Konstantin Naboyev climbed into the helicopter with a feeling of grim pleasure. It was not much of a revolt, but it was his, and he was so bored he could eat the hinges off a hatch cover. He had to do something to scratch this itch; there was nothing else in sight, so this was it.
He went through the pre-flight check quickly and lifted off the helipad as the control started to give him permission. The voice squawked that he had not maintained procedures. Up yours, he thought to himself. What are you going to do, send me back to Afghanistan?
He longed to return to that incredible challenging mountain terrain. There your ass was on the line every second of the day. Even when you were asleep, those tricky, fierce bastards could figure some way to get to you. In Afghanistan, you were either a man, or you were dead. In a way he loved those tough rebels who fought like stubborn terriers and kept him on the razor’s edge, every nerve throbbing with awareness. But most of all he loved to find them scrabbling over the rocks in the high country, in places where it was impossible to fly, where the passes were too narrow, the air too thin, the cross winds too vicious. He would fly there anyway! He would find them, bring his great machine whining up over a ridge, catch them in his sights, and rip them to bloody shreds.
And so what was he doing now? Flying off a ship in the middle of the flattest, most boring god-awful expanse of ocean known to the mind of man. The mindless routine was driving him absolutely berserk. Stop in the ocean, lower the small boats, rig the large aluminum plate between them, sail around trying to see if something coming out of the sea would punch a hole in the plate. Naboyev, now he was really lucky. He got to take off, fly in a lazy circle about the small boats below, not see a goddamn thing, then land back on the ship, so they could sail a few hundred kilometers and then perform the same idiotic routine the next day. Well today, by god, he was at least going to find out a little about what was coming out of the ocean.
The rumors making the rounds were that they had gotten pretty good at positioning the plate so whatever it was came up and made the silly little hole. Since that was the only action around, Naboyev was determined to play the game and find out what they were all up to. He’d just kind of break formation at the right time and fly on over that plate and see what he could see.
He went into his standard circular pattern, listening to the radio traffic. He had learned to time the scattered information that came over his frequencies and knew when to kick the rudder and head for the platform. He wanted to get there in time to hover over the platform at a couple of thousand feet for thirty seconds or so before the hole got punched. That way he would have time to get stabilized and oriented before anything happened. With any luck there would be a circus. There would sure be one when he got back on ship. To hell with them!
Naboyev listened to signals being relayed to the small boats carrying the plate from some sonar installation in the mother ship. When he heard the call for them to hold position, he broke off and headed for the knot of boats. He took up position over the boats and peered down. He saw a small turbulence and a rising plume in the water next to one of the boats. If that’s what they were after, he thought, they missed it today. He strained, but couldn’t see anything else, nothing came up in the air toward him.
The helicopter bucked and Naboyev felt he had been hit by a shell. His craft began to shake as if caught in a gigantic paint mixing machine. Naboyev fought the controls of the ship like a madman. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a half-meter long slab of metal go arcing gracefully out and down toward the ocean below. Without knowing how it happened, he recognized that the tip of one of his rotor blades had been sheared, and that the vibration from the imbalance of the rotors would make it impossible to land even if the chopper didn’t shake itself apart.
Naboyev throttled down to reduce the centrifugal force on the blades. He changed the pitch to decrease the lift and the machine dropped like a rock. The shaking was eased minutely, but the ocean came up with terrifying speed. At the last possible second, Naboyev restored the pitch and opened the throttle. The craft halted its plunge ten meters above the gentle swells, but began to vibrate more fiercely than ever. Naboyev kept a death grip on the stick with his right hand, and opened the hatch door next to him with his left. He took his feet off the pedals and stuck his butt out the door, leaning, straining to keep the wobbling ship on even keel with the stick. He got his feet on the rim of the hatch as the craft began to rotate, and then in one swift desperate movement, he released the stick, kicked it with his foot and used the leverage to eject himself out the doorway. The effect was to knock the stick to the right as he hurled himself to the left. The helicopter followed the lead of the stick and lurched to the right as Naboyev fell clear, hurtling to the water below.
He curled into a ball and felt the blistering blow as he smacked into the ocean. He uncurled and opened his eyes, struggling to orient himself as he heard and felt the great churning of his wounded, pilotless machine plunging into the water twenty meters from him. He swam for the surface and broke through to the pure sweet air, shouting to himself as he broached.
Death! You rotten bastard! I’ve looked into your putrid eyes. And I’ve won again!
Isaacs stood near the door, watching the mild confusion as some members of Jason tried to leave the room past the clutter of chairs and lingering people. After Runyan’s projection of the destruction of the Earth, if not the Sun itself, by his hypothesized black hole, Phillips had called a halt to give time to think and evaluate. They would reconvene the next morning.
Isaacs recalled Runyan’s fatalistic shrug when Phillips suggested their free time should be spent seeking a different solution to the problem. Isaacs recognized that Runyan was sincerely convinced he had the correct interpretation, however wild the idea, whatever the gaping questions left unanswered. But a black hole! Isaacs could see no immediate weakness in Runyan’s argument; it made a certain sense. But it violated every professional instinct. Somehow, Runyan had to be wrong. Isaacs determined to have a quiet, serious talk with Phillips.
