The Fatal Tree

  Away on the far side of the busy marketplace she glimpsed the green-and-white awning of the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus, and her breath caught in her throat. Ignoring the pain in her arm and side, she shrugged off Kit’s supporting hand. “Please, I have to do this myself.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Kit. “We got you this far, we’ll see you all the way to your door.”

  But Cass put a restraining hand on Kit’s arm and shook her head. “Let her go.”

  Kit released her, and Mina tottered to the kaffeehaus door. She paused a moment to compose herself, drew her fingers through her hair, then pushed open the door and stepped inside to the warm, steamy interior redolent of coffee and cinnamon, toasted almonds and hot milk. The morning crowd was in full cry, and her green-liveried serving minions were darting here and there with trays stacked with cups and pots and plates of pastries. There was a clutch of customers at the small counter fronting the kitchen. One of the girls saw her and stared, then called an uncertain greeting, but Wilhelmina paid no attention. Heart beating fast with anticipation, she pushed through the good-natured crowd, making her way to the kitchen. Once around the crush at the counter, she moved quickly to the oversized stove where she saw a familiar form bending before the open oven door. “Etzel, I’m home!” she called, hurrying to him. “I’ve missed you.”

  The figure started, then straightened and turned. “Why, hello, Miss Klug,” he said. “I am sorry, but Engelbert is not here.”

  Wilhelmina staggered back. “Burleigh!” she gasped, her eyes darting around the kitchen, looking for a weapon—or a way out. Seeing neither, she snapped her attention back to the figure looming before her. “Where is Etzel? What have you done to Etzel?”

  A snaky smile came to the dark man’s thin lips. “The question is, rather”—he closed the oven door, turned, and took a step nearer—“what has Etzel done to me?”

  CHAPTER 25

  In Which the Fat Hits the Fan

  What are the chances that the data has been corrupted?” asked Carl Bayer. He was the chief astrophysicist of the team assigned to what NASA was calling the Jansky Anomaly. He waved the sheet of paper on which was printed a copy of the graph the team at the JVLA site had produced.

  “Not sure, boss,” murmured one of his junior associates.

  “Speak up, Peters. What are you not sure about—exactly?”

  “Well, I mean, it is possible—there could be an error somewhere,” allowed Peters, lifting his eyes from the copy in his own hands. “But I’ve combed through the equations and they look good. You want a percentage? Zero to five percent, something like that.”

  “Right. So . . . ?”

  “Well,” hedged Peters, “what you have there is only a summary of the data so far collected. There’s more to come. Things could change, I suppose.”

  “Did you check their algorithms? Their calibration records?”

  Peters pulled a pained expression. “Of course, yes. Did I go through every last line of code in their programs? No. Could there be a bug in the data feed? Possibly. But I spot-checked various sequence records and cross-referenced them with the scan results from the other communicating facilities.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Like I say—it all checks out,” the younger man replied. “I think we have to accept that what they are telling us is true. We’re headed for some kind of apocalypse.”

  “If what they’re telling us is true,” Bayer countered, “apocalypse is not a big enough word.” The NASA chief drew a hand through his thinning hair, then wiped his face with his hand. “Okay, where is Chandra? Mitchell and Rodríguez—where are they?”

  “Down in the Rats’ Nest, last time I looked.”

  “Get ’em up here. Second-floor conference room—fifteen minutes.”

  “What about Dr. Clarke and Director Segler? You want me to bring them in?”

  Bayer met the question with a blank expression. “Why?”

  “Because it’s their show and all. They might have something to contribute.”

  “They’re not part of this,” the team leader decided. “We can fill them in later. And get Director Gilroy on the phone—have him patched in to the conference room. I want him to hear this.”

  “Fifteen minutes? Boss, that’s—”

  “What are you hanging around for? Go!”

  Peters scuttled from the room, and Bayer returned to his desk and leaned on it with both hands. He stared at the printed graph as if it were a recent photo of the Grim Reaper. The neat grid in its rectangular box and tidy rows of numbers and rising red line foretold a disaster that defied comprehension. Here was a harbinger of an event unprecedented in all of human history—what was he to think about that? More importantly, what was he supposed to do?

