The Fresco (11 page)

She bought lunch at a little side street restaurant, meantime glancing at a newspaper someone had left in the booth.

 

MASSACRE IN CENTRAL AFRICA
TRIBAL CONFLICT RENEWED

 

RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR THREATENS U.N. WALKOUT
SERB WAR CRIME TRIAL IN JEOPARDY

 

RENEWED VIOLENCE IN ISRAEL
PALESTINIANS VOW “NEW HOLOCAUST”

 

SENATOR URGES IMPEACHMENT OF PRESIDENT
MORSE SAYS “UNFIT TO SERVE”

 

SCIENTISTS DETECT “DISAPPEARING” ASTEROIDS
OBJECTS VANISHED, SAY ASTRONOMERS

 

SAUDI WOMAN TO BE EXECUTED FOR DRIVING CAR
REBEL PRINCESS SENTENCED TO STONING

 

ELEVEN DISAPPEAR IN NORTH WOODS
LUMBERMEN ALLEGE ECO-TERRORISM

 

It seemed the world was going on as usual. After lunch, she walked to the Smithsonian and spent two hours seeing this and that, until her feet were too sore to walk any further. She took a cab back to the hotel, had a hot bath and crawled into bed, feeling much more tired than the morning's activities warranted. After a little nap, she'd get ready to meet the two aliens again. She wondered very much what they would look like this time.

WEDNESDAY EVENING

Benita was in the hotel lobby, her coat over her arm, when Mr. Chad Riley arrived and introduced himself.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, surprised.

“General Wallace gave me a description, ma'am. Let me help you with your coat.” He held it for her. “The general's waiting in the car.”

“You're very prompt,” the general greeted her when she got into the seat beside him. On the other side of a glass partition, Mr. Riley seated himself beside a driver, who evidently knew where they were going. They slid away, the streets suddenly made of satin, either that or they were in a low-flying plane of some kind. Not a bump or a ripple, like floating!

“What kind of car is this?” she asked, enchanted.

“A very, very expensive one,” the general said with a grunt. “The kind they keep for visiting dignitaries. No, don't tell me. You're not a dignitary.”

“Well, I'm not!”

“Anyone the envoys ask for is automatically a dignitary, otherwise I wouldn't be in on this.”

“I guess I'm flattered. What are they looking like now?”

“Who? The envoys?” He shook his head. “I've only seen them on that device. I wasn't there when they met with the president. No one was but a couple of Secret Service men. He called a meeting of the Cabinet plus a few other people right afterward, and he invited me to be there, to explain about the cube. He says I have a reputation for outspoken veracity which will be badly needed. I guess I owe that to the fact I never had to be elected to anything! Tell the truth and shame the devil, as my ma used to say.”

“He explained about the cube? About me?”

“He didn't use your name, neither did I, we just said a constituent brought it to a congressman, and we've sworn your congressman to silence, for whatever good that'll do. The cube took us out into space again, and it showed them giving the cube to you, only it wasn't your face. In any case, everyone saw something slightly different.”

She giggled, finding this surprisingly funny, and he gave her a reproachful look.

“Somehow, I can't find the humor in it. Anyhow, tonight we're having a catered supper at a safe house. Chad, up there in the front seat, is FBI, and they're handling security.”

“The…envoys don't want to appear in public?”

“According to what they told the president, they never appear to the public in person. Only to small groups, and only right at first. They're assigned to visit races who have become interested in other intelligent life. The president thinks they're here to invite us to join some interstellar federation.”

She shook her head doubtfully. “It's possible, but I don't think so, not right away anyhow.”

“Why not? It's as likely as anything else.”

“Not really. It's more like…if we discover a new race of people, some little tribe, say, down in the Amazon somewhere. The linguists and the anthropologists might go look at them, but no ambassador or head of state is going to travel down there and invite them to join the United Nations.”

He looked quite taken aback. “Why would they bother just looking at us? Surely they must want something.”

She smiled, thinking about it. “Maybe they're just curious.”

The general had a very disturbed expression on his face as he said, “I can think of several reasons why someone would go visit a newly discovered tribe in the Amazon. Because they knew about herbal remedies that could be valuable to pharmaceutical companies. Because they were sitting on gigantic ore or oil deposits.

