WHAT GERRY DIDN’T LIKE ABOUT IT was how it felt like an intervention, the kind his wife, his brother, and his brother’s wife had staged before throwing him into Bellwood two years ago.
He glanced at Ian, and could tell Ian knew nothing about it. Then at Ira, and what was Ira doing here, anyway, because Ira never came to these things? Then at Mitch, who stared at his hands like a Judas.
But unlike his first intervention, where everything good in the world had materialized afterward, and he had finally found the peace he had always been looking for, and, wonder of wonders, had found it without the bottle, this intervention had all the hallmarks of a cancer and felt like it was leaching the life out of him.
“But what about that first drop they sent?” he said. “They were so hard-assed. It was like a slap in the face. Telling us to butt out because they thought we would blow it. And my damn brother signing off on it because he thinks he’s king of the world.”
Hulke looked away. Gerry could tell the mayor had mixed feelings about the whole thing. “Well, Ger, they sent us the blueprint for the virus, and Luke’s taken a look at it, and Luke seems to think it’s … how can I put this? … a kosher little bug and, unlike the toxin, something we can grow up here.”
“I thought Luke wasn’t part of our effort anymore.” The mayor looked away. “We’ve kind of been using him all along. On a consulting basis … and keeping it hush-hush … because you seemed a little miffed at him when he broke camp with us.”
Gerry shook his head. “I wasn’t miffed at him. I welcome his input. I was mad at the toxin. I knew it wasn’t going to work. And I was right. These are the Tarsalans. They’re going to think of all the obvious things. And now Neil wants to try a virus? A virus won’t work for the exact same reason.”
“No, no…. Luke said it will. He said it will beat the crap out of the thing…. Maybe not in those exact words …” The door to the mayor’s office slid open. “And … well, well, well … speak of the devil…. Luke, we were just—”
“Sorry I’m late,” said Dr. Langstrom, coming through the door.
So. Here it was. The last nail. Why did things always arrange themselves this way in his life? Same thing at NCSU. Thought his job was safe, had no idea of the political intrigue brewing behind his back, and bang, we’re sorry, Dr. Thorndike, but the Ocean Sciences Department is in a precarious position right now, and yes, you’ve really bounced back since your unfortunate stay at Bellwood, but we’re looking at a serious lack of funding at the present time … and here it was all over again. Poor old Ger, only wanting to help, doing his damnedest to figure out Kafis’s little puzzle, and then having the rug pulled out from under him, and Langstrom bouncing through the door as if he belonged here more than Gerry did.
“Hello, Luke,” he said, trying to stop the frost in his voice.
The Martian scientist nodded deferentially. “Gerry.”
The mayor tried to alleviate the tension with some blustering hospitality. “Wish I had a plate of bonbons, or something, Luke, because I know you like your sweets … but we’re getting … uh … drastically low in the supply side of things, and we … you know … got a little hoarding going on … so I guess all I can give you …”
“Yes, crudités. Moon-grown?”
“We grow a fine carrot.”
“And the dip?”
“Uh … synthetic. But real low-cal. In fact, zero-cal.”
“You’re not insulted if I pass?”
“Me, insulted? No, of course not. Have a seat. There’s a spot beside Ira. You know Ira, don’t you?”
“Yes, we’ve met.”
“Hi, Luke.”
“Hello, Ira.”
“We were just telling Ger, here … about Dr. Thorndike’s virus.”
And this rankled Gerry as well, because he was “Ger” now, nothing else, while his brother was still Dr. Thorndike. He watched Luke take his spot beside Ira.
Gerry glanced at Ira, a man in his early sixties with an odd birthmark on his right hand, a narrow face, intense blue eyes, a receding hairline, and an obvious Ashkenazi contour to his nose. He had a benign but nearly frozen grin on his face. What was Ira getting out of all this? What kind of tariff concessions had the U.S. government made to the lunar contingent of AviOrbit?
“I’ve developed a few vials of the virus according to Dr. Thorndike’s blueprint,” said Luke. “Lothar Hydroponics had the base tobacco mosaic virus on file. The Tarsalan components came from the Aldrin Health Sciences Center. The cross-species enzymes and catalysts were easy to synthesize using basic laboratory techniques. The beauty of this thing, Gerry, is that unlike the toxin, we can grow it here on the Moon. Kudos to your brother. We mount multiple warheads of the stuff on some of the old interlunar junk Ira has hanging around and we go in with a coordinated attack.”
