Maximum Warp
Chapter 13: The Arena

“Rococo and a bottle of rum!” Janet sounded at once bemused and appalled as she got her first look at the massive, ornate granite pile that is currently designated the “Eisenhower Executive Office Building.” “What is that thing?”

“Mark Twain called it the ugliest building in America,” Dr. Livingston replied.

I snorted. “Then it’s a good thing he didn’t live to see the FBI Building.”

“Or Kallmann Hall,” Janet added. Kallmann was, by a very wide margin, the ugliest building on the Gryphon College campus. Naturally, it housed the school of architecture.

Dr. Livingston smiled. “I’m lucky. I don’t have to look at the outside very much, since my office is on the inside.”

“Seems like an extreme solution to an aesthetic problem,” Janet commented. “Just let the ugly monster eat you!”

“It grows on you,” the Science Advisor assured us.

“So do warts,” I observed.

“What America needs,” Janet intoned sententiously, “is Preparation H.”

“And fast,” I said fervently, as we walked up to the night entrance.

“Good evening, Chester,” Dr. Livingston said to the very alert looking security guard at the desk.

“Doctor.” He gave her a respectful nod, but at least half his attention stayed on Janet and me – newcomers he did not know by sight. “Are the visitors with you?”

“They are,” Livingston replied. “Mr. Corbin asked me to invite them. . . . Actually, he was a bit more forceful than that. He scheduled a meeting for 11:30, but I don’t have the room yet.”

The guard checked a computer monitor on his desk. “Mr. Corbin’s got the conference room in the old Secretary of War’s Suite.” He gave Janet and me his full attention. “May I have your names, please?”

We gave them.

The guard checked his monitor again. “You’re on Mr. Corbin’s list. May I see a photo ID?”

“I’ll vouch for them,” Dr. Livingston told him.

He looked at her through lowered eyes. “Dr. Livingston, you know that’s not how this works.”

“Do you need me to call Mr. Corbin?” she asked. “He was most insistent that they be here. Getting him to change from ‘get them down here yesterday,’ to ‘do it by invitation if you insist – but make damned sure they come,’ took some work!”

“Ma’am, he’s also the one who said he’d saute my liver in Miller Lite if I didn’t follow protocol.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked. “It’d taste great.”

“And be less filling,” Janet added.

He just shook his head.

Livingston said, “Alright, I’ll call him!” I handed her my cell phone and she dialed.

“Hi Luther,” Livingston said. “I’m at the entrance. One of my guests doesn’t have an ID. . . . Well, yes, Chester was insistent. . . . Yes, of course.” She looked at the guard. “I’m putting him on speaker.”

“Can you hear me now?” The voice coming from the speaker was deep and rich, with the distinct cadences and of an old school Baptist Preacher.

“I can hear you, Mr. Corbin,” the guard confirmed.

“Can you indeed?” Corbin asked, lavishing a little extra love and attention on the last syllable. “Are you certain – legally, morally, and ethically certain – that the person who is addressing you in this precise and precious moment is really Luther Corbin?”

“Oh, yes sir,” Chester replied.

“Can you explain to me then, Chester, why you are keeping my guests waiting? I am extremely eager to see these fine people, this very instant!” Corbin’s voice rolled along, like a bowling ball lazily curving towards a helpless set of pins.

“You know I’ve got standards, Mr. Corbin,” Chester said, deadpan. ”I don’t hold with light beer.”

The line was silent a moment before it began to emit a deep basso rumbling noise. “Very good, Chester. Very good indeed,” Corbin chuckled. “But be so kind as to give them both badges and send ’em up here. Now would be a good time. An acceptable time, if you follow me.”

As a linguist, I was enthralled. Corbin’s accent obviously had its roots in Black Vernacular English, though he was employing more standard American English grammar and syntax. While BVE wasn’t one of my specialties, as with most linguistic variations I found it deeply fascinating. And, between his accent, his revival tent cadence, and his polished, resonant bass, he could read the tax code aloud and make it sound like the Iliad.

Chester was apparently uninterested in either linguistics or poetry – likely a common shortcoming among those whose job descriptions included multiple instances of the word “security.” His, “Yes, Mr. Corbin,” was said with practiced ease. It felt like they had this conversation fairly regularly. Turning to the Science Advisor, he said, “Room 231, Doctor Livingston. Don’t get lost, now.”

“Thank you, Chester,” she replied. Then she led Janet and I toward an ornate staircase.

As we started to climb the stairs, Janet said, “Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted Mansion!”

“It does kind of feel that way,” I said, looking around. “The Connecticut State House had the same feel – I remember touring it twenty-five or thirty years ago. Almost like those fine Victorian gentlemen determined that God Himself would frown if they left so much as an inch undecorated.”

Livingston shook her head, bemused. “There’s such a disconnect between your appearance and the things you say. You look like you’re a bit older than my youngest daughter. I’ve got three, so I have a lot of recent experience relating to girls in their late teens. My mind keeps wanting to slot you into that category and treat you accordingly.”