Danielson noticed that Isaacs was not moving to leave immediately. In attempting to get out of the way, she did a brief Alphonse-Gaston routine with Zicek before retreating into the cranny between the desk and the sofa. Runyan edged along the blackboard and then in front of the sofa to get behind Zicek, Fletcher, and Noldt. Out of a sense of propriety for his temporary quarters, only Gantt remained seated in the swivel chair at the desk.
As Danielson watched Noldt, the last of the first group to leave, she was startled to feel a grip on her elbow. She looked around to see Runyan, whose mood was transformed by an infectious smile of mirth and well-being.
“You see what you and your boss have done?” he asked merrily. “Put me through the wringer! What I need now is the company of a pretty lady for dinner. Do you have any plans?”
Her smile, which had been spontaneously induced by Runyan’s radiating good spirit, brightened further. Runyan’s revelation had left her shaken, the idea was too strange, too new for her to readily cope with it. Her immediate reactions were much more personal. She was exhilarated that her work and risks had paid off. These men of Jason had given her the ultimate accolade by taking her analyses seriously. Besides listening to her, Runyan had deeply impressed her with his mind-boggling explanation of her discoveries. She was delighted at the chance to prolong these feelings with an evening in Runyan’s company.
“I’m not sure what Mr. Isaacs has in mind,” she said.
“Well, let’s just see,” Runyan cut her off. Without releasing his grip on her arm, he led her around Gantt to Phillips and Isaacs.
“Gentlemen. I propose a few drinks and a good meal in pleasant company as therapy for our weighty problems. Will you join us?”
Isaacs noted with irony that Runyan had appointed himself and Danielson the core of the action, as if Phillips and he were the peripherals. Danielson had comported herself very well through everything today, thinking on her feet, picking up quickly on the lack of scorching, a point he should have stressed. More evidence of her good prospects in the Agency. His glance fell on Runyan’s possessive hand on her elbow. Isaacs was still nervous about Danielson consorting with these academics, particularly Runyan, coming on fast this way. She was a grown woman, though, and deserved some recognition for her excellent work of the past few months. He looked at the expectant smile on her face and smiled himself in acquiescence.
“Of course, provided we’re not out too late.”
“I’d be honored to be in your company,” replied Phillips, with a small bow.
As if remembering suddenly whose room they were in, Runyan spoke back over his shoulder, “How about you, Ellison? Can you join us?” His jovial tone dropped a note, a slight hint that Gantt was welcome to go his own way, which Gantt ignored or failed to notice.
“Sure, I’d like to join you if you don’t mind,” said Gantt, rising from his chair.
“I’m sure Dr. Danielson would like a chance to freshen up,” Phillips nodded in her direction. “Let me show you and Mr. Isaacs to your rooms.” Then to Runyan he said, “Let’s meet in the lobby downstairs in forty-five minutes.”
As Phillips escorted the pair out, Runyan turned to Gantt. “You brought your Thunderbird down here from Pasadena, didn’t you, Ellison? Can you take all five of us?”
“Sure, I can manage that.”
“Hey, good. I’ll see you downstairs later.”
Runyan left, pausing a moment to look down the corridor to his left where Phillips was showing Danielson into her room. He then proceeded up another flight of stairs to his own cubicle.
Danielson shut the door behind her and looked around the room that was markedly similar to the one she had been in all afternoon, but less cluttered. There was no desk and the dormitory bed remained in its position near the windows. Her overnight bag had been neatly deposited on the use-worn bureau by the marine chauffeur they had rated on this official trip. She peeked into the bathroom and then kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed, her mind spinning with the events of the afternoon. She found herself thinking about Runyan, the way he had taken charge of the meeting, and of their plans for dinner. She felt a warm glow, twinged at the edges with fingers of darkness.
Phillips showed Isaacs into a very similar room across the hall and two doors down.
Isaacs looked in the door with scarcely concealed disinterest. He turned to address the older man.
“I know it’s been a long afternoon, but there are a few points I would very much like to clarify. Could you possibly spare me some time now?”
“Of course,” nodded Phillips with a hint of a smile. “I thought you might ask. Come,” he said, gesturing down the hallway with his right hand as his left touched Isaacs’ arm in invitation. “Let’s go down to my office. We can be more comfortable there.”
They retraced their steps down the hall and descended the stairs by which they had come up earlier in the afternoon. Phillips led the way to the end of the lower corridor and into the office that served the dormitory supervisor during term. A bay window looked out over a well-kept green lawn. Phillips crossed the room to a cabinet nestled among long rows of bookshelves.
“Would you have some sherry?”
“Why, yes, please … I would,” Isaacs replied.
“I hope you don’t mind cream sherry. I developed a taste for it as a youth.”
“That would be fine.”
Phillips extracted a decanter and two small cut-crystal glasses from the cabinet and set them on the desk. He poured carefully and handed one glass to Isaacs. They toasted one another in quiet salute, then Phillips moved a chair up along the edge of the desk for Isaacs so the expanse of the desk would not discourage intimacy. Phillips sat in the nicely upholstered chair behind the desk and watched as Isaacs seated himself.
Isaacs followed Phillips’ motions as the physicist took a sip of the sherry, rolled it on his tongue and then swallowed. Isaacs felt too drained for preambles. “May I ask what your reaction is to Runyan’s proposal?” he inquired. “It’s so outrageous. Can he be serious? Surely there must be a more reasonable explanation.”
