"You okay?" Harrison crouched down, holding on to the armrest of the sofa.
"Sure." Forrester coughed, then turned his head to
stare innocently at him with soft brown eyes. "Just forgot to take my pill, that's all." He paused. "Out with Charlotte again tonight?"
"Yeah," Harrison lied. Clayton despised Charlotte, but it was as good an excuse as any. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."
"Fine," Clayton answered with total sincerity, despite the evidence to the contrary. "So you and she are still planning on getting married?"
"Well. . . yes . . . actually, we're having a little disagreement right now." Normally, Harrison would never have mentioned it, since it only gave Clayton more ammunition for his anti-Charlotte campaign— but Forrester might accept it as an explanation for Harrison's agitated mood. "It's work related."
Clayton nodded. "Let me guess. She wants you to get a higher-paying job. Go where the money is." He lowered his hand from his chest; the color seemed to come back to his face. Harrison relaxed a little.
"Speaking of work . . . Ephram finally got me that microbiologist. Remember the one we talked about?"
Clayton did. "Sylvia's cousin?"
"Second cousin," Harrison corrected him.
"Does she look anything like her?"
Harrison shrugged. If there was any resemblance other than the fact that both were brunettes, he'd missed it, but to please Clayton, he replied, "A little."
"Married?" Clayton asked innocently.
"Divorced." Harrison's lips thinned. "Not that it's any of your damn business."
Clayton smiled faintly. "I'm sure it's not. But I'll
bet she has more in common with you than Charlotte Phillipson does."
Harrison shook his head. "I'm afraid our theory backfired. She's not as interested in working against the aliens as we thought. Instead of wanting to deal with the reality of what happened, she's running away from it."
"So she's refused the job?" Clayton seemed disappointed.
"Not yet. She's at least willing to listen, to look at some tissue samples, though—" Harrison broke off He had almost said, though after what happened today, I'm not sure she'll stay . . .
"Harrison," Clayton said softly. His voice was suddenly stronger, his eyes lit up by a spark of his former brilliance. "Something happened today, something you're not telling me. I may be a forgetful old man, but I'm not that stupid. I can tell when you're upset. You should see your face."
Harrison rose and stared down at the worn carpet covering the terrazzo floor. "It's nothing, really. Like I said, I had a light with Char."
Clayton shook his head gently. "It has nothing to do with Charlotte, I'm afraid. I've seen you after fights with girlfriends, Harrison. No, this is something far worse."
Harrison looked back up and cursed himself for being so transparent; he tried to think of a better excuse, something Clayton might believe, but his mind was a blank.
"When you first came in," Clayton said slowly, "your expression—God, I'm not sure I have the words to describe it." He hesitated, thinking. "Haunted, maybe. I haven't seen that look on your face in a very long time."
Harrison stared at him. My God, the old man knew . . .
Forrester's eyes were still focused on Harrison, but he seemed to see beyond him, at something, someone else in the distant past. "I think the last time I saw that expression on your face, you were six years old. When I woke up and saw you, for a minute, I was back in 'fifty-three . . ."
"You're right ... I think the aliens are back." Harrison nodded, amazed. "How did you know?"
Forrester managed a slight smile. "I didn't—until just now." He patted his chest. "You didn't tell me because you were worried the shock would kill me. But I've already had my scare, son, and I'm all right now. Why don't you tell me about it?"
Harrison sank down on the couch next to him and leaned forward to cover his eyes with his hands. "Norton picked up a transmission," he began wearily. "It was directed toward a point in the constellation Taurus. It originated from the Jericho Valley disposal site—"
"Jericho Valley," Clayton echoed. "I remember. One of the first storage areas. Everyone who worked with the project was furious about it because it was only hours away from the Institute itself, not to mention the most populated areas of the West Coast."
