The War of Immensities (30 page)

“It must be
some sort of bubble, generated by God knows what,” Harley was
remembering. “It must be able to become less dense as it grows
larger—perhaps many small bubbles accumulating—drawn toward the
trailing edge by the momentum of the Earth, overcoming gravity as
it becomes less dense until it reaches a certain size and it hits
the inner side of the crust.”

“It blows out
through the nearest crack or vent or rift, and then the process
starts all over again,” Glen was saying. “Look, you can see it
here.”

“Not quite,”
Harley said. “Since the time span between each instance is
diminishing but the other factors are constants, some part of the
bubble must remain. When it blows off steam, denser gases remain,
it becomes heavier and gravitation obliges it to fall back toward
the core. But each time it is just a little larger, and so takes
less time to build up until it hits the crust again. How does that
model, Glen?”

“Give me a few
thousand nanoseconds, will you?”

“Okay,” Jami
was saying, mostly to fill the gap while Glen worked. “So the time
and trailing edge theory determines the longitude of the event. How
about the latitude?”

“I’m still
working on that,” Harley shrugged.

“And then why
the oscillation between the northern and southern hemispheres?”

“Position of
the moon,” Glen cut in as he punched keys furiously.

“Hey?”

“If the moon is
trailing, it’s northern, if leading, southern.”

“You might have
mentioned that earlier,” Harley grumbled.

“It’s factored
into the models.”

“Okay. Lunar
gravitation, I suppose, would have some effect on the position of
the bubble.”

“Why not?” Jami
said with a throw-away look.

Harley looked a
picture of patience and he smiled and twiddled his thumbs. “I’m
pleased with that.”

“It’s just a
theory, Harley,” Jami said cautiously.

“But it’s a
theory that works.”

“I’m sure we
must be able to shoot holes in it somehow,” Jami persisted.

“Fine. But
until you do, I will consider it to be the truth.”

“And you offer
no explanation as to where this bubble came from.”

“That is what
I’m going to work on next,” Harley said. “While Glen runs up models
on that basis.”

“And what will
I be doing?”

“You’ll be on
vacation.”

“You really
think I’ll be able to get this out of my mind?”

“And otherwise,
you’ll be doing what you are always doing, Jamila, my brilliant
protege.”

“Which is?”

“Trying to
humiliate me by proving me wrong.”

Harley Thyssen
telephoned Brian Carrick from Moscow—of all places— and informed
him that there was a fax to follow with the dates for the next
convergence.

“Make certain
you meet all the dates, Brian, bang on. And if it goes wrong even
slightly, let me know immediately.”

The fax was an
itinerary for the next gathering of the pilgrims. It was very
detailed and precise and Brian had to sit and work on it for two
hours to get the logistics right. By then he had run the pilgrims
into a list of priorities according to degree of difficulty.

But first
Felicity Campbell. He telephoned her in Wellington. “Thyssen wants
the pilgrims on the move a week earlier than expected.”

“Yes, Brian. I
know. He warned me to expect it.”

“The important
date, as far as you are concerned, is the 9th of July. He wants us
all to fly out then.”

“The 9th? But
the hit isn’t due until the 20th. Why so early?”

“He wants us to
have a week’s holiday—vacation he called it—in Bali. And you can
bring your family if you want. Paid for by the project.”

“Won’t they get
in the way...”

“Not if you put
them on a plane home by the 16th.”

“I’m not sure
if I can organise this, Brian. The kids have school. Wendell has
his work...”

“But an
all-expenses paid week in Bali at the Kota Sands. How can any Kiwi
say no to that in mid-winter?”

“You’re right.
I’ll see what I can do. How are things going there?”

“Oh, Kevin’s
security men are a little overbearing, but otherwise fine.”

“The girls
coping all right in the office?”

“Like pigs in
shit.”

“And how about
you?”

“Me. I’m fine.
Be a bit busy now this has come through.”

“I meant you
and Judy.”

“Not so fine.
I’m out again. But it isn’t your fault this time, Fee.”

“I still feel
guilty.”

