First Contact (15 page)

“It says you say, ‘I like macaroni and cheese,’” the mother said. “It’s getting quicker too. The first time it took a second for the words to appear in the book after you said them. That time it was almost instantaneous.”

All of these words appeared in front of the mother as she spoke.

“We’re trapped in a recursion,” said the boy.

The mother said, “That time it said, ‘We’re trapped in a recursion’ before you even said it. Now it says I am going to ask you what a recursion is.”

“It’s like a paradox,” said the boy.

“That’s what it said you would say,” said the mother, anxiously. “And that’s what it said I would say.”

“This is most unsettling,” said the boy. “If the words anticipate our actions, then we do not have free will. The author is depriving us of our free will.”

“But why?” asked the mother. “Why is this happening?”

“It’s spite,” said the boy, his voice rising. “This is spite, pure and simple. We’re not even characters in the book. This is so absurd. He’s just angry because I said I didn’t like the book. Well, he is no better than the characters in his book. He is worse. He thinks the entire universe revolves around him. He cannot tolerate the idea that someone would find what he writes to be anything less than brilliant. It is a low and mean-spirited thing for a writer to do this to his readers.”

All of these words had already appeared on the page.

I
INJECTED MYSELF AS
a character in this book in the hopes that I might grow from the experience. Some of the characters in this book do not grow. These include some peripheral characters such as Stanley Smithers, the manager at the Kraft factory, Nelson Munt-Zoldarian, the con artist who makes his living being rear-ended by cars traveling near the speed of light, and as will be evident in a few pages, some central characters including, quite maddeningly, the President of the United States. I knew all of this before writing the book. On the other hand, some of the characters, including Ned Anat-Denarian, Ralph Bailey, and the wonderful Jessica Love, evolve substantially. I also knew this before writing the book. I did not know where I would fit in, but I hoped that I might be among the characters experiencing personal growth.

I am tempted to refer to Ned and Ralph and Jessica as the “sympathetic” characters in the book. But I decline to do so because this would suggest, incorrectly in my view, that each of the characters who does not experience growth is unsympathetic. Perhaps this is a self-interested view on my part.

I feel I could stand to grow a bit as a person. I have some nice
qualities. I am gentle with children and animals, especially dogs and birds, but I can be sarcastic and oversensitive to criticism. These childish qualities are substantial personal liabilities. Thus, I threw myself into the book and hoped that some of the positive perspective that several of the characters acquire would rub off on me.

Alas, sadly, everything the precocious two-year-old said in the preceding section is entirely true. I did write him and his mother into a recursion. And I did it for the reasons he said. I did it because the boy said snide things about my book, some of which hit a bit too close to home. I would like to be above such criticism, and I feel regretful about doing this to the mother, who seemed like a delightful person with a nice sense of humor, but I am who I am, and truth be told the boy was a genuine pain in the ass.

I
N
M
ANHATTAN
, K
ANSAS
, M
ARGARET
and Allan Stoopler settled into bed for the evening. She was reading a short novel ostensibly about an inept president who bungled the first interaction between humans and extraterrestrials. He was working on a Sudoku puzzle in the
Manhattan Mercury.

“This is terrible,” Margaret said.

“What’s that?” asked Allan, not looking up from the puzzle. The puzzle had been rated “medium” difficulty, though Allan questioned the validity of the classification system. He found them all difficult. Sometimes when he needed to sleep he would just give up and read the comics. He particularly liked
The Wizard of Id.

“In this book I’m reading,” Margaret said, “the author just did something I really hate.”

“What’s that?” Allan still did not look up. He was having trouble placing a 9.

“He just injected himself as a character in the book.”

“Injected,” said Allan. “Is that the right word?”

“The plot is going along fine and then the author introduces these characters who comment on what he has written. Then he reacts to their reaction. It’s quite bizarre. It breaks the fourth wall. That’s taboo, you know. It’s like one of those old Monty Python sketches where they’re in the middle of a bit and then all of a sudden one of them steps out of character and apologizes for the scene and what has been going on.”

Allan perked up. “You’re reading a Monty Python book?”

“No, it’s supposed to be a science fiction book, I think, though there really isn’t much science fiction in it, and most of it is quite silly.”

“Monty Python was great,” Allan said. “I love the parrot sketch. That thing is hilarious. This guy buys a dead parrot and brings it back to the store, but the store owner won’t admit it’s dead. He insists the parrot is just resting. ‘He’s pinin’ for the fjords,’ he says. How great is that? ‘He’s pinin’ for the fjords.’ I love those guys.”

“It’s not a Monty Python book,” Margaret repeated, but her husband did not hear. Communication in the Stoopler home was less than ideal.

“Do they have the parrot sketch in there?” Allan asked.

“No,” Margaret said, exasperated. “The parrot sketch is not included.”

