He offered a rueful smile.
“General, I’m invoking full quarantine.
“Better put up a cot for me, inside the specimen lab.
“And bring on the shrinks.”
“Gerald, put your glove on. That’s an order. Put that thing back in its-”
Polychrome patterns swirled toward the nearest fingertip, as if eager.
Or else-he suddenly pondered-preparing to defend itself.
Well. Why not find out? Suddenly eager, he bypassed any timid finger touch, firmly planting his whole hand upon the cool, curved surface. And…
And so?
There was no sudden jolt or electric arc, or any cheap-movie disturbance. Just another set of ripples, no more spectacular than dropping pebbles into an oil slick. And even those then began to shrink, coalescing to produce a fringe, an outline, roughly the shape of his hand.
Not perfect, by any means. In fact, as he (and Akana) watched, Gerald realized that the match was defective. Several of the finger impressions crumpled, a bit too short to match his own. Another pair drew outward, like dough, centimeters too long for any kind of match.
Knuckles bulged. Then he realized-
There are six.
Six fingers.
And-
It’s a hand that’s… thinner than mine.
And so is the wrist.
A tapered wrist, leading to a slender forearm that emerged into view as more of the murk parted, revealing greater depth. Instead of a bulky, yellow spacesuit, that opposing arm appeared to be clad in a loose white sleeve.
From the surface where two hands touched, his own arm rose toward his shoulder, while its strange-looking counterpart descended into the cylinder’s tightly limited interior.
Limited?
More mist fell away and his perspective shifted. Abruptly, Gerald was no longer looking down at an object in his lap, or into a cramped cylinder. Rather, it felt like peering through a lens at another world equal in size to this one-a weird perspective, but one that made eerie sense. His hand remained planted against an imaged hand, as that other forearm met an elbow, oddly jointed… leading to a stout and strangely lithe shoulder… part of a torso draped in shimmering cloth…
… and then-as he held his breath-a head, as long and wedgelike as that of a horse, only with paired eyes that aimed forward, above a rounded mouth. There seemed, even, to be a semblance of a smile.
Sudden jerks rocked his little space capsule, as the recovery plane snagged its chute. But Gerald’s sole concern was to keep his left hand in place-not breaking contact as the figure within seemed to stride or float closer, halving the ersatz distance between them, bringing that alien head near enough to peer outward at him with a gaze that seemed oddly familiar.
The mouth did not move, but a fringe of flapping cheek membranes did. And what emerged then surprised Gerald more than anything so far.
Not sound, but letters. Roman alphabet letters, sans serif, propelled from those gill-like openings, emanating like waves of inaudible sound to flutter up against the barrier between two worlds-his outer one and the other universe within. Plastering themselves, as if upon the inner surface of a curved window, they jostled and formed a single word, right next to the place where hand met hand.
Greeting.
That was all.
For now, it was enough.
PART THREE
A THOUSAND NATURAL SHOCKS
There’s a reason why kings built large palaces, sat on thrones and wore rubies all over. There’s a whole social need for that, not to oppress the masses, but to impress the masses and make them proud and allow them to feel good about their culture, their government and their ruler so that they are left feeling that a ruler has the right to rule over them, so that they feel good rather than disgusted about being ruled.
– George Lucas, New York Times, 1999
This disposition to admire, and almost to worship, the rich and the powerful, and to despise, or, at least, to neglect, persons of poor and mean condition, though necessary both to establish and to maintain the distinction of ranks and the order of society, is, at the same time, the great and most universal cause of the corruption of our moral sentiments.
– Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, 1759
It’s good to be the king.
– Mel Brooks, History of the World, Part II
nervous normalpeople +/- building careers +/- building houses – civilizations – families… breeders-breeders linear thinkers obsessed with time. reason-not-rhyme -/-
animals live threaded in spacetime’s warp n’ woof -/ never stand outside and criticize like cro-magnon cro-mutants-always whining how things oughta be different -/- striving to MAKE things different + and they call us auties mental?-!
one theory says auties are throwbacks – visual visceral skittish reactive +/- Temple said it’s no blame or maim to be closer to mother-mammal-nature!/+ Neanderthals probly lived embedded like us + allied with cobblies the way men use dogs +!
do they live again +/- in us? normal(mutant)people slew the poor thals-will cro-mags do same to us?/? by “curing the autism plague” + when nature seems to say “make more auties, not less!” +?
who did the grunt coding that made the internets?+ built software empires?+ aspies and borderlines did… then normals thronged to the games + the virtworlds + OUR worlds +/+ and we true-auties are all over the nets and webs!/+ emerging from our prisons-rissons-frissons-missions-permissions-stopit stopit stop stop stop stop-
it was the electric hum. poormom left open the door of my candle-lit room -/- i glimpsed a lightbulb in the hall + + + fifty-cycle flicker – (world should switch to DC)… that flicker traps me in here…
my realhands flutter / realvoice squawks + + + in the “real” world I’m helpless + moan and slap the window -/- poormom must pry my jaw to give medicine I need to stay alive +/- while I thrash and she gets older -/+ poormom
but hand-flutters matter! words/meanings flow + my-ai translates + sending a bright-feathered bird-avatar roaming the virtcityscape + unafraid of cars bars or guitars + graceful + a me that’s far more real than this ungainly + fluttering stork-woman +!+ but there’s a price-hard black ice.
– i sense a disturbance + + + something’s coming + + +
cobblies are nervous too
some are getting out of town
16.
The world still shook and harsh straps tugged his battered body. That much was the same. It had been going on for a very long time.