The Second Ship (The Rho Agenda #1)(20)
“But we planned on biking and rock climbing today.”
Her mother glanced up from the afghan she was knitting for the church raffle. “Heather. Discussion over. We’re going, and I’m sure the Smythes are too. Besides, you loved it last year.”
With a resigned sigh, Heather nodded, kissed her folks good night, and headed upstairs to bed. Frustration gnawed at her gut, knowing she would once again be denied a visit to the starship.
Events this past week made returning to the ship all the more imperative. They needed to discover how to access more information in those computer banks.
The news media was in a frenzy. First there had been the shocking resignation of the secretary of defense, followed almost immediately by the president’s announcement that the first of the alien technologies to be publicly released was cold fusion.
Then the scientific papers on the production of controllable cold fusion were published, sending every scientific laboratory in the world scrambling to independently reproduce the results. Confirmation had come flooding in, numerous universities announcing the results almost simultaneously, while major companies scrambled to commercialize the applications.
As if that weren’t enough, the stock market stumbled into another black October decline with two days of record sell-off. That then reversed when several energy companies appeared able to adapt parts of their infrastructure to support some of the anticipated automobile technologies.
Outcries from oil-producing countries were largely ignored by industrialized countries, including emerging economies like China and India. Clearly the perceived benefits of the release were winning widespread support around the globe.
Even within the United States, opposition arose. A large contingent of congressmen from both parties, along with commentators from assorted think tanks, complained the information was released too quickly, without fully scrutinizing national security implications. Still, these voices were drowned out by the enthusiasm of the world's academic communities.
Heather switched off the light and pulled her blankets up under her chin, peering out the dark window beside her bed. The wind was up this evening, and a thin branch of a pine tapped softly against the pane. The image of the ragged homeless man with the sign slipped across her mind. A call to the sheriff had brought a visit by two deputies, but there had been no further sign of the man. From Heather’s perspective, that was a good thing.
Sleep claimed her, pulling her into troubled dreams in which she needed desperately to do something unattainable, something that, try as she might, she could not recall. From far away her mother called to her, a note of desperation in her voice.
“Heather. Are you hearing me? I need you.”
Heather’s eyes popped open. “Heather! I need you up and ready or we’ll be late for the picnic. Get a move on.” Her mother’s face appeared at her door. “Are you hearing me? I’ve been calling for five minutes.”
Clearing her throat, Heather sat up. “I hear you, Mom. Give me just a minute.”
“Okay, but make it snappy. The Smythes have to be there early to set up the grill and we’re carpooling. You’ve got twenty-five minutes.” She glanced at her watch. “Make that twenty-four.”
“All right, Mom. I don’t really think a countdown will help.”
Heather stumbled groggily to the shower, letting the hot water and steam bring her back to life. What was up with her sleep pattern? Ever since they had found the ship, she couldn’t seem to get enough sleep. And the stress of her unremembered dreams was sapping her energy.
Despite hurrying, by the time Heather reached the bottom of the stairs the horn on the Smythemobile blared impatiently. Locking the front door behind her, Heather slid into the van’s backseat beside Jennifer and Mark.
Mark grinned at her knowingly.
“You ready to flip some burgers and dogs?”
“Hmph.”
With the arrival of the Smythemobile at the Los Alamos City Park, their parents put the teens to work setting up the grill, hauling bags of charcoal, and performing other picnic preparation tasks. All around them, the smells of the giant potluck circuit wafted over. Despite their urge to wander amongst the offerings, their mandate was clear. They would hold down their assigned positions at the grill or at the condiment table until the lunch crowd died out.
The crowd continued to fill the park, and soon the sky at the eastern end was filled with an assortment of competing kites. Scores of kids and adults held everything from a basic diamond with knotted cloth tail to massive multi-box contraptions, carefully controlled by professionally engineered handles on twin cables. A minor scuffle broke out between parents as one of the fancier kites became entangled with a looping black-hawk kite.
As lunch wound down and the friends prepared to abandon their grill duties, the deputy director, Dr. Donald Stephenson himself, stopped by to sample what were reputed to be the finest hot dogs and hamburgers at the festivities.
As Dr. Stephenson stepped up to the grill, open-faced bun already decked out with tomato, onion, and lettuce, he paused, his hawk-like gaze sweeping the adjacent table. “Do you have any more mustard?”
Jennifer moved toward the condiment box tucked behind the table. “I’m sorry, sir. Let me get it for you.”
As she stepped forward and bent down to grab the bottle, she tripped, plunging face-first toward the hot grill.
Mark moved so quickly that the startled deputy director had no time to get out of his way, a glancing blow sending the startled scientist spinning away. Grabbing his falling sister's waist, Mark’s powerful arms tossed her over the top of the grill, sending her tumbling to the grass on the far side.