J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection

by J. M. Dillard

  "Harrison Blackwood," Harrison repeated, gripping the man's hand, and inclined his head toward Marge. "You're a lucky man, Howie."

  Howie and his wife beamed at each other with honest affection. "I certainly think so," Howie answered. "Are you enjoying our party?"

  "Ah, so you're the hosts. I'm having a great time, absolutely great, thanks. Even the waiters are nice— you've got a good one working for you—Tuan Martin —who's gone to get me a beer."

  "Oh, dear," Marge said. "I hope he isn't taking too long."

  "Not at all; just left, as a matter of fact."

  Howie blinked at him. "So, what's your line, Harrison? Frankly, I can't say I'm able to place the name right off the bat."

  "There's a good reason for that, Howie—we've never met. I'm an astrophysicist at the Pacific Institute. My fiancee, Charlotte Phillipson, decorated your office suites here."

  "And did a wonderful job, I must say," Marge gushed. "Doesn't it look gorgeous here tonight? These colors..."

  But Howie was still on the same track. As he loaded oysters on the half-shell onto his plate, he said, "Astrophysicist, huh? You know, we could use someone in your field."

  Harrison smiled pleasantly. "Thanks, but I'm very happy where I am now."

  "I imagine so," Marge said. "I've heard of the Pacific Institute. Very prestigious."

  "At least it was before I started working there."

  They laughed politely. Behind them, someone in a shrill female voice called, "Howie! Marge, darling!"

  Marge rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Harrison; duty calls." She and Howie turned to greet a woman who wore a tiara and looked to Harrison like the spitting image of Madame Wellington.

  He stuck the carrot into the side of his mouth like a cigar and was loading a plate for Fred when Charlotte came up; her tone was one of hushed awe. "Harrison . . ." She laid a delicate hand on his forearm. "Do you have any idea who you were just talking to?"

  "Yeah." He handed her the plate and started crunching on the carrot stick. "Howie and Marge."

  She made a frustrated clicking sound with her tongue. "You're incorrigible, you know that? That was only Howard and Margaret Bleaker, aka Mr. and Mrs. CEO of Bleaker-Williams Industries."

  He shrugged and popped the rest of the carrot into his mouth. Char's ability to be impressed by titles always amused him. Between crunches he said, "They'll always be Howie and Marge to me."

  "Harrison .. ." she moaned. "Be serious."

  Tuan reappeared, holding a frosted glass and a bottle. "Sorry it took so long, Harrison."

  "You back already? Thanks, Tuan. You're one in a

  million. All I need is the bottle." Harrison took it from him. "Charlotte Phillipson, Tuan Martin."

  Char's expression was glassy. "Charmed, I'm sure."

  "Pleased to meet you." Tuan bowed timidly and made his escape.

  Harrison took a swig of the Bud. "Char—about the Bleakers. You know I wouldn't say anything to embarrass you."

  She sighed and shook her head with affectionate disapproval. "I know that, darling. But it's not me we're talking about. Personally, I don't give a damn that you were rude to poor Fred back there, and I wouldn't give a damn if you stood on your head in the middle of the lobby right now."

  "You're beginning to sound like Rhett Butler." His lips curved in a smile. "Don't tempt me, Char."

  She continued, ignoring him. "But these people can be very important to you, if you'd ever agree to give up that ridiculous research you do and go into the private sector."

  Stunned, he said, "I like ridiculous research." All of the sudden he got the point. He had thought they had an unspoken agreement: she was free to be Char, with all of her silly social trappings, and in return, he was free to be Harrison, with all of his idiosyncracies. For the first time it occurred to him that maybe he had misunderstood . . . maybe she'd really been trying in her own way to manipulate him after all. No wonder she was so concerned about his meeting Howie and Marge—she had probably been planning on introducing him to them tonight.

  "I like rich desserts at fancy restaurants," Charlotte said a little too snottily, "but I don't make a career out of it."

  "Second thoughts about marrying a man who earns half what you do?"

  His bluntness made her back down just a little. This time her tone was gentler, conciliatory. "No, just trying to convince that man to live up to his potential."

