Chapter 8

Pickup occurred precisely forty-one minutes later. It was a tricky affair but no longer impossible. The miniature blizzard had indeed moved out of the area, taking with it most of the high winds, though enough blew off the mountains to make flying in the area a veritable adventure. Unable to land on the unstable ice pack, the helicopter, piloted by Peter Carlin, flown in specially for the maneuver, was forced to hover forty feet off the ground and lower a rescue basket. First Foster, then Freeman and finally Straker were hauled up to the rocking, swaying machine, wrapped in blankets and fed steaming cups of coffee during the trip to Njordsberg Base. From there they were transferred to a private jet for the final leg back to England.

Only hours later, warm, rested and feeling nearly human again, Commander Ed Straker and Colonel Alec Freeman strolled the corridors of SHADO HQ, leaving a trail of cigar smoke in their wake. They paused near the entrance of the main sickbay at the sound of raised voices from within.

"... want to know where my clothes are!" Paul Foster's strong baritone was raised in anger, his words clipped. In contrast, the second voice was heavily accented and lilting, almost caressing for all its reasonableness.

"Your arm is broken in two places, you have a concussion and have spent most of the day in a state of shock. As Chief Medical Officer ..." The title was definitely stressed. "... I am prescribing hospitalization for the next seventy-two hours."

Outside, Straker and Freeman exchanged an amused look then strode through the open door to see Foster, clad only in hospital pajama bottoms and a sling for his arm, glowering at a short, wiry man with gray-flecked dark hair and a prominent nose. Several inches shorter than the pilot, Doctor Doug Jackson, nee Dogan Jankowicz in his native Poland, stood nose-to-nose, unintimidated by the implied threat in the younger man's stance. Neither so much as glanced up at the newcomers' entrance.

"Something wrong, Dr. Jackson?" Straker asked innocently, waving his cigar genially in greeting.

"Nothing is wrong, Commander." Jackson returned an impassive gaze on Foster's flushed face, his hands waving little patterns in the air. "My patient was just about to return to his bed."

"I'm going home," Foster retorted, clutching the white cotton sling closer; beneath the cotton could be seen the outline of a metal brace securing the broken bones in place. "Just as soon as Doctor Jackson returns my clothes."

Secure in his authority, the short physician simply tipped his head to the side. "I'm ordering hospitalization for the next three days, bedrest for five. If you are making progress, you may leave the medical bay the day after tomorrow." He waved his hands again, then folded them at his waist.

Frustrated, Foster turned an appealing gaze on Straker, who was listening impassively. "I don't need a hospital. I can rest easier in my own bed. And I will be fit for duty tomorrow."

"Next Tuesday," Jackson interjected calmly, earning another glare.

A low chuckle emerged between Alec Freeman's teeth borne on a cloud of gray smoke. "You children be nice," he advised, stuffing his hands jauntily into his pockets, "or we won't let you play together anymore."

Straker ignored him, preventing the argument from escalating by raising his hand. "Dr. Jackson is right," he told the dismayed looking Foster. "Back to bed." The protest clear in the younger man's eyes, he punctuated the statement with a jab of the cigar. "That's an order, Colonel. If you're up to it, you can go home in the morning."

The compromise placated the younger man somewhat, though it was Jackson's turn to look irritated. He was too wise to make demurral, however, and merely nodded. "After rounds," was all he said on the subject. Releasing the upset pilot from his gaze, he turned next to study the visitors, particularly Straker, who was closest. Before the other knew what he was doing, he'd taken Straker's smooth chin in one hand and tilted it to the side, staring hard at the small bandaid nearly hidden by the platinum hair; a purple bruise extended around its edges about an inch. "Does that hurt?" he demanded suddenly.

Straker retreated precisely one pace, eyes growing stony. "Not a bit."

As unfazed by this cool rebuff as he was by Foster's heat, Jackson continued to stare another minute, then skimmed Freeman, snapped, "If it does, you are to tell me immediately," and strode off in the direction of the labs.

