Ancient Shores Part 18

c.o.x's skin crawled. "Al." He tried to sound forceful but knew his voice was shaking. "Al, you're overreacting. None of this is going to happen."

"Yeah. Well, if I were you, I wouldn't just sit around up here hoping it'll all blow over."

April cleaned the icons with a couple of damp cloths. Each lit up when she touched it, with the exception of the smoke, which stayed dark no matter what. But there were no special effects at the grid. She interpreted it to mean that there had to be something on on the grid to produce the lights. the grid to produce the lights.

Near the pit she found a seventh icon. Bigger than the others, it resembled a kanji character. Like the smoke, it stayed dark when she touched it.

Marie McCloskey had always been able to feel the imminence of the divine presence. There had never been a time, not even during her most difficult days-when the news had come of Jodie's death in the wreck on I-29, when her husband had first a.s.saulted her, when they'd told her she had diabetes-there had never been an instant instant when she had not been aware that Jesus walked beside her. That sure and certain knowledge had carried her through all these years and had brought her, in spite of everything, an inner peace that she would not trade for any of life's more tangible a.s.sets. Marie McCloskey was a fortunate woman. when she had not been aware that Jesus walked beside her. That sure and certain knowledge had carried her through all these years and had brought her, in spite of everything, an inner peace that she would not trade for any of life's more tangible a.s.sets. Marie McCloskey was a fortunate woman.

She came to Fort Moxie to visit her sister, and she would not ordinarily have shown any interest in the events atop Johnson's Ridge. But the town, which had been so quiet and orderly in past years, was overrun with tourists and salesmen and journalists and college students and busloads of people from all over North America. So it was natural that her curiosity would be aroused, and anyhow her sister's husband, Corky Cable, wanted to go see the Roundhouse. They drove out and got in the line of cars over on Route 32. They rode up one side of the escarpment, cruised past the odd green building that looked like a fancy salt cellar, and rode down the other side, talking about Martians the whole time. It didn't mean anything special to Marie or to her sister, but Corky raved about it.

They had dinner in Walhalla at the Cat's Eye, and afterward drove back toward Johnson's Ridge. It was dark now, a cold, crystal night with silent stars and no moon and a few wisps of cloud. They were riding three across the front seat in Corky's Mazda when they rounded a curve and saw the soft green glow at the top of the ridge.

"Look at that," said Marie's sister.

Corky would have pulled off somewhere so they could watch, but the road was lined with cars. Instead he slowed down and crept along at about twenty.

To Marie, there was something supernatural in that quiet radiance. As though G.o.d himself had provided a lighthouse for His lost children. A rea.s.surance that He was still here.

Oddly, she had felt nothing when she'd been alongside the structure two hours earlier, in broad daylight. But now the full weight of its significance caught her.

"We can see it all the way out to the border," said Corky. He was a customs inspector at the Fort Moxie border crossing, and that statement was exaggerated. The border was too far away. But tonight it seemed possible. Tonight everything seemed possible.

"Slow down, Corky," Marie said.

Corky was already creeping along, and some headlights had come up behind them.

Marie's sister said, "I wonder what causes it. Maybe it's made of phosphorous."

Marie began to see an image. If you backed away a little bit mentally, stayed away from the details, and looked just so, you could make out a woman's face. And she knew the woman.

"It's the Virgin," she said.

Arky Redfern ushered his guest to a seat, sat down behind his desk, and smiled politely. "Dr. Wells," he said, "what can I do for you?"

Paxton Wells was a tall, lean man with a gray mustache and a manner that would have been aristocratic had he not been burdened with oversized ears. "Mr. Redfern," he said, "I understand you represent tribal interests on Johnson's Ridge."

The lawyer nodded.

"I have an offer to make on behalf of the National Energy Inst.i.tute." He released the catches on his briefcase, searched inside, and withdrew a contract. "We would like to have permission to investigate the power source in the Roundhouse." His eyebrows rose and fell, signaling, Arky thought, a fair degree of stress, which otherwise did not evince itself in Wells's manner. "There's a possibility we might be able to develop some of the technologies in the building. If indeed there are are any technologies that can be adapted. We don't know that, of course." any technologies that can be adapted. We don't know that, of course."

"Of course," said Redfern.

"Nevertheless, we would be willing to offer a substantial sum of money for the property and a.s.sume all the risk and expense of developing it."

"I see." Redfern picked up the doc.u.ment.