“Our marriage
has needed a work over for a long time. Now it’s getting it. Don’t
worry. It’ll sort itself, one way or the other.”

“And Harley and
Jami—where are they?”

“Harley’s in
Moscow. Jami’s in Bermuda.”

“Got to go,
Brian. I’ll need a week to organise the new sleepers. Ought to see
you around about the first. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll
book you Wellington-Melbourne on the 1st, your husband plus two
Wellington-Bali to meet you there on the 9th. Send you the tickets
and details. Hooroo.”

Next he rang
Joe Solomon, whom he knew would resist every aspect of the plan, so
he only told him about Bali.

“I hate
holidays, Brian. And what the hell is a bloke in a wheelchair going
to do for a week in Bali?”

“Sit on the
beach and fish and stuff.”

“You ever tried
to push a wheelchair through sand?”

“Get pissed and
eat yourself stupid.”

“I can do that
in Perth.”

“I can arrange
for you to fly direct Perth-Bali on the 9th if you’d prefer that to
coming here.”

“Bloody Harley.
Can you ask him to make it a bit later?”

“No, he’s in
Moscow.”

“He’s where???”
Joe erupted.

Brian hung up
before he said something even more stupid, if that was
possible.

It was then
evening and he knew he would catch Lorna and Chrissie tomorrow, so
he took himself to the pub for a beer and a counter tea and from
there he would just make it to the Casino in time to catch the end
of Andromeda’s show.

“I know. Bali,
then Hong Kong,” she told him.

She was in her
dressing room, sitting at the mirror, taking off her make-up. There
was barely room for Brian to stand behind her and the atmosphere of
scents and perfumes would have knocked him flat on his back had
there been room to fall.

“How could you
know? I only found out today.”

“Because my man
Joel received a couple of mysterious bookings that just had to be
arranged by Harley.”

She hunted
amongst the bottles and tubes on the top of the dresser and came up
with a card.

“Kota-Sands,
Bali, 8th to the 14th of July but I gotta be there on the 6th for
rehearsals. Then the Hong Kong Sheridan from the 22nd for a
month.”

“Bloody
hell.”

“The reason
Harley is smarter than the rest of us is because he learns from his
mistakes,” Andromeda smiled.

“...the sky
split in two, and high above the forest the whole northern part of
the sky appeared to be covered in fire. At that moment I felt a
great heat as if my shirt had caught fire... I wanted to pull off
my shirt and throw it away but at that moment there was a bang in
the sky, and a mighty crash was heard. I was thrown to the ground
about three sajenes away from the porch and for a moment I lost
consciousness. My wife ran out and carried me into the hut. The
crash was followed by a noise like stones failing from the sky, or
guns firing. The Earth trembled, and when I lay on the ground I
covered my head because I was afraid stones might hit it. At that
moment when the sky opened, a hot wind, as from a cannon, blew past
the huts from the north. It left its mark on the ground...”

Nikolai Singara
closed the book on his own fingers to mark the place and gazed
serenely across the table, where Thyssen sat, pouting.

“That’s all of
them,” he said, and Thyssen nodded.

“No other
eye-witness accounts?”

“No,” Nikolai
smiled with patience. “So, tell me. Is there to be some explanation
of why I am reading to you this admittedly fascinating but
nevertheless very ancient piece of our history.”

Because it’s in
Russian, Thyssen somehow managed to avoid saying. You didn’t make
trite jokes in the presence of any Russian, especially not one of
their most eminent scholars.

“I was hoping
for something, but I think we have to agree it was a comet,”
Thyssen said sadly.

“On the face of
it, to be sure. But remember, these eyewitness accounts were the
translated words of the very primitive Tungus people, and they were
making their accounts five years after the event.”

“Five
years?”

“Alas, the
officials of the Czar considered the affairs of court infinitely
more important than the mere collision between the Earth and a
giant meteor.”

“That was what
they thought at first?”

