Greg Bear: The Forge of God

In the kitchen, amid hanging copper pots and pans, Arthur cracked eggs into an iron skillet on the broad gas stove.

“We’ve known each other for thirty years,” he said, bringing out two plates of scrambled eggs and sausage and laying one on the thick oak table before his friend. “We don’t see nearly enough of each other.”

“That’s why we’ve been friends for so long.” Harry tapped the end of his fork lightly on the tabletop. “This air,” he said. “Makes me feel like thirty years ago was when I last ate. What a refuge.”

“You’re cramping my sentimentality,” Arthur said, returning to the kitchen for a pitcher of orange juice.

“The sausages…?”

“Hebrew National.”

“God bless.” Harry dug into the fluffy yellow pile on the round stoneware plate. Arthur sat down across from him.

“How do you ever get any work done here? I prefer concrete cells. Helps the concentration.”

“You slept well.”

“I snore , Arthur, whether I sleep well or not.”

Arthur smiled. “And you call yourself an outdoors-man, a fisherman.” He cut the tip from a sausage and lifted it to his mouth. “Between consulting and reeducating myself, I’ve been trying to write a book about the Hampton administration. Haven’t even seriously started on chapter one. I’m not sure how to describe what happened. What a wonderful tragic comedy it all was.”

“Hampton gave science more credibility than any President since…Well,” Harry said,”since.” He lifted one hand and splayed his fingers.

“I’m hoping Crockerman—”

“That name. A president.”

“May not be so bad. He’s part of the reason I invited you out here.”

Harry raised a bushy eyebrow. The two were as much a contrast as any classic comedy team — Arthur tall and slightly stooped, his brown hair naturally tousled; Harry of medium height and stocky to the edge of plumpness in his middle years, with a high forehead and a friendly, wide-eyed expression that made him seem older than he was. “I told Ithaca.” Ithaca, the lovely, classically proportioned wife, whom Arthur hadn’t seen in six years, was a decade younger than Harry.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her you used the tone of voice that means you have some job for me.”

Arthur nodded. “I do. The bureau is being revived. In a way.”

“Crockerman’s reviving Betsy?”

“Not as such.” The Bureau of Extraterrestrial Communication — BETC or “Betsy” for short — had been Arthur’s last hurrah in Washington. He had served as science advisor and Secretary of BETC for three years under Hampton, who had appointed him after the Arecibo Incident in 1992. That had turned out to be a false alarm, but Hampton had kept Arthur on until his assassination in Mexico City in August of 1994. Vice President William Crockerman had been sworn in on a train in New Mexico, and had immediately moved to place his own stamp on the White House, replacing most of the Cabinet with his own choices. Three months after the swearing-in, the new chief of staff, Irwin Schwartz, had told Arthur, “No little green men, no lost ships off Bermuda…might as well go home, Mr. Gordon.”

“Is he going to make you science advisor?” Harry asked. “Kick out that idiot Rotterjack?”

Arthur shook his head, grinning. “He’s forming a special presidential task force.”

“Australia,” Harry said, nodding sagely. He put down his glass of orange juice without taking a sip, braced as if for an assault, his eyes fixed on the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table. “Great Victoria Desert.”

Arthur was not surprised. “How much do you know?” he asked.

“I know it was found by opal prospectors and that it’s not supposed to be there. I know that it could be a virtual duplicate of Ayers Rock.”

“That last part isn’t quite true. It differs substantially. But you’re right. It’s recent, and it shouldn’t be there.” Arthur was relieved to know that Harry hadn’t heard of the incident much closer to home.

“What do we have to do with it?”

“Australia is finally asking for advice. The Prime Minister is going public with a report in three days or less. He’s under some pressure.”

“Little green men?”

“I can’t even comment on that until I’ve asked you the questions, Harry.”

“Then ask,” Harry said, still braced.

“The President has put me in charge of the civilian science investigation team. We work with the military and with State. You’re my first choice.”

“I’m a biochemist. That means…”

Arthur shook his head slowly. “Hear me out, Harry. I need you for biochemistry, and as my second-in-command. I’m pushing for Warren from Kent State for geology, and Abante from Malibu for physics. They’ve agreed, but they have to go through political examination.”

“You think I’d pass Crockerman’s political pop quiz?” Harry asked.

“You will if I insist, and I will.”

“You need a biochemist…really?”

“That’s the rumor,” Arthur said, his grin widening.

“It would be lovely.” Harry pushed his chair back with only half his eggs and one sausage eaten. “Old friends, working together again. Ithaca would agree. Hell, even if she didn’t…but…”

“There will never be another chance like this;” Arthur said, emphasizing each word as if he were putting some essential point across to a dunderhead student.

Harry wrinkled his forehead, staring up at Arthur. “Dupres at King’s College?”

“I’ve asked for him. He hasn’t answered yet. We may not be able to get extranationals on the team.”

“I wouldn’t turn you down lightly,” Harry said. Arthur saw his friend’s eyes were red. He appeared close to tears. “You need somebody reliable.”

“What does that mean?”

Harry looked out the window, hand tensing on a fork handle, relaxing. “I just told Ithaca three weeks ago.”

Arthur’s face became placid, clear of all the excitement he had exhibited seconds before. “Yes?”

“Chronic leukemia. I’ve got it. It has me.”

Arthur blinked twice. Harry would not look straight at him.

“It’s not good. In a few months, I’ll be spending most of my time fighting this. I can’t see how I’ll be anything but a hindrance.”

“Terminal?” Arthur asked.

“My doctors say perhaps not. But I’ve been reading.” He shrugged.

“These new treatments—”

“Very promising. I have hope. But you must see…” Harry turned his bright gaze on Arthur. “This thing’s as big as Ayers Rock, and it’s been there how long?”

“No more than six months. Survey satellites mapped that area just over six months ago and it wasn’t there.”

Harry grinned broadly. “That’s wonderful. That’s truly wonderful. What the hell is it, Arthur?”

“A piece of Europa, perhaps?” Arthur’s voice was far away. His friend still wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Harry laughed out loud and flung his napkin on the table. “I’ll not be sad and weepy. Not with this.”

Arthur’s throat tightened. He had practically grown up with Harry. They had known each other for thirty years. He couldn’t possibly be dying. Arthur coughed. “We’ll become adults with this one, Harry. The whole human race. I need you very much—”

“Can you take on a might-be invalid?” Now their eyes met, and this time Arthur glanced away, shoulders stiff. With an effort, he looked back. “You’ll make it, Harry.”

“Lord, speak of will to live.”

“Join the team.”

Harry wiped his eyes with the forefinger of his right hand. “Travel? I mean, much—”

“At first, but you can stay in Los Angeles if you wish, later.”