One of the women started. "Pardon, sir," Matthews queried, "three thousand and irregular?"
"I know," Mobler concurred. "That's much too slow, and the approach path is cockeyed all to hell. Let's have some confirmation."
Abruptly the room looked like an anthill before an impending thunderstorm. Those not among the two designated to confirm the impossible sighting were hard pressed to attend to their own tasks. The level of noise in the room rose alarmingly, but Mobler couldn't blame them.
Eventually, disbelieving reassurance came from both additional stations that the track was legitimate, that both the speed of reentry and the zigzagging descent path were correct. Mobler turned back to Davis's screen and saw to his dismay that the tiny blip, the cause of all the commotion, was still there.
Almost absently he ordered, without turning, "Matthews, Garcia, Abramawicz. Taking into account all shifts in path, I want the best prediction of a touchdown site you can come up with. I've a hunch this baby isn't going to burn up."
"What do you think it is, sir?" Davis asked wonderingly. But the lieutenant was busy nearby, speaking into a rarely used phone. Davis strained to overhear, found he could make out the local half of the conversation.
"No, sir," Mobler was telling someone softly, "three thousand. No, no change in angle of descent, not yet, anyway." A pause, then, "They're certain? That's what I hoped, too, sir. Yes, I'll wait." He turned slightly, saw every eye in the room locked on him.
"It's not Soviet or Chinese," he announced in response to the many unspoken questions. An almost audible sigh rushed through the room. "Absolutely no launchings in the past. ninety‑six hours, and all orbital devices accounted form number and mass." He turned his attention back to the phone, listening intently.
"Yes, sir . . . I agree, sir. The angle is much too sharp for that speed. It's coming straight down, comparatively. No, sir," he added after a glance at Davis. "It's still intact. Yes, sir, I know it doesn't make any sense." A longer pause, and Mobler leaned to his right to study a chart hanging on the wall.
"No, sir, it's not one of ours. Impossible. The last re-entry we had was OGO eighteen, the geosurv satellite, and it burned up on schedule two and a half weeks ago. Nothing of ours, or theirs, for that matter, is set to come down for at least three more months.
"Yes, sir, we're working on a possible crash site now. It shows indications of shifting its path from time to time. There's a straight line in there somewhere, though . . . assuming it doesn't go ahead and burn up, after all. Just a second, sir."
Mobler looked back down the room toward the three technicians whose assignment he was plotting. He said nothing, but his cheeks turned slightly darker. Knowing the signs, the three specialists worked faster.
It was Garcia who spoke up excitedly. "No path yet, but I've got something else, Lieutenant. The object is no larger than three meters in 'diameter and not less than point eight. Its general shape is spherical." He hesitated, added, "That's all only a guess, but it's a good guess."
Mobler nodded once, reported the new information to whoever was on the other end of the line. Meanwhile Matthews completed a final check of her instruments.
"If it doesn't burn up and if it maintains its present general heading, sir, it's going to strike somewhere in the southwest or south central states," Matthews called out.
"Can you pin it down any better than that, Matthews?" Mobler asked. She chewed her lower lip, made some hurried calculations.
"I'd estimate somewhere between El Paso and Dallas longitudinally and Tulsa‑Galveston latitudinally."
"Thank you, Matthews," Mobler said gratefully. This prediction was relayed dutifully across the phone. The lieutenant put a palm over the receiver, spoke to the technician hopefully. "Both Colorado Springs and Washington would like to know if you can narrow it down a little more. They'd like even a preliminary impact point prediction."
Maybe it was the excitement of the situation, but more likely it was the almost indifferent mention of those two names that spurred the specialist's abilities. After several minutes of frantic computer work, she turned and declared guardedly, "I'd say anywhere in an area up to three hundred kilometers east of Dallas. That's a general radius, sir."
Mobler reported this to the phone. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Yes, we'll notify Point Mugu also and relay what we have. They'll send it on to White Sands and Houston. Very good, sir. Yes, sir. Good‑bye."
