Yngve, AR - Alien Beach Read online

  As the marching amphibians walked up, they threw up seawater from their lungs; from the nasal openings and the ear-holes, clear water sprayed over their smooth shoulders and chests. One female made a quick knot of her hair, soft fingers working rapidly; to Carl, it looked like she almost tied her own fingers into knots. His doubts melted away, and he stepped forth to shake hands (hands?) with Ranmotanii.

  Carl tried to remember the speech he been preparing, then thought: To hell with speeches. This, this is what I really want to do.

  He stretched out his sweaty right hand, a little shaky and pale. Ranmotanii, carrying an inscrutable closed-lips smile on his face, stretched - literally stretched - forth his right arm, elongating it a few inches. At its end, the tip had a kind of stalk-like thumb, with four longer, softer finger-stalks branching out along its base. A little awkwardly, eyes focused on each other's hands, Carl and Ranmotanii intertwined their fingers.

  Carl felt a chill that wasn't fear or lust, a wave of strangeness surging from the handshake through his arm and into his head. It wasn't any supernatural force, just the sensation of touching alien fingers that felt like nothing human. They were stronger and dryer than he had thought, quite warm but firm - he felt minute bones in that arm, in that hand! Carl risked strengthening his grip a little, and Ranmotanii responded in kind. Carl looked up at the Sirian's long, lined face and made a short laugh - he didn't quite know why.

  "Well - here we are..." he stuttered (he hated himself then, for saying that to an ambassador from an ancient civilization), but didn't yet dare to release his grip or do just about anything but stand still.

  If the alien had been the physics teacher of his college days but ten times wiser and more awe-inspiring, Carl would still have known how to behave in his presence. But there were no rules for this kind of authority.

  "Yesss... wwe aaare heerrre. Mmy land-naaame iiis Ranmotanii," sang the alien, a bit loudly.

  Carl swallowed involuntarily - his mind went blank - but he spoke.

  "My land-name is Carl... Carl Sayers. You can call me Carl. Welcome."

  Ranmotanii lowered his bass-voice slightly.

  "Caarrll... wweee taalk forrr wee, or wwe tallk forr ourr peeoplle?"

  "You mean now?"

  Ranmotanii released his "hand" and made an obscure gesture which might mean "yes". Carl nodded.

  "Yes." Then adding: "Now, when we are on this island, we talk to get to know more. That is what we should do. We..." He started to use hand-gestures, to clarify the meaning of his words. "We who you see here now, are scientists. That is, scientists work to seek knowledge. Who we are... and where we came from... that is not important. To know, to learn more about everything, that is all to us. That is what it means to be a scientist."

  Ranmotanii, his face neutral, nodded and made the same approving hand-gesture again. Now other Sirians stepped forth, arms outstretched. All the human team members shook hands, jittery but happy. Only one of them was paralyzed with panic, and must be helped aside. Official documents from the scientific organizations and the U.N. were given to the Sirian delegation. Some more procedure followed, and all humans felt terribly awkward about it.

  Finally, Carl Sayers got the chance to offer the visitors to sit down in the shadow of the palmtrees, nearer the barracks. The two groups walked to the place, still keeping apart but looking at each other constantly. Straw mats were already laid out, and a pile of gifts for the amphibians.

  Carl asked a linguist to explain the use of the gifts: a hundred pairs of Bermuda shorts and plain t-shirts in different colors, size XXL; two crates of English dictionaries; a box of wooden flutes (a NASA PR executive had lobbied through that last-minute addition), and other trinkets. It took some effort to explain the necessity of wearing clothes, but the Sirians graciously accepted the gifts.

  The flutes were instantly appreciated; this was something of a novelty to them, and a few Sirians immediately tried blowing into the flutes. It sounded awful. The human scientists laughed happily at the ear-piercing noise, some even applauded.

  Next, the Sirians produced their own gifts to the scientists: a dozen copies of the mind-recording device that Ranmotanii had given the astronaut earlier. The group's best engineer, a mid-thirtyish Japanese named Takeru Otomo, examined his copy with an intrigued expression. A female amphibian sat down and awkwardly explained it to him. The device consisted of a set of two broad, thick elastic metal bands, forming a helmet shape with an open top. A metal knob at one end recorded the impressions from the most active parts of the brain; the whole mechanism was powered by solar energy.

