Mixed Signals

Chapter 10

2008-05-21T13:16:00.000-04:00

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

2008-05-07T09:07:00.000-04:00

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

2008-05-01T20:51:00.000-04:00

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.

Chapter 7

2008-04-22T09:30:00.000-04:00

Peabody sat on the edge of the bed, staring out at the neon sign flashing pink in the rain. “Mountain Dew Motor Cour” glowed through the drizzle, the last letter having flickered its last who knew how many months or years previously. He didn’t hear the sound of water dripping off the wide eaves of the motel, since all his auditory attention was focused on the telephone receiver he had clasped to his ear.

“Yes, Mr. Carrington, it’s all there,” he said, glancing at the laptop lying next to him on the bed, and he experienced a sudden wistful longing that a warm body and not a cold machine was there instead. He jerked himself back to reality. “Yes, I faxed the plat and description and a copy of the deed. Stevenson should have it already.”

He looked back out at the rain as the voice at the other end squawked.

“No, no one knows anything yet, sir,” Peabody replied, watching as a glossy black Lincoln pulled up at the motel office. “Not even the realtor.” The car sat there, engine idling, exhaust forming a thick cloud in the drizzle. He couldn’t see the interior through the car’s tinted windows, and Peabody had a sudden vision of Mafia hoods clambering out, hands hovering near jacket lapels ready to whip out large pistols. He shivered despite the warmth of his room.

“Sir, I’m not sure just how these folks down here will react,” he spoke into the phone as he watched the Lincoln’s driver side door swing open. He paused, then craned his neck to see better, but no one climbed out. “This town is, well, a bit out of the loop, if you know what I mean. The people are, well, this is a small town, sir, and I’m not sure that they’ll exactly embrace the facility with open arms.”

He stiffened as he saw an arm emerge from the dark car. It seemed to fumble with something, and then a bright yellow umbrella shot open. As it rose in the air, a frail figure emerged from the car, clad in a brilliant crimson sweater and plaid pants. A jaunty cap was perched atop the head, and an elderly man ambled hunch-backed toward the office door. Peabody let out a breath and felt oddly disappointed.

He turned his attention back to the phone. “Sir, these people are conservative by nature. This is a small town, and it’s in the Bible Belt down here. They may very well look at this as devil worshipping or something.”

He winced as the voice at the other end let loose. “Sir, all I’m saying is that the situation needs to be handled with care. Emphasize the scientific import of what we’re doing here. Keep it all low key so the locals aren’t alienated.” He winced again at his choice of words. “Very good, sir. I’ll expect you tomorrow, and I’ll show you the site.”

The line clicked off as the garishly clad man made his way back to the Lincoln. Umbrella brandished over his head, he held up a key in his left hand and grinned lewdly at the passenger side. Peabody sighed and closed the curtains.

***

Peabody stepped out into the rain and sloshed across the parking lot to the office under the “Mountain Dew Motor Cour” sign. He stepped inside and shook off the water on his coat. “Excuse me,” he asked the man behind the counter, a short, dark Indian wearing a crisp white shirt. The man looked up from the television he was watching and flashed pearly white teeth. “Yes. And how may I be of helping to you now, sir?”

“Um,” Peabody began, glancing over at the TV. It was blaring forth with some inane comedy show. “I was wondering if you could recommend a good place to eat around here.”

“But of course,” the Indian replied, dipping his head. “Chong Dow’s. A very good Chinese restaurant. Very close by. Also, Mama Rosa’s. Italian food. The Cactus Patch. Is very good Mexican food.”

Peabody interrupted. “Um, anything American?”

“Oh, but of course. The Red Crawfish. Is very good Cajun food. From the swamps, yes? Also, there is...”

“Thank you,” Peabody interjected. “I think I can find something.”

“Very good, sir,” and the Indian turned happily back to his television. Peabody went back out in the rain and unlocked his rental car. It was getting dark as he climbed in and drove out of the parking lot, headed toward what passed for downtown. He swung around the central square with its leafy trees now standing soggy in the rain. The clouds seemed to nearly touch the tops of the buildings, and wisps of fog and cloud rolled by overhead. He stopped in front of J.D.’s Eating Emporium and carefully locked the car. He ducked his head under the eave but water still splashed down his collar, chilling his neck. He muttered a curse as he swung the door open. About 20 people were inside in various stages of eating; they all stopped as if frozen and eyed Peabody as though he was the next course. The sudden silence was broken only by the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Peabody stomped his feet and shrugged out of his coat, which he hung on a coat rack near the door. It dripped onto a satiny jacket that advertised a brand of chewing tobacco in bright letters.

As he turned back around, the diners resumed eating and the low buzz of conversation started back up. A waitress with bleached blonde hair tied in a ponytail swirled by laden with a large platter. “Just seat yourself, honey, and I’ll be with you in a minute.” Peabody caught a whiff of strange odors unlike anything he’d ever smelled before, much less put in his mouth. He looked around and found a table for two perched against the back wall.

He settled in and looked around when the waitress breezed by, dropped a shiny menu and a clatter of silverware on his table like a bomber delivering its ordnance with practiced precision, and roared off before he could speak. He picked up the menu gingerly, avoiding specks of some gunk that seemed to have been included in the lamination process, and searched the menu with growing despair. He’d had easier times in restaurants in Paris. What was this stuff? he wondered. A barbecue platter? Barbecued what? Salt and pepper catfish? Ground round topped with Vidalias? What was a Vidalia? And what on Earth was a corn dog? Surely they didn’t...

“Hey there.”

Peabody looked up in surprise at the man standing over his table.

“Yes?”

“Mind if I talk with you a second?”

“Um, well, no, I guess not.” Peabody immediately regretted his decision. Of course they wouldn’t bar panhandlers in the restaurants down here. At least in New York they were confined to the streets.

The man sat down across from Peabody and a warm smile flitted across his face. Tired gray-green eyes looked at Peabody, and then Peabody found himself pumping hands awkwardly over the paper napkin dispenser. The man’s handshake was firm and dry.

“Name’s Moss. Winston Moss. I’m with the Weekly Planet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Jupiter Weekly Planet. It’s the newspaper here.”

“Oh, I see. Say, isn’t that like the name of the newspaper...”

“That Clark Kent worked for, the Daily Planet, yes.” Winston sighed.

“Interesting. Um, Peabody. Sylvester Peabody,” he introduced himself. Peabody was vaguely disquieted, but told himself that he had dealt with reporters before. Big city reporters. He knew how to handle the media. After all, weren’t they simply panhandlers with a notepad?

“I understand you’re looking to buy some land.” It was a statement, and Peabody was a little surprised that this reporter went straight to the point.

“You must really be hard up for news here if you write a story about everyone who looks at property. Besides, I don’t see it as anyone’s business if I am.” Peabody looked up from his menu to see if the reporter would take umbrage, but Winston surprised him by laughing.

“No, we’re not quite that hard up. And you’re right, normally it’s not anyone’s business if you buy or sell a little piece of land. But I understand we’re talking about something more than a little. Something more than big, in fact.”

Peabody ducked his eyes back down to his menu. “Say,” he said, “you wouldn’t be able to enlighten me as to what buffalo wings are, would you?”

“They’re hot little devils. Kinda spicy. I hear you’ve been looking to buy Chestnut Mountain. Folks around here get interested when someone buys up most of a mountain. It’s what you might call newsworthy.”

Peabody looked across at the reporter, trying to read the expression on his face. Winston just looked back. “I didn’t think you journalists could write stories without double-checking your facts,” he said, trying a different defense. “If you double-checked yours, you’d find that I’m not buying anything.”

Winston’s reply was cut short by the waitress, who materialized in a rush, sweeping strands of her hair back out of her face. “What’ll it be, honey?” she asked Peabody. “You’uns want anything, Winston?”

Winston shook his head as Peabody studied the menu again. “Um, I think I’d like to take a look at the wine list first.” He tried to give the waitress his most ingratiating smile but it came out as more of a grimace.

The waitress smacked her gum and shot a glance at Winston, who seemed to be hiding a smirk. She tapped her pencil on her order pad and looked down at Peabody. “Honey, all our drinks is right there.” She pointed with her pencil to the lower right corner of the menu. Under the heading “All Alcoholic Beverage Permits” it listed “Beer: On tap or in the bottle,” and “Wine: Red or White.”

“A glass of your house white, I should think,” he said, and the waitress snapped her gum again. She spun on her heels and was gone. He turned to find the reporter watching him with amusement.

“So, any further questions, my good fellow?” Peabody asked in a tone of dismissal.

“Just one,” Winston said, leaning forward. “Just what does Mr. Conrad Carrington of New York City want with a mountain way down here in North Carolina?”

Peabody’s heart lurched. “I beg your pardon?” he managed to ask, but he realized his voice quavered slightly.

Winston placed his elbows on the table and leaned across it. “Mr. Conrad Carrington. Surely you’ve heard of him. Rich guy. Owns Carrington Industries Inc. You know, your boss, the Condom King.”

Peabody stared at the newsman, trying to put his mind in high gear. It felt as though the gears had rusted somehow, though, and he was having a hard time coming up with a suitable answer. He sought refuge in his menu again, furiously trying to decipher how much this guy knew.

“So, would you recommend the chicken?” he asked, his eye finally finding an entree on the menu that he recognized. “The, uh, drummettes?”

“Not if you have a big appetite. Look, Mr. Peabody, I’m just curious right now. So are a lot of people. We’re curious here when someone from out of town comes in and suddenly wants to buy up a chunk of a mountain. You understand. We just want to know why.”

Peabody felt trapped. He looked around the restaurant, at the easy fellowship of the other diners. He looked back to see Winston sitting back quietly.

“All right,” he said quickly, making a decision. “I’ll make you a deal. “You don’t print anything just yet, and I’ll give you the full story. Later.”

Winston shook his head. “That’s not much of a deal. I’ve got me a story now.”

“O.K., O.K. I’ll give you all the details, but just not right now. I can’t. But later, I will. I promise.”

“When later?”

Peabody hesitated. “Maybe tomorrow night. Maybe the next day. I promise.” He looked pleadingly at Winston, who seemed to be measuring him.

“O.K., Mr. Peabody, you have a deal. For now.” His eyes narrowed and his smile was gone. “But don’t burn me on this. Just because I work at a small paper doesn’t mean I don’t know anyone at a big one. If you catch my drift.” He stood up. “One more thing.”

Peabody looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I’d stay away from the mountain oysters if I were you.”

***

She was unbelievably beautiful. They were running through the woods, sunlight filtered through the tall trees to stab down in bright shafts of light. The ground was soft underfoot, the foliage dense green, and everywhere were the sounds of birds: chirping and singing, fluttering in the undergrowth, flitting overhead. A ray of sunlight caught her long flowing hair, turning it silken in the blazing light. She turned back toward him, eyes dancing with excitement and invitation, and her smile promised radiant passion. The simple dress of some gauzy material shimmered against her body, clasping her hips and breasts in loving embrace. Winston ached with desire and hurried his pace, but she laughed and kept just out of reach.

