The Coming of the Bullocks

by Gene Brewer

  Karen reminded him that the Secret Service people wouldn’t be able to hear my thoughts.

  “But I was speaking out loud!” I pointed out. At least some of the time.”

  “Are you sure?” She turned to Mike. “Have the cameras shown Gene speaking to Walter?”

  “Not really.”

  Someone (a G-woman?) brought in breakfast. We ate in silence — all of us were probably thinking his or her own thoughts about the Bullocks, my communications with them, the cone, and the days ahead.

  After that I hurriedly changed clothes, kissed my wife, and Mike and I were out the door. As we left, I called out, “Have a nice day!” She didn’t laugh.

  On the way to the trailer Mike asked me whether the Bullocks had said anything during the night.

  “He said the demonstration would come ‘very soon.’” I nodded to the agents on the morning shift, who nodded back, a first for me. I thought: perhaps they’re human after all. And, of course, potential killers.

  We went to Meeting Room 6 (I knew that because the walls were pink). It was filled with people watching a morning news program. A newscaster was on a New York street interviewing passersby about what they thought about the “invasion” of the Bullocks. The answers covered the entire spectrum of logic and emotion. One man advised “blasting the aliens to smithereens,” while others suggested prayer, diplomacy, cooperation. Some felt that Walter was the devil incarnate (I had to chuckle at this, since the Bullocks were far from “incarnate”), while others “had long known this was going to happen.” Still others declared that it was “time we paid for our reckless disregard for the sanctity of life.” A member of some political group or other called it “a liberal plot to take away our firearms and curtail our military might.” Some wanted to know where the government was “hiding the aliens.” Many people, however, were weeping. Suddenly I understood the President’s eagerness to hold the press conference before the whole process could be overtaken by rumors. Even though there was still some confusion about what had happened and what to expect, at least the basic story that people were grappling with was correct. They weren’t really worried about an invasion of body snatchers or the like. I only hoped that when the public fully absorbed what was at stake, support for compliance with Walter’s demands would merge into something more uniform and co-operative.

  Someone turned off the set, and I found myself in another meeting of the Task Force on Negotiations with the Bullocks. I could report to Steve that there were, in fact, a couple of astronomers (including a guy from SETI, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence), a physicist and a mathematician, and even a philosopher or two, among the negotiators. As before, it was headed by the UN Ambassador. At this particular meeting the Vice-President was again in attendance.

  After all the introductions and re-introductions, the chair summarized where we stood at that moment, ending with: “The Bullocks apparently still aren’t giving us much room either for negotiation or error. Is that right, Dr. Brewer?”

  “I would say that a better description would be no room for error. They want us to stop all the killing, period. Not 95% of it, or 98%, but all of it. They don’t even want to hear reasonable questions about how we might comply with their demands without totally destroying our identity as human beings. But I can also say this: when I spoke with Walter last evening, I asked them whether they might consider something like a decrease of 10% per year over the next decade. Before they said no, they hesitated for a couple of seconds. It was almost as if they were computing the results of — ”

  “Maybe they’re a computer!” the math professor interrupted with some enthusiasm.

  The chair asked whether it mattered. Someone said it might, pointing out that computers can be flummoxed if they are overwhelmed, or are asked questions they don’t understand. There was silence for a moment while everyone pondered that remote possibility.

  The young physicist, who reminded me of my grandson Rain, opined that if the Bullocks were, in fact, a highly-advanced computer, they were probably still too smart to be “flummoxed’ by the likes of us.

  “Maybe some of you can work on that,” I went on, a little testily, perhaps. “But the point I was making is that there might be an opening for negotiation if we can come up with a reasonable alternative they would find acceptable. After they said the 10% thing was unacceptable, I told them they were being unfair because we can’t change overnight, maybe no species can.”

  “What was their response to that?”

  “I think it might have been laughter.”

  A logician, an acknowledged genius who was not affiliated with a university but preferred to work alone, offered this: “One plus one equals two.” While everyone was trying to decide what the hell that might mean, she explained, “If you can show that one death is better than two, even the Bullocks might agree that would be permissible.”

  “And whose two deaths are we talking about?” the chair calmly asked her.

  “As I understand it,” the logician went on brightly, “the Bullocks aren’t requiring us to stop all the killing immediately, only that we stop it for one twenty-four-hour period during the next year. One day is only 1/365th of a year. But if we kill only 99% of the current total during that one-year period, more lives would be saved than they are demanding. Isn’t that right, Dr. Brewer?”

  I confirmed that this was my understanding.

  “And even if we are able to comply with their demands, we could kill as many people as we wanted for the next twelve months and still be in compliance with their wishes, right?”

  I couldn’t find anything wrong with her logic. “But after year one, there would have to be no killing whatsoever of our fellow humans. Are you suggesting that we indulge our blood lust for one last orgy of killing?”

  There were murmurs around the room. The Vice-President stated that he didn’t like the sound of that. “They must know that we’d figure this out and offer something less as a counter-proposal. Anyway, there’s a catch: If we fart around with the numbers like this, that itself might not go over very well with the Bullocks, as Dr. B has suggested. Maybe it’s our earnest attempt to comply with their demands that really counts.”

