"The short notice has enabled us to keep the veep level low," Ben grabbed a handful of M&Ms from the bowl on the table, began poking through them. "The Vice President of the United States isn't going to make it, I'm afraid." He dropped some of the candies back.
"You have a problem with the blue ones?" Matt said.
"An abomination." Ben examined what was left. "The short notice also caught us off guard on receivers. Fortunately, we got the VLA at Socorro primed. Barely." He tossed a few into his mouth.
Miranda picked up a blue M&M. Besides this group at her table, other members of the task force, scientists, engineers and execs from JPL, and three pool reporters ambled around the room awaiting the golden hour.
"Who's idea was it to stick my message on the wall?"
Ben smiled, shrugged. "Could've been anyone. Appropriate, though, don't you think, 'Miranda'?"
It had embarrassed her to find the framed missive hanging next to a Voyager 2 image of Uranus's most convoluted moon, also named Miranda. She'd written the message in longhand:
To the visitors:
We are humbled and honored by your visit. We have learned many new things, the most important being that we are not alone in the universe.
We are puzzled, however, by your actions just prior to your departure. The humans you studied emerged changed, regressed to the physical stage of human children. Outside of the physical changes, these people also have been hurt in other ways. Five are dead, slain by others out of fear and ignorance. What was the purpose of this deed? We have no explanation from you.
We do not ask out of anger, we ask out of concern for our fellow humans. All through your stay, you were kind and benevolent. Help us to understand the purpose behind this action so future generations will not look upon the Holn—and other visitors from other worlds—with fear and hatred.
Sincerely, Miranda Sena
[interaction with Alpha, May 14, 2004]
"One thing has occurred to me lately, though, ever since those gentlemen on Crosshairs brought it up," Avram said after taking a sip of coffee. "Those Holn were incredibly brave. They landed on this planet with no guarantee we wouldn't open fire on them."
"Yeah, that came up in discussions here," Ben said. "They've done it before on other planets, so I guess they figured it was safe."
"Maybe they're cagier than we give them credit for," Miranda said, pushing the M&M around on the table with a plastic stirrer. "Maybe they deliberately chose an isolated landing place."
Ben and Matt suddenly straightened.
"Hell, yes," Matt said. "They knew the official places would be surrounded by armies and guns and whatnot."
"That's why they were orbiting, to see if they could find a less dangerous spot," Ben said.
"Possibly," Avram said. "When they landed, there were seven people from the astronomy club, three from the TV station and my wife and myself at the site. Hardly a threat. Nearly an hour went by before the first military chopper landed."
"And, meanwhile, civilian gawkers were jamming the roads," Ben said. "How long before the ground troops arrived in any strength?"
Avram nodded. "Seven hours. The Guard finally had to come cross-country, smashing through fences and across roadless terrain to get there."
"So the landing site might have been less of an impulse than we thought." Ben shook his head. "Or were led to believe."
As 2 A.M. approached, the visitors began gathering near a window overlooking the control room.
"How long will it take to translate?" Miranda asked.
"Not more than five minutes," Ben said. "Even if they send War and Peace, it shouldn't take long."
Miranda could see Wanda behind one of the consoles wearing a headset. She envied the JPL scientist slightly for being among the few who would first hear the sound of the message, even if it was just electronic buzz.
Ben turned, addressed the group. "After translation, the message will appear on the monitor to your left. Assuming they sent one, it should be on its way. Right now, the Holn are closer to the orbit of Uranus than Jupiter. They used Jupiter to get a free speed boost. At the velocity they're going now, barring any changes, they'll reach mother ship in about fifteen years."
A hush fell over the room at the top of the hour. 2:01, nothing but hiss over the speakers. 2:02, two or three people shuffled nervously. 2:03:12, "Signal capture. Confirmed. The Holn are talking."
2:03:41, "Signal ended. We have a clean capture. Translation initiated."
