by M R Cates
“And one person can handle it?” Sandra asked.
“Not easily perhaps,” Vigola said. “But ... well, it seems to be the best compromise. At least so far. They're still working on it.”
“Who is they?” Françoise wondered aloud.
“A team back in Washington,” Vigola answered.
“Oh,” muttered the French student. “Well, I know a little about sailing. If that might be ... well, you see, useful.”
“I didn't know you sailed,” Jason said, sounding disappointed with himself.
“I didn't speak of it,” she said logically. “My family went on vacation many years, you see, to the Mediterranean, to Corse – Corsica (she corrected). There are many sailboats there. Eighteen feet ...” She converted it to meters in her head. “I have sailed a five meter. It is nearly as long as this one, this Devil Fish.”
“Are you qualified,” Vigola asked, “to teach Sandra, do you think, Françoise?”
The young woman blushed, despite herself. “I can sail the boat, I am sure, Ms. Vigola, but ... I am not an instructor, you see.”
Sandra sat down and took another drink of coffee. “We can find a real instructor,” she suggested, “but it would be good to have Françoise working with us. At least I'd feel a little more comfortable that way.”
Madeleine Vigola had no objection. “We'll try to arrange it that way, then. If the President agrees to the aliens’ request.”
Françoise, warming to the idea, asked, “Can we have one of those Devil boats with the plastic rigging then, by tomorrow?”
“We'll have it,” Vigola nodded. “I don't think it would be wise to ask for a delay.” She turned to Sandra, blushing slightly.
The astronomer's reaction was more introspective. “I wonder if the aliens know how dependent we are on metal. Or if that is a factor at all in their request.”
Carl said, “The implication, Sandra, is that metal is in some way dangerous to you. That would imply some kind of electromagnetic effects.”
“Yes,” Sandra agreed. She turned her attention away from Carl, knowing he already understood. “In our human grasp of physics the photon is the quantum of energy that expresses the electromagnetic field.” Looking at Vigola, she added, in explanation, “Photons are light quanta. And our visitors certainly have been doing spectacular things with light. Somehow, maybe, they expect to be disturbing the field, and anticipate a problem if anything conductive is around.”
Françoise looked suddenly concerned. “Do you, Sandra, have, well metal ... what is the repairing of teeth ...?” She couldn't find the English words.
“Fillings,” Sandra nodded. “I have a couple, yes, but they aren't metal amalgams. They're ceramic. Guess I'm lucky my Texas dentist was into high tech materials.” Her eyebrows went up. “Actually, the ceramic ones cost more, so he made more money. In any case, I'm a metal-free woman, as far as I know.”
Jason laughed, apparently more intrigued by metal-free women than the others there. But everyone smiled.
Sandra went back up to the white board, to her rough sketch of the landing zone with a little doughnut shape in it, the 50 mile radius circle around it, and the arrow indicating the direction of the wind. “Fifty miles or so is a long distance of open sea to keep track of a boat,” she said. “We'll need some sort of navigation system to be sure to find the spot the aliens requested.”
Vigola's look agreed with the statement. She said, “I asked the people in Washington to think of something to help. But I don't know any more than that.”
“A compass would help,” Sandra said. “But it has to be one with no metal.”
“Is that possible?” Carstairs asked.
“In a certain way,” Sandra nodded. “If I had a gyroscope, oriented in the right direction, it could keep me pointed.”
“But wouldn't that require a motor?” Jason interposed.
“Yes, but it could be spun up before I go into the restricted zone. And the motor left behind.”
Vigola nodded. “I'll bring that up,” she said. “Explain again how that would work.”
“Okay,” said Sandra, “when the gyro is spun up, the orientation it is in at the time becomes its reference. When you turn it away from the orientation, it produces a force perpendicular to its spin axis. That force could cause an indicator to move. By realigning the axis to its original direction – or in this case, changing the course of the boat – it would balance the forces such that the indicator didn't move away from its reference position. That keeps you on track.”
