The Martian Pendant Page 6

  After the car was waved through the gate by the smiling guard, he pulled up next to her office. They kissed as if it would be their last, as neither could be sure of what the future would bring. But both knew then that life would never be the same.

  SIX

  Joining the Cover

  Throughout that winter, the organizing of the expedition continued. Professor Werner selected people from the Anthropology Department to participate, a mix of enough young and eager students to do the hard work, although he chose some of the females for other attributes. Above all, he wanted Diana to come with him, but she was in California. So involved was she in unraveling the data turned up by GeoSat, she had initially turned him down.

  She realized that Max’s group was serving as a cover for the real purpose of the expedition. In her position at Buell, she could keep up with the anthropological exploration at the dig, while trying to solve the mystery of the colossal tangle of signals she had identified. Something told her the two elements might interconnect. Carefully going over her data and overlaying aerial photo transparencies on her charts, she stumbled upon further hints as to what it all meant. There, in this valley, some distance from the volcano, she noted a rare phenomenon. Cattle were grazing, forming a semicircle. Nothing strange about that in itself, she thought, as she adjusted the transparency to line up perfectly.

  “But look,” she said aloud, “all their heads are pointed toward the center of the mass of satellite signals!”

  She knew that would happen in high winds, when cows invariably sought a form of shelter by turning away from the blast. On windless days, a similar herd orientation was known to occur also, but then they most often faced magnetic north. Why, she wondered, would there be such a strong attraction to the center of her own interest? Was it magnetic? At the next organizational meeting, she brought up that question.

  “As you know, I’ve had experience with witching, or dowsing, for water. This is accomplished by detecting electromagnetic radiation through breaks in the underlying rock. Water can be found by measuring the magnetic field over those hidden faults, using magnetometers, or merely by sensing such radiation. The problem with such techniques has always been that you must, in fact, stumble, as it were, directly over the signal. You can’t stand away from the source and detect it from a distance.”

  At that point she was interrupted by a board member. “You’re not saying that cows are more adept at water witching than people, are you?”

  Acknowledging his question with a smile, she answered, “Maybe they are more sensitive to such a field. Magnetic north is usually at a much greater distance, and its emanations are thus on a virtually horizontal plane. Natural radiation through rifts in the earth’s crust are essentially vertical, explaining why a dowser has to be right on top of the defect to detect anything. This all means that what the cattle are pointing to must be almost on a horizontal plane as well.” Looking around at her audience, she enquired if anyone could answer what it all meant. When no one responded, she answered the question herself.

  “Therefore, the source of this magnetic attraction has to be near the elevation of the cattle on the plain, and thus fairly close to the surface.”

  “This can only mean one thing,” one man said. “Most of this mass of African signals, not seen anywhere else beneath GeoSat’s orbiting over that continent, may not be due to natural phenomena.”

  Another joined in with, “But if not natural, then what? Our researchers have been busy for months, digging into every known source since the invention of the newspaper, and have not found one reference of anything capable of creating a disturbance such as we’ve found in Africa.”

  Diana exclaimed, “Exactly! The occurrence is not natural, and nothing of this sort has taken place in Africa in modern times, not for around a million years.”

  “Oh, come now, Miss Howard, we’ve all read your Martian story,” the board chairman retorted skeptically. “Are you saying that this is evidence backing your rather fanciful story about the origin of mankind?”

  Standing up, she unrolled a map of the Northern Hemisphere, on which she placed two overlays. “Look,” she replied, “see these dense signals? They’re GeoSat readings from the desert near Winslow, Arizona, and the taiga of Northern Siberia, the sites of known large meteorite impacts. Those were natural phenomena, but they have one feature in common with the focus in Tanganyika.” Holding up another transparency, she continued, “Now note their similarities to this display from our satellite mapping.”

  “Are we to believe,” another asked incredulously, “that the source of the East African radiation is due to an impact from space, and doesn’t signify the likelihood of petroleum being found there?”

  She answered, “Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your own conclusions regarding that. A million years is a long half-life for man-made nuclear isotopes. But what if it is due to a nuclear reaction that started then, and is continuing? Oil or not, don’t you think it wise for your companies to investigate the possibility that an energy source lasting a million years is the source of those signals? And then there is its great magnetic presence. How does one explain that, aside from a large ferromagnetic object being there?”

  At the conclusion of her presentation, she was excused after a few more questions, leaving the board members to consider her conclusion. Why, it was asked, if the possibility of finding significant oil is not great, should the Cartel go ahead with the expedition?

  These men were all capitalists, and the lure of profiting from nuclear energy finally prevailed. It was pointed out that whatever the source of the radiation, the secrets to be derived from what could be an ancient atomic pile might indeed far outstrip the value of even a rich oil strike. And what if the source is a huge uranium deposit?

  Even then, when it was put to a vote, the exploration in the Great Rift Valley carried by only a small majority, seven to five. Three disgruntled members steadfastly saw anything nuclear as a threat to the Cartel, and thus something that would have to be combated. Prior to adjournment, all three dissidents walked out in protest.

