When the appointed time arrived, they were shepherded out of the cafeteria and down another series of corridors until the final one split into two outside a tunnel. A pair of electric carts waited there, each manned by a silent driver. As they climbed in and took seats, the ever-irrepressible Dev murmured to no one in particular, “We’re going to Disney World.”

Behind him, Gavin Reed responded in his gravely, irritatingly solemn tone, “It’s my understanding that the aliens shoot comedians first.”

Looking back at the bigger man, Dev was unable to tell if he was being serious or joking.

“I’m just trying to lighten the atmosphere.”

The cart they were in started forward.

“Let’s hope atmosphere doesn’t become a problem.” Reed sat back, crossed his arms, and looked away.

There were very few bends in the tunnel and very little conversation to accompany the journey. Only the Zimmers chatted between themselves. Following the reproach by Reed, Dev kept to himself. Pavesi likewise said nothing, but her eyes seemed to be taking the measure of every meter of tunnel.

When they came to a dead end, they found four people waiting for them. Each was dressed as if for a casual day’s outing in the park: shorts, sandals, short sleeved shirts, the inevitable sunglasses. One of the young men wore a fake mariner’s cap. No one shook hands with the contact team as they were led away from the tunnel and up a wide ramp. At the top, one of the women opened a locked door. Bright sunlight flooded in, and Dev had to shield his eyes. One of the escorts immediately handed him a pair of shades. As they were led out, Dev looked around in surprise at their surroundings. Pavesi commented on his reaction.

“I know where we are,” he told her. “I’d come here on weekends, sometimes, when I was working down here.” Turning, he nodded back the way they had come. “Johnson Space Center over there.” He pivoted toward several floating piers lined with boats that lay just ahead of them. “This is Bal Harbor Marina, on Clear Lake.”

Pavesi chugged alongside as their four faux-day-tripper escorts led them forward: two in front, the other two behind. “What are we doing on a lake, do you think?”

“No idea.” Again, he gestured forward. “But the lake opens up into Trinity Bay. Gulf of Mexico access from there.”

The boat they boarded did not appear designed for open ocean travel. It hinted at reasonably spacious belowdecks and boasted a flying bridge, but it was no yacht.

“There are drinks and comfortable seating down below.” The smiling young man who greeted them did not have to elaborate: the directive was obvious enough. Dev followed the Zimmers and Reed down the narrow stairs while Pavesi trailed behind.