Maximum Warp
Chapter 17: A Piece of the Action

“Horse trading?” I asked. “I thought you were advising the aliens, not representing them!”

Justin smiled, slow and easy. “It’s an evolving relationship . . . they’re comfortable having me do this part. Come on in, we’ve got space that’s more comfortable and private than the ‘foyer.’”

Damn, I’d missed him the last few days! Strange, given how short a time I had known him. He looked good, in a fresh white dress shirt, a navy blazer and light gray wool pants. “If it’s a conference room, they’re in trouble. I’ve had enough of those!”

“Well, actually . . . .” He sounded embarrassed.

It was a bedroom. “Okay, they aren’t in trouble,” I said, “but you are!”

“Not my fault! Honest! They needed to clear a bit of space for me to set up, and I’ve been sleeping here for the past couple of nights. You’ll note I also have a desk and two comfortable chairs. I thought we might use those?”

“We could move them to the other room,” I suggested.

“We can’t, really. They look like chairs, but that’s partly an illusion.”

I was intrigued despite myself. “What do you mean, ‘partly illusion?’”

He shrugged. “It looks and feels like something from home – the leather in the chairs feels like leather; the wood looks, feels, and even smells like oak with a lemon-based furniture polish. That’s not real, I gather. But there is a chair there, or at least, there is a physical object that supports your back and . . . ah . . . rear when you sit in it. But I can’t even move it across the room, much less out of it.”

“So they cleared some space for you, huh?”

“You’d think spaceships might have plenty of space, but I assure you they don’t, Ms. James,” he responded.

My smile was lopsided, and a touch rueful. “Back to ‘Ms. James,’ am I?”

“Sorry about that,” he said with what I thought was real regret. “I need to keep my lawyer hat on today. Firmly.”

“We could use staples, I suppose. Or Gorilla Glue. I don’t bite, you know. Unless it’s called for.”

“You’re a sketch, Ms. James,” he said with a smile.

I smiled back. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

We smiled at each other for perhaps half a trice longer than the punctilio of diplomatic protocol demanded. Maybe even an entire trice. It’s hard to be exact, with trices.

“Well, let’s get started then – ‘Mr. Abel’!” I crossed over to one of the chairs and sat. It was, I thought, a comfortable enough illusion, and Lord knows, we could use a few of those. I sat up straight, crossed my legs at the knees, and rested my hands in my lap.

Justin grabbed a legal pad and a pen from his desk and took the opposite seat, looking attentive. “Alrighty, then. What’s the U.S. government willing to offer in exchange for the formula for making the type of battery Professor Grim tested?”

I thought his word choices were careful, deliberate, and very telling. The U.S. government, not me. The technology Grimm tested, not “the alien’s current generation battery technology.” But I didn’t disagree with the nice, lawyerly way that he’d phrased things.

I needed to convey the offer with equal precision. “Let me start with detailing the government’s requirements with respect to the battery tech. First, they want to confirm that it doesn’t use any materials that are not readily available, and that the processes required for manufacture are within our current capabilities. I believe the People represented that we’d be able to begin commercial-scale production within four months. The government wants to review the formula to be satisfied that these representations are correct before turning over the fissile material.

“Second, the government requires that it be given the full intellectual property rights to the formula. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, the formula will have been developed by the Department of Energy’s Advanced Research Project Agency, Energy.”

Abel’s eyebrow rose at that stipulation. “Ballsy, I’ll give ’em that. Any other requirements?”

I shook my head. “No. In exchange for the technology, provided in accordance with those stipulations, the government is prepared to offer 650 pounds of weapons-grade uranium, the quality of which is guaranteed to meet or exceed ninety percent U-235.”

“650 pounds?” Both of Abel’s eyebrows were sky-high. “That’s it? For a technology that will revolutionize energy storage?” Even his eyes appeared to bug out.

I cocked my head. “Has anyone ever told you that you do ‘astonished’ astonishingly well?”

“Wait ’til you’ve seen my ‘disappointed,’” he mock-growled.

