The chair across from Goodell was empty. It sighed as Ralph lowered himself into it. Idly, he leaned forward and pulled part of the newspaper toward himself. It was open to the editorial page. The first one read ‘XIMENTO—Was It Worth It?’
Goodell lowered the section he was holding. “Back kind of early, aren’t you?” he said. “I thought you were taking a whole week off.”
Without looking up, Ralph nodded. “There wasn’t anything to do. Really.” He sensed Kathy standing behind his chair but didn’t turn around.
“I thought it was kind of quick,” she said. “For you to hear about it and come back to see. It only happened last night.”
He twisted around and looked up into her placid expression. “It? What’s it? What happened last night?”
“You haven’t heard yet?” said Goodell.
“What?” He felt a spasm of irritation. They were both grinning.
“You’ll see.” Kathy giggled.
“You must not have gone up to your apartment yet,” said Goodell.
“You’ll see it when you get there.”
Their amusement at his ignorance was too much for his exhausted and frayed temper. He got up and strode out of the Rec hall without saying anything.
As he crossed the grounds to the apartment buildings, a current of fear rose and diluted his anger. Something that happened last night? he wondered. While I was— back there in L.A.?
He unlocked the door to his apartment, pushed it open, and peered into the dim space. Nothing seemed different. He stepped inside slowly. The air was stale, and a thin film of dust had fallen on everything during the few days he’d been gone. The window, he thought. That must be what they meant. He crossed the front room to the sliding door and pulled the curtain aside. Seconds passed before what was out there translated from his senses to his mind. Then he felt something—a universe?—drop sickeningly away from his feet.
As he crossed the base by the downward slope of the desert behind the apartment buildings, it had been hidden from him. He had seen it once before in a magazine article but it was much bigger than he could have guessed from the flat photographs of it.
An enormous jetliner, like a horizontal skyscraper, sat poised in the level area behind the base. The space was too small for it—one high dune at the edge actually touched the tip of one wing. Its polished silver surface reflected the sun like a mirror. But even through the dazzling glare, the precise black lettering on the tail section could be read, boldly proclaiming the name of its owner and his international headquarters—MUEHLENFELDT.
Ralph backed away from the glass, his heart accelerating. Hearing somebody pass by the apartment’s open door, he spun around, ran out into the corridor, and recognized the figure heading away from him.
“Glogolt!” he called. “Hey, come here!”
The fat watcher stopped, turned around, and ambled back to him.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
Ralph pointed towards the sliding door and the apparition visible through it. “What’s that thing doing here?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” mumbled the other. “It just kinda dropped out of the sky late last night. When we got off our shift there it was. They gave us orders not to go out and bother them. Okay by me.” He resumed his slow progress down the corridor.
I know why it’s here, thought Ralph. He went back into the apartment and stared with a bitter dismay at the silver jet. Because of me. They know I’m here and who knows what else. He threw himself on the couch and pressed his fists against his eyes, trying futilely to shut out the reflected light from outside. There would be no breathing space in this universe, no time to figure out what to do next.
Commander Stiles surveyed the remnants of his lunch—crumbs and a wilted lettuce leaf—then pushed his chair away from the desk. “I don’t know why he wants to see you,” he said. “All I was told was to send you out there.” His complexion was strangely mottled and he didn’t look up.
Jealous, thought Ralph. The old guy’s jealous because he wasn’t invited out to the jet. “All right,” he said and turned to leave.
“How do you rate. Metric?”
He looked back and saw the base commander’s face formed into a childish scowl. “Just lucky, I guess.” He headed to the building’s exit.
A resigned fatalism had gradually overtaken him, and it darkened as he crossed the base. The brilliant noon sun battered the ground but he was barely aware of it. Even if I just get a couple crummy little answers, he told himself. Then I won’t mind whatever they’re going to do to me.
To reach Muehlenfeldt’s jet, it was necessary to go out the base’s only gate and then circle around outside the fence. He stepped off the road and started over the yielding sand, keeping the fence a few feet from his side.
Inside it, the base buildings hulked and waited.
The sloping ground behind the base shimmered in the heat as he stood by the fence and looked down into the depression. When he had seen the jet from his apartment, the enormity of it had confused his sense of direction. He saw now that it was much farther away than he had thought.
It would take a considerable hike to reach it. He started down the slope but lost his footing and half-slid, half-ran to the bottom.
His shirt was clammy with sweat by the time he stood in the shade cast by the enormous fuselage. The end of one of the jets mounted beneath the backswept wing gaped over his head. He could see no ramps or steps extending to the ground, only the giant wheels sunk part way in the sand.
From beneath the plane, no doors or windows were visible. “Hey!” he shouted at the silver curve of its belly. His voice echoed from it and then was absorbed in the desert.
With a hissing noise an oval section slid aside and a metal stairway extruded from the opening. Ralph backed up and watched its measured descent until its bottom tread settled on the ground. He gripped the rail, raised his head and peered up into the opening. No one was visible at the top. Here goes, he thought, forcing his breath to slow. His shoes rang on the metal steps as he climbed up.
When he reached the top a hand grasped his elbow and pulled him off the steps and into the plane. He turned and found himself looking into a young, unsmiling face. The man’s eyes were too small and hard. On the sleeve of his jacket was a patch with the letters FSA. Another man with the same eyes and patch stood a few feet away.
“Mr. Metric?” said the first one, still gripping Ralph’s elbow. Without waiting for a reply the man propelled him farther into the jet. “The senator’s been waiting for you.”
As the man pushed him through, he stumbled over the bottom rim of a door. His forearm tingled when the grip on his elbow was released, allowing the blood to circulate again. The man closed the door between himself and Ralph.
An enormous aquarium formed a wall up to the arched ceiling of the jet. A mottled fish as large as Ralph’s head opened its ruffled fins, gaped at him, then moved sluggishly into the tank’s depths. Ralph stepped around the end of the tank and into the vast open area on the other side.
The high-backed chair swivelled around. He recognized its occupant from news pictures of him, but, like those of the jetliner, they hadn’t done the figure justice.
“Come in, Mr. Metric.” Senator Muehlenfeldt formed a cage with his long, age-browned fingers. “Seat yourself.”
Warily studying the seamed face with its wings of snow-white hair above the eyes, Ralph pulled a smaller chair away from the desk. He sank back into its padding without breaking his silence or his gaze.