"Lieutenant
Zarfadox," came the answer from the saucer, "prepare the anal probe.
This Earthling obviously has something stuck up his ass." And so ended
the
flight of the alien Flart. The boyfriend hurled an apple, which struck
the ship
broadside just hard enough to dislodge it from the invisible net
provided by the
three generators. It crashed to the pavement with Flart shouting a long
string
of expletives. Once the generators were safely back in their labs and
the
Mothers had sat through a stern lecture from the chancellor, the whole
incident
should have been forgotten.
But
the
next morning, a brief account of the event appeared in the
LA
Times.
Although the three-sentence article explained it had all been in good
fun, it
sufficiently impressed one reader, one of the CIA's army of
"burrowers," who clipped it out and started a file: "Okun,
Brackish (?)" In years to come, this one-page file would expand and
multiply until it had become a monster, filling a cabinet all its own.
That
April,
the file grew considerably when the CIA came visiting. At eight in the
evening
during midterm week, Okun and the other Mothers had decided not to
brave the
crowds in the library. Instead, they'd retired to his dorm room,
affectionately
known as the Pad of Least Resistance, to engage in certain herbal
rites. As
smoke filled the room, they engaged in what was, for them, a rather
typical
conversation.
"Dude,
you know what we should do?" Winter croaked, struggling to keep from
exhaling as he passed the ceramic vase-shaped instrument back to the
load-master. "We should put up mirrors in all the halls so when you're
going to class the whole school is like a hall of mirrors at a
carnival."
"Cool
squared," Okun nodded. "We could invent a new product called Mirror Paint and
coat every surface
in the room with it."
The
Mothers were pleased and showed their approval with a round of silent
nods.
"Mirror paint. I like."
"What
if everything in this room was covered in mirror paint? The walls, the
bed, the
plants, all these books..."
"And
dig this: the final step would be to dip our bodies in mirror paint so
everything in the room, except your eyes, was a mirror."
"Then
we could make mirror contact lenses, so we'd disappear completely and
you'd
have to feel your way around the world."
More
nods.
This
important research discussion was interrupted by a knock at the door.
It was an
official-Hounding man-knuckle rapping that sent the Mothers into
immediate
action. While Okun stashed the bag, Winter opened the windows and began
fanning
smoke out of the room. The knock repeated itself, insistent.
"Just
a minute," Okun yelled. "I just need to finish this one thing."
Crabbing a textbook off the bookshelf, he opened the door a crack and
saw a man
in a suit standing in the hallway. He banged the door closed and
mouthed the
word "NARC!" to the wide-eyed Mothers.
"Excuse
me," the voice came through the door, "I'm looking for Brake-ish
Okun. My name is Sam Dworkin, and I'd like to speak to him about
possible
employment."
After a moment of
indecision, Okun opened the door six inches and slid through the gap
into the
hallway, a little puff of smoke trailing him outside. Once he got a
good look
at the man, he rela:ed a little. He was about sixty-five and seemed to
le
alone.
"Are
you Brake-ish Okun?"
"I
think so. I mean, yes. It is I. I'm Brackish Okun."
"You're
absolutely sure?" the guy asked seemingly amused.
"I
was just in there reading this"—he glanced down at the page—"this
math book. So, you said something about a job? What company are you
with?"
The
gentleman quickly invented a name, then asked if they could step
inside,
suggesting that Okun's friends might come back another time.
"Right,
good idea." But when he opened the door, he found the room empty. He
crossed to the open window in time to see the last Mother jump from the
trellis
to the flower bed, then sprint away into the night.
"Very
cool. I have a fire escape. What was your name again?"
"Dworkin.
Sam Dworkin."
Okun
offered him the best seat in the house, a beanbag chair, but Dworkin
sat down
on the unmade bed instead. He looked around the room, dismayed. The
cluttered
cubicle was a riot of over-flowing bookshelves, home-built electronic
equipment, and Okun's personal belongings. The ceiling was wallpapered
with
music posters and schematic drawings. The old man looked a little older
once he
was inside and seated on the bed. "You're not exactly who I was
expecting
to meet."
Okun
didn't understand.
"Westinghouse
Science Student of the Year, National Junior Science Foundation Merit
Scholar,
eight hundred in math on the SATs. I suppose I expected somebody a
little more...
square."
"I
guess
I don't look like my resume." Okun chuckled.
They
talked for a while about the pranks Okun and his crew had pulled off,
some of
the independent engineering projects he'd built—both the failures and
the
successes. They tossed around a few theories about how such a brainiac
could be
finishing college with such low grades and finally arrived at a
conclusion:
Okun was most motivated when there were obstacles in his path, when
what he
wanted to build or find was off-limits.
Both of them made
silent mental notes
to remember that tidbit.
Then
the
guy got down to business. "Mr. Okun, do you believe in Extraterrestrial
Biological Entities? Martians? UFOs?"
So that's what
this is all about.
Okun quickly I
came to the conclusion that his visitor must be some fruit loop from
one of
those clubs devoted to the study of flying saucers. Feeling
considerably more
relaxed now that he was sure the guy wasn't a narc, he explained what
he
believed. "It's all bull, man; it's all made up by people who haven't
got
anything better to do. Flying saucers, little men from distant
galaxies—puleeeez, it's physically impossible. Check it out: Einstein
figured
out the cosmic speed limit is 286,000 miles per second, the speed of
light.
Nothing can move faster than that. Now, light from the nearest star
where there
is even a remote chance of life takes something like a hundred years to
get to
earth, so, even if you assume that spacemen could travel at the speed
of light,
which they can't, you're still looking at a trap of hundreds or even
tens of
thousands of years to get from Planet X to Pasadena." When he was
finished
with his lecture, he scrutinized his visitor, "Why? Do you?"
