If you're like me, you may have been a subject of the scurrilous rumour that science fiction fans have no life. You may have even been advised to "get a life" (which apparently is an activity involving socialisation with people other than SF fans). The allegation that fans have no life, as we all know, is completely without basis. Why, speaking for myself, I socialised as recently as (um, er) - well, last night on IRC! And if you are ever struck by a niggling doubt as to whether you are in fact the sad fan you are accused of being, I have found the perfect antidote: simply find a fan who is even sadder than you are. The other day, for example, I met someone who could recite from memory, the production code, writer, producer, director and script editor of every Doctor Who story ever made. There, I feel better already.
William Sternman's short story in this issue To See Ourselves is a companion story to his Rights of Passage, which was previously published eighteen months ago in issue 26. To See Ourselves is published here for the first time in full, after having featured in abridged form in print publications Dream International Quarterly and PBW. If you enjoy it, why not go back and read his earlier story also?
Our serial in issue 44 is the concluding part of Friend by one of IQ's most prolific contributors, Tony Chandler. This issue's featured artist is Tim Ballard, a graphic artist from North Texas with a degree in Fine Art. More of his surreal images may be found by clicking on his artwork in this issue.
Short story: To See Ourselves by
William Sternman
Hank lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the previous one, then dropped the still-glowing butt into an overflowing cut-glass ashtray that was already smoldering like a charcoal grill. The ashtray was sitting on top of his Olympia upright typewriter and if he didn't empty it soon, it would crack from the heat and spew burning embers into the typewriter well.
What difference did it make?
He had been sitting at the desk in his living room like this since he got home from work and now it was four o'clock in the morning. F. Scott Fitzgerald had said that in a true dark night of the soul, it was always three o'clock in the morning. But he was wrong. Sometimes it was two o'clock in the morning. Sometimes it was four.
People in general were just as wrong about writer's block. They thought it meant that you just sat hour after hour staring at a blank white sheet of paper jutting out from under your typewriter roller, waiting for an idea that never came. The truth was that he had hundreds of ideas, more ideas than he could possibly use in a lifetime, but none of them meant anything to him. He would halfheartedly try to develop one of them, because he had a deadline to meet and he had to do something, but in a minute or two he'd panic - maybe he should be working on a different one instead. He'd try that for a while, but then he'd worry that perhaps he shouldn't have dropped the first one. Inevitably, a third idea would seem more attractive. And then a fourth. And then it was four o'clock in the morning and all he had to show for his hours of fits and starts was the traditional overflowing wastepaper basket.
The trouble was that he couldn't feel anything and so he couldn't get involved with anything, even his own thoughts. His head felt like a gigantic block of ice and he didn't know how to melt the ice so that the wheels in his brain would start turning again and his emotions flowing. He had written radio spots before - why couldn't he do it now?
It was like falling asleep. You didn't know how you did it; you just did it. But when you couldn't do it, when you just lay in bed hour after hour making patterns out of the water stains on the ceiling in the faint glow from the streetlight outside, and tried to fall asleep, you couldn't. And you felt as though you'd never be able to fall asleep again.
Just as Hank now felt that he'd never be able to write again.
And if he couldn't write, life wasn't worth living.
He had tried free associating on paper, just mechanically spewing out whatever came to his mind. Usually after ten or fifteen minutes, or an hour or two, something worthwhile would appear on the surface of this monotonous detritus, like a diamond (or at least a zircon) in a landfill. But not this time.
He had considered taking a nap, on the theory that something might occur to him as he slept. And even if not, he'd at least wake up refreshed. But after five minutes of lying like a corpse on a mortuary slab, he had jumped up and gone back to his typewriter. He couldn't sleep because he was afraid to let a second of irretrievable time slip away.
He knew, too, from past experience, that if he did something to distract his mind - anything, wash the kitchen floor, sew buttons on his shirts, clean out his desk, go for a walk - something might pop into his mind.
But he had to have something, anything, to present to his boss at 9:00 this morning. He couldn't just walk in empty-handed and say he couldn't think of anything. So he didn't dare waste the precious hours left before he had to get ready for work.
And yet, if he had taken a nap at midnight or gone for a walk, he'd have been no worse off than he was now. Only he had no way of knowing that at midnight. And now it was four o'clock and time seemed to be slipping away even faster than before, like the last few grains of sand in a hourglass.
