by Robert Graf
"You all right?" Farid asked.
Dr. Grey gazed at him from dull eyes and shook his head. "Don't feel good.” He put his head down on his arms, breathing in loud ragged gasps.
The stranger stepped into the kitchen wearing a satisfied smile that changed to a frown.
"What's wrong with him?" he asked.
Maria looked uncertain. "I don't know." She shook Dr. Grey’s shoulder. "What's the matter?" No answer. She shook harder. He slumped sideways out of the chair and fell to the floor, breathing irregularly.
Farid stood, knocking over his chair, and knelt next to Dr. Grey. He placed two fingers against his neck. "His pulse is very erratic, and his skin feels clammy. He's having a heart attack! Call 911!"
"You'll do no such thing," the stranger ordered.
"But he's dying," Farid yelled, looking from him to Maria to Byron.
The stranger pointed to Farid. "Bring him."
Byron grabbed Farid’s arm, lifted and shoved him towards the door.
"Help him, please," Farid begged Maria.
She looked at him without expression as they marched over to the prototype.
"You will disassemble the machine so it can be reassembled later," the stranger ordered. He turned to Maria. "You photograph the process with your phone."
"What about Dr. Grey?" Farid demanded.
The stranger stared at him. "If you wish to live, do exactly what I tell you."
His eyes reminded Farid of a great white shark— black pitiless marbles. He felt a paralyzing visceral fear as he did as instructed. After what seemed like hours he had the prototype components arranged in neat piles. Then he and Byron carried the pieces to the end of the warehouse where a van was parked, its doors open. They placed the components on packing blankets inside, securing everything with a broad net of straps.
Maria’s boss inspected everything and seemed satisfied. He took her aside and gave her instructions. At one point she objected to something but quickly shut up. Farid kept thinking of Dr. Grey lying on the kitchen floor, and his stomach spasmed. He should run, but saw no exit other than a metal roll-up door.
Maria returned. "Get in." She locked his leg chain to the seat frame, then opened the roll-up door to a cloudy, cool afternoon, the first daylight Farid had seen in days. Byron got in, drove out and waited. Maria walked back into the warehouse. A few minutes later she reappeared, closed the door and got in the passenger seat.
"Let's go," she ordered.
"Where?"
"Turn left at the road."
"Damn it, Maria, where are we going?"
"Just drive where I tell you."
Farid slumped back in the seat, resigned to his fate, feeling Maria's leg next to his like a deadly snake. It's God's will.
[Saturday, Johnson Space Center]
Ann gazed out the apartment window at the rainy morning, same as yesterday, dreary and wet. The weather forecaster had mentioned possible flooding yet didn't seem concerned. No word from Ian or Jon, and that didn't brighten her mood. She hadn't called Alex; she didn't feel right dumping her troubles on him. She donned her jacket and walked down the hall towards the front door and the waiting driver.
To her surprise there was an Air Force guard sitting at the desk. He motioned for her to stop. "Good morning, may I see your badge, please?"
She opened her jacket and extended the badge hanging around her neck.
He examined it and compared it with something on his tablet. "Thank you, Dr. Grey, I won't bother you any further."
His nonsmiling presence made her uneasy. "May I ask what you're doing here?"
"Just routine. The news media is getting a little too ambitious, and we don't want you folk to be bothered."
"I see, well, have a good day." She opened the door and stepped into the rain. Did she believe him? Her instinct said more was happening than she knew.
At Building 30 she counted five more news vans; that made thirteen. One corner of the parking lot was now dominated by the huge vehicles. Once inside she tried to ease through the clog of reporters but was interrupted by a bright light, blinding her. A short woman with curly black hair, holding a microphone blocked her path.
"Dr. Grey, I'm Cynthia Kopectov of CNN,” she announced in a husky voice. “I interviewed you and your husband a year ago when your company won the contract for a communications system for the Jove Explorer. Can you tell me what you're doing here?"
