The Missing Link

Illustration by Alan M. Clark

Throughout history, human societies have been restrained by the rate at which information could travel. The size of empires was determined by how fast news of a rebellion in the provinces could reach the capitol. Merchants receiving word of overseas markets via sailing ships could only guess at what happened in the interim.

Beginning with the discovery that intelligible signals could be sent by electromagnetic waves, global communications became effectively instantaneous. The information age had begun.

Whereas many situations require immediate response, the ability to receive news in time to react appropriately made a huge difference in how humans regarded their world. Events that had previously been over before the news reached interested parties could now be reported essentially in real time.

There were still, unfortunately, limitations on what could be accomplished. As long as all that was required was the exchange of information, response could be immediate and effective. But some things, such as a doctor responding to a medical emergency, require physical presence. Those who could not afford to have an agent on the spot to respond to their instructions were still essentially impotent. Power remained concentrated in the hands of those who could afford a representative.

The introduction of the Holmes Door changed that. The ability to walk through a Door and instantaneously be in another place ushered in an entirely new class of response. Although the apparatus was too bulky and expensive for individuals to own their own Doors, it was only a matter of time before larger, more institutional users began to show an interest…

The night air was thick with humidity, almost velvety to the touch. A slow-moving line of thunderstorms had passed through late in the afternoon, but had not brought any relief from the oppressive heat.

Pat Connelly was late getting home. Insects flared briefly in her headlights before smashing against the windshield as she hissed down the road, trying to make up time.

Up ahead was an older model Ford, the pair of taillights that she had been following for the last twenty minutes. They had pulled onto I-26 just outside of Charleston, probably after taking a hit at a brightly lit fast-charge station at the top of the ramp. Fords were notorious for getting poor mileage as their batteries got older.

Of course, with the depression gathering momentum and a war on, it wasn’t likely that the owner of the Ford could easily get new batteries. They would just have to make do with what they had for a while longer. Pat could afford to feel smug, she had bought a brand new Canberra just two days before the President had slapped an embargo on imported Australian goods. If its reputation was any indication, she could expect to get years of use out of the car before it required any maintenance.

Suddenly, the car ahead slewed violently to the left. At first, Pat thought that they had swerved to avoid an animal in the road, but the car began to throw showers of sparks. Long strings of dancing orange pinpoints spiraled across the concrete. The car spun nose-for-tail, backing down the road. It began a slow arc, heading for the median.

Pat was already riding her brakes, frantically trying to keep from overrunning the Ford as it slowed. When it hit the rougher pavement at the edge of the road, it shuddered and turned more sharply. It literally plowed the grass in the median, leaving dark furrows where it had passed.

As it came to rest, Pat pulled in behind it, leaving her headlights on so she would be able to see. She started to get out, then froze in confusion. Something was wrong. She could see the interior of the car—all of it, not just a narrow band through the windshield. The front of the car was gone. So were the driver’s legs. Bright arterial blood spurted from the stumps.

Panic hit, simultaneous with a wave of nausea. She wrenched open her door and leaned out, retching. Precious seconds passed before she could master her stomach.

Without looking back at the driver of the Ford, she began pawing for something, anything, that would serve as a tourniquet. A scarf… but she would need another, as both legs were missing. Frantically, she dug through her pocketbook, then realized that the pocketbook’s strap was as good as anything else she might find. She dumped the contents on the seat, placed her foot against the pocketbook, and jerked the strap with her hands, ripping it loose.

It took all the courage she could muster to turn and face the Ford again. The driver, still strapped into the seat, was staring slack-jawed at his thighs. Swallowing hard in a burning throat, she slapped at the distress button on the dash with her palm, automatically broadcasting a radio signal requesting assistance.

Biting her lip, she then did the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.

As the crow flies, Sergeant Owen Rivers was not far away when the MID—Motorist in Distress—alarm on the dash of his highway patrol cruiser went off, but, as the old saw goes, you can’t get there from here. He had to turn his car around, retrace the last twelve kilometers he had driven, travel two kilometers east to a junction with a secondary road that intersected with the Interstate, then speed westwards towards the spot marked on his heads-up display.

By the time he arrived at the wreck, nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed. Before getting out of the car, he sized up the condition of the Ford and its driver and radioed in for an ambulance.

Seconds later, he was feeling for a pulse in the driver of the Ford. If there was one, it was too faint for him to feel.

There had to be at least one other person—the driver of the Canberra. Presumably the one who had tied the makeshift tourniquets. He pulled his flashlight from his belt and looked into the interior of the Canberra. No one.

Frowning, he turned and fanned the grassy median with the beam. It did not take long. She was on her side, just a few meters from where he stood.

Rivers crouched by her side. “Ma’am?”

Blearily, she looked at him, trying to focus behind the beam, on his face. “I tried,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I know ma’am. I understand. Are you hurt?”

This was not a trivial question. She was covered with blood, and, as yet, he did not know whether it had been a single or two car accident.

She shook her head. “Not me. Him,” she said, pointing back to the Ford.

She could be in shock and not feel any pain. “Don’t try to move, ma’am. There’s an ambulance coming.”

Her head shook slowly. “I’m all right. I just… I’m sorry, it was just too much for me… I threw up. I’m OK… promise.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

She nodded.

“Can you stand?”

“I… yes.”

“Let’s get you to my car, then.”

Twenty minutes later, Rivers had a wrecker, an ambulance, another Highway Patrol cruiser, and Pat Connelly’s version of what had happened. He also had his own observations and a few quick measurements of the scars left on the pavement by the Ford as it skidded to its final resting spot, although he was not certain what they would prove. They would not be easily compared to skid marks from rubber tires.

The Ford had experienced a major structural failure, resulting in the front detaching from the body of the car. Without the front tires and the steering mechanism, the driver had, understandably, lost control of the car. The leading edge, dragging on the road, had represented a braking force, and the car had spun around backwards. The driver, who had sustained grave injuries when the car separated, had died of blood loss in spite of first aid given by Pat Connelly. Everything fit together.

Almost…

Neither he nor the other trooper could find the missing front end of the Ford.

Alan Lister, the commissioner of Crisium, the de facto capitol of Luna, sat in his home tunnel, watching the evening news beamed up from Earth. The tunnel’s computer projected scenes of carnage into the air in front of him. The war on Earth continued. The United States, following numerous precedents, was involved in a bloody “act of support” for their Mexican neighbors… without the formality of declaring war. And, lacking a firm sense of direction, they were making a horrible mess of it.

Brazil, the aggressor, had chewed its way northwards out of South America. Facing drought, crop failures and famine, the Brazilians had begun a desperate war, decimating the poorly equipped and inexperienced armies of the other South American countries. Central America had come next. The Mexicans had given them their first serious resistance, but it had not been enough. The Yucatan peninsula had fallen and virtually everything south of Mexico City was in Brazilian hands. The battered and demoralized troops on the outskirts of the Mexican capitol were not expected to hold out for much longer. Stories told by refugees filtering north out of Puebla and Tlaxcala were enough to suggest that it was not too soon, to start inquiries into war crimes.

Anne, Alan’s wife, came up behind him and slid her hands down across his chest, encircling his neck. “There’s nothing you can do, babe. Quit torturing yourself.”

“We may have declared independence, but I can’t forget that I was born an American. It hurts to see this happening.”

“Then why watch?” she asked reasonably.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I… it just seems as though there ought to be something we could do to help.”

“Alan, our entire population up here on Luna is less than that of one decent-sized city down on Earth. It’s not as though we could send them enough troops to count for anything.”

“I know, I know. Logically, I tell myself that we’re safe up here, and that we have no obligation to do anything whatsoever about what’s happening on Earth, but emotionally, I feel that I should be doing something.”

“Does the ability to look down upon all the mere mortals of Earth make you a god?” she asked.

He gestured at the news projection. “I’m virtually omniscient, but not omnipotent. I’m a pretty poor excuse for a god.”

“You’re going to worry yourself sick over this.”

He reached up and took her hands in his, then kissed the palm of each in turn. “Not with you to look after me.”

