Nightwatch: CSM-115
By Jeff Williams
Nightwatch created by
Jeff Williams
Developed by Jeff Williams and Robert Moriyama
PART TWO
The Lights of a
Ship Far Out to Sea
“I’ve
flown all the way from
A woman in her late forties, Simmons wore an outfit that was both professional and comfortable—black slacks and jacket subtly pinstriped with gray, black pointed and low-heeled shoes, tan stockings or hose (there was no way of knowing just from looking at her), and a crème-colored shirt opened lightly at the neck though not so far as to reveal cleavage. Her reddish-brown hair (which was interrupted here and there by streaks of gray) was primarily pinned to the top of her head, though small, curled strands of it fell just below her ears.
“You
did bother to check it against known sources, didn’t you?” Simmons spoke
sarcastically. When she wasn’t looking,
“Dr. Simmons,” he said, “believe me, we wouldn’t have bothered your organization at all if there had been a rational explanation for this, at least one we could have found.”
“And just how thoroughly did you look?” she asked, this time more calmly though she appeared to be fighting very hard to hold her disdain in check.
“All
of the public databases,”
“Play it again,” she said to Chris, and he recycled the loop on the player. “I apologize, Mr. Marie,” she said.
“
“Right,”
Simmons said, “right. Long flight, very
bumpy. Not the kind I enjoy.” She tugged lightly at her collar, her
dark-red nails standing out in relief against the light-colored material. “Well, I’m not changing my initial
assessment.” She sat down in one of the
rolling chairs. “You have to
second-party verification of the signal.
You couldn’t find it again after thirty minutes. You must understand, Mr. Murray, that we
receive hundreds of inquiries a day, and if we chased after every one of them…” She rested her chin on her right hand. “All that I can say is that Nightwatch must
have some very influential friends.” She
sniffed. “Okay. Show me your records, the angle of attack on
the dish when the signal was picked up, approximate coordinates, the things
you’ve already ruled out. I have a few
databases I can check.” She looked at
“You’re forgetting one little thing,” a voice said from the corner. Simon had virtually vanished in the sheetrock, so much in the background that everyone had forgotten he was there. “The signal was picked up on a laser communications system. I’m not familiar with everything the universe has to offer, but outside of that one big star I read about, nature doesn’t usually produce lasers.”
“Eta Carinae,” Simmons said. “Maybe. We’ll see, won’t we. Mr…?”
“Dr. Litchfield,” Simon said courteously but coolly. “Trust me, you won’t find a natural explanation for that. Technical, maybe, but not natural.”
“All
right, Dr. Litchfield,” Simmons spoke sharply, as if the sound of her voice
could slap Simon’s cheek, “I’ll see your confidence, and raise you two
experts. I know of two communications
gurus in
“Should be ample,” Kerry interjected. “Dr. Simmons, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you copies of the records in question.” Kerry, Murray, and Simmons started to leave.
“By
the way,” Simmons said on the way out the door, “do either of you know where I
can buy a hermit crab? My granddaughter will
kill me if I don’t bring one home…”
Simon felt himself relaxing and was caught off-guard by how tense he had
been. Shaking his neck and shoulders, he
picked up some of the construction records
****
It was 7:15PM, and Simon sat at the bar of the Sandy Towers Hotel. The room was a typical hotel bar with low-lighting, a section in the corner dominated by sports fan gathered around a large screen television, and a doorway leading to a neon-lit dance floor. Music, the typical all-beat and no melody kind, wafted in on occasionally loud waves of sound.
The bar itself, while nowhere near as opulent as many he had sat at before, suited Simon just fine as he slowly drank his whisky on the rocks. His hat sat on the countertop. His body was angled so that he could face the woman sitting next to him.
“So you’re an engineer? For a humanitarian organization?” she said before shaking her head and raising her glass. “Well, cheers to you!” She took a sip from her Kahlua and crème. “I’m actually a little embarrassed now to tell you what I do for a living.” Simon smiled lightly as he ran a finger over the top of his glass.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Everyone, Molly, thinks those of us in this business qualify for sainthood. Believe me,” he laughed lightly, “we don’t. What about it? What’s your line of work?” The woman laughed lightly, revealing the slight creases of age around her mouth, creases which did nothing to detract from her attractiveness.
“I’m with Gambella Sonata,” she said, the light barely highlighting her grayish red hair. “We sell furniture. Bedroom suites, actually.” Simon cocked his eyebrow. “I told you, next to a do-good engineer, I sound like some raging capitalist!” She took another sip of her drink. “I mean, I am a raging capitalist, but still.” Simon laughed as he drank more of his whiskey.
“So,
what brings you to
“Retreat
for the sales staff,” she said. “Things
at
“Maybe,” he said, thoughtfully. “Gambella Sonata?” Molly nodded. Simon took out a pen and wrote the name on a cocktail napkin. He also motioned lightly for the bartender to refill the whiskey. “Next time I’m home, I’ll take a look. You available in the DC area?”
“Me,
or the furniture?” The two of them
laughed loudly. “Sorry,” she giggled,
“you work around the guys at my office, and you just start zinging them
off! I have to actually watch my
language when I’m not back in
“I have a very extensive and colorful vocabulary myself,” Simon said, “so don’t worry.” The music sped up again, this time to dizzying heights of rhythm which defied any logical speed.
Molly crinkled her nose and made a sour face. “Not very good, is it,” she said as she cocked her head towards the club. Simon nodded as he took a sip of whiskey. “I’m fond of shagging, myself.”
For the first time in his life, Simon nearly did a real-life spit-take, and Molly looked at him in wonder.
“What?” she asked, smiling. “What’s so funny? I really do it. Any excuse I have for shagging, I take. I mean, give me a partner, and I’ll shag all night long! Why,” she asked again, “are you laughing?” Simon convulsed with silent laughter as he waited for an opportune time to swallow. Finally, he forced the liquid down, and he looked simultaneously amused and embarrassed.
“I’m
so sorry, but that caught me off guard.”
Molly titled her head to one side as she tried to figure out what he
meant. Simon caught the look and laughed
a bit more. “Did I mention I was born in
The clock pressed on to 8PM, and the two of them moved from the bar to one of the booths, and they ordered some of the appetizers off the menu. The time passed on, and they kept laughing and talking until the clock read 9:30PM. Simon looked across at Molly, at her delicately pale skin, and his expression must have changed because Molly smiled at him, a smile that was different from the previous ones that evening.
“What
do you think of the view from here?” she asked.
There was, again, a long pause before she grinned. “They’ve got me in the middle, 303 to be
exact, and I’ve got a clear look straight out to the
“I have a terrific view of some lovely hedges and the back end of a Mazda minivan,” Simon spoke, and the two of them laughed again, this time so loudly that others turned to see what the commotion was about.
