Fade Out by Patrick Tilley Page A

shorter than the President, one of the other things that had put Connors ahead was his ability to speak fluent Russian.
    After a stint at UCLA, he had continued his Russian studies at Harvard where he’d collected As in everything except popularity. A year’s postgraduate work at Oxford University had been followed by another living with a White Russian
émigré
family in Paris. His European stay had been followed by a five-month affair with a ballerina who had defected from Leningrad’s Kirov Company during a tour of the USA. While this last stormy period of tuition had put the final gloss on his Russian, it had done absolutely nothing for his marriage.
    Connors monitored the Moscow translation of what the Soviet Premier had to say and relayed the President’s reply in Russian. All in all, Moscow was on the line for about twenty-five minutes. It wasn’t the bad news Connors had half-expected to hear, but it wasn’t good news either. It left him with a momentary feeling of helplessness.
    Connors put down the extension as the President hung up. They looked at one another thoughtfully, then the President closed his eyes and again massaged the bridge of his nose. With his eyes still shut, he said, ‘Who do you think we ought to bring in on this?’
    Connors tried to collect his thoughts. ‘Ah, hell, uh – right now, I’d say as few people as possible. Otherwise it could get out of control.’
    â€˜Yeah… ’
    It was an interesting situation, thought Connors. After all the arguments, he and Fraser had both been right – but in a way neither of them could possibly have expected.
    â€˜I think we’ll have to tell all those guys in the other room.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Connors. ‘I think you will.’
    The President squared himself up in his chair. ‘Okay, wheel them in.’
    McKenna was the last one through the door. As he shut it behind him, the President said, ‘Maybe you’d all better sit down.’
    Clayson, Fraser, Samuels, and Wedderkind each took the nearest chair. McKenna chose one end of the wide ledge of the window facing the sea. Connors took the other corner. As he settled back against the glass, he caught Fraser looking at him warily.
    â€˜The talk I’ve had with my friend in Moscow,’ said the President, ‘and the unequivocal nature of the reassurances I have received make it quite clear that our preliminary conclusions about this spacecraft are based on a fundamental error.’
    â€˜You mean it’s not a weapons system?’ Fraser sounded disappointed.
    â€˜I mean it’s not Russian.’
    The reaction, predictably, was one of stunned disbelief.
    â€˜Or anyone else we know.’
    â€˜You mean,’ said Clayson, ‘it’s –?’
    Extraterrestrial. The thought exploded like a star-shell inside Wedderkind’s brain. Sentient life, perhaps. Some kind of artefact, at least. From another planet. Another solar system. Maybe even from another galaxy. Here. Overhead. Within his own lifetime. It was…
    Fraser looked at the President. ‘Do you think they’re telling us the truth this time?’
    â€˜What would be the point of lying to us about a thing like this, Mel? They know we’re going to check it out. Ididn’t call you in here to feed you some Russian fairy tale.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ said Fraser. ‘It’s just that this is one hell of an idea to have to take on board.’
    â€˜You can say that again,’ said Clayson.
    â€˜I know,’ said the President. ‘I’m still having trouble believing it myself. What do you think, Mack?’
    McKenna raised his eyebrows. ‘It had to happen sooner or later. But even so, it’s – ’
    â€˜Fantastic,’ said Wedderkind. ‘This could change our whole concept of Man, his origins, his place in the universe – everything.’
    â€˜Yes – well,