by John Boyd
Then his apocalypse began, a dual revelation of alternate futures as if envisioned separately and simultaneously by the twin lobes of his brain. On the one hand he saw a future for mankind leading to the stars, and on the other he witnessed a silent Armageddon in which the cities of men crumbled from the disintegration of unknown atomic pulsations. He saw the dreams of men dissolve into darkness and knew the abstract, detached terror of extinction.
Yet even as he witnessed these alternate futures his critical faculties remained alert, and he recognized that the choice of visions was mankind’s own. Moreover, he was beginning to understand that there were factions in this group, that some were being swayed toward militant action, and Kyra, the magnanimous, was asking…
His visions were shattered as a tremor of tension jolted the group, tearing the hands from his own, and Breedlove looked around him as a sleeper awakened. The chanting had ceased with the dropping of the hands, and he heard a sound of scurrying from the bushes. He glanced toward the sound. With his boy’s legs hurtling him away at a pace incredible in an earth child, Crick raced through the gloaming toward the tossed boulders at the mouth of a ravine to the southeast, but Flurea, fleeter of foot than Diana, had taken up pursuit. Halfway to the rocks, the chase ended. Flurea caught Crick’s arm and swung him toward the group, dragging him stumbling and falling back to the mound. Around Breedlove the tension relaxed.
“Do you have a behavior problem with the boy?” he asked Kyra.
“Only in that he is a child who longs for a sunlit place to play, and space is cold and dark.”
She spoke to the group sharply, and as one the people arose. Two of the heavy-bodied females went to take the boy, each grabbing him firmly by a hand. Docile, his face expressionless, Crick walked between them.
“Breedlove, we must go.”
Forming around Kyra, the group moved toward the aspen grove and into the gathering dusk. Breedlove watched them go, thinking, Flurea’s function was to catch the boy and for that one purpose she had evolved into a runner. But the behavior of Crick aroused his more intense curiosity. With acumen remarkable in a child, he had studied the terrain with the binoculars before attempting escape, and if he could have reached the boulders and found a crevice narrow enough, he would have been lost to the group forever. Granted that space held terrors for a child, it was still strange that he should flee from his own kind to seek sanctuary on an alien planet.
A fully grown male would have made good the escape.
Turning to police the area, Breedlove was bothered by another incongruity. Kyra had told him the group had no leader, but when she spoke the others obeyed. Unless her definition of leadership was far more complex than his own, Kyra had lied to him.
Chapter Three
On his second morning in the wilderness Breedlove slept until the sun had burned the ground fog from the meadow, and awakened to sit up and gaze around him as if striving to drive away his inner mists with the morning brightness. He felt as one awakening from a bad dream to find its images gone completely from his mind while its baneful aura still lingered. He assumed his subconscious was still roiled by yesterday evening’s vision, and he solicited the serenity of the morning with the same reassuring observation with which, last night, he had invited sleep: if Kyra’s power to convince others was as effective as with him, even if her techniques involved nothing more than hypnosis, she would get the uranium and be gone long before the summer solstice, leaving mankind to its future and unchallenged possession of the earth.
Fully awake now and, as he supposed, with his superego in control of his emotions, he could realize that Kyra’s presence posed no threat to him personally. But then, there had been no threat as such in the vision he had seen, merely a choice of futures, and mankind had always had suicide as a choice.
He arose to roll his sleeping bag, tricing it without its poncho covering. The poncho’s drape would be bulky and its Marine Corps mottlings were more functional than decorative, but it would conceal Kyra’s nakedness. Yesterday he had been remiss in not impressing on her more forcefully the strength of earth’s social taboo against nudity. This morning he would be introducing her to Peterson, who obeyed regulations, observed conventions, practiced decorum, and reverenced propriety. The chief ranger would have trouble enough adjusting to the girl’s appearance and origins. Besides, Kyra was receptive and sensitive to human emotions. Peterson’s embarrassment might shame her.
