I wake to the rattle of aluminum. The claw is hard at work. Flattened aluminum cans fill the gaps in the framework, held in place by a lacework of copper wire. Pearl buttons and rhinestone brooches, scavenged from my bags and boxes, sparkle among the cans. The claw scrambles over the surface, tirelessly weaving copper wire over the can that it is adding. It looks so natural there: like a spider on its web.
I don’t want to leave. I’m afraid that if I leave, the claw will be gone when I come back. I sit on the edge of the bed to watch it work. As I watch, it hesitates for a moment, and then leaves its work to rest on the floor at my feet. When I reach out to touch it, it clambers onto my hand and lets me put it in my lap. For a time, it sits in my lap and purrs, then it returns to work.
I feel sad, watching the claw build the craft that will take it away. Eventually, I go out on my usual rounds, unwilling to watch any longer.
It is a cold, bleak day, and I find nothing of interest. A few aluminum cans, a few bottle caps. Maybe the claw can use them to complete its work. I carry them back to the hotel.
My social worker is waiting for me in the lobby, perched uncomfortably on the dingy sofa. She sits between Mrs. Goldman and Mr. Johnson. She is talking brightly about something, but they are ignoring her, lost in their own hazy thoughts. She catches me before I can slip past.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “I was quite worried when you missed your appointment. I asked the manager to check your room.” She glanced at Harold, but he was busy with his papers, refusing to look up. “You know, we really must clean up all that trash beside your bed.”
I stare at her. “What are you talking about?”
“All those cans and things. It’s really a health hazard. I’ve already arranged to have someone come in tomorrow and—”
“You can’t do that,” I protested. “Those are my things.”
“Now just relax,” she said, her voice dripping with understanding. “It really isn’t safe. Imagine if there were a fire. You’d never be able to get out of your room with all that clutter. It’s really best—”
“If there were a fire, we’d all roast like marshmallows,” I say, but she isn’t listening.
“—best if we clean it all up for you. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t—”
I back away from her and flee to my room. Fortunately, she doesn’t follow. Even if she isn’t an agent of the government, she is dangerous. She wants to teach me to overlook things, to look past things, to ignore the world. She thinks there is only one way of looking at the world—her way. I don’t agree.
I rush into my room and close the door. The spaceship fills the space between the bed and the boxes. A hinged lid, like the lid of a pirate chest, stands open, poised to close. I put my hand on the tail section. I can feel a faint trembling, as if something were humming inside. The claw crouches beside the lid, waiting.
“You’d better get out of here,” I tell the claw. “They’re closing in on us. They’ll lock us both up.”
I open the window so that the spaceship can take off. When I stand back, nothing happens. The claw just sits by the lid, remaining motionless.
“Look, you’d really better leave,” I say. It doesn’t move. I sit in the chair and watch it, frustrated by its inaction. From the TV next door, I hear the Star Trek theme song.
The claw climbs to the armrest of the chair. With two of its legs, it takes hold of my finger. Gently, it tugs on my hand, trying to move me in the direction of the cylinder.
“What do you want?” I ask, but it only tugs again, more strongly this time.
I pick up the claw in my other hand and go to the spaceship. The hollow place inside it is just my height and just wide enough for my shoulders. The claw had arranged some old sweaters inside: it looks soft and rather inviting.
Maybe I wasn’t quite right the other night when I was thinking about planaria. I should have thought a little longer. Consider, for instance, the difference between a horse and a car. A horse has a mind of his own. You develop a relationship with a horse. If you like the horse and the horse likes you, you get along; if not, you don’t. A horse can miss you. If you leave a horse behind, the horse can come looking for you. A car is just a hunk of metal—no loyalty. If you sell your car, you may miss it, but it won’t miss you.
Suppose, just suppose, that someone somewhere built a spaceship that was more like a horse than a car. A spaceship that could rebuild itself from pieces. That someone went away and left the spaceship behind—died maybe, because otherwise why would anyone leave behind such a wonderful spaceship? And the spaceship waited for a while, and then came looking for its creator, its master. Maybe it couldn’t find its original master—but it found someone else. Someone who wanted to travel. The claw is purring in my hand.
I take off my shoes and step gingerly into the opening. Carefully, I slide my legs into the cylinder. At my feet, I can feel the warmth of the hidden engines. The claw curls up beside me, snuggling into the crook of my neck.
“Ready?” I ask. Reaching up, I close the lid. And we go.
o thank the Maker Of All Things for the birth of his first male offspring, the Emperor Maloth IV ordered his architects to build a temple that would forever dwarf all other buildings on the planet. It was to be made entirely of crystal, and the spire-covered roof, which looked like a million glistening spear-points aimed at the sun, would be supported by 217 columns, to honor his 217 forebears. When struck, each column would sound a musical note that could be heard for kilometers, calling the faithful to prayer.