  It was a standoff; they were glaring at each other when a different waiter approached.

  "Dr. Blackwood?"

  He turned. "I'm Harrison Blackwood."

  "Telephone, sir. If you'll follow me, please."

  "To be continued," he said to Charlotte, and shoved the beer bottle at her. "Hold this for me?"

  Her mouth pursed, but she took it with a glint of amused "I'll get you for this" in her eyes. Good old Char. Still a sport, at least.

  He followed the waiter to a private telephone set up on a table in the corner. He picked up the receiver. "This is Harrison Blackwood."

  "Doc!" In his excitement, Norton shouted so loud Harrison was forced to hold the receiver out three inches from his ear.

  "Jesus, Norton, take it easy. What's going on?"

  "I'm still at the PITS. You've got to get over here right away! Have / got something to show you!"

  Thirty minutes later Harrison stood with his hands on his hips in the doorway of Norton's office. "This

  had better be good, Norton. Char may never speak to me again, leaving in the middle of a very important party I didn't want to be at in the first place."

  Norton sat, looking haggard but animated, behind a desk draped with unfolded computer printouts. "You ever get premonitions, Harrison?" His dark eyes glittered feverishly.

  "Norton, what the hell are you talking about?"

  Norton gathered up one of the printouts and thrust it at Harrison. "Here ... Got a fresh batch of radio intercepts I think you'll be interested in perusing."

  Harrison took the proffered sheets. Nothing unusual he could see ... just the usual radio wave patterns they'd been encountering all along. He frowned and handed them back. "Norton—go get yourself some sleep. I've seen these patterns before. Several times, in fact."

  Norton grinned smugly. "No, Doc, you've seen these before." He gave Harrison a different printout. "Radio patterns collected from a point in space—the coordinates aren't important right now—off and on since we started this project." He gestured at the first printout Harrison still proffered. "Those patterns originated from a broadcast point on Earth."

  "Earth?" Harrison blinked at him, certain he'd misunderstood. "Are you sure?"

  Norton sniffed. "Of course I'm sure. That's why they pay me the big bucks."

  Harrison sank into the chair next to Norton's desk, trying to make sense of it all. "Impossible."

  "Of course it's impossible." Norton sounded exas

  perated. "That's why I yanked you from that party you didn't want to be at. Look here." He motioned for Harrison to give him the printouts; as soon as Norton had them, he spread them out, one above the other, so that both sets of wave patterns were visible. Harrison leaned closer to look at them as Norton traced a long brown finger over the repeating patterns.

  "Notice the parity." He caught Harrison's puzzled frown and said, "Don't try to figure out the contents, Harrison, just look at the patterns. That's a signal— that's a response. That's a response to the first response—"

  Harrison understood. "And that's a response to the second response. My God." He looked up at Norton's grinning face. "A communication. An honest-to-God communication!" His lips curved upward.

  "On the money. I don't know how they did it, but those radio waves were boogeying! Talk about your subspace radio—transmission and response all occurred within an afternoon's time. Either the military is up to something we don't know about, or we've got an uncomfortably close encounter here." Norton's focus shifted abruptly. "Love your tux, by the way."

  Harrison grunted. "Char bought it for
me. Right now I'm tempted to let you have it." He pulled off the bow tie and loosened the collar with a groan of relief. "Norton, let's be sure we're not just hallucinating. I want to see what the Supercomputer says about this. Book time on the Cray. Priority time if you have to."

  Norton raised both hands, palms out. "Whoa, Doc,

  slow down. You're talking megabucks here. How're we gonna justify this to the penny pinchers?"

  Harrison shrugged. "The Cray's the best computer in the world, right? So don't ask me—ask it."

  "Doc ..." Norton's tone softened. "If it's what we think it is . . . I'm not sure how I feel. Half of me is thrilled beyond belief to find something out there. But the other half-—"

  Is terrified as hell. . . "Don't say it," Harrison interrupted. "If it's what it looks like, Norton, it's a good thing you're not in the mood to sleep. I need you to pinpoint the location of this first transmission."

  "And when I do?" Norton's expression was grim.

