Pete's accompanying lecture about social responsibility had made its mark—Joey had vowed never to let his own Brooklyn neighborhood suffer a like fate and had eagerly volunteered for every community-service project he could squeeze in, often contributing money as well as his time to programs that benefited greatly from the backing of a major-league star.

  Pete Forsythe took part in many of Joey's projects—a sizable chink in his cynicism-plated armor. He covered his own philanthropy by disclaiming, "Y'know, kid, this won't make a damn bit of difference in the long run. In a hundred years who'll know?" Then he'd add, "But we've got to do it anyway—keeps us off the streets, at least."

  Pete called that existentialism. Joey wasn't sure what the word meant, but wasn't troubled by it. What he understood was that his friend Pete was a nice guy, but didn't want people finding that out.

  All of his memories and thoughts about Yankee Stadium and its environs became excess baggage, quickly dismissed, as Joey drove into sight of the graceful white stadium. He parked his car quickly in the guarded, fenced-in lot, leaped out, slammed the door, and began to trot through the runway to the clubhouse. His feet thudded faster and faster until he was fairly flying past the blur of the halls, then the dugout—

  He stopped abruptly, his eyes taking in the emerald green of the real grass, the rich brown of the infield dirt. No artificial turf for this ballplayer! Joey sniffed luxuriously, glorying in the smell and feel of this, his home territory. It was great to have a reason to be back.

  Today was the first meeting of the Visitor Friends group Alexander Garr had arranged with Angela. Joey, Pete, and Bobby Neal were joined by a few other players who lived in the immediate area, under the supervision of "Field Marshal" Garr. The team owner, having committed himself to the enterprise, was determined that everything run smoothly.

  About two hundred children and teenagers gathered in the field-level box seats behind first base. Garr was all decked out in a dark-blue Yankees warm-up suit as he addressed them from a mike on the dugout roof. He explained the ground rules—orderly behavior and good manners were essential, and everyone would get to talk to the Visitors and examine the squad vehicles.

  "And Angela has promised," Garr concluded, "that if everyone behaves themselves—and I stress that if, kids—then we'll split into groups, ride up in the squad vehicles, and get a special tour of the Mother Ship!"

  The group let out a chorus of wild cheers until a single, high-pitched voice overtopped them: "Look! Here they come!"

  Garr was easily as excited as the youngsters as they watched four squad vehicles swoop toward the stadium and settle effortlessly onto the outfield grass.

  It all went surprisingly smoothly. The kids were divided into groups, each one with two players as "platoon leaders." (Garr couldn't resist military terminology.) Each squad vehicle had a dozen or so Visitors aboard, more than enough to answer the barrages of questions, leaving a few free to stand beside the squad vehicles, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.

  "It's a good thing they don't have hubcaps on those things," Pete whispered to Joey as their group edged around the outside of the Visitor vehicle. "Did you notice that Alex managed to snare some of the really hard-core gang members?"

  "So?"

  "So I suspect they would just as soon strip a squad vehicle as take a ride in it."

  "Give 'em a break, Pete. Some events are so exciting they transcend established patterns of behavior."

  Pete stepped back, his lips pursed in a soundless whistle. " 'Transcend established patterns of behavior.' What the hell did you do, swallow a dictionary?"

  "A book I've been reading," Joey said proudly. "Thirty Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary."

  "Hmm." Pete regarded his friend thoughtfully. "Marianne been on your mind lately?"

  Vitale scuffled his Adidas into the turf. "Wel-1-1 ... I figured maybe I didn't stack up so hot in the brains department next to those guys in grad school, so I thought, uh—"

  "Excuse me," interrupted a tentative female voice—a Visitor voice.

  Joey turned to see a tall young woman with chestnut hair waving gently down to her shoulders and the most incredibly long-lashed gray-blue eyes he'd ever seen.

  "Forget the college girl," Pete whispered to him, then moved away to follow the tour. The Visitor woman was still looking at Joey, making him flush.

  "Uh—um, hi," was all he could come up with. He felt like an idiot.

  "My name is Lisa," she said.