  He had no answer to that. Someone with more senior authority and a higher pay grade would have to face that question. His assignment was to pass along his best judgement; he would draw on his abilities and experience and assess all the available information. Like all good gears in a giant machine, he would do his part and let someone down the line worry about the rest.

  The conference room on the second floor was empty. He snapped on the lights and closed the door, made his way to the head of the table, and sat down in one of the big uncomfortable leather chairs. In a few minutes, what the six people gathered around this table decided would set the tone for whatever would follow. It was crucial to get it right. Bayer sat down and closed his eyes, composed himself, and waited.

  Dr. Chandra, the first of his team to join him, was a dynamo who, despite her grey-streaked hair, bristled with the energy of someone thirty years younger. “You’ve seen the Doom Chart?” she said as she moved into the room.

  Bayer opened his eyes and raised his head. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

  “What do you think about it?”

  “I think we should wait for the others before getting into that.”

  The remaining members of his team were not long in coming. Rodríguez was next, together with Mitchell; both were in their thirties with young families, and both wore the foolish expressions of men who were doing their best to mask fear with bravado. “S’up, chief? You miss us?”

  “Take a seat, guys. I’ve got a call in to the director and I’m having it patched in. I’m going to fill him in on what’s going on, and I want everyone to hear what is said—it’ll save repeating everything later.”

  They ambled to seats opposite Chandra, who said, “Any chance of some coffee?”

  Before Bayer could respond, there was a knock on the door and Peters arrived, leading a shaggy young man with a black plastic UFO-shaped object attached to a telephone cord. “Oh, you’re already here. I brought the conference phone.” The young IT technician waved the machine in his hand. “You want I should plug it in?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said the director. “Has the call been made?”

  “As we speak,” replied the techie. He leaned over the table and poked the cord into a socket hidden by a little flap in the centre of the table. “I’ll have it put through as soon as the line goes live.”

  “Thank you,” Bayer told him.

  The techie switched on the phone and saw the blue LED light up. “You’re good to go. Anything else?”

  “That will be all,” replied the director, waving him away. “And please shut the door on your way out.” To Peters, he said, “Take a seat, Rob.”

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Bayer pushed the sheet of paper out onto the table before him as if it were the source of a virulent contagion. “Okay, we’ve seen the data. What do we make of it?”

  The team looked at one another for a moment, and finally Mitchell spoke up. “Obviously,” he ventured, “we have to run some more scans. Isolate the region of greatest activity and do some rapid mini-scans, and see what’s trending.”

  “We’ve got the numbers on almost a dozen scans already,” Rodríguez pointed out. “How many more do you need before you can see what is staring you right in
the face?”

  “Look,” Mitchell retorted, “we don’t know for sure about any of those scans. We weren’t here when they were conducted. All I’m saying is they gave us a head start, showed us where to look; now we can zero in and see what’s really happening out there.”

  “And you think that is going to change anything?” challenged Rodríguez. “You think that’s going to make a difference? If it is, why stop at twelve scans? Let’s do twenty—or thirty. Better still, let’s do fifty just to be sure.”

  “What is wrong with you, man? I only said—”

  “Boys! Boys!” scolded Chandra. “Play nice.” She turned to Bayer and said, “It is clear that we have had some upsetting news—”

  “I’ll say,” agreed Rodríguez. “The fat has hit the fan big-time.”

  “And we are struggling here to take it in. But rather than spend our precious time sniping at one another, I suggest we discuss the implications of what the data is showing us.”

  “If it turns out to be right, you mean,” said Mitchell.

  “It is right!” muttered Rodríguez. “Can’t you get that through your thick head?”

  “Yes, of course,” continued Dr. Chandra, overlooking the squabble, “proceeding on the assumption that the data sets are correct.”