Even if he could, by some miracle, present the head of his ad agency with an acceptable radio spot, it was probably too late already. He had been fired from four jobs in the last two years for just this, the inability to produce, and he would probably be fired from this one too. Then there'd be thirty-nine weeks of unemployment compensation while he tried to find another job ("Why did you leave your last position, Mr. Morgan? Why have you had so many jobs in the last two years?"). And then - because jobs for advertising copywriters had steadily been drying up in Philadelphia since he graduated from Central High School ten years ago - his old standby, telephone sales. Turning himself into a zombie and mechanically reciting a spiel for a product that he was just as disinterested in as his prospects. And being canned even from that demeaning job because he was really too introverted to be a salesman.
And then what? How do you explain to friends and relatives that you can't keep a job because you can't think anymore, can't feel anymore, can't write anymore? Already he dreaded their concerned- turning-to-impatient reactions: What's wrong, Henry? Pull yourself together, Henry. Mind over matter, Henry.
But don't you understand, he wanted to scream at their well-
meaning faces with their well-meaning fixed smiles, I'm scared. I'm so scared all the time
and I don't even know what I'm scared of. And I'm so tired.
It was all so hopeless. He wished he could leave for work now, face Don Jackson, get fired and then be out on the street again, and it would all be over. And he'd never have to spend another night like this, trying to write when he was too tired and too goddamned scared. What a relief it would be never to have to wrack his brain again for words that wouldn't come.
Was this the rest of his life? The accelerating terror, the downward spiral, the eternal exhaustion? Where would it end - in the gutter, in the Delaware River?
He wished he could somehow see into the future and see what he'd be like twenty or thirty years from now. But even if he could, he'd probably be too afraid of what he might see to look.
Oh, God, he didn't want to have to live through years, decades of this. Oh, God, please don't do this to me anymore. Please. Let me go to sleep - I'm so tired - and never wake up again. Please, dear God. Please.
He felt a little more peaceful, as though asking God to take his life had lifted a heavy burden off his shoulders. He folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes and let his head slump forward, as though he would slip as effortlessly into death as he had once, long ago, been able to slip into sleep.
He dreamed he was sitting right here, in front of his typewriter, fast asleep, when someone started knocking on his apartment door.
Because this was a dream, it never occurred to him to wonder who would be coming to see him at four o'clock in the morning. All things are possible in a dream.
The man in the black raincoat standing in the hallway was old enough to be Hank's father, although Hank's father had been dead for several years now. He was about Hank's height, but heavier, flabbier. His unusually long grey hair made him look like a Nineteenth Century composer, Wagner or Chopin.
His face was so familiar that Hank almost called the man by name, except that no name came to mind. He reminded Hank a little of his father, but more of his Uncle Ben, also dead. And, oddly, of his older brother, Sam, who had hanged himself when he was in high school and Hank was still in elementary school.
The man had been examining him intently. Now he stepped into the living room and looked around as though he had just walked into a re-creation of an exotic setting, like the medieval rooms in the Philadelphia Museum of Art or the Japanese house in Fairmount Park.
He touched the typewriter lovingly, as you would a beautiful sculpture.
"I haven't seen one of these in years. I use a computer now."
He picked up the ashtray of still smoldering butts and emptied it out an open window.
"I used to do that all the time and once spent hours cleaning up the mess after the ashtray cracked apart. I almost set the whole place on fire." He put the ashtray on the windowsill. "I gave up smoking years ago, you'll be happy to hear."
Next he went to Hank's bookcase - actually battleship-grey steel shelving from Korvettes - and examined his books. He pulled out Hank's favorite novel, Marquand's Point of No Return, and as he flipped through it, he smiled.
"Do you mind if I take this back with me? I gave my copy away to someone a long time ago and now it's out of print." His voice sounded hauntingly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like your own voice on a recording.
Ordinarily, Hank would not have given away one of his treasures, especially to a stranger, but since this was a dream, he nodded.
The man tucked the book under his arm, as though he were afraid that otherwise he might leave it behind, and looked around the room once more in wonder.
"I still can't believe I'm here," he said.
He turned to face Hank.
