BALM OF HURT MINDS

by Thomas R. Dulski

Often is easy to recognize and react to a clear, sudden change—but what about the ones that sneak up on you?

* * * *

            “For some must watch, while some must sleep

            So runs the world away.”

            Shakespeare

Hamlet, Act II, scene ii

* * * *

            Reflecting Pool News Service:

            The recent recall of the sleep-aid Somnomol has raised a number of questions in regard to both drug regulation and international patent law. Eighteen months ago Somnomol was introduced with much fanfare and a multi-billion-dollar advertising campaign by Compcare Pharmaceuticals, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Fidelis Group of holding companies. Somnomol was sold as an over-the-counter sleeping pill purported to be uniquely free of the dangers of both over-dosage and drug dependency. Moreover, Somnomol was the first sleep-aid product to offer precisely timed periods of sleep, based on a one-pill or two-pill dosage instruction. Government testing programs conducted over a three-year period prior to the drug’s release supported the company’s claims, and recently contacted officials affirmed that no new negative findings have been uncovered. Company administrators have asserted that the recall of Somnomol was strictly a corporate economic decision. However, several consumer advocacy groups in this country and abroad have recently raised issues concerning the drug’s safety. Dr. Adrian B. Evans of the New York-based UNERCO Institute, which initially tested Somnomol, was subpoenaed to testify before a closed-door session of the Senate Health and Human Services Committee. However, no further action by the U.S. Congress is anticipated.

* * * *

            I

            It was a one-note, resonant cry—loud, but not shrill, echoing, somehow searching and unfinished—quite unlike any other birdcall. Tomma Lee Evans studied the holo-image as it glided across her theater table, flapping its wings just once to soar over a city nightscape. As the dark shape passed each glowing window, the lights winked out. It was spreading a blanket of sleep over the high-rise complexes. The music swelled softly as the word “Somnomol” materialized over the darkening metropolis. Once more the cry of the now distant bird was heard and then the muted, confident male baritone: “Sleep without worry or dependence. Comforting, restful sleep.”

            Tomma Lee paused the commercial and sipped at a now-cold espresso, relishing the bitter flood on her tongue. McDermott had quit unexpectedly, and Cliff had saddled her with the extra job of writing the “Doc Challenger” consumer advocate column. It was a popular feature, but Tomma Lee had no affection for McDermott’s folksy style—and now she would have to mimic it. With a few clicks she superimposed Rod McDermott’s unfinished copy on the frozen cityscape:

* * * *

Doc’s Corner:

            Over the years, we’ve had the rooster, the teddy bear, and the Luna moth as Big Pharma’s symbols for new sleeping pills. Now it looks like some ad agency has doctored-up what we used to call a nighthawk as the emblem for a product called “Somnomol.” They’re not hawks, and they don’t just fly at night, but some Madison Avenue types must have figured folks might associate that loud “peent!” with bedtime. I know I did as a kid when we’d sit on the back porch on summer nights listening to those little birds calling as they feasted on mosquitoes and other nocturnal bugs. At any rate, it’s just possible this new logo might be standing for something really new. This pill company makes some pretty startling claims. Now, personally, I’ve found that an honest day of hard work was all I ever needed to get my forty winks . . .

* * * *

            Tomma Lee wrinkled her nose. It was a throw-away piece with no particular research behind it. Somnomol was forecast to be a big money-maker even before they launched their media blitz. McDermitt hadn’t intended to rock that boat beyond his usual harangue about artificially created medical needs. She drained the demitasse and set it down with a clatter on the table edge, just below the luminous text. The current time glowed next to the saucer edge. It was well past midnight. Tomma Lee rubbed her eyes and yawned. The late afternoon launch of lunar dome components from the Vostochny Cosmodrome was scheduled in another hour and she wanted to capture some video for a story she’d written on the newest class of Russian Angara heavy- lift rockets. She got up from the sofa and fixed herself another double espresso, peering out at the twinkling Seattle skyline between parted drapes as the steam hissed from the machine.

            She realized that being a staff writer for a feature web journal had its advantages once she had learned to keep crazy hours and sleep in daylight. Ninety-percent of her research, interviews, and writing could be done in her apartment, but tomorrow Cliff had called a meeting and the text had been explicit: “Not a Teleconference! BE THERE!” Tomma Lee stirred a packet of sweetener and a curl of lemon zest into the steaming foam and carried the tiny cup and saucer back to the couch. She frowned again at the folksy wisdom of “Doc Challenger,” then on an impulse reduced the text and cycled back to the start of the commercial.

            The table filled with a darkened bedroom. A young couple in bed; the man sleeping peacefully, the woman wide wake, staring into space as a clock ticked loudly. Low register strings—cellos and bass viols—as the baritone narration begins: “Afraid to take a sleep-aid, afraid you’ll oversleep, feel groggy all day?” The window is throwing a rectangle of light across the foot of the bed. A moving shadow—a bird in flight—moves across the blanket, accompanied by its reverberating one-note cry. Then again the male voice: “Somnomol now brings you dependable, precisely timed, refreshing sleep with no next-day effects.” The woman’s eyelids flutter and close. A smile forms on her lips. “Somnomol is the first sleep-aid that is dosage calibrated. Each pill brings you four hours of precisely timed, rest-giving sleep. Somnomol is not habit-forming—use it as often or as little as you like. There is no danger of overdosage since the body does not respond to more than two pills consumed in any twenty-four-hour period.” The scene now backs away from the sleeping couple. There is a rapid fade to the cityscape. The bird is swooping down lighted canyons of high-rise buildings as a swath of darkness follows it.

            Tomma Lee listened for its final echoing cry, then dialed up a bleak plain in southeastern Russia—the new launch complex, designed to replace Baikonur. She tucked her legs under her and sipped espresso, watching boil-off vapors from an eight-inch rocket drift toward the table edge.

* * * *

            II

            Tomma Lee bicycled to work after noting a forecast for another day free of rain. She had tossed and turned for an hour after making it to bed at 4 a.m., then had been startled awake by the 7:30 chime she had set. A cool breeze was now dispelling the mental cobwebs as she glided past streams of Seattle’s health-conscious joggers. The Murdock-Gates Building was a few blocks away from the venerable Space Needle. She passed under the aging monorail and pedaled up a curved ramp to an already crowded bike rack. She hopped off with a sprightliness she didn’t feel and walked the bicycle to a short line, filling the remaining spaces. She waved back absently at a coworker just entering at the main entrance glass doors. It had been Avery, the new trainee in photography, who was young, horny, and a little too friendly. Inside at the elevators she was glad to see that he hadn’t waited for her. But at the sixteenth floor, as she stepped out, she noted with a grimace that he was waiting for her in the reception area under the bas relief plaque depicting a nude Narcissus contemplating his image in a still pond. Avery grinned boyishly beneath the publication’s logo. “Going to morning exercises, Tomma Lee?” he asked.

            It had been “Miss Evans” only a few days ago—a formality she much preferred from him.

            “No, the coffee urn.”

            “Let me buy you one,” he said, beaming.

* * * *

            The morning wire services were full of Silly Season stuff. Tomma Lee rapidly scanned the stories from one of the pop-up terminals as a few other early-arriving staffers dribbled into the meeting room. Some stringer in New England was peddling ghost stories—people hearing voices—but it was a little too soon for Halloween features. Twins had been born at the lunar north polar base. There was some video of an Angora kitten in free fall. Tomma Lee tapped her teeth with a stylus. Cliff would want something substantial from her for next week’s Our Times column. She dialed for another service and found more of the same fluff: A California man wants to marry his dog; the U.S. President to present the National Healthy Weight Loss Award. . . . Here was something: Holy Alliance issues a webcast denouncing the Neighbors as the UN’s satanic partner.

            Tomma Lee frowned at the screen image. The Neighbors were not photogenic, but they made good copy. Cliff was already scrawling something about the Neighbors on the cleverboard at the front of the room, and so it wasn’t rocket science that this could tie in nicely. She saved the story to her ID.

            Cliff Barnes was totally occupied with a list of names and assignments, pausing for a moment with the light pen at his hip, then scribbling rapidly. It was the work schedule for a special issue. Tomma Lee noted that her name had not been added yet.

            Two sports writers sat down, laughing about something from last night’s Ironman semi-finals. The entertainment editor was typing and sipping a canned cola. The room was filling now. A bunch of people were absorbed in phone conversations and the noise level was rising rapidly. The new political editor, Alex Fincke, was the last in. He was young but razor sharp, Tomma Lee had discovered. An interesting guy with just enough intelligent wit and sarcasm to maybe someday get himself in trouble with Cliff and the powers above him.

            Cliff pulled the door closed with a significant click, and the murmur of voices dimmed and ceased. The entertainment editor folded his screen. Cliff had his usual disheveled look as he turned to them—shirt opened at the collar, loosened tie, sleeves rolled, and a salt-and-pepper mustache that could use a trim.

