Tuttle’s office was not at NRL, or at the Pentagon. He had lucked into a plush new office building that the Navy leased in Crystal City, one of the high-rise glass and steel towers that had given the area its name.
McDermott phoned the lieutenant commander from the airport, and they agreed to meet at a restaurant downtown.
Impatiently drumming his fingertips on the rickety little table out on the chilly sidewalk in front of the Connecticut Avenue restaurant, Ramsey McDermott waited for Lieutenant Commander Tuttle to select his lunch from the oversized menu.
They bombed Pearl Harbor with less attention to detail, the old man groused to himself.
Tuttle had insisted that they meet at an outdoor restaurant. “Less chance of being bugged,” he had whispered, quite seriously.
They discussed the problems of moving the staff to Arecibo, Tuttle clamping his mouth shut whenever a waiter or another customer drifted close to their table. McDermott, uncomfortable in the damp chill and the traffic noise from the street, struggled to keep his temper.
“If we need Arecibo,” Tuttle said finally, “we’ll get Arecibo, even if I have to get the President to declare a national emergency.”
“You can do that?”
Tuttle nodded solemnly. “If I have to.”
For the first time, McDermott felt impressed with the young officer’s powers.
“But this man Stoner,” Tuttle went on. “He’s the key to it all. We need him to correlate the optical sightings with the radio signals.”
“He’ll do it,” McDermott promised.
“He hasn’t called for a lawyer or tried to get away from the house where we’ve stashed him?”
“No. He’s going through a divorce; I think he’s kind of glad to be safely tucked away where the lawyers and his ex-wife can’t find him.” McDermott chuckled to himself. “And underneath it all, he’s got that old scientific curiosity—a fatal dose. It’s an itch he can’t scratch unless he plays ball with us.”
“I don’t want to call in anybody else if we can avoid it,” Tuttle said. “God knows there’s enough people involved in this project already. I don’t want to let anybody else know what we’re onto. Not yet.”
“Stoner will co-operate.”
“And he can get more photographs from Big Eye?”
“He helped design and build it. The telescope is being checked out by the NASA people at Goddard, before they officially turn it over to the university consortium that’ll run it. The official hand-over date is January first. Until then, the Goddard people are happy to help out an old pal. Stoner worked with those people for five years. They think they’re just helping out a guy who got laid off by shipping him some photos of Jupiter.”
“And Stoner himself won’t cause any trouble for us? He’ll stay where we’ve put him?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure? Absolutely certain?”
McDermott leaned his heavy forearms on the wobbly little table. “Listen to me. He’s got everything he needs up there at the house. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get a girl for him—one of the students, a kid named Jo something-or-other. Hot stuff. She’ll go prancing up there and we’ll let nature take its course. She’ll keep him busy. And happy to stay where he is.”
Tuttle scowled disapprovingly. “That’s sinful.”
“It sure is.”
“Well,” the Navy officer said, “I hope she’s signed a security agreement, at least.”
Markov drowsed in the back seat as the car hummed through the gray October afternoon along the endless highway, kilometer after kilometer of flat, empty countryside. A thin coating of snow lay over the ground. The fields were bare. The trees stark and leafless against the dull sky.
Mother Russia, Markov mused, half asleep. The real strength of our nation: the soil, all its vastness, all its timeless power.
The sun was a dull yellowish blotch on the horizon when the car finally stopped at a chain link fence. A pair of soldiers stood by the gate. Except for their little wooden sentry house, Markov could see no structure anywhere. The fence seemed to be guarding emptiness, as far as the eye could roam.
The driver exchanged words with the soldiers and Markov opened his briefcase to show them his papers. They were very polite to him and quickly swung the gate open.
As the car accelerated along the blacktopped road, Markov realized that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. The dreary landscape stretched in all directions, empty and gray. His stomach rumbled. I might as well be going to Siberia, he thought. This land is exile for a Muscovite like me.
It was fully dark by the time they came to the second fence. The guardhouse there was bigger, and made of stone. Again soldiers looked over his papers, by the glow of a flashlight.
“Professor Markov, you are expected. One moment, please.”
The guard disappeared into the stone building. In a few seconds a young lady came bouncing out to the car, long hair flying, fur-trimmed coat unbuttoned.
“Professor Markov!” she exclaimed, opening the car door and scrambling in beside him. “We were getting worried about you; you’re quite late.” She tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Go straight ahead and take the second left.”
Before Markov could say anything, she turned back to him. “I am Sonya Vlasov…I am only a graduate student here, doing my doctoral thesis work, but the director asked me to be your guide.” She was almost breathless with excitement.
Markov paid no attention to the row upon row of huge radio telescopes that glinted metallically in the lights from the road. He saw only that Sonya Vlasov was young, eager, a little plump, and had enormous breasts.
“My personal guide?” He smiled at her in a fatherly way.
“Oh yes. Whatever you want or need, it will be my pleasure to see that you get it.”
“How very thoughtful.”
She pushed back her long, light brown hair with one hand, a motion that made her coat open even more.
“Welcome to the Landau Radio Astronomy Institute, Professor Markov!” she said happily.
Markov nodded graciously. Exile might not be so bad after all, he thought.
Chapter 8
I must now mention God—otherwise quite properly unmentioned in these scientific studies—and must go a step further and pose the question: Can a religious person, or even more, a theologian, possibly be legitimately involved in, even be excited by these discussions of the possibility of other intelligent creatures and free creatures out there?
As a theologian, I would say that this proposed search for extraterrestrial intelligence (SETI) is also a search of knowing and understanding God through His works—especially those works that most reflect Him. Finding others than ourselves would mean knowing Him better.
Stoner looked up from his frozen dinner and saw Jo standing in the kitchen doorway, a thick manila folder clutched in her mittened hands.
For a moment he didn’t know what to say. Dark anger rushed through him; he could feel its heat in his face.
“What are you doing here?”
She stood her ground. “I brought the latest packet of photographs from Goddard Space Center.” Her voice was low but steady.
“Brought me my homework. Thanks a lot.”
Taking a step into the kitchen, Jo said, “Professor McDermott needed somebody to carry things from the observatory to you. He told me to do it.”