The cavernous main chamber of NASA’s habisphere would have been a strange sight anywhere on earth, but the fact that it existed on an Arctic ice shelf made it that much more difficult for Rachel Sexton to assimilate. Staring upward into a futuristic dome crafted of white interlocking triangular pads, Rachel felt like she had entered a colossal sanatorium. The walls sloped downward to a floor of solid ice, where an army of halogen lamps stood like sentinels around the perimeter, casting stark light skyward and giving the whole chamber an ephemeral luminosity.

Snaking across the ice floor, black foam carpetrunners wound like boardwalks through a maze of portable scientific work stations. Amid the electronics, thirty or forty white-clad NASA personnel were hard at work, conferring happily and talking in excited tones. Rachel immediately recognized the electricity in the room.

It was the thrill of new discovery.

As Rachel and the administrator circled the outer edge of the dome, she noted the surprised looks of displeasure from those who recognized her. Their whispers carried clearly in the reverberant space.

Isn’t that Senator Sexton’s daughter?

What the hell is SHE doing here?

I can’t believe the administrator is even speaking to her!

Rachel half expected to see voodoo dolls of her father dangling everywhere. The animosity around her, though, was not the only emotion in the air; Rachel also sensed a distinct smugness—as if NASA clearly knew who would be having the last laugh.

The administrator led Rachel toward a series of tables where a lone man sat at a computer work station. He was dressed in a black turtleneck, wide-wale corduroys, and heavy boat shoes, rather than the matching NASA weather gear everyone else seemed to be wearing. He had his back to them. The administrator asked Rachel to wait as he went over and spoke to the stranger. After a moment, the man in the turtleneck gave him a congenial nod and started shutting down his computer. The administrator returned.

“Mr. Tolland will take it from here,” he said. “He’s another one of the President’s recruits, so you two should get along fine. I’ll join you later.”

“Thank you.”

“I assume you’ve heard of Michael Tolland?”

Rachel shrugged, her brain still taking in the incredible surroundings. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

The man in the turtleneck arrived, grinning. “Doesn’t ring a bell?” His voice was resonant and friendly. “Best news I’ve heard all day. Seems I never get a chance to make a first impression anymore.”

When Rachel glanced up at the newcomer, her feet froze in place. She knew the man’s handsome face in an instant. Everyone in America did.

“Oh,” she said, blushing as the man shook her hand. “You’re that Michael Tolland.”

When the President had told Rachel he had recruited top-notch civilian scientists to authenticate NASA’s discovery, Rachel had imagined a group of wizened nerds with monogrammed calculators. Michael Tolland was the antithesis. One of the best known “science celebrities” in America today, Tolland hosted a weekly documentary called Amazing Seas, during which he brought viewers face-to-face with spellbinding oceanic phenomena—underwater volcanoes, ten-foot sea worms, killer tidal waves. The media hailed Tolland as a cross between Jacques Cousteau and Carl Sagan, crediting his knowledge, unpretentious enthusiasm, and lust for adventure as the formula that had rocketed Amazing Seas to the top of the ratings. Of course, most critics admitted, Tolland’s rugged good looks and selfeffacing charisma probably didn’t hurt his popularity with the female audience.

“Mr. Tolland…,” Rachel said, fumbling the words a bit. “I’m Rachel Sexton.”

Tolland smiled a pleasant, crooked smile. “Hi, Rachel. Call me Mike.”

Rachel found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Sensory overload was setting in…the habisphere, the meteorite, the secrets, finding herself unexpectedly face-to-face with a television star. “I’m surprised to see you here,” she said, attempting to recover. “When the President told me he’d recruited civilian scientists for authentication of a NASA find, I guess I expected…” She hesitated.

“Real scientists?” Tolland grinned.

Rachel flushed, mortified. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tolland said. “That’s all I’ve heard since I got here.”

The administrator excused himself, promising to catch up with them later. Tolland turned now to Rachel with a curious look. “The administrator tells me your father is Senator Sexton?”

Rachel nodded. Unfortunately.

“A Sexton spy behind enemy lines?”

“Battle lines are not always drawn where you might think.”

An awkward silence.

“So tell me,” Rachel said quickly, “what’s a world-famous oceanographer doing on a glacier with a bunch of NASA rocket scientists?”

Tolland chuckled. “Actually, some guy who looked a lot like the President asked me to do him a favor. I opened my mouth to say ‘Go to hell,’ but somehow I blurted, ‘Yes, sir.’”

Rachel laughed for the first time all morning. “Join the club.”

Although most celebrities seemed smaller in person, Rachel thought Michael Tolland appeared taller. His brown eyes were just as vigilant and passionate as they were on television, and his voice carried the same modest warmth and enthusiasm. Looking to be a weathered and athletic forty-five, Michael Tolland had coarse black hair that fell in a permanent windswept tuft across his forehead. He had a strong chin and a carefree mannerism that exuded confidence. When he’d shaken Rachel’s hand, the callused roughness of his palms reminded her he was not a typical “soft” television personality but rather an accomplished seaman and hands-on researcher.

“To be honest,” Tolland admitted, sounding sheepish, “I think I was recruited more for my PR value than for my scientific knowledge. The president asked me to come up and make a documentary for him.”

“A documentary? About a meteorite? But you’re an oceanographer.”

“That’s exactly what I told him! But he said he didn’t know of any meteorite documentarians. He told me my involvement would help bring mainstream credibility to this find. Apparently he plans to broadcast my documentary as part of tonight’s big press conference when he announces the discovery.”

A celebrity spokesman. Rachel sensed the savvy political maneuverings of Zach Herney at work. NASA was often accused of talking over the public’s head. Not this time. They’d pulled in the master scientific communicator, a face Americans already knew and trusted when it came to science.

Tolland pointed kitty-corner across the dome to a far wall where a press area was being set up. There was a blue carpet on the ice, television cameras, media lights, a long table with several microphones. Someone was hanging a backdrop of a huge American flag.

“That’s for tonight,” he explained. “The NASA administrator and some of his top scientists will be connected live via satellite to the White House so they can participate in the President’s eight o’clock broadcast.”

Appropriate, Rachel thought, pleased to know Zach Herney didn’t plan to cut NASA out of the announcement entirely.

“So,” Rachel said with a sigh, “is someone finally going to tell me what’s so special about this meteorite?”

Tolland arched his eyebrows and gave her a mysterious grin. “Actually, what’s so special about this meteorite is best seen, not explained.” He motioned for Rachel to follow him toward the neighboring work area. “The guy stationed over here has plenty of samples he can show you.”

“Samples? You actually have samples of the meteorite?”

“Absolutely. We’ve drilled quite a few. In fact, it was the initial core samples that alerted NASA to the importance of the find.”

Unsure of what to expect, Rachel followed Tolland into the work area. It appeared deserted. A cup of coffee sat on a desk scattered with rock samples, calipers, and other diagnostic gear. The coffee was steaming.

“Marlinson!” Tolland yelled, looking around. No answer. He gave a frustrated sigh and turned to Rachel. “He probably got lost trying to find cream for his coffee. I’m telling you, I went to Princeton postgrad with this guy, and he used to get lost in his own dorm. Now he’s a National Medal of Science recipient in astrophysics. Go figure.”

Rachel did a double take. “Marlinson? You don’t by any chance mean the famous Corky Marlinson, do you?”

Tolland laughed. “One and the same.”

Rachel was stunned. “Corky Marlinson is here?” Marlinson’s ideas on gravitational fields were legendary among NRO satellite engineers. “Marlinson is one of the President’s civilian recruits?”

“Yeah, one of the real scientists.”

Real is right, Rachel thought. Corky Marlinson was as brilliant and respected as they came.

“The incredible paradox about Corky,” Tolland said, “is that he can quote you the distance to Alpha Centauri in millimeters, but he can’t tie his own necktie.”

“I wear clip-ons!” a nasal, good-natured voice barked nearby. “Efficiency over style, Mike. You Hollywood types don’t understand that!”

Rachel and Tolland turned to the man now emerging from behind a large stack of electronic gear. He was squat and rotund, resembling a pug dog with bubble eyes and a thinning, comb-over haircut. When the man saw Tolland standing with Rachel, he stopped in his tracks.

“Jesus Christ, Mike! We’re at the friggin’ North Pole and you still manage to meet gorgeous women. I knew I should have gone into television!”

