“Looks like Conor was wrong,” says Sarra.
“Set up the computer,” Marcus tells her.
“It’s just a rock,” she says. “We might as well go home.”
“Just do it,” says Marcus. He doesn’t look pleased. Sarra grumbles and opens the latches on the computer case. Inside is a row of switches and dials that she turns this way and that until a high-pitched noise begins to sound from its speakers. A moment later the squeals give way to Conor’s voice as he instructs Sarra how to operate on the camera.
“There,” she says. “Happy now?”
“Woah,” says Conor as the field comes into focus.
“My words exactly,” says Jeremy.
Chatravati is silent. He simply stands and looks out at across the field with his hands in his pockets. For now he is deep in his memory of a time long, long ago.
“So… it’s just a rock, right?” Sarra asks the computer. “Naht was wrong.”
“It’s not just a rock,” says Marcus, starting down the incline towards the field. Jeremy follows and Sarra lumbers after them cradling the computer in her arms. Chatravati is the last to descend, pausing to take out a handkerchief that he uses to mop the sweat from his silvery beard.
The field is edged by the rotted remains of a wooden fence that might have once kept intruders off the land. Marcus kicks it with his foot and the planks crumble away. Once they’re inside Sarra places the grey box on the ground. Conor’s voice crackles in thanks over the speakers. “I’m running analytics on the rock now,” he says.
“What can you tell just by looking at it?” asks Jeremy.
“The grey box feeds more data to Conor than we can see with our own eyes,” explains Marcus.
“That’s right,” says Conor. “I can see infrared, radio waves, atomic juxtaposition, mineral composition, magnetic resonance; detect temporal threading , audio-spatial anomalies…”
“He made half of those up,” says Sarra rolling her eyes.
“Did not,” Conor answers back. “Audio-spatial anomalies are often referred to as the Oz Effect and are one of the most commonly reported phenomena associated with UFOs. It’s when–”
“It’s not a UFO,” says Sarra exasperatedly, cutting him off. “It’s a big, stupid rock and I want to go home and I want to stop for a possum burger on the way.”
“Don’t turn around,” says a croaky old voice from behind them that can only belong to an old man. “I’ve got a rifle.”
And all four of them hear it go click-clack.