“How long are you in town?” she asked through the remains of the laughter. Both she and Simon took sips of their drinks.
“At least another day,” he said as he settled back again in the booth. “My job here is a bit open-ended.” Molly nodded and rested her chin on her hands.
“We
head back day after tomorrow,” she spoke.
“Well, they head back. I have to go a’courtin’. I’m trying to land a couple of accounts up in
“I’ll pick it up,” he said. “I appreciated the company. This trip has been something of…” He paused and tried to find some combination of words that wouldn’t give away exactly what the trip had really been like for him. “Well, let’s just say work’s a bit dreary right now.” Molly smiled again.
“I appreciate that,” she said, and her voice conveyed that she sincerely was. As she stood, Simon stood up as well. “Well, Simon, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you around before we head out again into the deep dark world.” She reached out to shake Simon’s hand. As Simon took it, he felt her room cardkey slip into his palm. She smiled again, waved lightly, then turned slowly to leave the bar.
Simon stood there. He turned the card over and over again in his, carefully studying the magnetic strip on the back, the generic instructions for how it worked, the name of the hotel. He looked up again at Molly as she disappeared into the hotel lobby. Moments later he paid the tab and headed for the elevators.
I deserve this, he thought to himself. Damnit, enough things have gone wrong! Now, it’s time for something right, for something good. Both sets of elevator doors closed as he entered the lobby, so he waited for them to return. Again, he looked carefully at the card. She’s a sweet woman, he thought, remembering her smile. A beautiful girl. Lovely voice. A splendid time was had by all. He looked again at the magnetic stripe. Slowly, a look of first puzzlement and then understanding crept across his face. Molly. Red hair. Beautiful smile…
The elevator doors opened, and several people stepped off, but Simon did not go in. Instead, he sat down in one of the lobby’s chairs and twirled the key for several minutes before getting up and walking to the front desk.
“I found this in the bar,” Simon said to the man behind the counter. After placing the card on the countertop, he added, “I think someone must have dropped it.”
“Thank you, sir,” the man spoke, a look of equal parts knowing and incredulous upon his face, and Simon returned to the elevator, punching the button for the fourth floor.
****
Simon heard Eddison’s lock click, so he opened the door and caught sight of the aging analyst, who was decked out in a set of white and red striped pajamas. Using the wall and then the dresser as a prop, Eddison moved his way to a chair. His face cringing, he sat down and then propped his leg on the edge of the unmade bed.
“So sorry that I had to bow out earlier,” Eddison spoke. He put on a pair of reading glasses, which perched precariously on the edge of his nose. He pointed at his leg and sighed.
Scattered on nearly every available surface were charts, graphs, and other visuals. Eddison picked up his laptop from the bed.
“You missed Charlotte Simmons,” Simon spoke cheerlessly. “She seems to think this whole thing was a waste of her time.” Eddison pouted.
“Really?” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed. “Well, golly, she’s the expert, yes indeed. I was, though, hoping the mystery would live a bit longer before having a stake rammed through its heart.” Simon half-smiled as he looked down at one of the visuals.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” Simon asked as he tried to figure out what the strange plots of green, red, yellow, orange, and blue meant.
“That’s
a draft visual,” Eddison warned. “Only
my people would know what it means in this state. Or in any other state, except
“I would never besmirch the things that you do,” Simon said. “From the looks of things, this one must not be going well.” Eddison sighed.
“That report they called me about last night,” Eddison said as he looked at Simon. “One of the governor’s aides shot the whole bloody thing down. The…er…fellow just can’t wrap his mind around, ah, around power law distribution.” Eddison tapped some keys on the laptop. “If we don’t clear the governor’s aide, then, by gum, we don’t clear the governor, and the contract required us, under financial penalty mind you, to have that report in by the end of January.”
“So,”
Simon spoke, perplexed, “why are you working on something for
“Well
isn’t it obvious?” Eddison asked. He laughed again and shook his head. “Sorry!
Sorry there! I keep forgetting
you don’t work in my department.” He
snickered. “They’re swamped, up in
“All of it?” he asked. “This sounds like… Well, it sounds like it’s big.” Eddison looked up again, and Simon had the same high school feeling.
“I’m sorry,” Eddison said, “I don’t see what you’re getting at.” Simon shrugged, shook his head, and then took off his hat. “So, anyway, Charlotte Simmons. A real tempest, was she?”
“Oh yeah, Simmons,” Simon said as he got himself back on track. “She was insistent that the whole thing sounded ridiculous to her. Extremely insistent. So much so that I don’t think she’ll give this…signal…a fair evaluation.”
“You think so?” Eddison asked, genuine surprise in his voice. “Good grief! You’d think someone from, ah, SETI would have more of an open mind. Still…”
“Still,” Simon interrupted, “I think I’d like to back up her findings with our own.” Eddison nodded, and then he seemed to be distracted by what was on his computer screen. “Dr. Eddison?”
“Oh,” he said in a startled voice. “Lost in my own dimension.” He chuckled though he didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Well, we have some contacts with a few communications firms, people who specialize in encryption.” His fingers moved more quickly over the keyboard, and he mouthed a few of the words he was typing. “I suppose we could pull a few strings with some SIGINT types in the military.”
“I
have a different idea,” Simon spoke.
“Something in-house.” Eddison
stopped typing and looked up. “If you
don’t mind, I’d like to bring someone else down from
“Ms. Keel!” Eddison chuckled. “Yes! Lovely gal! Helped me out quite a bit over the years!” Eddison squinted. “She, ah, she know a lot about communications?”
“I know her fairly well,” Simon said, trying his best to be nonchalant. “This is something of a hobby for her, and I think if there’s anything to find here, she can find it, or at least get us close enough to know if Simmons isn’t being fair about all of this.”
Eddison nodded and then returned his gaze to the screen. "No, Dr. Litchfield, I don't think I can do that." He looked up, seemingly startled by his own words, and then he started motioning energetically with his hands. "Good god! Sorry, so sorry! That came out much more harshly than I intended."
Simon reached into his pocket and grabbed his keys. He began jingling them lightly. "I can assure you that she's the one. I trust her judgment and her skills implicitly." Eddison looked at Simon and then leaned back into his chair, pulling off his glasses in the process.
"Well, well," he said, "you do seem pretty sure of yourself." Eddison sighed and then scratched his chin, which was starting to sprout shining gray whiskers. "I don't know, doctor, this is..." He laughed. "I can work many miracles, in my own way, of course, but Ms. Keel. She's in such high demand with IT..." Simon squeezed the keys, the edges digging slightly into his skin.
