by Gene Brewer
As I was getting ready to go out the door I asked Karen what she planned to do while I was in the trailer. “Probably spend the day on the phone like I did yesterday. I haven’t told anyone about the Bullocks, or why they’re here, only that we have another visitor from space.”
“Probably a good idea. By the way, I haven’t had a chance to watch the news. Is anyone reporting on Walter’s visit?”
“There was something last night about a rumor of a big space ship landing somewhere in the Northeast, but nothing about the Bullocks.”
“It’s amazing how the media report everything before they get all the facts.” “Let’s hope they don’t terrify everyone on Earth.”
“Why not? Everyone’s going to be terrified soon enough anyway.”
The phone rang. It was Mike. “Tell him I’m on my way.” Flower accompanied me to the trailer, where Mike was waiting. He gave her ears a good scratching. “You look tired,” he observed with a frown.
“Me? Or Flower?”
He grinned and gave her a final pat. “She looks fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next six days.”
“Look at it this way, Gene: six days isn’t a very long time. Then your job will be done.”
“I hope so.” He started to open the door to the Nerve Center. I stopped him. “Before we go in, you should know that the Bullocks came to me last night.”
“In the house?”
“Yes. About 2:30.”
“What did they say?”
“We have a year to stop the killing.”
His eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing. Flower barked at something in the woods and ran off to investigate. The agents, wearing secret little smiles, watched her go. I suspected that almost anything that relieved the boredom would be a welcome sight. I saw that the men with shovels were still carefully digging in the soft earth.
Mike and I went into the trailer and headed for Room 3, where a surprise was waiting. “Mr. President!” A few others were in the room, the same people who were present the day before.
“Hi, Dr. B. How are you? You look tired.”
“I’m all right, sir, thank you.”
He seemed to be studying my face, as if looking for clues about whether I was still functioning on all my cylinders. “Maybe we could shoot a few hoops this afternoon.”
I shrugged.
“Let me tell you a little secret, Gene. When I’m worried about a big speech coming up — to the United Nations, for example — I sometimes need a little help with sleeping the night before.”
“I may need something for the next five nights.”
He glanced at Mike. “That can be arranged.”
“In fact, you have an appointment with your doctors to deal with exactly that,” Mike added. I wasn’t sure whether or not he was joking — I’m a psychiatrist, and already thoroughly familiar with anxiety medications, including sleep inducers, though I try to avoid them.
“Sit down, Gene. Anything new from Walter?”
I didn’t know the protocol, but I sat down even though the President did not. “Walter will answer any relevant questions we might have,” I told him and the others, “but only if they come from me.”
The President nodded. “At least it’s good to know there can be a dialogue. Maybe there’s room for negotiation. Not to mention obtaining some useful scientific information from them.”
“They didn’t say anything about negotiations. I’m not sure they would welcome that.”
“Do you think they would be annoyed if you offered a suggestion, or even a plan?”
I thought about that for a moment. Such a strange place I found myself in. An ordinary question like that became magnified a thousand-fold when the survival of everyone on the planet was at stake. I was fully aware that we had to be as careful as humanly possible not to make a mistake, but I gave him the same answer I had given the Task Force on Negotiations the day before. “I could be wrong, Mr. President, but I don’t think it would be a disaster.”
“Well, at least it doesn’t look as if we’re dealing with someone who would zap you like the tree that disappeared.” I hadn’t thought about this potential complication; now I had that to worry about. “All right, let’s get started, shall we? I’m not here to run this subcommittee, only to listen to what’s going on. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course.”
He finally sat down, which was a relief. “Good. Madame Chairman, let’s get started, shall we?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said the Ambassador. “There were two questions before us when we adjourned yesterday: would the Bullocks speak with anyone else, and what exactly are they demanding of us? The first has been answered. Did they say anything more about the second, Dr. Brewer?”
“Yes, they did.” I turned to the President. “I’m sorry, sir. I was going to mention this to you before we came in, but I was shocked to see you here and I forgot.”
“No problem, Dr. B. What is it?”
“They are going to give us one year from the time of the UN meeting to stop the killing. I mean, of other human beings. If we can get through one twenty-four hour period by the end of that year without anyone being killed, except accidentally, then we will have another year to stop the killing of all the other animals on the planet for a day.”
I would describe the reaction of the Task Force as a classic stunned silence. The President finally murmured, “Well, at least now we know what we’re up against.”
The chair responded with what everyone else was undoubtedly thinking. “Mr. President, is it possible to meet that demand?”
“The chances are pretty slim, but anything’s possible if we can convince the world that the alternative would be unthinkable. Remember nuclear weapons and the Cold War?”
