Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

“I’d like to move over there,” said Greene.

“Is it true,” asked Morin, “that the government is about to take this place?”

April nodded. “Apparently so.”

Morin shook his head sadly. “God help us all.”

Rushenko opened the door to his car. “You’re in the right, you know.” His accent was New York. Long Island, she thought.

“We know.”

“I hate to think of the port in the hands of the government,” he continued. “Damned shame. I wish I could help.” He got into his car and started the engine.

“Well, I’ll tell you something,” said Greene. “If the decision were mine, they’d have to take it from me.”

April held the door while she got in. “We intend to stay,” she said, using the pronoun figuratively, for she had no intention of staying. But it felt good to say so. “And you’re welcome to stay with us, Agatha, if you wish.” She intended it as a joke or bravado or something and immediately felt embarrassed by the woman’s confusion.

“I would like to, April,” the astrophysicist said. “I really would. But I have a husband and a little girl.” She blushed.

The others said nothing.

April watched for her chance to talk privately with the chairman. He was out with Adam and the others, bent into a severe wind, touring the mounds of earth that rose around the rim of the excavation pit. Those mounds, she gathered, would constitute the first line of defense.

“Max,” she said, “why are they doing this? What’s the point?”

Max was coming to hate the Roundhouse and everything associated with it. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing.”

She knew Max was waiting anxiously for her to agree to leave. He’d warned her that going down the access road in the dark past nervous police entailed risks.

It was dark now.

“I hate to leave them here,” she said, initiating another cycle of the conversation they’d been having over and over for the last hour.

“So do I.”

“I wish there were something we could do.”

“Why do they insist on doing this? There’s nothing to gain.”

At eight o’clock they killed the security lights, but the churned-up ground was still visible in the glow from the Roundhouse. “Too bad they can’t throw a tarp over that thing,” said Max.

When the chairman left Adam and retreated to the security station, she judged the time was right. “Max,” she said, “let’s go talk to him.”

Max had lost all hope of making anybody see reason. To him, Adam Sky and his people, who had once seemed so rational, had been transformed into a band of fanatics who were ruled by ghosts of lost battles and ancient hatreds. The prospect of telling a federal court and a police force to kiss off was utterly foreign to Max’s nature.

Walker seemed cheerful enough when they caught up with him.

“Chairman,” April said with her voice fluttering, “don’t do this. You can stop it.”

Walker smiled warmly at her. “Are you still here?” he asked.

The wind ripped across the escarpment and hammered against the building. “We don’t want to leave you here.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” he said. “But you can’t stay.” The exchange caused Max’s pulse to miss a beat. He had no intention of getting caught in the crossfire.

“There’s no reason to do this,” April said. “It won’t change the result.”

Walker stared at her. “Don’t be too sure.” He looked away, up at the moon, which was in its third quarter, and then out over the river valley, dark except for the distant pools of light at Fort Moxie and its border station.

“You can fight this in the courts,” said Max. “I would think you’d have a good chance of getting it back. But if you put up an armed resistance—”

Something in the old man’s eyes brought Max to a stop.

“What?” said April. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“I have no idea what you mean, young lady.” But he couldn’t quite get the coyness out of his voice.

“What?” she said. “You’ve got the place mined? What is it?”

The helicopter was back. It rolled across the center of the escarpment.

Walker looked at his watch.

“The rational way is through the courts,” she said. “Why aren’t you going through the courts?”

The question hit home, and Walker simply waved it away. He didn’t want to talk anymore. Wanted her to leave.

“Why?” she asked. “Why won’t the courts work? You think the fix is in? Something else?”

“Please go, April,” he said. “I wish there were a better way.”

April’s eyes widened. “You think they’re going to destroy it, don’t you? You don’t think the courts would be able to hand it back.”

The chairman stared past her, his eyes fixed on the sky. Then he turned on his heel and walked out the door.

“My God,” she said. “That can’t be right. They wouldn’t do that.”

But they would have to. As long as people believed the advanced technologies existed, that they could eventually surface, they would continue to work their baleful effects on the world at large. There was only one way to neutralize the Roundhouse.

“I think,” said Max, “he’s right. It’s time for us to clear out.”

April stood hesitating, dismayed. Terrified. “No,” she said. “I don’t think it is.”

Max’s heart sank.

“I’m not going,” she said. “I’m not going to let it happen.”

Brian Kautter was the commissioner of the Environmental Protection Agency. At eight-thirty, tracked by TV cameras, he walked into the agency’s press room. There was more tension in the air and more reporters present than he had ever seen. That meant there had been a leak.

Kautter was a tall, congenial African-American. He hated what was happening right now, and he resented being part of it. He saw the necessity of the president’s action. But he knew this was one of those events that would dog him through the years. He suspected a time would come, and very soon, when he would wish with all his heart for the capability to come back and relive these next few minutes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have an announcement to make, after which I will be happy to take questions. We have become increasingly concerned with the dangers inherent in the Roundhouse. Your government, as you know, has taken no official position on whether there actually is a bridge to the stars. But enough evidence is in to allow us to conclude that the land on the other side is most certainly not terrestrial.

“That brings up a number of disquieting possibilities. There are already stories that something has passed into our world. We do not know what this something might be, nor do we believe there is any truth to the account. But we cannot rule it out. Nor can we be certain that such an event might not happen in the future. There are other potential hazards. Viruses, for example. Or contaminants.

“In order to ensure the general public’s safety, EPA has requested and received a court order requiring the owners of the artifact to submit it to government inspection and control. I repeat, this is only a temporary measure and is designed purely to avert local hazards.” Kautter looked like a man in pain. “I’ll take questions now.”

Maris Quimby from the Post : “Mr. Commissioner, have the Sioux agreed to this arrangement?”

Kautter shook his head. “Maris, a federal court order does not require anyone’s consent. But to answer your question, I’m sure they’ll see the wisdom of the action.” He pointed at Hank Miller, from Fox.

“Isn’t it a little late to worry about bugs? I mean, if there’s anything dangerous over there, we can be reasonably sure that by now it’s over here.”