(The Senator hearing room falls almost eerily quiet for a moment, as Senators lean back from their microphones to confer with aides. An initial buzz in the spectators’ gallery turns quickly to applause before the Chairman can sound his gavel.)
Senator Tower of Texas:
What if the Russians start to dummy missiles?
Perfect Tommy:
I would answer, Senator, by asking you a question: How do you know they haven’t already? (followed by a pause)
I rest my case.
I was in the gallery that day and, as I told Perfect Tommy later, felt it to be the singular most important piece of testimony given before the Senate committee in my lifetime. Without exaggeration it was Perfect Tommy’s hour, surpassing even that time we found him singing and clapping for himself—both in his sleep; I only regret that our recommendations have not been acted upon.
And inasmuch as I have been speaking my own sentiments on something as altogether wondrous as the Institute, perhaps I should conclude with something applicable to the subject stated by B. Banzai himself, the following delivered by him to a recent graduating class at the Harvard School of Business:
Not only is the business executive naturally uncertain about the future, but, in addition, rumor (i.e., all the news which he obtains from outposts, through spies, or through the grapevine) exaggerates problems on the horizon. The majority of people are timid by nature, and that is why they constantly exaggerate danger. All influences on the executive, therefore, combine to give him a pessimistic impression of things, and from this arises a new source of indecision. Thus, excessive intellection can easily become irrationality, as the executive begins to desire to make the right choice at all costs. To desire to make the correct choice is the beginning of the end for any leader. The successful executive is he who grows accustomed to living dangerously day after day and grows the thick skin of a fatalist. He can drop off to sleep with a gun pointed to his head and can enjoy his dinner while a lynch mob prepares his execution all around him. Those of you who learn to step over this threshold, I congratulate you, for that is what we teach at the Banzai Institute.
“A man should be a man,” Penny said, her cheeks still showing traces of our recent adventure. “That’s what they teach at the Banzai Institute.”
“I’ll tell you what the Banzai Institute is to me, Penny,” I said. “We have a habit at the Institute of debating important questions twice, once over drinks and once sober—over drinks for enthusiasm, and sober for discretion. Some of the finest evenings of my life have been spent drinking in the company of my closest friends and discussing some startling new thought experiment.”
“Such as—?”
She listened with composed intelligence as I mentioned to her a thought experiment put forward recently by Professor Hikita, involving the hypothetical particle, the tachyon, which has the amazing property that it can only travel faster as it loses energy, and slows as it gains energy. It can never go slow enough to reach the speed of light! I asked her what would happen to the tachyons unleashed in the Big Bang that created the universe. She promised to think about it as I got up to stretch my legs despite my doctor’s advice.
“Reno, I don’t think you should be walking around,” New Jersey said.
“I was getting stiff.”
“In that case maybe you should walk around,” he said. “Did you hear what’s going on with Buckaroo?”
I shook my head. “Where is he?”
Excitement swam in New Jersey’s eyes as he gave me the scuttlebutt about Buckaroo’s locator having gone out. “Rawhide and Perfect Tommy got on the radio right away and sent out some kind of call to I don’t know who—”
“Blue Blazes?”
“Yeah. That’s it. What does it mean?”
Apparently the worried look on my face answered him more loudly than could any words. “Where are they?” I said.
“Rawhide and Perfect Tommy? They’re upstairs in World Watch One.”
I communed with Perfect Tommy and Rawhide, though was able to make little of the discourse with them, since they knew as little as I. A Blue Blaze helicopter pilot and son had been dispatched to find Buckaroo, and at the moment were nearing his last known location some seventy-five miles away, but as of yet there was no news. Rawhide was taking longer-than-usual strides in pacing back and forth, and it seemed uncertain whether we should proceed to the Institute.
“Maybe he’s in trouble,” Rawhide was saying.
“What were his last orders?” I asked.
“Don’t say ‘last,’ ” Rawhide retorted, his unfeigned conviction clearly being on the side of turning the bus around.
“You know very well what I mean,” I said.
“He told us to go to the Institute and research Yoyodyne.”
“Then that’s what we should do,” I said. “Knowing Buckaroo, the locator fell out of his pocket.”
(Notice how prescient I am, reader.)
Rawhide continued his dissertation on why we should never have allowed Buckaroo to go off by himself after the “things, whatever the hell they were” from Yoyodyne. This of retrograde aliens from space being an entire other subject deserving greater discussion than we had time for, Tommy and I persuaded Rawhide, technically in command in Buckaroo’s absence, not to undertake any rash moves until we heard something from Casper and his son aboard the chopper. We were aided in this by the sensible counsel of New Jersey, who listened much but said little that was not to the point.
“We have to go on the assumption that even though something strange may be going on, Buckaroo knows what he’s doing,” he said. “Right or wrong?”
We all nodded, though Rawhide with some clear degree of uneasiness which was not lessened when Big Norse suddenly took her phones off and said, “You know something? I’ve been picking up communications of some kind the last half hour—a mechanical signal, like a beacon.”
