Even if the expectations were correct, the required engineering feats were enormously complex. If the aim of the laser were not perfect, the black hole might be kicked inaccessibly beneath the earth's surface rather than boasted further above it.
Uncontrollably, Isaacs brooded on the implications if the experiment should fail. The warp and woof of human affairs were woven on a tapestry of time, comfortably stretched by geologists and astronomers to billions and billions of years. How would humanity change if the future were known to be abbreviated, longer than a single human life, but grimly truncated? Isaacs began to think of the future in its possible shortened version. Earthquakes beginning in several hundred years, growing ever stronger, more devastating. Then in several tens of thousands of years — nothing. A sun, eight planets, and a small, dark marble.
Isaacs found himself in the foyer, headed outside. It was early on a spring evening as he pushed out through the door. No one was around as he paused at the head of the steps. The glass door swung shut behind him and the rubber, steel, and oil smell of man was replaced by the sweetness of growing things. The warm, heavily scented air engendered a feeling of being tugged gently but firmly downward, as if by a languid lover, but his eyes rose to the multitude of stars winking on in the deepening dusk.
An oasis, he thought. There must be another.
His eyes searched the bright points for a sign of welcome.
Epilogue: Three Years Later
Alex Runyan responded groggily to the rap on his cabin door. I'm getting too old for this, he thought to himself. Then the significance of the day awoke in him like a spreading spark. He sat up, fumbled for the light, switched it on and fell back on the bunk, eyes in a tight squint, the light filtered blood-red through his lids. He lay for a moment feeling the gentle roll of the ship, to which he had never got quite accustomed. The USS Bradford, a Navy frigate, single shaft, displacing twelve hundred tons and rigged for research duty, had been his home for six weeks. He estimated he had logged a total of eight months of sea duty in bits and pieces since the project had got into full swing. He still preferred a floor that stayed where you aimed when you took a step. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk, grabbed his pants off the floor where he had discarded them only a scant few hours before and stood up. He leaned over and picked up one foot, preparing to thrust it into the trouser leg, but the slow tilt of the deck threw him off balance. He braced himself with one arm on the bulkhead and struggled awkwardly, failing to get a foot in the floppy denims while he held them with just one hand. He grabbed the trousers with both hands, lifted a foot, and was Kited off balance again. This time he was slow to drop the pants and reach for support. He smacked his head against the shelf over his bunk.
'Goddamnit!' he swore at the offending protrusion. Chagrined, he sat down on the bunk to put the pants on like any landlubber. Everything's tougher at sea, he laughed to himself as he stood to hoist the pants, zip the fly, and fasten his belt. Then he sat again to shove his feet into sneakers and lace them up. That was one of the first things die Navy types told him when he came aboard. More the miracle that they were ready a bit ahead of schedule, if not on budget. He looked at his watch, 4:07, shrugged a light jacket on over his T-shirt, scratched his beard mightily with both hands, ran fingers quickly through his hair, then opened the door and stepped into the passage.
He made his way towards the galley, his eyes feeding him the jumpy images of sleep deprivation. He joined the small queue at the urn, grabbed a cup, filled it with steaming black coffee, scalded his tongue, and carried the cup out, swearing to himself, alternately blowing on the coffee and trying to sip as he walked. He negotiated the steep stairs with one hand on the railing, then walked back on the main deck towards the stern. The chopper was already warming up on the pad, lit by spotlights, harsh grey and shadow, its rotors driving cold moist air down along the deck. Runyan shivered and clasped the neck of his jacket with his free hand. He spied Viktor Korolev in the small knot of scientific advisers and lifted the cup in salute. Damn Russian, he muttered to himself, doesn't he know what it means to run out of steam?
Korolev met him with a smile, jacket open, oblivious to the prop wash.
'Ho, Alex So today is our big day, eh?'
'You look disgustingly chipper for someone who's about to seal the fate of the world,' Runyan grinned, 'particularly at this ungodly hour.'
'Ungodly?' Korolev's smile faded a bit. 'Not at all, in fact the whole thing is now in God's hands, don't you think, and those of all these superb engineers we've worked with. Certainly not mine.'
'You don't want your government to hear you invoking deities at this stage, do you?'
'Maybe they won't arrest me for a little generic prayer, you think?' Korolev chuckled and slapped Runyan on the shoulder, causing him to slosh coffee on his hand.
'Time to get on,' Korolev said, jerking his chin towards the helicopter where people were starting to clamber aboard.
Runyan transferred the cup to his other hand, licked his fingers, dried them on his jeans, took a last, long swallow of coffee and then banded the cup to a young ensign.
'Run this stolen property back to the galley for me, won't you?' he asked the young man and then jogged to the hatch of the helicopter as the rotors began to pick up speed.
The last one in, Runyan sat near the small port. They lifted quickly and the Bradford rapidly disappeared beneath them, but as it did Runyan could see the faint lights of other ships come into view, scattered sparsely over the ocean as far as he could see in any direction. He did not bother to count them; he knew it was pointless since there were over a thousand, ranging from small craft like the Bradford to a handful of hulking carriers. He settled in for the familiar, minimally comfortable half-hour ride.
They did not approach it on a direct line, probably because of other air traffic, Runyan mused, and he could begin to make it out when it was still some ten miles away — a floating behemoth extravagantly lit, a sparkling diamond, a cross section of L.A. from Mulholland Drive.
They hovered nearby while another helicopter landed and took on a load of people. Runyan marvelled again at the structure below. It was patterned after an oil drilling rig, but was specially constructed in almost every detail. It spanned a hundred metres on a side and was covered with a complex superstructure dominated by the central dome, two and a half billion dollars of floating technology. The helicopter spun and settled towards the pad, a white circle surrounding a stark black letter K, the only hint of the prime contractor: Krone Industries.
Runyan jumped out and walked off the pad, thankful for the firmness beneath his feet. The platform was anchored by a dozen telescoping floodable legs that extended deep down to the stable layers beneath the ocean swells which rocked the Bradford. It felt as solid as St Paul. Here was a place where a man could put on his pants in civilized fashion, thought Runyan, rubbing the bruise on his forehead. Behind him the helicopter filled with departing personnel and lifted off.
Korolev assembled the small group of men.
'Okay,' he said, 'you know your tasks. You are to oversee the last minute checks and then, most importantly, make sure every member of your crew gets off the platform. You all know your scheduled departure times?' He looked around the group, satisfied at their affirmative nods. 'Okay, I will see you back on the Bradford.'