The Angels of Destiny (New Edition)

WHEN THE GODS ANSWER

1

He wasn’t alone in the darkness—they were all around him, pushing and jostling him, and so close he could smell their vitriolic breath.

Pallid, judgmental fingers poked his naked body like razor sharp talons, piercing his flesh.

Then came the chanting… a distant whisper at first but slowly building into a fearful crescendo…guilty!…guil-ty!…GUIL-TY…GUIL-TY, the faceless voices bellowed their verdict.

Robert McPherson opened his eyes; his face and torso wet with perspiration.

Guilty, he repeated, like a broken man confessing. He reached across to Amanda’s side of the bed and swept his hand across the cold cotton sheet, aching to run his fingers through her hair and feel the warmth of her slender body and kiss her lips. It hurt, it hurt like hell.

In Houston, Texas, it was seventy-four degrees, and already the morning air felt heavy and sultry. It would be hotter later, but nothing like the sweltering, humid heat of summer.

Downtown, the towering glass monoliths dominated the skyline, reflecting the fiery morning sun like huge mirrors, into the easterly suburbs and beyond, to the flat featureless horizon.

On floor-forty of the Ellington Building, in a large sun lit conference room, a meeting was about to start.

Seated in anticipation, around a long rectangular table, were five of the world’s most eminent scientists. Standing facing them with his back to the tinted-glass window was a tall, fair-haired man.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, he said, in a very upbeat manner, not waiting for a response. It just shows what a bit of presidential pressure can do. I'm glad to announce that Dr Robert McPherson has finally been released from his current duties and will be arriving here shortly.

The announcement caused a buzz of excitement around the table.

At ten-thirty, Rob McPherson's chauffeur driven limousine arrived at the entrance to the Ellington Building, precisely forty-eight minutes after his flight had touched down at Houston International Airport, to the north of the city.

Quickly, the young chauffeur opened the near side rear door. I'll take care of your baggage, sir, you just report to the main desk, he said, obligingly.

McPherson thanked him, exited the limousine and strode the short distance to the entrance, briskly walking up the steps and carefully avoiding four young uniformed men striding purposefully out of the building, deep in excited conversation.

Inside the entrance, a second set of automatic doors quietly opened, revealing an impressive, cool reception area. He walked to the desk in front of him. My name is Rob McPherson—Colin Williams is expecting me. His impassive expression gave no indication of the hurt and despondency he felt within himself.

Just one moment, sir, she said, casting her eyes down to the discreetly hidden screen illuminating her young face.

That's confirmed—welcome to Houston, Doctor, she replied, still smiling widely.

Can I please have your hand scan?

McPherson placed his right hand on the glass plate in front of him and waited for the computer clearance. Handing him his printed lapel badge, she said, Please wear this at all times and take a seat to your right, while I page security for you.

Thank you, McPherson said, forcing a smile. On the flight to Houston his mind had slowed to a glacier pace, his cognitive thoughts had become fragmented and random. Sitting still was becoming difficult; difficult because the pent-up anger burning inside him felt like it was about to explode out of the top of his head, like an erupting volcano. The unfamiliar feelings of failure and jealousy combined forces to create an almost uncontrollable urge to hit out, at whatever was in his way. Someone, some bastard, had taken his Amanda, his friend, and his lover.

Her words: It's over… I love another man, still ringing in his ears.

McPherson's hands were clenched as he fought to control his racing emotions. His mind was spinning and confused. Why did he not sense there was a problem? How could she love someone else? How could she? Why had he not sensed her innermost feelings? Ten years, ten wasted years and for what? To be discarded like an empty Coke can, crushed in the hand and tossed into the garbage. He needed her, for God's sake. She was a part of him, she was his life. Where did it all go wrong?

Dr McPherson?… Dr McPherson?

Yeah—sorry—that's me, he replied, startled by the sudden interruption. He looked up and was confronted by a giant of a man.