Hanging up, the lieutenant spared a casual glance for the room. Everyone returned instantly to his or her assigned tasks, which were quite as important as what had just happened. He said nothing, simply stood thinking. Then he leaned back and stared upward, trying to see through the triple‑reinforced ceilings of the tracking station.
Somewhere up there, above the palm trees and sands devoid of tourist hotels, far above thick Hawaiian clouds, something almost surely not of this Earth was speeding past.
As soon as Point Mugu picked up the rapidly dropping object, fighters ‑near White Sands scrambled in hopes of intercepting it visually before impact. Unfortunately, that entire area of the United States was awash in winter thunderstorms. The few planes aloft had enough to do fighting buffeting winds and instrument distortions engendered by lightning. The object was never sighted.
Worse still, when it finally went tropospheric, all contact was lost. Important people in paces far from one another raged impotently at the uncooperative weather and chain‑smoked many substances whose sole point of commonality was that all were encased in paper tubes and then fired.
So it was that a tired Josiah Chester, Major, USAF, found himself standing in the office of General MacGregor, to which he had been summoned posthaste.
Chester's skin was numb from the steel lashing of the frigid Texas wind outside as he started to remove his heavy winter overcoat. The general only allowed him to finish his salute, however.
"Just stand there, Joe," MacGregor ordered him gently. "No point in removing your coat; you don't have time to warm up."
Chester moved his hands from the buttons. "I came as fast as I could, sir. The weather's brutal tonight. Something's up?"
"Something." MacGregor snorted teasingly as he reached for a bottle concealed out of sight. He poured and downed half a shot glass neat, offered the same to Chester. The major accepted and duplicated the general's efforts‑to ward off the weather, he insisted to himself.
"I should have taken that job National Avionics offered me in Washington," the general told empty air. Just as easily, he cocked a querulous eye at the standing officer and asked, "Joe, do you believe m flying saucers, UFOs, that sort of thing?"
Chester had thought himself as well prepared as possible for one summoned unexpectedly to a meeting with his base commander at nearly two in the morning during a near blizzard. So the speed with which he lost his composure was unsettling.
A host of conflicting thoughts fought for attention. The Ruskies were trying something . . . no, if that were so, he'd have been called to his plane, not the general's office. We're being invaded . . . but if that were the case, he'd hardly be alone here.
He finally decided that something very important was going on that higher‑ups wanted as few people as possible to know about. His last thought before replying was that he probably wouldn't have a chance to telephone Charlene to tell her he wouldn't be able to attend MaryEllen's ballet performance at the school today.
"No, sir, I don't, but then, I don't disbelieve, either."
"The little green men's agnostic, is that it?" essayed MacGregor. He added irritably, without giving the major a chance to comment, "Oh, for heaven's sake, at ease, Joe!" Chester relaxed as the general pushed the bottle forward on the desk.
"Like another? A cigar, maybe? Havana."
"No thank you, sir."
MacGregor sighed, folded his hands on the desk. "Why don't you believe in UFOs?"
Chester considered the answer as seriously as the question was being asked. It was a question that e
very pilot had been forced to contemplate at one time or another during his flying career.
"Not enough evidence, not enough facts to support their existence," he eventually stated.
"The saucer advocates say they have sufficient facts and evidence," countered MacGregor.
"They have yet to convince me, sir."
The general sat back, apparently satisfied. "Good. That's what I wanted to hear." He rolled his chair across the acrylic carpet protector and pulled down a wall map of Texas. Rising, he hunted around on the map for a bit, then tapped something near its middle.
"Come around here, Joe." Chester did so, fighting hard to keep a growing list of questions from overpowering him.
"Know this area?" the general inquired, tapping the map again. Chester studied the region in question.
"I've been clean across the state on Interstate 20, sir."
The finger froze. "This is a town called Cisco."
