67
   The White House telephone switchboard was located on the lower level of the East Wing. Three switchboard operators were always on duty. At the moment, only two were seated at the controls. The third operator was at a full sprint toward the Briefing Room. In her hand, she carried a cordless phone. She’d tried to patch the call through to the Oval Office, but the President was already en route to the press conference. She’d tried to call his aides on their cellulars, but before televised briefings, all cellular phones in and around the Briefing Room were turned off so as not to interrupt the proceedings.
   Running a cordless phone directly to the President at a time like this seemed questionable at best, and yet when the White House’s NRO liaison called claiming she had emergency information that the President must get before going live, the operator had little doubt she needed to jump. The question now was whether she would get there in time.

* * *

   In a small medical office onboard the U.S.S. Charlotte, Rachel Sexton clutched a phone receiver to her ear and waited to talk to the President. Tolland and Corky sat nearby, still looking shaken. Corky had five stitches and a deep bruise on his cheekbone. All three of them had been helped into Thinsulate thermal underwear, heavy navy flight suits, oversized wool socks, and deck boots. With a hot cup of stale coffee in her hand, Rachel was starting to feel almost human again.
   “What’s the holdup?” Tolland pressed. “It’s seven fifty-six!”
   Rachel could not imagine. She had successfully reached one of the White House operators, explained who she was and that this was an emergency. The operator seemed sympathetic, had placed Rachel on hold, and was now, supposedly, making it her top priority to patch Rachel through to the President.
   Four minutes, Rachel thought. Hurry up!
   Closing her eyes, Rachel tried to gather her thoughts. It had been one hell of a day. I’m on a nuclear submarine, she said to herself, knowing she was damned lucky to be anywhere at all. According to the submarine captain, the Charlotte had been on a routine patrol in the Bering Sea two days ago and had picked up anomalous underwater sounds coming from the Milne Ice Shelf—drilling, jet noise, lots of encrypted radio traffic. They had been redirected and told to lie quietly and listen. An hour or so ago, they’d heard an explosion in the ice shelf and moved in to check it out. That was when they heard Rachel’s SOS call.
   “Three minutes left!” Tolland sounded anxious now as he monitored the clock.
   Rachel was definitely getting nervous now. What was taking so long? Why hadn’t the President taken her call? If Zach Herney went public with the data as it stood—
   Rachel forced the thought from her mind and shook the receiver. Pick up!

* * *

   As the White House operator dashed toward the stage entrance of the Briefing Room, she was met with a gathering throng of staff members. Everyone here was talking excitedly, making final preparations. She could see the President twenty yards away waiting at the entrance. The makeup people were still primping.
   “Coming through!” the operator said, trying to get through the crowd. “Call for the President. Excuse me. Coming through!”
   “Live in two minutes!” a media coordinator called out.
   Clutching the phone, the operator shoved her way toward the President. “Call for the President!” she panted. “Coming through!”
   A towering roadblock stepped into her path. Marjorie Tench. The senior adviser’s long face grimaced down in disapproval. “What’s going on?”
   “I have an emergency!” The operator was breathless. “... phone call for the President.”
   Tench looked incredulous. “Not now, you don’t!”
   “It’s from Rachel Sexton. She says it’s urgent.”
   The scowl that darkened Tench’s face appeared to be more one of puzzlement than anger. Tench eyed the cordless phone. “That’s a house line. That’s not secure.”
   “No, ma’am. But the incoming call is open anyway. She’s on a radiophone. She needs to speak to the President right away.”
   “Live in ninety seconds!”
   Tench’s cold eyes stared, and she held out a spider-like hand. “Give me the phone.”
   The operator’s heart was pounding now. “Ms. Sexton wants to speak to President Herney directly. She told me to postpone the press conference until she’d talked to him. I assured—”
   Tench stepped toward the operator now, her voice a seething whisper. “Let me tell you how this works. You do not take orders from the daughter of the President’s opponent, you take them from me. I can assure you, this is as close as you are getting to the President until I find out what the hell is going on.”
   The operator looked toward the President, who was now surrounded by microphone technicians, stylists, and several staff members talking him through final revisions of his speech.
   “Sixty seconds!” the television supervisor yelled.

* * *

   Onboard the Charlotte, Rachel Sexton was pacing wildly in the tight space when she finally heard a click on the telephone line.
   A raspy voice came on. “Hello?”
   “President Herney?” Rachel blurted.
   “Marjorie Tench,” the voice corrected. “I am the President’s senior adviser. Whoever this is, I must warn you that prank calls against the White House are in violation of—”
   For Christ’s sake! “This is not a prank! This is Rachel Sexton. I’m your NRO liaison and—”
   “I am aware of who Rachel Sexton is, ma’am. And I am doubtful that you are she. You’ve called the White House on an unsecured line telling me to interrupt a major presidential broadcast. That is hardly proper MO for someone with—”
   “Listen,” Rachel fumed, “I briefed your whole staff a couple of hours ago on a meteorite. You sat in the front row. You watched my briefing on a television sitting on the President’s desk! Any questions?”
   Tench fell silent a moment. “Ms. Sexton, what is the meaning of this?”
   “The meaning is that you have to stop the President! His meteorite data is all wrong! We’ve just learned the meteorite was inserted from beneath the ice shelf. I don’t know by whom, and I don’t know why! But things are not what they seem up here! The President is about to endorse some seriously errant data, and I strongly advise—”
   “Wait one goddamned minute!” Tench lowered her voice. “Do you realize what you are saying?”
   “Yes! I suspect the NASA administrator has orchestrated some kind of large-scale fraud, and President Herney is about to get caught in the middle. You’ve at least got to postpone ten minutes so I can explain to him what’s been going on up here. Someone tried to kill me, for God’s sake!”
   Tench’s voice turned to ice. “Ms. Sexton, let me give you a word of warning. If you are having second thoughts about your role in helping the White House in this campaign, you should have thought of that long before you personally endorsed that meteorite data for the President.”
   “What!” Is she even listening?
   “I’m revolted by your display. Using an unsecured line is a cheap stunt. Implying the meteorite data has been faked? What kind of intelligence official uses a radiophone to call the White House and talk about classified information? Obviously you are hoping someone intercepts this message.”
   “Norah Mangor was killed over this! Dr. Ming is also dead. You’ve got to warn—”
   “Stop right there! I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I will remind you—and anyone else who happens to be intercepting this phone call—that the White House possesses videotaped depositions from NASA’s top scientists, several renowned civilian scientists, and yourself, Ms. Sexton, all endorsing the meteorite data as accurate. Why you are suddenly changing your story, I can only imagine. Whatever the reason, consider yourself relieved of your White House post as of this instant, and if you try to taint this discovery with any more absurd allegations of foul play, I assure you the White House and NASA will sue you for defamation so fast you won’t have a chance to pack a suitcase before you go to jail.”
   Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.
   “Zach Herney has been generous to you,” Tench snapped, “and frankly this smacks of a cheap Sexton publicity stunt. Drop it right now, or we’ll press charges. I swear it.”
   The line went dead.
   Rachel’s mouth was still hanging open when the captain knocked on the door.
   “Ms. Sexton?” the captain said, peering in. “We’re picking up a faint signal from Canadian National Radio. President Zach Herney has just begun his press conference.”

