Star Trek The Original Series From History's Shadow (22 page)

He would need assistance.

EIGHTEEN

Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio

July 29, 1958

“They’re calling it NASA, sir,” said Staff Sergeant Allison Marshall, sitting at her desk and reading whatever memo was at the top of the stack of similar documents. “National Aeronautics and Space Administration.”

Reclining in the chair behind his own desk, Major James Wainwright held his coffee cup in both hands as he looked across the dimly lit room at Marshall. Night had fallen, and the office’s only illumination came from the lamps sitting on their desks for the simple reason that neither of them had bothered to walk to the wall switch to turn on the overhead lighting. That was fine with Wainwright, as he preferred it this way. “NASA. Has a nice enough ring to it, I suppose. Eisenhower’s been going nuts about space since
Sputnik
. He wants us up there, fast, so you can bet these boys will be getting all the money they need to do it.”

“You can say that again.” Marshall held up the memo for emphasis. “If only they’d channeled that effort toward us, we might’ve been able to get something up there before the Russians. A satellite, something based off the X-2, anything. Now, it looks like the civilians will be getting all the money and having all the fun.”

“The military still has all the rocket research, along with
the best group of test pilots around,” Wainwright countered. “This might be an ‘us and them’ thing on paper, but there’s no way Eisenhower’s going to let that be an issue when it comes to getting something done.” The still fledgling Advanced Research Projects Agency had been formed earlier in the year as a response to the Soviet Union’s launch of the
Sputnik
satellites. A military project operating under the supervision of the Department of Defense, ARPA had but a single, broad-reaching mandate: ensure the United States did not fall behind in its ability to exploit for military purposes emerging technology in any of numerous fields including communications, transportation, nuclear energy, and, now, space.

Rising from her chair, Marshall laid the memo atop the pile before moving around her desk. “ARPA’s official mission is to keep us ahead of the Russians.” The heels of her shoes clicked along the floor’s linoleum tiles. “What about
other
things?”

Force of habit made Wainwright look toward the door as she asked the question. One thing he had learned after more than ten years on this job was that “caution” was his watchword; one never knew when someone might be listening, even within the confines of an office operating within the security envelope of a classified military project.

“I’m sure that’s been factored in somewhere,” Wainwright replied. “Eisenhower’s as big a supporter of what we’re doing as anyone.”

The current president was on record with his belief in the possibility of life existing on other worlds, and his administration had provided Majestic 12 and Blue Book with generous funding and support. There were rumors that Eisenhower had met with extraterrestrials on three separate occasions in 1954. Despite his best efforts, Wainwright had been unable to confirm the meetings, or with whom or what
the president may have conferred. Even Professor Carlson had been tight-lipped on the subject, which Wainwright had taken as tacit authentication.

He set his coffee cup on his desk as Marshall stopped next to his desk. Glancing at the clock over the door, Wainwright noted that it was coming up on seven in the evening. The words and numbers on the various reports he had been reviewing were starting to blur together, and the ache in his stomach told him it was well past time for something to eat.

Marshall leaned against one corner of the desk, folding her arms. Even this late in the day, after being in the office since before sunrise that morning, her hair, makeup, and Air Force duty uniform remained impeccable.
How does she do it?
It seemed almost too much effort for Wainwright to keep his tie straight. “I wonder what Professor Carlson thinks about this?”

“Good question,” Wainwright replied, reaching up to rub his chin and frowning at the beard stubble beneath his fingers. Had he shaved that morning?

Yeah, fourteen hours ago. Go home
.

“When was the last time you even heard from the professor?” Marshall asked.

It took him a moment to think about that. “A couple of months, I think,” he said as he opened his desk’s center drawer and retrieved the pack of cigarettes and lighter he had stashed there. “Between Washington, here, and that base out in Nevada, they’ve been keeping him pretty busy.” The professor’s duties, many of which carried a security classification so strict that even Wainwright did not possess the required “need to know,” along with the established curtains of secrecy separating Project Blue Book from the other missions and operations overseen by the Majestic 12 organization, saw to it that the different groups exchanged little information, despite
Wainwright and Marshall still receiving most of their direction and assignments from the MJ-12 command structure.

After offering Marshall a cigarette, which she declined, he lit one for himself and took the first drag from it before blowing a stream of smoke into the air above his head. “Carlson’s never told me straight out what he’s been up to these past few years, but he’s dropped enough hints for me to figure that his group and this new NASA organization won’t be strangers.” It was the professor who, for example, had been given responsibility for studying the craft discovered six years ago in Yuma, Arizona, by Wainwright and Marshall. As a consequence of that incident, the professor had exerted whatever authority he possessed to keep Wainwright and Marshall under his indirect supervision and attached to Blue Book. Without that influence, both then and in the years to follow, Wainwright was certain that he and Marshall would long ago have been transferred away from the project, perhaps even banished to some remote location such as one of the early warning stations in Alaska, where they would be unable to cause much trouble.

He reached up to stifle an abrupt yawn and caught Marshall smiling at him. “What?” he asked, taking another pull from his cigarette.

“It’s late, sir,” she replied, “and we’ve been here since before the sun came up. You should go home.”

