“Are you a mother?” Amanda asked the captain.
No.
“But you like kids?”
Yes.
“Would you like to meet my friends?”
Of course.
Before the president could stop her, Amanda scampered between two of the honor guard and ran for the area where her classmates waited. They saw her coming and slipped under the rope. They evaded the Secret Service agents like fleeing cats and ran toward Amanda, who reversed her course. In seconds the children were packed tightly around the captain, who tried to touch and hug them all.
Before the president, his party and the children disappeared into the Executive Mansion, a marine captain led a company out from behind a barricade and marched toward the saucers and starship shuttle. The marines were in combat dress with helmets and carried loaded assault rifles. When given the duty of guarding the ships, the captain on his own responsibility had ordered his marines to load their weapons. Now they circled the ships facing outward. The sergeants moved a few of them one way or another and, satisfied, went over to confer with the captain, who returned their salutes. After a short conference, the captain wandered off to talk to the Secret Service agent in charge.
The cameras caught that scene, of course. One of the network talking heads remarked over the air, “This is appropriate. After all, the streets of heaven are guarded by United States Marines.”
“Are you folks hungry?” the president asked the captain. “We have a lunch prepared if you wish to sample our food.”
A sample of your food would be welcome indeed. With water that hasn’t been recycled a hundred times.
The president motioned to two aides to take Amanda and the children away. “Get them some lunch,” he said.
Then he led the adults to the State Dining Room. Uniformed waiters stood at attention. The aliens stood transfixed, staring. It took several seconds for Uncle Egg to realize they were staring at the riot of flower arrangements on the dining table. One of the starship crewmen took a tentative step toward them, smelled them. The others joined him. They drank in the aromas; then one man plucked a petal and tasted it.
The aliens broke into laughter and moved from arrangement to arrangement sniffing and tasting.
That broke the ice. The waiters held chairs, and after much shuffling, everyone was seated.
The president had conferred with NASA experts, who were of the opinion that vegetables, protein and starches would be excellent menu choices. This White House had by decree stopped serving French cuisine at state dinners years ago. The menu today was American food: all the usual vegetables and a variety of breads, roast beef, lamb, pork chops and fried chicken, plus dishes that reflected the diversity of the American population. Chinese dishes, Polynesian, Cuban, Mexican, Indian, Italian, German and a couple of French dishes with appropriate sauces that the chef had sandwiched in there anyway. Great Britain was represented by toad-in-the-hole.
Even as the president’s guests were being seated, the White House mouthpiece was handing out copies of the menu to reporters, who packed the press room. P. J. O’Reilly had the situation well in hand.
The aliens were seated between members of the president’s party. The president sat beside the captain. The secretary of state sat on her right. A member of the crew was next, then Egg and Professor Deehring, another crew member, Rip, another crew member, Charley, and so on. Petty Officer Hennessey had a space person on his right and left.
The secretary of defense found himself seated at the foot of the table between a Supreme Court associate justice, an old woman who talked in a whisper, and the head of NASA. A crone and a windbag. He glared at Hennessey up the table seated between two aliens from God-knows-where and chattering away. An enlisted man, no less!
There were bottles of wine on the table, California reds and whites. The secretary of defense would have deeply appreciated a couple of vodka martinis, which the waiter whispered weren’t available, so he poured himself a brimming glass of red wine and drank it like milk.
Rip turned to the man on his left and introduced himself. “Rip Cantrell.”
I am the first officer.
“What do they call you?”
An unintelligible noise flashed through Rip’s head. He laughed.
Pick a name you like and call me that.
“Sam. I’ll call you Sam.”
Sam. I like that. Tell me about the saucer pilot who is marooned here. Is he here with us today?
He is dead, Rip said silently.
The first officer glanced at the captain, seated beside the president, and she looked at him and Rip.
Tell me about that, the first officer said.
So Rip did. Silently, directing his thoughts at Sam, the first officer. Adam Solo was the chosen name of the saucer pilot marooned on earth for thirteen hundred years. He had other names at various times, such as Hiawatha and Leif Ericson, or Leif the Lucky.
Rip was well into his explanation of the pharma moguls and their quest for drugs that would extend human life when he realized that all the starship crew had stopped talking and were staring at him. They were listening to every word. So he told of the chase and final battle in the Grand Canyon and Solo’s death. Told it in the silence, with every one of the starship crew staring at him.
When he finished, he heard words that he knew were from the captain of the starship.
Thank you, Rip.
Then the first officer. Thank you.
“Let’s have some wine,” Charley Pine said aloud. She too had heard the first officer’s and captain’s thoughts and now broke the silence. Conversation resumed. The earth people spoke aloud, and the aliens replied silently. It was weird, yet it wasn’t. In a few minutes it seemed absolutely normal to all the people seated at the table.
The waiters carried the dishes around, and the aliens always took a spoonful to try. Only a spoonful. Meat in slivers.
The first officer stared at the eating utensils and settled on a spoon. The knife he knew, presumably, because he hefted it and tested the point and sharpness of the blade, then held it ready in his left hand. He found about half the dishes palatable. If he liked it, he ate the dollop on his plate. If he didn’t, he ignored the rest of it. The meat he sliced into tiny bites, which he placed one by one on his tongue using the spoon.
He delivered his verdict to Rip and Charley, who were on each side of him. Good. Fair. Very good. Not so good. Bad. Good again.
He liked the red wine best, Charley noted. The white he sampled, then ignored. Every now and then he picked up the water glass and drank as if the glass contained the nectar of the gods. The waiter behind him refilled it promptly.
The president was feeling mellow. The Arrival was going well, so far anyway. His wife had been giving him grief about the size of his tummy, which wasn’t sexy, she said, and he had been watching his diet. He decided to splurge. He loaded his plate with fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and two enchiladas covered with cheese.
The starship captain watched him with an air of disbelief but tried a tiny amount of each. She watched her host use his knife and fork and tried to emulate him.
Charley Pine got the first officer talking about his home planet, what it was like. Compared to Adam Solo, the first officer was positively garrulous. Blah, blah, blah. He blabbed on and on. He was homesick, thoroughly tired of the starship and thoroughly tired of his shipmates. When he delivered this pronouncement, several of his colleagues around the table froze and stared at him.