Chapter 10

Victoria was awakened from a disturbed sleep by a persistent squeaking. Opening one eye, she could make out her alarm clock in the gloom. It read 6:45, but was making no noise. Rolling over onto her back, she opened the other eye and focused on the plaster ceiling. A long water stain shaped like a giant worm or amoeba was etched in the plaster. The squeaking and chirping continued, and she realized it was coming from outside her room. She stumbled out of the bed and wrenched open the curtains. Sunlight poured in, blinding her momentarily. Small birds - sparrows, she guessed - hopped around among the bushes that separated the motel’s walkway from the grills of the parked cars. Birds. God, she didn’t know they could be so damn noisy. She was used to the background racket of the city - the constant babble of car horns and sirens and the shuffle of millions of feet - but this was downright distracting. How could people sleep?

She realized with a start that she would have to find a way to get used to it. This ... this town would be her home soon. At least temporarily. She was supposed to spend a couple of days checking out the site with Peabody, and looking about for a place to stay. Peabody had given her the name of a real estate agent. She would be expected to relocate here once construction was well under way to oversee the final work. After the center opened, she would be here indefinitely. She frowned at the thought. But not forever, she vowed. Not forever.

After showering and dressing, Victoria stopped by the lobby to ask the desk clerk if the motel offered a continental breakfast. It was some Indian guy, and he had politely given her a cup of coffee but told her that, no, the Mountain Dew Motor Court operated on the modified New American plan, the primary attractions of which were free ice, snack machines and cable TV with pay-per-view.

She drank the coffee, choked down some stale crackers from the machine, and fished around in her purse until she found the keys to the rental car Peabody had given her the night before. He said he would be working in his room for much of the day, communicating via computer with the main office in New York.

Her meeting with the reporter was at 8:30. She was supposed to meet him at the newspaper office, which Peabody had told her was downtown. She couldn’t miss it, he said. She wasn’t so sure; her sense of direction was not strong. As she entered Jupiter proper, she drove slowly around the town square searching the facades of the buildings. People were wandering up and down the sidewalks, but nobody seemed to be in a hurry, she noted. She was surprised to see merchandise sitting on the sidewalk in front of what she guessed was a hardware store - a couple of lawn mowers, shiny new shovels and spades, and some sort of machine with prongs sticking out the back that she had no idea what it must do. My god, she thought, they hadn’t even chained them down. Those things would be gone in two seconds if left unattended in New York.

She suddenly felt disoriented, and she pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked in an empty space. She felt as though she was in an Andrew Wyeth painting, or had been thrown back in time to the ‘50s. Small-town America. Well, maybe not the ‘50s, she thought as she watched two boys of about 15 jumping their skateboards over a low wall along the town square. They were clad in baggy shorts and shirts with scuffed up but expensive athletic shoes. One was entirely bald, the other sported a purple Mohawk. Each had an earring dangling from an ear.

Looking down the street, she saw a sign identifying the newspaper office. She shut the car off, climbed out and carefully locked it. She walked down the street and felt slightly dizzy. Maybe it’s the air here, she thought. It’s different somehow.

She pushed open the door to the newspaper and gave the woman at the counter her name, and told her she was expected by one of the reporters. A couple of minutes later the reporter from the meeting last night emerged from the back and came around the counter, his hand extended.

“Ms. Chandler, isn’t it? Thanks for stopping by. I’m Winston Moss.”

“Doctor,” she said, accepting his handshake.

“Beg your pardon?”

“It’s doctor. Dr. Chandler. I have a Ph.D.” She dropped his hand.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes glimmered with amusement. “Won’t you come back to my office, doctor?”

They went through into the back, past paste-up boards, stacks of newspapers, filing cabinets, desks piled high with papers and books, and ended up at a small cubicle filled with an overflowing desk. A kid at a nearby desk looked up from a computer he was pecking at and grinned before resuming his work. He looked incongruous in the newspaper office; dressed in a bright Hawaiian shirt, he somehow looked like a surfer beached on a strange land.

“Won’t you sit down?” Winston grabbed a stack of mail in his arms and dropped them on a pile behind his desk. He cleared off a space on his desk and opened a notebook.

“Want some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, then,” he said. “Shall we get started?”

She looked up to find him staring at her strangely. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

“Hmmm? Oh, sorry. Nothing. You just ... you haven’t ever been to Jupiter before, have you, um, Dr. Chandler?”

“No. Never.”

“So, what do you think?”

“It’s ... charming,” she managed. “Quaint, I guess. Small.”

He laughed. “Yeah. It’s all that. And more. Look, I didn’t mean to give you such a hard time last night. It’s just that I’ve been getting the runaround from your friend Peabody. I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. Anyway, Peabody said you’d have all the answers. Well, I’ve got the questions, so it looks like we’re a pretty good match.”