Follow me please, sir.

He quickly composed himself and tried to forget his problems, at least for a short while. He needed to be rational; he needed time to think things through. Standing up, he inhaled deeply and fought to clear his tormented mind as he mechanically followed the perspiring security officer into the awaiting lift.

It was necessary for the officer to confirm that Rob McPherson was who he said he was, but ironically, for the first time in his life, McPherson wasn't sure himself.

Minutes later, on the fourth floor, the perspiring officer unlocked a door marked Security and invited McPherson to enter the small room. As he entered the smell of stale body odor hit him, and he felt repulsed. After being invited to sit down on a swivel chair facing a cream computer desk, he looked across at the man responsible for the odor. His large body filled the expanse of his uniform almost to bursting point, and his balloon like face was covered in moist, oily flesh that hung in layers below his chin, diminished only by the mass of his huge lower torso. As he sat down the chair below him groaned, as it took the weight of his enormous bulk.

May I have your ID card, sir? he said, struggling for breath.

McPherson reached into his pocket and handed the guard his plastic chip impregnated card.

Thank you, sir, he said, as he swiped the card into the reader next to the computer on his right.

Reluctantly, he watched the guard struggling to breath whilst he very slowly typed information into the computer on the desk in front of him. McPherson's breathing was deliberately short and shallow and his right hand covered his nose and mouth, in a vain attempt to filter the unwelcome smell.

After what seemed like an eternity, the guard looked up and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a damp handkerchief. I just need your voice and retina sample now, sir, he said. I can then enter it into the computer and you can be on your way.

Good, I have an appointment at eleven o'clock on floor twenty, McPherson said, impatiently, eager to clear his nostrils of the pungent stench that had impregnated every part of the room.

Yes, I know, sir, you'll be there with time to spare, replied the guard, calmly.

At two minutes to eleven the doors of the elevator opened at the twentieth-floor and McPherson stepped out into a welcoming reception area. On the oatmeal colored walls hung copies of classics by Turner, Van Gogh and Monet. In the corners of the room large leafy plants thrived on the light from the ceiling lights.

Seconds after the lift doors had silently closed behind him a voice from a hidden speaker, said:

Please use the VRU and enter the door to your left.

He walked to the wall mounted VRU next to the door, leaned towards it and spoke his name:

Dr Robert McPherson.

The door opened and there to greet him was a very attractive black American woman.

Good to meet you, Dr McPherson, she said, with a slight west-coast accent and a smile that showed off her perfect teeth.

My name is Linda, I'm Colin’s personal assistant.

Good to meet you, Linda, replied McPherson.

Please follow me, sir—Mr Williams is waiting for you in his office. As she walked in front of him he noticed her elegant long legs and the graceful way she moved. It reminded him of Amanda and he felt a sickening depression overwhelm him.

Shortly, they arrived at a plain wooden door that carried no name or title. A single knock by Linda Washington was followed by Hunter's deep voice, saying, Please come in.

Linda gestured to McPherson.

Thanks, he said. Entering the office, he watched Colin Williams stand up from behind his desk and enthusiastically move forward to greet him and shake his hand.

Great to meet you, Rob. My name’s Colin, but please call me Hunter, everyone else does.

McPherson smiled and shook his hand warmly.

Hunter pointed to a chair in front of his desk that was covered in luxurious black leather to match the large desk set at an angle facing away from the window. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.

As Hunter returned to his seat McPherson estimated he was in his early fifties, although he looked very fit for his age, with a full head of fair hair and a sporting tan. Six-feet-two possibly, McPherson thought.

I trust you had a pleasant journey this morning, Rob?

Very pleasant, thank you, replied McPherson, lying, but showing no outward signs of stress or emotion.

I guess you're wondering what's going on? Hunter said, quietly.

Yeah, in fact I am. Conrad has briefed me about the project, but not in any real detail.

Well, that's because Conrad doesn’t know the real details, Hunter retorted, with a smug confidence.

