by Robert Reed
He gave a little nod.
“Any other questions?”
A hard gaze, and he said, “Jordick.”
“Oh, we’re sorry about him.” She sounded more angry than sad, adding, “If he’d been my case, I would have limited his first-time exposure. It’s too bad it happened.”
“It is.”
The bulldog face changed, trying to smile. “You, on the other hand…you have a flair for this work…”
Cornell said nothing, knowing better.
“Consider longer shifts,” she told him. “If you have the urge, there’s extra pay involved. Quite a lot.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Please. Do.” Another pause, then she said, “By the way,” as if it was a casual afterthought, “I’m curious. Your account of the mood on High Desert. It’s rather sketchy. Could you elaborate a little bit?”
“I spent most of the time with one person—”
“Porsche Neal, yes. I’m glad you made a friend.” The face worked to show nothing, to give nothing away. “Actually, I’m more interested in Hank Logan. You mentioned him as being—”
“Brittle,” said Cornell. “Tense.”
“I’m sure he’s tired,” she continued, her tone careful and every word slow. “He’s got a tremendous amount of responsibility, of course.”
Cornell looked at his hands, momentarily surprised to see so many fingers.
“Did you know?” she continued. “Hank was the very first person to visit High Desert. It’s his fifth world, which is a record. He’s a legend around here, Mr. Novak. An authentic hero, and I can’t count the reasons why.”
A glance at the window, at the soft blue sky and fat clouds.
“We’re all tired, Mr. Novak. On both ends of things.”
“May I go?” he asked. “If you don’t have any other questions—”
“Home, is it?” She brightened, perhaps believing she’d made an impact; that she had tempered his hard feelings. “I noticed you applied for a full leave. Which is fine. Our business is done, and you’re free to go.”
He rose, aware of his feet inside their shoes. “Thanks.”
And F. Smith said, “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of your pledge to us, do I? To protect our mission here?” A pause and a contrived smile. “Of course I don’t. Have a splendid couple of weeks, Mr. Novak. Enjoy.”
San Francisco was vast and extraordinarily loud, chaotic and filthy and collapsing in its corners; and Cornell was astonished by the changes that had swept over the city. People had moved from everywhere, tens of millions of them. Strange hairless faces crowded towards him. Ornate buildings stared with great glass eyes. There was a pressure in the air, in each slow thick breath; and he felt a metallic aftertaste inside his wrong-shaped mouth and against his too-fat tongue.
And he was managing better than most people, he told himself. Which probably was the only reason why they let him free in the first place. Suddenly that seemed obvious.
Two weeks and nothing to do but rest, spend money and readapt. Then back to High Desert again. This was too short a vacation, or it was much too long. His opinion depended on his mood, and right now, walking the last few blocks home, Cornell felt ready to rush back the way he had come. Maybe he didn’t have residual reflexes, and no, he didn’t feel like chewing on bugs. But it didn’t take much to imagine himself as six bodies pulling their mind up the sidewalk, brandishing spears as they crossed streets, perhaps killing one of the rolling monsters that kept barking with their shrill voices.
His apartment’s gate was locked, apparently undisturbed.
His computer greeted him with the promise of messages, but Cornell said, “Wait. Give me a minute.”
The silence had a wounded quality. He walked back and forth in the apartment, studying the little rooms as if for the first time. This place reminded him of his hut in New Reno. It was the gloom, in part. And it was the staleness and maybe the coolness, too. Cool air, cool grimy surfaces. He paused in the bathroom, promising himself to clean it before he left again. That would fill three or four days, wouldn’t it? Then he caught sight of his reflection, not knowing the face for an instant, staring and staring and easily picturing himself with big black eyes and thick fingers, a mouth full of needles and a thin tongue. He touched his face, cheeks and forehead, barely hearing the phone as it began to ring.
The computer answered, asking, “How are you today?”
“It’s Pete Forrest again,” said the voice. “Has he shown up yet?”
“No, Mr. Novak cannot come to the phone now. May I take—”
“Wait.” Cornell came out of the bathroom saying, “I’ll take it in the living room.”