“My instincts are the same as yours,” Phillips replied. “I feel we need to seek some explanation in terms of more, shall we say, acceptable happenstances. But recall that it’s the nature of the data Dr. Danielson has presented that boxes us in. Make no mistake; Alex is most serious.”
Phillips pondered for a moment, then continued. “Yes, we must pursue any reasonable alternatives, but that includes Runyan’s proposal. Outrageous or not, it’s the only one that has been advanced that fits the facts as we know them. Perhaps with an evening to relax and think things over, someone will turn up other alternatives. Just now I believe the appropriate response is to adopt Dr. Runyan’s proposal as a working ‘worst case’ hypothesis and lay out the appropriate course of action.”
Phillips placed a palm on each knee and continued to address the younger man.
“May I put the situation in perspective as I see it?”
“By all means.”
“There’s currently no indication that the signal you report has any connection with a hostile country.”
“That’s correct.”
“Or a friendly one for that matter,” Phillips continued. “We may, of course, find that we’re dealing with some heretofore unknown seismic phenomena with a few startling coincidences thrown in. In such a case, the whole problem will be dropped from our agenda, although not, I daresay, from Ellison Gantt’s. If Runyan’s proposal is correct, then the issue is most serious, even though it doesn’t involve what would normally be thought of as hostile activity. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, the security of our nation, indeed of the entire world, would be very much in jeopardy.”
“The problem, if I understand it,” stated Isaacs, “is that if there is a black hole down there, it is actually slowly eating away the Earth. Good lord, what a thought!”
“Quite right. And putting a stop to it will be a most formidable, if not outright impossible, task.”
Isaacs stared out the window, trying to imagine Drefke’s response to this. And McMasters. Maybe the old bastard would have a heart attack. How in the world did one approach the President with such an idea? Phillips, sensing his preoccupation, inquired, “I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with the Central Intelligence Agency before, as you know, but procedures have a way of changing. Perhaps you could refresh my memory as to the way a situation such as this is handled?”
Isaacs averted his gaze from the window. “There’s never been a situation like this,” he grinned ruefully. “But of course you’re right, there are certain procedures.” He straightened perceptibly in his chair. “As head of the Office of Scientific Intelligence, my first responsibility will be to draw up a summary of our discussions here for the Deputy Director of Intelligence.”
“Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Mr. McMasters,” said Phillips.
“I see.”
Phillips noted the look of stiffness that passed over Isaacs’ face.
“You’re probably aware, then, that the DDI has control over the intelligence that is passed up to the Director for consideration by the National Security Council. For most problems we have the ‘in-house’ expertise to give the DDI a complete and self-contained summary. If Runyan is right, we’ll be dealing with an area that is not entirely in our venue. Once the situation is well-defined, we can analyze its impact on the geopolitical situation, but we will undoubtedly need to continue consultation with your group until we have a thorough understanding of the problem. In the early stages, a close working relationship with key individuals in Jason will probably be necessary. When the time comes to present our recommendation to the DDI, you or some individual you designate should be prepared to act as technical consultant.”
“I presume you’ll apprise Mr. McMasters of the present situation on your return to Washington.”
“That’s correct.”
“But a formal report is also necessary?”
“Yes, the DDI requires a formal presentation prior to his report to the Director. The Director then prepares an agenda for the NSC. The Director often takes the DDI, and sometimes me, along to the NSC meetings to make detailed presentations if they seem necessary. In a case like the present one, I can envisage your delegate attending any or all of these discussions.”
“The real expertise to deal with this problem may not lie within Jason as it’s presently constituted,” Phillips noted.
“In what sense?”
“If we are dealing with a black hole, we have no one who is professionally acquainted with the intricacies of the subject.”
“Not Runyan, then? I did want to ask about his qualifications. Minnesota doesn’t really have the reputation of some of the universities represented here, does it?”
Phillips held up an admonishing hand. “Be careful about the prestige game. Good people are where you find them. In any case, Alex was a colleague of Gantt’s at Caltech. He likes the outdoors though, an avid cross-country skier, if I remember correctly. Also, I believe his wife has a nice position at Honeywell.”
“But he’s not an expert on black holes?”
“No, Alex is broadly studied, but I’m sure he would be the first to point out that others have a greater depth of knowledge.”
“Yet you seem to put some store in his hypothesis?”
“Certainly. It’s his broad background and cleverness at synthesizing that makes him such a valuable contributor to our group.”
“In any case,” continued Isaacs, “if we must, as you say, turn to others for expertise, that can be arranged. With due regard to security, of course.”
Phillips nodded and took another sip from his glass.
Isaacs put his glass down to take up another of the items on his personal agenda. He leaned toward Phillips. “Let me ask you, in your own mind, how do you balance the immediacy of the problem against the lack of specific evidence?”
Phillips played his drink in a small circle, watching the fluid coat the sides of the glass. “You’re concerned about whether to recommend immediate presidential attention?”
“Yes.”
“Professor Runyan is more qualified than I to discuss the particular parameters of the problem. I deduce, however, that while we want to move with all dispatch, the magnitude of the problem will not be seriously increased by failure to take immediate action. We’re not faced with a situation where we must invoke presidential authority to quickly resolve the situation. On the contrary, I fear no such quick resolution will be possible. I would sooner think that it’s a question of marshalling resources over which the President has authority once we have some notion how to proceed.”
