The emergency communications center was at its quietest after midnight, which did not mean it was quiet.
Radios muttered from ceiling speakers. Keyboards clicked. A printer coughed out paper no one had requested. On the far wall, six digital clocks displayed six different times, only three of which were correct.
Myra McKenna sat beneath the bluish glow of two monitors, sipping coffee that had gone lukewarm and bitter sometime before midnight.
At 12:43 a.m., a call entered her queue.
“This is emergency services. What is the location of your emergency?”
Static whispered through her headset.
Then a man answered.
“I am unable to provide that information.”
His voice was calm, measured and oddly precise—the voice of someone requesting a library card rather than emergency assistance.
Myra straightened. “Are you in immediate danger?”
“Yes.”
“Are you injured?”
“There has been damage to my head and lower limb. My companion is not responding.”
The caller showed no telephone number. Instead, six red digits pulsed in the identification box on Myra’s screen.
4-8-1-7-3-2.
“Sir, I need your ten-digit phone number in case we’re disconnected.”
“The transmitter has provided six digits,” he said. “I was not aware that four more were required.”
Myra glanced at the pulsing numbers.
“Those aren’t enough to make a telephone number.”
“I regret that the transmitter did not know this.”
At the next console, Myra’s supervisor, Denise Barrow, slowly turned in her chair.
“I am communicating through a short-range distress transmitter,” the caller continued. “It has supplied your apparatus with a location beacon.”
Denise had worked emergency dispatch for twenty-three years and had developed the ability to recognize nonsense before it had finished speaking.
She tapped the mute button on Myra’s console.
“Prank,” Denise said.
“He sounds injured.”
“He also sounds like he learned English from an appliance warranty.”
Myra unmuted the call.
“Sir, what kind of vehicle were you traveling in?”
“A transport.”
“Car, truck or aircraft?”
“None of those descriptions is entirely accurate.”
Denise rolled her eyes.
Myra entered the six digits into the mapping system. Nothing happened at first. Then the screen flickered, zoomed outward and placed a blinking marker in a remote basin near the western boundary of Rocky Mountain National Park.
The coordinates appeared beneath the Never Summer Mountains, several miles from the nearest maintained road.
Myra leaned closer.
“Sir, I have a possible location for you. Are you outdoors?”
“Partially.”
“What does that mean?”
“My upper portion is outdoors.”
Denise covered her mouth, although whether she was hiding a laugh or a groan was impossible to determine.
“What’s your name?” Myra asked.
The caller produced a string of syllables that sounded like a washing machine attempting to speak French.
“I’m sorry,” Myra said. “Could you repeat that?”
He did.
It did not improve.
“All right. I’m going to call you Harry.”
“Is Harry a medical designation?”
“No. It’s a name.”
“Is it considered a respectable name?”
“Usually.”
Another pause.
“I accept Harry.”
“Good. Harry, listen carefully. Temperatures up there may fall below freezing tonight. Do you have shelter?”
“Our thermal regulator is deteriorating. The interior temperature has fallen to sixty-three degrees Fahrenheit.”
“That isn’t freezing.”
“It is extremely unpleasant.”
“How cold can you tolerate?”
“I prefer seventy-two degrees.”
“So does my father. He guards the thermostat as if it contains military secrets.”
“I do not understand how a temperature-control device could contain secrets.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why does he guard it?”
Myra rubbed her forehead.
“Never mind.”
“I am attempting to.”
A faint alarm sounded behind him.
Harry’s voice changed. Not much, but enough for Myra to hear the fear he was trying to conceal.
“My companion’s respiration is becoming irregular.”
“Can you move her?”
“No.”
“Is she bleeding?”
“Not externally.”
“Is there smoke or fire?”
“No fire. There may be contamination from the cooling system.”
Myra’s fingers moved over her keyboard. “You need to get away from the vehicle.”
“I cannot abandon her.”
“You may have to if the air inside is toxic.”
“I will not.”
