Thunderbird (4 page)

“I'm kind of busy, Jason.”

“Mr. Chairman, I don't want to get out of line here, but this
is
part of your job. You want the tribe to get the credit for their role, you have to show up for the celebration. You're the face of the Sioux.”

“But I can't get to D.C. tomorrow night.”

“Why not? There's a private flight leaving the Devils Lake Airport at eleven tomorrow morning. Carla's invited, too, of course.” He looked happy while Walker tried to digest the news.

He was actually being invited to the White House? He wished his folks could have lived to see this. “Okay,” he said. “Tell him I'll be there.”

“Why don't you tell him yourself?” Jason produced a cell phone. “It's yours, Mr. Chairman. The president would like to hear from you. And he thought it would be a good idea if you could speak with him directly, without broadcasting to the world.”

“There's something special about this phone?”

Fleury nodded. He touched one of the keys and spoke briefly with someone. When he'd finished he turned it off and handed it over. “It provides a secure connection, sir,” he said.

“With the White House?”

“You'll get Alice Worthington. She's the president's secretary.”

“Excellent.”

“Well, considering everything that's going on, Mr. Chairman, you need to have direct access.”

“It might help, Jason. Thank you.”

•   •   •

H
E
CALLED
C
ARLA
, who couldn't believe she was headed for the White House. She said she'd pack what they needed. “Can we get Janet to mind the kids?”

Janet was Carla's sister. “I'll call her. Middle of the week. It shouldn't be a problem.”

Then he tried his secure phone. Just push the call button. A woman's voice answered on the second ring. “Hello, Mr. Chairman.”

“Alice,” he said, “hello. May I speak with the president?”

“He's in a meeting, sir. We'll get back to you when he's clear.”

“Okay. And there's a party tomorrow night?”

“Yes, sir. In the East Room. The president would like you to attend.”

“Yes. We'll be there.”

“Excellent, sir. The president will be delighted. They'll be starting about eight.”

The chairman was on his way out the door headed for home when the president reached him. “James,” he said, “I'm delighted you can make it.” He sounded ecstatic.

First the Horsehead Nebula. Then a party with the president. Life, he thought, was good.

•   •   •

T
HEY
FLEW
INTO
Washington in a small government jet and were taken to the Hilton, where they received a call from Alice Worthington. “We'll pick you up at nine,” she said.

Walker frowned. “Alice, we were told the party would start at eight.”

“It does, Mr. Chairman. But you'll be fashionably late. Okay?”

A limousine arrived at 8:45, and they rode to the White House with a staff escort. They pulled up in front of the East Wing. Music and laughter spilled out of the building. Doors were held for them, and they went inside and were taken to the East Room. The exhilaration that arrived with the invitation was fading, and the chairman had already begun to think he'd be happier when it was over. He didn't know anyone there, and he just didn't feel as if he belonged.

But he and Carla had barely entered the room when President Taylor, who must have been alerted to their presence, was waving at them and summoning them in his direction. He called for everyone's attention and introduced them to a sustained round of applause. He invited the chairman to say a few words, but Walker felt overwhelmed. “I'm proud to be here,” he said. “Thank you very much.” That brought more applause, but the level of enthusiasm had diminished.

Walker was usually good at social events. One had to be in order to succeed in politics, regardless of what level it played out on. But this was simply too much. He and Carla were introduced to the First Lady, the Chief of Staff, the secretaries of state, the navy, and the treasury. There were half a dozen generals and admirals, the president's science advisor, several physicists and biologists, a mathematician, and two movie stars he'd never heard of. Walker wasn't a fan of films.

Carla was taken away from him and escorted onto the dance floor by the Speaker of the House. Guests drifted in his direction, congratulated him, and wished him well. And, eventually, he relaxed.

He was talking with one of the White House staff, whose name rang no bells, when the president came over. “You've been doing a marvelous job, James,” he said. “I was sorry we got off to such a bad start. But you know that. This whole thing is a tough call for us. I can tell you honestly that I'm not sure where we go from here. I wish that thing had never turned up.”

Walker managed a laugh. “I know exactly what you mean, sir. I go to sleep every night wondering whether a truckload of Martians will come spilling out from Johnson's Ridge. We're at the beginning of something that will change our lives forever.” Somebody brought over a couple of drinks. Walker thought they were rum and Cokes. He wasn't much of a drinker, but whatever it was, it had a soothing effect on him. “I'm trying to stay optimistic,” he said.