"We can offer a million dollars," Wells said. He underscored the amount and left himself slightly breathless.

The lawyer flipped methodically through the pages, stopping occasionally to examine an item that had caught his attention. "I see," he said, "you would get all rights for development and use."

"Mr. Redfern." Wells leaned forward and a.s.sumed an att.i.tude that he obviously thought was one of friendly no-nonsense sincerity. "Let's be honest here. This is a c.r.a.pshoot. NEI is willing to gamble a lot of money on the off chance that there's something usable on the ridge. We don't know that to be the case. Nevertheless, in everyone's interest, we'll a.s.sume the risk. And the tribe can just sit back and collect. One million dollars. To do nothing."

Redfern folded the contract and handed it back. "I don't think so," he said.

"May I ask why? What can you lose?"

The lawyer got out of his chair. "Dr. Wells, I'm quite busy today. If NEI wants to make a serious offer, you know where to find me."

"Aren't you overstepping your authority, Mr. Redfern? I would think your responsibility is to consult your employer."

Redfern let Wells see that he was not impressed. "I believe I understand my responsibility, Dr. Wells. Now, I hate to rush you-"

"All right." Wells leaned back in his chair. "You drive a hard bargain, Redfern. To save us both time, I'll go right to the bottom line. I'm authorized to offer two two million." million."

Redfern glanced up at his father's bow. There were times, he thought, when he regretted that they'd given up the old ways.

18.

A man without money is a bow without an arrow.-Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia Gnomologia During the two years he'd served on the city council, Marv Wickham had never seen more than a dozen people attend the monthly meeting. But tonight was different. Fort Moxie's total population of nine hundred twenty-seven must have been at city hall, where they overflowed the s.p.a.cious second-floor meeting room and spilled out into the corridors. (The presence of the New Agers to whom the mayor had rented the lower-level auditorium did nothing to alleviate matters.) They were still coming in when the council president, Charlie Lindquist, launched the evening's proceedings. Wickham had never seen more than a dozen people attend the monthly meeting. But tonight was different. Fort Moxie's total population of nine hundred twenty-seven must have been at city hall, where they overflowed the s.p.a.cious second-floor meeting room and spilled out into the corridors. (The presence of the New Agers to whom the mayor had rented the lower-level auditorium did nothing to alleviate matters.) They were still coming in when the council president, Charlie Lindquist, launched the evening's proceedings.

There were several routine items on the agenda: a zoning ordinance request, a proposal to issue highway improvement bonds, and a suggestion that Fort Moxie partic.i.p.ate in a consolidated school scheme. But the issue that had drawn the crowd, and which Lindquist consequently scheduled last, would be a request that the city approve a demand that the Johnson's Ridge excavation site be shut down.

Lindquist, who considered himself the town's Solomon, guided the deliberations methodically through the preliminaries. At twelve minutes past nine he gave the floor to Joe Torres, a retired farmer now living in town.

Torres, reading nervously from a sheet of paper, described the chaotic conditions existing in Fort Moxie. Traffic had become impossible. There were drunks and fights and crowds of hoodlums. Visitors were parking their cars everywhere. They were overflowing the restaurants and stripping the supermarket so that ordinary citizens had to drive eighty miles to Grand Forks. They were even drawing lunatics with bombs, like the one who had taken out the Tastee-Freez the day before. "I know it's good business for Mike and some of you other boys, but it's pretty tough on the rest of us."

Agnes Hanford stood up. "We need to take advantage of this while we can. In the end, the whole town'll be better off." Agnes's husband owned the Prairie Schooner.

Joe shook his head. "That's easy for you you to say, Agnes. But it's getting worse. And I think we need to do something." As if to underline his argument, they heard an automobile roar past, horn blaring, radio shaking the building. "If we allow this to go on, we're going to have to hire some police officers." Historically, Fort Moxie had received what little law enforcement support it needed from Cavalier. "I therefore propose," he continued, reading again, "that the council demand that the persons digging on Johnson's Ridge cease and desist. And that the structure known as the Roundhouse be demolished." He looked around. "Torn up and hauled away," he added. to say, Agnes. But it's getting worse. And I think we need to do something." As if to underline his argument, they heard an automobile roar past, horn blaring, radio shaking the building. "If we allow this to go on, we're going to have to hire some police officers." Historically, Fort Moxie had received what little law enforcement support it needed from Cavalier. "I therefore propose," he continued, reading again, "that the council demand that the persons digging on Johnson's Ridge cease and desist. And that the structure known as the Roundhouse be demolished." He looked around. "Torn up and hauled away," he added.

