Which is fine, sure, if that's where your interests lie. Problem with me was that my interests lay everywhere but in a naval career—and there is that matter of the years of obligated service after you graduate. So I simply tried to make the best of it, spread myself out as much as I could, took every class, every war college I could finagle my way into. Along the way, I became a little bit of everything and not a hell of a lot of anything. Which is where I'm at right now.
I have a basic grounding in the physical sciences and a touch here and there in the theoretical extensions. I can converse reasonably intelligently in the language of mathematics. I can even converse reasonably intelligently with digital computers and have a real party with analog computers. It is possible for me, in certain situations, to stand toe to toe with theoretical physicists and to at least give the impression that I know what they are talking about. I give you all this just so you will know where I am coming from in that which follows.
Because, I have to be right up front with you, I still did not know what the hell was coming down that pike at Palomar. Okay, sure, "a previously unknown form of radiation" may sound rather bland—but, hey, we are talking last-quarter twentieth-century, the age of space, the world that Einstein and Planck and Bohr have defined for us. We even have people on this planet who are arguing (and very intelligently) over the exact temperature of the primordial universe at the precise one-one-millionth of a second after the expansion began. They stopped arguing quite awhile ago over the precise contents of the universe, or the nature of nature, after the first one-hundredth of a second.
We are talking "creation physics" now, and these people are measuring time and events by the hundredths of a second—a time that began perhaps fifteen billion years before they were even born.
So, yes, it can be a rather astounding statement to have one of these brilliant folk casually remark that a "previously unknown" form of radiant energy has just been found out. I am sure it was rather astounding to all of them, as well, in view of the fact that they had already very neatly bundled up all the contents of this universe as of the first minute of creation.
A "previously unknown" factor could wreak considerable havoc upon the structure of everything else they thought they'd known. Unless...
Unless, of course, this was not merely a "previously unknown" force but something totally new in the universe. And something "new," in this 15-to-20-billion-year-old structure—I mean something intrinsically new, some new nature of nature—would, it seemed to me, have the very deepest ramifications for mankind.
So that is where I was at, in trying to make sense of Laura Summerfield's surprising hint that this supposedly intelligently directed irradiating beam was a "living wave." What the hell did that mean?
I need to talk to you for just a moment about wave dynamics. Rather than go into a deeply technical discussion, let me just say—and it is probably safe to do so—that virtually everything that moves, vibrates, or "shines" does so accompanied by a "wave." There are sound waves, light waves, electric waves, magnetic waves, even gravitational waves; in the new quantum physics, all radiant energy is defined in terms of wavelengths which are determined by the energy and momentum of elementary particles which—embedded within and apparently responsible for waves—behave as sheer energy.
But now, as for this matter of living waves—biological matter is put together using the same elementary particles as those found in ordinary matter. The cells of your body are built of atoms that are manufactured inside of stars, those atoms are composed of elementary particles such as protons and electrons, various quarks and widgets and whatever, and each of these is subject to the same laws that govern the behavior of elementary particles everywhere.
Our very brains vibrate with energy waves. The brain wave is that which is being measured by an electro-encephalograph. So-called beta and alpha rhythms are simply characteristic states of what may be called wave systems produced within the brain. There has been nothing to indicate—in my understanding, anyway—that brain waves are significantly different from other energy waves, however. The EEG actually measures changes in electric potential, which is essentially the story of radiant energy anywhere.
So what is a living wave?
The late Carnegie scientist Gustaf Stromberg, as long ago as the early 1940s, hypothesized an "immaterial living structure" which is responsible for the intelligent organization of living matter at the cellular level, and spoke of "the autonomous field" as something which "must be of a very profound nature, since it must in some way or other be associated with the ultimate origin of energy, matter, life, and mind." His autonomous field produces immaterial structures which may be thought of as living waves—and Stromberg spoke also of "... a world intimately connected with our own consciousness." I have found no evidence that this particular aspect of his work has seized the imagination of other scientists or even their respect; I do know that flags flew at half-mast in his native Sweden when he died.
So much for that. I had worse problems at hand. Jennifer Harrel, for instance. Obviously she had not been entirely honest with me. No—that is too kind—she had lied like hell to me, deliberately, with purpose. I wished to believe that her motives were all good, in that respect. Her chief concern, rightfully so, was the security of Isaac Donaldson and this program of his, whatever it was. She knew that I had been retained to ferret him out. Right away that made us antagonists. It is perfectly understandable, then, that she did everything in her power to lead me away from Isaac rather than toward him. I could understand and accept all that. What I could not accept was the very shaky foundation upon which I had been building my understanding of this case; everything I knew or thought I knew could be false.
That is not the most comfortable place to be—perched up there on a mountaintop surrounded by scintillating strangers, all of whom could be playing some weird game which I perhaps would not understand even if I knew all the rules and conditions.
