The Asteroid

by M R Cates

  “We'll deal with that,” the President said, “if it happens. But surely they would see nothing threatening in our suggestion.”

  All three agreed to that assessment.

  The conversation moved forward then, to the next phase. “But where will the meeting take place?” asked Vigola, looking at both men. “Do your teams have any theories about what they might do?”

  “Other than the ship or boat or whatever?” McDermott asked.

  Vigola nodded. “Right.”

  “They said they would tell us,” Masterson pointed out. “So we wait.”

  “But we have to have contingency plans,” Vigola said.

  The FBI Director shrugged. “In case of what?”

  “In case of some threatening action,” came the reply. “We have no idea what these aliens are up to.”

  “We know,” said the President, “that they could have dropped pieces of asteroid on us earlier, but they didn't.”

  “How do we know that?” McDermott asked.

  “Because of what they did to put themselves into orbit, and break pieces off, that sort of thing. Obviously.”

  “Okay, obviously,” McDermott nodded, eyes brighter. “But listen, we didn't really see those fragments forming out of the original asteroid. If they had been there all the time, and this all had been some kind of automatic sequence, then ...”

  “Maybe,” admitted the President, “but Vin, whatever they did, automatic or not, required a lot of energy to do. They certainly expended enough energy to have dropped that original fifteen mile asteroid on us.”

  “And the key thing,” Vigola said, “is that the aliens have started talking. In English.”

  “Yes, that seems suspicious,” Masterson said. “How can aliens know English?”

  “They watch TV,” Vigola said, eyebrows lifting.

  Charles Masterson said, “What's happening now with our Dr. Hughes?”

  Vigola looked at her boss, then answered, “She's waiting to hear from the aliens. She and our imbedded teams. Not that she's all that pleased.”

  “Not pleased by what?”

  “By having all that 'help.' She's a very stubborn loner, when it comes to her work.”

  “But we already knew that,” the President reminded. them.

  “Sure as hell hope she's capable,” McDermott said. “I've only met her once. Looks like a schoolgirl to me.”

  McBrand laughed. “Don't let looks fool you, Vin.”

  “Well she is quite inexperienced,” Vigola said. “I mean, she's just thirty-three. And in a way, still a schoolgirl. An academic.”

  “Madeleine,” McBrand said, “it won't do us any good to argue your point, one way or the other. She remains the point of contact because of her position with the observatory and her obvious talents. I, like you, don't want her representing us, but she can certainly do the scientific work.”

  Charles Masterson sighed. “That, in fact, seems to sum it up.”

  “Your gurus, Charles,” asked the President, turning to him. “What are they saying?”

  “About Sandra Hughes?”

  “About the whole situation.”

  “They want more information on the aliens.”

  Vigola presented something like a smirk. “Who doesn't? That's beside the point.”

  Masterson nodded, but continued. “They think we ... you, Mr. President, should have pulled Hughes out of that spot after the first report.”

  “And put in whom?” asked McBrand.

  “A more experienced astronomer, maybe with some military experience.”

  President McBrand took in all three faces. “She ... Sandra Hughes was famous so quickly. If we had pulled her out, the news media would have gone ballistic.”

  “But,” Madeleine Vigola said, following Masterson's lead, “they'd get over it fast. What's the media's attention span, about one day, two at most?” She smiled.

  “Perhaps.” The President sounded slightly uncomfortable. “But when I spoke with her, I heard a confidence I hadn't expected. There was no obvious better choice early on.”

  “What about Wyler, the director out there?”

  “The best alternative,” admitted the President. “But his temperament wasn't quite right. And he backed Sandra, actually. She was more reluctant for the fame than he was to give it to her. More importantly, the news media picked her out instantly. They knew she was the perfect symbol for their stories.”

  “That's water under the bridge anyway,” McDermott reminded them. “And I can tell you, Mr. President, I don't like our situation one damned bit.”

  “I had hoped,” said McBrand, “that between your two staffs some new ideas would be forthcoming.”

  “I'd say,” Masterson suggested, “we stick with Dr. Hughes as you suggested, and move her aside at the right time. We also have to keep in mind that the person who meets with the aliens may not survive.”

