Otherness (13 page)

"
That
will be our cover story! It doesn't exist! It was all a myth perpetrated by a single man, a neurotic human leader driven over the edge by the approaching end to his days of petty power, a man who seized the airwaves in one last, futile spasm and sent a few millions into the streets for a day or two of relatively harmless tape shredding, index burning, and other silly, repairable acts of sabotage.

"This is what you
must
do, my fellow citizens and people of the world. You must expunge all official mention of this talent, out of kindness to our approaching mentors. And then you must say that all of this was the product of one deranged mind.

"Me."

At this point I know he did smile. By now half the world was convinced that he
was
insane.

The other half would have died for him, then and there.

"I will try to delay my resignation long enough to see the task well under way. Already, at this moment, political battles are being waged, physicians consulted, constitutional procedures set in motion. Perhaps I only have a little longer to talk to you, so I will be succinct.

"It occurs to me that I have been too vague in one respect. The talent I am referring to, about which I cannot be overly specific, is one that is common to human beings, though apparently incredibly rare out in the Galactic Commonweal. So far we have developed it hardly at all. In fact, it has seemed of so little importance that all but a few of us take it completely for granted, thinking of it no more than in passing, throughout our lives.

"And yet, it is something that has the potential—"

He stopped speaking quite suddenly, and reflected in his eyes we could all track the approach of those intent on bringing an end to his monopoly of the airwaves. President Tridden had time only to bring one finger to his lips, in the age-old sign of secrecy and shared silence. Then, abruptly, the broadcast ended in that famous burst of static which held an entire world hypnotized for endless minutes until, at last, the screens were filled again with the breathless heads and torsos of government officials and newscasters, blinking rapidly as they told us what half of us already knew—that the President was not well.

The rest of us—the
other
half—did not wait to hear the diagnoses of learned doctors. We were already tearing the indexes out of our encyclopedias, or striding out the door with axes in our hands, heading toward our local libraries with evil intent upon—not the books—but the card catalog.

At the moment it hardly seemed to matter that he had never gotten around to telling us exactly what it was we were trying to hide!
Cause a muddle
, we thought. Make it possible to disguise this thing of ours that can hurt others.

Do something noble, while we have a chance. While we are still in command of our own destinies.

That night's hysteria came in a surge of passion, a Dionysian frenzy that did little actual harm in the long run—little that could not be fixed fairly easily, that is. It ended as quickly as it began, in embarrassed, sheepish return to normality.

Yes
, the psychiatrists announced.
The President is mad
.

When the ship
Gregory Bateson
arrived, Dr. Rishke's colleagues were interviewed, and all of them swore that she could never have sent such a report. It just wasn't possible! Rumors were rampant. There was no solid evidence to support speculation that Tridden himself ordered the destruction of the
Margaret Mead
, a crime too horrible to credit even a lunatic. Anyway, it was decided not to rake those ashes. The man was now where he could harm no one.

Soon we were into the glorious days of the Arrival. Lentili were being interviewed on every channel. And in their charming ways, their humor and their obvious love for us, we realized what we had really needed, all along. These wonderful, wise older brothers and sisters to help ease away our awkward, adolescent millennia. The earnest work of growing up had finally begun.

Today people seldom speak of President Tridden, or of the strange hoax he tried to pull. Oh, there will always be the Kooks. Artists, writers, innovators of all kinds are forever coming forth and announcing that they have "found the Tridden Talent." Often these are silly folk, the half-mad, those at the fringes whom we all tolerate in much the same way the Lentili must love and tolerate us.

But then, on other occasions the discoveries are bona fide accomplishments. How often has the public watched some brilliant new performer, or stared at some startling piece of art, or listened to new music or some bold concept, and experienced momentary uncertainty, wondering, could
this
be what Tridden spoke of? Might this prove him to have been right, after all?

Inevitably it is the Lentili who are the test. How they react tells us. As yet, none of the fruits of our new renaissance seem to cause them much discomfort, or any sign of hysterical rejection.

They say they are
surprised
by our behavior. It seems most neophyte species—most "freshman" members of the Commonweal—go through long periods of humility and self-doubt, giving themselves over to excessive, slavish mimicry of their seniors. The Lentili say they are impressed by our independence of spirit and our innovation. Still, they show no sign of having yet been intimidated by some mysterious latent human talent, suddenly brought to flower.

We speak of Tridden, when we speak of him at all, with embarrassment. He died in an institution, and his name is now used as a euphemism for passing through a wormhole, for going off the deep end, for losing it.

And yet . . .

And yet, sometimes I wonder. A small minority still believe in him. They are the ones who thank our mentors politely, and yet
patronizingly
, with a serene semi-smugness that seems so out of place given our relative stations on the ladder of life. They are the ones who somehow seem impervious to the quaking intimidation that strikes most of humanity, now and again, despite the best efforts of the Lentili to make us feel loved and at home.

Is it an accident, I wonder, that every time a human team negotiates with the Commonweal on some matter, always a few Triddenites are named among the emissaries? Is is a coincidence that they prove the toughest, most capable of our diplomats?

They search—these believers in a mad president—never satisfied, always seeking out that secret, undeveloped niche in the human repertoire, the fabled talent that will make us special even in this intimidating, overpowering cosmos. Spurning the indexes they call useless, they pore over the source material of our past and explore the filmy fringes of what we know or can comprehend. Neither time nor the blinding brilliance of our mentors seems to matter to the Triddenites.

Perhaps they are lingering symptoms of the underlying craziness of Humankind.

The Lentili walk among us like gods.

