Maybe Tomorrow

Author’s note: I wrote this story several years ago. The thrust of it is intended to be positive – that there is a place where each and every one of us can live up to our full potential, even if we have to go to great lengths to find it. Some have taken it as a negative story, even one that conjures up ghosts of the dubious moral in C.M. Kornbluth’s The Marching Morons. I would be very interested, dear reader, in your opinion. David Keating

---

“What seems to be the problem, Muriel?” asked Sam. Sam was the building property manager.

“The problem,” answered his secretary tightly, “is that this hoodlum wants to rent an apartment in this building.”

The “hoodlum” in question, dressed in baggy pants, T-shirt and wearing a bandana emblazoned with a gang symbol, spoke threateningly to the diminutive Muriel. “We’re gonna take over this building just like we have all the others, bitch. Don’t get in our way or you’ll get hurt.”

Sam looked up from the rental application he had picked up off of Muriel’s desk. He ignored the young man’s belligerence. “Razzor, is it?” His only response was a truculent stare. “Well, I don’t see anything wrong with your application, Razzor. And you obviously have the money for the first, last, and security deposit.” Sam gestured negligently at the pile of bills Razzor had thrown on Muriel’s desk. “1704 is available. When would you like to move in?”

Razzor’s expression made it clear that he figured he had Sam scared. “We’ll be moving in tonight old man. You just keep everyone the hell out of our way. Otherwise we’ll get ‘em out of the way ourselves. And they won’t like that. Understand?”

“Sure,” Sam answered placatingly. “I’ll leave the key in the lock. You just come in whenever. I’m sure it will work out just fine.”

“Damn right, asshole.” Razzor turned and left. He knew Sam wouldn’t call the cops. He knew his type. Muriel was another matter. But if she caused trouble, well, that would be just too bad for her.

After Razzor was gone, Muriel exploded. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you know who that was? He’s a member of the worst gang in the whole damn neighbourhood. Those sons of bitches have taken over everything. They’ll shove a knife into anyone who looks sideways at them. You know damn well that all they want to do is turn that apartment into a crack house. How could you? You haven’t been here long Sam, but I thought even you knew better. My god, what will we do now?”

Sam looked calmly at Muriel. “What would have happened if we hadn’t rented him an apartment Muriel? He’d have found someone who already lives here to take advantage of. You know that don’t you? Remember telling me about the handicapped man in your last building? Did he deserve what happened to him? Would you want that to happen to Johnny, or Candy? Or how about Sylvia?”

Johnny was in his thirties, on a pension after a fall at a construction site had left him with ABI, Acquired Brain Injury. He smiled a lot. Candy was a prostitute. But she was also a sweet kid determined to get her life together. She was studying at the local college. Sam and Muriel helped her out when they could. Sylvia was the building’s resident curmudgeonly recluse. She grumbled at everybody. But Muriel had seen her surreptitiously leaving food or little gifts outside the doors of the poorest tenants.

Muriel deflated, sinking back in her chair. “No, I don’t want that. But I don’t see how …”

Muriel stopped. Sam had the strangest look on his face. “Muriel, do you know the old saying ‘It takes all kinds to make a world?’ It’s not true actually. Different worlds need different people, and sometimes some people just stuck in a world where they don’t fit. In a different world, people like Razzor would have been heroes. Protecting people from predators; homesteading new country; building community. Here, they don’t know what to do, how to act. So they become the predators, tearing down the communities they could be building up. It’s a waste. It’s not their fault.”

Muriel made a rude noise. “Not their fault. Christ, I never figured you for a bleeding heart, Sam. That bullshit just gives everyone an excuse for letting things get worse and worse.”

Sam put a hand on Muriel’s shoulder and looked at her with a surprising intensity. She actually shivered. “Don’t worry Muriel. Things are not going to get worse. Trust me. And promise me that you’ll remember what I just told you.”

“What you told me?” Muriel looked confused. “But you didn’t tell me anything except a lot of bullshit.” Sam didn’t say anything more. He just looked at her in that odd way again, and walked away.

