Otherworld (6 page)

“I take it you disagree?”

“You bet. Quote me on that, too. Doc Driscoll—he might be a good vet an' all; I'd probably take my dachshund to him—but where he gets the idea he's some kinda alien expert, I don't know.”

“So Pops's claims of seeing an actual UFO …”

“Shoot, he and the wife are down in California right now for some TV show. You see where this is going?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah. He's gonna give some press conference sometime here in Houston. Petrie will probably be there. Doc Driscoll, too. What you gotta realize is that there isn't any forensic protocol for this kinda thing. Shoot, Driscoll made his own cut in the animal before any expert investigation took place. And the whole lot of 'em—Pops, Petrie, and Driscoll—done rolled her all around. Anything they coulda done to destroy any evidence, they did. Whatever killed that man's cow is still unidentified, but take it from me: it wasn't no alien.”

“Okay.”

“Like I said, quote me on that, if you want.”

The encounter ranked as one of Mike Walsh's shortest interviews ever, but he believed he gained a great understanding of the people involved. A naive cop. An old farmer eager for his fifteen minutes. A veterinarian whose obsession clouded his better judgment.

From “UFO in Texas” by John Jordan in
Newsday
:

The deceased bovine, allegedly the victim of alien mutilation, was secured yesterday by forensic experts, as well as authorities in various fields of biology and a handful of investigators popularly known as ufologists. Inspection is underway, but the verdict is still out. Meanwhile, the animal's owner, Lucas “Pops” Dickey, is scheduled to appear on the syndicated television show
Encounters
. In the near future, however, the case's best evidence will reveal what really happened, and Mr. Dickey's story may secure its place in history as one of America's more obscure hoaxes. Only time will tell …

 

A cacophony of murmurs and whispers, shuffling feet, and rustling pages filled Landon Library. Mike Walsh was back among the university youth, studying books on the subject at hand. This time, however, he didn't look for the standard fare. He found
Studies in UFO Mythology
;
Dreams, Visions, and Paranoia
;
UFOs in Hypnosis
; and other works considered extraordinarily speculative even by ufologists. The authors' views were unorthodox in that they attributed the UFO phenomenon to anything and everything
but
visitors from outer space. Much of it was psychology or analysis of mass hysteria or exposure of organized trickery. Spread open before him lay a particularly interesting volume alleging that UFOs were physical manifestations of a witness's subconscious desire acting out through unwilled telekinesis. He studied it intently. He was startled when a voice interrupted his pursuit.

“Chariots of fire, eh?”

Mike looked up. It was his professor.
Am I supposed to be in class
?

“I've read that one. It's decent,” the professor noted.

“Yeah,” Mike said, and then he added apathetically, “It's very interesting.”

The professor's face tilted. “Aren't you in one of my classes?”

“Yes, sir. Cultural Anthropology. Mid-semester.”

“Right, right. You sit in the front row.”

“Right.”

“I'm sorry. Please excuse my short memory, but these mid-semester classes always seem to get lost among my regular classes. I have a lot of students. Could you tell me your name?”

“Mike Walsh.” He shook the professor's hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mike. I'm Dr. Bering. I'm a bit of an ufologist myself, actually.”

”You're kidding.”

“I never kid. Bad for the chakras.”

“Yes, definitely,” Mike said, although he didn't know what chakras were. “Well, I'd love to get your take on this stuff.”

“My take's been published, Mike, believe it or not. Some of my work is in the library. Would you like me to find some pieces for you?”

Before Mike could answer in the affirmative, Dr. Bering disappeared into the periodicals section, returning shortly with an article in hand.

“Here you go, chum. This should start you off properly.”

Dr. Bering laid the photocopied article, “Aliens from This World,” on the table.

“Thank you much, Professor.”

“Not a problem. If you don't mind … why the interest?”

“Well, I'm a writer, and I'm doing a piece on the Trumbull story. Well, partly that and partly a history of UFOs.”

“Well, if you'd like, I wouldn't mind discussing the matter with you. Are you free?”

“Sure …” But then he remembered. “Uh, well, actually no. I'm supposed to have lunch with my wife sometime soon. I
would
like to meet with you, though.”

“Of course.”

 

Twelve twenty-two in the afternoon. Mike pointed his car on the freeway toward downtown Houston. Molly paged him at twelve-o-six. He headed to Lily's Grill, their meeting place. He felt nervous, like a boy on his first date. The sheer anticipation of seeing her again caused sweat to bead on his brow. He struggled to remove his jacket and maintain control of the car. The bank sign gave the temperature at thirty-four degrees, but Mike was burning up. Off came his gloves.

Lily's was a popular place, and finding a parking space proved a challenging task. He hurried inside and found her waiting for him. She was beautiful.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

He hugged her, but not tightly. He felt unsure of himself and was determined not to foul things up.

