The Coming of the Bullocks

by Gene Brewer

  After a few minutes of sober chit-chat, the Ambassador to the United Nations called the meeting to order. She was slim, forceful, a thoroughly competent-looking woman, well-dressed in a powder blue wool suit. Most of the task force, however, were wrinkled and grizzled, suggesting, if nothing else, experience and wisdom. Nevertheless, when the chair spoke, everyone listened. She reeked of dignity and confidence. It seemed to me that nothing would ruffle her.

  As the Vice-President had begun the earlier meeting, she passed out printed sheets listing possible questions and concerns for our consideration, as well as Walter’s. This is the list as it stood on that afternoon:

  POSSIBLE QUESTIONS FOR THE BULLOCKS

  —Where is your planet, and how many Bullocks live there?

  —Does your planet have a government or governments? If so, do you represent all the Bullocks, or only one faction?

  —Are you in direct contact with other intelligent beings in the universe? Is there a universal government or governments? If not, by what right do you travel the universe making demands of others?

  —Can you tell us more about Nediera and how we can tap into it?

  —If you are not corporeal, how did you get to Earth?

  —What, exactly, are you demanding of us?

  —Is there any margin for compliance? For example, if we meet half your demands within a given period, would we get more time to comply with the rest?

  —Would we not eventually evolve toward your general philosophy without coercion?

  After everyone had silently pondered the list for a few minutes, the chair pointed out that it was only a tentative one, and it would probably change as we went along. “The first thing we need to know is who or what we are dealing with. Dr. Brewer, would you be so kind as to give us your impressions of Walter, and do you think he would be amenable to reasonable questions or negotiations?”

  Everyone turned to scrutinize me. This was the thing I hated most about public speaking: it’s like being under a microscope with a thousand eyepieces. By now, however, I had come to realize that my natural reticence was no longer important. That I had to fully participate in my fate, whatever it might be. “Well, from the looks of this list, you already know almost everything I know. But I will say, first, that Walter converses in a straightforward, forceful, no-nonsense manner. There is no mistaking what they mean. Second, they are for real. There is no way they can be anything other than who or what they say they are. Maybe I ought to stop there and ask whether anyone has any questions about that.”

  No one did. Apparently they had all been briefed on his occupying corpses and squirrels, and obliterating trees.

  “In that case, there’s something you might not yet know.” I took a deep breath and described my encounter with Walter less than an hour earlier, when he had not appeared to me as anything at all, but almost as pure thought. That from now on he would communicate directly with my mind. “We probably won’t see a physical manifestation of them again.”

  I heard little intakes of breath, followed by a moment or two of silence. Someone mentioned my earlier attempt to “speak” with Walter in the larger meeting room. “Could we try again here?”

  I looked down at the list and thought hard about the Bullocks and their planet, silently asking where it was and how many beings like them lived there. I waited, but there was no reply from Walter, or anyone else. “I’m not getting an answer.”

  “Which might mean one of two things,” said the chair. “It might mean that they aren’t here, or that they simply don’t want to answer the question. Do you have any thoughts about that, Dr. Brewer?”

  “I suspect they’re here, but there’s no way to know that. So I guess they just don’t want to answer the question.” I explained the Bullocks’ thoughts about making everyone nervous if they conveyed something to me in public.

  The chair quickly replied, “Tell them we won’t be shocked by anything they tell you. Or us.”

  “If he’s here, he heard you.” Nevertheless, there was still no response. Nor was there one when I tried to communicate this to him silently. But something else occurred to me. “It’s possible that they just don’t want to bother with irrelevant information. In fact, they once told me that they would answer any ‘relevant’ questions. They might think we’re avoiding the issue by asking any questions at all, unless they pertain to our compliance with their demands. That we’re just stalling, in a way. And one other thing (I braced myself for a jolt): they’re a nasty old sonofabitch. When they occupied the late Walter’s body, they actually sneered at me several times. If they have any opinions on our fate, I would say they would just as soon see us dead and gone.

  Again there was a short period of silence. Apparently this was a group who thought before speaking. But someone finally asked, “Do you think they would dispose of us immediately if you asked them a question that they might consider annoying?”

  “I really can’t answer that. My impression is that they would just ignore it, as they have done already. I don’t think asking them a question, even a stupid one, would seal our fate.” I paused to see if Walter, or anyone else, would respond to that. “I could be wrong about this, of course,” I added weakly.

  Someone inquired as to whether I had already asked them a stupid or irrelevant question.

  I confessed that I had, on more than one occasion.

  “And we’re still here.”

  “So far.”

  The chair offered a brief summary. “I think we don’t have much choice but to proceed like the human beings we are. To try to get as much information as we can and formulate some kind of plan, based on that information, for dealing with the situation we’re faced with. In my opinion we should proceed carefully, but go forward confidently, and without delay. Ignorance never solved any problems. Any thoughts on this?”

