Last night, Blum’s son had been watching War of the Worlds. The boy was fascinated by the concept of extraterrestrials, as so many kids were these days. Both Sputnik 1 and 2 had launched last fall, a Russian dog in orbit, the attention of the world on outer space, the possibility of life on other planets. Passing through the TV room at about eight P.M., Blum had paused, watching the scene where the alien’s bulbous three-fingered hand had reached out to tap the woman’s shoulder from behind.

This morning since there’d been an op-ed in The Globe suggesting that, now humans had shown themselves capable of entering space, contact with extraterrestrials might occur soon. If aliens were out there, they’d probably been watching for a signal like this for years, a signal that intelligent life existed on Earth. The editorial asked what would happen if they arrived here tomorrow—if say some large gleaming saucer landed on the White House lawn and a ramp was lowered, how would we know if they came in peace? How would we communicate with beings with whom we shared nothing? How would we even recognize what was communication?

Americans had been so surprised by the success of the Soviet Sputniks, the government caught off guard. In response, Congress had allocated immense funding, NASA now actively searching for projects, throwing money at anything related.

The dolphin was staring directly at Blum. It didn’t blink. In the background was the glug-glug of the pool’s drain. The animal’s gaze so intent.

And this moment, here, was when the idea hit Blum. Clearly intelligent, the creature bobbed there, limbless, breathing through the back of its skull, its heavy body designed for no gravity.

The director hurried in, returning from lunch, yelling, forbidding Blum from ever touching one of his dolphins again, from ever setting foot in Marine World.

Blum turned to him, grinning. For it didn’t matter. He knew now his exact research question, the one he would work on, the analogy he would use to get funding.

For this analogy, this idea, he would get a lot. He would demand his own research center.

ARRIVAL

FIVE
June 4, 1965

One morning, walking along the beach on the more deserted end of the island, Cora came upon a concrete chute set into the rocks next to the sea.

This sluice angled down, away from the sea, a narrow corridor cut through the rocks, the seawater pouring in along it. She hadn’t seen a home or dock or human for at least half a mile, but here was this cement chute, as engineered as a sidewalk and clearly new, not a speck of moss growing on it. She looked for a moment, then stepped into the water, splashing her way along it, between the boulders, curious about what the water was used for.

After a dozen yards, she reached the other side, the boulders opening to a wide vista.

The sluice poured water into a lagoon, sheltered from the waves and wind. On the dock, a man was sleeping. On the far side were stairs leading to a stone veranda and a gleaming house built 50 feet up the hill, palm trees all around.