Robert Sawyer: Calculating God

“We’re trying to protect the alien,” said the white CSIS man.

“Like hell,” said a male museum patron. “I’ve seen The X-Files. If you walk out of here with him, no regular person will ever see him again.”

“Leave him alone!” added an elderly man with a European accent.

The agents looked at the videographer, and the black one pointed out a security camera to the white one. Doubtless they wished none of this was being recorded.

“Politely,” said Hollus, “you are not going to prevail.”

“But, well, surely you won’t object to us having an observer present?” said the black agent. “Someone to make sure no harm comes to you?”

“I have no concerns in that area,” said Hollus.

Christine stepped forward at this point. “I’m the museum’s president and director,” she said to the two CSIS men. Then she turned to Hollus. “I’m sure you can understand that we’d like to have a record, a chronicle, of your visit here. If you don’t mind, we will at least have a cameraperson accompany you and Dr. Jericho.” The CITY-TV guy surged forward; it was quite clear that he’d be happy to volunteer for the job.

“But I do mind,” said Hollus. “Dr. Dorati, on my world, only criminals are subject to constant observation; would you consent to someone watching you all day long as you worked?”

“Well, I—” said Christine.

“Nor will I,” said Hollus. “I am grateful for your hospitality, but — you, there,” he pointed at the videographer. “You are the representative of a media outlet; allow me to make a plea.” Hollus paused for a second while the Native Canadian adjusted his camera angle. “I am looking for unfettered access to a comprehensive collection of fossils,” said Hollus, speaking loudly. “In exchange, I will share information my people have gathered, when I think it is appropriate and fair. If there is another museum that will offer me what I seek, I will gladly appear there instead. Simply—”

“No,” said Christine, rushing forward. “No, that won’t be necessary. Of course, we’ll cooperate any way we can.”

Hollus turned his eyestalks away from the camera. “Then I may make my studies under terms that are acceptable to me?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, whatever you want.”

“The government of Canada will still require—” began the white CSIS man.

“I can as easily go to the United States,” said Hollus. “Or Europe, or China, or—”

“Let him do what he wants!” shouted a middle-aged male museum patron.

“I do not mean to intimidate,” said Hollus, looking at one of the federal agents and then the other, “but I have zero interest in being a celebrity or in being forced into narrow passages by documentarians or security people.”

“We honestly don’t have any latitude in our orders,” said the white agent. “You simply have to come with us.”

Hollus’s eyestalks arched backward so that his crystal-covered orbs looked up at the mosaic on the Rotunda’s domed ceiling high above, made up of more than a million Venetian-glass tiles; perhaps this was the Forhilnor equivalent of rolling one’s eyes. The words “That all men may know His work” — a quote, I’m told, from the Book of Job — were arranged in a square at the dome’s apex.

After a moment, the stalks came forward again, and one locked onto each of the agents. “Listen,” Hollus said. “I have spent more than a year studying your culture from orbit. I am not fool enough to come down here in a way that would make me vulnerable.” He reached into a fold of the cloth wrapped around his torso — in a flash, the other CSIS man had his gun in his hand, too — and pulled out a polyhedral object about the size of a golf ball. He then scuttled sideways over to me and profferred it. I took it; it was heavier than it looked.

“That device is a holoform projector,” Hollus said. “It has just imprinted itself with Dr. Jericho’s biometrics and will only work when in his company; indeed, I can make it self-destruct, quite spectacularly, if anyone else handles it, so I advise you not to try to take it from him. Further, the projector will only work at locales that I approve of, such as inside this museum.” He paused. “I am here by telepresence,” he said. “The actual me is still inside the landing craft, outside the building next door; the only reason I came down to the surface was to supervise the delivery of the projector that Dr. Jericho is now holding. That projector uses holography and micromanipulated force fields to give the impression that I am here and to allow me to handle objects.” Hollus — or the image of him — froze for a few seconds, as if the real Hollus was preoccupied doing something else. “There,” he said. “My lander is now returning to orbit, with the real me aboard.” Some people rushed outside through the museum’s glass-doored vestibule, presumably to get a glimpse of the departing ship. “There is nothing you can do to coerce me, and there is no way you can physically harm me. I do not mean to be rude, but contact between humanity and my people will be on our terms, not yours.”

The polyhedron in my hand issued a two-toned bleep, and the projection of Hollus wavered for a second, then disappeared.

“You’ll have to surrender that object, of course,” said the white man.

I felt adrenaline coursing through me. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but you saw Hollus give it directly to me. I don’t think you have any claim to it.”

“But it’s an alien artifact,” said the black CSIS agent.

“So?” I said.

“Well, I mean, it should be in official hands.”

“I work for the government, too,” I said defiantly.

“I mean it should be in secure hands.”

“Why?”

“Well, ah, because.”

I don’t accept “because” as an argument from my six-year-old son; I wasn’t about to accept it here. “I can’t turn it over to you — you heard what Hollus said about it blowing up. I think Hollus was quite clear about how things are going to be — and you gentlemen do not have a role. And so,” I looked at the white guy, the one with the French accent, “I bid you adieu.”

It had started eight months ago with a cough.

I’d ignored it. Like an idiot, I’d ignored the evidence right in front of me.

I’m a scientist. I should have known better.

But I’d told myself it was just a result of my dusty work environment. We use dental drills to carve rock away from fossils. Of course, we wear masks when doing such work — most of the time (we remember to put on safety goggles, too — most of the time). Still, despite the ventilation system, there’s a lot of fine rock dust in our air; you can see the layers it leaves on piles of books and papers, on unused equipment.

Besides, I first noticed it in the sweltering heat of last August; an inversion layer had been hanging over Toronto, and air-quality advisories were being issued. I thought maybe the cough would stop when we got away from the city, got up to our cottage. And so it seemed to.

But when we came south again, the cough returned. Still, I’d hardly noticed it.

Until the blood came up.

Just a bit.

When I blew my nose, there had been blood in my mucus often enough in winter. Dry air will do that. But this was the sultry Toronto summer. And what I was producing wasn’t mucus; it was phlegm, kicked up from deep in my chest, maneuvered off the roof of my mouth with the tip of my tongue, and transferred to a tissue to get rid of it.

Phlegm, flecked with blood.

I noted it, but nothing similar happened for a couple of weeks. And so I didn’t give it any further thought.

Until it happened again, late in September.