“Man, I’m not hungry… I’m starving.” Even as he said this, Jack Cube felt his stomach rumbling. The last time he’d had anything to eat was the egg-salad sandwich in Washington between trains. “Take me to it.”
He started to head for the kitchen, but O’Connor raised a hand. “Don’t worry about a thing, Lieutenant. I’ll set you a place at the table. Just make yourself comfortable and get to know everyone.”
He returned to the kitchen, and Jackson looked around to see Gerry staring at him in astonishment. “Lieutenant?” Gerry asked; apparently he hadn’t overheard Corporal Hillman’s initial introduction. “You’re a lieutenant?”
“Army Air Force, 332nd Fighter Group.” Jackson ignored his expression as he turned to the others. “Anyone got a smoke? I used up my last cigarette somewhere around Philadelphia.” Henry produced a pack of Camels and shook one out. “Thanks. So what’s the story here? When do we see Dr. Goddard?”
“First meeting is tomorrow morning, at the college.” Henry struck a match, held it out to him. The rest of the men were already going back to what they’d been doing when he arrived. “That’s when you’ll get the details.”
Something in the way he said this got Jack’s attention. “You know what’s going on?” he asked, letting Henry light his cigarette.
“Uh-huh… but I think it’d be better if Bob explains it himself.” Henry’s face was solemn. “Believe me when I tell you,” he quietly added, “we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
Esther Goddard was unpacking yet another carton of books—it seemed as if books accounted for half the stuff shipped back from Roswell—when there was a knock at the front door. “I’ll get it,” she called out to Robert as she made her way through the cardboard boxes that had transformed the living room into a maze. The knock was repeated by the time she reached the front door; its impatience gave her a clue as to who their late visitor was even before she opened the door.
“Hello, Wallace,” she said, managing a smile that she didn’t feel. “Nice to see you again.”
“Good evening, Esther.” Wallace Atwood, the president of Clark University, stood on the front porch, hat pulled low and overcoat lapels turned up against the snow that was still falling. “Is Robert in?”
“Of course. Please come in.” She stepped aside and waited for Atwood to stamp the snow from his rubber overshoes. It had been many years since she’d last seen him, and as he walked into the house and took off his hat, she noted that time hadn’t treated him well. Now that he was in his seventies, time seemed to have caught up with him; a big man in past years, his shoulders had become stooped and his frame a little less ursine, and his hair had gone white and had almost completely receded from his forehead. It was remarkable that President Atwood hadn’t retired, and perhaps he would soon, but not before he confronted his old nemesis one more time.
“I’m sorry that I can’t offer you any coffee,” Esther said as she took his hat and coat, “but I haven’t unpacked the percolator yet.” A lie; it was one of the first things she’d pulled out of a box when the moving van showed up a couple of days ago. But coffee was tightly rationed and not to be splurged; besides, she didn’t want dear old Wallace to stay any longer than necessary.
“That’s quite all right. It’s only a quick visit.” Atwood gave the stacked boxes a disdainful glance. “Still getting settled in? I would’ve thought…”
“We’ve been gone almost twelve years, and we stopped renting out the house after the last tenant made a mess of the place. It takes a while to move back in, you know.”
Wallace gave her a stiff-necked nod, still not looking at her. This was the house where Bob had been born and raised; it had been in his family for two generations, perched atop Maple Hill in one of Worcester’s more pleasant neighborhoods. Even after he and Esther moved to New Mexico, he decided to keep the place, for reasons both sentimental and practical. Had he put the house on the market, it would have signaled that he never intended to return to Massachusetts… and Wallace Atwood would have taken advantage of that.
“Yes, well…” Atwood noisily cleared his throat, and Esther tried not to laugh. No one could harrumph as well as Clark University’s president. “If you could tell your husband that I’m here…”
“And so you are!” Bob exclaimed as he strode into the living room, arms open as if to give their caller a hearty embrace. “Good evening, Wallace! How wonderful to see you again!”
Esther couldn’t keep from grinning. In baggy old pants and a wool shirt filthy with dust brought all the way from New Mexico, the smoldering butt of a cigar clenched between his teeth, Bob looked like a desert rat magically transported to Massachusetts. Atwood was dressed in the same tweed suit he’d probably worn to church for the last twenty years, and he recoiled from Bob as if afraid he might be carrying a virus.
“Ah… um… pleased to see you, too.” Atwood nervously extended a hand and visibly winced as Bob clasped it with both of his own. “Your lovely wife was just telling me…”
“We’re still unpacking, yes, yes. May take us a while to get squared away.” Bob took the cigar from his mouth and waved it at the living room furniture, some of which was still covered by canvas sheets. “If you’re dropping by to give us a hand, that would be terrific. We could use all the help we can get. You can start in here by…”
“Well, no, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not. Actually, the reason why I’ve stopped by is to discuss the nature of your return. That is, I’d like to know why you’ve…”
“Come back after so many years?” Noticing that his cigar had gone out, Bob searched for a place to dispose of it. “Why, to teach, of course. And to pursue a research project, as you’ve no doubt heard already.”
“That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. You haven’t…”
Atwood was interrupted by footsteps clumping across the upstairs hallway. He glanced upward, surprised to find that there was someone else in the house. “You have a guest?”
“Oh, yes.” Bob dropped the cigar butt in the small ceramic candy dish he’d been using until Esther could dig out a proper ashtray. “In fact, I believe you’ve already met.” He turned to the stairs and raised his voice. “Colonel? President Atwood is here.”
Colonel Bliss descended the staircase, the evening edition of the Worcester Telegraph in hand. Although his tie was missing and his sleeves were rolled up, he might just as well have been wearing a full dress uniform; Bliss had the sort of military bearing that didn’t disappear even when he was in civilian clothes. “Good evening, Dr. Atwood,” he said. “I thought I’d heard you come in.”
“Hello, Colonel.” Once again, Atwood was startled. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”
“Omar is visiting for a few days while Bob gets his project started.” Esther picked up a rag to dust off her hands. “I imagine you’ll see him from time to time.”
“Probably not very often. Just when I need to make sure that everything is going well with Dr. Goddard’s work.” The colonel reached the bottom of the steps but didn’t offer a handshake. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear you from the guest room… you have a question about his schedule?”
“Yes, well…” Atwood shifted from one foot to another as he turned to Bob again. “I’ve been told that you’ve requested that you teach only one class, a seminar in advanced physics. Furthermore, you’re reserving approval over any students who sign up for this.”
“That’s right,” Bob said. “Physics 390 will be the one course I’ll teach this semester, and the only students who take it will be the ones whom I personally approve. And I’ve already picked my students.”