Pulses, page 22
“No.” He looked down at the binoculars. “No. We don't know much about it yet.” He raised the binoculars to his eyes and focused. It took a moment to relocate the dark structure. Then it swung into view, hanging sharply defined in the superb optics of the binoculars.
“I need to use your phone.”
Hoffer offered a console where Peterson could sit down and access several phones.
“Are these recorded?”
“Yes, sir. You'll hear a beep every ten seconds while you talk. That indicates you're being recorded.”
“Good.” Peterson dialed zero.
The base operator connected him to the regional state highway patrol office. He requested two patrol cars meet him twenty miles south of town. He explained it might be necessary to temporarily seal off a portion of Highway 17 along the edge of the test range. No, nothing serious. Just a precaution while the Air Force checked out a reported unauthorized landing near the highway in that sector. Maybe nothing.
The intermittent beep of the recorder was comforting. If there was a subsequent investigation into his handling of the affair it would all be on tape.
He flashed for the operator again. She put him through to the border patrol operations center. Peterson explained that he had an unauthorized aircraft reported down in the test range. Would they be interested in joining in on the investigation? It could be a smuggler even though it was a little far north of the border.
The border patrol declined to participate but remained interested if the Air Force turned up any evidence of contraband.
Good, Peterson thought. A federal agency not interested in pursuing an investigation of an unauthorized landing on federal lands.
He placed his last call to the base command post. He directed the duty officer to send whatever up-channel alert was called for in this instance. All he gave the officer was a report of an unauthorized landing. He would provide follow-up information as soon as he reached the site.
Peterson hung up and thought again of the spires cutting into the sky. It was time for a firsthand look. He glanced at his watch. It was five forty-five.
Chapter 25
The voice descended on them from the edge of the terrace, deep and well-modulated, rich in tone and the even, unrushed pace of authority.
Luke Dawson, Sergeant Redleaf. Are you ready to begin?
Luke and Redleaf regarded each other in some puzzlement.
“Did you ever give it our names?” Luke asked.
“No. And I was with Captain Wells almost the whole time.”
Luke turned to look back up the stairway. “Who are you?”
I am the pilot.
Both men remained frozen.
Please join me up here. Both of you.
They hesitated for another second then climbed quickly back up to the terrace. As they approached the terrace Luke could make out some detail of the pilot's form.
The pilot was incomplete, merely a torso rising out of a pedestal of the same dark material as the ship. The pedestal was about four feet high. The pilot's torso rose another eight. The pilot raised one of its hands and studied the open fingers. Its broad featureless face shone in the early morning light, a face devoid of eyes or mouth, yet still clearly a face. Almost human. At least as human as the faces Luke had seen on art nouveau mannequins in store windows. Planes and angles made up forehead, cheeks and temple. Unlike the ship, however, the pilot reflected light from its surface. Like polished obsidian.
Does this form suit you? It is as close to yours as I can manage and still maintain my internal structures.
Luke had reached the base of the pedestal. He looked up at the jet black face. The pilot's head had moved discernibly as it had spoken, just as a human's would, but there were no movements on the face itself other than a slight shifting of a few of the angles. Yet the unfinished face seemed to hold an expression. Or maybe the illusion of expression came from the way the pilot held its body. Whichever, it clearly communicated with more than its voice.
“You look human enough,” Luke offered. “My name, though. How did you know it?”
Your name is always the same.
Luke didn't grasp the meaning. Maybe this thing didn't communicate that well after all.
“Why did you come here?”
You asked me to come.
“No, I mean to our solar system.”
That is my mission.
The pilot lowered its hand and gazed down at Redleaf before turning its face back toward Luke.
But we have much to do. We should begin now.
“Why? Are you leaving soon?”
No. But our problems are formidable and trouble is forming as we speak. We must plan for early resolution while we still have time.
Chapter 26
Colonel Peterson swung his staff car off the highway onto the access road to the sector and slid to a stop in front of the guard shack. Sergeants Tripp and Hall waited at attention.
Peterson stepped out of the car and simply stood with one hand resting on top of the open door staring in disbelief at the latest addition to Hotel Three. Finally he nodded at the two guards.
“You the two men who came out to get Tidwell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you go down there near that… thing?”
“Yes, sir. We had to investigate. That's our job.”
“Of course. You did the right thing. What did you see down there?”
“Nothing. It was too dark. We had to leave our vehicle down there. That thing blew the radio out of it.”
“I thought we was goners for a minute there,” Sergeant Hall volunteered.
Both men look beyond his shoulder at the same moment Peterson heard the squeal of tires. A patrol car accelerated down the short access road to brake heavily at the last minute. Its front doors flew open even before the car came to rest.
The driver jumped out with exaggerated importance and hitched up his trousers. His partner climbed half out but continued to carry on an animated conversation over the radio. Tripp and Hall traded looks uneasily.