The three watched him go, waiting until he was out of sight before moving themselves. Shoulders slumping with fatigue, Foster allowed the visitors to usher him back to the private rooms, entering the nearest one and seating himself on the edge of the bed. "I thought you two would have already gone home," he began by way of conversation.

Freeman threw himself into the single visitor's chair and took the cigar from his mouth. "Looking forward to it. Few last minute items to clear up first. Ginnie wanted a full explanation of what happened -- she gets very annoyed when her electrical supports get kicked out from under her. She's not going to be happy until she has something concrete to analyze."

Straker frowned, one fist going to his hip. "That reminds me, Alec. Schedule a cleanup crew to be ready to move out at first light. Make sure they retrieve all three snowcats and whatever's left of that Ufo. I don't want any evidence left that SHADO personnel were ever in the area."

"Already done," Freeman returned, smiling at Straker's surprised look. "Colonel Lake's telepathy is in good working order."

The American grunted something in reply and perched on the foot of the hospital bed where he could see both men. "How are you feeling, Paul?" he asked, arctic colored eyes skimming the pilot analytically.

"I'm fine," the younger man insisted, adding before that critical gaze, "except for being a little sore. Nothing a couple of aspirin won't cure."

"We were going to bring you a box of cigars," Freeman joked, waving his own fragrant Havana in the air. "but at the last minute we remembered that tobacco isn't one of your vices, so we decided to smoke them ourselves."

"Thank you very much," Paul Foster returned dryly.

"So," Freeman went on, unabashed, "we decided to pick your brains instead, and compare your impressions with what the Commander saw inside the ship."

A uniformed nurse strolled past the room's glass front wall; in her late twenties and built like the current Miss America, she drew the attention of every male eye there. Foster sighed audibly, then blinked and cleared his throat, mildly embarrassed under his Commander's frosty look. "What I saw ..."

"What I just saw," Alec breathed, shaking his head.

"... inside the ship," the younger man went on doggedly. He arranged the sling more comfortably on his bare chest, dark blue eyes narrowed. "There isn't much. Everything was starting to blur on me by then."

Platinum hair barely moved as SHADO's supreme commander leaned forward intently, his posture the epitome of interest. "Think, Paul. Anything you can remember, any detail could be important."

Foster's boyish face creased, his fingers rubbing circles on his sore arm. "The airlock was open when I got there ... some sort of green fluid dribbling out onto the snow. It was about ankle deep inside but bubbling -- evaporating rapidly."

"I remember the fluid pretty well." Straker ruefully touched the tiny bandaid on his forehead. "As we suspected, they maintain a fluid-filled environment inside the ship. The whole thing must be filled with it in flight."

Naugahyde squeaked as Alec rearranged himself more restfully in the visitor's chair. He hiked his brown trousers up and crossed his legs at the knee. "The ship's revolution provides a centrifugal effect of plus-six gravities. How do they function through the maelstrom effect?"

"Could the outer hull be gimballed?" Foster guessed.

"One more little mystery." The American's voice was sour; he'd never liked mysteries. "Go on, Paul. What else did you see?"

The young man had been watching his superiors intently during the discussion. Now he focussed on the white bedclothes, attempting to summon an image. "There was a central column, and lights -- all different colors arranged in groups." He paused, then shook his head. "Everything else is disjointed ... fragments. I saw the Commander strapped to a table ... I shot at the alien ... we ran and something blew up." He raised his left hand, palm up. "That's about it. The next thing I knew was waking up here with Jackson poking me with needles."

Disappointment in this sparse recital apparent, Straker puffed on his cigar silently for a full minute, light brows furrowed. "Not much help. I was hoping...."

"He was barely conscious, Ed," Alec offered sympathetically.

"Wait, there was something else!" Both visitors cocked inquiring eyes at the younger man's exclamation. Foster sat up straighter, gripping his arm rather than rubbing it. "The screens. They looked like our own monitors but the pictures were ... strange. Swirling colors rather than clear images."

"Which didn't make any sense." Straker waved the stub of his cigar, glared at it, then dropped it carelessly to the floor. "I saw no maps, symbols, images ... nothing to correlate with the real world. They could have been decorations, for all we know."

