I couldn't understand what he was talking about. I mean, after all, the problem was that these two crazies had messed up years of work, and here he was acting like they had done him a favor.
"Did they give any indication of how I can contact them?" he said at last.
"They're in jail," I said. "If you really want to see them, why not just go down to the station?"
"No jail can hold them . . . unless they want to be held," he said, saying the latter half of the sentence while staring off into space again. "No," he said, coming back to earth again. "They'd give themselves more than one opportunity. Think hard, Miss Tabakow: did they say anything else?"
And then I remembered. "Well, they did say you could get in touch with them through someone called Jamie Hamilton at the United Broadcasting Corporation."
"Well, don't just stand there!" he said, the faraway look gone from his eyes again. "Get this Hamilton person on the phone at once!"
"If you wish," I said. "But I can't imagine why you are so interested in a couple of hoodlums."
He gave me the strangest smile.
"These hoodlums, as you call them," he said, enunciating each word carefully, as if measuring its length, breadth and weight, "may be as important to mankind as the coming of the Messiah."
So I made the call for him, and went to the ladies' room to straighten up a bit, and when I came back he was gone.
So now I'm wondering: what's the good of job security when your boss goes off the deep end?
7
DISTRICT POLICE BLOTTER:
Name: Troy (Last name unknown)
Height: 6 feet, 4 inches
Weight: 194
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Distinguishing features: No fingerprints!
Offense: Breaking and entering, vandalism, assaulting two security men, causing structural damage to Pacific Institute of Technology.
Name: Dillon (Last name unknown)
Height: 6 feet, 3 inches
Weight: 202
Hair: Brown (light)
Eyes: Brown
Distinguishing features: No fingerprints! Scar on upper left arm of unknown origin; seems neither surgical, nor caused by any weapon on record. (Subject mentioned something about a "Sylon" or "Cylon" attack, but would say nothing further.)
Offense: Breaking and entering, vandalism, assaulting two security men, possibly causing structural damage to Pacific Institute of Technology.
Bail for Troy Doe and Dillon Doe: None, until accurate identification has been achieved.
8
RECONSTRUCTED FROM
JAMIE HAMILTON'S NOTES:
Jamie showed up, flustered and breathless, and was led to the outer office of Dana Anderson, the West Coast News Director of the United Broadcasting Corporation.
It was an impressive anteroom, the walls covered by numerous plaques and certificates, awards for news-gathering excellence. Interspersed with these were photos of Anderson shaking hands with Presidents Carter, Nixon, Ford, Johnson and Kennedy; Governors Reagan, Brown the Elder, and Brown the Younger; and a host of Senators and Representatives. All were autographed, usually with a personal and friendly inscription. There was even a shot of a very dishevelled Anderson interviewing Don Drysdale after he had pitched fifty-four consecutive scoreless innings for the Los Angeles Dodgers.
She was properly impressed.
A young, well-built, but somehow prissy-looking woman came out of Anderson's private office.
"Miss Hamilton?" she said.
"Ms. Hamilton," corrected Jamie.
"Whatever," said the woman, slightly irritated. "I am Mr. Anderson's personal secretary. You are almost two hours late for your appointment."
"I know," said Jamie. "I had a flat tire, and got caught in a jam behind an accident on the expressway, and . . ."
"I didn't ask you why you were late," said the woman. "I merely pointed it out. To be quite blunt, Ms. Hamilton, there are several people competing for the on-camera reporting job. "
"I'm sure there are," said Jamie with more confidence than she felt, "but I intend to get it."
"We'll see," said the secretary primly. The phone rang and she picked up the receiver. "Yes," she said, staring curiously at Jamie. "She is. Who may I say is calling? We don't ordinarily take personal calls for nonemployees here. Who?" Her glasses, balanced precariously on her upturned nose, almost fell off.
She handed the phone over to Jamie. "It's Mortinson. The man from the Pacific Institute. Why does he want to speak to you?"
