A Star for Bailer

Slice Sweet stands on the twisted mangrove roots, snapping her fingers to the silent rhythm in her head. Why she is so still is a mystery to me. She knows just where she's going, and I've been with her every step of the way.

One month ago we had such a simple assignment: trudge through the sawgrass, tag a few birds, and get out of the everglades before the permits expire. Now I stand in knee-deep sludge, four miles from base-camb with a Celestron G-14 telescope strapped to my back. I hope we get to high ground before the comet sets.

1.

I'm late. It's five minutes after eight, and all I feel like saying is "yeah, yeah, yeah". Tim's first day and I knew he'd be on time. Parked next to his rusty little Honda outside. I take a big gulp of coffee as I come up on my office. Doesn't help or anything. Just worked out that way. I see a big brown folder smack in the middle of the desk riding piles of paper like driftwood on a churning sea. The NSF returned my grant, again. Submission deadline is next week. I hesitate for only a second. Maybe they really are going to fund me and just decided to send back the entire proposal. This office is such a dump, though. Let it surf paperwork. I know I'm just going to get pissed off in there.

I head towards the research labs. Kip, the Grey Parrot, is already yammering for seed. Romulus and Remus, our troublesome ravens, are tugging at their cage again. 'Bam', it goes. Sounds huge here in sublevel two. Sucks being in the basement. Loud, cold and wet. A little wood paneling and it would look like my grandfather's rec room.

'Bam!' They're testing the cage again. Once tipped it over by working in unison like that. Then they began working on the tin bottom. Managed to get a beak out. Now we've fastened it to the wall, but the ravens will figure out how to upset things again sooner or later. Oh, yeah. Got written up for nailing it there. If it isn't the birds its the building management. That's the way things go at the Duke Primate Intellegence Lab. You never get a break, not even five minute's worth.

Tim, the second-year grad student new to birds, is heading my way with pretty undecisive steps. His oversized trousers do a good job sweeping the floor. Looks like he teased up his hair and dyed it red. Maybe a holiday thing. Makes him look paler than usual.

He's holding his right index finger in his left hand.

"Doctor Bailer, I got, a...Kip's a...helmet on, but I knew I was supposed to hold off on feeding him until you arrived." Tim turns and motions with his index finger towards Kip. I can see blood on Tim's fingertip. Tim knows I see it.

"He's a little ornery, Doctor Bailer."

"He a..." I motion at the hidden finger with my travel mug. Feels like its getting low.

Tim flashes the sheepish smile of a kid caught in a harmless lie.

"Yeah. Kip. Um..."

"He knows you're new. You didn't try to feed..."

"The, uh, ravens? No way, Doctor Bailer. After everything you told us

about them last semester?"

Tim reaches for a notepad and I walk towards their cage. The two black birds hunker down and vocalize, each in turn, one, then the other. 'Caw', "caw". "Caw", "caw". Damn, they're loud.

I look at the concrete wall to my right.

"Like we covered in class, these are a little different. Just as much smarts as a Grey or simian. But they're a little cruder. Not much language, but man, do they work together. They don't miss much. They're great observers. If they bother to do something, it's because it affects their survival."

Tim has that ever hopeful look on his face.

"But that's part of your research, isn't it, Doctor Bailer? You, know, talking to ravens?"

"Yeah. That, or some really wild natural behavior. Tool use or something."

A second or two must have passed. Once again I am dumbly staring at the ravens while thinking about that damn grant.

Time to go to my lousy office.

Lots of email. One v-call from the National Parks Service. Christ, by the time I finish the bullshit, its nine-thirty. Then I get the link up from Parks. A Doctor Necretta is on the line.

"Doctor Bailer? Nick Necretta, Project planning for the National Parks Service. How are you?"

God, it's all business with this guy. His kind is one of the reasons I left field research. I fiddle with my headset and clear my throat.

"Glad to meet you, Nick. What can I do for you?"

His office looks more like a judges' chambers than an ecologist's lair. In the corner of the screen, a box opens. Black with a red border and the words "Connecting..."

"Ah, Doctor Bailer, I just called in Laura Sweet to this conference. I hope she isn't in a cave right now."

The black square goes blank, then flashes blue. Incoming transmission. Oh, oh. A big red circle. If that's Laura Sweet, I guess she won't be joining us.

"Hello, Laura? This is Nick. Can you...Laura?"

The hiss from the earphones jars my head and sends me scrambling for the volume.

"Looks like Laura may be out of range, Doctor Bailer."

I stare at the black square in the corner of my screen.

"We had a birder lined up for this project last month` but he had to bow out. You have the necessary background, and Laura thought that this was the best time..."