We, in turn, have learned some of what we taught dogs and horses. We've supped from the same bowl as we once served to our cousins, the lesser apes. The bowl of humility.

There is no doubt that humans were arrogant when we saw ourselves at creation's pinnacle. Even when we worshiped a deity, we nearly always placed Him at safe remove, exalting Him out of the mundane world, naming
ourselves
paramount on Earth.

Now, humbled, we earnestly devote ourselves to making our species worthy of a civilization whose peaks we can only dimly perceive. No question, we are better people now than were those savages, our ancestors, ourselves. We are smarter, kinder, more loving. And against all expectation, we are also more creative, as well.

I have a theory to explain the latter—a theory I keep to myself. But it is why, once a year, I risk being labeled a Kook by attending a memorial service by the side of a small grave in Bruges Cemetery. And while most of those present speak of "honor," and "pity," and the martyrdom of a decent man,
I
pay homage to one who perhaps saw where his people were headed, and the danger that awaited them.

I honor one who gave a precious gift and changed that future.

Yes, he was a martyr. But of all the solaces to accompany him into his imprisonment, I can think of none better than the one Tridden took with him.

That smile
. . .

They walk among us like gods. But we have our revenge.

For the Lentili know Tridden must have been mad. They know there is no secret talent. We are not sheltering them from some bright truth, hiding something from them out of pity. Out of love.

They know it.

And yet, every now and then I have seen it. I've
seen
it! Seen it in their deep, expressive eyes, each time something new from our renaissance surprises them, oh, so briefly.

I have seen that glimmer of wonder, of unease. That momentary, fearful
doubt
.

That is when I pity the poor creatures.

Thank God, I can pity them.

This section, "Contact," is devoted to that special, often maligned subgenre of SF, the
think piece
. Once upon a time, such tales constituted nearly all of science fiction. An author would ask, "What if?" or "If this goes on?" and head off from there, working out what might result from a given premise. Einstein called it
Gedankenexperiment
, or thought-experiment, and while it may not promote great style, characterology, or High Lit'rahchoor, it still merits a place in a genre that's more concerned than any other with ideas.

The story just finished, entitled "Sshhh . . .," continues a series I've been writing about First Contact, exploring possible answers to the towering mystery of our time. Why have we seen no clear signs of life beyond the Earth? All evidence and logic seems to demand a cosmos teeming with living beings, which should, by the reckoning of many keen minds, have already been here long ago. With apologies to my friends working on Project SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence), this quandary is a deep and perplexing one.

The next story, which was inspired by a few stints on late-night talk radio shows, takes on the question of Alien Contact from a completely different angle. Yet there is an underlying thread the two tales have in common.

The thread of rebellion.

". . . So you want to talk about flying saucers? I was afraid of that.

"This happens every damn time I'm blackmailed into babysitting you insomniacs, while Talkback Larry escapes to Bimini for a badly needed rest. I'm
supposed
to field call-in questions about astronomy and outer space for two weeks. You know, black holes and comets? But it seems we always have to spend the first night wrangling over
puta
UFOs.

". . . Now, don't get excited, sir. . . . Yeah, I'm just a typical ivory tower scientist, out to repress any trace of unconventional thought. Whatever you say, buddy.

"Truth is, I've also dreamed of contact with alien life. In fact, I'm involved in research now. . . . That's right, SETI . . . the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence. . . . And no, it's not at all like chasing UFOs! I don't believe the Earth has ever been visited by anything remotely resembling intelligent . . .

"Yes sir. I bet you've got crates full of case histories, and a personal encounter or two? Thought so. I got an earful when some of us tried studying these 'phenomena' a few years back. Spent weeks on each case, only to find it was just a weather balloon, or an airplane, or ball lightning . . .

". . . Oh, yeah? Well, I've
seen
ball lightning, fella. Got a scar on my nose and a pair of melted binoculars to show just how close. So don't tell
me
it's a myth like your
chingado
flying saucers!"

We commence our labors this night in England, near Avebury, braiding strands of yellow wheat in tidy, flattened rings. It is happy work, playing lassos of light upon the sea of grain. These will be fine circles. Humans will see pictures in their morning papers, and wonder.

Our bright ether-boat hovers, bathed in the approving glow of Mother Moon. The sleek craft wears a lambent gloss to make it slippery to mortal eyes.

To be seen is desirable. But never too
well
.

Fyrfalcon proclaims—"Keep the edges sharp! Make each ring perfect! Let men of science jabber about
natural phenomena
. We'll have new believers after this night's work!"

Once, he might have been called "King." But we adapt to changing times. "Yes, Captain!" we shout, and hurry to our tasks.

Our Listener calls from her perch. "We are being discussed on a human radio program! Would all like to hear?"

We cry cheerful assent. Although we loathe humanity's technology, it often serves our ends.

"Let's cover your second question, caller. Are UFO enthusiasts so different from us astronomers, probing with our telescopes for signs of life somewhere? Both groups long to discover other minds, other viewpoints, something strange and wonderful.

"We part company, though, over the question of
evidence
. Science teaches us to expect—demand—more than just eerie mysteries. What use is a puzzle that can't be solved?

"Patience is fine, but I'm not going to stop asking the universe to make sense!"

The boy drives faster than he wants to, taking hairpin turns recklessly to impress the girl next to him.

He needn't get in such a lather; she is ready. She had already decided when the night was young. Now she laughs, feigning nonchalance as road posts streak by and her heart races.

The convertible climbs under opal moonlight. Her bare knee brushes his hand, making him muff the gears. He coughs, fighting impulses more ancient than his race, swerving just in time to keep from roaring over the edge.