Nova 3

by Anthology

  2.

  Last Wednesday night, the president had told us that we had nothing to fear. And he’d tried to end on an optimistic note. At least, that’s what Wednesday’s paper said. The beings who had sent The Ball must be more advanced than we, and they must have many good things to give us. And we might be able to make beneficial contributions to them. Like what? I thought.

  Some photographs of The Ball, taken from one of the manned orbiting laboratories, were on the second page. It looked just like a giant black billiard ball. One TV comic had suggested that the other side might bear a big white 8. I may have thought that this was funny last Wednesday, but I didn’t think so now. It seemed highly probable to me that The Ball was connected with the four-days’ loss of memory. How, I had no idea.

  I turned on the 7:30 news channels, but they weren’t much help except in telling us that the same thing had happened to everybody all over the world. Even those in the deepest diamond mines or submarines had been affected. The president was in conference, but he’d be making a statement over the networks sometime today. Meantime, it was known that no radiation of any sort had been detected emanating from The Ball. There was no evidence whatsoever that the object had caused the loss of memory. Or, as the jargon-crazy casters were already calling it, “memloss.”

  I’m a lawyer, and I like to think logically, not only about what has happened but what might happen. So I extrapolated on the basis of what little evidence, or data, there was.

  On the first of June, a Sunday, we woke up with all memory of May 31 back through May 28 completely gone.

  We had thought that yesterday was the twenty-seventh and that this morning was that of the twenty-eighth.

  If The Ball had caused this, why had it only taken four days of our memory? I didn’t know. Nobody knew. But perhaps The Ball, its devices, that is, were limited in scope. Perhaps they couldn’t strip off more than four days of memory at a time from everybody on Earth.

  Postulate that this is the case. Then, what if the same thing happens tomorrow? We’ll wake up tomorrow, June 2, with all memory of yesterday, June 1, and three more days of May, the twenty-seventh through the twenty-fifth, gone. Eight days in one solid stretch.

  And if this ghastly thing should occur the following day, June 3, we’ll lose another four days. All memory of June 2 will have disappeared. With it will go the memory of three more days, from May twenty-fourth through the twenty-second. Twelve days in all from June 2 backward!

  And the next day? June 3 lost, too, along with May 21 through May 19. Sixteen days of a total blank. And the next day? And the next?

  No, it’s too hideous, and too fantastic, to think about.

  While we were watching TV, Carole and the boys besieged me with questions. She was frantic. The boys seemed to be enjoying the mystery. They’d awakened expecting to go to school, and now they were having a holiday.

  To all their questions, I said, “I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

  I wasn’t going to frighten them with my extrapolations. Besides, I didn’t believe them myself.

  “You’d better call up your office and tell them you can’t come in today,” Carole said. “Surely Judge Payne’ll call off the session today.”

  “Carole, it’s Sunday, not Wednesday, remember?” I said.

  She cried for a minute. After she’d wiped away the tears, she said, “That’s just it! I don’t remember! My God, what’s happening?”

  The newscasters also reported that the White House was flooded with telegrams and phone calls demanding that rockets with H-bomb warheads be launched against The Ball. The specials, which came on after the news, were devoted to The Ball. These had various authorities, scientists, military men, ministers, and a few science-fiction authors. None of them radiated confidence, but they were all temperate in their approach to the problem. I suppose they had been picked for their level-headedness. The networks had screened out the hotheads and the crackpots. They didn’t want to be generating any more hysteria.

  But Anel Robertson, a fundamentalist faith healer with a powerful radio/TV station of his own, had already declared that The Ball was a judgment of God on a sinful planet. It was The Destroying Angel. I knew that because Mrs. Douglas, no fanatic but certainly a zealot, had phoned me and told me to dial him in. Robertson had been speaking for an hour, she said, and he was going to talk all day.

  She sounded frightened, and yet, beneath the fear, was a note of joy. Obviously, she didn’t think that she was going to be among the goats when the last days arrived. She’d be right in there with the whitest of the sheep. My curiosity finally overcame my repugnance for Robertson. I dialed the correct number but got nothing except a pattern. Later today, I found out his station had been shut down for some infraction of FCC regulations. At least, that was the explanation given on the news, but I suspected that the government regarded him as a hysteria monger.

  At eleven, Carole reminded me that it was Sunday and that if we didn’t hurry, we’d miss church.

  The Forrest Hill Presbyterian has a good attendance, but its huge parking lot has always been adequate. This morning, we had to park two blocks up the street and walk to church. Every seat was filled. We had to stand in the anteroom near the front door. The crowd stank of fear. Their faces were pale and set; their eyes, big. The air conditioning labored unsuccessfully to carry away the heat and humidity of the packed and sweating bodies. The choir was loud but quavering; their “Rock of Ages” was crumbling.

  Dr. Boynton would have prepared his sermon on Saturday afternoon, as he always did. But today he spoke impromptu. Perhaps, he said, this loss of memory had been caused by The Ball. Perhaps there were living beings in it who had taken four days away from us, not as a hostile move but merely to demonstrate their immense powers. There was no reason to anticipate that we would suffer another loss of memory. These beings merely wanted to show us that we were hopelessly inferior in science and that we could not launch a successful attack against them.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” I thought. “Is he trying to scare us to death?”