"Who'd you have?"

"Steve Tegue. You know him?"

The black box loses the red circle and a static-laced word comes through the headphones.

"Nick?"

"Laura...?"

"Nick, you always call when I'm underground. What's up?"

"Laura, I have Doctor Anton Bailer on the call. He is the replacement for Doctor Tegue. Doctor Bailer has research experience with the red-throated Loon, mainly with breeding and nesting habits in the artic. Isn't that right, Doctor Bailer?"

I don't know what to say to the monitor.

"Sure. I did...four years post-grad work and three...uh, four for the Parks Service."

The dry static tells me to shut up and listen. Good time for it. Not much more to say about six months on a frozen lake with a few thousand two-pound red-throated Loons.

"Well, Doctor Bailer, this time you'll be tagging loons in a little better place"

"Laura, I just got into the details of the project." Nick looks directly into the monitor as though he can see the confused look on my face.

"If you have been keeping up on the loons, you know that their population is stable, but we are noticing a shift in their migration patterns. Many of the large flocks that wintered in South America have broken up and appear to be wintering in the Carribean and the southern U.S."

I reflexively look to the map of the U.S. on my wall to my left. That's the one with the arcs and arrows. All the main migratory paths of indigineous and transitory birds.

"As I began earlier, before Miss Sweet joined us, we planned a project to send Laura and Doctor Tegue into the Everglades early next month to tag red-throated Loons so we can track their migration and see how that flock integrates with the colonies in Alaska and the artic."

The Everglades? That park has been closed to the public since the teens. Very few permits for research. Maybe the richest birding in the world.

"Then Steve bailed on us. Personal emergency. We agreed that the best time to go was February, right Nick?"

"Yes, Laura. The funding went through and the permits have been issued. Anton, you'ld really be helping us out if you could be the birder on the project."

I tap at the monitor with the back of my pencil. Nick looks down to the corner of the screen. He probably sees me hammering away at nothing. "How many people on the trip?"

Nick folds his hands in front of him. "Just you two, Doctor bailer. That's the way it is in the Everglades. We don't send anyone alone, and we like to keep the groups small."

"And this Laura...?"

"I'm the guide. You ever been to the 'Glades before, Doctor Bailer?"

I freeze for a second or two. I've been there a thousand times in books, on-line, and video. Closed up America's jungle when I was a kid.

"Never actually been there, Miss Sweet. You have?"

A crackly laugh bobs up through the momentary silence.

"Enough to call it one of my homes, Doctor Bailer."

I glance at the useless grant on my desk, then back to the equally motionless Nick, then to a small grainy portrait of Laura Sweet. A few seconds worth of her erratic jumping image is all I need to feel OK.

2.

I arrive at the Best's Holiday Inn just before six p.m. Laura's here. Had some exchanges through email and one voice call. Mostly procedural stuff, though...

She flew into North Carolina a few days ago for a long weekend. Has family here, I guess. I'm really looking forward to meeting her in person. Part 'go for it,' part 'what the HELL?' Cute, too.

Focus, Anton. The Everglades. The 'Glades. Sawgrass and savannas. Gators and snakes. Loons and grebes and eagles. Nick promised to lend a helping hand to any grant requests I came up with related to the project. Just what I need, since the NSF grant went sour.

"Anton Bailer?"

My name, called out from behind. Has to be Laura. Pegged me. Sounds like her.

I turn to my left, and without having to glance up or down my eyes meet hers perfectly.

"Laura Sweet."

Her hand is out to greet mine. I see it there in the lower part of my eye, kind of fuzzy. Our hands line up just fine, though. But I can't get off her eyes. Something...

"Good to finally meet you in person, Anton."

Laura opens a wide, even grin like a toppled cresent moon.

"Same here, Laura. I'm glad were able to meet like this before the trip."

I finallly get the lock off of those explosive blue eyes.

"You can call me 'Slice,' Anton."

We're still shaking hands, though its degenerated into more of a tugging handhold.

"'Slice'. OK. I'd like to know about that one."

"It's more 'me' than 'Laura' is. It's a name I've always had."

"I've always stuck with 'Anton'...not 'Ant' or anything like that."

She kind of scrunches her face a little. There's a smile there, so that's OK.

I'm not really checking her out. But then...but she has appeal. Not the black, laser-cut hair. Not the athletic build. Not the contoured neck. I know I'm smiling at her, but not because of what I'm seeing.

"The, ah...food any good here, Slice?"

"Uh, yes...well, for a hotel. Let's...I'm really glad you came out here to meet me."