The next day, in spite of Sam’s words, things were worse. Much worse. Razzor and his gang had indeed moved in the same night. They screamed and swore and fought with each other until dawn. They’d punched holes in the walls all the way from the elevator to the door of apartment 1704. Before the day was over, Muriel had been bombarded with calls from terrified tenants, and the cops had been at the building at least three times.

Muriel hadn’t seen Sam all day, and she began to think that she’d been right all along. He was just a damn bleeding heart, who ran away when the world didn’t respond to his sunshine and lollipops philosophy. But she couldn’t forget that look in Sam’s eyes. There was just something about him after Razzor left. Something she’d never seen before. As if a switch had been flipped. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but since it was all she had, Muriel held on to it.

Just before she closed the office, Sam walked in. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier Muriel. I had a few things to do. I take it our new tenants got here?”

“Yes damn it. And I still don’t know how you think this is all going to be okay. They’ve already scared everyone in the building, and destroyed most of the seventeenth floor. Where were you Sam? Where were you all day?” Her voice was pleading.

Sam made shushing noises and put his arm around Muriel’s shoulders. “There now, don’t worry. It’s going to be okay. Didn’t I promise you it would? Now, you go home. I’m going to check on our tenants. They just need to understand how things work. You’ll see, by morning everything will be different. In fact, I’m willing to bet it’ll be a morning you’ll never forget.”

Sam’s cryptic words worried Muriel. As she went out the door, she turned back. “Will I see you in the morning Sam?”

Sam just smiled. “Everything will be fine. Good night Muriel.”

After Muriel left, Sam made a last check of his preparations. Satisfied, he got into the elevator and punched the button for the seventeenth floor. As the elevator went up, Sam began to hum a little tune. Not many people knew the words to it anymore. In Sam’s experience, those who learned them had done so at great cost.

The first thing that Sam saw when the elevator doors opened was Candy. She was slumped against the wall with Razzor standing over her, fists clenched. Why couldn’t she have stayed away, Sam thought. As Sam moved into the hall, Razzor turned to him and yelled. “What the hell you doin’ here, old man? Get the fuck outta here before I hurt you.”

Sam ignored him, speaking instead to the girl huddled on the floor. “Are you alright Candy? You know you shouldn’t have come up here. It’s time for you to go now.” Sam held out his hand.

When Candy started to move, Razzor raised his hand to strike her. She cowered back. He yelled at Sam. “The bitch goes when I say she goes. What the fuck do you think you’re playin’ at? I oughta cut you now and be done. I can see you’re gonna be a pain in the ass, after all.”

Sam just smiled. “Why Razzor, are you really so scared of an old man like me?”

“I’ll show you scared, you son of a bitch.” Razzor went after Sam, drawing a knife as he moved. Sam waited until Razzor was almost within striking distance. Candy, watching from the floor, couldn’t see what happened next. Razzor was blocking her view; but he suddenly just slumped to the floor. Sam was still standing.

“Candy,” he called quietly. “It’s really time for you to go honey. This isn’t a good place for you to be.” Candy stood up slowly and walked to him. Sam touched her cheek gently. “I want you to get on the elevator and get out of here. Promise me?”

Candy started to speak, but Sam continued. “Take care of yourself Candy. Hug Muriel for me. Tell her … tell her it was an honor to meet her.”

Sam turned back to the crumpled Razzor, missing the smile that flickered across Candy’s face. As she entered the elevator and pressed a button, she said softly “You always were the sentimental one, you old coot. See you around.” As the door closed, Candy began to hum a tune that would have startled Sam if he’d heard it.

Sam bent down and hoisted Razzor to his shoulder, an act that seemed surprisingly easy for the old man. He walked up to the door of 1704. Leaning back, he kicked. The door flew inward amid the sound of splintering wood. Then he heaved Razzor off of his shoulder and threw him into the apartment.

There were about twenty people in the room. Sam had waited until he knew they’d all be there. He hated loose ends. Most of them were male gang members like Razzor. Big. Tough. At least they thought so now. They’d soon find out what tough really meant. There were a couple of wasted looking men who were obviously addicted to whatever it was the gang dealt. Sam felt sorry for them, in an abstract sort of way. He knew people like that seldom survived long. There were also three women, all of whom looked as tough as the gang members. Sam smiled. Good stock, they’d fare well.