  ‘I agree with Dr. Brewer and the Vice-President,” said the chair. “Nevertheless, we need to buy as much time as possible. If it’s not possible to eliminate all the killing in one twenty-four-hour period, it’s over. The question then becomes: is there a more reasonable goal we can propose?”

  “I agree with that assessment,” said the physicist. “I personally think that no killing in one twenty-four-hour period will be impossible to achieve within a year. Maybe at a later time, if we get that far. If there is any room at all for negotiation, maybe we should try to get the Bullocks to agree on something that’s to our mutual benefit. Maybe Barbara has a point,” he added, nodding to the logician. “Maybe they would settle for something more reasonable the first year as long as the number of lives lost is significantly less then they’re demanding.”

  The Secretary of State, who had come in late, raised his bushy eyebrows. “Gene?”

  “Sir, I just don’t know,” I replied. “All I can do is ask.”

  “Of course there’s still the question of all the animal killing.”

  “One of the older diplomats reiterated, “If we don’t meet their initial demand in the year one, all the rest is irrelevant. I suggest we focus on that.”

  The Vice-President said, “Not necessarily. If there are negotiations, they might be more impressed by our thinking about the lives of the other species we share this planet than with just ourselves. After all, the number of animals we kill every year is far greater than the number of people, and to the Bullocks they seem just as important as us.”

  “Your point is well-taken,” said the chair. “And perhaps we ought to get some wheels turning there. Convince more people to consider becoming vegetaria
ns. But the question remains, will Walter work with us on anything we might suggest?”

  There was further discussion on this topic, but I didn’t hear much of it. I was speaking with Walter. “Let me save you some time, doctor,” they said in their familiar nasty tone. “We are not impressed with your attempts to obfuscate, delay, and modify. You seem to be more interested in how little you can do to comply with our demand, rather than the demand itself.”

  “But if we kill thousands less than you’re asking for, that’s good, isn’t it? All those people — and the other animals — will stay in Nediera!” I was so dumbfounded that they were communicating with me in the presence of everyone else that I forgot again to speak aloud. And I noticed a fly walking around on the ceiling — could that be Walter? I surreptitiously looked around for a flyswatter before quickly realizing that squashing it might not be a wise move.

  If they heard these thoughts, they chose to ignore them. “What you should be discussing is not how to outsmart us in order to ‘buy’ some time. It’s not for sale. What you should be focusing on is how to stop all the killing as soon as possible.”

  I’m sure I said this out loud: “But Walter, I don’t think you understand — ”

  “We’re fed up with this discussion,” Walter roared. “So here’s the new deal: you cut back the killing by 20% of the current rate every year for the next five years, and we’ll let you continue as a species. Same for the other animals beginning in year two. Do you accept these terms?”

  “Yes!” I blurted out without thinking. “But why did you — ”

  “The fact is, the terms really don’t matter. We’re absolutely certain you can’t stop the killing for one day, or even cut it back by twenty per cent over a year.” I could almost see them sneering, their rotten teeth exposed. “This discussion is over.”

  I said, loudly, “Walter?”

  The buzzing around me ceased immediately. “He’s here?” asked the chair.

  “Yes, and with new conditions. Didn’t you hear them? I think they’re final, and I’m sorry, but I went ahead and accepted them.”

  There was some murmured chatter about inexperienced negotiators before the chair asked, “What are they?”

  I noted that I had everyone’s full attention, something I was beginning to get used to and somehow enjoy.

  “They say they will accept a 20% reduction in the killing every year for five years.”

  The chattering started up again: How did I know that was final? Same for the animals? Why didn’t we hear any of the discussion with Walter? Etc. Of course I had no answers to any of it. The mathematician finally asked me, “Is that 20% of the current rate, or 20% of the deaths in the previous year?”

  “I think they said 20% of the current rate for five years. That would make it 100% at the end of that period,” I added drily.

  “Can you get him down to 10%?”

  I was becoming almost as irritated as Walter. “I don’t think they are looking for another compromise. They said they’re ‘fed up’ with our trying to outwit them.”

  “So you think 20% is the best we can do.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Might as well be 100%,” someone ventured, perhaps prophetically.

  “I don’t agree,” said the chair. “I think it’s a fair compromise under the circumstances. At least there’s a chance we can make that number.”

  A man who reminded me of Chuck, and later identified as a logistics expert, suggested, “We need to get some hard data on how many people are killed every year. This may seem premature, but we wouldn’t want to miss the quota by three or four people. I think it’s roughly half-a-million per year, but this isn’t something we can guess at.”

  “A good point, Sandy,” said the chair. “Will you look into that? As well as the number of animals we kill every year?” She jotted this down in a little notebook.

  Someone else pointed out that there are other subtleties we ought to consider as well. “For example, didn’t the Bullocks say that accidents wouldn’t count as part of the total?”

  I thought this might be another wrong turn, and I said so. “I think what they really want to see is a commitment to maximizing the numbers and to leave the minutiae to them.”

  “But — ”

  I went on. “I think we should try for 100% now. That way they’ll know that our intentions are genuine.”

