by Gene Brewer
“And that was — ?”
“No negotiations. No margin for error. The one-year deadline is final.”
After a brief pause he said, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him over the noise, “Anything else?”
“Yes. I don’t think it would be a good idea to bomb the hell out of any country that doesn’t want to comply with their demands. It doesn’t make sense to them.”
“Go on.”
“He likened it to capital punishment. It’s exactly what they don’t want us to be doing.”
“What about their killing us? Did you ask them about that?”
“He said they weren’t planning to kill us. He said there are many ways to solve a ‘problem like this.’”
“How are they planning to solve it?”
“I don’t know!” I whined.
“Okay. I’ll pass all of this on to Mike. He’ll notify everyone else.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. And I’m sorry to be the bearer of — ”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Dr. B. None of this is your fault. Just keep doing what you’re doing. One thing, though: when you’re communicating with Walter, do you think you could speak out loud? That way we could all hear what’s being discussed.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot about that.”
“Not a problem.”
“Just one thing, though. If I start doing that, he would surely realize why.”
“Would that matter?”
“No, probably not.”
“Okay, enjoy your lunch as much as possible. I’ll try to do the same.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I hope you do.”
“Call anytime, Gene. I’m always here.”
“You got it, sir.” He hung up.
“My God.” Karen said, when I returned to the kitchen and told her about the call to the President. “It’s actually happening, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sweetheart, I’m afraid it is.”
“And we only have another year!” Her chin began to quiver.
“Not necessarily. When everyone understands what has to be done in order to save themselves, if not everyone else, it might be possible to stop the killing for a day. And once that’s accomplished, it may become a habit. It’s just not possible to predict what will happen. The world has never faced anything like this before.”
“You’re sounding more like a politician every day.”
“No need for insults, peach. And there’s one good thing, anyway: they aren’t planning on killing us.”
“What will they do — shuttle us off to a deserted planet?”
“I doubt it. We would just go on with the killing, probably of one another. If there weren’t any food, we’d probably become cannibals.”
“Or maybe not. You know what I was thinking before you came in?”
“No. What?”
“If everyone were on the same wavelength on all this, we would be more like the Bullocks. We’d become something like a giant colony of ants. Like they are.”
“Yeah, I thought of that myself. I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or not, but I think we’d better get used to the idea. Of trying it, anyway.”
“I’m scared. Not knowing what’s going to happen to us is worse than knowing.”
“I’m scared, too.”
You want some lunch? They made us a nice fruit salad and — ” She broke down sobbing. “I don’t think I can do this!”
I tried to comfort her. But I was sobbing, too. Flower began to howl. When there were no more tears, I told her, “When this UN thing is over — maybe this winter — we’ll take a nice vacation. Maybe the Caribbean or somewhere.”
“I won’t hold my breath. You’ll probably have to go around making speeches or something for the next year.”
“God, I hope not.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I wasn’t when I came in, but I think I’ll have some of that fruit salad… .”
Before that could happen, however, the phone rang. It was Mike. “Have you finished your lunch, Gene? We need you back here.”
“We were just starting. Can I have five minutes?”
“Make it a fast five. Something came up.”
“No nap?”
“No nap.”
We gobbled down some lunch. After a quick hug and trip to the bathroom I hurried back to the trailer. Mike was waiting in the main corridor. “The story has been leaked,” he told me. There are media people coming. In fact, they’re backed up at the barricades. The phones are ringing. In a few minutes the President is going to make a statement.” He hustled me into the main conference room, which was packed with people. A television set had been brought in. It seemed to be playing a soap opera of some kind. Despite my best efforts, I found myself watching it while Mike explained, “We don’t know who leaked the story, but we knew it would happen sooner or later.” He wagged his head. “It nearly always happens whenever there’s a sensitive matter that isn’t yet public knowledge. God bless the fourth estate, but they’re like buzzards on carrion.”
I nodded while I tried to determine whether Christine, pregnant with her abusive lover’s child, was going to survive her stay in the hospital. She looked okay, though there were beeping monitors everywhere. Suddenly the TV screen went blank for a moment, and a voice said, “We interrupt this program to bring you a message from the President of the United States.”
He was sitting at a desk, the American flag to his right. There was a softly whining noise in the background, probably that of Air Force One’s engines. His speech was brief and to the point. I found myself studying his demeanor for clues as to how I should behave in the Security Council chamber of the United Nations. After an opening greeting, he said, “Less than an hour ago, one of the cable news networks reported that we have been visited by alien life forms, and that the visitors have made certain demands on human civilization. I am making this announcement to confirm that information. But I state categorically, to everyone listening to this broadcast, that there is no immediate danger, and that every citizen of every nation on Earth should go about his usual business without interruption. I repeat: there is no immediate danger. My administration, as well as the heads of the other branches of government, and leaders form around the world, are dealing with the situation, and we will give you further information as soon as it becomes available. For the present I can only tell you this: a message from the aliens will be delivered to the United Nations Security Council five days from today. Until that time, I assure you once again that there is nothing to be concerned about, and everyone should go about his or her activities as usual.”
