The Asteroid

by M R Cates

  And no death. Sandra stopped. She looked suddenly at the ceiling, as if concentrating more directly on the aliens. They don't die, if they aren't lying. And they didn't have a clear understanding – possibly – of human generations. How can we live such a short while and continue to develop, to gain more capabilities? They have to know we have done that, but it may be a great mystery to them, because they have had no similar experience to compare with. It could be that the aliens associate their temporary configurations – like Plato and the other two – with human individuality. Except when they break up and re-form they aren't dying. When humans die, that particular “node” of the human race is lost and has to be compensated for in some way.

  But each human personality might be thought of as analogous to one of the alien individuals, one intelligence among many. Humans communicate, but less perfectly than the aliens. Humans work together, but always with zones of ignorance and always with imperfect cooperation. Could we ever come together well enough to enhance our ability to cooperate, to understand each other, and so on? Especially as we improve our genetic manipulation skills. Would we want to move that direction? Or would we be appalled at the idea of being interrelated in a way similar to the aliens?

  Sandra suddenly sat down in her chair, which happened to be nearby. On the other hand, she thought, where is it written that only extended intelligences like these aliens can draw energy from space-time or do any of the other things they can do? Of course, if humans made those kinds of advances without changing our fundamental nature, we'd probably be incredibly unstable – like we are now – fighting among ourselves and probably being a horrible threat to anyone and anything we might encounter. Maybe the aliens were thinking somewhat along these lines. Maybe they were wondering whether our way of functioning as separate individuals will result – as we continue to evolve, now under our own tutelage – in a sentience within the universe that will be made up of healthy tissue or metastasizing cancer!

  Leaning forward, the thinker scratched her head, then propped her elbows on her knees. She didn't notice the ceiling above her. The tendrils of red, smoky in character, came down slowly and behind Sandra's peripheral vision. Until she felt the inner sensation she'd remembered from the first three “touches,” she didn't realize she'd been shrouded once again in that peculiar “halo” down to the waist.

  Sandra turned her head to see herself in reflection, then called out, “What's this? Why are you ...”

  The door had slammed on her consciousness, and the astronomer slumped, out like a light. She would have fallen forward onto the stone floor if the shroud hadn't lifted and held her suspended just above the stone chair. Slowly, then, Sandra was carried to her bedroll, lowered onto it, and positioned supine, on her back, unseeing eyes looking upward . The alien presence was wrapped around the astronomer's upper body as if she'd been swathed in a wispy red cocoon.

  Chapter 45

  Madeleine Vigola pushed the button sending the phone line into her headset. She took advantage of her free hands to work through various notes and papers that continued to accumulate on her desk in the trailer. She'd been at work only a few minutes. It was 6:48 on her clock – which meant 11:48 in Washington.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” she said.

  “I gather there's nothing new,” McBrand said.

  “That's correct, sir. Dr. Hughes has been in the craft about fourteen hours now. But she has food for about four days.”

  “And we have nothing except her one message, correct?”

  Vigola knew he was simply going through the motions of questions. Any changes would have been immediately sent to him and the staff always on standby in Washington.

  “That's all, Mr. President. Have our analysts developed any opinions about the message?”

  “The report I have, Madeleine, is that it surely seems authentic, with linguistic style consistent with Sandra's. The aliens would have to be extraordinarily sophisticated to be able to imitate her.”

  Vigola added, “And the nature of the aliens, as she reported, what do the experts say?”

  The president laughed lightly. It was an unusual gesture for him. “They say the aliens are pulling a fast one on Sandra. The likelihood of such life forms is pretty remote, to say the least.”

  “Why do they think the aliens would do such a thing?”

  “To protect their own nature, so we won't discover what they're like. Hide their vulnerabilities, probably.”

  Vigola shifted in her chair. One of the young staff people passed through with more paperwork, leaving it and moving on out of the room. In the corner sat a Navy Seal in uniform, reading a National Geographic. Outside the day was already bright, and promised to be another beauty – normal for the Kona coast. The Chief of Staff asked, “So they believe that a kind of ruse was prepared for Dr. Hughes? And they think she fell for it?”

