by Robert Reed
Cornell took a slight breath and held it, beginning to tremble.
Another note: “I guess I’m glad I drove him away, if he is some kind of alien creature.”
And when he read those words, in that instant, he imagined Dad sitting before him. “You didn’t drive me away,” he whispered to the phantom. “It was my fault, more than not. More than not. Alien or not, it’s my own goddamn fault, Dad…”
“Pete called.”
Cornell was sitting on the curb, the earth particularly bright tonight. He blinked and turned to Mrs. Pete. She had come outside to walk, or maybe she’d seen him here, then donned shorts and the headphones to have an excuse. “They’re coming home soon,” she told him.
“What’s soon?”
“In a couple days.” A pause. “They didn’t quite find bigfoot, but they saw some pretty country. You know Pete. Always looking at the bright side.”
Cornell made a quick mental tally. What else did he want to accomplish here? In two days’ time—?
“In the mood for some late dinner?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
She began to walk, not fast, once around the island and stopping, saying, “You’d better tell him you were here. It’s going to make him crazier if he doesn’t know who it was.”
“I’ll leave him a note. A letter.”
“Why not stay and talk to him yourself?”
“Because I need to get back to work.” That was somewhat true. He felt normal, no residual sense of other bodies, no desire to bury his brain in the backyard. Beside, he needed to know about Porsche…to be reassured that she was surviving…
“Leave a letter, then,” Mrs. Pete told him.
“I will.”
“Tell him I looked after you.”
“No,” he cautioned, “I don’t think that would work. He’d get the wrong message.”
And bless her, she seemed to understand. A quick nod, a smile. Then she was walking again, almost fast this time, Cornell able to hear the buzz of her headphones whenever she came past him.
There was an old file cabinet in the basement, one that he’d noticed but that no key fit. It was heavy steel with old-fashioned locks, and for a long while he assumed it was empty. A relic meant for overflow, perhaps. But no, that next morning he managed to give it a shove and hear something shift inside. He stepped back, standing next to Dad’s workbench while trying to predict his father’s mind. Where would Dad hide a key? Somewhere convenient, probably up high. Metal shelves stood against the concrete foundation, a sloppy mess of cans and tools before him; what made him pause was an old paint can, its label faded to near-white and nothing in it. Cornell grabbed the can without stretching, shook it and felt nothing inside but dark air. Odd, odd, odd.
The lid came off with just his fingernails. The key was nicked inside a velcro envelope stuck to a velcro patch glued to the long-dried enamel paint. The key fit the old lock, freeing both drawers, and they rolled open by themselves, with smooth, well-greased motions. Neither was full. The top drawer had several manila envelopes filled with photographs of Mom—hundreds, at least—and they were different from those in the family album. More intimate, maybe. But why hidden? Maybe after she left, Dad had hidden them, out of easy reach, diminishing her place in the house.
The lower drawer had another envelope. More photos? But then he saw the old videos behind them, no labels besides a series of Roman numerals from I to V. Old, but not a trace of dust. An old-style TV and VCR were at the far end of the basement. Dad and Pete used to watch their videos of landing sites and whatnot on that TV. The VCR took tape III without complaint. Cornell noticing how his hands shook as he punched the On buttons and grasped the VCR’s remote control. The screen filled with snow, and he hit Fast Forward while stepping back. The machine hummed, snow dissolving. He recognized the bed and bedroom at a glance, people moving in jerky, too-quick motions, and he recognized Dad’s face, and Mom’s, the pale body over the tanned one. It was all very clumsy and staged, even at high-speed, and he watched the rapid copulation, almost immune to what he was seeing, feeling a gray detachment and then a staggering indifference, and he was shaking everywhere, and he gave out a weak long moan, finally hitting the Stop button.
The photographs in the last envelope were handworn images of his mother, in lingerie and naked, posing and smiling and something in that smile lingering with him. A beautiful woman, no doubt. But sometimes, in the harsher light, there was something severe and cold about her beautiful face and how those big dark eyes stared up at him, unblinking and unnaturally calm, sharper than any obsidian point.