There was no drama in the statement. No raised voice. Just certainty.
Myra had heard people lie about their names, locations, injuries and whether the person screaming in the background had merely “bumped into a cabinet.”
Harry did not sound like any of them.
“Can you activate the beacon again?” she asked.
“It will consume our remaining reserve power.”
“Do it for ten seconds.”
“Ten of your seconds?”
Myra paused. “How many kinds do you have?”
“Several.”
“Use mine.”
A thin electronic tone reached her headset. The map sharpened, placing the signal inside a narrow clearing below a granite ridge.
Then came a brittle crackle.
“Harry?”
“Myra.”
“I’m here.”
“I believe our communication period is concluding.”
“Concluding?”
“Ending.”
“I know what it means. I’m trying to keep you talking.”
“I did not understand that your question was intended to prevent me from answering it.”
The line went dead.
Denise folded her arms. “We are not launching a mountain rescue because somebody built a fancy radio in his basement.”
“The coordinates are real.”
“A coordinate is always real. Whether there’s anything there is another question.”
“He said someone else is unconscious.”
“He also said sixty-three degrees was dangerous.”
“It might be dangerous to him.”
Denise stared at her.
Myra removed her headset. “I’m calling Eric.”
“Your brother is off duty.”
“He flies search-and-rescue missions.”
“Your brother once landed a helicopter beside a bait shop because they were giving away free hot dogs.”
“He was low on fuel.”
“The helicopter or your brother?”
Myra was already reaching for her phone.
Eric McKenna answered on the sixth ring.
“This had better involve fire, nudity or free beer.”
“It involves an injured caller in the Never Summer Mountains.”
“Not interested.”
“He has a strange transmitter, no standard phone number and an unconscious companion.”
“Moderately interested.”
“He says his transport crashed.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Myra explained the call. Eric became quieter as she read him the coordinates.
“That’s rough country,” he said. “No trails nearby. No legal landing zone, either.”
“Can you check the signal?”
“I can contact the duty ranger and request a reconnaissance flight at first light.”
“Denise thinks it’s a prank.”
“Denise thinks microwave ovens are government surveillance devices.”
“She covers hers with a dish towel.”
“Exactly.”
Eric paused.
“You still have your wilderness medical certification?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll need to sign a civilian mission waiver.”
“You’re taking me?”
“The caller knows your voice. If he’s disoriented, you may be the only person he trusts.”
“And if this is a hoax?”
“You’re buying breakfast.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“You’re still buying breakfast.”
The Bell 206 JetRanger lifted shortly after sunrise from a small airfield outside Granby.
Eric had received authorization for a limited reconnaissance mission after the coordinates were traced to an area where a light aircraft could conceivably have gone down without being visible from established trails.
Myra sat beside him wearing a flight helmet and an oversized ranger jacket. A medical pack rested between her boots.
Below them, Colorado unfolded in forests, ridges and deep blue shadows. Snow still clung to the higher peaks. Granite faces caught the first sunlight while the valleys remained dark.
Eric banked north.
“Tell me again what kind of aircraft he said it was.”
“He called it a transport.”
“Manufacturer?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Registration number?”
“No.”
“Number of souls aboard?”
“.”
Eric glanced at her.
“What?”
“That’s how aviation asks how many people are aboard.”
“It’s a creepy way to ask.”
“We’re a cheerful industry.”
They followed the coordinates toward a narrow forested basin.
Eric reduced speed.
“Nothing on radar. No emergency locator transmitter registered. No missing-aircraft reports.”
“He had some kind of beacon.”
“Maybe experimental military equipment.”
“Would the military call 911?”
“Only after trying every other number.”
Something flashed below them.
Eric circled.
“There,” Myra said. “Near the rock shelf.”
“I see it.”
Whatever had come down in the clearing had not arrived gently. Several pines leaned at unnatural angles, and a dark furrow cut through the soil. Yet there was no smoke, no scattered wreckage and no recognizable tail, wing or fuselage.