Ann sighed in resignation. The guard was right. She vaguely remembered the obnoxious woman. She put on her professional face. "I'm here in a consultant capacity, assisting NASA in its efforts to bring their ship back. I'm not authorized to speak for NASA, so if you'll excuse me..."
The reporter didn't move. "What are you doing for NASA? Is something wrong with your EntCom system?"
Ann hated the whole cat-and-mouse game. They knew damn well she couldn't say anything; like flies kept buzzing around.
"There are no problems with our system. I'm here as a backup for any eventuality." She pushed past the reporter, presented her badge to the guards, now four in number, hurried into FCR and over to Jeanette.
She put her tablet down and hung her jacket over a chair. "Anything new?"
Jeanette shook her head. "No, well nothing as far as fixing the ship. The crew's families and friends are pressing the Director to be allowed to communicate with them."
"How would that work?"
"I have no idea, it's unprecedented. They'd want privacy obviously, and we're not set up for that." She regarded Ann with a sad smile. "Someone's going to have to vet the messages."
Her nightmare come true. She didn't want to be any part of that, but had a sinking feeling she couldn't avoid it. She stared at the large wall screen. The bright dot marking the ship's position hadn't moved, pinned to the utter black of space.
"I'm going to get some breakfast. See you in a few."
The cafeteria was un-crowded. The odors from frying bacon and sausage, and containers of gravy were more than she could stomach. She chose oatmeal, toast, orange juice and coffee, carried her tray over to an empty table, sat and slowly ate. She quailed at the prospect of being in the middle of emotionally draining conversations between crew and family. No way. It would be the perfect test for Isaac, though. If that didn't reveal what he felt about confession, nothing would.
"Dr. Grey, may I speak with you a moment?"
She glanced up to see Morito, his expression worried. "Sure."
He pulled a chair out and sat. “I've been meaning to discuss those 'rules' of yours, and this is the first opportunity I've had. You've heard that family members demand to talk to the crew?"
"Yes," she answered warily.
"I've been asked, ordered, to produce a guide, a cheat sheet if you will, of do's and don'ts if we have to use the EntComs. There's no way NASA can avoid it, and in my opinion shouldn't try, that would be unconscionable."
And there's no one else. Ann agreed wholeheartedly, anything to avoid being part of those conversations. "Of course, I'll help. Is this the place for that discussion?"
Morito shrugged. "No one's going to notice." He took out a notebook, flipped it open.
A last bite of toast and sip of coffee later she answered. "Ask away."
For the next two hours between donut and coffee breaks and a trip to the bathroom, Morito quizzed her on the grammatical nuances of fact checking.
"Your Rule 3, ' Implies true or false in Present or Future tenses do not fail whether true or not.', would you expand upon that?"
"Best I can do is give examples. I stumbled onto this when I tried statements such as "I am/am not married to Jon Grey.' Both versions worked, the messages transmitted without error. Present to us is future to the EntComs, at least that's how I interpret the results."
"You tried this in German?"
"Not that one, I used 'Christopher Columbus did/did not discover America. The system responded correctly. The language issue is terra incognito, and I have no idea what to make of it."
> He stared at her, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. "And the predictive rule?"
"Whether true or not, predictions transmit. For example, if I send 'There will be an eclipse of the moon on such and such a date' the system remains up. We took examples from your website. You see? I've just tapped the 'what' and have no clue as to the 'how'."
"And questions?"
She shrugged. "You can ask anything, it doesn't seem to matter."
While Morito wrote in his notebook Ann glanced around the cafeteria. Morito was right. No one paid the slightest attention to them. Men and women entered the cafeteria, ordered, ate quietly, and left.
"This is mind-numbing. I have great difficulty believing it even though I had similar results. Mind you I just tested a single historical event."
It was so refreshing to discuss her discovery that for an instant she forgot why she was there. His questions brought up issues she had never considered. For example had she tried a phonetic alphabet?
"That never occurred to me. It's a brilliant idea. If you test it, please let me know what you find."