Phillips swiveled in his chair and looked distantly out the bay window.
“Our first priority is proof. We must be satisfied beyond any doubt in our own minds.” He was almost speaking to himself. “But I can foresee that an immense effort may eventually be required that would be a severe tax on this nation’s resources. How to proceed will be a decision that only the President can make. Our choices will be radical surgery or the slow death of the patient. Either way we would face a time of severe trial.”
Phillips turned back to confront Isaacs. “If we are really in the dangerous situation Dr. Runyan describes, it’s not a concern only for our nation. The whole world is in peril. A multinational approach to the problem may not only be proper, but necessary. One must then consider the political situation. That’s your province. Under what circumstances do you foresee taking this problem before a world forum?”
Isaacs considered for a moment. There was an important asymmetry in his relation with this sharp, inquisitive old gentleman. Isaacs’ responsibility was to learn all that he could about the current situation from Phillips and his colleagues. But there were limits to which the converse was true. He thought about Korolev and his interview with Zamyatin, but decided that only some general reply was in order.
“You understand that this sort of decision is out of my hands; it would be decided by the NSC. I have the same reservations you do about prematurely bringing this problem to the attention of the NSC and the President. Those reservations apply doubly to communicating with our allies. We must be very sure of our situation before spreading any possible alarm. I think we must proceed very cautiously. If, as you say, there is little prospect of immediate resolution by quick action, then we can afford to go slowly and carefully.”
“I was thinking not only of our allies,” put in Phillips. “From a scientific point of view, I have several colleagues in the Soviet Union who would make valuable consultants.”
Isaacs stared at Phillips a brief moment, eyebrows raised. He could foresee a situation developing in which a cooperative effort with the Soviets at some level would precede notification of formal allies. He saw no point in raising this possibility with Phillips at this early stage.
“I believe that’s out of the question just now.”
Phillips pressed the issue.
“It may not be our prerogative to bring this problem to the attention of others. Don’t the Soviets have the same capability as we do to monitor seismic activity? Or perhaps even the People’s Republic, where there is a long history of interest in earthquakes and related phenomena. You mentioned this Russian aircraft carrier. Should we not move as soon as is feasible to forestall the possibility of further misinterpretation?”
Damn this sly old dog, Isaacs said to himself. He was strongly tempted to tell Phillips the whole story of Korolev and the Novorossiisk, but he thought of the uneasy truce Drefke had forced between him and McMasters. He had no authority to disclose the details of these geopolitically charged events. The last thing he wanted to do was to open another procedural dispute with McMasters. He was sensitive to the hypocrisy, but felt compelled to head off this line of discussion.
“I’ve considered such questions, Professor Phillips,” Isaacs replied, forcing a trace of coolness into his voice. “I don’t believe we disagree in principle, but the issue of when communication of intelligence to other countries becomes feasible or desirable must be weighed most carefully. You surely appreciate that such decisions cannot be made in the context of one isolated set of events. All possible ramifications must be considered simultaneously. The ultimate decision is not within your province, nor even mine. I can assure you that the points you raise will be given due consideration.”
“Please!” said Phillips raising a hand in protest. “Don’t think I’m trying to dictate your actions in an area outside my competence. It’s just that I can foresee yet other situations developing that will prove difficult to contain. I’m sure you and your organization are most competent to take appropriate action.”
Both men lapsed into silence, consciously attempting to quell the mood of confrontation that had threatened to develop. They sipped their sherry quietly for a long moment, each pursuing private thoughts.
Phillips stirred and proffered the decanter once again. Isaacs smiled saying, “Just a little,” and then flashed a halt sign as Phillips refilled his glass anyway. Isaacs followed the neck of the decanter encased by Phillips’ deeply lined knuckles as it tilted up from his glass, crossed to the other and dipped to release more amber liquid. He spoke as Phillips carefully replaced the stopper in the decanter.
“There is one more point.”
“Please.”
“You mentioned the question of hostility a while ago, or lack thereof. There was some talk about the possible origin of a black hole this afternoon. Runyan seemed to feel such a thing must be artificially manufactured.”
Phillips’ eyes were half closed in concentration, but he did not speak. Isaacs continued.
“To my mind that raises two issues. One is whether we’re endangered. If there is a black hole down there, the answer is yes, we are, although I gather the exact nature of the peril and the time scale remain to be worked out. The second issue is whether this dangerous situation was intentionally created. If that’s the case, then it seems to me that is by far the greatest threat, and we mustn’t lose sight of it.”
Phillips swiveled again to look out the window. He cupped the glass of sherry in both hands in his lap and replied in a ruminative tone.
“Which is the greatest danger? The bullet streaking toward our heart—or the man who pulled the trigger?”
He was silent for a long moment and then said, “I cannot help you there, Mr. Isaacs. The discussion this afternoon was inconclusive because we don’t know enough. I understand your concern. None of us will rest easily for a long while.”
Phillips continued to gaze out the window. Isaacs studied his profile for a time and then broke his own reverie by throwing down the sherry at a gulp. Phillips made no move. After a moment Isaacs rose and crossed the room. As he closed the door behind him, he glanced one last time at the old man, his vision still locked on some distant point.
Danielson opened the door at the knock and smiled a greeting at Isaacs.
