by M R Cates
“Hello, Sandra, how are you?” was her beaming greeting when the receiver was picked up at the other end.
“Hi Françoise. Get some sleep?”
“Oh yes. And I am very much recovered I think. It is, you see, two-thirty, so I have called you.” The student sounded a little awkward with her explanation. She was firmly into her support status, working under Sandra's direction, and didn't want to be judged as presumptuous in any way.
“Thanks for that. Can't say that I've slept enough, but I am glad we have half daylight here in Hawaii; otherwise, some of us would be tempted to work ourselves to death. Especially a graduate student I know from France.”
Françoise, nicely tanned all over, from regular periods of time on that same chaise in the sunshine, nonetheless blushed. A compliment from Sandra was the thing she craved most but could manage least. “We all worked hard,” the student protested, “especially the team leader.” There, she'd returned the compliment.
“Listen, Françoise,” Sandra went on, ending the small talk, “I cleared it with Big Brother for our team to take a couple of days off. Ain't that nice?”
“Oh, yes, Sandra. But, should we not remain ... available to the visitors? Just if, you see, they wish to speak some more to us.”
“We're always available – like it or not,” Sandra replied. “We can't be without our phones, unfortunately.”
“Who will be ... operating the telescopes tonight, then?”
“One of our regular crews, Françoise. The feds, of course, are always there listening. And the data systems and monitors are all routed to D.C., anyway. The only risk we run is that the crew will see good ol' Fragment Five trying to say something to us, figure out that's what's happening, and report it to the press.”
Françoise was not satisfied yet. “But that might, you see, really happen.”
“That's right. If so, and the FBI will know because they're listening and watching, the crew there will be sworn to secrecy. We'll have a larger club.”
“Club?”
“Sorry. A larger group who knows about the alien communications.”
“Oh, yes.” Françoise brushed her drying hair away from her face. “But you do not think the visitors will speak tonight, do you, Sandra?”
“I doubt it. They've been men – or girls – or scorpions – or snakes, or whatever – of very careful words so far. I don't believe we'll find them to be blabbermouths.”
“Blabbermouths?” The French woman didn't get the pronunciation exactly right, the word coming out with the accent on the second syllable and the 'mouths' sounding more like 'moths'.
“People who talk too much, or maybe who like the sound of their own voices.”
Françoise's smile could be felt across the connection. “I know, you see, some people like this. Some ... blabbermouths.” She got it almost right that time.
“Don't we all,” Sandra said. “My guess is that we'll hear from our visitors exactly when they told us, on the night of July 16th, a few hours after their craft – whatever it will be – lands out there to the west.”
“It is very exciting, Sandra, but of course it is quite frightening, too. We are thinking about you, you see. It is very difficult to ... to know what to say to you.”
“Right now, Françoise, I'm numb. But thanks for the support. My instincts were right about you and about Jason. Damn, but you guys are good.”
The reclining nude blushed again. “Thank you, Sandra.”
“I'm particularly proud of Jason, you know,” Sandra said, with a kind of lilt in her voice, “for being able to concentrate so well. You have to know the guy is panting after you like a puppy.”
“Like a ... puppy?”
“You turn him on, Françoise. Nothing could be more obvious.”
“Oh, you think ... that Jason ...” She didn't quite have the English to say what she wanted to say.
“Don't be surprised if the boy calls you for a date, with these two days off.”
“But dating is ... well, you see, Sandra, my mind is not on these things. There is too much ... in the air.”
“How right you are, Françoise. I didn't mean to belittle the enormity of what we have been dealing with. But we are, after all, human animals.”
“I have been thinking, you see, about being human,” Françoise said, sounding a little more relaxed. She ran a hand through that mass of dark tresses again, feeling less dampness. “Knowing that something else – something not human – is there and can speak with us, you see, makes ... it feels different somehow, now being a human.”
“Yes, it does. For one thing, I've never felt so fragile in my life.”
