“We have a first-aid kit back at the office,” he said, nodding in the direction of the project, about a block ahead. “We ought to clean that and wrap it up. Wounds get infected so fast here.”
“Thank you, I … I don’t want to be any trouble…”
“Nonsense.” He gave her an arm and helped her up. The changeling shivered slightly at his touch on its waist.
It limped a little, hand on his shoulder for support. “Your bike?”
“Nobody’ll take it. It’s a junker; I don’t even carry a lock.”
“People are different here, aren’t they? Back home, someone would steal it whether it was worth anything or not.”
“Where’s home?”
“Honolulu; Maui originally.”
He nodded. “You’re not a tourist, are you? I’ve seen you around.”
“Work at a bank downtown, translator.”
“You speak Samoan?”
“No.” She shook her head and brushed away her hair in a graceful gesture that was not Rae’s. “French and German, some Japanese. I’m studying Samoan, but it’s hard.”
“Don’t I know. I’ve been here two years and can’t even say ‘pass the disgusting vegetables.’ ”
“Aumai sau fuala’au fai mea’ai ma,” the changeling said. “I haven’t learned ‘disgusting’ yet.” It hadn’t given Samoan a thought since starting on the ones and zeros, actually, but remembered some from the first few days of that incarnation.
“Pretty impressive, actually. Languages come easy to you?”
Job interview? “They did when I was younger. I learned Japanese and some Mandarin.”
“Hawaiian, of course?”
“No,” it said quickly, remembering that Jack did speak some. “Funny thing, you don’t really need it socially, and no one expects someone who looks like me to speak it.” It shrugged. “Probably a class or race element, too. My mother and father wouldn’t have been thrilled.”
“Know what you mean.” He waved at the guard in his little kiosk and unlocked the door to the main building. “We lived in California, and my dad wasn’t happy about my taking Spanish. Even though it was the most useful second language.” The changeling knew that, of course.
They went into the familiar reception room. He sat the changeling down in Michelle’s chair, the one it hoped to be occupying soon, and began opening and closing drawers. “First-aid kit, first-aid kit.” He pulled out a white plastic box. “Ah.”
The changeling had a sudden thought. “Would you mind … I feel a little faint. Could I get something to drink?”
“Sure. Coke?”
“Fine.” She unzipped the little wallet on her wrist.
He waved a hand. “Free with my card.” It knew that, and knew the machine was out of sight down the corridor.
When he turned the corner, it slowly spun the chair around 90 degrees, so its back was to the camera behind Michelle’s desk, and plucked a Sudafed capsule from the wallet. Broke it between thumb and forefinger and sprinkled DNA into the wound. It got some on the fingers of both hands, too, slipped the empty capsule back into the wallet, and returned to its original position before Russell got back, feeling a little silly for being so thorough. But Russ wouldn’t be Russ if he hadn’t thought it through enough to suspect any new woman who came into his life.
“Thanks.” It took the Coke and drank an appropriate amount, and looked around. “So this is the place.”
He pressed an antiseptic pad against the knee. “This is the place, all right. Welcome to the madhouse.”
“Mad island,” it said. “Creature from outer space and its UFO.”
He shook his head and tossed the pad into Michelle’s trash can. “There are other explanations. But they’re no less bizarre.” He shook a can of bandage spray—“Cold”—and sprayed the knee liberally.
“What explanation do you like?”
“It’s as good as any.” He tapped the knee around the wound, checking the spray. “What do the people at the bank think?”
“Most of them are UFO. One guy’s convinced it’s all a movie gimmick, and you’ll all look like fools when they reveal it.”
He stood up. “I’d take bets against that. I talked to the movie people. They’re exploiting it for all they’re worth, but they were obviously as surprised as anyone else.”
“That’s what I told him. They would’ve had someone around who happened to have a camera. Else why spend the money?”
“Yeah, no-brainer. Can you flex the knee okay?”
It swung her foot carefully. “I think it’s fine.” She took his arm and stood up. “Thanks.”
“Are you doing anything for lunch?” He laughed nervously and kneaded his brow.
“I’m tied up today,” the changeling said, not to appear too eager. “Tomorrow’s free.” Putting out her hand: “Sharon Valida.”
“Russell Sutton. Noon at the Rainforest?”
“I’d be delighted.” It smiled at him, wondering if her dimples were too cute. “My knight in shining armor.”
“Bicyclist with a water bottle.” He escorted her out. “Bye.” He watched her jog away, slightly favoring the injured knee, and then walked back to retrieve his bike.
Could it be? he wondered. She didn’t look anything like Rae, but the assumption was that she could look like anyone.
He leaned the bike up next to the entrance and went back inside. In the bio corner of the lab he got a latex glove and a plastic bag. Back at the reception desk, he picked the bloodstained pad out of the trash can and put it into the bag. He emptied the Coke can out in the men’s room and put it in the bag, too, gingerly holding it by the rim, and printed sharon valida on the bag with a Magic Marker.
Trying to outthink an alien intelligence, they’d figured that one obvious avenue back to the artifact was Russell’s weakness for pretty women—for women in general, actually. If Sharon had been a small attractive Asian, he would be more suspicious.
One part of him wanted the samples to have no DNA, so they could close the trap. A smaller part hoped she was just a sexy blonde with a sense of humor and a nonalien intelligence.
He put the bag on the bio desk with a short note to Naomi. Then he went back to the bike and checked the cyclometer. Only four miles; one more to go.
He pedaled off in the direction Sharon had gone, but didn’t see her. Went home to shower before work, perhaps, or maybe to check the oil in her other flying saucer.
Russell was lost in reverie, staring at the monitor without seeing it, and was startled when Naomi set the bag down next to him, with a clink of Coke can.
“Your Sharon has plenty of DNA, I’m afraid. Next move is up to you.”
“What? Oh, lunch.”
“Hope she tastes good,” Naomi said with a lecherous wink. Russell balled up a piece of paper and threw it at her.
Back to the secret message. He was putting together a one-page website that only Rae would completely understand. It was called “A Rae in the Darkness” and was headed with three photos— Russell and Rae flanking a snap of Stevenson’s gravestone verse he’d taken the hour before she’d led him down the hill to the hotel.
He’d skimmed through a book of Stevenson’s poetry, and didn’t like much of it, but this one quatrain was not far off, and he typed it in:
Then he pasted in thirty characters of the artifact’s message:
110100101101001011101001001011