  “May not survive?” The President looked slightly concerned.

  “Has to be risky,” said McDermott, agreeing in effect with his colleague. “God, the size of those damn rocks, and the ... well our engineers have shown me some of the energy involved in what we've seen so far. Unbelievable, really.”

  “We human beings,” McBrand said, almost in a murmur, “yes, we are pretty fragile.”

  “Maybe the aliens are, too, sir,” Vigola said. “We don't even know where they are.”

  “No we don't,” continued McBrand. “But you know, the information and speculations I've gotten from Sandra Hughes have made sense to me. You've all been briefed. Anyone disagree with her ideas so far?”

  “Ideas?” asked Vigola. “She basically says we don't know anything about them.”

  “Right. And do we?” McBrand was obviously – if belatedly – defending his actions so far with respect to the young astronomer. “And she figured out their transmissions in just a few minutes. I for one am impressed.”

  “Routine cryptography,” shrugged McDermott. “Our people said it was really pretty obvious.”

  McBrand smiled. “After the fact, sure. But she was decoding their message while tracking the fragment and doing the other things astronomers do.”

  “No one has suggested,” the Chief of Staff said, “that Dr. Hughes isn't bright. It's just a matter of who is the best person for that particular spot.”

  McBrand's dander went up slightly. “Look, we're coming back to our moot point. Our job here is to figure out how best to deal with the upcoming meeting.”

  “My suggestion, Mr. President,” said Charles Masterson, “is to wait for the information the aliens will send, then stall the actual meeting as long as possible to give ourselves more planning time. Especially, to brief the substitute.”

  “Yes,” the President nodded, “we can surely try that. Any other opinions?”

  “Recording devices on our representative, for the event, of course,” McDermott said.

  “We'll certainly do that,” Vigola said for the President. “That's been discussed a lot. There are things he can swallow, or have inserted.” She suddenly blushed slightly.

  McDermott laughed. “Yeah, we know where they can be put.”

  “But what about video?” asked the FBI Director. “It would be very important to get images.”

  “We'll have the space telescope looking down,” Vigola said, still a little pink. “And, well, if all this happens at sea, we have the two carriers nearby. They have a lot of instrumentation.”

  President McBrand nodded. “Again, if necessary, we stall after we hear. We'll do the best we can on the video.” He looked at Masterson. “How has your office handled this with the UN?”

  “We haven't told them anything yet, except that Fragment Five emitted some light patterns that are being analyzed. We had to say that, because the Keck staff had already seen them. You can bet it would be leaked.”

  “What about the data?” asked McBrand.

  “We have control of that,” Vigola answered. “The relevant files have been removed f
rom the Keck archives, in case someone on the staff wants to go back and find good stuff to sell the media.”

  McDermott smiled again. “What do you think the going rate for an alien message would be?”

  Masterson smiled, too. “I'd say about the price of the Mona Lisa.”

  “I would, too,” McBrand said. “Let's pray nothing got out before our team got there.”

  Vigola said confidently, “We were in the control room less than twenty minutes after her call. And Dr. Hughes didn't share her analysis with the crew.”

  “She's wiser than you give her credit for,” suggested the President.

  “I can't quite trust her, sir,” Vigola said. “Not that she's criminal or anything of that sort. But she's a strong minded person indeed.”

  “Yes, she is,” he agreed. “That may be a resource that comes as a bonus for us.”

  McDermott asked, “Where is she now, this Dr. Hughes?”

  Said the Chief of Staff, “Resting at home. Waiting for tonight in Hawaii.”

  “House arrest, huh?” smiled McDermott.

  “In effect,” Vigola nodded. She seemed a little glad it was so.

  “She's been under surveillance constantly,” the President added, mostly to McDermott. “As if you didn't guess.” He glanced at Masterson who certainly knew.

  The FBI Director added, “We didn't tap her phones and computer link, however, until recently. By the way, Sandra Hughes is a very private person. She has no boyfriends we know about, one sister in Texas, and an old astronomer friend there in Waimea that's a kind of substitute father figure.”

