For long minutes they inspected the invertebrate life which clung to the outer pilings, watched only by the fog and the dead alien. Above them, finches slept. For them, nocturnal visitors were an every day occurrence.
“If it wasn’t for you, Caroline, I don’t think I could’ve made it this far.”
“Now don’t go using me for an excuse.” The fog softened her face, giving her the pasteurized patina of a teenager. “You did it yourself. If I hadn’t helped you, someone else would have. You’re just a likable sort of guy, Ross Ed.” She nodded at his extraterrestrial burden. “Where do you think Jed’s going to end up? With the government, a foreign power, in private hands, on national television, or what?”
“I’m not sure,” he told her honestly. “All I know for certain is that I don’t want somebody else telling me what to do. That’s how I’ve run my whole life. Maybe for the worse, but it’s who I am. Whatever happens to Jed, I want to be the one to decide it.”
“He’s glowing again,” she informed him.
Sure enough, a glance over his shoulder revealed that a cool, sofl pink light was emanating from the suit. Ross frowned. “I don’t get it. We’re not being threatened.”
“Feel anything? Maybe it’s overheating.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t feel any different. If it’s putting out any heat it’s not noticeable.”
“Damn, and I was starting to get cold.”
He extended a long arm. “Then you’d better get a little closer.”
“Closer than this?” She moved nearer, teasing.
“As close as you can.” He grinned back. “You don’t want to get chilled out here.” His arm wrapped around her.
Illuminated by Jed light, they searched the fog for passing ships. Some were out there, as evidenced by the occasional querulous blatt of a foghom, but the mist was too thick to see through.
“You sang for that club crowd.” she remarked softly. “How about you sing something for me, Ross Ed Hager?”
He pondered the couple of ballads he knew reasonably well, finally selecting the one he thought most appropriate to the situation and surroundings. Hesitant yet resonant, his voice drifted out into the fog.
Not too bad, he told himself. His audience might be small, but it was appreciative.
It soon grew larger.
The eerie, wavering reply which boomed out of the mist stalled him. “What the hell is that?”
Caroline’s eyes were wide. “Keep singing. I think you’ve got an audience. A big audience.”
She was right. There were only three of them, but together they unarguably constituted a big audience. Whales were common along the coast of California that time of year, migrating from the Gulf of Alaska south to Mexico and the Galapagos. Usually they were grays, but occasionally they were joined by some of their larger cetacean cousins.
The trio of humpbacks that clustered around the end of the pier had just enough water under them to support their massive bodies. Keeping time in its haunting falsetto with Ross Ed’s country-western lament, one immense female rolled over on her side and waved lazily with a flipper that towered over the wooden cupola. This whale-lice-encrusted metronome gleamed whitely in the light from Jed’s suit.
Between vocalizations the humpbacks exhaled in powerful whooshes, reminding Ross of pistons at work on a rig. He wanted to stop and just listen to their haunting whoops and hollers, but Caroline urged him to continue. So he did so, even though he knew it was the alien suit and not his singing which was most likely responsible for drawing the congenial leviathans up from the deeps.
Not only were they louder than he, they could carry a tune better, too. What old Preacher Williams wouldn’t have given, he thought, remembering his Sunday-school days, to have had them in his choir.
Damned if they didn’t applaud, too, those great flippers smacking together wetly when he finished the song. Suitably inspired, he chose another and started in, his voice carrying out over the water. One cow decided to show her gratitude by
rubbing up against the pier, her fifty-ton bulk causing the sturdy structure to groan momentarily. Jed’s suit was now blazing orange and pulsing in time to the music.
Two ballads later Ross Ed decided he’d had enough. When the whales realized that the improbable, improvised quartet had sung its last, they breached simultaneously while emitting a final, farewell wail. Falling back, they sent water cascading over the railing. Only by turning and retreating rapidly to the far side of the cupola did Ross Ed and Caroline manage to avoid a soaking.
Together they stared into the fog until the rhythmic moaning frayed to a final pianissimo. The last, lingering chords gave Ross Ed a start of recognition.
“Hey, that’s Patsy Cline. I didn’t sing any Patsy Cline.”
“Maybe they picked it up from a passing boat.”
“You reckon? I’d heard that some whales sing, but I didn’t know they could mimic human songs.”
“Mimic? I’d say that was an improvement.”
He threw her a sharp look. “You can’t improve on Patsy Cline.”
The orange refulgence was fading from Jed’s suit. “Maybe we should go back. Tealeaf’s liable to panic when she finds her car home but not her guests. We don’t want her putting out an all-points on us.” She hugged herself tightly. “Besides, it’s getting kind of chilly.”
It wasn’t the chill, he knew. It was the damp; little fingers of ocean that snuck slyly up your pant legs and down your back, working their way into your muscles. Putting his left arm around her shoulders and hefting Jed in the other, he turned to go.
However, despite the lateness of the hour, the fog, and the rising dank, they were no longer alone on the pier. Not was the couple waiting to greet them spooning teenagers or retired celebrities out for their evening constitutional.
“Hello, Mr. Hager.”
It was the quiet-voiced but determined army captain from El Paso. Flanking him was the lady officer Ross Ed had first encountered at the roadblocked New Mexico rest stop. They wore uniforms this time. When a third figure stepped out from behind a tall piling, Ross recognized their lanky companion. He held what looked like a fishing pole. Closer inspection, surprisingly, confirmed it.
They didn’t appear to be armed. Captain Suttles spoke softly, casually, as though relating an ordinary day’s happenings. “You ran us quite a race, Ross Ed, but even the fleetest deer leaves a trail. For example, we ran into some of your saucer people in New Mexico.”
“They’re not my saucer people,” Ross protested.
Suttles chuckled. ‘key think otherwise. They feel they have a proprietary interest in you. We enlightened them, of course. We didn’t believe everything they told us, but there was enough to more than whet our interest. Especially after what your dead friend, or your dead friend’s defense mechanisms, did to us south of Safford.