            “Morning, people,” he said. “Before we get into the grind I want to thank you all for the work you did on the Street Drugs feature in the March 2 issue. Rumors are strong that we’re up for a Pulitzer on that. If we get it, I’m dedicating it to all of you.”

            Tomma Lee remembered the piece she’d done on the new hallucinogen “Chinese Superman” and the political connections she’d uncovered between three far eastern countries and certain members of the U.S. Congress. Barnes had been scared shitless and almost suppressed it.

            Cliff started pacing in front of the still incomplete outline. “Hard news is slow this week, so we’re going to use the lull for a big special issue spread on the Neighbors.” Muffled groans came from several people. “I know, I know, it’s all been done before by us and a dozen other journals, but we’re approaching a twenty-year anniversary with those guys. Everybody’s going to be doing a feature on it, but we’ll be the first. We want to cover the history—from the first radio telemetry that SETI picked up in the ‘20s when the Hive entered the Oort Cloud. Jason, I’m counting on you to give us a nice opening spread with audio and visuals from the archives. Ken and Tammy, you’re covering the science stuff,” Cliff said, pointing to his scrawl on the board. “Remember to keep it down to ninth-grade level. We got e-mails on that topology piece you guys did last month. Alex, you’re covering political history—the UN Exo-Relations Committee, UNERCO’s internal squabbles, the bidding war for Neighborly gifts.

            Cliff regarded his still incomplete list on the glowing cleverboard. “I’ll cover the current political scene in my Reflections editorial. I want Annie on the light humor side—maybe something on the physical size of the Hive ship. No insecticide jokes. See what the art department can come up with for a political cartoon.” Annie was scribbling furiously on a notescreen. She was new, but she was good.

            Cliff looked around the room. “Tomma Lee, I’m depending on you to come up with a big human/Neighbor interest story we can headline on our homepage. And people, I’m still expecting all the standard features—sports, business, entertainment—with whatever kind of ‘Neighbors-cast’ you can lend to the basic info.” Cliff jotted some illegible marks on the board and tucked the light pen behind an ear. “Friday deadline for features, Sunday noon for all news. For God’s sake, don’t make us wait for you!” He turned and waved an end to the meeting. “That’s it then. Good luck!”

            As the staff began streaming out of the room, Cliff motioned to Tomma Lee as she was getting up. “Just wanted to give you a heads-up,” he said. “That rich guy, Friel, is just back from some pow-wow at the Hive. If you’re looking for a lead he may have something for you. And doesn’t your ex work with them too? You might . . .”

            Tomma Lee forced a smile but ignored the ex-husband remark. “N. Joel Friel? The Americas Cup guy?”

            Cliff snapped off the cleverboard. “That’s him. I hear he’s full of Neighbors stories. He might agree to an interview. Try the Fidelis Group home office, or . . . Wait a minute, I just might have the number of his executive secretary.” Cliff relit the board and began scrolling through a file of phone numbers.

* * * *

            III

            Margaret Cunningham took a secret pleasure in the isolation that her odd behavior had thrust upon her. The local ladies had all warned their children not to venture into her yard, and as a result she had the only untrodden flowerbed in her little corner of a small Charleston suburb.

            She surveyed the undisturbed rows of zinnias and marigolds and smiled to herself. She was thinking of Louis again, talking to him as if he were still with her. There was nothing wrong with that, she told herself. When you live with a man for forty years it’s not easy to stop talking to him. If her lips moved once in a while . . . Well, if people didn’t like it that was fine with her.

What a gorgeous day! A beautiful high sky. God’s in his heaven. That’s what you used to say on a day like this. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.

            Mrs. Cunningham knelt down and felt the yielding earth cushion her aching knees. Carefully, she plucked an intruding weed from between the flower rows.

Peg, you know sometimes I think that you believe those flowers are your children.

            A bee was nosing along one of the rows. She could just hear its faint buzz. Out in the street a van rushed past the gate with a faint electric whine.

            It had been the long, unspoken sadness between them—the child they never had. They had both pretended that it didn’t matter until they were both too old.

You know, Peg, I never told a story. I mean, sometimes I imagine myself telling some kid a bedtime story. Isn’t it funny, the odd things you think about?

Tell me a story, Louis.

            He never did, though.

            Mrs. Cunningham wiped her forehead with her arm. It was going to be another hot late September day. The air held a stillness that promised another relentless afternoon. She should get a watering can and a sunbonnet. As she started to rise from the ground a mild dizziness brought her back to her knees.

They’re following me! Please help!, a strange voice said.

            Mrs. Cunningham looked around, but there was no intruder in the yard.

They’re everywhere! Hide me!

            The dizziness was passing. “Go away!” she said aloud. “You’re not Louis!”

* * * *

            IV

            Tomma Lee was at her seldom-used cubicle punching up video of one of Noel Joel Friel’s news conferences. He had a young but deeply tanned and weather-beaten face that contrasted with a blond mane and goatee, and was sporting a white, toothy grin. There was an anchor tattoo on his bare right forearm, which was wrapped around the oily carapace of an alien monstrosity. Tomma Lee couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something sinister about the image that went beyond its shocking contrasts. She had spent an hour reading at length about Friel’s special relationship with the Neighbors, and how his cartel’s sealed bids at the United Nations had won the development rights to most of the technological gifts the aliens had offered to the human race. Tomma Lee was keenly aware that Cliff was not looking for another journalistic crusade, but her palms itched—a sure sign that there was a hidden story buried here.

            She was pondering a notion, wondering if her professionalism outweighed her personal feelings, but knowing that it always did. And yet this would be opening old wounds. Reluctantly, but from bitter memory, she typed the UNERCO Institute number.

            Adrian’s lab phone directed the call to another number, and with a click she heard music and laughter. “Tomma Lee!” the familiar voice acknowledged. “I can’t open video right now—I’m not exactly dressed.” A woman’s laugh punctuated the brief silence. It was 2 p.m. on the east coast.

            She fought the instinct to hang up. “Adrian, I’ve got some questions for an article. When can we talk?”

            There were five seconds of dead air; he’d hit a mute key. When sound returned the music was subdued. “Tomma Lee, you’re looking good. Listen, I want to talk, but give me half an hour.” A female giggle near the mic. “Look, I’ll call—thirty minutes, I promise.” The circuit closed.

            Well, he was getting his end wet again somewhere. Adrian had never been discerning about who, when, or where. Tomma Lee had badgered him into a marriage—was it almost a decade ago?—in the vain hope that it would end his profligate ways. But it had hardly slowed him down. Adrian had turned a teenage vasectomy into a lifetime of promiscuity. He’d been shooting blanks since the age of eighteen and anything young and female was a potential target. Their marriage had held together for almost five years, until Tomma Lee had let it end in a cheap no-fault divorce when his shallow “I don’t really care if you believe me” lies had become intolerable. She’d moved across country, leaving a great job at the New Yorker to write features for the Reflecting Pool, just to make the cleanest break with Adrian.

            Tomma Lee slumped in the office chair, staring at the cluttered homepage screen. The really sad part was the contrast between his brain and his morals. Adrian was lying pond scum encased in a brilliant intellect. He’d published the first definitive studies of several of the Neighbor’s technological gifts—the genetic code restructuring that had nearly ended the threat of cancer and autoimmune disease, the catalyzed fusion power source that was making Middle East oil an economic irrelevancy (even as it had engendered an unholy Holy Alliance). Adrian was even modest about it all, more concerned with diddling some nubile floozy than receiving the Presidential Science Medal.

            Tomma Lee struggled with her feelings as she drummed her fingers on the desktop. Then with a sigh she evoked a specialized crawler to harvest web data on the intersection of Friel, the Neighbors, and her ex. Seconds later a huge file dropped out. Over a terabyte. Too big to even scan, she tried several qualifiers, but nothing manageable emerged. Finally, due to a half-conscious memory of an old news story or perhaps because of that sleep-aid commercial she typed “sleep.” Instantly, about five hundred kilobytes of text and video loaded. One of the earliest entries was a decade old: An LA Times article used as back-page filler:

* * * *

            Institute Scientist Reveals:

            Aliens Don’t Sleep

            In a report published in Science this week UNERCO Institute scientist Adrian Evans described yet another startling discovery about the reclusive visitors who have maintained an orbiting habitat above the Earth’s atmosphere for the last decade. “We were quite surprised by the revelation,” Dr. Evans commented at a press conference yesterday. “It had always been assumed that the Neighbors’ physiology allowed for some regular period of dormancy, such as that required by all forms of animal life on Earth. In higher animals on this planet, sleep is required to reset brain function and to allow the body to repair itself. Apparently, the Neighbors have evolved a more efficient means of accomplishing similar ends.” In a related development N. Joel Friel, the scion of the Fidelis cartel that has been frequently selected to exploit “Neighborly Gifts” under the UN proviso, announced the initiation of a cooperative study of human sleep disorders involving his company’s Compcare Pharmaceuticals division and the UNERCO Institute.

