Denise nodded, clasping her hands in an isometric tug of war. "Yeah. I caught a couple of hours this afternoon. Actually, I think you've got the toughest job of all of us, Sidney."

  He stared at her, comparing her left eye with the right. "Me?" He daubed her left eyelid with shadow.

  "Yeah. As we on-air types stay cooped up in this damned studio, withering away from lack of sleep and decent food, you've got to make us look trustworthy and alive—nobody trusts a cadaverous-looking zombie."

  Sidney chuckled. "Couldn't anybody ever mistake you for a zombie, Denise. Eyes are perfect."

  She squinted, realizing that now she wouldn't be able to rub them when they itched. "Sidney, you're a miracle worker," she said as he held up a small mirror for her.

  He dabbed her forehead one last time and smoothed her bangs. Then, with a thumbs-up signal and a smile, he retreated from the brightly lit set. Denise peered past the pool of light centered on her, locating the balding pate and walrus moustache of her producer, Winston Weinberg. "Hi, Winnie. The rooftop team set?"

  "Yeah," Weinberg said.

  "Come talk to me and calm me down. How many minutes do we have left?"

  "We'll be switching over to you, then intercutting between you and the rooftop crew in about five minutes," he answered in his heavy Brooklyn accent. "You look great, hon. Fix your jacket and sit up straight."

  "Yes, mother," said Denise, making sure her suit jacket hung correctly, then straightening up and again resisting the urge to rub her tired eyes. "But it's not as though anybody's going to spare me a glance. Nobody'll even notice that I covered this event too. Kristine Walsh will be the one everyone remembers."

  "The goddamn aliens will be the ones everybody remembers, honey," Winnie said. "1 wanted to tell you I'm sorry you crapped out on the pool assignment. I'd rather see you up there than Walsh."

  "That's sweet of you, Winnie," Denise said. "But it's the luck of the draw."

  "Luck of the draw, my ass," Weinberg growled. "Some-thin' stinks about the whole deal. I'd bet money she kissed up to somebody, pulled some last-minute strings, called in a few outstanding debts or something. She hasn't spent the time on this that you and Dan have."

  "And they say women are catty," Denise said, feigning distaste. "Maybe she's doing the roof because they wanted somebody bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not overworked and weary."

  "Hmph," said Weinberg. "You ever work with her?"

  "I know her, but I never worked with her."

  "I have. Acts like she's the queen or somethin'. If she

  doesn't get her way, you can hear her from Timbuktu to

  Kalamazoo."

  "Maybe I should take her cue. Maybe I've been too easygoing."

  He wagged an admonishing finger at her. "Hey, go ahead— kid around. Put yourself down. But you're damn good, Dee, and I know it 'cause I've worked with the best. You wanna know what the scuttlebutt is about you versus Madam Kristine?" Without waiting for her to reply, he continued, "They say, 'Denise'11 do anything to get the story—Walsh'11 do anything to get the glory.' No lie, honey."

  She reached across the desk to clasp his fingers with her own. "Thanks. No lie, honey."

  "Thirty seconds to air time," boomed the director's voice over the loudspeaker. Hurriedly Denise composed herself, checked her posture, arranged her notes, then, finally, tested Ihe small mike clipped to her jacket. The countdown was on.

  When it reached "one," the red light on camera two flashed on, and Denise, watching the monitor, saw her image appear under the superimposed words, "VISITORS FROM SPACE: -4 Special Report Live from New York."

  The floor director cued her and she smoothly faced the camera. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is almost eight p.m. here in New York—almost time for the people of liarth to meet, face to face, the first beings encountered from another planet. As we take the ball back from Dan Rather, reporting to you from the nation's capital, the air here in New York is crackling with anticipation. As you can see in this live shot from the United Nations Building, the huge space vessel is still stationary above Manhattan, where it took up residence yesterday afternoon ..."

  Denise went on, recapping the highlights from the previous clay, until she switched over to Kristine Walsh on the roof. Then she watched glumly as the Secretary General, accompanied by a tall, exotically attractive woman, came onto the roof. Lindstrom motioned to the UN guards to lower their weapons—then as eight o'clock arrived, Denise, along with the rest of the studio crew, fixed her eyes on the monitor showing the belly of the huge alien vessel.

