I sat there for awhile idly studying the series of equations on the blackboard, even while knowing that I could not pierce that particular veil. I did recognize, here and there, values representing mass and energy, gravity and velocity, in a series which may have had something to do with critical density and the expansion of the universe, but I was just guessing; this stuff was several lifetimes beyond my grasp.
So, what the hell, I'd offended her again—so, why not?—she'd offended the hell out of me, time and again. It was not her brain tissue under that microscope! Who the hell did these people think they were?—gods, or something?—that they could just snip off a specimen willy-nilly, without permission ... ?
I knew what an electron microscope is. I'd seen the damn things. They shot a damned beam of electrons into matter, irradiated the hell out of it, and...
Irradiated?
Was not that the very term Jennifer had used in describing... Yeah. "Palomar Mountain is being irradiated from a point in space..."
I went over to the bookshelves to find a dictionary. Wanted to refresh my understanding of irradiated. Found the dictionary and found the word though not a lot of comfort from the various definitions, deciding my own understanding was the scientific usage having to do with an energy beam.
But then as I was returning the dictionary to its place on the shelf, my eyes brushed past a slender volume just above it. It was a university press collection of articles on astrophysics by none other than Jennifer Harrel. I pulled it down and leafed through it, found nothing really remarkable.
Then, for some reason, I drifted back to the front matter, found the copyright page, stared at it unbelievingly for a frozen minute or two.
You know how, sometimes, you can get this chill clear through your body, from the top of the head to the soles of the feet and along the branches in between, as though the whole nervous system has become sympathetic to something very strange occurring in the brain?
And something very strange, indeed, was occurring within my brain.
The collection of essays by Dr. Jennifer Harrel had been published twenty-two years earlier.
Which meant that she was somewhere under ten years old at the time. Quite a prodigy. Except that the introduction, by another scholar, spoke glowingly about the good Dr. Harrel's long list of contributions to the world of science, far too many to fit any ten-year span.
I stood right there at the library shelf and read the entire introduction and preface, then I very carefully returned the volume to its place above the American College Dictionary and went back to the equations on the blackboard.
I did not know who this lady was. I'd bathed with her, made love with her, spent a delightful day with her. But I did not know who she was. I just knew that she was not Dr. Jennifer Harrel.
Chapter Seventeen: Ten Big Indians
Well now it was really shot to hell—torn, everything, all of it. Not only was I on a mountaintop with a group of strangers who all could be lying to me; I could not be sure, even, that any of them were who they said they were.
Actually, only three had even come with full names— Jennifer Harrel, Holden and Laura Summerfield. There was at least some evidence—22 years old, but evidence—that there actually was or had been someone named Jennifer Harrel. As to the Summerfields, though... Well, okay, yeah, the custodian over at the observatory—Fred?—had given me a map to the Summerfields' house—so probably there did exist, or had existed, someone named Summerfield.
But how could I be sure about Fred, himself? Or any of those people over there? Hell. I have seen all those movies, same ones you saw, and the things on television, where the aliens quietly slip in and replace all the humans, take their identities, prepare the way for a full-scale invasion from that other galaxy. And there is always a clue, at least one good clue that gives the aliens away. Either they all have four fingers or they can't walk and chew gum and sing "Stars And Stripes Forever" at the same time.
I never saw any in the movies that scintillated but that should be as good a clue as any.
I am not saying that this is exactly where I was at, but I was not far away from there. I considered the possibility, soberly, for all of two or three seconds before I began to feel foolish. And yet every other conceivable scenario was even more ridiculous.
See, the problem was one of credibility. Whether we realize it or not, all of us inhabit a very credible reality. We get these very reliable sense perceptions that tell us if we are right-side up or upside down, if we are standing still or moving, if it is night or day, winter or summer. Along with all that, we tend to be more or less gullible. We will take it on faith that the can in our shopping basket is beans and not squash simply because it is labeled beans. And we will drive a hundred miles into the wilderness with no food or water in the car because we believe our gas gauge and the mileage ratings for our car.
We take more of this world on sheer faith than most people ever stop to realize.
But then if I get home with the can of beans and it turns out to be squash, which I cannot stomach, I lose a bit of faith. And if I drive out to Death Valley that same day and run out of gas in the midst of desolation, I lose a lot more faith. If no one will stop to lend assistance, when obviously I am going to die out there without help, I lose a hell of a lot of faith—and when I am crawling along the pavement with my tongue dragging in a mirage that has every appearance of cool, clear water—well, yeah, you get the picture, I don't believe anything anymore. This reality has lost credibility for me.
That is where I was at, atop Palomar Mountain that beautiful Monday morning.
I was in an incredible reality.
You see, Jennifer—or the person who was answering to that name—had told me that Saturday on the hillside at Griffith Park that she was the first female in her family ever who had even completed a high-school education, she was the first career woman in the line, and it had been so important for her to make it because everyone in her family was so sure that she was not going to do so. So I could not say to myself, upon finding the 22-year-old publication, that Jennifer was following in the footsteps of her mother or grandmother or whomever—and it would simply be grabbing for too much coincidence to believe there had been an unrelated female astrophysicist with the same name who'd published a book that found its way into this incredible little reality.
