Deep Storm

30

Howard Asher had two laboratories on the Deep Storm Facility: a cramped cubbyhole on deck 8 and a somewhat larger space on deck 4. They were very different. While the deck 8 lab had a lived-in, eclectic, inviting feel, the lab in the classified section was spare, businesslike, and clinical. He was in this lab-head in his hands, pondering a complex series of charts and equations that lay before him-when the door opened and Admiral Spartan stepped in.

For a moment, the two men stared at each other like sparring partners. Then Asher's tense, drawn face relaxed a little.

"Seat?" he said in a sad, quiet voice.

Spartan shook his head. "The Magnetic Descent Unit-the Doodlebug-is in poor shape. We plan to use the spare while Fabrication does an overhaul."

"So you plan to continue the dives?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't we?"

Asher looked at him in disbelief. "Admiral, three men just died."

"I'm aware of that. Have your engineers come to any conclusions?"

"About what caused the Doodlebug to malfunction? Nothing definite."

"What about ensuring it doesn't recur?"

For a moment, Asher stared appraisingly at the admiral. Then he sighed. "Doubling-or, better still, tripling-the strength of the electromagnetic field should guarantee the link remains stable on future dives."

Spartan nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Shut down all robotic or automatic processes that aren't absolutely necessary to the construction of the shaft. That goes for the remaining two Marbles as well as the Doodlebug: operate with a bare minimum of instrumentation. And critical instrumentation should use redundant packets, with checksums for validity."

"That's your recommendation?"

Asher frowned. "My recommendation is that we cease all operations until we have a thorough understanding of what caused this disaster and why."

"That's not an option, Dr. Asher. There's no telling how long it would take to arrive at such an understanding."

"But the deaths-"

"A tragic mishap. Grove, Adkinson, Horst-they knew the inherent danger of the work when they signed up. So did you, for that matter."

Asher tried again. "Admiral, listen-"

"No, Dr. Asher. You listen for a minute. Haven't people always been willing to die in the name of discovery and knowledge? Isn't that why we're all here? Look at Robert Falcon Scott, Amelia Earhart, the crew of the Challenger. We're all putting our lives on the line here to push the envelope, to better mankind."

Asher sighed, rubbed at his eyes with a weary hand. "There's the empirical evidence to consider."

"What evidence might that be?"

"Marble One just penetrated into the third, the lowest, level of the crust-the oceanic layer. Is it coincidence that this aberrant behavior occurred at the deepest depth we've achieved?"

"Pressure would not cause a malfunction like that."

"I'm not talking about pressure. I'm talking about getting closer to whatever's down there. The oceanic layer is the thi

When Spartan did not reply, Asher rose and began to pace the room restlessly. "Thanks to Dr. Crane, we've made a huge leap forward."

"Dr. Crane should stick to his assignment," Spartan said.

"He's provided us with the biggest break yet. Admiral, those sentinels aren't transmitting a signal on one wavelength anymore. They're transmitting different signals now, on thousands of wavelengths. Probably millions. In fact, it seems they're transmitting on every single band in the electromagnetic spectrum. Radio waves, microwaves, infrared, ultraviolet-you name it."

"And in so doing, they are disrupting our instruments and wireless networks," Spartan said. "If it's anything, it's probably a welcome of some sort."

"That's possible. But it could be something else."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. But what they have to say is so important they're exhausting all available bandwidths to broadcast it." Asher hesitated. "It's my strong opinion we should stop digging until we've translated the message. You've got more than your share of Naval Intelligence spooks aboard. If I could tap them, pool our efforts, we could decrypt this message faster."

"They have other tasks at present. And besides, you don't have proof there are any messages."

Asher threw up his hands in exasperation. "What do you think, then? They're broadcasting the top forty hits of Alpha Centauri?" And he began pacing again.

Spartan watched him for a moment. "Very well, Dr. Asher. Let's assume there are messages. As I said, chances are they're welcoming us. Or perhaps they are transmitting user manuals for whatever we're digging toward. Am I curious about that? Very. But am I going to drop everything, stop work, until you discover what they're trying to say? No. For one thing, you can't give me an estimate for cracking the code. Can you?"

"I…" Asher stopped, gave his head an angry shake.

"And for another, it doesn't matter what the message is. As you pointed out, we're into the oceanic layer now. We're only a week away from reaching the Moho, maybe less. Whatever is down there, we're going to extract its contents and study them-before anybody else can."

Asher opened his mouth to respond. But before he could speak, the floor trembled: first gently, then violently. Manuals and binders fell from the shelves, and there was a crash of breaking glass as a tray of lab equipment slid off the nearby worktable. Confused voices sounded from the hall, and an alarm sounded in the distance. Spartan leapt to his feet, ru

"This is Admiral Spartan," he said into the mouthpiece. "Determine the source of that. If there's any damage, I want instant reports."

He turned to look at Asher. The chief scientist had grasped the edge of the worktable for support. Now he stood quite still, head cocked as if listening. "Just aftershocks now," he murmured.

"What the hell was that, Dr. Asher?"

"The price we pay for working in an oceanic ridge. The upside is, the crust of the earth is shallow here-the Moho is less than five miles deep. The downside is, ocean ridges are prone to earthquakes."

"Earthquakes," Spartan repeated.

"Yes. Small in magnitude, generally-this is a divergent boundary, after all." He looked over his glasses at Spartan, half sadly, half quizzically. "You never read the white paper I sent you on plate tectonics and oceanography?"

But the admiral didn't answer. His gaze was focused at some indistinct spot beyond Asher's right shoulder. At last, he shook his head. "Perfect," he said. "Just perfect."