She darted around a laurel bush, and when he followed she was suddenly there, allowing him to catch her in his arms and swing her off her feet in a full circle. He hugged her to him as they both laughed in delight, and then a sudden blaring noise intruded on their revelry. Hugging her close to him, Winston looked over her shoulder in disbelief as a large revolving round shape appeared in the sky, lights flashing against the glare of the sun and emitting a steady shrill blare. In awe he watched as the huge shape hovered overhead and began to descend, the blaring growing louder. He gasped and struggled to say something, but instead unlocked himself from his embrace so she too could see the fascinating sight. But as he took a step back, hands on her shoulders, he looked at her beautiful face and saw it transform: the honey brown hair falling away to be replaced by a scaly skin, the forehead melting away, the sparkling eyes narrowing into slits as the nose and mouth metamorphosed into a snout. Gone was the beautiful woman; in her place was an outlandish creature of distinctly alien origin. He pushed himself away but it clutched at him, and he felt himself falling backward, the blaring and ringing in his ears and a scream forming on his lips...

“Daddy!” The voice came to him through a fog.

“Daddy!” It repeated itself insistently. At least the blaring had stopped. “Wake up! It’s time to get up.”

His eyes fluttered open to focus on a pert face set in a frown, a look of agitation etched into the freckles. “Daddy,” she said severely, “didn’t you hear the alarm? You’re always oversleeping. Your breakfast is going to get cold.”

This was a standard joke: He usually had cereal in the morning. Winston shivered and grunted, then flapped his hand at his daughter in acknowledgement, and as she spun around and marched out of his bedroom he climbed out of bed and made for the bathroom.

Somewhat revived by a quick shower, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“‘Morning, Nikki,” he said to his daughter, kissing her hair as she stood at the counter making a peanut butter and banana sandwich. “Thanks for getting me up.”

“Daddy, I swear, I’m going to get you a new alarm clock. One that’s real loud.” She turned and shot him a mischievous smile that stabbed into him like a hot blade, so closely did it resemble a smile from another time and another place. He quickly put aside the flash of pain and struggled to put a smile on his own face. “So, what’s up with you today?”

“Same old sh... stuff,” she said. “After school, me and Amber are going over to the library to work on our science project. I might go by her house afterwards if that’s O.K.”

“Amber and I. Sure. I might be late this evening, anyway.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Just working on a story. But I’ll see you sometime tonight, all right?”

“Sure, Daddy.” She had finished making her sandwich and stuffed it in a paper bag. “Gotta go, or the principal will be calling you,” she teased. “Love ya, bye,” she gave him a quick hug around the neck and a peck on the cheek and was gone, the kitchen door swinging shut behind her with a bang. God, she was growing up so fast. Winston sipped at his coffee and let the bittersweet thoughts of the past drift up and wash over him like the endless waves on a beach.

***

Peabody was agitated. He studied the map on his lap and peered down at the ground whizzing by a thousand feet below him. The helicopter lurched suddenly sideways as it caught a gust of air billowing off a mountain below it, and Peabody’s stomach roiled queasily. He glanced at Carrington beside him, but the captain of industry seemed not to notice the bouncing and clattering of the helicopter, his eyes fixed on the panoramic scene spread gloriously out beneath their feet. The helicopter banked, and Peabody saw over Carrington’s shoulder the dip and roll of hills, the steep jutting crags of mountaintops reaching for the sky like shark’s teeth, the dark hollows winding and twisting their way between the humped rock like veins between knife-edged ridges. Even under a sodden sky moist with anticipation, the vast broken landscape was alive with an awesome beauty. Pine forests carpeted the hills and valleys, although here and there bare knobs protruded from the undulating green like bald heads, and hard gray outcroppings thrust forward with ageless grace.

Nervously, Peabody tried to fix his bearings, comparing the ordered neatness of the map in his lap with the impenetrable maze stretching out beneath them. The chopper banked again, and Peabody breathed a sign of relief: There below was a shiny black ribbon snaking around a mountain, just where the map said it should be. It looked considerably different than when he and that realtor had ridden it last.

“There it is, sir,” he leaned over Carrington and pointed. Carrington put the high-powered binoculars to his eyes and scanned the area Peabody had pointed out.

“Fabulous,” he whispered in a husky voice. “Absolutely gorgeous.” Abruptly he looked up, and reaching forward he tapped the pilot on the shoulder. He pointed down, and the pilot nodded. Peabody gulped as the helicopter dropped, the pilot searching for a clearing. A grassy field came into view and the pilot made for it, hovered overhead for a moment to check for large rocks, and then set her gently down. The whine of the engine was already dying away as Carrington jumped to the ground with a bound. Peabody followed gratefully, ducking his head to escape the wash of the rotors.

Carrington, dressed in expensive khaki as though he were stalking big game in the Serengeti, clamped a bush hat on his head and stomped around the clearing. “Peabody, this is it. Magnificent.” He spread his arms as though to embrace the whole scene. The knob they stood on fell gently away to a line of pines and hardwoods, then dropped off sharply to a deep valley through which a distant stream glinted. Spinning around in a circle, Peabody saw nothing but a line of bluish-gray mountains marching away into the distance, the tops of the taller ones obscured by mist. He shrugged his coat closer to him, wishing he had brought a hat as the chill wind reddened his cheeks and made his eyes tear.

“Right here, Peabody. Right here. This is where we’ll put it. By god, I feel like I can touch the sky from here.” He spun to look at Peabody, who was now shivering while he rubbed his arms. He felt the chilled flesh of his face with his hands but felt nothing; either his hands or his face had gone numb. He nodded knowingly, ignoring the elements.

“Yes, Peabody, this is the place. I can feel it. If you can’t find an extraterrestrial from here, you’re not going to find one period. Am I right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You know, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he paused as he took in the wind-blown scene around him, “if they haven’t been here already.”

Peabody looked perplexedly around him. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why some alien creature that could navigate the cosmos would set down on top of a mountain rather than, oh, say, Central Park or the Mall in D.C., but he knew better than to voice his misgivings. Instead, he said, “It’s quite possible, sir.” He felt his teeth start to chatter.

“All right, Peabody,” Carrington said, but made no move to the helicopter that Peabody eyed longingly. “I want you to take care of the details personally.” Peabody groaned inwardly, his mind calculating how many more days it would be before he could return to civilization. “Close the deal fast, and Jenkins will start the ball rolling on the construction. And get what’s-her-name, the scientist lady, down here, too.”

“Chandler,” Peabody filled in. “Victoria Chandler.”

“Yeah, whatever. Get her down here on site. I want her to make sure there are no fuckups. She’s a pain in the ass but she’s got the balls to kick all the necessary butt to make this happen right.” Finally, he strode off toward the chopper, which cranked up with a low whine. He looked back at Peabody. “You coming or not?” Peabody trotted after him.

“Sir? One more thing,” he said once he was buckled in the comparable warmth of the private helicopter. He rubbed his hands together briskly, but still felt no sensation. His lungs felt as though they had sucked in ice.

“What is it?” Carrington didn’t remove his gaze from the window as the helicopter rose gracefully from the grassy knob, hung delicately in the air, and then shot off over the valley.

“How do you want to handle the announcement? Some of the, uh, locals are starting to get a little nosey.”

“Set up a press conference when you get back. We’ll make a big splash. Get some good publicity.”

Peabody thought of Winston and bit his lip. “Uh, sir? What about the local reaction? It could get a bit dicey.”

Carrington turned back from the window and frowned. “Good point. Yeah, we’ve got to handle this correctly. Wouldn’t do to piss off the locals too much. Tell ya what. You go meet with the local bigwigs, such as they are, the mayor, chamber of commerce, whatever, and fill them in. Let ‘em know they’re about to join the big time. Tell ‘em we’re about to put them on the map.” He grinned wolfishly. “They’ll be eating out of our hands.”

Peabody wasn’t so sure. “Um, well, there might be a bit of a backlash. These people aren’t real keen on outsiders. And who knows how they’ll react to a, um, facility devoted to contacting UFOs.” He had a sudden vision of the villagers in “Frankenstein” storming the good doctor’s castle with torches and pitchforks.

“Well, Peabody, just concentrate on the scientific angle. This is a research facility, after all. A non-profit institute.” His eyes gleamed. “For now.”

Chapter 6

2008-04-16T20:30:00.000-04:00

Patty Arrington chewed on another donut and could practically feel the tightening in the seams of her stylish new sky-blue pantsuit. She didn’t care. She was depressed, so she had decided she didn’t care about the derriere that kept spreading no matter how many butt machines she bought, or the thighs that kept rubbing together no matter how many steps she climbed on that damn stair-stepper. She took another bite of the donut, wiping the powdered sugar off her lip and stared gloomily out the window of her office at the misty grayness that seemed to reach inside to her.

The weather sucked. Business sucked. For that matter, she thought, her whole life right now sucked.

She was eyeing another donut when she heard the gravel crunching outside. Craning her neck, she could see a plain tan car pull up. A thin, tall man in a hat and overcoat got out. He popped open a large black umbrella against the mist.

Jumping up, she quickly brushed the crumbs from her pantsuit and skipped through an open door to her office. She was just settling down behind her desk, grabbing up the phone, when the door opened. On cue, she began talking into the phone: “Uh huh. Uh huh. Not a problem. We can close anytime you like.” Putting one hand over the mouthpiece, she leaned forward and shouted through the open door, “Be with you in a minute!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she said back into the phone. “O.K. I really have to go now. Bye.”

She hurried out of her cramped office to find the tall man examining his now rolled up umbrella. He seemed disappointed that the mist had not so much as dampened the instrument. “Hello. May I help you?” Patty switched on her smile.

The man turned to her and swept off his hat. He had thinning brown hair that he combed over the top in a desperate attempt to convince the public that he wasn’t almost bald. “Er, yes,” he said hesitantly. “I’m looking for some property.”

Patty turned up the wattage on her smile. She was starting to feel better.

“I’m from out of town,” he offered, as though this bit of news explained everything.

“Of course,” Patty replied, raising her thin eyebrows slightly to indicate surprise, although she had already pegged him not only as someone from off the mountain but from somewhere distant to the state. “Would you like some coffee? A donut, perhaps?” She waggled the box at him.

“No, no. Thank you.”

“Sorry for the way the office looks,” she said. “My secretary’s out right now.” She fluttered her hand vaguely, as though the secretary had dashed off on some important errand when in reality she had quit to go work at the Wal-Mart over in Proctorville three months ago.

“That’s O.K.” The man gripped his hat in his hands tightly.

“Won’t you sit down Mr. ...?”

“Peabody. Sylvester Peabody. Thank you.” He settled carefully into the orange chair facing the secretary’s desk.

Patty sat down behind the desk. New York, she decided. Her gloom was lifting. “You said you’re interested in some property? Not a house?”

“No, just property.”

“Um, well.” She drew out a sheet of paper from the desk and scrounged up a pen with PATTY ARRINGTON REALTY written on it in blue letters. She scratched a note on the paper. “How much property? Less than an acre? More?”

“Well, that depends. But probably several acres.”

“Several, hmmm?” Patty was careful to keep her expression neutral, as she jotted something else down on the paper. She was starting to feel much better. Much, much better.

“Up high.”

“Up high?”

“Yes. Very high. You know, like on a mountain.”

Patty frowned, as though finding a mountain would be difficult in the Appalachian chain. “A mountain? The whole mountain, or just part of one?”

“Well, to start with, the top. Of the mountain. And part of the, er, sides.”

“The sides, too.” She wrote that down.

“If that’s not a problem,” Peabody added helpfully, leaning forward.

“Oh, no,” Patty replied quickly, looking up from her notes. She flashed him another smile. “No problem. But it would help,” and she leaned forward conspiratorially, “if I had some notion of what, um, you needed the property for.”

