Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: #Anthologies, #Science Fiction, #Anthologies & Short Stories, #Literature & Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy
"I'm starting to get it. Your body is like a city of one-celled creatures. Kind of . . . nanobiology. But how does that differ from life here? Couldn't I say the same thing about my own body?"
"In your case, the cells have become specialized and distinct. In my case, each cell is free to roam around and take up any needed task, or replace a cell that needs rest or food. The tentacle-like fibers that propel the cells can link to each other in many ways, creating bone-like structures or contracting membranes like muscles, making neural pathways, setting up sensory organs, passing nutrients along to where they're needed."
"Incredible!"
"And they are not limited to staying inside my ‘body.' My actual body is what I make of it. My beach, for example, is covered with nerve pathways, that's how—"
"Hey! That's why I've never been able to sneak up on you!"
"Once you set foot on my beach, we are in contact. In fact, at this very moment, your body contains multitudes of my cells allowing us to communicate and—"
"What do you mean ‘communicate'?" The notion that Joe was generating some kind of harmless plague wasn't a pleasant one. "Aren't we just . . . talking as always?"
"We have never talked. Not the way you think of talking. I've tried but I've never managed to grow functional vocal cords."
I heard Joe's wonderful voice saying those words, but this time his lips didn't move.
The effect wasn't reassuring. "So what the hell are we doing right now? Telepathy?"
"I have learned—my individual cells have learned—to induce auditory impulses in the nerve fibers coming from human ears."
"Good Lord! But you can't, uh, read my mind?" That may seem like a stupid question. But there's one thing about dealing with an extraterrestrial, even one who's supposedly an old friend: you don't know the rules.
"Read your mind? I hear your words; I do have functional ears. And my cells relay subvocalized movements of your throat and mouthparts. Since humans often think, in effect, by talking to themselves, I can't help but be aware of some of your thoughts."
"So, if you—" an exceedingly creepy thought occurred to me. "Um, what do those . . . on-sabbatical cells of yours
eat
, Uncle Joe?"
"Almost anything organic with the right chemical compounds. Largely bacteria. At this moment, I am feeding on the abundant germs of your kitchen sink. Your poor housecleaning has offered me a feast and I thank you."
"Wait a second! You've set up an . . . external nervous system inside my house?"
"And on your front walk. I wouldn't have been able to converse with you otherwise."
"My legs!" I'd gotten a startling flash of insight. The missing puzzle piece had, at last, fallen into place and for the first time in my life, the assembled picture held meaning and logic. "And my hand. It wasn't some arcane magic. It was
physical:
your cells healed them!"
"Yes, you are beginning to see the pattern. It takes a great many cells for such healing. So many cells in motion would be visible to the human eye; that's one reason I've always needed to touch you to facilitate the exchange. Also, channels within your body needed to be established to permit the proper flow. Years ago, when I began working on your contracture, it was most efficient to keep our hands in direct contact."
"How long can your cells live in my body?"
"You are concerned that the healing will be reversed once my cells depart?"
"The thought just occurred to me."
"You needn't fear. What is healed is healed. In fact, most of my cells working on your legs have already returned to me, but I always like to leave a few in case of emergency."
It took a few seconds before I caught the full implications. "So that's why I didn't die after the accident."
"I cannot say for certain because those cells are no more. But those parts of me that took up permanent residence in you assumed responsibility for your body as if it were their new colony. There were too few to truly heal you but I'm sure the cells did what they could, expending themselves to preserve your life and repair as much damage as possible."
"Thank you, Joe." I said quietly, feeling humbled by this latest revelation. "I guess you've been taking care of me my whole life in ways I never imagined." I was experiencing a vast but odd sense of relief: the Universe was strange, strange indeed, but at least it made sense now.
"Where were we?" I asked. "Weren't you saying something before about changing into a ‘flying form'?"
"I was telling you what occurred after I crashed. I set out to explore this area from the air."
"What happened?"