  By the mere press of another knob, the user's thoughts could be replayed in his mind - it might be the closest thing to television the Sirians had. Or the closest to art; they made the early impression on Lazar Mahfouz as being peculiarly artless. Machinery devoid of ornament or paint; featureless tools and ships; no tattoos or jewelry on their bodies. He thought this extremely odd - did they feign artlessness or was it their way of being?

  The Japanese engineer, Takeru, was not mystified by the artlessness of the aliens; he was enchanted, though he did not openly show his emotions. Moving close to the center of events, he was the first to try and use the machine; he ignored the warnings of the others and put the metal bands around his head, clasping the knob that switched it on. He wished intensely to be the first man to use alien technology, and ignored the risk. Carl saw what was happening, too late to stop it.

  The knob made a little singing sound, like a word of Sirian speech - the contraption stiffened and stuck firmly to Takeru's scalp. He felt a brief heatwave from the machine into his hair, and sweated even more. After a few seconds, he switched it off and removed it. His scalp felt a little raw, but that was all.

  At once, the female amphibian gestured at him to put the contraption back on. He did so, pushed the knob, felt the device freeze stuck again - and was transported back in time to the minute before, when the device was on his head the first time. It was a perfectly recorded experience, except for his breathing and heartbeats; he was like a visitor in his own mind's past. Then the replay abruptly ceased - Takeru was back in the present. He was shaken by the brief experience, trembling and sweating.

  "Thank you," Takeru stammered to the Sirian female - an adult-looking, dark-gray individual with a peculiar expression in her half-shut eyes. "What did you say was your name?"

  "Laand-nammme... Namonnae," she said in a clear voice, pointing at a spot between her large eyes. Even when they were both sitting down, she was one head taller than he was. Takeru smiled uncertainly at the female, repeated his own name and pointed to the corresponding spot between his own eyes. The female's lips widened - Takeru couldn't quite make out what that expression meant, but hoped it was a benevolent smile.

  Not immediately but profoundly, it dawned on Lazar Mahfouz what the alien "trinkets" were worth. A traditional psychoanalyst would have given his right arm for a machine that recorded dreams.

  "Ask her if the machine has a memory limit!" he begged the Japanese engineer.

  "This machine... how much can it record? What happens when it is full?"

  Takeru repeated the question with sign language added, until Namonnae understood. She looked them both in the eyes, blinking rapidly.

  While pointing a finger-stalk at the memory-section of the device, she answered in her singing, drawn-out way: "Mmmachine... iiis nooot fuuull... Wwwill nnnot beee fulll... uuuntiiil... knowww nooot trrranssslate. Unnntilll muchhh vvveeery lonnng tiiime passeees. I wiiill telll morrre lateeer. Muuust lllearn mmmorrre yooour lannnguuuage. Parrrdonnn...?"

  Takeru understood that Namonnae was much smarter than her speech indicated; Sirian intonation was completely different from any human pattern, and quite likely to remain that way.

  "It's okay. No problem now," Takeru assured her, trying a wide grin.

  Namonnae seemed to be taken aback, and her eyes widened instantly.

  Lazar tapped him on the shoulder: "Takeru, these beings don't smile
with their teeth. Didn't you know that baring your teeth is the universal threat of attack?"

  Takeru, shocked by his own blunder, bowed down before the Sirian several times in the traditional excuse ritual.

  "I'm sorry! I did not mean to threaten you!" he pleaded, then repeated his excuse. Nammonae folded her soft arms into two outward-turning arches, closing her eyes once, emphatically.

  "Iis nooo proooblemm nnnow," she told him in calm tones. "I'mmm sorryyy... alllsooo. Languuuaaage iiin proooblemmm... nooot impooortaaant... knooowleeedge, Caaarl speak of. Morrre immmportaaant."

  "Yes."

  "Yes, absolutely."

