The Machine

driver, but not tried hard enough.

Carslake, meanwhile, had stood by, dreaming of spaceships.

Stone thought again of his therapist, the psych he’d seen after the army. The one with the “rules for living”. Stone had never told the guy the truth, or anything approaching it, but he had come out with what he said were his own rules — “avoid hypocrisy”, “be judged on your actions, not your words”, “don’t shrink from a fight”, “confront people who are doing wrong”. Had he believed that, even then? Kind of. But his real opinion was that he had a need for confrontation, that he was still seeking the thrill of combat, that his peace campaigns were just a way of seeking danger without a gun in his hand.

Now cuffed and bound of the floor of that Chinese jeep he could see the therapist had a point. The therapist had claimed Stone was driven by comradeship, even though he was a loner. In some twisted way, the guy said that Stone put himself into danger and got into fights to “win approval”.

Stone had despised all that stuff at the time. It had been years later before he realised that looking for trouble wins you very few friends, even if you’re a “Peace Professor”. And here’s another “rule for living”. For most people over thirty, “brave” means the same as “stupid”.

The jeep drove for no more than a few kilometres before it lurched to a stop once more. The engine cut out. They heard steps walking round from the front of the vehicle, and the tailgate door opened once more onto the mountains. The Tibetan star field above once more, fading slightly in the gathering dawn. Mocking them.

A figure appeared, red-faced in the taillights. His face was wizened and lined with age. He chuckled slightly at them; then, to make his point he pulled out the scripture reel and began to twirl, grating and rattling in the silent forest. He took off his over-sized Gong An peaked hat to reveal his monk’s shaven head, and made a small bow of greeting.

Venching was the monk’s name. He wasn’t much of a driver, but that was unlikely to bother Stone, Ying Ning or Carslake. He said they would make for the town of Garze and then on to Chengdu.

There weren’t many roads in this half of Sichuan, and though the area was vast, even rudimentary roadblocks would catch them. Venching acknowledged this.

‘Even worse to head West for Batang,’ he said. Batang was the one border crossing with Tibet over the mountains. ‘Many police and Gong An at Batang.’

This was true. Once they were missed, the Gong An would expect them to head for Tibet. Heading back into the teeming cities of Sichuan was safer. China has far fewer police per head than most countries. If they had a head start on the Gong An troops behind them, they had a chance of getting as far as Garze. After that, the police would have to spread themselves extremely thinly if they were going to find them amongst the hundred million people in the lowlands of Sichuan.

The old monk’s English was surprisingly good, with something of an American accent. He said had he spent time with American journalists in Tibet back in the 1950’s, and still listened to some BBC radio. His speech was peppered by erudite-sounding journalistic cliches.

‘You have been at the monastery for a long time?’ asked Stone.

‘Since it was re-opened. 1977.’

‘What about Lin Biao?’ asked Carslake. Back on his favourite topic. ‘What was he doing up here in 1969?’

The old monk laughed gently. ‘You heard the story of Lin Biao too?’ he said. ‘I have no idea. It is true that he had deep shelters built here. Luxury apartments with swimming pools underground. Food and water to last for years. But Lin Biao did many strange things.’

‘Strange? Like Steven Semyonov?’ asked Carslake again. Had he never heard of the term “leading question”?

Venching was bemused. ‘I have no idea who is this Steven. Lin Biao was brilliant, charming. But he did nothing for Chinese people. He was obsessed. This is no secret. He was obsessed to be the ruler of China. He said he knew how to make China strong.’

‘And they believed he could do what he said?’

‘He used fear. Fear of outsiders, fear of technology,’ said Venching. ‘Lin Biao stoked up the fear that the Americans could destroy China with their computers and missiles. If only he were in charge of China, said Lin Biao in 1969, they would have the technology to beat the Americans. Historians pay no attention to this boast by Lin Biao. But perhaps Lin Biao really believed what he said,’ said Venching. ‘In any case, you have visited the place yourself, have you not?’

Nothing got past this guy.

‘What have you discovered?’ asked Venching driving on into the dawn.

‘Nothing,’ said Stone, reflexively.

‘Something’s down there,’ said Carslake, proudly. ‘I’ve seen it.’

‘You seem very certain. But what is it?’ asked Venching.

Stone was surprised for a second, if he was honest. ‘Is this it then?’ he said. ‘Radar images finally prove Doug Carslake right about his alien theories?’

‘Clear as day, man,’ said Carslake, looking smug. ‘Incontrovertible. It’s right there on those 3D images of the site.’

Venching didn’t seem surprised. ‘Shi zheiyangzi?’ he muttered to himself. Is that so?

‘A large metal object,’ said Carslake out of the blue. ‘Almost one kilometre in diameter and lying two thousand feet beneath the surface of that crater.’

‘Interesting,’ said Venching, mildly. No surprise in his voice. Either he didn’t believe a word, or he knew all about the Death Hole already.

Chapter 49 — 8:04pm 10 April — Chengdu, Sichuan, China

It was after dark when they made it back to Chengdu. Ying Ning had the old monk pull up at the side of thegaosuexpressway, and then stepped out with the headlights flying past and the sound of horns honking from the other vehicles. They climbed over a fence and began to walk back to Ying Ning’s place which they’d left a couple of days before.

It had been a good opportunity for Stone to talk to Carslake. He was knowledgeable, especially about Semyonov, and especially about his background. What little Carlisle had told Stone about Semyonov’s past turned out to be wrong — according to Carslake at any rate. Semyonov must have hidden his real background, while feeding a narrative to Carlisle and the others in the media. For one thing, his real name was not Semyonov. It was Starkfield — Steven Starkfield.

‘You never wrote about that on your blog,’ said Stone.

‘Like I said,’ said Carslake. ‘You can say all sortsa shit online. But it’s gotta be interesting. The Semyonov name I thought was kinda cool. Like he was Russian, all intellectual and mysterious, fat, with this smooth, white skin and those crazy red eyes. Then I find out his name is Starkfield, and he’s a regular American guy. People don’t read my blog to learn he’s a regular American guy.’

‘Sorry he’s such a disappointment to you,’ said Stone. ‘You’re going to tell me his IQ was average as well.’

‘Nooooooo sir,’ said Carslake, shaking his head enthusiastically. ‘He’s not a disappointment. In fact, I think it makes him more interesting. He was in jail, for one thing, and he never got a college degree. I guess that’s why he changed his name.’

‘He was an ex-con? What did he do?’

‘Nothing bad. Nothing you or I would call bad, anyhow. You can guess.’

‘Hacking? Starkfield was a hacker?’

‘You got it. Doesn’t change much, does it?’

‘No,’ said Stone. But it gave him plenty to think about — the name change thing especially. If Carslake had Semyonov’s real name, and Semyonov was a regular American person, Carslake would have been able to research