Read The Forge of God for Free Online
Authors: Greg Bear
"I'll not be sad and weepy. Not with this."
Arthur's throat tightened. He had practically grown up with Harry. They had known each other for thirty years. He couldn't possibly be dying. Arthur coughed. "We'll become adults with this one, Harry. The whole human race. I need you very much."
"Can you take on a might-be invalid?" Now their eyes met, and this time Arthur glanced away, shoulders stiff. With an effort, he looked back. "You'll make it, Harry."
"Lord, speak of will to live."
"Join the team."
Harry wiped his eyes with the forefinger of his right hand. "Travel? I mean, much…"
"At first, but you can stay in Los Angeles if you wish, later."
"I'll need that. The treatment is at UCLA."
Arthur offered his hand. "You'll make it."
"After this, maybe it won't be so bad," Harry said. He took the offered hand and squeezed it firmly.
"What?"
"Dying. What a thing to see… Little green men, Arthur?"
"Are you with us?"
"You know I am."
"Then you get the big picture. It's not just Australia. There's something in the Mojave Desert, Death Valley, between a resort called Furnace Creek and a little town called Shoshone. It resembles a cinder cone. It's new. It doesn't belong there."
Harry grinned like a little boy. "Wonderful."
"And yes, there's an LGM."
"Where?"
"For the moment, Vandenberg Air Force Base."
Harry glanced at the ceiling and lifted both arms, tears spilling from his eyes. "Thank you, Lord."
PERSPECTIVE
WorldNet USA Earthpulse, October 5, 1996: Almost all's well with the world today. No earthquakes, no typhoons, no hurricanes approaching land. Frankly, we'd say today was bright and glorious, but for early light snows in the northeastern United States, rain by tonight in the Pacific Northwest, and the confirmation last week that the ever-popular El Nino has returned to the South Pacific. Australians are bracing for another long drought in the face of this climactic scourge.
When Trevor Hicks told Shelly Terhune, his publicist, that the morning interview with KGB was on, she paused, snickered, and said, "Vicky won't like you turning traitor." Vicky Jackson was his editor at Knopf.
"Tell her it's FM, Shelly. I'm going to be squeezed between the surf report and the morning news."
"The KGB do a surf report?"
"Look, it was on your list of stations," he said, mock-exasperated. "I'm not responsible."
"All right, let me look," Shelly said. "KGB-FM. You're right. You've confirmed the slot?"
"The news manager says ten or fifteen minutes, but I'm sure it'll end up about thirty seconds."
"At least you'll reach the surfers. Maybe they haven't heard of you."
"If they haven't, it's not for want of your trying." He tried to put on a petulant tone. He was in fact quite tired; he was sixty-eight years old, after all, and while comparatively hale and hearty, Hicks was not used to such a schedule anymore. Ten years ago, he could have done it standing on his head.
"Now, now. Tomorrow we have you set up for that morning TV talk show."
"Confirmed, tomorrow morning. Live so they can't edit."
"Don't say anything rude," Shelly admonished him. This was hardly necessary. Trevor Hicks gave some of the most polite and erudite interviews imaginable. His public image was bright and stylishly rumpled; he resembled both Albert Einstein and a middle-aged Bertrand Russell; what he had to say was consensus technocracy, hardly controversial and always good for a short news item. He had founded the British chapter of the Trojans Society, devoted to space exploration and the construction of huge orbiting space habitats; he was a forty-seven-year member of the British Interplanetary Society; he had written twenty-three books, the most recent being Starhome , a novel about first contact; and last but not least, he was the most public spokesman in the so-called "civilian sector" for manned exploration of space. His was not quite a household name, but he was one of the most respected science journalists in the world. Despite spending
Arthur's throat tightened. He had practically grown up with Harry. They had known each other for thirty years. He couldn't possibly be dying. Arthur coughed. "We'll become adults with this one, Harry. The whole human race. I need you very much."
"Can you take on a might-be invalid?" Now their eyes met, and this time Arthur glanced away, shoulders stiff. With an effort, he looked back. "You'll make it, Harry."
"Lord, speak of will to live."
"Join the team."
Harry wiped his eyes with the forefinger of his right hand. "Travel? I mean, much…"
"At first, but you can stay in Los Angeles if you wish, later."
"I'll need that. The treatment is at UCLA."
Arthur offered his hand. "You'll make it."
"After this, maybe it won't be so bad," Harry said. He took the offered hand and squeezed it firmly.
"What?"
"Dying. What a thing to see… Little green men, Arthur?"
"Are you with us?"
"You know I am."
"Then you get the big picture. It's not just Australia. There's something in the Mojave Desert, Death Valley, between a resort called Furnace Creek and a little town called Shoshone. It resembles a cinder cone. It's new. It doesn't belong there."
Harry grinned like a little boy. "Wonderful."
"And yes, there's an LGM."
"Where?"
"For the moment, Vandenberg Air Force Base."
Harry glanced at the ceiling and lifted both arms, tears spilling from his eyes. "Thank you, Lord."
PERSPECTIVE
WorldNet USA Earthpulse, October 5, 1996: Almost all's well with the world today. No earthquakes, no typhoons, no hurricanes approaching land. Frankly, we'd say today was bright and glorious, but for early light snows in the northeastern United States, rain by tonight in the Pacific Northwest, and the confirmation last week that the ever-popular El Nino has returned to the South Pacific. Australians are bracing for another long drought in the face of this climactic scourge.
When Trevor Hicks told Shelly Terhune, his publicist, that the morning interview with KGB was on, she paused, snickered, and said, "Vicky won't like you turning traitor." Vicky Jackson was his editor at Knopf.
"Tell her it's FM, Shelly. I'm going to be squeezed between the surf report and the morning news."
"The KGB do a surf report?"
"Look, it was on your list of stations," he said, mock-exasperated. "I'm not responsible."
"All right, let me look," Shelly said. "KGB-FM. You're right. You've confirmed the slot?"
"The news manager says ten or fifteen minutes, but I'm sure it'll end up about thirty seconds."
"At least you'll reach the surfers. Maybe they haven't heard of you."
"If they haven't, it's not for want of your trying." He tried to put on a petulant tone. He was in fact quite tired; he was sixty-eight years old, after all, and while comparatively hale and hearty, Hicks was not used to such a schedule anymore. Ten years ago, he could have done it standing on his head.
"Now, now. Tomorrow we have you set up for that morning TV talk show."
"Confirmed, tomorrow morning. Live so they can't edit."
"Don't say anything rude," Shelly admonished him. This was hardly necessary. Trevor Hicks gave some of the most polite and erudite interviews imaginable. His public image was bright and stylishly rumpled; he resembled both Albert Einstein and a middle-aged Bertrand Russell; what he had to say was consensus technocracy, hardly controversial and always good for a short news item. He had founded the British chapter of the Trojans Society, devoted to space exploration and the construction of huge orbiting space habitats; he was a forty-seven-year member of the British Interplanetary Society; he had written twenty-three books, the most recent being Starhome , a novel about first contact; and last but not least, he was the most public spokesman in the so-called "civilian sector" for manned exploration of space. His was not quite a household name, but he was one of the most respected science journalists in the world. Despite spending
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