Saucer: Savage Planet

19

The shuttle from the starship came out of the south, so it was first visible as a black speck in the sky to the audience gathered on the White House lawn and the hundreds of thousands of people standing in the streets. Amazingly, a giant hush fell upon the crowd.

The shuttle wasn’t using rocket engines. Rip noted that fact and whispered the observation to Charley Pine, who just nodded. They were standing with Uncle Egg, the president and Amanda, out front beside the two saucers. Everyone else was behind crowd control ropes strategically placed in a giant horseshoe. Television cameras were on mobile platforms behind the people, and several cameramen and sound technicians wearing badges were roaming near the presidential party ready to record the aliens’ and the president’s first remarks.

All over the globe people were gathered around their television sets. Outside of Washington, in every city, town, hamlet and village all over the world, streets and public places were deserted as people gathered to watch the Big Arrival. Network executives were orgasmic: Ad revenues, based as always on the size of the audience, were going to go through the roof. Never before in the history of the medium had this many humans watched the same event.

The shuttle was not a saucer. It was arrow-shaped, with stubby winglets and two short, wide, vertical stabilizers. The entire ship was a lifting body. As it crossed Constitution Avenue, stubby struts appeared on the wingtips and one from the belly, near the nose.

The shuttle slowed, drifted downward and landed facing the president. It was black, a glistening black; no doubt the entire skin was a solar panel to recharge the batteries, Rip decided, just like the saucers, and hard and tough enough to be unaffected by the near-absolute-zero of space or heat of entry into atmospheres.

Not a whisper could be heard. Seconds passed; then a hatch opened in the side of the ship, opened inward. A tiny stair came out. Then a person. It was obviously a woman, middle-aged, of medium stature, with short-cropped hair and brown skin, as if she were well tanned. She stepped out and looked around at the crowd, at the sky, at the buildings and trees and grass, taking it all in. She stood watching as other people emerged from the shuttle one by one and lined up behind her. Soon a dozen people were standing there. They wore khaki one-piece jumpsuits and some kind of footwear. No hats.

Amanda broke the spell. She had been holding the presidential hand, but now she bolted. She ran toward the starship crew fearlessly, her face alight, her hair flying, her legs and arms flashing in the early winter sun.

To the amazement of the onlookers, the woman who was the first person out of the saucer plopped down into a cross-legged sitting position on the grass and stared at the approaching child. She ran her fingers through the grass as Amanda ran up to her.

Amanda’s courage failed her then. She stopped several feet away and gazed hard at the woman. Their eyes were almost on a level. “I’m Amanda.”

I am the captain.

Several of the other space travelers also sat. Standing or sitting, they fixed their unwavering attention on the girl.

Then Amanda took a few quick steps and hugged the woman, who hugged her back. As the woman ran her fingers through the child’s hair and scrutinized her features, the crowd exploded in applause and cheering.

The applause and shouting didn’t stop. Now some of the shuttle crew began looking around, trying to take it all in. People were waving madly; tentatively, one crewman raised his hand and waved back. That stimulated the crowd, which got even noisier. Some of the others waved as well.

Finally the president walked over. He held out his hand to the seated woman.

“Welcome to earth,” he said.

Thank you. The woman got to her feet, glanced at the outstretched hand and took it. The president sensed that shaking hands was not a custom, so he pumped her hand once and released it.

“Did you bring any kids along?” Amanda demanded.

No. Unfortunately. She addressed the president. I am the captain.

The president introduced himself and his granddaughter.

The other spacemen and — women, for there were three more females, gently gathered around Amanda. They looked at her straw-colored hair, felt it, touched her … and two of them kissed her on the cheek.

Amanda set out to hug each and every one of them. It took a while. The applause continued unabated. Finally the president pointed at the White House and the group began to move. Amanda was the center of the group, so he took her hand and she followed. Maybe she was getting a bit nervous at all the attention. One of the space people lingered to close the hatch, then caught up with them.

“Is this your shuttle crew, Captain?”

This is my starship crew. All of them.

“Oh.”

They walked between the saluting soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines of the honor guard toward the open doors of the White House. All the space people were waving now. The crowd roared its approval as Petty Officer Hennessey, Rip, Charley, Uncle Egg and Professor Deehring followed the starship crew.

“Are you a mother?” Amanda asked the captain.

No.

“But you like kids?”

Yes.

“Would you like to meet my friends?”

Of course.

Before the president could stop her, Amanda scampered between two of the honor guard and ran for the area where her classmates waited. They saw her coming and slipped under the rope. They evaded the Secret Service agents like fleeing cats and ran toward Amanda, who reversed her course. In seconds the children were packed tightly around the captain, who tried to touch and hug them all.

Before the president, his party and the children disappeared into the Executive Mansion, a marine captain led a company out from behind a barricade and marched toward the saucers and starship shuttle. The marines were in combat dress with helmets and carried loaded assault rifles. When given the duty of guarding the ships, the captain on his own responsibility had ordered his marines to load their weapons. Now they circled the ships facing outward. The sergeants moved a few of them one way or another and, satisfied, went over to confer with the captain, who returned their salutes. After a short conference, the captain wandered off to talk to the Secret Service agent in charge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am the first officer.

“What do they call you?”

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

Pick a name you like and call me that.

“Sam. I’ll call you Sam.”

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

He is dead, Rip said silently.

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

Tell me about that, the first officer said.

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

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

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

Thank you, Rip.

Then the first officer. Thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So how long did your voyage here take?”

A long time.

“How long, in earth years?”

Perhaps a hundred.

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

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

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

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