by Peter Ponzo
"That's exactly what I was thinking." Harry was beaming.
George was the only skeptical member of the Council. The others seemed quite pleased with the idea. Perhaps it was because we rarely had any suggestions to make to the Global Council and this was better than nothing. Even Beverly, who usually slept during the meetings, suggested shouting: "Hey you up there!" Although everyone laughed, even George, most members thought it was a brilliant idea. I agreed. How could I do otherwise? It was my idea.
Within a month, the Global Space Council had discussed the idea, congratulated Harry on his brilliance, decided upon a "message" then set the worldwide media in motion to advertise the event. It would take place in about a month.
Part 1.3
A month later, I sat at my corner table in Susan's Grill. Susan came over and sat down.
"So, Gordie, I read about the big Earth-wide thought process. We all say the same words, think the same thing, everywhere on the planet, and the Godship picks up our thoughts and..."
"Yeah," I said. "It took over a week to decide what we'd all say. Some had suggested a long essay, some suggested a single word. It's ridiculous. I can't believe that the best minds on the planet could generate such a ludicrous message...and with a deadline?"
"But wasn't it your idea, this Global thing?"
"Yes, but Harry led the discussion at our local chapter and, ultimately at the global chapter. Why couldn't our message be a bit friendlier? Why are we so mesmerized by the notion that the Godship is menacing?"
"I see," Susan said. "So that explains the thoughts we are to think. But what about that guy who said he was abducted. The guy who then disappeared?"
"I understand that his name was David Granger and he was poor, lived in a shabby, government subsidized apartment and survived from one government check to the next, eating rarely and, according to his neighbors, swore that he'd get revenge. There was a picture of the guy, wild hair sticking out at all angles beneath a baseball cap, a missing front tooth and a hooked nose. His neighbors often complained about his loud, gurgling laughter in the wee hours of the morning."
"And he hasn't been seen since?"
"Apparently not," I said. "However, I'm beginning to believe that he was actually seized by the aliens. Why do I believe that? Because his photos seem authentic and were taken in late September, judging from the color of the foliage, and taken from a point precisely where the Godship is located."
"Who knows," Susan said with a grin. "He may be the one who receives our global message."
Although Susan's comment was made in jest, I began to think she might be right–especially since the global message that we were to think was:
We are a civilized, compassionate and tolerant race.
We wish to terminate our current relationship in the New Year.
Please leave.
These words were 'thought' by peoples about the world, in a hundred different languages.
It's as though we had tolerated the aliens and they now had our permission to leave. Our decision was their command. It was a ludicrous message. Did anyone really think the aliens would just grunt and say, "Okay boys, they want us to leave now, so let's go."
Old man David would certainly not agree with the first part. Compassionate? Tolerant? Hardly. Our first response after their arrival was to fire rockets at them.
I wondered whether the aliens understood "New Year", but if they were studying us, examining our culture, then surely they understood our languages. But what New Year? Where, on planet Earth? And what would they understand by "terminate our relationship"? I guess there are many ways they could "terminate". Maybe old man David was now living in a space ship and could interpret for them. If we wanted them to leave, couldn't we have been less abstruse? Like, maybe, you're scaring the hell out of us and would appreciate an early withdrawal.
At one minute after midnight, Greenwich Mean Time, on New Year's day, the entire planet thought the same thought. I stood on the balcony waiting for any kind of response. By three minutes past the hour our Godship began to glow. In another three minutes I could feel the heat. By ten minutes the sky glistened, scarlet, like a rising sun. This was not the expected response. Were the aliens angry? Why the heat?
When it became too hot to stand out on the balcony, I went inside, closed the door and turned on the air conditioner, sat on my brown couch and watched TV. At various locations about the globe people were feeling the heat. Everywhere there was scarlet sky. On TV, the news anchor was interviewing a well known scientist, Dr. Christopher Terpit.
"So, do you think they mean us harm?" the news anchor asked.
"No, I think they are warning us. In the past it has been observed that they could control weather patterns, so turning on the heat seems to be an appropriate scheme."
"How long do you think it will last?"
