Our Child of the Stars

by Stephen Cox

  In the Jeep’s wake came a sleek black car bearing the editor of Witness and the company lawyer.

  ‘Cory, tuck yourself away, please, like we discussed.’ If Cory was hidden, but nearby, he could read men’s feelings – not anything as useful as actual thoughts, but he might be able to pick up dishonesty or malice. Cory obediently disappeared into his blanket nest behind the couch in the big room.

  Carol’s face looked strained and Molly’s worries resurfaced; the journalist always sounded confident, but Molly could see her own doubts in the set of her jaw, the twitch of her fingers.

  ‘Showtime,’ Carol said, with a faint smile. ‘Leave the talking to me.’

  Storm led two men in, stamping snow from their city shoes. The editor, Mr Turner, was tall and reedy and wore horn-rimmed glasses. His lawyer was suave and plump.

  Carol took charge and made brisk introductions.

  The lawyer looked nervous. ‘They’re wanted by the FBI,’ he said to the air. ‘This is a difficult situation. Compromising.’

  The Myers sat together on the couch. Carol took a deep breath and placed her hands palm down on her thighs. Her voice was firm and even as she started. ‘An alien spaceship crashed in Amber Grove on Meteor Day. Mr and Mrs Myers adopted the sole survivor, a boy they called Cory.’

  The lawyer’s mouth opened a little.

  Carol kept going. ‘The government has hidden the existence of the spaceship and of intelligent life from another planet. Instead, they’ve rounded up everyone who helped the Myers, a grotesque and unconstitutional abuse of power, and they’re hunting this innocent couple across the country. If you want their story, the photographs and the proof, you’ll need to protect the Myers and hide them, however long it takes and however much it costs. I need Witness to make promises in writing. And’ – she looked at Gene and Molly – ‘you need to swing the company’s power behind getting their friends freed. That’s very important.’

  Molly doubted the editor’s eyebrows could go any higher.

  ‘You’re crazy, Miss Longman. You got me to the middle of nowhere for that? We’re done.’ He started to get up, but Carol was as steely as Molly had ever seen her.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Turner. I’m going to show you the proof, and then you will agree the deal. It’s that, or the Myers go meet Stan Vogel – you know his parents live about an hour from here? – and the Times run the story and you become the editor who turned down the biggest scoop in history.’

  ‘This is just hippie nonsense,’ the editor protested. ‘Everyone knows the Meteor’s been attracting kooks and cranks like flies on treacle.’

  Carol nodded. Molly tightened her hand on Gene’s for reassurance and said far more calmly than she felt, ‘Cory, come out.’

  Cory rose from his hiding place behind the couch, walked over to the two men and stood for a minute or two, his tentacles tasting the air. Molly guessed that he was reading their reaction.

  The lawyer jolted upright.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Turner. ‘Oh my God!’

  There was something about Cory in the flesh that instantly and utterly convinced people; they knew at once he wasn’t in make-up or a puppet.

  ‘I-am Cory Myers and I-am-pleased-to-meet-you.’

  Turner recovered his poise and replied, ‘Well, I am pleased to meet you too. But I guess I need to know if you’re real.’

  Cory frowned. ‘Course Cory real! The reeel-deal. Touch me.’

  He went right up to Turner, who looked at Molly for permission. Carol had told them Turner had kids of his own. She nodded, and he gently touched Cory’s sleek, hairless head, then the stripy ears.

  The lawyer shifted in his seat, away from Cory, wearing a painfully forced smile.

  Mr Turner reached for the tentacles, but Molly stopped him. ‘No, let Cory touch you.’

  The tentacles stroked the editor’s fingers, learning his smell, then the man started, because Cory’s tail had snuck up from behind and was stroking the editor’s leg.

  ‘This might be a mutation,’ Turner said, still looking a bit stunned.

  Carol snorted. ‘Don’t be an idiot. He’s a totally different species. Working tentacles, no hair anywhere . . . There are a hundred differences between him and us apes.’