 68
   Standing at the podium in the White House Briefing Room, Zach Herney felt the heat of the media lights and knew the world was watching. The targeted blitz performed by the White House Press Office had created a contagion of media buzz. Those who did not hear about the address via television, radio, or on-line news invariably heard about it from neighbors, coworkers, and family. By 8:00 p.m., anyone not living in a cave was speculating about the topic of the President’s address. In bars and living rooms over the globe, millions leaned toward their televisions in apprehensive wonder.
   It was during moments like these—facing the world—that Zach Herney truly felt the weight of his office. Anyone who said power was not addictive had never really experienced it. As he began his address, however, Herney sensed something was amiss. He was not a man prone to stage fright, and so the tingle of apprehension now tightening in his core startled him.
   It’s the magnitude of the audience, he told himself. And yet he knew something else. Instinct. Something he had seen.
   It had been such a little thing, and yet...
   He told himself to forget it. It was nothing. And yet it stuck.
   Tench.
   Moments ago, as Herney was preparing to take the stage, he had seen Marjorie Tench in the yellow hallway, talking on a cordless phone. This was strange in itself, but it was made more so by the White House operator standing beside her, her face white with apprehension. Herney could not hear Tench’s phone conversation, but he could see it was contentious. Tench was arguing with a vehemence and anger the President had seldom seen—even from Tench. He paused a moment and caught her eye, inquisitive.
   Tench gave him the thumbs-up. Herney had never seen Tench give anyone the thumbs-up. It was the last image in Herney’s mind as he was cued onto the stage.

* * *

   On the blue rug in the press area inside the NASA habisphere on Ellesmere Island, Administrator Lawrence Ekstrom was seated at the center of the long symposium table, flanked by top NASA officials and scientists. On a large monitor facing them the President’s opening statement was being piped in live. The remainder of the NASA crew was huddled around other monitors, teeming with excitement as their commander-in-chief launched into his press conference.
   “Good evening,” Herney was saying, sounding uncharacteristically stiff. “To my fellow countrymen, and to our friends around the world...”
   Ekstrom gazed at the huge charred mass of rock displayed prominently in front of him. His eyes moved to a standby monitor, where he watched himself, flanked by his most austere personnel, against a backdrop of a huge American flag and NASA logo. The dramatic lighting made the setting look like some kind of neomodern painting—the twelve apostles at the last supper. Zach Herney had turned this whole thing into a political sideshow. Herney had no choice. Ekstrom still felt like a televangelist, packaging God for the masses.
   In about five minutes the President would introduce Ekstrom and his NASA staff. Then, in a dramatic satellite linkup from the top of the world, NASA would join the President in sharing this news with the world. After a brief account of how the discovery was made, what it meant for space science, and some mutual backpatting, NASA and the President would hand duty off to celebrity scientist Michael Tolland, whose documentary would roll for just under fifteen minutes. Afterward, with credibility and enthusiasm at its peak, Ekstrom and the President would say their good-nights, promising more information to come in the days ahead via endless NASA press conferences.
   As Ekstrom sat and waited for his cue, he felt a cavernous shame settling inside him. He’d known he would feel it. He’d been expecting it.
   He’d told lies... endorsed untruths.
   Somehow, though, the lies seemed inconsequential now. Ekstrom had a bigger weight on his mind.

* * *

   In the chaos of the ABC production room, Gabrielle Ashe stood shoulder to shoulder with dozens of strangers, all necks craned toward the bank of television monitors suspended from the ceiling. A hush fell as the moment arrived. Gabrielle closed her eyes, praying that when she opened them she would not be looking at images of her own naked body.

* * *

   The air inside Senator Sexton’s den was alive with excitement. All of his visitors were standing now, their eyes glued to the large-screen television.
   Zach Herney stood before the world, and incredibly, his greeting had been awkward. He seemed momentarily uncertain.
   He looks shaky, Sexton thought. He never looks shaky.
   “Look at him,” somebody whispered. “It has to be bad news.”
   The space station? Sexton wondered.
   Herney looked directly into the camera and took a deep breath. “My friends, I have puzzled for many days now over how best to make this announcement...”
   Three easy words, Senator Sexton willed him. We blew it.
   Herney spoke for a moment about how unfortunate it was that NASA had become such an issue in this election and how, that being the case, he felt he needed to preface the timing of his impending statement with an apology.
   “I would have preferred any other moment in history to make this announcement,” he said. “The political charge in the air tends to make doubters out of dreamers, and yet as your President, I have no choice but to share with you what I have recently learned.” He smiled. “It seems the magic of the cosmos is something which does not work on any human schedule... not even that of a president.”
   Everyone in Sexton’s den seemed to recoil in unison. What?
   “Two weeks ago,” Herney said, “NASA’s new Polar Orbiting Density Scanner passed over the Milne Ice Shelf on Ellesmere Island, a remote landmass located above the Eightieth Parallel in the high Arctic Ocean.”
   Sexton and the others exchanged confused looks.
   “This NASA satellite,” Herney continued, “detected a large, high-density rock buried two hundred feet under the ice.” Herney smiled now for the first time, finding his stride. “On receiving the data, NASA immediately suspected PODS had found a meteorite.”
   “A meteorite?” Sexton sputtered, standing. “This is news?”
   “NASA sent a team up to the ice shelf to take core samples. It was then that NASA made...” He paused.
   “Frankly, they made the scientific discovery of the century.”
   Sexton took an incredulous step toward the television. No.... His guests shifted uneasily.
   “Ladies and gentlemen,” Herney announced, “several hours ago, NASA pulled from the Arctic ice an eight-ton meteorite, which contains...” The President paused again, giving the whole world time to lean forward. “A meteorite which contains fossils of a life-form. Dozens of them. Unequivocal proof of extraterrestrial life.”
   On cue, a brilliant image illuminated on the screen behind the President—a perfectly delineated fossil of an enormous buglike creature embedded in a charred rock.
   In Sexton’s den, six entrepreneurs jumped up in wide-eyed horror. Sexton stood frozen in place.
   “My friends,” the President said, “the fossil behind me is 190 million years old. It was discovered in a fragment of a meteorite called the Jungersol Fall which hit the Arctic Ocean almost three centuries ago. NASA’s exciting new PODS satellite discovered this meteorite fragment buried in an ice shelf. NASA and this administration have taken enormous care over the past two weeks to confirm every aspect of this momentous discovery before making it public. In the next half hour you will be hearing from numerous NASA and civilian scientists, as well as viewing a short documentary prepared by a familiar face whom I’m sure you all will recognize. Before I go any further, though, I absolutely must welcome, live via satellite from above the Arctic Circle, the man whose leadership, vision, and hard work is solely responsible for this historic moment. It is with great honor that I present NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom.”
   Herney turned to the screen on perfect cue.
   The image of the meteorite dramatically dissolved into a regal-looking panel of NASA scientists seated at a long table, flanked by the dominant frame of Lawrence Ekstrom.
   “Thank you, Mr. President.” Ekstrom’s air was stern and proud as he stood up and looked directly into the camera. “It gives me great pride to share with all of you, this—NASA’s finest hour.”
   Ekstrom spoke passionately about NASA and the discovery. With a fanfare of patriotism and triumph, he segued flawlessly to a documentary hosted by civilian science–celebrity Michael Tolland.
   As he watched, Senator Sexton fell to his knees in front of the television, his fingers clutching at his silver mane. No! God, no!