Michael Tolland was visibly embarrassed. “Ms. Sexton, please excuse Dr. Marlinson. What he lacks in tact, he more than makes up for in random bits of totally useless knowledge about our universe.”

Corky approached. “A true pleasure, ma’am. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Rachel,” she said. “Rachel Sexton.”

“Sexton?” Corky let out a playful gasp. “No relation to that shortsighted, depraved senator, I hope!”

Tolland winced. “Actually, Corky, Senator Sexton is Rachel’s father.”

Corky stopped laughing and slumped. “You know, Mike, it’s really no wonder I’ve never had any luck with the ladies.”

Prize-winning astrophysicist Corky Marlinson ushered Rachel and Tolland into his work area and began sifting through his tools and rock samples. The man moved like a tightly wound spring about to explode.

“All right,” he said, quivering excitedly, “Ms. Sexton, you’re about to get the Corky Marlinson thirty-second meteorite primer.”

Tolland gave Rachel a be-patient wink. “Bear with him. The man really wanted to be an actor.”

“Yeah, and Mike wanted to be a respected scientist.” Corky rooted around in a shoebox and produced three small rock samples and aligned them on his desk.

“These are the three main classes of meteorites in the world.”

Rachel looked at the three samples. All appeared as awkward spheroids about the size of golf balls. Each had been sliced in half to reveal its cross section.

“All meteorites,” Corky said, “consist of varying amounts of nickel-iron alloys, silicates, and sulfides. We classify them on the basis of their metal-to-silicate ratios.”

Rachel already had the feeling Corky Marlinson’s meteorite “primer” was going to be more than thirty seconds.

“This first sample here,” Corky said, pointing to a shiny, jet-black stone, “is an iron-core meteorite. Very heavy. This little guy landed in Antarctica a few years back.”

Rachel studied the meteorite. It most certainly looked otherworldly—a blob of heavy grayish iron whose outer crust was burned and blackened.

“That charred outer layer is called a fusion crust,” Corky said. “It’s the result of extreme heating as the meteor falls through our atmosphere. All meteorites exhibit that charring.” Corky moved quickly to the next sample. “This next one is what we call a stony-iron meteorite.”

Rachel studied the sample, noting that it too was charred on the outside. This sample, however, had a light-greenish tint, and the cross section looked like a collage of colorful angular fragments resembling a kaleidoscopic puzzle.

“Pretty,” Rachel said.

“Are you kidding, it’s gorgeous!” Corky talked for a minute about the high olivine content causing the green luster, and then he reached dramatically for the third and final sample, handing it to Rachel.

Rachel held the final meteorite in her palm. This one was grayish brown in color, resembling granite. It felt heavier than a terrestrial stone, but not substantially. The only indication suggesting it was anything other than a normal rock was its fusion crust—the scorched outer surface.

“This,” Corky said with finality, “is called a stony meteorite. It’s the most common class of meteorite. More than ninety percent of meteorites found on earth are of this category.”

Rachel was surprised. She had always pictured meteorites more like the first sample—metallic, alien-looking blobs. The meteorite in her hand looked anything but extraterrestrial. Aside from the charred exterior, it looked like something she might step over on the beach.

Corky’s eyes were bulging now with excitement. “The meteorite buried in the ice here at Milne is a stony meteorite—a lot like the one in your hand. Stony meteorites appear almost identical to our terrestrial igneous rocks, which makes them tough to spot. Usually a blend of lightweight silicates—feldspar, olivine, pyroxene. Nothing too exciting.”

I’ll say, Rachel thought, handing the sample back to him. “This one looks like a rock someone left in a fireplace and burned.”

Corky burst out laughing. “One hell of a fireplace! The meanest blast furnace ever built doesn’t come close to reproducing the heat a meteoroid feels when it hits our atmosphere. They get ravaged!”

Tolland gave Rachel an empathetic smile. “This is the good part.”

“Picture this,” Corky said, taking the meteorite sample from Rachel. “Let’s imagine this little fella is the size of a house.” He held the sample high over his head. “Okay…it’s in space…floating across our solar system…cold-soaked from the temperature of space to minus one hundred degrees Celsius.”

Tolland was chuckling to himself, apparently already having seen Corky’s reenactment of the meteorite’s arrival on Ellesmere Island. Corky began lowering the sample. “Our meteorite is moving toward earth…and as it’s getting very close, our gravity locks on…accelerating…accelerating…”

Rachel watched as Corky sped up the sample’s trajectory, mimicking the acceleration of gravity.

“Now it’s moving fast,” Corky exclaimed. “Over ten miles per second—thirty-six thousand miles per hour! At 135 kilometers above the earth’s surface, the meteorite begins to encounter friction with the atmosphere.” Corky shook the sample violently as he lowered it toward the ice. “Falling below one hundred kilometers, it’s starting to glow! Now the atmospheric density is increasing, and the friction is incredible! The air around the meteoroid is becoming incandescent as the surface material melts from the heat.” Corky started making burning and sizzling sound effects. “Now it’s falling past the eighty-kilometer mark, and the exterior becomes heated to over eighteen hundred degrees Celsius!”

Rachel watched in disbelief as the presidential award–winning astrophysicist shook the meteorite more fiercely, sputtering out juvenile sound effects.

“Sixty kilometers!” Corky was shouting now. “Our meteoroid encounters the atmospheric wall. The air is too dense! It violently decelerates at more than three hundred times the force of gravity!” Corky made a screeching braking sound and slowed his descent dramatically. “Instantly, the meteorite cools and stops glowing. We’ve hit dark flight! The meteoroid’s surface hardens from its molten stage to a charred fusion crust.”

Rachel heard Tolland groan as Corky knelt on the ice to perform the coup de grâce—earth impact.

“Now,” Corky said, “our huge meteorite is skipping across our lower atmosphere…” On his knees, he arched the meteorite toward the ground on a shallow slant. “It’s headed toward the Arctic Ocean…on an oblique angle…falling…looking almost like it will skip off the ocean…falling…and…”

He touched the sample to the ice. “BAM!”

Rachel jumped.

“The impact is cataclysmic! The meteorite explodes. Fragments fly off, skipping and spinning across the ocean.” Corky went into slow motion now, rolling and tumbling the sample across the invisible ocean toward Rachel’s feet. “One piece keeps skimming, tumbling toward Ellesmere Island…” He brought it right up to her toe. “It skips off the ocean, bouncing up onto land…” He moved it up and over the tongue of her shoe and rolled it to a stop on top of her foot near her ankle.

“And finally comes to rest high on the Milne Glacier, where snow and ice quickly cover it, protecting it from atmospheric erosion.” Corky stood up with a smile. Rachel’s mouth fell slack. She gave an impressed laugh. “Well, Dr. Marlinson, that explanation was exceptionally…”

“Lucid?” Corky offered.

Rachel smiled. “In a word.”

Corky handed the sample back to her. “Look at the cross section.”

Rachel studied the rock’s interior a moment, seeing nothing.

“Tilt it into the light,” Tolland prompted, his voice warm and kind. “And look closely.”

Rachel brought the rock close to her eyes and tilted it against the dazzling halogens reflecting overhead. Now she saw it—tiny metallic globules glistening in the stone. Dozens of them were peppered throughout the cross section like minuscule droplets of mercury, each only about a millimeter across.

“Those little bubbles are called ‘chondrules,’” Corky said. “And they occur only in meteorites.”

Rachel squinted at the droplets. “Granted, I’ve never seen anything like this in an earth rock.”

“Nor will you!” Corky declared. “Chondrules are one geologic structure we simply do not have on earth. Some chondrules are exceptionally old—perhaps madeup of the earliest materials in the universe. Other chondrules are much younger, like the ones in your hand. The chondrules in that meteorite date only about 190 million years old.”

“One hundred ninety million years is young?”

“Heck, yes! In cosmological terms, that’s yesterday. The point here, though, is that this sample contains chondrules—conclusive meteoric evidence.”

“Okay,” Rachel said. “Chondrules are conclusive. Got it.”

“And finally,” Corky said, heaving a sigh, “if the fusion crust and chondrules don’t convince you, we astronomers have a foolproof method to confirm meteoric origin.”

“Being?”

Corky gave a casual shrug. “We simply use a petrographic polarizing microscope, an x-ray fluorescence spectrometer, a neutron activation analyzer, or an inductioncoupled plasma spectrometer to measure ferromagnetic ratios.”

