by Chad Oliver
He tried to remember his instructions. He must be very careful. Everything depended on these first few moments.
“I’m all right,” he said, blinking at the light. “There’s been an accident.”
The light shifted to the ship that had smashed into the brush. “What’s that? I never saw a plane like that before.”
Be careful. “It’s an experimental model.”
“You a test pilot?”
“No.”
“You an Air Force man?”
“No.”
“I think you’d better come inside. It’s cold out here.”
He hesitated.
“I’ll have to report this, you know. You got any identification?”
He tried to change the subject. “Where am I? I lost my bearings.”
The man with the flashlight waved down below. “That there is Beverly Glen. Up on top is Bel-Air Road, right at the end of it.”
“What city is this?”
“Man, you are confused. This is Los Angeles. Come on inside.”
Los Angeles.
He followed the man along a path flanked by orange trees to a small bungalow. He walked into the house, into the light. A refrigerator hummed in the little room back of the kitchen.
“Let’s have a look at you,” the man with the flashlight said.
The man from the ship stood still, his face expressionless. He was quite young, tall, with straw-colored hair. He was dressed in sport clothes.
“You look okay,” the man said, still holding his flashlight. “My name’s Frank Evans.”
“I am called Keith.”
“Keith what?”
“Just—Keith.”
“Ummmm.”
A young woman came in from the living room. She was dressed in matador pants and a red shirt, but was passably attractive.
“My wife, Babs,” Frank Evans introduced them. “This guy is Keith Somebody. He was in that ship that tore up the hill.”
“I thought this was the Arizona desert,” Keith said, trying to smile.
“I’d hate to see you make a real mistake, mister,” Babs said throatily.
“So would I,” Keith said seriously.
“You got no identification, you say?” Frank repeated.
“No. It’s not necessary.”
“Well, I have to report this. You understand. Unidentified aircraft and stuff. You got nothing to worry about if you’re on the level. Phone the cops, Babs.”
The woman went into the living room. They were alone.
“Care for a beer?” Frank asked.
It’s too late. I’ll have to play along. “Thank you.”
“Come on in and be comfortable while we’re waiting,” Frank said. “You were lucky to get out of that one alive.”
He followed Frank into the living room, which was painted a singular shade of green, and sat down on a couch. He lit a cigarette and noticed that his hands were still shaking.
“You like bop?” Frank said suddenly.
“Bop?”
“You’ll like this,” Babs said, coming in from the telephone. “Frank knows his music.”
“It’ll help you relax,” Frank said. “Hi-fi and everything. I work in a record shop over in Westwood.” He adjusted a mammoth speaker. “You go for Dizzy? Thelonius Monk on piano. Great bongo solo, too.”
Noise filled the room.
The man called Keith sipped his beer nervously and was almost glad when the police arrived ten minutes later. The two policemen looked at the wrecked ship, whistled, and promised to send a crew out in the morning.
“You’d better ride in with us,” one of them said finally. “You must be pretty well shaken up.”
“I’m all right,” Keith said.
“I think you’d better ride in with us. Just a formality, really.”
Don’t get into any trouble. Don’t antagonize anyone. “I suppose you’re right. Thanks for the beer, Frank.”
“Don’t mention it. Hope everything turns out okay.”
The policemen led him up a narrow, winding asphalt trail to Bel-Air Road. A black police car, with a red light on top that flashed monotonously on and off, was parked on a bluff. There were people gathered around the car.
Keith paused a moment, ignoring the crowd. They were high above the city, and he could see Bel-Air Road winding down the hill like a string of white Christmas tree bulbs. Far below was the city of Los Angeles, a design mosaic with a billion twinkling lights.
“I guess I’ll have to go all the way to the President,” he said wearily.
“Yeah,” said one cop, not unkindly. “Come on, we’ll see if the door’s unlocked at the White House.”
They got into the black car and went down through the night, past all the palaces of the Bel-Air elite. It was cold and damp, and a long way down.
The next day the papers had the story, and they kicked it around joyfully.
Four of them played it strictly for laughs:
COFFEE SPILLED IN BEL-AlR AS SAUCER FALLS. PROMINENT MARTIAN ARRIVES HERE FOR VISIT. SPACE INVADER FOILED BY SMOG. INTERPLANETARY PATROL GETS SIGNALS MIXED
One tabloid, with tongue firmly in check, ran it straight.
FANTASTIC SHIP FALLS IN BEL-AIR; SCIENTISTS TO INVESTIGATE
All of the papers carried pictures of the crashed ship, which looked nothing whatever like a saucer, flying or otherwise. All of the papers carried pictures of the man called Keith, and the overwhelming impression given by the photographs was that of his extreme youth. He could not have been over twenty-five, by Earthly standards, and it was difficult to take him seriously as a menace.
The second day after the crash the papers had two further bits of concrete information to pass along to their readers. The first was that engineers were subjecting the ship to a surprisingly intensive analysis. The second was that Keith had taken to writing down in a strange script all the conversations that occurred within his hearing. By this time, of course, the stories were buried in the back pages of the papers.
