put up on the screen.
This new picture was a microphotographic image of one of the XTs. At first it was swimming along just fine, but then it began to vibrate. The tremors became more and more violent until finally the triangular head vaporized, leaving the tentacles to wilt into dust.
“What causes this demise?” Dr. Hingis asked.
“We believe,” Dr. Wheeler said, “it has something to do with the atmosphere. Methane, ammonia, and alcohol. We’ve tried to reproduce the toxin, but our studies have so far proved fruitless.
“The reason we have called together this eminent body of scientists and ambassadors is therefore twofold. First, you must convince your governments that this threat is real and must be dealt with before it is too late. Second, you must take our studies and help us create the toxin to destroy this menace.”
The discussion became more and more complex after that. Hingis and Tron and many other scientists started asking questions that I didn’t understand. For a while everyone spoke in French and then in equations and calculations. Their communication was so technical that they seemed to me somewhat like the XTs they were so frightened of.
After another ten minutes, I got up and walked out of the auditorium.
I was met at the exit by the two soldiers who had driven me to the compound.
“Please come with us, Mr. Porter,” the taller one said.
There was no option for me to refuse.
21
They showed me to a small apartment far removed from the scientific center and the seemingly endless number of cells for the XTs.
There was a bedroom, a toilet with a shower stall, and a combination kitchen-sitting room. The refrigerator contained a dozen eggs, a package of processed cheese slices, a pillowy loaf of white bread, some sliced ham, and a jar of grape jelly. In the cabinet was government-issue peanut butter, instant coffee, and a big bottle of nondairy creamer.
There were no books, no television, no radio. There was a desk next to my bed, which was only a cot. A desk drawer contained a ream of white typing paper and a yellow plastic disposable mechanical pencil. No more than five minutes after I entered into the apartment-cell, I began to write this history.
I wrote obsessively, putting down every experience, every word that I could remember. I had scrawled over the front and back of almost twenty sheets when somebody knocked. I hurriedly shoved the pages into the top drawer of the desk and said, “Yes?”
“May I come in, Mr. Porter?” David Wheeler asked pleasantly.
I opened the door and ushered my jailer into the room.
“Not much of a home, but you won’t be here long,” he said, looking around the bleak chamber. He sat on the small bed, and I settled back into my chair.
“It’s illegal for you to hold me like this, against my will,” I said.
“Not when it comes to Homeland Security,” he said with an ironic smile.
“You can hardly call amoebas terrorists.”
“What did she say to you?” he asked.
It might have seemed like a non sequitur, but I knew what he was talking about.
“Who?”
“That thing who called herself MaryBeth. You know what I mean, Errol.”
“No, David,” I said. “No, I don’t. She screamed and called us scum or something like that. But she didn’t say anything to me specifically.”
“She looked you in the eye.”
“Maybe she could tell that I didn’t want her to come to harm.”
“Maybe. What were you writing?”
“Are you having me watched?”
“Every room in this facility is monitored, Errol,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. When you come to stay at my home, you’ll have a bit more privacy.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Wheeler smiled. He held up his hands and hunched his shoulders, telling me that he understood but there was nothing that he or I could do about the situation.
In a flash, I understood the difference between human beings and the cellular life that made up the XTs’
This new picture was a microphotographic image of one of the XTs. At first it was swimming along just fine, but then it began to vibrate. The tremors became more and more violent until finally the triangular head vaporized, leaving the tentacles to wilt into dust.
“What causes this demise?” Dr. Hingis asked.
“We believe,” Dr. Wheeler said, “it has something to do with the atmosphere. Methane, ammonia, and alcohol. We’ve tried to reproduce the toxin, but our studies have so far proved fruitless.
“The reason we have called together this eminent body of scientists and ambassadors is therefore twofold. First, you must convince your governments that this threat is real and must be dealt with before it is too late. Second, you must take our studies and help us create the toxin to destroy this menace.”
The discussion became more and more complex after that. Hingis and Tron and many other scientists started asking questions that I didn’t understand. For a while everyone spoke in French and then in equations and calculations. Their communication was so technical that they seemed to me somewhat like the XTs they were so frightened of.
After another ten minutes, I got up and walked out of the auditorium.
I was met at the exit by the two soldiers who had driven me to the compound.
“Please come with us, Mr. Porter,” the taller one said.
There was no option for me to refuse.
21
They showed me to a small apartment far removed from the scientific center and the seemingly endless number of cells for the XTs.
There was a bedroom, a toilet with a shower stall, and a combination kitchen-sitting room. The refrigerator contained a dozen eggs, a package of processed cheese slices, a pillowy loaf of white bread, some sliced ham, and a jar of grape jelly. In the cabinet was government-issue peanut butter, instant coffee, and a big bottle of nondairy creamer.
There were no books, no television, no radio. There was a desk next to my bed, which was only a cot. A desk drawer contained a ream of white typing paper and a yellow plastic disposable mechanical pencil. No more than five minutes after I entered into the apartment-cell, I began to write this history.
I wrote obsessively, putting down every experience, every word that I could remember. I had scrawled over the front and back of almost twenty sheets when somebody knocked. I hurriedly shoved the pages into the top drawer of the desk and said, “Yes?”
“May I come in, Mr. Porter?” David Wheeler asked pleasantly.
I opened the door and ushered my jailer into the room.
“Not much of a home, but you won’t be here long,” he said, looking around the bleak chamber. He sat on the small bed, and I settled back into my chair.
“It’s illegal for you to hold me like this, against my will,” I said.
“Not when it comes to Homeland Security,” he said with an ironic smile.
“You can hardly call amoebas terrorists.”
“What did she say to you?” he asked.
It might have seemed like a non sequitur, but I knew what he was talking about.
“Who?”
“That thing who called herself MaryBeth. You know what I mean, Errol.”
“No, David,” I said. “No, I don’t. She screamed and called us scum or something like that. But she didn’t say anything to me specifically.”
“She looked you in the eye.”
“Maybe she could tell that I didn’t want her to come to harm.”
“Maybe. What were you writing?”
“Are you having me watched?”
“Every room in this facility is monitored, Errol,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. When you come to stay at my home, you’ll have a bit more privacy.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Wheeler smiled. He held up his hands and hunched his shoulders, telling me that he understood but there was nothing that he or I could do about the situation.
In a flash, I understood the difference between human beings and the cellular life that made up the XTs’
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