Chapter 2
First Impressions
We can't solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created them. – Albert Einstein
BACK AT THE SHIP
"Making any progress, Sergeant?" It was a Major General speaking to a soldier in plain fatigues wearing a helmet and visor. The soldier also held an acetylene torch in his hand.
The sergeant lifted his helmet. "No, sir. And it beats all. I saw that ramp come out of this side of the ship. It came out right here, but now I can't find even a crack."
The two were joined by a third man, a short, bearded man, wearing jeans and a Walking Dead tee-shirt. "You're Doctor Leroy Grumvee, the metallurgic expect?" the Major General asked the third man.
The man nodded.
"You gotta report?"
The metallurgic expert shook his head. He scratched his bald head and shrugged. "Sorta, I guess nothing to report is a report. This shell dun't react to a blow torch, acid, hell, we've tried a diamond drill. Nothin'," the gruff man told him.
"How about . . ." the Major General gestured to the robot standing sentinel, "him?"
"Well, my guess is that he's made out of the same material as the ship."
"Has he moved?" the Major General asked.
The sergeant relied, "No sir, not an inch."
"This is the toughest material I ever saw. For hardness . . . for strength . . . " the metallurgist was still shaking his head.
BACK AT THE HOSPITAL
It was just past noon the next day and Dr. Whale was looking over some x-rays. He was again talking with Mr. Nolan who'd come in to check on their most prestigious patient. Nolan was now carrying a very official-looking brief case.
"Well, the skeletal structure is quite similar and that suggests his home world's gravity is the same, or close, to ours. The eyes are different, like a reptile's – that suggests his ancestors kept a little closer to the ground than did ours. As for major organs, the heart is moved down and the kidneys moved up, but everything seems to be in there. The lungs are virtually the same as ours which implies he comes from somewhere with an atmosphere similar to ours. Of course, he's breathing our air right now with no apparent difficulties." He hesitated, "And the . . . uh . . . accoutrements are virtually identical to Earth males – actually," Whale brightened up, "the guy would probably be pretty popular with the ladies if word got out."
"Really?" Nolan asked him. "You checked that out?"
"I had an alien on my examination table. You think I'm going to miss an opportunity to check out everything I can?" Victor shrugged his response. The affable doctor then turned to the young chief of staff. "Hey, how old do you think he is?" Whale asked him.
"Just from looking at him, I'd guess around forty-five, maybe fifty."
"He told me he's over a three hundred – of our years."
"Shit," Nolan said astonished. "Good genes or lifestyle?"
"He said their medicine is much more advanced. He was nice about it, but I rather felt like a third-world witch doctor tending to his injury with a drum chorus and leeches." Whale shook his head. "You know, I took a bullet out of the man's knee yesterday."
"And?" Nolan waited.
"Anybody else would still be laid up and in a great deal of pain. This morning, he's up and around on it, limping, but healing up ten times faster than a human."
"Did you ask him how he happened to heal up so quickly?"
"I did and he handed me a small tube with some salve in it. He'd had it with him at the time of the shooting and put some on the wound," and Dr. Whale held out a small white tube.
"What are you going to do with it?" Nolan asked.
"Send it to the lab for analysis," Whale told him. "Then I was thinking about getting drunk."
"I may just join you. I'm checking in with him again. I've got some bad news for him," Nolan told the doctor.
Nolan knocked on the door and waited.
"Come in," he heard and Nolan opened the door to find Klaatu Rumple Stiltskin out of bed, walking around, but still favoring one leg over the other.
Nolan greeted him, surprised to find him up, "Good afternoon. I'm glad to see you up and around."
"Thank you. Do . . . you . . . have any news?"
Nolan looked down at his shoes. "I'm afraid not, sir. Well, not very good news." He opened his brief case. "The President accepted your suggestion and made a number of phone calls and sent some messages through both official and unofficial channels."
Nolan pulled out some papers and began to thumb through them. "Let me read you some of their replies, 'We will not be held hostage by what is most certainly a transparent ploy to disarm our people and leave them unprotected.'" He pulled out another paper, "'We are offended that you would think we would allow this poor Hollywood production to coerce us into any semblance of negotiations designed to undermine our sovereignty.'" He began pulling out more and more papers, "'No, not interested, appalled, another one who's offended.'" He sighed. "Well, there you have it." Mr. Nolan extended the sheaf of papers toward Rumple who ignored them. Although the alien was sitting still and quiet, it was apparent he was irritated, perhaps even angry.
"Sir, I can promise you, we did our best to make them understand the importance but there is so much mistrust . . ." Nolan began. "We've done everything in our power . . ."
