The
report advanced several explanations for the cause of the
explosion. One of these concerned "a layer of radiation in the
atmosphere
at an altitude of 185 miles." The authors of the report were puzzled
and
somewhat alarmed by the discovery of this layer. Okun would have read
right
past this section if Cibatutto hadn't interrupted him.
"The
rocket ran into one of the Van Allen belts, that's what they're talking
about."
Lenel
grimaced. "Hogwash! The belts wouldn't cause a rocket to explode."
"Actually,
since this rocket carried a signal bomb in its nose cone, the sudden
shift in
magnetism could have activated the detonator cap."
Lenel
disagreed and began explaining why when Freiling interrupted with views
of his
own. Soon all the old men were talking at once, shouting to be heard
over the
others. Just as the argument began degenerating into finger-pointing
and
name-calling, Okun held his hand high in the air and screamed over the
top of
the noise.
"Excuse
me! I have a question!" The room went suddenly quiet. "What is a Van
Allen belt?"
Cibatutto
recited from memory. "The Van Allen belts are two rings of
high-energy-charged particles surrounding Earth, probably originating
in the
Sun and trapped by Earth's magnetic field. The lower, more energetic
belt, is
at an altitude of 185 miles from Earth's surface while the outer belt
is at ten
thousand miles. They were discovered by physicist James Van Allen.
Their shape
and intensity vary significantly with fluctuations in the solar wind."
The
older scientists stroked their beards in contemplation. Okun, with no
beard to
stroke, came up with an idea. "These variations, do they follow any
kind
of a pattern?"
Again,
Cibatutto had the answer. "Yes, they do. The belts experience seasonal
fluctuations, but these do not correspond directly to Earth's seasons.
The
energy level of the inner belt remains low for several months, then
erupts into
short periods of intense activity."
"Hmmm,
would it be possible to find out what season the belts were in on July
4, 1947,
between the hours of 10 P.M. and midnight in New Mexico?"
"I
don't see why not." Cibatutto brought a thick reference book into the
kitchen and began working through a series of mathematical equations.
Okun was
too eager to let the man work in peace.
"How
often does this inner belt thingie erupt?" Brackish asked.
"About
five consecutive days each year, sometimes twice a year. You have to
run each
date through the equation." When he was finished crunching the numbers,
Cibatutto stared down at the results, nodding in an unconscious
imitation of
one of his colleagues. "On the date in question, the energy was at its
peak."
Okun
grinned and turned to the others. "Anybody up for a wager?" The
scientists, accustomed to taking money from men who asked them such
questions,
were all ears. "You guys choose whichever alien encounter you think is
the
most real, the one you think really happened, and I'll bet you a month
of
washing the dishes that it happened during one of these flare-ups."
"Eau
Claire, Wisconsin," Lenel said without hesitation. The other men
agreed.
Next to Roswell, this was the case with the most convincing physical
evidence.
In
the Eau Claire case, a policeman claimed to have "surprised" an alien
saucer hovering over a farmhouse. When the craft moved away, he pursued
at high
speed until it fired a blue ray, which struck his vehicle and knocked
him
unconscious. An examination of the car revealed it had undergone a
massive failure
of the electrical system. Everything from the ignition to the
taillights was
ruined. The spark plugs and points were melted. The officer involved
lived
through the experience, but died six months later of nervous
depression. His
vehicle was taken to the UFO evidence compound at the Air Force Academy.
Cibatutto
worked the date of the Eau Claire event through the equation, then made
an
announcement. "The good news is we seem to have found a connection
between
the alien visitations and the activity of the Van Allen belts. The bad
news is
each of us has to do the dishes 1.55 extra times this month. I propose
we go in
reverse-alphabetical order." The old men cheered and slapped Okun on
the
back.
"Progress
of this magnitude deserves more than dirty dishes," Dworkin declared.
"It calls for champagne!"