“Theatrics aside,” I responded, “I gather that amount is sufficient to manufacture almost twenty nuclear warheads. About as many as the government estimates North Korea has produced.”

“That’s a really good point.” He made a note on his pad, but the hand motion was inconsistent with writing letters; he was just doodling. Then he looked up, like he’d just had a thought. “Or it would be, if either the People or the U.S. government intended to use it for that purpose. But they don’t, or we wouldn’t even be having this delightful chat, would we?”

“Prolly not,” I agreed. “But your clients have a great deal of information – publicly available information – about what the government has to offer, while the government knows next to nothing about the People’s requirements or capacity. For all they knew, your clients might not need – or want – as much HEU as they’ve offered. They had to measure the offer against something.”

“They could measure it against their stockpiles – which are about a thousand times larger,” he countered.

“I so appreciate a man who does his homework,” I said approvingly. “They could look at it that way, of course, but why would they? That’s no way to measure value. Or Elon Musk would pay a million bucks for the same toaster we could buy for $29.95.”

He shook his head. “You are talking about the guy who just offered $44 billion for a company that was worth half that much, and then tried to back out of the deal after signing the papers. You know that, right?”

“Okay, maybe not the best example,” I conceded. “But for all its flaws, the U.S. government isn’t eccentric, it doesn’t have an ego as such, and it doesn’t try to use reproductive organs for problem solving. It may be crazy, but it’s not stupid!”

He scribbled on his pad some more.

“Would you like a pipe instead of a pad?” I asked him innocently.

“No,” he said, sounding puzzled. “I don’t smoke. Why do you ask?”

“I never used one myself, but in academic circles it’s well known that a pipe gives a wise man time to think.”

“Shucks, Ma’am, I’m just a humble country lawyer, trying to do the best I can against this brilliant . . . linguist.” Nonetheless, he looked mildly pleased.

“That’s okay; it also gives a fool something to stick in his mouth.” I smiled to take the sting out of my comment and leaned forward. “Come on, Justin. Time to flip some cards. How much weapons grade uranium do the People want? How much can they even carry? Until the government knows that, they’re just firing grapeshot downrange and hoping they get lucky.”

He leaned back in the apparent leather of his chair and chuckled. “Well played, Ma’am! Okay. They can carry just over twenty tons, and they want to go home with a full cargo. Does that change the offer?”

“See? Was that so hard?” I smiled encouragingly. “They did give me an alternative proposal. They’re willing to provide three and a half tons of the specified quality of HEU if, in addition to the battery technology formula, the People were willing to describe a process for safely and efficiently generating power through nuclear fusion.”

His eyebrows shot back up. “Fusion? Seriously? That’s never been on the table!”

“Codswallop!” I retorted. “We’re only just setting the table right now. You and me. Knives, plates, forks. Napkins, if you’re feeling all fancy. Wine glasses might be nice.”

“Codswallop? Seriously?”

“Forgive me. I’m an old-fashioned type. Substitute, if you prefer, bunkum, piffle, tommyrot, flapdoodle or blatherskite.”

“I do love it when you talk dirty!” He grinned, then shook his head. “I very much doubt my clients will see it that way. They’re going to feel sandbagged.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

Justin, bless him, kept his eyes riveted on my face.

“I suggested the battery technology,” I said. “Me. Jessica. You know, even if the People don’t, that the U.S. government isn’t required to conform its offer to the suggestions of a linguistics professor!”

“Not even a distinguished linguistics professor who has demonstrably perfect . . . grammar?” His eyes had a nice twinkle.

“Nope,” I said, returning his smile.

“Okay, point taken. Let me go and talk to the client, if I can pry him away from your fascinating associates. Where did you find them, by the way? Interesting choices!”

“One of the President’s advisors called them in to provide thoughts and advice on the first meeting with an alien civilization,” I told him. “The rest of the group was . . . equally impressive.”

“I’m sorry about that . . . but glad the People were willing to allow these two to come up, anyway.” He started to rise.

“You gave Worm comportment lessons, didn’t you?” I wished I could have watched that!