Chester shrugged apologetically. "Never been there, sir. "
"Neither have I," confessed MacGregor. "They claim to have the world's largest man‑made swimming pool there. We think they may have acquired a new attraction." He put his finger in the metal ring at the bottom of the map, pulled, and then let the plastic sheet slide shut without a snap.
Chester took it as a signal for him to return to his former position in front of the general's desk. "You've been over to the Manned Space Center?"
"Numerous times, sir," Chester admitted. "There's one thing, sir," he asked hesitantly. "May I be permitted to telephone my wife? She's expecting me home by five."
"Go ahead. No reason you can't, though of course you won't be allowed to say anything about your missionwhere you're going or how long you'll be there." At Chester's distraught look of resignation the general added, "You may tell her that you're not going out of the country this time."
Chester looked happy. "That'll satisfy her, sir. Thanks. Where am I going?"
"To Cisco and the surrounding countryside. But first you're to proceed to Houston to pick up three people at the Space Center." Exploring his desk, he located a notepad filled with scribblings. "Couple of fellows named Calumet and Tut."
"Perham 71st?" wondered Chester. MacGregor appeared mildly surprised.
"You know him?"
"Only by reputation, sir, and through a couple of articles. It's not a name you read and quickly forget. I don't know this Calumet."
"Jean Calumet," MacGregor elaborated, studying the note. "And a Sarah Goldberg."
"That's another name I know." Sometimes Chester wished the general would begin his puzzles with the border instead of loose pieces. "She and Tut are both associated with all aspects of the search for extraterrestrial life. They both worked on the directional programming for Pioneers sixteen and seventeen. I guess Calumet's in a related field of study, if not the same."
"You'll have a driver," the general continued. "All five of you will proceed from Houston to Cisco. "
MacGregor's expression turned solemn. "We have evidence," he began slowly, "unconfirmed but pretty impressive, that a small object that may be of extrasolar construction survived entry into the Earth's atmosphere earlier this morning and came down in one piece somewhere in a circular region of 120 kilometers with Cisco at its center.
"You understand," he went on, both hands twirling a pencil back and forth, "the reason for total secrecy and for informing no one of this information."
"What about local sightings?" Chester asked.
"The same rotten weather that caused us to lose this thing over New Mexico has apparently helped us, too. We've been monitoring everything from fifty‑thousand-watt radio stations down to personal CBs in the area. No one's reported seeing or hearing anything unusual.
"That might also mean that the damn thing's gone and burned up during final descent. In fact, the experts tell me that's probably what happened. " He glanced up from the pencil, and his eyes were cold. "Naturally, we can't take that chance.
"Given the suspected small size of the object, the weather, and the fact that people live pretty far apart from each other up in that part of the country, it's just possible something could have set down intact without anyone noticing it, even if it made a good‑sized bang on impact.
"You'll take an unmarked station wagon from the Space Center. It'll hold the five of you and the minimum amount of equipment the three scientists are being allowed."
"Not much room for instrumentation in the back of a wagon," Chester observed.
The general smiled. "From what I hear, this Goldberg and her friends would like about six two‑and‑a‑halfs packed with all kinds of gadgetry. Obviously we can't have the kind .of attention a convoy would attract in that area. "
"Obviously," Chester echoed.
"We want to try and hide our interest without hiding it," MacGregor explained. "Nothing seems to attract attention like people trying not to attract attention. So you and the driver will wear uniforms, and the three scientists, of course, will be in whatever they want.
"If this isn't someone's idea of a bad joke, and if the object really exists, and if it's come down in recognizable chunks, then we'll move in with larger forces."
"Does that mean I can get whatever I need if I need it?"
"Use your own judgment," the general instructed him. "Keep in mind that we want this kept as quiet as possible but that m addition to the Air Force, you're serving as representative for all the armed forces. Special units at Fort Hood have been placed on emergency standby. On your word, they can reach the Cisco area by copter inside an hour.
