Maximum Warp
Chapter 15: The Menagerie

Another morning, another unfamiliar bed. I took a minute getting myself oriented to person, place and time. I was in a bedroom, in a safehouse, somewhere in Northern Virginia. It was . . . 7:00 am.

But who the hell am I today?

I’m Jessica James, née Wainwright, formerly a distinguished professor. Currently moonlighting as a cross between Henry Kissenger (but without the war crimes!) and Emma Watson (without the talent). Job description includes talking with space aliens, getting shot and meeting with the President.

Try putting that on a resume.

I wasn’t sure when they would want us today, so I knew I should get up. Get myself ready . . . for whatever. The flurry of orders the President had issued at the end of yesterday’s golf game set the wheels turning. A handful of high-level aides would meet today to hash out a proposal that I could take to the aliens. They might want us there. Prolly.

I should be energetic, but I found myself dreading another day of battle with the leviathan bureaucracy. It seemed like each new person brought into the mix had to be individually convinced that the aliens are real and that their desire to acquire weapons-grade uranium was not a threat. It was like trying to cross a tar pit using the breast stroke.

But whoever had selected the finishings in the bedroom had chosen a greige-on-greige color scheme that was guaranteed to make me want to be elsewhere. Almost any else-where. So I hauled myself out of bed, wrapped myself in a bathrobe I purchased from our DC hotel before we checked out, and went in search of coffee.

Turning into the kitchen doorway, I had a collision with a large, solid, very male body that was coming out. “Ooof!!!” I rocked back, teetering.

“So sorry, Miss!” He had a deep voice and his hands were quick enough to steady me before I fell.

“Th-thanks,” I stuttered. I had completely forgotten that our safe house not only came with very up-to-date security features – it had the most old-fashioned sort as well. “My fault!”

“Are you alright?” He had nice eyes, kind of a golden brown.

“I’m fine, thanks . . . Mr. Walters, isn’t it?” I said. “Really, just surprised. I forgot we weren’t alone.”

He smiled, releasing my arm. “Please, call me Mitt. Let me get you a cup of coffee, anyhow. . . . I just made a fresh pot.”

“That would be fabulous, thanks!” I watched as he moved across the kitchen with a kind of cat-like grace. “Quiet night, I hope?” I asked.

He answered while he was pouring. “Quiet here; quiet out there. All good, I think. Got a nice quiet day planned?”

“You weren’t told?” I was surprised.

“Nope. I almost never am. I assume they figure it’s all ‘need to know,’ and I don’t, or something. My boss says ‘guard’ and I guard, she says ‘drive’ and I drive.”

“That sounds . . . frustrating.” I said, sympathetically.

Surprisingly, he broke into a broad smile. “Not remotely. After a few jobs, I realized that I could make up my own stories about the people I was guarding, and they’d almost certainly be more interesting than the truth.

“Like one guy I was protecting here – same house – for six weeks. Almost never said a word. Scary looking, you know what I’m saying? Right down to the patch over one eye. I told myself he was a mob enforcer turned whistleblower, whose testimony had brought down someone like Gotti, and the family was out for blood. I found out later he was an accountant being questioned in a wire fraud case. Not bad, see, but my story was a lot better.”

“And the eye patch?” I asked, intrigued.

“He’d had cataract surgery and had complications with the recovery.”

We laughed.

I liked his imaginative approach. “So what story have you made up for me and Janet? Why do we need a four-person security detail?”

“You are the beautiful daughter and sole heir of the beloved King of Erewhon, who was done in by his dastardly brother. Your colleague is the King’s sister. You escaped your evil uncle by disguising yourselves as ugly American tourists, which immediately caused you to be packed away on the first flight out of the country . . . .”

I dissolved into a fit of laughter.

“But wait, there’s more!” He grinned. “Anyway – you’ve got to admit, it makes a good story. And almost certainly more interesting, more dangerous, and stranger than the truth!”

