view from the mountaintop or the woods around the cabin. We unpacked, and then I went with my dad to look up the rest of the Cadets.
We were in the cabin closest to the entrance of the park. Herman Yao was in the cabin next to us. Two doors down was Dexter Humboldt. Across the street was Ivana Prokopov who was next door to Sam Trivedi. And last down the line was the cabin that would later be occupied by Angie Warrensburg without, I hoped, her son.
Dexter Humboldt had driven down from his home in Nashville, and Ivana Prokopov had a rental car. The rest of us loaded up in their cars and headed down the mountain to Huntsville. We met the Warrensburgs at Gibson’s Barbeque, and everything, it appeared to me, was going along pretty well. The restaurant set us up in a room to ourselves with one long table. Four of us on one side, four on the other. Everyone was enjoying getting reacquainted. Everyone except, you guessed it, Stephen A. Warrensburg. It’s not that everyone ignored Stephen; he ignored them. He sat in his wheelchair at one end of the table and seemed to make a point of ignoring both people and his food. He took an occasional sip of iced tea.
After dinner Angie Warrensburg stood and welcomed everyone to Huntsville. “The Von Braun Astronomical Society has given us unlimited access to their facilities for the week,” she told us. “That includes the observatory, the solar observatory, and the planetarium. It’s hot, it’s humid, the city lights are bright, and the moon is waning gibbous, but, hey, other than the fact that we may not see a star other than the sun, we can have a great time together.”
From his perch at the back of the room, Stephen snorted. Everyone else joined in polite laughter.
“Now,” Angie Warrensburg continued, “Stephen has asked if he could offer his own welcome to all of you for this, our twentieth reunion of the Space Cadets.”
I’ll give him an A+ for dramatic effect. Stephen backed his new, battery-operated wheelchair straight away from the table, made a sharp left turn toward the front of the room, traveled the length of the table, and made a sharp right, then another, and he was facing his audience.
“My father was working with the FBI,” he said. “The FBI knows that one of you is stealing United States government secrets and selling them to foreign governments. My father was working with the FBI to set a trap for you.”
He paused and glared with unblinking focus down the length of the table. He seemed to be staring at none of us and all of us at the same time.
Then he said, “One of you killed my father. I’m going to find out who and see that you pay.”
Okay then, welcome to Huntsville.
5
One of the things I’ve noticed about scientists is that they don’t speak unless they have something to say. When your mom’s a biologist and your dad’s a physicist you wind up spending a lot of time around scientists. I’ve pointed out this observation to my mom and dad. Mom said, “He that answers a matter before he hears it, it is folly and shame to him.” Dad said, “We’re used to doing the research before we publish our papers.” I took their comments to mean that you have to think about it before you talk about it.
That Monday night in a barbeque restaurant in Huntsville, Alabama, there was a lot of thinking going on.
As soon as he made his accusation, Stephen Warrensburg made a sharp right, a quick left, and then he traveled the length of the table, the length of the room, and straight out the door. His eyes never blinked, his head never turned, his body never shifted. He was one with the machine that was his wheelchair.
My dad, Robert James Caldwell, PhD and university professor, didn’t say a word.
Dr. Herman Yao, world-renowned SETI researcher, was silent. SETI stands for the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. SETI has yet to turn up intelligence in outer space, and it looked like Dr. Yao couldn’t find it in the restaurant that night.
Mr. Dexter Humboldt, master’s degree in physics and high school science teacher, did not call the room to attention. He fidgeted like a kid in class who had been called on to give an answer to an unanswerable question.
Ivana Prokopov, Russian immigrant and former cosmonaut with a degree in planetary geology, could speak about the formation of the solar system. She did not speak about anything she saw form that night.
Sam Trivedi had PhDs in astrophysics and computer science. Sam was short for a first name that I think even Sam himself had forgotten how to pronounce. And Sam had no pronouncements for the Space Cadets that night.
Dr. Angie Warrensburg had degrees in astronomy and chemical engineering. Her official NASA title is Propulsion Engineer. In other words, she’s a rocket scientist. Her other official title is Mother of Stephen A. Warrensburg. Neither the rocket scientist nor the mother had anything to say. At least not right away.
When she did speak it was with her eyes. They glistened. Then they bubbled over.
“Angie,” my dad was the first to speak, “I . . . we . . .” He was the first to speak; he just couldn’t find any words to use.
Dr. Yao tried, “Angie, whatever we need to do to help . . . How long has it been since Ray’s death?”
“Year and a half,” muttered Dexter Humboldt.
“Obviously,” Dr. Yao continued, “Stephen still harbors a great deal of anger over his father’s death. If he needs someone to direct that anger toward . . .”
“None of us wants to be the object of anger,” Ivana Prokopov butted in, “but if that’s what it takes to help him through it . . .”
There was silence in the room again. My dad turned and caught my eye. He nodded toward the door. I can take a hint. I stood up and left the room.
Outside the door I hesitated just long enough to hear my dad say, “Angie, I . . . we love you. We loved Raymond. Whatever we can do for you and Stephen . . .”
6
I hurried through the bright lights of the restaurant’s main dining room and out into the dim light of the parking lot. I could make out the silhouetted form of Stephen in his wheelchair, his left arm extended toward the Econoline. I heard the side door slide open, and then there was a low-pitched whirr. As my eyes adjusted I began to associate the whirr with the ramp extending from the van and lowering to the ground.
“Give you a hand?” I heard a man’s voice say. In the dim parking lot all I could tell was that he was kind of hefty, just under six feet tall and seemed to be wearing a heavy sport coat. His offer of “a hand” was directed toward Stephen Warrensburg.
“I’ve got it,” Stephen replied with an implied “get lost.”
I was more than happy to “get lost,” even if it were implied and even if it were not directed at me. I turned to walk back into the restaurant.
“Caldwell.” Stephen A. Warrensburg had spotted