  Boynton hastened then to say that beings with such powers, of such obvibus advancement, would not, could not, be hostile. They would be on too high an ethical plane for such evil things as war, unless they were attacked, of course. They would regard us as beings who had not yet progressed to their level but had the potentiality, the God-given potentiality, to be brought up to a high level. He was sure that, when they made contact with us, they would tell us that all was for the best.

  They would tell us that we must, like it or not, become true Christians. At least, we must all, Buddhists, Moslems and so forth, become Christian in spirit, whatever our religion or lack thereof. They would teach us how to live as brothers and sisters, how to be happy, how to truly love. Assuredly, God had sent The Ball, since nothing happened without His knowledge and consent. He had sent these beings, whoever they were, not as Destroying Angels but as Sharers of Peace, Love and Prosperity.

  That last, with the big P, seemed to settle down most of the congregation. Boynton had not forgotten that most of his flock were of the big-business and professional classes. Nor had he forgotten that, inscribed on the arch above the church entrance was, THEY SHALL PROSPER WHO LOVE THEE.

  3.

  We poured out into a bright warm June afternoon. I looked up into the sky but could see no Ball, of course. The news media had said that, despite its great distance from Earth, it was circling Earth every sixty-five minutes. It wasn’t in a free fall orbit. It was applying continuous power to keep it on its path, although there were no detectable emanations of energy from it.

  The memory loss had occurred all over the world between 1:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m. Central Standard Time. Those who were not already asleep fell asleep for a minimum of an hour. This had, of course, caused hundreds of thousands of accidents. Planes not on automatic pilot had crashed, trains had collided or been derailed, ships had sunk, and more than two hundred thousand had been killed or seriously in
jured. At least a million vehicle drivers and passengers had been injured. The ambulance and hospital services had found it impossible to handle the situation. The fact that their personnel had been asleep for at least an hour and that it had taken them some time to recover from their confusion on awakening had aggravated the situation considerably. Many had died who might have lived if immediate service had been available.

  There were many fires, too, the largest of which were still raging in Tokyo, Athens, Naples, Harlem, and Baltimore.

  I thought, would beings on a high ethical plane have put us to sleep knowing that so many people would be killed and badly hurt?

  One curious item was about two rangers who had been thinning a herd of elephants in Kenya. While sleeping, they had been trampled to death. Whatever it is that’s causing this, it’s very specific. Only human beings are affected.

  The optimism, which Boynton had given us in the church, melted in the sun. Many must have been thinking, as I was, that if Boynton’s words were prophetic, we were helpless. Whatever the things in The Ball, whether living or mechanical, decided to do for us, or to us, we were no longer masters of our own fate. Some of them must have been thinking about what the technologically superior whites had done to various aboriginal cultures. All in the name of progress and God.

  But this would be, must be, different, I thought. Boynton must be right. Surely such an advanced people would not be as we were. Even we are not what we were in the bad old days. We have learned.

  But then an advanced technology does not necessarily accompany an advanced ethics.

  “Or whatever,” I murmured.

  “What did you say, dear?” Carole said.

  I said, “Nothing,” and shook her hand off my arm. She had clung to it tightly all through the services, as if I were the rock of the ages. I walked over to Judge Payne, who’s sixty years old but looked this morning as if he were eighty. The many broken veins on his face were red, but underneath them was a grayishness.

  I said hello and then asked him if things would be normal tomorrow. He didn’t seem to know what I was getting at, so I said, “The trial will start on time tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes, the trial,” he said. “Of course, Mark.”

  He laughed whinnyingly and said, “Provided that we all haven’t forgotten today when we wake up tomorrow.”

  That seemed incredible, and I told him so.

  “It’s not law school that makes good lawyers,” he said. “It’s experience. And experience tells us that the same damned thing, with some trifling variations, occurs over and over, day after day. So what makes you think this evil thing won’t happen again? And if it does, how’re you going to learn from it when you can’t remember it?”

  I had no logical argument, and he didn’t want to talk any more. He grabbed his wife by the arm, and they waded through the crowd as if they thought they were going to step in a sinkhole and drown in a sea of bodies.

  This evening, I decided to record on tape what’s happened today. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my memory to keep, if I forget while I sleep . . .

  Most of the rest of today, I’ve spent before the TV. Carole wasted hours trying to get through the lines to her friends for phone conversations. Three-fourths of the time, she got a busy signal. There were bulletins on the TV asking people not to use the phone except for emergencies, but she paid no attention to it until about eight o’clock. A TV bulletin, for the sixth time in an hour, asked that the lines be kept open. About twenty fires had broken out over the town, and the firemen couldn’t be informed of them because of the tie-up. Calls to hospitals had been similarly blocked.

  I told Carole to knock it off, and we quarreled. Our suppressed hysteria broke loose, and the boys retreated upstairs to their room behind a closed door. Eventually, Carole started crying and threw herself into my arms, and then I cried. We kissed and made up. The boys came down looking as if we had failed them, which we had. For them, it was no longer a fun-adventure from some science-fiction story.

