Graham has never questioned whether or not I’m what I claim to be. If Mandy chose to believe me because it didn’t hurt anything for her to do so, Graham chose to believe me because he didn’t think I’d lie to him. That meant he’d known what he was doing the first time he’d invited me to one of his company get-togethers, and hadn’t been bothered in the slightest when I had introduced myself to all of them as the vanguard of an invasion. They were computer people, and scientists, and that meant that for the most part, they were exceptionally tolerant of strangeness.

I think some of them actually hoped for proof of my extraterrestrial nature, since it would give them a leg up on the competition. No better way to win the software wars than to be the first to press into the rest of the galaxy.

“Oh,” I said, and laughed unsteadily.

Graham went still. He leaned closer. “Stasia,” he said, “did you recognize the signal?”

I didn’t trust my voice. I bit my lip and nodded, trusting his knowledge of my expressions to make my meaning clear.

Graham’s eyes widened. “Wow,” he said. “So this is … You think it’s real? It’s not some sort of hoax?”

“I don’t know this Dr. Vornholt,” I said.

“No one knows him,” said Graham. “I’ve been calling in favors all morning, and nobody has any idea who he is.”

“Then how—”

“Did he get access to the equipment he’d need to pick up this signal? No idea. I think we may be dealing with someone publishing under a fake name.”

“That feels like a vote in favor of ‘hoax.’” I frowned. “But I’ve heard that signal before. I … I understood it. How could I understand it if it was a hoax?”

For a moment, Graham didn’t say anything, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. I could understand it if there was nothing to understand, if the part of my mind which insisted I was an alien was feeding me false data. My understanding of the signal was both the lady and the tiger, because either it proved, absolutely, that I was truly alien, or it proved—with the same certainty—that I had never been an alien at all.

“We know the signal was intercepted by the Portland Observatory,” said Graham. “We could go there and ask to speak with Dr. Vornholt.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t find him.”

“I can’t. No one can. Which makes me think the ‘fake name’ theory is probably the right one.” Graham smiled, half-encouraging and half-strained, and the absence of artificial cheer was probably the best part of his expression. “What do you say? Want to go to Stephen King country and see if we can find the person who talks to aliens?”

I didn’t have to think. “Yes,” I said. “I have some vacation time. I’ll make this work. Just … come home, okay?”