A Higher Calling

1

“Existence is a struggle, a fight, and we are not professional fighters. Yet, we are blessed by our striving, by our good deeds.” Liz echoed the words of her mentor and held out her hands in a gesture of giving.

“Pretty much sums up my life,” Martin quietly replied. “I’m just an amateur, struggling to exist. I can only hope to be blessed by a good deed or two, here and there. Thank you.” He bowed as gracefully as he could and walked away.

It was a ceremonial gathering, for educational purposes only. Martin had attended to satisfy his curiosity about the religion. He had no intention of becoming a part of it, nor any other religion for that matter. It was enough to sense the seriousness of the beliefs of others and to offer as much respect as he could. Life goes on, he thought as he merged with the crowd, off to experience other points of interest on the tour.

As Martin disappeared into the throng, Liz remembered what her mentor had said just before he died: “Before long, you will meet a tall man with a semicircular scar on his top lip, one who makes light of your words, not at your expense, but in a self-deprecating way. Your destinies are irrevocably bound. Many lives depend on whether or not you can work together with this man.”

Liz wanted to call after the nameless man, Wait! We must talk! But she felt she shouldn’t do this during the ceremony. Yet, as the minutes wore on, she became convinced that some things have a higher purpose than a ritual, maybe than an entire religion. Was this what her mentor wanted her to learn? Was faith itself merely a tiny manifestation of something much more important? And what was her destiny, after all? What did the stranger with the scar and the self-deprecating wit have to do with her? Exactly how were they supposed to work together? She ran out of the temple in a desperate attempt to follow the man.

2

Martin was a trumpet player, a college professor by calling and professional experience. His “semicircular scar” was the mark of all serious brass players, a callous built up by years of practice and performance. The self-deprecating wit Liz noticed was part of his professorial personality, a way to put students at ease, acknowledging that even their teachers confront difficult questions and don’t have all the answers. He said things like this all the time, just as his own mentor had often remarked, “we all do,” whenever Martin stated he found something to be a challenge. He found certain pieces, certain passages turn out to be “character builders,” demanding our best concentration and focus. Even then, professional or amateur, sometimes “the bear gets you” despite your best efforts. We live, and we learn was a sort of motto for him.

This was a sabbatical trip, a tour to recharge his batteries and experience the world in a new way. He had arranged for a few “gigs” while he was here, playing with some acquaintances who graciously invited him to “sit-in.” There wasn’t much money in it, but the objective was not emolument as much as enlightenment. Maybe the blessing he received earlier would help him play better. Then again, maybe more practice would do the trick.

Liz ran through the crowded streets, hoping she would by some miniscule chance find the man who had stirred her memory. Finding him was highly unlikely, given the number of tourists and the variety of shops, restaurants, and small hotels in the vicinity of the temple. Yet, she felt strangely compelled to try.

For a couple of years after completing her undergraduate degree at Smith, Liz tried to make a career as an artist, but her inability to alter her personal vision to suit potential clients always seemed to get in the way. Even after some critical acclaim, she felt it was best to pursue her other passion, physics. Then, despite her brilliance and status as a doctoral candidate, she really could not see herself in the man’s world of research or especially as a teacher of ungrateful teenagers. Liz resisted convention – didn’t like to do as she was told or blindly follow tradition – yet, at the Temple she tried hard to fit in. There she became known as “Maria,” a reference to the misfit singing nun in The Sound of Music. Even so, she hung on to her initial motivation. Maybe I’ll find the source of physics in the metaphysics of religion, she thought. Now she wondered what she was thinking when she decided to break ranks with the other initiates and chase after a total stranger who would likely be freaked out if she ever managed to catch up to him. Was she simply returning to her unruly years as a starving artist or was this choice really part of her destiny? Either way, it was her only chance to know for sure. Back to empiricism, she conceded.

