The Descent

'What  if  the  hadals  helped  create  our  civilization  through  the  eons?  What  if  they

cultivated our benighted ancestors, exposed  to mankind its own native intelligence?'

'Haddie was our nursemaid? Those savages?'

'Careful,' said Rau. 'You're starting to sound like the Chinese with their barbarians.'

'Is that it?'  Vera  asked  Thomas.  'You  were  looking  at  China  as  a  paradigm  for  early human civilization?'

'Something like that,' Thomas said.

'And so you traveled  ten thousand miles, and went to jail, all to prove  a theory?'

'A  bit  more,  actually.  I  had  a  hunch,  and  it  bore  out.  As  I  suspected,  the  Caucasian texts   in  Xinjiang  weren't   written   in  Tocharian   script.   Nor   in   any   other   human language. The  reports  were  all  wrong.  Mustafah  and  Foley  and  I  took  one  look  at  the mummies and knew. You see, the mummies were  tattooed with  hadal  symbols.  These Caucasian nomads were  operating  as  agents.  Or  messengers.  They  were  transporting documents into ancient China. Documents written  in some form of hadal script.  If  only we could read it!'

'But  again,'  Parsifal  said,  'so  what?  That  was  four  thousand  years  ago.  And  we  can't read it.'

'Four  thousand  years   ago,  someone  sent   these   people  on  a  mission  to  China,' Thomas said. 'Aren't you a little curious? Who sent them?'

A  van  took  them  to  the  medical  center.  At  the  entrance  to  the  Rende  Research Wing,  they   entered   into  a  crush   of   cops   and   television   cameras.   A   phalanx   of university  representatives  were  taking turns offering themselves  to  the  wolves.  Frost billowed from  every  mouth.  Apparently  the  logic  behind  an  outdoor  press  conference in midwinter was that it would be brief.

'Again,  I  urge  you  to  use  common  sense,'  a  deanlike  figure  was  soothing  the  lenses.

'There's  no such thing as possession.'

A  pretty  news  anchor,  soaked  from  the  thighs  down  with  snowmelt,  shouted  from the  crowd.  'Dr.  Yaron,  are  you  denying  reports  that  the  university  medical  center  is conducting exorcism as a treatment  at the present  time?'

A  bearded  man  with  a  white  grin  leaned  into  the  microphone.  'We're  waiting,'  he said. 'The guy  with the chicken and holy water  still hasn't showed up.'

The  cops at the sliding glass doors  weren't  about  to  let  anyone  in.  Vera's  medical  ID was  no  help.  Finally  Parsifal  flashed  some  old  NASA  credentials.  'Bud  Parsifal!'  one said. 'Hell, yes,  come in.' They  all wanted to shake his hand. Parsifal was radiant.

'Spacemen,' Vera  whispered to Rau.

Inside the lab  wing,  the  activity  was  equally  manic,  if  less  frenzied.  Specialists  were studying  charts,  X  rays,  and  film  images  or  mousing  at  computer  models.  Portable phones  lay  trapped  on  shoulders  as  people  read  data  from  screens  or  clipboards. Business suits intermixed with shoulder holsters and  surgical  scrubs  of  various  colors. The  hubbub  reminded  Vera  of  the  aftermath  of  a  natural  disaster,  an  emergency room stretched  beyond capacity.

They  paused by  a group watching a video. On screen, a young woman was bent  over a block of blue gel on a steel table.  'That's  Dr.  Yamamoto,'  Vera  whispered  to  Rau  and Parsifal. 'Thomas and I met her last time.'

'Here  she  goes,'  a  man  in  the  group  said.  He  had  a  stopwatch  in  one  hand.  'Three, two,  one.  And...  boom.'  Yamamoto  abruptly  stiffened  on  screen,  then  sank  to  her knees. For a moment she sat on her heels, staring, then  tumbled  to  one  side  and  went into violent spasms. The  Beowulf scholars continued walking.

Other  rooms  held  other  screens  and  images:  the  bottom   of  a  skull  seemed   to blossom  open;  a  cursor  arrow  navigated  up  arteries,  strayed  upon  neural  arms,  a highway of dreams and impulses.

Vera  knocked  at  an  open  door.  A  blond  woman  in  a  lab  smock  was  hunched  over  a microscope.  'I'm  looking  for  a  Dr.  Koenig,'  Vera  said.  The  woman  looked  over,  then came rushing to Vera  with arms wide.

'Vera, you're back. Yammie told me you visited months ago.'

Vera  introduced  them.  'Mary  Kay  was  one  of  my  star  pupils,  when  I  could  get  her attention. Always  off on triathlons and rock climbs. We could never  keep  up with her.'

'The old days,' said Mary  Kay, probably all of thirty  year's  old.  Judging  by  the  place, medicine had become the exclusive  domain of the young and fit.

'You  picked  a  bad  time  to  visit,  though,'  she  said.  'The  entire  facility's  up  in  arms. Government  agencies all over  the place. The  FBI.' The  purple  circles  under  the  young doctor's eyes  were  her testimony. Whatever  this emergency  was, she'd been hard at it for many hours.