 69
   Marjorie Tench was livid as she broke away from the jovial chaos outside the Briefing Room and marched back to her private corner in the West Wing. She was in no mood for celebration. The phone call from Rachel Sexton had been most unexpected.
   Most disappointing.
   Tench slammed her office door, stalked to her desk, and dialed the White House operator. “William Pickering. NRO.”
   Tench lit a cigarette and paced the room as she waited for the operator to track down Pickering. Normally, he might have gone home for the night, but with the White House’s big windup into tonight’s press conference, Tench guessed Pickering had been in his office all evening, glued to his television screen, wondering what could possibly be going on in the world about which the NRO director did not have prior knowledge.
   Tench cursed herself for not trusting her instincts when the President said he wanted to send Rachel Sexton to Milne. Tench had been wary, feeling it was an unnecessary risk. But the President had been convincing, persuading Tench that the White House staff had grown cynical over the past weeks and would be suspect of the NASA discovery if the news came from in-house. As Herney had promised, Rachel Sexton’s endorsement had squelched suspicions, prevented any skeptical in-house debate, and forced the White House staff to move forward with a unified front. Invaluable, Tench had to admit. And yet now Rachel Sexton had changed her tune.
   The bitch called me on an unsecured line.
   Rachel Sexton was obviously intent on destroying the credibility of this discovery, and Tench’s only solace was knowing the President had captured Rachel’s earlier briefing on videotape. Thank God. At least Herney had thought to obtain that small insurance. Tench was starting to fear they were going to need it.
   At the moment, however, Tench was trying to stem the bleeding in other ways. Rachel Sexton was a smart woman, and if she truly intended to go head-to-head with the White House and NASA, she would need to recruit some powerful allies. Her first logical choice would be William Pickering. Tench already knew how Pickering felt about NASA. She needed to get to Pickering before Rachel did.
   “Ms. Tench?” the transparent voice on the line said. “William Pickering, here. To what do I owe this honor?”
   Tench could hear the television in the background—NASA commentary. She could already sense in his tone that he was still reeling from the press conference. “Do you have a minute, director?”
   “I expected you’d be busy celebrating. Quite a night for you. Looks like NASA and the President are back in the fight.”
   Tench heard stark amazement in his voice, combined with a tinge of acrimony—the latter no doubt on account of the man’s legendary distaste for hearing breaking news at the same time as the rest of the world.
   “I apologize,” Tench said, trying to build an immediate bridge, “that the White House and NASA were forced to keep you unapprised.”
   “You are aware,” Pickering said, “that the NRO detected NASA activity up there a couple weeks ago and ran an inquiry.”
   Tench frowned. He’s pissed. “Yes, I know. And yet—”
   “NASA told us it was nothing. They said they were running some kind of extreme environment training exercises. Testing equipment, that sort of thing.” Pickering paused. “We bought the lie.”
   “Let’s not call it a lie,” Tench said. “More of a necessary misdirection. Considering the magnitude of the discovery, I trust you understand NASA’s need to keep this quiet.”
   “From the public, perhaps.”
   Pouting was not in the repertoire of men like William Pickering, and Tench sensed this was as close as he would get. “I only have a minute,” Tench said, working to retain her dominant position, “but I thought I should call and warn you.”
   “Warn me?” Pickering waxed wry momentarily. “Has Zach Herney decided to appoint a new, NASA-friendly NRO director?”
   “Of course not. The President understands your criticisms of NASA are simply issues of security, and he is working to plug those holes. I’m actually calling about one of your employees.” She paused. “Rachel Sexton. Have you heard from her this evening?”
   “No. I sent her to the White House this morning at the President’s request. You’ve obviously kept her busy. She has yet to check in.”
   Tench was relieved to have gotten to Pickering first. She took a drag on her cigarette and spoke as calmly as possible. “I suspect you may be getting a call from Ms. Sexton sometime soon.”
   “Good. I’ve been expecting one. I’ve got to tell you, when the President’s press conference began, I was concerned Zach Herney might have convinced Ms. Sexton to participate publicly. I’m pleased to see he resisted.”
   “Zach Herney is a decent person,” Tench said, “which is more than I can say for Rachel Sexton.”
   There was a long pause on the line. “I hope I misunderstood that.”
   Tench sighed heavily. “No, sir, I’m afraid you did not. I’d prefer not to talk specifics on the phone, but Rachel Sexton, it seems, has decided she wants to undermine the credibility of this NASA announcement. I have no idea why, but after she reviewed and endorsed NASA’s data earlier this afternoon, she has suddenly pulled an about-face and is spouting some of the most improbable allegations imaginable of NASA treachery and fraud.”
   Pickering sounded intense now. “Excuse me?”
   “Troubling, yes. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Ms. Sexton contacted me two minutes before the press conference and warned me to cancel the whole thing.”
   “On what grounds?”
   “Absurd ones, frankly. She said she’d found serious flaws in the data.”
   Pickering’s long silence was more wary than Tench would have liked. “Flaws?” he finally said.
   “Ridiculous, really, after two full weeks of NASA experimentation and—”
   “I find it very hard to believe someone like Rachel Sexton would have told you to postpone the President’s press conference unless she had a damn good reason.” Pickering sounded troubled. “Maybe you should have listened to her.”
   “Oh, please!” Tench blurted, coughing. “You saw the press conference. The meteorite data was confirmed and reconfirmed by countless specialists. Including civilians. Doesn’t it seem suspicious to you that Rachel Sexton—the daughter of the only man whom this announcement hurts—is suddenly changing her tune?”
   “It seems suspicious, Ms. Tench, only because I happen to know that Ms. Sexton and her father are barely civil to one another. I cannot imagine why Rachel Sexton would, after years of service to the President, suddenly decide to switch camps and tell lies to support her father.”
   “Ambition, perhaps? I really don’t know. Maybe the opportunity to be first daughter...” Tench let it hang.
   Pickering’s tone hardened instantly. “Thin ice, Ms. Tench. Very thin.”
   Tench scowled. What the hell did she expect? She was accusing a prominent member of Pickering’s staff of treason against the President. The man was going to be defensive.
   “Put her on,” Pickering demanded. “I’d like to speak to Ms. Sexton myself.”
   “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Tench replied. “She’s not at the White House.”
   “Where is she?”
   “The President sent her to Milne this morning to examine the data firsthand. She has yet to return.”
   Pickering sounded livid now. “I was never informed—”
   “I do not have time for hurt pride, director. I have simply called as a courtesy. I wanted to warn you that Rachel Sexton has decided to pursue her own agenda with respect to tonight’s announcement. She will be looking for allies. If she contacts you, you would be wise to know that the White House is in possession of a video taken earlier today in which she endorsed this meteorite data in its entirety in front of the President, his cabinet, and his entire staff. If now, for whatever motives she might have, Rachel Sexton attempts to besmirch the good name of Zach Herney or of NASA, then I swear to you the White House will see to it she falls hard and far.” Tench waited a moment, to be sure her meaning had settled in. “I expect you to repay the courtesy of this call by informing me immediately if Rachel Sexton contacts you. She is attacking the President directly, and the White House intends to detain her for questioning before she does any serious damage. I will be waiting for your call, director. That’s all. Good night.”
   Marjorie Tench hung up, certain that William Pickering had never been talked to like that in his life. At least now he knew she was serious.