3

“Goddammit! That’s the 11^th test pilot who’s crashed the SP-421. And we haven’t even gotten the goddam thing out of the hangar!” General Robertson was furious. “Morris! Get me that Doctor…what’s his name?”

“Who?” Morris replied. “I’m sorry, Sir. What doctor do you mean?”

“You know, that psychologist…doctor…?”

“Farmen…Sir?”

“Yes. That guy. Tell him I want him here right away.”

“Yessir.”

The SP-421 project had been stalled for months. No suitable test pilot had been found. Almost a dozen of the best test pilots in the country had attempted to fly the experimental space plane, the most advanced machine ever built, but none had succeeded in controlling it the way it was intended to be controlled. All of them could access the basic functions with the AI system turned off – they could hover, yaw, pitch, move about the hangar, and so on – but none could use the “Thinking Cap,” the helmet designed to “read” the pilot’s thoughts and operate the craft to its full potential. Each time one attempted to do so, the plane slammed to the floor or ploughed straight into a wall. Fortunately, it was made of an ultra-strong carbon composite as hard as diamonds, but able to absorb impacts and disperse them throughout the billions of fibers that composed the hull.

The SP-421 was what conspiracy theorists would call a “flying saucer.” It flew because the molecules on its top surface swirled like a frisbee, providing lift, and its main engines could accelerate ions to hypersonic speeds providing thrust. But the pièce de résistance was the “Thinking Cap.” The AI that controlled the craft was designed to use this as an interface, sensing what the pilot wanted to do, as one engineer said, “almost before the pilot wants it.” The trouble was, the systems required such a fast AI that pilots couldn’t “keep up.” Traditional pilot training was checklist oriented, and by the time any of these pilots completed a thought process, the AI was so far ahead it was left without guidance and either shut down or crashed.

“Alright, Farmen,” the General fixed his eyes on the doctor, “you were telling me your theory regarding the interface…”

“Well, General Robertson, as I was saying, conventional pilot training probably will not work for the Thinking Cap.”

“No shit, Sherlock! Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“If I might continue, General. Conventional pilot training involves certain standard procedures, checklists, linear protocols…also our pilots so far have been STEM graduates, trained to think mathematically, quantitatively, reductively, if you will. The AI was designed as a “learning matrix.” I submit its programming has gone far beyond the flow chart, block diagram, step-by-step-proof stage to something much more holistic. The AI still uses logic to be sure, but not like conventional computer logic. More like artistic human genius logic. Artists make cognitive leaps, intuitive projections…their brains function more like a Michelangelo than a mere Mathematician. While our test pilots have been feeding it steps to follow, it’s been looking for the figures embedded in the marble.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know, like when Michelangelo would envision what form was hidden inside a block of stone and then would take out his hammer and chisel and begin sculpting.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Farmen. I know nothing about art.”

“Suffice it to say each shapeless chunk of marble somehow suggested a work of art and Michelangelo could intuit what it was and coax it to life. In my professional opinion, our AI wants to be guided by the mind of an artist rather than an engineer or test pilot.”

“Then, why didn’t you say so?”

“I just did, General.”

“Well then, we have a problem, Dr. Farmen.”

“What’s that, General?”

“All the country’s art programs ended by the 2020’s. It’s been a few years since we’ve seen an art major, and all of them are worthless anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean there are no artistic minds, just that it might be more difficult to locate one who might be willing to assist with this project.”

“So, you’re saying we should let an artist pilot a 30-billion-dollar space plane?”

“Uhh…yes, General. I don’t see any other way.”

“Goddammit. We’ve tried all the best test pilots in the country…” the General sighed, “Who do you have in mind?”

“Liz McCann, General.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“I’m sending you her file right now,” Dr. Farmen tapped his phone.

“Physics background…good. Artist-type…meh. It says here she doesn’t like to follow orders, Farmen.”

“Well, what matters is whether the AI will follow her orders, General.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you this goes against my every instinct, but…how soon can you get her here.”

“A week, maybe?”

