• LITHOSPHERE

When the tiny settlement had first been established on the salty verge of the Gulf of Mexico, tall ships wearing high-top wings of white sailcloth had to ride the tidal flow through a measureless, reedy delta in order to reach it. Negotiating the shifting channels took a good pilot. Still, the new trading post lay within easy reach of piping seabirds. Sailors at anchor could hear breakers boom against sand bars.

The port was meant to be a point of contact between three worlds—freshwater, saltwater, and the continental ocean of prairie rumored to stretch beyond the western hills. The village thrived in this role and became a town. The town, a metropolis. Time crawled by, as inexorable as the river.

Once a city has grown great and venerable, it takes on its own justification. Centuries passed. Eventually, the original raison d’être for New Orleans hardly mattered anymore. A living thing, it fought to survive.

Logan Eng strolled a levee watching barges glide past sunken abandoned docks. Once, this had been the second-busiest port in North America, but today cargo ships passed on by, toward the big tube-reloading stations at Memphis, for example. This muggy evening, the main redolence was of mint-scented pine oils, added by the city to cover other, less pleasant aromas. Environment Department launches sniffed each barge suspiciously. But according to Logan’s ex-wife, it wasn’t bilge dumping that gave the river that greasy brown pungency, but the town’s own creaking sewers.

Of course, Daisy McClennon never lacked for causes. As student protestors, long ago, they had shared the same battles. Those had been great days to be young and on the side of righteousness.

But time affects relationships, as well as cities. And Daisy, the purist, found it ever harder to accept Logan, who had in his heart something called compromise. Their first big fight came early on, when Alaska, Idaho, and other holdouts finally began taxing household toxics like canned paints and pesticides, to encourage proper disposal. Logan had been elated, but Daisy wrinkled her nose, detecting a sellout. “You don’t know string pullers and deal makers like I do,” she had declared. “If they gave in so easily, it was to forestall bigger sanctions later. They’re experts at testing the wind, then giving you moderates just enough rope.… ”

Logan came to envy other people, whose marriages might wither or flourish over mundane things like money or sex or children. For their part, he and Daisy had always earned more than they needed, even in these tight times. And their lovemaking used to be so good that even in middle age he still thought her the most desirable woman alive.

How absurd that little differences in politics should come between them! Differences he, personally, found inscrutable.

He still vividly recalled that final, bitter evening, wiping biodegradable dish soap from his hands as he tried to catch her eyes. “Hey! I’m on your side!” he had pleaded.

“No you’re not!” she had screamed back. A handmade plate shattered on the wall. “You build dams! You help irrigators ruin fertile land!”

“But we have new ways …”

“And every one of your new ways will just bring on more catastrophes! I tell you, I can’t live anymore with a man who sends bulldozers tearing across the countryside …”

He recalled her eyes, that evening ten years ago, so icy blue and yet so full of fire. He had wanted to hold her, to inhale her familiar scent and beg her to reconsider. But in the end he went out into the night … a humid night like this one … carrying suitcases and a feeling ever afterward of exile.

Ironically, Daisy had been as good as her word. She could tolerate him, if not his views, just so long as he didn’t live in the same house. Shared custody of Claire was handled so easily, Logan had to wonder. Was it because Daisy knew he was a good father? Or because the issue simply didn’t loom as large to her as the latest cause?

“People talk as if the old days of capitalist rapists ended on the beaches of Vanuatu, and with the sack of Vaduz,” she had pronounced just last Sunday, over a dinner of neo-Cajun blackened soycake. “But I know better. They’re still there, behind the scenes, the profiteers and money men. Anti-secrecy laws just drove them undercover.

“All this talk of using tax policy to ‘assess social costs’ … what a dumb idea. The only way to stop polluters is to put them against walls and shoot them.”

This from a vegetarian, who thought it murder to harm a perennial plant! At one point during the meal, Logan’s daughter caught his eye. I just have to live with Daisy till college—Claire’s look of commiseration seemed to say—You had to be married to her!