Everyone except the addicts had jumped to their feet when Razzor landed on the floor. Sam counted seven who had pulled knives, two with guns. He addressed the gunmen first. “Those will be useless where you’re going fellas. Why don’t we start out by getting rid of them?”

By their expressions they obviously thought that Sam was crazy. One old man standing in their doorway facing an armed gang? One of the guys holding a gun stepped forward. He had a bull’s-eye tattoo on his left breast. “what the fuck do you think you’re doing, coming in here, all Rambo-like, fool? We’re gonna take you apart a little piece at a time.” Bull’s-eye aimed at Sam’s leg and pulled the trigger. Sam moved. The bullet went into the wall behind him, and bull’s-eye fell to the floor when his neck connected with the edge of Sam’s hand.

There was a blur of action in the apartment for a minute or two, at the end of which the gang members no longer had guns or knives. Instead they had bruises and a few broken bones. Command would give him hell for that Sam knew. Oh well. What was done was done. He wasn’t going to make any changes at this point.

Sam sat on the arm of a sofa looking at the collection of humanity in front of him. “What a sorry looking lot of recruits. Christ, you guys call yourselves a gang? Shit, I’ve seen tougher turds in the toilet after I have a crap.”

Razzor had regained consciousness during the action. “Who the hell are you man? Some sort of super cop? You think you’re gonna bust us and throw us in jail? Bullshit man. You didn’t have no warrant, you didn’t have no probable cause, you didn’t have nothin’. We’re gonna sue you for breakin’ in here and bustin’ up our apartment. We got rights you know.”

Sam just looked at the man on the floor and laughed. “Sue me? Rights? Too funny. You haven’t got shit my friend. All you’ve got is one tiny slim chance to impress me so that I give you one more tiny slim chance to live past the next couple of minutes. Doubt me? Look into my eyes baby.”

Razzor tried to stare him down. But after only a second or two he dropped his eyes and looked away. “What the fuck are you?”

“I am what you just might become if you live. You are what I once was. There’s a bunch of science behind it all, but I’m no scientist and I don’t give a shit about it anyway. And you, you ignorant son of a bitch, wouldn’t know what I was talking about if I did know. So just shut the fuck up and listen.”

“This is bullshit!” This from one of the women, who jumped to her feet and lunged at Sam. Sam grabbed the front of her shirt without standing up and the woman jarred to a stop. He raised her into the air and threw her against the wall. She wasn’t unconscious, but she didn’t try to get up again and no one else moved.

“I like your enthusiasm. Don’t do that again.” Sam thought for a moment. “Now where was I? Oh yeah. Who the fuck am I. Well, I’m a recruiter of sorts. And you folks have just been recruited.”

The bull’s-eye guy snorted. “Fuck you.”

Sam looked at him and he shut up. “God, it seems so long ago. Could I really have been as butt ugly and brainless as you? They musta got the coordinates wrong.”

He looked over the group again. “Okay, they tell me I gotta give you an explanation, because I did. Seems like a waste of breath to me, ’cause we all know the outcome. But I promised no paradoxes this time, so here goes:

I come from a world that’s as close to paradise as you’re gonna get. There’s no war, no poverty, no disease, no line ups at the checkout counter. All the stuff people dream about. And you know why it’s that way? Because one night all of the fucking scum like you went away. Just poof; gone. One day here, next day not here. All over the world. All kinds of assholes. Petty gangs like you guys, murderers, rapists, dictators, lawyers. All kinds of trash.

You guys religious? Nahhh. Well, the Bible says one day all the good people would just disappear into heaven. Well, it was kinda like that, only in reverse. The good people hung around. You all went away.”

They were staring at him blankly and he spoke to the air. “See, I told you it was a waste of breath. None of us knew what the hell I was talking about.”