Miranda had to force herself not to hold her breath. Three minutes passed before the JPL logo on the huge wall monitor disappeared, replaced by a blue background. A white frame appeared, blank at first, but then words slowly scrolled top to bottom.
WE HEAR YOUR QUESTIONS[.]
ANSWER — WE DO THIS FOR YOU[.]
BEYOND 17[.]
YOU HAVE MADE CLIMB FROM NOT KNOWING TO KNOWING[.] WE UNDERSTAND CONFUSION [BUT<?>] REST IS NOW YOUR STRUGGLE[.]
HOW — SPECULATION ON <direct translation n.a., using colloq.> TINY<93% certainty> MACHINES CORRECT[.] ORGANIC[.<?>] DID NOT KNOW THIS WAS IMPORTANT TO YOU[.]
WHY — PHYSICAL LIMITS NOT BOUNDS[.] WHY DO YOU THINK OTHERWISE[?] MIND IS <one word-no known translation> [AND] MIND IS THAT WHICH SEES<54% probability; others: knows{37%}, understands {10%}, {other choices 3%}>[.] IF YOU WANT TO KILL 17 [THAT] IS YOUR CHOICE[.] LOOK AT<60% probability; other choice: TO{40%}> YOUR FUTURE FIRST [.]
<alpha string as received>MIRANDA SENA<end> WE DO NOT SING TO EACH OTHER[.] THE UNIVERSE SINGS TO US[.]
Miranda stared at the words, unaware of anything else around her. Emotions with roots back to her graduate days when first word of extraterrestrial contact hit like thunder worked at her. She closed her eyes, brought her hand to her face, but could not stop tears from trickling down her face.
* * *
[["Copies of the message have been sent to every government, every university, every institution that has requested it. Plus, the raw copy is on the Web at www-dot-NASA-dot-gov-forward slash Holn. Everyone is invited to comment. We're still going over it but, except for that one word, it's pretty plain to us."
"The 'one word' Danthen referred to follows the phrase 'The mind is.' However, in the next sentence, Danthen said JPL is tending to give more weight to the word 'understands' than the computer's choice of 'sees' in the phrase 'mind is that which.' This is the only response the Holn have given since they departed last June 14. It seems to be a personal response to a plea from Dr. Miranda Sena, the scientific head of the Holn Effect Task Force. The 'raw copy,' as Danthen described it, already is causing controversy, especially the suggestion the Group of Seventeen represents the future for humanity.
"Rolf Treadwell, CNN, Pasadena."]]
* * *
"Earl?" Walter said from the deck.
"Over here—yeow!" A Frisbee, spinning in hard and fast on a throw from Tom, thwacked off his knuckles. "Ow! Dang!" He shook a finger at Walter. "You did that on purpose."
"Sorry." Walter suppressed a smile. "There's some people here to see you, but only one introduced himself." He looked at a business card. "Jack Theodoric of the FBI."
"FBI?" Lucas said. "What did you do now, Uncle Earl?"
"Nothing." Earl picked up the disk, tossed it at Jennifer with a flick of his left wrist, then hurried inside. The agent, in open-necked sport shirt and chinos, was flanked by a brown-haired woman in a smart suit with the just-proper-length dark gray skirt, and by a thin man about an inch taller, also neat in coordinated blue suit.
"Earl Othberg, I'm—"
"I remember you, Mr. Theodoric," Earl said as they shook hands, Jack's swallowing his hand.
"And these—" He was interrupted by the noisy entrance of the kids.
"Children, I think you'd better—"
"If this has something to do with Uncle Earl, we want to stay," Tom said.
"This has a lot to do with Mr. Othberg," Jack said.
"Well, all right, then sit and be quiet."
Jack finished the introductions. "This is Giles Lassiter"—Earl shook hands—"and Alex—Alexandria—Roth. They represent the MacAlister Foundation."
"I've heard of them. They go around giving away money."
"Won't you sit down?" Walter said.