Actually, a part of Logan perversely enjoyed these monthly exposures to Daisy’s fanaticism. Among his engineering peers he so often took the pro-Gaian side in arguments, it was actually refreshing to have the roles reversed occasionally.

Ideologies are too seductive anyway. It does a man good to see things from a different point of view.

Take the scene from this levee. Logan found it hard to get excited over simple sewage. It was only biomatter, after all, headed straight for the gulf. Not something really serious, like heavy metals in an aquifer or nitrates in a lake. The brown stuff out there wouldn’t make pleasant drinking water. (Who drank from the Mississippi anyway?) But the ocean could absorb one hell of a lot of fertilizer. No cities lay downstream, so officials looked away when the Old Dame … leaked. New Orleans had special problems anyway.

From atop the splattered dike, Logan spied the massive flood barrier city fathers had built to fight aggressive tidal surges. The price for that impressive edifice lay behind him—a town still elegant and proud, but wracked by neglect.

Logan had toured Alexandria, Rangoon, Bangkok, and other threatened cities, assessing similar panoramas of grandeur and loss. Sometimes his advice had actually helped, like at Salt Lake, where the rising inland sea now surrounded a thriving sunken municipality. More often, though, he came home feeling he’d been battling mud slides with his bare hands. The death of Venice, apparently, hadn’t taught anybody anything.

Sometimes you just have to say good-bye.

Here in New Orleans, earnest men and women worked to save their unique town. He’d recently helped the Urban Corporation anchor seventeen downtown blocks against further sinking into the softening ground. Tonight they were rewarding him with a night in the old French Quarter, still gay and full of life—though now the Dixieland strains echoed off these riverside barricades, and barges rolled by even with wrought-iron balconies.

At one point he just had to get away, for his ringing ears to cool off and the fiery cuisine to settle. Excusing himself, he left to stroll the muggy, jacaranda-­scented evening, stepping aside for lovers and wandering groups of Ra Boys on the prowl. The Big Easy had class all right. In decline, there remained an air of seedy blaisance, and even the inevitable bandit types believed in courtesy.

He listened to the barge horns and thought of the manatees that had inhabited this area, back when La Salle’s men first poled their way through endless marshes, trading ax heads for furs. The manatees were long gone, of course. And soon … relatively soon … so would New Orleans.

The dying of any city begins at its foundation. The French had faced a huge expanse of bayous and reed beds where the Mississippi deposited silt far into the Gulf. This posed a problem. You want to build a town at the mouth of a great river, but which mouth? Natural rivers have many.

They chose the most navigable one, and used a Chippewa word to call it “Mississippi.” But nature paid no heed to names. Channels silted up, and the river kept bulling new paths to the sea.

It was natural, but men found it inconvenient. So they started dredging, saying, “This shall be the main channel, always and forever.”

Dredged mud piled up along the banks of a trough that pushed ever outward, carrying its load of plains dust and mountain sediment deeper into the gulf. Not a fan but a finger, poking mile by mile, year after year, in the general direction of Cuba.

Meanwhile the rest of the delta began eroding.

Logan had inspected hundreds of kilometers of embankments, thrown up in forlorn efforts to save the doomed shore. More tall levees contained the river, whose gradient flattened over time. Suspended silt began falling out even north of Baton Rouge. Soon the sluggish current no longer held back the sea. Salinity increased.

Upstream, the Mississippi fought like an anaconda, writhing to escape. The contest was one of raw power. And Logan knew where it would be lost.

Can you hear it calling? He asked the captive waters. Can you hear the Atchafalaya, beckoning you?

Fortunately, Claire would move away long before the Mississippi burst through the Old River Control Structure or some other weak point, spilling into that peaceful plain of cane fields and fish farms. But Daisy? She’d never budge. Perhaps she didn’t believe because the warning came from him, and that made Logan feel vaguely guilty.

In effect, he could only pray the Corps’ new barriers were as good as they claimed. It was possible. Schools now taught youngsters to think in terms of decades, not mere months or years anymore. Maybe that culture had worked its way even to Washington.

But rivers see decades, even centuries, as mere trifles.