  "I see something!" Winnie shouted after a second.

  A moment later they could all hear Kristine Walsh's cool, professional tones: "A smaller craft is dropping down out of the Mother Ship and heading directly for the rooftop of this building. As it heads toward us, it seems to be almost completely silent, with no exhaust or rocket engines to indicate its power source."

  The smaller vehicle had a curiously duck-billed snout and gleamed whitely as it came to rest on the top of the UN Building. Noting its aerodynamic lines, Denise commented that it seemed to have been designed to fly, at least partly, in the atmosphere. Her remark earned her an approving thumbs-up gesture from Winnie. They all noticed a pattern of dots and bars painted in red on the nose of the craft, vaguely suggesting a letter or other symbol.

  After a second, a hatch opened in the side of the craft and a ramp extended onto the rooftop. A voice, amplified yet still containing that odd reverberation they'd all noticed during the countdown, spoke: "Herr General Secreterare ..."

  "I think that's Swedish," Denise said to Winston, knowing she wasn't on the air at the moment. "Get me a translation— quick!"

  After a second, the translation came through, and Denise relayed it to Kristine Walsh on the roof. "Mr. Secretary General ... do not be afraid. Please climb the ramp."

  Denise watched closely as Lindstrom, with a barely perceptible hesitation, stepped forward. The roof camera, wielded by free-lance cameraman Mike Donovan, followed the slender, erect figure as it moved forward up the ramp, vanishing into the darkened opening of the shuttle.

  Denise checked the seconds on the studio clock while keeping one eye on Donovan's closeup of the hatch— 68 ... 69 ... 70 ... 71 ... 72 ... 73 . . .

  "There he is!" cried Kristine Walsh, and Denise felt a huge surge of relief.

  Pausing on the bottom of the ramp, Lindstrom spoke, assuring the assembly that he had indeed met the Visitors (as Lindstrom termed them) and that they looked very human, although their voices were unusual. He stressed that they wished to honor all the United Nations covenants and that their mission was peaceful. He then announced that he'd asked the Supreme Commander of the Fleet, who was aboard the shuttle, to address the people of Earth personally.

  Booted feet appeared on the ramp, and in silence, Denise and the studio crew watched a gray-haired man with regular, i minded features appear, smiling genially. "Christ!" Denise exclaimed, for once forgetting to check whether she was on the air she wasn't. "The guy could pass for one of us!"

  The Visitor wore a red uniform resembling a flight-deck i overall, with a chest flap across which extended several black stripes. Denise guessed they denoted rank. As the humans watched, the man took out a pair of dark glasses, slipped them on, then said, "I trust you will forgive me, but our eyes are unaccustomed to this sort of brightness." His English was unaccented. If it weren't for the eerie multitrack resonating tonality in the voice, Denise thought, the man could be a native American.

  he continued, still with a faint smile, "As the Secretary General told you, we have come in peace to all mankind on Earth. Our planet is the fourth from the star which you call Sirius, some 8.7 light-years from your Earth. This is the first time we have journeyed from our system—you, the first intelligent life we have encountered. We are very pleased to meet you!"

  The sigh rippling through the studio was profound with relief. The Supreme Commander continued: "Our names would sound peculiar to you, so we—my fellow Visitors and I -have chosen simple names from Earth. My name is John."

  Denise stared, fascinated by the thought of a being from another star who could look so devastatingly familiar. John went on to explain that unmanned Sirian probes had been monitoring Earth's radio and television broadcasts for a number of years, which is how the aliens had learned the local languages. One of the phrases he used was "this small fleet"— prompting Denise to glance over at Winston Weinberg. "Small fleet?" she echoed incredulously. "Who the hell does he think he's kidding?"

  "Shh," said Winnie. "Let the guy make his pitch."

  "On behalf of Our Great Leader—he who governs our planet with benevolence and wisdom—we have come because we need your help." John paused for a second. Denise could appreciate the Visitor's innate dramatic ability—he'd make a terrific editorial spokesperson, she thought irrelevantly.

  She heard Winnie snort disbelievingly. "They have the ability to cross nine light-years and they want our help?"

