I had to find the inner sanctum.
I wandered around for another hour, soaking up the atmosphere, flicking through pamphlets, listening in to conversations. I was surprised by the variety of people present. It was a true cross-section of society, from the predictable computer-programmer nerds in cheap glasses to smartly dressed pensioners. There were young couples with babies in tow, suited businessmen, hippies, Goths and people who dressed like me. Ordinary people united by one thing: the belief that we are not alone in the universe. These were the masses Marie had told me about. I wondered how many of them had seen a UFO. How many of them claimed to have been abducted? How many had seen an extraterrestrial? How many wanted to? They paid their ten-pound entrance fee to spend a day among fellow believers, away from sceptics like me. They bought goodies and chatted and exchanged email addresses and Twitter names. I overheard them talking about other conventions, about trips to the States. I listened out for names. Margaret, Roy, Kevin. No Buzz or Alpha Centauri. No references to a Cosmic Girl. Again, I had the thought that this was just the surface of this world. I was going to have to stop listening and do something if I wanted to dig deeper.
An announcement came over the PA: ‘Ladies, gentleman and any friends from other galaxies who might have joined us today . . .’ There was a ripple of laughter. ‘The eminent UFO research scientist Dr. Jonathan Grimes, PhD, all the way from Boston, will be beginning his lecture on Patterns of Abduction, starting in the lecture hall in five minutes . . . ’
People started to shuffle out through a set of double doors into a hall filled with wooden chairs. I followed them, but remained standing. The seats filled quickly. The audience rustled and murmured until Dr Grimes appeared to a tumult of applause. Just as he was about to start the lecture, I slipped back through the double doors into the main hall, which was now much quieter.
I approached a stall near the centre of the hall. It seemed less commercial than the others. A man sat alone behind piles of photocopied pamphlets. He had long hair, greying at the temples, and thick glasses. He rolled a cigarette with yellow-edged fingers and looked towards the exit.
As I approached he looked up. I smiled and took a cigarette from my shirt pocket. I said, ‘I was about to sneak out for one myself.’
He asked someone to mind his stall and accompanied me outside .
He squinted at me through a cloud of smoke. ‘You’re not in the business, are you? How come you’re not in there listening to Dr James?’
‘No seats left,’ I lied.
The man snorted. Smoke puffed out of his nostrils. ‘He’s a bullshit merchant anyway. Most of the people here are.’
‘I get the impression most of them are in it for the money.’
‘Very astute, my friend. Money, money, money. Not enough truth.’ He put out his hand. ‘I’m Don.’
I shook his hand. ‘Richard.’ We looked at each other for a moment. I said, ‘This is the first Galactica I’ve been to. I came here to meet a friend of mine, but I haven’t been able to find him. His name’s Buzz.’
Don shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t know the guy. Maybe he’s upstairs?’
‘Upstairs?’ For a moment, I thought he meant in space, and suppressed a laugh when I realised he merely meant upstairs in the building.
‘There’s a gathering upstairs. For the VIPs.’ He sounded bitter.
We finished our cigarettes and went back inside.
‘How do I get into the VIP area?’ I asked
He looked meaningfully at the pamphlets on the table. I got the message. I picked up a few and paid for them. Another ten pounds gone. Don put his hand in the air and waved at a teenage girl who was drinking tea near the exit. She came over. She was no older than sixteen, with copper hair and freckles. She looked me up and down, a slight sneer on her face.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Hey, Lottie, meet
I wandered around for another hour, soaking up the atmosphere, flicking through pamphlets, listening in to conversations. I was surprised by the variety of people present. It was a true cross-section of society, from the predictable computer-programmer nerds in cheap glasses to smartly dressed pensioners. There were young couples with babies in tow, suited businessmen, hippies, Goths and people who dressed like me. Ordinary people united by one thing: the belief that we are not alone in the universe. These were the masses Marie had told me about. I wondered how many of them had seen a UFO. How many of them claimed to have been abducted? How many had seen an extraterrestrial? How many wanted to? They paid their ten-pound entrance fee to spend a day among fellow believers, away from sceptics like me. They bought goodies and chatted and exchanged email addresses and Twitter names. I overheard them talking about other conventions, about trips to the States. I listened out for names. Margaret, Roy, Kevin. No Buzz or Alpha Centauri. No references to a Cosmic Girl. Again, I had the thought that this was just the surface of this world. I was going to have to stop listening and do something if I wanted to dig deeper.
An announcement came over the PA: ‘Ladies, gentleman and any friends from other galaxies who might have joined us today . . .’ There was a ripple of laughter. ‘The eminent UFO research scientist Dr. Jonathan Grimes, PhD, all the way from Boston, will be beginning his lecture on Patterns of Abduction, starting in the lecture hall in five minutes . . . ’
People started to shuffle out through a set of double doors into a hall filled with wooden chairs. I followed them, but remained standing. The seats filled quickly. The audience rustled and murmured until Dr Grimes appeared to a tumult of applause. Just as he was about to start the lecture, I slipped back through the double doors into the main hall, which was now much quieter.
I approached a stall near the centre of the hall. It seemed less commercial than the others. A man sat alone behind piles of photocopied pamphlets. He had long hair, greying at the temples, and thick glasses. He rolled a cigarette with yellow-edged fingers and looked towards the exit.
As I approached he looked up. I smiled and took a cigarette from my shirt pocket. I said, ‘I was about to sneak out for one myself.’
He asked someone to mind his stall and accompanied me outside .
He squinted at me through a cloud of smoke. ‘You’re not in the business, are you? How come you’re not in there listening to Dr James?’
‘No seats left,’ I lied.
The man snorted. Smoke puffed out of his nostrils. ‘He’s a bullshit merchant anyway. Most of the people here are.’
‘I get the impression most of them are in it for the money.’
‘Very astute, my friend. Money, money, money. Not enough truth.’ He put out his hand. ‘I’m Don.’
I shook his hand. ‘Richard.’ We looked at each other for a moment. I said, ‘This is the first Galactica I’ve been to. I came here to meet a friend of mine, but I haven’t been able to find him. His name’s Buzz.’
Don shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t know the guy. Maybe he’s upstairs?’
‘Upstairs?’ For a moment, I thought he meant in space, and suppressed a laugh when I realised he merely meant upstairs in the building.
‘There’s a gathering upstairs. For the VIPs.’ He sounded bitter.
We finished our cigarettes and went back inside.
‘How do I get into the VIP area?’ I asked
He looked meaningfully at the pamphlets on the table. I got the message. I picked up a few and paid for them. Another ten pounds gone. Don put his hand in the air and waved at a teenage girl who was drinking tea near the exit. She came over. She was no older than sixteen, with copper hair and freckles. She looked me up and down, a slight sneer on her face.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Hey, Lottie, meet
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