“Make it two days, Farmen. I’m sick of our lack of progress!”

4

Liz decided to stop in the most likely hotels first. The man was well-dressed, but not too well-dressed – western casual, but not like a Bohemian hitchhiker – therefore not likely to stay in either a fleabag or a five-star establishment. That left three most likely places. OK, closest first, she reasoned.

She described the man to Jeffrey, the desk clerk, who offered her some deference, as she was still wearing the purple stole that identified her as an initiate. Curious – the temple stole resembled the doctoral hood she would have earned after completing her thesis.

At first Jeffrey joked with her, “what happened, did they run out of rooms at the temple?”

“Funny. Nothing like that. I’m looking for a man. He’s wearing a light blue jacket with tan slacks. About 1.8 meters tall. Dark brown hair. Hazel eyes. Seemed nice.”

“That’s pretty specific. I didn’t know initiates were allowed to…you know.”

“Please. Just tell me if he’s staying here,” Liz tried to hide her irritation.

“You’re in luck…or maybe good fortune has smiled on you…or whatever,” Jeffery looked up from the screen.

Liz was now officially freaked out. What were the odds the man would be staying at the first place she tried? “Well, would you tell me his name?” she inquired.

“Sorry. No. That’s against hotel policy. You are welcome to remain in the lobby as long as it takes for him to appear.”

“Thank you. Do you mind if I have a seat?”

“Be my guest…well, not my guest…you can’t stay overnight.”

“The world already has enough starving artists…and comedians…don’t you think?”

“Why do you think I’m working here?” Jeffrey answered in the maieutic tradition of both sages and comedians.

“Fair enough. I used to be an artist myself. Now I’m trying to seek wisdom.”

“Do or do not, there is no try.”

“Thanks, Master Yoda.”

Just then, Martin walked in. He almost tripped over Liz. She could tell by his khaki pants and light blue jacket.

5

“Any messages, Jeffrey?” Martin asked cheerily.

“Well, there was one inquiry.” He pointed to the young woman in the purple stole and said no more.

“Hello, my name is Martin Wagner. I recognize you from the ceremony earlier. But I’m sorry…I don’t know your name.”

“Liz. Liz McCann.” She reached out to shake Martin’s hand. “I have something to tell you. It might be important…or not. I just think I would be making a mistake not to at least tell you.”

“Now, you have my attention. It’s not every day a strange woman…I mean a stranger…tracks me down to share some mystery. May I sit down?” Seeing her gesture, he sat.

“Before I start, promise me you won’t be freaked out by what I’m about to say.”

“Well, I’m a little freaked out already. But I’ll do my best.”

“After you left the temple, I remembered what my mentor told me a few months ago. He said, ‘Before long, you will meet a tall man with a semicircular scar on his top lip, one who makes light of your words, not at your expense, but in a self-deprecating way. Your destinies are irrevocably bound. Many lives depend on whether or not you can work together with this man.’”

“That could be anybody,” Martin replied, as he touched his top lip. “What makes you think I’m the right man?”

“He specifically said, ‘Before long,’ and he was never wrong about anything having to do with me.”

“Why don’t we just go and ask him, then?”

“Oh, I’d like to, but he’s dead.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Liz gave him an understanding look.

He went on. “So, based on a dead man’s prophecy I’m supposed to believe we are destined to become a team. Is that correct?” Martin was trying not to sound too skeptical.

“When you put it that way, I’m not so sure. Maybe we should just forget about it.”

“I didn’t mean to burst your bubble. This is all so…improbable. I’m only here for a short trip. You’re a novice, if I understand your color system. And just because I have a trumpet mouthpiece scar and tend to make light of myself, you and I must work together. To save lives. You’ve got to admit…”

They hadn’t noticed the sound of a helicopter setting down in the square a couple of blocks away, or the team of armed men that had moved in to cover the exits. A man in a black suit approached them. “Are you Liz McCann?”