  There was a brief discussion of the dangers involved, but general agreement that a free and open conversation with Walter would be not only worth the risk, but necessary. Once that was settled, the chair quickly moved on. “One other general question before we continue the meeting: if Walter is here at the moment, do you know where they might be, and what form they might have taken?”

  “Not exactly. They could be an insect somewhere on the floor. Or even a bacterium. Or,” I added pointedly, “they could be occupying any one of our brain cells and we wouldn’t even know it.” As before, everyone looked around uncomfortably.

  Someone asked, “Do they need to occupy something or someone?”

  I don’t have a clue, but I could ask.”

  “Do they travel through space on a beam of light?”

  “I don’t even know that. But I haven’t seen any flashlights or mirrors. Maybe they’ve learned to tap into something else.”

  A mild reprimand by the chair: “Okay, enough of the speculation. Let’s get to work.”

  For the next two hours we went back and forth, hashing and rehashing some of the items on the proposed question list. When it was over, they had been narrowed down to the following question to be asked of the Bullocks:

  What exactly are you demanding of us?

  Any further questions depended on the answer to that one. The only other matter left to discuss was how I could contact Walter in order to ask them the question. “I think they’ll probably contact me,” was the only response I could come up with.

  Before we adjourned, a man adorned with a huge black beard, who was from a university somewhere in the Midwest (and who looked vaguely like Oliver Sacks), noted that Walter had approached me three times: once in a shopping mall parking lot, and the other two in my own backyard. He suggested it might be wise to hang out in the latter when it became necessary to convey information to them. And, further, that everyone else should avoid the lawn. The consensus was that this was probably a reasonable suggestion.

  “But what about the surveillan
ce cameras?” said the woman who had spoken earlier. “Would they object to being watched?”

  “There’s nothing to watch,” I reminded her. “Except me talking to myself.”

  The meeting adjourned with the admonition that I should call the chairman, or Mike, as soon as possible after making contact with the Bullocks again.

  However, the day was far from over, even though it was already late afternoon. I had to attend another subcommittee meeting (TF2, on Brewer Preparation). Same layout, different bunch of “experts,” different wall color (blue). I was already exhausted, and barely heard any of the discussion. This group was chaired by a psychologist with a nervous tic, who also happened to have a degree in speech, his specialty. Also in attendance were a comedian and a rabbi, both of whom had had to develop good speaking habits in order to connect with their audiences. The discussion was quite entertaining, I suppose, if you like jokes about giving enemas to people who have died because “it can’t hoit.” I could have told a few of my own, but I was afraid no one would find them funny. In any case, the upshot was that my fear of public speaking was essentially normal, that the group would plan to begin work on my diction and delivery and “attitude” the following day, the idea being to instill confidence that I could perform well at the United Nations, or anywhere else. I nodded sleepily and the meeting was adjourned.

  On the way out of the trailer, Mike offered his usual encouragement. “I think we had some good sessions, don’t you, Gene? Accomplished a lot. And tomorrow should be even better, as we start to grapple with what Walter wants from us.”

  I said nothing except, “So you’ll call me again in the morning?”

  “No, why don’t you have breakfast with your wife and then come back here at, say, seven-thirty?”

  “I’m going to sleep like a dead person tonight.”

  Obviously he didn’t get the joke. “I hope so. You’ll need all your wits tomorrow. We shook hands and I left the trailer for home, which seemed a million miles away. I hurried across the grass, trying not to think anything, hoping that I wouldn’t be waylaid by Walter. I just needed one evening off before all hell broke loose. Before I could get inside, however, Flower came bounding out of the house and flattened herself against my leg. I gave her a good head scratch and body rub, and she zoomed around the yard sniffing for aliens before relieving herself and coming into the house with me.

  The Bullocks, apparently, weren’t ready to communicate any demands. Maybe they realized I was too tired to hear much of it. At any rate, they didn’t bother me again that evening, and Karen and I had a nice dinner, courtesy of, and prepared by, Uncle Sam, including a very good Cabernet Sauvignon. While we were having coffee, and my eyelids were about to close, she handed me a fistful of notes: my son Fred called again, Will called again, daughter Jennifer (in California) called again, two of my grandchildren called, the Siegels and a couple of other friends and neighbors called and, of course, son-in-law Steve, the astronomer, wanted to talk to me. I reflected on children and friendship, noting that at least we wouldn’t die alone. Except that Steve, I was sure, only wanted to talk to the aliens. He was almost certainly hoping to pump Walter for any information he could get about the workings of the universe. I didn’t think the Bullocks would give a damn about Steve’s interests or his career, but I told Karen I would speak to him when I got the chance. By then it was already after nine o’clock, and I had another long day ahead of me. I told her to let everyone know what was going on, in general terms, and I would speak to them all as soon as this was over.

  “Can you at least give your grandchildren a ring?”

  “Oh, all right, if you’ll dial the numbers and hold the phone to my ear.”

