Robert Sawyer - Calculating God

If I’d been paying better attention, I would have noticed my cough getting more persistent. I’m the head of the paleobiology department; I suppose I should have done something, should have complained to the guys in Facilities about the dry air, about the mineral dust floating around.

The second time there was a lot of blood in my phlegm. And there was more the next day.

And the day after.

And so, finally, I had made an appointment to see Dr. Noguchi.

The Hollus simulacrum had left about 4:00 in the afternoon; I normally worked until 5:00, and so I walked — staggered might be a better term — back to my office and sat, stunned, for a few minutes. My phone kept ringing, so I turned it off; it seemed that every media outlet in the world wanted to talk to me, the man who had been alone with the alien. I directed Dana, the departmental assistant, to transfer all calls to Dr. Dorati’s office. Christine would be in her element dealing with the press. Then I turned to my computer and began to type up notes. I realized that there should be a record, a chronicle, of everything I saw and everything I learned. I typed furiously for perhaps an hour, then left the ROM via the staff entrance.

A large crowd had gathered outside — but, thankfully, they were all up by the main entrance, half a block away. I looked briefly for any sign of the spaceship landing that had occurred earlier that day; there was nothing. I then hurried down the concrete steps into Museum subway station, with its sickly yellow-beige wall tiles.

During rush hour, most people head north to the suburbs. As usual, I rode the train south, right down University Avenue, around the loop at Union station, and then up the Yonge line all the way to North York Centre; it was hardly the direct route, but it ensured I’d get to sit all the way. Of course, my condition was obvious, so people often offered me seats. But unlike Blanche DuBois, I preferred not to have to depend on the kindness of strangers. As usual, I was carrying a Zip disk with work-related files in my briefcase, and I had some article preprints I wanted to read. But I found myself unable to concentrate.

An alien had come to Toronto. An actual alien.

It was incredible.

I thought about it throughout the forty-five-minute subway ride. And, as I looked at the myriad faces around me — all colors, all races, all ages, the mosaic that is Toronto — I thought about the impact today’s events would have on human history. I wondered if it was Raghubir or I who would end up being mentioned in the encyclopedia articles; the alien had come to see me — or at least someone in my position — but his actual first conversation (I had taken a break to watch the security-camera video) was with Raghubir Singh.

The subway disgorged many passengers at Union, and more at Bloor. By the time it was pulling into North York Centre — penultimate stop on the line — there were seats for all who wanted them, although, as always, some riders, having endured most of the journey standing, now disdained the empty chairs as if those of us who had scored a place to park our behinds were a weaker breed.

I exited the subway. The walls here were tiled in white, much easier on the stomach than Museum station. North York had been a township when I was born, later a borough, then a city in its own right, and, at last, in another fiat of the Harris government, it had been subsumed with all the other satellite burbs into the expanded megacity of Toronto. I walked the four blocks — two west, two north — from North York Centre to our house on Ellerslie. Crocuses were poking up, and already the days were getting noticeably longer.

As usual, Susan, who was an accountant with a firm at Sheppard and Leslie, had gotten home first; she’d picked up Ricky from his after-school daycare and had started cooking dinner.

Susan’s maiden name had been Kowalski; her parents had come to Toronto from Poland shortly after World War II, via a displaced-persons camp. She had brown eyes, high cheekbones, a smallish nose, and an endearing little gap between her two front teeth. Her hair had been dark brown when we’d met, and she kept it that way thanks to Miss Clairol. In the sixties, we’d both loved the Mamas and the Papas, Simon & Garfunkel, and Peter, Paul and Mary; today, we both listened to New Country, including Deana Carter, Martina McBride, and Shania Twain; Shania’s latest was coming from the stereo as I came in the door.

I think more than anything, I enjoyed that: coming home to the stereo playing softly, to the smell of dinner cooking, to Ricky bounding up the stairs from the basement, to Susan coming down from the kitchen to give me a kiss — which is precisely what she did just now. “Hi, hon,” she said. “How was your day?”

She didn’t know. She hadn’t heard. I knew that Persaud, her boss, had a rule against people playing radios at work, and Susan listened to books-on-tape in her car. I checked my watch; ten to six — it hadn’t even been two hours since Hollus’s departure. “Fine,” I said, but I guess I wasn’t quite suppressing my grin.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

I let the grin flourish. “You’ll see.”

Ricky arrived just then. I reached down, tousled his hair. It was blond, not unlike mine had been when I’d been his age; a nice coincidence, that. Mine had turned brown by the time I was a teenager, and gray by the time I was fifty, but I’d managed to keep almost all of it until a few months ago.

Susan and I had waited to have a child — too long, it turned out. We’d adopted Ricky when he was just a month old, young enough that we got to give him his name: Richard Blaine Jericho. Those who didn’t know sometimes said Ricky had Susan’s eyes and my nose. He was a typical six-year-old — a bundle of skinned knees, scrawny limbs, and stringy hair. And he was a bright kid, thank God. I’m no athlete, and neither is Susan; we both make our livings with our brains. I’m not sure how I would have related to him if he hadn’t been smart. Ricky was good natured and took well to new people. But for the last week or two there had been a bully beating him up, it seemed, on his way to school. He couldn’t understand why it was happening to him.

I could relate to that.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” said Susan.

I headed to the upstairs bathroom and washed up. There was a mirror above the sink, of course; I made an effort not to look in it. I’d left the bathroom door open, and Ricky came in after me. I helped him wash his hands, inspecting them when he was done, and then my son and I went down to the dining room.

I’ve always had a tendency to put on weight, but for years I’ve managed to control it by eating properly. But I’d recently been given a booklet. It said:

If you can’t each much food, it’s important that what you do eat is nutritious. It should also contain as many calories as possible. You can increase your calorie intake by adding butter or margarine to your food; mixing canned cream soups with milk or half-and-half cream; drinking eggnogs and milkshakes; adding cream sauce or melted cheese to vegetables; and snacking on nuts, seeds, peanut butter, and crackers.

I used to love all those things, but for decades I’d avoided them. Now, I was supposed to eat them — but I didn’t find them the least bit appealing.

Susan had grilled some chicken legs coated with Rice Krispies; she’d also prepared green beans and mashed potatoes, made with real cream, and for me, a small saucepan full of melted Cheez Whiz to pour over the potatoes. And she had made chocolate milkshakes, a necessity for me and a nice treat for Ricky. It was unfair, I knew, for her to have to do all the cooking. We used to take turns, but I couldn’t face it anymore, couldn’t face the smell.