supplicant, waiting for—for what?
He did not know.
Years ago he had seen the tropical sky of Kwajalein shimmering with the delicate hues of the Northern Lights. The alien’s message, the announcement of its approach. But tonight the sky was exactly the way it should be: serene and lovely, everything so precisely in its ordained place that Isaac Newton could have predicted the location of each star and planet and moon.
How did I get that boy to let me roam free outside my room? he wondered. Hypnotism? Intimidation? Magic?
Clearly it had something to do with the alien. He was different now, Stoner knew. He could feel the difference within him. He had spent more than six years frozen in that spacecraft with the dead body of the alien. In that time, something —something— had gotten into him, seeped through his frozen flesh, enmeshed itself deeply inside his sleeping brain.
“I am Keith Stoner,” he whispered to himself. “I am still the same man I was eighteen years ago.”
But he knew that he was not only that same man. Not anymore.
For nearly an hour he waited, kneeling, on the beach. Nothing happened. The surf curled in ceaselessly. The warm wind caressing his cheek carried a delicate trace of the night-blooming cereus flowers from the shrubbery up near the highway. Behind him Stoner could hear the softly powerful thrumming of occasional trucks speeding along the road. But nothing more.
He got to his feet and walked slowly, reluctantly, back to the laboratory. I’ve spent most of my life locked into one sort of cell or another, he thought.
He clambered over the fence again and trotted back toward his room. He waved to the intern, sitting sleepily in front of his monitoring screens, arms hanging from his shoulders, eyes half-closed. The portal to his room was still open. He stepped in, and the doorway glowed and became solid wall again. Stoner wondered if the intern would actually erase the tapes as he had told him to.
He almost wished he wouldn’t.
But in the morning they brought him breakfast as usual and Richards showed up almost at the instant Stoner finished his last sip of coffee.
“Good news,” the psychiatrist told him as he drew up one of the little plastic chairs. “We’re moving.”
Seated at the chair by the window, his breakfast tray resting on a rolling cart in front of him, Stoner searched the psychiatrist’s face. There was no sign that he knew about the night’s little adventure.
“Moving? Where? When?”
Touching his mustache, Richards said, “Soon. A couple of days, I should think. I’m not sure where yet, but it’ll probably be to the mainland.”
“My son lives in Los Angeles, you said. I’d like to see him.”
Richards nodded. “That can be arranged.” But his eyes were saying, later. Much later.
“Have you told them I’m…alive?” Stoner asked.
“Your children? No, not yet.”
“Don’t you think they’d like to know?”
“I’m sure they would.”
“So?”
Trying hard not to frown, Richards said, “Well…there are complications.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t sleep. And you hallucinated.”
“Even if I’m crazy, my kids have a right to know that I’m alive again.”
The psychiatrist lapsed into silence.
“Where is Jo?”
“Jo Camerata? She’s right here.”
“Yesterday you said she’s pretty important to this operation.”
“Very.”
“I’d like to see her. Today.”
“I’m not sure…”
Stoner leaned forward slightly, nudging the cart that held the remains of his breakfast. “I’d like you to call her. Now.”
Richards looked puzzled for a moment, then lifted his left arm and touched his wrist communicator. “Mrs. Nillson, please.”
Stoner felt a pang of surprise. “She’s married.”
The psychiatrist ignored his remark. He spoke to several underlings, then finally:
“Jo, he wants to see you. Today, if you have the time.”
A long hesitation. Then Stoner heard Jo’s voice reply, “Impossible
He did not know.
Years ago he had seen the tropical sky of Kwajalein shimmering with the delicate hues of the Northern Lights. The alien’s message, the announcement of its approach. But tonight the sky was exactly the way it should be: serene and lovely, everything so precisely in its ordained place that Isaac Newton could have predicted the location of each star and planet and moon.
How did I get that boy to let me roam free outside my room? he wondered. Hypnotism? Intimidation? Magic?
Clearly it had something to do with the alien. He was different now, Stoner knew. He could feel the difference within him. He had spent more than six years frozen in that spacecraft with the dead body of the alien. In that time, something —something— had gotten into him, seeped through his frozen flesh, enmeshed itself deeply inside his sleeping brain.
“I am Keith Stoner,” he whispered to himself. “I am still the same man I was eighteen years ago.”
But he knew that he was not only that same man. Not anymore.
For nearly an hour he waited, kneeling, on the beach. Nothing happened. The surf curled in ceaselessly. The warm wind caressing his cheek carried a delicate trace of the night-blooming cereus flowers from the shrubbery up near the highway. Behind him Stoner could hear the softly powerful thrumming of occasional trucks speeding along the road. But nothing more.
He got to his feet and walked slowly, reluctantly, back to the laboratory. I’ve spent most of my life locked into one sort of cell or another, he thought.
He clambered over the fence again and trotted back toward his room. He waved to the intern, sitting sleepily in front of his monitoring screens, arms hanging from his shoulders, eyes half-closed. The portal to his room was still open. He stepped in, and the doorway glowed and became solid wall again. Stoner wondered if the intern would actually erase the tapes as he had told him to.
He almost wished he wouldn’t.
But in the morning they brought him breakfast as usual and Richards showed up almost at the instant Stoner finished his last sip of coffee.
“Good news,” the psychiatrist told him as he drew up one of the little plastic chairs. “We’re moving.”
Seated at the chair by the window, his breakfast tray resting on a rolling cart in front of him, Stoner searched the psychiatrist’s face. There was no sign that he knew about the night’s little adventure.
“Moving? Where? When?”
Touching his mustache, Richards said, “Soon. A couple of days, I should think. I’m not sure where yet, but it’ll probably be to the mainland.”
“My son lives in Los Angeles, you said. I’d like to see him.”
Richards nodded. “That can be arranged.” But his eyes were saying, later. Much later.
“Have you told them I’m…alive?” Stoner asked.
“Your children? No, not yet.”
“Don’t you think they’d like to know?”
“I’m sure they would.”
“So?”
Trying hard not to frown, Richards said, “Well…there are complications.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t sleep. And you hallucinated.”
“Even if I’m crazy, my kids have a right to know that I’m alive again.”
The psychiatrist lapsed into silence.
“Where is Jo?”
“Jo Camerata? She’s right here.”
“Yesterday you said she’s pretty important to this operation.”
“Very.”
“I’d like to see her. Today.”
“I’m not sure…”
Stoner leaned forward slightly, nudging the cart that held the remains of his breakfast. “I’d like you to call her. Now.”
Richards looked puzzled for a moment, then lifted his left arm and touched his wrist communicator. “Mrs. Nillson, please.”
Stoner felt a pang of surprise. “She’s married.”
The psychiatrist ignored his remark. He spoke to several underlings, then finally:
“Jo, he wants to see you. Today, if you have the time.”
A long hesitation. Then Stoner heard Jo’s voice reply, “Impossible
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