"Can I persuade you to at least try," Simon spoke calmly but firmly. If you only knew what that woman is truly capable of, he thought. Or, Eddison, you could just try sucking up to Callow. He cringed at the thought of Callow’s name.
"Are you in pain, doctor?" Eddison asked. "I am, by golly, a past master of recognizing pain." He smiled. Simon did not return the gesture. "You're that sure about Stephanie Keel?" Simon squeezed the keys harder and nodded. "All right," Eddison said. He put his glasses back on and used the fingerball to open a new application. "This could take a few minutes. Hah! Maybe longer if the relevant people are sitting in a steam bath!"
“Trust
me,” Simon spoke, “it’ll be worth the effort.”
He stepped over to the window and looked out at the view. Through the darkness, he tried to decide what
kind of view Eddison had, oceanfront or the butt-end of a parking lot.
****
Simon
sat on wooden walkway leading over a dune and out onto one of the beaches of
"Good evening, Dr. Litchfield," Stephanie spoke when she finally picked up. "How's the fishing?"
"You're sounding chipper," Simon said without much cheer. "I take it you've gotten the call?"
"Oh
yeah," she spoke. "I'm in my
pajamas, settling down with a cup of tea, when Dawood calls me with the
news. 'You're going to
"You, um, don't sound very pleased." He licked his lips and scratched the side of his nose.
"Last I saw you," she said coolly, "you were accusing me of being part of some sort of conspiracy. Remember that, doc?" Simon moved the phone from one ear to the other. "Not saying much, now, are you, Simon." Simon took his hat off, placing the brim just under his leg. "Well, say something, damnit!" Simon heard a suitcase hit the floor. "You were just full of fucking words earlier!"
"Stephanie," Simon said quietly. "I've not been at my best lately. I've been...hurt...in distress, whatever you want to call it."
"People are hurt all the time," Stephanie said coldly. "You know that, right? You don't think..." Stephanie's voice trailed off. "You don't think I carry a shitload of hurt around with me? For almost three years, three years, Simon, I couldn't even go out for a cup of coffee with a man, much less on a date!" She paused, and all Simon could hear was the sound of her breathing. "Except for you. You only. You were there at the hell pit of my life, and you were there at Nightwatch while I climbed out, and you were there when I learned krav maga…"
"Stephanie..."
"You only," she said quietly. "You came by the hospital, by rehab, everywhere. You cheered me on. You kept my spirits up. You think maybe I should have suspected you of being in some conspiracy? You think maybe I should’ve wondered if all this was your way of finding a new recruit for Nightwatch?” The sound of something metallic falling onto the floor came over the line. “Well, I didn’t, mister. You were the only one I trusted, completely." A loud wave broke on the beach, and Simon would've sworn that a bit of sea spray had flown on the wind to the steps. "You hit your lowest point--and I know what you're feeling, whether you believe it or not--you hit your lowest point, and the first thing you do is accuse me? Have you any idea how that feels?"
Simon sighed. "I deserve that," he said plainly. "I really do."
"Yes you do!" Stephanie snapped. "And have you any idea of how many times I've had to drop everything to run off, in the middle of the night to God knows where, for you?" Simon blinked hard in the breeze, and then he closed his eyes as he tried to flush out a piece of sand.
"I owe you an extraordinarily expensive drink when you get here, don't I?" Simon said sheepishly.
"Damn
straight, doc!" Stephanie snapped.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get in my car and drive ten hours
with no sleep to
Bringer of Fire: March 3, 1977
Marty McKay and Jack Harrison sat at a desk in a small, institutional white room. Before them were strip charts, bound volumes of text, and sheets of mimeographed paper on clip charts. Each man had a coffee cup sitting near him, and a portable radio sat in the back of the room, the volume just high enough for the music to be recognizable while not being distracting.
"What the heck is that?" Jack asked as he looked over his reading glasses. Marty turned quickly and looked at the radio.
"Sounds like 'Dancing Queen,'" Marty said. "Big hit. Big, big hit. You don't listen to the radio?" Jack laughed and then looked back at the papers.
"I stopped listening after Acker Bilk disappeared," he spoke. "Nothing but public radio and Voice of America." Marty giggled before concentrating again on the clip chart.
"I don't understand these numbers," he said, "the ones on L4. The thrust looks too high." Jack nodded as he sat back in his chair.
"How do you mean?" Jack asked.
"I mean I know how many
"We're not launching from Canaveral," Jack said finally, after nearly ten seconds had elapsed.
"Kennedy," Marty corrected, and while Jack smiled slightly, his serious demeanor wasn't significantly affected.
"Kennedy," Jack spoke. "I can't tell you where, but..."
"Vandenburg AFB," Marty said matter-of-factly. Jack looked up, momentarily stunned.
"Where would you get an idea like that?" Jack stammered, and he looked genuinely worried as he spoke.
"Out in
"Okay," Jack said. "Then you tell me why the numbers don't make sense." Marty sat back and scratched his chest.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "we're overweight, right. I'm nearly," he flipped through some of the strip charts, "nope, completely sure of it. The equipment module's fully loaded and a pretty hefty piece of hardware on its own. The CSM's fully loaded.” He cocked his head and looked again at the numbers before him. “Whoah! I hate to see what we're gonna have to do with all that thrust! That's an amazing amount of hypergolics for an earth-orbital mission." He looked up and leaned forward onto the desk. "We're launching at a strange latitude and have to play catch-up with the cluster. The projected positions of the workshop on all of the launch dates indicates that we’ll have to be in a big hurry, so I'm guessing you've dusted off some of the old Saturn IB ideas." Marty smiled. "What is it, then? Three or four solid rockets strapped on?"
Jack clapped. "Bravo! Bravisimo!" Jack sat back and crossed his arms. "It is, in fact, four solids. It's the only way to lift everything and have the power and speed to catch up with Skylab."
"So what are they?" Marty asked. "Minuteman's? Titan's?" Jack grinned and looked back down.
"Neither," Jack said. Marty looked puzzled.
"The ones they're developing for the shuttle?" Jack shook his head.
"No, not really," he said. "X-class, actually." Marty blinked.
"I don't think I'm gonna like this," he said after a long pause. Jack waved his hand.
"Nothing to worry about," Jack said reassuringly. "They're a sound design. Prototypes and never before flown, but perfectly sound."
Marty coughed. "Um, not from where I'll be sitting. Why are we using prototypes, pray tell?"
"Oh, that's pretty simple," Jack said as he looked over the papers. "We couldn't get anything else." Jack smiled, but Marty still appeared to be skeptical. "Marty, we've got a Saturn IB! We've got a Command and Service Module that was never officially built! We've got equipment that as far as anyone else is concerned has been relegated to the junk yard! There's only so many miracles to go around."
