Ashamed of the desperate note that crept inadvertently into his voice,
Rothwell said, "Commander, will you let me, alone, briefly enter your
ship, so that I can tell my people what it is like?"
Aku and the lieutenant traded a long, silent look, then the lieutenant
almost imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders. Without moving, turned
partly away from Rothwell, Aku said, simply, "No." The two started to
walk back to the ship.
"Commander!"
They stopped, but didn't turn.
"Commander Aku, if you have any sort of God in your empire, or any sort
of honor that your race swears by, please tell me one thing--tell me
that our children will be safe, I won't ask you anything else."
The two aliens stood still, facing away from him, towards their ship.
Minutes passed. Rothwell stood quietly, looking at their backs, human
appearing, but hiding unguessable thoughts. Neither of them moved, or
said a word. Finally, he turned and walked away, back towards his heli.
He leaned back in the little heli's bucket seat and ran a large hand
through unruly yellow hair that was already flecked with white. The
first evening lights of Brooklyn and Queens and, off to the left,
Manhattan, moved unseen beneath him as the craft headed towards his
home. Dammit, he thought, is it that Aku just doesn't care what we
think, or that he cares very much what we would think if we knew
whatever it is he's hiding?
He banged his fists together in frustration. How the hell can anyone
guess what goes on in an alien mind? His whole damn brain is probably
completely different! Maybe to him a poker face is friendly. Maybe he's
honestly not hiding anything at all. He looked out as the heli slowly
started its descent. No evidence, he thought. Not a shred, except a
suspicious mind and, he glanced at the dirt on his trousers, and a shell
exploding in my face.
He slapped his hat back on and whirled to the surprised pilot. "Dammit,
I don't make the decisions, I'm just in charge of loading, and if the
President says it's okay, then it's okay with me!" He stepped out onto
the grass of his yard, and quashed a little shriek of conscience
somewhere in the back of his mind.
* * * * *
Blinding lights pinned him in mid-stride. A familiar voice sprang out of
the glare, "Here he is now viewers, General James Rothwell, commander of
the western armies, and head of the Earth evacuation project. General,
International-TV cameras have been waiting secretly in your yard for
hours for your return."
As his eyes adjusted, Rothwell distinguished a camera crew, their small
portable instrument, and a young, smooth-talking announcer that he had
seen several times on television. He forced the annoyance out of his
eyes. This, he thought, is all I need.
"What the general doesn't know," the announcer went on, "is that earlier
this evening it was announced by Moscow Central that the computers had
picked his son as one of the evacuees!"
The shock was visible on 150,000,000 TV sets. Completely unexpected, the
surprise of the announcement hit Rothwell like a physical blow; his eyes
widened, his chin dropped, and for an instant the world's viewers read
in his face the frank emotions of a father, unshielded by military
veneer. Then years of training took command, and he faced the camera,
apparently calm, though churning internally. The odds, he thought
confusedly, the odds must be at least ten thousand to one! Then he
realized that someone was talking to him, waving a microphone.
"Er, I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch ..." he mumbled at the camera.
The announcer laughed amiably. "Certainly can't blame you, this must be
a really big night! How does it feel, General, for your son to be one of
the evacuees?"
Something in the back of his mind twisted the question. How does it
feel, General, to turn your only son over to a poker-faced alien who
shoots when you walk near his ship? "I'm not sure," he said, "how I
feel."
Talking excitedly, the announcer drew closer. "To think that your name
will live forever in the vast star clusters of the galaxy!" He lowered
his voice. "General, speaking now unofficially, as a parent, to the
thousands of other parents whose children may also be selected, and to
the rest of us who ..." he seemed to stumble for a word, and for an
instant Rothwell saw him, too, as a man worried and afraid, instead of
as part of a television machine. "Well, General, _you've_ had contact
with the aliens, are you glad your son is going?"
Rothwell looked at the strained face of the announcer, at the camera
crew quietly eyeing him, and at the small huddled group of neighbors
hovering in the background, and he knew that his next words might be the
most critical he would ever use in his life. In a world strained
emotionally almost beyond endurance, the wrong words, a hint of a
suspicion, could spark the riots that would kill millions and bring
total destruction.
He faced the camera and said calmly, "I am glad my son is going. I wish
it could happen for everyone. Commander Aku has assured me that
everything will turn out all right." Mentally he begged for forgiveness,
there was nothing else he could say. Sweat glistened on his forehead as
he tried to fight down the memory of Aku turning his back on the plea
that echoed in his brain--"tell me that our children will be safe."
The front door of the house banged open and all at once Martha was in
his arms, crying, laughing. "Oh, Jim, I'm so glad, so very glad!"
Rothwell blinked his eyes as he put his arm around her and waved the
camera away. Tears sparkled on his cheeks; but neither Martha nor the
viewers knew why.
* * * * *
The next morning Aku and his ever-present lieutenant were waiting when
Rothwell's heli set him down in front of the administration building, a
few minutes later than usual. They followed him into his office.
"Coffee?" Rothwell held out a paper cup.
"No, thank you," said Aku, as expressionless as ever. "We are here to
make final arrangements for the evacuation."
"I see. Well," said Rothwell, "Thursday will be a very painful day for
us and we will want to expedite things as much as possible."
Aku nodded.
Rothwell went on. "I have made arrangements to have a hundred air fields
cleared at various population centers around the world. That way your
ships can land simultaneously, one at each field, and the loading can be
finished in very little time. Now," he opened a desk drawer, "here is a
list, of ..."
* * * * *