Moonstruck. Part 20

* * * The secretary backed silently from the Oval Office, leaving a grim President alone with his visitor. Behind that visitor, a galactic orb high on a bookshelf saw all. "Welcome, Amba.s.sador H'ffl. I appreciate you coming on such short notice."

Rualf peered out through the camera lenses of the F'thk robot. "Please, Mr. President, have a seat. I prefer to stand, but there is no reason for you to." A standing robot did not tire, and it had an excellent filming angle. He did not continue until the human retreated to the chair behind his desk. "Now what is this matter of great sensitivity mentioned in the radio message?"

Enigmatic muscular twitches played across the human's face. ("Unhappy and worried," interpreted a text window in Rualf's helmet). "This is a hard matter of which to speak." "Pardon me, Mr. President, but the tensions between America and Russia seem to be escalating. Human politics are not my field of expertise, but to an outsider the situation looks unpromising. I fear this is not the time for delay. If I can be of service, I hope you will speak plainly." Orbs and intercepted communications showed preparations for war increasing so rapidly, finally, that the H'ffl robot had been delivered in a lifeboat. Rualf had been unwilling to delay meeting with the President until the next scheduled visit to Washington of the Consensus.

The President's face contorted ("grieving," read the interpretation). "Things aren't very promising to an insider, either." He opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it. The sad expression continued. Did no human ever make things easy? Rualf would have thought the appropriate course of action obvious. Clearly he had been on this awful world too long, if he seriously expected reason from the natives. "I apologize in advance for the suggestion I am about to make. My words will seem to imply a lack of confidence, when perhaps all will work out for the best." The robot tipped its head in mimicry of a human gesture of confidentiality. "What I am considering skirts the limits of my authority." He paused again, hoping the human would make the conceptual leap. The scene would be more dramatic if the human made the proposal-whatever hints Rualf made to get there could be edited out.

"No need to apologize. Some new thinking is very much needed." The President briefly squeezed his eyes shut ("struggling for the proper words"). "Can your people stop our madness? We seem powerless to stop ourselves."

"How? By threatening harm to you or your adversaries? Coercion would not only be wrong, and against everything for which the Galactic Commonwealth stands, but surely also futile. Why would our threat be more of a deterrent than your own evident plans to harm each other?" Rualf zoomed in as the robot spoke, capturing a tight close-up of the President's face. The human leader closed his eyes again in thought and sorrow.

A moment later, those eyes snapped open amid an interplay of facial muscles Rualf could not understand. ("He has reached some decision?" guessed the caption.) "Mr. Amba.s.sador, I believe you can help. Help us in the event of the worst. We could destroy ourselves, destroy our world. If that happens, I would die happier knowing that a small part of what we accomplished will be remembered."

Thank you! These humans at least had some sense. "You have much of which to be proud. I can promise you that even if the worst does happen your story will be remembered." Now, you slow-witted bilat freak, actually make the offer.

"That is good news." ("Increased decisiveness.") There was a dramatic pause-too long a pause, but that would be tweaked in editing. "I want to go a bit further. I would like to send with you a sample of our achievements. Pieces of our art, selections of our finest thought."

Success! Rualf made the robot nod its head in humanlike agreement. "I understand. A sad plan, but perhaps a prudent one. Yes, I would be willing to do this." Playing to the orb he had the robot add, "All will be enthusiastically returned if we are, happily, too pessimistic."

"I wish this fine old house could be saved, or the great monuments of this wonderful city. They can't. Most of our finest treasures are impossible to save." President Robeson studied the room as he spoke, as if trying to memorize it. He straightened in his chair in resolve. "Anything too visible cannot be taken without being noticed. Notice would bring panic. Panic would be misinterpreted by the Russians as a pre-attack evacuation. I will do my duty to defend and avenge America. I will not trigger her obliteration."

Rualf somehow contained his glee for long enough to complete the transaction. A landing by the Consensus could hardly be disguised, and the President insisted there be no big deviation from past routine that could raise Russian suspicions, but still some unique arrangements were necessary. The trusted aide whom the orb had seen a.s.signed to gather America's treasures was now brought in to coordinate the details of a circ.u.mspect transfer. This Britt person thankfully had a mind for details-what he now proposed was workable.