            Tomma Lee filed the ten-year-old copy, then dialed the San Diego number Cliff had given her. The receptionist was a pretty simulacrum and within minutes an even prettier real-life amanuensis was on the screen. “Mr. Friel prefers a face-to-face interview,” she said after a brief hold. “We’re only an hour away. Can I have our pilot pick you up tomorrow morning?”

* * * *

            V

            Joseph Greyfox was the only full-blooded Navajo on the payroll of Southern Arizona Power and Light. Right now he was fighting with the old panel truck’s second gear and swearing mildly under his breath. There had been servomotor trouble at the Yuma Solar Boiler, and he was on his way home after sixteen hours on the job.

            Joe squinted through the dust-coated windshield at the gathering darkness. The transmission line towers with their gently sagging cables were being endlessly sketched against the desert sunset, and the effect was mildly hypnotic.

            Joe blinked, and with a subtle twist of his aching wrist and arm he wrestled the truck into third gear. The antiquated transmission groaned in submission, then the engine smoothed out. “Christ!” he muttered, “they give us this shit to drive while the engineers tool around in new hydroelectrics.” But he was too tired to be really annoyed. His muscles were trembling from climbing ladders all day, and he needed some sleep.

            The interstate was nearly devoid of traffic, except for an occasional massive tractor-trailer that would roar out of the dim grayness in the opposing lane, then disappear into the gathering dark behind. Most had their headlights on. It was growing visibly darker now in the west, and Joe found the panel truck’s lights. Some thunderheads seemed to be rolling in over the mountains. It might rain within the next hour.

            At times like this, during the long drive home from a job, Joe would find himself captured by the desert tableaux, thinking about his distant ancestors and the time when this land had been theirs. The desert and the mountains hadn’t changed, not in any fundamental way, except for the thin thread of transmission cable and a few streaks of highway. He had seen it from the company helicopters. It could be a moonscape or the baked side of Mercury, but it was Mother Earth. And down here life went on. The prairie dogs still sniffed the wind from the top of their mounds, and the giant saguaro cactus still stretched their ghostly arms. What had changed long ago was that it was no longer the home of his people. It had all been decided centuries ago, before his great-grandfather had been born. The birthright to the land had been lost. Now you had to prove yourself just to belong. The alternative was shame, emptiness, and a wasted life.

            Joe thought of the old men in the Yucca Bar, drinking away the afternoons in the air-conditioned dimness, telling each other lies and gambling. Each one concealing some hurt for which there was no name. His father had been one of them.

            A suborbital liner was etching a contrail across the sky toward the approaching storm.

            So you play the game, Joe thought. You hope, maybe they accept you.

            The contrail merged into the dark thunderheads, probably headed for a bumpy ride into LAX.

Please don’t hit me again!

            “I didn’t hit you!” Joe said—a sleep-starved reflex, before he realized it had been a voice in his head. He squinted into the darkening landscape. He was losing it, dreaming in a half-conscious state. Hang on, he told himself, gripping the steering wheel with suddenly sweating palms.

I love you! Don’t hit me! It was a pleading woman’s voice. Not that slut, Briana, who had rifled his wallet. He’d never hit her, although he wanted to. That was a month ago. He was dreaming. He felt a tremor run down his arms. My brother will kill you!

            Joe reached up to his damp forehead to try to stifle the soundless words. “Who are you?” he said aloud.

            The jackrabbit came out of nowhere, appearing suddenly in the middle of the road, momentarily paralyzed by the panel truck’s headlights. Joe felt himself braking hard, the rear of the truck fishtailing to the right. Tires screamed against the still hot asphalt. Like a slow-motion dream, he felt himself going backward over the road embankment.

            There was a hard bump that slammed his jaws together, then a sickening backward roll. Instinctively, he killed the ignition. There were billows of dust in his headlights, then the airbags exploded around him.

            Instantly, the bag pressing against his face began to sag, the translucent plastic drooping across the dash. His head clearing, Joe fought away the air bags and seatbelt and wrenched open the truck door. The panel truck had come to rest against a large rock on the side of a steep drop-off. It was pitched toward the passenger side, so that he had to jump down to get clear of it. His feet sent a small avalanche of rocks and pebbles rolling down the hillside as he scrambled up the slope.

            The road was empty and darkness was closing in. I’m sorry! someone said in his head.

* * * *

            VI

            Noel Joel Friel helped Tomma Lee onboard the rocking deck of his sleek schooner, the Sand Dollar. Although noticeably older than in the archival video, he was still tanned and muscular. He was in trunks and sandals, the blond goatee outlining his toothy grin.

            It had been a brief flight to San Diego in a private suborbital, and the multibillionaire had arranged for a car to bring her down to the Harbor Island marina slip where his racing yacht was moored.

            “So, Miss Evans, you’re interested in our friends up there at L5.” Friel motioned to a deck chair and settled into one himself.

            Tomma Lee was taken a bit off-guard by Friel’s unexpected grinning bonhomie, conscious of the fact that she was talking to the heir to a purported trillion-dollar empire. She was dressed in conservative walking shorts and a tennis blouse in contrast to his blond hairy informality. It felt awkward, even a bit disturbing, and she wished he would put away that Cheshire smile. She began with what he already knew: “The Reflecting Pool is doing a feature on the Neighbors, and we were hoping you could share some anecdotes . . . “

            Friel produced two cans from a cooler. “Lemonade?”

            Tomma Lee shook her head as he snapped a lid, putting away the other can. “I would have thought the press had their fill of Neighbors stories by now, “ he said, sipping deeply.

            “We’re looking for a fresh approach,” she said. “In a few months it’ll be twenty years since they set up shop in Earth orbit. There must be stories that haven’t been told.”

            Friel rubbed his eyes and then blinked, and she noticed that one pale blue iris was artificial. It didn’t dilate as a passing cloud shielded the morning glare. “You’ll be stealing some of my thunder, you know,” he said, still with that obscene toothy grin. “I was planning a memoir one day. But to be perfectly frank, Miss Evans, I’ll probably never find the time to write it.” He scratched his goatee and took another swallow from the can. “We have several outfits that work closely with the Neighbors, I suppose you know. I oversee a lot of that.”

Outfits, Tomma Lee mused, was shorthand for three multi-national corporations that were all major players in commodity chemicals, insurance, and heavy-lift transport, each with God knew how many smaller spin-offs. Friel’s deceased father had been involved with the UN’s early contact team that had forged the first licensing agreements. The Neighbors’ high-tech gifts to humanity were channeled through UN bureaucracy to private enterprise in sealed-bid auctions. Somehow, Friel pere et fils had managed to snag most of the contracts.

            “Our people probably have had more contact—I mean close, informal contact—with our friends up there than even the diplomats.” Friel wiped beads of moisture from his hairy chin. “We work with them routinely now. I’ve been up at the Hive more times than I can recall.” He blinked slowly, but the lid on the dead eye only half closed. “The atmosphere in there is not toxic, as some press stories have related, but the odor takes some getting used to. The Neighbors aren’t offended by the use of respirators—I don’t think they would even completely understand the notion—but I’ve forced myself to do without one. As you know, communication is by voice synthesizer because they don’t have a larynx and we don’t have vibratory labial palps. The holo-net images are very good, but they don’t give you the feel of the place—the Hive, I mean.” Friel waved the can expansively. “It’s big—immense by our standards—larger than anything we’ve ever built in space.” He rubbed a shaggy blond eyebrow, staring off at the row of yachts and the bay and Coronado beyond. “There’s large parts of it—a huge central core—that no human has ever seen. I’ve asked about it on quite a few occasions. Even got myself kicked out once for snooping around the periphery of the forbidden areas. It took almost a year to get back in their good graces.”

            Tomma Lee remembered the story in the wire dailies a few years back: “Friel Cartel Scion Gets Neighborly Boot.” “That sounds like something we could use,” she said. “Tell me about it.”

            Friel turned in his chair with what she regarded as a wolfish expression. “It’s rather a long story—to tell it in detail, I mean. Why don’t we adjourn to a local bistro, and I’ll spin my Neighbor tales over lunch?”

* * * *

            VII

            Betty was seventy-four give or take some years, but she felt like she was sixteen when her patch was working. They were little things, like Band-Aids—a transdermal medication the doctors at the free clinic had given her. A pack of one hundred, there were about a dozen left now. She was pushing the rusted shopping cart that contained her worldly goods. The wheels squeaked something awful as she pushed uphill toward San Francisco’s Chinatown. Mr. Wong had promised a meal if she got to the Heavenly Panda before noon, when the lunchtime crowd was expected. And he might let her sleep there tonight if she helped with the cleanup.

