Kathleen Goonan - Crescent City Rhapsody

He smiled. “More or less.”

He tramped through the snow of four backyards and looked between the houses at his truck. He considered just walking away from it, leaving it there, maybe coming for it in a few days. That’s silly, he thought.

But even though he didn’t turn on his lights at first, he had to— eventually. At that point, the car that nosed out from a space down the block and fell in behind him turned on its lights too. But it turned off before he reached the main road. Got the jitters, he decided. There was nothing he could do anyway.

A man was loading up the newspaper box at the motel and Zeb bought a Washington Post . Inside his room, the heating unit clattered. He shucked his boots and crossed his legs on the bed, shoved a thin pillow behind his back. The paper said that the summit would start tomorrow at a downtown hotel. Next he would get out his computer and log on. He had thought he ought to avoid it at least until he had time to set up some kind of decoy identity, but it didn’t seem to matter now since they—someone—probably knew where he was.

He fell asleep on that thought, sitting up, the light on, fully dressed, clutching the newspaper.

When he opened his door the next morning at ten, he saw that another six inches of snow had fallen. Good. Traffic might be light. The Metro would probably be overloaded. But it was later than he had hoped. He hadn’t set his watch alarm.

It was a gloomy day. He had no time for breakfast, though it wasn’t good for him to skip meals. He thought about putting on his tire chains, but decided to risk going without. He could put them on later if he needed to. He shaved, unzipped his suit bag, and tore the dry cleaning bag off of his suit. He hadn’t worn it since his wedding. He was relieved to find that it still fit. He stuffed eight or nine conference badges, scooped from a drawer on his way out of the house, into his pocket. This event would most likely use some sort of coded signal or bar code scan, but one of these nametags might be useful in a low-scrutiny situation.

He tossed all of his luggage into his truck cab, but didn’t check out. He left the radio off as he pulled onto the four-lane road. The hysteria was wearing after awhile. He stayed on Route 50; it went straight into town. He didn’t hit any congestion until he crossed the bridge. He could get no farther than the Vietnam Memorial and fortuitously snagged a parking place from someone just leaving. He checked his map; the conference hotel was only about ten blocks away. He left his down coat in the car. It didn’t mesh with his present appearance. He put one of the tapes in a pocket and set out, aware that he was probably being followed.

He would have enjoyed the walk were it not for the sense of gravity and responsibility that weighed on him. The gray sky spat flurries that melted on his face. The noise of traffic was muted by the snow, only partially cleared from the streets. Holiday decorations were out in full force, so it all might have seemed quite festive were it not for his worry.

Any astronomer of note knew most everyone else in that small category. Surely they all would have made some effort to get their speculations onto the Internet or to communicate it somehow. That would be anyone’s first impulse.

But perhaps all speculations and speculators—if they came anywhere near the mark—had been dealt with as he had been.

As he walked, he became increasingly agitated about the situation. Maybe he should get a lawyer, even though he had never employed one in his life, not even for his divorce.

He was several blocks from the hotel when serious congestion confronted him. It was like New Year’s Eve in Times Square. He pushed through the crowd. Many people were wearing headphones and then a woman appeared before him and offered him some for fifty dollars. “It’s the summit,” she said.

The tiny earphones nestled in his ears. He pressed onward. He heard that a session was about to start in the Magnolia Ballroom on the second floor.

Finally he squeezed against the brick wall of the building. Next to him was a gray metal door. He tried the handle, but it was locked.

Then it opened, just a few inches. A man stuck his head out and yelled, “Hey, back up, folks!” No one paid any attention, but eventually the man got the door open wide enough so that he and three others managed to slip through it. Just before it shut again, Zeb pried it open wide enough to make it through.

Inside was a corridor lined with ceramic tile. He walked briskly for a short distance, came to a stairway, and climbed to the second floor.

He emerged on red carpeting of oriental motif beneath a crystal chandelier. A lot of people were milling around, but at least there was room to walk. SNN was interviewing a woman about ten feet away; no one seemed to notice him. He grabbed a badge at random from his pocket that said dr. zeb aberly, radio astronomy, virginia polytechnic institute and pinned it to his jacket. He headed toward a ballroom that had one door open; it was standing room only. As he stepped inside, a guard said quietly, “Sir—”

He walked past, ignoring the guard, who followed, grasping his arm and looking at his badge. “Dr. Aberly, I must see your pass.”

He felt in his pockets. “I must have left it in my room. I’ll get it after this session.”

“I must ask you to leave, sir.”

“I’m sorry,” Zeb said, his voice rising in spite of himself. “It is essential that I attend this session.” He walked ahead, but the guard grabbed his arm.

Zeb shook him off and pushed through the standees, hoping to lose the guard, but another guard joined the chase. One of them grabbed his arm again and the other took the other side. Zeb struggled. “Let go of me,” he said. As they pulled him toward the door, he began yelling, “They’re lying! They’re all lying to you! I have some real data!”

Heads turned, but in the eyes of those near him, he saw only irritation. In less than a minute, he was out of the ballroom. One guard kicked the door shut behind him. “Now, look,” he said, “do I have to call a cop and have you arrested?”

Zeb knew he was out of control, but it seemed called for. He yelled again, “There IS NO QUASAR, don’t you UNDERSTAND?” And then the SNN microphone was shoved in his face.

The announcer said briskly, “And here we have… Dr. Zeb Aberly from Virginia Polytechnic Institute. He seems to have become embroiled in a controversy. Dr. Aberly, did you say that there is no quasar?”

“He can’t—” said one guard, but the other gave him a warning look. They released Zeb and stepped back. The announcer looked at him questioningly.

“That’s what I said.” He ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly aware of how rumpled he must look despite his earlier pains.

“And you are a radio astronomer, sir.”

“That is correct. I’m a professor of astronomy. I have data that suggest that an—”

The lights went out.

In the darkness, he was grabbed once again and this time he fought harder. The emergency exit lights came on and a repetitious warning blare sounded. He was dragged bodily to the stairs and as the door closed he saw the lights come on again. The siren ceased. He felt what might be a gun in his side. “I’d suggest that you be very quiet for the next few moments, sir.”

“Who are you?” he asked, but was jabbed again.

He was hurried down the stairs and down a corridor different than the one by which he had entered.

A shabby, dented gray car was in the alley, running. As the men pulled him into the alley, the passenger door swung open. Craig leaned over from the driver’s side and said, “Get in, Zeb.”

Startled, Zeb did so. Craig reached across him and slammed the door and they jounced down the alley, leaving the henchmen behind.