Starman

by Alan Dean Foster

  A sign hove into view, briefly afire in the Cadillac’s lights.

  METEOR CRATER—3 MI

  They slowed, followed the signs off the Interstate onto a narrow road that led south into the desert.

  Before the desert was Rimmy Jim’s, and it was closed. Even the gas station was dark and sealed. Only the Crater Cafe remained open in hopes of providing sustenance and succor to those occasional travelers passing through Sate at night.

  The Caddy rolled into the dirt parking lot. As he exited, the starman stumbled once and had to catch his balance on the front of the car. Jenny said nothing but felt a pang of concern. She’d never seen him miss a step before. It was clear he was growing rapidly weaker.

  “Are you all right?” she finally asked.

  “A little bit—tired. This near to the end of the time frame my control over this body is beginning to weaken.”

  “Can you make it the rest of the way?”

  “I think so.” He looked skyward, searching. “They will be here soon. Then I will become myself again and all will be well.”

  The interior of the cafe was given over, not surprisingly, to the single sight that supported the town. There were dozens of shots of the huge crater taken from every conceivable angle. Some were washed-out old color prints that must have dated from the forties. A couple of free-standing shelves proffered the usual plethora of tourist knickknacks, each incorporating the crater motif. There were Meteor Crater ashtrays, salt-and-pepper shakers, plates, pennants, bumper stickers, and so on, none of them made in the state of Arizona. The only genuine articles of local manufacture were scraps of petrified wood, from boxes full of fragments to expensive polished bookends, that had been gleaned from the borders of the nearby national monument. Geologic kitsch.

  There were also “Genuine Meteorites.” Tektites, though they looked like plain old rocks to Jenny.

  When they entered it rang a bell somewhere in the kitchen. The manager, night cook, and waiter emerged to greet them. He was more cheerful and awake than anyone had a right to be at four o’clock in the morning.

  “Hi, folks. What’ll it be?”

  “Dutch apple pie?” asked the starman hopefully. The night cook shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, not today. That was Monday. How about some nice cherry cobbler? Only as old as last night, which means it’s still fresh.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Jenny told him.

  “With whipped cream,” her companion added.

  “Health nut, huh? You got it, bub. Comin’ right up.” He vanished back into the kitchen.

  Jenny and the starman took seats at one of the empty tables. “How long does it take to get to the crater from here?” she called out to the cook.

  He was back in minutes with their order. “Driving? Not long. Five or six minutes is all. Come early to watch the sunrise over the crater, huh?” Before either of them could reply he went on. “Not too many folks do that. They don’t know what they’re missing. Gives you a real primeval feelin’, standing there watching the sun come up over the crater wall. That’s what that crazy artist feller who’s making another crater nearby into a work of art says, anyway. Me, I’ve seen it enough times not to be surprised by anything that happens out here.”

  Wait around a few minutes, Jenny thought at him.

  “This way you beat the heat, too.” He set the plates down in front of them, spoke to the starman. “I want you to try this cherry cobbler with an open mind. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pay for it.”

  The starman dipped into the plate, using a fork this time, but there was none of the joy that had appeared on his face before, when he’d had that first bite of apple pie.

  Jenny noticed his disappointment, was quick to say, “It’s delicious.”

  “My wife made it.”

  “It’s very good,” said the starman, taking his cue from Jenny.

  Content now, the cook returned to his kitchen to get ready for the morning breakfast rush. He prided himself on having the grill and everything else ready when the morning shift showed up.

  Jenny picked at her cobbler. “Tell me something. Do you have—a wife or somebody, up there?”

  “No. It is different with us. Hard to explain. More a matter of hard physics than soft relationships. But I have many friends.”

  “I see. I wish . . .”

  “What?” He looked back at her out of that oh-so-familiar face. But the mind directing those eyes was not familiar. It functioned in ways she couldn’t begin to imagine. If she’d been expecting some kind of gesture, kind words or an emotional confession, it wasn’t forthcoming.

  Stupid, she told herself. She dug angrily at her cobbler. What kind of fool was she? He hadn’t the faintest idea what she was feeling or what she was waiting for, and it was insane of her to expect him to react in anything like a recognizable manner.

  “Nothing.” On impulse, she reached out and covered one of his hands with her own. He stared back at her uncertainly, wanting to react in a way that would please her but not having the slightest idea how to do so.

  The screen door banged against the jamb as it swung wide to admit a sergeant in the khaki-colored uniform of the Arizona Department of Public Safety. He was young for a sergeant, Jenny thought.

  He did not sit down, did not call out an order. Instead he made a quick survey of the cafe’s interior before his gaze settled on her. “Evening, folks. That your Eldorado outside?”

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she pushed aside a curtain and looked out the window.

  The parking lot was full of police cars.

  Ten

  Shermin found himself watching the sky as he turned off the Interstate. The bowl of the heavens had changed color, fading from pure black to a cold cobalt blue. Sun would be up soon. Then they’d have some answers.

  How badly did he want them?

  He pulled into the lot outside the cafe and parked, noting the number of patrol cars drawn up in a circle around the building. Like Indians attacking the wagon train, he thought, except that that was an old Hollywood myth. Real Indians had never done anything like that. They’d had too much sense to ride in circles around a heavily fortified position.