“Oh certainly.” Janet stood in the doorway, a sardonic smile on her lips. “You got any of that coffee for the late King’s distraught sister?”

“You don’t really look all that distraught,” I observed.

“’Course I am,” she responded indignantly. “Just not about my royal brother. He was a prick. Well, both of ’em were, I guess. But I’m definitely distraught – or, at least distressed – that you have coffee and I don’t.”

I stuck my nose in the air. “Hey, being a princess has its privileges!”

“Don’t get your tiara in a wad, highness,” she warned. “It'll literally mess up your head.”

Mitt got Janet some coffee.

She opened the fridge and lightened her cup with a little milk. “I heard you askin’ Jessica about the plan for the day. After we’ve gotten showered and dressed, I think they’re gonna want us back downtown.”

“So what’s happening today?” Mitt asked. “Are you doing the grand jury thing? Federal court?”

I shook my head. “No, no court. I’m not sure, but I’m guessing we’ll have to go to the EEOB.”

Mitt said, “No worries. Just give us twenty minutes’ notice or so; there’s a protocol for getting in and getting out safely.”

I assured him that we would, then Janet and I went to get ourselves ready for the day.

The trip back to D.C. was a very different experience. Janet and I were in the back seat of yet another black SUV with darkly tinted windows. Mitt was driving and his partner Vic was riding shotgun. Vic was responsible for communicating with the rest of the security team. It was a duty he evidently took very seriously, because they never stopped talking.

“We’re in motion, over,” Vic said into his microphone.

“In the pipe, five by five, Vic.”

“What’s your twenty, Gordo?” Vic responded.

“Five klicks out, where the access road hits the Bobby Lee,” Gordo’s voice responded.

“You mean, the Langston?” a new voice interjected.

Vic responded, “Rog, good of you to join us. Don’t go confusing the Good Ol’ Boy, now! You in place?”

“I hear ya Vic,” Rog responded. “At the garage, per the mission brief.”

“Well, un-ass, bro. Mitty here wants you half a klick back on our six once we’re on the Lee. Confirm.”

“Roger.”

“No, Doombass, I’m Vic. You’re Roger!”

“What’s your vector, Victor?” Janet asked, rhetorically.

It was a long trip into the City. A mere grammarian would have been appalled. As a linguist, I found it all rather charming.

* * * * *
Another day, another meeting.

We were, as expected, back in the EEOB. The conference room was larger, but less ornate, than the one we had been in the night before last. It even had a sideboard stocked with coffee, a few beverages, and the sort of snacks institutions offer to keep employees working, without making them feel in the least coddled, comfortable, or irreplaceable. I passed.

Luther Corbin was presiding, and most of the senior leadership of the Department of Energy, including the Secretary himself, were present. Secretary Britt was flanked by DOE General Counsel Gillian Dunlop on his left, and two undersecretaries – Mrs. Hix (Nuclear Security) and Mr. Squires (Science and Innovation) on his right. Near as I could tell, they got along like a big family.

The Plantagenets, maybe. Or possibly the Donners.

The President’s Science Advisor, Dr. Livingston, gave us a smile as we entered. Colonel Kurtz was also present for the NSA staff, along with Tanya Rodriguez-Tolland, who had partnered the Secretary of Defense during the President’s golf game. The final attendee was the woman President Taryn had compared to concertina wire: Assistant White House Counsel Toni Shakon.

“Ms. James. Professor Seldon. Thank you for joining us,” Corbin rumbled, waving us to a pair of empty seats. He made the introductions, which is how I ended up knowing last names and titles for the DOE contingent, but (with one exception), not their first names. One of the few things the bureaucracy appeared to agree on was that Corbin liked his formality.

“What we are trying to determine, if I may cut through the last few minutes of spirited discussion,” he continued, “is how much U-235 to offer in exchange for the battery technology. Mr. Squires, could you give us a brief – and, if you would, please, invective-free – summary of your view?”