  It dawned on Joey after a second that he was staring. Almost all the Visitors were physically attractive—watching them troop out of the shuttles at the Brooklyn plant had been like watching a coed beauty contest. But Lisa—Joey couldn't stop thinking that she might be the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He let his eyes trail down, and it immediately occurred to him that this was not a smart way to get his mind off her looks. Her red coverall was fitted snugly enough to make him wonder what she'd look like in a bikini ... or out of one. Joey swallowed, searching his mind for something to say.

  "What's yours?" she prompted.

  "Mine?" he asked numbly. Higher thought processes gradually revived in his brain. "Um, my name? It's . . . uh . . . Joey. Joey Vitale."

  Her face registered no change except that her smile widened as she bobbed her head. Joey stared at her. "You don't know who I am?"

  She shook her head, a bit embarrassed. "I'm sorry, should

  I?"

  "Well, no, not really, I guess. It's just that your people seemed to know all about us, and the stadium ..." He shrugged. "But actually I guess it's pretty silly to expect you to know the names of individual baseball players."

  "You play . . . baseball?" she pronounced the word carefully. "Is that a musical instrument, a baseball?"

  Joey laughed and Lisa's face fell, leaving him feeling like a jerk. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh at you. No, baseball is a sport. A . . . physical activity. Didn't they tell you what Yankee Stadium is used for?"

  "I missed the briefing, I'm afraid. I was doing some special research for Jennifer. I know what sports are, though. Games, right?"

  "Yeah. Baseball is the game we play here."

  "What else do you do?" asked Lisa.

  "What else?" Joey's mind seemed to be embedded in quick-drying cement.

  "Yes, for an occupation. Your work."

  "Oh, baseball is my occupation, my job. I get paid for it."

  Lisa looked doubtful. "You get paid to play a game?"

  Joey chuckled. "Yeah. Sometimes I have trouble believin' it myself, that they pay me to do what I like doing most of all." He found it singularly refreshing to talk to someone who'd never even heard of baseball—someone who had no idea that he had made nearly a million this season. He grinned at her. "Uh, what was it you wanted to ask me?"

  "Nothing in particular. I just thought I'd say hello. The whole idea of these gatherings is for your people and mine to get to know each other, and I'm very interested in your culture." She dropped those incredibly long lashes. "You looked like a nice person to talk to."

  Joey grinned. "Well, I'm sure glad you did. It's a great idea, your people and mine getting to know each other better." He put his hand on her arm, leading over toward the monuments and plaques in center field, commemorating baseball greats like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Mickey Mantle. "C'mon over here, and I'll tell you about baseball."

  "I'd like that," she said.

  "And I thought New York Hospital-Cornell University Medical Center could never sink lower than having taken in the Shah of Iran," Dr. Mary Chu announced as she marched into (icorge Stewart's office like a tiny, black-haired tornado. She planted herself on the corner of his desk and glared at Stewart, who peered over his reading glasses at her.

  "The man was sick," he said mildly. "What are you raging about now, Mary?"

  "I just came from that so-called introductory lecture given by these Visitor characters, telling us what these seminars of theirs will be about. Advanced scientific knowledge, high-tech breakthroughs—my assV'

  Stewart craned his neck for an obvious peek at her bottom. "Doesn't look high-tech to me."

  She shook her head. "Very funny, George. But making me laugh will not make me forget how insulted I feel. Those smooth-talking creeps fed us pure, unadulterated pabulum. I'hey were vague and evasive—"

  "Like my students on their last anatomy exam."

  "Still won't work, George. And the way they delivered this so-called information! Well, my God almighty, I've seen first-year med students give more comprehensive, better thought-out lectures. Just who the hell do these guys think they're trying to fool?" She flung herself down in the chair beside his desk, her dark eyes glaring stormily into his. The early November cold and anger had brought up the red in her cheeks—she looked more like a student than a full professor. Her white lab coat contrasted with her bright-red sweater, plaid wraparound skirt, and penny loafers.