Peabody looked across the desk at her. “Um, well, actually, I’m looking for a site to, well, um, build a, that is to say develop a, um, facility.”

“A facility?” Patty’s eyebrows arched again. “I see.” She looked troubled for a minute, then asked, “This wouldn’t be a development for some religious cult, would it? Not that I mind,” she added quickly, not wanting to scare off any sale, “but we’ve already got the Holy Order of Devout Entomology over to Locust Gap and the People United Against Underwear over toward Mineral Ridge. So if you’re one of those types, I’d try to locate you in another part of the county. They’re not so keen on competition.”

“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. This is a more, um, scientific type facility.”

“I see.” Patty decided she wasn’t likely to get any more out of him. Now. “O.K. Fine. Let’s see what we’ve got. Um, one more question, first.” She licked her lips. This was the big one. “What, um, price range are we talking about here?”

Peabody chewed a lip, then produced a nervous laugh. “Well, actually, you see, price isn’t really a concern.”

Patty hadn’t felt so good in months.

***

“I say it’s some more of those bug worshipers. You know, the ones that think all insects is sacred?”

“Nah. I heard it was tree huggers, plain and simple. Hippy types.”

“Lloyd, you are so full of shit. Hippies ain’t got the money to buy nothing. And the way I hear it, these folks have got plenty.” Augustus “Gus” Singleton leaned back in his plastic chair at J.D.’s Eating Emporium with a satisfied smirk. Gus was 92 years old, but spry as a goat. He was lean and wiry, with a long face wrinkled and brown from countless years in the sun. He surveyed the table before pronouncing, “Boys, yore imagination is running aways with you again. It’s just some more of them Flor-Ons building their fancy houses.”

“Gus, you’uns is the one full of shit,” rasped Lloyd Tuttle. He reached for his coffee and slurped some down before continuing. “Hippies, I say. A bunch of rich kids who don’t know how to wipe the snot off their nose. So they get their daddy to buy them a mountain so’s they can go back to nature.” He peered at his older friend through thick glasses and chuckled. “They’ll be long gone ‘for winter’s half over.”

“It’s those bug people, I tell you. Or maybe something even weirder.” The third man at the table, Dalton Perry, scratched his nearly hairless head. He lowered his voice as he glanced around the diner, nearly empty in the lazy time after the breakfast crowd but before the early-lunch crowd started filtering in. “You know, deviant sexual practices.”

Gus slapped his thigh and guffawed. “Dalton, I declare, you are something else,” he snorted. “Whadda ya know about deviant sexual practices? Your pecker ain’t done no deviating in 25 years.”

Beside him, Lloyd snickered. Dalton colored. “Now hold on there, Gus...” he began, but Gus cut him off. “You’uns know what they say, Dalton, don’tcha? Use it or lose it.” He cackled at his own wit, and Lloyd tittered again. Dalton looked pained, but could think of no snappy riposte. After all, it was common knowledge that Gus Singleton not only was as spry as a goat, but as randy as one as well. He already had put four wives into the ground; plumb wore them out, if you believed the gossip, and had recently scandalized the Euphoria Reformed Christian Church by showing up at Archie Webster’s funeral with a bouquet of red carnations which he had promptly given to the Widow Webster, who was Gus’ junior by a good two decades but who still cut a fine figure, it was widely agreed.

“You know, fellas, it ain’t like the old days,” Lloyd offered, as the other two groaned. This was his favorite topic. “Folks stayed put, went to work, came home. They didn’t have time for none of this foolishness they got now. Putting up shopping centers everywhere, chopping down trees, bulldozing all the mountains flat. Why...”

“Lloyd, you old chucklehead,” Gus interjected. “You’uns is always goin’ on about the good ol’ days. She-it. I remember them days. Didn’t have no ‘lectricity. No TV. And the damn toilet was out the back door. Screw them days, Gus. Weren’t no Playboy Channel back then.”

“I don’t know, Gus,” Lloyd persisted, toying with his spoon. “You know how it is. Folks are different somehow. They ain’t like they used to be.”

“Lloyd, boy,” Gus said, “I got a news flash for ya. Ain’t none of us how we used to be.”

The three friends chuckled. They looked up as Winston pushed through the doors and peered around the diner, his eyes adjusting from the harsh glare of the sunshine outside. He spotted the three old men and made his way to them.

“Hey, Winston, what’s new?” Gus asked.

“Hello, Gus. Lloyd. Dalton. How’re you guys today?”

“Just fine, Winston, just fine,” Gus nodded back. “Say, Winston, we was just wonderin’ something. Thought you could help us.”

“Sure, Gus. What is it?”

“Well,” Gus shot a look at his two companions, “we was just wondering if we could take us a ride in that there spaceship of yours.” The three old coots collapsed with laughter, and Lloyd started coughing so hard Gus had to slap him on the back.

Winston chuckled despite himself. “Well, Gus, first off, it isn’t my spaceship. It’s Nell Fleck’s. And second, I’m not sure you’d want to hitch a ride on it.” He grinned wickedly. “I hear there aren’t any women aboard.”

Gus guffawed at that. “You right about that, Winston,” he said.

“You think that Nell really saw a UFO?” Lloyd asked.

“I don’t know,” Winston replied. “She sure thinks she saw something.”

“Swamp gas, that’s what I bet it was,” offered Dalton. “Folks all the time thinking they see flying saucers, and it turns out to be swamp gas.”

“Sure, Dalton, swamp gas in the mountains,” jeered Gus. “That makes sense.”

“Hey, it could happen,” Dalton said in an injured tone. “I knowed a feller down to ...”

“Say, boy, you heard about that new Floridiot development?” Gus interrupted, looking at Winston.

“Naw, Gus, I ain’t heard about it. But Floridians building houses in the mountains ain’t news anymore. Even around here.”

“I heard it was hippies,” said Lloyd. “Going to build one of them communes. You know, free love and all.” He leered at the other two at his table.

“Free love my butt,” Gus said. “You don’t know shit, Lloyd. Ain’t nothing about love that’s free. There’s a price for everything in this world.”

“It’s those bug worshipers, that’s the way I heard it,” volunteered Dalton, who had been nibbling on a cheese sandwich. “Bunch of those weirdos buying up a mountain to worship bugs.”

Winston swung back around to the trio at the table. “Who’s buying up what mountain?” he asked casually.

“That realtor woman been showing some Yankee feller around. Heard tell he’s got lots of money and is lookin’ to buy a mountain,” Gus said around slurps of his coffee.

“Oh, yeah?” Winston paused, affecting disinterest. “What’s Patty said about him?”

Gus eyed him from over the top of his coffee cup. “She ain’t said shit, ‘cept this boy was mighty particular about things. She been showing him the property over to Chestnut Mountain.”

“Is that right?” Winston swung back around and faced the counter. “Well, you’re probably right. Just another developer building a couple of summer homes. No story there.”

***

Winston called Patty Arrington as soon as he returned to his office. When she answered, the crackling at the other end told him she was in her car.

“Patty? Winston, from the newspaper. How’re you doing today? How’s business?”

“It’s lousy, Winston. Lousy. I need to find another line of work.” This was her standard line, particularly when talking to anyone with the local newspaper since she suspected that advertising rates would mysteriously rise if real estate sales boomed. “Whatcha want?”

“Look, Patty, I need a little information. I understand you’ve been showing property to some out-of-town guy. What’s the deal?”

“C’mon, Winston, honey, you know I can’t tell you. Realtor-client relations are confidential.”

“Patty, that’s attorney-client relations. Give me something to work with.”

There was a pause at the other end, then she said, “Well, really, all I can say is that he’s looking for a big piece. Of property. High up. Probably for single-family residential. Perhaps some multi-family. But that’s all I know.”

“Who’s he representing?”

“Winston, I can’t tell you that.”

That meant she didn’t know either, Winston guessed. “O.K., Patty. Thanks. One more thing. I need his name.”

He waited as the line popped and crackled. “Patty? C’mon. I need his name.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you that, Winston,” she said finally.

“All right, Patty. I’ll talk to Mavis about giving you a break on your next ad.”

“The name’s Peabody. Sylvester Peabody. I think probably New York.”

“Thanks, Patty. I appreciate it.”

“Sure, sure,” he heard as the line clicked dead.

Winston swiveled to his computer and logged on. He had work to do.

Chapter 5

2008-04-15T16:41:00.001-04:00

Peabody drove slowly, unsure of the twisting, winding mountain roads. He was careful to stay on his side of the road, and occasionally he would glance nervously toward his right where the ground simply seemed to fall away to nothingness beyond a narrow grassy shoulder. In the distance the bluish mountains loomed, starkly beautiful against the gray sky.

It had been a long trip. He was not at all happy that Carrington had dumped this assignment on him, but he was fatalistic about it. Besides, he had not gotten where he was in the Carrington empire by charting an independent course; he had gotten there by doing what Conrad Carrington wanted – sometimes before Carrington knew what it was he wanted.

Still, Peabody sighed, he was getting too old for these spur-of-the-moment road trips. He had barely had time to get back to his apartment, stuff some clothes in a couple of suitcases, and catch a taxi to the airport. His flight, of course, had been delayed, and he had arrived in Charlotte an hour late. After picking up his rental car, he’d had to drive nearly two hours to even reach the mountains. Who could ever live this far from an airport, he wondered.

He rounded a curve and slowed even more. A Jeep had stopped half on and half off the road up ahead. Someone dressed in an old Army fatigue jacket and faded blue jeans with a black baseball cap was rummaging in the back. Flat tire or engine trouble, he guessed as he pondered the wisdom of stopping to assist. He had decided against it and was edging around the vehicle when the figure straightened up and glanced his way. He was surprised to note that it was a woman.

He stopped in front of the Jeep, careful to keep the two left tires on pavement. He stepped out of the car and walked back to the Jeep. He was puzzled to see that the woman had a shovel grasped in her hands.

“Need some, er, help, ma’am?” He wondered how you changed a tire with a shovel. Must be some mountain trick. But then, the Jeep’s tires seemed comfortably inflated.

The woman gave him a hard look. Her faced was lined and dark hair streaked with strands of gray spilled out from beneath the cap. “Nah,” she said finally. “I think I can handle it.”

She strode to the middle of the road, and Peabody noticed for the first time that some poor animal lay there in a small pool of blood. He had no idea what kind of animal it had been.

“Why, how thoughtful,” he said, watching as she scooped the creature up in one easy swoop of her shovel. “I guess that’s a problem around here - running over animals, I mean. So everyone pitches in to keep the roads clean, do they? Are you going to bury it?”

The woman looked at him as though he were a squashed toad as she walked back to her jeep, the animal hanging off the end of her shovel, which she held out in front of her like a knight’s lance.

“Bury it?” she repeated. “Nah.”

She reached into the back of the Jeep with one hand and pulled out a brown paper bag. “I’m gonna eat it,” she said as she dumped the animal into the bag.

She wiped the shovel in the grass and looked up to see Peabody lurching back to his car, one hand covering his mouth.

Crazy fucking yuppie slime tourists, she thought.

***

Winston typed up a story on a technical problem at the Jupiter sewage treatment plant as he talked, or rather listened, to the person at the other end of the line. At least he thought it was a person.

“Uh, no, Mr. Sneed, I’m afraid we wouldn’t be interested in recounting your adventures in the, er, which galaxy did you say it was again?” Winston squinted at his notes. “Wow, that’s a lot of shit,” he muttered.

