Blasphemy

atheists and secular humanists. They control the grant money. They decide what research is done. They choke off any dissenting voices. This scientific fascism cuts right across the board, from nuclear physics and cosmology to biology and, of course, evolution. These are the scientists who have given us the atheistic, materialistic theories of Darwin and Lyell, Freud and Jung. These are the people who insist that life does not begin with conception. These are the people who want to conduct ghastly experiments on stem cells—living human embryos. These are the abortionists and the so-called family planners.”

The voice droned on, sounding like the very embodiment of reason. Crawley tuned it out to fantasize about the moment when he would sign up Yazzie at twice the retainer.

The show continued with more questions and answers, variations on a theme, then the usual appeal for money, more talk and more appeals. The voices went on and on, rising and falling like a chant. Repetition was the soul of Christian television, Crawley thought: pound it into their thick heads—and take their money to boot.

The camera tightened in on Spates as he took over the commentary. Crawley was only half-listening. Spates had put on a good show so far, and the thought of the Tribal Council watching it brought him great delight.

“. . . God is clearly withdrawing his protective hand over America . . .”

Crawley sank into a state of warmth and relaxation. He couldn’t wait for that four o’clock call Monday. He would extract millions from those apes. Millions.

“. . . To the pagans and the abortionists, to the feminists and the homosexuals, the ACLU—all who are trying to secularize America—I point a finger in their face and say, ‘When the next terror attack comes, it will be your fault . . .’ ”

Maybe he could even triple his fee. That would be something to tell his friends at the Potomac Club.

“. . . And now they’ve built a Tower of Babel, this Isabella, to challenge God on His very throne. But God is no pansy: He will strike back . . . .”

As Crawley sank further into delicious reverie, a word jolted him awake. The word was “murder.”

He sat forward. What was Spates talking about now?

“That’s right,” Spates said. “Through a confidential source, I have learned that four nights ago, one of the top scientists on the Isabella project, a Russian named Volkonsky, allegedly committed suicide. But my source indicates that some police investigators aren’t so sure it was a suicide. It’s looking more and more like murder—an inside job. A scientist killed by his fellow scientists. Why? To shut him up?”

Crawley sat forward, fully alert, watching keenly. What a stroke of genius to hold this bit of news for the end of the show.

“Maybe I can tell you why. I have another piece of news from my source that is truly shocking. I can hardly believe it myself.”

With a manicured hand, in a slow, dramatic movement, Spates picked up a single piece of paper and held it up. Crawley recognized the trick—Joseph McCarthy had pioneered it back in the fifties—in which information, by virtue of being on paper, acquired the solidity of truth.

Spates gave the paper a little shake. “It’s right here.”

Another dramatic pause. Crawley sat up, his drink forgotten. Where was Spates going with this?

“Isabella was supposed to be online months ago. It isn’t. There’s a problem with it. Nobody knows why— except my source and me. And now you.”

Another dramatic shaking of the paper.

“This machine called Isabella has, as its brain, the fastest supercomputer ever built. And this Isabella is claiming to be . . .” He paused dramatically. “God.”

He laid the paper down, his eyes straight at the camera. Even his guest seemed shocked.

The silence crawled on as Spates glared at the camera—the man knew the power of silence, especially on television.

Crawley sat at the edge of his seat, trying to fit this bombshell in. His exquisite internal radar for political trouble was illuminating something big and fast coming in out of nowhere. This was sheer craziness. Maybe it hadn’t been so smart after all, passing the ball to Spates and letting him run with it. Maybe he should have faxed Yazzie a new contract for a quick signature that morning.

Finally Spates spoke.

“My friends, I would not make such a statement if I wasn’t absolutely sure of my facts. My source, a devout Christian and a pastor like myself, is onsite—and he got this information directly from the scientists themselves. That’s right: this gigantic machine called Isabella is claiming to be God. You heard me: claiming to be God . If my information is wrong, I challenge them to publicly refute me. ”

Spates rose from his chair, a gesture made all the more dramatic by expert camerawork. He towered over the viewers, a pillar of controlled fury. “I ask—I demand—that Gregory North Hazelius, the ringleader of this project, appear before the American people and explain himself. I demand it. We, the American people, have spent forty billion dollars building that infernal machine in the desert, a machine specifically created to prove God a liar. And now it is claiming to be God!

“O my friends! What blasphemy is this? What blasphemy is this?”

41

FORD ARRIVED ON THE BRIDGE AT eight o’clock. As he entered the room he glanced at Kate, at her workstation. Their eyes met. Not a word was exchanged, but the glance itself said a lot. The rest of the scientists were hunched over their various workstations, Hazelius directing the show from his swiveling captain’s chair in the center. The machine hummed, but the Visualizer remained black.

The others noted his arrival with few nods and distracted greetings. Wardlaw gave him a long stare before turning back to his security board.

Hazelius beckoned him over. “How are things up top?” he asked.

“I don’t think we’ll have any problems.”

“Good. You’re just in time to see us make contact at CZero. Ken, how are we?”

“Holding steady at ninety percent,” said Dolby.

“The magnet?”

“Still good.”

“Then we’re ready to roll,” said Hazelius. “Rae? Take up your position at the detector control panel. As soon as the logic bomb goes off, I want you on top of it. Julie, back her up.”

He turned. “Alan?”

Edelstein raised his head slowly from his workstation.

“Monitor the backup servers and the main computer simultaneously. At the first sign of instability, switch control of Isabella over to the three p5 595s. Don’t wait for a full crash.”

Edelstein nodded, gave a few sharp raps on the keyboard.

“Melissa, I want you monitoring that hole in space-time. If you see anything, I mean anything, that indicates a problem, an unexpected resonance, unknown superheavy or stable particles—especially stable singularities—sound the alarm.”

A thumbs-up.

“Harlan? We’re going to run at a hundred percent power for as long as it takes. It’ll be your job to keep the juice coming in strong and clean—and to monitor the wider grid for third-party power issues.”

“Sure thing.”

“Tony, even if we switch over the three servers as backup, the security systems will remain online. Don’t forget we’ve got some protesters up there, and they might do something stupid, like scale the perimeter fence.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked around. “George?”

“Yes?” Innes said.

“Normally, you don’t have much to do during a run. But this run’s different. I want you to position yourself near the Visualizer so you can read the output from the logic bomb and analyze it psychologically. A human being wrote this slag code, and it may contain clues to its creator. Look for insights, ideas, psychological quirks—anything that might help us identify the perpetrator or nail this logic bomb.”