“Me, too. But we're talking about radical change. And in politics, that's never a good thing.” The president drained his glass and set it on a side table. “Right now, whoever's out there has forgotten about us. The smart thing to do would be to leave it that way.”

“Mr. President, the technology suggests a highly advanced civilization. I doubt they'd be interested in giving us any trouble. I just wish we could be sure.”

“So do I. But I don't think the possibility of invaders is anywhere close to the real danger. If we start transporting people from here to Chicago the way you're doing it at the Roundhouse, it would destroy the automobile industry. The airlines, the oil companies. There are a lot of things that will go seriously wrong, and I suspect a good many that we haven't even thought of. I'll tell you, James, if the Roundhouse suffered a complete breakdown, I'd have no regrets. Sometimes, I'm tempted to think we should arrange it.”

Walker stared at the president. “If we do, we'll always regret it, Mr. President. I don't think—” What
did
he think? “In the long run, technology is always beneficial.”

“I wonder if Oppenheimer believed that.”

In fact, Walker didn't believe it either. But he was trying to keep his head above water. This was an opportunity unlike any ever provided for
the Sioux. It was their chance to be at the forefront of the biggest technological breakthrough in the history of the species. To show the world who they really were. “I understand your feeling, Mr. President. But—”

“I know, James. I wish I knew the right way to proceed. I think our best course at the moment is to take our time. Move ahead cautiously. And be ready to close it down if we have a problem.”

“This celebration tonight is strictly a political sideshow, isn't it?”

“No. We appreciate what you've done. And we've already made some major strides. I'm just suggesting we be careful not to go over the edge.”

Vision is the art of seeing things invisible.

—Jonathan Swift,
Thoughts on Various Subjects
, 1706

R
ANDALL
E
VERHARDT
HAD
spent the evening at his daughter's house in Walhalla. He was a grandfather and nothing pleased him as much as playing with the kids. They'd had a casual dinner, and afterward, Pete and Randy had broken out the blocks, and they'd built a fort. But snow began to fall at about eight, and the weather predictions weren't encouraging. Melinda thought it would be a good idea if he stayed with them overnight, but he was supposed to eat lunch the following day with other members of the Winter Group, and that probably wouldn't happen if he waited out the storm. So he said good-bye to everybody and headed home to Fort Moxie, on the Canadian border. It was only about a half-hour drive.

“Be careful, Dad,” Melinda said as he picked his way across the icy ground to his car. It was bitter cold. Randall was closing on his eightieth birthday, and everybody had taken to telling him he shouldn't be driving anymore. That was ridiculous. Naturally, he was having some problems with joints and ligaments, but you could expect that. It was no reason for people to assume he couldn't get around.

He opened his car door, waved good-bye to his daughter and her husband, Bill, and slid onto the seat. He had to lift his left knee with his hand to get it in. One of life's little challenges.

He started the engine and the radio came on. It was tuned to KLYM, which was giving round-the-clock coverage to the Roundhouse story. He had actually lived long enough to find out there really were aliens. That was something he had never expected. He blinked his lights and backed out onto Sixth Street.

Everhardt turned north on Route 55, followed it out onto the plains, then east toward Fort Moxie. There was no traffic on the two-lane road. Maybe a car going the other way every few minutes, both cars slowing down until they got past each other. Matt Fanny was talking to somebody who was saying that he wasn't going to deny there was some sort of transporter in the Roundhouse. “But there's no way, Matt, it could take them all the way out to that What's-its-name Nebula in a few seconds. You know how far that is? I mean, it's a long walk.”

“So what are you saying, Clyde?”

“I'm not sure. It's probably some sort of conspiracy. Maybe the Indians are trying to jack up interest in that place. Make some money selling tickets. I don't know. I know Einstein wouldn't buy it. There's something here that we just need to figure out.”

Randall groaned. He was getting tired of the Roundhouse stories. He switched over to NPR, which was doing classical music.

He wondered what he could do to persuade the people in charge to let him make the trip out to Eden? He'd done a lot in his life. Fought in two wars, served as a high-school math teacher, had three kids and seven grandchildren. They were all turning out pretty well. And Melinda was a talented artist.

Fort Moxie was getting close. Its lights were visible in the distance.

He had regrets, of course. Everyone did. At least everybody who'd been paying attention. Most of his missteps were beyond repair now, neglected friends, failure to realize when he was needed, women who'd treated him
well but that he'd simply walked away from. He took a deep breath. He'd done a fair amount of damage over the years. Without meaning to.