"I don't remember, I was badly disoriented. Perhaps I misjudged the winds or simply flew into something. As I told you, I am not completely unaffected by physical shock. I must have passed out and it was your grandfather who eventually found me lying unconscious on some rocks near the shoreline. When I awoke, I was in a large cage and Art had evidently been trying to nurse me back to health for days."
"So Grampa thought you were a
bird?
"
"No, but he couldn't imagine anything else I could be."
"My God! I just saw that cage today! You must be smaller in your, uh, flying form."
"Not really. I've had to grow a bit since I landed."
"What did Grampa say when you . . .
spoke
to him?"
"Do you imagine that happened overnight? I have some natural advantages in learning, ah, foreign languages. But it took years to properly associate sounds with meanings and years more to understand the human body. But when I finally did—as I mentioned, Art had a remarkably flexible mind."
I was staring at my former mentor in horror. "Don't tell me Art had you locked away in a cage for years!"
"No locking was involved. Besides, I cannot be trapped by wirework."
"Good. When did you start looking the way you do?"
"That also took considerable time. I fear that my talents for mimicry are feeble. Frankly, I've been surprised this . . . vague appearance has sufficed for so long. But then I've helped things along a bit now and then."
"What do you mean?"
"To some degree I can alter the direction of human thinking."
I didn't like the sound of that. "How?"
"It's a matter of inducing subvocal nerve-signals. I told you that ‘thinking' for your kind is basically talking to yourselves?"
"What about for your people?"
"We think in soundless symbols. Each symbol of meaning has evolved to be a specific shape and we can influence each other by how we assemble these shapes. Likewise, if I speak to you in your own inner voice, I can usually steer you away from the wrong thoughts."
This was chilling news. "Now you're scaring me, Uncle Joe. How am I supposed to tell—"
"You'll have to trust me in this, Gregory. I would never misuse this ability. But certain people, your brother for example, would have been far too curious about me if I'd just let nature take its course."
"I suppose so. Yeah, Tim would've been all over you, now that I think of it. All right, I do trust you; I guess it's an old habit. Let's continue. You crashed, Grampa rescued you, and you eventually learned to communicate. What happened then? Why didn't your . . . mate come down and rescue you?"
"I believe . . . let's apply the pronoun ‘she.' I believe she tried. I suspect she herself encountered the problem that caused me to crash."
"Oh. Do you think . . . she might have survived too?"
"I wasn't sure until today, but yes; I'm certain she did and that she landed more successfully than I."
I frowned. "What makes you so sure?"
"You said the scientists estimated two hundred years of silt on the buried craft?"
"That's right. But—"
"We only arrived seventy-five local years ago."
I stared at my unexpected guest stupidly for a few seconds before I got it.
"She covered up your ship."
"And this implies the Craft Major is still, at least to some degree, functional."
"Lord! All this is going to take some serious getting used to, Joe. And didn't you say you wanted to ask me a favor? What"—I nearly said "on Earth"—"do you want me
do?
"
"A nest of favors, I fear. At least I've already taken care of some lesser matters. While you were out, I was visiting some of our neighbors."
"Really?" Fifteen minutes ago, the thought of the Cloudman strolling along the local sidewalks and knocking on doors would have been inconceivable.
"I asked Benjamin Olds to stop stretching new canvasses for me." Joe gave me his version of a smile again. "Did you suppose they simply appeared like mushrooms?"
"Maybe I did. Who else did you see?"
"Dorothy Kierkenbart who handles my banking, and Gerald Volleski."
"You needed a
lawyer?
"
"That brings me to the first of the favors I ask. Here in this pocket, I have some papers for you to sign."
I looked over the documents Joe handed me and didn't get very far. What stopped me was seeing the Cloudman referred to as "Joseph Beck."
"Did you take on that last name because of the beach, Uncle Joe?"
"On the contrary. Art thought I merited a family name and ‘Beck' was his great-grandmother's."