“Of course! All in a day’s work.” His eyes went back to twinkling. “I don’t think I’ll be too long. Feel free to hang out here. If you need to use the facilities, they rigged up something in the entry room, behind a curtain.”

I inclined my head, but remained seated. I liked the chair, honestly.

He left.

The last few days had been incredibly busy, and I had about as far from a good night’s sleep as you can get the prior night, what with the Brothers Tweedle and all. Justin’s bed was practically singing me a lullaby. But it wouldn’t do, it really wouldn’t, to be caught sleeping when he returned.

My mind suddenly called up a mental image of Justin waking me in his bed . . . . I let my eyes drift shut.

I pulled myself up short. What was I thinking? My body picked the strangest times to assert its – alright, my – suddenly strong attraction to men. Probably all the stronger in that it was a wholly new sensation, something I had never experienced in six decades of being male. James Marshall Wainwright would never have looked at Justin Abel and seen anything other than “some guy,” a designation that would have been wholly secondary to the toxic label, “lawyer.”

But Jessica James saw Justin in a completely different light. He had a sharp and – strange to an academic – highly focused intelligence that infused his mobile and expressive face. He was handsome and well-built, and while he was probably a bit shorter than I had been when I was male, he was eight or nine inches taller than me now. I felt petite when I stood next to him . . . but that didn’t feel strange at all. It felt nice. I wanted . . . .

I wanted.

Oh yes, I surely did! But . . . I needed to get my shit together. I'm such an unholy mess of a girl, I thought. With a sigh, I opened my eyes and decided I’d better stand. Walk around. Do something to keep awake. I took to pacing.

Seven steps, wall to wall. Not tiny, constrained steps; I had worn a nice pair of dress slacks today (knowing I would have a bit of flying to do), in a warm tawny brown. My white sandals were firmly attached at the ankle so as not to fly off, and had enough of a heel to be comfortable. (I thought, absently, that when all of the excitement was over, I would need to work on stretching my tendons so I was equally comfortable in flats. Damn People Magazine, anyway!). So my steps were easy and regular, though my thoughts were very much “un” and “ir.”

Back and forth, back and forth. I thought the government was being short-sided and was trying to play a long game when time was not on its side. I had said as much to Luther Corbin when he briefed me. He had told me, in his inimitable fashion, that Stanley Aguia wasn’t the only person whose primary duty consisted of coaxing feral cats into playing Mozart on the saxophone.

Back and forth, back and forth. The offer didn’t come close to twenty tons. Were the People really going to insist on getting that much U-235? The government seemed almost absurdly attached to the deadly stuff. Why couldn’t the aliens get off on nuclear waste, for the love of all that’s holy?

Back and forth. Justin has really attractive eyes. Especially when he smiles. Even more especially, when he smiles at me . . . .

Back and forth. Fusion!!! For all that I was not an expert in energy, there was one thing I knew about all the work that had been done to generate controlled fusion reactions: it required an enormous upfront expense. Massive lasers aimed with incredible precision. If the output was great enough, it would more than justify the expense. But countries that could not afford the upfront cost would – once again – be left in the cold, literally. Just dandy.

After walking for forty-five minutes and getting precisely nowhere, I got tired of pacing and returned to my seat. There was so much a stake here! How's your poker game, Professor? Luther Corbin’s jest sat in the pit of my stomach like mine tailings.

Justin returned. I started to get up, but he waved me back and sat down himself. His expression was humorous. “They said, in essence, ‘fusion? Why do you want to fuck with that shit?’”

“Well, because . . . .” I started.

He cut me off. “Don’t bother. Apparently they don’t use it, and never really have. In their collective memory, it was always the energy source of tomorrow, just like it is for us, and tomorrow is always a day away. By the time they discovered a way to generate it somewhat efficiently, they had already moved on to other, better, power sources. They assure me that neither the fusion methodology they finally developed, nor the power technology they currently use, could be turned over without violating their Prime Directive.”

“Oh,” I said. “And . . . you agreed with their interpretation of the Prime Directive?”

His eyes went soft. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t tell you what advice I gave my client, Ms. James. That has to stay confidential.”