"Six barrels are empty, and the rest—hundreds— are missing." He glanced unhappily at Forrester. "I saw it with my own eyes. The military already knows about it because all the soldiers on the base were killed. They're trying to blame it on terrorists, of course." He leaned forward again to rest his head in his hands. "I don't know what to do, Clayton. I don't know what to do. I'm so scared, I can't think—"
The news had the completely opposite effect that Harrison expected; instead of becoming agitated, Forrester seemed to grow stronger, calmer, younger. "Six barrels," he said, his voice soothingly rational. "We're very, very lucky. They have no weapons, no shelter, no ships . . . and without those, the odds are greatly in our favor. This time we can stop them even if for some reason the bacteria doesn't."
"God, I hope so," Harrison whispered. "Because Norton's the only one I can count on. I'm not even sure Suzanne, the microbiologist, will believe me."
Clayton's tone was firm as he reached out to rest a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Harrison, sometimes I think I did you a disservice raising you as I did, exposing you to all of this. You feel the fate of the world rests solely on your shoulders. But this isn't something you and Norton can solve by yourselves. You've got to get help—"
"Where?"
"The government."
"The government?" Harrison straightened abruptly; Clayton pulled his hand away. "I can't believe you, of all people, are telling me this. After what they did to you, you expect me to trust them?"
"There's no reason to make this a personal vendetta," Clayton answered coolly. "They didn't single me out—and what they did affected the entire world. We're talking right now about the fate of every man, woman, and child on this planet. You can't afford to let what happened in the past stop you from getting every shred of help you can—because if you don't, you put all our lives in jeopardy. Who knows? Maybe now the government is willing to try to correct what it did."
"I can't trust them," Harrison said.
"I didn't say you should." Forrester sighed. "You can take advantage of their help without trusting them. There are some names of Pentagon contacts in the files—I can't remember them off the top of my head anymore. You might want to see if any of them are still alive. If not, maybe Jacobi can help you get in touch with the right people."
"All right," Harrison agreed grudgingly.
"And do what you can to convince that microbiologist," Clayton added, his face alert, responsive. "Getting a thorough analysis on paper is critical if you're going to get the government to believe you. You're going to need all the help you can get."
"I'll try," Harrison said with a sinking feeling, "but I don't think it's going to be easy."
TWELVE
Suzanne leaned over the ancient IBM Selectric in her office, squinting at the line typed on white bond paper:
Doctor Blackwood: I am hereby tendering my resignation.
There was definitely more she wanted to say, but she was so angry, so exhausted, so confused that she couldn't sort it all out. Certainly she hadn't been able to get to sleep after arriving home at eleven-thirty. She'd tossed and turned, too furious to relax and then, finally, left Debi and Mrs. Pennyworth to slumber peacefully while she went to the Institute to type up her resignation letter. Now it was one-thirty, and Suzanne had it all planned: she'd leave it on his desk tonight and never have to see the man again. She felt sorry for him in a way, sure, but that didn't alter the fact that he was suffering from paranoid delusions and utterly impossible to work for. She'd be filling in Jacobi too; a prestigious place like the Institute didn't need a nut like Harrison Blackwood giving it a bad name.
She reread the se
ntence for the thousandth time. Oh, the hell with it! She yanked the paper from the carriage, signed and dated it, folded it, and slipped it inside the envelope already addressed: "Dr. Harrison Blackwood." If he wanted an explanation, he could just ask poor old Jacobi, who would get an earful from her tomorrow. She glanced at her watch and groaned. Today, that is. Maybe she'd be able to talk Dr. Jacobi into a transfer; but if not, she promised herself grimly, then, by God, she'd quit and she and Debi would be on the next plane back to Canton.
The thought caused tears to sting her eyes. She had wanted to come someplace totally new and different, someplace where she could start a new life, where there was nothing to remind her and Debi of Derek and all the pain he'd caused.
So much for that bright idea . . . Feeling very tired and very defeated, she laid her head down on the desk and prepared for a good cry.