  “That about sums it up, Madeleine. Of course, the analysts cover themselves by saying they're only talking about likelihood, not certainty.”

  “I haven't bothered to look at the news,” Vigola said, changing the subject. “But I suppose the story is still hot, sir?”

  “It's non-stop coverage on every news channel everywhere, as you might guess.” Again he chuckled. “How they manage to fill the time with such tiny amounts of information is amazing.”

  “But no further leaks, Mr. President?”

  “No.”

  “Has your team heard any speculation from the media about the nature of the aliens, sir?”

  “Oh of course. They are described as everything from little green men to creatures made out of slabs of rock, and a hundred feet tall. That sort of thing.”

  Vigola asked, “But no mention of these non-material creatures described by Dr. Hughes?”

  “No. Interestingly enough.”

  The Chief of Staff thought that interesting information. “Sir, I'll check in at nine o'clock here assuming nothing major happens in the meantime.”

  “Thanks Madeleine, “ McBrand said, then disconnected.

  Vigola sat for a moment, thinking about the conversation, then began looking at paperwork. She spent a few minutes doing things necessary, then dialed a number, punching that line into her headset.

  “Hello, this is Madeleine Vigola,” she said to the answerer. “May I speak to Dr. Winslow?”

  “He is in class, Ms Vigola,” was the reply. “If it's important I can get him.”

  “It's no emergency,” she said. “Just want to chat with him.”

  “May I have him return your call when he returns?”

  “Please,” Vigola answered. “Thank you very much.”

  After disconnecting she checked a list of numbers and dialed another one. This one went to an answering machine. She didn't bother to leave a message. Vigola then touched her intercom and called into the office behind her, where a group of clerical personnel worked. Someone was always on duty there, round the clock.

  “Is Ms Marnier still here?” Vigola asked a secretary.

  “She and Dr. Hughes' sister went to breakfast, ma'am. But they should be returning soon. They left over an hour ago.”

  “Would you have Ms Marnier come to see me when they return?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Vigola smiled slightly at the southern style of speech of the secretary. The young woman had recently arrived from South Carolina.

  It was only ten minutes later that Françoise knocked at the door.

  “Come in, Ms Marnier,” Vigola said, guessing it must be she.

  “Good morning,” said the young woman. She looked reasonably fresh for one who'd slept only fitfully during the long night just passed. “I understand you wish to speak.”

  “Yes, thank you. Would you like some coffee?”

  Coffee was brought for both of them. During the wait for it the two traded conventionalities about the weather, lack of sleep, and the like. It was after a long drink of the Kona brew that the Chief of Staff said, “What is your opinion, Ms Marnier, on what D
r. Hughes has said about the nature of the aliens?”

  Françoise thought a moment and took her first drink. “I think Sandra describes a very peculiar alien, you see. It is not clear to me what they must be.”

  “Nor to our experts in Washington and elsewhere,” Vigola said, nodding. “They believe Dr. Hughes may have been deceived.”

  “Deceived?” The French student ran a hand through her dark hair. “Why would they do so?”

  “To protect themselves, supposedly.”

  “To pretend to be something they are not?”

  “Yes.”

  Françoise drank more coffee and considered. “Perhaps they are very fragile, then?”

  “It wouldn't be unexpected,” Vigola nodded. “If we went into the atmosphere of some other planet – unless it just happened to be exactly like ours – we would also seem very fragile.”

  “Yes, of course. But the aliens, you see, have shown they can move very large asteroids and fragments.”

  “I suppose the experts would say,” Vigola said with a shrug, “that they had very good machines. Like a big earth moving machine can make a human worker seem very strong indeed.”

  Françoise nodded. “I do think, however, that Sandra is not easily deceived.” She paused a moment. “We have spoken, you see, often about these aliens, what they might be.”

