Vengeance from Space and the Texas Tomato

as he tweaked the mouse, his tongue stuck out slightly, he smiled, and i knew he was lost in the thrill of the hunt

The Lighting in the place was barely enough to read the menu by. And in the dim light, Billy's face looked as red and shiny as the red squares on the checkered vinyl tablecloth.

"You know what I'd like to do?"

"I'm not sure I want to."

"I'd like to kill her. Temporary insanity, crime of passion."

"Won't work."

"Why not?"

"You need the setup that would make the jury bow their heads and nod sadly yet approvingly."

"That's real fucking supportive, Mike."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to agree with me, for Christ's sake. Why the hell do you suppose I asked you to meet me?"

"You need a listener and nodder."

"Right."

"How about a pizza? I like mushrooms and green peppers myself, maybe some onions sprinkled on top so they get nice and crispy."

Billy glared at me, the whites of his eyes pinkish like the white squares on the checkered tablecloth.

The waitress had on a frilly white apron over her uniform, which was--right--red and white checkered. She was younger than either of us and she spoke competently, even literately, despite her cute Texas drawl. I figured she was a student at the university here in Boulder, working the pizza job for pin money while Big Pa and Big Ma back in Texas provided the major funds. Maybe she was an English major, a future journalist, linguist, major novelist. I couldn't help thinking of the term student body because she was pleasantly plump and, under better circumstances than these, might have proven quite cuddly. I ordered a medium mushroom, green pepper and onion, with a Bud for me and an orange soda for Billy. Before she trotted off, I noticed a large tomato-sauce stain on her apron, its location and shape enough to suggest a few addenda to Rorschach's famous test.

"Aren't you going to ask how I know about Sally?" asked Billy after she had gone.

My thoughts were still on the tomato stain and the Rorschach test. The first thought that came to mind was an image of me and the waitress snuggling beneath the stars. The second thought was the fact that Billy manipulated satellites for the National Weather Service for a living. I put thought one and thought two together and took a guess.

"You monitored Sally by satellite?"

Billy's eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, opened very wide and he sat back stiffly in his chair. He glanced around at the empty tables surrounding us. He jumped up and scurried to the jukebox next to the kitchen door, started punching in selections like Woody Woodpecker--they had to be random. When he came back to the table, he leaned forward, almost in my face, till a rap tune began. For a few seconds I listened for dirty words, the way I used to underline passages in The Tropic of Cancer when I was a kid. Then Billy began telling his tale, his eyes blinking at every third beat of the rap.

"Look, I take care of the old West Central weather satellite--that's Billy's bird, right? So sometimes I get bored, right? I mean, everybody does at their jobs, don't they? My job is basically making sure the bird is in tune so the weather men and ladies get all those color-enhanced signals. That's about it, you follow?

"So there I am one day, about a month back, puttering with polarization and skew and a new encryption code on the scrambler, when all of a sudden I'm seeing images I shouldn't be seeing. I'm seeing the damn Denver Mint and the zoo and Mile High Stadium. First, I think the bird is falling out of orbit. Except when I check the specs more closely, I realize I'm not looking at my Billy bird at all. I'm picking up--had to be picking up--signals from another satellite, something parked right next door. I mean, like within a couple thousand miles of my bird.

"So I'm looking at all this stuff, just watching, and then I realize I've tapped into a military spy satellite--those birds are the only ones with the capability. I mean, pretty soon the thing is picking out people on the street. Jesus, I could see a bald spot on a guy's head and I'm thinking this is like birds they had parked over Iraq. Then here, right here in goddamn Boulder, me and whoever's controlling this thing zero in on a campus chick sunning herself on the field between Baker Hall and Cheyenne Arapaho Hall. She's rolled up her blouse and we check out her navel for a while. Man, from twenty thousand miles up. A navel, for Christ's sake."

The rap tune ended on the jukebox and Billy stopped short, glancing conspiratorially over his shoulder. The next selection was a Benny Goodman tune, the big band supporting Benny's licorice stick like players carrying the winning coach off the field. Eclectic jukebox. Those had been random selections, for sure.

"And then," continued Billy, beady-eyed behind his glasses as Benny hit a high note, "I felt the old hacker thrill. It was wild, Mike. It took two weeks of watching and trying things. But finally, I gave the bird a little tweak. Not enough so they'd know I was there. To them it would have been an aberration, noise or something. I did it while they--we--were looking right through the roof of someone's house with a hell of a powerful heat sensor turned on. A guy was in the shower playing with himself. I felt sorry as hell for him because of this breach of privacy. I kept wishing he'd turn up the hot water so the heat would obscure the image. But he didn't, and finally I panned his image off screen at the crucial moment. Man, I bet I knocked the popcorn off the laps of those military boys. I was so excited I had to tell someone. I thought I'd tell Sally. Only that night, she came in late, turned her back to me in bed and wore the baggy old sweat suit she usually saves for her period--only her period wasn't due for two weeks. So I figured it wasn't the right time to tell her about tying into a spy bird.