“Hi. Just a second, let me get my purse.” She turned back into the room and reappeared shrugging into a sweater as she juggled her purse by the strap. Isaacs reached to help with the sweater.
“Thanks,” she said as they headed down the hall. Her glance at him took in a bit of damp, mussed hair over his temple. Despite this evidence for a recent face washing and attempt to freshen up, she thought he looked tense and drawn. “You feel up to this?” she inquired. “Going out?”
His smile put some life back in his face. “Of course. Besides, I’m hungry as a bear. I always pick at that airline food I had for lunch.”
Phillips, Runyan, and Gantt awaited them in the foyer. Runyan’s attention immediately focused on Danielson.
“I’ve suggested a little Japanese place downtown. Not your flashy knife-juggling kind, but excellent sashimi and tempura. And not so expensive that it will do violence to our government per diems.”
Danielson’s eyes swept him quickly. He had swapped his beach clothes for loafers, dark slacks and an expensive Italian shirt unbuttoned to show matted grey hair on his chest.
“That sounds fine,” she responded.
Runyan busied himself herding the group out. When they reached the car, he insisted that Phillips ride in front, in deference to his age. He ushered first Isaacs then Danielson into the back seat and then squeezed his own limber form in next to Danielson. He leaned forward to back-seat drive until Gantt had the Thunderbird safely headed southward on the interstate. Then he leaned back and drew Phillips into a good natured, if somewhat embarrassed, reminiscence of Phillips’ encounter with a lady of the evening at one of their scientific meetings.
The meeting had been held in a hotel dominated at the time by a convention of salesmen. In the bar, Phillips had mistaken the woman for a waitress and the call girl had mistaken him for one of the salesmen with whom she had previously made an appointment. Runyan related both sides of the conversation that had proceeded at total cross purposes before the misunderstanding was revealed.
Gantt had seen Runyan use this tack before, relating a story with sexy overtones to check the reaction of a new female acquaintance. Seems to be working, he thought. He glanced in the rear view mirror and could see Danielson’s broad grin as she followed Runyan’s animated delivery.
“And do you remember that look she gave you as she was leaving and patted you on the head? I think she would have preferred you to her paying client.”
“Now, Alex,” Phillips chuckled with embarrassment.
“Whoops—here’s Washington Avenue; turn off here,” Runyan directed at Gantt, reverting to navigator. “Okay, now left under the interstate. There it is, on the left, just beyond. See it? I’m not sure where to park. You always have to scrounge a place here.”
“Well, why don’t I let you out here while I go find a place,” volunteered Gantt.
They piled out of the car and then crossed the street. There was a small queue on the sidewalk, but they were admitted shortly after Gantt rejoined them, having left the car in the lot of a gas station that was closed for the night.
Despite the somewhat crowded space, Runyan managed adroitly to get them seated around a table intended for four, drawing up a fifth chair for himself at the end of the table by Danielson and Phillips.
The meal was all Runyan had advertised. Dish followed excellent dish and when they all felt full, a new and interesting plate would arrive, served by a quiet, cheerful woman in traditional geisha garb. Runyan ordered a steady flow of saki and Japanese beer and always ensured that Danielson was liberally supplied. He helped her with playful solicitation to mix the cube of wasabi into the tiny dish of soy sauce to make the dip for the bits of raw fish. He was very adroit with chopsticks and insisted on feeding her a bite from every new dish as it arrived.
Danielson found herself basking in the attention Runyan lavished on her and greatly enjoying his company. She mused to herself that, although he was about forty-five, as close in age to her father as to herself, in terms of physique he reminded her of the beach bum whom she had thought of marrying so long ago. She realized she was greatly attracted to Runyan’s radiant sense of well-being and self-confidence, the spirit that had drawn her to Allan. But Allan had no purpose in life, no goal beyond mastering the next wave. Runyan was completely different in that regard. He operated on an intellectual plane Allan would never even glimpse. She was also fascinated by the inner security she thought Runyan must possess that enabled him to range from the terrifying creative tour de force he had displayed that afternoon to the wellspring of joie de vivre presently at her side.
As they left the restaurant, Runyan tried to drum up enthusiasm to go dancing. Danielson was in a mood to go along, but quickly followed Isaacs’ lead when he demurred.
The ride back to La Jolla was, nevertheless, made in good spirits. Danielson mostly listened as the men traded anecdotes about Washington politics. The perspective of the three scientists was similar, deriving from the National Academy of Sciences and experience with certain congressional liaison committees. They were highly entertained, therefore, by the different view Isaacs provided from his wife’s exploits as a lawyer.
When they arrived back at the Bishop’s School, their spirit of camaraderie spilled out of the car into the absorbing stillness of the campus. Runyan locked arms with Danielson and escorted her up the stairs of the dormitory to her door. Isaacs followed along behind. He had enjoyed the evening, but had continued to view with some jaundice Runyan’s attention to Danielson and her ready response. He forced a grin as Runyan stopped with Danielson at her door and proceeded with comic formality to kiss her hand in farewell. Isaacs made sure Danielson was safely in her room, then walked on down to his.
Runyan climbed the stairs to his own room. He switched on the light and stood for a moment viewing the casual disarray. The desk was strewn with books. Many were opened face down, others were face up with any convenient object—calculator, coffee cup, pencil—used as a place holder. Soiled and clean clothes were intermingled in a pattern discernable only to the occupant.