Tolland groaned. “Now he’s showing off. What Corky means is that we can prove a rock is a meteorite simply by measuring its chemical content.”

“Hey, ocean boy!” Corky chided. “Let’s leave the science to the scientists, shall we?” He immediately turned back to Rachel. “In earth rocks, the mineral nickel occurs in either extremely high percentages or extremely low; nothing in the middle. In meteorites, though, the nickel content falls within a midrange set of values. Therefore, if we analyze a sample and find the nickel content reflects a midrange value, we can guarantee beyond the shadow of a doubt that the sample is a meteorite.”

Rachel felt exasperated. “Okay, gentlemen, fusion crusts, chondrules, midrange nickel contents, all of which prove it’s from space. I get the picture.” She laid the sample back on Corky’s table. “But why am I here?”

Corky heaved a portentous sigh. “You want to see a sample of the meteorite NASA found in the ice underneath us?”

Before I die here, please.

This time Corky reached in his breast pocket and produced a small, disk-shaped piece of stone. The slice of rock was shaped like an audio CD, about half an inch thick, and appeared to be similar in composition to the stony meteorite she had just seen.

“This is a slice of a core sample that we drilled yesterday.” Corky handed the disk to Rachel.

The appearance certainly was not earth-shattering. It was an orangish-white, heavy rock. Part of the rim was charred and black, apparently a segment of the meteorite’s outer skin. “I see the fusion crust,” she said. Corky nodded. “Yeah, this sample was taken from near the outside of the meteorite, so it still has some crust on it.”

Rachel tilted the disk in the light and spotted the tiny metallic globules. “And I see the chondrules.”

“Good,” Corky said, his voice tense with excitement. “And I can tell you from having run this thing through a petrographic polarizing microscope that its nickel content is midrange—nothing like a terrestrial rock. Congratulations, you’ve now successfully confirmed the rock in your hand came from space.”

Rachel looked up, confused. “Dr. Marlinson, it’s a meteorite. It’s supposed to come from space. Am I missing something here?”

Corky and Tolland exchanged knowing looks. Tolland put a hand on Rachel’s shoulder and whispered, “Flip it over.”

Rachel turned the disk over so she could see the other side. It took only an instant for her brain to process what she was looking at.

Then the truth hit her like a truck.

Impossible! she gasped, and yet as she stared at the rock she realized her definition of “impossible” had just changed forever. Embedded in the stone was a form that in an earth specimen might be considered commonplace, and yet in a meteorite was utterly inconceivable.

“It’s…” Rachel stammered, almost unable to speak the word. “It’s…a bug! This meteorite contains the fossil of a bug!”

Both Tolland and Corky were beaming. “Welcome aboard,” Corky said. The torrent of emotions that gripped Rachel left her momentarily mute, and yet even in her bewilderment, she could clearly see that this fossil, beyond question, had once been a living biological organism. The petrified impression was about three inches long and looked to be the underside of some kind of huge beetle or crawling insect. Seven pairs of hinged legs were clustered beneath a protective outer shell, which seemed to be segmented in plates like that of an armadillo. Rachel felt dizzy. “An insect from space…”

“It’s an isopod,” Corky said. “Insects have three pairs of legs, not seven.”

Rachel did not even hear him. Her head was spinning as she studied the fossil before her.

“You can clearly see,” Corky said, “that the dorsal shell is segmented in plates like a terrestrial pill bug, and yet the two prominent tail-like appendages differentiate it as something closer to a louse.”

Rachel’s mind had already tuned Corky out. The classification of the species was totally irrelevant. The puzzle pieces now came crashing into place—the President’s secrecy, the NASA excitement…

There is a fossil in this meteorite! Not just a speck of bacteria or microbes, but an advanced life-form! Proof of life elsewhere in the universe!

Ten minutes into the CNN debate, Senator Sexton wondered how he could have been worried at all. Marjorie Tench was grossly overestimated as an opponent. Despite the senior adviser’s reputation for ruthless sagacity, she was turning out to be more of a sacrificial lamb than a worthy opponent.

Granted, early in the conversation Tench had grabbed the upper hand by hammering the senator’s prolife platform as biased against women, but then, just as it seemed Tench was tightening her grip, she’d made a careless mistake. While questioning how the senator expected to fund educational improvements without raising taxes, Tench made a snide allusion to Sexton’s constant scapegoating of NASA.

Although NASA was a topic Sexton definitely intended to address toward the end of the discussion, Marjorie Tench had opened the door early. Idiot!

“Speaking of NASA,” Sexton segued casually. “Can you comment on the rumors I keep hearing that NASA has suffered another recent failure?”

Marjorie Tench did not flinch. “I’m afraid I have not heard that rumor.” Her cigarette voice was like sandpaper.

“So, no comment?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Sexton gloated. In the world of media sound bites, “no comment” translated loosely to “guilty as charged.”

“I see,” Sexton said. “And how about the rumors of a secret, emergency meeting between the President and the administrator of NASA?”

This time Tench looked surprised. “I’m not sure what meeting you’re referring to. The President takes many meetings.”

“Of course, he does.” Sexton decided to go straight at her. “Ms. Tench, you are a great supporter of the space agency, is that right?”

Tench sighed, sounding tired of Sexton’s pet issue. “I believe in the importance of preserving America’s technological edge—be that military, industry, intelligence, telecommunications. NASA is certainly part of that vision. Yes.”

In the production booth, Sexton could see Gabrielle’s eyes telling him to back off, but Sexton could taste blood. “I’m curious, ma’am, is it your influence behind the President’s continued support of this obviously ailing agency?”

Tench shook her head. “No. The President is also a staunch believer in NASA. He makes his own decisions.”

Sexton could not believe his ears. He had just given Marjorie Tench a chance to partially exonerate the President by personally accepting some of the blame for NASA funding. Instead, Tench had thrown it right back at the President. The President makes his own decisions. It seemed Tench was already trying to distance herself from a campaign in trouble. No big surprise. After all, when the dust settled, Marjorie Tench would be looking for a job.

Over the next few minutes, Sexton and Tench parried. Tench made some weak attempts to change the subject, while Sexton kept pressing her on the NASA budget.

“Senator,” Tench argued, “you want to cut NASA’s budget, but do you have any idea how many high-tech jobs will be lost?”

Sexton almost laughed in the woman’s face. This gal is considered the smartest mind in Washington? Tench obviously had something to learn about the demographics of this country. High-tech jobs were inconsequential in comparison to the huge numbers of hardworking blue-collar Americans. Sexton pounced. “We’re talking about billions in savings here, Marjorie, and if the result is that a bunch of NASA scientists have to get in their BMWs and take their marketable skills elsewhere, then so be it. I’m committed to being tough on spending.”

Marjorie Tench fell silent, as if reeling from that last punch. The CNN host prompted, “Ms. Tench? A reaction?”

The woman finally cleared her throat and spoke. “I guess I’m just surprised to hear that Mr. Sexton is willing to establish himself as so staunchly anti-NASA.”

Sexton’s eyes narrowed. Nice try, lady. “I am not anti-NASA, and I resent the accusation. I am simply saying that NASA’s budget is indicative of the kind of runaway spending that your President endorses. NASA said they could build the shuttle for five billion; it cost twelve billion. They said they could build the space station for eight billion; now it’s one hundred billion.”

“Americans are leaders,” Tench countered, “because we set lofty goals and stick to them through the tough times.”

“That national pride speech doesn’t work on me, Marge. NASA has overspent its allowance three times in the past two years and crawled back to the President with its tail between its legs and asked for more money to fix its mistakes. Is that national pride? If you want to talk about national pride, talk about strong schools. Talk about universal health care. Talk about smart kids growing up in a country of opportunity. That’s national pride!”

Tench glared. “May I ask you a direct question, senator?”

Sexton did not respond. He simply waited.

The woman’s words came out deliberately, with a sudden infusion of grit.

“Senator, if I told you that we could not explore space for less than NASA is currently spending, would you act to abolish the space agency altogether?”

The question felt like a boulder landing in Sexton’s lap. Maybe Tench wasn’t so stupid after all. She had just blindsided Sexton with a “fence-buster”—a carefully crafted yes/no question designed to force a fence-straddling opponent to choose clear sides and clarify his position once and for all.

