Insistence of Vision (24 page)

The Martian emerged, carrying a few scraps of paper... photos, book covers, some clippings from an album.

Standing on the front porch and turning the solar-collector wings on its shoulders to face the sun, it seemed to study the clippings carefully. Then, letting the papers fall, it stepped into the street and made a circle, scanning.

The man on the rooftop should have fled then, but he felt safe observing from the shadow of a neighbor’s chimney. He would have been safe, from any Earthly hunter.

This alien had better eyes than any Earthly hunter. Whipping out a weapon, it swiftly and efficiently shot the poor fellow, burning a two centimeter-wide hole to the back of his head.

Then, almost without pause, it turned to find a helpful human – someone willing to sell information about the
next
person in a lengthy list.

Instead, within two blocks, the Martian ran straight into a vigilante mob.

This time, bullhorn warnings from marshals and secret service agents failed to keep back the angry crowd. Armed with everything from rifles to flaming torches, neighbors of the dead man approached the tall creature and began shooting.

“Damn if I’m gonna die for that thing,” one marshal was heard saying as he joined the journalists, diving for cover. He had a first row seat for the spectacle that followed.

Quickly folding away its parasol-wings, the Martian seemed to become a blur, charging toward the irate rabble, plunging into their midst, tossing people right and left. Cries of wrath transformed to pain and dread as people fled in all directions, many of them limping.

In moments it was over, with the Martian striding off toward a nearby shopping mall in search of somebody more helpful. A couple of dozen people lay in its wake, clutching their sides, groaning or stanching the flow of blood. At first glance, it looked like a slaughter...

...till observers soon realized – nobody had died.

It took a couple of hours for experts to study footage from a dozen cameras, scrupulously analyzing each image at slow motion. Specialists traced the source of every bullet that passed near – or into – the Martian’s body. In each case, no matter which human fired a weapon, that shooter came away from the melee with an injury, while those who did not fire were unharmed. The most accurate suffered worst, receiving excruciating puncture wounds, delivered by agile, merciless alien fingers.

Nobody died, though. And we started getting the message.

Though apparently unharmed, the Martian did not like to be attacked. For every assault, it had meted proportional retaliation.
Proportional
punishment.

“I think I know what’s going on,” I told Senator Green, who stood next to the President’s Emergency Commissioner, watching reports from Lawrence.

“You’ve got to give me the next shot at making contact.”

I had been making the same request for hours. This time, Green and the fellow from the White House looked at each other.

The President’s guy shrugged.

“All right. Give it your best shot.”

ᚖ

They dropped me off a block from the Georgetown Alien. We knew where it was heading because someone had just sold out the head of NASA’s Advanced Projects Division – a woman whose passion for space exploration was so great that she had remained a Planetary Society member, and now might pay for it with her life. She was number fourteen on the MER list.

I stepped out of the government van, wired and bugged to the gills. The Emergency Task Force could advise me through a button in one ear, listening to every word I said.

Not that they expected much to be achieved this time. No other envoy had succeeded, why should I?

It came around the street corner at a lope, trailed by truckloads of marshals and reporters. Most people scattered as soon as they caught sight of the creature with its iridescent-green winglets always turned sunward... though I glimpsed several individuals lingering bravely to jeer as it passed by. One or two seemed to have longing looks, as if tempted to run alongside for a while, as we had seen on TV – offering information in exchange for treasure. But this one seemed purposeful, as if it already knew what it needed, for now.

Anyway, word was crisscrossing the country, ever since Lawrence. The last three people to sell information had been caught and beaten by vigilantes, while police looked the other way. So the Anti-Collaboration Bill appeared unnecessary, after all.
Ad hoc
justice was doing the job.

That made what I was about to do even more dangerous.

As the alien drew near, running straight toward me, I couldn’t help flashing back to that long ago morning at the Cape. Just this Tuesday? It felt like eons – or five minutes – since I stood in shock over Bill Nye’s smoldering form.

How did I talk myself into this?

Prior envoys had tried all sorts of techniques. Blocking a Martian’s path. Holding up placards. Or making formal declamations ‘in the name of humanity.’

Instead of doing any of these things, I stepped slightly to one side. As the creature sped past, I spoke in a low voice.

“You have caused me personal injury. I demand compensation.”

ᚖ

It skidded to a halt like some cartoon character, raising a creditable screech against the pavement and swiveling with uncanny agility toward me.

They seem superior in nearly all ways, I thought, trying not to shake. What makes me imagine I can pull this off?

The Martian towered over me, standing close enough to touch, if I dared. Those shimmering solar collectors fluttered near, looming gorgeous, like enveloping webs. Or the wings spread by some magical bird of prey.

“What personal injury have I caused you? Explain.”

My larynx threatened to shut down as I flashed on the creatures’ propensity for quick violence. But I managed to croak.

“You must pay me for that information.”

The viridian parasols flared and shimmered. Tilting its humanoid head, the alien appeared taken aback... or at least surprised.

“It is not customary to pay an accuser in order to learn a grievance. If you wish to make a claim, speak.”

“That’s the problem, then,” I said carefully. “Our customs here must be different than yours.”

Talk about an understatement. But the alien did not respond. Instead, it just stood there, looking down at me.

I recalled how one of the members of the Contact Committee had described them as ‘super-intelligent but apparently devoid of curiosity.’ Or at least curiosity about matters human. Clearly it was up to me to prod a reply, or else this attempt would end just like all the others, with the visitor turning contemptuously away, hurrying about its bloody business.

“Is the concept of cultural difference difficult for you to grasp? Your culture and people must be very old.”

I was guessing, of course. A shot in the dark.