“Fragile, yes. But ... I don't know how these visitors think. We people ... we of this world think, you see, in a way that comes from our world. Oh, I cannot say it right.”
Sandra was touched by the comment. “You say it very well indeed, Françoise. We are products of our evolution. We have to struggle very hard to separate our thinking from our heritage, from the way we are put together. And, of course, try as we might, we can only do a very poor job of it at best.”
Françoise's voice had shifted slightly higher in pitch. “You must ... you must speak with them, Sandra. But how will they understand? How ... will you understand? Is it not impossible?”
There was the acoustic equivalent of a shrug coming across from Sandra. “Impossible, yes,” she said. “Impossible but required. I can't believe our visitors would go to all the trouble to land and arrange this meeting unless they wanted to speak directly to someone.”
“But why, Sandra? Could they not simply continue to talk with ... with you with their flashes?”
“Certainly they could, Françoise. Their knowledge of English is outstanding. They haven't made a grammar or punctuation mistake yet. But they want something more.”
“What do they want?”
“My guess,” said Sandra, then paused. She seemed to be drinking something. “My guess is that they want to talk to someone directly, without the restrictions of written language and without the ... shall we say, formality of public discourse.”
“Formality of public discourse?” Françoise processed the statement, then added, “You mean, I think, that you think they want to speak with someone ... in private, but why, Sandra? They would not tell you secrets, I think.”
“Probably not. But because they have studied us well enough to learn our languages – I bet they know French, too, Françoise – they are clearly interested in communication that is more than grunts and points.”
“More than what?” Françoise put a little smile into her question. She was trying very hard to learn the American sense of humor – or at least Sandra Hughes' sense of humor – but it was something of a struggle.
“Let me throw out a scenario, Françoise – since we have these nice encrypted lines and can speculate at will. You know, it's nice to finally talk about this. We've been so busy recently there's been no chance. Okay, here's an idea. If the visitors were not interested in detailed communication, they would, first of all, probably not have bothered with our languages. But let's say they're so smart that they learn languages without effort, still, unless they wanted to maximize their ability to perceive what we're doing, saying and thinking, why would they bother to set up a personal meeting with someone? As you pointed out, why not just keep sending flashes? When I started thinking about why they wanted to meet with me, at first I egotistically thought they'd want to talk about astronomy, or science at least. But damn, Françoise, the likelihood that I can teach them anything about science has about as much probability as snow in Houston in July. So why talk to me, or anyone? Because, look, the only thing they haven't been able to listen in on has been conversations between or among people, sitting in the same room.”
“But they have listened, you see,” Françoise protested, “to movies and television programs where people are having discussions, and things like that. Could they not observe how people communicate – as you say – sitti
ng in the same room?”
Sandra drank something again, then replied, “Maybe seeing those programs you mentioned gave them the clue that we do have those kinds of direct interactions. They can see that people communicate differently in private circumstances, using body language and all.”
“So why is that not enough for them?”
“I'm not sure, but the thing still missing is their part of the conversation.”
“But they can use their flashes for that part.”
“But all they see from us are our own flashes. Not our faces or inflections or hesitations and the like.”
“Can they, you think, Sandra, understand such things?”
“Damned if I know. I'm just talking, Françoise, hoping something I say makes sense.”
Françoise's voice again shifted up in pitch. “You have made these visitors appear very ... very sophisticated, Sandra. Maybe they ... I worry that maybe they ... are not so, in truth. And that they have something evil in them ... that ... you see, I am very concerned about you, Sandra!” Sandra couldn't see it, but the French student's eyes filled with tears. “This visit you must make ... does not make sense ... is not comprehensible to me!”
Sandra tried to lighten the conversation a little. “Look, Françoise, it's possible they just want to take my picture with their good cameras to show to folks back home. Or want me to explain to them why any human being can stand to live in Texas during the month of August. Who knows?”
“I don't want to ... to say things I think, Sandra, because I want you to ... to be confident. But I am confused.”
