12% to 15% of the population are denying the whole incident and have turned their TV sets off. The classic Turtle in the Shell syndrome. Fascinating really.” Nobody commented. “Well, I think it's fascinating,” he continued. “Anyway, the rest of the world is apprehensive and under some appreciable tension, but nothing they can't handle. In summation, Earth is not in very much worse shape than, say, America on a Superbowl Sunday.”
General Bronson whistled. “That bad, eh?” Yuki hushed him.
Swiveling his chair, Rajavur turned to the left. “Mohad?”
“Hmm?” Dr. Malavade said, his eyes staring off into space. In constant motion, the man was adjusting the audio controls on his communications console. The FCT knew that if the bunker was on fire, the best way to tell Mohad the fact would be to announce the news over the radio.
“Dr. Malavade!” Prof. Rajavur shouted.
“What? Oh yes.” The Indian philologist removed the earphones from his head, and tried to straighten his rumpled jacket, a procedure as useless as spitting on a volcano. “At present, communications are nil. The aliens will not respond to anything I say, except to acknowledge that they do receive my transmissions. Most infuriating. They ceased to broadcast some 15 minutes ago. The picture you see on the wall monitor is from a NATO surveillance camera.” Mohad twirled a dial on his console and the scene zoomed in and out from the white ship.
“One curious piece of information I have is about their original message.” Dr. Malavade consulted his notebook. “In North America the transmission was in English, in South America a polyglot of Spanish and Portuguese. Europe received a mixture of Russian and German. Asia got Chinese, most impolite of them. In Africa it was Swahili, and in Australia it was French.”
“French?” everyone chorused.
Mohad gave them the most imperceptible of shrugs. “At least it proves that they are not infallible.”
Just then, the NATO telephone on Malavade's console began to ring and as the linguist reached for the receiver, Prof. Rajavur instructed him, “If that's the Secretary General, tell him we’re out for lunch.”
Unexpectedly, the wall monitor dimmed and the picture on it changed from a ground view of the white ship into an aerial view of the white ship.
“They’re back,” Sir John observed dryly.
“Minutes early,” Dr. Wu contributed.
“Lunch,” Dr. Malavade said, hanging up the phone and starting his video recorder.
With a swirl, the picture melted and reformed into the stern visage of the alien, Idow.
“PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION. PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION. THE TESTS TO DETERMINE THE LIFE OF YOUR WORLD ARE NOW ABOUT TO BEGIN. WE WILL ALLOW YOU TO WATCH AND THUS BETTER UNDERSTAND THEIR NATURE. HERE IS THE CHAMBER OF TESTING, AND THE DIRTLING SUBJECTS THAT WE HAVE CHOSEN.” Again the monitor performed its technicolor gymnastics.
“About time,” General Bronson growled from behind his cigar. As few as they were, patience had never be one of his virtues.
Slow and leisurely, the wall monitor focused into the picture of a blinding white room, thousands of meters square, and in the midst of that snowy acreage were a half dozen tiny figures. As the camera, or its alien equivalent, dollied in, the six humans filled the TV screen with their presence; their faces, hairstyles and mode of dress clearly announcing to the world exactly on what rung of the social ladder they belonged.
“More aliens!” Dr. Malavade cried, aghast.
“Almost,” Sir John corrected. “They’re a street gang! A bloody New York City street gang!”
“Perhaps you are correct,” Dr. Malavade recanted. “Creatures from another star would most likely dress with better taste.”
Prof. Rajavur did a double take. Considering the source, this was without a doubt the strangest thing he had ever heard. But he diplomatically said nothing.
“The NYPD computer just called in a positive ID on the gang,” Bronson
General Bronson whistled. “That bad, eh?” Yuki hushed him.
Swiveling his chair, Rajavur turned to the left. “Mohad?”
“Hmm?” Dr. Malavade said, his eyes staring off into space. In constant motion, the man was adjusting the audio controls on his communications console. The FCT knew that if the bunker was on fire, the best way to tell Mohad the fact would be to announce the news over the radio.
“Dr. Malavade!” Prof. Rajavur shouted.
“What? Oh yes.” The Indian philologist removed the earphones from his head, and tried to straighten his rumpled jacket, a procedure as useless as spitting on a volcano. “At present, communications are nil. The aliens will not respond to anything I say, except to acknowledge that they do receive my transmissions. Most infuriating. They ceased to broadcast some 15 minutes ago. The picture you see on the wall monitor is from a NATO surveillance camera.” Mohad twirled a dial on his console and the scene zoomed in and out from the white ship.
“One curious piece of information I have is about their original message.” Dr. Malavade consulted his notebook. “In North America the transmission was in English, in South America a polyglot of Spanish and Portuguese. Europe received a mixture of Russian and German. Asia got Chinese, most impolite of them. In Africa it was Swahili, and in Australia it was French.”
“French?” everyone chorused.
Mohad gave them the most imperceptible of shrugs. “At least it proves that they are not infallible.”
Just then, the NATO telephone on Malavade's console began to ring and as the linguist reached for the receiver, Prof. Rajavur instructed him, “If that's the Secretary General, tell him we’re out for lunch.”
Unexpectedly, the wall monitor dimmed and the picture on it changed from a ground view of the white ship into an aerial view of the white ship.
“They’re back,” Sir John observed dryly.
“Minutes early,” Dr. Wu contributed.
“Lunch,” Dr. Malavade said, hanging up the phone and starting his video recorder.
With a swirl, the picture melted and reformed into the stern visage of the alien, Idow.
“PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION. PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION. THE TESTS TO DETERMINE THE LIFE OF YOUR WORLD ARE NOW ABOUT TO BEGIN. WE WILL ALLOW YOU TO WATCH AND THUS BETTER UNDERSTAND THEIR NATURE. HERE IS THE CHAMBER OF TESTING, AND THE DIRTLING SUBJECTS THAT WE HAVE CHOSEN.” Again the monitor performed its technicolor gymnastics.
“About time,” General Bronson growled from behind his cigar. As few as they were, patience had never be one of his virtues.
Slow and leisurely, the wall monitor focused into the picture of a blinding white room, thousands of meters square, and in the midst of that snowy acreage were a half dozen tiny figures. As the camera, or its alien equivalent, dollied in, the six humans filled the TV screen with their presence; their faces, hairstyles and mode of dress clearly announcing to the world exactly on what rung of the social ladder they belonged.
“More aliens!” Dr. Malavade cried, aghast.
“Almost,” Sir John corrected. “They’re a street gang! A bloody New York City street gang!”
“Perhaps you are correct,” Dr. Malavade recanted. “Creatures from another star would most likely dress with better taste.”
Prof. Rajavur did a double take. Considering the source, this was without a doubt the strangest thing he had ever heard. But he diplomatically said nothing.
“The NYPD computer just called in a positive ID on the gang,” Bronson
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