"Whew." Harrison entered, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. "What the hell are you listening to?"
"You like it?" Norton moved the upper half of his
body to the beat, shoulders and muscular brown arms swaying as he snapped his fingers in time.
"Frankly, no," Harrison answered flatly. He was not in a particularly good mood—by midmorning, Clayton, though interested in discussing Harrison's strategy for providing Wilson with his "hard evidence," had become physically exhausted, and Harrison had sent him home in a taxi. Nothing serious, Clayton had assured him, just not used to getting out and around anymore, but Harrison was still worried.
"Surprised you don't recognize it," Norton retorted. "It's our alien boys. I personally think it beats the hell out of the Muzak they play around here. Did I tell you I was in the cafeteria the other day with Suzanne and heard the elevator rendition of Prince's "Let's Pretend We're Married'?" He sighed. "The bastardization of art. I almost lost my lunch."
Harrison ignored him and peered over his shoulder at the numbers on the terminal screen. "Anything new?"
Since the meeting in Washington, Harrison had been overwhelmed by an anxious restlessness. Every minute lost trying to dig up evidence to please Wilson was another minute the aliens had to regroup and locate their ships and weapons.
It was worsened by the fact that there was nothing he or Clayton could really do at the moment to produce that evidence: it was up to Norton and Suzanne now. Since Clayton had gone, Harrison had been pacing up and down the halls the rest of the morning, poking his head into Norton's office and generally irritating the hell out of him. This was
probably the fifth time he'd been by to see how Norton was doing, although after the embarrassing scene with Clayton earlier, Harrison had avoided Suzanne. Maybe the loud percussion was Norton's way of discouraging further visits.
"Zip, zed, zero, nothing." Norton's head rocked from side to side. "You know I'll call the minute I've got something. The bad guys are maintaining radio silence." He reached out and touched Harrison's arm. "Catch this riff. . ." He beat on the edge of the terminal, using both index fingers as drumsticks. "Don't know what it's all about, but you gotta admit —those aliens sure got rhythm."
Harrison groaned and nodded at the terminal screen. "Anything from the Cray on this?"
"Still computing. Like you, it's definitely not into music appreciation." Norton tapped a few keys, then watched the screen as old information scrolled upward and new data appeared. "Care to know how much 'plutonium' time the computer has cost the department so far?"
Harrison shuddered and covered his eyes with his hands. "I'm too poor to ask."
"Good answer," Norton said dryly.
Harrison parted his fingers and peeked anyway. The Cray had been churning away for the past 3.54 hours —and at the rate things were going, it would probably take twice that to reach the solution. He sighed and dropped his hands. "Ephram's not going to appreciate this."
"Damn right," Norton said cheerfully, "and there's not a thing we can do about it—unless you feel that saving department funds is worth letting the bad guys take over again." He angled in the chair to get a better look at Harrison. "Look, why don't you be a good researcher and run along now? You're starting to get on my nerves. Go bother Suzanne for a while."
Harrison sighed. "She won't appreciate it. I've already been to see her once this morning." At Norton's nasty look, he added, "Visit Suzanne, huh? Great idea. Maybe I'll do just that."
Harrison opened the door to Suzanne's office and poked his nose inside. Damn. Forgot to knock again —and now she'd jump down his throat for it.
Even though she'd moved in three days before, the office showed no signs of personality. The shelves were neatly filled with her reference texts (probably in alphabetical order, Harrison decided) but the walls were bare except for a plain Lucite clock. The only indication of human life sat on the desk: the gold-framed photograph of a young blond-haired girl.
Suzanne hunched over a computer terminal perpendicular to the desk, glancing at a page in an enormously fat reference book. Nearby, some of Forrester's old files lay neatly stacked. She was completely absorbed in whatever she saw, and didn't hear him enter.