“Who wants to know?” Liz snapped back.

“It’s a matter of national security.”

“And we’re supposed to believe that?” Martin interjected.

“And who are you? The man in black directed his gaze towards Martin.

“Martin Wagner.” He offered his hand, but the man declined. “And who are you?”

“Again. Not important. US security matter. Ms. McCann, please come with me.”

In a split-second, Liz was forced to decide. “I’m not going anywhere without my friend.” She looked straight at Martin.

Martin swallowed, took a deep breath, and dove in, “That’s right. Where she goes, I go. Take it or leave it.”

“I’m not authorized to…”

Liz cut him off, “Take it or leave it. If you want my cooperation, you will bring Mr. Wagner.”

“They told me you have a mind of your own, Ms. McCann.”

“They weren’t kidding.”

“Very well. Both of you. Get moving. The chopper is that way.”

“What about our stuff?” Martin inquired, “Don’t we get to pack first?”

“Your belongings will be brought to you. Ms. McCann has a very important appointment and my orders are not to keep my boss waiting.”

6

“First, I want to say I don’t like this one Goddam bit,” General Robertson began. “Not just one, but two civilians becoming part of a top-secret Space Force project. One of them, a freakin’ artist and the other a freakin’ musician. I must have lost my goddam mind.”

“Sir, may I show them in?” Morris was anxious.

“Alright, Morris, let’s get this over with.”

“I’m General Robertson, and this is Captain Morris.”

“I believe we’ve met,” Liz glanced at Morris with annoyance and back to the General with curiosity. “Why have you brought us here, and where exactly is here?”

“I suppose you’ve heard of Area 51.” The General replied. Liz and Martin looked at each other, dumbstruck. “Well, this isn’t it. But it’s pretty much like it. You are in a top-secret military facility. Consider yourselves sworn to secrecy on penalty of treason. You are not to disclose anything you see or hear, for any reason. Understood?”

“Do we have any choice?” Martin inquired, a little too sarcastically.

“No. You do not,” the General snapped back. “Who the hell is this guy, Morris?”

“Ms. McCann insisted he come along. Mr. Wagner is a trumpet professor from…”

The General cut him off. “What the hell difference does that make? I want to know what their relationship is. Are you two lovers or something?”

“Or something,” Liz snapped back. “You could say Martin is one of my…mentors. We’ve only known each other a short time, but I believe he could offer…invaluable…advice.” She looked at Martin for support.

“That’s right,” Martin added. “Liz seems to trust that I have something…unique…to offer. I’m not yet sure what that might be, but I believe I somehow need to do whatever I can.”

“So, you’re not lovers, then?”

“Absolutely not!” both retorted in unison, making it look like something was going on, even though they had met only a few hours before.

“Don’t worry, I believe you,” the General winked.

Morris chimed in. “General, we have to move on. You have another meeting in…”

“Goddammit, Morris. You don’t need to remind me of my own goddam schedule. Everyone. Sit down.”

Much like well-trained dogs, everyone, even Liz, sat. It seems there was now more advantage in getting the meeting over with than debating why they were all here or discussing anyone’s love life. The General outlined the problem in some detail, including Dr. Farmen’s remarks about how an artist might be able to control the space plane even though the usual test pilots could not. Martin found the whole project fascinating. He had studied a little physics and engineering in college and maintained a hobby-level interest in both. He was aware of the principles at least, much to Liz’s surprise and pleasure. Physics was her specialty and discovering one more commonality with Martin made her feel better about her mentor’s prophecy and the idea that they were somehow destined to be a team. Martin was surprised how much the General was willing to divulge. He sensed the man was desperate to prove his space plane would work. Otherwise, why would any of them be sitting in this room? This was big, and as much as General Robertson had disclosed, both Liz and Martin perceived there was much more to it than they knew.

“It’s time to see the SP-421,” Morris declared as the General left for another meeting. “Please accompany me.”

