The Nexus Colony (23 page)

Fifteen minutes later, the group had established the digging routine. The picks and shovel bars Ruger had brought along were more than sufficient to gouge away at the ice. It was hard and solid, but with a little extra effort, they managed to fracture the ice in some places, enabling then to take away huge chunks of the wall.

Ruger had just finished his five minute digging interval, and was now resting while Almshouse resumed digging in the spot. Looking upward at the structural beam, which was cast in an eerie glow from the lantern light, he was suddenly overcome with the enormity of the situation.
What if we do find a dome behind the wall?
he asked himself. The complications for the Antarctic continent would change the face of the last real frontier on Earth. If there was a dome, or a vessel as Abbott had suggested, it would mean that somebody—maybe not even
human
somebodies—had been in this land before. And if Almshouse and Grimes were right, it could have been thousands and thousands of years ago.

Here are some real sobering thoughts for the ages,
Ruger mused. It might even change the perception of civilized history. But that was for the intellectuals.
For people like me
, Ruger thought,
it means the end of an era.
The Antarctica continent will go the way of all human settlements. The cycle from natural bliss to ruination. They were standing on the threshold of what might turn out to be a wondrous discovery, but instead, Mike Ruger found himself selfishly wishing that they find nothing and the crevasse closes itself up, sealing forever the deep, dark secret that
The Ice
has held since the beginning of its time.

But when Lisk tapped him on the shoulder, signaling it was his turn again to dig, Ruger took the pick and hesitated only a moment before resuming. With a powerful thrust, the pick gouged into the ice, and a huge piece of the wall fractured and fell at their feet. Despite his reluctance to destroy Antarctica, Ruger knew that Abbott had been right about one thing he told had him up on the ridge.
You don’t have a choice. You are compelled to find out just like me.

* * * * *

On the surface where the other three men stood in the midst of a frigid quietude, only the low drone of the idling generator broke the silence. The occasional wind heralded the subtle change that was taking place outside the realm of human perception. But that was the way
The Visitors
wanted it. It was the way
they
existed inter-dimensionally.

Where before there had been an adversarial relationship between the two military men and their civilian charge, it was now as if no remembrance of past events existed. In human terms, it was nothing more than a cordial request and a cursory response when Lightfoot announced, “I’m going back down to the camp for a little while.”

To which Colonel Prall responded with a smile, “Sure. Don’t be long now.”

“Be careful driving that snowmobile,” Donnie Monroe said. “Those things can get away from you if you’re not careful with them.”

“Thanks,” Lightfoot responded. “Thanks a lot.” He felt good about having two such good companions to pass the time with out here in the cold.

Prall and Monroe turned away from the winch to wave good-by as Lightfoot mounted the machine. Lightfoot waved back. “Hey,” he called out. “Would you guys like for me to bring some hot coffee?”

“That’s a good idea,” Prall responded. “I’d like that. How about it, Donnie?”

“Sounds great!”

“Well, I’ll do it!” Lightfoot responded, then started the machine and moved off slowly down the slope toward the camp.

The air was charged with an incredible amount of static electricity, and underneath the layers of their garments, all three men could feel their hairs standing on end as the static discharged and sent tingles all over their bodies. It was an eerie sensation, nothing that would harm them, but enough to cause nervous laughter, though neither of the two men left standing on the ridge mentioned it to each other.

In the minds of Gerald Prall and Donnie Monroe, their visual perception was interpreting their colleague driving slowly away down the slope toward the camp. The sky was blue and the sun cast its normal orangish glow across the glacial field, and the ice crystals sparkled in the distance like dancing fairies across the gray sastrugi. In the mind’s eye, a spectacular panorama of Antarctic desolation.

The buzzing of the bees began in John Lightfoot’s ears about halfway down the slope.
Funny that bees should be out here on
The Ice, he thought. But it didn’t disturb him that they were.
What’s that smell? It smells like the air after a summer thunderstorm. It’s ozone.

As Lightfoot reached the rim of the camp, the buzzing got much louder in his head, and he wished it would go away. He liked the wonderful feeling he was experiencing at this moment, otherwise the bees would have been very annoying.

