The secretary of defense found himself seated at the foot of the table between a Supreme Court associate justice, an old woman who talked in a whisper, and the head of NASA. A crone and a windbag. He glared at Hennessey up the table seated between two aliens from God-knows-where and chattering away. An enlisted man, no less!
There were bottles of wine on the table, California reds and whites. The secretary of defense would have deeply appreciated a couple of vodka martinis, which the waiter whispered weren’t available, so he poured himself a brimming glass of red wine and drank it like milk.
Rip turned to the man on his left and introduced himself. “Rip Cantrell.”
I am the first officer.
“What do they call you?”
An unintelligible noise flashed through Rip’s head. He laughed.
Pick a name you like and call me that.
“Sam. I’ll call you Sam.”
Sam. I like that. Tell me about the saucer pilot who is marooned here. Is he here with us today?
He is dead, Rip said silently.
The first officer glanced at the captain, seated beside the president, and she looked at him and Rip.
Tell me about that, the first officer said.
So Rip did. Silently, directing his thoughts at Sam, the first officer. Adam Solo was the chosen name of the saucer pilot marooned on earth for thirteen hundred years. He had other names at various times, such as Hiawatha and Leif Ericson, or Leif the Lucky.
Rip was well into his explanation of the pharma moguls and their quest for drugs that would extend human life when he realized that all the starship crew had stopped talking and were staring at him. They were listening to every word. So he told of the chase and final battle in the Grand Canyon and Solo’s death. Told it in the silence, with every one of the starship crew staring at him.
When he finished, he heard words that he knew were from the captain of the starship.
Thank you, Rip.
Then the first officer. Thank you.
“Let’s have some wine,” Charley Pine said aloud. She too had heard the first officer’s and captain’s thoughts and now broke the silence. Conversation resumed. The earth people spoke aloud, and the aliens replied silently. It was weird, yet it wasn’t. In a few minutes it seemed absolutely normal to all the people seated at the table.
The waiters carried the dishes around, and the aliens always took a spoonful to try. Only a spoonful. Meat in slivers.
The first officer stared at the eating utensils and settled on a spoon. The knife he knew, presumably, because he hefted it and tested the point and sharpness of the blade, then held it ready in his left hand. He found about half the dishes palatable. If he liked it, he ate the dollop on his plate. If he didn’t, he ignored the rest of it. The meat he sliced into tiny bites, which he placed one by one on his tongue using the spoon.
He delivered his verdict to Rip and Charley, who were on each side of him. Good. Fair. Very good. Not so good. Bad. Good again.
He liked the red wine best, Charley noted. The white he sampled, then ignored. Every now and then he picked up the water glass and drank as if the glass contained the nectar of the gods. The waiter behind him refilled it promptly.
The president was feeling mellow. The Arrival was going well, so far anyway. His wife had been giving him grief about the size of his tummy, which wasn’t sexy, she said, and he had been watching his diet. He decided to splurge. He loaded his plate with fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and two enchiladas covered with cheese.
The starship captain watched him with an air of disbelief but tried a tiny amount of each. She watched her host use his knife and fork and tried to emulate him.
Charley Pine got the first officer talking about his home planet, what it was like. Compared to Adam Solo, the first officer was positively garrulous. Blah, blah, blah. He blabbed on and on. He was homesick, thoroughly tired of the starship and thoroughly tired of his shipmates. When he delivered this pronouncement, several of his colleagues around the table froze and stared at him.
Egg had maneuvered the seating so that he was seated beside Professor Deehring. He let the government officials on the other side of the aliens monopolize their attention as he chatted with Deborah.
He felt a warm, pleasant feeling as she talked to him. She asked about Adam Solo, the Big Pharma moguls and what he thought important about his latest adventure. Egg talked on and on. She watched him with those big blue eyes.
At the head of the table, the president and the starship captain were having a private conversation. At least the president assumed it was private, since he spoke in a low voice and she didn’t speak at all, merely fired thoughts into his cranium.
“So how long did your voyage here take?”
A long time.
“How long, in earth years?”
Perhaps a hundred.
The president thought about that. A century ago this planet was convulsed by World War I. He shook his head to clear it. He decided to change the subject. “You seemed very charmed today by the children,” he said.
Ah, yes. Children. It has been a long time since I saw a child.
“What with the length of your voyage and all, I understand that.”
No. You couldn’t. We have lost the ability to have children. We have sex, certainly, but for reasons we don’t understand, the women do not become pregnant. We have come here to your planet to get DNA samples from successful parents so that we can properly research the problem and find answers. If we cannot solve this problem, the people of our planet will become extinct.
20
After lunch the party adjourned to the East Room, where the assembled American scientists awaited them. More wine, water and soft drinks were served by waiters with trays.
