“No,” Hicks said. A spark went off in his head. Something intuited. The boy’s accent was urban, middle-western bland. His voice was resonant and he sounded convinced and rational, words crisp. “You could be a complete nut, whoever you are,” Hicks said.
“You said you’d take them home to meet your mom. Your mother. They heard you out around Europa. When they were building. Now they’re here. I found one dissecting a mouse, Mr. Hicks. Learning all about it. I think they want to help, but I’m very confused. They haven’t hurt me.”
Hicks remembered: he had made that statement in California, on a local radio show. It would have been very difficult for a midwestern teenager to have heard it.
There was something earnest and truly awed and frightened in the young man’s voice. Hicks glanced at the ceiling, licking his lips, realizing he had already made his decision.
He had always been something of a romantic. To stay in journalism so long, one had to secretly believe in events full of drama and significance, key moments, points of turnaround in history. He was beginning to shake with excitement. Instincts conflicting — reporter’s instincts, survival instincts.
“Can you come out to the hotel?” he asked.
“Yeah, I can take a cab.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’d rather be careful, you know. I’ll be in the middle of lots of people.” He hoped the lobby was crowded. “How will I know you?”
“I’m tall, like a basketball player. I’m black. I’ll be in an old green army coat.”
“All right,” Hicks said. “In an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
KNBC man-in-the-street interview, December 15, 1996, conducted at the gate to the Universal Studios tour “Earthbase 2500” attraction: Anchor: We’re asking people what they think about the President’s proclamation. Middle-aged Man (Laughs): I don’t know…I can’t make heads or tails, can you? (Cut away)
Anchor: Excuse me, we’re asking people what they think about the President’s statement that the Earth is going to be destroyed.
Young Woman: He’s crazy, and they should get him out of office. There aren’t any such things as what he’ s talking about.
Anchor: Standing here, in the shadow of a giant invading spacecraft, its weapons aimed at the crowd, how can you be so sure?
Young Woman: Because I’m educated, dammit. He’s crazy and he shouldn’t be in office.
Anchor (Moving on to an adolescent boy): Excuse me. What do you think of the President’ s statement that aliens have landed and are intent on destroying the Earth?
Adolescent Boy: It scares me.
Anchor: Is that all?
Adolescent Boy: Isn’t that enough?
41
What Arthur saw, in the bed, was already a ghost: thin wrinkled arms pale on the counterpane, face blotched, pale translucent green oxygen tube going to his nose, drugs seeping into his arm controlled by a small blue box with a flat-screen readout.
His oldest and dearest friend had become ancient, shrunken. Even Harry’s eyes were dull, and the grip of his hot hand was weak.
A curtain had been stretched between Harry’s bed and the room’s other occupant, a heart patient who slept all during Arthur’s visit.
Ithaca sat in a chair at Harry’s right, face tightly controlled but eyes rimmed in sleepless red, hair drawn into a bun. She wore a white blouse and skirt with a reddish-brown sweater. She would never wear black, Arthur knew; not even to Harry’s funeral.
“Glad you could come,” Harry said hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper.
“I didn’t think it would be so soon,” Arthur said.
“Magic bullets missed their target.” He gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders. “Status report: I’d cash in, but who stole my bag of chips?”
Simply talking tired Harry now. He closed his eyes and let go of Arthur’s hand, withdrawing his slowly until it dropped to the sheet. “Tell me what’s going on in the real world. Any hope?”
Arthur spoke of the conference and the objects within the Earth.
Harry listened intently. “Ithaca reads from the newspapers…I’ve been watching TV,” he said when Arthur finished. “I finished my essay…about two days ago. Dictating. It’s on tape.” He pointed to a portable recorder on the nightstand. “Good thing, too. I can’t concentrate now. Too many…ups and downs. Sons of bitches. Can no more will them away…than I can make myself healthy, huh?”
“I guess not,” Arthur said.
“All the king’s men.” He drummed his fingers softly on the bed. “Anybody willing…to kill Captain Cook?”
Arthur smiled, his cheek twitching.
“Hope. Let’s hope.” Harry rolled his head to one side, facing a framed poster of sequoias to the left of the window. “The essay is for you alone. I don’t want it published. It’s not my best work. Use it…as you see fit.” He closed his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m dreaming or not. I wish I was dreaming now.”
Arthur turned to Ithaca. “Harry and I have to speak alone for just a few minutes.”
“All right,” Ithaca said, with barely concealed resentment. She stood up and went into the corridor.
“Something juicy?” Harry asked, opening his eyes again.
“Do you remember when we were eleven, and I played that trick on you?”
“Which one?” Harry asked.
“I said I had been inhabited by a spaceman. That my body was being used to help investigate the Earth.”
“Jesus,” Harry said, shaking his head, smiling. “I’d forgotten about that one. You really took it to extremes.”
“I was a kid. Life was dull.”
“You spent three weeks acting like an alien whenever you were around me. Asking all sorts of weird questions, telling me about life on your planet.”
“I never apologized for pulling that on you.”
Harry held up one hand.
“You told me you had prayed to God to tell you whether I was a spaceman or not, and God had said—”
“God had told me you were a fraud.” Harry’s face seemed almost healthy now, with the memories coming back. “I was a pretty rampant little theologian then. So you ducked out.”
Arthur nodded. “I said I’d be going away, and never coming back — the alien inside me, rather. And it did.”
“You refused to acknowledge you had ever acted like an alien. Total memory blank. What a scam.”
“Our friendship survived. That surprised me a little, years later, thinking about it…”
“I wouldn’t have believed you if I hadn’t wanted to. As you say, life was dull.”
Arthur looked down at Harry’s shriveled arms. “It wasn’t right. I deeply regretted it. It might be the only thing between us I do regret…”
“Besides stealing Alma Henderson from me.”
“That was a favor. No. I mean it. I especially regret doing that to you now, because…I’m about to do it again.”
Harry’s grin took an edge of puzzlement. Arthur’s expression was deadly serious, but enthused; his arms fairly twitched with holding something in, and he reached up to pinch his cheek, as he always did when thinking.
“All right,” Harry said.