Part 13 (1/2)
The darker side of Kyle's speculation, if he could substantiate it, would be a whole new reason to fear the possible wrath of the Galactics. Imagine flesh-eating bacteria with att.i.tude . . . .Quit it, Kyle. It seemed he would be getting no hints from Swelk. Alas, her failure to answer these sorts of questions implied nothing about the truth of her story. How many people did he know without a clue
how, say, their TV or refrigerator worked?
Speaking of refrigerators, and probably why he thought of one, he wouldn't mind a cold soda. Retrieving a can would provide a few minutes in which to exorcise his frustrations, since the safehouse was presently without a functioning cooler.
No one had seen a way to tell whether Swelk's bioconverter or computer had undisclosed capabilities . . .
such as communicating with the s.h.i.+p from which she had, or claimed to have, defected. Even if her story were accepted-personally, he believed her-the danger would remain that hostile Krulirim could eavesdrop through her stolen equipment.
One of the few things he truly knew was that F'thk spying devices, the Galactic orbs, used microwaves. That Swelk's gear, if it had a communications mode, also exploited the electromagnetic spectrum, seemed like a good bet to take.
In terms of suppressing radio-based communications, stas.h.i.+ng the alien in an existing radiometrics lab would have been ideal-but it would have sacrificed secrecy and discretion. Instead, the isolated one- time farmhouse had been hastily ”remodeled” before Swelk was moved in and her debriefing begun in earnest.
The farmhouse's walls were newly spray painted with an electrically conductive pigment. Rolls of fine copper mesh lined the attic floor and cellar ceiling. Copper screens now covered all windows and doors.
Everything was interconnected and grounded. Kyle had personally tested and blessed the finished product: an un.o.btrusive electromagnetic s.h.i.+eld.
In the greater scheme of things, it was a small matter: a too casually draped dropcloth had let some of the sprayed conductive paint drift into the guts of the refrigerator. Plugged back in after the alterations were finished, the motor, obviously shorted out, had fried itself. It appeared that the owner previous to the CIA was one of those frugal fools who used pennies as fuses.
”I'm going to the trailer for a soda,” Kyle told Swelk. ”Can I get you anything?”
”I will stay with water from the kitchen tap.”
The back door banged shut behind Kyle. The Airstream trailer to which Kyle now headed sat discreetly
behind the house. Originally deployed as a communications station-the safehouse's s.h.i.+elding also blocked the agents' cell phones-the motor home was now most prized for its tiny refrigerator. He waved at an agent behind the house on a cigarette break, got a c.o.ke, and returned.
”Sorry for the interruption.” Blackie and Stripes were still waiting for the ”mouse” to emerge from the
closet. ”About the bioconverter again, how is it powered?”
Swelk had gotten a gla.s.s of water during his absence. She had to climb to the counter to operate the sink.
Instead of answering, she and her computer traded untranslated squeals. Finally, her computer said, ”The translation program does not have the word I want. Maybe your technology does not have this
capability. Some of the material I feed into the bioconverter is used to make the electricity. The energy
is stored in something like a battery.”
It sounded like a fuel cell, although a much better and more flexible design than any Kyle knew. That itself was interesting, but another opportunity had just presented itself. ”Does your computer have notes about how the bioconverter itself works? Maybe even a design?”
More squeals and whines. ”I am sorry. No.”
Had he imagined a pregnant pause after ”sorry”? Or was Swelk short of breath, as so often happened?
She'd told him that Earth had more CO2 than home. ”Why not?”
Swelk's sensor stalks dropped. Body language for regret? Or for evasion? ”I was unprepared for my escape.” Pause. ”I left the Consensus when my spying was discovered. My computer was mostly filled with movies.” An even longer pause. ”Sorry.”
Another plausible explanation . . . for another aggravating roadblock. Britt's skepticism had one more data point of support.
* * * ”Cold War II: First Casualties!” screamed the headline. A well-read Was.h.i.+ngton Post had been left on the table of the NASA conference room in which Kyle waited for Britt Arledge. G.o.ddard s.p.a.ce Flight Center, in Greenbelt, Maryland, was a short drive from the White House-and the sprawling, campuslike complex had several electromagnetically s.h.i.+elded labs for the routine a.s.sembly and checkout of scientific satellites. A get-together here offered reasonable a.s.surances against Galactic eavesdropping without drawing alien attention to Kyle or the federal lab at which he officially worked. Proximity to the District was simply a bonus.
Despite the inch-tall banner, details on the clash were spa.r.s.e. There had been a brief but deadly dogfight over the South China Sea between Russian fighters based in Vietnam and carrier-based American fighters. Accounts differed, of course, as to who had fired first. Moscow claimed its planes had been on a routine exercise, and their approach to the carrier task force was no more sinister than hundreds of similar events over the years. Was.h.i.+ngton said a targeting radar had been detected.
What was clear was that three SU-22s and two F/A-18s had been splashed. Two pilots, one Russian and one American, had failed to eject. Both were missing and presumed dead.
”Dirty business, that.” Kyle looked up at the sound of Britt's voice. ”That it is.” The wonder was that more incidents, and more deaths, had not occurred as the tensions between the United States and Russia kept rising. It was, to the very few who knew, a simulation of a nuclear crisis . . . but that pretense of hostility could turn real enough at a moment's notice. Too many nerves were stretched taut. Too many weapons could be loosed on a moment's notice.
He flung down the newspaper he'd been studying. Given what Swelk had told them, did Earth's nuclear powers need to continue the disaster-p.r.o.ne deception? He was trying to work that through in his own mind. ”We'll be meeting down the hall.”
Nodding, Britt followed Kyle along a road-stripe-yellow corridor to the s.h.i.+elded privacy of a cavernous, multistory satellite-a.s.sembly lab. Hands clasping the steel-pipe railing of a catwalk, Kyle felt free to speak his mind. ”Is the President prepared to tell the Russians about our defector? We need to stop the madness before something even worse happens.”
Britt's nostrils flared slightly, as visible a sign as he ever gave of disagreement. ”I'm not yet convinced
that she is a defector, and not an agent. Why are you?”It was the debate they kept having. Nothing in Swelk's ongoing CIA debriefings had revealed any inconsistencies in her story, nor had the little ET shared anything irreconcilable with Kyle or Darlene. A large part of that consistent story, unfortunately, was wide-ranging unfamiliarity with her species' science and engineering. That an intelligent member of a modern society could be ignorant of its technologies-Britt cheerfully admitted that he was without a clue how a radio worked and what kept a plane in the air-settled nothing.
The more cynical CIA debriefers went further, speculating that the very absence of minor loose ends in Swelk's story suggested a fabrication. Kyle thought he'd squelched that insinuation, as a groundless extrapolation to the aliens of a human foible. Who was to say all Krulirim didn't have a flawless memory for detail?