“Perhaps,” Jones interrupted, “we might focus on relevant matters.”
“Sure. Sorry.” Which I wasn't. Test results were in: The agents weren't here on a general fishing expedition. “But why ask about my little adventure? By now, the story's grown a beard, and God knows, there's been enough info about it on the newswebs.”
Jones's frown was a microscopic lip-tightening, but it was nice to see that his expression could change. “Some unreported fact pertinent to today's incident might emerge. Doctor, this will proceed more rapidly if you simply answer our questions. How did you wind up on this Parent Ship?”
I shrugged. “Tsf explorers had rescued three, um, spaceship-wrecked sentients, all from different alien species that even Traders had never heard of. All seemingly insane. Since we humans have apparently developed a rep among Traders for being the galaxy's worst neurotics, Tsf leaders figured that a terrestrial shrink might—”
“That wasn't my focus, Doctor. Why you in particular? “
“Oh. I worked for NASA from 2020 to 2024, evaluating prospective astronauts. So when the UN passed the Tsf request to NASA, I'd already been vetted. Plus, not that many psychiatrists are fit enough to handle a space launch. Or survive the heavy gravity on a Tsf spaceship.” Or manage two push-ups.
“You had no prior relationship with Traders?”
“None. I had a lot to learn. But I figured from the start that the mission was absurd.”
Jones's micro-frown had evaporated. “Then why did you accept it?”
“You don't get such opportunities every lifetime.”
I'd fed him an answer with all complexities strained out. Aside from the unique opportunity and enough government pressure to squeeze carrot juice from apples, I'd taken the job for the glory of being the first human to visit a Parent Ship, and because I'd been afraid that some other shrink might actually dream they were qualified to evaluate aliens.
He nodded. “Now, on to your time on that Parent Ship.”
I walked them through at a gallop, briefly describing my three patients and confessing that I hadn't had to flex any psychiatric muscles whatsoever to effect my three cures since none of the supposed psychotics, as far as I knew, had psychological issues. Their problems were more down to earth, so to speak. I also admitted that my unearned triple victory resulted from a glut of luck plus assistance from a military-spec “brain” hooked up to my Data Management implant.
“And the Traders paid you in technology,” Jones said, “with the promise of more to come?”
So he knew. That shouldn't have surprised me although, during my debriefing, I'd asked NASA to withhold certain details because I'd had a hunch there is such a thing as too much publicity and that I'd be inundated just from having been in a Parent Ship.
I've never been more right. In fact, Pastor, if you want the remainder of my overextended minutes of fame, I'll be delighted to hand them over. What technology? Sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up. I'd prefer not to burden you with . . . irrelevant secrets.
Anyway, Jones's face could've been carved in onyx as he waited for my response, but I sensed strain beneath the mask.
“They claimed the technology was a bonus for my success. But I suspect it was mostly to, um, lubricate my way to accepting my current job.”
“What did they propose, exactly?”
“To set up a clinic with various controllable environments near my home, staff it, and bring me the most interesting patients the Tsf found in their galactic travels. They said I'd be welcome to treat my human patients on site if I wished.”
“Any more specifics?”
I couldn't help feeling defensive. “None. Honestly, the plan sounded wonderful at the time.”
“What did they hope to gain from this arrangement?”
“My invaluable services as a trading asset.”
“You said their offer sounded wonderful.”
I explained. Flushed with triumph, giddy from one of my best days ever, and blinded by opportunity, I'd accepted without pinning the Traders down as to details. I failed to ask what kind of “staff” they had in mind, just how close to my home the clinic would be located, how I'd pay my new employees or shelter them or feed them, and whether I'd be responsible for property taxes or rent on the new building. All of which proved that my three triumphs weren't the result of my own brainpower.
“Tsf are honest,” I said with as little grump as I could manage, “but when you deal with them, it's up to you to explore and fully understand all conditions of a trade. If you don't, you're stuck because they'd just as soon dismiss verbal contracts the way Crusaders would've thrown away the Holy Grail.”
“How did it play out?”
Like a good concerto on a bad piano, which I didn't admit. “Could've been worse. My new employers assumed construction costs, taxes, wages, and my staff's nutritional requirements, and put me on a nice monthly retainer. But they also used the Feds to do an end run around my community's zoning and building laws, placing the clinic a mere four blocks away from Chez Morganson, and erecting it in two days with a really alien construction technique.”
Jones's eyes flicked toward Smith, then back. “Describe this technique. We understand the clinic appeared to build itself.”
“Right. The Vapabondi, a species that trades with Traders, developed the technique. My security officer's a Vapabond.”
A sore point. Given a chance to interview Tad first, I wouldn't have hired her to walk my gerbil, but she came to me as part of a trade agreement, and that was that. I shouldn't complain too loudly; my employers did better in choosing the rest of my staff, and they'd even followed my request to only sign up beings who could absorb human languages the way my fat cells absorb ice cream—didn't want my new associates dependent on artificial translators.
“Go on,” Jones demanded.