Lightfoot slowed the machine and drove it directly to the exact spot where his friend, Mike Ruger, had instructed him to park it. Mike was a nice man, and he wanted to do everything just right for Mike, so Mike wouldn’t get mad at him again.
Boy, he sure was mad at me
yesterday,
Lightfoot thought.
I’m glad we’re friends again.

Dismounting, Lightfoot moved toward the center of the camp where the remaining sleds were neatly stored side by side. As he approached them, slowly they began to move apart, almost as if by magic some invisible hand was re-arranging them to make a wide opening in their midst.
Mike is going to be mad at you
, he thought to whoever was doing this. The subtle wind was blowing against his face.
It must be the wind that is moving the sleds.

Its entry into the dimensional reality of the human world was instantaneous, and had the other two men been able to coordinate their sensory perception, their minds would have interpreted a strangely configured craft appearing over the glacial field outside the perimeter of the camp. As the alien vessel slowly settled—its molecular structure re-aligning the energy fields which had been disrupted by its momentary journey through inter-dimensional space and time—it floated gently like a leaf, back and forth, back and forth, swaying in complete contradiction to the gusting winds that unexpectedly were arising.

John Lightfoot saw it. Unafraid, he watched the saucer-shaped craft gain stability, then suddenly come to life as the row of lights on the upper cupola began to blink a multi-colored array. Red… green…blue…white…The lights repeated the same sequential pattern. Then he noticed the abrupt change of the odor around him. He didn’t know what this new odor was, but it was offensive and he didn’t like it at all.

It moved silently toward him. The wind, which was now blowing strongly, did not seem to be affecting the vessel. The wind gusts were pushing him off balance, and he struggled to hold his ground and to keep from falling down. Struggling to keep afoot, he couldn’t take his eyes off the strange vessel. It looked as if the craft was animated, moving stealthily through the air like a ghostly apparition silhouetted against the backdrop of a desolate sky quickly changed from blue to billows of ominous charcoal gray clouds.

As it came to a stop directly over him, the wind abruptly ceased, and John Lightfoot stood in the midst of an unusual warm flow of air surrounding him. It reminded him of being in the woods on a summer day when the rays of warm sunlight come down through the forest canopy. It was a wonderful feeling, and he looked upward through the blue mist that was now engulfing him.

Floating. The sensation of floating through the air registered in his brain. He looked around to see if he could still observe his friends up on the ridge. He was now high above the campsite.
Yes. They are still there. They’re waving. Waving good-by.

As silently as it had begun, it was ended. John Lightfoot waved back. That was the last thing he would remember on the Mulock Glacier.

“I
really don’t know why Willard didn’t want to come to lunch with us,” Rula Koslovsky commented, visibly annoyed that their colleague had opted to stay back at the house.

The sport utility vehicle, driven by Maggie, turned out onto the main road and headed toward the Beltway. She had made lunch reservations for the five of them at a place recommended by a lot of her friends. Nothing had happened since yesterday, and Korbett decided that they were all going to take a few hours for lunch at one of the more expensive eateries along the main artery. His expense account could use a little damage, Maggie rationalized. Korbett hardly ever took advantage of the taxpayers’ money, and Maggie decided that today was a good day to do it. The weather was crystal clear and sunny despite the temperature being in the teens.

“I’m glad he didn’t come,” Maislin replied. “The man’s got horrible table manners.”

“Would have been too crowded anyway,” Vandergrif grumbled from the back seat, his huge shoulders scrunched in the middle between Korbett and Maislin. Rula, who was a large woman, was graciously maneuvered into the front seat by Maggie to ride “shotgun.” As luck would have it, they hadn’t gotten a mile away from the house when Korbett’s cellular phone rang. It was Darbury. Could they come back? What for? Two messages just came over. Very interesting.

“How interesting?” Korbett asked, knowing they had to be careful not to compromise what was being said because of the non-secure cellular phone connection. Maggie turned down the radio and everyone tried to listen, but the road noise was too much and all they could hear was the metallic twang of Darbury’s voice.

“Well,” Darbury answered, “two messages. I think you ought to know about it right away, but obviously I can’t talk about them here for security reasons.”