  No one at that time really knew the full significance of the massive and anomalous signals. That the pattern was similar, as Diana pointed out, to sites of ancient meteorite impacts was clear. Her idea that an ongoing nuclear reaction might be occurring was all too simplistic. After all, as one oilman pointed out, she was neither a nuclear scientist nor a geophysicist, whatever her brilliance in other areas. Besides, the detected nuclear activity was altogether too feeble to be attributed to an ongoing atomic reaction. And what of the magnetic radiation, which was at least as strong? That could be explained by the presence in this part of the Great Rift Valley of those three opposing tectonic plates, the Arabian and the two African.

  One board member, trained in seismology, pointed out the presence throughout the world of the frequent association of great oil discoveries with such disruptions in the Earth’s crust.

  “We’re sitting on one such location right here in Los Angeles. Look at those oil rigs to the southwest.” At that instant, a slight earthquake rocked the building, as if to confirm what he had just said. It was obvious that the source of the satellite signals would not be clear until actual digging brought up the reason. But what kind of substance could have both magnetic and nuclear properties? It was something entirely beyond the practical experience of earthbound scientists. There had been complicated calculations regarding the energy released by the decay of an isotope of iron, Fe60, in helping maintain the heat of the plastic mantle layer of the earth’s crust, but that was highly theoretical. Nowhere on earth had it actually been found, leading nuclear geophysicists to postulate its extinction on our planet by atomic decay. True, there were other isotopes of iron that had come out of nuclear experimentation, but none with a long half-life, or with a net energy release of any practical value.

  Using subtraction techniques with her computer, Diana was finally able to discern that the main source of the East African signal was pr
ojected not only close to the surface, but that it had a certain cylindrical shape. A short distance away, perhaps half a mile, she also detected a smaller hot spot almost the size of a similar focus at one end of the main signal. With the help of the Physics Department at Buell, her analysis further showed that the energy detected was a mixture of magnetic and nuclear radiation. Were these foci of volcanic origin, perhaps connected through a lava tube to the molten core of the nearby volcano? Or were they something not of this world? Volcanic vents usually don’t assume that orientation, she told herself, although lava tubes often do.

  For her, it was logical to connect what she then observed to her theory about a Martian landing. She lay awake that night, holding her pendant and pondering the question for hours. That buried object had to be their spaceship! But was she forcing the facts to fit her theory? By the time she finally drifted off at 3 a.m., she had become convinced that she was not. When she awakened the next day, she vowed that she would go to Africa with the expedition, one way or another. Aware of the participation of the Anthropology Department at the University of Chicago in the expedition, she decided to call Max Werner. He had, after all, tried to enlist her previously. When the telephone rang, it was his secretary who answered. “Hello,” she said cheerily, Palaeoanthropology, Myra speaking.”

  Diana sounded surprised at the introduction. “Isn’t this actually Professor Werner’s office?”

  “Well, yes,” came the reply, in a somewhat more formal tone, “Who may I say is calling, please?”

  “Diana Howard. I was a doctoral candidate in the Department a couple of years ago. May I please speak to the professor?”

  There was a pause, followed by a slightly hostile reply, “I’m sorry, but he’s busy, and isn’t taking calls from anyone not directly involved in the Department.”

  In a firm voice, Diana said through clenched teeth, “If you don’t tell him that I’m on the phone, calling from California, he’s liable to kill you when he finds out, and if he doesn’t, I will. Now ring his office, and get him on the line.”

  When Max picked up the phone, his voice was almost breathless. “Diana, sweetheart! It’s good to hear from you. I’d almost given up hope after you begged off before. Damn, but it’s great to hear from you. What’s the reason for this honor?”

  Diana said, “I see you’re the same old smoothie you were when I left, Max. I’m calling about your including me in on the dig planned for next month in Africa. I’ve been working on that area with the Cray computer out here.”

  Professor Werner had never been generous with others, underlings especially, but it was obvious to him that Diana had come up in the world and could be a valuable asset to the archeological part of the dig, and also in furnishing information about the real purpose of the venture. Besides, he had always lusted after her.

  Without hesitation, he replied, “Sure thing, doll, there is just enough room for you. I’ll put in a request with the oil people to cover the extra expense so they’ll pay your salary as usual. Consider yourself onboard as my first assistant.”

  Diana didn’t sleep well that night, elated by the prospect of the dig, on the one hand, and her concerns about leaving California--and Danny, on the other hand. Without him, it would be tough.

  At that point, she had no idea of the forces that were being brought into play to follow her progress, and to steal whatever might be discovered. Intuitive as she was, there was only a vague, free-floating anxiety clouding her insights. She couldn't envision any problems, other than the usual academic conflicts over priority about discoveries, and the skepticism from non-participating scientific peers regarding the significance of any findings.

  SEVEN

  Adversaries

  Moscow

  Nearly halfway around the world, Dragunov was aroused from a fitful sleep late that night by a phone call and summoned to the KGB headquarters in the Kremlin. Dressing hastily, he wondered why. Such an hour! Not a little fearful, he trembled as he fumbled for the buttons on cuffs of his shirtsleeves. After all, this hour, long after the routine work of the day was done, often was reserved for disciplining or even condemning those who were called. Well, he thought, the KGB was not the ruthless secret police of the Stalin era NKVD. Still, he was extremely worried, as his own reputation was similar to other Stalinists, many who had already been purged in the “de-Stalinization” of the mid-fifties.