Vigola nodded again. “Can the device spin for the four or five – maybe more – hours it would take?”
“Yes, with the right kind of low-friction suspension system for the rotor. If the container with the rotor spinning in it is evacuated, no air resistance would slow it. Only the friction at the spinning points would matter. With reasonable care it should spin several days.”
Again Vigola said, “I'll ask them to check into it.”
“But,” Sandra reminded her, “it has to be non-metallic.”
Françoise asked, “Sandra, do you think, truly, that the metal is a problem for the aliens?”
The astronomer shrugged. “Can't say, Françoise. But we're in no position to argue.”
“But what,” the student continued, “is the kind of problem, you see, that metal could ... could make to happen?”
“Strong electromagnetic fields will induce current flow in conductors. Eddy currents – electron flow in patterns near the surface of separate metallic pieces – don't require a complete circuit to be formed. Isolated pieces of metal will still be affected. The induced current might also cause shock damage to tissues. Other fields would be produced that could damage electronics, spin compasses wildly, and things of that sort.”
Françoise nodded.
There wasn't much more, it seemed, that could be done that evening. Vigola explained that the decision in Washington would be reached by morning, but probably not before – because it was the middle of the night there. The realization that they'd reached a kind of stopping place seemed to strike all six about the same time. The atmosphere shifted to the way people respond at a gathering when it suddenly seems time to go home. It took a few minutes to do the last few things necessary to wrap up for the evening, but around ten o'clock the group began returning to homes, apartments, and hotels. By that time the wheels were in motion to produce a fiberglass sailboat with non-metal rigging. It was scheduled to arrive at the port of Kona by noon at the latest on the following day. No one wished to consider how much the enterprise would cost, but this was a perfect example of a case where cost was truly no object. There would be one afternoon to teach Sandra Hughes how to sail the boat. And, as Sandra put it, “one evening to beg a delay from the aliens if she found she couldn't handle it.”
When they got outside, Sandra spoke briefly to Madeleine Vigola, going into a couple of details she didn't want to discuss inside, where the feds could hear them – and possibly the aliens, too. Then Sandra took Carl home. They spoke little on the way, but each was comfortable with the other. She gave him a peck on the cheek as he started the elaborate process of getting out of her car.
“You okay, Carl?” she asked.
“Fine, Sandra. Sleep well tonight, young lady.”
“Will do my best, Carl. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Yes. But later. I'll leave the sailing to you and Françoise.” He added his peculiar smile.
Sandra gave him an impish look. “Can't stand to watch people making fools of themselves, can you, huh?”
“Let's say I'll be saving my strength, Sandra.” He was now on his feet outside and closed the car door. “Good night.”
“Bis Morgen nachmittag!” she said, forcing a grin onto her face.
“Ja, richtig, und gute Nacht,” he answered, starting up his steps.
Sandra waited until he was inside, then started for home. She lifted the encrypted cell phone to her ear and dialed a number Vigola had given her, s
poke briefly, then dialed her sister – by way of the eternal FBI operator.
“Hi Deb, seen anything good on TV lately?”
“Sandy, don't tell me you knew all about this!” Debbie had gotten the phone on the third ring. She had been out on her back deck, laptop taken out there to watch. Like most people around the world, she had not tired of the story.
“No comment, honey. But I did get to watch it from an airplane.”
“No fooling? I wondered what you'd been up to.”
“I'm off for the night. Can I come by your place and drink a glass of your wine?”
Debbie smiled to herself. “I guess I can put up with a sister for a few minutes anyway. Come on.”
In ten minutes, Sandra was bounding up the steps of the apartment building. Debbie met her at the front door and led her back to the deck. A bottle of Cabernet was already open on the small table, with two glasses poured.
“Deb,” Sandra began without preamble, “I'm going to make contact with the aliens.”
It took a moment for the younger sister to register the words. “Make contact? God damn, Sandy, you're not going out to that floating thing, are you?”
“Yep.” To emphasize her answer, Sandra took a sip of wine.
“Why haven't you ... you talked about this before?” Exasperation was quickly growing in Debbie's head.
