Deadly Pretty Strangers: US Edition

by Max Thorn

  I’d been expecting to find the professor living in a large red-brick pile with tall gables and steep roofs. The flying-saucer-shaped building that came into view was a surprise. It gave the impression that Raymond Pendle might’ve flown down from some distant part of the cosmos, scudding to a halt on the gently sloping clifftop.

  The landward side of his craft was lightly embedded in the soft earth. The seaward side was supported by concrete struts to keep the structure level. Two rows of tall windows looked as though they might go around the entire circumference of the building. The lower windows angled downward following the curve of the saucer shape to a dark-gray steel base. The second row of windows, above the horizontal midline of the building, faced upward, meeting the edge of the ivory-white cupola roof, finished in brilliant ceramic tiles. Half a century of sea air corrosion had caused thin orange streaks of iron to fan down the gray underside in places, and the bird excrement on the cupola made the building just a little less cosmic up close.

  A pair of gulls on the roof looked at me belligerently as I passed slowly in front of the house and turned left onto a broad apron of yellow sandstone at the building’s north side. The windows didn’t go all the way round. On the northern side of the house they stopped at a rectangular canopy large enough to shield people at the front door from rain. Below this, a walkway of dark-gray slate cut through a neatly trimmed lawn to the bright sandstone paving, like a flying saucer ramp.

  A single-story, three-car garage sat next to the main building, painted to roughly match the saucer’s color scheme. The third door was open. Inside a man in dark-blue overalls and protective goggles worked at a bench grinder, a triangular spray of sparks flying away from him. The gulls on the roof competed intermittently with the loud growl of the grinder. There was no other movement obvious within the buildings.

  Beyond the garage a ten-foot high sandstone brick wall extended around the large property and its garden, interrupted only by a pair of large wrought steel gates.

  I parked several car lengths from the garage doors, nodded to the figure in the garage, who stared grimly in reply, and strolled toward the saucer entrance.

  At the tall, steel-gray front door I pressed a palm-sized buzzer in the wall and waited for an alien housekeeper to answer.

  A minute later the door opened wide and a sturdy woman in her mid-forties greeted me with an accent that had come no further than the Baltic States. She wore short dyed-blonde hair above a hard face and black woolen clothing. Welcoming me with a perfunctory smile, she led me into a cool dark hallway which opened out into a room the size of a small assembly hall. I was to wait there while she fetched me a drink. The professor would be down soon. She left the room through a door in the internal wall, opposite the sloping windows.

  Bright light flooded in from the wall of tinted lower windows on the seaward side. Upholstered leather bench-seating followed the base of the windows from wall to wall. Black marble floor-tiling stopped precisely against a thin brass line at the walls. Three large video display screens, mounted portrait-style, dominated the internal wall opposite the windows.

  I sat down at a long polished oak table in the center of the room, on one of a dozen thickly padded upright chairs. A ceiling pod above the table held a projector with a large microphone suspended beneath. I guessed the professor delivered some of his lectures from here and maybe video-conferenced with people across the planet.

  A wide stone ramp with a handrail on the open side curved up the internal wall, above the video screens, to the floor above. Glass doors a short distance from the base of the ramp gave a view of the garden behind the house.

  The housekeeper returned with a glass of water and left wordlessly.

  I drank several large mouthfuls and then got up to explore the professor’s display objects. The nearest was a six-foot-square model of a Martian crater and surrounding plains. A small town of industrial-looking buildings was embedded in the dull red surface. Beside the town a sectioned model of a squat rocket showed accommodation for dozens of astronauts.

  Next to the Martian landscape a lower table held a large chess set of marble figures. The players had reached the middle game; some pawns and minor pieces taken on both sides. A small flat screen on the table showed the last move, made by white that morning; rook to A8.

  Four separate glass cases around the room displayed prehistoric skeletons with a museum-style label at the corner of each case. The smallest Juramaia sinensis, a Jurassic early mammal the size of a large mouse, stood next to an Archaeopteryx with wings outstretched about the length of my arm, looking inland. Next to it, an ocean dwelling Ichthyosaur the length of a man, was positioned mid-turn, eye socket the size of a dinner plate staring at the sea beyond the windows. A Neanderthal human skeleton stood last, on a short plinth that almost brought us eye to eye. He looked beyond me at the other fossil creatures, through mind-warping ages of time, all of them poised inertly, waiting to be joined by their owner.

  I’d returned to the Martian town when I heard electric motors heralding Professor Raymond Pendle’s arrival from the floor above.

  “Ahh, good morning to you,” he shouted, his voice filling the room as his wheelchair whirred down the ramp.

  He sat tall in the chair, and would’ve been an imposing figure standing. I guessed his height at around six feet and four inches. He was dressed in a soft brown shirt, unbuttoned at his sinewy neck of quilted skin. His darker brown, buttoned cardigan showed bulging pockets at the waist before disappearing under a thick blue blanket on his lap. White hair, thicker than I’d expected, was neatly cut, close above his ears but longer on top, where it was brushed back in soft waves. Thick white eyebrows shielded his gray-blue eyes. His large, straight nose ended above a deep upper lip and a wide mouth, bounded by vertical furrows from his cheekbones to his clean shaven chin. In profile, his head reminded me of the kind on antique coins; noble like a Roman emperor. But a respectable one. Not the type who’d go insane, marry his sister or idly entertain himself while his city burned.