“I suppose it’s too late to turn back now,” Martin quipped.

Liz nodded. Morris did not look amused.

The “space plane” was impressive. It was disk-shaped, made of what appeared to be a black carbon nanofiber material, with a parabolically tapered flange. Other than that, there were no “wings” in the conventional sense. The center of the plane arched up to form a domed cockpit that seated two. There was a wide silver-toned band covering both the top and bottom circumference of the aircraft. Overall, it looked more like a flying saucer than a fighter jet. Liz and Martin wondered about its design, but Morris didn’t volunteer any specifics. As they finished walking around the SP-421, all he said was, “It’s time to get some rest. Ms. McCann, breakfast is at 0600. Your training will begin at 0700. Mr. Wagner, you are welcome to accompany Ms. McCann throughout her training. If you follow me, I will take you to your quarters.”

7

Breakfast came early for Martin. Not so much for Liz, who had lived a voluntarily simple monastic life for several months. The two sat next to each other in the cafeteria, across from Morris.

“Please pass me a napkin,” Martin requested.

“What was that?” Liz replied.

“I said, please pass me a napkin.”

“You said, Nap Kin, with equal stress on each syllable.”

“So?”

“I say, nap-kin, with more stress on the first syllable.”

“What do you say, Morris?”

“I’m with Ms. McCann. I say nap-kin,” Morris said reticently.

“Ok. Would one of you please pass me a Nap Kin?”

“Funny. Who taught you to say it that way?” Liz asked.

“Nobody. That’s just how I say it.” Martin seemed a little perturbed.

“Don’t get defensive. It’s just a little unusual, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But I’ve said it that way for as long as I can remember, and this is the first time anyone has made a comment about it.”

“Very interesting,” Morris stated flatly, without resorting to Arte Johnson’s accent. It was unclear whether the man had ever heard of “Laugh-In.”

“Well, I think it’s interesting too,” Liz followed up, handing Martin a napkin.

The rest of their conversation centered on the training schedule, the rules of the base, instructions to the effect of, “when in doubt, stay close to Morris,” and a bit of history on the project. The SP-421 had been in development for over five years and Morris had been on staff from the beginning, serving as General Robertson’s right-hand man. He was cool and aloof but seemed to care deeply about the mission. For that reason, he was OK with Liz and Martin being on board, for now. As Martin’s grandma used to say, “the proof is in the pudding.” Morris would have agreed. He supported this “irregular” choice for much the same reason as the General. Liz McCann might just be their last chance before funding was pulled and the SP-421 was turned into scrap. There was still much to be done.

Liz had played her share of video games, and thanks to AppleSoft, even had the chance to play “flight simulator” virtual reality games. Martin was much less proficient but did his best to follow along. At its core, flying the space plane was more like playing a video game than flying a conventional airplane. The principles were less about lift, drag, airspeed, angle of attack, and so on than up and down, forward and back, left and right. And it became apparent that what the pilot was looking at in her mind’s eye would determine which direction the space plane would go, and how fast. Martin thought about how flying an old-school biplane was often considered an “art.” It seemed to him Dr. Farmen’s point was well made. The SP-421 was not just a “fly-by-wire” commercial jet, or even a computer-assisted tactical fighter. It was something else entirely. No wonder they had so many well-trained pilots fail to fly it. No wonder they were grasping at straws by giving Liz a try. This was extremely dangerous, but she remained committed. Even General Robertson had to admit she showed enormous dedication, on a par with the best test pilots he had known. But he refrained from telling her this. He instead told Morris, who may have told Martin, on the condition that if he ever told Liz, he might have to kill him.

After a couple of weeks, Martin asked Liz about her commitment to the project. “Why are you so determined to see this through?”

“I have faith that you and me, working on this assignment, or whatever this is, are doing something important. That many lives somehow depend on us. That I…we…are here for a reason.”

