Just then my phone rang. I picked up the handset. It was Indira Salaam, Christine’s executive assistant. I passed the phone to her.
“Yes,” Christine said into the mouthpiece. “No, I’ll stay here. Can you bring them up? Great. Bye.” She handed the phone back to me. “Toronto’s finest are on their way up.”
“Toronto’s finest what?” asked Hollus.
“The police,” I said, replacing the handset.
Hollus said nothing. Christine looked at me. “Someone called in the story of the spaceship and its alien pilot who had walked into the museum.”
Soon, two uniformed officers arrived, escorted by Indira. All three stood in the doorway, mouths agape. One of the cops was scrawny; the other quite stocky — the gracile and robust forms of Homo constableus, side by side, right there in my office.
“It must be a fake,” said the skinny cop to his partner.
“Why does everyone keep assuming that?” asked Hollus. “You humans seem to have a profound capacity for ignoring obvious evidence.” His two crystalline eyes looked pointedly at me.
“Which of you is the museum’s director?” asked the brawny cop.
“I am,” said Christine. “Christine Dorati.”
“Well, ma’am, what do you think we should do?”
Christine shrugged. “Is the spaceship blocking traffic?”
“No,” said the cop. “It’s entirely on the planetarium grounds, but . . .”
“Yes?”
“But, well, something like this should be reported.”
“I agree,” said Christine. “But to whom?”
My desk phone rang again. This time it was Indira’s assistant — they can’t keep the planetarium open, but assistants have assistants. “Hello, Perry,” I said. “Just a sec.” I handed the phone to Indira.
“Yes?” she said. “I see. Umm, hang on a second.” She looked at her boss. “CITY-TV is here,” she said. “They want to see the alien.” CITY-TV was a local station known for its in-your-face news; its slogan was simply “Everywhere!”
Christine turned toward the two cops to see if they were going to object. They looked at each other and exchanged small shrugs. “Well, we can’t bring any more people up here,” said Christine. “Tom’s office won’t take it.” She turned to Hollus. “Would you mind coming down to the Rotunda again?”
Hollus bobbed up and down, but I don’t think it was a sign of agreement. “I am eager to get on with my research,” he said.
“You’ll have to speak to other people at some point,” replied Christine. “Might as well get it over with.”
“Very well,” said Hollus, sounding awfully reluctant.
The thickset cop spoke into the microphone attached to the shoulder of his uniform, presumably talking to someone back at the station. Meanwhile, we all marched down the corridor toward the elevator. We had to go down in two loads: Hollus, Christine, and me in the first one; Indira and the two cops in the second. We waited for them on the ground floor, then made our way out into the museum’s vaulted lobby.
CITY-TV calls its camerapersons — all young, all hip — “videographers.” There was one waiting, all right, as well as quite a crowd of spectators, standing around in anticipation of the return of the alien. The videographer, a Native Canadian man with black hair tied in a ponytail — surged forward. Christine, ever the politician, tried to step into his camera’s field of view, but he simply wanted to shoot Hollus from as many angles as possible — CITY-TV was notorious for what my brother-in-law calls “out-of-body-cam.”
I noticed one of the cops had his hand resting on his holster; I rather imagine their supervisor had told them to protect the alien at all costs.
Finally, Hollus’s patience was exhausted. “Surely” “that” “is” “enough,” he said to the guy from CITY-TV.
That the alien could speak English astounded the crowd; most of them had arrived after Hollus and I had spoken in the lobby. Suddenly the videographer started peppering the alien with questions: “Where are you from?” “What’s your mission?” “How long did it take you to get here?” Hollus did his best to answer — although he never mentioned God — but, after a few minutes, two men in dark-blue business suits entered my field of view, one black and one white. They observed the alien for a short time, then the white one stepped forward and said, “Excuse me.” He had a Quebecois accent.
Hollus apparently didn’t hear; he went on answering the videographer’s questions.
“Excuse me,” said the man again, much louder.
Hollus moved aside. “I am sorry,” said the alien. “Did you wish to get by?”
“No,” said the man. “I want to speak to you. We’re from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service; I’d like you to come with us.”
“Where to?”
“To a safer place, where you can talk to the right people.” He paused. “There is a protocol for this sort of thing, although it took a few minutes to find it. The prime minister is already on his way to the airport in Ottawa, and we’re about to notify the U.S. president.”
“No, I am sorry,” said Hollus. His eyestalks swiveled around, looking at the octagonal lobby and all the people in it before settling back on the federal agents. “I came here to do paleontological research. I am glad to say hello to your prime minister, of course, if he wants to drop by, but the only reason I revealed my presence was so that I could talk to Dr. Jericho here.” He indicated me with one of his arms, and the videographer swung to shoot me. I must say, I felt rather pumped.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the French-Canadian CSIS man. “But we really have to do it this way.”
“You are not listening,” said Hollus. “I refuse to go. I am here to do important work, and I wish to continue it.”
The two CSIS agents looked at each other. Finally, the black man spoke; he had a slight Jamaican accent. “Look, you’re supposed to say, ‘Take me to your leader.’ You’re supposed to want to meet with the authorities.”
“Why?” asked Hollus.
The agents looked at each other again. “Why?” repeated the white one. “Because that’s the way it’s done.”
Hollus’s two eyes converged on the man. “I rather suspect I have more experience at this than you do,” he said softly.
The white federal agent pulled out a small handgun. “I really do have to insist,” he said.
The cops now moved forward. “We’ll have to see some identification,” said the burlier of the two policemen.
The black CSIS agent obliged; I had no idea what a CSIS ID was supposed to look like, but the police officers seemed satisfied and backed off.
“Now,” said the black man. “Please do come with us.”
“I am quite sure you will not use that weapon,” said Hollus, “so doubtless I will get my way.”
“We have orders,” said the white agent.
“No doubt you do. And no doubt your superiors will understand that you were unable to fulfill them.” Hollus indicated the videographer, who was madly scrambling to change tapes. “The record will show that you insisted, I declined, and that was the end of the matter.”
“This is no way to treat a guest,” shouted a woman from the crowd. That seemed to be a popular sentiment: several people voiced their affirmation.
“We’re trying to protect the alien,” said the white CSIS man.
“Like hell,” said a male museum patron. “I’ve seen The X-Files. If you walk out of here with him, no regular person will ever see him again.”
“Leave him alone!” added an elderly man with a European accent.
The agents looked at the videographer, and the black one pointed out a security camera to the white one. Doubtless they wished none of this was being recorded.
“Politely,” said Hollus, “you are not going to prevail.”
“But, well, surely you won’t object to us having an observer present?” said the black agent. “Someone to make sure no harm comes to you?”