A Lot Like Christmas

by Connie Willis

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  “I thought the surveillance tapes didn’t have any sound,” Calvin said.

  “They don’t. Someone else in the mall must have had a videocam.”

  “—and when the Altairi heard those holy songs,” Reverend Thresher was saying, “they were overcome by the truth of their message, by the power of God’s blessed word—”

  “Oh, no,” Calvin said.

  “—and they sank to the ground in repentance for their sins.”

  “They did not,” I said. “They sat down.”

  “For the past nine months, scientists have been seeking to discover the reason why the Altairi came to our planet. They should have turned to our Blessed Savior instead, for it is in Him that all answers lie. Why have the Altairi come here? To be saved! They’ve come to be born again, as we shall demonstrate.” He held up a CD of Christmas carols.

  “Oh, no!” we both said. I grabbed for my cell phone.

  “Like the wise men of old,” Reverend Thresher was saying, “they have come seeking Christ, which proves that Christianity is the only true religion.”

  Dr. Morthman took forever to answer his phone. When he did, I said, “Dr. Morthman, you mustn’t let the Altairi listen to any Christmas carols—”

  “I can’t talk now,” he said. “We’re in the middle of a press conference,” and hung up.

  “Dr. Morthman—” I hit redial.

  “There’s no time for that.” Calvin, who’d snatched up his keys and my coat, said, “Come on, we’ll take my car,” and as we racketed downstairs, “There were a lot of reporters there, and he just said something that will make every Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Wiccan, and nonevangelical Christian on the planet go ballistic. If we’re lucky, he’ll still be answering questions when we get there.”

  “And if we’re not?”

  “The Altairi will be out seizing troubled minds, and we’ll have a holy war on our hands.”

  We almost made it. There were, as Calvin had predicted, a lot of questions, particularly after Reverend Thresher stated that the Altairi agreed with him on abortion, gay marriage, and the necessity of electing Republicans to all political offices in the next election.

  But the clamoring reporters clogging the steps, the door, and the hall made it nearly impossible to get through, and by the time we reached the audio lab, Reverend Thresher was pointing proudly to the Altairi kneeling on the other side of the one-way mirror and telling the reporters, “As you can see, their hearing the Christmas message has made them kneel in reverence—”

  “Oh, no, they must be listening to ‘O Holy Night,’ ” I said, “or ‘As with Gladness Men of Old.’ ”

  “What did you play them?” Calvin demanded. He pointed at the kneeling Altairi.

  “The One True Way Maxichurch Christmas CD,” Reverend Thresher said proudly, holding up the case, which the reporters obligingly snapped, filmed, and downloaded to their iPods. “Christmas Carols for True Christians.”

  “No, no, what song?”

  “Do the individual carols hold a special significance for them?” the reporters were shouting, and “What carol were they listening to in the mall?” and “Have they been baptized, Reverend Thresher?” while I tried to tell Dr. Morthman, “You’ve got to turn the music off.”

  “Off?” Dr. Morthman said incredulously, yelling to be heard over the reporters. “Just when we’re finally making progress communicating with the Altairi?”

  “You have to tell us which songs you’ve played!” Calvin shouted.

  “Who are you?” Reverend Thresher demanded.

  “He’s with me,” I said, and to Dr. Morthman, “You have to turn it off right now. Some of the carols are dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” he bellowed, and the reporters’ attention swiveled to us.

  “What do you mean, dangerous?” they asked.

  “I mean dangerous,” Calvin said. “The Altairi aren’t repenting of anything. They’re—”

  “How dare you accuse the Altairi of not being born again?” Reverend Thresher said. “I saw them respond to the hymnwriter’s inspiring words with my own eyes, saw them fall on their knees—”

  “They responded to ‘Silver Bells,’ too,” I said, “and to ‘The Hanukkah Song.’ ”

  “ ‘The Hanukkah Song’?” the reporters said, and began pelting us with questions again. “Does that mean they’re Jewish?” “Orthodox or Reform?” “What’s their response to Hindu chants?” “What about the Mormon Tabernacle Choir? Do they respond to that?”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with religion,” Calvin said. “The Altairi are responding to the literal meaning of certain words in the songs. Some of the words they’re listening to right now could be dangerous for them to—”

  “Blasphemy!” Reverend Thresher bellowed. “How could the blessed Christmas message be dangerous?”

