The Lure (22 page)

The President appeared wearing a navy-blue windcheater and casual trousers to match. White hair protruded under a baseball cap with a badge showing the Presidential yacht. The word
Titanic
was emblazoned beneath the vessel. The men went down the steps and strolled past the pond and the little artificial stream on the west side of the lodge.

‘Logie, I need answers in a hurry.’ They were in step together, a slow, rhythmic pace. There was nobody else in sight. ‘What is the theological position on life out there?’

‘Read up on it as soon as I got your call, Seth. But I already knew that the Scriptures give clear guidance on the issue, as they do in so much else in life. But I also looked into the writings of the great thinkers of the past, to see how they handled the question.’

‘So what does the Bible say?’

‘The Bible is silent on the question of extraterrestrials. I believe the silence is significant. God created Man in His own image. The Bible says nothing about creatures beyond the Earth because there’s nothing
to
say about them. They don’t exist.’

‘Well, that’s simple enough.’ Bull’s tone was sceptical. ‘Is that it?’

‘The heavy hitters in this area were the medieval thinkers. Nobody has surpassed them for depth of thought, even in modern times.’

‘I guess if you’re a monk with nothing else to do all day but think … Sometimes I wish I was a monk.’

‘They were against the idea of life out there on grounds that are still valid today. They were thinking about it before we even knew the Earth is a planet.’

‘Incredible,’ said the President.

‘Incredible. Saint Augustine opposed the alien concept in his
City of God,
likewise Thomas Aquinas in his
Summa Theologica.
They said that mankind, here on Earth, is the focus of God’s love. Creatures on other worlds wouldn’t have the Creator’s love and there would have been no point in creating them.’

Bull’s mouth twisted in annoyance. ‘Logie, I can’t take executive action on the basis of stuff like that. Are medieval monks all you’ve got?’

‘I have all I need, namely the Word of God. If there are people on other worlds, have they sinned as Adam sinned? Would the Saviour have to go from planet to planet, dying again and again? Do we expect this of a God of Love?’ The evangelist waved an arm. ‘Only a God of Love could create beauty like this.’

‘He had a little help from Roosevelt.’

The evangelist seemed not to have heard. ‘Are we to believe that Jesus is some sort of travelling redeemer? There just can’t be men out there in need of salvation. This has been pointed out over the centuries from William Vorilong in the Middle Ages through Melanchthon in the Renaissance to Thomas Paine in the Age of Reason.’

‘Maybe aliens don’t need salvation.’

‘Mr President, all men need salvation, and it can only be attained through Divine Incarnation. That’s core Christian doctrine.’

The valley mist had reached them and snowflakes were beginning to drift lightly down. They were into the trees: maple, birch, hazel and dogwood surrounded them.

Harris went on relentlessly. ‘Look, Seth, if there were men on other worlds, then men here on Earth wouldn’t be of unique importance to the Creator. You just have to open a Bible to see the absurdity of that belief. The Bible tells us that man was made in the image of God. We’re special to Him, like children to a father. God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son…’

‘Turn left here. It’ll take us back while our ears are still attached to our heads.’ The President was frowning. ‘Logie, how far do we go back?’

‘’Nam.’

‘Right. And as Christians go, would you call me a lousy one?’

Harris grinned. ‘You want a sin list? I’ve picked you up legless from the sidewalk a few times. There was the drink driving charge which the media have miraculously overlooked. There was that business with the Saigon hostess…’

‘Before Beth, bless her memory.’

‘… but as old sinners go, you’re no worse than me.’

‘Well, old habits die hard. I still pray at night, and I try to grab a few verses of the Book in the morning.’

‘What are you on now?’

‘Psalm 72.
Give the king Thy judgements, O God, and Thy righteousness unto the king’s son.’

‘You have more power than any king ever had.’

‘Sure. The people gave and the people can take away. I have a duty to do my best for them. But I also have a duty to God. So far, the two have coincided. My dilemma is that in the present situation I can’t find a path that embraces the two without compromising either.’

‘Render unto Caesar…’

The President interrupted impatiently. ‘Logie, I’m being given hard evidence that advanced beings are out there and have signalled us.’