CHAPTER FOUR

The temperature began dropping around four o'clock in the afternoon. The big city was not accustomed to such a period of winter, especially so early in the season. Houston had its share of freezes. It had even snowed once or twice in recent history, though not usually the kind that stayed on the ground. Just little flakes that floated down and disappeared at foot level. Everyone kept busy remarking about the unique nature of this cold spell.

The pastor remarked too. Four days, and the church had been without heat. The maintenance crew was unequipped and unskilled, and the budget was tight. The church couldn't muster funds for repair. The pastor, hunched in his study, decided that they'd have to take a special offering during Sunday's service.
At the end
, he thought.
Let them shiver and shake for an hour or so. Then they'll pay anything to get the dumb thing fixed
. He smiled to himself, but then wondered if his strategy would constitute manipulation of the congregation.
No, just skillful shepherding
. He smiled again. On his huge oak desk lay his sermon outline for the upcoming service, and he gave it scant attention. He gazed outside, through his window, at the sky. Time had moved so fast for him. Four years of college. Three years of seminary. Seven more in various churches in several Southern states. And then, two years ago, he had answered a Houston church's invitation and brought his wife. Sixteen years, and it was a blur.

He thought back to the beginning of those sixteen years. Recently licensed for ministry by his home church in Louisiana, he began his freshman year of college. From there, the only direction was up. He never looked down.

Outside, two boys were performing death-defying stunts using skateboards and the parking barriers in the church's front lot. They laughed and punched each other, falling down only to get back up and try some other daredevil trick. Pastor Steve Woodbridge watched as they flew. They never rose more than two feet off the ground, but they were flying. Arms out like tightrope walkers. Baggy shirts waving in the wind. All smiles and skinned knees. He watched … and wished. Then came reality.

 

Each day after his lunch with Molly ended with a restless night. His brief bouts of unconsciousness were hard-won and occupied with vague nightmares, memories of which he could not summon in the daylight. The weekend was a blur of television and beer and the dark rising tide of depression. Monday he skipped work. But Tuesday he went to school.

Class seemed more satisfying than before, perhaps due to his library encounter with Dr. Bering, and when it was over, the professor approached.

“Mr. Walsh. Time today? Care to chat?”

Dr. Bering's office was surprisingly large and surrounded with bookshelves, achieving a pleasing symmetry with a mahogany desk at the end opposite the door, a desktop computer on a credenza behind it, and two plush wingback chairs for visitors in the center. Mike scanned the spines of the books nearest the door. He recognized many of the same authors he'd encountered in Landon's paranormal selections and counted twelve written by Dr. Bering himself, when the professor interrupted:

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Mike did, planting himself in one of the wingbacks.

Bering sat in a rolling leather chair behind his desk and crossed his legs. Propping an elbow on the arm of the chair and leaning his chin on his fist, he said, “Well. What would you like to know?”

“Well, UFOs, I guess,” Mike said.

“Right, right. And did you read my article?”

Caught. Mike responded sheepishly, “Um, well … no, I didn't get a chance to.” A lie. He'd had plenty of time. He just hadn't read it.

“Oh, well, I understand that.” Dr. Bering leaned back in his desk chair. “I guess I should begin by saying that flying saucers from outer space are one hundred percent bunk.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Right, right. I know exactly what you're thinking. And I'll tell you, I've read every book that matters, even written a few of my own. I've talked to witnesses, and I've seen government documents and videos and photos and radar readings, both classified and public. They're all very interesting
and
amusing to me, but what it all adds up to is not the popular conclusion.”

“And that is?”

“Crafts from outer space, Mr. Walsh. Little bug-eyed humanoids flying around in disks. Visitors from other planets.”

“Are they all lying, then?”

“Not necessarily. Not everybody. But, tell me, Mike, did it ever strike you as funny how the only people who see these things are farmers in the middle of nowhere?”

Mike nodded. Of course it had. Every skeptical mind thought that at one time or another.

Dr. Bering continued. “However, I do believe that some reputable folks are telling the truth.”

“What are they seeing?”

“Let's back up a few paces. Maybe I should tell you why I don't believe in them.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you believe in the big bang?”

“I believe in God,” Mike said, though not at all with confidence.

“Okay, okay. You believe in God, and that's your right, but can you see how this thing you call God and this event called the big bang could coexist? I mean, one doesn't necessarily cancel out the other. The thing you call God—some designer or force with some intention, conscious or not—could have very well lit the fuse. Are you with me?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, God or not, those of us who have dedicated ourselves to science, to the pursuit of the origins of our universe, have found this to be the most logical resolution to the problem of beginnings. Follow?”

“Sure.”

“Now, even the most devout materialist will admit that what happened in the beginning was a … well, a long shot. For the explosion to happen at the right place at the right time, and for that explosion to bring about a prototype for life—this planet, I mean—and then, for the atmosphere and ingredients and the catalyst, lightning or what-have-you, to all be in place … well, the odds of all this are beyond astronomical. The chances of all this happening in one huge cosmic accident are virtually nil. But it did. How can anyone believe it could happen again someplace else? Even in another galaxy across the far reaches of the universe, it exceeds plausibility.”

