In interests of legal accuracy, I had brought along my lapel button recorder, a lovely item that I had purchased some years ago through the black market in Singapore. To the uninformed eye, it was no more than a tiny gold disk, with an image of a flowering cactus, encircled by the letters ACGA (Association of Cactus Growers of America). The flower sucked up every word spoken in its vicinity.
I will not transcribe the small talk (why waste time, why waste good paper?). Suffice it to say, that his manner throughout our meeting was relaxed and utterly charming. Moreover, he had done his homework. First, he enthused about my Nobels, my presence on the ship, and my willingness to give another lecture. Then he asked about certain details in my “recent” articles in scientific journals, things he had found stimulating but, he confessed, oblique to him. I explained the problematic parts; he asked supplementary questions (actually, quite good ones), and as they tapered off, we got down to the real, if unstated, purpose of the meeting.
We were now facing each other across his desk—actual wood, I think—with steaming coffee served in genuine porcelain cups and saucers. His hands were clasped before him on the desk top, conveying outreach toward me. My hands were folded neutrally on my lap, though every other part of me communicated pleasure and relaxation. I acted as if I were soaking it up with dignified, greedy abandon.
“I’m really tickled, Dr. Larson, that you’ve made such an effort to understand these concepts. Very few people are able to do so.”
“Please call me Elif”, he smiled.
“Elif. And mine’s Neil.”
“Thank you, Neil. I hope I’m not becoming tedious when I say what an honor it is to have you on the ship.”
“Not at all”, I responded with a maidenlike, verbal blush. Good heavens, what can one reply to flattery like that?
“We were impressed by the response to your inaugural lecture. I must say in confidentiality that no subsequent talk by others has prompted such a positive reaction.”
“Thank you.”
I mean, What? I mean, don’t be a ridiculous elf! I had no feedback other than about twenty people asking me for the name of the symphony’s composer. Xue’s talk in the second year was superior to mine, stunning actually, so good that I almost suggested to him (Xue) that he should forget this ink-drawing business and get himself onto the lecture circuit. Dr. Pagnol’s talk on species adaptation was also a corker. As was Dr. Teal’s on anti-matter.
“Of course, we’ve had some fine speakers during the past six years”, said Elf. “The committee feels that, on the whole, they have made an invaluable contribution to the psychological well-being of the community.”
“I feel the same, Elif”, I said, nodding sagely. “Of course, it goes without saying that a healthy community won’t always have uniform feelings. In any given community, there’s always something of a split between the Gemeinschafters and the Gesellschafters.”
I had done my homework too. He paused for a few seconds. His expression was no less affable, but the eyes now looked at me with imperceptibly closer attention. He continued: “Yes, it can be a problem. Fortunately, in an intentional community such as ours, a truly global community, Gesellschaft is the overarching dynamic of social interaction. There aren’t any local neighborhoods.”
I nodded in affirmation even as I silently disagreed. You bet there are local neighborhoods on board, Elf. Very close-knit ones.
“The wonderful thing is,” he continued, “we’ll never exhaust the riches of the great minds we have with us. That’s why we’re asking our most successful speakers to recommend other scientists whom they feel would offer stimulating presentations. Would you be open to this?”
“To suggesting speakers’ names?”
“Yes. Anyone you think would interest a large audience. You see, there is a tendency to individual isolation during a lengthy journey like this. The more people experience each other in public encounters, the more they will feel they’re part of a community.”
Elf, I’m getting just a little tired of that word.
“Smart thinking”, I nodded. “We’re lucky we have staff who’re sensitive to those aspects of life. You know what scientists can be like.”
He chuckled understandingly.
Gazing at the ceiling of his office, I frowned as if in deep thought, as if I were going over a mental roster of champion speakers. He waited patiently.
“You know”, I said, “I think we need Xue Ao-li to give us a lecture on mathematical anomalies in particle acceleration.”
Elf nodded politely. “Yes, Dr. Xue would be good.”