  Almost as if he'd heard the producer's comment, John explained, "Our planet is in serious environmental difficulty-far, far worse than yours, it's reached a stage where we'll be unable to survive without immediate assistance. There are certain chemical compounds that can save our struggling civilization. We need to manufacture them. You can help us. And in return, we'll gladly share with you all the fruits of our knowledge. Now that contact is established, we would like to meet with individual governments so that we may present requests for certain operating plants around the world to be retooled for the manufacture of the compounds."

  Denise looked over at Winston, then at the other men and women in the studio, feeling a sudden anxiety. Lord, she thought, these people are so far ahead of us technologically— and yet they're still struggling to survive? What does that bode for us in the coming decades?

  John was still speaking, almost as though addressing her worries. "... helping you solve your own environmental, agricultural, and health dilemmas. Then we'll leave you as we came—in peace."

  They're talking as though they can cure most of what ails us, Denise mused. So why can't they help themselves? The answer was obvious, she realized almost immediately. The more complex and technical the civilization, the more complex the environmental chain holding it all together. She watched as John extended an offer for the Secretary General and five journalists to accompany him on a tour of the Mother Ship, and saw, with no surprise, that Kristine Walsh was among those lucky five.

  Must've picked them by lot somehow. Damn, I'd give ten years of my life to be in her shoes . . .

  The chosen journalists—Kristine, Sam Egan, Michael Donovan and his soundman, Tony Wah Chong Leonetti, plus an old friend of Denise's, Jeri Taylor—all moved quickly toward the ramp, pausing to shake hands with John on their way up. Denise saw the cue and, feeling as though her voice were coming all the way from Sirius, automatically picked up the narrative.

  The hatch on the gleaming white shuttle closed, then, as soundlessly as it had arrived, the vehicle lifted off. Denise watched as it glided upward into the spotlit sky above Manhattan, toward the glistening, looming bulk of the Mother Ship. A hundred bits of reporter's small talk ran through her mind, but she swallowed them all, letting the picture speak for itself.

  Chapter 4

  Party Time

  Alison Stein sipped cautiously at a glass of white wine as she watched the majordomo, Enrico Caldera, move steadily but unobtrusively to Mayor O'Connor's side. For a portly man in his fifties, Caldera was a tribute to quiet grace and gentility, in huge contrast to O'Connor, who was laughing boisterously at a joke Alexander Garr had just told. The majordomo gained the minuscule space next to O'Connor's right elbow and whispered discreetly, "Mr. Mayor—I think the guests of honor may be arriving."

  It was obvious Caldera hoped to avoid a stir, and Alison found it necessary to mask a smile when O'Connor grinned at the man and quipped, "Hey, great! The E.T.'s are here!"

  Enrico Caldera rolled his eyes as everyone except he and Alison stampeded for the doors to Gracie Mansion. Alison flashed the little man an understanding look. Somehow O'Connor's flamboyance seemed to diminish Gracie Mansion's fading elegance even more quickly than time and budget deficits.

  The crowd milled back from the doors with a swelling murmur of disappointment to let a distinguished-looking older black man and a tall, exotically lovely young woman entei; accompanying UN Secretary General Olav Lindstrom. Alison recognized the man as Dr. George Stewart, and guessed the young woman to be his daughter, Lauren. Alison caught Enrico's eye. "Did you do that deliberately, Enrico?"

  Caldera shook his head innocently. "Not me, Mrs. Stein. I saw this big limo pull up and all I could think was, it must be

  them."

  Hearing a soft displacement of air from the direction of the open French side door, Alison turned to see a white shuttle— smaller than the one they'd seen that night two weeks ago, but modeled on identical lines—touch down on the grass. She moved toward the door just as somebody shouted, "Hey, look!"

  A tall, ruggedly handsome man with curling brown hair and green eyes moved out of the hatchway, followed by two female Visitors. The first woman was petite and blonde, with coolly pretty features and vivid aquamarine eyes, in contrast to the other, who was taller, heavier-boned, with a rounded face, reddish-auburn hair, freckles, and hazel eyes. The Mayor was waiting for them as they entered, his hand outstretched in greeting. "I'm Mayor Daniel O'Connor. Welcome to Gracie Mansion. We're honored you folks could join us."

