Harlow Benett’s phone rang and woke him up. Amber sunlight peaked over the horizon, dimly lighting the living room. Heavy half-asleep hands grasped blindly for the source of the noise. Once the phone was in hand, Harlow needed a moment of deep thought to decide whether to answer it or turn it off.
With a long yawn, he answered. Morgan Saddler, his department head, was at the other end of the line. Harlow was on the verge of telling him to call back later, but there was an edge to his friend’s voice that demanded alertness.
“What do you mean you can’t tell me what this is for over the phone?” Said Harlow, furrowing his already creased forehead.
“The only thing I’m allowed to tell you is NASA asked us to wake you up. Well, they asked. The black suit with them didn’t sound like he was asking.”
“You’re playing me. This would’ve been a classic movie intro, but you should’ve said it was the CIA instead of NASA. We’ve been friends for how long? How do you not know the spy movie setup by now?”
Harlow yawned; the other end of the line stayed silent. Morgan kept quiet until Harlow broke the silence again.
“You’re serious.”
“Serious like a heart-attack, Benett. I’ve got a dozen men-in-black taking over the department. Can’t tell you anymore until you get here. Shouldn’t even have told you that.”
Harlow agreed to come, and they exchanged a “see you in a bit.”
Every joint on Harlow’s tall, bony frame creaked as he got up from the sofa he slept on. Silently, he crept towards his bedroom in search of a clean shirt and slacks.
Dressed, he brushed his teeth with one hand and wrote a note for his wife and son with the other. As usual, he didn’t bother doing anything with his greying black hair before leaving.
A short drive later, he pulled into the already busy parking lot alongside a dozen other cars. Harlow recognized many of his colleagues, though only about one in four was from his department.
A line of cookie-cutter federal agents in black suits, black ties, and black sunglasses waited for them at the doors. Harlow’s eyebrows shot up when he noticed, and many of the others did a double-take, stopped mid-step, or took a moment to consider going back to their car.
Before being let in, everyone’s university id was matched to their driver’s license and every other piece identification they happened to have with them at the time. Harlow wasn’t let inside until the man was happy he was the same Harlow Benett who’d worked on an NSA project last year.
The whole process was repeated inside, at the university’s normal security checkpoint, with the added condition that everyone had to leave their cellphones there. This took more time than the first screening as a lot of the gathered professors loudly objected to being patted down.
Harlow and the others couldn’t make their own way in the university after all that. The agents escorted them to an auditorium where fresh pots of coffee and the various department heads waited.
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The ones that knew each other talked—or rather, speculated—about what on Earth they were called here for. Others loudly begrudged the current situation or the hours of sleep they missed.
If NASA needed astrophysicists or engineers from MIT, Harlow was sure they had a direct line to them already. He was a mathematician, though, specialized in cryptography. A specialization he shared with many here.
He thought federal agents were par for the course if you were a cryptographer called in for an urgent matter. Not that it had ever happened to him, but he could dream.
Still, he had worked with the government on occasions and earned a security clearance. If his hadn’t lapsed, that might be what they all had in common.
Two more waves of Harlow’s colleagues entered the auditorium while he was pondering the situation. On their heels followed a balding, bespectacled man with a NASA SETI jacket. He took position at the lectern, adjusted the microphone, and cleared his throat.
“Good morning everyone. I am John Cavanaugh from NASA’s Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence program. You’ve all been gathered here at my and the government of the United States’ request to assist with some sensitive research.”
John paused for water and scratched his thick moustache. “As of 196 hours ago, the Very Large Array Radio Telescope Observatory picked up a repeating tight beam radio transmission aimed at the inner solar system from TRAPPIST-1. The signal repeated 17 times over the course of 26 hours. Automated pattern recognition software flagged it as urgent, and human analysis during the last 185 hours suggests the signal is likely to be artificial in nature.”
“As only some of you are aware, SETI uses the Rio scale to gauge the plausibility and significance of perceived extraterrestrial contact. After consideration, we estimate this event to be an eight out of ten on this scale.”
Murmurs of surprise, disbelief, and the sound of Harlow burning his tongue on his coffee filled the auditorium. He didn’t know the inner workings of the Rio Scale, but Cavanaugh’s level stare made him think eights didn’t happen every day.
“Your group at MIT will work behind closed doors alongside other universities, agencies, and corporations across the country to further confirm the nature of the transmission, identify any intelligent pattern in its make-up, and decrypt its probable contents.”
The gathered professors and engineers exchanged uncertain glances hearing the inflexion the man put on “will”. Harlow knew consent was optional in spy movies, but a brave woman in the front row stood up to ask a question or protest.
“I will not be taking questions at this time,” John stopped her before she could begin. “Anyone who wishes to leave the room now is free to do so. But before anyone leaves, I would like to remind you all of the legal obligations you accepted with your security clearance.”
John motioned to one of the government agents in the room. “The FBI will assist all of us in this endeavour. Due to how sensitive this project is, these brave men and women will provide discreet security assistance. Both on campus and at your homes. This provision also extends to anyone here that does not want to work on this project.”
What a way to phrase that! They would be under surveillance, is what he meant, and they’d spin it as being for their own good.
Harlow knew there was no chance in hell they could stop any information from coming out if anyone here had a mind to share it. But retribution would also be swift and equally inevitable. He didn’t think anything was worth a permanent end to his academic career.
The audience teetered between tight-lipped silence and discontent whispers. John took that as his cue to soften his expression. “Should any of you feel uncomfortable keeping secrets from your loved ones, the Air Force offers facilities for you to work in their Cheyenne Mountain deep-space radar telemetry facilities. To make it clear none of this is an attempt at coercion, the government is extending a pay increase to everyone here for as long as the project lasts. Time-and-a-half for anyone that leaves, double-time for anyone that works here, and triple-time for anyone that moves to Cheyenne.”
Having offered a stick and a carrot, he concluded the presentation. Cavanaugh left in a hurry, surrounded by a security detail.