“Yeah, you can. You’re as smart as any alien. That’s why they’re after you, I think. Because you
Conner’s throat closed and tears welled in his eyes. “No, I can’t,” he said.
FAR ABOVE, THE THREE THIEVES felt his fear, and drew closer together in their own disquiet. What was the matter with him? Was he in danger? Helplessly, they watched the purple fear flowing up out of the shimmering haze of feelings that hung over the school like a many-colored smoke. They could tell it belonged to Conner by listening to it. They could also talk to him, but dared not. Last night, they had done something with him that the grays had never before managed with human beings, which was to form words in his mind that he could hear and respond to—words, not images.
They dared not do that now, because it might panic him and that must not happen.
Conner went to his physics section at the college, hurrying along the snowy walk that linked Bell Attached to the campus, and wishing that he was safe inside some building and not exposed to the watchful, dangerous sky.
TWENTY-ONE
THE SUN WAS HIGH IN a thin haze by the time Mike reached the Enterprise rental car agency that was tucked between the Wal-Mart and something called Goober’s Used Trucks. He considered buying a truck instead of renting a car, but he didn’t have but about six hundred dollars in his wallet. Too bad, a purchased vehicle would be a hell of a lot more secure than a rental, which any expert could trace, no matter what sort of identity he used.
“I’d like a car, please,” he said. He pulled out the Harry Hill driver’s license and credit card.
“Missouri,” the agent said, looking at the license.
“Yes, sir. Here trying to sell the college on some new band instruments.”
“Well, good luck. Pardon my French, but they’re tighter than a witch’s tit over there. You want a Grand Am?”
“A Grand Am is good.”
“Looks like we’re gonna get some serious weather tonight. If you want, I’ve got a Volvo. It’s three-sixty a week. Front-wheel drive might be useful, though.”
This was certainly true. “Yeah,” he said looking at the sky. “It sure might.” He took the Volvo.
In his top pocket was the remote control that would summon the triangle, which was laying by in some concealed draw somewhere in the hills. The trouble was, it connected through the MilStar communications satellite, and the second he used it, whoever was looking for him would know both where he was and where the triangle was.
Once he had the car, he went through a drive-though and got some food. It was too dangerous to stop and eat, lest some sort of horrible serendipity expose him to those two investigators. Professionalism in a situation like this was defined by attention to detail. He also knew from long experience that going without food was a mistake when you were dealing with complex and stressful issues.
AIR FORCE CHIEF OF STAFF Samuel Gold was ushered into the presidential executive office next to the Oval, which was open. No matter how often he passed near that room, he was always inspired by its history. No matter which president happened to be sitting at that desk, the power of the office was so intense that it was like a kind of scent around them all. Gold saw the presidency of the United States as the greatest governmental institution ever devised to expand human freedom and happiness. So he was especially concerned about this order he had come to discuss.
“Sir,” he began, “I won’t take up but five minutes of your time. I am requesting confirmation of an order received at oh-nine-hundred today, directing—”
“I know the order,” the president said. “You’re to prepare to fire the scalar weapon.”
“Yes, sir! I just—sir, what you may not know is that this weapon is not stable. It’s still in development.”
“The tests have worked pretty well.”
“Yes, sir. But you’re going to fire it into the New Madrid fault line.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. President, this thing is going to devastate the entire central United States. You might see half a million deaths and trillions of dollars in damage. Sir, if I may ask, why do you need this?”
“General Gold, you can’t ask. But I do want you to put a hold on that order until further notice.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Thank you for coming in.”
Gold’s thick neck flushed. He went to his feet, saluted, turned, and stiffly left the room. The president watched until the door was closed, then called for his next meeting to be delayed. He went out into the Rose Garden, bleak in winter, and stood a long time alone and in silence. To slow his pounding heart and damp his rage, he sucked long, deep breaths. And it passed, and he returned to his work.
MIKE WILKES’S NEXT STOP WAS Bell Attached School. They were all college families on Oak Road, so he could be reasonably sure that the children attended Bell, which went from kindergarten through high school. He wasn’t concerned about the Jeffers infant. The grays needed their instrument to be ready by 2012, not in twenty years. That left the two Kelton boys, Paul Warner and his sister Amy, and Conner Callaghan. There was a fair chance that he’d find his candidate among these children. If not, then he’d expand his search. He would not fail, that was unthinkable.
The school was housed in two elegant old redbrick structures on the edge of the Bell College campus. The place was certainly beautiful, with its tall white columns and broad sports field behind the main complex. As he walked up the long sidewalk to the main entrance, he reached in his side pocket and turned on his Palm Pilot. Tucked in beside it was the remote that would call the triangle.
Now the Palm would record the emissions of any computer in any room he entered. He would be able to access that computer again from the parking lot. If they used paper files, he’d find a way to physically invade them.
He had held the belief for many years that a person with sufficient training and resources quite simply could not be thwarted. Today, he would put that theory to the test.
As school was in session, the doors were locked. He identified himself over the intercom as “Dr. Wenders,” interested in enrolling his children in the school.
He was admitted by a student volunteer and led to the principal’s office. Mary Childs was a quick-voiced woman, big and ready to smile.
“Dr. Wenders,” she said, thrusting out her hand. “I thought I knew everybody on the faculty.”
“I’m not on the faculty just yet. I’m considering an offer, so I’m trying to get the lay of the land.”
“Oh, okay. How can I help you?”
“My son is a rather special case.”
“All right.”
“He’s extremely bright.”
“So is everybody here. The whole school is a gifted-and-talented program, essentially.”
“At nine, Jamie devised a muon detector that won a Westinghouse commendation. His IQ is over two hundred. As you know, even in a very accelerated program, students like this can pose some special challenges.”
“We have such students.”
“I’m surprised to hear that. They’re relatively rare.”
“Oh, we have one or two.”
“That’s very reassuring. How do you approach their needs, if I may ask?”
