“SETI” Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence — Chapter 32
32
Alarm clocks were usually not necessary at the Alexander house. The sounds of high-power pressure nut drivers, clanging tools being thrown to the concrete floor, revving car engines, and screaming auto mechanics filled the house starting at precisely seven every morning except Sunday.
Stu’s auto-repair shop had never been busier. His friendly, caring nature spilled over into his business practice. Having a car repaired there was like visiting a friendly country doctor. Fine workmanship went hand in hand with courtesy and customer satisfaction. Business was good, and Marion and the kids and Sam were taken care of nicely. There was always enough money for them to take vacations and keep the house in top shape.
But that meant long hours for Stu. He was usually in the shop before opening and well after closing. The saving grace was that he had to walk only one hundred feet to work. That also meant that he could have lunch with Marion at noon, his favorite time of the day, when the kids were in school and the house was quiet. No matter how crazy it was in the shop or how busy the schedule was, he always took time for those precious calm moments with Marion.
The office area of the shop was on the same level as the eight service bays. A long, double-thick glass wall separated the office from the service area, but the glass doors always seemed to be open, and flies and noise traveled freely between the two sections.
The aluminum garage doors had just swung open, but Stu was already in his office just inside the glass wall. The morning schedule needed to be reviewed and matched with work orders. Stu looked up and saw several of his mechanics sipping that last bit of coffee before plunging into someone’s transmission or clogged air-conditioning drain tube. He saw Sam turn the corner of the building and stumble in. The sun was intense, even that early in the morning, and Stu had to squint to check the condition of his nephew that morning. Sam had looked washed-out lately, and his lethargy worried Stu. Sam looked particularly pale and drawn as he shuffled into his uncle’s office, bumping into the edge of the door and then bouncing into a file cabinet.
Stu returned to scribbling on the schedule sheet.
“Good morning, Sam.”
He heard what he thought was a grunt. He looked up at Sam.
“Sam, I wanna tell you, you look like a truck hit you. Did you get any sleep last night?””
Sam took a few cautious steps toward a nearby coffee station. He grabbed a foam cup and poured in a liquid that resembled the thick, gooey oil reclaimed from countless crankcases not far from where he was standing.
“Not really. I was too busy.” Sam looked at Stu and collapsed in a chair. “Doing things.”
“Things? What kind of things?”
“You know. Just things.”
Stu concentrated on his work again. “Maybe you’re sick. Are you feelin’ OK?”
“Yeah, I’m just fine.”
Sam took a sip of coffee and glanced through the window at the quiet garage. There was still very little activity, but Sam was paying attention to one particular part of the shop, the storage alcove. Supplies were kept in that area. It was easily accessible from the service floor, but from the office and Sam’s vantage point, it was difficult to see clearly because of the sun reflecting off the concrete floor.
Sam held his steaming cup of coffee as he walked through the long garage toward that dark corner. He heard a few obligatory greetings from several of the mechanics. They knew him well, and he knew them. Sam’s silence that morning was a signal, however, that said “leave me alone.” His usual curiosity about the intricacy of a transmission or engine computer monitor was not of interest to him. He continued to walk.
The stacked cases of oil, the racks of parts, and the neat piles of new tires softened the sound in the rest of the shop. Two high windows brought in some light, but they were smudged and dirty from years of neglect. The space was quiet and dark. The most prominent fixture sat in the middle of the garage on blocks, covered by a greasy, graying tarp.
Sam moved slowly to the tarp and pulled back the heavy cloth to reveal a cross-member support rod of a vehicle. A strange vehicle. The name “Glamorous Gertie” was stenciled on the pipe. The paint was faded and chipped.
Sam set his coffee on a nearby carton of oilcans, pulled off the tarp in one sweeping motion, and saw his father’s sand-rail dune buggy. Sam’s heart jumped when he saw it. Years had passed since he had seen the bright red dune buggy. Even with the covering tarp, dust had found its way in; it covered the entire vehicle in a thin film.
Sam could have cared less. His mind was suddenly sharpened; he sprang out of the thick fog he had been under since waking. He stepped closer and gently wiped the dust from the name decal. He looked down at the powdery dust covering his fingers. He walked around the vehicle and let his fingers glide over the tires, the bright chrome engine parts, and the cool rubber steering wheel. He lovingly took in every turn and bend of the strong metal frame and the gleaming light fixtures.
He gingerly swung his leg over the side and slid into the driver’s sear. He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead at a tall column of new tires. But he didn’t see the tires; he saw the desert stretched out endlessly before him. He was perched on the crest of a high dune; all around him were other dunes and the ridge of chocolate-colored mountains on the horizon. The air smelled sweet. A gentle, cool wind swept away the searing heat of the sun, and there was no sound but an occasional sigh of the wind and the slow, steady thumping of his heart.
Sam leaned back in the driver’s seat as his imagination let him fly over the dunes. The raw horsepower slammed him against the seat. He was at peace, yet thrilled.