“Then there’s Dr. Pagnol on species adaptation. And Dr. Teal on anti-matter.”
“I think they already spoke on those topics. It would be somewhat repetitious.”
“You’re right. Now, who else?” I murmured to myself. “Mmmm, who else?”
“There’s Dr. McKie. He hasn’t spoken yet.”
“He’d be great on astronomy”, I said.
Elf’s face continued to smile, but tightened just enough that I knew we were zeroing in on the radar beam.
“He’d be excellent”, Elf said with a slight adjustment of his sitting position.
“Would the committee invite him? Or would you like me to ask him personally? He can be a little rough around the edges. Not really a community buff.”
“That would be a help, I’m sure”, said Elf. His face slid quietly into an expression of qualified concern. “I admire Dr. McKie’s work very much—very much.” He paused, as if thinking over my suggestion. “I am a little puzzled by him.”
“Oh, in what way?”
“He doesn’t seem all that happy to be with us.”
I threw my head back and grinned knowingly. “That’s just Stron’s mannerism. He relishes his reputation as a grumpy old man.”
“One wonders if he would be grumpy before a podium.”
“I have no doubt he would be. But it’s part of his charm. I think the audience would love it.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Have you met him?” I asked. “You’d enjoy him.”
“I haven’t met him face to face.” Elf shook his head with an interested smile, feigning enchantment by Stron’s reputation. “I hear he’s quite an eccentric.”
“He is indeed.”
“He has some wild theories, I hear.”
“As a scientist, there’s none better. Outside the field of astronomy, however, he can be opinionated. Full of quirks and quarks, so to speak. People sometimes think he’s a bit paranoid, imagines crazy things. It’s his act. It’s just his way of having fun. I don’t know what you’ve heard about him, but you shouldn’t take it too seriously.”
“Oh, I never would. We all have quirks and quarks.”
“Too true. It’s what makes for an interesting community.” I gave it three seconds and asked, “So, would you like me to invite him to be a speaker?”
“Let me run this by the committee first”, said Elf, furrowing his brow. “I have to follow protocol, and I expect there’ll be a number of names put forward.”
“Of course. Just give me a call if you need me. I’m at your disposal.”
He rose and offered his hand. I rose and accepted it. We smiled congenially at each other, and he conducted me to the door.
“Oh”, I said, as if recalling a half-remembered thought. “We need to confirm the date and venue of my talk?”
“Ah, yes, please forgive me.” He went back to his desk, bent over his max day-planner, pursed his lips, and said: “How about the first Monday of next month, 1900 hours, the main auditorium on Concourse A?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Then it’s definite.”
With that, we parted in a cloud of mutual friendliness, congratulating ourselves for having accomplished so much, so brilliantly, in so short a time.
I headed off to Stron’s room. He was at home, and once I was inside he demanded a blow-by-blow description of my meeting with Larson. First, I gave
him a thumbnail sketch and summarized by saying: “It’s not exactly proof, but the timing does seem to indicate that they overheard our fake dialogue.”
“It does indeed”, Stron growled, as he poured me a finger of his latest brew.
“On the other hand, we shouldn’t jump to hasty conclusions”, I went on. “It’s entirely possible that we’re not quite on the mark about this.”
“We’re so on the mark, Neil-lad, that we split the shaft of the arrow that’s lodged dead center in the bull’s-eye.”
“Maybe it’s not as sinister as it appears. What they’re doing is unethical, of course, but they probably mean no harm.”
“Neil, listen to yourself. Unethical is harm.”
“But he made no direct accusations, didn’t even ask probing questions.”
“Worse and worse. I’ll bet he’s a Freudian-slip-pouncer—the most odious kind. He laid a honey trap for you, and you stepped right into it, which is to be expected.”
“I’ll admit I caught the faintest whiff of honey. But nothing that would make your feet stick to the floor.”
“Did he ever-so-casually bring up my name?”
“Yes, but that was well along in the conversation.”
