First Contact (17 page)

H
ELEN
A
RGO
-L
IPSCHUTZIAN WAS DOWN
,
but not out. As her adversary had done, she stepped out from behind her lectern. “Mr. Nene-Zinkelreen would like to make truth the issue, but truth is not the issue here. We do not propose to suppress the truth. Professor Fendle-Frinkle is free to research and write about anything he wants. The question here is what he should teach our children. Of course we should teach them the truth. But not every truth!

“Imagine a lion lives outside my home and every evening it waits in the bushes ready to lay siege and eat my children. Every evening I stay awake to defend my home. Sometimes I have vicious life-and-death battles with the lion. Even the nights when the lion does not attack leave me exhausted. I never sleep soundly. I understand the consequences of any lapse in vigilance.

“If all of this were the case, it would certainly be true that a lion was trying to eat my children, but I still would not tell them because I would want them to feel safe and secure. That is what I want here, to make our children feel safe and secure. For this I make no apologies.”

At this point, Helen also accepted a glass of punch that was offered to her. The presence of the beverage annoyed her. It appeared Edith Dradel-Hanukean had arranged the drink, which thus became, in Helen’s mind, another example of Edith butting in and criticizing her presidency in a passive-aggressive way.

O
F COURSE
, H
ELEN
A
RGO
-L
IPSCHUTZIAN
did not use the word “lion” since there are no lions on Rigel-Rigel. She used the example of a tongolarish, which is a menacing, catlike creature with a voracious appetite and the annoying habit of killing large creatures, gorging on their entrails, and then leaving the carcass in the most inconvenient of places.

It was somewhat disingenuous for Helen to make this argument. The Argo-Lipschutzians lived in a swanky suburb. The prospect of a tongolarish lying in wait in the backyard of their home was as implausible as the idea of a lion lurking in an American suburb. But the notion, however far-fetched, would be equally disturbing to a child on either planet.

T
HERE ARE SOME OBVIOUS
similarities between the Rigel Prep PTA meeting and the debate over the teaching of evolution in public schools, which came famously to a head during the aforementioned trial of twenty-four-year-old science teacher John Scopes in Rhea County, Tennessee in 1925, with the notable difference that no one on Rigel-Rigel believes in God.

I like to think if I had been around at the time of the Scopes trial that I would have been on the side of the evolutionists. I must confess, though, I have considerable sympathy for Helen’s argument. Evolution is a young theory, and was even younger at the time of the Scopes trial. It’s not young by the measure of a human life, but measured against the enormity of the universe, it is a mere infant. It certainly seems better than any of the competing crackpot ideas, but we have to at least acknowledge, I think, that one hundred fifty years may not be adequate time to conclusively demonstrate the validity of any idea. And with respect to evolution specifically, one can hardly deny that in the time since Darwin first advanced his theory, many people have not evolved at all.

I also have some sympathy for Helen’s instinct to protect children. Like Helen, I live in a fairly nice suburb, so it’s unlikely I shall ever see a lion or a tongolarish in my backyard, but if I did, I would not tell my children. All in all, I think it is better for kids to have a sense of security, even if it is false.

For many children, this sense of security comes from belief in the existence of a gentle and benevolent God. When I was a kid, I did not believe in God and hence used to worry about all kinds of things, including my parents’ death, my own death, nuclear war, and dust mites. Sometimes, I would step out of time and view human life as the universe sees it. From the subjective perspective of a human being, things often appear to move quite slowly. When you’re waiting on line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, for example, life moves at the pace of a snail. But from the standpoint of the universe that time in line is just a blip; our lives are nothing more than a flickering light. The universe views our lives in the same way we might see the life of an amoeba or a nematode. This may all be true, but these kinds of thoughts aren’t exactly the recipe for a happy childhood, or adulthood for that matter.

As a result of this gestalt I obsessed about the meaning of life.
My imagination fixated on obscure and macabre aspects of growing older. For example, I wrote a short story about a middle-aged Jewish vampire named Nosferatu Rabinowitz. Nosferatu Rabinowitz is immortal, which is nice, but has problems with his prostate and needs to go to the bathroom three times a day. Since he cannot leave the coffin in which he sleeps he is forced to pee into an apple juice bottle. Several of these themes, including the many problems associated with underwear, have disturbingly recurred in my writing, which makes me wonder whether things would have turned out better if I had just believed in God as a child.