The Ambassador offered this uplifting response: “I personally think it’s hopeless.”
“Nothing is hopeless,” snapped the President. Truth be told, he looked pretty tired himself. “And even if it is, we have to at least try to comply. Posterity, if there is one, deserves our best efforts. And,” he added, “maybe doing our best would impress them in some way. Convince them that we’re trying as hard as we can. It’s conceivable that this could buy us more time.”
The President’s science advisor asked me, “Does that mean we can kill anyone we want the other 364 days?”
“I don’t think that would go over very well, but I suppose it does.”
More silence until the chair asked, “Does anyone have a suggestion as to where to begin?”
The President remarked, “Obviously we have to begin immediately to convey this demand to every other country in the world. This would best be accomplished through a preliminary meeting of heads of state. We need to get the world’s leaders to speak to this. Maybe the leaders of every country on Earth. This is no time to assert “internal affairs,” or “sovereignty.” Every country in the world has to be on board, at least in principle, or we may have no chance at all of survival. If we can accomplish something along these lines before Dr. Brewer’s speech, it might soften the Bullocks’ demands a little.”
The chair, and apparently everyone else, concurred. The President wiggled a finger and someone left, presumably to convey that message to the Vice-President, and the Secretary of State. (I learned later that it was for both, as well as the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Congressional leaders, and the entire diplomatic community.)
The Ambassador cleared her throat, looked the President right in the eye, and said, “Mr. President, this raises a sticky issue. If even one country doesn’t sign on, wouldn’t the rest of the world have to destroy it or its government in order to secure the survival of all the others?”
The President calmly stared back. “Yes, that’s a possibility. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” I was overw
helmed by his immediate grasp of the situation, as well as his forthrightness, though I immediately understood the conundrum this raised.
“But what if it does?” she persisted.
The President seemed a bit annoyed by her tenacity, though he was also sympathetic. He suddenly looked ten years older. “We’ll deal with that option if and when it arises,” he said flatly. No one else spoke up; obviously everyone was trying to come to grips with that terrible possibility.
The chair diplomatically changed the subject. “As for the duties of this committee, can anyone suggest a way to approach the Bullocks with a counteroffer of some kind?”
A bearded, elderly man, Professor Something-or-other (who looked like Santa Claus), raised his hand. “We obviously need as much time as possible. Maybe something like ten years would be a more realistic goal. Dr. Brewer, do you think the Bullocks would be receptive to such a suggestion?”
“I don’t know.”
The Science Advisor said, “I agree that we should try for more time. What if we proposed to reduce the killing by 20% per year for five years? Or 10% over a ten-year period?”
All eyes turned to me again. There was worry and fear in every one of them, including the President’s. “I can only ask,” I responded lamely.
“Well, we need to negotiate a fairer deal,” said the Ambassador. “What they’re demanding of us is impossible.”
The President spoke. “I think we should assume that some kind of negotiation is feasible. The Bullocks are obviously holding all the cards, but they might trade a few years in order to accomplish their goal. Do you think they might be reasonable about this, Dr. B?”
“Mr. President, I have to say again that I’m in over my head on all this. The Bullocks might be willing to settle for a little less, but my gut feeling is that they would just as soon kill us all and solve the problem that way. They have nothing to gain by giving us more rope.”
“How odd,” the press secretary observed. “Apparently they find our killing each other abhorrent, yet they seem to be perfectly willing to kill us all to achieve their goal. Have you asked them about this seeming inconsistency, Dr. Brewer?”
“No, I haven’t. Not yet.”
A red-haired woman, an Assistant Secretary of State named O’Reilly (I learned later) asked, “What if we destroy the Bullocks?”
There was another prolonged silence before the President said, “Not good for three reasons. 1) They would merely send someone else to finish the job, and 2) They would probably not like the idea, which may well shorten our survival time considerably. And 3) How would we do that?”
“I was just thinking out loud,” the woman responded brightly. “We need to eliminate all the other possibilities before we decide on a specific course of action.”
“Your point is taken,” said the President dryly. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
“Okay, here is where we stand at the moment,” said the chair. “The first step is for Dr. Brewer to approach the Bullocks and sound them out about options.”
Something had been bothering me and I raised it. “One more thing, Madame Chairman. In case anyone has forgotten, Walter has probably heard all of this. He could well be present in the room right now.”
“Do you have any indication of this, Dr. Brewer?”
“No, but if he already knows about this discussion, and the world hasn’t ended, then he may actually be willing to give an inch.”
“Has he communicated this to you?” asked the chair.
“Uh — no.”