Dammit!!! Your own fault, Jessica, I said to myself. Thought you were so clever, releasing him as your lawyer so he could advise the aliens. Now you're all alone!!

“I see,” I said. “Well . . . do you have a counter-offer I can take back to the government?

“They want 20 tons of HEU, at least 90 percent U-235, delivered and loaded before they provide the battery formula. They are willing to discuss intellectual property rights. That’s it, and they believe it’s fair. But, Elder Technical Specialist told me to pass along an additional piece of information that might sweeten the pot. The formula and processes used for the battery technology in the demo model do have other applications as well. One of them, they believe, can easily be used to boost the efficiency of photovoltaic cells by approximately 68 percent.”

“That . . . sounds good, certainly,” I said. And it did. Really, really good. But what do I know? I’m a linguist, for God’s sake, not an engineer! “Any idea what it means?”

His smile was sardonic. “No more than you do. But I assume the government’s got folks who can evaluate what that side benefit is worth.”

“Fair point.” I got to my feet. “Well, let me make a call. Please tell the People I will need them not to listen to my communications with the government. . . . And . . . not to be rude. You haven’t set any listening devices yourself, have you?”

His facial expression was a complicated mix of hurt and admiration. He rose and faced me, no more than two feet away. “No, Ms. James. I haven’t, and I won’t. That would violate professional ethics, and I take that as seriously as my clients take their honor.”

Was it wrong for me to notice that he smelled nice? A good, clean, almost spicy smell . . . . “Okay. Sorry. I had to check. You know what they say about lawyers.” The real apology was in my eyes.

“I know almost everything they say about lawyers,” he responded. “We make up most of the jokes ourselves. But what do they say about linguists?”

The only joke I knew about linguists involved their cunning, and I certainly wasn’t going to share it with Justin. . . . so I struck a pose and tried out my best attempt at a sultry voice. “Actually, people don’t often talk about linguists. But when they do . . . they use big words!”

He laughed and left.

I called the number Luther Corbin had given me.

He answered right away, his deep bass reverberating through the speaker of my cheap phone. “Professor James! Please tell me you have some good news to impart this fine day! It would be, I assure you, a welcome change. A delightful change. I should sing rhapsodies, indeed. How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of one who bringeth glad tidings!” Count on the Chief of Staff to turn a simple greeting into free-form poetry.

“Hello, Mr. Corbin,” I replied. “I’m afraid my feet haven’t improved much since our morning meeting.”

“Let not your heart be troubled, Professor! It is too soon – far too soon, indeed, for me to complain about your talus and calcaneus. What news do you have for me?”

“Well, first, and probably most important: The aliens can take 20 tons of HEU, and that’s their counter, in terms of the amount. They want it loaded before they provide the formula. They’re willing to discuss the IP issue. When I raised the fusion option, I was told that they don’t have anything they can give us in that line that wouldn’t violate their ‘prime directive’ rule. But, they did say that the battery tech has other applications, and that one of those applications would boost the efficiency of photovoltaic cells by sixty eight percent.”

“Would it indeed? Corbin replied in a thoughtful voice. “Well, isn’t that interesting? I thought the fusion gambit was a long shot. . . .” He lapsed into silence, thinking.

After a few moments had passed I said, “Mr. Corbin . . . do you have any new information about last night’s attempted attack on our safehouse?”

He was silent a moment more before responding. “We do, Professor. It appears they were still working for Mr. Singh. The more important question, however, is who Mr. Singh might be working for. He appears to have vanished.”

“How did they know where to find us?” I asked.

“I’m sorry – extremely sorry – to say that I don’t have an answer to that excellent question at this time. But you may rest assured that we are working on obtaining it.”

“I . . . see,” I said. This sounded serious. “If that’s so, where’s Janet?”

Corbin said, “We parked her over at the Hay-Adams in a two-bedroom suite. I gather she’s sleeping, and the redoubtable Mr. Grant’s keeping watch.”

That response left me worried for a different reason. “You don’t trust our security detail?”

“They have always been reliable, Professor. Always. Or I would not have used them. But, until we know how your location was discovered, we need to be extra careful.”