Rawhide, fingers in belt loops, looked at her impatiently. “So?” he said. “You mean his locator.”
“No, I don’t mean his locator, Rawhide. Another signal, emanating from almost the same spot, however—only this one has just been answered.” Again he stared at her, waiting for her to go further. “It’s been answered by that same high-energy source that has been tracking us.”
“Outer space?” I said.
She nodded, and no one uttered a word, as we all felt the same chilling presentiment: that our chief and Professor Hikita might even at that very instant be circling the Earth, or worse.
“How far to the Institute?” Perfect Tommy finally said.
“About twenty minutes,” she replied.
“Then let’s stick to our plan,” he said. “Big Norse, radio ahead to Billy and tell him we’re coming in and we want to see everything he can dig up on Yoyodyne.”
“I think he’s still working on Penny Priddy,” Rawhide said.
“This is more important,” Tommy said. “Anyway, Reno’s probing Penny on his own. Isn’t that right, Reno?”
At a less-tormented time, I might have laughed in the spirit in which his remark was intended, but at this juncture I thought it humorless and told him so. With New Jersey at my side pestering me with questions about this or that, wanting to be brought up to date on the space signal monitoring us, and on everything we knew or didn’t know about it, I returned downstairs to my seat beside Penny.
“Everything all right?” she said. I said of course it was. “You look depressed.” Now it was she who was pestering me.
“I’ve been shot,” I said. “Weren’t you there?”
“Is it Buckaroo?”
In three seconds I had told her everything, and she tried to be reassuring, although I was not deceived by false appearance. Fetching a sigh from the bottom of her heart, she sought to cover her apprehension by mentioning Professor Hikita’s thought-experiment.
“I may have something,” she said. “Listen to this. See if it makes any sense.”
20
Following t
heir dismal discovery that not only had they allowed Buckaroo Banzai to be snatched to safety from under their very noses but that Professor Hikita had also escaped, the three Lectroids turned their fury on the Adder Thermopod and the helpless remaining crewman inside.
From information provided by the Nova Police, we now know his name to have been John Gant, the pilot and commander of the three-Adder craft. As the angry Lectroids first chopped down the tree and then attacked the pod itself with the chain saw, Gant signaled the father ship (still several hundred thousand miles from Earth at this point) to let them know of the mission’s status.
“John Valuk is dead,” he said. “He fell on his head. Perhaps John Parker will get through to Buckaroo Banzai. As for me, my most profuse apologies to my homeland and loved ones for my failure.”
Aboard the father ship, the Adder fleet commander John Penworthy listened along with his Number One as Gant’s message from the thermopod abruptly ceased, to be quickly replaced by Lectroid insults and obscenities.
“John Gant and John Valuk—both dead,” said the Number One. “Perhaps we should launch another Thermopod immediately. What if John Parker is also dead?”
John Penworthy examined the situation, turning off his receiver sadly. “I’m afraid there is no time,” he said. “We have our orders from Queen John Emdall.”
21
“Imagine the Big Bang, Penny was telling me, as we turned off the highway onto the serpentine tree-canopied road leading to the Institute. “The tachyons traveled outward, speeding through space faster than light and losing energy as the universe expands. Remember, tachyons go faster as they lose energy.” I nodded, quite dispassionate in what she was saying. “But there comes a time,” she said, “when they are going so fast, at what is for all intents and purposes an infinite speed, that they reach a minimum energy state, like a normal particle at rest. They can’t speed up, and yet the universe is still expanding, so that our little tachyon begins to move backward in time, ending up eventually back where it started, at the origin of the universe, but a long way off! What do you think of that?”
Very serious and determined. I said, “Tell me what the tachyon sees on its way back.”
“Who knows,” she said, “but it must be amusing. It would see all things reversed in time, like watching a movie backwards. It would see dead men rise from the grave, for instance.”
“Amazing,” I said. “I guess nothing is truly impossible. The dead could rise from the grave under the right circumstances.”
I don’t know if what I said struck her in any significant way; she did not strive to avert my glance. She said merely, “It is that way with everything. Nothing stays, nothing passes that does not return. It all depends on one’s perspective because of the interconnection of time with light.”
“Yes, I suppose.” I sighed, quite relieved, to be honest, that our little ride together was coming to an end—not that I had not enjoyed her company, but I didn’t want to think about her anymore. Despite her best efforts and scintillating intelligence, I still could not get over the feeling in her presence that I was communing somehow with the dead.
Thus, odd as it may sound, I found myself looking forward to the rest of the adventure that was afoot. Whatever it was descending upon us, space beings with three heads or a virus from Mars, I longed for the simplicity of the contest, ourselves against whomever. Thinking of Penny now, I was tired of problems with subtle forms.
