“Do you remember back in the summer of ‘98 when we lost contact with SOHO? Before Arecibo relocated the satellite, we kept transmitting the same simple radio signal over and over again, attempting to reestablish contact with the satellite’s main computer. That’s what the first seventeen minutes of this signal reminds me of. No primer, no instructions or codex, just a deep-space carrier signal repeating itself like a ringing telephone, waiting for the other party to pick up so the information can be downloaded.”

“I agree, but it makes no sense. The extraterrestrials that transmitted this signal couldn’t possibly have expected our species to be able to translate all this information without a primer.”

Swickle notices that his director’s face looks pale. “What?”

“Just a crazy thought. Ignore me, I’m wiped out.”

“Come on, boss.”

“Well, I was thinking about SOHO. Our transmission obviously didn’t require a primer because SOHO’s computer was already programmed under our command. Maybe this signal contains no primer because it’s not necessary.”

“You mean, this radio signal wasn’t intended to be translated?”

“No, Swick.” Dodds shoots his assistant a worried look. “I mean, what if the signal wasn’t intended for us?”

November 5, 2012
Sanibel Island, Florida

The chant of “four more years—four more years” stirs Edith Axler awake. She sits up and checks the time, then switches off the television and heads downstairs to the lab.

Isadore is still hunched over at the SOSUS station, listening.

“Iz, for God’s sake, it’s eleven-thirty—”

“Shhh.” He removes his headphones and switches on the exterior speaker. “Listen.”

She hears a deep humming sound. “Sounds like a generator.”

“That’s nothing. Wait.”

Moments pass, and then a high-pitched whine of what sounds like a hydraulic drill whistles at them through the speakers, followed immediately by a metallic clanking that continues for several minutes.

Iz smiles at his wife. “Is that incredible?”

“It sounds as if something’s being pieced together. Probably an oil rig preparing to drill.”

“Either that, or another one of those geological expeditions investigating the crater. Whatever it is, the degree of activity has intensified over the last thirty hours. I sent an e-mail to the NOAA to check on both possibilities but haven’t heard a word. Who won the election?”

“President Mailer.”

“Good. Now that that’s over with, maybe someone at the State Department will get back to me.”

“And what if they don’t?”

Iz looks up at his wife and shrugs. “No big deal. Like you said, it’s probably just an oil rig. Carl and I are planning our annual fishing trip within the next two weeks. Maybe we’ll take a quick detour out to the area and take a closer look, just to be sure.”

Miami, Florida

Dominique watches in disgust as the big redhead shovels another forkful of eggplant into his mouth. Maybe he’ll choke.

“So, Sunshine, you proud of me or what?”