"I can't believe it's you."
Hank had been dumbstruck through all this, as often happens in a dream. Now he asked, "Who are you?"
"Do you mind if I sit down? I've been traveling a very long time."
Hank nodded. The man perched on the edge of the sofa and Hank sat facing him on the spindle-back chair in front of his desk.
The man ran his hand along the brown tweed-covered cushion beside him.
"They sure don't make them like this anymore...Hank." He said the name tentatively, as though he weren't sure how it would sound. "You'll never know how strange it feels calling you that. I used to be called Hank too when I was your age."
The man ran his hand along the cushion again. The hand was delicate, like Hank's, only thicker. Also like Hank, and his father, he didn't wear any rings.
"I came here to tell you something that I know you won't believe. But I have to tell you anyway. I came here to tell you that everything's going to be all right."
"Everything?"
"Everything you're scared about."
"You mean I won't be fired?" His heart leaped up in spite of his conscious desire to be canned and get it all over with.
"No. You'll be fired tomorrow. And you'll be fired from your next job too. You're going to go through years and years of hell before you get your act together."
"Get my act together?" Hank echoed uncertainly. He didn't understand what the man meant by that.
"Yes."
"How do you know all this?"
"I've been through it all already, Hank. All the times I asked God to take my life, the few times I tried to do it myself - I'm so glad now nothing happened. That's what I wanted to tell you, Hank - grit your teeth, you'll make it too."
"Who are you?" Hank asked again.
The man put Point of No Return on the sofa beside him and stood up.
"There's something I'd like to do before I go. You probably won't understand it, but it's something that someone did to me when I was your age and it helped me get through a lot of tough times."
Hank stood up too, feeling a little wobbly in the legs.
"What?" he asked unsteadily.
"I want to hold you for just a minute. I want to tell you how much I love you, Hank, how much I've always loved you. And I want to assure you that everything's going to work out in the end."
Hank had never been held by another man, even his father. Normally he would have been embarrassed and backed away in terror. But in this dream he was having it somehow seemed all right. So he walked into the man's arms and let himself be held like a baby. And, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he wasn't scared anymore.
After a moment the man let his arms drop to his sides. He picked up the book, tucked it under his arm again and turned back to Hank.
"I'll be waiting for you."
"Who are you?" Hank asked.
"You."
When he woke up, Hank automatically did what he always did: he lit up a cigarette. When he went to throw the match into the ashtray, it wasn't on the typewriter, where he had left it.
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The Story so Far: In 2188 Theodore Edwards is the sole survivor of an explosion on the maiden exploration voyage of the Uluru. An alien ship draws alongside the crippled vessel, and Edwards is captured by its crew. Unable to communicate with them, he is wounded by their experimentation, but cannot express his hurt. At last, Edwards is alone with one of the aliens and attempts to establish a bond of communication between them. The attempt is not entirely successful, as the alien retreats with some alarm.
Day Six
They let me out today.
I was surrounded by several of the little buggers who pointed this ridiculous little tube at me. I started to laugh, but thought better about it, it probably holds a tiny thermonuclear device. I made sure that I didn't scare them with any sudden moves. Besides, this would be my first visit to one of their places. Away from my circle room prison.
I also recognized one for the first time. They still all look alike to me, but this was the one who had sat with me yesterday for a couple of hours. I recognized him because one of his seven arms is shorter than the rest and he does not seem to use it as much as the other six. Other than that, they all look black and weird and round.
Walking basketballs.
They must not see in color. Because their world has no color. Every object I see, or the glimpses I get out of round windows shows me that everything is black or white or some shade of gray. My biggest insight into how they see came when we got to the testing machine. At least that's what I call it
It filled an entire wall. It was all black with thousands upon thousands of small knobs and holes that filled it's surface while at about the height of that globular mass on their heads there were these gray windows of some kind. Off at one side were some steps which led to another level and then I noticed the narrow shelf where they could obviously walk and work more of the knobs and look into more of the gray plastic-like windows.
They motioned for me to go towards one of the windows. I carefully sat down cross-legged, ready and willing to try my hand. I was ready, Theodore Edwards, reprentative of the human race. And I have always been a fast learner. I would show them the semblance of intelligence they were obviously seeking to test me for.