Harrison cleared his throat delicately. He'd been purposely avoiding her since the Washington trip; they'd been spending a lot of time together, and while he was actually beginning to enjoy her company, he didn't want anyone, including Suzanne, to get the wrong idea. Especially not after the humiliating episode with Clayton this morning. Besides, the fact that he was beginning to get along with her made him feel vaguely guilty about Charlotte; he resolved to see her tonight, to try to patch things up.
She looked up from the terminal and over her shoulder at him. A deep crease between her eyebrows had developed from squinting at the screen. "Oh, hi," she said distractedly, and turned back to the computer. He got the feeling she would have done the same had the Archangel Gabriel appeared in the doorway. If she had been at all offended by anything Clayton had said, it certainly didn't show now. In fact, she seemed to have completely forgotten.
He ambled up to the side of the desk and half sat on its edge. She didn't seem to mind; hell, she didn't even seem to notice. For the first time, he was grateful for her ultraprofessional demeanor.
"Tell me something," he said to her back. "Anything."
Keeping her gaze fixed on a column of figures in the reference book, Suzanne answered, "Almost good timing. Give me one more minute . . ." She typed a number with one hand. She seemed to be focusing on a point between the terminal screen and the book. She paused without looking at the screen, then pressed the enter key. "Okay. We'll have it in a minute."
"How do you do that?" Harrison asked.
"Hmm? Oh, you mean look at the book and the screen at the same time?" She watched the screen now as her answer appeared. "Easy. It's more efficient for microbiologists to develop independent vision in each eye! I learned how to look into a microscope with my left eye and watch my right hand take notes. It's not that hard."
Suzanne swiveled in her chair to face him. "Okay. Using Dr. Forrester's notes about the most likely strain of bacteria to infect the aliens . . . and then exposing them—on paper, of course—to a level of radiation consistent with that at the waste disposal site . . ." She trailed off and swiveled back to check something on the screen.
Harrison leaned toward her eagerly, scarcely able to contain himself. "Yes—?"
She turned to him again and stated in the dispassionate manner of a scientist, "No bacteria could have survived the exposure. That's assuming you were correct about the nuclear waste corroding that one barrel, so that exposure was direct."
"So I'm rightV He slapped the top of the desk and leapt to his feet.
"I didn't say that," she answered soberly, a little taken aback by his excitement. "I'm saying that statistically, your theory is possible. And if you are right, it's hardly cause for celebration . . . given the outcome."
"You don't understand." He grinned at her. "You've just given Uncle General Hank another reason to listen to us—to help us fight the aliens. Now, we just need Norton to pinpoint their location for us. Suzanne, you're great!"
Impulsively, Harrison bent down and took her face in his hands. He meant to plant an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek, but she twisted her head to one side, startled, and the kiss caught her full on the lips.
He dropped his hands and drew back, horrified at what he had done. Here he'd behaved so circumspectly on the trip, and now . . . good Lord, she probably thought he was making a pass at her. She probably thought he'd put Clayton up to saying those things about Charlotte.
"Sorry," he began, trying to sound casual and airy and failing utterly. "That was an accident. I didn't mean to, uh . .."
"It's all right." She retreated to the icy professionalism of her first day at the Institute, but her cheeks were flushed. "You needn't explain."
"Well." He paused awkwardly. "You've done yo
ur part today. Why don't you call it quits and go spend some time with your daughter?"
She glanced at the wall clock. "Debi's not home from school until four. It's not even lunchtime. And as you pointed out yesterday, time is the one luxury we can't afford right now. I thought I'd take a look at those alien remains you acquired. If they really have remained free of decay the way Forrester indicated, that ought to impress Uncle Hank."
"Let me arrange it," Harrison replied so quickly that she frowned suspiciously at him. He shrugged, his expression all innocence. "You and Norton have all the work to do. I'm going nuts around here with nothing to do but pace. Why don't you take a break— take a nap or a long lunch, or both—and let me take care of it? I know the procedure; I can reserve a lab faster than you can."
"All right." Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut and 238
rubbed at the crease between her brows, trying to smoothe it away. "Thanks."
