J. Wheeler - The Krone Experiment

“Coffee’s on!” she heard Janine shout from the kitchen.

Coffee? “How are you making coffee?” she called back as she retraced her steps down the hallway. Her old coffee pot was in the box she had just carried in. As she entered the front room she inhaled the delicious aroma and followed it into the kitchen. The cabinets were bare except for a new automatic drip coffee maker and a bag of freshly ground mocha java.

“Where did that come from?” Pat marveled.

“House present,” Janine said. “From Alex Runyan. He stopped by while you were gone. He tried to call the apartment, but I guess you weren’t there yet, or had left. Did you know he was in town?”

“I’m not too surprised. There’s a meeting next week that I thought he’d be involved in, but he’s not a great one for advance notice.”

“He said he had some business this afternoon, but would call you later.”

“Great, and I’m supposed to hold my Saturday open until the last minute in case he shows up.”

Janine was embarrassed by her friend’s predicament and covered up by grabbing a couple of glasses off the counter.

“Well, at least we can drink his coffee. I couldn’t find the cups. Can we make do with these?” She brandished the tumblers.

“Sure,” Pat conceded. “It smells marvelous.”

Janine filled the glasses three-quarters of the way to the top. “Watch out,” she warned, “they’ll be hot with no handles. Hold the top.” She handed one to Danielson, and they moved through the tableless dining area into the living room.

Pat looked around at the piles of boxes, the sofa heaped with clothes, laughed, and sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, crossing her legs in front of her. Janine perched on the edge of a box. She lifted her glass, held gingerly by the upper rim.

“Here’s to your promotion and new home, ex-roomie; may it become the den of iniquity you’ve always wanted.”

Pat chuckled, “Fat chance of that.”

They sat quietly, sipping the rich coffee, each lost in her own thoughts.

“Pat?”

“Um?”

“What’s the matter between you and Alex? He’s always seemed so charming to me.”

Pat was silent for a moment.

“Would you go out with him?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“That’s the problem. He’d take you up on it. Roommate or not. The truth is, of course, that I still find him fascinating. He knows so much about so many things. He’s warm and engaging and can focus some sort of personal intensity that makes it easy to fall into the illusion that you’re the only interesting person in the world.”

Pat stopped to take a drink of coffee. “I think he really does like me. But he’s got enough ‘like’ to spread it around pretty liberally. He separated from his wife, but, as they say, the chances of him settling down are between slim and zero.”

Janine took a sip of her coffee and rolled the glass between her palms.

“Is he good in bed?”

“Hey!” Pat laughed. “What kind of question is that?” She leaned her head back against the wall staring at the white ceiling. She could feel Runyan’s hands on her waist, his lips near her navel. “Yes, damn it,” she said with resignation, “he’s pretty good.”

“Well, then,” said Janine, with an impish sidelong glance at the sofa, “I suggest that we prepare yon piece for its proper initiation.”

She drained her glass, set it down, and went to grab an armload of clothes off the sofa.

Pat laughed again as Janine disappeared down the hall.

“Thank you, lord,” she said in a loud stage voice, “for delivering me at last from nosey, interfering roommates.”

Then she stood and looked around. The last shall be first, she decided. She hefted the box of utensils she had most recently deposited and headed for the kitchen, bent on the task of imposing order in her new abode.

The following Friday, Robert Isaacs put the finishing touches on his report to Drefke as the setting sun sent lances of light through the blinds of his office windows then dropped below the wall of trees. He was tired, but exhilarated. The report concerned the epochal meeting that had begun early Monday and wound up after lunch Friday, a complete success. A small coterie of scientists from both sides of the Iron Curtain and a larger group of diplomats had come to unprecedented, unanimous agreement. The public confrontation would continue, but driven to a close and desperate cooperation, the two countries would, in complete secrecy, launch a massive joint effort to rid the world of Krone’s creations.

If all went according to plan, in three or four years an international armada of ships would form a circle a hundred miles in radius in the expanse of the north Pacific. In the center of the circle would float an artificial, portable island. On the island would be an immensely powerful and complex piece of machinery designed for a suicide mission. The product of a dedicated, cooperative effort between the superpowers, it would produce intense beams of laser light, finely tuned and aimed by the gravitational pull of the black hole itself. Since there would be no way to control the orbit of the hole, the device would be located where orbit perturbations by irregularities in the Earth were minimal. The position of the device would be precisely fixed by accurate orbital calculations to be steadily refined over the years.

In addition to settling on the basic engineering attack, there had been a host of ticklish political problems to resolve. Paramount had been the continuing demand by the Russians that the United States cease work on beam weapons. Isaacs had admired the consummate skill of the team from the State Department. They had pointed out how item after item that the Soviets wanted banned was, after all, related to the massive effort before them. Other projects they discarded spontaneously, activities that had to take second seat to the main effort anyway. Neither country had the resources to devote to full scale development of beam weapons when faced with the resource-devouring assault on the black hole. In the final analysis, the Soviets had enough concessions to feel they had accomplished their goal, and the United States did not feel significantly weakened politically in the process.

Another issue had been the manner in which to treat the results of the test. If the project were successful, an explosion of considerable violence would ensue. Technically, it was not in violation of the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty, but in certain quarters all doubt must be forestalled, and that in turn called for an explanation of the predicament that demanded the undertaking. The NATO allies and Japan would be notified and sworn to secrecy and certain aid would be solicited from them. All would be allowed observers stationed at the site.

Dissension over the role of the Chinese had nearly split the meeting, but a precarious accord had been reached. When the time came, the Chinese would be informed of the test, but the underlying reason would only be hinted. The Soviet Union had chosen to inform none of the countries in its orbit, and the U.S. had not demurred.

Isaacs gathered up the report with its final corrections and headed for the outer office. His eyes skimmed the brass letters on the doorway—Deputy Director of Scientific Intelligence—and the ones below—Robert B. Isaacs. The report was virtually his last official act in that capacity. There had been no scandal, no public condemnation, just the gentle irrefutable suggestion. He thought of his new position with the Georgetown University Center for International Studies, amused at the irony. After years of suspicion and mistrust of academics, he would join their ranks. He was actually looking forward to it. Time to do some thinking. Some writing. “Forget it,” Martinelli had said. “You’ll be as busy as ever.”