Marty smirked. "And they aren't going to kill me? I've got your word?" Jack smiled.
"Better than that," Jack said enthusiastically. "I'm betting they aren't going to kill me! Is that assurance enough?" Marty nodded, conceding the point.
"So," Marty asked, "who did build these X-rockets?"
"A small firm," Jack said. "Really, their forte’s ideas. This was their first experience with actual fabrication.” The look on Marty’s face told Jack that too much information had been given, and none of it had been particularly reassuring. “Who they are isn't important, really. They designed these in conjunction with another firm for the new mobile missile program. When they lost out on the MX, they had four prototypes on their hands and nothing to do with them."
"These solids have a name?"
"PRO-1583," Jack said, "better known as the Prometheus SRB."
"Prometheus, bringer of fire," Marty nodded. "Well, let's hope it's the right kind." Marty looked back down at the papers. "Okay, I guess we should just start from the beginning then."
"How far back?" Jack asked.
"Let's say, er, T- three days. I know we don't kick in until T- minus three hours, but it pays to know the progress of the count."
"Indeed," Jack said. "Fly Like An Eagle" played on the
radio as the two of them pored over the documents on the table.
March 12, 1977
The Apollo CSM simulator was just as Marty remembered it, down to the ambient sounds, the movements, and consoles in front of him. For all he knew, this might have been the same simulator. Marty sat in the pilot’s seat on the left of the capsule, and he looked through the rendezvous “window” and reticule. The simulation had them at a point where the black, cylindrical equipment module—which was known in all of the flight documents as the EM— had already been docked with and extracted. Now, they were closing in on Skylab. TV images were fed through the window.
“I know I shouldn’t say this during the sim,” Marty said, “but it’s pretty distracting looking at Skylab the way it was supposed to look. Couldn’t our masters of mayhem have at least updated the model?” The two of them sat on their backs looking up at the control systems and at the simulated view.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked as he threw a switch on one of the panels.
“Both outboard solar panels,” Marty said. “Remember, Skylab lost one during launch.” He made a tsk tsk sound. “I don’t even see the parasols over the meteoroid shield.”
“Rog,” Jack said as he responded to a call from the ‘ground.’ He then looked over at Marty. “Okay, I’ll call it in after the sim’s over.” He reached up to the communications panel and turned the indicator. “Rog, control, omni bravo.” Jack started to lean back but then cringed and adjusted the indicator again. “Sorry! That should be omni bravo.”
“First time doing this,” Marty said, staring forward while working the hand controllers, “the SimSups, whatever you want to call them…anyway, they probably won’t give us any gremlins to deal with.” Marty squinted and cocked his head. “Remind me later. They’ve got to do something about this docking target on the EM. At least here it’s not retracted out of my line of sight.”
“Can you see the docking port on Skylab?” Jack asked. Marty nodded but then thought better of it. “Equipment stowage is protruding out a pretty good distance too, and there’s a pressurization sphere just below my sight line that’s shining pretty bright.” He reached over to the DSKYs control pad and punched a set of buttons. “Okay, Verb 49. We’re as flight ready as we can be.”
“8 feet per second,” Jack called after scanning the displays. “We’re out-of-plane. Z+ 01. 1000 feet to go.” Marty again adjusted the controllers. In front of him, the image shifted ever so slightly, indicating a minor change of plane. Marty shook his head.
“I think I’m gonna lose what I have of Skylab’s docking target,” he said with frustration. Marty again triggered the Reaction Control System, jockeying for the clearest view.
“4 feet per second,” Jack called. “820 feet.”
“No docking lights, either,” Marty said. “Has anyone called up the bird in the last four years?” Skylab closed in. From the front, it looked something like the opening of an automatic pencil sharpener, a round cylinder with a circular docking port on the front. Two large antennae hung like an inverted V of whiskers beneath. Above the cylinder stood and boxier structure, held on top of the docking port on support struts. Extending from that structure were four, ribbon like solar panels, like an X hovering above the space station. They closed further.
“4 feet per second,” Jack said. “580 feet.”
“Do me a favor, Jack,” Marty spoke. “Recycle the EM docking target. See if you can get it to retract further.” Jack reached up and threw the EM Dock switch, wondering in the process what the switch had been meant for in the past before it had been retasked for this mission.
“4 feet,” Jack called. “568.” Marty watched the EM docking target extend. As with all Apollo targets, this one was a circle divided into three sections—one taking up an entire half, and the other a subdivided semi-circle—separated by black lines. The bottom section of the EM target was colored a light gray-green. Four seconds later, the target and its associated structure withdrew.
“Still in the way,” Marty said, his voice reflecting his frustration.
“And control,” Jack said. “Be advised that we’ve recycled the EM Dock. Marty says it’s in his line of sight.” Jack laughed as he switched off communications with ‘the ground.’ “It’s just a simulation,” he said flippantly. “Save the high blood pressure for the real thing, eh!”
“Something you better learn now,” Marty hissed. “This is the real thing! It’s always the real thing. You don’t treat it as such, then you don’t learn.” Marty shook his head and then looked back towards the window. “If you don’t learn now, then something dies for real later…a piece of equipment, the target, you.”
“Okay,” Jack said, throwing up his hands. “Good heavens, you’re right! You’re right, you’re right. 3 feet, 550. You’re Z+05.”
“Damn,” Marty said quietly. “I keep doing it unconsciously, trying to make the target easier to find.” They closed further, and as the seconds passed, Marty’s initial guess proved correct. The people running the simulation had allowed everything to run by the book, exactly as it should play out under actual flight conditions. However, in this instance Marty wasn’t happy about that at all.
“3 per,” Jack spoke. “50ft. Y +01.”
“Okay,” Marty said loudly. With a squeeze on the control, the simulated forward motion stopped. “Tell them we’re station keeping. Between the EM target and that damn glowing sphere, not to mention the EM itself, I keep losing Skylab’s target in the reticule. You, me, and the ground need a new plan. Let’s see if we can work the problem.” Jack called in the information.
“If this had been the real thing,” Jack said quietly, “this would be close to an abort situation, wouldn’t it.” Marty said nothing, only looked at Jack’s eyes. “Okay… I’m glad we caught it now.” The two of them continued trying for the rest of the afternoon to figure away around the docking target problem.
April 15, 1997
Jack and Marty, fully enclosed in their spacesuits, floated above the ATM, the Apollo Telescope Mount. In this case, float was accurate. The two of them, along with several divers whose masks hid their faces, were in a neutral buoyancy tank. Their weight and the weight of the equipment were perfectly balanced, thus allowing a near perfect simulation of working in zero gravity. Both of them were trying to maneuver a large black box, something the size of three men put together, to the disk-like area just above the various telescopes on the ATM.