The children sat on the floor, the two foundation people together on the short couch, Marcia and Walter on the long couch, Jack in a chair and Earl in the recliner opposite the foundation people.
"We're not here today to give away money," the woman said, "much to the disappointment of the children, I see." Muffled giggles came from that corner. "We are here instead with a two-pronged proposal. One, to ensure the safety of Rewound Children, and two, to begin legal action to overturn Alden Commission rulings and return some individual rights."
The foundation, she said, would start with an appeal of the original ruling declaring the group members children. At the same time, lawsuits would be filed against those people who seized property, funds, or guardianship.
"That won't be a problem here," Earl said. "Walter took over control of my finances and never has denied me a request, although he thinks I'm wasting a lot of it. It's just that he has to sign the forms before I can get my own money."
"That's one of the areas we want to correct," she said. "Personal control of your own estate, and in the end, your own life."
"I see." He rubbed the fabric on each chair arm with the heels of his palms. "How do you plan to protect us?"
"By bringing the group together in one place," Giles said. "A safe haven or, as Jack insists on calling it, a reservation. We have our eye on a failed resort in Marin County, north of San Francisco. The reservation would be guarded and patrolled, a place where you could live out of the public eye and away from fear. You would have complete freedom to live as you chose, and also to come and go as you please. All amenities would be provided, including housing and food. Recreational activities would be available, and as much media attention as you can stand."
"But we're not going to rip families apart," Alex said. "Anyone you wish to bring will be welcome—indeed, necessary. This way, the families can get away from the fear, too."
"It'll also put us in one place where the scientists can poke, prod, jab, stick, and peer at and drain blood from us and run us through their infernal machines and have us perform for them. And rip our pajamas off and take pictures of us and sell them to tabloids."
"I can personally assure you," Jack said, leaning forward, "that Dr. Avram Rolstein and Dr. Miranda Sena, the two head scientists of the Holn Effect Task Force, were angry as hell about that."
"As to your other concerns, Earl, that has been addressed also." Giles took out three business-sized envelopes from a jacket pocket. "The foundation wants the Holn Effect Task Force to remain in charge of the research effort. However, Dr. Rolstein and Dr. Sena know that there was some action taken before the task force was formed, and a few actions after, that have caused bad feelings—"
"That's certainly understating it," Earl said. "Why do I tell them to go to hell when they ask for follow-up exams? Because it's bad enough being treated like a mentally retarded child, but when they continue to think of me as a lab rat to experiment on, forget it. They want my cooperation, they're going to have to do more than 'feel bad' about the wretched treatment."
"Are personal apologies enough?" Giles separated two of the letters, held them out. "One each from Dr. Sena and Dr. Rolstein. Dr. Rolstein especially, because, as he put it, he was one of the gargoyles behind the masks in Santa Fe. For the record, Dr. Sena did not join until the task force was formed. She did not participate in any of the physical exams—"
"Studied us from afar, right?"
"As a researcher, yes. I think you should know she is quite upset at the treatment you have received and has given Jack hell for not—because he cannot stop the attacks. Believe me, Mr. Othberg, she is very concerned about the safety and well-being of every member of the group."
"Is that a fact." Earl gazed at the letters Giles still held out. Finally he stood up, stepped over and took them. Both were addressed simply to "Mr. Earl Othberg," one in a scrawling script, the other in a flowing, cursive style.
"This third letter is from Wynona MacAlister, administrator of the foundation, explaining exactly what she hopes to accomplish."
The writing on the third envelope was compact and elegant. "What do you want from me?" he said as he sat down.
"We need someone to help us recruit the others," Alex said. "You were recommended. Travel with us and help explain the project on a personal level. Help us persuade these people this is the best hope they—"
"Be a Judas goat, in other words. Lead the rest of the group into the lab where they can be dehumanized and examined and studied. It's either this or be demonized by religious nutcases. Demonized and dehumanized. Some choice."