I thought about that for a minute, but I couldn’t come up with anything else to do.

“We are doing everything in our power to get answers quickly, Professor,” Corbin assured me. “In the meantime, let me work on getting a counterproposal to take to your friends. It will take some time, but not as long as last time, I’m certain. Very certain!” He rang off.

I sat for a bit, stewing. Someone was stalking us, and I had no idea who – or how, or why. And I knew that, down in Washington, Corbin was trying to extract answers from the leviathan, and that it would take time. But the clock was ticking. How long would that popinjay Britt hold things up this time?

I went to the adjoining room to use the facilities and saw the enclosure Justin had mentioned. When I started to open the curtain, I heard Daichi Kurokawa squawk in surprise.

Behind me, Troi Harris said, “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”

“Yes! Please don’t!” Daichi agreed.

I laughed, and felt some of my tension lift. “How’s it going?” I asked.

I heard a strange noise, followed by Daichi’s startled, “SUGOI!!” He came out a moment later, looking startled. “It goes well, Jessica,” he said warmly. “The history of their species – we have only begun to touch on it. The barest outline. But . . . Fascinating! Extraordinary!”

Troi nodded. “Their collective memory goes back an incredibly long time. They weren’t even the first sentient species on their homeworld. Or the second, or the third.”

“Each dominant species had their day, with civilizations rising and falling . . . all the while regarding the People as barely more intelligent than we would regard mice, or dolphins,” Daichi added.

“So long, and thanks for all the fish.” Troi smiled wistfully. “Although, in their case, it was the formerly dominant species that left the scene, one after the other.”

I was incredibly relieved. It would have been criminal – and criminally stupid – if we had allowed the aliens to depart with only a commercial exchange concluded. These discussions would ultimately be more important, and they appeared to be in the best of hands. “It sounds like you’re learning a tremendous amount. God, I’m so glad you were able to come!”

“It’s enough to make me cry, thinking how short our time with them will be,” Troi said. “But . . . How’s your work going, Jessica?”

I waggled my fingers. “We’re still at the ‘feeling out positions’ stage. I’m hopeful we’ll get there, but it’s slow sledding.”

I heard Janet’s voice in the back of my mind, as clear as if she had been standing right next to me. “Tryin’ out positions, are you? How truly exhaustin’!”

Hush, woman! I thought, exasperated. Even when you aren’t with me, you’re with me!

They wished me well and went back to their session. I pushed the curtain aside to find a device that clearly functioned as a toilet, though it had no knobs or buttons that I could see. I dropped my slacks and panties and sat down gratefully. I’d gotten used to the sensation of urinating while female, but it was still less efficient. And . . . well. What was I to do for paper? I didn’t see any.

But I had no sooner finished my business than my nether region was hit with tepid, mildly fragrant liquid, followed by warm, dry air. It tickled . . . in a ridiculously sensual way. It didn’t help – or it did, depending – that I had just been thinking some wicked thoughts about a certain lawyer! But I managed to keep myself in place, and the device certainly did the job. When I got up, everything was dry and comfortable, and whatever had been discharged had disappeared. That was different.

I got my clothing back in place and went back to the room where I had been meeting with Justin. His bedroom. I wanted to call Janet, but decided to let her sleep. Sleep!

There was no way I would get any answer, despite Corbin’s best efforts, for a couple of hours. I could really use a bit of rest. Get my mind sharp again . . . .

The bed beckoned.

I sat down on it. Whether it was real, an illusion, or some combination, it was seriously comfortable. Even sinfully comfortable. But not a mortal sin, certainly. Just an itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, yellow polka dot . . . venial sin. Besides, wasn’t I an atheist? Surely . . . .

“Oh, stop dithering,” I said out loud. I reached down and unbuckled the delicate straps on each of my sandals. Nothing wrong with my feet, I thought. Though I’m not sure I’d write psalms about them. I stretched out on top of the covers, making sure to set my phone down on the table with the ringer on its highest setting. Amazingly, in a moment’s time, I was dead to the world. Maybe even the universe.