The radio squawked, “Roger,” and the other patrolman threw the microphone on the seat and joined the driver in front of the car.
“That some kind of government project that got out of hand?” the officer asked with a nod toward the south.
These men had just driven within several hundred yards of the thing, Peterson thought. He could appreciate the wildness in their eyes. He was still a mile or so away and he fought a strong inclination to disbelieve what his own eyes were seeing.
Peterson ignored the patrolman's question. “You have another car coming don't you?”
“Yeah, a couple miles behind us. You want us to call out some more?”
“What I want you to do is get this road sealed off about five miles on either side of that object down there. If you need more cars to do that, then I suggest you get them.”
The driver nodded to his partner who headed back to the radio.
“That thing down there dangerous?” the first patrolman asked.
Peterson drew a deep breath, more to give himself time to think than to show displeasure at the question. He had no idea. At least not any idea that he would want anyone to include in their after-duty reports. “I don't know.”
“Well, I hope it ain't. There was a beat-up red pickup down there and two men standing in front of it when we came by a few minutes ago.”
Peterson turned sharply to the gate guards.
“We didn't let no one in,” Hall blurted defensively.
“There's a new gate down there. Never seen it before,” the patrolman offered. “Never seen anything so fancy.”
Peterson turned to the two guards; again they stared blankly back at him.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get that gate open. I'm going down there.”
The guards bolted into action.
Peterson swung back to the patrolman. “Get that highway blocked before somebody else wanders in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The guards had hardly opened the gate the width of the car when Peterson gunned the vehicle through the opening and turned left down the perimeter road. His natural alarm subsided somewhat even with the bulk of the thing continuing to dominate the southern sky. Action was the best sedative Peterson knew. And it was definitely time for some action.
***
Men are blocking the highway to the south. Another is approaching by car from the north. An official. A Colonel Peterson of the United States Air Force.
“How can you know that?”
He carries documents stating this information. I think we will begin the formal part very shortly now.
***
Peterson's car ground to a halt. He gripped the wheel for a moment studying the two men on the terrace and the dark figure looming above them. One of the men waved his arm in the air briefly in a signal that everything was all right. Peterson got out and slammed the car door behind him. The air was cool and still. He paused for another second then headed for the base of the stairway leading up to the terrace.
Peterson accepted the story Luke related about the sequence of events leading up to the landing of the ship behind them. He had no choice. These were the only two people he had met this morning who had the slightest idea what was happening. And they seemed to know exactly why this thing was here. Nodding toward the dark torso, Peterson asked only one question. “What's that?”
I am the pilot.
Peterson recoiled visibly.
Luke laughed. “Sorry, colonel. I should have warned you.”
“How does he know English?”
Address me directly, Colonel Peterson.
“You know English,” Peterson said with some disbelief.
I have monitored all of your civilization's electromagnetic output from the beginning. Finally television, and its associative mixture of spoken words matched to images, allowed me to completely decode your languages. I know all of your written languages with at least some facility. The major languages that were broadcast in some detail, I know thoroughly. I am also well acquainted with the level of your technology, though it has taken some unexpected turns during its unthrottled development this century.
Peterson's next question, however, seemed to catch the pilot by surprise.
“What's your name?”
The pilot straightened slightly with a stiff movement. Luke thought it must have already picked up this nonverbal gesture of surprise from them. At any rate it had a tremendous capacity to establish and nurture communication.
I have a formal designation given me by my builders, but I have no name. Perhaps an acronym would make an appropriate name.
“Like what?” Luke asked.
Perhaps automated linguist, extraterrestrial. ALEX. That, I think, does not stray too far from the rules applied to your various military acronyms. It is also descriptive of that role in which you will most often see me.
“Alex it is then.” Peterson turned to Luke and Redleaf. “Excuse me,” he said in afterthought to Alex. “Mister Dawson, ...”
“Luke is fine, colonel.”
“Okay, Luke. Can we go down to my car for a few minutes. I’d like to stay out here all day and play with this thing but I've got a lot to get done and not much time to do it in. I need to ask you a even more before I go back.”
Peterson took brief notes as Luke recapitulated some of the events leading up to the morning's landing.
“Listen, Luke,” Peterson finally said, “I've got to get back to the base and keep things on track for as long as I can.”
“Understand. It seems to me more ought to be happening.”
“I'm sure more already is. We just don't know about it out here.”
Then, as if to corroborate Peterson's last statement, the heavy chop of helicopter blades came out of the north. Peterson turned in time to see the craft bank sharply and flee back toward the city. The words Live Eye News were visible along the helicopter's flank.
“That ought to get things moving.” Peterson appeared at a loss for what to do next. “Anyway, I've got to get going. I've already had the command post send an initial report up channel. It requires an update. The update is already overdue.”
“Hold up. I'll go with you. You're going to need corroboration. I'm assuming you intend to report an extraterrestrial craft occupying your test range.”
