by Robert Reed
People listened to the radio again. A reporter in New York City was interviewing people in Central Park, and one woman claimed to have seen the change. She had just come out of the Madame Bovary musical—two hundred dollars for lousy seats—and she’d looked upward, commenting that at least it was a nice evening. And then the sky was different, all at once.
“That’s how it was,” Cornell reported.
“What did you see, son? Exactly.”
He looked at Dad, trying to recall details. Suddenly the day seemed filled with premonitions. The glass circle; the conversation about his mother; and playing that game about which is Mom’s star.
“I felt nothing,” Mrs. Pete reported. “It just happened.”
“I saw it, too,” said Lane.
Todd said, “So did I.”
“Liar. You were looking for tits, liar.”
Their father glared at them, but only for a moment.
Dad was nodding, calm and silent.
Then Pete arrived with the tripod, excusing the delay. “You put it in a different place, sorry.”
Dad said, “We don’t need the motor. I don’t think.” Then both men set to work, motions practiced to a slippery informality. Cornell watched the audience watching them, and he realized they were impressed. He’d seen this show for years, had grown up seeing it, and he remembered people making fun of Dad, and to a lesser degree, Pete. Suddenly those people looked like fools. Rocking back on his feet, he allowed himself a quiet laugh at their expense. Then Dad said, “Okay. Volunteers?”
There was silence, then a surge of bodies.
But Dad said, “Cornell? You saw it change. Take first crack.”
The telescope was pointed at the dawn line as it moved across Asia. The little sparkles were cities. Russian cities, he decided. Were they seeing the same new sky?
“I saw it change,” said Lane.
“And you’re after Mrs. Forrest,” said Dad. “I promise.”
Even Todd waited in line, wanting his turn. Maybe it wasn’t respect they were showing Dad, but at least it was a kind of numbed, cattlelike amiability. Dad readjusted the telescope between each person, allowing himself peeks and long looks. Then he’d wipe at his eyes, using the back of a hand. Pete would nod at him and smile. Wasn’t it something? The Tuckers were last—a small revenge for all their bitching about weeds—and then the little Underhill girl could be heard crying inside her house, probably scared to be alone.
“Get her,” snapped her mother. Then in a softer voice, “Please?”
But first Mr. Underhill asked, “What does it mean, do you suppose?”
Dad pursed his lips, looking at Australia. “It’s a signpost, I guess.”
The girl screamed louder.
“A signpost?” asked the harried man.
“Or many signposts,” Dad added. Nodding with satisfaction, he remarked, “Something this large could mean a multitude of things, and all at once. Of course.”
Cornell had never felt so proud of his father, watching him hold court over his snippy, small-minded neighbors. Pete and Mr. Lynn dragged Pete’s big TV out onto the porch, turning up the volume. It was Dad who made the point about the communication satellites. They were working, weren’t they? Which meant they were in position, right? Odd, odd, odd. People down the street heard about the telescope, and several dozen of them gathered around the island. CNN talked about the satellites, following Dad’s lead. The Weather Channel showed fresh pictures from high orbit, and nothing seemed out of place. “Interesting,” was Dad’s response. Then the Tuckers got dressed and made buckets of coffee. Mr. Lynn brought out lawn furniture, and the Underhills found blankets. Their four-year-old daughter was still angry about being abandoned, and she was too young to care about the sky. CNN showed views from everywhere. An amateur astronomer called from Samoa, reporting normalcy. The sun seemed to be the same sun as always.
“Huh,” Dad would say. “Isn’t that interesting?”
CNN spliced into the mirror field in Utah. It had just been finished, hundreds of telescopes married by computer. Its images were impressive and ordinary, all that fancy gadgetry looking across a few thousand miles instead of the universe. It was like flying low over Australia, the geography reversed, billions of dollars focused on a single farmer plowing his field, dust rising and falling again and him wholly unaware of the Change.