The object sat partly beneath a shallow bluff.
From the air, it resembled a smooth black seed the size of a delivery van.
“What kind of aircraft is that?” Myra asked.
Eric did not answer.
He made two passes before landing in a meadow nearly half a mile away.
They carried the medical pack, a fire extinguisher, portable oxygen and Eric’s survival kit through dense underbrush.
As they approached the impact site, Eric drew his service pistol.
Myra noticed. “Expecting trouble?”
“I’m expecting something. Trouble is merely the most reliable option.”
They reached the furrow left by the crash.
No rivets were visible on the object. No windows. No seams except for a narrow opening along one side. Its surface was not quite black. Colors seemed to move beneath it, like oil across water.
Eric stopped.
“That is not a plane.”
“No.”
“Not a helicopter.”
“No.”
“Please tell me you’ve seen one at an outdoor recreation show.”
“Not unless it was behind the kayaks.”
A voice came from behind the object.
“Myra?”
She froze.
“Harry?”
A figure stepped slowly into view.
For several seconds, Myra’s mind attempted to turn him into something familiar.
A badly burned man.
A person wearing a protective suit.
A performer from an unusually committed theater company.
None of those explanations survived his second step.
Harry stood a little over six feet tall, although his narrow body made him seem taller. His skin was translucent, revealing faint threads of blue and gold light beneath the surface. His head was smooth and slightly elongated. His eyes were large, silver and reflective, without visible pupils.
One leg bent at an angle no healthy leg should attempt.
Clear fluid ran from a wound above his temple.
Eric raised the pistol.
Harry looked at it.
“Is that intended to assist with my injury?”
“No,” Eric said.
Harry studied the weapon.
“Then I would be more comfortable if it were not directed toward me.”
Eric slowly lowered it.
Myra found her voice.
“You’re not human.”
“No.”
“You could have mentioned that.”
“I considered doing so.”
“And?”
“I did not know whether nonhuman callers receive the same emergency services.”
Myra stared at him.
“You reached 911. We don’t ask for species.”
“That information was not included in your greeting.”
Harry swayed.
Myra hurried forward and caught his arm. His skin was cool and smoother than glass.
“My companion,” he said. “Please.”
She and Eric exchanged a glance.
“Where is she?” Myra asked.
Harry pointed toward the opening in the craft.
“Inside. The cooling system released gas after impact. I removed myself but was unable to free her.”
Eric retrieved an atmospheric monitor from his pack. Near the opening, the detector chirped.
“Low oxygen,” he said. “And elevated carbon dioxide. Whatever leaked displaced the air.”
Harry watched the device.
“What is that object measuring?”
“The air.”
Harry glanced around them.
“There appears to be a great deal of it.”
“The quality of the air.”
“That is more sensible.”
They fitted respirator masks over their faces and entered.
The cabin was illuminated by a pale green glow. There were no recognizable instruments, only curved surfaces that changed shape when Harry touched them. Two seats faced a wide transparent panel now buried against the earth.
A second figure lay strapped into one of them.
She resembled Harry, though smaller and more delicate. Her translucent skin had faded to gray.
Myra checked the side of her neck.
“I don’t know where her pulse should be.”
Harry touched two fingers beneath the woman’s jaw.
“Here.”
Myra felt a faint rhythmic flutter.
“She’s alive.”
Harry’s knees nearly gave way.
Eric cut the restraints with a rescue knife. Together they carried her outside and placed her on a thermal blanket.
Myra fitted the oxygen mask loosely over her face.
“Will oxygen hurt her?”
“Our atmosphere is similar to yours,” Harry said. “Your oxygen concentration is slightly excessive but tolerable.”
Myra adjusted the valve. “That describes most things in America.”
Harry looked concerned.
“Should I reduce it?”
“I meant America, not the oxygen.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will.”
The woman did not respond.
Harry knelt beside her.
