The last hour of the trip back to Vegas gave Brad a
splitting headache. It wasn't the drive that bothered him,
though the shimmy that the front end had developed was
rather annoying. What bothered him was the entire
situation. If Major Dandridge was in security, as Mrs.
Gatewood had said, why would he have gotten Brad's call when
all he was looking for was information about Sgt. Gatewood's
service record? If there were no aliens, why had Dandridge
lied? Why did the armored car fire on him, if all they were
trying to do was catch him for trespassing? And above all,
why hadn't the second armored car stayed at the gate and
waited for the first one to chase him to it?
The bomb range covered hundreds of square miles. Once
Brad gave it a second thought, he realized how absurd it was
of him to think the compound would have been on the road.
Since the road seemed to split the range in half from
northeast to southwest, and Sgt. Gatewood had said the
compound was near Alamo, it would be a logical conclusion
that it was on the north side of the road. If that were
true, it would further explain why the armored car had left
the gate after swinging it shut behind Brad. They might
have suspected that anyone trespassing was heading for the
compound, and moved to the north to protect it.
Somehow, Brad had to find out for sure. The thought of
hiring a plane to fly over the area was out of the question.
Since it was an Air Force base, it was safe to assume that
it was watched by radar, in order to keep track of the
fighters and bombers that practiced in the airspace. Add to
that the fact that the armored cars had been willing to fire
warning shots to stop him, and the thought that the planes
in the area were armed, it quickly became apparent that
flying in would be suicide.
Of course, the military spends billions each year
defeating the same problem with the spy satellites that Sgt.
Gateway had worked with. Brad had heard of a company in Los
Angeles that would use their geological satellite to snap a
picture of anywhere in the world, as long you were willing
to pay for it. At several thousand dollars a shot, there'd
be little chance of the paper financing it. Even if he did
get a picture of what appeared to be a manned compound in
the middle of the Nellis Bomb Range, it would hardly be
sufficient evidence to expose the obvious cover-up.
He might stand a chance if he went cross-country with a
four-by-four truck or jeep, but if one of the planes caught
sight of him and got word to the armored cars, he'd be in
the same situation that he'd just narrowly escaped. Even if
he hiked in on foot, he had no way of finding his way around
the desert. He wouldn't even know what he was looking for.
Furthermore, what if he did find the compound? Even if he
was able to get a photograph of an alien, the newspaper
might not print it. The only way he could make the story
work was by making contact with an alien, but there was no
chance of that without finding the compound.
Or was there...
Something clicked in the back of his mind when Brad saw
the small sign off the side of the road. It was about the
size of the average real estate sign, and was planted in
front of a small, white house. The building and grounds
were not special and there was nothing other than the sign
to single it out from the homes that lined both sides of the
busy suburban street.
When Brad thought about the plan that was forming in
the back of his mind, he wasn't sure if he should laugh it
off or trust his instincts. The sign stated that the
occupant was a "psychic guide," and implied that they were
able to assist those that believed in mysticism through the
trails and tribulations of mortal life. If Brad hadn't been
chasing a story about captive aliens, he might not have
given it a second thought, but Gatewood had said that the
aliens "talked in his head." To Brad, that could only mean
that they were psychic and used ESP to communicate.
He'd done an article a month earlier about the psychics
and gurus that practiced in Los Angeles, especially
Hollywood, and had an idea of how these people operated.
His angle in the story had originally been to unmask them
for the frauds they were, but when he didn't find ghostly
voices or warnings of impending disaster, he had no choice
but to change the article to provide the reader with an
explanation of services and going prices. He'd hoped to
find a psychic who was trying to swindle his customers, but
instead found a group of people who provided a service for
those willing to pay.
Some of the people he interview didn't claim to be
psychic at all. Those who specialized in palm reading or
tarot cards couldn't read minds or conjure spirits, but had
memorized volumes of information on the significance of a
specific card or line on the palm. They showed him how they
performed their art, and let him see some of the books they
used as reference material. He had learned from his
research that most of the psychics and mystics were no more
mysterious or crazy than the average psychiatrist, whom
society accept as scientific professionals.
Brad didn't necessarily believe in ESP, tarot cards, or
mediums who could contact the dead, but he had seen several
very impressive demonstrations. If this person had even an
inkling of psychic talent and could provide him with any
information, it would almost be worth the time. What did he
have to lose? If he told any one he was looking for aliens,
they'd say he was crazy anyway. He made a U-turn at the
next light, and headed back to the house.
After parking the car, and noticing a new Mustang GT
convertible behind the house, Brad headed for the door. The
thought that there was only one other car at the house was
reassuring because it meant that he would not have to
discuss what he wanted while anyone else was around. The
fact that it was a recent model, showed this psychic was
obviously successful.