I don’t know how long I slept. It felt like it was a while, and it was deep. I was awakened, not by my phone, but by the gentle pressure of a hand against one check, and the sound of Justin’s voice.

“Jessica.” He had a very nice voice.

I opened my eyes, and there he was, perched on the edge of the bed, cradling my cheek in his fine, capable palm. Like a dream. A really good dream, too – the type that makes you feel all warm and safe. But, fuzzy as my brain seemed, I was pretty sure I wasn’t still dreaming.

I smiled up at him. “Justin. Sorry about borrowing your bed.”

“How you doin’?” His voice was even nicer when it was low and a bit husky.

“A bit groggy,” I replied.

“Resting's the sort of thing you've got to work up to gradually . . . very dangerous to rest all of a sudden.” His expression was, for once, very hard to read.

Too much going on in that noggin of yours, Boyo? Well, GOOD! Welcome to my world!

Time seemed to hold its breath . . . .

“I’m sorry, Jessica,” he said finally. “I’d have let you sleep if I could. But there’s a new . . . development . . . you need to know about.”

I touched his hand lightly. In gratitude. Surely it was just gratitude? “Okay,” I said softly. “Can you give me two minutes to shake the sleep off?”

“Absolutely.” He smiled and left.

I rose, stretched, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Pulling a pocket mirror from my purse, I touched up my hair and lipstick before sitting down in “my” chair again. I was worried about what was coming, but very glad to have what was clearly, at the least, a couple additional hours of sleep with which to face it. The manner of my waking . . . well. I’d think about that later.

Justin came back in, his lawyer face firmly back in place.

I waved him in. “Let’s hear it, Mr. Abel.” I figured I should do my part to set the tone.

He resumed his seat, looking serious. And seriously like Gregory Peck.

“Half an hour ago, someone left a message on my office voicemail,” he explained. “In light of the message, I returned the call. The long and short of it is that another government has made an offer to supply the People with weapons-grade uranium. It appears they want a piece of the action.”

I could not hide my shock. Who would know that the aliens were even here, much less that Justin was representing them? I took a deep breath, thinking hard. “What can you tell me about this offer? Did the People solicit it in some way? What country is involved, and what are they offering?”

He cocked his head. “My clients won’t entertain the offer unless you clear it. ‘We deal with Jessica James only,’ they said. They didn’t even let me tell them what the offer was.”

“Okay,” I said. That was . . . not exactly surprising. They’d suggested something like that before, but it hadn’t been tested up ’til now. But it was certainly sobering. “Best let me know what the offer is.”

His dark eyes appraised me carefully. “Why? I told you, they won’t consider the offer unless you bring it forward. You can just ignore it if you want.”

Averil Livingston’s words from yesterday morning came back to me. Do they expect you to represent ALL of us?

And my response. Yes. I think that’s exactly what the aliens are expecting.

“I need to know what it is before I make that decision,” I told him.

There was a glimmer of . . . something? . . . in his eye. “Okay. There are things I’m going to tell you that can be shared with the U.S. government, but other things are for your ears only. Can you live with that?”

I thought about that, but didn’t see a lot of choice. “Yes.”

“Okay. What you can pass along to the U.S. government is that the People did not solicit the offer, directly or indirectly. They haven’t communicated with any humans since their arrival, other than you, me, Janet and – briefly, with you present – Dr. Livingston. Now, with Professor Kurokawa and Ms. Harris too – at your specific request. But neither of them has had any outside communications since they came aboard. So the People don’t know how the other country found out about their presence. Much less my own involvement.”

“I . . . Okay,” I said, thinking fast but not very coherently. “I’ll certainly pass that along. And I’ll need to think who I might have told about your involvement. And when. But let’s put that aside for now. What else can you tell me?”

“The rest is just for you. And only because the People trust you, personally. A foreign government is offering to provide four tons of weapons-grade HEU in exchange for one hundred shots like the one you were given, but without the gender change component.”

We looked at each other for a long, long moment. Here it was, the very nightmare scenario I had dreamed up back at Janet’s house, when we were first thinking about whether we could help the aliens. What ghoul thought up this offer? President for life – but a long, long life indeed! My mind was whirling, whirling . . . .