  The crowd made a half-circle around O'Connor, Alison, and the Visitors as the aliens shook hands with the Mayor and City Council President. Alison was struck by the coolness of their flesh—not a clammy coldness, but more as if their natural body temperature were significantly lower than the human norm. "I see John isn't with you," O'Connor said.

  "No, Mr. Mayor;" the male Visitor said. "He sends his apologies. As Supreme Commander, he has many, many responsibilities, as I'm sure you can imagine. My name is Roger, and this is my second-in-command, Angela." He indicated the young woman with the blonde ponytail, "and my third-in-command, Jennifer. Jennifer is the Fleet's special adviser on interplanetary cultural matters."

  The crowd parted to allow Olav Lindstrom through, with Lauren Stewart at his side. Greetings went around the group. Alison was struck by the contrast between the Visitors in their red coveralls and the other guests glittering in evening dress.

  O'Connor gestured grandly at the party room. "Please, come in. Lots of people are dying to meet you, and you must be hungry. Dinner won't be served until eight-thirty, but those tables have enough snacks to keep us going until then. The bar is over there."

  "Thank you very much," Roger said politely, "but actually, we've already eaten prior to coming down. Our scientists haven't yet completed their analysis of your planet's flora and fauna, so they've advised us not to partake until we're told it's safe. Just a precaution, I'm sure."

  O'Connor nodded understandingly. "Sure, makes perfect sense. I do the same thing when I'm in Mexico. Stuff you can pick up down there can clean you out but good."

  Danny! Alison hoped fervently none of the United Nations representatives from Mexico were in earshot. Blushing for the oblivious O'Connor, she saw Lauren Stewart glance at Olav Lindstrom. Hastily, Alison tried to think of something to say, but the moment was already past.

  Three Visitors weren't many to go around, but they circulated gamely among the pockets of guests, splitting up to make sure no one of importance was ignored—not an easy task, since the guest list constituted a virtual who's who of New York.

  "They almost act like they're running for office," O'Connor whispered to Alison as they watched the party. "They handle the old glad-handing routine better than I do."

  Alison gave him a sideways look. "And they're less obvious about it too."

  He ignored the dig. "They seem to recognize and know something about everyone they're talking to. I wonder how?"

  "Well, they said they had probes monitoring our communications. I guess they did their homework."

  "It's more than that, more than just news media information," O'Connor insisted, mopping at his glistening forehead with a billowing square of linen. "They know things they could only have discovered by digging through newspaper files or pumping people for information."

  "Pumping people?" She gave him a look. "Why such negative terms? Maybe it's a compliment—-they're going to be here, living among us for a while. Maybe they'd just like to know more about what makes us tick."

  "But why, Ali, why? We've already agreed to help them. Why so much interest in finding out about prominent people? I can only think of one . . ."He trailed off with a frown.

  "And what reason is that, O wise and sage politician?"

  "My, we have a sarcastic tongue about us tonight, don't we?" O'Connor sniffed. "I'll tell you anyway, 'cause it's something you might need to know someday. When you know enough things about people, you may find out some of their weaknesses, enabling you, in many cases, to control them."

  Alison finished her wine in a single gulp, then grabbed another glass off a passing tray. "You're paranoid, Danny." She glanced around the room. "And judging by the way most people are reacting to the Visitors, I'd keep my unpopular opinions to myself, if I were you." She moved off to mingle, leaving O'Connor to chew over her warning.

  "Look at Alexander the Great," Peter Forsythe whispered to the Yankees' manager, Bobby Neal.

  "Why?" said Neal in his lazy Oklahoma drawl. "He's my boss, I'm his employee. That means I have to look at him all season. I need a vacation from him by this time each year." He crunched experimentally on an hors d'oeuvre.

  "He's right over there—you can't miss him," Pete insisted, pointing with his chin. "He's the one with the egg-sucking grin pasted all over that iron mask of his."

  The older man stood on tiptoe, craning his neck, causing the white shirtfront and jacket of his ancient tux to strain noticeably across his paunch. "I see him," Neal said in an answering undertone. "I think he's trying to pick up that Visitor chick. She's cute, ain't she?"

 

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