  Lazar made an effort not to imitate the body language of the Sirian, then wondered why he felt the strong urge to emulate them. It might confirm something he had feared before the visit, though it was much too early to draw conclusions yet...

  Carl clapped his hands to call for attention, and made another announcement: according to the customs of Pacific natives, the newcomers would be welcomed with a great feast. Unfortunately the scientists did not know what the amphibians could digest, and vice versa. Despite this, Carl invited the Sirians to return to the beach at sunset that evening, and bring their own food, while the humans brought theirs. An agreement was made with crude phrases and gestures; even figures in the sand were drawn, and an artistic scientist drew pictures for description; then the Sirians were free to do as they liked until the celebration.

  Ranmotanii told Carl the idea was good, and thanked them all. All the Sirians joined him in the gesture of gratitude: they stretched out their arms before them, cupped their "hands" together, and pointed them up above their heads. Then the visitors, chattering rapidly among themselves in their own tongue, packed their gifts and walked back into the lagoon.

  "Welcome back!" Ann shouted, waving after them.

  Carl let out a deep sigh of relief when the last amphibian had dived into the waters. His mouth felt as dry as sandpaper, and he could barely speak. It amazed him, by comparison, how calmly Ann had behaved.

  "You have a lot of nerve, Ann," he rasped. "My hands were shaking so badly I could hardly lift my arm. Seriously: what were you on?"

  Ann made a nervous laugh: "I was scared... just like you... I still am, I guess... but when I was among them and talked to them... it felt so safe... like... I can't explain. They are giants, even the females. I couldn't be afraid when they were near, you know? Carl, I cannot believe this is really happening! I shook hands with one of them!"

  They gave each other a spontaneous hug.

  Carl said: "These mind-recorders gave me a great idea. Let's call for a general meeting now -"

  One of the physicians of the team, a curly-blonde Swede by the name Mats Jonsson, overheard the discussion.

  "Carl," he interjected, "you'd better put that meeting on hold for a few minutes. About half the team suddenly got nervous diarrhea. I gotta go."

  Mats Jonsson darted off across the sand toward the nearest row of toilets.

  "Curiouser and curiouser," muttered Carl.

  This first contact was turning out strange all right... and comical to the point of slapstick. He was glad the media was being held at bay. Carl returned to his barrack, glancing at the surrounding sea. The background rumble of distant helicopters and jet airplanes was nearly constant now.

  A little later that day, the scientists gathered to hear Carl's idea. The man with the camera switched to an unused disc.

  "Let's see, we've got thirteen of these mind-recorders... what I suggest is we put them on during the Sirians' visit. Why not? Using our own eyes is way better than standard video equipment! With these devices, we won't miss any important detail of this historic first contact!"

  Lazar Mahfouz raised a hand.

  "But they are set to stay a whole year. What if the recorders don't last the whole time? I have a suggestion. Let's use the recorders while we sleep instead."

  At once, one American scientist protested loudly - he seemed to take the proposal personally.

  "I won't give away my private dream-life to science! Besides, what we dream is not important to this mission! Facts are important, not fantasy!"

  Lazar responded with only a hint of aggravation: "And why do you think they gave a dozen people a dozen recorders in the first place? They already knew we had cameras and such things, since they've seen our TV for years! Their gift was the logical conclusion!

  "From now on, what we dream is highly relevant. Because there is a world outside this island, a whole world that will dream about Sirians - dreams full of fear and desire and curiosity! Dreams that reflect motives! With this technology, we can anticipate the world opinion and prevent it from turning against the Sirian presence. Carl, you understand what I mean, don't you? You worked in television."

  Carl understood quite well what Lazar meant. But he wasn't ready to accept it yet. The implications cut too deep, also into his own mind...

  All of a sudden, he wanted to shrug off the existence of the infernal mind-recorders, and concentrate on hard facts. Why couldn't this affair be simpler? Then again, Lazar did talk about hard, inescapable facts. About what the human mind was really like. A haunting image from an old film flickered through Carl's memory: a thinking, bloodthirsty ape, wielding the first weapon as he committed the first murder of a fellow ape...

