nothing changed except that my ears didn't burn when I was close to the harbor itself. Since the wind was off the water, all that meant was the source wasn't in the bay, which I kind of figured. Not unless the gulls had joined the enemy.

Eventually, they let me head to work. Officially, when H.S. makes you late, there isn't anything your employer can do. Unofficially? Well, on a Monday, it's hard to tell if that's the reason . . . or if it's just Monday.

* * * *

My mother was anything but retro. Upgrading the tattoo was just the beginning. But she had a sensibility to her, even though her early life had always been chaotic.

I never met my dad—never knew his name. “Forget him,” she'd say. “You're worth a hundred of him, and you're just a kid."

I was never quite sure how much of that she meant. Oh, I knew she believed in me. The fire of her belief was frightening—a blast furnace aimed too strongly in my direction. What I doubted was whether she'd ever really gotten over him. Just as she never told me his name, she never told me the story. Asked, she just changed the subject. Sometimes artfully, sometimes not.

There were never any other men. My father was either the one true love she'd lost or such a jerk she'd sworn off men forever.

Whatever his flaws, I chose to believe the former. But what, then, to make of her assertions about me? How could anyone live up? It was better not to try.

* * * *

The next alarm was the most inconvenient yet. Let's just say Allison wasn't amused when flickering yellow starbursts appeared on the back of my hands and I told her I had to call Momma.

That was when I realized my secret-agent charade was too arcane. There are phrases which, even if uttered with a good, prefatory damn are first-class mood killers. From then on, I vowed, I was referring to H.S. simply as that.

It turned out to be something in Allison's perfume. Nobody told me what, but it was the last I saw of Allison. Which was a real loss. Things between us had just been getting interesting when her apartment was invaded by lab techs and the evening degenerated into tears. Hers, not mine or the techs'. Though by the end I was ready to join in. Allison was the most beautiful woman I'd ever dated. Then suddenly she was gone, just because of a bunch of stupid yellow stars.

By then, I was wondering if everything was a false alarm. Maybe false alarms were what kept the economy running. Just how many people like me were there? Every time something happened, we called Momma, who summoned a legion of techs.

Someone once defined economic stimulus as pouring money down a rat hole. Any rat hole will do. Mars exploration? Low-income housing? Analytical-chem ‘wear? As far as the economy's concerned, it really didn't matter, so long as it can snarf up endless cash.

But of course, I wasn't about to voice that. I still needed the job and Momma might be listening. Terrorists or not, there are always subversives.

* * * *

My mother wasn't a subversive. She was barely political. Just as I never knew my father, I never knew which way she voted.

What I do know is that she respected people, not political slogans. Not just me, but the neighbors, even when their dog barked. The guy who lived in the decrepit motor home in the church lot next door and made his living Dumpster diving? My mother made him snickerdoodles. She with the watch that once was always three-quarters past happy.

I also know she abhorred the early nanospam. It wasn't adwear as we know it today; it was mostly pranks. Things that could make your forehead break out with weird slogans: anything from “I want to believe” to “Check out this man's manhood,” the latter triggered by the heat and humidity of a high school locker room. Believe me, I know. I was on the receiving end of both.

That stuff was illegal, for all the good it did. There's only one real way to rid the world of spam, and that's for folks with big bucks to want a share. Or the government. You and me? We can't do much about the hacker-jacks. Billionaires? They'll clear the amateurs out of the way every time, then tell you you've consented to their ‘wear when you buy the products that made them rich.

At least the government pays. Apparently there's something in the Bill of Rights about it, though I'll be damned how George Washington and all those guys managed to envision nanowear. Maybe those Supreme Court justices everyone loves to hate made it up. “Due process?” “Private property?” It's not like I'm uneducated. It's just that, like my mother, I'm not political. All I know is it's better to be paid.

* * * *

Allison was followed by Dinah. She wasn't as pretty, but she had a better body. And she was classy. As in year-in-England classy, with a sort of mid-Atlantic accent that made you think maybe she was Canadian. Or upper-crust Manhattan. House in the Hamptons, sailboats, tennis pros, that type of thing.

Actually she was from D.C. and the class had come by hard work. Kind of like three-quarters-past-happy turning digital. And yeah, I know about Oedipus and all that. I took a bit of psych, back in college, though I'm not sure how much I believed.

I'd learned my lesson, though, and never wanted to be phoning Momma again on a perfume alert. Or “H.S.,” for that matter. But I couldn't afford to quit. Dinah might have worked her way up, but she had expensive tastes.

So I opted for an upgrade. ‘Wear that would report itself, via a tattooed-on sat link. The installation hurt a bit, but it came not only with a five-hundred-a-month raise but a promise that even the lab techs wouldn't know who the call-in came from if we did get interrupted at a . . . delicate moment. Ideally there would be no interruptions at all, but if I wasn't babbling on the phone at the time I could at least argue it was the weird guy across the courtyard who everyone hated because he kept grilling things that smelled like garlic-smoked socks.

* * * *

By the time I was in high school, my mother's body art had maxed. The digital watch hardly even looked like a tattoo. She even had a way to make it disappear. A nanosensor in the bone at the base of her thumb. Tap it just right, and the watch vanished. Tap it again and it would reappear. My satphone tat now does something similar, but hers was the first I'd ever seen.

"Cool,” I said. “Can you make it into a stopwatch?"

"Uh-uh. Could have, but didn't want to."

"Why?” Stopwatch, calendar . . . hell, she could probably have gotten traffic reports. An entire hand-held, imprinted on her wrist.

"Didn't want it. Just ‘cause you can do something doesn't mean you should."

* * * *

With all of us H.S. ‘wearers around, terrorists must be idiots. How could they expect not to be caught?

The guy I helped nab was in a hardware store on the edge of Harborside. The type of store I thought extinct until I needed one. I was looking for sheetrock screws. Not the type you use to hang sheetrock: the hollow, plastic things you hammer into the wall to hold real screws to keep pictures and things like that from falling off and scaring your girlfriend to death. They probably have a real name, but it's not the type of thing they teach you in college, studying all those credit hours of uselessness.

I have no idea what the terrorist was looking for. All I know was that my ‘wear went nuts.

They'd offered to discontinue the visuals and just use the cell link, but I figured I might want warning, so I wouldn't be caught by surprise when the techs descended on me. (Okay, the perfume thing had been scary. There are situations I just don't want to be in if they override the code on my door and clomp into my bedroom.) But I'd never before encountered anything like these. Green lightning bolts on my palms. A ferocious itch behind my earlobes. Even my fingernails got in the act, getting this iridescent color like something you might see on spoiling fish.

I kind of figured it might be the real thing.

Nobody had ever told me what to do in such circumstances, so I had to improvise. I wound up roaming the store, trying to triangulate via the brightness of my fingernails and strength of the itch.

When I spotted him, he was screamingly obvious. Not that he looked all that threatening. He was a small guy, about five foot seven, wiry, with an odd, loose-limbed gait like you sometimes find in construction workers. Carpenter with an attitude—that's how I'd have described him, though it might have been because I'd spent college summers on a house-building crew, and he reminded me of the guy who . . . never mind.

Not that any of that mattered. Even nonpolitical me had heard of diesel-and-fertilizer bombs. His forehead bore ‘wear for Pellier Bros’ Truck Stop, his right cheek said Gramp's, and his left continued, Farm Store. The cheaper the source, the more garish the wear. He might as well have been proclaiming himself a charter member of Bombers-R-Us. Not to mention he was in an aisle full of building stuff: screws mostly, but also angle brackets and other widgetry that would probably make a dandy timer. There was even a bin of PVC pipe, in case he was looking to make a pipe bomb.

No surprise that instead of techs, this time I got a full-fledged SWAT team. They spotted him even before I could point, and faster than you could say “Momma” he was pinned to the floor.

* * * *

This time, there was no Eye Team report. Nobody calling me to ask what it was like to be a hero . . . but nobody calling me all kinds of skrull for snarking up the commute, either. The SWAT team had hit, grabbed their guy, and vanished, all in a matter of minutes.

At first I thought nobody'd even noticed. But I couldn't resist going back to the hardware store.

I pretended that in the excitement I'd forgotten to get my sheetrock whatever-they-are's. But I needn't have bothered. The same geezer was at the cash register and he recognized me. I don't know whether that made him super-good at customer service or simply in one of those dying businesses where you get almost no customers, so of course you recognize everyone. I mean, who fixes things anymore? I'd only been looking for the screws because Dinah was moving in with a whole wall full of pics of her family, and the damn things were antiques that wouldn't upload to my SmartFrames. You had to actually hang them, and you can't buy the hangers on the web if you don't know what they're called. You have to go somewhere where there's someone who understands when you say, I'm looking for those things you use to . . .

Anyway, this guy—who seemed about twice the age of Methuselah—recognized me right off the bat.

"You were in here when Bart got arrested, weren't you? Sorry about that. I've known him since his father used to bring him in as a tyke. If he's a terrorist, so am I."

I wasn't sure what to make of that, but he was plenty ready to elaborate.

"What he is is a farmer. An old-fashioned dirt farmer. The type who actually works with his hands. Pesticides. Axle grease. Rutabagas, corn, peas, cow manure: Whatever he's working on, he's going to have it on his hands."

Not to mention plenty of reasons to buy diesel fuel and fertilizer. Or PVC pipe, angle-widgets, or just about anything else. Crap.

But the proprietor wasn't thinking about me.

"If I told him once, I told him a thousand times, ‘Wash your hands before coming to town. If you smell like a bomber, you're going to get treated like one.'” He sighed. “Well, they'll figure it out eventually. Last time, it took a month. Guess it takes ‘em that long to figure out their damn high-tech ain't really so high. It's like that personal-assistant my son-in-law wears. It's supposed to be his house key, thermostat, garage-door opener, medical screamer, calendar, and heaven knows what. But it's always doing somethin’ weird, at least when it's not too busy cloning ads onto anyone he gets close to. Like to drive poor Audrey—that's my daughter—nuts."

For the first time, he seemed to notice me as something other than another witness to farmer Bart's downfall. “You're a nice clean-looking guy. Mind telling me what you use for spam remover? Poor Audrey, she's tried everything. Even went to the personal-assistant gizmo's manufacturer for spam-blocker. Pure extortion, I tell ya. And even that didn't work. So long as Charlie won't get rid of that thing, the damn ads keep coming back."

He sighed again. “Anyway, what can I do for you?"

Whatever ultimately happened to farmer Bart, I got a raise. Fifteen hundred a month became two thousand.

The false alarms vanished. No more paper mills, perfume, or farmers for me. I'd not bothered to tell the hardware guy, but young Charlie's problem was that he'd been a cheapskate buying his silly personal-assistant. The aggressive spam proved it. The cheaper the product . . .

Apparently, even at fifteen hundred a month, I'd been a bargain for H.S. No longer; I was now classy, like my mother's vanishing watch.

Meanwhile, I told Dinah the extra money was from the office-drone job and took her to the fanciest restaurant in the Pearl District.

I was already wondering how to turn two thousand into twenty-five hundred.

* * * *

Where do you find terrorists? Where they congregate, of course. Far right politics? Far left? They differ only in ends. Same for religious groups. Hyper-fundamentalists of any stripe have more in common than they would admit.

And if the hardware-store geezer was right, and old Bart really did go free every time they caught him . . . well, who'd been hurt, really? Inconvenienced a bit, but it served him right for messing around with things any idiot knows would draw attention.

So I joined a mosque. Three, actually. And a temple. And two churches. Not to mention several political parties most people never heard of. Plus Alcoholics Anonymous, though those were the folks who most wanted me to get in touch with my higher power. “Hi. My name's Alfie, and I'm an H.S. ‘wearer seeking a promotion . . .” Yeah, right. And who do recovering alcoholics want to bomb, anyway?

For a year, none of this generated anything useful. My income stayed at thirty thousand, plus the drone job.

Then, one day, my phone-tat rang.

Nobody's supposed to know the number. Hell, I didn't even know anyone could call it.

Luckily, I was alone. I stroked my forearm to pull the tat to the surface, then raised my wrist.

"Hello . . . ?"

"We like your initiative.” Male? Female? For all I could tell, the voice was computer generated. Androgynous. “But the folks you're trying to find aren't into chemicals or biologics. And if they were, they'd know how to mask them. But there are other ways. Do you want the undercover upgrade?"

"The what?"

"I can't tell you the details.” There was a pause. “But I can tell you this; it can do psych profiles, just from voice and proximity sensors. And call the cavalry if you're in danger. It's another implant, but quick. Ten-day recovery. Think of it as a vacation from your day job. We'll up you to three thousand a month."

Thirty-six grand a year, just for an implant. Tax-free under the Homeland Priority Act. With a day job on top of it. What would you say? Me, I said yes.

* * * *

The first time I got arrested was at an AA meeting.

"We figured it was a good way to get you used to it,” my tat-phone said, after I was mysteriously released.

"What do you mean?"

"If you hang out with perps, we've got to arrest you too. Otherwise it's suspicious. Then we kick you and a few others on technicalities."

"What did these guys do?"

"Nothing. They're already home. But for each real bad guy you find, we'll give you an extra five hundred a month."

* * * *

My mother didn't like the new car. Or Dinah's shoes and purse. Or the City Grill dinner we'd taken her to on her birthday.

"The view's nice,” she said, glancing at the city lights spread below our thirty-ninth floor window-side table. “But I don't need all this."

"You're worth it."

"I didn't say I wasn't."

Dinah had slipped away to take a powder or whatever today's women call it, but my mother still felt the need to lean in, conspiratorially. “And I don't want you bankrupting yourself for me. Or her. Purses like that don't grow on trees."

"She has her own job—"

I was spared by the waiter, who chose that moment to refill my glass from the estate-bottled pinot Dinah and I were sharing. I'd not actually spent a lot of money on her while we'd been together. More like proving I could keep up with her.

"I'm doing okay,” I said when the waiter left.

My mother shrugged. “I don't need stuff."

On the table in front of her was a jeweler's box, wrapped in green paper and secured with a white bow. “Just ‘cause you can afford something doesn't mean you should.” She pushed the box across the table, toward me. Momentarily her sleeve rode up, revealing the wrist tattoo. Still classy. Simple. Not cheaply so, but in a way that asserted she was her own person. “I'm sure this is nice, but whatever it is, you're worth a thousand of them."

Then Dinah was back. I pocketed the box, trying to distract her by refilling her glass before the waiter had a chance. But there were questions in her eyes.

I stared out the window, toward the bay and the headlights streaming alongside it, shoving aside memories of taking the blame, again and again for messing up that same freeway.

I'd come a long way since then. Rather than crisscrossing Harborside, waiting to see if I'd be poisoned, I was looking down on it from one of the finest restaurants in town.

"You know,” I said, “we nearly lost our reservation when you weren't ready on time.” I forced my gaze back to my mother. “We're lucky we're not eating at McDonalds."

It had taken the promise of an extra hundred dollar tip to hold the table, and even then I'd been given only forty-five minutes. If there'd been traffic, we'd not have made it.

"Sorry.” She didn't sound contrite. “I was at a meeting."

"What kind of meeting is more important than your forty-ninth birthday?"

"My one thousandth."

* * * *

Bad guys were hard to find. AA wasn't the place. Nor were the mosques, churches, or temples. I got arrested a couple more times, but mainly so my handlers could see how everyone else reacted. Pretty much like ordinary citizens, as far as I could tell, with a bit of extra outrage at being singled out. Like me and the Eye Team. Mostly they were folks like my mother, doing the equivalent of keeping sober, meeting after meeting. Seeking a higher power to ease the path.

If such a power existed, what would it think of me? Was I doing anything useful or merely chasing shadows within phantoms? I knew terrorists existed—every few months something somewhere blew up to prove it—but now that my ‘wear was better tuned to identify them, it wasn't finding any. Had I lost my initiative . . . or were the people I was looking for simply too good at hiding?

As time passed I found myself looking for a test.

There are no false alarms, one of the H.S. drones had told the Eye Team, the second or third time I got blamed for Harborside. The sensors are always right. But that didn't mean they always sensed the right things. Fertilizer bombs or farmers? On the surface they smelled the same.

What gave off the same signals as someone living the lie of a sleeper terrorist?

I tried theater, in community playhouses so small you practically had the actors in your lap. Nothing. I joined a fiction writer's group. Same result. My ‘wear was smart enough to ignore people who knew their lies carried no risks.

I tried piano and violin recitals, but it also knew stage fright for what it was.

Then I hit on circuit court. Divorces or child-support cases would have been fun, but criminal was better. After all, everyone knows that ninety-five percent of those guys are guilty. They were going to jail anyway, so it wouldn't be a big deal if H.S. got a shot at them first.

The first trial, nothing happened. But the defendant was acquitted, so maybe he was one of the five percent.

The next time, five minutes into the defense's case, my arm started to itch. I pulled up the sleeve and was presented with blue freckles.

There was only one problem. The defendant hadn't said a word. Only his defense attorney had spoken.

A couple of minutes later, my other arm buzzed. Not quite audibly—more a sensation than a sound. Pulling up that sleeve, I saw the outline of my satphone emerging into view.

I raised my forearm to my mouth, as discreetly as possible. “Yeah?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?” The voice was loud enough to make discretion impossible. The defense attorney broke off. The judge's head swiveled. In the sudden silence, my caller might as well have had a bullhorn. “What the hell is this about? I'm listening to the playback—"

The judge was glaring like someone's grandmother. Not the good kind. “Shut that off.” It wasn't a bellow, but was all the more frightening for its calmness. “Now."

My caller either didn't hear or didn't care. “—he's talking about a damned burglary!” No calm authority here; this was the royal chew-out.

The judge banged her gavel, but hanging up on your handler isn't good for the career, and my caller hadn't finished with me. “We're not paying you to catch burglars for God's sake! Even if that guy is lying through his teeth—"

* * * *

Judges like mistrials even less than people disturbing their court. If she could have jailed me, I'm sure she would have. Luckily my H.S. emblem slowed her down, though she wasn't happy I wouldn't tell her what the hell I'd been doing. “Classified,” I said when we were alone in chambers, though it probably wasn't. H.S. would love the baddies to believe it had an army of folks like me, awaiting their tiniest slip. “And wasn't the lawyer breaking some kind of rule?"

That's when I knew for sure she wasn't going to jail me. “That's not totally clear. It was an opening statement, not testimony.” She actually gave a tight smile. “Defense attorneys don't have to believe in their clients’ innocence.” She leaned back in her chair. “Just how good is that lie detector of yours?"

I started to speak, but she shook her head.

"No, don't tell me. Unless they change my job, it's better not to know."

Which was too bad, because my answer would have been, “I don't know.” Good enough to catch an attorney who thought his client was one of the ninety-five percent—that was all I knew.

* * * *

I found myself remembering old Bart. Had he gotten out? Gone back in because he couldn't figure out how to avoid smelling like a terrorist? My new sensors were supposed to peer deeper. They were certainly more selective. But was it simply another level of illusion?

Meanwhile, I was trying to forget my mother's birthday. Why had I thought she'd be impressed by my car, Dinah's shoes, the gift? That was my spy movie “Momma.” And why on Earth had I picked that name when my mother and my quest for H.S.—money? power? conformity?—had so little to do with each other?

The box had contained a pair of diamond earrings. A month's pay. A statement of my mother's worth. Which she'd bounced back at me in another impossible assertion. A thousand meetings; a thousand months’ pay. Twenty years’ living for each of us, rolled into a single number.

* * * *

Eventually, I could stand it no longer.

In the months after my mother's dinner, Dinah and I had graduated to a new type of relationship. I wasn't sure what to call it, but it was as though by pushing back the unopened jewelry box, my mother had opened something between Dinah and me. Something that connected us in new, unexpected ways.

I still drove the car. Dinah still liked nice clothes. Our apartment was Pearl District chic. But I'd finally figured out my mother's “better way.” It wasn't just a declaration of sobriety. Stuff was fun. People were what mattered.

* * * *

Why is it that crises always come to a head at two a.m.?

Dinah was asleep. I wasn't, and wasn't going to be. Along with the new relationship had come a sense of incompleteness if, at night, she wasn't within easy touch. Awake, staring into the dimness, my hand was already on her shoulder.

I gave a gentle squeeze. “You awake?"

Of course she hadn't been, but she managed to reach up and squeeze my hand, then squirm back until we were spooned. “Thasss nice . . ."

She was drifting off again, but I didn't let her. “Is what I'm doing really worth it?"

"Urp?"

"I'm serious."

She rolled toward me, forcing herself awake.

We'd lived together for eighteen months but suddenly I loved her like I didn't know was possible. “If you don't like your job, quit,” she said. “We can live on what I make.” Her head pulled back, suddenly intent. “Or adjust. Money's nice, but it's you I want.” I wished I could see her face, but it was just a blur. “I've not told you much about my childhood. But we were always broke. I was determined never to let it happen to me."

"I—"

"Shhh. If you really dislike that job so much, find something else. Go back to school. Do something fun. Find yourself. I'll still be here.” She tapped my chest. “It's you I love."

"I . . . There are things you don't know. The money doesn't come—"

But suddenly, she wasn't paying attention. “No!” she screamed. “No, no, no!” She was sitting up now, arms out from beneath the covers. “No!"

Even in what little light made its way through the curtains, I could see freckles on her arm. Freckles that had never been there before. Freckles that seemed to be glowing, ever so slightly.

"No!” A panicked look my way. “Ohmygod! No!” She grabbed me, hugged me fiercely. “I told you we were always broke. I was always afraid there wouldn't be enough. But that was before . . . I'm sorry. Ohmygod! No!"

Suddenly, my right arm itched. No dots for me. Mine were tiger stripes, harder to see in the dimness, but visible enough.

I showed them to her. Couldn't find anything to say. She'd produced a panicked torrent of words, but I felt as though my world had suddenly come to a halt.

There were sirens in the distance. Probably a whole SWAT team, like the one that swooped down on poor farmer Bart.

Somehow, that gave me the words. “We've done nothing wrong! Just tendered our resignations in a rather . . . unusual . . . way.” I looked at my tiger-striped forearm. Knew it was listening. “There are indeed false alarms!” I shouted at it. “The sensors may be right, but what are they sensing?"

There were boots on the stairs.

If you're about to be arrested in the arms of the love of your life, do you spend those precious seconds holding her, or grab for clothing? I pulled her to me, kissed her, then whispered in her ear, hoping our ‘wear couldn't catch it. “Farmer Bart got out.” It was more a declaration of faith than certainty. But nothing meant anything if he hadn't. Not that she had any idea what I was talking about.

I gave her the name of the hardware store. “I have no idea how long they're going to keep us, or what's going to happen while we're gone. But if you can't find me any other way, tell the proprietor where I can find you."

"Why not your mother?"

"Because she's the one who always knew there was a better way.” Because she really was, after all, political. The worst kind: the kind who didn't give a rip about politics.

Then the door burst in and I held her again, even as hands were pulling us apart. “Not political!” I shouted. “We just want to quit."

And then, absurdly, “My mother makes the best snickerdoodles. . . ."

Copyright © 2011 by Richard A. Lovett

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Department: BIOLOG: ALEC NEVALA-LEE by Richard A. Lovett

Some science fiction writers start as scientists. Not Alec Nevala-Lee. He always planned to be a writer, even going picking his college major with a literary career in mind. “I chose classical studies [at Harvard],” he says, though he admits he's now forgotten most of his Latin and Greek. “I always knew I would be a writer, so [I asked] what field would provide the most interesting toolkit for writing fiction: history, archaeology, linguistics, philosophy."

Growing up in Castro Valley, California, Nevala-Lee encountered The X-Files in middle school. “I was a huge fan,” he says. “It came out when I was just the right age."

He immediately began writing fanfic, and while his stories have since become very much his own, they still pay homage to his favorite TV show. “I enjoy stories set in the present day, on this planet, with fairly recognizable characters,” he says. “Most begin with unexplained events that seem almost paranormal. Then gradually an explanation appears. That's The X-Files."

His first serious endeavor was a novel written at age 13, influenced mostly by Orson Scott Card and Dune. “At this point, only one copy remains,” he adds, “which is probably a good thing."

After a stint at a financial firm in New York City, he took up full-time writing, then moved to Chicago.

His first sale was to Analog ("Inversus,” January/February 2004) but at the time he still had the day job in finance, and it was several years before he returned to the magazine's pages. The current story is the latest in a series of rat-a-tat sales.

Because Nevala-Lee is not a scientist, he often turns for inspiration to popular science magazines, like Discover. His normal approach is to look for seemingly unrelated articles, then try to connect them. His November 2011 story, “The Boneless One,” began when he read an article about an oceanographic expedition that is taking water samples every few miles and cataloging the genes of the bacteria they contain. Then he read an article about luminescent octopuses. “The result was a weird noir murder mystery on a research yacht,” he says. “Most of my stories come from that kind of collision between two unrelated subjects."

But science fiction may not be his literary mainstay. His first book, The Icon Thief, slated for April 2012, is a thriller set in the New York art world, with a sequel scheduled for later that year. “I see myself more as a suspense novelist,” he admits. Though he's quick to add that science fiction is his first love—though mostly for short stories or novelettes.

Luckily, he sees Analog as a premier market for his shorter works. “I'm drawn to the ‘toymaking’ aspects of science fiction,” he says. “The [stories] I've most enjoyed have been combinations of ideas. The Dune books combine Herbert's interest in ecology, the Middle East, oil politics, Bedouins, Lawrence of Arabia, and mystical traditions from across the world. Somehow it all comes together in a coherent whole. That's what I like—the fiction of connections."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: ERNESTO by Alec Nevala-Lee

It's hard to be an idealist in the real world, when different ideals can pull in different directions. . . .

Interviewer: Who would you say are your literary forebears—those you have learned the most from?

Hemingway: Mark Twain, Flaubert . . . Chekhov . . . Van Gogh, Gauguin, San Juan de la Cruz. . . .

—The Paris Review, 1958

* * * *

A year after the war began, I found myself in Madrid, where I took a room at the Hotel Florida. In those lean months, breakfast usually consisted of little more than a few bits of dry bread from the night before, but one morning in the lobby, as I was nursing a cup of weak tea and some stale crusts, I noticed the smell of fresh coffee and fried ham drifting down from somewhere overhead.

I set my notes aside. Although I knew very well where the smells were coming from, I had a hunch it would mean trouble. In the end, though, I gathered up my things and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The two stories above had been shelled not long ago, and this was the highest level that was still occupied.

In his room, the door of which was open, Ernesto was seated by the window, a newspaper spread before him on the table. Looking around the cramped space, I took in the typewriter, the gramophone, and the cooking ring with its traces of breakfast. When my eyes reached the chair by the bed, I paused. Seated there, instead of the woman I had expected, was a friar in a cassock and glasses.

"Excuse me,” I said, taking a step backwards. “I didn't know you had company—"

Ernesto looked up from his newspaper, eyeing me through the steel rims of his spectacles. He was in his thirties then, his hair and mustache still black, the prow of his chest barely restrained by its dressing gown.

"No, have coffee with us,” Ernesto said. “You might find this interesting. The padre and I were speaking of miracles. I believe we had just reached the subject of the stigmata—"

Going over to the windowsill to get a cup of coffee, I studied the visitor more closely. At that point, a year into the civil war, several thousand clergymen had already died at the hands of the Loyalists, so I was impressed by any man brave enough to wear a cassock in Madrid. Taking my cup, I sank into the chair by the electric heater. “What about the stigmata?"

"Your American friend is a skeptic of the modern school,” the friar said, speaking in surprisingly good English. “He is willing to embrace any evidence that supports his political beliefs, but not if it contradicts them, not even something so compelling as the five wounds of Christ—"

Ernesto lit a cigarette. “I'm only saying that no miracle is required. Even if we discount the possibility of fraud, the mind can do strange things to the body. What you call divine intervention might be nothing but hysteria."

"But what if other factors are present?” the friar asked. “Consider the case that brings me here today. Yesterday, I arrived from Segovia, where I was asked to provide safe conduct for a woman who had been staying at our convent. Only four weeks ago, her body was racked with carcinoma. The doctors gave her, at most, a few months to live. Instead of resigning herself to death, she came to us, wanting nothing more than to pray to St. John—"

"St. John of the Cross,” Ernesto said for my benefit. “He is buried in Segovia."

"—to pray for his intervention,” the friar said, continuing without a pause. “For days on end, she prostrated herself in his chapel, taking only a little food and water. After two weeks, she began to tremble. The marks of the holy nails appeared on her hands and feet. In time, the stigmata went away. And when the wounds faded, her cancer, too, was gone."

"A good story,” Ernesto said. “But again, no miracle is required. Any doctor can tell you tales of spontaneous remission. Most of the time, the patient never really had cancer at all."

"But I have spoken to her doctor myself. There is no medical explanation. She was dying, but has recovered completely. And—"

The friar paused, as if wondering if he should speak further, then lowered his voice. "And she is not the only one. We know of at least four other cases in Madrid alone. All were men and women who visited the tomb of St. John in the past year. All were dying of cancer. And after they prayed for the saint's intervention, all were cured. What is this, then, if not a miracle?"

Ernesto shot me a glance. I could tell that he didn't believe a word, but he only turned back politely to the friar. “You say that this woman is in Madrid. Would it be possible for me to see her?"

"I was hoping you would ask,” the friar said. “She lives nearby, off the Gran Via."

"Good.” Ernesto rose, brushing the crumbs from his dressing down. “If you'd like to wait downstairs, I'll join you in a minute."

The friar bowed and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Ernesto went into the bathroom, leaving the door open so we could continue to talk. He had arrived in the city not long before, working for a syndicate as a war correspondent, and we had already become fast friends. “So what do you think?"

I finished my coffee and put the cup on the sill. “It's hard to believe that such a shrine could go unreported for so long. Lourdes doesn't have so many cures in a century. If it were real, we would have heard about it by now."

"That isn't necessarily true,” Ernesto said, reappearing in a fresh shirt, his hair wet. “It's dangerous to believe in miracles these days. Too many Catholics have died already. No, what I find more interesting is the timing. You've heard the talk of a Segovia offensive?"

"Only a few rumors,” I said, watching as Ernesto went to the armoire in the corner. Segovia, which lay across the mountains to the north, had been taken by the Nationalists in the early days of the war. It was widely assumed that the Loyalists would soon try to recapture the town from the Fascists.

Ernesto opened the armoire. “Well, this shrine is just outside Segovia. The town has already been bombed once. Churches have been burned to the ground. If I were this friar and wanted to save my monastery, I might try to convince our side that a miracle was taking place."

Inside the armoire, I saw row after row of contraband chocolate bars, canned foods, whiskey. “But why did he come to you?"

"He must want me to write about it. Maybe he thinks I'll influence opinion overseas, or hopes I'll spread word to the Loyalist command. It wouldn't be the first time I've been asked to do something like this."

Ernesto took a can of bully beef and a tin of milk from the nearest shelf, then closed the armoire. “Come on. We'll see this woman together. Maybe you'll get a story out of it, too—"

* * * *

Going downstairs, we found the friar waiting for us in the lobby. Outside, the ground was strewn with broken glass, and fresh craters had been left by last night's bombardment. After walking for some time along the Gran Via, we found ourselves in an area that was relatively untouched by bombs. On the porch of the nearest house, in the shade of the overhang, sat a woman in black.

Removing our hats, we mounted the steps together. The woman watched us curiously. She looked to be in her late fifties, her features wrinkled and kind. The friar greeted her warmly, then introduced us, saying that we wanted to ask her some questions. Ernesto hung back, leaving the friar to do the talking, although his eyes studied the woman's face with what struck me as a predatory attentiveness.

As the friar questioned her, the woman replied softly. Yes, the doctors had told her that she was going to die. Yes, she had gone to pray at the tomb of the blessed saint, even though it meant going into Nationalist territory. And, yes, she had felt the Holy Spirit take hold of her body, leaving its marks on her flesh.

At the friar's urging, she showed us her hands. On the center of each palm, I saw a faint welt, no larger than a peseta piece. Each formed a neat circle, its edges cleanly demarcated. The welts had faded since their first appearance, she told us, but they still bothered her from time to time.

"You mentioned a doctor,” Ernesto said. “You've seen him since you got back?"