“No, no, I wasn’t talking to you, Mr. Sneed. Um, just go on, please.” He resumed typing.

“The Finestrian Galaxy. Ah. I don’t believe I’m familiar with that one. And you say you got there in a matter of hours aboard the … Borinium spaceship. Well, I wish I could get to the beach that fast. Yes, I’m sorry, Mr. Sneed, I am taking this seriously. But I don’t think our readers … Mr. Sneed, I think … really? They did that to you? With a … how did they? You know, that’s really … interesting, Mr. Sneed, but this is a family newspaper and I think that might be a bit too shocking for some of them. Yes, thank you for calling.”

He rubbed his eyes but looked up when he became aware of someone hovering on the other side of his cluttered desk. He wasn’t sure for a moment what he was looking at: It was a tall, gangling stick of a body with a mat of thick tangled red hair falling to a pair of frail shoulders, surrounding a face with features so sharp they could have been sculpted out of clay. A loud purple sports coat hung on a gaunt frame on top of a red and blue flannel shirt that sprouted a tie at least five inches wide featuring the entire cast of “Star Trek” with the Enterprise floating behind them. A pair of ragged blue jeans fell down to a decrepit pair of what had once been expensive running shoes that now were being held together by dull gray duct tape.

Winston blinked, but the figure did not disappear. “Yes,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“Hey, dude. I’m looking for Mr. Moss.”

“That would be me.”

“Cool!” The face split into a wide goofy grin. A long thin arm poked out across the desk, knocking over a pile of papers. They fell to the floor in an avalanche. “Oops.” The tall figure bent to pick up the papers and snagged an elbow on Winston’s in-tray, and it tipped over and landed on top of the pile. “Uh, sorry about that, dude,” the purple-clad character said as he scrabbled about on the floor, finally surfacing with his hands clasped around a wad of papers and the in-tray, which he set down on a messy pile on Winston’s desk. A bony hand extended again across the carnage of the desktop and Winston involuntarily took a half step back. He caught himself and grabbed the hand, which proceeded to pump his in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Mr. Moss, I’m Lionel Pringle.” He grinned again.

Winston stared at him. “Yes?”

“You know. Your new intern.”

“Intern?” Winston said the word as though he were hearing it for the first time.

“From the college,” Lionel prompted.

Memory flooded Winston’s aching brain. “Ah, yes, the intern. I’m sorry, I’d forgotten.” Hobart had repeatedly refused Winston’s request to hire another reporter, so Winston in desperation had inquired at the local college about getting some help in the form of a student intern. One that Winston didn’t have to pay; that was the type of help Hobart liked.

He eyed the kid warily. You get what you pay for, he thought. “Um, yes. Well. So you want to work at a newspaper, huh?”

Lionel frowned, his brow wrinkling. “Well, actually, dude, I’m like, you know, what I want to do, is, like, be a surfer.”

“A surfer? Here in the mountains?”

“Nah. In the ocean.”

“This is something you can make a career out of now? And you need a college degree for this?”

“It’s like my dream, dude. You know, be a professional surfer. Travel the professional surfing circuit. Ride the Pipeline. You know.” A dreamy look had come across his face.

“So, you surf a lot, do you?”

“Uh, no. Well, that is to say, I plan to. I haven’t actually done it yet.”

“I see,” Winston said, although he didn’t. “So what is a surfer-to-be doing in a newspaper office?”

“Well, it’s like this. My mom and dad, they’re like totally uncool. They say I need to forget this surfing stuff and get a good education. But it’s like my dream, you know? But I figure, I gotta go to California to be a surfer, you know? And I gotta get some money to go there, right? So my folks say they’ll send me to California if I graduate from college, so here I am.”

“I think I understand,” Winston said, massaging his temples again. “So how come you ended up majoring in journalism?”

The face wrinkled up again in a frown. “I am?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Dude, I don’t know. I thought I was majoring in business. But maybe not. Or was it English? Nah, that was last semester.” His face brightened. “Say, you might be right. I should be about up to the J’s by now.”

Winston rubbed his eyes. Cowabunga, he thought, college hadn’t changed a bit. “O.K., Lionel, let’s see what we can do.” He scrounged around on his desk and came up with a few pieces of paper. “Here’re some press releases. Go over to that desk over there and rewrite these on that computer. You know how to use a computer, don’t you?”

“Dude. I’ve spent half my life on a computer.”

Winston didn’t doubt him one bit.

***

Traffic was light, and Peabody was surprised to see the odd Lincoln and Cadillac and BMW among the expected pickup trucks and off-road vehicles. Most of the fancier cars sported Florida or Georgia license plates. Well, thought Peabody, breathing in the mountain air, it certainly is cooler up here than further South. Cooler than New York, for that matter, and the air was much, much cleaner than in the city. Peabody allowed himself to relax slightly as he drove out of the woods and began passing what he took for rural civilization: Open green fields flanked by stands of trees with cows munching on bright green grass. He had been driving even more slowly and more carefully ever since his earlier roadside encounter, his eyes darting to the sides of the road trying to anticipate some wild animal that might launch itself under his wheels. He allowed himself to pry one hand off the steering wheel long enough to rub his aching neck muscles. He shifted in the seat and glimpsed a faded sign beside the road: “Welcome to Jupiter, Biggest Star in the Blue Ridge.” He shook his head. Didn’t these people know what a planet was?

He passed some small stores and then spotted a gas station with an attached convenience store. He pulled in and parked, then went inside to get something to drink to wash out the rancid taste in his mouth. The tiny store sold a remarkable assortment of products, ranging from a vast array of junk food products to motor oil to T-shirts. As he was paying for his drink, he noticed a sign on the counter alerting customers that something called night crawlers were for sale, and asked the clerk, a plump middle-aged woman puffing on a long, slim cigarette, “Pardon me, ma’am, but just what are these … ah, night crawlers?”

The clerk squinted at him suspiciously through a cloud of smoke. “Night crawlers? Honey, them’s worms. Want some?”

Peabody blanched. “Ah, no, no thank you.” He gathered his change and quickly left the store. As he climbed back into his car he noticed a man dressed in faded overalls tipped back in an old cane chair behind a row of small jars laid out on a long piece of lumber perched between two cinder blocks. The jars glinted bronze in the sun. A sign identified the contents as “Pure Mountain Hunny.” Behind the row of honey were ceramic animals: frogs, rabbits, even a small deer. The man nodded his head at Peabody, who ducked his head in response. Peabody started the car and drove back onto the highway. He passed a couple of other roadside stands, one advertising boiled peanuts and “authentic Indian moccasins” and another peddling quilts, pottery and what appeared to be old, rusted out farm implements.

He drove on, and suddenly found himself stopped at a traffic light and facing a small, leafy square with what looked to be some sort of monument in the middle. He craned his neck to see the light change green, then drove around the square. It was surrounded by small, squat buildings, mostly brick and stone; the largest, he noticed was only three stories tall. The biggest building, though, was a rambling white stone structure that dominated one end of the square; broad stone steps rose from the sidewalk to a large set of double doors set behind a set of impressive columns. It was the courthouse, he saw, although it looked like a church. Probably the same thing down here, Peabody mused. He pulled into a parking spot near the courthouse building and got out. The air was mild and somehow clean tasting. He looked around for the parking meter but to his amazement noticed that there were none. Hmmm, he thought. They must have a meter maid. Well, he wouldn’t be parked here long. He fumbled in his coat pocket and found a slip of paper with a number on it. He took out his slim cell phone and punched in the number. He bit his lip; he hoped cell phones worked here. He was rewarded with a ringing on the other end. It rang several times before it was finally picked up. No voice spoke, but Peabody could hear faint breathing on the other end.

“Hello? Hello? Is someone there?”

“Who is this?” A gruff voice answered with what seemed to Peabody to be a mix of anger and fear.

“Um, you don’t know me, but, um, well, you see, my name is Sylvester Peabody. I understand that you, um, recently witnessed a, ah, shall we say, phenomenon?”

“How’d you get this number?”

“Well, I, uh, looked it up.”

“What do you want?” Hostility echoed in Peabody’s ear.

“I was wondering, that is, I would like to meet with you. To, uh, ask you some questions.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Peabody paused. “Why? Why, because I represent a party that is very interested in what you saw. Experienced. He, that is, this party, would like to know more. About the, you know, encounter.” Peabody looked around him to see if anybody was watching him. Nobody was paying him any mind. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice. “And about them.”

Peabody waited. He could hear breathing on the other end. “You believe … in them?”

“Oh, yes,” Peabody lied. “Actually, the party I represent is actively engaged in exploring these phenomena. We’re, ah, really quite excited about this.”

“You are?” The voice was decidedly less hostile.

“Ah, Ms. Fleck, I really would like to continue this discussion in person. Would it be possible for me to meet with you?”

“Here?”

“Well, it would be beneficial if I could examine the site.”

Another pause at the other end. Peabody glanced around; there still was nobody paying him any mind. “I reckon so,” the voice said grudgingly. “You’uns got something to write with? I’ll give you directions.”

***

Winston glumly pondered the list of the week’s stories. Pickings were slim. The only crime of the week had been a car reported stolen by Helen Bainbridge, but the police had found the elderly matron’s ancient Buick parked downtown. She apparently had forgotten where she parked it when she was shopping. The garden club had elected new officers. He could write a story about the tourism season beginning, but everybody already knew that. He sighed. Maybe he should do a follow-up on the UFO thing. Christ knew it had caused enough trouble already; perhaps if he took a scientific angle to it, and included the lack of any other credible reports of sightings, he could put a lid on the whole thing. Besides, it would give him some much-needed copy.

He rummaged through the stacks of papers and books on his desk and fished out the phone book. He thumbed through it until he found what he wanted. He punched in the number and waited until a voice answered.

“Yeah, hi there, this is Winston Moss over at the Planet,” he said briskly. I’m trying to reach Dr. Harris. Albert Harris.”

“Speaking. And you said you are from where? A planet?”

“Yes, Dr. Harris, the Weekly Planet. I’m a reporter. The editor, actually.”

“Ah. I see. A journalist.” The tone indicated that journalist ranked somewhere between mold and slime.

“Yes, that’s right. The reason I was calling is about that recent business with the, ah, UFO.”

“The UFO?”

“Yes. You know, the local sighting by a Jupiter woman. It was in the paper.”

“Ah, well then, I must have missed that. I don’t actually read your newspaper, you see. I prefer the London Times.”

“The London Times? You mean the one in England?”

“Yes, that would be the one.”

“Just out of professional interest, doctor, do you get that delivered here in Jupiter?”

“Ah, well, yes, the library here receives it. It’s only two days late, but still immensely informative. Why, just yesterday there was an article … of course, that was the paper I was reading yesterday, which would make the paper itself dated…”

“Yes, yes, Dr. Harris, I can sympathize with papers being late. Listen, the reason I’m calling is, well, like I said, we’ve had an apparent close encounter here in Jupiter and I thought you could give me a little background information on UFOs and extraterrestrials, what with you being a physicist. By the way, I didn’t know they had a physics department over there.”

“Oh my, yes. We’ve been around for, oh, eons. Blue Ridge is not a large college, as I’m sure you know, but we pride ourselves on quality over quantity. Heh, heh.”

“So, what can you tell me about UFOs? The witness claims it looked like a flying saucer and that she saw creatures get out.”

“Really? Quite amazing.”

“Er, and your thoughts on the incident?”

“Me? Well, I would say that … say, you’re not going to quote me on this, are you?”