Squires was average in every physical dimension: height, weight, hair color, eye color. He would make a good spy: no one would remember anything distinctive about him.

Until he started talking, of course. He was extremely intense and spoke unusually fast, with an accent that stamped him as a native of New York City. No Langley for you after all, I thought.

“We had our Chief Economist look at this last night; all of you should’ve received his preliminary report. From a pure value perspective, we could trade away the whole frickin’ stockpile and still come out ahead. A battery technology that hits the metrics Professor Grimm certified is literally priceless. We’re not talking ‘billions with a b,’ we’re talking trillions.”

“‘Trillions’ is still a price,” the Secretary said in a repressive tone.

“What?” Squires’ reply was, I thought, a masterful use of the word as an interjection – in this case, an interjection that none-too-subtly suggested that his superior was a moron.

The Secretary was probably the only person in the room to miss the implication and treat the Undersecretary’s usage as a genuine question in which the only voiced element is a pronoun. “I said,” he explained patiently, “that trillions is a price, so it’s not literally priceless.”

I decided I wasn’t going to be a potted plant for yet another meeting where people felt compelled, for whatever reason, to act like idiots. “In the absence of a limiting modifier, ‘trillions’ is inherently indeterminate, which makes it potentially infinite. Thus, literally priceless could be correct.”

“Don’t argue semantics with me, young woman!” the Secretary snapped.

“At the risk of sounding pompous,” I replied, “I’m the Carter Cecil Jackson Distinguished Professor of Linguistics at Gryphon College. While semantics, as a sub-field, has never interested me much, I’ve got more expertise than almost anyone who didn't devote their postgraduate work to it. Trust me on this one.”

Janet broke the brief silence that followed my pronouncement. “Don’t imagine a book can’t be instructive, just ’cuz the dust jacket looks like a Harlequin Romance.”

Kurtz tried, but she couldn’t keep from laughing. Which proved to be almost as contagious as vomiting on a plane.

Even Corbin smiled. But he was shrewd enough to use the tension-breaker to advantage. Rapping his knuckles on the table, he said, “Thank you for that reminder. Looks are certainly deceptive, at least in this particular instance. Now, Mr. Secretary, even if you disagree that the technology is literally priceless, do you take issue with your Chief Economist's view that the value is, at the very least, extremely high – multiple trillions?”

“To the world economy, and over a period of years,” the Secretary responded. “But on the other side of the ledger, we have an asset with a present value that belongs to the United States government. Apples and oranges.”

“I see,” Corbin said. “Mrs. Hix, what’s the commercial value of our U-235 stockpile?”

“We, ah, don’t actually think of it in those terms, Mr. Corbin.”

“What’s ‘we?’” Secretary Britt complained. “I think of it in those terms. Don’t I count? Last I checked, I’m in charge of the agency!”

“No one’s questioning that, Mr. Secretary,” Corbin said, “but the economist’s view . . . .”

Britt did not allow him to finish. “I assure you, Mr Corbin, that you can’t run a large law firm, as I did for many years, without understanding economics!”

“Indeed,” Corbin responded, noncommittally. “Mrs. Hix . . . .”

Britt interrupted again. “I’m the Secretary, Mr. Corbin. You know – the boss. The guy in charge. When I’m in the room, I speak for the Department!”

“Have you read your Chief Economist’s report, Mister Secretary?” Corben’s voice remained pleasant, but his expression was dangerous.

“Yes! I mean, not every detail. It dropped on my desk at 7:00 a.m. But the Executive Summary, fully, and the detail as required. You want more, you need to provide a reasonable timeframe. All of this is being rushed in a ridiculous way.”

“Ask me for anything but time, Mr. Secretary. Appendix C, if my memory has not failed me completely, summarized the economics of the Blended Low Enrichment Uranium Program. Did you review it?” Corbin’s eyes were growing more narrow.