And then I looked into one of the gray windows.
They must see more depth than we do. I could see into this window, sort of like looking into a hologram. But there were no dials or indicator lights or anything I could recognize. Different strange shapes seemed to wind around inside. On the curved contours of these shapes were shades of grays as well as short lines that went in all directions. There seemed to be no order to it at all. There were no rows of markings, there were no columns. It was all haphazard.
I felt my mouth drop.
I then watched as my friend from yesterday came and stood beside me, eye to globular mass ( the tube weapon was still pointed at my back by another of them). He then took all seven of his arms and either grasped one of the curved, oblong knobs, or poked the tip into one of the tiny dark holes.
He hummed at me and then began to work the tips of his arms, several of them simultaneously at times. He leaned his mass towards the gray holo-windows.
It began to change almost instantly. The contour sides of the largest shape swelled and shrank with his movements while the gray colors faded or darkened and the lines changed as well. It was almost as if they were alive and breathing, this gentle swelling along with the subtle changing of grays.
Then he stepped back and pointed his seven arms at me.
"You're kidding me, aren't you Mr. Basketball?" I said unbelievably.
All of them began to hum together.
I suddenly hummed angrily back at them shaking my head a bit,
and they all went silent. A couple of the guards raised their tiny killer tubes back at
me.
Raising my hands with a sigh, I reached over and grasped one of the knobs with my forefinger and thumb while I inserted three fingers of my left hand into the dark holes. It was warm inside them and there seemed to be some kind of rubbery mass in them. As I twisted my fingers the picture changed inside the holo-window. I turned the knob very slowly at the same time.
The curving contours changed drastically as most of the varying shades of grays went toward either end of the black/white spectrum. The changes were sudden and jerky.
I grasped another knob and poked some more of the holes to varying depths. This went on for a long time. The aliens barely moved and remained completely silent, only the mulitude of short rubber like appendages waved.
I wish I knew what the object to this test was. I tried to bring the picture back to it's original form, but it only got worse and worse. No matter how gently I twisted the knobs or gingerly poked the holes, I could not bring back the original shapes I had first seen, much less the variety of grays. There had been such a confusion of line markings that I just ignored them.
It finally ended up that two of the shapes were opposite semi-circles with gray objects and line markings, plus some pure black and white objects, and the third contour shape was now a thin ellipse with hardly any features at all. I turned back to my hosts.
I think I felt their disappointment.
And Failure.
They led me back to my prison in silence, not even pointing the little tubes as I walked along dejectedly with my head down. As I stooped through the circle door I collapsed onto the floor. Rolling onto my back, I stared silently at the curved ceiling for a long time.
That's when I became aware of the pain again. I am thinking that whatever pain-killer they had applied to me must have worn off.
I am constantly blowing blood clots out of my nose and my sinuses feel like they are on fire. The swelling on my face and around my eyes has finally subsided though the skin still is inflamed. My head aches too.
I decided to write this.
A few moments later I realized that I was not alone. My peg-armed friend had again squatted near the door and was watching me. The mechanism for the door must be very silent, or I was preoccupied with my wounds. It took me a long time before I could motivate myself to write this entry and take another meal from my food packets.
I think I may be here a long time with no one to talk to.
I wish I was back in the land of the Roo.
Day Seven
Funny. They let me alone today to rest. Or maybe they have just given up on me, figuring I'm too stupid by their standards. I will try to relax and think, trying to figure another way to communicate with them. I am intelligent, and they are. There is a way, and I will...
No, they have come again. Another chance at the testing machine. Well, here goes nothing. I will watch more closely this time. I must learn!!! I have to talk with them. I must explain to them that they hurt me. I must succeed.
They just brought me back.
I tried so hard...
Day Eight
"Hello friend." I said out loud.
My friend, Stubby is what I have decided to call him, has come again to sit with me in silence. He doesn't say much, but then again, I don't hum much either.
I have had another idea.
Writing out the alphabet again, I have just pointed to each letter and sounded it out, all the way through to Z. I even sang my abc's again just like in grade school. Same old mute basketball reaction, though. Then I handed the sheet towards in disgust when he still didn't make any move.
