Time is the Fire

by Connie Willis

  “In which case we need to go back to the lab and find out exactly what it was they heard,” I said, my heart sinking. Dr. Morthman was likely to have me arrested.

  Apparently Calvin had reached the same conclusion, because he said, “We can’t go back in there. It’s too risky, and we’ve got to find the Altairi before Reverend Thresher does. There’s no telling what he’ll play them next.”

  “But how—?”

  “If they did go astray, then they may still be in the area. You go get your car and check the streets north of the campus, and I’ll do south. Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Yes, but I don’t have a car. Mine’s at your apartment. We came over in yours, remember?”

  “What about the van you use to take the Altairi places in?”

  “But won’t that be awfully noticeable?”

  “They’re looking for six aliens on foot, not in a van,” he said, “and besides, if you find them, you’ll need something to put them in.”

  “You’re right,” I said and took off for the faculty parking lot, hoping Dr. Morthman hadn’t had the same idea.

  He hadn’t. The parking lot was deserted. I slid the van’s back door open, half-hoping this was the Altairi’s idea of astray, but they weren’t inside, or on any of the streets for an area two miles north of DU. I drove up University Boulevard and then slowly up and down the side streets, terrified I’d find them squished on the pavement.

  It was already dark. I called Calvin. “No sign of them,” I told him. “Maybe they went back to the mall. I’m going to go over there and—”

  “No, don’t do that,” he said. “Dr. Morthman and the FBI are there. I’m watching it on CNN. They’re searching Victoria’s Secret. Besides, the Altairi aren’t there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they’re here at my apartment.”

  “They are?” I said, weak with relief. “Where did you find them?”

  He didn’t answer me. “Don’t take any major streets on your way over here,” he said. “And park in the alley.”

  “Why? What have they done?” I asked, but he’d already hung up.

  The Altairi were standing in the middle of Calvin’s living room when I got there. “I came back here to check on alternate lyrics for ‘God Rest Ye’ and found them waiting for me,” Calvin explained. “Did you park in the alley?”

  “Yes, at the other end of the block. What have they done?” I repeated, almost afraid to ask.

  “Nothing. At least nothing that’s been on CNN,” he said, gesturing at the TV, which was showing the police searching the candle store. He had the sound turned down, but across the bottom of the screen was the logo “Aliens AWOL.”

  “Then why all the secrecy?”

  “Because we can’t afford to let them find the Altairi till we’ve figured out why they’re doing what they’re doing. Next time it might not be as harmless as going astray. And we can’t go to your apartment. They know where you live. We’re going to have to hole up here. Did you tell anybody you were working with me?”

  I tried to think. I’d attempted to tell Dr. Morthman about Calvin when I got back from the mall, but I hadn’t gotten far enough to tell him Calvin’s name, and when Reverend Thresher had demanded, “Who are you?” all I’d said was, “He’s with me.”

  “I didn’t tell anybody your name,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure nobody saw the Altairi coming here.”

  “But how can you be sure? Your neighbors—”

  “Because the Altairi were waiting for me inside,” he said. “Right where they are now. So either they can pick locks, walk through walls, or teleport. My money’s on teleportation. And it’s obvious the commission doesn’t have any idea where they are,” he said, pointing at the TV, where a mugshot-like photo of the Altairi was displayed, with “Have you seen these aliens?” and a phone number to call across their midsections. “And luckily, I went to the grocery store and stocked up the other day so I wouldn’t have to go shopping in between all my concerts.”

  “Your concerts! And the All-City Sing! I forgot all about them,” I said, stricken with guilt. “Weren’t you supposed to have a rehearsal tonight?”

  “I canceled it,” he said, “and I can cancel the one tomorrow morning if I have to. The Sing’s not till tomorrow night. We’ve got plenty of time to figure this out.”

