Satellite

By David Michael Brown

What has the Russian Satellite been doing to us?

A fired weatherman is asked to debug an old abandoned satellite left over from the collapse of the Soviet Union. Considered a dead-end project, Abner Trendel is thrown on the project with a team of rejects from the University of Ohio.

When they discover the satellite's metaphysical properties and a mysterious signal that showers down on humans below, they find themselves in a race against other world governments who try to hack into it for control.

This well-researched novel pieces together information that asks: Does this technology already exist?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Brown
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201811679

Book preview

PROLOGUE

MOSCOW, USSR: 1979

The pounding at the double doors of the mansion jostled the Russian comrade from his meditative night watch. A muffled voice rose from the other side above the white noise of rain and shouted between knocks in Russian, [I have my soul to give to Grigory!] By the second thud, the guard already had his AK-47 gripped and steadied, ready to shoot. Pound-pound-pound! "I have my soul to give to Grigory!" It repeated.

Volyov, again. Recognizing the voice, he let out a huge sigh of annoyance, propping his firearm against the wall and approaching—a mix of relief and anxiety from the stress of the pleading from the other side. Wanting to believe it was nothing truly urgent, he pushed back any subconscious concerns.

When the pounding and yelling continued, his brow furrowed. This time feels different. He could hear its knockers jostle and clink after each pound of the fist. For Saint Pytor’s sake, Volyov. Volyov’s voice was becoming more strained and urgent, raising in pitch and dropping out completely from the strain on his vocal chords. The knocker was about to lose his voice completely.

The echoed creaking of doors opening and curious footsteps approaching from upstairs added to the comrade’s tension. He would now have a small audience.

The comrade flipped opened the 1930s rectangular spy hole allowing the tenant and visitor naked-eye contact. He felt a jolt of adrenaline and terror when he saw Volyov’s grin of ecstasy and the blood oozing like paint out of his left eye socket, fighting with the rain for the canvas of his face. The soldier in him kicked into action. Swinging the door opened, he found himself staring into the dismembered eyeball Volyov was proudly presenting at his fingertips. His crooked-finger grasp was knurly since his command over his nervous system was spasmodic. The slightest bump and the eye would have popped out of his fingers.

The comrade lunged back to the desk, grabbing the phone and hitting the red button at the end of a row beneath the new touch-tone to which the facility had just upgraded. [Hold on! Wait, Volyov, Wait!] His Russian was frantic and fearful. He cried for help from the staff.

The rotund and balding Dr. Jutsky Pushkin pranced down the steps, slapping his robe closed.

◆◆◆

Dr. Grigory Chersky was holed up and asleep on his napping cot under the fluorescents of his lab in the basement. A phone ringing in the middle of the night had to be Volyov hunting for his comfort, even though Volyov’s particular mode of insanity was that he was almost never sad. Everyone had known him to randomly stare deeply into their eyes and for certain individuals, he would hold and caress their face as a tear would roll down his own smiling cheek. Ironically, these people were usually in a reclusive frame of mind, wanting to shun any form of human contact, let alone the laying of fingertips upon their faces. His approach had always been uncomfortable but his connection with them and release had always somehow lifted their spirits.

The night the pounding awoke them, the hundred fifty-three science residents that had been there long enough knew: Volyov again. Up until that moment, they had been sound asleep, cozying up to nature’s pitter-patter of the downpour on the roof.

Volyov Chersky was prone to outbursts anytime day or night, especially when he wanted to find his brother, Grigory.

One would think Dr. Grigory Chersky would put Volyov in an asylum but he loved his brother too much and even though Volyov was just a few years younger than Grigory, at age fifty Grigory still considered Volyov his little brother. Lacking the ability to interact and socialize with the rest of society normally, Volyov would always be Grigory’s bonsai tree. Sensitive love and nurturing were required to keep him from growing out of control, withering, and dying. The idea of putting him in an institution in 1979 Soviet Union was unimaginable. Besides, since this latest technological development unbeknownst even to his employer—the Soviet government—was based on what could be driving Volyov’s perpetual state of manic euphoria, the Doctor felt that it would give Volyov a sense of self-worth to loiter in the lab, watching his little brother’s progress.

Before he could even answer the comrade was panicking—almost crying on the phone. He sputtered the words out in Russian. [Doctor Chersky! He ripped it out!]