B
ACK AT THE MEETING
,
Maude sat in the rear of the room, prepared to speak up in defense of Professor Fendle-Frinkle. But no one rumbled in approval after Helen finished her analogy to the tongolarish. Maude sensed a change in the tenor of the meeting. Everyone seemed to be more subdued.

Arnold had a response to Helen’s argument, but all of a sudden he didn’t feel the importance of becoming a young Lionel Hut-Zanderian. For her part, Helen no longer believed in the importance of PTAs. Everyone just sat for a while in silence, sipping their punch, until finally Helen asked whether anyone had anything else to say.

Only Professor Fendle-Frinkle did, and he stepped forward and took the podium. One peculiar fact in this strange story is that neither Arnold Nene-Zinkelreen nor Helen Argo-Lipschutzian nor anyone else had ever asked Professor Fendle-Frinkle what he thought about the situation. These remarks by the Professor were his first public comments on the issue.

What he said was this: “I’ll teach something else. It’s no big deal.”

N
OW, YOU ARE PROBABLY
thinking the Professor’s comments were the product of the punch, but he had not had anything to drink at the meeting. He had eaten dinner at home. Specifically, he had eaten a TV dinner and had a Dr Pepper to drink. He ate in the basement under the dripping pipe because his wife was having a Tupperware party upstairs.

N
EEDLESS TO SAY, THE
product was not called Tupperware.

T
HIS SENTIMENT—THAT IT
wasn’t a big deal—resonated with the assembly. They were satisfied with the Professor’s answer and inclined to drop the matter at that, though they might also have been satisfied with allowing him to continue to speak. Everyone at the PTA meeting just felt less energized about everything. It was as if the air had been let out of the room. This is how it is sometimes with PTAs. They get all agitated about something and then, just as quickly, they can’t remember what it was they were agitated about in the first place.

The parents began to filter quietly out of the auditorium. Several felt, strangely, a craving for pound cake.

T
HE MORNING AFTER THE
dinner with the Ambassador, the President convened a meeting of the senior staff in the Roosevelt Room. Ralph knew it was serious because the President also invited to the meeting the National Security Advisor and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Even the breakfast was on the grim side: miniature cheese Danish and decaffeinated coffee. Strangest of all, the President arrived on time. He entered the room, gestured for everyone to remain seated, and solemnly said, “I want to develop some military options for responding to the alien threat.”

This comment took Ralph, David Prince, Joe Quimble, and Martha Jones each by surprise. They were not expecting to hear words like “military” and “threat.” They were expecting to hear words and phrases like “cooperation,” “good fortune,” and “historic opportunity.”

The disconnect between what they had expected to be said and
what was said was so great the group was stunned into silence. And they all knew the President could be quite obstinate once he made up his mind about something, as it appeared from his resolute expression he had on this issue. So the group sat quietly for a while, all a bit uncomfortable, except for Len Carlson, who seemed not to be bothered at all.

Finally, timidly, Joe Quimble asked why military options were being developed. “These people seem quite nice,” he said.

“These people are our enemies,” the President said direly.

Quimble said, “They have done nothing to suggest they pose any danger to us or that they mean any harm.”

“These aliens are evil.”

“How can you say that?”

“I believe it to be true,” said the President. “I slept on it last night, and I know it to be true.”

“But what evidence is there for this?”

“I do not need evidence,” he said derisively. “I prayed on this and God told me the aliens are evil and a threat to humanity.”

David Prince, who rarely spoke at these meetings, spoke next. He said, “There’s a certain irony here, Mr. President. One of the lessons the Ambassador tried to share with us is the danger of relying on faith over empiricism. Is it wise or even permissible to make policy on the basis of prayer and messages from God?”

“Should I ignore something I believe to be true and authentic?”

“Even you must admit, sir, this is a substantial leap of faith.”

The President frowned. He said, “Let me ask you a question, David.”

“Sir.”

“You were a history professor before you came to work for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Do you know much about physics?”

“No, sir,” David said. “Nothing at all.”

“And have you ever flown in an airplane?”

“Of course, sir, many times.”

“If you don’t know anything about physics then I don’t suppose you have any idea how airplanes work, do you?”

David thought about it briefly. “Only in the vaguest sense,” he said.

“For example, you don’t know anything about jet engines, do you?”

“No.”

“And you don’t know anything either about the principles of aerodynamics, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“And yet you fly in airplanes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That sounds like a substantial leap of faith to me, son.”