The woman glanced at the friar, who nodded. Yes, she said, she had seen the doctor, who had been amazed to find that her sickness was gone. Ernesto asked for the doctor's name, then took out the tins of food, which the woman, after a show of protestation, was persuaded to accept.

After exchanging a few words with the friar, who remained at the house, we headed off. I turned to Ernesto. “So what do you think?"

"I think she's telling the truth,” Ernesto said. “Or at least as much as she understands. In any case, I know her doctor. Maybe I'll see him today. It's probably nothing, but you never know."

At the hotel, we parted ways. I spent the rest of the day writing up my dispatch, then cabled it to my paper. That night, when I went out for dinner at the Gran Via, the restaurant was already packed. Looking for a place to sit, I saw Ernesto at a table in the corner. He seemed tired, but signaled for me to come over.

"I can't make head or tail of the damned thing,” Ernesto said. “The doctor confirmed it. Not only is this woman's story true, but he's seen three spontaneous remissions in the past six months, all patients with terminal cancer. They don't always say where they've been, but it's clear that they've all gone to Segovia."

I picked at my plate of horsemeat with rice. “And he's sure that the cancer is gone?"

Ernesto poured himself another glass of wine. “As sure as anyone can be. He's got his hands full with the wounded, so he can't track each patient's progress. Except for this most recent case, he can't testify to the stigmata. But he showed me the records himself. These are all patients who were given only a few months to live. Now they're in the best of health."

Pushing the plate aside, I reached for my wineglass. “So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to Segovia. The padre needs a ride back anyway, so I'm driving up there tomorrow.” Raising his glass, he fixed me with those penetrating eyes. “I was hoping you might join me."

I didn't reply at once. Over the past year, I had taken my share of risks, but it was one thing to wind up in danger by accident, and quite another to drive on purpose into Fascist territory.

I had already opened my mouth to decline when the bomb exploded. The sound began as a whine, like a plucked guitar string, then deepened into the roar of an approaching train. When the shell went off, it was very close by, and the entire restaurant trembled. The conversation died out for a second, then returned to its customary din. But we were all a little shaken.

It struck me then that one might die as easily in Madrid as anywhere else, and at least the front offered the prospect of movement and fresh air. “All right,” I said at last. “I'll come."

"Good,” Ernesto said, draining his glass with a gulp. “We'll make an adventure of it."

The next morning, before dawn, I found Ernesto waiting for me outside our hotel. Behind the wheel of his car sat Hipolito, the latest and most reliable of his drivers. After making a detour to pick up the friar, who slid beside me into the back seat, we headed out of the city.

It was a cold morning on the meseta, the wind bearing wave after wave of dust from the mountains. As the sun rose to our right, it gradually illuminated the landscape outside Madrid. Raw military roads had been cut across the plain, and at the edges of the paths, I saw abandoned equipment and holes from recent bombardments. In the distance, I could make out a line of troops, their cars and tanks covered with freshly cut branches, the soldiers like ants in their steel helmets.

Ahead of us ran a line of mountains, the foothills clad with pine forest. The higher we climbed, the closer the sound of artillery became. To ease the tension, Ernesto handed back a wineskin, its contents resinous but welcome. Warmed by the wine, the friar began to speak of the saint whose shrine we were going to see: “When St. John tried to reform the Carmelites, his superiors threw him into prison, in a room barely large enough for his body. He was taken out only to be lashed once a week, but one day, no one knows how, he miraculously escaped—"

* * * *

Ernesto laughed. “Not much of a miracle. He arranged to remove the hinges from the door of his cell. Now that's the kind of saint I can admire.” He looked out at the trees. “If John deserves sainthood, it's because he understood the dark night of the soul. You can look for God all your life and find nothing in the end. And for a true believer, that nothingness is enough. Nada y nada y nada."

We rounded a hairpin turn, bringing us into view of the northern plain. As we began our winding descent, the town of Segovia appeared in the distance, a few dark specks in a sea of orange. Overhead, we heard the sound of aircraft, and saw three monoplanes flying in a Nationalist patrol. We watched, uneasy, until the planes had gone, then continued on our way.

As we approached Segovia, my first impression was that of a long tongue of crumbling stone. It was an ancient village girded by a vast aqueduct, with gray fortifications surrounding the town itself. Instead of driving under the main arch, which would have brought us into the plaza, we skirted the walls to the monastery, which lay to the northwest.

We parked beneath a clump of trees a hundred yards from the entrance. Climbing out, Ernesto told Hipolito to stay with the car, then followed the friar up the road, which led past a stone wall. A footpath lined with pines brought us to the monastery. Leading us through the heavy doors, the friar pointed us toward the church, saying that he would join us in a moment.

He disappeared down the corridor. Taking off our hats, Ernesto and I passed into the church, moving along the aisle toward the altar. A door to the left led to the chapel, which we entered.

Inside, it was darker than I had expected, the windows piled high with sandbags, the only light coming from a few guttering candles. The atmosphere was warm and damp, with an odor of moist stone.

Beyond the altar rails stood the tomb of St. John of the Cross, a massive reliquary of marble and bronze. On the floor before the altar lay what appeared, at first, to be two heaps of rags. A second later, one of the heaps moved, and I realized that they were a pair of visitants lying in front of the tomb. Looking more closely, I saw that they were a man and woman, their ages unclear. Something in their silent prostration gave me the feeling that they had been here for hours, if not days.

Glancing over at Ernesto, I saw that he was looking around the chapel with the same intent air that I had observed before. When I followed his eyes, I noticed fresh cracks in the floor and walls, and recalled that this area had been bombed by the Loyalists in the early days of the war.

We stood there in silence, looking around the chapel's dim interior. After a moment, the friar rejoined us. “We have a number of guests with us,” the friar said in a whisper, indicating the prone figures at the altar. “Another is staying upstairs. I have arranged for you to see him."

Ernesto turned back to the reliquary. “What can you tell me about the tomb?"

"St. John of the Cross died in Ubeda, and his body was brought here soon afterward,” the friar said. “At first, he was interred below the floor. The tomb that you see here was installed ten years ago."

Ernesto ran his gaze across the marble monument. “And how did St. John die?"

"A disease of the legs, I believe.” The friar headed for the door. “Come. I'll bring you to our other guest."

We followed him out of the chapel. Leaving the church, we ascended a flight of stone steps to a corridor lined with cells. The friar knocked softly at the nearest door, then pushed it open. Inside, a man was seated at the edge of a pallet, a rosary in his hands. As we entered, the visitant looked up, and I thought I saw something like holy fever in his eyes.

"God be with you, my son,” the friar said politely. “And how are you feeling?"

"Better,” the man said. As he looked between us with a mild, peering expression, the friar explained that the visitant had recently arrived from Burgos, having been diagnosed some time before with an incurable carcinoma.

In response to our request, the visitant extended his scrawny arms for us to examine. On the palms of his hands, which were trembling slightly, I observed the same markings that I had seen on the woman in Madrid.

Without being asked, the visitant raised the hem of his robe, allowing us to look at his feet. Here, too, were marks that might have been those of stigmata, although they seemed larger than the wounds that nails would have made. On his legs, I saw what looked like a number of welts or bruises. “The marks of the flail,” the friar said helpfully, “where Our Lord was beaten by the soldiers."

"Of course,” Ernesto said. From his jacket pocket, he took a few sunflower seeds, which the visitant accepted gladly. As we filed out of the room, I saw that he had already turned back to his rosary.

Going downstairs, we left the monastery, heading back to where we had left the car. When we arrived, Hipolito was leaning against the hood, his arms folded. As we drew close enough to see him in the shade, the driver gestured with a nod of his head. “Watch out. We have a guest."

I turned. Fifty yards away, leaning against the wall that encircled the monastery, there stood a slender figure in a beret and overcoat. He was watching us. Ernesto frowned, then spoke to the friar. “You know this man?"

"Yes,” the friar said, the color draining from his face. “He is one of the Falangists."

"I was afraid of that.” Ernesto signaled to Hipolito. “Come on. Let's leave this Fascist bastard behind."

As I got into the car, I glanced back at the figure by the wall, who had begun to watch us more openly. Ernesto climbed into the front seat, then glanced at the friar. “You'll be all right on your own?"

"Yes, I'll take care of it,” the friar said. “But you should go now. God be with you."

"And also with you, padre,” Ernesto said. As we drove away from the monastery, a cloud of dust rose behind the car. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the friar approaching the man in the beret, who was tracking us with his eyes. Then we rounded the corner and lost sight of them both.

The drive back to the city was a long one. On our approach to Madrid, we passed within sight of a formation of reserve troops, perhaps the same ones we had seen on our way to Segovia. At some point in the past few hours, they had been bombarded. Bodies lay on the ground, no more than lumps in the dirt, with medical crews and burial squads moving among the fallen.

When we returned to the city, Hipolito dropped us off at the hotel. As we approached the entrance, the granite dust caking on our boots, Ernesto spoke at last. “The padre was braver than he looked. The Fascists won't be pleased that he met with us, even if it turns out to have been for nothing."

We entered the hotel, passing between the two guards at the door. “So you still don't believe in miracles?"

"I'm not sure,” Ernesto said, heading for the concierge's desk. “Give me a few days."

As it turned out, I didn't talk to him again for the better part of a week. From time to time, I would see him in the lobby, a few books under one arm, or speaking to the medical officer of the Eleventh International Brigade, a German national with the eyes of a monk.

One evening, however, as I was returning to the hotel, I found a note from Ernesto waiting for me at the front desk, asking if I would be kind enough to meet him at Chicote's. When I pushed through the revolving door that night, the bar was fairly quiet. Ernesto was seated at his favorite table, under a window piled with sandbags, drinking a gin and tonic.

Next to his glass, instead of the usual newspapers or political tracts, there was a stack of leatherbound books. Pulling up a chair, I saw that two were medical textbooks, one was a life of St. John of the Cross, and the last, unexpectedly, was an edition of the letters of Anton Chekhov.

"Don't be so surprised,” Ernesto said, clearing a space for me to sit. “My father was a doctor, you know. I even drove an ambulance during the war. So I know a few things about how the body works."

I ordered a whiskey. “But I assume your current interest was inspired by our trip."

"I suppose you might say that,” Ernesto said. “In fact, I have solved the mystery."

My incredulity must have shown on my face, for Ernesto laughed and assured me that he was perfectly serious. “First off, I hope you'll agree to exclude the possibility of miracles. My own feelings aside, the supernatural should be invoked only after all other possibilities have been excluded."

"Agreed,” I said, taking a sip of the whiskey. “So how do you propose to begin?"

"With the facts. Take away the stigmata and the air of the supernatural, and what do we have? A case of spontaneous remission. So I consulted the literature on the subject. These recoveries do happen, if rarely. According to one source, they occur in fewer than one in a hundred thousand cases."

Ernesto picked up a volume from the pile. “This is an account of the work of William Coley, a surgeon who made the first systematic study of spontaneous remission. As a young man, he was asked to consult on the case of a girl of seventeen, who complained of pain and swelling in her right hand. The biopsy revealed that she was suffering from a severe sarcoma. They amputated her arm below the elbow, but it was too late. A few months later, she died."

He opened the book, gently turning over the leaves. “Another man might have moved on, but Coley was a gifted surgeon and still very young. He became obsessed with investigating cases of sarcoma, trying to discover how to treat such a terrible disease. During his research, he uncovered many instances of spontaneous remission. And he found that most of these cases had one thing in common."

I sensed that he was intentionally milking the drama, but I was willing to play along. “What did he find?"

"He found cases, some dating back a century or more, of cancer patients who experienced spontaneous remission after surviving a serious infection. When the immune system rallies to fend off a bacterial invasion, it seems, it can eliminate cancer as well. The body has wonderful defenses, but it doesn't always recognize cancer as a threat. An infection serves to mobilize the body against one enemy, while also taking care of a more insidious foe. Chekhov mentions this. He was a doctor, you know, and in one of his letters, he notes that when a patient develops erysipelas, a severe skin infection caused by streptococcus, the growth of tumors is also checked. So these observations go back a long time."

He closed the book. “It's even possible, if you're so inclined, to draw an analogy to the present war. I'm not a communist. I have nothing against the church. But I want to destroy fascism. And the only way to do this is to align that struggle with the movements that want to do away with capitalists and clergymen. In the short term, it leads to atrocities on both sides. But we can't stop fascism unless we connect the fight to an impulse that the people can understand."

"We're straying from the point, I think,” I said. “What about William Coley?"

"Well, after reviewing the literature, he began looking for instances of spontaneous remission that were closer to home. In particular, he heard about the case of a German immigrant who had been diagnosed with terminal sarcoma. Later, the patient came down with erysipelas, the kind of infection that Chekhov mentions, but eventually recovered. Coley went looking for this patient, knocking on tenement doors until he finally tracked him down. And what he found was that the patient was alive and free of cancer, apparently because of the infection he'd survived."

I began to see where Ernesto was going. “So we're talking about a cure for cancer."

"Coley certainly seemed to think so. He began to investigate the possibility of deliberately infecting cancer patients to trigger their natural immune defenses. He even developed an antitumor vaccine, a brew of microbes, including erysipelas bacteria, that could be injected directly into the body. The results, not surprisingly, were mixed. Some patients recovered, but others died. After all, there's always a chance that erysipelas itself might kill the patient. It can be a brutal disease. There's one famous case, in particular, that might be relevant here—"

I found that I knew exactly what he was going to say. “St. John of the Cross."

Ernesto nodded, pleased, as if I had passed a test. “I've looked into the details. St. John came down with a fever, then an inflammation of the leg. It ulcerated and spread to his lower back, where it killed him. His biographers agree it was erysipelas. But let's file that fact away for now."

Signaling to the waiter for another round, Ernesto picked up a handbook of infectious diseases. “So what are the symptoms of erysipelas? It begins as a fever with tremors. A red, swollen, hardened rash appears, usually on the extremities, particularly the hands, feet, and legs. The rashes tend to be raised, with sharply defined edges. In some cases, they take the form of elevated vesicles or blisters. Not unlike, shall we say, the marks of a nail—"

The waiter arrived with our drinks, although I barely noticed this. “So you think these cases of stigmata were really erysipelas?"

"It isn't so hard to believe. Imagine that round, hardened welts appear on a supplicant's hands and feet after a visit to the shrine. Someone else at the monastery takes them for stigmata. Then, as word gets around, later cases show the marks even more clearly. Why? Because everyone knows what stigmata are supposed to look like. The mind influences the size and location of the markings. The cycle feeds on itself. All it takes is a certain degree of credulity."

"Hold on,” I said. “So you're saying that these miracles are due to visitors to the shrine being infected by erysipelas. Their symptoms are mistaken for stigmata. Because the war has reduced their access to medical care, they don't receive the usual diagnosis or treatment, but if they survive the infection on their own, it drives off their cancer. But are you really implying that they've been infected by the body of a saint who died over three centuries ago?"

"That's something I found hard to accept, too,” Ernesto said. “But look at the circumstances. A reliquary is an ideal place for bacteria to grow. Staphylococcus, for instance, has been found thriving in newly opened tombs. And you've seen that chapel. Visitors lie on the floor for hours at a time. They're near death, undernourished, vulnerable to infection, in a dark, damp place that has been recently disturbed by bombing. And any battlefield doctor can tell you that bombardment releases microbes that have been dormant in the landscape for a long time."

I remembered Ernesto's conversation with the doctor at the International Brigade. “Is that why you spoke to Dr. Heilbrun?"

"Yes. And he reminded me of a case I might otherwise have forgotten. I imagine that you've heard of it. A tomb was reopened after thousands of years. Soon after the excavation, a number of those involved died, including the man who financed the dig, which led to certain fantastic theories. Well, the tomb was that of Tutankhamen. The man was Lord Carnarvon. And he died of erysipelas."

We fell silent. I became aware that I had drunk too much. “So what are you going to do about it?"

Ernesto contemplated his glass for a moment, then took a careful swig. “Nothing."

"Nothing?” My head was throbbing, and I had trouble understanding what he meant. “What are you talking about?"

He did not respond right away. Around us, the bar had grown packed with journalists, soldiers, and girls, and when he spoke again, I had to listen carefully to hear him over the crowd:

"The Segovia offensive needs to take place,” Ernesto said slowly. “If we don't recapture Segovia, Franco will push north until he reaches Bilbao, which will cut the Loyalists in half. If that happens, the war is lost. And if I write about this shrine, it will only complicate the situation."

He looked into his glass, which was nearly empty. “That's the strange thing, you see. The friar came to me because he thought word of a miracle might discourage the attack. He was wrong, of course. The last thing the Loyalists want is to give legitimacy to the church. But when you cast things in scientific terms—"

Ernesto paused. “That's a different story. The socialists have made a fetish of science. They'll want to look into it. Even to postpone the offensive until they have more information. And I can't allow that to happen."

"But what if you're right?” I asked. “If the chapel contains a cure for cancer, are you willing to throw that away?"

"I'm willing to make the hard choice. Perhaps a handful of men and women will die without this cure. On the other hand, we have the future of a nation, even the world, to consider. You've seen the forces at play here. Sarcoma is nothing compared to the cancer of fascism. If you don't believe me, imagine how Europe will look in a few years, if that cancer isn't snuffed out now."

I weighed this in silence. Deep down, I knew that there was nothing I could do. I was neither famous nor expert enough to make the case for the shrine on my own. And there was always the possibility that Ernesto was right.

"Well, hell,” I said at last. “If that's what you've decided, I'm not going to stop you."

Ernesto only finished his drink, without meeting my eyes. It was too loud to talk any further, so we paid the bill and left. Outside, the city was very quiet. We headed back to the Hotel Florida, moving in silence through the ruined streets, and parted ways at the elevator. I don't think we even said goodbye.

* * * *

Ernesto left the city soon afterward. I stayed for another few months, writing and working on my own, long enough to see the failure of the Segovia offensive, which began three weeks after his departure. Even after it became clear that the assault had fallen short, it was difficult to understand how things had gone so wrong. After suffering more than a thousand casualties, the offensive faltered, then fell back. In the end, it succeeded in delaying the capture of Bilbao by less than two weeks.

After that, I only saw Ernesto once more. A year after the war ended, I wound up in Havana, where I learned that he was staying at an estate fifteen miles from the city. On an impulse, I gave him a call. Rather to my surprise, he agreed to see me that day, if I'd be willing to drive up to the house.

When I arrived at the estate, which the locals called the Finca Vigia, it was lunchtime. I rang the bell, and Martha let me inside. She looked as beautiful as always, a tall, elegant blonde, and she seemed glad to see me. Showing me into the study, she left us alone, saying that she would bring some refreshments.

Ernesto was seated at his desk, wearing a soft red robe. Beside the typewriter lay a heap of manuscript pages. I had heard that he was working on a novel inspired by the Segovia offensive, and asked if he had a title yet. He said he was thinking of calling it The Undiscovered Country.

Waving me into a seat, Ernesto leaned back in his chair. “Any news of the padre?"

"Yes,” I said, accepting a glass of scotch from Martha, who set down a tray of sandwiches and left the room. “He was shot by the Falangists a month after our visit. For all I know, it was because they saw him with us."

"Damn them,” Ernesto said mildly. “But it's hard to be sure about these things. What about the chapel?"

"As far as I can tell, the cures have ceased. Visitants kept coming, but after a while, there were no more recoveries. Nobody knows why. Although I hear that the monastery was disinfected from top to bottom after a typhus scare."

Ernesto straightened the papers on his desk. “It isn't surprising. Microbes change character quickly. Like men. So perhaps the factors that made the cure possible simply ceased to exist."

He took a sip of his drink. “In any case, it's for the best. The last thing we need is for Franco to lay claim to a shrine. You can imagine how he would treat it. It would become a Fascist Lourdes. Proof that his regime had been blessed by heaven. Better for it to disappear altogether."

We lapsed into a rather melancholy silence. After a moment, the alcohol spreading through my body prompted me to speak more philosophically than usual. Finishing my glass, I said, “You know, the Loyalist republic never would have lasted. A government that is utterly opposed to the church can't survive for long. The need for faith runs too deep.” I paused. “Perhaps in time, if things had been different, the Loyalists would have realized this."

Ernesto, in his red robe, looked out the window at the sea. On the surface of the water, the sun was beating down in a long white line.

"Yes,” Ernesto said at last, draining his glass of scotch. “Isn't it pretty to think so?"

Copyright © 2011 by Alec Nevala-Lee

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Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: MU NEUTRINOS AS TACHYONS? by John G. Cramer

Rumors have been circulating in the physics community for the last few days about a spectacular new result coming from the OPERA (Oscillation Project with Emulsion-tRacking Apparatus) experiment at CERN. This morning, CERN produced a press release about the result, and this afternoon hundreds of physicists crowded into the large seminar room at CERN's site at Meyrin, Switzerland, just West of Geneva, to hear a presentation by the OPERA Collaboration's physics coordinator, Dr. Dario Autiero of the Institute for Nuclear Physics in Lyon, France. I was able to “attend” the seminar over the Internet from Westport, NY.

The OPERA group has just released a 24-page paper describing in detail a measurement detecting over 15,000 mu-neutrinos, showing with a statistical precision of about six standard deviations that, in traveling the 730 kilometers (454 miles) from the CERN site to a detector in the Grand Sasso underground laboratory buried in a mountain East of Rome, they travel at a velocity that exceeds the speed of light by 26 parts per million.

This result, if valid, shakes the world of theoretical physics to its very roots. Einstein's special theory of relativity is based on a principle called “Lorentz invariance,” an even-handedness in the treatment of inertial reference frames (coordinate systems at rest or moving with a constant speed) that would be destroyed if signals could be sent using particles traveling even slightly faster than the speed of light. Such signals would break Einstein's frame even-handedness by selecting some reference frame as the “correct” one. For this reason, the general view in the physics community is that there must be something wrong with the OPERA result. Some subtle problem must be producing the illusion of superluminal neutrinos.

* * * *

Before we get into the OPERA results, however, let me review what we think we understand about neutrinos. There are two classes of fundamental spin 1/2 particles, the six strongly-interacting quarks and the six weakly-interacting leptons. Three of the leptons (electron=e, mu=m, and tau=t) have significant masses and one electron-charge of electrical charge. The other three leptons (ne, nm, and nt) have tiny masses, zero electrical charge, and are called neutrinos. The simplest form of the Standard Model assumes that neutrinos, like photons and gluons, have zero rest-mass. However, we have had to change that assumption, based on recent experimental evidence. Neutrinos have very small masses (perhaps a few hundredths of an electron-volt), they always travel close to the speed of light, and they rarely interact with anything.

Our sun is a giant thermonuclear reactor that burns hydrogen into helium, making lots of neutrinos in the process. Neutrinos from the Sun pass through your body and through the Earth as if neither was there. As you might imagine, this makes neutrinos very difficult to detect . . . but not quite impossible. The first successful experiment to detect neutrinos from the Sun was mounted in 1968 in the Homestake gold mine in Lead, South Dakota by Ray Davis and his group from Brookhaven National Laboratory. This experiment, conducted 850 feet below ground level in a 100,000 gallon tank filled with perchloroethylene cleaning solvent, produced a famous result. They detected only about 1/3 of the expected number of solar neutrinos. This neutrino deficiency was later confirmed by the Kamiokande II detector in Japan, which, although it operated on a different principle, was sensitive to neutrinos in about the same energy range as the Homestake detector.

We now understand the missing solar e-neutrinos. Neutrinos have a small mass, and this causes them to “oscillate", to change their flavor from e-neutrinos to m-neutrinos and back again, as they travel through space. The solar neutrinos were not detected by Homestake and Kamiokande because 2/3 of them had oscillated to the m-neutrino flavor by the time they traveled from the Sun to the Earth, and these m-neutrinos could not produce the nuclear reactions used in detection.

The tiny rest mass of neutrinos is puzzling. Why do the three neutrinos species, unlike their charged lepton brothers and their quark cousins, have rest masses that are nearly (but not quite) zero? The Standard Model of particle physics is silent on this question. Unlike the photon, which must have a zero mass because it is the mediating particle of the infinite-range electromagnetic force, there is no fundamental reason why neutrinos should be massless.

One way of measuring the e-neutrino rest mass does so indirectly by examining the energy spectrum of electrons produced in low-energy nuclear beta decays. The “end-point” or energy region where the most energetic electrons are found is most sensitive to the mass of the e-neutrino (or e-anti-neutrino, which should have identical mass). If the e-neutrino has zero mass, the energy region near the end-point smoothly merges into the baseline. But if the e-neutrino has a small mass, the distribution at the end-point is chopped off early, producing a “nose” with an abrupt edge at the end of the electron energy distribution.

It is not widely appreciated, but this end-point technique does not actually measure the mass of the neutrino. Because of the way that the neutrino mass affects the electron energy spectrum, the measured quantity is the square of the neutrino mass. Curiously, essentially all of the experimental determinations of neutrino mass have shown some significant probability of negative values for the measured mass-squared. However, the negative mass-squared region is not taken seriously by the physics community because the error bars are too large, and the implications of a negative mass-squared are too bizarre. A negative mass-squared would occur only if the e-neutrino had an imaginary rest mass.

Can a particle actually have an imaginary rest mass? In 1967, Gerald Feinberg of Columbia University suggested the existence of hypothetical imaginary-mass particles, which he christened “tachyons.” Feinberg's tachyons are particles that always travel at velocities greater than the speed of light. Instead of speeding up when they are given more kinetic energy, they slow down so that their speed moves closer to the velocity of light from the high side as they become more energetic. Feinberg argued that since there are no physical laws forbidding the existence of tachyons, they could exist and should be looked for. This prompted a number of experimental searches for tachyons. However, until OPERA, there has been no convincing evidence of their existence.

* * * *

What did OPERA measure? The motivation for the experiment was to use the proton beam of the CERN SPS (Super Proton Synchrotron) to produce a beam of m-neutrinos and observe their oscillation into t-neutrinos as they traveled from the CERN site near Geneva to the underground Grand Sasso Laboratory in a highway tunnel through the mountains East of Rome. The detector consists of two “brick walls” of passive emulsion detector bricks backed by magnetic muon trackers that point to the bricks that should be examined. The trackers can identify energetic m leptons produced in m-neutrino interactions with matter, and back-track them to the emulsion bricks or rocks in which they were produced. So far, in three years of operation, OPERA has unambiguously identified one t lepton with their system (as compared to an expected number of 1.6), which presumably was produced by a t-neutrino that oscillated from their beam of m-neutrinos.

A byproduct of the OPERA experiment is that they detect thousands of m-neutrinos, and they can in principle determine the m-neutrino velocities by dividing the flight distance by the flight time. This, however, is not as easy as it sounds. The source and detectors are located 454 miles apart, and one must know the flight time and the separation distance to parts per million to make a significant speed measurement.

The measurement of the source-to-detector distance, to an accuracy of 20 cm, was accomplished using GPS techniques to precisely locate reference points at CERN and at the two ends of the 10-km-long Grand Sasso tunnel. The experimenters then transported these references into the laboratory inside the tunnel (blocking off one lane of automobile traffic in the Grand Sasso tunnel in the process). They thus measured the benchmark neutrino flight path to be 730534.61 m to an accuracy of 0.20 m. The precision of these distance measurements also permitted them to observe the effect of continental drift, changing the measured distances by about 1 cm per year, and they also saw a 10 cm shift from an earthquake in 2009 in the L'Aquina region of Italy. The tidal forces produced by the Moon and the Sun on the Earth are also a potential source of distance change, but fortunately the flight path from CERN to Grand Sasso is primarily North-South, and the tidal flexing of the Earth is primarily East-West, so that effect proved to be negligible.

The other issue is the precise determination of the neutrino flight time. The synchronization of clocks between CERN and Grand Sasso proved challenging, but was accomplished to a precision of a few nanoseconds through an elaborate scheme using GPS synchronizing of cesium clocks. The more serious problem was that the neutrinos were produced during the CERN SPS synchrotron acceleration cycle in two successive “beam spills,” each of which had a duration of about one microsecond. The uncertainty of which proton during the spill actually produced the detected neutrino made nanosecond time-of-flight timing difficult.

This problem was addressed by carefully recording the beam profile of each spill and correlating these with each neutrino detection. Fortunately, the two spills each had a distinctive fingerprint of intensity fluctuations, as well as distinctive leading and trailing edges, and these could be matched by maximum likelihood analysis to the time profiles of the 16,000 detected m-neutrinos.

The result was that the time of flight of the m-neutrinos could be determined to a statistical precision of about 6.9 nanoseconds (ns) and a systematic uncertainty of 7.4 ns, and has a value of 60.7 ns. This corresponds to a m-neutrino velocity that is 24.8 parts per million faster than the speed of light. This is a 6-standard-deviation (6s) effect, where 3s is generally considered to be the threshold of believability.

The OPERA group also performed one interesting refinement of their analysis. The average m-neutrino energy of their entire data set was 28.1 GeV, and gave a transit time of 60.7 ns, with a statistical uncertainty of 13 ns. They divided their data into two subsets of about equal statistics, one with an average m-neutrino energy of 13.9 GeV and the other 42.9 GeV and computed the transit time of each subset. The 13.9 GeV data set gave a transit time of 53.1 ns and the 42.9 GeV data set gave 67.1 ns, both with statistical uncertainties of about 18 ns. The difference in transit times shows no convincing energy dependence of the kind that would be expected for tachyonic particles, but at the 1-s level the lower energy neutrinos do show an indication of being slightly faster.

* * * *

Are the m-neutrinos really traveling faster than the speed of light? The odds are against it. The usual outcome of such a spectacular physics result is that a flaw is found somewhere in the analysis, and the result is withdrawn. The OPERA result needs to be confirmed or contradicted. Fortunately, the MINOS (Main Injector Neutrino Oscillation Search) experiment at FermiLab did a very similar measurement. They also found a slight indication of FTL m-neutrinos, but their experimental precision was an order of magnitude poorer, and the superluminal result was taken as a statistical fluke. However, the MINOS precision can be improved by careful metrology to determine the distance from the FermiLab source site to the Soudan Mine detector location, and this is now being done. (We note that the Tevatron collider at FermiLab, the injector of which was used to make neutrinos for MINOS, is having its final run on September 30, 2011, just a few days after the OPERA announcement.) The Japanese also have a neutrino oscillation experiment using the Super-K detector that may be able to shed light on the OPERA result.

* * * *

This is a science fiction magazine, and so I want to close by taking the OPERA result seriously and exploring its implications. Are m-neutrinos tachyons? Are all neutrinos tachyons? Superluminal m-neutrinos constitute a serious discrepancy in our supposed understanding of the way the universe works, and raise many questions. A new revolution of physics would be needed, throwing out many cherished ideas. It's encouraging to SF readers that something seems to be able to travel faster than light.

One can take the OPERA numbers at face value and calculate the imaginary rest mass that a tachyon should have, if its total energy was 28.1 GeV and its velocity was 1.0000248?c. A tachyon with these characteristics would have an imaginary rest mass of i?198 MeV. This is not a low-mass particle, and its numerical value is suspiciously close to the mass of the mu lepton (105.7 MeV). It would be interesting to know if the evidence for neutrino oscillations from SNO and Kamiokande could be reconciled with tachyonic neutrinos with imaginary masses so large. (I doubt it.)

Finally, let me mount my hobby horse and go for a short ride. My AV column in the October 1993 Analog, at a time when the mass-squared of electron neutrinos was measuring negative, described a space drive using tachyons. The basic idea is that tachyonic particles can be made to have an infinite exhaust velocity and carry significant momentum but have zero total energy (i.e., no energy cost). They represent a “free” fuel that could be created in unlimited quantities and used for space propulsion without violating any physical laws. If the OPERA results hold up, it may be worth having a closer look at the idea of a tachyonic space drive.

* * * *

AV Columns Online: Electronic reprints of over 155 “The Alternate View” columns by John G. Cramer, previously published in Analog, are available online at: www.npl.washington.edu/av.

* * * *

References:

"Measurement of the neutrino velocity with the OPERA detector in the CNGS beam,” The OPERA Collaboration, preprint arXiv.1109.4897 [hep-ex].

