Spencer felt Nedermyer's eyes on him. The news crew hushed. TV cameras pointed at the techs constantly updating the system status.

"Folks," Spencer said, raising his voice, "we're about to catch the first solar energy ever beamed directly from s.p.a.ce. Keep your fingers crossed."

At the top left corner of the workstation in front of him, numerals flashed the countdown. Spencer wondered if he should voice the numbers out loud for the benefit of the DOE bureaucrats in D.C. He joined the faint whispering as everyone counted down to first light. "Three . . . two . . . one . . . bingo!"

The televised view from the desert didn't change. Romero and Spencer stared at the screen. They saw no indication that millions of joules of energy rained down from s.p.a.ce into the waiting arms of a thousand microwave antennas.

The news crews probably wanted to see a dazzling green death beam streak down from orbit. The trailer fell silent as everyone held their breath. Nothing.

Click!

Bright light filled the trailer, then a whirring hum. The sound of the Beach Boys singing in harmony swept through the air. Spencer smiled as the strains of "The Warmth of the Sun" drifted from the jukebox. Everyone laughed and started clapping. Spencer broke into a wider grin; Romero slapped him on the back.

Nedermyer scowled at the jukebox. The music grew louder until it blared out of the speakers.

Spencer reached left and right to shake hands. His crew congratulated him, pounding him on the back. "Hey, somebody notify DOE!"

Rita waved an arm and held up a portable telephone. "Spence, the a.s.sistant Secretary wants to talk with you."

"Tell her I'm monitoring the test." A champagne cork popped, and Spencer was doused. Breaking free of the revelry, he made his way toward the reporters. Now he didn't mind talking to them. Over the din, he could hear voices shouting performance figures.

"We're showing a thirty-five percent conversion efficiency! With this baseline, we've already exceeded the design specs!"

Nedermyer stood with his arms crossed, lips drawn into a tight line. Nedermyer's foot tapped, but it didn't seem to be moving to the beat of the song. The ruddy color that crept into the bureaucrat's cheeks was far darker than a sunburn.

Spencer motioned with his head to the jukebox. "Well? Are you satisfied, Lance?"

"At what? This . . . stunt?"

"We could have used anything for a load. We thought this would be a bit more . . . memorable than an oscilloscope."

"There's a purpose for all the diagnostics equipment your group has purchased, Dr. Lockwood. They convey much more information for competent a.n.a.lysis than this boombox of yours."

Spencer lowered his voice. "What is your problem, Lance? Can't you see it worked? Give us a little credit."

Nedermyer's whisper had the edge of a bayonet. "I spend all year long trying to crowbar money out of the trenches for your pet projects, and you screwb.a.l.l.s turn it into a comedy routine! We had to can a dozen other equally worthy proposals to get your funding, Dr. Lockwood, and look what kind of impression you've just made. Imagine the headlines: Government Wastes Millions of Dollars to Turn on Jukebox from s.p.a.ce! Are you too young to remember how the public howled when the Apollo astronauts were having too much fun on the Moon? You're supposed to act respectable respectable in situations like this. Can't you grow up for a few minutes, golden boy?" in situations like this. Can't you grow up for a few minutes, golden boy?"

The jukebox song changed to "I Get Around." Chuckles rippled through the trailer. Rita's voice boomed over the background noise. "Quiet! Switchover in one minute. Alpha Two coming up."

Spencer turned to Nedermyer, trying to back to neutral ground. "Ready for the next satellite. Care for a closer look?"

Nedermyer kept his arms folded. "I can see-and hear-from where I'm standing."

Spencer kept a straight face as he went over to Rita's area. Three telephones and two laptop computers lay jumbled next to her workstation. Even sitting, the gangly scientist was nearly as tall as the reporter hovering over her shoulder. Rita pointed to a graphic on the screen for the reporter's benefit. "Alpha One is about to go over the horizon. We'll lose contact soon."

The reporter pulled his microphone back and spoke into it. "I thought these satellites stayed overhead the whole time."

"To do that, we'd have to put the satellites up so high that their beam would spread out too much by the time it got down to Earth. Our beam from low-orbiting satellites stays tight enough for us to milk it. But the downside is that each satellite is overhead for only five minutes."

"Does that mean your antenna farm will only generate electricity for a few minutes a day?"

Spencer rolled his eyes and wondered if the reporter hadn't done his homework, or if he was just playing dumb to clarify things for his viewers.

"No, we've got seven satellites in four different planar orbits for broader coverage," said Rita.

"The Seven Dwarfs," the reporter said, grinning.