I had the very strongest urge to get the hell away from there—to call everyone I had ever known or had even been introduced to in Washington—to blow the whistle on this whole operation—to let the pieces fall where they may.
But, damn it... Something in the eyes, maybe. Some deep sadness, or... What the hell was it about these people that put them so much beneath my skin?
Esau, now... that guy really bugged me. But not in any way I could grab with the mind. He seemed a nice young man, engaging, quick, attractive—but something in the manner, and maybe that was it, all of it—despite the blue jeans and Pendleton shirt, the guy seemed to have just emerged from an Edwardian parlor or some such damn...
And Laura, now there was something very different, an absolutely flaming beauty, fairly oozing sexuality, but those same eyes, a look of... of what? Wise, yeah. She looked wise. And that, somehow—to my sense of harmony, anyway—I'm talking old wise, wisdom—but a sort of sad wisdom—that, to me, was out of place with the rest of the package.
I could not leave it at that. I could not leave, period. I was not so sure they would allow me to leave, despite Laura's recent assurance that I was not a "prisoner."
So I was stuck with these people, for better or for worse—or, at least, until more "worse" showed up.
For the moment, anyway, I would give them the benefit of the doubt.
I just hoped they wouldn't end up whisking me away to another world, in another galaxy, at the far edge of the universe. Or, God forbid, to a totally different universe.
Chapter Fourteen: Holy Grams
A wheeled serving cart laden with fruit, ham and eggs, juices and fresh coffee was waiting for me when I quit the bathroom that second time. I attacked it voraciously and very quickly dispatched everything there except for an apple and a banana which I stashed for later. I felt better after the first bite and was fairly bursting with energy when I got up from there.
My clothing, freshly cleaned, was laid out for me on the bed. I put everything on and went adventuring. Could not find anyone to
adventure with, though, until I got to the bubble room. Holden was there, staring rather absently at an issue of Sky & Telescope magazine. He dropped the magazine at my approach and sprang to his feet with surprising agility to greet me, very solicitous, those great eyebrows dancing with every word and gesture.
I assured him that I was okay and that I was being marvelously taken care of, thanked him for his hospitality, asked if I might use the phone. He gave grand permission and led me to it. I climbed onto a bar stool and punched the number for the motel in Rancho California while Holden discreetly returned to his chair near the window.
Souza had checked out of that motel on Sunday.
So I tried his office, spoke briefly to Foster, was passed on through to a very grouchy private detective.
"Where the hell are you?" he snarled.
I said, "Still on the mountain. I see you've gone home."
"Why not? No percentage in me hanging around..."
I reminded him, "Thought home was a bit too hot for you."
He growled, "So I cooled it and came home. What're you up to?”
I told him, "I've been unconscious since about one o'clock Sunday morning."
"You sure have," he sniffed.
"Literally," I told him. "Can't explain it any better than that right now but...how did you cool it?"
"Finally got to the right people," he replied, still sulking. "Don't worry, I cooled it for you, too."
I said, "Thanks. Well I—"
"Don't tell me anything, Ash. I don't want to know anything. I'm off the case."
I asked him, "That's how you cooled it?"
"In a manner of speaking, yeah. I suggest you come home, too."
"Can't do that," I told him.
"Your retainer expired at seven o'clock this morning. So you're on your own."
I said, "Okay. No big loss, Greg. You don't pay too well, pal, when you pay at all."
He protested, "I don't owe you a damn..."
"Maybe you do," I told him. "You brought me into this mess. If I have to fight my way out of it..."
"You don't have to do that."
"For my own peace of mind, yes I do. I want some information from you."
"Don't have a hell of a lot." But he was lightening up.
"You mentioned the other night that some other scientists were missing."
"Yeah."
"Who are they?"
"Hell I don't have their names."
"Do you remember how many?"
A pause, then: "Dozen or so, I guess. From..."
I reminded him, "Yeah, you said from M.I.T. and Yale, I think, some other places. You don't remember any names?"
"I don't know that I even had any names," he replied.
"How about Russia?"
"Look, Ash...I'm already in violation of my—I can't discuss this matter."
I said, "We're not discussing that matter, then, Greg. We're just talking science stuff. Like, maybe, a group of whiz kids. Is that what we're talking about?"
"Whiz kids? I don't believe so, no. I had the impression these were senior people. Like Don—the other guy."
"You sure about that?"
"No. I'm not sure of anything."
I said, "Russia?"
He said, "Uh, I think—you know, Ash, anything happens in this country usually happens over there, too."
I said, "Okay. Thanks. Take care."
"You, too," he replied, and hung up.
I sat there chewing that conversation for a minute or two, then decided I wanted one with Holden, too. Before I could make a move, though, Esau came gliding up behind me and gave a warm squeeze to my shoulder as he settled onto the stool beside me.
"Sorry," he said quietly, "I am afraid no one thought of the possibility that you may have someone to worry about you." He placed a leather folder on the bar and tapped it with a delicate finger. "Nothing in here to indicate it."