The radio voices were still chattering, but he could not help recalling when Melinda had first settled in Walhalla, and he and Julie were returning from their first visit. She was their oldest child, and it had been a new experience. But on the way back, when the lights ahead had glowed and everything had been so serene, they'd been congratulating each other, and laughing, and he'd known at the time it was an unforgettable night.

Julie had shared his reaction. “Randy,” she'd said, “I don't know when I've ever enjoyed myself more than this.”

It would be only a few months later that they'd discover the cancer.

He crossed Interstate 29 and pulled into town, turned right onto Second Street, and followed it south through the ring of trees that circled Fort Moxie, ostensibly shielding it from the prairie winds, and turned again onto the private road that led to his garage.

The storm was picking up. He would have enjoyed finding a good woman he could spend time with. He knew he was never going to come close to replacing Julie. But it would be nice to have a woman back in his life. Just someone to have lunch with occasionally, to talk to, to go to the movies with. Unfortunately, there were almost no women of an appropriate age available in Fort Moxie. So he'd been giving thought to selling the property and moving. To Grand Forks or Fargo.

When spring came, he'd have to paint the garage.

Its door rolled up, and he pulled inside, wondering what had led him into a morose mood after such a pleasant evening. He turned off the engine, got out, and connected the extension cord that powered the heater. If you live in North Dakota, you need something to keep the engine warm during the night, or you may not be able to start the car in the morning.

They'd been predicting ten below tonight, but it had probably reached that already. He zipped his jacket, left the garage, and started for the house. He'd forgotten to leave the outside lights on. There was no moon, and the sky was cloudy. But that was no big deal. The house loomed
ahead, a dark mass wrapped in shadow. He was looking for his key when he put his foot into a hole, stumbled, wrenched his hip, and went down.

The pain was blinding, almost enough to shut off the cold. He screamed. But there would probably be no one close enough to hear him.

Randall closed his eyes. Tried to ignore what he was feeling. To crawl for the house.

It hurt. He lay there, trying to keep his face out of the snow. There were stories every year about people who disappeared during the winter and were found in the spring when the ice melted. Sometimes they were people who hadn't made it in from a garage. Really. There was that guy Eliot Baxter over in Noyes just last year.

He owned a cell phone, but it was in the house somewhere. Even had he taken it, it was probably not charged. He'd been promising himself that he'd start using it. Melinda had given it to him two Christmases ago, but it just seemed more trouble than it was worth. She was going to be angry with him.

He made another effort to get moving, just crawl a foot or so, but it hurt too much.

Somewhere off to the east, as he gave up and slid into darkness, he heard the lonely whistle of a passing train.

•   •   •

“R
ANDY
,
WHAT
HAPPENED
?” It was a familiar voice. “Come on, pal, talk to me.”

It was Brian Collins, who owned the plot of land west of Randall's property. “Hip,” Randall said. “Walked into a hole.”

“Okay. Just relax. Help's on the way.”

“Brian. Thanks.” Randall tried to laugh, but his mouth hurt when he talked. “Glad . . . see you.”

“Just take it easy.” He wrapped a scarf across Randall's face. “The emergency unit should be here in a few minutes.”

“Good.” Randall closed his eyes. Make the cold go away. And it did.

Then he was awake again, being lifted into a stretcher. Jean Bennett, who lived over by the church, was bent over him. “You'll be fine, Mr. Everhardt. Just take it easy and try to breathe normally.”

Brian was still there. “How'd you find me?” There were blinking lights, and the night was closing in again.

“. . . Odd business,” Brian said. It was all he heard.

•   •   •

T
HE
THOUSAND
-
LIGHT
-
YEAR
STORY
got the biggest play by the media. Garth Chanowitz mentioned it to ABC's local anchorman, Brock Mellon. “How far is a thousand light-years in miles?” Brock asked.

Despite all his awards, and his obvious mathematical capabilities, Chanowitz was not good in front of a microphone. He needed to think about the question. “There are approximately ten trillion kilometers in one light-year, so for a thousand it would be, ah, ten quadrillion.”

“Miles, Professor. What does that equate to in miles?”

“Oh. Six. Six quadrillion. Maybe a better way to think about it is that if somebody on that world had turned on a giant spotlight, bright enough to be seen looking out your window over there, and if they'd done it when Richard the Lionheart was running things in Britain, we wouldn't have seen it yet.”

“And you were there yesterday?”