"Right. We were fairly certain we could lock the microwave beam from the first satellite. The real trick is to see if we can turn on the next satellite when it comes into view without interrupting the power. without interrupting the power. If there's enough overlap between the beams, the electrical network won't even notice the difference." If there's enough overlap between the beams, the electrical network won't even notice the difference."

A shout erupted from the front. "Two, one . . . transition! Alpha Two is locked on!"

Spencer noticed no dimming of the lights, no jitter in the jukebox. The party started all over again.

Rita kept talking, giving the canned speech every member of the project knew by heart. "At least one of the Seven Dwarfs is within view of White Sands 46 percent of the time. But they may be at too low an angle to do any good. Eventually we hope to get a continuous ring of satellites over the Earth so we never lose touch-at least in daylight. We also need to build more antenna farms along the path so that as soon as a satellite loses sight of one farm it can switch to another."

The reporter recorded all the information, but Rita didn't slow down. "Once we get them up there, all that energy is free. Since the cost of sending up smallsats is decreasing, it'll become economical and a lot less polluting than any form of Earth-based power system. Twenty more satellites are sitting in sealed storage at the Jet Propulsion Lab right now. We'll eventually need about 70 for a complete system, but the strategy is to first show they work. Solar satellites don't wear out, you know, they just keep going and going and going-like that pink bunny."

Another cheer went through the trailer a few moments later. "Alpha Three overlap and switch-on is successful. Three down and four to go." The celebration was more subdued this time. After the first milestone, every other event seemed less significant.

"What about the Zoroaster Zoroaster spill?" the reporter asked. spill?" the reporter asked.

Spencer interrupted the interview; he had hoped for a question like that. Rita looked relieved. Spencer stepped too close to the microphone, then awkwardly backed away as he talked. "The pictures speak for themselves. Until we develop alternative energy sources like this one, we're going to keep having accidents like that one." He felt warm inside as he said it. The words came out like a perfect sound bite, and he had no doubt the broadcast would use it.

Before long, the seventh satellite pa.s.sed over the horizon. The lights dimmed and the jukebox stopped. Spencer was suddenly exhausted.

Like an addict craving another hit, he looked around to keep the thrill going just a little longer. He spotted Lance Nedermyer standing in the corner, alone, talking into a telephone. Nedermyer loosened his tie, then turned his back on the party.

Spencer set his mouth as he realized he had to do some damage control; he reached Nedermyer as the bureaucrat hung up the phone. "Looks like a total success, Lance," he said. "We're having a quick-look briefing in ten minutes to go over preliminary data."

Nedermyer smiled tightly. "I've seen all I need to for now."

"Too bad the Secretary couldn't make it out."

"No need to, that's why I'm here." He turned for the exit. "If your test is over, I'll be heading back to Albuquerque. It's a three-hour drive."

Spencer followed the man out the door, growing angry as Nedermyer brushed off his accomplishment. Outside, the sunlight seemed to explode with brightness. With an effort, Spencer kept his voice friendly. "Albuquerque, already?"

Nedermyer pulled off his tie and strode toward his rental car. The ground crunched beneath his feet. "That's what I said."

"Well, is there anything else I can show you?"

"I said I've seen all I need to see-"

Spencer's patience snapped and he reached out to grab Nedermyer by the elbow. The man's arm felt as fleshy as it looked. "Lance, you can't deny that what happened here today marks a new era. When all the satellites are up-"

Nedermyer shook off Spencer's hand. Squinting in the harsh sunlight, he fumbled in his pocket for a pair of sunshades to clip onto his eyegla.s.ses. Spencer saw himself reflected in the lenses. Nedermyer said, "You just don't get it, do you, Lockwood?"

Spencer stopped. "Get what?"

Nedermyer waved a hand at the trailer, then toward the antenna farm. "All this is just a game to you. A stunt. You might have captured the public eye this afternoon, but I have to deal with the flack back inside the Beltway. What am I going to tell Congress when they ask why DOE is spending money playing surfin' music?"

Spencer narrowed his eyes. "Why are you doing this, Lance? You can't can't be that dense." be that dense."

"I was just on the phone to headquarters, Dr. Lockwood." He started to walk toward his car, but he took off his sungla.s.ses and pointed them at Spencer. "I've recommended that the National Academy of Sciences review your program before we spend any more money on your operation."

"That will take half a year! We've got smallsats waiting at JPL. They're already built-"

"I'll be back in a month with the panel to see your full-scale test results. And there'd better be some good science out of it. Play by the rules, Spencer. Everybody else does." He jammed his sungla.s.ses back on his face and strode to the car.

Spencer watched the cloud of dust dissipate as Nedermyer drove away. He didn't know how long he stood there before the door to the trailer opened and Rita Fellenstein called. "Hey, Spence! The reporters want to talk to you again."

