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internal lights disappearing toward the horizon. Others enjoyed the sight,
which was spectacular in the extreme. All you had to do was put aside the
thought that it might drop out of the sky at any moment, squashing you like an
ant, and then it was easy to admire the beauty of it.
There was no panic at Baltimore Command, where the atmosphere could have been
described as one of agitated tension. Bukowicz stalked from console to console
like a bull in heat, casting occasional worried glances in the direction of
the central holo. His staff wasn't in much better shape. Many needed a break,
but no one dared leave the control room. As the alien vessel shifted its
position, the flight paths for various aircraft and even a few shuttles had to
be realigned.
At least there hadn't been any collisions. Fortunately the alien chose to
travel at a leisurely pace commensurate with its majesty. Nor was it difficult
to avoid, even for a myopic private pilot out for a peaceful morning's jaunt
above Long Island Sound.
Complaints from travel supervisors whose groups had to be rerouted were
treated with the indifference they deserved.
Aircraft both official and otherwise dogged the leviathan's course. They
transmitted plenty of pictures, which were as spectacularly unenlightening as
they were visually astounding. The ship took no more notice of their presence
as they swooped and circled around it than an elephant would of a gnat.
One bold and enterprising media reporter even had his rented hovercraft land
atop the artifact and, when it did not react to the minuscule presence,
climbed out and did a live broadcast from its shiny surface.
A collective sigh of relief issued from Bukowicz's crew as well as their
colleagues all up and down the coast when the alien vessel finally cleared the
continental shelf. It eventually stopped halfway to Bermuda.
"At least we don't have to worry about it coming down in the Jersey
residential district, or somewhere like that," muttered one of his staff
supervisors.
"Unless it turns around and comes back," someone else opined. This
observation drew him several dirty looks.
Mavis put a hand on her chief's shoulder. "You look beat, Witold. Why don't
you get some rest?"
"No. Not yet." He was scowling at the holo. "We're not gonna sit here on our
thumbs and wait helplessly to see what it does next." He yelled over to his
head communications specialist. "Get on the line to Milan and Dakar. Let 'em
know what's happening on this side of the pond."
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"Surely they've seen pictures by now," someone ventured.
"They'll want official confirmation. Nevva's right. We don't know what this
thing's going to do next: stay where it is, turn around, head toward Europe,
or go extra-atmospheric. Everyone needs to be prepared." The comspec nodded,
bent to his instrumentation.
Bukowicz turned away. Mavis was right too: he had to relax or he was likely
to keel over. Besides, any immediate danger had been resolved. The apparition
was safely out over open water.
If there really was a bunch of old people from upstate Newyork Province on
board, he found himself wondering, what else could they make it do?
"Well, we finally found the aliens." One of the techs was swiveling idly back
and forth in his chair. 'They're intelligent, powerful, ultra-tech, and they
apparently don't have the slightest interest in us."
"It's only been a little while," said the woman at the console next to his.
"Give it time: more is probably going to happen."
"Why doesn't that thought fill me with delight?" her colleague responded.
"It doesn't matter," someone else said thoughtfully. "We can't do anything
about it anyway."
'That's not necessarily the case." Bukowicz was remembering the elderly voice
he'd spoken with so recently. "Get me Barcelona."
"Regional traffic control?" the comspec asked expectantly.
"No." Bukowicz stared intently at the winking red light that now hovered
offshore over the Atlantic. "Planetary Council offices. As high as you can
reach."
"They won't be able to do anything either," said the individual who'd spoken
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