It was too early to call Peterson, who had not yet begun to monitor his radio. He shaved and ate breakfast and packed his gear and shortly after seven he sat on the knoll, waiting, when Kyra emerged from the aspens wearing only a pink shoulder bag. Stepping into the creek, she waded upstream, trailing her fingers in the water as she walked. Exuberant in the morning, she could have been Eve in a still-pristine Eden, and, watching her, Breedlove regretted that he was not a poet capable of enshrining the sight of her in memorable phrases. When she passed beneath the willow at the bend in the creek, she strode dappled by its shadows, reminding him of the line from Hopkins, “Glory be to God for dappled things.”
It occurred to him that it was unlikely that she had heard any poetry over Station KSPO, and yesterday she had brightened with delight when he compared her to an orchid. He could pirate the deathless phrases of the poets and fling them at her, with variations to suit the circumstances, without fear of detection. When she emerged onto the east bank of the creek and waved up to him, he arose and waved back, calling down to her:
“You walk in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of silver and green
Meet in your aspect and your eyes.”
“Breedlove, you can’t see green at night.”
Drawing closer, she swirled before him, modeling her bag by holding it to her hip. “Is my bag the height of fashion?”
“It is. But I’m going to call my leader to come and get us and take us to Spokane, and we’ll need a dress to cover you.”
“Breedlove, is my body so uncomely you’re ashamed of me?”
Genuine hurt in her eyes brought his instant rebuttal.
“Absolutely not! It was once said of earth’s first geometer, ‘Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare.’ That’s no longer true. Euclid and Breedlove alone have looked on beauty bare. But it is a rigid custom on earth for women to wear clothes in public, and I’ve got this little number here”—he stooped and lifted the poncho—“that will get you to my house and my sister’s dresses. It will cover enough of you to keep Ranger Peterson from going into deep shock when he sees you.”
“You didn’t seem very shocked when you saw me.”
There was a note of suspicion in her accusation.
“I know, but I’m young and resilient. Peterson is mature and believes in custom and going by the book.”
“And not as lusty,” she added, amused now by his obvious confusion. She took the proffered poncho and slid her arms through the slits, looking down at its folds.
“I think I’ve known you long enough, Breedlove, to tell you frankly this is not a gorgeous creation. If you will cut me a length of your rope, I think I can improve the drape.”
He complied, and while she worked at the drape he radioed Peterson. “Pete, this is for your ears only, and I mean only your ears. A historical event has taken place in the meadow. You’d better draw on your June ration of gas to get the helicopter to the meadow as soon as possible. Come in from the south over Hallman’s Peak and don’t circle the meadow. Come straight down to where you’ll see me signaling.”
Apparently impressed by Breedlove’s urgency, Peterson did not argue, saying only, “Wilco. Out.”
“My leader is on his way,” Breedlove said to the girl, who was dubiously holding the pink bag against the dull green and yellow of the poncho. “I plan to take you to my parents’ farm and hide you there until Peterson contacts the authorities. I planned to tell you this last night, but you left in too much of a hurry.�
�
“I know. My people were upset by Crick.”
“I noticed they obey you promptly. I thought you said you were not their leader.”
“I command, but I do not lead them. How do I look from the back?”
“Atelya! You’ll have to help me convince Peterson you are what you say you are.”
She swirled before him, spinning the poncho outward until centrifugal force canceled its purpose. “That’s easy. We’ll compare bellybuttons.”
“No, not that!”
She laughed at his expression. Settling to the grass and pulling him down beside her, she said, “Now, Breedlove, tell me more about you earth people.”
He was sitting cross-legged before her, telling her of the rivalries of nations and the origins of civilizations when they heard the helicopter and looked up to see it swinging from behind Hallman’s Peak. Breedlove signaled Peterson to a landing on the mowed circle of the mound and moved Kyra away from the blast of the propellers.
When the blades ceased to spin, he led Kyra back as Peterson emerged from the craft, adjusting his hat to its proper angle before he swung his feet to the ground. He carried a metal-backed clipboard. Walking toward them, he glanced at Kyra, and his gait faltered, his face paled visibly. He stopped. He kept his eyes glued to her hair with frantic, despairing disbelief.