* * *

   On the top floor of the NRO, William Pickering stood at his window and stared into the Virginia night. The call from Marjorie Tench had been deeply troubling. He chewed at his lip as he tried to assemble the pieces in his mind.
   “Director?” his secretary said, knocking quietly. “You have another phone call.”
   “Not now,” Pickering said absently.
   “It’s Rachel Sexton.”
   Pickering wheeled. Tench was apparently a fortune-teller. “Okay. Patch her through, right away.”
   “Actually, sir, it’s an encrypted AV stream. Do you want to take it in the conference room?”
   An AV stream? “Where is she calling from?”
   The secretary told him.
   Pickering stared. Bewildered, he hurried down the hall toward the conference room. This was something he had to see.

 70
   The Charlotte’s “dead room”—designed after a similar structure at Bell Laboratories—was what was formally known as an anechoic chamber. An acoustical clean room containing no parallel or reflective surfaces, it absorbed sound with 99.4 percent efficiency. Because of the acoustically conductive nature of metal and water, conversations onboard submarines were always vulnerable to interception by nearby eavesdroppers or parasitic suction mics attached to the outer hull. The dead room was, in effect, a tiny chamber inside the submarine from which absolutely no sound could escape. All conversations inside this insulated box were entirely secure.
   The chamber looked like a walk-in closet whose ceiling, walls, and floor had been completely covered with foam spires jutting inward from all directions. It reminded Rachel of a cramped underwater cave where stalagmites had run wild, growing off every surface. Most unsettling, however, was the apparent lack of a floor.
   The floor was a taut, meshed chicken-wire grid strung horizontally across the room like a fishing net, giving the inhabitants the feeling that they were suspended midway up the wall. The mesh was rubberized and stiff beneath the feet. As Rachel gazed down through the webbed flooring, she felt like she was crossing a string bridge suspended over a surrealistic fractalized landscape. Three feet below, a forest of foam needles pointed ominously upward.
   Instantly upon entering Rachel had sensed the disorientating lifelessness to the air, as if every bit of energy had been sucked out. Her ears felt as if they’d been stuffed with cotton. Only her breath was audible inside her head. She called out, and the effect was that of speaking into a pillow. The walls absorbed every reverberation, making the only perceivable vibrations those inside her head.
   Now the captain had departed, closing the padded door behind him. Rachel, Corky, and Tolland were seated in the center of the room at a small U-shaped table that stood on long metal stilts that descended through the mesh. On the table were affixed several gooseneck microphones, headphones, and a video console with a fish-eye camera on top. It looked like a mini–United Nations symposium.
   As someone who worked in the U.S. intelligence community—the world’s foremost manufacturers of hard laser microphones, underwater parabolic eavesdroppers, and other hypersensitive listening devices—Rachel was well aware there were few places on earth where one could have a truly secure conversation. The dead room was apparently one of those places. The mics and headphones on the table enabled a face-to-face “conference call” in which people could speak freely, knowing the vibrations of their words could not escape the room. Their voices, upon entering the microphones, would be heavily encrypted for their long journey through the atmosphere.
   “Level check.” The voice materialized suddenly inside their headphones, causing Rachel, Tolland, and Corky to jump. “Do you read me, Ms. Sexton?”
   Rachel leaned into the microphone. “Yes. Thank you.” Whoever you are.
   “I have Director Pickering on the line for you. He’s accepting AV. I am signing off now. You will have your data stream momentarily.”
   Rachel heard the line go dead. There was a distant whirr of static and then a rapid series of beeps and clicks in the headphones. With startling clarity, the video screen in front of them sprang to life, and Rachel saw Director Pickering in the NRO conference room. He was alone. His head snapped up and he looked into Rachel’s eyes.
   She felt oddly relieved to see him.
   “Ms. Sexton,” he said, his expression perplexed and troubled. “What in the world is going on?”
   “The meteorite, sir,” Rachel said. “I think we may have a serious problem.”