His eye? Grigory asked in disbelief. The sound of the phone handset dropping on the other end and shouting commotion for help was all he needed to hear. Hindsight welled anger within him. He threw the handset across the room, yanking the phone off the desk with a pounding clang and a resonating ring from its bells inside. He hesitated.

The voice of his colleague, Dr. Pushkin, emitted from the receiver on the floor. Grigory, re-attach, or...?

◆◆◆

––––––––

Minutes later, the comrade skidded in the rain to a stop in front of another large house, though not as large as the Chersky mansion. The lights were already on, reflecting noisily off the wet driveway. He ran through the grass to the front door, which was opened with anticipation by Dr. Timur Mendeleev, who paused to lock eyes with the soldier. Both gawked at each other in disbelief. Despite the rush and urgency in the circumstances, Mendeleev gracefully held out his hand with a washcloth over it and the comrade gingerly bequeathed unto the Doctor, a tiny stainless-steel container freezing to the touch with misty condensation floating off towards earth. Having released the frostbiting container, the soldier removed a cloth of protection from his own hand, freeing it up for a quick salute. Usually a salute is followed with an immediate departure but the youth’s curiosity paralyzed his muscles for a moment as he gave the container one more glance, wondering what would happen to it from here and why was it transported to this scientist’s dark and lonely home rather than the O.R. where Volyov Chersky was receiving treatment for loss of an eye.

At the O.R., the support staff looked on in horror and wonder as the doctor positioned the last of four tiny forceps, holding the lids open so he could suction, clean, and suture the central retinal artery at the back of the gaping socket. Although the staff had seen many derangements of the body, their horror and wonder arose from the fact that their patient was calm—even blissful—and without anesthetic.

All he could do was whisper softly in Russian, as if with relief, Bozhi glaza. Bozhi glaza.

SIGNING OFF

‘That’s it? That’s all that happens after you topple from grace? We lose our rubies and rations?’ Marshall smirked. ‘Woe is me.’ - Sophie Avett, Twas the Darkest Night *Darkest Hour Saga, #1)

FALL 2013

Yeah, that was me. I was that meteorologist...or weatherman...or meteorologist, no weatherman. While pacing to the TV station, cold hands dug into his pockets, Abner Trendel’s brain was replaying images of himself confessing to some Joe at the bar next to him. This would all be spoken, of course with a tired whisky-sour buzz. Then, the unwelcomed conversation with a guy slightly more drunk would ensue.

"Hey man, they did you wrong," the friend in Abner’s imaginary scenario would say. I liked you. You were the best weather guy on TV...  And then, depending on how much he had to drink, he might add, "...ever." And then if he had even more to drink that would produce one more "ever."

◆◆◆

At that moment, his wife had the TV on in her hair salon. Shyla had always appreciated a sense of humor to break up the monotony of marketing moronity in our society, so she couldn’t help but name it, Delicuts Hair Salon. And no, she did not serve cold-cut finger sandwiches while her customers had their hair done but she had resolved to one day start doing that just to shut up the smart-asses that kept pounding the dead joke into the ground.

The phone near the register was ringing but Shyla and all of her other stylists were in the middle of various precarious procedures on their clients that could not be interrupted, or they would have to start over.

Jasmine, Shyla’s right-hand woman and No. 2 in charge, glanced over to Shyla—two pairs of brown eyes staring at each other. Jasmine found Shyla’s Farah Fawcett style hair attractive to the point of developing a friend-crush on her. They both thought it funny that they were mirror images of each other, holding locks of hair straight up on the air and the application brush for coloration clamped in their teeth while prepping the lock for another application.

The phone stopped. Must have gone to voicemail. It began ringing again.

This time, Shyla and Jasmine froze, looking at each other, wondering if the other would answer it. Jasmine, gently set her customer’s lock of hair down, and keeping her fingers spread from the chemicals coating them, grabbed a tissue and walked over to the phone. Ironically, since she was using a tissue, it was like she was in a delicatessen, picking the phone up gingerly, as if it were a donut. Delicuts Hair Sal... and then Jasmine stopped, turning her silent gaze to Shyla.

Shyla froze her work and stared at Jasmine. It was him...or her, or whoever calling. Up until now, the mystery communicator had only reached out to Shyla via text and email, since Abner’s lawsuit began with his brother a couple of years ago.

