Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

The next question they passed me was “Are you God?”

I hesitated. Squirmed. “Margaret,” I said, “this is crazy. Whoever that is out there will think we’re deranged.”

“Just go along with it,” she said. “It’s a question a lot of people are asking.”

“It’s pure politics,” I said. Hawkins was forever talking about the Bible and God. It was how he’d gotten elected. “He’s playing to the voters.”

“Ask the question, please.”

I gritted my teeth. “Are you God?”

It had already called us nitwits. I wondered what it would think now.

We went over to the Officers’ Club for dinner. Then we had a couple of drinks before going back to the office. Eventually the answer came in: “No.”

I wondered whether the President’s backers were relieved or disappointed.

More questions arrived: “Do you intend to intervene if we engage in more military action? If so, whose side will you be on?”

“That’s more nonsense,” I told Commager. “The first one will get another simple yes or no, and I suspect it will claim to be on the side of humanity. “

Commager gave me the smile that, thirty years earlier, had won her the Miss Iowa crown. “They’re not asking our opinion, Pete.”

“Damn it, Margaret, he asked to talk to me, not to a bunch of politicians at the White House.” I sat down in front of the microphone and signaled the commtech to make the connection. When he looked confused and frowned at Margaret I told him to do it.

“I hope,” she said, “you’re not going to say what I think you are.”

“Sit tight, kid,” I said.

“Pete, I’m not a kid. And they won’t be happy—” She nodded to the commtech. He looked unhappy but he made the connection.

I started: “Do you have respect for freedom-loving nations?” I asked. Then I looked at Commager. “That’s it, Margaret. I’ve got it from here.”

“Pete, don’t—”

“Sir, I was just kidding with that question. Ignore it. Can you tell me your name? And what you want from us?”

The door opened and two marshals, a man and a woman, moved in. Both were tall, and both wore stern expressions. Like teachers dealing with a recalcitrant child.

The male, an African-American, seized the microphone. The woman, a Latino, looked at me, sighed, and began talking to her sleeve. “We’ve got him, Mac. Situation’s under control.”

“Oh, Pete,” said Commager, “how could you do that?”

“Because the White House wants to dance around this thing. It’s time to find out who we’re dealing with.”

Had they been able, I think they’d have dragged me away to, as politicians like to say, an undisclosed location. While the male stood guard over me, the woman instructed the commtech to leave.

He filed out slowly, giving me a look that suggested I was going to get exactly what I deserved.

Commager appeared to be in pain. “My fault,” she said. “Pete, I thought you were smarter than that. “

“Margaret, this is a moment people will remember forever. We needed to get it right.”

“I thought we had it right.” She was listening to her cell. “Hold on. The Vice President wants to talk to you.”

“Pete,” he said, “what’s going on?”

“I thought it was time to get to the heart of this business.”

“That’s not your call, Pete. Listen, I know how you feel, but the President is the man in charge.”

“Okay. But he’ll have to do it without me.”

“Pete, we don’t believe that thing would respond to anybody else. Listen, for all we know it may be a threat to the entire planet. You have a patriotic duty to do what you can—”

“Why don’t you let me suggest the questions? Margaret can pass it to you, and you can exercise a veto, if necessary.”

“Pete, I don’t understand what your problem is.”

“This is an historic moment, Mr. Vice President. First contact. No offense, but you’re playing politics, and you may think that’s harmless. But we have a visitor out there who sees us as a world filled with nitwits. We’re supplying evidence to support that conclusion. And now it knows one of the nitwits by name. So no, I’m done with this.”

Hoover’s face hardened. “Pete, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist. I don’t want to resort to threats, but believe me when I tell you that SETI will have a difficult time if you don’t cooperate on the one occasion when your country seriously needs you. When the entire planet does.”

“Do what you want, Mr. Vice President. I’m done.”

The marshals made no effort to stop me when I walked out of the office. They stayed behind me, though, both whispering into their phones. I came out the front door, suddenly aware I had no car. The male marshal came up beside me. “You need transportation, sir?”

When I arrived at the SETI Intitute, it was surrounded by a contingent of reporters and cameramen and curiosity seekers. People were yelling questions in my direction. Where was I going? What would I have done had it been God? Why the question about freedom?

I got through the crowd and made it back to my office. But it was obvious I couldn’t go home. There’d be no peace there. I called Susan, my occasional girlfriend. A few months later she’d be my wife. “You been watching?” I said.

“Yes, Pete. Are you all right?”

“I need a place to hide out.”

“I’m not home yet. Won’t be for an hour or so.” She was a technician at the Stanford University Medical Center. “I’ll get there as soon as I’m able.”

I got out through a back door, grabbed a cab, and settled in at one of the local watering holes where I got to watch myself lauded on TV for asking exactly what Americans wanted to hear, although the pundits were annoyed that I’d disappeared from the SETI Center. Amy Stockdale, a stiff-looking blonde former congresswoman who had the smile of a crocodile, suggested that the communications hadn’t ended. The Administration simply wanted to get me to a more private place. “There’ll be more,” she assured everyone. “It’s just starting.” I hid at the end of the bar, trying to look as innocuous as possible. Nobody recognized me.

On the way to Susan’s place, I heard the next development on my car radio: The Voice had responded to my last question: Do you have respect for freedom-loving nations?

“With whom have I been speaking? To you, Peter? Or to the President of the United States?”

It ignored my request that it identify itself.

I don’t know how they knew where I was going, but the marshals were waiting for me when I got to Susan’s cottage. One of them handed me a cell. The Vice President. “Okay, Dr. Marshak,” he said. “It’s your game. But please be careful what you say.”

Susan hugged me. She looked scared. “Is everything going to be all right, Pete?”

“Of course. It’s okay, babe.”

The cell was connected with Jupiter. And I started by answering the question: “You are talking to me now. My friends call me Pete. I’d be grateful if you told me your name. And if you’d explain how you come to be on Ganymede?”

I put the phone down, and told her that we’d have to wait until about eight o’clock for a response. She smiled and looked at the marshals. “You know, Pete,” she said, “I think you hold the record for the longest cell phone transmission ever.”