“What’s that got to do with us?” Melinda sounded curious, not defensive.
“Well, ma’am,” said Mr Bororwitz, “I believe your son Richard is a classmate of the son of one of our air traffic controllers.”
“Bobby Gassaway,” I explained to Melinda, who rolled her eyes; she’d heard a lot about Bobby.
“That’s correct,” Mr Bororwitz went on. “Captain Gassaway and some of the other controllers have been assisting Robert Gassaway with a term paper of some kind about UFOs - unidentified flying objects,” he added helpfully. “Coincidentally, they started getting these UFOs on radar, which naturally stirred some interest. The appearance of these objects doesn’t seem to follow much of a pattern, except that they usually seem to show up late in the evening for an hour or two. We had a couple in daylight over the weekend, though. An aircraft was sent up to investigate.”
“Did they see anything?” Melinda asked with a smile. Mr Borowitz smiled back.
“The pilot did not achieve an optical fix on the objects, no, ma’m, though he did track them on radar.” He looked at me as if a hard enough stare would drive me onto my knees, confessing everything; I blinked back at him. “The objects were first observed hovering over the hills in the vicinity of San Miguel Creek State Park. Then they dropped through the overcast and vanished. We understand you go hiking up in that area fairly often, Richard.”
“As a matter of fact, I was up there on Saturday,” I said. Among other places. “My girlfriend and I were hiking.”
“About what time of day?”
“Most of the morning, part of the afternoon.”
“When were you at San Miguel Creek?”
“Oh - we must’ve reached there about nine, nine-fifteen. We hiked up the creek a way. Then we went down ‘cause it was getting too wet and cold. We tried a few other trails after that.”
“Did you observe anything unusual?” Mr Borowitz asked.
“No - at least not any flying saucers. It was pretty foggy.”
“Isn’t this an odd time of year to go hiking?” Mr Randall wondered.
“Not if you’re dressed for it. Most people don’t go out, though, so you’ve got the hills all to yourself.”
”Now, Richard,” said Mr Randall, “you seem to have suggested, if we’ve been accurately informed, you’ve suggested to Robert Gassaway that these UFOs might be some kind of hoax - and you even predicted when one might be sighted.”
“Well, I don’t believe in UFOs, so I figured it had to be a hoax. And I was just pulling his leg, predicting when there’d be another one. I was wrong anyway. Have you talked to him much about this?”
“We’ve spoken with him, yes.”
“Well, he got this bee in his bonnet about UFOs. Even Mr Gibbs - that’s our science teacher - can’t get him straight about it. So, well, we tease Bobby a lot about it. He rises to the bait, you know? Anyway, he was going on about flying saucers on his dad’s radar, and I just kidded him a little. He thinks I’m behind it.”
They both looked a little pained, as if I’d tactlessly brought up some embarrassing subjects.
“The suggestion of a hoax of some kind had been mentioned,” Mr Randall agreed. “We understand you got into some trouble last spring over the use you made of your personal computer.”
“Yeah. I sure did. Now I can’t even use the ones in school, or my mother’s, for a year. But what’s that got to do with UFOs?”
“Maybe nothing. But the picture we have of you suggests you’re a bright young man who’s fond of practical jokes. Does it seem to you that something like these UFOs might be a practical joke?”
“Gee, Mr Randall, I just said so, didn’t I? UFOs aren’t real, so of course they’re a hoax or a joke or whatever. Or else they’re just some ordinary thing that’s been misinterpreted by Bobby’s wishful thinking. At least that’s what most of the kids in class think. See, the principle of Occam’s razor says you take the simplest explanation that fits all the facts, and you don’t complicated your theory with anything unnecessary.”
They received this suggestion about as cheerfully as Gassaway himself would have. “Well, maybe you could just give us your opinion,” Mr Randall said.
“Sure.”
“If you wanted to pull a UFO hoax - I’m not saying you have, please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying that at all - I’m saying, if you did want to stage a hoax, how would you go about it?”
