"What time is it?" he asked Tony, seeing his friend check his watch.
The soundman grinned. "About nine thirty. The night is still embryonic, Mike old buddy."
Donovan fought back a yawn. " 'Zat all? Christ, why am I so tired? I feel like I've been awake for days."
"You have been. Unless you sacked out on the plane back from El Salvador."
"Nope. I was too busy playing nursemaid to you."
"Bull. I saw those closeups of the Mother Ship. You were playing daredevil pilot and hotshot cameraman again."
"That's me." Donovan acknowledged the ribbing with a grin. He patted the camera. "I can hardly wait to get this on the air."
"What do you think it'll be worth?" Tony, the practical one in the partnership, wanted to know.
"Just about anything we want to ask for it, old friend. I'll leave the extent of our greed up to you, as the business manager."
Tony nodded thoughtfully, then, taking out a pocket calculator, busied himself with the pleasant task of figuring out the profit margin this venture would net them.
The five journalists and the Secretary General were relatively sheltered from the press until they'd turned their tapes and films over to the networks. Donovan, Tony, and Kristine watched their story air in a "Special Bulletin" broadcast by satellite.
"Do you think we'll place first in the Nielsens?" Tony studied Donovan's films of the docking bay with a wide grin.
"Maybe . . ." Kristine grinned back. "What about it, Mike? Do you think we managed to beat out 'Dallas'?"
"I dunno." Donovan took a slightly tipsy swig from his third can of Coors. "You're talking about tough competition, lady. I mean, this is only the news event of the century."
As soon as the broadcast was finished, somebody brought out bottles of champagne. The corks popped with almost the same frequency as the machine-gun bullets had just—yesterday? The day before? Time seemed to Donovan to have swerved, looped, gone sidereal.
He thought about traveling at the speed of light—what that might be like. What would it be like to pilot one of those big Mother Ships? Probably it would be such a group effort that you wouldn't get the thrill of handling the ship yourself.
"Mike?" He looked up a little blearily to see Kristine standing in front of him, realized he'd nearly dozed off.
"What time is it?" He looked around. The party was in full swing.
"Almost midnight. Want to come over to my place for a nightcap?"
He almost said no, that he'd better go find a hotel, that he was tired, but found himself agreeing. "Sure. You got a VCR?"
"Of course. You bringing the tape?"
"Of course!"
It had been several months since he'd been up to Kristine's apartment. The view was breathtaking here on the Upper East Side. He looked out at the glimmer of the water, watching the play of headlights far below. And above, of course, there was the floodlit enormity of the Visitor ship. Donovan stood looking at it, hardly able to believe he'd actually been up there, just a few hours ago.
Kristine emerged from the kitchen with several green bottles and two delicately stemmed glasses. Donovan grinned. "More champagne?" The cork went off with a pop, and wine foamed out. He hurried to get his glass under the bottle as they sat down together in her luxurious velour conversation pit.
Kristine laughed. "Sure! How often do we get to celebrate our coverage of the event of the century?"
"Yeah." Donovan shook his head, then sipped carefully at the champagne. "I can't believe how the three of us just lucked into it!"
Kristine giggled. Mike had never seen her before when she'd had this much to drink. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I stacked the deck they drew from, so we'd get the pool!"
"Oh, come on!" He didn't know whether to believe her or not—or whether to hug her or give her a lecture. Stacked the deck?
"Yeah, I really did." She laughed, kicking off her shoes. She'd shed her businesslike tan blazer, and the white blouse she wore looked soft, feminine. He noticed that she'd unbuttoned it at the throat.
Donovan turned away from her, sipping his champagne. She edged back into the pit beside him, picking up the remote-control device for the television set. "Did you put the tape in, Mike?"
"But you saw it on the network . . ."
"Yeah, wasn't it terrific! Play it again, Sam. One more time!"
She turned on the unit, reaching for the bottle at the same time. Donovan felt something cold splash on his leg and yelped. "Kris! Try to get it into the glass, for Chrissake!"
She made a face at the newsman on the screen. "We don't want to listen to you. Fast forward!" The television screen blurred and rippled.
Donovan laughed. "Your life is on fast forward, honey."
