“Sorry. This was not our idea.”
Someone behind Bukowicz muttered, “That doesn’t sound very alien.”
“Accent is Anglo-Hindusian,” someone else hazarded. “Not very thick, but unmistakable.”
“See if it’s got a name,” the woman on Bukowicz’s immediate right urged him. “Talk to it.”
He nodded. “All right. Mr. Iranaputra. You listen to me, now.”
“I am not alone,” the voice responded. “There are four other people with me.” Iranaputra proceeded to name his companions. “We are all residents of the Lake Woneapenigong Retirement Village, Newyork Province. We are approximately …”
“We have a fix on your position,” Bukowicz interrupted restively. “Are you really in some kind of vessel?”
“Oh, most definitely. I am afraid that our lift-off eliminated the lake.” He leaned over to gaze through the transparent panel. “Yes, it did. It was such an attractive lake too. We are very sorry for that, but we really had no …”
Hawkins hissed at him. “Don’t tell ’em that. Don’t let them know we’re not in control.”
Iranaputra whispered to his friend. “What difference does it make?”
“If they think this thing’s some kind of rogue machine, they’re liable to try shooting it down. With us aboard.”
The retired engineer nodded thoughtfully, directed his voice back to the Autothor. “No time. No time to consider much of anything, I am afraid.”
“You don’t expect us to believe that.” Bukowicz stared at the Atlantic airspace holo before him. A shuttle was on final approach to Atlanta urban park, but otherwise the imaging sphere displayed a typical morning flight pattern. Except for the large mass of blinking red light in upstate Newyork.
An assistant nudged Bukowicz. “Excuse me, sir, but does it really matter where they’re from? I mean, if a group of aliens wanted to disguise themselves as humans, they could pick any identities they liked.”
“Lay off the science fiction, Mavis. There are no aliens.”
“My mistake, sir.” She backed off. “All we have to do, then, is find a way to get in touch with the owners of that ship. That impossible ship.”
“Get this straight. Mavis,” her supervisor growled. “There are no aliens. We’ve been looking for them ever since we went into deep space, and in hundreds of years we haven’t found a hint of their existence. Not a modulated radio wave, not a buried city, not a cracked teacup. Nothing.”
The young woman nodded toward upstate Newyork. “Hell of a hint, if you ask me, sir.”
“Get back to your post. Mavis.” Bukowicz scanned the anxious, attentive faces of his staff before turning his attention back to the pickup.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, where you come from, or what you’re up to, but this I do know: you’re violating North American commuter and suborbital airspace. If you don’t clear off registered travel corridors immediately. I’ll … I’ll have to report you to the proper enforcement authorities.”
“We do not want to upset anyone.” Iranaputra’s voice echoed through the dead-silent observation room. “If we did move, where would you like us to move to?”
Bukowicz hesitated. He hadn’t expected eager compliance and so wasn’t ready with a specific suggestion. “Over the Atlantic somewhere,” he said hastily. “Away from intercity travel routes.” At least that way if the damn thing came down suddenly, it wouldn’t squash any unfortunate suburbanites.
“Thing’s as big as a mountain,” someone was murmuring aloud. “No; several mountains. And it’s just hanging there. It’s impossible.”
“You’re not moving.” Bukowicz licked his lips. Better to act aggressive, he thought, than deferential. “If you do not comply immediately with this official directive, I will have to request that you be forced to move.”
On board the ship Follingston-Heath regarded his companions. “The old boy’s bluffing. Earth has been wholly demilitarized for centuries. He has nothing to threaten us with except a few domestic police cruisers and some rangers. I don’t think the Adirondack Park patrol can compel this vessel to do anything it doesn’t want to do.”
“We should try not to upset anyone,” Iranaputra remarked.
“Why not?” Hawkins clapped his hands to his knees, enjoying himself. “Let the bastards get as mad as they want. The Colonel’s right: they can’t touch us.”
“One of these days that attitude is going to cost you your Village residency, Wallace.” Gelmann eyed him severely. “You know what the management thinks of retirees who exhibit belligerent tendencies, I shouldn’t have to be reminding you.”
“What, me, belligerent? I don’t have belligerent tendencies. I haven’t had belligerent tendencies in …” He paused, thoughtful. “Wait a minute. By golly, I guess I am having a belligerent tendency! I haven’t had a good belligerent tendency in years.”
Iranaputra wore a distasteful expression. “What do I tell them? How should I respond?”
“Tell them,” Follingston-Heath suggested, “that we will take their request under advisement.” That sounded properly bureaucratic, he thought with satisfaction.
Iranaputra dutifully relayed the message.
Supervisor Bukowicz frowned as he put a hand over the pickup, glanced back at his assistant. “What does that mean?”
“I really have no idea, sir.” Mavis smiled politely. “It doesn’t sound like they’re ready to move.”
Bukowicz nodded once, let his gaze sweep the room. “Somebody think of something. We’re supposed to be in control here, dammit.”
A young tech raised her hand for attention. “You might like to skim the book I’m reading, sir. It’s a first-contact story.”
“Don’t know how you can read that crap,” Bukowicz muttered. The blinking red mass in upstate Newyork had not budged. “Oh, all right. Give me any pertinent details.”
“No response.” Iranaputra eyed his companions. “What do we do now?”
“Don’t have to do anything.” Hawkins looked smug. “I’m sure we’ve given ’em plenty to think about.”
“I await your orders,” said the Autothor.