“So I got radar images? Wow. Beats me. Maybe with a balloon? I know sometimes people will make little hot-air balloons out of a candle attached to a plastic garbage bag. If it works, you see a light hanging up in the air at night, hardly moving. But would that give you a radar image?”
“Not the kind we’ve been getting,” said Mr Randall.
“Well, what if the bag was aluminium foil or something with a metallic coating? Or a real hot-air balloon with one of those propane burners underneath it?”
“Maybe. But these objects don’t manoeuvre like a hot-air balloon.”
“Well, gee, then I don’t know. I can think of stuff like an ultra-light airplane or a glider, but you must’ve thought of that, too.”
They both nodded. Then, as if they’d rehearsed it, they both stood up. Mr Randall smiled dazzingly at Melinda, and a little more coolly at me.
“We’re really sorry to have disturbed you at this time of day, and we won’t keep you any longer. I know it must all sound pretty silly, but when we have to consider every possible hazard, no matter how strange it sounds. You’ve been very helpful, Richard - Mrs Stevenson - and I hope if anything else turns up you’ll give us a call.” He put a business card on the kitchen table. “Thanks again.”
I walked them to the front door, with Marcus giving each of them a friendly poke in the rear for old times’ sake.
“Gee,” I commented as I held the door open for them, “I hope the National Inquirer doesn’t get hold of this story. It’d sound pretty weird.”
Mr Randal smiled insincerely, while Mr Borowitz looked as he’d just had an ulcer attack.
“I hope you understand,” said Mr Borowitz, “that this is a very quiet, routine, but confidential investigation. We’d be highly grateful if you didn’t mention this to the media - any media.”
“I sure won’t, Mr Borowitz. I’ve got too much respect for the air force to get it involved in some silly story about UFOs. But I got to tell you, I’m going to tease Bobby Gassaway.”
They both flashed me embarrassed grins, and walked quickly back to their car. I shut the door and sagged against it for a second before going back into the kitchen. For an improvised performance it hadn’t been too bad, but now I was going to have to carry it on with Melinda, whose crap detector was always working fine.
Dinner was on the table, pork chops and rice. Melinda was sitting with her elbows on the table and her fingers laced in front of her face, as if she were about to say grace.
“And what, may I ask, was all that about?”
I pulled out a chair and sat down, tucking Mr Randall’s card in my shirt pocket. “I think we’ve entered…. Deedle-deedle-deedle… the Twilight Zone. Boy, that was weird. Melinda, really, it’s just Gassaway being an idiot. I pulled his leg a little, and he must’ve told his dad some fairy tale. It’s his dad who sees all these UFOs on radar, so maybe idiocy runs in the family.”
Melinda started eating, but she didn’t look happy. “It all sounds too crazy to be a mistake, knowing you. And don’t roll your eyes at me, buster. I don’t have any idea how you could fool radar, but if you could you would.”
“But I ᚓ”
“I’m not saying you did it, Rick. But after that computer business, I know you’re a - a prankster. You get a kick out of doing what you’re not supposed to, breaking the rules to see if you can get away with it. Sometimes it’s funny, but sometimes it’s a drag. And it makes me feel like hell because it means I haven’t done such a hot job of raising you to be a caring, ethical kind of person.”
What a guilt trip!
I put down my fork and folded my arms, even though I knew it made me look like a sulky little boy. Melinda went on for a while longer, and finally ended with: “Do you have anything to say?”
“I sure do. This is a bum rap, Melinda. I have not been fooling anybody’s radar. I’m not launching any balloons or flying an ultralight or anything. My God, Melinda, I’m too busy for pranks.”
She sighed and reached across the table to squeeze my hand.
“I’m sorry, Rick. Those jerks just got me upset, that’s all.”
“Got you upset! They didn’t exactly sing me to sleep, either.”
We got on with dinner, not talking much. Afterward I washed up fast and got on the phone to Pat.
“You got a visit from who?”
“Air force intelligence, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. They think I might be hoaxing them about UFOs. Isn’t that insane? It’s all Bobby Gassaway. That guy has some fantasy life.”
“No kidding.”
“Listen, you want to come over this evening? I can borrow Melinda’s car and come and get you.”
