The Signal

Chapter 1

Carla Lombard stared through the window of the lab, up into the nighttime heavens and the twinkling stars above. Silence, again. For twenty years she had been coming to the Owens Valley Radio Site to plumb the universe for signs of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and every year she had ended her trip the same way, with nothing to show for it. For a moment, she caught her reflection in the window, a translucent version of herself staring back at her above a mug of herbal tea, but then her eyes focused back on the dark sky above the radio telescopes, not perturbed one bit by the silence of the sky.

Nothing from any of you, again. How typical, she said to herself, sipping from her mug.

Carla turned from her reflection and surveyed the lab, a cramped space with a dozen terminals and various charts and calendars pinned to the walls, most of them out-of-date, remnants from previous groups trying to co-ordinate their efforts to find something new in the universe. Graduate students and doctoral candidates were scattered at computers, reviewing the latest data and looking for clues pointing at some life in outer space. Carla glanced at the clock on the wall and shook her head knowingly: they’d all stay until they fell asleep at the terminals if she didn’t shoo them out of the room every night. She had been like that too, long ago, as a graduate student desperate for answers from the universe. Now, life was different; she didn’t care if outer space had anything to say to her.

Okay, guys, it’s almost ten o’clock. Let’s shut the system down and let the computers do the work, Carla said. The students emerged from their own private data cocoons, in which they were oblivious to the hums from the computers or the clicks on terminals. I’m going to The Rose. As usual, the first round is on the university, so feel free to join me.

Carla paused for a half-moment as the students finally found their way to full attention on her, their reveries broken and reality back. But if you want to stay…

The Rose was nothing like a flower. It was a large room with wooden booths, a long bar with a brass rail, fake stained glass windows behind the bar, bottles of gin and vodka standing in columns and rows on low risers. Indeed, it more resembled an Elks Lodge built in the 1950s and never remodeled. Carla and her team – she liked to think of the members of the annual trip to the Owens Valley site as a team, rather than students – sat at a long table, several pitchers of beer before them, a pair of pizza boxes empty. They had been talking about politics and current events and had come to the conclusion that none of them really knew what was going on in the world because they spent so much time wondering what was going on in the universe.

You know what’s weird, there’s a presidential race going on right now and the only thing I really know is that the president is running again, Peter Jenkins said. My dad asked me what I thought about Hartman and I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. And then I thought, ‘election,’ I’ve never even voted and I’m not sure if I’m even registered.

Gloria Flores, a doctoral student in her early 30s, leaned forward in her chair and assessed Peter. How old are you?

Twenty-four, Peter said.

You’re twenty-four and never voted? Gloria said mock-incredulously. Tell me you’re not still a virgin, too.

The rest of the team smiled at Peter as he took the rib good-naturedly.

Hey, I haven’t always been an astronomy geek. I was an undergrad for four years, I had a life, once, Peter said. And, anyway, spending all your nights pointing things into the sky kind of occupies the same time spot dating would.

Barrett Smythe leaned in and laughed, Well, you’ll have a couple of weeks off soon enough. Maybe you can work something into your love life between Sunday and the start of the semester.

I was kind of thinking I’d register to vote, Peter said.

Gloria Flores smiled broadly and said, Well, then, I guess I better tell you that Hartman is the president on the television show The Oval Office, not the real president in the White House.

Peter looked confused. But I don’t even watch that show.

You probably read an issue of Entertainment Weekly and thought it was Time, Barrett Smythe said.

The table erupted in friendly laughter and Carla felt a warm glow of pride within her. Her team was like family, and it felt good when the family was bonding and enjoying each other’s company, not feuding over misplaced decimal points or time on a telescope. Carla tilted the last of her beer into her mouth and set the pint glass down on the table. She glanced at her watch and then surveyed the table.

Well, I’ve got just enough time to call home and say good-night, so I’ll see all of you tomorrow, Carla said, standing from her chair amid a chorus of well wishes.

It was cold in the parking lot, and Carla shrugged tighter into her light windbreaker, hoping for heat. She slipped her cell phone from a pocket and pressed in the numbers for home.

Hundreds of miles away, Bill Lombard reacted to the trill of the phone and checked the caller ID.

Hey, honey, how was your day?

Same as yesterday. Yours? Carla asked.

Bill sighed audibly. I found a bag of pot in the saddle bag on Jenny’s bike.

What?

Yeah.

Carla stared into the darkness of the horizon beyond the parking lot. How’d you find that?