He opened the door, which rang a small bell, and
entered a tastefully decorated waiting room. Brad
considered this another good sign, as it meant that the
psychic wasn't to far off into outer space. Since there
were no fringe tapestries hanging from the wall or Budhas
scattered around the floor, he was able to deduce that this
one was neither a would-be Gypsy or an eastern guru. That
meant that he'd been lucky enough to find either a psychic
who regularly counseled businessmen or one of the "New Age"
psychics who were relative newcomers to the scene.
Brad was looking at one of the pictures on the wall,
when he heard a voice behind him. "Hello. Can I help you?"
When he turned around, he was shocked to find a
strikingly beautiful young lady of about twenty-three. She
had long blonde hair, blue eyes, and was dressed in an aqua
dress that stopped fashinably mid-calf. Though it wasn't
revealing, Brad's eyes were drawn to the woman's shapely
figure, then up to her perfect breasts. For a moment he was
speechless. For a moment he considered asking if the
psychic was in, but somehow, he knew better.
Before he had a chance to say a word, the woman broke
the silence. "You've got a totally unbelievable aura."
Brad instinctively looked himself over, as if to see if
his fly was open, before he remembered what an aura was. In
his interviews, the psychics had told him that every living
thing was surrounded by a field of electrical energy and
that the field could from time to time be seen by certain
people. This was easy for Brad to accept since machines
like the electro-encephalogram measured electrical activity
in the brain. The psychics went on to say that the
different colors of an aura reflected the health and
emotions of the owner. Brad likened that to the theory of a
mood ring.
"You've had a bad day, haven't you?" asked the girl.
Brad laughed thinking that it was the understatement of
the year. "Yes, that I have. I was hoping you could help
me contact someone."
The girl moved to Brad's side to better study his aura.
"I'm not a medium, and I'm not real good at channeling
spirits, but I'll help you if I can."
"I'll make it easy for you. This person is alive and
at Nellis Air Force Base, I just can't get in touch with
him."
"Okay, we can give it a try." She motioned for Brad to
follow, then spun and headed through the door she'd entered
from. Brad watched the back of her skirt as she moved into
the next room, and fantasized about running his fingers
through the loose curls of her golden hair. His thoughts
moved beyond her hair to her shoulders, down to the small of
her back, but stopped when he wondered if she might be able
to read his emotions at that moment. Even that thought held
a certain excitement for him.
They entered another smaller room that held a round
table and four chairs. The woman sat, and waited for Brad
to do the same. "My name is Melanie Chatham," she stated
with a smile, and offered Brad her hand.
Brad took her soft, warm hand and the thought of using
a false name never crossed his mind. "I'm Brad. Brad
Dartmouth." Melanie's name rang through Brad's mind
blocking out all his thoughts of the Air Force, the
newspaper, and aliens. He looked into her soft blue eyes,
and the only thing that came to mind was how well her dress
matched them, and how gracefully it swayed when she walked.
She withdrew her hand, and shifted uneasily in her
chair, causing Brad to wonder what was troubling her. "Mr.
Dartmouth, my regular fee is twenty dollars for a twenty
minute session. I make no guarantees, and you pay in
advance." Brad reached into his coat pocket and pulled a
twenty from the envelope that held the expense money the
newspaper had given him. As he handed Melanie the bill, he
had the feeling that she was almost embarrassed to have
asked him for money. "Okay, now give me some specifics
about your friend."
Not knowing how she would take the truth, Brad decided
the best course of action was to lie (or at least not tell
the whole truth). "His name is Roger, and he's on Nellis
Air Force Base."
"Is that all?"
"Pretty much."
"Does your 'friend' have a last name?"
"Well, he's not really a friend. He's a friend of a
friend, but I'm sure he's at the Air Force Base."
"Have you ever been to the carnival, Mr. Dartmouth?"
Brad thought it a stupid question, but decided he'd
bite. "Not since I was a teen-ager."
"Do you remember the game where they had the Coke
bottles lined up, and you were suppose to toss a small ring
around the neck of one to win a prize?"
"Yes."
"Unless you can give me some more information, we have
about as much chance of contacting your friend as you would
of ringing a specific bottle."
"If I tell you what I know, you'll think I'm crazy and
throw me out. Like you said, I've had a bad day and
throwing me out would only make it worst. There is one
other thing I can tell you. Roger is psychic... very
psychic. You'll have to trust me when I tell you that there
is nothing else I can tell you."
"When you say 'very psychic' what exactly do you mean?"
"The reason Roger is at Nellis is because of his
unusual psychic ability. I'm no expert, but it might be
safe to say that Roger is one of the most powerful psychics
on this planet." As strange as that sounded, it was
probably true.
