Ayala had reminded the expectant group that they should all remain under the roof’s proxy shelter, keeping their presence safely hidden under the cover of the hangar’s old corrugated iron sheeting. So they all stood behind this invisible but nonetheless tangible line, facing the approaching plane. They could see it clearly now, its wings were mounted above the cockpit, typical of smaller models, and it was clearly a civilian plane.

The small plane swooped down the runway in a textbook landing, its precision giving some clue to the abilities of its pilot. In truth, until that day, John had never flown a plane, but personal experience was hardly the measure of him or his peers. At the end of the runway, the plane turned sharply and began to taxi back to where the group stood in anticipation. Any doubt they had of whether this was their contact was assuaged when it came to a halt in front of them, its right wing stopping just under the roof of the hangar, over their heads.

Everyone but Neal and Madeline literally held their breath as the small door of the four-seater opened. With the engine still cooling and hissing after the long flight, John Hunt leapt expertly through the small door and landed, standing under the plane’s wing for a moment. Then he walked, staying under the wing, into the hangar, without ever stepping into the view of the satellite eye he knew was even now scanning the earth from above.

Once under the shelter of the hangar roof, he went up to Neal first, reaching out his hand. “Neal, how are you?” he said, shaking the now White House science advisor’s hand firmly. To everyone’s surprise, he then turned to Madeline and gave her a big hug.

With the rest of the group exchanging confused glances, he turned to Barrett, “You must be Colonel Milton.” he said, “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The colonel’s confusion was clear as he shook the Agent’s hand, unclear of the protocol when talking to a machine, a fact he had to keep reminding himself now he was face to face with the handsome, charming, and seemingly very human John Hunt. Ayala was just as baffled by the young-looking man, but also quite fascinated.

For his part, John smiled at the confusion of his hosts. They had clearly been expecting some fake human, some inherently flawed imitation of themselves. Maybe even some burly weightlifter with a heavy Austrian accent and fake tan. To think that the young, attractive, engaging man in front of them was a machine must indeed be very disconcerting.