B
UNDT CAKE CAN MAKE
people thirsty, but the moment had been prepared for. The Ambassador gestured to Ned, who produced from his magical bag a large jug of what appeared to be, and in fact was, fruit punch, which the Ambassador presented to the President of the United States. The Ambassador said, “Whenever we meet new people, we like to provide cake and punch.”

This was the second plus on the Ambassador’s ledger. Like everyone else at the dinner, the President needed something to wet his whistle. It so happened the President also considered himself to be a great expert on punch. He particularly enjoyed Hawaiian Punch—Fruit Juicy Red flavor. Because of his extensive travel, the President knew Hawaiians don’t much like Hawaiian Punch. He knew they prefer a blend of papaya, orange, and guava juice, which they refer to as “POG” or, sometimes, punch. But this did not trouble the President. He still liked it. He accepted the Ambassador’s offering with his customary gravitas and took a sip. It was fine fruit punch. The President pronounced it so and ordered it distributed to the guests.

Ralph and Joe Quimble and everyone else, with the exception of Ned and the Ambassador, dutifully consumed the beverage. Like the others, Ralph felt his head clear. It was as if he were coming down from a bad trip, though it would be a mistake to call the cake-induced state of heightened awareness a bad trip, since it was not at all unpleasant. Suffice it to say he felt different.

At this point, the Ambassador announced the perpetration of a canard. “I have a confession to make,” he said. “That was not ordinary cake and punch you just consumed, Mr. President.” He explained, “The cake was altered to suppress the expression of certain genes that contribute to the desire or need, if you will, to believe in a guiding process. It suppresses traits such as ego and motivation, that sort of thing. The punch reverses the process. You are all exactly as you were before, except you have now had the experience of seeing the world through, shall we say, an untinted lens. I hope you have a new perspective from which you can make a more reasoned, dispassionate judgment about your situation. I hope you have learned and grown from the experience.”

I
NDEED, MOST OF THEM
had learned and grown from the experience. Moreover, much of this heightened self-awareness, and the resolve it produced, persisted even after the punch counteracted the effect of the cake. Ralph remained determined to spend more time with Jessica and to eat more Chinese food. David Prince already had a well-formed plan for tackling the biography of Millard Fillmore. The First Lady was going to find a recipe for potato latkes.

But the President of the United States had not changed at all. He synthesized the experience of the cake and punch in a peculiar way. He recalled the feeling of faithlessness, but it did not cause him to question his religious belief. In fact, his faith was so strong the President concluded the cake had been the work—or baking—of the devil. He felt more devoted to his god than ever before, completely invested in his political career, and confident about the upcoming reelection campaign. The President even reconstructed his image of his father as a quiet and misunderstood man who loved his son in his own manner. Wistfully, he remembered their quiet conversations on Sunday afternoons.

N
OW THE
P
RESIDENT UNDERSTOOD
he could not very well come out and accuse the Ambassador of doing the work of the devil, just as
he could not tell all of the Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Confucians, and Scientologists with whom he met on a regular basis that they were going to hell. Instead he presented quite a clever argument. It was really an argument about prayer in school but it applied with equal force to the Ambassador’s somewhat patronizing statements about the desired effects of the cake.

Publicly, the President supported the separation of church and state. Privately, however, he thought prayer in school could do American children a world of good. He thought kids could do with a bit less sex, fewer video games, and a bit more fear of God and Hell. In conversations with friends, he had heard the argument advanced that opponents of prayer in school were really preaching their own brand of religion, a sect that might be called secular humanism. By arguing against the teaching of religion in school, they were sending the message to children that God did not really exist.

Opponents of prayer in school would say they weren’t saying anything at all about the existence of God. School was for facts, not theories. They just wanted the issue discussed at home and not at school. The fact was, though, that if your parents told you that two plus two equals four and then you went to school and asked the teacher whether this were true and the teacher responded that she could not discuss the issue because of a directive from the school board, this could send a very confusing message to a young person about the reliability of addition.

The President made a similar argument to the Ambassador. The President said, “I thought you denied earlier that you are preaching atheism.”

“I do deny it,” the Ambassador said. “We are not advocating any set of beliefs.”

“Then why did you refer to our nonbelieving, Bundt-cake-influenced condition as the ‘untinted lens’?”

“What do you mean?”

“You might just as easily have referred to the believing state as the untinted lens.”

“I suppose that is true,” said the Ambassador.

“Who is to say what the baseline is here?”

“I assure you, Mr. President, we are not making any value judgments.”

“But you’re here to advocate that we change our way of life.”

“We are here to educate you about the consequences of certain choices and to offer our assistance to change paths should you choose to do so.”

“Because we will destroy ourselves otherwise.”

“The probabilities suggest this.”

“And you think it would be better for us to live your way than to die our own.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“So then you are making a value judgment.”

