He walked back over to the pulse generator. Touched its hull. He was suddenly taken by a chill, a feeling of emptiness. He looked down and saw something lying on the ground. A little figure. A man, made of sticks and coiled twine. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. He thought he had seen such a figure before, though he could not remember when.
In one corner of the room, Radar caught sight of a large metal trunk. He touched its side, confused at first, before he realized what it was: a Faraday cage. Of course. His father must have known the potential consequences of his machine, even if he was perhaps not quite aware of how wide-ranging those consequences would be. But he would have at least wanted to protect his own equipment.
Radar looked around the shack. It sure seemed as if he had left a lot out in the open, to simply be fried by the pulse. Maybe he hadn’t really known what he was doing. Certainly he hadn’t considered the role the giant antenna would play in broadcasting the pulse. But all of this — this explosion, this pulse — did not seem like his father’s behavior: his father did not affect things. His father simply was—observing, listening, grumbling. He was a passenger, not the driver. Maybe he had seized the wheel for one brief and terrible moment?
Radar unlatched the trunk and opened its lid. A little gasp. It was indeed a trunk full of riches. There were flashlights and radios and small televisions (apparently he had not thrown all of these out). Earphones. A calculator wristwatch. A cell phone (so his father did have a cell phone!). A Taser. An old IBM laptop. A digital camera.
Just then, released from its cage, one of the transceivers began to beep. The noise sounded foreign to his ears, and Radar realized he had already mentally adjusted to a world devoid of such electronic sounds. He picked up the radio and found that it was connected to an old Vibroplex Morse key — what they called “a bug” in the business. The transceiver must have been in CW mode. The beeps he was hearing were in Morse code:
—— ••• •—•• —•— ••—— •— ———•— ••••
It had been a while since Radar last used Morse, but it was a language deeply ingrained in his psyche. When he was five years old, he had learned the code in just one day, and for weeks afterwards he would speak to people only in Morse, annoying everyone but Kermin to no end.
Radar quickly translated the signal in his head:
QSL K2W9 QTH?
These were the so-called Q Codes — abbreviations developed by CW operators as shorthand for common phrases. QSL meant “Acknowledge that you receive this message.” K2W9 was his father’s call sign. QTH? meant “What’s your position?”
This was most likely one of his father’s ham friends. He probably just wanted to chew the rag about the blackout, not knowing that Kermin was, in fact, the cause of it all.
Radar picked up the paddle key. Positioned thumb and forefinger. The lingering twitch of the first dash. The code came back fast. He realized how much he had missed it. The secret to Morse code was not the length of the dits and the dahs but rather the length of the spaces in between.
—— ••• •—••—•— •—•—•• he tapped, the letters coming out neat and clean. QSL QRZ? This was an acknowledgement of message and a request for the identity of the caller.
There was a pause. And then — — •——••—— This meant: 9 12.
What was this? There was a chance he was hearing it wrong, that he was out of practice, but he didn’t think so, as the sender on the other end had a tight, clear delivery, and Radar could generally understand him perfectly. “9 12” in old Western Union 92 Code meant “Priority business. Do you understand?” It was unusual for anyone to be using such antiquated lingo, but then Kermin kept strange friends.
Two can play this game. Radar tapped out 13, Western Union for “I understand.”
The reply came after a moment:
—— •—• —•• —•— ••—— •— ——•
QRZ WHERE IS K2W9?
His interlocutor obviously was not fooled. Like every CW operator, Radar had his own particular “fist,” or accent, that no doubt diverged from his father’s. It was like a sonic fingerprint. A trained ear could hear the difference between two Morse operators within the first few dashes. Radar wondered about the deviation between his father’s fist and his own. Was he more forceful? His father lazy and self-assured? Well, he would just have to come clean.
—• ••• ••• •• —• —•
QRZ K2RAD, HIS SON, he tapped out. K2W9 IS MISSING.
He waited. A long pause. Maybe he had scared him off.
Then: WHAT HAPPENED?
He responded: DON’T KNOW. I’M IN SHACK. QRZ?
—• ——•—•—• — •— •• — ••• ••••—•—•
He didn’t want to get into the whole pulse generator situation, lest this person decide to report it to the police and ruin everything.
VIRCATOR? EXPLOSION? came the reply.
How did they know?
WHO ARE YOU? Radar tapped.
Pause.
A FRIEND. WHAT ABOUT BIRDS?
Radar looked up at the creatures hanging above him. So they knew about this as well.
THEY SURVIVED, he wrote. WHAT ARE THEY?
—•• •—•— •—• •••—•• •••—•—•••—•—•— •— ••
I WILL COME OVER.
Here? Radar looked around. Kermin wasn’t even here to defend himself. It was a disaster. He couldn’t have anyone here.
HOW YOU KNOW K2W9? he tapped.
WE WORK TOGETHER.
WHY DID K2W9 HAVE VIRCATOR?
—— •••• •—•••—• •••—•• •—• —•— •——— •—• ••— ••
Pause.
FOR THE SHOW.
WHAT SHOW?
Another pause.
I’LL COME AND GET BIRDS.
NO. Radar was suddenly annoyed at the stubbornness of these beeps. Who did this person think he was?
IT’S IMPORTANT, came the response.
K2W9 MUST AGREE, he tapped.
WHERE IS HE?
I DON’T KNOW.
A long pause.
Then: K2RAD, YOU COME HERE. WE WILL SHOW YOU.
——••—— •—• •—•• —••— —•— —— ••—•—•——
SHOW ME WHAT?
THE HEADS. BRING A BIRD.
WHAT ABOUT K2W9?
There was no answer.
DO YOU KNOW WHERE HE IS?
WE ARE AT XANADU P4 D26 came the answer.
Radar took a scrap of paper and wrote this down.
XANADU P4 D26? QSD?
IN 1 HOUR. 73 SX.
“73” was a sign-off. Radar felt himself panicking.
WHAT IS XANADU? he tapped frantically. ROAD? STREET?