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CHAPTER 21 Causality

THEY WERE Overjoyed to be back. They whooped it up, giddy with excitement. They climbed over the chairs.

They bugged and patted erne another on the back. All of them were dose to tears. They had succeeded—but not only that, they had returned, safely negotiating all the tunnels. Abruptly, amidst a bail of static, the radio began blar-ing out the Machine status report. All three benzels were decelerating. The built-up electrical charge was dissipating. From the commentary, it was clear that Project had no idea of what had happened.

Ellie wondered how much time had passed. She glanced at her watch. It had been a day at least, which would bring them well into the year 2000. Appropriate enough. Oh, wait till they hear what we have to tell them, she thought. Reas-suringly, she patted the compartment where the dozens of video microcassettes were stored. How the world would change when these films were released!The space between and around the benzels had been re-pressurized. The airlock doors were being opened. Now there were radio inquiries about their well-being.

“We're fine!” she shouted back into her microphone. “Let us out. You won't believe what happened to us.”

The Five emerged from the airlock happy, effusively greeting their comrades who had helped build and operate the Machine. The Japanese technicians saluted them. Project officials surged toward them.

Devi said quietly to Ellie, “As far as I can tell, everyone's wearing exactly the same clothing they did yesterday. Look at that ghastly yellow tie on Peter Valerian.”

“Oh, he wears that old thing all the time,” Ellie replied. “His wife gave it to him.” The clocks read 15:20. Activation had occurred close to three o'clock the previous afternoon. So they had been gone just a little over twenty-four…

“What day is it?” she asked. They looked at her uncom-prehendingly. Something was wrong. “Peter, for heaven's sake, what day is it?”

“How do you mean?” Valerian answered. “It's today. Friday, December 31, 1999. It's New Year's Eve.

Is that what you mean? Ellie, are you all right?”

Vaygay was telling Archangelsky to let him begin at the beginning, but only after his cigarettes were produced. Project officials and representatives of the Machine Consortium were converging around them.

She saw der Heer wedging his way to her through the crowd.

“From your perspective, what happened?” she asked as finally he came within conversational range.

“Nothing. The vacuum system worked, the benzels spun up, they accumulated quite an electrical charge, they reached the prescribed speed, and then everything reversed.”

“What do you mean, “everything reversed'?”

“The benzels slowed down and the charge dissipated. The system was repressurized, the benzels stopped, and all of you came out. The whole thing took maybe twenty minutes, and we couldn't talk to you while the benzels were spinning. Did you experience anything at all?”

She laughed. “Ken, my boy,” she said, “have I got a story for you.”

There was a party for project personnel to celebrate Machine Activation and the momentous New Year.

Ellie and her traveling companions did not attend. The television stations were full of celebrations, parades, exhibits, retro-spectives, prognostications and optimistic addresses by national leaders. She caught a glimpse of remarks by the Abbot Utsumi, beatific as ever. But she could not dawdle. Project Directorate had quickly concluded, from the fragments of their adventures that the Five had time to recount, that something had gone wrong. They found themselves hustled away from the milling crowds of government and Consortium officials for a preliminary interrogation. It was thought prudent, project officials explained, for each of the Five to be questioned separately. Der Heer and Valerian conducted her debriefing in asmall conference room. There were other project officials present, including Vaygay's former student Anatoly Gold-mann.

She understood that Bobby Bui, who spoke Russian, was sitting in for the Americans during Vaygay's interrogation.

They listened politely, and Peter was encouraging now and again. But they had difficulty understanding the sequence of events. Much of what she related somehow worried them. Her excitement was noncontagious. It was hard for them to grasp that the dodecahedron had been gone for twenty minutes, much less a day, because the armada of instruments exterior to the benzels had filmed and recorded the event, and reported nothing extraordinary. All that had happened. Valerian explained, was that the benzels had reached their prescribed speed, several instruments of unknown purpose had the equivalent of their needles move, the benzels slowed down and stopped, and the Five emerged in a state of great excitement.

He didn't exactly say “babbling nonsense,” but she could sense his concern. They treated her with deference, but she knew what they were thinking: The only function of the Machine was in twenty minutes to produce a memorable illusion, or—just possibly—to drive the Five of them mad.

