Charles Harness - The Flag on Gorbachev Crater

“I’ll take that one,” said Beckwith. “She has explained how they were sewn into the fabric of her traveling rug. She did not register them at a port of entry because she did not know there was even a country called the United States, or for that matter, a continent named North America. In 1236 such things were not known in Spain. Furthermore, the jewels are her personal property, in her lawful possession when she entered the country, and they all qualify as duty-free antiques under the two-hundred year rule. As I’m sure you’re aware, if the artifact is at least two hundred years old, it’s presumptively an antique, and duty-free. Not one was smuggled. Try something else, Mr. Smerll.”

Smerll hesitated a moment, then laughed in harsh short bursts. “We always come back to that flight from Spain in 1236, don’t we? The jewels weren’t smuggled because they date back to 1236. The lady didn’t enter illegally because the United States didn’t exist when she left Spain. Well, if we believe that, we should be able to believe in flying carpets and movement in time. I for one am not so gullible.” He picked up a document from the table in front of him. “This is a patent application, filed by Mrs. Beckwith in collusion with you, Mr. Beckwith. It describes a flying carpet, and firmly asserts, under penalty of perjury, that this carpet can carry a person backward or forward in time, and over great distances. A more flagrant example of fraud on the Patent Office is difficult to imagine.” He smiled down at the newlyweds. “This is a crime, and it requires punishment.”

Beckwith now stood up. He laid his hands on the canvas bag. “Mr. Smerll, since there seems to be considerable doubt as to the working of the rug, I should mention that we brought a sample. We can demonstrate operability right here.”

“No sir, no indeed,” said Smerll coldly. “You can fool the Patent Office, Beckwith, but you can’t fool me.”

“Of course not, Mr. Smerll,” said az-Zahra. “We would never even try.” She unzipped the bag and took the rug out. “This is the invention. It is a standard size Muslim prayer rug. It differs from an ordinary prayer rug only in that certain metal filaments and gemstones are woven into the fabric in a special pattern.” She lifted the rug with both hands, carried it around to the head of the table, and spread it out on the floor near Smerll’s chair. “Excellency, every one of your remaining queries turns on a question of fact: does the rug work? So let us make a deal. I will prepare the rug, and you will stand on it. I think you will disappear. If you disappear, all remaining questions are answered. If you do not disappear, Mr. Beckwith will resign from the bar forthwith, I will forfeit all my jewels to the Customs Service, and I will return to Spain.”

She waited. The only sound in the room was Smerll’s noisy breathing. His eyes darted, to her, to the rug, to Beckwith. And back to the rug.

Beckwith watched him. He knew what the man was thinking: She’s bluffing… trying to get me to back off.

Finally Smerll nodded.

“Just a moment,” said az-Zahra. “I have to turn with it seven times. And would you hold this, please, while I make the turnings.” She handed Smerll a wooden stick wrapped in multicolored fabric. He looked at it dubiously. “A flag?”

Beckwith’s lips formed the same words. Then he whispered, “Wha—?” He started to rise, but she looked at him, and he sat down again, mesmerized.

She picked the rug up, wrapped it around her body, turned seven times, then laid it on the floor once more. “Now, your eminence, it is ready. You may stand on it, if you like. Hold the flag up, please. That’s fine.”

Beckwith noted that the two great rubies were blinking up at them from the fabric. Could he really let Smerll do this? He leaped to his feet. “Irwin! No? ”

But it was too late.

Smerll stepped on the rug. And faded. And vanished.

For a long moment Beckwith stared at the empty rug. Then back at az-Zahra. She lifted her eyebrows slightly. “He was determined to do it,” she said. She didn’t sound at all defensive.

Homicide? suicide? Beckwith wondered. He groaned softly. “Where?” he whispered.

“Call it,” she replied cheerfully, “a glorious journey. Is the hearing over?”

“I guess. But—”

She took a step closer. “In your culture, aren’t you supposed to kiss the bride?”

He did. A good long one. “But— Smerll? What—?”

She interrupted him. “Hadn’t you better be getting back to the office? And I have to get home and start organizing our wedding reception.”

“Yeah.” He was totally bemused. “Yeah.” (Smerll? Where are you!)

They retraced their steps toward the reception room and the elevators without incident. The cluster around the holo set had tripled during the hour. Beckwith started to pull her around toward the exit.

“Wait,” she whispered. “Listen!”

The voice came over the heads of the little audience: “Cass Jones, International News. What we see here is a file shot of the northern lip of Gorbachev Crater. That little area here—indicated by an ‘X’ on your holo screen, an area we call ‘Flag Corners’—is where the Gagarin shuttle will land. One moment, please, Captain Petrov is coming on. We hear the captain’s voice from the Gagarin landing shuttle. He’s obviously delighted. He has just given the order for retrofire. Going down, now. We sense the physical descent of the little craft. Ah! He’s down. The captain is speaking again. We translate. ‘Russia has landed. A historic moment for Russia and for the world. Our flag is ready and waiting. While I suit up, we will run the nose visi up a few meters and make a panoramic sweep of the flag area.’

“And so, ladies and gentlemen, while the good captain suits up, we’ll take a moment to check on the other ships in the race. We note that the John F. Kennedy is coming up fast, but it is at least ten hours out from Ganymede.” (And there, thought the lawyer, goes the Space Agency account and D. Beckwith, P.C.) “Farther back,” continued the voice, “number three in this great contest is the German ship, Deutschland, followed by the Spanish Toreador, and the French Napoleon. ”

“Let’s go,” Beckwith said softly.

“Not yet.”

The newscast continued. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, back to Captain Petrov. He’s still slowly panning the area, ‘Flag Corners,’ of what will soon be a new Russian province. The site is well chosen. We see no rocks or rubble larger than a soccer ball. What? One moment, ladies and gentlemen. Petrov says… what? My, my, our translator says Captain Petrov is shouting a string of Russian curses. Did we miss something? Run it back… Yes, there at the edge. Well, look at that, ladies and gentlemen, what we are looking at is a man holding an American flag! How can this be? Are we there first, after all?”

“Huh?” grunted the lawyer. He shouldered his way through the watchers for a good look at the holo screen. And then he stopped breathing for several seconds.

The announcer hesitated. “We seem to have lost our picture. We suspect that Captain Petrov has turned off his camera. Has this moment of victory suddenly turned to ashes? We simply don’t know. What? Oh. We’ve just been told a U.N. patrol corvette is moving in to investigate. Yes, the Ralph Bunche. So what’s going on? Well, to sum up, for those of you who joined us late, Captain Petrov of the R.S. Gagarin has just landed his shuttle on Ganymede, and he was personally welcomed by a flag-holding American.

“Meanwhile, we’ll run the tail-end of that tape once more. There he is, the man with Old Glory. Not waving, of course. The fabric is obviously frozen stiff. And since our American is not wearing a space suit or protection of any kind, we have to assume that he is likewise frozen. We see dark splotches around his ears and nose and mouth. We take that to be blood, which froze instantly, a result of the near-zero atmospheric temperature and pressure on the Jovian satellite. At present we have absolutely no explanation of how he got there.”