Chapter Three

DAY 3

The soldier came to his senses.

"Why is the sea... huh?"

He was lying in a clean, white hospital bed, the room crowded with beds. A TV set hung from the ceiling. He took in the news:

"The Saudi Ambassador's speech was unrehearsed and contradictory, but he was clearly supported by his superior, King Khadi. To our journalist, the Ambassador made a brief comment as he left the UN building..."

"God is with us. We act in the strength of God's truth! The Moon's surface shall not be desecrated by unclean creatures!"

"This just in - the U.S. Embassy in Riyadh has been formally notified by the Saudi government, that all U.S. airbases in Saudi Arabia must be closed down and evacuated within one month. Political commentator Steve Russert is with us live to discuss this development. What do you say, Steve? Has King Khadi become an ally to the fundamentalists?"

"Well, Barbara, it could be a gesture meant for the home opinion. The Saudi kings have shown these moments of pious posturing before. Speculations are that his real agenda, if he has one, is the Saudi kings fear aliens will share with us their advanced technology - which could make oil obsolete as fuel..."

The soldier tried to reach for the calling button next to him. He found that his arms and legs had been strapped to the bed.

"Let me loose!" he shouted. "I'm not a maniac!"

Other patients began screaming too - some jokingly, others not.

"He's right!" a grave-faced neighbor declared. "He's an emissary like me! Our minds are telepathically linked with the Holy Venusian Priests!"

Each patient claimed special insight, making the latest news part of his individual delusion.

"Hale-Bopp-be-bop-alle-luja!"

"To infinity - and beyond!"

"Sirius, the final frontier!"

"The truth is out there!"

"I come in peace!"

"Klaatu barada niktou!"

The cacophony of shouting lunatics quickly grew unbearable. The soldier wanted to scream in agony - then he recalled the words he had uttered just before he blacked out in the street.

"Ch... chiskr-r-r-r... chis chiptl mmer-r-r-r-lleee," he mumbled to himself.

Yes, it meant something. No, he was cracking up. It was all so confusing. A doctor came up to him, accompanied by a nurse. He asked a few questions, checked the soldier's heart and eyes, and ordered the nurse to undo his straps. Once free, the soldier sat up and looked for his real clothes. The nurse handed them to him, and he began to change his hospital gown for his own veteran's wardrobe.

"You ought to have your brain scanned for tumors or lesions," the doctor told him. "If this is your first seizure, you must take precautions -"

"Already did," the soldier said, buttoning his desert-camouflage shirt. "Just after the war. The shrinks found nothing they could change. Chemical weapons screwed up my brain. I'm a permanent war cripple."

"Nevertheless, another scan is necessary. If you stay here till -"

"I'm going. You can't hold me here."

He was gone.

The soldier marched out of the hospital as briskly as he could without running. A part of him wanted to stay there. Another part warned him that if he stayed there, they would never let him out again. He would have become just another kook among kooks there, babbling about a "higher insight". Maybe it was madness. But he had experienced something. For a moment he had been on a strange world, been something not quite human. He glanced down at his feet. Ordinary feet, stuck in badly shoe-laced army boots, size 12. He didn't know in which direction he was walking, but any "higher insight" he didn't feel at all.

The soldier stopped in his tracks. A veteran rolled past him in a wheelchair, thick arms pushing the wheels around… his face had made brief news some time ago, when he stepped on a terrorist bomb. Barely twenty, and the guy had no legs. How old was the soldier himself? His head was starting to ache again. He popped an aspirin tablet and walked on, out of the well-guarded hospital compound. It was another hot, cloudless day, jet airplanes making white tracks in the sky.

As he squinted at the burning sun, it blinked out of existence. The sky went almost dark, save for the pinhead of a white sun at the horizon. The stars began to come out; he couldn't recognize any of the familiar constellations. Out there in the darkening night he could discern a very bright yellow star; and he knew it was the Earth's Sun.

Someone shook his shoulder; the vision flickered away. He found himself leaning against a wall, just outside the hospital gate.

"You all right, soldier?" the other man, a younger soldier, asked.

"Yeah," he said faintly, "just a little dizzy. The sun, you know."

"Better get your cap on," the man said. "Are you in service? You look like shit."

"No," the soldier said truthfully, straightening himself to face the other soldier, "I'm retired. Veteran's pension. Served in the Gulf."

"Sorry to hear that, man. I was in the Gulf myself, but I never got into any serious shit."

The soldier saw genuine concern in the other man's face. Maybe the Army could help him, he thought. Get back into the service, start over. Yeah, right - like they helped that guy with no legs.

"I'm okay now - thanks. Say, have you heard any buzz from the top brass, about this alien contact stuff you know?"