She played back the video microcassettes for them, each carefully labeled: “Vega Ring System,” for example, or “Vega Radio (?) Facility,”

“Quintuple System,”

“Galactic Center Starscape,” and one bearing the inscription “Beach.” She inserted them in “play” mode one after the other. They had nothing on them. The cassettes were blank. She couldn't understand what had gone wrong. She had carefully learned the operation of the video microcam-era system and had used it successfully in tests before Machine Activation. She had even done a spot check on some of the footage after they had left the Vega system. She was further devastated later when she was told that the instruments carried by the others had also somehow failed. Peter Valerian wanted to believe her, der Heer also. But it was hard for them, even with the best will in the world. The story the Five had come back with was a little, well, unexpected—and entirely unsupported by physical evidence. Also, there hadn't been enough time.

They had been out of sight for only twenty minutes.

This was not the reception she had expected. But she was confident it would all sort itself out. For the moment, she was content to play the experience back in her mind and make some detailed notes. She wanted to be sure she would forget nothing.

Although a front of extremely cold air was moving in from Kamchatka, it was still unseasonably warm when late on New Year's Day, a number of unscheduled flights arrived at Sapporo International Airport.

The new American Secretary of Defense, Michael Kitz, and a team of hastily gathered experts arrived in an airplane marked “The United States of America.” Their presence was confirmed by Washington only when the story was about to break in Hokkaido. The terse press release noted that the visit was routine, that there was no crisis, no danger, and that “nothing extraordinary has been reported at the Machine Systems Integration Facility northeast of Sapporo.” A Tu-120 had flown overnight from Moscow, carrying, among others, Stefan Baruda and Timofei Gotsridze. Doubtless neither group was delighted to spend this New Year's holiday away from their families. But the weather in Hokkaido was a pleasant surprise; it was so warm that the sculptures in Sapporo were melting, and the dodecahedron of ice had become an almost featureless small glacier, the water dripping off rounded surfaces that once had been the edges of the pentagonal surfaces.

Two days later, a severe winter storm struck, and all traffic into the Machine facility, even by fourwheel-drive vehicles, was interrupted. Some radio and all television links were severed; apparently a microwave relay tower had been blown down. During most of the new interrogations, the only communication with the outside world was by telephone. And just conceivably, Ellie thought, by dodecahedron. She was tempted to steal herself onboard andspin up the benzels. She enjoyed elaborating on this fantasy. But in fact there was no way to know whether the Machine would ever work again, at least from this side of the tunnel. He had said it would not. She allowed herself to think of the seashore again.

And him. Whatever happened next, a wound deep within her was being healed. She could feel the scar tissue knitting. It had been the most expensive psychotherapy in the history of the world. And that's saying a lot, she thought.

Debriefings were given to Xi and Sukhavati by representatives of their nations. Although Nigeria played no significant role in Message acquisition or Machine construction, Eda acquiesced readily enough to a long interview with Ni-gerian officials. But it was perfunctory compared with the interrogations administered to them by project personnel. Vaygay and Ellie underwent still more elaborate debriefings by the high-level teams brought from the Soviet Union and the United States for this specific purpose. At first these American and Soviet interrogations excluded foreign nationals, but after complaints were carried through the World Machine Consortium, the U. S. and the S. U. relented, and the sessions were again internationalized.

Kitz was in charge of her debriefing, and considering what short notice he must have been given, he had arrived surprisingly well prepared. Valerian and der Heer put in an occasional good word for her, and every now and then asked a searching question. But it was Kitz's show.

He told her he was approaching her story skeptically but constructively, in what he hoped was the best scientific tradition. He trusted she would not mistake the directness of his questions for some personal animus. He held her only in the greatest respect. He, in turn, would not permit his judgment to be clouded by the fact that he had been against the Machine Project from the beginning. She de-. cided to let this pathetic deception pass unchallenged, and began her story. At first he listened closely, asked occasional questions ofdetail, and apologized when he interrupted. By the second day no such courtesies were in evidence.