She bit him gently on the ear. “Come with me. I’ve got an idea… something that will take your mind off the war for a while.”

He rose and followed her towards their bedroom, but as he rounded the corner, he cast one last worried glance over his shoulder at the news.

Private Lawrence Enceas lay on his back in the dirt near the edge of a small clearing, wondering if he would live.

The Brazilians had some kind of variation on a Gatling gun that spewed flat, jagged pieces of metal. Kind of controlled shrapnel; something you could aim. Hell on infantry. Hell on Earth.

Enceas never wanted to hear a sound like that again. A ringing whine that set your teeth on edge. Undertones of metallic buzzing. They said that the magnetic field the thing threw off was powerful enough to stop your watch.

Well, his watch had stopped all right, but it wasn’t the magnetic field that did it. His watch had been on his left arm—the one which was now shredded into something resembling hamburger. He’d also taken hits in his side. At that, he had come off better than Chuck Ripley. Ripley had been point.

The Brazilians had moved in more quickly than anyone had anticipated. With brutal efficiency, they had swept the area clear of all human habitation. Mexican, American, civilian, military… it didn’t matter.

Enceas and his companions had made it easy for them. They had blundered into a Brazilian trap.

Four men had survived the ambush. Three of them were severely wounded. The survivors huddled at the edge of a small clearing and watched. Two hours had passed since they had called for evacuation. They had been told to look for the “Kicker,” the KK-103, in twenty minutes. It had never arrived.

Brewster, who was unhurt, stood a one in a million chance of walking out. None of the three wounded would live long enough to see the next sunrise without medical intervention.

Except for the flies and the heat, Enceas was about as comfortable as he could hope to be. The batteries in the nerve blocks would outlast him, and the supercoagulants had all but stopped the blood loss. He had his gun by his right hand, but had doubts as to whether he would be able to fight effectively when the Brazilians finally got around to checking on their missing men.

That was the Brazilian way. Three man teams went out, armed to the teeth. If one didn’t report back, the Brazilians sent a hundred after them. Overwhelming, crushing force was the response to every provocation, no matter how slight.

Far away to the north, he heard a faint buzzing sound. Muted by distance, it could have been the Brazilians. Then again, it could have been a fly, coming to join the cloud tormenting him.

As things stood, Enceas expected to die during the night. Intellectually, the thought displeased him, but the drugs had blunted his emotional reaction. He was alert, but once-removed. They had been lavish in using the contents of the medkit. Either they would get picked up in time… or they would not. In either case going sparingly on the drugs would count for nothing.

The unspoken plan was for Brewster to watch over them until they died, then head north, trying to find, and penetrate, the line from behind. Whether he would make it was anybody’s guess. Enceas doubted that he would, but kept his opinions to himself.

With surprising speed, a sibilant whisper approached from the south. It flew slightly east of the clearing, then looped and came back, slowing as it approached. Warily, the nose of a Brazilian Jaguar poked over the edge of the trees surrounding the clearing as it hovered in VTOL mode.

In one smooth motion, Brewster swung his gun up, braced his shoulder against the bole of a tree, and sighted on the Jaguar. Three quick reports followed.

Muzzle flash provides an accurate assessment as to the position of the enemy. The automatic weaponry in the nose of the plane backtracked the flares and fired. Brewster tucked his arms in, his back pressed against the trunk. He grimaced as bark shredded from the far side of the tree. As the burst ended, he squeezed off two more shots.

This time, the Jaguar came over the edge of the trees. With sinister grace, it slowly lowered itself into the clearing. The nose remained oriented on Brewster’s tree.

Brewster peered carefully around the trunk, but only far enough to see the very tip of the wing. When the Jaguar’s wing was just three meters above the ground, Brewster calmly stepped from behind the tree, lined up his sights, and fired directly into the face of the pilot, who was staring down at him. The first two shots ricocheted from the clear canopy. The third starred the plastic. The fourth and fifth penetrated, even as the forward cannon let loose, spitting explosive shells into the forest above and behind him.

The Jaguar executed a flat spin, slewing into the trees only a few meters away from the Americans. The left wing buckled as it hit the trees, tilting the opposite side until it hit the ground and bent. The groaning of the metal was clearly audible above the sound of the engines. Then the fuselage simply sat down. The heat from the exhaust started fires in the tree debris and underbrush.

Brewster looked down at Enceas, “I think it’s time to go.”

Enceas looked at him as though he was crazy. “Why in hell did you go and shoot at it? Now they know we’re here.”

He shook his head. “They already knew. That’s why he hovered up there,” Brewster said, gesturing towards the tree tops. “Those things have a mass spectrometer in the nose. They know the signature of the powder in our shells. For all I know, they have the profile of the volatiles in the soles of our boots.”

“Jesus,” Enceas breathed.

“Taking him out will buy us time, but not much.”

“You act like it was easy.”

Brewster shrugged. “A design flaw in the Jaguar. The eight millimeter guns can depress, but the cannons can’t. When he couldn’t get me with the eights, he had to come down to our level to use the cannons, eyeball to eyeball. I knew I could crack the canopy if I could get in enough shots. It was a calculated risk.”

“Your calculated risk wasn’t good enough for Tommy,” Harry Hughes said from behind them. “He caught one that missed the tree.”

“And then there were three…” Enceas said quietly.

Daylight was no help.

The late afternoon Sun was blasting down on the concrete ribbon of I-26. The surface of the road shimmered in the heat. Sporadic traffic whistled by, almost close enough to touch.

The wind of each vehicle’s passage blew Sergeant Owen Rivers’s hair across his forehead. Absently, he reached up and raked his fingers through it to restore his part, only to have it blown again by the next truck. His attention was on the road surface, trying to read the story of what had happened the night before.

The highway patrol cruiser sat behind him on the outside shoulder of the road. He opened the door and reached inside, pulling out the electronic note pad on the front seat. He didn’t really need it. He remembered the accident clearly. It was simply a focus for his attention.

Logic dictated that the missing part of the car should be nearby. After all, it wasn’t as though it was going to drive off by itself, especially since the batteries were in the back half of the car. How far could it go without power?

Keeping his eyes on the scars in the concrete, Rivers walked their length. Nothing. Absolutely nothing that he hadn’t seen the night before. He prided himself in being thorough, but for once he was wishing that he had left something undone. There had to be some clue here that would give him a better understanding of what had happened to the Ford.

Loose ends annoyed Rivers. It chipped away at his professional pride to leave questions unanswered. Many of the cases he was proudest of were ones where he had worried at some seemingly insignificant detail until it opened up entirely new avenues to investigate.

And over three hundred kilos of missing plastic and aluminum alloy was hardly something he could ignore. There was a rational explanation for what had happened. All he had to do was find it.

Cursing under his breath, he walked back to the beginning of the scar. The key was here, at this end, not at the end where the remnants of the Ford had finally left the pavement.

He mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve, staring at a fast food container, already yellowed by the Sun. Within another week it would be dust. Throwing litter out of cars was still illegal, but hardly the problem it had once been. Some idiot had thrown it out the window….

His eyes narrowed and a slow smile crept across his face. What Monica called his “gotcha” look.

At one hundred kilometers per hour, nothing dropped straight to the ground. It fell in an arc. Carefully, he backtracked a short ways along the lane the Ford had been using. Right about… here.

Even on his hands and knees, he nearly missed it. There was a tiny groove, less than the thickness of his fingernail, that cut diagonally across the pavement. The sides were so smooth as to be almost polished. The impossibly sharp edges were already crumbling where tires had crossed. Another twenty-four hours and the cut would have been nearly invisible. He opened his knife and tried to slip the blade into the crack. The tip went in, but the blade was too thick to penetrate further.

He stood, staring at the hairline groove in the pavement. It was too smooth to have been there long. That left the question as to whether it was related to the previous night’s wreck. Rivers didn’t believe in coincidences, but he failed to see how he could relate the two.

Disappointed, he headed back to the cruiser. He had hoped to find something a little clearer than a slot in the pavement. Even if it was related to the accident, it still didn’t give him a clue as to the whereabouts of the rest of the Ford.