Instinctively Sexton tried sidestepping. “I have no doubt that with proper management NASA can explore space for a lot less than we are currently—”

“Senator Sexton, answer the question. Exploring space is a dangerous and costly business. It’s much like building a passenger jet. We should either do it right—or not at all. The risks are too great. My question remains: If you become president, and you are faced with the decision to continue NASA funding at its current level or entirely scrap the U.S. space program, which would you choose?”

Shit. Sexton glanced up at Gabrielle through the glass. Her expression echoed what Sexton already knew. You’re committed. Be direct. No waffling. Sexton held his chin high. “Yes. I would transfer NASA’s current budget directly into our school systems if faced with that decision. I would vote for our children over space.”

The look on Marjorie Tench’s face was one of absolute shock. “I’m stunned. Did I hear you correctly? As president, you would act to abolish this nation’s space program?”

Sexton felt an anger simmering. Now Tench was putting words in his mouth. He tried to counter, but Tench was already talking.

“So you’re saying, senator, for the record, that you would do away with the agency that put men on the moon?”

“I am saying that the space race is over! Times have changed. NASA no longer plays a critical role in the lives of everyday Americans and yet we continue to fund them as though they do.”

“So you don’t think space is the future?”

“Obviously space is the future, but NASA is a dinosaur! Let the private sector explore space. American taxpayers shouldn’t have to open their wallets every time some Washington engineer wants to take a billion-dollar photograph of Jupiter. Americans are tired of selling out their children’s future to fund an outdated agency that provides so little in return for its gargantuan costs!”

Tench sighed dramatically. “So little in return? With the exception perhaps of the SETI program, NASA has had enormous returns.”

Sexton was shocked that the mention of SETI had even escaped Tench’s lips. Major blunder. Thanks for reminding me. The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence was NASA’s most abysmal money pit ever. Although NASA had tried to give the project a facelift by renaming it “Origins” and shuffling some of its objectives, it was still the same losing gamble.

“Marjorie,” Sexton said, taking his opening, “I’ll address SETI only because you mention it.”

Oddly, Tench looked almost eager to hear this.

Sexton cleared his throat. “Most people are not aware that NASA has been looking for ET for thirty-five years now. And it’s a pricey treasure hunt—satellite dish arrays, huge transceivers, millions in salaries to scientists who sit in the dark and listen to blank tape. It’s an embarrassing waste of resources.”

“You’re saying there’s nothing up there?”

“I’m saying that if any other government agency had spent forty-five million over thirty-five years and had not produced one single result, they would have been axed a long time ago.” Sexton paused to let the gravity of the statement settle in.

“After thirty-five years, I think it’s pretty obvious we’re not going to find extraterrestrial life.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

Sexton rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heavens sake, Ms. Tench, if I’m wrong I’ll eat my hat.”

Marjorie Tench locked her jaundiced eyes on Senator Sexton. “I’ll remember you said that, senator.” She smiled for the first time. “I think we all will.”

Six miles away, inside the Oval Office, President Zach Herney turned off the television and poured himself a drink. As Marjorie Tench had promised, Senator Sexton had taken the bait—hook, line, and sinker.

Michael Tolland felt himself beaming empathetically as Rachel Sexton gaped in silence at the fossilized meteorite in her hand. The refined beauty of the woman’s face now seemed to dissolve into the expression of innocent wonder—a young girl who had just seen Santa Claus for the first time.

I know just how you feel, he thought.

Tolland had been struck the same way only forty-eight hours ago. He too had been stunned into silence. Even now, the scientific and philosophical implications of the meteorite astounded him, forcing him to rethink everything he had ever believed about nature.

Tolland’s oceanographic discoveries included several previously unknown deepwater species, and yet this “space bug” was another level of breakthrough altogether. Despite Hollywood’s propensity for casting extraterrestrials as little green men, astrobiologists and science buffs all agreed that given the sheer numbers and adaptability of earth’s insects, extraterrestrial life would in all probability be buglike if it were ever discovered.

Insects were members of the phylum arthropoda—creatures having hard outer skeletons and jointed legs. With over 1.25 million known species and an estimated five hundred thousand still to be classified, earth’s “bugs” outnumbered all of the other animals combined. They made up 95 percent of all the planet’s species and an astounding 40 percent of the planet’s biomass.

It was not so much the bugs’ abundance that impressed as it was their resilience. From the Antarctic ice beetle to Death Valley’s sun scorpion, bugs happily inhabited deadly ranges in temperature, dryness, and even pressure. They also had mastered exposure to the most deadly force known in the universe—radiation. Following a nuclear test in 1945, air force officers had donned radiation suits and examined ground zero, only to discover cockroaches and ants happily carrying on as if nothing had happened. Astronomers realized that an arthropod’s protective exoskeleton made it a perfectly viable candidate to inhabit the countless radiationsaturated planets where nothing else could live. It appeared the astrobiologists had been right, Tolland thought. ET is a bug.

Rachel’s legs felt weak beneath her. “I can’t…believe it,” she said, turning the fossil in her hands. “I never thought…”

“Give it some time to sink in,” Tolland said, grinning. “Took me twenty-four hours to get my feet back under me.”

“I see we have a newcomer,” said an uncharacteristically tall Asian man, walking over to join them.

Corky and Tolland seemed to deflate instantly with the man’s arrival. Apparently the moment of magic had been shattered.

“Dr. Wailee Ming,” the man said, introducing himself. “Chairman of paleontology at UCLA.”

The man carried himself with the pompous rigidity of renaissance aristocracy, continuously stroking the out-of-place bow tie that he wore beneath his kneelength camel-hair coat. Wailee Ming was apparently not one to let a remote setting come in the way of his prim appearance.

“I’m Rachel Sexton.” Her hand was still trembling as she shook Ming’s smooth palm. Ming was obviously another of the President’s civilian recruits.

“It would be my pleasure, Ms. Sexton,” the paleontologist said, “to tell you anything you want to know about these fossils.”

“And plenty you don’t want to know,” Corky grumbled.

Ming fingered his bow tie. “My paleontologic specialty is extinct Arthropoda and Mygalomorphae. Obviously the most impressive characteristic of this organism is—”

“—is that it’s from another friggin’ planet!” Corky interjected. Ming scowled and cleared his throat. “The most impressive characteristic of this organism is that it fits perfectly into our Darwinian system of terrestrial taxonomy and classification.”

Rachel glanced up. They can classify this thing? “You mean kingdom, phylum, species, that sort of thing?”

“Exactly,” Ming said. “This species, if found on earth, would be classified as the order Isopoda and would fall into a class with about two thousand species of lice.”

“Lice?” she said. “But it’s huge.”

“Taxonomy is not size specific. House cats and tigers are related. Classification is about physiology. This species is clearly a louse: It has a flattened body, seven pairs of legs, and a reproductive pouch identical in structure to wood lice, pill bugs, beach hoppers, sow bugs, and gribbles. The other fossils clearly reveal more specialized—”

“Other fossils?”

Ming glanced at Corky and Tolland. “She doesn’t know?”

Tolland shook his head.

Ming’s face brightened instantly. “Ms. Sexton, you haven’t heard the good part yet.”

“There are more fossils,” Corky interjected, clearly trying to steal Ming’s thunder.

“Lots more.” Corky scurried over to a large manila envelope and retrieved a folded sheet of oversized paper. He spread it out on the desk in front of Rachel.

“After we drilled some cores, we dropped an x-ray camera down. This is a graphic rendering of the cross section.”

Rachel looked at the x-ray printout on the table, and immediately had to sit down. The three-dimensional cross section of the meteorite was packed with dozens of these bugs.

“Paleolithic records,” Ming said, “are usually found in heavy concentrations. Often times, mud slides trap organisms en masse, covering nests or entire communities.”

Corky grinned. “We think the collection in the meteorite represents a nest.” He pointed to one of the bugs on the printout. “And there’s mommy.”

Rachel looked at the specimen in question, and her jaw dropped. The bug looked to be about two feet long.

“Big-ass louse, eh?” Corky said.

Rachel nodded, dumbstruck, as she pictured lice the size of bread loaves wandering around on some distant planet.

“On earth,” Ming said, “our bugs stay relatively small because gravity keeps them in check. They can’t grow larger than their exoskeletons can support. However, on a planet with diminished gravity, insects could evolve to much greater dimensions.”

“Imagine swatting mosquitoes the size of condors,” Corky joked, taking the core sample from Rachel and slipping it into his pocket.

