They take me down a hall to a room where a cheerful guy has me sign a paper and gives me a glossy orange badge to wear, then they take me farther down the hall to a big office where we sit and wait a while and then are allowed to go in. A man gets up from his desk. He’s tired-look-ing, tired not only because it’s early in the morning but because he has a lot of responsibility and all kinds of worries on his mind, like Susan. “I’m Robert,” he says, but doesn’t come over to shake my hand. “I’m Martin Bogaty,” I say, but he says, “I know who you are.” It’s not rude, he doesn’t mean it that way, but it’s not friendly, either. Robert is Mr. Business. But hey, I can understand that. After all, what could be more important than the alien? For the first time the thought comes to me, and it’s not a comfortable thought either, that maybe they’re expecting me to do something with the alien that they can’t do. And I’m thinking: Jesus, I hope they won’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t work out. I particularly hope Professor Pfeiffer won’t be too disappointed, because it was his idea. I mean, I’m no good at all with your foreign languages. We had a couple weeks of French in the tenth grade, and I couldn’t get any of it to stick in my head, not even Hello, how are you today. Professor Pfeiffer himself comes in, and I’m glad to see him. “Hi, Marty,” he says and shakes my hand. “Hi, Professor Pfeiffer,” I say. He says: “You can call me Bill.” I nod, like it’s no big deal, I have a lot of friends who are scientists and I call them by their first names. “Okay,” he says, rubbing his hands, “let’s take you to see the alien.” “Now?” I say. “Sure,” he says, “why not? And would you like a cup of coffee?” “Coffee, you mean when I see the alien?” “The alien doesn’t mind coffee,” says Professor Pfeiffer, “he drinks it himself sometimes.” “In that case, all right,” I say, “and I’d like a little milk in mine, if that’s okay.” Then suddenly it hits me: I just learned something new about the alien, something I’ve never heard before anywhere, not from the television or Joe or anyone else: the alien drinks coffee. Son of a gun. And I’m thinking: If he drinks coffee, how alien can he be?
Robert tells me that I have to report to him and that I’ll be wearing a something-something monitor for the sessions. It’s like James Bond getting his instructions at the beginning of the movie. Professor Pfeiffer, Bill, takes me down some stairs and down another hall, a smaller but wider one, and a girlish Oriental woman in a labcoat joins us and takes us to a room with a lot of bottles. She tells me to take my shirt off so she can put the monitor on me. She attaches a lot of different-colored wires to my head and chest, and they pinch but not too much, so I don’t complain. I don’t understand why they have to see what my heart and brain and liver are doing while I’m talking to the alien, because it’s the alien that’s important, not Martin Bogaty, but Professor Pfeiffer sees my question even though I don’t say anything and he explains that all information is important, because in science you never know ahead of time what’s important and what isn’t. Or something like that. It sounds deep, and I’m impressed that he’s taking the trouble to talk to me like this, because it’s not necessary, I mean, I’ll do whatever they tell me to do. So when I’m all hooked up, we go to the alien.
The alien’s in a room you have to go through two special doors to get to. The doors make a swooshing noise and remind me of a bank vault. The place smells like old broccoli, and I see a guy sitting at a table. At first I think it’s a guard killing time, but then I realize, from the color, that it’s no guard, it’s the alien himself. He’s just sitting there, on a chair, like a regular person. The first thing I think is that they got the color all wrong: it’s not peas or spinach, there’s blue in it and a funny sheen, and not only that, the green isn’t exactly the same green everywhere. I can’t tell whether it’s his clothes or his body. Maybe he’s wearing a tight-fitting suit. “Pleased to meet you,” I say, because it’s the only thing to say that enters my head. The alien turns to look at me, and I think: gorilla, dog, tiger, but nobler than any of them. A big head. A row of eyes instead of two eyes. There’s something very independent about him, you can feel that in his row of eyes. Independent but not proud, or at least not proud in a bad way. Proud in a good way. The scientists are keeping him here like an animal in a cage, but he doesn’t think of himself at all like an animal. I bet he could leave anytime he liked. And it turns out later that I’m right. “I’m Martin Bogaty,” I say, not sure whether or not I should put out my hand. They’ve told me the alien doesn’t like to be touched too much. So I give a little wave instead and put my hand back. The alien opens his mouth, it’s a really wide, deep mouth and doesn’t seem to have any teeth in it, and he starts talking. The voice is coming from him but not the usual place a voice tomes from. I can’t decide whether it’s higher up or lower down. It’s like he’s talking in stereo. The talking picks up speed a little, as he gets into the swing of it. He’s actually saying a whole lot now, though of course I don’t know a blessed word of his language. The reason I know it’s a whole lot is that he’s so earnest about what he’s saying, I can tell from the one big eyebrow that goes across his forehead over all the eyes, it’s bunched up earnestly. To be polite, I pull up a chair and listen. Behind me I hear Professor Pfeiffer start and gasp, like he’s caught by surprise, and then he mutters something to another scientist. “First time, amazing,” I think that’s what he muttered. I’m not sure, but it makes me feel good. Maybe I’ll be of use to these scientists after all. Wouldn’t that be great. Then they might invite me back. I start talking too after a while, so that the alien doesn’t have to keep up the conversation by himself, but they tap me on the shoulder and give me the sign to leave, so I get up and say to the alien, “Nice meeting you, it’s been really interesting,” and leave.
They take me to a special room with a lot of tiny lights and dials and start asking me questions. Robert is there and in charge. He has a fierce gleam in his eyes, as if he’s a chief of police and I committed some terrible crime like murdering a child or robbing a bank. I have the odd thought that he doesn’t have enough eyes to show me what he’s feeling. His questions come out fast and hard and are filled with scientific words. He’s angry with himself for using the scientific words with me, he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help using them because he’s so impatient. I find out his last name, by the way, because it’s on his badge as he faces me and I have time to put the letters together: Zinkhof. What a name, it’s worse even than Bogaty. If I was named Zinkhof, I guess I’d do the same thing that he does, just tell people I was Robert and leave it at that.
Robert and another two scientists or government guys ask me what my impressions were and how I felt and what I noticed and what I thought strange and what I thought wasn’t strange and if I was afraid and why not if I wasn’t. I do my best to cooperate, I say everything in as much detail as I can, but I keep having the feeling that they’re not satisfied with my answers. Maybe I should have been more observant. I do miss things, I don’t deny it. Then Professor Pfeiffer pipes up, he says in a loud voice, not at all like his usual voice, “This is a breakthrough, Marty is communicating, damn it.” “Yes, yes, but what is being communicated?” says Robert. “Let’s just go with it, Bob,” says Professor Pfeiffer. You can see he’s angry with Mr. Business but has to keep it in, because Mr. Business is the boss here. Professor Pfeiffer says: “We’ll find out. But let’s go with it, it’s working. When something’s working, you have to go with it. You know that, Bob.” I’m not sure what it is that’s working or how I’m communicating, I mean, they didn’t even give me a chance to talk that much, basically I just listened. They move off and talk among themselves, like football players after too many downs. Robert half-growls his words, and he’s on the other side of the room, but I can hear “IQ” and I know he means me. One of the scientists shakes his head and says something about killing the goose that lays the golden eggs, and since I know about that story, I have the weird thought, like a picture, that what Robert really wants to do is open me up with a knife and look inside.