“Hardly,” she said dryly. “Mr. Moss…”

“Winston.”

“Pardon me?”

“Winston. It’s my name.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Moss. I’m a scientist, here to do a job. That’s to run the center. It’s not to make matches, it’s not to schmooze with the press, it’s not to make friends, it’s not to make people happy.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“With what?”

“With all that you just said. What’s wrong with making friends and making people happy?”

“I ... I ... that’s not what I meant, exactly,” she said, flustered a bit. She cursed herself. What was the matter with her? This was a stupid reporter, for Christ’s sake.

“Well, what did you mean? Exactly.”

Damn him, she thought. Sitting there smirking at her. Ready to make her look like a fool, no doubt.

“Look, Mr. Moss, I’m not sure this whole interview thing is going to work out. To be honest with you, I don’t trust the press. In fact, I don’t like the media much. I think the press is only interested in making people look bad, in snooping around trying to find out anything negative. And if they can’t find it, they make it up. Excuse me, they speculate.”

Winston leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “You know what, doctor? Don’t let this get out, but I agree with you. As a rule, the press is pond scum.” He grinned. “But there are exceptions to the rule, you know.”

She appraised him coolly. “O.K., Mr. Moss, what is it you want to know? Exactly.”

He leaned back and grabbed a pen, suddenly becoming more businesslike. “Let’s start with this institute or center of yours. Why would some guy who sells condoms want to build a facility to look for aliens? What’s in it for him?”

“Mr. Carrington does much more than manufacture, um, prophylactics,” she said hotly. “His holdings are very diversified, I can assure you. Prophylactics are but a small part of his business. He has agricultural interests...”

“Yeah, but he made his first wad in rubbers, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s no affair of mine. I thought we covered all that at the town meeting. All I know is he finances the Carrington Laboratories, where I am employed. We do important research there. And it has nothing to do with rubbers.”

“All right, all right. I personally don’t care what your Mr. Carrington makes. Of course, folks around here might not take too kindly to it. Then again, you never know. It’s not like they don’t sell Mr. Carrington’s product around here, you know.”

Victoria flushed. “No, I’m quite sure I wouldn’t know.”

“So, he’s not secretly building a condom plant up there on the mountain, is he? And using this UFO stuff as a cover?”

“You don’t believe, do you?” she said suddenly. “You think this is all fantasy, science fiction. You think we’re all a bunch of lunatics.”

Winston nibbled on his pen. “Well, you have to admit, the idea of contacting creatures from outer space from a mountain in Jupiter is kind of outlandish. Not to mention the idea of them coming here to visit.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope for that somebody who lived in a place called Jupiter would actually be interested in space,” she said hotly.

Winston laughed. “Well, we’re not exactly named for the planet. Nor the Roman god, for that matter.”

“Oh.” Despite Victoria’s glacial tone and flashing eyes, she was curious.

“It’s not something the Chamber of Commerce advertises. Seems that back when the pioneers were passing through to Kentucky and Tennessee, there was this one bunch that included a fellow with a mule. The party had climbed the mountains and made it into this valley here when it seems for some reason or the other the mule wouldn’t go another inch. Well, the fellow was mighty attached to that mule, so he decided he wouldn’t go any further, either. The rest of the folks moved on, but he stayed and opened a little trading post, and the town kind of gradually build up around it.”

“And this person’s name was Jupiter?”

“No, that was the name of his mule. He took to calling his place Jupiter’s Store, and the town just took over the Jupiter part.”

“But why didn’t he name the store after himself?” Victoria asked.

Winston grinned. “He was a Swedish gent. His name was Gudfarten. The chamber folks aren’t too keen on advertising that bit of folklore, either.”

The edges of Victoria’s lips began to quirk into a smile. Suddenly, she shook her head and her face snapped back into a severe expression. “Be that as it may, even a mule should be able to appreciate the science involved here. Do you really think that of all the billions and trillions of stars and planets out there, the only intelligent life is found on this one?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I think a pretty good case could be made that none can be found on this planet either.”

“Make jokes if you like, Mr. Moss. But this is serious business.”

“I thought it was science?”

She ignored the jibe. “Do you have any idea what it would mean to make contact with another civilization? Think what it would mean. Think of the possibilities. What we could learn. The technology. Think about the advances we could make in medicine, for instance. Perhaps they could give us medicines that would cure some of our major diseases.”

“Or perhaps they could give us new diseases we didn’t even know existed.”

“And space travel,” she continued earnestly. “Think about that. Think about traveling to other planets. Seeing other worlds, other civilizations. Think about the knowledge, the wisdom of the universe, that lies out there.”

“You’re really into this, aren’t you?” Winston said. Her faced was flushed with excitement, and her eyes flashed as she spoke.

“Yes, I am,” she said, suddenly angry. “Go ahead, laugh. I don’t care. People have been laughing at me all my life. It doesn’t matter. I’ll show you. I’ll show them. We’ll do it. We’ll contact aliens, and we’ll get them to come here. Just wait.”