“But we were told, so we will be told. No paradox, remember? You promised. It screws up the paperwork. Continue.” The dispassionate voice changed tone. “But for Chrissake hurry it up. You’ve gotta be the most long winded son of a bitch I ever listened to.”

Sam gave the air over his head a rude gesture. He turned back to the cowering gang members. “Awright, now pay attention class. Tomorrow morning the world is going to wake up and you’re all going to be gone. The meek really are going to inherit the earth, ’cause you’re gonna go somewhere else.”

“Where?” the woman against the wall asked.

“Ah, a question. And an intelligent one at that. Why to the future of course! Where else?”

The bull’s-eye tattoo spat. “Jesus Christ man, what the fuck you take us for? So you’re some kinda supercop with fancy gadgets. I seen it all in the movies. You think some bullshit about the future is gonna make us all weak in the knees? Tell you everything so you don’t make us disappear? Fuck you man.”

The disembodied voice came again, laughing. “I’d forgotten this part Sam. You really were a dense piece of shit weren’t you?”

Sam just rolled his eyes. “‘I seen it all in the movies.’ Christ. C’mere asshole. You see this in the movies?” Sam ripped his shirt open to reveal a tattoo identical to the one on bull’s-eye’s breast.

“So what?” began the gang member. But Sam grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face down close.

“Recognize that?” The gang member grunted as he saw a short ragged scar, the result of a slip of the knife by the tattoo artist. “Yeah, you’re me asshole. And boy do I wish I could have stuck with my faded glowing memories of my youth. The truth is so much more embarrassing.” Sam shoved him away. “Now get your face outta my tit. Your breathin’ so heavy you’re turnin’ me on. And if that isn’t messed up, I don’t know what is.

“Okay, so back to our little bedtime story. Did I mention that you all disappear tonight? All over the world? Yeah, I did. Well, after a little half hearted searching, the people who are left are gonna get together and build utopia. After all, without you to distract ‘em it wasn’t all that hard. But just because they’re good, doesn’t mean they’re naïve. They knew that the human race had lost some genes it might need some day. They understood the dangers of narrowing the gene pool and all that.

“So they kept working on where you’d disappeared to. And they figured it out. Took ‘em about four hundred years, give or take. Or about fifty years ago from my point of view.”

“So you’re from four hundred years in the future?” ventured Razzor.

“See?” came the voice. “See? I was smart even then. I remember asking that.”

“Will you shut up?” roared Sam. “No one likes a show off.”

“Was that me?” asked Razzor in a hushed voice.

“Yeah, that was you, you dumb ass. Or rather, it will be you, someday. Maybe. Now let me finish this or so help me, paradox or no, I’m going to shoot somebody.

“So four hundred years from now they’ve fixed the mess you, or we, depending how you look at it, made of the planet. The grass doesn’t have landmines under it; the apartment buildings don’t have crack houses. People don’t shoot people because they don’t like the way they look. The air is clear and the water’s clean.”

“I know! I know!” interrupted the same woman sarcastically. “Earth’s being invaded and all the weak pussies who run the place are afraid to fight. They need us primitive apes to do their dirty work. Same old bullshit man. So just shoot me now and fuck it.”

The voice in the air spoke again. “Marla shut the hell up. Christ. Why didn’t I realize that you’d never lose that mouth?”

A new voice could be heard. “Aww, you wouldn’t have me any other way lover.” Then it took on an edge. “Now you two boys stop playing and get this done. We’re already behind and I’ll be damned if I’m going to time shift just to cover your asses. You’re going create a paradox just from flapping your gums. Wind it up, Sam.”

Sam spoke to the woman named Marla. “No, Earth isn’t being invaded, and if you think the people who created utopia are pussies, you oughta challenge one to go a couple of rounds. Nothing weak about ‘em. But they don’t like waste. And the way you’ve been living, throwing away your lives with shit like this, was just too much waste for them to accept.

“Once Earth was fixed, they decided it was time to go explore some other places. Spread humanity out a bit in case something happens to this little ball of rock we’re on. That was when they closed the loop to where everyone had gone four hundred years ago. They took you into the future so you could be explorers. Wasn’t that sweet of ‘em?”

