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pocket of fertile soil. Where chaparral grasses grew tall, white butterflies flitted about, seeking weeds and thistles that hadn't yet died in the summer dryness. The sedan bounced up and down on the rutted road, tossing Freeth against his seat belt. Devlin had driven this route enough times to know how fast he could go without jarring the rearview mirror loose.
    “We were very careful with that dissection video,” the UFO expert said, his teeth chattering together in the rough ride. “We knew people would look for any flaw, and so we took the greatest care to analyze the footage. We made sure there was a clock on the wall at all times. The camera ran continuously, the doctors moved about but never blocked any key view. Special effects experts from Hollywood were convinced it couldn't possibly have been faked.” He looked smug. “Computer analysis studied the film grain, searching for discrepancies. There were none.”
    “As a person would expect,” Devlin said, “if it was real. You convinced Dr. Cynthia Tyler in our project. That's why you're here.”
    Freeth responded as if Devlin had inserted a quarter into a machine. “Still, some people will always be skeptical. They want to lose their sense of wonder. They don't believe in the marvels of the universe.”
    Freeth was accustomed to getting laughed at, to being the butt of jokes. His voice took on a different tone now, as if hoping he'd found an ally in Devlin. “Has our society become so cynical that it's a joke to believe in something? Should a person be ashamed because he trusts in the inexplicable? Say, how is that different from the religious faith that churches have been spouting for two thousand years? Should we accept only what the government tells us to?”
    Freeth took out a comb and reflexively stroked his dishwater-brown hair back into place. “I pity people who can't see wonder in the world, people who've become so cynical that their lives are all dull and clear-cut.”
    Devlin came around the last blind curve between tall pines to a sheer granite face and a fenced-in compound. “Ah, here we are. Welcome to Project Proteus.”
    Chain-link fences and high shrubbery surrounded the unmarked facility, tall transmitting towers, and satellite dishes. Guards stood at the entrance. Devlin brought the sedan to a halt in front of the gate and looked at the intense man in the passenger seat.
    “Mr. Freeth, you are in for a treat.”
    Chapter 5
    Thursday, 10:10 a.m.
    It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and no one was going to take it from her.
    Dr. Cynthia Tyler stood in the sealed containment room, surrounded by every piece of nondestructive scanning equipment available to Proteus scientists. She leaned over the weirdly beautiful alien lifepod, feeling like the child who had the largest present under the Christmas tree.
    The extraterrestrial specimen took her breath away.
    Proteus technicians, wearing full anti-contamination gear like herself, used delicate instruments to clean and analyze the pod. Every step of the process was photographed and videotaped, so that the detailed records could be studied later. And in case anything went wrong.
    Though the sealed container had been hosed off before it was crated and shipped to the United States, globs of Caucasus mud remained caked within the convoluted hieroglyphics. Metallic lines laced the shell like a complex circuit diagram, or blood vessels.
    She still hadn't been able to determine if the specimen inside was even alive.
    Behind her helmet faceplate, Dr. Tyler had high cheekbones and a narrow chin. Her shoulder-length blond hair was kinked and frizzed, because a perm required minimal maintenance. Her deep brown eyes and dark eyebrows led some to infer that she bleached her hair—a false impression, since Cynthia Tyler had no time for such things, and certainly no vanity toward her appearance. She was proud of other things about herself, had never wanted to do the Michelangelo routine on her face and