Saucer: Savage Planet (29 page)

The cameras caught that scene, of course. One of the network talking heads remarked over the air, “This is appropriate. After all, the streets of heaven are guarded by United States Marines.”

*   *   *

“Are you folks hungry?” the president asked the captain. “We have a lunch prepared if you wish to sample our food.”

A sample of your food would be welcome indeed. With water that hasn’t been recycled a hundred times.

The president motioned to two aides to take Amanda and the children away. “Get them some lunch,” he said.

Then he led the adults to the State Dining Room. Uniformed waiters stood at attention. The aliens stood transfixed, staring. It took several seconds for Uncle Egg to realize they were staring at the riot of flower arrangements on the dining table. One of the starship crewmen took a tentative step toward them, smelled them. The others joined him. They drank in the aromas; then one man plucked a petal and tasted it.

The aliens broke into laughter and moved from arrangement to arrangement sniffing and tasting.

That broke the ice. The waiters held chairs, and after much shuffling, everyone was seated.

The president had conferred with NASA experts, who were of the opinion that vegetables, protein and starches would be excellent menu choices. This White House had by decree stopped serving French cuisine at state dinners years ago. The menu today was American food: all the usual vegetables and a variety of breads, roast beef, lamb, pork chops and fried chicken, plus dishes that reflected the diversity of the American population. Chinese dishes, Polynesian, Cuban, Mexican, Indian, Italian, German and a couple of French dishes with appropriate sauces that the chef had sandwiched in there anyway. Great Britain was represented by toad-in-the-hole.

Even as the president’s guests were being seated, the White House mouthpiece was handing out copies of the menu to reporters, who packed the press room. P. J. O’Reilly had the situation well in hand.

The aliens were seated between members of the president’s party. The president sat beside the captain. The secretary of state sat on her right. A member of the crew was next, then Egg and Professor Deehring, another crew member, Rip, another crew member, Charley, and so on. Petty Officer Hennessey had a space person on his right and left.

The secretary of defense found himself seated at the foot of the table between a Supreme Court associate justice, an old woman who talked in a whisper, and the head of NASA. A crone and a windbag. He glared at Hennessey up the table seated between two aliens from God-knows-where and chattering away. An enlisted man, no less!

There were bottles of wine on the table, California reds and whites. The secretary of defense would have deeply appreciated a couple of vodka martinis, which the waiter whispered weren’t available, so he poured himself a brimming glass of red wine and drank it like milk.

Rip turned to the man on his left and introduced himself. “Rip Cantrell.”

I am the first officer.

“What do they call you?”

An unintelligible noise flashed through Rip’s head. He laughed.

Pick a name you like and call me that.

“Sam. I’ll call you Sam.”

Sam. I like that. Tell me about the saucer pilot who is marooned here. Is he here with us today?

He is dead,
Rip said silently.

The first officer glanced at the captain, seated beside the president, and she looked at him and Rip.

Tell me about that,
the first officer said.

So Rip did. Silently, directing his thoughts at Sam, the first officer.
Adam Solo was the chosen name of the saucer pilot marooned on earth for thirteen hundred years. He had other names at various times, such as Hiawatha and Leif Ericson, or Leif the Lucky.

Rip was well into his explanation of the pharma moguls and their quest for drugs that would extend human life when he realized that all the starship crew had stopped talking and were staring at him. They were listening to every word. So he told of the chase and final battle in the Grand Canyon and Solo’s death. Told it in the silence, with every one of the starship crew staring at him.

When he finished, he heard words that he knew were from the captain of the starship.

Thank you, Rip.

Then the first officer.
Thank you.

“Let’s have some wine,” Charley Pine said aloud. She too had heard the first officer’s and captain’s thoughts and now broke the silence. Conversation resumed. The earth people spoke aloud, and the aliens replied silently. It was weird, yet it wasn’t. In a few minutes it seemed absolutely normal to all the people seated at the table.

The waiters carried the dishes around, and the aliens always took a spoonful to try. Only a spoonful. Meat in slivers.

The first officer stared at the eating utensils and settled on a spoon. The knife he knew, presumably, because he hefted it and tested the point and sharpness of the blade, then held it ready in his left hand. He found about half the dishes palatable. If he liked it, he ate the dollop on his plate. If he didn’t, he ignored the rest of it. The meat he sliced into tiny bites, which he placed one by one on his tongue using the spoon.

He delivered his verdict to Rip and Charley, who were on each side of him.
Good. Fair. Very good. Not so good. Bad. Good again.

He liked the red wine best, Charley noted. The white he sampled, then ignored. Every now and then he picked up the water glass and drank as if the glass contained the nectar of the gods. The waiter behind him refilled it promptly.

The president was feeling mellow. The Arrival was going well, so far anyway. His wife had been giving him grief about the size of his tummy, which wasn’t sexy, she said, and he had been watching his diet. He decided to splurge. He loaded his plate with fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and two enchiladas covered with cheese.

The starship captain watched him with an air of disbelief but tried a tiny amount of each. She watched her host use his knife and fork and tried to emulate him.

Charley Pine got the first officer talking about his home planet, what it was like. Compared to Adam Solo, the first officer was positively garrulous. Blah, blah, blah. He blabbed on and on. He was homesick, thoroughly tired of the starship and thoroughly tired of his shipmates. When he delivered this pronouncement, several of his colleagues around the table froze and stared at him.

Egg had maneuvered the seating so that he was seated beside Professor Deehring. He let the government officials on the other side of the aliens monopolize their attention as he chatted with Deborah.