Blue eyes locked with his own. "Do you think they're focussed for underwater viewing?" the young pilot hazarded, earning a grunt.

"Possible, Paul, but...." Again Straker trailed off. He punched his thigh with one fist, producing a minuscule wrinkle in the tan material. "There's more, I know there is."

Freeman's chair creaked again. "Even though the aliens are using human eyes, doesn't mean that's what their perceptions are based on. If their senses are enhanced--"

"Perceptions," Straker echoed, looking startled. "Perceptions ... mental perceptions!" Revelation lit his smooth features, melting the arctic eyes from within. "That was the missing piece!" He glanced from one puzzled face to the other. "Don't you get it? We were blinding ourselves by considering only the physiological differences in the alien body." He again leaned closer to Foster, though it was both men he addressed. "I think you're right, Alec -- the alien perceptions are different than ours. Consider." He ticked points off on his fingers. "When we see, it's a physical act -- light enters the eye and is transmitted bio-electrically to the brain. But the aliens are highly advanced in the various forms of psionics, perhaps because that coordinates with their own natural abilities."

Freeman's jaw dropped. "You think the aliens, being natural espers, make use of their mental abilities for such everyday things as enhancing sight and sound?"

Straker shrugged. "Why not? Some humans claim to be able to sense things happening many miles way. If the aliens have developed that ability to the full, it could be as natural to them as seeing is to us! It would also explain those light control panels on the ship."

"What about those light control panels?" Foster prodded, fatigue temporarily fading before the older man's contagious exhilaration.

Fine lips twitched, for Straker the equivalent of a broad grin. "You remarked yourself about the multi-colored panels. They were grouped in a pyramid configuration six high, at various spots around the ... we'll call it the bridge for want of a better term."

"They were also all over that central column," Foster interjected, pushing himself back to rest against the wall. "Some were around the monitors."

"Psionics might also explain something else." Straker's face lost expression, his quicksilver mind already lightyears ahead of the conversation. "I pressed several of those colored buttons in varying combinations; nothing happened at first. Until...." He laced his fingers together and rested them on his knee; his back was ramrod straight, eyes peering at realities far removed from the sterile little hospital room. "I had my hand on one of the lights, a red one -- not pushing it, just a bare touch. I was speculating about pilot controls. The ship moved."

Fascinated by the narrative, Freeman removed his now cold cigar, holding it lightly between thumb and forefinger. "It was already starting to decompose," he pointed out reasonably. "Couldn't that have been pre- critical tremor?"

Straker shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't think so. It happened twice. And when I touched the access control and thought about movement, the door slid open." He rubbed his bruised forehead ruefully. "Unexpectedly."

"Their ships could be controlled by the sheer power of their minds." Alec said the words quietly, awe stricken at the concept. "For the last several months we've been covertly studying several subjects on this planet who claim psionic abilities, but to imagine an entire technology based on it...."

"Functional espers." A lock of tousled brown hair dislodged itself when Paul shook his head, hanging down nearly to his eyes; he brushed it back with a weary gesture. He was less enthused than his older colleagues, discouragement making him slump. "You know what this means, don't you? We've been fighting on the assumption that we're destroying aliens with each attack; but they might not even be present, for all we know. What if they're sitting back, safe and happy on their homeworld, directing everything telepathically." His mouth turned down at the corners, expression growing sad. "We could have spent all this time doing nothing except killing our own people."

"Their people." Straker's words were as hard as his face, his eyes ice chips brooking no argument. "They stop being ours as soon as the aliens take them."

Exhaustion visibly returned, Foster dropped his gaze, preferring to again stare at the linens. "But we're still practically back at square one," he said tiredly. "Jocko, Peg and Ali died and we gained nothing."

"We gained a new field of research, Colonel, that could institute the most powerful, longest range offensive we have yet." White teeth flashed wolfishly. "Tomorrow I'm instituting a full-scale research project on the development of psionic weapons. It's a new angle, Colonel, and sometimes that's what winning a war is all about." Straker slid off the bed, offering the younger man an amiable nod. "Get some rest. We have a lot of work to do in the morning."

***

end