  “ ‘Christmas Day Is Come’ tells them to slay young children,” I said, “and the lyrics of other carols have blood and war and stars raining fire. That’s why you’ve got to turn off the music right now.”

  “Too late,” Calvin said, and pointed through the one-way mirror.

  The Altairi weren’t there. “Where are they?” the reporters began shouting. “Where did they go?” and Reverend Thresher and Dr. Morthman both turned to me and demanded to know what I’d done with them.

  “Leave her alone. She doesn’t know where they are any more than you do,” Calvin said, in his choir director voice.

  The effect on the room was the same as it had been on his seventh-graders. Dr. Morthman let go of me, and the reporters shut up. “Now, what song were you playing?” Calvin said to Reverend Thresher.

  “ ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,’ ” Reverend Thresher said, “but it’s one of the oldest and most beloved Christmas carols. It’s ridiculous to think hearing it could endanger anyone—”

  “Is ‘God Rest Ye’ why they left?” the reporters were shouting, and “What are the words? Is there any war in it? Or children-slaying?”

  “ ‘God rest ye merry, gentlemen,’ ” I muttered under my breath, trying to remember the lyrics. “ ‘Let nothing you dismay…’ ”

  “Where did they go?” the reporters clamored.

  “ ‘…O, tidings of comfort and joy,’ ” I murmured. I glanced over at Calvin. He was doing the same thing I was. “ ‘…To save us all…when we were gone…’ ”

  “Where do you think they’ve gone?” a reporter called out. Calvin looked at me. “Astray,” he said grimly.

  The Altairi weren’t in the other labs, in any of the other buildings on campus, or in their ship. Or at least no one had seen the ramp to it come down and them go inside. No one had seen them crossing the campus, either, or on the surrounding streets.

  “I hold you entirely responsible for this, Miss Yates,” Dr. Morthman said. “Send out an APB,” he told the police. “And put out an Amber Alert.”

  “That’s for when a child’s been kidnapped,” I said. “The Altairi haven’t—”

  “We don’t know that,” he snapped. He turned back to the police officer. “And call the FBI.”

  The police officer turned to Calvin. “Dr. Morthman said you said the aliens were responding to the words ‘gone astray.’ Were there any other words in the song that are dangerous?”

  “Sa—” I began.

  “No,” Calvin said, and, while Dr. Morthman was telling the officer to call Homeland Security and tell them to declare a Code Red, hustled me down the sidewalk and behind the Altairi’s ship.

  “Why did you tell them that?” I demanded. “What about ‘scorn’? What about ‘Satan’s power’?”

  “Shh,” he whispered. “He’s already calling Homeland Security. We don’t want him to call out the Air Force. And the nukes,” he said. “And there’s no time to explain things to them. We’ve got to find the Altairi.”

  “Do you have any idea where they could have gone?”

  “No. At least th
eir ship’s still here,” he said, looking over at it.

  I wasn’t sure that meant anything, considering the Altairi had been able to get out of a lab with a locked door. I said as much, and Calvin agreed. “ ‘Gone astray’ may not even be what they were responding to. They may be off looking for a manger or shepherds. And there are different versions. Christmas Carols for True Christians may have used an older one.”

  “In which case we need to go back to the lab and find out exactly what it was they heard,” I said, my heart sinking. Dr. Morthman was likely to have me arrested.

  Apparently Calvin had reached the same conclusion, because he said, “We can’t go back in there. It’s too risky, and we’ve got to find the Altairi before Reverend Thresher does. There’s no telling what he’ll play them next.”

  “But how—?”

  “If they did go astray, then they may still be in the area. You go get your car and check the streets north of the campus, and I’ll do south. Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Yes, but I don’t have a car. Mine’s at your apartment. We came over in yours, remember?”