“Just got permission from my jailers to tell you.”
“Jailers?”
“The feds. They've probably got this place bugged, too. Unless they didn't get around to your deck. Unlikely, though. They're listening to us. Hi, fellows!” She waved a hand toward some unknown listener.
“God damn,” Debbie repeated. She looked about to cry.
“I'm planning to be okay, Deb,” Sandra continued. “But you have to know because you're my next of kin. At least that was my argument.”
Tears then did start down Debbie's cheeks. She said nothing until she'd wiped her eyes, turned away, and fought for composure. “You ... what's going to happen, Sandy?” she finally asked.
“Just going out for a chat with the little green men. That's it.”
“Right. A chat.”
“Their idea, honey, not ours.”
“They want to chat with you?”
“You sound surprised,” Sandra said, letting a smile cross her face. It made Debbie smile in return.
“Okay, Sandy, you're a great conversationalist. A terrible date, otherwise, but a great conversationalist. Is that all you're going to tell me?”
“That's it.”
“Your jailers, huh? That's all you can say?”
“That's more than almost anybody else knows, Deb.”
“Gee, thanks.” Debbie drank most of her glass of wine in one quaff. “When are you going out there?”
“Soon. That's all I can say. But not tomorrow. Want to go sailing?”
“Are you crazy? Don't answer that. Go sailing?”
“I'm serious. With me and Françoise. The feds gave me permission to ask” She winked.
“No Jason.” Debbie's scowl turned to a grin.
“Damn no, he's too hot for you, honey child. I can't deal with testosterone tomorrow.”
“So why do you want to go sailing tomorrow, Sandy?”
“Fun.” She glanced at a guessed position of the unknown listeners and raised a hand to wave at them.
Debbie got the message. “Can I wear my bikini?”
“You can go naked as far as I care, Deb,” Sandra shrugged. “Turns out our guide is a woman, though. Sorry.”
“Guide?”
“Sailing instructor. Supposedly super expert.”
“I believe,” Debbie said, suddenly sounding older and wiser, eyebrows lifted in a kind of mocking that Sandra would have done to her, “this sailing adventure is somehow germane to your little chat. Am I correct?”
“You are correct. But ...” She again 'looked' at their listeners. “... you cannot make mention of such foolishness to anyone but me and Françoise. In private. Not to our sailing instructor or anyone else. Comprende?”
“Mighty nice of you to ask me,” Debbie added facetiously. “Been feeling guilty, huh, for ignoring your little sister?”
“That, and because you are a hell of a lot better sailor than I am.”
“Oh?”
“I figure all the help I can get will be useful. Even if I have to put up with your snotty disposition.”
Debbie grinned. “Does Françoise sail, then?”
“Claims to.”
“I'm not asking anything else about this, okay. Drink your wine, Sandy, and let's talk about Texas. I miss it.”
“One last thing, then Texas it is. I'll pick you up at nine in the morning. Is that going to wreck havoc with your banker's hours?”
“Nine o'clock, huh? What a sacrifice. Okay.”
True to promise, the sisters then chatted about Texas for another hour. Sandra hoped someone in Washington was having to stay up very late to listen to it.
Chapter 35
July 17th gave promise of being a perfect day. The wind was gentle, the clouds cleared quickly, and the entire sweep of the Kona coast, visible in the distance as the Ford sedan rolled downhill west out of Waimea, was absolutely clear. The three volcanoes seen to the south, southeast, and east were almost free of clouds, and would be soon. The three women in the car looked as if they could have been typical mainland tourists in Hawaii. Françoise, for a change, was driving Sandra's car, and wore tan shorts, sandals, and white tee shirt. Debbie, in the front seat beside her, was in cutoff jeans and black tee shirt, barefooted, and her sister Sandra, in the back, was in Capri length jeans and sleeveless red-checked cotton blouse, also barefooted. Beside Sandra was a canvas bag with the swimming gear for all three. Piled next to it were a stack of towels. Another, smaller, bag held cosmetics, mostly for the front seaters, and suntan lotion. All three wore sunglasses. Françoise's were particularly jaunty, with yellow flower designs on the plastic form.