“You are attempting to extract information without payment,” it replied. An accusation, and true enough. But I shook my head.

“I am engaging in a sophisticated human process called conversation. Information is exchanged between individuals in larger quantities, without formal negotiation over each datum. Instead, each party maintains a general sense that information flows are roughly equal, overall... or beneficially reciprocal.”

The creature seemed to ponder for several long seconds. The photosynthetic wings drew back a little.

“This may explain why humans talk so much, in their television and radio broadcasts. Most of the content appears syntactically useless – void of practical value – except perhaps as indicator material, tracking the value exchange process itself.”

“A valid presumption.” Though rigid, they weren’t stupid.

“Nevertheless, the procedure seems crude. Highly inefficient.”

“Yes, inefficient. And yet, there are advantages. I note, for example, that you have just made a free statement in reply to one of my own. Both of us offered information without striking a deal or trading explicit economic payments. In other words, you have just engaged in a conversational exchange.

“To the best of my knowledge, it’s the first time that a Martian has done so, since you people arrived.”

In my left ear, I heard an excited buzz of commentary from experts on the Contact Team, as they tried to verify this. From their encouraging comments, it seemed they were happy with me, so far. I was on a good track.

“Notice is taken,” the alien replied. “I find it discomforting to engage in a process in which reciprocal value remains so... inexplicit.” Then, after another pause. “I voluntarily offer that commentary about my discomfort, speculating that you will reciprocate by answering a question, according to this vague custom of conversation.”

“And I will reciprocate,” I replied, “by attempting to answer your question... assuming that the question-and-answer are of similarly low value. Your discomfort is, after all, of little importance to me. I will not answer high-value questions without payment.”

“Understood. I commence with my question. This method of information exchange – this technique called conversation – is it an example of what you call a cultural difference?”

I concentrated hard, shaping sentences in hope that the Martian would find all this interesting enough to stay and chat a while.

“It is. We have had a great many cultural differences within the human species, therefore the notion is very familiar to us. We expect even wider cultural gaps between species from different planets.

“You, on the other hand, despite your great agility and impressive mental powers, appear to find the very concept of cultural difference difficult. Even disturbing. Am I correct in concluding that you Martians have been
homogeneous
for a long time?”

Another excited buzz erupted in my ear, as our experts discussed this.

“Homogeneous. Similar. Same. Uniform. In comparison to human beings...” I could almost hear the synapses – or Martian equivalents – surge and grind. “This datum may be of great value to you, but I will risk that value against the vague possibility of recompense via conversation. Yes. By comparison to the young and ever-changing life forms of Earth, my species has been optimized for a long time.”

“Optimized. Hm. For how long?”

Tension seemed to fill the tall body in front of me. This was clearly excruciatingly difficult, grappling with concepts long taken for-granted.

“You have asked two consecutive questions. Nevertheless, I shall answer.

“Optimization at near-perfection occurred two-hundred and thirty nine million of your years ago.”

The noise in my ear was positively painful as members of the Contact team reacted. Surprise. Consternation. But above all joy that at last something was being learned.

So far, my handlers seemed happy with the way things were going.

I did not expect that to last.

“
Now answer a question of mine,”
the Martian said.
“Explain to me how this method called ‘conversation’ will help me to achieve my goal on this planet.”

Damn if this guy wasn’t single-minded.

“That question will be difficult to answer without knowing more about your goal. You appear to have come to Earth with a mission to kill people. I assume you have some grievance against those who were listed on the disks that were carried by the Mars Exploration Rovers.”

Silence. I tried again.

“You make no accusation against these people when you kill them, so accusations are optional. You only accuse when you want compensation, by payment of some value. But the only thing that earthlings seem able to pay with is their lives. We don’t have anything else that you want.

“So this is all about
revenge
, isn’t it? Revenge that’s direct. Personal.”

The Martian took one step back. The parasol wings flared again.

“Instead of answering my question, you have posed a question of your own.”

“B-but I’m just trying to narrow down how to answer. In conversation you first clarify –”

“Human style conversation appears to have no value. I will end this experiment in twenty seconds.”

Desperation filled me. Clearly these creatures communicated with each other – buying and selling information by radio or some other channel our experts hadn’t found. If I failed in this attempt, word would spread among Martians. Perhaps no other would stop to chat, ever.

A few blocks away, the next phase of this tragedy was already under preparation, as men with heavy weapons made ready to intervene with deadly force, the next time an American citizen was killed. Driven by rapidly shifting public opinion, momentum was building toward war.

I couldn’t let it come to that. During the last urgent seconds that I had the creature’s attention, even as it started to turn away, I quickly pulled out a paper envelope and blurted –

“You may be right about conversation. So let’s make it a business deal, after all.

“I have here the locations of the first hundred people on that list. Up to the minute. You could sell the info to your fellow Martians, sorted geographically, so they can hunt more efficiently than before.

“Moreover, I can show you how to
keep
getting such information, evading all attempts at interference.”

The screech in my left ear was so loud that I had to tear out the button-speaker. I guess I must have exceeded my official authority as a negotiator.

The rest of the monitoring gear followed, crushed under my foot as I watched the alien carefully.

It opened one of those seamless flesh-pockets, dipping into the limitless supply of nuggets and diamonds... but stopped when I waved a hand. The Martian seemed to comprehend my gesture of refusal at once. We had gone beyond such trifles.

“
State your price,”
it said.

ᚖ

Time passes quickly when you’re having fun.

I lay on a cot, tasting blood through the broken stumps of two teeth, when word came to my jail cell that the first of my payments had arrived.

Wages for selling out a fellow human, a fellow American. The first of a hundred. Possibly many more.