A hum seemed to be building up in the room. Razzor jumped to his feet. “Fuck you, I don’t want to be no fucking explorer. I like it fine right here.” He looked scared.

Sam laughed and spoke to the air. “Yeah, you were some hero you were.” The voice groaned. Sam turned back to Razzor. “Here’s how it works kid. You will become an explorer because you DID become an explorer. Just like ol’ bull’s-eye over here. In fact, you ‘n me are gonna be best buds. I’ll even save your life a few times.” The disembodied version of Razzor was definitely groaning. “That’s gratitude for you,” Sam muttered.

The hum was distinct now, not loud but it seemed to be everywhere. The air was shimmering. “And then one day, you’ll get the craziest assignment ever. You’ll step onto a platform and they’ll send you back four hundred fifty years to find yourself. And when you do, you’ll have this conversation, and then poof you’ll be gone. Ain’t temporal mechanics grand?”

Sam looked at bulls-eye again. “Don’t sweat it kid, you’re gonna love it. Who better’n me to know eh? You’re going to see some amazing things. Planets with three moons. Vines that try to wrap around you like snakes. Snakes that try… well, never mind, you’ll find out.

“And you want to know the best part kid?” Sam was moving, but it was getting hard to see, the shimmering light was growing more intense. “The best part is that we get to be what we were always supposed to be. Fighters, lovers, explorers. Doing something useful instead of this drugged bullshit. Trust me kid, it’s what you were born to do.” Sam was standing in the middle of the room. “Bring us home Razzor.” As the light encompassed the room and its occupants, Sam started humming that tune again.

---

When the light died away, two figures stepped into the room. Muriel spoke softly. “I’ll never forget Sam. I’ll keep that promise.” She turned to Candy. “I thought we’d get here and find Sam dead.”

Candy looked awestruck. “I didn’t know where else to go Muriel. I was so scared. Where did they go? What happened?”

Muriel hugged Candy to her. “They went to a place that doesn’t exist yet. But we’ll make sure it does by the time they get there. Won’t we?” Candy didn’t speak. She just hugged Muriel back. “What was that song Sam was humming Candy? Do you know it?”

“Song? No, I don’t. But I’m sure I can find out if you want.” She smiled into Muriel’s shoulder.

Muriel stepped back, took Candy’s hand and moved toward the door. “Please do. I have a feeling it’s important. Now I think we’d better start making plans. There are going to be some very confused people on this planet tomorrow.” Candy looked back into the room just once. She blew a kiss toward the place where Sam had disappeared.

---

Johnny and Sylvia watched the last act of the drama through the monitor in Johnny’s room. “Well,” said Johnny. As usual, he was smiling; but he didn’t sound much like someone with ABI. “So that’s why I had to give that damn speech. It wasn’t for them. It was for you.”

Sylvia nodded. “I was the only one who had any idea what had happened.”

“In any case,” Johnny/Sam continued,”it went just like I remember it. Which is the way it should go right? I mean, what other choice is there?”

Sylvia/Muriel shook her head at him. “Oh no Mr. ‘I hate temporal mechanics’. You’re not going to draw me into that argument again! I’m on to you, you old fraud. You could run rings around me when it comes to this causal loop stuff.”

Sam laughed. “Okay, okay. So are you satisfied now? It is as it was and as it will be. You’ve been told the truth about what’s happening tonight, and because you have, you can guide the world, and become the Founder of Utopia. Candy will be with you to help. It’s a big job, but that’s okay. You’ll make them listen.”

Muriel sighed. “I was so scared. Who was going to listen to a crazy old woman from the slums? But I’d made you that promise. And after hearing your pretty speech I couldn’t just ignore everything. Hell, when a billion people disappeared, no one could.” She took a last look at the empty room in the monitor. “Okay Sam, I’m satisfied. It is as it was and as it will be. Let’s go home.”

Sam shut down the monitoring equipment, and activated the recall signal. As they began to fade from sight, Muriel softly sang the words to what would become the anthem of a global society:

“There’s a new world dawning, and it’s just around the bend. There’s a new world coming, this one’s coming to an end.”