Ming scowled. “You had better not be stealing that!”

“Relax,” Corky said. “We’ve got eight tons more where this came from.”

Rachel’s analytical mind churned through the data before her. “But how can life from space be so similar to life on earth? I mean, you’re saying this bug fits in our Darwinian classification?”

“Perfectly,” Corky said. “And believe it or not, a lot of astronomers have predicted that extraterrestrial life would be very similar to life on earth.”

“But why?” she demanded. “This species came from an entirely different environment.”

“Panspermia.” Corky smiled broadly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Panspermia is the theory that life was seeded here from another planet.”

Rachel stood up. “You’re losing me.”

Corky turned to Tolland. “Mike, you’re the primordial seas guy.”

Tolland looked happy to take over. “Earth was once a lifeless planet, Rachel. Then suddenly, as if overnight, life exploded. Many biologists think the explosion of life was the magical result of an ideal mixture of elements in the primordial seas. But we’ve never been able to reproduce that in a lab, so religious scholars have seized that failure as proof of God, meaning life could not exist unless God touched the primordial seas and infused them with life.”

“But we astronomers,” Corky declared, “came up with another explanation for the overnight explosion of life on earth.”

“Panspermia,” Rachel said, now understanding what they were talking about. She had heard the panspermia theory before but didn’t know its name. “The theory that a meteorite splashed into the primordial soup, bringing the first seeds of microbial life to earth.”

“Bingo,” Corky said. “Where they percolated and sprang to life.”

“And if that’s true,” Rachel said, “then the underlying ancestry of earth’s lifeforms and extraterrestrial life-forms would be identical.”

“Double bingo.”

Panspermia, Rachel thought, still barely able to grasp the implications. “So, not only does this fossil confirm that life exists elsewhere in the universe, but it practically proves panspermia…that life on earth was seeded from elsewhere in the universe.”

“Triple bingo.” Corky flashed her an enthusiastic nod. “Technically, we may all be extraterrestrials.” He put his fingers over his head like two antennas, crossed his eyes, and wagged his tongue like some kind of insect.

Tolland looked at Rachel with a pathetic grin. “And this guy’s the pinnacle of our evolution.”

Rachel Sexton felt a dreamlike mist swirling around her as she walked across the habisphere, flanked by Michael Tolland. Corky and Ming followed close behind.

“You okay?” Tolland asked, watching her.

Rachel glanced over, giving a weak smile. “Thanks. It’s just…so much.”

Her mind reeled back to the infamous 1996 NASA discovery—ALH84001—a Mars meteorite that NASA claimed contained fossil traces of bacterial life. Sadly, only weeks after NASA’s triumphant press conference, several civilian scientists stepped forward with proof that the rock’s “signs of life” were really nothing more than kerogen produced by terrestrial contamination. NASA’s credibility had taken a huge hit over that gaffe. The New York Times took the opportunity to sarcastically redefine the agency’s acronym: NASA—NOT ALWAYS

SCIENTIFICALLY ACCURATE.

In that same edition, paleobiologist Stephen Jay Gould summed up the problems with ALH84001 by pointing out that the evidence in it was chemical and inferential, rather than “solid,” like an unambiguous bone or shell. Now, however, Rachel realized NASA had found irrefutable proof. No skeptical scientist could possibly step forward and question these fossils. NASA was no longer touting blurry, enlarged photos of alleged microscopic bacteria—they were offering up real meteorite samples where bio-organisms visible to the naked eye had been embedded in the stone. Foot-long lice!

Rachel had to laugh when she realized she’d been a childhood fan of a song by David Bowie that referred to “spiders from Mars.” Few would have guessed how close the androgynous British pop star would come to foreseeing astrobiology’s greatest moment.

As the distant strains of the song ran through Rachel’s mind, Corky hurried up behind her. “Has Mike bragged about his documentary yet?”

Rachel replied, “No, but I’d love to hear about it.”

Corky slapped Tolland on the back. “Go for it, big boy. Tell her why the President decided that the most important moment in science history should be handed over to a snorkeling TV star.”

Tolland groaned. “Corky, if you don’t mind?”

“Fine, I’ll explain,” Corky said, prying his way in between them. “As you probably know, Ms. Sexton, the President will be giving a press conference tonight to tell the world about the meteorite. Because the vast majority of the world is made up of half-wits, the President asked Mike to come onboard and dumb everything down for them.”

“Thanks, Corky,” Tolland said. “Very nice.” He looked at Rachel. “What Corky’s trying to say is that because there’s so much scientific data to convey, the President thought a short visual documentary about the meteorite might help make the information more accessible to mainstream America, many of whom, oddly, don’t have advanced degrees in astrophysics.”

“Did you know,” Corky said to Rachel, “that I’ve just learned our nation’s President is a closet fan of Amazing Seas?” He shook his head in mock disgust.

“Zach Herney—the ruler of the free world—has his secretary tape Mike’s program so he can decompress after a long day.”

Tolland shrugged. “The man’s got taste, what can I say?”

Rachel was now starting to realize just how masterful the President’s plan was . Politics was a media game, and Rachel could already imagine the enthusiasm and scientific credibility the face of Michael Tolland on-screen would bring to the press conference. Zach Herney had recruited the ideal man to endorse his little NASA coup. Skeptics would be hard-pressed to challenge the President’s data if it came from the nation’s top television science personality as well as several respected civilian scientists.

Corky said, “Mike’s already taken video depositions from all of us civilians for his documentary, as well as from most of the top NASA specialists. And I’ll bet my National Medal that you’re next on his list.”

Rachel turned and eyed him. “Me? What are you talking about? I have no credentials. I’m an intelligence liaison.”

“Then why did the President send you up here?”

“He hasn’t told me yet.”

An amused grin crossed Corky’s lips. “You’re a White House intelligence liaison who deals in clarification and authentication of data, right?”

“Yes, but nothing scientific.”

“And you’re the daughter of the man who built a campaign around criticizing the money NASA has wasted in space?”

Rachel could hear it coming.

“You have to admit, Ms. Sexton,” Ming chimed in, “a deposition from you would give this documentary a whole new dimension of credibility. If the President sent you up here, he must want you to participate somehow.”

Rachel again flashed on William Pickering’s concern that she was being used. Tolland checked his watch. “We should probably head over,” he said, motioning toward the center of the habisphere. “They should be getting close.”

“Close to what?” Rachel asked.

“Extraction time. NASA is bringing the meteorite to the surface. It should be up any time now.”

Rachel was stunned. “You guys are actually removing an eight-ton rock from under two hundred feet of solid ice?”

Corky looked gleeful. “You didn’t think NASA was going to leave a discovery like this buried in the ice, did you?”

“No, but…,” Rachel had seen no signs of large-scale excavation equipment anywhere inside the habisphere. “How the heck is NASA planning on getting the meteorite out?”

Corky puffed up. “No problem. You’re in a room full of rocket scientists!”

“Blather,” Ming scoffed, looking at Rachel. “Dr. Marlinson enjoys flexing other people’s muscles. The truth is that everyone here was stumped about how to get the meteorite out. It was Dr. Mangor who proposed a viable solution.”

“I haven’t met Dr. Mangor.”

“Glaciologist from the University of New Hampshire,” Tolland said. “The fourth and final civilian scientist recruited by the President. And Ming here is correct, it was Mangor who figured it out.”

“Okay,” Rachel said. “So what did this guy propose?”

“Gal,” Ming corrected, sounding smitten. “Dr. Mangor is a woman.”

“Debatable,” Corky grumbled. He looked over at Rachel. “And by the way, Dr. Mangor is going to hate you.”

Tolland shot Corky an angry look.

“Well, she will!” Corky defended. “She’ll hate the competition.”

Rachel felt lost. “I’m sorry? Competition?”

“Ignore him,” Tolland said. “Unfortunately, the fact that Corky is a total moron somehow escaped the National Science Committee. You and Dr. Mangor will get along fine. She is a professional. She’s considered one of the world’s top glaciologists. She actually moved to Antarctica for a few years to study glacial movement.”

“Odd,” Corky said, “I heard UNH took up a donation and sent her there so they could get some peace and quiet on campus.”

“Are you aware,” Ming snapped, seeming to have taken the comment personally,

“that Dr. Mangor almost died down there! She got lost in a storm and lived on seal blubber for five weeks before anyone found her.”