I know there's a requirement for data analysis and that my experience will be of benefit: but that's all I know. McPherson watched and waited while Hunter composed himself.

This is a top-secret project, Rob, and it has already cost our government a huge amount of money. The President has been convinced by some very well prepared arguments, that, on balance, it's likely to be very beneficial to America. But, he is aware that there is no guarantee of success.

I guess you already know my expertise? Hunter did and he smiled and nodded in recognition.

So what kind of data are we looking at here?

All will be revealed, very soon—I can assure you.

Conrad indicated that the project would be initially for one year, is that still the case?

Possibly; it's too early to tell yet, but whatever happens, Conrad knows your current project will be reopened for you, on your return to Washington.

McPherson thought about Hunter's words for a moment. Last night he was concerned about Amanda and the fact that he might have to work in Houston for a period without her. Now, in a matter of a few hours, it didn't seem relevant anymore, and going back to Washington, without her there, had little appeal to him.

So when do I get to know what’s going on? he asked smiling, trying to find some enthusiasm from within himself.

The first meeting of Project M13 starts at midday, in room B12. I'll get Linda to show you the bathroom. I'm sure you'd like to freshen up before the show gets on the road.

2

Amanda looked around the spacious apartment and so many happy memories came flooding back. Tears blurred her vision and with her finger she wiped a tear from her cheek as she walked into the bedroom. Head lowered, she reached to her wardrobe and closed the double-mirrored doors, leaving behind most of her belongings.

It was time to leave.

She sighed as she walked to the front door. Then, she stopped and looked around again; her hand covered her mouth and she began to sob as she reached out to a photograph of Rob and herself on one of the wall shelves. They were soul mates, wrapped in each other’s arms, on a skiing holiday in Canada.

Goodbye Rob, she cried, gently touching the image of his smiling face.

Amanda dropped her door key on the floor before leaving and shutting the door behind her.

‘Oh God, what have I done?’ she exclaimed.

She hurried down the stairs and out into the quiet, sun drenched street. Tears soaked her cheeks as she slumped into the rear seat of the awaiting cab. She glanced out, half hoping to see his face, half hoping he would be there to stop her leaving; but he wasn’t.

Take me to the airport, she said, in a strained voice. Amanda’s destination was New York—the place where her new lover eagerly awaited her.

Back in Houston, Hunter walked briskly into conference room B12 and sat down at the head of the large table. To Hunter's left, was a sullen looking, Samuel Black,M13 Project Leader, and next to him the archetypal granite features of Yuri Klyushin—Head of Astronomical Research, followed by Jerzy Rozanski, Head of the newly formed Astrobiology team and Walter Rottenberg, Senior Astronomer. Sitting on Hunter's right was Rob McPherson followed by Vicki Stark—Chief Government Adviser for Satellite Communication Networks, followed by Raymond E. Strong Jnr. Head of Extra Terrestrial Research.

Hunter spent some time introducing Rob McPherson to each of the assembled members in turn. Of all the members only Raymond Strong Jnr. was familiar to McPherson.

After the formalities were over, Hunter stood up and said:

Ladies and Gentlemen, looking around the table today, I feel a certain—self-satisfaction. It has taken a considerable amount of time, money and effort to bring together such an eminent team, and I'm sure that after this afternoon, you will all agree, it was essential to do so. Before I talk to you in detail, I want to ask Walter Rottenberg to spend a little time setting the scene, so to speak. Hunter then sat down; as he did, he offered his hand to Rottenburg, in a gesture to take over.

Walter Rottenburg stood up, cleared his throat and moved to the audio-visual unit on a raised floor section, slightly to the right of Hunter. He was a senior astronomer, in his early sixties. He had white bushy hair and large black-framed glasses, which looked too big for his face. He reminded McPherson of the mad professor. His latter years had been dedicated to understanding Black Holes, but he was also renowned, worldwide, for his knowledge of Pulsars.