“And then she goes and opens her mouth,” Janet finished.

“Exactly,” Livingston agreed.

“I’m working on being female,” I said. “There are things about it I like . . . . “

Janet snorted.

And well she might, I supposed. She’s been with me from the very beginning, and was well aware of just how much I had come to enjoy – even celebrate – being female over the course of my rapid transformation. When she dashed out in the afternoon to get us both something to wear, she had known to get me an outfit that was not just practical and professional, but also pretty. The sleeveless, feather-light white silk top caressed my skin and rustled against the lace appliqué of my bra; the tailored waist of the pale pink jacket flattered my curves while my practical pants were cut to show gracefully turned ankles. . . .

“Okay,” I amended. “There’s a lot about it that I love. But . . . no matter what I look like, I can never be seventeen again.”

We had apparently arrived at the right floor, and she was guiding us down an ornate corridor. But as we approached a gleaming wooden door, she slowed. Slowed some more. And then she stopped.

She looked down, at her feet. Barely perceptibly, she trembled.

“Doctor?” I said softly.

Janet gave me a quizzical look. But she hadn’t been with me in the park earlier. Something about what had happened today had really shaken the scientist.

I felt inadequate. As James Wainwright, I had no vocabulary for this. No experience. And I couldn't relate to Dr. Livingston as the older man I had been; as she had just explained, she had a hard time putting me in that category.

I had a sudden and vivid memory of how I had felt in Professor Grimm’s Office, when I had realized just how vulnerable I was. How incapable of defending myself, if he had used his greater size, bulk and strength . . . . It had surely been much worse for Dr. Livingston today: Having her education, her intellect, her hard-won position effectively stripped away, neutralized by brute force. Being reduced, in an instant, to the tiredest of tropes, a damsel in distress.

I moved close and rested a hand, gently and tentatively, on her shoulder. “Doctor Livingston. Averil. You are not powerless here. Reason matters. Logic and science and law matter. You matter. Don’t let them take that from you!”

Janet seemed to understand in an instant, and unlike me, she was able to relate to Dr. Livingston as an older woman. “And don’t let ’em see you sweat,” she growled. “Besides . . . without their goons, they’re nothin’ but a passel of rabbits anyway. You’ll see.”

Livingston touched my hand in thanks. “I’ll be okay . . . Just . . . Had a bad moment there.” She took a deep breath, then another, and then looked up, half a smile on her face. “Very well, then. Let’s be about it.”

Janet chuckled as we moved purposefully towards the door.

* * * * *

The conference room was every bit as ostentatious and ornate – which is to say, hideous – as the building’s exterior might have suggested. Heavy, dark wood, Persian rugs, a ridiculously high ceiling festooned with frescos and ‘appropriate designs’ – even a stern and formal portrait of George Washington over the fireplace, flanked by American flags that were topped by gold-gilt descendants of the eagles of Rome. Subtle, it was not.

A long narrow table dominated the room, scarred dark wood polished to a warm luster. Five people – two women, three men – sat along one side; I recognized Dr. Singh and, on his left, the redoubtable Dukkov Earl Grant.

Left of Grant was a jowly man in a dark, conservative suit. On the other side of the jowly man were a small woman with Asian features, dark, intelligent eyes, and shoulder-length, blue-black hair, and a tall woman with iron gray hair wearing a crisp olive green uniform tunic. I wasn’t terribly conversant with military insignia.

The man at the head of the table, thoroughly and effortlessly dominating the group, had to be Luther Corbin. Although it was hard to judge since he was seated, he had to be at least six and a half feet tall and 280 pounds. At a guess, he was in his mid-fifties, and not all of those pounds were muscle. But it was still evident that they had been, not so very long ago. A horseshoe of curly, pepper and salt hair edged the well-formed dome of his head.

I wondered why so many Black men looked great bald; as James Wainwright, I had feared losing my hair.

Conversation stopped when we entered the room. I felt like everyone’s eyes were on me. Whether that was because of my appearance, or because seventeen-year-old girls aren’t normal participants in high-level meetings, or because of this morning’s events, I didn’t know. Stifling a nervous urge to swallow, I forced my low-heeled pumps to click-click-click over the hardwood floor in Dr. Livingston’s wake.

“Doctor Livin’ston . . . glad you were able to get past the gate guards so you could join us,” Corbin said. “Please have a seat, all of you.”

We sat across the table from the fearsome five. Doctor Livingston sat next to Corbin and across from Singh. I was next to her, and Janet sat on my right.

“Thank you for meeting so quickly, sir,” Dr. Livingston said. “Allow me to introduce Professor Janet Seldon from Gryphon College in Massachusetts. And next to me is someone who is, and also isn’t, a woman named Jessica James.”

Corbin’s eyes rested on me. “Yeah, I have heard a bit of this story. And your extremely competent staff kindly forwarded the file you assembled prior to your meeting this morning. We’ll get to that, I reckon. I believe you all know Dr. Singh and Mr. Grant from Homeland Security. With them are Mr. Agnew from DOD, the National Security Advisor, Doctor Tsong, and Colonel Kurtz from the NSC staff.”

