Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

The members of the network tended to be students or young professionals. They were predominantly white, they were joggers and aerobics enthusiasts, and they had money. During the sixties they would have ridden the freedom buses. They were believers, convinced that the world could be made better for everyone and that the means to act lay at hand.

The bus was drafty and the windows were freezing over. Nevertheless, Charlotte’s fellow passengers retained their good spirits. They opened thermos bottles and passed around coffee and hot chocolate. They sang traveling songs from Tolkien and Gaian chants from last year’s general council at Eugene. They wandered up and down the aisle, trying to keep their feet warm. And they watched the Pembina Escarpment grow.

The buses turned onto Route 32 just before sunset. Traffic was moving faster now. But it was after six when they reached Walhalla. Charlotte was tempted to call it off for the night and stop here for coffee and hamburgers. But when a couple of her lieutenants approached her with the same notion, she resisted. “Let’s at least make the effort,” she said. “And if they won’t let us in tonight, there’s something else we can do.”

Back out on the two-lane, they moved at a good clip. Her driver, a rock-band guitarist from New Mexico whose name was Frankie Atami, jabbed his finger ahead. “That’s it,” he said.

There were lanterns off the side of the road, and barricades were up. Cars were being turned away. “Pull over,” she told Frankie.

Two police officers stood beside a barricade at the entrance. They wore heavy jackets. Frankie stopped and opened the door. She leaned out, but the cops just waved them back. “We’ve come a long way, officer,” Charlotte said, shivering.

“Sorry, ma’am,” said the taller of the two. “We’re closed for the night. Come back tomorrow.”

“What time do you open up?”

But the cop was finished talking and jabbed a finger at the road. Frankie checked his mirrors and pulled cautiously out onto the highway.

“Pull off when you can,” Charlotte told him. “Let’s try to get a look at it.”

He glanced doubtfully at the drainage ditches on both sides, which had already claimed several cars. “I don’t think so,” he said.

Frustrated, they continued south while their angle of vision to the ridge narrowed and vanished. Charlotte fished out a map. “Okay,” she said. “Left just ahead.”

She brought them around so that, as it grew dark, they were moving along a county road several miles distant from the escarpment but with an excellent view of it. “Find a place to stop, Frankie,” she said.

They pulled off onto a shoulder. The second bus swung in behind them and parked. People drifted between the vehicles, drinking coffee and hot chocolate. At the back of the bus, Jim Fredrik was opening cartons. May Thompson and Kim Martin dug into them and brought out lanterns. Along the roadside they filled them with kerosene, and everybody took one.

A few started to sing, and the last of the light fled down the horizon. The stars blazed overhead.

And suddenly, as if someone had thrown a switch, the emerald glow appeared atop the escarpment.

They went dead silent.

After a minute someone moved up close to Charlotte. Manny Christopher, a software designer from Providence. “That’s it,” Manny said.

Silently they embraced each other and murmured congratulations. Charlotte lit her lantern. It was a signal for the others, and they lined up in the communal glow, forming a human chain, facing Johnson’s Ridge.

Charlotte felt the pull of the object on the summit. The Roundhouse, the media called it. But in another time it had borne a different name, given by a different entity. The faces of her friends, despite the cold, were warm and alive in the flickering lights. Beacons, she thought. The lanterns and the faces. Beacons for the universal power.

She raised her lamp, and the others followed her lead.

In that moment she loved them all. And she loved the magnificent world into which she’d been born.

For a few brief moments she saw her friends, the whole complexity of life on earth, and the wheeling stars, through the eyes of God.

“Our guest on CNN Matchup ,” said the host, “is Alfred MacDonough, from the University of Toronto, winner of the Nobel prize for physics. Dr. MacDonough, what is really happening at Johnson’s Ridge?”

MacDonough, thin, white-haired, fragile, looked over the top of his glasses. “I would have to say, Ted, that we’re seeing the first real evidence that we’ve had visitors from somewhere else.”

The host nodded. “The Roundhouse is reported to have power.”

“Yes. There seems to be no question that this—” He paused, weighing his words. “— place is putting out light and heat.”

“Do we know how that’s being done?”

“To my knowledge, no one has yet looked at the mechanism.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not in an obvious place. It appears that we’ll have to break through some walls in order to determine how things work. Naturally everyone is reluctant to do that.”

“Dr. MacDonough.” The host’s voice changed slightly. “We have been hearing that there’s reason to believe the artifact is more than ten thousand years old. How do you react to that?”

“It’s not impossible.”

“Why not? How could the lights work after all that time?” The host smiled. “We have to buy maintenance contracts to protect us against toasters that fail within a couple of years.”

MacDonough smiled and inadvertently dropped the bomb. “I can assure you, Ted, that if the reality on Johnson’s Ridge turns out to be what it now appears to be, it won’t take us long to adapt that technology to our own needs. I think we could give you a pretty durable toaster.” He sat back in his chair, looking quite pleased. “In fact, I think we could give you the first multigenerational toaster.”

“What happened to the dirt? That’s what I really don’t understand.”

Several inches of dirt had been removed, revealing a stone disk. The disk was about five feet in diameter and rose an inch or two off the surrounding gray floor. It was lime-colored and ribbed with a gridwork of black spokes.

“It looks as if we’ve discovered a high-tech vacuum cleaner,” Max said. He put the minicam down and inspected the grid from a respectful distance. There were too many unknowns here, and Max had no interest in getting rearranged the way the dirt had.

“This one,” April said, pointing toward the tree emblem. “All you have to do is touch the wall.”

“How about if we try it again?” he said.

“But something more distinguishable than dirt this time,” said April.

A few wooden chairs had been set inside the dome for the convenience of the workers. Max retrieved one and put it on the grid. Then he set up to record everything on video. He signaled when he was ready.

April pressed the flat of her hand against the wall in front of the tree.

It lit up.

“Okay,” she said.

But nothing happened. With a bleep, the light went out.

And there were no special effects.

Max looked at the six icons. They were tastefully done, but they did have the appearance of being functional rather than decorative. He noticed a recessed plate near the base of the wall. Another sensor?

“Go ahead,” she said. “Try it.”

He pushed it and felt something click. A panel door popped open. It was round, several inches across. Inside, he could see cables.