"You're what convinced me to take the assignment. Why wouldn't I meet you?" My ex wouldn't like this woman. Well, me with this woman. Would have sworn I was flirting just now. Probably good the host is insisting we get to the table. "So you have family near here?"

Slice pulls up next to me. We squeeze through the narrow isles of tables.

"My parents are in Raleigh. They retired here from Pennsylvania. And you; you're not a native, are you, Anton?" Slice taps at my forearm. "You're OK with 'Anton'? It seems like you're OK with Anton."

"Yeah, of course. No, Virginia. I'm FROM Virginia. My name is Anton."

Christ. OK, a corner booth. We scrunch along to the flat edges of the table.

"How long you been out west?"

"Five years."

"Lot of good geology out there."

"Yes, but..."

Slice glances upward, then smiles and rests her chin on the back of her hand.

"What, Slice?"

"That's not the big draw."

"What is?"

She squints for a second before answering.

"I love the desert, the open skies, the clear nights. Big Sky. Grand was my first assignment after grad school."

"I've never been."

"And you, Anton. What brought you to Duke, your birds?"

"Some would say I'm nuts."

I laugh and a little audience in my head cheers with me.

Slice rips open that smile of hers. She lowers her head to the side.

The waiter is here. Looks mighty inconvenienced. Haven't even thought of looking at the menus. Maybe one of the specials will do it.

While he's droning on, I look at Slice looking at him. On the left side of her face is a crease. Some kind of scar from cheekbone to jaw. Not a clean line, but maybe something she got a long time ago.

I hear 'fish' and 'rice' and widen my eyes and nod like I'm interested, then watch Slice order.

"The salad, please. Mmm...the meatloaf, gravy, and...Oh, I guess the carrots. Anton?"

"The fish is fine. With, a... rice? And the vegetable. One vegetable?

"Yeah."

"Carrots are fine. I'll also go with the house salad."

The waiter gives me a twisted look. One of the many reasons I don't like restaurants.

"So, Anton, this is your first field work in a while?

"Yeah. It's been a few years. You're primarily a guide, right?"

"Yes."

"I've ran with a few. I know you've posted at a number of parks. Did you major in general services or...?"

Salad plate hits, but I don't care. Slice has this pensive thing. Is it me or...

"Geology. I was a rock major."

"You ever..."

"Its enough science, but not too much. I never did have a head for the numbers, Anton. I'm...more of an observer."

Slice is dissecting her salad.

"So, why the Arctic, Anton?"

"Huh?"

"That was your last trip. What kept you above the Arctic Circle for four months one summer?"

Slice is flipping the bits of cucumber to the edge of her plate. I avoid the olives.

"Um, loons. Summer lives of the loons."

"Which is sort of what we're doing this time. Was that all?"

"What do you mean, Slice?"

"Well, it's not exactly the islands. You like the challenge?"

I snort. Just a little snort. Don't gag on the food in your mouth.

"Yeah. Um, summer's not that cold. Its windy though. Nights get cold. The tagging was simple. The camping, getting to the different ponds, keeping the com link up. I think I was in better shape after than when I left. Yeah, I liked the challenge. Don't know how much trouble we can get into in southern Florida in only three days, though."

Slice stops chewing and pushes out a slow, warm smile. Her eyes dart to my salad plate and then she shakes her fork.

We swap cukes for olives.

When Slice takes her eyes off mine we resume eating, slowly at first.

"I know the Everglades has its own dangers, but...we're not walking into anything unusual down there, are we, Slice?"

"No, Anton. Just a 'guide thing.' I just want to know what I can expect from you."

Slice looks at me for more than a moment before digging in to the greens again.

"So, Slice. When did you...how many times were you in the Everglades?"

"Um, Grand for three years, right out of school. My first time in the 'glades was one month with a geologist."

Dropped her shoulders. Head hangs a little.

"I've been in four times since. This will be my first time birding."

"Do you..."

"Not a thing. Closest I've come is prarie dogs. I'm hoping to learn a little of the bird business from you, Anton."

The waiter bumps the table as he side-steps the host. Clearly not a four-star establishment.

"I've always wanted to get there." Slice squints at me. "The everglades; the birds, of course. Loads of birds. I was Parks ten years. Never did get on a permit to go there."

Our pal with the soup. Looks like the canned variety. Perfect cubes of carrot. Irridescent broth. I toss in the spoon, never once wanting to take my attention from Slice.

As I add the crackers and ice cube to my soup I hang on to Slice, in words and body. Its been a while since I had to get to know someone new so quickly.

'Had to' is the wrong word, though.

Must have been hours. We putter over the dessert plate far longer than expected by the waiter. He gave up refilling our drinks about an hour ago. Slice and I split a piece of carrot cake. I love the orange cake. She had a need for the sour cream frosting.