The coming scene took shape in Rualf's mind as plans were finalized, and it was a thing of poignant beauty.

* * * Andrew Wheaton chewed on an unlit cigar, debating whether he was going to do this. The sc.r.a.p of paper in his hand had the unlisted cell-phone number of Kyle Gustafson, information wheedled from the scientist's mother. The Gustafsons, who had welcomed Andrew to their Thanksgiving dinner with open arms, were the salt of the Earth. Andrew was a lot less certain what he thought of their son.

Dirty dishes filled the sink. Crumbs and stains covered the table in front of him. Tina would have been disappointed-she kept the little farmhouse spotless. He choked back a sob. If Tina was here he would not be thinking about this call.

Would Kyle talk with him? The man had been nice, at least. But the cops had been nice too, at first.

Then they had laughed behind their hands at the UFO nut. Then they had as much as accused him of killing his own wife, his own son.

Was Kyle Gustafson any different? Andrew had dared to hope so. After he'd shown Kyle the field,

people had come to the farm. They took samples from the pasture, did a survey. But then . . . nothing.

Kyle had left a business card with a phone number-but he never answered the phone. Sometimes an a.s.sistant, a young-sounding man, picked up. He took messages, even returned calls. The young man was polite, but he knew nothing. "Kyle will call back when he can."

What did he expect, anyway? Tina used to tease Andrew for buying tabloids. The "big" newspapers didn't understand about aliens, only the tabloids did. A tear ran down his cheek. Did Tina understand now? His gut told him that she was gone.

Was there anything he could do? He had thought and thought-and there was something. But that something made sense only if he had abandoned hope. He looked again at the sc.r.a.p of paper in his hand.

At his last hope. He dialed.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Dr. Gustafson, this is Andrew Wheaton."

"Hi, Andrew. I didn't know you had this number."

Didn't want me to have it. "I told your mom I had to reach you." When no comment came, Andrew

continued. "I need to know what your people found."

"Andrew." There was anguish in the voice. "There's nothing I can tell you. I'm sorry."

His guts felt like someone had reached in and squeezed them. "Nothing to tell? Or nothing you want to

tell?"

"I'm sorry," Gustafson repeated. "Sincerely. Andrew, I have to go."

Tina had sewn the blue gingham curtains over the kitchen window. She'd cross-st.i.tched the samplers

decorating every wall. Andrew Junior had colored the crayon drawings pinned to the corkboard and magneted over most of the refrigerator door. "I'm sorry, too," he whispered.The alien devils . . . soon they would be sorry. He would see to it.

CHAPTER 27.

The coaster clung to Kyle's gla.s.s of ice water, suspended by a film of condensation. Then gravity had its

way; the coaster fell to the floor.

Drink coasters were a concept with which Swelk was unfamiliar. The unexpected noise made her drop her gla.s.s. It shattered. She shuffled in confusion.

"My fault. I'll take care of that." Kyle started picking the largest shards from the puddle, pausing to shoo away the kittens, who had come to investigate. They were in the safehouse's dining room, Swelk's favorite room. If he had to guess, based on his woefully inadequate grasp of Krulchukor psychology, that was because of the large oval table. It was one of the few curved pieces of furniture in the house.

Darlene, who'd been about to leave after her own visit, stuck her head in the door. "Blot that with a towel. I'll be right back." She returned pushing a vacuum cleaner, its power card trailing behind her into the front hall. She flicked on the handle-mounted switch.

Swelk collapsed, her legs convulsing. Her sensor stalks went rigid.

Kyle lunged for the cord and yanked. As the plug whipped into the room, Swelk's seizure was already fading. Her squeals of protest were untranslatable. "Swelk, what can we do?"Darlene dropped the vacuum's handle. "Not again.""Again!" snapped Kyle. His eyes remained on the twitching alien. "What the h.e.l.l does again mean?