Janet muttered something that sounded like, “the horror,” but I was the only one that heard her.

Corbin looked back at Doctor Livingston. “Before you were able to join us, Doctor Singh here was explaining to me that there was a ‘misunderstanding,’ today. Just a healthy disagreement between dedicated civil servants, all equally trying to advance the safety and security of this great nation we are all privileged to serve. I think it is fair to say that he believes what we have here is a failure to communicate. I wonder whether you might care to comment on that characterization of today’s events?”

All eyes were on Livingston. Grant looked curious. Tsong’s expression was unreadable, but Singh, Agnew and Kurtz all showed some mix of defiance and almost pleading. Dr. Livingston must feel the weight of that collective gaze, I thought. The pressure to not make waves . . . to move on and focus on the job.

Corbin’s expression, in contrast, was sardonic.

The Science Advisor gave a long and level look at the people on the other side of the table – her colleagues that she had worked with for two years — then said to Corbin, “There was a misunderstanding, sir.”

His eyes twinkled. “Can you elucidate the nature of this ‘misunderstanding,’ Doctor?”

She responded with a tight smile. “Yes, sir. Dr. Singh, Dr. Tsong and Mr. Agnew were under the mistaken impression that they had the right and the duty to keep me from making a report to the President.”

“That’s not remotely fair!” Dr. Singh leaned forward, his face flushed. “We simply wanted to ensure that the President was presented with a complete brief.”

Corbin raised his hand and Singh stopped.

“A moment, please, Doctor Singh,” the Chief of Staff said, mildly. “Let me educate you on a few facts. Facts which might have a bearing on our discussion here. Doctor Livin’ston told me in advance about your meeting this morning. She gave me the executive summary of Dr. Grimm’s report, so I was aware something important might be coming. Though she was good enough to detail her own skepticism.

“After your meeting, she requested an urgent meeting with the President. His schedule, by some mystery of divine providence, had a bit of space on it, so I suggested that she hustle on over. She never arrived.”

Corbin turned back to Livingston. “Now. Can you explain why you failed to show up?”

“After this morning’s meeting, Mr. Grant drove me, Professor Seldon and Ms. James to the secure medical facility out near the Cathedral.”

Corbin raised an eyebrow – he may not have been informed that I had been injured – but he gestured for her to continue.

“At my request, Mr. Grant stayed with Professor Seldon and Ms. James. He gave me the keys to the pool vehicle he was using and I went downstairs to drive here. But as soon as I had the car door open, two men came up fast. They pushed me in the back seat and drove the car to some office out in Chevy Chase. They said everything would be explained when I got there, but it wasn’t. At all. Dr. Singh was inside along with a few other men who appeared to be agents of some sort. They were taking orders from Singh. When I tried to ask questions or protest, I was told to sit down and shut up. They . . . they threatened to tie me up . . . to gag me . . . if I didn’t comply.”

She was trembling, and her face was flushed. But somehow she got all of it out without a quaver in her voice.

Good for you! I thought.

“We did no such thing!” Singh said, hotly. He rose half way from his seat, hands balling into fists. “This is absurd, and I won’t stand for it. I insist that you retract those lies this instant!!!”

“Calm yourself, Doctor Singh,” Corbin said, displaying no change in his magisterial voice. “I have it on good authority – the very best authority, indeed – that fighting is not allowed in the War Room.”

Singh slowly sank back into his seat.

Corbin looked at him calmly. “Would all of the ‘gentlemen’ who were with you validate your version of events?”

“Of course they would!”

Idiot, I thought.

Corbin smiled slowly. “Just how many corroborating witnesses would that be, Doctor Singh?”

“Uhhh . . . four? Five?” He was starting to see his mistake.

“And how many hours were you and your ‘witnesses’ alone with Doctor Livin’ston out in Chevy Chase?”

“I don’t recall, exactly. It doesn’t matter! What’s important here, I think . . . .”

Corbin tapped his index finger on the table, and his expression looked decidedly less mild. “Don’t think. It can only hurt the ballclub. Since this is my meeting, Dr. Singh, s’pose you let me decide what matters . . . and what doesn’t.”

Singh swallowed, but remained visibly defiant.

“In all the time that you and your ‘witnesses’ had at your disposal, Doctor Singh – a period that extended so long you can’t even give me an estimate of its duration – did you give Doctor Livin’ston the means – cell phone, land-line, carrier pigeon, snowy owl, or any other communications device – so that she could let me know why she had played ding dong ditch with President Taryn’s schedule?”

“She never asked!”

“Indeed?” Corbin leaned back, looking incredulous. “I have known Doctor Livin’ston for some years – As you may or may not be aware, I recommended her for her current position. And what you are saying does not accord with my personal experience of the woman. It would be most out of character, Doctor Singh.”

Singh looked stubborn. “She never asked,” he repeated.

“Mr. Corbin. May I cut through this?” The voice was clipped, precise, and dispassionate, and it belonged to the National Security Advisor.