"Also keep in mind that I, General Hartford at Fort Hood, and a few others here and at the Space Center are in constant touch with NORAD and Washington.
"Again, there's a walloping good chance you'll find nothing but cold beef on the hoof and a lot of mud. On second thought‑" The general grinned thinly. "‑you may be spared the mud. I understand the high up that way's been well below freezing lately. Better have your woolens."
"No problem, sir," said Chester, smiling back. "I'm wearing them."
That's good, because your driver should be waiting for you outside by now."
Chester glanced involuntarily toward the closed door. When he turned back, he saw that MacGregor was standing. Coming to attention, he saluted, and the general saluted him back.
"One last thing, Joe," MacGregor declared. Chester paused with his hand on the doorknob.
"What's that, sir?"
"Probably worrying you needlessly. Kauai was the first of our stations to pick this thing up. Midway missed it, but we can't tell if that means the Russians did, too. We. haven't had any queries from them, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Given the potential of this, if it's; what we hope it is, well ~ . . . I'm not saying they'd try anything crazy, but . . . .
Chester didn't reply, merely patted his left underarm in a significant fashion. "I understand, sir. I'll brief that driver accordingly." i
"He's already been briefed," explained a grim MacGregor. "With those three scientists jabbering among themselves, we couldn't very well keep him in the dark, anyway. It'll be up to you and him to take care of the three people from NASA. They won't look beyond the end of their gauges."
"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."
"Good night, Major Chester. Tell the driver to take it easy. The roads are bad."
"I will, sir."
Chester turned, walked wordlessly through an outer office, a waiting lobby, and down a corridor, then out into the subfreezing night.
"Dad?"
"Huh‑what?"
"Dad!"
Jesse Shattuck blinked, rolled over in bed. In the moonlight filtering fitfully in through the broken clouds and the big window he saw the anxious face of his sixteen‑year‑old, David.
"What is if, boy?" Then he put up a hand for silence as his son started to reply.
The wind was a sad echo of its former might‑the storm had obviously passed, he told himself‑and the barki
ng reached him clearly from somewhere back of the henhouse. A shadow stirred on the other side of the bed and sat up. It had a small, intense, delicately aquiline fact with eyes of black opal. The hair of a woman thirty years younger cascaded in curls and ripples at its sides.
Shattuck sat motionless, listening to the frantic barking. The bedroom was warm and dark. A soft anvil-like bang sounded from the old heater. He definitely did not want to go outside.
"What are those damn‑fool dogs barking about now; J.W.?" his wife wondered in the darkness.
"I don't know, Mother," the rancher admitted as he slid his long legs out from under the quilts.. He bent over hunting for his socks. "Could be coyotes, maybe wolves. Too, it's cold enough and the pickings are thin enough for them to risk trying the henhouse again. Thought we'd cured 'em of that last winter, though." He pulled up the last sock, found his boots by the nightstand.
David rose, looked excited. "Should I get my gun, Dad?"
Shattuck nodded. "My twelve‑gauge, too."
"And mine," said the woman, scrambling out of the other side of the bed.
"Don't you think you ought to stay here, Mother?"
Awry, delightful smile crossed her face, feminine lightning. "Go‑"and she added a colorfully crass suggestion. Shattuck said nothing, merely smiled ever so slightly.
By the time David returned to look down at his tall father and his mother expectantly, they were already dressed and donning winter coats. The son passed out the armory. Husband and wife methodically checked their weapons. Four shells slid into four chambers.
Suitably attired for the cold and armed against whatever might be threatening their domain, the family started for the back of the rambling house.
The chill hit Shattuck the moment he opened the rear door. Dry, freezing air caressed his stubbled cheeks like steel wool, and his breath formed ghost patterns in the night.
Off to the south, nothing could be seen under the black clouds of the receding storm. The remainder of the night sky was clear. He regarded the nearly full moon and its tenebrous halo, a sign, perhaps, of more wetness to come.
Short Stories - Metrognome and other Stories Page 19