At the press of a switch the room-lights dimmed and the first presentation slide lit up the big screen. In a very confident and clear voice he began.

On November 16, 1974, a radio signal was transmitted into space from the Arecibo Radio Telescope, in Puerto Rico. The dish was three hundred and five metres in diameter and so powerful it could communicate with an identical twin of itself anywhere in our Galaxy. A photo of the Telescope filled the screen.

Rottenburg paused; he had everyone's undivided attention. The radio signal was pointed at a star cluster of some 300,000 stars called, M13, in the constellation of Hercules. What was special about this signal is that it consisted of 1679 digital pulses. Any intelligent life form would soon realize that the pulses could be arranged to form a picture of life on Earth. Information about our chemical make-up, our position in the Solar System... and Man's image, of course. On the basis that the signals travel at the speed of light, we do not expect to get a reply—if at all, until the year AD 50,000. Without waiting for questions, or a thank-you from Hunter, Walter Rottenburg returned to his seat.

Hunter, once again rose to his feet, and took up the same position on the raised floor as Rottenburg had. So why bother you’re thinking, aren’t you?... None of us will be around in AD 50,000. I’ll tell you why.…Hunter paused. Central Intelligence has discovered that China has decided to spend money, and I mean big money on a secret project called Sky Watch. They are not waiting until AD 50,000 for an answer. Their argument is that if there is intelligent life out there, they may, just may, be trying to communicate with us, now.

McPherson watched and listened intently as Hunter's tone became more serious.

NASA is barred by Congress from spending public money looking for aliens and so far SETI has failed miserably; but this project will be under the guise of Astrobiology, as you know that's looking for evidence of life beyond our planet. In the end it's just words ladies and gentlemen, but one thing is clear and unequivocal—America cannot allow China to get there first. Consider the following argument... We now have available to us the biggest, fastest, Super Computer Network in the world, we also have the new generation of high sensitivity x-ray, radio and optical transceivers, recently positioned in space and capable of detecting signals one hundred thousand times weaker than anything the Chinese can detect. Together with this, we have Dr McPherson’s specialist knowledge of filtering out unwanted fusion noise from the incoming signals. Don't ask me what that means, ask Dr McPherson, Hunter said, smiling. He continued:

All of this means that it will be possible to scan M13, that is 300,000 plus, stars, in a period of approximately three weeks. That means, systematic searching of the entire universe, as we know it today, is probable within our life times.

Perhaps not mine, joked Walter Rottenburg.

Do not forget—China cannot do this, yet. Presently, they only have land based technology. Our advantage has cost the US a considerable amount of money, the majority of it from the defense budget, and we now need to capitalize on the technology to see the returns on our investment. Making contact could mean knowledge beyond our wildest dreams—knowledge—that would be owned and controlled by the US, ladies and gentlemen. We would be the world super-power without rival. Think about that. He paused, glancing around the table at the individual members.

Please, Raymond. Hunter said, pointing to the presentation area. Raymond Strong Jnr. stood up and inhaled before stepping on to the raised floor area. He stood still for a moment and faced the group with his both hands linked and resting on his large belly; acquired by years of excessive food and drink at expensive restaurants. His black curly hair hung over his forehead in little ringlets and his fat, flushed face was almost expressionless.

McPherson remembered him when he was a lot younger and very handsome, but now, he thought, he'd let himself go. He wondered what his wife looked like now. Probably still petit and elegant, like he remembered her, in Cleveland, Ohio.

Raymond Strong then began to speak:

This may come as a surprise to some of you but we know for certain that we are not alone in the Universe. He quickly looked around the table at the team, sitting in silent disbelief and then continued:

The official line of course, is that we deny all knowledge of this, but the reality is that we've already been visited. The Fermi-Hart Paradox, is no longer a paradox. But what we have failed to do is communicate with these beings. Ladies and Gentlemen, we have two dead alien bodies in Washington DC, under the Pentagon.

