First Contact (8 page)

S
O IT WAS
,
BY
virtue of his serendipitous failure to put back on his underwear, Ralph Bailey became the first human to meet an extraterrestrial being. His charge was to resolve the hundreds of protocol issues that need to be addressed before a state visit. The President of the United States would be the first to officially greet the visitors and would receive all of the attendant glory, but on all such occasions there are myriad details to be sorted out in advance, details that are left to lower-level functionaries quickly forgotten by history.

It may be true, for example, that only Nixon could have gone to China, but before he got there his staff spent weeks debating important matters such as what Nixon and Zhou Enlai would wear when they greeted each other at the airport (they wore suits), what they would have for dinner (they had Chinese), and what theatrical performance they would attend in the evening. Nixon strongly
advocated for
Carousel
, which was his wife Pat’s favorite musical, but in fact they watched a ballet called
Red Detachment of Women
, about the liberation of a peasant girl and her rise in the Communist Party. This was more or less the plot of every play, movie, and dance piece performed in China during the Cultural Revolution. Beijing was not exactly Broadway.

With respect to the visiting aliens, the White House had already decided, unilaterally, what food would be served and what the entertainment would be. But other details remained to be negotiated, such as what the alien ambassador and the President would wear—it was important, for example, that the colors of their ties not clash—and, of course, the numerous, complex issues regarding security.

At the President’s direction, Joe Quimble asked Ralph to meet with the alien ambassador’s deputy to begin preliminary discussion of these matters. So for the second time in three days Ralph was standing on Pennsylvania Avenue, in front of the West Gate, with a tremendous sense of anticipation. It was a magnificent day in the nation’s capital, cool but not too cool, with abundant, glorious sunshine—precisely the right sort of weather for making history.

I
SAY PRECISELY THE
right sort of weather for making history because history is rarely made on hot or humid days, particularly since the advent of air-conditioning in the late 1920s. It is simply too tempting to sit inside or just hang out by the pool. It was, for example, chilly when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, blustery when the Americans stormed the Normandy coast on D-Day, and downright frigid for the Battle of the Bulge in December 1944. On the other hand, it was a characteristically sticky day in Cuba in the summer of 1898 when Theodore Roosevelt and his men took San Juan Hill. This may explain why the ten thousand soldiers in reserve in Santiago de Cuba never got into action.

W
AITING ON THE SIDEWALK
,
Ralph did not know what to expect. He had a preconception based on the circulated Internet video about what the alien would look like, but no clue how he would arrive. Would a creature simply materialize in front of him, transporting down to the planet as on
Star Trek
? Would he and the alien be able to speak with each other directly or would they have to rely on some sort of sophisticated translation device? He simply had no idea.

So Ralph alternated between looking down the street and up into the heavens. As he did, a young man walking down the street stopped in front of him and asked, “You Ralph Bailey?” The man looked to be in his late thirties. He was dressed casually, in khaki pants, an unbuttoned corduroy overshirt and a Green Day T-shirt. The T-shirt said,

American Idiot

Don’t Want to Be One

“How do you know my name?” Ralph asked warily. He presumed it was a lobbyist or one of the countless people who wanted to get something from the President. With one eye, he continued looking down the street and up into the sky for signs of the alien visitors.

The man said, “I’m Ned—from Rigel-Rigel—it’s nice to meet you.”

And just like that, first contact had been made. It was arguably the most important moment in the history of the planet, and it flew past Ralph before he realized what had happened.

T
HIS IS OFTEN HOW
it is with the great moments in life—we don’t notice them until they have passed. For example, when I was eight years old, and on an Amtrak train to Florida, I had French toast, which turned out to be the best French toast I have had in my life so far. Of course, at the time I did not know this. I just knew it was excellent French toast. It was only after years of eating more pedestrian French toast that I realized in retrospect how extraordinary the breakfast on the train had been. Had I known at the time this would be the French-toast-of-my-life, I might have savored the look and taste. But no one told me it was going to be an exceptional breakfast so I ate it at the normal speed. Other people may have had similar experiences with exceptional sexual partners or particularly comfortable footwear.