“Sir? Mr. Novak just stepped inside. Hold, please.”
Cornell punched on the TV, sat and saw Pete sitting on a big plain chair. Where was he? In a hotel room, he decided. Some cheap adjustable painting was hung over the bed, dialed to a nineteenth-century landscape. Pete grinned and leaned closer, saying, “Finally.” Then he laughed with relief. “Wondered if I’d ever catch you at home.”
“I’m here,” Cornell replied.
“What’s been happening?”
“Not much.” It was the largest lie of his life. “What are you doing? On the road somewhere?”
“Actually,” said Pete, “I’m in town.” San Francisco?
“And I was wondering. How about supper? My treat.”
It took a moment to see the obvious. Pete wouldn’t come here by himself, and if Mrs. Pete was along, she’d pop into the picture.
“Where’s Dad?” Cornell asked, his voice soft. Wary.
Pete gave a little wink.
“What is this? A surprise attack?”
Bless him. The big man didn’t deny anything, saying, “A kind of blindside reconciliation, I hope.”
Cornell waited for anger, reliable and trusted. But somehow he couldn’t summon more than a steady disgust, asking, “Where is he?”
“Next door.”
“Does he know?”
“He’s not an old fool, son.”
And Cornell sat back. “Where? Want to meet somewhere?”
A smile, another wink. “You choose the place.”
He named a nearby restaurant.
“Seven o’clock?”
Cornell said, “Fine. Can you find the place?”
That brought a huge smile, a mild laugh, then a quiet, “What do you think?”
“You look tired.”
Cornell might have made the same comment, gazing at his father with a mixture of nostalgia and astonishment. The man had aged—he expected it—but what startled him, seeing Dad in person, was the degree and completeness of his decline. The once-handsome face had gone soft, eyes dulled and the teeth, real or implanted, stained by everything that passed over them. The hair that had looked white on TV was quite thin, strips of pink scalp showing through it. The tops of his hands were speckled and ugly, the right hand showing a clean white scar. Was that recent? He didn’t remember any scar. And the slight tremor was new. Was it the effect of a medication? Or was it a crippling, slow-acting disease? Cornell realized the man was in his mid-seventies, which wasn’t old. Yet here he was, a pitiful and shrunken old fart…
“You look beat,” Dad told him. “What are you doing with yourself? Not sleeping much, whatever it is.”
“I’m traveling,” he replied, glad for the cover story. “I’m busy with my new job—”
“Talk about traveling,” the old man interrupted, nodding and laughing. “How far have we come, Pete? A couple, three thousand miles?”
“Something like that.”
“Aiming for Oregon, but I guess we got lost.” He picked up the menu, frowned at something and put it down again. “And people claim I’ve got a lousy sense of direction.”
Cornell looked at Pete, gauging his impressions. Pete seemed tense more than anything. Had there been trouble on the way? When did Dad figure out their destination? The old man would feel trapped,
and rightly so. Maybe the two of them could gang up on Pete, making him the common foe.
“Starting tomorrow,” Dad reported, “we’re going north, working our way up the coast. What’s the town?”
“Eugene.” Pete’s voice was more inert than patient.
“You must have heard, Cornell. They’ve got an old-fashioned saucer, from the sound of things.”
No, he hadn’t. But he rolled his head as if he knew something.
“A little one,” Dad continued. “But sneaky. It’s like that little saucer we saw…where was it, Pete? We were on that gravel road, in the fall, and it was ahead of us—”
“Calumus County,” Pete replied.
Dad turned to Cornell. “You remember it. There was a flash of sunshine when it crossed the road.”
“I wasn’t there, Dad. I was in school.”
“You were there.” He sat back, the old hands folding together. “In the backseat, like always. And you said the saucer was a bird—”
“I wasn’t there.”
“You’ve forgotten.” It was an accusation, sharp and then gone. He turned to Pete, saying, “It’s a scout ship in Oregon, I think. Automated, or maybe not.” He looked at the center of the table, wearing a vague and odd brief grin. “A crew could be inside, inside some kind of folded space. Twisted geometry. I’ve been studying the mathematics, the possibilities.”
