Barry Malzberg - Phase IV

“Right,” Lesko said.

The sun was pitiless. It would be good to get into the fully air-conditioned and insulated station, but the only way to get there was to track through this hell. Lesko squinted, put both hands on the wheel, and maneuvered the jeep painfully around a small open hole in the roadway.

“Thirdly,” Hubbs said, “proposal.” He took off his glasses, rimmed sweat from his eyes, replaced his glasses, and then went on. “We will see the effects of a biological imbalance on life forms in the subject area… with the emphasis on population dynamics, density controls, species diversity, dominance hierarchies. And genetic aberrations, if any.”

“Of course,” Lesko said, looking back.

“Mode of operation, number four,” Hubbs said. Lesko looked at him sidewise and saw for the first time that Hubbs had not been speaking extemporaneously; he was reading from a sheet of paper that he held before him, covered with painful cursive symbols. “An experimental station to be located, built, and maintained with appropriate equipment for the study and analysis of the ant population.” He put the paper beside him with a flourish. “That station is already available,” he said.

“Yes,” Lesko said. “I know.” The jeep now took them by an abandoned field to their right, in front of which a sign COUNTRY CLUB hung supported by wire. Four weeks ago there had been people here, people on the golf course beyond it; now all of them were gone, the population cleared out. Hubbs and he were probably the only human beings within an area of ten square miles, and this made him shudder, just the two of them and the mysterious ants… but Hubbs seemed quite pleased with the idea. The thing about Hubbs was that he probably would have been happiest of all with no company, but the Coronado Institute, under whose auspices this had been financed, was a little bit stuffy about sending out one man. They had wanted four or five for simple backup and checking procedures if nothing else. But Hubbs had managed to persuade them to settle for one. Lesko. That he had been specifically requested was supposed to be an honor. Honor. Why did I take it? Lesko thought, not for the first or tenth time, what persuaded me to get into this? He had no answer.

There was some question of compulsion here.

“Personnel,” Hubbs was saying, looking at his sheet of paper again.

“One senior scientist—myself that is—plus one associate to be named.

Now named. James R. Lesko. Temporary personnel for construction and installation as noted in the budget.”

Lesko passed a sign that said PARADISE CITY in clumsily painted letters, and then, that quickly, they were in the middle of what had been a development in the process of completion. Half-completed houses, half-filled roadways, foundations. A few television antennaes coming forlornly from a few of the houses that had been completed. Open storefronts, some of them with signs half-painted. Lesko felt the revulsion beginning again—it was such a human thing, this abandoned Paradise City, and yet it had been rendered inhuman. He slowed the jeep, picking out a point of orientation. The station would be somewhere on the outskirts, toward the west, he thought. Where was the west? Sweeping the landscape he saw nothing. “Keep on going,” Hubbs said. “It’s set low to the ground.” Not reading from the paper his voice was high, less certain.

“Concentrate on your driving, don’t look at things.”

“All right,” Lesko said. “All right.” He accelerated fiercely, the jeep holding low to the ground, and they drove through Paradise City at forty or fifty miles an hour, bouncing and jouncing on the seats, possessions behind them sliding but prevented by the lash rope from dropping to the baking road surface. “Where are these so-called towers?”

“Towers?” Hubbs said absently. “Oh, yes, towers. We’ll see them later.”

His voice changed; he started to read again. “Supplementary request,” he said. “In the light of certain events reported in the subject area, and my monograph in this regard may take reference, certain additional funds are requested from the director’s discretionary budget, plus the services of a qualified information specialist with a cryptological background. In this connection,” Hubbs said, Lesko yanking the jeep down a long, empty street of ruined and empty buildings that opened on a long view of the desert, now choked with haze, “I have been most impressed with the recent work of James R. Lesko… at the Naval Undersea Center at San Diego, and I am requesting his assignment as my associate for a period of time not to exceed twenty-one days.” He put the papers away and for the first time smiled. “End of memo,” he said.

“I don’t think it will be twenty-one days,” Lesko said.

“It probably won’t be. It should as a matter of fact be a great deal less.”

Hubbs leaned over, seeing something through the windshield. “There,” he said. “I believe we have found our victim.”

Lesko followed the man’s pointing finger and saw the towers. They were just beyond what probably would have been the far edge of the development, seven slabs eight to ten feet high, clearly visible now as the jeep bore down on them. Even as he looked at them, he felt an oddly disconcerted feeling as if some power, some quality of noise were emanating… but this at least he put down to nervous exhaustion. The slabs were merely that, pieces of concrete, nothing more. Until recently they had attracted so little attention that it had been possible for the builders to complete half of the development without really noticing them.

They must have taken them for artifacts… indeed, Lesko thought rather wryly, the slabs might have struck them as being a possible selling point.

Natural stone wonders, or whatever. The imaginations of the developers were inexhaustible that way… until and unless, of course, they ran out of money.

“End of the line,” Hubbs said briskly. “Let’s have a close look at them.”

Lesko found himself in a shallow field. He bumped the jeep to a point about ten feet downrange from the slabs, put the emergency brake on, and shut off the engine. Insects battered the windshield, swooped around them. Otherwise it was quiet. Lesko could see no sign of ants. Maybe it was a rumor. Panic. Hysteria. A sudden unexplained increase in the ant population, one of those things that could happen in a desert already eaten away by an ecological righting. He shook his head and clambered heavily out of the vehicle. Hubbs was already near the slabs, kneeling, inspecting them with enthusiasm.

“Remarkable,” Hubbs said as Lesko came up to him. “Probably there is some direct connection here with the ant population. Eventually we’ll have to take them apart of course.” He stood slowly and looked up the impassive face of the nearest slab, hands on hips. “No indication of origin,” he said. “Artifacts, of course, but of what?”

Lesko walked past the line of slabs. He had a sudden and total lack of interest in them. It was mysterious; they had traveled a hundred miles to see them, and yet here at last, he wanted only to get away. Was it possible that they were emanating a wave that made him feel this way? Ridiculous

… and yet dolphins had sonar. He looked at a collapsed house some distance away, the last outpost of the ruined development. It looked as if it had been imploded, cheap furniture, plaster, glass lay together unevenly on a foundation. It was a picture of complete disaster; yet it did not seem to concern Hubbs at all. Hubbs’s eyes were bright as he looked at the fallen timbers, then back to the slabs.

“No bodies… I hope,” Lesko said.

“The population evacuated themselves some days ago.”

Lesko and Hubbs walked to the foundation. Probably this house had been intended to be the showpiece of the development: Wake up every morning in the shadow of mysterious, ten-foot artifacts. Yes, that would be how they would have promoted it. There were people who liked that kind of thing. You just could not comprehend fully the perversity of humanity, its endless variety, the range of behavior. “You have some powerful friends,” he said to Hubbs, looking at the walls.