"Okay," responded Melanie to this new information. She
tossed her hair over her left shoulder with a flip of her
beautiful head in a manner that made Brad's knees week. She
stared off into space for a moment, and Brad admired her
soft facial features as a way of distracting his eyes from
the way her dress subtly displayed a hint of cleavage.
"What I'm going to try, is to enter a light meditative
state, and see if I can sense any new energy in the area.
It might be a start."
Brad nodded, Melanie closed her eyes, and Brad
continued to tour her body with his eyes. She placed her
hands on the table and lifted her face skyward as she
reached out with her mind in search of psychic energy. Brad
sat quietly, and began to feel uneasy about being with her.
It seemed like such a long shot-- she had even described it
as difficult. He fixed his gaze on Melanie's body and
decided that the view alone was almost worth twenty dollars.
Besides, it was the newspaper's money.
After a few minutes, Melanie opened her eyes, and
rubbed the back of her neck. "Bad news, Mr. Dartmouth.
Besides the normal garbage from The Strip, I don't feel
anything out of the ordinary."
"Garbage?"
"Yes. Psychic energy is very much in tune with one's
emotional state. Even someone with average power, can
accomplish amazing feats when they are driven be emotion.
It's like a man on the verge of suicide coming up with an
idea that will make him rich, or a hysterical mother driving
across town to an unknown alley and finding her lost child.
Due to all the tourists, The Strip is a constantly changing
stage of excitement and depression that causes static. Its
a phenomenon unique to Las Vegas, but one shared only by
those that can sense the world from a psychic point of
view."
"You don't think you could have missed something?" Brad
asked desperately.
"I've lived here for twelve years, if an energy source
that powerful had moved into town I would have felt it."
Brad sat silently and stared at the table in front of him
and thought about the fact that he had wrecked his car for
nothing. He had no hope of tracking down the aliens.
Melanie sat quietly watching Brad. "Brainstorm," she said
playfully, startling Brad back to reality.
"What?" he asked.
"Brainstorm. You should have seen your aura. It
turned the most magnificent shade of blue. You must have
just had a really major idea."
In fact Brad had just hit upon the reason for Melanie's
failure to sense the alien presence in the area, but when
she spoke, she threw his mind off track. Melanie hadn't
been able to detect the aliens, because she was looking for
new energy-- the aliens had been at Nellis longer than she'd
been in Las Vegas. "I just realized we're approaching this
from the wrong angle. I've got an idea where Roger is. Can
you, like, see the place if I show you on a map. If I
narrowed down the area, would that help?"
"You want me to astral project."
"I don't know what that is."
"Astral projection is where your mind leaves your body.
It's not one of my stronger points, but I need the practice.
Is your friend in a crowded area?"
"No."
"Good, that will cut the amount of interference. Let
me see... The base is to the east, correct?"
"No. I mean yes, but Roger is at a site on the
northern end of the bomb range," Brad explained.
"Not good," stated Melanie. "How far away?"
"About a hundred miles," replied Brad.
Melanie shook her head slowly and her hair danced
across her shoulders. "That's a lot farther than I'd be
comfortable with. See, psychic energy is similar to any
other energy: the greater the distance, the less the
effect."
"No problem. There's a town called Alamo about two
hours away. That should get you close enough," said Brad
excitedly.
"Whoa, now. I've got a four o'clock appointment, and
physical traveling is not included in your twenty dollar
session."
"Sure. We can do it after your appointment. Name your
price."
Brad's last remark had caught Melanie off guard. "I
usually don't do things like this-- I'm only doing it
because of your incredible aura. One hundred dollars, and
you cover expenses."
"No problem," Brad stated as he rose from his seat.
"I'll pick you up at five."
"Ah, make it six-thirty. I'd like a chance to eat
something before we go."
Brad was ready for that one. "Sure, but why don't you
let me take you out to dinner?"
"Because I don't mix business with pleasure," she said
as she opened the door.
Inside Brad's mind alarms were blasting as he rapidly
tried to come up with a line to save his failing attempt to
get the girl on a date. "I can understand that. So, do you
want me to pick you up at your place?"
Melanie rolled her head, leaned against the door, and
Brad saw a twinkle in her eyes that he hope signaled a yes.
"No. Meet me here."
Shot down in flames with only a business appointment to
show for it, Brad walked back toward his car as Melanie
watched. He tried to be cool about his departure, he tried
to keep his gaze fixed on her flawless features, instead he
stumbled on the grass and nearly fell. When he finally made
it to his wrecked Firebird, he figured the day couldn't get
any worse.
Of course, he was wrong.
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