            She had been awakened that morning from a damp bench in Golden Gate Park by a nice policeman who actually offered to drive her somewhere. Only she had nowhere she could tell him, since Mr. Wong’s restaurant didn’t unlock until 11:00 a.m. It had been a long, slow walk through a maze of streets, once she reached what they used to call the Tenderloin, an area of layers of lost dreams. It had always been a place where poor people lived. Betty had been told she was born there, in one of the second-floor apartments in a row of tenements. She no longer remembered which one, not even certain any longer of the exact street.

            Somewhere here, among the layers of failed renovation, her mother had laid her in a dumpster in an alley. A Vietnamese girl, doing dope in the alley between Johns, had heard her squeals and kept her like a pet until she was five. The Catholic Charity people took her away then, and she stayed in a clean place where they fed and tested her. The other children her age teased and tormented her, and she came to hate it there. At about age seven she found her moment and ran away, to live in the streets and sleep in the parks, to steal food and live by her wits. At thirteen she had learned to sell herself; at fifteen she joined a brothel. At nineteen she was a specialist for discerning clients with special tastes.

            The voices had started then, though she tried to ignore them. Some clients would get spooked by her, and she fought the voices, but they always came back. She was labeled a “head case,” for those with predilections for the bizarre. At twenty-eight she was dead-weight for the house, and they let her go—in the rain, with a toothache. She pulled the tooth herself with a rusted pair of needle-nosed pliers and somehow survived. The voices made her do odd things. She was arrested and then put in a hospital. They gave her the patches that made the voices . . . go behind, like they could be ignored. She’d been on the patches now for more than forty years. Every three months the clinic gave her a packet. They helped. They were her lifeline.

            When the voice came she checked her shoulder and found that the patch was still there. You think you’re so smart! it said. But I’m on to you. Show that diploma to a carnival freak show! This was new. Usually, men’s voices told her little secrets about people she knew or saw, but this was loud and angry, and in a woman’s voice. It felt real, like a reproof for something she had done.

            The cart hit an uneven spot in the sidewalk, and Bob, the bear with the missing eye, went flying into a storefront. She retrieved him quickly. You and your grad school friends! the voice yelled in her head. Coming over here, talking down to me, like I don’t belong in my own house!

            Betty stopped and leaned on her cart, a trickle of the old fear running through her. She was in front of a locked and boarded tattoo parlor. She hated the familiar painted sign, “Screaming Skull Tattoos,” that had once whispered to her when she forgot her patches. But now the skull had a different voice. You’re getting nothing tonight, it said. Go sleep in the cellar!

* * * *

            VIII

            It was early afternoon, and lunch had been an elegant Dungeness crab salad and a sherry-laced chowder. They were sipping a Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame champagne, and Friel was relating the last of a dozen stories.

            “You can’t help ascribing human motivations to them,” he was saying, “but you’re almost always proven wrong.” He rubbed a finger on the condensed moisture on the tulip glass. “Just think of the distance between us,” he said. “We’re more closely related to an earthworm, or a . . . rosebush than we are to them. The Neighbors’ genetic system developed under a different sun, with an entirely different basis.”

            Tomma Lee was feeling lightheaded and set her glass down half drained. “Why do you think they came here?” she asked. “And what did they hope to gain?”

            Friel nodded. “It’s been asked a hundred times. With a hundred different answers. I asked it once. There was a Neighbor who worked closely with us. Its name came through the translator as just a number. A lot of them have numbers—I don’t know why. But anyway, our people had developed a kind of rapport with it, discussing a lot of chemistry—comparing concepts, that kind of thing. I got the impression that, like a lot of our other Neighbor contacts, it was kind of an outcast. I had thought, well, they’re expecting to get something in return for all the technological gifts they were bestowing on the human race. So I went ahead and asked the anthropocentric question: ‘What are you getting out of this?’”

            Tomma Lee looked up expectantly as Friel drained his glass. “There’s a move they make,” he said. “It’s something like a sudden bow. It was to show me an egg case on its back.” Friel seemed agitated, and his good eye glared at her. “Humans are preternaturally selfish, Miss Evans, including our self-sacrificing martyrs who die for a heavenly reward. My question was full of implied meaning. But the Neighbors are nothing like that. Their distinction between the discrete individual and collective society is less rigid than our own. They seem to live for future generations, possibly a future beyond their own understanding. Their immediate goal is an archive, part of which is locked in that forbidden area of the Hive.”

            “What’s in the archive?”

            Friel nodded, his gaze now vacant. “That’s the key question. Nobody knows. This low-caste chemist pointed with a feeler to that mass of slime on its back. The voice synthesizer said, ‘They will see and know.’”

            “That’s all?” Tomma Lee said. “I’m not sure I follow.”

            “The Neighbors seem to think centuries ahead, expending great efforts for unborn generations. I gathered that they came to our solar system as part of a massive campaign to gather knowledge. I imagine thousands of Hives searching for inhabited worlds within some sphere of space near their home system. ‘Near,’ of course is the relevant word.”

            “They still haven’t . . .”

            “It’s one of their cardinal rules. They have never revealed where they came from. I gather they’re afraid we’ll eventually build a star drive, hunt them down, and exterminate them.” Friel reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. “I don’t blame them,” he said. “We just might.”

* * * *

            IX

            Mrs. Cunningham had decided that what she really needed was a nice glass of iced tea. The yellow curtains above the sink were rippling gently with a slight early afternoon breeze. She found herself humming an old tune as she filled the kettle.

            That business earlier with the strange voice in her head had really been very upsetting. She thought for a while that what people were saying about her was really true. Maybe she was more than a little crazy. Maybe somebody who talks to her husband six years after he was gone is apt to lose hold one day.

            Still, she had heard that voice. And not at all like she heard Louis. Louis was with her in a sense because he had always been with her. But that voice, that other, had sounded strange. And frightened. It was trying to hide from something.

            She carried the kettle over to the old gas range and clicked on the flame. That voice had sounded desperate. I wonder what Louis would say about it?

For God’s sake, Peg! For the last time—there’s nobody downstairs! Now get some sleep!

            She took down the can of Twinings and the small green-glazed teapot. Sugar. A nice lemon. Oh, my! I wonder if there’s any ice? Yes. She’d filled the trays yesterday.

            The whole business was silly, now that she thought about it, letting that strange voice upset her. People imagine lots of strange things when they live alone.

            She spooned the Earl Grey into the pot and cut several slices of lemon, wrapping the rest in plastic and returning it to the refrigerator bin. You’re just a foolish old woman, she thought.

For God’s sake! They’re right outside, you’ve got to hide me!

Peg, don’t listen to him!

            “I won’t, Louis.” Mrs. Cunningham put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot on the kitchen tiles. “Get out of here,” she said. “Right now!”

But . . .

            “I mean it! Right now! Go!”

            She heard it go then, the pleading voice fading.

That’s my girl, Peg. That was a brave thing you did.

            “Thank you, Louis.”

            On the stove the tea kettle began its high, merry whistle.

* * * *

            X

            Back in Seattle in her apartment, Tomma Lee found Adrian’s return call among a list of recent messages. There were several obsessive reminders from Cliff about details she’d already handled, some ads she’d forgotten to deselect, a dues notice from a journalists’ society, and a surprising job offer from Scott Narvick, a old schoolmate and one-time boyfriend who was launching a web journal with the unlikely name, Spare the Messenger. She hadn’t thought about Scott in years. They had played Romeo and Juliet in Theater Arts class. Scott had been sweet but always a little wild—just the sort to pour his last penny into a politically incorrect soapbox for rabble-rousers. Adrian’s message had been entered at 10:15 a.m. this morning, about twenty hours after the time he had promised. The playback was about what she had expected: simpering apologies for the delay in responding, sincere-sounding pledges of help where needed. Tomma Lee felt a real need for information and would have to hold him to those promises. She froze the recording of the apologetic, now fully clothed Adrian while she quickly dialed the real one.

            He was in his lab office at the Institute, looking disheveled amid a clutter of papers and molecular models. “Tomma Lee . . . I called . . . “

            “I was in San Diego.” She hadn’t yet managed to inure herself to speaking with her former spouse. A clipped, businesslike approach helped a bit but didn’t conceal her disgust. “I’m calling for information. I’m working on a Neighbors feature.”

            “Sure, anything.” Adrian ran a hand through his hair. “You’re looking lovely as always, Tomma Lee.”

            She gritted her teeth at the compliment. “Has your group handled any part of the clinical testing of the Somnomol sleeping pill?” she said, hoping for a link with the “Doc Challenger” column. Friel had been dismissive when she had asked about the product. “A marginal profit market,” he had told her; it was evidently not one of the highly lucrative “Neighborly gifts” that his cartel had marketed.

