“According to all the reports that have been verified thus far, the visitors haven’t done anything.” Charlie’s initial insouciance had given way to a deepening solemnity. “That’s assuming there’s anything definable as ‘visitors’ inside. Aside from what hints at internal illumination, there’s nothing to indicate that the object is tenanted. There’s already been a lot of speculation to the effect that it’s nothing more than a mechanical drone, perhaps some sort of scientific probe. It was first picked up by a bunch of amateur as well as professional sky searchers when it materialized inside the orbit of Mars.” Charlie glanced back at his colleague. “You know: those folks who spend hours looking for new comets and asteroids. It came straight toward Earth at a whacking great velocity, apparently sending everybody’s air defense systems into spasms as soon as it got close enough for them to detect it. We’ve received one report claiming that in the ensuing confusion the Russians shot down one of their own satellites. Before anybody’s systems could get into serious defense mode, it hit the brakes and stopped right where you see it.” He gestured at the monitor. “There it sits, or hovers, rather. Not moving, not communicating, doing nothing except frightening the bejeezus out of folks.”

Not sharing his coworker’s fatalistic sense of humor, Dev was furiously conjuring his own opinion. “If it’s an autonomous probe, it’s doing its work peacefully.”

“So far. Interesting choice of positioning. Why Panama?”

“With luck we may find out.”

Charlie made a rude noise. “With luck we may not.”

Dev eyed his friend disapprovingly. “The greatest encounter in the history of humankind, and you just want it to finish its work and go away? Aren’t you the least bit curious about its purpose? Its ultimate intentions?”

“Yes,” Charlie admitted. “But I’m more scared than I am curious.”

Fifteen minutes or so passed, during which an assortment of pundits pontificated on screen and the alien object maintained its attitude of doing absolutely nothing. At the end of the highly uninformative quarter hour, two men appeared and approached the desk. Neither Dev nor Charlie recognized them. Proof that they were not native to the fourth floor was evident from their apparel. Instead of open-necked shirts of varying hue and sleeve length, they wore dark suits, white shirts, and dark ties. Their shoes were dark, their socks were dark, and their expressions were dark. All that was missing, Dev thought, were the dark glasses. Those probably resided in inside jacket pockets, waiting for the right moment to be extracted.

Stopping beside the desk, they looked both its owner and Dev up and down.

“Which one of you is Devali Mukherjee?” Before Dev could reply, Charlie spoke up.

“Who wants to know?”