The three were cordially escorted out of the study and into the dining room by their hosts, Dr. Berling and Mr. Lancolm. The burl table was set out colorfully, again with flowers, and there were turquoise-backed leather chairs awaiting the guests. The hallway featured Native American geometric-designed rugs accenting the wooden floors. Much of the house was interior decorated with Native American motifs and Tuwa immediately commented on the tasteful arrangements.

"Lovey choices of décor," she said, as everyone took seats around the table.

"My wife Kyah, is from the Hopi tribe," Mr. Lancolm informed his guests. "She studied Interior design and architecture at the University of New Mexico. Actually she also had a big hand in designing our home."

"Nice work, Kyah," Michael commented, taking off his backpack to sit more comfortably. He placed it safely under the table, between his feet while everyone was looking around the room.

"Thank you," the hostess responded. Now, I understand we are represented by the Zuni and a  Hopi sister here this evening," She said this obviously tactically informed by her husband.

"That's right," Tuwa said. "We're among the best of our people."

"Well . . . we'll just excuse Blake here, for his . . . Yankee blood tonight, Michael commented in jest."

Everyone laughed while Blake looked down at his plate and blushed.

"That's alright, Blake . . . I've been called far worse at these gatherings," Dr. Berling responded, with an ample amount of empathy.

Again laughter.

"So what can we bring you all to drink with your water?" Kyah asked." Beer, wine, some juice?

"The breweries here in Colorado are beginning to surpass the wineries," Mr. Lancolm added. "I can offer you a brew of my favorite. Uncle Jacob's Stout. It's the only beer I know of aged in oak bourbon barrels."

Blake was suddenly back with the group, nodding at the chance to taste a beer he had never heard of.

"On the other hand, we have excellent red and white wines from our cellar. Both favorites of Kyah."

"I'll try the red, Tuwa said graciously, and Michael nodded in simple agreement at her choice."

"Dr. Berling? The usual for you? Now, watch. He'll probably decline a beer with me and have Kyah's favorite . . . a bottle of red from that old vineyard near Sedona.

"You guessed right, Peter. Kyah has excellent taste."

"Well alright then," he concluded. "Hon, you need a hand bringing that out?"

Kyah raised her eyebrow subtly to signal she would have no difficulty in doing so and excused herself to fetch everyone's libation. Mr. Lancolm got up and filled everyone's crystal water glass and then sat down, prepared to speak.

"Well now. I believe it was you, Tuwa, who asked about the group Berling and I are associated with."

"Exactly," she said taking a long sip of her water. This signaled everyone to do the same.

"As you and Michael know, all too well, the U.S. government's presence here in the Southwest spans centuries. And not particularly favorably to the Native American peoples . . . whose land this has always been. But since the unprecedented events following World War Two, occurring to the south in the desert region, a massive cover-up was begun. It was deemed necessary by Truman and his Majestic Twelve advisors. From then on, the curtain came down on alien recognition, and any credible knowledge of the phenomena by the public."

"You see," Dr. Berling weighed in, "over the past several years a group of concerned scientists, sociologists, anthropologists . . . and let's face it, the well-to-do who are concerned with this mismanagement of the truth, have mobilized. We all have the power to change things by getting involved."

"This includes specific experts who want to get active settling the score," Lancolm added. "People willing to help walk back the lies and disinformation they get from the government propaganda machine. And frankly, all those who have every right for the truth to be told to them."

"You see, all of us at this table know we are certainly not alone in the universe, nor were we ever," Berling continued. "There's tons of evidence now . . . more than ever to support this, yet there are hidden halls of government that support a military mandate. A position to persist in its hawkish, silent vigilance toward alien presence. And especially its insulting treatment of the public. As if we are all children."

"So how large is your group?" Michael asked, placing a foot gently on his backpack. "And what progress are you making with these efforts?"

"Nationally we are gaining traction monthly. With scholars like you from Yale," Berling said. "Archaeologist like myself and Tuwa here, from practically every state. People who have worked within the black-op programs, now retired and willing to talk. We have mobilized strongly these past five years, getting out to donors and advocates like Mr. Lancolm, here, who have considerable resources. There are plenty of signs the military is nervous about our operations." 

"This also includes people with political clout to get in and influence the public. The politicians and media to get minds curious. People who will get questions asked. Human resources able to bring together overwhelming evidence."

"Yes. And evidence is the thing,' Mr. Lancolm said, now dramatically. "It's exactly why I'm going to present to all of you that surprise I spoke of this evening. Though it will most likely impact our young Yankee-blooded friend here, Mr. Blake."

Again Mr. Lancolm was staring directly into Blake's face. Only this time he was holding back a look of anticipation.

"Me?" Blake said, suddenly alert for anything unexpected.

The host took from his pocket a cell phone and pushed a single key . . . He spoke softly into it under his breath.

"William? You ready to come down?"

Blake stopped breathing. Everyone was perplexed, not knowing what was about to happen.

After a moment of dead silence and while no one moved, an elderly man appeared in the hallway and walked energetically into the dining room. He had long gray hair, a tan, almost youthful face—and a familiar appearance to a certain one of the unexpecting guests.

"Blake . . . I'd like to introduce you to your father, Mr. William Henderson!"

Blake remained unmoving and speechless as the elderly man walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Hello son . . . As you can see, I'm still alive as the Joshua trees in California."

Blake blinked only twice, then slowly put his hand on the warm, calloused hand resting on his shoulder.

"We have a lot to share, my boy, " his father said. "A lot to catch up on."

Everyone was still in a state of mild shock when Dr. Berling broke the silence.

"Blake? Did you ever for a moment think you'd be dinning with your father tonight?"

Blake's eyes had welled up with tears and he wiped them quickly with his other hand.

"So  . . . he never was . . ." Blake whispered.

"He's quite an amazing man," Lancolm added. "You've probably learned that since coming to Farmington to see what he had done. He's been most instrumental with our mission . . . what it is we stand for. Amassing evidence for years. It's what we're all trying to accomplish, Blake. You should be very proud of him."

* * *