intelligence, it’s likely they’ll eventually ask whether their presence here is symptomatic of God’s desire to probe the circumstances of its own birth. After all, we have evidence of how many technological species on the disk, ten million, twelve? Replicated many times, in some cases. They might put it together with their concept of manifest destiny and conclude that they are, in fact, doomed to give birth to God. Which is an entirely undesirable conclusion for them to reach from our point of view. Teleologists being bad neighbors, so to speak.”
“Yes indeed,” Brundle says thoughtfully, then titters quietly to himself for a moment.
“This isn’t the first time they’ve avoided throwing around H-bombs in bulk. That’s unusual for primate civilizations. If they keep doing that, they could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous is relative,” says Brundle. He titters again. Things move inside his mouth.
“Don’t do that!” Gregor snaps. He glances round instinctively, but nothing happens.
“You’re jumpy.” Brundle frowns. “Stop worrying so much. We don’t have much longer here.”
“Are we being ordered to move? Or to prepare a sterilization strike?”
“Not yet.” Brundle shrugs. “We have further research to continue with before a decision is reached. The Soviets have made a discovery. Their crewed-exploration program. The Korolev lucked out.”
“They—” Gregor tenses. “What did they find?” He knows about the big nuclear-powered ekranoplan, the dragon of the Caspian, searching the seven oceans for new worlds to conquer. He even knows about the small fleet they’re trying to build at Archangelsk, the ruinous expense of it. But this is new. “What did they find?”
Brundle grins humorlessly. “They found ruins. Then they spent another eight weeks mapping the coastline. They’ve confirmed what they found, they sent the State Department photographs, survey details—the lot.” Brundle gestures at the Cuban War monument, the huge granite column dominating the Mall, its shadow pointing toward the Capitol. “They found Washington DC in ruins. One hundred and forty thousand miles that way.” He points due north. “They’re not total idiots, and it’s the first time they’ve found one of their own species-transfer cognates. They might be well on their way to understanding the truth. Luckily our comrades in Moscow have that side of the affair under control, but they communicated their discovery to the CIA before it could be suppressed, which raises certain headaches.
“We must make sure that nobody here asks why . So I want you to start by dealing with Sagan.”
COLLECTING JAR
It’s noon, and the rippling heat haze turns the horizon to fog in the distance. Maddy tries not to move too much: the cycads cast imperfect shadows, and she can feel the Venetian blinds of light burning into her pale skin. She sighs slightly as she hefts the heavy canvas sample bag out of the back of the Land Rover: John will be needing it soon, once he’s finished photographing the mock-termite nests. It’s their third field trip together, their farthest dash into the outback, and she’s already getting used to working with John. He’s surprisingly easy to get on with because he’s so absorbed in his work that he’s refreshingly free of social expectations. If she didn’t know better, she could almost let her guard down and start thinking of him as a friend, not an employer.
The heat makes her mind drift: she tries to remember what sparked her most recent quarrel with Bob, but it seems so distant and irrelevant now—like home, like Bob arguing with her father, like their hurried courthouse wedding and furtive emigration-board hearing. All that makes sense now is the stifling heat, the glare of not-sunlight, John working with his camera out in the noonday sun where only mad dogs and Englishmen dare go. Ah, it was the washing . Who was going to do the washing while Maddy was away on the two-day field
“Yes indeed,” Brundle says thoughtfully, then titters quietly to himself for a moment.
“This isn’t the first time they’ve avoided throwing around H-bombs in bulk. That’s unusual for primate civilizations. If they keep doing that, they could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous is relative,” says Brundle. He titters again. Things move inside his mouth.
“Don’t do that!” Gregor snaps. He glances round instinctively, but nothing happens.
“You’re jumpy.” Brundle frowns. “Stop worrying so much. We don’t have much longer here.”
“Are we being ordered to move? Or to prepare a sterilization strike?”
“Not yet.” Brundle shrugs. “We have further research to continue with before a decision is reached. The Soviets have made a discovery. Their crewed-exploration program. The Korolev lucked out.”
“They—” Gregor tenses. “What did they find?” He knows about the big nuclear-powered ekranoplan, the dragon of the Caspian, searching the seven oceans for new worlds to conquer. He even knows about the small fleet they’re trying to build at Archangelsk, the ruinous expense of it. But this is new. “What did they find?”
Brundle grins humorlessly. “They found ruins. Then they spent another eight weeks mapping the coastline. They’ve confirmed what they found, they sent the State Department photographs, survey details—the lot.” Brundle gestures at the Cuban War monument, the huge granite column dominating the Mall, its shadow pointing toward the Capitol. “They found Washington DC in ruins. One hundred and forty thousand miles that way.” He points due north. “They’re not total idiots, and it’s the first time they’ve found one of their own species-transfer cognates. They might be well on their way to understanding the truth. Luckily our comrades in Moscow have that side of the affair under control, but they communicated their discovery to the CIA before it could be suppressed, which raises certain headaches.
“We must make sure that nobody here asks why . So I want you to start by dealing with Sagan.”
COLLECTING JAR
It’s noon, and the rippling heat haze turns the horizon to fog in the distance. Maddy tries not to move too much: the cycads cast imperfect shadows, and she can feel the Venetian blinds of light burning into her pale skin. She sighs slightly as she hefts the heavy canvas sample bag out of the back of the Land Rover: John will be needing it soon, once he’s finished photographing the mock-termite nests. It’s their third field trip together, their farthest dash into the outback, and she’s already getting used to working with John. He’s surprisingly easy to get on with because he’s so absorbed in his work that he’s refreshingly free of social expectations. If she didn’t know better, she could almost let her guard down and start thinking of him as a friend, not an employer.
The heat makes her mind drift: she tries to remember what sparked her most recent quarrel with Bob, but it seems so distant and irrelevant now—like home, like Bob arguing with her father, like their hurried courthouse wedding and furtive emigration-board hearing. All that makes sense now is the stifling heat, the glare of not-sunlight, John working with his camera out in the noonday sun where only mad dogs and Englishmen dare go. Ah, it was the washing . Who was going to do the washing while Maddy was away on the two-day field
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