T
HIS BECAME THE SECOND
time in as many days that the President impressed Ralph and David Prince with the quality of his argument. It seemed as if the President’s rhetorical powers improved when the discussion touched upon matters close to his heart. Nevertheless, Ralph believed a distinction could be drawn between the leap of faith involved when one boarded an airplane and the leap the President had made regarding the true nature of the Ambassador and his people. Even if one does not understand engine mechanics or aerodynamics, lots of evidence suggests airplanes work. People fly in airplanes all the time and arrive quickly and unharmed in fun places such as Bali and Seattle. On the other hand, the President had no evidence from which to conclude the Ambassador meant humans harm.

But the President may have been onto something about the necessity of belief. It is not as if no basis exists to believe in God. The world is improbable and fantastic in all sorts of ways. And, besides, life would be difficult to manage if a person required complete understanding of everything he or she did or verification of the safety of every product used. Like many people, Ralph had no idea how almonds, which are naturally poisonous, had become safe to eat. But he liked them all the same and would have been sad to lose them as a snacking option.

E
VEN THE FIERCELY LOYAL
Martha Jones challenged the President on this course of reasoning. “Sir,” she said, “we don’t have any evidence the Ambassador is, as you put it, evil.”

“Don’t we?” the President asked. “The Ambassador acknowledged that he met with the leaders of many different nations around the world. This clearly implies he met with many of our enemies.
He may also have met with the heads of terrorist organizations. He tricked us into consuming a mind-altering substance. And he showed a lack of respect, if not disdain, for our beliefs. You may question whether that’s evil, but it sure isn’t good.”

“This is a tenuous conclusion at best,” she replied. “Shouldn’t we wait until we’re sure about the aliens’ intent?”

“I am not willing to have an academic debate about whether these people are our friends or not. I am not a fence-sitter. I recognize evil when I see it. When I do, I act swiftly.”

“But, sir,” Joe Quimble said, “even if you do question their motives, what reason do we have to think they have the capacity or the desire to destroy us?”

“Well, I don’t think capacity is a question,” the President said. “I presume if these people have the means to gallivant about the universe with their peculiar desserts then they also have the means to destroy our puny planet. As for whether or not they intend to use their weapons against us, I don’t intend to wait around and find out. I don’t believe I have any obligation to let my enemy strike me before I defend myself, particularly when that enemy is grossly stronger. We’re going to get them before they get us.”

“But, sir,” Joe Quimble interjected again, with the aim of saying more.

The President waved him off. “This is what a leader does, son,” he said. “He acts on his best judgment. This is my best judgment. The American people and, indirectly, the people of Earth have put their faith in me. I am going to protect them from what I know in my heart to be a danger.”

T
HE
P
RESIDENT’S STATEMENT PRESENTS
the interesting philosophical question whether one has the right to hit someone whom he thinks has the inclination to hit him before the person actually hits him first. The people of Rigel-Rigel believed the contrary. They only used force when force was used upon them, and then only the minimal amount of force necessary. I am inclined toward that position, but once again feel some ambivalence, in part because of a personal experience.

The incident in question occurred in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, the heart of the Berkshires, at a diner that serves some very nice pie. I was eating lunch and began to fancy a piece of apple
crumb, which happens to be the house specialty. Normally I would have waited to finish lunch to order the pie since it is a bit strange to order dessert while still in the middle of a tuna melt and crinkle cuts, but I had noticed that only one piece of the apple crumb remained. The diner has many kinds of pies, including a more than decent strawberry rhubarb, but none are on par with the apple crumb, and they were out of rhubarb anyway. Even still, I ordinarily would have waited and taken my chances the apple crumb would be there when I finished lunch.

On this day, though, I noticed a man sitting at the lunch counter eyeing the apple crumb with what could only be described as a lean and hungry look about him. I could not prove he was eyeing the apple crumb specifically, of course. He might have been looking at the peach pie, or the Boston cream, or any of the dozens of others. He might just have liked looking at the pie carousel in general, watching its mesmerizing perpetual slow turn. But in my heart I knew he wanted that last piece of apple crumb, and I did not take any chances. I may not have had the moral right to act first or on the basis of a faith-based belief, but nevertheless I launched a preemptive strike. I did not even wait for the waiter. I got up from my table, went over to the carousel, and took that last piece of pie.

I
ALSO BELIEVE, WITHOUT
any supporting evidence, that cats are evil.

