Joe Haldeman - Camouflage

“Saves me a hundred calories,” he said. “The media all think the thing’s from another star. That’s the easiest explanation. We’re trying to come up with something less obvious.”

“Like what? Secret government project?”

“Or that it’s always been here. You know what hell this has been for physicists and chemists.”

“I can imagine.”

He took a bite and then salted everything, as the changeling expected. “ That’s no different whether the thing is local or from another galaxy. It means there are very basic laws we don’t understand about… the nature of matter.” He speared a square of sandwich and gestured with it. “It’s chaos. Nothing we know is true anymore.”

“Can you really say that?” the changeling said, carving its own sandwich into quarters. “Like we learned in school, Galileo’s physics was an approximation of Newton’s; Newton got swallowed by Einstein; then Einstein by Holling.”

“Hawking, then Holling, to be technical. But this is different. It’s like everything worked, down to eight decimal places, and then somebody says, ‘Hold it. You forgot about magic’ That’s what this damned thing is.” He laughed. “I love it! But then I’m not a physicist.”

“They must be going crazy.” She picked up one quarter and nibbled on it.

“You should see my e-mail. Actually, I should see my e-mail. This indispensable woman, Michelle, throws out nine-tenths of it before I come to work.”

“She knows physics?”

“Well, like you—she’s an accountant with some course work in various sciences. But she reads everything, knows more about general science than I do.”

“She doesn’t really throw them away,” the changeling asked. “You at least glance at them?”

“Oh, yeah. At least the ones that have some entertainment value— we call them the X-files. I get together with Jan, our space scientist, every Friday to run through them. Kind of fun, actually.” He speared another square. “Pleasant nutlike flavor.”

“Did you ever get anything useful?”

“Not yet.” He turned serious. “The whole game is going to change soon. We’re going public with … an aspect we’ve kept secret. Wish I could tell you.”

The changeling was glad he couldn’t. Knowing about the message gave it an edge for Michelle’s job. Those credits in Math 471 and 472, advanced statistics. “Oh, come on. Pretty please?”

He smiled. “Your womanly wiles will get you nowhere. I’ll tell you on Monday, though, if you’d like to have lunch again.”

“Okay. Can I bring my pal from the Weekly World News’?”

“He might already be down at the office. We’re making the announcement at nine o’clock.”

“You really think you’ll be free for lunch, then?”

“I’m telling you too much.” He looked left and right. “That’s why we chose Monday. No planes till Tuesday morning. Gives us, what, some measure of spin control.”

He did look a little worried. The changeling reached over and patted his hand. “Mum’s the word.”

’” Mum’s the word’?” He chuckled. “I haven’t heard that since I was a kid.”

Oops. “My mother used to say it. Where does it come from?”

“Where do any of them?” He relaxed. “How are things at the bank working out?”

“They’re nice enough people,” it said, quickly. “No real challenge, though. A few times a day I haul out a language to calm down a customer. Walk him through a document or just help with numbers. The job description said ‘international relations,’ and I suppose that’s technically true.”

“Apia’s smaller than you thought it would be?”

It shrugged. “I read up on it. No real surprises … except you guys. I expected a bigger deal.”

“Well, it’s only fifty people. We had a pretty low profile until a couple of weeks ago.”

“Your space alien. That made the front page in Honolulu. You found her?” It closed its eyes and shook its head. “Sorry. Mustn’t pry.”

“No; I wish we had. Love to spring that on the tabloids.”

“You don’t believe it’s in a secret wing in the Air Force hospital in Pago Pago?”

“No, it’s locked up in Roswell, New Mexico.” He laughed. “Before your time.” The changeling had been there twice, actually, as a juggling dwarf and an anthropology graduate student.

So Monday they were going to reveal the artifact’s coded response— or at least the fact that it had responded. The changeling wondered how that would change its situation, and what it could do before then to help its chances for the job.

Russell offered a possibility. “You work tomorrow?”

“No, everybody goes to church. Except me.”

“I’m off, too. You want to bike somewhere for a picnic?”

“God, I haven’t ridden a bike since college. Give it a try, though. I guess I could rent one someplace.”

“Oh, I have a spare.” He scratched his chin. “I usually go out to Fatumes Pool or Fagaloa Bay on Sunday, but that’s a little far if you’re not used to it. We ought to just tool around, see some local sights, wind up at Palolo or the project for a picnic and a swim.”

“Does the reef go over that far?”

“No, it’s just a white-sand swimming beach. The local kids like it. We even set out a shark barrier last week.”

“You get a lot of sharks?”

“Just takes one. A big hammerhead attacked a boat in the shallows—bit a hole in the hull!—and so the family, the aiga that technically owns the land the project’s on, asked whether we’d cooperate in putting a barrier up to protect swimmers. Just a wide- mesh net”—he sketched a six-inch square with his fingers—“to keep out really big fish. We bought it and they provided the manpower.”

An interesting challenge, the changeling thought. A hammerhead could pretend it was a dolphin and jump over it. “That sounds good. They have picnic tables and all?”

He nodded. “A grill. Let’s be American—I know a place with fairly convincing hot dogs. I’ll pick some up this afternoon and put them in the office fridge.”

They made arrangements to meet at the Vaiala Beach Cottages in the morning, bring a bathing suit, and she went back to her air- conditioned bank.

As he pedaled off toward the butcher shop, Russell thought about what he was getting into. He couldn’t afford an actual girlfriend; he had to be “available” for the Rae-alien’s return. That was one element of their plans to trap the creature, because when it returned it was likely to repeat the previous strategy, and try to seduce Russell. Or maybe Jack or Jan. Anybody new who came into their lives would have to pass the DNA test.

He toyed with the idea of arguing to the others that maybe the alien had figured out a way to manufacture DNA, so he should continue to pursue Sharon even though she’d passed the test—all in the name of science, of course.

Russell knew he wasn’t the only one in passionate pursuit of the alien. But he didn’t know that his competition was more formidable than the CIA agents who were just now becoming interested in Sharon.

The chameleon had been in and out of Apia ever since he knew they had a vehicle from another planet. If there was anybody else like him on Earth, he would be drawn here, too.

The changeling also had spent much of its human life looking for another changeling. It saw the meeting as a kind of reunion— “together again for the first time.” They could sit down and talk, and perhaps together solve the mystery of their origin.

The chameleon, on the other hand, was not interested in mysteries. He was interested in eliminating competition.