The Mississippi rolled by. And, not for the first time, Logan wondered if Daisy might be right after all. I try to find solutions that work with Earth’s forces. I like to think I’ve learned from the mistakes of past engineers.

But didn’t they, too, think they built for the ages?

He remembered what Shelley had written, about an ancient pharaoh.

“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

Now the pyramids of Giza, symbols of man’s conquest of time, were crumbling under the smoggy breath of fifty million denizens of Cairo. The monuments of Ramses were flaking to dust, blowing away to become thin layers in some future geologist’s dissection of the past.

Can we build nothing that lasts? Nothing worth lasting?

Logan sighed. He had been away too long. He turned away from the patient river and took the rusted, creaking iron stairs back into the ancient city.

A man in blue stood near the door of the restaurant, his crewcut and patchy skin exaggerated by the rhodium flicker of the entrance sign. At first, Logan thought the fellow was a Ra Boy in mufti. But a second glance showed him to be too old, and much too formidable to be a Ra Boy.

Normally, Logan would have left out the second glance, but one does look twice when someone steps up and grabs your elbow. Logan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“No. It’s I who must apologize. You’re Logan Eng, may I assume?”

“Uh … I won’t serve time for keeping it mum.” The flip cliché rolled out before he could regret it, but the sallow-faced man appeared not to notice. He let go of Logan’s arm only as they moved away from the doorway.

“My name is Glenn Spivey, colonel, United States Aerospace Force.”

The stranger held out an ID that projected a holographic sphere ten centimeters across, emblazoned with crusty military emblems.

“Please go ahead and use your wallet plaque to verify my credentials, Mr. Eng.”

Logan started to laugh. Partly in relief this wasn’t a robbery and partly at the incongruity. As if anyone would want to fake such a garish thing!

“I’m sure I believe you …”

But the other man insisted. “I really would prefer you check, sir.”

“Hey, what’s this about? I have people waiting …”

“I know that. This shouldn’t take long. We can talk soon as you’ve verified my bona fides. It’s for your own protection, sir.”

In the stranger’s eyes, Logan recognized a tenacity far exceeding his own. Arguing was clearly futile.

“Oh, all right.” He took out his wallet and aimed its lens first at Spivey and then at the man’s glowing credential. Quickly he dialed the private security service he used for such things and pressed his thumb to the ident-plate. In three seconds the tiny screen flashed a terse confirmation.

All right, the fellow was who he said he was. Logan might have preferred a robber.

“Shall we go for a walk then, Mr. Eng?” Spivey motioned with one arm.

“I just finished walking a piece. Can we sit down? I really only have a moment …”

His protest trailed off as the officer showed him to a long black car parked at the curb. One glance told Logan the thing was made of steel throughout, and ran on high-octane gasoline.

Astounding. Work vehicles were one thing. Out in the field, machines needed that kind of power. But what use was it here in a city? This told him more than he’d learned by reading Spivey’s ID.

Logan felt like a desecrator, planting his work pants on the plush upholstery. When the door hissed shut, all sound from the blaring, cacophonous street instantly vanished. “This is a secure vehicle,” Spivey told him, and Logan quite believed it.

“All right, Colonel. What’s all this about?”

Spivey held up one hand. “First I must tell you, Mr. Eng, that what we’re about to discuss is highly classified. Top secret.”

Logan winced. “I want my lawyer program.”

The officer smiled placatingly. “I assure you it’s all legal. You must be aware certain government agencies are exempt from the open-access provisions of the Rio Treaties.”

Logan knew that. Disarmament hadn’t ended all threats to peace or national security. Nations still competed, and in principle he accepted the need for secret services. Still, the idea made him intensely uncomfortable.

Spivey went on. “If you wish, though, we can record our conversation, and you may deposit a copy with a reputable registration service. Which one do you use for business? I’m sure you often sequester proprietary techniques for weeks or months before applying for patents.”

Logan relaxed just a bit. Sequestering a conversation, to keep it confidential for a short time, was another matter entirely … so long as a legal record was kept in a safe place. In that case, he wondered why Spivey used the word “secret” at all.