  Stewart folded his hands on the desk, considering her words seriously. "What are you saying, Mary? That they really don't intend to share their advanced knowledge with us as they promised?"

  "It's not just what I'm saying, George," Dr. Chu said. "Check out the facts, my friend. They postponed the damned thing twice—then when they finally give it, it's a total waste. Are you going to tell me that's being up front and forthcoming?"

  Stewart held up a placating hand. "No, I'm not going to do any such thing. I've known you too long to argue with you when you're in your dragon lady persona."

  She broke up completely at his words, laughing so helplessly that for a moment he was afraid she might have succumbed to hysteria. But that wasn't Mary Chu's style. "What's so funny?" he asked.

  "Speaking of the dragon lady, she's struck again." Mary held her fingers up and wiggled them, showing off her very long, impeccably manicured nails. "If what I did works, you're going to have to eat every sneering remark you've ever made about my fingernails."

  "No!" he exclaimed in mock horror. "How could I go on without looking forward to razzing you about being Ms. Fu Manchu?"

  "Old, George, very old, your jokes. But as a matter of fact, I did use them as scientific research tools today."

  "How?"

  "When I shook hands with one of those Visitor characters, I—ahem—accidentally jabbed him hard enough to scrape some of the skin off his hand, right under the ol' Fu Manchus. I mumbled an abject apology, of course, sorry for being so clumsy, etcetera, but it was the damnedest thing—he didn't seem to even notice!"

  "Did you draw blood?"

  "I doubt it, but I came close. If I'd done it to you, you'd have yelped, or something, but he didn't even blink. And another thing—those Visitors are cold-skinned characters. Temperature at least five to ten degrees below ours. Frankly, he didn't feel much warmer than the air temperature aboard that damned ship of theirs."

  "What did you do then?"

  "Avoided touching anything else with that hand and raced back to my lab. Sure enough, there were scrapings under three nails, and I set up slides."

  George snorted. "And to think you really had me convinced you were pissed off, when you're actually so pleased with yourself you're practically humming the Hallelujah Chorus."

  "I was pissed off," Mary said defensively. "Still am—to think those guys think we're suckers enough to buy the bill of goods they're trying to push on us. 'Share the fruits of all our knowledge,'—horseshitV'

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "Take you back to the lab with me to take the first look-see at those slides. I've got a feeling we may be on the track of something big."

  Stewart checked his watch. "Damn! I'd love to, Mary, you've really got my curiosity raging, but I've got to be downstairs in about two minutes. I've got a CAT-scan scheduled for the Johnson boy, and I promised his parents I'd he there. Then I've got a couple of late appointments at my home office."

  Mary nodded. "I understand. But I'm going to start without

  you."

  "Let me know what you find," he said. "You can reach me here until about four, then I'll be home. I'll take a look first thing tomorrow."

  "If I can squeeze you in," she said airily, buffing the infamous nails on her lab jacket. She rose to her feet and struck a pose on her way to the door. "By then, my fame and detective exploits ought to have spread so far you'll have to take a number and get on line to see those slides."

  "Did I ever tell you you're probably certifiable?" Stewart said, beginning to laugh.

  "Continually. Ta-ta, George—I'm off to make my name in science!"

  Stewart chuckled as he straightened his tie and put on his lab coat, watching his friend as she waltzed out the door and threw him a last wave. Her gleaming fingertips were the last things to disappear into the hall.

  It was dark out when the last patient left Stewart's home office. He finished up the paperwork, shooed his receptionist on her way home, and locked the downstairs office door. As he started up the inside steps to his living room, he felt bone-weary—something he'd been noticing more and more lately. Maybe Lauren was right. Maybe he should think about cutting down.

  Halfway up the staircase, the phone rang. Go up or down to answer it? If he went down, he'd only have to reclimb the lower steps—might as well finish the journey up. He got to the phone on its sixth ring and had to catch his breath to say hello.

  "George," said Mary's voice. "It's me. Can you get back over here right away?"

  All his strength seemed to drain away at the thought of leaving the light and warmth of home for the streets again. A fatigue headache throbbed inexorably at the back of his head. "Is it the slides?" he asked. "Can't it wait till tomorrow, Mary? I'm beat."