“Gee, Rick, I can’t. I’m helping Angela with her homework, and I’m not feeling all that great anyway.”
“Oh… I was just hoping we could talk for a while without the telephone being in the way, you know? Nice and private.”
She didn’t answer right away. “Yeah, that would be nice. But we’ll have to make it tomorrow, okay? I really am stuck for tonight.”
“Okay. Well, I better go. Be good. And if you can’t be good, be discreet.”
“That’s an old one. ‘Bye.”
I hung up and rubbed my palms together nervously. The air force could well be tapping our phone, and I hoped I’d gotten that possibility across to Pat. Her long pause made it seem likely she’d understood, and she hadn’t babbled anything.
The rest of the evening I worked on a couple of essays for English, feeling sorry for myself because I had to use Melinda’s old manual portable typewriter; after a computer keyboard, it felt like breaking rocks with a sledgehammer. Melinda went to bed early as usual; I said good night to her and then got ready for bed myself. Events were catching up with me: I was bushed, and just as glad I didn’t have Pat around to keep me awake.
With the lights out, I lay in bed and looked at the window. A jet whooshed by overhead; they knew where to find me, though. I wondered if the air force had staked out the house, if they were going to follow me everywhere. Just before terminal paranoia set in, I fell asleep.
Chapter 13
TUESDAY MORNING, MARCUS woke up and put noseprints all over my face. Sleepily I reached out and scratched his head. Then I remembered what had been going on lately: the trashing of Brunhilde, the jet erupting out of the clouds, Jason nearly getting killed, the air force snooping around, and Pat thinking I was a prime jerk.
Every instinct told me to pull the covers over my head and wait for the world to go away. So I did, but it didn’t. Marcus started making ugly remarks about the lack of breakfast. He wanted a dog biscuit, not a master with a nervous breakdown.
“All right, all right,” I growled back, and rolled out into the chilly room. A minute later, in jeans and a grey turtleneck, I was on my way downstairs.
I should’ve stayed in bed. Melinda was making my lunch while I was feeding the dog and rustling up my own breakfast, and we kept getting in each other’s way.
“Do you mind?” she snapped.
“I’ll be right out of your hair,” I promised, and grabbed a box of Cheerios.
“I’m sorry to be so crabby,” she said a moment later. “Those men from the base made me nervous. I didn’t get much sleep.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll find better things to do when they find out how truly boring I am.” Like chase Pat if she keeps on lifting, I added anxiously to myself. I hoped she’d understood the seriousness of the visit from Borowitz and Randall; my call had been pretty circumspect. But I was sure that if they saw any more unexplained blips on their radar, the air force would go into its search-and-destroy mode. They would catch her eventually, and then they’d get me, too, and then they’d bury us in some lab in the desert until we’d taught them how to lift. Or they might decide that lifting was just as dangerous as I’d come to consider it, and then they’d just bury us. I half-wished I’d never let Pat in on the secret. Then I could’ve laid low (literally) until things calmed down.
Walking to school didn’t cheer me up, either. It was a cold, grey day, and I could just imagine how beautiful it must be up on top of the overcast. Every hundred yards or so, I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone was following me. But this being a typical California street, any pedestrian would have stood out like a rock band in a graveyard. A couple of cars went past me, but neither Borowitz or Randall in it unless they were wearing hair curlers and make-up.
Crossing the football field toward student car parking and the main building, I saw Jason Murphy’s Trans Am roll into a slot. It looked pretty bad, but it was running. Jason got out, looking glum, and slouched up the stairs to The Pit. I was far gone in paranoia by now, and considered going the long way around to reach the lab. Then I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, and followed Jason up the stairs.
I hadn’t been through The Pit in a while, but not much had changed. The usual hardcore apprentice cancer patients were out there, risking hypothermia as well. They gave me a big welcome, though; I was a football hero now. Jason was standing off to one side with one of the Tricycle Rats - not Brad the bleeder - and they both did me the favour of ignoring me. Still, they made me nervous. Everything made me nervous now.