And, like that, I knew what I had to do. “I will bring this proposal to the People. But I need to go back to Washington before I do. What . . . what time is it, down there?”

“Five fifteen in the afternoon,” he replied.

My brain was racing. “Ask the aliens if they can drop me somewhere safely that’s close to a metro station.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I need to see the President. Right away. We need to get a last, best offer, and I think the existence of a little competition gives me what I need to get one.” I found myself standing, suddenly impatient to be gone.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said. “Meantime, I’m guessing you need to make a call or two.” He left.

I called Corbin. “Mr. Corbin – there’s been a leak. Somewhere. But the People have now received a trade offer from another country. I think – I strongly, strongly think – the U.S. needs to cut to Hecuba and put a final offer on the table. I would like an opportunity to meet with the President personally to discuss it.”

“You don’t exist, Ms. James. That’s no less true now than it was two days ago,” he cautioned.

I hadn’t thought of that! But . . . wait! “Mr. Corbin, the People seem to be able to create realistic illusions. They may be able to make me look like someone who actually does exist. Someone who might just be able to walk in to see the President.”

The line was silent for a moment. Then, suddenly, Corbin began to chuckle. “That’s a very interesting idea, Professor! Very interesting indeed! If you could come looking like, say, Dr. Ranveer Singh, I am sure the President would be available to meet with you at 7:00. He has urgent business to discuss with Dr. Singh. Is that satisfactory?”

I was calling to practically demand a meeting with the President of the United States? Had the world gone completely mad? “Entirely satisfactory, Mr. Corbin. How do I get in?”

“I will personally meet you outside the EEOB and bring you in,” he replied. “I’ll see you at, say, ten minutes to seven?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’ll be there . . . or, Mr. Singh will be. Sort of. You know what I mean.”

He rang off, and I went to make the arrangements. When they were complete, I went back to the entry room.

Justin came to see me off. His hand came up, almost like it had a mind of its own – and his fingers brushed my cheek again. “You’ll be careful?”

“You mean, apart from when I jump out of an invisible spaceship and plunge to earth, relying on some alien technology no human understands to keep me from pancaking in a kinetic strike?”

He laughed. “Well, when you put it that way . . . .”

“I do.” I touched his cheek as well. Our eyes locked. Probably a trice and a half, this time. Might even have been more. I wish Justin would kiss me.

Oh, but there are so many reasons why that would be a terrible idea! “Open the pod bay door, Worm,” I sighed.

As I began to fall backward, Justin called, “Have fun storming the castle!”

And, once again, I was falling to earth, a warm wind whipping my long, braided hair.

This was . . . nuts.

If buttercups buzzed after the bees,
If ships were on land, and churches at sea . . . .

* * * * *

It was 6:45 and I was almost at the EEOB. The illusion that the People had provided for me was purely visual. I didn’t feel like I was male again, or tall, or even like I was wearing a suit. But that was the image the world would see.

There were a fair number of people on the sidewalks . . . office workers and government types and tourists from Iowa. No one gave me a second glance, which was both disconcertingly strange and strangely disconcerting. In the few weeks I had been Jessica, I’d grown accustomed to being a focus of attention. But a guy walking around in a suit looked pretty inconspicuous. Plenty of suits in this town, despite the steamy weather. If I'd been in the "Room Where it Happened," I thought, the Capitol wouldn't have been located in a malarial swamp!

I turned right on Pennsylvania Avenue and headed toward the place where I had arranged to meet Corbin. When I spotted his distinctive 6’6” frame at the guard station I picked up my pace. There were, unsurprisingly, more people around the closer you got to the White House. Pedestrians only; that section of the street has long been closed to traffic. But that meant that I had to dodge around them to proceed.

One man, comically, went to dodge left around me just as I moved right to dodge around him. We bumped together, and while we bounced apart consistent with Newton’s Third Law of Motion, our relative backward velocities appeared inconsistent with any of the laws of physics I’d ever heard of.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but found myself looking at a pair of the hardest, coldest eyes I had ever seen outside of a nightmare . . . . Despite myself, I stepped back another half pace.