Silence filled the room.

McPherson glanced at the others around the table. It wasn’t news to him; he had seen them and touched their cold, hairless flesh; a flesh that refused to decompose. Two majestic creatures lying naked, side by side in a glass tomb that offered no privacy and no peace for the dead.

Strong continued:

We don’t know who they are, or where they've come from What we do know is that they are, humanlike, in appearance. Statistically, it means there are probably millions of other advanced civilizations out there, and the United States of America must be the first to communicate with them.

He paused as the assembled members wrestled with his words. We now estimate, given what we know, that there's possibly millions of potential signals that we can listen to, with the expensive hardware, floating above our heads. Our future could be shaped by the superior knowledge that they have; knowledge that could otherwise take us thousands of years to possess, if at all. We could use such information to develop new techniques in medicine, genetics, agriculture, industry, and defense: the list could be infinite. It would make us, the Super Power of all Super Powers: Arabs, Russians, Asians, even the Chinese, would be clambering, just to lick our ass.

Where were they found? Vicki Stark asked.

Raymond Strong paused and glanced at Hunter—I'm sorry, that's highly classified information, he said.

3

It was the second day, and Samuel Black entered conference room B14 for the second Project M13 meeting, due to start at eight o'clock. He had worked for the US Government for the last eighteen years, having joined them straight from Harvard University with a double Major in Systems Behavior and Logistics. His ability as an organizer and man manager became obvious very early in his career and promotion followed very quickly. Within six-years he had reached Level Three management status, and enjoyed the life style it brought with it. His wife, Kim, was two years younger than he was, attractive, intelligent and a professional golfer.

Money was not an issue to the Black’s. With no children and both partners dedicated to their own professions, they lived, almost separate lives, but their sybaritic existence suited them, and from the outside, it appeared to work.

Within minutes, Rob McPherson, arrived with Vicki Stark and Yuri Klyushin, closely followed by the rest of the team.

Good morning everyone, said Samuel, smiling.

Good morning, replied several voices.

Please be seated.

After everyone was settled, Samuel Black began.

As you know from my email, I want to discuss, in an open forum, the tasks that you have each been given to make this project a success. Linda will be here soon, he said, glancing at his watch…She will be responsible for all meeting notes. They will be emailed to you at the end of every meeting: Please acknowledge them as true or false within twenty-four-hours. This morning, I have arranged for a working breakfast, it will be here in thirty minutes; I trust the choice is acceptable to you.

There was a knock on the door at seven-fifty-nine and Linda Washington entered the room. Samuel Black introduced her to the team and invited her to take a seat at the table, at the only available chair.

He then continued. Before we get down to the business of the day, has anyone got a problem with their accommodation? He looked around the room, for comment.

Clearly, everyone was happy with the project complex. It was of the very highest standard, with a large gymnasium, therapy pool, solarium, and a very impressive, UV filtered, plastic-domed pool.

Each apartment had a bedroom, large lounge, kitchen and office. Government guards were responsible for twenty-four-hour security within the walled complex. Black wasn't expecting any problems when he enquired.

Samuel Black raised his right hand to his mouth and quietly coughed to clear a small amount of cocaine from his throat.

I want to start with you, Yuri, he said. Your task is to produce the raw information for analysis by Rob. Would you like to comment on how this will be done.

Certainly, he replied. Within the last three years, in conjunction with the International Space Station and the Super Shuttle ‘America 3,’ we've positioned ten transceivers in various strategic positions approximately one-thousand miles above the Earth’s surface. They are fixed units not orbiting satellites...They communicate directly with four Earth Stations in turn, giving data twenty-four-hours a day. That means, Houston is able to constantly analyze the raw data.

Any questions so far? Samuel enquired.

There was silence.

Please continue, Yuri.

We estimate it will take about three-weeks to scan M13 in its entirety.

