Chapter Three

Carl Norton, Head of Research and Design, was seated near the head of the table, on the right of TJ's seat. He was wearing his typical sneakers, jeans, and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A table leg propped up the knapsack that he used as a briefcase. His black curly hair was still wet from his morning shower. TJ only enforced a dress code on his staff for presentations or meetings with clients.

Next to Carl sat Paul Nelson, Head of Engineering, also known as prototyping. Like Carl, he wore sneakers and jeans, but had a liking for colorful shirts. While many commented on Paul's possible lack of style, it did make him easy to spot in a crowd. That he was six foot, five inches tall helped. Another trademark of Paul's was his brown hair that looked like a blind barber attacked it. It never looked neat.

The last person on the right side of the table was Robert Mahoney, Head of Production. He was sitting back in his chair, chewing on an unlit cigar and his hands were folded over his beer gut, calmly waiting for the meeting to begin. He was the oldest in the room, and his hair was white. He had worked for TJ's father as a plant manager, and was promoted when TJ took over the operation of the company.

On the left side of the table, starting from the head, opposite of Carl, was Lori Charron, Treasurer. She was sitting at attention, her shiny leather briefcase standing up next to her. She was dressed conservatively, in a professional gray suit and shoes. Mike thought that she looked pretty, but she always wore her black hair tightly bound up in a knob on the back of her head, and her ice-blue eyes had a way of glaring at you through her wide-rimmed glasses whenever you spoke, as if she thought you might be trying to pull a scam.

Next to her, and sitting opposite of Paul, was Leslie Mallet, Head of Marketing and Sales. Leslie was hot, always dressed in the latest fashions and her brown hair was fashionably short and sporty. Her eyes were large and green, and Mike had seen men melt at their sight, though she was always professional, and never took advantage of them.

Last on the left, opposite Robert and next to Mike's seat and the end of the table was Ernest Tyrrell, Head of Quality Control. Ernest looked like the typical nerd, right down to the pocket protector, but Mike knew that was only how he looked at work. Off duty, Ernie really liked to party, and when he held one, everyone showed up. Ernie's parties were not to be missed.

At nine, Mike glanced outside at the two guards outside. Eddie was one of them. He volunteered for the duty when Mike mentioned it. Since Eddie knew what had happened, he wanted to listen at the door for the staff's reactions to the alien. Eddie smiled at Mike. "Don't worry. We won't let anyone else in until you guys come out."

Mike nodded. "Right. I hope this goes well."

"I wish I could watch."

"I'm sure you do." Mike closed the door and locked it, to everyone's surprise.

"Hey, Mike. What's going on?" asked Paul.

"Sorry, everyone. TJ's orders. He'll explain everything." Mike quickly took his seat and stared at the door that connected the conference room to TJ's office to forestall any more questions. He felt everyone's gaze on him, and felt uncomfortable. He hated to not being able to say anything, but in a way, he shared Eddie's anticipation to the staff's reactions to the Princess. His role at these meetings was usually limited to loss investigations and reminding everyone of basic security precautions which everyone usually ignored. He felt a small charge of excitement, realizing that his role had suddenly become more important, possible the most important, in the company right now.

As everyone turned to follow his gaze, the handle on the door to TJ's office began to turn. The door opened, and TJ rolled through and took his place at the head of the table. He nodded to everyone, but the serious expression on his face kept everyone quiet and expectant. The door shut quietly behind him as he arranged himself at the table. Mike noticed that he had a chance to get cleaned up, and was wearing a suit. TJ looked down the table at him. "Mike, is everything secure?"

Mike nodded. "Yes sir. The doors are sealed and the usual recorders are off. I even disconnected the phone lines and swept for bugs. This room is clean."

"Good." TJ paused, and looked up and down the table at everyone. He sighed, and then spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new client. I must caution all of you that secrecy and security in dealing with this client is most important. Everything in connection with any work of or dealings with our new client MUST be cleared through either Mike or myself." Everyone glanced at Mike suspiciously, and turned back to TJ. "Also, everything with this client is on a need-to-know basis only. Only the personnel involved with the actual work will know, and nothing is to be discussed unless everyone present is in the know."