“I understand. This project we’ve gotten ourselves into is not about duty or loyalty to our country as much as it is about discovery. Not just discovery in terms of learning more, but in terms of seeking what we must become. If the two of us are somehow going to make a difference, the only way to do that is follow our course, what your mentor called our destiny, to the best of our abilities. Yet, I suspect there is more to this exercise than you learning to fly an expensive space plane.”

“So do I. Did you know tomorrow will be my first test as pilot?”

“Morris told me. That will be proof of concept for the General. I think you’re up to it. I may not know much about my own destiny, but I’m confident you have the right stuff.”

“Then you’re more confident than I am.”

“You’ll do fine,” Martin half-effused. He changed the subject. “At least they’re letting me practice – keep my chops up – about a half-hour a day.”

“I heard you. But, tell me, why does that half-hour have to be at 0600?”

“You know the military.”

8

“No pressure, kid,” Martin remarked. “If you fail, tonight we will go back to our drab, paltry, uninteresting, meaningless lives.”

“After signing an NDA.”

“That too. No pressure, though. You’ve got this. I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines.”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about that. It seems they have agreed to let you ride shotgun, as long as you don’t touch anything. Isn’t that great!?”

“Umm…wonderful.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t leave the hangar.”

“It’s a pretty big hangar.”

“Do you have confidence in me or not?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Then don’t be a baby and ride along. I think it will be fun.”

“Fun…OK.”

9

Lalac and Malic were on a standard scouting mission: Survey Earth assets and threats – study potential landing sites and seek inhabitants suitable for possible first contact – evaluation of biological threats to the life forms on Earth. Mission protocols called for environmental suits and class 6 decontamination. No inadvertent direct contact with any life forms.

Lalac and Malic were mates, life-long partners selected for their mutual devotion and complimentary skills. The mission was straightforward. Conduct tests, gather samples, avoid contact with sentient beings. Monitor Earth communications. Report to the mother ship hidden in the asteroid belt. So far, no biological samples showed any indication of potential harm to their species, but their evaluation of potential harm to the inhabitants of Earth was inconclusive. Malic thought it would be best to capture a primate for study, because primates were likely to bear a high degree of genetic similarity to humans.

“You want to bring one on board?” Lalac enquired.

“Yes.” Malic replied.

“It would be several orders of magnitude more difficult – and hazardous – to investigate a living creature rather than a biological sample.”

“Yes. I know. However, capturing a primate will give us the chance to study a lifeform very similar to the dominant species. It would also be better than analyzing cells, enzymes, proteins, and bacteria. We could also gain a few insights into human behavior.”

“I hope you know what you are doing.”

“All we need to do is land in the jungle, here, south of the equator, on that continent.” Malic pointed towards the display. “There are very few humans living in that region, and the primate population is adequate for our purposes. I suggest a young specimen.”

“You seem to have it all planned, Malic. Have you asked for permission to land?”

“I thought you might do that, Lalac. You have been able to convince the Commander on many previous occasions. I believe he likes you.”

“And not you?”

“Not so much.”

“Very well. When you put it that way, how can I say no?”

“Indeed.” Malic smiled at her.

Permission was granted. In less than an Earth hour, the two had secured a young female chimpanzee, over the objections of her family, and were soon back in orbit. They placed the creature in isolation and prepared for their evaluation.

10

“Very good, Morris declared. “You seem to have the manual controls under…umm…control. Are you ready to switch to the Thinking Cap? Remember, if things go south, we can abort from here.”

“Ready,” Liz responded.

“What if I’m not ready?” Martin interjected.

“Oh, come on. Are you serious?”

“Not as serious as you. I just thought one of us should lighten the mood.”

“Consider it lightened,” Liz cut him off.

“Mother, may I switch now?”

With that, Liz switched on the Thinking Cap. There was a momentary shudder as the cap connected her thoughts to the SP-421. The space plane hovered in mid-hangar.

“Good. Now try some short forward and back movements,” Morris tried to curb his enthusiasm.

