Obviously, they should have considered a Plan B.
The CIA man went on, "I mean, auto theft? Assault and battery? Demonstrating without a permit? Suspicion of murder? That's not exactly leaving a cold trail, is it?"
The man seated next to Gordon passed him a scribbled note.
"Right — and let's not forget the missing two seconds," Gordon said. "Several days ago, two, near-simultaneous blackouts occurred across our national power grid. They seemed to be just glitches at first, and backup systems tripped in, so for the most part, the average citizen did not notice anything had gone wrong.
"But then we began getting reports that during these two events, other things besides the power flow had been affected. Our atomic clocks lost time. Some broadcast systems went down. To make a long story short, everything on this planet just… well, stopped for those two seconds last Saturday night. To be precise, one event around 8:32, the next just two minutes later, at 8:34 or so. We assume you three were somehow responsible for this, too?"
Zarex shrugged; so did Tomm. This was none of their doing. They looked over at Hunter. He was staring at the floor. Those were the exact times of his flights with Reggie and then Ashley. There had to be a connection. But why would operating his flying machine disrupt things on this planet? He didn't have a clue.
"Any thoughts on any of this, gentlemen?" Gordon asked them.
The spacemen remained mute.
"All right then," the CIA man said. "I understand your reluctance to talk. But let me tell you this: We have no intention of cutting you up just to see what makes you tick. As those dopes at the FBI might be inclined to do. We have no intention to examine you in any way. The truth is, we've been expecting you. And the fact that we can understand each other and converse seems to indicate a connection here. Now, of course, we have many questions we'd like to ask. And I'm sure there is much you can tell us."
The three spacemen looked at each other in glum agreement. There was no doubt about that.
"But we don't even have to get into those areas, either," Gordon said. "In fact, all we would like to know is the answer to one primary question, something that might solidify that we are all on the same page."
Still, they would not say a word. Gordon took off his glasses.
"Look, you've obviously come from a great distance away," he said. "And there must be some reason you landed here."
The three visitors stirred, but just a little.
"We may even be working toward the same goal," Gordon told them. "Maybe looking for the answer to the same question."
Hunter finally broke the silence.
"What question might that be?" he asked.
Ten minutes later, the seven CIA officers, the three spacemen, and a squad of armed guards had arrived in yet another chamber, this one even deeper inside the mountain.
This chamber served to house a huge vault. Its oval door was enormous and thick. The vault itself was built into solid rock, with blast protectors all around and huge springs beneath its floor to cushion any unlikely blow. More than a dozen soldiers were guarding the door. Even though the seven CIA men were obviously high up on the security chain, they still had to show their IDs and do voice, fingerprint, and retina scans in order to make it past the rock-jawed, unsmiling guards.
The interior of the vault was nearly as big as the agents' blue-lit conference room upstairs. A narrow, soundproof door closed behind them once they'd entered; the interior of the vault became very dim. Subdued lighting along its ceiling gave everything a greenish glow. Suddenly, the vault looked like the inside of a church.
One wall was made up of about three dozen small doors. Each was made of highly polished brass; each had a number engraved on it.
Gordon finally spoke.
"This is a matter of such grave importance to us," he began, "that we have no choice but to be open with you. That said, you must be aware that what I am about to tell you is the most closely guarded secret on this planet. It is a secret that is known only by the people inside this room. The secret is actually hundreds if not thousands of years old and has been passed down, from generation to generation, by organizations like us — along with the artifacts kept in this room, which support it.
"Some of the secret's caretakers over the centuries have been religious sects. Others were governmental agencies such as us. The secret has passed through the hands of writers, poets, mystics. But whenever it is passed on, usually from dying lips, it is always with the vow that it be held between no more than a dozen people at any one time. Indeed it must be kept from the public at all costs, at least until all of its aspects can be confirmed and the population is made ready to absorb it. We seven are this generations' 'enlightened ones,' you might say. Like those before us, we are not only the secret's keepers, we must also attempt to interpret it. Verify it. Understand just exactly what it means. In fact, this is just about all we do. The burden of the secret's proof rests with us."
Gordon paused and took a deep breath.
"The secret is this: We have evidence that we, the people of this planet, really don't belong here. That sometime back in our history, our ancestors were brought to this world from somewhere else."
He let these words hang in the air for a moment.
"We have uncovered a number of clues," he went on. "Some of them suggest a massive migration of sorts, somewhere in our distant past. The clues to all this are contained in this vault. Most of the evidence was found hidden away in the deepest mountains on this planet, at the bottom of mine shafts or in natural caverns miles under the ground. Some items were found inside rock itself. All of them are so deteriorated, even our best carbon dating cannot establish a firm time frame. We estimate that most are at least three thousand years old. Some possibly as old as five thousand years. But that is not the most intriguing thing about this evidence."
Gordon stopped, looked at the space travelers for a moment, and then said, "The intriguing thing is that we've determined most of the objects in this room are not of this world. They originated someplace else."
He opened one of the doors and rolled out a long drawer. It held a solid glass case. Within were several dozen collections of individual pages carefully bound together in spines. All were so old, they were in the last stages of disintegration.
"You are familiar with the concept of books?" Gordon asked the spacemen.
They nodded as one. "More or less," Tomm mumbled. "They are ancient things; we know that."
"Well, these before you are of an educational sort," Gordon said. "It is very difficult to handle them, as you can see, and we can't make out very many of the words or understand those words that we can see. But some of the photographs are still intact, and by interpreting bits and pieces from them, we found that they depict an existence similar to the one we live here, yet one that obviously took place somewhere else, thousands of years ago. Several of these books talk about culture. Others contain maps. Still others have broad texts on geography. They show a world like ours, yet very different."
He picked up one of the books. It looked like it was about to turn to dust.
"We've been able to do analysis on the molecular structures in these materials," Gordon said. "Pages, covers, the ink, and so on. We have concluded, without a doubt, that they are not like anything found on this planet. In fact, in many cases, they are exact opposites in atomic composition. They look the same, act the same, do the same things, but they are not the same. I'm not sure if you are familiar with the concept of left-handed sugar, but if you are, imagine such a thing, just on a much larger scale. We can show you the data if you want, but for now, take our word for it: Most of this stuff didn't originate on this planet."