Still in shock, Spencer kept watching the road where Nedermyer's car vanished into an unpleasant mirage.

Someone had plugged the jukebox into the main power. The strains of "Don't Worry Baby" drifted out the door.

Chapter 4.

Alex Kramer drove toward the ocean, following memories more detailed than any map. In the morning fog, he pa.s.sed down narrow roads in the Marin headlands, where craggy rocks met the sea near the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge. At "vista point" turnouts showing postcard views of the bridge and the San Francisco skyline, rubberneckers stretched for a glimpse of the spreading blackness below. It made him sick.

All night long, Alex had been transfixed by news of the spill, sitting with one light on in the empty ranch house and watching the same footage over and over again. It seemed like a parallel to the disaster that had smothered his own life.

Out on the Bay, smaller tankers pulled beside the Zoroaster Zoroaster and tried to offload oil in desperate lightering operations; boats wrestled to deploy booms around the slick as it spread. Hundreds of people scurried about with equipment, but it seemed futile. Most of Oilstar's effort seemed to be directed at telling people the spill wasn't as bad as it looked, that they had everything under control. and tried to offload oil in desperate lightering operations; boats wrestled to deploy booms around the slick as it spread. Hundreds of people scurried about with equipment, but it seemed futile. Most of Oilstar's effort seemed to be directed at telling people the spill wasn't as bad as it looked, that they had everything under control.

Alex pa.s.sed old Fort Baker and Fort Cronkhite with their crumbling batteries and gun emplacements high on the bluffs. The landscape was a drab but striking range of deep green from the stands of flattened cypress, dry yellow-brown of gasping gra.s.s, and brilliant orange of wild California poppies.

He and his son Jay had spent some of their best times hiking out in the headlands. He had thought never to come here again because of the ghosts he might find along the trails; even the water reminded him of the time he and Jay had sipped from the same canteen and splashed barefoot in the rocky surf. The Coast Trail had been their last decent outing together before Jay followed his unit to Saudi Arabia.

Now Alex drove downslope to the end of the road in Rodeo Cove, an isolated section of coastline just north of the Golden Gate, with rough surf suitable only for wet-suited divers and daredevils. He parked on the cracked asphalt and got out of his pickup, unable to tear his gaze from the sh.o.r.e. He held the truck's open door for support. Foul hydrocarbons permeated the air, masking the salt and iodine smell of the ocean. His eyes and nose burned.

The current of the outgoing tide had sucked the Zoroaster Zoroaster's crude oil back out to sea, where it had spread farther. Then, with the tide's returning flow, the waves had splattered the dark stain against the coastline in an ever-widening bruise.

Alex wanted to turn from the horror. His stomach rippled with the leaden weight of brewing nausea. But his feet moved of their own accord, stumbling toward the beach. Five people, dressed warmly in jeans and flannel shirts, stared and said nothing to each other.

Hastily erected "Danger No Swimming" and "Contaminated Water" signs dotted the beach. Normally rich brown, pebbled with black and tan rocks, the sand was slathered with an opaque slime of crude. Viscous waves licked the sh.o.r.e.

Seagulls, smeared with oil, chased the waves, looking for something to eat; they circled in confusion at the strange new consistency of the ocean. Farther out to sea, buoys clanged. Normally, fishing boats would have bobbed with the swells-but not today, and not for a long time. At the tide line, algae cl.u.s.tered against the rocks among other sh.e.l.lfish, already dying.

A few years before, Alex and Jay had started a long backpacking trip here. The Coast Trail wound along the headlands for miles, and the two of them walked in the cool air all day, looking down at the crashing surf from the crumbling edges of horrendous cliffs.

Jay had labored for a year at the University of California, San Francisco, though he had little interest in school. During their three-day hike, Jay finally broke the news to Alex of his decision to join the Army. Jay had rubbed his short red hair, looked at Alex, then away, then back at him again. His pale skin had flushed a deeper red as if embarra.s.sed to be changing his mind about what he wanted to do with his life.

"I know it's not what you wanted me to do," Jay had said. He took a nervous sip from the open canteen, offering it to Alex, who shook his head. Jay looked away again as he screwed the metal cap back on. "But college just isn't what I want to do, at least not right now. I want to challenge myself in a different way, and I think the Army can do that for me."

Alex had been surprised, but not unduly upset. He and Marcia tried to keep a light hand on the children. Both Erin and Jay were intelligent and sensible; they made their own decisions. "If that's what you think will work best for you, Jay. It's better to change your mind than to keep going along with what you know is a bad decision."

Jay, who had not hugged his father since eighth grade, clapped an arm around Alex's shoulder, gave a brief squeeze, then struck off down the trail at a greater speed, embarra.s.sed. . . .