"And you understand, that it is not your governments that I'm thinking about. It is . . . your world."
"But if you could understand our situation more clearly . . . . Perhaps you'd like to discuss the matter with our President?"
"I will not speak to any one nation or to a group of a few nations," Rumple insisted sharply. "I do not intend to add my contribution to your childish jealousies and suspicions."
"Sir, our problems are very complex and long-standing. Please don't judge us too harshly."
"You continue to do the same thing over and over, expecting different results," the alien responded sharply. "I can judge only by what I see and I am growing impatient."
"I understand," Nolan told him weakly.
"Do you? I'm here trying to save your planet's arse! I am impatient with the stupidity, with your close-mindedness, with your failure to understand that you are all one people."
"I'm very sorry – I wish it were otherwise," Nolan told him sincerely, depositing the stack of papers back into his briefcase. He felt like a three-year old being chastised for behavior that he should be able to control.
Rumple had turned his back on the young man and was staring out the window. He watched people - patients, nurses, visitors - all walking through the central gardens of the hospital.
He spoke slowly, as much to himself as the young man. "Before making any final decisions, perhaps I should get out among your people, re-familiarize myself with the basis for these strange, unreasoning attitudes."
Nolan was surprised, "Sir, under the circumstances, I'm afraid . . . I mean, you don't look like us and for you to go out and about . . . "
Rumple had returned his attention fully on to the young man. He didn't say anything.
Nolan continued, "Sir, I really must ask that you don't attempt to leave the hospital. Our military people have insisted on this. I'm sure you can understand."
Rumple watched the young man leave the room and close the door behind him. He heard the click of a lock and realized that he's been locked in. He sat quietly for a moment and then just smiled.
LATER THAN EVENING
The cool, green hospital corridor was empty except for the heavily armed guards, standing by every door and every window. There were at least eight of them just in the immediate area and more down the other corridors. A nurse, accompanied by another guard, approached the room, carrying a food tray. The food tray was inspected by the guard at the door of the locked room, who then motioned for the room to be unlocked and allowed the nurse to enter.
"Where is he?" the nurse asked.
"What?!" the door guard pushed into the room and, after a brief search, found the room empty. After a thorough inspection of the small room, the guard made a call.
THE APARTMENT BUILDING
It was a typical summer evening for Washington, D.C. Following a sweltering day, there had been a thunderstorm, a downpour that had marginally watered down the heat from the day. At the present moment, there was active thunder punctuated by the occasional lightning strike. The rain had slacked, but overall, it had been too little to sincerely cool the night, instead the moisture had turned the city into a sauna.
The man was well-dressed, perhaps a bit shorter than average and he walked with a cane, favoring one leg. He carried a single small suitcase. He approached the old Queen Anne, hesitating as he walked past the "Apartment for Rent" sign.
Inside, the residents of the house were all gathered in the common room, watching the wide screen television. There was a heated debate going on between commentators.
"We haven't heard one more word from this so-called spaceman since the shooting. Is he dead? Is he being held hostage by our government?"
"Well, there are many who believe he represents a significant danger to the world's population."
"But isn't it strange we've heard nothing more from him? Is it possible he's escaped?"
The small audience in the little living room gave a collective gasp.
"I'm not surprised to hear that. He's probably walking around among us, right now," one of the viewers quickly agreed.
"Yeah, I mean, if he can fly a spaceship across a gazillion miles, I bet he can just walk out of a hospital room."
"But don't you think they had guards on him?"
"He probably just phazered them all. The military is sitting on it because they don't want us all to panic."
"Well, the President has made no effort to minimize the crisis. He's still telling people to remain calm."
"But we may be up against powers that are beyond our control, beyond our understanding."
The door to the house opened and at that same moment, there was a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder. The man with the cane was silhouetted in the door frame.
Everyone gasped.
The landlady, Cora Mills, spotted the man and immediately got up to greet him. "May I help you?" she asked.
"Yes ma'am, I'm . . . Mr. Gold. I understand you have an apartment for rent," the man said to her.
"I do. I do indeed." Her eyes brushed over the man and apparently found him acceptably pleasing. "You've come at a good time, and you're lucky to have found us. I understand all the hotels are slammed full." She stopped to introduce the man to some of the residents sitting in the common room, "This is Belle French and her sweet, very quiet boy, Balfour. And this is . . ."
She was interrupted by the 'very quiet' Balfour. "Are you an FBI man?"
Mr. Gold gave the boy a gentle smile, "No . . . I'm afraid not."
"I bet you are. Or Homeland Security. I bet the Spaceman's escaped and you're out looking for him," Bae continued.
"The Spaceman's escaped?" Mr. Gold repeated the child's words.