Corky whispered to Rachel, “I heard no one was looking.”

The limousine ride back from the CNN studio to Sexton’s office felt long for Gabrielle Ashe. The senator sat across from her, gazing out the window, obviously gloating over the debate.

“They sent Tench to an afternoon cable show,” he said, turning with a handsome smile. “The White House is getting frantic.”

Gabrielle nodded, noncommittal. She’d sensed a look of smug satisfaction on Marjorie Tench’s face as the woman drove off. It made her nervous. Sexton’s personal cellphone rang, and he fished in his pocket to grab it. The senator, like most politicians, had a hierarchy of phone numbers at which his contacts could reach him, depending on how important they were. Whoever was calling him now was at the top of the list; the call was coming in on Sexton’s private line, a number even Gabrielle was discouraged to call.

“Senator Sedgewick Sexton,” he chimed, accentuating the musical quality of his name.

Gabrielle couldn’t hear the caller over the sound of the limo, but Sexton listened intently, replying with enthusiasm. “Fantastic. I’m so pleased you called. I’m thinking six o’clock? Super. I have an apartment here in D.C. Private. Comfortable. You have the address, right? Okay. Looking forward to meeting you. See you tonight then.”

Sexton hung up, looking pleased with himself.

“New Sexton fan?” Gabrielle asked.

“They’re multiplying,” he said. “This guy’s a heavy hitter.”

“Must be. Meeting him in your apartment?” Sexton usually defended the sanctified privacy of his apartment like a lion protecting its only remaining hiding place.

Sexton shrugged. “Yeah. Thought I’d give him the personal touch. This guy might have some pull in the home stretch. Got to keep making those personal connections, you know. It’s all about trust.”

Gabrielle nodded, pulling out Sexton’s daily planner. “You want me to put him in your calendar?”

“No need. I’d planned to take a night at home anyway.”

Gabrielle found tonight’s page and noticed it was already shaded out in Sexton’s handwriting with the bold letters “P.E.”—Sexton shorthand for either personal event, private evening, or piss-off everyone; nobody was quite sure which. From time to time, the senator scheduled himself a “P.E.” night so he could hole up in his apartment, take his phones off the hook, and do what he enjoyed most—sip brandy with old cronies and pretend he’d forgotten about politics for the evening. Gabrielle gave him a surprised look. “So you’re actually letting business intrude on prescheduled P.E. time? I’m impressed.”

“This guy happened to catch me on a night when I’ve got some time. I’ll talk to him for a little while. See what he has to say.”

Gabrielle wanted to ask who this mystery caller was, but Sexton clearly was being intentionally vague. Gabrielle had learned when not to pry. As they turned off the beltway and headed back toward Sexton’s office building, Gabrielle glanced down again at the P.E. time blocked out in Sexton’s planner and had the strange sensation Sexton knew this call was coming.

The ice at the center of the NASA habisphere was dominated by an eighteen-foot tripod structure of composite scaffolding, which looked like a cross between an oil rig and an awkward model of the Eiffel Tower. Rachel studied the device, unable to fathom how it could be used to extract the enormous meteorite. Beneath the tower, several winches had been screwed into steel plates affixed to the ice with heavy bolts. Threaded through the winches, iron cables banked upward over a series of pulleys atop the tower. From there, the cables plunged vertically downward into narrow bore holes drilled in the ice. Several large NASA men took turns tightening the winches. With each new tightening, the cables slithered a few inches upward through the bore holes, as if the men were raising an anchor.

I’m clearly missing something, Rachel thought, as she and the others moved closer to the extraction site. The men seemed to be hoisting the meteorite directly through the ice.

“EVEN TENSION! DAMN IT!” a woman’s voice screamed nearby, with all the grace of a chain saw.

Rachel looked over to see a small woman in a bright yellow snowsuit smeared with grease. She had her back to Rachel, but even so, Rachel had no trouble guessing that she was in charge of this operation. Making notations on a clipboard, the woman stalked back and forth like a disgusted drillmaster.

“Don’t tell me you ladies are tired!”

Corky called out, “Hey, Norah, quit bossing those poor NASA boys and come flirt with me.”

The woman did not even turn around. “Is that you, Marlinson? I’d know that weenie little voice anywhere. Come back when you reach puberty.”

Corky turned to Rachel. “Norah keeps us warm with her charm.”

“I heard that, space boy,” Dr. Mangor fired back, still making notes. “And if you’re checking out my ass, these snow pants add thirty pounds.”

“No worries,” Corky called. “It’s not your woolly-mammoth butt that drives me wild, it’s your winning personality.”

“Bite me.”

Corky laughed again. “I have great news, Norah. Looks like you’re not the only woman the President recruited.”

“No shit. He recruited you.”

Tolland took over. “Norah? Have you got a minute to meet someone?”

At the sound of Tolland’s voice, Norah immediately stopped what she was doing and turned around. Her hardened demeanor dissolved instantly. “Mike!” She rushed over, beaming. “Haven’t seen you in a few hours.”

“I’ve been editing the documentary.”

“How’s my segment?”

“You look brilliant and lovely.”

“He used special effects,” Corky said.

Norah ignored the remark, glancing now at Rachel with a polite but standoffish smile. She looked back at Tolland. “I hope you’re not cheating on me, Mike.”

Tolland’s rugged face flushed slightly as he made introductions. “Norah, I’d like you to meet Rachel Sexton. Ms. Sexton works in the intelligence community and is here at the request of the President. Her father is Senator Sedgewick Sexton.”

The introduction brought a confused look to Norah’s face. “I won’t even pretend to understand that one.” Norah did not remove her gloves as she gave Rachel’s hand a half-hearted shake. “Welcome to the top of the world.”

Rachel smiled. “Thanks.” She was surprised to see that Norah Mangor, despite the toughness of her voice, had a pleasant and impish countenance. Her pixie haircut was brown with streaks of gray, and her eyes were keen and sharp—two ice crystals. There was a steely confidence about her that Rachel liked.

“Norah,” Tolland said. “Have you got a minute to share what you’re doing with Rachel?”

Norah arched her eyebrows. “You two on a first-name basis already? My, my.”

Corky groaned. “I told you, Mike.”

Norah Mangor showed Rachel around the base of the tower while Tolland and the others trailed behind, talking among themselves.

“See those boreholes in the ice under the tripod?” Norah asked, pointing, her initial put-out tone softening now to one of rapt fervor for her work. Rachel nodded, gazing down at the holes in the ice. Each was about a foot in diameter and had a steel cable inserted into it.

“Those holes are left over from when we drilled core samples and took X rays of the meteorite. Now we’re using them as entry points to lower heavy-duty screw eyes down the empty shafts and screw them into the meteorite. After that, we dropped a couple hundred feet of braided cable down each hole, snagged the screw eyes with industrial hooks, and now we’re simply winching it up. It’s taking these ladies several hours to get it to the surface, but it’s coming.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Rachel said. “The meteorite is under thousands of tons of ice. How are you lifting it?”

Norah pointed to the top of the scaffolding where a narrow beam of pristine red light shone vertically downward toward the ice beneath the tripod. Rachel had seen it earlier and assumed it was simply some sort of visual indicator—a pointer demarking the spot where the object was buried.

“That’s a gallium arsenide semiconductor laser,” Norah said. Rachel looked more closely at the beam of light and now saw that it had actually melted a tiny hole in the ice and shone down into the depths.

“Very hot beam,” Norah said. “We’re heating the meteorite as we lift.”

When Rachel grasped the simple brilliance of the woman’s plan, she was impressed. Norah had simply aimed the laser beam downward, melting through the ice until the beam hit the meteorite. The stone, being too dense to be melted by a laser, began absorbing the laser’s heat, eventually getting warm enough to melt the ice around it. As the NASA men hoisted the hot meteorite, the heated rock, combined with the upward pressure, melted the surrounding ice, clearing a pathway to raise it to the surface. The melt water accumulating over the meteorite simply seeped back down around the edges of the stone to refill the shaft. Like a hot knife through a frozen stick of butter.

Norah motioned to the NASA men on the winches. “The generators can’t handle this kind of strain, so I’m using manpower to lift.”

“That’s crap!” one of the workers interjected. “She’s using manpower because she likes to see us sweat!”

“Relax,” Norah fired back. “You girls have been bitching for two days that you’re cold . I cured that. Now keep pulling.”

The workers laughed.