“Whoa, slow down. I’m not laughing at anybody. It’s just that, well, you know, most of the people I know who talk about flying saucers are a couple of cards shy of a full deck, you know? I’ve never heard a scientist talking about them in a, er, scientific manner.”

His peace offering didn’t do much to mollify her. She sat back, glaring at him, her hands trembling.

He decided to try another tack. “So, how exactly do you plan on contacting these, um, aliens? What kind of communications device will you be using?”

She raised her chin and took in a deep breath. “To put it in layman’s terms, we plan to have a wide-band digital pulse transmitter to beam out a constant signal. Our main computer is programmed to send a welcoming signal out in every known language, plus several electronic ones we’ve developed. We assume that a species more advanced technologically than us will be able to recognize patterns and decipher the signal.”

“Interesting,” Winston responded. She looked at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but he was busy scribbling on his notebook.

“The signal will inform anyone or anything listening that we are an advanced civilization ourselves and looking for peaceful contact. We assume they will be able to home in on the signal and track it here. We also will have a large antenna on the mountain site to receive any signals sent back.”

“Really? How large?”

“About 50 meters in diameter.”

Winston whistled as he wrote. “Wow. You should be able to pick up the Knicks games with that.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “So, when do you open for business?”

“Construction will begin immediately. We estimate three months before we can begin initial operations.”

“Three months? You think you can get it all built in three months?”

“Oh, no. The antenna will be shipped here in pieces, and put together. A lot of the other equipment will be housed temporarily in pre-fabricated buildings while the main unit is under construction. That won’t be finished until next year. But Mr. Carrington is anxious to get this started. Very anxious.”

“Why is that?”

“What?”

“Why is Carrington so anxious to contact aliens? Or is this just a tax write-off?”

“Oh, no. He’s long had an interest in the potential for extraterrestrial contact. He’s very, um, passionate on the subject, actually. Like me. I think he recognizes the enormous potential in alien-human interaction. He’s really quite visionary in that way.”

“I’ll bet,” Winston said as he wrote. “So, um, you’ll be running the show, then?”

“On site, yes.”

“So you’ll be moving here?”

“It would be a rather lengthy commute from my apartment in New York.”

“You found a place to live?”

“No, but I’m supposed to meet with a real estate agent later today. A Ms. Arrington, I believe.”

“Yeah, she’ll find you something nice. Well, welcome to Jupiter, Dr. Chandler. If you need someone to show you around, show you where things are, give me a call.” He looked at her.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be able to find my way around. Besides, I’ll be pretty busy. Is that all?”

“For now, yes. Thanks again for stopping by.” He stood.

She rose from her seat.

“By the way,” he stopped her. “Can I ask you a favor?”

She considered. “A favor? Like what?”

“Just in case you, you know, hear anything. From up there.” He pointed to the ceiling. “Would you call us first? We are the local press, after all.”

She laughed. “I’ll have to think about that, Mr. Moss.”

Winston watched her go. Space aliens, he mused. Scientists. What was Jupiter coming to?

Chapter 9

Winston poured cream in his coffee until it was the color of aged oak and watched the steam rise from the cup. He was lifting the cup gingerly to his lips when the door banged open and Peabody stepped in. He spotted Winston and came over.

“Good morning,” Peabody said as he slipped into the booth opposite Winston.

“‘Morning,” Winston replied. “What’s up?”

Instead of answering, Peabody surveyed the diner warily, like a fox checking for hounds. It was mid-morning, and only a couple of tables were occupied.

“We don’t exactly have a brunch crowd,” Winston said wryly.

Peabody nodded, and waited until the waitress had poured him a cup of coffee and departed before he spoke.

“Well, Mr. Moss, I have a story for you, as promised.” He looked expectantly at Winston, who blew on his coffee and sipped.

“Aren’t you going to take notes or something?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether I think it’s a story.”

“Well, be that as it may, I think we should reach some sort of, um, accommodation, don’t you think, Mr. Moss?”

“An accommodation, huh? I dunno, Mr. Peabody, just what exactly did we need to accommodate?”

“The news I am about to impart, Mr. Moss, is very sensitive. My employer is concerned how the news might, um, be portrayed. We want assurances that we’ll be treated fairly.”

“Ah. I see. You want to know whether I’ll put the right spin on your story.”

Peabody shifted uncomfortably. He sipped his coffee. “Now that’s just what I mean, Mr. Moss. You media people are always trying to find the negative slant to everything. We’re merely concerned that the positive angles will be, ah, fully appreciated.”

“Mr. Peabody, I don’t put any sort of spin to my stories. I just write them plain and simple, with all the angles.” He reached down on the seat beside him and pulled out a notepad and pen. He slapped them on the table in front of him. “Shoot.”

