by Terry James
She walked past several empty tables, pulled a chair from his table, and sat down.
“Lori. What are you doing here?” he said, not knowing what else to say.
“That’s a great greeting from somebody I’ve spent my Saturday morning sleep-time tracking down,” she said with mock irritation.
“Okay, I’ll do it right. Lori! Great to see you!”
“Better, much better,” she said with a deadpan expression.
“Dad sent me to find you. He didn’t say why. What have you two got going?”
“Nothing. Just some aircraft stuff.”
“Yeah, well. Your very, very sleepy chauffeur has arrived--if you can come,” Lori said.
The morning sunlight playing upon her golden-hued hair seemed almost electric while he watched her graceful, feminine form moving a few steps in front of him toward the little TR-5. She gesticulated while she walked and talked. He heard her words but was too busy admiring her to know what she was saying. She was a welcome sight for eyes not yet ready to fully accept the day.
She swung her long, slacks-wrapped legs--athletic, yet feminine--into the sports car, and set the four cylinders rumbling with the twist of a key.
“Dad will meet us at the Taj,” Lori said when she turned right from the parking lot onto the street between the snack bar on their right and the swimming pool on the left.
“The Taj?”
“The Taj Mahal,” she said, surprised he didn’t know.
“It’s the centerpiece of Randolph. You’ve seen it. It’s the building that looks like the real Taj Mahal. It’s the big building you’ll run into when you go straight from the front gate. You probably saw it last night when I brought you on base.”
“I imagine I was too busy looking at you,” Mark said, looking at her now.
She said nothing but looked at him and laughed brightly.
Both were silent, the thought-provoking meaning of his words hanging in the air between them.
Less than four minutes later they pulled in beside the tan Chrysler belonging to Lori’s father. Lt. Col. James Morgan, in dress blues, walked toward them down the long sidewalk leading from a side door to the Taj Mahal.
“There’s Dad now,” she said, seeming to become shy as she searched for the right words.
“Mark--What are you doing tonight?” she asked.
“I haven’t given it much thought,” he lied, knowing that he needed to study the manuals.
“Want to go out, or something?” Lori said, cocking her head in a beautiful, little girl way, her eyes looking into his for the answer she wanted.
“Sure. That would be great,” he said, numbed by the surprise invitation, but exhilarated at the same time.
He started to ask what had happened to the date she already had for Saturday night, then thought himself crazy for even considering the question.
“About 1800 hours?” she said with a pleased smile.
She was a military brat, no doubt about it, he thought. Learned military time before civilian time, probably.
“Great!”
Her father bent to speak to his daughter. “Thanks for getting him, Sunshine,” he said. “Be careful going home.”
The colonel noticed the looks between the two just before Lori put the TR-5 in reverse and left the men standing beside Morgan’s big Chrysler.
“Looks like you’re feeling better this morning, sir,” Mark said, shaking the colonel’s hand.
“I would feel better dead than I did last night,” Morgan said.
“Let’s go somewhere. Gotta lot to talk about,” the colonel said, opening the door to the sedan.
Ten minutes later they sat parked near the practice tees of Randolph’s golf course. They watched the early morning golfers honing their driver and iron skills, hitting balls northward toward the base’s southernmost taxiway.
“Laura said she told you most everything going on with this sleep-walking business,” James said.
“Yes, sir. We talked about your… your episodes,” Mark said, not wanting to make an abrupt jump into the subject, but anxious to know everything.
“She tell you about my saying Clark’s name over and over, during some of the earlier episodes?” James put the question, knowing the younger man had not been told the particulars.
Mark sat mute for a moment. “She didn’t tell me that,” he said.
“I don’t remember any of it. God help me, I can’t remember a single thing that has happened during these things,” James said. “It happened again last night. Rather, early this morning,” he said.
“Did your wife know about this last incident?”
“Yeah. She recorded what I said, just like you asked her to,” James said. Mark wasn’t sure whether his tone reflected approval.
“It was probably a good idea,” James said.
He reached beneath his seat and pulled out a recorder.
“Won’t do any good to hear it, unless you understand gibberish,” Morgan said.
“But, it’s interesting, and a little scary, that it doesn’t sound like me. I mean, it doesn’t sound like my voice.”
“Laura found me staring out the French door window panes. Guess the new locks work, because otherwise, I’d probably be standing out there on the balcony, staring up as usual.”
“And you were saying something?”
“I was mumbling gibberish. That’s all I hear. I was muttering things in a voice that didn’t sound like mine,” James said, putting the recorder on the seat between them.
He pushed the “Play” button, and a deep, guttural voice spoke.
“It runs for about a minute, total, then I must have stopped. Laura led me to bed, and I woke up once I was back in the sack.”
Mark listened intently. He turned the recorder, so he could get at the controls. He rewound the reel-to-reel tape and punched “Play.”
The voice wasn’t that of the colonel. It was much deeper, and it wasn’t speaking gibberish.
“It’s in some sort of language. I’m almost sure of it. Do you speak any foreign languages?”