  "George." She was deadly serious under the bantering tone. "Are you getting senile on me? If you are, then wait a while, 'cause I really need you to see this. Wear two pairs of socks— what I've just looked at is gonna knock one pair right off."

  "What the hell did you find?"

  "I can't say. I've probably said too much already over the phone. I'm gonna lock the door till you get here," she said darkly, and he could tell she wasn't kidding at all.

  "All right," he said. "I'm leaving now. Sit tight."

  "Hurry up, George. G'bye."

  Snatching a couple of Reese's cups out of a candy dish, George Stewart grabbed his coat and headed out to find a cab.

  The taxi stopped outside the hospital gates on York Avenue, and Stewart got out. The air seemed colder here along the East River. He didn't know if it was this making him shiver or Mary Chu's chilling words replaying in his head. There'd been a shakiness in her voice. In the twelve years he'd known her, he'd never heard her sound like that before. He walked quickly up the driveway and into the medical center.

  The corridors went by in a blur as he munched on his last peanut-butter cup. Halfway down the final hall, he saw light spilling from the open door of Mary Chu's lab, and the candy seemed to stick halfway down. Telling himself she'd heard him coming and opened the door, he called out softly, "Mary? It's George."

  He suddenly realized that silence could be an ugly noise.

  Quiet-footed, he went to the doorway and paused. His breath came out in a painful whoosh as he took in the scene— lab stools on their sides, a tossed salad of papers and broken test tubes scattered across the floor tiles. Mary's expensive microscope lay on its back on the floor, its black base sticking out like the stiff legs of a dead animal.

  Stewart's mind flashed back to the time his Harlem office had been burglarized. It had been years ago, over a Fourth of July weekend when he and his family had gone to the mountains. After the break-in, the neighborhood had organized an informal watch over his brownstone. They'd wanted Doc Stewart to stay, and had protected him ever since. He was a precious commodity, someone who knew their names and laces, who'd say hello in the street, who'd help in the middle of the night when a worried mother would call.

  But no one had protected Mary Chu, and Stewart felt a sudden, intense grief. He looked carefully at the lock on the door, not touching it, but could see no signs of tampering. He icached for her phone to call security, but stopped. If this break-in had anything to do with the Visitor skin samples—and it beggared coincidence to suppose it didn't—he ought to search for signs of Mary's notes and slides, for surely the |H)lice wouldn't allow him to remove anything once they arrived.

  Carefully, using a tongue depressor to lift the papers, he began sifting through the chaos on the floor.

  Fifteen minutes of searching convinced him that there was 110 more sign of Dr. Chu's detective work than there was of Mary herself. His hands shaking, he dialed security.

  There was nothing in the morning paper, no report whatsoever about the break-in. At his hospital office, George Stewart dug patiently through his New York Times, but the disappearance of one of the city's most prominent physicians and researchers evidently wasn't considered fit news to print. Not even a tiny mention buried on page forty-seven. Nothing, not a damn thing.

  He dialed the hospital's security office. "Can I speak with Mr. Kolker, please?" He sipped at his coffee. "Yes, I can hold."

  He was halfway through his cup when a distinctly Brooklyn voice graveled in his ear. "Yes, Mr. Kolker, this is Doctor George Stewart. I was the one who reported the disturbance in Doctor Mary Chu's laboratory last evening, as well as the disappearance of Doctor Chu herself. I was wondering what you'd managed to uncover."

  "Not much, Doctor Stewart," said the voice in his ear. It pronounced his name "Stoo-it." "We don't even know if she was here last night."

  "Now just a minute," George said. "I know for a fact she was working late. She called me from her lab and asked me to come see her. That was about seven-thirty. I got there about eight, and I found her lab ransacked. I explained all this to the officer who was up there last night. Myers, that was his name."

  "Yeah, I got his report here. But the fact is, no one saw her after she said she was goin' out for a sandwich about five-thirty. Maybe you were mistaken—maybe she called you from home."

 

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