“Chief Ranger Peterson, may 1 present Miss Kyra Lavaslatta from the Planet Kanab?”
The historical moment was lost to Peterson, lost even to his hearing, Breedlove suspected, for the ranger was drifting into a peculiar form of shock. His voice sounded as if it came from some remote area of his throat, for his lips hardly moved.
“Miss, if you and Tom are conspiring to use government transportation…”
“Mr. Peterson, I’m from Kanab,” Kyra said.
“I’ve been to Kanab, miss, and I’ve never met a Mormon girl with a Greek name who dyed her hair green.”
“Pete, she’s not from Kanab, Utah. She’s from another planet.”
“I heard you the first time, Tom.” He seemed angry.
“Nine others from her party are nearby. They’re all from outer space.”
“Did you have them sign an unauthorized campers’ release?”
“Pete, they can’t sign anything in English.”
“They can sign with an X. How does she speak English?”
“She listens to KSPO. Now, sit down, Pete, and think. Would a girl be dressed in a poncho if she were from this planet? If she were a nudist, she’d be nude. If she were a camper, she’d be wearing jeans. She’d not wear a poncho.”
Peterson sank to the turf, dazed, asking, “Why not? If it rains here, it rains in outer space.”
Peterson was fighting to accept the girl’s origins, but he was losing the battle. He looked away and downward, as if his thoughts were focused on some peculiar personal problem that his mind recoiled from, and for a moment Breedlove feared he might be drifting into catatonia. Kyra must have feared the same. She stooped beside him, looking down at him with an expression of grave concern.
Suddenly she squatted on the grass in front of Peterson, gently removed the clipboard from his hands, handed it to Breedlove, and took both Peterson’s hands in hers. She began to speak to him, but. in her own language. Tentatively, at first probing and hesitant, she seemed to be questioning him. Then her voice grew more rhythmic, flowing in easy undulations, and she was singing, less a song than the rendition of a melody by the flow of air over her vocal cords. It was a wind song, a sound as pleasant as the hum of bees in the fields of summer, and Breedlove suspected it was a Kanabian lullaby.
Yet the singing was more significant than the sounds a mother makes to pacify a child. Over Breedlove’s mind it cast visions of a green and pleasant land slowly yielding to the desolation of frost, and he could feel the despair in Kyra’s voice. A counternote emerged, bringing intimations of hope, which swelled into an affirmation, and the wind rush of her coda brought again a sense of motion resumed through the far-flung glitter of stars.
Her singing ceased. She dropped the ranger’s hands.
Peterson snapped from his stupor. His eyes focused on Kyra, and his voice was clear though apologetic. “I never doubted you, Kyra. I knew Breedlove wouldn’t be calling me unless something big had happened. I didn’t tell anybody you were here. Still, I’d appreciate it if you’d sign for your group. Where’s my pad?”
Breedlove handed him the clipboard, and he took a pen from his pocket. “Sign here, Kyra.”
She drew three characters at the bottom of the form. The lettering resembled Arabic script. She handed the pad to Breedlove, who took it and chided her. “You never sang like that to me.”
“Pete had something in his mind blocking his belief in me,” she said. “Now, you take the papers back to the helicopter. I want to speak to Pete alone for a moment.”
Breedlove turned toward the helicopter, hearing Peterson say, “So, you’re actually from outer space.”
“It depends on your point of view,” she said playfully. “To me you’re from outer space.”
Moving out of earshot, he returned the clipboard to the helicopter, wondering about the mental block that affected Peterson’s belief in Kyra’s origins and how the girl had discovered it so quickly. Despite her disclaimers she might well be a supermind, either that or a highly skilled diagnostician, but whatever else she might be she was certainly a superb singer of wordless songs and a genius at the art of persuasion.
Leaving Peterson to Kyra’s ministrations, he pretended to check the cables on the voice amplifier attachéd to the far side of the helicopter and was not drawn back to the two until he smelled smoke. Peterson had regained his self-control. He was lounging on the grass, smoking a cigarette and showing Kyra photographs of his family.
