'Anyway,' Isaacs continued his narrative, 'there was one little piece of information that piqued my curiosity. They've apparently picked up a repeated but very weak signal — only a careful analysis can pull it out of the noise — which has a period of about an hour.'
Danielson raised an eyebrow,
'Interesting.'
'At first I thought it must be the shuffling of undergraduate feet during class change at the University of Montana.' Danielson smiled.
Isaac smiled back, 'Unfortunately the signal is out of phase with the university. Still, such a period seems too anthropocentric not to be man-made, and yet no one I talked to came up with any plausible account of it. Worse yet, to my mind, no one seemed to have any inclination to follow up on it. It's probably not important, but it's the kind of item I like to put a tag on, so it doesn't cause confusion at a later date.
'I know you have heavy commitments on current projects, and this is not a crucial item, but I would like to follow up on it. You'll have to get in touch with the people at AFTAC and the Cambridge Research Lab. You'll probably want to acquire some of the data tapes. I'll give you a list of the people involved and clear the way for you through channels, but beyond that you'll be pretty much on your own. Any questions about that?'
'Not until I talk to the people and learn about the system,' Danielson replied. 'I expect their basic signal processing techniques are similar to ones I use — computer enhancement?'
'There are some differences, but that was another reason I picked you.'
'I'll have to learn something about seismology. That will be interesting.'
'Very good.'
Isaacs supplied the young operative with a list of contacts and suggested several reports which would help to familiarize her with the nature and operation of the Large Seismic Array. She made pertinent notes and then departed.
As Danielson closed the door behind her, Isaacs swivelled his chair towards the window and leaned back, staring out. Above the trees, hazy clouds had filled the clear morning blue. It would be muggy by now. He pondered the strange seismic data a few moments to no particular avail. Then another imperative broke his tram of thought. Bans would arrive shortly to discuss developments in Africa. He glanced at his watch, groaned mentally, and squared up at his desk. An image of the fire-scarred deck of the carrier Novorossiisk filled his mind. Somewhere within that ship-bulk was the key to why we were teeing the brink yet again. He reached for the too, too thin file of notes from the morning's crisis meeting. In a few minutes he was totally absorbed in that project, straining to find a fresh approach. He took the strain home with him that evening.
Chapter 2
Yuan Li Tzu glanced towards the hated gaping mouth of the mine. His shift was due to make their descent into the depths, and he would be in trouble if he were late. He could not resist another careful reading of the letter from his father, mentally sucking from it all hints of hope. He paused and looked at his rough, scarred hands. They had once belonged to a talented and promising fourteen-year-old piano student in Shanghai. Then the cultural revolution descended. The Red Guards had labelled the piano a decadent instrument of the West. Yuan recalled the fear and bewilderment he had felt as he was banished to the copper mine in the high mountains near Tibet. He had spent over a decade, his young manhood, in bitter detention in the mine, sickly, torn from his family, his education, his chosen way of life.
Now this letter from his father gave the first ray of hope. A chance, still slim, that relatives in the United States could take advantage of the burgeoning political ties with China to free him from his slavery and to offer him a new life in a new country. Yuan's mind spun fantasies of escape as he carefully folded the letter and tucked it safely in a pocket of his tunic.
He arrived at the mine too late — the crude elevator had already begun its descent. As he expected, a member of the revolutionary cadre noted his tardiness and began to shout exhortations of devotion to the people and the party. Yuan suffered the tirade in numb silence.
As the elevator reached bottom, a small tunnel bored upward through the rock. The tunnel arced over smoothly and then headed downward once more into the depths of the earth. The plane of the arc paralleled the main horizontal shaft of the copper mine. The apex lay about forty feet above the shaft and twenty feet to one side. The small tunnel briefly existed intact. The stress fractures grew outward from it, shooting rapidly down and across in multiple fissures through the mine-shaft weakened bedrock.
No one noticed the first cracks widening in the ceiling and wall of the shaft. Then small rocks crumbled down along with sifting dust. Several miners cried in alarm and men began to scatter in both directions from the weakened portion. The ceiling of the shaft released with a roar and the whole section of rock from the small recently bored tunnel to the mine shaft collapsed in, sealing off the mine with tons of rubble. Those few lucky enough to be on the upward side fled towards the elevator, help, and freedom. Scores of men in the depths of the main felt the cold clutch of darkness and fear settle about them.
On the surface, a silent ominous shaking of the earth interrupted the diatribe from the party member. A faint rumbling sound rolled from the elevator shaft followed by the shouts of panicked men. After another moment the elevator creaked into action, cranking upward. The mining camp burst into turmoil.
Amid wild shouts and men scurrying in every direction, Yuan turned and walked slowly back to his tiny dormitory room. There he sat on his mat, removed the letter from his tunic, carefully spread it out, and began to read once again.
God!
He had exulted then, revelling in the feeling of immense forces responding to his control, lifting him to a soaring state of grace like a surfer in the curl of a perfect wave.
Now crashing waves, forlorn and bitter, pounded bun. He cradled the smooth butt of the small pistol in his palm and recalled with agony the feelings that had swept through him then, now so completely foreign. He drifted into a dream, back to that day of ecstasy...
He stood before the penthouse window and gazed at the sweep of the sleeping city of Vienna arrayed at his feet, the Cathedral of Saint Stephen and the Hapsburg summer palace lit with spotlights, suburban street lamps diffusing into the gloom of the dark woods beyond. He played again in his mind the complex themes, a fugue for the intellect only he could hear, now poised for the final resolution: the long hours of meetings, the frenzied stolen moments for his own work, the pills to keep it all going, and passionate interludes with the woman.
He knew that he had dominated the meeting of the International Atomic Energy Agency both by his fresh ideas and the force of his personality. He would help them in their pitiful stumblings to control the dirty monster they had created. What they did not suspect was that the true focus of his energies were the moments stolen for his own work, a vision that had become a reality in his mind only this evening, a reality that swept away as irrelevant not only all that they did in the meeting, but the concerns of a major piece of mankind.
He thought of the steps he would have to take to realize that which he now knew to be possible, the resources he would have to muster, the personnel to be assembled and, when necessary, pirated from competing efforts. As so often before, he could see the object of his desires take shape like a gigantic erector set, each element responding effortlessly to his will. He basked in the knowledge that he could do it on his own, with the power he already commanded. The world would bumble along unknowing until he chose to reveal his supreme accomplishment in its fullness. He felt the drug wearing off, but had no compulsion to renew the charge. No artificial aid could give him the feeling that presently coursed through his veins.
The view before him was replaced by one of time, spanning into the future, ten, a hundred, a thousand years — his name spilling as readily from a schoolchild's lips as that of Washington, Lincoln, as that of any resident of this proud city, Beethoven, Napoleon, Freud, as that of any scientist, Einstein.
'Paul?' The sleepy voice, muffled by covers and accent, came from the bed.
Silently, he continued to face the window, but his thoughts turned to her. What a delightful find she was. On top of everything else, what luck to come across this political fugitive at one of the parties scheduled to fill their evenings. Not only was she beautiful, a stimulating outlet for his more physical passions, but a consort guaranteed