  “That’s exactly what I had in mind, Adira. Thank you,” said Bayer. “We can generate more numbers, of course. In the meantime, I think we should begin running some scenarios and formulating an interim response.”

  Glum silence descended over the little group.

  “Don’t everyone speak at once,” said Bayer. “Thoughts?”

  His question was answered by a knock on the door—followed directly by JVLA Director Segler, who did not wait to be invited in. “Hello, everyone. Excuse me, but Duncan said you were having a conference. Not to crash your party, but perhaps we might be of assistance?”

  “We?” Bayer frowned. “Who else is with you?”

  “Only Dr. Clarke,” replied Segler; he pushed open the door and stepped into the room. Tony hovered at his shoulder. “But I can get anyone else we need.”

  “This is a closed meeting,” Rodríguez informed them. “We’re on a call.”

  Segler returned the gaze of the NASA astrophysicist but made no move to leave.

  Bayer sighed. “Please come in, gentlemen. Take a seat. Actually, we haven’t started yet. We’re expecting the call any minute.” As the two newcomers took seats at the long table, he said, “I know I don’t need to tell you that what is discussed here is to remain strictly confidential and not to be voiced outside this room.”

  “Understood, Dr. Bayer,” replied Segler. “It is not our intention to make matters more difficult. We merely wish to offer our services in whatever capacity you may find useful.”

  Bayer nodded curtly. “We’ll see.”

  Tony Clarke pulled up his chair. “We are every bit as mindful as you are of the sensitive nature of the problem and just as committed to confidentiality.”

  “Thank you for that assurance, Dr. Clarke,” intoned Bayer. “Now then, unless there are to be any further disruptions, perhaps we might turn to the matter at hand.”

  “I assume you have the updated Doom Sheet,” said Segler.

  “This one is from . . . let’s see . . .” Bayer pulled the page toward him and read the time stamp. “From 04:00. Is there a newer one?”

  “There is,” said Clarke. “A little after 05:15 CalTech sent over the data sheets from the Australian scan.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “It conforms to the previous prediction model 26RD measuring blueshift momentum.”

  “No deviation?”

  “Very little,” replied Tony. “They’re still collating it downstairs, but my initial impression was that the latest scan corroborates everything we’ve seen so far. Also, I thought it might be a good idea to check the ICRS baseline against the Cepheid variables for the anchor LG galaxies—”

  “For an early-warning system?” asked Mitchell.

  Tony demurred. “Just to see if there is any anomalous movement in our part of the neighbourhood. It may be too early to detect anything, but we have to start somewhere.”

  “We’ll need to see that data,” said Rodríguez, stretching a hand across the table. “Pronto.”

  Chandra gave her colleague a glance of motherly disapproval and added, “Please, Dr. Clarke, it would be most helpful.”

  “Don’t worry—I’ll make sure everyone gets copied in as soon as the report is ready.”

  “We can go over the fine points later,” Bayer said, “but for now we’ll take it as read that what we are seeing is a disruption in the expansion of the cosmic horizon—if that is not putting it too strong.”

  “Too strong?” remarked Rodríguez. “How about this? In plain, simple words—the cosmic horizon is shrinking. The universe is collapsing. It’s the Big Crunch.” He gazed belligerently around the table. “Am I right?”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” muttered Mitchell. “But what are you going to do about it? That’s what I’d like to know. What can anybody do about it?”

  “First things first,” Segler told him. “What I’m asking for now is a way to define the situation in nontechnical terms for those whose duty it will be to formulate a defence.”

  “Given the timeline—and we’re talking weeks here—I don’t see that we have time to engineer much of a defence—”

  “That’s assuming we could even find a credible defence in the first place,” offered Peters. “As it is, the fear is so thick down in the Nest you could cut it with a chain saw. What is going to happen when this goes public? What do you think will happen when Fox News starts running it on their scrolling banner?” His face screwed up and his shoulders began to shake. It took a moment for those around the table to realise he was laughing. “I can see it now! Breaking News: World Ends in Six Days!” He giggled, his voice leaping into a higher register. “A real showstopper! I mean, ad revenues on that are going to make the Super Bowl look like Fishing Channel reruns.”