Harris stopped. He stared disbelievingly at the President. ‘You’ve been given wrong information, Seth. Intelligent life beyond the Earth is just plain unBiblical.’

Bull shook his head in irritation. ‘I’m getting no concrete help from you. Frankly I’m becoming frustrated by your evangelical fantasies. You’re telling me there’s a flat contradiction between my Christian faith and the evidence my people are bringing in to me.’

‘I am.’ Harris’s face was set in an expression of righteous determination familiar to millions of television viewers.

‘But for once in your life, suppose you’re wrong. This is what I want to know from you: what would these aliens be like? Would they share our moral code? Would they be well disposed towards us? I need answers to that like a man in the desert needs water and I don’t need any fucking medieval monks.’

They were back at Aspen. They climbed steps. Harris turned to the President, his face grim. ‘You’re looking for something concrete, Seth? I’ll give you something concrete.’

‘I’m listening, for Christ’s sake.’

‘If these creatures exist – if you have hard evidence, which I gravely doubt…’

‘Well?’

‘There’s only one remaining possibility.’

The President waited.

‘Think about it. We’re God’s beloved. Here on Earth, not scattered around the stars. Therefore any message reaching us couldn’t come from creatures born of God. What’s left? Angels, yes. But angels born of Satan before the Fall.’ Harris paused. ‘The message would have to come from the spawn of the Devil.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Say you truly received a signal from space, Mr President, a phone call from some advanced intelligence. On no account answer the phone. Keep quiet. Keep very, very quiet.’

27

Siege

A scrawny hand, all skinny grey talons and sharp nails, was stretching over the castle, and black clouds were rolling down the hills on the horizon like an advancing army. But even at half a mile, in the dull light, there was no mistaking Shtyrkov’s oblate form. He was moving at a fast waddle, as if trying to escape from the approaching claw.

Svetlana, looking out over the parapet, watched his approach curiously, but with a touch of alarm. He cut across the grass, puffing and wheezy, his eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him, and toddled briskly under her before disappearing from sight round the corner. She went into the building and stood at the top of the marble stairs. In a moment he appeared at the foot, breathless. He looked up at the stairs helplessly. Anxiety showed in his eyes.

‘Stay down there,’ Svetlana called to him. ‘I’ll get the others.’

A few minutes later she had herded the scientists into the computer room. Gibson entered carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. Petrie was unshaven and his eyes were red-rimmed. He was carrying a bundle of papers as if reluctant to let go of them.

‘Where’s Hanning?’ Gibson wanted to know.

‘I can’t find him,’ Svetlana complained.

Gibson poured coffees. He looked at Shtyrkov, who had collapsed into one of the blue armchairs. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I go for a walk, to think. I meet soldiers in the woods. They turn me back. Ladies and gentlemen, they will not allow us to leave the castle. They intend us to die here.’

Gibson said, quietly, ‘That’s a bit dramatic, Vashislav.’

‘But I tell you, they turn me back!’

‘Maybe there’s some military exercise going on in the woods,’ Petrie suggested.

‘Not an exercise.’ Shtyrkov shook his head vigorously. ‘An operation. To keep us here. We are prisoners in the castle.’

‘Prisoners?’ Freya giggled nervously. She was stirring coffee with brisk little movements, the spoon jangling in the china cup.

Petrie stood up. ‘We can test this.’

‘Spoken in the best scientific tradition,’ said Gibson. ‘Take a walk in the woods. I’ll give you five minutes and then stroll out the front gate.’

‘I tell you we’re prisoners,’ Shtyrkov said. ‘We will die here.’

*   *   *

Into the woods.

The black clouds are now overhead and the light is fading by the minute. Petrie tries to look like a man out for a stroll, tries not to peer into dark corners.

Stop, stretch, glance behind. All very casual. The castle is still visible in outline through the trees, a dark silhouette against a white misty patch of sky. The air is damp. Rain will come at any minute. The witch’s fingers are at ground level now, little tracers of mist creeping through the trees on either side of him. In Petrie’s imagination they are purposeful, enclosing him in a pincer movement.

And there are shapes, lurking in the shadows.

Tricks of the light: be rational. He turns up the collar of his fleece jacket and walks further into the forest, his mouth dry.