“No, I didn’t read appendices to a report I was given just hours ago! I’m the Secretary, not a secretary, for Chrissake!”

“Mrs. Hix, did you, by any chance, review Appendix C?” Corbin asked.

Britt leaned forward, his face red. “What part of ‘I speak for the Department’ don’t you understand, Corbin?”

“Perhaps it was the part where you assumed that I gave a damn!” Corbin barked. “I’m running this meeting, Mister Secretary, and I will call on those who have read enough to have something useful to contribute!” He gave Tanya a meaningful look, and she slipped out of the conference room.

Britt folded his arms across his chest and looked petulantly rebellious. On anyone over twelve, the expression was absurd.

Without ceasing to glare at Britt, Corbin said, “Colonel Kurtz, since the Energy Secretary has silenced his estimable subordinates, perhaps you could discuss Appendix C?”

“Of course, Mr. Corbin,” the NSA staffer responded smoothly. “The Department spends billions on the BLEU program, and considers it a huge success, from both a security standpoint and a budgetary standpoint.”

“We spend billions, and consider it a budgetary success? That does sound like Washington, D.C. logic, if ever I have heard it! Could you elaborate on the reasoning behind that startling conclusion, Colonel?” Corbin’s incredulity was theatrical.

“Because every pound of U-235 that’s down-blended into low-enriched uranium is a pound that we aren’t paying to store, monitor and guard. All of which are very expensive. The BLEU program saves us about two dollars for each dollar spent.”

“But suppose, Colonel, that instead of having to spend billions to down-blend it, we were able to send it out of the solar system, permanently and at no cost to the taxpayers?”

“That would be ideal, from a fiscal perspective,” Kurtz responded.

“That’s all very well,” Britt snapped, “but . . . .”

“Mr. Secretary?” Tanya poked her head back in the Conference Room. “The President is on a secure line for you.”

“We’ll take a few minutes,” Britt said, standing and striding toward the door. “I should be right back.” The door closed behind him.

“I am, sadly, a bit pressed for time today,” Corbin said with a regretful shake of his head. “Though it surely pains me to do so, I think we shall have to proceed without the Secretary. Mrs. Hix, anything to add to Colonel Kurtz’s summary? Since Secretary Britt is no longer in the room to speak for the Department?”

“I don’t disagree with Colonel Kurtz or the Chief Economist, Mr. Corbin,” the woman said carefully. “But I would note, as a counterpoint, that the stockpile represents potential value, and it cost the taxpayers in years past a great deal of money to create it.”

“Mr. Corbin? May I ask a question of the Undersecretary?” I felt all eyes on me, the outsider.

“Go ahead . . . Professor,” Corbin said, stressing my qualifications.

Which weren’t really relevant to our present discussion, but . . . what the hell. I was in the room. “Mrs. Hix, don’t you think the people of the United States got what they paid for?”

“I’m afraid I’m not following you, Professor James,” she replied, taking her cue from Corbin on the honorific.

“I know it doesn’t look like it, but I grew up during the Cold War. Looking around the table, I’d guess that’s true of most of you, to one degree or another. I memorized parts of President Kennedy’s inaugural address when I was in high school. I bet some of you did too. Do you remember? ‘We shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and success of liberty.’” I looked around the room. Looked at each face.

They remembered.

“All the money we spent enriching uranium to make tens of thousands of warheads . . . that was just part of the price we decided . . . we resolved . . . to bear,” I said quietly. “And we got exactly what we paid for. We’re still here, we’re still free, and those weapons are now surplus. A Cold War dream come true. My opinion, as one of the citizens who paid some of those taxes . . . . That was a pretty damned good return on our investment.”

The room was quiet.

“So say we all,” Janet said softly.

Mrs. Hix sat up straight. “Thank you for that, Professor. Your point’s well-taken – though I warn you, not everyone will see it that way.”