Carl spoke up. "Okay, TJ, we get the idea. You can trust us. You don't have to go Big Brother on us. So who's the client and what do they want?"

"Sorry, Carl," replied TJ. "I do trust you all, which is why you're all here, but once you know about the client, I think you'll understand why I'm going hard on security about this. Mike's going to really earn his paycheck now." TJ smiled down at Mike, who in turn, smiled sheepishly at everyone else. TJ coughed to get everyone's attention again. "At one-fifteen this morning there was an incident at the airport parking lot. An object had apparently fallen from the sky and made a large crater in the lot."

"And little green men came out of it?" asked Robert.

"Well, not exactly." TJ backed up to his office door and opened it to reveal the bright pink, seven foot tall hardsuit.

Robert's mouth fell open and the cigar fell out, bounced off his stomach and headed for the carpeted floor. Robert made a mad grab for it, missed, and upset the chair. Both him and his cigar hit the floor. He scrambled up off the floor, grabbed his cigar, and pointed it at the suit. "What in hell is that?"

The suit raised an arm and pointed it at Robert. A thin orange beam emerged silently from a small knob on the back of the suit's glove and hit the end of the cigar. Instantly the end of the cigar flared up, and the smell of burning tobacco filled the room. Robert looked at the cigar, then at the suit, then at the cigar again. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and with his hands on his hips, glared at TJ. He puffed on the cigar, sending clouds of smoke swirling to the ceiling.

Carl laughed at Robert's discomfort. "Cute, TJ. Real cute. Nice effects. Where did you get this toy?"

Leslie asked, "So now what? Are we going Hollywood now? What Science Fiction movie is this thing from? `ROBOCOP 4'?"

Ernest looked the suit over from top to bottom. "Why does it have a tail? What is it supposed to be? I love the color."

The head of the suit turned to look at each speaker in turn, and the tail began to twitch. TJ got the impression that the Princess was getting upset. Before anyone else got a chance to a comment, TJ rolled back up to the table, pulled the brake handle off his chair, and banged it with a sharp crack against the table. A piece of pressboard and laminate flew from the impact, leaving a chip in the table top. That got everyone's attention, including that of the Princess.

"Listen, everyone. This is no joke. This is the Princess Tam'na K'lara M'dala, and she is our new client." Carl looked like he was about to say something, but a glare from TJ caused him to change his mind. TJ looked up at the suit. "Princess, if you could get out of that suit so everyone can see you, please."

Tam'na looked around the room at everyone, examining their faces. She couldn't identify their expressions, so she allowed her mind to brush theirs. They were filled with curiosity, disbelief, excitement, and confusion, but she didn't pick up any sense of deception or malevolence. She unsealed her hardsuit, and allowed the front to fold away to each side and the helmet to lift up, revealing herself to TJ's staff. She released the neural interface pads and stepped out of the suit.

Everyone stared, wide-eyed, as the feline pilot appeared and got out of her suit. She stretched and flicked her tail, making it obvious that she wasn't wearing a costume. She snapped to attention, gave them a little bow, and spoke in an odd accent. "Hello, it is pleasing to meet you. I hope we can do business."

No one said anything for a minute, trying to absorb the implications of her presence. Finally, Leslie stood up and walked over to Tam'na, looked her over, and reached out to touch her. Tam'na jerked away, and Leslie pulled her hand back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted to touch your hair."

Tam'na glanced at TJ, who nodded at her. She looked back at the marketing agent. "It's okay, I'll allow it. Your master has told me about cats and your desire to pet them."

TJ cringed as everyone looked at him again. He cleared his throat. "Everyone, this is the Princess Tam'na K'lara M'dala. Princess, this is Leslie Mallet, head of our Marketing division. Around the table are Carl Norton, head of Research and Development." Carl stood up as TJ called his name, and the others followed suit. "Head of our Prototype engineering is Paul Nelson. Robert Mahoney is our Production chief."

Robert puffed on his cigar and smiled. "Pleased to meet you. It's not often a Princess lights my cigar."