            Adrian arched an expressive brow. “Somnomol? That was about five years ago. No, just the initial screening. The Fidelis Group outbid some Pacific Rim big pharma interests and ran it through the USFDA trials. They usually do a pretty thorough job.”

            “So how does it work?”

            Adrian shuffled through a pile of stacked files but quickly gave up. “It worked on a distinct brain region. That was one of its unique features. All the over-the-counter and prescription pills we had before were just GABA-receptor agonists, like alcohol and barbiturates, although pharmacologically more similar to benzodiazepine tranquilizers.”

            “You’re losing me.”

            “Okay, GABA stands for gamma aminobutyric acid. Around 1950 it was discovered to be an essential feature of all mammalian nervous systems, bonded to trans-membrane receptors in nerve cells. It regulates the flow of ions into and out of the neuron, which in turn controls the electrical potential at the synapse. The old sleep-aids worked by binding to the GABA receptor complex, which allowed some chloride ions to flow into the nerve cell producing hyperpolarization.”

            Tomma Lee frowned at the screen.

            “All that means is that it inhibited the firing of the neuron. The GABA receptors are all through the body. Bind enough of them and you go to sleep.”

            “Bind too many?”

            Adrian nodded. “Right. You die. Overdose and synergetic effects with alcohol and other drugs were dangers that were never eliminated.”

            “Until Somnomol,” Tomma Lee offered.

            “Yes, the Neighbors solved the potential for accidental or intentional abuse by developing an entirely new approach.” Adrian paused, searching his memory. “Did you ever hear of REM-atonia?”

            “Is that a disease?”

            He shook his head, knocking loose a dangling forelock. “No. Actually, it’s the normal state in Rapid Eye Movement sleep, when the release of neurotransmitters like adrenalin and serotonin is suppressed. The Neighbors came up with a drug that works on the pontene tegmentum region of the brain that is particularly active during REM sleep.”

            He paused again, looking for a response that showed understanding, but Tomma Lee continued to frown.

            “REM sleep,” he began, “is a deep phase of sleep in which dreaming occurs while the body is immobilized. Motor neurons are not being stimulated. If that didn’t occur, if you dreamt you were dancing say, your legs would be going through those motions. Sometimes, in fact, that does occur, especially in some animals. Did you ever see a sleeping dog moving its legs, like it was chasing a cat in its sleep? In humans that’s called REM Behavior Disorder.”

            Tomma Lee was jotting notes. “So this Somnomol produces REM-atonia?”

            “Yes, directly, and for precisely timed periods. The pills produce four hours of sleep, each including about an hour of REM sleep for average-body-weight adults. The amazing feature is that an overdose is impossible because the pills contain a nano-molecular antagonist that circulates in the bloodstream for twenty-four hours, scavenging any additional drug. After that time two—but only two—pills become effective again.”

            Tomma Lee didn’t look up as she scribbled on a notescreen. “So you can’t kill yourself with Somnomol?”

            “We checked that thoroughly before turning our work over to the USFDA and other nations’ regulatory agencies. About twenty pills will produce nausea and mild diarrhea and a general torpor, followed by a two-day period in which the drug is ineffective.”

            “So you gave Somnomol your seal of approval?”

            “We decided to let the national agencies check for genetic effects and confirm our studies for carcinogenic and teratological effects, but we found nothing that would prevent its release.”

            Tomma Lee looked up at Adrian, who was smiling back at her from the theater table. There was still something—perhaps those expressive brows—that touched her in a way that she now would no longer admit to herself. Just for a moment she wondered if there was anyone or anything that could affect him so deeply that he would forsake the next nubile target of opportunity. Then a new thought cleared her mind. “What about the Neighbors? There was an old news story that said they didn’t sleep. How could a race that never slept design a sleeping pill for humans?”

            Adrian nodded rapidly, “We thought about that too. You know, we actually understand very little about the Neighbors’ physiology.” He brushed his hair back, to no effect. “It’s certain that they don’t sleep over any time interval we have been able to measure. Some have speculated that they hibernate over periods unknown to us. But I suspect not. I think they don’t sleep at all. That led to some speculation on the purpose of sleep for humans and other mammals.”

            “So you got into that?”

            “A little. Philosophers and medical people have talked about the nature of and need for sleep for centuries. The metaphor used for a time was the ‘defrag’ process in computer memory, but sleep clearly involves more than sorting and arranging conscious experiences. The fact is that there has been a lot of both open and classified military research in the area for the last hundred years or so. We know a lot about the stages of human sleep but still only theories about their function.”

            Tomma Lee bit her stylus thoughtfully. “Give me a little of that. And what’s the interest of the military?”

            Adrian shrugged. “I’m not a specialist, but basically NREM—that’s non-rapid eye movement sleep—has four stages, each progressively deeper, characterized by electroencephalographic patterns and a sizeable list of other measurements. In stage one most people think they are just sleepy or ‘resting their eyes’ but the EEG trace shows the onset of the theta wave and the disappearance of the fully awake alpha wave. In the second stage the individual is asleep but easily awakened. Stages three and four are both termed ‘slow-wave sleep.’ These have the highest arousal threshold—that is, they are the deepest stages of NREM sleep. If you are awakened here you will be groggy and possibly confused for a time. Dreaming occurs in the deepest stage—stage four—but dreams recollected from this stage are always vague and disconnected. Stage four appears to be the most needed period since deprivation of stage four produces a longer stage four in the next opportunity for sleep.”

            Tomma Lee looked up. “And what about REM?”

            Adrian blinked and nodded. “It seems to be very important. There are several periods of REM sleep—short ones early on and longer ones later, some as long as two hours. Vivid dreams occur during REM sleep. While the motor neurons are shut down, areas of the brain are engaged in dramaturgy based on procedural and spatial memories. REM sleep appears to be critical to brain development. Babies spend 80 percent of their sleep time in REM sleep, aging adults 20 percent or less.

            “And Somnomol produces an hour of REM sleep per pill?”

            “Apparently, along with three hours of NREM.”

            “So what’s the military interest in sleep research?”

            Adrian wrinkled his brow. “You know, that goes way back, long before the Neighbors. The old declassified studies had to do with sleep deprivation—studies for troop effectiveness and prisoner interrogation.”

            “And lately?”

            Adrian smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know much, and I can’t talk about what I’ve seen.”

            Tomma Lee tapped her lips with the stylus. “The Neighbors don’t sleep,” she said, trying for a response.

            “Their nervous system is entirely different—delocalized along a huge central cord with nodes along its length. They’ve let us do EEG studies using modified equipment, but so far we haven’t made much sense of the data.”

            Tomma Lee wanted to ask what it was like probing the electrical activity in the nervous system of a five-foot exoskeleton, but the image repulsed her. Instead she said, “Thank you, Adrian. You’ve been very helpful.”

            Adrian was looking for something among the clutter on his desk, finally holding up a photo. It was the two of them in Paris on their honeymoon. They had asked someone to take their picture against the flying buttresses at the back of Notre Dame. “Hey, Tomma Lee,” he said. “Remember this?”

            Tomma Lee saw herself in shorts and sunglasses, smiling broadly, her head on Adrian’s shoulder. He appeared to be saying something. The dead past caught in her throat and she looked away. “Good-bye, Adrian. Thanks again,” she said and hung up, staring for a full minute at the bare tabletop.

* * * *

            XI

            Joe Greyfox had sat at the edge of the interstate, his chin on his knees, for nearly half an hour, watching the growing storm. The voice would talk to him from time to time, simpering with confused regret and sobbing accusations. “God, lady, what do you want?” he said at one point as lightning flashed in the distance. There had been no answer.

            Years ago, as a teenager, some of his friends had dared him to eat the sacred mushroom. Then, too, there had been lightning in the desert sky. He had heard the voices of his ancestors. Joe had read about flashbacks, but that had been, what, twenty years ago? His great-grandfather—a man who had died before his father had been born—had spoken painful, shameful accusations: “Why haven’t you reclaimed what is ours?” He had wept bitterly through a four-hour bad trip, his girlfriend holding his head in her lap and rocking him through most of it.

            But this was different. Hold me, Johnny! I know you didn’t mean it!

            “Get out of my head, lady,” he muttered, rubbing sore ribs. “I’m not Johnny!”

            It was fully dark now. Several cars had raced past him in the opposing lane, not noticing, or perhaps not caring to get involved.

            Eventually, he had remembered the old phone in the panel truck’s glove box and peered down into the darkness. He could dimly make out the truck, poised perilously, and imagined his weight pitching the truck in a tumbling roll into the steep ravine. Too dangerous. And he was hallucinating. No, it was better to stay here and thumb a ride, he thought. But traffic was light and mostly in the wrong direction.

            Maybe direction didn’t matter. He stood up with a painful grunt, determined to flag down the next approaching vehicle in whatever direction.

That gun scares me, Johnny. Get rid of it, you don’t need that!