  "Then, by God," Harrison said, "I'm going there to find out what it is."

  By morning Norton's dark eyes were bloodshot. His lids fluttered; he slumped forward in his chair, his face on the verge of making contact with the map spread across his desk. Apparently, the entire pot of coffee he'd consumed at three-thirty no longer had any effect. The compass in his right hand slipped out with a faint clatter.

  Hovering over him, Harrison—fading himself after the first rush of adrenaline wore off—grasped Norton's shoulder and gave it a firm shake.

  Norton jerked his head up, his eyes wide, and drew a brown hand over his face. "Jesus, man . . ." He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "Harrison, I gotta get outa this place and bag some z's." He squinted painfully at the brightening sky beyond the window. "What time is it?"

  "Seven-thirty," Harrison said. "Dammit, Norton, I've missed two naps myself. But we're not leaving until you give me what I want."

  Norton's lip curled. "Study your history, Doc. Slave-driver mentality never worked." But he picked up his compass and bent over the map again. Because, thought Harrison, he understands that if there's any chance of it being . . . Them, then we have so very little time.

  "There." Norton triumphantly handed the plot map of the southwestern United States to Harrison. "The location of the transmissions. Now let me pass out in peace."

  Harrison stared at it, transfixed. Norton had circled a desolate spot in the desert, close enough for Harrison to get there in the Bronco in a matter of several hours. It would probably take most of the day to get there; he'd need to pack a bag first, take a nap—but time was of the essence. Scrap the nap. He'd just have to try to stay awake somehow. Harrison staggered toward the door.

  "You're welcome!" Norton croaked, indignant. "Anytime! No problem!"

  But there was no time to respond. Harrison hurried out into the parking lot, nose buried in the map.

  "Good morning," someone said.

  He mumbled something into the map. It took him three full strides to recognize the voice; he lowered the map and turned to look behind him.

  Suzanne McCullough was staring at him with a puzzled expression. Navy pinstripe dress today. For

  crying out loud, why did the woman always look as if she were on her way to an East Coast power breakfast?

  "Have they changed the dress code at the Institute?" she asked, sounding amused; at that point he remembered he was still wearing the tuxedo.

  "Pack a bag," he told her before he realized he was going to. "We're taking a trip." She could drive while he slept. He'd just have to make sure not to let her get too close if things started to look dangerous. And who knew? Maybe this was just the thing to convince her of the project's importance.

  She blinked; her mouth dropped open a bit. "We are? Why?"

  "Won't know that till we get there," he said.

  SEVEN

  Harrison was tossing his ditty bag into the back of the old Bronco when the little Mercedes came roaring up the driveway and stopped less than a foot behind it.

  "Char." He smiled wearily and waved, then strolled over. Damn good thing she'd showed up when she did; he'd completely forgotten to let her know he was leaving town. By tonight Charlotte would have been fuming. "I'm glad you're here. I was just about to call you."

  "I can't stay long," she said in clipped tones. "I'm on my way to a client's this morning."

  Harrison leaned through the open window on the driver's side to kiss her, but she turned her head so that his lips pressed against carefully applied cheek blusher. He noticed then that the Mercedes' engine was still running.

  "Uh-oh." He withdrew a little and rested his hands

  on the car door. "Okay, Charlotte, give it to me straight. Are you mad mad, or just mad?"

  "Harrison, how could you?" Makeup done especially well today, to enhance the performance; Charlotte whispered the words with just the right mixture of coolness and hurt. No tears, though; never tears. Char was always in control.

  He didn't try to pretend that he didn't understand the question. She was too sharp for that. "I'm sorry, but it was unexpected. You know I didn't do it on purpose. We had an honest emergency at PITS—"

  "I must have called your place a hundred times since last night. You wouldn't pick up the phone."

  "An emergency, Char. Read my lips. I just got back from the Institute five minutes ago."

  She searched his face. The day's growth of beard and the circles under his eyes must have convinced her, because she tried a different tack. "You knew how important that party was to me. To us."

