She turned back to the host. “That’s it. End of warning. Thank you so much for having me on your program.”
Prissy feverishly checked over her notes, but there was nothing there to cover this situation. Nor was the producer/director any help. Finally she asked, her eyes feverishly bright again, “Will these other aliens be able to have sex with us?”
Fled got up and left, and I didn’t see her anymore that day. No one said anything, and no one followed her out, including me. But the TV crew wasn’t finished. Having interviewed fled, the director had evidently concluded that talking with some of the “other patients” might appeal to the viewers, and he’d better seize the opportunity while he could. Another interview was quickly set up with Howard (who had been found skulking in the shadows). A second “host” had materialized by then, and he wanted Howard to describe what sex was like with an alien chimpanzee. The toad man enthusiastically complied with the request, which, if telecast, would surely have to be thoroughly bleeped. Then came Charlotte, followed by some of the others, including Jerry, who was still complaining about his lost talents, and whose bit, I was sure, would never make the cut because of the implication that “normalcy” might not be as wonderful it was cracked up to be. I didn’t watch all of these, but I learned later that Cassie had been a big hit—at least with the crew, who sought her out for stock market predictions—and Darryl’s impossible dream of teaming up with Meg Ryan came across as very moving. Apparently many people share such secret fantasies, a good number involving Ms. Ryan herself.
I didn’t get home until late that night. Halfway there I realized I should have stayed over at the hospital, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn around and go back. I wish I had.
* * *
Dartmouth and Wang were waiting in the dark for me, and they weren’t happy. But it wasn’t about the TV show, which they apparently weren’t aware of. As fled’s departure date drew closer, the number of hits on her website was increasing exponentially (how she could field the huge number of inquiries was a mystery to me, if not “the boys”). And there was a disturbing trend: more and more people were not only ruining the economy with their dietary choices, but were also re-thinking their religious views, reconsidering whether they were worth the price—remaining on Earth.
“We simply cannot let this happen. Giving up meat is one thing,” he seethed, “but if people start to renounce their beliefs, they’re going to start thinking for themselves instead of doing what they need to do. Do you realize what this means, sir? It means we can no longer depend on them to buy our products. Fight our wars. They might not even understand the joy of manual labor. It would be chaos! What kind of world would we have then?”
“Who is ‘our’?”
He stared hard at me and grunted, “We need to talk to her.”
“So do I,” I said. “But we’ll both have to find her first.”
“Find her?” he snarled.
“I’ve told you before: I can’t control her movements, even within the hospital.”
“Friday midnight,” he commanded. “Here.”
“All I can do is ask her. I can’t promise anything.”
Wang sighed meaningfully. “Dr. Brewer, we’ve been nice to you so far, haven’t we?”
“Well—”
“You’re aware, of course, that things can get very rough when our national security is at stake….”
I guess I was too tired for this discussion. “I said I’d tell her!” I shouted. “If she doesn’t come, there’s nothing I can do about it!”
He repeated coldly, “See that she’s here on Friday at midnight.” They turned in unison and marched out the driveway.
I headed for the house.
“Have a nice day!” I heard Dartmouth call out (it was already past ten p.m.).
Karen was waiting in the kitchen for me. When I came in she inquired, “Who were you speaking to out there?”
We both laughed until we cried.
* * *
I don’t know whether or not it had anything to do with the boys, but that night I dreamed my editor called. He had decided not to publish the fourth, and possibly the final, volume of the K-PAX saga. J.D. Salinger had come up with a three million-word novel/essay/autobiography/screenplay/short story/poetry collection, and everyone in the entire publishing house would be busy with that for many years.
I was awakened, thrashing and snorting, at 5:00 a.m. by the telephone. Karen answered it and handed it to me. It was Smythe, reporting that the British magazine article, the one announcing to the world that fled was pregnant, had appeared on the racks in Great Britain the previous afternoon, today in the U.S. “Sorry to bother you,” he apologized cheerfully, “but I thought you’d want to know it’s already sold out over here and we’re rushing another edition into print.”
“Couldn’t this wait until later?”
“I thought you might also want to know that the calls and e-mails are already coming in, and they’re two to one in favor.”
“In favor of what?”
“Of the pregnancy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We expected a lot of protest letters about the mixed sex thing, but most of the people who wrote in simply asked when the baby was due, what sort of gift should they send it and all that.”
“Ah, motherhood.”
“Fatherhood, too.”
“You mean they wanted to know who—”
“Yes, of course. We’ve got dozens of men already claiming to be the father. And that’s just the beginning. The bloody article only just came out!”
“You’re saying that they’re all trying to—”
“Not exactly. I think she might actually have had sex with the lot of them.”
“How is that possible?”
“She seems to get around.”
“What next?” I wondered rhetorically.
Smythe answered anyway. “The naming contest. It was the biggest hit of the whole article. In another month we’ll have our winner. Do you think fled will still be around then? She could make a fortune on the worldwide talk-show circuit until the time she delivers her—uh—whatever it is. It’s going to be the best-selling issue (pardon the pun) we’ve ever had, bigger than John and Yoko, even. Remind me to send you a jar of piccalilli or something.” He went on for a while about the raise and promotion he would be getting. Before he hung up he asked me: “Are you expecting any more visitors from K-PAX?”
“Who knows?”
“I hope you’ll give me first crack at him. Or her….”
“Better make that two jars of piccalilli,” I yawned. He giggled hysterically before finally hanging up.
I tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep. One thing was certain: if another visitor came, someone else would have to supervise their comings and goings. I finally got up at about seven and went out to get the paper. Wang flashed his badge and handed me the Times. There was no sign of Dartmouth. “Don’t you guys ever sleep?” I asked him, annoyed but genuinely curious.
“That’s classified,” he replied. “But I can tell you this much: sleep is a sign of weakness.”
“I must be very strong,” I said. “I can’t sleep, either.”
He stared back without comment.