“Meteors don’t do that,” Kemp said. “And then…we have records of another seismic event in the same area as the cargo ship. Burrowing,” he added triumphantly. “Trace like a bomb explosion. And then…microseisms and deep P-waves.”

Samshow raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“More nodal traces,” Sand said, “and even stronger microseismic activity…This was either a bigger object, more massive, or…”

“It’s different,” Kemp said. “Don’t ask me how.”

“They’re talking about a Kemp object downstairs,” Samshow said. “Far be it from me to worry about attribution—”

“We’ll straighten that out at the symposium tomorrow morning,” Kemp said. “Gordon will attend, and everything we know will be laid before the convention.”

“And the public?”

“Nobody’s told us to keep it secret,” Sand said.

“There are camera crews downstairs.”

“We can’t hold this back,” Kemp said.

“Can’t we wait until it’s confirmed?”

“That could be months,” Sand said. “We may not have the time.”

Samshow frowned deeply. “Two things bother me,” he said. “Besides this god-awful noise. One.” He held up a single finger. “How in hell can any of this theorizing do us any good? And two.” A second finger. “Everybody here seems to be having such a fine time.”

Sand glanced at the others. Post appeared suddenly crestfallen.

“The gods are dancing on our grave,” Samshow said, “and here we are, like kids in a toy store.”

35

Reuben Bordes stood by the screen door, staring out at the cold rain washing the streets of Warren, half smiling and half frowning. His lips moved slowly to some inner song, and his eyes longed for something far away.

“Close the door, boy,” his father demanded, standing in the hallway, dressed in ragged pajamas. “It’s cold outside.”

“All right, Pop.” He swung the door closed and turned to watch his father settle into his easy chair. “Can I bring you anything?”

“I’ve eaten lunch, and I’ve had my nap, and I’ve been a lazy s.o.b. all day. Why should you bring me anything?” His father looked at him through rheumy, exhausted eyes. He was still crying at night, still sleeping with his arms wrapped around a pillow. Reuben had seen him in the morning, fast asleep, his face wreathed in empty bliss, his dead wife’s thick feather pillow clutched firmly to him under the scattered blankets.

“Just asking,” Reuben said.

”I’d invite them to meet my mum. My mother.”

But she’s dead.

“You could turn on the tube.”

“What channel?” Reuben asked, kneeling before the television.

“Find me that show where everybody argues about the news. Take my mind away.”

Reuben found the Worldwide News Network and waddled back, still crouched, hands dangling between his knees.

“You know, you don’t have to hang around to keep me happy,” his father said. “I’m working out Bea’s death. I’m getting it straight in my head. I’ll live.”

Reuben smiled over his shoulder. “Where would I go?” he asked. But he knew he’d be leaving soon. There were necessary things to do. He had to carry what was in his coat pocket; he had to find the person that something was for. He had been given memories of a voice, a distinct English accent, but little more.

He leaned back against his father’s knees and listened as the hosts of Freefire squared off against each other, bristling even as they announced their guest. The young liberal’s stiffly formal visage seemed to soften.

“He’s acted as advisor to the President on the Death Valley spaceship, and he’s well known in scientific and journalistic circles. He’s had over forty books published, including his recent prophetic novel, Starhome, a scientific romance about first contact. His name is Trevor Hicks, and he’s a native of Great Britain.”

“Citizen of the world, anymore, actually,” Hicks said.

Reuben stiffened.

Voice.

I’d take them home to meet my mum. My mother.

“That’s him,” he said.

“Who?”

Reuben shook his head. “Where is he?”

“They’re in Washington, like always,” his father said.

“—Mr. Hicks, are we to understand that it was you who first advised President Crockerman to reason with these invaders?” the eager-faced conservative asked.

“Not at all,” Hicks said.

Reuben’s brow furrowed with the intensity of his concentration. That’s the one. He’s Trevor Hicks. His name, his voice.

“Then what did you tell the President?”

“Gentlemen, the President would not have listened to me no matter what I said. He hoped for a sympathetic ear, and I tried to provide that, but I am as adamantly opposed to his policy regarding the spacecraft as I imagine you are, Mr…Mr…”

“What do you recommend we do with the spacecraft? Should we destroy it?”

“I doubt that we could, actually.”

“So you do hold defeatist views—”

Reuben trembled with excitement. Washington, D.C.

He had enough money saved to go there. Big town, though. Where would Trevor Hicks be in Washington, D.C.?

He listened closely, hoping to pick up clues. By the end of the show, he had a fair idea where to begin.

The next morning, at dawn, Reuben stood in the door to his parents’, his father’s, bedroom. His father stared at him from the bed, blinking at the orange hall light behind his son’s silhouette.

“I’ve got to leave now, Pop.”

“So sudden?”

Reuben nodded. “It’s important.”

“Got a job?”

Reuben hesitated, then nodded again.

“You’ll call?”

“Of course I’ll call,” Reuben said.

“You’re my son, your momma’s son, always. You remember that. Make us proud.”

“Yes, sir.” Reuben went to the bed and hugged his father and was surprised again at how light and frail he seemed. Years past, his father had loomed a muscled giant in Reuben’s eyes.

“Good luck,” his father said.

Reuben pulled the overcoat around him and stepped out into the early morning frost, his boots crunching and slipping on the glazed steps. In one deep side pocket, the metal spider lay curled tight as an untried puzzle. In the other jingled two hundred dollars in change and bills.

“Good-bye, Momma,” he whispered at the locked door.

36

The afternoon had been tiring and the early evening showed signs of being even more strenuous. Samshow had already attended the public presentation of two papers in rooms filled half with geologists and half with TV correspondents and camera crews, ever hopeful of finding new revelations. What they got for the most part were technical presentations on resources discovery, migration of metallic ores in deep crust, and discussions of pinpointing Middle Eastern underground nuclear tests.

Samshow had left the last presentation and wandered into the spacious white-tiled men’s rest room of the St. Francis.

He glanced up at his image in the mirror. Two young men in business suits, hair trimmed short, faces shaved so clean they might have been beardless adolescents, took positions at the urinals.

“This oxygen reading bothers the hell out of me,” said one.

“Not just you,” said the other.

“There’s no place for it to come from. Increase by one percent.” He shook his head as he zipped up. “More of that, and we’ll all be drunk.”

He rejoined Kemp and Post and they walked to the elevator, squeezing in beside four bewildered elderly tourists and two middle-aged geologists dressed in jeans and old sweaters. Arthur Gordon had arrived too late on Saturday to attend their first scheduled meeting. He had invited them to come to his room at seven, to talk and perhaps join him for late dinner after.

The hotel room was small. Post and Kemp sat on the bed, leaving the two guest chairs for Samshow and Gordon. Arthur shook Samshow’s hand firmly and offered ice water. As he poured the glass in the bathroom, he asked, “Is there any consensus on this object supposed to be burrowing through the crust?”