  I gave Flower the last bite of my dessert, and Karen took my hand and led me to my easy chair in the living room. But I was asleep before she could pick up the phone.

  I woke up a few hours later, still sitting in my favorite chair, covered by a warm afghan she had crocheted not long after she had retired. It was only two-thirty, but now I was wide awake. Suddenly Flower sat up and looked around. I wondered whether she had heard something. I listened, but heard nothing.

  “Hello, doctor. Sleep well?”

  The hairs rose from the back of my neck. “Where are you?”

  He ignored the question. “Are you ready?”

  “For what?”

  “It’s time to begin your assignment.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last two days?”

  “Here is what you will say to your United Nations Security Council: ‘We have exactly one year to stop the killing.’”

  My mind started racing. I knew it would be something like that, but now that I had heard it, it didn’t seem real. It was like being told that you have an incurable disease and a year to live. It occurred to me that this was an apt comparison for several reasons. But did he mean all killing of anything? Even bugs and broccoli? Or just the killing of other humans? And for how long?

  “You should try to relax, doctor. Tension is bad for your physiology. We are not unreasonable beings. Of course we would like to see you stop the killing of anything with a nervous system, but we realize this might be difficult to attain in only a year. So we’re going to make it easy on you: exactly one year from the time of your United Nations discussion we expect Homo sapiens to get through one twenty-four-hour period without killing anyone of your own species. Accidents won’t count. Do you understand what is expected of you?” they added in a guttural snarl.

  I did, or at least I thought I did. But something else bothered me even more. “And what happens if we can’t comply with your wishes?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  “How will you destroy us?”

  “Irrelevant, doctor.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I’m sorry.”

  His tone seemed to alter a bit. Or was that wishful thinking on my part? “We accept your apology.”

  “So if we comply with that demand, we’re off the hook?”

  “Are you making another joke, doctor?”

  “Well, you said we only needed to stop the killing for one day.”

  “That’s merely the first step. If you can’t do that, the rest won’t matter.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  “You will be given another year to stop killing not only yourselves, but all other animal species. For one twenty-four-hour period. Of course, no more humans will be killed during that entire second year as well.”

  “And is that it?”

  There was a pause during which the Bullocks, no doubt, reflected on my level of understanding, and my intelligence in general. They finally replied, without any sneering that I could detect, “After that there will be no more killing of anyone for any period of time. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. I’m not so sure the rest of the world will.”

  “That is why we came to you. It’s your responsibility to make this clear to your fellow humans. Good luck, doctor.”

  “My colleagues in the government want me to ask you one other question. Will you answer it?”

  “We will answer anything relevant to our demands.”

  “You won’t speak to any of the others who are helping me with this matter?”

  “We’ve already answered that question. You are the chosen one.”

  “I’m not knowledgeable enough to ask every question we need to ask. If you — ”

  But I knew the question was irrelevant, and that I would hear no more from Walter that night. I thought about calling the President, but decided that it could wait until morning.

  After that, of course, I couldn’t sleep. I walked around the house, peered out the windows, gazed at the Nerve Center, dark but probably ablaze with light inside, watched a couple of Secret Service men for a while (they seemed like zombies, as always, though I’m
sure they had thoughts of their own), before getting into bed, fully clothed, with Karen. My mind was still racing. I tried to think of a way out of this mess. Could I fake an illness, for example? Probably not after a complete examination had shown I was fit as a fiddle, whatever the hell that meant. Why had I taken such damn good care of myself? There was no way out, and I knew it. I lay awake the rest of the night and watched the dawn come up over the autumn splendor.

  DAY THREE

  Mike called at six-thirty to remind us that he wouldn’t join us for breakfast, but would see me in the trailer in an hour.

  A shower always makes me feel better, but this time I was so tired it didn’t help, and neither did the big breakfast of waffles with fruit and “genuine Vermont” maple syrup. I told Karen about Walter’s visit last night, and that they would only talk to me, not anyone else, not even the President.

  “They came last night? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “They only speak in my head.”

  She looked dubious, but said, finally, “Prot and fled must have told them they can trust you.”

  “I wish they hadn’t.”

  “If not you, it would just be someone else. Maybe another person wouldn’t have understood what was happening, have the same insight as you.”

  I couldn’t argue with that logic. “There’s one more thing. We only have a year to stop the killing.”

  “Only a year? Can we do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Since there were a few minutes to spare, I tried to call my grandchildren (Abby and Fred’s boys and Will’s girls), who, of course, would have no idea who or what the Bullocks were. Unfortunately, Steve answered the first call. He wanted to come over immediately to speak with Walter (there was some noise in the line, and I wondered whether someone was monitoring the call). After arguing with him for several minutes (he couldn’t believe that the Bullocks wouldn’t want to chat with a cosmologist as renowned as he) I informed him that I had to meet with the Vice-President in a short time (which might have been true), and would call him back that evening. He grumbled for a bit, but finally hung up. I never did get to speak to my grandchildren.