‘James,’ Charles Gainey said, ‘I frankly don’t care about your opinion. William McGrath offered two possible options to me.’
‘McGrath is an idiot,’ James Dickson snapped, his face flushed with anger. ‘He should never have been made Acting Director of the FBI. He –’
‘James,’ Gainey said firmly. ‘I’m talking. You will listen, and not interrupt. William McGrath suggested two possible options. The first would have basically restored the status quo and allowed Roland Oliver to continue its operations, but would have required the killing of Steven Hunter, who I remind you again is English, not American, with all the potential diplomatic issues that that might have raised. We would also have had to kill Sheriff Reilly, FBI special agent Kaufmann, Doctor Richard Evans and forty-three women whose only crime was that they happened to be under thirty, more or less unattached and healthy. That I was not prepared to agree to.’
Gainey was stretching the truth to within an inch of its life, but he knew that Dickson would never realize it.
‘So you wrote off Roland Oliver instead. You let your conscience dictate your actions. You didn’t think through all the consequences, and as a result we’ve lost the single most valuable source of technological development this country has had for half a century.’
Charles Gainey nodded.
‘Quite right. I did let my conscience decide, but I did think through the consequences. I believe that Roland Oliver had reached the point where it was hindering, rather than helping us. For the last fifty years, American industry has got used to being handed new ideas on a plate every few months, and it’s effectively stopped bothering about research and development. The same applies to our academic institutions. It’s time they all stood on their own feet and stopped waiting for handouts. I think we’ll be stronger, not weaker, as a result of abandoning Roland Oliver.’
‘I can’t agree with you, Mr. President,’ Dickson said, his face taking on an even deeper shade of red. ‘I think you were wrong, and I’m frankly appalled that a decision of such moment was apparently taken by you alone and without any form of consultation or proper consideration.’
‘I consulted William McGrath, and we considered it together. And,’ Gainey went on, ‘it wasn’t a difficult decision to make. McGrath and I have both seen the video of the processing operation – you haven’t. If you had, I very much doubt whether you would be sitting here in front of me complaining quite so loudly.’
Dickson made an impatient gesture.
‘And finally,’ Gainey added, ‘the buck stops right where I’m sitting. Ultimately, the decision was mine to take, whether you or Congress or anybody else likes it or not.’
Dickson sat silent for a few moments.
‘What’s done is done,’ he said at last. ‘We can’t change your decision, even if we wanted to, but I would like my objection noted.’
‘So noted,’ Gainey said. ‘In fact,’ he added with a slight smile, ‘I’ll make that two objections from you, as I’ve also decided to confirm William McGrath as the new Director of the FBI.’
‘It’s good to be back,’ Reilly muttered to nobody in particular. He was sitting in the Main Street Diner, his white Jeep Cherokee parked outside, waiting for his lunchtime order of double ham and eggs to arrive.
On the table in front of him he had a piece of paper on which he was jotting down the things he had to do. Top of the list was redecorating his living room.
‘Here y’ go, Dick,’ the waitress said, plopping a plate of protein and grease in front of him. Reilly looked at it with enthusiasm and picked up his knife and fork.
‘You have a good holiday?’
‘Holiday?’ Reilly asked.
‘Yeah. Didn’t see you all last week, so I figured you’d taken off somewhere.’
Reilly leaned back in his seat, looked up at her and chuckled. ‘I did take off somewhere,’ he admitted, ‘but I sure wouldn’t call it a holiday.’
She could still hear his laughter when she got back to the counter.
Christy-Lee Kaufmann replaced the telephone handset on its rest and walked back into the bedroom. Steven Hunter was lying in bed, one hand behind his head, the other holding a small metallic object, shaped something like a pistol, which he was looking at closely.
‘I wish you’d stop playing with that damned thing,’ Christy-Lee said.
‘I was just looking at it,’ Hunter said defensively. ‘It might come in useful in the future, if ever we have to prove what happened at Groom Lake. Being able to demonstrate a genuine alien weapon to the world’s press would be a pretty big attention-getter.’
‘Right, but just stop playing with it, OK?’
‘OK,’ Hunter said with a grin and placed the object carefully on the bedside table. ‘That was Michaelson, our esteemed leader, on the telephone, I presume?’
Christy-Lee nodded, and climbed in beside him.
‘He wanted to know where you were, and when I thought I might be going back into the office.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Oh, the usual. I said I had a migraine and that I hadn’t seen you since last week.’
‘You think he believes that?’
‘Probably not, but he’s too stupid to make the obvious connection.’
‘Screw him,’ Hunter said.
‘No,’ Christy-Lee replied. ‘Screw me.’
‘Not quite the result we had hoped for, William,’ the President said, as he and McGrath settled into two comfortable armchairs in the Oval Office.
‘No, sir, it wasn’t.’
A steward appeared with a tray of refreshments, and Charles Gainey waited until he had left before speaking again.
‘I read between the lines when we talked on the telephone,’ Gainey said. ‘You obviously had to alter the original plan more than somewhat?’