“What are the pylons for?” Rachel asked, pointing to several orange highway cones positioned around the tower at what appeared to be random locations. Rachel had seen similar cones dispersed around the dome.

“Critical glaciology tool,” Norah said. “We call them SHABAs. That’s short for

‘step here and break ankle.’” She picked up one of the pylons to reveal a circular bore hole that plunged like a bottomless well into the depths of the glacier. “Bad place to step.” She replaced the pylon. “We drilled holes all over the glacier for a structural continuity check. As in normal archeology, the number of years an object has been buried is indicated by how deep beneath the surface it’s found. The farther down one finds it, the longer it’s been there. So when an object is discovered under the ice, we can date that object’s arrival by how much ice has accumulated on top of it. To make sure our core dating measurements are accurate, we check multiple areas of the ice sheet to confirm that the area is one solid slab and hasn’t been disrupted by earthquake, fissuring, avalanche, what have you.”

“So how does this glacier look?”

“Flawless,” Norah said. “A perfect, solid slab. No fault lines or glacial turnover. This meteorite is what we call a ‘static fall.’ It’s been in the ice untouched and unaffected since it landed in 1716.”

Rachel did a double take. “You know the exact year it fell?”

Norah looked surprised by the question. “Hell, yes. That’s why they called me in. I read ice.” She motioned to a nearby pile of cylindrical tubes of ice. Each looked like a translucent telephone pole and was marked with a bright orange tag. “Those ice cores are a frozen geologic record.” She led Rachel over to the tubes. “If you look closely you can see individual layers in the ice.”

Rachel crouched down and could indeed see that the tube was made up of what appeared to be strata of ice with subtle differences in luminosity and clarity. The layers varied between paper thin to about a quarter of an inch thick.

“Each winter brings a heavy snowfall to the ice shelf,” Norah said, “and each spring brings a partial thaw. So we see a new compression layer every season. We simply start at the top—the most recent winter—and count backward.”

“Like counting rings on a tree.”

“It’s not quite that simple, Ms. Sexton. Remember, we’re measuring hundreds of feet of layerings. We need to read climatological markers to benchmark our work—precipitation records, airborne pollutants, that sort of thing.”

Tolland and the others joined them now. Tolland smiled at Rachel. “She knows a lot about ice, doesn’t she?”

Rachel felt oddly happy to see him. “Yeah, she’s amazing.”

“And for the record,” Tolland nodded, “Dr. Mangor’s 1716 date is right on. NASA came up with the exact same year of impact well before we even got here. Dr. Mangor drilled her own cores, ran her own tests, and confirmed NASA’s work.”

Rachel was impressed.

“And coincidentally,” Norah said, “1716 is the exact year early explorers claimed to have seen a bright fire-ball in the sky over northern Canada. The meteor became known as the Jungersol Fall, after the name of the exploration’s leader.”

“So,” Corky added, “the fact that the core dates and the historic record match is virtual proof that we’re looking at a fragment of the same meteorite that Jungersol recorded seeing in 1716.”

“Dr. Mangor!” one of the NASA workers called out “Leader hasps are starting to show!”

“Tour’s over, folks,” Norah said. “Moment of truth.” She grabbed a folding chair, climbed up onto it, and shouted out at the top of her lungs. “Surfacing in five minutes, everyone!”

All around the dome, like Pavlovian dogs responding to a dinner bell, the scientists dropped what they were doing and hurried toward the extraction zone. Norah Mangor put her hands on her hips and surveyed her domain. “Okay, let’s raise the Titanic.”

“Step aside!” Norah hollered, moving through the growing crowd. The workers scattered. Norah took control, making a show of checking the cable tensions and alignments.

“Heave!” one of the NASA men yelled. The men tightened their winches, and the cables ascended another six inches out of the hole.

As the cables continued to move upward, Rachel felt the crowd inching forward in anticipation. Corky and Tolland were nearby, looking like kids at Christmas. On the far side of the hole, the hulking frame of NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom arrived, taking a position to watch the extraction.

“Hasps!” one of the NASA men yelled. “Leaders are showing!”

The steel cables rising through the boreholes changed from silver braid to yellow leader chains.

“Six more feet! Keep it steady!”

The group around the scaffolding fell into a rapt silence, like onlookers at a séance awaiting the appearance of some divine specter—everyone straining for the first glimpse.

Then Rachel saw it.

Emerging from the thinning layer of ice, the hazy form of the meteorite began to show itself. The shadow was oblong and dark, blurry at first, but getting clearer every moment as it melted its way upward.

“Tighter!” a technician yelled. The men tightened the winches, and the scaffolding creaked.

“Five more feet! Keep the tension even!”

Rachel could now see the ice above the stone beginning to bulge upward like a pregnant beast about to give birth. Atop the hump, surrounding the laser’s point of entry, a small circle of surface ice began to give way, melting, dissolving into a widening hole.

“Cervix is dilated!” someone shouted. “Nine hundred centimeters!”

A tense laughter broke the silence.

“Okay, kill the laser!”

Someone threw a switch, and the beam disappeared.

And then it happened.

Like the fiery arrival of some paleolithic god, the huge rock broke the surface with a hiss of steam. Through the swirling fog, the hulking shape rose out of the ice. The men manning the winches strained harder until finally the entire stone broke free of the frozen restraints and swung, hot and dripping, over an open shaft of simmering water.

Rachel felt mesmerized.

Dangling there on its cables, dripping wet, the meteorite’s rugged surface glistened in the fluorescent lights, charred and rippled with the appearance of an enormous petrified prune. The rock was smooth and rounded on one end, this section apparently blasted away by friction as it streaked through the atmosphere. Looking at the charred fusion crust, Rachel could almost see the meteor rocketing earthward in a furious ball of flames. Incredibly, that was centuries ago. Now, the captured beast hung there on its cables, water dripping from its body. The hunt was over.

Not until this moment had the drama of this event truly struck Rachel. The object hanging before her was from another world, millions of miles away. And trapped within it was evidence—no, proof—that man was not alone in the universe. The euphoria of the moment seemed to grip everyone at the same instant, and the crowd broke into spontaneous hoots and applause. Even the administrator seemed caught up in it. He clapped his men and women on the back, congratulating them. Looking on, Rachel felt a sudden joy for NASA. They’d had some tough luck in the past. Finally things were changing. They deserved this moment. The gaping hole in the ice now looked like a small swimming pool in the middle of the habisphere. The surface of the two-hundred-foot-deep pool of melted water sloshed for a while against the icy walls of the shaft and then finally grew calm. The waterline in the shaft was a good four feet beneath the glacier’s surface, the discrepancy caused by both the removal of the meteorite’s mass and ice’s property of shrinking as it melts.

Norah Mangor immediately set up SHABA pylons all around the hole. Although the hole was clearly visible, any curious soul who ventured too close and accidentally slipped in would be in dire jeopardy. The walls of the shaft were solid ice, with no footholds, and climbing out unassisted would be impossible. Lawrence Ekstrom came padding across the ice toward them. He moved directly to Norah Mangor and shook her hand firmly. “Well done, Dr. Mangor.”

“I’ll expect lots of praise in print,” Norah replied.

“You’ll get it.” The administrator turned now to Rachel. He looked happier, relieved. “So, Ms. Sexton, is the professional skeptic convinced?”

Rachel couldn’t help but smile. “Stunned is more like it.”

“Good. Then follow me.”

Rachel followed the administrator across the habisphere to a large metal box that resembled an industrial shipping container. The box was painted with military camouflage patterns and stenciled letters: P-S-C.

“You’ll call the President from in here,” Ekstrom said.

Portable Secure Comm, Rachel thought. These mobile communications booths were standard battlefield installations, although Rachel had never expected to see one used as part of a peacetime NASA mission. Then again, Administrator Ekstrom’s background was the Pentagon, so he certainly had access to toys like this. From the stern faces on the two armed guards watching over the PSC, Rachel got the distinct impression that contact with the outside world was made only with express consent from Administrator Ekstrom.

Looks like I’m not the only one who is off-the-grid.

Ekstrom spoke briefly with one of the guards outside the trailer and then returned to Rachel. “Good luck,” he said. Then he left.

A guard rapped on the trailer door, and it opened from within. A technician emerged and motioned for Rachel to enter. She followed him in. The inside of the PSC was dark and stuffy. In the bluish glow of the lone computer monitor, Rachel could make out racks of telephone gear, radios, and satellite telecommunications devices. She already felt claustrophobic. The air inside was bitter, like a basement in winter.