"Hello?" said Jamie hesitantly.
"Miss Hamilton? This is Alfred Mortinson."
"Yes?"
"It is most urgent that I know more about those two friends of yours who came to my lab."
"Friends? I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please," said Mortinson. "There's no time for coyness. I assure you I am sympathetic to your cause."
"My cause?" repeated Jamie. "I'm afraid I don't under—" She broke off as her eyes fell on a television set and she saw news films of the police leading Troy and Dillon into custody.
"Oh, my God!" she said. "Doctor, I assure you, I had no idea that they were going to cause trouble."
"You don't understand," said Mortinson. "I'm grateful for their visit. In fact, I was hoping that you might be one of them."
"One of them?" asked Jamie. "One of whom?"
"They left your name as a point of contact. I had hoped to learn more from you before confronting them at the police station. Believe me, I bear them no malice. Quite the contrary."
"I'd like to tell you about them, Doctor Mortinson, but I don't think what I know would be worth your while. They were very strange young men. Highly articulate and mannered, but they didn't even know how to use a telephone. If you want my opinion, they're just a couple of deeply weird characters."
As she was speaking, Dana Anderson, tall, graying, his eyes flashing, entered the room and pulled his secretary aside. "Doctor Mortinson?" he whispered. She nodded. "The Doctor Mortinson? What the hell is he calling us for? He hates the press."
"He's not calling us," came the answer. "He's calling her."
"Who is she?"
"An applicant for the reporting job. She was two hours late."
Anderson quickly crossed the room, put his hand over the receiver, and whispered to Jamie: "See if you can meet him."
"But it's not what he thinks," protested Jamie.
"You want a crack at that job?" hissed Anderson. "Tell him you'll meet him."
As Jamie arranged an appointment with Mortinson, Anderson picked up another phone, pressed an in-house button, and began arranging for a mobile unit, a top cameraman, and a mini-mike.
Jamie hung up at last and turned to Anderson. "Well, I did what you said, not that it'll do much good."
"You just do the interviewing," said Anderson. "I'll decide what good it is."
"Does this mean I've got the job, Mr. Anderson?"
"You get us an interview with Mortinson and you're on salary the second he starts talking," said Anderson. "Where are you meeting him?"
"Outside police headquarters," said Jamie. "But really, sir, I'm doing this under false pretenses. I don't have the slightest idea who those two guys were."
"Guys?" said Anderson. "What guys? Oh, hell, never mind, it doesn't matter. All that counts is that we've finally found someone Mortinson will speak to. Honey, you pull this off and I promise I'll sign you to a thirty-six-month contract. Fair enough?"
"You bet," said Jamie, looking forward to a routine question-and-answer session with the mysterious Doctor Mortinson.
It may have been under false pretenses, but there sure couldn't be any easier way to get a job.
9
TRANSCRIPTION FROM
COMMANDER ADAMA'S CONFERENCE ROOM:
XAVIAR: Adama, your grandson was to have reported in long ago. We've heard from all the other teams.
ADAMA: Be patient, Xaviar. Anything could have happened.<
br />
XAVIAR: Exactly. The folly of this plan is that it is so desperately dangerous. Doctor Zee must have become unbalanced to have conceived it.
ADAMA: Keeping Earth hidden from our enemies is not only in Earth's best interests, but our own as well.
XAVIAR: I'm not debating that. But we have better ways.
ADAMA: Such as?
XAVIAR: Such as a tool we have sought for generations and now possess, thanks to our young genius.
ADAMA: You're referring to the Time Warp Synthesizer?
XAVIAR: I am.
ADAMA: I cannot agree with you. The concept of time travel is dangerous at best, and possibly suicidal.
XAVIAR: But Adama, what could be more vital to Earth's survival than to speed up her civilization?
ADAMA: How? By going back into her past and introducing scientific advances and knowledge centuries ahead of its time?
XAVIAR: Think of where they could be now!