They watched their tour of the Mother Ship, as captured by Donovan's camera. Kristine turned a mock-accusing face on Mike as Diana appeared on the screen. "There she is. Your girlfriend. You gave her more closeups than me!"
Donovan grinned at her, making no attempt to deny it. "She's got everything . . . brains . . . looks . . . "
"And a figure that doesn't quit." Kristine laughed, watching Diana in profile. "But would you want your sister to marry a Sirian?"
She punched the "fast-forward" button again, then when the screen resolved, Diana was looking straight at them, at close range. "See!" Kristine turned to Donovan, her glass held threateningly aloft. "Another closeup!"
Donovan, laughing, tried to fend her off, but she was too quick for him, splashing a cold spatter of wine down the back of his neck. He made a grab for her, trying not to spill his own wine, finally managing to snag one of her wrists. Her empty glass dropped, falling onto the thickly sculpted carpet.
Both of them were laughing as they struggled for the remaining champagne glass. Somehow Mike found himself sprawled on the couch, with Kristine pulled down on top of him—and the champagne still in his possession. The glass was still—miraculously—full, but Donovan had lost interest in drinking any more of it. He was too conscious of Kristine's gaze. Their eyes were only inches away.
Her voice was husky. "Mike . . . why didn't it work for us before?"
He shook his head, shrugging wordlessly, realizing that if he didn't intend to spend the night here, he ought to call a halt to this right now. It wasn't fair to Kris otherwise. But somehow, he couldn't summon the words.
"I'd like to try again, Mike." She leaned toward him. Her mouth tasted sweet from the wine.
Donovan kissed her back, closing his eyes. Her body was alive and warm against his as he pulled her down beside him. One hand caught in the soft tumble of her hair as he drew her even closer. His other hand searched for the end table. He managed to set the glass down without spilling it.
Chapter 3
Robert Maxwell frowned at his wife, Kathleen. "I thought Robin had to be there by now!"
Kathleen was clearly rattled, but made an effort to project her usual calm confidence. "Take it easy, honey. She'll be ready in just a moment. Did you back the car out?"
"Yes!" Maxwell knew he was being bearish, but couldn't help it. His first chance to get a close look at the Visitors, and his daughter was holding him up. Teenagers! "What's the delay, Kathy?"
"She found a spot on her band uniform, and she's trying to get it out. Calm down, honey."
Their twelve-year-old, Polly, came down the stairs carrying her three-year-old sister, Katie. Maxwell gathered up his youngest, giving her an affectionate kiss, enjoying her soap-and-water cleanliness. "Mmmm, you look pretty, sweetheart. Thanks for getting her ready, Polly."
"That's okay, Dad. She sure didn't want to wear that pink dress and those ruffled panties, though." Polly grinned at Katie, who shared her older sister's rough-and-tough ideas of apparel.
Kathleen shook her head at Maxwell as he stooped to put his little girl down. "Don't. Just keep hold of her. If you put her down she'll be filthy inside of thirty seconds."
Maxwell straightened, Katie giggling in his arms. "Your mommy's pretty smart, isn't
she, Punkin? You, the World's Champion Dirt Magnet? Huh?" Katie grinned unabashedly at her father and planted a moist kiss squarely on his upper lip.
"Mother, where's my hat?" Seventeen-year-old Robin erupted down the stairs in a flash of white and maroon, trimmed liberally with black braid. Polly picked up her sister's flute case and handed it to her.
"Here it is, dear." Kathleen picked up the furry scarlet hat.
"Let's go, gang! We were supposed to be there five minutes ago!"
Maxwell drove the station wagon quickly, surely, toward the plant managed by their neighbor, Arthur Dupres. In the three weeks since the Visitors had arrived, they'd selected a number of plants to be retooled for the production of their urgently needed chemical compound. The Richland Chemical Corporation owned the first such plant to be declared operational by the Visitor Scientific Commander, Diana. Consequently, the place was thronged with news media and crowds awaiting the landing of the Visitor shuttle. Luckily Maxwell was able to park the station wagon near the school buses transporting the band equipment.