“I deposit with Palmer Privacy, but—”

Spivey nodded. “Palmer will be satisfactory. Because we’ll be discussing matters of national safety, however, and a possible threat to public welfare, I must ask for a ten-year sequestration, at ultimate level.”

At that level, only a high court could open the record before expiration. Logan swallowed. He felt as if he had stepped into a bad flat-movie from the twentieth century, one made all too realistic in Daisy McClennon’s enhancement lab. He was tempted to look around for the flashing pink star, installed to cue viewers that this wasn’t real.

“Naturally, my agency will reimburse the extra cost, if that’s a concern,” Spivey added.

After a moment’s hesitation, Logan nodded. “Okay.” His voice felt very dry.

Spivey took out two recording cubes, black, with tamper-proof seals, and set them into a taper. Together, they went through the ritual, establishing names and conditions, time and location. At last, with both cubes winking, the colonel settled back in his seat. “Mr. Eng, we’re interested in your theories about the incident at the Biscay tidal barrage.”

Logan blinked. He had been imagining things this might be about, from person smuggling, to waste-dumping scams, to insider trading. He traveled widely and met so many colorful types that there was no telling how many might be involved in the ceaseless, sometimes shady jockeying of governments and corporations. But Spivey had surprised him with this!

“Well, Colonel, I’d have to classify that paper more under the heading of science fiction than theory. After all, I published in a database for speculative …”

“Yes, Mr. Eng. The Alternate View. Actually, you may be surprised to learn our service keeps close tabs on that zine, and similar ones.”

“Really? It’s just a forum for crackpot ideas …” He read the other man’s look. “Well, maybe not as crackpot as some. Most subscribers are technical people. Let’s say it’s where we can publish things that don’t belong elsewhere—certainly not the formal journals. Most of the ideas aren’t to be taken seriously.”

He felt uncomfortably sure Spivey was watching his every move, taking his measure. Logan didn’t like it.

“Are you saying you think your hypotheses worthless?” the man asked levelly.

Logan shrugged. “There are lots of notions that seem to work on paper, or in Net simulations, but can’t be justified in the real world.”

“And your notion was?” Spivey prompted.

Logan thought back to the case of the missing drill rig in southern Spain—and the anchor boom that had been lifted on end at the tidal power station—both without any sign of sabotage.

“All I did was calculate how a special type of Earth movement could have caused the strange things I saw.”

“What kind of Earth movement?”

“It’s …” Logan lifted both hands parallel. “It’s like, well, pushing a child on a swing. If you shove at the right frequency, matching the natural pendulum rhythm, you’ll build momentum with each stroke—”

“I’m aware of how resonance works, Mr. Eng. You suggested the Spanish anomalies were caused by a special type of seismic resonance. Specifically, the sudden arrival of extremely narrowly focused earthquakes and corresponding gravity variations—”

“No! I didn’t say that was the cause! I merely showed such waves would be consistent with observed events. It’s an amusing idea, that’s all. I can’t really say why I even bothered with it.”

The government man inclined his head slightly. “I’m sorry I misspoke. You sound upset about it.”

“A man’s reputation is important. Especially in my field. People understand play, of course. So I was careful to make clear that’s all I was doing, playing with an idea! It’s quite another thing to say, ‘this is what happened.’ I didn’t do that.”

Spivey regarded him for a long interval. Finally, he opened a slim briefcase and pulled out a large-format reading plaque. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leaf through this, Mr. Eng, and consider what you see in light of your … playful exercise.”

Logan thought of protesting. By now his associates in the restaurant might be worried. Or they might be incoherent from alcohol or assume he’d gone off to bed.…

He took the plaque. Making certain the recording cubes could read over his shoulder, he put his thumb on the page-turn button and began skimming. Silence stretched in the limo as he read. Finally, he said, “I don’t believe it.”

“Now you understand why I insisted you check my credentials, Mr. Eng, so you’ll know this is no hoax.”

“But this episode here …”

“You haven’t seen the actual recording, yet. It’s much more vivid than numbers. Allow me.” The man expertly dialed the correct data page. “This was taken by a high-altitude reconnaissance blimp, above our Diego Garcia Naval Station, in the Indian Ocean.”