The evening’s look of merriment was gone from Runyan’s face. He relieved himself in the bathroom and then sat at the desk. His first thoughts were of Pat Danielson. Bright woman. He unquestionably wanted to get in the sack with her. He pondered the dilemma of the modern age. How do you treat a competent woman professionally when your cave-man hormones are singing their atavistic song? In Danielson’s case, he could sense she was ripe. If the circumstances had been a little different, a chance for some intimacy, one of them might at this very moment be sneaking down the hall toward the other’s room. He pictured her face as he gently unbuttoned the blouse she had worn today. Whoa! He shook his head. Enough torture of that sort. Let’s try another. He rummaged for a pencil and a pad of lined paper on which he began to scratch a long series of calculations. After an hour he rose and stretched and then moved to a softer chair next to a reading lamp. A journal devoted to astrophysics lay open on the arm, draped face down. He retrieved it and began to read. As he read, he half consciously waited for someone to come and explain where he had gone wrong in his thinking. No one did.
By three in the morning, his fatigue ran deep. He tried to replace the journal on the chair arm, but he was well over half through, and the unbalanced volume slipped to the floor. He swore, straightened the pages and marked his place with a dirty sock. Then he undressed, fell into bed, thought briefly again of Pat Danielson, and drifted into a fitful sleep.
Nine o’clock the next morning found the group reassembled in Gantt’s room. Danielson and Runyan were talking in quiet tones on the sofa. Gantt had conferred his swivel desk chair to Phillips and taken the seat near the door. The others took their accustomed places.
Phillips broke off his conversation with Isaacs, who was seated next to him, as Noldt, the last to arrive, came in swinging the door against Gantt’s chair and causing him to slosh some of his post-breakfast coffee into his lap. Noldt dithered in helpless apology while Gantt waved him off and dabbed the spot with a handkerchief. After Noldt took his chair, Phillips cleared his throat and began.
“We have no formal agenda this morning. Would anyone care to add to yesterday afternoon’s discussions?”
“That is to say,” broke in Runyan, “can anyone put a quick and merciful end to Runyan’s folly?”
There were several chuckles that died away into silence as it became clear that no one was about to volunteer a viable counterhypothesis or cite an obvious failure in Runyan’s logic.
“With all due respect to you as our resident astrophysical pundit, Alex,” said Fletcher, breaking the silence, “if you’re on the right track, don’t we need to call in some expert help on this problem, someone who knows about this particular subject of small black holes?”
“Absolutely,” answered Runyan. “There are several individuals whose advice would be invaluable, for instance, Korolev in Russia or Pearlby in England. I’d love to discuss this problem with Korolev over a glass of vodka.”
Isaacs straightened perceptibly, startled by this sudden injection of Korolev’s name. But of course, he thought, these people are probably old friends, cronies.
Phillips saw Isaacs start and took the lead.
“There is, ah, a question of security here, of course,” Phillips said.
“Surely not in the classical sense,” said Noldt with some bewilderment. “This isn’t just a national issue. The whole bloody world is being sucked up.”
“There’s no proof of that yet, Ted,” reproached Phillips. “In any case, there seems good reason to proceed cautiously at this point.”
“What about a colleague of mine at Princeton,” suggested Fletcher, “Clarence Humphreys?”
“Of course,” Runyan enthused, “Clarence could be very helpful. I don’t know about his stand on security matters, but he should be approached.”
“There seems to be a consensus, then,” summarized Phillips, “that we will proceed on the assumption that Alex has provided the correct explanation of the events reported. We will try to enlist the support of an expert on black holes, particularly the miniature variety—starting with Humphreys. We’ve already established that Gantt will set up a gravimeter experiment to seek direct evidence for or against the black hole theory. Alex, you mentioned the need for detailed orbit calculations. Can you see to that end of things?”
“The best way to proceed there would be to make use of the computer facilities and programs at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory,” said Runyan. “I could move up to Pasadena for the rest of the summer. As for security, we can’t simply ask them to calculate a black hole orbit inside the Earth. I must have special personal access to the computers, but I’ll need to consult with the experts on the relevant codes that require modification. Someone will have to do some arranging for me.”
Phillips looked at Isaacs who nodded in confirmation. Phillips then addressed the group again. “Anyone have anything else to add?”
After a moment Zicek spoke up.
“Our course of action is just as you have outlined, Wayne— some straightforward steps to better define the situation. Last night I took a different tack and spent a good deal of time pondering Alex’s basic premise. He not only wants a small black hole careening through the Earth, but he led us to the brink of concluding that such a thing must have been artificially manufactured. Despite his logic, like many of us here, I found that idea prima facie absurd. And granting that absurdity, I questioned the whole scheme. My apologies, Alex.”
Runyan shrugged and waited for the point to which all this was preamble.
“This morning,” Zicek continued, “I am not so sure.”
His eyebrows compressed together as he paused to formulate his words.
“I do not see how to create such a little monster, but I am no longer so positive that to speak of such a process is absurd.
“As many of you know, I am actively involved in Project Antares at Los Alamos. Our goal is to create controlled thermonuclear reactions by imploding a pellet of deuterium and tritium. The present scheme has six gas lasers the size of locomotives producing seventy-two laser beams that are brought to focus on the pellet. The pellet is drastically compressed, creating high enough temperatures and densities to trigger the fusing of deuterium into helium.