McPherson nodded his approval at the methodology. At least we won’t have to contend with the problems caused by the Earth's atmosphere, said McPherson.

Precisely, replied Yuri, but the Chinese will.

So what are our chances of making contact, Yuri? asked Vicki Stark.

Very good question!

And one paramount to this whole operation, interjected Black.

Yuri appeared to be enjoying every moment, pausing for thought before he continued. Carl Sagan, using the famous Drake equation in 1966, estimated that there could be as many as one million advanced civilizations in existence communicating within our Galaxy. This was based on the fact that he thought there were over a billion stars in our Galaxy alone. We now know, thanks to Hubble, that Sagan grossly underestimated the number of stars. Hubble’s deep space images of what we thought was just darkness have shown many more galaxies, that at the time, Sagan knew nothing about. We now know that there are some eighty-billion other galaxies in the observable universe and seventy-sextillion stars, that's seven times ten to the power of twenty-two, in the visible universe alone! We are also finding more and more planets circling stars that could be the home of our two dead aliens. What is more important though, is that we find a communications ‘window’ with a civilization that is similar to ours in its development, and able to communicate in a way that we can understand.

He paused to take a drink of water. Civilizations far more advanced than ours may well use techniques that we don't understand, so we couldn’t listen to those signals even if we wanted to. More primitive civilizations, of course, will not be transmitting anyway, so this window as we call it is crucial, if we are to be successful and make contact, but when you consider the massive numbers of stars, our chances must be high. This was the argument that persuaded the government to invest in M13 in the first place. Ironically, if we do make contact, the civilization that sent the signals might well be extinct, due to the long time delay in sending the signals across the Universe. We start sending the co-ordinates to point the transceivers at M13 as soon as the data network links are in place. We will be listening for signals on a very specific frequency known as the 21cm hydrogen line. In essence, Vicki, it's a numbers game, concluded Klyushin.

That's your job, Vicki, said Samuel Black, and she nodded in agreement.

The amount of data we expect to receive is massive, continued Yuri.

That's no problem, responded Vicki Stark. We have enough disk space, believe me.

The trick is analyzing the huge amount of data efficiently and turning it into useful information," replied McPherson.

Okay...okay...let's keep some order to the proceedings, interrupted Black, authoritatively. Have you finished for the time being, Yuri?

I think so.

Thanks for your input, Yuri. It sounds like we’re in good shape.

We are, Samuel.

Continuing, Black asked. Okay, Vicki, on the basis that we can get the information, please explain how we get it to Houston?

McPherson thought how tired Black looked; his face was pallid, and yet, he appeared to be in good spirits.

Vicki Stark then gained his attention. She was the only female on the team.

She’s very attractive, and clearly very confident, thought McPherson, as she began to address Black’s question:

Well, as mentioned earlier, we have four base stations; one in Australia, one in Kuwait, one in Europe and one in West Virginia. They are globally positioned to take account of the Earth's rotation so that at any one time at least two of them will be communicating with the Transceivers in space. Each station on Earth communicates with Houston via satellite. We have already tested the local satellite links from the stations to here in Houston and everything’s fine. This afternoon I finish checking the communications from the base stations to the transceivers. We believe, however, that a small meteor might have damaged one transceiver, but that has to be confirmed.

What will that do to our schedule, if it's true? Yuri Klyushin asked Samuel Black.

In fact, our schedule, is based on using data from only eight of the transceivers.

Good, replied Klyushin, sporting a large smile.

Linda Washington recorded every word being spoken, for automatic conversion to text.

McPherson noticed that she spent a lot of time making eye contact. She’s very attractive, he thought, and he estimated her age to be about twenty-five, maybe a little older, considering the position she held. Linda Washington was actually twenty-four, the youngest PA in the building...and by far the best.

We now need to look at the way the data will be analyzed and that is your department, Rob.