Copyright © 2011 by John G. Cramer

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* * * *

Novelette: UPON THEIR BACKS by Kyle Kirkland

What you see is not necessarily what you get—in a wide range of situations

They only called me in an emergency. Although the government had a hazy definition of what constituted an emergency, by the time they brought me onto a job, people were usually screaming at each other, making rash decisions, panicking. I straightened them out. Sometimes I played Mr. Nice Guy, other times I was the anvil and hammer. Either way, it was all a deception. I straightened people out with lies. I used to chuckle about that, but it had gotten old after twelve years on the job. My whole life was a lie.

Despite my expectations, I walked into a quiet conference room. No screams, no pulling of hair, no gnashing of teeth. Many of the staff members at the small hospital, which was located in a thinly populated county in South Dakota, were busy elsewhere, going about their business. Of the ten people present, only two showed any signs of tension. Both were scientists. I'd studied their dossiers on the flight.

Poe Weffle, 28; a prodigy and a maverick. Already achieved tenure at Crestview University—an astonishing feat considering its faculty was full of Nobel Laureates. Weffle was a southerner, and I'd noted a trace of an accent while I listened to recordings of some of his lectures. He was tall, slender, and blond. He looked up at me serenely as I came into the room, but his nose wrinkled ever so slightly; I'd observed that very same expression in the recordings when a particularly dense student seemed to have trouble understanding the most basic of theories.

Clarissa Jardin, 46; a conventional, by-the-book scientist. Chaired the biology department of a local college. Jardin was from the area, born in Rapid City. She'd done well, but never moved up into the big leagues; for whatever reason, she remained a big fish in a small pond. She studied me intensely with dark brown eyes, and brushed a lock of graying hair off her broad, heavily lined forehead. I detected a brief frown.

"I'm Marlon Mathers,” I said, smiling. I'd decided on the name ten minutes ago. An instant after I spoke it, the spyware that monitored me transmitted the name to the central computers, which created the appropriate entry into the databases. Marlon Mathers had the same features I'd chosen for this assignment: dark hair, dark eyes, 35 years old, slightly crooked nose that he had broken while playing hockey in school. The other details would be filled in as I made them up. “I'm from the Bureau of Safety and Security.” I held up an identification card with a bar code that, if scanned, would now support my assertions. Nobody bothered to scan it so I put it away. “I understand you've got a security issue here."

You should be pleasant at first. If you began with fire and brimstone you usually only succeeded in burning up any chance of cooperation. I brought out the stick only when someone got out of line.

Poe Weffle got out of line right away. “I don't believe there's anything you can do. It's not a security issue."

An insinuation that I was superfluous couldn't be tolerated. “The President of the United States thinks it's a security issue. So does the director of the Bureau of Safety and Security, along with other high-level officials. I thank you for your input, Mr. Weffle, but as far as security is concerned, your opinion is irrelevant."

I expected Poe's face to grow red, maybe while he glared at me. But nothing like that happened. Instead his nose wrinkled a smidgen more. “That's not what I meant,” he said in a calm voice.

Clarissa also surprised me—she gave me a wry grin. “Poe thinks the bodies just got up and walked out of here,” she said.

I looked at Poe. “You're saying they weren't taken? They woke up on their own?"

"Not exactly. I'm not sure. They may have had help—a very interesting kind of help, although I'm not quite ready to hypothesize at the moment."

An embarrassed silence fell over the conference room. Clarissa shook her head and rolled her eyes.

* * * *

Last Thursday, four days ago, an anthropologist who was studying an Arikara site in the South Dakota Badlands had a Dead Sea Scrolls moment, though unlike a shepherd idly throwing stones, the anthropologist made his discovery by dropping a trowel from a ledge. He looked down at the rocky slope below but could see no sign of the tool. Annoyed, he inched his way into a crevasse, searching in vain for the trowel, which he needed to finish the job. After half an hour he gave up. As he climbed, his foot fell in a hole he hadn't seen, giving his ankle a turn. But as he looked down, he was astonished that the hole had disappeared.

According to the report I'd read, he stated that he spent a few minutes feeling around before he found the hole again. It was elliptical, with a major axis of about three feet. The reason the anthropologist had trouble seeing the hole was that a spring-driven hinged flap covered it. The flap had a remarkably realistic rocky appearance.

Pushing the flap inward, he saw his trowel at once. He peered further into the darkness but could discern nothing. The ankle bothered him but he couldn't ignore his curiosity, so he painfully climbed to the ledge he'd been working on and retrieved a flashlight. The dimensions of the hole permitted his entrance, though with little room to spare. He slithered for about ten feet until the passage suddenly broadened into a cavern.

The air seemed to be fresh and circulating, and he reported feeling a slight breeze blowing on his face and hair. A sweep of the flashlight illuminated twelve cavities, about the size that could contain an adult human situated perpendicular to the wall. Eight of those compartments contained nude bodies. He immediately realized that the cave had nothing to do with Arikara Indians, or anything of similar archeological value. The bodies appeared contemporary, were in perfect condition, and consisted of four men and four women. He didn't think they were alive, although the limbs were flexible, and the skin was waxy and roughly at the same temperature as the air, eighteen degrees Celsius.

The anthropologist notified park authorities, who notified the local sheriff's office and a medical team. The medical team decided that the bodies were lifeless, so they put them in body bags and took them to the county's medical examiner. After the shocked M.E. saw one of the bodies twitch when it was placed on a cold examination table, she dialed the hospital.

All of this was in the report. After leaving the scientists to argue among themselves for a while, I interviewed the hospital director.

"We used sensitive instruments to establish signs of life in all of the bodies,” he told me. “We wrapped the bodies in warm blankets and infused nutrients into the blood stream, but the patients remained in a comatose condition. No change occurred even after we heated the bodies to the usual temperature of thirty-seven degrees Celsius. Careful visual inspection of the bodies revealed no indications of trauma. Then we tried to peer inside, and I mean we tried everything—X-rays, MRI scans, ultrasound, terahertz, even the new nanoprobes. Nothing, no trauma at all. The EKGs show that the heartbeats, once initiated, resemble a normal pattern of ion channel openings and closings, but with a rising phase that lasts tens of seconds. Crazy! They normally last milliseconds."

"What about the brain?"

"EEGs display a slow, extremely low-amplitude oscillation over much of the brain. The pattern looks a little like delta waves, the kind of waves in deep sleep. Metabolic imaging shows nothing but basal, resting activity, but much lower than sleep."

"Like in a coma?"

The director shook his head. “Like nothing I've ever seen.” He appeared baffled. “Most blood tests fall within normal ranges, and those that aren't normal fail to correspond to any simple diagnosis. Aside from the patients’ ultra-low respiration and heart rates, widespread brain wave synchronization, and the inability to self-regulate their temperature, they should be able to stand up and walk out of the hospital."

No wonder the mass media dubbed them “hibernators."

None of their physiological signatures matched anything in the databases. As far as the official records were concerned, they didn't exist; they had no identities. Their DNA was unusual and contained a few strange new alleles, and perhaps a new gene or two, but otherwise it consisted of perfectly good examples of human genomes—except that none of the eight were registered in the databases. Every once in a while an individual slipped through the net, but eight of them?

I toured the small room in the hospital basement that the held eight glass enclosures, four on each side with an aisle down the middle. Six of the cocoons contained pale, undressed bodies, three men and three women. All of them looked to be about thirty years of age, though it was hard to tell for sure. They appeared waxy and dead—bloodlessly pale and perfectly still, lacking even a perceptible rise and fall of the chest. Yet the climate-controlled cocoons indicated a heartbeat—three per minute—and oxygen consumption, though barely one percent for a normal adult.

Two of the cocoons were empty.

"We're not Fort Knox,” the hospital director said, shrugging.

"Nobody blames you,” I told him. “You did a good job rigging these medical stations."

"We've never had to do anything like this before, but we're used to dealing with new situations. We're the only trauma center in the area—whatever comes in, we have to figure out how to treat it. The scientists helped out too. They came swarming here after the news leaked out, wanting to do all kinds of research."

"Do you have any recording of the vital signs of the two missing patients?"

The director shook his head. “Not at the time of the incident, I'm afraid. We didn't originally set up the system to record the sensors continuously. We could save bits and pieces of the data that we thought were interesting, but we didn't think we'd need to save everything all the time. Sorry, but we had no idea that this would happen. We're continuously recording all the data now, on the remainder of the bodies."

"Was somebody monitoring the signals at the time the bodies disappeared?"

"Yes. The signals were continuously watched at the nurse's station upstairs. Two of my best nurses were on duty last night, when the bodies disappeared. They noticed nothing unusual in the monitors until about eleven o'clock, when the signals from two of the stations were lost. One male, one female. The nurses suspected equipment failure, so they called for maintenance."

"You're sure none of the surveillance cameras picked up anything?"

"You're welcome to look at the video. There's nothing out of the ordinary, and no trace of the two patients or the guard and orderly that also disappeared. Which is remarkable, considering the only way out of that basement is through the door we went through."

I'd noticed the security camera mounted on the ceiling over the door as I walked through. “Every second of the video is accounted for? Nothing's missing?"

"As far as we can tell. It's pretty boring, though. Almost all of the video shows nothing but an empty hallway.” The director rubbed his jaw. “I guess it could have been tampered with. The orderly that vanished—he was pretty good with high tech stuff."

Juarren Trey. I'd checked his dossier. Bright twenty-two year-old, one year of college before dropping out. Professors said he seemed “restless.” Reads a lot of lurid fiction, watches unrated movies. But he was engaged to be married to an administrator's assistant at the hospital; appeared to be settling down.

I'd also checked the guard's dossier. Frank Sheldan; sixty-three years of age, looking forward to retirement. Worked for the hospital twenty-six years, never reprimanded. Finances shaky, but nothing serious. His wife was frantic—said he must have been kidnapped because he'd never just go away without leaving a note. After reading his file, I tended to agree with her.

"Any chance the patients woke up on their own?” I asked.

"You've been listening to Poe Weffle,” said the director.

"I admit his ideas seem unlikely. Considering the way their tracks have been covered up, it looks like the bodies were stolen. But I suppose it's possible that the patients woke up and forced or bribed their way out."

"They might have spontaneously woken up, or been programmed to do so, but nothing happened when we warmed them up. If they were going to snap out of it, I would have thought that's the time they'd do it."

"Still, Poe thinks it's possible."

The director gave me an odd look. “Did you know that Poe Weffle's wife is a seer?"

"A what?"

His upper lip curled briefly in a sneer. “A medium. She claims to talk to dead spirits.” He walked away, leaving me without the slightest doubt about what he thought of Poe's wife—and by association, Poe himself.

* * * *

The sun shone brightly, but a chilly breeze blew from the west, and I buttoned up my coat. I stood all alone on the roof of a diner located across the street from the hospital—a convenient and private place. Lunchtime traffic zipped along the street below. I spoke the code that alerted all security apparatus in the area of my desire to communicate with HQ. A minute later the boss's voice came over a speaker I couldn't see, but seemed to be attached somehow to the satellite dish mounted on the roof. I suspected the diner's television reception had suddenly and mysteriously degraded. This meant I might not have much time before a disgruntled employee climbed the stairs to investigate.

"I need a science team,” I told the boss.

"One is already working on the data. When they reach any firm conclusions that you should know about, you'll be notified."

The boss sounded dismissive. Maybe he—or she—didn't appreciate the notice I'd filed of my intent to not renew my contract. It was impossible to discern what the boss was thinking. It was impossible to determine anything at all about the boss; the synthesized voice masked the real one, and nobody knew how many security devices, communication links, and satellites my transmission passed through before finally reaching wherever it went. It would take a million years to trace those transmissions.

"My next step,” I said, “depends on what these hibernators really are."

"You should proceed on the assumption that they are an unauthorized genetic experiment or mission."

Which was what had pushed everybody's buttons. HQ believed that the hibernators had been genetically engineered, but nobody knew who had done it and why. As anyone who works for government security will tell you, always assume the worst.

"The hibernators may have self-activated,” I said.

"We are discussing this possibility. In which case you should search the data for any signs of the two hibernators as well as the two suspects that have also disappeared."

By “data” I knew the boss referred to the output of the billions of instruments we stashed in every nook and cranny of the world. I had DNA samples from the two hibernators, and they would be easy to spot if the DNA showed up in any of the data from the sensors and probes. The hospital also furnished me with a few photographs of the missing hibernators, although they weren't high-resolution shots, and the subjects’ eyes were closed, which limited their use. I'd need to make some digital enhancements before I could search the exabytes of data from the visual monitors. Of course I already had everything I needed from the guard and orderly in their dossiers.

I heard footsteps in the stairwell. After coding the closure of the comm link I walked toward the door. The diner employee came out just as I was going in. After he glanced at my badge his challenge died before it escaped his lips.

As soon as I got back to the hospital I planned on commandeering a broadband link and initiating an expanded computer search of the sensor data. There'd been no signs of the missing guard and orderly, but now that I had hibernator DNA samples, I could include them on the list.

After a five-minute walk I reached the parking lot. Then my comm rang. I looked at the ID screen—Clarissa Jardin.

"You better get back here right away,” she said.

"Any news?"

"It's Poe.” Her voice had a tone of disgust. “I think he's really gone off the deep end this time."

* * * *

Security was a job you got into because you were too young to realize what you were getting into. And though I lost my esprit de corps a long time ago, I'd stayed in the business a dozen years, and done a lot of good things. Remember that nano-plague threat in L.A. six years ago? They didn't start replicating because my colleagues and I found the terrorist in time. We had to fight dirty, but there wasn't any other way of saving eleven million lives. Once it became easy for small groups, or even individuals, to acquire catastrophically destructive weapons, the survival of civilization seemed to require a headlock on privacy. A single instance of misplaced trust, and a million people go bye-bye.

Lots of downsides to having such a high degree of security. Nobody was more aware of that than security agents. Suspicion dominates your thoughts. When you meet somebody new, your first thought is: What could this person be hiding?

Clarissa, for instance. She was waiting for me at the hospital entrance. Exasperated, she ranted about Poe's wild ideas. Poe claimed to have detected a radiation by which the two missing hibernators had been “animated."

I listened to her, but only with part of my attention. The rest of my mind occupied itself with wondering why a knowledgeable, gifted scientist would so sneeringly attack another. Jealousy? Maybe, but according to her dossier she chose her own career path—she could have played with the big boys but decided to stay close to home. That suggested a different sort of person than the one she presented. I would have thought she'd be skeptical, but in a constructive, matriarchal manner. The way Clarissa acted, she fit the mold of a big league in-fighter, jostling her way to fame and fortune at the expense of whoever didn't agree with her.

"Surely even someone with little or no scientific training,” said Clarissa, evidently referring to someone like me, “can see that Poe is a distraction, diverting time and resources away from the real problem at hand."

"Certainly,” I said. “It's as plain as Andrew Jackson's face on Mount Rushmore."

"Right. Then you'll do something about it?"

"I'll talk to him."

Clarissa eyed me. Her expression suggested that she thought I might be a little too soft for this job. I left her in the hallway, frowning and shaking her head.

What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. Catchy, but that old saying didn't apply when you've got the government to back up any web of lies you care to tell. I say it, and the government makes it true. Or makes it seem to be true. Sounds kind of nice, doesn't it? It's not. I wanted to be one of those people whose truths weren't quite so elastic.

But you can get awfully used to the government's magical transformation of lies into truths. Clarissa, for example.

I'd have to be careful. She wasn't who she said she was, which meant either she was an enemy or a colleague. Colleague, I figured, but I couldn't be sure because the government guarded their agent listing with ultra secrecy.

But most bad guys take the time to bone up on whatever their cover story indicates they're supposed to know. Government personnel, on the other hand, sometimes got into bad habits, and in this case, Clarissa made a mistake—no matter how handily the government can manipulate data, it can't change the faces on Mount Rushmore. A person claiming to be from Rapid City should know who's on Mount Rushmore and who isn't.

* * * *

I found Poe in the basement. Surrounded by a retinue of technicians and other scientists, Poe scrolled through a chart that displayed a squiggly line. It looked like one of those brain-wave EEG patterns. Every so often he drew a circle with a red pen.

The crowd parted and I stepped through. I watched over his shoulder for a minute. From the murmuring of the onlookers, I gathered that this data somehow involved the missing hibernators at or around the time they disappeared, although the director had told me none of the data had been recorded. I asked Poe about the chart.

"It's not a medical chart,” said Poe. “It's a printout from a sensor embedded in the equipment that monitors the hibernators. The sensor is supposed to keep track of how well the device is functioning, but I've adapted the data to suit another purpose."

"And interpreted it,” said someone skeptically.

"Indeed,” said Poe, without looking up. “It suggests these beings aren't human."

The youngsters stared at him in awe. More of the older scientists folded their arms across their chests and eyed him warily.

Most people believed the hibernators had been at least slightly genetically altered, but I wasn't sure what Poe was talking about. “You mean they came from space? And holed up in the South Dakota Badlands?"

"The bodies didn't come from space,” said Poe, circling another section of the waveform and then scrolling down to another section of the chart. “The beings that currently inhabit them, however, apparently did come from space."

Eyes that had been looking at Poe warily began to roll.

After circling one more pattern, Poe set the chart aside and looked at me. I kept my expression neutral.

"I think this chart,” he told me, “may be a magnetic artifact. A side effect, if you will, of the passage of a remarkable life form and its incorporation into these bodies."

"Two of them,” I ventured. “Which is why they awoke."

"Exactly."

"And what are these hypothetical life forms? Some kind of radiation?"

A fleeting expression of respect came over Poe's face. “Maybe, maybe not. But it's a good analogy. It's the same sort of analogy I would use."

I glanced around the room. The six remaining hibernators rested in their cocoons, appearing lifeless except for the tell-tale LEDs that announced their torpid vital signs. The young scientists and technicians had moved closer to Poe Weffle, afraid of missing a single word of what he said. The older ones had distanced themselves, as if worried that Poe's heresies were contagious.

"Think of an atom,” said Poe. “It's a collection of particles—electrons, protons, and neutrons. It's a system. Atoms emit radiation when orbiting electrons shift from higher to lower energy levels, and absorb radiation in the opposite case. Why not consider a system of interacting cells such as neurons capable of the same feat?"

I tried to follow his thinking. “You're saying something flew into their brains?"

"Essentially. I think it's a kind of cognitive energy. It fits into a puzzle I've been studying and thinking about for some time. The law of energy conservation is well established in physics. Add up all of the energies before and after an event and they have to be equal. If they aren't equal, it means there's a hidden source of energy we didn't know about. Now consider the conscious aspects of the human brain. Consciousness hasn't been a part of physics equations even though according to certain interpretations of quantum mechanics, it seems to play an important role; the act of observation—the making of a measurement—shifts the probabilities of the wave function. Collapses the probabilities down to one, as physicists sometimes say. It seems to me that if you include consciousness into equations, the energies don't balance."

"How much energy can a brain generate?"

"It depends on how you look at it, and that's the problem that interests me. In terms of electrical energy, the output of the brain is miniscule—a few watts. A very dim light bulb. But that doesn't make much sense if you consider how the brain gives humans the capability to create technology and industry that can move mountains. A person has a brilliant idea, and suddenly a problem is solved; a mountain can be moved, a barrier overcome. The idea creates or saves an enormous amount of time and energy. Yet it was born out of a watt or two. The equation doesn't balance."

The young scientists appeared to be fascinated. Poe mesmerized me a little bit too. “So you're saying there's some kind of energy, this cognitive energy, which balances the equation."

Poe nodded. “It's like a potential energy that can be transformed into other forms of energy—solving problems, moving mountains, and so forth. It exists as part of the human nervous system. Maybe other complex nervous systems as well. And if it exists . . ."

We leaned closer.

Poe finished gathering his thoughts. “If it exists, I believe it could be transformed into all kinds of different forms. Radiation, for instance. More precisely, some kind of analogue to electromagnetic radiation. I don't have any proof that such radiation is real, but just because we've never detected it doesn't disqualify it. We didn't know that light is just a sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum until Maxwell proposed his theory and Hertz confirmed it in the late nineteenth century."

Someone in the back of the room let out a snort. “Now he thinks he's James Clerk Maxwell."

A remark born of jealousy. I waited for more constructive skepticism. It wasn't long in coming.

"How did the radiation leave a pattern on that chart?” asked someone.

"I don't think it was the radiation as such, I think the pattern came from the absorption of the radiation-like energy into the two hibernator brains. I'm guessing that the absorption and admission of this energy involves a molecular rearrangement of some sort. Pure speculation on my part, but it seems a likely possibility. If the absorption and animation, if you will, rearranged some of the molecules or molecular structures in the brain, it's conceivable that the process slightly altered the brain's magnetic properties. That's often the case when electrically active components change shape or configuration. So I examined the cocoons of the two missing hibernators. Although the output of the monitors weren't continuously recorded, I discovered a sensor that records some of the cocoon's internal voltages."

"That's the chart you were looking at?” I asked.

Poe nodded. “The changing magnetic fields associated—hypothetically associated, I should say—with the absorption could have induced some stray voltages in the machine, which would have resulted in fluctuations in the chart. A short time before the escape of the two hibernators was noticed, the cocoon voltages displayed a remarkable series of oscillations. I theorize that they're side effects of the absorption."

A skeptic's voice rose above the murmur that Poe's statement created. “If what you're saying is true, then neuroscientists have misunderstood the brain for a long time. Neuroscientists believe consciousness is the result of certain electrochemical activities and patterns in the brain. Not some kind of molecular rearrangement."

"I'm not equating molecular arrangement with consciousness. I'm merely suggesting that it's part of the process—which, by the way, remains shrouded in mystery. Electrochemical activity is critical in the generation of conscious thoughts, but it might not be solely responsible for it. Specific configuration of the brain's structure may also be necessary. And when the molecules change configuration or geometry, cognitive energy may be emitted or absorbed."

The skeptics began to lose patience. “And how does this cognitive energy propagate? Perhaps you'd like to resurrect the old idea of a luminiferous ether. Except instead of light, it carries thoughts. Maybe a cogniferous ether."

A few derisive snorts came from the back of the room.

Poe didn't get angry. “Catchy term—mind if I use it?"

I marveled at Poe's serenity in the face of aggressive, even taunting critics. Like Clarissa, he didn't fit into the mold either.

As I stared at him, Poe suddenly looked at me. “And that's my theory, Mr. Mathers, as to how those two hibernators woke up and sneaked out of here, perhaps taking the guard and orderly to help cover their tracks, without your omnipresent sensors detecting any sort of intrusion."

* * * *

I spent the rest of the day sifting through tons of data at the mobile command post in the supersonic transport, sitting in a secure area at the airfield. At first I limited the search area to a radius of fifty miles centering on the hospital and did a random spot check. Which turned up nothing.

Poe's theory bothered me. What if those things—the hibernators—had some kind of strange intelligence inside them?

Bizarre, puzzling, almost unbelievable. Cognitive energy? Intelligent radiation? Sounded like bafflegab to me. But Poe seemed to believe it. If true, it was a security agent's nightmare, one of the worst possible scenarios. You didn't have a good chance of success when chasing someone, or something, whose behavioral tendencies were complete mysteries.

I expanded the search to include some of the largest Midwestern cities. A possible target turned up in Chicago—a series of broad-spectrum cams picked up the face of a man early this morning that might be the male hibernator. Image analysis algorithms gave a seventy percent probability of a match. The analysis programs returned a similar probability for the images of a woman taken by a river cam in St. Louis. I called the boss, who issued an emergency alert in those cities. Agents would flood the streets, and the surveillance team would scrutinize every byte of data.

In the evening I received a priority-coded message from the laboratory back at Bethesda, Maryland. I'd insisted on taking DNA samples of every person who had handled the hibernators or visited the basement, including the researchers and physicians—no exceptions. Call it paranoia if you must, but I didn't want to take any chances. Bethesda checked to see if any of the DNA sequences contained the same genetic alterations as the hibernators. If two hibernators could wake up and walk around as if they belonged here, why not others? But the report came back negative—no matches.

But a nagging feeling continued to gnaw at me. Who or what were these hibernators? Where did they come from? From space, as Poe Weffle believed? Were the bodies convenient receptacles for this hypothetical cognitive energy? But why would it—they?—come here? And had they come before? The empty spaces in the cave suggested they had.

Whoever or whatever these things turned out to be, this might not have been their first visit. It had been planned and set up nicely—bodies squirreled away in a desolate area, waiting for something. This kind of situation may have occurred repeatedly.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine. How many of those things were loose? And what were they doing?

And how deeply had they penetrated the government?

Who could tell how highly, if at all, they'd infiltrated the decision-making processes in this country, and other countries? I didn't even know who my boss was.

One look at the hospital cafeteria's offerings sent me scrambling back to the diner across the street. But my appetite had abandoned me anyway.

About eight o'clock I found myself outside the small office that the hospital had provided Poe Weffle. He sat behind his desk, poring over some data. Glancing up, he saw me loitering at the door. “Any news?” he asked.

I shook my head. I wasn't ready to trust Poe yet, so I didn't mention the possible sightings in Chicago and St. Louis.

"I perceive,” said Poe, “my theory troubles you.” He waved his hand, inviting me into his office. I sat down in a rickety chair beside the desk. “If it's any consolation, most of the scientific community entertain serious doubts, to put it mildly."

"These aliens—they're parasites?"

"Hypothetical aliens. And I'm not sure how I'd classify them. But if they're real, they would seem to require a corporeal habitat every once in a while. Parasites, however, may or may not be the right description."

"Even if your theories are wrong, we know they can hibernate."

"The bodies, you mean. The bodies could be human, perhaps cloned and modified—"

"I don't think so. If they were cloned, the originals would be in the databases."

Poe leaned back in his chair. “I guess you're right. I hadn't thought of that."

"Can they . . .” I found it difficult to put my question into words. Poe waited patiently. “Can they infect humans? I mean, unmodified humans?"

Poe shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. And once again, the term you use is value-laden. I'm not sure ‘infection’ is a good description. And, may I remind you once again, all of this is hypothetical. I've outlined a scenario, my hypothesis, which is only supported by my interpretation of a lot of squiggly lines on a voltage chart in the two cocoons."

"Which don't appear in the other cocoons."

Poe nodded. “Correct. A point in my favor. But going beyond this scenario into specifics of who or what these beings are, and their various properties, would be conjecture at this point.” He tapped a thin read-write screen on his desk. “And things are more complicated than I had originally believed. These patterns in the charts—they're amazingly complex. I've even detected patterns nestled within patterns. Almost like fractals. There's a great deal of substructure in these waveforms."

"Which means?"

"That's just it, Marlon. I've no idea."

It sounded like Poe was beginning to doubt his own theory. I wasn't sure if that made me feel better or not. I shifted gears and asked him about Clarissa. The question threw him for a moment. He obviously hadn't been doing much thinking about her.

"What do I know about Clarissa?” He paused. “Nothing, really. I'd never heard of her before I got here, but that's no surprise—she hasn't published much. I assume she was invited to study this phenomenon because she's bright, it's related to her specialty, and she was nearby."

"Do you like her?"

A fleeting grin passed over Poe's face. “I presume you're wondering if I resent her because she's become one of my more vocal critics. I'm not annoyed at all. In fact she performs a valuable service. All my critics do, and I assure you that Clarissa hasn't been the only one—and not nearly the most acerbic."

"A valuable service?"

"If I can answer the objections of my staunchest critics, I'm much more confident in my ideas. Theories are sometimes like children to their originators. If you come up with an original idea, you're usually too involved, too close to evaluate it properly."

"But what if they never accept your answers, even after you've become convinced you're right?"

"Then that's their problem. Truth isn't affected by how many people believe it."

I thought his reply was too glib. “But your scientific reputation and funding opportunities depend on what your colleagues think of you."

"To a certain extent. But once you're right about a few things, and you prove it to the satisfaction of the majority of open-minded people, you don't have to worry.” Poe flashed another quick smile. “You can be an enfant terrible and still have a successful career, as long as you don't go too far over the top."

"And your wife?"

Another question that threw Poe. As I intended. He recovered quickly, only a trace of irritation in his voice.

"You've heard about her, I gather. She's not over the top—she's not a scientist, either. I frankly admit that I don't believe in much of what she says. I mean I trust her, she's sincere, but I don't think her interpretation of certain things is a correct description of reality. But I love her anyway. Does that make any sense? I suppose it doesn't, at least to some people, but it's true nonetheless."

To me it made sense. I thought about my own situation. I'd been wanting to ask Sara to marry me for more than a year, but I kept putting it off. Sara knew me as someone else, a fictional person—an identity corroborated by my employer. At the end of my contract the government was supposed to make that identity permanent if I requested it. Then I could become Arlen Reyers, freelance consultant. For real.

But I wondered what Sara would say if she knew who I really was.

Which raised another point. Who, exactly, was I?

It gets to you after a while—all the snooping, the lies, the deception. You don't know who you are anymore. Sometimes you don't even know if you're real. You don't know if anything is real. Everything begins to have a fragile, tissuey feel to it; a good tug and everything you thought you knew falls apart.

Maybe that's why I was taking Poe's theories so seriously. They intrigued me in a fundamental way, a level deep below the surface.

One thing I knew for sure: I had to get out of this business.

My comm beeped in that funny way—three short beeps followed by three long and then three more short—which indicated an emergency. I said goodbye to Poe and hurried into a private consultation room to take the call.

The news was good. The local police had found the missing guard and orderly, alive and well.

* * * *

By early next morning our people had gained custody of the two suspects. To avoid complications, we removed them from the county jail and took them to an office building where the government rented some space.

When I walked in, four tall, broad-shouldered men were standing over the two suspects. Tied up in office chairs with the casters pulled off, the guard and orderly were looking up and protesting their innocence. The room was small and windowless; the air was stale, and there was an overpowering aroma of fear emanating from the two suspects.

I told the interrogators to wait outside until I needed them. They glared at the suspects as they stepped out. When the door closed, I smiled, sat at the edge of a fold-up table in front of the chairs, and said, “So what's the story?"

I'd already heard their story but I wanted it first-hand.

The face of Sheldan, the old guard, was ashen, but he seemed the more composed of the two. Trey, the young orderly, looked scared to death.

"The man overpowered me,” said the guard. “He was strong and fast. But he let me go. I promised him . . . I promised I wouldn't interfere."

"Wouldn't interfere with what?"

"What they had to do,” said the orderly.

His relatively steady voice surprised me. The fearful look hadn't left his eyes but he seemed calm.

"And what was that?"

Both the orderly and the guard shook their heads. They claimed to have no idea.

I prompted the rest of the story out of them, and what they told me matched what they'd told the cops. The two hibernators treated them well, said they would be amply rewarded if the hibernators “succeeded.” The nature of the operation wasn't divulged, but the tech-savvy orderly helped the hibernators to escape the hospital without triggering any hospital alarms. He also educated them about government sensors, although after a quick round of questioning I concluded that Mr. Trey didn't know as much as he thought he did about the latest government surveillance techniques.

Yet the hibernators had so far done a good job of hiding. We still hadn't found them. And the reports of Trey and Sheldan indicated that the hibernators had awoken on their own—as Poe hypothesized.

The hibernators had locked up the guard and orderly in a little-used warehouse not too far from the hospital. They left them plenty of food and water, some readers—one-way, which couldn't be used to contact anyone—a monitor tied into the television feeds, two mattresses and blankets, and a portable toilet with an air scrubber. Couldn't ask for anything more. When the cops found them there was plenty of food and water remaining; either the hibernators were being generous or they expected the guard and orderly to be cooped up for much longer. But a warehouse inspector found them when he discovered a lock on the room that shouldn't have been there, and the sound of a television set coming from within. He expected to find some illegals hiding there.

Sheldan and Trey told officers that the hibernators spoke unaccented English and seemed normal in every way except one.

"They were so damn persuasive,” repeated Frank Sheldan. He stared at me with his old, tired eyes. “I mean it, mister. If you could have talked to them you'd say the same thing. They said they weren't going to hurt anybody, they said they never hurt anybody. They were in some kind of trouble. Big trouble. I don't what, and I don't know who they are, but I knew they weren't lying."

And I knew the guard wasn't lying. I concluded that both of the suspects had told all they knew, as truthfully as they could. I couldn't authorize the release of the suspects but I told the interrogators to find something else to do.