Earlier, Jack had carefully climbed the support structure of the canister, using portable handholds and the access ladder, and, slowly, made his way to the top of the telescope mount. Then, he rigged a strong support cable to the top and drew it taut against the other end of the line, which was anchored to a mount on the EM. Both of them were then able to run the box to the top, and Marty followed, working his way up hand over hand along the cable.
Jack consulted the laminated checklist strapped with Velcro to his wrist. “Now, it anchors into the apertures of the coronagraph and the H-Alpha..”
“Jack,” Marty spoke as they tried to position the box over the appropriate openings at the top of the telescope mount, “what’s this for? You ever gonna tell me?” Jack laughed loudly.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said, “all queries must be in writing and must be submitted outside the sim.” Both of them maneuvered the box. In the simulated zero gravity, the weight of the box itself was no problem, but the mass was the same, and it was difficult for them to place it accurately. Their ballet, however, continued uninterrupted for several minutes.
“Damnit!” Marty shouted. “My foot just went into the film retrieval slot!” Jack sighed over the line. “Control, CSM-115, Marty just said he put his foot into film retrieval.” There was a pause. Marty struggled and finally pulled himself free, but as he did so, the port for the film was clogged with debris. “Roger,” Jack said. “Okay, Marty, they want to know if…” Jack looked down and saw the debris-filled slot. “Oh,” he said.
“You can see it as well as I can,” Marty said in a disgusted tone. Jack was just about to respond when he stepped back. As he did, however, he tripped and immediately fell. His tether held him to the box, but the motion transmitted to Jack caused him to hit one of the ATM’s solar panels, putting a large hole through it. Jack called it in just a soon thing were stable, and he pulled himself back onto the mount.
“CSM-115, roger,” Jack said. “Okay, Marty, they’re pulling the plug on this one.”
"Lloyd Bridges over there gonna reset the simulator?" Marty said as he motioned towards one of the divers. Jack laughed, but then the two of them were suddenly pulled up and out of the tank.
"No," Jack said as they were being extracted. "The guys in the backroom want to rethink the procedure. It's taking us too long to get the, er, 'black box' in place, and that's the eighth out of ten times that one of us has done something catastrophic." There was a lengthy lull in the conversation as the two of them settled on the deck of the neutral buoyancy tank. Masked technicians moved in to begin the process of removing the pressure suits.
"And they have us launching in October?" Marty asked. "Wow, this is starting to feel a little too close to flight training. I keep expecting one of these guys to walk up, take off his mask, and turn out to be Lt. Fitzpatrick." Jack smiled and chuckled.
"I certainly hope so!" Jack said enthusiastically. "I'll need some help for the next time you decide to pin me down with your fancy fightin' moves!" Marty shook his head and then breathed deeply as his helmet was removed.
"I hate to put it this way," Marty said, "but I could still beat your ass." Marty smiled, but there was a definite edge to the way he spoke. "You can count on that, my friend." Jack nodded, making a mock salute followed by as much of a bow as the pressure suit allowed.
****
Marty closed his locker door and started walking towards the showers. He carried his soap and shampoo along with a white toothbrush and Colgate toothpaste. His shower shoes clicked on the tile floor, and towel tied around his waste looked like a bleached-out kilt. As he was about to enter the shower area, however, he caught sight of Jack.
Jack breathed in deeply and then sat up, reaching for the bottle at the same time. "No problem," he said, managing a slight laugh. Looking up at Marty, Jack even managed a smile. "Don't worry. I'm not having a heart attack or anything of the sort. I'm just very tired." He opened the bottle and took out two pills. Jack placed them into his mouth and then swallowed them without water. Marty didn't look convinced.
"Jack," Marty said suspiciously, "is there something you're not telling me?" Jack looked puzzled by the remark. Then, however, he looked down at the bottle and started laughing.
"No! They're not uppers or greenies or whatever you call those things!" Jack said. "Good grief, no!" Marty smiled and started to walk away but then stopped and looked back again.
"Then, uh, what are you taking?" Jack held up the bottle.
"These?" he said. "This is just Motrin. My physician gave me a prescription about a year ago." Jack held up his left arm. "Broke this going down some stairs. Went head over heels down half a flight. Hit my arms, my butt, my legs. Managed to bounce at just the right moment to keep from knocking my head to oblivion on the bottom step. Believe me, I was grateful there wasn't anything else wrong when the dust settled." Jack shook the bottle. "They gave me Motrin for pain. I had some left over and decided to start bringing it with me to these little training soirees."
"Why?" Marty asked. "What's wrong?" Jack laughed again though there were tones of bitterness in the mirth.
"I'm an old man, Professor McKay!" he said gleefully. "Well, not old, per se. Older. Older than you, anyway, and I had no Lt. Fitzpatrick teaching me to fly high-performance aircraft." He smiled and pointed at his mid-section. "I'm just really tired, and I want to sleep when I get back to my room. I don't need sore muscles keeping me up, now do I!" Marty chuckled and shook his head.
"Okay, old man," Marty said. "Get your sleep. You're the only one around here who knows what the hell is going on, and I can't afford to lose you!" Still chuckling, Marty headed into the showers.
"Right," Jack mumbled under his breath as he again looked down and placed his palms on the bench. "Okay, insert film cassette power adaptor. Open Black Box panel 3 and enter 000 on ground test keys. Confirm full power flow. No!" Jack closed his eyes and started rocking back and forth, beads of sweat on his forehead. "Insert film cassette power adaptor. Open Black Box panel 3 and confirm full power flow. Enter 000 on ground test keys..."
August 15. 1977
Marty climbed up, bringing with him two bags of water. "Fresh out of the gun," he said as he handed one of them to Jack. Jack eyed the bag suspiciously.
"Have you tried it?" he asked as he moved the mouthpiece of his headset in anticipation of taking a drink. With his black and white cloth communications "skullcap" in place, Jack looked like a man about to take a shower, albeit while wearing a gray outfit of thin cloth.
"It's okay, Jack," Marty said with mock reassurance. "It tastes fine. You didn't put the chlorination tablets in the tank this time!" Marty laughed as he crawled into his seat. "Mind you, I didn't see what was wrong with the last batch. I just can't get enough of that there swimmin' pool water." Jack took a healthy sip, nodded approvingly, and then brought the mouthpiece back in again. He reached over and toggled a switch on the communications cable.
"And, control, CSM-115. Be advised that Marty cleaned the pool. Oh! And, we're still showing good O2 and CO2 levels. How do things look on your end? Over."
Marty laid down on his couch. CSM 115—both the command and service modules—was mounted upright in a large vacuum chamber. The pressures outside the capsule had been reduced to near vacuum in order to check the integrity of the ship's primary systems--fuel cells, radiators, motors, cryo tanks, helium pressurization, the pressure vessel of the capsule.
