The FBI loaded the body into a gray van. A Bureau diplomat approached Jeff. "We appreciate your consideration in this matter, Mr. . . ."
"Boeing. Jeff Boeing."
"Mr. Jeff Boeing. You understand that the alien's devices may tell us something just as important as its body will."
'Like new ways to kill people,' Jeff thought. "Okay," he acquiesced, "I'll let you keep its — uh — belt. The rod and the disk attached to it may have some uses, though I haven't figured them out. As for the box, um . . . I'd rather keep it."
"I'm afraid we can't let you do that."
"Ah," Jeff thought he understood. "Federal bureaucracy?"
"More than that," the diplomat informed him. "National security. We couldn't hand any of this over to you any more than we could hand it over to the Soviets."
"Aha," Jeff nodded, "The Russians. I knew they'd get roped into this somehow. Don't they always." His sarcasm was as clear as the Joshua Tree night had been.
The FBI diplomat cleared his throat uncomfortably. "We would also appreciate your continued cooperation, Mr. Boing."
"That's Boeing. Like the airliner company."
"Boeing, Boeing, 'scuse me. You see, we also shouldn't let any of this get out to the press until they're . . . ready for it. So, I'd like to ask you if —"
"If I'd keep my mouth shut about it. Right. Come on! I found this . . . this creature, not you."
"Yes, you did, and I speak for the Bureau when I say that we all appreciate your sense of duty in turning it over to us."
"I didn't turn it over to you. I reported it to the local police, and they turned it over to you."
The diplomat exhaled uncomfortably. "All right, I wasn't going to tell you this, but I'm afraid I'll have to burst your bubble. You weren't the first to spot this anomaly: Edward's tracked this bogie on radar all the way down. When we sent a team to the site, all we found was a shallow crater and marks in the sand leading away from it, showing that someone had been here before us and had dragged whatever it was away. The LAPD bulletin this morning put the missing pieces together for us, and we came right over and picked the creature up. So it's not 'yours'."
"It's not 'yours,' either," Jeff replied.
"Mr. Boeing," the diplomat stared at him levelly, "Are you familiar with a long-standing legal precedent known as 'eminent domain'?"
"The right of the State to take private property for public use without the owner's consent," Jeff replied without skipping a beat. "Last I heard, it requires an act of the Legislature, and I don't remember seeing the House of Representatives taking this to a vote on C-SPAN."
The diplomat grunted. "Nevertheless, this is still a matter of national security, and that gives us a power of temporary seizure until the lawmakers or courts decide. I'd advise you to divulge as little as possible. Um, good day, Mr. Boeing; we'll be in touch." He turned to leave.
"Just a moment," Jeff interrupted him. He drew a long, calculated breath. "There's a lot of people in that precinct house who saw the alien besides me."
"Y- yes . . . so?" The diplomat was visibly nervous.
"So it would be reeeally easy for me to get some of the local newspapers down here and convince these cops to corroborate my story. If I told them."
The FBI representatve shook his head. "All right, all right, Mr. Boeing. What do you want?"
"Take me with you," he said matter of factly. "Let me see what happens to the creature and its tools."
The diplomat sighed, and pursed his lips. He turned to one of the other FBI agents, and mumbled something Jeff couldn't hear. The agent mumbled something back. The diplomat raised his eyebrows slightly, then turned back to Jeff. "Very well, Mr. Boeing. I suppose it's the least we can do. Hop in."
And in he hopped, cramping the front seat of the van with yet another passenger. A metal wall separated him from the rear of the van, where they had the body of the alien — or whatever it was. That creature was bringing him all the sights that this vacation could ever offer.
Unfortunately, those sights became progressively less interesting as the trip wore on. The driver turned into the warehouse district and made his way to the low rent end of town. All the paint was worn off of the two story brick warehouse they finally parked inside of; and all of its windows were either broken or boarded up. Jeff figured it was either scheduled for demolition or built to look that bad on purpose.
