The Forge of God

  "Congratulations," Edward said.

  "Inez Espinoza, this is my friend Edward Shaw. He's into rocks, too. Edward, Inez."

  "Pleased to meet you," Inez said.

  "We met at the dance last night. Pity you weren't there."

  "I was depressed," Edward said. "I couldn't handle company."

  "There's a story going around about robot insects. Inez says she saw a bunch of them up behind Yosemite Village. What do you think they are?"

  "I saw some, too," Edward said. "Wait a minute. I'll get dressed and we'll fix breakfast."

  Over Coleman-stove toast and hard-boiled eggs, Edward told them what he had seen below the Mist Trail. Inez nodded and regarded him with her large brown eyes, obviously content to say little.

  "What do you think they are?"

  "Hell, if the bastards can make fake aliens, they can turn out robot spiders. They're surveying the Earth. Conducting a general assay before they blow it up."

  Inez spontaneously began to weep.

  "Hey, let's not talk about that shit," Minelli said. "She's sensitive. Her old man was killed on a Harley on the highway a couple of days ago. She was thrown clear." Inez sobbed and dabbed at her eyes, revealing a nasty scrape and bruise on her forearm. "She hitched a ride here. She's a sweetheart." Minelli hugged her and she hugged him back.

  A small, skeletally thin man with a high, square forehead walked past the rock where they breakfasted. He carried a baseball bat almost as big as himself and seemed bemused.

  "What's up, man?" Minelli asked.

  "Just heard it on the radio. The aliens nuked Seattle and Charleston and Shanghai last night. I was born in Charleston." He continued down the path, bat dangling from an unenthused wrist.

  Inez hiccuped spasmodically.

  "What're you going to do?" Minelli called after him.

  "Going to catch some of those fucking chrome bugs out in the woods and smash them," the man answered, not stopping. "I want to get my licks in."

  Minelli set down his tin cup of tea and slid down from the rock. Inez took his offered hand and did likewise with surprising grace. "I think it's time we hiked up to Glacier Point," Minelli said quietly. "Want to come?"

  Edward nodded, then shook his head. "Not yet. I'll be up there soon."

  "All right. Inez is coming with me. We'll tent out. Welcome to join us."

  "Thanks."

  The pair walked down the path under the pines to Curry Village.

  Edward climbed the stairs into his tent cabin and pulled a topographical map of the valley and regions south from his map folder. Lying on his stomach across the beds, he fingered the Four Mile Trail up to Union Point, and then on to Glacier Point, and compared other vantages.

  There were none better and so accessible. Glacier Point offered some facilities. But if things get rocking, won't it just split off and fall, and take us with it?

  Did it matter? What was an hour or so, one way or another?

  Edward entered his card number into the pay phone keypad and dialed Stella's home number in Shoshone. After three rings, Bernice Morgan answered, and told him Stella was at the store, taking inventory. "Life goes on," she said. "I can transfer you from here."

  After a few clicks and hums, the store phone rang and Stella answered.

  "This is Edward," he said. "I've been wondering what you're up to."

  "The usual," Stella answered. "Where are you now?"

  "Oh, I'm in Yosemite. Settled in. Waiting."

  "Is it what you thought it would be?"

  "Better, actually. It's beautiful. There aren't very many people."

  "What did I tell you?"

  "You've heard about Seattle and Charleston?"

  "Of course."

  Edward detected a hint of resolve in her voice. "Still planning on staying in Shoshone?"

  "I'm a homebody," Stella said. "We heard from my sister, though. She's coming home from Zimbabwe. We're picking her up in Las Vegas the day after tomorrow. You're welcome to join us . . ."

  He surveyed the riverbanks and trees and meadows beyond the clutch of pay phones. This feels right. This is where I belong. "I was hoping I could convince you to come here. With your mother."

  "I'm glad you asked, but..."

  "I know. You're home. So am I."

  "We're a stubborn pair, aren't we?"

  "Minelli is here. I don't know where Reslaw is. Minelli's found a girlfriend."

