by M R Cates
Relating to the wonder about why she was chosen was the wonder of why a single person was chosen. Maybe a group of people was too much to deal with. That could very well be the case. But why was she acting so egotistically, she asked herself? There was no reason to believe the aliens would only talk to her – assuming they ever got around to talking to her, dammit! Maybe a series of interviews was planned, and she, for whatever – or no – reason turned out to be the first. Sandra pondered this a little longer. She couldn't suppress the feeling that probably the aliens wouldn't talk to a lot of people. What she said or reacted to or looked like or felt like or whatever would probably turn out to be very important. If her instinct was correct it was not very satisfying. She shouldn't have to carry such responsibility. But she might have to. Sandra sighed. At the very least, she knew she'd listen and learn – again, assuming the goddamned green men ever got around to talking – and maybe be able to answer some of their questions, assuming they had any questions.
What had that funny reddish halo thing been? She knew they'd caused something to respond inside her, in some way or another. How did they do that? She actually felt more confused than violated. Whatever they had done, the effect, if such it can be called, was mostly in her head. Her brain. That had to be it. The most distinctive part of a human being. Without our brains we aren't very interesting at all. That she was sure of. A kind of mind probe, she guessed. I am probably being really ridiculous about this. Mind probes are for the National Enquirer, not legitimate science. Then Sandra considered electroencephalograms, where brain neuron firings could be sensed from the outside. And the associated stimulation of nerves that could be achieved by contacts appropriately positioned, even in some cases on the surface of the scull. Getting inside the head with a non-material probe was a different matter, however. Could that be done? Space-time. That four-dimensional property of the universe came back to her. The aliens could build a high-temperature plasma from rock sloughed off the inside of their doughnut-shaped rocks. Where did they get the energy? From transmuting mass to energy, obviously. In some way. Chemical energy release would not be adequate.
Even in intense thought, Sandra yawned. She sat on her bedroll, reconfigured the end like a pillow and lay back down. Lying there she quietly scratched her head and looked straight up at the reddish ceiling. She had thought it featureless before, a dull glow that presumably arose from some kind of light-making device, like an electroluminescent panel. As she continued to stare up, however, Sandra noticed gradual, if faint, changes. The dull glow had a kind of slowly evolving distribution of slightly brighter and slightly dimmer regions. Only by the long accommodation of her eyes, she guessed, to the relatively dim illumination within the chamber had she been able to discern the evolving pattern. It was something like variations within thick smoke coming out of a power plant or other similar source. The billowing cloud on average was uniform, but had subtle details that swirled and rolled within the cloud. The ceiling was like this. Sandra wished she had a spectrometer built into her vision. It could be that the variations were in wavelength, as they had noticed from the external emissions of the various asteroid fragments. If there are color changes there, she speculated, maybe what she was seeing had some relationship to the emissions from the external fissures. Or maybe not.
The astronomer shifted her thought to an analysis of how the light above her might be generated. Maybe it was an electroluminescent panel, and the subtle variations a natural result of the process. A thin layer of phosphor, driven by alternating current, could do the job. The current would come from who-knows-what, but might stem from the same power source that was setting up the electromagnetic disturbance that reached out many miles. The disturbance that had eliminated the use of metal. That had been a real bummer, in her mind. And true, there was no metal in this chamber where she was imprisoned. Yes, she was imprisoned. Sandra turned her gaze from the ceiling to the chamber around her. Maybe the aliens didn't know it, but they had her locked up and only they had the key. Did they do that on purpose? Surely not. They had to create an environment in which she could survive, hadn't they? What are their living quarters like? She had no really good idea. The only guesses she might make would relate to some kind of breathable atmosphere that was different, at least in detail, from Earth's. No reason to believe any other planet anywhere had exactly the mix of gases as the Earth's atmosphere. Maybe more carbon dioxide, or more methane, or carbon monoxide, or sulphur dioxide. Any of these in any significant concentration would spell trouble for human breathers, but it was easy to imagine metabolisms that could accommodate them very well indeed. Especially if they don't need oxygen, or didn't need much, our atmosphere would be poisonous to them, and vice versa.