"It would tell us much about how whatever-it-is works."
Or confuse us more. "You now know everything I do. So what do you think?"
Morito laughed. "I know nothing. I approached this from the viewpoint of understanding a strange, exotic organism; poke it with a stick to see how it reacts. Somewhere in your bizarre quantum universe there exists what I'll call a process that has access to infinite knowledge. And no, I won't name it."
"Pratt Whitney's CEO called it God-like, that's an apt analogy."
He frowned. "I want to avoid inflammatory terms."
"So do I, and it frustrates me that I’m forced to use them. Who was it that said ' To the primitive mind, a sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.' Well, that's how I feel. We're crouched in a cave, huddling around a smoky fire while outside in the dark large dangerous beasts are howling."
"You should be a writer." He stood. "Dr. Grey, this has been fascinating. You've been an immense help. One last favor?"
"Sure."
"Would you critique whatever I come up with?"
She grinned. Of course. I don't want to be misquoted." She followed him out the door, stopping at the ladies' room before returning to CAPCOM. Jeanette glanced at her and continued speaking into her headset. Ann settled into her chair for what promised to be another long day.
The rain had lessened by the time her driver let her off at the astronaut quarters that evening. She entered the building. A different uniformed guard, a woman, was watching the doorway.
"May I see your badge, please?"
Ann handed it to her. The guard inspected it and returned it. "Have a good evening, Dr. Grey."
She didn't reply. Inside the apartment she shed her jacket, made a gin and tonic, sat in the chair and sipped and brooded. Any more days of this would drive her stir-crazy. There was a movie channel somewhere, but she didn't have the energy to see what was playing.
Chirps from her phone interrupted her thoughts. She picked it up. Ian, and he looked worried. "Yes?"
"Are you somewhere you can talk?"
What now? "I'm in the apartment, go ahead."
"Has the FBI contacted you?"
A cold chill ran down her back. "No. What's happened?"
"Ann, they found your husband. I'm sorry, he's dead."
She carefully put the drink and phone down and stared out the window into the drizzling gloom. She felt numb, not hysterical or angry, just numb.
"Ann, speak to me."
Dead? This wasn't how it was supposed to end. How did you think it would end? In a courtroom or by phone or...? Twenty years gone. They'd started out so hopefully, no different from millions of other couples. Losing the child was a disaster, but they coped. Then things sort of went wrong. No one was uniquely at fault, maybe she could have tried harder. Lately she’d quit trying. She could blame the work pressure, but that was just an excuse. Her thoughts and emotions all jumbled together; she felt confused.
"Ann, are you there?"
She picked up the phone. Stay calm. "What happened?"
"Are you all right?"
"No, God damn it, I'm not!" she shouted. "Just tell me what happened."
"There was a fire in an old river-front warehouse in Portland. When the fire department arrived they found his body inside. They thought he was a transient until a fingerprint check with the FBI identified him; the FBI called me. They suspect it was arson."
Would it never end? "The kidnappers killed him and set a fire to cover whatever they were doing?"
He hesitated. "We'll know in a few days after the autopsy. What do you want to do? I can arrange a charter jet."
She wanted out, any more nights here and she'd be well on her way to alcoholism. "Do it. I'll get a ride to Ellington airport within the hour. Can you have it ready?"
"Yes. Please accept my deepest sympathy. I'll see you in a few hours. Take care of yourself."
"Thank you." She closed the connection. How to get to the airport? A taxi was the obvious choice, but first... Where was that note? She rummaged in her purse and amidst the papers and other junk found Toffler's code. She entered it.
A harried looking face appeared. "Toffler.”
"This is Ann Grey. I've just been informed my husband has died. I'm taking a charter jet home within the hour."
A brief silence followed. "My God. I'm so sorry, Dr. Grey. I can send a car around for you if you wish."
"That's very kind, I accept."
"Is there anything else I can do?"
"No thank you. I'll call in a day or so once things settle down."