Peabody drank some more coffee. “Mr. Moss, what do you know of extraterrestrial visitation probabilities?”

Moss peered at him intently. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is about Nell Fleck’s UFO, isn’t it? I should’ve known. Sorry, pal, I ain’t interested in any more UFO stories. One’s my limit.” He closed the notepad and put the pen down.

“I think you’ll be interested in this one. As you know, I work for Mr. Conrad Carrington. He is interested in matters of an extraterrestrial nature. In fact, it’s sort of his hobby. He’s spent quite a bit of energy, and money, on the subject. He feels, rather strongly, that contact is feasible.”

“Contact?”

“Yes, you know, contact. Communication.”

“You mean like a close encounter?”

“Exactly.”

Winston rubbed his chin. “What’s that got to do with Jupiter? I mean other than the UFO story.”

“Truth be told, Mr. Carrington was quite taken with your story. You see, he has been looking for some time for a place to, er, centralize his efforts. A place to establish a facility geared toward the scientific research necessary to establish the prerequisite communications and technological links that can be developed ultimately into actual liaison.”

Winston stared at him. “Let me get this straight. Carrington is going to build a research center here in Jupiter to look for UFOs?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Peabody shifted uncomfortably again. He picked up his cup, but the coffee had grown cold so he set it aside. “But it will be much more than that. We hope to do more than merely look. We hope to meet.”

“On Chestnut Mountain.”

“Yes.”

“What makes you think aliens from outer space are going to land up there?”

“We have people who have done all sorts of research, extrapolation, that sort of thing. Seems as though this is what they call a ‘hot’ area of the world for UFOs. Ms. Fleck’s sighting triggered our interest in this particular area. It also meets certain of our other criteria: Suitable elevation, isolation, adequate transportation links, available real estate, that sort of thing.”

“I see.” Winston toyed with his spoon. “So just how do you plan on issuing your invitations to all these creatures from outer space. You putting in some kind of transmitter up there or what?”

“Something like that. I must admit, I’m a bit deficient in some of the technical details. But the lab director will be coming in for the meeting and can fill you in on all that.”

“Meeting? What meeting.”

“I called the mayor and asked him if I could address folks informally, at a town meeting or something.”

“And he went for it?”

“Well, not at first. But he went along when I mentioned Mr. Carrington, and that I had a major announcement to make concerning Carrington Industries Inc. and its interest in the town.”

“Christ, Bentley Springs’ll think Carrington is building a new factory or something. Hundreds of jobs he can take credit for. Will he be in for a surprise.” A grin suddenly spread across his face. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Peabody, I think everyone’s in for a big surprise.”

He laughed as he picked up his notepad. Somehow, Peabody felt he was part of the joke.

***

Peabody shifted nervously in the metal folding chair. He could feel its cold hardness through his trousers, and the chill ran from his buttocks up his spine. He felt the beginnings of a massive headache pick up at the base of his skull where the chill ended. It was, he knew, going to be a long night.

People were wandering in, taking seats, chatting with friends and acquaintances. He opened the file he held and riffled the pages, checking once again to be sure they were all there. He glanced to his left, and a matronly woman with a shell of hair the color of blue ice smiled at him. He glanced to his other side, but Victoria Chandler was immersed in her notes and paid him no mind. She had come up that day, checking into a room three doors down at his motel. He had filled her in on what was to take place, and hoped she was ready. Hoped he was ready.

He looked out at the audience and saw the reporter, Winston Moss, come in and take a seat on the front row. He nodded as they made eye contact. He wondered how Moss would play the story.

Peabody was seated on a raised platform with several of the town’s notables. He had been introduced to the mayor, Bentley Springs, a man who obviously took great pride in his swoosh of black hair. He was curiously well tanned, with a face regularly cracked by a dazzling smile that came and went like the beacon on a lighthouse. Peabody pegged him immediately as a professional politician, small-time variety.

Springs was rapping an ornate wooden mallet on a podium. “All right, citizens,” he bawled out, flashing his smile on the audience milling around like cattle. “Let’s take your seats so we can get started.”

Chairs scraped, and the murmuring died down. About 50 people had shown up, Peabody guessed. Springs looked out at his flock with a benign expression, his hands folded in front of him on the podium. “Fellow citizens of Jupiter,” he began, “I have called this special meeting of the town board of alderpersons for a very, er, special announcement. Joining the board this evening is Mrs. Henrietta Peterson, the president of the Greater Jupiter Chamber of Commerce,” Springs shot a smile at a woman dressed in a severe red business suit sitting at the far end of the stage from Peabody, “and Mr. Randall Wainright, the executive director of the Jupiter Area Regional Development Commission.” A balding man next to Henrietta Peterson nodded his head.

“Alrighty then, let’s get to the subject at hand. I called this meeting at the request of a visitor to our fair town, Mr. Sylvester Peabody of New York City. Mr. Peabody, would you care to address our town?”