“Honestly,” Mr. Squires added, “Even putting the Professor’s excellent point aside, the tax revenue from increased economic activity and efficiency this new technology will unlock will dwarf any economic value we might assign to the government’s U-235 stockpile.”

“So what would you offer, Mr. Squires?” Corbin inquired.

“Me? I’d give ’em the whole steaming pile. Put a frickin’ bow on it. Save us money and effort.”

Mrs. Hix looked ill. “That’s nuts!”

Corbin looked at Hix. “How much is in the stockpile, anyway?”

“Almost six hundred metric tons are technically surplus,” she responded. “Most is reserved for the power plants of the nuclear navy, and another chunk is reserved for NASA. But we have around ninety tons that could go into the BLEU Program at some point.”

“So give ’em that!” Squires exclaimed.

“Mr. Squires?” Colonel Kurtz gave him a cool look as she leaned forward. “The amount of fissile material used in a nuclear weapon varies, but you can make one with as little as 32 pounds of HEU. You could make well over two thousand nuclear weapons with ninety tons – more than every country in the world combined, if you take us and Russia out of the equation.”

“But Colonel, no one will be making bombs out of this material,” Squires said, frustrated. “Our adversaries won’t be able to, and we don’t intend to. We’re paying billions – literally billions, and I frickin’ do mean literally – to have it diluted and sent to the TVA to power frickin’ toasters in frickin’ Chattanooga!”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Mrs. Hix said with a smile.

Corbin wrapped his knuckles on the table . . . again. “All right, Mrs. Hix . . . Colonel Kurtz . . . How much would you put on the table?”

“Don’t we need to decide whether we have authority to put anything on the table?” This question came from DOE’s General Counsel. “I have real doubts about that, let me tell you!”

“And I’ve got real doubts about your doubts,” Toni Shakon said. “But . . . and I hate to do this . . . I think we need to ask our visiting professors to step out if we’re going to discuss legal advice.”

“We can talk about our nuclear stockpile around them, but God forbid we touch upon legal advice?” Dr. Livingston looked amused.

“Truth is, we haven’t covered anything you couldn’t find on Wikipedia,” Colonel Kurtz responded. “Though, I do think Ms. Shakon raises a valid question.” Kurtz looked at me directly. “Who do you represent, Professor James?”

“Legally? Damned if I know,” I responded. “I’m not a lawyer, for which I’m quite grateful – no offense to anyone present. I’m just trying to facilitate a deal that will greatly benefit both sides.”

“But you would agree, would you not, that you do not represent the U.S. government?” Shakon pressed.

I shrugged. “Except that the aliens have said they’ll only talk to me, so I guess I’ll need to present the government’s offer to them – assuming you ever decide to make one. Won’t I be representing you in that circumstance?”

Shakon shook her head in the negative. “No more than a neutral mediator does, when she passes along proposals and counter proposals.”

“Jessica,” Dr. Livingston said, pointedly breaching Corbin’s preference for formality, “‘neutral’ isn’t quite right either, is it? I had the sense that the aliens expect something more from you than that. Don’t they?”

“You were there when they said they’d only talk to me. I haven’t heard more than that.” But my words, while true, didn’t sound convincing, even to me.

“They said they have doubts about humanity – about our species. But they trust you. Do they expect you to represent . . . all of us?” Livingston asked.

“I don’t know any more than you do. Really. . . . But . . . yes. That’s my sense, too.”

“Do you view yourself as representing humanity in general?” Shakon asked, her eyes sharp.

I tried to come up with a response that didn’t sound fatuous.

Ms. Dunlop drawled, “I’m not a linguist, for which I’m quite grateful. No offense to anyone present. But I did kind of think they’d be quicker with, you know . . . words.”

Corbin intervened. “Let’s keep it civil, people.” He gave me a look that was at once kindly, but measuring. “I’m sorry, Professor, but we do need to know who you, at least, think you’re representing.”