My report to the boss was discouraging. If the hibernators could get help as easily elsewhere as they did at the hospital, they would be extremely difficult to find. However, if you believed they meant no harm, there might be no reason to become alarmed.

The boss refused to look on the bright side. That's not what you did when you worked in security.

"I didn't say I believed they mean no harm,” I said. “It's just a possibility."

"A possibility we shall dismiss until proven otherwise.” The boss's voice came from an overhead lighting fixture in the break room of the office building. Some people might find that amusing. I bet the people who worked here wouldn't.

"Lean on Poe,” ordered the boss.

"I'm leaning."

"Lean harder. We need a better idea what we're dealing with. And another thing. Don't make trouble for Clarissa Jardin."

So she was a Fed, as I suspected. Whoever was monitoring me or had been reading the transcripts of my conversations must have noticed that I'd tripped her up.

"One last thing,” said the boss. “Why did you dismiss the interrogation team? They felt they could have learned something more from the suspects."

"They're wrong."

"No, they're not. They can always learn something more."

True enough—you could always learn a little more. My point was that we'd obtained all the available useful information. Why was the boss questioning my field decisions? He'd been doing this more frequently recently.

"Negative on further interrogation,” I said firmly. “I have all the facts I need at the present time.” It was my call as the head of field ops on this case. The boss would just have to live with it.

The boss signed off with an unruffled voice but with a suggestion, I thought, of huffiness.

I understood the concern of the higher-ups. They're paid to worry, and there was still plenty to worry about. In the worst case scenario, we could be in serious trouble. Even if Poe wasn't entirely correct, the hibernators were a special kind of people—or beings. We knew they could hibernate; what else could they do?

Perhaps more importantly, what else did they want to do?

* * * *

At noon I returned to the hospital. I checked on the six remaining hibernators, whose status hadn't changed. On my way to Poe's temporary office I ran into Clarissa.

"What's the latest news?” asked Clarissa, giving me a sharp look.

A test, perhaps? To see what I would divulge?

Clarissa had a twinkle in her eye that suggested she already knew everything I did about the case. She was probably a higher-up, though the inscrutable hierarchy of security made it impossible for me to find out.

"Nothing important from the guard and orderly,” I told her. “They seemed to be willing volunteers for the hibernators."

"You're going to talk to Poe about it?"

I nodded.

Clarissa smiled faintly as she walked away.

I walked into Poe's office, which I knew would be bugged. And the boss would know that I knew.

As usual, Poe was hunched over a screen, analyzing some kind of chart or graph. I plopped in the chair beside his desk. He glanced up, appearing to be slightly surprised or puzzled at my presence. Then he went back to the data, saying “next” each time he wanted to view some more graphs.

Poe ignored me for five minutes. I waited patiently, saying nothing. Finally he looked up. “I've found more genetic anomalies in the hibernators’ DNA,” he said without preamble. “Hox genes—a critical set of genes that regulate embryonic development of most species on earth—are altered and rearranged in the hibernators. I'm convinced that their configuration in the hibernator DNA would expedite development. I've set up a simulation to test that idea, and although it hasn't finished yet, I strongly suspect I'm right."

"It wouldn't take long for these bodies to develop in some kind of womb-like membrane?"

"Exactly."

"Made to order."

Poe shrugged.

I told Poe about the guard and orderly. “What do you think of their behavior?” I asked.

"Interesting, certainly, but I'm not sure what meaning to read into it, if any. If you're wondering what we can determine about the hibernators’ brains and intelligence from their genes, I'm afraid the answer will be disappointing—it isn't much. We haven't found very many links between genes and complex behaviors and traits such as intelligence. The apparent persuasiveness of hibernator behavior is noteworthy, but the data are weak. An alternative hypothesis is that the guard and orderly are more gullible or susceptible than normal."

"Perhaps, but I doubt it."

Poe knew I had interviewed them, and he seemed to accept my conclusion.

"What about consciousness?” I asked. “You still think it was . . . transferred?"

"It remains the best hypothesis, yes."

"So it can fly in and fly out?"

"A reasonable assumption."

"But what happens to the being's consciousness after the energy or radiation or whatever it is flies away? What I mean is, what happens to the body's mind? Is it like being cloned?"

"You're asking if something gets left behind?"

"Yes. And what was in there before?"

Poe leaned back. “Good questions. We can only speculate at this point. There may be nothing—no conscious thought—before the absorption or after the emission."

"But what about the electrical activity of the brain? And its rhythms?"

Poe shrugged. “What about them? They may be necessary but not always sufficient for consciousness."

"But if that's true . . .” I thought about the implications for humans.

"It need not be the case with us,” said Poe, picking up on my train of thought. “The hibernators have been modified in ways that we, as yet, little understand. Our brains may work differently."

"What if they don't? Or what if the differences aren't important? Maybe we can be potential hosts."

"That's a breathtaking idea, and not beyond the realm of possibility. But there's no evidence yet to support such an assertion."

A woman's voice said, “Maybe these beings are what we regard as souls."

I whirled around, almost fell out of my chair. I'd been so involved in the discussion with Poe that I hadn't noticed someone else had entered through the open door.

Poe didn't appear surprised. “Marlon, this is my wife, Krystal. She flew in last night, after it became clear I'd be staying here longer than I originally thought.” He introduced me as a government security specialist.

At first glance she was plain, even a little boring—dark hair down to her shoulders and a pleasant face, though I wouldn't describe it as beautiful. But she had a quiet confidence in her upright posture and serene expression that was incredibly attractive. I'd met plenty of shrinking violets and insufferable shrews, but few women struck such a happy medium between the two extremes. Sara, my significant other, was more of a shrinking violet, but with a temper that pushed her toward the opposite end of the spectrum every once in a while. It was a medium—a central position, on average—but the standard deviation was large. Now I knew what Poe loved about his wife.

She stepped toward the desk and put her hand in Poe's. They seemed to be a happy couple, even as the furrows broke out on Poe's forehead when he said, “Souls?"

Krystal smiled as she replied. They spoke about angels and spirits, but I wasn't listening; I was too engulfed in envy.

Maybe happiness meant knowing who you were. Maybe you couldn't accept yourself as you were unless you knew who that person was.

I remembered who I was—who I was born as, anyway, even though I hadn't been that person in a long time. Rex Kimball. He had a troubled childhood, which was why he didn't mind losing contact with his family after joining security, and working his way up through the ranks. His parents divorced when he was three; his memories of his father were vague and fragmented. His stepfather proved to be a nice man, but he divorced his mother when Rex was 12. Rex went to live with him instead of staying with his mother, who entered rehab and never really came out. His stepfather, who became his guardian and often talked about adopting him, soon began a relationship with another woman who already had three kids, and didn't relish the thought of taking a share in any more. Rex wasn't biologically related to anyone in his “family,” and more often than not he found himself the odd fellow out.

I didn't spend much time thinking about Rex Kimball.

Poe and Krystal knew themselves, knew each other, and were comfortable with their situation despite their differences, their quirks and idiosyncrasies.

They were both looking at me, as if waiting for me to say something, when my comm beeped its relentless beep. I excused myself and walked into the private consultation room.

The escaped male hibernator had been found. But he wouldn't tell us much. He was dead.

* * * *

It took a few hours to wrest the body away from the Cook County Medical Examiner's office. I arrived via the supersonic just as a security agent started to lose his temper and threaten someone. After I smoothed things out and found the right forms to sign and the right bureaucrat to befriend, we had our body with a minimum of fuss and publicity. The boss wanted to leave the body in Chicago and use local specialists or bring the needed specialists to the city; I argued it made more sense to move the body to South Dakota, where we already had a team in place. After a brief conference of higher-ups my argument prevailed, even though they didn't invite me to participate. We took the body back on the supersonic.

This time there was no mistake—the man was thoroughly deceased. Although unmarked and without exterior signs of violence or trauma, heartbeat and respiration were definitely absent. If we hadn't been looking for him, he would have been just another body, discarded without a fuss.

What did he die of? The thought occurred to me that the cause of death might have been the departure of consciousness. Or, in the terminology of old, he gave up the ghost.

Physicians had other ideas. The toxicology report came back that night. “This guy swallowed a drug store,” a pathologist told me.

"What did he take?” I asked.

"What didn't he?"

Further tests showed that the male hibernator had actually been selective in his drug usage. He'd taken a large number of different drugs, but their specific effects in each case were similar—all worked in some way or another on the brain. Directly or indirectly, these drugs influenced the rhythms of neural networks that governed a large proportion of the brain's functions.

"Despite all those neuroactive drugs he ingested,” said one of the physicians, “I doubt he died a happy man. That soup of chemicals bathing his brain would have had a hodgepodge of consequences. His thoughts and emotions must have been chaotic. Whatever this poor fellow was looking for, he didn't find it."

I wasn't so sure.

* * * *

Poe and his wife invited me to a late dinner at a restaurant none of us had visited before. The Weffles apparently made it a habit to sample a variety of restaurants wherever they go. This one had a distinct western theme and flavor, with spittoons, and faux sawdust on the floor, and antelope heads mounted on the wall. Aroma generators provided a noticeable but not overpowering barnyard smell along with a trace of cigar smoke. I would have expected Krystal Weffle to be uncomfortable in these surroundings, but if she was, she didn't show it. We sat in a booth with a horseshoe-shaped bench, Poe and I at opposite ends and Krystal in the middle.

While we enjoyed a “slice o’ beef,” I discussed the pathology report with Poe. I made sure he'd gotten a list of drugs that had been in the hibernator's system at the time of death.

"Can you make any sense out of it?” I asked.

Poe took his time replying. After carefully chewing and swallowing a considerable bite of steak, he leaned back. “I'm not sure. It might fit . . ."

"Fit into what? The cognitive energy hypothesis?"

"Yes."

"How did the aliens first get started? It seems kind of like the old chicken-and-egg problem to me. You see my point? If they flit from body to body, then they need one handy whenever they decide to land, or find a home, or whatever you want to call it. Parasites always need a host. Let's say they learned how to do this on their home planet, wherever it was. I don't think it was earth. And yet they seem to be able to travel, or radiate, or whatever you want to call it. If they go from planet to planet, how does the first visitor to a new planet find the right kind of body? That cavern in the Badlands was nicely hidden and completely equipped for the visitors. Somebody had already been here."

Poe's wife smiled at him. “It seems you've found a convert. Marlon believes your theory."

"I think,” said Poe, looking at me, “the idea of flying from body to body seems to fascinate Marlon. Perhaps because the concept sounds so familiar to him."

I hadn't told Poe much about me, but he apparently guessed the trials and tribulations of a security agent—and my crazy way of life. He must have shared his thoughts with Krystal, for she nodded in agreement.

Perhaps Poe was right. I hadn't thought about it in that way before, but maybe I'd begun to identify with these beings. Which might be a dangerous thing to do. It certainly wasn't appropriate behavior for a security man. Another nail in the coffin of my career.

But I couldn't help it.

"Well?” I asked. “Are you going to psychoanalyze me all night or are you going to start thinking about the problem?"

"You might be getting a little too far ahead. In my opinion, we should focus on one or another aspect of this hypothesis. It seems to me that if we figure out what these hypothetical creatures are trying to accomplish, we would understand a lot more about them than we do now. And perhaps this knowledge will lead to the answers to other questions, such as the excellent one you just posed."

"Do you think the creature survived? Did it escape before the body died?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

Poe pushed his empty plate away and leaned against the hardwood back of the bench. “On whether it was successful, I suppose."

"Any speculations on what it was trying to do?"

"I told you the patterns in the chart are terribly complicated. I'm not sure what to make of them."

"Maybe they're too complicated for a human brain, even a modified one. Parasites not only need a host, they need the right kind of host. Could it have been taking drugs in an attempt to shoehorn itself fully into a relatively simple neural network?"

Poe's eyes seemed to gleam as he stared at me. “An interesting idea . . ."

* * * *

I spent most of the rest of the night at the mobile command post. Frantically I searched for signs of the female hibernator, hoping that I'd find her before it was too late.

My eyes filled with images, my ears full of eavesdropped conversations. Thousands of faces and voices kept coming, pounding at me like waves on the beach. I concentrated my attention on the places where she might be able to obtain drugs: pharmacies, clinics, manufacturers, clandestine labs, research centers, gangland dealers.

Every once in a while I rested my eyes and ears.

What was the nature of those creatures? How did they reproduce, eat, excrete? Or were they so different that none of those things applied?

I wondered how they could have evolved. What made them leave their original bodies, assuming they ever had one?

Before I'd said goodnight to Poe I had plied him with questions. Although he continued to be reluctant to speculate, I drew him out a little, egged on by his wife. Poe said he would guess that our “hypothetical” radiation beings traveled at the speed of light. How remarkable to zoom around at 186,000 miles a second. I asked Poe what it would be like.

"Well beyond our comprehension,” he said.

"They'd be like angels,” said his wife. “Coming from heaven in an instant."

They looked at each other playfully.

"Time would have no meaning when you're traveling at the speed of light,” Poe said.

"As eternal as God,” said Krystal.

"An invasion from space,” I suggested, adding my own idiosyncratic interpretation. “Albeit possibly a friendly one. Or perhaps I should say neutral—neither helpful nor harmful."

This prompted Poe to begin talking about radiation coherence and spread. Coherent light, like laser beams, doesn't spread very much, but there is some dispersal. These beings may have limits beyond which they can't travel without “coming apart."

I kept thinking about what Poe and his wife had said as I sat in the stuffy, windowless command post, searching for the woman. I searched for her relentlessly, even though the boss was no longer cracking the whip.

The government had had enough time by now to do one of their big confabs. Wouldn't you have liked to listen in on that conference call? But the results apparently quenched some of their interest in the hibernators. The boss was no longer calling me every few hours. Beginning shortly after the male hibernator had been found dead, the government's motivation had waned—the threat level had subsided. Perhaps they'd even pull me off the assignment soon.

At 7:15 in the morning I finally found her, lying in an alley. I alerted the St. Louis emergency responders at once, hoping I wasn't too late.

* * * *

The supersonic took off thirty minutes later. The female hibernator had been taken to a St. Louis hospital; she still clung to life, though the diagnosis was grim. The doctors refused to move her to South Dakota. I could have overridden this decision, but I elected not to do so. Instead I took Poe and his wife with me in the jet.

On the way Poe talked about the data he hoped to obtain.

"I've been thinking about what you said last night,” he told me. “Let's assume our theory is right. You mentioned the possibility that the hibernators were seeking drugs to help adapt themselves to their bodies. Although that's a good suggestion, I have a couple of objections to it. For one thing, the hibernators were apparently healthy when they woke up—the guard and orderly seemed to think so, anyway. And secondly, the bodies that had been stashed in the cave were modified, and if we assume someone had done a good job, then everything should have been fine. Whatever adjustments needed to be made could have been, and should have been, performed long before the temporary resident arrived."

"Maybe they had to struggle to stay inside."

"Possibly. But I have another idea. Remember that I found some complex nested patterns in the waveforms recorded in the voltage charts of the cocoons. I really, really want to see the EEG pattern of this female hibernator."

"Since she's unconscious,” said Krystal, “wouldn't it be some kind of slow wave?"

"Perhaps. But what I'd be most interested in seeing is the transfer—if any takes place."

"Like the voltage chart recording?"

"That was a crude recording. This time we'll have more sensitive instruments. I'd very much like to see what it looks like.” Poe looked at me and flashed a smile. “Great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ‘em; and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum. Augustus De Morgan, who was inspired by Jonathan Swift, I believe."

Poe said nothing more, but I got the drift.

* * * *

When we arrived at the hospital, I wasn't surprised to find Clarissa already there. She stood outside the room where the hospital staff had isolated the female hibernator. The hibernator's condition had not changed. Several uniformed guards positioned themselves on either side of the door. They didn't flinch when I walked up. Instead, their gaze drifted to Clarissa.

So now I knew who was in charge. Not me, but Clarissa.

Poe fidgeted behind me, anxious to get inside and talk to the attending physicians.

"Can we go in?” I asked Clarissa.

Clarissa pondered the question for a moment. Then she gave a nod to the guards, who stepped back.

"But I'd like to talk to you,” she said, beckoning me down the hall.

Since patience didn't seem to be one of her virtues, I told Poe to go into the room without me. I followed Clarissa into a private office that appeared to belong to one of the hospital directors. A picture of a happy family adorned a gigantic mahogany desk. Old medical gadgets dotted the wall shelves. Clarissa sat down in the plush chair behind the desk and gestured for me to take one of the other chairs.

I didn't get a good feeling about this meeting.

"We believe that you've accomplished all that you can do,” she began.

"So the project's completed?"

"Your role in it is."

"I see. You're taking over?"

She shook her head. “There's not much left to do. As soon as the female dies, which is expected shortly, the only issue is what to do with the six remaining hibernators. I suspect they'll go to a government lab somewhere for further study, or perhaps disposal."

The government usually didn't send a person to deliver a message unless it had teeth. “And what about me?"

Clarissa frowned, as if pondering a difficult subject. “Your performance has been slipping lately. Although this project was brought to a successful conclusion, at least thus far, you were hesitant during several key phases. We're worried about your psychology.” She gave me a pitying look. “We've decided to cancel the balance of your current enlistment period."

Technically, I'd been fired.

It didn't come as a shock. I thought maybe they would wait for a while—put me in some out-of-the-way office until my enlistment ran out. The only surprise was that they decided to cut the cord cleanly.

The beauty of the system, as least from the government's point of view, was that disgruntled personnel couldn't cause much harm. That's the way the system was set up. I couldn't damage national security because I didn't know anything other than a small amount of inside information on the government's surveillance techniques. Which was little enough; I might be able to game the system only marginally better than the hospital orderly.

I suddenly wondered if he was ex-security too.

The most important issue was my identity. Would they finalize it?

"Because of your meritorious service,” said Clarissa, looking at the ceiling as if it displayed my service record, “we will institute the identity that you have requested. All business receipts, tax records, government databases, employment documentation, affidavits, and personal recommendations will be cemented into place. You will become—"

"I don't want it."

Clarissa looked at me, astonished. Frankly, I was a little astonished myself.

"I don't understand,” she said.

"I want to be me. Who I was born as. I want to be Rex Kimball again."

She made little stammering noises as she opened and closed her mouth, reminding me of the goldfish I'd seen in the aquarium in the hospital's waiting room.

"That's my name,” I said. “Rex Kimball."

"You can't,” she said, recovering her voice. “You haven't assumed your birth identity in a dozen years. Don't you realize that there would be a gap in your résumé that you'll never be able to account for? Nobody will hire you because they'll assume the worst—that you've been institutionalized or imprisoned in some foreign country, or that you've been a criminal all these years. We won't back up your claims to the contrary—we can't. We can't allow people to learn how many security agents we hire, where they've been, where they come from. That would be giving the enemy a break. We'll permanently establish a new identity for you but we won't publicly acknowledge your service. Surely the reasonable thing for you to do is—"

"For once, I don't want to do the reasonable thing. I don't want the ID. I'll go back to being who I was originally."

"What about your family? What about your significant other?"

"If she's really significant, she'll understand."

* * * *

I left Clarissa still sputtering in the office. No doubt she would soon make a report announcing that Marlon Mathers a.k.a. Rex Kimball a.k.a. whatever codename they used for yours truly has gone start raving mad.

And maybe she was right.

Someone gently grabbed my elbow. I realized I'd been ambling down the halls for nearly an hour. I stopped and glanced up to see Krystal Weffle staring at me. “Are you all right?” she asked.

"Never better."

She didn't appear convinced.

I moved the conversation forward. “Any news?"

Krystal hesitated. Finally she said, “Poe's looking for you."

She guided me to the stairway, up two flights, and down the corridor to a computer room. Poe sat in front of a large console.

"The patient died, didn't she?” I said.

"So to speak,” said Poe.

He started to say something more but stopped. I noticed the looks that passed between Poe and Krystal.

"You found something interesting?” I prompted.

"It's what I didn't find that's interesting.” He waved a hand at the screen. “They continually monitored her EEG, and they made a record of it. We have plenty of data. At present her brain waves are almost absent, and she's comatose. But earlier the record shows a remarkable pattern.” He pointed to the screen.

All I saw was a bunch of squiggly lines. “Same as the last transfer?"

"Basically. But the nested patterns are not present this time. There's no substructure.” Poe looked at me. “And we should have seen them if they were there—this equipment is an order of magnitude more sensitive than the voltage chart we were looking at before."

"Which means what?” I thought I already knew the answer, but Poe didn't seem to want to discuss it. I couldn't blame him—he'd stuck his neck out enough already. “They succeeded, didn't they?"

Poe nodded. “Hypothetically,” he added cautiously.

"They got rid of their parasites,” I said. “Do you think they need to inhabit bodies and brains to do so?"

Poe shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe they can't adjust their rhythms and patterns without some kind of firm medium. Purging the substructure may require the mental equivalent of a sledgehammer."

"Or maybe,” said Krystal, “they just take the opportunity every once in a while to touch and hear and see and taste and smell. And do some housecleaning at the same time."

I said, “Since they're afflicted with parasites, these beings—these traveling consciousnesses, or angels, to use Krystal's term—know what infestation is like. I guess that's why they don't tend to do the same thing to others. I believe that the presence of the prepared bodies shows they prefer going that route instead of infesting other living, conscious beings."

"Don't be too quick to attribute such gentle qualities to them. Maybe they can't infect anything already conscious."

"The chicken-and-the-egg problem suggests they can, or could at one time."

Poe nodded. “You raise a good point. But that's entirely speculative."

Krystal chuckled.

"What's so funny?” asked Poe.

"Oh, nothing,” said Krystal, clearly amused. “I was just thinking, Poe, how often I've heard you marvel at our civilization and our science and technology. It's all so grand, you keep saying. And now you have to deal with some new data. You've discovered the existence of advanced beings who regard us as a convenient scratching post."

Poe flushed, but a smile broke out a few seconds later. “I never said there wasn't a lot we've yet to learn."

* * * *

I wondered about Clarissa's real name. Who was she? Where had she been born, what were her goals? Had she lost herself as badly as I had? Or perhaps her conscience was clear—nothing upon her back to bite her.

But she seemed reasonable enough for me to work out a deal.

"You want the other six hibernators,” said Clarissa slowly, churning the idea through her mind, “to be maintained at Poe's lab?"

"If he'll agree."

"Poe's a nut job."

"I don't think so."

"His theories are absurd."

I just smiled.

Clarissa went on: “There are security issues to be addressed."

"Ah, but Clarissa, the government has lost interest, haven't they? I mean, what's the threat of a silly genetics experiment that produces harmlessly befuddled drug addicts? That's the government's view, isn't it?"

Clarissa frowned. But she knew I was right. “If your offer is accepted,” said Clarissa, “and I suspect it will be, I would like to point out that this shows the government isn't as paranoid as some people make it out to be. We're willing to meet people halfway. Honestly, I don't understand why so many agents lose their enthusiasm for the job. Our mission is to protect and serve."

"And intrude. And tell lies. Yes, Clarissa, you also protect and serve. But I'm tired of it. I want to tell the truth for a change. And you know what? Maybe someday we'll discover a way of doing that and protecting people at the same time. Who knows? The answer may be out there,” I said, sweeping my arm skyward. Then I pointed to my head. “Or in here, locked away in a place that your sensors can never reach."

I went straight to Poe.

"I can't pay you very much,” he said, embarrassed. “But I'd love to maintain those hibernators in my lab. If one of them wakes up again . . . think what we might be able to learn."

My thoughts exactly.

"I'll take whatever bottle-washing job you can give me,” I said. “I've got to start rebuilding my résumé."

Copyright © 2011 by Kyle Kirkland

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: TRIGGERS: PART II OF IV by Robert J. Sawyer

What is the ultimate breach of national security?

The story so far:

An al-Qaeda splinter group named al-Sajada has been attacking US monuments with new, highly portable explosives. On a cold November morning, President Seth Jerrison attempts to reassure his distraught nation by giving a speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, but a would-be assassin's bullet tears into his back. He's rushed to Luther Terry Memorial Hospital, accompanied by Secret Service agent-in-charge Susan Dawson. There, surgeon Eric Redekop and his team labor to save the president.

In the same hospital, memory researcher Ranjip Singh is using experimental equipment to try to erase the painful memories of a young Iraq War veteran named Kadeem Adams, who is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

An al-Sajada bomb is discovered on the roof of the White House. Everyone is evacuated, but the bomb goes off. As it does, a power surge goes through Singh's memory-erasing equipment.

Meanwhile, the surgical team is losing President Jerrison. His heart stops, and Jerrison—a closet atheist—undergoes a classic near-death experience, including a life review. But, as he tells hospital CEO Mark Griffin when he's revived, it's not his own life that he saw.

It soon becomes apparent that twenty or so people at the hospital have had their memories linked in a circular chain: person A reads the memories of B, B reads the memories of C, and so on. Susan Dawson can read the memories of Ranjip Singh, and Susan herself is read by Kadeem Adams. Dr. Redekop is reading a much-younger nurse named Jan Falconi and he, in turn, is read by real-estate agent Nikki Van Hausen. President Jerrison can read Kadeem Adams (it was the young vet's life he saw flash by), and someone, as yet unidentified, is reading President Jerrison. Recognizing that this represents an enormous threat to national security, Agent Dawson orders the hospital locked down, and begins a systematic search for whoever is accessing the president's memories.

Unbeknownst to Dawson, the United States is about to embark on a massive clandestine military operation code-named Counterpunch, aimed at the terrorists who have been attacking the US. Secretary of Defense Peter Muilenburg is supervising preparations from the Pentagon.

The man who shot Jerrison is killed trying to escape, and is soon identified. Shockingly, it was Gordon “Gordo” Danbury, a Secret Service agent. The attempt on the president's life was an inside job—and it's anyone's guess how high up the conspiracy goes.

* * * *

Chapter 15

Susan enlisted Professor Singh to help her interview the other potentially linked people: he'd speak individually to half of the remaining group, and she'd take the other half. They could have gotten through everyone even more quickly if she had the other Secret Service agents do interviews, too, but she didn't know who among them she could trust. But Singh, who she recalled had enough psychology courses under his belt to know how to effectively question people, had no secrets from her, and she could access his memories of each interview once it was done; it was almost as good as being in two places at one time.

Susan's next interviewee was a young woman named Rachel Cohen, who worked in accounts receivable here at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital; she'd happened to be on the fourth floor, passing directly above Singh's lab, when the memory-linking effect occurred.

"I don't understand,” Rachel said, sounding quite distraught. “This doesn't make any sense."

"We're all still trying to get a handle on it,” Susan said. “It was an accident."

"But it's . . . God, it's freaky. I mean, I wasn't aware that anything was wrong until just now."

"It seems the foreign memories don't come to mind unless something triggers them, or unless you actually think about them. Some people knew at once that they'd been affected; others, like you, didn't know until they were asked about it."

Rachel shook her head in dismay. “But now that you have asked me about it, I can't stop recalling things he knows."

"He?” said Susan, leaning forward. “Do you know his name?"

"Sure. It's Orrin."

The chances of there being two Orrins around struck Susan as pretty slim, but: “Orrin what?"

"Gillett."

Susan hoped she was keeping her face from showing distaste; Orrin Gillett was the lawyer who'd tried to run at the beginning of the lockdown. She asked Rachel a few questions about Gillett, just to be sure: the names of his law partners, which law school he'd gone to, and so on, and then she verified the answers on the law firm's website.

"How—how long is this . . . this pairing . . . going to last?” Rachel asked, when Susan was done.

"I honestly have no idea."

Rachel shook her head again. “This is so strange. God, it feels weird. I mean, he's a man, you know? I've always wondered what it'd be like to be a man instead of a woman."

"Maybe when this is all over, you'll write a book about it,” Susan offered.

Rachel seemed to consider this. “Maybe I will, at that. It's . . . it's fascinating.” And then, after a moment, almost to herself, it seemed, she added, "He's fascinating."

"Okay,” said Susan. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Cohen. We're still keeping people here at the hospital for a while, but please give me your cell number, so I can find you easily again if I need you."

Rachel dictated it then left Singh's office. Just as she did so, Susan's earpiece buzzed. “Hudkins to Dawson."

"Go ahead, Darryl,” Susan said.

"We've located nineteen of the twenty people,” said the voice in her ear. “But one seems to have gotten out of the building before you initiated the lockdown."

"Shit,” said Susan. “Who?"

"Bessie Stilwell, a woman who was visiting her son. And I'm the one reading her—which is strange, I gotta say. She's visiting from Pascagoula, Mississippi—at least, that's what I recall."

"Do you know who she's linked to?"

"No. And I'm not sure where she's gone; I'm trying to recall it, but it hasn't come to me yet. I just went so see her son, Michael Stilwell, but he's pretty much out of it, I have to say; he had a major heart attack. He's got no idea where she might have gone today."

"If you're linked to her, why can't you just recall it?"

"I asked Singh about that. His guess is that it's because she's elderly—she's eighty-seven, her son said. Bessie has trouble recalling things herself; she's not senile, or anything, just old. Singh thinks it may clear up for me; he suspects I might re-index her memories as time goes on, using my younger brain. But at the moment, well, let's say I now know how my grandma feels when she's struggling to recall something. It's frustrating."

"What hotel is she staying at?"

"She isn't. She's staying at her son's place. I've got the address, and will get the DC police to stake it out."

Susan didn't want to become paranoid—and she'd known Darryl for four years now—but it was suspicious that he was both claiming not to be linked to Jerrison and was having trouble corroborating that he was linked to someone else. Still: “Copy,” Susan said. “But find her. Oh, and Rachel Cohen is linked to Orrin Gillett—can you tell Singh to add that to his chart? And I guess I better speak to Gillett now; might as well do this in some kind of order. Can you get him and bring him to 312? I've got him locked up in 424."

"Copy,” said Darryl.

* * * *

Rachel Cohen was fascinated by Orrin Gillett, the man she was linked to. A lawyer—and a rich one, at that. Certainly, a good start! And he was handsome, too, if his own memories of his driver's license and passport photos were anything to go by. Not that he thought of himself as handsome—but the photos showed a man who was: lots of light brown hair, a great face, and beautiful brown eyes behind round rimless glasses. Still, Rachel wanted to see for herself, and—

And another memory of his came to her, one of a black Secret Service agent with a shaved head coming to get him, and—yes, yes—and bring him down here, and—

And the memory must be of only a minute or two ago, because here they came, coming down this corridor, and—

And Orrin Gillett was hot. She found herself saying an ebullient “Hi!” to him, like she was greeting an old friend—and, in a way, she supposed she was.

He looked at her, startled, but then smiled a terrific open-mouth smile at her. “Hello,” he said. “Nice day.” She had a strange feeling that his voice didn't sound quite right—which, she suddenly realized, was the same feeling she had when she heard recordings of her own voice; he remembered his voice as he himself heard it, resonating in his sinus cavities. “Do I know you?” he added.

"No,” said Rachel. “But I know you."

His tone was affable but baffled. “I don't understand."

Rachel nodded toward the door of the office Agent Dawson was using. “You will."

Rachel knew she should get back to her desk, but work here had slowed to a crawl because most of the staff was still shell-shocked by the assassination attempt and the destruction of the White House; people were just sitting at their desks staring into space, or softly crying, or endlessly chatting to others, trying to make sense of it all.

Rather than heading down the corridor, Rachel instead took a seat in a little waiting alcove just past the room Agent Dawson was using. If her own experience was anything to judge by, Orrin Gillett would be coming out again in twenty minutes or so.

Whenever Rachel was considering doing business with a new company, she ran a simple test. She put the company name and the word “sucks” into Google. Every giant corporation had its detractors: “Microsoft sucks” yielded 285,000 hits, “FedEx sucks” produced 568,000, and “Disney sucks” served up a whopping two million pages. But for local businesses or obscure web companies, she'd found it a useful barometer.

Likewise, whenever she was interested in dating someone, she'd do a quick search on his name and the word “asshole": “Devan Hooley asshole” had helped her dodge a major bullet!

But now, in this particular case, she had something even better than Google. There was no doubt that Orrin Gillett was attractive. And he seemed like a nice guy: he had a warm, friendly smile, and teeth that either hadn't seen a lot of coffee, cola, or tobacco, or had been whitened, and—

And, yes, whitened. The Zoom! process, to be precise. Cost him six hundred bucks.

