Harry blinked. “How the hell should I know?”
“Trevor Hicks.”
Harry stared. “You’re not serious.”
“The President is reading his novel now, which is trendy enough, and not quite pure coincidence. He obviously felt it was research material. The three desert types have been returned to Shoshone with a stiff reprimand and the loss of their plane and license. Hicks has been invited to dinner tonight.”
“That’s insane,” Harry said, turning off the bathroom light and picking up his dress shirt from the corner of the bed. “He’s a journalist.”
“Crockerman wants to talk things over with him. Get a second opinion.”
“He has a hundred opinions all around him.”
“I last met Hicks,” Arthur mused, “three years ago, at Cornell.”
“I’ve never met him,” Harry said. “I suppose I’d like to.”
“Now’s your chance.”
Arthur left his friend’s room a few minutes later, feeling worse than ever. He could not shake the sensibilities of a disappointed child. This had been a wonderful early Christmas present, bright and filled with hope for an unimaginable future, a future of humans interacting with other intelligences. Now, by Christmastime, the Earth might not even exist.
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, not for the first time hoping by physical effort to shake the gloom.
The waitresses and cooks behind the white walls and copper-paneled pillars of the dining room had come up with a formal repast of prime rib, wild rice, and Caesar salad, the salad greens a trifle wilted because of the halt in deliveries, but all else quite acceptable. Around a rectangular table assembled from four smaller tables sat the principals of the action at the “Furnace,” plus Trevor Hicks, who acted as if he were taking it all in stride.
I have stumbled into a jackpot, he thought as the President and the Secretary of Defense entered and took their seats. Two Secret Service agents ate at a small table near the doorway.
Crockerman nodded cordially at Hicks, seated beside the President and across from Lehrman.
“These people have really done a fine job, haven’t they?” the President said after the main course had been served and the dishes cleared. By a kind of silent and mutual decree, all talk during dinner had been of trivial things. Now coffee was brought out in an old, dented silver service, poured into the owner’s personal Wedgwood bone china cups, and served around the long table. Harry declined. Arthur loaded his coffee with two cubes of sugar.
“So you are acquainted with Mr. Feinman and Mr. Gordon,” Crockerman said as they sat back with cups in hand.
“I know them by reputation, and met Mr. Gordon once when he was in command of BETC,” Hicks said. He smiled and nodded at Arthur as if for the first time this evening.
“I’m sure our people have asked you what moved you to come to Furnace Creek Inn.”
“It’s an ill-kept secret that something extraordinary is happening here,” Hicks said. “I was working on a hunch.”
The President gave another of his weak, almost discouraged smiles, and shook his head.
“I am amazed I was brought here,” Hicks continued, “after the way we were initially treated. And I am truly astounded to find you here, Mr. President, even though I had deduced you would be, by a chain of reasoning I’ve already described to your Army and Secret Service agents. Let us say, I am astounded to find my hunch proving out. What is happening here?”
“I’m not sure we can tell you that. I’m not sure why I’ve invited you to dinner, Mr. Hicks, and no doubt the other gentlemen here are even more unsure than I. Mr. Gordon? Do you object to the presence of a writer, a reporter?”
“I am curious. I do not object.”
“Because I think we are all out of our depth,” Crocker-man said. “I would like to solicit outside opinions.”
Harry winked without humor at Arthur.
“I am in the dark, sir,” Hicks said.
“Why do you think we are here?”
“I have heard — never mind how, I will not tell — that there is a bogey here. I presume it has something to do with the Australian discovery in the Great Victoria Desert.”
McClennan shaded his eyes with one hand and shook his head. “The unscrambled transmission from Air Force One. This has happened before. They should all be shot.”
Crockerman dismissed this with a wave of his hand. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, then asked by an inclination of eyebrows whether anyone would share his vice. Politely, all around the table declined. He clipped the cigar and lit it with an antique silver Zippo. “I trust you’ve been cleared to enter military bases and research laboratories.”
“Yes,” Hicks said.
“You’re not a United States citizen, however.”
“No, Mr. President.”
“Is he a security risk, Carl?” Crockerman asked McClennan.
The national security advisor shook his head, lips pursed. “Other than being a foreign national, he’s got a good record.”
Lehrman leaned forward and said, “Mr. President, I believe this conversation should end now. Mr. Hicks has no formal clearance, and—”
“Dammit, Otto, he’s an intelligent man. I’m interested in his opinion.”
“Sir, we can find and clear all sorts of experts for you to talk to,” McClennan said. “This sort of thing is counterproductive.”
Crockerman slowly looked up at McClennan, lips drawn tight. “How much time do we have until this machine starts dismantling the Earth?”
McClennan’s face reddened. “Nobody knows, Mr. President,” he said.
Hicks stiffened his back and glanced around the table. “Excuse me,” he said, “but—”
“Then, Carl,” Crockerman continued, “isn’t the time-consuming, formal way of doing things counterproductive?”
McClennan stared pleadingly at Lehrman. The Defense Secretary held up both hands. “You’re the boss, sir,” he said.
“Within limits, I am,” Crockerman affirmed peevishly. “I have chosen to bring Mr. Hicks into our confidence.”
“Mr. Hicks, if I may say so, is a media celebrity,” Rotterjack said. “He has done no research, and his qualifications are purely as a journalist and a writer. I am amazed, sir, that you would extend this kind of privilege to a journalist.”
Hicks, eyes narrow, said nothing. The President’s gentle, dreaming smile returned.
“Are you finished, David?”
“I may very well be, sir. I agree with Carl and Otto. This is highly irregular and dangerous.”
“I asked if you were finished.”
“Yes.”
“Then allow me to repeat myself. I have decided to take Mr. Hicks into our confidence. I assume his security clearance will be processed immediately?”
McClennan did not meet the President’s eyes. “I’ll get it started.”
“Fine. Mr. Gordon, Mr. Feinman, I am not expressing any doubts about your capabilities. Do you object to Mr. Hicks?”
“No, sir,” Arthur said.
“I have nothing against journalists or writers,” Harry said. “However wrong Mr. Hicks’s novel has turned out to be.”
“Fine.” Crockerman mused for a moment, then nodded and said, “I believed we turned down Arthur’s request for a Mr. Dupres, simply because he is a foreign national. I hope none of you mind a little inconsistency now…
“We do indeed have a bogey, Mr. Hicks. It released an extraterrestrial visitor we call the Guest. The Guest is a living being, not a robot or a machine, and it tells us it rode a spaceship from its world to this one. But — “ The President told Hicks most of the story, including his version of the Guest’s dire warning. Again, nobody corrected him.
Hicks listened intently, his face white. When Crockerman finished, puffing at the cigar and blowing out an expanding globule of smoke, Hicks leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “I’ll be damned,” he said, his voice low and deliberately casual.
“So will we all if we don’t decide what to do, and soon,” Crockerman said. All others kept their counsel. This was the President’s show, and few if any were happy with it.