"No problem. Just go to the Medical Complex after lunch. I'll tell the receptionist which lab."
Harrison left in a hurry, guiltily reflecting on the fact that when he had kissed her, she had not pulled away.
The PIT Medical Complex was the newest building on the Institute grounds, a two-story hexagon of sleek white marble and reflective silvered glass. The interior smelted faintly of sawdust mixed with fresh paint; the carpet was still plush and unstained. Incongruously enough, the lab the receptionist led Suzanne to was cheerful and sunny—the entire south wall was oneway mirrored glass, so that those inside could see out but still have privacy—in stark contrast, Suzanne decided, to her frame of mind about the task she now faced. The glass wall overlooked the playground of the PIT Daycare Center; at the moment, a group of four-and five-year-olds were playing catch with an oversize ball, the soft plastic kind with the sparkles in it. The glass muted their laughter and excited cries only slightly. Suzanne watched them for a second before beginning her task; the sight made her think about spending the afternoon with Debi.
Enjoy it. Could be your last chance to spend time with your daughter . . .
Oh, hell, why was she being so morbid? You've got a job to do. Just do it.
The dissection table was the same kind found in a
coroner's office: stainless steel, slanting down on one side into a sink, with a hand-held spray for rinsing the table clean. She doubted she'd need the spray ... after thirty-five years in a freezer, the alien couldn't be expected to have much fluid left in him.
She stared at the lifeless lump on the table, covered by a black plastic sheet. The sheet was a weird touch; she was a microbiologist, not a mortician, and at first she attributed it to Harrison's sense of drama, until it occurred to her that it might not do to have an alien body sitting out where someone could see it. Only there was something wrong with it; the body seemed far too small, about the size of a human toddler. Perhaps Harrison had been able to get only part of a corpse. Certainly the aliens wouldn't have brought any of their young along for the invasion.
She took the corner of the sheet in her hand, began to lift it up.
And stopped.
Suddenly she was a small kid again, pulling the covers up over her head. I can't do it. I can't.
It had never happened to her before. She'd always been proud of her iron stomach, of the fact that even as a kid she hadn't flinched when the doctor gave her a shot. Hell, she'd watched to make sure he was doing it right. As an undergrad she'd dated a medical student, and he'd snuck her in one night to see the half-dissected corpses. He was so disappointed when she looked at the pickled body with clinical interest and remarked, So this is the spleen? When Debi was six and fell off her bike onto hard gravel and her knee
broke wide open, she and Suzanne had both stared fascinated as the emergency room doctor who stitchcd her up irrigated the wound and said, See, Deb, that's your kneecap. Derek had turned green and rushed out in search of the men's room. But the last thing you could call Suzanne was a coward.
Get a grip on yourself. For God's sake, you're a scientist.
She straightened, took a deep breath, and started to remove the sheet again. Immediately, she felt dizzy and wobbled back a few steps, putting a hand to her head. She closed her eyes and took a few more deep breaths.
Suzanne, you are going to do this. It's dead... or near as dammit. Either way, it can't hurt you.
Outside, the children cheered. Suzanne opened her eyes. A little girl held the ball with pride in her chubby arms.
For Deb's sake—
She squared her shoulders and went back over to the dissection table, then resolutely threw back the sheet.
Faceup on the stainless steel, a plastic E.T. doll smiled innocently at her.
She gasped. For a moment she stood stunned; then seething fury overtook her. She stalked over to the phone on the wall, yanked the receiver off the hook, and mashed down the numbers of Harrison's extension. He answered on the first ring, his tone amused and expectant. He'd been waiting, the bastard.
"Blackwood, you son of a bitch!" she began, and
stopped, not knowing what else to say. Several seconds of silence passed between them; she could have sworn she heard him grinning on the other end of the line.
"You—you—" She tried her best to maintain her anger, but in the end, she lost, and burst into soft, helpless laughter.
EIGHTEEN
After she thought about it, Suzanne decided she was grateful for Harrison's little joke—although she'd never let him know. It broke the tension and made the real task a little easier. Afterward, she called him from the lab.