But he hadn't been a smoker since high school, he didn't like carbonated beverages, and his coffee intake was pretty average. But he had been treated with tetracycline as a kid, and it had left his teeth a pale tan, and he'd been self-conscious about it for years. And so he'd had the problem corrected.

Rachel thought about my girlfriend, but no memory came to her. And then—well, he was pretty buff, and impeccably dressed to boot!—she thought about my boyfriend. But the only memories that came were of her own exes, the most recent of which had left her life—or, at least, her bed—ten months ago.

And speaking of exes—ah.

Melinda.

And Valerie.

And Jennifer.

And Franca.

And Ann-Marie.

And that bitch Naomi.

She thought about them, but—

No, that wouldn't work. She couldn't think about them collectively; she had to pick one, and think about just her. Say, Valerie.

Ah. Blonde. Brown-eyed. Big-breasted. Rachel glanced down at her own chest: well, two out of three ain't bad. And—oh, my! Our Val liked it a little rough, didn't she? But . . .

But Orrin actually didn't. He played it up that way, because Val asked him to, but—

Ah, in fact that was one of the reasons they'd broken up.

She tried another one. Jennifer.

Hmmm. Long straight hair, blue eyes, and . . . a very strong chin—

Oh my God! It was Jennifer Aniston! Orrin had dated Jennifer Aniston!

But no. That was crazy. Aniston lived in Los Angeles and she dated movie stars and—

Of course. Thinking about Jennifer now, her last name was Sinclair, not Aniston. But Rachel was conjuring up the only long-haired, blue-eyed Jennifer she herself knew, or knew of—and, of course, the character Jennifer Aniston was most famous for playing had also been named Rachel.

Jennifer and Orrin had dated for only a couple of months. And, at least as Orrin remembered it, they had parted on good terms—although he'd not heard from Ms. Sinclair since.

Rachel picked up a magazine—the cover story, like so many magazines of late, was related to the spate of terrorist attacks; the cover photo was of the smoldering remains of the Willis Tower, the building Rachel had always called the Sears Tower until the day it fell. But she didn't put on her glasses, even though she thought her new pair with the mauve frames looked great on her. Instead, she stared at the pages of fuzzy type, concentrating not on them but on Orrin's past.

Prostitutes.

The memories were of streetwalkers seen in bad neighborhoods—but no direct interaction with them. Although those memories did slide into strippers, and he'd seen a bunch of them over the years, mostly while entertaining clients. The best place in DC, in his opinion, was the Stadium Club.

She turned the page; there was an ad for some pharmaceutical or other, and—

Rape.

Nothing.

I know she said she didn't want it, but you could tell . . .

Nothing.

And, finally, just to be sure . . .

I can be a real asshole when it comes to . . .

* * * *

She took a deep breath, and lifted her gaze now, looking at the featureless pale green wall in front of her.

. . . those damn telephone solicitors who call during dinner.

Rachel smiled, put down the magazine, folded her hands, and waited.

* * * *

Chapter 16

"Thanks, Darryl,” Susan said to Agent Hudkins, as he deposited Orrin Gillett in the office she was using.

Darryl nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Susan turned to the lawyer. “Mr. Gillett, you were in quite a hurry to leave earlier.” She was still sitting in the roller chair behind the kidney-shaped desk; Gillett had taken the seat opposite her.

"Yes, as I said, I had a meeting to get to.” He looked her in the eye and added, defiantly, “An important meeting."

"I do apologize,” Susan said, in a tone that she hoped conveyed that she didn't really; she was still pissed at this clown. “Still, let me ask you a few questions. Can you tell me what you were doing here at the hospital?"

"I was visiting a friend, a partner in my law firm. He was in a car accident yesterday."

"And where were you when the lights went out?"

"In the corridor. I'd just left my friend's room."

"And tell me, Mr. Gillett, have you had any unusual experiences since 11:06 a.m. this morning?"

"Yes,” he said flatly. “I had a Secret Service agent pull a gun on me."

Susan had to admire the man's moxie. She allowed herself a half-smile. “Beside that, I mean."

"No."

"No unusual thoughts?"

Gillett narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?"

"Just that: any unexpected visions, or memories, or . . . ?"

"That's a very strange question,” Gillett said.

"Yes, it is,” replied Susan. “Do you have a very strange answer?"

Gillett spread his arms. “What would you have me say?"

"Well, President Jerrison is in the building, and—"

"Yes, I know."

Susan was about to let that pass; after all, there were lots of TVs in the hospital, and hundreds of smartphones that could have been used to look at news reports, not to mention doctors and nurses buzzing about what was going on. But something in the way Gillett had said “I know” struck her. “How?” she asked. “How do you know?"

He looked like he was at war with himself, trying to decide how much to share. She asked again: “How exactly do you know?"

Finally, Gillett nodded. “All right, okay. You mentioned visions. Well, I was—it was like I was in the corridor, as the president was rushed into surgery. I was—I had a gun, but I swear to you, Miss Dawson, I had nothing to do with what happened to the president. There were these two people on gurneys, an older man and a younger woman, and there was a nurse—a, um, forgive me, but a stacked nurse—and . . . “

Susan thought for a moment. There'd been a security guard with the two people in the corridor; she'd since learned the two people had been scheduled for a kidney-transplant operation, and she guessed the guard had been summoned in case they got unruly at being bumped to make room for Prospector. She consulted her notes for the security guard's name. “Ivan Tarasov—does that name mean anything to you?"

"Yes,” said Gillett. Then, more enthusiastically, “Yes! I don't know how, but I know all about him. He's been a guard here for four years, and he's got a wife named Sally and a three-year-old daughter named Tanya."

Susan asked him a few more questions, just to be sure he really was linked to Tarasov. When she was done, Gillett said, “So, can I leave the hospital now?"

"No,” said Susan. “I'm sorry, but you're going to have to stay a while longer."

"Look, unless you're going to charge me with something—"

"Mister Gillett,” Susan said sharply. “I don't have to charge you with anything. This is a national-security matter. You're going to do what I say."

* * * *

Eric Redekop walked along a hallway at LT, wanting nothing more in the world than to go home. He was exhausted, and . . .

And, damn it all, he kept accessing Janis Falconi's memories. He didn't want them. He didn't want them at all. Yes, it was flattering—and surprising!—to know that she found him attractive. But he felt like a stalker, like he was invading her life, like a total fucking creep. That they both worked at LT just made matters worse: so many things here triggered him to recall her memories. That painting on the corridor wall: he'd never really noticed it before, but she'd stopped and looked at it repeatedly. Of course: she was an artist in her own right, he knew. And that orderly, there, walking toward him, whose name he'd never known before, was Scott Edwards, who had hit on Jan repeatedly.

He didn't need to know that. He didn't need to know any of it. But he knew it all; for any question he wondered about the answer instantly came to him. How much she made, when and where she'd lost her virginity, and—Christ—what her menstrual cramps felt like. He hadn't wondered about that—what man would?—but seeing the wall calendar, there, had brought to mind that her period had just ended, and that had led to the recollection of the pains.

He tried not to think about anything intrusive, but that was impossible. Telling himself not to wonder about her sex life had the same effect as wondering about her sex life: it immediately brought memories to mind of her and her husband Tony, and—

Damn it.

Tony pushing into her, even though she wasn't wet.

And his inability to keep from ejaculating almost at once.

And his rolling off her, and lying on his side, his back to her, ignoring her after he was done, leaving her sad and frustrated and unfulfilled, and—

Damn it, damn it, damn it! He didn't want any of this, and—

And he was passing a woman's washroom now, and—

Oh, Christ, no.

But it came to him.

Her, in there.

At night.

No one else around.

And—

And Janis was a nurse, and she had access to all sorts of drugs, including ones designed to make pain go away, and she'd been in so much pain because of Tony for so long now. He saw her tattooed arm, recalling it in much greater detail than he could have on his own, knowing the pattern of stripes on the tiger, the deployment of its claws, the glint in its eyes. He knew it like—well, yes, the cliché applied—like the back of his own hand. But that arm was holding a syringe, and Janis was injecting herself.

For once, he did try to search her memories, looking for any sign that she was a diabetic, but—

But no. He knew what he was seeing, what he was recalling. She was shooting up. To make life bearable, to get her though the day.

He was sympathetic. He knew drug addiction was common among nurses and doctors, but he did not wish to know her secrets, damn it. And, for God's sake, he was obligated to report this, but—

But what would he report? That he thought he remembered her shooting up? She hadn't willingly shared that with him, and he hadn't stumbled upon evidence. It was just in his head.

He continued to walk the corridors of the hospital, hating himself for invading her privacy, and wishing it would all come to an end.

* * * *

Chapter 17

Orrin Gillett came out of the room Agent Dawson was using for interviews. Rachel Cohen closed the magazine and put it back on the little table next to her chair, walked the short distance to where he was, and smiled her sweetest smile. “Hi,” she said.

Orrin looked startled that she was still here. “Oh, hi,” he replied. It wasn't nearly as sunny a greeting as before. “So I'm guessing from what you said before that you're the person who's reading me, right?"

Rachel nodded. “Right. Care to go for a walk?"

"They're not letting us leave the hospital yet."

"No. But we can go down to the lobby; the cafeteria's there. Maybe get a bite to eat."

"All right,” Orrin said, but he sounded distracted.

"'Kay,” she replied. “Just a sec.” She went to a nearby drinking fountain and bent over to get some water, her jeans pulling tight as she did so. It was a bit tricky to glance at him from this posture, but—yes—Orrin was checking her out. She allowed herself a smile that he couldn't see, then walked back to him. “Shall we go?"

* * * *

Peter Muilenburg and a half-dozen senior strategists were poring over weather forecasts for the target sites. The door opened and a male aide came in. “Excuse me, Mr. Secretary."

"Yes?” replied Muilenburg.

"I've just gotten off the phone with the Secret Service agent-in-charge at Lima Tango, a Susan Dawson. They're getting a better handle on what's happening there. Yes, it seems clear that someone has access to Jerrison's memories, but they're just like any memories. Unless something brings a specific one to mind, you're not even aware you have that memory. It takes something to trigger it."

Muilenburg looked up at the display board, and he saw the call sign CVN-74, representing the U.S.S. John C. Stennis, move a bit closer to its target position.

"Well,” said Muilenburg, “let's hope whoever it is doesn't read a newspaper or watch the news between now and the zero hour, because I can't see that stuff without thinking it's high time someone did something—and if they think that, they'll know what that something is, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said the aide. “I imagine they will."

* * * *

Kadeem Adams knew that President Jerrison was confined to his room in the ICU. But the man was gregarious by nature; Kadeem had seen that often enough on TV. And he was doubtless lonely. It was no fun being hospitalized, as Kadeem himself well knew. But, more than that, Jerrison was a politician; he wouldn't be able to resist the photo-op. Even bedridden by an assassin's bullet the president would make time to see an Iraq War vet, to have his picture taken shaking the young man's hand, and—yes, Kadeem knew the stats—given how poorly Jerrison was doing with African Americans in the polls, to be seen congratulating a black soldier would be the best of all.

And so he went to Professor Singh's office and waited patiently outside the closed door until the man Susan Dawson had been questioning came out. Before she could bring someone else in, he entered himself.

Susan looked slightly flustered. “Hello, Kadeem."

He smiled his warmest smile. “Hey, Sue."

She didn't return the smile. “It's awkward, you knowing my memories."

He nodded. “Sorry ‘bout showing off earlier. I don't mean to pry."

She nodded. “No worse than what I've been doing with Professor Singh's mind, I guess. I just hope these linkages aren't going to last forever."

"I dunno,” said Kadeem. “It be cool, in a way. I never got to go to college. But now I got a college-level education, kinda: whatever you remember of your classes, I can remember. Don't think geography would have been my choice of major, but I know things now I'd never have known."

"I guess,” said Susan. “Anyway, what can I do for you, Kadeem?"

"Ma'am,” he said, “I got a favor to ask."

She tilted her head slightly, apparently noting that he'd dropped the overly familiar “Sue."

"Yes?"

"The president, he's just downstairs, right?"

She looked for a moment like she was going to deny it—a reflex security concern—but there was no point; it had been mentioned on newscasts that he was on the second floor. She nodded.

"I'd like to see him. Meet him. Y'know? Something to tell my grandkids about someday."

Kadeem had no doubt that Susan, or one of her associates, had already been through his service record in minute detail. They'd know it was exemplary, and that he even had a degree of security clearance, because of the weapon systems he'd worked with. There was no reason at all to think he presented a risk.

"He's still quite weak. He's in intensive care."

"I know, ma'am. And I know you've gotten to see him every day for years. But for a guy like me, I'll never get another . . .” He stopped himself; saying “shot at this” would hardly be the right phrasing just now. “. . . chance. Would mean the world to me."

Agent Dawson didn't reply at once, and so, Kadeem added, smiling as nicely as he could, “Please, ma'am."

He suspected she was weighing the new reality: that he'd know whether or not she actually tried to get him an audience; that she couldn't get away with just saying she'd asked but someone higher up had denied his request. Finally, she nodded. “I'll see what I can do."

* * * *

Seth Jerrison had been fascinated by codes ever since he'd stumbled across Herbert S. Zim's classic Codes and Secret Writing in his school library when he was ten. Zim had outlined all sorts of ways to conceal written communication: everything from language tricks such as Pig Latin and Oppish to making invisible ink with lemon juice. He'd also demonstrated lots of substitution-cipher systems; the tic-tac-toe code had long been one of Seth's favorites.

Shortly after reading the book, Seth had invented his own encryption system that he called the “13 Code.” He used it to share secret messages with his fourth-grade friend Duncan Ellerslie about Brenda Jackson, who they both agreed was the cutest girl in their class. One message he remembered sending looked like this:

* * * *

3-6-4

ELBHA DROQB WGBEB XXBLX NDHUI Y!

* * * *

Zim had recommended clustering letters into groups of five, lest word lengths provide clues to their meaning; he also suggested using all capitals, so that proper nouns or the pronoun I couldn't be easily detected.

The key to the 13 Code was to pick any three numbers that added up to 13, and put them at the beginning of the message. The recipient would then write down the letters of the alphabet in three paired columns, the lengths of which corresponded to the three numbers given. For the key of 3-6-4, the recipient would produce a decryption table that looked like this:

A=D G=M S=W

B=E H=N T=X

C=F I=O U=Y

J=P V=Z

K=Q

L=R

And then he'd use that table to substitute the appropriate letters to yield the plain text of the message. Thus:

ELBHA DROQB WGBEB XXBLX NDHUI Y!

would become:

BREND ALIKE SMEBE TTERT HANYO U!

or, with word spacing corrected and normal capitalization:

Brenda likes me better than you!

Hah! A perfect “Take that!” delivered by secret code! Seth had loved sending messages that only he and Duncan could read.

But that was then. Now there were no secrets; there was no privacy. He couldn't encrypt his thoughts and—

Well, yes, he supposed they were encrypted, sort of, in the way he'd heard Singh talk about. Only bits and pieces were stored. In fact, it was sort of like the 13 Code: even after decoding the message, the recipient had to rebuild it by adding to it: guessing at where to put in the spaces, converting characters to lowercase except where it seemed sensible to retain the capitals. Whatever the person reading his memories would recall would be filtered through his or her own experiences, conjuring up something not quite the same as what Seth himself would—but it would be close enough to do damage.

And the damage could be considerable. Whoever was sharing his memories knew what legislation he was planning to veto, what campaign promises he intended to break, what he really thought of the Speaker of the House.

And yet those things were small, in so many ways. But if news about Operation Counterpunch got out early, there might be enormous American casualties. He shifted his head slightly—it was painful to do so—and looked at the large windows. The ever-present nurse was seated by them, and beyond her, through the glass—which he'd now been told had been reinforced with a bulletproof layer—he saw a plume of gray smoke. That smoke contained the ashes of his clothes, his books, all his wife's things, and priceless mementos of US history: the Resolute desk, centuries-old oil paintings, the artifacts in the Lincoln bedroom, and more.

He wasn't a monster; none of those who had put Counterpunch together were. They were just people—husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters—who had had enough. Even before today's terrorist attack, they'd had enough.

He remembered a joke that had gone around the Internet in the fall of 2001: “What's the difference between Osama bin Laden and Santa Claus?” And the answer, which had seemed so funny back then when people had been forwarding the joke endlessly: “Come Christmas, Santa Claus will still be here."

But bin Laden had survived an entire decade. Indeed, as today's events had proven, it was easier to put a bullet in the president of the United States than it was to take out a religious zealot, especially when he had powerful allies.

Seth had taught history for twenty years. The U.S. had had a chance—a brief window—during which it could have pre-emptively struck the Soviet Union, wiping it from the map. The governments of the day—JFK's regime, and then Johnson's—hadn't had the balls. And so the US had instead endured decades of living in fear of the Soviets attacking first, and had spent trillions—trillions!—stockpiling weapons.

And it was the same damn thing again.

San Francisco.

Philadelphia.

Chicago.

And now Washington.

A whole nation—a whole planet—living in fear.

He watched the smoke rise and swirl.

* * * *

Chapter 18

Susan finished another interview, speaking with Dora Hennessey, the woman who'd come here to give her father a kidney. Sue took a bathroom break, then stopped by Singh's lab, which is where he was conducting his interviews. A squat white man was leaving just as Susan arrived. “Any thoughts about how to sever the links?” she asked Singh.

"I don't even know what caused them,” the Canadian replied. “I mean, memory is chemical. It's based on molecules squirting across the synaptic cleft from one neuron to the next. How a memory could leap many meters is beyond me.” He shook his head. “That's why most people with scientific training think claims of telepathy must be junk: there's nothing your brain puts out that can be read at a distance."

"What about brain waves?” asked Susan, sitting on the experimental chair next to the articulated stand holding up the geodesic sphere.

"There aren't any brain waves in the sense you're thinking,” Singh said. “The brain doesn't radiate electromagnetic signals the way, say, a Wi-Fi source or radio broadcaster does. And, even if it did, the signals would be weak, and get weaker, as all signals do, over distance—usually according to the inverse-square law. By the time a signal has traveled three times as far away, it's only got one-ninth the power. Before you knew it, any signal would be lost in the background noise of all the other signals."

"Then what are EEGs recording, if not brain waves?"

"Well, they are recording brain waves—but, like I said, the name gives the wrong idea. See, the brain contains billions of neurons. When one neuron gets a signal from a neighbor, it can respond by releasing ions—which are charged atoms, right?"

Susan nodded.

Singh went on. “Ions with like charges repel each other, and when a bunch of neighboring neurons release a bunch of similarly charged ions, they all push each other away, creating a physical wave—an undulation—in the material of the brain, which has the consistency of pudding. EEGs measure those actual waves bumping against the skull."

"Oh."

"So, you see, there's no way to read brain waves across a large spatial gap."

"Your mother's name is Gurneet and your father's is Manveer."

Singh tipped his head in a small sign of concession. “I admit I have no explanation for you knowing that."

"So, I'm what, six feet from you?"

"About two meters, yes."

"And this square-inverse law you mentioned—"

"Inverse-square."

"If I went to the far end of the building the signal should drop off to almost nothing, right?"

"The building is—I don't know—a hundred meters on its longest side perhaps. So, yes, if we were as far apart as we could get in this building, the signal strength would be one over one hundred squared, or one one-ten-thousandth as strong, assuming there is a signal, and assuming it is broadcast in all directions."

"What if it isn't? What if the linkage is just that—a link, like, you know, a line drawn between you and me?"

Singh stood up and spun in a circle. “And did the link maintain itself during that? What mechanism would there be to keep a beam focused from my head to yours, or from yours to Private Adams's? It's inconceivable."

"All right. Still, let's test it. I'm going to go as far from you as I can without leaving the building, and we'll see if the signal, um . . . attenuates? Is that the right word?"

"Yes."

Susan left the lab and headed down the long corridor, passing patients on gurneys, doctors, nurses, and other people—several of whom tried to question her about how much longer the lockdown was going to last. She made it to the far end of the building as quickly as she could—and then, for good measure, she entered the stairwell and headed up to the sixth floor, which was the highest level.

She found a janitor there in a blue uniform, pushing a mop. “You!” Susan said, pointing at him. “Name a topic."

"Excuse me?"

"A topic—something, anything—to think about."

"Ma'am?"

"Oh, come on, man! It's not that hard a question. Any topic."

"Umm, like, um, baseball, do you mean?"

"Baseball! Fine. Thank you!” And then she turned her back on the no-doubt bewildered man, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the first time she'd ever seen a baseball game live, and . . .

And a memory of her father taking her to Dodger Stadium came to her. She'd spilled her Pepsi all over him, and he'd laughed it off and squirted water at her. She shook her head, clearing her own memory, and tried to summon another, and—

And she was watching the Toronto Blue Jays play, and from a private box, something she herself had never done.

More details: others in the booth. Sikhs, remembered not because they were Sikhs but because the colors of their individual turbans had been noted; Sue had previously had no idea that such choices were individual fashion statements. A party, a celebration of . . . of . . .

Ah, yes. Of Ranjip's brother's eighteenth birthday, which—yes—had actually been the day before, but there'd been no game that day. A wonderful memory, a happy memory—and no sense at all that it was more difficult to access or recall than Singh's memories had been when they'd been much closer together. She didn't have to strain, didn't have to cock an ear as if listening to something faint, didn't have to do anything differently. It just came to her when she thought about it, as easily as when she'd been right next to Singh.

She headed along the sixth-floor corridor until she got to the stairwell near the elevator station, then went down to three.

Professor Singh was still in his lab. “The first baseball game you saw live was in Toronto, wasn't it?” asked Susan. “For your brother's eighteenth birthday? Your dad rented a private box at the SkyDome."

Singh nodded. “Although they don't call it that anymore. It's the Rogers Centre now."

"You remember it as the SkyDome."

"No doubt.” He blinked. “So you had no trouble reading my memories, even from far away?"

"None."

"I don't understand that. There should have been attenuation, unless . . ."

"Yes?"

He swiveled his chair, turning his back on his computer. “It's . . . no. No, it can't be that."

"What?"

Singh thought for a moment, then, seemingly out of the blue, said, “Do you ever watch Saturday Night Live?"

"Not since I was a teenager."

"Remember when Mike Myers used to be on? He'd play a Jewish woman named Linda Richman, who had a call-in talk show. When she got emotional, she'd put her hand on her chest and say, ‘I'm all verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic.’ And then she'd say something like, ‘The Civil War was neither civil nor a war—discuss.’”

"No, I don't remember that. Oh, wait—um, yes, now I do."

Singh smiled. “Exactly."

"I think the one when the character said, ‘The peanut is neither a pea nor a nut’ was funnier."

Singh nodded slightly. “Perhaps. But the point is, if I tell you to remember something that you don't actually have memories of, but I do, you remember it, too. So, let me give you a topic—but don't discuss it. Think about it; recall it. Okay?"

She nodded. “Okay."

"Quantum entanglement,” he said.

Her first impulse was to pull a Linda Richman and say, “ . . . is neither quantum nor entangled,” but she didn't even know if that made sense, and—

And it didn't make sense. Quantum entanglement was a property of quantum mechanics, and it did involve entangling things, and—

And it was weird. She'd never heard of anything like it. When pairs of particles are created simultaneously under the right circumstances, they can become linked in such a way that they continue to be connected no matter how far apart they become.

"Wow,” said Susan.

"Wow indeed,” said Ranjip. “Okay. Another topic—well, not really; it's the same topic, but a different way of looking at it. Ready?"

Susan nodded.

"Spooky action at a distance,” Ranjip said.

Susan was startled that she knew this was something Einstein had said. And, yes, it was spooky. Change the spin of one entangled particle, and the spin of the other changes instantaneously; they are bound together in an almost magical way—again, no matter how far apart they get from each other.

"Got it,” said Susan, and then she surprised herself by asking a question. “But if it's quantum entanglement, why aren't the linkages symmetrical? I mean, if A can read B, why can't B read A?"

"The linkages probably are symmetrical,” Singh replied. “That is, either A or B could change any specific shared memory for both of them—the shared memories are entangled, and changes to them at one location would change them at both. But symmetry doesn't imply reciprocity. A and B have symmetrically shared memories that happen to have originally belonged to A. Meanwhile, B and C have symmetrically shared memories that happened to originally belong to B. And so on."

"Ah,” said Susan. “I guess."

"Okay,” said Singh. “New topic, sort of: Penrose and Hameroff."

And that came to her, too: physicist Roger Penrose—a sometimes-collaborator with Stephen Hawking—and the anesthesiologist Stuart Hameroff had proposed that human consciousness was quantum mechanical in nature.

It was astonishing: to know something so complex, and yet never have even heard of it before. It wasn't like university lectures were running through her head at high speed, and it wasn't like playing Trivial Pursuit, where she had to dig deeply to find the answers; these were things that Singh knew well, and so she knew them well, too, and they came effortlessly to mind as soon as he said the trigger words.

"Got it,” she said again.

"Okay, new topic: the design of my apparatus."

And she now knew all about that, too: a device that used tuned lasers—which emitted photons, which were a type of particle that could indeed be entangled—to selectively excite neurons. His design actually displaced the photons that were already there and substituted new ones.

Then . . .

"Cytoskeleton."

And:

"Microtubule."

And:

"Bose-Einstein condensate."

She shook her head, as if somehow that would get the pieces to sift out of the swirling jumble they were in and fall into place. And, after a moment, they did. “And this is legit?” Susan said at last.

"Well, it's a legitimate theory,” replied Singh. “Penrose and Hameroff say the actual seat of consciousness, which, of course, must somehow interact with memory, is not in the chemical synapses but rather in quantum effects in the microtubules of the cytoskeleton—the internal scaffolding—of brain cells. Their theory has its passionate advocates—and passionate detractors. But if we are dealing with quantum entanglement, that could explain why the linkages don't weaken over distance."

"And does it suggest how to break them?” asked Susan.

"Well, um, no—no, I don't have a clue how to do that. Entanglement is a tricky thing, and normally it's quite fragile. But I'll keep trying to find the answer."

"Do that,” Susan said.

"I will. What about you? Any progress?"

Susan shook her head. “I still don't know who's reading the president."

"What are you going to do if you can't identify who it is?” Singh asked.

Susan said nothing.

"You can't keep all the people here prisoner indefinitely."

Again: nothing.

"They've committed no crime!” said Singh.

"One of them has in his or her possession classified information."

"Not deliberately."

She shook her head. “Doesn't matter. Possession of such information is a felony, and they're all suspects."

"You'd like to . . .” Singh began, and then, not able to give voice to it, he tried again: “You'd like to have them disappear, wouldn't you?"

Susan lifted her eyebrows. “It's an option."

"They've done nothing wrong!"

"Professor Singh,” Susan said, “look at me. My job is to die for the president, if need be: my life instead of his. I didn't vote for him, I don't agree with most of his policies, I don't even particularly like him, but none of that matters. We live in a system in which the president is more important than anyone, and this president has been compromised in a way that has to be contained or eliminated. In fact, even breaking the link may not be enough. Yes, once it's severed—if it ever is—the person may not be able to access new memories, but presumably they'll still remember anything they've recalled while the link was intact, right?"

"I don't know,” Singh said. “Honestly. No one has any experience with this."

"Which means,” Susan said, “that we may indeed have to lock these people up indefinitely."

"You can't,” said Singh. “I'll go public."

"It's not my call to make,” said Susan. “But don't count on having that option. In fact . . . “

Singh narrowed his eyes. “Yes?"

"Your work may end up being classified. You have to recognize that you've developed the ultimate interrogation technique. Replicate the linking effect, but with only two people within the sphere. They'd each link to the other, right? An interrogator would know everything a prisoner knew—plans, names, dates, codes, whatever."

"And vice-versa, Agent Dawson. Don't forget that."

"Yes, you'd have to carefully choose your interrogator—make sure he doesn't know anything vital . . . that is, if you ever expected to let the prisoner go free again."

Singh had a shocked expression on his face, but Susan pressed ahead. “Let's update the chart,” she said. The Sikh had redrawn his chart on the lab's whiteboard. The grid had twenty columns and three rows; the rows were labeled “Name,” “Can Read,” and “Is Read By."

Susan pointed to the column for Orrin Gillett. “Gillett can read Ivan Tarasov, a security guard."

Singh filled in this information with a blue dry-erase marker.

"Ah,” said Singh. “I interviewed this Tarasov. He can read Dora Hennessey, who was here to donate a kidney to her father.” He wrote this in.

"Yes, I know who she is,” said Susan. “I interviewed Dora just before coming here. She's able to read the memories of Ann January. Mrs. January is a surgical nurse, and—"

"Excuse me,” said Singh. “I'm sorry, but—are you sure?"

"Well, Dora didn't tell me Ann's exact job title,” Susan said, “but she's some kind of nurse."

"No, no. I mean, are you sure that Dora Hennessey is reading Ann January?"

"Oh, yes. No question."

Singh pointed at a square on his whiteboard. “Because David January is reading Ann January, too. I just interviewed him."

Susan came over to look at the board. “Husband and wife? Or brother and sister?” But before Singh could reply, she had the answer from his memory. “Husband and wife, right?” she said.

"Yes."

"That's very strange,” said Susan.

"Indeed it is,” said Singh. “We haven't had two people linked to the same person before, and . . . “

"Yes?” prodded Susan.

Singh looked frustrated. “Well, I thought I was making progress puzzling this out. But multiple linkages wouldn't work with the kind of quantum-entanglement we were just talking about; a double linkage would require a complex superposition that I should think would rapidly decohere."

Susan was astonished that talk like this actually now made sense to her. She thought about Singh's theory—not so much the details, but his level of confidence in it. He had been sure he was on the right track, and—

"He's lying,” Susan said.

"What?” said Singh.

"He's lying. This David January fellow is lying."

"Why would he lie about who he's linked to?” asked Singh. But then he got it: “Oh! The president!"

"Exactly,” said Susan. “I'm going to have a word with Mr. January myself.” She looked at Singh. “Cheer up, Ranjip. Maybe we'll only have to eliminate one person."

* * * *

Chapter 19

Susan left Singh's lab and walked the short distance to his office, sitting down behind his kidney-shaped desk. She pored over the handwritten notes Singh had made on David January: he was, it turned out, the doctor who had operated the defibrillator that had been used on Prospector, and he'd been married for twenty-three years now to Ann January, who was indeed a surgical nurse. Susan googled his name, just to see what would come up, and then checked up on his wife. She then called hospital security and asked them to locate David January and bring him to Singh's office.

A few minutes later, Dr. January arrived, accompanied, to Susan's surprise, by a security guard whose nameplate read “Tarasov"—he was the person being read by Orrin Gillett. Tarasov was behaving oddly: he wouldn't meet her gaze, and he seemed generally uncomfortable to be talking to her. She wondered if he was trying to hide something; she'd grill him next. But for now David January was her priority. She dismissed Tarasov.

January turned out to be the squat man she'd seen leaving Singh's lab earlier. He was forty-four, according to Singh's notes, and had hyperthyroid bulging eyes; he looked a bit like Peter Lorre.

"Have a seat, Mr. January,” Susan said. She deliberately chose not to call him “Doctor"—you never elevate an interrogee above the interrogator. “I'm just following up on the conversation you had with Professor Singh. I understand you told him you are linked to your wife."

The big eyes got even bigger for a moment. “To Annie, yes."

"How convenient, that,” Susan said, her tone neutral.

January smiled amiably. “I don't know if it's convenient, but there's no one else I'd rather be linked to."

"Well,” said Susan, trying on a disarming smile of her own, “I guess it's what every woman wants in a man, if you believe the magazines. You'll no longer be able to say to her, ‘I can't read minds,’ when she expects you to do something but doesn't explicitly tell you, right?"

His smile now seemed forced. “I guess. It still seems so . . . so fantastic." He spread his arms a bit. “I gotta tell you, it's funny seeing myself as she sees me."

"Funny?"

"You know, to have memories from her point of view, memories in which she sees me, instead of me seeing her."

Despite her suspicions, Susan was intrigued. “How closely do the memories match? I mean, do you see an almost three-dimensional scene, shifting from her perspective to your own and back again? Do they synch up that well?"

