Ben Bova - Voyagers

“We got the biggest crowd Vegas ever seen,” Bobby said, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing his brother. “National TV coverage on all three network news shows. Time magazine sniffing around. What more do you want?”

“We gotta give them something more than ‘Watch the Skies,’” Grodon said. “Willie’s got to take the next step, tell them something they haven’t heard before. Otherwise they’re gonna get tired of it and stay away.”

“We’re booked solid in Washington and Anaheim,” Bobby pointed out.

“Lemme tell you something,” Grodon said, jabbing a finger toward Bobby. “First big national promo campaign I worked on was for Mark Spitz…”

“Oh, the swimmer?”

“Yeah. We made Mark Spitz a household name. Everybody knew who he was, how he won seven gold medals in the Olympics. He was on every TV show there was. He was on posters. Wheaties boxes. Milk cartons. You name it. And six months later nobody knew who the fuck he was.”

Bobby’s round face pulled into a frown.

“Because,” Grodon explained, “the big schmuck had nothing to offer. He was a terrific swimmer, so what? He couldn’t sing. He couldn’t act. He couldn’t even read a joke off the cue cards. All he could do was take off his clothes, jump in the fuckin’ water and swim like a dolphin.”

“I don’t see…”

Grodon leaned forward on the jump seat until he was nearly touching noses with Bobby. “The thing is this—it’s easy to get attention. We’ve done that. Willie’s got everybody watching him, waiting for his Big Event. ‘Watch the Skies,’ he’s telling ’em. So they’re watching. But they ain’t seeing anything. Nothing’s happening .”

“It will.”

“Yeah?”

“If Willie says it will, it will.”

Grodon made a sour face. “Come on, Bobby. This is me, Charlie the Jew. Remember? Willie might believe all this crap he’s spouting but we can’t go off the deep end with him, for Chrissakes. Somebody’s gotta keep his head screwed on straight.”

“It’ll happen,” Bobby repeated stubbornly. “If Willie says it’s going to happen, it’ll happen.”

“When?”

“When it happens.”

“It better be soon. Damn’ soon. Because if something spectacular doesn’t happen soon, all those big crowds and those media people are gonna disappear…like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“It’s going to happen,” Willie said.

Both men turned toward him.

“It’s going to happen,” Willie repeated. “I know it will, just as sure as I know my heart’s beating. I don’t know what it’s going to be, or when it’ll come…”

“It better be soon,” Grodon muttered.

“Don’t worry so-much, Charlie. It’ll happen soon enough. Whenever the Lord decides it to be, that’ll be soon enough.”

“The Lord don’t have to worry about gate receipts.”

Willie laughed and called to the driver, “Hey, Nick, pull over, will ya? I gotta take a leak.”

The Lincoln slowed smoothly and pulled over onto the shoulder of the broad, empty highway.

Willie ducked out the rear door, shivering in the sudden desert chill. The nearest cover was a straggling bush a dozen yards from the car, but the whole moonlit plateau was empty this late at night. Nothing but the moaning, cutting wind and the distant glittering stars.

Willie unzipped his fly and urinated onto the desert ground. He imagined his piss soaking into the porous sand so quickly that it didn’t even leave a momentary puddle.

As he zipped up again and rebuttoned his jacket he glanced up at the sky.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” he whispered, goggling. Then he shouted it. “Jesus Christ Almighty! Look! Look! ”

Bobby bounced out of the car in an instant while his brother danced and yelled and pointed upward. Grodon climbed out after him. Then the driver. They all stared up.

Eerie green and pink flickers of light were playing across the sky, glowing fingers of radiance that danced and shimmered among the stars.

“Wh…what is it?” the driver asked, his voice hollow.

“It’s coming!” Willie howled. “I told you it’s coming and it’s coming!”

Bobby stood open-mouthed, staring at the display.

“It’s just the Northern Lights,” Grodon said. “It happens sometimes this far south. Must be sunspots or something causing ’em.”

“It’s a sign,” Willie insisted. “It’s a sign!”

Grodon shook his head. “Too bad you can’t arrange to have ’em on during the rally in Washington.”

Willie laughed. “Who knows? The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Bobby stood rooted to the ground beside the car, slack-jawed, gaping, awed by what he saw and by his brother’s ability to predict that it would happen.

Jo woke early. The Kwajalein sun streamed into her room, even though she had tacked a blanket over the window. Bright sunlight etched the edges of the window and made the thin blanket glow like molten metal.

She had insisted on having her own room at the hotel, with the other single women in the group. McDermott had groused at first, but as long as she spent part of the night with him, he seemed satisfied. He didn’t want sex, Jo quickly realized, as much as a sense of ownership.

She rose, showered, dressed quickly while mentally debating whether she wanted to take the free breakfast at the dingy government mess hall or buy something slightly better at one of the island’s three restaurants. With a shrug, she decided to skip breakfast altogether.

I can make tea at the office, she told herself as she finished combing her hair. She put on her lipstick, nodded to herself in the dresser’s time-fogged mirror and went to the window to take down the useless blanket.

She saw Stoner striding along the street, heading for the mess hall, his face set in its usual impersonal scowl. Always in his own world, Jo thought, with no time for anyone else.

With a shake of her head, she turned away from the window, found her purse and headed for the computer complex.

The computer building was constructed around a massive IBM facility. The big, boxy computer consoles—each of them larger than a full-sized refrigerator—stood in long rows inside a central well that rose three stories high. Offices surrounded this well, which the workers called the Pit. Balconies ran along its four sides.

Jo had wangled a private office on the second floor, overlooking the balcony and the Pit. It was little more than a cubbyhole; the walls were bare and painted a ghastly institutional green. The desk was a strictly functional metal affair, dented and dulled from long use. The swivel chair squeaked and tipped over if you leaned too far back on it, according to the warning of the sailor who delivered the furniture to the room. The file cabinets rattled. But the computer terminal atop the desk was sparkling new and worked perfectly. For Jo, that was enough.

Her electric teakettle was just starting to whistle when Markov appeared at the open doorway and tapped on its wooden frame.

She turned, kettle in one hand. “Oh! Hi!”

He blinked at her. “My swimming instructor. So this is where you hide during the daytime.”

“I’m not hiding, I’m working,” Jo said. Motioning him into the office with her free hand, she asked, “Do you want some tea?”

Markov smiled and nodded as he took one of the two metal-and-plastic chairs that stood against the bare office wall.

Jo took a plastic cup and an extra tea bag from the bottom file cabinet drawer and poured tea for Markov. She set the cup amidst the computer sheets and typing paper littering her desk.

“I don’t have any milk or sugar,” she apologized.

“This will be fine,” said Markov.

She sat on the other chair, beside him, close enough for him to smell the fragrance of her skin, the shampoo she had used on her hair.