The unfairness of the situation struck him afresh. “Wait a minute. Ira can give my brother launch vehicles but he can’t give me another Smallmouth?”
Ira’s grin transformed into a hard-faced frown. “It’s not that we can’t give you another Smallmouth, Gerry, it’s just that we don’t see the point. Mitch and I have talked about this, and we’ve basically concluded that your … research … Pardon me if I’m blunt, but your research is going nowhere.” He lifted his palms. “These flagella, for instance. Yes, the first Smallmouth has shown us that when they’re in the sphere, they’re active, and that they link each xenophyta organism to the next, but so what? And this expensive infrared equipment we’ve given you? What have you done with it? You’ve shown us some pretty colors and told us that the phytosphere has different temperatures in different places, and that there might be a cyclical weather system in it … but really, what have you given us in terms of a concrete scientific return, or even a first step toward a working solution?”
Gerry’s anger flared. “Yes, but this cyclical weather system … I’m beginning to think it’s more than just a weather system—it’s a definite stress band. Did you read my report on it?”
“You mean you’ve finally written a report?”
Gerry frowned but pushed on. “The pattern’s too regular to be a weather system. If we can figure out what’s causing it, we could be one step closer to a solution. I’m hypothesizing that the stress band could be part of the phytosphere’s operating system.”
“Could be,” said Ira, now sounding tougher. “That’s all I hear from you, Gerry. I’ve been an executive for thirty-one years, and I’ve worked with all kinds of people. I’ve hired people, and I’ve fired people. And the people I fire most are the ones who always say could be, might be, or maybe. Gerry, you don’t know how to get things done. Not like your brother does.”
“As far as I can see, my brother hasn’t accomplished a thing except spend a lot of money. All I’m asking for is one more Smallmouth. Let’s go into the phytosphere and follow the stress band. Let’s find out what it is. It might reveal the exact piece of information we need. We could have the answer in as little as seventy-two hours.”
“I’m sorry, Gerry, but I have to put what resources I have into retooling these old Earth-Lunar shuttles.”
“But the virus isn’t going to work. You don’t think the Tarsalans haven’t engineered an immune system into the phytosphere?”
“Gerry,” said Luke. “That’s the beauty of this virus your brother’s designed. It attacks the immune system. The Tarsalan genetic component. And it’s going to cripple that component first and then spread out using the omniphage I’ve created. This omniphage of mine is quickly turning into the workhorse of the whole project. The only way the Tarsalans can respond is to preemptively vaccinate the entire shroud, and hope that the necessary antibodies develop in time. And they can’t. It’s impossible. I’ve tested your brother’s virus. It’s a hundred percent effective.”
“You’ve tested it on our samples?”
Luke shrugged. “Where else would I get samples?”
“Yes, but you didn’t kill them all, did you?”
“I wouldn’t do that. In fact, I’m culturing a new supply.”
The rawhide hat moved ominously into view. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing?” said Ian. “You’re undercutting the only man who’s going to save the situation.”
“Give me another Smallmouth,” pleaded Gerry. “Let’s take an in-depth look at the stress band.”
The mayor interjected. “Ger, we’ve sent your research to … you know … to your brother’s team … just so that they can take a look at it. I think that’s all we really have to do. There’s your in-depth look, so you have nothing to worry about.”
Now he felt doubly betrayed. “Without my authorization?”
“We just want them to double-check its validity.”
His face settled. “It’s valid, Malcolm. It’s predicated on strict observation, not on wishful thinking.”
“We’re wasting a lot of time here,” said Ira. “We should be focusing on refurbishing our launch vehicles and developing a stockpile of virus.” Ira squared his shoulders and turned to Gerry. “Gerry, you’re off the project. That’s what we’re really here to talk about. That’s why I’m here. Thanks for all your help, but it hasn’t worked out. We’ll let you know if we need you on a consulting basis.”
Gerry’s eyes widened. Yes, an intervention. Or a repeat of NCSU. “So I’m fired?”