ADAMA: I am thinking about it. I'm also thinking about the Snowball Effect.
XAVIAR: Snowball Effect? What is that?
ADAMA: It's inherent in Doctor Zee's equations. It states that changing a single incident in Time will have a cumulative effect on the present. For instance, you go back into Earth's prehistory and inadvertently step on a beetle. Just something as seemingly harmless as that. Except that a bird that would have eaten the beetle now flies elsewhere for food, and a carnivore that would have eaten the bird now eats a prehistoric man instead, and that man does not live to invent the wheel, and the whole of human history is changed.
XAVIAR: Preposterous!
ADAMA: Hypothetical, yes. Preposterous, hardly.
XAVIAR: Let me find out the truth. I'll take an expedition into Earth's past. We'll introduce electronics, atomics, fission and fusion, space flight . . . Let me at least put it to the council for a vote.
ADAMA: I cannot stop you from seeking the approval of the council, but you will not achieve it. They will not overrule Doctor Zee. He has never been wrong.
XAVIAR: The situation has never been this critical. And while he may be a mental mutant, he is still a beardless child! This has unbalanced him!
ADAMA: Well, let us say that the situation has unbalanced someone.
XAVIAR: Side with me, Adama. I could be a great leader. I can deliver us a planet capable of saving us now . . . not at some nebulous date centuries hence.
ADAMA: The concept is appealing. I must admit that. But I cannot vote against Doctor Zee.
XAVIAR: He's a freak! We're men! If you side with me, the council will listen.
ADAMA: I can't. Just consider the implications of introducing so much as a single change in the past. Kill a single man or woman who would otherwise have lived, and you will simultaneously be killing millions of their descendants.
XAVIAR: You and your Snowball Effect! How do we know it really works like that? Maybe history isn't really changed; maybe it all comes out the very same. Take the chance of birth: whether your parents decide to journey from one place to another or not only dictates the environment in which you are born. The fact remains that you are indeed born, you live, and you die.
ADAMA: And think of all the lives that would have been saved had, for example, Baltar had been raised in a different environment. Or take my own grandson, Boxey—excuse me, Troy. Had we not found him and his mother, he would not have saved the Galactica from the last Cylon attack, and then you would not be sitting here arguing with me. And yet he would have been born, he would have lived, and someday he will die.
XAVIAR: Even if you're right—and I'm not saying it for a second—you've still got a value judgment to make. If things remain as they are, the Cylons will sooner or later become aware of Earth's existence and totally destroy the planet and its entire population. However, if I were to introduce the marvels of science to primitive Earth, even at the cost of Earth's given history, at least they will have a chance for survival. They may not be the same men who live now, but at least they'll be human beings, men like us, and we'll be helping them to survive.
ADAMA: I don't deny that you're making very persuasive arguments. We have probably brought the Cylons too close. Earth stands in imminent risk of detection. But yet . . .
XAVIAR: But yet you won't oppose a mutant child who is a man only by the broadest of definitions. Is that it?
ADAMA: When all is said and done, that's it: I cannot oppose a man who has never been wrong.
XAVIAR: Well, I'm putting my case before the council. Recall Troy and Dillon and the others.
ADAMA: That would entail breaking radio silence.
XAVIAR: Don't give me that, Adama. We have half a hundred channels that are beyond the perception of any instruments the Earthmen have. It's beneath you to stall this way.
ADAMA: You insist on a vote of the council?
XAVIAR: It is my right.
ADAMA: Then I will recall my grandson.
10
RECONSTRUCTED FROM POLICE REPORT,
PLUS THE STATEMENTS OF JAMES WILLIAM CAVIN,
ALIAS "JIMMY THE LUSH":
The phone rang, and Sergeant Michael Lalor reached across his desk and picked it up.
"Lalor here . . . Yes, we've got them in the holding tank . . . Doctor who? . . . Well, just tell him there's no bail on these two . . . Don't worry, we'll keep tabs on them."