I
FURTHER BELIEVE DOGS
are intrinsically good. While I cannot present an overwhelming empirical case in support of this conviction, I can at least offer a story I saw on
Animal Planet
about a sweet beagle who ran two miles to get help for his owner, who was having a heart attack. This may not be much to go on, but it is surely more than any cat would ever do.

T
HE MILITARY HAD ONLY
had a few hours to prepare for the meeting with the President, but the Joint Chiefs of Staff presented him with a surprisingly appealing option. For decades, the military had been preparing contingencies for dealing with the threat of an approaching asteroid. One of these options involved orbital Jell-O. A more promising option involved the use of nuclear warheads. This plan
could be modified to combat an attacking spaceship or a hostile planet.

The problem was that it ordinarily would have taken Earth’s fastest spaceship approximately 28 million years to reach Rigel-Rigel. In military terms this would be analogous to loading ICBMs onto the back of elephants. Such daunting transportation challenges were a large part of the reason the military had developed few options for countering alien threats. But the wormhole, which the Ambassador mentioned at dinner, changed everything. Knowing more precisely where to look, astronomers had already confirmed its existence on the far side of the sun. While it would have taken millions of years to get to Rigel-Rigel directly, a spaceship could get to the wormhole in a week and thus to Rigel-Rigel inside a month.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs told the President an experimental long-range spaceship could be outfitted with nuclear weapons and ready for launch in forty-eight hours. The chairman believed it would have the capacity to get to Rigel-Rigel and, as they say in the war biz, deliver the package.

The President said, “Authorized,” and that was that.

T
HESE MAY SEEM LIKE
unsatisfying orders, but that’s how it goes when it comes to delivering weapons of mass destruction. On July 23, 1945, Assistant Secretary of War George Harrison telegraphed Harry Truman, then in Potsdam, that the atomic bomb was available for release.

Truman wrote his reply with a lead pencil in large, clear letters on the pink message delivered to him by Lieutenant George Elsey, Princeton graduate and witness to one of the defining moments in human history.

It said: “Suggestion approved. Release when ready.”

T
HE GENERALS DID NOT
address the wisdom or morality of the attack ordered by the President. They regarded this matter as outside of their jurisdiction. Most military types do. This is analogous to lawyers bracketing considerations of fairness, as Professor Crabtree encouraged his students to do, and motivated by the same reasoning: it is difficult to perform one’s job if one has to think about all the consequences of one’s actions, particularly if one’s job is to deliver bombs or lawsuits.

This idea sounds objectionable, but generally speaking we don’t demand that soldiers have dormitory-style debates about the ultimate justness of the causes they are called upon to defend. No one asked TR whether the Cubans really deserved what they got on San Juan Hill. Certainly no American asked Paul Tibbets, the air force colonel who dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, whether the tens of thousands of people killed instantly by the blast deserved to die, or the larger question whether the use of weapons of mass destruction against civilians is ever morally justified. Dropping the bomb was his job and he did it.

This makes all the more sense when one considers the highly impractical alternative. It would be debilitating, for example, if we required a doctor to explore a patient’s moral character prior to treatment. And we might not be happy with the results. I, for one, might never have gotten that flare-up of psoriasis to subside.

S
ADLY, NO ONE THINKS
very much either about the toll exacted on the soldiers whose moral judgment is suspended. Surprisingly, Paul Tibbets experienced none. Asked fifty years later how he would act in the same situation, Tibbets said, “If you give me the same circumstances, hell yeah, I’d do it again.”

Claude Eatherly wasn’t so lucky. He was tormented for the remainder of his life by recurring feelings of guilt. He sent many of his paychecks to Hiroshima and attempted to undermine his status as a war hero, which he felt was undeserved, by committing pointless crimes, such as robbing a bank but taking no money.

Eatherly piloted the
Straight Flush
, a B–29 that performed weather reconnaissance an hour before the
Enola Gay
went in. When dropping atomic bombs it is important to have precisely the right sort of weather.

T
O THE EXTENT THE
generals allowed their minds to wander, they ruminated over the similarity between the mission the President had ordered and two big-budget motion pictures about the attempted destruction of asteroids headed toward Earth. The crux of the debate within the military focused on who made the better commander: Bruce Willis, who headed the destroy-the-asteroid mission in
Armageddon
, or Robert Duvall, who led the team in
Deep Impact
.

To a man, the generals chose Willis.

For my money, I’d take Bobby D.