“So the Nigerian is visited by his wife, the Indian by her dead husband, the Russian by his cute granddaughter, the Chinese by some Mongol warlord—”

“Qin was not a Mongol—”

“—and you, for crissake, you get visited by your dearly departed father, who tells you that he and his friends have been busy rebuilding the universe, for crissake. “Our Father Who art in Heaven…? This is straight religion. This is straight cultural anthropology. This is straight Sigmund Freud. Don't you see that?

Not only do you claim your. own father came back from the dead, you actually expect us to believe that he made the universe—”

“You're distorting what—”

“Come off it, Arroway. Don't insult our intelligence. You don't present us with a shred of evidence, and you expect us to believe the biggest cock-and-bull story of all time? You know better than that. You're a smart lady. How could you figure to get away with it?”

She protested. Valerian protested also; this kind of interrogation, he said, was a waste of time. The Machine was undergoing sensitive physical tests at this moment. That was how the validity of her story could be checked. Kitz agreed the physical evidence would be important. But the nature of Arroway^s story, he argued, was revealing, a means of understanding what had actually happened.

“Meeting your father in Heaven and all that, Dr. Arroway, is telling, because you've been raised in the Judeo-Christian culture. You're essentially the only one of the Five from that culture, and you're the only one who meets your father. Your story is just too pat. It's not imaginative enough.”

This was worse than she had thought possible. She felt a moment of epistemological panic—as when your car is not where you parked it, or the door you locked last night a ajar in the morning. “You think we made all this up?”

“Well, I'll tell you. Dr. Arroway. When I was veryyoung, I worked in the Cook County Prosecutor's office. When they were thinking about indicting somebody, they asked three questions.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Did he have the opportunity? Did he have the means? Did he have the motive?”

“To do what?” He looked at her in disgust.

“But our watches showed that we'd been gone more than a day,” she protested.

“I don't know how I could have been so stupid,” Kitz said, striking his forehead with his palm. “You've demolished my argument. I forgot that it's impossible to set your watch ahead by a day.”

“But that implies a conspiracy. You think Xi lied? You think Eda lied? You—”

“What I think is we should move on to something more important. You know, Peter”—Kitz turned toward Valerian—”I'm persuaded you're right. A first draft of the Materials Assessment Report will be here tomorrow morning. Let's not waste more time on… stories. We'll adjourn till then.”

Der Heer had said not a word through the entire afternoon's session. He offered her an uncertain grin, and she couldn't help contrasting it with her father's. Sometimes Ken's expression seemed to urge her, to implore her. But to what end she had no way of knowing; perhaps to change her story. He had remembered her recollections of her childhood, and he knew how she had grieved for her father. Clearly he was weighing the possibility that she had gone crazy. By extension, she supposed, he was also considering the likelihood that the others had gone crazy, too. Mass hysteria. Shared delusion. Folie a cinq.

“Well, here it is,” Kitz said. The report was about a centimeter thick. He let it fall to the table, scattering a few pencils. “You'll want to look through it, Dr. Arroway, but I can give you a quick summary. Okay?”

She nodded assent. She had heard through the grapevine that the report was highly favorable to the account the Five had given. She hoped it would put an end to the nonsense.

“The dodecahedron apparently”—he laid great stress on this word—”has been exposed to a very different environment than the benzels and the supporting structures. It's apparently been subjected to huge tensile and compres-sional stresses. It's a miracle the thing didn't fall to pieces. So it's a miracle you and the others didn't fall to pieces at the same time. Also, it's apparently seen an intense radiation environment— there's low-level induced radioactivity, cosmic ray tracks, and so on. It's another miracle that you survived the radiation. Nothing else has been added or taken away. There's no sign of erosion or scraping on the side vertices that you claim kept bumping into the walls of the tunnels. There's not even any scoring, as there would have been if it entered the Earth's atmosphere at high velocity.”

“So doesn't that confirm our story? Michael, think about it. Tensile and compressional stresses—tidal forces—are exactly what you expect if you fall down a classical black hole. That's been known for fifty years at least. I don't know why we didn't feel it, but maybe the dodec protected us somehow. And high radiation doses from the inside of the black hole and from the environment of the Galactic Center, a known gamma ray source. There's independent evidence for black holes, and there's independent evidence for a Galactic Center. We didn't make those things up. I don't understand the absence of scraping, but that depends on the interaction of a material we've hardly studied with a material that's completely unknown. I wouldn't expect any scoring or charring, because we don't claim we entered through the Earth's atmosphere. It seems to me the evidence almost entirely confirms our story. What's the problem?”

