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Maybe it was just a coincidence — same name, same face. The world couldn't possibly line up coincidences that neatly.
And yet, the moment Henry saw her, he couldn't help thinking: Oh, hell.
The woman before him was stunning.
Long, golden waves of hair framed a face too symmetrical to be real. Her eyes were a piercing sky-blue, her body athletic and flawlessly proportioned — lean muscle wrapped in soft curves. Every line of her was the textbook definition of the all-American beauty.
They met in a cozy café that also served breakfast. Barbara Morse — or rather, Miss Barbara Morse — had arrived early and was halfway through a plain bagel and a steaming cup of black coffee.
She wore a rose-mauve long-sleeved tee that read: "ASK ME ABOUT MY FEMINIST AGENDA."
Jeans, sneakers, and a brown wool coat draped over the back of her chair completed the look. A knitted cap peeked from the coat pocket — practical, stylish, effortlessly casual.
It wasn't hard to spot her. That brown coat had been the agreed-upon signal, and besides, there was only one customer in the café.
Henry walked over. "Miss Barbara Morse? I'm Henry Brown — Gary sent me. I'll be your guide in Los Angeles."
Barbara stood to greet him, smiling warmly as she extended her hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Brown. Please, call me Bobbi."
("Bobbi," short for Barbara — the nickname fit her far too well.)
Social etiquette dictated that the man never initiate contact, but since she'd offered, Henry politely returned the handshake. "Then just call me Henry."
They sat. She gestured to the plate. "Have you eaten yet?"
"Not yet," Henry replied with a grin, waving down the waiter. "I'll have the same, thanks."
It was good manners — when meeting someone new, you didn't let them eat alone, nor make them wait while you did. A matching breakfast was the safe, neutral choice.
A few minutes later his order arrived. The bagel was dry as dust, but Henry made short work of it. Soon both of them had only coffee cups left on the table.
"So," he began, "you're visiting L.A. for winter break?"
"Yup."
"From Georgia Tech?"
Her lips curved mischievously. "Don't I look the part? Let me guess — you saw the blonde hair and figured I was a ditz. That's Playboy's fault, you know. Cultural damage."
Henry laughed, shaking his head. "Not at all. But let's be honest — getting into Georgia Tech isn't exactly easy. It's one of the big three, right up there with MIT and Caltech.
"Those places don't hand out diplomas for charm or family donations. Takes real brains just to survive the coursework, let alone graduate.
"So forgive me for being curious about what kind of genius it takes to pull that off. Especially since I don't even have a high-school diploma myself."
(Not a lie. Being an alien didn't exactly come with a formal education record.)
Barbara chuckled. "Oh, just a shallow blonde bimbo, that's all. You wouldn't believe how many times I've been walking through campus and some guy strolls up like, 'Hey, are you visiting? Want me to give you a tour?'"
Henry grinned. "That just proves you make a hell of a first impression. If you were ordinary, those Georgia Tech geniuses wouldn't dare try."
"Oh?" She cocked an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment on my looks?"
"Any virtue deserves appreciation," Henry said easily. "You can't expect people to notice how clever you are at first glance — unless you're bald and look like a professor. You know, the classic shiny-scalp academic type."
"Ugh." Barbara made a face. "That's depressing."
"Exactly. So take the compliment with a smile."
He leaned back slightly, studying her. "Gary mentioned you came to L.A. to check out Hollywood. Were you serious about that?"
"Why not? You don't think I have the right look?" she teased.
"On the contrary." Henry gestured vaguely. "But with your brain, there are a dozen easier ways to succeed than fighting through that circus. Look at Hollywood — it's full of dropouts and dreamers. Most of them come because they can't make it anywhere else."
Barbara tilted her head. "So you're saying Hollywood has no scientific prodigies at all? Don't you dare use Hedy Lamarr as an example — engineers still laugh about that one."
Henry chuckled. "Hey, I actually like Hedy Lamarr. But let's be real — her 'genius inventor' reputation was mostly PR polish.
"She was smart, sure, curious, self-taught. But aside from the frequency-hopping idea, none of her inventions made it far. The woman was a great actress, not a trained engineer.
"Her famous design — the torpedo communication system — was purely conceptual. There were no transistors, no integrated circuits back then. You couldn't cram eighty-eight radios into a torpedo and expect it to work.
"It's like a sci-fi writer describing a starship using gravity drives and antimatter cores — all theory, zero practicality."
He took a sip of his coffee and smiled. "But you, Bobbi, you actually have the skill set to build the starship. If you truly wanted to chase Hollywood, you'd know better than to waste your time on the wrong track."
Barbara laughed softly. "Wow. I can't even argue with that. Don't get me wrong — I adore Hedy Lamarr, but yes, the science community tends to… overpraise her contributions."
Henry nodded. Of course you would know that, he thought. Agent Morse — the scientist who became a spy.
But aloud, he only smiled and said, "Then it seems we agree on at least one thing — brilliance deserves honesty, not myth."
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