The fuel cells used a combination of liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen, both of which passed over the reaction plates and produced two things--power for the ship and drinking water, lots of drinking water, more, in fact, than a three person could have drunk on a flight to the moon and back. Marty and Jack, in accordance with their training, were drinking as much as they could since the urge to drink was dramatically diminished in space. Both wanted to be sure that water intake was motivated more by habit than by need.
The downside, of course, was that the capsule was designed to work in zero gravity, something which could not be simulated for long periods of time. This made the capsule a very uncomfortable place to be, or at least more awkward than it would be in actual flight. The seats, in particular, were not designed for comfort in a full-gravity environment.
"Affirmative," Jack said. Marty rolled his eyes.
"You realize you sound like a damn idiot," he stated. "It's like hearing one end of a phone call."
"They want us to test the SPS gimbal again," Jack said. "They said they weren't happy with some of the readings they saw on the last test. Some," Jack grunted as he leaned forward to check a few settings, "erratic current flow." Light from the outside slowly rotated around the capsule. CSM 115 was very much on the ground and very much stationary, but the conditions of space had to be simulated as much as possible. The lights, meant to represent the fierce heat of the sun, allowed controllers to monitor the effects of exposure to hot and cold on the ship.
"I hope they're happy, at least with, with the barbeque roll," Marty said. He reached for his checklist and pulled it open to the appropriate checklist, then reached for DSKY panel. "Okay, Verb 50. Noun 25. 00204." He looked at the returns on the display. "Okay, we're all set when they're ready to go." Jack pressed the talk button and relayed the information.
"Roger," Jack spoke. "Two minutes to start of test. Mark" Marty checked the mission timer and then, again, rolled his eyes.
"This is really irritating, you know," Marty said. "I'm nominally in command of this flight, but I don't even get to talk to the ground." He scanned the capsule and, suddenly, as he had been at various times since the beginning, was grabbed by the wonder of what was around him. It's a damn miracle, he thought.
"Jack," Marty said. "I'm curious about something." Jack looked over and pointed at the mission timer.
"Can it wait until after the gimbal test?" he asked. Marty shook his head.
"If I don't ask now," he said, "I'll just forget later." Marty scratched his chin. "How are you guys paying for all of this? I mean, I won't believe for one moment that this is being privately financed." Jack smiled.
"I'm sorry," Jack said, "but I don't think I'm at liberty..."
"You don't have to tell me how you did it," Marty spoke with a good degree of irritation. "You don't have to tell me who did it. I just wanna know how this much money can be spent, and no one knows about it!" Jack started to say something, but he stopped, made a horse sound, scratched his cheeks, then finally started laughing.
"All right," Jack said. "In for a dime, in for a dollar. A pint's a pound the whole world 'round." Jack drank more water. "Okay, it's sort of clever actually," Jack said proudly. "We have help. The DOD is actually carrying a good hunk of the load, not that most of them know it," Jack giggled. "We...well...that is to say they came up with the cover program, making sure, of course, that it lives in the black."
Marty nodded. "No kidding," he said.
"Congress appropriated money," Jack continued, "but since the program is black and, therefore, classified, it stays hidden for as much of eternity as any of us'll probably need."
"So," Marty asked with a smile, "what did you, that is to say they, call this clever thing, then?"
Jack smiled. "I remember how much effort went in to this," he said. "We kept running names around the loop. As one fellow put it, we kept running the damn thing up the flagpole to see who'd salute it." The last part was spoken in a mocking military cadence. "We finally settled on a single name, and in any place where this absolutely had to be recorded we used this name." Jack laughed again. "The costs are spread out over several years. Control, CSM 115, 5 by 5."
"Oh swell," Marty said when confronted with the site of Jack's half-conversation.
"CSM
115, roger," Jack spoke. "Give
the gimbal some gas," he said while making a thumbs up sign. Marty leaned forward to hit the appropriate
switches. "Now, where was I. Oh yes.
As I said, no one will ever know about this anyway, so we could have
called it chopped liver for all that it will matter. But, considering how much I love seeing the
Northern Lights,
September 29,
1977
Jack sat and stared at his locker and was still dressed only in the white towel he'd worn to the showers. Once or twice he shifted his weight before looking down at the floor. "Okay," he whispered, "to prepare IMU for fine align, check sextant and shoot any two stars--Polaris, 11--Aldebaran, 15--Sirius, 22--Regulus, and 45-Fomalhaut."
"Or," Marty said as he walked around the corner, "any other of your choice of stars and planets. Pick your poison." Jack looked up and laughed. "I never saw anyone, in my entire damn time in NASA, who ever loved torquing an inertial platform as much as you do."
"It's the numbers," Jack said, chuckling. He reached for the bottle of Motrin. "I love working with the calculations. It's why I wrested that duty away from you!" Jack coughed. "Polyester leisure suit, Marty?" Marty bowed, and his earth-tone brown jacket puffed out, which matched perfectly the flare on the brown pants.
"Don't forget the gold!" Marty said as he pointed to his thick, gold chain, which nearly clashed with his mustard yellow shirt. "Actually, it's the only one I own." Jack eyed him suspiciously. "What? You think I'm gonna stay in my apartment, my last two days before quarantine, feedin' my damn pet rock or something?"
"Pet rock?" Jack asked, a quizzical look on his face.
"You never heard of pet rocks?" Marty asked.
"I've heard of them," he said before smiling, "I just never took you for the pet rock type." Marty shrugged his shoulders.
"I
ain't this type, either," he said, pointing at the outfit, "but the
women go crazy over it. Eh, when in
"Suit yourself," Jack said, and he looked back at the locker door. Marty sat leaned against another bank of lockers.
"How about you?" Marty asked. "What are you doing with 48 hours shore leave?"
"Me," Jack said, grabbing hard onto the bench, "I'm still trying to deal with Elvis dying. I just don't think the world could take me in this lowly state." Both of them laughed. "Actually, a woman acquaintance of mine and I are going to the symphony. I need something to purge all of your music out of my tanks." Jack chuckled. "48 hours without ‘When I Need You.’ Such blissfully long periods without Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band or Andy Gibb or King..."
"Queen," Marty corrected. "If you're gonna put me down, at least do it correctly. Still," he added, "I'm impressed you know that much. Admit it, you've taken a shine to KC and the Sunshine Band." Jack almost looked as if he was going to be physically ill.
"Go," Jack said, "catch your plane before they make us run another simulation." Marty smiled and headed for the exit.