“Well, that was the general idea.”

“Ah. I see. Then in that case I think you could say that, ah, um, the incident sounds, ah, interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Ah, yes. And you may quote me on that.”

“Gee, thanks. Could you perhaps elaborate?

“Elaborate? Certainly. It is, ah, provocative.”

“Provocative?”

“Yes. You don’t think that’s too, ah, quotable, do you, Mr. …”

“Moss. No. It’s not. But look here, Dr. … ah, Harris, what I’m really after here is your professional, expert opinion on the incident. You know, what happened or might have happened, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, goodness. Well, of course, I have lots of opinions on lots of matters. I’d be happy to share them with you. But on this, ah, incident. You want me to say, as a physicist, whether or not a flying saucer landed in Jupiter?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Ah. I see. Look, it’s not quite that simple. There are several possible explanations: hallucination, dementia, car lights, weather balloons, swamp gas…”

“Swamp gas in the mountains?”

“Well, er, these are all the usual suspects in incidents such as this.”

“Yes, but what do you think it might have been?”

“Hmmm. What I think. About this. And you say my colleagues might read this in your, er, publication? Well, I think I can safely say that this incident certainly seems to be, ah, interesting. And provocative. You can use that, as well.”

“Thank you, professor, you’ve been quite informative.”

“Er, well, glad to be of help. Call me anytime.”

***

Peabody’s rental car bounced down the rutted lane, the shocks whining from the ordeal. Peabody tightened his seat belt to keep his head from knocking into the car roof. Gracious, he thought, a flat tire would mean sure death; he hadn’t seen any sign of civilization since he’d turned off the main road miles back. He doubted he could walk back to the road before he was victimized by a bear – or something worse; Peabody tried to force his imagination not to conjure up what else might be lurking in the woods. He glanced again at his scribbled directions; he wasn’t sure he’d written down all the right turns. She’d said something about “bear left” where the road curves; all the roads curved and twisted. It was all very confusing. He felt the tall pines that crowded either side of the bumpy gravel road press in on him. Despite the mild temperatures, he could feel sweat trickling down his neck, dampening his collar. He tugged at his tie to loosen his collar. He passed a sign that warned about the dire consequences to trespassers. He gulped.

The car swung around a curve and he spotted a decrepit cabin leaning against some trees. He slowed the car. This couldn’t be it, he thought, but the road dead-ended here. And a Jeep was parked next to the cabin. For some reason it looked vaguely familiar. He pulled in beside it and turned the car off. In the sudden silence he could hear his heart hammering in tune to the ticking of the cooling engine. He took a deep breath as he surveyed the stunning panorama in front of him: The meadow running down to the stream and the blue-tinged mountains sitting serenely in the haze off in the distance. It was beautiful, he conceded, in a rural, rustic sort of way.

He turned back to the cabin to find a very large gun pointing at his face. He yelped and raised his hands high in the air as he backed against his car. The gun had two barrels, he noted before tearing his eyes away from them to the person holding the gun. He gasped in surprise; the woman coolly cradling the shotgun regarded him appraisingly. She was dressed in faded jeans, a flannel shirt and an old baseball cap. He recognized her as the person he’d seen earlier on the road. The Road Kill Queen.

“You’re … you …” Peabody sputtered. “I mean, you are …”

She relaxed slightly, but Peabody noticed that she didn’t point the gun away from him.

“You’uns that Peabody feller?”

“Er, um, yes, that would be correct,” he stammered. “Sylvester Peabody. Um, do you think, I mean, would it be all right if I, um, lowered my arms?”

“Sure.” It came out “shore.” She lowered the shotgun, but still eyed him with suspicion.

“Er, um, this is a very nice place you have here, um, Ms. Fleck. You are Nell Fleck, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.” She eyed him for another moment. “Well, c’mon then. Don’t be standing around here all day.” She turned and marched back up to her cabin. Peabody followed, dragging his handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow. Nell settled into one of the rocking chairs on the porch and parked her shotgun within easy reach against the wall. Peabody gratefully seated himself in another rocking chair.

“So, ah, Ms. Fleck,” he began. “As I told you earlier on the phone, I represent a certain party who is very interested in this, er, type of experience you had. We’ve read the media reports, but, ah, you know how they distort things so. We felt it would be better if we got a first-hand account from the, ah, witness.”

“So you folks investigate this kind of thing, do you?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. We are very curious about, ah, extraterrestrial sightings. I was hoping you could recount your experience for us. Me.”

She studied him for a moment. “I reckon,” she drawled.

Peabody pulled a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.

“Naw. Go on ahead.” It sounded like “gwanahead.”

She proceeded to retell her tale. Occasionally, Peabody would interject a question, and as she finished up her eyes hardened and her face grew grim. “Them things,” she spat. “They’re agoing to come back, you know. I can just feel it. They’s out there. Just waiting.”

“Um, waiting for what, Ms. Fleck?”

She shot him a look. “Why, for the right time. To do what they’s going to do.” She leaned forward in her rocking chair. “You know, to take over.”

She stood suddenly. “C’mon. I’ll show you where they landed.” Peabody followed her down into the grass and out to the burned patch. He walked around it and scratched his head. It was very curious. Very curious indeed. As they walked back up the hill he thanked her for her time. “Your help has been extremely, um, helpful,” he said. “And your information will help us immensely.”

They stopped by the cars. “You’uns hungry?” she asked suddenly, turning toward him. Peabody gulped. “Er, um, no thank you. I, um, grabbed a bite on the road.” He winced as he said it. “I’ll, um, just be going. Thank you, though. Perhaps some other time.” He quickly got in his car and cranked it up. With a little wave, he swung around and headed back down the rutted lane.

Nell watched him go. For some reason, he had seemed vaguely familiar to her. She shook her head. What a strange fellow, she thought.

2008-04-15T09:32:00.000-04:00

Winston already regretted writing the damn UFO story. But even more, he regretted that he had sent it out on the wire. Not only were all the local whackos calling him about mysterious lights in the sky, but fruits and nuts from all across the entire country were phoning in wanting to know more about Nell Fleck’s encounter. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he listened to someone who had identified herself as the president of the Universal Association of Interplanetary Travelers from Mars, Pennsylvania, ask whether the alien visitors had been Antareans or Xacknons.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know the difference, Ms. um, Lightbeam did you say?”

“Yes, Lightbeam. That’s not by original name, of course,” the throaty voice said on the other end of the line. “That was the name given to me by the Xacknons when they came to visit me.”

“Well, thank you for calling,” Winston said in hopes of cutting off any further explanation of why creatures from some other galaxy had navigated across billions of light years simply to drop in on the sly and visit the odd citizen of a backwater planet.

“It’s simple, really, to distinguish the two species, you know,” the voice went on. “The Xacknons are tall, well-muscled, handsome in an alien sort of way, and very gentle. Almost hunkish, if you catch my drift. And they are the mortal enemies of the Antareans, those brutish, ugly thugs. They’re out to conquer the universe, you know.”

“I was unaware of that fact,” Winston said.

“Oh, yes. The Xacknons told me all about it. They’re the only ones standing in the way of universal subjugation by the Antareans. Why, even as we speak, an Antarean battle fleet could be zooming our way.”

“That’s very interesting, Ms., uh, Lightyear. I’ll have to make sure my phasers are fully charged. Thank you for calling.” He didn’t wait for an answer as he hung up the phone. He sunk his head into his hands and closed his eyes against the pain that was starting to throb in the front of his head.

Chapter 4

2008-04-14T10:13:00.000-04:00

“UFO Spotted In N.C. town” read the headline at the bottom of the page. In smaller type, a subhead blurted, “Alien invasion predicted.”

Peabody carefully highlighted the article on his computer screen and printed it out. He placed the short article in a folder, and reached for his coffee cup when a mechanical voice blared, “Peabody, get in here.”

He put his coffee down, grabbed the folder and opened a handsomely polished walnut door upon which was inscribed an ornate “CC” in gold. He closed it softly behind him, but the man sitting behind an immense polished desk didn’t bother to look up from the computer screen he was studying.

“Peabody,” he growled, “what’s the latest?”

“Mr. Carrington, I’ve got three.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. What are they?” The figure behind the desk finally looked up. Conrad C. Carrington was a large man with bronzed skin, a full head of graying hair that seemed to sweep back from his forehead. An aristocratic nose would have dominated the aging but still handsome face if not for the eyes, a pair of glacial blue orbs that seemed to glow with an eerie intensity. They bored in on Peabody now, and the thin man shifted nervously from one foot to the other and adjusted his wire rim glasses.

“The first one,” he said, glancing down at the folder, “looks like a Category 1. Retired couple in Florida thought they saw flashing lights go over their condo real low, circle around, and buzz them again. Local law enforcement says it was probably just a drug plane looking to make a delivery.” He looked up as though expecting acknowledgement, but none was forthcoming.

“The second one is a Category 2,” he plunged on, looking back down at the printout. “Airline pilot over Nebraska says he saw a large floating cigar shape hovering below him, with flashing lights on its side that seemed to be signaling some message. No other reports on the sighting, although there was a football game going on at about that time and the pilot could have seen a blimp.”

“Yes, yes. What about the third one?” Carrington was drumming on the desktop with a silver pen.

“At least a Category 3, sir. Some hillbilly in the mountains of North Carolina claims a close encounter. Says the ship landed near her cabin and aliens attacked her.”

Carrington stopped his drumming. “Let me see it,” he said quickly. He scanned the story as a grin lit up his face. “Peabody, this may be it,” he exclaimed. “Find out about this ... this ...” he looked down at the clipping in his hand again, “this Jupiter.” A broad smile flashed briefly. “Jupiter, hmmm? A coincidence? I think not, eh, Peabody? There’s more here than meets the eye, I’ll wager.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll check out the area right away.” Peabody went over to a computer sitting on a desk near the wall. He sat down and began working. The large man at the other desk spun in his chair and looked out the huge window that made up one wall of the large office. A magnificent view of New York City spread out as far as the eye could see. “Well?” he asked anxiously.

“Just a moment, sir.” Peabody scanned the screen. “Here we go. Jupiter. Small town in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Looks like it’s got a bit of tourism. They’ve got a small college, a little light industry.” He punched a button and a piece of paper scrolled out of a printer. He got up and handed the paper to Carrington.

“Mountains, huh? I didn’t know they had mountains down south.”

“Uh, yes sir. They’re not the Rockies, of course, but...” he let the words trail off when he realized the other man was paying him not the slightest attention.

“It looks good, Peabody, it looks good. Mountains. That’s good. Up high, close to the sky. Clean. Pure. I like it, Peabody. I like it. Run the cross-check.”

Peabody tapped on the computer again. He waited a few moments while the computer searched its memory banks, then spat its data out on the printer. It rattled softly and then stopped.

Peabody pulled the paper out of the tray. His eyebrows shot up. “Um, sir? Looks like we have a good match.” He handed the second piece of paper to an anxious Carrington.

“Fourteen!” Carrington turned to Peabody. “Fourteen other sightings in a hundred-mile radius within the past five years. That’s one of the highest sightings per capita in the world! You can’t tell me that’s not a definite sign of extraterrestrial visitation in the region.”

Or backwoods imagination, Peabody thought. But he wisely kept his opinion to himself.

