Connie Willis - The Best of Connie Willis

I hoped that would be true of our solving the puzzle of the Altairi. If it wasn’t, we’d be charged with kidnapping. Or starting a religious war. But both were better than letting Reverend Thresher play them “slowly dying” and “thorns infest the ground.” Which meant we’d better figure out what the Altairi were responding to, and fast. We played them Dolly Parton and Manhattan Transfer and the Barbershop Choir of Toledo and Dean Martin.

Which was a bad idea. I’d had almost no sleep the last two days, and I found myself nodding off after the first few bars. I sat up straight and tried to concentrate on the Altairi, but it was no use. The next thing I knew, my head was on Calvin’s shoulder, and he was saying, “Meg? Meg? Do the Altairi sleep?”

“Sleep?” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry, I must have dozed off. What time is it?”

“A little after four.”

“In the morning ?”

“Yes. Do the Altairi sleep?”

“Yes, at least we think so. Their brain patterns alter, and they don’t respond to stimuli, but then again, they never respond.”

“Are there visible signs that they’re asleep? Do they close their eyes or lie down?”

“No, they sort of droop over, like flowers that haven’t been watered. And their glares diminish a little. Why?”

“I have something I want to try. Go back to sleep.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said, suppressing a yawn. “If anybody needs to sleep, it’s you. I’ve kept you up the last two nights, and you’ve got to direct your Sing thing tonight. I’ll take over and you go—”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. I told you, I never get any sleep this time of year.”

“So what’s this idea you want to try?”

“I want to play them the first verse of ‘Silent Night.’”

“‘Sleep in heavenly peace,’” I said.

“Right, and no other action verbs and I’ve got at least fifty versions of it. Johnny Cash, Kate Smith, Britney Spears—”

“Do we have time to play them fifty different versions?” I asked, looking over at the TV. A split screen showed a map of Israel and the outside of the One True Way Maxichurch. When I turned the volume up, a reporter’s voice said, “Inside, thousands of members are awaiting the appearance of the Altairi, whom Reverend Thresher expects at any minute. A twenty-four-hour High-Powered Prayer Vigil—”

I turned it back down. “I guess we do. You were saying?”

“‘Silent Night’ is a song everybody—Gene Autry, Madonna, Burl Ives—has recorded. Different voices, different accompaniments, different keys. We can see which versions they respond to—”

“And which ones they don’t,” I said, “and that may give us a clue to what they’re responding to.”

“Exactly,” he said, opening a CD case. He stuck it in the player and hit Track 4. “Here goes.”

The voice of Elvis Presley singing “‘Silent night, holy night’” filled the room. Calvin came back over to the couch and sat down next to me. When Elvis got to “‘tender and mild,’” we both leaned forward expectantly, watching the Altairi. “‘Sleep in heavenly peace,’” Elvis crooned, but the Altairi were still stiffly upright. They remained that way through the repeated “‘sleep in heavenly peace.’” And through Alvin the Chipmunk’s solo of it. And Celine Dion’s.

“Their glares don’t appear to be diminishing,” Calvin said. “If anything, they seem to be getting worse.”

They were. “You’d better play them Judy Garland,” I said.

He did, and Dolly Parton and Harry Belafonte. “What if they don’t respond to any of them?” I asked.

“Then we try something else. I’ve also got twenty-six versions of ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’” He grinned at me. “I’m kidding. I do, however, have nine different versions of ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’”

“For use on redheaded second sopranos?”

“No,” he said. “Shh, I love this version. Nat King Cole.”

I shh-ed and listened, wondering how the Altairi could resist falling asleep. Nat King Cole’s voice was even more relaxing than Dean Martin’s. I leaned back against the couch. “‘All is calm …’”

I must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing I knew, the music had stopped and it was daylight outside. I looked at my watch. It said two P.M. The Altairi were standing in the exact same spot they’d been in before, glaring, and Calvin was sitting hunched forward on a kitchen chair, his chin in his hand, watching them and looking worried.

“Did something happen?” I glanced over at the TV. Reverend Thresher was talking. The logo read “Thresher Launches Galaxywide Christian Crusade.” At least it didn’t say “Air Strikes in Middle East.”

Calvin was slowly shaking his head.

“Wasn’t there any response to ‘Silent Night’?” I asked.

“No, there was,” he said. “You responded to the version by Nat King Cole.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. I meant the Altairi. They didn’t respond to any of the ‘Silent Nights’?”

“No, they responded,” he said, “but just to one version.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” I asked. “Now we can analyze what it was that was different about it that they were responding to. Which version was it?”

Instead of answering, he walked over to the CD player and hit play. A loud chorus of nasal female voices began belting out, “Silent night, holy night,” shouting to be heard over a cacophony of clinks and clacks. “What is that?” I asked.

“The Broadway chorus of the musical 42nd Street singing and tapdancing to ‘Silent Night.’ They recorded it for a special Broadway Christmas charity project.”

I looked over at the Altairi, thinking maybe Calvin was wrong and they hadn’t really fallen asleep, but in spite of the din, they had sagged limply over, their heads nearly touching the ground, looking almost peaceful. Their glares had faded from full-bore Aunt Judith to only mildly disapproving.

I listened to the 42nd Street chorines tapping and belting out “Silent Night” at the top of their lungs some more. “It is kind of appealing,” I said, “especially the part where they shout out ‘Mother and child!’”

“I know,” he said. “I’d like it played at our wedding. And obviously the Altairi share our good taste. But aside from that, I’m not sure what it tells us.”

“That the Altairi like show tunes?” I suggested.

“God forbid. Think what Reverend Thresher would do with that,” he said. “Besides, they didn’t respond to ‘Sit Down, You’re Rocking the

Boat.’”

“No, but they did to that song from Mame .”

“And to the one from 1776 but not to The Music Man or Rent ,” he said frustratedly. “Which puts us right back where we started. I have no clue what they’re responding to!”

“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I should never have gotten you involved in this. You have your ACHES thing to direct.”

“It doesn’t start till seven,” he said, rummaging through a stack of LPs, “which means we’ve got another four hours to work. If we could just find another ‘Silent Night’ they’ll respond to, we might be able to figure out what in God’s name they’re doing. What the hell happened to that Star Wars Christmas album?”

“Stop,” I said. “This is ridiculous.” I took the albums out of his hands. “You’re exhausted, and you’ve got a big job to do. You can’t direct all those people on no sleep. This can wait.”

“But—”

“People think better after a nap,” I said firmly. “You’ll wake up, and the solution will be perfectly obvious.”