Chapter 1

I step up onto the porch of a well-maintained bungalow in one of the nicer areas of town and lay my finger atop the glowing doorbell that beckons in the fading light of afternoon. The autumn air has turned cooler and I hug myself to conserve warmth as I wait.

I hope this isn’t some spoiled rich kid expecting me to write their term paper.That had become a problem lately with this internet consulting thing. But on the bright side, at least it got my nose out of a book and me out of my apartment for a change.

The door is opened by an attractive young woman about my age, or maybe a little older. As I stand there trying to take in her features without being too obvious about it, I think about how I just might be able to work up the motivation to ghostwrite one more term paper.

Her hair is kept short and neat, framing a face with a warm natural glow that she was smart enough to realize looks good without makeup. Not bad.

“Julie Jones,” she says, extending her hand. “Are you my astrophysicist? Guru.com?”

“I am. Angela Knight.” I’m treated to a firm handshake. “I have to say it’s nice to have a gig that’s local instead of over Skype for a change.”

“Well, come on in, Angela.” Julie moves aside and waves me into the living area, that is tastefully decorated to fit the style of a house that probably rents for way more than I can afford.

“I just need to finish up one thing and then we can get started,” she says.

I nod as I look around. The living area looks like a small television studio with a trio of light stands, a couple of expensive-looking digital cameras mounted on tripods, and various microphones all wired into some kind of bulky computer system.

“Can I get you a beer? Wine?” she asks, winding her way through the maze of gear.

“Hmm?” I’m still trying to figure out how someone who appears to be a college student just like me can afford this place and all this hardware. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

“Probably best. Can’t have my subject matter expert all tipsy on camera.” She hands me a bottle of water. “In case you need hydration.”

Oh God,I think momentarily. I hope this isn’t some kind of internet porn studio I just wandered into. But why would she need an astrophysicist for that?

“About the camera,” I say. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing?”

Julie takes my hand in hers and looks me in the eye. “Astrophysicist stuff,” she says, as if that explains it all.

I shudder. I don’t know why. I guess there’s just something about the casual way she touches me, like we’ve known each other for years, that throws me off balance just a little bit.

“Sorry,” Julie says, frowning as she sees me shivering. “It’s a nice place, but I don’t think the furnace has been updated since it was built. Can I get you a sweater or a fleece?”

I shake my head. She’s mistaken my nervousness for a chill and she wants to get me a sweater. That’s so adorableAnd I find myself relaxing just a little bit.

Julie drops my hand and wanders over to the area that I assume was originally designed to be the dining room, but is now crammed with more lighting rigs and electronics. On one end of the table is another camera on a short tripod, and a big professional-looking microphone, all cabled into some kind of box connected to a laptop.

As I’m mentally tallying up the price of all this gear, Julie sits down, leans into the microphone, and begins speaking. “So the question that remains,” she says. “Could it be that what appears to be a Pacific atoll is not really a chain of islands at all, but rather an extraterrestrial landing strip that has fallen into disrepair and since been reclaimed by the sea? And if so, shouldn’t the next logical question be, when will the original builders be back to make renovations to their spaceport? Until next time, I’m Julie Jones, and don’t forget to subscribe and hit that Like button.”

“Um, you hired me to talk about aliens?” I frown. “I don’t really believe in that stuff.”

Julie gets up and walks over to where I’m standing. She takes my hand in hers again. Why does she keep doing that? It’s just going to make it harder when I tell her I don’t want any part of her crackpot scheme.

“I don’t really believe it either, but my audience sure eats it up.” She gestures to a rectangular plaque on the wall, a low-relief casting of a triangle pointing to one side. “The Gold Play Button. One million subscribers. That was last spring. It’s grown since then.”

“You’re a YouTuber?”

“Mm-hmm.” She hasn’t let go of my hand yet.