Cass would be pleased.

He really should have known better. But then, tact had never been his strong suit.

Still, he should have known that calling Jenkins, the lead scientist on the Project, a Neanderthal who had to take off his shoes to count past ten wouldn’t exactly help his case.

But he was right, damn it! Wasn’t science supposed to be about more than ego? The error in their calculations was obvious.

Which didn’t stop them from turning on the Generator.

Nor did it stop Jenkins from sneering at him as the Field began to shimmer into existence.

And it didn’t make watching that smugness turn to horror as the needles went into the red any less satisfying.

And, yet, somehow, the last words that he managed to get out before the expanding black hole ripped his atoms apart, seemed somehow inadequate.

“See? Told ya so.”

     The Seeder is beyond human comprehension. And don’t even get me started on the Planner – incomprehensible twice removed.

     But hey, that’s a cliché; and a cliché won’t stop us, now will it?

     I love analogies. So think of the Planner as a farmer. That makes the Seeder a farmhand; the guy who goes out in the field on a tractor and, well, seeds things. That the Fields he Seeds are planets and that the Farmer’s Farm is galaxy-sized is beside the point. Expand your mind a bit, for cryin’ out loud.

     So the other day, which could be a very long time, the Seeder pulled the analogy of a tractor back into the analogy of a barnyard. The Planner was waiting for him. He was obviously angry, which, in an incomprehensible way, was thoroughly comprehensible. “And just what the hell have you been doing?!”

     The Seeder metaphorically climbed down from the analogy of a tractor, took the analogy of a straw out of the analogy of his mouth, and drawled, “Been plantin’ o’course. Whadcha think I was doin’?”

     The Planner metaphorically stalked back to the analogy of a planter, opened the analogy of a lid, and shoved in the analogy of a hand. When he pulled it out, he let what he held run out between the analogy of his fingers onto the analogy of the Seeder’s boots. The metaphorical straw fell from the analogy of the Seeder’s mouth.

     “I think you’ve been wasting your time and my money, that’s what I think! You filled the planter from the wrong damn pile. We’ll have to plow the whole thing up and start again. And it’s coming out of your pay!”

    As the Planner metaphorically stalked away, the Seeder looked down at the analogy of seeds sticking to the analogy of his boot. He wiped them off on the metaphorical tractor wheel and walked away disgusted.

     The analogy of human beings never noticed.

Ray Simmons looked out the window wall of the 95th floor Confederation Trade Tower office, and failed to appreciate the magnificent view of a thunderhead building over the mountains in the distance.

Simmons’ reflection in the window revealed the image of a man who was comfortable moving in the highest circles, both socially and politically. Slightly over average height, fit, well groomed with a touch of gray at the temples, and with the unconscious air of someone who never feels out of control.

Officially, his title was Investigative Consultant, ET Specialist. The title meant that he received an obscenely high salary and invitations to all the best parties. It also meant that he was the one they called when some high-ranking official from one of the Confederation worlds stuck his foot, or other ambulatory appendage, into a mess. And it didn’t get much messier than finding the Althoran Ambassador to Earth in his suite with the corpse of the Vice-President of Research for Asteroids Inc.. Especially since Asteroids was negotiating a deal between Earth and several offworld bidders to analyze its latest survey of the Asteroid Belt.

Ray and the Ambassador had been going over its statement for almost two hours. He had yet to get an answer that made any sense. The alien admitted to having been in the same room as the victim, John Lamont, when the crime was committed. It even admitted to being in conversation with him when the murder was occurring. Yet it repeatedly and categorically stated that it had seen nothing.

This, of course, was ridiculous, because the bloody thing was all eyes! Well, not literally. Althorans didn’t have eyes. In fact, Althorans didn’t seem to have anything organized the way a human would think of as normal. They were the closest humanity had yet come to meeting the amorphous blob of nineteen fifties science fiction movies, Simmons thought. Those old flicks were a hobby of his, and he could recite lines from everything from Star Wars to Godzilla Meets King Kong.