  But in this case it looked like the battle was already over.

  He climbed out and headed for the modest structure. A state trooper immediately intercepted him.

  “Sorry sir. Cafe’s closed.”

  Shermin flashed his credentials. The trooper examined them intently for a moment, then tipped his hat and stepped aside. “Sorry sir. Go right on in.”

  Jenny Hayden and her male companion sat at a window table, the remains of some dessert still sitting in front of them. The bemused night cook would have taken the plates away if the sergeant hadn’t politely prevented him from doing so. He’d been told to stay back in the kitchen, out of the way, and he’d complied. But they couldn’t keep him from staring curiously out into his own restaurant.

  And they’d seemed like such a nice young couple, too, he mused.

  The sergeant looked up as Shermin entered. The science advisor took in the souvenirs, the pictures on the walls, and the couple sitting silently nearby. Then he crossed to the sergeant and showed his identification for the second time.

  “I’d like to talk to these people alone, officer.”

  The sergeant looked at the couple seated next to the wall, then back at Shermin. “All right, sir. I’ll be outside if you need me.” He headed for the door, paused to glance back. “Oh, George Fox just called in on the radio. Said to tell you that they’re on their way over and for you to hold the fort for a couple of minutes.”

  “I think I can handle things. Thank you, sergeant.” The officer closed the door behind him.

  Now that he was alone in the room with the visitor, save for the woman who’d been accompanying him and one puzzled cook, Shermin found that he was trembling slightly.

  Stop that, he ordered himself. That won’t do anything any good. He desperately wanted a cigar but foreb
ore from lighting up out of fear it might be harmful to the visitor. There was so much they didn’t know, so much that could only be inferred.

  He walked over to the table. Both of them were watching his approach warily. He tried to sound as reassuring as possible.

  “I’m Mark Shermin from SETI—the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.”

  “Tell me,” said the figure seated across from Jenny Hayden, “have you found any?”

  Shermin was taken aback. He’d come expecting anything but humor. “I think so. SETI is kind of a semigovernmental agency.”

  “Like you’re kind of a semigovernment representative?” the woman said.

  He smiled at her. “Mrs. Hayden, I—we talked on the phone. I have your wallet for you, by the way.”

  “Just missed me, hmm?”

  “Yes. I wish you’d stayed in that restaurant just a little while longer. We could have—I, this is such a—” He was trying to talk sense without taking his eyes off her companion, and it wasn’t easy. The replication was astounding. He’d seen the pictures of Scott Hayden and it was hard to believe that wasn’t him, sitting quietly on the other side of the table. It wasn’t, of course, it wasn’t even human.

  To be a good scientist requires the ability to readily suspend disbelief. Mark Shermin had it in quantity, but he was having a hard time ignoring the evidence of his senses.

  He sat down next to them. “Mind if I sit down? This is a very special moment for me and I’m afraid I’m not handling it very well. There are so many questions I’d like to ask, I hardly know where to start. You know, you dream about having your life’s greatest wish fulfilled, and then when it happens, you don’t know what to do with it. I—is there anything I can do for you?”

  Jenny stared hard at him. “You can leave him alone, you can let him go.”

  “I can’t. Really. I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands. You must understand that I’m just a consultant, a minor functionary. I can only give advice, advice which can be casually ignored and often is. I’m not one of the people who makes decisions. Never was. Those people will be here soon, I’m afraid.” He turned to face the visitor. “Is it—are you supposed to meet someone here? Is that it?”

  “Yes. Friends.”

  How calm he is, Shermin thought. Surely he’s seen the police cars outside, ringing the restaurant. He must know that he’s trapped. But he wasn’t acting like a trapped man.

  Well, why should he? He wasn’t. A man, that is.

  Jenny spoke anxiously. “There isn’t much time. Please . . .”

  Shermin seemed not to hear her. “Why here? Why the crater? I know it’s an obvious off-world landmark, but there are others. Is it because it’s familiar to your people from previous visits? There’s a lot of speculation that we’ve been visited before. Have your people been here before now?”

  “Yes. Before. But not in person. Machines have come and probed and returned with their knowledge. I am the first to try to visit you in person. I brought back your record.”

  Shermin smiled. “We found it, in your craft.” Glad Fox wasn’t present, he asked, “What do you want here?”

  “We are interested in your species.”

  “You’re some kind of anthropologist? Is that all you’re doing here, checking us out? You didn’t come to size up our military potential?”

  “ ‘Size up? Military potential?’ Oh, I understand. No. Our only interest in your ‘military potential’ is as it interrelates to the rest of your culture. I am interested in it, though. I am interested in all cultural aberrations.

  “You see, you are a strange species, unlike any other we have discovered. And you would be surprised how many others there are, some intelligent, some savage, others who combine characteristics of both. You fall into the later category, though even there you are exceptional.”

  “How many ‘others’ are there?” Shermin asked him.

  “Hundreds.”

  “Oh.” Shermin swallowed. “What do you do once you’ve made contact with another intelligence?”