Carrington stood and started pacing in front of the dazzling view of the city below, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You know, Peabody, this could really be the time. After all these years, I feel like I’m close. Very close. This is what will make everything worthwhile. Why, if I succeed, my place in history not only will be assured, I’ll be first in line!” He glared at Peabody to see if he would dare disagree with his assessment.

“Just think about it, Peabody. Contact with an alien culture from beyond the stars. The secrets of the universe at long last exposed and explained. Interstellar travel. Can you even imagine what it would be like to stand on a planet billions of miles from here, with a civilization as old as ours, or older?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It will be mankind’s greatest moment.” His eyes glittered. “And it will be all because of me.” He stabbed a finger at his chest. “Me, Peabody. Do you here? Me. It will be all my doing. They won’t be able to build a statue of me big enough.”

Peabody waited patiently.

“Yes, sir, I tell you, this is big. Huge. Enormous. Gargantuan. Nothing like it has ever happened in the history of the world to compare. First man on the moon? Hah! Stepping on a dead rock. This is interspecies communication we’re talking here. It boggles the mind to think what that will mean.”

He glanced over at Peabody.

“Not to mention, of course, what it will do for the bottom line. Let the stockholders whine then. All that mewling and caterwauling after the third quarter last year, just because profits were up only 16 percent. Christ on a tricycle, you’d think those namby-pamby chuckleheads had real money at stake here.”

He paused in his pacing and stared out of the window. Gray clouds scudded low across the sky, seemingly close enough to reach out and grab. Below, the cacophony of the city streets, the dirt and grime and misery and fear of daily urban life, was closed away, as far off as the moon.

“You know, Peabody, I don’t even know what I’ll do with all that money. Maybe I’ll give you a raise.” He turned to see what reaction that provoked. Peabody gave a weak laugh. He’d heard the joke before.

Carrington started pacing again. “Damn, I can’t believe how shortsighted the world is. You know when I asked Parker Davies to come in with me on this, he actually laughed. Thought it was some goddamned joke. Laugh at me, will he? Why, I’m Conrad Carrington. I’m the King, aren’t I? No one can touch the Condom King in the prophylactic industry. We’ll see who has the last laugh. Bah. That’s the problem with business today. People got no vision. Can’t see what’s plain as day. They think the future’s still over there in China.” He waved his arm dismissively. “China’s history. Finito. You hear what I’m saying, Peabody?” He glanced back at his assistant again. Peabody stood still. He’d heard all this before, too.

“Yes, China’s about tapped out. Stagnant market. Those goddamned gooks are already swilling all the soda pop and gobbling down all the burgers and fries they want now. Sure, we could sell them some more condoms, but only those people without vision believe that’s a big market anymore. Whadda they got over there now, a billion people or so? Hardly worth your while anymore. But out there...” he gazed up to the cloudy heavens. “Out there are whole planets to sell to. Aliens need prophylactics, too, you know, whether they know it or not. And I’m just the man to sell them to ‘em.”

Peabody stood mutely, knowing the spiel was about over. He sneaked a surreptitious peek at his watch. He had things to do.

“Safe sex for the universe. That’s what I have to offer, Peabody. Safe sex for every creature in the galaxy. Of course, we might have to retool a couple of our factories. No telling what size and shape condom your average alien will need. We can work out the finer points later.”

Carrington spun around to face him. “Yes, Peabody, this could be it. I have a good feeling about this place. But we still need to check it out first. Make sure it’s the right spot.”

Peabody nodded, already running through the personnel available for the job. Now, whom did he want exiled for a week or two?

“I want this to be done right, Peabody, you hear what I’m saying?” Carrington said. “We can’t trust this to just anyone. So you’ll go.”

“Yes sir.” Peabody turned to go. Then he gulped. “Me, sir?”

“That’s right, Peabody. You. I want you down there to check things out. You’ll report to me personally.”

“But, sir,” he protested weakly. “I think Phipps would do nicely. Or...”

“No, no, no. You’ll go, Peabody. Today. This afternoon. Make the arrangements.” He had already turned back to the window and was gazing raptly at the gauzy sky, as though he could penetrate the secrets of the cosmos simply by staring at clouds. He glanced back to see Peabody still standing miserably at attention.

“Well? Don’t just stand around, Peabody. Go, go, go!”

Peabody went.

***

2008-04-08T17:53:00.001-04:00

Winston made his way into the front of the newspaper office. He said hello to Mavis, the receptionist/classified ad manager and went back to his tiny cubicle. He noticed Warren, the part-time sports guy, wasn’t at his desk. Surprise, surprise, he thought. And Hannah, the part-time features writer, wouldn’t be in for another hour. He switched on his computer, shoved aside the stack of mail piled on his desk. He sighed as he studied the list of possible stories for tomorrow’s paper. Even though the Planet came out only once a week, Jupiter wasn’t exactly a hot news town. Even so, he didn’t know about this UFO story. If he ran it, Nell Fleck would be a laughing stock. And so would he, probably.

That decided, he began writing the school board story when he sensed someone standing behind him. Turning around, he was unsurprised to see a short, graying figure in a tweed coat puffing contentedly on an unlit cigar.

“‘Morning, Hobart.”

“Good morning, Winston. Say, did you not get that memo?”

“Memo?”

“Yah. I left it on your desk.”

Winston rummaged around on his desk, shoving aside the accumulated debris of yesterday’s work: several notepads, a half-dozen files, unedited press releases, a stack of pictures, a Coke can, and an in-tray overflowing with newspapers. “Um, I haven’t seen it yet. Could you just brief me on what it said?” Winston knew this was a foolish request, but he couldn’t help asking anyway.

“Don’t have the time now,” Hobart Hobgood IV said as he spun on his heel. “Gotta go do some business.” Winston glanced at the wall clock, which read 8:30. Time for Hobgood to saunder down the street to the drug store and kill an hour sucking down coffee and donuts with the rest of the pillars of the community. Fine with him; it got Hobgood out of his hair for a while.

“If you can’t find it,” Hobgood had stopped and turned back toward Winston, “memo me and I’ll shoot you out another copy. It concerns that UFO business.” Then he was gone, and Winston could hear him telling Mavis to hold down the fort while he was gone.

Shit, he thought. How’d he hear about that? He dug around on his desk until he found the memo. Hobart Hobgood IV took his role as a leader of the print communications industry to heart; he preferred communicating by memo rather than verbally. Winston wondered idly if Hobart shoved written messages to his wife across the dining table every night. Or in bed.

Glumly, he read the memo:

“Re the UFO report. This is big, big, big. I want the full story. Let’s do it up right: Lead story on the front, banner head. Tell Leonard to run an extra couple hundred copies. And see if the wire services want to pick it up. Make sure we get credit.

P.S. Put that potty-trained cat story on the front, too. With pictures.”

Winston had been wrong. This day was stacking up to be one of the worst ever.

2008-04-08T10:01:00.000-04:00

Winston pulled into the parking lot behind the newspaper office, then swore when he couldn’t find an empty space. He drove around front and parked down the street and walked back toward the office. Downtown was coming to life, and he nodded to people on the sidewalk. The sun had warmed the air, but the mountains overlooking the town stood out sharp and clear against the brilliant blue sky. An older couple walked briskly by dressed so brightly they seemed to emanate light; she in a purple pantsuit with a straw hat, orange socks and tennis shoes, he in a canary yellow sweater and lime green pants that stopped an inch or two above white socks stuck into brown Oxfords.

The tourists are already trickling in, Winston thought sourly as he stopped in front of the two-story brick building with a faded green sign proclaiming “Jupiter Weekly Planet” stretching over the double glass doors. He pondered for a moment, sighed, and headed across the street. He crossed the small town square and noted that the leaves on the maples dotting the square were full and lush. Spring at last, he thought.

He cut across another street and strode up a wide set of steps into a modern, concrete and glass building. He swung open the door and closed it behind him. He unlatched a low gate next to a wide counter and stepped through, nodding at a squat woman with red hair sitting in front of a microphone and surrounded by radio gear. She nodded back.

“Howdy, Ruth Ann. What’s up?”

“Just my weight.” She grimaced down at her snug uniform. “Not much, Winston. How you’uns doin’?”

“Passable, Ruth Ann. He in?”

“Yep.”

“Now, hold on there just a minute, Winston.” This came from a tall, skinny man sitting in front of a computer near a closed door with the word “Sheriff” embossed in gold letters. “You gotta state your business with me before I can let you see the sheriff.”

“Is that a fact, Elrod?” He studied the young deputy. “You look awful busy, so I didn’t want to bother you.”

Elrod Dunwoody flushed. He looked back down at his computer screen.

“Play the jack of clubs on the queen of hearts, Elrod.”

“Huh? What?”

Winston scuttled past Elrod’s desk. Before Elrod could protest, he had knocked on the wooden door and twisted the knob, pushing his way in.

“Sheriff, a moment of your time, if I may,” he said. Elrod followed Winston into the office.

“Sheriff, he just barged on through. I tried to stop him, but…”

“It’s all right, Elrod. Go on back to your, um, work.”

Elrod flashed Winston a hurt look as he closed the door behind him.

“So what can I do for the press this morning?” Sheriff Rufus Hayes was a large man even by rural law enforcement standards, standing six foot four and tipping the scales at close to 300 pounds. He had been quite a football player in his youth, having made all-state as a defensive lineman for Jupiter High way back when. He had tapped his early popularity to make a name for himself in politics; he had been sheriff for 21 years and nobody even ran against him in elections any more.

“Sheriff, I, um, was checking to see if you had any reports of any, er, unusual sightings last night.”

“Unusual sightings?”

“Yessir.”

“Such as?”

“Um, such as, um, lights.”

“Lights?”

“Yeah, you know, bright lights. In the sky.”

“Bright lights in the sky.” Hayes rummaged on his desk and glanced through some papers. “Naw, don’t see nothing here. Nobody’s reported anything about lights in the sky.”

He looked levelly at Winston. “Why? You been seeing flying saucers?”

Winston waited for the smirk. Hayes stared at him impassively.

“No, sir. Not me. Nell Fleck. She says one landed out at her place last night. Wants me to do a story on it.”

“You goin’ to?”

“Dunno.” Winston shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I wanted to see if anybody else had seen anything.”

Now the sheriff smirked. “You mean you wanted to see if anybody else is damn fool enough to report seeing little green men.” He sighed heavily and leaned back in his padded swivel chair. “You know, Moss, we get all kinds of crackpot reports in here. I know you know, ‘cause I let you see all the reports. So you know how it is. People are people. Sometimes they see things. Sometimes they think they see things.”

He sighed again and ran a hand through his brush-cut gray hair. He tugged at his tie to loosen it; Rufus Haynes did not wear a uniform, but then he didn’t need one. “This Fleck woman. I’d say she’s kinda looney, but mostly harmless. She’s from over to Sander’s Cove way originally, I believe. Served as a nurse in Vietnam. Came back and moved out to that place she’s got now.”

Winston marveled at the details about people Haynes knew. He envied his sources.

“She does some odds and ends to get by,” Haynes continued. “Sells that hemp stuff … you know, rope and clothes.”

Winston arched his eyebrows. “Hemp?”

The sheriff eyed Winston. “That’s right. It’s a natural fiber.”

“And that’s, uh, you don’t have any problem with that, sheriff?”

“She’s kind of a loner. Doesn’t cause any problems with anybody. So I don’t reckon I have any problems with her.”

“I see.” Winston looked down at his notebook. “So all that makes her … what? A not-so-reliable source?”