Judging from the professional, glittering high-tech gear he found inside, he guessed that his latter assumption was probably correct.
The diplomat escorted him through a long corridor. Every door along the hall was closed, most of them — but not all — with a keypad lock. "I'm going to have to ask you not to go into any room where I don't accompany you," the diplomat said. "Officially, this facility and its existence isn't classified, but most of what's inside it is. There is almost certainly paperwork in process to classify both the alien corpse you found last night and its equipment. Once that happens, you will absolutely need a security clearance if you wish to see any more."
Jeff folded his arms as he walked along. "I thought you guys only granted security clearances to flag-waving ultra-patriots who'd never so much as taken a liberal arts course in college."
"That's not exactly fair," the diplomat said, "But there is some truth to it. The Red Scare in the 1950s had a huge impact on FBI policy, some of which is still lingering today in 1981. If you do decide you want a security clearance, you'll have to go through a rather extensive background check and interview process. But for now," he grinned and gestured as they reached an open door, "We can let you inside."
The room within contained more scientists in lab coats than agents in black suits. Four tables dominated the room. On the largest, the alien's corpse lay stretched out, its six tentacle arms flopped out to its sides so that its tentacle fingers hung over the table's edges. The second table held the alien's disk, the third held the rod with the rectangular handle; and on the last there lay the box, propped up on its eight clamps so that its button and hood faced upward.
A man in a blue suit, neither agent nor scientist, noticed Jeff and walked up to him. "You must be the guy who found all this."
"Yeah," Jeff said, "That's me."
"I'm Henry Sampers, assistant manager of this site." He proffered his hand; Jeff shook it. "I'm guessing," Henry continued, "From the puzzled expression on your face that you're wondering what's going to happen next. Each of these four tables is going into its own separate room, for what we like to call First Crack Analysis. The body's going with an autopsy and bio sample team. The other three are each getting a couple of engineers and metallurgists assigned to them, who'll bring in whatever help they need when they learn more. You can continue to watch, until such time as we receive intelligence classification paperwork, but you can only be in one room at a time."
As if on cue, four groups of scientists and agents released the casters on the tables and began wheeling them away. Each table held its own, fascinating intrigue: he could follow the alien corpse and see what life on other planets was made of; he could follow either of the two tools the creature had carried with it on its belt, and discover what kinds of wondrous contraptions its species would never leave home without; or . . .
"I know where I'm going first," he said, and followed the box with the clamps sticking out of it.
The investigation proved rather boring at first. They measured its dimensions with tape measures and metersticks, took pictures from every angle, wrote copious notes, and didn't even get around to touching it for nearly half an hour. Jeff had to tell them that he'd already pressed the pink button before they dared trying to press it themselves. The same effect happened when they did: the box made a brief humming noise, and simultaneously a tiny spot of yellow-white light appeared where each of the eight clamps met the box. Then the box went dark and silent again.
The hole in the bottom of the box's protruding hump was, one scientist noted, just about the right diameter to allow one of the alien's tentacle-like fingers to fit inside it. The touch-sensor inside, against the inner top of the hood, was obvious; it even moved ever-so-slightly inward when pressed. But as before, pressing it did apparently nothing.
The scientists continued to play with the box as best they could. They brought out spectrographs to analyze the light given off whenever they pressed the button, and they pressed it a lot. Radiofrequency emission sensors picked up nothing, no matter the state of the button or the touch-sensor. The points where the clamps met the box looked jointed, but the clamps wouldn't move no matter how hard anyone pulled or pushed on them — though they didn't push them too hard for fear of bending or breaking the metal. They searched all around the box for an access panel, or even a seam, but there was none.
Finally, they decided it was time to get inside the box and look at its innards. One of them arrived with a wicked-looking circular saw, with a diamond-tipped blade, and Jeff's heart sank. They were going to destroy the box just to see what made it tick. It seemed like such a waste.
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