  “What about the van you use to take the Altairi places in?”

  “But won’t that be awfully noticeable?”

  “They’re looking for six aliens on foot, not in a van,” he said, “and besides, if you find them, you’ll need something to put them in.”

  “You’re right,” I said, and took off for the faculty parking lot, hoping Dr. Morthman hadn’t had the same idea.

  He hadn’t. The parking lot was deserted. I slid the van’s back door open, half hoping this was the Altairi’s idea of astray, but they weren’t inside, or on any of the streets for an area two miles north of DU. I drove up University Boulevard and then slowly up and down the side streets, terrified I’d find them squished on the pavement.

  It was already dark. I called Calvin. “No sign of them,” I told him. “Maybe they went back to the mall. I’m going to go over there and—”

  “No, don’t do that,” he said. “Dr. Morthman and the FBI are there. I’m watching it on CNN. They’re searching Victoria’s Secret. Besides, the Altairi aren’t there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they’re here at my apartment.”

  “They are?” I said, weak with relief. “Where did you find them?”

  He didn’t answer me. “Don’t take any major streets on your way over here,” he said. “And park in the alley.”

  “Why? What have they done?” I asked, but he’d already hung up.

  The Altairi were standing in the middle of Calvin’s living room when I got there. “I came back here to check on alternate lyrics for ‘God Rest Ye’ and found them waiting for me,” Calvin explained. “Did you park in the alley?”

  “Yes, at the other end of the block. What have they done?” I repeated, almost afraid to ask.

  “Nothing. At least nothing that’s been on CNN,” he said, gesturing at the TV, which was showing the police searching the candle store. He had the sound turned down, but across the bottom of the screen was the logo “Aliens AWOL.”

  “Then why all the secrecy?”

  “Because we can’t afford to let them find the Altairi till we’ve figured out why they’re doing what they’re doing. Next time it might not be as harmless as going astray. And we can’t go to your apartment. They know where you live. We’re going to have to hole up here. Did you tell anybody you were working with me?”

  I tried to think. I’d attempted to tell Dr. Morthman about Calvin when I got back from the mall, but I hadn’t gotten far enough to tell him Calvin’s name, and when Reverend Thresher had demanded, “Who are you?” all I’d said was “He’s with me.”

  “I didn’t tell anybody your name,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure nobody saw the Altairi coming here.”

  “But how can you be sure? Your neighbors—”

  “Because the Altairi were waiting for me inside,” he said. “Right where they are now. So they can either pick locks, walk through walls, or teleport. My money’s on teleportation. And it’s obvious the commission doesn’t have any idea where they are,” he said, pointing at the TV, where a mugshot-like photo of the Altairi was displayed, with “Have you seen these aliens?” and a phone number to call across their midsections. “And luckily, I went to the grocery store and stocked up the other day so I wouldn’t have to go shopping in between all my concerts.”

  “Your concerts! And the All-City Sing! I forgot all about them,” I said, stricken with guilt. “Weren’t you supposed to have a rehearsal tonight?”

  “I canceled it,” he said, “and I can cancel the one tomorrow morning if I have to. The Sing’s not till tomorrow night. We’ve got plenty of time to figure this out.”

  If they don’t find us first, I thought, looking at the TV, where they were searching the food court. Eventually, when they couldn’t find the Altairi anywhere, they’d realize I was missing, too, and start looking for us. And the reporters today, unlike Leo, had all been videotaping. If they put Calvin’s picture on TV with a number to call, one of his church choir members or his seventh-graders would be certain to call in and identify him.

  Which meant we’d better work fast. I picked up the list of songs and actions we’d compiled. “Where do you want to start?” I asked Calvin, who was starting through a stack of LPs.

  “Not with ‘Frosty the Snowman,’ ” he said. “I don’t think I can stand any chasing here and there.”

  “How about, ‘I Wonder as I Wander’?”

  “Very funny,” he said. “Since we know they respond to ‘kneeling,’ why don’t we start with that?”