Wainwright nodded, blowing out smoke and moving to crush the remainder of the cigarette in his ashtray. “Fine idea. I’m beat, anyway.” He stood, stretching his back and rotating his arms to work a few kinks from his shoulders. Sitting at a desk day after day had been taking its toll on him, despite his best efforts to remain fit with regular running and boxing at the base gym. He had celebrated his forty-first birthday earlier in the year, itself a stark reminder of just how long he had been
stationed here, committed to this one effort. It was irregular for a military officer to spend such an extended length of time at any duty station, but the special demands of Project Blue Book and the assignments given to him and Marshall by Professor Carlson required a certain continuity that could be served only by keeping the same people within the organization’s security envelope. “Or, maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Not
too
old, I hope,” Marshall said, casting a suggestive look over her shoulder as she returned to her desk. What had begun between them that morning last fall in Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania, had continued unabated, though they both had taken steps to keep their personal relationship guarded from the attention of their colleagues and superiors. So far, there seemed to be no indications that anyone around them was aware of their romantic involvement, or if they did suspect, then they had seen fit to keep that information to themselves. Regardless, Wainwright and Marshall did their level best to maintain proper decorum at work, though that did not prevent the occasional comment or look from being exchanged whenever it was just the two of them in the office. Of course, there was that one time they had pushed the limits of that façade right here, on . . .

Wainwright’s reverie was broken by a knock on the office door. “Come in,” he called out. The door opened and a male staff sergeant entered the room, wearing the duty uniform variant Wainwright recognized as one worn by personnel assigned to Wright-Patterson’s military police contingent. Behind him was a tall, lean man Wainwright did not recognize, dressed in a civilian business suit complete with fedora. Thanks to the office’s already dim lighting, the sergeant’s helmet and the brim of the civilian’s hat cast shadows across the upper portions of their faces. Stepping
into the room, the sergeant snapped to attention and offered Wainwright a salute.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, his tone clipped and formal.

Wainwright, still standing behind his desk, returned the salute. “At ease, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to bother you this late, sir,” the airman replied, “but this gentleman arrived at the front gate asking to see you.” Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder at his charge. “He says it’s important, sir.”

Frowning at this unusual turn of events, Wainwright exchanged glances with Marshall before directing his attention to the mysterious man, who had said nothing since entering the room. “I don’t understand.”

The civilian lifted his head just enough that Wainwright could see his eyes before saying, “Please forgive the odd nature of my arrival, Major, but if I am correct, then you and Sergeant Marshall are the two people who would be most interested in certain information I have in my possession.” His eyes narrowed as he fixed on Wainwright. “It pertains to a set of investigations you have conducted, particularly in Yuma, Arizona, and Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania.”

Wainwright forced himself not to respond to the surprising statement. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded to the airman. “Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll take it from here. I’ll be sure to call if I need anything.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied, saluting before taking his leave. He pulled the door closed behind him as he exited the room, leaving Wainwright and Marshall alone with their unexpected visitor.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Major,” said the visitor, before directing his gaze for a moment to Marshall. “And to you, Sergeant.”

Stepping around his desk, Wainwright said, “Well, you’ve certainly got our attention, sir, and you seem to know who we are well enough, so who might you be?”

Instead of replying, the new arrival turned and reached for the switch on the wall next to the door and flipped it, and the office overhead lighting flickered on and chased away the shadows. With the improved illumination, Wainwright now was able to see that the man’s complexion was pale, possessing a tinge that made him think the man might be suffering from jaundice or some other similar condition. His face was long and thin, with sharp, pale eyes regarding Wainwright from beneath dark, upswept eyebrows.

“My name is Mestral,” the man said, “and I have come to offer my assistance in your quest to understand the activities of those who have come from the stars to visit your world.”

He removed his fedora to reveal his black hair, cut in an odd bowl style that in some respects reminded Wainwright of Moe from
The Three Stooges,
but all of that was forgotten as his eyes fixed on the man’s pointed ears.

•   •   •

So, is this what alien mind control feels like?

The thought echoed in Wainwright’s mind as he regarded Mestral across the small, round table occupying one corner of the apartment’s main room. The room itself was a functional affair, with sparse furnishings that gave Wainwright the impression its occupant had only recently moved in, or perhaps did not plan on staying for any great length of time. Marshall sat to his left, and he noted her worried expression. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay,” he said. “To be honest, I haven’t felt this well-rested in years.”

“You are welcome,” said Mestral. “The mind meld can be a
taxing experience, particularly for someone lacking their own nascent telepathic abilities, but the initiating party can mitigate those effects if they possess the proper training. If you do experience any lingering discomfort, I hope you will alert me.”

Aside from an odd thirst he did not recall before subjecting himself to Mestral’s touch, Wainwright was obliged to admit that there appeared to be no untoward effects to what had just transpired. For his part, Mestral seemed to have anticipated this one consequence and had provided a glass of water, which Wainwright drank in rapid fashion. Forcing a smile, he asked, “Is this all part of the brainwashing?”

Mestral’s right eyebrow arched. “I am unfamiliar with that term, Major, but if you are worried that I may somehow have manipulated your mind for my own personal gain, I can only offer you my assurances to the contrary, along with the evidence I already have presented to you.”

“What was it like, Jim?” Marshall asked, her tone conveying her persistent concern for him. “Can you describe it?”

Reaching up to rub his temples, Wainwright replied, “Like a very intense dream, though even more vivid than that. It’s like I was . . .” He stopped, studying Mestral’s face. “Like standing in a foggy room, where every sound echoes, and in front of you is a giant movie screen. It felt real and yet not real, at the same time. Does that even make sense?”

“It does,” Mestral said. “Mind melds often produce a sensation of viewing an event from a sort of detached reality. Participants have described the experience as being separated from their corporeal form, feeling as though they are nothing more than an unfettered consciousness.”

Marshall placed her hand on Wainwright’s arm. “For what it’s worth, you didn’t seem to be in any pain, and he didn’t do or say anything I found off.” Her words made
Wainwright glance to the Colt .45 pistol resting in her lap, which she had kept with her throughout the entire “thought exchange.” Though Wainwright himself had been willing to subject himself to the procedure, Marshall remained the voice of reason and caution. He smiled at her, placing his other hand atop hers and giving it a reassuring squeeze.