  “Some we make friends with and try to help. Others we ignore.”

  “You’re not afraid of the ones you ignore?”

  “No. There is no reason to be. Generally they resolve their own fate in spectacular if sad fashion before they can become a danger to any peoples other than themselves.”

  “Is that what you think’s going to happen to us?”

  “I am not sure. As I said, you are a strange species. There are many of my kind who think you are not worth the special effort it would take to help you survive. I confess that I was among them—until I came here myself. Shall I tell you what I find worth saving here? What I find beautiful and irreplaceable about you? Beautiful and contradictory? It is this: you are at your very best when things are at their worst.” He was piercing Shermin with his gaze and the advisor found himself trembling again under that relentless, challenging stare.

  Jenny noted the position of the hands on the wall clock, glanced at the brightening sky outside. “It’s almost sun up, Mister Shermin. Let him go, please.”

  “I can’t. I told you. I’m not a decision maker. I’m just an overeducated flunky who does what he’s told.”

  “If he stays here and doesn’t go with his friends, he’ll die. Can’t you understand that? He’s dying now.”

  Shermin inspected the visitor. “You look okay to me. A little pale, maybe, but otherwise okay.”

  The visitor smiled back at him. “The change always comes from within. In less than one hour of yours I will be as dead as this form I have adopted.”

  Shermin considered, and thought, and then he did something he’d just confessed to not being able to do: he decided.

  If only he hadn’t smiled. If only he’d expressed outrage, or had gotten mad, or had tried to break away and fight his way out. That’s what Shermin told everyone later. It was that damn smile that had done it.

  He rose suddenly. “Both of you come with me.”

  Jenny hesitated only momentarily, then took the starman by the hand and followed Shermin outside.

  The sky to the east had gone from blue to pink. It was bright enough now to see without the aid of flashlights. The police cruisers had turned off their spots.

  Shermin leaned over to whisper something to Jenny. She searched his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  He tried to shrug it off. “Your friend said that ours is a society full of aberrations. Consider this one of mine. It’ll make an interesting footnote in my journal.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to say. I—” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him hard before he could pull away. Not that he wanted to. The starman watched without comment. Then he too stepped forward and bussed the startled consultant.

  “Uh, thanks,” Shermin told them, wiping his mouth.

  He watched as they hurried through the milling state troopers and climbed into the Cadillac. Jenny Hayden slid behind the wheel. The car pulled out of the lot and started up the narrow road that led to the crater. The young sergeant from the cafe joined him.

  “Not the right ones, huh?” He gazed at the dust the Eldorado was kicking up in its wake. “They sure as hell fit the description. The car had Nevada plates, too.”

  “Nah, close but no prize,” Shermin replied casually. “Guy we’re after’s much older. I never did trust that report out of Vegas.” He removed his last cigar from a coat pocket and began to peel it slowly, lovingly. He was looking quite pleased with himself when the whup-whup of an approaching helicopter caused the sergeant and his fellow officers-to look up. Shermin didn’t. He knew who it was.

  Fox was the first one out of the chopper. He sprinted for the cafe, moving with unexpected speed for a desk-bound bureaucrat. Halfway to the door, he spotted Shermin and the sergeant and changed course toward them. His eyes searched the interior of the patrol car, Shermin’s face. Something told the security director that all hadn’t gone according to plan. Maybe it was his advisor’s grin.

&nb
sp; “Where are they? What’s happened to them? They still inside?” When Shermin didn’t respond he turned to the state trooper. “Sergeant, where are your prisoners?”

  “Wrong ones,” the officer told him, sounding a mite puzzled. “We let ’em go. What’s all the fuss about?” Suddenly his gaze narrowed and he turned to look questioningly at Shermin.

  You could see the thoughts racing through Fox’s brain, lining up like magnets. He glanced a last time at Shermin before rushing to the cafe. He threw open the door and found himself staring at the night cook. He was the only one present.

  “Hi,” said the man. “I’m fixin’ to close until six. That’s when we open for breakfast.” He looked happy as he peered around the security director. “Quite a crew you got out there. I expect they’ll all be wanting to eat. There’s still some cherry cobbler left. Say, what’s this all ab—?”

  Fox let the door slam behind him, cutting off the older man’s query.

  He strode up to Shermin until their belt buckles were practically touching, but the advisor didn’t back away. “You’re finished, Shermin,” he said tightly. “I’ll have you eviscerated for this. You’ll never work for another government agency or a company holding a government contract as long as you live.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Be as snide as you want, It’s your last chance.”

  “In that case, as much as I hate to resort to symbolism,” Shermin said calmly. He’d fired up his cigar while the security chief had been making his inspection of the cafe. Now he removed the brown bomber from his mouth and, with an inordinate amount of delight, blew a thick cloud of smoke straight into the taller man’s face.

  An occasional rumble of thunder could be heard as Jenny sent the Cadillac careening down the narrow, empty road, but no raindrops splattered the bug-stained windshield.

  “There it is,” she whispered as a ridge of unnatural regularity came into view ahead. “You don’t seem excited.”

  “I am conserving my strength,” he replied with a wan smile. “I am very tired now, Jennyhayden.”