Hurriedly he handed Robin her flute case, as Kathleen adjusted the furry uniform hat on her daughter's dark head. "Do I look all right?" Robin squinted at the station wagon's outside mirror.
"You're gorgeous, kid," her father said, thinking that his habitual answer was becoming more truthful every day. With her blue-green eyes, fluffy dark hair and pretty features, his daughter had most of the boys in her class at Rosemont High School vying for her attention. Unfortunately, Robin was only too aware of this—a fact Maxwell found disturbing.
Watching her race over to where the band was forming up its lines, he sighed. There's still a child in there, he thought, but not for long.
Carrying Katie on his shoulder, Maxwell, his wife, and Polly headed for the reviewing stand. Late as they were for band formation, they were still earlier than the majority of the crowd, so were able to get good seats. Maxwell unslung his binocular case and took out his glasses.
"Bob!" Kathleen frowned, pushing her dark blonde hair off her forehead. "You're not going to use those things, are you?"
Maxwell focused the glasses, squinting, so he'd get the best view of the raised platform that had been set up for the opening ceremonies. "I sure am," he said.
"Doesn't that strike you as rather rude?"
"Nobody will even notice me. And we're sitting too far away from the platform for anyone to look up here."
Kathleen looked troubled. "Well, I still think—"
Maxwell put the glasses back in their case. "Honey, nobody's going to be looking at me! Everyone's going to be craning their necks for a glimpse of the Visitors! Arch Quinton told me last week that the telephoto shots of some of the Visitors showed some 'interesting anomalies,' as he put it. I want to see if I can spot what he was talking about."
"Why didn't you ask him?"
"You know Arch when he's got something on his mind. He was about as informative as the Stone of Scone."
"Maxwell!"
Both Maxwells turned at the hail, to see a balding man dressed in an expensive suit waving to them from the other side of the viewing stand. As they watched, a woman dressed in a quietly elegant hat and suit joined him.
With Polly and Katie in tow, Robert and Kathleen picked their way down the bleachers. At the bottom Maxwell held out his hand, "Hello, Arthur. Congratulations on the big day. The eyes of the world are on Richland today, eh?"
"They certainly are." Eleanor Dupres took her husband's arm proudly. "I was the one who suggested it. The very first night, when John first mentioned they needed chemicals, I said to Arthur that he ought to call up Richland and volunteer his plant for Visitor use. I pointed out that it was his civic duty, in a way. So he did, and now all this is happening . . . I think it's wonderful!"
"It certainly is," Kathleen said hastily, deliberately brushing Robert's arm with hers as she reached out to clasp Eleanor's hand warmly. Maxwell took a deep breath and manfully managed to smother the broad grin that Eleanor's speeches invariably invoked in him.
"Oh, and by the way, Robert and Kathleen," Eleanor said, oblivious to the Maxwells' byplay, "I'm giving a little party tonight to honor the Visitors. Several of them have consented to join us, and I wonder if you could come too."
Maxwell tried not to let his excitement show. "We'd love to, Eleanor. What time?"
"About eight. Nothing too formal . . . just evening wear required. See you then."
Eleanor and Arthur departed in the direction of the reviewing stand. Maxwell waited until they were out of earshot, then let out a whoop. "All right! I'll get to meet them close up!"
Kathleen gave him a mock glare. "You and your big mouth, Bob." Her light tones dropped into a deadly imitation of Eleanor's effusive ones. " 'Just evening wear required.' What the hell am I going to dig up to wear on six hours' notice?"
"You'll look gorgeous, honey, you always do," Maxwell said automatically, his mind already filling with visions of conversations with the Visitors about their evolutionary origins. So far, no scientific observers had been invited aboard the Visitor ships—just journalists and politicians. What a chance for him!
"And even if I do manage to scrape something up for myself, I can't figure what you're going to wear."
"What about that new sports jacket we got this past spring?"
Kathleen snorted rudely. "Did you even notice what you did to the cuffs that day you and Arch stopped off to visit the dig for 'just a few minutes'—when the few minutes turned into three hours? Talk about the original absentminded professors!"
"Oh, yeah." Maxwell looked chagrined. "Maybe I should go out and pick up a new one this afternoon, after the opening ceremonies."