Lawrence Enceas was deeply weary. He had lost too much blood; he was weak. Even Brewster, still unhurt, was tiring quickly. For every step Enceas and Hughes took, he took ten, circling them, doubling back to check for pursuit, scouting ahead. Harry Hughes, the only other surviving member of their team, was ashen faced, and for the past hour had spoken only when directly addressed.

Shortly after abandoning the clearing, they had seen a small Brazilian force working their way silently through the trees, but had managed to avoid being spotted. There was no question about it, they were being hunted.

Enceas and Hughes, leaning on each other for support, stumbled into the small depression where Brewster was waiting for them after checking the path ahead. They lay gasping for breath for a few moments before anyone spoke.

“Gentlemen,” Brewster said. “I have good news and I have bad news.”

“Go for it,” Enceas panted.

“The good news is that there’s another clearing ahead that would be perfect for a pickup.”

“The bad news is that there’s no pickup coming,” Enceas finished for him.

“Well, actually, the bad news is that the clearing is recent. Possibly only a few hours old. It might be a trap.”

“So you think the Brazilians cut a hole as a lure for us?” Enceas asked.

“Maybe, maybe not. I didn’t see anyone, but that’s no guarantee. Those assholes wrote the book on jungle tricks.”

“Is it big enough for a Kicker to get in?”

“I think so.”

They were silent for a few minutes. The only sounds were of labored breathing and the buzzing of flies. Enceas was startled to hear Hughes speak.

“What made the hole?”

Brewster’s mouth tightened. “Looks like a fire fight. The trees are chewed all to hell. There are enough toothpicks in there to keep Godzilla happy for a thousand years.”

Hughes tried to snort in derision, but began coughing raggedly. As soon as he could control his breathing, he said, “Hell, let’s do it. Anything’s better than sitting down and waiting to die.”

Brewster looked at Enceas. “And you?”

“Let’s call in from here. Assuming that we get through, they’ll already be on the way by the time we get to the clearing.”

They spent ten minutes trying to raise an answer on the radio, but without result.

“Let’s get this over with,” Enceas said. “If either of us,” he gestured at Hughes, “pass out, you’ll have a helluva time trying to move us. We might as well make the clearing while we can still move under our own power.”

Slowly, fighting exhaustion, they moved ahead. Hughes tripped and fell, dislodging one of the electrodes from his pain blocker. By the time they got it taped back into place, his forehead was covered with a sheen of fresh sweat and his breath was coming in short gasps.

Supporting him with his good arm, Enceas took his left side, while Brewster took his right. Together, the three of them lurched forward.

True to Brewster’s word, it looked as though a giant beaver with dull teeth had been chewing on the fallen tree trunks in the clearing. They collapsed against the trunk of a tree still standing at the edge of the clearing, sliding to the ground.

“Try to call again,” Enceas said.

“Let me catch my breath,” Brewster said. “I don’t see how anyone survives in this heat.”

“We won’t, unless we get somebody to come after us.”

Brewster pulled out the radio and switched it on. “Eagle Three to Mojo… Eagle Three to Mojo…” After trying unsuccessfully for several minutes, he switched the internal recorder to endless repeat and propped the radio against a rock at his side. As an afterthought, he reached over and flipped the switch to increase the transmitting power. It would drain the batteries more quickly, but might punch through to someone who could come get them.

“You sure it’s a good idea to leave it going like that?” Enceas asked. “The Brazilians will follow that signal in.”

“You have a better idea?”

Enceas lowered his head. “No.”

Brewster gave him a forced grin. “At least it will end the suspense.”

Enceas closed his eyes and allowed his head to slip back against a fallen trunk. “Wake me up when it’s time to die. I wouldn’t want to miss the show.”

Lisa Entwhistle was beginning to get concerned. The reservations at the restaurant were for seven and Dan’s flight hadn’t arrived yet. It would take nearly an hour to get back to the house in five o’clock traffic, at least thirty minutes for him to take a shower and change, and an additional twenty minutes to get to the restaurant. She checked her watch for the hundredth time. It was going to be close.

Originally, they had scheduled more than enough time. He had been due in over an hour ago, but there had been delays on the other end. Now Lisa was left wondering if she should call the restaurant and cancel the reservations.

The dinner was to be a special one. Dan was taking her and her parents out to eat, for the express purpose of asking their blessing for him and Lisa to be married. Officially, her parents had not been told, but unofficially she was certain that they knew. What other reason would he be taking them out to eat at such a fancy restaurant?

She glanced at the watch again, silently urging the plane to fly faster.

A man with graying hair walked up to the ticket counter and picked up the microphone. Without preamble, he said, “Would those of you who are waiting to meet passengers on North American Air, Flight 371, from Charlotte, please come with me?”

Lisa frowned. Clearly, this was going to be bad news. Hopefully, he would have some information as to when the plane could be expected to get in. It wasn’t until he led them into a large conference room a short ways down the corridor that she realized that something far more serious was happening.

The twenty or so people who filled the room were strangely silent. They did not talk among themselves; there was no idle chatter.

The man stood ramrod straight at the front of the room. When everyone had found seats, he began, “My name is Edwin Marchand. I’m the executive director at this facility, and I’m afraid that I have some bad news for you.” He paused before continuing. “As you know, Flight 371 took off from Charlotte later than planned—almost fifty minutes late. Everything seemed fine until about ten minutes ago. At that point, the plane disappeared from our radar. At the same time, we lost telemetry from the plane itself. Now, it is true that occasionally the onboard computer loses communication with the ground-based systems. Under normal circumstances, the piloting computer is sufficiently competent to bring the flight in without further communication from us. Unfortunately, the fact that we lost radar contact with the plane at the same time would seem to indicate that there may be a more serious problem. I would like to ask that all of you remain in this room until we have more information. Some of the airport staff will be here in just a few minutes. They will have drinks and food so that you will be comfortable while you wait. I will personally bring you up to date on what’s going on as soon as I have any further information. Thank you.” With that, he turned and walked out of the room.

Lisa was desperately trying to ignore the cold acid of fear in her stomach. She glanced at her watch again. Five-fifteen. No matter how things turned out, it was becoming clear that they would not make it to the restaurant on time. She could not make herself admit yet that Dan might not arrive at all.

She stood and walked rapidly to the door. A woman in a seat nearby said, “He told us to stay here.”

“I’m just going to make a call, I’ll be right back,” Lisa assured her.

Fortunately, there was a bank of phones not far down the corridor. She dialed the restaurant and canceled the reservations. Then she dialed her parents. “Mom? Something’s happened to Dan’s plane. They haven’t told us what yet, but from the way they’re acting, it’s serious and I’m beginning to get scared.”

She talked for a few moments longer, promising to call as soon as she knew anything more, then hung up. As she turned to go back into the conference room, she saw two men in military uniform approach the door, taking up positions on either side.

The sight of their uniforms and the businesslike expressions on their faces chilled her more than anything the man from the airport had said. If they were guarding the door, then that implied that there was something to guard against.

She was nearly to the door when a second, more ominous, possibility occurred to her. What if the men were being stationed there to prevent the people inside from leaving?

Lisa shrugged off the thought quickly, reasoning that they were there to keep the inevitable reporters from asking insensitive questions. But that thought led to the inevitable corollary—that the plane had crashed and that there might be fatalities. She didn’t want to face that possibility.

Momentary panic flared as she struggled to suppress the thought, only to be overwhelmed by another realization.

Why were the two men dressed in military uniforms? Mr. Marchand had said that airport staff would be with them shortly. Surely the police or airport security would be sufficient to keep reporters at bay. Something was amiss.

Acting on impulse, she walked past the conference room door without slowing. Down the concourse a bit was a dining area. Clearly, she needed to get her thoughts in order before she faced anyone. Either she was being unreasonably paranoid, or there was a strong chance that whatever had happened was going to be covered up.

On reaching the diner, she slid into the nearest booth, only to sit staring at the menu without really seeing it. If the military was involved then that implied… what? That Dan’s flight had been shot down? Don’t be silly. They were nowhere near the battles raging down in Mexico. What if it was a terrorist act? Could someone have smuggled a bomb on board the plane? But wouldn’t that fall under the province of the FBI? Surely not the military.

