Wrong-Handed

by John Vester

Illustration by Ron Chironna

CLICK * >

Testing. Testing. Kirk Luchtenlooper interview. Tape one, side one. OK, Kirk, just talk into the mike.

Thanks. Ahem. A blinding white disc glowed in the blackness, vibrating slightly, just like the Anti-Christ, which I had been watching religiously for over a month through my telescope.

With a click the light went out, and Dr. Smith pulled the opthalmoscope away from my eye. He gave me a clean bill of health. Gamma rays can’t be focused by a lens, he explained. And besides, they can’t get through the atmosphere. I should have known that.

OK, so on the one hand I was relieved for the sake of my retinas, although on the other hand this eliminated a little supporting evidence I was hoping for. But then, as the UFO crowd says, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. I could hardly wait to confront Dr. Timothy Turner with my little discovery.

THUNK >>>*<<<

“What’s the matter? Why’d you turn off the tape?”

“Kirk, why aren’t you sticking to the outline we gave you?”

“Oh, outlines, poutlines! Look, you guys’re paying me a lot of money for my story, and this is the way I want it told.”

“But we’ll just rewrite it all anyway.”

“I know, I know. But remember this: you’re getting one hell of a scoop thanks to me… so… OK?”

“Whatever.”

CLICK * >

OK!

The observatory, one of many in Arizona, was a little newer, a little bigger, but otherwise nothing special. I worked in security, but you already know all that. Turner wasn’t my boss, but he sure thought he was important. He never had time for me whenever I chased him down to discuss my ideas.

One day I caught him in the lobby over at Admin. “Dr. Turner,” I called out. He saw me and, I swear, he rolled his eyes. I hate that. I never understood his attitude. You’d think he’d appreciate having someone on the security staff interested in astronomy. But he always treated me like a geek and a pest.

Well, I’ve been called a geek before, but Turner’s not much to look at either. Sort of an old geek. I’ll bet we share the Guinness record for longest mean time between dates. Sure he’s a high mucky-muck at the observatory, but security is important too. And he must have thought so himself. I’d recently seen his signature on requisitions for more security. Lots more.

“Not right now, Kirk. I’m late for a very important meeting.” So it was going to be the White Rabbit routine today. Picture a skinny, myopic rabbit, with a briefcase instead of a pocket watch.

I followed him but he wouldn’t slow down or look at me. “I know what the comet is made of.”

At that he stopped, his shoulders drooped and he turned slowly and looked at me, this smug little smile on his thin lips Jeez, he can be so condescending. “Please… spare me, Kirk. With every observatory on and over the Earth working on it, I doubt you could add anything. Go home. Let us handle this one.”

So I’m all, “Yeah… right…” And, without so much as a mother-may-I, he turns and heads down the hall to the elevators.

Well, I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easy this time. I shouted after him, “That’s your answer? C.T. go home?”

He walked over to me, grabbed me by the arm and marched me over to the nearest door. Opened it, dragged me inside, slammed the door, slammed his briefcase down on the desk. Not a rabbit anymore. Suddenly a myopic terrier.

“Why did you say that, Kirk? What have you heard?”

That cinched it. I knew I had him—he’d have to give me some respect now. Just as I opened my mouth to answer him, though, he went right on with his next question—you ever know people like that?

“Who has been talking to you?”

“Oh, God!” It dawned on me. “You think this is a security leak. Hey, remember me? I am security. No one said anything to me. I figured it out myself.”

Noticeable relief. I realized later I should have been offended at that. Turner looked at the blackboard, went over to it and nervously fingered a piece of chalk. “What have you figured out?”

“Contra-Terrene Matter… Anti-Matter! That’s what it’s made of, isn’t it?”

A groan and the sound of chalk breaking. Gotcha! No offense taken after all, Doc. “I knew you were a science fiction fan, Kirk—the accepted term is mirror matter.”

“It’ll never catch on. I’m right, though. Right?”

Still really snooty, he said, “It has caught on, where it matters. Among professionals. And yes. You’re right. How did you figure it out?”

“Simple, Doc. I noticed a lot of computer time lately spent analyzing data from Gamma Ray Observatory III. No papers on the subject being written. Extra security. Stuff… you know?”

He smiled a strange smile and looked straight at me for the first time. “No hard evidence, but the right conclusion.” He shook his head slowly in… what? Disbelief? Envy? Disgust? “You have no idea how we struggled with that damned comet before we thought to acquire and look at that gamma ray data.”

“You guys need to lighten up and read some science fiction. A good shot of Williamson or Niven and you would have made the leap sooner… easier.”

Turner harrumphed. “Maybe. It’s a bit lame at this point, I suppose, to claim that bodies of mirror matter just can’t exist in our Universe.” Absent-mindedly he began to doodle on the blackboard. He must have needed to talk, I don’t know. But Turner never just talked—he lectured. I watched him, feeling like a kid back at school. I knew I had stumbled into something over my head, but this was too good to miss, so I just held my breath and listened.

“Everything about Comet 2097-1 is wrong—we all knew that. Its velocity is too high. It ignited too far out, but burns too dimly, even now, near Saturn.” He made an X near a big circle. “We’ve barely got enough data to plot an orbit, but what we get makes no sense either.” He drew more planets. “The fact that it is composed of mirror matter will cause more panic than the real danger.” He drew a slightly curved line from the X to the third little white circle from the Sun. “It’s going to come close. Damned close.”

That’s where I phased out. (Seetee shock?) When I snapped out of it, Turner was sitting at the desk again, looking me in the eye. “As people have come to suspect the exotic composition of the thing, they have agreed to keep quiet, for fear of starting a panic. But as for the comet’s trajectory… Can you imagine how hard it’s going to be to keep a lid on that?”

“Impossible,” I offered, in my best security guard macho voice.

“Exactly.” He got up and erased the blackboard thoughtfully, then sat down again. “It’s all so frustrating. If only they had launched the Polarimeter Observatory, then we’d have known much sooner. If only we had a human presence on Mars, in the asteroid belt, or beyond, then we’d have had more options, and better data, and sooner. If only the governments of the world had taken such things seriously long ago, then today we might have a defense strategy.”

“Defense?”

“They’re all in disarray, the idiots. Their easy answers won’t work, and there isn’t enough time to mobilize anything that will. If only… if only…”

I nodded and tried to look like I understood perfectly.

“We don’t know if the comet will hit or not. There’s still time for a good out-gassing to push it out of our path… or in. All we can do is hope for the best.”

“That’s going to be real hard to sell in the ’burbs.”

“Impossible, I’d guess. So we have to buy ourselves as much time as possible. Sure, we’ll announce it—either when we re ready to, or when we have to…”

So there we were. Doctor Timothy Turner confiding in me, of all people. Pouring his heart out to me. But there was never any warmth in his eyes. Just a slight smirk, like he was eliminating a nagging problem. It was spooky. Then he shot me a look.

“Kirk, I’m going to need your silence, and your help.”

I started to say something, but he rolled right on as if he didn’t even notice.

“I’ll put in a request that you be promoted. Day Shift Foreman and Special Agent for Indoctrination and Training.”

We talked about all the new security people being hired, and how best to get them with the program. Both of us were trying on our new relationship, like a new shirt—a little scratchy but a decent fit.

Then I almost blew it on the way out. I asked him where the comet was from. I figured if it was anti-matter it had to be coming from outside the Solar System.

“It’s mirror matter, and I can’t tell you that right now!”

“OK. But Doc! Don’t you see? It’s a CT ship and anti-men are coming to destroy the Earth.”

“Kirk!” He looked irritated, but I think we were both relieved to slip back into our old ways for a moment. Like putting on a comfortable old sweater—even if over the scratchy new shirt.