Back to full concentration, McPherson answered, It certainly is. The gathering of data is easy with modern technology; the trick is in recognizing the useful information you get from that data; if at all. I suspect, that over ninety-five-percent of the data we will gather will be meaningless rubbish, or cosmic background noise, as we call it. But what I’ve developed is an algorithm that can filter this noise, and look for patterns. Patterns are important, because they indicate structure, and any intelligent life form will be transmitting signals that have structure. We can do this in almost realtime, so for instance, if there is someone sending out signals, and we pick them up then within days we will be able to identify them. With this algorithm and the availability of very sensitive twenty-four hour data, we are in a much stronger position than the Chinese. I must add a caveat here though, and that is, if we do identify a structured message, there is no guarantee that we will be able to understand it. The life-form that sent it may be far more advanced than we are. It’ll be outside of the so called ‘Window of communication.’

Black smiled. Thanks for that, Rob.

Three weeks had quickly passed and the team were working well together. Long working hours and many technical problems, though, had taken its toll on all of them. Their social lives had vanished; replaced, with long, stressful hours resolving the difficult technical problems that just seemed endless, and Samuel Black’s constant reminder of the President’s personal interest in the project, was really beginning to irritate them.

It was seven-thirty when Vicki Stark arrived for work one particular morning. She was not her normal, confident, smiling self but looked tired and pale from the relentless workload she'd endured. Things weren’t going to plan and she had to accept personal responsibility for the delay, a delay that affected the whole team.

After going through the usual security, something she found more irritating each time, she finally reached her office, situated next to McPherson’s. It was a small room with little in the way of decoration, other than a scenic calendar on the plain cream papered wall. There was a standard issue computer desk, two chairs, some empty shelving and a filing cabinet to the left of the door; on top of which was proudly displayed a large framed family group photograph.

She was the first team member in that morning, knowing that there was no time to waste in resolving the software problem that was holding up the entire project. Slowly, she lowered herself into her swivel chair and stared at the scribbled notes all over the calendar with an unusually blank expression.

McPherson looked in through the open door of her office as he passed by. Have you been here all night? he asked, and watched as she jumped in surprise.

Oh shit! You gave me a fright

McPherson had never heard her swear before, and strangely, it made her seem more approachable to him, more human. As if she had lowered her guard at last. I'm sorry... It must be your nerves.

Don't joke about my nerves, Vicki said, pleadingly.

Hey...come on, things can’t be that bad? he said, entering her office and smelling her perfume.

Can't they? — I know I'm holding up the entire project Rob, but it isn’t easy, and I feel exhausted with all the hours I'm putting in. My bloody career’s on the line here.

What if I get you a nice cup of coffee? Will that help?

Yeah… That would be wonderful, thanks a lot.

McPherson returned within a few minutes with the coffee he'd brewed freshly in his office next door. Mind if I join you? he asked.

Of course not, sit down.

He sat on the only other chair and passed Vicki her coffee. Up to now he'd not paid much attention to Vicki but there, in her office, he realised that she was very attractive indeed. Her eyes, were a beautiful blue green, highlighted by long thick eyelashes that looked false, but weren’t. Her fair complexion was near perfect, her lips were proud and sensual and her hair, naturally Auburn, hung shoulder length with a gentle curl. He noticed her immaculately painted nails as she cradled the coffee cup, and it reminded him of Amanda.

Vicki was physically fit and normally worked out at least three nights a week. Her 36-24-36 figure reflected the work she'd put in, and at five-feet-nine-inches tall, there was no doubt, she was appealing, even when she was exhausted.

McPherson sipped the freshly ground Colombian brew and felt his body kick-start.

Vicki held her cup; seemingly forgetting it was there.

What exactly is the problem? he enquired.

The problem, is the encryption code we use to transmit the data to Earth. It's the military code used on all category-one spy satellites.

DGATE?

That's right. It's having to be upgraded, months before we had anticipated, because we believe China has cracked the code and could, in theory, hack into the data we’re transmitting back to Earth.