 71
   Inside the Charlotte’s dead room, Rachel Sexton introduced Michael Tolland and Corky Marlinson to Pickering. Then she took charge and launched into a quick account of the day’s incredible chain of events.
   The NRO director sat motionless as he listened.
   Rachel told him about the bioluminescent plankton in the extraction pit, their journey onto the ice shelf and discovery of an insertion shaft beneath the meteorite, and finally of their sudden attack by a military team she suspected was Special Ops.
   William Pickering was known for his ability to listen to disturbing information without so much as flinching an eye, and yet his gaze grew more and more troubled with each progression in Rachel’s story. She sensed disbelief and then rage when she talked about Norah Mangor’s murder and their own near-death escape. Although Rachel wanted to voice her suspicions of the NASA administrator’s involvement, she knew Pickering well enough not to point fingers without evidence. She gave Pickering the story as cold hard facts. When she was finished, Pickering did not respond for several seconds.
   “Ms. Sexton,” he finally said, “all of you...” He moved his gaze to each of them. “If what you’re saying is true, and I cannot imagine why three of you would lie about this, you are all very lucky to be alive.”
   They all nodded in silence. The President had called in four civilian scientists... and two of them were now dead.
   Pickering heaved a disconsolate sigh, as if he had no idea what to say next. The events clearly made little sense. “Is there any way,” Pickering asked, “that this insertion shaft you’re seeing in that GPR printout is a natural phenomenon?”
   Rachel shook her head. “It’s too perfect.” She unfolded the soggy GPR printout and held it up in front of the camera. “Flawless.”
   Pickering studied the image, scowling in agreement. “Don’t let that out of your hands.”
   “I called Marjorie Tench to warn her to stop the President,” Rachel said. “But she shut me down.”
   “I know. She told me.”
   Rachel looked up, stunned. “Marjorie Tench called you?” That was fast.
   “Just now. She’s very concerned. She feels you are attempting some kind of stunt to discredit the President and NASA. Perhaps to help your father.”
   Rachel stood up. She waved the GPR printout and motioned to her two companions. “We were almost killed! Does this look like some kind of stunt? And why would I—”
   Pickering held up his hands. “Easy. What Ms. Tench failed to tell me was that there were three of you.”
   Rachel could not recall if Tench had even given her time to mention Corky and Tolland.
   “Nor did she tell me you had physical evidence,” Pickering said. “I was skeptical of her claims before I spoke to you, and now I am convinced she is mistaken. I do not doubt your claims. The question at this point is what it all means.”
   There was a long silence.
   William Pickering rarely looked confused, but he shook his head, seeming lost. “Let’s assume for the moment that someone did insert this meteorite beneath the ice. That begs the obvious issue of why. If NASA has a meteorite with fossils in it, why would they, or anyone else for that matter, care where it is found?”
   “It appears,” Rachel said, “that the insertion was performed such that PODS would make the discovery, and the meteorite would appear to be a fragment from a known impact.”
   “The Jungersol Fall,” Corky prompted.
   “But of what value is the meteorite’s association with a known impact?” Pickering demanded, sounding almost mad. “Aren’t these fossils an astounding discovery anywhere and anytime? No matter what meteoritic event they are associated with?”
   All three nodded.
   Pickering hesitated, looking displeased. “Unless... of course...”
   Rachel saw the wheels turning behind the director’s eyes. He had found the simplest explanation for placing the meteorite concurrent with the Jungersol strata, but the simplest explanation was also the most troubling.
   “Unless,” Pickering continued, “the careful placement was intended to lend credibility to totally false data.” He sighed, turning to Corky. “Dr. Marlinson, what is the possibility that this meteorite is a counterfeit.”
   “Counterfeit, sir?”
   “Yes. A fake. Manufactured.”
   “A fake meteorite?” Corky gave an awkward laugh. “Utterly impossible! That meteorite was examined by professionals. Myself included. Chemical scans, spectrograph, rubidium-strontium dating. It is unlike any kind of rock ever seen on earth. The meteorite is authentic. Any astrogeologist would agree.”
   Pickering seemed to consider this a long time, gently stroking his tie. “And yet taking into account the amount NASA has to gain from this discovery right now, the apparent signs of tampering with evidence, and your being attacked... the first and only logical conclusion I can draw is that this meteorite is a well-executed fraud.”
   “Impossible!” Corky sounded angry now. “With all respect, sir, meteorites are not some Hollywood special effect that can be conjured up in a lab to fool a bunch of unsuspecting astrophysicists. They are chemically complex objects with unique crystalline structures and element ratios!”
   “I am not challenging you, Dr. Marlinson. I am simply following a logical chain of analysis. Considering someone wanted to kill you to keep you from revealing it was inserted under the ice, I’m inclined to entertain all kinds of wild scenarios here. What specifically makes you certain this rock is indeed a meteorite?”
   “Specifically?” Corky’s voice cracked in the headphones. “A flawless fusion crust, the presence of chondrules, a nickel ratio unlike anything ever found on earth. If you’re suggesting that someone tricked us by manufacturing this rock in a lab, then all I can say is that the lab was about 190 million years old.” Corky dug in his pocket and pulled out a stone shaped like a CD. He held it in front of the camera. “We chemically dated samples like this with numerous methods. Rubidium-strontium dating is not something you can fake!”
   Pickering looked surprised. “You have a sample?”
   Corky shrugged. “NASA had dozens of them floating around.”
   “You mean to tell me,” Pickering said, looking at Rachel now, “that NASA discovered a meteorite they think contains life, and they’re letting people walk off with samples?”
   “The point,” Corky said, “is that the sample in my hands is genuine.” He held the rock close to the camera. “You could give this to any petrologist or geologist or astronomer on earth, they would run tests, and they would tell you two things: one, it is 190 million years old; and two, it is chemically dissimilar from the kind of rock we have here on earth.”
   Pickering leaned forward, studying the fossil embedded in the rock. He seemed momentarily transfixed. Finally, he sighed. “I am not a scientist. All I can say is that if that meteorite is genuine, which it appears it is, I would like to know why NASA didn’t present it to the world at face value? Why has someone carefully placed it under the ice as if to persuade us of its authenticity?”

* * *

   At that moment, inside the White House, a security officer was dialing Marjorie Tench.
   The senior adviser answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”
   “Ms. Tench,” the officer said, “I have the information you requested earlier. The radiophone call that Rachel Sexton placed to you earlier this evening. We have the trace.”
   “Tell me.”
   “Secret Service ops says the signal originated aboard the naval submarine U.S.S. Charlotte. ”
   “What!”
   “They don’t have coordinates, ma’am, but they are certain of the vessel code.”
   “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Tench slammed down the receiver without another word.

 72
   The muted acoustics of the Charlotte’s dead room were starting to make Rachel feel mildly nauseated. On-screen, William Pickering’s troubled gaze moved now to Michael Tolland. “You’re quiet, Mr. Tolland.”
   Tolland glanced up like a student who had been called on unexpectedly. “Sir?”
   “You just gave quite a convincing documentary on television,” Pickering said. “What’s your take on the meteorite now?”
   “Well, sir,” Tolland said, his discomfort obvious, “I have to agree with Dr. Marlinson. I believe the fossils and meteorite are authentic. I’m fairly well versed in dating techniques, and the age of that stone was confirmed by multiple tests. The nickel content as well. These data cannot be forged. There exists no doubt the rock, formed 190 million years ago, exhibits nonterrestrial nickel ratios and contains dozens of confirmed fossils whose formation is also dated at 190 million years. I can think of no other possible explanation than that NASA has found an authentic meteorite.”
   Pickering fell silent now. His expression was one of quandary, a look Rachel had never before seen on William Pickering.
   “What should we do, sir?” Rachel asked. “Obviously we need to alert the President there are problems with the data.”
   Pickering frowned. “Let’s hope the President doesn’t already know.”
   Rachel felt a knot rise in her throat. Pickering’s implication was clear. President Herney could be involved. Rachel strongly doubted it, and yet both the President and NASA had plenty to gain here.
   “Unfortunately,” Pickering said, “with the exception of this GPR printout revealing an insertion shaft, all of the scientific data points to a credible NASA discovery.” He paused, dire. “And this issue of your being attacked...” He looked up at Rachel. “You mentioned special ops.”
   “Yes, sir.” She told him again about the Improvised Munitions and tactics.
   Pickering looked more and more unhappy by the moment. Rachel sensed her boss was contemplating the number of people who might have access to a small military kill force. Certainly the President had access. Probably Marjorie Tench too, as senior adviser. Quite possibly NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom with his ties to the Pentagon. Unfortunately, as Rachel considered the myriad of possibilities, she realized the controlling force behind the attack could have been almost anyone with high-level political clout and the right connections.
   “I could phone the President right now,” Pickering said, “but I don’t think that’s wise, at least until we know who’s involved. My ability to protect you becomes limited once we involve the White House. In addition, I’m not sure what I would tell him. If the meteorite is real, which you all feel it is, then your allegation of an insertion shaft and attack doesn’t make sense; the President would have every right to question the validity of my claim.” He paused as if calculating the options. “Regardless... whatever the truth is or who the players are, some very powerful people will take hits if this information goes public. I suggest we get you to safety right away, before we start rocking any boats.”
   Get us to safety? The comment surprised Rachel. “I think we’re fairly safe on a nuclear submarine, sir.”
   Pickering looked skeptical. “Your presence on that submarine won’t stay secret long. I’m pulling you out immediately. Frankly, I’ll feel better when the three of you are sitting in my office.”

