23
The business of America is business.
—Calvin Coolidge
JOHNSON’S RIDGE EXPLORERS OPEN SECOND WORLD
Walhalla, ND, Mar. 22 (AP)—
A team of explorers passed through a second port today and entered a world that was described as being “pure indoors.” No evidence of recent occupancy was discovered, according to press spokesman Frank Moll, who added that visitors will not be permitted until the exact nature of the terminus can be established.
There was no indication of danger, so they reopened Eden to the press and to researchers on the twenty-third. Groups crossing over were accompanied by a guide and a member of the security force. The tours went every two hours. People were fairly nervous about the method of transit, and some in fact backed out. But those who went invariably came back elated.
Everyone signed a release, although Arky warned darkly that such documents rarely influenced liability judgments.
Blood tests for April, Max, and all the security people who had been across came back negative.
April was pleased that Eden was finally a going concern, and she loved showing it off to the world’s academics. (As to the second terminus, which they had begun to refer to as the Maze, they decided to postpone further investigation until they had a chance to think things out. Max could not believe he’d got so completely lost and began to suspect that the second terminus was a sphere.)
She held informal conferences, and arranged special field trips when the requests seemed justified. She was beginning to think of herself as the Steward of the wilderness world, and she confessed to Max that she enjoyed being famous. They were all showing up on the covers of the news weeklies. A movie was being rushed into production, and early reports had it that she would be played by Whitney Houston.
Andrea Hawk was tending the port when two geologists came back through the system from the Eden terminus. They were bearded and gray-eyed, and both were talking. They seemed so deeply involved with each other that they did not even notice her. But one word caught her attention: “Oil.”
An hour later, it was the number one story on the wire services.
The main item during the plenary session of the General Assembly was to have been a motion by Tanzania suggesting a further weakening of global trade barriers. But the newspapers, which had been full of speculation about the star bridge in North Dakota, now carried stories that oil had been found in Eden.
If the delegates in attendance at the United Nations had found all the talk about other worlds and dimensional intersections confusing and largely irrelevant to real-world politics (they perceived themselves as, if nothing else, hardheaded realists), they did understand oil.
Brazil was scheduled for opening remarks on the trade policy initiative. But everyone in the building knew where the conversation was going that morning.
The Brazilian minister was a portly woman with black hair and a thick neck and quick eyes. “The question before us today,” she said, “goes far beyond the issue of tariffs. We are looking at a new world, located in some curious way beyond, but not in, the United States. We do not have any details about this world. We don’t know how extensive it is or how hospitable it may be. So far, it appears to be very hospitable.” She looked directly across the chamber at the U.S. delegation. “Brazil wishes to submit to the members the proposition that this discovery is of such supreme importance to everyone that no single nation should claim sovereignty over it. The port should be open to all mankind.” The minister paused here to listen to a comment from an aide, nodded, and sipped her glass of water.
“Brazil is confident that the United States, which has always been at the forefront in arguing for human rights, will recognize the essential human right to explore and ultimately occupy this strange new place. We urge the United States to declare itself accordingly.”
Margaret Yakata could never have been a serious presidential candidate. While the country might be willing to accept a woman in the highest office, it was not yet ready for one of Japanese ancestry. And so Yakata had put away her own ambitions, which had taken her to the governor’s mansion in Sacramento, and used her considerable political influence to get the vice presidency for Matt Taylor.
Taylor had shown his appreciation by sending her to the United Nations, where she was respected as a champion of global cooperation on environmental matters. She had also shown herself to be a staunch advocate of collective security by supporting fledgling democracies wherever they arose. “Democracies,” she was fond of telling representatives of police states, “are the supreme hope for peace on this planet, because they do not make war on one another.”
Now she sat in her office at the UN, watching the Brazilian delegate on one screen and the president’s reaction on another. Someone handed the president a note. He read it without noticeable change of expression and then looked directly at her. “Iran,” he said, “is going to demand that Johnson’s Ridge be inspected by the UN and placed under international mandate.”
“They’ll get a lot of support,” said Yakata.
“I know. It’s a new stick to beat us with.” An expression of pain crept into his face.
“Mr. President,” she said, “a lot of people are scared about Johnson’s Ridge. Even the Brits are jumpy. They’re telling me they’ll vote with us if we can guarantee it’ll go away. Otherwise they’re reserving their options.”
“You heard about the oil?”
“Yes, I heard.”
“What do you think?”
“Considering what else may be coming out of there, I think it’s trivial. But it’s got everyone here thinking about natural resources. Is there gold over there, too? Uranium? Where does it end? Incidentally, I understand the Palestinians are going to demand land in Eden.” She grinned. “They’ll be supported by the Israelis.”
“This is a nightmare,” said Taylor.
“The Japanese want the Roundhouse handed over to the UN and destroyed. They say the port technology will destroy the global economy.”
“They won’t be alone,” said Taylor. “The whole world is terrified of discovering that it could get a whole lot smaller. Overnight.”
Yakata sighed. “Exactly how difficult would it be to reproduce the port technology, Mr. President?”
“We haven’t been able to get a good look at it yet, Margaret. But my people tell me that anything we can get a working model of, we can duplicate.”
“That’s what I thought. Mr. President, you’d know more about this than I do, but in my opinion the people who have been raising security concerns have a point.” She considered what she was about to say and did not like it. She was not among those who had lost faith in technology or in the human race itself. And yet…“Matt,” she said, “do you want a suggestion?”
He nodded.
“Kill the damned thing. Kill it dead. Arrange an accident. Discover that it has stopped working. Do something to put it out of business. Then, when it’s done, invite the UN to come have a look, so there won’t be any question about the identity of the body.”
