Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

An icy rain was rattling the windows. Outside, a school bus had pulled up, and children were hurrying into the building. It would be a tour group, kids trying to learn about their heritage. “We’re not unaware of these problems,” the chairman said. “It seems to me they result from widespread fear rather than from any tangible effect from Johnson’s Ridge. However, we are prepared to help.” He liked Fleury, who seemed a decent enough man. “We think what might be needed is a review board that would pass on any proposals to exploit Roundhouse technology or information. And we would be willing to enter discussions to set up such a board.”

Fleury seemed pleased. “That kind of arrangement was our first thought, Chairman. But the truth is that we don’t think it would work.”

“May I ask why not?” The council had expected pressure to be brought to bear, but they had all thought their proposal was eminently reasonable.

“People don’t trust their governments anymore,” Fleury said. “They don’t trust them to be honest or to be competent. I won’t debate with you whether that’s a fair assessment.” A smile played at the corners of his lips. “The truth is, as long as the Roundhouse exists, people are going to be terrified. They will not believe that a board of review will be a sufficient safeguard. And, frankly, neither do we. Not over the long term. In any case, if people don’t believe it will work, it won’t work.”

Walker felt a chill creeping into the room. “What, precisely, are you saying?”

“I’d like to speak off the record.”

“Go ahead.”

Fleury got up and closed the office door. “The artifact has to disappear. It has to be destroyed. What we propose to do is to buy it from you. We will offer a generous amount, more than you could have got from Wells’s group. And then there will be an accident.”

The chairman nodded. “There will be nothing left.”

“Nothing.”

“How do you propose to arrange that ?”

Fleury didn’t know. “Not my department,” he said. “Probably blow it to hell and claim it was an intrinsic instability or an alien self-destruct device. They’re imaginative.” He looked unhappy. “You’ll get a fair price. More than fair.”

For a long time the chairman did not move. When at last he responded, his voice was heavy. “Some of our people,” he said, “are preparing to move over there.”

“Beg pardon?”

“We have been given a second chance, Mr. Fleury. A chance to remember who we used to be. That has nothing to do with government payments. Or reservations. Or a world so crowded that a man cannot breathe. No, we will keep Eden. And we will maintain control over the access point.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Mr. Fleury, we cannot do otherwise.”

The most lucrative segment of Old-Time Bill’s broadcasting empire was the morning talk show officially designated Project Forty but referred to off camera as Brunch with Jesus . At about the time Chairman Walker was speaking with the president’s representative, Bill was seated on the set of Project Forty , taping his show. He was surrounded by Volunteers, which was the official designation bestowed on all who joined him in working for the Lord.

The format was conversational, but there was nothing particularly noteworthy about the conversation, which ranged from wringing hands over the ejection of God from the schools to pointing out disturbing similarities between violence on TV and the Roman games. Midway through the show, Bill’s special guest, an author who had written a book detailing how she had recovered from a life of alcohol abuse and freewheeling sexual misbehavior, described an incident in which her twenty-year-old son had taken advantage of her insobriety to persuade her to cosign a loan for a new car. A few weeks later, the son had announced he could not keep up the payments.

Bill was always visibly overwhelmed by such tales. His viewers loved to watch his reactions to accounts of human weakness and gullibility. He had been known to pound his fist on the table, to splutter his indignation, sometimes to squeeze his eyes shut and simply sit with tears running down his cheeks. When the crisis of the narrative arrived, the producer dutifully switched to a full frontal close-up.

On this occasion, Bill merely sat, a man in pain. The viewers could see his large chest rising and falling. And then he waved his hand in front of his face as if to clear the air. “There are times,” he said, “when I truly wonder why the Lord stays His hand. I would not second-guess the Almighty, but I can tell you that if I were running the world, things would be different. I would actively protect the innocent. And I would rain fire on the heads of sinners.” He heaved a great sigh. “But our God is a merciful God. And a patient God.”

If anyone in his vast listening audience thought there might have been a touch of blasphemy in the remark, it didn’t show up in the mail.

Mike Swenson, who owned Mike’s Supermarket in Fort Moxie, was a fan of the show. He heard the comment, and something about it unnerved him. He had to think about it a long time to realize why, and the reason didn’t come to him until late that afternoon, when he was preparing the week’s order.

Look out what you wish for .

They loved Governor Ed Pauling in North Dakota. He’d found ways to finance the schools and simultaneously reduce the sales tax a full point. He had reorganized the state government, reducing costs while he made it more effective. He had created jobs, had found federal funds to restore crumbling bridges and roads. And Ed had even helped the farmers. Under his direction, North Dakota had moved into the sunny uplands.

From Bismarck, however, he’d watched the storm building in Johnson’s Ridge. The collapse of the financial markets had, within a matter of days, ruined the state’s economy and undone everything he had accomplished over the last three years. Every major bank in North Dakota had been pushed to the edge. Several corporations were in trouble. And a lot of people to whom Ed owed favors were cashing them in. Do something .

He knew that a phone call from the president was inevitable. When it came, they got him out of a meeting with his economic advisors. He went back to his office, closed the doors, and turned off the tape machine. “Hello, Mr. President,” he said. And, with no attempt to conceal the irony: “How are we doing?”

“Hello, Ed.” If things were spiraling out of control, Matt Taylor would never let you know. In fact, the impression was that with Taylor, things could never spin out of control. It was the essence of the man’s magic. “We’re doing fine,” the president said.

“Good.” He let it hang there.

“Ed, I don’t want a record made of this call.”

“The machine’s off.”

“You and I haven’t talked yet about the Roundhouse.”

Ed laughed. “I saw a poll yesterday indicating that seventy percent of adult Americans can’t find North Dakota on the map.”

“That’s about to change,” said the president.

“I know.”

“Ed, is there anything you can do to shut that monstrosity down?”

Had he been able to do so, it would have been done by now. “I’d love to,” he said. “But it’s on Sioux land. That’s the closest thing there is to sacred territory out here. What we need is for you to declare a national emergency. Do that and I’ll send in the Guard.”

“That’s a little ham-handed, Ed. The Sioux don’t present any kind of military threat. They’ve committed no crime. I can’t just send the troops in. They’d beat me to death with it next fall.” He managed a deep-throated laugh that was half growl. “I can see the editorial cartoons now, with me as Custer.”