  If they don’t find us first, I thought, looking at the TV, where they were searching the food court. Eventually, when they couldn’t find the Altairi anywhere, they’d realize I was missing, too, and start looking for us. And the reporters today, unlike Leo, had all been videotaping. If they put Calvin’s picture on TV with a number to call, one of his church choir members or his seventh-graders would be certain to call in and identify him.

  Which meant we’d better work fast. I picked up the list of songs and actions we’d compiled. “Where do you want to start?” I asked Calvin, who was starting through a stack of LPs.

  “Not with ‘Frosty the Snowman,’” he said. “I don’t think I can stand any chasing here and there.”

  “How about, ‘I Wonder as I Wander’?”

  “Very funny,” he said. “Since we know they respond to ‘kneeling,’ why don’t we start with that?”

  “Okay.” We played them “fall on your knees” and “come adore on bended knee” and “whose forms are bending low,” some of which they responded to and some of which they didn’t, for no reason we could see.

  “‘The First Noel’ has ‘full reverently upon their knee’ in it,” I said, and Calvin started toward the bedroom to look for it.

  He stopped as he passed in front of the TV. “I think you’d better come look at this,” he said, and turned it up.

  “The Altairi were not at the mall, as we had hoped,” Dr. Morthman was saying, “and it has just come to our attention that a member of our commission is also missing, Margaret Yates.” Video of the scene at the lab came on behind Dr. Morthman and the reporter, with me shouting for him to shut the music off. Any second a picture of Calvin would appear, demanding to know which carol they were playing.

  I grabbed up my phone and called Dr. Morthman, hoping against hope they couldn’t trace cellphone calls and that he’d answer even though he was on TV.

  He did, and the camera blessedly zoomed in on him so only a tiny piece of the video remained visible. “Where are you calling from?” he demanded. “Did you find the Altairi?”

  “No,” I said, “but I think I have an idea where they might be.”

  “Where?” Dr. Morthman said.

  “I don’t think they’ve gone astray. I think they may be responding to one of the other words in the song. ‘Rest’ or possibly—”

  “I knew it,” Reverend Thresher said, shoving in front of Dr. Morthman. “They were responding to the words ‘Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day.’ They’ve gone to church. They’re at the One True Way right this minute.”

  It wasn’t what I had in mind, but at least a photo of the One True Way Maxichurch was better than one of Calvin. “That should give us at least two hours. His church is way down in Colorado Springs,” I said, turning the TV back down, and went back to playing songs to the Altairi and logging their responses and non-responses, but half an hour later, when Calvin went into the bedroom to try to find a Louis Armstrong CD, he stopped in front of the TV again and frowned.

  “What happened?” I said, dumping the pile of sheet music on my lap on the couch beside me and sidling past the Altairi to get to him. “Didn’t they take the bait?”

  “Oh, they took it, all right,” he said and turned up the TV.

  “We believe the Altairi are in Bethlehem,” Dr. Morthman was saying. He was standing in front of a departures board at DIA.

  “Bethlehem?” I said.

  “It’s mentioned in the lyrics twice,” Calvin said. “At least if they’re off in Israel it gives us more time.”

  “It also gives us an internation
al incident,” I said. “In the Middle East, no less. I’ve got to call Dr. Morthman.” But he must have turned his cell phone off, and I couldn’t get through to the lab.

  “You could call Reverend Thresher,” Calvin said, pointing to the TV screen.

  Reverend Thresher was surrounded by reporters as he got into his Lexus. “I’m on my way to the Altairi right now, and tonight we will hold a Praise Worship Service, and you’ll be able to hear their Christian witness and the Christmas carols that first brought them to the Lord—”

  Calvin switched the TV off. “It’s a sixteen-hour flight to Bethlehem,” he said encouragingly. “It surely won’t take us that long to figure this out.”

  The phone rang. Calvin shot me a glance and then picked it up. “Hello, Mr. Steinberg,” he said. “Didn’t you get my message? I canceled tonight’s rehearsal.” He listened awhile. “If you’re worried about your entrance on page twelve, we’ll run over it before the Sing.” He listened some more. “It’ll all come together. It always does.”