But, that's not your fault, is it? interjected McPherson, sympathetically.

You try telling Samuel that. He’s already giving me a hard time. He seems to get more irritable with each day.

I guess he’s feeling the pressure, just like us.

Yeah, I guess so.

So what’s the next step? McPherson enquired.

I've been promised a new version this afternoon. It uses the latest encryption techniques—I just hope and pray it works.

How long will it take to install?

Should be in within a few hours, Rob. The problem is actually testing the system. That could take another four or five days before we know if it's any good or not… Fuck! I'm beginning to regret this job already, Vicky said, holding her head.

McPherson was beginning to think she was human after all.

I think you need a break, he said, sympathetically.

No time for that, Rob, I'm afraid, Vicki replied swiftly.

Have you used the gym at the complex yet?

No, and I'm sure as hell missing my regular workouts.

Okay.... Tonight we meet at seven in the gym, after that I'm going to mix you a cocktail you just can’t refuse.

But, I ca…

No buts, you need to relax. Vicki looked at him for a moment and gradually a submissive smile appeared on her face.

Sure, seven o’clock it is then.

The phone in McPherson’s office was ringing as he walked in. McPherson, he said, after hitting the visual key.

Samuel Black’s face appeared on the screen, looking stressed. Morning, Buddy.

Morning, Samuel.

I need to see you in my office at eleven o’clock, he said, abruptly.

Okay—What’s it about? asked McPherson.

Delays—Fucking delays. The screen went abruptly blank.

McPherson signed on to his terminal and checked his schedule. Sure enough the meeting was booked for eleven o'clock. It was an all-team meeting and he wondered if Vicki was going to be thrown to the lions or not.

The smell of coffee was irresistible and he poured another cup before sitting down to read the rest of his emails.

4

Vicki drove her 3 Series BMW up the ramp leading from the underground parking lot into the evening sunshine and headed up San Jacinto Street, before turning left, to pick up the Gulf Freeway 45 that heads south and ends on the Gulf coast at Galveston. The drive home to the secure compound, near the Ellington Air Force Base and the Space Centre would take about twenty minutes. The setting sun was to her right and low in the sky and she reached into the glove compartment for her Ray-Ban’s.

The digital readout indicated an interior temperature of sixty-five degrees. Outside it was seventy-nine-degrees and the air was heavy, and unusually humid so early in the year. Vicki’s fingers nervously tapped the wheel as she drove.

With a sister and elder brother, she was the second eldest of the family. Her Mother and Father had recently celebrated thirty-five-years of marriage at a family gathering in the Bay, where Richard, Vicki’s brother, lived with his wife Susan and two children.

As a child she lived with her parents in various European cities but the summers spent in the little stone cottage in Southern England would always be amongst her most cherished memories. Her favourite place to play was the garden; she could still smell the scent of the roses and cut grass as ‘Pops’ drove them round on the big petrol mower, with Richard sitting on Pops’s lap, driving under instruction. It was a place where she played for hours with Emma, her younger sister.

Their Mom would cut them little sandwiches for their tea parties and bake little mouth-sized cakes that they ate far too quickly. She was always Doctor, being the eldest, and her sister was nurse…

Suddenly, the sat-nav reminded her that the required exit off the freeway was only four hundred yards away.

I know, smart arse, she responded, as if her coarse comment would be understood. How quickly she was back facing up to reality.

This must be the worst day of my life, she said, speaking to the dashboard, half expecting some sympathetic response. Vicki realised Rob was right, she needed a good workout, she needed to release some of the built up tension. It was definitely time to visit the gym.

McPherson looked at his watch, downed the remains of his isotonic drink and made his way to the gym. It was now ten minutes to seven. Picking up his sports bag he closed the door behind him and walked down the corridor. A few minutes later he opened the gym door and was surprised to see Vicki already working out. Her skin was glistening with perspiration