  A placid, chocolate-brown labrador ambled unhurriedly at his side, its nose bobbing near to his hand.

  As they turned sharply at the bottom, the professor’s seat rose higher on its chassis and, coming to a halt in front of me, we shook hands at standing height, beside the Martian landscape. His loose grip felt like a handful of dry woodland sticks. The dog sat down beside him, looking at me expectantly.

  “A million people on Mars by 2050. That’s the target,” he nodded toward the model. “Humanity as a multi-planet species. First Mars, then Titan. Titan’s a moon of course, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Well that’s going to be a million very brave people.” I knelt down and rubbed the dog’s head, a friendly musky scent wafting up from the soft short fur.

  “Possibly the best of humanity.”

  The labrador stood, put its snout to my face and tried to lick me. I leaned back a little, out of reach, holding the side of the dog’s head lightly with one hand and rubbing its chest with the other. Its mouth was open in a smile, quietly panting, the tail wagging wide and fast. “You’re lovely,” I murmured to the dog. The dog offered its paw. I gently shook it.

  “His name’s Captain. Mutual affection by the look of things.” The beginnings of a smile formed on the old man’s face.

  “Is that your work now? Space travel?”

  “Muscle and bone wastage in the weightless environment are the major challenges I’m involved in. But as I’m sure you can imagine, I’m just one contributor within a vast collaborative community. And to be candid, nowadays I’m mainly a conceptual guide and mentor. Others do the intellectual heavy lifting.”

  “Is this HomEvo work?” I stood up and wiped the dog hair off my hands, onto my pants.

  “Goodness no. Some of my retired colleagues are working with me on this and from time to time we co-opt a little research and development from my old firm. But you’ll know from your visit there that HomEvo focuses on mass market opportunities. I’l
l be long gone before they think about supplying extra-terrestrial needs.” He waved a hand to the oak table encouraging me to sit down.

  I sat obediently.

  “But let’s not get distracted. What is it that brings you to my particular scientific outpost?”

  I told the professor about Aleksy’s death, the spider and its box, and Laura Wainwright’s sudden redundancy. “Strange, isn’t it? A courier delivery on the night of the death to an address nearby which is probably not on HomEvo’s customer list. The spider by the body. Laura starts asking questions and is suddenly in the Caribbean with a huge pay-off.”

  “So you think there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark?”

  “Maybe. Do you have any idea what this is about?”

  “At the moment, no. I’ve not been directly involved with the management of the company for twenty years.” The professor sat deep in thought, absent-mindedly rubbing the dog’s head.

  After a minute I broke the silence. “A year ago I was having breakfast in a restaurant. There were only four other diners there. A mother and her young son were nearby and I could hear them talking. The boy told his mother that people at his school were saying the Moon landings had been faked. He asked his mother if that was true. Guess what she said?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

  “Well that’s more or less what she did say. She didn’t know. She didn’t have an opinion.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Well, since she was unable to tell her son anything about it, I told them about the rocks that had been brought back and sent to scientists worldwide. And the laser-ranging experiment, today still bouncing a laser off reflectors put on the Moon’s surface by Apollo crews. I said the Russians would’ve exposed the Americans right away if they’d had any suggestion of fakery. I told them to look at pictures from Moon-orbiting satellites that show the lunar module stages left behind and the tracks of the astronauts’ vehicles in the surface. I tried to make them understand that the Americans didn’t just build a rocket and then claim to land on the Moon; I explained that they spent a decade and vast sums of money on the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs, perfecting the techniques and equipment that eventually led to the Moon landings.”

  “And was that enough to convince them?”

  “I don’t know. But I told them that even without all of that, ordinary human behavior shows it was real. Thousands of people were part of the Apollo program and now they’re near the end of their lives. Some of the astronauts have died of old age. If there’d been any fakery there’d be hundreds of people harboring secrets that they’d want to get off their chests. The complete absence of any revelation from that army of engineers and technicians tells me it was real. That’s for people who go on feelings rather than hard facts.”

  “Do you think they appreciated your intervention?”

  “She ordered coffee, so they weren’t completely scared off.”

  The professor laughed.

  I said, “Those landings were epic. They completely changed everyone’s view of the Earth. Just four decades later they’re dismissed by people who can’t be bothered to look past their dinner plate. I think that’s a terrible tragedy.”

  “Only if you care what those people think.”

  “Big lies need to be confronted, don’t you agree?”

  “Aha. Where is this leading?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about HomEvo a lot lately. I know that this must seem very impertinent, but I want to ask you professor; is there anything that you want to get off your chest?”

  The professor laughed. He kept laughing and only stopped when he started coughing.

  I shrugged. “I thought I might as well just ask you.”