“Well, in any case, Doc, Comet 2097-1?”

“Yes?”

“That name will never catch on either.”

So we hired and trained and waited. We did leak control and damage control and eventually made our announcements. Hysteria boiled over and simmered. And we got bomb threats, phone threats, and editorial attacks (the pen and the sword, you see) like it was our fault, or something.

Anyway, we all just sort of held our breath as the comet approached. Past the orbit of Mars we knew it would miss Earth, so things eased up. But it was still too close for comfort. One-tenth of the way from Earth to the Moon is not far enough. I remember the feeling as the big day approached. Like when I was a kid and rode my bicycle past a dog I didn’t know.

Funny thing. Somehow Turner seemed to hold me responsible for the comet’s popular name, but I swear, it was not my idea. I would have called it “Lucifer’s Hammer,” but I gotta admit that “The Anti-Christ” has a nice ring, much as the suits around here hated it.

Now for the Michener stuff…

THUNK >>>*<<<

“What now?”

“The ‘Michener stuff’?”

“Well, you know, like in the beginning of ‘Hawaii.’ The stuff in italics. Where the islands come up out of the Pacific. No one was there to see it, but it was so important to the story he put it first. Well… I didn’t find out this next part till a lot later, but a friend of mine who’s had stories printed in fanzines says I need to put this here for the suspense, and hang the point of view problem.

“So here goes… well?”

“All right. But we’re not using Michener’s name. OK?”

CLICK * >

Fine.

Dawn came to northeastern Arizona’s painted desert on the day of the Anti-Christ’s closest approach. The biggest crapshoot since life erupted from lifeless rock was about to happen.

A beam of intense, focused, modulated energy burst from the Anti-Christ. This invisible beam knifed through our atmosphere and struck a couple of acres of desert sand, far from major roads or dwellings. The beam was so focused that it escaped the notice of astronomers and their cameras. The explosive thunderclap, as the air was torn apart, went unheard, for there was no one to hear, or to see the sand react.

The beam coruscated over rocks and loose dirt, and blackened every shrub and cactus in the area. The ground glowed electric blue. After a while the beam cut off. The Anti-Christ continued its course past Earth and out of the Solar System, to be polished smooth by the solar wind, and eventually, perhaps, dissolved away to nothing. Our Universe is no place for a chunk of anti-matter.

But hours later the desert sand was still charged from the beam strike. Bolts of electricity played over the ground where it had hit, looking like giant bluish nerve cells, crawling around, trying to sense—to feel—every grain of sand. Soon the sand began to move along these fingers of electricity. A pile began to form at the center of the area. The pile grew hot as the dendrites and axons of electricity continued to drive more of the sand inward.

At a critical point this red hot sand pile came to life (in a sense), and gave birth to “intelligent” microscopic bits of matter, which in turn created strange new molecules and materials, just as a minute molecular seed can create large complex crystals.

Soon a structure took shape and began to dig into the desert sand, and sink out of sight. Had anyone watched that spot of sand through infrared binoculars, it would have appeared to glow with the light of a small sun. Like a newborn kangaroo, the thing had crawled into the pouch of mother Earth to complete its development. Not bad, eh?

THUNK >>>*<<<

“Just get on with it, Kirk. We haven’t got all day.”

“OK! OK!”

CLICK * >

Well anyway, about a month later I was sitting at the bar at The Trough, having a beer or two to unwind before going home to my apartment. Things were getting back to normal after the Anti-Christ. Turner must have liked the way I’d been handling security. Personally I think he got me that first promotion just to shut me up. But he got me a second promotion and raise a few weeks later. Even better, he occasionally bought me a beer after work. Can you believe it? We were drinking buddies—sort of. His heart never seemed completely in it, but the beer was good, and we had nice talks. In fact, he was just leaving on this particular night. I watched him hold the door on his way out for this beautiful brunette coming in.

She was excellent! I made a mental note and promptly filed her face away under “You Wish.” She went to a table behind me somewhere and I turned back to continue my conversation with Joe, the bartender.

He was saying, “So, now that the Anti-Christ is history, it’s going to get real lonely around here again.”

“I guess so,” I said. “But it doesn’t sound like you’re sorry.”

“You’re right, kid. We made some nice money, but I’ll be glad when things settle down again.”

“You and me both. I won’t miss all the O.T.”

“Or those press goons.”

We laughed, remembering those jerks with their quick-draw flip phones—calling first and asking questions later.

The brunette must have been in the back of my mind some—I don’t know why else I picked that moment to start clowning around.

Joe apparently decided that the huge mirror behind the bar needed cleaning. I watched, and as the two Joes reached out to one another, and as the wadded cleaning cloths got within inches of each other (and closing fast), I shouted out, “No, Joe! Don’t do it! You’ll blow us all to kingdom come!”

The astronomers, and astronomers’ gophers in the place busted up right away. It took Joe a beat to catch on, and then he laughed too—halfheartedly.

Oh, sure, we all knew I was being more silly than clever, after having the Leidenfrost effect rammed down our throats for months. Drip some water on a hot plate and it won’t last as long as a drop on a really, really hot, hot plate. That second drop will bounce and sputter and skitter around, protected by an insulating layer of steam. I’ve done it myself as a kid on my grandparents’ old wood-burning kitchen range in their cabin. By now we all know that chunks of matter and anti-matter won’t blow up in an I’ll-be-go-to-hell explosion. They’ll just sit there, protected from each other by the plasma from hell, and eat each other away slowly, creating a deadly gamma ray inferno. A lot worse than a quick, clean KABOOM!, if you ask me. But the papers and the tubers (news for couch potatoes) harped on the Leidenfrost effect and somehow convinced people not to worry. Go figure.

I started to think about all the ball lightning reports making the news lately when I noticed the brunette standing at the end of the bar, watching Joe mix her a drink.

The brunette looked at me, a big smile on her face. It hit me what a perfectly exceptional beauty she was. Hit me so hard I almost dropped my drink. Now that we had eye contact it registered that she was even more beautiful than I had thought when she first came in. Supposedly Piaf, or Dietrich, or Madonna—or one of those foxes of old—once said that the first thing a man notices about a woman is whether she notices him. Boy did that old torch singer know life!

I tried to give the brunette my best macho security guard “Howdy, Ma’am” smile. Thank God I still had my uniform on to complete the picture.

She kept looking at me. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, then a face paints a thousand pictures, and I felt like I might drown in all the things that face was saying to me: “I notice you… I’m interested… I’m experienced… I’m naive… I’m new around here… I want to meet someone… I’m lonely… I’m terribly beautiful.” (That last one was probably more me speaking.) Intense. Definitely intense.

Then she got her drink and walked right past me. I had never seen a “come-hither smile” before that moment. Then she was back at her table—the ball in my court.

I looked at my anti-self in the mirror. I was close to hyperventilating. I was not taking this well at all. Oh sure, if I had been a sober, unimpressionable, analytical type (like Turner), I might have been able to describe her as being somehow too perfectly gorgeous, her skin newborn smooth, her features too symmetrical, her body athletic and totally feminine.

But it was only me there, practically slobbering into my beer, not noticing much more than my hormones going “YIPPEE!” and trying real hard to ignore another thing her face had said to me: “Not in your league.” Enough beers and I’d probably be able to convince myself that that was just my imagination too.

So I had the ball and the clock was running.

“Joe, what did she order?”

“Screwdriver.”

I stopped Agnes with a fin. “Agnes, bring the brunette behind me another screwdriver in a minute.” I gave her the five bucks. “Here. And keep the change.”

After a couple of hour-long minutes Agnes poked me. “Get over there and introduce yourself, dummy.”

So I walked over, feeling stiff and jerky, like I was twelve again and I knew that the prettiest girl in school was watching me.