  Mike said, “Dad, could you help me go over my arithmetic lessons?”

  I didn’t feel like it, but I wanted to make it up to him for that savage scene. I said sure and then, when I saw what he had to do, I said, “But all this? What’s the matter with your teacher? I never saw so much . . .”

  I stopped. Of course, he had forgotten all he’d learned in the last three days of school. He had to do his lessons all over again.

  This took us until eleven, though we might have gone faster if I hadn’t insisted on watching the news every half-hour for at least ten minutes. A full thirty minutes were used listening to the president, who came on at 9:30. He had nothing to add to what the newsmen had said except that, within thirty days, The Ball would be completely dealt with—one way or another. If it didn’t make some response to our signals within two days, then we would send up a four-man expedition, which would explore The Ball.

  If it can get inside, I thought.

  If, however, The Ball should commit any more hostile acts, then the United States would immediately launch, in conjunction with other nations, rockets armed with H-bombs.

  Meanwhile, would we all join the president in an interdenominational prayer?

  We certainly would.

  At eleven, we put the kids to bed. Tom went to sleep before we were out of the room. But about half an hour later, as I passed their door, I heard a low voice from the TV. I didn’t say anything to Mike, even if he did have to go to school next day.

  At twelve, I made the first part of this tape.

  But here it is, one minute to one o’clock in the morning. If the same thing happens tonight as happened yesterday, then the nightside hemisphere will be affected first. People in the time zone which bisects the South and North Atlantic oceans and covers the eastern half of Greenland, will fall asleep. Just in case it does happen again, all airplanes have been grounded. Right now, the TV is showing the bridge and the salon of the trans-Atlantic liner Pax. Its five o’clock there, but the salon is crowded. The passengers are wearing party hats and confetti, and balloons are floating everywhere. I don’t know what they could be celebrating. The captain said a little while ago that the ship’s on automatic, but he doesn’t expect a repetition of last night. The interviewer said that the governments of the dayside nations have not been successful keeping people home. We’ve been getting shots from everywhere, the sirens are wailing all over the world, but, except for the totalitarian nations, the streets of the daytime world are filled with cars. The damned fools just didn’t believe it would happen again.

  Back to the bridge and the salon of the ship. My God! They are falling asleep!

  The announcers are repeating warnings. Everybody lie down so they won’t get hurt by falling. Make sure all home appliances, which might cause fires, are turned off. And so on and so on.

  I’m sitting in a chair with a tilted back. Carole is on the sofa.

  Now I’m on the sofa. Carole just said she wanted to be holding on to me when this horrible thing comes.

  The announcers are getting hysterical. In a few minutes, New York will be hit. The eastern half of South America is under. The central section is going under.

  4.

  True date: June 2, 1980.

  Subjective date: May 25, 1980

  My God! How many times have I said, “My God!” in the last two days?

  I awoke on the sofa beside Carole and Mike. The clock indicated three in the morning. Chris Turner was on the TV. I didn’t know what he was talking about. All I could understand was that he was trying to reassure his viewers that everything was all right and that everything would be explained shortly.

  What was I doing on the sofa? I’d gone to bed about eleven the night of May 24, a Saturday. Carole and I had had a little quarrel because I’d spent all day working on the Lankers case, and she said that I’d promised to take her to see Nova Express. And so I had—if I finished work before eight, which I obviously had not done. So what were we doing on
the sofa, where had Mike come from, and what did Turner mean by saying that today was June 2?

  The tape recorder was on the table near me, but it didn’t occur to me to turn it on.

  I shook Carole awake, and we confusedly asked each other what had happened. Finally, Turner’s insistent voice got our attention, and he explained the situation for about the fifth time so far. Later, he said that an alarm clock placed by his ear had awakened him at two-thirty.

  Carole made some coffee, and we drank four cups apiece. We talked wildly, with occasional breaks to listen to Turner, before we became half-convinced that we had indeed lost all memory of the last eight days. Mike slept on through it, and finally I carried him up to his bed. His TV was still on. Nate Frobisher, Mike’s favorite spieler, was talking hysterically. I turned him off and went back downstairs. I figured out later that Mike had gotten scared and come downstairs to sit with us.

  Dawn found us rereading the papers from May 24 through June 1. It was like getting news from Mars. Carole took a tranquilizer to quiet herself down, but I preferred Wild Turkey. After she’d seen me down six ounces, Carole said I should lay off the bourbon. I wouldn’t be fit to go to work. I told her that if she thought anybody’d be working today, she was out of her mind.

  At seven, I went out to pick up the paper. It wasn’t there. At a quarter to eight, Joe delivered it. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t stop. All he said, as he pedaled away, was, “It ain’t Saturday!”

  I went back in. The entire front page was devoted to The Ball and this morning’s events up to four o’clock. Part of the paper had been set up before one o’clock. According to a notice at the bottom of the page, the staff had awakened about three. It took them an hour to straighten themselves out, and then they’d gotten together the latest news and made up the front page and some of section C. They’d have never made it when they did if it wasn’t for the computer, which printed justified lines from voice input.