“So you're saying what happened here was so impossible it couldn't have occurred anywhere else.”

“Exactly. I'll use the standard argument of intelligent design against this very scenario to illustrate. If you set off a bomb in a junkyard, the result will not be a working automobile. Well, I say it very well might be. It might produce a Rolls Royce, even. Given enough time and enough parallel dimensions, it would certainly happen. And it did happen. But it didn't happen twice.”

“But,” Mike said, “wouldn't the same logic that says such a thing could happen—given enough time and parallel dimensions—also provide that it could happen more than once?”

“Certainly. That is entirely logical. But it's not very reasonable. And by reasonable, I mean, it's not a very good matching of both logic and the available evidence.”

“Then what are people seeing?”

“A multitude of things, I suppose. Queer reflections of earth-based light shimmering in the sky. Airplanes. Experimental military aircraft. Perhaps nothing but illusions, tricks played by the mind. Some, though”—he lowered his voice dramatically—“are
real
.”

“But you just said—”

“I know what I said!” Bering smiled big. “Are you hearing me?” He wasn't scolding. He was drawing Mike in.

“I guess not.”

“Some are real, Mike. Some are very, very real. And they are aliens. They are aliens from another place.”

“Okay, now I really don't think I'm hearing you.”

“I don't either. But I'll put it to you plainly. When I say ‘aliens,' I don't mean aliens like the kind I've just laid a case for disbelieving. I mean visitors from
this
world.”

“You mean people.”

“No, not people. Not people like us, anyway. Not human beings.” Dr. Bering hesitated, and the look on his face seemed to say,
You probably won't believe this, but
… “It's not even fair to call them aliens. This is more their home than ours, really. I'm talking, Mike, about beings who travel to our world from within our world.”

“What?” Mike asked, simultaneously skeptical and intrigued.

“Another dimension. A world within our own, on this very earth, but invisible and unreachable by us.”

Mike fumbled in his computer bag for his pen and notepad. He
had
to write this stuff down. “Okay,” he prodded.

“Mike, I believe there is another dimension connected to our own planet, maybe even on it, with beings very similar in most respects to ourselves. Their civilization or world is far more advanced than our own, and they are able to enter our dimension at will. They appear and disappear as they please.”

Mike was writing, but his incredulity was showing. “All right.”

Bering understood the tone. “Is it really so strange a proposition?”

“I remember watching a Superman cartoon as a kid, where Superman went to prevent a volcano from destroying a village. When he got there, the volcano exploded violently, blowing him into another dimension where everything was backward. At the same time, an evil Superman was blown into this dimension. They spent the whole show trying to switch places and get back.”

Dr. Bering looked insulted. He plowed forward. “Interesting. But I'm afraid it's not quite the same concept. I'm not sure how they do it, whether by machine or some other technology, or whether it is an ability intrinsic to their physiology. Some visit in craft. Some in person.”

Dumbfounded, Mike remained sitting, bewildered and convinced he was facing an honest-to-goodness quack. The professor said things as preposterous as those said by the people he refuted. “Is there any way to figure out how?” Mike finally asked.

“It's doubtful. This thing is far more advanced than any place we could ever hope to be. I don't think any scientist at the top of his field in quantum mechanics or theoretical physics, or anybody else for that matter, could figure this out. There are only a few scientific principles behind it as far as I know, but all are highly speculative. Have you heard of the Kaluza-Klein theory?”

“No.”

“Well, I won't bog you down with details, but it is a scientific theory of hyperspace. Higher dimensions above and beyond our own four-dimensional senses.”

Mike wasn't sure what to say. He felt like he'd heard enough. The two looked at each other, each scrutinizing the other's face. The reporter looked for signs of kidding in the professor's eyes. The professor was still smiling, but not coyly, not with a wink. He had the pleasant confidence of the utterly convinced. Mike broke the silence.

“Dr. Bering, I appreciate this very much. Thank you for your time. You've definitely given me a lot to chew on.”

Bering's smile broke. “Oh. Well, my pleasure. Stop in any time, friend. And I'll see you in class Thursday.”

Mike reflected on his conversation with Dr. Bering during the cold walk to the university parking lot. He deliberated, weighing whether to lend the professor's views any credence. Dr. Bering was an intelligent man, after all, but beyond that, he had the charisma of the most ardent of true believers.

From “Aliens from This World” by Dr. Samuel Bering in
Science Quest
:

The proposal is that a relationship exists between the sightings of unidentified craft and the divine visions and apparitions witnessed by the devoutly religious around the world. Neither group sees what it thinks it does, but both are seeing
something
. In early California, Paiute Indians shared a traditional tale of an advanced race they called the
Hav-Masuvs
, who floated about in silver “flying canoes.” Can these accounts be reconciled? Yes. What is witnessed undoubtedly comes from a dimension apart from our own, but parallel to it …