Peabody stood up and was surprised when the mayor, followed by the audience, began clapping. He waved his hand to silence them, slightly embarrassed. He sucked in a breath and opened his folder on the podium. The audience looked up at him expectantly. Winston lolled in the front row, smirking. He ignored him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Mayor, distinguished alderpersons, and esteemed, um, officials, thank you for allowing me to be here with you this evening. As your mayor said, I asked to speak to you all because I wanted to let you know about a very momentous event about to happen here in Jupiter.” He paused and looked out to gauge the reaction so far, but the crowd sat in polite silence. He resumed. “I represent Carrington Industries Inc. Mr. Conrad Carrington, specifically. And Carrington Industries Inc., Mr. Carrington, that is, has selected Jupiter out of all the towns and cities in the country, the world actually, as the site of a major new research facility. An institution, if you will, devoted to the scientific pursuit of, um, research.”

Murmuring started up, and Peabody could see people exchanging puzzled looks with their neighbors. He risked a glance back and saw Springs frowning at him. Not quite the big new industry coming to town that he had expected.

“Um, well, groundbreaking for the facility will commence immediately at the site we have purchased on, um, Chestnut Mountain. I think the benefits of such a development speak for themselves.”

Peabody looked out at the audience again and decided that perhaps they didn’t. “You see, um, such a research facility, staffed by scientists and, er, researchers, will create great economic benefits here. Not to mention the fact that Jupiter will be in the national spotlight as the center for this, er, research.”

“What kind of research will you be doing in this facility?” a voice called out. It was Winston.

Peabody swallowed. “Um, why don’t I let the facility’s director answer those technical questions. May I introduce Dr. Victoria Chandler.”

Victoria walked briskly to the podium, and Peabody stood aside to make room. He looked longingly at his uncomfortable folding chair, but decided to remain standing in case she needed back up.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Victoria began, scanning the audience quickly before donning a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. She had done her hair up in a bun and worn her powder blue suit, her “power suit” as she thought of it, the one that made her look like a no-nonsense bank executive or financial analyst, and forged on. “As Mr. Peabody said, I am Dr. Victoria Chandler, and I am, I will be, the director of the facility once it begins operations.”

“We’re all still waiting to know what it will be operating on,” Winston interjected. She looked up and Winston saw a flash of irritation in her gray-green eyes. He had a fleeting image of the sea, foam-flecked waves crashing on a beach. Despite her efforts to hide it, she was not unattractive, Winston decided. And vaguely familiar.

“I am getting to that,” she said in a tight voice. “Jupiter has been chosen as the site of the world’s foremost, most advanced, state-of-the-art extraterrestrial communications and contact facility. The Carrington Center for Cosmic Communication.”

She paused and looked up again. Winston twisted around in his seat. The meeting hall was dead quiet. Mouths gaped. Feet twitched. Winston grinned as he spun back around. The mayor was muttering something to the man on his left, Horace Goodbody, the vice mayor.

“Um, Ms. Chandler, is it?” Winston said, breaking the silence, “do you mind elaborating a little?”

She shot him a glance like a dart out of a gun. “It’s doctor. Dr. Chandler, please,” she said through clenched teeth. Peabody stood beside her perspiring. “Yes. I will. Once the facility is up and running, we will be engaged in the scientific search for intelligent life in the immediate vicinity.” As the crowd began to mutter, she hastened to add, “The immediate cosmic vicinity. This region of the space. You see, we have reason to believe that extraterrestrials have been visiting our solar system for some time, and have in fact made repeated visits to our planet. And this area, here around Jupiter, seems to have some attraction for them. We hope to entice them to make contact with us. Here.”

“Outer space aliens in Jupiter?” a voice cried out. “Reckon they can’t be worse than any of them other tourists.” This drew guffaws from the crowd.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen,” Victoria said sternly, “this is a most serious matter. This is serious scientific research.” She looked over at Peabody, who had taken out a handkerchief and was busy wiping his brow. “The potential here is enormous,” she continued, leaning over the podium. “Think about what it would mean, to actually make contact with a species from another planet. A whole different race of creatures, a completely different civilization. Think what we could learn. Think what it would mean.”

“I think it would mean more flatlanders coming up here wandering around lookin’ up at the sky,” said the wit who had scored earlier with the crowd. There was more laughter.

At this, Bentley Springs was on his feet like a cat. Smoothly, he glided to Victoria’s side and held up his hand. “Now, now, folks, simmer down, simmer down. Let’s remember to be neighborly to these good folks. After all, it sounds to me like they will make some mighty fine neighbors, don’t it? Scientists and the like. And you’re right, Hamby,” he directed this at the voice in the audience, “this just might draw some more folks here to Jupiter. A whole new tourist attraction. Why, if we play our cards right, Jupiter just might become the alien capital of the world!”