The door opened suddenly. Startled, she jerked her head up and saw Blackwood, uncombed, unshaven, with dark shadows under his eyes. Apparently, he'd come straight here without stopping home; he hadn't even changed his clothes.
"I saw the light under your door," he said quietly. His mood was still as somber as it had been on the drive home, but at least now he was capable of rational speech. "Didn't mean to disturb you. I'm sorry."
"I'm not," she snapped, no longer caring if he saw just how angry she was. "I'm leaving." She licked the flap on the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to him.
He took it gingerly, holding it by the corner with two fingers as if it were something obscene. "What the hell is this?" But he was frowning as if he had already guessed.
She pressed her palms flat against the desktop and pushed herself into a standing position. "My resignation, Dr. Blackwood. I'm quitting."
Harrison winced as if she had slapped him. "You can't quit now." He slipped the envelope into his shirt pocket and stepped closer to the desk. "There's something I have to try out on you first."
She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "There's more?" You're not satisfied with having dragged me off to the middle of nowhere chasing after God knows what? Or with having me drive all night—seven hours without a stop, without you uttering a single word?" By now she was shouting at him. "What more could you possibly try out on me?!"
"I'm sorry—" he began, but she waved him silent, leaning forward over the desk to vent her anger on him full force. "I worked hard, Blackwood, damned hard to get where I am. Being mistreated was never part of the job description." She walked around the
"Suzanne, please . .." His tone was conciliatory. "I need your help now more than ever. What would you say if I told you I could prove the aliens have come back?"
She considered this for a moment, then looked him in the eye and said, "Read my letter."
Anger darkened his features. "I'm serious, dammit!"
"All right, then," she replied with heated sarcasm. "First get a psychiatrist. Then read my letter."
He tried again to launch into an explanation; again, she refused to let him. "Harrison—" She hesitated, seeking the right words. They didn't come, so she blurted it straight out—still angrily, but without the nasty edge to her voice. "I'm sorry you lost your parents, Harrison. I'm sorry Norton lost his family. But you two are feeding each other's paranoia, trying to get revenge for something you simply can't. And you were looking to make it a trio. But I can't pretend, I can't play along!"
Whatever hurt flickered in his eyes vanished quickly, replaced by resignation. "Okay, Dr. McCullough. You seem to think I'm irrational. I'd like to show that you're the one who's not thinking clearly. Let's do this logically then, like scientists."
She raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I can't wait to hear this one."
"No, really," Harrison persisted. "Logically, there are two types of mistakes one can commit when making assumptions. One kind of mistake is to assume that something is true when, in fact, it is false. This is not a particularly serious error. For example, if I assume the aliens have come back, but they haven't really, what harm is there in that?"
"Just an enormous waste of time and effort and money," she said coldly. She already saw what he was getting at, and was frustrated that she did not have a rebuttal for him.
"All right." He spread his hands. "I'll grant you that. An enormous waste of time and effort and money. But what about the more serious type of logical error—to assume that something is false when, in fact, it's true? If we assume the aliens haven't returned when they actually have, we lose far more than just time and effort and money. We lose an entire world."
She stared at him without answering.
"All right, Suzanne." He raised his hands in an infinitely weary gesture of surrender. "I can see that no matter what I say, you're not going to listen. I give up. I've upset you; I was thoughtless; I was wrong. But there's no need for you to quit the Institute. Let me talk to Ephram. I'm sure we can get you transferred to another department."
"Well ... all right." She blinked at him, surprise replacing anger. She had not expected this calmly reasoned response after the incident at the army installation.
"And I promise," he continued, regarding her soberly, "to make an appointment with the resident
psychiatrist today. Now"—in the same soothing tone —"could I please just show you that proof I was talking about? It's in my office."
She wavered for an instant. An alarming thought popped into her head: He's crazy ... he's dangerous . . . if he gets you alone in his office he might. . .