  The chair spoke up forcefully. “Dr. B is right. Let’s accept the 20% figure, accidents or not, and try to beat it. I was impressed by her grasp of the problem. “Okay,” she continued, “if there’s no further discussion, the chair will accept a motion to report the figures to the President and to the other TFs, and to dissolve this one.”

  “So moved,” said the Vice-President.

  “Second,” added the Secretary of State.

  The motion passed, though there were scattered loud “Nays.”

  “The meeting stands adjourned.”

  Before anyone stood up, however, an ethicist ventured, “I still think we ought to try to get someone else involved in the discussions with Walter. No offense to Dr. Brewer, but if the Bullocks are so intelligent and wise, they surely know there are some serious ethical questions that pertain to their demands and what they plan to do if these aren’t met. We need to respectfully request that they speak with others more experienced in these matters.”

  “I would agree with that idea,” said the chair of the task force that no longer existed, “except that Walter seems to prefer talking with Dr. Brewer. I suspect that if he wants to talk to someone else, he’ll let Dr. B know. Besides, if we bring in others, a religious leader, for instance, all the other clerics on the planet will want to get into the act.”

  “Same for every other discipline.”

  I reminded the now-defunct subcommittee that if anyone had a question, I would put it to Walter, but it better be about how we can best satisfy their wishes, not how we can cloud or postpone complying with their demands. Or even to suggest that they are unfair. “I think their patience is wearing thin.”

  “Can you at least ask them how we can overcome the resistance we’re going to encounter? Regardless of the terms, a lot of people aren’t going to buy into it.”

  “I think they would consider a question like that.” I pondered it for a moment, but there was no response from Walter. “But they’re not saying anything about it at the moment.”

  No one had any further comments, and everyone started to drift out. Before anyone got very far, however, the chair shouted above the din, “I think we ought to express our thanks and congratulations to Dr. Brewer for what he has accomplished so far. This cannot have been easy for him.”

  There was a scattering of applause. I looked around and nodded awkwardly.

  As Mike and I were leaving, I strongly felt the presence of the Bullocks, and when we had reached the main corridor I nudged Mike’s arm and asked Walter out loud whether they had heard everything that had been said.

  “Of course.”

  I pointed to my head and mouthed that answer to Mike. After taking a deep breath, I asked aloud, “Walter, we need help. Will you teach us how best to end the killing before it’s too late?” Mike remained motionless, but seemed to be giving us his rapt attention.

  “Fled brought you prot’s nine suggestions for the survival of your species. You chose to ignore them. You’ll find the answers to your questions on the cone.”

  “Where? How do we find it?”

  No response.

  “Walter?” I repeated.

  Only silence.

  “They’re gone,” I said.

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Walter.”

  “They were here? Is that why you were pointing to your head?”

  I stared at him in disbelief. How could he have missed something as important as this? “Didn’t you hea
r me talking to him?”

  “No.”

  It occurred to me that maybe the Bullocks were able to stop time, or shield our conversation in some way whenever we spoke. “He said the answer to our dilemma is on the cone.”

  Mike nodded vigorously. “I’ll pass that information along to Dr. Uttley. Maybe his group can intensify their efforts.” He suggested I forget about the Bullocks for a while and go home and have a nice lunch.

  “Forget about them??” I said, with almost a Walter-like sneer. “How can I forget about them?” I left the trailer mumbling, to any alien beings who might be listening, about the difficulty of complying with their demands, not to mention the difficulty of dealing with my own species, and of life in general. Is it this difficult for everyone who existed anywhere in the cosmos? It occurred to me that it probably is, but the Bullocks opted not to confirm this suspicion.

  On the way back to the house I kicked myself for not pressing them to speak with more knowledgeable individuals than I on a variety of levels. On the other hand, it probably wouldn’t have done any good. Maybe, I thought, they were through playing around. After all, their demands were crystal clear.

  When I got inside, Karen was waiting for me with the mobile phone, demanding I talk to as many of my children and grandchildren as I could before the food came from headquarters, or wherever it originated (for all I knew they ordered everything in). Anyway, I called Will, our youngest, first, because he was the only one I hadn’t spoken to recently (aside from Abby, of course, who, as far as I knew, was still on K-PAX). Besides, I missed our weekly chat about his patients at MPI. Unfortunately, he was with one of them, but the receptionist told me she would ask him to call me as soon as he was finished with his session. Immediately she was in tears, and wished me good luck in dealing with the aliens. How weird it was to hear that! A few years ago only crazy people had dealings with beings from space. For me, at least, it was now quite commonplace, and I could hardly imagine not having one or more of them around.

  Then I called Fred, who was at a rehearsal for a new off-Broadway play he was directing. We chatted briefly about his life. It was good to know that his career was coming along nicely, and that in his mid-forties he was on schedule to direct his first Broadway show next year (if there were a next year). Also that his wife and son were well, etc., etc. At the end of our little talk (Freddy was always on his own wavelength and we never converse for very long), he, too, wished me luck, and offered to help if there was anything he could do. I thanked him and told him I would let him know (it was Fred, in fact, who had helped me bring Robert Porter out of his catatonic state some years earlier).