There were two cars behind them, at discrete distances, containing their constant FBI escort, and a similar lead car. Madeleine Vigola and several others had gone by helicopter in advance to the coastal town of Kona and would be waiting there. The Chief of Staff had also arranged for a couple of United Nations operatives to join them, as well as a couple of advisors from the Department of Defense. Sandra had asked for the time in the car with her sister and friend, despite being aware that the car might be bugged.
“What's Jason doing today?” Debbie asked.
“Oh, he is working on data,” Françoise answered, eyes dutifully on the road ahead. “We have very much data, you see, and no time to analyze it.”
“Data, huh?” Debbie gave a slightly disinterested shrug. “Don't you ever get enough pictures of those rocks?”
Sandra, from the back seat, said, “We love rocks, Deb.”
“Because they may be kin to those in your head, is that it?”
“Same genes as my little sister,” Sandra reminded her.
“I think they got me mixed up at the hospital,” Debbie countered.
Françoise smiled. “I am jealous, you see, of both your genes.”
“Not mine,” Debbie protested.
“Maybe Françoise isn't getting enough sex,” Sandra said. “That's why she's jealous of you, little sister.”
The young French woman blushed, but it was barely discernible because of her rich, deep tan. “There is no time for sex in Hawaii,” she said. “Isn't that very strange, truly?”
“Seems unnatural and unfair,” Debbie said. “Hawaii was made for sex.”
“No, you were made for sex,” Sandra corrected her. “And now you are in Hawaii.”
“Okay, I'll stand corrected,” Debbie smiled over her shoulder toward the back seat. “But where is this promised sex anyway?”
“Back analyzing data,” Françoise said, also smiling. “He ... Jason thinks you, Debbie, are very ... how is it you Americans say it ... very cool.”
“What do
you think of Jason?” Sandra asked her sister.
“Handsome brute,” came the reply.
“Is that it?”
“Isn't that enough, Sandy?”
“Pardon my foolishness.”
Debbie turned around to lean her folded arms on the seat back. “Are you saying, dear sister,” she asked, “that I only am concerned about men's bodies?”
“That about sums it up.”
“Just wanted to be sure,” Debbie said. “Okay, let's talk about something else. I'm starting to get a little hot and bothered.”
“Something else,” Françoise agreed. “What shall we talk about then?”
“How about green men from outer space?” Sandra suggested. “I want to hear Debbie's analysis.”
“My analysis?”
“Well, when you saw all the coverage of the doughnut landing out there ...” She pointed west. “What were you thinking about?”
Debbie thought a moment. She knew, despite her sister's banter, that the question was asked on purpose. “Well, I was very surprised they landed, in the first place.”
“Why?”
“I guess I thought they'd just stay up there for some long time, and just watch, or whatever.”
“Didn't you think they kept orbiting closer so they could eventually land?”
“Actually, no,” Debbie admitted. “I thought they were getting closer just to look at us better. I didn't ... didn't want them to be real, I guess.”
Françoise, remaining quiet, looked over at Debbie, touched.
Sandra asked, “Why not real?”
“You know what, it's a lot easier and more fun to have something to imagine, and to decide for yourself what might be going on. Like when they were in orbit and never said anything. Were just up there. We could imagine anything we liked.”
“Yes,” Sandra nodded. “And what do you think now?”
“I think I'm scared,” Debbie said. “Especially for you.” She looked back at her sister, then added, “Well, you asked me.”
Françoise had to say, “It is very frightening for ... for everyone, Debbie. Because we do not know very much about these ... whatever they are.”
“I think we know a lot,” Sandra gently disagreed. “They know our language, they know our time system, they seem to know our geography, and have apparently checked up on our weather. On the other hand, maybe they are crazy, because I bet they've watched every “I Love Lucy” episode ever aired.” She raised her eyebrows at them both.