  Patience, Harrison warned himself, but he felt too weary to play this game now—and precious time was passing while God knew what was out there in the desert. "Honey, my work is important too. I've got to—"

  "They want you at Bleaker-Williams. Do you have any idea how much they're willing to pay you there? But the offer won't last forever."

  "I like what I'm doing," he said stonily. "And that's that." He tried to kiss her good-bye, give a hurried explanation, but she pulled away.

  "Isn't a fiancee entitled to a vote, Harrison? Won't you even discuss it?"

  "Dammit, Char—" Harrison took a deep breath and fought back his anger. In a softer tone, he replied, "We have discussed it. You know how I feel."

  "We haven't discussed it enough." She tossed her waving blond hair back carelessly. It was an attractive gesture, one Harrison decided looked just a little too practiced. "We'll talk more tonight. Over dinner. I've made reservations at Chez L'Auberge—"

  He shook his head firmly. "Can't do it. I have to go out of town."

  She reacted angrily to that, and opened her mouth to argue, but he spoke quickly, forcefully, in a seriously determined tone he had never used with her before. "Just overnight. It's business. Char, I promise, I'll make it up to you when I get back. Goddamm it, it is an emergency and I don't have time to discuss it now."

  He tried again to kiss her, but she pulled too far away; firmly, he took hold of her shoulders and brought her close enough to give her a light peck on the cheek.

  "Try to understand," he said, then dashed back to the Bronco.

  The Mercedes' tires squealed as Charlotte pulled out of the driveway, but Harrison forced himself not to look back.

  A horn blared outside in the driveway.

  Peering through the white sheers in the bedroom window, Mrs. Pennyworth said, "That would be your ride now."

  "Are you sure you know where everything is?" Suzanne tucked a change of clothes into the hanging bag flung across her bed.

  "I know," the older woman answered firmly. "And what I don't know, Deborah can show me."

  Suzanne felt a twinge of guilt at that. Poor Deb . . . tonight when she came home, she'd find her mother gone, and a stranger waiting for her in this new, unfamiliar house. Thank God the stranger was this competent, pleasant-faced grandmother and not some seventeen-year-old kid. "I'm so sorry to do this on such short notice, Mrs. Pennyworth."

  "Not one more time may you apologize for that,"
Mrs. Pennyworth scolded in her faint Dutch accent. "I live only two houses away. It could not be more convenient. And how grateful I am Deborah is an eleven-year-old girl and not some screaming two-year-old!"

  Suzanne smiled weakly at her; a tall, strong-looking woman, Mrs. Pennyworth was near seventy, hair pulled back into a tight bun, but there were still a few golden brown strands mixed in among the silver. Suzanne had gotten her name from a list Dr. Jacobi had sent to her in Ohio; the list had also included a pediatrician, a dentist, and the name of the realtor Suzanne had purchased the house from.

  "Ah." Mrs. Pennyworth looked out again at the driveway. "I see you work for Harrison Blackwood." She gave a knowing nod. "Now the short notice is understandable."

  "You know Harrison?" Surprised, Suzanne glanced

  up from her packing. "Did you use to work for the Institute?" In a secretarial or assistant capacity, she'd meant.

  "Yes. I see Ephram told you nothing about me." Amused, the older woman turned her face from the window. "He is much like Harrison, always wanting to keep information to himself, making people guess things. I was director there of the Physics Department until I retired three years ago. My husband, William, also worked as a zoologist there before passing away."

  "My goodness ... I should be calling you Doctor Pennyworth, then."

  "No, then I was Dr. Templaar. I used my maiden name for my work. Now that I am just an old baby-sitter, I think Mrs. Pennyworth is better. Or just Gerda for the parents."

  The horn beeped again; Suzanne would have sworn at him under her breath if Mrs. Pennyworth hadn't been there. She zipped up the bag and threw it over her shoulder. "I'll at least try to call you with my location and a phone number as soon as"—good Lord, this was all so absurd—"as soon as I get to wherever it is I'm going."

  "I know you will," Mrs. Pennyworth soothed. "Try not to let Harrison upset you too much. He enjoys surprising people."

  This is one surprise I can do without. "Good-bye, Mrs. Pennyworth . . . Gerda . . . and thank you so much again."