“Vapabondi build things by using ‘macramites,’ a word coined by my receptionist combining ‘mites’ with ‘macrame.'” Macramites are semi-organic crablike, flea-sized machines. They communicate with each other and with their programmers with microwaves and can reproduce faster than gossip. The weird part is that their main building material is themselves. My clinic, including floors, walls, ceilings, doors, plumbing, even the wiring is almost entirely interlocked macramites, self-assembled. Even what looks like glass is specially bred macramites. The whole thing went up in two days, and it's not a small structure.”
I could almost hear a four-part AHA! echo in the room. “Could enough of these machines,” Jones asked in an elaborately casual voice, “detach from the building to carry an object of any substantial size?”
“Maybe. What do you mean by substantial?”
He ignored the question. “Could they . . . camouflage such an object while transporting it?”
I shook my head in bafflement. “Doubt it. I don't think they can change color.”
I glanced over at Smith, who'd sighed almost loudly enough to hear with both ears, but she'd resumed playing portraitist. The excitement level sank, replaced by an equally palpable disappointment.
Jones's non-expression didn't budge. “Since your clinic is so close, why didn't you walk to work today?”
“You're thinking I'm lazy and anti-green? You're only right about the lazy part. I had to go straight from the clinic to my son's school to pick him up on time. Really. Once, I was five minutes late and his second-grade teacher gave me a look to make Hitler blush with shame.”
No one chuckled at my wit.
“I understand the clinic has generated some local resentment?”
“That's beneath an understatement.”
He rubbed his botoxed chin, probably making sure it was still attached. “Tell us why.”
I studied his face for a moment, which wasted that moment. “Partly it's because hundreds of curious souls drive s-l-o-w-l-y past the place daily, creating perpetual traffic snarls. Then there are the—pardon the unprofessional expression—crazies that show up. What I think clinches the deal, th
ough, is that for some reason, folks dislike the idea of insane and potentially murderous aliens leaping or flying or burrowing . . . or oozing into their backyards.”
“Are you aware of any contact between your neighbors and extraterrestrials other than those on your staff?”
“Good heavens, no! And almost none with my staff. What are you getting at?”
Smith tapped lightly on the dining table. Jones didn't look at her but sat a bit straighter.
“Does any ET at the clinic have access to any form of teleportation?”
“Not as far as I know. Your questions keep getting stranger.”
“Getting back to the patients you helped on the Parent Ship, tell us more about the first one.”
“As I said, it looked like a cross between—”
“Excuse me, Doctor. You mentioned that it could dematerialize enough to move through walls. Do you believe it was capable of manipulating solid objects in its dematerialized state?”
Stranger and stranger. “If by ‘manipulating’ you mean pick them up, I don't see how.”
“Hmm. Then can you add anything concerning your third patient?” The three observing agents leaned forward a millimeter or so.
I let my puzzled expression speak for itself. “Not really. It was practically flat when I was trying to diagnose its problem, and I never saw it, um, reinflated.”
“Your report suggests that this patient may have come from another galaxy.” My therapist ear detected a new eagerness beneath the smooth surface of his voice.
“That's what the Traders deduced. Since the creature's recovery they've confirmed the theory, and also confirmed their suspicion that like themselves, that patient's species engages in trading on a colossal scale.”
“Possible competition?”
I tilted a hand back and forth. “Also possible collaboration. I think the Tsf's main purpose in bringing me to the Parent Ship was all about that patient. Last I heard, they'd made progress in communicating with it and had even gotten its name and the name of its species, the Hoouk. At least, that's how I pronounce it. The Traders are hopping with excitement about—”
“Did you ever see any indications that this Hoouk, like your first patient, possessed . . . unusual abilities?”
A chill brushed my spine as my subconscious caught on ahead of me. “Remember, I never even saw it after—wait!" Funny, how one hint following an entire parade of them could transform confusion into clarity. “You think the Hoouk might be playing dirty to spoil Trader operations on Earth?”
Jones said nothing but didn't deny it.
I shook my head. “Forget it. If the Hoouk operate on a scale only half as large as Traders, my little business would still be far beneath their notice. What would make you even look in that direction?”
Jones eyed Smith and got a distinct nod.
“Are you aware,” he asked, “that your clinic is under twenty-four hour government surveillance?”
I hadn't been, but it made sense; the authorities would want to stay alert for unfortunate interspecies incidents. But the presence of a video feed offered me a blazing ray of hope. “So! You've got videos of the bomber?”
Jones made the quietest snort in the history of snorts. “That's the problem. As far as our analysts can determine, no one approached your vehicle from the moment it was parked until you set off the explosive with your key-button. Therefore we must consider extraterrestrial activity.”
I stared at him. “Couldn't the explosive have been planted earlier? Or maybe the key-signal wasn't the trigger and someone detonated the bomb remotely.”
“Our colleagues,” he gave the two FBI agents a nod, “and the police are exploring those possibilities. However, investigators found metallic traces suggesting that your car's locking mechanism was wired, yet no evidence a timer was involved to explain your earlier successful drive to the clinic. Also, we doubt the explosion's location was random.”
Now I was the one frowning, nothing subtle about it.
