“Oh, come now, Jack,” said the otter. “Calm yourself. You've been in here over an hour—you've already absorbed a maximal dose."
My rubbing slowed, ceased. Still holding the towel, my hand dropped to my side. The breeze blew over me; I felt goose bumps lift along my arms and chest.
“The treatment,” he said, “will need another half hour or so to complete its finer adjustments. But you won't mind, I hope, if I ask you a few questions now. Just a quick safety and efficacy screen, yes?"
I wrapped myself in the towel. I was ready to turn my back on him, march back to the house for my clothes, and drive away.
But then I recalled those exploding, falling spacecraft.
Besides, I had given him my permission. Even if it hadn't occurred to him to wait for it.
The otter must have taken my silence for assent. “Good,” he said. “So, how do you feel? Any queasiness? Respiratory difficulty? Alterations in fundamental belief systems?"
My adrenaline surged all over again. Taking a quick inventory, I inhaled deeply, exhaled. Wiggled my fingers and toes. Tried my best, despite my resurgent panic, to observe my emotional responses as I pictured the faces of recent Presidential candidates. As best I could determine, everything still seemed to behave just as I remembered. Admittedly, at the moment, Isolationism did strike me as a bit less obviously idiotic than usual—but under the present circumstances I figured that didn't count. So I told him, “No problems."
“Good.” In the darkness, walnuts rattled. “Now, please try to imagine a species superior to yours. Not smarter, or stronger, or more experienced. But morally superior. Can you do that?"
“Sure."
“What? “ A quick scratching sound—very much like that of nutcracker teeth slipping across a rough husk—was followed by a soft, walnut-sized splash. “Innately your moral superiors?” he squeaked.
“Oh.” I wondered whether otter night vision could detect my shrug. “No, not innately. Actually, I was trying to imagine humanity a hundred years from now."
His breath whistled as he released it. “Ah. Well, yes, fine. But how about a nonhuman species? My people, for example?"
I snorted. “Hardly."
“Good. Very good."
I waited. The hot tub bubbled; pine branches rustled.
Had I offended him with my last answer? I said, “Please, go on with your questions."
“Oh, I'm done. Do be sure to phone, though, if any problems arise over the next few days."
I didn't like the sound of this. “Problems?"
“Physical symptoms, emotional issues, whatever. But don't worry—there won't be any. I just have to say that."
I couldn't believe his smugness. “So that's it? No brain scans? No electrodes measuring my subconscious responses to suggestive images? No DNA sequence analysis? You're not going to check your work?"
“Really, Jack, you watch too much television.” I imagined him waving a forepaw to dismiss my concerns. “We have been doing this sort of thing for a rather long time, you know.” Water splashed in the dark; a few drops sprayed against my cheek. “You're welcome,” said the otter, “to tub a while longer if you like. It really can be very relaxing."
“Thanks,” I said. “But I think I've been soaked enough for one night."
There was further splashing, and then his voice came from the near side of the tub. “Actually, I was hoping you could stay just a bit longer. You're now someone who can answer a question for me."
“Right. As if I—” Then I caught up with what he'd just said. “What do you mean, now? As in, now that you've reprogrammed my mind?"
“Merely the slightest rebalancing of your preexisting belief system. Really.” He spoke with a dentist's tone of calm reassurance. “Please. It's an important question. And you do look rather chilly.” As I hesitated, he added, “Relax—the water won't do anything else to you."
Warships, I reminded myself. Humanity embargoed. I sighed, then dropped my towel, and climbed back into the tub.
The water sloshed noisily from my entry; I couldn't hear or see where he was. “Does this thing have a light?” I asked.
A button clicked, and the tub filled with an eerie, pale green illumination. The otter was floating on his back toward the bench across from me, his head hidden within his torso's shadow.
While he made himself comfortable, I asked, “So how many people have you tested your treatment on, so far?"
“Actually,” he said, “you're the first."
I wished he had mentioned that detail a bit earlier. “Ah,” I replied, hoping that his smug confidence in the treatment's lack of side effects was well justified. “And how many do you plan on using, altogether, for these safety tests?"
“Including you?"
“Yeah."
“Hmm.” He paused, as if calculating. “One,” he said.
He chittered briefly as I stared, open-mouthed. He spread his three arms—apologetically?—and said, “Standard procedure for these situations. Locate an appropriate native, let him experience the treatment, then have him decide."
“Decide?"
He reached for a walnut. “I did say that I had a question for you."
“What—” But I cut myself off, suddenly realizing how he was once again jerking me around. The whole evening had been like this—before I had a chance to process whatever we'd just discussed, he'd distract me with yet another new idea. It was actually a negotiating tactic that I recognized; I just wasn't used to seeing it from the receiving end.
I held up my hand. “Don't say another word. I want a few minutes to think, all right?"
For a couple of seconds he just stared over his snout at me. Then he gave a little nod and turned his attention to the nut resting on his chest.
I took a deep breath, released it slowly. Okay, then—for the first time, tonight's conversation would follow my timetable.