 73
   Senator Sexton huddled alone on his couch feeling like a refugee. His Westbrooke Place apartment that had only an hour ago been filled with new friends and supporters now looked forsaken, scattered with the rubble of snifters and business cards, abandoned by men who had quite literally dashed out the door.
   Now Sexton crouched in solitude before his television, wanting more than anything to turn it off and yet being unable to pull himself from the endless media analyses. This was Washington, and it didn’t take long for the analysts to rush through their pseudoscientific and philosophical hyperbole and lock in on the ugly stuff—the politics. Like torture masters rubbing acid in Sexton’s wounds, the newscasters were stating and restating the obvious.
   “Hours ago, Sexton’s campaign was soaring,” one analyst said. “Now, with NASA’s discovery, the senator’s campaign has crashed back to earth.”
   Sexton winced, reaching for the Courvoisier and taking a hit right out of the bottle. Tonight, he knew, would be the longest and loneliest night of his life. He despised Marjorie Tench for setting him up. He despised Gabrielle Ashe for ever mentioning NASA in the first place. He despised the President for being so goddamned lucky. And he despised the world for laughing at him.
   “Obviously, this is devastating for the senator,” the analyst was saying. “The President and NASA have claimed an incalculable triumph with this discovery. News like this would revitalize the President’s campaign regardless of Sexton’s position on NASA, but with Sexton’s admission today that he would go so far as to abolish NASA funding outright if need be... well, this presidential announcement is a one-two punch from which the senator will not recover.”
   I was tricked, Sexton said. The White House fucking set me up.
   The analyst was smiling now. “All of the credibility NASA has lost with Americans recently has just been restored in spades. There’s a real feeling of national pride out there on the streets right now.”
   “As there should be. They love Zach Herney, and they were losing faith. You’ve got to admit, the President was lying down and took some pretty big hits recently, but he’s come out of it smelling like a rose.”
   Sexton thought of the CNN debate that afternoon and hung his head, thinking he might be sick to his stomach. All of the NASA inertia he had so carefully built up over the last months had not only come to a screeching halt, but it had become an anchor around his neck. He looked like a fool. He’d been brazenly played by the White House. He was already dreading all the cartoons in tomorrow’s paper. His name would be the punch line to every joke in the country. Obviously, there would be no more quiet SFF campaign funding. Everything had changed. All of the men who had been in his apartment had just seen their dreams go down the toilet. The privatization of space had just struck a brick wall.
   Taking another hit of cognac, the senator stood up and walked unevenly to his desk. He gazed down at the unhooked phone receiver. Knowing it was an act of masochistic self-flagellation, he slowly replaced the phone receiver in its cradle and began counting the seconds.
   One... two... The phone rang. He let the machine pick up.
   “Senator Sexton, Judy Oliver from CNN. I’d like to give you an opportunity to react to the NASA discovery this evening. Please call me.” She hung up.
   Sexton started counting again. One... The phone started ringing. He ignored it, letting the machine get it. Another reporter.
   Holding his bottle of Courvoisier, Sexton wandered toward the sliding door of his balcony. He pulled it aside and stepped out into the cool air. Leaning against the railing, he gazed out across town to the illuminated facade of the White House in the distance. The lights seemed to twinkle gleefully in the wind.
   Bastards, he thought. For centuries we’ve been looking for proof of life in the heavens. Now we find it in the same fucking year as my election? This wasn’t propitious, this was goddamned clairvoyant. Every apartment window for as far as Sexton could see had a television on. Sexton wondered where Gabrielle Ashe was tonight. This was all her fault. She’d fed him NASA failure after NASA failure.
   He raised the bottle to take another swig.
   Goddamned Gabrielle... she’s the reason I’m in this so deep.

* * *

   Across town, standing amid the chaos of the ABC production room, Gabrielle Ashe felt numb. The President’s announcement had come out of left field, leaving her suspended in a semicatatonic haze. She stood, lock-kneed in the center of the production room floor, staring up at one of the television monitors while pandemonium raged around her.
   The initial seconds of the announcement had brought dead silence to the newsroom floor. It had lasted only moments before the place erupted into a deafening carnival of scrambling reporters. These people were professionals. They had no time for personal reflection. There would be time for that after the work was done. At the moment, the world wanted to know more, and ABC had to provide it. This story had everything—science, history, political drama—an emotional mother lode. Nobody in the media was sleeping tonight.
   “Gabs?” Yolanda’s voice was sympathetic. “Let’s get you back into my office before someone realizes who you are and starts grilling you on what this means for Sexton’s campaign.”
   Gabrielle felt herself guided through a haze into Yolanda’s glass-walled office. Yolanda sat her down and handed her a glass of water. She tried to force a smile. “Look on the bright side, Gabs. Your candidate’s campaign is fucked, but at least you’re not.”
   “Thanks. Terrific.”
   Yolanda’s tone turned serious. “Gabrielle, I know you feel like shit. Your candidate just got hit by a Mack truck, and if you ask me, he’s not getting up. At least not in time to turn this thing around. But at least nobody’s splashing your picture all over the television. Seriously. This is good news. Herney won’t need a sex scandal now. He’s looking far too presidential right now to talk sex.”
   It seemed a small consolation to Gabrielle.
   “As for Tench’s allegations of Sexton’s illegal campaign finance...” Yolanda shook her head. “I have my doubts. Granted, Herney is serious about no negative campaigning. And granted, a bribery investigation would be bad for the country. But is Herney really so patriotic that he would forgo a chance to crush his opposition, simply to protect national morale? My guess is Tench stretched the truth about Sexton’s finances in an effort to scare. She gambled, hoping you’d jump ship and give the President a free sex scandal. And you’ve got to admit, Gabs, tonight would have been a hell of a night for Sexton’s morals to come into question!”
   Gabrielle nodded vaguely. A sex scandal would have been a one-two punch from which Sexton’s career never would have recovered... ever.
   “You outlasted her, Gabs. Marjorie Tench went fishing, but you didn’t bite. You’re home free. There’ll be other elections.”
   Gabrielle nodded vaguely, unsure what to believe anymore.
   “You’ve got to admit,” Yolanda said, “the White House played Sexton brilliantly—luring him down the NASA path, getting him to commit, coaxing him to put all his eggs in the NASA basket.”
   Totally my fault, Gabrielle thought.
   “And this announcement we just watched, my God, it was genius! The importance of the discovery entirely aside, the production values were brilliant. Live feeds from the Arctic? A Michael Tolland documentary? Good God, how can you compete? Zach Herney nailed it tonight. There’s a reason the guy is President.”
   And will be for another four years...
   “I’ve got to get back to work, Gabs,” Yolanda said. “You sit right there as long as you want. Get your feet under you.” Yolanda headed out the door. “Hon, I’ll check back in a few minutes.”
   Alone now, Gabrielle sipped her water, but it tasted foul. Everything did. It’s all my fault, she thought, trying to ease her conscience by reminding herself of all the glum NASA press conferences of the past year—the space station setbacks, the postponement of the X-33, all the failed Mars probes, continuous budget bailouts. Gabrielle wondered what she could have done differently.
   Nothing, she told herself. You did everything right.
   It had simply backfired.

