Calculating God

2

Christine Dorati’s question stopped me cold. Everything had been happening so quickly, I hadn’t had time to really consider how momentous all this was. The first verified extraterrestrial visitor to Earth had dropped by, and instead of alerting the authorities — or even my boss Christine — I was sitting around with the being, indulging in the kind of bull session university students have late at night.

But before I could reply, Hollus had turned around to face Dr. Dorati; he rotated his spherical body by shifting each of his six legs to the left.

“Greetings,” he said. “My” “name” “is” “Hol” “lus.” The two syllables of the name overlapped slightly, one mouth starting up before the other had quite finished.

Christine was a full-time administrator now. Years ago, when she’d been an active researcher, her field had been textiles; Hollus’s unearthy origins might therefore not have been obvious to her. “Is this a joke?” she said.

“Not” “at” “all,” replied the alien, in his strange stereophonic voice. “I am a” — his eyes looked briefly at me, as if acknowledging that he was quoting something I’d said earlier — “think of me as a visiting scholar.”

“Visiting from where?” asked Christine.

“Beta Hydri,” said Hollus.

“Where’s that?” asked Christine. She had a big, horsey mouth and had to make a conscious effort to close her lips over her teeth.

“It’s another star,” I said. “Hollus, this is Dr. Christine Dorati, the ROM’s director.”

“Another star?” said Christine, cutting off Hollus’s response. “Come on, Tom. Security called me and said there was some kind of prank going on, and—”

“Have you not seen my spaceship?” asked Hollus.

“Your spaceship?” Christine and I said in unison.

“I landed outside that building with the hemispherical roof.”

Christine came into the room, squeezed past Hollus, and pushed the speaker-phone button on my Nortel desk set. She then tapped out an internal extension on the keypad. “Gunther?” she said. Gunther was the security officer at the staff entrance, located off the alley between the museum and the planetarium. “It’s Dr. Dorati here. Do me a favor: step outside and tell me what you can see out front of the planetarium.”

“You mean the spaceship?” asked Gunther’s voice, through the speaker. “I’ve already seen it. There’s a huge crowd around it now.”

Christine clicked off the phone without remembering to say goodbye. She looked at the alien. Doubtless she could see its torso expanding and contracting as it breathed.

“What — um, what do you want?” asked Christine.

“I am doing some paleontological research,” said Hollus. Surprisingly, the word paleontological — quite a mouthful, even for a human — wasn’t split between his two speaking slits; I still hadn’t figured out the rules governing the switchover.

“I have to tell someone about this,” said Christine, almost to herself. “I have to notify the authorities.”

“Who are the appropriate authorities in a case like this?” I asked.

Christine looked at me as if surprised that I’d heard what she’d said. “The police? The RCMP? The Ministry of External Affairs? I don’t know. It’s too bad they shut down the planetarium; there might have been someone there who would have known. Still, maybe I should ask Chen.” Donald Chen was the ROM’s staff astronomer.

“You can notify anyone you wish,” said Hollus. “But please do not make a fuss about my presence. It will just interfere with my work.”

“Are you the only alien on Earth right now?” asked Christine. “Or are others of your kind visiting other people?”

“I am the only one currently on the planet’s surface,” Hollus said, “although more will be coming down shortly. There are thirty-four individuals in the crew of our mothership, which is in synchronous orbit around your planet.”

“Synchronous above what?” asked Christine. “Toronto?”

“Synchronous orbits have to be above the equator,” I said. “You can’t have one over Toronto.”

Hollus turned his eyestalks in my direction; perhaps I was going up in his esteem. “That is right. But since this place was our first goal, the ship is in orbit along the same line of longitude. I believe the country directly beneath it is called Ecuador.”

“Thirty-four aliens,” said Christine, as if trying to digest the idea.

“Correct,” replied Hollus. “Half are Forhilnors like me, and the other half are Wreeds.”