“Sit here, please, Ms. Sexton.” The technician produced a rolling stool and positioned Rachel in front of a flat-screen monitor. He arranged a microphone in front of her and placed a bulky pair of AKG headphones on her head. Checking a logbook of encryption passwords, the technician typed a long series of keys on a nearby device. A timer materialized on the screen in front of Rachel. 00:60 SECONDS

The technician gave a satisfied nod as the timer began to count down. “One minute until connection.” He turned and left, slamming the door behind him. Rachel could hear the bolt lock outside.

Great.

As she waited in the dark, watching the sixty-second clock slowly count down, she realized that this was the first moment of privacy she’d had since early that morning. She’d woken up today without the slightest inkling of what lay ahead. Extraterrestrial life. As of today, the most popular modern myth of all time was no longer a myth.

Rachel was just now starting to sense how truly devastating this meteorite would be to her father’s campaign. Although NASA funding had no business being on a political par with abortion rights, welfare, and health care, her father had made it an issue. Now it was going to blow up in his face.

Within hours, Americans would feel the thrill of a NASA triumph all over again. There would be teary-eyed dreamers. Slack-jawed scientists. Children’s imaginations running free. Issues of dollars and cents would fade away as petty, overshadowed by this monumental moment. The President would emerge like a phoenix, transforming himself into a hero, while in the midst of the celebration, the businesslike senator would suddenly appear small-minded, a penny-pinching Scrooge with no American sense of adventure.

The computer beeped, and Rachel glanced up.

00:05 SECONDS

The screen in front of her flickered suddenly, and a blurry image of the White House seal materialized on-screen. After a moment, the image dissolved into the face of President Herney.

“Hello, Rachel,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I trust you’ve had an interesting afternoon?”

The office of Senator Sedgewick Sexton was located in the Philip A. Hart Senate Office Building on C Street to the northeast of the Capitol. The building was a neomodern grid of white rectangles that critics claimed looked more like a prison than an office building. Many who worked there felt the same. On the third floor, Gabrielle Ashe’s long legs paced briskly back and forth in front of her computer terminal. On the screen was a new e-mail message. She was not sure what to make of it.

The first two lines read:

SEDGEWICK WAS IMPRESSIVE ON CNN.

I HAVE MORE INFORMATION FOR YOU.

Gabrielle had been receiving messages like this for the last couple of weeks. The return address was bogus, although she’d been able to track it to a

“whitehouse.gov” domain. It seemed her mysterious informant was a White House insider, and whoever it was had become Gabrielle’s source for all kinds of valuable political information recently, including the news of a covert meeting between the NASA administrator and the President.

Gabrielle had been leery of the e-mails at first, but when she checked out the tips, she was amazed to find the information consistently accurate and helpful—classified information on NASA overexpenditures, costly upcoming missions, data showing that NASA’s search for extraterrestrial life was grossly overfunded and pathetically unproductive, even internal opinion polls warning that NASA was the issue turning voters away from the President. To enhance her perceived value to the senator, Gabrielle had not informed him she was receiving unsolicited e-mail help from inside the White House. Instead, she simply passed the information to him as coming from “one of her sources.” Sexton was always appreciative and seemed to know better than to ask who her source was. She could tell he suspected Gabrielle was doing sexual favors. Troublingly, it didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

Gabrielle stopped pacing and looked again at the newly arrived message. The connotations of all the e-mails were clear: Someone inside the White House wanted Senator Sexton to win this election and was helping him do it by aiding his attack against NASA.

But who? And why?

A rat from a sinking ship, Gabrielle decided. In Washington it was not at all uncommon for a White House employee, fearing his President was about to be ousted from office, to offer quiet favors to the apparent successor in hopes of securing power or another position after the changeover. It seemed someone smelled Sexton victory and was buying stock early.

The message currently on Gabrielle’s screen made her nervous. It was like none other she had ever received. The first two lines didn’t bother her so much. It was the last two:

EAST APPOINTMENT GATE, 4:30 P.M.

COME ALONE.

Her informant had never before asked to meet in person. Even so, Gabrielle would have expected a more subtle location for a face-to-face meeting. East Appointment Gate? Only one East Appointment Gate existed in Washington, as far as she knew. Outside the White House? Is this some kind of joke?

Gabrielle knew she could not respond via e-mail; her messages were always bounced back as undeliverable. Her correspondent’s account was anonymous. Not surprising.

Should I consult Sexton? She quickly decided against it. He was in a meeting. Besides, if she told him about this e-mail, she’d have to tell him about the others. She decided her informant’s offer to meet in public in broad daylight must be to make Gabrielle feel safe. After all, this person had done nothing but help her for the last two weeks. He or she was obviously a friend.

Reading the e-mail one last time, Gabrielle checked the clock. She had an hour.

The NASA administrator was feeling less edgy now that the meteorite was successfully out of the ice. Everything is falling into place, he told himself as he headed across the dome to the work area of Michael Tolland. Nothing can stop us now.

“How’s it coming?” Ekstrom asked, striding up behind the television scientist. Tolland glanced up from his computer, looking tired but enthusiastic. “Editing is almost done. I’m just overlaying some of the extraction footage your people shot. Should be done momentarily.”

“Good.” The President had asked Ekstrom to upload Tolland’s documentary to the White House as soon as possible.

Although Ekstrom had been cynical about the President’s desire to use Michael Tolland on this project, seeing the rough cuts of Tolland’s documentary had changed Ekstrom’s mind. The television star’s spirited narrative, combined with his interviews of the civilian scientists, had been brilliantly fused into a thrilling and comprehensible fifteen minutes of scientific programming. Tolland had achieved effortlessly what NASA so often failed to do—describe a scientific discovery at the level of the average American intellect without being patronizing.

“When you’re done editing,” Ekstrom said, “bring the finished product over to the press area. I’ll have someone upload a digital copy to the White House.”

“Yes, sir.” Tolland went back to work.

Ekstrom moved on. When he arrived at the north wall, he was encouraged to find the habisphere’s “press area” had come together nicely. A large blue carpet had been rolled out on the ice. Centered on the rug sat a long symposium table with several microphones, a NASA drape, and an enormous American flag as a backdrop. To complete the visual drama, the meteorite had been transported on a palette sled to its position of honor, directly in front of the symposium table. Ekstrom was pleased to see the mood in the press area was one of celebration. Much of his staff was now crowded around the meteorite, holding their hands out over its still-warm mass like campers around a campfire. Ekstrom decided that this was the moment. He walked over to several cardboard boxes sitting on the ice behind the press area. He’d had the boxes flown in from Greenland this morning.

“Drinks are on me!” he yelled, handing out cans of beer to his cavorting staff.

“Hey, boss!” someone yelled. “Thanks! It’s even cold!”

Ekstrom gave a rare smile. “I’ve been keeping it on ice.”

Everyone laughed.

“Wait a minute!” someone else yelled, scowling good-naturedly at his can. “This stuff’s Canadian! Where’s your patriotism?”

“We’re on a budget, here, folks. Cheapest stuff I could find.”

More laughter.

“Attention shoppers,” one of the NASA television crew yelled into a megaphone.

“We’re about to switch to media lighting. You may experience temporary blindness.”

“And no kissing in the dark,” someone yelled. “This is a family program!”

Ekstrom chuckled, enjoying the raillery as his crew made final adjustments to the spotlights and accent lighting.

“Switching to media lighting in five, four, three, two…”

The dome’s interior dimmed rapidly as the halogen lamps shut down. Within seconds, all the lights were off. An impenetrable darkness engulfed the dome. Someone let out a mock scream.

“Who pinched my ass?” someone yelled, laughing.

The blackness lasted only a moment before it was pierced by the intense glare of media spotlights. Everyone squinted. The transformation was now complete; the north quadrant of the NASA habisphere had become a television studio. The remainder of the dome now looked like a gaping barn at night. The only light in the other sections was the muted reflection of the media lights reflecting off the arched ceiling and throwing long shadows across the now deserted work stations. Ekstrom stepped back into the shadows, gratified to see his team carousing around the illuminated meteorite. He felt like a father at Christmas, watching his kids enjoy themselves around the tree.

God knows they deserve it, Ekstrom thought, never suspecting what calamity lay ahead.