"So here's what I did. The next day, when the bird was just sitting on a panorama shot of Boulder, I grabbed it. I zoomed in on Sally's little red Mazda and panned along with it right up into the mountains. But then I lost her on a winding road because I goofed a little on the bird's controls.

"But I've been practicing whenever I get a chance. And I've been very careful. What those military bastards don't realize is that I've figured out the mathematical iteration for their descrambler code. Every time they change the code, I just run their iteration on my computer to get the new code. And so, this coming Wednesday--Sally's day off--I'm going to follow her again. Because guess what I discovered tucked in with the Mazda's space-saver spare tire?"

"You found a sexy, transparent baby-doll nightie."

"You know everything, don't you?" Billy stared at me with a kind of insane snarl. "You wouldn't happen to be off next Wednesday, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't happen to be off next Wednesday. Jesus, Billy, am I supposed to believe any of this?"

The waitress brought the pizza. She smiled, asked if we wanted anything else. I wanted to request that she take off her clothes so I could see her naked. I stifled the request. When she was gone, I looked at Billy, who was already munching on a slice. I raised my Bud to him and repeated my question.

"Well, am I supposed to believe you or has this been an elaborate joke?"

Billy answered with his mouth full, the steam from hot pizza curling up over his lip. "Ith twue, Bike, ebery word ob it."

•

The following Thursday, Billy and I met again for a Bud, orange soda and pizza. This time the first selection on the jukebox was a ditty by Conway Twitty for the country-and-western crowd--two couples at a table against the wall. The gents' cowboy hats hung side by side on upthrust wooden pegs formed from split tree branches. These quasi-natural hat pegs, along with the checkered tablecloth on their table and the ladies' hoedown dresses, added to the country decor.

When Billy and I ordered our pizza, I asked my favorite cuddly waitress, from Texas why students didn't frequent the place, it being right on campus and all, y'all. Her answer to this was a shrug of her well-formed, thoroughly graspable shoulders--I imagined running her down and calf-tying her--along with a smile that I could assume was only for me and me alone. She wore a clean apron, no tomato-sauce stain, but that didn't stop me from thinking about sex, especially as I watched her walk to the kitchen and bump the swinging door open with her hip, practically knocking the door off its hinges.

"The bitch."

"What?"

"The bitch is seeing somebody. He has a red car, too. They meet in a cabin in Big Thompson Canyon. I couldn't figure out how to get the heat sensor turned on. But I damn well will. I think I'm going crazy, Mike."

The Conway Twitty song ended and now Muddy Waters bemoaned his fate. Billy, who had gone silent between songs, said, "Look, Mike. If you don't believe me, I'll prove it to you next Wednesday."

"How?" (continued on page 138)Vengeance(continued from page 126)

"You'll take a long lunch, come over to my office and see for yourself."

"But what about everyone at the office?"

"They'll all be out to lunch. Marsha's leaving to have her baby."

"Did you sign the card and contribute toward the gift?"

"Yes, I signed the card and contributed toward the gift. What do you think 1 am, an ogre?"

After the pizza came, I made sure I got the piece that the waitress' thumb accidentally touched when the pizza slipped off the hot pad. She placed the pizza on the table, saying, "You watch yourselves now because it's plenty hot," in her beautiful Texas drawl.

"I'm in love," I said.

"Yeah," said Billy, already chewing. "Ith good."

Before we left the pizza place, I agreed to take a long lunch and go to Billy's office the following Wednesday. The reason for my agreement was twofold. First, I wanted to get Billy off my back so I could arrive at the pizza place alone for a change, preferably near closing time, when I'd make my move and perhaps do-si-do a little and see how high a checkered skirt could fly. Second, I really did want to see if Billy was bullshitting me or not.

•

Despite its being small, Billy's office was crowded with equipment--three computer terminals, an impact printer, a laser printer, a fax machine, a light table with transparent weather charts strewn about. On the wall there were more weather charts, a map of the United States, photographs of satellites and satellite dishes and one photograph of a blonde dish wearing a two-piece black bathing suit. She was quite good-looking despite her shoulders being rather narrow and her arms and legs a bit too thin for my tastes, which, in my recent dreams, had taken on all manner of rodeo events requiring strength and fortitude. But Sally wasn't bad, though she looked, oh, I don't know, a little too grown-up for Billy.