  “Okay.” We played them “fall on your knees” and “come adore on bended knee” and “whose forms are bending low,” some of which they responded to and some of which they didn’t, for no reason we could see.

  “ ‘The First Noel’ has ‘full reverently upon their knee’ in it,” I said, and Calvin started toward the bedroom to look for it.

  He stopped as he passed in front of the TV. “I think you’d better come look at this,” he said, and turned it up.

  “The Altairi were not at the mall, as we had hoped,” Dr. Morthman was saying, “and it has just come to our attention that a member of our commission is also missing, Margaret Yates.” Video of the scene at the lab came on behind Dr. Morthman and the reporter, with me shouting for him to shut the music off. Any second a picture of Calvin would appear, demanding to know which carol they were playing.

  I grabbed up my phone and called Dr. Morthman, hoping against hope they couldn’t trace cell phone calls and that he’d answer even though he was on TV.

  He did, and the camera blessedly zoomed in on him so only a tiny piece of the video remained visible. “Where are you calling from?” he demanded. “Did you find the Altairi?”

  “No,” I said, “but I think I have an idea where they might be.”

  “Where?” Dr. Morthman said.

  “I don’t think they’ve gone astray. I think they may be responding to one of the other words in the song. ‘Rest’ or possibly—”

  “I knew it,” Reverend Thresher said, shoving in front of Dr. Morthman. “They were responding to the words ‘Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day.’ They’ve gone to church. They’re at the One True Way right this minute.”

  It wasn’t what I had in mind, but at least a photo of the One True Way Maxichurch was better than one of Calvin. “That should give us at least two hours. His church is way down in Colorado Springs,” I said, turning the TV back down, and went back to playing songs to the Altairi and logging their responses and nonresponses, but half an hour later, when Calvin went into the bedroom to try to find a Louis Armstrong CD, he stopped in front of the TV again and frowned.

  “What happened?” I said, dumping the pile of sheet music on my lap on the couch beside me and sidling past the Altairi to get to him. “Didn’t they take the bait?”

&n
bsp; “Oh, they took it, all right,” he said, and turned up the TV.

  “We believe the Altairi are in Bethlehem,” Dr. Morthman was saying. He was standing in front of a departures board at DIA.

  “Bethlehem?” I said.

  “It’s mentioned in the lyrics twice,” Calvin said. “At least if they’re off in Israel it gives us more time.”

  “It also gives us an international incident,” I said. “In the Middle East, no less. I’ve got to call Dr. Morthman.” But he must have turned his cell phone off, and I couldn’t get through to the lab.

  “You could call Reverend Thresher,” Calvin said, pointing to the TV screen.

  Reverend Thresher was surrounded by reporters as he got into his Lexus. “I’m on my way to the Altairi right now, and tonight we will hold a Praise Worship Service, and you’ll be able to hear their Christian witness, and the Christmas carols that first brought them to the Lord—”

  Calvin switched the TV off. “It’s a sixteen-hour flight to Bethlehem,” he said encouragingly. “It surely won’t take us that long to figure this out.”

  The phone rang. Calvin shot me a glance and then picked it up. “Hello, Mr. Steinberg,” he said. “Didn’t you get my message? I canceled tonight’s rehearsal.” He listened awhile. “If you’re worried about your entrance on page twelve, we’ll run over it before the Sing.” He listened some more. “It’ll all come together. It always does.”

  I hoped that would be true of our solving the puzzle of the Altairi. If it wasn’t, we’d be charged with kidnapping. Or starting a religious war. But both were better than letting Reverend Thresher play them “slowly dying” and “thorns infest the ground.” Which meant we’d better figure out what the Altairi were responding to, and fast. We played them Dolly Parton and Manhattan Transfer and the Barbershop Choir of Toledo and Dean Martin.

  Which was a bad idea. I’d had almost no sleep the last two days, and I found myself nodding off after the first few bars. I sat up straight and tried to concentrate on the Altairi, but it was no use. The next thing I knew, my head was on Calvin’s shoulder, and he was saying, “Meg? Meg? Do the Altairi sleep?”