An angry voice cut through the excited chatter that followed the mayor’s pronouncement. “That’s right,” the stentorian voice bellowed. “You think it will be great to have a bunch of little green men running around town, attracting the tourists.”

Winston twisted around again, and saw that it was Nell Fleck in an old Army fatigue jacket standing at the back of the hall.

“It’ll be just great,” she went on. “Hell, they’ll be buying groceries at Food World, filling up their flying saucer down at Willy’s Gas ‘n’ Go, sucking up coffee at J.D.’s,” she snorted.

“Or more likely,” she added darkly, scowling at the room, “they’ll be zapping you with their ray guns, hauling you away for God knows what kind of awful experiments aboard their ships, or taking you back to live in a zoo. Bah! I’m telling you folks, I know. I know what they’re like. They’re out to take over our world. And they’re going to start right here, in Jupiter! And these scientists,” she spat out the word like it had a bad taste, “want to invite them on in!”

She stood glaring around the room. “Well, says I, over my dead body! I for one intend to fight them. The next alien sets foot in Jupiter will see the business end of my shotgun!”

Winston scribbled furiously, and looked up at the podium. The woman had turned beet red and was clenching her papers so hard they shook. Peabody next to her seemed to be choking into his handkerchief. Only the mayor was taking it all in with equilibrium.

“Now, now, Nell. Calm down. Nobody’s going to be taking over Jupiter as long as I’m mayor.” He turned to Victoria and Peabody, and said in a low voice, “You’uns will have to excuse Ms. Fleck there. She’s been through a lot lately. Had quite a shock there. And, of course,” he added, as though it explained everything, “she’s a veteran.”

He was interrupted by another voice, as a chubby, gray-suited man who with one hand was stretching a white collar that seemed to be two sizes too small for his beefy neck and with the other clutched a large black book stood up in the middle of the crowd. He gestured with the book and called out: “It’s the devil.”

Turning back to the audience, Springs plastered a beatific grin on his face. “Rev. Alabaster Coyne. Did you want the floor?”

“Indeed I do, Mr. Mayor,” the preacher affirmed, his florid features reddening further. “This is the devil’s work here.” He looked the crowd over professionally. “The devil, I say, has come to Jupiter! And at the risk of our reputation for gracious Southern hospitality, I must inform our visitors from up north,” this he sneered, as though they were emissaries from hell itself, “that we don’t cotton to heathens who traffic with Satan and his minions.”

This stirred the crowd, and there were a few muttered “amens.”

Thus encouraged, the preacher steamed ahead. “This is a God-fearing community, ladies and gentlemen, and we don’t need outsiders coming in and inviting visitors from Down Below to come up and camp out here in our fair town. We got us enough of those heathen types out in the woods right now, running around half naked and doing God only knows what.”

“Sir,” Victoria said desperately, struggling to retain her composure as she felt the whole evening slipping out of control, “we are scientists and...”

“I know all about science, madam,” Coyne waved her off. “Ape lovers and evolutionists, the lot of you. You don’t believe in Satan, but I’m here to tell you that he exists.” Coyne waved the Bible in the air. “Yes, sir, he may be walking the streets of Jupiter right now. And I warn you, if you proceed with your plans, you will bring fire and brimstone out of the sky - not creatures from some other realm.”

“All right, thank you for that, um, spiritual advice,” Springs said smoothly, waving the minister back into his seat.

Springs paused, then held his hands up as though giving the crowd a benediction. “Folks,” he said in soothing tones, “it is apparent to me that we have some slight disagreement in what to make of this news tonight. Let me remind you first, however, that we must extend our every hospitality to our guests,” and here he swept his hand to include Victoria and Peabody, the former standing rigid and the later pausing in his anxious scan for an easily accessible exit from the room.

“And let me remind you, second, that this development will be moving forward with the blessing of the town of Jupiter.” He eyed them severely. “And I think we should make the most of this. Despite what any of us may believe, what we have here is, short and simple, an opportunity. An opportunity for Jupiter to make a real name for itself. An opportunity to show these good folks what a wonderful place Jupiter is. An opportunity to make history. An opportunity to help all mankind and, not incidentally,” and here he leaned over the podium and winked, “ourselves.”

***

“That,” Victoria said with a heavy sigh, “was about as bad as it gets.”

“Oh, no, Dr. Chandler, it gets worse. Much worse.” Peabody looked over at her in the car and chuckled. The lights from the town flickered on her face. She looked tired as she rested her head on her hand, her arm propped up beside the window. She didn’t respond.

“You see, Dr. Chandler, you can’t tell about these folks. They’re not like the people we’re used to. Oh, no. Not at all.”

“No?” It was a disinterested question, and she stared out the windshield at the town gliding by. Peabody turned left onto the highway that would take them out to the motel.