“Oh yes. But
even so, they knew it was so massive an explosion—it was felt in
Moscow, the shock wave circled the earth twice, and they could read
at night in the city streets by the scattered light for a week. But
it was way out in Siberia and just a bunch of dumb peasants and who
cared? When the expedition lead by Kulik finally arrived, they saw
the forest flattened in that radiating pattern we’ve come to know
so well for a diameter of ten kilometres from the centre. They
expected to find a crater bigger than the one in Arizona. But there
was nothing.”

“Yes. I know,”
Thyssen said. “Extraordinary. Are you satisfied by the comet
explanation?”

“Those who made
it are completely. And you should be too. It is the only way to
explain how the object left no trace. The ice, burning up in the
upper atmosphere... I don’t need to tell you this, Harley. But I do
want to know why it tickles your fancy some ninety years after the
event.”

“Oh, I was just
looking at the Oz Baykal region on the map and happened to notice
Tunguska nearby. It set me thinking...”

“One thousand
kilometres nearby. You think these matters are related,
Harley?”

“No reason why
they should be...”

“But you wanted
to hear the eye-witness accounts from the original Russian to see
if there was any mention of people being rendered unconscious and
waking up eight days later.”

Thyssen
laughed. Of course he knew he could never fool this old man and
hadn’t really been trying. Nikolai loved mind games, and being
allowed to show he could read Thyssen’s mind was plainly giving the
old man the greatest pleasure. It was fun for Thyssen as well.

“I can see it
is hopeless to try and keep secrets from you, Nikolai.”

“And alas,
having found no such reports, does that mean your theory is
confounded?”

“I guess.”

“You don’t
sound completely convinced.”

Thyssen smiled.
“As you say, inarticulate peoples, and long after the event.”

“Still, Harley,
it is always a difficulty, isn’t it, when the evidence refuses to
fit the theory.”

“It usually
means you need a new theory.”

“Or better
evidence,” Nikolai smiled, and snapped the book shut. “I know a
place where a most reasonable coffee may be had.”

It was a joy to
talk to the old man, his mentor from Greenpeace days. Now retired,
Nikolai still remained a man of great influence around the Kremlin.
He was, after all, one who had tasted the temptations of the West
and returned to Russia quite untainted. Although it took a few
years of impeccable behaviour in the gulags to prove it.

Thyssen had
arrived in Moscow and contacted Nikolai immediately. His only
fore-warning had been a one page summary of Project Earthshaker
emailed a week beforehand. A desire to speak with the Secretary for
the Interior? Within an hour, Singara was able to report that the
Secretary would be able to fit them in tomorrow, at two. With time
to fill, they had strolled into the Museum of Science, and Thyssen,
rather casually, had asked about Tunguska.

On the 30th of
June, 1908, something hit the Earth, big enough to flatten 2000
square kilometres of forest and be felt all around the world yet it
left no crater, no fragments, no radio-activity, no trace. A touch,
it was called, of the finger of God. No human had been killed or
injured, although a vast herd of reindeer had been destroyed. The
biggest explosion in recorded history and hardly anyone
noticed.

Nikolai had, at
Thyssen’s request, read to him the eye-witness accounts without
surprise nor complaint. Thyssen supposed that the old man had
already double-guessed him. As he always did. He had not, for
instance, bothered yet to ask why Thyssen wanted to see the
secretary, nor had the subject been raised. As they made their way
through the smoggy streets toward the cafe, Nikolai finally said.
“Harley, I do not believe that the Tunguska event was a comet.”

“Really? Why
not?”

“Because a
comet, at any size, would have been visible in the night skies for
some weeks or even months before the event. And no such thing was
reported.”

“So what do you
think it was, Nikolai?”

“The same thing
you think it was, Harley.”

In the warmth
of the cafe, they sipped the coffee from big mugs. Nikolai was
ready to play the next stage of the game. Without preamble, he said
with a mischievous look over his steaming mug. “So, you believe
that there are —sleepers, you call them?—at Baykal.”

“I know there
are. And I know exactly where they are. Precise co-ordinates.”

“How many of
these unfortunates do you think there are?”

“I have no
idea. There may only be one, but I suspect more.”

“One hundred
and ninety-seven, according to unofficial reports.”

“That
many?”

“Unofficial
reports are always inaccurate.”