"Depends on the memory, of course. Some are more detailed than others—and some are more detailed for me and hazy for her, and vice versa.” He made an indulgent little smile. “She doesn't like hockey nearly as much as I do; she can barely remember what teams are playing, let alone individual plays."

"All right,” Susan said. “Let me ask you a question."

"Go ahead."

"What is Ann's lover's name?"

"She doesn't have a lover,” January said, sounding miffed. “Other than me."

"Oh?” said Susan. “Think back to last month—October. She dropped you at Reagan, and you flew to—where was it now? Ah, yes. Denver, for a conference on defibrillation technology, right?” Her Google search had found his name on the program. “You settled in for a long flight, and maybe watched a movie."

"I did. On my laptop."

"But continue that memory from her point of view,” said Susan. “What did she do the moment she dropped you off?"

"My wife drops me off all the time at the airport; I attend a lot of meetings. There was nothing special about that day that I recall—that she recalls."

"No? October eighteenth? Unseasonably cold and windy. And you were going to be gone for an entire week that time."

"I don't . . ."

"Remember it?” asked Susan. “Remember that day?"

"Nothing comes to mind."

"All right. I'll tell you. Stop me when this begins to sound familiar. She left Reagan and drove on to Dulles, leaving her car in long-term parking. She then took the shuttle to the terminal, and there she met a man named William Cordt—although she called him Willie."

"Then there's no way you could know that. There's nothing exceptional about my wife; there's no way you'd have been watching her back then."

"That's true,” said Susan. “We weren't watching her. We were watching William Cordt. This is Washington, after all. We watch a lot of people—especially those who have illicit ties to foreign defense contractors, as Mr. Cordt does. When he takes a trip out of the country, we know—and he did, with your wife, to Switzerland for a skiing vacation."

"Bullshit,” he said. “Annie was never involved with any arms smuggler, or anything like that."

"Now, that I actually believe,” Susan said. “That is, I believe that she never knew that that's what he was, and so would have no memories of it. But you must surely have other memories of this event, from her point of view. The trip to Switzerland. The hotel they stayed in there, the Englischer Hof. The evenings they spent there."

January narrowed his eyes, as if concentrating on something small. And then he made a short, sharp intake of breath. “Oh, my . . . Oh, God.” He slumped in the chair. “I—I had no idea . . . We . . . she . . . I . . ."

Then he looked at her, and his face was contorted in rage. “That was cruel," he said. “Making me see that. Making me know that."

"It would have been cruel, Mr. January, if any of it had ever really happened. But it didn't. There is no William Cordt. Your wife hasn't left the United States in over three years; I checked her passport records."

January's eyes went wide. “You . . . bitch!"

"And you're under arrest."

"For what?"

"For espionage. Spying on the president is a felony."

"The president!” said January.

"Don't play games now,” Susan said. “Yes, the president.” She stood up. “Extend your arms."

"What for?” asked January.

"So I can cuff you."

"I demand to see a lawyer."

"Oh, you will. Before this is over, you'll have seen more of them than you can count. But for now, not only do you have the right to remain silent, you have the obligation. Spying on the president is bad enough. Revealing what you've learned is . . . well, I'm glad we never got around to closing Gitmo."

"Wait!” said January as Susan went to cuff him. “You're wrong! You're wrong!"

Susan closed the metal loops around his wrists. “Tell it to the judge."

"No, no. Listen to me! You're wrong. I'm not linked to the president, honestly. God, it never even occurred to me that anyone might be linked to him—he wasn't conscious, after all, when all this went down; he was under general anesthesia."

"Then why'd you lie about being linked to your wife?"

He hesitated. Susan put the flat of her hand against his back and propelled him toward the door.

"All right!” he said. “All right. I'm telling you the truth. I'm not linked to President Jerrison. I'm linked to Mark Griffin."

"The hospital CEO?” she said. “Why lie about that?” They were at the closed door to Singh's office; Singh's black bomber jacket was hanging from a hook on the door's back.

"Because I'm president of the staff association here, and he's the hospital's chief executive officer—and my opponent. I'm facing off against him over contract negotiations, and, well, this will give me the edge, so long as he doesn't know I'm reading him. I figured it would be easy to fake that I was linked to my wife; we already have so many memories in common."

"Prove it,” Susan said. “Prove you're linked to Griffin. When did he and I first meet?"

"When you arrived here this morning with the president. He was on the right side of the gurney, and you were on the left. You had blood smeared on your jacket."

"Who was behind me?"

"The president's personal physician. Griffin greeted her, although he called her by her military rank: Captain Snow."

"And what did he say about Dr. Redekop?"

"Nothing, then."

"Later, I mean. What did he call him when we were in the observation gallery?"

"He said Redekop was ‘a doctor of the'—well, I don't know what this means, but it's what he said: ‘a doctor of the first water.’”

"Fuck,” said Susan.

"I'm sorry,” said January. “I really am. I—this all just sort of fell into my lap, you know? I didn't know what to do."

"Rule number one, asshole: don't lie to the Secret Service.” She took off the handcuffs. “Get out of here."

"You mean I can go home?"

"No, you cannot. Not until I choose to end the lockdown. But get out of my sight."

"Yes, ma'am,” he said, and he scurried out the door.

Susan was livid as she walked down to Singh's lab. The Canadian was sitting at his computer, and Darryl Hudkins had now joined him. He was looking at a city map spread out on a table.

"Any luck tracking down the woman who went AWOL?” she demanded.

"Not yet,” Darryl replied, looking up. “Problem is the old thing has cataracts, I think. She's somewhere today—I just can't make out where; the visuals in her memories of this afternoon are indistinct. It's noisy—she doesn't like that—but I still don't know where it is. She's just not paying any real attention to her surroundings."

"Indoors or out?"

"Indoors. But it's not a museum or a gallery or a store. She's just wandering around in a daze, it seems—she was already preoccupied with her son having a heart attack, and then someone told her about the president being shot, and later about the White House. When I think about this afternoon, the only memories of hers I get are of her worrying about, well, about everything."

"Damn it,” said Susan. “Keep trying.” She went over to the white board and corrected the information on it, now that they knew that David January was really linked to Mark Griffin.

"Agent Dawson?” said Singh.

She wheeled around. "What?"

Singh looked startled by the sharpness of her tone. Susan took a deep breath; she wasn't mad at him, and she shouldn't take it out on him. “Sorry, Ranjip. What is it?"

"Have a look at this, please.” Singh gestured at his monitor.

Susan came over and stared at the screen, which was showing a complex graph. It felt strange to be seeing it. For the first second or two, it appeared to be just a random shape, with numbers and letters marking certain points, but as she looked at this part, she suddenly understood it, and shifting her attention here caused that part to make sense, as well, and all at once the numbers at the bottom of the screen conveyed meaning for her, too. She'd originally opened her mouth to say, “What is it?,” but the words that came out were, “Are you sure?"

"I'm positive,” said Singh. “It's based on the data from my equipment's diagnostic files, and it's the only configuration that works."

"Twenty-one nodes, not twenty?” asked Susan.

"Exactly. Twenty-one people were affected."

Darryl Hudkins walked over and stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Dr. Griffin and I were careful in reviewing the security-camera recordings. There's no way someone was in the affected sphere that we didn't see."

"There was an electromagnetic pulse,” Susan said.

"Well, yeah . . . “ replied Darryl.

"Which means there could have been an interruption in the recordings, no?"

"Sure, yeah,” said Darryl. “There was. But according to the timecode, it lasted less than a minute."

"A good runner,” Susan said, “can cover a thousand feet in a minute.” She looked at Singh's grid of linkages on the white board, then picked up a marker and drew in a twenty-first column at the far right. In the spot for the person's name at the top of the column, she put an “X” for unknown.

* * * *

Chapter 20

Seth Jerrison lay on his back. His chest ached and it hurt to breathe, but he'd insisted the doctors keep him awake as much as possible; he couldn't risk the Speaker or anyone else trying to move for a forced handover of power under the Twenty-Fifth Amendment—not this close to the initiation of Counterpunch.

He'd just spent half an hour on the phone with his chief of staff, who was holding things together at Mount Weather, and he'd also spoken to his science advisor, who was currently at a conference at CERN but was cutting that short to return to the States.

The phone calls had been enough to exhaust Seth, and so he stared up at the ceiling and the irritating strobing fluorescent tube there. Jesus Christ, he was leader of the free world; all he had to do was mention it to someone and it would be fixed. He looked over at Nurse Sheila, who was ever vigilant.

He knew he was in good hands here—and not just because the hospital was named for the man who had saved more American lives than anyone else in history, even though a recent survey had shown that less than one percent of Americans knew who he was. In fact, Jerrison had to admit, he himself hadn't—the only holder of the same office that he could name prior to becoming president was the one immortalized by the B-Sharps, Homer Simpson's barbershop quartet: "For all the latest medical poop, call Surgeon General C. Everett Koop—koop koop a koop."

But Luther Terry was responsible for more people knowing of the office of Surgeon General than anyone else, for he was the one who in 1964 had released the report linking smoking to cancer, and in 1965 had instigated the “Surgeon General's Warning” on cigarette packs.

Seth had recently reviewed proposed new warnings, designed to prevent teenagers who see themselves as invincible from picking up the habit. “Smokers become slaves to Big Tobacco.” “The maker of this product intends to addict you to it.” “Smokers are pawns of heartless corporations.” And his favorite, short and sweet: “You are being used."

The fluorescent tube continued to flicker, and—

An inside job.

Seth had taught American history for twenty years—including all about the previous presidential assassination attempts. He'd read the whole damn Warren Commission report, as well as the myriad conspiracy theories. Earl Warren and his colleagues got it right, in his view: Oswald had acted alone, not in cahoots with the CIA. It was crazy to think a conspiracy could reach so far into the government; a lone nut was far easier—and far less scary—to contemplate. Hell, Nixon couldn't keep Watergate a secret; Bill Clinton couldn't keep a blowjob a secret. How could anyone keep a plan within the Secret Service to eliminate the president under wraps?

Seth didn't know what he should do. He thought about dismissing the entire Secret Service, but there were dozens of protectees that would be affected: the First Family, Flaherty and his family, the living ex-presidents, visiting foreign dignitaries, and so on.

But, damn it all, at least he could get this fixed. “Sheila,” he said as loudly as he could—which he supposed was about half a normal speaking volume.

Sheila moved immediately to his bedside. “Yes, Mr. President?"

"That light,” he said softly, and he managed to lift his free hand a little to point at it. “Can you get it replaced?"

She looked up at it. “Of course, sir."

Just then, the door opened and in came Susan Dawson. “Mr. President, how are you feeling?"

His voice was still weak, he knew, but Ronald Reagan had set a high standard for banter on occasions like this, and so he tried his best. “Like someone shot me in the back, and someone else carved my chest open. Oh, and like someone blew up my house."

Susan rewarded him with a small smile, and Seth supposed he was feeling slightly better, despite all those horrors; she was a beautiful woman, and it pleased him to have her smiling at him. Actually, he liked it better when she was wearing her Secret Service-issue sunglasses; there was something really sexy about women in dark glasses, and—

The Secret Service.

The people who were supposed to protect him.

He still couldn't believe it.

"What happened to the . . . “ He kept wanting to call him “the assassin,” but that wasn't right; he'd failed at his job. “ . . . the assailant?"

"He was trying to escape, sir. He'd been in the elevator at the Lincoln Memorial and—"

"What elevator?” Seth said.

"There's one for handicapped access, sir. It was installed in the 1970s."

"Oh."

"He was shimmying up the elevator cable, trying to get away, and the elevator started up and he fell. Broke his neck."

"That's the passive voice,” he said.

"Sir?"

"'The elevator started up.’ Surely someone pushed the button."

"Yes, sir."

"Who?"

"Agent Jenks, sir. Dirk Jenks."

Shit, Seth thought. Maybe the assailant hadn't been acting alone after all. “Investigate him,” he said.

But Susan nodded. “Way ahead of you, sir. The FBI apprehended him at Reagan. He hasn't broken yet under interrogation, but it seems almost certain that he was in cahoots with Gordo."

Seth would have sat up if he could. “Gordo?"

"Sorry. That's what most of us called Agent Danbury. Not Gordon but Gordo."

That name was ringing a bell. He'd heard it recently . . . somewhere. From someone.

No, no, he hadn't heard it—he'd overheard it. At the White House . . . in the Oval Office. He'd come in through his private door while Leon Hexley, the head of the Secret Service, was talking on his BlackBerry, but . . .

But what had he said? It was just a couple of days ago. Damn it, what had Hexley said? “Tell Gordo to . . ."

Tell Gordo to . . . what?

It had been intriguing, he remembered that much, even not knowing then who Gordo was. But, damn it, he couldn't dredge it up.

* * * *

The door to Singh's lab burst open, and in strode lawyer Orrin Gillett. “Dr. Griffin told me I might find you here, Agent Dawson. How long until you let us go?"

Susan had been busily thumb-typing to her boyfriend Paul on her BlackBerry, bringing him up-to-date on what was going on. She finished the message she was sending, pocketed the device, and let Gillett wait in silence for five seconds, then said, “I haven't made that determination. Frankly, I'm not sure it's safe for people to leave the hospital."

Gillett stared at her through his round glasses. His tone was cool, measured. “You actually don't have the power to detain people indefinitely."

Susan looked over at Professor Singh, who was running simulations on his computer, then back at Gillett. “We're dealing with an unprecedented situation,” she said.

Gillett helped himself to a chair, crossing his long legs and leaning back. “That's right, Agent Dawson. But in the law, precedents are what matters—precedents and regulations. And so I did some research.” He pulled out his iPhone and consulted its screen. “Under Title 18, Section 3056, of the United States Code, Secret Service agents have very limited powers. You can execute warrants issued under the laws of this country—but no warrants have been issued in this matter.” He looked up. “You can make arrests without warrants for any offense against the United States committed in your presence, or for any felony recognizable under the laws of the United States, if you have reasonable grounds to believe that the person to be arrested has committed such a felony. But you have no reason to believe any offense or felony has been committed in this matter. Beyond that, all you're allowed to do is"—he read from the screen: “'Investigate fraud in connection with identification documents, fraudulent commerce, fictitious instruments, and foreign securities.’”

"Don't gloss over that so quickly, Mr. Gillett. The Secret Service does indeed deal with cases of identity theft."

He slipped his phone into his breast pocket. “But no one here has committed any such crime, have they?"

"Not yet, but they're all surely capable of it now. They know every personal detail, every possible answer to any security question—mother's maiden name, first-grade teacher, what have you."

"This is the United States of America, Agent Dawson, not some third-world police state. You can't imprison people because you think they might someday commit a crime; indeed, you slander them by suggesting they might do so."

"I'm not talking about imprisoning,” Susan said, folding her arms in front of her chest. “I'm talking about, well, protective custody."

"What for?” demanded Gillett.

"We simply don't know what's going to happen to you, to me, or to anyone else who has been affected. Our brains have been messed up; we might have seizures—anything could happen."

"For your own part, you may take whatever personal precautions you see fit,” Gillett said. “And you may certainly advise all affected parties of the potential dangers. Indeed, I urge you to do so. But you also have to be honest with them: you have to say you have no reason whatsoever to think people will undergo seizures, lose touch with reality, or otherwise have any difficulties beyond the ones they've already experienced."

"This is a medical matter,” Susan said.

"Indeed it is,” replied Gillett, “and Luther Terry's lawyers will certainly advise people to stay under medical supervision, and get them to sign waivers should they decide to leave, but there's no infection here. They can't compel people to stay; there's nothing that justifies an involuntary quarantine. And, besides, given that the linkages may be permanent, you're talking about what amounts to life sentences without due process. No court will stand for that."

Susan knew she was fighting with Gillett for the sake of fighting; he was probably right legally—and he might well be right morally, too. She blew out air, trying to calm down.

Professor Singh spoke up. “Mr. Gillett, since you're a lawyer, may I ask you a question?"

Gillett had been glaring at Susan, but as he turned to look at the Sikh's kindly face, his features softened. “Who are you?"

Singh stood up. “I'm Ranjip Singh, a memory researcher.” He paused, then: “You see that?” He pointed to the padded chair and the stand with the geodesic sphere on a multi-jointed arm. “That's my equipment; it was involved in the linking of memories."

Susan noted that Gillett was as quick on the draw as she herself was: he had his business card out in the blink of an eye. “Have you retained counsel?” he asked.

Singh's eyebrows shot up. “What for?"

"As it happens, Mr. Singh, I'm not at all upset about what has occurred, but others doubtless are. You can count on lawsuits."

Singh looked aghast, Susan thought, but he took the card and slipped it into the pocket of his lab coat.

"You had a question?” Gillett prodded.

"Um, yes,” said Singh, still flustered. “It's this: do we let people know who they are being read by?"

"In many cases, those of us who have been affected already know,” replied Gillett. “For instance, I'm being read by Rachel Cohen."

"How do you know that?” Singh asked.

"Besides looking at that whiteboard, there, you mean?” Gillett replied with a wry smile. “She told me."

"Oh,” said the professor. “But what about those who don't already know? Do they have the legal right to know who is reading them? After all, it's an invasion of privacy of rare proportions."

Gillett spread his arms. “It's not just those who are being read who have rights, Mr. Singh. Those who are doing the reading have rights, too."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, suppose someone decides he can't abide the notion of somebody else knowing his innermost secrets, and so he tracks down the person who is reading him and kills that person. If you reveal who is reading whom, you might be putting the person doing the reading at risk. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that?"

"I—I don't know,” said Singh.

"What about you, Agent Dawson?” asked Gillett, swiveling his chair a bit to face her.

"I don't know."

"No, you don't. You'll need a legal opinion from the Secret Service's counsel, and that will take days to research and render. There are no exact parallels, of course, but I suspect your attorneys will advise against revealing what you've uncovered, just as they'd advise against revealing anything the government discovers in its normal operations; there's an implied covenant of confidentiality when speaking to a government employee, and without signed waivers from those you've interviewed, you'd be on very thin ice legally if you divulged anything you learned."

"But what about the threat Agent Dawson mentioned of identity theft?” asked Singh.

"Advise people to take suitable precautions without revealing who they are being read by."

"And then just let them go?” asked Susan, resting her bottom now against the edge of a desk.

"It's a free country, Agent Dawson. The affected individuals are entitled to make their own decisions about what they want to do. You cost one of my clients enormously when you detained me earlier today, preventing me from getting to a crucial meeting. He may well direct me to file suit over that. Are you prepared for other lawsuits for wrongful imprisonment? Are you going to pay the people who have jobs if you don't let them go perform them, or compensate them for missed vacations? I want to leave, Miss Cohen wants to leave, and I'm sure many of the others want to leave, especially given today's horrific events. They want to get back to their families, their children, their careers, their lives. And you have no legal option except to let them do that."

* * * *

Chapter 21

David January was pleased that the bitch from the Secret Service had let him go. He was even more pleased that she'd believed him when he'd said he'd hidden being linked to Mark Griffin because accessing Griffin's memories would give him an advantage in negotiating the new collective agreement.

But that wasn't the real reason; not at all.

No, what had come to David, just after the operation on the president, was something far more interesting.

He'd been cleaning up, throwing his bloodied gloves and gown into the disposal unit. Other members of the surgical team had been there, too, including his wife Annie. And Annie had made a joke, saying she wondered who was going to pay President Jerrison's hospital bill.

Christine Lee, the anesthesiologist, had quipped, “I don't think he's quite old enough for Medicare."

And—bam!—it had come to him, the first foreign memory he'd accessed. It was crazy, bizarre—but the memory was vivid, and he knew in his bones that it was true.

Ten years ago, long before he'd joined LT, Dr. Mark Griffin had worked for a health-insurance company. And that company had bilked Medicare out of close to a hundred million dollars, with claims related to a worthless pharmaceutical that supposedly treated Alzheimer's. Griffin, who had been in charge of government billing for the company, masterminded the whole thing.

David January hated health-insurance companies. His father had had no health insurance, because no one would insure him. And Griffin had taken many millions out of the system that was supposed to provide care for those over sixty-five who didn't have coverage—people like David's dad.

Who knew how long these linkages would last? Who knew how long he'd have these memories? After that Secret Service woman finished grilling him—how dare she suggest that Annie had cheated on him!—he headed to Griffin's office. Griffin's secretary, Miss Peters, looked up as he entered. “Is he in?” David asked.

"He's got an appointment in just a couple of minutes, Dr. January. Can I schedule you for later?"

Which meant he was in. David marched past her.

"Excuse me!” Miss Peters said, standing up. “You can't go in there!"

David opened the inner door.

"Dr. January!” Miss Peters said, exasperated.

Inside, Griffin was seated behind a wide wooden desk polished so brightly it gleamed. He looked up, startled.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Griffin,” Miss Peters said.

Griffin nodded. “It's okay, Sherry,” he said. “What is it, Dave?"

David turned and glared at the secretary. She retreated, closing the heavy door behind her.

"I know what you did,” David said.

"What?” replied Griffin.

"Ten years ago. At the insurance company. The Medicare fraud."

Griffin seemed to consider this. His natural impulse might have been to say something like, “I don't know what you're talking about,” but his face conveyed that he knew the rules had changed. And so he tried a different tack. “You think that because you've got a memory that you don't recognize, it must be mine? And, even if it is, that it's not just a fantasy I had or the plot of a movie I saw or a book I read?"

"It's real,” David said. “You did it and you know it. And, more importantly, I know it."

"You've got no proof I did anything—none. And for all I know you've got an iPhone or a BlackBerry in your pocket, recording every word I say. So, for the record, I assert my innocence."

"I know what happened,” David said. “I even know where the records are stored."

Griffin was wearing a red necktie. It was already loosened, and he pulled it out of his blue shirt collar and held it in front of him. “A nice tie,” he said. “Silk. Since you can read my memories, I'm sure you know my wife gave it to me.” He then moved over to a counter at the side of his large office, where a Mr. Coffee was set up next to a tree of coffee mugs. He picked up one of the mugs, and turned it so that David could see the writing on it. “'World's Greatest Dad,'” he said. “My son assures me it's the only one in existence.” And then he did something bizarre: he looped the red tie through the handle of the mug and tied it in a bow. He held it up, as if pleased with his handiwork, and said, “What do you want?"

"You took a hundred million or so out of Medicare. I figured it's worth a lot to keep me silent."

"Not one penny ever went into my pocket for anything unethical,” Griffin said.

"Not directly. But you had stock options, and you got a huge bonus that year."

Griffin spread his arms. “Dave . . . “

"As soon as this stupid lockdown is over, you're going to start paying me to keep quiet."

"So that's it? Blackmail?"

David smiled mirthlessly. “Think of the payments as insurance premiums."

Griffin's tone was perfectly even. “You've just made the worst mistake of your life, Dave."

"I don't think so."

"You're right, you can read my memories. But someone else is reading yours. And—well, let's see who it is?” Griffin moved back to his desk and without sitting down, he made a call. “Ranjip?” he said, after a moment. “Mark Griffin. Can you have a look at that chart of yours for me? Tell me who is reading the memories of David January, the cardiologist?” A pause. “Really? Yeah, I know her. Okay, thanks. No, no, we're still on; I'm almost finished here. Come on up when you're ready. Bye."

Griffin put down the handset and folded his arms in front of his chest. “Professor Singh has just informed me that Dr. Christine Lee, an anesthesiologist, can read your memories. And all I'll have to do is say to Christine, hey, remember that time I tied my red silk tie into a bow through the handle of my ‘World's Greatest Dad’ mug? What did David January say just after that?” He paused. “You see, David? There's a witness—she's somewhere else in the hospital right now, but she's a witness all the same. And the linkages are only first-order, did you know that? That means she'll remember you trying to blackmail me, but she won't remember what you claim to remember of my past; she has access only to your memories, not to mine."

David felt his blood boiling. First, that Secret Service woman had manipulated him—that bullshit about Annie! And now Griffin was fucking with him, too. Well, if he was going to go down for this, he'd at least give Griffin something he'd remember, something all of them would remember. He lunged forward, startling Griffin, and punched the tall man in the stomach. Griffin doubled over, and David got him in a headlock.

"You'll keep your mouth shut,” David said. “You won't speak to Christine."

Griffin was struggling, and David found them moving sideways across the room, toward the same counter that held the coffee service. Griffin broke out of the headlock, but David managed to get a chokehold on him. Griffin flailed his free arm, and he knocked the coffee maker to the floor, the glass parts shattering.

They continued to struggle, but Miss Peters must have heard the sound of the breaking glass because she opened the office door and stood there, mouth agape—and behind her, just entering the outer office, was Professor Singh.

Singh surged forward. “Let him go."

"He attacked me,” David said. “Went nuts. Tried to kill me."

The syllable “no"—mostly just raw breath rather than a word—came from Griffin.

"I said, let him go!” Singh demanded.

David looked at the guy: he was fifty if he was a day and slight of build; David was sure he could take him, too, if he had to. “Back off,” he said.

Singh exploded into movement, rushing forward then pivoting on his left foot while he brought his right foot up into a powerful karate kick, catching David in the side. Griffin seized the chance and managed to twist himself free from David's grip. Singh pivoted again and kicked with his other leg, catching David in the solar plexus, and as David doubled over, Singh delivered a sharp karate punch to the back of David's neck. David slumped face first to the floor. He was still conscious, but, try as he might, he couldn't get back up. He lolled his head to the side to watch.

Griffin was struggling to get his breath and was still doubled over. He held onto the edge of the counter for support.

"Do you need a doctor?” Singh asked.

Griffin huffed and puffed a few more times then shook his head. “No. I'll be okay.” He straightened up partway, and nodded again. “Good thing you know karate, Professor Singh."

David looked up at Singh, his head still spinning. Singh said, “I don't."

"Well, or whatever martial art that was,” said Griffin.

"I don't know any martial arts,” Singh said, his voice full of wonder. “But I guess Lucius Jono—the man I'm linked to—does."

Griffin got out, “Well, thank God for that."

Singh was excited. “Indeed. This is fascinating. I wouldn't have anticipated skills being accessible like that."

Griffin straightened and made it over to his desk. He asked Miss Peters to have a security guard and an ER doctor come up here. Then he loomed in to make sure that David wasn't mortally wounded.

"There are two kinds of human memory,” Singh went on, huffing a bit from exertion. “One is declarative or explicit memory, which is all that I'd thought had been linked between any of us here. Declarative memory consists of those things that can be consciously recalled and easily put into words—memories of facts or events.” He looked down in apparent astonishment at what he'd done to David. “The other kind is what you just saw me access. It's called non-declarative or procedural memory; lay people sometimes call it muscle memory. Non-declarative memories are the ones that you obviously have but are not conscious of: how to ride a bicycle, how to tie a shoe, how to play tennis—which is something I happen to do well—or how to perform martial arts. Declarative memory is associated with the hippocampus, whereas the dorsolateral striatum is associated with non-declarative memory."

Griffin rubbed his throat. “So?"

The door opened and a security guard entered along with a doctor. The doctor immediately went down on one knee to examine David.

"So,” said Singh, “the linkages are much more thorough than perhaps they first appeared to be."

"Or maybe they're growing stronger over time,” Griffin said.

Singh said, “Maybe they are at that. Who knows where it will all end?"

* * * *

Chapter 22

The interviews with the affected people continued; several more “Can Read” and “Is Read By” squares had been filled in on Singh's grid. Susan was back in Singh's office, this time interviewing a woman named Maria Ramirez. She was twenty-seven with black hair tumbling down her back, and she was wearing a loose-fitting top.

"By this point, I imagine you've heard some of the gossip that's going around,” Susan said to Maria, who was seated on the convex side of the kidney-shaped desk. “All that stuff about memories being shared. Are you sharing anyone's memories, do you think?"

"I don't want to get in trouble,” said Maria.

Susan's heart skipped a beat. “You won't get in trouble,” Susan replied. “I promise you. We simply want to identify who's linked to who, that's all. It's not your fault this happened."

Maria seemed to consider this. “What if I say I'm not linked to anyone?"

"You'd be the first person inside the sphere who wasn't,” Susan said. She let Maria digest this. Better that she decide on her own not to lie than that Susan accuse her of being a liar; that would just make her more defensive.

"I didn't ask for this,” Maria said.

Susan nodded. “None of us did."

"You're affected, too?” Maria asked, but then she answered her own question. "Si. You are. You can read the memories of someone here. A scientist named Singh."

Susan sat up straighter. Only Prospector and a few others should have known that. “Maria, who are you linked to?"

"I know I know things I shouldn't. Secret things; secure things. National-security things. I swear to you that I haven't shared them with anyone."

Bingo! “That's fine,” Susan said, encouragingly. “I'm sure the president is very grateful for that."

"Poor Señor Jerrison,” Maria said. “All that blood spilling everywhere.” She shook her head. “It was awful."

"Yes, it was,” said Susan. “Maria, thank you for being honest about this. Of course, others will be interested in what you know. I'll assign you protection; we won't let anything happen to you."

"Gracias," said Maria, sounding distracted. She was looking not at Susan, but past her. Susan didn't have to turn around to know that there was nothing but a bookcase behind her; she had Singh's vivid memories of this place. Maria's voice was full of wonder. “Watching that man squeeze the president's heart . . . “

Susan nodded, recalling it herself from her vantage point in the observation gallery. “That was amazing, wasn't it?” But then her eyebrows shot up. “You remember that?"

"Well, he remembers it."

Susan was amazed. She knew Jerrison had had a near-death experience, and those did sometimes involve seeing oneself from outside the body, usually from up above. But those were hallucinations, she'd always thought: a mind that knew it was dying imagining what was happening to the body that contained it. And yet she'd been with Griffin when he'd briefed Prospector about his brush with death—and Griffin hadn't mentioned the manual stimulation of the heart. Could it be that Jerrison really had, somehow, departed his body and seen Eric Redekop at work?

"If you are going to assign protection to me,” Maria said, “it might as well be him."

"Who?” said Susan, baffled. “The president?"

"What?” replied Maria. “No, no. Him. Darryl Hudkins."

Oh, Christ. “Is that who you're reading?"

"Si, of course. I know he knows all sorts of secret things—I guess that's why they call it the Secret Service. But, like I said, I promise you I haven't told any of them to anyone."

Susan was disappointed—but then her heart started beating quickly again. “Maria, I want you to understand something. I'm the Secret Service agent-in-charge here. I'm Darryl's superior, okay?"

"If you say so."

"No, think about it. Ask yourself if that's true."

She narrowed her brown eyes for a moment, then: “Yes, okay, it's true.” She smiled ever so slightly. “He thinks you're a good boss."

"Good, fine,” said Susan. “Now, I'm going to ask you another question, and I want you to think very, very carefully about it. Your answer is extremely important."

Maria nodded.

"Okay. Here's the question. Did Agent Hudkins have anything at all to do with the attempt on President Jerrison's life?"

Maria narrowed her eyes again then shook her head. “No."

"Are you sure? Are you positive?"

"Si. He had nothing to do with it, but—oh!"

"Yes? Yes?"

"It was an inside job, wasn't it? Another agent—Gordo Danbury—he did it, si?"

"I can't confirm or deny anything at this point. These are national-security matters."

"Darryl can't believe Gordo did it. And—oh! He's been wondering if you're involved."

"Me?” Susan was momentarily shocked, but she supposed his suspicion was as natural as her own. “No, I'm not. And you're totally sure Darryl isn't either, right?"

"I'm sure,” said Maria.

Susan nodded; she could use an ally—someone she could trust—and Darryl was now the only other agent she could be sure of. “Okay, thank you,” Susan said.

"Can I go home now?” Maria asked.

"I'm afraid not. But soon, I hope."

"Good. Because I can't wait to tell my husband the news."

"About the president being shot?” asked Susan, surprised. “Or about the White House?” Surely everyone outside the hospital knew about those things by now.

"No, no. My news. Our news."

"Which is?"

Maria smiled broadly. “That it's a girl."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Our baby. I was here for an ultrasound today."

"You're pregnant?” asked Susan.

"Four months."

Susan surged to her feet and ran down the corridor to Singh's lab.

* * * *

"All right,” said Ranjip Singh, writing on the whiteboard in his lab. “Mark Griffin, the hospital CEO, can read Maria Ramirez. Of course, Griffin's been running around all day—hasn't had much time to probe her memories; he didn't even know she was pregnant until I just asked him about it."

