The Coming of the Bullocks

by Gene Brewer

  “Right. So the next two TFs will deal with the demands of the Bullocks and our response to those demands. The first of these, the Negotiations Task Force, will deal with any possible discussions with Walter — questions we might have in order to clarify their requests, and possible requests of our own. Once we find out exactly what they want, we might be able to reach some kind of mutual agreement on a timetable. That sort of thing. This group will be headed by our Ambassador to the United Nations and, in fact, will be composed primarily of government negotiators, maybe a few others. The details of that haven’t been worked out yet. The other, Subcommittee #9, which we’re calling the Compliance Task Force, will be concerned with looking into various scenarios, especially how we can work out possible truces around the world in order to reduce any military hostilities, and how soon we can accomplish this. We may have to pull back our own troops here and there. But I won’t speculate on any of this now — the TF will be working on that and giving us a report in a couple of days.

  “Well. Okay. So those are the bulk of the ten Task Forces we have lined up. The final one we’ll call the Overview Committee. This one will co-ordinate the activities of all the others. It will be headed nominally by the President and other government leaders, some of whom, by the way, are on their way to Washington as we speak. Here, in Dr. Brewer’s backyard — literally,” he added, with the patented grin, “Mike Jones and I will be in charge of the overall co-ordination. So that about covers it. Does anyone have any suggestions for other TFs, or comments on anything we have left out?”

  A woman whose name, of course, I had already forgotten, but who sounded like Katharine Hepburn, asked pointedly, “Can we speak to Walter ourselves? Or do we have to wait until he, or they, contact Dr. Brewer?” She seemed to be staring at me with an almost Bullock-like disdain.

  All eyes turned to me. “I can’t really answer that. So far they have only spoken to me. Since they haven’t yet told me exactly what they want us to do, I presume they will again.”

  “How do they contact you exactly?” she demanded.

  At Mike’s prodding, I told the group about the deceased Walter and about the squirrel, and that now I could speak to them directly, mind to mind. I reminded her also that the Bullocks could actually be present in the very room where we were assembled, listening to the discussion, and we wouldn’t know it. There were a couple of gasps, and some looked around nervously. Others seemed dubious.

  The obnoxious woman persisted. “Can you ask them?”

  I concentrated on the silent question, then asked out loud: “Are you here, Walter?” I felt like an old-time medium trying to communicate with the dead. But if they were, they didn’t respond. I shook my head. “I should have tried that before,” I apologized, “but I haven’t yet come to grips with all this.”

  The Vice-President spoke up in my defense. “No one is accusing you of failing to do that, Gene.” His gaze swiveled slowly around the room. “None of us can know what it’s like being in your shoes, facing up to a powerful alien being we know almost nothing about. Any of us would probably find that almost unbearable, and none of us ever met prot or fled. Because of those experiences, you probably did far better than any of us could have. However, her point is well taken. The TF on Negotiations will want to know whether we can contact them, or whether you can at any rate, and, if so, when and where this would be done. This, I think, is the first thing we need to determine.” Several in the group nodded.

  I nodded, too, adding that Walter usually came to me in my backyard. I had already gained a great deal of respect for both the President and the Vice-President, both of whom were extremely competent, it seemed to me, and obviously had the interests of all of us in mind. The latter, if a bit wordy, was nonetheless very good at handling a meeting like this. He was clearly on top of every aspect of a very complex situation.

  “Anything else we need to cover before we break up and start the real work?” he asked the group.

  The Secretary of State pointed out that perhaps the Bullocks were “occupying” me, as they had done the others, at this very moment. All heads swiveled in my direction. “I suppose that’s possible, but I don’t think so. I don’t feel any different, anyway.”

  “But you don’t know that for sure. Maybe the Bullocks wouldn’t affect you in any way even if they were inside your head.”

  I could only shrug and say, “That’s possible, I suppose, though they told me otherwise.”

  A man who resembled former patient Howie, asked the chair, “What about Dr. Brewer himself? Will any of us be able to contact him whenever the need arises?”

  “Good point,” said the Vice-President. “For the moment, I think all the TF heads, and probably no one else, except the President and myself, should have access 24/7.” He turned back to me. “Does that meet with your approval, Gene?”

  “Do I have a choice?” I asked, knowing it was becoming a silly refrain.

  For a moment he looked a bit dismayed, but almost immediately the shiny smile filled his countenance as he picked up on my feeble joke. “None of us have much choice in the matter,” he murmured. I nodded again, though the comment was probably meant for everyone present.

  “Okay, if that’s all, we’ll adjourn and everyone who is staying here will convene in — uh — fifteen minutes in your respective meeting rooms. Those who are returning to Washington will leave immediately for the helicopters that will take you to the airport. They’re waiting at the pads.”

  As everyone was filing out, I asked the Vice-President, “What pads?”

