The fact that the windows were opaqued did not trouble him. It was spatial constriction that perturbed him, not darkness. The opacity was necessary so that everyone present could clearly view the images on the large monitors that hung on three sides of the room. A couple of these were presently dark. An active pair provided alternating views of major television channels: one monitor was dominated by American networks while the other featured a mix of European and Asian sources. Real-time translations crawled across the bottom of the screens displaying foreign broadcasts.

Of the remaining screens that were operational, one showed the president’s office in the White House. The second feed came from the Pentagon. Both offices were crowded. The president dominated the first while General William McKendrick, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, held court in the second. Conversation in both locations was vigorous and ongoing.

Dev felt rather out of place. His grandparents, who hailed from a small village in Andhra Pradesh, would have been rendered utterly speechless. Not so his mother and father. His father would have expanded with pride at the important position his offspring currently occupied and the fact that he was considered important enough to circulate among those in such positions of power. Always confident in her son’s abilities, his mother would simply have smiled knowingly. If only, Dev thought, the circumstances were different.

The Zimmers were conversing softly with Diana Pavesi. Eyes half closed, Reed had willingly succumbed to the aural addiction provided by his wireless headphones. Dev wondered what the big man was experiencing. Or were the headphones a deliberate distraction and he was actually paying full attention to what was going on around him? Was he just enjoying some music? Or working out the details of how he was going to shoot everyone in the room if that particular command was passed down to him? Looking at his face, it was impossible to tell. He had his eyes almost shut, but his mind open.

Mitch Cottle could boast of a Texas heritage that greatly preceded that of NASA’s presence in Houston. The fact that his extended family had history, land, and oil on its side had not prevented him from acceding to the urge to be part of the space program. As a senior administrator at the Johnson Center, he knew pretty much everything there was to know about the installation, how it functioned, and the backgrounds and specialties of its personnel. He did not know anything about aliens. It was supposed—it was hoped—that Dev and his four colleagues might somehow be able to divine a little about the visitors.