Blasphemy

into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men Look’d at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien .

Hazelius paused, then looked up. “I’ve said it before: no discovery worth a damn in this world comes easy. Any great exploration into the unknown is dangerous—physically and psychologically. Look at Magellan’s voyage around the world, or Captain Cook’s discovery of Antarctica. Look at the Apollo program or the space shuttle. We lost a man yesterday to the rigors of exploration. Regardless of how the investigation turns out—and I think most of us can guess which way it will go—I’ll always consider Peter a hero.”

He paused, choking up with emotion. After a moment he cleared his throat. “The next run of Isabella begins at noon tomorrow. You all know what you have to do. Those of us not already in the mountain will gather here, in the rec room, at eleven thirty and head over as a group. The Bunker doors will close and lock at eleven forty-five. This time, ladies and gentlemen, I swear, we will gaze like stout Cortez on the Pacific.”

There was a fervor in his voice that struck Ford—the fervor of the true believer.

19

THAT SAME MORNING, THE REVEREND D. T. SPATES eased himself into his office chair, pressing a lever to adjust his lumbar support and fiddling with other levers to get it to his liking. He was feeling good. The Isabella project had proved to be a red-hot subject. He owned it. It was his. The money was pouring in and the phone banks were jammed. The question was how to advance the subject on his Friday night Christian talk show, Roundtable America. In a sermon, you could play on emotion, you could roll out the blood and thunder. But Roundtable America worked on a more cerebral level. It was a respected show. And for that he needed firm facts—which he had precious few of, beyond what he could glean from the Isabella project Web site. He had already canceled the guests he had booked weeks ago and had found a new one, a physicist who could talk about the Isabella project. But he needed more: he needed a surprise.

His assistant, Charles, entered with the morning folders. “The e-mails you requested, Reverend. Messages. Schedule.” He laid them down, side by side, with quiet efficiency.

“Where’s my coffee?”

His secretary entered. “Good morning, Reverend!” she said brightly. Her frosted bouffant hair bobbed and glittered in the morning sun. She set a tray in front of him: silver coffeepot, cup, sugar, creamer, a Mrs. Fields macadamia-nut cookie, and a freshly ironed copy of the Virginia Beach Daily Press.

“Shut the door when you leave.”

In the restful quiet that followed, Spates poured a cup of coffee, leaned back in his chair, raised the cup to his lips, and took that first bitter, delectable sip. He rolled the brew around in his mouth, swallowed, exhaled, and placed the cup down. Then he picked up the e-mail folder. Every day Charles and three helpers culled through the thousands of e-mails that arrived, selecting those from people who had given or seemed prepared to give at the “1,000 Blessings” level, and those from politicians and business leaders who needed cultivation. This was the result, and they required a personal response, usually a thank-you for money or a request for money.

Spates plucked the first e-mail off the pile, scanned it, scribbled a response, laid it aside, picked up the second one, and in this way worked through the pile.

Fifteen minutes into the pile, he hit one Charles had flagged with a Post-it: Looks intriguing.

He took a nibble of the cookie and read. Dear Rev. Spates,Greetings in Christ. This is Pastor Russ Eddy, writing you from the Gathered in Thy Name Mission, Blue Gap, Arizona. I’ve been bringing the Good News to Navajoland since 1999, when I founded the mission. We’re a small operation—in fact, it’s just me.Your sermon on the Isabella project really hit home, Reverend. I’ll tell you why. Isabella is our next-door neighbor—it’s right up there on Red Mesa above me, I can see it out my window as I type this. I’ve been getting quite an earful about it from my flock. There are a lot of ugly rumors. And I mean ugly. People are scared; they’re frightened about what’s going on up there. I won’t take up any more of your time, Reverend—just a word of thanks for fighting the Good Fight and alerting Christians everywhere aboust this godless machine out here in the desert. You keep it up.Yours in Christ,Pastor Russ EddyGathered in Thy Name MissionBlue Gap, Arizona

Spates read the e-mail, then read it again. He drained his coffee cup, laid it on the tray, mashed his thumb on the last moist cookie crumb and licked it off. He leaned back, thinking. Seven fifteen in Arizona. Country pastors got up early, right?

He picked up the receiver and tapped in a phone number from the end of the e-mail. It rang several times before a high-pitched voice answered.

“This is Pastor Russ.”

“Ah, Pastor Russ! This is Reverend Don T. Spates from God’s Prime Time Ministry, Virginia Beach. How are you today, Pastor?”

“I’m just fine, thank you.” The voice seemed doubtful, even suspicious.

“Now who did you say you were?‘

“Reverend Don T. Spates! God’s Prime Time!”

“Oh! Reverend Spates! This is quite a surprise. You must’ve gotten my e-mail.”

“I certainly did. It was very interesting.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“Please call me Don. I can see that your proximity to this machine, your access to this scientific experiment, could be a Gift from God.”

“How’s that?”

“I need an inside source of information on what’s going on out there, someone on the scene. Maybe God means you to be that source. He didn’t move you to write that e-mail for nothing, Russ. Am I right?”

“Yes sir. I mean, no, He didn’t. I listen to your sermon every Sunday. We don’t get any television reception out here, but I do have a high-speed satellite Internet connection and I listen to the Webcast, without fail.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Russ. It’s good to know our new Webcast’s reaching out. Now, Russ, you mentioned rumors in your e-mail. What kind of rumors you been hearing?”

“All kinds. Radiation experiments, explosions, child abuse. They say they’re creating freaks up there, monsters. That the government is testing a new weapon to destroy the world.”

A slug of disappointment congealed in Spates’s gut. This so-called pastor sounded like a nutcase. No wonder, living out there in the desert with a bunch of Indians.

“Anything a little, ah, more . . . solid?”

“There was a killing up there, yesterday. One of the scientists found with a bullet in his head.”

“Is that right?” This was better. Praise the Lord. “How do you know?”

“Well, in a rural area like this, rumors spread fast. The mesa was crawling with FBI agents.”

“You saw them?”

“Sure did. The FBI only comes on the Rez when there’s been a homicide. The Tribal Police handle almost all other crimes.”

Spates’s spine tingled.

“One of my flock has a brother in the Tribal Police. The latest rumor is that it was actually a suicide. All hush-hush.”

“The dead scientist’s name?”

“Don’t know.”

“You’re sure it was one of the scientists, Russ, and not somebody else?”

“Believe me, if it had been a Navajo, I’d know. This is a very tight-knit community.”

“Have you run into any of the scientists on the team?”

“No. They pretty much keep to themselves.”

“Is there a way you can make contact?”

“Well, sure. I suppose I could drop by, introduce myself as the local pastor. Real friendly-like.”

“Russ, that is an excellent idea! I’m interested in finding out more about the fellow who runs Isabella, guy named Hazelius. You heard about him?”

“The name’s familiar.”

“He declared himself the smartest man on earth. Said everyone was beneath him, called us all a race of morons. Remember that?”

“I think I do.”