Alex still remembered the visit from the two Army officers, informing him that Jay had been killed in a nighttime skirmish on the Saudi border in one of their oil wars.

Now, the roar of the surf sounded like distant, booming gunfire in his ears.

Alex stood unmoving at the tide line. Dark blobs clumped on the beach. The waves had churned the crude and water into a frothy, gummy substance, "mousse," that stuck to everything.

A seagull flew overhead with mouth wide open. The waves crashed in, bringing the oil closer, and Alex skittishly stepped back.

Cold wind blew in his eyes. The same oil slick would paint the Bay, wrap around Alcatraz Island, Angel Island, Fisherman's Wharf, the Embarcadero. San Francisco had been called the most beautiful city in the world-and it had just been brutally raped by the Zoroaster Zoroaster. Seeing the effects up close, Alex felt the walls surrounding his anger and despair rattling, crumbling.

Right now, Oilstar officials were desperate for any public relations coup. They would leap at any hook Alex Kramer could offer, though the barbs were plainly visible. Panic removed all common sense.

Alex breathed deeply, trying to ignore the pain in his side. Mitch Stone was probably correct in thinking the Prometheus microbe could help clean up this spill. This was a scar that could not be ignored.

Trembling, Alex squatted and dipped his fingers in the blackish-brown ooze on the sh.o.r.eline. His fingers came away soiled and greasy, covered with a stain that looked like blood.

Blood and oil. In his life, the two had so much in common.

Chapter 5.

The wreck of the Oilstar Zoroaster Oilstar Zoroaster lay like a corpse on the Golden Gate Bridge's south tower, canting downward at a drunken angle. On the span above, cars crawled by as people craned their necks to gawk. lay like a corpse on the Golden Gate Bridge's south tower, canting downward at a drunken angle. On the span above, cars crawled by as people craned their necks to gawk.

Coast Guard boats, Oilstar barges, and private fishing boats descended like vultures to begin ma.s.sive lightering operations. Riding choppy waves beside the Zoroaster Zoroaster, a smaller tanker-the Tiberius Tiberius-lashed up to the hulk. Straining pumps attempted to pull crude from Zoroaster Zoroaster faster than it could leak into the Bay. faster than it could leak into the Bay.

As its cargo holds emptied, the wrecked supertanker rode higher in the water. Pumps replaced ballast with Bay water to keep the Zoroaster Zoroaster from floating up from its precarious balance. from floating up from its precarious balance.

Hung up on the Bridge's south pier, the Zoroaster Zoroaster had been ripped by the same submerged ledge the steamer had been ripped by the same submerged ledge the steamer Rio de Janeiro Rio de Janeiro had struck a century earlier; the had struck a century earlier; the Rio Rio had dragged over half of its pa.s.sengers and crew to the bottom, and now the had dragged over half of its pa.s.sengers and crew to the bottom, and now the Zoroaster Zoroaster rested against the same ledge, groaning against the six-knot ebb tide. rested against the same ledge, groaning against the six-knot ebb tide.

Standing on the deck of the Zoroaster Zoroaster, Todd Severyn jammed a broad, aching shoulder under one of the ma.s.sive transfer hoses cast across from the smaller Tiberius Tiberius. Other men from his lightering crew fought with the hoses, hoisting them over the deck rails and swinging the hose derrick to align them with cargo hatches. Todd tried to bellow orders, do at least as much work as his best man, and keep from puking all at the same time.

Todd planted his big feet on the slick deck, keeping a delicate balance with his heavy workboots. The stinging hydrocarbon fumes burned his eyes, his nose, as volatile petrochemicals roiled into the air. But the slant and rocking motion of the wreck in the choppy sea nauseated a Wyoming man like Todd more than the smell of crude.

He had worked oil for most of his life, getting his start in the oil-shale processing plants near Rock Springs, before Oilstar had sent him to Kuwait, Burma, Alaska, the North Sea. They had a.s.signed him to an offsh.o.r.e rig off New Orleans for his first big job-but he had never before been in charge of a h.e.l.lish job like offloading the Zoroaster Zoroaster.

"Come on, kids!" he shouted into the noise of the pumps, the wind, the gurgling oil far below. His throat was raw from yelling, and his crew staggered about in exhaustion mixed with panic. Overhead, helicopters bearing TV station logos circled to get dramatic footage. Spectators looked through the criss-crossed superstructure of the Golden Gate Bridge. It felt like a three-ring circus; Todd wished he was back in Wyoming. The last time he had taken off by himself with nothing more than a horse, mess kit, and bedroll on the plains seemed like a million years ago. Well, a few months at least. But it sure beat this c.r.a.ppy work.