Way to go, Darbury
, Korbett thought, rolling his eyes.
Why don’t you just announce what it is, you dumb cluck.

Korbett sighed. “Is this an emergency, Willard? Because if it isn’t, we’d like to eat some lunch first.”

There was a moment of silence. Everyone snickered as they tried to visualize Darbury making a decision the way he fidgeted and pursed his lips. It was rather comical.

“Well…I guess not. There’s nothing we’re going to do about it at the moment anyway.”

“Good,” Korbett snapped back, relieved that they weren’t going to be turning back. He was as hungry as hell today for some reason, and knew everyone else was as well. “If anything turns up, Willard, you call me back. Okay? If ‘you know who’ calls me…” he was referring to Ted Payne, “…make some excuse that I’m outside or something and call me back right away.”

“Sure,” Darbury snipped, annoyed that lunch was taking precedent over the two communiqués he was clutching in his hand.

“Good-by, Willard,” Korbett said, punching the ‘end’ button.

“What’s up?” Maislin asked.

“Two messages,” Korbett replied. “That’s all.”

“Did he say what?” Koslovsky asked.

“No. Just
very interesting
, the man said.”

“Obviously, he had the presence of mind not to say what,” Vandergrif commented.

“Obviously.”

Korbett said, “Not an emergency, I’m sure, or else Willard would have been off the wall. But it sounds like we’ve got another snag a-brewing just by the tone of his voice.” Everyone knew Willard was as transparent as hell.

“
Everything
is an emergency to that man,” Maislin said.

“He was right about one thing, though,” Korbett replied. “Nothing we can do about it at the moment anyway. Whatever it is.”

The restaurant came into view, and a few minutes later they had turned off the highway and into the parking lot, which was quite full.

“Popular place,” Vandergrif commented, leaning forward to look out the front windshield. “Food must be good. Anybody ever eat here?”

No one responded.

“Come on. Let’s get some lunch and relax a bit,” Korbett said, as everyone got out of the truck. “I guess I’d better call Willard back when we get inside to unruffle his feathers.”

Lunch turned out to be a disaster. The restaurant was jammed. Overcrowded. They had to wait an extra fifteen minutes which really annoyed the hell out of everyone. The service was terrible, the food came out cold, and Korbett never did get the second mug of beer that he had ordered. An hour and forty five minutes later, Maggie pulled the truck back into the basement garage of the house.

Willard Darbury, in his inimitable impatient fashion, waited like a ‘school-marm’ intent on punishing tardy students. All Darbury needed to say was,
what took you so long?
when they came through the study door and Eli Maislin probably would have throttled him. Korbett, anticipating the confrontation, quickly diffused it.

“Sorry we took so long, Willard,” he said, reaching for the one document Darbury was holding out to him. “You should have come along. Nice lunch.”

Darbury’s lips were pursed, his arms folded across his chest as he clutched the second report.

“Anybody call?” Korbett asked. “Ted Payne, maybe?”

“No. Nobody.”

“Can I see the other one?” Maislin asked casually, walking into the room behind Korbett.

Darbury walked away toward Korbett, ignoring the request. “Let the General read this one first.” He turned to face everyone. “It’s better all of you read that one
first
before we discuss this one.”

Everyone sat down at their usual seats around the table when Korbett motioned to them. After he had digested the contents of the one page report, he passed it around the table where everyone read it, doubling up. To anyone outside this group, Bill Korbett would have appeared to be calm and collective. But everyone sensed his outrage inside. Not about the fact that this photographer—what was his name, John Lightfoot?—had somehow infiltrated the group, but rather that somebody outside the project had authorized this person to be attached to the field team without Korbett’s knowledge. That order hadn’t come from the Oceana theater of operations. It had come right from someone in Washington. Somebody for sure was micro-managing Korbett’s project, and that somebody had to be Ted Payne or one of his cronies.

Korbett tried to relax his outrage. Better not let this cloud his judgment. The Lightfoot deal was done. The cards were already dealt. He had to play with the hand. Korbett was shaking his head in disgust when Maislin said, “This Lightfoot son-of-a-bitch has been with Abbott since yesterday.”