 74
   The thundering navy SeaHawk chopper had been scrambled under a covert operation status out of Thule Air Force Base in northern Greenland. It stayed low, out of radar range, as it shot through the gale winds across seventy miles of open sea. Then, executing the bizarre orders they had been given, the pilots fought the wind and brought the craft to a hover above a pre-ordained set of coordinates on the empty ocean.
   “Where’s the rendezvous?” the copilot yelled, confused. They had been told to bring a chopper with a rescue winch, so he anticipated a search-and-retrieve operation. “You sure these are the right coordinates?” He scanned the choppy seas with a searchlight, but there was nothing below them except—
   “Holy shit!” The pilot pulled back on the stick, jolting upward.
   The black mountain of steel rose before them out of the waves without warning. A gargantuan unmarked submarine blew its ballast and rose on a cloud of bubbles.
   The pilots exchanged uneasy laughs. “Guess that’s them.”
   As ordered, the transaction proceeded under complete radio silence. The doublewide portal on the peak of the sail opened and a seaman flashed them signals with a strobe light. The chopper then moved over the sub and dropped a three-man rescue harness, essentially three rubberized loops on a retractable cable. Within sixty seconds, the three unknown “danglers” were swinging beneath the chopper, ascending slowly against the downdraft of the rotors.
   When the copilot hauled them aboard—two men and a woman—the pilot flashed the sub the “all clear.” Within seconds, the enormous vessel disappeared beneath the windswept sea, leaving no trace it had ever been there.
   With the passengers safely aboard, the chopper pilot faced front, dipped the nose of the chopper, and accelerated south to complete his mission. The storm was closing fast, and these three strangers were to be brought safely back to Thule AFB for further jet transport. Where they were headed, the pilot had no idea. All he knew was that his orders had been from high up, and he was transporting very precious cargo.

 75
   When the Milne storm finally exploded, unleashing its full force on the NASA habisphere, the dome shuddered as if ready to lift off the ice and launch out to sea. The steel stabilizing cables pulled taut against their stakes, vibrating like huge guitar strings and letting out a doleful drone. The generators outside stuttered, causing the lights to flicker, threatening to plunge the huge room into total blackness.
   NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom strode across the interior of the dome. He wished he were getting the hell out of here tonight, but that was not to be. He would remain another day, giving additional on-site press conferences in the morning and overseeing preparations to transport the meteorite back to Washington. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to get some sleep; the day’s unexpected problems had taken a lot out of him.
   Ekstrom’s thoughts turned yet again to Wailee Ming, Rachel Sexton, Norah Mangor, Michael Tolland, and Corky Marlinson. Some of the NASA staff had begun noticing the civilians were missing.
   Relax, Ekstrom told himself. Everything is under control.
   He breathed deeply, reminding himself that everyone on the planet was excited about NASA and space right now. Extraterrestrial life hadn’t been this exciting a topic since the famous “Roswell incident” back in 1947—the alleged crash of an alien spaceship in Roswell, New Mexico, which was now the shrine to millions of UFO-conspiracy theorists even today.
   During Ekstrom’s years working at the Pentagon, he had learned that the Roswell incident had been nothing more than a military accident during a classified operation called Project Mogul—the flight test of a spy balloon being designed to listen in on Russian atomic tests. A prototype, while being tested, had drifted off course and crashed in the New Mexico desert. Unfortunately, a civilian found the wreckage before the military did.
   Unsuspecting rancher William Brazel had stumbled across a debris field of radical synthesized neoprene and lightweight metals unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he immediately called in the sheriff. Newspapers carried the story of the bizarre wreckage, and public interest grew fast. Fueled by the military’s denial that the wreckage was theirs, reporters launched investigations, and the covert status of Project Mogul came into serious jeopardy. Just as it seemed the sensitive issue of a spy balloon was about to be revealed, something wonderful happened.
   The media drew an unexpected conclusion. They decided the scraps of futuristic substance could only have come from an extraterrestrial source—creatures more scientifically advanced than humans. The military’s denial of the incident obviously had to be one thing only—a cover-up of contact with aliens! Although baffled by this new hypothesis, the air force was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. They grabbed the alien story and ran with it; the world’s suspicion that aliens were visiting New Mexico was far less a threat to national security than that of the Russians catching wind of Project Mogul.
   To fuel the alien cover story, the intelligence community shrouded the Roswell incident in secrecy and began orchestrating “security leaks”—quiet murmurings of alien contacts, recovered spaceships, and even a mysterious “Hangar 18” at Dayton’s Wright-Patterson Air Force Base where the government was keeping alien bodies on ice. The world bought the story, and Roswell fever swept the globe. From that moment on, whenever a civilian mistakenly spotted an advanced U.S. military aircraft, the intelligence community simply dusted off the old conspiracy.
   That’s not an aircraft, that’s an alien spaceship!
   Ekstrom was amazed to think this simple deception was still working today. Every time the media reported a sudden flurry of UFO sightings, Ekstrom had to laugh. Chances were some lucky civilian had caught a glimpse of one of the NRO’s fifty-seven fast-moving, unmanned reconnaissance aircraft known as Global Hawks—oblong, remote-controlled aircraft that looked like nothing else in the sky.
   Ekstrom found it pathetic that countless tourists still made pilgrimages to the New Mexico desert to scan the night skies with their video cameras. Occasionally one got lucky and captured “hard evidence” of a UFO—bright lights flitting around the sky with more maneuverability and speed than any aircraft humans had ever built. What these people failed to realize, of course, was that there existed a twelve-year lag between what the government could build and what the public knew about. These UFO-gazers were simply catching a glimpse of the next generation of U.S. aircraft being developed out at Area 51—many of which were the brainstorms of NASA engineers. Of course, intelligence officials never corrected the misconception; it was obviously preferable that the world read about another UFO sighting than to have people learn the U.S. military’s true flight capabilities.
   But everything has changed now, Ekstrom thought. In a few hours, the extraterrestrial myth would become a confirmed reality, forever.
   “Administrator?” A NASA technician hurried across the ice behind him. “You have an emergency secure call in the PSC.”
   Ekstrom sighed, turning. What the hell could it be now? He headed for the communications trailer.
   The technician hurried along beside him. “The guys manning the radar in the PSC were curious, sir...”
   “Yeah?” Ekstrom’s thoughts were still far away.
   “The fat-body sub stationed off the coast here? We were wondering why you didn’t mention it to us.”
   Ekstrom glanced up. “I’m sorry?”
   “The submarine, sir? You could have at least told the guys on radar. Additional seaboard security is understandable, but it took our radar team off guard.”
   Ekstrom stopped short. “What submarine?”
   The technician stopped now too, clearly not expecting the administrator’s surprise. “She’s not part of our operation?”
   “No! Where is it?”
   The technician swallowed hard. “About three miles out. We caught her on radar by chance. Only surfaced for a couple minutes. Pretty big blip. Had to be a fat-body. We figured you’d asked the navy to stand watch over this op without telling any of us.”
   Ekstrom stared. “I most certainly did not!”
   Now the technician’s voice wavered. “Well, sir, then I guess I should inform you that a sub just rendezvoused with an aircraft right off the coast here. Looked like a personnel change. Actually, we were all pretty impressed anyone would attempt a wet-dry vertical in this kind of wind.”
   Ekstrom felt his muscles stiffen. What the hell is a submarine doing directly off the coast of Ellesmere Island without my knowledge? “Did you see what direction the aircraft flew after rendezvous?”
   “Back toward Thule air base. For connecting transport to the mainland, I assume.”
   Ekstrom said nothing the rest of the way to the PSC. When he entered the cramped darkness, the hoarse voice on the line had a familiar rasp.
   “We’ve got a problem,” Tench said, coughing as she spoke. “It’s about Rachel Sexton.”

