Some time goes by, hours perhaps. The girl is looking through a window at the sky, blanketed by clouds, at the leaden landscape, the scarcity of verdure, at the single road in front of her, empty, and at a small beach beyond it, where black waves break in a grayer shade of white. A place well off the beaten track, it would seem. Then she sees a man walking on the sand with his dog, and by the road, a couple of nurses heading in the opposite direction. It’s not long since she awoke. The last thing she remembers is her mother giving her a pill to calm her down. Then the silence, the white noise, the cosmic radiation: she has the impression that if she lets her mind go blank in a quiet place, she can hear a noise in the background that is the whisper of the cosmos. It’s not the voices, the ones that pronounce her name differently, but the thought underlying them, the same thought that’s been constructing itself and expanding in the surrounding nothingness over the course of eons. But right now she’s not in the mood to try and formulate a theory of how an object located nowhere, that’s surrounded by nothing, can be growing continually and expanding. She is sure though, that the cosmic radiation she hears in the silence vindicates any such theory. She’s always attributed it to the effects of alcohol or the pills she used to take. The girl isn’t experiencing any particular sensation just now, save a malaise associated with the vague memory of a dream. She’s not thinking about hypnosis, but she still doesn’t feel like writing. To create a parallel between her No Reality and the work she’s been writing, she intended to have the old professor commit suicide. “6.4 All propositions are of equal value. 6.5 The riddle does not exist. If a No World can be framed at all, it is also possible to answer it.” The girl spends some more time looking out the window before returning her attention to the room. There are various newspapers stacked on a chair, not one of which mentions the death of the screenwriter. The information still hasn’t filtered through to the press. She sits on the bed. The effects of the tranquilizer are slowly wearing off, but she still feels a little sluggish. She goes into the bathroom and reacquaints herself with the now familiar image of herself with dyed hair and circles under her eyes. She splashes her face with water to wake herself up and sits on a stool, staring at the wall tiles. She’s hungry. She looks at her watch. It’s mid-afternoon. Then her mother enters, who’s still pronouncing her name with a “ka.” The girl’s ready to go home, but her mother insists she wait. Wait for what? she asks, since she’d already been waiting for what seemed like an eternity in the hotel room by the Grand Central Station, and now she’s waiting again in this inn in the middle of nowhere that hasn’t even got a decent view. Perhaps her father, mother, and the cousin are still waiting to meet up with the aliens. You passed out; you were probably suffering from shock, her mother says before assuring her they won’t be waiting much longer. See, the bags are all packed, she says, pointing to the luggage by the door. She’s just waiting for a phone call and then she’ll load them into the car. Meanwhile, she picks up the phone and cancels any commitments the girl may have in other capitals around the world. The girl’s mind is beginning to clear. She could’ve sworn those commitments had already been canceled. The girl once again asks her mother about the astrophysicist in the classically-cut suit. He seemed to know her. But her mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and although the girl realizes it’s a faux pas to broach the subject, she’s determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. He died in the hotel in which he lived the final years of his life, says the girl, and her father must’ve gone to the funeral, perhaps the cousin too. There’s a long silence. It doesn’t seem like her mother is going to say anything. Before we go anywhere, you ought to make peace with your friends, she finally says. Her mother seems to believe the girl should reconcile with the part of her life that was real. Make peace? asks the girl. Those people are the least of her concerns right now. In fact, they’re no concern at all. She hates them, and she figures they’re the only ones who have nothing whatsoever to do with extraterrestrials. After a while, mother and daughter leave the room together and go down to the lobby of the inn, a small inn used mainly for rest and recuperation, located on the neighboring country’s coast. Have you contacted the aliens or are you still waiting? the girl asks. Her mother looks at her, concerned. From where are you getting these obsessions? Is this how you earn your living? the girl asks, suspecting both her parents are members of the same organization. Her mother doesn’t answer. She seems to be ignoring her daughter, but any member of a secret organization should have a number of answers prepared for such occasions. Just stop it! her mother demands. Then, in a nearby café, her mother hands her an envelope from the young orchestra conductor and brilliant composer. It’s for you, she says. The girl takes it and puts it to one side, not bothering to open it, and continues eating her meal. There are also things the girl refuses to talk about. When she’s finished eating, she picks up a newspaper and looks for any news on the star of her favorite soccer team, or perhaps something on the death of the screenwriter. Instead, she sees an article on the scientist in the classically-cut suit. She’ll read it later, she thinks. She doesn’t want her mother finding out. Then her mother’s cell phone rings, which she answers, then pretends not to have a good signal so she can take it outside. The girl uses the opportunity to open the envelope. Inside is the photo of her standing next to the guy she met in the nightclub. It wasn’t even a week ago, yet it seems like forever. I should’ve shot him, she says offhandedly, guessing at his ultimate fate. Along with the photo, there’s a clipping of an ad by the guy in which he offers his sexual services. So that’s what it was, she murmurs. On the back of the photo, there’s a dedication next to the one she wrote that simply says: “a gift from your friend.” Voices. . she murmurs, remembering the game and her underdeveloped theory of the cosmos. I heard voices. The girl smirks as she tears up the photograph and clipping into several small pieces. For a nobody, the little shit has certainly upped the ante, she thinks, referring to the brilliant composer. He’s an utter deviant, and whatever talent he possesses has been warped by this quality. It’s evident in all his compositions. She imagines him responding to the guy’s ad, meeting up with him. . perhaps I’ll kill him next time, she says aloud as her mother reenters the café. What did you say? her mother asks. Oh, nothing, the girl says, watching her mother sit down opposite her. The girl would like to know if her mother’s finally made contact, but she remembers the question wasn’t well received before, so she stays quiet. Perhaps her tactfulness is an effect of the tranquilizer, or that she’s finally beginning to distance herself from such things. Perhaps this is another way of saying everything’s a game, that life, from beginning to end, is only a game.