I sighed. “It’s a fair question. And I know it sounds crazy and puffed up. And, God help me, earnest. I didn’t ask for it, but given how the aliens have structured the discussion, I do feel a responsibility to do this right, for all of humanity. Not just for my own country.”

“Oh, so you’re here to save the world? That’s nice.” Dunlop’s sarcasm stung. “Just excuse us while we try to protect our country – and yours!”

Corbin removed his glasses and began polishing them. “Enough, counselor.”

“But . . . .”

He stopped her with a raised hand. “I said, enough.” He turned his attention to me. “I understand your position, Professor. And I apreciate your honesty. But I think Ms. Shakon is right. We’ll need to have some internal discussions that you aren’t part of – either of you – to formulate the USG’s negotiating stance. You understand?”

Janet smiled. “You mean we won’t get to sit in on all of these meetin’s? Well, damn. Throw me into that briar patch!”

I smiled. “I understand, sir . . . and I agree with you. But I’ll probably need to get a pretty in-depth briefing on your offer – if you make one – before I take it to the aliens.”

“Of course,” Corbin assured. “And we may have questions for you while we’re meeting, too. If you’ll stick around, we can find an office to park you in while we continue our discussions.”

I looked at Janet.

She shrugged. “Sure. Might give us a deck of cards, though. I’m guessin’ that you’re gonna be a while.”

“I’ve got a spare office in my suite,” Dr. Livingston offered.

Corbin nodded his thanks and looked at Tanya. “Can you help them find Dr. Livingston’s suite?”

She agreed.

We stood and moved to the door. It opened before we got there and Secretary Britt swept in. “Sorry, that took longer than I expected. We can resume.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Secretary,” I said. “We were just leaving.”

“Hasta la vista, ba-be,” Janet intoned.

“Leaving?” he asked, befuddled. “What’d I miss?”

* * * * *
“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed as we got ourselves out of the conference room and moving toward Averil’s office. “Where did they dredge up that . . . person, and how did he become a Cabinet Secretary?”

It was Tanya’s turn to sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s an old story. A rich lawyer gets involved in politics, runs a state organization, then gets involved nationally . . . and soon he’s sitting on a heap of IOUs. Everyone figured he’d be harmless . . . if he had a good deputy and a solid team. But . . . well . . . .”

Janet snorted. “An old story, for sure. ‘Stick close to your desks and never go to sea . . .’” Janet had a nice singing voice.

Tanya joined her light alto voice with Janet’s: “And you all may be the rulers of the Queen’s Navy!” Fortunately, they kept their voices low enough that the entire building didn’t turn out to see what was going on.

Tanya giggled. “You're not the first person to sing the First Lord’s Song after meeting Britt!”

“I’d say great minds think alike,” Janet replied, “but in this case the comparison doesn’t require much discernment. Maybe we could ask the aliens if they’ve got a pill for dingbat.”

We came to another door in another corridor, looking pretty much like all the rest of them. Tanya moved to open it.

I was hopelessly lost. “Anyone ever consider putting name plates on doors in this place?”

“No! That’s just what they’ll be expecting us to do!” Tanya said with a laugh.

“Bazinga!!! You are too young to know that one!” Janet was clearly both surprised and pleased.

“My folks were fans,” she said. “But truth is, I think it’s really just a way to separate the insiders from the outsiders. The people in the know, know. So if you don’t know, you don’t need to know, ya know?”

“No,” I said. “That’s . . . messed up.”

“I know,” Tanya grinned. “Ain’t it grand?”

Kara McDaniels, Dr. Livingston’s assistant, decided to park us in the Science Advisor’s conference room. I was starting to develop a real antipathy for conference rooms, even though this particular one was blissfully uninfected with squabbling bureaucrats.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked us. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Advil?” Janet said, hopefully.

“A few tons of weapons-grade uranium?” I said.

“I’ll see what I can do – for one of you, anyway!” She left.

Janet took a seat at the table. “Whoda thunk you'd be the one to get us kicked out of the meeting!”