I let my head fall back against the tub, and stared upward at the few dozen stars that had managed to overcome the ubiquitous city glow. Wisps of steam rose beside me like pale green wraiths.
I tried to sift my brain for evidence of the otter's tampering. I had never believed in literal angels—at least, I didn't think I ever had. But did I really view people as failed angels? Well, every morning I certainly shook my head at the human stupidity and viciousness evident in half the headlines in the Times. Not to mention ninety percent of the articles in Variety.
Now, though, I found myself thinking about the other news stories. The ones about people risking their lives to help strangers. About researchers achieving amazing breakthroughs. About novelists, sculptors, or athletes inspiring their audiences to look beyond what they'd always accepted as human limits. Not bad, I thought, for a bunch of monkeys. Maybe the otter's words had brought me to this point, or maybe it really was just some chemicals in a hot tub, but suddenly I felt a rush of unaccustomed pride in my species.
But how about aliens? Since my childhood reading of comics and science fiction, I'd always assumed that aliens from outer space would be vastly superior to us in their understanding of the universe—and, yes, in their wisdom and morality. When the otters actually did arrive, their descriptions of a longstanding, peaceful, multicultural civilization spoke to a level of sanity that I had never really believed within humanity's grasp.
Now the otter intended for me to get over this admiration. And as I tried to recall my previous feelings, I realized the degree of his success.
Sure, the aliens had been around longer than us, so of course their technology was more advanced. But that didn't make them wiser than us, or even smarter. And while they had reportedly solved profound social problems that still plagued humanity—poverty, war, tyranny—it now struck me that as increasing numbers of otter-treated humans started paying attention to those other news stories, we'd soon prove no less competent at getting along amongst ourselves.
I glanced over at the otter, who was idly juggling a walnut back and forth between his paws and snout, and I reali
zed that I could guess what he was going to ask me to decide.
I said, “You haven't been completely honest with me, have you? About your plans."
He snatched the nut from the air with his mouth, but didn't chew. Silent, he faced me. The tub's light glinted off his eyes.
“Why me?” I asked.
Still saying nothing, he crunched a few times, then swallowed. With a slow nod he acknowledged the assumption behind my questions. “Like I said, you were already close to accepting humanity's place in the universe. But also you're someone who's comfortable thinking about interstellar civilizations—albeit fictional ones. And your career requires that you understand the motivations and desires of many kinds of people."
“A unique combination, am I?"
“Not really.” He plucked a bit of walnut shell from his fur. “But you were located conveniently near me, and within our delegation I do have a certain influence.” He paused for a second, then broke into a big grin. “Also, I'm a big fan of your sitcom. That episode with the neutron bomb? Priceless!"
I had to smile. But the night was getting late. “Go ahead,” I said. “Ask me your question."
He raised a webbed finger. “First,” he said, “you should know that we'll be leaving Earth in a month."
"Leaving? All of you?"
Nodding, he said, “We've learned what we need to learn about your world, and we've laid the necessary groundwork for future interactions."
“But—what about those two years of fully informing the populace about your treatment?"
He gave a three-shouldered shrug. “Nothing we can't handle remotely."
“You'll be staying in touch, then?"
“No,” he said. “Not after those first couple of years. Next it will be your people's turn to come contact us."
“Unless we're embargoed, of course."
For a few seconds he didn't say anything. The breeze rustled my hair; the otter's slick fur glistened in the tub's flickering light.
Finally, he said, “Well, so what do you think? Should we deploy our treatment or not?"
There it was, then. The question I'd guessed was coming. The question I'd been dreading.
“It's really up to me? You'll follow my recommendation, however I decide?"
A nod. “That's the procedure. Unless you'd rather we asked someone else?"
I was certainly tempted to pass on this responsibility. But only in the same way I'd be tempted to pass on an exciting but daring new script, knowing that someone else would produce it—and knowing that I'd regret that decision for the rest of my career.
But his words did raise a new concern for me.
“My role in this—will anybody ever find out?"
“Only if you decide to go public. In which case we'll back you up, if you want us to."
I shook my head, relieved. At least there'd be no lynch mobs in my near future.
My decision, I knew, should be easy. Humanity had gotten itself stuck; the otters’ elixir would give us the nudge we needed to get past our species-wide inferiority complex and allow us to finally live up to our potential. Life on Earth would improve immeasurably; humanity would be accepted into interstellar civilization. A no-lose proposition, if ever there had been one.
Of course, humanity would never know whether we could have done it all on our own. Maybe I could convince the otters to keep quiet for now about their treatment, but someday the truth would emerge. How would that revelation affect humanity's self-esteem?
I turned to the otter. “Other worlds have been through this, right? How has it worked out for them, learning that they needed alien assistance to get past their limitations?"
He shrugged. “Even here on your planet, there are cultures that wouldn't have a problem with that. Not everyone is John Wayne, you know."
I supposed that was true. But with the newfound pride I'd just begun feeling for my species, it rankled me that we wouldn't get the chance to manage this last step by ourselves. Not that the image of humanity being forcibly prevented from leaving our solar system sat terribly well with me, either.
