Page 104 - Psychoceramics and the Test of Fire

Secrets of the Endosphere

the means of spaceflight, had landed here for a specific purpose,
accomplished it, and departed? What might they need on a planet in
its infancy, life-forms rudimentary and atmosphere in flux? Minerals!
Cade proposed that the prehistoric lithosphere was a crucible of
chemistry, a petrogenic nursery for exotic compounds fed by a
mantle under far different conditions of temperature and pressure
than obtained today. The aliens would have had the means of
detecting and extracting what they wanted. Following their departure,
traces of that mining might be preserved, unthreatened by the razing
effects of time and tide on the surface of our world. All we need do is
deduce their intentions and excavate.
The editor chose to print Cade’s suggestion in his journal’s April
Fool’s Day edition, alongside tales of Piltdown Man, bananadine, the
jackalope and perpetual motion machines. That was the last public
utterance of this imperious amateur: how Al Magnus decided his
research program warranted a grant eluded me. Neither could I
imagine such an undertaking attempted on the sort of money Magnus
distributed to each of his lucky winners for implementation of their
preposterous notions. But this was my task, and I struggled to
develop a means of gaining Barry Cade’s confidence.
Some sort of reverse psychology had to be in order: he was more
likely to be a bipolar psychoceramic than an obsessive-compulsive
member of the cult of unwavering faith in one’s own bizarre
fantasies. Reports of his behavior suggested a manic-depressive vein
running deep into the craniosphere of Planet Barry. He fired
employees without cause; then went into a black funk because they
had asked for his forgiveness. His business suffered: he alternated
between hyper-suspicion and self-defeating indifference. If he ever
had a family it was long gone. The trick would be to avoid getting in
a position where I had to agree with him without appearing insincere;
his own argument with almost everyone and everything was utterly
sincere. Fortunately, I was a man with the confidence of a confidence
man: I could believe whatever he said as if I had said it myself.
This time I was Herbie Seidell, a caricature of the Hollywood
hustler type; a stretch for me, but I had to present a layer of callous
indifference easily penetrated to a crumbling substratum of pathetic
greed and fear—and then no further. Few, particularly those
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