Her wide-open eyes were getting used to the dim light. Without really seeing them, she looked at the framed photographs standing on the dresser. There they were, just married, coming out of the AFB Chapel, running the gauntlet of laughing friends. It had been at Elgin. In Florida. Tom had just been promoted to first lieutenant… And the photo of Tom grinning broadly, posing in his pressure suit before the lifting body mated to the B-52. It had been Tom's second day as a major…
She felt his hand softly touching her back. She stiffened. Oh, Tom — please don't. Please — don't… She felt his hand slowly, sensuously trace a gentle caress down the curve of her back. She lay tensely unresponsive — eyes wide, gazing in anguish into the dimness of the room.
She felt him lean over her and kiss her naked shoulder, her neck, her ear. And she layed unmoving, unyielding in her misery.
“Honey,” he whispered softly, close to her ear. “Honey…”
She did not respond. She could not respond — her every muscle so taut, she ached. Oh, Tom — I can't… I can't… I can't…
She screwed her eyes tightly shut, squeezing two tears from the corners. She did not move.
Tom sat back, defeated. He looked at the tense form of his wife beside him, his eyes filled with helplessness and hurt, the frustration a dull ache in his loins.
“It's all right, Randi,” he said quietly. “It's all right…” Bleak and wretched, he gazed at his wife, deep concern furrowing his face.
He opened the drawer in the nightstand, rummaged for a cigarette. He'd quit smoking months ago, but there had to be an old pack somewhere. He was not really aware of his actions. It was — something to do.
He found a pack, pulled out a half-crushed cigarette and put it in his mouth. For a moment he sat perfectly still, staring in front of him. Then he removed the cigarette and put it — unlit — in an ashtray on the nightstand. Abruptly he got up from the bed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Randi turned toward the door. Her face was drawn and wan; her eyes haunted. She was about to call after him. She could not. From the room beyond came the faint sounds of a TV show. Johnny Carson, she thought dismally. There was always Johnny Carson — with those celebrities, famous only for being famous…
Tom sat, still tense, in his favorite chair in front of the TV set, watching the mindless show; not seeing it, not hearing it. He'd spent too many hours in that damned chair in front of that damned set…
He was aware of Randi quietly entering the room behind him. He did not acknowledge her until she came over and sat down on the sofa, one bare foot drawn up under her, the other dangling over the edge. Her sheer nightgown only enhanced her loveliness — and ached.
She looked forlorn and hurt. Her voice was small.
‘Tom,” she said. “Please understand…”
He switched the sound off the set with his remote control. He looked at her.
“I love you, Rand,” he said quietly.
“And I love you. You know that.” She searched for words, for understanding. “It's — I just can't help it.” She hugged herself miserably. “I don't feel like I used to. Everything's — different now.”
“It doesn't have to be.” Tom looked earnestly at his wife. “We have to live in the future — not the past.”
Randi stared bleakly at the TV set. “I–I don't have anything left,” she whispered. “Not after what happened.”
“I know what happened,” Tom said, his voice tired. “But it's over. Dammit, it's over! How long do you want us to go on like this? I want you, Rand. What do you expect me to do?”
“I want you to understand.”
“It's been months.
“I can't’ help it.” She suddenly flared. “It's not my fault!”
“What the hell are you saying, Randi?” Tom was unable to keep his frustration out of his voice. “It's my fault?”
“I didn't say that.”
“But you mean it, don't you?”
“No. I don't.” She looked down at her bare foot. “I don't know what I mean.”
“Let's not argue.” Tom's voice was flat, numb. “We're both tired. Why don't you go back to bed? I'll be there in a few minutes.” He returned his unheeding attention to the silent set.
She stood up. For a moment she stood watching her husband — wanting to reach out to him, but unable to breach the wall that had come between them. Slowly, defeatedly, she walked toward the door. She turned.
“Tom,” she said. “I—”
Tom turned toward her expectantly. She struggled — but there were no words.
“Good night,” she said.
She left the room.
For a moment Tom sat in stony silence. Then he flipped the sound on the TV set back on…
Randi crawled into bed. She sat against the headboard, hugging her knees drawn up to her chin.
She searched her nightstand for a cigarette. She found none. She crawled across the bed to her husband's side and picked up the cigarette from the ashtray. She lit it. She stared at it without seeing it — and stubbed it out in the ashtray without having taken a single puff.
Her eyes fell on Tom's uniform jacket hanging over the back of a chair next to the bed. Slowly, absent-mindedly, she reached out her hand and touched the silver wings above the pocket.
Suddenly she grabbed the jacket, tore it from the chair and flung it savagely to the floor.
She buried her face in her hands.
And wept…
PHASE III
Day One
1
He was sitting in the calibration chair. He was already wearing his green flying suit, and his helmet-clad head was held immobile in the chair head-rest. He always expected to be asked to “open wide” when he sat in that contraption.
Two white-uniformed non-com technicians were mounting an Eye Movement Guided Sight on the two slender holding arms protruding from his bright red helmet. The little sighting device itself sat directly in front of his eyes just above his line of vision — like a weird sort of rearview mirror. Tom still hadn't gotten over being intimidated by the thing. It was strictly Star Wars stuff to him. A sighting device that read the movements of his eyeballs, instantly locked the plane's weapons system onto whatever target he'd be looking at — ready for him to blast it with a touch of his finger on the trigger button. The EMG Sight was truly sci-fi inspired. He felt excited. Coupled with the XM-9, mounted on the F-15 fighter, the plane should be damned near invincible. They'd told him he'd be packing enough power in his eyeballs to blast through Fort Knox! It would not be long before he'd find out just how much this new device of Dr. Marcus’ could do. They'd set up a series of experimental targets on the test firing range at China Lake up north. Judging from the cloak-and-dagger secrecy they'd handled the whole thing with, you'd think old Marcus had invented Doomsday itself.
One of the technicians plugged the slender umbilical from the sight into the computerized simulator box on the floor next to the calibration chair.
“Okay, Major,” he said, “you're plugged in. Look at Target A, please. On your left.”
Moving only his eyeballs, Tom stared at the designated target, A, on the far left on the wall in front of him — close to the limits of his peripheral vision. Beneath the target letter someone had tagged up an ancient photograph of a 1906 six-decker-wing prop plane. A poor target for the XM-9, he thought. The picture at Target G at the opposite end was more in keeping with the whole thing, an elaborate flying saucer straight out of Close Encounters. Personally, he liked E. The girl in the bikini was just his type. And she looked awful friendly.