“He’s good. He’s very good. Which means he’s dangerous.”
“Maybe so. However, in the interest of keeping perspective, let’s ask ourselves if all this amounts to anything. What does it matter if they suspect we’re onto their tricks? The fact is, they don’t know anything. And even if they did, what could they do about it? Clap us in irons and throw us into the brig?”
“Hardly. But they could make life damn uncomfortable—put the pressure on us, isolate us, demonize us in the eyes of other passengers. And worst of all, they could refuse us permission to land on the planet with the exploration teams. They might even ruin our reputations in the history books.”
“Mine’s already ruined. I’m a convicted criminal, actually. Didn’t you hear about that?”
“No! Tell me all about it.”
I did. And he laughed. Then we called it a day.
Day 2251:
Last night I watched an old film called The Wizard of Oz—primitive fantasy, but it had a pretty girl with a nice voice, skipping along a yellow brick road.
This morning I awoke before dawn, soaked with sweat, overcome by a feeling of stark terror. This is strange, because I hardly ever remember my dreams, and haven’t suffered from a nightmare in decades.
In the dream, I was franticly scurrying about the Kosmos trying to convince people that we were all being listened to and watched by “them”. The accusation was denied by the authorities as paranoia. None of the passengers and crew believed me.
I was dragged by Elif Larson to an enforced session of psychological counseling. I was strapped to a chair and left alone with the psychiatrist. She was a very short woman wearing dark sunglasses and dressed in a skin-tight, one-piece, synthetic jumpsuit that was not flattering to her figure. She rocked back and forth on her office chair, scowling at me, saying nothing, taking long drags on her cigarette holder, from which protruded a burning filterless cigarette. The room was dense with the cloud of noxious tobacco smoke. Her face was wrinkled with extreme old age and deformed by a scar slashed across one eyebrow and the length of her cheek. Her hair was long, straight, and dyed blond. I felt totally frightened by her—not because of what she might do to me but by what she was.
She smoked cigarette after cigarette, rocking and staring at me, rocking and staring, from time to time spitting bits of tobacco onto the floor. She peered at me as if I were an interesting specimen that she was about to vivisect—as soon as she has finished her cigarette. I could tell that she would enjoy my screams. She would write an interesting paper on the way I died in agony.
But to my vast relief, she gave me a crooked smile and rasped in a deep Eastern-European voice that she believed me. She declared that she could tell when people were repressing, projecting, and transferring, and she was sure that I was not repressing, projecting, or transferring, she said, because we really were being persecuted. Even psychiatrists get persecuted sometimes, she added with a defensive tone. Then followed a long, long lecture, full of crazy things such as her desire to be a circus performer, the lady who stands on the back of a galloping pony, balancing on one foot.
“Oh, yes”, I agreed, nodding emphatically. “You’d be very good at it.”
She dropped from her chair, and now only the top of her head was visible above the desk. She rounded the corner, and I saw that she was less than four feet tall.
“You patronize me!” she screamed into my face. “You look down on people of my stature! Admit it, admit it!”
“No, no, please believe me, I don’t look down on you, except physically.”
“Vat do you mean by dat?” she snarled dangerously.
“I mean I didn’t choose to be tall,” I whined, “and you didn’t choose to be short.”
She began screaming at me again, spittle and tobacco flying in every direction.
At that point, DSI guards burst into the room. They had been listening through surveillance.
“Are you brainwashing this man properly?” they shouted.
Without answering the question, she glared at them and whipped off her sunglasses in order to stare them down. Their fear of her was too great, and they backed out of the room.
In a rage, she untied me, and stated that we would now go to inform the whole ship that DSI is the secret police. We ran out into the hallways and tried to engage passersby, but everyone shook us off. Suddenly, out of nowhere Elif Larson appeared with dozens of henchmen. They tied up the psychiatrist and did the same to me. We were hauled off to a torture chamber deep in the bowels of the ship, and there we were strapped to seats facing an enormous vidscreen. Madness ensued—madness, madness, madness! The worst tortures were the programs we were forced to watch. If we closed our eyes, buckets of cold water were thrown in our faces. We were forced to see everything—everything! Daylong interviews with television stars, Disney musicals, Hollywood love-stories.