Surprisingly he reached out with two of his arms and grasped the paper. He rattled the paper first, and then he took a third arm and brushed first one side of the paper and then the other. Finally he brought the paper close to first the globular eyes and then he put it against some of the short, wavy rubber appendages and rubbed it again.
Then he got up and left.
It is now late and I am tired again. I had been hopeful, but now hope is again fading. I don't know how much of this I can stand. I have begun speaking out loud to myself. I wonder how long it will be before I begin to answer myself?
I wish I were smarter.
Day Nine
Stubby brought me back an answer.
It was even on a flat surface. But as he handed it to me and I looked down, it looked more like psychedelic art than a message.
There were several layers of something like paint on the surface. Lines and spirals as well as varying shades of gray came through some of the layers, while other layers had obvious ridges and slopes that I could feel as I ran my finger over them.
I began to laugh as I covered my eyes. Tears began to trickle onto my cheeks.
Then Stubby left and brought back a larger writing pad. It is sort of like a white plastic. Then he quickly left and brought back some small jars of with varying shades of gray paint.
He encircled a short straight object with the tip of his arm and dipped it inside one of the jars. Sometimes he would use the tip of his pen, at others he would use it long ways. And then he handed it to me.
I just stared down at it all feeling helpless and lost. But I had to do something.
So I quickly grabbed a couple of the jars that had the darkest colors and splashed them onto the pad.
Stubby backed up suddenly. I was afraid he might leave but he hesitated as his curiosity got the better of him.
I took my hands and smeared it all over until it was almost black. It took only a few seconds for it to dry.
Then I took some of the lighter colors and poured some of the contents out onto the floor so I could mix them in the jars. I started swearing out loud when I couldn't get it close enough to yellow. But it was as good as it was going to get.
In the very center I drew the sun. At least that is what I intended it to be. Then I mixed some other different colors and painted first Mercury, Venus, Earth -I mixed more colors and tried to imitate the cloud over the blue water- and then I went and painted the other planets. I did my best work with Jupiter and Saturn, highlighting the cloud bands of Jupiter and the wide rings of Saturn. Not only was it colorful, but as I ran my finger against the dry surface I could feel the picture as well.
"Home." I told him as I pointed first to Earth and then pointed to the entire solar system.
I handed it to him excitedly.
He took it and headed out at once.
And then the circle door opened. There were many of them that quickly stepped inside as Stubby stepped out. They had that spray again in their arms and I saw some of the instruments behind them. They wanted to do another probing session.
I jumped back and shouted at them. I screamed at the top of my lungs. Picking up some of the food packets, I threw them at them. They began to move around in jerky motions, their arms and appendages waving wildly. But still they came.
I jumped forward and pushed one of them down as his spindly legs collapsed. High pitched shrieks began as the others backed away. The one down at my feet began to shudder, and then using his arms and legs, he crawled slowly towards the others who waited just outside the circle door.
No one has come now for a long time. I am afraid to go to sleep. Afraid that they will come in and spray me while I'm asleep and do it to me again.
For the first time I wish that I had died back on the ship.
Day Eleven
I am on display, like some third-rate freak in the side show.
They got me while I dozed off on the second night.
I am inside a small container enclosed on all sides by something like heavy plastic. The floor is about three feet off of the ground so that their globs can see right up at me. A soft glow comes from the ceiling while the floor also emits the same light. I have more food packets from the ship as well as my pen and notepad. I am sitting here looking out at them.
Sometimes I hope that they have put me out here so that they can get more opinions on how to communicate with me. At other times, when I'm feeling down, I believe that one of them is getting rich putting me out on display and charging entrance. Or perhaps I have just absolutely failed their tests and so they figure I am not sentient. Maybe they imagine that I was some kind of 'pet' that survived from the Uluru
I have seen children for the first time. Actually, they look exactly like adults only smaller. I have seen some walking rapidly between the legs of an adult as small as six inches around and no more than that tall. It is a wonder that they don't get stepped on and crushed.
I have also seen my first evidence of a greeting, or some kind of pattern that they perform upon meeting one of their kind. Going up close to each other, first one of them takes all seven of it's arms and cups them around the globular mass on top of their round bodies. It looks like they caress there a little bit. And then the other one will repeat this gesture to him. It may be a greeting or some show of affection.
