Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

She jumped to her feet. “Max,” she cried. “Welcome to the other side.” A long wave broke and rolled up the strand. She extended a hand, then shrugged and fell into his arms. “I’m glad to see you,” she said.

“Me, too. I was worried about you.”

She hung onto him. Squeezed him. “I’ve got bad news,” she said. “We can’t get home.”

He pushed her away so he could see her face. “Yes, we can,” he said. “It works.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she pulled him close again and kissed him. Her cheeks were wet.

It was cool, and after a minute they sat down by the fire. A few birds flapped across the incoming tide. They had long beaks and webbed feet. As he watched, one landed behind a retreating wave and poked at the sand. “I thought I was stuck here, Max.”

“I know.”

“This place is nice, but I wouldn’t want to stay forever.” And, after a second thought: “You’re sure? You tried it?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

“We wouldn’t have left you,” Max said.

She held a bag out to him. “Peanut butter,” she said, offering him a sandwich.

He was hungry.

“This is all I had left.”

Max took a bite. “It’s good,” he said. And, after a moment: “Do you know where we are?”

“Not on Earth.”

He moved in closer to the flames. “I should have brought your jacket,” he said.

“I’ll be fine.”

The sea had grown dark. Stars were starting to appear. “I wonder who lives here,” Max said.

“I haven’t seen anyone. And I don’t think anybody’s used the transportation system for a long time.”

Max watched a breaker unroll. “Are you sure? That this isn’t Earth? I mean, that’s a lot to swallow.”

“Take a look around you, Max.”

The Alice-in-Wonderland forest had grown dark.

“And the gravity’s not right. It seems to be less here.” She studied him. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” he said. “Lighter.”

“Did you see the sun?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not ours.”

She didn’t elaborate, and Max let it go. “We should be getting back,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Arky will be worried.”

She nodded. “In a way, I hate to leave. Why don’t we stay out here tonight? We can go back tomorrow.”

It wouldn’t occur to Max until several hours later that there might have been a proposition in the offer. He was too unsettled by events and not thinking clearly. “We need to let them know we’re okay.”

“Okay,” she said.

The sky was becoming a vast panorama. It was almost as if the stars switched on with a roar, a million blazing campfires, enough to illuminate the sea and prevent the onset of any real night. Great black storm clouds had appeared, and Max blinked at them because they too seemed swollen with stars. “Odd,” he said. “The sky was clear a few minutes ago.”

“I don’t think,” she whispered, “the clouds are in the atmosphere.”

Max frowned. The breakers gleamed.

“Look.” She pointed out over the sea. A thunderhead floated above the horizon, flecked with liquid lightning and countless blue-and-white lights. “I’ve seen that before,” she said.

So had Max. It looked like an oncoming storm, but it had the distinct shape of a chess piece. A knight.

“I think it’s the Horsehead Nebula,” he said.

She stood up and walked down to the shoreline. “I think you’re right, Max.” Her voice shook.

Max watched her; he listened to the fire crackle and to the melodic roar of the surf. Perhaps for the first time since the child had died in the burning plane, he felt at peace with himself.

London, Mar. 14 (BBC News Service)—

The recent rise in workplace murders in the United Kingdom can possibly be ascribed to events on Johnson’s Ridge, according to Timothy Clayton, an industrial psychologist writing in the Economist . “People are more fearful for their jobs than they’ve been since the Great Depression,” Clayton says. “They’re not sure who’s responsible, but to a remarkably increasing degree, they’re gunning down bosses, secretaries, newspaper vendors, and anyone else who happens to get in the way.”

The five members of the tribal council, four men and a woman, were arrayed across the front of the chamber behind a long wooden table. Behind them hung the banner of the Mini Wakan Oyaté, the shield of the Devil’s Lake Sioux, with its buffalo skull and half-sun devices. Chairman Walker occupied the center of the group.

The chamber was packed so tightly with journalists and photographers there wasn’t much room for the tribe’s members. Some nevertheless managed to squeeze in, while others waited in the hallways and outside the Blue Building. The mood was jubilant, and when Wells stepped forward, there was a smattering of applause.

“Chairman,” he said, “esteemed council members, as you are aware, I represent the men and women of the National Energy Institute, which hopes to be allowed to examine the archeological find on Johnson’s Ridge and to preserve the find for future generations. In order to accomplish this, we are offering to pay the Mini Wakan Oyaté two hundred million dollars in exchange for the property.”

The crowd caught its collective breath. Applause began, but Walker quickly gaveled it down. Wells smiled, enjoying himself. He took out a letter and gazed at it. “I have, however, been directed by my superiors to inform you that some of our investors doubt that this is a wise use of their money, and they are threatening to pull out. The offer could be withdrawn at any time.” He crumpled the letter and pushed it back into his pocket. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, looking concerned, “take the money while you can. Unfortunately, once I walk out that door, anything might happen.”

The chairman nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Wells. The council appreciates your coming here this evening to speak with us.”

Wells bowed slightly and sat down.

“We have one other person on the agenda for this matter.” He looked to his right, where April and Max were seated with Arky. “Dr. Cannon?”

April looked like a world-beater. She wore a dark blue business suit and heels and the expression of someone who’d just found a cure for cancer. “Chairman,” she said, “and members of the council. Two hundred million dollars sounds like a lot of money—”

“It is a lot of money,” said a middle-aged woman up front.

“—but something happened today that changed the value of your property.” April paused. “The Roundhouse has a doorway. It’s a port to another world.”

The audience did not react, and Max realized that people did not understand what she was saying. Even the media representatives were waiting for more.

“This morning two of us walked into that building and walked out onto another world . This means that the Roundhouse contains the secret of instantaneous travel. There is a technology that would allow any of us to travel to Fargo, to Los Angeles, to China, in the blink of an eye .”

An electric charge rippled through the crowd. Flashbulbs went off, and cellular phones appeared.

Walker pounded his gavel.

In accordance with Arky’s advice, April described the land through the port as a place where the world felt young, a wilderness of virgin forests and starlit seas. “Moreover,” she said, “we think there are several ports. Perhaps to other forests. We don’t know yet. What we do know is that the Mini Wakan Oyaté have a bridge to the stars.