Warren Murphy: The Wrong Stuff

As the light and camera were sweeping back ahead, Pete Graham sat up straight in his chair.

"What was that?" he asked.

"What was what?" one of his assistants asked. Graham didn't hear.

"Stop him," he commanded. The others had long since gotten used to their project leader's use of masculine pronouns when referring to the probe.

A technician dutifully halted the forward progress of the probe. Virgil stopped dead.

Using his own keyboard, Graham shifted the focus of the camera. With a silent, fluid whir it moved back to where it had been a moment before.

Flecks of deep red in the vast pebbled black were washed pale under Virgil's brilliant light.

"There," Graham insisted. He pointed at the monitor. "What's that?"

Men left their own screens to crowd around Graham's. When they saw the shining silver object he was pointing to, they frowned in confusion.

"Looks too perfect to be naturally occurring," someone commented. "Maybe the Mexicans were doing some research and left something inside."

"They built something that could survive in this heat?"

The contours of the object were unclear. When Graham manually refocused Virgil's lens, he saw why.

The edges of the unidentified object were buried in solidified magma. A gleaming bubble of silver peered out from the ragged rock like an otherworldly orb. "Maybe it's from another planet," an eager voice suggested very close to Graham's ear.

Pete Graham scowled up at Clark Beemer. "Don't be an idiot, Beemer," the scientist snarled.

"Hey, aliens sell," the PR man said.

Virgil was standing at patient attention, camera trained steadily on the motionless object.

Graham bit his cheek in concentration. He tipped his head as he studied the silver object.

"Let's excavate," he announced abruptly. Excited with their strange discovery, the men scattered to retake their seats.

Beside Graham, Beemer's frown deepened. "Some wetback tosses a Miller Lite can down there and you're gonna waste time digging it up?"

"That's not ordinary trash," Graham said as he tapped away at his keyboard. "This volcano has been in an active cycle for a bunch of years now. That's hardened magma that thing's settled into. Nothing ordinary should have survived in there."

"Yeah? Well, my vote's still for outer space," Beemer insisted.

The PR man yawned as Virgil stepped closer to the half-buried object.

Even with the camera's limitations, Beemer could make out the perfect curving fine. Measuring against one of Virgil's legs, which was framed in the foreground, Clark judged that the buried object was about the size of a croquet ball.

The surface shimmered in the light as Virgil closed in. The optical illusion seemed to give the thing motion. The hard silver surface almost appeared to be rolling in a short series of waves. Of course that was impossible.

There was a sudden sharp movement on the screen. Beemer blinked. "Did you see-?"

"Okay," Graham interrupted, "we're gonna have to cut through that magma. Phil, bring me right up over it. You'll have to angle-" A glimpse at his monitor and he stopped dead. "What the hell's that?" he asked, his eyes going wide.

No one heard his shocked question.

"I've lost motor control," someone announced abruptly.

Graham's head snapped around. "What?"

"It's gone," the scientist insisted. "I'm locked out."

When they transferred to another console, they found the same problem.

"Cameras are down," another scientist remarked tensely.

"All of them?" Beemer asked.

"They're controlled by Virgil," Graham said. "If he's gone down, he takes the remotes down with him."

"What is it?" Clark Beemer asked. "What's happening?"

"Get out of the way," Graham growled. He pushed Beemer away as he jumped to his feet.

Graham hurried from console to console in the cramped trailer. At each one the verdict was the same. For some reason unknown, their connection to the boiling belly of Popocatepetl had been severed.

Sitting in their chairs, the men had grown mute. Their faces conveyed silent shock. In the background the portable air conditioner continued to chug away.

The gray static of the final monitor shushed the room as Pete Graham straightened. His stunned face was covered with sweat. Wide eyes stared blankly into space.

Years of research, design, programming. All gone in an instant. It was almost too much for his tired brain to register.

Graham slowly shook his head. "Virgil's dead," the scientist whispered.

And his disbelieving voice was small.

THAT NIGHT the mood at the camp was funereal. They were stranded there until they could arrange for daylight transportation. Popocatepetl rumbled a few times after midnight. When the morning sun broke across the snow-encrusted volcanic cone of the mountain, its warming rays found Pete Graham still awake. He hadn't slept all night.

After a long evening of vainly trying to contact Virgil, he had finally briefed NASA. The higher-ups were not pleased with this disaster.

Graham's work there was supposed to be measured in days. They had finished in just over one hour. All Graham wanted now was to get the hell out of there and pick up the pieces of his career. Assuming he still had one.

A separate trailer with a kitchenette was attached to the first. Some of the men were preparing a simple breakfast as they waited for the helicopter that would fly them back to Mexico City.

The sunlight that beat in through the louvered windows was blinding. Lying in his bunk, Graham felt nothing but bitterness toward the common yellow star that dared to shine its cheery light across his haggard face.

As he was squinting at the light, a dark figure rose from the bunk next to Graham's.

Stretching, Clark Beemer noted Pete Graham's sick expression.

"You think you've got problems?" the PR man asked. "I have to explain this mess to the media. And the way things have been going at NASA lately, it ain't gonna be easy."

Shaking his head, Beemer headed for the trailer's small side door. Stepping into the light, the PR man let the door swing shut behind him.

In the trailer Graham pulled himself woodenly to a sitting position. Someone brought him a steaming cup of coffee. Graham had barely taken a sip when the trailer door opened once more.

Clark Beemer stepped numbly inside. He stood at stiff attention just inside the open door.

"Um, that probe thing?" Beemer said. "You all seemed pretty sure it was kaput last night, right?" When a few sour faces turned his way, Beemer nodded.

"I thought so," the PR man said, squirming. He pointed back over his shoulder. "It's just that when I went out to take a leak just now, it walked around the corner of the trailer. Scary stuff. Pissed my pants and everything."

He indicated the dark liquid stains on the front of his trousers.

"Real funny, asshole," one scientist muttered. They began turning away.

"No, really," Beemer insisted. "It's waiting out there right now. Like it wants to talk to you or something."

The PR man was so insistent and agitated that someone finally went outside for a look. The technician exploded back through the door an instant later, his face filled with shock and joy.

"Virgil's back!" he exclaimed.

Pete Graham didn't even hear the sound of his heavy coffee mug as it struck the floor. By the time the liquid spilled, he was already bolting out the door. What he found made Pete Graham's heart soar.

Standing in the shade beside the trailer, the majestic backdrop of Popocatepetl rising high above all, was his precious Virgil probe. Somehow, in defiance of all programming and human logic, his baby had come home.

Behind Graham the other scientists, along with Clark Beemer, were hurrying down from the trailer. Pete Graham didn't even hear them. Like a fretting mother, he carefully circled the probe.