Alex leaned forward. "Neither of those are our intentions. If it's any help, Mr. Othberg, this idea is not new. Dr. Sena proposed something like this last summer, but she was overridden by the government. Wynona is trying to go one better and give you a place to live in safety while you sort out what happened and what you will do next. Scientific research, as important as it is, will be secondary."
"If this is any help, Earl, you have my word that what they say here is true," Jack said.
Earl watched his left hand tap the letters against the chair arm. The proposal would solve a nagging problem, but even so . . .
"If this place lives up to what you want it to do, then I think a better name would be sanctuary."
Jennifer turned bright pink when everyone looked at her.
"That is a splendid idea," Alex said.
* * *
[[" . . .CNN has learned that Health and Human Services Secretary Roberta Fletcher had ordered the dismissal of Dr. Miranda Sena, the scientific chief of the Holn Effect Task Force. The order was not carried out, and sources told CNN the reason was because the entire task force, all seventy-two researchers and technicians directly involved, signed a letter stating they would quit and take their story to every newsroom they could find, end quote. When asked to comment by CNN reporter Marinka Svoboda, Dr. Sena had only this to say":
"Don't ask me about internal politics. Ask me about progress on determining answers to questions."
"All right, how are things progressing?"
"Very well, thank you. That last message from the Holn has served as a collective bolt of lightning. We will be announcing some important results soon, and believe me, Ms. Svoboda, they'll be a lot more important, and interesting, than any internal bickering you might hear of."
"No other member of the task force will comment.
"Still, some officials are wondering why, ten months after the extraterrestrials left the children on the hillside, news surrounding the Rewound Children is still swirling about. Here are three examples:
"In Chicago, Michael Thompson, brother of Rewoundee Eddie Thompson, has had to sell his gym and exercise club because of a declining customer base he attributes to broadcaster Alian Goth's campaign that cast aspersions on him and his operation. Michael Thompson said the business, Windy City Gym and Health, had been profitable because of his efforts to create, in his words, the best damn gym in Chicago, and the business had no debts or liens at the time he sold it. However, Goth, who has a daily radio show heard coast-to-coast, has said anyone who harbors a Rewoundee is a traitor because the Rewoundees are enemies of decent, God-fearing folk. Goth has mentioned Windy City Gym by name and suggested anyone who is righteous and patriotic should not patronize the business. Michael Thompson had this to say":
"First, I had to surmount racial prejudice in getting the licenses and loans for the business. A lot of white folk didn't want a black man owning a business, especially downtown. So this is just another excuse to allow hatred and fear to color one's outlook. As far as my brother goes, he's my bro' and I will stand by him. I know the word 'bro' 'is overused, but he's part of my family and I will help him and protect him as long as I can. Stick that in your ear, Goth."
"In Houston, the wife of Rewoundee Pablo 'Pete' Aragon has annulled the marriage and gotten a court order barring him from seeing their three children. In addition, his sister, Angela Chavez, has lost her job as cafeteria supervisor at a local school district. School officials decline comment except to say a reason is, quote, bad influences, end quote. Chavez still has her second job with a catering service, but the owner, who asked that she and the name of the business remain off the record, says Chavez now only works in the main kitchen to avoid contact with customers. Chavez is the designated guardian for Aragon despite having three children of her own. Her husband, Joe, a commander of an anti-missile battery group, is in South Korea, having been deployed in the buildup of troops to meet the new emergency there.
"In Amarillo, Texas, police and fire units were called to the house of Dale and Sue Rithen after a Molotov cocktail ignited a fire. Damage was limited to the roof, but police say it follows a series of threats against the Rithen household. The Rithens have not one but three Rewoundees living with them: Dale's mother, Linda, his father, Jerry, and Paula Caulfield, who was ejected from her mother's household several months ago. Dale and Sue Rithen say they will move before asking any of the three to leave.
"Allan Goth has mentioned both the Rithens and Chavezes at various times in his program.
