The Asteroid

by M R Cates

  Would such denizens of some other mass-laden body in space-time be found again? Most aspects of themselves believed so, if for no reason other than that of the vastness of the galaxy. The more pressing question, however, was when to once again draw the blue planet back, when once again to touch this unique realm of humanity. To be sure, there were elements within them advocating full separation from the experience just passed. Those aspects of mind were convinced that these particular protoplasmic life forms, despite their curious complexity, were destined always to remain within a narrow radius from their solar primary; therefore, would ultimately be destroyed by the certain fluctuations to come within that star. Most, however, within their extended essence sided with an accepted view that within the scope of space-time that could be perceived, there may evolve a new humanity, perhaps in their own mold, perhaps not, but with a potential for interaction and amplification of meaning that had never before been envisioned. What would, indeed, be the probability of such a hoped-for state? No part of them knew. And what, indeed, was the probability that the human denizens would transmogrify into a distortion that would become an anathema to them? These were questions that must remain dangling, yet questions that promised excitement of consideration and opening prospects of expanded expectation.

  The choice of exactly when to once more reach out and touch the blue planet was not a decision that required immediate attention. There was much to absorb from the amazing experience that still, in many ways, continued within the multifaceted interrelationships within themselves. But that choice would ultimately be made. Had it been possible to leave something of their essence behind, that would have been done. The vastness of space-time, however, precluded such an option.

  As the blue planet receded and aspects of their existence returned to an approximation of the continuum that prevailed between experiences involving mass-energy, energetic flickering continued in discussions of the touches made of the neural processes of The Discoverer. Accommodating the bizarre character of sentience within a single, protoplasmic life force, oddly connected to others of its species by largely ineffectual and inaccurate means, was not something they would achieve without far more deliberation. Yet the fascination of the touch, the tracking of multiple, marginally related brain sequences still resonated within the total gestalt of their being. A two-part vision had been gained from The Discoverer, an unforeseen vision, a vision that for the first time in memory, brought them into a potential realm of existence that not only stretched beyond the galaxy but beyond the nature of essence as had heretofore been understood.

  The space-time beyond the galaxy had never before been brought into the realm of possibility. The vastness between the mass-laden zones of the universe was and had always been perceived as an aspect of space-time beyond consideration. Though routes beyond the galaxy might be found – routes that sought strings of oases containing mass-laden energy, those star masses and other residuals of matter that could always be located – such excursions had heretofore represented unreasonable choices that would be foolish to select within the nearly inexhaustible and more meaningful options nearer at hand. Yet they always craved more understanding, more meaning, more pleasure. The Discoverer, within the peculiarities of the vision within that isolated brain, had now stimulated the question, a question that would not fade into the background of memory, as would the images of the blue planet and its environs.

  But the greatest gift arising from the touch of The Discoverer remained the ineffable nature of the human essence. Much of that existence was simple, predictable, and disappointingly like so much of protoplasmic life as seen before; yet there remained a trace of something that defied comprehension, and something that yielded pleasure and meaning. They could not bring themselves to purge the universe of that trace. Upon the next drawing of the blue planet forward, at the next touch of the next Discoverer or Discoverers, the great hope was that the trace would have grown to a torrent, a coursing of meaning within the universe, mass-laden or not, that would forever amplify the essence of sentience beyond its conceivable expectations.

  Epilogue

  The clouds forming to the east left a mottled dark streak across the sky. They thinned as they roiled overhead, scattering and vanishing to the west. Under the layers of gray against blue the sun's light cut through, unfolding a partial rainbow whose pot of gold lay in the brown along the western horizon. There was rain falling eastward but none disturbed the group in Carl Von Drath's back yard, gathered around his table. It was a pleasant spot brooded over by a tall tropical spruce waving lightly in the breeze. August on the Big Island is very much like July, and very much like September, but the details of difference were discernible by those, like Carl, whose daily chores took them out into the trees and along the hillsides. That day was not destined to bring rain to the eastern reaches of Waimea, and Carl knew it. His two bowls of macadamia nuts shared the table with sliced papaya and cheese from distant France, as available in the grocery store as the locally grown papaya. It was early afternoon, Saturday, and a day like many others, one to be cherished.

  Sandra Hughes, in jeans and tee shirt was tucked sideways into a chair at the far end of the table. Carl poured Chardonnay into her glass from a half empty bottle. To her left, Reginald Wyler sat, in khakis and blue shirt. To her right Françoise Marnier, in a short summer dress, was flanked by Jason Nagato, handsome and neat in gray slacks and Hawaiian shirt covered with giant flower petals. Across from them was Debbie McAnn, in yellow Bermuda shorts and matching blouse. Carl had left his seat by Debbie to pour this their first round of wine. When Sandra's glass was filled, she uncoiled and stood up, raising her glass.