“This is only one of the projects currently being undertaken by our government and by that of the Soviet Union that appears to me to bear on this problem. The others, given the current political situation, are related to weaponry. I speak of beam weapons of many kinds that unload their destructive power at the speed of light and will render normal missiles and aircraft obsolete and defenseless.
“I myself have had a role in developing the infrared chemical laser that the Navy is using in their Sea Light lethality verification program and the related Talon Gold pointing and tracking tests. The Air Force has its own parallel program with a carbon dioxide gas laser on an NKC-135 at Kirtland Air Force Base.
“While I’m not involved with them, except as a competitor for funding, there are several programs developing particle beams. The White Horse project at Los Alamos aims for a space-based neutral beam generator using a radio frequency quadrupole accelerator. The Advanced Test Facility at Liver more is producing an electron beam, and the RADALAC at Sandia can fire electrons, protons, or negative hydrogen ions at near the speed of light. Lord only knows what sort of gadgets the Russians have by now. Most of our ideas were stolen from them. We know they have developed techniques to use chemical explosions to drive magnetic flux compression generators. They have used stupendous electric currents generated by these devices to power rail guns—linear induction motors that can be used to hurl payloads into orbit or drive armor piercing bullets at hypersonic velocities.”
Zicek leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and interlocking his fingers. “Now my point is, any of these devices—lasers, relativistic electron beams, rail guns—can, in principle, be focused inward to achieve implosions. So far the goal of implosion studies has been to achieve high density and temperature and produce nuclear fusion. Such processes cannot achieve extreme densities because the energy expended to raise both the temperature and the density is too high. Alex and Harvey discussed that yesterday.
“But suppose our goal was not high temperature, but just high density— very high density. It is true that I cannot see how to reach densities where self-gravity plays a role and a black hole becomes feasible. I can, however, imagine a few tricks in principle to keep the temperature relatively low even as the density rises.”
He unlaced his fingers and gestured with open palms.
“I’m sorry to be so long-winded. What I am trying to say is that our technology is moving even now in a direction where such a thing becomes imaginable. Technological and scientific advances are growing exponentially. Who knows what comes next?”
Zicek looked around the confines of the small room, eyeing his colleagues.
“Are you inviting us to conclude,” asked Fletcher in a voice of deliberate calm, “that, while we cannot now do such a thing, perhaps a society only somewhat advanced from ours could?”
“Never mind a very advanced society,” put in Noldt more excitedly.
“Oh, hold on,” said Leems disgustedly. “Granted, Vlad, we’re inventing a cornucopia of implosion machinery. There is still an immense jump to making black holes. Just because we’ve launched a space probe out of the solar system doesn’t mean that intergalactic space travel will be possible for us or for any advanced civilizations that might be out there. Sometimes practical limits can erect just as solid a barrier as physical impossibility. You damn well can’t strike a match on a wet cake of soap. I still find the whole black hole business preposterous.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Harvey,” admitted Zicek, “but I feel we should not jump to a conclusion either way. No one has really thought seriously about how hard or how easy making a black hole might be if one really tried. I’m just saying such a thing may be possible. Our knowledge of the behavior of matter at only slightly greater than nuclear density is very sparse.”
“Well, what we don’t know, we can’t use to reach any conclusions,” said Leems, still sounding disgusted.
“Of course, of course,” placated Zicek. He addressed himself to Phillips again. “My thoughts in this direction lead me to one concrete suggestion you may want to consider.”
“Yes, what is that?” inquired Phillips.
“We have discussed bringing in other experts to help us deal with the particulars of this problem. Carl suggested Humphreys,” he waved toward Fletcher. “I think we should consider more carefully this question of how such a thing might be made. One person comes to mind who would be uniquely qualified in terms of both experience and creative insight.”
“I’ll bet you’re thinking of Paul Krone,” said Runyan.
“Yes, in fact, I was,” replied Zicek.
Isaacs looked up sharply at this reference. He had heard of Paul Krone, and he was not the kind of man Isaacs would be keen to bring into this effort. Not exactly stable.
Leems made clear where he stood.
“That horse’s ass? Surely you don’t want to set that bull loose in this china shop?”
“You’re being unfair,” Zicek replied tensely. “I know there are people jealous of Paul’s successes because they don’t understand his methods, but he has great insight that could serve us well and he’s currently deeply involved in these questions.”
“Jealous?” Leems waved a hand in dismissal. “He can’t even keep a job. Half his ideas are fantasy—sheer gibberish. And who knows what other troubles he would bring.”
Isaacs thought Leems probably was jealous. Krone had worked his way through a couple of universities, private industry and various government labs, a maverick always on the move, but he had a midas touch. A dozen times during his career he had started a little company on the side, working on some development or other. If the idea worked, Krone would keep a controlling interest, but turn the company over to professional managers and never look back. The scientists he worked with were always suspicious because he made so much money. Businessmen couldn’t understand how he could throw it all over and go back to tinkering in some laboratory or doodling equations.
Krone was a man of great appetites as well as great talent. There had been some trouble getting him a security clearance for one government consulting job, and the case had come to Isaacs’ attention informally through an acquaintance with the FBI. There had been questions of drugs and women, a year or two ago he had taken up with an expatriate Russian of all things, and legal entanglements concerning the proprietary rights to some of his developments. In looking over the file, Isaacs had been amazed to see the number of well- known companies, three of them on the Fortune 500, that Krone controlled, directly or indirectly.