Excitement coursed through me. Getting to examine a life-form from one different ecosystem was staggering; to get to examine lifeforms from two would be amazing. In previous years, when I’d been well, I’d taught a course on evolution at the University of Toronto, but everything we knew about how evolution worked was based on one sample. If we could —

“I’m not sure who to call,” said Christine again. “Hell, I’m not sure who would believe me if I did call.”

Just then my phone rang. I picked up the handset. It was Indira Salaam, Christine’s executive assistant. I passed the phone to her.

“Yes,” Christine said into the mouthpiece. “No, I’ll stay here. Can you bring them up? Great. Bye.” She handed the phone back to me. “Toronto’s finest are on their way up.”

“Toronto’s finest what?” asked Hollus.

“The police,” I said, replacing the handset.

Hollus said nothing. Christine looked at me. “Someone called in the story of the spaceship and its alien pilot who had walked into the museum.”

Soon, two uniformed officers arrived, escorted by Indira. All three stood in the doorway, mouths agape. One of the cops was scrawny; the other quite stocky — the gracile and robust forms of Homo constableus, side by side, right there in my office.

“It must be a fake,” said the skinny cop to his partner.

“Why does everyone keep assuming that?” asked Hollus. “You humans seem to have a profound capacity for ignoring obvious evidence.” His two crystalline eyes looked pointedly at me.

“Which of you is the museum’s director?” asked the brawny cop.

“I am,” said Christine. “Christine Dorati.”

“Well, ma’am, what do you think we should do?”

Christine shrugged. “Is the spaceship blocking traffic?”

“No,” said the cop. “It’s entirely on the planetarium grounds, but . . .”

“Yes?”

“But, well, something like this should be reported.”

“I agree,” said Christine. “But to whom?”

My desk phone rang again. This time it was Indira’s assistant — they can’t keep the planetarium open, but assistants have assistants. “Hello, Perry,” I said. “Just a sec.” I handed the phone to Indira.

“Yes?” she said. “I see. Umm, hang on a second.” She looked at her boss. “CITY-TV is here,” she said. “They want to see the alien.” CITY-TV was a local station known for its in-your-face news; its slogan was simply “Everywhere!”

Christine turned toward the two cops to see if they were going to object. They looked at each other and exchanged small shrugs. “Well, we can’t bring any more people up here,” said Christine. “Tom’s office won’t take it.” She turned to Hollus. “Would you mind coming down to the Rotunda again?”

Hollus bobbed up and down, but I don’t think it was a sign of agreement. “I am eager to get on with my research,” he said.

“You’ll have to speak to other people at some point,” replied Christine. “Might as well get it over with.”

“Very well,” said Hollus, sounding awfully reluctant.

The thickset cop spoke into the microphone attached to the shoulder of his uniform, presumably talking to someone back at the station. Meanwhile, we all marched down the corridor toward the elevator. We had to go down in two loads: Hollus, Christine, and me in the first one; Indira and the two cops in the second. We waited for them on the ground floor, then made our way out into the museum’s vaulted lobby.

CITY-TV calls its camerapersons — all young, all hip — “videographers.” There was one waiting, all right, as well as quite a crowd of spectators, standing around in anticipation of the return of the alien. The videographer, a Native Canadian man with black hair tied in a ponytail — surged forward. Christine, ever the politician, tried to step into his camera’s field of view, but he simply wanted to shoot Hollus from as many angles as possible — CITY-TV was notorious for what my brother-in-law calls “out-of-body-cam.”

I noticed one of the cops had his hand resting on his holster; I rather imagine their supervisor had told them to protect the alien at all costs.

Finally, Hollus’s patience was exhausted. “Surely” “that” “is” “enough,” he said to the guy from CITY-TV.