"I have no idea, but since our worldwide message seems to have made contact, perhaps we could ask them."
I thought that was a curious response by the distinguished scientist. They might just as well have asked some six-year-old the same question. They'd get the same answer. Talk to them and ask them to stop. Simple solution. Why not?
In any case, the heat began to dissipate after a couple of weeks and by mid-February temperatures were back to normal. For those of us living in northern climes, the snow had all melted and crocuses had begun to peek out at the world. As expected, many assumed that the Godships had provided relief from winter's bite and church attendance increased with ministers praising the warm spell as an act of God brought about by God's messengers: the aliens.
Part 1.4
It was almost summer when it happened: the slow movement of the spacecraft. It appeared to be random. Observations worldwide showed no discernable pattern. Our Godship slowly drifted north, about 250 kilometers to a location known locally as 'cottage country'. Many small lakes girdled with cabins, marinas and campgrounds. In fact, I had a cottage on Lake Simcoe. It wasn't really mine. It belonged to my parents, but they divorced many years ago and now never used the cottage–so I did. Although I see my mother from time to time, or at least phone her, I haven't seen or talked to my Dad in years. I wasn't surprised when they divorced. Dad was a cheat, a liar, a drunk and an all around bad guy. From conversations with Mom I understand that Dad is now a changed person. I guess it's about time I made contact, however I still think it's best to pretend he isn't there. Maybe, some day I'll try to contact him, maybe–but not soon.
I sat on the balcony gazing out over Lake Ontario. It was a beautiful morning. When I was about ten, as I recall, Dad came home from a drinking binge and pushed Mom around, demanding some specific kind of meal–I can't remember what. Mom said she didn't have the proper ingredients, but she'd make do. I think she was afraid of my old man. I only remember his sitting on the couch with his feet on the glass coffee table. That was a no-no. His hair was a mess and his nose seemed pink and much too large for his face. When Mom returned with a steaming bowl of something, he ate some then spilled some, then struggled out of the couch and staggered up to bed. I learned later that Mom had heated a bowl of dog food and added lots of ketchup. She said she saw that in an old movie. I believe it. In fact, we didn't have a dog and never had, so I think Mom kept dog food for exactly that purpose.
My Dad worked days and sometimes evenings and sometimes weekends. I never knew exactly what he did but I guess it was hard work and he felt it necessary to bury his distaste for his job with alcohol. I don't recall his ever actually acting in a threatening manner toward Mom, not really. Maybe he did push her–sometimes. Actually, as I recall, he often kissed her and hugged her–when he was sober. I know he often whispered into her ear and she would blush. She seemed to love him, as far as I could tell. Maybe he has changed. I do recall going fishing with him, by the Humber River. We'd catch tiny fish with a net–can't remember the name–and Mom would fry them whole, like potato chips. Then, too, there was that time he took me to some entertainment park in Niagara Falls and I at
e cotton candy until I was sick. When I think back, we did have some good times, my dad and me. Maybe, one day, I'll try to contact him–but not soon. His brother was a much nicer guy. His name was William and he'd often take me north, on fishing trips, with his girlfriend. Uncle Willie laughed a lot, told the same jokes over and over, and treated me as a friend, even though I was a teenager. He taught me how to select a fish lure, depending upon the weather, time of day and the conditions of the lake...and he taught me how to drive. He let me drive his van when I was just fourteen years old and didn't seem upset when I put a dent in the fender. How could brothers be so different? I wish Mom had married Uncle Willie.
Since our spaceship left, I actually missed seeing it each morning so I decided that, this Summer, I'd spend a week or two at the cottage. That's where it went. I silently prayed that it'd still be there when I arrived.
It was on a sunny Saturday morning in June that I packed assorted summer clothing, a small bag of edibles and a case of beer and headed north in the van. It was a three-hour drive and I stopped along the way for a hamburger, fries and diet Coke. It was becoming a habit to check the calorie count on things I ate. I wasn't overweight and I did exercise (when I remembered), but it seemed that healthy eating was the main topic of conversation at parties. I looked at the can of Coke. Diet Coke had no calories, but tons of sodium. Actually, my eating habits were far from healthy. Hamburger and fries? That's healthy? Hardly. In fact, I usually had a thousand calorie chocolate milkshake. I didn't care. I exercised–when I remembered. A half hour's worth of jogging and I'd undo the calories associated with a handful of peanuts or maybe a third of a milkshake.