  I hoped that would be true of our solving the puzzle of the Altairi. If it wasn’t, we’d be charged with kidnapping. Or starting a religious war. But both were better than letting Reverend Thresher play them “slowly dying” and “thorns infest the ground.” Which meant we’d better figure out what the Altairi were responding to, and fast. We played them Dolly Parton and Manhattan Transfer and the Barbershop Choir of Toledo and Dean Martin.

  Which was a bad idea. I’d had almost no sleep the last two days, and I found myself nodding off after the first few bars. I sat up straight and tried to concentrate on the Altairi, but it was no use. The next thing I knew, my head was on Calvin’s shoulder, and he was saying, “Meg? Meg? Do the Altairi sleep?”

  “Sleep?” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry, I must have dozed off. What time is it?”

  “A little after four.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes. Do the Altairi sleep?”

  “Yes, at least we think so. Their brain patterns alter, and they don’t respond to stimuli, but then again, they never respond.”

  “Are there visible signs that they’re asleep? Do they close their eyes or lie down?”

  “No, they sort of droop over, like flowers that haven’t been watered. And their glares diminish a little. Why?”

  “I have something I want to try. Go back to sleep.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said, suppressing a yawn. “If anybody needs to sleep, it’s you. I’ve kept you up the last two nights, and you’ve got to direct your Sing thing tonight. I’ll take over and you go—”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine. I told you, I never get any sleep this time of year.”

  “So what’s this idea you want to try?”

  “I want to play them the first verse of ‘Silent Night.’”

  “‘Sleep in heavenly peace,’” I said.

  “Right, and no other action verbs and I’ve got at least fifty versions of it. Johnny Cash, Kate Smith, Britney Spears—”

  “Do we have time to play them fifty different versions?” I asked, looking over at the TV. A split screen showed a map of Israel and the outside of the One True Way Maxichurch. When I turned the volume up, a reporter’s voice said, “Inside, thousands of members are awaiting the appearance of the Altairi, whom Reverend Thresher expects at any minute. A twenty-four-hour High-Powered Prayer Vigil—”

  I turned it back down. “I guess we do. You were saying?”

  “‘Silent Night’ is a song everybody—Gene Autry, Madonna, Burl Ives—has recorded. Different voices, different accompaniments, different keys. We can see which versions they respond to—”

  “And which ones they don’t,” I said, “and that may give us a clue to what they’re responding to.”

  “Exactly,” he said, opening a CD case. He stuck it in the player and hit Track 4. “Here goes.”

  The voice of Elvis Presley singing “‘Silent night, holy night’” filled the room. Calvin came back over to the couch and sat down next to me. When Elvis got to “‘tender and mild,’” we both leaned forward expectantly, watching the Altairi. “‘Sleep in heavenly peace,’” Elvis crooned, but the Altairi were still stiffly upright. They remained that way through the repeated “‘sleep in heavenly peace.’” And through Alvin the Chipmunk’s solo of it. And Celine Dion’s.

  “Their glares don’t appear to be diminishing,” Calvin said. “If anything, they seem to be getting worse.”

  They were. “You’d better play them Judy Garland,” I said.

  He did, and Dolly Parton and Harry Belafonte. “What if they don’t respond to any of them?” I asked.

  “Then we try something else. I’ve also got twenty-six versions of ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’” He grinned at me. “I’m kidding. I do, however, have nine different versions of ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’”

  “For use on redheaded second sopranos?”

  “No,” he said. “Shh, I love this version. Nat King Cole.”

  I shh-ed and listened, wondering how the Altairi could resist falling asleep. Nat King Cole’s voice was even more relaxing than Dean Martin’s. I leaned back against the couch. “‘All is calm . . .’”

  I must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing I knew, the music had stopped and it was daylight outside. I looked at my watch. It said two P.M. The Altairi were standing in the exact same spot they’d been in before, glaring, and Calvin was sitting hunched forward on a kitchen chair, his chin in his hand, watching them and looking worried.