The mayor jumped in. “No, no, you’re not fired, Gerry. Go back to Alleyne-Parma and work your butt off. Keep making those observations. Write it all down. Give us another damn bargaining chip we can use with Earth. It’s just that … as for the overall direction … I think we better go with your brother’s plan.”
“So, in other words, Neil’s in charge now?”
“We’re going to help Earth give it this one last shot,” said Ira.
“Mitch … I thought you were with me.”
Mitch looked up. “Gerry, you haven’t even reached the drawing-board stage of a solution. What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say you’ll give me another Smallmouth. If you give me a chance to get inside the phytosphere one more time, I’m sure I’ll figure out what’s causing the stress band. And once I do that—”
“Once you do that, Gerry, then what?” said Ira. “Don’t you see that we’re running out of time? The situation is critical on Earth. The average human takes anywhere from thirty to seventy-five days to starve to death, and we’re well over the seventy-five-day threshold now. The number of survivors is going to be considerably beyond the right side of the decimal point in terms of percentages. And another Smallmouth isn’t going to help any of that. So do what Malcolm says. Go play at Alleyne-Parma, but leave the real work to us.”
His feelings were hurt, his ego bruised, and he felt like he needed a drink badly. But as Gerry took the train to the observatory an hour later, he still held a solid belief in himself flickering deep within his soul, and he knew that his brand of question-driven science, so completely devoid of ambition and conceit, would at last solve the puzzle of the phytosphere.
He got off the train and took the moving sidewalk through a pressurized polycarbonate surface corridor. The observatory loomed before him, a bubble, catching the sun’s light and reflecting it with diamond-bright intensity. He glanced at the black sky. Somewhere up there, AviOrbit technicians took the old Earth-Moon shuttles out of storage and turned them into missiles. What would the Tarsalans do to the Commonwealth of Lunar Colonies when they learned the Moon had participated in the launch? He tried not to think about it.
He used his special pass to gain access to the closed-down tourist attraction, and shuffled along the polished floor of the big circular corridor until he came to the entrance to the viewing area.
As much as he tried not to think about it, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Somewhere back in Nectaris, lab workers cultured samples of the virus and piggybacked them onto Luke Langstrom’s omniphages. He stopped. The omniphages. If it was a eureka moment, it was an unenjoyable one. Because didn’t the Tarsalans already have experience with Luke Langstrom’s omniphage? They now probably understood the omniphage better than Luke did. He sure hoped his brother had considered that strategic stumbling point.
He settled himself by Heaven’s Eye and took fifteen minutes to get the apparatus up and running.
He was just sitting down to observe when he heard a distant rapping from out in the corridor. He thought it might be Ian at the observatory door, strange new Ian, the sober Ian who wanted to walk the straight and narrow. He bounce-shuffled out into the corridor, followed its curve around to the public doors, and saw that it wasn’t Ian, but Stephanie, standing at the top of the stairs wearing her silver, orange, and magenta jumpsuit. She reminded him of a Day-Glo kitten who had followed him home. He swiped his access pass on the inside scanners and the doors opened.
He presented himself with his palms upward. “Behold, poor Caesar.”
“What? Oh. Right. Cute. A little weird, but …”
And then she just stood there looking at him as if he were the biggest nerd in the world.
He moved awkwardly aside. “Come in … come in.” And he swept his hand toward the interior of the observatory like a ringmaster presenting the next circus act. “I talk like that sometimes.”
“I noticed.” She arched a brow. “But then I notice a lot of things about you. For one thing, I notice that you let people push you around.”
The accusation struck him as uncharacteristically harsh of Stephanie. Yet it seemed pointless to defend himself, so he just tried to elaborate on the circumstances. “Ira was their point man. And he holds the purse strings.”
“So?”
“He and I come from two different mind-sets.”
“So?”
“So he’s not going to listen to me when he can listen to my brother.”
“I used to let people push me around all the time, but not anymore.”
“I haven’t given up, Stephanie.”
“I know you haven’t. I just wanted to come here to make sure of that.”
“I can’t give up.”
“I know.”
“And in a day or two, I’m going to bug them again about a second Smallmouth.”
“Let’s go look at Earth.”
“Yes, the many-storied globe.”
“Uh … right.”
They walked down the corridor toward the observatory, past the ticket booth, the concession stand, and the public washrooms. She slipped her hand through his arm, and it felt good, reminded him of his wife, and he took support from it, even though she was young enough to be his daughter.