“I wish someone would, Doctor Tsong,” the Chief of Staff rumbled. “Mrs. Corbin expected me home this evening– she had good cause to do so – and I can tell you that she is not pleased – not remotely pleased – by my continued absence!”

Dr. Tsong nodded. “Shortly after sunrise, Dr. Singh informed me that a party or parties potentially hostile to the interests of the United States were attempting to acquire fissile material from our own stockpiles. In light of the severity of the issue, we deemed it imperative to take immediate action. Accordingly, and on an expedited basis, we took appropriate steps to obtain actionable intelligence that we could take to the President, while we expedited the development of a broad range of possible responses. . . .”

“Hostile?” Janet cut off Tsong with an incredulous snort. “Be serious, will you? You might as well be afraid of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”

“I’m always serious,” the National Security Advisor said, matching tone to words.

But she had annoyed me both personally and professionally. “Serious or not, once you run all of your jargon through a plain language translation program – and I have a few I could recommend – what you're saying is that you kept Doctor Livingston from seeing the President by force, and sent a pair of goons to kidnap Janet and me for interrogation!!”

Dr. Tsong raised a pencil-thin eyebrow, but otherwise appeared unfazed by my accusation. “You don’t just walk into a store and buy plutonium, Ms. James.”

“Uranium,” I said automatically.

“Weapons-grade uranium,” she replied precisely. “There are many differences between U-235 and plutonium. Colonel Kurtz here could give you a dissertation on the subject if you have an interest in it. Availability for purchase or exchange, however, is not a distinguishing characteristic between the two materials. Did it occur to you that your proposal to acquire some might raise a few red flags within the national security establishment?”

Corbin, who had been impassively observing the by-play, decided to intervene. “If I may bring us back to the subject at hand? Dr. Tsong, Did you attempt to detain and question Ms. James or Professor Seldon?”

Dr. Singh said, “Yes, sir," before Dr. Tsong could reply.

Singh sang ere Tsong could sing, I thought, irreverently.

Corbin turned his attention back to the Undersecretary. “Well, I do seem to remember that the Constitution had something to say about detaining people. Mr. Madison, now . . . he had a way with words. ‘The right of the people to be secure in their persons’ – you know? The Fourth Amendment. Poetry, pure and simple. Also, last I checked anyway, still the law of the land. So tell me, Doctor Singh. What was your legal authority for attempting to detain these fine people?”

“The Espionage Act.”

“Did you think to consult the Attorney General? Smart man. Very learned. Works not far from here, you know. Just down the road. In case it slipped your mind – what with all the grabbing and nabbing of people today – he’s on the same team as you and me and a question of this nature would seem to be within his purview.”

Singh said, “No, sir. We deemed the matter to be urgent.”

Corbin appeared to look thoughtful. “Huh. You deemed that, did you? Well . . . you at least seem to grasp the general idea that we don’t just get to detain folks without legal authority in this country.”

“Dilly, dilly,” said Janet.

“Just so, Professor,” Corbin said approvingly. “There may – just may mind – be hope for democracy yet.” Returning his attention to Dr. Singh, he said, “But before I break out the bubbly, perhaps you can tell me your authority for detaining the President’s Science Advisor?”

“Like I said, we were just talking to her,” Singh said.

“Doctor Singh.” Corbin's voice turned soft – and deadly. “You are not an imbecile. No less an authority than the University of Suthun California certified that you are not an imbecile. Stop acting like one.”

Singh’s handsome face flushed a deep, blood red and he stood abruptly. “I’ve sat here and taken this for half an hour. No more! I’m finished here!”

“Only half an hour? Don’t you like my meeting?” Then Corbin dropped his sardonic tone and barked an order. “Sit down, Doctor, or I will guarantee that you are finished here!”

For a long, tense moment, the Undersecretary’s angry eyes locked with the Chief of Staff’s hard ones.

Singh sighed and again sat.

Corbin nodded, and then continued in his normal tone. “The President is entitled to straight answers, and it’s my job to get them. Now: Did agents acting on your orders bring Doctor Livin’ston to your location against her will?”

“If they did, they exceeded the orders that I gave them.”

I sneezed explosively; by happy coincidence, the sound bore an uncanny resemblance to the word, “bullshit.”

The ghost of a smile crept up a corner of Corbin’s face. “Indeed. . . . Once Doctor Livin’ston arrived at the satellite office you appear to be maintaining in suburban Maryland, did she inform you that she had been abducted?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Seems like something a man would remember, don’t you think, Doctor Singh? . . . No? . . . . Well . . . was Doctor Livin’ston free to leave your new office space, once your people delivered her there?”

“We didn’t discuss it,” Singh said defensively.

“It is my understanding – I’m not an expert, you understand, though others at this table may be – that a discussion involves a verbal exchange. A sort of back-and-forth, if you follow me. And I am confident that no such exchange took place. You and Doctor Livin'ston appear to be in rare agreement on that exact point. But answer this, please. Did Doctor Livin’ston ever express – at any time – a present desire or intent to leave your satellite office?