Cornell replaced the photographs and tapes, trying to put everything back as he had found it. That’s when he noticed the smaller envelope at the back of the drawer, not hidden but something about it anonymous and intentionally unnoticeable. He picked it up, turning it over. The address and Dad’s name were written in a woman’s artful cursive, no return address and the postmark smudged. The letter inside had torn along the folds, tape repairing the damage more than once. “Nathan,” it began, “how are you? It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?”
Cornell breathed, looking at the date. In the upper corner was June 15. And the year after the Change. He breathed again, then started to read all over again.
“Nathan, how are you? It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it? You were right about the aliens. They’ve certainly shown themselves. I’m sure it’s been very exciting for you, and gratifying, and I hope you’re doing well.
“I can’t say the same, I’m sorry. And I know it’s awful to write you out of the blue, without warning. I’m sorry, sorry sorry sorry for all the pain and worry I must have caused you. Leaving like I did was wrong, but I was a child. I was a silly young girl, and I’m sure you understand that. Trying to raise Corny, and always knowing that I’d never be a real mother. You’re the wonderful parent. I’m certain. And I’m sorry, sorry for writing like this, at such a time. But I need help!!! I’m desperate, nowhere to turn, and if you have any feelings left for me, then please help me now!!!!”
She wanted money, he read. “A loan,” she called it “I know you’re not a rich man, and you need your money for your important work. But this is an emergency, a terrible one, and who else can I ask?” She wanted twenty thousand dollars, unless he could manage more…and Cornell thought how Dad’s mood had soured during that summer. “I need the money sent at once!!!” Instructions followed, including a post office box in another city. Then a final note:
“Don’t try to find me, please please. It wouldn’t do anyone any good. I am trusting you. I know you still love me, and you can forgive me. Do this for me. For Corny. And kiss Corny for me. Tell him that I do love him, that mothers always love their children.
“Your little girl,
“Pam.”
He walked into the bright sunshine, suitcase in hand, blinking and blinking and finally wiping at his eyes with his free hand. He wasn’t crying anymore; wiping was a habit. What was left to do? He’d written Dad a long rambling letter, telling him that he’d come home just to be home for a while. He mentioned his job and hinted at danger, then thanked him for being a fine father, probably better than either of them had guessed…
What else?
Find a specialist, he thought. Give him or her the evidence, including photocopies of the letter, and explain that he wanted a modern day Sam Spade to take up his challenge. At any cost.
“You’re leaving?”
Mrs. Pete walked up to him, and he said, “In a minute.”
It was a brilliant day, but a little cool. A whiff of autumn was in the air. Kids played in the street, a mutt dog chasing one of them, then another, then back to the first one again.
“Good to see you,” she offered.
“Thanks for having me. Thanks for everything.” He had a second letter, just finished and sealed in a white envelope. He removed it from his back pocket and said, “Don’t open this. Don’t.”
She looked sober and calm
. “What is it?”
“In case,” he whispered. “Hide it and give it to Dad. Just in case.”
He didn’t mean to sound so ominous.
Mrs. Pete put the envelope out of sight, under her arm, swallowed and said, “Please be careful, Cornell. Will you?”
He didn’t answer. Exhausted and frazzled, he found himself looking at the round concrete island in the middle of that white, white concrete ring. And he asked himself: What does it mean? Of course it meant nothing—no message intended; no information hidden in the bushes or soil—yet for an instant he felt like a stranger, an alien, gazing at that round island and wondering what was its purpose.
Like a giant green eye, he was thinking…permanently gazing up at the wondrous bright sky…
12
“Novak, is it? Get your asses over here.”
He knew the voice, the bodies. It was one of Logan’s minions, back from the Breaks and coming for him. Cornell was pulling equipment from a storage hut. Someone had stolen his best spearhead and a rawhide sack—bastard—and he wasn’t in a mood to stop and chat, thank you.
“Got a chore for you, Novak.”