E
ACH PERSON IN THE
room reacted differently to the President’s argument. Joe Quimble worried the President was squandering an historic opportunity. Len Carlson didn’t like the Ambassador and silently cheered as the President gave him heck. David Prince maintained the dispassion of a historian. Ralph Bailey reacted with surprise. He did not know the President could offer such a cogent argument. Up until that point, most of their discussions had been about physical fitness, sandwich meat, and underwear.

T
HE
A
MBASSADOR, OF COURSE
,
had heard it all before.

“I was warned you might react this way,” he said.

“How is that?”

“The French suggested you would be less than receptive to this argument about belief. They are a bit more existentialist than you, quite receptive really to the relativity of good and evil.”

“You met with the French?”

“Yes,” said the Ambassador. He tapped the President on the shoulder. “Do you know what they call French toast in France?”

“What?”

“Toast.”

The Ambassador laughed heartily, rolled his head back, and said, “That’s a good one.” The President offered not even a cursory smile.

“When did you meet with the French?” the President asked.

“We’ve made the rounds over the past twenty-four hours,” the Ambassador said. “We’ve met with the Indians and the Chinese, your European leaders, and most of the parties in your very intriguing Middle Eastern conflict.”

“That’s quite a day,” said the President.

“It’s amazing what one can accomplish when it’s possible to travel faster than the speed of light.”

The President was peeved on at least three levels. First, he was peeved the Ambassador had not visited the United States before all other nations. Second, he was peeved he had not been told until that moment that the Ambassador had not visited the United States first. Third, and most substantially, he was peeved the Ambassador had mentioned the French in any sort of positive manner.

“So you met with all of these people?” the President asked quizzically. “Many of these nations are quite hostile to one another.”

“We are equal-opportunity distributors of enlightenment,” the Ambassador said with a smile.

“I see,” said the President, with gravitas. Then he asked, “What did you think of the French?”

“Lovely people,” the Ambassador said. “Delicious wine.”

This was strike three against the Ambassador.

B
Y NOW, THE
A
MBASSADOR
,
who had made first contact with hundreds of planets, knew the whole thing had gone quite poorly. And the President, who for his part had met hundreds of national leaders, knew the Ambassador knew. But this is not the kind of thing that heads of state acknowledge in polite company. It is better to find some common ground and emphasize a positive aspect of the experience. Food is always safe ground.

Thus, when the Ambassador and Ned took leave of the President and the First Lady, the Ambassador said, “Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you for your gracious hospitality and for the delicious dinner. We particularly enjoyed the outstanding potato latkes. We look forward to our new friendship and a successful future partnership.”

The President said, “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. Thank you for your wisdom and your kind offers of assistance. Most especially, thank you for the delicious Bundt cake.”

This is similar to the exchange between Premier Zhou Enlai and President Nixon upon Nixon’s departure from Beijing.

Zhou said, “Thanks for coming to China.”

Nixon said, “Thanks for the delicious dinner. Do you think I could have another one of those fortune cookies for the road? Pat is especially fond of them.”

Zhou said, “Of course. Please take two.”

In truth, neither Nixon nor his wife liked fortune cookies and once aboard Air Force One, Nixon gave the cookies to Kissinger.

T
HE
A
MBASSADOR AND
N
ED
departed, as they had arrived, through the West Gate, hailed a cab, and headed back to their hotel. Through the rear window, they could see the President retreat into the White House with an air of what could only be described as good riddance.

“Well, that didn’t go well,” Ned said.

“No,” the Ambassador said. “No, it didn’t. And the gefilte fish was terrible, just terrible.”

A
PECULIAR POSTSCRIPT TO
this historic dinner between the American head of state and the representatives of Rigel-Rigel: Later that evening, after everyone had gone home, S. K. Wellington, the chief White House custodian, supervised the cleanup of the East Room. Willie, as he was known to his friends, always carried several plastic storage bags and a Thermos, which he used to take home the more appealing leftovers from these functions. In this way, Willie had consumed in the privacy of his simple home some of the finest meals any human being had ever enjoyed.

Since Willie did not care for Jewish food, he sampled only the dessert offerings, a Bundt cake and some fruit punch. Willie had no inkling, of course, that the cake and punch had been prepared several galaxies away. When he got home after work, at a little past midnight, Willie microwaved a TV dinner of Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. When he finished, he cut himself a slice of cake and poured a glass of punch from the Thermos. Willie ate in the fashion most people eat dessert: he took a bite or two of cake then washed it down with a splash of punch. This system works well with peach pie and coffee or with Oreos and milk. It is less well suited to cake and punch that respectively suppresses and reactivates the expression of certain genes.

That evening, after his Salisbury steak dinner, S. K. Wellington, who considered himself, and by all accounts was, a God-fearing man, experienced what could only be described as an existential yo-yo, alternating with each bite of cake and sip of punch between euphoric joy in the ultimate meaning of life and utter despair.

Willie made a mental note to tell the White House chef that the dessert had turned.