"You take care," Marty said seriously. "Don't get in any car wrecks. We've worked too hard to get this ride." Marty then grinned and said, "Besides, I'm still hoping you might tell me what the hell we're doing in the first place!" He pushed open the door and left. Jack found himself laughing before, again, the serious expression overtook him. Again, he looked up at the locker, again he shifted his weight twice, and again he started reciting stars. "1--Alpheratz, 2--Diphda, 3--Navi, 4--Achernar..."
Stephanie’s
Hammer
Simon
and Stephanie walked along one of
The surf came in large, angry waves, crashing with tremendous violence onto the shore. As they passed a fisherman, one of the hardcore type who often fished all night and left as the sun rose, Simon pointed out how much effort it was taking the fellow to keep a firm grip on the heavy-duty fishing rod
8AM, as a flock of pelicans flew along the shoreline, Simon and Stephanie sat down on the steps of the Sandy Bar Hotel's access way to the ocean. Again, while their expressions veered all over the emotional map--Stephanie, in particular, appearing very upset and passionate as she yelled, got very close to Simon's face, poked him in the chest--for the most part they stayed in the same solemn zone, understanding something that most could never fully comprehend.
Once, just once, as the sun moved higher into the milky-blue sky, she started to cry; Simon, at first, maintained his distance. The few times he'd ever seen her cry were usually followed by great, billowing explosions of temper. But then, tentatively at first, he reached for her, took hold of her shoulder, and slowly pulled her towards him until she was enveloped in a huge protective hug, and he, too, started to cry.
****
"All right," Dr. Charlotte Simmons said as she paced the back of the control room. "Let's hear the particulars again." Simon was sitting in the back of the communications center near the Helix team.
"Okay," Aaron Murray said, "5:43AM, Chris Belle activates the LaserComm, notes the system settings, current angle of the dish, and average signal integrity. 5:45AM..."
"Wait," Simmons said, holding up her hand. "Let's hear those numbers specifically, shall we." Murray and Gene Kerry looked at each other and then back at Simmons.
"With all due respect, doctor," Kerry said, "you do have the data..."
"Just
read it out," she said, sitting down, closing her eyes, and leaning in to
her left hand. "It helps to hear
it." Kerry sighed, and
"Okay,"
Simon leaned back further as he watched the proceedings. He crossed his arms and appeared to be listening intently. "Norgaard, was it?" Simon asked as the tallest technician leaned closer in order to replace a memory chip. "Quietly, quietly," Simon added. "Don't draw attention."
"Peter Norgaard," the technician answered softly as he continued his work. "You are Dr. Litchfield?"
"Oh yes," Simon replied. "So, you've been here from the beginning of this adventure?" Norgaard nodded, and he inserted the new chip into the console.
"Oh
yes," he said, though with his
"..original
dish angles, .001, +959, +.34, -56..."
"So, what's your opinion about all of this?" Litchfield asked. Norgaard coughed.
"I don't like salt air," he said. "My family were a long line of fisher folk, and I hate the sea." Litchfield chuckled quietly. "I prefer indoors, nice climate control." Another technician walked up and gave a cable to Norgaard, explaining the progress being made. "Now, where was I?"
"Climate control," Litchfield said.
"Climate control," Norgaard said. "I've worked for Helix for fifteen years, owned it for five."
"At
5:45AM, 0545 hours,"
"You love your job," Litchfield spoke.
"I,"
Norgaard said with satisfaction, "love my job. I should be at the office in
"So we've established you love your work," he said. "Dr. Eddison established your reputation." Simon thought briefly about Eddison, whose sore leg had kept him back at the hotel again. "Now, you have something to tell me?" Norgaard closed the panel he was working on and then began connecting the cable.
"Maybe," he said. "I see lots of things. Some of them are intrinsically important to my job, and those are the ones I choose to concern myself with." He made another connection. "Others, I'm just not bein' paid to worry about, you know."
"The thing that happened that morning," Simon spoke.
"The cascading failure," Norgaard added.
"You don't think it was an accident?" Simon asked. Norgaard breathed in sharply and pursed his lips.
"Weeeelll," he said, "I wouldn't state it in that manner, specifically."
"5:54AM,"
"That part of the system isn't Helix's responsibility," Norgaard continued. "But, if it was, I'd probably have to say something to Dr. Murray over there. Then, I'd pull apart the system and track the error to its source. Then, if I could make a recommendation, I'd strongly urge Dr. Murray to fire the source." Simon froze momentarily then slowly nodded his head.
"You
sound pretty confident that something's rotten in the state of
"That's a lousy thing to say to a Norwegian," Norgaard said with mock indignation. "Everyone knows Fortinbras was the hero of that one, yeah?" Simon chuckled. "In any case, I know enough about this system to see something odd. A random failure leading to cascade wouldn't have followed that path, not in a logical sequence of events."
"The path to the back-up and recording systems," Simon clarified.
"Uh-hmmm,"
Norgaard said.
"I've got to go," he spoke.
"Good luck, yeah?" He
stood up and walked towards the other end of the room. Simon focused on Chris Belle, who sat at his
console and followed the report as
"There," Simmons said as she perked up. "There! The slewing angle. That, that patch of sky is," she started to chuckle, "is one of the most crowded in space. You've got an almost limitless selection of satellites to choose from. There's your signal!"
"But
our analysts in
"Why did you call me in if you don't trust my judgments?" she asked. "Okay, okay. Let's assume you're right, a faulty assumption, but what the heck. I like a gamble. Let's move on to the analysis of this signal. What have you found so far?"
Simon looked over at Simmons, trying to get a read on her from her body language. So far, everything about her seemed legitimate, so he moved her from his mental 'suspect' file, but not out of the file room altogether.
****
“How do you think he’s coping down there?” Tom asked. Static crackled over the line as Stephanie moved her cell phone from one hand to the other.
"How's he doing?" Stephanie said indignantly. "I'm the one who hasn't slept in over 24 hours." She then laughed, unable to maintain the facade of anger. "I'm taking care of that problem very shortly, though."
"I've seen you stay up longer than that," Tom chuckled. "This is just a regular day, isn't it?"
"Hardy har har," Stephanie said. Despite her good cheer, her voice was definitely hoarse.
"Okay," Tom spoke, "Simon..."
“I don’t know,” Stephanie said. She inserted the CD with all of the information from the center into her laptop and pulled up various programs on the computer. “I guess as well as you could hope. The work seems to be doing him some good, but…” Stephanie thought about the early walk on the beach, on his behavior, on her behavior. Something about the conversation had been cathartic for both of them, she knew. But... “He’s still not himself. I guess I can’t blame him. God knows I understand a hell of a lot of what he's going through.”
"Well," Tom said as he shifted the handset to his other ear, "at least you sound a little better."