About an hour before I got to the cottage it started to rain, but I could see the spacecraft hovering on the horizon, below the ashen cloud cover. It seemed lower than usual. When I pulled off the highway and down the country road leading to the lake, I noticed that it also seemed a different color, rust with a hint of maroon. Perhaps the change in color accompanied the change in location. But what was so special about being above a lake? And why this particular lake? There were over a hundred small lakes within a few hundred kilometers. In fact, there are hundreds of thousand of lakes in the Province, so why Lake Simcoe?
I stopped directly in front of the cottage, waited several minutes for the rain to subside, gave up waiting and ran to the front door. The keys were under the pot, as usual. I suspect that every cottage on the lake had keys under a pot. I was soaked by the time I got in. I'd leave my belongings in the car until the rain stopped. Now I needed a hot shower. I started the water heater–it was the kind that required a match to light the pilot–then changed into dry clothes from the bedroom closet and sat in the old overstuffed chair by the patio window. It overlooked the lake and I had an excellent view of the craft. In fact, it was almost directly above the cottage. It was definitely reddish in color and even seemed to be flashing small red lights. Flashing lights? That was something I had never seen when it stood over our city back home. It also seemed to have small rust colored panels across its hull. Curious. Maybe they were windows of some sort.
It stopped raining by 9:30 P.M. and I gathered my stuff from the van. I had my hot shower earlier and I felt great. The sliced ham was hot in the frying pan along with the onions and potatoes so I grabbed a beer and took my dinner out to the back patio, dragging a dry patio chair from the living room. I leaned back and stared at the sky. It was incredible. A jillion stars in a jet black sky. Something I never got to see in the city. After dinner I just sipped the beer and relaxed, staring at the Big Dipper and looking for Orion and Cassiopeia. Constellations were my passion. I usually learned lots of trivial things about lots of topics, never anything too deep or complex. Keep it simple, stupid was my motto. Come to think of it, I had passions too numerous to count. When I was a kid I'd sing this tune that named a dozen constellations. It was a great memory aid, however at my current age, I not only forgot the words to the song, I couldn’t remember what times of the year these constellations appeared. I didn't think that thirty-five was really that old and that memory loss...
Wait! There was something wrong. Stars were missing. That was when I noticed that around the space craft there were no stars at all, just an ebon sky. I stood up, leaned on the railing of the patio and stared intently at the craft. Yes, there was definitely a black halo, no starlight. I hadn't seen that before–never, in four years. Or was it five years? It seemed a long time ago that the Godship first arrived. I guess seeing too clearly was hindered by the obtrusive artificial light of the city. Besides, the craft seemed much lower than it had been in the city. The rust colored panels across its hull were new to me. In fact, I was pretty sure that the vessel I remembered had no distinctive marks at all.
So, this alien thing could manipulate gravity and block starlight. What else was it capable of? I sat and pondered the question when I heard the cackle. It was after 10 PM and it was quite dark and someone or something was cackling. I recognized it at once.
"Gordie! I saw your light on, how are you? It's been a long time."
It was Mrs. Candy, the annoying gal who owned the next cottage. She was almost spherical in contour, her hair was dirty blond and always untidy and she had been married several times. Although she was now a single lady, she kept the Mrs. appendage as a sort of badge of honor, as if to say: 'See? I've been married'.
"Hi Mrs. Candy," I said in my most agreeable voice. She was annoying, but meant well and I found it difficult to get upset at her constant presence while I was living next door. She pulled up a deck chair and sat.
"Oh Gordie, after all these years, can't you call me Sophie?"
"Okay...Sophie."