Without warning or change of expression, he raised his right hand and fired a pistol right over my head, inches away from my face. That close to my ears, the sound was excruciating. What on earth was going on?

His hard expression suddenly disappeared, replaced by a look of pure bewilderment. He was still looking shocked when he was tackled from behind. I barely managed to avoid being hit as he flew forward, then went down, his handgun spinning away. A furious Presidential Chief of Staff landed on top of him.

If ponies rode men and if grass ate the cows,
If cats should be chased into holes by the mouse . . . .

Additional men were right behind Corbin. I recognized Chester, the gate guard who had been on duty the first day I’d gone inside the EEOB. He helped Corbin get up, while two others kept the gunman down. Not that I thought he would get up on his own. Corbin had the bulk and muscle to go with his height. Anyone he took down would stay down, probably for a long time.

Back on his feet, Corbin barked orders, telling some of the guards to grab the gun and haul the gunman away for questioning. Then he said, “Tyrone, Chester, cover us. We’re going to the White House, Right now! Move, move, move!!!” Putting his hand in the small of my back, he propelled me forward at a very rapid pace.

I could hear sirens coming, but Corbin ignored them. We passed the end of the EEOB and the White House complex was ahead. Corbin swerved, and we were going through a guard gate, fast. Down a path . . . up some stairs . . . through a door . . . and finally, we were under cover.

Corbin slowed, then stopped. He was breathing hard as he let me go.

I felt a bit faint. Moving to a wall, I leaned against it, finding myself gulping for breath. I looked at Corbin.

He gave me a strange look and chuckled through his labored breathing. “You didn’t see Lefors out there, did you?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I just shook my head.

“Oh good. For a moment there I thought we were in trouble. . . .” He paused before continuing. “I’ve never seen anyone look so good after they’ve been shot between the eyes at point blank range. Not that I have much experience with that. Even Baltimore wasn’t that bad. Most nights.” His breathing sounded better.

I shook my head. “He was pointing over my head,” I explained. “He just . . . .”

I stopped. Realization hit me, and I started to laugh, just a little hysterically. I couldn’t quite stop myself.

If Mamas sold their babes to Gypsies
for half a crown . . . .

Corbin looked concerned. “Professor?”

The expression on his face made me laugh higher and harder.

His brows came together. “Jessica!”

I got myself under control enough to say, “The thing is, I’m not six feet tall any more, Mr. Corbin. Not really. It’s an illusion. You might say I’m just drawn this way.”

I heard the sound of women’s heels clicking on tile, coming fast. Tanya Rodriguez-Tolland came spinning around a corner. When she saw Corbin, she broke into a run. “Are you all right?”

He turned just in time to catch her, and gave her a somewhat awkward hug as she sobbed. “I’m fine, Ms. Tolland. Don’t you fret, now!”

She hugged him, crying, but the moment was brief. She pulled away, her eyes still bright. “What on earth were you doing?" she scolded. “Mamie will kill you, you know she will!”

“I expect you’re entirely correct about that,” he said with a smile. “But maybe we can squeeze in just a bit of work before she finishes me off. What do you think?”

She wasn’t impressed with his effort at levity. “What do I think? I think you’re insane! Work? You could have been killed!"

“But I wasn’t,” he said. “Instead – far worse – I have been delayed. I purely detest being late for appointments. It's disrespectful!”

“The late Mr. Corbin!” she replied, vexed.

“It didn’t happen, Ms. Tolland.” His deep voice was surprisingly gentle. “Not today. But the President needs to know what just happened, and why, and he is waiting.” He gave her a long, careful look. “Assuming he doesn’t have a problem with it, will you join us?”

That got her attention. “Yes, sir!”

Corbin smiled. “Then lead on, please. He’s still in the Oval.”

We went back the way Tanya had come, and the twists and turns were bad enough to make me think I’d been too hard on the architect of the EEOB. But it was not long, really, before we were being ushered into one of the most famous rooms in the world.

If summer were spring, and the other way ’round,
then all the world would be upside down . . . .

To be continued . . . . madly.