Paul nudged Robert with his elbow as TJ continued the introductions. "Mike Dunross you've already met." Mike clicked his heels and bowed to the Princess. "Over here on the left is my treasurer, Lori Charron, and that's Ernest Tyrrell, in charge of Quality Control, next to Mike."

Paul stepped up and bowed to the Princess, and held out his hand. "I think I speak for all of us when I say that it's a pleasure to meet you. What can we do for you?"

Tam'na looked at his outstretched hand for a second, then remembered what TJ said about greeting customs. Images of people shaking hands came to her from the implanted database, a ritual greeting that apparently crossed class lines. She reached out and shook his hand. Paul's hand was warm and dry. It was odd, he thought. When she had touched TJ's hand, it was moist. Apparently these humans really do come in a lot of varieties. She was happy that at least a part of her database wasn't fiction, but she would have to be careful. She couldn't afford to make a fool of herself in front of these people again. The project ahead was going to be hard enough as it was. She would have to watch and wait before she would know what parts of her database were fiction or fact.

TJ relayed the story of her escape and arrival on Earth. Everyone sat back down except for Mike, who moved a chair over for Tam'na. She noticed that there was a gap in the back of the chair between the backrest and the seat, and she sat comfortably in the chair, her tail through the gap. Once TJ finished the recap, Carl asked, "So what can we do?"

TJ smiled. "The Princess has hired us to build a space fleet and reclaim her homeworld." TJ looked around at his people as they absorbed the impact of his statement. Robert sputtered, his cigar threatening to fall again.

Carl spoke up. "Uh, Chief, the entire world's space forces consist of four ancient space shuttles and a bunch of rockets. How are we going to fight off a space armada with those?"

TJ was still smiling. "I didn't say us as in the United States, or even as in the entire planet. I meant us as in CyberTech. I know we don't have any spaceships of our own, yet. The Princess agreed to pay us in Technology. We just have to figure out how to apply it and build the ships without letting the rest of the world know. Hence the need for the tight security. We have literally had a fantastic opportunity fall in our laps. Knowledge and skills that are hundreds of years ahead of our time, ours alone for the commitment to build the space war fleet. The spin-offs alone will make us rich as well as pay for the enormous cost of the fleet." TJ shrugged. "Of course, it won't happen overnight. It will take several years, probably decades. If we can keep this quiet. If anyone finds out about the Princess, the Government will come in and classify everything. So, what do you think?"

They all looked around at each other, nodding and shrugging. Finally Carl spoke. "Okay, TJ, I'm for it. When do we start?" TJ looked around the table at everyone in turn. As his gaze met each member of his group, they gave their assent.

"Great," said TJ. "Mike will go over the security procedures with you." TJ turned to the Princess.

"Congratulations, your Highness, you have a deal."

Tam'na smiled and shook TJ's hand. It was still moist.

General Kenneth Drake sat in his air-conditioned office in the Pentagon, mulling over the report brought to him by the Northeast surveillance division of Spacecom. It was a radar report of a falling object reported over central Maine, with a suspected impact site. He had called up the latest surveillance satellite pictures of the area. They showed nothing except a large house, lots of woods, and a private airfield with a parking lot under construction. The radar reported following the object to within three hundred feet of the ground, when ground clutter interfered with the signal. The radar also reported apparent changes in velocity as it descended, possibly due to uneven burning as it fell.

Even so, he thought, there ought to be some sign. Whatever it was came in too fast to trigger an alert, and he didn't think that it would totally burn up during that last three hundred feet. There should be some sign, and with all those woods, there would be a fire and/or trees knocked down where it hit. He dropped the report on his desk and sat back, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. He called his secretary and asked her to get additional photos of the area, covering a wider area. There should be some sign.

A few minutes later, his secretary knocked, and then entered his office. She was pretty. He had spotted her during a parade formation, and offered her a chance to advance her career by becoming the personal secretary of a Two Star General. She accepted, to their mutual satisfaction. He watched as she gave him the folder containing the pictures, the perfect image of military professionalism. His mind couldn't help thinking about last night, her sweaty body writhing under him, the total opposite of her military image of coolness. He thanked her, and quickly shook out the pictures to get his mind off her before he embarrassed himself. After all, she wasn't that important.

