The Asteroid

by M R Cates

  Okay, Sandra thought, I guess I've seen all of it. She jumped back down and climbed the six steps to her chair. My chair. Made for me, I suppose. Sandra picked up her food bag, from the right side of the chair, found some cheese and nibbled a few bites, pondering when and what she should speak. She held her tongue. From her other bag – on the left side – Sandra got out a small writing pad with its felt tipped pen attached by a string. She started writing down a description of the room, taking her time to get the details right, looking one direction or another to check herself as she did so. This took six or seven more minutes, during which she continued to be silent. While completing her task, and before she put the pad back into the bag, the inner sensation returned – now the third time. She happened to be facing the left wall.

  What is that? Sandra thought, looking at her reflection. That's the red I saw before. There was a faint red glow, it seemed, around her entire body from about waist up. It extended out from her surface about three, maybe four, inches. But it was very dim, almost indiscernible. From this reddish pall streamed, in a kind of discontinuous flicker, a spiraling red fuzzy line up to the ceiling. This was enough, she decided.

  “Are you examining me in some way?” Sandra said aloud, her voice resonant in the room. “I would much prefer to speak, if you don't mind!”

  The fuzzy red “body-halo” (as she described in her notes later) disappeared, along with the associated sensation.

  “Thank you,” Sandra said. “Now, can we please begin our conversation?”

  The air stirred, the chaotic background noises began, then coalesced as before into a female voice, well modulated, with no accent she could discern, but with a certain lack of animation. The voice said, “Doctor Sandra Hughes, we will speak further after six of your hours. We require the delay for other purposes. There is a door behind you allowing access to a facility to deposit your body's waste products. You will also find a sleeping mat that can be carried to any location you wish to use. We believe it will be comfortable.”

  “Six hours!” Sandra blurted back at the voice. “Why can we not speak now?”

  There was no response.

  “May I at least communicate with my colleagues and let them know I am okay?”

  Again, no response.

  “Damn!” she muttered, and walked – she hoped, casually – down the steps and around to the back wall again. Sure enough there was an opening, right behind the chair, in the center of the wall. Sandra strode into a small “bathroom” with a toilet that she thought was not a bad replica – except there was no flushing mechanism she could identify – and a similarly well-designed sink with water flowing steadily into it from a curved spout extending from the wall. The toilet was on the right side, mounted into the wall, the sink attached in the middle of the far wall. On the left was a rolled up mattress-like thing. The whole chamber was about ten feet on a side, with a floor and side walls identical in character to the brown stone wall into which the door had been cut. The ceiling again was reddish and high enough – as in the main chamber – that she would have no way to reach it.

  So six hours it was to be. Sandra sighed and picked up the bedroll – with some difficulty because of its bulk, not weight – and carried it back into the main room, deciding to roll it out next to the left reflective wall. It was a thicker version of the material that cushioned her stone chair. Laid out, it was about five inches thick, seven feet long and three feet wide. Certainly good enough. The question now was whether she could sleep. Or whether she should sleep. Six hours was a long time to her. Was it to them? No way to know. Why did they insist on the delay? Who knows? Psychological manipulation of some sort? How could these green men possibly know how to psychologically manipulate human beings? Well, she mused, they have seen all the “I love Lucy” episodes. Why not?

  Sandra returned to her small bag, got her pad and pencil, then came back to the bed. Rolling part of the end up she made a pillow, propped her head up on it, and rested the note pad against her bent thighs. Guess I'll have to wait 'em out, she thought, and began writing.

  Chapter 40

  Sandra Hughes had entered the floating alien craft between 4:30 and 4:40 during the afternoon of July 18th. That was as accurate as the observers' information could be because of the difficulty with imaging the area before the mysterious clearing up of all the telescopic data. Madeleine Vigola, after being informed, called her boss, the President. Jeff McBrand had been awaiting word. It would be his decision who to inform around the world and how much to tell them.

  “Mr. President,” Vigola said, “Dr. Hughes reached the prescribed location precisely on time. We lost communication with her at that exact moment. The sailboat was then apparently drawn by some mechanism to a point near the side of the alien craft. From there she was – we presume – taken inside, between 4:30 and 4:40. The sailboat is still there. That is essentially all we know.”

  “Why,” McBrand asked, “is the time she was taken in so unclear?”

  “The images from the telescopes, sir, had been very marginal during the time Dr. Hughes was approaching the craft. All became suddenly sharp at 4:40. Whatever disturbance the aliens were creating must have subsided. Dr. Von Drath believes the force fields or whatever they were using to hold the craft in some position they wanted could be turned off after Dr. Hughes entered.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I'll run that idea by the team here, Madeleine. Needless to say, I am very frustrated that we know so little.”

  “We had little choice, sir, in the arrangements for the meeting,” she reminded him.

  “Maybe we shouldn't have agreed,” he muttered. Then he added, “Yes, yes, I know the risks. God knows I am aware of what these people, or whatever, did with those ... those rocks! Risking Sandra Hughes' life is not ... well, it will rest on my conscience until I see her well.”