I said, dryly, "You have my dossier."
"Nothing quite that formal," he said, smiling. "But we did feel it imperative that we have your medical records, that sort of thing."
I asked him, "How many sorts outside of medical?"
He raised eyebrows at me, started to question the question, then checked himself with a smile and replied, "You are very perceptive. Yes, of course, we did run a thorough background check on you."
"How'd I come out?"
He laughed softly, nodded his head several times—actually, the whole upper part of his body nodded—then replied, "I would say quite well, quite well indeed. Almost a Renaissance man, aren't you?"
I said, "Well, I try."
"You could have had an impressive career in science."
I said, "Never really wanted that. Actually, I think I would like to conduct the Boston Pops. Or maybe the New York Philharmonic."
He stared at me quizzically for a moment, then his eyes strayed to the leather folder. "I found nothing concerning musical ability."
So my humor was lost on this guy. I told him, "All of the ability is in appreciation, I'm afraid. But I do listen one hell of a great French horn and sometimes an entire string section in the bargain."
He had not the foggiest notion of what the hell I was talking about, I could see that in the eyes, but he laughed anyway and said, "Well, hobbies are nice but the work is what it is all about. Have you found that so?"
I said, "Is that with a capital 'W'?"
He laughed some more, said, "So right, so right"—then suddenly became very serious: "We believe that you could be an asset to our research. We would like for you to join us. For a few days, at most."
I said, 'Think you can drain the whole brain in just a few days, eh?"
The look he gave me was totally blank as he replied, "We really would like to know how the field interacts with your extrasensory perception. We have already devised the tests. A few days, at most, should satisfy all our questions."
I said, very quietly, "Let me think about it, Esau."
"Certainly, Ashton, certainly. Think about it. I will speak to you again at dinner." He slid off the stool, turned back to retrieve his leather folder, showed me a charmer smile.
I asked him, very quietly, "Ever been aboard a flying saucer?"
He replied, just as quietly, "No, and I should think I would not wish to attempt it."
"Why not?" I asked soberly.
"I am having a bit of trouble with you, Ashton," he said. "I never learned sophisticated repartee, you see. I rather grew up in the very lap of science."
I grinned and said, sincerely, "Sorry, Esau. I was not trying to put you down, please believe that. I imagine you have a real rapier thrust with field equations."
He smiled back. "I am much more at home there, yes, thank you. As for riding a flying saucer, I doubt that you would enjoy it."
Again, I asked, "Why?"
He replied, "Because if such a thing exists, as it has been universally described in the reports, it is no more than a three-dimensional hologram."
I said, "Really."
He said, "Yes. Consider the motions that have been reported. Fluttering, swinging, precise ninety degree turns at great speeds, instant dislocation and reappearance in a different sector, sudden appearance and disappearance. Each such motion is physically impossible in Newtonian physics, as that relates to mass and momentum. However..."
"A holographic image, however..."
"Yes, very good, you have my meaning already. A reflective surface, such as a mirror or a crystal, will focus light rays over considerable distances, and the merest vibration of the reflector will cause the light image to shimmer or flutter, to race about in senseless patterns this way and that, to fairly dance, to appear and disappear as though in total defiance of Newtonian physics. Of course, there is no actual mass involved, so..."
I said, "So someone is playing tricks with giant minors in the sky."
"I am suggesting no such thing," he replied primly. "Nature herself plays such tricks all the time. Who has never seen a rainbow? Have you n
oticed that the classic representation of a flying saucer looks very like a spiral galaxy in one of our photographs from earth? Under certain conditions, our atmosphere can become highly prismatic. It takes no great stretch of the imagination to infer a holographic image of a spiral galaxy as the perfect solution to all purported sightings of flying saucers. Night or day, I might add."
I said, "Yes, that's very interesting. But what about encounters of the second and third kind?"
"That falls under a whole different class of phenomena. You'll have to speak to the behavioral scientists about that."
I said, quietly, "Mental phenomena, mass hallucinations, that sort of thing."
"I should think so, yes." He picked up the folder, tucked it beneath his arm. Had he been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it, I'm sure. "Well. See you at dinner, Ashton."
I watched him walk away and kept on staring after him long after he disappeared from view.
And I felt better, somehow. Yes. I was really glad to have had that most illuminating conversation with my old friend Esau. Or was it Jacob, in goatskins?
Naw. Naw. It was Esau.
Chapter Fifteen: The Crucible
I asked Holden, "All those people I met the other night— are they staying here with you? All of them?"
He waggled his eyebrows at me as he replied, "Why, yes, I believe—let me see—I think so, yes. Don't remember just who all was here, you see, but..."
"But you do have a house full of guests?"
"That is my good fortune, yes."
I asked him, "Where are they now?"
The eyebrows kept right on twitching. "Working, I would think." He laughed heartily. "I would hope."
Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Page 9