Somewhere ahead, a dog barks. It’s a big dog, heavy on the low frequencies, and it’s more of a howl than a bark. Maybe a mile ahead, maybe less. His breath is misting in the cold, and his footsteps are muffled; the acoustics remind him of a tomb inside a pyramid.

The path still easily visible, but dark shapes are now everywhere. More tricks of the light. Of course.

A low whistle, off to the right, on the limit of hearing.

Nonsense. Just a sound in his head.

Petrie feels his nerve going. He thinks he must be a mile from the castle. He wonders where the path ends: at a lodge house? Or does it wind into …

‘Stŭj!’
Stop!

The voice, all Slavic intonations and deep-chested, cuts into the stillness. He freezes. Suddenly, half a dozen soldiers in camouflage gear are emerging from the trees. They look like sixteen year olds. They are carrying rifles which resemble black plastic toys. Petrie thinks a burst from one of them would probably cut you in half.

One of the soldiers approaches to within a couple of feet of Petrie. He is older than the others, maybe in his late twenties, with a grey, thin face. He smells of stale nicotine. ‘You are not allowed here, Englishman. Get back to the castle.’

Petrie knows the answer but he tries it anyway. ‘Why should I? These woods belong to the Academy of Sciences. I’m their guest and I have every right to be here.’

The officer’s expression becomes one of amazed disbelief. He gives some order without taking his eyes off Petrie. Two of the teenage boys step forward. They are plainly nervous, but their expressions are heavy with truculence. Then: ‘Turn back now while you can.
Rozumíte mi?
’ Understand me?

Somewhere, in some magazine, Petrie has read about the best response to an armed opponent: don’t discuss, don’t argue, do what you’re told. He shrugs, says,
‘Rozumím,’
understood, and turns back on the path. A simple fact fills his mind: he has his back to half a dozen nervous teenagers with rifles. His mouth is parched and his shoulder-blades ache with tension.

Stroll. Don’t run.

A light glimpsed through the trees; lights have been switched on in some of the castle rooms. He glances back, casually. The path is empty; he is alone in the woods. Petrie wonders about another experiment: leave the path, take off at some angle, run clear to God knows where. But then his imagination sees dogs unleashed, the chase through the woods, kids with nightscopes and black plastic toys that cut you in half. Rain starts pattering on leaves.

The dog again. A lot closer, maybe half a mile behind him, maybe a couple of hundred yards. The castle is half a mile ahead. The temptation to break into a run is becoming irresistible, but he keeps strolling, his nerves at breaking point and a light sweat inside his gloves. His ears strain for the sound of running dogs but the rain is now battering noisily on the leaves.

By the time Petrie reaches the glorious front door of the castle it is dark, the rain is teeming down, and he is shaking with fright.

*   *   *

‘They intend to kill us.’

Shtyrkov was putting together something which he had described as ‘monastery stew’. A handful of finely chopped carrots went into an outsize frying pan. It sizzled as it hit the oil, and he stirred it with a big wooden spoon.

It fitted.

‘You can’t mean that.’ Worry lined Svetlana’s face, but she had clearly followed the same logical route as the fat Russian. ‘I mean, governments don’t do things like that. Not nowadays. Not in civilised Europe.’ She turned to Hanning as if for reassurance. The civil servant was draining water away from diced potatoes and pretended not to notice her anxious gaze.

‘Pass me the mushrooms, Svetlana, and don’t be so naive.’

‘You can’t be right,’ Petrie said, but he had already made the same deduction.
It must have been a multinational decision, taken at the highest level.

‘Why not? It fits like a coffin.’ Shtyrkov was now waving a big pepper mill over the frying pan.

‘But why?’

‘Now the onions and the olives, please. Fear of the unknown, Svetlana. The fools think the signallers are trying to flush us out, to see if we have reached a level of technology where we might threaten them in a century or two.’

Svetlana brought two Pyrex bowls over to the Russian. She seemed close to tears. ‘Why don’t we confront them?’

Hanning, at the sink next to Shtyrkov, emptied a big saucepan of water and rice into an orange colander. Steam was rising. ‘You really are being absurd.’

‘We have to give it fifteen minutes.’

‘How can you think of food?’