As if he could comprehend the simplest equations, Cornell thought. As if he had a fighting chance.
“After Oregon,” said Pete, “we keep going north.”
“We might try hunting Giganthropus.”
Pete said, “Bigfoot.”
Cornell said nothing.
“They’re being seen again,” said Dad.
Cornell felt happily ignorant about saucers and bigfoot.
“What I’m thinking,” Dad reported, “is that they have a base in the Cascades. Probably inside a volcano.” He looked over a shoulder, then remarked, “The service is lousy, isn’t it?” A blink, and he almost looked at Cornell. “Anyway, I’ve got a new theory. I think they are making contact with earthlings, but not with people. We’ve never been more than a passing curiosity for them. Which seems reasonable to me.”
Where was the waitress? Cornell wondered. The place was almost empty, and he shared Dad’s impatience.
Pete was studying his menu. “How are the scallops?”
“Good. Great.”
Dad coughed and said, “Perhaps they’re talking to bigfoot Perhaps they’re preparing our cousins for their golden future, and people are just an evolutionary dead end.”
Pete and Cornell were trying to ignore him.
“Peaceful herbivores. The yeti, bigfoot…that’s what they are, after all. The aliens must have recognized their genuine nobility…”
What part bothered Cornell most? Was it the man’s loopiness, or was it the way he used his loopiness to insulate himself from criticism?
“Such a conceit,” said his father, the face defiant. Proud. “Us believing that they would be interested in our vile little species.”
Their waitress finally arrived, very young and thoroughly bored with her life. She turned on her Newton and asked, “Ready?” Pete and Cornell took the scallops, but Dad made a slow study of the menu. What did he want? “You’ve had forever to choose,” said the waitress’s expression. Finally he picked the bison steak, twice making her promise that it was lean and authentic. Then he remarked:
“Where’s our complimentary ice water?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a quarter a glass.”
He acted stunned, gazing at Cornell.
“Dad, we just came out of a drought.”
“Do you want water?” the waitress snapped.
With a sense of great sacrifice, the old man said, “Thank you. No.”
She threw her Newton into her apron, then left; Dad asked Cornell in a too-loud voice:
“Is some girl keeping you up nights?”
“I told you,” said Cornell, his tone icily patient. “I’ve got a new job, Dad.”
“Oh? Do you?”
It was an old man’s question, his memory failing; but the eyes had a clear blue light in them.
“Remember? A couple of men came to interview you—”
“I remember.” Dad breathed and asked, “Did you get that job?”
“Yes.”
“What kind is it?” Then, before Cornell could answer, “Does it pay well?”
And he said, “Pretty well.”
“Oh, I’m sure. I believe you.” There was a sudden sharp edge to the voice. “Yes, I believe it does pay splendidly.”
There was a pause, cold and long, and what worried Cornell most was the way Pete sat with his elbows on the tabletop, his face concerned and alert, his thick hands squeezing each other.
Then Dad said, “Money.” A pause, then, “What does treachery cost today? In dollars, I mean.”
There was a sensation like falling, that utter loss of control. Cornell managed a deep breath and held it inside his single chest—
—and Dad said, “Since you’re helping them, I hope you’re at least getting something concrete out of it.”
What did he mean?
Pete looked as startled as Cornell felt, asking, “What’s this? What are you doing?”
“The government sends agents to my house, asking me every kind of question, and what do you suppose that means?” The shrill words ran together. He stared at Cornell, asking, “What exactly are you doing for them? You told them about my work, my conclusions. No doubt there. A lifetime of experience, and you sold it away—”
“No, I didn’t. No, no, no.”
“Nathan,” said Pete, “this is really strange. Even for you.”
“Asking questions, pretending they were interested in you. Oh, I was fooled. For two minutes, I was stupid. But it was me they were after, wasn’t it? I’m their prize, aren’t I?”