"Yeah, that's what they were saying on the news,"
"Now Bae," Belle began. "That was just reporters talking."
"But Mom, if he'd escaped, they wouldn't be telling us, because everybody would go nuts," the boy reasoned.
"I'm sure, dear," his mother gently pulled him back. "I think we're hearing too much about this spaceman. Now, let's let Mr. Gold finish his business with Mrs. Mills."
Mrs. Mills, seeing her opportunity, stepped in. "Mr. Gold, this is Miss Azure," and a dark-haired woman who would have been pretty if she wasn't so disapproving, managed a smile at him. "And this is Mr. August." This time it was a young man sitting in front of his laptop, also disapproving, who glanced at the newcomer. "And this couple is Mr. and Mrs. King," and the younger couple stared at him.
"We tend to be more like an old-style boarding house here, but we're very updated. Each apartment is fully furnished. All of them have at least one bedroom. There's also one bathroom, along with a sitting area and a kitchenette. The price is very reasonable considering this location. The apartment I have available is on the second floor," Mrs. Mills chattered on, leading the way up the stairs.
Bae followed them, "Can I help you look for the Spaceman? I know just what he looks like. He's green with snake eyes and funny hair."
Bae's mother was right behind him. "That's enough, Bae. I think it's time you got your bath and began to get ready for bed."
Mrs. Mills turned to the child. "We mustn't annoy Mr. Gold – or he won't want to stay here." She tried, but failed, the keep the annoyance out of her own voice.
Belle winced, but caught the eye of Mr. Gold, who gave her a small smile. She smiled back – well, she could certainly see why Mrs. Mills might be interested in the man. He exuded an aura of power and competence – and all in a very nice package. Belle then dropped back in the hallway, holding onto her son. Her and Bae's apartment was across the hall from the empty apartment.
Mrs. Mills continued to talk as she led the way to the room. "He really is a dear, sweet boy." She got to the room, preparing to unlock it and turned to Mr. Gold. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?" she asked him.
Mr. Gold stopped in his tracks, "How did you know?"
"Oh, I can spot a British accent a mile away."
Mr. Gold just nodded and smiled.
Saturday Morning
Belle French sat in her room listening to the news on her small television set. More about the spaceman.
"And so the question, this Saturday morning, we ask the question that's been plaguing the entire nation for two days now. Where is the spaceman? Why hasn't he been seen or heard from since the incident on the Mall? If he can build a spaceship that can fly to Earth – and a robot that can destroy our tanks and guns – what other terrors can he unleash at will? The rumors are rampant that he has escaped military custody and is walking among us. What is he doing? What is he up to? If the military can't produce him and assure us that he is under their lock and key, we must assume that he out among us. A dangerous monster, ladies and gentlemen, one that must be tracked down like a wild animal and destroyed."
"Oh, good grief," Belle shook her head.
The knock on the door was welcomed. Belle assumed it was Gary. She was expecting him and she called out, "Door's open. Come on in."
It wasn't him. She turned and saw the new tenant, Mr. Gold, standing in her doorway. She found herself looking him over. It was certainly not unusual to see a man dressed in a suit in Washington, D.C., but this man wore one well. Three pieces, silk shirt, tie tack. It had been tailored to fit him and tailored well, molding to his slim body. Nice, really nice.
She reminded herself that she was supposed to be an engaged woman.
Well . . . even then, that didn't mean she was dead. She could still admire an attractive man . . . maybe even engage in a little harmless fantasizing.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude." He was apologizing, standing at her opened door. "I had knocked, several times, but you didn't seem to hear me."
"I'm sorry. I was preoccupied with . . . this," she pointed to the television.
"And we must ask ourselves, where would such a creature hide? Would he disappear into the north woods? Or would he slither off into the sewers of some great city?"
"I was wondering if you could assist me," Mr. Gold began.
"There is grave danger – everyone agrees to that. The question is what can we do to protect ourselves? What measures can we take that will . . ."
Belle reached over and changed the station.
"I'm sorry. This stuff seems to be on every channel. There seems to be the automatic assumption that he's a menace," she told her guest wearily.
Mr. Gold looked at her. "You don't think he is?" he asked softly.
"Well, after the reception he got, I can certainly understand why he would walk away from the hospital, if he could, and, absolutely, why he would go into hiding."
Mr. Gold nodded, "Perhaps before deciding on a course of action, he'd want to know more about the people here, to orient himself in a strange environment."
"Dr. Nicholas Rush, renown theoretical physicist and guest lecturing for a semester at Georgetown, has invited fellow scientists from all over the world to meet with him in Washington to study the recently landed spaceship."