“Sorry about that,” I offered.

She waved it off. “Don’t be. Can you believe I used to think, when we were listenin’ to all the windbags go at it durin’ faculty meetings all those years, that out in the real world, where decisions actually mattered, people were reasonable and rational?”

I laughed. “Me, too. Hearing Britt this morning, all I could think of was ‘Stump’ Peterson, back when he was still dean.”

“Yeah . . . and it always boils down to the same thing, doesn’t it?” Dropping her voice, she asked, “‘Am I the leader of the SweatHogs? Is the bear Catholic? Does a Pope live in the woods?’ I just thought – maybe wished – that things would be better here.”

McDaniels returned with a glass of water and a couple Advil. “Here you are,” she said, then slipped back out. Janet downed the pills and about half the glass of water.

“Headache?” I asked.

She nodded. “Had a bad night last night, I guess. And hearing all the bickering this morning didn’t help. I mean, look. Early American literature is my specialty, right? You don’t walk away from Hawthorne, Melville and Poe with a cheery view of human nature. But somehow, I’m still surprised.”

“So, are you looking forward to wrapping this up and going back? I asked.

“S’posed to be back a week from Monday. I’ve got a light semester – just one survey course and one advanced seminar – but . . . it’s not gonna happen, is it?”

I’d been looking out the window into the courtyard, which was, sadly, just as butt-ugly as the rest of the building. At least the architects of New Brutalism were trying to create something unattractive. Whoever designed this place just had no clue.

Janet’s response brought me quickly back to the present moment. “I keep hoping we’ll find a way to clear up suspicion about the disappearance of James Wainwright. I mean, this is all going to go public at some point, right?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. “And, I’ll be honest with you. I’m not sure I want to go back. These meetings have been frustratin’ as all hell, but . . . I feel like we’re makin’ a difference. Or at least, we’re tryin’ to. It’s like I suddenly woke up and remembered the great big world again. Turns out I missed it.”

“The academy looks a bit small when you step away from it, doesn’t it?” I asked, with sympathy.

She nodded, smiling ruefully. “It’s all right there in Hawthorne, natch. Like I’ve been teachin’ the yoots all these years. When you leave your own circle, you find out how truly insignificant your supposed achievements are.”

“Maybe it’s time for something else?” I suggested.

There was a rap on the door and McDaniels opened it again. Stanley Aguia stood behind her. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said.

“General Aguia! Please come in,” I said.

“I would be happy to,” he replied gravely. “But I hoped I might persuade you both to join me for a different sort of meeting.”

“‘Different’ would be good, I kid you not,” Janet said, with feeling. “Though, honestly, you kinda lost me at ‘meeting.’”

He smiled. “Would it help if I told you that two of the people at the meeting are Dave Grillo and Troi Harris?”

“Really!!?” The names appeared to revive Janet completely. “Hot damn, maybe somebody’s usin’ the brains they were born with! Come on, Jessica, I want to go to there! Wherever ‘there’ is.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not familiar with either name. Up ‘till a week or so ago, I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about politics.”

Janet was shaking her head, a huge smile on her face. “Neither did they. They’re two of the most thoughtful writers of hard science fiction currently living!”

Aguia nodded. “Quite so. And we’ve also got a couple other experts who want to pick your brains too. Think of us as the President’s Council on the Unexpected. An informal group, naturally.”

Janet was practically shoving me out the door. “Finally, someone’s looking past the immediate decision!” she said.

I was happy to see her animated again;. And, I was curious about Aguia’s group. “You’ll let Dr. Livingston know where we are?” I asked her assistant.

Aguia took my elbow. “She knows, Doctor. She knows,” he said. “Averil texted me that you were available. She’d be in our meeting, if her presence wasn’t critical to the meeting you left.”

“If meetings generated energy rather than sucking it up like a big black hole, this building could supply power for the whole planet!” I groused.