Shyla checked her phone. He did try to communicate but she hadn’t noticed it buzzing since she was in the middle of a client.

◆◆◆

Abner would never confess to Shyla that being a screw-up was ever how he imagined life after K10 at Ten. Shyla would suggest to him that despite the negative buzz of the local viewers, maybe they would decide to keep him on board. You never know, she had said. Although Abner was pretty sure, though.

Let’s find out for sure.

He approached the door and fluidly swiped his card key, putting it back into his pocket so fast, his stride was never broken. A production assistant burdening a headset stepped aside. Pardon me, Abner Trendel said, dripping with a sarcastic grin. I’m on my way to find out if I’ve been fired today! He marched down the hall and through the open set where the mannequin at the anchor desk was bantering away some local interest story about a ninety-four-year-old trick slalom water-skier. They never show the story where they break their leg.

His footsteps through the studio were brazen and audible on air.

Daryl, the mannequin anchorman, disciplined his eyes to stay fixed on the camera lens. And Abner Trendel next up with some good news in the weather right after this.

If Porter, the set director, hadn’t stepped out of his way, Ab probably would have shouldered him on his way to–-

The station manager’s door burst open. Ab locked eyes with Clancy. No words. If looks could hand you the pink slip, they just did.

Ab’s planted stance in the doorway disintegrated as his head rolled back and forth. You gotta be kid-

Like you didn’t know. Clancy’s palms were up, shoulders shrugged.

Yesterday you said, fifty-fifty! Ab didn’t care about a few quiet-on-the-set requests emanating into this hallway.

And you said you’d respect and understand whatever decision they made.

I lied!

"Oh, now it’s okay to lie? I thought that was the problem with, Clancy made the rabbit-ears gesture, ‘the hypocrites in this town’."

I wanted to see what it feels like to be like everyone else.

Porter appeared behind Ab, frantic but shout-whispering, and nose-to-nose in Abner’s face. "...and we’re on in FIVE, FOUR, THREE..."

Making no attempt to remove his fall coat or winter hat, Ab shot past Porter and bee-lined for his position in front of the green screen on set. Daryl’s Welcome-back blather crescendoed in his head as he entered the set.

◆◆◆

––––––––

Jasmine slowly hung up and silently walked over to Shyla to whisper in her ear. Someone on the phone said to turn on the TV. He...or she...or it said to watch your husband as your husband has is... Jasmine’s face crinkled. going to ‘give it to the demons?’ The voice sounds weird though, like they used a computer to disguise it. It sounded like a man but with that weird effect, there is no knowing.

Give it to the demons? What does that mean? Shyla was annoyed. Since the beginning, the mystery communicator had convinced her that if she shared particular information upon request, he could potentially help Abner. She had figured this meant with his ongoing legal battle with his brother. The mystery communicator’s tone had always been friendly, cajoling, and convincing in syntax, but this phone call was the exception.

Jasmine grabbed the remote from the countertop at her station and flipped on the TV, which was already programmed to channel K10. Abner was not on yet for the early morning live news broadcast. It was just the two annoying robot anchors chattering away some story about gang activity in South Columbus.

◆◆◆

Janice, Daryl’s co-anchor was stunned to see Ab’s appearance in front of the green screen. He had not made a single attempt to change into his set clothes. His winter cap still stood high on his head like a deflating volcano and the elbows of his winter jacket were too worn even for donation to the Salvation Army.

◆◆◆

The image of Abner in his winter clothes on camera was uncomfortable, yet Shyla was not surprised. When Abner wanted to ratchet-up the cynicism and smart-assiness, he could lay it on like no one else. For that reason, Shyla only felt uncomfortable only because it made everyone else in the salon uncomfortable thinking that she could be uncomfortable...and then compound that vibe. Such is the reality when human beings assume.

On the flat-screen perched in the upper corner near the ceiling, Daryl chuckled and forced the plastic playful humor that made someone like Abner wretch. Abner, he feigned like he couldn’t tell. What’s different? Did you lose weight?

Abner chuckled back. I lost about forty-eight thousand dollars a year!

Wide-eyed, Jasmine glanced over to Shyla who only watched out of the corner of her eye while continuing to focus on her client. Shyla did her best to continue as if it didn’t affect her.