“Damn, who isn't? I know they may want to dissect me to find out how life on Earth works, Françoise. You think I don't worry about that sort of thing? Maybe they want a life form from here for one of their zoos. Who the hell knows? But I don't think so.”
Françoise sounded very sober when she said, “You have frightened me even more, Sandra.”
“Françoise, stop worrying! Go chase around with Jason for a couple of days. Let him pant after you a while, or whatever. Get your mind off me. I'm going to be just fine. My gut feelings are nearly always right, and my gut says I'm going to be just fine!”
“I ... I cannot get my mind off you, Sandra,” Françoise responded, in little more than a murmur. “That is ... that is my weakness, you see.”
If Sandra picked up anything sexual in the comment, she gave no indication. “It is my weakness, too, to keep my mind on me. Help me stop it, Françoise. I and you – our team – are nothing more than, well, representative human beings. There are lots and lots of people pretty much like us. We ain't special, really. Well, you are, of course – that's why you're here instead of close to home and all that French wine. I'm going out there in the ocean because they happened to know who I am. My job right now is to quit thinking about me and start thinking about humanity. And I am no damn good at that kind of thing!”
“You are wrong, Sandra,” Françoise said, softly. “If I could pick one human being ... I, too, would pick you.”
“I'll forgive you for being crazy, girl. You've been working long hours. Listen, I think I'm going to spend some time over in Carl's trees later today, and drinking wine with him. If you and Jason want to join us some, that would be great.”
“I truly like Carl,” Françoise said. “He is like a ... a wise father.”
“Absolutely,” Sandra agreed. “Oh, another thing, the feds gave me a medical exam. Just finished it an hour ago.”
“Oh, so you did not really sleep, Sandra, did you?”
“Enough. But, well I got a clean bill of health. Surprised?”
Françoise tried, too, to lighten the mood. “With all that coffee you drink? Yes, I am surprised.”
“It's the wine I was worried about. Damn, but I could use a glass right now!”
“If I know Mr. Carl,” said the student, “he will have some wine.”
“Damn straight he will, Françoise. Oh, one last schedule thing. We will meet tomorrow at ten in the morning with the President's Chief of Staff and a couple of other people – one is Dr. Alvarez.”
“All of us will meet?”
“All of us. I insisted that our 'first team,' be in on the meeting.”
Françoise sat up on the chaise, to let the breeze cross her back. Her body seemed to tingle slightly from both the touches of air and the emotional reactions she always had to Sandra Hughes. Running a hand yet again through her hair, it felt clean and natural, evoking a little smile. She said, “So we do not really have ... as you say, the two days off.”
“The two nights off. That's what we have. And maybe a third. My guess is that we won't be expected in the control room until the scheduled night. A lot depends, of course, on the landing.”
“Yes, the landing.” Françoise went suddenly sober again. “What, Sandra, do you expect?”
“What I worry about is clouds, Françoise. Two things. I checked the weather expected for the afternoon of the sixteenth. A front coming from the east. No surprise, of course, but this one is likely to cross the island and continue. Furthermore – and this is my real worry – the visitors may stir up some clouds themselves with their landing.”
“How would they do so?”
“All that water out there. If they put any significant amount of energy into it, voila, clouds!”
“Voila. Yes. Your pronunciation is very good.”
“I sound like a Texas girl staring at the Eiffel Tower, Françoise. Don't butter me up.”
“Butter ...?”
Sandra laughed. The rare sound was charming to anyone who heard it. Françoise laughed in response. Her imagination had taken her away. “Putting butter on you ... yes. You don't want that?”
“It's a kinky kind of idiom, Françoise, but ... descriptive. My French is ... well, might be fun for Frenchmen to hear when they need a good laugh.”
“I just got a good laugh,” Françoise said, agreeing, “but not from your pronunciation.”
“Well, you're one of those 'kinder and gentler' Frenchmen ... or women.”