  “I'd like to make a toast,” she said. “Deb, look here, okay?”

  Debbie grinned at her sister. “You talking to me, Sandy?”

  Sandra continued. “To my sister, Deborah Hughes McAnn, who exceeded my wildest expectations and turned into one whale of a Hawaiian.”

  “A whale huh?” Debbie retorted. “Have I put on that much?”

  “We're a tolerant state,” Sandra said. “You've seen our hula dancers.”

  Jason, especially pleased to be with these particular three women, lifted his glass, saying, “Here, here.”

  They all raised their glasses in accord. Wyler looked over at Sandra and got a tiny smile. Good enough.

  “I suppose this is Texas Chardonnay,” Françoise said with something of an impudent smile. “I have learned to tolerate it, you see.”

  “Ha,” smirked Sandra. “You only wish your Bourgogne hills could grow such grapes.”

  Carl said, “The Texas wine never ceases to amaze me. But then so do Texas women.”

  “Aw, ain't you sweet, Dr. Carl,” Debbie said, having picked up Françoise's pet name for the old man. “Why couldn't you be maybe five or ten years younger, huh?” She grinned. “I do love a man with a German accent.”

  They drank and ate for a few more minutes. Sandra poured the next round, finishing the bottle and opening the next, drawn from a bucket of ice on the ground nearby. And there was a third bottle in the ice. As the wine took its mellowing effect the conversation mellowed accordingly. Before long they arrived at the subject never far from any of the minds around the table. It was Wyler who brought it up.

  “Sandra,” he said, leaning forward for a macadamia, “Where are they, do you think?”

  “I can guess,” she replied, “but it's probably wrong.”

  “Guess,” Carl suggested.

  “Okay,” Sandra said, “let's say they are spiraling along with general distribution of mass in the galaxy. If so, they'd go outward but would look for clusters of stars. It's actually amazing to me they found us.”

  Françoise nodded her head. The young woman was lovely in her perfect French braids. “Perhaps,” she said, “our earth is more noticeable than we know. The outward electromagnetic signals, you see.”

  Jason nodded. “Makes sense to me.”

  Sandra scratched her head. “Their range of sensit
ivity is astounding. Think of what they learned from a distance well beyond the moon.”

  “Does the time with them,” Carl asked, “still seem real to you, Sandra?”

  There was no response for a moment. Sandra toyed with a piece of cheese, then looked around at the circle of friends. All four were watching her closely. As was her sister. “Yes,” she said and let her eyes lift toward the sky a moment. “Yes, they seem very real indeed. I don't think they will ever leave me. Rarely does a night pass when I don't feel that touch – as they translated it to me from how they understand it in their language. It's a warm feeling, but a very isolated one, too. Whatever part of themselves they left, if it's still there, must sense a growing isolation. I find myself trying to comfort that imagined thing inside myself.” She looked at Carl. “The only why I can come up with is that I want to nourish that alien wonder, feed it human spirit, and dream that something of what they are will join us.”

  The old man reached over to touch her arm. It was a familiar and caring gesture. “Something of you has gone with them, Sandra. How can it not?”

  Françoise blinked at her tears, then said, “And when they return one day, you see, they will bring a part of Sandra back with them.”

  “And if they do,” Sandra said, moved by the statement, “what will our humanity have become?”

  “Something we cannot imagine,” said Carl.

  Sandra nodded a wordless agreement and took another sip of wine. She looked at Françoise, keen dark eyes glistening, then at Jason, intense and rapt, at Debbie, warm and homey, at Wyler by her side, and finally again at Carl. She moved her head in a deliberate forward nod and suddenly smiled. “Whatever we turn out to be,” she said, beaming, “it can never exceed this moment at this table with these people. I never could get it over to the aliens, you know, but dammit, when we silly people love each other there is something among us that makes a very special bond indeed. Who knows, it may be the most special bond they will ever find, and they may not know they've found it.”

  Then six who did know they'd found it lifted their glasses once more.

  THE END

  About the author

  M R Cates is a physicist, a music lover, one who enjoys drinking wine with friends in his tree house, and a busy writer. He lives in a six-acre wood with his wife, a dog, and three cats. He and his wife have a daughter, a son and a daughter-in-law, all three a great blessing.

  The author is very grateful to a number of people who read the early manuscripts of this work, especially Don and Doug Batchelor, who provided praise along with thoughtful comments and editing.