◆◆◆

Back at the studio, fake laughter spread from the anchor desk but stopped at the boundary of the studio lighting. Everyone off camera was as stiff as an old-school Catholic nun. The word awkward suddenly became tangible at that moment.

While his body faced Ab at the green screen, Daryl glanced at the studio audience through Camera One. In case all of you are wondering out there about Abner Trendel’s appearance we can explain, he announced with a smile. But first, just to keep you in suspense, Abner will dispense with his genius in meteorology and let us know...rain, or shine?

Stiffly standing like a nutcracker statue, Ab simply sputtered in a robot-like voice, Shine, to Camera Four—the weather camera—and paused as if he was done. It was just long enough to make everyone wonder if he was losing it. His frame relaxed. Nah, just kidding. And laughter erupted in the room, more from relief than from actual comedy.

He then proceeded with the mundane weather report. He was so bored with reporting that he comically imagined Shyla at home watching him, using a vibrator as if watching him work was such a turn on. The absurd thought of it kept him bemused as he rattled off the weather with his subconscious like talking in his sleep. He had done it for so many years he could literally look at himself in front of the Chroma Keyed weather map and jabber about the weather while thinking about how much he liked the movie Good Will Hunting or whatever other stream of consciousness occupied his mind for that day.

After three and a half minutes of jaw-flapping, he finally told everyone what they were waiting to hear—it’s cold! But no rain. Springfield, Ohio definitely had no—

Hm, no rain? Really? Daryl acted puzzled like the good little robot that he was programmed to do.

Ab mocked Daryl’s exact tone and cadence, obviously making fun of his pretense. Hm, yes, Daryl, really. Intentionally acting psycho, Ab turned to his straight-shot Camera four and said ominously with widening eyes, "Oh but it will rain, Daryl. It will."

◆◆◆

By the look on Jasmine’s face, one would think Abner had gone on air in the nude. Shyla, though, used to his sense of humor snorted a laugh. She pondered the TV for a moment, watching him and gradually realized he was saying "F-it" in his head. She enjoyed his sense of humor but when she realized he was dismantling his whole relationship with the studio out of spite and negativity, her bemused smile faded. He’s doing it again. He was so negative he was throwing everything away.

◆◆◆

Daryl couldn’t help hiding his uneasiness with his bleached-toothed grin. All-righty then.

Ab couldn’t resist. Whoa, is Jim Carey in the studio?

Daryl ignored the comical invective. "Okay, folks we have some sad news. At the beginning of Abner’s weather broadcast I told you we’d explain his unusual attire and that would be because this is his last broadcast for K-Ten News."

Janice chimed in, Oh, no. Say it isn’t so, Ab.

Daryl added, Where are you heading off to, Abner?

Ab reeled his arm and pointed at Daryl like he was bowling towards him. Probably Bankruptcy Court, Daryl! But not before going to settlement with my brother in front of a judge for...  Gag order. Gag order! He shouted at himself to honor the judge’s gag order on the lawsuit with his brother. The words and story were punching at his lips to tell the truth but he could be severely counter-sued if he spoke a single utterance of the case.

Daryl kept his smile pasted tightly. "What?

"I just got out of the office with our station manager Clancy Reinhardt and he says that upper management all agreed that it was best for our relationship with the community!" The rest of his thoughts damned up silently behind his tongue—That’s right, Springfield, Ohio, we can’t have a weatherman ensnared in an ugly lawsuit with his ass-hole brother over intellectual property! But the gag order won the moment.

◆◆◆

The news suddenly switched to a commercial: "Protecting your wealth is our primary focus at Philadelphia Life..."

There was silence in the salon.

◆◆◆

Porter, the set director had already given Abner the cut sign and the Air light of the studio went dark, repeating the same commercial from their last break. Ab, we’re off.

Ab kept going. "And the lawsuit putting my credit in sewer so I have to file bankruptcy? Oh no, all the mighty job creators in this town make their living off of collecting debt from deadbeats like me! So why let a local meteorologist keep his job? No, let’s kicked the shit out of him while he’s down. Hell with’m. And that lawsuit with his brother was just tasteless! A sibling trying to mooch off another sibling’s genius. How dare he?"

It was enough to catch Daryl murmuring under his breath in a voice like Johnny Carson’s Carnac the Magnificent, Oooh boy.