“I haven’t seen Gwen around,” he said. “What happened to her?”
“She’s gone back home to Copernicus, now that all the shows have closed.”
“Oh. She’s from Copernicus. And what about you? What about your mother and father?”
“I never met my father, and I don’t get along with my mother. I’m making it on my own.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend?”
“I do.”
“You do? Who?”
“You.”
“Steph … I wouldn’t think of me as your—”
“A boyfriend can be many things. One of the things he can be is married. Another thing he can be is alone. And you’re really alone, Gerry. You need me. You might not know it, but you do. And that doesn’t necessarily mean there has to be anything physical.”
He nodded. She was young, a trifle overdone in her expressions, but he appreciated her sentiment anyway.
“You’re a sweet man,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“No, I really mean it. And you’re awfully smart.”
“Thanks. You’re full of compliments tonight.”
“I’m just trying to soften the blow.”
His eyes narrowed. “Soften what blow?”
“The blow you’re going to feel when I point out the obvious to you. I was hoping you were going to get it by yourself, and I wasn’t going to have to say anything because I didn’t want to bruise your ego, considering how bruised it’s been already, but now I realize that we can’t wait any longer.”
He stopped. “Can’t wait any longer for what?”
He was starting to feel more like an idiot every second.
“Let’s just get to the observatory, and I’ll show you.”
“Something about the phytosphere?”
“Like I say, you’re awfully smart.”
His face warmed. Had he really missed something? What could he have missed?
In the observatory she presented the monitors like a showgirl, with a jutting of her hip and a c’est voilè posturing of her hands, as if the monitors were the prize behind Door Number 3.
He didn’t get it. “I’m sorry?”
“Turn on the accelerated infrared footage.”
He did as she said. “It’s on.”
“Take a close look and tell me what you see.”
He saw the same thing he always saw, the stress band from north to south. “Okay … Okay, what am I missing?”
He was afraid she was going to disappoint him with something that had absolutely no relevance.
“You’re sure you won’t be upset? I know the male ego is …”
He looked more closely at the screens. “Steph, if you can offer some fresh perspective … something I’ve been missing….”
“Look closely at the archival screen, Gerry. Tell me what you see. You won’t get mad because a showgirl figured this out, will you?”
“Of course not.”
“Just take a look and see if you can puzzle it out.”
“What am I supposed to see?” he said.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“On the archival screen?”
“Yes, that screen.”
“I see the same thing I always see. The stress band.”
“Speed it up some more,” she said.
He sped the whole thing up, splicing three weeks into a four-minute segment.
“So?” said Stephanie.
He bowed. “Master, I admit my profound ignorance.”
“Gerry, you’re a goddamned ocean scientist.”
It was one of those sublime moments of humiliation, when a girl of twenty-two who had no scientific background and just went around feeling her way through life, not analyzing it, could outguess him in the overall pattern of a natural phenomenon. Despite the humiliation, he could have kissed her.
“I see tides.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s gravity.”
“Yes!”
The more he looked at the patterns, the more it became clear to him—he was seeing tides. Tides in the actual phytosphere itself, with the tidal pattern affected by the underlying weather systems, so that the stress band wasn’t a precise thing, but more a ragged line stretching from north to south poles. No wonder he had been confused. Moon tides. And with this realization, the dominoes fell into place—why the flagella behaved one way when they were in orbit around the Earth, and why, when in the lab, with no cohesive center of gravity, they fell apart. Gravity, acting as an anchor, triggered the flagella to cling. Take that gravity away, and the trigger was gone.
“Do you want to have sex now?” said Stephanie. “You’ve kind of got this glow about you. I’m sure your wife would understand.”
“Stephanie, we just had something better than sex. We had a meeting of the minds.”
She looked doubtful. “If you say so.”
“And you might have saved Earth.”
Her voice became giddy. “Really?”
“Yes.”
He had a sudden vision of a solution so vast, so unexpected, yet so simple, so predicated on the basic laws of physics, that he wondered if Kafis, in the twin-brained complexity of his mind, would suspect such a blunt and obvious attempt.
But first he had to prove his theory.
And for that, he had to get Ira back on board.
Not for a second Smallmouth.
No, he had much bigger plans now.