Impact

93

Hunched against the storm, they made their way to the end of the pier and up the asphalt road leading to the complex of buildings on the crown of the island. The wind howled, lightning flashed, and the thunder mingled with the crashing of surf on the shore to create an continuous roar of sound.

As the road ascended the island, the Earth Station came into full view, occupying the highest ground, a big white geodesic dome rising over a cluster of drab cinder block buildings, with a radio tower and cluster of microwave antennas. Far from being a high-tech wonder, the Earth Station had a sad, neglected air about it, a feeling of desuetude and abandonment. The dome was streaked with damp, the houses shabby, the road potholed and weedy. Once whitewashed, the buildings had been so scoured and battered by storms that they had been partly stripped back to raw concrete. A large Quonset hut, open on one end, was filled with rusting equipment, stacks of I-beams, sand piles, and graying lumber. Below the station, in a protected hollow, stood several houses and what appeared to be a recreation hall. A scattering of gaunt, gnarled spruces--the only trees on the island--surrounded the houses, providing little shelter and less cheer. The rest of the island was barren, covered with grass, scrub, and knobs of glacially polished granite.

The road split and they took the fork leading to the Earth Station. A rusty metal door stood in a concrete entryway, the word trance on it, the first part effaced by weather, and was illuminated by a harsh fluorescent light that cast a pall over the dismal islandscape. Abbey reached out and tried the handle. Locked. She rang a doorbell set into a rusted plate.

Nothing.

She pushed the button harder but heard no ring inside, and finally resorted to knocking. A crackle of static sounded from a rusted grate next to the door, and a tinny voice came out. "What's the matter, Mike, forget your key again?"

Abbey spoke into the grate. "This isn't Mike. We made an emergency landing in your harbor. We need help."

"What? Who's that?"

"WE'VE BEEN SHIPWRECKED," Jackie yelled into the grate, enunciating each word.

"Holy crap." The door opened immediately. A balding, cadaverous man of about fifty stood in the doorway, the sad fringe of hair around his pate tied back in a long, thin ponytail. "Good God! Shipwrecked? Come in, come in!"

They filed into a stuffy annex, grateful for the warmth. An old bulbous television stood in the corner, screen filled with silent snow. On the table were scattered the remains of a midnight snack, candy bar wrappers, several Coke cans, and a coffee mug, along with several well-worn books--Eliot's The Waste Land, Kerouac's On the Road, Joyce's Finnegans Wake.

"Are you all right?" the guard said, staring at them and almost babbling. "Did your boat sink? Sit down, sit down! Can I get you some coffee?"

"We're fine now," said her father, extending his hand. "My name's Straw. Our boat's in the harbor."

"Coffee would be great," said Jackie loudly.

"Right, hey, coming up."

They sat down at the metal table and the man bustled over to a coffeepot warming on a hot plate and poured out coffee, bringing the steaming mugs to the table with jars of cream and sugar. Gratefully, Abbey dumped in huge amounts of cream and sugar, stirred, and drank.

"What the heck were you doing out there in that storm?" asked the man.

"It's a long story," said Abbey's father, stirring his coffee.

"Do you want me to call the Coast Guard?"

"No, we're safe now. Please don't. They wouldn't come out here anyway, until the storm's blown over."

"Of the northeasters I've seen out here," said the fellow, "this is one of the bigger ones--especially for summer. You're damn lucky to be alive."

"Who else is on the island?" her father asked casually.

"There's me and three others--two technicians and a communications specialist. We live in the houses down below."

"With your families?"

"No families out here. We come for a three-month rotation, three on, three off. This is my fourth year. The pay's great and you get a chance to unwind from the world. Read. Think. By the way, name's Fuller. Jordan Fuller." He stuck out a lanky hand and they introduced themselves all around.

Her father nursed his coffee. Rain battered the windows. Even at the top of the island, Abbey could hear the muffled thunder of surf on the rocks below.

"So you're up here in this station all by yourself tonight?" her father asked, stirring.

"No, there's a technician in the station. I'm sort of just security. Dr. Simic's in the station now."

"And when does he get relieved?"

"She. Not til seven."

"We'd like to meet Dr. Simic," Abbey said.

Fuller shook his head. "Sorry. Can't go in there. Off limits."

"Come on," Abbey said, with a laugh. "I've been in there twice before. On school field trips."

"Well, that's different. We get a lot of school groups. But normally no one's allowed in. Door's kept locked at all times."

"But you can open it, right?" her father asked, rising.

"Sure I can. Why do you ask?"

Her father removed the revolver from his pocket and laid it carefully on the table, keeping his hand on it. "Then please do it."