"Then begin. Dear Senator Radcliff. (Cherisa smiled....a letter to her old boss). Regarding the upcoming budget hearings and continuation of funding for the NSF: Horace, I anticipate a very bitter fight this next month relative to our 1991 budget request, due in part to the recent discussions President and the Soviet Premier relative to European nuclear missile levels, but also due to the pressure Congress is putting on the Pentagon to freeze spending levels at last year's figures.
As you are aware, you and I helped begin the NSF over ten years ago, and during those ten years we have seen our organization grow from a staff of three highly creative individuals, to well over one hundred. Our research too has branched out from the initial study phase of finding ways of reducing the strategic threat, to the inception of the SIGMA ONE project which is nearing the demonstration phase.
Horace, we are on the verge of a breakthrough." Pat paused, thinking deliberately about what he would say next.
"Did you get that, Cherisa?"
"Just a minute, Mr. Huxley." She flipped to the next page of her steno pad, scrawled faster and then looked up to see Pat rise and begin to limp around the office, dragging his right shoe across the carpet as he did. Her eyes inadvertently focused down on that shoe and she noticed it was very scuffed from constant abuse. The sight hurt her. Patrick Huxley, save for his physical disability, was really a handsome man. She thought to herself, Mrs. Huxley is a very lucky woman.
Pat caught Cherisa’s stare at his foot and looked at her. Their eyes met. Although it had been fifteen years since the accident, the look of pity in Cherisa's eyes still hurt slightly.
"Are you caught up yet, Ms. Hunt?"
"Uh,huh." She flashed her eyes down to her steno pad avoiding having to continue to look into his eyes.
"As I was saying," he hesitated momentarily to regain his concentration, broken as a result of Cherisa's stare.
"Please read the last line back to me."
Cherisa began, "Horace, we are on the verge of a breakthrough."
Pat thought for a moment and fumbled for his pipe finding it in the top drawer of his desk. Reaching into the humidor, he filled it with tobacco. He always smoked when he was nervous. And he was nervous right now. How long could he hope that Radcliff would believe him? Hadn't he written the same thing not three months earlier during the summer budget exercises? No matter. He wanted to believe-what he was saying. He really felt that in just a few more months his scientists and parapsychologists would find the answer to SIGMA ONE and he would be able to demonstrate the ability to reprogram a computer using only one's thoughts.
He continued, drawing on his pipe deeply as he did. "We are on the verge of a breakthrough and shortly we'll be able to give you a personal demonstration of SIGMA ONE's potential.
Dr. Jackowitz, a recently hired parapsychologist, has made outstanding progress in this regard. I've included the findings of his research over the last two months in this letter. I'm sure when you read the report you'll understand my urgency in compelling you to do whatever is necessary to convince your colleagues of the continued viability of this project.
I've also included the budget figures you asked for indicating our progress in maintaining control of expenditures (See Attachment 2). Attachment 3 contains our budget request for next fiscal year's operations updated to reflect the most recent estimates of inflation. (Pat remembered the snafu that the Pentagon got into recently when their budget submission included the wrong inflation indices, thus understating their needs by a substantial amount. He didn't want to be in the same boat, even though his organization was receiving funding from a number of sources.)
When you have had an opportunity to review this material, I will arrange a meeting between your staffers and our scientists to clarify any budgetary or technical questions you may have.
Warmest regards.
Pat.
"Did you get all that, Cherisa?" Pat queried as he sat back down at his desk and swiveled around in the chair to face her.
"Yes sir, I did."
"Okay then, get me a typed version by noon and arrange for a courier. I want this letter delivered before three this afternoon to the Senator's office."
"What about the attachments, Mr. Huxley? Do you want me to Xerox any copies?"
"That won't be necessary. Just get the envelope typed and have the guard buzz me when the courier is here. I'll take care of the attachments."
"All right then. I'll have this ready for you shortly." Cherisa then got up and headed for the door.
"One last thing, Cherisa. Please ring Ms. Yates and have her come here for a moment.”
Cherisa wrinkled her brow, not immediately remembering who Ms. Yates was. She stood there awkwardly momentarily and then remembered Amanda's last name. "Oh, you mean Amanda Yates?"
Huxley grimaced at her incompetence. "Yes I mean Amanda Yates!"
"I'm sorry. I just forgot her last name was Yates." Cherisa was visibly shaken at his abruptness. She then added in her defense, "You don't have to snap!"
"Listen young lady. I wasn't snapping. (Although he knew he was). "I'm just under a lot of pressure here lately. (He was, if he didn't show progress his whole company would be in jeopardy.) Please try to understand. Nothing personal, okay?"
"Okay." Cherisa was still hurt slightly.
"Now run along and get Ms.…..I mean Amanda."
Cherisa nodded and left.
Pat sat back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. As he puffed on his pipe, a big swirl of smoke encircled his head. His eyes closed as he reflected on the letter which he just dictated and which he was going to have delivered later.