  "Good for him. How about you?"

  Edward chuckled. "I'm just too damned choosy," he said.

  "Don't be. You know ..." Stella stopped, and there was silence over the line for several seconds. "Well, maybe you know."

  "If we could have more time," Edward said.

  "Is the deal still on?" she asked.

  "Deal?"

  "If this all turns out to be a false alarm."

  "We still have a deal."

  "I'll be thinking about you," Stella said. "Don't forget."

  What would life with Stella be like? She was tough-minded, intelligent, and more than a touch willful; they might not get along, and then again they might.

  Both of them knew they would not have the time to find out. "I won't forget," he said.

  In the Curry Village general store, he stocked up on dried soups and various pouches of gourmet camp food. The supplies were running out. "Trucks haven't come in here for two days," the young woman clerk said. "We keep calling, they keep saying they're coming. But nobody's doing much now. Just sitting back and waiting. Damned morbid, if you ask me."

  He added a pair of dark sunglasses and paid for the supplies with the last of his cash. All he had now were credit cards and a few traveler's checks. No matter.

  He had hoisted the plastic bag and was about to leave when he saw the blond woman at the back of the store, picking through a bin of half-rotten apples. Taking a concealed deep breath, Edward replaced his bag on the counter, motioned with his finger to the clerk that he would be back, and walked to the rear.

  "Find your husband?" he asked. The woman glanced at him, smiled sadly, and shook her head.

  "No such bad luck," she said. She held up a particularly bruised apple and inspected it ruefully. "I'm a fruito-phile, and look what they offer."

  "I have some pretty good apples in my . . . Back at the cabin. I'll be leaving for Glacier Point soon. You're welcome to them. Too heavy to carry more than one or two on a hike."

  "That's very kind," she said. She dropped the apple into the bin and held out her hand. Slender, cool, strong fingers; he shook the hand with moderate firmness. "My name is Betsy," she said, "and my maiden name is Sothern."

  "I'm Edward Shaw." He decided to go for broke. "I'm not with anybody."

  "Oh?"

  "For the duration," he said.

  "How long is that?" she asked.

  "Somebody said less than a week. Nobody knows for sure."

  "Where's your cabin?"

  "Not far from here."

  "If you feed me a nice, crisp, juicy apple," she said, "I'm liable to follow you anywhere."

  Edward's smile was spontaneous and broad. "Thank you," he said. "This way."

  "Thank you," Betsy said.

  In the tent, he found her the best red apple and polished it with a clean dishcloth. She bit into it, wiped away a dribble of juice running down her chin, and watched him arrange the supplies in his backpack.

  "I hope you're not one of those ignorant people," she said abruptly. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but if you think everything's rosy, and God's going to save us, or something like that ..."

  Edward shook his head.

  "Good. I thought you looked smart. Sweet and smart. We don't have much time left, do we?"

  "No." He flipped the pack over and buckled it, glancing at her.

  "You know, if I had it all to do over again," she said, "I'd choose men like you."

  This pricked Edward a little. "That's what all the beautiful women say. There aren't any maidens in foxholes, or something to that effect."
br />   "Jesus." She smiled. "I like that. Do you . . . pardon me for asking ... do you have any devastating, immediately fatal communicable diseases?"

  "No," Edward said. "Hardly any."

  "Neither do I. Are you expecting anyone?"

  "No."

  "Neither am I. Pleased to make your acquaintance." She held out her hand, and Edward shook it delicately by the fingertips, then grinned and pulled her toward him.

  66

  The network came alive in Arthur's head at eight in the morning. He opened his eyes, wide awake but feeling as if he had been stunned, and rolled over to shake Francine's shoulder. "We have to be going," he said. He got out of bed and slipped into his pants. "Get Marty dressed."

  Francine moaned. "Yes, sir," she said. "What now?"

  "I'm not sure," he said. "We've been told to be a certain place in an hour. In San Francisco."

  Marty sat up on the cot, rubbing his eyes. "Come on, sport," Francine said. "Marching orders."

