David Brin - Existence

But those weren’t the colors drawing him now. Rather, he kept his gaze upon the glistening thing that he had hooked and pulled in from the depths of space.

Or was he hooked, instead?

It’s heat and touch sensitive, Gerald noted. But not in ways we tried on the bench. One thing we left out-

Clutching the Artifact with both knees, he fumbled, using the fingers of his right hand to release the wrist catch on his left glove, letting a rising sense of excitement draw him toward yet another violation of rules. What he had in mind wasn’t kosher. Direct, personal contact could lead to contamination. Always a concern with samples recovered from space.

Except.

In moments, the main chute would deploy. Then-with luck-a VSTOL recovery bird would appear, to snag him out of the air for the brief trip to NASA Marti Space Center, in Havana. Whereupon, who knew when there would ever be another chance?

This is not professional, a part of him chided, as he contemplated his bare left hand.

True enough. But I haven’t felt “professional” in years.

Bare fingertips hovered over the translucent surface, causing ripples to flow, as if preparing to meet him at the point of contact. Whatever lay within… it somehow knew. It sensed the nearness of living flesh.

What if it really is alien? And dangerous?

He couldn’t help suddenly imagining the oblong ovoid-gripped between his thighs-as something out of science fiction. A cuckoo’s egg. Perhaps a Trojan horse. “Contamination” could work both ways. Might it be a terrible mistake to touch the thing?

And if the tech people think that way, in Havana, it might never be tried. They could study it for decades behind glass, without ever getting around to this one, simple test.

Another sudden jolt bounced his little craft as the main parasail popped from its canister, rapidly unfolding and then auto-warping in order to steer the descent. His little capsule began swaying to a jaunty rhythm, as one less failure mode lay between Gerald and terra firma. The crazed gyrations of Mars Needs Women gave way to more stately, steady, and moralistic passages, from the score of Batman.

Was the ai trying to say something? About responsibility?

All right then. Let’s have a compromise.

“Akana Hideoshi,” he said, adding a tooth click for TRANSMIT.

It didn’t take long for her face to reappear, this time free of static, filling a quarter of the tiny cabin, in holographic detail.

“Sorry about that, Gerald. There’s been a distraction. Some rich doofus crashed his suborbital phallus, not far from here. Had to fend off demands from his lawyer, his mother, and a whole aristo-bestiary, that we drop everything and search for the trillie-clown.”

She tossed off a derisive shrug.

“ Okay then. You’re on target. The osprey will snag you in…”

Akana blinked, finally taking in the sight of Gerald, with his hand poised over the Artifact on his lap.

“Wait a second. What do you think you’re… Now just hold on there, Gerald. Don’t do anything you’ll…”

He offered a rueful smile.

“General, I’m invoking full quarantine.

“Better put up a cot for me, inside the specimen lab.

“And bring on the shrinks.”

“Gerald, put your glove on. That’s an order. Put that thing back in its-”

Polychrome patterns swirled toward the nearest fingertip, as if eager.

Or else-he suddenly pondered-preparing to defend itself.

Well. Why not find out? Suddenly eager, he bypassed any timid finger touch, firmly planting his whole hand upon the cool, curved surface. And…

And so?

There was no sudden jolt or electric arc, or any cheap-movie disturbance. Just another set of ripples, no more spectacular than dropping pebbles into an oil slick. And even those then began to shrink, coalescing to produce a fringe, an outline, roughly the shape of his hand.

Not perfect, by any means. In fact, as he (and Akana) watched, Gerald realized that the match was defective. Several of the finger impressions crumpled, a bit too short to match his own. Another pair drew outward, like dough, centimeters too long for any kind of match.

Knuckles bulged. Then he realized-

There are six.

Six fingers.

And-

It’s a hand that’s… thinner than mine.

And so is the wrist.

A tapered wrist, leading to a slender forearm that emerged into view as more of the murk parted, revealing greater depth. Instead of a bulky, yellow spacesuit, that opposing arm appeared to be clad in a loose white sleeve.

From the surface where two hands touched, his own arm rose toward his shoulder, while its strange-looking counterpart descended into the cylinder’s tightly limited interior.

Limited?

More mist fell away and his perspective shifted. Abruptly, Gerald was no longer looking down at an object in his lap, or into a cramped cylinder. Rather, it felt like peering through a lens at another world equal in size to this one-a weird perspective, but one that made eerie sense. His hand remained planted against an imaged hand, as that other forearm met an elbow, oddly jointed… leading to a stout and strangely lithe shoulder… part of a torso draped in shimmering cloth…

… and then-as he held his breath-a head, as long and wedgelike as that of a horse, only with paired eyes that aimed forward, above a rounded mouth. There seemed, even, to be a semblance of a smile.

Sudden jerks rocked his little space capsule, as the recovery plane snagged its chute. But Gerald’s sole concern was to keep his left hand in place-not breaking contact as the figure within seemed to stride or float closer, halving the ersatz distance between them, bringing that alien head near enough to peer outward at him with a gaze that seemed oddly familiar.

The mouth did not move, but a fringe of flapping cheek membranes did. And what emerged then surprised Gerald more than anything so far.

Not sound, but letters . Roman alphabet letters, sans serif, propelled from those gill-like openings, emanating like waves of inaudible sound to flutter up against the barrier between two worlds-his outer one and the other universe within. Plastering themselves, as if upon the inner surface of a curved window, they jostled and formed a single word, right next to the place where hand met hand.

Greeting.

That was all.

For now, it was enough.

There’s a reason why kings built large palaces, sat on thrones and wore rubies all over. There’s a whole social need for that, not to oppress the masses, but to impress the masses and make them proud and allow them to feel good about their culture, their government and their ruler so that they are left feeling that a ruler has the right to rule over them, so that they feel good rather than disgusted about being ruled.

– George Lucas, New York Times , 1999

This disposition to admire, and almost to worship, the rich and the powerful, and to despise, or, at least, to neglect, persons of poor and mean condition, though necessary both to establish and to maintain the distinction of ranks and the order of society, is, at the same time, the great and most universal cause of the corruption of our moral sentiments.

– Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments , 1759

It’s good to be the king.

– Mel Brooks, History of the World , Part II