Rajnar Vajra: Doctor Alien’s Five Empty Boxes

Jones made the quietest snort in the history of snorts. “That’s the problem. As far as our analysts can determine, no one approached your vehicle from the moment it was parked until you set off the explosive with your key-button. Therefore we must consider extraterrestrial activity.”

I stared at him. “Couldn’t the explosive have been planted earlier? Or maybe the key-signal wasn’t the trigger and someone detonated the bomb remotely.”

“Our colleagues,” he gave the two FBI agents a nod, “and the police are exploring those possibilities. However, investigators found metallic traces suggesting that your car’s locking mechanism was wired, yet no evidence a timer was involved to explain your earlier successful drive to the clinic. Also, we doubt the explosion’s location was random.”

Now I was the one frowning, nothing subtle about it.

The questioning resumed, but since the cat had already exited the bag and I had nothing useful to add, the interview soon fizzled out. The session ended on a sour note: Smith finally spoke, cautioning everyone to say nothing to the police about any possible ET involvement. She didn’t ask nicely.

We left to join the party in my living room, and Sunny displayed her usual elegance and courtesy though I could tell she was shaken. Suddenly, phone calls started flooding in, so many we had to let our DMs handle triage and only responded to the most pressing. My insurance agent wasn’t pleased.

A police cruiser crouched outside my house that night as my family tried to sleep. My mind refused to shut up, even for a second, and I knew that Sunny was also keeping vigil. When we got up in the morning, the cruiser had apparently reproduced because now there were three. One of them drove me to work, and its two taciturn inhabitants, Officers Phillips and Braun, accompanied me to the front door, where Bradley S. Pearson, my dear neighbor, was lurking with some papers under one arm and a tired-looking policewoman at his side. I could feel my blood pressure soar. Never met Brad? Count your blessings.

Thanks mostly to this one man, I’ve suffered through four rough meetings with the town council and some exciting times at town meetings. I’ve a theory about what his “S” stands for, but wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing it with a man of the cloth.

“Good to see you, Al,” he trumpeted. “Glorious morning, isn’t it? This pretty lady with me is Cathy Bennett.” The policewoman gave me a wary nod, then winked at her fellow cops but said nothing. “Now I don’t want to make any trouble for you…”

Bradley always tried to radiate sincerity and likeability, and never succeeded. He was a beanpole with a pallid and slightly freckled complexion, an extra high forehead, thinning light-brown hair cut short, a sad mustache barely covering his philtrum, and an unfortunate combination of a long but very thin nose and large, watery blue eyes. He usually smelled of solvents and today was no exception; perhaps his hobby involved gluing together small model lawsuits in his basement.

“What kind of trouble don’t you want to make today, Brad?” I asked.

He waved a bony hand at me, brushing off any tendency I might have to take offense. “Really, Al, I must remind you, again, that this is nothing personal. It’s just that we all have to reevaluate the situation here. I’m sure you can see that.”

The cops bracketing me radiated impatience and did a splendid job of it.

“What are you talking about, Brad?”

“That blast yesterday. A child could’ve been injured, or even… killed! We can’t have any more of that sort of thing.”

“I agree. That’s why the authorities are investigating the explosion, and why police cars have been parked here since it happened, and why these two gentlemen are keeping me company this glorious morning. And also why Officer Bennett is keeping such a close watch on persons of interest.”

He ignored my dig and waved his hand again, a bit too close to my face. “That’s not enough! See here. A few of our good friends have come to me with this petition.” He pulled the document from under his arm with the kind of flourish you’d expect from a magician pulling a moose out of a hat. “Now, I didn’t want to bring this to you, but the entire community insisted and I couldn’t disappoint them. Just look this over.”

He handed me the papers. I glanced at the first page and knew that Bradley had written it himself. With about triple the necessary words, it essentially stated that neither my clinic nor anyone associated with it, particularly me, were welcome anywhere near this vicinity.

“Do you see how many signatures there are?” he demanded, oblivious to the significant glances the cops gave each other.

I’d already counted twenty-five names on the first page and wasn’t interested in following up on pages two, three, and four. I fought to keep my twinge of guilt from transmuting to rage.

“Brad, we’ve been over this a hundred times. I’ve always understood your concerns and share them more than you may know, but I didn’t choose to put the clinic here. When I learned that my employers did, I immediately asked them to locate it elsewhere, and they refused on the grounds that they’d already, um, purchased the grounds.”

“Then why not quit and make us all safer?”

We’d been over that ground as well. “Our government and most others around the world are pretty damn eager to keep me at this. The only reason the city council hasn’t shut me down already has been pressure from Washington. Have you any idea how important the Tsf are to us? How much a good relationship with them could help us? Or what a tragedy it would be if—”

“So you’ve claimed. All I know is what’s written on those papers, and you should look them over carefully . That’s your copy; I’ve got the original. And I hate to say this, but it can be used in a civil case that… I’ve heard may be pending, one that could have quite the impact on you.”

He lifted his weak chin to look down his nose at me or perhaps to mime nobility. “That’s all I have to say at this time.” Head held so far back that he risked tripping over small obstacles, Bradley S. strode past me and between my two flying buttresses and headed toward the sidewalk. Officer Bennett stayed with him until he’d crossed the street, and then she got into a parked unmarked car.

Officer Braun looked at me and held out a hand. I got the message and passed over the petition. “Nice of him to provide a list of suspects?” I said and got a hint of smile in response. I led the way through the door and into my troublesome sanctum.

I watched the cops take in everything: the absurdly large reception area, the huge and impossibly clear skylights, the 450-gallon saltwater aquarium, my multi-armed cleaning robot docked at its charging station, the full-sized olive tree, and the abstract sculptures. Then their eyes widened as they realized that the figure behind the coca-bola reception desk was no sculpture. Their hands moved closer to their guns. Understandable. My receptionist, L, takes some getting used to. No doubt he’s the main reason most of my human clients prefer to meet with me in the Cabin, my small separate office in back.

L isn’t quite as large as Tad or nearly as weird-looking as Gara olMara the Vithy, the third member of my staff, but is hands-down—not that he has permanent hands—the most intimidating of the three… to humans. Hard to pinpoint why. It’s not just the way his body parts practically radiate efficiency but are, excepting for his variable eyestalks, utterly unrecognizable—to humans, I should add again. And it’s not his aura of absolute confidence. Maybe it’s his… jaggedness. Where he isn’t downright serrated, his body is all zigzags and sharp, hard surfaces that gleam metallically in the dimmest light. And the oddest thing about him is that the total effect of all these angles and edges suggests something ferociously streamlined: a shark, perhaps. Or the first Disney version of Captain Nemo’s Nautilus . But you don’t need prior knowledge of a Great White to know in your gut that it’s not safe to pet.