“Hi,” I said, hoping that my uniform would distract her from my not-so-dashing smile.

“Hi yourself. Thanks for the drink.” If dark golden honey could talk, it would have that voice. “My name is Stella. Stella McFarland.”

“I’m Kirk Luchtenlooper. But just call me Kirk—obviously.” This got a smile (or someone just turned up the lights). I offered her my hand, and then, the damnedest thing. She reached out with her left hand. For a second we just stood there, stupidly looking at our hands. That Helen-of-Troy serenity deserted her face for an instant. Then she smiled, embarrassed. Her eyes flashed (about 1,000 candlepower’s worth), she switched hands and we shook. We laughed. I sat. We talked.

A few beers and a couple of hours later she was at my place. Things were moving along at a pretty good clip. I think I was in control. But I gotta tell ya, what with the beer and Stella’s… and what with Stella, I don’t think my “control” was worth a hill of beans.

All I remember, before conking out, was thinking that I had actually made love to a virgin, and that things could be worse. Stella had a lot of potential, and the sex was bound to improve.

Of course she was gone when I woke up in the morning.

THUNK >>>*<<<

“Now what?”

“Kirk, have you ever read our paper?”

“I try not to. Oh, wait a minute… No way, man. You’re not getting any more details about that night from me. This is not your usual sleaze. Stella’s a classy lady. I’m doing this interview to help inform the public.”

“And to line your own pockets. OK, so, if you don’t want us to print the juicy details, what does this part have to do with anything?”

“I’m getting to that!”

“Well, make it quick.”

CLICK * >

Hmph!

I felt like a lukewarm corpse that morning. Her being gone was a bummer, sure. But I had to see about surviving my hangover before worrying about Stella.

I staggered to the bathroom, and promptly threw up in the toilet, which was some relief. I brushed my teeth and exchanged a pathetic look with myself in the medicine cabinet mirror.

What had last night been all about? Why had she asked me so many questions about the observatory? Had she slipped me a Mickey? Had I compromised security? Hell no. I took my job seriously. Did it have anything to do with the Anti-Christ, or was it all just coincidence?

Feeling a little dizzy, I leaned on the mirror with my right hand. It looked as if I was trying to shake hands with myself, only my anti-self was using the wrong hand, just the way Stella had tried to in the bar.

That’s when it all clicked. No, Stella! Don’t do it! You’ll blow us all to kingdom come!

Later that day, when I caught up with Turner to discuss Stella, he was not impressed. And none too happy about being bothered. Just as snotty and snooty as ever. Like the good old, bad old days.

“Kirk, please. I don’t have time for your fantasies.”

“But don’t you see? Why should a knockout like her even give me the time of day?”

“Maybe she’s left-handed.”

“C’mon, Doc, even left-handed people shake with their right hand. It was like she thought it was her right hand. It’s like she’s a mirror image.”

“She’s mirror matter.” He actually sputtered when he realized what he had just said. “No! She can’t be. Surely you realize what would have happened if you had touched mirror matter?”

“I know. I know she’s not mirror matter. She got me hot, but not that hot. But maybe anti-aliens have figured out how to convert themselves to our kind of matter—just getting reversed in the process. Like Alice in the looking glass.”

We were all a little Alice crazy back then. To hear the tabs and rags tell it, you’d have thought Lewis Carroll wrote those stories just to help us understand parity, mirror matter and the Anti-Christ.

“ ‘Convert,’ ” Turner repeated distastefully, looking at his watch. “Kirk, I really have to go. If she concerns you so much why not just ask her about it?”

“I can’t. She left. No good-bye, no note, no nothing.” It hurt to admit that. I was crazy about her, I realized. I guess I was looking for some sympathy, but all I could see in Turner’s face was that he was impatient for me to be finished bothering him.

“Maybe she was just using you,” he suggested.

“For what?” Then I remembered. “She did ask a lot of questions about the observatory.”

That got a rise out of him. “What did you tell her?”

“Hey Doc, remember me…?”

“ ‘I am security.’ Yeah, sure, Kirk. Forget her. That’s my advice. But if she comes back asking about the observatory again, let me know.”

In a pathetic last-ditch attempt to sell my idea, I started to remind him that he still didn’t have all the answers he wanted about the Anti-Christ, when he stepped on the front of my first sentence and finished his own thought, like I wasn’t even talking. This does not endear him to me or any of the blue-collar crowd at the observatory.

“…And don’t bother me with any more cock-and-bull stories just to enlist my help in tracking down this woman. If you can’t keep tabs on your own bimbos, it’s not my problem.”

That really hurt. So I steered clear of Turner for the next week.

One night I was nursing a beer over at The Trough, analyzing the knick-knacks preserved, like Solo in carbonite, under half an inch of clear resin that formed the surface of the bar. It was only my first beer but my mind was already more like a test pattern than a sitcom. I was fantasizing about the fossils trapped in the plastic. Was that scorpion still alive, like a bug in amber, when they poured the resin over it? If we ever run out of scorpions will they come to The Trough and mine DNA from Joe’s bar and make new scorpions? Did Joe find that miniature harmonica, or did he buy it for the bar?

Deep stuff like that.

But behind it all I knew I was kicking myself for missing something. I’d stopped treading water and the something deep I was in had quickly gotten over my head. Was I right about Stella, or was I a fool? I’d picked at that question like a scab for days, and I wanted to give up on it—let it heal on its own. I needed this veg time.

“You know your problem, kid?”

I jumped at that. There was Joe, in his white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his white apron barely covering his gut. He was looking at me with that expression—that disinterested yet fatherly concern look—on his face, as he polished a tumbler with a white dish cloth. The man is such a cliche!

“No, Joe. What’s my problem?”

“See? You and I get along great ’cause you never worry about impressing me, or Agnes, or any of the observatory flunkies that hang around here. But with a pretty woman, or Turner, or anyone whose opinion you care about, you disappear and Kirk the jerk shows up.”

“You’re wrong. I don’t care a rat’s ass about Turner.”

“Oh yes, you do. That goofy streak of yours is as dependable as a Geiger counter. Seems like you spend all your energy saying what you think they want to hear—what you think’s gonna impress them. They end up uncomfortable—like you’re making them look at their own reflection, distorted, like in some warped fun house mirror.”

“Let me guess… you’re going to tell me to relax. Be myself.”

“I’m not saying nothin’. Just telling you what I think.”

Joe’s quick look over my shoulder—those bushy eyebrows doing semaphore duty—made me look up into the big mirror behind the bar. Stella was walking up behind me.

Joe’s little speech made it impossible for me to open my mouth. Analysis paralysis.

She gave me a hug and planted a big wet one on my cheek—like only one day and not a whole week had elapsed since the last one.

“Miss me?” she asked, all innocence and light.

I was actually a little scared of her. Scared of that whispered “Not in your league” I could still see in her face. Scared that it might be true, making our night together a lie, and me only a pawn in her secret plans, which, as it turned out, I wasn’t equipped to even imagine.

Looking into my beer, I mumbled, “Where’ve you been?”

She giggled. “Oh, you poor boy! I thought you were awake when I told you where I was going, but you don’t remember, do you?”

“So tell me again.”

“I had to wrap things up at this land deal outside of Flagstaff. I told you I’d be out of touch. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I really thought you heard me.”

An explanation I could embrace, true or not. Maybe she really did like me. But I was still feeling a little off balance. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t bring myself to order us screwdrivers… the word just seemed indelicate at that moment.

“Joe, two Harvey Wallbangers.”

OK, so I panicked.

And when she asked, after her first sip, what was in the drink, I’m sure I sounded real Continental when I said “Panther Piss” instead of Galliano. She laughed, though, and listened and smiled, and I tried to relax and not work so hard to impress her, and began to fall in love.