But wait a minute! Sandra switched her eyes back to the red ceiling. It was from there, from that ceiling, that the wispy stream of something had been attached to the strange halo around her, that she had observed in the reflective wall. Was this glowing surface somehow related to whatever had been “evaluating” her? Very odd. Could the probing material and the ceiling be the same thing? How can it be? Maybe the power source is the key. The light and the probe would draw power from a common source. But the color! The color was the same. Is that consistent with using the same source of energy? Dammit. Sandra wished she had the ability to do an experiment. She wanted to do something to see what that ceiling really was. What could she do? She couldn't reach it, she didn't think. If she could touch it, or touch it with something. What?
Sandra looked at her confining chamber with a new goal. The highest thing there was undoubtedly the stone chair on which she'd been placed when they brought her in. The back of it was reasonably thick stone, maybe three or three and half inches thick. She figured she could stand on that back, and by doing so could reach up about ... how far? She was around five and half feet tall. Her arms, stretched upward, would add about two more feet to her reach, and the top of that chair was ... say, almost five feet above the platform on which it sat. Call it four and a half. That would give her twelve feet above the platform, if she could balance up there. The platform was around four and half feet above the chamber's floor. So a reach of sixteen feet plus above the floor. Would that be enough? She gauged the height up to the red glow. Maybe eighteen feet, maybe even twenty, she thought. Sandra rubbed her head. Okay, the bedroll. That would do it!
Adrenalin kicked back in. Sandra was suddenly wide awake. She jumped up and rolled the bedroll lengthwise into as tight a cylinder as possible, walking toward the spot where she'd left her small bag. Inside it was some string. Holding the roll – which was a about seven feet long and had been reduced to about six inches in diameter – in one hand, she rummaged around until locating the string. With teeth and the free hand Sandra got the roll wrapped and tied as tightly as she could. An odd scepter, she thought, to be used on the “throne” they'd fashioned for her. While this preparation was going on, the astronomer imagined that the aliens must be observing her. There could be little doubt of that. What were they thinking she was doing? It was almost humorous to consider. Well, they'll find out soon enough. Climbing up onto the chair, Sandra stood on the seat. She might not have to actually get up on the back, if she could just reach high enough. Coming up on tiptoes and lifting the roll, she leaned her head back to look up at the target above her. Was it maybe six or seven feet up there? Okay here goes. The bedroll wasn't heavy, so it was easy enough to extend it high above her head. In a smooth motion she did so, swinging it a little like a baseball bat to give it some momentum. As the improvised device reached its maximum extension it clearly touched the red surface above her. Sandra felt a surge of disappointment. Nothing was happening. She couldn't even tell she was touching the ceiling, even though it seemed she was. Then the red glow, mist-like, accompanied by a bolt of sensation, moved down the bedroll, down her arm, around her body, and locked her in sudden paralysis. All in a second, or less. Sandra tried to cry out, but couldn't. She felt her stiff torso rotate a little, clockwise, then t
remble all over, and she tumbled down from the chair, collapsing heavily to the hard, stone floor. As she fell, Sandra felt herself blacking out. Consciousness was gone before impact.
—
A familiar voice, coming from some distance away, formed itself in Sandra Hughes' ears. It was her mother, wasn't it? Yes, it was her mother. It must be time to get up and get ready for school. She didn't want to get up. Sandra stirred but didn't open her eyes. She was on her right side. Cool. Wanted more cover, but didn't want to reach for it. Go away, mother, she thought, consciousness fading again. Then was gone.