In her mind’s eye, she reviewed the uniforms. Not combat fatigues, like in the news. These were white. They looked like the uniforms she’d seen worn around the Naval base. Navy? That raised more questions than it answered. But if…

Just as she was beginning to consider this, Edwin Marchand and another man in a Naval uniform walked rapidly past.

The man in uniform was talking. “… And have someone check the gate to see if anyone arrived late to meet that plane. If so, take them to the conference room. Under no circumstances are any of those people to leave that room. Have…” The two of them passed out of her hearing.

She bit her lip, counted to ten to let them get farther down the corridor, then walked as fast as she dared in the opposite direction.

Something, somewhere, wasn’t right.

If Eric Gantt had gone straight home from his job at the quarry, he would have missed seeing it. But, as it happened, his friend Chuck Walters was staring under the hood of his car, and Gantt stopped to see if he could lend a hand.

“The damned car is pulling to the left—hard,” Walters groused. “Either the wheel bearings have seized, or the left drive motor is getting weak.”

“Won’t drive a straight line, huh?”

“Not unless I fight it. Makes me wish I’d gotten a single motor drive, instead of one with a motor at each wheel.”

“Yeah, but then you’ve got the losses in the drive train.” Gantt leaned under the open hood and fingered the cables leading to the electric drive motor. “You’re sure you don’t have a high resistance connection somewhere in this line? Corrosion would cut the current coming through, and the motor’d seem weak.”

Walters scowled at him, then at the car. “Hadn’t thought of that. Got a minute?”

Gantt glanced at his watch. “Sure, plenty of time.” He ran his fingers back up the wiring harness. “Oh, yeah. Something else. We ought to check the voltage regulator for this side. I think Chrysler uses two smaller ones instead of one big one. If that’s OK, then we—”

His voice was blotted out by the wailing of the klaxon warning all personnel to stand clear.

Walters flinched. “Jesus! I don’t know why they bother with that thing. By the time they drop the rock, everybody’s on their way home. It’s not like anybody’s stupid enough to stay in the hole when it’s time to shoot.”

Gantt turned back to the car. “It’s the law, Chuck. If MSHA catches them not sounding—”

There was a massive, earth-rending burrrump as the charges blew in the quarry behind them. Even before the rough-edged thunder of falling boulders ceased, Gantt knew something was wrong. There were undertones of rending metal beneath the sound of the rock. He turned and ran across the grassy strip along the edge of the parking lot towards the chain link fence surrounding the pit.

Walters rushed up behind him. “What was it? Did some moron leave a… truck…” his voice trailed off into stunned silence.

“What the hell?” Gantt muttered.

Protruding at an angle from the solid rock wall of the quarry was the nose of a commercial airliner, battered, but still recognizable.

Lisa Entwhistle was torn. On one hand, she was frantic to find out what had happened to Dan’s flight—and whether he was all right. On the other, she had to acknowledge that if she was confined to a room in the airport, control would pass from her hands into those of the executive director and the men in Naval uniforms. They might, or might not, choose to tell her anything.

Then again, if her suspicions were correct, there was the possibility that anything they told her could very well be a tissue of lies.

She drove erratically, sparing only a bare minimum of her attention for the road. Finally, after half an hour of agonizing indecision, she pulled her car up next to a tele booth in the parking lot of a pet shop that had been closed for two years.

The low-powered link in her car’s dash sought the dial tone from the booth without her having to get out of the car. When connection had been established, she dialed the airport.

A face appeared over her dash, seemingly in the windshield. “Good afternoon. My name is Susan, how may I help you?”

Lisa began haltingly. “My, uh, husband was due in this afternoon, and he’s not home yet. I was just wondering if you have any flights which are late.”

“Do you know your husband’s flight?”

She took a deep breath before answering. “North American Airlines, Flight 371.”

Lisa watched as the woman’s smile turned carefully bland. “Ma’am, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to transfer you to the executive director’s office. I’m sure that they’ll be able to help you.”

The image over Lisa’s dash went to a neutral blue as soft music played under a voice extolling the virtues of the airport’s restaurants. It took ten seconds for the implications of what the woman had said to sink in.

Without even bothering to disconnect, Lisa floored the accelerator, quickly putting her car out of range of the booth.

She began to shake. Clearly, something was wrong if they were forwarding inquiries to the executive director’s office. Judging from what she had seen and heard so far that afternoon, that was only likely to result in more indirection.

A small voice deep inside of her began to scream in agony. It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the fiction that Dan was alive.

A charge station further down the road had another tele booth. She pulled in.

A polite, recorded voice came up when her car established contact with the booth. “You have a call still in progress on another line. Do you wish to resume that call?”

“No!” Lisa screamed. “Hang up!”

“That call has been terminated,” the voice said calmly. “Would you like to place another call?”

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, fighting tears, Lisa said, “Yes. Place a call to the nearest NewsNet office.”

If she couldn’t get to the bottom of this, perhaps someone who knew how to get around news blackouts could. Maybe they could get straight answers about what had happened to Dan.

Sergeant Owen Rivers of the South Carolina Highway Patrol sat on the hood of his car, watching figures swarm along the edge of the man-made cliff in the rock quarry. Although he was off duty, the dispatcher had called to let him know that something distinctly odd had happened. She thought that he might be interested, especially after the incident with the Ford.

She had been right.

Six high intensity flood lamps were spaced in an arc across the floor of the rock quarry. They were all focussed upwards on the silvery aluminum nose of what had once been a jet. Two more were angled down from the top of the wall of rock.

The central problem, of course, was that the jet had no business being where it was—seven meters below the surface of the ground. Ignoring the blatant impossibility of it all, he had called the airport to see if any airplanes were missing. None were. He had that straight from the executive director himself.

Rivers hadn’t decided yet whether that made matters worse or better.

He had gathered a few basic facts after arriving three hours earlier. The workers had spent the afternoon filling holes drilled in the upper surface of the exposed rock face with explosives. The blast had gone off on schedule, a little after five o’clock. Dropping the wall of rock late in the day gave any unstable boulders time to fall before the workers returned in the morning.

When the rock fell, it had revealed the nose of the jet. The exposed portion had been crushed and twisted by the force of the explosion, and by the rock falling over it. Indeed, the drill had narrowly missed the plane on one side; the smooth, semicircular scar of the bore hole was easily seen.

Access to the interior of the plane had been gained by cutting open the sheet metal on top of the fuselage. Those who had been inside told of carnage beyond their worst nightmares. There had been people aboard. None had survived. Like a car wreck, the plane had stopped abruptly, but the passengers had kept going; most had not been belted in.

Rivers felt no need to see the inside for himself. He was content to sit on the hood of his car, slap mosquitoes, and contemplate the impossible.

Owen and Monica Rivers lived at the end of a court. The house was smallish, but adequate for their needs. They had no children and few friends.

Owen carried his first cup of coffee to the table, sat, and called out, “Computer, bring up the news, please.”

The computer was quite capable of reading the news items aloud, but he preferred silence in the morning, so it projected the articles in print over the table for him to read. The lead story, as usual, was the war. Casualties were detailed. Brief clips of soldiers running past the mangled metal of a crashed and burning plane. The Mexicans, aided by the Americans, had managed to take back a small amount of territory west of Mexico City. Reading between the lines gave a different story, however.

Monica sat next to him, blowing the steam away from her mug. “Bad?” she asked.

Owen grimaced. “I’m afraid so. They’re doing their best to make it sound like we’re making progress, but the plain fact of the matter is that the Brazilians are going to take Mexico City within the week.”

She shook her head. “How long do you think it will be before the President makes up her mind to do something?”

Owen smiled bleakly. “She’s already taken too long. Did you see the political cartoon yesterday of her fiddling while Rome burned?”

“Yes, but I didn’t think it was funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. That idiot woman just can’t seem to get it through her thick skull that pacifism only works if everyone else is also a pacifist. All it takes is one bully to spoil the party.” He grunted. “If she doesn’t declare war pretty soon, the Texans are liable to do it for her. They’re getting just a bit worried over there.”