Belle sighed and turned off the television. "How can I help you?"
But before he could answer, there was another knock on her door. This time it was Gary. "Belle, darling," not waiting for an invitation, the man came on into her apartment. Gary was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. He carried himself like the pampered quarterback of the football team, which he had been in high school, assuming all other men would accept him as a leader and all women would desire him.
"Gary," Belle greeted him. There was an awkward moment as the two men looked each other over. "Oh, Gary, this is my new neighbor, uh . . . Mr. Gold. He has the apartment across the hall. Mr. Gold, this is my fiancé Gary Gaston," she made introductions.
"We are all set, darling. I picked up some wine and put gas in the car. If you've got the picnic basket packed, we can have a day away from the city and the never-ending spaceman talk," Gary told her.
"Oh darling," Belle was concerned. "There is one thing – I haven't been able to arrange for anyone to stay with Bae." She turned her large blue eyes on her fiancé, "I don't suppose we could take him with us?"
Gary was obviously not happy, "Weee-eelll, I guess we could . . ."
"I know, there's usually someone here in the building, but I checked and today, everyone has plans," Belle continued to make her case.
"I haven't any plans," Mr. Gold said softly. Belle and Gary both turned to him, surprised.
"Ms. French, I had come over here to see if you might have some suggestions of interesting places in Washington I could visit. I wanted to do some sightseeing. I'd be glad to have the boy for the day . . . if you'd be all right with that."
"Hey, that sounds great!" Gary was instantly agreeable.
"But . . ." began Belle. She looked long and hard at Mr. Gold. She didn't know the man and wasn't sure about turning her child over to him.
"Balfour is a handful, Mr. Gold," she warned him. "He talks continually and will pester you to death with his questions."
"I know," Mr. Gold smiled at her. "Yesterday evening, after his bath, Balfour came over to my room and we listened to the television together. We had some interesting . . . discussions. If he's willing, I would appreciate him showing me the city."
Belle hesitated. She hadn't known that Bae had visited with Mr. Gold. She thought that after his bath, he'd gone downstairs to work on a puzzle in the Common Room, his usual pursuit in the evenings before settling down to bed. She considered. This was a comparative stranger, even though she had a generally favorable impression of the man. "Suppose I ask Bae how he would feel about it," she finally replied trusting her gut reaction to the man – believing, after all, the only really valuable thing is intuition.
Rumple had decided that he liked this young woman, really liked her. She was obviously intelligent and, he thought, likely kind. And he thought her packaging was pleasantly pleasing. She also emitted a combination of delightful pheromones. To someone of his heightened senses, he thought it likely that her levels were so high and so strong that he could actually determine her moods, even some of her thoughts, from the scents she emitted.
All these Earthers emanated pheromones, so much that the planet was awash in them. Interesting, perhaps because there were so many smells at any one time, most of the natives ignored these ever-present cues. The young woman, Miss French, however, stood out to him, stood out in a very favorable manner.
He might have considered pursuing her but, even allowing that behavior would be out of character for him as a Delegate, he also recognized that she had been claimed by another man.
TOUR OF THE CITY
It had been a long, eventful morning. By lunchtime, Mr. Gold and Bae had made their way to the Lincoln memorial. Mr. Gold read the inscription.
"and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth," Mr. Gold read. "Those are great words." He looked up at the statue of Lincoln. "He must be a great man."
"You don't know about Abraham Lincoln?" Bae asked him.
Mr. Gold shook his head, "I didn't. I would like to meet him."
Bae was confused, "You do know he's dead, right?"
Mr. Gold seemed surprised, but quickly recovered. "Why . . . yes, of course. But he is the kind of man I would still like to meet." He thought a moment, "Balfour, who's the greatest man in your country today?"
Bae thought before answering. "Do you mean the smartest?"
"Yes, that would do nicely."
"Oh, that's easy. I heard mom say that Dr. Rush was the smartest guy around. She has to keep up with important stuff that people do and write and catalog everything for the Smithsonian, where she works. She's looked at some of his stuff and said he was brilliant."
Mr. Gold seemed to consider this information. He remembered hearing something on the television in Miss French's apartment. "Dr. Rush lives here in Washington, doesn't he?"
"Sure, he's right down the street from here, near where my mom works."
"Where is it that she works?" Mr. Gold asked for clarification.
"The Smithsonian. She works in the part that's called The Castle. It's not really a castle though. She's works in the dungeon, well, except it's not really a dungeon. It's in the basement and everything the Smithsonian is going to put on exhibit goes through her so she can catalogue it."
"I think I understand."
"Mr. Gold," Bae was hesitant.
"Yes, Balfour?"
"Can we go see the spaceship?