He looked through the photos, still slightly warm from the thermal color printer. There still wasn't any sign of impact. He considered ordering a surveillance flight over the area, but that would attract too much attention. He must be missing something. Maybe if he compared the images with ones taken before last night, there might be enough of a difference to indicate an impact point. He ordered more pictures, and they were quickly delivered. He spread them out next to the new photos and looked for a difference. The woods all around the suspected crash point looked the same. So did the house and airfield, except for the construction equipment in the parking lot. He looked closer at the parking lot. In the old pictures, which were taken less than a week ago, the lot looked fine. In the new picture, they were apparently digging a large hole, or, as the thought occurred to him, filling one in. He shook his head. He didn't really have time for this.

Drake called his secretary. "Corporal Hicks, could you contact Colonel Ross and see if he's free. I would like to see him as soon as possible."

"Yes, Sir." Drake smiled. He could tell from the tone of her voice and inflection that she was interested in repeating last night's game again tonight.

Colonel Frank Ross had just eased himself into a steaming hot tub when the phone rang. He muttered a curse as his house servant brought over a wireless handset and towel. "Domo," he said to the servant. He dried his hands on the towel before picking up the phone. "Mooshi-Mooshi. Colonel Ross speaking." There was a pause, then he said, "I see. Very well. Tell the General that I'll report to him in two hours." He handed the phone to the waiting servant and sighed. "Here we go again."

The servant said, "Gomen nasai, Ross-san?"

He smiled up at the servant. "It's nothing, Ochiba, my man. Just duty."

The servant smiled and nodded. In English, he asked, "Would Colonel-san like some food first before he goes?"

"Thanks. I would. Also, could you send Mai in? My back needs to be scrubbed."

Ochiba smiled. "Hai. Food first or after?"

"First please."

Ross drove his new gray Lincoln Towncar in the huge underground garage that served the Pentagon staff. The extra-heavy suspension designed to hold the armored body and reinforced chassis of the car barely noticed the speed bumps designed to slow the parking garage traffic. He was pleased with his new toy. The car was also equipped with extra batteries, bulletproof glass, and smoke ejectors. Ross's cousin, Joe MacMillian, ran an armored car body shop in Metro city, and delivered the car just last week. The only real drawback was the low gas mileage.

Ross parked in a reserved section, and flashing his ID, made his way through the security checkpoints and up to the General's office. He paused before entering, not recognizing the secretary through the glass door. This one was an attractive blonde. He shook his head. How does Drake think he's going to maintain security if he keeps changing his secretaries? This was the third one this year. Ross shrugged and entered the office. As long as it doesn't interfere with my job, he thought.

The secretary looked up as Ross entered. His six foot, two inch, broad shouldered frame filled the door as he came into the office. She noticed that his wavy brown hair was fashionably styled and his attractive green eyes never left her face. He was very athletic and moved with the grace of a cat. She couldn't tell how old he was, but he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Her gaze traced his body, and spotted the Colonel birds on his collar. Her eyes flicked to his ID badge.

"Oh, Colonel Ross. The General is expecting you. He said you could go right in, sir."

"Thank you, Corporal. . ." His eyes quickly scanned her badge. "Hicks. It's a pleasure to meet you. Have you been assigned to the old man very long?" Ross sat down on the edge of the desk, ignoring the arm pointing towards the inner office door.

"Uh, just a couple of weeks, sir. The General said that he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived, sir."

"I'm sure he did, but I do a lot of things for the General, and I'm sure he wouldn't mind his fellow workers becoming better acquainted. It would increase productivity." Ross smiled down at her, his teeth straight and gleaming white.

Hicks smiled back up at Ross. "Yes sir, I can appreciate the desire for efficiency, but it would be in both of our best interests if you saw the General right away."

"I see." Ross slid off the desk and stood up. "Well, perhaps we can get better acquainted tonight, over dinner?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I have to wash my uniform. The General requires that members of his staff be presentable at all times."