“The problem is you people are too clever. Too clever. Look at it from the point of view of a skeptic.

Step back and look at the big picture. There's a bunch of bright peopie in different countries who think the world is going to hell in a handbasket. They claim to receive a complex Message from space.”

“Claim?”

“Let me continue. They decrypt the Message and announce instructions on how to build a very complicated Machine at a cost of trillions of dollars. The world's in a funny condition, the religions are all shaky about the oncoming Millennium, and to everybody's surprise the Machine gets built. There's one or two slight changes in personnel, and then essentially these same people—”

“It's not the same people. It's not Sukhavati, it's not Eda, it's not Xi, and there were—”

“Let me continue. Essentially these same people then get to sit down in the Machine. Because of the way the thing is designed, no one can see them and no one can talk to them after the thing is activated. So the Machine is turned on and then it turns itself off. Once it's on, you can't make it stop in less than twenty minutes. Okay. Twenty minutes later, these same people emerge from the Machine, all jaunty-jolly, with some bullshit story about traveling faster than light inside black holes to the center of the Galaxy and back.

Now suppose you hear this story and you're just ordinarily cautious. You ask to see their evidence. Pictures, videotapes, any other data. Guess what? It's all been conveniently erased. Do they have artifacts of the superior civilization they say is at the center of the Galaxy? No. Mementos? No. A stone tablet? No. Pets?

No. Nothing. The only physical evidence is some subtle damage done to the Machine. So you ask yourself, couldn't people who were so motivated and so clever arrange for what looks like tension stresses and radiation damage, especially if they could spend two trillion dollars faking the evidence?”

She gasped. She remembered the last time she had gasped. This was a truly venomous reconstruction of events. She wondered what had made it attractive to Kitz. He must, she thought, be in real distress. “I don't think anybody's going to believe your story,” hecontinued. “This is the most elaborate—and the most expensive—hoax ever perpetrated. You and your friends tried to hoodwink the President of the United States and deceive the American people, to say nothing of all the other governments on the Earth. You must really think everybody else is stupid.”

“Michael, this is madness. Tens of thousands of people worked to acquire the Message, to decode it, and to build the Machine. The Message is on magnetic tapes and printouts and laserdisks in observatories all over the world. You think there's a conspiracy involving all the radio astronomers on the planet, and the aerospace and cybernetics companies, and—”

“No, you don't need a conspiracy that big. All you need is a transmitter in space that looks as if it's broadcasting from Vega. I'll tell you how I think you did it. You prepare the Message, and get somebody— somebody with an established launch capability—to put it up. Probably as an incidental part of some other mission. And into some orbit that looks like sidereal motion. Maybe there's more than one satellite. Then the transmitter turns on, and you're all ready in your handy-dandy observatory to receive the Message, make the big discovery, and tell us poor slobs what it all means.”

This was too much even for the impassive der Heer. He roused himself from a slumped position in his chair. “Really, Mike—” he began, but Ellie cut him short.

“I wasn't responsible for most of the decoding. Lots of people were involved. Drumlin, especially. He started out as a committed skeptic, as you know. But once the data came in, Dave was entirely convinced.

You didn't hear any reservations from him.”

“Oh yes, poor Dave Drumlin. The late Dave Drumlin. Yon set him up. The professor you never liked.”

Der Heer slumped still further down in his chair, and she had a sudden vision of him regaling Kitz with secondhand pillow talk. She looked at him more closely. She couldn't be sure. “During the decrypting of the Message, you couldn't doeverything. There was so much you had to do. So you overlooked this and you forgot that. Here's Drumlin growing old, worried about his former student eclipsing him and getting all the credit. Suddenly he sees how to be involved, how to play a central role. You appealed to his narcissism, and you hooked him. And if he hadn't figured out the decryption, you would have helped him along. If worse came to worst, you would have peeled all the layers off the onion yourself.”

