“Now that you’re here, we’ll probably pull it tomorrow night.”
“What? Isn’t that kind of soon?”
“We’ve got everything ready,” said Spencer. “And besides, we don’t have much choice. We’re running out of time. If we don’t get some kind of lead pretty soon, whatever’s building up with Operation Dreamwatch is going to go off. It might already be too late to do anything about it.”
“Great,” said Ralph sourly. “In that case, why bother?”
“It’s the only game in town,” said Spencer, looking up from the device in his hands and staring directly into Ralph’s eyes. “Don’t you smell it? Mike could. And so can the rest of us now. Whatever’s going on out there in the desert is something big. And something—” He stopped, then went on, his voice lower in pitch. “Different.”
Something cold tensed the skin on Ralph’s arms. “What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t it strike you that way? Some of the odd things about Operation Dreamwatch. Like all those kids you found in the Thronsen Home, all kept unconscious, and those dreams they put them through. Mike told us about those. It’s not just that that stuff seems inhuman—people have done crueller things, I suppose—but doesn’t it all seem, well, non-human, too?”
He’s crazy, thought Ralph, a sick fear opening in his stomach. But the eyes that met his from across the table were sane. “Go on,” he said.
“Have you ever looked at pictures of rich people? Really looked? I don’t mean people who just have some money, but the ones who have so much they’re like whole nations inside their own skins. The ones with the power. Have you ever noticed something odd about the way they look?”
“Maybe,” said Ralph carefully.
Spencer’s voice became taut as a wire. “If beings from another star wanted to take over this world, use it for something without our knowing, who would they take the place of, substitute themselves for? Any dumb schmuck out on the street? No—the super-rich. The ones with the power.”
“You gotta be putting me on,” said Ralph. “I mean, I used to read all that science fiction stuff, too, but I never let it affect my thinking.”
Casually, Spencer tilted his head to one side. “Accounts for a lot of twentieth-century history.”
“Maybe, but I still don’t believe it.” He had almost convinced himself that Spencer had been kidding him.
“Okay, so you explain why the ones with all the money look different from the rest of us. Think they eat the stuff or something?”
Through the window over the sink, Ralph could see the sky beginning to lighten. He exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “This is more than I can take right now. I have to get some sleep.” He got up and headed for the front room.
“My brother used to say that the only reason anybody slept more than four hours a day was because they had nothing better to do.” Spencer picked up the soldering iron and switched it on.
And look where it got him, thought Ralph. He was almost irritable enough from fatigue to say it out loud, but refrained. With his shoes off, he nested the blankets around himself on the sofa and fell asleep.
A dream filled with great sliding fangs chased him back into consciousness. He opened his eyes and let the sight of the cluttered room press back the darkness inside.
Spencer wasn’t in the apartment. A note was taped to the refrigerator.
Ralph—
Back in a bit. Feel free to eat whatever you find.
While one hand scraped the crusts from the corners of his eyes, Ralph held the note with the other, read it, and tossed it on the kitchen table. Yawning, he shuffled back to the refrigerator and pulled out another nearly empty milk carton. Half a loaf of rye bread was already on the table, nestled among the electronic parts. He sat down and started to eat, propping his head up with one hand.
Must be noon at least, he thought, watching a dusty shaft of light fall into the room. As a child he had always felt a sense of uneasiness or dread—even sin—at getting up so late. Probably worried that the rest of the world was going to sneak something past me. The feeling had dissipated while at the base.
He took another slice of bread, got up, and sat on the edge of the sink.
Through the window he could see another apartment building and a section of street with cars parked along it. Somewhere near the RWP headquarters, his parents’ Ford was still waiting for him. I should go get it, he thought suddenly. I should get out of here as fast as I can.
Things had gone so fast yesterday that he had been sucked along with the Alpha Fraction’s momentum without thinking. But in this harsh, still light, a part of him was scared. A premonition of pain and trouble increasing with no end, except death, in sight. Get out, he thought again, gazing at the street.
Not yet, he told himself. He went back to the table and drank the rest of the milk straight from the carton. There would be, he knew deep within himself, time enough for giving up later, after everything possible had gone wrong. Right now it all still felt too good to be awake and plotting in L.A. As far, he thought, from the base and its sleepwalking death as I can get.
He heard the apartment’s door open. “Spencer?” he called as he headed for the other room.
It wasn’t. Sarah, carrying a large brown paper bag, pushed the door shut behind herself with her foot. “Hi,” she said casually. Balancing the bag in the crook of one arm, she brushed her hair to one side of her face with her free hand. “Where’s Spencer?”
“Out some place.” Ralph shrugged. “His note said he’d be back in a little while.”
She nodded and walked past him into the kitchen. Setting the bag amid the clutter on the table, she began distributing the groceries inside it to the cupboards and refrigerator.
From the doorway, Ralph watched her in silence for a few moments.
When she bent down to put some cans in one of the cupbards below the counter, her long golden hair fell forward over her shoulders. She brushed it back with the same motion of her hand and slight toss of her head. He wondered why something about that should disturb him, until he remembered. The first time he had seen her do it was out in the desert, when she had straightened up, holding the camera. The bloodstain had been right at her feet.
“You people must be rich or something,” said Ralph finally. “Spending all your time on this Alpha Fraction stuff and still being able to buy groceries.”
Sarah glanced at him sharply while her hands folded the empty paper bag into a flat square. “We don’t spend all our time on it,” she said.
“Spencer is the only one who doesn’t have a job. The rest of us pay his rent and buy his food so he can spend his time building the electronic equipment we’re going to use. He’s pretty good at that stuff—he built the alarm bypass his brother used to get into the Thronsen Home.” She turned away and slid the folded bag into the little space between the refrigerator and the counter.
“Do you make much money as a photographer?”
Her brow creased as she stared at him. “I run a turret lathe,” she said. “At one of the Army contractors downtown. Where’d you get the idea I was a photographer?”
“Maybe,” he said, “from when I saw you out by the Opwatch base. Taking pictures of that spot on the ground.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She crossed the kitchen and pushed past him, but he caught her by one wrist. Angrily, she jerked her hand free, pivoted in the middle of the front room, and glared at him. The pieces of paper tacked to the wall fluttered.