“Can you blame them?”

He shook his head. “Nope.” He gestured for the computer to flip to the next item. After reading for a few seconds, he began to mutter angrily under his breath.

Monica glanced his way, but knew better than to interrupt when he had that intent look on his face.

When he finished the article, he sat back slowly in his chair, eyes staring into the distance. “Well, well, well… now that is interesting!”

“What happened?”

“I went back out last night, right?”

Monica nodded. “You were awful quiet when you came in so I didn’t ask what it was about.”

“I know this sounds crazy, but they did a routine blast at a quarry and, lo and behold, there was a plane in the rock.”

“In the rock?” his wife asked, frowning in disbelief.

“I saw this with my own eyes.”

“Owen, the last I heard, two objects couldn’t occupy the same space at the same time. What happened to the rock?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. I’m just telling you what I saw. Not only was it a plane, but it was a big plane. A commercial jet.”

Monica looked as though she was beginning to fear for her husband’s sanity, but held her silence.

“Now, setting aside questions of how the plane actually came to be there, complete with passengers—”

“What did the passengers have to say?”

“Urn… nothing. They were all dead. I didn’t go inside, but they told me that it looked like the aftermath of a bad crash. Messy.”

She shuddered. “Excuse me for asking. I think I’ll just keep a respectful silence from here on out.”

“As if that wasn’t bad enough, I, personally, was assured by the executive director of the airport that no planes were missing. Now I see here,” he gestured at the news projected before him, “that somebody named Lisa Entwhistle has come forward, saying that a plane was due in late yesterday afternoon, but never arrived.”

“But—”

“The article quotes her as saying that the executive director and the Navy, the Navy mind you, were trying to hold people incommunicado at the airport. She slipped out before they got organized.”

“Owen, are you sure that you know what you’re saying?”

He snorted. “Hell, woman, I’ll personally guarantee you that I don’t know what I’m saying. None of this makes a damn bit of sense.”

“But… the Navy? If a plane is missing, wouldn’t it make more sense if the Air Force were involved?” She sipped at her coffee and sighed in resignation. “All right. What does the Navy have to say? Surely someone has gotten around to asking them.”

“Yesterday the Navy was denying that anything had happened. Today the Navy is mum. Totally. They won’t even say ‘no comment.’ ”

Monica threw up her hands in exasperation. “Finally! Something that makes sense. Something, somewhere went wrong and they’ve started a cover-up. That much I can understand.”

Jennifer Holmes lived alone in a small tunnel deep in Crisium. The woman who had invented the Holmes Door was more comfortable with a life of solitude than with the celebrity to which she was entitled.

While actually very attractive, she was self-conscious about her right hand, which had no fingers, the result of a cogenital deformity. The rounded palm was both the source of her greatest strength and her greatest weakness.

Her early interest in mathematics had been inspired by the very fact that she could not count to ten on her fingers as other children could. Her ability to convert mentally from base seven, five fingers and two palms, to base ten, had led to other challenges. Numbers were pure and clean—and they did not tease her about her deformity.

Her insecurity about her appearance had caused her no end of difficulty in maintaining personal relationships with men. All of her liaisons had been with other mathematicians, men with no more personality than the pencils they used to solve equations. She didn’t dislike men, she simply didn’t understand them.

Since she had virtually no social life, Jenny spent most of her spare time reading. Books provided her, at least in her imagination, with the social contacts she lacked in real life. She had two large bookshelves filled with old-fashioned paper books. Anything else she wanted could be read off the terminal set into the wall.

She made at least a cursory attempt to keep up with the news, even though she regarded it more as an intrusion than as something actually worthwhile. The local Lunar news was mildly interesting. Anything beamed up from Earth she usually ignored, as it seemed less and less relevant as time went by. It had been years since she had lived on Earth and she had no intention of going back.

The news was muttering in the background as she prodded the contents of her refrigerator, trying to decide what to fix for dinner. She held up a plate of leftovers from the weekend and examined it. It needed to be eaten soon or it would go bad.

The voice behind her said something about a plane missing in South Carolina. Mentally, she shrugged. It was a sad thing when planes went down. So many lives lost at once…

Still holding the leftovers, she eyed a small plastic basket of strawberries. Dessert?

“…Less than an hour later, a jet was discovered encased in the rock of a rock quarry not far away from the point where the plane left the radar screens…”

Jenny frowned. Encased in rock? That didn’t make sense. She glanced back over her shoulder at the pictures being projected over her table. Aluminum skin protruding from a rough rock wall. Well, it looked like a jet. People were lifting what appeared to be… were body bags on ropes out of a hole cut in the top of the fuselage.

Without conscious volition, Jenny slowly turned to face the image.

“So far, over seventy positive identifications have been made in what must count as the most inexplicable air disaster in history. This is Donald Sayers for NewsNet—”

Jenny placed the plate of leftovers on the counter next to the refrigerator without looking, then said, “Computer?”

“Yes, Jenny?”

“Run a search back on that last thing. The one about the plane.”

A barely perceptible pause ensued. “I’ve found four items related to that story.”

Jenny slid into the one seat at the table. “Give them to me in chronological order.”

Ten minutes later she sat back. What was bizarre and mysterious to those on Earth was horribly clear to her.

“Computer?”

“Yes, Jenny?”

“Call Alan Lister.”

“At home?”

“Yes. If he isn’t there, find him. I don’t care if he’s put a block on traces. Find him. This is important.”

Alan Lister was already eating when the computer announced the incoming call. Inwardly he cursed, but it came with the territory. Being commissioner of Crisium meant that he was the one that people came to when things went wrong.

“Answer the call.”

Jenny’s face appeared, seemingly across the table from him. “Alan, somebody on Earth is building a Door,” she said without preamble.

He blinked. “A Holmes Door? How do you know?”

“That jet that ended up in the rock quarry.”

“I saw something about that. I assumed that it was silly season stuff.”

“Anything that kills a couple of hundred people isn’t a joke, Alan.”

“Point taken.”

“They don’t know what they’re doing. Obviously, they’ve managed to create a singularity, but they can’t control it.”

Belatedly, he was beginning to see where she was going. “And that’s dangerous.”

“You might say that,” she said dryly. “If the next jet ends up here in Crisium, I imagine it might cause us a few problems.”

Alan put down his fork. “What are the odds of that happening?”

“Virtually zero,” she admitted.

“The Door being what it is, theoretically they can place a mass anywhere in a sphere surrounding the Door apparatus. The radius of that sphere will depend on how much power they’re using. Frankly, I doubt that they’re using enough to put something up here, but in the meantime they could kill a lot of innocent people if they keep going the way they’re going.”

He chewed his lip for a moment. “So what do you want to do about it?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far. I saw something on the news twenty minutes ago, checked into it, then called you. I thought it was something you ought to be aware of.”

“What do they want with a Door? Surely they aren’t going to try to open a Door up here.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s what they’re up to, Alan. I think they want one for the war. Even though I don’t know much about military strategy, I can see how the ability to put troops down behind enemy lines would come in handy. No transit time. Just step out, do your job, then go home. You could sleep in your own bed that night.”

Nodding slowly, he said, “Can’t be shot down or blown up like a ship or a plane. The element of surprise alone would be worth it. Be anywhere, anytime.” He took a deep breath. “OK, so the military wants a Door for the war.”

“The Navy,” Jenny put in. “When the jet disappeared, it was the Navy who showed up, issuing denials right and left.”

Anne, seated next to Alan, spoke for the first time, “The Navy?”

Alan shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. Put a Door on a troop ship and have instantaneous amphibious landings. Storm the beaches and that sort of thing.”

“Alan, there’s no need for that,” Jenny reminded him gently. “Just put the Door on a base back safely within the States. Ships, planes, and tanks just became obsolete. All you have to do is open a Door a thousand meters above a target, roll a bomb over the threshold, then close the Door, wash your hands and send out for pizza.”

“Right,” he said sheepishly. “I guess I’ll need more time to get used to the idea.”