She nodded. “All right, let’s get to work,”
The rest of the morning was taken up with determining exactly what concessions we might ask of the Bullocks. A suggestion was also made to ask them to inform us of how and when our species would come to an end if we failed to meet their demands. This would accomplish two things: first, we could better prepare for whatever disaster might befall us, and second, the gory details might help to encourage the world’s compliance with their demands.
I pointed out that Walter had already characterized this question as irrelevant, to which it was suggested that I nevertheless try to find out whatever I could about their intentions.
There were also suggestions to pump them about their knowledge of science and medicine and all the other areas of enlightenment, but this was rejected in general because if we failed the primary mission, all that would become moot. Nevertheless, I agreed to ask the Bullocks whether they would divulge such knowledge if we, in fact, succeeded in our goal, because an understanding that this information would be shared with everyone on Earth might also help encourage government leaders to come on board.
Finally, someone asked whether another task force should be set up to give me a tutorial in negotiation. It was decided instead to put that item on the agenda of the Task Force On Brewer Preparation.
As they filed out, everyone, including the President, shook my hand again. “I think everything is going as well as possible, Gene,” he assured me. “We’re all grateful for your co-operation.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I’m going back to Washington. Call me immediately if anything else comes up.” He reminded me that “You have my number.”
“I will. Thank you, sir, for being here.”
He nodded and disappeared out the door. Only Mike and a couple of the Secret Service agents were left behind.
“It will soon be lunchtime, Gene. After that, and a nap if you want it, we’ll be meeting again with the Brewer Prep. group. Room 3. Two o’clock. See you then.”
For some reason I didn’t want to leave him, perhaps because of his uncanny ability to reassure (for the first time, I realized that he reminded me of my son Will in some ways). And maybe the Bullocks wouldn’t show up if he were with me in the backyard. I wasn’t ready to face Walter again. “I was just wondering: where are all the task force members staying?”
“We commandeered a hotel across from the shopping mall where you found Walter.”
“Oh. How ironic.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Want to come for lunch, Mike?”
“No, thanks. Maybe next time. Got a lot to do… .”
“Okay, sure.”
He went back into the Nerve Center, leaving me to deal with the Bullocks alone, should they have anything to tell me. Halfway across the yard, though, I stopped. There was no point in delaying any encounter. Time was critical. I asked Walter point blank whether he had heard the discussion in Room 6. “Of course,” came the immediate reply.
“Well, what do you think?”
“About killing everyone in a non-cooperative country? Or whether we’d be willing to soften our demands?”
“Both, damn it.”
“Do you remember what prot said about the execution of people who had killed others?”
“I think he said it was an oxymoron.”
“So do you think you will score any points for killing everyone in one of your countries so that they can’t kill any of their own?”
“Okay, I will pass that on to the President and the others. But what about the negotiations: any chance you could give us more time, for example? A year might not be enough time to convince the whole world not to kill anyone.”
“Why do you need more than a year? Is it really possible that you find killing so compelling that you’re willing to die for it?”
“Not really. It’s just that there are little wars going on somewhere all the time… .”
“Then you’ll have to stop them.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible. It takes a certain amount of time for people — Look. You want us to stop the killing, right? If it took ten years, say, or even a hundred, wouldn’t your goal be met? Then there would be no more killing.”
“Do you have any idea how many people you could kill in a hundred years?
How many other animals?”
“Well, what if we come close? What if the killings are reduced by, say, 95%? Would that satisfy you?”
“Not unless 5% of them are accidents.”
“So the 100% and the one-year time frame are not negotiable? It doesn’t seem fair that we — ”
“You’re still missing a very important point, doctor. We don’t really care whether the human race survives or not. We’re willing to give you a year to re-think your ‘values,’ as you love to call them. Would you prefer that we just came and eliminated the problem without warning? A year is a already a generous compromise, one that will cost any number of lives, not to mention enormous pain and suffering, not only for the individuals involved, but for all the rest of us. The whole universe suffers your thirst for blood! Are we making ourselves clear?”
“One more question. If we fail to comply, you plan to kill us all. How do you explain that contradiction?”
“Who said anything about killing you?”
“But — ”
“There are many ways to solve a problem like this.”
I could hear myself breathing hard again. “Then how do you plan to solve this one?”
There was no response. I waited, but I soon realized none would be forthcoming.
After greeting my wife and patting my dog, I mumbled something about making a phone call and proceeded to my study. I sat down at the desk, and pulled out the President’s phone number. Amazingly, he answered it himself. Judging by the noise, he was probably in Air Force One. “I just spoke to Walter,” I told him, “and I thought you’d like to know what he said.”