Greg Bear - The Forge of God

“Well, I’ve been told you’re in no danger. You don’t have any…ah, space germs. I’ll level with you, in fact — you’re probably here more for security reasons than for your health.”

Edward could see why Crockerman was called the most charming of presidents since Ronald Reagan. His combination of dignified good looks and open manner — however illusory the latter was — might have made even Edward feel better.

“We’ve been worried about our families,” Stella said.

“I believe they’ve been informed that you are safe,” Crockerman said. “Haven’t they, General Fulton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ms. Morgan’s mother has been giving us fits, however,” Crockerman said.

“Good,” was Stella’s only comment.

“Mr. Shaw, we’ve also informed the University of Texas about you and your students.”

“We’re assistant professors, not students, Mr. President,” Reslaw said. “I haven’t received any mail from my family. Can you tell me why?”

Crockerman looked to Fulton for an answer. “You haven’t been sent any,” Fulton said. “We have no control over that.”

“I just wanted to stop by and tell you that you haven’t been forgotten, and you won’t be locked away forever. Colonel Phan informs me that if no germs are discovered within a few more weeks, there will be no reason to keep you here. And by that time…well, it’s difficult to say what will be secret and what won’t be.”

Harry glanced at Arthur, one eyebrow lifted.

“I have a question, sir,” Edward said.

“Yes?”

“The creature we found—”

“We’re calling it a Guest, you know,” Crockerman interrupted with a weak smile.

“Yes, sir. It said it had bad news. What did it mean by that? Have you communicated with it?”

Crockerman’s face became ashen. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to tell you what’s happening with the Guest. That’s irritating, I know, but even I have to dance to the tune when the fiddler plays. Now I have a question for you. You were the first to find the rock, the cinder cone. What first struck you as odd about it? I need impressions.”

“Edward thought it was odd before we did,” Minelli said.

“I’ve never seen it,” Stella added.

“Mr. Shaw, what struck you most?”

“That it wasn’t on our maps, I guess,” Edward answered. “And after that, it was…barren. It looked new. No plants, no insects, no graffiti new or old. No beer cans.”

“No beer cans,” Crockerman said, nodding. “Thank you. Ms. Morgan, I plan on seeing your mother sometime soon. May I take any personal message to her? Something uncontroversial, of course.”

“No, thank you,” Stella said. Atta woman , Edward thought.

“You’ve given me something to think about,” Crockerman said after a moment’s silence. “How strong Americans are. I hope that doesn’t sound trite or political. I mean it. I need to think we’re strong right now. That’s very important to me. Thank you.” He waved at them, and turned to leave the laboratory. The curtains hummed back into place.

The sky over Death Valley was a leaden gray and the air still carried the chill of morning. The presidential helicopter landed at the temporary base set up by the Army three miles from the false cinder cone. Two four-wheel-drive trucks met the party and drove them slowly over the paved roads and unpaved Jeep trails, and then off the trails, lurching and growling around creosote bushes and mesquite and over salt grass, sand, chunks of lava, and desert-varnished rocks. The false cinder cone loomed a hundred yards beyond their stopping point, the edge of a bone-white desert wash that had been filled with water just ten days before. The perimeter of the mound was cordoned off by Army troops supervised by Lieutenant Colonel Albert Rogers from Army Intelligence. Rogers, short, wiry, swarthy-skinned, and gentle-eyed, met the presidential party of eight, including Gordon and Feinman, at the cordon perimeter.

“We’ve had no activity,” he reported. “We have our surveillance truck on the other side now, and a survey team on the top. There’s been no radiation of any sort beyond the kind of signature we expect from sun-heated rock. We’ve inserted sensors on poles up into the hole the three geologists found, but we haven’t sent anybody past the bend. Give us the order, and we will.”

“I appreciate your eagerness, Colonel,” Otto Lehrman said. “I appreciate your caution and discipline more.”

The President approached the cinder cone’s tall black north face, accompanied by two Secret Service agents. The Marine officer who carried the “football” — presidential wartime codes and emergency communications system in a briefcase — stayed by the truck.

Rotterjack dropped back a few paces to snap a series of pictures with a Hasselblad. Crockerman ignored him. The President seemed to ignore everybody and everything but the rock. Arthur worried about the expression on his face; tense yet slightly dreamy. A man informed of a death in the immediate family, Arthur thought.

“This is where the alien was found,” Colonel Rogers explained, pointing to a sandy depression in the shadow of a lava overhang. Crockerman walked around a big lava boulder and knelt beside the depression. He reached out to touch the sand, still marked by the Guest’s movements, but Arthur restrained him. “We’re still nervous about biologicals,” he explained.

“The four civilians,” Crockerman said, not completing his thought. “I met Stella Morgan’s granddaddy thirty years ago in Washington,” he mused. “A real country gentleman. Tough as nails, smart as a whip. I’d like to meet Bernice Morgan. Maybe I could reassure her…Can we arrange something for tomorrow?”

“We go to Furnace Creek Resort, after this, and tomorrow you’re meeting with General Young and Admiral Xavier.” Rotterjack looked over the President’s schedule. “That’s going to fill most of the morning. We’re to have you back at Vandenberg and aboard the Bird at two p.m.”

“Make a slot for Bernice Morgan,” Crockerman ordered. “No more arguments.”

“Yes, sir,” Rotterjack said, pulling out his mechanical pencil.

“They should be here with me, those three geologists,” the President said. He got to his feet and walked away from the overhang, brushing his hands on his pants. The Secret Service agents watched him closely, faces impassive. Crockerman turned to Harry, still clutching his black notebook, and then nodded at the cinder cone. “You know what my conference with Young and Xavier is all about.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Harry said, matching Crocker-man’s steady gaze.

“They’re going to ask me if we should nuke this whole area.”

“I’m sure that’s going to be mentioned, Mr. President.”

“What do you think?”

Harry considered for a moment, eyebrows meeting. “The entire situation is an enigma to me, sir. Things don’t fit together.”

“Mr. Gordon, can we effectively retaliate against this?” He indicated the cinder cone.

“The Guest says we cannot. I tend to accept that statement for the time being, sir.”

“We keep calling him the Guest, with a capital G,” Crockerman said, coming to a halt about twenty yards from the formation, then turning to face south, examining the western curve. “How did that come about?”

“Hollywood’s absorbed just about every other name,” McClennan observed.

“Carl has been an avid watcher of television,” Crockerman explained candidly to Arthur,” before his duties made that impossible. He says it lets him keep in touch with the public pulse.”

“The name obviously evolved as a way to avoid other, more highly colored words,” McClennan said.