In a way, the most interesting thing was what the newspapers didn’t print. The usual follow-up story was conspicuous by its absence. No one tried to explain the so-called flying saucer away as a promotion stunt for a new George Pal movie. No enterprising reporter dug up the leads that would connect Keith to the Pacific Rocket Society, the Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society, the White Sands proving grounds, the Rosicrucians, the November elections or the end of the world.
And Keith wasn’t volunteering any information. He went out of his way to be agreeable, and he kept on taking careful, detailed notes on what people said to him. After the third day, there were no more stories. As far as the readers were concerned, Keith had been a three-day wonder who had run his course, and there were two diverting new Hollywood divorces to fill up the headlines.
What the papers knew, but couldn’t print, was that Keith had been quietly hustled off to Washington.
Eventually, after being shuttled through the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the UnAmerican Activities Committee, Keith reached the State Department.
He was still taking elaborate notes, often asking a person to repeat a word or phrase that he had not heard clearly. His writing might have been anything from Aztec to the International Phonetic Alphabet, so far as anyone could tell.
John William Walls of the State Department looked so much like a diplomat that he could hardly have found employment as anything else short of a whiskey ad in The New Yorker. He was slim to the point of emaciation, immaculately dressed, and his perfectly brushed hair was graying at the temples. He drummed his well-manicured nails on his highly polished desk and pursed his thin lips.
“Your case poses many extremely serious problems for us, Keith,” he said, smiling disarmingly.
Keith scribbled in his notebook. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” he said. His hair was freshly cut, but he had deep circles under his eyes. He lit another cigarette and tried not to fidget on his leather
chair.
“Of course you didn’t, Keith. But the unpleasant fact remains that we must deal with actions, not intentions. You have placed this government in a quite intolerable position.”
“I’m sorry, I have tried to explain my willingness to co-operate fully with the authorities here.”
John William Walls leaned back in his chair and built pyramids with his long, clean fingers. “Your reticence really gives us very little choice in the matter, Keith,” he said, warming to his topic. “I wish to be entirely frank with you. Your ship is unquestionably of extra-terrestrial origin. You have come through space, from some unknown world, and landed on our territory without official permission. Do you realize what this means?”
“I’m beginning to,” Keith said.
“Of course.” Walls inserted a cigarette in a long ivory holder and lit it with a gleaming lighter. “Let us proceed, then. You have crossed the void between the worlds in a ship of very advanced design. There is no getting around the fact that you represent a civilization far more powerful than our own. Candidly—for I wish to be entirety honest with you, Keith—you are stronger than we are. You would agree to that?”
“I suppose so.”
“Yes. Exactly. Now, we would like to believe that you have come to us with peaceful intentions. We would like to believe that you have come here to facilitate peaceful commerce between our two civilizations. We are, I may say, willing to make some concessions. However, we would not like to think that your intentions toward us are hostile. We should really be forced to take stern measures if we had reason to doubt your good will. I hope I make myself entirely clear, Keith. We want to be your friends.”
The implied threat was not lost on Keith. He looked up wearily, the stub of a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth. “I have no hostile intentions. I’ve told you that, just as I’ve told about one million senators and policemen. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
The refined mouth of Mr. Walls curved gently into a smile. “We are grown men, Keith. We have larger considerations to think about. It is imperative that we nail this thing down, so to speak. You have been briefed on the political situation that exists on this planet. It is necessary that we establish the relationship between our two civilizations on a firm foundation. Do you understand me?”
“Well—”
“Clearly, there is no alternative.” John William Walls crossed his long legs, being careful not to disturb the razor crease in his trousers. “I think you will agree that we have extended to you every courtesy. The time has now come for you to demonstrate your good will in return. We have indicated to you the proper way to proceed, and our staff is willing and able to give you every assistance. I trust you will not disappoint us.”
Keith wrote earnestly in his notebook. He remembered his instructions. “I’ve told you that I don’t want to cause any trouble,” he said. “We’ll play it your way.”
Mr. Walls beamed, his well-tended face radiating pleasure like shaving lotion. “I knew we would be friends, Keith. I’m proud to have had a small part in the birth of a new era.”
Keith started to say something, but changed his mind. Nervously, he lit a fresh cigarette.
Within a week, photographs of Keith shaking hands with the President appeared in every newspaper in the world. The President looked exceptionally serious, and Keith looked very young, and vaguely troubled. The government played its hand with considerable skill. Keith was kept under wraps while the tension built up, and around the world people wondered and worried and hoped.
This concise editorial appeared in The New York Times:
“A young man has come from nowhere to our planet. He has come in a ship so advanced that it makes our finest aircraft look like the amusing toy of a child. It may be assumed that the civilization which designed and built that ship has also designed and built other ships.
“The emissary they have sent to us appears to be a rather shy, personable young man. He seems well-intentioned, although the evidence on this point leaves much to be desired. We can meet this man on his own terms if we wish, if not as equals, then at least as friends.
