Rualf rapped confidently at the cabin door behind which, he had good reason to suspect, the captain was asleep. One extremity of his raised limb held an ornately carved flask; a second extremity clasped matching goblets.
"What is it?" Grelben's voice was groggy and abrupt, as if to disprove the cinematic convention that all ships' captains woke instantly.
"I have good news, Captain." Excellent news. Long-awaited news. "And some vintage k'vath to toast it."
The door swung open. Grelben's posture of annoyance vanished as he noticed the near-legendary label on the bottle. "Come in."
"It has been a long road." Rualf carefully decanted two servings of the foaming green elixir. "Here is to the next road. To the road home, and wealth at our journey's end."
One eye widened in curious suspicion. "You seem to be leaving out a few details."
"May I use your computer?" Receiving a grunt of assent, Rualf continued. "Intercepts file for the American president. Conversation tagged 'almost there.' "
The hologram that leapt into being featured two familiar humans. The office where they met was, as if a parody of Krulchukor perfection, oval in shape. "The President and his chief advisor. Watch."
"This must be held in absolute confidence, Britt," said the President. He sat behind a massive desk, his image clearly captured by an orb. A scrolling ring of text interpreted the facial expression and stance as denoting extreme levels of tension and weariness. Swelk's artificially intelligent translation program continued to learn. "There's something I need done that requires the utmost discretion. You'll get lots of opposition, but I trust you to make it happen anyway."
"Of course, Mr. President."
The President waved one of his freakish upper limbs. The translator called the gesticulation dismissive. "It's just us, Britt, and we've no time for formality."
"Fine, Harold. What is this about?" Curiosity and worry, speculated the text caption.
"Art and history. It's about culture. It's about preserving our heritage."
"I have to say, Harold, this is rather mysterious."
"Watch," interjected Rualf. "I could not have scripted this moment in a million years."
The President swiveled his chair to look out the window behind his desk. The orb lost its direct view—but the leader's strong profile and haunted expression were captured perfectly in reflection on the glass. Behind and through that image could be seen a towering stone obelisk. Robeson's reflected chin trembled. "In a matter of days it all ends, Britt. The somewhat-sane Russians are losing control. The lunatics who are taking over will hit us with everything. We'll defend ourselves. Between us, we'll reduce it all to so much radioactive rubble.
"There must be something left to remember us by. Something to teach the survivors—if nuclear winter doesn't kill everyone—that once we were great."
"Visually, that is just perfect." Rualf pointed into the hologram. "That tall monument, whatever it is. It reaches to the sky like a satiric symbol of the potential these poor ill-fated creatures did not live to fulfill." He savored his use of the past tense, considering the humans' doom already determined.
The presidential aide had recoiled in shock, settled heavily into a chair, then recovered his wits. "What do you want me to do? What can I do?"
"Gather—very discreetly—some of our national treasures: art, archives, artifacts. Have it taken for safekeeping somewhere unlikely to be bombed." The President spun back towards his confidant. The interpretive subtitle announced: great sadness. "But on the remote chance I'm too pessimistic, you must do this behind the scenes. Worse than the panic publicity would cause is the probable interpretation by the Russians. They could misinterpret that we were evacuating our cities in preparation for our own first strike. I don't want to goad them into launching."
Britt rocked in his chair. "There are always museum exhibits on tour between cities; some of those should be easy to waylay. And I've read that much of any museum's collection is not on display, but warehoused or in labs for study. It should be possible to quietly pack up and move some nonpublic parts of collections."
"That sounds excellent." The President's lips briefly curved upward. The translator advised: feigned good cheer. "Maybe a few of the most precious items on permanent exhibit, like the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, can be withdrawn under pretense of doing some restorative work."
"I'll do what I can, Harold."
"I depend on it, Britt."
"Freeze," commanded Rualf. "This is what was missing." To Grelben's puzzled gaze, he added, "It was going to be a good film—but not artistic. Not important. Our audience had no reason yet to really care about the humans. But this . . . this striving against all odds for immortality. How can the audience not love that?"
Grelben grunted. "I leave such matters to you."
As you should. Keeping his self-approval to himself, Rualf struck a dramatic pose. "You know what would be even better?"
"What?"
"An ironic success. Imagine the F'thk rescuing a few human trinkets. I see the humans, as they die, taking comfort that some of their artifacts have been removed from Earth to preserve their memory." Rualf was overcome with the majesty of his artistic vision. "I love it."
In a tumultuous scene, the Krul heroine overcame her aspirations of personal fame. Her family embraced her. Credits rolled. Music swelled. At least Swelk called it music . . . the repertoire of the Krul's translation software did not extend to cross-species harmonic substitutions. Darlene's private description for the film's audio accompaniment was the enthusiastic stirring of a large bag of broken glass. The soprano counterpoint suggested that the mixing was performed with the bare limb of the musician.
