He paced above the Earth, thinking hard.
At first, he had only stood above the Earth, gazing at it through the wall-sized window of the imitation hotel room. He had observed it, missed it, felt highly alarmed on its behalf. But now, on his third day confined to the room, he barely considered it. Now it served only as a backdrop to furious planning and strategizing, conducted as he paced.
He knew it was his third day because of the number of meals he had eaten. He never saw them arrive, but would periodically find a new one just inside the locked door. By now he had received two lunches, two dinners and three breakfasts, all equal to the best that any room service could provide. Which was a good sign, he reasoned, as it suggested the Zetans had not turned against him and might even be planning his tour.
Perhaps they were contacting the galactic equivalent of consulates and travel agents, arranging stopovers, visas and guides.
But the thought of that, while encouraging, was also what drove him back and forth by the window. For he had no intention of trooping obediently through whatever excursion his “friends” might arrange. On the contrary, he would be alert for every opportunity and had to consider the form it might take.
He imagined a city, a crowd, a moment of inattention on the part of a guide. Could he make a run for it? And even if he did, and prevailed in the wild chase that would undoubtedly follow (perhaps through a market, during which he would have to leap over display tables while hurling many forms of unfamiliar produce behind him at his pursuers), what then? When finally he crawled out of the ventilation or sewer system in which he had found shelter, how would he escape unwanted notice and gain any knowledge of his new environment and its ways?
And how, above all, would he find some wise and compassionate individual who would want to help an imperiled planet and its desperate refugee?
And how would he introduce himself?
“Excuse me, fellow being, I come from a world in the grip of a terrible conspiracy . . .”
Would he believe a stranger who descended on him yammering about conspiracies?
“Please! Listen! The Zetans, who are pursuing me, have—”
No! Not a good idea to mention the Zetans. Who knew what sort of public relations they had. It might be excellent, and the being he approached, perhaps a naïve and law-abiding sort, would automatically take their side.
Of course, there was the old standard: “Take me to your leader.”
But what a cliché.
And of course there was the truth.
“Listen! Please! I made a mistake. I gave up on my species, not realizing the alternative was worse. And now I have only a few fragments of time left before I’m recaptured and forced to join in the destruction of every living thing on my world. I won’t, of course. I’ll die instead. But I was kind of hoping that wouldn’t be necessary. My world, you see, is really not so bad, if considered fairly. So surely an individual such as yourself, learning of its predicament, would wish to intervene.”
Would an appeal like that prove effective? Was there a chance? Maybe if he kept on honing it . . .
But he couldn't keep on honing it, because the door clicked and Crennick walked in.
Marshall started. Involuntarily he backed into the window. True, the man was probably expected to behave himself. But ever since the incident in the intake unit he'd been so hostile, so aggressive, it was easy to imagine him losing control.
Though now, oddly, he didn’t seem hostile or aggressive at all
On the contrary, he was smiling. And giving off yet again that tough-guy (yet-on-your-side-guy) aura his audiences knew so well.
“Get in there,” he said cheerfully, indicating the bathroom. “Not that I would know, but I'm guessing there aren’t that many human-scale telepotties out where you’re headed.”
Marshall rushed into the bathroom, but was so excited by what he’d been told, and so perplexed by how he’d been told it, that he left the green square before his insides had totally relaxed. A reproving screech sent him back, and he stood bouncing from foot to foot until, at last, the familiar chime informed him he was done.
He bounded for the closet. Crennick stuck out an arm and blocked his path.
“My carry-on. Packed it. Just in case,” he explained.
“No need. All you need is . . . you,” said the doctor. And then they were in the corridor, Crennick loping along at his usual speed-walker velocity, Marshall semi-jogging to keep up.
“How long am I going to be away? Do you know?” he asked, hoping the answer would be given in units of years, if not decades.
“Seventeen hours,” said Crennick. “That’s why you don’t need the luggage.”
This took a few moments to sink in. Then it did. “Seventeen hours?” he repeated. “How is anyone supposed to see a representative sample of the universe in seventeen hours?”
Crennick glanced back, showing nothing but good nature, except maybe in his eyes, which glinted a bit.
“Listen,” he said. “No one, and I mean no one, in the history of the colleagues, has ever received from the friends anything like what you’re getting now. So a word of advice, may I? Don’t complain.”
“But I’m not. It’s just . . . ,” said Marshall, but couldn’t think of how to continue and in the end just hurried quietly on.
Until they reached the intake unit.
“Uh, excuse me, Dr. Crennick? Are you absolutely certain this is the right—?”
Pivoting, Crennick grabbed him by his bolo tie and pushed him against the wall separating two of the familiar doorless rooms. Then he leaned in until his face, a sneering mix of contempt and malevolence, was almost touching Marshall’s own.
“The friends love you,” he purred. “They have decided to love you, and so they love you. But . . .” The purr became a snarl. “They’re not fucking idiots, you know. And they’re damn well not letting you out of here without insurance.”
And with that he yanked Marshall into one of the rooms, where no one occupied the cots, but a large coffinlike box hovered waist-high above the floor.
A box which then sprang open, revealing . . .
Marshall gasped. For there, in that box, unconscious, was one of the most loyal people he knew. His best friend since Uprush got sold. Certainly the only one who, after that, would meet him for coffee, without ulterior motives, and try to offer helpful advice.
It was, in other words . . .
Was?
Yes, was . . .
* * *
“Ethan!!!” he cried, both confused and furious.
“What have you done to him?" he ranted at Crennick. "I swear, you won’t get an ounce of work out of me if you've harmed this well-meaning individual.”
“Now Marshall,” said the diet guru pleasantly. “Calm down. The question isn’t what we've done. The question is what you are going to do on your little excursion.”
“What? What do you mean? Nothing.”
“For example, are you going to cause difficulties for your pilot, who has contracted to return you safely and promptly?”
“No, of course not. Why would you even think—?”
“Are you going to, I don’t know, see how far you can run in an alien environment?”
“No!”
“Are you going to approach members of other species, to whom you have not been introduced, with opinions that, oh, cast our friends in an unflattering light?”
“How could I have been more clear?” he insisted with desperate forcefulness. “I believe in what we’re doing!”
“Of course you do. Of course. Which is why you don’t have to worry about this person here. He will go home, in fine condition, just as soon as you return from your uneventful, picture-perfect trip. Of course, if it isn’t picture-perfect—not that that would happen, but if, for some reason, you were to exercise poor judgment”—Crennick laid a palm on Ethan’s chest—“he’ll reenter his atmosphere as a little carbon meteor minus the organs and tissues we hold back for our research.
“And that,” said the doctor, shutting the box, “marks the conclusion of our detour. Now, shall we get you on board? Actually, I guess you finally are on board, aren’t you? Am I right? Look at that face of yours—of course I am. I’m right, aren’t I? I’m right!”