The house lights had been left up. As she began to talk, the students neither stirred nor changed expression. She covered her three main points: The aliens were indeed human, our genetic brothers; all the scientific evidence confirmed that. Their intentions during their year on Earth had been good, their mistakes accidental, and they had not caused the spore cloud. The spaceship should be—
A girl’s voice, clear and ringing, called from the balcony. “You might not think it was such an accident if your uncle died of spore disease!”
A boy stood in the third row and said, “Isn’t it true the Denebs pay you to advertise this so-called spaceship?”
“Let her finish,” someone else called, and the boy sat down. Marianne hoped it would still be all right, but from the corner of her eye she saw Tim standing in the wings, tense and alert.
“Finish us, is what you mean,” someone shouted—an older voice, deep with maturity and disgust.
Dr. Mendenhall appeared beside Marianne and grasped the mic. “This university will treat its guests with courtesy. So whether you are a member of the student body or of the visiting public, you will let Dr. Jenner complete her remarks.”
They did, but Marianne could feel their anger, rising in the lovely space, a noxious gas. People murmured now, an almost infrasonic drone like a muted drill. Her words didn’t falter, but they sped up.
“In conclusion, let me just say that—”
Someone called, “How do you feel about your son Noah going with the aliens to World? Isn’t that the real reason you’re so desperate for us to go there, and why should the taxpayers fund your little family reunion?”
Mendenhall said, “Dr. Jenner has not—”
“No, I want to answer that,” Marianne said. But the background drone did not stop. She raised her voice.
“Yes, my son accompanied the Denebs to their home planet, along with nine other Terrans—as I’m sure you all already know. My family, too, has been affected by the aliens. But two points need to be made here—must be made here. First, had the Denebs not come to Earth, many more families would have been tragically stricken than actually were. Without the work that Worlders and Terrans did together aboard the Embassy, we would not have had the postinfection treatment for spore plague, a treatment that saved many. Second, we should fund the spaceship to go to World not because I want to see Noah—although of course I do—but because humanity can benefit tremendously from the kind of free exchange of ideas that have already enriched our scientific understanding of—”
“Enriched!” The voice in the balcony was almost a shriek. And yet it seemed to Marianne that it also held a forced note, like a mediocre actor. “You think the aliens left us enriched, lady? My family’s farm lost everything!”
“My father’s stocks are gone!” From a seat to her left.
“The economy’s in the toilet and none of us will get jobs when we graduate, because of your fucking aliens!”
“My apartment’s overrun with rats!”
“Did you yourself ever see anybody die of spore disease?”
People were on their feet now. Some looked bewildered, students and faculty taken by surprise. Others reached into purses and bags and backpacks, and eggs and rotten fruit began to rain onto the stage. Marianne stood her ground; this had happened before. She cried, “We cannot get—” at the same moment that an outraged Dr. Mendenhall shouted, “People! People!”
The lights went out.
A shocked, disoriented moment. Then it all happened at once. Marianne heard bodies shoving, steps running toward the stage, and the sound of gunfire. Screams. Tim was on her, covering her body with his own, pulling her relentlessly to one side. He knew where he was going, even in the dark; he’d have made sure earlier of the exits. In thirty seconds Marianne was in the wings, through a fire door, hustled down a set of steps.
She gasped, “I can’t just leave Dr.—”
“Forget him,” Tim said grimly, “it’s you they want. Come on, Marianne!”
She was out another door, she was outside, she was running across a parking lot, bent low and shielded by Tim’s arm. Then she was in the car and Sissy was driving away as the first of the police cars raced toward the arts center.
“You okay?” Tim said.
“Yes, but—”
“Fucking amateurs.” He was smiling: adrenaline pumping, taut body alive. “Didn’t even block the exits. Not a clue how to organize a riot.”
“Good thing for us,” Sissy said tartly, her red curls bobbing in the rearview mirror. “Marianne, you want to go make a police report?”
“Yes,” she said. “That… that hasn’t happened before. Not so very… that hasn’t happened.”
“Folks are riled up,” Tim said, without rancor. He was still grinning. Marianne turned away and stared at the darkness rushing past the car window.
She had never seen a person die of spore disease. Only mice.
One speech in Ohio and one in Pennsylvania, neither violent. The three of them took turns driving the Ford minivan back to New York. Somewhere near Harrisburg, Marianne was at the wheel, Sissy beside her, Tim folded up in the backseat, asleep even though it was only late afternoon. Thin April sunshine cast long shadows on empty fields beside the turnpike. One long stretch was littered with downed trees; a tornado had come through here a few weeks ago. April was the start of a robust tornado season in a state that, once, had seldom experienced them.
Sissy said quietly, “You don’t like this.”
“April? No. I never did.” Kyle had died in April, which every year brought grief not that her alcoholic husband was dead of cirrhosis, but that her main emotion had been relief. Surely a long marriage—any marriage—deserved more than that.
“Not April,” Sissy said. “You don’t like giving speeches. But you were a teacher.”
Marianne smiled, grimly. “I lectured mostly to graduate students who were eager to hear me. Or if not eager, at least resigned—not like these speeches. Nobody in Bio 572, Theories of Punctuated Evolution, was armed.”
“But you do it because you think it’s important. That’s really brave, Marianne.”
Tears blurred the road; immediately Marianne blinked them away. Why couldn’t Ryan or Elizabeth see it like that? Elizabeth, now transferred to Texas, blamed the Denebs for wrecking the economy. And Ryan… Marianne did not want to think about what Ryan said, or had done.
Sometimes she imagined that Sissy was her daughter. That brought more guilt; it seemed a slight to her actual daughter. But Sissy gave Marianne more understanding, more warmth, more support than anyone else.
They had met a year ago when Sissy had walked into the tiny office of the Star Brotherhood Foundation office and said, “You need me.”
Marianne had been having a bad day. She looked at the fantastic figure in front of her: a small black woman with purple curls that looked fresh from a Van der Graaf generator, tight jeans, and a tee sewn densely with beer-bottle caps. She snapped, “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. I’ve been at your last three speeches. You were late for one because you packed in too many appointments—you told the audience that. You got hoarse at one because you didn’t bring a bottle of water and nobody supplied you. The PowerPoint didn’t work right at one because nobody checked it. And look at that pile of papers on your desk—your filing system must be shit, if you have one at all. My name is Sissy Tate and I’m a top-grade administrative assistant. Here’s my résumé and references. I don’t care if you can’t pay me much because I believe in what you’re doing.”