The Target was mere inches away, its metallic surface pockmarked, each dimple dulled by the smoky sheen of space dust. Was it textured by design, as a result of its journey, or by battle?
Blood rushed in Jane’s ears. She noticed a humming or buzzing in her head, barely perceptible at first. The pitch started as a soft, low clamor, climbed slowly, then crescendoed in a high-pitched, frenzied crash that would have knocked her down if she’d been holding herself upright against gravity. As it was, she just floated there, bewildered.
Was that panic, fear, or…what? She darted a glance back. Bergen wasn’t smiling anymore. Walsh stared straight ahead and didn’t meet her gaze.
Minutes went by. Nothing happened. Had they come all this way for nothing? Were they snubbed at the door? Still, they waited. No one spoke.
She felt drowsy. Thoughts burbled slowly through her brain, not quite reaching their logical conclusions. How long had they waited? Jane’s eyes drifted shut and she jerked, sending herself spinning. She scrambled to make it look like it was intentional.
Bergen extended an arm toward her, his brow furrowed. “Steady, Doc.”
She wrapped her fingers around his arm and squeezed. She knew he couldn’t actually feel it, but that didn’t seem to matter.
She heard a rumbling, metallic creak and righted herself quickly. What had appeared to be a solid wall, parted into seven or eight subdivided, swirling pieces, retracting before she could count them. Inky blackness extended before her, with no hint of anything visible, no sound.
“They have a flair for the dramatic, I’ll give them that,” Bergen muttered.
She should have shushed him, reminded him of his training, but she was held captive, breathlessly waiting for something to happen.
One tiny light flickered to life above her head, just inside, casting a pale, greenish glow. She watched, transfixed, as another one came on just beyond it, then another and another, slowly illuminating, one by one, beckoning down a long, wide corridor.
She gasped involuntarily. Space. She wanted to run through that space like she’d run over beaches and fields and forest floors as a child. That was her first thought. Fast upon it, came her second.
There was no one there.
2
Bergen arrived just as the class was breaking up, uncomfortably pulling on the tie he knew was too messy and shrugging in the jacket that didn’t fit quite right. They’d sent him to Stanford to meet with a linguist named Jane Holloway, to talk her into coming to Texas for an interview.
He told them to send someone else, but they were vetting eight other linguists at the same time and the pencil-pushers were busy. He’d done his undergrad at Stanford, they reasoned. They had something in common. Based on her profile, they insisted she was the most promising candidate and would be the easiest one to sell on the mission. Well, they were wrong.
Two women stood behind the podium in the small lecture hall, engaged in a hushed but heated conversation. One, a well-upholstered blonde, was perfectly coifed and primly decked out like a librarian in a long, narrow navy skirt and matching tailored jacket. She had pearls at her throat and pumps on her feet. She broadcasted uptight law-student vibes. She was in the process of laying out an argument, though he couldn’t tell what they were discussing. He imagined it was a dispute over grades. She was probably terrified to take home a B to daddy. It really was too bad she wasn’t showing more leg.
The other woman appeared to be standing her ground, but seemed taken aback, uncertain. She was more of a granola type. She must have grit in there somewhere, though, based on her file. She was trim, athletic, looked good in tight jeans and hiking boots, that was for sure.
This could be an interesting afternoon.
It was an old-school name, Jane. It brought to mind all kinds of interesting word associations. He’d been wondering, the whole drive up from Pasadena, what kind of Jane she would turn out to be. Jane of the Jungle—that was for sure. He wouldn’t mind playing Tarzan to that Jane, but that would be pretty unprofessional and could screw up his chance of going on the mission. Not worth it.
He cleared his throat to get her attention.
Jane Goodall. Hm. Maybe. She’d lived all over the world, in a lot of remote places.
She didn’t look much like a Calamity Jane, just now.
Jane Fonda? Eh. Nope.
The other chick would be more of the voluptuous, Jayne Mansfield type, if she’d just loosen up a bit.
The throat clearing didn’t phase them, so he moved forward, extending his hand to the taller, dark-haired woman. He might as well rescue her. “Dr. Holloway. We spoke on the phone. Dr. Alan Bergen.”
She seemed taken aback and shook limply.
“People usually call me Berg,” he said nonchalantly.
She shook her head and turned to the other woman for direction.
“You do remember our appointment?” His gaze flicked to the blonde.
The blonde beamed a bright, friendly smile at him, her lips coated in a dark raspberry shade that complemented her clear, rosy complexion and large, grey eyes. She stuck out her own hand and said cheerfully, “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Bergen. I’m Jane Holloway. I’ll be right with you.” She ushered the young woman toward the nearest door. “Amy, let’s talk about this again on Friday after class, once you’ve had some time to think through what I’ve said, ok?”
He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, feeling foolish for having made such a blunder. She was a professor—of course she dressed the part. Why had he expected her to look like she was about to set off on an expedition?
He didn’t relish looking like a fool right off the bat when this interview was so important, but her expression didn’t betray a hint of reproach and she didn’t seem to be overly amused by the blunder, which was a relief. He made a mental note to berate whoever had neglected to put a photograph in her file.
Holloway turned abruptly, the brilliant smile returning. “Ok, Dr. Alan Bergen, what’s this about? I assume you’re here to try to convince me to go out in the field again,” she said brusquely, gathering up a few things around the podium and heading for the door. He scrambled to join her as she called over her shoulder, “Are you with OTP, ELP, or one of the religious-affiliated organizations?”
“OTP?”
“Oral Traditions Project.” She stopped on a dime. His momentum kept him going for a moment, out of sync with her completely. She scrutinized him skeptically. “You don’t know what OTP is? Who are you? You’re not a linguist, are you?”
He huffed. “No. I’m an engineer.”
Her expression became troubled and she gazed at him like he’d sprouted a horn in the middle of his forehead. “An engineer?”
“Yes. Aeronautics. I did my undergrad here, actually. Only set foot in this building once, I believe, before today.”
“What do you want with me?” She seemed perplexed, but resumed her forward bustle. He followed her down a few flights of stairs and she finally stopped moving once she reached a claustrophobically tiny office. The space was crowded with a desk, credenza, and three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, jammed neatly with books. An enormous, but half-dead tropical plant was propped against the door, holding it open. The single, unoccupied chair in the room did not look like it afforded the kind of leg room he needed.
The situation set his teeth on edge. He was completely out of his element. His suspicion that NASA had set up this little side-mission as a clever way to test him, grew exponentially. “Well, it’s not me, obviously. It’s the government.”
She moved a stack of books from the chair to a corner of her desk and gestured for him to have a seat. “Our government has no interest in nearly extinct languages. They barely have a grasp on the one they use.”