Greg Bear Forge of God

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soldiers patrolled well-lighted squares of the desert in Jeeps and on foot.
Beyond the patrols and the fences, a mile from the object of their interest,
the civilians gathered in trucks and vans and motor homes. Even this late,
almost into the morning, campfires burned in the middle of wide circles of
mesmerized watchers. Raucous laughter in one area was countered by gospel
singing in another. Rogers, maneuvering his truck down the fenced approach
corridor to the site, wondered if they would ever sleep.
39
December 15
Two o'clock in the morning, the phone beside their bed rang, and Arthur came
awake immediately, leaning forward to pick up the receiver. It was Ithaca
Feinman. She was calling from a hospital in Los Angeles.
"He's going fast," she said softly.
"So soon?"
"I know. He says he's fighting, but..."
"I'll leave..." He looked at his watch. "This morning. I can be down there by
eight or nine, maybe earlier."
"He says he's sorry, but he wants you here," Ithaca said.
"I'm on my way."
He hung up and wandered into the living room to look for Francine, who said
she had not been asleep, but had been sitting on the living room couch with
Gauge's head in her lap, worrying about something, she wasn't sure what.
"Harry's going, or at least Ithaca thinks so."
"Oh, God," Francine said. "You're flying down there?"
"Yes."
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She swallowed hard. "Go see him. Say...Say goodbye for me if he's really...Oh,
Arthur." Her voice was a trembling whisper. "This is an awful time, isn't it?"
He was nearly in tears. "We'll make it through," he said.
As Francine folded some shirts and pants for him, he slipped his toiletries
into a suitcase and called the airport to book a flight for six-thirty. For a
few seconds, dithering in the yellow light of the bedside lamp, he tried to
gather his wits, remember if he had left anything behind, if there was anybody
else he should notify.
Francine drove him to the airport. "Come back soon," she said, then, realizing
the double implication, she shook her head. "Our love to Ithaca and Harry.
I'll miss you."
They hugged, and she drove off to get Marty ready for school.
At this hour, the airport was almost deserted. Arthur sat in the sterile black
and gray waiting area near his gate, reading a discarded newspaper. He glanced
at his watch, and then looked up to see a thin, nervous-looking woman, hardly
more than a girl, standing a few feet away, staring at him. "I hope you don't
mind," she said.
"Beg pardon?"
"I followed you from your house. You're Arthur Gordon, aren't you?"
Arthur narrowed his eyes, puzzled. He didn't answer.
"I know you are. I've been watching your house. I know that sounds terrible,
but I have. There's something I have to give you. It's very important." She
opened the shopping bag and took out a cardboard box large enough to hold a
baseball. "Please don't be alarmed. It's not a bomb or anything. I showed it
to the airport security people. They think it's a toy, a Japanese toy for my
cousin. But it's for you." She held out the box.
Arthur looked her over carefully, then said, "Open it for me, please." He
seemed to be operating on some automatic program, cautious and calm at once.
He hadn't given much thought to assassination attempts before, but he could be
a likely target for Forge of Godders or anybody tipped over the edge by the
news of the last few weeks.
"All right." She opened the box and removed an ovoid object, steel or silver,
brightly polished. She held it out to him. "Please. It's important."
With some reluctance it _did_ resemble a toy more than anything sinister he
took the object. Quickly, it unfolded its legs, gripped his palm, and before
he could react, nipped him on the fleshy part of the thumb. He stood up and
tried to fling it away, swearing, but it would not let go. Warmth spread
quickly up his arm and he sat down again, face pale, lips drawn back. The
young woman retreated, shaking her head and crying. "It's important," she
said. "It really is."
"All right," Arthur said, more calm on the exterior than deep in his mind. The
spider crawled into his suit coat, cut through the fabric of his shirt, and
nipped him again on the abdomen.
The woman walked off quickly. He paid her little attention.
By boarding time, he was beginning to receive information, slowly at first. On
the aircraft, as he pretended to nap, the information became more detailed,
and his fear subsided.
40
Hicks had stayed in Washington, hoping with a kind of desperate hope that
there was still something he could do. The White House did not summon him.
Beyond the occasional television interviews, fewer and fewer since the fiasco
on _Freefire_, he was woefully unoccupied. His book had sold in a fresh spurt
the past few weeks, but he had refused to discuss it with anybody. His
publishers had given up on him.
He took long, cold walks in the snow, ranging a mile or more from the hotel in
the gray midafternoons. The government was still paying his expenses; he was
still ostensibly part of the task force, although nobody on the task force had
talked with him since the President's speech. Even after the extensive reports
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of explosions in the asteroids, he had been approached only by the press.
When he was not out walking, he sat in his room, dressed in an oatmeal-colored
suit, his overcoat and rubbers laid out on the bed and the floor, staring at
his image in the mirror above the desk. His eye tracked down slowly to the
computer on the desktop, then to the blank television screen. He had never
felt so useless, so _between_, in his life.
The phone rang, He stood and picked up the receiver. "Hello." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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