“Her name?” Myra asked.
He made another rolling sequence of clicks and tones.
“I’m not calling her that,” Myra said.
Harry looked alarmed. “Why not?”
“I can’t pronounce it.”
“You may practice.”
“We don’t have that kind of time.”
The woman gasped.
Her back arched, and her silver eyes opened.
Harry produced a sound unlike anything Myra had heard from him—a low, musical cry filled with relief.
The woman reached for his face.
For several moments, they communicated in soft tones and flickers of light that moved beneath their skin.
Myra sat back on her heels.
Eric stared at them.
“Well,” he said. “This beats the free hot dog.”
Harry turned toward him.
“Was the dog also rescued?”
Eric looked at Myra.
“He means food,” she explained.
“You consume dogs?”
“No,” Eric said quickly. “Not that kind of dog.”
Harry’s eyes moved between them.
“I am relieved, although not fully informed.”
He turned back to his companion.
“She wishes to express gratitude.”
“Tell her she’s welcome,” Myra said.
“I have.”
The woman studied Myra and then repeated carefully, “Welcome.”
“Close enough.”
Harry looked between them. “She also requires an Earth name.”
Myra glanced at the dark craft, the broken trees and the brightening sky.
“How about Halley?”
“Why?”
“She arrived from the heavens and caused a commotion.”
Eric nodded. “Also, Comet would be a terrible first name.”
Harry considered both words.
“Is Halley respectable?”
“Very.”
He spoke the name to his companion.
“Hal-lee,” she repeated.
Then she smiled.
The expression transformed her. It was recognizably warm, amused and alive.
“My Halley,” Harry said.
Halley touched his cheek.
“My Harry.”
Eric frowned. “Wait. Did you tell her we named you Harry?”
“Yes.”
“She thinks that’s your real name now?”
“She prefers it to my actual name.”
“Can she pronounce your actual name?”
“Of course.”
Eric looked offended on Harry’s behalf.
“That hardly seems fair.”
Harry appeared to think seriously about that.
Once Halley could sit upright, Harry explained why they had come.
Their home world had entered what he described as an irreversible period of geological instability. Continents were breaking apart. The atmosphere was deteriorating. Their vessel had been one of hundreds sent toward planets believed capable of supporting their biology.
They had chosen Earth because its air, temperature and gravity were close to their own.
“How close?” Eric asked.
“Close enough to encourage the journey.”
“And far enough for you to crash?”
“The descent did not proceed according to plan.”
“You buried the front end of your spaceship in a mountain.”
Harry looked toward the craft.
“Yes.”
“That’s called a crash.”
“We have another word for it.”
“What does your word mean?”
Harry made a low, complicated sound.
Eric waited.
Harry said, “A journey ending abruptly beneath objects that were expected to remain below you.”
“Crash is faster.”
“I understand why you use it.”
Harry and Halley had carried adaptive outer membranes—living disguises designed from intercepted broadcasts and biological information collected during the journey. The coverings would allow them to resemble human beings for limited periods.
“You were planning to live here without telling anyone?” Myra asked.
“We intended first to observe.”
“That sounds a little like spying.”
Harry’s translucent skin brightened with concern.
“We did not intend harm.”
“I’m not accusing you. I’m saying people may see it differently.”
“How should we describe it?”
“Cultural research.”
Harry nodded slowly. “That was our description.”
“Stick with it.”
The crash had damaged the ship’s power distribution system. Harry could restore the life-support equipment, but one fractured conductor prevented the emergency systems from restarting.
He showed Eric a thin, twisted component inside an open compartment.
Eric examined it.
“You came across the galaxy and got taken down by a broken wire?”
“It is a molecular energy bridge.”
“It’s a broken wire.”
“It transfers energy between two components.”
“That’s the entire résumé of a wire.”
“We do not use wires.”
“You do now.”
Eric returned to the helicopter and came back with a maintenance pouch. He produced a coil of aviation-grade copper wire, two clamps and a roll of aluminum repair tape.