Peterson managed a smile. “I'm afraid so. I don't see any way around it. I don't expect much to come out of that except some activity to get me relieved of command. That's in my favor though.”
“How's that?” Luke asked.
“I've probably made a dozen errors in handling this incident so far. When the big boys at headquarters realize they have essentially ignored a report from a reliable source about a strange landing out here, they'll be too busy trying to cover their own mistakes to worry about picking my actions apart.”
Luke shook his head. “Nothing changes.” Peterson eyed him sharply. “We've made face to face contact with a starship pilot, and the big boys are concerned about their images.”
“I guess you're right. I've been playing this game too long.” He slapped Luke on the back. “Let's go. I think we ought to do as much right as we can in the time left before we have control snatched away from our level. There's still a lot left to do correctly.”
***
Peterson seemed more relaxed now. “You know, Luke. I think I'm going to enjoy the coming days. I already have the highway patrol sealing off the road. The news service will have this out in the afternoon editions. And, if I know the headquarters staff, they'll still be sniggering up their sleeves about our barrage of flying saucer reports when the video hits the evening news. You and I have time for a preliminary meeting with some people I think can help put things into perspective. This morning will be the only time we'll have to do this. I'd like to get Doctor Bourne on board. He used to be head of the aerospace medical research center in Albuquerque before he quit to do research on his own. He's a long-time friend and anti-UFO reactionary. I want to see his reaction when I show him this thing, but more than that I want his help.”
***
On the ride back to the base Luke counted this Colonel Peterson as perhaps the first real break he had seen in the whole affair, outside of his own team of course. The colonel was a rare type as base commanders went. Not full of himself but thoughtful and deliberate. He appeared to be a problem solver. Few senior officers Luke had met would have come out to face such a situation alone. None would have taken the approach this colonel was taking. Luke wondered why the colonel wanted to bring in outsiders. And who was this Doctor Bourne he had mentioned?
***
Doctor Maxwell Bourne put the final stitch into Number 37's scalp as his lab assistant entered the room. He drew the last suture tight with a deft motion, tied it off and dropped the suturing needle and several hemostats into a stainless steel pan.
“Well, Sarah, how is our last patient coming along?”
Sarah Olsen was a thick young woman of Swedish stock and almost as tall as Doctor Bourne. In her stocking feet she stood six feet one.
“Still catatonic. I changed out his I.V. a few minutes ago. I think he'll come around in another hour. I just hope he's not like the others.” Sarah's large brown eyes reflected the inner suffering she shared with the brain modified animals in her care. It was for that reason that Bourne had hired her.
Bourne stayed busy running tests on the animals whose brains he had altered. He usually performed his operations in the early morning hours. He had always been an early riser, needing usually no more than four hours sleep to get by. His only pastime was golfing in the afternoons after his test runs were finished. And occasionally a poker game or two.
“Well, I'll have a new patient for you in just a moment. This one has his left hemisphere removed along with part of his right limbic system. I have a specific set of tests to run him through when he recovers his strength.”
Bourne released the thick leather straps that held the simian in place. Then he disconnected the anesthetizing equipment and removed a cluster of cannulas inserted into the animal's inner thigh. He closed the cannula openings with a quick series of stitches and stood up to wipe his forehead. He checked the closures for leakage then together they lifted the unfortunate beast onto a gurney and strapped it in place. Sarah guided the gurney carefully through the tangle of wires and tubes that ran throughout the light-green operating room. As she exited the door, Bourne switched off the equipment and doused the overhead operating light. He pushed open a rear door and stepped into his own warmly furnished study. It was almost daylight.
An ancient leather chair in the corner creaked comfortably as Bourne eased his bulk into it. He flipped on the weather channel to see if it was going to rain today. The series of thunder claps that had shaken the operating room while he was removing the majority of the chimpanzee's cranial matter told him that his golf game this afternoon with Colonel Peterson might be in jeopardy. There was no mention of thunderstorm activity in the entire southwest, however. He rose from the chair and retrieved his practice putter from the umbrella stand behind the door. He had sunk several putts when Sarah came in.
“Excuse me, Doctor, Number 37 is conscious now if you want to have a look.” She stood patiently in the door as Bourne sank his last putt. She knew that he always visited the animals as soon as they came out from under the anesthesia, ever concerned that they never be in any kind of physical pain.
Bourne dropped the putter back in the umbrella holder. “Let's have a look then, shall we.”
The animal house, as Sarah called it, was a long room lined on two walls with metal cages. In the center were observation tables and restraining devices to hold the animals until it could be ascertained that they would do no harm to themselves or to others. Clamped into a restraining chair was Number 37.
The medium sized chimp glared at them through red rimmed eyes. A large patch of gauze crossed its temple. Bourne approached the animal cautiously. One never knew with certainty what the exact outcome of brain modification would be. That was, after all, the reason for the surgery. Careful tests would have to be run to ferret out the often subtle changes. That might take months. A good example of such subtlety was Number 37.