  "I'm sleepy," Marty said.

  Francine grabbed Arthur's arm and pulled him close to her, staring up into his face with a stern expression. "I'm only going to say this once. If you're crazy and this is all for nothing, I'll ..." She grabbed his nose, and not in play; the tweak she gave it was exquisitely painful. Eyes watering, Arthur took her hand in both of his and rubbed it. "Do you understand me?"

  He nodded. "We have to hurry." Despite his throbbing nose, he was almost ecstatic. Why hustle all of us somewhere this early in the morning? They have plans . . .

  His ecstasy faded when he met Grant, wrapped in a robe, in the hallway, with his daughter following close behind. "You came in awful late to be getting everybody up so early," Grant said. "We've had quite a night. I don't think I slept more than an hour . . . Danielle may not have slept at all."

  Danielle sat at the kitchen counter, drinking a cup of coffee, when they trooped through the swinging door. Her face was pale and she had been smoking; the brimming ashtray told a plain tale of a full night of cigarettes. "Such early birds," she said unenthusiastically.

  "We have to be going," Arthur said.

  Danielle raised an eyebrow. "We thought you'd stay awhile."

  "We thought so, too. But I spent last night thinking, and we should be . . . out of here as soon as possible. There's a lot to be done."

  Danielle leaned her head to one side in query as Francine and Marty came into the kitchen. Marty smiled shyly at Becky; Becky ignored him, glancing between her mother and father.

  "What in hell is going on with this family?" Danielle asked, her voice sharp. "Goddammit, Francine, where are you going?"

  "I don't know," Francine answered bluntly. "Arthur's in charge."

  "Are you all crazy?" Danielle asked.

  "Now, Danny," Grant said.

  "I've been up all night trying to figure this out. Why are you leaving now? Why?" She was on the edge of hysteria. "Something's going on. Something with the government. Is that why you're here? You're going to leave us all, let us die!"

  Arthur's heart sank. She might be close enough to the truth. All his excitement seemed to drain.

  "We're going into the city today," he said. "I have business there, and Marty and Francine have to come with me."

  "Can we come along?" Danielle asked. "All of us. We're family. I would feel a lot better if we all came along."

  Francine looked at him, eyes filled with tears. Marty's lower lip was quivering, and Becky stood beside her mother, one arm around her, confused into silence.

  "No," Grant said. Danielle jerked her head around.

  "What?"

  "No. We will not panic. Arthur has work to do. If it's work for the government, fine. But we will not panic in this house if I have anything to say about it."

  "They're going someplace" Danielle said softly.

  Grant agreed to that with a brief nod. "Maybe so. But we have no business horning in."

  "That's goddamned reasonable of you," Danielle said. "We're your goddamned family. What are you doing for us?”

  Grant searched Arthur's face, and Arthur sensed his confusion and fear and determination not to let things get out of control. "I'm keeping us in our house," he said, "and I'm keeping us civil, and dignified."

  "Dignity," Danielle said. She upended her cup of coffee on the floor and rushed out of the kitchen. Becky stood by the spill and sobbed silently, painfully.

  "Daddy," she said between tight spasms.

  "We're just arguing," Grant told her. He kneeled beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "We'll be okay."

  Arthur, feeling like an automaton, gathered their things from the bathroom and spare bedroom. Francine sought her sister in the master bedroom and tried to soothe her.

  Grant confronted Arthur in the driveway. Morning fog was thick over the hills, and the sun was a promise of yellow warmth behind the mist. A few mourning doves sang their sweet, nostalgic stupid song behind the hedges. "Are you still working for the government?" he asked.

  "No," Arthur said.

  "They're not taking you all into Cheyenne Mountain or something like that? Putting you aboard a space shuttle?"

  "No," Arthur said, feeling a twinge. What do you hope is going to happen ... ? Something not too far from what Grant is hypothesizing?

  "Are you coming back here this evening? Just going into town, and then . . . corning back?"

  Arthur shook his head. "I don't think so," he said.

  "You're going to drive, wander until ... it happens?"