The other soldier made a wry face: "You kidding? They're pissing in their pants now! Every goddamn missile there is, is being pointed into space. Of course the bigwigs ain't tellin' us, but the word is out."

"You figure there's gonna be a war?"

"Shit, I don't know. Word is, we're going to evacuate the bases soon. Anything could happen. Just about anything. You wait and see."

The soldier thanked him and said goodbye. No, obviously the Army was the wrong place to turn to for help. Dammit, he wanted to meet aliens - not be ordered to shoot them. And he had no desire to go back to America, either. He wanted to go in one direction only. The soldier looked up at the sky, which now was studded with vapor trails from aircraft...

Up.

Up.

Up.

He would think of something, as soon as he had sweated out the old thirst for booze and pills. It was going to be a couple of long nights, though he could look forward to more TV news about the Sirian visitors. If only he had possessed one of those new Internet-connected, computerized TV sets - then he could have had even more access. But that would cost money he didn't have.

An hour later, he saw on CNN the released list of scientists appointed to stay close to the aliens, during their one-year visit on Planet Earth.

"A rigorous selection was made, before a select team could be assembled and approved by the U.N. Security Council. The ECT is now under the direct coordination of astrophysicist Carl Sayers, president of the Planetary Society. The other dozen members are...

"From the U.S.: The writer and astronomer Stone Pound, a well-known popular science writer, with his own Internet column.

"From Egypt: Nobel Prize-winning psychologist Lazar Mahfouz.

"From France: The anthropologist and marine biologist Ann Meadbouré, who has studied dolphin behavior with Arthur C. Clarke at his Sri Lanka research station.

"From Great Britain: The acclaimed biologist Andrea McClintock, one of the world's leading experts in evolutionary theory.

"From Germany: Best-selling historian Bruno Heinzhof, lecturer at the leading universities of Germany, Israel, and America.

"From Japan: Takeru Otomo, award-winning engineer with outstanding merits in nuclear power plant design.

From Sweden, an unexpected choice: The physician Mats Jonsson, just recently awarded for his discovery of a new procedure to..."

DAY 50

The whole world watched, as the orbiting space shuttle released the Moonlander module.

Across every time zone on Earth, humanity was watching the astronauts land on the Moon - a nostalgic moment for those who remembered the Apollo landings. This time, someone was waiting for the astronauts. The Sirian lander craft, a sleek, silvery shape ninety meters long, had arrived just hours before. A trio of Sirian envoys walked to greet the Earthlings welcome. One of the two human astronauts walked out of the lander, seeing three Sirians approach from their own landing site. The aliens wore spacesuits made from some metallic dark-red fabric, and their movements seemed surprisingly heavy. One Sirian sat languidly down on a rock, while a third figure wandered up close to the first astronaut.

The world watched, breathlessly; generals and tyrants ready to order the launching of missiles, poor people waiting for the salvation they had been denied - others just hoping for something new and different to change their predictable, aimless lives. One lumbering human, white armor shielding him against the cold of space, closing in on red-clad figures with soft arms.

When they were just three meters apart, the closest Sirian halted and sat down in the dust. He measured a little more than two meters in height, and his face was dimly visible behind a brown visor-plate. An aged face peered out from the helmet, deep cracks running down from the small of his standing-oval, half-shut eyes, past the corners of a wide mouth. The alien face, aged as it was, retained a streamlined shape; its features seemed modeled onto an artillery grenade. Unexpectedly, the alien's cracked lips widened. He was smiling, and it seemed to come naturally. The astronaut halted, looked back toward his landing craft, and tried hard to control his bladder from bursting in a panic reaction. With an effort, he succeeded - and kneeled down on the dusty ground, documents in one hand. He waited a while for the alien to take the initiative. A radio communications link came alive in the astronaut's headset - unfocused at first, then sharpening into utter clarity.

And for the first time, humanity heard the Sirians speak. A creaky voice, deep with large lung capacity, drawling, breathing heavily - yet oddly singing.

SIRIAN ENVOY: "Goood mmmorniiing... Greetinnngsss... wweeelcome."

ASTRONAUT: "Er... welcome to the Moon. You... you speak good English."

SIRIAN ENVOY: "Thank youu..."

ASTRONAUT: "My name is... Eric Bennon. I am an elected ambassador for the people of Planet Earth."

SIRIAN ENVOY: "Hoow doo youu do, Aaambassaaador Eric Bennooon..? Mmy lannd-naame iss Ranmotanii..."

ASTRONAUT: "I...I am doing fine, thank you... Ambassador Ranmotanii."