Arky’s fax was pumping out paper on a full-time basis. Sonny’s Barbecue, Hooters, International House of Pancakes, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Steak ‘n’ Ale, and a dozen other chains wanted to put restaurants on Johnson’s Ridge. Sheraton, Hyatt, Holiday Inn, and Best Western had all submitted bids to build hotels. Albright REIT wanted to construct a shopping mall, and five oil companies were asking to install gas stations on the approach.
Some corporations were thinking about operations on the other side of the port. Lumber companies wanted to survey Eden’s forests. Real-estate developers thought that the beach beneath the Horsehead needed a boardwalk and hot-dog stands. Requests for oil surveys were coming in already.
A group calling itself Kurds for a Better World had sent an application for land, informing Max that they hoped to send sixty thousand people to establish an independent colony in Eden. Representatives of displaced peoples from around the globe were making statements to journalists that implied there’d be more requests of the same nature. A Poor People’s Crusade was forming in Washington and issuing demands.
“Maybe they’re right,” said April. “Maybe we should open it up and let everybody use it. What’s the harm?”
Arky frowned. “What happens if we try to settle and the owners show up?”
“I don’t think there are any owners,” said Max. “I wouldn’t want to put anybody in the Maze, but I think Eden is empty.”
Arky’s eyes flashed. “Maybe the owners like it empty. I would.”
“And that’s the real reason,” said Max, “isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“You don’t want anybody using the land except your own people.”
Arky started to deny the charge but only shrugged. “No one else will treat it appropriately,” he said. “Turn it over to any of these other groups, and within a few years you’ll have something that looks like downtown Fargo. At best.” He was looking past Max, focusing on some distant place. “This is a new wilderness. We allowed strangers to settle our lands once before. I don’t think we are going to make that mistake again.”
“We’re concerned about the port.” Jason Fleury peered at Walker through horn-rimmed trifocals. There was something vaguely unkempt about the man, a quality which contributed to an overall sense of self-effacing honesty. Not at all what the chairman had expected in a presidential representative. “Chairman,” he said, “I’m sure you understand that what you have here is of such significance that it has become, in effect, a national resource. Are you familiar with what has been happening at the UN?”
“I am. People there are arguing that the Roundhouse belongs to the world.”
“And what is your reaction?”
“It is the property of the Mini Wakan Oyaté.”
Fleury nodded sympathetically. “I know,” he said. “I think I understand. But there are political realities involved. Tomorrow the United Nations will debate a motion that the U.S. be requested to declare Johnson’s Ridge an international facility. Under ordinary circumstances, the idea would be laughable. But the Roundhouse is a unique global problem. People are terrified of what will happen if its technologies become generally available. Some regional economies are already in a shambles. For example, the auto parts industry in Morocco has collapsed. The price of oil has fallen through the floor, and clothing industries in every major western country are dying. Dying, Chairman.” He dropped wearily back in his chair. “I don’t have to tell you what’s been happening to the stock market. Gold is way up, several major western banks have collapsed, capital investment everywhere is paralyzed. North Korea is threatening to nuke South Korea unless it gets access to the Roundhouse. We’re in a pressure cooker, sir. And something is going to have to give.”
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.”
Ed sympathized. “Have you tried to buy them out? They must have a price.”
“I would have thought so. I’m beginning to wonder if our Native-American brothers haven’t decided to get even with the United States.” He fell momentarily silent. “Ed, do you have a suggestion?”
“If the public safety were at stake, we could seize the place. Of course, even then I’m not sure what we’d do with it. It’s the goddamnedest hot potato I’ve ever heard of.”
“I can’t just trump something up,” the president said. “The media won’t let you get away with anything anymore.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” said Ed. “Maybe something will go wrong and you can move in.”
Cass Deekin returned from Eden in a state of mind that could only be described as euphoric. He was a botanist and his pockets were filled with samples of flora from a nonterrestrial evolutionary system. He wasn’t supposed to bring anything back, had in fact signed an agreement stipulating he would not, but the security guards couldn’t be everywhere, and it was too good an opportunity to pass up.
He had just stepped off the grid with Juan Barcera, who was an astronomer from Caltech, and Janice Reshevsky, an Ivy League mathematician. An impassive Native American stood by the icons with a clipboard. He checked off their names. There had been twelve altogether on the other side of the port, of which Cass’s group was the first to return.
He and his companions were talking excitedly about the experience of actually walking on another world, barely able to.contain their emotions, when the grid lit up.
The guard glanced at the icons, which Cass (like everyone else on the planet) knew controlled the transportation device.
He peered into the blossoming light, expecting to see more of his party appear. The guard said, under his breath, almost to himself, “Wrong icon.”
Cass had no idea what he meant, but it was obvious something had happened. The guard’s hand came to rest on, but did not raise, his weapon.
The golden light, which had been intensifying for several seconds, stabilized and began to fade.
No one was there.
But Cass felt something move deep inside his head, and his senses swam. The curved walls of the dome spoke to him; its unbroken space brought a tightness to his throat. He flowed into the air and rode the warm currents. They mingled with his blood, and he drifted past the long window, gasping great tears of joy, finding and filling the open passageway, pouring through it and racing toward a patch of daylight that opened out into an emptiness that swept on forever.
Cass was looking at the insides of his eyelids, feeling the world spin, feeling hands lifting his head. His face was cold and wet.
“Wait,” said someone. “Don’t try to move.”
Another voice: “You’ll be okay, Cass.”
And someone shouting, “Over here.”
Cass opened his eyes. The person speaking to him was the Native-American guard. “Take it easy,” he said. “Help’s coming.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m okay.”
But the dark came again, crept over him like fog. He heard people talking somewhere. And he heard again the guard’s startled reaction: Wrong icon.