“You're saying that we were able to invent such a Message. Really, it's an outrageous compliment to Vaygay and me. It's also impossible. It can't be done. You ask any competent engineer if that kind of Machine—with brand-new subsidiary industries, components wholly unfamiliar on Earth—you ask if that could have been invented by a few physicists and radio astronomers on their days off. When do you imagine we had time to invent such a Message even if we knew how? Look how many bits of information are in it. It would have taken years.”

“You had years, while Argus was getting nowhere. The project was about to be closed. Drumlin, you remember, was pushing that. So just at the right moment you find the Message. Then there's no more talk about closing down your pet project. I think you and that Russian did cook the whole thing up in your spare time. You had years.”

“This is madness,” she said softly. Valerian interrupted. He had known Dr. Arroway well during the period in question. She had done productive scientific work. She never had the time required for so elaborate a deception. Much as he admired her, he agreed that the Message and the Machine were far beyond her ability—or indeed anybody's ability. Anybody on Earth.

But Kitz wasn't buying it “That's a personal judgment, Dr. Valerian. There are many persons, and there can be many judgments. You're fond of Dr. Arroway. I understand. Fm fond of her, too. It's understandable you would defend her. I don't take it amiss. But there's a clincher. You don't know about it yet. I'm going to tell you.” He leaned forward, watching Elite intently. Clearly hewas interested to see how she would respond to what he was about to say.

“The Message stopped the moment we activated the Machine. The moment the benzels reached cruising speed. To the second. All over the world. Every radio observatory with a line-of-sight to Vega saw the same thing. We've held back telling you about it so we wouldn't distract you from your debriefing. The Message stopped in mid-bit. Now that was really foolish of you.”

“I don't know anything about it, Michael. But so what if the Message stopped? It's fulfilled its purpose.

We built the Machine, and we went to… where they wanted us to go.”

“It puts you in a peculiar position,” he went on. Suddenly she saw where he was headed. She hadn't expected this. He was arguing conspiracy, but she was contemplating madness. If Kitz wasn't mad, might she be? If our technology can manufacture substances that induce delusions, could a much more advanced technology induce highly detailed collective hallucinations? Just for a moment it seemed possible.

“Let's imagine it's last week,” he was saying. “The radio waves arriving on Earth right now are supposed to have been sent from Vega twenty-six years ago. They take twenty-six years to cross space to us. But twenty-six years ago, Dr. Arroway, there wasn't any Argus facility, and you were sleeping with acidheads, and moaning about Vietnam and Watergate. You people are so smart, but you forgot the speed of light. There's no way that activating the Machine can turn the Message off until twenty-six years pass— unless in ordinary space you can send a message faster than light. And we both know that's impossible. I remember you complaining about how stupid Rankin and Joss were for not knowing you can't travel faster than light. I'm surprised you thought you could get away with this one.”

“Michael, listen. It's how we were able to get from here to there and back in no time flat. Twenty minutes, anyway. It can be acausal around a singularity. I'm not an expert on this. You should be talking to Eda or Vaygay.”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” he said. “We already have.”

She imagined Vaygay under some comparably stem interrogation by his old adversary Archangelsky or by Baruda, the man who had proposed destroying the radio telescopes and burning the data. Probably they and Kitz saw eye to eye on the awkward matter before them. She hoped Vaygay was bearing up all right.

“You understand, Dr. Arroway. I'm sure you do. But let me explain again. Perhaps you can show me where I missed something. Twenty-six years ago those radio waves were heading out for Earth. Now imagine them in space between Vega and here. Nobody can catch the radio waves after they've left Vega.

Nobody can stop them. Even if the transmitter knew instantaneously—through the black hole, if you like— that the Machine had been activated, it would be twenty-six years before the signal stops arriving on Earth.

Your Vegans couldn't have known twenty-six years ago when the Machine was going to be activated. And to the minute. You would have to send a message back in time to twenty-six years ago, for the Message to stop on December thirty-first, 1999. You do follow, don't you?”

“Yes, I follow. This is wholly unexplored territory. You know, it's not called a space-time continuum for nothing. If they can make tunnels through space, I suppose they can make some kind of tunnels through time. The fact that we got back a day early shows that they have at least a limited kind of time travel. So maybe as soon as we left the Station, they sent a message twenty-six years back into time to turn the transmission off. I don't know.”