  “Well young man, if I really did have something to get off my chest, as you put it,” he wiped his eyes with a tissue from his shirt pocket, “why exactly would I choose to tell you? Wouldn’t I prefer to tell a fellow scientist, or a clergyman, or a judge, or a close friend? And if I wanted it widely known, wouldn’t I tell a journalist perhaps?”

  “Perhaps you’d tell me if I were the only one asking the question.”

  “Don’t you think I could write it down, this thing that you imagine, for publication after my death?”

  “You might, if you could be sure your writings would be protected and published.”

  “I have friends who’d respect my wishes. But if I gave these thoughts to you, would you be ready to face an inquisition and whatever horrors it brought, just to expose an old man’s misjudgments made decades ago in a different world? Do you want that kind of burden?” His tone had changed.

  I sensed that I was entering into some kind of contract, a responsibility to be met, and that there might be a heavy price for prying. I decided I hadn’t come all that way for nothing, “I think I can do the right thing.”

  “Doing the right thing takes wisdom, courage, integrity and intelligence; a rare combination in my experience.” He paused, looking down at the dog, and seemed lost in thought. “But then sometimes one has to trust intuition.” Patting my forearm he said, “I think perhaps you should learn a little more about neuromuscular junction development.” He looked at me sternly as he spoke.

  I stifled the query on my lips. His tone told me that he knew I had almost no idea what he might be talking about. He had something else in mind.

  “First though, let’s see if you can follow instructions from someone older and wiser, without argument.” He paused collecting his thoughts. Quietly, he said, “Go to your car and fetch any outdoor clothing, along with anything personal or valuable which you don’t want to lose.” He gave me a determined look.

  I didn’t question him. I went out of the room, left the front door ajar, and walked in the bright sun to the car. The wind had dropped. The man at the grinder had gone. As I opened the car door a wave of hot air warmed my face. I collected my rucksack, boots and raincoat.

  Back in the room, I saw that the professor had driven back up to the floor above and was returning with a cardboard box on his lap. Captain followed placidly behind.

  The old man shouted from above, “Let’s continue this discussion in the garden. Such lovely weather. Have to make the most of it while we can.” He pointed a long bony arm at a sofa as he descended on the ramp. “Bring two of those sofa cushions along.”

  He shouted to his housekeeper that we would be in the garden. On reaching the glass double-doors, he opened them quickly and whirred outside along a wide slate path through the short thick grass.

  I hoisted the rucksack over my back, knotted the long unhooked laces of my boots together and hung them over my arm together with my coat, and picked up the large sofa cushions. Fully laden, I slowly made my way outside, past the densely planted late-spring flower beds and fragrant shrubs, following the professor to a point halfway down the garden, beyond a tall yew hedge which shielded us from the house. We stopped at a spot where the grass was worn to bare earth in places and the gates in the wall showed us the sea. A large oak tree gave shade to four outdoor chair frames without cushions, arranged around a low metal table.

  The professor pointed at the furniture. “Put the cushions on that chair and go back and get a couple for yourself.”

  I arranged the square cushions on one of the chairs, one for his back and one for the seat. Jogging back to the house, I met the housekeeper at the door.

  Familiar with the routine, she passed me two more cushions for another chair and went back inside.

  Returning to the garden furniture I arranged the seating.

  The professor stayed in his electric wheelchair. “My wife Elizabeth and I spent many hours in this spot. She’s been gone five years. I’m surprised I’m still here.” He was momentarily quiet. “We need to wait for Ivanna.” He said softly, “Do nothing for now.”

  Captain lay on the grass beside him, head on his paws. We looked at the sea and watched the gulls wheeling about, the oak branches keeping us safe fro
m their attention.

  Ivanna arrived with a large tray carrying coffee, iced water and cakes covered by a glass dome. She put the tray on the round table between the chairs.

  The professor nodded his appreciation. She asked if he wanted her to help him out of his motorized chair. He told her that I would do it. She looked at me briefly, as though appraising whether I could lift the old man without dropping him on his hip, nodded briefly to him and left us to our conversation.

  After she’d returned to the house, the professor picked up the cardboard box from beside his chair and whirred over to the oak tree, wheels bumping slowly over the thick roots. He took out a cylindrical speaker and a flat audio-player device, positioning them on a small table by the tree.

  Captain and I wandered over unhurriedly, flanking the old genius. I crouched beside him.

  The professor turned his head to me and put a finger to his lips, signaling me to keep quiet. He pressed the playback button and his voice came out of the speaker, didactic and clear, “I’m going to talk to you about exocytosis, the diffusion of acetylcholine into the synaptic cleft, and factors affecting the binding with nicotinic acetylcholine receptors…”

  On hearing the professor’s voice, Captain made a small suppressed “roff” without opening his mouth.

  Making the silence gesture again, the professor pulled at my jacket lapel. Initially puzzled, I realized after a moment that he wanted me to take my jacket off. I gave it to him. He felt carefully around the collar, down the lapels, the lining and sleeves. Giving it back to me, he leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Bring your coat and rucksack here.”

  I decided to indulge him. He’d seemed sensible up until now. His secretary had said he was best in the morning. I’d wondered what he was like when he wasn’t at his best. Maybe he’d peaked and was about to show me his senile side.