That the alien could speak English astounded the crowd; most of them had arrived after Hollus and I had spoken in the lobby. Suddenly the videographer started peppering the alien with questions: “Where are you from?” “What’s your mission?” “How long did it take you to get here?” Hollus did his best to answer — although he never mentioned God — but, after a few minutes, two men in dark-blue business suits entered my field of view, one black and one white. They observed the alien for a short time, then the white one stepped forward and said, “Excuse me.” He had a Quebecois accent.

Hollus apparently didn’t hear; he went on answering the videographer’s questions.

“Excuse me,” said the man again, much louder.

Hollus moved aside. “I am sorry,” said the alien. “Did you wish to get by?”

“No,” said the man. “I want to speak to you. We’re from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service; I’d like you to come with us.”

“Where to?”

“To a safer place, where you can talk to the right people.” He paused. “There is a protocol for this sort of thing, although it took a few minutes to find it. The prime minister is already on his way to the airport in Ottawa, and we’re about to notify the U.S. president.”

“No, I am sorry,” said Hollus. His eyestalks swiveled around, looking at the octagonal lobby and all the people in it before settling back on the federal agents. “I came here to do paleontological research. I am glad to say hello to your prime minister, of course, if he wants to drop by, but the only reason I revealed my presence was so that I could talk to Dr. Jericho here.” He indicated me with one of his arms, and the videographer swung to shoot me. I must say, I felt rather pumped.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the French-Canadian CSIS man. “But we really have to do it this way.”

“You are not listening,” said Hollus. “I refuse to go. I am here to do important work, and I wish to continue it.”

The two CSIS agents looked at each other. Finally, the black man spoke; he had a slight Jamaican accent. “Look, you’re supposed to say, ‘Take me to your leader.’ You’re supposed to want to meet with the authorities.”

“Why?” asked Hollus.

The agents looked at each other again. “Why?” repeated the white one. “Because that’s the way it’s done.”

Hollus’s two eyes converged on the man. “I rather suspect I have more experience at this than you do,” he said softly.

The white federal agent pulled out a small handgun. “I really do have to insist,” he said.

The cops now moved forward. “We’ll have to see some identification,” said the burlier of the two policemen.

The black CSIS agent obliged; I had no idea what a CSIS ID was supposed to look like, but the police officers seemed satisfied and backed off.

“Now,” said the black man. “Please do come with us.”

“I am quite sure you will not use that weapon,” said Hollus, “so doubtless I will get my way.”

“We have orders,” said the white agent.

“No doubt you do. And no doubt your superiors will understand that you were unable to fulfill them.” Hollus indicated the videographer, who was madly scrambling to change tapes. “The record will show that you insisted, I declined, and that was the end of the matter.”

“This is no way to treat a guest,” shouted a woman from the crowd. That seemed to be a popular sentiment: several people voiced their affirmation.

“We’re trying to protect the alien,” said the white CSIS man.

“Like hell,” said a male museum patron. “I’ve seen The X-Files. If you walk out of here with him, no regular person will ever see him again.”

“Leave him alone!” added an elderly man with a European accent.

The agents looked at the videographer, and the black one pointed out a security camera to the white one. Doubtless they wished none of this was being recorded.

“Politely,” said Hollus, “you are not going to prevail.”

“But, well, surely you won’t object to us having an observer present?” said the black agent. “Someone to make sure no harm comes to you?”

“I have no concerns in that area,” said Hollus.

Christine stepped forward at this point. “I’m the museum’s president and director,” she said to the two CSIS men. Then she turned to Hollus. “I’m sure you can understand that we’d like to have a record, a chronicle, of your visit here. If you don’t mind, we will at least have a cameraperson accompany you and Dr. Jericho.” The CITY-TV guy surged forward; it was quite clear that he’d be happy to volunteer for the job.

“But I do mind,” said Hollus. “Dr. Dorati, on my world, only criminals are subject to constant observation; would you consent to someone watching you all day long as you worked?”

“Well, I—” said Christine.