  "I'm not going to force anyone into anything," he told the group after a time. "But if any of you want to follow Lazar's suggestion and record your own dreams for later analysis, please feel free to do so. I guarantee you the privacy of your own dreams."

  The group murmured a general approval, and set about preparing for the evening's feast. Carl went over to the hospital barracks, a large cluster of connected buildings marked with Red Cross symbols, and said hello to the physician Mats Jonsson. Mats had a patient: the middle-aged German historian, who had fallen into a catatonic fit when a Sirian attempted to shake hands with him. The man lay on a cot now, breathing deeply but steadily.

  "I gave him something to sleep on," Mats explained. "He's in the risk group for heart-disease, but he didn't have a stroke - thank God he took his nitroglycerine pills before they showed up! Can you imagine the public reaction?"

  Carl went cold, and wiped some sweat from his forehead.

  "Yeah... 'Aliens scared scientist to death.' That was a close call. Don't... don't talk to anyone about this just yet. But I think we have to do something... the responsibility lies on me."

  They both stared at the patient's newly acquired mind-recorder, lying on a table near the cot. The Swede looked uncomfortable.

  "Is that necessary?" he asked warily.

  "Takeru tried it, and it worked without harming him. If Heinzhof is going to suffer a nervous breakdown during the most important meeting in history, then I want to be warned in advance. Put the damned thing on his head. Or I'll be forced to send him right off this island with the next supply boat."

  The Swedish doctor was clearly unhappy about it, but he put the device around the sleeping patient's head and switched it on. A Sirian voice-signal confirmed that it was activated. The patient turned about a little, but remained asleep.

  Carl left him that way, already busy with other pressing concerns. He had to e-mail his wife and his children, and tell them everything was okay. And beneath all his worries, he actually did feel quite good. Carl went into to his quarters and unpacked his old violin. He secretly hoped to play a musical duet with Ranmotanii during the feast.

  In the palmtree grove, the team cleared an area for more straw mats and a great bonfire. The American astronomer and writer Bruce Pound, the fattest of the bunch, was appointed barbecue cook. Another scientist gathered his colleagues on the beach and showed the portable tapedeck he had brought with him. He proudly held up the tapes for them to see. They were all visibly excited.

  "'Yellow Submarine'?"

  "'All Together Now'?"

  "We'll have a cosmic sing-along!"

  "What if they don't like the Beatles?"

&nb
sp; "Would you rather let them hear Nirvana?"

  "It's crazy! It's totally unscientific!"

  "It's gonna be great!"

  "I hope the Sirians bring the flutes we gave 'em! We could teach them to play 'Yellow Submarine' !"

  Chapter Five

  With only the ceiling lights for illumination, the soldier couldn't tell the time of day. He had awakened a few minutes ago, alone in his cell. There were other drunken and unruly customers in the adjoining cells, most of them servicemen. The American military prison was in fact full. Those arrested soldiers who weren't apathetically hunched down on their cots, were wailing in terrible anxiety or talking in their sleep. The soldier couldn't sleep for all the noise. It reminded him of the lunatic wing of the hospital he had just escaped.

  Crazy, he thought. Something really different happens, something that could make a radical change for mankind, and what do we do? We think of nothing better than to get drunk and act like complete fools. Maybe this isn't happening. Maybe I've been sitting on this cot all the time, strung out on pills and booze. All a crazy, drunken dream.

  The soldier spotted an MP guard on the other side of the bars and tried to sit up. The headache stung him in the temporal bones - he regretted having moved at all.

  " Hey! How long have I been here?"

  "Shut up and sleep it off! It's eight in the morning."

  "I've slept it off. Look - let me out of here, I want to make a phone-call."

  "Okay, but puke on my boots again and I'll beat you senseless."

  The guard unlocked the tiny cell and let the soldier stumble out. He made his call on the public phone - he had lost or sold his cell-phone, he couldn't remember which. But the number he remembered.

  After five signals, a sleepy voice answered from far away: "Hello?"

  "Hi. It's me. I've decided to return home."

  "Oh... I'm glad to hear that, but do you know what time it is over here?"