Again, a voice. A quiet, but insistent voice. Sandra was on her back. Consciousness was nearby but hadn't returned. Her eyelids flickered. A soft redness. The ceiling! Her eyes came open. Wide! Immediately she felt the ache in the right side of her body. Reality of where she was and what had happened flooded back into her. Sandra moaned. There was that goddamned ceiling, still red and still glowing. I wonder if I broke anything.
Sandra had no idea how long she'd been out. But she had a good idea of how hard she'd hit. The worst feeling was at the point of her right hip, on the side. Must have hit there. With a little wince, Sandra sat up. She rubbed her eyes, afraid to touch her right side. Nothing around her had changed. A few feet away the rolled up bedroll lay, still rolled and tied. She thought, What in God's name did I touch? The energy source she'd hypothesized must have been real. Up there in the ceiling. There were still cobwebs in her brain. Sandra tried to concentrate, shaking her head side the side. The cobwebs remained. At that point she reached up and felt her head. It hadn't been hurting. Good, I didn't hit my head. At least not too hard. There was one bruise – a little tender – just above her right ear, about where she'd expect her head to hit. Back from the temple. That part, at least, was lucky. She didn't want to think about her right thigh.
With a sigh to relieve a little tension Sandra stretched over to her left, and was barely able to touch, then grasp, the near end of the fallen bedroll. She pulled it over to her, put it behind her head and lay back on it. She needed to wait. That much was clear to her. Not much of anything else was. There was the red ceiling again. She closed her eyes. Don't want to see it now.
“Doctor Sandra Hughes,” said the alto voice, quietly.
Without opening her eyes, Sandra muttered, even more quietly, “Yes, dammit, what do you want?”
“We were unprepared for your contact. Are you able to communicate?”
Sandra kept her eyes closed. They hadn't said they were sorry. She sighed heavily. Cobwebs were nearly gone. “Yes,” she said louder, “I can communicate. I hurt myself when I fell.” It sounded odd to be expressing the obvious, but maybe the aliens needed to be told. Then she opened her eyes.
“We are prepared to converse with you by your acoustic means,” the voice said.
“I need to do a little first aid on myself first,” Sandra said. “Can you wait a few minutes?”
The silence gave way to the low babble she'd heard before, welling up into a kind of cacophony sounding like millions of whispering conversations were going on the same room. This indiscernible sound then refocused into the alto voice, taking five or six seconds to do so. “We will wait fifteen of your minutes.”
“Thanks,” Sandra said. A certain stiffness had set in. Especially at the knee and thigh joint of the right side. That may have meant she'd been unconscious for some little while. She wondered if the six hours had passed. From what she knew of the aliens, probably just now. It would be perfectly in character, she thought – and a little bitterly – for the moment they had spoken to be the six hour point. They spoke? The speaker keeps saying we. Must be the alien representative. Sandra wondered if the selected one, the one to speak to her, considered the assignment an honor or a burden.
Getting to her feet was a big first test. Sandra managed it. No broken leg at least. But her right thigh hurt. And that knee was surely bruised a little. Using the bedroll as a kind of walking stick, the stiff astronomer started over to her small bag. She shook her head side to side a little, now a little angry with herself. It had been a stupid thing to do, she realized. Why hadn't she waited and asked about the ceiling when they talked? Stupid, yes, but how could she resist? Sandra, with a little tremor of pain, bent and got the small plastic first aid kit out of the bag. In it were the usual things, all in plastic containers, free of metal. The only missing items were things like needles and scissors. Two things she wanted: a tube of antibiotic cream and a small bottle of ibuprofen tablets.
Sandra wondered what the observing aliens thought when she pushed her jeans down to the ankles and looked at the damage. What a mess! Sliding her underpants down, too, halfway to her knees, she saw the bruise on her hip was about three by two inches, already blue. This was no time for modesty, she figured, but she also couldn't imagine any alien being titillated by a bare-assed human female with big bruises on her body. There on the kneecap – she must have been twisted a little as she fell – was another nice blue one! What a ridiculous circumstance. Here she was, pants down, treating her stupid bruises, Sandra Hughes, astronomer, representative of the goddamned human race! After rubbing – very gently – the cream over the bruised areas, Sandra pulled up her two items of clothing, re-buttoned her jeans, and gulped down four of the ibuprofen pills. She sighed, then walked, gingerly, to the stone chair, and sat on it. That was about all she could do. Now she had to clear her mind and get ready for whatever. The “whatever” turned out to be a bigger surprise than she'd ever have expected.