‘Yes, sir. Hunter is really sharp, or extremely cautious, or both, and Reilly’s as cunning as a fox. I suggested moving the Roland Oliver subjects out, then destroying the building and the aliens as a team, and Hunter simply wouldn’t wear it. From the look he gave me, I think he guessed that we’d decided he and Reilly should never leave the compound. As the two of them were packing enough artillery to take on a squad of men by themselves, there wasn’t much I could do about it.
‘And Reilly’s radio-activated detonators were a real shock. If it hadn’t been for those, we could have saved Roland Oliver and nobody would have been any the wiser.’
‘What happened at McCarran when you landed there?’ Gainey asked. ‘I know the Roland Oliver building was destroyed, but surely you could have held Hunter and Reilly?’
‘That was the final part of the plan, Mr. President, and it would have worked well if we had actually landed at McCarran. Hunter knocked me unconscious before we left Groom Lake, and when I came round he’d already told the pilot to divert to Pulliam Airport in Flagstaff, Arizona. By the time I realized we hadn’t landed at Las Vegas, it was too late to do anything about it.’
‘C’est la vie,’ Gainey muttered. ‘As it is, if any of this ever leaks out, at least I’ll be able to claim a political victory as the man with the courage to shut down Roland Oliver because the price of keeping the program going was unacceptably high. You and I will know that my intention was completely different, but it’s what people think, not what they know, that’s important.’
Gainey picked up a glass from the table in front of him and took a sip of scotch.
‘Do you think Hunter or Reilly will be a problem to us?’
McGrath shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. They know better than to open their mouths. Hunter told me that if we didn’t cause him any trouble, he’d forget what he’d seen. And there’s something else. Hunter told me he’d removed the hard drive from Ketch’s office computer – in fact, he even showed it to me. The drive contains the names and personal details of everyone who’s been processed to date, right back to the start of Roland Oliver, and a whole bunch of supporting data. I have no idea where Hunter has stored it, but I’ll bet it’s already in some computer somewhere, and that he’ll be making a whole lot of copies of the data for safe-keeping. If we make waves, that information will appear on the Internet and in the press, and that will finish us.’
‘We could have Hunter and Reilly taken care of,’ Gainey suggested.
‘No, sir, definitely not. Hunter’s final message to me was quite unequivocal. He said that he, Dick Reilly and Christy-Lee Kaufmann would be keeping in constant contact with each other. If any one of them died anything other than a natural death within the next ten years, the remaining two would ensure that you and I both suffered the same fate.’
‘That’s preposterous. They couldn’t possibly reach either of us,’ Gainey said, but his voice trailed off at the end of the sentence.
‘Exactly, Mr. President. They managed to eliminate my immediate predecessor, and to get into the very heart of the most secret and secure military establishment we operate. I think if either Hunter or Reilly really wanted to take either of us out, they’d find a way to do it. They’re both very resourceful and Hunter, in particular, is quite ruthless. It’s far better to have him as a friend – or at least neutral – than as an enemy.’
‘OK,’ Gainey said. ‘It’s not the ideal solution, but I guess we can live with it.’ He took another sip of his drink, then continued. ‘I had James Dickson in here draining all over me this morning. He thinks Roland Oliver was the greatest thing since sliced bread.’
‘He was right, in a way, Mr. President,’ McGrath said, reaching for his glass. ‘It was an unrivalled source of technology, but we both know that the cost was far too high. In every sense of the word. I wonder,’ he added, ‘if the Secretary of Defense would have been quite so enthusiastic if his daughter had been chosen for harvesting?’
‘Interesting thought,’ Gainey said. ‘I’ll mention it next time he gets on his high horse.’
Both men drank in silence for a few moments.
‘Actually, I’ve got a real sense of relief about this whole thing,’ McGrath said. ‘Just knowing that the operation’s been closed down permanently is enough. I’m sure I’ll sleep better in the future.’
‘I know I will. I know it’s not your concern, but the whole thing was political suicide. I mean, if the American people had found out what was going on, they’d probably have lynched me, or at least tried to.
‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ the President added, warming to his theme. ‘I actually don’t think Roland Oliver was that much of a benefit. I got fed up with those slant-eyed, stumpy, little grey bastards drip-feeding us the technology that they thought we should have.’
McGrath smiled.
‘But there’s a downside as well,’ Gainey added, ‘and that’s what really gives me the shivers.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Suppose the bloody aliens haven’t gone. Suppose they’ve just opened up their deli somewhere else.’
‘Like where?’
‘Like India, for instance. Plenty of live-stock there that nobody would miss. The population’s – what – about a billion?’
‘A little less, I think,’ William McGrath murmured.
The President shook his head irritably. ‘Whatever. The point is, if they do the same deal over there – technology for food – we could see the biggest economic turnaround in the history of the world. And that’s not to mention the defence implications.’
‘You mean –’
‘Yup. We had no option. The aliens wouldn’t give us weapons technology, so we had to be satisfied with peaceful applications – fibre optics, lasers and so on. Now that human flesh is a traded commodity out there with a growing demand for it, the Indians might be able to strike a better bargain.’