She asked me to tighten the chain on her bike, and while I was lifting it, it just fell out of the saddle bag under the seat, Bill said matter-of-factly. That and a pipe like the one you had in college. And a lighter.

For a moment, Carla stung at the reference to her college life and her weekend marijuana use. She hadn’t smoked pot since before Jenny had been born, giving it up when trying to get pregnant the first time. She’d never missed it. But now, just weeks from when her first-born child was due to fly the coop for her own college journey, Carla couldn’t help but think that her daughter would embrace the wrong aspects of her freedom.

Aww, Christ. What’d you do? Carla asked.

Bill chortled. I switched out the pot with some tobacco from a Macanudo I tore apart. I want to see what she does when she realizes I’m on to her.

Carla rolled her eyes and stared up into the night sky in disbelief. So, you switched out a bad habit for another bad habit?

Well, Bill started, then paused. "It’s not like she’s going to take up cigar smoking because I pulled a switch on her. And, anyway, she starts college in a couple of weeks, I figured we ought to let her know we’re not as dumb and out-of-it as she thinks we are.

I’m sure she’ll notice the difference right away. I think. Pot leaves and cigar tobacco don’t look the same, Bill said, uncertainty creeping into his words. Maybe it’ll scare her straight.

Carla sighed. Yeah, I know, but it’s one thing to smoke pot on the weekends in college, it’s another thing to stash it in your mountain bike and go for daily rides, Carla said. I thought she was exercising, dammit, not riding out into the woods to get high.

Well, when she goes out on her ride tomorrow, she’ll know the jig is up, Bill said. And you’ll be home in a couple of days, so, maybe we should talk to her when you get back.

Carla looked back up into the night sky, searching for answers. She knew so much about how the heavens worked, and so little about how people did. Oddly, she had never noticed the irony in this.

How’re the boys? She asked.

Nate is fine, and Johnnie is scheduled to pitch tomorrow, so that’s good, Bill said. "He’s wanted to start all season, and now he gets his chance. We worked on his slider tonight after dinner, but I think he should really just stick to fastballs and curves. He hasn’t had the experience on the mound to add another pitch, yet.

I’ll video it and you can watch when you get back.

Carla smiled at the thought. Do that. I want to see it.

About when do you think you’ll be back? Bill asked.

Before dinner.

Well, I hope you have good hunting while your season lasts, Bill said.

Thanks honey, Carla said, closing her phone and walking to her car.

Chapter 2

Tom and Mary Gibson strolled through the main display tent of the Bucks County Grange Fair, Tom pushing a double-stroller with their two toddler children. Mary stopped frequently to check the wares of the local artists, normally hand-made jewelry, photographs, or paintings of landscapes past and present. Tom was bored almost immediately, as he guessed he would be after Mary had proposed the idea after breakfast.

You want to look at stuff about farming? Tom had said, suddenly seeing his afternoon matinee evaporating before his eyes. I mean, it’ll be farm animals and plows and tractors, what’s to see?

Mary had looked at him thinly, as if he didn’t get it, and he hadn’t gotten it. It’ll be a ‘family day activity,’ Tom, something we need to do … as a family.

And right then another unspoken requirement of married life became apparent to Tom. Five years and two kids into the venture, Tom hadn’t realized he would have to cede so much of himself to the enterprise. He’d had to quit smoking when Mary did, the morning she’d produced a plus sign on a pregnancy stick, although he had walked outside the house and lit up a cigarette in both celebration and bewilderment. He’d only walked outside to be one with the world, but, weeks later, after Mary had actually quit smoking for good, she had asked him to either quit or smoke outside permanently because she didn’t like the smell of the house when he smoke inside. Ultimately, he quit the day his son was born, smoking a cigar outside the hospital with another newly-made father.

I think the kids are enjoying the trip here, Tom said, looking down at the two toddlers sitting idly in the stroller.

We’re starting a tradition, Tom, Mary said, using a tone of voice women reserve solely for husbands, before her attention was grabbed by shiny objects behind glass. Oh, I’m going to look at this case, there might be something interesting in it.

Tom watched as his wife drifted a few feet away and engaged the saleswoman in conversation, pointing at earrings and necklaces inside the case. Tom stared around the tent and then down at the children, wondering if the new family tradition was taking root with them. He pushed the stroller down to the next artisan and looked disinterestedly into the case at the wares. And then he pushed the stroller a few more feet and stopped dead