The structure would be known as the Temple of the Honored Sun, for his heir had been born exactly at midday, when the sun was highest in the sky. The temple took 27 Standard years to complete, and although races from all across the galaxy would come to Antares III to marvel at it, Maloth further decreed that no aliens or non-believers would ever be allowed to enter it and desecrate its sacred corridors with their presence…
A man, a woman, and a child emerge from the Temple of the Honored Sun. The woman holds a camera to her eye, capturing the same image from a dozen unimaginative angles. The child, his lip sparsely covered with hair that is supposed to imply maturity, never sees beyond the game he is playing on his pocket computer. The man looks around to make sure no one is watching him, grinds out a smokeless cigar beneath his heel, and then increases his pace until he joins them.
They approach me, and I will myself to become one with my surroundings, to insinuate myself into the marble walls and stone walkways before they can speak to me.
I am invisible. You cannot see me. You will pass me by.
“Hey, fella—we’re looking for a guide,” says the man. “You interested?”
I stifle a sigh and bow deeply. “I am honored,” I say, glad that they do not understand the subtleties of Antarean inflection.
“Wow!” exclaims the woman, aiming her camera at me. “I never saw anything like that! It’s almost as if you folded your torso in half! Can you do it again?”
I am reminded of an ancient legend, possibly apocryphal though I choose to believe it. An ambassador who was equally fascinated by the way the Antarean body is jointed, once asked Komarith I, the founder of the 38th Dynasty, to bow a second time. Komarith merely stared at him without moving until the embarrassed ambassador slunk away. He went on to rule for twenty-nine years and was never known to bow again.
It has been a long time since Komarith, almost seven millennia now, and Antares and the universe have changed. I bow for the woman while she snaps her holographs.
“What’s your name?” asks the man.
“You could not pronounce it,” I reply. “When I conduct members of your race, I choose the name Hermes.”
“Herman, eh?”
“Hermes,” I correct him.
“Right. Herman.”
The boy finally looks up. “He said Hermes, Dad.”
The man shrugs. “Whatever.” He looks at his timepiece. “Well, let’s get started.”
&nbs
p; “Yeah,” chimes in the child. “They’re piping in the game from Roosevelt III this afternoon. I’ve got to get back for it.”
“You can watch sports anytime,” says the woman. “This may be your only chance to see Antares.”
“I should be so lucky,” he mutters, returning his attention to his computer.
I recite my introductory speech almost by rote. “Allow me to welcome you to Antares III, and to its capital city of Kalimetra, known throughout the galaxy as the City of a Million Spires.”
“I didn’t see any million spires when we took the shuttle in from the spaceport,” says the child, who I could have sworn was not listening. “A thousand or two, maybe.”
“There was a time when there were a million,” I explain. “Today only 16,304 remain. Each is made of quartz or crystal. In late afternoon, when the sun sinks low in the sky, they act as a prism for its rays, creating a flood of exotic colors that stretches across the thoroughfares of the city. Races have come from halfway across the galaxy to experience the effect.”
“Sixteen thousand,” murmurs the woman. “I wonder what happened to the rest?”
No one knew why Antareans found the spires so aesthetically pleasing. They towered above the cities, casting their shadows and their shifting colors across the landscape. Tall, delicate, exquisite, they reflected a unique grandness of vision and sensitivity of spirit. The rulers of Antares III spent almost 38,000 years constructing their million spires.
During the Second Invasion, it took the Canphorite armada less than two weeks to destroy all but 16,304 of them…
The woman is still admiring the spires that she can see in the distance. Finally she asks who built them, as if they are too beautiful to have been created by Antareans.
“The artisans and craftsmen of my race built everything you will see today,” I answer.
“All by yourselves?”
“Is it so difficult for you to believe?” I ask gently.
“No,” she says defensively. “Of course not. It’s just that there’s so much…”
“Kalimetra was not created in a day or a year, or even a millennium,” I point out. “It is the cumulative achievement of 43 Antarean Dynasties.”
“So we’re in the 43rd Dynasty now?” she asks.
It was Zelorean IX who officially declared Kalimetra to be the Eternal City. Neither war nor insurrection had ever threatened its stability, and even the towering temples of his forefathers gave every promise of lasting for all eternity. It was a Golden Age, and he could see no reason why it should not go on forever…
“The last absolute ruler of the 43rd Dynasty has been dust for almost three thousand years,” I explain. “Since then we have been governed by a series of conquerors, each alien race superseding the last.”
“Thank goodness they didn’t destroy your buildings,” says the woman, turning to admire a water fountain, which for some reason appears to her to be a mystical alien artifact. She is about to take a holo when the child restrains her.
“It’s just a goddamned water bubbler, Ma,” he says.
“But it’s fascinating,” she says. “Imagine what kind of beings used it in ages past.”
“Thirsty ones,” says the bored child.
She ignores him and turns back to me. “As I was saying, it must be criminal to rob the galaxy of such treasures.”
“Yeah, well somebody destroyed some buildings around here,” interjects the child, who seems intent on proving someone wrong about something. “Remember the hole in the ground we saw over that way?” He points in the direction of the Footprint. “Looks like a bomb crater to me.”
“You are mistaken,” I explain, leading them over to it. “It has always been there.”
“It’s just a big sinkhole,” says the man, totally unimpressed.