  ‘Does that colour go all over?’ Turner said, and Cory pulled up his shirt, revealing his torso, the same grey-tinged-purple as his face. Gene often tried to mix blueberry and vanilla ice-cream to get the colour, but he’d never quite got it right. A curious dark-wine scar on his side showed where Cory had been wounded during the crash.

  The editor reached out a hand and touched the scar, just with the tips of his fingers, then he breathed, ‘Extraordinary. Thank you, son, for showing me.’

  Without a word to the lawyer, he said, ‘We’ll do what we must, of course. The people have a right to know.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘So, what’s the story and what pictures do we have? Any chance anyone else might have this?’

  ‘Will you help us?’ Gene said.

  Turner laughed. ‘Oh, believe me, Mr Myers, I’m not letting anyone else get their hands on you. We’re a big company with deep pockets. We’ll find somewhere perfect to hide you away. Now, the story . . .’

  Twenty minutes later, surrounded by typescript and photos, Turner had the biggest grin on his face, while the lawyer looked dazed and disbelieving.

  Cory, bored, was drawing on his pad on the floor.

  ‘Oh, Miss Longman, this is historic,’ the editor crowed. ‘What a scoop! And so many innocent people caught up in this – Mr and Mrs Myers, we’ll certainly try to get your friends freed.’

  For the first time the lawyer managed to look cheerful. ‘Habeas corpus. We’ll subpoena the Director of the FBI. I wonder if we should brief our friendly Senator?’

  Molly looked at Gene and for the first time in for ever she felt her stomach settle. Maybe this would work.

  Molly was about to say how thankful she was, how much she valued their help, when she heard an engine: a car pulling up outside the cabin. No one else was expected; no one else should be coming here. Storm rose from her chair, her head to one side. Cory’s ears were down.

  ‘Who the hell is outside?’ Carol asked, her face like thunder.

  ‘It’s Eric,’ said Turner, at his most casual. ‘I thought it would be useful to have him along in case I needed more background. You know how much of a Meteor buff he is—’

  ‘You told Eric?’ Carol snapped. ‘What did you tell him? I agreed you could bring a lawyer, but I specifically said no one else!’

  Turner looked at the Myers, sitting petrified on the couch. ‘Please don’t worry. Dr Flood’s my science editor and I can vouch for him, I promise you. I had no idea Carol’s Amber Grove story was this big, but I’m glad I called him, because he’ll be able to tell us how to prove Cory’s an alien. This is a tremendous story but we must be able to shut down any suggestion of a hoax . . .’

  ‘Eric is utterly unreliable,’ Carol said. ‘He almost blew the Iranian story by getting drunk—’

  Molly, her voice tight, said, ‘A high-school biology teacher could show you Cory is an alien! Cory has only seventeen chromosome pairs. His blood—’

  Carol, furious, broke in, ‘Mr Turner, Eric has zero discretion. How did you call him – on which phone? Did you give him this address over the phone?’

  The editor laughed. ‘Oh, of course, you all believe the FBI taps your phones! I called Eric at home, from my hotel, and he insisted on calling me back from a phone-box.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ Carol said. ‘I’ve been so careful . . .’

  There was a rap at the door and when Carol nodded, Storm opened it.

  The source of the discord was a stocky man, a balding faded red-head. He smiled like the whole world needed to be placated. ‘Oh my,’ he said, when he saw everyone. ‘Sorry I’m late
.’

  ‘Eric, does anyone else know you’re here?’ Turner asked.

  ‘My wife knows I’m out, but not where,’ Eric said, ‘and I didn’t mention the Meteor. So no, no one knows a thing.’

  ‘This story requires absolute discretion – that’s not up for discussion – and it’s Miss Longman’s byline. I need you for advice, some fact-checking and perhaps, if Carol agrees, a little “Our Science Editor adds”.’

  ‘Blow this, Eric, and I’ll hang you from the tallest tree in the forest,’ Carol threatened, white-faced and grim.

  ‘Oh my, what’s the story? Of course you can trust me – I’m a little hurt that you might think you can’t.’

  Once again, they coaxed Cory out from behind the sofa. Of all the adults who’d met Cory, Eric’s reaction was the most straightforward: rocking to and fro, grinning from ear to ear, he said, ‘What a handsome, handsome fellow! I never imagined – I never thought . . . Oh, to be here to see the day all our hopes came true! Oh, Mrs Myers, we must keep him safe, of course we must!’