“I don’t recall,” Singh repeated, sounding surly.

“Is that a fact? Really?” Corbin gave him a long, measuring look, then drawled out, “I calculate not.”

Before the Undersecretary could unburden his umbrage again, Corbin turned to the Deputy Defense Secretary. “Mr. Agnew, you’ve been very quiet this evening. Were you aware of these goings on?”

Agnew looked momentarily uncomfortable. “No, sir.”

“Doctor Singh did not call you today?” Corbin pressed.

Well, of course there would be phone records. Agnew said, “He did call, but it was about a procurement issue.”

“How many times today did the two of you chat about . . . ah . . . ‘procurement,’ Mr. Agnew?”

Agnew looked even more uncomfortable. “Several . . . I don’t know.”

“Do any of your friends know?” Corbin asked, sarcastically.

“What?” Agnew looked angry, confused and frightened.

“Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,” Janet murmured.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Agnew snarled.

“You might as well tell him the truth, Mr. Agnew,” she replied. “Once the trust goes out of a relationship, it’s really no fun lyin’ to ’em anymore.”

Corbin wrapped his knuckles on the table. “Some fine words of wisdom, Doctor Seldon. I find myself surrounded by highly educated folks tonight. More Ph.D’s than a faculty lounge!”

I smiled. “Not really. But certainly, it’s ‘Piled higher and Deeper’ in here.”

Corbin shared my smile, then turned his attention back to the other side of the table. “But what I'm finding to be in depressinly short supply are straight answers to my very simple questions. So c’mon, now! Doctor Tsong, you’re always one for cutting to the chase. Will you please enlighten me? Was the Science Advisor detained?”

Dr. Tsong looked at Doctor Livingston, then turned cool and unruffled eyes back to Corbin. “She was.”

Singh’s face turned ashen.

“Was she prevented from leaving?” Corbin asked.

“Yes,” she said again, no hint of apology in her voice.

“Prevented from communicating in any way?”

“Yes.”

“You approved this course of action?”

“I did, sir.”

“And did you discuss it with Doctor Singh and Mr. Agnew?”

“I did,” Tsong confirmed, still calm.

“No, she didn’t!” Agnew said hotly.

“She never did! Oh, lie!” Janet teased. The target, I suppose, was just too large – and moved far too slowly.

Agnew shouted, “It’s not true! I demand . . . .”

Corbin cut him off. “Mr. Agnew! You are interrupting my conversation with the President’s National Security Advisor!”

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to lies!” Agnew snarled.

“Why ever not?” Corbin asked. “I’ve had to do nothing else the entire time I've been sitting here! You don’t see me moving.”

“But it’s not true!”

Corbin gave him a hard look. “Don’t make me angry, Mr. Agnew. You wouldn’t like me when I'm angry.”

Under Corbin’s heavy glower Agnew finally subsided.

Corbin looked at Doctor Tsong again. “You’re not going’ to tell me that you suspected Doctor Livin’ston of violating the Espionage Act, are you?”

Dr. Tsong tilted her head sideways. “We thought it prudent to determine whether she had any additional contact with whoever was attempting to acquire the material.”

“You disappoint me, Doctor. We were having such a fine conversation. An intelligent conversation. You were being so singularly – so blessedly – forthright. . . . And now, evasions and temporizing. I am disconsolate, truly I am. Tell me this. Did you have any evidence – any at all – that Doctor Livin’ston was compromised? Just the facts, Ma’am.”

“Evidence? No.”

“You approved the detention of one of the President’s counselors because it was theoretically possible that she might, just maybe, be compromised?”

Dr. Tsong considered the question carefully before responding. “Yes. Under these unique circumstances, I determined that course of action was appropriate.”

“I see,” Corbin said. He looked down the table. “Colonel Kurtz, may I inquire why you are here this evening?”

“Dr. Tsong requested that I accompany her, in case you had specific questions concerning the serious nonproliferation issues raised by this . . . matter.”

Corbin gazed at her for a moment, then looked back at her supervisor. “Then you were operating under a misconception about the purpose of our meeting this evening, Doctor. The President will receive a full brief on these issues. That’s not a question. That was never a question.”

“Then, what is the point of this meeting, Mr. Corbin?” Dr. Tsong asked, the barest hint of impatience showing in her voice. “To my mind, we’ve been wasting time here. We need to find out who is targeting our nuclear arsenal, and we need to find out yesterday. Without any more nonsense about ‘space aliens’ – the elephant in the room you and everyone else appears to be ignoring.”

For the first time, Dr. Livingston broke in, exasperated. “Nonsense? How can you say that? How can you possibly explain . . . .”

Corbin’s raised hand silenced her. “A moment, please, Doctor Livin’ston.” His eyes glinted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My sole and exclusive purpose in summoning you all here this evening was to determine whether any of you had, as had been suggested to me, detained one of the President’s advisers.