Professor Hans Soldi, the archaeologist who had helped Rip dig the Sahara saucer from the sandstone that entombed it, sought out a biologist from the starship and began questioning her. He wanted to know if the aliens had colonized earth 140,000 years ago when the Sahara saucer was abandoned. She didn’t know.
“Surely,” he said, “your DNA sampling of our population must indicate we are closely related to you?” He didn’t know about the aliens’ DNA sampling or storage activities, but he was making a leap to a rock he thought likely to be there.
The biologist was evasive. If it happened, she said, it happened prior to the records I have access to.
He couldn’t budge her off that position, although he tried.
Then he noticed that there was a hair on her shirt, on her shoulder. When she sipped her drink, he picked it off. Two can play the DNA game, he thought.
Around them conversation swirled. “What is your home planet like?” “How many solar systems have you visited on this voyage?” “Tell me about your civilization.” That was cocktail party chatter, intended to get acquainted, not solicit information.
Still, the Americans wanted all they could get. NASA officials asked questions about the problems of space flight. Anthropologists questioned them about conditions on other planets, creatures they had found, how life had evolved under different gravity, atmospheric chemical composition and radiation levels.
The captain and president mixed and mingled for a bit, then went off to the Oval office for private conversations. Petty Officer Hennessey accompanied them.
In the president’s office, the elected one got down to it. “How can we help you with your problem?”
We would like DNA samples from a fairly representative group of successful earth parents, she said. And we would like to meet and talk with the survivors of the saucer that crashed on earth during an electrical storm in 1947.
“The Roswell saucer?” the president asked, his eyes narrowing.
I believe it is the large saucer parked outside on the lawn.
“The crew was never found. Nor any bodies. How many people were aboard it?”
Six. Three men and three women, all biologists engaged in genetic research.
The presi
dent’s eyes registered his surprise. The American public had choked down the fact that Adam Solo had been marooned on earth for thirteen hundred years. Telling them six more aliens had been roaming around unsuspected since 1947 would ignite a political firestorm.
The captain read his thoughts. We need make no announcement, she said. We have already summoned them. They and their families are outside now. All we ask is that you admit them to these grounds and we will meet with them secretly.
The president caught Hennessey’s gaze and said to him, “Ask Egg Cantrell to come in here. Tell O’Reilly to have the Secret Service admit anyone and their family who mentions that he or she was on the Roswell saucer.”
That will be most appreciated, the captain said. I will tell them now.
An hour later the group was gathered. There were five families. One man had not lived to marry and have children, the others said. The women were mothers, and their children were in their fifties and early sixties. One of the surviving men was a father. Between them, they had nine children, who had so far produced eleven grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Neither the grandchildren nor great-grandchildren were included in the group here today. Only the saucer survivors knew of their origin, and they had never told their children, who with their spouses learned the facts now with mouths agape.
Tears were shed, children hugged parents, and everyone talked at once.
When we were unable to rescue you immediately, the captain said, we hoped you would continue your research into our genetic difficulties, find a mate here on this planet and conceive offspring. That you have done so fulfills our faith in you. I invite you now to return home with us on the starship, bringing your families if you wish, and help us solve our genetic problem. Everyone in the room heard this speech, including Uncle Egg, the president and Hennessey.
More tears flowed. They had indeed continued doing biological research here on earth, and they produced digital thumb drives they handed to the captain. “Certainly you have the capability of reading these files,” one man said.
As for leaving earth, the answer was universally no.
“This is our home,” one woman explained to the starship commander with tears running down her face. “Certainly we faced all the problems of immigrants, learning the language, earning a living, getting an education here that would qualify us for professional positions, but somehow we all did it. We became Americans, citizens of this planet. Some of our children and grandchildren have served in the armed forces, and some have been elected to various government positions. A few have screwed up their lives before finally getting on the right track, and a couple have screwed up beyond redemption. We pay taxes and we vote. We are Americans and we don’t want to leave. Ours is an American story. This is where our families are, this is where we built our lives, and this is where we hope to live the rest of our days.”
Egg Cantrell clapped. Everyone looked at him. He kept clapping, and the survivors, their children and the president joined in.
When the hubbub died, the president had a few words to say. “I must caution you that making your secret public now might be harmful to our diplomatic efforts. While you can undoubtedly sell a book and make some money, you would be creating problems for your children and future generations. I urge you to continue to keep the secret you have so far kept so well. Thank you for coming.”
The captain asked the survivors and their children for DNA samples, permission for which was freely given. O’Reilly was summoned and told what was wanted. After much handshaking and hugs all around for everyone, the survivors and their families were escorted away, to be driven to Bethesda Naval Hospital for DNA testing.
When the room once again contained only the captain, the president, Uncle Egg and Hennessey, the president told Egg of the captain’s request for DNA samples of successful earth parents.
Before Egg could get a word in edgewise, the president went after the starship captain. “We can certainly help you,” he said, “but we want something in return. We want your research into the diseases aging—senescence—causes or enables, things like Alzheimer’s disease, osteoporosis and cataracts. And we want what you know about the causes, prevention and cures for cancer.”
