Red Dot: Contact. Will the gravest threat come from closer to home than we expect? Read Online Free PDF Page A

destruction from the red dots resulted in a spike in fear.
    Claire picked up her suitcase at the semi-deserted baggage claim area. She soon found that phones were still jammed, and email service patchy. Getting a rental car to go to Denver One, a NASA annex in northern Washington, D.C. used by the Space Policy Team, was out of the question, as the rental offices were locked and abandoned. Claire wandered back to the greeting lounge, where she saw a short, muscular young man in an ill-fitting suit holding a sign with her name on it.
    “I’m Claire Montague,” she said.
    The man looked at her and at the picture he held in his right hand. “Please show me your government ID,” he said. After checking the ID, he said, “I’ve been approached by a dozen Claire Montagues looking for a ride, and a couple were men.” After showing Claire his own ID, he led her to the parking lot to drive her to Denver One.
    “What’s the latest on those red dots?” she asked as they walked.
    “Sorry, I can’t discuss that in a non-secure area,” he said, ducking into the car and starting the engine.
    Geez
, thought Claire.
We’re alone in a government car. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll tell on him if he says something
.
    She looked out the window as they passed long stretches of empty streets, punctuated by areas of traffic jams with occasional frantic looting, rioting, or burning buildings or cars. At some sites, police cars, ambulances, or fire engines added to the scenes of chaos with flashing lights and wailing sirens.
    About half way through the ride, Claire sat up and said out loud, “Oh.”
The dots are messages
, she realized. They’d thought maybe the aliens didn’t respond to Earth’s messages because it was a robot spacecraft.
But what the hell are they trying to tell us? What are these red dots?
Ignoring the occasional scenes of desolation that slid by, she mulled over the possibilities with growing excitement. Surely the elite team at Denver One had picked up some clues.
    Denver One turned out to be a run-of-the-mill government building—rows of depressing cubicles interspersed with more spacious but equally sterile conference rooms. One difference was the presence of a wide array of the latest in computer and telecommunication equipment. The first thing Claire noted was that the lobby, the largest open space, had been taken over as an operations center. People stared intently at monitors or hurried around with papers in hand, paying no attention to Claire or other newcomers.
    Then Claire turned with disbelief to the back of the room on her left. There, like a relic left by a long-ago tenant or as proof scientists had a sense of humor, stood and old-fashioned portable chalk board with a well-worn wooden frame. A long-haired man sitting nearby, in front of a TV, put down his earphones, walked up to the board, and quickly wrote a number with a piece of chalk. Pale, white patches on the board showed where information had been erased and updated.
    “Claire,” called out a smiling, middle-aged man. “Welcome to our 19 th -century alien tracking center,” he said, with a sweeping gesture of his left arm to show her the blackboard.
    Claire walked up and hugged the man—Blake Ochoa, one of her bosses from her days at NASA headquarters, now the Denver One director. He was a bit more bald and heavy, but still chronically cheerful.
    Blake was originally drawn to Claire by professional respect. Her PhD dissertation at the California Institute of Technology on neutrino astronomy was frequently cited in scholarly papers on the search for dark matter—the elusive material thought to make up most matter in the universe.
    But Claire had decided to forego a promising career in research to expand her horizons. First she’d served in NASA’s Chief of Staff’s office, impressing Washington, D.C., headquarters executives—including Blake—with herproblem-solving and leadership abilities. She then worked as a senior research analyst