“I will confess that when Professor Grimm informed me that this might have occurred, I greeted the idea with a certain degree of incredulity. It seemed preposterous. Ludicrous on its face. But Proffessor Grimm is not a flighty man. No, sir. Not given to fantasies, in my personal experience. In light of the importance of the accusation, I ‘deemed it imperative’ – if I may borrow your felicitous turn of phrase – to get to the bottom of the matter without delay. But now, with your help, Dr. Tsong, I ‘deem’ that my objective has been fully and completely secured.”

“Fine,” Tsong replied. “That’s resolved. Can we finally discuss the merits now?”

“Of course not,” Corbin chided. “DHS, NSC and DOD will all need to weigh in on what you are calling the ‘merits.’ But that doesn’t mean the three of you will.”

“What!” said Singh.

“Are you threatening me!” Agnew was raising his voice again.

“Mr. Corbin,” Dr. Tsong said, “You can’t fire any of us.”

Corbin slapped his heavy palm on the table with a crack, silencing the cacophony of their protests. “Unlike the three of you,” he thundered, deploying the full resonance of his deep and powerful voice, “I am not confused when I look in the mirror every morning! I know that I am not the President of these United States! I thank God that I am not the President! No one elected me to do anything. But – try to follow me here – no one elected any of you, either! And all of you forgot that today. You tried to keep information from reaching the President. You didn’t trust him to do what’s right. You thought he might go off half-cocked, before you could weigh in. Or, maybe you thought he would make a decision you wouldn’t much like.”

Under his suddenly lava-hot glare, even Dr. Tsong lowered her eyes.

The silence lingered.

Janet was staring at Corbin’s powerful hand, still holding down the conference table. Quietly, she said, “It was with this hand that Cain iced his brother.”

Corbin nodded without smiling – and without taking his eyes off the officials on the other side of the table. “Just so,” he said softly. Then, in a more normal tone, he said, “Each of you exceeded your authority, and quite probably violated the laws of the United States, the State of Maryland, and the District of Columbia. I want your letters of resignation on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. I will brief the President, and he can decide for himself whether to accept them.” As an afterthought, he said, “Not you, Colonel. Or you, Mr. Grant.”

Dr. Tsong pushed her chair back and rose. “You’ll have it, Luther.” She walked briskly to the door and left the room.

“We should be able to make our own cases to the President,” Dr. Singh objected.

“He knows where to reach you, Doctor. Assuming he has any desire to do so.” Corbin’s richly expressive voice suggested his opinion on the odds of such an event occuring.

“Mr. Corbin,” Agnew began, trying – a bit too late, in my opinion – to sound reasonable.

“You are excused, Mr. Agnew,” Corbin said, the flatness in his voice conveying a certain Old Testament finality.

Singh and Agnew looked at each other, then Singh shrugged and they both got up. Colonel Kurtz and Mr. Grant rose as well.

“Bide a moment, if you would, Mr. Grant,” Corbin said to the stocky staffer.

Ignoring the sharp look he got from his supervisor, Grant resumed his seat. The rest of them left.

Corbin looked at the three of us. “You appear to have had something of an ordeal today. For which you have my sincerest apologies. I have some idea of what went on, but not very much. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear from Mr. Grant first.”

Dr. Livingston gave a knowing smile.

I must have looked as surprised as I felt – why wasn’t he asking Livingston? – because Corbin said, “Ms. James, this government of ours is very large. Very large indeed. Staffing it’s a nightmare. Sometimes you need to give someone a position – the reasons go from good to bad to downright tawdry – when you’re not certain they’re up to it. So you sick a watch-dog on ’em. Mr. Grant here is one of the best.” He nodded at Grant. “Fill me in, if you would be so very kind.”

Grant nodded respectfully and gave a short, concise summary of the events of the morning, ending with dropping Janet and me off at the Metro. He also described his later conversation with Gavin Grimm.

Corbin sat through the entire recitation without asking a single question. His eyebrows moved once or twice, but almost nothing else. When Grant finished, Corbin gave him a thoughtful look. “Alright, Mr. Grant. Your opinion now. Are we really dealing with space aliens?”

Grant clearly expected the question. “Yes, sir.” His voice was firm. “Or if we aren’t, we might as well be. They are too far advanced in both biological and physical sciences. I took the liberty of collecting a few pieces of evidence, if that would be of assistance to you.”

“I’ll happily play Missouri, Mr. Grant. What do you have?”

Grant pulled a briefcase from the floor by his feet. From a pocket, he pulled two pieces of metal. “I went back to the parking lot across from Roosevelt Island this afternoon. After some searching, I found both the brass casing and the slug that hit Ms. James when she interposed herself between Officer Durant and the alien.”

Reaching into the main compartment of the briefcase, he pulled out a handgun in an evidence bag. “This is the gun that Tom Durrant was carrying this morning. Ballistics confirms a match between the gun and the bullet.”

“You appear to have been busy, Mr. Grant.”