Cornell said nothing, feeling a sinking sensation.
“See those two? Take them. You’ve got desert experience, right? Steer north. Someone saw someone up in the Rumpleds, and it sounds like a native. You’re going to check it out—”
“What?” he whistled.
“You’re going on a hunt.” The man snorted, laughed. “Never been on one? Well, here’s the deal. A cash bonus if you make contact, a fat bonus if you bring it back here. Mind and bodies both, and alive.”
“I’m supposed to catch it?”
“If it’s real.” Faces blinked and turned incredulous. “Hell, talk to it and that’s something. That’s a first. Tell it, I don’t know…that we’ve got food down here. That we want to be friends, and it’s welcome to visit. We’re neighbors and nice as anything.” A pause, then he added, “Whatever you think might work. Understand?”
Cornell thought of the empty cage outside New Reno, one of his bodies glancing in that direction. The broad barren street was empty, save for the two recruits, bodies huddled around their minds. He had never seen this town so still, so empty—
“What about the Breaks?”
“What about them?”
“I’m expected there,” Cornell reported. “I was cutting lumber—”
“Lumberjacks we’ve got,” the man informed him. “We need someone with an ounce of experience and six strong bodies, which is you.” A brief pause, then he added, “What are you waiting for? Kisses? Get those kids equipped, rationed and out of here. And bring something back for our scientists to play with, will you? They’re getting bored.”
The “kids” were named Harold and Jennifer. Harold was reddish gray, a forty-year-old one-time advertising executive; the girl was mouse-colored and claimed to be in her twenties. She’d been a store clerk and factory worker, and she seemed fascinated by Harold’s past career. Did he make much money? Did he travel much? No? “But still,” she insisted, “it sounds wonderful. Why did you quit?”
Harold never quite explained why.
Both of them watched the surrounding desert, fondled themselves, and generally looked lost. New Reno was behind them, out of sight. They were scared and excited, not quite believing any of it. Cornell thought of ignoring his orders, abandoning them. Or he could take them into the Breaks instead of the Rumpleds. Why not? Because he didn’t want to face Logan’s wrath. And because he was responsible for these people, like it or not. He decided to take them on a little tour of the Rumpleds, then bring them home again. Safe and grateful.
“What kind of car did you drive?” Jennifer asked Harold.
“Mercedes.”
“Oh, God. I’d love having one of those.”
Harold nodded with every head. “It was nice, I suppose.”
“I’m going to buy a house first, then a car. I’m going to put in all the hours I can here, and I’ll make a ton.”
“If we survive,” Harold whistled softly.
Cornell tried to reassure him, and he tried teaching them some of Porsche’s tricks. But they weren’t good students, the woman prattling on about her goals and poor Harold too cowed by his circumstances to concentrate. Eventually Cornell was talking only to Porsche, in his mind, apologizing for not arriving on schedule. He told her about his vacation, about what he’d learned and how he had hired the specialist to hunt for his mother. And the imaginary Porsche asked, “Why do you want to find her?”
He couldn’t say. Curiosity, maybe. Maybe because children are supposed to find lost parents.
“When do we get our vacation together, love?”
He tried to imagine them on a tropical beach, and he realized he couldn’t quite remember how Porsche looked on the earth. He kept seeing her as so many big brown bodies, black eyes sheathed in golden inner lids. Lovely eyelids, he thought. And those little pinhole ears…God, he was crazy! He’d have to tell her—his affections fixed to a multibodied alien—and Porsche would love it, probably laughing herself sick.
Cornell didn’t believe in this alien. Hadn’t the Rumpleds been searched? Flat desert bled into eroded hills, greasewood stands cut to stumps. They didn’t have much food with them; New Reno was being fed from the Breaks now, only there had been interruptions. Glitches in the young system. Cornell tried to teach his people how to hunt, but Harold didn’t pick up scents very well, and Jennifer lacked patience. It was Cornell who found a big nest of honey-ants, and his bodies were the ones that were bit and stung while excavating the sweet goo. Harold refused to eat raw bugs, which was fine. Looking at the high dry peaks, Cornell sensed that he could use all the fat he could lay in now.
