The Forge of God by Greg Bear Page A

before, his confirmation as Secretary of Defense, replacing Hampton's more hawkish appointee. He appeared to be a philosophical twin to Crockerman.
    "I have a question for Mr. Gordon," Lehrman said. He looked at Arthur and Harry, standing beside each other near the lab's hooded microbiologicals workbench.
    "Ask away," Arthur said.
    "When are you going to authorize a military investigation of the Furnace?"
    "I don't know," Arthur said.
    "That's your area, Arthur," the President said in an undertone. "You make the decision."
    "Nobody has put the issue to me before now," Arthur said. "What sort of investigation did you have in mind?"
    "I'd like to find the site's weaknesses."
    "We don't even know what it is," Harry said.
    Lehrman shook his head. "Everybody's guessing it's a disguised spaceship. Do you disagree?"
    "I don't agree or disagree. I simply don't know," Harry replied.
    "Gentlemen," Arthur said, "I think this isn't quite the time. We should discuss this after the President has talked with the four witnesses and we've all seen the site together."
    Lehrman conceded this with a nod and gestured for them to continue. General Fulton entered the lab carrying a thick sheaf of papers in a manila folder and sat to one side, saying nothing.
    "All right," Crockerman said. "Let's have a look at them."
     
    Eunice's voice came over Edward's intercom speaker: "Folks, you're going to meet the President now." With a hollow humming noise, the window cover slid down into the wall, revealing a transparent panel about two meters wide and one high. Through the thick double layers of glass, Edward saw President Crockerman, two men he didn't recognize, and several other faces he knew vaguely from television.
    "Excuse me for intruding, gentlemen and Ms. Morgan," Crockerman said, bowing slightly. "I believe we know each other, even if we haven't been introduced formally. This is Mr. Lehrman, my Secretary of Defense, and this is Mr. Rotterjack, my science advisor. Have you met Arthur Gordon and Harry Feinman? No? They're in charge of the presidential task force investigating what you've discovered. I suspect you have a few complaints to pass on to me."
    "Pleased to meet you, sir," Minelli said. Crockerman changed his angle. Edward realized they were all facing into the central laboratory. In the farthest window, at the opposite end of the curved wall, he could see Stella Morgan, face pale in the fluorescent lighting.
    "I'd shake your hands if I could. This has been hard on all concerned, but especially hard on you."
    Edward mumbled something in agreement. "We don't know what our situation is, Mr. President."
    "Well, I've been told you're in no danger. You don't have any… ah, space germs. I'll level with you, in fact—you're probably here more for security reasons than for your health."
    Edward could see why Crockerman was called the most charming of presidents since Ronald Reagan. His combination of dignified good looks and open manner—however illusory the latter was—might have made even Edward feel better.
    "We've been worried about our families," Stella said.
    "I believe they've been informed that you are safe," Crockerman said. "Haven't they, General Fulton?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Ms. Morgan's mother has been giving us fits, however," Crockerman said.
    "Good," was Stella's only comment.
    "Mr. Shaw, we've also informed the University of Texas about you and your students."
    "We're assistant professors, not students, Mr. President," Reslaw said. "I haven't received any mail from my family. Can you tell me why?"
    Crockerman looked to Fulton for an answer. "You haven't been sent any," Fulton said. "We have no control over that."
    "I just wanted to stop by and tell you that you haven't been forgotten, and you won't be locked away forever. Colonel Phan informs me that if no germs are discovered within a few more weeks, there will be no reason to keep you here. And by that time… well, it's difficult to say what will be secret and what won't