“Yes sir. But there’s more.” He pulled out the shirt that had been taken off of me at the medical facility. “I had the lab look at this as well. They confirm – based on the sample obtained from Ms. James at the lab – that the blood on the fabric is hers, and is less than a day old. You can estimate the path of the bullet from the front and back holes. The internal damage had to be extensive. Ms. James should have died within minutes.” He reached into yet another compartment and pulled out a sheaf of paper. “Copies of the lab and ballistics reports.” He gave them to Corbin.

I was having a hard time with the shirt, honestly. I was suddenly remembering the intensity of the pain . . . my absolute certainty that I was about to die . . . how the world had darkened and sound had dulled . . . Janet’s distant and despairing cry . . . the smell of the pavement against my cheek . . . .

“Jessica? Jess? Honey?” Janet’s voice sounded very far away. And the conference room was fading . . . .

I heard a sharp crack and felt a sting on my cheek. I blinked and found my sight returning.

“Sorry, Ms. James.” Doctor Livingston looked contrite. “My Granny taught me that one.”

I took a long breath and said, “No . . . thank you. I was about to lose it. Could we . . . I’m sorry. Could we please not look at that thing right now?”

“I’ll take the whole briefcase, Mr. Grant,” Corbin said. “”You can put it away for now.” Turning his attention to me, he said, “I apologize again, Ma’am. I grew up on the streets of Baltimore and I’ve seen a whole lotta clothes that look like that. Too many. But it’s good evidence, and I'm gonna need it.”

I nodded.

“Doctor Livin’ston, I should like to hear how you managed to escape from our dedicated civil servants this evening.”

Like Grant’s, her summary was concise but hit all the important points. It was abundantly clear that neither of them had ever been a member of a university faculty. They could give lessons . . . but no. Far more likely the academy would corrupt them than that they would reform it.

When she was done, Corbin said, “Under the circumstances, I guess I don’t need to inquire whether you accept the idea that we’re dealing with an alien species.”

Dr. Livingston shook her head, but she looked troubled. “No, of course not. But . . . Luther? How is it even possible that Ranveer didn’t come to the same conclusion? He was there when Ms. James was shot – and when she was healed. He must have spoken with his agents this evening after I was ripped out of their hands by a tractor beam. Agnew . . . Tsong. I guess I get them. They weren’t there. But I don’t understand Ranveer at all!”

“All lies and jests, but a man sees what he wants to see, and disregards the rest.” The comment was spoken softly. The speaker, surprisingly, was Grant.

Dr. Livingston nodded. “I get that, I guess. . . . But why would he want to see only trouble, where there is such an opportunity? Want it so bad that he would even . . . . I mean. . . .” Her face flushed, but she took a steadying breath and continued. “Look, I knew Tsong and Agnew, some. Worked with them occasionally. But Ranveer was a friend of mine. I thought he was, anyway.”

“There is some wisdom in the adage that anyone in this town who wants a friend should get a dog,” Corbin responded wryly. “I don’t know why Dr. Singh did what he did, though I expect we’ll need to find out at some point. Right now, though, all I care about is getting his hands off the machine right quick.”

“Amen to that,” Dr. Livingston said fervently.

Silence fell, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

Finally, I shook my head. “If I may inquire, Mr. Corbin, what happens now?”

“Now?” Corbin’s eyes twinkled. “Just this instant I highly recommend sleep. I need it, of a certainty. And all of you, I expect, need it even more.”

I looked at Janet and saw my own weariness magnified in her face. But . . . “I guess what I was really asking is whether the alien’s proposal will get a hearing.”

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” Janet sighed.

Corbin smiled at Janet, but responded to my question. “The short answer is, absolutely. But it may take some time. The President will need input from a number of agencies before we can even say whether we will negotiate at all. And I expect – no, I am certain – that the President will want to talk with you both before he decides that question. Could possibly be more than once.

“The fact that they will only talk to you may complicate matters, Ms. James. Though after today’s events I can’t say I fault their logic. But we can deal with that tomorrow.” Corbin smiled wearily. “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

“Except that it’s 1:00 a.m., so tomorrow really isn't another day,” Livingston replied.

“And isn’t that a cheerful thought,” Corbin sighed.

Janet said, “I hate to take a dump on the table, but . . . How long is all of this gonna take, and will we be safe while all of this ‘input’ is bein’ tossed into the Presidential cereal bowl?”

Corbin chuckled. “Professor, we could use a few like you around here. We surely could! Damn-all everyone has opinions in this building, and no one has a lick a’ sense. . . .

“As to your first question, I regret to say that it depends. The amount of time it takes to get a decision is normally equal to the amount of time we have to make it. A sad, very sad, corollary to Parkinson’s Law. I am supremely confident that your government is capable of sitting on this question until the Christ returns in glory and splendor – IF the aliens give us that long.

“Your second question, now . . . . I'd love t’say ‘Yes, of course.’ But I’d have to be an idiot to believe we’ve defanged all the snakes that’ll be lurkin’ in the tall grass . . . . I believe Mr. Grant’s description of ‘institutional paranoia' is entirely accurate. Plus, there’s plain ol’ turf wars, not to mention outside financial interests . . . . So, what with this ’n that, I do think it’d be a good idea to find y’all someplace safe to hole up. I don’t suppose any of you can identify Singh’s ‘agents.’”