The next few days were amazing. The only hard part was keeping up the pretense—you know—of not showing I was overwhelmed, out of my depth. Inside of me it felt just like the time the most beautiful girl in high school scared me to death by accepting my invitation to the prom.

We spent a lot of time in Stella’s fancy apartment, or riding around in her exotic red sports car, doing anything and everything there was to do in this tiny hick town tacked onto an observatory. Mostly we just drank each other in, like parched desert rats at an oasis. And yes, the sex did improve. Boy, did it.

Stella’s appetite for life was incredible. I had trouble keeping up. But it wasn’t all exotic and kinky. The simplest things delighted her. She was like a child. I was going through a second childhood with her. Maybe that’s why I fell so hard for her.

But, you know? There were times, like early in the morning when I’d watch her face as she slept—looking eager for life even then—or after dinner when she’d listen to classical music, totally engrossed, wearing this big blown away smile—and other times when I’d catch her, lost in thought, her face expressionless, except for a look of old pain—times like those when I’d know for sure that I would lose her. I knew her too well, and yet not at all. Any future together had been sacrificed in our head-on collision. A little mystery, a long slow discovery, is like a nice circular orbit, good for millions of years. Our intense, white hot clash was more like a comet’s suicidal dive.

I was completely under her spell, though, for as long as she chose to cast it. She was my primary, my sol. I had no doubt that someday I’d run out of her life, my tail between my legs, like an outbound comet. But in classic doublethink I was just as sure that the inward plunge would never end. I was positive (hopeful, at least) that the fire of what we had now would never burn out, never change, and that, where love was needed, what we did have would somehow make do… become enough.

I was a mess.

And not real quick to catch on when she suggested one morning, “Kirk, let’s go to that party at the observatory on Saturday. It’ll give you a chance to introduce me to your friend, Turner.”

And make him turn green with envy, I thought. Oh, yeah, I was really into rubbing Turner’s nose into stuff, back then.

So we went. Or I went, wearing Stella on my arm like an ornament (said the dummy about the ventriloquist).

It was a real groaner of a party. Everyone dressed nice-to medium-formal. Someone was going to get some kind of award. The food was good, though. We strolled around, amazed at how many people I didn’t know. I decided on an elaborate plan: chow down and split.

Turner was absolutely astounded when I strolled up and casually introduced Stella. And she was so cool—said all the right things, “Such a pleasure to meet you. Kirk has told me so much about you.…” like that.

I almost lost my own cool, though, when they went to shake hands and Stella put out her left hand instead of her right. But Turner just bowed, took her hand and raised it to his lips. Gallant old fart.

When Stella excused herself to go powder her nose, Turner’s eyes followed her, caressing that slinky red dress from the outside just as lovingly as Stella was caressing it from the inside.

“Where the hell did you find her, Kirk? She’s gorgeous!” So much for sober, unimpressionable, analytical Dr. Turner.

I really didn’t have much to say to him. He hovered around, suddenly all buddy-buddy. Stella and I mingled, getting slack-jawed looks whenever I introduced her.

The next day she left on another land deal. The image of her bouncing around in a four wheel drive out in the middle of nowhere, showing some land speculator or filthy rich dude the desert ranch of his dreams—that didn’t bother me as much as the memory of her and Turner in polite conversation when I had returned to the party after taking a leak. It was like they were old friends, or as if they were speaking a language no one else could understand.

Jealousy? I asked myself. Imagination, I answered.

Three days later supernova SN2097A lit up the late afternoon eastern sky, and changed everything.

God, it was awesome! It was like getting a full Moon’s worth of light from a shiny new dime in the sky.

Almost as unbelievable was how quick things went back to the way they were during the Anti-Christ days.

Worse.

Somehow security got saddled with answering the panic calls—people worried about radiation and cosmic rays. We’d tell them not to worry about wearing their lead-lined pith helmets for another 5,300 years, and have a nice day.

I called back all the guys we had laid off. Turner being on vacation didn’t help. What with dealing with all the press goons clamoring for interviews and instant science, and all the scientists arriving to do real, slow brewed science, me and a lot of other people were busier than left-handed paper hangers. I hardly gave a thought to Stella. Strange, now that I remember it.

When she stormed into the observatory four days later, and demanded to talk to someone in mapping, I took her. After some upset questioning of Shapiro, the bewildered star jockey, she got kind of sad and angry at the same time. Then she charged out, me in tow. I tried to get her to talk.

“Why do you want to know exactly where the supernova is?” Jaw clenched, she walked faster. “Where are you going?” A quick glance my way, like she was being torn in two. “Let’s get some coffee and talk,” I said.

“No, Kirk. I can’t,” and, presto, she was in her red sportster, screeched raggedly from the curb and headed north.

It was almost end-of-shift, and my car was parked nearby. Without a thought I took off after her.

When Stella got to the boonies beyond town it occurred to me to turn off my headlights so she wouldn’t know I was following her. We used to do that all the time when I was a teen. The desert is hardly ever completely dark. Even on moonless nights, the air being so clean, you can actually drive by starlight. The roads are straight and, by killing the dash lights, your night vision gets pretty good. Of course the light from the supernova made this night’s ride easier.

Stella drove on and on. I began to sweat running out of gas when I saw her turn onto a dirt road. The dust she kicked up was lit by her taillights, twin nebulae that looked like a pair of red ghosts following her.

We were about as far from civilization as it’s possible to get in the area. About ten miles north of Pinon she turned west. After twenty miles or so of washboard she slowed down, and I closed the gap to about a hundred yards. She rounded some boulders. Her headlights were like twin cones of warmth in a landscape of cold, dark grays. They lit up a strange, unnatural looking rock formation for an instant before she stopped the car, cut the engine, and doused the lights.

I pulled up next to her and jumped out, grabbed her arm as she got out of her car. Scared her good.

“Stella, what the hell’s going on?”

She sounded like she’d been crying. “I can’t tell you, Kirk. Go home.”

“No! How do you know so much about astronomy? What is this place? One of your ‘land deals’? Talk to me, Stella!”

Before I knew what she was doing, she about crushed me in a desperate hug, sobbing miserably.

She repeated over and over something about not being properly prepared. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it—in fact, the whole damned evening seemed to be going over my head, with about a meter to spare.

She calmed down after a minute, took my arm and said, “Come on.”

We walked toward the strange rock pile I had noticed on our arrival. When we got to the rocks they began to glow, faintly green, just enough to show details. It was a huge boulder, trapezoid shaped, with a large, flat, smooth recess in the side facing us. The flat spot had a depression in it, like the silhouette of a big wine barrel on end. In about the middle of that there was an image of a hand, glowing green like some spook’s amputated, ectoplasmic limb.

Stella put her hand on it. A perfect match (why wasn’t I surprised?). As she removed her hand, a line of brighter green, almost white light appeared and traced the edges of the barrel-shaped depression. The whole area inside the line of light began to glow a little. Then I realized that what I was seeing was light from inside the boulder coming out through the surface as the recess became invisible.

She stepped into the opening and I suddenly knew that the depression in the rock had not been rock at all, but an opening, like the mouth of a tunnel. So what had made it look like stone at first? A projection? A hologram? Some security system! I thought.

I jumped into the opening after her, taking her hand like a child. She seemed to be holding onto me for strength too, which was odd, but felt good.

We were in a long tunnel sloping down to a brightly lit room that I figured had to be 100 feet underground. The tunnel kept its wine barrel shape, but the room at its end was mind boggling.

It wasn’t a cube, or any variation of it I could imagine. I couldn’t see what its shape really was—couldn’t get my mental arms around it, so to speak. It was more like an underground cavern; floor, walls and ceiling curving into one another, studded with all kinds of unnatural shapes. I couldn’t recognize any of those things, and so they all looked the same to me, interchangeable; like stalactites and stalagmites. Or crystals. I felt like an ant inside a geode.