  “I expected you had,” said the Chief of Staff. “What did Dr. Hughes think about them?”

  “Well, she did not know, of course, much about their ... their nature. But she believed they lived within the asteroid and fragments, as she said.”

  “In their own life support area, I suppose?”

  “Yes, I would think so.” Françoise hesitated, then added, “Sandra is ... is very wise, Ms Vigola. To make her believe the aliens were ... how did she say it, energy from the space-time continuum, yes, would require proof, you see. Sandra is very skeptical. And she only said they said that was their nature. Perhaps she did not truly believe them.”

  “Maybe not,” agreed Vigola. “The glowing images she described, what do you think about them?”

  “Holograms, possibly,” Françoise thought. “But is the nature of the aliens very important, Ms Vigola? I mean, at this moment, is it important?”

  “We can't know what's important and what isn't, Ms Marnier.”

  Françoise was quiet for a moment, then said, “The strong field ... the field around the craft, which makes metal impossible to use, that is very important, I think.”

  “Absolutely.” Vigola stood and walked to the window, looking toward the sea in the general direction of where Sandra Hughes was. “Not being able to closely monitor Dr. Hughes is the worst part of this whole situation. She is basically on her own. Unfortunately.”

  “Yes. But, you see, the powerful field around the craft must say something about the aliens themselves.”

  Vigola turned her back on the window, facing Françoise. The Navy Seal across the way looked at her a little anxiously. He was probably imagining some kook planning to take a pot shot at the president's most important advisor. Vigola looked at the Françoise and asked, “What must the field – as you call it – say about the aliens?”

  “They are living in it, you see. Do they not need metal? Or do they know how to ... to cancel the field? It is very strange, I think.”

  “Yes,” Vigola mused. “I suppose the experts have taken that into account. But aliens that are made up of energy does seem very much like ... well, like science fiction.”

  Françoise nodded. “But to move very huge asteroids so easily and to learn our language also, you see, seems like the ... fiction books.”

  “Agreed. The circumstances here are unique. We must continue to think out of the box.”

  “Out of the ... box?”

  Vigola smiled. It made her seem both younger and happier. “I'm sorry, Ms Marnier. It's an odd term, isn't it? I mean we must allow ourselves to consider everything, no matter how strange or unlikely.”

  Françoise also smiled. “I see. Out of the box. Very interesting.”

  The conversation drifted a little, leaving the serious and visiting the mundane for a few minutes. Eventually, Vigola asked, “Is Dr. Hughes' sister holding up well?”

  Françoise nodded. “Yes, Debbie is a strong person, you see. Though she does not seem so, perhaps.”

  “Is she like her sister?”

  The question evoked a wrinkling of the French woman's brow. “In some ways, yes. But they are quite different in many ways.”

  “I gather that Debbie is a business woman, not involved in science.”

  “Yes, true. She seems very capable, with accounting. But she and Sandra are ... well, you see, they have no other family.”

  Vigola nodded. “It must be difficult for both of them to have so few loved ones.”

  Françoise again ran a hand through her hair. “I think Sandra is ... she says she is married to the Keck telescopes.” Then with a smile, she added, “She has two husbands, she says.”

  Vigola's eyes brightened in something like, but not quite, a smile. “A very dedicated scientist, obviously. We have a large dossier on her, as you would certainly suspect. Her credentials are outstanding.”

  “She is the very best,” Françoise said, almost abruptly. “And Dr. Carl ... Dr. Von Drath agrees, too.”

  “Dr. Von Drath himself is quite respected, of course. His opinion is an important one.”

  “Of course he is her friend,” Françoise said, “as I am. But we are also correct about Sandra.”

  Vigola's smile was slightly condescending, but she did enjoy speaking with this student, and valued the French woman's opinion and insights. Françoise Marnier was very valuable to the effort underway, because she had worked most closely with Sandra Hughes. And the student had been involved almost from the beginning in the tracking of Asteroid 1744. Most importantly, in Vigola's mind, Sandra Hughes respected her student and confided in her. That added further to Françoise's credentials.