Depicted now in front of Logan was a moonlit seascape. Calm waters glistened under still tropical air.

Suddenly, the ocean surface flattened in eight places. Despite the angle of view and foreshortening, Logan could tell the dimples formed a perfect octagon.

As quick as the dips appeared, they suddenly ballooned outward, joined now by an outer ring of smaller bulges, twenty in all. Scale numbers ran down the side of the screen, and Logan whistled.

The hillocks collapsed again, much quicker than normal gravity could have pulled them down. Forty-nine depressions replaced them this time. The center eight were now too deep for the camera to measure.

Then, suddenly, the screen erupted with light. Faster than Logan could follow, a handful of bright streaks speared upward, perpendicular to the ocean. They were gone in an instant, leaving behind a diffracting pattern of circular ripples, spreading and subsiding until at last all was still once more.

“That’s the best example,” Spivey commented. “It was accompanied by seismic activity bearing some similarity to the Spanish quakes.”

“Where …” Logan asked hoarsely. “Where did the water go?”

The colonel’s smile was distant, enigmatic. “Just missed the moon, by less than three diameters. Of course, by that point it was pretty diffuse.… Are you all right, Mr. Eng?” Genuine concern suddenly crossed Colonel Spivey’s face as he leaned forward. “Would you like a drink?”

Logan nodded. “Yes … thank you. I think I need one very much.”

For a little while, despite the car’s whispering air-conditioner, he found it rather difficult to breathe.

Net Vol. A69802-11 04/06/38 14:34:12UT. User G-654-11-7257-Aab12 AP News Alert: 7+: Key-select: “Conservation,” “animal rights,” “conflict”:

In the ongoing, sometimes violent confrontation between the International Fish and Fowl Association and the animal rights group known as No-Flesh, a surprise development today. To the amazement of many, the Hearth Conclave of the North American Church of Gaia has intervened in favor of the world’s largest organization of duck hunters.

According to the Most Reverend Elaine Greenspan, sister-leader of Washington State and this month’s spokesper for the conclave:

“We have examined all the evidence and decided that in this case neither hunting nor the consumption of animal tissue harms Our Mother. Rather, the activities of IFFA are clearly beneficial and meritorious.”

In light of the church’s long-standing abjuration of the slaughter of warm-blooded animals, Greenspan explained:

“Our position against red meat is often misunderstood. It’s not a moral stand against carnivorality, per se. There is nothing inherently evil about eating or being eaten, for that is clearly part of Gaia’s plan. Human beings evolved with meat as part of their diet.

“Our campaign has been waged because great herds of grazing cattle and sheep were destroying much of the Earth. Vast quantities of needed grain were being wasted as fodder. And finally, modified food animals such as beef steers are abominations, robbed of the ultimate dignity of wild creatures, to have a chance to fight or flee, to struggle to survive.

“After hearing the arguments of IFFA representatives, we find that none of these objections apply to them.

“Similarly, our broad stand against hunting was based on the scarcity of wildlife in comparison with the chief predator, humankind. But this does not hold where hunters are few, responsible, and sportsmanly, and where the prey species is renewable.

“Contrary to our initial expectations, we have determined that IFFA duck hunters have been among the most ardent supporters of conservation, spending millions to buy up and preserve wetlands, pursuing polluters and poachers, and regulating their own activities admirably. Any complete ban on hunting would, we estimate, lead to catastrophic loss of remaining migratory routes. The church therefore rules that IFFA is beneficial to society and to Gaia, and grants its blessing.”

In fact, there are precedents for this surprising action. Thirty years ago, for instance, the church campaigned against the selling off of many obsolete military bases, which they deemed better preserved in that state than sold to be developed as commercial property.

To today’s announcement, however, a spokesper for No-Flesh had only this comment:

“This takes NorA ChuGa hypocrisy to new heights. Killing is killing and murder is murder. All animals have rights, too. Let IFFA and their new allies beware. What they do unto others may yet be visited on them!”

When asked if this was a threat of violence, the spokesper declined elaboration.