Kathleen shook her head. "Sorry, hon. We can't afford it. But don't worry. I think the old navy one is clean, and it will do."
Maxwell dropped an impulsive kiss onto her forehead. "Thank you, honey. I don't deserve you, you know that?"
Her clear green eyes softened a bit. "Sure you do. I love you, Bob."
"And I love you." They exchanged a fond look—a look which was interrupted by Polly's shout.
"Mom! Can Katie have a soda?"
"Later, Polly." They turned to climb the bleachers again.
"But Mommy, I'm thirsty!"
Kathleen sighed. "I said later, Katie. You can have some of those grapes Mommy brought."
The band began tuning up, and the bleachers filled rapidly. Maxwell saw a white van pull up, and several technicians began setting up gear. Several people got out of the van, and Maxwell, who was using his binoculars again, recognized two of them immediately.
"Look, honey, it's Michael Donovan and Kristine Walsh!"
"Let me see!" Kathleen took the binoculars eagerly. "Hmmm . . . Somehow they look shorter than when you see them on television."
"She's an attractive woman," Maxwell said, squinting at the journalist.
Kathleen gave him an amused look. "Who would you rather meet? Ms. Walsh, or Diana?"
"Diana." Maxwell grinned. "Preferably with a specimen glass behind my back."
She laughed. "The anthropologist to the end. Are you trying to tell me you haven't noticed how gorgeous she is?"
Maxwell chuckled. "I didn't say that."
The band struck up a wavering but recognizable rendition of the "Star Wars" theme. Someone in the bleachers shouted, "There it is!"
Maxwell looked up to see one of the Visitor shuttlecraft approaching from the giant ship that hovered over Los Angeles. The Mother Ship was such a normal sight by now that the L.A. skyline would have looked odd without it.
"What are they using to provide the raw materials for their chemical, do you know?" the man sitting next to Maxwell asked.
"I understand that they're using garbage and other wastes," Maxwell answered. "But I've never heard much of an explanation of what the chemical is, or what they're going to use it for."
The man, a heavyset black man in his late fifties, grunted. "That reminds me of a really bad joke I heard. 'Bou
t aliens that eat garbage and piss gasoline. Do you ever—I dunno—worry 'bout all this?"
Maxwell frowned through the binoculars as the shuttlecraft door opened and the Visitor technicians began filing through and assembling in ranks. Each carried a large, cumbersome-looking container of some kind. His mind distracted by his attempts to study their features under the caps and dark glasses, he almost forgot the man's question until Kathleen nudged him. "Worry? About what? They've shown their peaceful intentions."
The black man rubbed thoughtfully at his salt-and-pepper moustache. "I dunno. What have they really shown us? Where's all this scientific jazz they're supposed to be showing us? They've been here three weeks now, and we barely know any more about them than the first day they talked to us."
Maxwell squinted, recognizing Diana in the crowd. The Visitor technicians continued to file from the craft. Now a second shuttlecraft settled down and began disgorging red-garbed Visitors. Polly nudged him. "Hey, Dad, I just heard a joke."
"Ummmm?" Maxwell tried to focus the binoculars on the troops of Visitors. How many were out there now? The band continued to labor through the "Star Wars"—Maxwell winced as he heard a flutist hit a sour note and hoped fervently it wasn't Robin.
"How many Visitors does it take to change a lightbulb?"
Maxwell craned his neck. "I don't know. How many?"
Polly laughed with all of a twelve-year-old's enthusiasm. "None! They like the dark!"
Maxwell laughed politely, heard the black man chuckling at his side. Visitors continued to file out of the craft, the band continued to play.
"How many of them are there, Robert?" Kathleen asked.
The black man turned to her. "I been wonderin' that myself. How many you counted?"
Maxwell stared at the growing sea of red coveralls, frowning. "I don't know. A lot."
"Yeah," said the black man. "A helluva lot."
Robin Maxwell was doing her best to keep playing in time with the band while her head turned to watch the Visitors file past her. She wasn't going to miss the chance to see them this close! She hit a sour note and winced—hoping the rest of the band had covered up her mistake. Still, she couldn't look away from the Visitor technicians walking past her.
V01 - V Page 4