And now, with a careful informality, Dad began to lecture about aliens. It was stuff that Cornell had heard every day, in various guises, but it wasn’t at all old or stale. Dad had a spark, and every adult listened, and Cornell had never seen a more earnest, enthralled audience in his life.
“The universe is full of worlds,” Dad began. “The Utah Project has seen some of them. Enough that we can estimate millions of life-bearing worlds just in our galaxy. If just a handful give rise to intelligent species, then it would take no time for intelligence to spread everywhere. Assuming even a sluggish star drive, an alien species could cross the Milky Way in just a few million years.” A smiling pause. “Do you see where I’m going?”
Not entirely, no. People shook their heads, then a man from down the street inquired, “But what if we’re the first smarties?”
Smarties?
Dad said, “Unlikely,” with easy authority. “Even if our neighbors evolved just yesterday—a few hundred thousand years ago—they’d be here now. And why? Because life has certain common tendencies. One tendency is to grow and build on success, just like people do. How many people are there today? Eight billion? Eventually we’ll fill up our little world, then spill off and need new homes elsewhere.”
Nods. Silence.
“Which leaves one substantial, essential question,” said Dad. “Where in the heck are the aliens?”
There was a long, uncertain pause.
Then he told them what Cornell knew by heart. “They’re everywhere, of course.” He gestured at the sky. “Everywhere and advanced, and maybe that’s what they’re telling us tonight. That they can do the most amazing things, and do them easily.”
People grew uneasy; there was too much to digest too fast.
Then someone from the back asked, “So where are they? Standing here with us?”
Laughter. Sharp, edgy.
And Dad helped keep people anxious, shaking his head and saying, “I won’t discount anything at this point.”
Nobody looked at anyone else, eyes forward.
“Where are they?” Dad laughed and said, “Close and watching us, I’m sure. Influencing us and probably protecting us, waiting for us to mature to where they can step forward and welcome us into the galactic community.” A pause, then he said, “That’s what I believe more than anything.”
Nods. Sighs. Little smiles.
“And I’m sure,” he concluded, “they will make contact with us soon.” He gave the sky one last dramatic look, then promised, “But that’s enough of my noise. I’m going to sit. This isn’t my show, and I’m sorry to have gone on this way.”
He sat on a creaking lawn chair.
Some people applauded, Pete doing it loudest and smiling at Cornell. Others filed over to the telescope or to Pete’s TV. Calm, dry voices made conjectures about everything. A few neighbors spoke about strange lights they’d seen, last week or twenty years ago. Some even approached Cornell, knowing he was the expert’s son. “Do you think they’ll come soon?”
Cornell nodded, glad to be optimistic.
“What will they look like? Like people?”
Humanoids were normal, yes. Big heads, small bodies. Otherwise, the saucer pilots looked human. Basically.
“Can they talk like us?”
“They can do anything they want,” Cornell assured them.
“This is wondrous,” said one woman.
Mr. Lynn said, “Isn’t it?”
His date brushed up against Cornell, telling him, “You’re so lucky. You saw it change. You’ll look back on tonight as something special.”
He felt her breasts against him, and
he tried to commit them to memory.
Then Mr. Tucker, grouchy as ever, gave a wet snort and said, “I don’t know. I like stars better than this.”
Nobody paid attention to him.
“A helluva lot better.”
The group seemed to take a silent vote, and they turned away from him, continuing their celebration, watching the sky and speculating about all things while drinking beer as well as the strong, cooling coffee.
There was a news conference after one in the morning. Members of the government and NASA filed into a Washington conference room, faces showing the strain of the last few hours. The press corps nearly charged them, demanding answers. The president’s science advisor rose and took the podium, promising to take questions after he read a brief assessment of “recent events.” There was a hush, inside the conference room and across the world; the man visibly shivered, unfolding notes while he gathered himself, this moment the culmination of his entire professional life.