“Tom, you can quit worrying,” Peterson said as Breedlove walked up. “Kyra’s told me all about her troubles. Of course, they’re not solved yet. I’ll fly her back to your folks, and that’s when the situation starts getting hairy.”
“You and I believe her,” Breedlove said. “Somebody in the government with the authority to dispense the uranium will believe.”
“If it were that simple I’d fly her over to Hanford and pick up a cupful of the stuff, but she’s an unregistered alien, and radioactive uranium is hemmed in by all kinds of restrictions, national and international.”
“I figured we could pass her up the chain of command to the Secretary of Interior,” Breedlove said.
“She isn’t going up my chain of command,” Peterson demurred. “I never told you why I resigned my Air Force commission. I just told the little lady and she suggested that I tell you, since now we’re partners in the crime of believing. When I was a captain, which is as high as I got in rank, I flew wing tip to saucer’s rim with a flying saucer in broad daylight in a flight from Laramie to Cheyenne. I waved at the pilot and he waved back, a little baldheaded guy as green as this lady’s hair, and when I reached the base with my report I was sent to the wing’s psychiatrist and held for observation. I wound up with a reprimand from my commanding officer for making flippant flight reports. I don’t want another incident on my record, so I’m delegating you to stay with Kyra in Spokane until the authorities get there, and you can make all the reports.”
“Will you certify my sanity?”
“I’ll sign anything you type up, but I’m not guaranteeing I’ll read it.”
“What authority will you notify?”
“Immigration and Naturalization. It happens that the regional chief in Seattle’s an old flying buddy of mine. Kyra’s an unregistered alien, so she’d fall under his jurisdiction.”
“Pete, we’re not using our heads. Other bureaus hog the publicity picture. Why not get a little favorable publicity for the forestry service? You can take the credit and I’ll take the risks if you’ll make her a ward of the National Park Service and assign me duty as her escort and guardian. I can type the documents. This is no disrespect to Kyra, but the idea cam
e to me yesterday that she is technically ‘rare and exotic fauna,’ and as such she is the responsibility of the Park Service.”
“You’re right,” Peterson agreed. “By law I can appoint you her keeper while she’s out of the park area. She’s not only exotic fauna, she’s a threatened species.”
“What’s exotic fauna?” Kyra asked.
“A rare and unusual animal,” Breedlove said, breaking the news to her in a gentle tone.
“That’s me, Breedlove.” She beamed. “That’s me exactly.”
As a friend of John Breedlove, Tom’s father, Peterson had visited the Breedlove farm before, but it was the first time he had spiraled down into the Breedlove feedlot in a helicopter without a prior notice of arrival. John Breedlove emerged from the barn as the machine landed, a look of wonderment on his face. His wonderment changed to an expression of vexation and mild reproof when he saw the trio approaching across the feedlot, stepping cautiously, and the barefooted, green-haired girl wearing only a poncho.
“That’s my dad,” Breedlove told Kyra.
As they approached closer, the senior Breedlove recovered and walked toward them, without greeting them, to complain, “Pete, if I’d known you were coming I would have gotten dressed for company, and, Tom, why did you bring the young lady through the cattle lot and her barefooted? Miss, I apologize for my son and my overalls.”
“Don’t apologize for your overalls, Mr. Breedlove, and look at this sack your son dropped me into.”
“Why, miss, it’s the most beautiful poncho I’ve ever seen on a woman. It matches your hair.”
“Dad, this is Kyra. She’s a Kanabian from the Planet Kanab.”
“Welcome to the farm, miss. I have many Canadian friends.”
Breedlove was beginning to analyze the adjustments the human mind made to Kyra’s presence, and he suspected that his father’s misinterpretation of the word “Kanabian” was deliberate. John Breedlove extended his hand to Kyra, who took it and performed the peculiar knee-jerk curtsy Breedlove had first seen done by Flurea. By this time Breedlove’s mother, drawn by the noise of the helicopter, had emerged from the kitchen of the house and was coming up the path. She was studying Kyra’s face as she came, wiping her hands on her apron.
