reading his lips, but with his volume they seldom had to. Goldwyn wore a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. The tie alone cost two hundred dollars. Roland was in his usual jeans and cotton shirt. Goldwyn disapproved of the way he dressed, but as long as Roland's columns were syndicated, he wouldn't make an issue of it. The rest of the reporters wore ties or the female equivalent.
Roland entered the conference room, sitting opposite Goldwyn. Goldwyn held an unlit cigar in his teeth. The section editors were all there, as were a half-dozen reporters. Janine leaned against the window behind Roland, blocking part of the San Francisco skyline.
"Well?" Goldwyn demanded.
"What do you want first? The cult? The spaceship? The satellite?"
"The spaceship."
"From the outside it looked too simple to fly. You couldn't call it aerodynamic: just two spheres connected by a latticework of pipe. The satellite sat in the middle. There was a retractable cowling that covered the satellite before the launch. The spheres were entered through hatches in the top. There was one pilot in each sphere. They both wore space suits. That might suggest the spheres can't provide a breathable atmosphere."
"You can pack a breathing system on your back," Harry Chin interrupted from Roland's left. Chin covered science and technology for the paper and was resident expert on technological matters.
Goldwyn silenced him with a finger point and then nodded to Roland.
"The ship lifted off from the trailer they pulled it out on. They parked it in the middle of a concrete launching pad. There wasn't any blast—no flame, no exhaust of any kind. It started with a high-pitched whine and then there was a bright light—very bright. The air was charged with static electricity. Then the ship just floated up. It paused twice, hovering in place, and then it lifted up and out of sight." Roland paused, thinking back over the launch. "That's about it. They did pass out an information packet."
Roland pulled the packet from his pocket and handed it to Russ Jackson, the assistant editor. Jackson was African-American, six feet tall, and completely gray. He had worked for Goldwyn for thirty years, accumulating more abuse than the rest of the newsroom combined. Jackson looked at each page briefly, then set it picture side up in front of Goldwyn. Goldwyn glanced at it briefly.
"Tell me about the satellite."
"It had solar panels, gold foil to protect sensitive parts, a broadcast and receiving dish—and some gizmos I couldn't identify. Everything about it said it was the real thing. They said it would broadcast a message. The frequency is in that information. By the way I picked up a receiver at Radio Shack. I charged it to the paper."
Goldwyn didn't flinch.
"So far all I've picked up is Bible verses."
"Tell me about the cult," GoldwTyn said.
"They call themselves the Light in the Darkness Fellowship. No one seems to know how many members there are—maybe a few thousand. They took over the town of Exeter a few years back and renamed it Christ's Home—we should have file copy on that. They couldn't buy that much property without a lot of members, or someone with really deep pockets backing them. I'm guessing they've got a network of believers sending tens and twenties."
Goldwyn took the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Jackson, assigning him the task of investigating the finances of the cult. Then he replaced the cigar and turned back to Roland—his signal to continue.
"The cult owns most of the businesses in town and most of the property. The original residents who stayed behind after the cult took over seem fairly content. Of course they can't buy liquor in the town and there are no bars, but the crime rate fell through the floor."
"They set up a police state, did they?" Russ Jackson asked.
"Not that I could see. They just don't commit crimes."
"If they have teenagers, there will be crime," Jackson argued.
"Not in Christ's Home. One man I talked with told me
Roland entered the conference room, sitting opposite Goldwyn. Goldwyn held an unlit cigar in his teeth. The section editors were all there, as were a half-dozen reporters. Janine leaned against the window behind Roland, blocking part of the San Francisco skyline.
"Well?" Goldwyn demanded.
"What do you want first? The cult? The spaceship? The satellite?"
"The spaceship."
"From the outside it looked too simple to fly. You couldn't call it aerodynamic: just two spheres connected by a latticework of pipe. The satellite sat in the middle. There was a retractable cowling that covered the satellite before the launch. The spheres were entered through hatches in the top. There was one pilot in each sphere. They both wore space suits. That might suggest the spheres can't provide a breathable atmosphere."
"You can pack a breathing system on your back," Harry Chin interrupted from Roland's left. Chin covered science and technology for the paper and was resident expert on technological matters.
Goldwyn silenced him with a finger point and then nodded to Roland.
"The ship lifted off from the trailer they pulled it out on. They parked it in the middle of a concrete launching pad. There wasn't any blast—no flame, no exhaust of any kind. It started with a high-pitched whine and then there was a bright light—very bright. The air was charged with static electricity. Then the ship just floated up. It paused twice, hovering in place, and then it lifted up and out of sight." Roland paused, thinking back over the launch. "That's about it. They did pass out an information packet."
Roland pulled the packet from his pocket and handed it to Russ Jackson, the assistant editor. Jackson was African-American, six feet tall, and completely gray. He had worked for Goldwyn for thirty years, accumulating more abuse than the rest of the newsroom combined. Jackson looked at each page briefly, then set it picture side up in front of Goldwyn. Goldwyn glanced at it briefly.
"Tell me about the satellite."
"It had solar panels, gold foil to protect sensitive parts, a broadcast and receiving dish—and some gizmos I couldn't identify. Everything about it said it was the real thing. They said it would broadcast a message. The frequency is in that information. By the way I picked up a receiver at Radio Shack. I charged it to the paper."
Goldwyn didn't flinch.
"So far all I've picked up is Bible verses."
"Tell me about the cult," GoldwTyn said.
"They call themselves the Light in the Darkness Fellowship. No one seems to know how many members there are—maybe a few thousand. They took over the town of Exeter a few years back and renamed it Christ's Home—we should have file copy on that. They couldn't buy that much property without a lot of members, or someone with really deep pockets backing them. I'm guessing they've got a network of believers sending tens and twenties."
Goldwyn took the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Jackson, assigning him the task of investigating the finances of the cult. Then he replaced the cigar and turned back to Roland—his signal to continue.
"The cult owns most of the businesses in town and most of the property. The original residents who stayed behind after the cult took over seem fairly content. Of course they can't buy liquor in the town and there are no bars, but the crime rate fell through the floor."
"They set up a police state, did they?" Russ Jackson asked.
"Not that I could see. They just don't commit crimes."
"If they have teenagers, there will be crime," Jackson argued.
"Not in Christ's Home. One man I talked with told me
Similar Books