“But as we look at this man, so much like ourselves, we cannot but wonder why he was chosen for this task. We know nothing of his world. We know nothing of the people he represents. They may, as he says, wish to be our friends. They may be offering us the greatest opportunity we have ever had.
“We remember the Indians who first lived in our land. The first white men they saw did not frighten them. They thought these men were godlike, and they admired their strange ways and vastly superior technologies. The Indians knew nothing of the white men who were still to come.
“We look today at this young man who has come among us. We look at him and like him and admire the ship in which he came. We would ask of him only one question:
“Are there any more at home like you?”
The editorial was widely quoted, and seemed certain to bring another Pulitzer Prize to The New York Times.
Late in January, Keith lived up to his obligations by addressing the United Nations. There was, of course, tremendous popular interest in his speech, and the television and radio crews turned out in force.
Keith took careful notes all during the elaborate introductory speeches, and seemed genuinely interested in listening to what the assorted delegates had to say. His appearance was still on the haggard side, and he looked anything but eager.
He took his place under the bright lights before the cameras and microphones with reluctance. His hands were trembling. He had to clear his throat several times.
Once he got going, however, his speech was impressive.
“I have come to a New World,” he began in English, pausing to permit accurate translation of his words. “I have come across the greatest sea of them all. I have come not at the head of an armed flotilla, but alone and defenseless. I have come in peace and in friendship, to extend the hand of welcome from one civilization to another.”
There was spontaneous applause from the assembled diplomats.
“It is time,” he went on with greater confidence, “that you put your differences aside and take your rightful place in the family of the worlds. War must be a thing of the past, so that we may all march forward side by side down the long corridors of Destiny. On all the planets of a million suns, there is no stronger might than friendship, no finer aspiration than the harmony of strong men.”
More applause.
He talked for over an hour in the same vein, and finally concluded: “Be proud of your great world, and yet know humility too. I have come to say something good about the human race, and to hold out to you the torch of confidence and faith. Remember my visit well in the years that are to come, and I pray that you are today all my friends, even as I am yours.”
He brought the house down.
Everyone seemed satisfied.
Several days passed before a few people began to wonder about the speech they had heard. What, they asked themselves, had Keith really said, beyond glittering generalities and vague sentiments about friendship?
Most people, having never heard any other kind of speech, continued to accept it as a masterpiece.
Keith was troubled and nervous, and locked himself up in his suite. He worked with almost desperate haste on his notebooks, going over even the most trivial phrase again and again. He refused to see anyone, pleading that he had an urgent report to prepare for his government.
When he did leave, much to the consternation of the Secret Service, he simply disappeared. The last person to see him was a paper boy at a busy intersection. He swore to investigators that Keith had paused at his stand and bought a paper, muttering to himself what sounded like, “God, I just can’t go through with this any longer.”
There the matter rested.
Keith reappeared somewhat furtively several days later on the third floor of the Social Sciences Building of Western University in Los Angeles. He had dyed his hair black, and he walked
quickly down the hall past the Anthropology Museum and stopped at a closed office door. A white card on the door had a name and title typed on it: Dr. George Alan Coles, Professor of Linguistics. He took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in!”
Keith walked inside and shut the door behind him
“Are you Dr. Coles?”
“I have that dubious distinction, yes.” The man behind the desk was slightly built and his rimless glasses were almost hidden behind the fumes from a virulent black cigar. “What can I do for you?”
Keith took the plunge. He had tried to follow his instructions to the letter, but the strain had told on him. There came a time when a man had to act for himself. “Dr. Coles, I’m in terrible trouble.”
Coles lowered the cigar and looked more closely at the young man before him. He arched his rather bushy eyebrows. “Dyed your hair, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know it was that obvious.”
Coles shrugged. “Keith, I’ve seen your picture in my morning paper every day for what seems to be a lifetime. I can’t claim to be any Sherlock Holmes, but I’ve patterned my existence on the assumption that I’m not feeble-minded.”
Keith sank into a chair. “I was going to tell you anyway, sir.”
“Look here, young man.” Coles waved his cigar. “You really can’t stay here. About half a billion people are looking for you, at last count, and if the Board of Regents stumbles over you in my office—”
Keith lit a cigarette and wiped his hands on his trousers. The circles under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, and he was in need of a shave. “Sir, I’m desperate. I’ve come to you as one man to another. You’re my last hope. Won’t you listen to me?”
Coles chewed on his cigar. He took off his rimless glasses and polished them on a Kleenex. “Lock the door,” he said finally. “I’ll hear you out, but I’ll hate myself in the morning.”
A ray of what might have been hope touched Keith’s face. He hurriedly locked the office door.
“Cards on the table now, young man. What the hell is going on here?”
“Believe me, sir, this is all damnably embarrassing.”
“As the actress said to the bishop,” Coles said, knocking off the ash from his cigar.