Backdating the letter would indicate to Radcliff that his intent was good--making an attempt to get the information to him before and not after the hearings. Hiring a courier was also another good ploy. That way he'd have a receipt. But receipt or not, Pat knew that the entire contents as referenced in the letter wouldn't arrive. He never intended to include Dr. Jackowitz's report. The report would indicate very little progress had been made at all on SIGMA ONE.
Not that Pat had any right to expect a great deal of progress. He was grasping at straws the moment he hired Dr. Jackowitz aka Glen O'Shaunessey, a dried up sixty-eight year old ex-carnival actor whose only redeeming quality was that he had the unique telekinetic ability Pat required. One of the researchers Pat had turned on to investigate potential candidates for the project had found O'Shaunessey through an obscure reference to his abilities in a back issue of Psychology Today just three months prior.
The quick plane trip to Opalaca, Florida, a three hour jeep ride, and a dozen hours of convincing O'Shaunessey that he owed it to mankind to use his unique abilities to help the NSF and SIGMA ONE (and ensuring him he would be well compensated for his work ), and O'Shaunessey was his.
Of course, Pat had to dry him out before he could get a coherent yes or no answer as he was quite drunk when Pat arrived. (Under normal circumstances, Pat wouldn't have wasted his time with the likes of O'Shaunessey. But he was desperate for help.) Pat also had to use his influence to create a new identity for his new-found talent before bringing him to Washington-- this because it seems-that O'Shaunessey had used his telekinetic abilities outside the law, and the local authorities were still looking for him. Still, Pat really hoped and suspected that with the proper motivation (in O'Shaunnesey's case, money), that Glen might be able to make a difference to his project's success.
Pat believed that if he could get O'Shaunessey to focus his telekinetic abilities on depressing the keys of a computer keyboard from a distance, that SIGMA ONE might just be feasible. Of course, he knew he'd have to teach O'Shaunessey which keys to depress to reprogram a Soviet Missile, but that's what the NSF's computer section was paid to do--figure out how the programming in the enemy's missiles was accomplished. And of course, there was the problem of keeping O'Shaunessey straight enough to work. But in the past ninety days, Glen had been making some progress. His latest accomplishment: playing Nintendo from across the room with
out touching the joystick. (Whether he could do the same thing with a computer and from a great distance remained to be seen.) Still, though, it was progress.
Pat took another deep draw on his pipe and seconds later, Amanda entered his office.
Amanda, twenty-three, recent graduate from William and Mary's in D.C., stood calmly in front of him. In her arms were reams of computer printout and on top of the printout, a green folder containing the budget information he needed.
"How are you this morning, Ms. Yates?" Pat asked, feet still up on the desk. He continued, "I trust you've got the figures I asked for."
"The figures are here, Mr. Huxley, but the artwork and viewgraphs are still in the art department. They should be out by noon."
"Perfect!" Pat exclaimed happy to see his plan coming together.
Amanda seemed puzzled. "I'm not sure I understand, sir." She wrinkled her brow unsure of the meaning behind her boss's last comment. She had reviewed the artwork the previous day to be sure the data was correct, and although she didn't understand all of the graphs, she did understand one entitled "Status of SIGMA ONE Expenditures." That graph showed a sixty-five percent overrun for the current fiscal year. She hadn't been cleared for that particular project, but suspected it was something big to the NSF, this suspicion having arisen from seeing a number of people with a big red one on their badges indicating they were SIGMA ONE cleared. By her estimates, a little more than half of all NSF employees have this on their badges and that meant the project was sizeable. And it was in trouble- -or at least financially was, anyway. Amanda felt she had to say something.
"Mr. Huxley," She stammered, "I can't understand why you're happy. It may be none of my business, but it appears that the SIGMA ONE project is experiencing quite an overrun. Or at least that's what the graphs showed." Amanda waited for a reply.
Pat chose his words carefully. The fewer people that knew about this the better. He must have inadvertently written the project name on one of the graphs he was using to plot the financial status. Stupid move. Normally he wouldn't have been so careless. He would have taken the charts to art himself, and certainly left the titles off. What was he thinking about anyway? The pressure must be getting to him. He searched for the right words to say. He had to minimize the damage his oversight might have caused.
He paused momentarily and then continued. "You're absolutely right, Amanda. The SIGMA ONE project is overrun slightly, but I've identified the problem. (He hadn't.) And I'm taking steps to rectify the situation. (He was, but not as one would expect.) I appreciate your concern and attention to detail."
He leaned forward on his desk to emphasize the next words he was about to say. "How long have you been with the NSF, Ms. Yates?" Pat tried to steer the conversation away from the project's problems.
Amanda was startled from his sudden change of composure. Why would he be asking her this? Had she breached some unwritten security rule by even seeing the charts? Was she in trouble? Was her job in jeopardy?
Weakly Amanda answered. "Eighteen months, sir. I've been with the NSF eighteen months."
Pat eyed her badge, noting the distinct missing big red one. She was obviously not cleared for the project.