Lindquist recognized Laurie Cavaracca, who owned the Northstar Motel. Laurie had lived in Fort Moxie all her life. The motel had been built by her father in 1945, after he came back from the Pacific. Laurie was now sole owner and manager. "We have eight units at the Northstar," she said. "Until two weeks ago, we never had consecutive days in which I could turn on the NO V VACANCY sign. Now there is never an empty room. We are booming. Do I like the problems that we are currently having in Fort Moxie? No, of course not. None of us does. But the solution isn't to close down and crawl back in our holes." Her voice sounded a little fluttery at first, but she gained confidence quickly. "Listen, people," she said. "Most of us have stayed in Fort Moxie because we were born here. We love this town. But the economy has always been touch and go. Now, for the first time in anyone's memory, we have a chance to make some real money. And not just the store owners. Everyone will profit. Healthy businesses are good for everybody. For G.o.d's sake, don't kill the golden calf." sign. Now there is never an empty room. We are booming. Do I like the problems that we are currently having in Fort Moxie? No, of course not. None of us does. But the solution isn't to close down and crawl back in our holes." Her voice sounded a little fluttery at first, but she gained confidence quickly. "Listen, people," she said. "Most of us have stayed in Fort Moxie because we were born here. We love this town. But the economy has always been touch and go. Now, for the first time in anyone's memory, we have a chance to make some real money. And not just the store owners. Everyone will profit. Healthy businesses are good for everybody. For G.o.d's sake, don't kill the golden calf."

"Goose," someone said. "It's a golden goose goose."

"Whatever," said Laurie. "This won't last forever. We should milk it while we can."

"Meantime," said Josh Averill, rising with his usual dignity, "they're going to kill somebody, the way they race around the streets. What happens then?"

"This town has never had two dimes to rub together," said Jake Thoraldson, whose airport had suddenly become a hub. "What's the matter with you people? Can't you stand a little prosperity?"

"Prosperity?" howled Mamie Burke, a transplanted Canadian who worked for the railroad. "What kind of prosperity is it to have all these people running wild? Joe's right. Close it down."

Arnold Whitaker, the self-effacing owner of the Lock 'n' Bolt Hardware, argued against the proposal. "I can't see," he said, "where anyone is being hurt by current conditions."

That remark infuriated Morris Jones, a ninety-year-old postal retiree known around town primarily for his interest in electric trains. Two inebriated Canadians had driven a pickup into Jones's den, demolishing a forty-year-old HO layout. Jones sputtered and shook his finger accusingly at Whitaker. "Attaboy, Arnie," he said, "take care of yourself. Don't worry about anybody else."

The vote to demand a shutdown pa.s.sed by a majority of eighty-seven. Floyd Rickett volunteered to head up the committee that would write the draft.

Lindquist took him aside when opportunity offered. "Keep it reasonable, Floyd," he said. "Okay? We don't want to offend anybody."

The rain beat incessantly against the windows of the Oval Office. It was a sound that tended to heighten whatever emotion the president was feeling. Today he didn't feel good.

A copy of the Washington Post Washington Post lay on his desk. The headlines reported civil war in India and famine in the Transvaal. They also revealed the results of a new poll: "60% Think Roundhouse Is Related to UFOs." An additional twenty percent thought it was a government project. Eight percent believed it was of divine origin. The rest didn't know or hadn't heard of Johnson's Ridge. lay on his desk. The headlines reported civil war in India and famine in the Transvaal. They also revealed the results of a new poll: "60% Think Roundhouse Is Related to UFOs." An additional twenty percent thought it was a government project. Eight percent believed it was of divine origin. The rest didn't know or hadn't heard of Johnson's Ridge.

Tony Peters sat disconsolately in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. "Almost everybody thinks there's a government cover-up," he said. "But that's inevitable. We might as well get used to it."

"Did you see the signs outside?" There were roughly six hundred pickets on the circle. Come Clean on Johnson's Ridge Come Clean on Johnson's Ridge, the posters read. And Tell the Truth About the Roundhouse Tell the Truth About the Roundhouse. "So what is is the truth? What do we know?" the truth? What do we know?"

Peters uncrossed his legs and got up. "We've talked to a dozen people in as many fields who have either been there or had access to the test results. They're all having a hard time accepting the notion that it's extraterrestrial, but there's n.o.body who can provide a satisfactory alternative explanation."