You've seen this before?""Seen, no. Well, sort of. Twice I've been in another room when Swelk had some type of twitching episode. I was never right there when it happened, and I saw nothing like this. The first time, a pair of agents saw her right after, too." Her brow furrowed in recollection. "Swelk made it sound like vertigo. I know she's mentioned waking up dizzy."

"I . . . I am . . . am fine," the translator stuttered. The alien climbed back to her feet and walked shakily

to the nearest beanbag chair. She dropped heavily, rustling the plastic peanuts inside. "That was

horrible . . . whatever . . . it was."

She had dropped like a stone when the vacuum cleaner started. The kittens had bolted at the same time.

Was it the unexpected racket? "Swelk, it's important that we isolate the problem. If you agree, I'd like to turn this"-he pointed at the vacuum cleaner-"on for a moment. We need to see if the symptoms return."

Swelk clasped her extremities, all the digits interlaced. From within the hollow of the beanbag chair, she

said, "At least I cannot fall from here."

He plugged the vacuum cleaner back in. The switch was still on; the motor restarted with a roar. Swelk's limbs spasmed. He pulled the plug, and the fit began immediately to subside. "I guess we won't be doing much vacuuming."

Darlene impaled him on a dirty look. "What can we do for you?" she asked Swelk.

What was going on? "Swelk, what were you doing when the earlier episodes struck? What was

happening around you?""Maybe some water, Darlene." The ET's sensor stalks bobbed. "In an unbreakable container, if there is one." She chugged most of a gla.s.sful before answering Kyle. "I wasn't doing anything. Standing in this room, waiting for Darlene."

He exchanged puzzled looks with her. "Dar, do you remember what you were doing?"

Her eyes closed in thought. "The first time was before one of Swelk's movies. I was getting popcorn.

The other time, I'd spent the night. It happened the next morning while I was showering."

Showering wasn't terribly noisy, and the only shower in the safehouse was upstairs. Kyle pinched the

bridge of his nose in concentration. Hmmm. Getting was a rather all-purpose verb. "Were you popping the corn?""Uh-huh.""In the little microwave oven in the trailer?"

She shook her head. "The microwave stuff has too much fat. I'd brought an air popper from home."

I see, said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw. "The second time, did you dry your hair?" To her puzzled nod, he added, "With a hair dryer?"

"Well, yes."

Vacuum, air popper, hair dryer . . . what they had in common were electric motors. More precisely, if not per the everyday usage, electromagnetic motors. Swelk had mentioned once that the safehouse's

electric lights made her jumpy. The radiation from household wiring was tiny compared to the E-M noise the vacuum cleaner's motor emitted."Kyle, what are you thinking?"He recognized the impatient worry in Darlene's voice. "It's okay. Give me a second." If electrical appliances were the problem, why had there been so few incidents? He ran a mental inventory of modern conveniences. This old house had been chosen for its isolation, not its features. Its heat came from radiators, the circulation driven only by hot water rising and cold water sinking. The water was heated by an oil burner-no motor required. The rarely used stove burnt propane. The refrigerator and its big motor, entirely by accident out of commission. No bathroom fans. The guards came and went in shifts, so there generally wasn't showering-or, more important, hair drying-going on. The original landline phone, with its electromagnetic ringer, was out of service, which was easier than guarding it.

There was a moment of uncertainty as he recalled Swelk had a television. He'd once lost a college a.s.signment by carelessly leaving a computer disk on a TV. His doubts receded as he remembered what set she had. To accommodate the old house's tiny rooms, the CIA had followed Kyle's advice and gotten an expensive wall-mounted model like the one he owned. The upscale unit had an LCD flat screen: real low-voltage stuff. Not a CRT with big coils.

This had to be important.

Flickering lights triggered seizures in some epileptics. How did flickering magnetic fields affect Krulirim?

Swelk was very proud of her studies. Kyle strained to remember something in a debriefing report,

something from the Krul's personal research notes. Something about Krulirim orienting themselves by reference to the home world's magnetic field.