  ‘How can we prove he’s an alien?’ Turner said.

  ‘You’re kidding! Just look at him . . . Okay, well, some simple tests on his blood and cells will do it. I can guarantee he won’t be a match to anything on Earth.’

  ‘Cory hate big-hurting Earth needles,’ Cory said glumly.

  ‘Well, we should get some independent scientists involved. I mean, it’s clearly not in doubt, but I expect the authorities will tell all sorts of lies. Lippincott should be our man, but they’ll just smear him so it’ll have to be . . . um . . . I know, Baker, and Hemsworth too, if we can reach him. Alessandro – he’s the rising man at NYU – is very helpful. Sound experts, and all without any political baggage.’

  It’s a good idea, Molly thought, her anxiety lifting. It hadn’t occurred to them that the authorities might just flatly deny Cory.

  Turner took charge. ‘You know I need to own the photos and negs, Storm.’ He gestured to the lawyer. ‘Put Miss DuBois on the payroll and agree a fee for these.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to be on the payroll,’ Storm said, only half-kidding.

  Turner scribbled a figure on his pad, tore it off and handed it to her. There was something mischievous in his smile. ‘Storm could buy you both a very special holiday with that.’

  Storm suppressed a snort and showed the piece of paper to Carol, who blinked, and then was her usual self.

  ‘If you and Storm want a bit of time to discuss this, I’d understand. Can Eric read the story?’

  ‘Read yes, change anything, no,’ Carol said. ‘And I want everything in writing. We will go to a competitor if you don’t run it.’

  *

  Eric sat at Carol’s typewriter and within an hour had turned out a piece of deathless Witness prose extolling the historic importance of the find, the absolute absurdity of any claim that ‘this lively fellow’ was anything but an intelligent alien, and a line flattering ‘Miss Longman’s diligent research’. Molly admired how he explained clearly and simply how access to even one creature from another planet would profoundly expand their knowledge about biology, and how life could be common across the galaxy. And he pleaded for humanity’s historic encounter with another species to be more peaceful and productive than the clashes of cultures seen on Earth.

  Carol’s clinical politeness did not fool Molly; it worried her that for all Eric’s flattery, Carol was still angry and upset.

  When Eric said, ‘The thing I don’t understand is, how did Cory get to Earth?’ with his little boy in the candy store look, Carol shut that line down at once.

  ‘Turner and I agreed what’s to be in the first story. I’m not having that discussion.’

  By mid-afternoon, Turner and the lawyer were ready to go. The adults gathered outside to see them off, leaving Cory, bored, in the cabin reading a book. The stiff wind was bitterly cold.

  In the lawyer’s suitcase there were two stiff-backed envelopes, each with a complete set of the photos and the story.

  Eric was checking the tyres on his ancient Oldsmobile.

  Turner shook Carol by the hand. ‘I think we can bank on that Pulitzer,’ he said.

  ‘Drive carefully, and call us,’ Carol said, and watched as the editor and the lawyer got into their sleek black car and drove off up the track. As soon as they were out of earshot, she hissed, ‘Stupid, mindless, careless idiot!’ Then she added, ‘Operation Scram.’

  ‘Already done,’ said Storm. ‘I gave Pierre the heads-up earlier. He reckons he can be here by dawn.’

  ‘Good – but I wonder if he can get here earlier? I’ll call from the Hausers’ place.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Gene said.

  ‘Watch Eric – don’t let him out of your sight,’ Carol ordered. ‘We’ll pack and get out of here. Pierre is our plan to get over the border.’ She checked her watch and slipped back into the cabin.

  Molly bit her lip. Gene looked baffled.

  Storm explained, ‘There’s a reason people call him Eric the Red: he hangs around with the wrong people. We guess he’s harmless, but he sure talks too much and he has some questionable friends. So maybe the FBI taps his phone, or maybe more likely he blabs to someone else they’re listening to . . . or he tips someone off in another paper. Carol freaked out for good reason. So we’ll leave as soon as we can, and we’ll make sure there’s nothing to find when we go. Wait here.’