“And we’re just now getting the fact reported to us,” Korbett responded.

“This guy’s been there over twenty four hours,” Vandergrif said. “I can’t believe it. I mean, even with limited communications, we should have known about it.”

“Believe it,” Koslovsky said.

“Oh well,” Korbett responded, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I guess somebody didn’t think it too important to tell us about it until now.”

Darbury, who had remained standing, clutched at the second report. Darbury might be a royal pain in the ass, but Korbett could see in his eyes that the first report was inconsequential to what he was holding.

As Korbett reached out slowly for the report, he said to the group, “So…now we’ve got nine members on the field team. Guess we’ll have some good pictures for the family album, huh?”

“Maybe not,” Darbury responded, handing the document to Korbett. “Better prepare yourself for this one.”

There was another minute of silence as Korbett read the second one page report. As typical, his face showed no emotion or reaction. When he had digested the information, he looked up at Darbury. “I don’t imagine there’s a third report telling us whether Abbott knows about it?”

“No,” Darbury replied. “How could he know unless
we
tell him?”

There were a few more minutes of silence as everyone read the report. Darbury sat down, folding his hands up to his lips, deep in thought. Rula Koslovsky was the last one to read it.

“This makes thirteen,” she said.

“More importantly,” Korbett said, “I think we can put some of our speculation to rest. Don’t you agree?”

That
The Visitors
were trying to get their attention was no longer speculation. There was no doubt about it. Korbett looked at the report again. Vostok was some five hundred miles from the Mulock Glacier and even farther from McMurdo. This fellow Lightfoot, according to the report, had never set foot in Vostok.

“It doesn’t mean that all the equipment wasn’t stolen and somehow ended up there,” Korbett offered, even though the report stated that no planes had come in or out of Vostok for thirty six hours before the event. Korbett looked at their faces. “Just thinking out loud.”

“There’s one more very important twist to this event,” Darbury said, pausing for effect.

“And…” Korbett responded, coddling Darbury.

“Look at the frequency the message was transmitted on. Ring a bell?”

Everyone at the table shook their heads ‘no’.

Darbury walked over to the grease board where the matrix had the events displayed from the UFO database material. He circled in red the event from 1972 where the Chilean military had recorded two UFO’s that had weakened the 3200 KHz band. “That was the last recorded event in Antarctica until this year, remember?”

“Coincidence?” Vandergrif offered.

“I don’t
think
so,” Darbury answered sarcastically. “They wanted to get our attention. As far as I’m concerned, they got it.”

“But if they
really
wanted to get it,” Koslovsky said, “they’d do it out in the field at…” Her words hung in the air like a lead balloon.

For a moment, no one spoke, the prospect very sobering.

“I think we’d better consider pulling the team out, Bill,” Maislin said, which was the thought on everyone’s mind.

“We don’t know what’s going on out
there
, William,” Koslovsky said. “Eli might be right.”

Vandergrif said, “If our visitors stole the equipment…which seems quite possible from this report…God only knows what’s happening with the field team.”

Darbury leaned forward. “Maybe nothing.” They looked up. “Well…it hasn’t been out of the ordinary for them to take things in secret.”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and find out,” Korbett replied.

There was a moment of silence. Korbett unexpectedly slammed his fist on the table in outrage. “Damn!”

Koslovsky, trying to soften his frustration, calmly said, “There’s nothing more you can do, William. There really isn’t.”

“Damn!” he repeated again, getting up out of his chair. “The Department gives me this project and then has somebody else keeping closer tabs on things than I’ve been able to do.”

“We’re all in this together, Bill,” Maislin said, getting up and giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Maislin walked over to his favorite spot at the bay window overlooking the garden.

Korbett placed his hands on the table. His voice was soft, resolute, almost defeatist. “We’ll look at one more report from Abbott. Then I’ll make a decision whether to pull them out. I don’t know what else I can do.”

“Nothing, Bill,” Vandergrif said. “Nothing.”

“Well,” Darbury said. “I guess they’re lucky in one respect.”

“What’s that?” Koslovsky asked.

“At least our visitor friends didn’t take this Lightfoot fellow himself.”