  As he was ushered into the KGB office, his fear was heightened by a possible confrontation with the ruthless Chief of the Secret Police himself. My God, he said to himself reflexively, immediately correcting himself, since he did not believe in God. Finding no politically correct expletive that would fit his emotion, he reverted, almost under his breath to an even more forceful, “God damn it!” What could the reason for this summons be?

  “Agent Dragunov?” The question seemed to come out of the darkness he perceived in the next room. In his concern, he sensed a sepulchral tone to it, mixed with the unctuous oiliness for which that wily official was known. Upon entering the room, he was surprised to find it actually well-lighted. His teeth still clenched in dread, he remarked to himself, in the habitual objectivity of a man of his stripe, how the senses can be duped by fear!

  The man at the desk looked up only momentarily. It was as if Dragunov's dossier and his passport photo were enough. He reminded himself that, after all his accomplishments, he was still only a number to the head of the dreaded KGB.

  “Dragunov, you may have heard rumors that I am being groomed for better things in the Party, in anticipation of Comrade Khrushchev’s promotion to Party Secretary, and that I will be handing my authority over to someone junior to me. You are among my foremost choices at this point, but I haven’t yet determined my successor.”

  Utterly relieved, the agent let out an audible sigh of relief, bringing a quick gesture of silence from the now-glowering Chief. Then the agent felt the full force of hostility from those ice-gray eyes.

  “But perhaps I was mistaken. You were represented to me as a particularly cool operative, but tonight I see only a frightened rabbit.”

  Regarding the now-impassive agent, his glare softened a little. “I’m pleased that you seem to appreciate the power that I wield, which tells me that you may yet live up to our expectations. I’ll get right to the point now. As a final test of your efficiency and potential for leadership, I’m assigning you to an extremely important and complex mission. It has to do with an American expedition to Tanganyika, in East Africa. Perhaps you have heard of it. Rumor has it that something monumental has been pinpointed by their geological satellite in the volcanic area in the northern part of the Eastern Rift Valley, to be exact. It’s up to you to discover their secrets and bring them back to the Soviet Union, understand?”

  The message was clear to him. It was all or nothing with the KGB, just as it had been with the NKVD. Darwin had written about that in the last century. Survival of the fittest. He nodded to his interviewer. “Yes, Comrade Chief, I understand completely.”

  “Good,” came the reply. “You know what is expected. As the old Russian saying goes, it’s sink or swim.” With that, he was dismissed.

  He could hardly wait to get outside. The atmosphere had been oppressive, both from the implied threat, and from the lack of air that was free of thick tobacco smoke. Well, he thought, at least outside the air is fresh. But his responsibility and that not-so-subtle threat weighed down on him. This was totally out of character, precluding sleep the rest of the night. That he had been followed home, he had no doubt.

  Rome

  It was that same night that Celestre had coincidentally been summoned to the private quarters of the Pope. He had met His Holiness only once before, in a group of tourists that he had been assigned to watch, and he had actually kissed the Pontiff’s ring. Ugh, he thought, it smacked of the sanitation of the River Tiber below the outfall of the city’s sewer. But now, it was the Pope himself, the whole personage, not merely the extended ring hand. He hoped he wouldn’t be exp
ected to kiss it again. As he entered the office, he was surprised at the Spartan furnishings. Apparently this was just for show, as His Holiness was known for his love of fine fabrics and art objects.

  Seated at his desk, as he looked up enough to fix the priest in his gaze, the Pope seemed compact and kindly. When he surprisingly stood up, offering neither hand nor ring, he seemed to unfold into a tall, very spare wraith of a man. Celestre was amazed at his height and posture. Ramrod-straight, or would a more fitting simile be the shaft of a shepherd’s crook?

  Towering over the misshapen Jesuit, the Pontiff couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds on his six-foot frame. He was getting on in years, and known to be in failing health, but he seemed still to radiate an aura suggested by his adopted name, Pius the Twelfth.

  In a clear but slightly quavering voice, and with a benevolent smile befitting his high office, he greeted his visitor, waving him to the nearby chair. Again sitting, he spent a minute looking over some papers in a file. When he looked up, he seemed a changed man. His face had lost its angelic softness as he regarded his underling closely, brown eyes now beady. His lips where drawn back into two thin rims, revealing long canines.

  Finally he almost hissed, “Have you been told why we called you here?”

  The royal “We,” Celestre thought. He had also wondered why, and replied uncertainly, “Well, no, Your Holiness, except that I must assume it is a task of importance.”

  Folding himself back into his chair, the Pope regarded the grotesque picture in front of him. “Yes, of course it is important. Important to all of us in the Holy Church, and quite possibly for all of mankind.” He then went on to describe the American expedition, disguised as an archaeological dig, in almost identical terms to those used in the Kremlin. He had obviously been briefed well by Security.