I can see many things in the distance out here in the open from my cage. Oddly curving buildings, all black naturally, and small moving vehicles that following winding paths throughout the town.
But this seems to be a very watery planet. I can see that in three directions there is a network of dams and dikes holding back wide bodies of water. I do not see any running water nearby. Strange.
Many days have passed and I am still out here on display. I did not eat yesterday, I didn't feel like it. Depression has enveloped me completely, and blinds me. I am tired all of the time and my shoulders ache. Sitting in one corner of my cage, I stare out at the endless lines of aliens as they stare back at me.
I am a failure to the human race.
Looking into the future, I see only pain and loneliness and failure. Failure...
My friend is back. Stubby just now appeared outside the clear sheen of my prison. I waved at him and smiled. All he did in return was move those little rubber appendages as they always do.
I put my hand against the warm clear plastic just now. He took the tips of five of his arms and touched my finger tips with them. We are friends, he and I.
I just wish I could talk with him. I would feel I had been a success if I could just teach them one word or communicate to them that I am an intelligent being. It is just that we are different. We see the world differently, we look different, we talk differently, and we obviously think along different lines as well.
I recognize that they are intelligent. But somehow I have failed to show them that I, or we, are. I failed their tests miserably, I feel it in my bones.
I laugh sometimes at the alien children. Their movements are quite rapid compared with the adults and I have seen them trip up more than a few adults. It seems the children are tougher than I thought and it is the adults who have to be careful of the little buggers!
If only I could do something to show them that I am an intelligent being. But how can I, trapped in this cage?
I may be dying.
I have been bitten by some kind of animal that swims in the water. My body is completely numb from the waist down, and the numbness seems to be spreading.
Stubby is with me. But let me relate how this happened.
Another day had dawned, just like the other days. I had eaten a little and then stood up so they could get a good look at me that morning.
And then everything was shaking. I thought I heard something like a loud thunder clap
as well, but I can't be sure. The hundreds of aliens crowded around my cage began to run
around in circles, obviously in a panic. As I tried to stand, I felt and heard another
rumbling. 
It was a flood of water from one of the dikes that had broken. Water was soon rushing around the aliens and washing them helter-skelter. I could tell that they were all deathly afraid of the water and could not swim at all in it. Some of them began to drown before my eyes!
And then the children began to disappear, drowning!
I began beating on the plastic barrier. Stubby, who was up on a platform beside my cage, was waving his arms and appendages in fright as he saw the catastrophe developing.
I knocked loudly to get his attention.
He looked up at me whereupon I pointed to myself and then to the drowning children. He understood.
Crawling over to a small black box, one of the plastic barrier quickly disappeared. I jumped out into the now raging current of the flood. It rose almost to my waist but no more, but the current was a hard dragging pull.
Wading as quickly as I could, I reached a group of five children who were hanging precariously to a small tree-like plant. I gathered them into my arms and then waded quickly back to my cage and put them in. The water was getting no higher and they would be safe there now. But the current was still too much for their spindly legs and arms. One child disappeared just before I reached it. I screamed out loud as I searched under the water, but I could not find it.
I saw some more and saved them. More and more I reached. But I also saw many go under and not rise back up. My heart was beating like an engine as I fought back my tears.
I would save them. I could do this.
And then I realized that there were things in the water.
I felt one brush by my leg. I think they were eating the aliens. Kicking out savagely at the large serpentine bodies, I tried to race to save more of my friends. Grasping them by their arms, legs or anything I could get my hands on, I held them above the waters and the greedy teeth of the eaters.
That is when I began to feel the bites.
As soon as I had put one bunch up safely, I would turn and go for more stranded groups. Then I stumbled and fell into the water. My legs were quickly going numb. But I went on. I had to save them. If I did not do it they would die.
Finally I had done all that I could. I stumbled back with two shivering adult aliens in my arms. We were pulled up by Stubby and some of the other adults.
I lay in pain. But while the other aliens tended to their own, Stubby stayed with me. He took out a small jar and gave it to me to drink. I think it was medicine. It tasted bad enough to be medicine anyway.
And then he held my hand. Encircling it with several of his arms he held it gently and then began to stoke it.
It made me feel good.
Stubby wants me to stop writing. He keeps pushing my writing hand down when I try to write but I have to finish this right now.
