He unrolled a paper. A Medal of Honor certificate, made out to Major Korben Dallas. For valor above and beyond the…
“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” said Finger. “You prefer your pet cat to the real thing.”
Korben unrolled another paper. A faded photograph of himself with his ex-wife. Beautiful, if slightly predatory…
“At least the cat comes back,” Korben said. He dropped the picture into the drawer and it rolled
itself back up. Under a tangle of campaign ribbons, he found an old fashioned book of paper matches.
“You still pining for that two-timing slut?” Finger asked. “Forget her. There are a million women out there.”
“I don’t want a million,” said Korben. He tried a match. It didn’t light. “I just want one. A perfect one.”
“Don’t exist, bud.”
Korben pulled out another photo. Two men in uniform, standing in front of a batwing space fighter. “Just found a picture of you,” he said to Finger.
“How do I look?”
Korben fried another match. It didn’t light. “Like shit.”
“Must be an old one,” said Finger. “Listen up―” Korben crossed to the refrigerator and opened it. It was bare except for a single empty container of Gemini Croquettes. He picked it up and studied the banner over the labeclass="underline" “Win a Dream Trip for Two to Fhloston Paradise!”
“I’m listening,” muttered Korben, closing the refrigerator.
“You gotta bring me your hack for the six-month overhaul,” said Finger. “ASAP.”
Korben crossed to the tiny sink and turned on the tap. A dribble of brown water came out.
“Don’t need an overhaul,” he said.
“Sure you do.”
Korben filled a pan with brackish water and put it on the stove. The burner lit automatically.
“You’re forgetting who sat next to you for a thousand missions,” Finger continued. “I know how you drive!”
“Finger!” Remembering his cigarette, Korben bent down to light it off the burner. “I’m driving a cab now, not a space fighter!”
“How many points you got left on your license?”
“Um…” Korben calculated a lie. “At least thirty.”
“In your dreams. See you tonight!“
The phone clicked as Finger hung up. Korben, sighing, did the same.
The water was boiling. Korben dropped in a pill of instant Colombian. He took the saucepan off the burner and set it on the tiny three-legged table.
The burner blazed on merrily.
Korben slapped the stove.
The burner shut itself off.
“Meow.” The cat jumped onto the table.
Korben set the cat’s bowl on the table. He poured half the instant coffee into his own cracked cup, and half into the cat’s bowl.
“Sorry, sweetie, that’s all I have.”
“Meaow.”
Korben tapped his cup against the cat’s bowl.
“Cheers.”
4
THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED FEDERATION WAS quiet. The wall screen was powered down―transparent. Beyond it, the towers of Manhattan soared into the dirty sky.
Only a few military officers remained, standing in a line in their bright uniforms, nodding in unison like soon-to-be-extinct birds.
The President was busy ignoring them.
He was bent over his massive desk, examining an ancient sketchbook. The old priest, Father Vito Cornelius, was turning the pages slowly.
“You have forty-eight hours,” Cornelius said. “The time it needs to adapt itself to our living conditions.”
“And then?” The President looked up, his broad dark face seamed with worry.
“And then it will be too late,” said the priest. “The goal of this thing is not to fight for money or power. Its goal is to wipe out life. All forms of life!”
“But why?”
The diminutive old priest’s eyes gazed off into space―or inward toward some dark mystery.
“I wish I knew.”
Across the room, the incoming signal on the viewscreen was beeping. The screen slowly began to become opaque, obliterating the view of taxi-cabs and traffic flitting among the towers,
“So what you are telling me, Father,” the President said, “is that there is nothing we can do to stop this!”
“There is only one thing.”
Cornelius looked toward the screen. “And it is on its way.”
Light years away, in a remote sector of the galaxy, a mile-long starship was speeding toward Earth, the home planet of the United Federation.
It was picked up and locked on by DEW (Distant Early Warning) scanners.
It was operated by a race little known to Earth, but well-known to the ancient priest, who was explaining as best he could, to the President…
“This is a Mondoshawan,” Father Cornelius said, showing the drawing of the alien that had been made in the temple by Billy, five hundred years before.
The President studied the round, bulky body; the tiny angular head.
“The Mondoshawans have in their possession the only weapon that can defeat the Evil that is upon is.”
“Which is?”
Cornelias turned another page. “The four elements―earth, air, fire and water―gathered around a Fifth Element. The Supreme Being, the ultimate warrior, created to protect life.”
The President looked skeptically at the page. It showed a human figure encased in armor. Metallic gloves held a case engraved with the emblem of the three suns.
“The case holds the Sacred Stones. Together with the Fifth Element, they produce what the ancients called the Light of Creation, able to bring life to the farthest reaches of the Universe. But if Evil stands here―”
He pointed to the Fifth Element.
“Then what?” asked the President impatiently.
Cornelius looked up, into the big man’s eyes. “White turns to black. Light to dark. Life to death. For all eternity.”
“Mr. President…”
The President turned and saw one of his generals holding a blinking cell phone.
“We have a Mondoshawan spaceship at the frontier requesting permission to enter Federation territory.”
The President looked at the diminutive priest who had brought such immense news―and then at the generals. “I guess I should make a decision,” he began.
“Sir!” said the general, covering the phone. “These Mondoshawans do not belong to the United Federation. We do not know their intentions. I recommend an immediate military interception before…”
The President broke in angrily.
“Did you see that thing swallow our starship like a gumdrop? You can’t even tell me what it is! I ask you for options and you give me bullshit!”
The President slammed one massive fist down onto the desk. Father Cornelius jumped back.
“Send them my permission to enter our territory. With my warmest regards.”
Cornelius let out a long sigh. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he whispered, closing the ancient sketchbook he had carried with him.
5
PICTURE, IF YOU WILL, A SHIP AS LARGE AS A SMALL CITY, entering a star system to which it has been granted access.
At the controls are the Mondoshawan elders, those who have taken it as their sacred trust to guard the Universe against its greatest Evil—which manifests itself every few milennia.
The Mondoshawan are a race so serene, so philosophical, so untroubled by small corruptions and infelicities that their appearance, while it might seem ungainly or even ugly to some, has a soothing effect on all they encounter; for underneath their rude exterior shines the demeanor of a fully evolved race that has made peace with itself and with the Universe.
The Mondoshawan ship reflects the grandeur of its builders. It is large, a little ungainly, but stately in its movements and steadfast in its purposes.