He might what? Good grief, she scolded herself, he's not going to do anything there that he wouldn 't do here, in your office.
"I'll give you two minutes," she told him firmly. "And then I'm going home to get some sleep."
He seemed relieved. "Fair enough." Reluctantly, she followed him down the hallway back to his office. Inside, his desk and the two chairs next to it were covered with dusty cardboard boxes stuffed full of yellowed file folders. The room was filled with an unpleasantly moldy, musty smell. He bent down and transferred the boxes from the chairs to the floor and motioned for her to sit. She did so warily.
He sat behind the desk, resting a hand on the side of one of the boxes. "Permission to give a little background first," he said, eyeing her askance.
"Go ahead."
Harrison ran his fingers through his light brown curls and turned his face to stare at the dark window-pane. A muscle in his lean jaw twitched as he spoke. "My parents were killed when the alien invasion was only three days old. They were colleagues of Dr. Clayton Forrester. In fact, this was my father's office." Which explained the ancient nameplate on the door. Harrison turned to glance affectionately at his surroundings, then patted the cardboard under his hand. "Clayton Forrester was practically my second father anyway; after my folks died, he raised me. I grew up smothered in this research, listening to Clayton's theories . . . seeing how broken he was when nobody took him seriously. He said that if the aliens invaded once, they could do it again. No one wanted to hear that."
"But the bacteria—" she interrupted.
Harrison smiled hollowly at her. "Ah, yes, the famous bacteria. Clayton led a team of scientists whose intent was to do exhaustive research on the aliens, learn everything possible about them. The microbiologist and zoologist working with him both noted that the alien remains—even the tissue samples —didn't show any decomposition. They suggested that perhaps the aliens weren't dead—at least, not death as we know it. Forrester released their preliminary report to the government. It begged for more funding so that an adequate investigation of this phenomenon could be conducted." He pulled a thick document out from under a box and handed it to her.
She took it somewhat skeptically and glanced through it. It seemed to be what he said it was.
"The government's response to this report?" Harrison asked, his voice full of irony. "They didn't like what Forrester and his people were saying. Instead of expanding the research, the government cut Forrester off, then confiscated all alien remains and sealed them in steel drums. Out o
f sight, out of mind. What you've heard—the party line that we know everything there is to know about the aliens—is an outright lie, Suzanne. You wouldn't be repeating any research that's already been done; after all these years, we know virtually nothing about them." He leaned forward with such urgency that Suzanne, still scanning the report, jumped a little. "But you saw those barrels at the Jericho Valley site."
"Yes, I saw them," she said gently. "That's where my charge of paranoia comes in. I admit, the government was wrong to ignore Forrester, and maybe you have some reason to be a little paranoid after all. But as far as Jericho Valley's concerned, it seems clear to me that terrorists removed those barrels for their own purposes. To think that aliens popped out of them . . . well, I admit, the barrels were old and rusty—they even had 1953 stamped on them. But that doesn't mean they're the barrels that contained alien remains."
His ice-blue eyes shone with such fierce intensity that she thought, He is mad ... at least a little. "Can you remember what was stamped on those barrels? It's important, Suzanne. Can you remember?"
She closed her eyes. She had an excellent memory for visual detail, and as the image of the monitor close-up of the rusty, overturned barrel coalesced before her, she read aloud: "classified: 1951-1953. That's all."
She opened her eyes to find him grinning hugely at her. "Very impressive, Dr. McCullough. You've just made proof very easy."
"I'm waiting. It's already been two minutes." But
her tone was kinder; maybe he was a little nutty, but he was somewhat justified in it.
Harrison jumped up and riffled through one of the cardboard boxes on the desk, found what he wanted, and presented it triumphantly to her. She took it from him and squinted at it.
"This," he said emphatically, "is what the barrels looked like when they were new. Clayton tried his best to document for history's sake what the government did with the remains. Most of those records were destroyed by the government. . . but this picture remains."
J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection Page 13