The President paused for a moment as if to emphasize the importance of his final words, which were: “I am certain that every news and talk program in the country and elsewhere will focus its attention on this matter, and there will undoubtedly be rumors of all sorts filling the airwaves as well as the print media. That is their right and their duty. But I can tell you also that the only official announcements concerning this situation will come either from me or from my press secretary. Statements made by anyone else, regardless of rank, should be considered unconfirmed speculation only. I say again: statements are not to be taken as fact unless confirmed by myself or my press secretary.” He paused again to let that sink in, then added, “Thank you for your cooperation, and may God bless the United States of America and all the other countries of this beautiful world.”
Suddenly we were back in Christine’s hospital room, and it appeared that she and her unborn baby were still alive. Before I could be certain of this, however, someone switched off the TV set. The room was filled with the low buzz of murmurs, but it seemed that everyone present had a meeting somewhere, and they all quickly filed out, still murmuring about who might have leaked the information about the Bullocks. Mike, as always, checked his clipboard, wh
ich had felt-tip pen deletions and arrows all over it (he called it his “road map”). “This changes everything, at least for now,” he said. “We’ll have to schedule a media session. You probably won’t have to have any interviews immediately, but we may need to have a press conference sometime before you go to the UN.”
“Do I have to do that?”
“If it were anything else, no. But when the survival of the entire world is at stake, it would probably be a good idea to reassure people that you are someone they can trust to take their case to the world’s leaders. And that you are, in fact, the only person who can. This won’t eliminate people’s fears altogether, but knowing who is representing them at the highest levels should calm them down considerably. So a relationship with the news media has now become a priority, and you will need to meet with TF7 right away to get you prepared for any upcoming interviews.” Apparently he read the concern in my eyes. “Do you understand why we need to do this Gene? Does it make sense to you?”
I felt terrible, as if I were coming down with a disease of some kind. “Yes, I suppose it does. It’s just that everything is happening so goddamn fast… .”
For the first time, Mike actually wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “In the short time I’ve gotten to know you, Dr. B, I’ve learned that once your mind is focused on a problem, you proceed to deal with it quickly and forcefully. This one is no different.”
I have to admit: that kind of encouragement helps anyone. “If you say so, Mike. All right — bring it on.”
“Good. Let’s get to Meeting Room 5.”
To take my mind off my dilemma, I tried to guess what color the walls would be. When we went in (I was wrong — the walls were green) I was greeted by the President’s press secretary. Apparently he was chairing this hastily drawn-up session. We shook hands and sat down on the same side of the usual long table (I wondered whether they moved it from room to room for these meetings). The others were mostly new to me, though I recognized a few familiar faces from the television news programs. Their voices were a bit different, however, as if they had been enhanced for their telecasts. I realized immediately that they had been summoned earlier, as if Mike and the others were expecting something like this.
“You all know why we’re here,” the press secretary began. “For your information, Dr. Brewer, this meeting is to inform you not about what to say in any interviews that might be necessary, but what not to say. It’s the first rule of doing any interview, especially for government officials and politicians. The second one is: tell the truth. There were snickers, and even a couple of horse laughs. “All right,” said the chair, “tell the truth whenever possible. He turned and looked me in the eye. “This is one of those times. There is no reason for lying to the public, and no point to it. It could be dangerous and counter-productive The people need to know from you, rather than their elected representatives, including even the President, that we have been visited, and that our visitors have made certain demands that must be met. Once people are convinced there is hope, no matter how small this hope may be, that we can get ourselves out of this situation, they will generally want to do whatever is required to accomplish that goal. And this is something we need to emphasize to all the people of the world: that if we try our utmost to comply, there is hope that we will all survive this thing and maybe even come out far better for it.”
“I understand. So is someone going to write a speech for me to deliver to the media?”
A highly respected newscaster across the table, someone I seemed to know intimately from merely watching him read the news almost every evening, answered the question. “Unfortunately, Dr. Brewer, it’s not going to be that easy. You’ll probably have to answer some questions from reporters, and maybe even appear on a talk show — something like that. We haven’t yet decided which is the best approach. That is one of the purposes of this committee. After talking with you, we’ll try to determine which will work best for everyone concerned, including yourself.”
“You want to see which strategy I’ll be able to handle.”
“In a word: yes. But, for what it’s worth, I like your question; it suggests that you can think on your feet. Or on your derriere, as the case may be.” This brought a few chuckles from the subcommittee, including one or two from me.
“So you’re going to prepare me to handle some kind of interview. Like the candidates in a Presidential debate are prepped.”
“Exactly.”