 76
   Senator Sexton was not sure how long he had been staring into space when he heard the pounding. When he realized the throbbing in his ears was not from the alcohol but rather from someone at his apartment door, he got up from the couch, stowed the bottle of Courvoisier, and made his way to the foyer.
   “Who is it?” Sexton yelled, in no mood for visitors.
   His bodyguard’s voice called in with the identity of Sexton’s unexpected guest. Sexton sobered instantly. That was fast. Sexton had hoped not to have to have this conversation until morning.
   Taking a deep breath and straightening his hair, Sexton opened the door. The face before him was all too familiar—tough and leathery despite the man’s seventy-something years. Sexton had met with him only this morning in the white Ford Windstar minivan in a hotel parking garage. Was it only this morning? Sexton wondered. God, how things had changed since then.
   “May I come in?” the dark-haired man asked.
   Sexton stepped aside, allowing the head of the Space Frontier Foundation to pass.
   “Did the meeting go well?” the man asked, as Sexton closed the door.
   Did it go well? Sexton wondered if the man lived in a cocoon. “Things were terrific until the President came on television.”
   The old man nodded, looking displeased. “Yes. An incredible victory. It will hurt our cause greatly.”
   Hurt our cause? Here was an optimist. With NASA’s triumph tonight, this guy would be dead and buried before the Space Frontier Foundation attained their goals of privatization.
   “For years I have suspected proof was forthcoming,” the old man said. “I did not know how or when, but sooner or later we had to know for sure.”
   Sexton was stunned. “You’re not surprised?”
   “The mathematics of the cosmos virtually requires other life-forms,” the man said, moving toward Sexton’s den. “I am not surprised that this discovery has been made. Intellectually, I am thrilled. Spiritually, I am in awe. Politically, I am deeply disturbed. The timing could not be worse.”
   Sexton wondered why the man had come. It sure as hell wasn’t to cheer him up.
   “As you know,” the man said, “SFF member companies have spent millions trying to open the frontier of space to private citizens. Recently, much of that money has gone to your campaign.”
   Sexton felt suddenly defensive. “I had no control over tonight’s fiasco. The White House baited me to attack NASA!”
   “Yes. The President played the game well. And yet, all may not be lost.” There was an odd glint of hope in the old man’s eyes.
   He’s senile, Sexton decided. All was definitely lost. Every station on television right now was talking about the destruction of the Sexton campaign.
   The old man showed himself into the den, sat on the couch, and fixed his tired eyes on the senator. “Do you recall,” the man said, “the problems NASA initially had with the anomaly software onboard the PODS satellite?”
   Sexton could not imagine where this was headed. What the hell difference does that make now? PODS found a goddamned meteorite with fossils!
   “If you remember,” the man said. “The onboard software did not function properly at first. You made a big deal of it in the press.”
   “As I should have!” Sexton said, sitting down opposite the man. “It was another NASA failure!”
   The man nodded. “I agree. But shortly after that, NASA held a press conference announcing they had come up with a work-around—some sort of patch for the software.”
   Sexton hadn’t actually seen the press conference, but he’d heard it was short, flat, and hardly newsworthy—the PODS project leader giving a dull technical description of how NASA had overcome a minor glitch in PODS’s anomaly-detection software and gotten everything up and running.
   “I have been watching PODS with interest ever since it failed,” the man said. He produced a videocassette and walked to Sexton’s television, putting the video in the VCR. “This should interest you.”
   The video began to play. It showed the NASA press room at headquarters in Washington. A well-dressed man was taking the podium and greeting the audience. The subtitle beneath the podium read:

CHRIS HARPER,
Section Manager
Polar Orbiting Density Scanner Satellite (PODS)

   Chris Harper was tall, refined, and spoke with the quiet dignity of a European American who still clung proudly to his roots. His accent was erudite and polished. He was addressing the press with confidence, giving them some bad news about PODS.
   “Although the PODS satellite is in orbit and functioning well, we have a minor setback with the onboard computers. A minor programming error for which I take full responsibility. Specifically, the FIR filter has a faulty voxel index, which means the PODS’s anomaly-detection software is not functioning properly. We’re working on a fix.”
   The crowd sighed, apparently accustomed to NASA letdowns. “What does that mean for the current effectiveness of the satellite?” someone asked.
   Harper took it like a pro. Confident and matter-of-fact. “Imagine a perfect set of eyes without a functioning brain. Essentially the PODS satellite is seeing twenty-twenty, but it has no idea what it’s looking at. The purpose of the PODS mission is to look for melt pockets in the polar ice cap, but without the computer to analyze the density data PODS receives from its scanners, PODS cannot discern where the points of interest are. We should have the situation remedied after the next shuttle mission can make an adjustment to the onboard computer.”
   A groan of disappointment rose in the room.
   The old man glanced over at Sexton. “He presents bad news pretty well, doesn’t he?”
   “He’s from NASA,” Sexton grumbled. “That’s what they do.”
   The VCR tape went blank for an instant and then switched to another NASA press conference.
   “This second press conference,” the old man said to Sexton, “was given only a few weeks ago. Quite late at night. Few people saw it. This time Dr. Harper is announcing good news.”
   The footage launched. This time Chris Harper looked disheveled and uneasy. “I am pleased to announce,” Harper said, sounding anything but pleased, “that NASA has found a work-around for the PODS satellite’s software problem.” He fumbled through an explanation of the work-around—something about redirecting the raw data from PODS and sending it through computers here on earth rather than relying on the onboard PODS computer. Everyone seemed impressed. It all sounded quite feasible and exciting. When Harper was done, the room gave him an enthusiastic round of applause.
   “So we can expect data soon?” someone in the audience asked.
   Harper nodded, sweating. “A couple of weeks.”
   More applause. Hands shot up around the room.
   “That’s all I have for you now,” Harper said, looking ill as he packed up his papers. “PODS is up and running. We’ll have data soon.” He practically ran off the stage.
   Sexton scowled. He had to admit, this was odd. Why did Chris Harper look so comfortable giving bad news and so uncomfortable giving good news? It should have been in reverse. Sexton hadn’t actually seen this press conference when it aired, although he’d read about the software fix. The fix, at the time, seemed an inconsequential NASA salvage; the public perception remained unimpressed—PODS was just another NASA project that had malfunctioned and was being awkwardly patched together with a less than ideal solution.
   The old man turned off the television. “NASA claimed Dr. Harper was not feeling well that night.” He paused. “I happen to think Harper was lying.”
   Lying? Sexton stared, his fuzzy thoughts unable to piece together any logical rationale for why Harper would have lied about the software. Still, Sexton had told enough lies in his life to recognize a poor liar when he saw one. He had to admit, Dr. Harper sure looked suspicious.
   “Perhaps you don’t realize?” the old man said. “This little announcement you just heard Chris Harper give is the single most important press conference in NASA history.” He paused. “That convenient software fix he just described is what allowed PODS to find the meteorite.”
   Sexton puzzled. And you think he was lying about it? “But, if Harper was lying, and the PODS software isn’t really working, then how the hell did NASA find the meteorite?”
   The old man smiled. “Exactly.”