"Oh. The beach is named after
you?
"
Joe just smiled and my eyes drifted back to the papers.
"You're leaving your money to me? Why? You're not . . . going somewhere, are you?"
"I must. My mate doubtless left instructions for me, telling me where to find her. My kind are very long-lived compared to you humans, with a corresponding view of time, but this . . . this infinite separation has gone on so painfully long . . ."
Joe's eyes weren't exactly filled with tears, but his cataracts had turned strange and glossy. Somehow I sensed what he was feeling.
I was experiencing some pain of my own. The thought of the Cloudman leaving. . . .
"God, I'll miss you, Joe. Whatever you are, I know you're a good person. I hope you'll . . ." I'd glanced down at the paper on my lap and the figures finally registered. The Cloudman was giving me a lot of money.
"Jesus! What am I supposed to do with this kind of wealth?"
"I want you to have enough to keep you comfortable. The rest, donate to medical research. I won't be around here to heal the crippled young ones but . . . I need to know the healing will continue. You will have to do much research yourself to find out where the money should go."
"I'll try my best."
"I trust
you
. Look for ways of helping others but always help your neighbors first. I also need for you to make a few phone calls for me. Since I have no vocal cords, I can't use a telephone."
"That's right. I hadn't thought of that. What else don't I know about you?"
"I don't have time for more, my dear friend. My heart, although I don't really have one as such, won't let me tarry. Here is a list of the people I want you to call and what I want you to tell them. But the most important favor remains. Please wait a moment."
Joe left the room and I heard the front door open and close. A minute later, the Cloudman returned bearing one of his large paintings. It must have been wrapped in the bundle I'd seen outside. He handed me the canvas, studied my face, and smiled.
"If I'd known you
wanted
one of these, Gregory, I would have given you one years ago."
"So this
is
for me, Uncle Joe?"
"Yes, but I'm not giving it away out of generosity. I want to ask the biggest favor of all: I want you to keep living right here for at least two more years. And tell everyone you know that if someone . . . a bit unusual comes by, asking after me, they should steer him or her to you."
"And I should show the person this painting, right?"
"Right. Will you do these things for me? Are they too onerous?"
"Not at all! It seems a small way to repay all you've done for me. Besides, my legs may be better, but I've gotten used to being back home. Hell, I may
never
move back to the city. But Joe, what's this last favor all about?"
"Insurance, my friend. In case my mate finally encounters one of my many . . . messages and comes here while I'm out following a message of hers. Enough! It would require a million words more for you to fully understand and I wish to leave before this sun sinks. Farewell, my young Gregory, we may yet meet again. If I succeed, I may send you a sign when Orion again becomes the darling of your night sky."
After he left, the house felt terribly, terribly empty. And I realized that I hadn't asked him the question I was most interested in. But it didn't matter; I already knew the answer.
It's the middle of December now, and Orion is well upon us although I haven't seen any "signs" yet. I also haven't been down to Beck's Beach since Joe left.
The final day of October, the day after the object under Lake Champlain abruptly vanished, my father showed me pictures of Grampa Arthur as a young man, maybe twenty years old, along with pictures of Dad himself at the age of six. Both my grandfather and his son had once suffered from a crippled left hand . . .
I began to understand why the neighborhood trusted the Cloudman.
Then in early November, I had a crazy idea. As the Art Director of a major ad agency, it was easy to insert Joe's mysterious negative-space letter-forms (the painting he left was my model) in many of our new commercials. If the Cloudman hadn't found his mate yet, and she spent any time watching TV, she wouldn't be able to
avoid
seeing his message sooner or later.
So I've been waiting for her, or maybe him; I'm betting I'll be able to recognize her by her "cataracts." My guess is that Joe's eyes were rather like compound eyes, solid blocks of cells, each adjusted to pick up a small dot of the available light. He must not have been able to color them properly without messing up his vision. I'm thinking he needed to see well in order to paint his clouds.