“First of all,” he read, “there are many questions without answers. For instance, we don’t know what has caused this visible change. We have no idea what agency or natural phenomena is responsible. The United States of America has made no contact with alien beings. And contrary to certain rumors, no government or any researcher can make more than rash speculations at this time. I emphasize that word—rash—reminding everyone that facts are scarce, and every fact is puzzling. That said, here are the facts as we see them now—”
The Change—he said the words with force—had been witnessed by a variety of astronomers and other qualified observers, both in day and night, and from every part of the globe. No unusual tremors were detected at the instant of the Change. There were no mysterious astronomical events, either. From earth’s perspective, the stars had vanished. A small portion of the planet’s own light was falling back on itself. This was what people were seeing now. Cosmic radiations and starlight continued to fall, but they were being tunneled through a diffuse region corresponding to the center of the inside-out earth. Four thousand miles overhead, in effect. And with that the advisor attempted to smile. “Our weather,” he said, “seems normal. Absolutely normal. And the fundamental principles of the universe, gravity and the other forces, appear perfectly healthy. Perfectly fine.”
He paused, and hands rose. A forest of limbs obscured him.
No, no. He refused questions, doggedly continuing with his briefing. He mentioned the space station and its thirty-person crew. Their view of the planet was essentially unchanged. A slightly diminished albedo, but that was consistent with the earthshine being registered down here. Satellites in low and high orbits showed the same blue-white ball. Dimmer, but quite familiar. That was why there was no interruption in worldwide communications, and that’s why many experts were hoping this was an elaborate, temporary illusion.
“Whatever it is,” he reported, “every specialist is working on the problem. Science is focusing, and answers, I’m sure, will be forthcoming soon. We already have run one intriguing experiment.”
The hyperplane Exodus had just returned from orbit, and its first reports said that the inside-out illusion began fifty miles overhead. From a coat pocket, the advisor brought out a large serving spoon—an unexpected visual aid straight from the White House kitchen—and he described how Exodus had purposefully dipped in and out of the illusion. Like a reflection in the spoon, the planet’s shape seemed to change according to your position. Above fifty miles, and it was normal. Below, and most of the planet was above you. Save for what was directly beneath you…that part of the visible disk appearing perfectly ordinary…
The advisor paused, a wet hand mopping the wet forehead.
Again the forest of arms came up.
“Yes? You—”
“Could foreign powers be responsible?”
The advisor blinked, disgust surfacing. Then he snorted and said, “No. Next?”
A second reporter said, “There’s a report that the sun’s neutrino emissions have quit. Do have any comment?”
“What’s a neutrino?” people muttered around Cornell. And he knew. He tried to describe the tiny particles born in the hearts of stars, then he heard the advisor saying some of the same words, adding, “Not at all. Like cosmic radiation, the neutrinos still are with us.”
“What about the aliens?” someone shouted. “Are you making overtures to speak with them?”
A frustrated sigh, and he said, “Give me their phone number. I’ll call right now.”
The room laughed. Nervous, but relieved to find any humor.
Then another reporter mentioned seeing the president in the Oval Office with a strange figure, perhaps alien. “Any comment on that?”
The advisor had to smile, on a roll now. “The president was watching television with her husband. Does that explain things?”
It was a ruthless stroke. The First Husband was a tall and homely man, and that he would be confused for an alien delegate was the perfect touch. Laughter continued for a full minute. The advisor had a chance to step back and take a drink of water. Then he asked for more questions, and a determined man stepped forward, both hands in the air.
“What’s a neutrino?” he asked with a shrill voice. “And how can we protect ourselves from them?”
The press conference ground along for an hour; the cul-de-sac grew bored with repeated questions and the lack of concrete answers. They migrated back to Dad, and he showed them the starlight coming from straight overhead, the tripod straddling the curb and nothing to see but a ghostly white fog. The universe funneled through a little cloud, Cornell was thinking. Then Dad sat in his creaking lawn chair and began spinning explanations and speculations, smiling all the while, happier than Cornell had ever seen him.