Several of the villagers had reported seeing a falling star the previous night, but that was a common enough occurrence. What marked these particular reports as being somewhat different was the insistence of three females – two middle-aged women and one girl barely out of her teens – that this particular star had fallen to earth.
Chiang Ho-Sek had been born in the village in 1975, and had been an academic rising star. Quickly out-growing the local education system, he had taken a degree in geology at Beijing University, and had followed that up with post-graduate studies in the geology of the solar system at Berkeley in America. It was to him that the three women turned, arriving at his small three-roomed house just after seven in the morning.
Chiang had several times paid bounties to local farmers for the discovery of fragments of meteorite on the lands they worked, and it was well-known that he had an extensive collection of ‘star-rocks’ in his modest residence at the southern edge of the village.
Chiang listened with interest as the women described exactly what they had seen. They talked rapidly, and with obvious excitement, frequently elaborating, or sometimes flatly contradicting, what each other claimed. The light had been white, or blue, or perhaps yellow with a blue tinge. The star-rock had made a roaring sound, or a whistling noise, or had been completely silent, as it fell.
But what they all agreed on, without hesitation, was that the object had fallen to earth somewhere in the low hills that lay to the northeast of the village. All three offered to accompany Chiang if he wished to search for the object, but he declined. His head already spinning slightly from the incessant chatter, Chiang announced that he would search the area himself, but agreed that all three women would be rewarded equally if he found and recovered the star-rock.
Chiang Ho-Sek had returned to Chang Village after Berkeley for the time and peace he needed to complete his thesis on asteroid geology. During the week he taught at the local school, the school at which he had once been the star pupil, but at weekends his time was his own.
After a hasty breakfast, Chiang assembled the tools of his trade – a collapsible shovel with a rudimentary pick opposite the shovel blade, a Fuji bridge camera with an extra data card and two sets of spare batteries, a notebook and two pencils, a hammer, a dozen marker pegs, a tin of red spray paint, powerful binoculars and heavy gloves – and packed everything securely into a well-used rucksack. He added a two-litre container of water and three of the candy bars for which he’d developed a taste whilst at Berkeley, and which he obtained in bulk from a colleague whose girlfriend worked as an airline stewardess.
By eight fifteen he was ready, and five minutes later was peddling his bicycle, a ten-year old model originally designed for a female rider, away from the village and along the dusty track that led away to the northeast.
He had no accurate bearings to follow, because none of the chattering women had thought to take one during their observations, but they had all thought that the object had fallen somewhere between the two most westerly summits, so that was where Chiang was heading. He was hoping that the meteorite was fairly large, because that would make the impact crater much easier to find, and would also considerably increase its commercial value.
Chiang, though a scientist, had no illusions about the world of commerce, and knew that large meteorites were sometimes worth hundreds, and even occasionally thousands or tens of thousands of U.S. dollars, and he was quite prepared to sacrifice his scientific endeavours in return for instant wealth.
At mid-morning he stopped beside the track, leaned his bicycle against a rock, ate one of his candy bars and drank a little water. With some reluctance he climbed back into the saddle – which had clearly not been designed for long-term comfort – and began pedalling again.
He reached the foot of the most western of the hills a little before noon, and abandoned the bicycle with relief when the slope and terrain precluded further riding. He ate another candy bar and drank some more water. Then he hitched the rucksack more comfortably on his shoulders and began striding up the slope towards the summit of the hill. From there, he hoped, he might be able to identify the impact site using his binoculars.
The slope increased the closer he got to the summit, and Chiang was panting when he finally reached it. He sat down to rest for a few minutes, then pulled his binoculars out of the rucksack, rested his elbows on his knees, and began scanning the valley in front of him.
After about ten minutes he stopped and rubbed his eyes. There was nothing visible anywhere within sight that looked anything at all like an impact crater. The only thing that appeared to be worth investigating was in the stunted trees and bushes at the very bottom of the valley where something, some small object, or some small part of a larger object, glinted a dull silver in the early afternoon light.
Chiang shrugged his shoulders, pulled the rucksack back on and started walking down the slope towards the bottom of the valley.
When he was about fifty yards from the bushes where the silver object still glittered enigmatically, Chiang suddenly stopped.
Emerging from the bushes in front of him was a small grey figure, human-like but unmistakably not human. Chiang stared at the figure for a few seconds, then decided very quickly that discretion was certainly the better part of valor, and turned to run. But he didn’t, because standing directly behind him was another, apparently identical, figure, and now Chiang could clearly see the tear-drop shaped face with the massive slanting black eyes which seemed to burn into his very soul.
Even later, Chiang wasn’t sure if the small grey creature with the huge black eyes had actually talked to him, or if the words had simply appeared, fully formed and in perfectly fluent Mandarin, in his mind. Either way, the message was clear enough.
‘We have,’ the small grey figure announced, ‘a proposition for you.’