It bothered me to look around. I couldn’t even guess at sizes or distances. There wasn’t anything familiar to use as reference, so my confused brain was thrashing around, unfocusing and refocusing my eyes like a video camera pointed at water.

We were a few steps into this idiotic place when I turned to look at Stella, just to give my own overworked flesh-and-blood auto-focus system a rest. Stella was unaware of me. She had this haunted look, like there was something she badly needed to do and couldn’t.

Then I noticed movement behind her. Someone walking toward us, smiling.

Turner!

“Hello, Kirk. Welcome to the ‘Fortress of Solitude.’ ”

That snapped Stella out of her trance. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “Tim will explain. I have to talk to my father right now.” Questions were logjammed at the back of my throat. Turner was going to have his hands full when that gridlock broke loose. I watched Stella cross the “floor” of the cavernous underground bubble. When she began to walk up the curve of it, her body eventually sticking out at ninety degrees to the “wall,” I found my voice.

“Turner… what the hell?”

“They’ve quantized gravity, Kirk!”

“Oh, that helps a lot.”

“You see that stalk with the silver sphere at the end?” He pointed to something that looked like a sailboat mast sticking up toward the center of the chamber. Although distance and the angles made it hard to be sure, the silver globe on top seemed to be exactly at the center of the place. Turner began his lecture as we slowly followed Stella, who had turned a corner and disappeared behind some “stalactites.”

“That globe makes gravity, Kirk, but in reverse. It pushes. And it’s adjustable. This one is set for one g because that’s desirable for the human phenotype. And they’ve finessed it so that it’s variable to compensate for Earth’s one g. It goes from zero on the floor to two g’s on the ceiling, canceling out Earth’s gravity. The result is Earth normal gravity for the entire interior.”

“Seems complicated.”

“It is, but the nanotechnology that built this place works naturally in a globular orientation, rather than flat or rectilinear.”

Whatever.

We were in among the odd shapes that littered the place. Close up they showed more detail, but were still bizarre looking. Turner didn’t say a word about any of them. He kept up his dissertation on gravity control, economy of design, and insights into alien intelligence, complete with footnotes. None of it got through the haze I was in. Until we came to a coffin shaped thing with a woman’s figure (Stella’s) reversed out of clear, Jell-O-like stuff.

“This is where she was born. Can you imagine it? Complete initial expression of final gene cascades for a mature genotype. That means it went fast—really fast. They are decades ahead of us in human genetic engineering.” He said this in such an awed tone, he obviously expected me to be impressed too.

But I was clueless. I was still struggling with the most basic parts of what Turner was saying. And I couldn’t seem to face it head on. I’ve embraced the alien, I thought. I’ve been in alien flesh, I said to myself, with a stupid grin (which confused my gut reactions all to hell).

Turner was no help, cutting off my questions and answering what he thought I was asking.

“But, how…?”

“It’s beautiful. Elegant, really. Information! Electromagnetic radiation is exactly the same for matter as it is for mirror matter. So they sent a probe here. The Anti-Christ. It took almost two thousand years to get here. Can you imagine a civilization taking on a project of that duration, and seeing it through? Well, when it finally got here it beamed all this information into the sand—etching billions of bits of data into the atomic vibration patterns of iron atoms, the way we etch microcircuits into silicon wafers. Only their method is holographic. Anyway, they used the information to create this place, and Stella, in normal matter. And there you have it: an alien from a mirror matter world exploring the Universe of regular matter and never any matter/mirror matter contact. Just incredible.”

Turner couldn’t see my confusion, so I tried again. “But Stella…?”

“There was a lot of controversy eighty some years ago about transmitting the human genome into space. Crazy idea, but the SETI people insisted it would be an olive branch to the stars. Well, seems they were right. Stella’s people got every bit of that two year long transmission. They created Stella’s DNA matrix, beamed it to their probe which beamed it here. This place acted on that information, growing Stella, like a stereo lithograph in this nutrient gel.”

“Why?”

“To make contact with us easier, I imagine. So as not to cause panic. She could blend in with us, become one of us, determine her best course of action, and choose her contacts.”

First Contact! The holy grail, in sci-fi and in real life. By now it was already something for the history books, even though no one else knew it yet. I wondered when, precisely, history would say that it had occurred. At The Trough, when Turner held the door open for Stella? In my bed?

I shuddered.

“ ‘Contacts’? That would be you, then, wouldn’t it?”

No emotion. Just clinical agreement. “That’s right, Kirk.”

I got pissed. He could call himself her “contact” all he wanted. But he was really just stealing my girl.

“It’s all so easy for you educated guys, isn’t it?” But he took that wrong too.

“Not true, Kirk. No. You had the insights. Your data was almost nonexistent. A wrong-handed handshake. That was it. And yet you had that flash of intuition. There aren’t a lot of people with that power working in the sciences these days. The genius of a Feynman, for example, is like a lightning strike in the dark. People like me devote whole careers to the details, endlessly analyzing small parts of the landscape revealed by such rare bolts from the blue. We need more people like you to stand back and see the picture… the big picture.”

“And you end up with Stella.”

Concern in his voice, now. “Oh no. You’ve got that all wrong. She has no feelings for me. It’s you she loves. I suppose it’s first love. For you too?”

I loved an ET. An ET loved me. How weird could things get?

“First love? Uh… yeah. I guess.” Of course, there had been that girl in high school. But that had been all onesided. I never told her. Never touched her.

Turner and I moved on until what had been our starting point was almost directly overhead. I kept picturing the underground city of the Krell. I needed the voice of Walter Pidgeon to spoon-feed me explanations full of wonder. Turner’s half-assed lecture was no help.

We got to a part of the “floor” that was “roofed” over to give the illusion of human rooms with ceilings. Turner explained that this section of the “ge-ode” was set up to be more normal for a human, and I could relate to that. I felt a whole lot better with a ceiling over my head. We even passed a normal looking kitchen. Well, I guess Stella had to eat.

We walked to a room where we heard and saw Stella pleading with an old man. The old man was standing in what looked like the beam from a weak spotlight shining straight down on him from the ceiling.

Turner got quiet as we stepped just inside the archway between the hallway and the room. He moved closer to me and began to talk quietly into my ear, explaining things, as only he could. “He’s just a holographic projection. Phenomenal bandwidth, considering their communication link. Stella tells me it’s a primitive adaptation of systems on her planet.”

Now that Turner told me, I could see that it was true. There was a slight shimmer to the old fellow, and if I focused my eyes past him I could see little bright spots of reflected light from across the room. But this beat three-deevision all to hell. If this was a primitive version, the full-blown version must be something. Daddy McFarland was just about as opaque as the real thing.

Stella and her dad were all intense and earnest. Turner started providing audio subtitles of the conversation for my benefit. The whole thing felt like a hospital visit to a dying man, or a wake.

“Father…” Stella said.

Turner whispered, “Not really her father. He’s their first successful DNA recreation of a human. He was kept on the project as a sort of mission communicator so Stella would have a human face to look at and relate to. But don’t be fooled. Her memories came over with the DNA data. There’s a whole other life she remembers.”

“…You should have told me…”

“The supernova poses a real danger to the home planet. The light reached them years ago, but he didn’t tell her. The most dangerous particles will hit in 2,000 years, or so. Matter particles. They’ll polish the home planet’s surface just as smooth as Niven’s Cannonball.”

Good for Turner. He had actually read some of the books I’d lent him.

“But father, there’s still time. There must be another way.”

Turner was quiet at this. His face told me he was as baffled as I.