“I think there’s a galactic union,” he allowed. “Advanced and quite peaceful. Wise and talented. Possessing enormous powers, but very much aware of its responsibilities. And perhaps we’re about to join the union, if only in some limited, novice role.”
It was the reliable galactic-union speech, reconfigured for the audience and the moment.
Dad spoke of starships and hidden bases and humanity living on a microscopic slide, and those wonders suddenly seemed ordinary, perhaps even out of date. Yet the speculations were too much for some. Heads shook; people grew tired of astonishment; the audience changed members as the morning wore along.
Cornell returned to the big TV. The press conference was finished, CNN turning to a West Coast studio to interview a Nobel laureate. A brilliant balding man with radioactive eyes, he began to voice some of Dad’s opinions about aliens and intelligence, then moving on to wilder ideas of his own design. It was a sweet vindication. The cul-de-sac saw this certified genius speaking Nathan Novak’s words, and faces glanced at one another, again and again, wondering what kind of genius they’d been living near for all these years.
“I’m guessing,” confessed the physicist, “but I’ll bet you any sum that contact is imminent. Perhaps it’s already underway—”
“The government denies that,” a reporter interrupted.
“Governments deny. It’s their nature, son. How long have you been on your beat?” The eyes filled with satisfaction. Just like Dad, he spoke of the new sky being a signpost, and the Change had to be a prelude to some wonderful event. Then he laughed for what seemed like hours, making himself gasp for breath. “It’s funny. I always thought First Contact would be some meek signal on the waterhole band. Not this. Don’t I look like the idiot right now?”
The reporter didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “Do you believe our government is talking to the aliens?”
“Well, yes…I mean, no. Now that you mention it, that’s an awfully ordinary answer, isn’t it?” A wise shrug, then a harsh growl. “As big as these critters think? Eight billion of them could show up at our doors. Shake everyone’s hand. You know? Neighbor to neighbor?”
5
Later, after three in the morning, clouds began riding in from the west, high and
thin but ample enough to obscure the sky. Pete took his TV back inside. Dad and Cornell retrieved the telescope. Then it was four, and a burst of rain sent the last of the people home. Sleeping children were carried unaware. Televisions skipped between channels, politicians and scientists and at least one top-dollar actress gushing speculations. But what Cornell would recall, years later, was the view from the East Coast, from Maine, the CNN camera showing the sun as it rose on schedule, the sky becoming an almost ordinary blue—save for a splash of white, very faint, that was Greenland—and the impossibility of it seemed only half as incredible as before.
He was growing accustomed to everything, or he was tired. Probably a little of both, he realized. Or maybe a lot of both.
The Petes came to their house. Mrs. Pete never visited, at least since Mom vanished; but this was a special occasion, and she was too excited to even comment on the disorder, the grime. She made fresh coffee, and Cornell asked for a cup’s worth. Dad’s rules needed amending. “Have some,” Dad told him, distracted. Happy to tears. “You don’t want to miss anything.”
If it was just Dad and him, he’d ask about Mom. Was her arrival imminent? Or if just Pete was here, maybe he’d ask anyway. But not with Mrs. Pete. That’s something Cornell understood, tired or not.
Dad sat in his lumpy lounge chair, leaning forward.
Cornell finished the coffee and felt better, not alert but confident enough to lie on the floor with his head on little pillows. It was nearly dawn, a steady rain falling. And now the president came on every network, telling the nation and world that her government was continuing its day-to-day business, no need to declare an emergency, no need to involve Congress or the military. She spoke about American resilience, particularly resilience in the face of change, and she trusted people to live up to their reputation. Finally, with a kind of solemn fire, she promised her people that this phenomenon—natural or artificial—would be studied in full, no expense spared. Teams already were outlining a new agency whose only focus would be the Great Change.