The craft eased forward towards the west wall and stopped a few feet away.

“Good. Now put it in reverse.”

The space plane rocketed backwards towards the east wall and abruptly halted, just a foot away.

“Please, don’t do that again,” Morris said in a shaky tone, “or I’ll have to abort.”

“Sorry, Captain. I just visualized stopping a foot short of the wall and the Thinking Cap did as I thought.”

The space plane eased back to the center of the hangar and then gracefully shifted left and right. It then bowed to Captain Morris.

The General was pleased. “Well, I’ll be damned. Farmen was right. Young lady, I think we’ll keep the project going a little longer.”

The space plane then executed two promenades around the hangar, first clockwise, then counterclockwise.

“That’s enough for now. Please set her down and come in for a debriefing.”

The SP-421 pirouetted once on its vertical axis and gently set down.

“Show off!” Martin smiled. “I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks. Even if you are here only to encourage me, it would be more than enough. Somehow, I get the feeling that’s not all you are destined to do, though.”

“Either way, I’ve got your back, Starbuck…I mean Liz.”

11

“Malic, she looks extremely frightened. Shouldn’t we do something?”

“You know the protocols, Lalac. No direct contact. We must take one step at a time.”

“But she is shaking. Staring at us as if to say, please help me.”

“Very well. We will allow her to breathe some of the same atmosphere we are breathing and if nothing happens to her…”

“I will go in.” Lalac finished his sentence.

“You always had a soft spot for baby animals.”

The chimp seemed to be doing well after the atmosphere in her enclosure was switched from Earth’s air to the same cabin supply as Lalac and Malic. No harm to them, as predicted. No physical harm the chimpanzee for over an hour. Yet, she continued to show signs of emotional distress. Lalac wanted to go to her. Malic resisted. “Give it another hour.”

“Very well. But then, I’m going in. The little creature must be terrified. No parents. No siblings. In an environment completely unlike her home.”

After two hours, Earth time frame, Lalac opened the enclosure. Surprisingly, the chimp went to her. It was obvious the chimp wanted to be comforted and Lalac was happy to hold her. She calmed and soon fell asleep in Lalac’s arms.

“See, she is fine now. All she needed was a little reassurance.”

“We have something in common, then. I hope it will be my turn to find a little reassurance later.”

“Don’t worry, my love. She has not replaced you in my heart.”

12

“Well, Ms. McCann,” the General began, “I think we should start some tests outside the hangar tomorrow at 0700. Do you feel up to it?”

“Yes, as long as my friend can accompany me,” Liz replied.

“He appears to be your good luck charm. For now, I’ll permit it. If Martin wishes to put himself at risk, who am I to argue?”

Martin chimed in, “I agree to tag along as long as Liz thinks it’s necessary.”

“Morris, Mr. Wagner is to fly with Liz for the time being. However, the moment he gets in the way, he’s grounded. Period. Is that clear to everyone?”

“Crystal,” Morris snapped back.

“OK,” Liz muttered.

“I’ll try to stay out of the way, or make myself useful,” Martin replied as calmly as he could. He really wanted to punch the pompous windbag in the face, but his respect for Liz and growing sympathy for Morris prevented it. It seemed Liz and Martin both had a problem with authority figures, except those who had earned their respect. Both had mentors to whom they believed they owed everything. Neither was a General or even a military man though. It seemed to Martin mentors commanded affection and respect simply by being who they were, leading by example, rather than by demanding or commanding others do as they said. It was a good thing neither Martin or Liz had joined the military. Martin would have lasted less than a week. He would have given Liz less than a day. But here they were, working with the military on the most advanced project either had ever heard of, somehow dependent on each other – were they the textbook definition of an unlikely pair? Likely. Maybe Liz’s mentor was on to something.

0700 usually comes early to musicians and artist-types. Yet, Liz and Martin were uncharacteristically early to rise throughout their adventure so far. Curiosity and the daily anticipation of something new undoubtedly had something to do with it. Both showed up for breakfast at 0545.