Here in his office, among all the expensive equipment, Billy reminded me of a kid playing Nintendo. He even wore his Broncos cap turned backward.

He and I sat side by side in our chairs, our hips bumping when Billy reached for a notebook, his elbow touching mine when he pushed keys on the keyboard of the terminal with the largest screen.

"Before we get started," said Billy, our hips bumping again, "I want you to know that Sally's been wearing her baggy sweat suit to bed every night since this started."

"You mean----"

"Don't say it. Bad luck." He knocked on the side panel of the fiberboard stand on which the terminal rested.

"OK. I'm strictly an observer."

"I think I've figured out the heat sensor."

"You mean the thing that looked right through the roof at the guy in the shower?"

"Right. We've got excellent capability, you know. So if we should see something, I want you to take my feelings into consideration."

"I'll be kind."

"Good," said Billy, turning to the keyboard, his elbow banging my forearm.

And so I watched without speaking, not so much because I'd promised to be silent and kind, but because I was too flabbergasted to speak.

The first thing I saw was a full-color overhead view to the northwest of Boulder. I recognized Estes Park immediately because of the junctions of Routes 36 and 34 and the beginning of Trail Ridge Road snaking up the mountain. The next thing I saw was the view zooming in as if it were a camera mounted in the nose of a supersonic fighter following the road. Billy kept pressing keys with his left hand and tweaking the mouse next to the keyboard with his right hand. The scene flew north along Route 36, zigging and zagging but skipping over hairpins that filled the screen. After a while I saw a red car flash past and Billy went back to it, then followed it.

I glanced at Billy's face while he followed the Mazda. He looked 12 years old. As he tweaked the mouse, his tongue stuck out slightly. He smiled, and I knew he was lost in the thrill of the hunt.

Ten minutes later, heading east down the canyon on Route 34, the Mazda pulled off and parked behind a small cabin next to a red Mercedes. This seemed appropriate.

The image on the screen grew as Billy zoomed in and I saw Sally get out of her Mazda and walk to the cabin. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater that contrasted nicely with her blonde hair. She looked entirely adult. Adult as in adultery. Before she entered the cabin, she leaned to one side and gave a cute little wave, apparently to somebody watching at the window. Then she disappeared inside.

"Now we've got them," said Billy, leering as he leaned close to the screen.

He pushed a series of keys and the roof of the cabin coalesced into a fabric of multiple hues of color--green, yellow, orange--like the fast-forward development of a storm system on weather radar. At first the image was fuzzy, and I imagined a shapely weather lady pointing to the multicolored blob and saying, "This is just ground clutter, but look here, north of the city." But soon, within the blob, I began to recognize the multicolored figures moving from one side of the cabin to the other. Although distorted by the infrared imaging, I could see a man and woman removing clothing, embracing, moving a few steps while removing more clothing, embracing again. Then they were horizontal--I assumed on a bed--and he was atop her, then she atop him. For a moment, due to a trick in the imaging, I thought they might be on separate levels of a bunk bed, but I realized that, because of the rhythmic movements critical to our species, they were not. Eventually, amid the tangle of weird-colored arms and legs--the colors were becoming noticeably brighter, I assumed, from the increased temperatures of their bodies--I lost track of who was who except when I saw their faces, which were surprisingly recognizable.

"They don't waste a minute, do they?" said Billy. "Good thing it's not winter or the fire in the wood stove might have obscured our little dog-and-pony show."

"We don't have to watch anymore," I said.

"Why not?" said Billy, sounding like a mad scientist. "Here, let's try this and this." He pushed keys madly. "Let's see what else we can see!"

The image shook, backed up, shook again. One moment I could see the cabin, the next moment it was a dot next to the river within the walls of the canyon, and in another moment I could see the entire canyon and Estes Park and Loveland. The image froze there, and suddenly a very technical-looking overlay was superimposed. The overlay consisted of maplike scale markers and a series of numbers in the left corner counting down rapidly. A set of subdivided cross hairs appeared suddenly in the middle of the screen directly over the spot in Big Thompson Canyon where the cabin was situated. (continued on page 144)Vengeance(continued from page 138)

Then, off to one side, I saw something else, a blurry fluttering of something white hot that seemed to be moving away from the satellite like----

"My God," said Billy.

"What?"

"Lord God in heaven."

"This is a game, right?"

"Yes," said Billy, glaring intently at the screen. "It's a very serious game and I've just made an irrevocable move."