  Vigola added, “His name is Carl von Drath. Clean. Respected scientist. Been retired a long while. Hughes has visited him several times since the asteroid arrived. She probably uses him for advice.”

  “Reasonable,” nodded Masterson. “I think I've heard of him. Well known, right?”

  “Yes,” she returned. “Is now an amateur botanist. Has a tree farm there on his property. As for Hughes's sister, she's a ...” She glanced at her notes. “... her name is Deborah McAnn, divorced. Also clean. Hughes has hired her. She's coming to Hawaii.”

  “Is that a problem?” asked Masterson.

  “On the contrary,” Vigola replied. “With her sister there, Sandra Hughes will be near the only two people she seems close to. That makes our job easier.”

  “And the staff at the observatory? Anything usual about them?” It was McDermott's question.

  “Wyler, as you may know,” the Chief of Staff said, sounding slightly smug, “has tried to date Dr. Hughes. According to word we have from the staff. Turned him down, though politely, I think. He is very supportive of her. No one has gotten any negative vibes from him.”

  “So Wyler,” the President suggested, “must be also taken as a confidante.”

  Vigola nodded. “That's right, of course, sir. But her relationship with Wyler doesn't seem personal, like it is with her sister and von Drath.”

  “No boyfriends, huh?” McDermott mused, scratching his head. “Is she lesbian perhaps?”

  Vigola's eyebrows went up. “We looked hard to see. No sign. Her new student is sweet on her, though. At least we think so.”

  “New student?” asked the President, sounding as if he didn't like the ignorance he'd been left with. “Who is he?”

  “A she. From France. She was the one who got in the news with the first discovery. From the Spanish observatory.”

  “Oh yes,” he nodded. “I remember the pictures. Attractive girl.”

  Vigola smiled. “Yes, attractive. Quite snowed by Dr. Sandra Hughes, too.”

  “Not surprising,” said the President.

  “Our operatives,” Vigola said, “have talked to the staff there at length. The young men are naturally drawn to this girl – Françoise Marnier is her name ...”

  “I remember the name now,” McDermott said. “From the reports.”

  Vigola continued. “No interest, it seems, from the girl for the guys hitting on her.”

  “Why,” asked McBrand, “does that mean she's lesbian?”

  “It's her attitude around Hughes,” Vigola explained.

  “I don't see its relevance, one way or the other,” the President persisted.

  “May not be, sir,” she admitted. “But we have cover all the bases.”

  The Secretary of Defense asked, “So you watch the Marnier girl carefully, I gather?”

  “Yes. We know Hughes has introduced the student to her pal von Drath.”

  “As would anyone,” shrugged Masterson. “We must be careful of paranoia here.”

  Vigola, confident in her situation, said calmly, “We draw no conclusions, of course, but we have the resources to maintain vigilance, so we do. There's no overt violation of anyone's privacy, even Hughes's.”

  “No cameras in her bedroom, huh?” McDermott asked.

  “No, just bugs.” Vigola smiled. We'll probably do the same for the old friend's house, and the student's apartment.”

  “And the sister's, too,” McDermott said, shaking his head to indicate his distaste at the necessity, “when she gets there?”

  “Yes.”

  The President sighed. “Okay, we understand all that. Probably none of this discussion will matter anyway. Depending on the next information from the aliens.”

  “That information,” Vigola said, looking at her colleagues, “by the way, is now routed directly to us. Hughes knows it, of course.”

  “So all the data is sent on to Washington, automatically?” McDermott asked.

  “Yes,” was her answer. “Hughes and some of her designated team will have access to it – we can't avoid that – but the raw data come straight to us, after encryption. We have a round-the-clock team waiting for it.”

  “No more delays, huh,” smiled McDermott, “while the astronomer decodes the aliens' signal?”

  “No more delays,” said the Chief of Staff.

  Chapter 25

  The promised follow-up message from Fragment Five was expected the following evening. Sandra Hughes had, in effect, two daylight periods to prepare for the transmission. Having had an adequate, if short, stretch of rest on the Hawaii morning after the second message, Sandra returned to the Keck facility about one in the afternoon, going straight to her boss's office.

