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 closeup.

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.

24

Cass Deekin’s phantom may not have become more famous than Hamlet’s ghostly father. But it sure as hell scared the pants off a lot more people.

—Mike Tower, Chicago Tribune

Cass Deekin knew his colleagues would be waiting to hear him talk about Eden. But he was still shaken. He’d flown back to Chicago, unable to sleep either on the plane or in his bed. He’d left lights on in the house all night. And he had suffered a series of bad dreams.