  “Calm down, son,” said Bayer sternly. “No one is suggesting anything like that.”

  “He’s right, though,” suggested Mitchell. “Once this gets out . . . can you imagine the chaos?”

  “I don’t agree,” said Chandra. “Look at how the general public responded to the threat of global warming a few years ago. Some grew concerned enough to engage the threat—panic, if you will—but most went about their lives as normal. For most people it was just business as usual.”

  Mitchell waved her argument aside with a swat of his hand. “This isn’t like that at all. This is different. When everyone sees the stars begin to blink out and planets collide, they’re going to know something’s up. Riots, looting, murder—all hell will break loose. Whole cities will be put to the torch.”

  “That won’t happen,” Tony said. “For what it’s worth, by the time people see stars blinking out, there simply won’t be time to panic. It’ll be over in a matter of seconds.” He clicked his fingers. “No one will have time to so much as tie their shoes, much less torch anything.”

  “That’s comforting,” Rodríguez grumbled.

  “People, people,” Bayer pleaded. “The goal is to gather verifiable data to help define the situation, not contain it. We can leave it to other authorities to worry about the fallout. Director Gilroy is going to call in a minute, and we’ve got to have something useful to tell him. What’s it going to be?”

  Again, a desultory silence descended upon the group. The seconds dragged by slowly. They looked at one another and at the silent conference telephone as if a black hole had suddenly appeared in the middle of the table.

  “I’m afraid, Carl,” said Director Segler, speaking up at last, “that it amounts to the same thing in the end. I mean, defining the crisis is all well and good, and I agree it is necessary, but communicating that to the outside world inevitably carries the risk that someone somewhere is going to run riot with it. Unless we can visual
ise a potential solution to the problem, it will serve no purpose to alarm people.”

  “So, because the doctor can’t think of a remedy, it is best not to warn the patient that he has a deadly disease. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “If only it were that simple,” countered Segler. “I’d say it was more on the order of a man picnicking at ground zero on an atomic test site and the bomb has already left the plane. There is no way to stop the bomb in midair, and it cannot be called back. What is the best course of action? You can inform the happy picnicker that he has only seconds to live and thereby plunge him into panic, terror, and despair. Or you can allow him to enjoy his few remaining moments in peace and comfort.”

  Mitchell glared at Segler. “I cannot believe you just said that.” He appealed to the others present. “Does anyone else feel that way?” When no one spoke up, he said, “So am I the only one who thinks that is totally nuts?”

  “Director Segler has a point,” observed Chandra. “If rioting, burning, murder, and chaos in the streets are a logical probability of dispensing this news, then prudence would suggest mitigating the pain and damage.”

  “Wow,” said Mitchell, shaking his head in dismay. “What are you people—robots?”

  “I’m speaking as a realist,” Segler granted. “There may be other considerations that would argue against such a course. But that, as Dr. Bayer has pointed out, is not our call.”

  “Whose is it, then?” sniped Mitchell. “People have a right to know that they’re about to meet their Maker—how about that for a consideration?”

  “Okay!” growled Bayer. “Let’s dial it down a notch or two. Deep breath, everybody. Mitchell, remember who you’re talking to and try to act like an adult for a change.”

  “It’s all right,” said Segler. “We’re all a little ragged. None of this is easy.”

  “That’s why they pay us the big bucks,” remarked Rodríguez.

  “I wish,” put in Peters.

  Gradually, the tense atmosphere in the room eased and the discussion resumed. At the end of ninety minutes, however, the phone still had not rung and the group had decided on a very tepid description of their findings and projections so far. In frustration, Chief Bayer adjourned the meeting, saying, “We’re spinning our wheels here, so we’ll wrap this up for now. We’ll wait for Dr. Clarke’s report and hope that it suggests a way forward.” He glanced down at the end of the table. “Tony, send it to me first thing and I’ll distribute it.”