“They’re ... different,” Peabody continued, feeling philosophical. “More ... earthy.”

“Is that your condescending way of saying they’re hicks and rednecks?” Victoria said wryly, turning to look at him.

He laughed. “You might say that. But cunning in their own way. Like that reporter. You know, the one I told you about. He was there tonight, on the front row, asking questions.”

She frowned. “Oh. Him. Yes, a snake, like all reporters. Can’t trust them at all. We would do well to stay away from him.”

Peabody stifled another chuckle. “Well, that may be hard to do, my dear.” He pulled into the motel and parked the car. He turned to face her, the light from the “Mountain Dew Motor Cour” sign flashing on her face. “You have an appointment with him tomorrow morning to fill him in on the project.”

Chapter 8

Dr. Victoria Chandler looked up from her computer screen in annoyance. She despised interruptions, particularly when she was concentrating on a difficult problem. And especially interruptions by snakes such as Harold Parker.

“What is it, Harold?” she asked impatiently, settling her glasses back on her nose and brushing back a loose strand of light brown hair.

Parker, his slicked back hair glittering in the fluorescent lighting, leered at her. “Looks like you’re headed for the boondocks.” He flapped a piece of paper at her.

Victoria snatched the paper and ignored Parker’s ogling while she scanned the document. She grimaced. “Shit,” she said. “Where the hell is this place?”

“Baby, I’m sure I have no idea. But I know one thing: You sure aren’t going to find anything like me down there in the sticks.”

“Thank god for small favors.”

Parker ignored the jibe. “So, whaddaya say? Let’s make a night of it. We’ll have a little send-off party. I promise it’ll be a night you’ll never forget.” He leered at her again.

“Harold, it’s all I can do to forget my days with you when I go home from work.” She reread the message again and a frown creased her forehead. “Please, do me a favor, will you? Go away.”

“O.K., baby, play hard to get. Hey, you know where I’ll be.”

Victoria paid no attention to his departure. Her mind was already clicking over the new data. Damn, she thought, he isn’t giving me much notice. Then again, this is it. This is the real thing. She felt a tingle of nervous energy course up and down her spine. A tiny part of her mind, meanwhile, was whispering: “Don’t screw this up. Don’t screw this up.” She brushed those thoughts aside. This was what she had been waiting for. This was her chance to prove herself in a big way. Oh, sure, her male colleagues in the Carrington Laboratories had finally conceded her a modicum of respect but only after she had worked harder and longer than they had. She had a quick, agile mind, able to logically reason out problems, and the iron determination to apply that talent. So what if her job had so far consumed her life? So what if they called her “The Ice Queen” behind her back? So what if the few hours she spent at her apartment were alone? She just went there to eat and sleep anyway. Her career was the main thing. Besides, she’d had bad luck at personal relationships. The world was filled with nothing more than Harold Parkers, all interested in one thing. And it wasn’t her mind.

All her life she’d wanted to be appreciated for what was inside her, but all anyone seemed to care about was what was on the outside. Even her mother had nagged her incessantly about her appearance: “Do something with that hair,” she complained. “Buy some nice dresses,” she’d said. “Meet some nice boys,” she’d begged.

Well, she hadn’t had much luck meeting nice boys, she thought ruefully. She wasn’t bad looking, she admitted to herself modestly, but something about her attracted all the wrong sort of people. Perhaps it was because she was so inward looking; as a child, she had spent her time reading rather than playing with the kids in the neighborhood. She had been shy, and had a hard time making friends. It was easier to stay in her room and read. It was when she’d run out of Nancy Drew mysteries to read that she’d stumbled on an old Robert Heinlein book at the library, and she’d gotten hooked. She devoured all the science fiction she could find, and her interest in the extraterrestrial had led her to major in science in college, at Rutgers. Her mother had been severely disappointed, hoping that she would major in husband-finding. That had nearly happened … but it hadn’t exactly worked out, and was something she didn’t let herself think about any more. Even when Victoria had moved on to get her graduate degrees at Cornell, her mother had harbored hopes that she would at least snag herself a professor. But Victoria had gradually grown accustomed to spending all her time in the library or lab, not at some party or in someone’s bed. No regrets, though.

Now, here she was, 32 years old, about to take a major step forward in her career, but all her mother talked about was grandchildren. But she had resigned herself to being single; in fact, she told herself, she preferred it that way. She liked being able to live her own life. She liked not having to accommodate someone else’s likes and dislikes. She liked being on her own. So what if even her cat had run away?

She turned her attention back to the message. Leave tomorrow, she mused. She’d have to scramble to finish up here at work, and rush home to pack a few things. But that was O.K. She was excited. She was going to be in charge. Carrington had made that quite clear. She knew he had his own misgivings about her, but her record spoke for itself. And they had one thing in common: A passionate belief that intelligent life existed out there in the cosmos. She would find an alien for Conrad Carrington, she thought, even if she had to go to some jerkwater little town to do it.

