The Far Shore of Time

The subs were doing something, all right. They weren’t traveling very far; they were pausing at discrete points along the various continental shelves, then moving no more than a kilometer or two and pausing again. Pirraghiz said it sounded like they were depositing things on the sea bottom. What things? She had no idea; the orders from the scout ship never said. For what purpose? She didn’t know that, either.

But I had no doubt that it was bad news.

An hour later we had a kind of a task force gathered-me and Been and his Christmas tree, plus eight or nine Bureau specialists. Hilda was there, back in her box, and so was the deputy director; he had taken time out from his witch hunt to bring the robot in person-and also to let me know that this was all my fault, because if I had let him hide Beert away in Arlington, the way he wanted to, nobody would have known he was there.

He was wrong about that, of course-whoever leaked the story would have known about the sub, anyway, with or without Beert. I didn’t argue. I spoke to Beert, ignoring everybody else. “Something the Greatmother said has been nagging at me, something about the Others killing off rebellious races by poison gas. Do you remember what it was?”

“Of course, Dan,” he said promptly. “It is part of our history. What do you wish to know?”

“What kind of gas? How do they get it to the planet?”

He waggled his neck at me. “It isn’t necessary to do that, Dan. On most planets like your own, such poisons are already there in the oceans. They need only to be released.”

And when I translated all that, the yelling began. There was no poison gas in the oceans, the experts insisted. There certainly was, Beert said stoutly, because the Greatmother of the Greatmother had said so. All right, snapped the experts, what poison are you talking about?

Naturally, Beert’s words meant nothing when he answered. Nor did the robot’s, when asked, but the robot had a better way of communicating. It drew pictures for us. A big dot with a little dot near it. A cluster of a dozen big dots, some filled in, some just circles, with six little dots near it.

It was the Bureau’s chemical-warfare specialist who figured it out: “They’re diagrams of elements! Hydrogen and carbon!” And when the robot said there were four of the second diagram for every one of the first in this poison, the chemist blinked and smote her forehead with her hand and said, “Of course!” It was the first time I had heard the word “methane.”

PART ELEVEN

Methane

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

All right, I admit it. I should have thought of it before. Call it fatigue, call it too much going on-no, just call it that I screwed up. That’s certainly what Hilda told me. It was what the deputy director told me, too, but he didn’t waste any time. Two hours later he and Hilda and I, pumped up with the Bureau’s wake-up pills, were watching the sun rise on the landing pad, where an oceanologist was tumbling off a VTOL from New Jersey. His name was Samuel Schiel, and he came from the Lamont-Doherty Institute-well, actually he came from his bed, because the deputy director’s summons had come in the middle of the night-and he barely had time to catch his breath before Marcus Pell had whisked him into a conference room and the questioning had begun.

Pell didn’t even sit down. He stood behind the big chair at the head of the table and turned on the man. “You, what’s your name, Schiel? Is this methane thing possible?”

Schiel was unfazed. He took a seat halfway down the long table, next to me, across from Hilda, looking around the room with interest. “Possible?” he repeated ruminatively. “Yes, in principle, Mr. Pell. Methane is a very common compound. It’s the first member of the alkane hydrocarbons, a very simple molecule, and there’s a great deal of it around in the form of clathrates, at least ten to the fifteenth cubic meters-Pardon? Oh.” He moved his lips for a moment, doing arithmetic. “At least ten thousand million million cubic meters of the stuff, that is. Probably more. Much of it’s locked up in permafrost in Asia and North America, but there’s a tremendous amount on the sea bottoms. If you’d care to look-I asked my staff to transmit a map of the main deposits to me on the plane-“

He did something to the control for the screens at each place. While we were looking at them he investigated the coffee jug at his place, found it was full, poured himself a cup and waited for us to see what he was talking about.

I swallowed when I saw where the main deposits were: some of the biggest along the Atlantic Coast of the Americas, along the Pacific shore of Panama, the Bering Strait-I knew those areas well. “That’s exactly where the subs are concentrating,” I said.

Pell gave me a shut-up look; he had obviously figured that out for himself. “How come you know all this?” he demanded, looking at Schiel.