Singh continued. “Maria herself can read Agent Darryl Hudkins.” He filled in the appropriate squares.

"I spent hours modeling the linkages,” Singh added, “looking for a pattern to them—and I kept rejecting one my computer kept spitting out, because it seemed to have two nodes in one. But now that I know about the unborn baby, it makes sense. The linkage pattern of who is linked to whom is an artifact of the sequence of laser firings I'd programmed into my equipment: the paths of the beams traced out the pattern of connections. Not every pulse resulted in a link, and we're not exactly sure of where everyone was deployed within the building when the linkages occurred. Still, here's what I propose.” He erased the X in the name field of the twenty-first column and wrote in Baby Girl Ramirez. “Based on the beam paths, Maria's unborn baby is linked to Rachel Cohen, although what, if anything, a fetus could make of Ms. Cohen's memories, I have no idea. The baby girl probably lacks the referents to confabulate the cues Ms. Cohen is providing into anything meaningful . . . which I suspect is all to the good. Our Ms. Cohen is rather wanton; she formed a liaison with that lawyer, Orrin Gillett, with unseemly haste."

"'Wanton?'” said Susan, smiling at the choice of word. “Horny as all get-out, I'd say. But, yeah."

"And now, as for the rest,” said Singh. “I spoke to Josh Latimer, the intended kidney recipient. He kept insisting he wasn't detecting any foreign memories. He could be lying; he could be the one linked to President Jerrison. But my guess is that he's telling the truth about this, as he sees it. The beam paths suggest he's not linked to Jerrison, but rather to the unborn baby, whose memories are simply not remarkable enough for him to have noticed.” He wrote in those connections. “Which means it's down to three possibilities.” He pointed at the names above the three remaining blank squares in the Can Read row. “This person, this person, or this person—one of them is reading the president."

* * * *

Chapter 23

The DC police had been given copies of the security-camera photos of Bessie Stilwell, but so far they'd failed to turn her up. And Darryl Hudkins kept trying to recall her activities today, to figure out where she'd gone, and—

And memories came to him, of Richard Nixon, of all people. Although Nixon had resigned the presidency before Darryl had been born, he'd seen film of him declaring, “I am not a crook,” and him flashing a pair of V-for-victory finger signs at the crowd as he left the White House for the last time, but . . .

But he'd never felt sympathy for Nixon; Darryl's dad, whenever he spoke of him, referred to him as “Tricky Dick.” And in all Darryl's years working at the White House, he practically never heard Nixon's name; in an almost Soviet-style rewriting of history, the thirty-seventh president had seemingly been expunged from memory.

But suddenly, he was thinking about Nixon, recalling things he'd never known about him—like him speaking to the first astronauts on the moon . . . Buzz something, and that other guy. Back when we'd been proud of him. And him going to China, and meeting Mao. Such a smart move!

But then it had all come tumbling down. First his vice president—Agnew, the name came to Darryl, although he didn't think he'd known it before—had had to resign although over unrelated matters, and then Nixon himself had stepped down.

Unrelated matters.

That was the thought that had popped into Darryl's head, and as he considered it, more details came to him: the “unrelated matters” were charges of extortion, tax fraud, bribery and conspiracy either when Agnew had been Governor of Maryland or Baltimore County Executive.

And those were unrelated to . . .

To Watergate, and—

And—

Yes, yes, yes! That's where she was staying! Not at her son Mike's place, but at the Watergate Hotel, which had recently reopened after major renovations. It came to Darryl now: she'd told Mike she was staying in his apartment, and indeed had gone by it once now, but she preferred a hotel, where housekeeping would find her no later than the next morning if she slipped and fell. She hadn't told Mike that, though; she didn't want him to be worrying about her running up expenses.

The Watergate was a great choice for someone who was visiting Luther Terry; it was only three blocks away, straight down New Hampshire Avenue, the diagonal street that constrained the LT building into a triangular shape. The Watergate complex was on the shore of the Potomac, opposite Theodore Roosevelt Island and just north of the Kennedy Center.

And—yes!—Bessie was looking around the grounds, as much as she could look at anything with her dim vision, and thinking this is where it all began, and—

And her thoughts were interrupted by a siren, and Darryl had heard a siren himself not five minutes ago. Normally, he'd expect to hear ambulance sirens in the vicinity of a hospital but LT was under lockdown, and so Darryl had looked out the window and he'd seen a fire truck barreling north, and—

And Bessie had seen—or at least heard!—the same fire truck; this was a very recent memory.

Darryl spoke into his sleeve even as he broke into a run. “Hudkins to Dawson. I know were Bessie Stilwell is; I'm leaving the building to retrieve her."

"Copy,” said Susan's voice in his ear. “I'll make sure hospital security knows; go out the ambulance bay, not through the lobby."

Darryl could have commandeered a car to drive to the Watergate, but it was less than a thousand yards away. He made it down to the first floor and found himself retracing the path by which they'd brought in the president this morning, going past the staff sleep room, past Trauma, turning right, and heading out through the sliding doors that led to the ambulance driveway. A uniformed hospital security guard was indeed there. He checked Darryl's ID, then unlocked the door for him; Darryl nodded thanks at the man and ran out into the chilly evening.

He hadn't bothered to get his coat—that would have cost him a couple of minutes. He ran past the news crews, and one camera guy tried to follow him, shouting questions—Darryl was, after all, the first person to emerge from the building in hours—but the man, carrying a large camera, wasn't able to keep up with Darryl as he ran along the building's longest side, heading toward Eye Street, then—his heart pounding a bit—H Street, and then—sweating now—under the Potomac River Freeway, emerging at the Watergate Complex. The hotel, he knew, was off to his right along Virginia Avenue, and he continued to run until he got there, making his way into the swanky lobby.

The aristocratic white man behind the front desk looked askance at Darryl, who was breathing hard, but Darryl whipped out his ID and said, his voice ragged, “Secret Service. What room is Bessie Stilwell in?,” but then it came to him before the man answered: room 534. “Give me a pass key."

The desk clerk hesitated for a second, but then programmed a keycard and handed it to Darryl, saying, “She just got back, actually."

Darryl took the plastic card and dashed to the bank of elevators. He stabbed the up button and caught his breath as he waited. Then he rode up to the fifth floor, and—

—and that must be her, down near the end of the corridor, moving slowly away from him; there was no one else in the carpeted hallway.

"Wait!” he called.

She slowly turned around, and Darryl came bounding down the corridor, and she was fumbling to open her purse, and—

—and suddenly he realized how it must look to her: late in the evening, all alone in a long corridor, a large, sweaty black man, huffing and puffing, running right at her.

She soon had a tiny pistol in her hand. Darryl stopped dead in his tracks; he could have easily drawn his own gun and blown her away—he had no doubt his reflexes and aim were better than hers—but instead he raised his hands a little.

"Mrs. Stilwell,” he said, hoping the fact that he knew her name would calm her a bit. She peered at him; there were maybe twenty feet between them. Darryl noted the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door next to him. “I'm a Secret Service agent. Maybe you saw me today at the hospital?"

And saying that triggered him to recall her seeing him for the first time. She had indeed noticed him at the hospital, and—

What's that—

Darryl was stunned as the rest of the thought tumbled into his consciousness: What's that nigger doing over there?

And: Up to no good, I suppose.

And: My God, is that blood on his sleeve? Well, there you have it! Been in a knife fight or something. Probably over drugs . . .

He found his head shaking and he felt furious. He wanted to say that it was the president's blood, that he'd gotten it on him trying to save the man's life, that she was so totally full of shit.

Bessie still had the gun aimed at him, and still looked terrified because . . .

. . . because he was black. Because he was colored. Because he was a—

That fucking word again.

Jesus!

She looked back over her shoulder now, but of course there was no way she could outrun him; he was a third her age.

"Mrs. Stilwell,” he said, “please lower the gun."

She looked down, as if surprised that the little pistol was in her hands. Darryl actually hadn't put away his ID since showing it to the desk clerk; it was still in his left hand, and he flipped it open and held it out in front of him as he slowly started closing the distance. “I just need to ask you a few questions."

"Sorry,” she said. “I thought you were . . . I thought . . . “

"Well, I'm not,” said Darryl. He considered suggesting they go into her room to talk, but he realized she'd freak if he did that, so instead he said, “Would you mind coming back to the hospital with me? There's a small matter we need to clear up . . ."

"You really are a Secret Service agent?"

"Yes, ma'am. And I think you should give me that gun."

She thought about it for a moment, then handed it to him. He escorted her down to the lobby and brought her back to the hospital in a cab; the cabbie was not thrilled about such a short trip, but Darryl tried to make up for it by telling him to keep the change from the twenty-dollar bill he handed him. He and Bessie re-entered the hospital through the ambulance-bay doors, and then he walked her to the conference room on one, told her to have a seat in there, called Susan Dawson to come do the questioning, and went off to wash his hands.

Fortunately, he thought, there was lots of disinfectant in a hospital.

* * * *

Chapter 24

Susan Dawson entered the conference room. Its only occupant was sitting in a chair, staring off into space. “Mrs. Stilwell?” Susan said.

No response. Susan tried again, speaking more loudly. “Mrs. Stilwell? How are you?"

The old woman turned in her chair. “Still breathing,” she said. “At my age, that's about all you can hope for."

Susan smiled. “I understand you were here earlier today to visit your son, is that right?"

Mrs. Stilwell nodded. “He had a heart attack a couple of days ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that,” Susan said.

"Works too hard. I wish he'd come back to Mississippi with me, but he's like his father that way. Stubborn."

"Will he be all right?” Susan asked.

"So they say."

"It was nice of you to come visit him."

"You never stop being a mother,” Bessie said, “no matter how old your children get."

"I imagine so,” said Susan.

"You don't have children?"

Susan shook her head.

"Are you married?"

In a normal interrogation, Susan would say, “I'll ask the questions, ma'am,” but she had a hard time being disrespectful to the elderly. She shook her head again.

"A pretty young thing like you?” said Bessie. “There must be lots of men who are interested."

"You'd be surprised, ma'am,” Susan said. She thought about leaving it at that, then, with a small shrug, added: “Many men are intimidated by strong women. When they find out what I do for a living, they tend to get scared off."

"You're a Secret Service agent, too?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-four, ma'am."

"And you don't feel the old biological clock ticking?"

"I feel it,” Susan said, simply. Then: “Mrs. Stilwell, I need to ask you a few questions."

"All right."

"There's something strange going on here at the hospital, ma'am. People are reading other people's memories."

Mrs. Stilwell frowned. “What nonsense."

"I can understand your thinking so, ma'am. It does seem odd. But it has to do with an experiment that went awry here. As it happens, I'm linked to the experimenter; there's no question about it. And one of the other Secret Service agents—Darryl Hudkins—is linked to you; that's how he knew where to find you."

"That colored man?"

Susan felt her eyebrows going up. “Um, yes."

Bessie frowned again. “I don't think I like that."

Susan let that go. “And so you should be linked to somebody, too. Do you have any strange memories?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. This is all nonsense."

Susan decided to try another tack. “Do you know the ZIP code for the White House?"

"Gracious, Miss Susan, I don't even know my own ZIP code. I always have to look at where I have it written down."

"What about the name of the president's hometown, do you know what that is?"

"Haven't a clue."

"Are you sure? It's in northern California."

"No idea."

Susan made a face. The problem was obvious: Mrs. Stilwell wasn't even trying to remember things. She didn't narrow her eyes, or wrinkle her brow, or take even a second before answering. It was all foolishness to her; she had no reason to think she knew the answer, and so wasn't making any effort to see if she did.

"I really need you to try," Susan said.

"How old are you, Miss Susan?"

Susan frowned. “Um, I'm—"

But Bessie raised a hand. “Yes, yes, I know I just asked you that—but I don't remember your answer. See? You get to be my age, you don't remember much of anything. And it's no fun being reminded of that. So, if you'll forgive me . . . “

Susan thought about letting her get away with it. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't a security risk even if she were the one linked to the president. And, she thought, Jerrison actually was lucky—well, as lucky as a man who recently got shot could be!—in that, even if the linkages turned out to be permanent, Bessie Stilwell would pass away sometime in the next few years, while Susan might be stuck with Kadeem Adams reading her memories for the rest of her life.

But that would never satisfy Director Hexley—or Prospector. She had to know for sure, and—

Her earpiece bleeped. She lifted her arm. “Dawson, go."

"Sue, it's Darryl. I'm with Singh. We've questioned the other two possibilities, and it's neither of them. Mrs. Stilwell must be the one."

"Copy that,” said Susan into her sleeve. “Out.” She turned to the old woman. “Mrs. Stilwell, you're it—there's no doubt. You're linked to President Jerrison."

"I tell you, Miss Susan, I'm not."

"Think about the question I'm about to ask you, ma'am. Really think about it. It's important, okay?"

The old woman nodded.

"All right, now. Think about this. What is today's dayword?"

"'Dayword'? I don't know what that means."

"Just ask yourself, Mrs. Stilwell, what is today's dayword? And really think about it."

She pursed her thin lips. And then she lifted her frail arms in exasperation. “I don't know!"

"Guess,” said Susan. “Say the first word that pops into your mind. Today's dayword is . . . “

"Oh, for Pete's—all right, all right. Um, ‘potbelly.’”

Susan's heart skipped a beat. It wasn't today's word, which Prospector would have memorized this morning; it was the one from three days ago. Still, if this woman was somehow reading Susan or Darryl, she could be accessing the dayword from their memories rather than the president's.

"All right,” Susan said. “One more question: what high school did President Jerrison attend?"

"Land's sake, I don't know these things!"

"Guess. Just guess. Please, ma'am."

Maybe that final bit of courtesy did the trick, because Bessie stopped protesting and frowned in concentration. “Nordhoff High,” she said, then, after a second, she added, “Go, Rangers!"

Susan pulled out her BlackBerry, went to the president's Wikipedia page, and checked; the old lady was correct. She put away the phone and spoke into her sleeve. “Dawson to Hudkins. You're right, Darryl. I'm here with our threat to national security."

* * * *

Now that they'd found the person reading President Jerrison's memories, Agent Dawson conceded that there was no longer any legal basis for continuing the lockdown. Still, before they would be allowed to leave the hospital, each of the affected people was individually briefed by LT's director of risk management, by Professor Singh, and by one of the hospital's psychiatrists. They were all advised that they were welcome, nay encouraged, to stay at the hospital, as no one could predict what impact or side effects the memory linkages might have.

They were also told that, if they stayed, they would be admitted for free, and they'd be kept under observation and have immediate access to whatever care they might need. Still, those who did want to leave—which turned out to be just about everyone except Joshua Latimer and his daughter Dora Hennessey, who'd had their transplant operation rescheduled for Monday—were required to sign Refusal of Care Against Medical Advice forms. Also, everyone's contact information was collected and verified, and follow-up medical examinations were booked for five days’ hence.

While that was being done, Mark Griffin sat down in front of the large microphone attached to the public-address system, took a deep breath—and paused; his throat was still raw from being throttled by David January. He swallowed, coughed, then tried speaking into the mike again. “Your attention, please. Your attention, please. I have an important announcement to make. Your attention please."

He waited for a couple of seconds, then: “This is Dr. Mark Griffin, and I'm the chief executive officer here at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. As doubtless most of you know by now, President Seth Jerrison was shot this morning, and he was brought here for surgery. I'm delighted to tell you that his condition is stable."

There were always lawsuits following any lockdown; the next paragraph had been carefully crafted to hopefully at least somewhat reduce their number.

"The lockdown of this building was implemented at the request of the United States Secret Service. We and they thank you for your cooperation in this time of national crisis, and President Jerrison himself has asked me to pass on his personal gratitude to each and every one of you."

Another pause to let that sink in, then: “We will shortly end the lockdown.” Even in this closed office, he could hear the cheers going up. “Because we may need to get in touch with you again, we will be recording your names and contact information as you leave. There are hundreds of people in the building, so we have to process you in an orderly fashion. Staff members may leave through the staff exit whenever their shifts end. For visitors and outpatients, if your last name begins with the letters A, B, C, or D, you may head down to the lobby now."

Griffin swallowed then went on. “We will, of course, provide you with a free parking voucher good through the end of the night. Please make your way out in an orderly fashion, and, again, many, many thanks for your understanding."

He paused, then began over again in Spanish: "Su atencion, por favor. Su atencion, por favor. Tengo un anuncio importante que hacer . . ." He was surprised at how fluent he sounded; he wasn't usually this good. But then it came to him: Maria Ramirez, the young woman he was linked to, was bilingual.

* * * *

"We found her,” Susan Dawson said, coming into the president's room.

Seth lolled his head slightly to look at Susan, and Sheila, his nurse, also turned to face her. “Who?"

"The person reading your memories,” Susan said. “Her name is Bessie Stilwell, and she's eighty-seven."

"Did she . . . ah, has she . . . ?"

"Revealed anything? Nothing crucial. And we're hoping it'll stay that way, of course. We'll keep her away from the press and so forth."

Seth managed a small nod, then: “I'd like to speak with her."

Susan's eyebrows went up. “Sir, if I may, I don't think that's wise. She's a huge security risk. Seeing you will doubtless trigger more memories to come back; you really don't want to have anything sensitive brought to her mind."

Seth looked at the Secret Service agent, wondering just how much she herself knew; she shouldn't know anything about Counterpunch, of course, but . . .

But maybe she did—and maybe Gordo Danbury had known, too.

Gordo. Damn it, if only he could remember what Leon Hexley had been saying on the phone. "Tell Gordo to . . . “

But no matter how much he racked his brain, it wasn't coming back to him. But maybe this woman, this—what had Susan said her name was? This Bessie? Maybe she could remember the conversation. “Bring her here,” Seth said.

"Sir, I really—"

"Bring her."

Susan nodded. “As you wish, sir."

* * * *

Chapter 25

Ivan Tarasov was satisfied with his job as a security guard at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. He was less happy about reading the memories of Dora Hennessey, the woman who'd come here from London to donate a kidney to her father. Ivan tried to keep her memories from coming to mind, but there really was no way to avoid them. Most of them were uninteresting to him. She was a guidance counselor, and he'd always preferred things involving hard science or math but had done too poorly in school to ever get a job in those areas. Today, there'd be a diagnosis for his condition, but twenty-five years ago, when he'd been in high school, they just said he didn't work hard enough.

Dora was a fan of British football; he didn't care for contact sports—years of working here at LT had left him unable to abide people purposefully engaging in behaviors that would result in concussions, hernias, damaged joints, and bruised organs. She was active in clubbing and bar-hopping; he preferred to curl up with his Kindle and read books about the Civil War—he was working through Shelby Foote's history of it for the fifth time.

Now that the lockdown was over, Ivan was pleased to leave the hospital. Still, he paused just outside it for a time, looking east. The whole sky was dark now, but he could make out the smoke billowing from where the White House had been.

He got on the metro. Normally, he ignored other people, but today he found himself looking at them—looking right at them, their faces haunted, gaunt, drawn. It was the same thing on the bus: lost souls, some still softly crying.

Finally, he made it to his house. His wife Sally came down to the entryway along with his three-year-old daughter Tanya. They knew he didn't like to be touched, but today was an unusual day, and they needed whatever he could offer them. He accepted a kiss from Sally and then picked up Tanya and carried her into the small living room, where he set her on the couch. He then sat himself down beside her.

Ivan was devastated by today's terrible events—but also couldn't help being upset that his daily routine had been interrupted. He should have been here hours ago to watch Wonder Pets with Tanya; it was their ritual every day when he got home from work. Of course, he'd planned for such contingencies; their PVR was set to record Wonder Pets. He found the remote and started it playing. He briefly spared a thought for the person who was linked to him—some lawyer named Orrin Gillett—who now must also know the plots of all forty-two episodes by heart, not to mention every trivial fact about Linny the Guinea Pig, Turtle Tuck, and Tanya's favorite, Ming-Ming Duckling.

He looked at his daughter and—

God.

He shook his head, looked away, but—

But the images were still there.

Horrific images.

Images of . . .

No. No. He did not want to see this!

But . . .

God. God. God.

The sight of Tanya, sitting on the couch in her little pink dress, made him think of—

No, no. It was awful. To do that to a child! To touch a little girl that way!

The image of a man came to him, but it was no one he knew. A narrow head, brown hair, brown eyes behind unfashionably large lenses.

The face loomed in at . . . at her, shushing her, telling her it would all be all right, telling her to never breathe a word about this, telling her that it was their little secret that he liked her so much, that she was so special, and—

He shook his head again, but the images were still there, the memories.

Memories. Yes, plural. Another time, the same man, but wearing different clothes. Or, at least, starting out wearing different clothes, until he unzipped . . .

No!

Ivan stood up, left his daughter, left the room, and closed his eyes, desperately trying to shut the images out.

"Mr. President,” said Susan Dawson, “this is Bessie Stilwell."

Seth still had tubes going into his left arm, and a small oxygen intake plugged into his nostrils. But he rallied some strength and extended his right hand toward Bessie, who responded with an astonished expression.

"What?” said the president, looking at his own hand to see if it were dirty or something.

"Sorry, Mr. President,” said Bessie. “I'm—it's just a flood of images. All the people whose hands you've shaken with that hand. The British prime minister. The Russian premier. The German chancellor. The Chinese president. And—” She took a half step back, as if daunted. “And the movie stars. Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp and—oh, he's always been one of my favorites!—Christopher Plummer."

"And now,” said Seth Jerrison, who, even in his current state, had an ability almost as good as Bill Clinton's to make whomever he was talking to feel like the most important person in the world, “it's going to shake your hand.” He extended his arm again.

Bessie hesitated for another moment, then moved closer and took Seth's hand in his. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. President."

"The pleasure is all mine.” He turned toward Susan. “Agent Dawson, won't you give us a moment? I'm sure I'm safe with Mrs. Stilwell."

Susan looked like she was going to protest, but then she nodded and headed out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Seth motioned for Bessie to take a seat. She did so; there was a vinyl-covered chair next to the bed. But she was shaking her head.

"What?” asked Seth.

"Nothing, sir. Just memories."

"I understand, believe me. I'm recalling strange things, too, from the person I'm linked to."

"Yes, but . . . “

"But what?"

Bessie averted her eyes but said nothing more.

Seth nodded. It was like the WikiLeaks scandal: all those embarrassing State Department emails. “You don't just recall me shaking, say, President Sarkozy's hand at the G8. You also recall what I thought of him then, right?"

Bessie nodded meekly.

Seth's energy ebbed and flowed, but one of his doctors had recently given him a stimulant. He found he could speak at greater length, at least for the moment, without exhausting himself. “I'm a human being,” he said. “And so are all the other national leaders. So, yes, I've got opinions about them, and they've doubtless got opinions about me."

"You really hate the Canadian prime minister."

Seth didn't hesitate. “Yes, I do. He's a weaselly, petty man."

Bessie seemed to digest this. “So, um, what happens now?” she asked, looking briefly at the president then averting her gaze again.

"If word gets out that you're linked to me, lots of people are going to come after you."

"Gracious!” said Bessie.

"So, as of right now, you're under the protection of the Secret Service."

Seth had anticipated that she'd answer with, “Oh, I'm sure that's not necessary,” or maybe with, “Well, I hope they do a better job of protecting me than they did of protecting you,” but what she actually said was, “My son, too, please."

"Sorry?"

"My son Michael. He's here in the hospital; he's the reason I'm in town. If people want to get at me, they might go after him."

Seth managed another small nod. “Absolutely. We'll protect him, too."

"Thank you, sir."

He found it slightly amusing to be called “sir” by someone a quarter of a century older than himself, but he let it pass; Mrs. Stilwell was from the South, and manners still counted down there.

"And,” he said, “speaking of the Secret Service, there's an agent named Gordo Danbury."

Bessie frowned. “You mean there was an agent by that name."

"Exactly. Do you know who Leon Hexley is?"

Another frown, then: “The director of the Secret Service."

"That's right. A few days ago, I came upon him in the Oval Office, and he was talking to someone on his phone . . . “ Seth paused to catch his breath, then: “. . . and I think he was talking about Gordo Danbury. Do you remember me hearing that conversation?"

"This is so strange,” Bessie said.

"Yes,” agreed Seth. “But do you remember it?"

"I don't remember a conversation about Gordo Danbury."

"No, Leon didn't say his last name. Just ‘Gordo.’ he said, ‘Tell Gordo to . . . ‘ something. Do you remember that?"

"No."

"Please try."

"Gordo. That's a funny name."

"It's short for Gordon. ‘Tell Gordo to . . .’”

"I sort of remember it,” Bessie said, “He said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim . . .’”

To aim! Yes, that was right! It was one more word than he himself had initially been able to remember. But Jesus: to aim! “There was some more,” Seth said. “Some numbers, maybe?"

"That's all I can recall,” Bessie said.

"If any more of it comes to you . . ."

"Of course,” she said. “But . . ."

"Yes?"

"I'm trying not to recall your memories,” she said. “I don't like knowing your thoughts, sir. I don't like it at all. I voted for you. I'll tell you the truth: I was hoping one of the others would get the Republican nomination; you're too middle-of-the-road for my tastes. Still, I always vote Republican—always have, always will. But a lot of what you said on the campaign trail was lies."

"I admit it perhaps wasn't always the full truth, but—"

"It was lies," Bessie said. “In many, many cases. You said whatever you had to say to get elected. When I recall your memories, I feel ashamed.” She looked directly at him. “Don't you?"

Seth found himself unable to meet the eyes of this woman who could see right into his mind. “It's not an easy thing, getting elected,” he said. “There are compromises to be made."

"It's a dirty business,” said Bessie. “I don't like it."

"To tell the truth, I don't, either. I'm not sorry I ran, though, and I'm going to do as much good as I can while I'm in office. But you're right: I compromised to get here. And you know what? That was the right thing to do."

"Compromises are one thing,” Bessie said. “Lies are another."

"No one who told the truth all the time could get elected—and so we bend the truth on small matters to accomplish the important things. An evil politician is one who lies all the time; a good one picks and chooses when to lie."

"Horsefeathers,” she snapped.

He paused. “Well, then, think of it this way, Bessie—may I call you Bessie? Think of it like this: you're my conscience from now on, for as long as these links last. I won't be able to lie because you'll know that I'm lying. You'll keep me honest."

She responded immediately. “You can count on it."

* * * *

Eric Redekop was delighted the lockdown was over. He headed down to the staff entrance on the first floor, and—

And there was Janis Falconi; she was heading out, too.

She hadn't noticed him yet, and he took a moment to look at her and think. The flood of her memories continued unabated. He knew now how the rest of her day had gone, what she'd had as an afternoon snack—who'd have guessed pork rinds?—and . . .

And she was clean, at least at the moment. She hadn't shot up since . . .

Well, good for her! It'd been three days, but . . .

But she was dreading going home, dreading going back to Tony, dreading her whole damned life. He thought about whether she'd yet told Tony that the lockdown was over; she hadn't.

The staff had to check out with the Secret Service, just like the visitors to the hospital, although they had a separate line down here. Jan was in that line.

"Great work, Eric,” said a doctor as he crossed the room. “Heard all about it."

"Thanks,” Eric said, his eyes still on Jan.

Another person touched his arm as he continued to close the distance. “Congratulations, Dr. Redekop!"

"Thanks,” he said again. There were eight people behind Jan and twice as many in front. She still hadn't noticed him, and if he just joined the end of the line, she'd get out long before he did.

Which shouldn't matter. Which should be fine.

But . . .

But . . .

He walked up to her. “Hey, Janis,” he said.

She turned and smiled—a radiant smile, a wonderful smile. “Dr. Redekop."

"Hey,” he said again, disappointed by his own repartee. Then he said, “Um.” And then he turned to the man behind them. “Do you mind if I . . . ?"

The man smiled. “You saved the president today. I think that entitles you to cut in."

"Thanks.” He looked at Jan and lowered his voice. “So, um, I guess you're also one of those affected by that experiment."

She glanced around, as if this was something she'd been trying to keep under wraps, then said softly, “Yeah."

"Who are you linked to?"

"His name's Josh Latimer. He's a patient here, waiting for a kidney transplant."

"Ah."

She looked at him. “How'd you know I was affected?"

It was his turn to look around, but the guy behind him was now talking to the person behind him, and the woman in front was wearing white earbuds; she seemed oblivious to their conversation. “Because,” he said, “I'm reading you."

Jan immediately dropped her gaze.

"So,” said Eric, “um, are you in a hurry to get home, or . . . ?"

She didn't look up but she did reply. “No,” she said. “I'm not."

* * * *

Chapter 26

Bessie Stilwell left the president's room accompanied by a Secret Service agent. Once she was gone, Seth asked for Professor Singh to be brought to his room.

"Mr. President, what can I do for you?” Singh said, upon arrival.

"I take it you've worked out all the linkages, right?"

"Yes, sir. We've got a chart."

"So, I can read Kadeem, Kadeem can read . . . Susan, is it?"

"Yes, that's right. And Agent Dawson can read me, and I can read Dr. Lucius Jono, who helped save your life. Dr. Jono can read Nikki Van Hausen, a real-estate agent. And so on."

"And Darryl?

"Agent Hudkins? He's the one who can read Bessie Stilwell's memories."

"No, I mean, who is reading him?"

"Maria Ramirez—the pregnant lady."

"Good, okay.” A pause, then: “How do you remember all that?"

"I wouldn't be much of a memory researcher if I didn't know various tricks for memorizing things. A standard method is to use ‘the memory palace.’ Take a building you know well, and visualize the things you want to remember inside that building in the order you'd encounter them as you actually walked through it. In this case, I think of my own house back in Toronto. There's an entryway, and I picture myself there, making me the starting point. In the entryway, there's a door to the garage. I picture Lucius Jono—who's got crazy red hair—in a clown car in there, with a bunch of other clowns, but he's trying to get out, because it's dark in the garage, and he wants to be in the light; ‘Lucius’ means ‘light.’ Next to that door is a small washroom. Lucius Jono can read Nikki Van Hausen, and—well, forgive me, but I think of rushing to the washroom in an emergency, and making it in the nick of time. A play on her name. Next to the washroom is the staircase leading up to my living room. Nikki can read the memories of Dr. Eric Redekop, the lead surgeon. I picture bodies stretched out on each of the four steps, and him operating on all four of them simultaneously, scalpels in each of his hands, and also, monkey-like, in each of his feet, as well."

"Good grief!” said Jerrison.

"The more bizarre the image, the more memorable it is."

"I suppose,” Seth said. “Anyway, I need your help. There's something important I have to recall but can't."

"One of your own memories, or one of Private Adams's?"

The question would have been nonsensical just twenty-four hours ago, Seth thought. “One of my own."

"Well, I understand they've located the woman who was linked to you—Mrs. Stilwell, I believe. Perhaps she can recall it?"

"No. I already thought of that. She can't. So I was wondering if your equipment could help either her or me to dredge it up."

"What was the memory?"

"A conversation I overheard."

"Forgive me, but can you perhaps be more specific?"

Seth considered how much to tell Singh. “I overheard one end of a phone conversation—Leon Hexley, the director of the Secret Service, talking on his cell."

"Well,” said Singh, “if it had been me, that'd be an easy memory to isolate—because an encounter with such a high-ranking official would be a remarkable thing. But for you, sir? An everyday occurrence. My equipment would have a hard time pinpointing it."

"Damn. It's crucial that I recall what he said."

"Recall is a tricky thing, sir. It requires something to bring it to mind."

"I suppose."

"People always get frustrated when other people can't remember things. In fact, my wife was mad at me a couple of weeks ago, because I couldn't remember something that had happened on our honeymoon. She'd snapped, ‘But it's important! Why can't you remember?’ You know what my reply was?"

Seth managed a small shake of his head.

Singh exploded in mock-anger. "Because I was loaded, okay?"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Seth couldn't stop himself from smiling. “I used to love that show."

"Me, too,” said Singh. “But, actually, I'm not making a joke. Not that I was loaded—I don't drink. But declarative memories are best recalled under the same circumstances as they were laid down. Memories formed while drunk—or underwater, or at a hotel—come back best when drunk or underwater or back at that hotel."

"Damn,” said Seth.

"What?” replied Singh.

"The conversation took place in the Oval Office—and that doesn't exist anymore."