"A little," Stephanie said. On the screen in front of her, a virtual representation of Chris Belle's console appeared, and it began displaying the information from Belle's logs. Almost immediately, something didn't look right though she couldn't quite figure out what. "I wish I was sitting at home with my Alaskan blinds pulled down."
"You're in a hotel," Tom said brightly, "so you should have Alaskan blinds." Stephanie giggled. The information in front of her, however, started to blur, and she realized anything depending on her vision probably wasn't a good thing to be working on. She shut off the console display and then clicked again on the CD drive. An audio display system popped up.
"Damn," Stephanie said, "I am tired." She rubbed her eyes and then started clicking on other files.
“And what about this Dr. Eddison?" Tom asked. "Just who is he, anyway? The two of you have never mentioned his name before.” Stephanie laughed as she began analyzing the information on the CD, clicking first on the file name and then on an icon labeled ‘Mimix.’
“He’s the head of Nightwatch’s analysts. I’ve got to say that his department is pretty amazing a good chunk of the time." She turned down the volume on the audio system, keeping it just loud enough for her to keep track of it. A series of beeps, clicks, whirs, trills played though the character of the signal had altered somewhat. "I’ve seen some of the presentations he’s personally made to our business and government clients. Great, great stuff, and, believe me, it’s not just the product of his staff. I've seen some of the things he's taken care of personally." The signal altered again as Mimix did its work, and Stephanie listened even more carefully. "Plus, his projections are sometimes used for calculating my department’s budget.”
“He sounds like he’s pretty good then,” Tom said. “Is he…erm…how do I put this?”
“No,” Stephanie said. The signal began scrambling again, and she cursed under her breath. “He’s not briefed. A few of his analysts are, but not him. It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if Callow hadn’t slipped something through under his nose from time to time.”
“I wonder why he's not in all of this,” Tom said. “You’d think with that much talent, Callow’d want him playing for the home team.” Stephanie laughed again even as she ended the software’s attempt to crack the information on the CD. Pulling up another menu, she clicked on an option marked ‘Lockpick 3.5.’
“Um, no,” Stephanie said. “Eddison’s brilliant, but, how can I put this.” The computer chimed angrily, and an error message flashed across the screen. "Fuck!" she yelled! "Er, sorry. Not aimed at you." She started undoing the damage to the computer. “Dr. Eddison’s a flake, an absent-minded professor. I mean, this never happens when a client’s around, but I’ve seen him, literally, get his foot—his good foot—stuck in a garbage can. One day, he got so fed up with an administrator that he tried to flash him the bird.”
“So?” Tom asked.
“Eddison extended his pointer finger.” Tom laughed and nearly dropped the phone.
“Okay,” he laughed, “okay! That explains everything. Just let me know how Simon is doing, huh? I’m still really worried about him.”
“Me too, Tom,” Stephanie sighed. “Talk to you later.” The two of them hung up. Frowning at yet another failure, Stephanie scrolled through the options in her computer.
“Too slow,” she murmured as she clicked past ‘VaporWare.’ “All right, let’s try ‘Stephanie’s Hammer,’” she spoke, clicking keys on the number pad.
****
Simon's cell phone rang, and as he left the communications room, he pulled it out and checked the display. When he saw Stephanie's number--Stephanie's encrypted number--he quickly answered.
"This must be pretty serious, my dear," he said seriously.
"Doc, I think it is," she said. "Are you in the clear?" Simon walked quickly to the parking lot, in the process pushing past several data processors coming in after lunch.
"I am now," he said once everyone was gone. Several seagulls, apparently attracted by scraps of food fed to them by the processors, gathered around Simon, begging. "Except for these winged rats."
"I tried looking at the data from the LaserComm control system this morning," she said, "and I thought I was going cross-eyed. I tried a little code-breaking and then took a nap." Simon was nearly blown over by a strong ocean gust. Quickly, he pulled down the chin-strap from his hat. "You still there?"
"I'm listening," he said. She must not have slept long, he thought. Her voice sounds terrible.
"I ran the control data again," she said. "It turns out I wasn't going cross-eyed after all. The recorded data's been altered." Simon squinted.
"You know that for certain?" he asked, all the while thinking about Norgaard's words.
"Oh yeah," she said. "I've got the control console right in front of me, and every few seconds there's a flicker in numeric displays. The alterations are nearly undetectable, but there's just enough of the overlayed material left to show up if the data's run through a console?"
"Wait a minute," Simon spoke incredulously, "what do you mean by a console right in front of you? I don't recall lugging in that much equipment." Simon smiled. "And since the elevator picked this morning to die and you're on the fifth floor...with an ocean view..."
"I don't have a real one," she said, "but I do have a virtual one. It's a little something Mel's had me working on." Simon saw a piece of bread left on the pavement. Quickly, he picked it up and threw it as far onto the dunes as he could, sending the gulls away from him in a frenzy. "He wanted something to send out to the field so that personnel would actually learn how to use something and not screw it up." Stephanie laughed. "I think you must have unnerved him when you wrecked that chromatograph!"
"So you've been building virtual versions of new machinery?"
"Including the LaserComm," she said. "I loaded that onto the laptop before heading down here."
"Okay," Simon spoke. "So, since you have a console..."
"I'm actually seeing this the way it should have appeared to the operator. Any other way, and I doubt anyone would have seen the discrepancy." Simon scratched his chin.
"How new is this virtual console?"
"The first LaserComm went out two years ago," Stephanie said. "This was something Mel wanted retrospectively." The sun briefly dimmed as a cloud passed by. "None of these simulations have gone out to the field yet." Simon nodded, and then a smile started to spread across his face.
"I do so love the element of surprise, Ms. Keel," he said with great satisfaction. "So, what data was altered?"
"The slewing angles for one," she said. "The dish looks like it was being pointed at a slightly different area of the sky. Then there's the beam width. The log shows wide beam, but the hidden data shows narrow beam." Simon shook his head in amazement. "To me, intercepting a signal from space would be lucky enough on wide beam, but with the thing set to narrow..."
"Okay," Simon said, "here's what I want to do. First, meet me for dinner at Austin Dock Restaurant, say about 5:30."
"Why there?" Stephanie asked. "The restaurant downstairs..."
"Because Dr. Murray told me Austin Dock serves a great lobster bisque," Simon spoke, "and I've had a craving for it the last day or so. Plus, I still owe you that drink, and I think I'd like to take you somewhere a little classier than a hotel."
"I can live with that," Stephanie said brightly. "What else do I need?"
"Bring the computer," he said, "and whatever tools you need to examine the LaserComm as unobtrusively as possible. I have a hunch, and I'd like to act on it while a few people aren't in the office."
"Okay," Stephanie said. "I'll be there.