Janet curled her lip. “They all look the same to me.”

“Maybe,” I said hesitantly.

Dr. Livingston shivered. “Yes. Until the day I die, likely.” She looked at Corbin. “Do I need to ‘hole up’ too, Luther? Mike and Christine are back at the house as well . . . I’m worried about them.”

“I'm not seeing the danger to you at this point, Averil,” Corbin said gently. He put a hand over hers. “Now that you’ve given me your report, they won’t be so worried about what you might say to the President.”

“They could go after you too, sir,” Grant pointed out.

“Hell-bent on demonstrating the plus side of institutional paranoia, aren’t you?” Corbin asked with a smile. “But I won’t leave here until I’ve documented everything – and folks know I work that way.”

Grant nodded, satisfied.

“Make sure your punch card reflects the OT,” Janet said.

Corbin smiled, then turned serious. “Do you two have someplace safe to stay tonight? I think I can make satisfactory arrangements by tomorrow, but it’s mighty late now.”

I said, “I think so . . . and, I think we have the ability to monitor any threats that may come our way, at least for the next few hours.”

Janet’s eyes widened, then she smiled. “Good point.”

Mr. Grant said, “I think their protection is actually pretty good, sir. At least for tonight.”

“Is it, Mr. Grant? Is it indeed? I'm truly delighted to hear that! And relieved!”

* * * * *

Mr. Grant gave us a ride back to our hotel since it was too late to catch a Metro train. At this point I was more than willing to trust Grant. And besides, as I had intimated at the end of the meeting, we could depend on a bit of assistance from our friends in the sky.

We called Worm as soon as we were in our room. I was about to give him a summary of what had happened, when I remembered. “You actually heard the whole thing, didn’t you?”

“Affirmative, Jessica James. It . . . painful was. How does survive your species?”

“We . . . manage, I guess. Somehow,” I said.

“It's what ‘humor’ is for, Worm,” said Janet. “We couldn't survive, otherwise.”

“That . . . puzzling is,” he replied.

“Yeah,” I said. “Though . . . we couldn’t imagine facing life, the universe and everything without it. As, I suppose, you must.” Changing the subject, I said, “Listen . . . I think we made a lot of progress tonight. I’m hoping we can really get the ball moving now. The President’s going to get filled in tomorrow. But . . . Mr. Corbin wants to know your deadline. How long do we have to get a deal done?”

“Six days, Jessica James.”

“Six days! What happens if we can’t get it done by then?” I was panicking.

Suddenly animated, Worm said, “Does Macy’s tell Gimbel’s?”

“Oh, shit. Really?” Janet said.

“Really, Professor Seldon,” Worm responded. “Attorney Justin Abel us advised.”

I knew it! I knew Justin was behind some of the alien’s recent moves! I thought for a moment. “Worm . . . if you need to keep secrets for negotiation, we understand. But . . . we’re going to have to have conversations on this end that you shouldn’t listen to either. Fair’s fair, right?”

“If you tell us, not listen this conversation to, we will listen not, Jessica James.” Worm affirmed.

“All right. I know I can trust you,” I said. “Just don’t let your slippery attorney suggest ways to get around that!”

“That’s a promise, Ma’am,” he said. He actually sounded reassuring.

He agreed that the ship’s sensors would monitor all approaches to our hotel and, within the hotel, to our room. He also said he would call us if there was a problem, and I was completely comfortable relying on that.

We collapsed into bed and did not wake up until after 10:00 am. We would have slept later, but my phone was ringing.

“Jessica James,” I said, answering it.

“Good morning, Ms. James,” said Luther Corbin’s voice. “I hope you had a fine night’s sleep?”

“Wouldn’t have minded a few more hours . . . but I don’t actually know what time it is.”

“I can apprecciate that sentiment, Ms James, I surely can. But, I was wondering whether you and Professor Seldon might be interested in a bit of golf today.”

“Golf?”

“Yes, indeed. Not my thing, you understand. Not what I learned on the streets of Baltimore. But the President, now . . . he enjoys a game now’n again. Gives him a bit of quiet time, if you follow me. Away from crowds and prying eyes.”

The light dawned, and I was, suddenly, Very awake. “We’d like nothing better, Mr. Corbin. What time, and where?”

“I’ll send a car around 2:00. That give you ladies enough time?”

“Yes, sir!”

He ended the call.

Janet was giving me a sour look. “We’d like nothing better than to play golf? Seriously? I’d like nothing better than to sleep another six hours. Or maybe sixteen.”

“Yeah, but, he means ‘meet with the President while he plays golf.’”

“No shit? Well . . . I guess I can haul my weary bones out of bed for that . . . . in a bit.”

“Not ‘in a bit,’ Janet. Now. I know what I’m going to say. But what are we going to wear?”

. . . . To be continued. Indeed.