Submerged (27 page)

“Since I was a kid, I’ve had an interest in
astronomy. Back in 1961, Carl Sagan coined the term
terraforming
, meaning ‘to alter the terrain.’ He
suggested that bacteria could be sent to Venus. If the right
bacteria were sent, it would thrive in the hot noxious atmosphere
of the planet, releasing oxygen. Over time—a lot of time—the whole
planet could be altered so that humans could live on it. I’m not
sure he still believes that, but it was an interesting idea. Arthur
C. Clarke has suggested that Mars is a better choice.”

“Okay,” Henry said, “I’ll buy that term. But
we’re not talking about slow change. We’re talking about dramatic
alterations that happen in seconds.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Zeisler
interjected. “Here’s a question: What do concrete, chicken soup,
and
Life
magazine all have in common?”

“Do we need the parlor games?” Nash snapped,
then raised his hands. “I’m fine with it.”

Henry smiled. He doubted that any of them had
ever had to be so aware of their own emotions or had to exercise
such control. “Go ahead.”

Zeisler eyed Nash, then continued. “They’re
all made up of atoms. Everything we see is constructed of those
basic building blocks. Atoms link to form molecules, and molecules
link to make everything else. Everything is made from a compilation
of things too tiny to be seen with the most powerful microscopes.
We’ve all had basic chemistry and know that there is a fixed number
of elements that occur naturally: hydrogen, oxygen, iron, gold, and
many more. They can’t be broken down by any chemical reaction.
They’re basic.”

“Your point, Dr. Zeisler?” Sanders asked.

“My point is that extremely small things make
up bigger things. Think of the sand. We already know it isn’t
really sand. It changes color, and we can reduce it to fine powder
by rubbing it with our hands. What if those tiny particles are even
smaller than we imagine? What if we had a way of controlling the
microscopic bits so that they combined into whatever we wanted it
to be?”

“What would you use to control the base
element?” Cynthia inquired. “What force could be used to exert that
kind of directed control?”

Zeisler shook his head. “I don’t know.
Electromagnetism, microwaves, magic—we don’t know. Right now it
doesn’t matter. My point is that a replica of almost anything could
be made by reordering the tiny bits of stuff that make up the
sand.”

“Replica?” Sanders asked.

“Of course,” Zeisler said. “Very little is
real. The Joshua tree we examined wasn’t a real tree. Henry hit on
it when he said something about a special moth being needed to
pollinate the tree’s flowers. The house may look Victorian one
moment but could reshape into the military tent we saw. Desert
becomes jungle. None of it is real, but it is all real—if that
makes any sense.”

“I just don’t see how that could work,” Grant
said.

“So what?” Zeisler shot back. “The fact that
we can’t explain it doesn’t negate the truth that is happening. We
don’t know how the universe came into being, but it’s there.
There’s a lot of biology we don’t understand, but it still works.
Our understanding is secondary to the fact.”

“But we saw the moon in the sky and the sun,”
Sanders said.

“So there are particles of whatever on the
dome of the cavern. We know we’re underground, so the moon and sun
are false.”

“The powder on the Joshua tree and the
exterior of the house,” Henry said, “is the substance you’re
talking about.”

“You’re right on, Henry. Imagine if you could
control the atoms in the paint on your house to recombine to form
new colors. You could change the color every day. Now imagine if
your house was coated in something that could also change and hold
a shape. Not only would you have a new paint job, you’d have a new
exterior design.”

“And what does this have to do with the
door?” Nash asked.

“If I’m right, the door frame is still there.
It’s just filled in.”

“So we can dig our way out.” Grant looked
cheerful for the first time since Henry returned.

“Sorry, Monte, but I doubt it,” Zeisler said.
“First, it’s likely to be as hard as concrete, and even if we could
chip away at it, it would just fill in again faster than we can
remove it.”

“So you’ve said all that to say we’re stuck
here?” Sanders said. “That we may not find the door again?”

Zeisler started to answer, then hesitated. He
took a deep breath. “Worse. If it can fill in the doorway, it can
fill in the entrance to the cavern. Folks, we’re not leaving until
. . . ‘It’ . . . decides to let us go.”

