Silence filled the room as Phillips finished his description. The President stared into his glass. He gave his head a small shake and looked up towards Phillips. 'I must ask again how long it will be before this thing becomes overtly dangerous in the way you have just described? With the earthquakes and tidal waves?'

'Such a thing could happen now,' Phillips said, 'particularly in the Far East or along the coast of California where the orbital plane intersects regions of tectonic activity.'

'But when will such things begin to occur with regularity? ' the President inquired.

'Very difficult to answer,' Phillips shook his head, 'perhaps a hundred years, maybe as much as a thousand.'

'In a sense then, we have that long before we must cope with this thing directly,' the President asserted, 'that long before massive deaths begin to occur.'

Phillips thought for a moment. 'Yes, the hole will become a deadly menace at some point, but that may not be a measure of our grace period in terms of taking active steps against it.'

The President raised an eyebrow in question. Phillips unclasped his hands to draw an elliptical path in the air with his finger. 'As the hole follows its orbit, it is subject to drag forces as the inevitable adjunct of its consuming the matter of the earth. These drag forces will slowly cause the hole to spiral to the centre of the earth. After a certain period of time, the orbit of the hole will no longer carry it above the surface of the earth. After that it will be totally inaccessible to us and our fate will be truly sealed. Right now it is difficult to say whether the hole will disappear beneath the surface before or after the massive earthquakes begin. We will not have to rely on theoretical estimates for long, however. Observations currently under way will tell us directly how fast the settling is occurring even if we have no accurate way of predicting when regular extensive damage will begin.'

The President rested his forehead against his hand, leaning on the arm of the chair. He rotated his head from that position and once more inquired of Phillips, 'There remains one more major question then, doesn't there?' He looked straight into Phillips's eyes. 'What can we do about it?'

Phillips returned the President's gaze forthrightly.

'Mr President, on this issue I must be perfectly candid. So far none of our discussions have produced a glimmer of cause for optimism.'

Phillips glanced at the other two men and then returned his attention to the President. 'Understand that I do not mean that we must accept defeat. We have only just begun to study the problem, and it would be foolhardy to suggest that because a possible solution is not apparent now that one will not be forthcoming in the future, if enough ingenuity and manpower are brought to bear. But it would be equally foolhardy to minimize the magnitude of the problem. This object is so tiny and so massive that it cannot be moved except by the most titanic of forces. My colleagues and I are far from ready to give up on the problem, but we must all be prepared to concede at some point that there is no solution. It certainly is conceivable that the earth is doomed.'

The President absorbed the gloomy assessment. 'Well, we can't give up without a fight. You spoke of manpower and ingenuity, Professor. What can this office do to provide the resources necessary to find a solution to this problem, presuming one exists?'

'Just now the stress must be more on ingenuity than brute manpower,' replied Phillips. 'At the present stage we need an idea, or set of ideas, some hint of a useful programme. Then I imagine that a massive engineering programme such as the Manhattan Project or the Apollo programme would be called for.'

'From the scientific point of view,' the President rubbed a hand over tired eyes, 'can we proceed without the Russians?'

Phillips pondered his answer. 'I appreciate the dilemma you are in. You cannot lightly submit to coercion. We have many great scientists in this country, men and women who would gladly give up careers of research to work with you on this. Perhaps, no, we don't need the Russians in that sense. But you ask me as a scientist. I will tell you this. I do not know the depths of Korolev's political connections, although I have every reason to believe that he has great influence. But I do know that there is no brain on 'earth that I would rather have working on this problem than that of Viktor Korolev.'

The President nodded, then spoke. 'Gentlemen, I have much to think about. Please keep yourselves on call.'

They left the White House by a side exit and climbed into Drefke's waiting limousine which whisked them away through the quiet Washington streets.

Chapter 19

On the evening of January 5th, a taxi made its way from Logan Airport , skirting the Charles River along the edge of Boston. Eventually, it came to Newton and slowed on the tortuous suburban streets. The air was noticeably colder outside the city, and the snowflakes fell more thickly. The passengers huddled in the corners of the flat Checker seat listening to the wheels plough through the slush. The smaller figure tried to ignore the stream of frigid air which came from his window which would not quite close. He wore a topcoat, but shivered from lack of natural insulation. The man was in his early forties, of average height, thin to the point of frailness. His head was round in profile, but thin so his face was a flattened oval. His sparse hair was combed straight back; a trim Vandyke adorned his chin. He wore old nondescript hornrim glasses, the temples of which showed the grey corrosion of long exposure to facial grease.

The other passenger was a large, hulking man. His coarse Slavic features were broken by a relaxed smile as he looked out at the snow. His bulky winter coat was undone to display a grey suit of plain utilitarian cut. His mind spun with the excitement of his first visit here, and his eyes had captured all the details — from the gross flashing signs atop Kenmore Square to the fine old houses with large yards they now passed by.

The taxi finally pulled up in front of a large white house on which the porch light signalled welcome. The Gabble flicked the plexiglass partition open without looking back, disgruntled at the thought of the long trip back to the airport without a fare and scheming for a way to cover that loss. The slim passenger grimaced at the figure on the meter despite it being covered by his expense account and shoved some bills through to the driver, waving for him to keep the change. The driver showed his gratitude by remaining immobile while his passengers worked the doors open and stepped out. The smaller man's left foot landed ankle deep in water in the gutter. He uttered a quiet exclamation of dismay, shoved the door shut and stepped gingerly to the ploughed walkway leading to the front door. He navigated the cleared path, waited for his companion, then pushed the button as he stamped his wet shoe.

Inside Wayne Phillips rose quickly from the couch and got to the door just before his wife who had come in from the kitchen. He opened the door and greeted the men on the stoop.

'Clarence! Viktor! Come in.'

He turned to his wife, 'Betsy, you remember Clarence Humphreys from Princeton ? And I would like you to meet my good friend and colleague, Viktor Korolev, from the Soviet Union. They've been working together in Moscow on our project.'

'Of course,' she nodded, 'how are you? I'm afraid we've welcomed you with rather dismal weather.' She spoke with a British accent, being a lifelong cherished companion from Phillips's youth at Oxford.

Helping Humphreys off with his topcoat, Phillips was too close to notice the soggy shoe. From her vantage point a few feet off and blessed with an eye for such things, his wife saw it and gave a small gasp.