He felt a warm, pleasant feeling as she talked to him. She asked about Adam Solo, the Big Pharma moguls and what he thought important about his latest adventure. Egg talked on and on. She watched him with those big blue eyes.

At the head of the table, the president and the starship captain were having a private conversation. At least the president assumed it was private, since he spoke in a low voice and she didn’t speak at all, merely fired thoughts into his cranium.

“So how long did your voyage here take?”

A long time.

“How long, in earth years?”

Perhaps a hundred.

The president thought about that. A century ago this planet was convulsed by World War I. He shook his head to clear it. He decided to change the subject. “You seemed very charmed today by the children,” he said.

Ah, yes. Children. It has been a long time since I saw a child.

“What with the length of your voyage and all, I understand that.”

No. You couldn’t. We have lost the ability to have children. We have sex, certainly, but for reasons we don’t understand, the women do not become pregnant. We have come here to your planet to get DNA samples from successful parents so that we can properly research the problem and find answers. If we cannot solve this problem, the people of our planet will become extinct.

20

After lunch the party adjourned to the East Room, where the assembled American scientists awaited them. More wine, water and soft drinks were served by waiters with trays.

Professor Hans Soldi, the archaeologist who had helped Rip dig the Sahara saucer from the sandstone that entombed it, sought out a biologist from the starship and began questioning her. He wanted to know if the aliens had colonized earth 140,000 years ago when the Sahara saucer was abandoned. She didn’t know.

“Surely,” he said, “your DNA sampling of our population must indicate we are closely related to you?” He didn’t know about the aliens’ DNA sampling or storage activities, but he was making a leap to a rock he thought likely to be there.

The biologist was evasive.
If it happened,
she said,
it happened prior to the records I have access to.

He couldn’t budge her off that position, although he tried.

Then he noticed that there was a hair on her shirt, on her shoulder. When she sipped her drink, he picked it off.
Two can play the DNA game,
he thought.

Around them conversation swirled. “What is your home planet like?” “How many solar systems have you visited on this voyage?” “Tell me about your civilization.” That was cocktail party chatter, intended to get acquainted, not solicit information.

Still, the Americans wanted all they could get. NASA officials asked questions about the problems of space flight. Anthropologists questioned them about conditions on other planets, creatures they had found, how life had evolved under different gravity, atmospheric chemical composition and radiation levels.

The captain and president mixed and mingled for a bit, then went off to the Oval office for private conversations. Petty Officer Hennessey accompanied them.

In the president’s office, the elected one got down to it. “How can we help you with your problem?”

We would like DNA samples from a fairly representative group of successful earth parents,
she said.
And we would like to meet and talk with the survivors of the saucer that crashed on earth during an electrical storm in 1947.

“The Roswell saucer?” the president asked, his eyes narrowing.

I believe it is the large saucer parked outside on the lawn.

“The crew was never found. Nor any bodies. How many people were aboard it?”

Six. Three men and three women, all biologists engaged in genetic research.

The president’s eyes registered his surprise. The American public had choked down the fact that Adam Solo had been marooned on earth for thirteen hundred years. Telling them six more aliens had been roaming around unsuspected since 1947 would ignite a political firestorm.

The captain read his thoughts.
We need make no announcement,
she said.
We have already summoned them. They and their families are outside now. All we ask is that you admit them to these grounds and we will meet with them secretly.

The president caught Hennessey’s gaze and said to him, “Ask Egg Cantrell to come in here. Tell O’Reilly to have the Secret Service admit anyone and their family who mentions that he or she was on the Roswell saucer.”

That will be most appreciated,
the captain said.
I will tell them now.

An hour later the group was gathered. There were five families. One man had not lived to marry and have children, the others said. The women were mothers, and their children were in their fifties and early sixties. One of the surviving men was a father. Between them, they had nine children, who had so far produced eleven grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Neither the grandchildren nor great-grandchildren were included in the group here today. Only the saucer survivors knew of their origin, and they had never told their children, who with their spouses learned the facts now with mouths agape.

Tears were shed, children hugged parents, and everyone talked at once.

When we were unable to rescue you immediately,
the captain said,
we hoped you would continue your research into our genetic difficulties, find a mate here on this planet and conceive offspring. That you have done so fulfills our faith in you. I invite you now to return home with us on the starship, bringing your families if you wish, and help us solve our genetic problem.
Everyone in the room heard this speech, including Uncle Egg, the president and Hennessey.

More tears flowed. They had indeed continued doing biological research here on earth, and they produced digital thumb drives they handed to the captain. “Certainly you have the capability of reading these files,” one man said.

As for leaving earth, the answer was universally no.

“This is our home,” one woman explained to the starship commander with tears running down her face. “Certainly we faced all the problems of immigrants, learning the language, earning a living, getting an education here that would qualify us for professional positions, but somehow we all did it. We became Americans, citizens of this planet. Some of our children and grandchildren have served in the armed forces, and some have been elected to various government positions. A few have screwed up their lives before finally getting on the right track, and a couple have screwed up beyond redemption. We pay taxes and we vote. We are Americans and we don’t want to leave. Ours is an American story. This is where our families are, this is where we built our lives, and this is where we hope to live the rest of our days.”

Egg Cantrell clapped. Everyone looked at him. He kept clapping, and the survivors, their children and the president joined in.

When the hubbub died, the president had a few words to say. “I must caution you that making your secret public now might be harmful to our diplomatic efforts. While you can undoubtedly sell a book and make some money, you would be creating problems for your children and future generations. I urge you to continue to keep the secret you have so far kept so well. Thank you for coming.”