“No, well, except for a little war-time French and Italian, if you know what I mean?” James said with a light chuckle.
“Yes, sir,” Mark said with a smile. “But, you’ve never learned a language?”
“No.”
“It sounds familiar, but I can’t make it out,” Mark said, rewinding and replaying the tape again.
“Are any colleges nearby, nearer than Austin?”
“Yeah. We have a couple in SA, and one in San Marcos,” Morgan said.
“Then they would most likely have language departments, right?”
“Yeah, kid. That’s a good idea.”
Mark was glad to hear cheeriness in the colonel’s voice for a change.
“Why don’t you and Lori take it down to Trinity or one of those others in San Antonio?”
Morgan’s tone became less businesslike, more accommodating. “You know, Lori kind of likes you, Mark. I can see that you two get along. She knows her way around SA. Think you might be able to break away from the simulators for an hour or two next week?”
She must have mentioned him, for her father to make such speculation. The thought pleased him.
“Yes, sir. Most sessions will end by noon, I think.”
“Well, she’ll be out of school this week. Why don’t you try to find out what I’ve said on this stupid tape?” The colonel’s serious demeanor returned. “Of course, I still think it’s just nonsense.”
“You might be getting into something you’ll regret, son,” Morgan said, a bit more softly.
“Something has already involved me, colonel. I’m going to find out what it’s all about. Are you sure we want Lori in on this?”
“Just don’t let her know what the tape is about. Tell her it’s for some project or the other you’re working on for the Corps.”
“Yes, that should work,” said Mark.
Treading gently, the younger officer said, “Colonel, I
know you’re to keep quiet on the things that happened in 1947, and things that’ve happened since. Are you under some sort of official clearance, or are these things that you and they, whoever they are, have an unofficial understanding about?”
“Let’s just say they wouldn’t be pleased if they knew we were discussing these things now,” Morgan said.
“Are these UFOs part of some weapons development program, you think?” Mark asked.
“If so, what’s this dream stuff about, these mumblings, and all that?” Morgan said gruffly.
“Could be a psychological or mind control project of some kind,” Mark said.
“Could be, I guess. They’d have to lace my food, or drinks. I’ve thought about that. I’ve been very careful anytime I’m eating or drinking away from home.”
“Could it be some of the sound-wave experiments, or some sort of other new technology they’re working with?”
“Don’t know. Whatever it is, it must be happening to both of us. Maybe they’ve manipulated us into coming together like this,” Morgan said.
“What if it really is something, you know, something other than has a rational explanation?”
“You mean something from out there somewhere?” James motioned toward the sky.
“Yes, sir. What if these things are from out there?”
“They aren’t,” said the older man. “Somebody’s playing with our thoughts, but the answers can be found down here.”
“Maybe we’ll know the source once we understand what you’ve said on this tape,” Mark said.
“I doubt it. Sounds like nonsensical jabbering.”
“I don’t think so, sir. I know I’ve heard that language before,” Mark disagreed.
“Maybe in your own trances,” Morgan said with a laugh of irony-laced supposition.
Mark heard a knock on the guest quarters’ door. He glanced at his black aviator’s watch. Exactly 1800 hours, he thought, looking into the bathroom mirror and straightening the collar on his blue oxford-cloth shirt.
“How’s that for punctuality?” Lori said when he opened the door.
“Can’t fault you for punctuality,” he said, glancing at his watch.
“You and Dad get your…aircraft business…taken care of this morning?”
Her hesitating tone made him wonder if she was letting him know that she understood that she was not being let in on the true nature of the matter.
“Yeah. We took care of things,” he said.
Mark, urged to do so by its owner, drove the little TR-5 at a brisk clip along Loop 410, and headed west on the outer northern edge of the sprawling city San Antonio had become. Lori kept him changing lanes at the proper times to prepare for exchanges and off ramps as they came to them.
“I know something’s up, you know?” she said.
“What’s up?”
“Mom and Daddy have been acting really strange about Dad’s problems sleeping. Does that have anything to do with you two meeting today?”
Mark said nothing, refusing to lie to her.
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“Really, Lori. I’m not free to discuss our conversations…”
She interrupted. “There! Turn there, we’re going to turn on San Pedro.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror, the side mirrors on both sides, and then whipped the sports car into the next lane on the right.
“You’ve got to tell me. I’m their daughter. I’ve got to know!” Now there was anger in her voice.
“And, so, that’s why I was asked out on a date,” he said.
“Well, yes. I guess so.”
She brooded in silence for several seconds, then said with renewed gentleness, “I’m sorry, Mark. That’s not fair to you. It is the reason I asked you out. But, that’s not the only reason. You’re not too bad looking, you know?” She leaned closer to him, tugged at the right sleeve of his shirt, and smoothed the spot she had pinched.
“Oh, so now it’s the ‘good cop,’ instead of the ‘bad cop’ approach.”
Rather than offending her, the remark amused her. She really did like Mark Lansing, she decided, looking at the handsome profile, whose features the passing and approaching vehicle lights highlighted.