The prize for the winner of the Messiest Office contest was a gourmet dinner, so to speak, at the studio commissary. It was not known whether the other networks had similar contests, but studio management had tried various methods of engaging employees and infusing them with heightened company morale. Success had been moderate. But the Messiest Office contest was always a highlight. The grand tour of judges was a nervous time for contestants and a dreaded time for secretaries, who generally had the task of cleaning up their bosses’ mess after the judges left. But the vice president of operations always promoted the event as being more important than the annual Christmas parties at the International Broadcasting Network. It was great fun to watch the ingenuity of normally conservative managers and directors as they trashed their offices in the gray atmosphere of the IBC.
The winner was invariably Burton R. Dunlap, director of network news operations, West Coast. His ingenuity was unique. This year, he had a simple method of winning. He decorated his office, floor to ceiling, with toilet paper. He was the instant and unanimous winner. The only down side to the contest was the clean up. He saddled his secretary with that chore. He was magnanimous in victory, sending conciliatory memos to the losing department heads.
Several feet of toilet-paper debris still cluttered his office as he decided to take a break and go over the latest news wires.
He negotiated the narrow hallway and stepped into the “pit,” the open, high-ceilinged newsroom that served as set and working space for the writers, reporters, producers, and news anchor. He walked around the large studio toward the bank of computer printers. The pit was usually quiet this early in the morning, and his demeanor reflected that calm.
Burton Dunlap was in his early fifties and had been through the local news ward in cities around the country at various network-owned and –operated stations. Finally, he got the assignment he had hoped for in an area of the country that he dreamed about — Southern California. He’d had it with the numbing winter wind off Lake Michigan knifing through Chicago, with the sweltering humidity pumping up from the Gulf of Mexico to suffocate Houston, and with the vituperative environment of the New York news scene. He wanted peace and quiet and the ability to still stay connected with a network news operation. So when he was offered his current job — head of the West Coast operations of a new network, with unlimited funds pumped in from Australia — the opportunity was too good to pass up.
Burt finally reached the row of high-speed news printers in the far corner of the studio. He scanned the local printer and then went past several others, scanning as he moved. He stopped when the alarm starting buzzing on the AP wire. He grabbed the copy and read it as it fed off the rollers.
He ripped it out and tuned back toward the row of offices on the opposite side of the studio. As he walked, he surveyed the anchor position and the newly installed chrome-and-oak desk. Thirty thousand dollars for a desk and some simple electronics. Burt shook his head. Half the cost was in the design, which his college-bound son could have designed for a hundred dollars. His son was a good enough artist to come up with the original rendering, but of course he wasn’t an art director, so the work stayed in-house and cost the news department a small fortune. Burt wondered whether the audience would appreciate the cost and effort. “I doubt it,” he thought.
The agitated, unkempt assignment director, Joseph atlas, passed him. Burt grabbed him and pulled him along. “C’mon Joe.”
Joseph’s thankless job was giving assignments to minicam crews and reporters. He wished that he were as strong as his namesake. He always seemed to be in a mail rush and fatigued.
“Boss man, I got things to do,” he protested.
“Yeah. Like seeing me. Now,” Burt replied.
Burt reached his office, Joe following him. They carefully stepped over the toilet paper on his office floor. Burt flopped into his chair, finding a spot on his cluttered desk to rest his feet. He pulled off his glasses and looked at his door.
“Maria, when you have a chance, help me clean up this mess, you made in my office!” he shouted to his secretary. Then he looked at his painting assignment editor, sitting uncomfortable in a guest chair.
“Hard to get good help these days,: Burt said facetiously. “So whaddya want?”
Joe gave him a dirt look. “Burt, I have things to do.”
Burt handed him the wire copy. “Look at this.”
Joe grabbed the copy and read it quickly. He shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Another UFO report. Different, but the same.”
Burt held out his hand and reached for the copy. He glanced at it again and put it on his desk.
“When it comes from the JPL? Something is a foot here, my friend.” Burt began to nibble on the end of his glasses.
“So I should divert a crew there? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, that is what you are saying, and I agree.” Joe stood and began to walk out.
“Hey, Joseph,” Burt yelled.
Joe turned. He was perturbed, but listened politely. “Yes, boss?”
Burt pointed with his glasses at Joe.
“This is no ordinary UFO report.” Burt looked at the wire copy. “Something is happening over there. So get a crew there. Code 3. Go past the public-information office and directly to the head honcho there. OK?”
Joe nodded. He began to sense that maybe his boss was correct. Maybe there was something of substance in this wire report.
“OK, great. You wanna put it on, and what segment? How shall we slug it? With video or not?”
“Let’s see what we get. Let’s see what’s going on first.”
Joe turned and walked out of the office. Burt read the copy one more time. With his experience and innate ability to smell news, he knew that this story was going to dominate all others. There was substance to the wire copy, and the story just might be a big one. And it was in his backyard, in his jurisdiction. But radio signals from outer space? He would have to be careful and cautious, but nor overly careful and cautious. That wasn’t his nature.
Burt smiled. This one might be fun, especially if he was first with it.