Pete said, “You’re worrying me, friend.”
Dad shrugged his shoulders, proud of his vision. Proud of his courage. He coughed with vigor, then said, “I know I’m under surveillance. They’ve watched me for years—”
“Like hell,” said Pete. “How many times have we been over this? I’ve shown you and shown you that nobody’s watching you.”
“Three times,” said Dad, “they’ve broken into my house.”
Pete looked at Cornell, shaking his head. “Once there was a burglary. One time.”
“Treachery, treachery.”
“Crazy, crazy,” Cornell whispered.
The old man didn’t seem to hear him, saying, “Oh, but I fooled them. I left them nothing to find but data. My conclusions are what matter, and they’re here. In my skull. Which is why they had to milk my son for the answers.”
“You are amazing,” said Pete, scornfully.
Dad smiled and smiled, happy with himself.
Pete touched Cornell’s arm. “I had no idea. This is new to me.”
Cornell wasn’t simply angry, though his heart pounded and his vision blurred and every muscle screamed to move. It was anger, but it also was panic and a kind of terrified amazement with the man’s delusions. Pete was asking, “What’s the government need from you?” and Cornell put his hands over his ears, trying to hear nothing.
“I know things,” Dad promised.
“What things?”
“Something secret.”
Pete drummed on the tabletop, getting the attention of everyone in the place. “Whatever Cornell’s involved in,” he declared, “it means nothing to you. Isn’t that right, son?”
Dad blinked, then blinked again.
And Cornell said, “That’s right,” with his voice almost calm, barely audible. “They don’t give a damn about you, Dad.”
A snort, a scornful expression.
Pete said, “See?”
“I know the truth,” Dad replied.
“You don’t,” Cornell snapped. “You’re not even close to it.”
It was more than he should have said, and for a panicky instant he wondered if this scene had been invented to test him. Maybe he hadn’t left the agency’s grounds; maybe this was some elaborate virtual world, and he was sitting alone inside another tiny white room. Then a hand pressed on his shoulder. Pete’s hand. He had read Cornell’s mood and was saying, “Now take it easy, son—”
“You don’t know,” Cornell shouted. “You don’t.”
Faces stared at him, but nobody spoke. It was as if everyone in the room were one person, their bodies united by invisible threads.
Dad licked dry lips, satisfied by something.
Cornell pushed away the big warm hand, saying, “Saucers are old news. Out of date. The universe is put together differently, Dad, and even you’re not even crazy enough to guess how.”
Nobody spoke.
Cornell nearly explained everything. His mouth was open and he had words lined up, ready to emerge. He’d tell them about the intrusions and how people passed through, changing their physical selves; he’d describe where he had been and what he had seen. He didn’t care who was eavesdropping. A brigade of black-coated government men could take him away. They would be his proof, his vindication. Dad would have to believe him. But his paranoia didn’t stop, and he imagined everyone else in this restaurant being silenced. With warnings; with accidents. Conspiracies perched on conspiracies, the public at large kept ignorant…
His anger stopped, out of energy. He closed his mouth and took a long look at his father, wrinkles and thin tears and one speckled hand pulling through the thin snowy hair. A fucking pitiful old man, and he couldn’t stay angry with him. Which made him angry in a new way, hating himself as he turned toward Pete, telling him, “Sorry.”
Pete offered a tiny, circumspect nod.
“I tried,” Cornell told the room, then he rose with a squeak of the chair. What was Dad thinking? He looked at the face, thinking how people never knew what really was inside another person. Where did he hear that? Long ago, it felt like. He turned and started for the door.
Pete might have spoken, perhaps to Cornell, but the sound merged with the street noise as Cornell walked outside. People were everywhere…a small round world filled with stinking human bodies. He heard voices and singing and sometimes laughter, always grating. Then he was running, weaving around bodies and into the street. Cars honked at him and he glared back at the drivers, his face causing several people to gasp aloud. They had seen a madman, they knew; and later, they told friends they were fortunate that the madman hadn’t reached through their windshields, killing them with his pale clenched fists.
