Chapter 12
“Dad! You’ve got to be kidding me. Why do we have to go? Mark, Jen, and I haven’t had our own day in weeks.”
“Heather, it’s Family Day, remember? We’ll be grilling burgers and dogs with the other lab families. It’ll be fun. I’m sure your plans aren’t of such earthshaking importance they warrant skipping the annual picnic.”
“But we planned on biking and rock climbing today.”
Her mother glanced up from the afghan she was knitting for the church raffle. “Heather. Discussion over. We’re going, and I’m sure the Smythes are too. Besides, you loved it last year.”
With a resigned sigh, Heather nodded, kissed her folks good night, and headed upstairs to bed. Frustration gnawed at her gut, knowing she would once again be denied a visit to the starship.
Events this past week made returning to the ship all the more imperative. They needed to discover how to access more information in those computer banks.
The news media was in a frenzy. First there had been the shocking resignation of the secretary of defense, followed almost immediately by the president’s announcement that the first of the alien technologies to be publicly released was cold fusion.
Then the scientific papers on the production of controllable cold fusion were published, sending every scientific laboratory in the world scrambling to independently reproduce the results. Confirmation had come flooding in, numerous universities announcing the results almost simultaneously, while major companies scrambled to commercialize the applications.
As if that weren’t enough, the stock market stumbled into another black October decline with two days of record sell-off. That then reversed when several energy companies appeared able to adapt parts of their infrastructure to support some of the anticipated automobile technologies.
Outcries from oil-producing countries were largely ignored by industrialized countries, including emerging economies like China and India. Clearly the perceived benefits of the release were winning widespread support around the globe.
Even within the United States, opposition arose. A large contingent of congressmen from both parties, along with commentators from assorted think tanks, complained the information was released too quickly, without fully scrutinizing national security implications. Still, these voices were drowned out by the enthusiasm of the world's academic communities.
Heather switched off the light and pulled her blankets up under her chin, peering out the dark window beside her bed. The wind was up this evening, and a thin branch of a pine tapped softly against the pane. The image of the ragged homeless man with the sign slipped across her mind. A call to the sheriff had brought a visit by two deputies, but there had been no further sign of the man. From Heather’s perspective, that was a good thing.
Sleep claimed her, pulling her into troubled dreams in which she needed desperately to do something unattainable, something that, try as she might, she could not recall. From far away her mother called to her, a note of desperation in her voice.
“Heather. Are you hearing me? I need you.”
Heather’s eyes popped open. “Heather! I need you up and ready or we’ll be late for the picnic. Get a move on.” Her mother’s face appeared at her door. “Are you hearing me? I’ve been calling for five minutes.”
Clearing her throat, Heather sat up. “I hear you, Mom. Give me just a minute.”
“Okay, but make it snappy. The Smythes have to be there early to set up the grill and we’re carpooling. You’ve got twenty-five minutes.” She glanced at her watch. “Make that twenty-four.”
“All right, Mom. I don’t really think a countdown will help.”
Heather stumbled groggily to the shower, letting the hot water and steam bring her back to life. What was up with her sleep pattern? Ever since they had found the ship, she couldn’t seem to get enough sleep. And the stress of her unremembered dreams was sapping her energy.
Despite hurrying, by the time Heather reached the bottom of the stairs the horn on the Smythemobile blared impatiently. Locking the front door behind her, Heather slid into the van’s backseat beside Jennifer and Mark.
Mark grinned at her knowingly.
“You ready to flip some burgers and dogs?”
“Hmph.”
With the arrival of the Smythemobile at the Los Alamos City Park, their parents put the teens to work setting up the grill, hauling bags of charcoal, and performing other picnic preparation tasks. All around them, the smells of the giant potluck circuit wafted over. Despite their urge to wander amongst the offerings, their mandate was clear. They would hold down their assigned positions at the grill or at the condiment table until the lunch crowd died out.
The crowd continued to fill the park, and soon the sky at the eastern end was filled with an assortment of competing kites. Scores of kids and adults held everything from a basic diamond with knotted cloth tail to massive multi-box contraptions, carefully controlled by professionally engineered handles on twin cables. A minor scuffle broke out between parents as one of the fancier kites became entangled with a looping black-hawk kite.
As lunch wound down and the friends prepared to abandon their grill duties, the deputy director, Dr. Donald Stephenson himself, stopped by to sample what were reputed to be the finest hot dogs and hamburgers at the festivities.
As Dr. Stephenson stepped up to the grill, open-faced bun already decked out with tomato, onion, and lettuce, he paused, his hawk-like gaze sweeping the adjacent table. “Do you have any more mustard?”
Jennifer moved toward the condiment box tucked behind the table. “I’m sorry, sir. Let me get it for you.”
As she stepped forward and bent down to grab the bottle, she tripped, plunging face-first toward the hot grill.
Mark moved so quickly that the startled deputy director had no time to get out of his way, a glancing blow sending the startled scientist spinning away. Grabbing his falling sister's waist, Mark’s powerful arms tossed her over the top of the grill, sending her tumbling to the grass on the far side.
Hearing the crash, Heather turned with the long hot-dog fork still in her hand, the twin tines burying themselves in the flesh of the spinning Dr. Stephenson’s upper arm. The deputy director doubled over, cursing as he staggered away. Heather froze, watching the blood drip from the tongs of the fork in her hand.
Stunned, unable to move, Heather could only watch as Mr. Smythe was the first to reach the deputy director's side.
“Sir, are you all right? Here, let me take a look at that.”
With a violent thrust of his hand, Dr. Stephenson shoved the startled technician away. “I am fine. I don’t need your assistance. Thank heavens those tongs missed me. See? Not even scratched.” He pulled up the short sleeve of his shirt to reveal an undamaged arm.
Moving quickly back toward the grill, Dr. Stephenson angrily snatched the fork from Heather’s nerveless fingers.
“If you kids can’t safely operate this station, then you shouldn't be near it. Get away from it now,” he bellowed. “Try something your small brains can handle. And stay away from me.”
Without waiting for a response, the deputy director of Los Alamos National Laboratory stormed off, the hot dog fork still clutched tightly in his hand. The Smythes and McFarlands gaped after him.
“Dad, I’m so sorry,” Heather sobbed.
Her father moved over and hugged her. “It’s all right. You didn’t hurt the mean old bastard. The fork missed him.”
“It wasn’t your fault, anyway,” Jennifer said, her face burning a bright red. “What a jerk.”
Mr. Smythe nodded. “Too bad you missed him.”
Heather wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, giving her best effort at a grin. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”
Mrs. Smythe patted her arm. “Anyone would have, dear. Come on, gang, the burger and hot dog station is now closed. Let’s go check out some of the other food.”
As they worked their way around the food circuit, Mark walked between Jennifer and Heather, his arms circling their shoulders.
“When we get a chance, we need to talk,” Mark whispered. “No matter what the good Doctor said, I saw that fork go knuckle-deep in his arm. I saw the blood. I can play it back in my mind. I don’t know how he did it, but he was sure as hell hurt. And he made damned sure he got that fork away from you before he stormed off. Three guesses as to how long it took him to wipe it clean.”
Heather stopped, shock prickling her scalp. She had seen the prongs stab him, had felt them penetrate the skin and muscle.
As their parents moved on toward the homemade brownie station, the three companions stood close together, their eyes gazing off to where the deputy director had disappeared. And as they looked, a sudden chill settled over them.