“Merci beaucoup!” came her reply, the first time Sandra could remember her using it in America.
Sandra shifted gears again – typically. “That meeting tomorrow, I don't expect it to last very long. So we really will have some time. Also, my sister will be arriving soon afterward.”
“Oh yes! Debbie.” Françoise pronounced the name with a little emphasis on the last syllable.
“And she has to meet all of you, first thing.”
“We will be very pleased, you see. And I noticed, Sandra, that her apartment is just three away from mine, on this same level.”
“Great, you'll be neighbors. How'd you find out about hers?”
“It is listed on the ... what is it, the bulletin board.”
“She gets into Kona at three thirty. I'm hoping you and Carl will go with me to meet her.”
“That is very ... nice, Sandra, but do you not ... well, perhaps a private sister-to-sister greeting is better.”
“I saw her recently, remember,” Sandra reminded her. “At the airport the more the merrier.”
There was a brief delay for Françoise to interpret Sandra's words. “Your ... Texan is ... not exactly English, is it, Sandra?”
“Darn tootin' it ain't. Nothin' stuffy about us wranglers. Oops, Françoise, I have to go now. There's a call from sweet Madeleine Vigola on this goddamned 'call waiting' thing. What about tonight at Carl's?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Ours, too. And Jason?”
“If he ... he wishes.”
“He'll wish. Alright, bye.”
Françoise sighed as she put the phone back on the table beside her. Then she leaned back, noticing the sun was now high across her legs, to the upper thighs. For the first time in many days she felt no sense of urgency, so she didn't move.
Chapter 30
The main conference room in the Keck Observatory administration building was large enough for about twenty p
eople to fit comfortably around the long central table. For the meeting on July 13th, there were twenty-five people there, and it wasn't comfortable. Doctor Carlos Alvarez was the moderator, it seemed, with Madeleine Vigola the designated main speaker. The team from the Keck Observatory consisted of Sandra Hughes' four team members and Reginald Wyler. Sandra and her group were seated along one side, their backs to the window that looked north to the round hills where the astronomer so often hiked – or used to, she thought, during a former life. Sent by the President were Madeleine Vigola, his Chief of Staff, Alvarez, a main scientific advisor, and Dr. McArthur Lawrence, the former astronaut who had been designated and rejected as Sandra's replacement contact with the aliens. Along with them were seventeen staff members, including Joseph Carstairs. About half of these support personnel were part of the Hawaii contingent of FBI and other federal officers. The others had come in from New York and Washington D.C. The United Nations had two representatives, indistinguishable by Sandra from the American authorities.
Coffee and doughnuts – Sandra thought the irony of the doughnuts was interesting – were available for everyone, on a table off to the side. Sandra was in her usual formal attire, dark slacks, white blouse, and dark blue canvas shoes, Françoise was wearing a skirt and blouse, with low-heeled pumps. Carl was in blue shirt and tie, no coat, and Jason was dressed similarly, though his dark slacks and blue shirt were perfectly pressed. Wyler wore a dark blue suit, the most formal of the Keck group. Everyone from the East Coast was in suits, even the women, and those from Hawaii slightly less formal outfits, but all with ties. The air in the room was heavy with a sense of history, as well it should have been. Never before had such a meeting been held.
Sandra, oddly enough, was thinking about the arrival of her sister later that day. One side of her mind told her to get serious, but somehow the meeting seemed to her to be somewhat superfluous. Realistically, she knew that plans and thoughts needed to be discussed ahead of the expected landing in the Pacific just three days hence. Realistically, she knew that the federal and international authorities were not about to sit on their hands and wait to see what would happen. Contingency plans, at the least, had to be made. Nevertheless, she was slightly bored. For the others in the room, she was the center of attention – a fact she only vaguely related to – but for Sandra, the center of attention was Carlos Alvarez, a man she'd admired from afar, had spoken with a number of times, but had not seen before. It was anticipation of interacting with him that kept her from needing to suppress a yawn.