Anne said, “What about the Brazilians? Surely, they’ve had the same idea. What if they develop a Door first?”

Alan flinched. “Jenny, how about it? Do the Brazilians have anybody good enough to do the math?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “there’s Barros… and Vargas might be able to do it.”

Something feral came into his eyes. “Then we’ll just have to move first.” Jenny’s eyes widened. “I think I just opted out. Every time you want me in on the Door, people get killed.”

Alan’s mouth tightened. “That’s what war’s all about, Jenny.”

Supercoagulants had been around for about twenty years. Applied topically, they acted quickly to reduce blood loss. The technique was nothing more than an extension of the body’s own ability to scab over a wound. They were not, however, at their best with shredded tissue. There was simply too much surface area involved.

Lawrence Enceas was weak from loss of blood. In an earlier war he would already have been dead, or risking gangrene from the overlong application of a tourniquet. As it was, the supercoagulants had done their best, reducing his blood loss to a slow seepage.

Under ideal conditions, he would have been removed to a hospital for surgery to debride and reconstruct his mangled arm. Transfusions of blood and antibiotics, and plenty of bed rest would have stabilized his condition; his prognosis would have been good. However, he had had no choice but to remain active. The Brazilian patrols would find them sooner or later, but there was nothing to be gained from making it easier for them—the Brazilians did not take prisoners.

Eyes closed and breathing slowly, Enceas listened to the buzzing of the flies. He no longer had the energy to brush away the ones that landed on his face. He knew where the rest were, but tried not to think about it. The bandages would have to keep them from landing directly on his arm. Of course, under the circumstances, it didn’t matter. He would be dead long before infection could become a serious problem.

Brewster shifted position only to wipe the sweat from his eyes. It was late in the afternoon and the temperature was beginning to drop, but the heat and humidity were still oppressive.

Harry Hughes roused himself on one elbow. “How long do you think it’ll take them?”

“Take who?” Brewster asked.

“The Brazilians. That radio’s been broadcasting our position for over an hour now. They know damn well where we are. One Jaguar would be enough to do us in.”

Brewster chuckled softly. “They don’t know that period. The last one they sent didn’t come back. They don’t know that there are only three of us, and they don’t know how well we’re armed. When they come after us, it’ll be with a regiment.”

“If we’re broadcasting for pickup, they know we’re hurting. Elseways, we’d be walking out.”

Brewster seesawed a hand. “Judgment call. Could be that we’re setting a trap for them.”

“That’s a joke,” Enceas put in bitterly. “We were worried that this clearing might be a trap that they had set for us. This whole thing’s nothing but a battle of nerves.”

Brewster nodded philosophically. “Always is. Whoever blinks first, loses.”

Enceas narrowed his eyes. “Is there anything we could do to make them think that there are more of us? It might buy us more time.”

“Not that I can think of.”

A single flat crack came from off to his left. The bark next to Brewster’s ear scarred. He smiled sardonically. “Gentlemen, I believe we have company. Shall we show them how Americans fight?”

“Do we have a choice?” Enceas asked as he painfully rolled into position to face the incoming fire. With his good arm, he dragged his gun up his side and into position, careful to keep low so as not to give the Brazilians a good target. To his left Hughes was doing the same. Brewster slid into position beside him.

Nothing happened. No shots followed the first.

Hughes frowned. “Something’s wrong. Nobody is going to fire one shot and quit.” He craned his neck to look back over his shoulder across the clearing. “I’ll bet they’re—”

The nerve-wracking whine of the Brazilian Gatling gun was simultaneous with the sound of metal fragments sleeting horizontally through the underbrush. Hughes’s head dissolved. Enceas and Brewster reacted simultaneously, flattening themselves against the ground.

Enceas gritted his teeth. “And then there were two.”

Brewster was shaking his head. “Jesus! I should have seen that coming.”

Conventional weapons fire was coming in now, along with the razor-edged metal from the Gatling gun. Shredded leaves and bark drifted down from the trees and brush above them.

Enceas glanced at him. “It isn’t as though we didn’t know that our ticket home had expired.”

Brewster scowled, raised one eye over the fallen tree trunk he was hiding behind, and fired off a quick burst before replying. “Hope springs eternal, and all that. I keep hoping that I’ll see a Kicker floating into the clearing.”

“Don’t bet the farm,” Enceas told him. Without bothering to look, he awkwardly raised his good arm and fired over the trunk in the general direction of the shots. “Don’t forget… we may still have a guy behind us up in a tree, ready to take potshots.”

A deep, resounding whump, almost below the limit of hearing, came across clearly over the sound of the guns.

“What the hell was that?” Brewster demanded.

“Sounded like artillery, but neither side is going to drop shells in here with us this close together. They’d hit their own men.”

“One way to find out,” Brewster said, cautiously looking over the tree.

When he was silent for nearly twenty seconds, Enceas could stand it no longer. “What is it?”

Brewster shook his head slightly. “I dunno. Looks like—”

The Brazilian bullet took him neatly in the eye.

Enceas screwed his eyes shut. “And then there was one.”

Something big opened up. A repeated crump, crump, crump.

Enceas frowned. It sounded like a—

“Any Americans left around here?” boomed a voice. Electronically amplified, it was loud enough to wake the dead.

Crump, crump. A sound he had not heard since training. A short range, rapid-fire mortar. Not a Brazilian weapon, nor Mexican… American.

The whine of the Gatling gun ceased abruptly, as though shut off by a switch. There was none of the usual winding down.

Crump, crump, crump…

“Come on, boys! We don’t have all day, you know! We’ve got other pickups to make,” came the amplified voice.

A trick?

Crump, crump!

Kickers were quiet, but not that quiet. He’d have heard it coming in.

Judging by the sound, the Brazilian fire had been cut in half. Was it safe to look?

Crump.

“Come on, gentlemen! My supper’s getting cold!”

Enceas couldn’t stand it. He carefully inched his head up, ready to duck back instantly. What he saw made him forget fear. Wonder washed through him.

Stretched diagonally across the clearing was a dimly lit hangar-like room. The walls were stone. Soldiers… soldiers in American fatigues were spread prone across the lip of the hangar behind sandbags, directing a steady stream of fire into the trees on the other side of the clearing.

Crump, crump!

The muzzle flash from the mortar lit the Mexican dirt a meter below the floor of the chamber. Below, above, and to the sides of the bizarre apparition, Enceas could still see forest. He had a perfectly clear view into a stone room floating in midair.

“Any Americans left?” bellowed the voice.

Enceas saw the loudspeaker now. The voice was coming from behind the soldiers. He decided to chance it.

“Over here,” he called.

His voice was too weak to carry over the guns. He dropped his gun and seized a bush with his right hand and began shaking it with as much strength as he could muster. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

“We see you. Sit tight.”

What followed made Enceas giddy. The improbable vision of a room hovering in the sky changed perspective, slewing rapidly towards him, pivoting as it came. The edge stopped just short of the trees.

“That’s as close as we can get. Can you make it on your own, or will you need help?”

“Damn well going to try!” Enceas called in reply. Summoning every last bit of energy in his body, he lurched to his feet, stumbling towards the edge of the room.

The bullet caught him in the thigh, taking his leg out from under him, pitching him face forward into the dirt.

Boots slammed into the ground only a hand’s breadth from his face. “Take his arm—Jesus, no, not that one, can’t you see he’s hurt? Got him?”

Strong hands lifted him and he felt himself swung sideways. As his body passed over the threshold, he felt an amazing transformation. When he hit the floor, he weighed only a fraction what he normally weighed. It almost seemed that he was floating. Perhaps blood loss was affecting his perceptions.

A face hovered only inches from his. “Are there any more?”

Confused and entering shock, he whispered, “Any more what?”

“Men. Americans.”

He shook his head slightly. “Only me left. All the rest are dead.”

“Are you sure?” The man demanded.

“Yes.”

The man bellowed, “Cut the Door! Let’s get out of here!”

Instantly, the Mexican rain forest vanished, to be replaced by a solid rock wall.

Comprehension was slow in dawning. “A Holmes Door… neat.”

The man who had been questioning him was already on his feet. He looked down. “What?”

