Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

They were sitting in Clark’s office on the campus of Moorhead State. Outside, the sun was shining, and the temperature was a balmy forty degrees. “That can’t be right, Morley,” he said. “You must have missed something.”

Clark smiled tolerantly. He was lanky, broad-shouldered, athletic. A softball nut. “I agree, Max. But I can’t see where. Maybe the data banks aren’t as complete as they’re supposed to be. But as a practical matter, I think we have damned near everything. Your stuff won’t make a match. Well, a couple of the symbols do. One’s Hindustani, another’s Cyrillic. Which means it’s pure coincidence. You put a few lines and loops together and you have to come up with something.” He looked down at the photo on his desk. “Max, it’s a joke.”

Max thanked Clark and drove back to Chellis Field wondering who was the joker and who the jokee. He was by turns mystified and irritated. It had to be some kind of gang thing. Had to be.

He was up on I—29 when Stell reached him on his cellular phone. “You got a call from Colson Laboratories. Can you take it?”

Already? It was only two days. “Okay,” he said. “Put them through.”

“Roger. And Max?”

“Yes?”

“They sound excited.”

The phone clicked. “Mr. Collingwood?” A woman’s voice. And Stell was right: She sounded as if she’d just run up two flights of stairs.

“Yes, this is Max Collingwood. Can I help you?”

“My name’s Cannon. I’m calling for Colson Labs. About the samples you left the other day.”

“Okay.”

“I assume you’re not at your office now?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Max. “What have you got?”

“Can I meet you there?” she asked.

She was black, slender, in her mid-thirties. Her business card indicated she was a lab director for Colson. Good smile, high cheekbones, and an aura of barely-suppressed excitement. She wore a navy blue business suit and carried a leather briefcase. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Collingwood,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m April Cannon.”

Max took her coat. “I didn’t expect results quite so soon.”

Her smile implied there was a secret between them. She sat down, keeping the briefcase on her lap, and looked at him sharply. “I’ll admit we don’t usually do home delivery, Mr. Collingwood,” she said. “But you and I both know you’ve got something very unusual here.”

Max nodded as if that was all very true.

Her eyes cut into him. “Where did you get it?”

Max wondered briefly whether he should keep the source quiet. But what the hell, it’d been on TV. “It was buried up on the border.”

“The boat ? The one they found on the farm?”

Max nodded.

“The boat . I’ll be damned.” Her eyes lost their focus. “May I see it?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Everybody else has been up there.” She seemed to be drifting away from him. “What exactly can you tell me?”

“Let me ask you something,” she said, as if he had not spoken. “Did you drop any samples off anywhere else?”

“No,” said Max.

“Good.” She released the snaps on the briefcase, withdrew a folder, and handed it over. “How’s your chemistry?”

“Shaky.”

“That’s okay. Listen, Mr. Collingwood—”

“I think this’ll go quicker if you call me Max.”

“Okay, Max.” She smiled. Max had the feeling that she wasn’t really seeing him. “Colson’s a small operation. I did the lab work myself. Nobody else knows.”

“Knows what?”

She pointed at the folder.

Max opened it and glanced over a one-page form.

“I wonder if you’d translate it for me.”

She looked around the office. “Can we be overheard?”

That startled him. “No,” he said.

“Okay. The material’s a fiber. It’s very fine, and it’s woven.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “It has an atomic number of one-sixty-one. It’s a transuranic.”

“What’s a transuranic?”

“An artificially-created element.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Max, this is a transuranic in spades. We’ve got one out there now so new it hasn’t even been named yet. It has an atomic number of one-twelve. That’s the top of the chart. Or it used to be. This stuff—” She shook her head. “It shouldn’t exist.”

“So what are we saying here?”

Her features were tense. “Nobody has the technology to manufacture this kind of stuff. Even if we did, the element should be inherently unstable. And hot.”

“ Hot ? You mean radioactive?” Max began reviewing how much time he’d spent close to the sails.

“Yes. That’s what it should be.” She produced what remained of the sample, and held it up to a lamp. “But it’s okay. Maybe at those levels, elements lose their radioactivity. I don’t know. Nobody does.”

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course I’m sure.”

Max got up and walked to the window. A Cessna was just touching down. “I don’t think I understand what you’re telling me.”

She did not answer for a long time. “Somebody,” she said at last, “somewhere, has made a technological leap over the rest of us. A big one.”

“Okay,” he said. “So is it important?”

“Max, I’m not talking about a moderate advance. I’m talking light-years . This shouldn’t be possible.”

Max shrugged. “Obviously it is.”

She got that faraway look again. “Apparently,” she said.

“So, what are the implications? Is there a commercial advantage to it?”

“Oh, I would think so. The electrons are extremely stable. Extremely . I’ve already done some tests. It does not interact with other elements.”

“I’m still not following.”

“It’s virtually indestructible.”

Max knew better. “That can’t be right,” he said. “The sample I sent you was cut with a pair of scissors.”

She shook her head. “I don’t mean that kind of indestructibility. Obviously you can cut it. Or crunch it. But it won’t decay. It won’t fall apart on its own.” She was watching him closely, trying to decide, he thought, whether he knew more than he was saying. “Do you think if I drove up there, they’d let me see it tonight?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll make a call for you, if you like.” Something that had been floating in the back of his mind suddenly took form. “You said it won’t decay. How old is the sample?”

“No way to know,” she said. “It’s hard to say how you’d date this kind of thing. I’m not sure you could.” She was on her feet.

“Would it wear out?” Max asked.

“Oh, sure. Everything wears out. Eventually. But this stuff would be pretty tough. And it’d be easy to clean because other elements won’t stick to it.”

Max thought about the haze with its rainbow effect.

“Why don’t I go with you?” he said. “I’ll fly you up.”

A light blue government car pulled into Lasker’s driveway, swung around the gravel loop at the front of the house, navigated past a couple of parked cars, and stopped. A middle-aged, thick-waisted man got out. He slid a worn black briefcase out of the trunk, quickly surveyed the scene, and made for the front door.

“Jeffrey Armbruster,” he announced when Lasker opened up, “Internal Revenue Service.” He produced credentials so smoothly that they appeared to come out of his sleeve.

Lasker swallowed. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“No, no,” Armbruster said easily. “No problem at all.”

Lasker stood away from the door, and Armbruster thanked him and came in.

“Cold day,” said Lasker, although by local standards it wasn’t.