Haynes looked at Winston. “In my book that makes her a law-abiding citizen.” He sniffed. “It’s your job to figure out how reliable she is.”

***

Chapter 3

2008-04-07T22:17:00.000-04:00

Winston followed Nell outside. She climbed in an old Jeep and roared out of the diner parking lot, tires spinning gravel at him. He hurried over to his beat up Subaru and cranked it up. Turning west and heading out of town, he chugged along behind her. They reached the edge of town, passing a weathered wooden sign saying, “Welcome to Jupiter, Biggest Star in the Blue Ridge.” Winston grunted. He had written several editorials calling attention to the fact that Jupiter wasn’t a star but a planet and suggesting that a more accurate sign be erected, but his suggestions had gone nowhere.

Several miles out, they turned off the main road and headed south. They turned again, this time onto a gravel road, and soon Winston was bouncing and swaying on the deeply rutted road that wound up and up. On one side, the hillside rose steeply, with tall pines mixed with maples and locusts climbing toward the sky. On the other side of the road, a narrow shoulder gave way to a meadow that fell away hundreds of feet to a rocky floor. Off in the distance he could see blue-gray mountains rising to the clouds in the early morning sun. What a lousy beautiful day, he thought sourly.

The Jeep ahead turned again, and he bounced after Nell down a narrow, twisting lane even more rutted than the road. They went past a hand-lettered sign that read “KEEP OUT: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT REPEATEDLY.” Whatever happened to welcome mats, he wondered.

He pulled to a stop behind her Jeep next to a cabin set back in the trees. He got out and breathed in the cool morning air. He walked in front of the cabin and gazed out at the view. It was stunning. A field of grass flowed down to a small creek, which meandered along the valley. On the far side of the creek, the land rose in a series of ridges fringed with rocky outcroppings. Behind the ridges, tree-covered mountains loomed, stately and regal as they presided over their more ephemeral subjects.

“Nice place,” Winston commented.

Nell only nodded. “C’mon,” she said, and stalked off down the hill. Winston followed until she stopped before a large ring of burned grass.

“Look at that,” she said, gesturing at the circle.

Winston stooped down and peered at a singed area. “Looks like someone’s had a fire here,” he offered lamely, straightening up.

Nell looked at him as though he were a Neanderthal catching his first glimpse of fire. He swallowed, and to cover up his discomfort he walked the circumference of the circle, trying to look as though he were an expert in … whatever. Did they have fire ring experts, he wondered. He guessed the ring of burned grass was a couple of feet wide and maybe 50 feet or more across. It looked like a giant had set a cup of coffee down on the meadow for a moment. He looked back at Nell standing on the other side of the ring.

“Aliens,” she said so softly that Winston had to strain to hear.

He looked up at the sky. Save for two crows winging by, it appeared empty.

“Look, Ms., ah, Fleck,” he said. “I’m not sure this is much to go on. I mean, yes, we have a burned ring here in the grass and all, but that in of itself does not provide evidence that, uh, anything of an extraterrestrial nature happened here.” He scratched his nose. Jesus, he thought, I sound like a lawyer. This was his bitterest self-criticism, since like all responsible journalists, Winston hated lawyers with a passion.

“Now look here, Mr. Moss. Are you or are you not in the news business?” Nell asked briskly. When Winston nodded, she continued and he heard rising anger in her voice, “Well, then, this is news, isn’t it? It’s not every day you have someone visited by aliens from another planet, is it? With proof that they landed a space ship right in someone’s front yard, is it? What other kind of news is more important than that? What else you got to put in that rag of yours?”

“Hey, c’mon, it’s not a rag. We put out a good product,” he said defensively. “As it so happens, tomorrow’s paper will have a, let me see, a wrapup of Monday night’s school board meeting, and we’ve got a great little feature story on a cat who goes to the bathroom in a toilet. You ought to see the pictures we got on that one.” He stopped when he realized Nell was looking at him smugly, her arms folded. “The school board approved a new reading list for sixth-graders,” he added hopefully.

She continued to stare at him scornfully. He sighed. “O.K. O.K. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll hear you out, check around, and see what’s what. I can’t promise I’ll do a story. Wait here, I’ve got to get my camera in the car.”

He trudged back up the hill and retrieved his camera from the back seat. He took several shots of the burned ring, with Nell posed beside it. When he was finished, they walked back up to the cabin, and Winston pulled his notebook and pen from his back pocket.

“All right, I need to ask you a few questions. Mind if I sit down?” Nell shrugged, so he lowered himself onto the steps. She remained standing.

“So, tell me again exactly what happened.” She told him in detail the events of the night before.

“So you say two of these aliens were headed toward you, when all of a sudden they fired some kind of paralyzing laser beam at you?” he asked, careful to keep any hint of disbelief out of his voice.

“Exactly,” she said. “They had these laser lights, shining them every which way, and then they shined one of them on me. I was sitting right there in my rocker,” she pointed behind Winston and he twisted around to see, “and started to stand up when the light hit me and, whammo, everything went black.”

“So you don’t know what happened after that? I mean, you don’t know what these aliens did?”

“Not really.”

“Do you think they went inside your house?”

“It didn’t look like anything was disturbed,” she said.

“I see.” Winston paused, and looked at his notes. “So you don’t remember if they took you aboard their craft?” He looked up at her.

“No, I don’t remember anything like that.” She strained to remember. “But I think I kind of vaguely remember them leaning over me. I remember lights flashing in my eyes.”

“Did they, um,” Winston cleared his throat as he searched for the proper phrasing, “touch you do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I ... “ She stopped and looked at him. She studied his face intently, and a frightened look suddenly came into her eyes. She looked down at herself. “I ... you mean ... I don’t ... do you think ... “ She looked back at him, horror now etched on her face. “Oh my God!” she whispered. “They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Those fiends!”

“Now, Ms. Fleck, I’m sure...” Winston stopped. “How about I leave any of that out of the story for now? We don’t want anyone conjecturing...”

But Nell wasn’t listening anymore. She was pacing around in front of the steps, clasping her hands and moaning. She muttered something, and Winston thought he heard her say something about “be fruitful and multiply, I bet that’s what they’re doing here.”

Suddenly, Nell stopped and wheeled to face him. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, her face once again emotionless. She stood ramrod straight. “What’s important is that the citizenry are warned. We need to alert the populace no matter what. Because,” she leaned down toward him, “they’ll be back.”

***

Chapter 2

2008-03-31T14:46:00.000-04:00

The woman was the most beautiful Winston Moss had ever seen in his 37 years. Stunning brown hair tumbled down around smooth shoulders, framing a face that could grace any fashion magazine. Her breasts were full and firm, the nipples pink and erect. They swayed gently as she leaned over him, and he felt the heat building. Her hair tickled his chest as she lowered herself with a shrill ringing.

“Wha?” he mumbled as the vision evaporated. “No! Come back. Wait!”

The ringing again.

Muttering curses, Winston thrashed around in his bed, trying to untangle his covers. Freeing one arm, he smashed it down on his nightstand, fingers scrambling for the alarm button on his clock-radio. Through sleep-caked eyes, he dimly made out the readout. He thought the first number was a 5. The ringing persisted. Goddamn high technology, he groused. So many damn little buttons on these damn little radios, I can't ever find the right one. Punching madly, he was rewarded by the radio suddenly blaring to life. Someone on National Public Radio was telling him that trouble was brewing in the Mideast. This is news? he thought.

The ringing hadn't stopped. Goddamnit all to fucking hell, he thought. The phone. It had to be the phone. He reached past the clock-radio dispensing the early morning news, noting in the far recesses of his brain that now the readout was flashing 9:43, and grabbed the phone off its cradle.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Moss?”

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Moss with the Weekly Planet?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The very one.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Uh, no. No. I, uh, was just getting up.”

He looked at his clock-radio. It was still flashing, but now the number read 10:06. He picked it up and shook it. The blinking stopped, but the readout read 17:92. NPR was telling him something about evidence linking the president to wealthy businesspeople.

“Uh, could you tell me what time it is?”

There was a pause at the other end. “Almost 6. You know, I can hardly hear you. What's all that noise?”

“Um, nothing. Could you hold on a moment?” He cradled the phone to his chest and turned the volume knob on the radio. It snapped off in his hand. He looked at it. Carefully, he placed it back on the nightstand. Then he picked up the radio and jerked the plug out of the wall. It was still telling him about shenanigans in the nation's capital, but now 93:17 was blinking at him. He stuffed the thing under his pillow.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes. Mr. Moss, this is Nell Fleck. I live out Bear Creek Road. I ... I need to talk to you. Or someone.”

Something in her tone caught his attention. He sat up straight in bed, and fumbled by the phone for the pad and pen he always kept there. He knew the woman only vaguely; she had the reputation of being an odd character. Lived out in the woods by herself in some decrepit cabin.

“What about?”

“Er, um, I'd rather not talk about it over the phone.”

“O.K. Look, I haven't had my breakfast yet. How about we meet at J.D.'s in half and hour. Can you make it by then?”

“Yes. I'll be there.”

The line went dead. He put the phone back in its cradle and ran his fingers through his hair. He sighed. He looked down at his bed and saw the tail end of an electric cord protruding from his pillow like a snake. Muffled voices emanated from under the pillow. He stood up and threw the covers up over the pillow before heading toward the shower.

***

He had just started on his coffee when she came in. She was older than Winston, with a wild mop of mousy brown hair going gray. She had a broad face broken by a thin mouth and a nose slightly too large. She was wearing no makeup or jewelry, and had wrapped her large frame in some type of old Army jacket. Jeans and muddy boots completed her ensemble.

“You're Moss.” It was not a question. She sat down across from him in the booth and stared at him. He looked back and noticed that her eyes had a hooded look. She continued to stare right at him, and with relief he looked up as Doreen the waitress came up with a pot of coffee.

“You want some?” She asked. It came out “Yawant sum?”

In response, Nell took her gaze off Winston and flipped over her coffee cup.

Doreen poured. “There's cream and sugar on the table.” She turned to go.

“Honey.”

“S'cuse me?” Doreen turned back around, her eyebrows reaching up toward her blonde-out-of-the-bottle hair piled high on her head.

“Honey. I prefer honey with my coffee.”

“Sure thing ... Honey.” Doreen laughed, looking relieved.

“And some hot sauce.”

“Hot sauce?” Doreen looked confused.

“You know, like Tabasco?”

“Tabasco? You want Tabasco sauce in your coffee?”

Nell turned her head to look at the waitress. Doreen reflexively took a step back as the older woman's gaze fixed on her. “Or Texas Pete.”

“Sure thing.” Doreen left, shaking her head.

“Mr. Moss.” Nell swiveled back to face him. “I have a story for you.”

“A story?” It came out sounding lame even to Winston. He couldn't help it, though; something about this woman unnerved him. He reached in his coat pocket and withdrew his pad and pen. “What kind of a story?”

Nell licked her lips and leaned forward conspiratorially. “A big one. The biggest one your little newspaper has ever had.”

Winston began to feel a little better. He was on familiar ground now; he had heard this song and dance about the story of the century a thousand times. He said nothing but sipped his coffee.

“Mr. Moss, what would you say if I told you that we are not alone?”

Before he could stop himself, Winston swiveled his head and surveyed the diner, which was half-filled with the early-bird crowd. “We're not?”

“No.” At that moment, Doreen returned and set down a plastic bear filled with honey and a small bottle of hot sauce.

“You’uns ready to order?” she asked brightly.