The captain looked around the room, at the three men, at the paintings and decorations, looked out the window at the weak November sunshine. Finally she turned to face them. Biology is not my field; I am a starship commander. I have my orders and diplomatic guidelines that my government expects me to follow. My orders are not to disrupt or interfere with the natural progression of a civilization, nor to take sides in planetary disputes.
Still, I have a certain amount of discretion. We can give you everything you ask for about cancer. Senescence is a much more difficult problem according to the biologists in my crew. In my judgment, giving you thousands of years of research into senescence would revolutionize your society in ways it is probably not prepared to handle. However, I can ask my biologists to look at where your researchers are and suggest lines of inquiry that they believe will be of value to you and not violate the spirit of our orders.
“Mr. Cantrell?” the president said.
Egg already knew precisely what he thought. He spent a few seconds figuring out how to verbalize it, then said, “Too much too soon would turn the lives of the six billion people on this planet upside down. It might also cause hundreds, or thousands, of other species to become extinct, species for which we are moral guardians. Biological diversity is one of the miracles that sustain life on this planet. My advice is to accept her offer.”
“Petty Officer Hennessey?”
“Mr. Cantrell offers wise advice, sir, in my opinion. Accept her offer.”
“Captain, what can we offer you in the way of provisions to continue your journey?”
Water, sir. Recycling water inevitably leads to losses. And I am sure my first officer can go over available protein and vegetable matter and find some items that we can put into the starship’s food supply system.
“I also wish you folks would take these two saucers with you. They contain computers full of information that our civilization is not yet ready to use wisely.”
The captain smiled. Your wisdom is commendable. My superiors ordered me to recover or destroy them, if possible. As it happens, we have no room for them on the starship. I suggest launching them into your star.
The president lowered his head, then nodded.
“I accept your offer,” he told the captain. “Give us what biological assistance you can consistent with your orders, and we will provide the DNA samples you asked for and all the provisions you wish. I am sure Mr. Cantrell can dispose of the saucers.” He eyed Uncle Egg, who nodded.
They left it there.
As Egg left the room, he felt as if a great weight—eternal life in a pill bottle—had been lifted … from his shoulders and the shoulders of all mankind. Thank God, he thought, Harrison Douglas and Johnny Murkowsky were dead and the body of Adam Solo was beyond the reach of other greedy men.
* * *
Since they had feasted in early afternoon, dinner for the space voyagers was snacks. Rip and Charley, Uncle Egg and Professor Deehring mingled for a bit, then thanked the president and departed for the Willard Hotel, where Egg had managed to obtain rooms. He had asked for the presidential suite and a penthouse—an extravagance—but if the four of them hoped to sleep in Washington under a roof in real beds and use showers with hot water, that was about it. Of course, Egg could have asked the White House staff for help, but he didn’t want to owe them a favor. Better to pay the American Express bill when it came.
They walked to the Willard through dissipating crowds. None of the people in the streets recognized them, which was a blessing.
Egg signed his name and presented his credit card. The desk clerk certainly knew who they were and called Egg, Rip and Charley by name. Two bellhops almost came to blows over their overnight bags. Rip and Charley got the presidential suite. There was a balcony that overlooked the
city, the Washington Monument and the White House. The saucers and starship shuttle were just visible through the trees.
When the bellhop had departed with a tip, Rip locked the door and joined Charley on the balcony. “Uncle Egg said the aliens don’t want the saucers. We are supposed to fuel them and launch them into the sun.”
“It’ll make great television,” Charley said distractedly. Obviously she had something on her mind.
Rip did too. He decided the time was right, so he dived right in. “Will you marry me?” he asked Charley Pine.
She turned and looked at him, surprise written all over her face. “Say that again?”
“You heard me. Will you marry me?”
“You’re proposing?”
“I certainly hope so. I think this is the way it’s done. Will you marry me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Well, I am asking. I don’t know what the future holds, or where our lives will take us, but I want to share life with you. So will you marry me?”
“Yes,” said Charley Pine.
Rip was not slow. He gathered the lady into his arms and kissed her deeply.
When they broke, Charley said, “With one tiny little proviso.”
“Only one?”
“Only one, but I suppose it’s not so tiny. I talked to the captain of the starship this evening. They were hoping to take home some of the Roswell survivors and their families, but they all said no. They have some room on their starship. I volunteered us to go with them.”
Rip stared at her. “Us?”
“Us. You and me. You know that they are having a baby problem on their planet. Genetics and such. They are going to get DNA samples from successful earth parents for research. And I thought, well, heck, Rip and I are going to be parents, so why don’t we go with them and have a huge adventure?”
In the silence that followed, she added, “What do you think?”
Saucer: Savage Planet Page 23