  Molly felt her stomach somersault. How quickly their sanctuary by the lake had become a threat. She listened to the wind in the pines, feeling violated.

  The moment Storm was out of sight, Eric got up from his car and trotted over. ‘Mr and Mrs Myers, I really wanted a chance to speak to you two alone. This plan just won’t work: the authorities have no respect for the law. They’ll arrest you and stop Witness publishing, just you see. You need to be out from under this. Cory’s people sound so kind and peaceful – we really need to make sure their technology isn’t stolen and used by the warmongers. It would be terrible if that power fell into the hands of the Pentagon.’

  Molly felt a sense of dread building as Eric rattled on; there was something childlike in his attitude that was chilling her blood.

  ‘You guys are lucky I know the right people: people who will make Cory’s wellbeing their main concern. Once they know about him. Come with me and I promise you, in a day or so you’ll be away from all this and somewhere truly safe.’

  Molly felt a new dread. ‘Where?’

  He smiled, his belief shining through. ‘The Soviet Union: the last best hope for mankind. It’s remarkable: a true workers’ state, striving towards world peace. Dear little Cory. They’re so interested in the Meteor but they thought all the aliens died. May I use your phone?’

  ‘Wow, the way they crushed the Prague Spring . . . the gulags. Real peace-lovers, those Soviets,’ Gene said.

  Molly couldn’t decide whether to hit Eric or run away.

  Eric looked insulted. ‘Listen, you don’t understand: the West attacked them – three times in the last century, and they’re doing it again! You don’t really think that sub was destroyed by accident, do you? And you’ve heard about what happened in Siberia, haven’t you? You only have to listen to Russian radio to see just how provoked they’ve been. And you gotta see: Cory belongs to the whole human race. The West will try to hide the truth, like they always do. Cory’s people are more advanced than us, which means their society will have achieved perfect communism. The West will never survive the crushing of its intellectual arrogance.’

  ‘If you put Cory in danger, I’ll kill you,’ Molly said.

  Eric held his hands out. ‘You’re intelligent people, you must see this is the best way, right? So listen, I have a radio in the car and I can give them the good news, tell them exactly where you are so they can rescue you.’

  There was a sound behind them and Molly spun aro
und, ready to lash out – and there was Storm, striding towards them, a tyre-iron in her hand.

  Her accent deepened as she called, ‘What stupid crap is this now, Eric?’

  ‘He’s told the commies,’ Gene said, almost spitting in fury. ‘He has a radio; they might already know where we are.’ He grabbed Eric, who squealed in indignation, and held his arms behind his back.

  ‘So it’s a damn good job I got to your car earlier,’ Storm said. ‘Where’s the radio?’

  Eric eyed the tyre-iron. ‘I hate violence,’ he said, but when Storm lifted her weapon he flinched. ‘Under the spare tyre. It’s a clever little compartment.’

  ‘I oughtta stick you head-down in the lake and let you freeze, you stinking piece of coyote shit. What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Eric pleaded. ‘They keep asking about alien machines – alien weapons – but I just said Miss Longman might have a lead. I thought I’d better talk to you first.’

  Storm and Gene spoke together; Gene let her finish.

  ‘Did you say where we were? This place?’

  ‘Well, no.’ He looked vague. ‘I should have, really, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Cory can tell if you’re lying,’ Molly said, and Gene twisted Eric’s arm, making him yelp, and marched him towards the cabin.

  As she and Storm followed, Molly swung from fear to rage and back.

  ‘Really, he can tell if we lie?’ Eric said, desperately eager. ‘Ow, dammit! You’re hurting me! Look, this is all just a big misunderstanding: these are the good guys – we should call them now, get him away. Let’s be reasonable about this—’

  As Gene manhandled Eric into the Hauser place, Eric said, ‘So there must be a star-ship – is that what the imperialists are hiding? Why isn’t that in the story?’

  Molly looked at the man’s wet lips and eager eyes and thought, I could kill you, right here and now.

  Time to think again of the serenity prayer and the writings of Dr King.

  CHAPTER 37