Years before, Marshall had noticed a phenomenon that he called soap bubble amnesia.
Sometimes, no matter how troubled your life, you experienced an interval just after waking when it felt trouble-free.
And now he discovered that a vat magnified the effect. No longer was it brief. It continued on and on. He hadn’t a worry as they helped him out of the pod, or a care as they walked him out of the vault. Even in his little room, as he washed down pastrami sandwiches with bracingly cold water, and used the telepotty and shower, and surveyed his clothes, all nicely cleaned and restored, his mind remained blissfully unencumbered.
Only when he already had one foot in his cargo pants did reality rush in, sending him backwards onto his bunk, all tangled up.
The Earth! The 276 other planets! Ruined! Wrecked! Everything he cared about—gone! Was he the last human? Surely they didn’t expect him to run off on some escapade now that—
“Marshall,” said a voice. “Marshall, please. Take hold of yourself.”
He stared about, puzzled. The room was empty, except for him.
“It’s Oobla, dear,” explained the voice. “Oobla from the pool. Don’t you remember me?”
“Of course I remember you,” he thought back. “Where are you?”
“In the meeting hall, with the others. We modified your translator, you see, while you were dormant. That way, we can interact with you as you face your challenge. Exactly as if we were telepaths.”
“Well, forget it. I won’t be facing any challenge,” he said.
Several moments of silence followed this declaration.
“And why would that be, dear?” said Oobla finally.
“I believe you could figure it out.”
“Why don’t you enlighten us, dear?”
“Enlighten yourself!”
“What?”
“You heard me,” he retorted, shouting now. "What more do you want? Surely you can see that everything I care about is gone.”
And then he was sobbing into his hands—sobbing miserably, despondently—until something took hold of his chin and lifted it, so that he was looking up at a tiny, hovering, black cube, which seemed to be looking back down at him.
While inside his head, Oobla began communicating again.
“Now you listen to me, Marshall Morley Shmishkiss,” she said, using a very quiet and controlled tone of inner voice.
Marshall was so surprised, he stopped crying. Morley? She knew his middle name was Morley? But how? Nobody knew that. He never revealed it to anyone.
“Yes, we know your middle name is Morley,” said Oobla. “Which just goes to show how much trouble we have gone to on your behalf, and therefore how distressed we are to hear you addressing us in this ungrateful and insolent manner.”
And then her voice ramped up until it wasn’t quiet or controlled in the least.
“Have you any idea what it’s like to contend with those Zetans?” she yelled at him. “First, we had to convince them you weren’t their greatest weapon in their battle against the thoughtfuls. Then, once we’d sent them our recording of you asking us to help liberate your planet, we had to spend even more time convincing them not to kill you outright. Or take out pieces of you. Or test their new virus on you. Or whatever it is they like to do. We had to argue and argue there was a better alternative. Now, you would think that when approached by the deceased, the living would want to cooperate, if only so that they could expect the same treatment when their time came. But no, not those Zetans. They had to squabble over every detail, demanding all sorts of payment—which isn’t a big issue, granted, since our funds earn interest over the ages, and we never buy anything—but still, the impudence! And then! Then, when we’d already reached an agreement, still they wouldn’t transmit the data. No, we had to get it ourselves. Several of us had to literally leave the sphere and spend six weeks on that pile-of-eggs vessel of theirs, collecting information about you so we could devise the right kind of challenge. For you, Marshall, for you. We did this all for you, and now you would leave us flopping in the sand? Oh, my homeworld! Surely that cannot be what you meant.”
Marshall was stunned. He couldn’t believe that so much had been performed on his behalf, and couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty because of it.
He also felt a stirring of hope, because of something he might have heard.
“We await a response,” demanded the still outraged voice inside him.
“Yes, yes, I know. But first I just have to ask: did you say something about six weeks?”
“Yes, that’s right. Six weeks. We thought it would take one; it took six. Six miserable weeks that, let me tell you, have brought us closer to the Great Tedium than anything—”
He was so delighted he couldn’t wait for her to finish. “Then I wasn’t unconscious for a century?”
“A century? What’s the matter with you? You think we’d research that pathetic life of yours for a century?”
“But I thought—”
“A century would demolish us. A decade would. A year would. And besides, it would leave you with no incentive. Whyever would you struggle in the face of nearly impossible odds if you had nothing to struggle for? If your species were already extinct.”
“Then I do have an incentive,” said Marshall with pure elation.
“Of course you do. If you prevail, the smog-heads agree they will leave you and your planet strictly alone.”
“Well then what are we waiting for?” he cried, jumping to his feet.
“Only one thing I can think of,” she said, and again he felt his chin commandeered, this time downward, so that he could see a puddle of pants around his ankles, along with his flopped-over rocket belt, unfastened and off course.
“Oops. Sorry.” But the delay was brief. And in another moment, with everything hoisted and secured, he was bolting from his portal, the tiny cube barely able to keep up.