            “Jesus! Am I going nuts?” he said. “I’m Joseph Greyfox, and all I want to do is get back to my apartment in Phoenix!”

If you go out with that gun I won’t be here when you get back!

            The headlights of an eighteen-wheeler were approaching in the near lane. The distant twin beams glared at him. With something like the effort of will that had finally stifled the voice of his great-grandfather, Joe pushed at the woman’s voice and felt it fade. He stepped out onto the asphalt, determined to stop the speeding trailer or be run down, as the first drops of rain began to fall.

* * * *

            XII

            Tomma Lee had showered early and was in her pajamas by 8 p.m., finishing the Doc Challenger piece. She had incorporated enough of the technical background Adrian had supplied to satisfy her professional integrity while adding enough folksy superficiality to simulate the original Doc Challenger’s style. She had made the Neighbors’ purported lack of sleep the butt of a joke about their invention of a sleeping pill. Mimicking the “down-home” patois had been easy but distasteful, and she decided to ask Cliff to assign future columns to someone else.

            The feature story on the Neighbors was more problematic. She had wasted an hour reviewing old video of Friel in the Hive, chumming it up with what struck her as five-foot cockroaches. It wasn’t coming together, and her palms still itched. Sorting through notes from Friel’s anecdotes increasingly felt like they were all irrelevant fluff. She couldn’t shake the notion that there was a story—maybe a big story—here, but she hadn’t found it.

            At eleven she gave up in frustration and began scanning the news channels. The BBC was covering breaking news—a bombing of the UNERCO headquarters in Paris that had occurred only hours ago. She killed the mute key: “. . . a stolen traffic helicopter loaded with high explosives crashed into the roof of the UNERCO Headquarters Building at the Place de Fontenoy . . .” the reporter was saying, as in the distance police floodlights played across the smoking ruin, encircled with the blinking red lights of fire trucks and police cars. “In a recorded message, Holy Alliance leader Liam O’Brian claimed responsibility for the attack, in which thirty-one are known dead and over two hundred have been taken to the hospital, some with life-threatening injuries . . . “

            Tomma Lee stared at the still night-darkened recorded scene, shaking her head absently. The Holy Alliance were a group of strange bedfellows who had temporarily stopped hating each other in order to focus their collective hatred on the aliens and the people who worked with them. This would mean tightened security around the UNERCO Institute in New York. She found herself wishing desperately for Adrian to remain safe.

            The terrorist attack would, of course, now dominate the Reflecting Pool special issue, but she would still be under the gun to compose a human interest feature on Neighborly contacts. The networks and wire services would be full of this story for days. Hundreds of political and religious leaders would be badgered for comment. Dialing through the channels she already saw several interviews were running—the politicos vowing support for UNERCO and hinting at the search for a scapegoat for the security breach, the religious leaders all distancing themselves from the terrorists.

            Tomma Lee wanted espresso, but fear of another sleepless night led her to the refrigerator, where she stood for a moment frowning at its meager contents. With a shrug of resignation she grabbed a plate of cooked shrimp and a bottle of tomato juice. She poured some juice and carried the shrimp back to the sofa. Tucking her legs under her she dialed through a second menu of news channels.

            Even the secondary sources were hitting the terrorist bombing. One was rerunning a documentary on the Holy Alliance. The theater table filled with file footage of early group rallies in Cairo, Rome, and Dublin. There was lots of yelling, placards depicting the Neighbors with their stubby antennae enhanced into devil horns. Crosses, lunar crescents, and six-pointed stars were all in evidence.

            A local channel was showing a recent meeting of a U.S.-based splinter group: the Holy Union. By publicly renouncing violence they were considered legal, but on several government agencies’ “watch lists.” In one scene the milling throng had taken up a chant, raising and lowering their placards with the refrain: “Godless! Godless!” The speaker at the podium—a clean-shaven cleric of some sort with white hair and wire-rim spectacles—shouted them down: “It had two horns like a lamb,” he was saying, “but it spoke like a dragon!” The chanting subsided. “It deceived the inhabitants of the Earth with the signs it was allowed to perform! Soon no one could buy or sell except those who bore its evil number!”

            Tomma Lee recognized the paraphrase from the Book of Revelation, but she also recognized a familiar face in the crowd of enthused believers. She sipped the tomato juice and chewed a shrimp thoughtfully. Yes, it was Avery, the kid from photography. He was holding a placard that read, “They Are NOT My Neighbor!” and was listening to the speaker with rapt attention. A mop of auburn hair had fallen on his forehead, and he seemed eager to restart his chants.

            He was soon given his chance. The speaker leaned toward the crowd over the podium. “Shall we let these minions of that Evil One, the Lord of the Flies, despoil this Earth that God has sanctified?”

            The chorus of “No!” soon melded back to “Godless!”

            Tomma Lee spun the dial but found nothing else of interest. Hard news had driven out most of the Silly Season, except for the white kitten in zero G. Some ad agency had already adapted it for a soft drink commercial. Some new ghost voice stories had appeared, but that was likely copycat hysteria—a reflection of world tensions. She drained the juice glass and snapped off the table.

            Tossing the shrimp remains in the disposal, Tomma Lee peered out between parted drapes at the delicate array of light pinpoints that was the Seattle skyline. She scratched her left palm. There was a Neighbor story for her somewhere. Possibly that local splinter group. She could talk to Avery tomorrow, get some names of the leaders. She would keep it confidential since Cliff would likely fire the kid if he knew about his playmates. Tomma Lee grimaced at the thought of a sub rosa tete-a-tete with the concupiscent dweeb, but right now it was the only new approach she could think of.

            She had better try to get some sleep. The deadline was approaching and tomorrow was likely to be a long day. She shut off the apartment lights, and in a few minutes climbed into bed.

            Two hours later, Tomma Lee was still awake. She was sweating and her hair was matted. Men’s faces kept intruding on her thoughts: Adrian, Friel, Avery, Cliff, even Scott Narvick. This is nuts, she told herself, I’ve got to get some rest. She threw back the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed, peering blearily at the time: 3:10 a.m. Blinking at the darkened bedroom she felt herself coming fully awake. I’ll be walking around like a zombie tomorrow. There was too much on her plate right now for this. She stood up and padded across the rug, snapping on the bathroom light. Tomma Lee yawned at her pale image in the mirror.

            And there it was. Still in the sealed box Cliff had given her when he turned over McDermott’s notes and the half-finished “Doc Challenger” column. Tomma Lee picked it up and squinted at the cityscape logo with the shadowy bird in flight.

            It took almost a minute to get past the box and bottle seals. Then she spilled two tiny yellow pills onto her palm. Inexplicably, they frightened her a little; she had never taken any sleeping pills. If they worked she would get to work by noon, catch Avery at lunch, and maybe have the leads for a feature on anti-Neighbor hate groups in America.

            Adrian and the USFDA said they were safe. She filled a cup with cold water, popped the pills with a shrug, drank, then crawled back into bed.

* * * *

            XIII

            Mr. Wong let Betty store her shopping cart in a pantry closet in the Heavenly Panda’s kitchen. The kitchen staff had been busily preparing dim sum for the lunchtime crowd when she staggered in the restaurant’s back door, still struggling to push away the woman’s voice, which came and went in intervals. Betty had decades of practice in acting natural as the voices whispered to her; it was the technique that had won her release from the hospital. That and the patches. She had checked that her patch was still on her shoulder several times during the tiring climb into Chinatown, because this voice was new and different—loud and insistent.

            Mr. Wong smiled at her from across the steam-filled kitchen as she and her cart had appeared framed in the alley doorway. “Betty,” he said, “you long face. You come, I give you nice chicken lo mein with fresh egg noodle!” They quickly set up a place for her at the end of a counter and brought hot food and tea. Mr. Wong barked some orders, then came over to her and leaned on the counter, resting his chin on his hand. “It go pretty rough for you?”

            She nodded, picking at the steaming food. The woman’s voice was sobbing just then, and the sound of it made her sad.

            Mr. Wong studied her face for several minutes. “Betty, you sick? Need doctor?”

            She shook her head, but a tear squeezed out of her left eye and rolled down her cheek as she sipped the tea.

            “I bet those hoodlum teasing you again. You stay here tonight. I make bed for you in one of the booths when we close.”

            The voice made some muffled sobs, but it was fading. It was going away now finally, she somehow knew, as a familiar voice began whispering in her ear.

            “I mus go,” Mr. Wong said, patting her shoulder. “We open now. You eat. We talk later.”

            Betty stirred the bowl of noodles with her fork. The old voices were back, but the patch kept them from hurting. It was somehow comforting.

            Life was good.