No. There comes a time for all of us when we dig in the heels and balk like hell—we will travel no farther along this road—it is the wrong way.
My every action of the previous forty-eight hours had been predicated upon a totally false set of assumptions. First, I had assumed that there was, indeed, a missing scientist whose name was Isaac Donaldson. True or False? At this point, I did not know. I did know that such a scientist had, at one time, lived and worked and published in this country. But I had only Souza's word, and the now highly questionable word of the person calling herself Jennifer, that this scientist was even still alive—and, if so, mysteriously missing from his usual haunts.
Souza himself had only the word of the mysterious entity who had retained him. He had never met Donaldson, had never seen or heard of him until retained to find him.
I had only "Jennifer's" word that the police had ever been involved in any of this or that anyone at all, anywhere, was concerned about any of it—except, again, secondhand from Souza, who spent his whole damned life embroiled in "scenarios," so how could I know how much Souza actually knew about any of this and how much he had dreamed up in his scenario cooker.
True—I had found a dead man outside my house in Malibu. I'd had a run-in with two unknowns in Glendale and another two at Palomar. So something was definitely cooking. Again, though, how much of that could have been engineered through nothing more than Souza's blundering about with fanciful scenarios? In the "spook" world, it did not require a hell of a lot of solid intelligence to produce overly-solid reactions.
Suppose, though, that there really was a missing scientist or scientists and that the name of o
ne of them indeed was Donaldson and that everyone in the know in Washington and other world capitals were truly concerned about his disappearance. It did not necessarily follow that these folks atop Palomar Mountain were friends or even allies of the missing man. He sure as hell was nowhere in evidence with that group—and, if he was indeed stashed somewhere in their midst, who was I to believe that these people were protecting him and not, themselves, holding him prisoner for whatever reason?
So the entire thing had lost credibility for me. I knew only that I had met a beautiful lady and made love to her, that I had "rescued" her from an attack in what was purported to be her own home, that she had led me to Palomar Mountain, where I had encountered some strange static on my extrasensory wavelength.
Those were the facts, and they were the only facts I had. It was a hell of a place to be. So I decided to get the hell out.
Prisoner or no, though, I obviously would have to walk out, if out it would be. A truck was pulled in behind the Maserati, totally blocking any exit from the parking space—and, thanks to the two vans hunkered in to either side, I could not even get my doors open to get to my Walther. Two young Indian men were sweeping the tarmac nearby but would not respond to me in any way. The keys were not in the truck and the transmission was locked, so I could not budge it.
So I figured, okay, and I went back inside to use the telephone but could not get a dial tone to hold long enough to even get the operator.
So I figured, okay, I could hoof it to the national-park campground and find some help there. By now, though, the Indian sweepers had moved to the top of the driveway and had been joined by four more braves with picks over their shoulders. It did not appear that they intended to let me pass—so I figured, okay, what the hell, it could be a long trudge by highway, anyway, so I dived through the bushes and took the fast way down, the very fast way, straight down the mountainside, sliding through shallow snow on the backside. I hit roadway a couple of layers of skin later and kept right on boogying as fast as the feet would move me, even though there was no sign of pursuit.
The long hours on the tennis courts had conditioned me well and I was thankful for it because I was breathing damned hard when I sighted the little market at the crossroads. There was still no evidence that I was being chased so I slowed it down and tucked some breath in, smoothed the hair, shook loose the caked snow that had stuck to my slacks during the downhill slide, and tried to look like any intelligent city fella just out for a stroll along the mountainside in blazer and slacks in the wintertime at five thousand feet.
I certainly was not feeling the cold, and the heated market just about did me in. A customer was engaged in neighborly conversation with the lady I'd spoken with briefly on the way up, Saturday night. Neither paid me any attention. I went straight to the pay phone and used my card to buy a call to Souza. Foster was not going to put me through until he discerned the raw terror in my voice; but there was a brief delay before Souza picked up, and, by this time, the "signs of pursuit" were all too evident and crowding into the market.
I said but two words to Greg Souza which, I hoped, would suffice, given his affinity for the ridiculous. "Code Red," I said, hung it up, and showed a sweet smile to the six braves.
"Ran out of cigarettes," I told them. "Man, I'd slide a mile for a cigarette when the pack is flat."
Not one of them smiled back. I went on to the counter and bought some cigarettes then decided to show some class, went to the cooler and selected a six-pack of Heineken, paid for that, handed it to one of the confused braves, and went outside with them. A pickup truck I'd noticed earlier at Summerfield's was parked there; another one, bearing four more deadpan braves was just pulling in.
I said, "Aw shit, thought I had you guys covered. First there were six, now there are ten. Well, you'll just have to share the damned beer, I'm not buying another damned six-pack."
My humor was lost on these guys, too. I wondered which galaxy they were really from, but not too seriously. Two of them sandwiched me into the cab of the pickup, the other four scrambled onto the bed, and we headed back to Summerfield's—the second truck following closely.