  “We found a suitable field about a quarter-mile down the road. A quick trim and a fast-drying concrete, and now there are two perfectly adequate helicopter pads in place.”

  “Oh. Probably a good idea under the circumstances,” I offered superfluously. He gathered all his papers together without replying. “And is there a task force I should be sitting in on?” I asked him.

  Without referring to his notes or papers, he replied, “For now, you will be a member of Task Force #8, the one handling your negotiations with the Bullocks. Later on, of course, you will work with TF #2, which will prepare you for your appearance at the UN, and then #1, rehearsing and polishing the actual speech they come up with. As well as the TF on Media and Information. There will be a time or two when you will need to face the reporters. We’ll try to keep that to a minimum, but it can’t be avoided. Sound all right to you?”

  “To be honest, sir, none of this sounds all right to me. I didn’t ask for this, and I don’t want it.”

  This time no smile came. Only a deep frown, which deepened even further and highlighted the worry wrinkles in his forehead. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “All of us wish this could be avoided, Gene, but it can’t. No one is more aware than you of the responsibility this whole thing will entail, as well as the importance the entire world attaches to it. You’re doing fine. Just keep it up and everything will work out okay. You know why?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because it has to.”

  “I wish I had your confidence.”

  “Confidence has nothing to do with it. It’s a question of doing what has to be done. Of responsibility. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I know you will accept yours.” Then he shook my hand firmly. “Good luck, my friend. After this is over, we’ll have a party in the White House. This time your wife will be there. I know mine will.” He turned and strode out the door. The VP was pushing seventy by now, almost as old as I was, but he had the energy of a forty-year-old.

  By this time no one was left in the meeting room except Mike and myself and two other men. I was an old hand at this now, and I knew they were the omnipresent Secret Service. Anonymous as always, they pretended to ignore me and focused their attention instead on the door. I noted for the first time that there were no windows in the room, and perhaps not in any of the rooms in the Nerve Center.

 
; Mike sidled up to me and patted me on the shoulder as the Vice-President had done. “How are you holding out?”

  “Okay, I guess. It’s a bit overwhelming for a small potato like me.”

  He laughed. “No small potato, you. Not anymore. You’re more important now than anyone else in the world, including all the people who were in this room. I only have one suggestion for you: don’t let yourself get too conceited when this fact sinks in. And it will sink in. Stay modest and humble. The world doesn’t want you to start getting grandiose ideas at this point. And neither do you.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “I see your point, but I’m pretty sure we don’t have to worry about that. I may be a giant potato right now, but I know I might blow it. That thought alone will be enough to keep me humble.”

  “I hope you’re wrong about that, but hold that thought anyway.” He checked his watch. “We have another ten minutes before the TF8 meeting. Do you want to run over and say hello to your wife?”

  “Sure.” I lowered my voice. “Are these guys going to be with us from now on?”

  “Every minute. Except when you’re inside your house. But they and a few others will be all around it. I assure you that no one will be able to get past them, even if they were able to get that far.”

  “Should I introduce myself?”

  “No, they would rather you didn’t. There are several reasons for this, but you can take my word for it. In any case, they rotate. There will probably be two different guys next time you show up here. But don’t worry; you’ll get used to them. After a while you won’t even notice them.”

  “Okay, if you say so. I’ll run over and check on Karen. What room do I go to after that? Or did you want to go with me?”

  He checked his clipboard. “Room Six. See you there in ten minutes?”

  “Fine.” I hurried down the corridor and out the only door I knew about. I had shown Mike approximately where the cone was buried, and now I noticed several men with shovels and other devices poking around in the woods. In the backyard I glanced around for squirrels, but none were in evidence. I wondered about that — why a squirrel? Perhaps because one was handy? In any case, I already had a couple of questions for Walter. First, how could I contact them if necessary; and second, would they speak with anyone else?

  “The answer to the second question is No, and, to the first: I will be nearby for the next six days.”

  I felt as though I had received an electric shock. I quickly looked around but there weren’t any squirrels in evidence.

  “Where — Where are you?” I managed to stammer before looking around to see if the Secret Service agents were listening to us. As always, they stared straight ahead, apparently oblivious.

  “Occupying an unused brain cell inside your head. But don’t be concerned — we’ve been somewhere nearby all along. Now that you’re used to us, there is no longer a need for an intermediary.”

  I was sure I had to be completely insane. For one thing, I had known countless mental patients who heard voices inside their heads. Of course no one believed them. (On the other hand, perhaps some of them actually were speaking with aliens.) Yet, Walter was right: this was no worse than speaking with a squirrel, and because he came to me in stages, it didn’t seem so preposterous as it otherwise might have. Nevertheless, the arrangement was very, very weird, and I could feel my voice shaking as I asked him, “So you were with me during the discussion in the trailer?”

  “Of course,” they seethed. “Your head was there, wasn’t it?”

  “But you ignored my question.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Why?”