A
FTER A FEW MOMENTS
,
Ralph processed what had happened. He stopped searching the heavens and quickly extended his hand.

“Please excuse me,” Ralph said. “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”

Ned smiled and shook Ralph’s hand. “You were expecting a hideous monster.”

“I didn’t know what to expect. I have to admit I wasn’t expecting someone who looked quite so…”

“Human,” Ned suggested.

“Human,” Ralph agreed, though “young” also would have been a suitable choice.

“My species is a bit like your chameleon. We have an evolved ability to change our shape and faces to blend into an environment. It is part of the reason we are so effective at reaching out to new planets.” Ned smiled. “I hope my humanness is not a disappointment for you.”

“Of course not,” Ralph said. “You have to forgive me. I don’t have much practice with this.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Besides, I don’t offend easily.”

Ralph immediately liked Ned.

“You speak English? Is that part of your adaptability?”

“We are definitely more adept at learning languages than the average species, and it gets easier the more you do it, but it still takes some work. I learned English in a few weeks. I think I have it down okay, except for the ‘ough’ words. I can’t see how you get ‘thru’ from ‘through’ and the ‘
i
before
e
except after
c
’ thing is confusing. Otherwise it’s no problem. How’s my accent?”

“Perfect,” Ralph said. “You could fit in without any problem.”

“And the clothes?”

“Totally inconspicuous. You could pass for a congressional staffer. Where did you get them? J. Crew?”

“Urban Outfitters.”

Ralph pointed to the logo on the shirt. “That’s a good band.”

“Thanks,” Ned said. “It was either this or a Björk T-shirt.”

“Excellent choice. Then people might have suspected you were an alien.”

Ned laughed.

“How do you know the music?”

“I always do my best to familiarize myself with the culture. I’ve listened to a lot of your music over the past several weeks. We absorb things pretty quickly.”

“Who do you like?”

“I’m not sure you can beat Green Day or the Police. I love Sting, and the Beatles too.”

“Outstanding choices,” Ralph said.

Now he really liked Ned.

“I wasn’t quite sure what to expect,” Ralph said. “Your colleague was dressed quite a bit differently in the video that got sent around.”

Ned smiled. “That’s just my boss’s sense of humor. He’s a bit of a character.”

“What was the joke?”

Ned shook his head. “It’s too complicated to explain. You’d have to be really tuned in to what he thinks is funny in order to get it.”

Ralph wondered to himself, though hardly for the first time, whether the White House might be getting some things quite wrong.

W
ITH A GESTURE
, R
ALPH
invited Ned to enter the gate. A Secret Service agent named Brocka met them inside the guardhouse. Gruffly, Agent Brocka ordered Ned to sit down in a chair. His tone would have been problematic under any circumstances, but given who Ned was, and given Ralph’s exceedingly amicable experience with him, it struck Ralph as grossly inappropriate. Ralph wished Tom was on duty.

Agent Brocka said, “I need to ask you some security questions before you can proceed onto the grounds.”

“That’s fine,” Ned said.

“What is your full name?”

“My full name is not pronounceable in English.”

“Can you translate it?”

“I don’t think it is possible to translate a name. A name is a name.”

“Well, I need a name.”

“Call me Ned Anat-Denarian.”

“Do you have any identification?”

“For what purpose?”

“So we can run a background check.”

“You understand I am from another galaxy?”

“This is standard procedure. It either has to be done in advance or done now. Since it wasn’t done in advance, it has to be done now.”

“What sort of identification do you have in mind?”

“Anything with your name and picture on it.”

Ned rummaged through his pockets.

“I have my library card.”

“Let me see,” the agent said as he took the card from Ned. “Where is this from?”

“It’s from the Intergalactic Library and Geological Oddity Depository.”

