“Why not?”
“Because it’s not in an obvious place. It appears that we’ll have to break through some walls in order to determine how things work. Naturally everyone is reluctant to do that.”
“Dr. MacDonough.” The host’s voice changed slightly. “We have been hearing that there’s reason to believe the artifact is more than ten thousand years old. How do you react to that?”
“It’s not impossible.”
“Why not? How could the lights work after all that time?” The host smiled. “We have to buy maintenance contracts to protect us against toasters that fail within a couple of years.”
MacDonough smiled and inadvertently dropped the bomb. “I can assure you, Ted, that if the reality on Johnson’s Ridge turns out to be what it now appears to be, it won’t take us long to adapt that technology to our own needs. I think we could give you a pretty durable toaster.” He sat back in his chair, looking quite pleased. “In fact, I think we could give you the first multigenerational toaster.”
16
I can’t help wondering how it would have come out had it not been for Wesley Fue’s garage door opener.
“What happened to the dirt? That’s what I really don’t understand.”
Several inches of dirt had been removed, revealing a stone disk. The disk was about five feet in diameter and rose an inch or two off the surrounding gray floor. It was lime-colored and ribbed with a gridwork of black spokes.
“It looks as if we’ve discovered a high-tech vacuum cleaner,” Max said. He put the minicam down and inspected the grid from a respectful distance. There were too many unknowns here, and Max had no interest in getting rearranged the way the dirt had.
“This one,” April said, pointing toward the tree emblem. “All you have to do is touch the wall.”
“How about if we try it again?” he said.
“But something more distinguishable than dirt this time,” said April.
A few wooden chairs had been set inside the dome for the convenience of the workers. Max retrieved one and put it on the grid. Then he set up to record everything on video. He signaled when he was ready.
April pressed the flat of her hand against the wall in front of the tree.
It lit up.
“Okay,” she said.
But nothing happened. With a bleep, the light went out.
And there were no special effects.
Max looked at the six icons. They were tastefully done, but they did have the appearance of being functional rather than decorative. He noticed a recessed plate near the base of the wall. Another sensor?
“Go ahead,” she said. “Try it.”
He pushed it and felt something click. A panel door popped open. It was round, several inches across. Inside, he could see cables.
“Well,” he said, “we’ve got something. Our wall switches do tie in to a power source.”
“How about,” said April, “we try one of the other icons?”
He pointed the minicam at the chair and started it.
“Maybe,” she said, “we should make sure we’re not standing on another one of these grids.”
Max brushed away some of the earth with his heel. No sign of a gridwork. “I think we’re okay,” he said.
The smoke symbol was next. She pushed on the wall.
The icon stayed dark.
“I don’t think it’s working,” said Max.
“Apparently not.”
Almost casually, she tried the egg icon.
It blinked on. “We got a light,” she said.
Max backed up a few steps and started the minicam again.
April glanced at her watch.
The red lamp glowed in the viewfinder. The minicam got heavy, and Max shifted it higher on his shoulder.
He was beginning to suspect the phenomenon would not repeat when a tiny star began to glow in the middle of the viewing field.
“Twenty-three seconds,” she said.
The star expanded and grew brighter.
“My God,” said Max. “What is that?”
It enveloped the chair.
He watched it glitter and swirl until it hurt his eyes. Then it was gone.
So was the chair. They had a clean grid.
Edward (Uncle Ed) Crowley was in his third year as CEO of the Treadline Corporation, which had been a subsidiary of Chrysler but had gone independent three years before and was scoring a major success with its line of quality cars at reasonable prices (the company motto) and its emphasis on customer service.
Treadline was doing everything right. It had gone for a legitimate team concept, had got rid of its autocrats and replaced them with managers who understood how to motivate, had encouraged employees to make decisions, and had seen to it that everyone had a stake in success. Now, at last, things were coming together. The previous quarter had given Treadline its first net profit, and the curve was now decidedly up. He could see nothing ahead but prosperity.
His calendar lay open on his teak desk. German trade reps were due in fifteen minutes. That would spill over into lunch. Staff meeting at one, reflection at one-forty-five, wander down to the Planning Effectiveness Division at two-fifteen. Uncle Ed subscribed to the theory of management by walking around. He understood the importance of being seen. Conference with the legal director at three, and with Bradley and his technicians at four. Open door in effect from four-thirty. Anyone could pop by and say hello to the boss.
In fact, he got relatively few visitors. The line of command immediately below him, because they normally had easy access, were prohibited from taking advantage of his time. People further down the food chain were somewhat reluctant to drop in on the head man. But they did come by on occasion. And anyhow the open door was a valuable symbol, both to the rank and file and to his chiefs.
He had been going over the plans for restructuring Treadline’s long-term debt, in the hope of finding a way to finance needed R and D. But he was tired of looking at numbers, and his back was starting to hurt. He glanced at his watch and realized he’d been at it for an hour and a quarter. Too long.
Time to take a break and clear his mind. He got up, walked over to the window, and looked out at the Indianapolis skyline. The intercom beeped.
“Yes, Louise?”
“Mr. Hoskin on line one.”
Walt Hoskin was his vice president for financial operations, a fussy little man who had never learned to think outside the parameters. Which was why he would never rise higher than he was now. It was Hoskin’s plan that lay on his desk. And it was perfectly satisfactory within the general rules and principles of company policy and past practice. But the man did not know how to kill sacred cows. If Treadline was to take full advantage of recent market trends, they had to get out of the old buggy Hoskin was driving. He picked up the phone. “Yes, Walt?”
“Ed, have you seen the news this morning?” Hoskin’s voice was reedy and thin.
As a matter of fact, he hadn’t. Uncle Ed was a bachelor. On days when he worked late, as he had last evening, he often stayed overnight at the office. He hadn’t been near the TV either last evening or this morning. “No,” he said quietly. “Why? What’s going on?”
“We opened seventeen points down.” Hoskin delivered the news like a sinner announcing the Second Coming.
Uncle Ed prided himself on his ability to react coolly to crises and shocks. But this blindsided him. “Seventeen points?” he bellowed. “What the hell’s going on?” He knew of nothing, no bad news, no market speculations, that could produce this kind of effect.
“It’s that thing in North Dakota.”
“What thing in North Dakota?”