“Or, because the big lumber companies were coming, and the tribe wasn't going to be there—or maybe anywhere—very long.”

And with that happy thought, they both fell silent, not speaking again until they reached their destination.

The dinner arrangements were fairly intimate and not at all pretentious. Benita was introduced to the president's wife, and to the Secretary of State, both of whom seemed utterly unflappable but confessed to being excited by the whole affair. No one was very dressed up. The only other person Benita hadn't met was a red-faced general from the Pentagon, James McVane, in full uniform and an angry expression. Chiddy and Vess had shown up in the guise of pleasant, plump, dark-skinned middle-aged women clad in saris, making a total of eight for dinner, plus the watchful men in the foyer and three liveried waiters, two moving around a table in the adjacent dining room, setting up a dinner service, and one serving cocktails and hors d'oeuvres in the nicely furnished living room.

Benita received a hug from each alien, who also pressed her cheek with theirs, as if they were old friends. “Tonight we are Indira and Lara,” said the taller one in green. “Indira is in green and Lara is in red. This is the first step in our finding out about you.”

“Why did you choose to be women?” Benita whispered. The three of them were standing in a corner, closely observed but not intruded upon by the other guests.

“You can figure that out,” murmured Indira. “At some times we will take on the form of men, and also children, and perhaps different sorts of both, all three sexes—what is it called? Gay? In such guises we will wander around often, seeing how things work. But for now, we will be women and foreigners.”

“You want to elicit knee-jerk reactions, don't you?” Benita asked. “You want to know how people treat women or foreigners, habitually?”

Indira nodded. Lara merely smiled. Benita didn't think it was a real smile.

“When you smile, your eyes need to crinkle up a little,” she said, showing her. “Otherwise it looks insincere.”

“What if it is insincere?” Lara asked. “What if I am not at all amused?”

“Well, if you smile so it looks sincere, it will keep others from knowing how you feel. If you smile in a way that looks insincere, they will know exactly how you feel, which maybe is what you want. If you do not smile at all, people will think you are cold.”

“You do not smile when you are chilled?”

“Cold means uncaring. We feel warm or cold about people. Warm about our friends and loved ones. You might care very much, but it doesn't count as caring unless you do something, often something quite trivial and useless. Like smiling, or patting someone's arm, or murmuring conventional phrases, or bustling around in an attempt to help while you get in everyone's way.”

“So if I care greatly, but merely sit quiet, staying out of persons' way, I will be thought cold.”

“Exactly,” Benita confirmed. “I used to go to dinner at my grandmother's house, my father's mother. She never shut up from the time you walked in the door until you left. She cared so much that whenever you got comfortable, she made you change where you were sitting in order to sit somewhere better. She passed you food so many times you had no time to eat. She never listened to anything anyone said, and if you tried to help her, she told you how to do it, over and over. Whenever Papa took me there, I'd find a chair in a corner and sit very quietly…”

“While she told your mother you were cold,” finished Lara.

“Exactly,” Benita replied, ruefully. “Caring, grieving, rejoicing, we are expected to share them all intimately and vociferously.”

“So we will share,” said Indira. “Tell us, please, what you have been doing here in this city. We detect a newness about you!”

“I suspect you may have planned this all along. I have a new job and a new place to live.”

“Ah.” The smile again, with crinkles. “We did not plan so, but we were hopeful. Describe this place you will live?”

Benita did so, ignoring her doubts and concerns and dwelling at length upon its convenient location, about which Indira asked a great many questions.

“And you are pleased with these changes?” asked Lara, when she had finished. “We prefer that people we…bother…are pleased.”

“Yes, I think…I am pleased,” Benita confessed. “Change is…it's hard to get it into my head, but I'm sure you weren't a bother.”

“Ladies,” boomed General Wallace. “What are you drinking?”

“I am not,” murmured Lara.

“He means, what would you like as a drink,” Benita whispered. “Drinks and small tasty things are customary as a prelude to festive evening meals.”

“Fruit juice,” Lara said to the general, smiling, with her eyes crinkled up. “I have never tasted anything so lovely as your fruit juice.”

“For me, also,” cried Indira, crinkling her eyes until they radiated with wrinkles. “Apple, or grape, or what is that other one, Lara?”

“Maaango,” cried Lara, with a marvelous giggle.