Despite the predictability and aural assault, Darlene could not help but smile. In a flash of synergy, or serendipity, or gestalt, or epiphany, or . . . her insight was multicultural and by rights ought to be known by a hundred names. Earth had been plunged into danger to produce a film—and the filmmaker's artistic sensibilities would prove to be his undoing and Earth's salvation. There was a symmetry here that she couldn't get over. God bless these awful movies.
It would have been perfect to share her discovery with Kyle, but he was off helping strategize the upcoming attack on the maser satellites. It felt so good to know she was truly contributing. She could even watch the alien movies now without wincing.
As if reading Darlene's mind, Swelk asked, "What did you think of that show?"
"I enjoyed it," Darlene lied tactfully. Now could she unobtrusively redirect the discussion? She thought she saw an opening by which Swelk could validate her thinking. She wasn't after a sanity check so much as a fine-tuning. "I was taken with the emotional wealth of the final scene. It seems like Rualf likes to end all his films with an intense personal climax like that." Did the translator handle tones of voice? Darlene didn't know, but just in case, she made an extra effort to sound casual. "Am I correct in remembering that we're watching a complete collection of his works?"
"So I was told." Blackie and Stripes dependably fled the vicinity of Krulchukor music. Now that the film was over, the kittens were back. Swelk, sunk deep into a beanbag chair, now devoted an entire limb to each pet. Each kitten was on its back, stomach bared, purring loudly at the massaging of nine digits. "Rualf, unlike his heroine, continues to appreciate attention. I would be very surprised if he omitted any of his films. At the least, these must be the movies of which he is most satisfied. Why?"
"It occurred to me to wonder about the movie Rualf is now making. Worldwide ruin and destruction don't seem to give Rualf the type of ending he always goes for." Darlene strove for nonchalance. "I'm no expert on Krulchukor cinema, but it seems the new film is"—what term had she used with Britt? Oh yes—"dramatically deficient. It lacks personal realization."
"I see." The atonality of the translation implied anything but understanding.
"Here's a crazy thought." Hopefully not. Hopefully this thought was entirely sane. At Darlene's urging, Earth's one shot at surprising the aliens relied on this idea. She forced a casual laugh. "I don't know why I'm even thinking about this. It's not like Earth's interests lie in the structure of Rualf's film. I'm just reacting to watching so many of his past projects.
"Wouldn't the movie be more consistent with Rualf's approach if humans did something altruistic before the end? If, before they perished, they made some noble gesture? If they acted—of course, tragically too late—for the betterment of all?"
"It would indeed. That finale would almost certainly appeal to Rualf. But the artistry of the film is hardly Earth's biggest concern." Swelk paused in her ministering to the kittens. "Or am I wrong? Have circumstances become so dire that you seek immortality in a great film?"
"Hardly," said Darlene. She was feeling pretty smug at the confirmation the little Krul had provided. "My fondest hope is that Rualf never finishes his film."
The secretary backed silently from the Oval Office, leaving a grim President alone with his visitor. Behind that visitor, a galactic orb high on a bookshelf saw all. "Welcome, Ambassador H'ffl. I appreciate you coming on such short notice."
Rualf peered out through the camera lenses of the F'thk robot. "Please, Mr. President, have a seat. I prefer to stand, but there is no reason for you to." A standing robot did not tire, and it had an excellent filming angle. He did not continue until the human retreated to the chair behind his desk. "Now what is this matter of great sensitivity mentioned in the radio message?"
Enigmatic muscular twitches played across the human's face. ("Unhappy and worried," interpreted a text window in Rualf's helmet). "This is a hard matter of which to speak."
"Pardon me, Mr. President, but the tensions between America and Russia seem to be escalating. Human politics are not my field of expertise, but to an outsider the situation looks unpromising. I fear this is not the time for delay. If I can be of service, I hope you will speak plainly." Orbs and intercepted communications showed preparations for war increasing so rapidly, finally, that the H'ffl robot had been delivered in a lifeboat. Rualf had been unwilling to delay meeting with the President until the next scheduled visit to Washington of the Consensus.
The President's face contorted ("grieving," read the interpretation). "Things aren't very promising to an insider, either." He opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it. The sad expression continued.
Did no human ever make things easy? Rualf would have thought the appropriate course of action obvious. Clearly he had been on this awful world too long, if he seriously expected reason from the natives. "I apologize in advance for the suggestion I am about to make. My words will seem to imply a lack of confidence, when perhaps all will work out for the best." The robot tipped its head in mimicry of a human gesture of confidentiality. "What I am considering skirts the limits of my authority." He paused again, hoping the human would make the conceptual leap. The scene would be more dramatic if the human made the proposal—whatever hints Rualf made to get there could be edited out.
