Saturn Run by John Sandford, Ctein Page A

aliens.”
    “You don’t know any aliens.”
    “Yeah, and they don’t know me. Seems like a hell of a good reason for not trusting them.” He took a hit on the joint. “What are the chances of getting back?”
    “Don’t know. Assuming the aliens don’t turn out to be hostile, probably ninety-nine percent. The other one percent, everybody dies.”
    “You mean, some massive failure.”
    “Yeah.” Crow leaned forward. “John, the last thing we want to do is get anyone killed. That would defeat the whole purpose of going out there. As far as the aliens go, our Pentagon people don’t think there’s any reason that they might be hostile.”
    Clover shook his head. “Your Pentagon people are piss-ignorant. They don’t know anything about the aliens, if there are any aliens. And that cuts both ways. The aliens might not know anything about us. Or maybe they only know the big stuff: Hiroshima, Vietnam, the Oil Wars, 9/11, the Tri-Border Fight, the Houston Flash. You think that might worry them? Crazy people, coming to visit? First contact—it’s gonna be dangerous no matter how you cut it.”
    “All right.”
    “And then, we could get out there, find that they are a bunch of beautiful spiritual Zen people, ready to give us the secret to eternal life, and the Chinese show up and throw a nuke at us.”
    They sat staring at each other for a moment, then Crow said, “If you can take the cat?”
    Clover waved a heavy hand at him: “I’ll think about it. Probably say no. But I’ll think about it.” He inhaled, held it. “I don’t believe my potwould be a good idea, given a recirculating ventilation system, but I’d want to take a few gallons of Old Horseshoe to get me through it.”
    “Let me know soon as you can, or we’ll have to talk to somebody else,” Crow said. “We’ll stick you on a large retainer, until you say no, anyway. We’ll want to see you in D.C. in a week to meet with our study group. Bring every idea you’ve got on this.”
    “I can do that,” Clover said, as Crow got up to leave.
    Clover watched Crow as he walked down the crooked sidewalk to a waiting car. When he was gone, Clover looked at his cat: “Tell you what, Snuff: I’ve got a feeling that I might say ‘yes.’ But it’s possible that we should stick with the Mayans, and let the aliens go.”

9 .
    Three weeks after the alien ship was spotted, Sandy was going up.
    He’d been allowed two packs—a big one for equipment, a small one for clothing and personal effects. At eight in the morning, he popped the door on his condo, hauled the bags outside, sealed the door, jacked the alarms to the highest settings, and carried his bags and a paper cup of coffee through the complex gates and out to the curb, to an empty bus bench.
    The sky was light gray: the marine layer hadn’t burned off yet, so the L.A. basin hadn’t had a chance to heat up. Sandy sipped his coffee and kicked back a bit. Might as well relax and enjoy the moment.
    He lived in a condo complex built around an enormous swimming pool, and populated by affluent, good-looking people. Most affluent people were good-looking, not because they inherited the right genes, but because the surgery was so good and painless and safe.
    From outside, the apartment complex might have been a tropical jungle: something painted by Winslow Homer on one of his Caribbean trips, he thought. The complex also had tight security, another benefit: he’d once been dropped off by a drunk friend, drunk himself and mostly naked, and when he’d tried to cross the wall, he found himself surrounded by armed guards in about six seconds.
    They hadn’t been fooling around; they’d run a DNA check on him before they let him back in his apartment. He didn’t live in a place where you just dropped in.
    Sandy hadn’t had that many moments to relax in the two previous weeks. After making his deal with Crow, he was flown to Maryland, to the Defense Information School at Fort Meade, where he was turned