“It is worshipped by my people as the Footprint of God,” I explain. “Once, many eons ago, Kalimetra was in the throes of a years-long drought. Finally Jorvash, our greatest priest, offered his own life if God would bring the rains. God replied that it would not rain until He wept again, and we had not yet suffered enough to bring forth His tears of compassion. But He promised that He would strike a bargain with Jorvash.” I pause for effect, but the man is lighting another cigar and the child is concentrating on his pocket computer. “The next morning Jorvash was found dead inside his temple, while God had created this depression with His foot and filled it with water. It sustained us until He finally wept again.”
The woman seems flustered. “Um…I hate to ask,” she finally says, “but could you repeat that story? My recorder wasn’t on.”
The man looks uncomfortable. “She’s always forgetting to turn the damned thing on,” he explains, and flips me a coin. “For your trouble.”
Lobilia was the greatest poet in the history of Antares III. Although he died during the 23rd Dynasty, most of his work survived him. But his masterpiece, “The Long Night of the Exile”—the epic of Bagata’s Exile and his triumphant Return—was lost forever.
Though he was his race’s most famous bard, Lobilia himself was illiterate, unable even to write his own name. He created his poetry extemporaneously, embellishing upon it with each retelling. He recited his epic just once, and was so satisfied with its form that he refused to repeat it for the scribes who were waiting for a final version and hadn’t written it down.
“Thank you,” says the woman, deactivating the recorder after I finish. She pauses. “Can I buy a book with some more of your quaint folk legends?”
I decide not to explain the difference between a folk legend and an article of belief. “They are for sale in the gift shop of your hotel,” I reply.
“You don’t have enough books?” mutters the man.
She glares at him, but says nothing, and I lead them to the Tomb, which always impresses visitors.
“This is the Tomb of Bedorian V, the greatest ruler of the 37th Dynasty,” I say. “Bedorian was a commoner, a simple farmer who deposed the notorious Maelastri XII, himself a mighty warrior who was the last ruler of the 36th Dynasty. It was Bedorian who decreed universal education for all Antareans.”
“What did you have before that?”
“Our females were not allowed the privilege of literacy until Bedorian’s reign.”
“How did this guy finally die?” asks the man, who doesn’t really care but is unwilling to let the woman ask all the questions.
“Bedorian was assassinated by one of his followers,” I reply.
“A male, no doubt,” says the woman wryly.
“Before he died,” I continue, “he united three warring states without fighting a single battle, decreed that all Antareans should use a common language, and outlawed the worship of kreneks.”
“What are kreneks?”
“They are poisonous reptiles. They killed many worshippers in nameless, obscene ceremonies before Bedorian V came to power.”
“Yeah?” says the child, alert again. “What were they like?”
“What is obscene to one being is simply boring to another,” I say. “Terrans find them dull.” Which is not true, but I have no desire to watch the child snicker as I describe the rituals.
“What a shame,” says the woman, though her voice sounds relieved. “Still, you certainly seem to know your history.”
I want to answer that I just make up the stories. But I am afraid if I say it, she will believe it.
“Where did you learn all this stuff?” she continues.
“To become a licensed guide,” I reply, “an Antarean must undergo fourteen years of study, and must also speak a minimum of four alien languages fluently. Terran is always one of the four.”
“That’s some set of credentials,” comments the man. “I made it through one year of dental school and quit.”
And yet, it is you who are paying me.
“I’m surprised you don’t work at one of the local universities,” he continues.
“I did once.”
Which is true. But I have my
family to feed—and tourists’ tips, however small and grudgingly given, are still greater than my salary as a teacher.
A rapu—an Antarean child—insinuates his way between myself and my clients. Scarcely more than an infant, he is dressed in rags, and his face is smudged with dirt. There are open sores on the reticulated plates of his skin, and his golden eyes water constantly. He begs plaintively for credits in his native tongue. When there is no response, he extends his hand in what has become a universal gesture that says: You are rich. I am poor and hungry. Give me money.
“Yours?” asks the man, frowning, as his wife takes half a dozen holos in quick succession.
“No, he is not mine.”
“What is he doing here?”
“He lives in the street,” I answer, my compassion for the rapu alternating with my humiliation at having to explain his presence and situation. “He is asking for coins so that he and his mother will not go hungry tonight.”
I look at the rapu and think sadly: Timing is everything. Once, long ago, we strode across our world like gods. You would not have gone hungry in any of the 43 Dynasties.
The human child looks at his Antarean counterpart. I wonder if he realizes how fortunate he is. His face gives no reflection of his thoughts; perhaps he has none. Finally he picks his nose and goes back to manipulating his computer.
The man stares at the rapu for a moment, then flips him a two-credit coin. The rapu catches it, bows and blesses the man, and runs off. We watch him go. He raises the coin above his head, yelling happily—and a moment later, we are surrounded by twenty more street urchins, all filthy, all hungry, all begging for coins.
“Enough’s enough!” says the man irritably. “Tell them to get the hell out of here and go home, Herman.”
Alien Contact Page 11