"Did you see the Godshit?" she said, giggling. "It showed up a while ago. Sometimes it glows. It’s like a jewel in the night sky. It hasn't moved a mite since it arrived here. It's quite pretty and all my friends hope it never leaves. Jean–do you know Jean? She's that old lady on county road seven, just past Jetson Variety? Jean says her arthritis has gotten better ever since it arrived. I believe it. I know it's affected my eating habits. I usually just nibble, but these days I sit down for a full meal. Meat and potatoes, that's ol' Sophie. Meat and potatoes. Especially potatoes. Do you like potatoes, Gordie? I bought a bushel last week and you're most welcome to come over for potato salad or mashed or fried. I make great scalloped potatoes. You'll love it. I use extra butter and I don't use milk, I use yogurt. Especially that Greek yogurt. Have you tried it? It's so rich and creamy and..."
I was falling asleep. The drone, the verbosity, the audio throb, the oscillating rhythm, her monologue was a sleeping pill, a sure cure for insomnia. My globephone buzzed.
"Oh Gordie," Sophie said. "I'm so sorry. You must be tired from the drive and here I go talking a blue streak and…you'd better answer your phone."
"Hello," I said.
It was Harry Clemens.
"Gordon, you've got to get back immediately. Something's come up and we need to have a meeting of the council, right away."
"What's come up?" I asked, still half asleep.
"I'll tell you when you get here," Harry said, his voice full of urgency.
But Harry regarded everything as urgent. Every pointless council meeting was urgent.
"Harry, I'm on holidays and…" I began. I sure as hell wasn't going back. I decided to lie. "… and my van broke down and I'm stuck miles from any garage and I couldn’t call them anyway because my phone isn't working, but rest assured, I'll be there just as soon as I can."
"Your phone isn't working?" Harry said. "Then what are you using now, to talk to me?"
What an ass I am.
"Uh...I mean the cottage phone. I'm at the cottage. I have to use my globephone and it's on its last legs. The battery light is flashing. I..."
Then I scraped the phone on the arm of the deck chair to generate some static and turned it off.
"You can use my phone," Sophie said. "Come on over to my cottage. I have some leftover potato salad and we could..."
"Ah, Mrs. Candy, that's very kind of you, but I'm weary and think I'll hit the sack."
I got up and collected the dinner plate and fork and beer can and waited for her to leave. She gave me a melancholy look then heaved out of the chair and waddled off the deck. It was dark, but I could see that her backside was wet. Her chair had been sitting in the rain. Now, after her occupancy, the chair was quite dry.
"See you tomorrow," she said.
I wasn't looking forward to it.
Part 1.5
After a good night's sleep I gulped a cup of strong instant coffee and headed into town to pick up groceries and buy a paper. Jetson Variety had been a local landmark for over thirty years. It carried groceries, clothing, camping gear, fishing stuff and, in season, worms as bait. The sign out front was unreadable. The paint had faded to a pale pink, but Bill Jetson didn't mind. The locals knew the place.
"Hey, Gordon, how's it hangin'?"
Bill was a heavy set fellow with bushy reddish hair that looked chaotic. His nose matched the color of this hair and his brows hung low and shaggy.
"I heard from Sofa that you were in the neighborhood," he said.
"Sofa?" I asked.
"Yeah, your neighbor. Mrs. Sophie Candy. She's known around here as Sofa. Ya know, soft to lie on." Bill laughed until he coughed. "I reckon most of the bachelors and even some of the married guys have been on that sofa." He bent over the counter, coughing and chuckling.
"I'll take a paper," I said. I didn't think it was very funny. Bill suddenly went silent. He even looked embarrassed.
The newspaper headlines were in huge type:
Godship communication
It seemed a curious heading. We had already communicated with the vessels through that Global Consciousness message. There had been further such attempts without any noticeable response. I figured, whatever the headline meant, that was the reason for Harry's call last night. I waited until I got back to the cottage, made another coffee and began to read the article. It seems that the medley of spacecraft was talking...to each other. That was a first. Although attempts had been made to intercept messages between ships, worldwide communication networks hadn't picked up anything. Now, digitally coded, pulse modulated signals were being received. No one had been able to decipher the messages, but there seemed to be a continuous transmission.