“We left the pack outside,” Nash said.

“So?” Zeisler said.

“So, I gave the pack to Henry to carry while
I carried McDermott’s body. The pack had our day’s provisions,
including water.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “Oh, good. At least we
won’t die of starvation; we’ll die of thirst first.”

“Have a little optimism, Mr. Grant,” Sanders
said. “We’re not finished yet.”

Henry stood by the ring and gazed down into
the mounds of sand it contained. Something was connecting in his
mind. “This looks different.”

“What looks different?” Zeisler asked.

“This sand. The stuff I brought in earlier
seemed . . . larger and a tad darker.”

“Come on, Henry,” Zeisler said with
frustration, “we’ve been over this. The sand is composed of smaller
elements. It might appear any size it wants.”

“I know, but I’ve been wondering why the sand
I brought in decided to leave in such a hurry and why the powder I
felt on the Joshua tree and the exterior of the house isn’t on the
inside. Any ideas?”

“Not a clue.” Zeisler slumped to the floor,
his back to the sloping wall.

“Anyone?” Henry asked but got no takers.

“I wonder if what’s in this pit is different
than what is outside. Maybe they’re not supposed to mix.”

“I don’t know why,” Zeisler said. “What
difference would it make?”

“Maybe they serve different functions. If
this is a computer like Cynthia thinks, then maybe this substance
in the ring is made of different material that doesn’t work with
the stuff outside.”

“How does this help us?” Nash asked.

“I don’t know that it does, but I don’t know
that it doesn’t, either.” Henry continued to study the pit. “How
did you start this thing up, Victor?”

“I jumped in.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s filled with sand. People
walk on sand. I put two and two together.”

“But we know it’s not sand, right?” Henry
pressed. “What happened after you stepped in?”

“You saw it.”

“I mean the first time. I wasn’t here.”
Something was perking in the back of Henry’s brain.

Zeisler sighed. “I jumped in. There was a
whoosh
, light and particles of sand began
swirling around; then what looked like a movie screen or television
monitor appeared, except it was flat, two-dimensional.”

“Did anything appear on it?”

“Not a thing. Bad reception, I guess.”

“It spoke,” Cynthia said.

“Not really,” Zeisler corrected. “I was
testing it. I said ‘outside’ and it repeated but with a horrible
accent. For a moment, I thought it was trying to communicate. Then
I switched terms to ‘exterior.’ I guess it understood that better,
because the walls went clear.”

“I wonder,” Henry said. “What if you’re
wrong?”

Zeisler laughed. “That doesn’t happen too
often.”

“I mean, what if the voice you heard wasn’t a
bad repetition of your word but something else? When you said
‘exterior,’ did it repeat that?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean . . . What are you
getting at?” Zeisler stood and approached Henry. “If it was
repeating the word ‘outside,’ then what was it doing?”

“Telling you to get out,” Henry answered.
“You were standing where you shouldn’t. Maybe you were in the way,
and it was trying to convince you to get your size twelves out of
the sand.”

“No. That’s stupid. That . . . that . . .”
Zeisler closed his eyes. He opened them a second later. “So the
problem I had controlling it wasn’t inexperience or
incompatibility. My body was interfering. Of course. I’m a
moron.”

“Cut yourself some slack, Victor,” Henry
said. “How could you know? Besides I’m just guessing. I have
another guess.” Henry extended his hand over the sand.

It came to life.

Henry jumped back. Zeisler did the same,
putting even more distance between himself and the ring.

Before them rose the same column of light
they had seen before, but this time it expanded to fill the ring.
The sand in the pit rose like dirt in a dust devil until the floor
of the pit was as clear and clean as the one they stood upon.

“I guess I should have read the directions,”
Zeisler said.

“If directions had been provided, I would
agree with you,” Henry said, “but we seem to be on our own.”

The floor-to-ceiling column reached up the
oddly shaped overhead shaft, pulsed, constricted, and began to
expand. When it reached the edge of the raised ring, Henry assumed
that it had reached its limit. A second later, he realized he was
wrong. The shaft of light with its swirling sand broadened. What
had started as a foot-wide column had become three feet in
diameter, then twelve as it touched the ring, then thirteen, then
fourteen . . . . Henry backed up.

