Tabby when she came in and we crossed the frosted field to the trees.
The woods were silent after the power drills and grinders but only for a few seconds. The sounds of birds made themselves first known, followed by the wind and the rustling of the small creatures in the fallen leaves. I eased my feet between the dry leaves. The soft swoosh of Tabby's steps followed me deeper into the woods. Occasionally, I would point out a bird or animal that was seldom seen, a great gray owl, rose-breasted grosbeak, a lynx...
We twisted back and forth through the woods watching and breathing the fresh air. A noise softer than the rustle of a mouse through the leaves but louder than the steps of a deer drifted from ahead. The small birds near by started glancing towards the new sounds. I signaled Tabby and we hid behind a deadfall. A few minutes later three men dressed in camouflage, armed, and packing cameras and sound equipment walked past. Just afer they lef, “I think they are FBI but they might be military.'
“Ben. What are you doing here?'
“Keeping an eye on you. Those men have been watching you for months.'
“I know.'
“Good boy. You are learning.'
“Let's find out how good these guys are. Why don't you bring me my supplies next week?'
“Okay. But if you have been staying near wouldn't it be easier if I just canoe down the river here.'
“I don't want them to know how close I am.
“Be careful. I feel trouble coming.'
Before Ben could leave, Tabby gave him a kiss. Giggling, he picked up his rifle and disappeared into the woods. That scared me. I seldom saw Ben carrying a rifle.
“Something is very bad if Ben is carrying the 30-30.'
“It doesn't look in good shape. Do you think we should buy him a new rifle?'
“My father gave him that Winchester carbine when he stopped hunting about ten years ago. Ben loves the rifle because it is from dad. I've seen him bark a squirrel at 150 feet with it.'
“Bark a squirrel?'
“You hit a squirrel with a 30-30 and there is nothing left of it to eat so you shoot next to the squirrel. The bark and splinters from the tree getting hit will kill the squirrel.'
“Remind me to ask what's for dinner before I accept any food from him.'
“You should-n-of-said that. Now we will have something different to eat the next time we see him.”
From Tabby's smile, I knew she expected that. She was just teasing Ben and me.
Tabby turned serious. “How did you know those men were coming?'
“Small animals have to go through fall leaves so they are noisy. Deer, bear, wolves ... all large animals lift their feet above the leaves so they are quieter than the small animals. Those men were making less noise than a squirrel or a mouse but more than a deer. The sound was also without a simple rhythm so it had to be coming from more than one source. Large animals seldom travel in tight groups that left men as the source of the sound.'
“I've got to remember that.'
We made it back to the farm without anything else strange happening. We stopped at the shed to see the Yellow Submarine. The submarine was a long cigar shape with thick glass portholes and a hatch attached to the top. There was a beach ball size lump just above the midline on both the nose and tail of the cigar. Each lump had swiveling nozzles on their top and bottom. The C130 Hercules elevators were massive stubby wings that barely fit on the cigar. Everything was painted the yellow/green florescent color that you find on some fire engines. On the side was painted in red outline the words ‘Yellow Submarine’ and near the back were the call letters YS1.
YS1 looked like it couldn't move on the three stubby wheels that we had welded to the bottom—let alone fly. But the ground tests had the monstrosity lifting off the ground within a hundred yards. To play it safe, Tabby called the airplane manufacturer in Duluth to design and install a parachute for YS1.
It took hours of explanation before the NASA test pilot sent up from Edwards Airbase would even get into YS1. We had to show him the gravity balls inside the wings and the computer software that would turn the gravity on in sequence pulling air over the wings. After the first flight, we had trouble keeping the pilot out of YS1.
Since the Yellow Submarine didn't need air to fly, we were going to try a near space entry tomorrow. In the upper atmosphere, the gravity balls in the wings were turned off and the power was fed into the large ball in front pulling YS1 higher and higher. The result was YS1 slowly going to ever greater altitudes. At first, no one believed the sedate speed YS1 used as it climbed. After I sent the first flight reports to the U of M and NASA, I had a dozen officials asking to view the next test.
The big event started before dawn with lawn chairs set out by the metal shed. A Dr. Scott from the Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville arrived at five o'clock with a general from Edwards Air Force Base by the name of Holcum. General Holcum's mouth fell open when he saw the pilot and the technician climb into the Yellow Submarine wearing space suits. The general's mouth dropped even farther when he saw the sedate speed YS1 used crossing the open farm field before it became airborne.
The general walked up to our lawn chairs. “How long will the test last?'
“Dr. Scott was given a complete break down of today's testing. But you might as well relax. It will be awhile. YS1 will start climbing in large circles around the farm. The battery life on board is about twelve hours so the pilot will climb for five hours before coming back down. This will give us a two-hour cushion if a problem occurs and the pilot has to land at a different field.” I backed away from the general and got out an old book of my father's that I found in a box in the attic. Louis L'Amour's The Lonesome Gods kept me company for most of the morning. Tabitha sat next to me reading a Cornwell murder mystery. After an hour, both the Dr. Scott and General Holcum grabbed a couple of lawn chairs and moved next to the radio where they could hear the pilot calling out speed and altitude numbers.
I looked at my watch. 10:59, nearly 5 hours after the six o'clock take off. I walked over to the radio. “What is the altitude?'
“He just radioed an altitude of 755,103 feet with a speed of 237 miles per hour.'
“Let's see ... divide by 5,280 feet in a mile. My calculator tells me that is about 143 miles. Is that right?' “Yes, 143 is what I make it.'
“Call him up and tell him to head back down.'
“YS1. YS1. This is base calling. Time to turn around and come home.'
“Base. This is YS1. Roger. Heading home.'
I headed back to my lawn chair and the Lonesome Gods. Behind me, I could hear the general stuttering to Dr. Scott. “He just went back to his book. They made it into space and all he does is reads a western. My God doesn't he know what this means...'
* * * *
Thomas Riley called the meeting to order. There were fifeen experts ranging from psychologists to physicists. Chairing the group was Dr. Schmitt form Argon National Labs and co-chairing was Dr. Manning from JPL.
“I have read over your summary. It tells me that Daniel Karpinen is a fairly intelligent individual with slightly above average skills in physics and mathematics. He is a stable personality with a very strong individualistic streak. But this doesn't tell me why an alien creature would try to contact him or how he is able to continually make new discoveries.'
Schmitt felt it was his place to answer. “After looking over Karpinen's work, we found that his ideas were not beyond the possibilities of any reasonably skilled scientist or engineer except for his first discovery of EM conversion to gravity. That first discovery was a unique step that took an unusual intellect to find.'
He looked to Dr. Jorge, the lead psychologist, and received a nod of agreement before continuing. “Science and engineering are as much an art as painting, music, or prose. You can have people very skilled in the technical aspects of science who can never develop a unique thought. But another individual, with limited training, can see a pattern in equations the same way a musician can see a pattern in notes. Karpinen's work as a proofreader has brought him the details of most of the different branches of science. He has been able to see, using his knack for patterns, how the sciences relate. Our best explanation is that he is an artist in science and he is such a unique artist that even beings outside of our solar system have recognized his talent.'
“Okay. I guess I will have to accept that. No one else has given me a better idea. But how about bringing him in to work directly with us?'
Dr. Jorge took over. “We have done as much testing and analysis that we can without actually working with