"No need to apologize. Some new thinking is very much needed." The President briefly squeezed his eyes shut ("struggling for the proper words"). "Can your people stop our madness? We seem powerless to stop ourselves."
"How? By threatening harm to you or your adversaries? Coercion would not only be wrong, and against everything for which the Galactic Commonwealth stands, but surely also futile. Why would our threat be more of a deterrent than your own evident plans to harm each other?" Rualf zoomed in as the robot spoke, capturing a tight close-up of the President's face. The human leader closed his eyes again in thought and sorrow.
A moment later, those eyes snapped open amid an interplay of facial muscles Rualf could not understand. ("He has reached some decision?" guessed the caption.) "Mr. Ambassador, I believe you can help. Help us in the event of the worst. We could destroy ourselves, destroy our world. If that happens, I would die happier knowing that a small part of what we accomplished will be remembered."
Thank you! These humans at least had some sense. "You have much of which to be proud. I can promise you that even if the worst does happen your story will be remembered." Now, you slow-witted bilat freak, actually make the offer.
"That is good news." ("Increased decisiveness.") There was a dramatic pause—too long a pause, but that would be tweaked in editing. "I want to go a bit further. I would like to send with you a sample of our achievements. Pieces of our art, selections of our finest thought."
Success! Rualf made the robot nod its head in humanlike agreement. "I understand. A sad plan, but perhaps a prudent one. Yes, I would be willing to do this." Playing to the orb he had the robot add, "All will be enthusiastically returned if we are, happily, too pessimistic."
"I wish this fine old house could be saved, or the great monuments of this wonderful city. They can't. Most of our finest treasures are impossible to save." President Robeson studied the room as he spoke, as if trying to memorize it. He straightened in his chair in resolve. "Anything too visible cannot be taken without being noticed. Notice would bring panic. Panic would be misinterpreted by the Russians as a pre-attack evacuation. I will do my duty to defend and avenge America. I will not trigger her obliteration."
Rualf somehow contained his glee for long enough to complete the transaction. A landing by the Consensus could hardly be disguised, and the President insisted there be no big deviation from past routine that could raise Russian suspicions, but still some unique arrangements were necessary. The trusted aide whom the orb had seen assigned to gather America's treasures was now brought in to coordinate the details of a circumspect transfer. This Britt person thankfully had a mind for details—what he now proposed was workable.
The coming scene took shape in Rualf's mind as plans were finalized, and it was a thing of poignant beauty.
Andrew Wheaton chewed on an unlit cigar, debating whether he was going to do this. The scrap of paper in his hand had the unlisted cell-phone number of Kyle Gustafson, information wheedled from the scientist's mother. The Gustafsons, who had welcomed Andrew to their Thanksgiving dinner with open arms, were the salt of the Earth. Andrew was a lot less certain what he thought of their son.
Dirty dishes filled the sink. Crumbs and stains covered the table in front of him. Tina would have been disappointed—she kept the little farmhouse spotless. He choked back a sob. If Tina was here he would not be thinking about this call.
Would Kyle talk with him? The man had been nice, at least. But the cops had been nice too, at first. Then they had laughed behind their hands at the UFO nut. Then they had as much as accused him of killing his own wife, his own son.
Was Kyle Gustafson any different? Andrew had dared to hope so. After he'd shown Kyle the field, people had come to the farm. They took samples from the pasture, did a survey. But then . . . nothing.
Kyle had left a business card with a phone number—but he never answered the phone. Sometimes an assistant, a young-sounding man, picked up. He took messages, even returned calls. The young man was polite, but he knew nothing. "Kyle will call back when he can."
What did he expect, anyway? Tina used to tease Andrew for buying tabloids. The "big" newspapers didn't understand about aliens, only the tabloids did. A tear ran down his cheek. Did Tina understand now? His gut told him that she was gone.
Was there anything he could do? He had thought and thought—and there was something. But that something made sense only if he had abandoned hope. He looked again at the scrap of paper in his hand. At his last hope. He dialed.
"Hello?"
"Dr. Gustafson, this is Andrew Wheaton."
"Hi, Andrew. I didn't know you had this number."
Didn't want me to have it. "I told your mom I had to reach you." When no comment came, Andrew continued. "I need to know what your people found."
"Andrew." There was anguish in the voice. "There's nothing I can tell you. I'm sorry."
His guts felt like someone had reached in and squeezed them. "Nothing to tell? Or nothing you want to tell?"
"I'm sorry," Gustafson repeated. "Sincerely. Andrew, I have to go."
Tina had sewn the blue gingham curtains over the kitchen window. She'd cross-stitched the samplers decorating every wall. Andrew Junior had colored the crayon drawings pinned to the corkboard and magneted over most of the refrigerator door. "I'm sorry, too," he whispered.
The alien devils . . . soon they would be sorry. He would see to it.