There’s a row of public computers in the lobby of the museum, along with a payphone. I find the phone number for DARPA on their website.
Over the phone, I hear a distinctly computerized voice say, “Defense Research, how may I direct your call?”
“Nathaniel Lill,” I say, being careful to pronounce his name clearly.
“Professor Lill is not in the office at the moment, connecting to his cell phone. Please wait.”
Shoom, bar-bap-boom, shoom bar boom, plays through the phone like elevator music. The tune is actually a little catchy, and as it repeats I find myself tapping my foot to the beat.
“Nate here,” a familiar voice says.
“How did you sleep last night?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me,” I say. “Joe.”
“Joe?”
There’s muffled talking in the background as he holds his hand over the phone and scrambles to get someone’s attention.
“Have you still got that banana?” I ask to dispel any notion of doubt in his mind about who he’s talking to.
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” he says, and we converse like long lost friends. “We’re still trying to figure out precisely how you got out of here. Did you piss in the lock?”
I can’t help but laugh.
“What can I do for you, Joe? Why are you calling me? Are you ready to come in?”
“Not quite,” I reply. “The game has changed.”
“I’m listening.”
“First, no funny business or Chicago gets nuked. You got that?”
“I got that,” Nate replies. The tone of his voice changes markedly with those few words, signaling his somber acceptance that this is not a meeting of equals. I’m not sure Mark and Sharon would condone threats of violence, but it seems to get the message across. I’m still not sure what I’m doing, but I’ve got to try something. I’ve got to salvage some sanity out of this crazy mess.
“Tell the President. Noon at the American Museum of Natural History in New York.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Make it happen,” I cut him off. “We meet in public. We talk. We leave and go our own separate ways. And there’s no further contact. Is that understood?”
“Understood.”
With that, I hang up. My hands are shaking. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to the President, but I feel compelled to stand up for Mark and Sharon. At some point, they’ll be back, or someone else will drop by, and we need to grow up a little before then. We’ve got to stop playing silly games.
I’m an imposter. I feel stupid. Utterly incompetent. But wait. If I was incompetent, how would I know? I wouldn’t. Utilizing the rationale I’ve seen on display from Sharon, if I was incompetent, I’d be convinced I was competent. So feeling incompetent gives me a glimmer of hope, an opportunity to be genuinely competent. Sharon would be proud of my logic, I’m sure.
Perhaps feeling as though I’m an imposter means I’m not. Maybe feeling stupid gives me the chance to make smart choices instead of blundering on oblivious to my own stupidity. The smart choice would be to get out of the country. Find somewhere with no extradition treaty and run like hell. But perhaps the smartest choice is what I’m doing right now—refusing to be selfish and take the easy way out.
There’s a cafe in the lobby so I grab a coffee and buy a book on American Natural History from the gift shop next door, giving myself something to read while I wait. There’s a television in the cafe showing footage from CNN. The sound is down, but there’s speech-to-text running, so I can see what’s being said. It’s mostly finance news and a running commentary about yet another bloody conflict in the Middle East. More lives needlessly lost over oil in the sand. Around 11 AM, there are images of President Harding landing in New York. The caption reads:
President to visit American Natural History Museum… Benefactor during his term as Governor of New York… Heading on to the United Nations this afternoon for talks with German Chancellor Hamult.
Nice work, Nate.
By 11:30, the tourists are all particularly beefy, with crew cut hair, dark sunglasses, two piece business suits, and radio pieces in their ears. No one approaches me in the cafe. It’s as though I’m invisible. I’m nervous, watching the clock on the wall as it slowly approaches noon. I go to the bathroom to pee at 11:45 and again at 11:52, desperate to steady my nerves.
Shortly after noon, the President enters with a small detachment of Secret Service agents surrounding him. I’m expecting him to walk over and sit down with me, but he doesn’t, even though I’m staring at him as he walks briskly by at a distance of about twenty feet. The president disappears into the museum. I guess they didn’t give him any mug shots. To be fair, everyone was staring at him, so he wouldn’t know who he was supposed to meet.
I get up, leaving my history book on the table, and try to walk casually into the museum, but I’m sure I look like a criminal creeping around, waiting to nab a purse and run.
I need to pee again.
Get it together, Joe. He’s just a man. He puts his pants on one leg at a time just like you. He eats, sleeps, poops and pees.
Don’t think about pee.
Breathe.
The President stands alone in front of a display showing an authentic teepee with Native American Indians depicted as lifelike models going about their daily chores. They’re tanning hides, starting fires, tending to children, repairing bows, and sharpening arrowheads.
The Secret Service stand in a loose circle roughly twenty feet away from the display. As I approach, one of them stops me and lightly pats me down. His hand rests on my jacket for a moment, politely suggesting I should empty my pocket.
Slowly, I pull out my banana, saying, “Don’t worry. It’s not loaded.”
No response. No sense of humor.
I put the banana back in my jacket pocket and walk up behind the President. He’s lost in thought, staring intently at the display. Okay, this is it. Showtime. Don’t be intimidated. You’re an alien. Be the alien—a badass, acid-for-blood, rip-your-heart-out xenomorph complete with writhing tentacles.
Okay. Be serious.
“Twenty million. Dead,” I say, letting those words sink in as I compose myself.
The President turns to face me. He’s nervous, and strangely enough that helps me relax. He looks older than he does on television, and sadder, lacking the charisma I normally associate with him. His hair is slightly ruffled, and his tie is off-center. It’s been a hectic morning for him.
It takes me a moment to realize he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve been reading up on American history all morning so the facts are fresh in my mind, but he seems to think I’m threatening to kill twenty million people. To be fair, I did just threaten to nuke Chicago.
“Mainly from disease,” I say, gesturing toward the display. “Ninety percent of the population was wiped out. Sometimes deliberately, but most of the time, inadvertently.”
I need to be careful with my pronouns, making sure ‘I’ or ‘we’ refers to aliens while ‘you’ is reserved for humanity.
“Your knowledge of infectious disease was so rudimentary, there was little that could be done to avoid the misery and suffering. Disease spread like wildfire.”
He nods thoughtfully.
“This is what we’re trying to avoid. Unforeseen, unintended consequences. Consequences that cannot be reversed.”
Good use of ‘we,’ and a point well made, I think.
I pause, wanting to give him the opportunity to respond if he wants to. For a few seconds, there’s an awkward silence. Radios squawk softly behind us. Secret Service agents speak in hushed tones that echo softly off the vast marble floor.
“I presume you’re wearing a wire?”