Meanwhile, the bus came down the hill toward the Institute, and I could see her gate already, that orifice which had offered me and countless others gentle sanctuary. A small crowd of tourists, music fans, and paparazzi had gathered there as usual—a recurrent difficulty we were powerless to stop—and upon seeing our bus, they became rather riotous. I confess at times to being exasperated by many people’s want of pride when it comes to public behavior, especially when they become possessed of the notion of being in the presence of the so-called “famous.” Their unchivalrous behavior does everyone, most of all themselves, a great unfairness.
“What do they want?” Penny asked, referring to the somewhat minatory faces at our windows with their cameras and children hoisted high to glimpse us better.
“They want to see us, Penny. Wave to them.”
“Me?”
I nodded. “Some of them have driven a thousand miles.”
She gamely moved her hand to the glass with a certain awkwardness, genuinely astonished at the excitant effect she had upon the curious, as the gate finally opened and Pinky Carruthers emerged on horseback to shoo back the crowd. Then just as we were through the gate, I heard a giant whoop of delight from Tommy as he practically stumbled down the stairs.
“Buckaroo’s all right!” he shouted. “He’s on a helicopter, and he’ll be here any minute!”
That was great news. I turned to Penny, expecting her to say something, but all she could say was, “I feel like I know this place already.”
“Perhaps you came through on one of the tours.”
“No,” she said at length. “I must have just read about it.”
“What an awful feeling,” I said, “to feel you’ve been somewhere before and not be able to explain it.”
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s a feeling I’ve had all my life, as if I were living in the pages of someone else’s life story.”
“Perhaps you should write your own,” I offered.
“I’d like to—” She smiled rather painfully. “—But nothing has happened yet.”
“Well, that’s all about to change,” I said. “A lot happens at the Institute.”
Mrs. Johnson met us at the door and, knowing nothing about Penny, nearly collapsed. “Peggy—!” she gasped.
Rawhide caught her. “No, Mrs. Johnson, it’s not Peggy,” he said. “But there’s no time to explain.”
Mrs. Johnson, her thoughts doubtless alighting on that night of the historic seance when she had herself masqueraded as the dead Peggy returned from the grave, attempted to recollect her wits. “Of course not,” she said. “How could she be Peggy?”
“The name’s Penny,” Penny said, extending a hand of friendship. “Penny Priddy, Mrs. Johnson.”
“How do you know me?” retorted Mrs. Johnson, still not quite recovered from her initial shock.
“Rawhide called you Mrs. Johnson,” Penny said.
“Oh, yes. Sorry if I—it’s just that the past conditions one,” Mrs. Johnson said.
“Yes, I know,” Penny said. “So it is with our mistakes.”
A thorough good sport, Mrs. Johnson smiled and took Penny’s hand, at the same time looking askance at Rawhide as if to say “What do I do with her now?”
“She’ll be staying with us a while,” Rawhide said. “At least until Buckaroo gets back.”
I thought the thrust of Rawhide’s last remark unkind and uncalled for, but now was not the time to debate the point. Perfect Tommy and New Jersey had already headed up the stairs to the computer room, and now it was our turn to follow. I nudged him, and we went, leaving the women to their own devices.
“Come on, I’ll show you around,” Mrs. Johnson said to our mysterious guest. “It’s quite a place, especially for a woman.”
“Yes, I know,” said Penny. “I mean, I can tell it is.”
A half-glimpsed grin escaped Billy’s lips. Eighteen years old, our resident computer whiz, he had already established for himself a legendary reputation among fellow hackers when he showed up at the Banzai Institute unannounced one day and presented his credentials: a mountain of super secret data culled by him and his Atari 800 personal computer from electronic data-processing (EDP) facilities of the Pentagon, the National Security Administration, and the CIA, among others. According to him, and I have no reason to doubt it, the NSA at one point offered him a job at the age of fourteen. He was, as one might expect, not the modest and withdrawn type, and quickly finagled his way into our compound, where he has been ever since, usually in the computer room, creating new computer simulations
for all sorts of things, based on the theory of games pioneered by the Institute.
His old hacking instincts had never really left him, however, and when Rawhide and I arrived on the scene, he had already accessed the Yoyodyne EDP bank.
“A piece of cake.” He smiled. “But it’s pretty strange.”
Perfect Tommy and New Jersey were already studying the hard copy of the material Billy had provided them—personnel files, financial reports, the usual corporate records—when Tommy was heard to mutter animatedly: “Holy cow, look at this!”
“What is it?” I said.
“Billy, could you put page two of the personnel file up on the viewer?”Tommy said.
Billy nodded. “Coming right up.”
“This is incredible,” said Tommy, and in a moment we saw what he meant: a list of names of its employees, a hundred or more, all with the first name “John” and beside the names their social security numbers.
“All with the same first name,” New Jersey said, articulating the immediate first impression of us all. “Not a single woman.”
“Unless she’s named John,” Rawhide said.
“There must be another page,” I said.
The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Page 14