David Brin - Earth

The stranger held out an ID that projected a holographic sphere ten centimeters across, emblazoned with crusty military emblems.

“Please go ahead and use your wallet plaque to verify my credentials, Mr. Eng.”

Logan started to laugh. Partly in relief this wasn’t a robbery and partly at the incongruity. As if anyone would want to fake such a garish thing!

“I’m sure I believe you…”

But the other man insisted. “I really would prefer you check, sir.”

“Hey, what’s this about? I have people waiting…”

“I know that. This shouldn’t take long. We can talk soon as you’ve verified my bona fides. It’s for your own protection, sir.”

In the stranger’s eyes, Logan recognized a tenacity far exceeding his own. Arguing was clearly futile.

“Oh, all right.” He took out his wallet and aimed its lens first at Spivey and then at the man’s glowing credential. Quickly he dialed the private security service he used for such things and pressed his thumb to the ident-plate. In three seconds the tiny screen flashed a terse confirmation.

All right, the fellow was who he said he was. Logan might have preferred a robber.

“Shall we go for a walk then, Mr. Eng?” Spivey motioned with one arm.

“I just finished walking a piece. Can we sit down? I really only have a moment…”

His protest trailed off as the officer showed him to a long black car parked at the curb. One glance told Logan the thing was made of steel throughout, and ran on high-octane gasoline.

Astounding. Work vehicles were one thing. Out in the field, machines needed that kind of power. But what use was it here in a city? This told him more than he’d learned by reading Spivey’s ID.

Logan felt like a desecrator, planting his work pants on the plush upholstery. When the door hissed shut, all sound from the blaring, cacophonous street instantly vanished.

“This is a secure vehicle,” Spivey told him, and Logan quite believed it.

“All right, Colonel. What’s all this about?”

Spivey held up one hand. “First I must tell you, Mr. Eng, that what we’re about to discuss is highly classified. Top secret.”

Logan winced. “I want my lawyer program.”

The officer smiled placatingly. “I assure you it’s all legal. You must be aware certain government agencies are exempt from the open-access provisions of the Rio Treaties.”

Logan knew that. Disarmament hadn’t ended all threats to peace or national security. Nations still competed, and in principle he accepted the need for secret services. Still, the idea made him intensely uncomfortable.

Spivey went on. “If you wish, though, we can record our conversation, and you may deposit a copy with a reputable registration service. Which one do you use for business? I’m sure you often sequester proprietary techniques for weeks or months before applying for patents.”

Logan relaxed just a bit. Sequestering a conversation, to keep it confidential for a short time, was another matter entirely… so long as a legal record was kept in a safe place. In that case, he wondered why Spivey used the word “secret” at all.

“I deposit with Palmer Privacy, but—”

Spivey nodded. “Palmer will be satisfactory. Because we’ll be discussing matters of national safety, however, and a possible threat to public welfare, I must ask for a ten-year sequestration, at ultimate level.”

At that level, only a high court could open the record before expiration. Logan swallowed. He felt as if he had stepped into a bad flat-movie from the twentieth century, one made all too realistic in Daisy McClennon’s enhancement lab. He was tempted to look around for the flashing pink star, installed to cue viewers that this wasn’t real.

“Naturally, my agency will reimburse the extra cost, if that’s a concern,” Spivey added.

After a moment’s hesitation, Logan nodded. “Okay.” His voice felt very dry.

Spivey took out two recording cubes, black, with tamper-proof seals, and set them into a taper. Together, they went through the ritual, establishing names and conditions, time and location. At last, with both cubes winking, the colonel settled back in his seat. “Mr. Eng, we’re interested in your theories about the incident at the Biscay tidal barrage.”

Logan blinked. He had been imagining things this might be about, from person smuggling, to waste-dumping scams, to insider trading. He traveled widely and met so many colorful types that there was no telling how many might be involved in the ceaseless, sometimes shady jockeying of governments and corporations. But Spivey had surprised him with this!

“Well, Colonel, I’d have to classify that paper more under the heading of science fiction than theory. After all, I published in a database for speculative…”

“Yes, Mr. Eng. The Alternate View . Actually, you may be surprised to learn our service keeps close tabs on that zine, and similar ones.”

“Really? It’s just a forum for crackpot ideas…” He read the other man’s look. “Well, maybe not as crackpot as some. Most subscribers are technical people. Let’s say it’s where we can publish things that don’t belong elsewhere — certainly not the formal journals. Most of the ideas aren’t to be taken seriously.”

He felt uncomfortably sure Spivey was watching his every move, taking his measure. Logan didn’t like it.

“Are you saying you think your hypotheses worthless?” the man asked levelly.

Logan shrugged. “There are lots of notions that seem to work on paper, or in Net simulations, but can’t be justified in the real world.”

“And your notion was?” Spivey prompted.

Logan thought back to the case of the missing drill rig in southern Spain — and the anchor boom that had been lifted on end at the tidal power station — both without any sign of sabotage.

“All I did was calculate how a special type of Earth movement could have caused the strange things I saw.”

“What kind of Earth movement?”

“It’s…” Logan lifted both hands parallel. “It’s like, well, pushing a child on a swing. If you shove at the right frequency, matching the natural pendulum rhythm, you’ll build momentum with each stroke—”

“I’m aware of how resonance works, Mr. Eng. You suggested the Spanish anomalies were caused by a special type of seismic resonance. Specifically, the sudden arrival of extremely narrowly focused earthquakes and corresponding gravity variations—”

“No! I didn’t say that was the cause! I merely showed such waves would be consistent with observed events. It’s an amusing idea, that’s all. I can’t really say why I even bothered with it.”

The government man inclined his head slightly. “I’m sorry I misspoke. You sound upset about it.”

“A man’s reputation is important. Especially in my field. People understand play, of course. So I was careful to make clear that’s all I was doing, playing with an idea! It’s quite another thing to say, ‘this is what happened .’ I didn’t do that.”

Spivey regarded him for a long interval. Finally, he opened a slim briefcase and pulled out a large-format reading plaque. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leaf through this, Mr. Eng, and consider what you see in light of your… playful exercise.”

Logan thought of protesting. By now his associates in the restaurant might be worried. Or they might be incoherent from alcohol or assume he’d gone off to bed…

He took the plaque. Making certain the recording cubes could read over his shoulder, he put his thumb on the page-turn button and began skimming. Silence stretched in the limo as he read. Finally, he said, “I don’t believe it.”

“Now you understand why I insisted you check my credentials, Mr. Eng, so you’ll know this is no hoax.”