* * * *

            XIV

            They had left the Saturday afternoon crowds at the Louvre and strolled along the shaded quai des Tuileries with the placid Seine on their right. It was a warm day in late July, and couples and families were enjoying the weather and the view. Some sat on the grass watching the light river traffic. Others milled around the stands of the street vendors. The great museum stretched out on their left across a stream of taxis, Smart Cars, and bicycles. Eventually, they reached the Pont Neuf, the oldest “new” bridge in Paris, and walked across to the ile de la Cité, pausing several times to watch tour boats glide up and down the waterway. Descending the steps behind King Henry IV’s statue, they followed the crowds down the island’s streets to Notre Dame. There they joined the queue on the Place du Parvis to enter the imposing cathedral at its Portal of the Last Judgment.

            Once inside the cavernous church, Tomma Lee looked back from the nave aisle at the immense west rose window over the portal they had just entered. When she turned, Adrian was already headed toward a second line at the entrance to the north tower. He waved to her to hurry: “The gargoyles. Come on!”

            He saved a place for her in the line to the disapproving frowns of the people behind. Tomma Lee was mildly annoyed. She had wanted to take in more of the church interior. This was, after all, a thousand years of history—where the Crusades had been proclaimed, where the revolutionaries had danced and mocked in a renamed “Temple of Reason,” where Napoleon had crowned himself emperor.

            Adrian noted something in her expression. “What’s the matter?” he said, arching a brow. “Are you okay?”

            She just shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Just a little headache.”

            They began to climb the stone steps as part of an endless line of tourists. Nearly four hundred steps later they had reached the open gallery between the two towers. The gargoyles, in all manner of open-mouthed horror, were drainpipes. There were also various grotesque beasts, demons, and sharp-beaked griffins. A cool breeze blew Tomma Lee’s hair across her face.

            “The south tower has the biggest bell,” Adrian was saying. “Are you up for another climb?”

            Tomma Lee had been studying the view of Paris while pushing back her hair. “Whatever you think . . .” she started to say, but when she turned, it wasn’t Adrian, but one of the Neighbors—all orange and oily and working its mouthparts. “Who are you?” she gasped, stricken with fear and revulsion. “Where is my husband?”

* * * *

            XV

            Tomma Lee awoke without an alarm at 11 a.m., after nearly eight hours of refreshing sleep. She was left with only the faintest impression of a dream of indistinct content. The little yellow pills had done their job. She couldn’t remember when she had felt better rested.

            Normally not a breakfast eater, today she was ravenous. She microwaved pancakes and sausage and poured juice, not coffee. She found herself pedaling to the office with unaccustomed enthusiasm, even after she remembered her intention to squeeze a story out of Avery.

            The late breakfast had quenched her appetite, but she kept to her plan to intercept the secret Holy Unionist in the lunchroom. Tomma Lee surveyed the small throng milling among the vending machines and the knots of people at the lunch tables. No Avery. She was a bit surprised. On days when she was in the office she had always avoided the lunchroom at this hour to discourage his embarrassing youthful attentions. Could Cliff have caught the local news story last night and already fired him? Unlikely.

            Tomma Lee walked back toward the production graphics wing and tried the knob at photography. Sometimes it was locked if they were set up for a shoot, but the door opened easily. The lights were on, but no one appeared to be about. Tomma Lee stepped carefully around a maze of cables and light tripods toward an inner office area. Peering around the open doorway, she found the kid with his head down on folded arms on a desktop, apparently asleep.

            She hesitated for a moment, envisioning a disturbing scene in which the would-be Lothario would take this as a cue for action. But she needed to find out more about the Holy Union network—leaders’ names, links, if any, to the Eurasian terrorist Holy Alliance. The possibility of the kind of feature story tie-in to yesterday’s Paris bombing that Cliff would want. She would have to promise to keep Avery’s name out of it, if he would spill what he knew. It would be blackmail, but this was the news business. Anyway, she told herself, the kid was keeping nasty company.

            “Avery!”

            Evidently, the kid had been lightly dozing because he reacted like a firecracker had just gone off in the room. When he saw Tomma Lee standing in the doorway he began to shake.

            The effect she had produced shocked Tomma Lee. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

            “Tomma . . . Miss Evans . . .” Avery’s hands were trembling, and he hid them under the desk.

            “I didn’t mean to startle you. Were you sleeping?”

            “Yes . . . ah, no just . . . thinking . . .”

            Avery’s reaction was not at all what she had expected. He was behaving strangely, almost as if he were frightened of her.

            Tomma Lee pulled up an office chair and sat down. “Something’s bothering you, Avery.” She touched his arm, and he stared at her wide eyed. “You can tell me about it,” she said, forcing a smile.

            “I think I’m losing it, Miss Evans,” he said.

            She gave him a questioning look, trying to retain the smile.

            Avery stared at the wall, unable to meet her eyes. “I . . . heard you this morning,” he said. “It was your voice. I was sure it was you . . . I even started to answer. But I looked around in the elevator and you weren’t there.”

            “Maybe it was somebody else,” Tomma Lee suggested. “Somebody who just sounded like me.”

            Avery shook his head, still not looking at her. “Only a guy from the mailroom. You should have seen the look he gave me.”

            Tomma Lee knitted her brow, the glimmer of an idea forming. “What did you hear? I mean, what did I say?”

            “‘How high are we?’” Avery licked his lips. “And then something about wind. I thought you were making a joke, so I said, ‘Tomma Lee, there’s no wind in an elevator.’” Avery forced himself to look at her and smiled weakly. “Then you said, ‘Who are you?,’ like I had butted in on a private conversation. And then you yelled, real loud, like you were scared, ‘Where is my husband?’”

            Avery looked down, his hands knitted in his lap. “I heard it, Miss Evans. I know you’re not married, but I heard you say that.”

* * * *

            XVI

            Tomma Lee spent an hour in her cubicle, combing the net for recent stories of apparently sane people who had reported hearing voices. Avery’s description of his elevator episode had evoked enough of her dimly remembered dream to suggest something unexpected and potentially the key to a big story. Her dream had been a disturbingly altered version of the Paris honeymoon with Adrian a decade ago, probably evoked by the news coverage of the UNERCO bombing and all this recent preoccupation with the Neighbors.

            The ghost voice reports were scattered all over the place, but she had to dig for them. Individually, they still looked like Silly Season filler: A light-plane lands in an Iowa cornfield, the lone pilot claiming that someone had begun screaming in his earphones; a nun in Naples reports hearing an angel’s warning about the Neighbors; a New York City cabbie abandons his taxi at an intersection when a voice yells in his head to run for cover; a man in a Moscow suburb is arrested for shooting at a microwave tower with a rifle, claiming it was broadcasting into his brain.

            By 2:30 she had collected a dozen stories from all over the world and was dialing Adrian, hoping he was still at the Institute.

            “Yo, Tomma Lee! What’s up?” His hair was again tousled, his eyes looked bleary, and he was scratching at a five o’clock shadow. He bore the marks of a prolonged lunchtime tryst, but Tomma Lee was glad he was safe.

            She got right to the point: “Adrian, what do you know about telepathy?”

            “Hmm?”

            “Is it possible?”

            Adrian gave her a heavy-lidded stare and leaned back in his chair. “You come up with some interesting questions, Tomma Lee.” He ran a hand through his hair, but it fell back in disarray. “Actually, a few years back we were speculating about those noises the Neighbors make, then digitally convert into human languages. Some people thought the whole process was for human consumption, that they communicate telepathically to each other. We never got very far with that. Paranormal research has been pretty much on a back burner around here since the Neighbors were evasive about the subject.”

            Tomma Lee was determined to get more information. “But is it real? Can you give me a capsule summary of what you know about it?”

            Adrian rubbed his chin. “The subject’s been around a long time, in and out of favor as either science or pseudo-science for a couple of centuries. Serious study of parapsychology began in the 1880s with the British. A lot of famous people got into it: scientists like William Crookes, politicians like Arthur Balfour, even writers like Arthur Conan Doyle. The U.S. followed soon after, led by the psychologist/ philosopher William James. Lots of schools took it up in the twentieth century: Stanford, and especially Duke University, where Joseph Rhine did a lot of controlled—presumably controlled—studies. I read somewhere that even Wolfgang Pauli—you know, the exclusion principle?”

            Tomma Lee shook her head.

            “Well, even a highly regarded physicist like Pauli became a believer.”

            “So, is telepathy real?”

            Adrian snatched a pencil and began tapping a nervous rhythm on his desktop. “That’s the million-dollar question,” he said. “I think it was Margaret Mead, the anthropologist, who got the Parapsychological Association affiliated with the American Association for the Advancement of Science. AAAS is as big and prestigious as scientific societies get. Over the years some members, like the physicist John Wheeler, tried to get the connection broken, but as far as I know they are still linked up.”

            “So a lot of scientists believe there is something to it?”