"Well?" His good humor had vanished; he sounded a little edgy.
"Very interesting. This thing was fairly well-preserved after all those years in the freezer. I shouldn't call it a thing really. Very impressive cerebral cortex-type structure. It's a highly intelligent creature, probably more intelligent than we are."
"Speak for yourself, Suzanne."
"Very funny. I thought you'd be glad to know I can verify the anatomical information in Forrester's files. One interesting point, however. The zoologist who made the notes dissected a couple of males. But he made certain incorrect presumptions here about the female of the species. The alien I just dissected was female."
"I'll be damned," Harrison said. "An equal-opportunity invasion force."
"Apparently so, but it gets even more interesting. The egg produced by the female is similar to that produced by a human female in that it isn't viable outside the body. However, the female has no womb."
"Physical abnormality? Or a hysterectomy?"
"Doesn't look like it. My guess is these creatures lay eggs like reptiles or amphibians. That's what Pennyworth suggested in his notes. But our female had no means of producing a protective outer layer ... at least, not that I could see. It'd be like a chicken laying eggs without the shell. And no place for the embryo to incubate in either sex." She paused. "When I read over Forrester's report, it mentioned that the number three seemed to be important to them and-—"
"Wait a minute," Harrison interrupted. "I think I see what you're getting at. Are you suggesting that it takes three of them to tango? A menage a trois?"
"Exactly."
He whistled softly into the receiver. "Guess we haven't examined ail the sexes yet."
"Guess not." Her tone lightened. "So . . . did I pass the test?"
"Test?" He sounded confused.
"Your practical-joke test, remember? 'Window to the soul' and all that? So did I pass, or are you going to write me off as another Guterman?"
"Guterman should be so good-looking," he said quickly, and hung up,
In a small cul-de-sac in the swank residential area known as Hampton Hill, Harrison sat in the darkness of the parked Bronco and gazed across the street at a row of town houses. He was looking at the second-floor window of one in particular. Light filtered through the curtains of Charlotte's bedroom, which meant she was home. Harrison looked down at the glowing numbers of the cellular phone in his hand and hesitated.
The benign hum of the dial tone ceased and was replaced by a recorded message:
If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again. If you'd like to make a call, please hang up—
Harrison pressed the hook down with his thumb.
Dammit, either dial her number or go home.
If he went home, of course, he'd never see her again. But then, he wasn't exactly sure he wanted to. He didn't ever want to talk to the Charlotte who'd done her best to manipulate him into giving up the work he loved, who had refused to answer the twenty-four messages he'd left on her answering machine, who finally let it slip that she really did take her wealth and social status seriously. Harrison had trouble believing that woman actually existed. He wanted to talk to the real Charlotte, the one who laughed at his jokes, who tolerated his attempts at individuality with wry humor, who loved to display him at parties with the tolerant pride of a parent showing off a precocious child.
If that Char were gone forever, if she had been a sham, he had to know. He dialed her number again.
The machine answered on the first ring, just as he had expected.
Hi, this is the answering machine at jive five five oh three seven four. We can't come to the phone right now—Char always said "we" because she was terrified of strangers learning she lived alone—but if you leave your name, number, and message, we'll get back to you. Don't forget to wait for the tone. 'Bye!
Harrison waited for the tone, then said hurriedly, "Charlotte, I know you're there. This is my very last message. I'm across the street and very shortly I'll be knocking on your door. If you don't open it, I'm going to drive the Bronco right the hell into your living room and track mud all over your Oriental rugs. Do you understand?"
He half hoped she would pick up the phone, even if it were only to tell him to go to hell, but the recorder beeped again and the dial tone came back. Harrison folded up the phone and shoved it back into his jacket pocket, then took a deep breath, climbed out of the Bronco, and marched up to Charlotte's door. The porch was dark; he had never used the doorbell before and had to search for it. He jabbed it with a finger.
J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection Page 18