  “Hi Reg,” she said, noticing – with relief – that he was alone.

  “Have you gotten some rest, Sandra?” was his response.

  “Have. How're you holding up anyway?”

  Wyler had been working through some routine paperwork, something apparently to occupy his time, and shoved it aside. “Well enough. Want some coffee?”

  “Do. Thanks.”

  “There are agents everywhere,” he said with a grin. “I'm sure one will bring us some coffee.”

  “Does give them something to do, I guess.” Sandra yawned, a gesture that was attractive to her boss, both because of its physical implications and its symbolizing that she was relaxed in his presence.

  Wyler, phoning a local number, talked to someone named Mary and said coffee would be forthcoming soon.

  Sandra walked to Wyler's white marking board and wrote broadly on it. “Are we being bugged?”

  He shrugged, smiled and said aloud, “Probably.”

  She wrote, “Damn,” then added, “Is there a place around here where we can talk?”

  Wyler stood, walked up beside her and wrote, “How about over at Maggie's?” He was referring to the Parker Ranch Motel. Maggie was the nickname of the proprietor, Magdelene Chosit.

  Sandra nodded, then wrote: “Meet you there in an hour, okay?”

  He nodded, then erased the board.

  Sandra and Wyler then waited for and drank the coffee they'd ordered, chatting meaninglessly about schedules and the like. Since the FBI already knew that Wyler knew about the upcoming alien communication, she mentioned a few technical details of how she wanted to prepare the data collection of the Kecks and their associated measurement systems. It was informatio
n she'd have to run by him anyway. About fifteen minutes after their whiteboard conversation Sandra left and went back to her office.

  Wyler finished a few other things and departed the building. A female agent, someone named Karen Kirchoff, materialized and idly asked him if he needed anything. Wyler told her he was going into town to run a few errands and get a bite of lunch, thinking to himself that he knew they'd probably follow him, but so what.

  Sandra got to the coffee shop a few minutes early, saw it was still fairly busy, and went over to visit with the owner at the counter. Everyone in the room had noticed her arrival.

  “Maggie,” Sandra said amiably enough, “how're tricks?”

  “Booming, Sandra. How are our alien visitors these days?”

  “Very alien indeed. Pretty thoughtless of 'em, huh? Could we get that booth over there by the window?

  “Sure. Becky will be getting over to clean it up in a minute. Who's joining you?”

  “Oh, the boss.” Sandra turned and leaned against the counter. Almost everyone in the room was looking at her, directly or indirectly. Being famous was a real bummer. The astronomer had to fight back the wish to call out to everyone there, “Okay, you've had your look. Now mind your own damn business.”

  Wyler arrived in a few minutes, with Sandra already seated, nursing a Hawaiian beer. He slid in opposite her with a brief greeting.

  “Reg,” she started, in a quiet voice, nicely masked by the background in the room, “I think the couple over there – the redhead and the blue-collar looking guy with her – are feds. Most of the others I've seen around. This is the damnedest situation, to worry about somebody listening to us.”

  “It is for a fact,” he nodded.

  Magdelene Chosit herself came to wait on them, putting down two glasses of water. The three visited a little, then Sandra told her they wanted to talk without “big brother” listening in. The friendly woman assured them she'd do her best to help, took their drink orders, and left.

  “I can imagine,” Reginald Wyler said, looking into the green eyes across from him, “that you must be a bundle of nerves, Sandra.”

  “You know,” she responded, “my biggest problem is understanding the ... the reality here. When you look at a computer screen, or a video display, even when you see an object that some unknown someones are controlling, it isn't real. None of us has looked any green man in the face, or smelled their rocket exhaust, or whatever. I remember reading about the old moon mission back in the 1960s. This huge effort by so many, with primitive tools and snail's pace computers, but somehow they did it. Yet, lots of people couldn't and didn't really believe it. What did they see? Pictures on a TV, or newsprint, or glossy photos in nicely bound books. It wasn't exactly that they thought NASA had made it all up – though a few kooks did, sure – it was more like it couldn't seem real because it was so entirely alien. That's our situation now. I even feel it when I talk to people like the President and his aides.”