“Breakfast is at 0600,” Morris stated.

“Then how come you’re here?” Liz shot back.

“Same reason as you two. I want to see this baby fly in the open. I’ve been waiting for this for five years.”

“And I thought the anticipation was too much after a few weeks,” Martin added. “Morris, “I’m sorry I underestimated you. Thank you for being…you.”

“Now, you’re being sentimental?” Liz smiled.

“Not really. Morris here has been nothing but professional. And all because he’s excited to see this thing fly. He doesn’t show it, but he’s as excited as we are. I’d bet seeing this project through is the only reason he puts up with all the crap from General Robertson.”

At that point, Liz and Morris tried to cut Martin off. “He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?”

“You’re skating on thin ice, Wagner,” the General stated, “But I’m glad you three are getting along. Let’s get some chow and see what SP-421 can do.”

Liz donned the Thinking Cap and strapped in. Martin followed suit, albeit in a helmet with regular comms. After Morris gave the go-ahead, Liz eased the space plane out of the hangar.

“So far, so good.” Morris thought. Martin said it out loud.

“Now, let’s start with forward and back, left and right, up and down. Try to take it easy. Please stay within the width of the runway and keep it to 100 feet off the ground,” Morris directed.

Liz demonstrated her control. No fooling around this time. She understood the General wanted this test to be “by-the-book,” and more importantly, she didn’t want to disappoint Morris, who really wanted to see his baby fly.

Martin was suitably impressed. “Your control has me speechless.”

“Hey, that’s supposed to be my line,” Liz remarked.

Martin blushed under his visor. “Just fly the plane.”

Morris suppressed a laugh. He had heard Liz try to embarrass Martin before, but not on a trial run. If it cut the tension, Morris was OK with it.

Morris cleared his throat, “Let’s just stay on task. Now, Liz, do you feel up to circling the airfield, as we discussed in training?”

“Yes, Sir,” Liz saluted, unseen by Morris, but Martin noticed, much to his amusement.

“OK. You may try when ready.”

Liz executed a circumnavigation of the airfield at an altitude of 100 feet.

“Outstanding!” General Robertson declared. “Have her gain some altitude, say to 15,000 feet, and try again. Tell her to widen the circle by a few miles.”

Morris passed on the request. Liz began to climb. The space plane could fly straight up at the same speed as in level flight. At 15,000 feet she began a wider circle. It was at this point the visions began. Liz saw a series of images. Two pilots. Holding hands. High altitude. Fire. Explosion.

The SP-421 veered downward at a sharp angle.

“Liz! Liz! Liz!” Martin cried out, “Are you alright? What’s happening?”

As quickly as the vision came, it was gone. Liz regained control.

“Sorry. Must have been a glitch in the interface.” Liz replied, shaking off the shock of what she had just “seen.”

Morris chimed in, “Liz. There seems to be about 2.7 seconds unaccounted for in the Thinking Cap data stream. I’m not sure what happened. Please bring the SP-421 back to the hangar and we’ll have a look. You did well. That’s enough for now.”

“We knew there could be unforeseeable issues in the programming of the Thinking Cap,” the General spoke privately to Morris. “Reverse engineering has its challenges. See what you and the tech gurus can find out. Report back to me tomorrow morning. No more trials until we’re certain the kinks are under control. Are we clear.”

“Crystal, Sir. It was good to see her fly, Sir.”

“Yes, Morris. It was.”

When they were alone, Liz told Martin what she had seen. “What do you think it means?”

“I really don’t know. It could be the Thinking Cap is messing with your brain. Shouldn’t you report it to General Robertson?”

“Not yet. It could just be a one-time thing. If it happens again, maybe.”

“No maybes. That glitch could have gotten us both killed. If there are any more, I’m going to report it if you don’t. I’m not willing to die for this project if I can avoid it.”

“I understand.”

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