***

Winston groaned. He rubbed his eyes and studied the computer screen. Unbelievable, he thought. He looked around the newsroom. Warren, the sports guy, was out sick. Hannah, the part-time features writer, was at her desk typing up wedding announcements. Winston frowned. Where was that kid? “Lionel!” he bellowed.

A head popped around the corner of the break room. “You need me, chief?” Winston waved the intern over. “Lionel, about your story on the new school bus…”

Lionel beamed. “Pretty good, huh, dude? For my first story and all, I mean.”

Winston sighed. “No ‘dudes,’ remember Lionel?”

“Uh, sorry chief.” Lionel looked sheepish. Winston had gotten his fill of “dude” after only one day of Lionel.

“Lionel, this story…” Winston shook his head. “Lionel, look, you remember what I told you every story needed?”

Lionel frowned in concentration. “A headline?”

“No, Lionel, think. The five ‘W’s’, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, du… chief. Those ‘who, what, where’ things. Yo, that’s cool.”

“Well, um, Lionel, when you’re writing a story about the school board buying a new school bus, one of the ‘whats’ would be how much money the bus cost.”

Lionel Pringle looked perplexed. “Well, you know, I just didn’t think, like, that was any of my business.”

Winston sighed again. “Lionel, getting information is our business.”

“Well, you know, like, I thought that might be, you know, like privileged information. Secret like.” Lionel bobbed his head encouragingly.

“No, Lionel, this would be a matter of public record. People want to know how much they are paying for a school bus. They need to know how much they are paying.”

Lionel frowned again. “But I thought you said the school board was buying the bus.”

“It is, Lionel,” Winston said patiently. “But they use tax dollars. Which comes from the taxpayers. Do you see?”

Lionel nodded. “So you want me to find out how much the bus cost?”

“Yes, Lionel. Also when it will arrive in Jupiter. And what company it was purchased from. And how many other buses we have. All those kinds of facts, Lionel.”

“No problemo, dude, um, chief.” His face split into a goofy grin again. “Yo, chief, how about I also find out what color it’s going to be?”

Winston looked at the intern and thought of a big, happy puppy. He sighed again. “Yes, Lionel, that would be great.”

“Cool. I’m on it. Later, dude.”

Winston turned back to his computer but had barely gotten back to work when he felt a hovering presence behind him. Glancing up, he saw the publisher, Hobart Hobgood IV, clutching some papers.

“Morning, Hobart, look I wanted to talk to you about the budget…”

“Oh, no time to chit-chat this morning, Winston. Got places to go, things to do, people to see. But here you go; here are a few memos for you. Oh, and by the by, good work on that flying saucer story. We’re still getting comments on that one. Stay on top of it, now, all right? Good, good. Keep up the good work.” And Hobgood bustled out of the newsroom and disappeared out front.

Winston looked through the stack of memos. One was an admonishment to use the toilet paper more conservatively. Another suggested that all desks should be cleared of any clutter by the end of the workday. The third memo was the monthly reminder not to make personal calls on company telephones. Winston riffled through the rest and tossed them all in the trashcan. He rubbed his eyes again. Nothing in journalism school had prepared him for this, he thought.

As a child, Winston had loved to read. He couldn’t understand his friends’ complete dislike of books, nor could they comprehend his bookwormish tendencies. His love of reading had led him to writing; by the third grade he was regularly writing stories about a gang of kids who had adventures and solved crimes. He didn’t let anyone read them, of course; sensitive about his creativity, he had decided that the safest course was simply to limit his reading audience to himself. It wasn’t until the fifth grade that he had let anyone read anything he had written, and that was only because he started a neighborhood newspaper and writing about someone’s cat being lost or who had won a talent show wasn’t nearly as personal as, well, his own imagination.

By the time he entered high school in Charlotte, he knew he would be a writer. He loved the feel of words, he loved their power, he loved being able to conjure something real out of thin air. While he continued his personal writing – by this time it was mostly bad poetry about unrequited love – he also excelled on the school newspaper. By his senior year, he held the lofty title of editor-in-chief, although this didn’t seem to enhance his popularity with girls in the slightest.

He had better luck in college in Chapel Hill. While working for the student newspaper, he interviewed a young woman who was protesting something or other … Gwen had always been so passionate about causes. Somehow, they had hit it off: The book worm who wanted to write and the protester who was studying to be a social worker.

They were married right after college, and they bounced around the Chapel Hill area for a couple of years; she worked in shelters helping abused women while he learned the ropes as a low-paid reporter on small papers. A vacation to the mountains had changed their lives; they’d both fallen in love with the area and eventually found a way to move there when a job with the Jupiter Planet opened up. It had been a struggle, particularly with Gwen not working when Nikki was born, and then … then it was all gone, Winston thought sadly. Or mostly gone.