  “We'll keep you posted, sir. Wish I knew more.”

  “Listen, Madeleine,” the President said, mind now back in decision-making mode, “please send an encrypted report to the Secretary General and the list of preferred nations. Be sure to say that Sandra is definitely inside talking with the aliens. Don't give any clue that we don't really know what's happening. Okay? And make sure they know not to let their news media contacts know anything.”

  “There will certainly be a leak, sir,” she said.

  “Naturally, I'm depending on it,” he said, a certain grimness in his tone. “There will be God-only-knows-how-many rumors flying already. How long are we going to not hear anything, Madeleine?”

  “Uncertain, sir. Dr. Von Drath reminded us that the aliens' sense of time may have nothing to do with ours.”

  “Damn it, I don't want to hear that. Well thanks again, Madeleine. The work there in Hawaii was ... was truly heroic.”

  “Thank you, sir. Let me confess something to you, Mr. President, if I may.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “My reluctance to send Sandra Hughes on the mission was misguided. The woman has been the real hero of this whole amazing affair.”

  “I know it, Madeleine. But thanks for telling me.”

  “I'll report in, Mr. President, every four hours whether I hear anything or not. If I hear anything, you'll hear it within seconds.”

  “Good enough. Thanks again.”

  —

  At about eight o'clock, with darkness now set in, a helicopter came out from shore and picked up Françoise Marnier and Carl Von Drath to return them to the mainland. Vigola and Greenberg argued that there was little for the two observers to do at the moment, and with no clues about Sandra's schedule in the alien craft, there was no reason to keep them aboard. Living facilities aboard the cutter were limited, at best, and less than ideal for Carl especially. Françoise protested the decision as applied to her, not wanting the be away from the location where Sandra was most likely to achieve communication first, if at all. The French student was emotionally and physically exhausted, like everyone else, but didn't want to leave her post. Jon Greenberg poi
nted out that the radio link to the shore had worked well during the day and that word would come quickly if Sandra made contact.

  Hotels in the Kona region had been commandeered by the government officials. For the only time in the tourist area's existence there were no tourists to be seen. The nearby tourist locations, up and down the coast, were, of course, quite full, both because it was Hawaii, after all, and because of the incomparable asteroid events going on. Most locals and many tourists were fully aware that some exercise was underway, related to the floating rock from space. The secret of the alien communications and the human responses was, however, well-kept. No verified credible account of the actual transfer of messages from one sentient race to another had to that point been released by a reputable news agency anywhere around the world. It was something of a minor miracle that the political figures who knew – several governments and the highest levels in the United Nations – had actually repressed leaks. It also spoke to the gravity of the issue, sensed by anyone in a leadership position and most people of any kind everywhere.

  Debbie McAnn and Françoise Marnier were booked into the same Kona Sands hotel, with adjacent rooms. Carl was in an older, quieter place inland about a quarter mile. Jason Nagato and Reginald Wyler, of course, remained on their posts in Waimea. The special federal accounts coming into the Keck Observatory – accounts that Debbie was helping with the administration of – were footing the bills. Outside the Kona Sands a short stretch of sandy beach received its rhythmic pattern of surf, filling the night air with a kind of pleasant white noise that washed over sounds of people talking at the outdoor tables, or official cars moving from one place to another along the coastal highway.

  Françoise, after reaching shore, got permission from Madeleine Vigola to visit with Sandra's sister and give her the information they had to date. This errand also gave the French woman a chance to take a shower and change clothes. She would be going back to the trailer complex near the port where Vigola's command center was located, and would take Debbie with her.

  At about a quarter to nine, Françoise knocked on Debbie's hotel door. A worried looking Debbie opened it.

  Françoise wasted no time, saying, “Sandra made the trip successfully, you see, and is in the big stone craft.” She added a reassuring smile.

  Debbie sighed deeply and tears rushed into her eyes. “Oh, God, she did make it out there, then? Oh, Sandy! Damn but she's good, isn't she?”

  Françoise's eyes had moistened, too. “She is very good, yes. I think the very best.”

  The two young women then embraced. Debbie held on to this new friend, it seemed, for dear life. Françoise spoke into the hair against her face. “We have heard nothing from her, but we know she is there.”

  They separated and at Debbie's indication, Françoise entered and they went through the room to the small deck facing the Pacific. On it Debbie had a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket of ice. “Can we drink a toast of good luck to her, Françoise?”

  “Oh yes, surely. Then I will take you to the ... what is it, the headquarters area, where Ms Vigola is.”

  “Do they need me?” Debbie asked.

  “Sandra perhaps will need you,” Françoise said. “When she comes back out. We think it is very important, you see, to have all her special people available.”

  Debbie smiled at the suggested honor and began opening the bottle. Displaying the label – a Texas Chardonnay – elicited a smile from the French woman. Both knew how important the choice was. Debbie was dressed casually in blue shorts and matching plain tee shirt, at the moment barefooted. “Françoise,” she said, “you may be the most special one of all, you know. You two, and Jason, were the ones on the ... on the front line.”