The
guy
only smiled again, asking, "Where do you see yourself working in five
years?"
"I
dunno. Probably in some company lab, maybe Westinghouse. I've got an
interview
with them next month and hopefully they'll be able to understand some
of my
ideas about electromagnetics and superconductivity."
"Superconductors.
That's a cutting-edge field of research. They're doing some of that
over at the
Los Alamos labs. Do you know about the centripetal magnet accelerator?
That's
the kind of equipment a fellow like you should be using."
Okun,
nodding, quickly imagined all the mischief he could do with a machine
like
that. "Of course I'd love to play around with one of those puppies, but
that's all government work, so I don't feel I that's realistic for me
right
now," he said, brushing his hair off one shoulder.
"What
if I told you there was a position available with my company that would
afford
the right person access not only to the centripetal accelerator, but to
the
entire network of labs at Sandia and Los Alamos?"
"Wowwee!
Who do you work for, God?"
The man chuckled.
"That's actually not a bad guess. What if
I could prove to you that flying saucers really do exist? Would you be
interested in working on a project like that?"
Okun
just
grinned. This after-hours job interview was beginning to smell like a
practical
joke.
"What
if I told you," Dworkin went on, tapping his breast pocket, "that I'm
carrying photographs which show an actual flying saucer?"
"You're
kidding, right? Did the Mothers put you up to this?"
The
man
ignored the question. "I'd like to show you these photographs, but
before
I can do that, I'd need something from you."
This
guy is a phenomenal actor,
Okun
thought. Repressing a smile, he asked what he would need.
"Your
solemn commitment not to tell a soul about the photos and what they
show."
Okun
straightened up and looked at the man through his bloodshot eyes.
Deadpan
serious, he said, "I swear it."
Satisfied
with this response, the man produced an envelope and handed it over to
his
grinning host. One look at the first photo was enough to melt the smile
off
Okun's face. It showed a team of scientists in lab smocks lined up for
a group
portrait in front of what appeared to be a badly damaged flying saucer.
The
ship looked to have a wingspan similar to a fighter jet's, but it was
disk-shaped and looked considerably more menacing than anything he'd
seen
before. The photograph itself, black-and-white, seemed to be several
years old.
"I'm
kneeling in the front row," the old man pointed out, "third from the
left." Sure enough, it was the same face fifteen or twenty years
younger.
The corner of an airplane hangar showed on one side of the snapshot,
and a
couple of uniformed soldiers patrolled the background.
The
second photo showed what looked like a cockpit. A pair of tall, arching
structures, chairs of some kind, were set before two windows, with an
instrument panel below them. The third picture was a close-up of one of
the
instruments lifted out of the console by a pair of men's hands. Instead
of
wires, it looked like veins connecting the instrument to the console.
Dworkin
waited patiently as Okun went back over the pictures, comparing them,
looking,
almost desperately, for some evidence that this was indeed a prank.
Then, with
a stunned expression on his face, Okun looked up at the man, and asked,
"What is this? Where were these taken?"
With
a gentle smile, Dworkin reached across and took the photos back. "I've
said too much already. Of course, if you accept, everything will be
explained."
"OK,
I accept."
The
old guy laughed. "Let's wait until you're in a more lucid frame of
mind.
Think it over. There are drawbacks. You'd have to leave your family and
your
friends, the hours are long, and you and your coworkers might not have
much in
common. Please remember the promise you made. Don't discuss these
pictures with
your friends, your professors, with your mother, with anybody."
The
man got up, leaving a non-nodding Brackish in
a state of confusion. As he was about to exit, Okun called after him.
"Hey,
wait up a sec. How am I going to find you again?"
Dworkin
couldn't resist. "Don't call us, we'll call you.”
Three weeks later,
Brackish was at home proudly examining his diploma alongside his
mother,
Saylene. His new employer had arranged for him to take his final exams
a month
before the semester ended, and Okun had done something he rarely did
under normal
circumstances: he studied for every class, not just the ones he was
interested
in. He'd done well on the tests, raising his grade-point average and
earning
himself a bachelor's degree. But there wouldn't be any time to sit
around
enjoying this accomplishment. His suitcases were packed and standing by
the
front door. A young government agent had arrived with an attache case
full of
papers, legal documents whereby Okun would sign away his personal
freedom in
exchange for coming aboard the project. The three of them—Brackish,
Saylene,
and the man in the expensive suit—sat down at the kitchen table and
began
wading through the paperwork. Technically, he was being hired by
several
different entities, each requiring a separate set of applications,
background
information forms, insurance waivers, tax schedules, retirement plan
agreements,
and loyalty oaths. At first, Brackish read through each document
carefully,
asking questions about each one. But as they continued to materialize
in thick
stacks from the man's briefcase, his caution wore down. Toward the end,
Brackish was John Hancocking everything the man laid in front of him
without a
single question.
Saylene
didn't understand why everything had to be so hush-hush. All her son
could tell
her was that it was an engineering job with the government, and that
there was a good reason why it had to be kept secret.
But the one thing she understood all too clearly was that she wouldn't
get to
see her boy for five full years—the length of his contract. He would be
allowed
to phone home on the first Sunday of each month, and that was it. He
was the
only family she had left, and she would miss him. Her eyes were already
swollen
from crying, and she felt the tears rising again when the man announced
they
had arrived at the last document. His name was Radecker, and she had
taken an
instant dislike to him. He was too young, too polished, too full of
himself,
and he was taking her boy away from her.
"This
is a copy of the Federal Espionage Act," he explained, dropping
separate
copies in front of each Okun as casually as if he were delivering the
monthly
phone bill. "Basically, all this says is that you can be prosecuted if
you
tell anyone about what you know about the project. You should know that
the
minimum penalty for violating this law is a year in a federal
penitentiary."