If
the group's new theory was correct, it would be the single most
important discovery about the aliens since their ship had crash-landed
twenty-six years before, more important than Okun's unproved discovery
that the
ships must fly in groups. If the visitors only penetrated Earth's
atmosphere
during these short bursts of radioactivity, it would mean two things.
First,
researchers could weed out the many bogus sightings and reports of
contact in
order to concentrate their attention on the real McCoys. Second, it
would give
them the power to predict when the creatures would come again.
While
the older men set to work finding all the files that fell into one of
these
windows, Okun checked the dates of the case studies he'd already looked
at. To
his surprise, only one of them turned out to be true—the Bridget Jones
incident. The lying girl had been telling the truth after all.
It
turned out to be a long day of pulling reports, but their enthusiasm
was high.
They brought a radio into the stacks and sang the songs they knew the
words to.
Even Lenel was cheery. As they searched, Okun had the bright idea of
calling
Radecker and telling him what they'd learned. Dworkin called him over
and
explained why that might not be such a good idea. "Yesterday in Los
Angeles, as we were parked in front of your house, I watched your
expression
change when we learned your mother wasn't at home. It occurred to me
then how
much I'd like for you to be able to leave here when your contract is
finished.
I think that's what you want for yourself. So call Mr. Radecker if you
like,
but remember this:
the more you know, the deeper you're
buried."
Okun
didn't understand the precise relationship
between the Van Allen
belts and the arrival of the spaceships. And he didn't much care. What
was
important to him was that the dates matched. Now he had a way of
sifting
through the rubbish and finding the gold. But he was dismayed by two
discoveries. First, there were hardly any real reports. Lenel hadn't
been
exaggerating when he said 99.9 percent of everything in the stacks was
a bunch
of hooey or bullpucky or whatever he'd called it. After several days of
combing
through the files, they had found about four hundred case studies
occurring
during the specified five-day periods. Then came the long process of
poring
over them and throwing out the fakes that happened to have been
reported during
those times. The scientists ruled out all but sixty-two of the reported
sightings and encounters. Only twenty of these had occurred later than
1960.
And four of those were mere sightings. That left only sixteen good
reports.
One
of them was the Eau Claire, Wisconsin, incident.
One
was the Bridget Jones case, where the central witness was dead.
Then
there were thirteen people who claimed they had been abducted. And
that's where
things got interesting. All told very similar stories. They had been
driving
along lonely roads or at home engaged in some quiet activity when they
suddenly
stopped whatever they were doing. The drivers pulled to the side of the
road.
The people taken from their homes sat down or stood still. All the
abductees
described being surrounded by short, quick-moving creatures with
enlarged
heads. Many claimed they had been flown to a spaceship, where various
experiments were performed on their persons. Six of them described a
leader who
was much taller that the others. Okun knew from other reading he had
done that
mentions of a much taller leader were common.
But
there was one report that stood out from the others. It was about a
woman who
claimed she had been interrogated about a Y-shape. Her file said she
was a
person in the public eye, and care was taken to expunge any clue to her
identity. But Okun knew her name was Trina Gluck and she lived in
Fresno. In
fact, he knew her street and house number. Scrawled onto the front page
of the
document in a handwriting style he was learning to recognize was the
woman's name
and address.
Two
weeks later, he rode into Las Vegas with the boys. As always,
the van dropped them off in front of their bank, Parducci Savings.
Nothing on
the outside of the building let on that it was a bank. There was no
logo, no
place to park, no slot for night deposits. Inside, the lobby looked
like
someone's living room, with lots of family photos on the walls and too
much
furniture. There was a counter with two teller's windows and behind
that a
couple of doors leading to private offices. These doors were never
open.
Salvatore Parducci, a heavyset man with an appetite for fine suits and
gold
bracelets, was the manager. He spoke in a luxuriously soft voice
punctuated by
sudden bursts of loud, braying laughter.
Okun
knew there was something unusual about the bank on his first visit.