They pulled into the parking lot in front of the Zeider Zee restaurant.
“There’s one!” she said, pointing to the only open parking spot anywhere in view.
A few minutes later they were seated, had given their orders, and waited for service.
Mark looked into the blue eyes that sparked with quick wit and a deeper intelligence beyond that. Her face, already the prettiest he had seen, was emblazoned in its beauty by the shadow casting of the flame that flickered at the center of the table between them.
He was not easy to fluster, Lori thought, looking into the eyes that were obviously studying her. She imagined him in uniform, the full-dress Marine uniform. He would be the prototype for a United States Marine officer recruitment poster.
“So, you fly F-4s,” she said, not really wanting to talk about aircraft, or even military things.
“The F-4C,” he said.
“There’s a difference? Isn’t an F-4 an F-4?” she said.
“No. You see, the F-4 C is the ultimate…” he cut himself off, realizing he was being had by the teasing of someone who had grown up hearing one of the best fighter pilots in the world talk about aircraft.
She spoke after a few seconds of silence. “Look, Mark. I’ve got to know what’s going on with my father. Mother wants to tell me but won’t. Do you or do you not know anything I should know? They’re my parents. I have a right to know.”
He sipped from the wine that had been put at his fingertips moments earlier. He wiped his lips with the cloth napkin, looked down in thought.
“It’s because they don’t want even the slightest possibility of your getting hurt, Lori,” he said, knowing he had started down a trail he would not be able to get off.
“Your dad isn’t going to like this,” Mark said, knowing that she was right. Lori had every right to know it all.
Over the next few minutes, he told her everything.
“You have the tape?” Lori asked, when she had heard it all.
“Yes. It’s at my quarters at Randolph.”
“We don’t have to wait until next week to find out what Dad is saying on that tape. I know this language professor at Trinity. He’s giving a lecture tonight.”
“It is Hebrew.”
The gray-bearded, balding professor rewound the tape and pressed “play” again, then listened intently. This time, he spoke above the tape’s voice.
“Time is fleeting…time is now…the taking…the taking away…”
Dr. Hertzog Kretchner pushed the “stop” button, rewound a short amount of tape, then put his ear closer to hear better while he tried to translate.
“Here it changes to Greek,” he said, turning his face upward so the words could flow into his right ear.
“The removal of all …of all in opposition…to…the eternal…the eternal design.”
“It doesn’t sound like him at all,” Lori said. “It sounds like a ghoul.”
“It changes from Hebrew to Greek,” Kretchner said, seating himself in a chair beside the recorder.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
“It’s just that we recorded someone while he slept--you know, as a joke. He’s always talking in his sleep,” Mark lied.
“Oh? Is he Jewish?” the professor of linguistics asked, pulling his wire-rimmed glasses from his nose, then removing the handkerchief from the pocket of his tweed jacket and rubbing the thick lenses.
“I don’t think so,” Mark said.
“Well, I tell you,” the professor said in an Israeli accent, “this man speaks both languages fluently.”
Kretchner put the glasses back on his nose. “He speaks Hebrew like a scholar, and Greek like a philosopher.”
The professor paused a few seconds, then spoke again.
�
��Interesting, interesting,” Kretchner said, his brows narrowing.
“Why is that?” Lori said.
“It’s just that it’s kind of strange. The inflection, the nuance and cadence of the way it’s spoken is archaic. It’s of another age. I’m certain that the way this man is speaking went out of common usage a couple thousand years ago.”
He stood from his chair and looked at his watch.
“Well, I must be off,” Kretchner said. “They actually want me to hear this…this gorilla, or orangutan, or something. They want me to try to determine what this beast is trying to tell them.”
He rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
“Bring back the tape of this one, anytime.” He tapped the tape recorder with the tip of his right index finger. “I will enjoy doing something civilized for a change.”
Fighting traffic again on Loop 410, Mark spoke while glancing at all the mirrors at his command. “Did you tell your dad I told you all about this?”
“Not yet. I told Mom. She’ll break it to him in that special way she has with him. That will be better, believe me.”
“Yeah, well, he’ll probably come gunning for me.”
Mark whipped the TR-5 into the left lane and accelerated to pass a semi rig to the right.
“Not when Mother is through working her magic.”
“Let’s hope not,” he said, trying to find a new opening in an adjacent lane.
“Mom really likes you,” Lori said.
“And what about you? Do you like me?”
The question caught her off guard, and she looked away. She didn’t answer, and he started to press the matter. He thought better of it, and said instead, “I wonder what his ramblings mean. ‘The taking away. Time is now. The removal of all in opposition to the eternal design.’”
Again, she was silent.
“I wonder if I talk during these episodes,” he said finally, trying to fill the conversational vacuum he felt he had created.
“I wonder why you can remember you had these--whatever they are--and Daddy can’t remember his. Maybe there’s no relationship at all,” she said, as if talking to herself.
“How often do you have them?”
“Last one was about a week ago or so,” he said, finally able to scramble the small car into the moving vacancy in the lane to their right. “Probably about due for another one. I would really like to know.”