John Cramer - Einstein's Bridge

George looked relieved, if a bit puzzled. “Books?” he said. “I don’t understand.”

Alice told him about her pseudonym, about her previous books, about F as in Fire Ants, and about how she had come to be commissioned by Search magazine to write an article on the SSC. She allowed him to read parts of Fire Ants from her laptop.

“The business with the press credentials was pretty devious, Alice,” he said with a look of dismay. “Sneaky, even.”

“I know,” she said. “At the time I thought it was necessary. How would you have reacted if I’d approached you for information and told you I was working on a novel about giant mutant fire ants attacking the SSC?”

“I can’t say,” said George. “I might have been willing to help, but it would clearly have been lower priority than helping you with an article for Search.” He was quiet for a while and finally said, “You know, when I think about it, our current situation is probably a lot more bizarre than anything you might have put in your Fire Ants book. Fiction has been outweirded by reality.” Then he looked closely at her. “What I don’t understand is why you choose to write bug-disaster novels, Alice. Somehow you don’t seem the type.”

She looked at him and smiled. It was going to be all right, she thought. “I suppose I wandered into it, George. In my view, most mainstream literature is an extended and depressing description of losers in the process of losing. I never saw the point of that kind of writing, aside from the fact that it’s currently fashionable and ‘literary.’

“When I made the decision to produce a book, I seriously considered doing investigative reporting and making that into a book, perhaps an expose of the Florida drug-money laundering scene. However, my late husband was against that because it might offend — or possibly even expose — some of his clients.

“Then I realized that I liked reading bug-disaster novels, as you call them, and that I would enjoy writing one. I sat down and analyzed why it was that I liked them. And I found the answer.

“It’s because they’re actually about change and how people react to it. In all of these novels something terrible happens, some unpleasant change occurs, and the people in the novel must deal with it. Some of them simply give up, lie down, and die. Some of them react, but they do all the wrong things, and they die, too. But some of them, either through cleverness or instinct, somehow do the right things, successfully deal with the problem, and survive. Those are the characters we identify with, and when they get beyond their problems, we feel good about it. In some measure we adopt their attitudes, so that when we come to a real problem in real life, we’re perhaps better prepared to deal with it.”

George looked thoughtful and nodded.

“There’s also another aspect of my bug-disaster novels,” Alice said. “Some of the themes I’ve used in my novels are real problems, like the overuse of chemical fertilizers and pesticides and their effect on the environment. I’ve fictionalized the problems and exaggerated their effects, but the problems are nonetheless real. My bent for investigative reporting has been put to good use in developing that part of my books. And 1 think it’s had an impact. My paperbacks are read by far more people than any fancy hardcover work of investigative nonfiction would have been.

“That’s what I like to think people get from my books. They learn about real problems, and they learn how to deal with change in their lives in better and more effective ways. I’m not ashamed of what I write. I’m proud of it, and I’m delighted that people are willing to pay for it.”

George looked closely at her. Then he kissed her. “That’s wonderful,” he whispered.

Alice looked up from her lapstation, then saved the file she had been working on. This had been a long and trying twenty-four hours. Between eating, sleeping, and lovemaking, Alice had continued to work on her manuscript and now had a nearly completed first draft. She hadn’t slept much, and she felt tense and strung out.

Roger had retreated to a big chair in the corner, using his lapstation to go over the Snark data stream and to read one textbook holo-ROM after another. He read at an amazing pace, turning a page every few seconds.

At last George’s alarm watch beeped. “Showtime!” he announced. Alice followed the two men outside to the beach, feeling a rising excitement.

The bright summer day was cooled by a breeze from the ocean. Alice squinted into the light after the dimness of the cottage. There was a sharp salt smell in the air, and seagulls wheeled overhead. The tide was coming in, the gray-green waves lapping progressively higher on the beach. She could see children playing in the surf far down the beach, but no one was close by.

George led them to approximately the spot from which he had waded out into the surf and thrown the Egg, and they looked out to sea. In the far distance Alice could see an oil tanker moving past at a stately pace, probably heading for a refinery in Baytown or Texas City. They waited.

She thought she was the first to notice the disturbance in the water. There was a small turbulence almost directly in front of them, about forty meters out in the water. Then a blonde head broke the surface, moving in their direction.

Alice couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. The Botticelli-perfect young female face smiled at her, streaming water from nostrils and mouth but not seemingly bothered by this. White shoulders appeared.

George and Roger stood frozen, watching. A wave broke over the child’s head, but she came on unperturbed. The waterline was down to the chest now. Her form was subtly female, but there were no breasts, only small pink nipples. The golden blonde hair reached to her waist. A flat belly appeared, complete with a small belly button. Then the crotch, with a labial cleft but no sign of pubic hair. Definitely female. Finally her thighs and legs. Emerging from the water was a young prepubescent human female who looked perhaps ten years old.

The child waded toward them through the water and stopped on the beach. She paused to study them with arrestingly blue eyes, and without a word took Alice by one hand and George by the other. Alice could feel a subtle electricity in the child’s damp grip. They walked away from the ocean. Clearing her throat and ejecting some water, the child said distinctly in a low voice, “I am in need of shelter to provide temperature stability. Can we use the structure before us?”

ALICE GOT THE CHILD INTO THE HOUSE AND INTO A warm shower as quickly as possible. There was probably no question of catching a cold, but she decided not to take chances. She had shown the child how to wash away the saltwater, how to shampoo and condition her hair, how to dry it with the hair dryer. She was amazed that she had anything to teach the alien. She had given the child her robe to wear and combed her long blonde hair. Finally they emerged from the bathroom.

Roger and George were waiting quietly on the couch. They appeared to be somewhat dazed by what had happened. Alice and the child joined them. The child took the armchair next to Roger and moved about experimentally in it, apparently exploring her first sensations of sitting. Alice sat in the chair opposite.

“What shall we call you?” George began. “Tunnel Maker?”

The child smiled. It was like the sun coming out. “In a sense, Tunnel Maker was my father. I was him, but I am him no longer, although we are in communication. Since I am now separate from him, it would be appropriate for me to have a new name. I have studied your mythology. Perhaps you could call me Iris after the female messenger of your Greek gods. Would that be acceptable?”