Stella must have sensed that we were standing there. She gestured with a hand behind her back for us to go away. Daddyo didn’t miss much, though. “Stella? Is Dr. Turner with you?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And someone else?”

“Yes.”

“You were not to reveal yourself to others. You were not to become involved with the natives. You know how important that is, don’t you?”

“Yes, Father. I—”

“It’s OK, Stella,” I called out. “We’re gonna grab a bite to eat so you two can have some privacy.” I waved at the old coot. “Hi, Mr. McFarland.”

The old guy did a damned human double take. I dragged Turner out of there, hoping Stella would smooth things over with “Dad.”

Doc and I went to the kitchen. We found some food and I found an appetite I didn’t expect to have. Surprise, surprise.

Turner ate without any interest, looking at me like he expected something.

“Well? What do you make of that, Mr. Security?”

“It’s a real estate deal, Doc.”

“No, no. That’s just her cover.” Then he added, real condescending, “I’m afraid there’s more going on here than the sale of some acres of desert and sagebrush.”

“That’s right. A lot more.”

He stopped in mid-bite.

“See, Doc? Maybe they have got a couple thousand years before they get slammed by the cloud from the supernova—though with the matter/anti… eh… mirror matter fireworks I suspect they have less time than that—but that’s not what’s important here. What’s important is their window of opportunity to make their getaway. I think Stella is house hunting.

“That’s it! To them this is just a little real estate transaction. But Stella committed the biggest no-no in the real estate game. Realtors, like her old man, would rather the buyer and the seller never get together. But now she knows us, and might sympathize with us. We should work that to our advantage.”

“Earth?” Duh! Now he was a step behind me. I liked that for a change.

“Of course, Earth. Figure it. They’re losing their lease on the old antihomestead. And now their feet are being put to the fire. They have the ability to beam their whole population here, like they did Stella. But first they’ve got to relocate the current tenants (us), although, considering how advanced they are, it’ll be more like fumigation. Maybe Stella’s just doing a termite report.”

“No, I can’t believe they’d—”

“Oh, of course they’d—say, what exactly have you learned so far from Stella? No, wait. Let me guess. Planet size, orbital and rotational data, composition of the atmosphere, and some geography and geopolitical tidbits. Wake up and smell the coffee, Doc! Big picture time. They’re kicking us out!”

“No—”

“Yes! Stella probably knows it’s our death sentence, no matter how her people might candy-coat it. Look at our own history. Any clash between the more and the less advanced has always been murder for the primitives. No exceptions. It’s not going to be a real estate deal actually—more like the ultimate land grab. I can just hear them justify it to themselves; ‘manifest destiny,’ or ‘the natives are not making good use of the property.’ It’s just a lousy land ripoff.”

“How… ?”

“How’s easy. They can do it. You should know that better than me. It won’t be pretty, but it will be efficient.”

Turner looked worried, then dubious, then he smiled. “Really, Kirk. This time your imagination has definitely run away with you.”

“Oh yeah?” I was fed up with this. “Sometimes what’s real is so bizarre that only imagination will let you see what’s going on. You’d better get with Ibis program now, Doc. I’ll need your help, if we’re going to nip this in the bud. They’re vulnerable now, but won’t be for long.”

“How so?” Humoring me, I could hear it.

“Listen, Mr. Know-It-All. This is the ultimate security problem, and remember, I am security. Now, chances are this place is just one undefended receiver at the moment. We might be able to knock it out. After all, we don’t design security systems to guard against ants. So maybe they aren’t too worried about us at the moment. If we can disable this place, they’ll have to send another probe, and it’ll get here thousands of years too late.”

“Condemning a billion of my people to a slow, horrible death.” I never would have believed that her golden honey voice could carry so much misery.

Stella was standing in the entrance. I don’t know how much she had overheard. For a second I felt as if I’d been caught red-handed by a prison guard, planning sabotage and escape. But we’re such slaves to our eyes, aren’t we? Her beauty was all I could see, all talk of aliens forgotten. All I saw was her red eyes and sad face, and all that pulchritude and innocence. And so that’s what she was in my mind. She had been mine, and all the facts in the world (in two worlds) wouldn’t erase what I felt for her.

She came over and collapsed into a chair, looking haunted again. “Father talked about resettlement camps and sharing resources, but I think you’re right, Kirk. No matter what I do, billions of people will die.”

I went around behind her chair and started to massage her neck. “Then don’t do anything yet.” Tight muscles straining to relax under my fingers. Her silky hair caressing the backs of my hands. I closed my eyes and saw a comet racing back to the Oort cloud. I felt a chill and opened my eyes. I was losing her, I thought. She’d never really been mine. I couldn’t ignore that anymore. I’d have to do something soon to prove I was in her league. Time for a home run, or get sent back to the minors. “There’s got to be another option, Stella. Doc’s a smart guy. He’ll think of something.”

She shook her head, her hair driving the skin on my hands crazy. “They want me to initiate auto-intelligence. That’s an active security system here. Once I do that everything will be out of my hands.”

“Then stall them.”

“Kirk, I can’t let you destroy this place. It’s the only hope my people have.”

“If we promise not to do anything, will you hold off turning your security system on?”

This was it. Either she’d go with the muscle-bound bullies back home, or she d throw her lot in with two human geeks. I hoped that her human DNA, along with some recent memories, would save us. And the rest of humanity too, of course.

I stopped massaging, let my hands rest on her shoulders, and held my breath. The unreality of it all hit me. I could feel her crying. Her sobs became the only truth for me, the only thing that kept me in the game. The rest of it was still true, I guess, but seemed as unreal as a R K. Dick novel. For me, the threat to Earth was only a thought experiment—a detective mystery to be solved. Nothing rode on the outcome… except Stella’s happiness.

She got up and came into my arms for what felt like the last hug you give someone in an airport. “They made me too human. I’m not strong enough. Hold me. Please just hold me.” Which I did, for a long, long time, our bodies saying goodbye.

But I didn’t want it to be goodbye. I didn’t. She was a human. She would never have any kind of life with her own people. The only life she could hope for would be the life she could make here. Why shouldn’t that life be with me?

Well, she agreed to give Turner and me a chance to come up with another idea to present to her dad. Then she laid a bombshell on us. She told us her people only had thirty years to vacate. In thirty years, she said, the particle and energy flux from the supernova, at the line of sight between Earth and her home world, would reach a point where quantum effects would become noticeable.

Huh? “So?” I asked.

It would make it impossible to transmit the DNA and other data to Earth, she said. Stella’s communications link with her father, Turner explained, is a feeble trickle of photons from the home star. Some computerlike equipment here at the complex was able to compensate for atmospheric disturbances and such, but couldn’t deal with anything that cuts off the light altogether, or screws with the quantum mumbo jumbo.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “That information should have been on its way here years ago.” Then it hit me. Stella’s conversation with her father had been real time. No delay at all. The old man could have been in the next room. Either I was being hoodwinked big time, or I was missing something important.

So Stella and the good Doctor tried to explain it, and something called the “Quantum Non-Locality Phenomenon.” But I gotta tell ya, I don’t think either of them understood it all that well. Stella accepted that it worked and shrugged off any explanation, which would be my reaction if I had to explain threedeevision to a cave man, whether I understand it or not (which I don’t!).

Turner was one big toothy grin. Spouted theories—quantized gravity black holes, quantum effects undisturbed by gravity wells, light orbiting a singularity (I had him write this stuff down for me later)—and how he figured it all ought to work. He didn’t sound any more convincing than I would have been with that cave man.

From what they told me, it seems Stella’s people had mastered more than terraforming, centuries ago. They had turned their whole anti-matter solar system into a huge cosmic quantum Dixie cup telephone, the string being the light from the antistar. Stella and her people could quan-tum pluck it like a violin string and the person on the other end would hear it instantly.