“Julia Roberts did the giggle,” murmured Indira in Benita's ear. “On TV. Has Lara got it right?”

“Perfect,” Benita said, accepting the glass the general put in her hand. It was also fruit juice. It was quite possible no one was drinking anything alcoholic, and that might make sense. When she looked up, Lara and Indira had crossed the room to speak to the First Lady and had been replaced by the Secretary of State.

“You seem to get on with them quite well,” said the SOS.

“They probably chose someone they knew they'd get
along with,” Benita replied, though doubtfully. “I suppose I would do the same, in their place. They said they preferred to appear to someone just ordinary who could put them in touch with the VIPs without making a fuss about it.”

“You think they've done this before, then?” the SOS asked. “On other worlds?”

“Either that or they're following a protocol,” Benita replied, after a moment's thought.

The SOS gave her a piercing look. “Why would you think so?”

“Oh, the box they gave me. You've seen that?”

“I saw it, yes. It was the main course at two Cabinet meetings. One Monday, one this afternoon.”

“That box isn't something made up for one occasion. You noticed how it fills in the names? That clicking, while it searches for the proper label? If they'd made it up special, the names would have been included seamlessly. No, that box is something they use all the time. They probably have a supply of them in their ship, just in case they need more than one.”

“Ah,” said the SOS, then asked casually, “Is it a large ship?”

“Not the one I saw. It looked hardly big enough for the two of them. But that doesn't mean they don't have a big ship.”

“Where is it, do you think?”

“Oh, probably on the back side of the moon. That's where sci-fi writers would put it. Or under the ice in Antarctica, like in the
X-Files.
Or maybe it's simply a stealth ship, right out in the open only we can't see it, or, since they can appear as any creature they want to, maybe their ship can, too, and it's taken on the likeness of something we'd expect, a cloud, or a weather balloon.”

The SOS choked on her drink. “That doesn't disturb you?”

“Not really. I don't get any feeling of menace from them. Not even right at first. I think they're really what they say they are. Xenologists. Or xenological social workers.”

“Studying us? General McVane is quite worried about se
curity. He tells us there have been multiple sightings of something—ships, perhaps—in the last several days. Our military are in considerable disruption. They can't identify who or what is flying around over our country, perhaps studying our weapons.”

Benita shook her head. “It could be just as likely they're studying our culture. If we went to the Amazon to study a tribe there, our Department of Defense wouldn't be greatly interested in their bows and arrows, would it? We'd be more interested in other things, their language maybe.”

“Their physiology?”

“Only if it differed greatly from our own.”

“Would we kill one and dissect it?”

“If we were ethical, no. And one of the beings at that first meeting told me they were ethical. They don't do vivisection.”

“So they won't kidnap a human to dissect?”

“They say they've never done that. If they needed to do that, which I doubt, they would probably wait until they could lay hands on a dead one.”

General Wallace announced dinner and offered Lara his arm. The president's wife was at one end of the table and General Wallace at the other. Indira was on the First Lady's right, Mr. Riley on her left. Lara had General Wallace's right, with General McVane across from her and the SOS on his left, opposite Benita. The food was simple but very good, and both the ETs seemed to enjoy it. Benita watched them, thinking they might only be playing at enjoyment, tucking the food away inside to dispose of later. No telling what they could do with those infinitely morphable bodies. They were offered wine, which they refused. Benita's wineglass was filled, but she tasted it sparingly. Since she was sitting at the mid-point of the table, she could hear the conversation at both ends.

“Perhaps you ladies would be kind enough to resolve a small confusion for us,” she heard Indira say with a kindly smile.

The First Lady and the Secretary of State shared glances. The FL said, “We would be happy to try.”

“We have found a strangeness in your world that we cannot quite reconcile. During our study time, before we reached out to you, we learned much of your history and culture and religions, particularly the one claimed by a majority of the American people. The religion teaches that the purpose of man is to worship and adore and praise God, and those who do not do so will probably be punished. Is this correct?”

The SOS said guardedly, “Some religionists teach that, yes.”

“Ah. But you have countries ruled by despots who demand that people worship, adore and praise them. They put great pictures of themselves upon the walls, like icons, and those who do not adore are often killed or disappeared or tortured. There was one called Mao, one called Stalin. One now, called Hussein. Isn't this true?”

The FL nodded, warily.