Moments
after opening his new account, Salvatore came around the counter with
his arms
spread wide and embraced him. While he was being squeezed against the
powerful
man's girth, Salvatore looked down, and purred, "Welcome. My family
thanks
you for trusting us with your money." On another occasion, Okun watched
a
helicopter land beside the building. An old lady stepped out of it
carrying a
casserole dish and came inside. It turned out to be Signora Parducci,
delivering
lunch to her son. She flirted shamelessly with Cibatutto in Italian
before
disappearing into one of the back offices. Very shady.
This
morning's transaction had been uneventful except for Okun withdrawing
an
unusually large amount of cash, three hundred dollars. "Feeling
lucky," he explained with a grin.
It
was a sunny morning, and the old fellows were in high spirits.
They were marching down the boulevard toward a cafe that offered
one-cent
breakfasts. After that, it was onward to the casinos for a day of
cards. Okun
seemed preoccupied. He kept to the back of the pack, fingering the wad
of cash
in his pocket. "Hey, you guys," he called. The old men stopped
walking and turned around. "Nothing personal, but I think I'll try my
luck
at one of the smaller casinos today. By myself." His friends were
visibly
disappointed.
"Hey,
what happened to all for one and one for all?" Freiling asked. "We're
supposed to play as a team." When that approach didn't work, he tried
another. "We'll let you win a few."
"It's
not the money. I just feel like being alone today."
"Completely
understandable," Lenel declared. "I'm tired of looking at these ugly
old coots myself. It wouldn't hurt to have a break."
"Dr.
Freiling," Cibatutto cried. 'This man called you an ugly coot!"
Freiling
put up his dukes. "Who said so? I'll knock his block off."
As
the two men began sparring, Dworkin came a step closer to his young
friend, and
silently pronounced the words, "Be careful." Okun wondered if he
knew.
An
hour later, he had rented a car and was heading west.
Brinelle
Gluck was the girl he'd always wanted to meet—nerdy,
artsy, and, in her own way, beautiful. It was love at first sight. She
was a
couple of years older and a couple of inches taller than him and as
slender as
a microscope. From her moccasins to her perfect miniature breasts to
her long
straight hair, she was, for him, a vision of loveliness. He immediately
regretted having dressed like a total square.
"Do
I know you?" she asked when she opened the door.
Hating
to begin anything with the word "no," he answered, "Maybe in a
past life. Were you ever a monkey in Tibet?"
Instead
of slamming the door in his face, she actually thought about it for a
second
before she answered. "Yes, now that you mention it, I was."
They
both laughed at her reply and spent the next thirty minutes rambling
through
one topic after another. After reincarnation, they talked about
Brinelle's
poetry and modern dance, the Beatles, Bangladesh, biointensive
gardening, the
world's scariest roller coasters, and the Carlos Castaneda books. Okun
felt his
heart racing with excitement when she reached out and briefly touched
his
chest. She fondled his ankh.
"I
don't usually like jewelry, but that is the most outtasight piece.
Where'd you
get it?"
The
question caught him off guard. "Um, I can't remember. I've had it for
years."
When
she asked him his name, he blurted, "Bob. Bob Robertson."
"I'm
Brinelle Gluck. I wish I had a nice normal name like yours. You have no
idea
what it's like to get teased about your name all the time. So, Mr. Bob
Robertson, what do you do? Got a job?"
"Yeah,
I guess you could call it a job."
"What
is it you do?" Okun was starting to get uncomfortable with this part of
the conversation.
"I'm
a scientist."
"Really?
What branch of science?"
"Boring
stuff, planes, rockets, just a lot of technical stuff."
"I
see. Where do you do all this boring stuff?"
"Labs,
mainly."
"No
duh. I mean what's the name of the lab. My dad knows hundreds of people
who
work at Livermore and Stanford and UCLA."
He
really liked this girl, and he wanted desperately to tell her the truth
or at
least to explain that he wasn't allowed to say. But he'd been coached a
thousand times never ever to give that response. It aroused suspicion
and
curiosity, two things to which Area 51 was allergic. He had been told
to turn
and walk away or, if that wasn't possible, to lie.