“You see how convenient it is for you that the Message stops just now. If it was still broadcasting, we could find your little satellite, capture it, and bring back the transmission tape. That would be definitive evidence of a hoax. Unambiguous. But you couldn't risk that. So you're reduced to black hole mumbojumbo. Probably embarrassing for you.” He looked concerned.

It was like some paranoid fantasy in which a patchwork of innocent facts are reassembled into an intricate conspiracy. The facts in this case were hardly commonplace, and it made sense for the authorities to test other possible explanations. But Kitz's rendition of events was so malign that it revealed, she thought, someone truly wounded, afraid, in pain. In her mind, the likelihood that all this was a collective delusion diminished a little. But the cessation of the Message transmission—if it had happened as Kitz had said—was worrisome.

“Now, I tell myself, Dr. Arroway, you scientists had the brains to figure all this out, and the motivation.

But by yourselves you didn't have the means. If it wasn't the Russians who put up this satellite for you, it could have been any one of half a dozen other national launch authorities. But we've looked into all that.

Nobody launched a free-flying satellite in the appropriate orbits. That leaves private launch capability. And the most interesting possibility that's come to our notice is a Mr. S. R. Hadden. Know him?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Michael. I talked to you about Hadden before I went up to Methuselah.”

“Just wanted to be sure we agree on the basics. Try this on for size: You and the Russian concoct this scheme. You get Hadden to bankroll the early stages—the satellite design, the invention of the Machine, the encrypting of the Message, faking the radiation damage, all that. In return, after the Machine Project gets going, he gets to play with gome of that two trillion dollars. He likes the idea. There might be enormous profit in it, and from his history, he'd love to embarrass the government. When you get stuck in decrypting the Message, when you can't find the primer, you even go to him. He tells you where to look for it. That was also careless. It would have been better if you figured it out yourself.”

“It's too careless,” offered der Heer. “Wouldn't someone who was really perpetrating a hoax…”

“Ken, I'm surprised at you. You've been very credulous, you know? You're demonstrating exactly why Arrowayand the others thought it would be clever to ask Hadden's advice. And to make sure we knew she'd gone to see him.”

He returned his attention to her. “Dr. Arroway, try to look at it from the standpoint of a neutral observer…”

Kitz pressed on, making sparkling new patterns of facts assemble themselves in the air before her, rewriting whole years of her life. She hadn't thought Kitz dumb, but she hadn't imagined him this inventive either. Perhaps he had received help. But the emotional propulsion for this fantasy came from Kitz.

He was full of expansive gestures and rhetorical flourishes. This was not merely part of his job. This interrogation, this alternative interpretation of events, had roused something passionate in him. After a moment she thought she saw what it was. The Five had come back with no immediate military applications, no political liquid capital, but only a story that was surpassing strange. And that story bad certain implications. Kitz was now master of the most devastating arsenal on Earth, while the Caretakers were building galaxies. He was a lineal descendant of a progression of leaders, American and Soviet, who had devised the strategy of nuclear confrontation, while the Caretakers were an amalgam of diverse species from separate worlds working together in concert. Their very existence was an unspoken rebuke. Then consider the possibility that the tunnel could be activated from the other end, that there might be nothing he could do to prevent it. They could be here in an instant. How could Kitz defend the United States under such circumstances? His role in the decision to build the Machine—the history of which he seemed to be actively rewriting—could be interpreted by an unfriendly tribunal as dereliction of duty. And what account could Kitz give the extraterrestrials of his stewardship of the planet, he and his predecessors? Even if no avenging angels came storming out of the tunnel, if the truth of the journey got out the world would change. It was already changing. It would change much more.

Again she regarded him with sympathy. For a hundred generations, at least, the world had been run by peoplemuch worse than he. It was his misfortune to come to bat just as the rules of the game were being rewritten.

“…even if you believed every detail of your story,” he was saying, “don't you think the extraterrestrials treated you badly? They take advantage of your tenderest feelings by dressing themselves up as dear old Dad. They don't tell you what they're doing, they expose all your film, destroy all your data, and don't even let you leave that stupid palm frond up there. Nothing on the manifest is missing, except for a little food, and nothing that isn't on the manifest is returned, except for a little sand. So in twenty minutes you gobbled some food and dumped a little sand out of your pockets. You come back one nanosecond or something after you leave, so to any neutral observer you never left at all.

