The changeling gave itself, as Sharon, glowing job references from two dead professors and Coleridge, who of course was off diving but could be reached at jimmyc@uhw.edu.
—41—
“She wasn’t human,” Jack Halliburton said. “No human could have an arm blown off and then outdo a Hollywood stuntman in falling, running, swimming. What was she?”
Jack and Jan had Russell alone in Jack’s suite at Aggie Grey’s. “You loved her?” Jan said.
“This is so confusing,” Russell said.
“You had sex with her,” Jack said.
“Jesus, Jack.” Russell winced and turned away.
“No, listen. You’ve had sex with other women; lots of them.”
Russell looked toward Jan for support and got a blank stare. “I wouldn’t say ‘lots.’ ”
“So was there anything about her anatomy that seemed strange? Anything about her psychology?”
“I did love her,” he said to Jan. “I fell for her like dropping off a cliff.”
“But think!” Jack persisted. “Anything that wasn’t human?”
“She was a hell of a lot more human than you, Jack. She was funny and sweet and interested in everything.”
“That’s scary,” Jan said.
“I know it is.” Russell sank back into the big soft easy chair. “More scary to me than anybody.”
Jack levered himself up off the couch and stalked across the room to a table with three crystal liquor decanters. He poured himself a splash of whisky and dropped an ice cube into it. “Do you think she could have been some kind of construct, sent to spy on us?”
“Yeah, sure,” Russell said. “A robot. That accounts for the metallic sound when you rapped your knuckles on her.”
“I mean biological.”
“Of course. You think anybody in the world is capable of ‘constructing’ a superhuman?”
“She came from somewhere.” The phone rang and Jack snatched it up. He listened for about a minute, giving monosyllabic responses, and then said, “I don’t know what to say. We’ll get back to you. Thanks.” He set the phone softly back on the cradle.
“Who was that?” Jan said.
He twirled the ice around in his glass. “Woman named Peterson, Doctor Peterson. Forensic pathologist. Local.” He shook his head. “They sent a flesh sample from the arm over to Pago Pago for analysis, DNA identification.”
“They identified her?”
“It’s not a ‘her.’ ” He took a small sip. “It’s not even human—not even animal. It doesn’t have DNA.”
“Holy Christ,” Russell said.
Jack sat down. “Russ … you were fucking an alien from another planet. That’s probably illegal in Samoa.”
—43—
The changeling had winced when it saw the headline space alien discovered in Samoa. It bought a paper and learned that it had murdered a “high-level American intelligence operative” by “injecting a mysterious substance.”
An editorial urged tolerance rather than fear. The alien would come forward if it knew it would not be harmed. The American government could be reasonable.
That was tempting. The electric chair would be a stimulating experience.
The story explained that scientists knew it was an alien because a tissue sample had no DNA. Was there any way to fake that?
The changeling had several degrees in biology, but didn’t know much about its own. It didn’t know what mechanisms were involved in changing from one creature—one thing—to another. It was as natural as breathing or photosynthesis were to organisms on Earth, and no more amenable to auto-analysis: if you were the only creature around that breathed, you could hardly dissect yourself and learn about lungs.
Of course the changeling could dissect itself, and did on a regular basis, but that didn’t teach it anything on the molecular level. Besides, the only science it knew was human science, and whatever it did when it changed into a shark or a roll of linoleum wasn’t covered by Organic Chemistry 101.
It did absorb DNA when it ate, naturally, and human DNA sometimes when it had sex with a male human. But whatever passed for metabolism in its body didn’t retain the stuff. It could absorb a school of albacore tuna and somehow change their substance into a Volkswagen.
Poseidon was probably going to be on the lookout for their alien returning, and would test job applicants for the presence of human DNA. What procedure could Sharon Valida expect?
A little research showed it that DNA testing for purposes of identification was usually done with buccal swabs, just wiping a few cells off the inside of the cheek, noninvasive and less personal than a blood or sperm sample. All it had to do was contrive to have a mouthful of human flesh before it sat down to apply for work.
Biting somebody, alive or dead, on the way to an interview didn’t seem practical. You could buy live portable DNA in the form of blood or sperm, but both posed practical problems, when it came to opening one’s mouth for the doctor or police officer.
Pure DNA was sold for research purposes, but only in microscopic quantities, hardly a mouthful. Besides, they might even decide to be invasive—want a job? We’ll have to take a little blood.
If it were only Russell involved, the changeling would just come out and tell him. Show up one night as Rae to get his attention, and explain. But there were all those tiresome people with guns—and Jack was ultimately in charge, not Russell. Jack felt dangerous, almost feral in his greedy intensity, and he could infer the changeling’s abilities from what had happened at Aggie Grey’s. There probably wouldn’t be a window facing the sea if Jack had anything to do with the conditions of their meeting.
On the other hand, the changeling knew enough about the Poseidon labs to know they couldn’t test for DNA in-house. The samples would go to Pago Pago, or even back here to Honolulu. That would buy some time, and also might afford an opportunity for substitution.
Perhaps the smartest thing would be to wait, to go join the circus again for a couple of decades; let things cool down. Jack and Russell would die, and new people would be in charge of the artifact.
But there were factors arguing against that, not the least of which being its feelings for Russ; it wanted him, above all others, to know what was really going on. Also, in twenty years—or five, or one—it was likely that the artifact would wind up in a vault in Washington, or Langley, impossible to approach.
There was something deeper, too, that the changeling couldn’t quite put a name to. Something in that pattern of ones and zeros was coming together—not logic, not numbers, but some sort of message.
Jan and Russ and the rest of Poseidon were analyzing the digits by looking for an analogue to the Drake message. But maybe the message was not for them. Maybe it was not for any human.
—43—
They decided to set a trap for the alien.
“Rae wanted to get to the artifact, but was playing it cool. She asked me about getting around the security protocols so she could actually be in the same room with it; touch it.” Russell was doodling while he talked, drawing precise geometrical figures. He and Jack and Jan were outside Jack’s suite at Aggie Grey’s, talking quietly on the balcony. Jack had belatedly realized the spooks could have had his room bugged. It was less likely with the wrought-iron patio furniture, exposed to the elements.