Harry regarded the tape suspiciously.
“What is that material?”
“Emergency repair tape.”
“Is it suitable for interstellar propulsion systems?”
“No one has complained yet.”
“How many interstellar propulsion systems have you repaired?”
“This will be the first.”
Harry looked toward Myra.
“Is he qualified?”
“Probably not.”
“Should I prevent him?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Harry looked at his damaged craft.
“No.”
Eric and Harry worked beside the vessel for nearly an hour.
Harry understood the craft but not Eric’s tools. Eric understood the tools but not the craft. Together, they communicated through pointing, diagrams and mutual frustration.
At one point, Harry held up a screwdriver.
“This device requires manual rotation.”
“That’s generally how screwdrivers work.”
“Why does it not rotate itself?”
“Because it costs eight dollars.”
“I do not see the relationship.”
“Neither does the manufacturer.”
Myra remained with Halley, cleaning a small wound along her arm.
“How many others are coming?” Myra asked.
Halley’s skin dimmed.
“Few may have survived departure. We do not know.”
“Were you supposed to report back?”
“When we determined whether Earth could accept us.”
“That might take time.”
“Harry believed your people would respond well to reason.”
Myra glanced toward Eric, who was threatening an interstellar refugee with a socket wrench.
“And what did you believe?”
“That patience would be required.”
“You may be the smarter one.”
“I am.”
From inside the vessel came a deep hum.
Light flowed across its surface.
Harry backed away as the buried front section slowly lifted from the soil. The hull changed shape, smoothing dents and drawing fractured sections together like healing skin.
Eric emerged through the opening.
“I fixed the molecular energy bridge.”
“With a wire?” Myra asked.
“And tape.”
Harry followed him.
“The adhesive material appears to be holding.”
“Try to sound more surprised.”
“I am extremely surprised.”
“You have the same expression.”
“I have limited facial movement.”
Eric nodded. “I’m learning that.”
The ship’s navigation system remained damaged, but Harry could now move it a short distance. The vessel also possessed a visual deflection system that bent light around its surface.
“Invisibility?” Myra asked.
“Not entirely. The system discourages accurate observation.”
“So people can still see it?”
“They may see something, but they will be uncertain what they saw.”
Eric looked at the craft. “That describes every photograph of Bigfoot.”
“Who is Bigfoot?”
“We’re not ready for that conversation.”
They agreed to conceal the vessel in a deeper ravine until repairs could be completed.
But another problem remained.
Two search aircraft had begun checking the general area. Myra and Eric could not return without an explanation.
Harry and Halley activated their adaptive coverings.
The change began at their faces.
Color spread across their transparent skin. Their eyes narrowed and darkened. Hair emerged. Bones shifted subtly beneath the surface. Within minutes, two exhausted but ordinary-looking people stood before Myra.
Harry appeared to be a thin man in his early forties with unruly brown hair and the solemn expression of someone who had arrived at a funeral on the wrong day.
Halley became a dark-haired woman with warm brown eyes and an amused smile.
Harry examined his hands.
“I now have fingerprints.”
“Yes.”
“What purpose do they serve?”
“They allow the police to identify you.”
“Why would I want that?”
“You wouldn’t.”
Harry looked more confused than before.
Myra radioed the ranger station.
She reported finding two injured hikers near an unregistered experimental glider that had broken apart during impact and fallen into an inaccessible ravine.
It was not a good story.
It was, however, confusing enough to survive the first round of questions.
They flew out with Harry and Halley strapped into the rear seats.
Harry watched the mountains through the window.
“This craft generates substantial vibration,” he said over the headset.
“It’s thirty-eight years old,” Eric replied.
“Why is it still operating?”
“Because it hasn’t stopped.”
Harry tightened his grip on the seat.
“I believe I preferred the crash.”
Six months later, a small heating-and-air-conditioning repair company opened outside Granby.