“Now, if the extraterrestrials wanted to make it unam-biguously clear you'd really gone somewhere, they would've brought you back a day later, or a week. Right? If there was nothing inside the benzels for a while, we'd be dead certain that you'd gone somewhere. If they wanted to make it easy for you, they wouldn't have turned off the Message. Right? That makes it look bad, you know. They could've figured that out. Why would they want to make it bad for you? And there's other ways they could've supported your story. They could've given you something to remember them by. They could've let you bring back your movies. Then nobody could claim all this is just a clever fake. So how come they didn't do that? How come the extraterrestrials don't confirm your story? You spent years of your life trying to find them. Don't they appreciate what you've done?" Ellie, how can you be so sure your story really happened? If, as you claim, all this isn't a hoax, couldn't it be a… delusion? It's painful to consider, I know. Nobody wants to think they've gone a little crazy. Considering the strain you've been under, though, it's no big deal. And if the only alternative is criminal conspiracy… Maybe you want to carefully think this one through.” She had already done so.

Later that day she met with Kitz alone. A bargain had in effect been proposed. She had no intention of going along with it. But Kitz was prepared for that possibility as well.

“You never liked me from the first,” he said. “But I'm going to rise above that. We're going to do something really fair.

“We've already issued a news release saying that the Machine just didn't work when we tried to activate it. Naturally, we're trying to understand what went wrong. With all the other failures, in Wyoming and Uzbekistan, nobody is doubting this one.

“Then in a few weeks we'll announce that we're still not getting anywhere. We've done the best we could. The Machine is too expensive to keep working on. Probably we're just not smart enough to figure it out yet. Also, there's still some danger, after all. We always knew that. The Machine might blow up or something. So all in all, it's best to put the Machine Project on ice—at least for a while. It's not that we didn't try.

“Hadden and his friends would oppose it, of course, but as he's been taken from us…”

“He's only three hundred kilometers overhead,” she pointed out.

“Oh, haven't you heard? Sol died just around the time the Machine was activated. Funny how it happened. Sorry, I should have told you. I forgot you were… close to him.”

She did not know whether to believe Kitz. Hadden was in his fifties and had certainly seemed in good physical health. She would pursue this topic later. “And what, in your fantasy, becomes of us?” she asked.

“Us? Who's “us'?”

“Us. The five of us. The ones who went aboard the Machine that you claim never worked.”

“Oh. After a little more debriefing you'll be free to leave. I don't think any of you will be foolish enough to tell this cock-and-bull story on the outside. But just to be safe, we're preparing some psychiatric dossiers on the five ofyou. Profiles. Low-key. You've always been a little rebellious, mad at the system—whichever system you grew up in. It's okay. It's good for people to be independent. We encourage that, especially in scientists. But the strain of the last few years has been trying—not actually disabling, but trying. Especially for Doctors Arroway and Lunacharsky. First they're involved in finding the Message, decrypting it, and convincing the governments to build the Machine. Then problems in construction, industrial sabotage, sitting through an Activation that goes nowhere… It's been tough. All work and no play. And scientists are highly strung anyway. If you've all become a little unhinged at the failure of the Machine, everybody will be sympathetic. Understanding. But nobody'll believe your story. Nobody. If you behave yourselves, there's no reason that the dossiers ever have to be released.

“It'll be clear that the Machine is still here. We're having a few wire service photographers in to photograph it as soon as the roads are open. We'll show them the Machine didn't go anywhere. And the crew? The crew is naturally disappointed. Maybe a little disheartened. They don't want to talk to the press just yet.

“Don't you think it's a neat plan?” He smiled. He wanted her to acknowledge the beauty of the scheme.

She said nothing.

“Don't you think we're being very reasonable, after spending two trillion dollars on that pile of shit? We could put you away for life, Arroway. But we're letting you go free. You don't even have to put up bail. I think we're behaving like gentlemen. It's the Spirit of the Millennium. It's Machindo.”