"Please take care, Dr. Grey."
She closed the connection. She desperately wanted to confide in someone. A couple weeks ago that would have been Isaac, now her emotions screamed “Alex.” Tomorrow when she had better control she'd talk to him, maybe go see him. With that comforting thought she began packing her few belongings for the long flight home.
[Sunday, Petaluma]
Even though exhausted from the long flight from Houston, Ann didn’t sleep well. She kept waking and fretting, then drifting back to sleep, only to repeat the pattern. With the dawn she gave up, wrapped her old bathrobe around her and wandered into the kitchen. She brewed a pot of coffee, sat at the table and drank a cup. There was no food. She debated buying groceries and cooking a meal, but didn't have the energy.
She took a long shower, luxuriating in the hot water before dressing in slacks, a shirt and running shoes, then driving to the nearby Denny's, the traveler's oasis, available 24 hours. This early there were few customers.
While she ate her ham and eggs she scanned the local newspaper. There was a long article on the Jove Explorer and NASA’s plans to send spare parts to the crippled spaceship. There was no mention of crew members communicating with family. She felt a guilty relief at being out of the mess; she’d done her part.
She paid, turned to leave and halted as Isaac entered. Shit. She'd forgotten the Cardinal's offer, and she didn’t want to talk to Isaac. She waited till he spotted her.
"Good morning, Isaac. What brings you here?"
His eyes widened —the proverbial deer in the headlights. "Ann! When did you get back?"
"Last night. Why aren’t you in Rome?"
He grimaced. "Long story and not something to discuss here. May I drop by after I eat? I promise I won't stay long, I've got a plane to catch."
She hesitated, but curiosity won. "OK," she answered and stepped into the early morning sunlight of a winter day.
Half an hour later the door bell rang. She closed her tablet and let Isaac in. "Coffee?" she asked, walking to the kitchen.
He followed. "No, thanks, I've had my fill." He sat down at the counter while she remained standing by the stove. "I got into a bit of trouble with the FBI." Seeing her alarmed expression, he hurried on. "Everything’s taken care of, but I had to stick around for a couple days."
&n
bsp; Isaac wanted by the FBI? She would have laughed except for his serious expression. "What have you done?"
"Nothing. I'm surprised they didn't contact you. Anyway, your husband showed up Wednesday night. When he found me here he kicked me out, and I went back to the inn."
Jon came home and nobody told her? "Isaac, Jon's dead. His body was found in a warehouse in Portland yesterday. The FBI contacted Ian, and he told me, and here I am. What did you have to do with that?"
His mouth dropped open in shock. "Oh my God. Ann, I'm so sorry. The FBI checked out your house, of course my fingerprints were everywhere. Before I knew it they were knocking on my motel room door." He paused. "They scared the crap out of me, especially that woman. They were polite and didn't smile. I got the impression they'd just as soon shoot me as breathe."
Ann stared at him, trying to follow his tale. "What happened?"
"I panicked and got Cardinal Balsamo on my tablet. He convinced them I was no threat. They told me not to leave town until they verified my story. So I didn't. Then yesterday they told me I was of no further interest and could leave. Balsamo is very unhappy."
"Why? You did what he wanted. It's his fault for sending you." Before he could answer she continued, "I’m sorry too. It's my fault for calling you in the first place." She held back her tears. "I wish we'd never invented the damn machine!"
"That way of thinking leads to madness. Don't beat up on yourself."
She felt so helpless, and she’d lost any desire to go to Rome. "Tell your Cardinal I appreciate his offer, but I'm staying home."
He stood. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” she lied.
"I hope you're not making a mistake, Ann. I'll say a prayer for you when I get back." With that he turned and left.
Ann heard the front door open and close. The prospect of rattling around in her empty house depressed her; she had to get out. She wasn't ready to tell her parents about Jon. And what about his family? She barely got along with his parents, especially over the last few years. The not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren she couldn't have had driven her away from them. Maybe the authorities would inform them.