Harry had chosen the business after discovering that humans willingly paid large sums of money to maintain indoor temperatures close to seventy-two degrees.
The company was called Perfect Ambient Solutions.
Eric called it Harry’s Heating, regardless of what the sign said.
Halley handled scheduling and finances. She adapted rapidly to Earth customs, although she remained baffled by tipping, reality television and the existence of twenty-seven varieties of bottled water.
Harry became locally famous for diagnosing broken air conditioners simply by standing near them and listening.
Customers found him peculiar but polite.
He never arrived late.
He wore the same brown jacket every day.
He answered every telephone call with, “State the nature of your thermal malfunction.”
Business was excellent.
Their vessel remained hidden in the mountains while its systems slowly repaired themselves. Harry and Halley sent no signal to the survivors of their world.
Not yet.
They had decided Earth required further evaluation.
One evening, Myra and Eric joined them for dinner in the modest house they had rented behind the repair shop.
Halley had learned to cook spaghetti.
Harry had learned that humans expected compliments about food.
“This meal has been heated thoroughly,” he announced after his first bite.
Halley stared at him.
Myra leaned closer. “Try telling her it tastes good.”
Harry nodded.
“It tastes good.”
Halley smiled. “Thank you.”
Harry looked at Myra.
“That produced a better result.”
“It usually does.”
After dinner, they sat beneath the stars.
Harry looked toward the mountains where the ship waited.
“Myra, I have completed a preliminary assessment of your species.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Humans are disorganized, contradictory, frequently irrational and dangerously attached to small communication devices.”
“You’ve been to Walmart, then.”
“Twice.”
“And?”
“I became separated from Halley for forty-seven minutes.”
“What happened?”
“I remained where I was and expected her to return.”
“That’s what children are taught to do.”
“A woman gave me a sticker.”
Myra smiled. “What did it say?”
Harry looked embarrassed.
“Lost child.”
Eric laughed so hard that he nearly spilled his beer.
Harry watched him with concern.
“Is he choking?”
“No,” Myra said. “He’s enjoying your story.”
“It was not enjoyable.”
“It is to him.”
“That seems unkind.”
“A little.”
Harry waited until Eric recovered.
“However,” he continued, “humans also travel into dangerous places to help voices they do not recognize.”
Myra looked at Eric.
“Some of us do.”
“You repaired our vessel with primitive wire,” Harry told him.
“And tape.”
“Yes. I have ordered twelve rolls.”
“What for?”
“I do not know. It appeared important.”
Eric lifted his beer in approval.
Harry’s expression softened.
“I believe Earth may be suitable for others of our kind.”
“How many others?” Myra asked.
“If a surviving vessel receives our message, perhaps twelve.”
“Twelve aliens?”
“Twelve refugees.”
Myra considered the distinction.
“What happens if they call 911?”
Harry smiled—a little awkwardly, but genuinely.
“I will instruct them to request you.”
Myra pointed a warning finger at him.
“They’d better have ten-digit phone numbers.”
Harry looked at Halley.
“We still have only six.”
From inside the house, the telephone rang.
Harry stood.
“Another thermal emergency.”
He went inside and answered in his solemn professional voice.
“Perfect Ambient Solutions. State the nature of your malfunction.”
A pause followed.
“No, ma’am. Sixty-eight degrees is not life-threatening.”
Another pause.
“I understand that your husband believes otherwise.”
Harry looked through the open doorway at Myra.
“What should I tell her?”
“Tell her you’ll be there in the morning.”
Harry returned to the telephone.
“We will arrive in the morning. Please ask your husband not to guard the thermostat. It contains no military secrets.”
Halley covered her face with both hands.
Above them, a narrow streak of light crossed the night sky, brightened for a moment and disappeared behind the mountains.
Myra watched it fade.
“Was that one of yours?”
Halley smiled mysteriously.
“It may have been.”
Eric reached for another beer.
“Good,” he said. “I bought extra tape.”