I bet he does, Ross thought and sighed. "Well, another time, perhaps."

"Perhaps, sir."

Ross turned and entered the inner office. General Drake was leaning back in his chair. He grunted as he saw Ross and shook his head. "About time you got here. Don't you know by now that it's a waste of time trying to pick up my secretaries?"

Ross came to attention and saluted. "Yes sir. Colonel Ross reporting for duty, sir." Ross spread his legs a bit and clasped his hands behind his back. "What trouble do you need me to shoot today, sir?"

Drake waved him over to a chair. Ross approached the desk, but didn't sit down. Drake handed him an unmarked folder. Ross opened it and looked at the satellite photos. He glanced at the radar report, and flipped through the folder again, checking to see if he missed anything. He shook his head and looked at the General. "What am I looking for? Who's the target? Are these pictures of the area the target's in?"

Drake shook his head. "Nothing dramatic this time. A simple investigation. I know it's not your usual assignment, but you were free, and I needed someone discreet. Something came down last night in that area of Maine." The General pointed at the folder in Ross's hands. "I didn't see any sign of it landing in the woods, but there's something going on in the parking lot of the airfield. I'm not aware of any of our stuff that's due to burn up, so I want to know if what came down was Soviet, Chinese, or Japanese, or someone else. If it was Soviet, it might have a nuclear reactor on board, which would create a mess. Go find out where it landed, what it was, who's got it, and clean it up, quietly. Okay?"

Ross stifled a yawn. "Why me, sir? Surely my talents aren't required for a mission of this type."

Drake looked up at him. "Because you are one of the few people I can trust with this. Keep it quiet."

"Yes, sir. I'll get right on it, sir," snapped Ross. He turned and marched out of the office. He managed to control himself and not slam the door on the way out. He felt Corporal Hicks' eyes on him, but he wasn't in the mood for any more banter. He hated make-work. It was boring and degrading to a man with his skills. Why bother sending a Colonel to do a Private's job? He went down to the cafeteria, got a cup of coffee, and sat down. He pulled a pad and pen from his shirt pocket and started making notes. He wrote down the latitude and longitude of the photos, and looked closely at the construction equipment on the parking lot. It did seem like they were filling in a hole.

He sat back and lifted the coffee up to his lips, but didn't drink. He allowed himself to relax, and smell the coffee, concentrating solely on the aroma. As it entered his nose, he shook his head in disgust and stared at the cup. He should have known better than try to enjoy a cup of military coffee. He slugged half of it down in one gulp without tasting, ignoring the burning pain as it went down his throat. Military coffee was good only as an endurance test, nothing more.

He gathered up the folder and put the notebook back into his shirt pocket. He got up and headed out of the cafeteria, and headed for the cartography section. He looked around, and located Lieutenant Chuck Mason. The Lieutenant had helped Ross out several times before in the past. Ross waved at him as he entered.

"Hi, Colonel. What can I do for you today?" Mason looked up from the stereo viewer that was placed over a three-dimensional map series. He pushed back and rubbed his eyes, and looked up as Ross sat down, being careful not to disturb the photos laid out on the table.

Ross took the pad out of his pocket and ripped off the page that had the numbers written down on it. "What can you tell me about this area?"

Mason looked at the precisely written figures, very neat and clearly written. "Yeah, sure. Just a sec, sir." Mason rolled his chair over to a computer workstation and started inputting the figures. "So, Colonel, have you been to that new Japanese Restaurant?"

Ross smiled. Mason was one of the few people here that he liked, who hadn't let the military machine turn him into just a serial number. "Yes, I have. I thought the sushi was excellent. They seem to have a dedicated staff."

Mason nodded, still intent on the computer screen. "They have a waitress there that's real cute. I think her name is Mary or something. Have you seen her?"

Mason didn't see Ross's smile. "Mai. Yes, I did, come to think of it. She gave really good service."