  “So,” Vigola said, summing up things in her own thinking, “you believe that Dr. Hughes would be skeptical of some deception the aliens might attempt, to disguise their true natures?”

  “Yes, of course. And she did not say they were absolutely as they described themselves.”

  “Yet she didn't suggest what they might actually have been like.”

  “No,” Françoise said, “and because she did not, you see, the possibility that they may be such ... bizarre things is ... that is, they might be what they described. The aliens do not appear to be interested in lying.”

  “Why do you say that, Ms Marnier?”

  “Because they ... they speak little, it seems, and do exactly what they say they will do.” She paused, then continued. “Yes, I know the matter of their natures is ... very different and might be something, you see, to want to hide.”

  Vigola shrugged. “Well, maybe soon we will have further word from Dr. Hughes. Let us hope so. Thank you so much, Ms Marnier, for your thoughts. I will certainly ask our teams more about the field around the craft and how it might relate to the alien characteristics.”

  “You're welcome, Ms Vigola,” Françoise said, standing. She realized she was being dismissed. “I will be with Debbie ... if you wish to ... please let me know if I can help in any way.”

  “We will. Thank you again.”

  With that, Françoise crossed to the door and exited into the larger room where Debbie waited.

  Chapter 46

  Time passed without notice in the blankness of Sandra Hughes' existence. The depth of her unconsciousness was comparable to the total nothingness experienced during general anesthesia for a major medical procedure. As she lay, in a condition deeper than sleep, the astronomer remained swathed in a reddish blur that was brightest and thickest around her head. The beginning tendrils of returning awareness were totally chaotic, almost random triggers of memories, some recent, some ancient. The first identifiable memory Sandra sensed was a wordless scene from her infancy, fla
shing by as if carried aboard a speeding vehicle and seen only at a glimpse before moving off into the distance. The flash of memory included only her mother's face, looking down on her, probably in her crib. It was those motherly eyes that had stuck with Sandra, re-experienced vividly, if briefly, more than thirty years later. Then there was Carl Von Drath's voice, and brief, blurry image of him with his beloved trees in the background. And the telescopes, the twin Kecks, in profile against the sky as she always visualized them, even when closeted in her office or control room. Then her mother's eyes again, then Debbie as a baby sister, struggling to maintain balance in the first months after she'd begun to walk.

  In the background of the telescope and following images was a whirring blend of other remembrances, mixtures of classroom scenes at Trinity University, round green Hawaiian hills where she hiked, a quick glance at the neighbor's dog from down the street – a creature she would often greet returning from work. Then there was a published page of her own work, a page full of printed equations she was checking for accuracy and printing errors. The page blurred and evolved to Françoise Marnier behind her in the Devil Fish, only a day and half earlier. Shortly after that sensation, Sandra began to recall where she was, but even that recall was confusing because she remembered the stone chamber before she identified it with the alien visitors.

  There was not enough awareness in Sandra's barely functional brain to understand the passage of time. But she now knew who she was and remembered that she was somewhere remote and alien. Where exactly that was and what she was doing there were two concepts beyond her capability of perceiving at that moment. After another few minutes Sandra's awareness faded again, but not to the point of blankness. She sensed a heavy, deep fatigue, as if she'd worked at arduous labor for many hours and was finally, just before collapse, allowed to rest. Random and partial images formed once again in her head and swirled away almost as soon as they were recognizable. Then a strange new glimpse of something rushed by, seeming to Sandra's fractional self to be out of place, a kind of wrongness that shouldn't be there. That new thing became a kind of sand grain around which the pearl of her self awareness grew. Gradually, yes, but – as Sandra would call it, monotonically – without changing direction she evolved from blank nothingness to a fair representation of Sandra Hughes. An exhausted Sandra Hughes, she slowly realized, surprised at her weakness.