The chair asked, “Did you ever compete in a debate in college? High school?”
“No, sorry. I was pre-med. No time for games.”
There were feeble grins all around. Apparently many in the group had done this, and to them it wasn’t a game.
“In that case, there’s no time to waste,” the chair soberly asserted. “Shall we begin?”
Mike, who was sitting next to me, slid a pad and pen toward me. The press secretary explained that those present would bombard me with questions that a wily reporter or newscaster would be expected to ask. And, for the next hour or so, that is exactly what happened. After each fumbling answer, I was advised to give my response in a different way, and I repeated the answers any number of times, until I finally started getting fuzzyheaded from my attempts to focus intently on what I was hearing and what I was saying. I started to stumble on the simplest questions, including some I had answered before. That’s when I asked Mike for a break. His unwelcome answer was another question: “Can you hold out for another fifteen or twenty minutes?”
I glared at him, but I understood groggily that I needed to practice giving answers while I was tired, even exhausted. I held out until I was giving such convoluted answers that everyone needed a break. “Nice job, Gene,” Mike said, and the members of the task force nodded in agreement. I, on the other hand, could barely remember my own name.
After a fifteen-minute bathroom break, and some welcome coffee, we began the process all over again: same questions, same answers, until I could have answered them in my sleep, which, indeed, I might be called upon to do. Most of the questions centered around Walter — how I could be sure they were from another planet, how did I know they had the power to eliminate the human race from the Earth (if, unfortunately, it came to that), how confident was I that they would carry out that program (i.e., was it just a scare tactic?). I began to understand that the main point of my meeting with reporters, whenever that might be scheduled, was to convince them and, by extension, the general public, that they could 1) believe that Walter actually existed, and was not a figment of my imagination, and 2) believe that the Bullocks were far more powerful than the total military capability of the entire world’s forces. This would be no small achievement: unless virtually the entire population of the Earth bought into our response to the Bullocks’ threats, nothing we did to try to appease them would be sufficient.
Then the focus shifted to related questions, such as: what did the Bullocks look like, was I afraid of them and why, and how was my family taking all of this? In addition, there were technical details to be worked out — for example, whether I should stand or sit during the questioning. It was felt that a stronger tone would be set if I were to stand — behind a lectern, probably — but if the questioning went on for hours, which might happen because of the seriousness of the matter, would I become too tired to continue? Someone suggested that the media session should take place first thing in the morning, when I would be fresher. The issue was left undecided, but it was unanimously agreed that we should reconvene the next day and rehearse all the questions again non-stop to see how long I could go on at the lectern.
At the end of the discussion I was actually given a brief round of applause, probably more for encouragement than anything else. And I certainly was exhausted, even though it was only mid-afternoon. Mike suggested I go home for a brief visit with my wife, and maybe take a short nap, before continuing the afternoon meetings, which would have to be condense
d because of the time lost in preparing for the media onslaught. I gratefully complied.
I nodded to the SS agents on my way out the door, but they didn’t return the greeting. Crossing the backyard, still trying to get the cobwebs out of my head, I heard Walter ask me something. I was devastated — for a few hours I had almost forgotten about the Bullocks except as a topic for questions, not the reality of it all. Remembering to speak out loud, as the President (and Mike) had requested, I said, “What? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
With less animosity than usual, they said, “I have visited much of your planet. Your story of the garden of Eden is true — what a beautiful place your world would be without Homo sapiens and your clamorous cities to ruin it.”
“Thank you.”
“For your information, also, you and your advisors shouldn’t worry so much about your performance in front of a group of reporters. The only thing that matters is that your fellow humans get the message. Whether you bumble or stutter is unimportant.”
“It’s not that simple, Walter. We’re not ants. Every one of our species has a mind of his or her own. We have to convince every person in the world, or at least all of the world’s leaders, that you are who you say you are, and that you can, and will, do what you say you are going to do.”
“What would convince your people to take us seriously? Would another demonstration help?” There was no snarl, it was simply a suggestive question.
“Uh — what kind of demonstration are we talking about? You wouldn’t ‘eliminate’ any of us, like we were so many trees, on national television, would you?”
There was no response to that appeal.
“Walter?”
Apparently he was gone for the day. Planning a convincing demonstration, perhaps. Or visiting Antarctica, for all I knew. But I was so tired I didn’t give a damn where he was. When I went inside, Karen pointed out that I looked like shit. I told her I needed a nap. “The bedroom is that way,” she reminded me, and I slept like a dead person for almost an hour. When I awoke, I felt a little better, but not much. I gave my wife a peck on the cheek and slogged back to the trailer, telling myself over and over again how beautiful the fall colors were, how beautiful, how beautiful, so that the Bullocks wouldn’t hear me say or think anything else. Nevertheless, I noticed that the guys with shovels were still poking around in the woods. It occurred to me that maybe Walter had beat them to it.