  “The others of your ‘team’ need to get used to the idea, too.”

  “Ah. I see. And you’ll be in my head from now on?”

  “As we said earlier, we’ll be somewhere nearby. At least until you deliver your speech to the United Nations.”

  “And after that?”

  “We’ll return to Bullock for a while.”

  “For how long?”

  “That depends on the result.”

  I couldn’t think of a good response to that. I could barely think at all. “One problem with this means of communication: there’s no one to look at. It’s quite uncomfortable talking to myself like this. No offense,” I quickly added.

  “You’ll get used to it. And you don’t need to move your mouth. We can hear your thoughts perfectly.”

  “No matter what I’m thinking about?”

  “Whatever you’re thinking, we’ll know about it.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be telling me what to say when I’m in a meeting or a discussion with someone else?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re not always inside my head?”

  “We’ve discussed this before, doctor,” they roared. “When you need us, we’ll be here.”

  I nodded, but to whom, I hadn’t a clue. “And there isn’t any way to turn you off? Knowing you’re listening could seriously alter my thinking.”

  “Please pay attention, doctor. You will be able to think as you normally do. The only difference is that we can read your thoughts. But we won’t interfere with them in any way. Understand?”

  “Not completely. I suppose you know that.” I needed to go to the bathroom. “But I suppose you already know that, too.”

  I thought I heard a sigh. “You’re finally beginning to understand. Now why don’t you go in and relieve yourself of your liquid waste? We’ll ‘talk’ later.”

  I found my wife in my study gazing out the living room window, which faces the side of the property away from the trailer. I could see a neighbor’s house through the trees, which reminded me of our summer place in the Adirondacks, where the Siegels live nearby. I wished I could have talked all this over with my friend and fellow psychiatrist. Karen was probably thinking the same thing. But for the next week there probably wouldn’t be time for any socializing.

  The sun had come out, and the oak leaves were flaming yellows and oranges again. It was so beautiful I almost cried. I quickly wiped my eyes in case one of the agents happened to be peering through the window. Karen hadn’t yet said anything. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” I asked her.

  “I was just thinking about our kids. Do you have time to call any of them?”

  “Not now, hon. Maybe tonight. But I don’t know when these meetings will be over.”

  “Can I tell them what’s going on?”

  “Nobody said not to tell them anything. But you might want to leave out the details for now.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Walter is probably inside my head right now.”

  She looked at me as if I were carrying a terrible infection. “How do you know that?”

  “They said so. If I think something, they hear it.”

  “So could fled, remember?”

  “Yes, but she wasn’t in it.”

  “Can you read theirs?”

  “Not for a few billion years, probably.”

  “If we live that long. Can they read mine, too?”

  “Probably. Want me to ask them?”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?”

  “I have to pee.”

  “Can’t help you with that.”

  When I returned to the living room I told her I just wished it were over. She commiserated.

  I checked my watch. “I’ve got to get back. How about a hug?”

  We held each other tightly for a brief moment, an infinity. As I left the house I called back, “What’s for dinner?” I could hear her laugh, which was the intention. I suddenly felt better myself. What everyone says is true: it’s better to face something unpleasant with a smile and a loving partner.

&nb
sp; I tried to keep my mind blank as I jogged across the lawn to the trailer, where Mike was waiting for me at the door. I told him, “They chose not to answer my question when we were in the meeting room. But they were there. They know everything we’re discussing.” I declined to tell him for the moment that they were occupying me. He would surely have thought I was nuts.

  “Not surprised. Actually, that might save time and make things easier.”

  “No, you don’t understand. They can read everyone’s mind. Have they said anything to you?”

  “Not as far as I know. For some reason they only want to talk to you.” “Because of prot and fled, you mean.”

  “Maybe once prot ended up at your hospital, the rest was sort of programmed to follow.”

  “You mean I’ve been set up from the beginning? That prot, and then fled, were preparing me for Walter’s visit?”

  Mike shrugged. “Who knows?”

  We came to Room 6, which was just like Room 4 — no windows, etc. — only a little smaller. A hastily penned tag on the door indicated that this was where the Task Force On Communication and Negotiations would meet. The walls of the brightly-lit room were pink, perhaps so that everyone would recognize where he or she was. Maybe all the meeting rooms were color-coded. An attempt at cheerfulness, perhaps?

  There were a dozen or so people there, a few of whom had been present at the earlier organizational meeting. Again I was introduced to a very politically correct group: about half were women, two were of African and one of Asian descent. None of the names were familiar. Most, I learned, were ombudsmen or arbitrators, except for a couple of people from think tanks I had never heard of. The President’s science advisor was also present, presumably in case any scientific question for the Bullocks needed to be discussed. The entire focus of this group was to come up with questions I might ask Walter so that we, and they, would all be on the same page. Primarily, we needed more information on the Bullocks and what they wanted.