But something else happened that really touched me. Taking his seven arms he cupped my face and then began to gently rub. It felt good. I think it must be more a sign of affection than a greeting.
As I finish for now I feel for the first time that I have shown them that I am intelligent, even though I am different. I repeated the word 'home' to Stubby. He took out some kind of device and held it toward me.
"Please take me home when you can. Home. Earth." And then I smiled at him. "You are my friend, Stubby."
There was some material that he handed me. I grasped it and then I took off my wristwatch. Tying a nice bow around it, I gave it back to Stubby. He tried to give it back. I said the word gift and present. He finally kept it, encircling it with the tips of two arms.
He refuses to leave my side even after some vehicles have come and begun taking us to better facilities. Stubby has indicated that he will ride with me.
I am glad that he is coming. I am so cold, so very cold. But at least I am not alone.
I will write more tomorrow.
"This is Reggie Edwards reporting live from the alien landing site," The disheveled man rattled the words off into hundreds of millions of TV sets around the globe. "As you know, CTNN has interrupted our normal broadcasting to keep you, our viewers, on top of this epoch making event. Less than twelve hours ago the alien ship appeared and passed by the Mars colonies. The Earth military is at Full Alert and is prepared to deal with the alien ship which entered Earth orbit within the past hour." He paused to catch his breath as he wiped the sweat off of his forehead. Then he continued his barrage. "What has United Earth's ruling council so concerned is the shattered remains of the lost ship Uluru. Those mangled remains are affixed to the alien ships hull. It is obvious that the Uluru was attacked and destroyed. Right now, the ruling council is advocating patience until all the circumstances surrounding this attack on our unarmed research vessel can be scrutinized.
But now the aliens have landed, I am here with a growing crowd of both reporters, the army, and hundred of civilians. The air is tense...wait, wait, the door is opening..."
On television screens around the world cameras moved into a close-up of the black, gnarled shape of the alien ship. A round door suddenly appeared revealing a dark interior. Suddenly the aliens were there.
Or rather, alien.
A single alien carrying a small device in the tip of two of it's arms came out. The device was pointed behind. A round oblong box floated behind it, it was about six feet long and three feet wide. The lone alien carefully directed this last object toward the front of all the other exotic shaped things. He then lowered it gently, until it softly touched the earth. A third arm reached to the side of the last box, which was strangely smooth compared to the others. It opened.
A dead man was inside.
An audible gasp from the before to silent crowds filled the air. And then more aliens came out and stood beside the oblong box.
The aliens started to hum. Higher and higher in pitch the sound rose to a crescendo, and then stopped. The lone alien reached to the dead man's face and cupped it with all seven of it's spider-like arms.
And then the aliens scurried back to the small ship. As the last alien, the one who had brought the coffin, stood in the dark entrance, he turned and suddenly became very still. He raised one of his black arms, and waved at the crowd of humans.
Then he was gone.
Silently the ship returned to the skies and was out of sight in a matter of moments.
Two men in uniform quickly approached the corpse. They took out instruments from the wide belts at their waists and scanned the objects, especially the dead man. Then they nodded.
More people in uniform ran forward, starting their inspections. And then one reached to the dead man's hands and removed a green notepad. He flipped through it rapidly, until he got to the last page. His commander stepped beside him.
"What is it Jones?"
"A diary, sir. Of the dead man I think."
"Quick, read the last page, see if he mentions if they were attacked!"
The man swallowed as he read the last paragraphs in the dead man's hand, and then he looked and spoke, his voice a little deeper.
"Sir, his last act was in saving alien children. The last entry is in another hand. I think an alien wrote these last words."
The commander took the notepad from his hands and stared down at the scratchy script of the last two words in the diary.
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An intense, uncanny magnetism
spurring an incessant battle.
Destruction embraces your arrival.
The verdict of the future is final.
Limbo tightens its grip. Life as we know it,
no longer pending.
This is only a test.
Entangled in formality and greed.
Capacity for emotional awareness
is shallow at best.
Absolutes in superficial transition
from humanity.
Do not touch that dial.
Do not attempt clarity in any way,
shape or form. Do not pass metal
detector. Do not come in contact.
Do not hold human baby.
Bite the foil ball 'Bot.