“We were.”

“Amazing. What does that tell us about whoever put that thing on Johnson's Ridge?”

Garth frowned as if he were giving the notion serious thought. “Excellent question, Brock,” he said, stalling. “I just don't know. All we can be certain of is that they were pretty smart.”

Brad Hollister caught the interview in the morning while eating his routine 4:00
A.M.
breakfast. The reaction was taking hold around the globe. It gives a whole new meaning to the term spacewalk, Joe Scarborough was saying. Other commentators were asking whether rocket-powered moon
flights were now obsolete? “This story just keeps getting bigger,” said Loretta MacLeary on CNN. “We're experiencing our first encounter with a nonhuman technological civilization. But who would have ever thought that the aliens would be gone?” On CBS, Joe Pendergast was talking about the impact, and especially the dangers, of meeting another intelligent species. “If we were smart,” he said, “we'd close down the Roundhouse. Get rid of it.”

Donna, who usually slept until seven, came into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down. “You should have invited that guy onto the show,” she said, referring to Garth.

“Yeah. I wish I'd thought of it.” He shook his head. “You notice, by the way, that we never have a meeting with an alien. It's always an
encounter
.”

Brad had been following the Roundhouse story since the beginning, when Lasker dug up the boat on his land out near the Pembina Escarpment, which had once been the western shore of Lake Agassiz. The lake had been there until the glaciers in the north melted. It had then drained, leaving the vast plain that today formed the Dakotas, Minnesota, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan.

Lasker's property, during that era, would have been several hundred feet underwater.

Brad had mocked people who'd speculated about a connection between the ancient lake and the boat, which resembled something that might have been manufactured last week by Dakota, Inc. He'd gone out to the farm to look at it. Whatever idiots had put it together had screwed up the washroom: The toilet and sink were too small and the showerhead too low to accommodate any adult. He'd used it as a running joke on the air for two weeks. But then the world got a surprise: The sailboat was constructed of an unknown element that was close to plastic but was actually something else. “They're telling us,” Lasker had said on Andrea Hawk's talk show, “that it's extremely tough. That they can't tell how old it is.”

Adam and MSNBC's Walt Casik were inside the command post that had been set up outside the Roundhouse. Casik was looking at a picture of
one of the Eden moons and the ocean. “Tell me, Adam,” he said, “do we have a presence on the other side? In the Eden, umm, what do you call it, the Eden transport station?”

“It's called the Cupola. But you mean at this moment?”

“Yes.”

“No. We do not. There's nobody there now.”

“So the aliens could be there right now, and we wouldn't know it.”

Adam might have been looking for a way to evade the question. “Yes,” he said finally. “That's correct. But we've been there for a couple of months, and we haven't seen anybody.”

“Isn't that dangerous? I mean, what happens if someone goes over there and finds the place full of aliens? And they follow him back?”

“Don't you think that's kind of alarmist? I mean, if they exist at all now, these would be people, creatures, whatever, who have a pretty advanced technology. You're talking as if they'd be barbarians.”

“Not really. I'm just wondering why we don't show a little more caution?”

“I'm pretty sure the chairman is aware of the issue, Walt. I wouldn't worry.”

Donna's eyes drifted to Brad. She was still gorgeous, with black hair and dark, scintillating eyes and the same come-hither smile that had overwhelmed him when they first met while he was working as a cashier at Hugo's supermarket. But on that morning, the smile had given way to concern. “You okay?” she said.

“I'm fine.”

She got up and put some toast on, sipped her coffee, and sat down again. “Life's getting complicated, Brad.”

“Yeah.” When they'd been doing the excavation a few months earlier, he'd thought about going to Johnson's Ridge and doing a broadcast from the place. He'd decided not to bother. It was at that time just a hole in the ground. It was probably as close as he'd ever come to having a major national news story break on his program. “It'll give us a lift this morning,” he said. “Can't ask for more than that, I guess.”

“You know what, Brad? This Johnson's Ridge thing is a big deal for you and the station. But I'll be glad when it's over.” They sat watching Walter asking Adam how he felt about aliens living next door, and whether he was happy that the Roundhouse was located on the Reservation. Meanwhile the toast popped. Four pieces. Donna arranged them on a plate and brought them to the table.

Brad picked up one, added some butter, and bit down on it. “Why do you want it over, love?”

“Because I'm not sure what's going to happen next. I'm not sure what might come out of the Roundhouse. Doesn't it worry you at all?”