Ross's tone caused Mason to glance up at him, but before he could reply, the computer beeped, and information appeared on the screen. Mason read it off to Ross. "That whole area is in central Maine, and it listed as being owned by a company called CyberTech. There's a FAA flight restriction posted over the area."

Ross nodded. "Thanks. Can you print that for me?"

"Sure." Mason typed a command, and the plotter, along with the other information, printed a topographical map of the area. Mason waited for the printer to finish, then ripped it off and handed it to Ross. "So, going to the restaurant again soon? I'd like an expert with me when I try the sushi."

Ross smiled. "I'll be out of town a few days, but I'll let you know when I'm free. My advice, however, is not without a price." Ross stood up and tucked the map into the folder.

Mason chuckled. "My treat, sure. See you later."

"See you later, and thanks."

"Hey, compliments of the U.S. taxpayer."

Ross smiled. He waved at Mason as he left, and headed back to the parking garage. He was going have to go to his office in the CIA building to get the rest of the information he would need, but first to head home and change out of his uniform and into something more comfortable.

Ross parked his gray Lincoln Towncar next to his red Ferrari that he kept in the two-car garage of the house he rented in the Washington suburbs. Ochiba bowed as he greeted Ross at the door.

"You're back early, sir. Mai is still in bed. Shall I wake her?"

Ross shook his head. "No, I'll do that. I have to work off some steam anyway. Start supper, will you please? I have to go out this evening. I don't know for how long." He loosened his tie and started removing his shirt as he headed for his bedroom.

"Very good, sir. Supper will be ready in forty-five minutes." Ochiba smiled to himself as he heard Ross's grunted reply, and started getting the things together that would be needed for this evening's repast.

As Ross entered his bedroom, he saw that the sheets were gathered at the foot of the bed, and there was the sound of running water from the shower coming from the large bathroom connected to the room. Ross smiled to himself, and finished removing his clothes. He entered the bathroom and opened the shower stall door. Mai squeaked in surprise, then smiled. "Good evening, Ross-san. You surprised me."

Ross smiled as he looked at her dark smooth skin and Asian features. Her long, black hair was plastered against her head and back down to her waist, the water causing her young skin to shine. The top of her head barely reached his chin as he stood next to her and began to rub the soap on her body. It suddenly occurred to him that she wasn't much older than his 20 year old daughter Christine, living in Metro city with her mother and his ex-wife, Samantha. He pushed the thought out of his head as Mai began to slowly soap his body.

After supper, dressed in more comfortable jeans and t-shirt, Ross drove the gray Towncar down to the CIA offices in Arlington. Carrying a briefcase, he presented his badge at the main desk, and entered the main lobby of the building. He paused at the main elevator bank and signaled for a descending car. When it arrived, he entered and waited for the door to close before inserting a special key into the main panel. The car took him to one of the lower levels. He didn't know which level, but was sure that the floor didn't appear on the panel as a button, or on the visual display, which remained blank during his descent.

The doors opened up to a small white room with mirrors on three sides. Ross knew that they were one-way bullet-proof glass, and that if he failed to identify himself quickly, the room would fill with knockout gas. If he produced a gas mask, then gun ports would appear. The department took no chances with this level. He calmly walked over to the far wall. There was a door with no handle, and mounted on the wall next to the door was a keypad, and a pair of eyescopes. The floor under the door and keypad was sensitive to weight as well.

Ross placed his ID card in a slot above the keypad, placed his eyes on the scopes, and punched his code into the keypad. A computer somewhere verified the code, and scanned Ross's retinal pattern. A cross-check verified that his weight was also in acceptable limits. Ross heard a friendly beep, and the door next to him slid open, allowing him access to the secret level.

He said thanks, but, as usual, got no reply. He never saw the people that monitored the security system. He knew that in addition to the computer checks, there were people looking him over, making sure that he matched the photos that were on file. Whistling casually, he walked down the hall until he got to his office. There wasn't a name, just a number. Office 13. He liked that number, and considered it lucky for him. It certainly had been unlucky for his victims.