Runyan laughed to take the sting out of Leems’ words.
“C’mon, Harvey. It’s true Paul can be hard to take when he starts ranting. There’s no question he’s a raving egomaniac with a penchant for hiding his ideas until he can spring them on the world. And maybe half his ideas are nonsense, but half of them have some real insight, and half of a lot is a lot.”
He addressed himself to Phillips.
“It strikes me someone like Krone who’s familiar with both theoretical physics and engineering developments might be useful to us.”
Runyan turned to Zicek.
“What’s he doing now? Didn’t I hear he was consulting at Los Alamos?”
“That’s right. He started another company and has a consulting contract with the Lab to explore just these developments I was describing—laser implosion, relativistic beams— both experimentally and theoretically. That’s why I thought he would have a general grasp of the situation that would be useful to us.”
Isaacs saw there might be some merit to the arguments Zicek and Runyan made, but his sympathies were more with Leems. He spoke up. “I wonder whether the questions Dr. Zicek raises, and perhaps Dr. Krone’s involvement, might be of secondary importance just now. It seems that our critical task is to confirm or deny Dr. Runyan’s suggestion. I would like to ask Dr. Gantt whether he has considered the requirements of the proposed experiment. I’m sure your seismology lab at Caltech is well equipped, but I wonder whether you will need any help that my agency or some other government agency can provide?”
“I’ve not had time to plan any details,” replied Gantt. “We’ll want to go someplace that is seismically inactive—away from the California fault system, perhaps Arizona. I might use some help with transportation and some support equipment. I’d like to use an on-site minicomputer for analysis. I have one, but it’s cumbersome to move.”
Isaacs nodded. “We can help with that.”
Gantt continued, “We must, of course, know where to look. From Dr. Danielson’s present data it appears that the activity comes near the surface at about twelve-hundred-mile intervals. The trick is to be in the right place at the right time. You’ve said you can predict the surface location at any particular instant to within a kilometer or so.” He looked toward Danielson for confirmation, and the young woman nodded.
“With updated sonar data, we should be able to do better than that,” she said.
Gantt turned to Runyan. “What gravitational perturbation did you estimate for a distance of a kilometer, Alex?”
“That should give you a fluctuation of a part in a million,” replied Runyan.
“We can do that,” asserted Gantt.
“I’m going to be busy with things in Washington,” Isaacs said, “but I’d like to have someone on the site with you. Would you mind if Dr. Danielson joined you?”
“Not at all,” Gantt replied. “I think her knowledge of the background to this situation could prove most useful.” He smiled at the young woman and got a brief appreciative one in return.
“You wouldn’t mind joining Professor Gantt, would you, Pat?” Isaacs asked.
She thought of her urge to go to Dallas to be where the action was. Nothing would keep her from being on top of it the next time.
“I would like to very much.”
Oho, Runyan thought to himself, now there’s a trip I’d like to make, too. He looked at Isaacs’ stern visage and decided now was not the ideal time to press his petition.
“Excellent,” said Phillips, with an air of summary. “Perhaps we should leave it at that, then. I know Mr. Isaacs has a plane to catch, and I don’t believe further discussion would enhance the situation at this point. I suggest we adjourn.”
He rose to emphasize his decision and watched as the others stood and filed out. He joined Isaacs in the hall and they waited a moment for Danielson and Runyan, who were the last ones out.
Isaacs and Danielson gathered their things from their rooms while Phillips called for a car. They caught a noon flight back to Washington.
They spoke little until the plane was in the air. When the no smoking sign was turned off and the attendants began to move around the cabin, they turned as if at a signal, and looked at one another. Each read in the other’s eyes the special camaraderie of a shared, shocking experience. Impulsively, Danielson leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Surprised and pleased, he patted her hand on the armrest, in what he hoped was a fatherly manner. Danielson leaned back in her seat.
“Wow!” she exclaimed quietly. “I feel like I’m trying to work an idea into my head that’s a hundred sizes too big to fit.” She turned to him. “Thanks for the opportunity to go with Gantt. I really want to do that.”
“You’ve done an excellent job all along,” Isaacs told her. “We need you to follow up.”
“Thank you,” she replied, “but you’re the one who deserves congratulations. I know what you risked to bring us this far.”
The rolling chaos of the serving cart appeared in the aisle next to them, and they each ordered a bloody mary.
Danielson took a sip of her drink, then stared into it, probing on the lime slice with the swizzle stick. “Who would have thought that that faint signal would lead to this?” she asked herself as much as Isaacs.
She turned to him. “You certainly were right about the effectiveness of Jason. What did you think of Alex Runyan? Wasn’t that amazing the way he so quickly drew everything together?”
“That was quite a show he put on,” Isaacs replied neutrally. “We do have to remember that for all his arguments we have no direct proof. Perhaps we should reserve judgment until Gantt performs this experiment.”
Danielson was surprised at his coolness. She shot a sideways glance at him, with a sudden flash of intuition. Was it possible, just possible, that Bob Isaacs was the tiniest bit jealous of Alex Runyan? At the attention he had shown her? She took another sip of her drink. There were a number of things, big and small, to savor about this trip. She added that notion to the list.