They had a crude map that led them to a set of high valleys, and they searched the area for most of a week, bodies climbing and sniffing and finding nothing but some rock shards that resembled aborted tools. There were no tracks, no signs of foraging. There was barely anything to hunt, and at night the thin air turned brutally cold.
“Maybe we should climb higher,” Jennifer remarked, faces staring at the dome of stars. “Has anyone ever gone way up in these mountains?”
Cornell couldn’t say one way or another.
“I don’t think we should,” Harold argued. “This is too high already, and besides, it looks treacherous.”
But Jennifer’s impatience won over any caution. She teased Harold, telling him, “You’re an old woman, aren’t you?”
With a cowering dip of heads, Harold said, “We should be reasonable. That’s all I mean.”
There weren’t any natives, but their food stocks were running low. Maybe the higher valleys had better hunting. “What we’re going to do,” Cornell told his audience, “is travel light. We’ll drag our minds a little farther, then leave them—”
“Just leave them?” Harold moaned.
“Each of us will leave a couple of bodies behind, as guards,” he promised. “The rest spread out and hunt. Not too far above, because bodies can lose touch with the mind. But you’ll sense when that’s happening. Don’t worry.”
“Sounds good,” Jennifer decided.
Harold dipped his heads, glowering at the ground.
One of them would make it, one wouldn’t. Cornell could see their prospects; smell them. He felt sorry for Harold and whatever had dropped him out of respectable life. Getting him through his first shift was the goal now, probably the only one worth pursuing. Then Cornell would have a chat with his case officer, or maybe with F. Smith. Whatever it took.
Harold went to sleep in a sheltered hole. Jennifer winked at her teacher, asking, “What’s possible?”
From her tone, he knew what she meant.
“What can we do with these bodies?”
Cornell thought of Porsche naked on a vast bed, her human body covered with a thick brown pelt—
—and Jennifer said, “Penny for your thoughts.”
His faces lifted, mo
uths saying, “Nothing.”
She unconsciously scratched at one of her crotches and looked back out over the desert. “What’s it going to look like in the future? In a hundred years, say?”
“How will what look?”
“New Reno,” she said, trying to be patient with him. “What are we going to do with it?”
It wasn’t something he expected from a one-time clerk. “I’m not sure we’ll last another year, honestly.” He mentioned the lousy hunting and the countless other worlds waiting for brave souls. “If we don’t find intelligent, technological critters soon, they’ll pull us.”
“Think so?” She sounded doubtful. “There’s food in the Breaks, isn’t there? And water. We could farm. We could find metals and build up industries.” She had given this considerable thought. It was a game to her, but a fun one. “We could build a train, maybe. It’d take people back and forth between New Reno and the Breaks.”
A train on the desert, sure. Electrically powered; O-gauge; minds strapped on flatcars while their bodies rode in the coaches, dressed in comfortable and brightly colored clothes.
“Tourists would pay to come here. It could be like the real Reno,” she assured him, “with gambling and big hotels.”
He was amused and disgusted in equal measures.
But all he said was, “We’ve got to sleep now. Okay?”
“Think about it,” she advised him.
“I will.” And he fell into a deep hard sleep, his dreams full of fancy hotels and furred lovers and a clean endless desert under a purple sky.
True to plan, they fanned out through a series of higher valleys, each using four of their bodies. The girl was caught up in the adventure; Harold worked hard to do nothing dangerous. Cornell took the middle valleys, ending up on a high exposed ridge, a steady wind screaming in his ears. There was a bowl-shaped valley below him, a little grove of greasewood tucked into the low ground. They were stunted and scattered, but otherwise healthy. When he saw nuts hanging in bunches, he knew people hadn’t been there. One body crept forward, almost stepping on a pile of shiny black scat; he stopped, stared for a moment, then retreated back to the ridge.