I wasn't getting any closer to a decision. Then it occurred to me that I was approaching my choice as if it were a plot problem. What if I instead thought about it as, say, a marketing challenge? I had a great property on my hands, after all; what I needed to do now was help the audience learn to properly desire and appreciate what I had to offer. And—I realized with growing excitement—there was a tried-and-true method for accomplishing that: I needed to attract a Small But Influential Market.
I pushed away from the tub's wall until I sat upright on the edge of the bench. The breeze was cold across my dripping chest as I asked, “This business of informing everybody about your treatment—how strict are you guys about that?"
His snout lifted as he tried to sniff out where I was headed. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose we might have some latitude—” He waggled a paw from side to side. “—in that regard."
I leaned toward him. “What if I asked you to deploy your treatment—but only on, say, one percent of humanity? Scattered all over the world?"
He cocked his head. “Randomly?"
“Not entirely."
“Ah.” He nodded. “The political capitals."
I waved away that idea. “No. Toronto, Sydney, Bombay, Tokyo, Rome, L.A.... the entertainment capitals. But, yes, the remainder chosen randomly, all over the globe. Could you do that?"
“And not inform anyone about what we'd done?"
I waited.
He let go of the wall. Floating on his back, suddenly he applauded loudly with all six paws.
But his voice dripped with sarcasm. “Oh, bravo, Mr. Karolev! So we're supposed to give you tens of millions of unknowing teachers and prophets—"
“Trendsetters,” I suggested.
“—and from that starting point, humanity is going to raise itself to maturity?"
“If we're capable of accomplishing that, yes. If your evolving-monkey meme can out-compete our angels."
“And you're not worried,” he asked, his skepticism obvious, “about those rugged individualists among you? They won't be upset when they someday learn of our role in humanity's development?"
I shrugged. “Over the long haul, you can't sell people something they don't actually want. If we end up bettering ourselves, who cares whether the initial impetus came from Mahatma Gandhi, Gene Roddenberry, or you guys?"
He floated there, most of his legs slowly treading water. Then he shook his head and, in a tone of deep disappointment, said, “Well, congratulations, Mr. Karolev. You've come up with one I've never heard before.” He shook his head again. “Really, that's quite some pitch."
His reaction had leached away my former excitement. But I wasn't ready to drop this. “You did say you would follow my recommendations, right?"
He dismissed my question with a wave of a stubby arm. “Somehow,” he said, “I don't seem to recall telling you to make up your own rules."
“But my idea—"
He stopped me with a peremptory paw and then broke into a huge grin. “You really can be a sucker sometimes, can't you?” The hooves of his mouth glowed brightly in the tub's green light. “I love your idea! And I'm sure that my colleagues will, too.” He paddled over and stuck out a paw. “Jack,” he said, “you're brilliant! You've got yourself a deal."
I stared at his offered paw. Then—with more self-control than I'd realized I possessed—I restrained myself from hauling him up by his multiple armpits and shaking that nut-chomping grin off his pointy snout.
We shook hands. And then I let myself fall back against the side of the tub, spent.
He swam awhile, splashing quietly. After a minute or two he settled back onto the opposite bench. The nutcracker crunched, and the familiar chewing began. A few more seconds passed. Then he said, “You know, since you're here anyway ... well, I had this idea for an episode of your show..."
From time to time I nodded, half listening as his high voice ros
e and fell against the night's steady breeze.
Mostly, though, I was looking up at the stars.
It struck me that we were beaming an awful lot of programming out to all those worlds. Somewhere there had to be sponsors who'd like a piece of that.
Copyright © 2006 David W. Gordon
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* * *
IN TIMES TO COME
A year or so back, Karl Schroeder dazzled Analog readers with Sun of Suns, a tale of pirates, cities adrift in three-dimensional space, and a host of other exotica set in Virga, a balloonlike artificial habitat 5000 miles in diameter. Expansive as it was, Sun of Suns barely scratched the surface of the scope and variety such a space can hold. In our March issue we begin a new Schroeder serial, Queen of Candesce, that takes us into hitherto unexplored regions of Virga—and the things people can become under extreme conditions.
We'll also have a variety of shorter stories including a new episode in C. Sanford Lowe and G. David Nordley's sweeping saga of the Black Hole Project, a new Kristi Lang story by Michael Shara and Jack McDevitt, and decidedly different stories by David Bartell and Amy Bechtel. Stephen L. Gillett, Ph.D., provides the fact article, “Towards a Not-Just-Diamond Age.” Much popular writing about the embryonic science of nanotechnology has dealt with the many possibilities for widespread new applications of carbon, but there'll still be plenty of uses for the rest of the periodic table!
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* * *
THE ALTERNATE VIEW: IMAGINATION
Jeffery D. Kooistra
Imagination is an important and useful thing. Where would science fiction be without it? Where would science be without it? Or politics, or Christmas morning, or late night commercials promising buxom women waiting to talk to you on the end of a 900 number? But the imagination can get the better of a person, can lead one to thinking or doing silly things—caving in to false fears, getting over-extended on credit, actually calling that 900 number thinking he's really going to talk to those girls in the commercial.
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