"No mystery. That's the temperature range at which sand is fused into glass."
"Must have been one hellacious blast."
"Actually all glass is made from superheated sand."
"It is?" Bulla said.
"Yes. Sand, limestone and soda ash. Where did you think glass came from?"
"I don't know, smart-ass. Glass mines, I guess."
"Forget the sand. I think we can rule out a lightning strike."
"It must be a lightning strike."
"The evidence says different. No clouds in the sky to generate an electrical storm. And there are no fulgurites in the sand."
"I can see that." Then catching himself, Bulla added, "No what?"
"Fulgurites. Long tubes of fused glass usually found in sand that has been blasted by a lightning strike. When the electrical charge strikes sand, it naturally follows the metallic pathways in the sand until it expends itself. These pathways fuse into electrically created glass. They're almost works of art in themselves."
Bulla kicked at the red sand. "I still say it's got to be lightning."
Tom Pulse shook his head slowly. He was being paid by the hour. "Lightning might have blown a hole in the BioBubble," he drawled. "It would have shattered as much as it melted. From what I see, a directed energy source the approximate circumference of three acres did this."
"Directed energy! You mean this mess is manmade?"
"If it is, I have never heard of the kind of technology that would focus this much concentrated hell on a piece of the planet."
"You're sounding like that silly-ass Cosmo Pagan character"
"You're just saying that because Pagan is against manned space flight."
"I'm saying this because the man is a sanctimonious ass. He was the clown who first coined the slur BioBoondoggle when we refused to hire him as a consultant during our Mars phase. Man threw a hissy fit to end all hissy fits. You'd think he thought he owned the copyright on anything to do with Mars. Finally shut up when we gave up on NASA participation and went green."
"I hear he's en route."
"Sure. To gloat. Screw him. Don't let him near the area," Bulla ordered.
"What about federal authorities?"
"Who's coming?"
"Maybe EPA. Could be DoD."
"What would the Department of Defense want with this sorry slag heap?"
"If they buy Dr. Pagan's extracosmic theory, they'll be here with bells on and Geiger counters stuttering."
Amos Bulla looked up at the early-morning sky. Even it looked reddish to the eye. "There's no way a beam from outer space did this."
"The force was downward. It came from on high. Other than that, it's anybody's guess."
Bulla licked his fleshy lips. "Should we still be standing here like this? Exposed?"
"Why not? Did Uncle Sugar Able nuke Hiroshima twice?"
Bulla blinked. "Uncle who?"
"Military talk for the US. of A. Whatever did this got what he, she or it wanted. We're safe."
"I hate you tech types. Never use a simple word when a convoluted one will do."
Tom Pulse smiled a tight smile that said Sue me.
Helicopters began to rattle the shimmering red horizon.
"Here they come," Bulla muttered. "I don't know what I'm going to hate worse. The media or the Feds."
"Either way, be sure to smile real friendly-like as they Roto-Rooter your unhappy ass."
Bulla winced. "I liked you better when you talked like a techie, not a Texan," he muttered.
Then he strode off to greet the arriving media.
THEY PILED out of their helicopters, unloading video cams, sound systems and enough equipment to record the end of the world. As soon as the equipment was off-loaded, the choppers took off and began circling the site, taping aerial and establishing shots of the glass pancake that had supported Amos Bulla for six fat, happy years.
The media pointedly ignored him as he started wading into their midst, looking to shake hands and make friends before tape rolled and there was no turning back.
No one was having any of it.
In fact, they were so cold Bulla started to wonder whether he had shown up for an expose with himself scheduled for the hot seat.
"We're ready for you," someone said after the cameras were hefted onto shoulders and the reporters were pointing their microphones at him as if testing his firecracker red necktie for radioactivity.
"I would like to make a brief statement," Bulla began.
The media were having none of that, either.
"What did this?" a reporter asked.
"If I could..." Bulla said, waving the prepared statement.
"Do you believe, as many Americans do, in the existence of extraterrestrial visitants?" another reporter interrupted.
Bulla opened his mouth to reply, and a third question jumped at him.