Ab went on. "Who gives a shit? Yeah, this guy made some bad business decisions with his brother, who is ba-jillianaire from the idea that...that..." Gag order. Gotta shut my mouth. Gag order. Tell them. Tell them, Ab. Tell them the truth! ...that... And there was an awkward silence as Abner’s eyes panned the room, feeling the weight of eyes staring. The need to let the words run out of his mouth about the lawsuit were so palpable it almost made him vomit to hold them back. His tone changed to conceded defeat. It just didn’t work out for li’l Ab the weatherman, did it?

By now, Clancy had wondered onto set with his arms folded. Abner, we’re off air!

Ab interrupted himself to address Clancy, I know we are, Clancy! I was just getting a few things off my chest before we come back from the commercial break. Like—

Clancy’s voice elevated over Ab’s rant. Okay, but if you’re still here five seconds before we come back from break, I’m calling security.

"...like how I am getting fired over a stupid image issue!"

"Ab, you’re in television! It’s all image. And by the way, this is not helping you for referrals."

"Not worried about that. This my swan-song! I’m going down in flames, Clancy! Let’s hear it for our station manager who doesn’t have the balls to stand up and create the community standards rather than trying to second guess them with his finger to the wind which he just happened to pull out of his ass today to check. And which way does the wind of the community blow? Who the hell knows? Everyone walks on egg shells in this fake affluent town because every decision an individual makes here is based on his or her best guess at what everyone else thinks. No one has a mind of their own! Members of the Borg have more individuality than the people in this town. So, for a referrrrrrral, Clance, can you tell me what town I can go to that doesn’t believe they should fire a meteorologist because of a bankruptcy and lawsuit that has nothing to do with the station? Oh, I know, any other town other than this one!"

Porter raised his hand. "And we’re on in...

Clancy stood firm. Security!

Ab waved a quick hand up and spun around. I’m gone.

Clancy looked away for the nearest security guard and by the time he looked back on set, the door down the hall was easing itself closed, as if Abner was some sort of ghost that stopped time for everyone in the studio during his presence and then once his apparition disintegrated, business resumed to normal.

...three, two, and Porter pointed to Daryl and Janice who were in a state of suspended animation for a moment when the red light on top of the camera winked on. They were so still, a viewer at home would have thought their digital TV froze-frame for a moment.

A dark sense of humor enveloped everything he did at the station on and off camera. He had even written a self-published e-book about mankind’s mood and outlook on life linked to his relationship with nature and its whimsical climate. Despite the station manager’s repeated requests to stop with his perpetual objectification of human beings and their collective behavior, Abner could still be quoted as saying on air, ...and the weather forecast will bring three days of communal suicide watch. Statistics show that in parts of the world with this kind of consistent cloud cover, suicide rates are high. He was always certain to deliver with a brimming smile. So do your civic duty. Watch your neighbor and yourself. Make sure they don’t ‘off’ themselves. He had a summation of human behavior for every weather condition. His bosses’ trepidation though, was a double-dulled sword since it actually galvanized a loyal viewership with a congruent sense of humor and only mildly perturbed those stodgy individuals that just didn’t get it. Still, the job of the news crew was to please all viewers, not just a few cynical intellects.

◆◆◆

Abner checked the time on his phone: 2:18pm

He had a date with a judge and Godfried, the attorney of the great one-and-only, talk-of-the town, C.F. Trendel—Abner’s contentious brother. Today is the day he would find what, if any, settlement the judge might allow Abner. With the way the closed-door proceedings went it didn’t look good but Abner figured with the advice of the judge and Godfried’s legal counsel, C.F. would agree to some settlement. With any luck at all, the judge would at least lift the gag order so he could tell the rest of the world his version of the truth.

He had an hour and twelve minutes to be in the judge’s chambers. Big day. Not a lot of hope, he thought, but big day, nonetheless.

His phone plunked, notifying him of a new text message. The sender was blocked:  Pay attention to your brother’s next business deal. Happening right now. The satellite. The sender’s number was blocked.

Abner found himself standing in the middle of the TV station’s parking lot, dumbfounded and looking around. He only saw a father and little boy walking on the embankment up by the highway. Through the trees outlining the opposite side of the parking lot, a bicyclist sped by. He looked around more. He couldn’t see anyone that would have sent such a text. It was assumed that C.F. would continue to build a new empire on the cornerstone of one business deal, but why was this next business deal so important that someone had to secretly send him a message about it? What is C.F. up to?