  "I don't know," Arthur said.

  Grant grimaced and shook his head. "I've wondered how long we could keep it all together. We are all going to die, aren't we, and we can't do anything?"

  Arthur felt as if he were breathing shards of glass.

  "We face these things our own way," Grant said. "If you're in a car, driving, maybe everybody can keep together. Keep going on. If we all stay at home, maybe . . . too. Also."

  Please, you are powerful, you are Godlike, Arthur prayed to the Bosses at the top of the network, take us all, rescue us all. Please.

  But the information already passed on to him made that prayer a hollow thing. And he had no assurance his family was going to be saved; no assurance at all, only a strong, living hope. He reached out for Grant's hand and clasped it between his own.

  "I have always admired you," Arthur said. "You're not like me. But I want you to know that I've always admired you, and Danielle. You are good people. Wherever we are, whatever happens, you are in our thoughts. And I hope we will be in yours."

  "You will be," Grant said, jaw clenched. Danielle and Francine came through the front door, Marty in tow. Becky did not come out, but watched through the front bay window, a small radiantly blond ghost.

  Arthur sat behind the wheel again after making sure Marty was strapped securely into the station wagon's back seat. Grant held Danielle tightly with one arm and waved with the other.

  Nothing so different about this, Arthur thought. Simple family leave-taking. He backed the station wagon out of the driveway and maneuvered on the narrow street, glancing at his watch. One hour to get where they had to be.

  Francine's face was soaked with tears, but she made no sound, staring ahead, her arm hanging limply out the window.

  Marty waved, and they drove away.

  Winds from the ocean had driven the smoke of eastern fires inland, and once the mist had burned off, the air was fine and blue and clear. Arthur drove them across the heavy, gray-girdered San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, almost empty of traffic, taking the 480 off-ramp to the Embarcadero and turning south for China Basin Street and the Central Basin.

  "Do you know where we're going?" Francine asked.

  He nodded; in a way, he did know. He was following directions, but he had a picture of a fifty-foot fishing boat. Twenty passengers sat in the sun on the rear deck, waiting for them.

  He parked the car in the lot at Agua Vista Park. "We're walking from here," he said. "It isn't far." "What about the luggage?
" Francine asked. "My toys?" Marty chimed in.

  "Leave them here," Arthur said. He opened the tailgate and pulled out the box containing Francine's disks and papers. That was the only thing he would insist they bring. He let Marty hold it.

  The excitement was returning; he could feel sad later about those left behind. Right now, it seemed certain what he had most hoped for was happening. The network was not blocking his way, or telling him to go back; he was being urged on. Only a few minutes remained.

  "We're taking a boat?" Francine asked. He nodded. She lifted her purse, and Arthur shook his head: leave it. She slipped a plastic pack of family photos from her wallet and tossed the rest aside almost angrily, face contorted.

  "Aren't we going to lock the car?" Marty asked. Arthur hurried them away, leaving the tailgate open.

  You do not need possessions. Bring nothing but the clothes on your back. Empty your pockets of change, keys, everything. Bring only yourselves.

  He tossed his keys and change, wallet and comb, onto the asphalt.

  They walked through an open gate in a chain link fence onto a long, broad pier, lined on each side with the gently bobbing masts of fishing boats. "Hurry," he urged.

  Francine pushed Marty ahead of her.

  "All this for a boat ride," she said.

  At the end of the pier, the boat he had visualized awaited them. There were indeed about twenty people standing and sitting in the back. A young woman in faded jeans and a windbreaker guided them onto the ramp and they boarded quickly, taking their places in the back. Marty perched on a smelly pile of worn netting. Francine sat on a winch.

  "All right," the young woman shouted. "That's the last."

  Only now did Arthur dare to let his breath out. He glanced around at the people on the boat. Most were younger than he; four children were in the group besides Marty. There were no passengers past late middle age. As he looked into their faces, he saw that many had been involved in the network, and yet they were not being rewarded for their labors. Others on the network had been left behind; many not on the network, like Marty and Francine, were going along.