The lab was like a tomb. Pablo and Ronnie were running their usual boardless chess game, speaking the movies in undertones. Mason Reeves was staring at the ceiling, his fingers tapping out the rhythm of some musical piece he was composing. Eustis Bowson was reading one of Angela Battenbury’s romance novels, his eyes wide with astonishment. He started to laugh, and luckily for him Angela wasn’t there; she’s six feet tall, almost as tall as I am, and doesn’t like people to poke fun at her reading habits.
Pat wasn’t there, either, and I didn’t know whether to be glad or sad. It would’ve been great to talk with her, to tell her how uptight I was getting; but it was also pretty nice not to have to risk a fight. In the mood I was in, I would’ve started shrieking the instant she said anything I disagreed with.
Bobby Gassaway breezed in wearing a new sport shirt - mostly brown, with sickly yellow stripes - and clean chinos. He spotted me and came over, taking a plastic binder from under his arm. His doughy face was wreathed in dimples and pimples.
“All done,” he announced, tapping the binder. “Want to take a look?”
“Sure,” I said casually. I admired my own self-control in not snatching it out of his hands.
It wasn’t all that long, even padded out with his dad’s Polaroid snapshots of radar screens, and a bibliography a page and a half long. I skimmed it, looking up now and then to see if Pat had turned up. Gassaway stood fidgeting beside my chair, waiting for a reaction.
It was a pretty straightforward job, and Bobby had written it fairly well (with Gibbs as your reader, you watched every comma). After some fairly well-documented reports of radar UFO sightings by air traffic controllers elsewhere, he described the recent rash of local incidents. His quotes from Papa Gassaway and the other controllers were pretty good; one of them even got close enough he said the radar images occasionally resembled a parachutist, except that no aircraft was ever anywhere near them, and of course the images didn’t descend like parachutists. It felt funny to think that guys sitting miles away had actually been watching me all those times - and watching Pat as well, though Gassaway and his sources didn’t make much fuss over double-image sightings.
Once he got into conjecture over the nature of the UFOs, Gassaway pulled his punches, sticking closely to the controllers’ speculations. These were mostly that the UFOs were some kind of remote-controlled model aircraft, or balloons, or an out
right hoax by means unknown. Reading between the lines, I could see Gassaway was torn between just two hypotheses: we were dealing with a subcompact spaceship from some other planet, or Rick Stevenson was continuing his criminal career by conning the U.S. Air Force.
Admiring the neatness of the footnotes’, I handed it back.
“B-minus,” I predicted.
“B-minus my arse! That’s an A paper, hog-jaw.”
“I’m betting a buck you don’t get better than B-minus.”
“You’re on. But would you give it?”
“About a C,” I drawled, and ducked, cackling, when he swung at me.
Gibbs arrival saved me; he came in looking, as usual, like a spell of bad weather.
“Where’s Llewellyn?” he demanded, surveying the thin turnout. “And Battenbury?”
“I don’t know, sir,” I volunteered. “They were doing homework together last night. I guess they’ll be along soon.”
But they weren’t.
We noodled through a calculus quiz and some physics, and then Gassaway presented his report. He made it sound better than it was, and even whipped out a couple of transparencies based on his tables, showing the frequency of local UFO sightings over the last year and a half. Boy, it looked obvious: purely random until October, then the regular late-evening pattern with occasional daylight blips on weekends.
Gibbs listened impassively, and then asked Gassaway a few questions, mostly about his methodology. The answers seemed to satisfy him; he put the report in his briefcase and said he’d have it back in a couple of day. Then we went on to Eustis’s genetic report, and that was that.
For a moment I had a crazy, irrational sense of relief: that somehow nobody was going to pay attention to UFOs anymore. Then common sense sank in. Bobby Gassaway might be off my case for the time being, but Mr Randall and Mr Borowitz were still out there somewhere, keeping an eye on me.
The only thing I had going for me was the sheer, sweet incredibility of the Effect. Until people actually saw me or Pat lifting, they wouldn’t believe it. That was a major reason for my giving up lifting, and a major reason for worrying like hell about Pat.
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