"I'm glad I'm going in with you, and not Steve Tegue. Well respected researcher, but...Anton, how many days do you think we'll need to tag all the loons?"

"Nights."

"Huh?"

"We tag them at night. Three ought to do it. Three have to: that's all the time we have. Why?"

"Could we do it in two?"

"Why two? I guess, with both of us. Why two?"

Laura pulls her fork tines through what's left of her frosting like a rake.

"How would you like to make a little side trip? A little adventure. A chance to see what's beyond Nine-Mile Pond."

As my heart skips a beat, I take a deliberate breath.

"Uh, what do you mean? What..."

"Do you have a few minutes to check something out?"

"Yeah. What?"

Slice scrunches to the left. Guess we're leaving.

"We done here?"

I point at the plate with my hand, palm turned up.

"Oh, yeah."

I roll onto one side of my butt as I reach for my wallet.

"Don't. Nick's picking it up."

"OK."

On the way through the lobby I look through the glass double doors to the parking lot.

"I need fuel before..."

Slice holds my elbow, slowing my turn towards the doors.

"We're not...we're...its upstairs."

I blink.

"Oh."

Without much thought, I push my body straight down the hallway.

"Where we going, Slice?"

"My room."

"And, what's up there?"

"Well, a mess, AND what I need to show you."

We bounce short glances off each other.

"Dinner went that well?"

Now she's red. Slice slaps at the back of my arm.

"Oh, Anton. Dinner WAS good, though."

I can't help keeping her in my eye as Slice hits the "up" button. I'm not thinking what I should be thinking. What should I be thinking? 'Really seeing the Everglades.' And why do the tagging in two days?

All the way up on the elevator we're quiet. I can't see her because I am staring at the elevator doors like I should be.

Nine, Ten.

I peek a look at Slice. As her head turns towards mine I snap my attention forward.

Too much silence.

"Slice?"

"Mmm?"

The door opens and we step onto the nineteenth floor.

"There's something really unique to see from Florida next week, Anton."

'From'? We both turn right. Down the hall, over the tacky carpet, through the cheesy music. She smiles, mouth closed, and slows her pace to a stagger. She politely collides with the wall, slowly bumping her way along it. I keep pace with her in slow, deliberate steps, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe...

"So what is it we're..."

"I think you'll find it cool. I'm betting you will. If not, I'll ask that you forget it ever came up. But I think you'll like it." Slice pushes open the door and the light turns on. The room is strewn with clothes and hiking gear. A laptop is on the round work table. Some old books are on the bed. Rolled up maps or something stand upright in the far corner. "Come in. Find a seat, if you can."

Slice waves her arms in the general direction of the junk in the room. I sit in the chair by the table, a double-folded jacket pushing me out to the edge of the seat. Slice moves towards me and reaches for the computer on the table. After tapping at the keys a series of photos fill the screen, first four pictures at once, then each one on its own, filling the flat-panel display.

"These are from the Sagan Telescope."

It looks like a comet. Small and curved and blurry. Like an upturned comma; a twisted raindrop. Like Slice's smile.

"This is Markov-Teinler-1, or MT1. It was discovered early last century by Gregor Markov. Teinler measured its orbit a few days later and determined its inclination and orbital period."

It gets real silent. I ignore the screen and turn to look at Slice. Her brow is wrinkled and her eyes slightly crossed.

"Ooo, sorry. Teinler calculated its path around the sun; distance, period of revolution, and so on."

More tapping on the flat keyboard.

"They name the comet for the discoverer and the one who does the numbers."

Slice looks back at the screen and squats down to tabletop level, angeling her head up and shifting side-to-side. Probably glare. An arched arm and deliberate tap and the four images cycle on the monitor once again.

"Funny thing was that it was supposed to return in 1975. It didn't. No one could find it. Teinler died soon after his work and his original data never was found. Astronomers have been looking for MT1 for years, but...

Then, the Sagan was scanning binary systems and, there in the foreground was a comet. They thought it was new, but the orbital path matched MT1's. It turns out the period, the, um, time it takes to orbit around the sun was bigger than they thought. Guess they had the wrong Teinler numbers last century."

Somewhat interesting. I try to picture the little lost comet wandering aimlessly through open space, silently eluding the expecting, watchful eyes of the people in the heart of the disco era. I open my mouth, waiting for words, but I hesitate.

Slice has been studying me. She settles in on the corner of the bed and slouches, arms lazily crossed on her knees. I stand up a little and twist the clunky wooden chair around to face her.

"Wanna go see MT1?"