SPACE JUNK

They gave Pandora a box. Prometheus begged her not to open it. She opened it. Every evil to which human flesh is heir came out of it. The last thing to come out of the box was hope. Kurt Bonnegut, Timequake.

Godfried Kurzweil found him peeking at C.F. Trendel’s hair as they leaned over an inch-thick legal document. C.F.’s hair was combed back and gelled to look like a shined shoe. Godfried wondered why people look in the mirror and approve of hairstyles they meticulously nurture while the rest of the world simply ponders it as an anomaly. C.F. was one of those people—hair combed back, baring his forehead and temples like he wanted to sell advertising on them. Godfried mused that maybe C.F. was combing his hair back so hard in hopes that it would stretch and meet at a focal point on the back of his head. Rake a little harder and he might be able to form a ponytail back there. Yes, that must be what he’s going for. He’s trying to grow it long enough to be that cheesy-rich-guy-that-doesn’t-need-to-follow-the-rules look. That’s what a well-groomed ponytail on a businessman was all about, wasn’t it?

Back to work. The document. The tightening of C.F.’s gelled hair across his scalp complimented jittery sweating that he exhibited day to day.

C.F.’s mouth twitched with a glistening upper lip. How much more time? The softness of his voice accentuated its nervous quiver.

Godfried glanced at his phone. Two minutes.

I guess we’ll have to go with it.

Since the lawsuit with brother Abner, Godfried noticed a change in C.F.’s nature. He now exhibited ticks of his face, a greasy complexion, darting eyes while avoiding eye contact and a general disposition where he found himself startled by the slightest of stimuli. One would think that he was coked-up like a 1980s Wall Street broker but he was not, just a lot of thoughts and feelings that he spent the last two years burying, ignoring and locking up on a rickety closet somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Godfried had thought that a soul and its conscience are never destroyed. They simply find a lockbox in the mind of its keeper.

But onto the business at hand—C.F.’s next business deal. C.F. was eager to close this one. Godfried leaned in. His offer is well below the average of what brokers like yourself out there are getting. It’s my recommendation to reject. His voice calmed C.F. in all stressful situations and that is why he would increase his pay any chance he could to keep him around. Godfried always seemed confident and at peace with himself. Opposites do attract.

But he’s my only client.

True. You will make money but it’s important to set a precedent for the future...

GOOD MORNING MY AMERICAN FRIENDS! Serj’s Russian voice shot out of unseen speakers from somewhere on the same wall as the Phillips flat screen. The image of him showed arms wide open embracing his subjects via satellite. How funny that we are using satellite to discuss satellite!

◆◆◆

––––––––

Serj Pushkin had graced Shyla’s little salon two years earlier—the very day that C.F. had invited Abner to the Entrepreneurs Banquet. Abner had been lolling in a community row boat, adrift on one of smallest lakes of REI Lakes Campground and Fishing—no camping or fishing, just deep contemplation in nature’s theater. Shyla had sent him a message that he must meet this odd big-little Russian man whose hair she was cutting. Serj talked. Shyla talked. Serj talked. And somehow Shyla found herself telling him everything. She told him how Abner had just finished a book about nature's manipulation of man's subconscious—how our emotions are held hostage more by Mother Nature's whimsical moods than we think.

◆◆◆

––––––––

In C.F.’s conference room, if Shyla would have seen him, Serj was slightly pudgier and his English had improved over the years—a few less dropped articles, but it still possessed that Russian lilt. He was a round swarthy little man with an enormous presence. His squinting dark eyes always seemed to smile but he had lines on his forehead from decades of making pragmatic business decisions. Although he liked his vodka, his nose didn’t show it—surprisingly modest for a pudgy face. His perpetual gleeful energy and pouring out of love was actually part of his repertoire of boardroom skills. It gave him an edge, especially with those that didn’t know what to do with it. The flow of his joyful energy was slightly intoxicating for those around him, which made it hard for his business counterparts to oppose. There was an ever-present feeling that if you were responsible for the disappearance of that smile from his face, what you had just done was a bad idea.

The text CONNECTION FROM: PUSHKIN INDUSTRIES blinked several times and then