He hung up the phone and walked over to the cell where Troy and Dillon had been thrown in with a chronic alcoholic named Jimmy the Lush, who had taken up permanent weekend residence at the jail.
"Well, gentlemen," said Lalor, "it seems like some big shots are getting interested in you. Doctor Mortinson even tried to make bail for you, but it's no dice till we get a line on who you really are."
He walked back to his desk.
"What are big shots?" Troy mused.
"I don't know," answered his companion. "I don't even know what making bail is, but I suspect it's a legal maneuver to let us out of jail and the police aren't allowing it until they identify us."
"I hope that's not the case," said Troy. "Our invisibility fields won't protect the Vipers or the bikes more than another couple of hours, and the one I've got around our weapons and computers will be giving way any minute now." He patted an invisible package on his belt meaningfully.
"Hey," said Jimmy the Lush, who was sitting on the floor in the corner of the cell, "either of you two guys got a stogie?"
"A what?" asked Dillon.
"A stogie, a cigar," mumbled Jimmy. "Or maybe a little Dago Red. I'm partial to Dago Red."
"He's partial to anything that pours," said Lalor, who had heard Jimmy's last remark.
"I'm sorry," said Troy, "but we don't have any liquid refreshment or stimulant with us."
"Oh, that's pretty, the way you talk," said Jimmy, enthused. "I love the sound of the language."
"Especially your own," yelled Lalor from across the room.
"Make fun of an old man if you want, but I used to have a collection of poetry that would make your head spin," said Jimmy. "Frost, Yeats, Whitman, Benet, I knew all of them by heart."
"Sure you did, pal," laughed Lalor. "Where's your collection now?"
"Sold it," said Jimmy.
"Why?"
"Anaconda Copper," said Jimmy. "Bought it on margin at 80, and they made a margin call at 12½. I lost everything."
"Sounds convincing," laughed Lalor. "Except that Anaconda went through the floor in 1929, and you were born in 1930."
"Well, somebody went broke on Anaconda," said Jimmy.
"Yeah, poet, but it wasn't you," said Lalor.
"But it might have been," said Jimmy, cackling. "You got to admit it makes a good story. Actually, I blew it all on the Giants in the 1951 pennant race."
"They won in 1951," said Lalor. "Bobby Thompson's home run."
"No respect," said Jimmy to Troy and Dillon. "No sympathy. Actually, I didn't never blow my wad at all. I've still got millions of dollars hid away."
"That's nice," said Troy distra
ctedly.
"And it's all yours if you can get me just a little sip of vino."
"This guy's so far out of his mind that he probably won't notice if we turn our personal light deflection fields on," whispered Troy.
"Yeah," said Dillon. "But what about the police officer?"
"Sooner or later he's got to leave the room," said Troy. "We'll do it then. Even if our friend Jimmy here tells them what happened, no one will believe him."
Dillon nodded. They ignored Jimmy as best they could, and a few moments later, when Sergeant Lalor was called away from his desk, they activated their invisibility screens.
"What the hell is going on here!" screamed Lalor when he re-entered the room a minute later. "Where did those guys go?"
"Maybe it was the Packers," said Jimmy to no one in particular. "I lost my bundle betting on the Packers in the first Super Bowl."
Lalor flung open the door to the cell, stepped inside as if to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, then slammed it shut behind him—and behind Troy and Dillon as well.
"But if I still had my millions," said Jimmy, "I'd bet every last penny of them that those two guys never left my cell."
11
RECONSTRUCTED FROM NOTES AND
RECOLLECTIONS OF JAMIE HAMILTON:
"Now, this mike will pick up everything you and the Doctor discuss about his connection with the terrorists," said Anderson, pinning a tiny microphone under Jamie's collar. "We'll be holding you on a long lens from the back of the truck. Try to get him to face this way as much as possible."
Battlestar Galactica 5 - Galactica Discovers Earth Page 5