“This doesn’t look good.” Zeisler retreated
to the wall.

“You might want to shut that off,” Sanders
said, backing away.

Henry scanned the room. Every team member was
pressed against the wall.

“How would I do that?” Henry now backed to
the wall, too.

The light advanced.

“Let’s all stay calm,” Sanders said. “There
must be a limit to its range.”

“Why?” Grant asked, his voice as dry as
parchment.

“I don’t know. I’m making this up as I
go.”

“That door would be nice to have,” Zeisler
said. “Real nice.”

The pillar stopped, and Henry let loose a
sigh.

Then the light exploded. Henry slammed his
eyes closed and covered his face with his arms, hoping to steel
himself against the onslaught of sand. He waited for the storm of
stinging projectiles, but none came. There was no noise or heat or
anything to make him think that something dramatic had
happened.

Henry lowered his arms. He had been holding
his breath. He exhaled and took a tentative inhalation. No dust. No
grit. No smell. He risked opening one eye, fearing what may be
floating in the air. Feeling no stinging or pain, he opened both
eyes. He was stunned. His eyes took in what he could not
comprehend. He looked around for the others. Zeisler cowered near
the floor. Sanders and Nash were facedown, their hands covering
their heads. Cynthia was standing rigid against the far wall, her
hands plastered over her face. Grant was lying on his side, his
face pressed against the joint formed by the curving wall meeting
the flat floor. All, Henry noticed, were covered in white dust. He
glanced at his clothing and saw the same thin layer of powder.
Henry was baffled to see that there was no dust on the floor or
walls, just the people.

No one appeared to be harmed. Henry took in
his surroundings, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He
was still in the room. The size was the same, the walls were still
curved, and the ring was still prominent. But that was all that was
the same.

“Oh, my,” Cynthia said. “Oh, my. I mean . . .
Oh, my.”

Other exclamations followed as the others
mustered the courage to open their eyes. The ring no longer looked
like a fire pit filled with sand. What had been a four-foot-high
ring now reached to the ceiling. The dull brown had become the
white of a lily. Unlike the ring, the column was fluted, forming
twelve flat surfaces. Four disks floated a foot beyond the pillar.
They made Henry think of giant chrome hubcaps. A series of lights
ran the rim of each disk.

The light in the room had dimmed but still
provided enough illumination to see. There was a soft hum from the
pillar.

“What is all over us?” Nash brushed himself
off, but the dust returned to its place. He could not shed the
powder.

“Easy, Nash,” Henry said. “I don’t think it’s
hurting us.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Nash
slapped at his sleeves and pants. Powder flew in the air but
drifted back as if they were iron filings and Nash was a magnet. “I
can’t . . . get . . . rid . . . of . . . this . . .”

Henry felt a slight tug on his clothing, and
a second later the film was gone from his body. A white cloud of
the material coalesced in front of him, forming a recognizable
shape. Henry was looking at an outline of himself. The sight of it
weakened his knees. He was not alone. Standing before each member
of the team was a white ghost of themselves. Most backed away, but
Henry and Sanders held their ground.

“Amazing,” Sanders said. “Completely
amazing.”

Henry started to speak but had no words to
say. He tilted his head to one side, and his ghost did the same. He
licked his lips, a nervous habit he thought he had defeated. The
thing before him mimicked the motion, but it had no tongue. It also
had no eyes. Henry remembered that when the sand light expanded to
fill the room, he had clamped his eyes and mouth shut. The powder
had not touched those areas.

“I’ll admit to feeling very insecure right
now,” Zeisler deadpanned.

“Ya think?” There was abject fear in Grant’s
voice.

Henry admired the man’s ability to reign in
his terror.

The ghost Henry disappeared, cascading into a
small pile of dust on the floor. The other specters did the same.
Before anyone could speak, the tiny piles reformed, altering into
spaghetti-thin strands that wiggled on the floor. Then they began
to migrate toward the column. Henry watched as the white “worms”
undulated their way along the smooth surface until they disappeared
into the twelve-sided pillar.