“You cannot do dis to me!” screamed the little lady. “I am psychiatrist! I am psychiatrist, I tell you! I know vat you are doing to my mind!”
We were taken deeper into a special section of the ship, into a large white room without windows. From behind a curtain came the sound of whirring machinery, clanking metal, thuds, beeping, and other cyber noises: A screen lowered from the ceiling, and more programming was shown to us. We were forced to watch hours upon hours of mind-numbing golf games from the twentieth through the twenty-first centuries. The psychiatrist lost consciousness. I screamed; the psychological pain was so great. I begged them to kill me. But they would not let me die. I struggled and yelled until, without warning, the curtain was drawn aside, and I saw inside, controlling everything on the ship, the Wizard of Oz.
My beloved little Scottie dog was dragged in by his collar. He had been captured in the arboretum. Elf took out a pistol and shot him in front of my eyes.
“Noooooo!” I wailed.
“You’re not in New Mexico any more, Hoyos”, he cackled.
Suddenly, there was a tremendous roar and bang. The Kosmos lurched, and we all toppled to the floor, torturers, guards, the wizard, the psychiatrist, and myself. The ship had been rammed by an alien space vehicle. A crowd of little green men, shorter than the psychiatrist, stormed into the room. The aliens’ eyes were huge, black, and saurian, their bodies like spider monkeys.
“You must call us your Little Friends”, declared their leader. “We come in peace.”
At this, all the aliens burst into hysterical laughter. Then they pointed their rayguns at us and started firing. I crawled out of the room, and stumbled to my feet, trying to run away, trying to warn the others onboard, but then I saw that the bodies of my shipmates littered the floor everywhere. I dragged my bleeding body along the concourse, crying out, “The horror! The horror!” I woke up.
(Ay, caramba!)
On the first Monday of the following month, the condemned man enjoyed a last meal in the Indian restaurant (whew, hot, hot, hot curry!) and a modest glass of dry Madeira wine. Afterward, I went down to Stron’s room and knocked, since we had agreed to walk together to the auditorium on deck A.
“Aaargh, where’s my dirk when I need it?” he grumbled as he knotted his bright red tartan necktie in preparation for departure.
“What’s a dirk?” I asked.
“A clever weapon we Scots devised for inflicting pain on invaders.”
“Don’t tell me you forgot to smuggle one on board?”
“Tried to, but they spotted it at security in Africa. Confiscated it. Didn’t want me hijacking the ship.”
“They took your ammunition too, I presume.”
“A dirk is a knife, laddie, more precisely a dagger.”
“Oh.”
I flipped open my blazer and exposed the kit strapped to my belt. I unbuttoned it and showed him my old fold-knife. He grinned. “Boys’ own adventures, eh?”
“Yup.”
“How’d you smuggle that little item onboard?”
“Being a cripple has its advantages.”
He laughed. “I sure wish I was deformed.”
I closed it up again and buttoned the kit. Back to nice, harmless astrophysicist.
As we climbed the staircase from B to A, he said, “Now here’s a thought for you: Let’s suppose there’s intelligent life on AC-A-7. Objectively speaking, wouldn’t that make us the invaders?”
“You have a point. The AC-A-7-lings’ view of the matter would be different than ours.”
“Precisely. Fortunately, that’s probably not going to be a problem. There hasn’t been a sheep-bleat from the planet, ever. None that’s detectable by any instrument mankind has invented. On the other hand, this doesn’t mean they aren’t communicating, if they’re there. They could be using waves we can’t measure.”
“Stron, if there is someone waiting for us on AC-A-7, and you think we’re the invaders, why did you agree to be part of this expedition?”
Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel Page 15