"I don't think we care about where it came from or how it got there." Taylor took a deep breath. "My concern is, where do we go from here? What kind of power does the place use?"

"No one's had a chance to look. All they're letting people do now is walk around inside. Guided tours."

"Okay." Taylor pushed back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Crunch time. "Prospects, Tony. What are we facing?"

"Hard to say, Mr. President." Peters scrunched his face up, and pockets of lines showed at the corners of his mouth and eyes. "The experts do not agree about our ability to reproduce the new element. But they do agree that if we can can, any products made from it will not decay."

"Will they wear out?"

"Yes. Although most of these people think they'll be a lot tougher than anything we have now."

Taylor sighed. He would talk to his economists, but he knew what that would mean to the manufacturing interests.

"Something else, sir. Did you know someone saw the Virgin Mary out there last night?"

The president's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "What next?" he asked.

"Seriously." Peters grinned, a welcome shift in the tension. "It was on CNN ten minutes ago. Woman saw a face in the lights."

The president shook his head. "G.o.dd.a.m.n, Tony," he said. "What about the market? What's going to happen today?"

"The Nikkei got blasted again. And I'm sure the slide will continue on Wall Street."

Taylor pushed himself wearily to his feet and looked out the window. The gra.s.s was green and cool. Days like this, he wished he were a kid again. "We have to get a handle on this, Tony."

"Yes, sir."

"Before it gets out of control. I want to take it over. There should be a national security provision or something. Find it."

"That might be tricky," he said.

"Why?"

"My G.o.d, Mr. President, it's Indian land. If it were just some farmer, yeah, we could declare a health hazard or something. But this is Sioux property. We try to move in, there'll be a heavy political price. Your own people won't like it, and the media will beat you to death with it."

Taylor could feel the walls closing in. "I don't mean we should simply seize seize it. We can recompense them. Buy them off." it. We can recompense them. Buy them off."

"Sir, I think our best strategy is to wait it out. Not get stampeded into doing something that'll come back to haunt us."

Taylor was by nature inclined to act at the first sign of trouble. But he'd been around politics long enough to know the value of patience. And anyway, he wasn't sure of the right course. He didn't like the idea of maneuvering Native Americans off their land. That had a bad taste. And it was bad politics. But so were collapsing markets.

"It'll blow over," Peters a.s.sured him soothingly. "Give it time. We may not really have a problem. Let's not create one create one. What we need to do is concentrate on Pakistan."

"Pakistan?"

"No voters in Pakistan. But a lot of people are getting killed. Make another statement. Deplore the violence. Maybe offer to act as an arbitrator. It looks as if it's going to play out soon anyway. Both sides are exhausted. We might even be able to get credit for arranging a settlement."

The president sighed. Peters was a hopeless cynic, and it would have been easy to dislike him. It was a pity that American politics degenerated so easily to such blatant opportunism. Even where good people were concerned.

Arky Redfern grew up near Fort Totten on the Devil's Lake reservation. He was the youngest of five, the first to collect a degree. That his siblings had pursued early marriages and dead-end jobs had broken the heart of his father, who'd promised to do what he could to support any of his children seeking a higher education. Redfern was given his father's bow to mark the occasion of his graduation from the law school at George Mason University.

He had also received encouragement from James Walker, one of the tribal councilmen, who had remarked proudly that the government no longer had all the lawyers. Redfern was fired with the idea of becoming the defender of the Mini Wakan Oyate, as the Devil's Lake Sioux called themselves in their own language. (The term meant People of the Spirit Lake People of the Spirit Lake.) He'd pa.s.sed the bar exam on the first try, and he returned to North Dakota to establish a practice writing wills and overseeing divorces, which paid reasonably well. He also became the tribal legal representative, which didn't pay so well. But it had its rewards.

At about the time Matt Taylor was looking for a course of action, Redfern was taking Paxton Wells into the reservation to make a new offer in person. Wells, wrapped in a somber mood, had apparently decided that the lawyer was hopelessly against him and had given up all efforts to placate the younger man. He sat staring moodily out the window at the flat countryside.

It had finally turned warm. Piles of melting snow were heaped along the side of the road, and there was some flooding.

The tribal chambers were located in a blue brick single-story structure known as the Blue Building. Old Glory and the flag of the Mini Wakan Oyate fluttered in a crisp wind. Redfern pulled into the parking lot.

"This it?" said Wells, gazing at the open countryside stretching away in all directions.