As we sat close to each other watching the white-hot fluttering thing shrink in size and center itself slowly on the screen, I think I remember asking Billy inane questions like, did he think it might be some kind of high-powered military simulation? And if it really was a missile, couldn't he steer it off course? Or blow it up? And did he think he might have pushed the wrong button? His only reaction to my garbled questions was to shake his head no while alternately frowning and grinning insanely. Then he said "missile" a few times, followed by "smart missile, very smart." After that he said "God help Sally" over and over, so I could only assume he hadn't done it on purpose, that there was definitely a button or series of buttons to avoid pushing when communicating with this satellite.

I don't remember if either of us said anything more during the rest of the lunch hour as the missile, seemingly in slow motion because of its twenty-thousand-mile journey, homed in on its target, resulting finally, after just over an hour, in what looked like a relatively small explosion in the canyon. Of course, this was relative, because at the time of the explosion, our view was akin to that seen from a jet flying at maximum altitude. If our view had been closer, we might have seen a color-enhanced image of Sally and the driver of the red Mercedes turned momentarily into tomato sauce. It made me think of the images of smart missiles hitting Iraqi targets during the air war, and I wondered why they hadn't used this satellite thing on old Saddam.

After the explosion, Billy switched off the computer and turned to me, hips, then knees bumping. Although there were tears streaming down his cheeks, the expression on his face reminded me of the look on Dr. Frankenstein's face when he first saw the movement of his monster's fingers. He reached out for me. I tried to back up but could not. He grasped my shoulders and shook me.

"Never, never, never!"

"Never what?"

"Never speak of this! Ever! Never see me again! We were friends in school but lost touch. Say it. Say it!"

"We were friends in school but lost touch," I whined.

He shook me more violently. "What did we see?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

•

That night in bed, after watching the evening news, I recalled the sound of Billy whimpering as I walked quickly down the hallway from his office. Luckily for me, the lunch for pregnant Marsha lasted long enough for me to make my escape without being seen. As I drove away, two identical black sedans passed me at high speed and turned into the parking lot I'd just left. I know now that they did not contain members of Marsha's going-away party returning to work hurriedly because they were late.

On the news, which, if I had a tail, would have sent me to bed with it between my legs, two stories--the details of which were delayed in typical teasing fashion to keep viewers tuned in to the bitter end--caught my interest. The first was the coverage of a so-called propane-tank explosion that triggered a massive rock slide in Big Thompson Canyon and resulted in several missing persons. The other story involved a single missing person, this one a National Weather Service employee who had disappeared from his office, leaving only a despondent note typed on his computer screen. Although the police spokesman would not reveal the exact content of the note, he did say it hinted at suicide and that a car matching the description of the employee's car was seen speeding from the Weather Service's parking lot, then was seen again a short time before the explosion, this time speeding north toward Estes Park. When a group of reporters screamed questions as to whether or not this person might have had something to do with the propane explosion, the spokesman said he had no further information. But I knew this was false information to make it appear that Billy had also died in the explosion, a red herring planted by the military or the CIA or whatever got its cross hairs on Billy's office.

At the start of the weather forecast, which by clever news editing followed the story of Billy's disappearance, the weather lady smiled wryly and commented that she hoped she would get the forecast correct, especially that night. The weather lady had thin arms and legs, but she had sufficient bosom and her shoulders reminded me of the Texas waitress at the pizza place. This thought, held tightly, allowed me to stop the trembling that had racked me that entire afternoon and evening.

•

Her name is Wanda and she's working on her master's degree in linguistics. I guess the cowboy hat I've taken to wearing impressed her when I first lassoed her outside the pizza place because we've been seeing each other for over a week. Last night in bed, I asked her if anyone had been to the pizza place asking about the guy I was with the first couple of times she saw me. She said no and agreed not to tell anyone she saw me with him after I told her I suspected him of being a spy and a New Englander who was always saying nasty things about Texas and Texans.

Wanda's a good kid. Last night at my place, when I brought the cowboy hats to bed and insisted we put them on, she didn't ask about my heating them in the oven or about my claim that wearing warm cowboy hats while making love to the most beautiful Texas gal in the world has been a fetish of mine since I was a tot. I figured the heated cowboy hats would at least obscure our faces and protect our identities from spying eyes. Doing it with hats on was kind of nice, though; especially when Wanda pushed hers back on her pretty head and said, "Mikey, honey."

"Yes, my lovely tomato."

"Shall we cuddle again?"

"Yippee-yi-oh-ki-yay!"

It drives me crazy. She kisses my chest in a checkerboard pattern--left to right, top to bottom--until I think I'll explode.

"She was wearing jeans and a black sweater. She looked entirely adult. Adult as in adultery."