"Thanks for the ride," I said.
"That's okay, thanks for the beer," I said right back to myself.
The guy at the wheel grinned, but very small and very briefly. Now, these guys knew how to be Indians. Shit, they had me convinced.
Chapter Eighteen: The Djinn
Esau was seated at the bar in the bubble room, still scintillating but obviously disturbed also, absently holding the telephone handset about six inches from his head and deep in thought. He replaced the handset onto the pedestal as he became aware of my approach, swiveled to greet me with a sober smile.
"Have a refreshing walk?" he inquired.
I had already decided to be cool about the whole thing. "Great," I assured him. "Good air up here."
"Bracing," he suggested.
"Oh, all of that," I said.
I took a stool beside him. He said, "Perhaps we should have our talk now and not wait for dinner."
I said, "Okay."
He said, "Our time grows shorter. I just had a very unsatisfactory conversation with the man in Washington."
I asked him, "Which man is that?"
He chose to ignore the query. "Politicians are entirely too impatient. They tend to demand instant solutions to the most vexing of problems. Ah well." He showed me the charmer smile. "We have less than twenty-four hours to complete the studies."
"And then?" I prompted.
"And then they take us over. It seems that the level of intrigue is approaching critical mass. I feared this would happen. Ever since..."
"Ever since I barged in," I guessed.
"Oh... no. Don't blame yourself, Ashton." He passed a hand over his face in a weary manner. "We all have known it was just a matter of time."
The guy sure seemed sincere. If it was some dumb game being played then he was very good at it.
"At least we are fortunate to be in the United States. Our colleagues on the other side were taken over months ago. Their work has suffered accordingly. Ah well. That says something, does it not, for scientific autonomy. We have been saying for years that science knows no politics. The problem, you see, is to convince the politicians of that."
I commented, "You've been working under a deal with Washington, then."
He smiled wanly as he replied, "More like a standoff. We have been threatening to call in the press unless we get a free hand in this. And, of course, the politicians in power—all politicians in power—are dead set against a free press, for all their sanctimonious claptrap about the freedoms."
I asked him, drawn into the "problem" despite myself, "So what does this do to you, now?"
He said, "What it does to us, Ashton, is to impose a near-impossible deadline on our program. We have been working on a crash basis all these months, as it is."
"Are you saying the government will shut you down?"
"What they will do is tantamount to a shutdown. We inhabit a very intolerant age, Ashton. This age, indeed, will no doubt be looked back upon by future historians as the very Age of Intolerance. For this country, anyway. Yet it is all being done under the guise of progress. Progress. What nonsense. We manacle ourselves and call it progress."
I suggested, "A slowdown, maybe. But surely not a shutdown, if what you have here is really..."
"Slowdown, shutdown, it's all the same, I fear. How can anyone know how much time we have?" He snapped his fingers. "It came like this." Snapped them again. "It could disappear the same way. It is imperative that we seize the moment. Give the bureaucrats their debating platforms and we shall lose the moment by default. No, Ashton, no. We must push on. We must meet the goal within the next..." He consulted his wristwatch. "... twenty hours."
"How impossible is that?" I wondered aloud.
"Twenty-four hours ago, I would have said utterly impossible. Now, however..."
"Now, however..." I prompted him.
"Well, Ashton, now there is you."
Oh sure, I thought. Now there is another setup. If these guys were playing games...
"Which reminds me," I said, suddenly feeling entirely boorish. "Jennifer would have me believe that you have succeeded in invading my brain without dismantling it. Some new technique. Surely she jests."
He laughed softly. "Our understanding seems to be advancing in quantum leaps, since we've begun this... Also, of course, we have had the jinn to assist us. So..."
I growled, misunderstanding, "Jen?"
He smiled. "Had to call it something." He spelled it for me, then went on to explain: "From the charming Moslem legend. They called them djinni or jinni. The plural form is djinn or jinn, whichever spelling you prefer. We settled on jinn as both singular and plural. In the legends, the djinn are supernatural beings who can take the form of whatever they please—animal, human, whatever—and they can influence human affairs. Seemed highly appropriate to our situation, so.. .jinn."
I said, "Same as genie."
He smiled and replied, "Aladdin and his magic lamp, yes, in which a jinni was held captive through some magic charm and forced to grant the wishes of any mortal who knew the secret of how to invoke his powers."
I asked, musingly, "Could that charming legend be an allegorical truth to some degree?"
All he said was, "That could be said of many of our myths and legends."
I asked, "Do your jinn grant wishes to mortals?"
He smiled slyly as he replied, "It would almost seem so. Of course, we have yet to fully divine the secrets, but I do believe that we are getting closer, much closer. See here, Ashton, there is a very fine—almost an evanescent influence at work here—so fine that it would have gone unnoticed except for a stroke of luck, an almost insignificant perturbation noted within the solar system. We went looking for the cause of that and found the jinn. But the terrestrial influence is just barely detectable using the most sensitive instruments. However, we have developed a method for gathering and refocusing this almost evanescent particle spray, and we have noted some rather spectacular material effects as we refocus into biological target matter."
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