A seventy-five year long beam of starlight, stored in orbit around an artificial black hole where their Oort cloud used to be—that was the main part. The beam’s twin was the string, stretched between them and Earth. If Stella’s people modulated the first beam, the receiver in Stella’s compound would see the exact same pattern in the second beam as it drifted down through the Arizona skies, and at exactly the same time. Or Stella could modulate the starlight herself before it splashed onto the desert sand, and her people would see her message in their stored beam.

Real-time conversations over any distance. Magic? No, Turner assured me, only sufficiently advanced technology.

Turner raved about Stella’s radio, like it was the second coming, or something. I just thought it was super convenient.

Well, not completely convenient, as it turns out. You can’t simply call—you can’t phone home with it. Both people have to agree ahead of time when to start talking and listening. That time had come again now. Stella left to talk to her father again. She promised to buy us two hours.

After she left, Turner looked at me with a hangdog expression. Out of his depths for a change and at terminal overload from all the new developments. A man so smart, just sitting there, helpless. It was sad. I had to get him thinking. “You know? There were some exceptions.”

“Exceptions to what, Kirk?”

“To what I said about when first worlders crush primitives.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Did you know that the American Indians kicked the Europeans out of North America, five hundred years before Columbus? Yeah! Kicked their butts back to Norway, or Iceland, someplace. Of course, those Indians didn’t know the big picture when they did that. If they had, they might have made better use of the 500 years.”

He nodded, not aroused much. I got up and motioned for Turner to follow. “C’mon, Doc. I don’t like the odds with Stella and Dad negotiating without us. You’n me are gonna have a chat with Papa McFarland.”

I stormed in, dragging Turner behind me, and crashed their little party.

“Hello again, Mr. McFarland. Say, do you mind if I just call you Mack? Great!”

There was a lot of sputtering all around, but if I let any of them stop me now, I’d be lost in no time.

“Great,” I continued. “We’ve been discussing this little real estate deal of yours. As an interested party—the Sellers, to be exact—we have a counteroffer.”

The old man was human, all right. Every shocked, insulted, confused, and indignant expression in the catalog raced across his face. Not a poker face, that’s for sure. This was going to be easy.

Stella and Doc just looked lost-hopeful, but lost. Stella’s eyes were still red. Hang on, Stella.

The old fart got a grip and, talking to me like I was some lower life-form (which, I was beginning to see, he had a perfect right), he said, “Well, Earthman?”

“The name’s Kirk, and if you want to get off that anti-world of yours, you’ll listen to me.”

“Why? Why should we bother?”

“Well, for one thing, even though you’re obviously strong enough to simply take Earth away from us, I’m banking that you’ve got at least as much conscience as us and would jump at the chance to do this without resorting to genocide. For another thing, Stella hasn’t put this place on autopilot yet, and if I were you, I’d worry about what was in that backpack I had with me when I got here.”

I turned away from the old man and made some faces of my own at Turner and Stella. They knew I was bluffing and if either gave it away the jig would be very up. I pleaded silently with Stella. Now she could show her true colors. Would she go with the muscle-bound aliens, or the ninety-pound weakling human geeks? Which would it be, Stella?

“Kirk!” she shrieked. “Where did you leave that pack?” Shocked expression, eyes wide. Academy Award stuff. Thank you, Stella. Thank you!

I faced Mack. “So, Dad, you can either risk losing this end of your quantum Dixie cup telephone, or do what I ask.”

Mack looked right into my eyes. The fact that he was trillions of miles away and that his image was the result of fiddling with photons at the quantum level didn’t lessen the impact of that look on me. I felt like I was facing an angry school principal. I think I went a little white. But then he said, in a strangely paternal tone, “So, young man. What is this counteroffer of yours?”

“A fixer-upper on the same block.” Total silence. Then a gasp of understanding from Turner. (There may be hope for him yet.)

Mack, however, seemed ready to send me to detention. But before he could say anything, Turner jumped in—bless his pea pickin’ little heart.

“You see, sir, if we’re going to evacuate your people to this Solar System, we need to quarantine you first. Not for health reasons, but for social reasons. Having such an advanced race of beings here on Earth will create serious problems. It will disrupt and demoralize humanity, and cause alienation and trouble for us both. And Earth is already under strain from our own numbers.”

“But where, then?”

Maybe Doc thought he knew, but he let me do the honors. I gave Mack my best salesman smile. “Mars!”

Mack’s eyebrows knotted in thought; a good sign, I figured.

“Doc tells me your planet is closer to the size of Mars, and so you’ll like the gravity better. Now, I understand you people are pretty good at terraforming. So how long would it take you to make over Mars so it will support all of you?”

“Well… he mumbled. He was thinking about it. If I could get him to answer questions, I was close to having his signature on the dotted line. A year of selling vacuum cleaners had not been wasted after all. “About sixty years is the fastest we could manage it.” Turner whistled. “But that’s too long.” Mack continued, “We need to be off this planet in thirty.”

No deal, so far, but maybe for once the fine print would help. “Can this underground complex of Stella’s here shoot one of those special beams at Mars and build something similar there, the way your probe did here?”

“Yes, but how would that help?”

“Simple. You just do it. Then, once you’re satisfied it’s operational, we eliminate this place, so no interference by nosy humans here on Earth. The complex on Mars starts to work—terraforming, sure—but more importantly it builds huge data storage facilities. Could it do that? And can your DNA patterns and whatever other information be stored for long periods?”

“Yes, it can.” A glimmer in his eyes of… what… amusement?

“OK. Then you beam everybody over to Mars and put them in memory there. As you need the manpower you retrieve some worker drones, boot them up and out to work. When the planet is ready you restore everyone else. Bingo!”

Mack caught on quick. “Five years to build the storage facilities. The data transmission will take twenty years, with a five-year safety margin. Time spent in memory would not present any problems. It could work.”

Then he smiled at me. I’ll never know if it was a smile of relief or the smile of the spider to the fly.

CLICK! Mack disappeared.

Damn! Just like buying a used car. The salesman-hands-off-to-manager run-around. The old good-cop-bad-cop routine. And I had spelled out my offer to… the good one?

“Nice try, Kirk,” Turner said. “But why Mars? Why not Venus? Now there’s a real fixer-upper.”

“I know, but some serious shit will hit the fan if this prospect doesn’t like the offer.”

“I guess you’re right. But Mars… we’ll hate to lose that. That’s a love affair as old as man. First love.”

“No, Doc, it’s been worship from afar all along, ’cause we never did anything about it. The Moon was our first love. At least we touched that. Lost our virginity, but not our hearts, eh? We had our chance with Mars and we turned our back on her. Now we’ll have to watch as others have their way with the Red Planet.”

Turner thought about that. “Maybe a small price to pay to keep Earth for ourselves.”

I nodded, as Stella came between us and took one of our hands in each of hers. I asked her if she thought they’d go for my counteroffer. She didn’t know. We stood there for a moment, feeling like defendants waiting for the jury to come in.

Then I wandered off by myself to think about what I was doing. What was I doing?

Mack reappeared before I had an answer for myself.

“All right. We accept. Stella, initiate security.”

“Not so fast! Not so fast!” I shouted. “Stella, don’t move. First some conditions—and the price.”

Turner whispered something about not pushing my luck. Groans from the aliens.

“You want one of our planets?” I said, “You gotta pay!”

“How much, then?”

“First, the conditions. No space travel for you for one hundred years. You’ll be too busy terraforming and restarting your civilization, anyway. Second, no fancy info-beams after the Mars complex is completed. No sneaking out that way.”

“The quarantine. Yes, we understand.”