MISSION CONTROL: "The letter! Hand him the letter!"

ASTRONAUT: "I hereby give you this document of approval, signed by the most important leaders of my planet, which verifies that I am the elected ambassador for this first meeting.

"The document also explains our conditions for your visit to our solar system... to our planet, Earth... up there."

SIRIAN ENVOY: "Thank youu... weee rrread iiit."

MISSION CONTROL: "What are they doing?"

ASTRONAUT: "I think they're reading it... one of the three must be an interpreter of our language. He, or she, is using sign language and talking to them over their own radio. Houston, can you take in their conversation?"

MISSION CONTROL: "Negative, Bennon. The Moonlander antenna can't pick up their internal comlink. Keep going, you're doing fine."

SIRIAN ENVOY: "Thank youu...Aaambassaaador Eric Bennooon... I uuunderrrstaand the meeeaniiing thhhat builllt the... documeeent. Yyyou speeeak ffforrr yyyour ppeoplle. Yourrr leadersss... hear uss taallk noow?"

ASTRONAUT: "Yes, Ranmotanii. Our leaders, and all the people of Planet Earth, up there. You can ask them anything... through me. Do you understand?"

SIRIAN ENVOY: "Underrrstannnd. Yyyes."

ASTRONAUT: "I am very happy that you understand. What do you want to talk about? We have much time.

"Houston, Ranmotanii is discussing something with the other two. They are... taking something out of a pouch. An object, about the size of my head. Should I return to the lander?"

MISSION CONTROL: "Just stay calm. They're not gonna eat you."

SIRIAN ENVOY: "Ammmbassadooor Eriic Beeennon. Mmy ppeopllle giiive the... giift off frieendsship too youu aaand peoplle of Planeeet Earrth. Thank youu..."

ASTRONAUT: "Thank you... thank you very much. What is it?"

SIRIAN ENVOY: "A maaachiiine... to recooord aaannd repllayyy th...thoughhtsss."

ASTRONAUT: "We will have good use for that. Ranmotanii... I have a gift to your people. It is harmless..."

MISSION CONTROL: "Bennon, what are you doing? This is not in the plans! Stay with the schedule, that's an order!"

ASTRONAUT: "Here..."

SIRIAN ENVOY: "Thhank yyyou... thaaank yyyou veryyy muchhh. Whaaat iss iiit?"

ASTRONAUT: "It is a flute. An instrument to make music. I wanted to give you a guitar, but this was the smallest thing I could get. The flute... needs atmosphere to work."

SIRIAN ENVOY: "I knnnoww muuusic. I hearrr yourrr mmmusiiic... in rrradiiio. Yooour mmmusiiic is ssso diiifferrrent fffromm ourrr muuusic. Nooow... I caaan mmmake yourrr mmmusiiic?"

ASTRONAUT: "Yes. Yes, that would be wonderful. We could play music together."

The astronaut laughed, and the old Sirian made a slow, repeated clicking noise over the radio... laughter. The world made a collective sigh of relief; aliens who had a sense of humor couldn't be all that bad.

Somewhere in a shady bar for Americans, that served alcohol in a predominantly Moslem country, the soldier sat and watched it all on TV.

Among the laughing men and women, he heard one guest comment: "That doesn't prove anything! Anyone who sees us on TV for forty years must develop a sense of humor."

The soldier said nothing. He knew the man was right, terribly right. The aliens were oh so polite. Of course: they obviously had to, knowing what kind of creatures they were dealing with. The circumstances - decades of TV programming - were dictating the encounter. What had he expected, anyway? The soldier felt the bile of disappointment swell in his throat. The greatest moment in human history was turning into a trivial talk show. And there was nothing he could do to alter it. How did this fit into his vision of another world? Was the universe populated with beings just like humans? Would it never get better than this?

He grabbed the nearest glass he saw and hurled its contents down his throat.

"Hey!" said the righteous owner of the drink. "Buy your own booze, weirdo!"

The soldier grinned joylessly.

"You talkin' to me?" he asked, turned away, then spun and punched the other man in the stomach before he could react.

A confused, puke-stained brawl followed, but nobody was seriously injured. Before long, the military police were showing up. Among the MPs, the bloodied soldier recognized the private he had talked to days before, outside the hospital.

"Sorry 'bout the mess, pal," he slurred to the MP as they carried him out to the jeep.

"Just keep your bleedin' mouth shut, soldier."

"I'm not in service anymore," the soldier protested lamely.

"How come you're still fighting, then?"

The soldier couldn't answer that. But then he fell asleep.

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ALIEN BEACH(c)A.R.Yngve 1997, 1999, 2004. All rights reserved. May not be copied without permission.

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