Brocka examined the card, turning it over in his hands. “This is no good,” he concluded.

“No good? It’s the best library in the universe. It has over forty trillion volumes and many uncommonly smooth stones.”

The agent returned the card.

“It doesn’t have a picture. I need a picture ID,” he said sternly.

“I don’t have any with me.”

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

“No.”

“You don’t drive?” the agent asked skeptically.

“I drive,” Ned said, “but my wife was in a car accident a few days ago. I had to send back my license by courier.”

“Why would you have to send your license back?”

“Because that’s the way things work where I come from.”

“Well, sir, I can’t clear you without a picture ID.”

“Why not?”

“It’s policy.”

I
HAD AN EXPERIENCE
similar to Ned’s encounter with the surly agent. I expect many people have. I was at Kennedy Airport checking in for a flight to Atlanta to attend the funeral of a friend of mine from college when I realized I had forgotten my driver’s license. Long story short, I had changed wallets the day before and my driver’s license didn’t manage to make it into the new one. When the agent—his name was Hank—asked for picture identification, I offered my ID card from the college where I am a professor. Hank said this wasn’t a “valid” picture ID. I asked why. He said “FAA regulations.” I explained I was on my way to a funeral and if I didn’t make this plane I would miss the funeral and asked whether he could just cut me a break. Hank repeated the phrase “FAA regulations.”

At this point, I made the mistake of engaging Hank in logical debate. Think about the point of the regulations, I said. Anybody can get a driver’s license—including any fourteen-year-old kid with
twenty dollars. The airlines don’t even check to see whether the license is valid. It doesn’t offer any security. It’s just a picture. So if it’s just a picture, why is one better than any other? It’s clearly me in the picture, I said, and he could even call the college and ask if I really teach there. That should assure him it’s actually me. He said, “I’m sorry. It’s FAA regulations.” “Think for yourself,” I demanded, to which he replied, “That’s not my job.” At this point, I called Hank a clod.

I am not proud of my behavior, nor can I explain it. It may have been the stress of my friend’s death, or being tired on account of the early hour, but I expect it was really frustration that Agent Hank had been given the capacity to reason and chose not to exercise it. I found this unfathomable and maddening, but it could just be me. I confess I have had this same frustration with respect to aspects of both American domestic and foreign policy, and in certain restaurants. One diner I used to frequent would not let you substitute mashed potatoes for French fries, even though the mashed potatoes were less expensive à la carte. I am ashamed to say that on the last occasion I ate at this establishment, I engaged in a heated debate about the absurdity of the policy that also ended in my calling the waiter a clod.

I fancy the word.

R
ALPH PUT HIS HAND
on Agent Brocka’s shoulder. “Our customary security protocols may not be appropriate here,” Ralph said. “Mr. Anat-Denarian poses no threat. I think if we were to call your commander, he would agree it is neither logical nor polite to detain the representative of visitors from another planet because he does not have a driver’s license. He arrived by spaceship after all.”

Agent Brocka considered Ralph’s position. “I suppose you’re right,” he muttered. “Go on ahead.”

Outside, Ralph apologized. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Everyone is flying by the seat of their pants here.”

“It’s okay,” Ned said. “He’s just doing his job.”

“It’s so absurd. He’s asking to see your driver’s license and meanwhile you could probably destroy Earth in a matter of seconds.”

“That’s not even a consideration,” Ned said. “We don’t win friends by force. We win friends by persuasion. We only use force in self-defense.”

“Here,” Ralph said, “we defend ourselves by checking people’s driver’s licenses.”

“How is that working out for you?”

“Not so well,” Ralph said.

A
S THE TWO MEN
crossed the White House lawn, Ralph was struck by the familiarity of the scene. It had been a little more than a day and a half since he and Jessica made the same walk. Ralph was still completely full with thoughts of Jessica and that perfect evening. This made him feel all the more welcoming toward his guest.