Enceas shook his head slightly. “Nothing.”

A man and a woman swam into his field of view. He felt distant tugging motions as they cut away the leg of his fatigues to begin work. Snatches of conversation floated into his consciousness. “Missed the femur… artery… we’re losing blood pressure, somebody…”

A hand slipped into his and squeezed. “Fight it. Stay here with me.” A woman’s voice.

Summoning the last of his strength, he fought to open his eyes. It was worth it. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jenny.” She blushed as she said it.

“Am I dead?”

“No, and you won’t be if I have anything to do with it. I’m tired of killing people with this Door. Live, damn you… live!” Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m… trying…” he sighed as his hand relaxed, slipping from hers.

“Jenny?” Alan Lister called softly.

“Whatever you want, the answer is no. Not just no, but hell no! Go away. I hate you and I never want to see you again.”

Jennifer Holmes was slumped in the operator’s seat for the Holmes Door. The Plexiglas booth had been hastily armored with steel plates. A small slot had been left open for Jenny to visually observe the Door. She stared out this slot blindly.

Alan closed the door to the control booth behind him. “I wanted to thank you for trying.”

“Every time you ask me to come near this Door, people die, Alan. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“You didn’t kill him. You tried to save him.”

“I didn’t even know his name.”

“His name was Lawrence Enceas.”

She clenched her fists and held them to her ears as though to block out the sound of his voice. “Damn you!” she shrieked. “How dare you come in here and tell me his name?”

“I thought you might like to know.”

Her eyes squeezed shut and a tear slid down her cheek.

“Would you rather have left him to die alone in the jungle?”

A great, shuddering gasp shook her.

“At least here, he was able to see a friendly face before he went.”

Slowly, unwillingly, her hands came down. She rose from the seat and stumbled towards him. He reached out to catch her.

She beat at him feebly with her left fist. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.” She cursed with metronomic regularity as she pounded his chest. “Why do you do this to me?”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her. “I’m sorry, Jenny.”

“He said I was beautiful,” she said softly.

“Jenny, if—”

“Alan, I didn’t want him to die. I moved as fast as I could. It’s just that the signal from their radio was so tiny, so weak that it was hard to get a lock on it from up here.”

“You did a wonderful job, Jenny. No one else could have done it.”

“To think that I was so naive as to think that my Door would be used for good.” She shook her head, sobbing. “It’s been one long descent ever since the Door first opened—commerce, tourism, thrill seeking, riots, and now, warfare. I wanted us to go outwards, into space, not into the deepest, darkest parts of the human soul.”

“Jenny, your Door didn’t cause the Brazilians to start a war. With a little luck, it may even help to end the war.”

“That’s what they said about the atom bomb a hundred years ago, you idiot! It took fifty years of living in daily fear of nuclear holocaust before tensions calmed down enough for governments to put away their missiles. And they still worry about terrorists. How long will it take before people learn to live with my Door? What have I done? How many people will die because of me?”

“How many people will live because of you, Jenny? There’s a war on down there. People need you.” He lifted her chin with his fingertips. “If we move fast enough, we might even save a few next time.”

Alan Lister was haggard. It was two in the morning and there were dark circles under his eyes. His jumpsuit was stained with blood and mud. They had just made the sixth drop in two hours, placing small commando units at carefully selected pressure points. Between drops, they had evacuated the tattered remnants of American and Mexican forces from what had been Mexico City.

The capitol had fallen at dusk. The Brazilians had wasted no time bringing in heavy artillery. Clearly, they were expecting to have to fight to hold their prize. It was up to those running the Door to accomplish by stealth what could not be accomplished openly, with brute force.

The commando teams were setting up to attack critical supply routes. Brazil, lacking a Door, was restricted to using conventional transport methods, mainly over land, to bring in new troops and provisions. If those routes could be choked off, the very rapidity of the Brazilian advance would be its own undoing; they would use up their supplies rapidly and be vulnerable when no more were forthcoming.

The strategy was old. The new wrinkle was the Door itself. With virtually instantaneous transit between two points, they could accomplish things that had only been strategists’ dreams in the past.

The runner came from the hastily arranged command post down the corridor from the Door. He dodged a crate full of medical supplies and came to a stop face to face with Lister. “Sir?”

Alan Lister turned and smiled tiredly at the young man. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Alan?”

“Sorry, sir… I mean Alan. Uh, they want you to pick up Charlie Two now.”

“Seems like we just dropped them.”

The runner glanced at his watch. “Forty-seven minutes ago.”

“Any casualties?”

Involuntarily, the youngster grinned. “No, sir. Not a one.”

“So we’re just taking them home?”

“Fort Bragg, sir. They need to get some sleep. I gather they’re going to be busy again tomorrow.”

“Alan,” Lister reminded him.

“Yes, sir, Alan.”

Lister shrugged helplessly. “I can’t get you to do it, can I?”

“Force of habit, I guess.”

Lister sighed good-naturedly. “Pick up Charlie Two and take them home,” he repeated. “All right, let me go tell Jenny.”

Her reception towards him was considerably different than it had been earlier. “Who and where and where to?”

“Charlie Two…” he ran a finger down a marker board propped against the wall of the control booth and called off the coordinates. “Take ’em back to Bragg.”

She nodded. “Can do.”

He turned to go, but stopped when she said, “Alan?”

“Yeah?”

“About what I said earlier… I’m sorry.”

“No problem, Jenny.”

“I mean it.”

He smiled in understanding. “I know.”

She tried to smile back. “We’re saving some of them. I feel like I’m accomplishing something worthwhile.”

Anne burst through the control booth door, arms laden with containers. “Coffee, anyone?”

Alan said, “You should be in bed, babe. It’s late.”

She looked surprised. “You think you’re telling me something?” To Jenny, she said, “Want to take a break? I’ll run the Door for a bit.”

“Let me make the pickup—it’s rough terrain, and controlling the singularity will be tricky. I’ll let you take them home.”

Anne grinned saucily. “I know enough not to be insulted. I’ve watched you feather this thing in enough times that I’ve acquired a healthy respect for your ability at the controls.”

“You’re learning fast. I just want you to get some more daylight practice before doing a night drop.” She turned to the controls and set the coordinates for the pickup. As she slapped the key to initiate the singularity, she said, “It would be nice if we could take time out and rig an automatic circuit to handle all this. Things would go a lot faster. As it is, we have to home in on a radio beacon on the ground. Even then, we tend to drift a bit.”

Anne held up her hands. “I’m not arguing. Let’s just get the job done. We’ll fine tune the process as we go along.”

“Let’s hope this is over before we have a chance to get good at it,” Jenny replied.

It wasn’t fair.

Commander James Hoffman stood in an unmarked warehouse on the Naval base in Charleston, South Carolina. Before him, half covered by a tarp, was the front end of a car. A Ford. The physical embodiment of his ill fortune.

The Navy, after bitter infighting with the other service branches, had won the Door project. It was to be a crash priority program. The Navy had placed the project with NA-VELEX—Naval Electronic Systems Engineering Center—in Charleston, South Carolina.

It should have been easy. Knowing that something can be done is half the battle. They had indeed managed to create a Holmes singularity. Controlling it, however, had been their undoing. It flew about like a thing possessed. For reasons that they did not understand, it tended to home in on electromagnetic fields. It was drawn to them as a moth is to flame.

The remnants of the car in front of him had been the result of their third test run. They had tried to place the Door singularity in an open field west of the city. Before they could shut off the power, it had whipped across the field, drawn to the electric field thrown off by the drive motors in a car—this car. The driver had lost his legs as a result, leaving NAVELEX with a grisly souvenir that they could not admit to having.

The next day, they had tried again. This time, they had set the singularity to appear in midair. It had seemed safe enough. They had checked scheduled flights and found a time slot when nothing would be in the area. Needless to say, Murphy’s Law dictated that a commercial jet had been late on takeoff from Charlotte. The singularity had swooped in on the jet from behind and devoured it.