“Nor will I,” said Hollus. “I am grateful for your hospitality, but — you, there,” he pointed at the videographer. “You are the representative of a media outlet; allow me to make a plea.” Hollus paused for a second while the Native Canadian adjusted his camera angle. “I am looking for unfettered access to a comprehensive collection of fossils,” said Hollus, speaking loudly. “In exchange, I will share information my people have gathered, when I think it is appropriate and fair. If there is another museum that will offer me what I seek, I will gladly appear there instead. Simply—”

“No,” said Christine, rushing forward. “No, that won’t be necessary. Of course, we’ll cooperate any way we can.”

Hollus turned his eyestalks away from the camera. “Then I may make my studies under terms that are acceptable to me?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, whatever you want.”

“The government of Canada will still require—” began the white CSIS man.

“I can as easily go to the United States,” said Hollus. “Or Europe, or China, or—”

“Let him do what he wants!” shouted a middle-aged male museum patron.

“I do not mean to intimidate,” said Hollus, looking at one of the federal agents and then the other, “but I have zero interest in being a celebrity or in being forced into narrow passages by documentarians or security people.”

“We honestly don’t have any latitude in our orders,” said the white agent. “You simply have to come with us.”

Hollus’s eyestalks arched backward so that his crystal-covered orbs looked up at the mosaic on the Rotunda’s domed ceiling high above, made up of more than a million Venetian-glass tiles; perhaps this was the Forhilnor equivalent of rolling one’s eyes. The words “That all men may know His work” — a quote, I’m told, from the Book of Job — were arranged in a square at the dome’s apex.

After a moment, the stalks came forward again, and one locked onto each of the agents. “Listen,” Hollus said. “I have spent more than a year studying your culture from orbit. I am not fool enough to come down here in a way that would make me vulnerable.” He reached into a fold of the cloth wrapped around his torso — in a flash, the other CSIS man had his gun in his hand, too — and pulled out a polyhedral object about the size of a golf ball. He then scuttled sideways over to me and profferred it. I took it; it was heavier than it looked.

“That device is a holoform projector,” Hollus said. “It has just imprinted itself with Dr. Jericho’s biometrics and will only work when in his company; indeed, I can make it self-destruct, quite spectacularly, if anyone else handles it, so I advise you not to try to take it from him. Further, the projector will only work at locales that I approve of, such as inside this museum.” He paused. “I am here by telepresence,” he said. “The actual me is still inside the landing craft, outside the building next door; the only reason I came down to the surface was to supervise the delivery of the projector that Dr. Jericho is now holding. That projector uses holography and micromanipulated force fields to give the impression that I am here and to allow me to handle objects.” Hollus — or the image of him — froze for a few seconds, as if the real Hollus was preoccupied doing something else. “There,” he said. “My lander is now returning to orbit, with the real me aboard.” Some people rushed outside through the museum’s glass-doored vestibule, presumably to get a glimpse of the departing ship. “There is nothing you can do to coerce me, and there is no way you can physically harm me. I do not mean to be rude, but contact between humanity and my people will be on our terms, not yours.”

The polyhedron in my hand issued a two-toned bleep, and the projection of Hollus wavered for a second, then disappeared.

“You’ll have to surrender that object, of course,” said the white man.

I felt adrenaline coursing through me. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but you saw Hollus give it directly to me. I don’t think you have any claim to it.”

“But it’s an alien artifact,” said the black CSIS agent.

“So?” I said.

“Well, I mean, it should be in official hands.”

“I work for the government, too,” I said defiantly.

“I mean it should be in secure hands.”

“Why?”

“Well, ah, because.”

I don’t accept “because” as an argument from my six-year-old son; I wasn’t about to accept it here. “I can’t turn it over to you — you heard what Hollus said about it blowing up. I think Hollus was quite clear about how things are going to be — and you gentlemen do not have a role. And so,” I looked at the white guy, the one with the French accent, “I bid you adieu.”