“I can’t tell you that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not allowed to give out that information now.”
Hicks could almost see the girl biting her lip. “Thank you.” He hung up and fell back on the bed, suddenly’ exhausted.
Who else would have tracked this down?
“Can’t sleep,” he resolved, sitting up again. He called room service and asked for coffee and a substantial breakfast — ham, eggs, whatever they had. The clerk offered a three-egg concoction with ham and bell peppers mixed in — a Denver omelet, as if pigs and peppers might be special to that city. He agreed, held down the button, and called the downstairs travel agency listed in the hotel directory.
The agent, an efficient-sounding woman, informed him that there was a private airstrip near Furnace Creek, but the closest he could fly in commercially would be Las Vegas.
“I’ll take a seat on the next flight out,” he said. She gave him the flight number and departure time — about an hour from now, cutting it close — and the gate number at Lindbergh Field, and asked if he would need a rental car.
“Yes, indeed. Unless I can fly directly in.”
“No, sir. Only small airfields out that way, no commuter flight service. The drive between Vegas and Furnace Creek will take about two or three hours,” she said, adding, “if you’re like everybody else who drives on the desert.”
“Madmen all, eh?” he asked.
“Madwomen, too,” the agent said briskly.
“Mad, all mad,” Hicks said. “I’d like a hotel room for the night, as well. Quiet. No gambling.” It would be late afternoon by the time he arrived in Las Vegas, and he would not be able to make it to Death Valley before dark. • Best to get a good night’s sleep, he thought, and start out in the morning.
“Let me confirm your reservations, sir. I’ll need your credit card number. You’re a guest at the Inter-Continental?”
“I am. Trevor Hicks.” He spelled the name and gave his American Express number.
“Mr. Trevor Hicks. The writer?” the agent asked.
“Yes, indeed, bless you,” he said.
“I heard you on the radio yesterday.”
He pictured the travel agent as a well-tanned blond beach bunny. Perhaps he had been unfair to KGB-FM. “Oh, indeed?”
“Yes. Very interesting. You said you’d take an alien home to meet your mum. Your mother. Even now?”
“Yes, even now,” he said. “Feeling very friendly toward extraterrestrials, aren’t we all?”
The agent laughed nervously. “Actually, it frightens me.” “Me, too, dear,” Hicks said. Delicious, lovely fright.
8—
Harry stood before the glass, hands in his pockets, staring at the Guest. Arthur conferred with two officers at the rear of the room, discussing how the first physical examination was going to be conducted. “We won’t be entering the room this time,” he said. “We have your photographs and…tissue samples from the first day. They’ll keep us busy.”
Harry felt a small flush of anger. “Idiots,” he said under his breath. The Guest, as usual, was curled beneath the blankets on the low platform, only a “foot” and “hand” sticking out from the covers.
“Beg pardon, sir?” asked the current duty officer, a tall, muscular Nordic-looking fellow of about thirty.
“I said ‘idiots,’” Harry repeated. “Tissue samples.”
“I wasn’t there, sir, but we didn’t know whether the Guest was alive or dead,” the Nordic man said.
“Whatever,” Arthur broke in, waving his hand at Harry: slack off. “They’re useful, however they were taken. Today, I’m going to ask the Guest to stand up, allow us to photograph it…him—”
“It,” Harry said. “Don’t coddle our prejudices.”
“It, then, from all sides, in all postures, while active. I’ll also ask if it will submit to further examinations later—”
“Sir,” the Nordic man said, “we’ve discussed this, and considering the warning the Guest has delivered, we believe absolute caution is called for.”
“Yes?”
“We’re revealing a great many things about ourselves. It could be an information conduit to the object in Death Valley, and how we carry out our examinations, X rays, whatever, could tell them a lot about how advanced we are and what our capabilities are.”
“For God’s sake,” Harry said. He ignored Arthur’s sharp glance. “They’ve been listening to our broadcasts for who knows how many decades. They know everything there is to know about us by now.”
“We don’t believe that’s necessarily so. A lot of information is simply not conveyed in civilian broadcasts, and certainly not in military broadcasts.”
“They can type us down to our toenails just by the fact that we still broadcast analog radio waves,” Harry said, not moving from the window.
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Your warnings are well taken, Lieutenant Dreyer,” Arthur said. “But we can’t get anywhere unless we examine the Guest. If this means some two-way exchanges, so be it. If the Guest is a conduit to the ship, we might be able to learn how through the exams.”
“It’s an interesting idea,” Harry conceded in an undertone.
“Yes, sir,” Dreyer said. “I’ve been told to pass these on to you — your itineraries for the Commander in Chiefs visit. We’re at your disposal.”
“All right. Let’s have two-way back on.” Arthur walked down the slightly sloping floor to the window and stood beside Harry. He pushed the button activating the intercom to the Guest’s chamber.
“Excuse me. We’d like to continue our questions and examinations.”
“Yes,” the Guest said, pushing aside the blankets and standing slowly.
“What is the state of your health?” Arthur asked. “Are you feeling well?”
“Not altogether well,” the Guest said. “The food is adequate, but not sustaining.”
The Guest had been allowed to choose between a variety of carefully prepared “soups.” The first tissue samples had revealed that the Guest could conceivably digest dextrorotary sugars and proteins generally found in Earth life forms. Purified water was being supplied in beakers passed through with the “food.” Thus far, the Guest had not excreted anything into the wide stainless-steel sample tray left open in another corner. The Guest had eaten sparingly, and without apparent enthusiasm.
“Can you describe substances that would please you?”
“In space, we hibernated—”
Harry emphasized the “we” in his notepad.
“And our nutrition was provided by synthesizing machines throughout the voyage.”
Arthur blinked. Harry scribbled furiously.
“I am not aware of the names of substances in this language to describe them. The food you provide seems adequate.”
“But not enjoyable.”
The Guest didn’t respond.
“We’d like to conduct another physical examination,” Arthur said. “We are not going to take any more tissue samples.”
The Guest withdrew its three brown eyes and then produced them again, but said nothing, standing in what might have been a dejected posture — if the Guest could feel dejected, and if body language was at all similar…
“You do not have to cooperate,” Arthur said. “We don’t want to force anything on you.”
“Difficulties with speaking, with language,” the Guest said. It stepped sideways in one fluid motion to the far right corner of the room. “There are questions you do not ask. Why?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“You do not ask questions about interior thoughts.”
“You mean, what you are thinking?”
“Interior states are far more important than physical construction, are they not? Is this not true for your intelligences?”