But the jet, unlike the car, had not come to rest in the underground bunker where they had set up their test rig. Such a huge mass had overloaded the circuit driving the singularity. Voltages had spiked as the regulators in the power supplies failed. Oscillations had raged through the circuits in the scant seconds before they burned out, creating an echo, an uncontrolled mirror image of the Door. The jet had passed through the Door, then through its doppleganger, a distance of only centimeters. Then the Door system had failed utterly, leaving stunned technicians staring at smoking metal fragments dropped by the plane as it passed through; the Door had not been large enough to accept the entire wingspan.

Panicked, Hoffman had called and spoken to the executive director at the airport, specifically requesting that anyone waiting to meet passengers from that flight be detained, held incommunicado. The airport administration had not understood the urgency of the situation and had not posted guards at the door of the room where the people were being held. The Navy guards he had sent hadn’t gotten to the airport fast enough and a girl had escaped, simply by walking out, minutes before the guards arrived. She had called a news service. From that point on, it had been downhill, a public relations nightmare. In retrospect, it would never have worked anyway—there were too many other people who had known that the plane was due in, people he had no way to control. It was a case of bad judgment, pure and simple.

Working around the clock, they had rebuilt the electronics and were on the verge of another test when a tall, slender man had stepped from midair onto the front lawn of the private residence of the secretary of defense.

Walking slowly and with great difficulty, he had faced down Secret Service bodyguards assigned to protect the secretary, introducing himself as Alan Lister, the commissioner of Crisium, former Lunar colony of the United States, now declared independent.

Once face to face with the secretary, Lister had offered the use of their Door to the military for the duration of the war.

And Hoffman had become a man without a mission. Instantly forgotten.

No promotions, no recognition would come for the man who had failed to produce a Door for his country. But the thing that galled him most was the fact that it had been one of those skinny-assed Loonies who had pulled the rug out from under him.

A textbook example of cutting the supply lines: The first to collapse were the fast attack units at the front. Lacking ammunition and medical supplies, the Brazilian forces fell back along the flanks of the advance. Like a miser reluctant to let go of a particularly shiny bauble, they held Mexico City for as long as they could before retreating. The last night saw particularly savage fighting as newly heartened Mexican troops, aided by American and Canadian forces, took the city street by street, flitting from one burned out hulk of a building to the next.

Viewing the smoking rubble from a low flying plane early the next morning, a NewsNet reporter compared the ruins to the aftermath of the disastrous earthquake of 2017. As if in response, a mild tremor hit at two that afternoon, although there was little left to damage; few were hurt, as the civilian populace had already fled the city.

The Holmes Door was instrumental in winning the battle for Mexico City. Since the United States had stubbornly refused to formally declare war, the military leaders were fighting with one hand tied behind their backs. Unable to mobilize sufficient forces to take the Brazilians by brute force, they were forced into a leaner, more efficient mode of fighting, almost guerilla-like. Strategies based on deployment of thousands of men were hurriedly rewritten for less, then scrapped altogether. All told, fewer than two thousand men passed through the Holmes Door during the war. It was later estimated that they had been more effective than one hundred thousand troops deployed conventionally.

Once Mexico City was regained, the lighting took on a different tone. The aura of invincibility that had surrounded the Brazilian advance began to look rather less complete. Morale of the troops pursuing the Brazilians rose daily.

Tentative plans were made for the final assault on Brasilia.

Jennifer Holmes glanced back worriedly at the man at the controls of the Door. She turned to Alan Lister. “I feel like I’m abandoning my post.”

He smiled. “I know. That’s why I came to get you. You’ll make him nervous if you keep hovering over him the way you’ve been doing.”

“But he’s—”

“He’s going to be just fine,” Lister finished for her. “He’ll need some practice, true, but it will be all right.”

Jenny blushed. “I… it’s not fun, exactly. It’s more like a feeling that I’m needed. Now, I’m superfluous.”

He shook his head, laughing. “Is it not enough that you’ve changed the course of human history? Jenny, every new transportation technology has changed mankind beyond recognition. People started out on foot. Learning to ride animals made an incredible difference in how fast someone could go, how far they could go, and how much they could carry. The wheel was such a potent advance that it’s still in use today. Boats gave us access to water. Planes allowed us to use the air. Rockets brought us here, to Luna. And there things have sat for the past century. Oh, the technology has improved. Cars are more efficient. Planes, too, for that matter. But it was time for a change. We needed a new mode of travel. It’s time to conquer new worlds.”

“That’s what I had hoped,” Jenny said bitterly. “I wanted people to use the Door for space travel, discovery—something noble. I didn’t create the Door so people could use it to kill.”

He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Give it time, Jenny. Throughout history, armies have been among the first users of new technology. As often as not, they were the ones who came up with it in the first place—peaceful uses came later.”

She pointed back at the Door. “Part of me understands that it’s just a tool, neither good nor evil. But it’s hard to look at it that way when a man dies in your arms. My mind and my heart can’t agree on this.”

“Jenny, you’ve created a link that binds us together, regardless of distance. In the long run, I think you’ll see that your Door is capable of far more good than evil.”

She sighed. “I suppose so. I just…” She shook her head. “Too much idealism, too little common sense.”

“Too much common sense can be a problem, too. If you had listened to your common sense, you’d never have created the Door. Who’d believe you could walk though thin air and pop up a quarter of a million miles away?”

They walked in silence for a moment. Then, musingly, she asked, “Remember back when I was working on oxbow universes? I gave up because my common sense took over and told me that what I was trying to do was impossible. That thing with the jet down in South Carolina made me take a fresh look at some of my assumptions.”

Lister blinked. “What did the jet have to do with oxbow universes?”

“Notice that there’s one glaring question that no one has been able to answer. If you put a plane inside a rock formation, where does the rock go?”

“So you’re saying that the rock went somewhere? To one of your oxbow universes?”

“I’m not sure yet. It’s something I’ve been working on in my mind while I’ve been driving the Door the past few days.”

Lister took a deep breath. “Do me a personal favor. Don’t spring anything new on me until the war’s over. I don’t think I could handle it.”

She laughed, more naturally than she had in days. “Oh, it’ll take a while to put this together—at least another week or two.”

Owen Rivers sat on a dock in Charleston harbor, staring moodily at the Cooper River. Ten minutes earlier, a man had left him. A man by the name of Hoffman.

The call had come as a surprise. He had barely gotten his morning coffee poured. There was no video to accompany the voice, which set off alarm bells in his mind. This was a man with something to hide.

The voice had offered to give him certain facts in return for his cooperation. By cooperation, the voice had explained, he meant that Rivers would quit digging into the case of the Ford’s missing front end.

Rivers had been noncommittal until the man had identified himself as being with the Navy. That had piqued his interest, the Navy having been behind the incident with the plane. Was it possible that they had had something to do with the car, as well?

Now, an hour after Rivers had slowly walked the length of the dock to where Hoffman stood, he had answers to his questions. Most of them, anyway. For the rest, he could read between the lines.

The only catch was that he couldn’t do anything with the knowledge. He couldn’t close the case, at least not officially. Hoffman had pointed out the fact that the information he was about to receive was classified, and that the Navy would not look kindly upon someone who let out military secrets.

Caught between a rock and a hard place.

It wasn’t that he had even been that close. The Navy had simply been afraid that he might stumble upon something damaging. They had been burned badly enough over their ill-advised attempt to cover up the loss of the plane. They certainly didn’t want to go through that again if they could avoid it.

Rivers sighed. At least his curiosity had been assuaged. And his professional pride.

He didn’t believe in so-called Acts of God. Things happened for reasons. Nice, tidy, logical chains of events led to observable end results. The missing front of the car, however, had tempted him to consider divine intervention. Now the case had come firmly back to Earth, and he felt relieved.

Levering himself to his feet, he gazed out across the water to the east. Somewhere out there, roughly five kilometers past the mouth of the harbor, the front of a Ford was attracting the curiosity of the fish. Keeping it around had been too big a risk, so they had dumped it the night before.

Somehow, knowing where it was, even if it was a long ways from the groove in the pavement out on I-26, made him feel better. Rationality once again ruled the world. Things made sense again. And if he couldn’t write it up… well, that was just the way it would have to be.