"No one can say what kind of life-forms exist in the vast vastness of interstellar spaces. But think of it-billions and billions of stars each, in all probability, orbited by planets-trillions upon trillions of worlds very much like ours. If there is life up there, and they have chosen to make their presence known in this dramatic fashion, it will once and for all answer that age-old question. Is there intelligent life in the cosmos?" Dr. Cosmo Pagan smiled so broadly his onyx eyes twinkled like black holes. "I, for one, find this development very life affirming. And can only hope they'll strike again."
The President sputtered, "Is he nuts?"
"We've got to put a stop to this kind of scare talk," the chief of staff said worriedly. "Remember Orson Welles's 'War of the Worlds' radio broadcast?"
The President looked thoughtfully confused. "You mean H. G. Wells's movie, don't you?"
"It was a book, then a radio program, then a movie. The radio program pretended that the Martians had landed and were frying ass all over New Jersey."
"We've got to find out if any of this is real," decided the President, leaping to his feet.
"Sir?"
"If Martians are out to fry the space program, we've got to take countermeasures."
"What kind of countermeasures could-?"
But the question hung unfinished and unanswered in the empty air. The President of the U.S. had abruptly left the Oval Office, his destination unknown.
UPSTAIRS in the Lincoln Bedroom, the President plopped down on the rosewood bed in the rose red bedroom and removed a cherry red telephone from the cherry-wood nightstand.
It was a standard AT el, its face as smooth as its red plastic molding. There was no dial or keypad. Just the shiny red receiver attached by a gleaming red coil of insulated wire.
Placing the fiery telephone on his lap, the President picked up the receiver and lifted it to his concerned face. His eyes were grim. He turned on the nightstand radio and tuned it to an oldies station.
The phone began ringing at the opposite end, and instantly a parched, lemony voice said, "Yes, Mr. President?"
"The BioBubble disaster. I want you to look into it."
"Do you have reason to believe its destruction is a national-security issue?" "All I know is that a major scientific project is dead, and the FBI won't touch it, the CIA is citing unnamed sources and the National Weather Service says it can't be lightning."
"The lightning explanation is preposterous, I admit," said the lemony voice of the man the President knew only as Dr. Smith.
"So you'll take the assignment?"
"No, I will look into it. What is the source of the CIA assessment?"
"I just talked to the director a few minutes ago. He called it natural causes-whatever that means."
"One moment."
The silence of the line was perfect. No buzzes, clicks or humming. That was because it was a dedicated line. A buried cable ran from the White House to some unknown point where the director of CURE held forth in secret. The President had no idea where. Sometimes he imagined a basement off in a forgotten Cold War fallout shelter. Other times he envisioned the shadowy thirteenth floor of some massive skyscraper that wasn't supposed to have a thirteenth floor.
The lemony voice came back and it sounded peeved. "The preponderance of telephone-message traffic in and out of Langley is to various commercial hot lines."
"Hot lines?"
"The Prophet's Hot Line. Psychic Buddies Network."
"The CIA is consulting psychics!" the President blurted.
"They have been doing it for years," Smith said dryly, as if nothing the CIA did would ever surprise him again.
"I thought they put that Stargate stuff behind them."
"Evidently not. I would not accept any of their reports at face value."
"Look into this, Smith. Dr. Pagan is talking of death rays from outer space. I don't think people will buy it, but after Independence Day and Mars Attacks you never know."
"Otherwise intelligent people accepted as fact the 'War of the Worlds' radio broadcast when I was younger. And according to polls, a clear majority of Americans believe in the existence of flying saucers. We have to assume the worst where US. public opinion is concerned."
"I already do," the President said ruefully.
And the line went dead.
Chapter 4
Everything looked good for the return flight to Boston until Remo Williams had to use the terminal rest room and accidentally flushed his fly-padlock key down the john.
No problem, he thought, snapping the tiny padlock shut. I have a backup.
For some reason, the airport magnometer went beep when Remo walked through the stainless-steel frame.
"Empty your pockets," said a brown-eyed, auburn-haired airline security woman in a smart blue Wackenhut security uniform.
Remo dutifully placed two quarters and a subway token along with his billfold into the tray receptacle. He wore a white T-shirt and tan chinos, so there was no question of concealed weapons.
The magnometer beeped on his second try. The security agent blocked his path. Her voice became gravelly. A smoker.
"Excuse me, sir. I need to frisk you."
"Like hell," said Remo, picking up his left-hand loafer and shaking the tiny padlock key out into the receptacle. "It's only this thing," he said, going around for a third try.
But the beeper sounded a third time, and the auburn-haired woman said, "Airline rules say I get to frisk you."
"Have to frisk me, you mean."
"Want to frisk you," the auburn-haired woman said. "Frisk you friskily," she added.
"Maybe it's my zipper," suggested Remo.
"Zippers don't register. Otherwise, hunks like you would trip the alarm every time."
"It's got to be this frigging padlock."
"What padlock?"