Nell glared at her, and Winston hastily ordered some eggs, hash browns and a side of bacon. Diet be dammed, he thought, this was not starting out to be much of a day.

“And you, ma'am?”

“I want some pancakes with blueberries. No syrup.”

“Yes ma'am, blueberry pancakes. You sure you don't want any syrup? We got maple or ...”

“No, I don't want blueberry pancakes. I want pancakes with blueberries. On the side.”

Doreen bit her lip. “I'm not sure we can do that, ma'am.”

“What do you mean you can't do that? If you can put blueberries in the pancakes before you cook them, you can leave them out until the pancakes are done and then put them on the plate.”

Doreen pondered this. “I'm not sure J.D. can do that. It's not on the menu, you know.” She looked triumphant.

“Look. You tell the cook to make me some blueberry pancakes. But when he gets ready to add the blueberries, tell him to hold the damn things in his hand until the pancakes are done. Then he can add them.”

Doreen looked troubled. “Well, I’ll tell him,” she said, although it came out “Whale, aw'll tale him.” “But he probably ain't goin' to like it none.” She disappeared through a door to the kitchen.

“As I was saying, Mr. Moss, I have learned we are not alone.” Winston watched in fascination as she shook the hot sauce into her coffee. She then squirted some honey from the plastic bear onto her index finger, gulped some coffee, and sucked the honey off her finger.

“Ah, well, doesn't that go without saying, Ms. ah,” he looked down at his note pad, “Fleck?”

“I'm not talking about these kind of nitwit people,” she hissed, throwing out one arm to take in the other diners. “I'm talking about up there.” She waved toward the ceiling.

Winston felt he was on thin ice, but he plunged ahead anyway. “You mean on the roof?”

Nell looked at him like he was a worm who had crawled up on the table. “No, you idiot, I mean from beyond. Out there.” She waved her arm around again.

Winston leaned over and looked up out the plate glass window that fronted J.D.'s. All he saw was a lightening sky framed against the green mountains, a few clouds scuttling away to the east. He looked back at Nell, who was gingerly rubbing a spot on her head.

“You mean...”

She nodded. “From out there.”

Winston sighed. What a lousy fucking day this was going to be. Christ, why hadn't he met this woman at his office? Much easier to kiss her off there. Now he was committed to at least consuming breakfast with this nut case.

“You're talking about creatures from outer space?” he asked, careful to keep his voice down. No sense in everyone in town knowing how nutty this woman was, or letting any of that screwiness rub off on him by association. He watched as she repeated her coffee-and-honey ritual.

“I'm not sure where they're from,” she said, licking honey off her lips. “But I know where they've been.” She leaned forward again. “I've seen them. They landed at my place yesterday evening.” She leaned back as Doreen reappeared with plates clutched in her arms.

“Here you'uns go. Your eggs, and here's your pancakes ma'am. With your blueberries on the side. J.D. says to tell you that next time, you need to order the fruit plate with a side of pancakes.” She stalked off back to the kitchen.

Nell mashed the berries into a paste and spread them on her pancakes. “Mr. Moss, what I'm telling you is that a spaceship landed in front of my cabin last night, and two alien creatures got out. It was one of those close encounter things.”

“What did they do?” Winston asked around a mouthful of eggs.

Nell sat back and ate some pancakes. She looked out the window. “Well, now, I'm not exactly positive.” It was the first time Winston had noticed her looking at all abashed.

“You're not sure what they did, but you say you saw them. I'm not sure I understand.” Winston attacked his hash browns with gusto.

“Well, you see, it was dark. And there were a lot of lights. And I couldn't see too well. And I think they zapped me.”

Winston stopped chewing. “They zapped you? You mean with a ray gun?”

“Something like that. I'm not sure. It's all kind of fuzzy.”

Winston picked at his eggs. “Ms., ah, Fleck, you have to realize that a story like this, well, I'm not sure how this would look in print. I'm not sure people would, well, believe you.”

“But they must. You have to convince them. We have to warn people.”

“Warn them?”

“Yes. Clearly, these are not some young aliens out joyriding and having a little fun with the locals. Don't you see? It's got to be a scouting mission. There's got to be more of them.” She looked at him solemnly. “An invasion.”

Winston stuffed the last piece of bacon in his mouth and washed it down with some coffee. “Look, Ms. Fleck, this is all fine and good, but you know, I can't print a story like that without some proof. You just can't go around alarming people unnecessarily. We in the print media have a responsibility to the public, and that responsibility includes printing only the facts, the unvarnished truth, in an objective manner. Unfounded supposition and sensationalized fiction have no place in serious journalism.” It sounded pretty self-righteous even to Winston, but it was his pat speech in cases like this and was a high-sounding way of blowing people off.

She stared straight at him, and he felt uncomfortable again. “I have proof.”

“Oh?” he stammered.

“Yes.” She swigged the last of her coffee and squirted honey into her mouth directly from the plastic bear. “But you'll have to come out to my place to see it.”

Fuck, thought Winston. This was going to be a really rotten day.

Chapter 1

2008-03-17T14:01:00.001-04:00

Nell had just fired up her after-dinner joint, sucking in the sweet smoke along with the cool mountain air, when the night sky exploded.

With practiced paranoia, she gulped down the smoldering joint. It scorched her throat as she swallowed, and she coughed out smoke. But the discomfort was ignored as she stared with disbelief at the scene unfolding in the meadow in front of her cabin.

Amid an unholy screeching and whining, a kaleidoscope of swirling lights slowly descended from the sky, obliterating the brilliant panorama of stars that had been visible only moments before. Nell sat transfixed in her worn wooden rocker on her porch, gaping at the sight. Lights of red and green and gold twirled around an even more brightly lit center, which pulsed with a pounding regularity that washed over her small cabin, illuminating the rustic porch with its sagging floor and pots of geraniums hanging from the rough-hewn beams overhead.

The screaming lights slowed their descent, seeming to hover about a hundred feet from the ground, as though surveying the immediate area. Nell's cabin was set on a hillside nestled in a grove of trees, overlooking a gently sloping meadow that fell away to a rocky creek, its reassuring rush drowned out by the cacophony overhead. The rotating lights had slowed their dizzying spinning, but the brightly lit center continued its relentless pulse. Their brilliance forced Nell to shield her eyes with her hand, but she didn't dare close her eyes against the glare for fear of missing something. She felt an odd combination of fear and excitement, chills racing up and down her spine while sweat trickled down her ribs. She tried to will herself to her feet, but her legs felt numb and disinclined to obey orders from a brain focused on the spectacular sight ahead.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the swirling lights lowered themselves toward the ground. The screeching rose in intensity until it became more of a high-pitched whine. Abruptly, the revolving lights spun to a stop as the whining reversed itself and dropped in pitch. The colored lights continued to flicker as the noise idled down. Suddenly, silence returned, but it was not the familiar, comfortable silence of the mountain nighttime, filled with all manner of creaking and groaning and squeaking, but the absolute, stunning silence of deafness. Her legs still not responding, Nell realized she was still shielding her eyes against a now muted glare, so she dug her finger into her right ear to see if it was still working. Distantly, she could hear the faint tinkling of her creek. She sat motionless, watching the lights, and thought that they must be the most beautiful things she had ever beheld in her life. Not that her life had contained much beauty, she reflected ruefully.

She realized with a start that what she was looking at was some sort of strange flying craft, unlike anything she had ever seen. Behind the lights she could begin to make out a dim outline, a rounded shape perhaps a hundred feet wide, looking vaguely like two cereal bowls stuck together. It was, she suddenly recognized, the classic shape of a flying saucer.

She swallowed nervously, her throat dry and stinging from the now-forgotten joint. This was a sight no mere cannabis could ever hope to induce. Her fingers gripped the arms of her old rocker, but still she made no move. She considered the shotgun inside, safely leaning against the corner of her small living room. For the first time in years, she wished she had a camera. As she considered her options, a soft whirring broke the stillness of the night, and something seemed to move on the strange craft sitting in her meadow. She strained to see what was happening, but all she could make out was indistinct movement by a formless shape. The flickering lights of the craft made shadows dance around the meadow and off the nearby trees. She realized she might be hidden from view; her evenings on the porch viewing the dazzling night sky were done in the dark, with all the lights in her cabin extinguished. And the cabin was tucked away in the trees, with even the meadow side partially shielded by a big old hemlock. The craft was a good 50 yards from where she was sitting, halfway between the cabin and the creek.

She tensed. Something was moving. Something was definitely exiting the craft. Craft, smaft, she thought. This was a frigging UFO. A goddamned flying fucking saucer. She couldn't believe it. She had always thought those close encounters types were fruitcakes of the first degree, poor pathetic creatures so craving of something unusual in their drab lives that they imagined meetings with extraterrestrials rather than get off their butts and make something interesting of their lives. A crazy thought flitted through her head: Maybe Elvis is on board.

She strangled a cry as another shape joined the first in climbing out of the saucer. The lights threw weird reflections from their figures, but Nell could see enough to realize that they were humanoid in shape. Sort of. She squinted but could not make out any other details. Now there was movement. The pair moved together toward the side of the UFO, their long shadows jerking around the meadow. They disappeared behind the flashing bulk, and a moment later reappeared around the other side. It looked like they had two legs, Nell thought, but she couldn't be sure. Perhaps they were stalks. Or tentacles. They moved with an alien jerkiness. Probably not used to our gravity, Nell thought. She wondered where they had come from, how far they had traveled. What they wanted.

She suddenly felt the fear rising in her. Sweat soaked her sweatshirt and ran in rivulets down her sides and between her breasts. Oh Christ, she thought with sudden terror, what were all those stories about aliens performing all sorts of perverted sexual acts on unsuspecting Earth women?

She clenched her teeth in fear. The two shapes were definitely moving toward her. They had separated, but both were heading her way. They cast long shadows, and as light bounced off one she thought she could make out a shiny angular head that reminded her of a praying mantis. Shit, she thought, they're insectoid aliens. Probably meat-eaters. RUN! her brain screamed, but she shivered and could not rise. The one approaching on the left had at least three arm-like appendages, she thought. Twin beams of bright light burst from each figure like lasers, cutting the darkness ahead of them. The lights played over the ground between the creatures and Nell, then found the steps to her porch. The beams froze on the steps, not five feet from where Nell was sitting. Then, as though choreographed dancers, the lights rose gracefully step by step, climbing closer to Nell's seat. She looked down in frozen horror as the twin beams climbed the last step and flowed across the wood planking to her feet. She felt as though her feet were on fire, but she did not dare move a muscle. She whimpered softly as the lights continued their inexorable rise up her shins to her lap, caught her hands squeezing the arms of her rocker so tightly she thought they would splinter, up her sweat-soaked chest and finally locked on her face. The lights hit her like a bolt of energy. Dazzled and blinded, her brain screaming at her to do something, anything, anything but sit there like a side of beef waiting to be carved up or worse, she choked out an anguished cry and leapt to her feet, her mind desperately trying to decide whether to go for the shotgun inside or to charge the alien creatures and make for the nearby safety of the woods.

She never had a chance for her brain to formulate a plan on the run. Her wild leap from her rocker had catapulted her straight up in the air, but her ascent had been prematurely halted by a spider plant cascading forth from a hanging ceramic pot she had hung there just that morning. A hollow thunk cracked the pot, spilling dirt on the porch and sending the spider plant swaying wildly. Nell had a vision of exploding light and a sharp pain before darkness descended completely.