  “The front line?”

  “Like in war,” Debbie explained. “All the asteroid ... er, activities went through you guys.”

  “I hope,” said the dark haired one, “that we are not, you see, in a war.” Then she smiled. It was a gentle, disarming smile, one that had instantly charmed Jason and would charm any man who was neither dead nor catatonic. It worked a similar, if not sexual, magic on Debbie. And it started her sisterly tears once more.

  Françoise came across and took the job of opening the bottle away from Debbie. “Let me do this for you,” she said. “After all, I am French. We open wine with our teeth as very young children.”

  Debbie wiped away tears, quickly controlling herself. “And you little guys probably guzzled down a lot of it, too, after opening it with your teeth.”

  The bottle was already open and being tipped to pour. Françoise looked over at Debbie, lifted her eyebrows, and shrugged. “My veins, you see, carry 'Vin de Bordeaux,' not blood. Blood is for ... what is your word ... sissies.”

  “Girl, you sound like a Texan, with a French accent.”

  Both laughed. Then they lifted their glasses and toasted Sandra.

  Debbie said, “To a good chat with the green men, then to get herself home!”

  Françoise said, “Yes. A good chat, yes.” She wrinkled her nose at the quaint monosyllabic English word. Then raising her glass a bit higher, she added, “May Sandra's good heart be seen by them!”

  They drank. Debbie turned away a little, affected by Françoise's toast, which she realized may very well have pointed to the most important factor in the encounter there in Pacific – toward which she gazed. But how, Debbie thought, could creatures from somewhere else possibly know a good heart when they saw one?

  They sat down, both knowing it would only be for a short time, both also knowing it might be an important private moment.

  Debbie said, “You know she's there because the sailboat is, right, and because she's not on the boat.”

  “Yes,” Françoise nodded. “The images were very bad, you see, while she was approaching. Dr. Carl thinks the ... the aliens were generating some kind of force to keep their stone craft stable, or something of that kind. So when its image, you see, came up to the telescopes, there was distortion.”

  “The electromagnetic stuff is different then?”

  “Yes. The electromagnetic disturbance remains there. It does not change. That must somehow relate to the aliens themselves, or their living conditions perhaps.”

  “Making the green gas they breathe, you mean?”

  Françoise smiled again. “Like that, yes. But the disturbance that confused the telescope images suddenly went away. We think, when Sandra was inside.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was very peculiar, you see, because in the time before, soon after the craft landed, the telescopes could see it very well. But as Sandra began to come near it, the distortions came. Then they suddenly went away.”

  Debbie nodded. “So now you have a clear picture of an empty sailboat?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this remains very much hush-hush, I suppose?”

  “Hush-hush means secret, yes?”

  “Pretty good for a Froggy, Françoise.”

  “A 'Froggy'? Am I then a Froggy?”

  “Born and bred, girl. The thing I don't understand is how you, as a three year old kid, were already speaking French. Wow, I studied the stuff for two years in college and am just now to the 'Voulez vous couchez avec moi?' stage.”

  “We French are very precocious, you see. But I hope you do not use that phrase with too many people.”

  “Only with guys,” Debbie smiled. “Guys that are actually alive and kicking.”

  Françoise laughed. “So Sandra said about you. That you love the men.”

  “Well, I'm female, after all.”

  “Yes, I see. I, too, am female, but it is not quite the same for me.”

  “Jason is practically orgasming in his pants when you bend over, Françoise. You must be impressed by that.”

  Françoise revealed a slight blush. Debbie noticed but pretended not to. The young French woman said, “Perhaps there are some men I can use that phrase with, but I have not met one yet.”

  “Lucky you,” Debbie said. “
I wish I were more discriminating.”

  “I am, you see, so far, totally discriminating.”

  “One will find you. Guys have a way of finding the pretty girls. And you are that.”

  “You are nice to say so, Debbie. But before you say something else very foolish, we should prepare to go to the trailers. Okay?”

  —

  At 9:45, the two women entered the headquarters trailer, each wearing her badge. Françoise had changed to a less formal outfit, a simple navy blue skirt and white blouse. Debbie had dressed up a little, into long blue slacks and a cream-colored silk blouse. Madeleine Vigola, looking a bit worn in her wrinkled suit, sat at her desk, surrounded by phones, wearing a headset, and facing a laptop computer and five different view screens. On one of the screens was displayed an infrared telescope image – in shades of gray – of the floating Devil Fish, almost touching, it seemed, the alien rock behind it. The other screens had displays that Debbie didn't understand. Sitting at two smaller desks against the far wall were technicians Françoise had briefly met but not spoken to. Standing at two other spots were uniformed Navy personnel. They were Navy Seals, as it turned out. The men – who did take brief but meaningful glances at the arriving young women – were silent and gave off, with their obviously powerful bodies, a sense of strength. These were the best bodyguards human beings could achieve. Debbie couldn't quite understand why they needed to be in the trailer. Of course, military personnel were everywhere. Debbie and Françoise had passed five or six en route from the parking area just fifty yards away.