            Adrian spread his palms. “It’s hard to say how many. The subject goes up and down in interest. In the 1970s and ‘80s a lot of work went on in Europe, America, and the former Soviet Union, but by the early twenty-first century many active centers, like the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research Lab, were shutting down. The work never completely stopped, though, because private funding kept other labs going. And lately, interest has been picking up again.”

            Tomma Lee was not satisfied. “Do you believe in it?” she asked.

            Adrian grimaced a little. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll answer that, but then you’ve got to tell me what this is all about.” He leaned back in the office chair, the pencil between his hands. “I’ve read a lot of research reports on paranormal studies: ESP, precognition, clairvoyance, you name it. Thanks to watchdog organizations like the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry and the James Randi Educational Foundation there are now very few cases of purposeful fraud in the technical literature. Most recent investigations appear to be properly designed experiments, something that was decidedly not the case in many of the twentieth century studies. A persistent problem, though, is the improper use of meta-analysis in combining results for publication.”

            “You’re going to tell me what that means?”

            “It’s bias on what low-population data sets get selected to create a statistically significant large data set. You ignore, or reject as flawed, studies that are inconsistent with your preconceived conclusion.”

            Tomma Lee couldn’t help a brief smile. “You scientific types wouldn’t do that, would you?”

            “Sometimes, its just honest stupidity,” he said, grinning. “But to finally answer your question, Tomma Lee, I believe there is a small, but undeniable, positive deviation from pure chance that doesn’t go away when all sources of bias have been removed. Yes, I think telepathy exists, but it is a rare and wild effect about which we know nothing substantive.”

            Tomma Lee realized that she now owed Adrian an explanation for this call. “Okay, then,” she said. “I have another question for you.” Adrian raised his eyebrows expectantly. “What if that rare talent could be chemically induced?”

* * * *

            XVII

            Two days later, when the weekly edition of the Reflecting Pool appeared on the net, it did not contain a story about the Somnomol sleep-aid broadcasting people’s nightmares into the heads of unsuspecting citizenry.

            Tomma Lee had spent two hours discussing the possibilities with Adrian and another two downloading the “ghost voices” stories from more than twenty wire services. The writing had taken most of the night. But Cliff had rejected the feature after reading the first two pages.

            “Too speculative,” he had typed back. “You’ve got no hard evidence. And those pills have been approved for over-the-counter sale by the food and drug agencies of over forty countries. Friel would sue us. When I gave you that ‘Doc’s Corner’ assignment I didn’t expect this . . .”

            It had hurt. Especially because Tomma Lee, writing it almost as a personal memoir, had qualified her conclusions on every page. She had clearly conceded that Somnomol was undoubtedly safe for the person who uses it. But she had also suggested that mental disturbance and possibly grave physical harm could accrue to those unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of the nightmare transmissions. On the net she had found several auto and one plane crash that sounded like the results of the effect. God only knew how many people kept their experience hidden, or how many had sought psychiatric care.

            Tomma Lee was pacing the floor in her apartment, the homepage of the Reflecting Pool glowing in the air above her theater table. Cliff had assigned Alex a feature on world reaction to the terror attack in Paris, complete with “talking-head” clips as a replacement for her copy. The “Doc’s Corner” filler on Somnomol ran as she had originally submitted it, with no reference to any problem with the drug.

            There had been a time, when she had first come out west, when Cliff would have run her story. Back then the journal was trying to make a name for itself. Now crusading journalism was boat-rocking. She had no idea what kinds of pressure Cliff now responded to. The Fidelis Group and its huge pharmaceutical arm, Compcare, had a long reach, she knew. Running Tomma Lee’s feature would have been like asking for some sort of real or imagined behind-the-scenes corporate retribution. Even Adrian had waffled when she suggested that he reopen the investigation of the drug at the Institute. The only promise she could evoke was a follow-up study if her write-up received the positive response they both expected. It amounted to more gutless fear of a reprisal of some kind from Friel.

God! Even Adrian!

            Tomma Lee stopped pacing and began the familiar ritual of loading the black-and-metal espresso machine. Minutes later the steaming demitasse was in her hand as she dialed the number Cliff had given her.

            Friel’s private secretary put her on hold. After a full two minutes of watching a rotating Fidelis Group logo, the young woman’s face reappeared. “Mr. Friel is currently en route to our Compcare division in Melbourne, but he is available. I’ll connect you.”

            Immediately, the toothy grin appeared, framed by the blond beard. Friel was wearing a white cable-knit turtleneck. He was seated in a leather reclining chair and there was an iced drink in his hand.

            “I’ve read your current issue, Miss Evans, but I missed your by-line.”

            Tomma Lee chose to ignore the comment. “Mr. Friel, this time I’ve got a story to tell you.”

            “Noel, please . . . We’re old friends now . . .” He sipped at the glass and sat back expectantly. “Please go ahead, I’ve got a good half hour before touchdown.”

            Tomma Lee gave him the whole story with all the qualifications and provisos that she could remember from the rejected article.

            When she had finished, Friel was pensive and silent for a minute. “They wouldn’t print it?” he asked at last.

            Tomma Lee shook her head, hardly knowing what to expect from him.

            “While I appreciate your editor’s caution, if your premise proves valid, sooner rather than later someone else will go public with this. We’ve got a couple of billion units out worldwide. Right now I’m on my way to a meeting about expanding production.” Friel reached off-camera and retrieved his drink. “Miss Evans, do you remember our talk about the motivations of the Neighbors and that forbidden area in the Hive?”

            Tomma Lee bit her lower lip. “I’ve thought about that quite a bit lately,” she said. “What if the Holy Alliance and the Holy Union are right, in essence? What if the Neighbors want the Earth, and the forbidden area of the Hive is a brood hatchery of future colonists?”

            Friel was about to drink, but stopped and glared at her. “And they’re trying to kill us off with our own projected dreams? No, Miss Evans, if the Neighbors had wanted the Earth they would have taken it long ago. Your discovery has suggested a quite different motivation. They could be trying to stimulate a latent mental potential.”

            “To make humans telepathic? Why?”

            “The forbidden area of the Hive comes out of the translators as ‘archive.’ The Neighbors came here for information about us—deep information about how our minds are structured and how our thought processes work. It makes a kind of sense that a telepathic race would make such details transparent to them.”

            Tomma Lee had forgotten that she still held the demitasse. She drained it and set it down. “Could the way we think be that different?”

            Friel was not smiling now. “I believe that they sent these Hives from their home world to learn all the myriad modes of sentient intelligence. It may be more vastly varied than we, or even the Neighbors, can imagine.” His face took on a pensive expression. “Somnomol was likely meant as a test to check on the biochemical response. The next gift could be something much more potent . . .” His voice trailed off.

            Tomma Lee felt a tremor run down her spine. “They intend to just give us this power?”

            “In order to understand us more completely. But all the Neighborly gifts have been beneficial. No harm could result.” Friel now seemed to be talking to himself. “I wonder, though, why they haven’t been more open about this. . . .”

            Tomma Lee felt for a moment that he’d almost forgotten her. “Even with the best of intentions,” she said, “how well do the Neighbors know us? Isn’t that gift a bit like giving a nuclear bomb to a pack of howling lemurs?”

            Friel snapped out of his reverie and fixed her with his good eye. “It seems to me, Miss Evans, that we handled that crisis ourselves a century ago. I see no reason that we won’t handle this one as well. Knowing each others’ thoughts and feelings could be just what we need to finally grow up, live in peace, join in an interstellar community . . .”

            “You’re joking! We’re nowhere near ready . . .”

            Friel smiled dismissively. “We’re approaching the airport. I really must be signing off, Miss Evans. It was a pleasure. . . .” And the connection was cut.

            When Tomma Lee tried to replay the conversation she found the recording had been coded to self-erase. For several moments she was stunned, struggling with the irrational feeling that Cliff and Adrian and Friel had conspired against her, yet knowing that they were each separately acting out of self interest. She spun the theater table dial, her hands cold and trembling. A special report on the latest round of threats and demands from Liam O’Brien appeared. All of it now seemed to have taken on the aspect of a strange dream.

            What had Adrian called REM sleep? Dramaturgy.

We’re all actors, she thought, a decision taking shape in her mind. Such stuff as dreams are made on.

            Then Tomma Lee typed short messages to Cliff Barnes and Scott Narvick, resigning one role and accepting another.

* * * *

            Reflecting Pool News Service:

            . . . The recall of the Somnomol sleep-aid has had a significant negative impact on the third quarter earnings figures for Compcare Pharmaceuticals. However, division vice president Malcolm Seabring has expressed confidence that a new vitamin-supplement formulation currently under development, which the company claims enhances mental clarity, will improve the outlook for the next fiscal year. N. Joel Friel, who, as chairman of the Fidelis Group, sits on the Compcare board, was unavailable for comment, having undertaken a solo around-the-world voyage on his racing yacht, the Sand Dollar.

            Copyright © 2011 Thonas R. Dulski