Chapter 15.

By Carycomic

LYNDON B. JOHNSON SPACE CENTER,

HOUSTON, TEXAS (NOV. 13, 1991)

"Are you sure?" Xavier Fitch (sometimes mispronounced "Titch") asked in a near-whisper.

"Positive!" exclaimed Herman Cromwell. "We made allowances for stellar drift during the lag time between transmissions. And, both of them. . .came from the same region of space. A Magellanic-type spiral galaxy, previously unknown to science. Exactly one hundred million light-years out!"

The elder scientist, who prided himself on being dignified at all times, struggled to keep his mounting excitement under control as he asked if the messages had been deciphered, yet.

"Only the first one," replied Cromwell. "And, get this. It's the formula. . .for a catalyst...that would allow us to synthesize. . .virtually unlimited quantities. . .of fuel-grade methane!"

It was no use. Fitch just had to bite his clenched right fist until he had calmed down enough to ask his next question. One that was only semi-rhetorical, in nature.

"You know what this means, don't you?"

Cromwell grinned and nodded. "We're dealing with friendlies. Just as we'd always hoped!"

"Yes," Fitch added. "And ones a whole lot smarter than those Slag-heads who arrived by accident."

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

(OCT. 31, 1996)

"Outpost of the future?" exclaimed Cromwell, not believing he had heard correctly.

Roger Benson, Deputy Director, CIA, Special Projects Division, nodded.

"Sooner or later, the Newcomers' masters will come looking for their property. And, I don't mean just the slave ship! It's therefore vital that we establish a look-out post on Mars as soon as possible. That, of course, entails making history by sending the very first manned expedition, there, ever! !"

"Preferably," added USAF General Carter Burgess, Senior, ". . .by 2003, at the latest."

"Are you two out of your minds?" Cromwell now shouted. "I told you. The fossilized microbes in ALH84001 are identical (repeat: IDENTICAL!) to those beamed-down DNA samples Fitch used to create Sil in the first place.* That means there might be close relatives of hers on Mars. And, not necessarily dead ones, either! Just dormant."

General Burgess gave an exasperated sigh.

"Look, Cromwell! Why don't you just go back to your nice cushy job at the BNA? And leave the furtherance of real aerospace research to us?"

Cromwell's response was instinctive and unequivocal. He decked the general with a jaw-breaking left hook.

ANGEL INVESTIGATIONS

SEPT. 26, 1999

(12:01 A. M./PST)

"OK, Riley," said Angel as Doyle handed him the cellphone: "What have you got for me?"

"Two things," replied the marine recondo. "Both of them sort of overlapping each other. First off? Herman Cromwell was born in Norristown, Pennsylvania, 18 October, 1935. He graduated magnum cum laude from Stanford University, twenty years later. And, he was a professor teaching classes there in astrophysics and biophysics when he got recruited for SETI in the mid-1970's. That's why he was selected to head up the task force of special consultants created to deal with the housing and questioning of the Newcomers, initially following the Day of Descent. Most of the guidelines improvised, during that time, still being followed by the BNA!"

"Is he still with their L. A. branch?"

"Uhm! Not exactly. According to my sources, he retired early. For reasons of (and I quote): 'mental health.' "

"You mean Uncle Sam gave him a Section Eight?"

"I'm pretty sure that's an affirmative."

Angel paused a second or two before asking where Cromwell might have been committed.

"My contacts couldn't say," Riley replied: "But, here's where the overlap occurs. The guy who recruited Cromwell for the task force was named Xavier Fitch. Some kind of big-shot liaison between NASA and DARPA. And, the only thing I could find out about _him_ is that he was killed back in '95! Some kind of lab accident that's been nicknamed 'Fitch's Folly.' "

"Where did this alleged lab accident occur?"

"Somewhere in Utah. A top-secret, Army-run facility that supposedly closed down, in the late Sixties, because of a nerve gas leak that killed hundreds of Navajo sheep!"

"Heh!" Angel snorted derisively: "Considering all the hush-hush bull crap the Initiative went through, to hide the existence of their Sunnydale labs, I have no doubt that the Utah place might still be open. Just under new management!"

"If that's the case," countered Riley, ". . . then the killer creature you're after might not be supernatural, at all. It might be from out of this world. Literally!"

MEANWHILE, SOMEWHERE BELOW LOS ANGELES. . .

Warren and Andrew trudged to a stop before doffing their armored helmets.

"Honey," sang out the latter. "We're home."

"Billy?" the former added inquiringly. "Spike?"

"Sorry, boys," replied Vanessa Helsing. "It's just you and me."

tbc