"These incidents, and others we have reported, bring up the question of how much longer can this go on? Six of the Rewindees are dead because of what one task force scientist calls simple, naked fear. How many others are going to die? In the end, who will be responsible for their deaths? And who is responsible for their safety?
"Rolf Treadwell, CNN, Washington."]]
* * *
Earl watched as a fine rain fell on the bright flowers of Marcia's garden. Two days had passed since the visit from the MacAlister group and they were still in town awaiting his decision. They'd stayed another two hours on the first day as Earl peppered them with questions and outright challenges. Last night, they'd been over for dinner at Marcia's invitation, and Earl spent three hours on the phone with Wynona MacAlister. She was as formal as her handwriting, but talked convincingly.
In his letter, Dr. Rolstein apologized for the bad treatment in New Mexico and tried to explain why.
We were dealing with the unknown again. We'd gotten complacent in the time they spent there doing nothing but talking. When the group was first captured by the Holn, we panicked along with everyone else. My God, what did we miss? Did we say something to anger them? Did we overlook something they had told us? Then we found you and the others—and we were at a total loss. This we did not expect. And we refused to believe it. We believe it now, though. We think we have reasons why and a method how.
Now we have to deal with the consequences.
Dr. Sena's letter was different right off—she wrote the whole thing by hand in her stylish script.
Cold hard fact often distracts us. We are so enamored of these facts we look upon them as the end-all, the sole reason for everything. In this case, we forgot the facts were based on people. People whose lives had been shattered and who had no inkling, at first, of what had happened. We won't forget again. I will make sure of that.
Are you still left-handed?
That last question both amused and puzzled him until he took a closer look at her writing. She might have practiced to get it readable, but it still had the slant of a lefty.
A hand holding a bowl of chocolate ice cream and sliced bananas coated with hot fudge suddenly appeared before him.
"Thanks," he said as he accepted the bowl and a spoon from Walter.
His nephew sat in the next chair. "How's the decision process going?"
"I guess I took longer than I should. Thanks for the time. I do think, though, it's the answer we've all been looking for."
"Indeed?"
"Yep." Earl spooned in a heap of ice cream. "Jack Theodoric really likes the sanctuary idea," he said after clearing the ice cream. "Simplifies the task of protecting us. I'm also looking at it from my point of view. And that of all the others. A place to be free of fear. A chance to remove danger, and hatred, from our loved ones. A chance to stand back and take stock of the situation."
For a few moments, the only sounds came from raindrops spattering on leaves and the house, a slight rustle of a breeze, and spoons scraping ice cream from the sides of bowls. Attacks on the house had lessened, but mostly because of the twice-daily drive-by of a police cruiser. Sharkjaw—real name, Nelson Francis Greggson—had stayed tough until a six-foot-three policeman with biceps the size of melons dangled handcuffs before the wide-eyed boy. His resolve dissolved quickly.
Walter had refused to accept money from Earl to help replace the windows ("That's what I have insurance for"). Earl did replace the Enterprise with a model so large Earl couldn't get his arm around the box. When finished, the thing looked spectacular, but Earl was hoping the activity had soothed fears in a boy who didn't quite understand the hate flowing around him.
Walter put his empty bowl on the railing, sat back.
"What do you want us to do?" he said.
"I want you to go on with your lives," Earl said instantly. "You've made a good life here. I won't ask you to give it all up just to watch over me. I'll miss you and Marcia and the kids, but you, and they, can best help me by being what you were before I got here and loused it all up."
"Well, it won't be quite the same. And it's all your fault, you know."
"What?"
"We made the final decision earlier this month. We're going to quit our jobs and open that pharmacy and grocery we were talking about. What you said about us falling into a rut and avoiding risk really rankled us for a while. Then we realized why: It was true. At least we can say we took the chance."
Earl studied the profile of his nephew in the muted light of the day.
"Now you're talking like an Othberg."
"You think so? Well, like I said, you're pretty much to blame for it all. So we're going to call it Earl's Market."