  “Did something happen?” I glanced over at the TV. Reverend Thresher was talking. The logo read “Thresher Launches Galaxywide Christian Crusade.” At least it didn’t say “Air Strikes in Middle East.”

  Calvin was slowly shaking his head.

  “Wasn’t there any response to ‘Silent Night’?” I asked.

  “No, there was,” he said. “You responded to the version by Nat King Cole.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. I meant the Altairi. They didn’t respond to any of the ‘Silent Nights’?”

  “No, they responded,” he said, “but just to one version.”

  “But that’s good, isn’t it?” I asked. “Now we can analyze what it was that was different about it that they were responding to. Which version was it?”

  Instead of answering, he walked over to the CD player and hit play. A loud chorus of nasal female voices began belting out, “Silent night, holy night,” shouting to be heard over a cacophony of clinks and clacks. “What is that?” I asked.

  “The Broadway chorus of the musical 42nd Street singing and tap-dancing to ‘Silent Night.’ They recorded it for a special Broadway Christmas charity project.”

  I looked over at the Altairi, thinking maybe Calvin was wrong and they hadn’t really fallen asleep, but in spite of the din, they had sagged limply over, their heads nearly touching the ground, looking almost peaceful. Their glares had faded from full-bore Aunt Judith to only mildly disapproving.

  I listened to the 42nd Street chorines tapping and belting out “Silent Night” at the top of their lungs some more. “It is kind of appealing,” I said, “especially the part where they shout out ‘Mother and child!’”

  “I know,” he said. “I’d like it played at our wedding. And obviously the Altairi share our good taste. But aside from that, I’m not sure what it tells us.”

  “That the Altairi like show tunes?” I suggested.

  “God forbid. Think what Reverend Thresher would do with that,” he said. “Besides, they didn’t respond to ‘Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat.’”

  “No, but they did to that song from Mame.”

  “And to the one from 1776 but not to The Music Man or Rent,” he said frustratedly. “Which puts us right back where we started. I have no clue what they’re responding to!”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I should never have gotten you involved in this. You have your ACHES thing to direct.”
/>   “It doesn’t start till seven,” he said, rummaging through a stack of LPs, “which means we’ve got another four hours to work. If we could just find another ‘Silent Night’ they’ll respond to, we might be able to figure out what in God’s name they’re doing. What the hell happened to that Star Wars Christmas album?”

  “Stop,” I said. “This is ridiculous.” I took the albums out of his hands. “You’re exhausted, and you’ve got a big job to do. You can’t direct all those people on no sleep. This can wait.”

  “But—”

  “People think better after a nap,” I said firmly. “You’ll wake up, and the solution will be perfectly obvious.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Then you’ll go direct your choirs, and—”

  “Choirs,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Or All-City Sing or Aches and Pains or whatever you call it, and I’ll stay here and play the Altairi some more ‘Silent Nights’ till you get back and—”

  “‘Sit Down, John’ was sung by the chorus,” he said, looking past me at the drooping Altairi. “And so was ‘While Shepherds Watched.’ And the 42nd Street ‘Silent Night’ was the only one that wasn’t a solo.” He grabbed my shoulders. “They’re all choruses. That’s why they didn’t respond to Julie Andrews singing ‘Rise Up, Shepherd, and Follow,’ or to Stubby Kaye singing ‘Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat.’ They only respond to groups of voices.”

  I shook my head. “You forgot ‘Awake, Awake, Ye Drowsy Souls.’”

  “Oh,” he said, his face falling, “you’re right. Wait!” He lunged for the Julie Andrews CD and stuck it in the recorder. “I think Julie Andrews sings the verse and then a chorus comes in. Listen.”

  He was right. The chorus had sung “Awake, awake.”

  “Who sang the ‘Joy to the World’ you played them on the CD from the mall?” Calvin asked.

  “Just Julie Andrews,” I said. “And Brenda Lee sang ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.’”