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Britt's nostrils flared slightly, as visible a sign as he ever gave of disagreement. "I'm not yet convinced
that she is a defector, and not an agent. Why are you?"
It was the debate they kept having. Nothing in Swelk's ongoing CIA debriefings had revealed any
inconsistencies in her story, nor had the little ET shared anything irreconcilable with Kyle or Darlene. A
large part of that consistent story, unfortunately, was wide-ranging unfamiliarity with her species'
science and engineering. That an intelligent member of a modern society could be ignorant of its
technologies Britt cheerfully admitted that he was without a clue how a radio worked and what kept a
plane in the air settled nothing.
The more cynical CIA debriefers went further, speculating that the very absence of minor loose ends in
Swelk's story suggested a fabrication. Kyle thought he'd squelched that insinuation, as a groundless
extrapolation to the aliens of a human foible. Who was to say all Krulirim didn't have a flawless memory
for detail?
This was no trivial difference of opinion; humanity's future teetered on the fulcrum of the choice they
must soon make. Kyle's knuckles were white from pressure as he fought to control his emotions. "No
amount of contradiction-free interrogation is going to overcome your doubts. Ironclad proof of her story,
if Swelk is telling the truth, is on the Consensus . . . which, as you know, the ETs won't allow us
aboard." The few attempts to hide bugs on the aliens or their equipment had been met with uniform
failure and angry F'thk denunciations. The President himself had banned further attempts as too
dangerous.
"And yet," Britt flashed a momentary smile, "you asked that we get together."
"True." Kyle extracted two glossy sheets from the manila envelope that he'd carried tucked under an
arm. Each page bore an image of the moon, its cratered landscape unmistakable. "Take a look at these."
Britt's eyes switched back and forth between pictures. The tiny timestamps in the corners of each
differed by only milliseconds. "They're the same scene, right? The left one shows much more detail."
"The higher-resolution shot is an optical image. The other is a computer reconstruction from a reflected
microwave pulse." Kyle suppressed an urge to discuss just how much computation had been required to
generate the latter image. "We adopted technology used to predict the stealthiness of airplane designs
without having to build them first."
He took back the images before handing over a third. The new picture showed the supposed Galactic
mother ship. Less than half a hemisphere was visible, the rest an inky blackness. A similarly divided
lunar landscape provided a dramatic backdrop. "Sunlight is striking from the side, obviously."
Britt tapped the photo. "What's this dark spot?"
"Good eye it's a shadow."
"Of what? It must be something big."
"A hangar. Their utility spacecraft, the ones that never land on the Earth-visible side of the moon,
emerge from and return to that bay. Most of the time the door is closed." One of the just-mentioned
auxiliary craft was also in the image. Kyle was aware, although the still frame didn't support the
knowledge, that the smaller vessel had just exited the hangar.
Britt looked at him shrewdly. "But you claim not to believe in this mother ship. Swelk says it doesn't
exist."
"That hangar for the auxiliary craft would be a thousand-plus feet deep. We can calculate that depth
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- Chapter 19
from the geometry of the shadow." The previous microwave observation had shown craters much
shallower than that. With a flourish, Kyle offered a final image. "Now look at this."
This computer-reconstructed microwave image, its timestamp again well within a second of its optical
analogue, did not show any auxiliary craft. And the Galactic mother ship appeared only as a featureless
sphere.
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Framed
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- Chapter 20
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- Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
The American and Russian navies today separately announced the apparent loss of a
submarine in the North Atlantic. Few details, and no official theories as to the cause or
causes of the incidents, are available. French and Spanish seismologists recorded events in
the region consistent with underwater explosions. Deep submergence rescue vehicles are
being rushed to the area by the two navies, but hopes for any survivors are slim.
The frigid state of relationships between these nuclear powers, and the proximity of their
lost submarines, suggest that the disasters might in some way be linked. This is an
inference about which spokespersons of both sides declined comment.
BBC News Service
* * *
They were sounded out, nominated, haggled over, and finally agreed upon in the most casual of
contexts: huffed conversations between joggers; "chance" encounters of smokers in the shadow of the
Pentagon; a tête-à-tête between parents at a kids' soccer match; walks in the woods surrounding Camp
David; a half-dozen other innocent-seeming meetings in venues previously confirmed to be free of
Galactic orbs and potentially compromised Earthly comm gear. The disappearance for even a few hours
of the principals the President, the director of the CIA, the secretary of defense, the secretary of state,
the national security advisor could trigger who knew what response from nervous Russians or
inscrutable aliens. The five who were now gathered, in the most rustic of surroundings, would hold the
debate their principals could not.
Kyle had volunteered his sister's remote Chesapeake Bay cabin. Darlene had driven from the District
with him; the others arrived soon after, two in separate cars and one in the motorboat now bobbing
alongside the cabin's rickety pier.
The dragged-indoors picnic table around which they met, a tarp covering the carved doodles of Kyle's
young nieces, had never seen such august company. Erin Fitzhugh was a CIA deputy director, the
terseness of her official resume implying a long history in covert operations. USAF Lieutenant General
Ryan Bauer former B-52 pilot, Gulf War veteran, ex-director of the Ballistic Missile Defense
Organization was presently on staff to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Kyle was a widely respected
physicist and the director emeritus of Franklin Ridge National Lab; more important, he was the one-time
(and still unofficial) science advisor to the President.
Darlene's credentials, she felt, were the least impressive. A long-time foreign-service officer and now a
deputy undersecretary of the Department of State, she was here to represent the diplomatic perspective.
Britt had assured her that no one had ever considered holding this summit about the aliens which was
all that the invitees had been told about the gathering's purpose without the first diplomat to see
through the facade of F'thk good intentions.
The President's chief of staff was the final member of the small group, there to direct discussion of the
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