We walked down yet another corridor of black-and-white marble tile, past more unlabeled doors, and up a staircase. I couldn’t tell one floor from the other.

As Aguia led us around the maze, he explained, “Most of Washington focuses on the needs of the moment. The problems we all know about. A small portion focuses on known unknowns – problems, or even opportunities, we know are possible and may come up, someday. There’s no structure for dealing with ‘unknown unknowns.’

“But they happen all the time. The world – or, today, the universe – is full of surprises. So we often bring in small groups of people with different backgrounds and expertise, who can look at issues from perspectives that official Washington won’t have. They are vetted and cleared in advance, so we don’t have to waste time with red tape. We don’t call on most of them often, but when we do we’re in a hurry.”

“And you’re in charge of this . . . network?” I asked.

He laughed. “‘In charge’ is too strong a term where these characters are involved. They don’t fit any mold. But, at the President’s request, I play a coordinating role.”

“Still generaling, I guess,” Janet said.

“Generals give orders, Professor,” he demurred. “I assure you, a catherd can, at most, suggest.”

“So what is today’s group focused on?” I asked. “Uranium, energy, or both?”

“Nothing so prosaic as U-235,” Aguia said. “The bigger point, as the President understood immediately, was the First Contact itself. For the first time in recorded history, we have confirmed contact with representatives of an extraterrestrial civilization. And based on what you’ve told us, we may have just days before they leave, and it could be centuries before any of their species return.”

We had reached the right place, and Aguia led us into a suite. Rather than another conference room, we were in a library. Like the rest of the building, it was overdone, over-decorated, and completely over-the-top – marble and wrought iron and rugs and chandeliers that shed a diffuse, golden light . . . But it was still a library, with books and comfortable chairs. For an academic, the sights and even smells of a library are at once comfortable and familiar.

I felt my whole body relax.

People were getting up from deep leather chairs set in a conversation area. Aguia said, “Please allow me to introduce our team. This imposing gentleman is Dave Grillo.” Imposing was right: Grillo was probably close to my old height, but must have weighed 300 pounds. Deep, dark eyes in a lively face.

Aguia continued his introductions “Professor Daichi Kurokawa, from the Sociology Department of the University of California at Los Angeles.” Younger than I would have expected – thirties, maybe. Bright, excited eyes under a shock of straight, blue-black hair.

“Kayla Cormier, Professor Emeritus of Biology, Johns Hopkins.” Immaculately coiffed snow white hair, porcelain skin and inquisitive cornflower blue eyes.

“And Troi Harris, author, adventurer and shameless self-promoter,” Aguia finished, prompting the short, athletic brunette woman in question to stick her tongue out at the tall general.

Then Aguia said, “Everyone, this is Professor Janet Seldon and Jessica James, formerly Professor James Wainwright, both of the Humanities Department of Gryphon College in Northampton, Massachusetts.” He waved everyone to their seats. “There are more people who should be here, and I dearly wish they could join us, given the subject matter of this particular unexpected event. But we’re operating on extremely short notice.”

“Gentlemen in England, now abed, shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,” Harris said with a smile.

“King Henry shoulda left it there,” Janet replied, “’Cuz cheap or pricey, I’ve always thought the guys who missed out shouldn’t have to stand around holding their manhoods. I mean, really, guys?”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Harris laughed. “Good point!”

“Never mind all that!” Grillo’s voice was surprisingly high for someone so vast. “Tell us about the aliens!!!”

“How is their society organized!” Kurokawa was almost jumping out of his seat.

“What do they even look like?” Cormier inquired.

Aguia smiled. “Cats, you see? All in good time, everyone! If you could, Professor James. Tell us how all of this started. From the beginning.”

“Alright, Jessica,” said Janet. “Here’s your ‘call me Ishmael’ moment.”

“Like I need yet another name!” I took a deep breath. “Well, a few weeks ago, I was hiking the Appalachian Trail . . . .”

. . . To be continued. Literally.