"Ah, I see,” said Singh. But then he smiled. “Still, perhaps there is a way."

* * * *

Kadeem Adams didn't have a room at LT; he'd come to the hospital yesterday morning as part of his work with Professor Singh, and was staying in a small hotel Singh had arranged. But although the lockdown was now over, he'd hung around, hoping for a call from Susan Dawson, who had said the president was sleeping intermittently. Kadeem was sitting in Singh's little office on the third floor, doodling on a pad of paper.

He knew he might never have a chance like this again. The linkages had persisted for hours now, but no one knew if they were permanent. And, even if they were, he hoped—he prayed—Professor Singh would finish what he'd started in treating him. But for now—for right now—he had something that people jockeyed for, fought for, bribed for, begged for: he had the attention of the president of the United States. It was an opportunity not to be wasted, and, if Singh did figure out how to break the linkages, an opportunity that wouldn't come again.

Kadeem understood how it worked: the president didn't think the same thoughts at the same time as he did, but he could recall anything that Kadeem knew, just as Kadeem could recall anything that Susan Dawson remembered.

And so he knew, because he'd been pondering the question, that Sue had indeed pushed for him to be allowed to visit the president. And, at last, the call came. He told Agent Dawson where he was, and she came to get him, escorting him down the stairs. His footfalls and hers echoed in the stairwell; she was behind him. They exited on the second floor and headed along the corridor. A photographer—a Hispanic man of maybe forty—was waiting; he had two big cameras on straps around his neck. The three of them continued on into the president's room. Two Secret Service agents stood on either side of the closed door. They nodded curtly at Agent Dawson, and one of them opened the door, holding it while first Kadeem then Susan entered.

It was shocking to see Jerrison like this. He was looking haggard and wan. It was almost enough to make Kadeem stop, but—

But no. He had to do this; he owed it to the others.

As he looked at the president, more details registered. He was surprised, for instance, at how much white there was in the president's hair. Kadeem remembered him from the campaign, mostly, when his hair had been mixed between gray and sandy brown. He imagined that being leader of the free world aged you more rapidly than just about any other job.

Kadeem glanced at the nurse sitting across the room, then looked again at Jerrison. The back of the president's bed was elevated so that he could sit up a bit. He was wearing Ben Franklin glasses, but they had slid down the considerable length of his nose. He looked over them, smiled, and managed a small wave. “Come in"—flash!—"young man!"—flash!—"Come in!"

The photographer jockeyed for position, now getting shots of Kadeem. Kadeem was surprised to hear his voice crack; it hadn't done that since he was thirteen. “Hey, Mister President."

The president extended—flash!—his hand—flash!—and Kadeem closed the distance—flash!—and shook it—flash! Jerrison's grip was weak; it was clearly an effort for him to shake hands at all.

"Please,” the president said, gesturing now to a vinyl-covered chair next to his bed. “Won't you have a seat?"

Kadeem sat down, which put his head and the president's at roughly the same level. “Thank you, sir."

"So, Miss Dawson tells me you're in the army?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your rank?” But then he smiled. “Private, first class, right? Serial number 080-79-3196, isn't it?"

"That's it, sir."

"It's so strange, having your memories, young man."

"It's strange to me, sir, knowing you have them."

"I'm sure, I'm sure. I'm not deliberately snooping, you know. I'm not saying to myself, ‘Gee, I wonder what Kadeem and Kristah's first date was like?,’ or—” Then he frowned. “Oh. Well, I'm with you. I thought Tropic Thunder was a funny film, even if she didn't."

Kadeem felt his head shaking slowly left to right; it was amazing.

"Anyway, sorry,” said the president. “The point is that I'm not deliberately doing stuff like that. You're entitled to your privacy, young man."

"Thank you, sir."

"So you were overseas?"

"Yes, sir. Operation Iraqi Freedom."

To his credit, the president's gaze didn't waver. “But you're home now,” Jerrison said in a tone that Kadeem was sure was meant to elicit gratitude.

Kadeem took a deep breath, then: “Not exactly, sir. My home is in Los Angeles. But I'm being treated here."

Jerrison frowned, perplexed. “I'm sorry. I didn't know you were injured."

And perhaps he had already recalled what Kadeem was about to tell him—but had simply forgotten, what with the mountain of other things he had to think about. Kadeem sighed slightly. If only everything could be so easily forgotten. “I've got PTSD."

The president nodded. “Ah, yes."

"Professor Singh's been helping me. Or he was, until we got interrupted; he's still got a lot of work to do."

"You're in good hands, I'm sure,” said Jerrison. “We always try to look after our boys in uniform."

The comment seemed sincere, and although Kadeem indeed hadn't voted for Jerrison—he hadn't voted for anyone—he again had second thoughts about what he intended to do. No one should have to go through this.

But he had; Kadeem had. Hundreds of times now. And if the pleas of service moms hadn't succeeded, if the sight of flag-covered coffins hadn't done it, if the bleak news reports out of Baghdad hadn't been enough, maybe, just maybe, this would be.

"Thank you, sir,” Kadeem said. The president was hooked up to a vital-signs monitor like the one Kadeem had been connected to before; it was showing seventy-two heartbeats per minute. Kadeem imagined his own pulse rate was much higher. The president of the United States! Kalil and Lamarr would never believe this. But then Kalil and Lamarr had stayed in South Central; they probably didn't really believe—or, at least, didn't fully appreciate—the stories Kadeem had brought back from Iraq.

But the president could be made to believe.

To appreciate.

To feel.

"Mr. President, I have to say it's a pleasure to meet you, sir. My mamma, sir, she's not going to believe this."

The president gestured toward the photographer, who quickly snapped three more shots. “We'll send her pictures, of course.” And then the president's eyebrows went up. “Your mamma—she's a nice lady, isn't she?"

"She's the best, sir."

He nodded. “This is so strange. Tanisha, isn't it? I see you love her very much."

"I do, sir. She done her best by me."

"I'm sure, I'm sure. And—oh!—it's her birthday next week, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Won't you give her my regards?"

Kadeem nodded. “She'd be thrilled, sir.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Dawson looking at her watch. He doubtless didn't have much time left, and—

And even the mere thought of what he was going to do set his stomach to churning, and he could feel perspiration breaking out on his brow.

"Well,” Kadeem said, “I'm sure you've got matters of state"—a phrase he never thought he'd utter in his whole life—"to attend to.” He stood up, and the chair's four legs made a scraping sound against the tiled floor as he pushed it back a bit. He took a deep breath and swallowed, trying to calm himself, then, finally, he blurted it out: “But I hope you'll think about babies after I leave, sir."

The president looked at him, his eyebrows pulled together. “Babies?"

"Yes, sir. Crying babies.” Kadeem felt his own pulse racing and he reached out to steady himself by holding onto the angled part of the president's bed, which caused Agent Dawson to surge forward. “Crying babies,” Kadeem repeated, “and the smell of smashed concrete."

The president made a sharp intake of breath, and although the volume on his vital-signs monitor was turned almost all the way down, Kadeem could hear the heartbeat pings accelerating.

It happened with astonishing quickness: footfalls outside the door, then a woman came in—black, elegant—ah, one of Sue's memories: it was Alyssa Snow, Jerrison's private physician. “Mr. President, are you okay?” she asked.

All the eyes—the photographer's, agent Dawson's, Kadeem's, the nurse's, and Dr. Snow's—were on Seth Jerrison. There were whites visible all around his irises, as if he were seeing something horrific.

And he was. Kadeem had no doubt. Yes, just because they were linked didn't mean their recollections were in synch, but the flashback trigger would have had the same effect on the president as it was having on him. They might be experiencing different parts of it just now—Kadeem was seeing the half-track rolling over a corpse; the president might be seeing another wall shattering under mortar fire. But they were both there, Kadeem for the thousandth time, and Seth Jerrison for the very first.

"Mr. President?” asked Dr. Snow, desperately. “Are you okay, sir?"

The president was shaking his head slowly left and right, a small arc of what looked liked disbelief, and his mouth had dropped open. Dr. Snow was now standing on the opposite side of the bed from Kadeem and using two fingers to check the president's pulse.

Kadeem staggered backward and ended up leaning against the wall for support.

Fire.

Smoke.

Screams.

He could barely see the real world, the hospital room, the president, but he turned his head and tried to make out the great man's expression. His face showed not shock and awe, but shock and horror. The doctor was moving now to wipe the president's brow.

Explosions.

Babies crying.

Gunfire.

"Mr. President?” Snow said. “Sir, for God's sake!"

Agent Dawson moved in, too, and also said, “Mr. President?"

Kadeem knew, of course, that neither of them noticed, or, if they did notice, that neither of them cared that he was in distress, too. That was normal here in Washington, the way it had been not just since the start of this war, but going right back to Korea.

But maybe, just maybe, that would change now. He tried to shunt aside his own fear so that he could see Jerrison's face contort, see him recoil from some invisible blow or explosion, see him, the president of the United States, be the first person holding that office in decades to walk in a soldier's shoes, share a soldier's burden, and feel a soldier's terror at the things those back home had ordered soldiers to do.

To be continued. . . .

Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Sawyer

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Don Sakers

Within the cosmos of science fiction, there is an alternate universe—one whose biggest names include the likes of Margaret Atwood, Jorge Luis Borges, Mary Doria Russell, and Kurt Vonnegut. More traditional SF names like Samuel R. Delany, William Gibson, and Ursula K. LeGuin are part of this universe—but Poul Anderson, Isaac Asimov, and Robert A. Heinlein are not. It is a universe in which pulp magazines might as well not have existed, and the Campbell revolution is largely irrelevant.

In this parallel universe, you won't catch readers perusing the pages of Analog or Asimov's (although they might occasionally glance at an issue of Fantasy and Science Fiction), and they usually walk right by the SF/fantasy section of their local bookstore. Yet here, SF is thriving; sales are good and much exciting work is being published.

I'm speaking, of course, about the universe of Literary Science Fiction.

LitSF (if I may be a bit familiar) traces its roots back to the same place as our familiar, non-Lit variety: at least to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and from there through Jules Verne and H.G. Wells. But whereas regular SF evolved in the direction of Gernsback and the pulp magazines of the 1920s, LitSF took a different path, a path that led through Franz Kafka, Aldous Huxley, B.F. Skinner, George Orwell, and C. S. Lewis. Ray Bradbury somehow managed to straddle the two paths.

LitSF had its next milestone when Michael Moorcock launched the so-called “New Wave” in the pages of New Worlds magazine in 1964. Moorcock's writers—the likes of Brian Aldiss, J. G. Ballard, M. John Harrison, Charles Platt, John Sladek, and Norman Spinrad—were more consciously literary than previous writers. As Robert Silverberg said in Musings and Meditations, their work “. . . had overtones of Joseph Conrad and Graham Greene, not Robert Heinlein or A. E. van Vogt."

In the States, editors such as Terry Carr, Avram Davidson, Damon Knight, Judith Merrill, and Frederik Pohl provided both markets and publicity for LitSF “New Wave” authors. Some of these authors are considered minor names in traditional SF, but well-known to LitSF readers—authors like David R. Bunch, Tom Disch, Carol Emshwiller, R. A. Lafferty, and Joanna Russ. Others managed to keep a foot in both universes, and are household names no matter what kind of SF one reads: John Brunner, Samuel R. Delany, Philip K. Dick, Harlan Ellison, Philip José Farmer, Roger Zelazny, and Michael Moorcock himself.

As time went on, the “New Wave” phenomenon faded. To an extent, the evolution of LitSF and traditional SF converged for a time. New writers of the period were respected by readers in both universes—writers like Gardner Dozois, Ursula K. LeGuin, Barry Malzberg, James Tiptree, Jr., John Varley, and Gene Wolfe.

To this day there are still writers who appeal to both universes: Octavia Butler, William Gibson, Dan Simmons, Bruce Sterling, Sheri S. Tepper, and Connie Willis are among them. But a funny thing happened in the 1980s: the two universes began to separate once again.

Doris Lessing, later a Nobel laureate in literature, was a major light in the literary world when she embarked on a series of novels of what she called “space fiction.” Suddenly, writers of LitSF didn't have to come up through the ranks of traditional SF (as did, say, Kurt Vonnegut, who spent most of his life denying that he was an SF writer).

With the doors opened, other big names in literature turned to work that could only be described as science fiction. Marge Piercy used time travel in Woman on the Edge of Time. Margaret Atwood gave us a dystopian future in The Handmaid's Tale. Cormac McCarthy's much-imitated The Road was a post-apocalyptic dystopia. Audrey Niffenegger revisited time travel in The Time Traveler's Wife. Michael Chabon (The Yiddish Policeman's Union) and even Philip Roth (The Plot Against America) joined in with alternate history stories.

To the average Analog reader, modern LitSF seems rather lightweight, not “real” science fiction at all. But we should be charitable to our literary sibling. Despite the nasty things their critics occasionally say about traditional SF (Brian Aldiss calls it “power-fantasy and escapism,” and you should hear him badmouth Asimov's work), LitSF readers are still reading science fiction; it's just a different kind of science fiction. There's still considerable cross-pollination between our universes; they learn from us and we learn from them. And to judge from their various apologias, the writers get a lot of grief from their literary cronies. It behooves us to be generous and welcome them to the fold.

* * * *

In Other Worlds: SF and the Human Imagination

Margaret Atwood

Doubleday, 272 pages, $24.95 (hardcover)

Kindle, Nook: $12.99 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-0-385-53396-6

Genre: Nonfiction

* * * *

Which brings us to Margaret Atwood. She has firmly established her credentials as a writer of LitSF; besides The Handmaid's Tale, she featured an SF story within her novel The Blind Assassin, and jumped on the postapocalyptic bandwagon with Oryx and Crake and The Year of the Flood. Despite her insistence that she writes “speculative fiction” instead of “science fiction,” here she has written “an exploration of [her] own lifelong relationship” with SF.

There are three major sections. First, she spends a few somewhat autobiographical chapters musing about what SF has meant to her and to society. Next, in the real meat of the book, she discusses some classic works of LitSF. Finally, she gives five short excerpts of her own published work, either SF or reflections on SF.

In the center section, Atwood offers some insightful thoughts about the works of Marge Piercy, H. Rider Haggard, Ursula K. LeGuin, Bill McKibben, George Orwell, H. G. Wells, Kazuo Ishiguro, Aldous Huxley, and Jonathan Swift. (I know . . . what's Haggard doing there? You'll find out.)

Atwood's book may bring a larger awareness of LitSF to her legions of readers; but why should Analog readers care? Well, she's a good writer and a profound thinker; many of the things she says are equally applicable to traditional SF. Do you want to shell out twenty-five bucks for a hardcover? Probably not. Get the e-book, or wait for the paperback.

* * * *

The Black Lung Captain

Chris Wooding

Spectra, 536 pages, $16.00 (trade paperback)

iBooks, Kindle, Nook: $9.99 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-0-345-52250-4

Series: Retribution Falls 2

Genre: Steampunk

* * * *

Steampunk already borders on LitSF; any day now I expect Michael Chabon or Tom Wolfe to discover the genre. Before that happens and steampunk gets all respectable, Chris Wooding is more than good enough.

In Retribution Falls, Wooding introduced readers to the pirate airship Ketty Jay and her scurvy crew. The setting is a vaguely late Victorian world with technology ranging from limited electricity to gaslights to machine guns to huge airships held aloft by a substance called aerium. All this technology is ultimately based on a kind of magic, possibly involving captive demons—but is dealt with as engineering rather than conjuring.

Darian Frey, Captain of the Ketty Jay, is a swashbuckling rascal, not above skirting the law when necessary. Narrator Jez, the ship's tough-as-nails navigator, has a deliciously checkered past. The complement also includes a crusty engineer, a drunken doctor, and two fighter pilots. In Retribution Falls, Captain Frey was framed for a political murder; he and his crew went on the run, and finally wound up in the legendary pirate's hideout, Retribution Falls.

Having survived to clear his name, now Captain Frey and his crew are simply trying to make a living—any way they can. They sign up for a new job, salvaging ancient technology in a trackless jungle. There's just one problem: they're close to territory occupied by the Mane, a hostile society of teleporting zombies. And navigator Jez just might be turning into a zombie herself. . . .

It's a rollicking good time, part Pirates of the Caribbean and part Jules Verne, all filtered through Chris Wooding's fevered imagination. If you enjoyed Retribution Falls but wanted more of this world and these characters, The Black Lung Captain is what you're looking for. If you haven't had the pleasure, dive right in; you don't have to read the first one to enjoy this volume. Wooding has a friendly style that has the reader quickly turning pages—remember to stop once in a while to breathe. Here's hoping that the crew of Ketty Jay will soon be back for more adventures.

* * * *

Count to a Trillion

John C. Wright

Tor, 368 pages, $25.99 (hardcover)

iBooks, Kindle, Nook: $12.99 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-0-7653-2927-1

Genre: Space Opera

* * * *

John C. Wright has been absent from SF for too long. His Golden Age trilogy (2002—2003) was competent space opera, but then he turned to fantasy. Orphans of Chaos (2005), the first of a high fantasy trilogy, won him a Nebula Award. In 2008 he authored a sequel to A. E. van Vogt's Null-A books.

Now he's back, with the first book in a new series. Count to a Trillion is a space opera that starts in familiar territory and builds wonder upon wonder into a strange and enchanting edifice.

Menelaus Montrose is a Texan, born into a twenty-third-century world whose economy has collapsed. When he was a boy, Menelaus ran across a box of old books—science fiction from our own era—which changed his life.

As a young adult, Menelaus became a hired gun . . . until he boarded a spaceship and went to search for happiness among the stars. Between relativistic effects, intellect augmentation, and the machinations of his comrade Del Azarchel, Menelaus winds up centuries and scores of parsecs away from Texas, struggling to find his place in an interstellar society ruled by Clarke's Law (any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic). Oh, and there's a princess.

Centuries pass, humankind and artificial intelligences evolve, and Menelaus continues to change and grow. Before long, he's deep in galactic politics, balancing one power center against another in order to move history in the direction of his desires.

In the hands of a lesser writer, this sort of thing could easily get out of control and turn into a muddled, confusing mess. But Wright is a careful storyteller, and he leads the reader step by step into an almost-incomprehensible universe, rather in the manner of Robert A. Heinlein's classic Have Space Suit, Will Travel. Menelaus is a likable character, and his transition from cowboy to virtual demigod is gradual enough that we're with him each step of the way.

One of the things science fiction does best is to take us beyond limits, to stretch the imagination as far as it will go. Count to a Trillion does a great job. Definitely recommended.

* * * *

Young Flandry

Poul Anderson

Baen, 736 pages, $7.99

(mass market paperback)

Baen Webscriptions: $6.00 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-1-4391-3465-8

Series: Technic Civilization/Flandry of Terra

Genre: Space Opera

* * * *

Longtime Analog readers need no introduction to Poul Anderson. Across a career that stretched from the Golden Age to the twenty-first century, Anderson wrote over a hundred books of science fiction and fantasy. He won the Hugo Award seven times, the Nebula thrice, and even SFWA's Grand Master Award—as well as just about every other award in the field. He was a master of short stories as well as novels, and his worldbuilding skills were legendary.

Anderson died in 2001, leaving a legacy of generations of satisfied readers.

Among Poul Anderson's greatest work was the multivolume future history chronicling the rise and fall of what he called the Technic Civilization. The stories and books of this series, many first published in Astounding/Analog, include pure idea-based problem stories, sophisticated tales of alien societies, ripping adventure yarns, military SF stories, and riveting mysteries. Lately, we've become used to writers who specialize in one type of SF or another—Poul Anderson did it all, sometimes melding several different types in the same story.

With the state of SF publishing today, it's often getting harder and harder to find affordable new editions of classics by the great writers of the past. But the field can't survive on old used books: they aren't attractive to new readers, they can be hard to get hold of, and a dog-eared thirty-year-old copy of The Rebel Worlds just doesn't make an acceptable gift.

Luckily, Baen Books has taken on the mission of re-issuing Anderson's Technic Civilization books. These are omnibus editions, which means each one contains several books at once. These are attractive paperbacks, either trade or mass market size, and they're priced pretty reasonably. If you've joined the digital bandwagon and want e-book editions, you can generally get them from Baen for six bucks apiece.

The history of the Technic Civilization breaks into two eras, each typified by one main character. The first era, of exploration and settlement, featured master trader Nicholas van Rijn. The second era, dominated by the decline and fall of the Terran Empire, is told through the eyes of Dominic Flandry.

Flandry, in true military tradition dating back to Horatio Hornblower, starts out as an Ensign in the Imperial Navy, and works his way up to a position as personal agent of the Emperor. All the while, the Empire is decaying and dissolving, and throughout his adventures across eight volumes we watch Flandry's ultimately doomed struggle to preserve the good and eliminate the bad.

Young Flandry, as you might expect from the title, is set at the beginning of Flandry's long career. The book includes the first three Flandry novels in chronological order: Ensign Flandry (originally published in 1966), A Circus of Hells (1970), and The Rebel Worlds (1969).

Here Flandry is young, ambitious, and resourceful as he confronts the Empire's enemies, both internal and external. The focus in these books is mostly on adventure and exotic locales (and nobody does those better than Anderson). If you've never read these books, you have quite a treat in store. And if you dimly remember them as fairly old-fashioned SF, you owe it to yourself to rediscover Anderson's inventive imagination. I promise you, these books are fresher than you remember them.

* * * *

Don Sakers is the author of Dance for the Ivory Madonna and A Voice in Every Wind. For more information, visit www.scatteredworlds.com.

Copyright © 2011 by Don Sakers

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Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

Dear Stan:

[Regarding the September 2011 Brass Tacks:]

For the benefit of our Canadian friends, the rationale of President Nixon's attempt to change the U.S. measurement system from the existing one to the metric was that many scientists were apparently unable to multiply and divide big numbers by 12. However, with the metric system, all they had to do was use their fingers and toes. But then, someone invented the pocket computer and that solved the entire dilemma. Of course, there were some of us in the second grade who were paying attention and learned the times tables all the way from 1 x 1 up through 12 x 12.

All in fun of course, but back in those prehistoric days, most of the same scientists used slide rulers [sic], which have now become as obsolete as the idea of forcing an entire nation to convert to a foreign measurement system just because it has round numbers and because somebody else is doing it. As it turns out, there are a lot of elements in the real world that do not conform to ten fingers and ten toes. So, while the metric system is “cute” and has its pluses and minuses, it is certainly no panacea.

Look at parsecs and the AU for example. It turns out that whoever invented the universe apparently didn't have ten fingers and ten toes and not much of a sense of humor. So far, they haven't made it easy, though the metric people have rounded some distances to km, e.g. the speed of light, the mean distance to the Sun, and the mean distance to the Moon, to impress the elite with their cosmopolitanism.

Although I was raised to employ our current measuring system, I am quite capable of doing mental conversions. But it takes all the fun out of a story if I have to stop and multiply kilometers by .621 to visualize how far something is. I disagree with you that our system is “embarrassingly and awkwardly stubborn.” I find our system neither. I doubt it makes that much difference which system one employs so long as it serves the need and those in question are comfortable using it. For those who like some other system, they can do as Mr. Blackadder of Ontario, Canada suggests and use the “search and replace” system.

Leonard R. Cook

Goleta, CA

* * * *

"Because somebody else is doing it” is not a good reason to do anything, but “Because everybody else is doing it” requires serious consideration when the issue in question is communication—especially when everybody else is doing it for a good reason. The metric system really does make it far easier to do most kinds of calculations, especially the “back-of-the-envelope” approximations that are always a good idea as a reality check and which kids brought up excessively dependent on calculators and computers have never learned to do. Contrary to your cute but nonsensical allegation about scientists not being able to multiply or divide by 12, most of them can, but why should they have to, when it's so much easier to work with 10, 100, etc.? And it isn't just 12; the English “system” also uses many other conversion factors, including (but not limited to) 3, 16, 36, 2000, and 5280.

It isn't the system itself that I called “embarrassingly and awkwardly stubborn,” but the attitude that many Americans display toward any suggestion of changing. The only advantage I can think of for the English system is comfortable familiarity for those who grew up with it and only it. Saying you can do conversions but don't want to be bothered suggests that you're one of these. Of course converting between English and metric units is even more awkward than the conversions within the English system, but nobody actually uses the metric system that way. The way to learn metric measures is to practice measuring a lot of things only in metric units, so that you get a direct feel for their meaning, just as you have for English.

As for AUs, they're a special case. They don't belong to either the English or metric system, but are uniquely useful—because they're easy to use—for some of the commonest calculations science fiction writers need to do in worldbuilding.

* * * *

Dear Stan,

As for the new electronic submission format ["The New Way In,” October 2011]: Damn you! You were possibly the last publishers on our great blue pebble to persist in demanding that authors submit works sponged onto strips of wood pulp, and I loved you for it. Now you have lurched off with everyone else into today's world of inchoacy, evanescence, ephemerality. A typed manuscript is a beautiful thing, like a Windsor chair or a painting of an aurochs in cinnabar on the wall of an ancient cave. And now, gone.

It's no good cursing you for it. The world is what it is. Enjoy your Kindle, Stan. But know this: There is at least one Analog reader and hopeful contributor who nurtures in a disgruntled and barely acknowledged corner of his mind the hope of a cataclysm, something akin to a visit to the Earth's surface by an arm of the sun's mass, that would cleanse, purify, destroy all those delicate mists and webs of tamed electrons that have now snatched finally the pen from all artists’ hands.

I love your magazine, Stan. You are a world cultural treasure. But . . . damn you!

Christopher Myers

Lovelock Correctional Center

Lovelock, NV

* * * *

(I know you'll still be accepting physical manuscripts for a while. Be sure to let me know when that ends.)

". . . snatched finally the pen from all artists’ hands . . ."? A bit melodramatic, don't you think, considering that nothing has been snatched from anybody's hands? The “pen” has changed forms many times over the centuries, but artists still find artistic ways to use whatever forms are currently in use.

A Windsor chair or an aurochs painting is a thing of beauty in large part because of its rarity and its status as an example of a bygone era. The same may be true of a typed manuscript, when most of them are gone. But for intrinsic beauty, that's hard to appreciate when you deal with thirty pounds of them every week—and the good ones are virtually indistinguishable from good computer printouts.

Ephemerality, on the other hand, is a real concern, about which I've often written and spoken myself. But it's only a serious concern when records are kept only in electronic form. A hardcopy of a story printed out by a computer with good materials is no more ephemeral than a typed copy of the same story. However, the story produced on a computer has huge advantages from the writer's point of view, including the ability to produce new copies almost effortlessly. That is where the ephemerality problem arises: electronic versions produced with old hardware and software may be difficult or impossible to read with new ones. But as long as hard copies exist, new ones can be made from them in exactly the same (laborious) way as from a typed copy.

* * * *

Dear Stan,

Thanks for your thoughts about population and its neglect by professionals in your November editorial in Analog.

Your readers might like to know about the talks by Al Bartlett, eminent retired physics professor at the University of Colorado. He has written extensively about population and exponential growth and delivered a talk, “Arithmetic, Population and Energy,” many, many times. This is his website, from which you can choose to hear his talk: www.albartlett.org/presentations/arithmeticpopulationenergy.html

I want also to mention Ch. 2 of my textbook Energy (Pearson, 2006, 3rd Ed.), which deals with population as well.

Regards,

Gordon Aubrecht

Professor of Physics, OSU

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Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS by Anthony Lewis

29 March-1 April 2012

WORLD HORROR 2012—At the Mountains of Madness at Salt Lake City, UT. Guests: Sherrilyn Kenyon, Mike Mignola, P. N. Elrod. Membership: $110 1 September to 31 October 2011; $130 1 November to 31 December 2011. Info: www.whc2012.org; worldhorror2012@gmail.com; World Horror Convention 2012, PO Box 360, Orem, UT 84057

6-8 April 2012

LEPRECON 38 (Arizona SF conference with emphasis on SF/F art) at Tempe Mission Palms Hotel, Tempe, AZ. Artist Guest of Honor: Franchesco!; Author Guest of Honor: Joe Haldeman; Local Artist Guest of Honor: Mark Greenawalt; Gaming Guest: Todd VanHooser. Membership: TBA (see website). Info: www.leprecon.org/lep38; lep38@leprecon. org; +1.480.945.6890; LepreCon 38, c/o Leprecon, Inc., PO Box 26665, Tempe, AZ 85285-6665.

6-8 April 2012

MINICON 47 (Minneapolis SF conference) at The Double Tree Bloomington, Minneapolis, MN. Author Guest of Honor: Ted Chiang; Fanzine Guest of Honor: Christopher J. Garcia; Artist Guest of Honor: Frank Wu; Special Guest: Brianna “Spacekat” Wu. Membership (until 15 March 2012): Adult $45, Student (13-20) $30; kids (6-12) $20; children (0-5) free; supporting: $15. Info: mnstf.org/minicon47; PO Box 8297, Lake Street Station, Minneapolis, MN 55408.

6-8 April 2012

MARCON 47 (Columbus OH area SF conference) at Hyatt Regency Columbus, Columbus, OH. Author Guest of Honor: Tamora Pierce; Editor Guest of Honor: Paula Guran; Media Guest of Honor: Kyle Gass; Science Guest of Honor: Dr. Bradley Lepper; Filk Guest of Honor: Erica Neely. Membership: Adult $60, Children (0-12) $30; Kids-in-tow: free when accompanied by a paying adult at all times. Info: www.marcon.org; Marcon, PO Box 141414, Columbus, OH 43214.

20-22 April 2012

ODYSSEY CON 12 (Madison WI area SF conference) at Radisson Hotel, Madison, WI. Writer Guests of Honor: Larry Niven and Steven Barnes; Game Designer Guest of Honor: Kenneth Hite. Memberships: (until April 2012) Adult $35, Student $25, Youth (6-12) $15; (thereafter and at the door): Adult $45, Student $35, Youth (6-12) $25. Info: www.odysseycon.org; Odyssey Con, PO Box 7114, Madison, WI 53707

30 August-3 September 2012

CHICON 7 (70th World Science Fiction Convention) at Hyatt Regency Chicago, IL. Writer Guest of Honor: Mike Resnick; Artist Guest of Honor: Rowena Morrill; Astronaut Guest of Honor: Story Musgrave; Fan Guest of Honor: Peggy Rae Sapienza; Agent Guest of Honor: Jane Frank; TM: John Scalzi. Membership from 1 October 2010 until some later date (see website for latest details): Attending through Spring 2011: Adult (22+): $125; Young Adult (17-21): $100; Child (5-16): $75; Kid-in-tow (0-4): FREE; Supporting: $50. [Ages as of 30 August 2012]. This is the SF universe's annual get-together. Professionals and readers from all over the world will be in attendance. Talks, panels, films, fancy dress competition—the works. Nominate and vote for the Hugos. Info: chicon7.org/; info@chicon.org; Post Office Box 13, Skokie, IL 60076.

Copyright © 2011 by Anthony Lewis

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Analog Science Fiction and Fact (Astounding), Vol. CXXXII, No. 3, March 2012. ISSN 1059-2113, USPS 488-910, GST#123054108. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. One-year subscription $55.90 in the United States and possessions, in all other countries $65.90 (GST included in Canada), payable in advance in U.S. funds. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within eight weeks of receipt of order. When reporting change of address allow 6 to 8 weeks and give new address as well as the old address as it appears on the last label. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. (c) 2011 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without express permission is prohibited. All stories in this magazine are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Any similarity is coincidental. All submissions must be accompanied by a stamped self-addressed envelope, the publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork.

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Table of Contents

- Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: WHAT'S TECHNOLOGY …

- Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

- Novelette: THE EDIACARIAN MACHINE by Craig DeLance…

- Science Fact: THE EARTH DIES SCREAMING: RADIATION …

- Novelette: MOTHER'S TATTOOS by Richard A. Lovett

- Department: BIOLOG: ALEC NEVALA-LEE by Richard A. …

- Novelette: ERNESTO by Alec Nevala-Lee

- Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: MU NEUTRINOS AS TA…

- Novelette: UPON THEIR BACKS by Kyle Kirkland

- Novelette: TRIGGERS: PART II OF IV by Robert J. Sa…

- Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Don …

- Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

- Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS by Anthony Le…

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