The questioning resumed, but since the cat had already exited the bag and I had nothing useful to add, the interview soon fizzled out. The session ended on a sour note: Smith finally spoke, cautioning everyone to say nothing to the police about any possible ET involvement. She didn't ask nicely.
We left to join the party in my living room, and Sunny displayed her usual elegance and courtesy though I could tell she was shaken. Suddenly, phone calls started flooding in, so many we had to let our DMs handle triage and only responded to the most pressing. My insurance agent wasn't pleased.
* * * *
A police cruiser crouched outside my house that night as my family tried to sleep. My mind refused to shut up, even for a second, and I knew that Sunny was also keeping vigil. When we got up in the morning, the cruiser had apparently reproduced because now there were three. One of them drove me to work, and its two taciturn inhabitants, Officers Phillips and Braun, accompanied me to the front door, where Bradley S. Pearson, my dear neighbor, was lurking with some papers under one arm and a tired-looking policewoman at his side. I could feel my blood pressure soar. Never met Brad? Count your blessings.
Thanks mostly to this one man, I've suffered through four rough meetings with the town council and some exciting times at town meetings. I've a theory about what his “S” stands for, but wouldn't feel comfortable sharing it with a man of the cloth.
“Good to see you, Al,” he trumpeted. “Glorious morning, isn't it? This pretty lady with me is Cathy Bennett.” The policewoman gave me a wary nod, then winked at her fellow cops but said nothing. “Now I don't want to make any trouble for you . . .”
Bradley always tried to radiate sincerity and likeability, and never succeeded. He was a beanpole with a pallid and slightly freckled complexion, an extra high forehead, thinning light-brown hair cut short, a sad mustache barely covering his philtrum, and an unfortunate combination of a long but very thin nose and large, watery blue eyes. He usually smelled of solvents and today was no exception; perhaps his hobby involved gluing together small model lawsuits in his basement.
“What kind of trouble don't you want to make today, Brad?” I asked.
He waved a bony hand at me, brushing off any tendency I might have to take offense. “Really, Al, I must remind you, again, that this is nothing personal. It's just that we all have to reevaluate the situation here. I'm sure you can see that.”
The cops bracketing me radiated impatience and did a splendid job of it.
“What are you talking about, Brad?”
“That blast yesterday. A child could've been injured, or even . . . killed! We can't have any more of that sort of thing.”
“I agree. That's why the authorities are investigating the explosion, and why police cars have been parked here since it happened, and why these two gentlemen are keeping me company this glorious morning. And also why Officer Bennett is keeping such a close watch on persons of interest.”
He ignored my dig and waved his hand again, a bit too close to my face. “That's not enough! See here. A few of our good friends have come to me with this petition.” He pulled the document from under his arm with the kind of flourish you'd expect from a magician pulling a moose out of a hat. “Now, I didn't want to bring this to you, but the entire community insisted and I couldn't disappoint them. Just look this over.”
He handed me the papers. I glanced at the first page and knew that Bradley had written it himself. With about triple the necessary words, it essentially stated that neither my clinic nor anyone associated with it, particularly me, were welcome anywhere near this vicinity.
“Do you see how many signatures there are?” he demanded, oblivious to the significant glances the cops gave each other.
I'd already counted twenty-five names on the first page and wasn't interested in following up on pages two, three, and four. I fought to keep my twinge of guilt from transmuting to rage.
“Brad, we've been over this a hundred times. I've always understood your concerns and share them more
than you may know, but I didn't choose to put the clinic here. When I learned that my employers did, I immediately asked them to locate it elsewhere, and they refused on the grounds that they'd already, um, purchased the grounds.”
“Then why not quit and make us all safer?”
We'd been over that ground as well. “Our government and most others around the world are pretty damn eager to keep me at this. The only reason the city council hasn't shut me down already has been pressure from Washington. Have you any idea how important the Tsf are to us? How much a good relationship with them could help us? Or what a tragedy it would be if—”
“So you've claimed. All I know is what's written on those papers, and you should look them over carefully. That's your copy; I've got the original. And I hate to say this, but it can be used in a civil case that . . . I've heard may be pending, one that could have quite the impact on you.”
He lifted his weak chin to look down his nose at me or perhaps to mime nobility. “That's all I have to say at this time.” Head held so far back that he risked tripping over small obstacles, Bradley S. strode past me and between my two flying buttresses and headed toward the sidewalk. Officer Bennett stayed with him until he'd crossed the street, and then she got into a parked unmarked car.
Officer Braun looked at me and held out a hand. I got the message and passed over the petition. “Nice of him to provide a list of suspects?” I said and got a hint of smile in response. I led the way through the door and into my troublesome sanctum.
I watched the cops take in everything: the absurdly large reception area, the huge and impossibly clear skylights, the 450-gallon saltwater aquarium, my multi-armed cleaning robot docked at its charging station, the full-sized olive tree, and the abstract sculptures. Then their eyes widened as they realized that the figure behind the coca-bola reception desk was no sculpture. Their hands moved closer to their guns. Understandable. My receptionist, L, takes some getting used to. No doubt he's the main reason most of my human clients prefer to meet with me in the Cabin, my small separate office in back.
Analog SFF, July-August 2010 Page 3