He ran his card through another slot on a keypad, and punched in another code. There was a click, and he turned the handle and entered. As soon as he was through, he shut the door behind him and looked the room over. It looked the same as he left it. The room was decorated with dark wood paneling, and a large oaken desk dominated the center of the room. There was a ergonomic executive chair behind the desk, and just the right was a computer workstation, also made of oak, in the same pattern as the desk. The wall to the left was all bookshelves, and immediately to his right as he entered, there was a large wide-aspect TV and VCR and DVD players. He thought they probably disassembled the desk to get it down here. It was too wide to fit through the doors. However, having access to this level had its benefits, including a large six-figure salary plus mission bonuses.

He checked over the desk and found the piece of hair he had left across a corner of a drawer intact. Satisfied, he placed his case on the desk, unlocked it, and pulled out a bug snooper. He turned it on and swept the room with it, but as usual, found nothing. He activated a small microphone concealed in his watch and moved it near the detector. The detector responded, the small LED's glowing a bright red to indicate proximity and type. He turned off the bug in his watch, and placed the electronic broom back into his briefcase.

Satisfied with the condition of the room, he sat back in his chair. He liked this chair so much that he had purchased another for his office at his home. He swiveled around to face his computer and turned it on. It booted quickly, the CIA logo filled the display screen. He typed in his password, and the screen cleared to his favorite working desktop display. He ran a search, using the name CyberTech and location Maine as keywords. After a few seconds, information on the CyberTech Corporation filled the screen.

It was listed as a high-tech company dealing primarily with computer hardware and software. Other areas of product development included prosthetics with computer interfaces, and computer aided aviation navigational equipment. The company owned several production facilities all over New England, such as machine shops, tool and die manufacturing, and plastics. The company has a private airport where it tests aircraft and instruments, and was granted a FAA restricted flight zone for operating experimental aircraft. CyberTech had been awarded a few minor government contracts, usually through a larger company such as General Dynamics and Norththrop, for development of laser sensor devices. The sole owner and CEO was listed as Tobias James Adams. The airport and headquarters of the company was listed as Central Maine, on property that belonged to Mister Adams.

Ross signed and sat back in his chair. This was boring. On the other hand, he didn't have to kill anyone this time. This company could possibly profit from a downed satellite. Motive enough for now to expect them to keep it quiet. He leaned back over the keyboard. He cleared the information about CyberTech, and requested information from Skywatch, the NASA organization that devoted itself to tracking manmade junk in orbit around Earth and in deep space. He asked for information on any satellite decaying from orbit over the past 48 hours. He was disappointed. Skywatch was not expecting any satellite it was currently tracking to come down for at least another month, depending on solar conditions, giving a variable of plus or minus 6 hours.

Ross typed in a request for a listing of satellites it bothers to check. The reply that came back was that Skywatch monitored thousands of pieces of space junk from all countries, and everything it did track, less than one percent had a chance of actually hitting the ground. He asked when one of these larger pieces was due to fall next. The response was not for another six months, and it was expected to fall into the Pacific Ocean. Ross then asked if there was any natural object, such as an asteroid or other small rock expected down. Skywatch had no listing for any one in particular, but an annual meteor shower from the Perseid group had occurred the previous night. Ross typed in "Thanks" and logged off.

If it was a natural object, then there wouldn't be anything to make all this fuss about. The General wasn't in the habit of making a fuss about nothing. Ross opened the folder he had brought with him, and examined the radar report. It mentioned that the object's speed varied, but it was hard to track through the interference of its reentry. The radar operator had thought that if the object was breaking up, that might show up as a speed variation. Ross shook his head. Space stuff he didn't know about. He preferred to think about things here on Earth, rather than worry about any giant rocks that might fall down and destroy the Earth. All that stuff was silly fantasy, anyway. All those scientists trying to listen to outer space and look for other life, and track world wrecking asteroids. The Government had better uses for all that money, like providing him with larger mission bonus checks.

He decided that he had worked enough for tonight. Tomorrow he would go dig up some astrophysicist who could read this report and tell him what really happened. Besides, Mai wasn't scheduled to work at the restaurant tonight, and there were a few things she wanted to demonstrate for him.

Still looking for a publisher