Greg Keyes - Interstellar

Suddenly the two outer sections of the machine lengthened and the central slab leaned forward, so now it looked like a fat rectangle standing on thick, blocky crutches. Coming down on him.

“How did you find us?” it demanded.

“But you don’t look like a lawn mower to me,” Cooper plowed on. “You, I’m gonna turn into an overqualified vacuum cleaner—”

“No, you’re not,” a woman’s voice told him.

Cooper turned.

The woman was thirty-something, with short brown hair, wide dark eyes and an expressive mouth. She wore a black sweater and she seemed—like the place—very clean.

“TARS,” she said to the machine, “back down, please.”

The old military device complied, its “limbs” folding back into the torso to become a cuboid once more.

Cooper considered the woman, looking for some clue as to who she might be, who she represented. Had he stumbled upon some sort of illegal operation? Unfortunately, that would account for a lot of the facts on the ground. The secrecy, the hidden robots, the threat to his person—Murph’s disappearance. But how did that fit with the bizarre message on the bedroom floor?

And what were they doing? Manufacturing arms, maybe? Was there a nation someplace, ready to break the international disarmament treaty? He knew things were tough, but surely everyone knew by now that a return to war would only make things worse.

What if it was his own government running this show? That was actually the worst-case scenario, he realized. Maybe the message on Murph’s floor hadn’t been meant to draw him here, but to warn him away. Maybe it had something to do with the drone.

The woman was studying him, as well, and didn’t seem all that impressed by what she saw. That kind of pissed him off.

“You’re taking a risk using ex-military for security,” he told her. “They’re old, their control units are unpredictable.”

“Well, that’s what the government could spare,” she said.

The government. Well, that answered one question. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. But at least she was talking.

“Who are you?” Cooper demanded.

“Dr. Brand,” she replied.

Cooper paused. The name was familiar.

“I knew a Dr. Brand once,” he said tentatively. “But he was a professor—”

“What makes you think I’m not?” she interrupted, frowning at him.

“—and nowhere near as cute,” he finished.

An expression falling somewhere between incredulity and disgust crossed her face.

“You think you can flirt your way out of this mess?” she said.

What the hell was I thinking ? he wondered frantically. Suddenly, his fear for Murph was stronger than ever. He was in waaaay over his head, and bluster wasn’t going to do him any good.

The problem was, he wasn’t sure how to approach any of this. It was too sudden, too disorienting, and he couldn’t shake the images of what might have happened or be happening to his daughter. He’d felt something like this before, over the Straights, when the computer had ejected him from his aircraft.

Helpless. Not steering his own ship.

He had to focus his thoughts.

“Dr. Brand,” he said quietly, “I have no idea what this ‘mess’ is. I’m scared for my little girl, and I want her by my side. Then I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” He paused to let that sink in. “Okay?”

It felt to him like she considered his plea for a long time before turning back to the machine.

“Get the principals and the girl into the conference room,” she said, before returning her attention to Cooper. “Your daughter’s fine,” she said. “Bright kid. Must have a very smart mother.”

As Brand led him down a corridor, Cooper was acutely aware that the robot was there, too, only a pace or so behind him—well within striking distance. And for all of his talk of turning the thing into a toaster or whatever, he knew that in a straight-up fight he didn’t have the slightest chance against it. It could split his skull with a single economical motion.

So there was no point in worrying about it. Instead, he put his mind to sussing out where they were. Or, perhaps more importantly, what this place had been built to accomplish.

Whatever it was, Cooper realized, the amount of time they’d spent walking said that it was big —bigger than an arms factory needed to be. Unless they were building nukes, and the ICBMs required to send them out.

That might explain it. Running with the thought, he began to build scenarios. A neutron bomb detonated over, say, the Ukrainian breadbasket, would kill the crops and all of the farmers—and the fields could be used again within a year or two. More food for team America.

Could that be the mission? He really didn’t want to believe it.

And yet, there were lots of corridors going off in all directions. They had to go somewhere . He didn’t see any windows, skylights, or doors that showed the outside world, though. So were they underground?

It seemed the likely explanation. Otherwise, someone would have stumbled upon this place a long time ago. And an underground facility would be perfect for building big, nasty, unethical things. Hell, this could even be one of the old NORAD installations, replete with the remains of a once-vast nuclear arsenal.

He’d never heard anything about a base being located in this particular mountain range, but what he didn’t know about the old Cold War would fill volumes of books.

The more he saw, the less reassured he was. Even if it was underground, a place like this would need supplies. To hide something this big would take a certain of amount of… determination. Attention to detail.

He thought again of the military robot clanking along behind him, always within arm’s reach.

“It’s pretty clear you don’t want visitors,” he said. “Why not let us back up from your fence, and be on our way?”

“It’s not that simple,” Brand said.

“Sure it is,” he said, trying not to sound panicky. “I don’t know anything about you or this place.”

“Yes, you do,” she countered. Which didn’t sound good at all, because that meant even knowing the coordinates was too much.

After a bit more fretting and walking, they arrived at their destination. It was a typical, old-fashioned conference room, with a series of photos on the walls and a large table in the middle. No window, of course.

She ushered him in.

There were several people present, but the only one who came into focus for him was Murph. Still alive, thank God , and apparently in one piece. At least for the moment.

But he couldn’t shake the sense that they were deep underground, that no one knew where they were, and that if they went missing, no one would ever know why. Tom would take over the farm, and Donald would help as long as he was able. People would wonder a little what had happened to old Cooper and his daughter.

“Probably just got buried in a dust storm,” most would say. People didn’t have a lot of time or tolerance for mysteries these days.

An old man was crouched down next to Murph, talking to her. She looked up when he came in.

“Dad!” she shouted, and she bounded across the room into his arms. For a moment he was lost in just having her there, but when he saw the old man stand and smile at him, recognition struck him almost physically.

“Hello, Cooper,” the man said.

For a moment he couldn’t say anything.

“Professor Brand?” he finally managed.

“Just take a seat, Mr. Cooper,” one of the men at the table—youngish, with black hair and a beard—said. Professor Brand remained silent.