"And in that time you haven't been cleared for SIGMA ONE?"
Amanda bowed her head slightly, submissively and shook it side to side. Tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't afford to lose her job.
Pat didn't say anything for the longest time. He wanted Amanda to squirm a little. He normally was a very kind and gentle person, but when it came to the possibility of anything or anyone interfering with SIGMA ONE, he became very protective. The silent treatment on Amanda would make her think about what had happened and emphasize the importance of what he was about to say.
"Well, Amanda. I suggest you see your supervisor and have him call me regarding this matter."
Amanda bristled. It wasn't right. She exploded. "It's not fair. I didn't see anything. I don't know and I don't even rare what SIGMA ONE is. Honest! You can't fire me for that!"
"Hold on young lady. No one's getting fired. I simply meant for you to have your supervisor call me so I can authorize your clearance into the project. We can use sharp minds like yours."
All the wind out of her sails, Amanda calmed down. “You mean it, Mr. Huxley?" she asked still not believing his offer.
"Yes, Amanda. Have him call me this morning and then head down to security to get a new badge. By the time you get there the paperwork should be done." And then Pat added as a precaution. "But don't say anything about the financial numbers you saw or about our discussions. There's an even higher level of clearance for that. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Sir,I'm sorry...I..."
Pat interrupted. There's nothing to be sorry about. Now get down to security." He felt he had made his point and there was no sense in grinding the young girl anymore.
Amanda turned and let out a deep sigh of relief.
Before the door shut, Pat spoke again. "Oh, by the way, Ms. Yates, welcome aboard to SIGMA ONE."
The door shut just as Amanda was saying thanks.
CHAPTER 5
"Burt! Burt! Wake up! You'll be late for class!" Debbie Andrews leaned over the bed, and as she did, her long blonde hair hung down in her angelic face. She swept it out of her eyes and then jostled her boyfriend who was lying face down in his bed. The wires to the electrocardiogram could be seen snaking their way from under his covers to the machine, but these went unnoticed by Debbie.
Burt roused slightly and turned over in bed, his eyes slits, guarding against the bright California sunshine which was streaming into his dormitory room.
He began groggily. "What are you doing here, Debbie? It's Saturday. I thought you were going to drive up to Morrow Bay to see your mom this weekend?"
"It's not Saturday, you ding bat. It's Monday. October 28th. And it's 8:30 in the morning. Don't you have a chemistry mid-term today?"
Burt buried his head back into his pillow. It seemed like a dream. And he didn't want to wake up.
Debbie jostled him again.
"Come off it, Deb! Let me sleep. It's Saturday. Not Monday!"
Debbie searched around the room for some evidence of what day it was. It was obvious that Burt needed something more than her to convince him. Finally she spied the digital clock radio across the room. She immediately went to it, cranked the volume up and flicked it on.
---and now the surf report on this beautiful Monday morning.
Swells two to three feet on South facing beaches---”
Burt rose up in bed, eyes wide open; disbelief in his face.
"Did he say Monday?"
Debbie moved back toward his bed and looked down at him. "It's Monday. Just like I said!
"Holy Jesus! I slept the whole weekend away!"
By now Burt had gotten out of bed and was running for his clothes closet to put on his jeans. The wires to the EKG were tugging at him and holding him back as he reached the closet. He then stopped in mid stride and looked over at the video camera. It was all becoming clear.
"You'd better hurry or you'll be late for your test!" Debbie admonished.
Burt ripped the wires from his arm, laid them on the machine and lunged for the video recorder without saying a word. Opening it, he pulled out the tape and inspected it by holding it up to the light. It seemed to be fully used. Satisfied he could view the tape later, he finished dressing, pulling his tee shirt over his head.
"Sorry Deb! Gotta go. See you later at the student center for lunch?" Debbie nodded.
With this last comment, Burt bolted from the room and headed in a dead run for his class, leaving Debbie alone.
She sat motionless. She was uneasy at what she had just witnessed. If it was true what Burt said: that he had slept all weekend, maybe he was sick. Or worse yet--maybe he was into drugs. Debbie's mind whiplashed as she considered the possible scenarios. Then she glanced over at the equipment and realized that the one Burt had been hooked to was
an EKG machine. She recognized it immediately as the same type her father had been wired to when they took him into intensive care just a year before right after he had his fatal cardiac. It caused Debbie pain as she looked at the cold metal box.
She stared at the equipment and cringed. Was someone. ...something trying to pull the carpet out from under her again? Were the fates against her? Was Burt sick and didn't want to tell her? Was he to die too, as her father had when she had just gotten to know him?
She grabbed the wires and ripped them out of the machine in anger, sat down on the bed and buried her face in her hands and wept. She loved her dad. And she loved Burt.
After ten or so moments of self-indulgent self-pity, Debbie finally came to her senses and was able to calm herself down. She realized how silly she was acting and felt embarrassed, and was thankful no one had been in the room to see her.
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