“Next, you need to look different when you lake over Mars. If you all look too human, we won’t know if one of you is among us, spying or whatever. You could look sort of human, but enough different to be obvious. Tweak the genes in the right direction and Mars might be habitable for you a few years sooner.”

Mack nodded. I was making sense? I tried to hide my own astonishment.

“Anything else?”

“Only the asking price.” Everyone around me held their breath. “In one hundred years your people will help us turn Venus into the garden spot of the Solar System.”

Mack thought a moment, then a tiny smile showed he got it. He was no fool, though. “By what authority do you sell Mars to us?”

“What authority would you recognize? I don’t think all the diplomats or armies on Earth would impress you folks one quark’s worth. Am I right? My authority might be a laser pistol in a backpack squirreled away somewhere on the premises—sort of the finger on the jugular vein of your whole escape plan.”

He chewed on that for a minute with a look on his face like he wasn’t happy with the taste. When I began to imagine him calling my bluff I broke into an instant sweat. Turner must have seen it. He moved closer to Mack and said, “Mr. McFarland. From what I have seen and heard, I have to say that Kirk’s authority comes from his proposal itself. It simply is the best solution that doesn’t involve your taking Earth by force. We have seen in our own past what damage contact with your culture could do to us. There are consequences of human contact with such a technologically superior race that only a quarantine of millions of miles and scores of years will prevent With your help, we’ll use the time to make ourselves better able to cope with eventual, actual contact. This is, as we say here, a win-win solution.”

Mack smiled, as if arguing with children. “Thank you, Doctor, but you’ll pardon us if your endorsement strikes us as a little biased.”

Stella moved up next to Turner and, looking as cool and in control as I’ve ever seen her, she said “Then I add my endorsement, Father.”

That sobered Papa a little. He seemed to be listening to voices off camera for a moment. Then he gave us all a genuine, warm smile. “We accept your offer—conditions and all.”

Everyone seemed to expect me to say something. They did not expect this. “First, Mack, I want you to know something. There is no backpack. Never was. No gun. No nothing. Just this gruesome twosome from Earth.”

Turner and Stella gasped. They asked me if I was crazy. They even started improvising a backpack for Turner. Mack never lost his smile as we slowly putt-putted back to silence.

“You see, Mack, I don’t want you to claim later that you signed under duress. Do you still agree to the deal?”

“Of course. It was never your threat that swayed us. It was the fact that Stella aided you in the fabrication of your bluff. She is the real finger on the jugular of our escape. That was her role in all of this. And now she has chosen—so we will abide by her decision.”

Mack’s eyes focused on Stella. A father’s love tilled those eyes. “You have done well, my dear. I love you. It’s a feeling this human brain permits, as you already know. My one regret is that the new agreement will prevent us from ever meeting. If only I could have embraced you just once.”

After a little slobbering by everyone, me included, I figured we had to dot some i’s and cross some t’s.

“Well, Mack. I’m gonna let you and Doc work out the details.” Then under my breath, “Go for it, Doc. And while you’re at it, see if you can get them to help us weather that storm that’s coming in 5,300 years.”

Stella and I went back to the kitchen to talk. She asked me if I knew the magnitude of what I had just done. I did a country boy “Aw Shucks” routine, avoiding her eyes. I told her that if I had thought about the “magnitude” I would have frozen. Sort of like when they tell you not to look down.

“Well, I can’t imagine how you were able to keep your cool.”

“Simple,” I said. “All I cared about—all I thought about—was your happiness.” This last part I almost choked on. I turned my face away from her. Couldn’t let her see me start to lose it.

She put her hand on my cheek and turned my face back, close to hers. “They made you too human too, didn’t they? I think that’s why I fell in love with you.” She kissed me long and full.

Turner left us alone for quite a while. What did they find to talk about? But at least it gave Stella and me time we needed. Ours would definitely be the strangest of relationships. A real space “Oprah.”

Finally Turner came in, looking tired but happy to be in his element again, and working hard. He gave us a progress report.

He said he’d help recalibrate tilings for the Earth/Mars beam. He had a tentative timetable. They expected to be ready in twenty-five days. After a few hours to beam the whole kit and caboodle to Mars, and a few weeks to be sure the new complex was working correctly, they’d have the Arizona complex self-destruct, obliterating the trail for busybody Earthlings.

Turner was all starry-eyed about how they were going to do it. “They’ll switch that gravity generator from push to pull,” he explained, “set it on a feedback loop and raise it from one g to infinity in less than a second. The place will implode. Of course the gravity generator, along with everything else within a 500 yard radius, will turn to plasma. When that happens the generated gravity will also disappear and the shock wave of everything snapping back to one g will create an explosion like a nuclear bomb, leaving a crater about a mile wide.”

Turner warned us that things might get a little sticky in the investigation following the blast. A bit of intrigue and some instant phony science ought to keep the scientific community happy with the idea that the blast had been caused by a Johnny-come-lately chip off the old Anti-Christ block.

We laughed, relieved that there was an end in sight. We raised a toast to Alice and the looking glass, and made a solemn vow that we would keep our secrets forever.

Soon after that I said my goodbyes and returned to the welcome reality of my life—tame and gray though it now seemed. But with Stella nothing would ever really be gray again.

And that’s my story.

THUNK >>>*<<<

“You didn’t go watch the explosion, Kirk?”

“Nah!”

“Well, OK. Thanks for your story. Of course, we’re going to have to cut it way way down, you know.”

“Oh sure. I know that. But just remember what I said about Stella being a classy dame.”

“Sure, sure. Just one question.”

“What’s that?”

“If the secret of this whole thing is so sacred, why the hell are you telling all now, only two weeks after the explosion?”

“Off the record?”

“Sure. The paper doesn’t give a shit. I’m just curious.”

“Well, Dr. Turner figured we need people to get used to the idea very gradually. Eventually, though, they’ll need to know. We’ve only got one hundred years before they visit us from Mars. In that time we have to do enough self improvement so we can meet Stella’s people almost as equals, or at least as more than insects. After that it’s on to Venus, then eventually even the stars could be ours. But we have to make good use of the next century.”

“But why break the news in our paper? You know we don’t project an image of overwhelming credibility?”

“Still off the record?”

“Yeah, sure. What the hell.”

“Well, eventually we re all going to have to face the fact that there are aliens on Mars. Too bad this didn’t all happen back in the time of Wells or Burroughs, eh?”

“Why is that?”

“ ’Cause people already believed it back then. But anyway, two things we don’t need now, as the truth sinks in, is interference by the Feds, or for the public to panic. The beauty of spilling the beans in your paper is that it’s the perfect foil for official denials, and for ‘official’ investigations. After more than a century of zero credibility on the UFO thing, it’s super ironic that the only well informed people will be people who read trash.”

“But, everything you’ve told me is true, isn’t it? Or isn’t it?”

“For the most part. But it’ll be unrecognizable by the time your editors get through with it, so who’s the liar once your rag hits the streets?”

“I think my boss wouldn’t like your attitude.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. We wouldn’t have it any other way. The more that actually, officially qualified people ignore the story, the better.”

“Whatever. Well, I gotta get going. Thanks for meeting me here, Kirk. Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“If the Anti-Christ was really the last chance for survival for your aliens, why didn’t they do like NASA used to do at the dawn of space exploration?”

“What did they do?”

“Send up two probes, in case one failed… Say, Kirk, you don’t look so good.”

“Excuse me. I’ve got to get back to the observatory now.”

“OK. So long. Your check will arrive in two weeks. Hey! Slow down, man! You’ll have an accident!”

Dedication

This story was inspired by, and is dedicated to the memory of Robert Rusk Rigor III, my father-in-law and the most remarkable southpaw I’ve ever known.

Content

Wrong-Handed
by John Vester

Dedication