The Sign

“A sign?”

“A sign,” he repeated. “From God.”

A leaden silence greeted his words.

“Why God? Why not aliens?” Dalton finally asked.

Musgrave flashed him an icy scowl.

Dalton didn’t flinch. “Seriously. ’Cause that’s the first thing that popped into my mind when I saw it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Musgrave wasn’t making any effort to mask his contempt.

“Why is that ridiculous?” Dalton insisted. “You’re saying it’s supernatural, aren’t you? You’re happy to entertain the notion that it’s ‘God’”—Dalton made some air quotes with his fingers—“whatever that means, but not that it’s extraterrestrial, that it’s coming from some intelligent life form from beyond our planet? Why is that any more ridiculous than what you’re suggesting?”

“Maybe it’s a warning,” Musgrave’s wife suggested.

“What?” Simmons sounded incredulous.

“Maybe it’s a warning. It appeared here, now, over this ice shelf. During the breakup. It can’t be random. There’s got to be a reason for it. Maybe it’s trying to tell us something.”

“I’ll tell you what it’s telling me, it’s telling me we should get the hell out of here before it shows up again. It’s bad news.” Dalton again.

“Goddammit,” Musgrave blurted, “either take this seriously or—”

“All right, calm down.” Gracie cut off Musgrave before turning to Dalton and flashing him a castigating glance. “We’re all on edge here.”

Dalton nodded and leaned back, taking in a deep breath.

“I’ve got to say, I agree with him,” Simmons added, gesturing at Dalton. “I mean, we’re all scientists—and even if lasers or holograms or whatever the hell it could have been aren’t within our areas of expertise, I’m guessing we’re all pretty convinced that what we saw out there is, as far as any of us can tell, way beyond any technological capability we know of. Now, the fact that I can’t explain it excites me and scares me in equal measure. ’Cause if it’s not some kind of laser show, if it didn’t come from DARPA or some Japanese lab or from Silicon Valley—if it didn’t originate on this planet . . . then it’s either, as Greg says, God—or, as our friend here was saying, extraterrestrial. And frankly, either one would be just extraordinary, and I don’t see that the difference really matters right now.”

“You don’t see the difference?” Musgrave was incensed.

“I don’t want to get into a big theological debate with you, Greg, but—”

“—but you obviously don’t believe in God, even if you’re presented with a miracle, so any debate is pointless.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Simmons insisted calmly. “Look, you’re saying this is God, you’re saying our maker has, for some reason, chosen this day, this location, this event—and this method—to appear to us, here, today—”

Gracie interrupted, saying, “Do we know if anything like this has happened elsewhere? Has anyone checked the news?”

Finch said, “I just got off the phone with the news desk. There are no other reports of any other sightings.”

“Okay, so if He’s chosen to show up here and now,” Simmons continued, “then I’ve got to think He must have a damn good reason.”

“Half the West Antarctic ice shelf is slipping into the sea. You need more of a reason?” Musgrave’s wife said, irritably.

“Why do you think we’re here?” Musgrave added. “Why are we all here?” His eyes darted around the room feverishly before settling on the British scientist. “Justin,” he asked him, “why are you here?”

“England’s at the same latitude as Alaska,” the man replied. “The only thing that makes it livable is the Gulf Stream. Take that away—which is what happens if the ice melts—and that movie, the one with Manhattan swamped with ice and snow? That’ll be London. Along with most of Europe, for that matter.”

“Exactly,” Musgrave insisted. “We’re all here because we’re worried. All the signs are telling us that we’ve got one hell of a problem, and maybe this—this miracle is telling us we’ve got to do something about it.”

Gracie and Finch exchanged dubious glances.

“Okay, well,” Simmons conceded, “all I’m saying is, if that’s the reason, if it’s a warning, then . . . why couldn’t it be coming from a more advanced intelligence?”

“I agree with that young man,” Dinnick said with a slight, disarming grin, pointing at Dalton. “It’s just as ludicrous.”

Musgrave’s wife was clearly roiled. “It’s pointless to discuss this with either of you. You’re not open to the possibility.”

“On the contrary, I’m open to all possibilities,” Dinnick countered. “And if we’re talking about some entity making contact with us,” nodding toward Simmons, “maybe to warn us, which, granted, could justify the here and now of it . . . Well, if you accept the notion of a creator, of creationism, of intelligent design . . . why couldn’t that intelligent designer be from a more advanced race?”

Musgrave was incensed. “God isn’t something you find in a science fiction book,” he retorted. “You don’t even have a basic understanding of what faith means, do you?”

“There’s no difference. It’s all unknowable as far as our current capabilities are concerned, isn’t it?” Dinnick pressed.

“Believe what you will. I’m out of here.” He stormed off.

Musgrave’s wife got up. She looked at the faces around her with a mixture of anger, scorn, and pity. “I think we all know what we saw out there,” she said, before following her husband out.

An uncomfortable silence smothered the room.

“Man. That guy’s clearly never heard of Scientology,” Dalton quipped, raising a few nervous chuckles.

“I’ve got to say,” the British scientist finally offered, “while I was out there, looking at it . . . there was something rather . . . divine about it.”

He looked around for endorsement. A couple of other scientists nodded.

The honesty of his simple words suddenly struck Gracie, their simple, brutal significance sinking in and chilling her more fiercely than any wind she’d felt out on the ice. Listening to the arguments flying around the room, she’d been swept up by the semantics and all but lost track of the fundamental enormity of what they’d all been arguing about. What had happened, what they’d witnessed out there . . . it was beyond explanation. It was beyond reason. It would have been beyond belief if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.

But she had.

Her mind drifted away with the possibilities. Could it be? she wondered. Had they just witnessed a watershed moment in the history of mankind, something for which “before” and “after” attributes might be used from here on?

Her innate skepticism, the skepticism of a hardened realist, dragged her back from the swirl of dreamy conjecture with a resounding No.

Impossible.

And yet . . . she couldn’t ignore the feeling that she’d been in the presence of something transcendent. She’d never felt that way before.

She suppressed a shiver and glanced uncertainly at Finch. “What did they say?” she asked, away from the others.

Finch said, “They’re getting everyone they can think of to check it out. But they’re getting calls from broadcasters all over the world wanting to know what’s going on. Ogilvy wants us to send him a high-res clip pronto,” he added pointedly, referring to Hal Ogilvy, the network’s global news director and a board member of the parent firm.

“Okay,” she nodded. “We need to make some calls. You wanna see if we can grab the conference room?”

Finch nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

“Amen to that,” Dalton added.