Chapter 42
At the moment that Sandra supposed corresponded to exactly fifteen minutes, the ceiling above the platform across from her began to – for want of a better word – smoke. Tendrils and wisps of reddish smoke-like luminous cloud began to drift downward, in a kind of swirling pattern. It took ten seconds or so to reach the surface of the platform, then formed into a kind of diffuse cylinder, extending all the way to the ceiling. The column was about three feet in diameter. Sandra watched, fascinated. There was a certain anxiety within her, down – as she would say – in the bones, but she could no longer afford the luxury of fear. After the surge of energy from the ceiling had knocked the sense out of her, there remained no doubt that Sandra was at their mercy. So be it. What in God's name is that glowing smoke column?
The soft background cacophony started again. It seemed somehow concentrated around the column. A feeling came to Sandra that whatever the aliens were doing was requiring a lot of concentration, or effort, or energy, or something. As she watched the column began to lose diffuseness. It was forming into a shape of some kind. Yes. Sandra scratched her head, nearly saying something but didn't. The shape was in the form of a man!
“Doctor Sandra Hughes,” the 'man' said, voice modulated to about baritone level, “we will speak now.” The sound came from the figure, not the general room around her.
Sandra's jaw had dropped. The figure before her, in shades of glowing red, as if a life-sized hot coal, was clearly a human male, and dressed – how weird! – in a robe. Or a toga. That was it: a toga. Complete all the way to sandals on the feet. The figure was about six feet tall. The glowing face had a beard and a mass of hair on the top of the head. He looks like a Greek god or something, Sandra thought. But she didn't smile.
She swallowed and spoke, “Uh, yes, yes, we can speak now.” She took another breath. “You know my name, Sandra Hughes. May I ask who you are?”
“I will use the name 'Plato,' a convenient human name taken from your history.”
“Plato? He was a great philosopher over two thousand years ago.”
“Yes.”
The figure remained standing on the platform. Behind him, however, was another stone chair, similar to hers but without the cushions. Where had it come from? 'Plato' put a 'hand' on the chair and began to guide it forward on the platform, to within two feet of the front edge. It wasn't lifted; it simply slid. Then he sat down in it, facing her. A glowing creature, in every appearance a human male except
for the amazing fact of its incandescence. A figure formed out of red smoke, she decided, in some way. They don't want me to see the little green men themselves. Why? Are they really scary looking? She decided the most likely reason was that they didn't want to come into the poisonous atmosphere of her location.
Sandra said, “Plato, then. May I welcome you to our planet.” She felt very foolish as she said it. “And please call me Sandra. I am not very formal about names.”
“Sandra then,” said Plato. Whether he was being facetious in repeating her phrasing she couldn't tell.
Plato's voice was well modulated, as had been the earlier female voice, and spoke with an approximation of the melodic flow of English, but the alien character of the sound was evident. Sandra wondered if he knew he hadn't gotten it exactly right, or if they wanted it to be a little different, or if they tried and did the best they could, or if they'd didn't really care.
“Plato,” she said, deciding to get straight to the point. “Why have you and your people come?”
“To observe this blue planet and those who live on it.”
Sandra looked at the 'eyes' in front of her. They appeared to be looking back at her. The figure, or image, or whatever, was about six or seven feet away. Her guess was – especially after her experience with the ceiling – that the raised seat on which she sat and the raised platform on which the figure sat were intended to keep her out of reach. No telling what an impetuous contact with 'Plato' might cause.