The Ambassador wasn’t really a blob. If you’ve never seen an Althoran, think of a kid’s balloon filled with half-set blueberry jello, the kind with sparkles in it, and you have a pretty good picture. The outer membrane is sensitive to all kinds of input; sound, light, radiation. That meant that Althorans were in demand as analysts for a lot of different industries. It was the primary vocation for the handful who were on Earth. It also meant that it was impossible for the Ambassador not to have seen what happened to Lamont.

Simmons turned his back on the view. “Okay, Ambassador, let’s try it again. The Asteroids VP came to your room to discuss Althora’s bid on the asteroid analysis deal, correct?” Simmons waited. The tabletop Translator clicked for a moment then relayed the reply.

“Investigator Simmons, how long do you expect me to be patient? As an Ambassador to your world, I have diplomatic immunity in this incident. As it happened in my suite, it technically happened on Althora, and is therefore a crime for Althoran investigation. If your reputation were not what it is, I would not have even agreed to this interview. Please don’t insult me by asking the same questions again and again.”

The Translator made the alien sound like an Oxford professor. After two hours, you would think it would have enough data to include emotional inflections, Simmons thought sourly. He knew he was missing something, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

“I understand your position, Ambassador. However, I believe that your cooperation has more to do with the fact that your government would like to close the deal to analyze the content of our asteroids than it does with my reputation, don’t you?”

“And what would you know of that?” Was he wrong, or was there a hint of derision in the Ambassador’s reply?

“I don’t need to know a lot to know that finding the Vice-President of Research dead at your, pardon the expression, feet, doesn’t help your bid any.”

Ray wasn’t sure the Translator had been able to do anything with the “dead at your feet” barb, but the Ambassador seemed to get the point. “No, you are right. My government is not pleased with this turn of events. Very well, ask your questions, but please, instead of this endless repetition, why don’t you tell me what is troubling you about my statements?”

Yes, thought Simmons! The Translator was definitely starting to add emotions. The Ambassador sounded annoyed, impatient, and maybe a little nervous. “What’s troubling me is that you were alone in the room with the victim, yet you keep telling me that you did not see the murder. Considering the range of Althoran perception that seems impossible. So, either we are missing something, which I hope is the case Ambassador, or you are lying to me, and murdered Lamont for some reason as yet unknown. To be frank, the second choice is the simplest, and has the advantage of getting me out of here in time for the Morani Opera. However, I doubt that Althora would get the analysis contract, and I do not imagine that your government would be very pleased with you personally.”

There was no reply for several minutes. When the Ambassador did speak, the Translator clearly conveyed that the alien was becoming concerned. Its reply was much more subdued. “Investigator Simmons, I fail to see how accusing me of this crime would be just. I did not, after all, commit it.”

Simmons took a breath. Time to press. “It wouldn’t be just. It would just be easier. Ambassador, Lamont came to your suite to discuss details of the asteroid analysis. Maybe he found out something that would put Althora’s bid at a disadvantage. You panicked, killed him, then got stuck with no good alibi, so you’re trying this nonsense.”

“Why does it have to be nonsense, Investigator?” Exasperation! Good! “I told you, I was examining the data, Lamont and I were talking, he screamed, he was dead.”

“And how did he look when he died, Ambassador? You say he screamed. His throat was cut. When did he scream? He must have seen his attacker coming. Why didn’t you see the murderer?” Simmons asked the questions rapid-fire, but he wasn’t sure the Translator would get them across that way.

“I told you,” the Althoran said again, almost regretfully. “I didn’t see anything.”

“How is that possible, Ambassador? You sense sound waves, a range of light well beyond the human, radiation of multiple sorts. From what I understand, Althorans make most of Earth’s sensing instruments obsolete. And this ability extends to every square inch of your body. How can you not see a man murdered when he is standing right beside you?”

In answer, the Ambassador moved, well, rippled, from the corner where it had been resting, over to the window wall where Simmons had been a few minutes earlier. “Ray Simmons,” the Ambassador had clearly made a decision. “I will explain something about my race that will help you to understand. Look out this window. When do you see?”

‘When do I see?’ Simmons wondered if the Translator had made a mistake, but he turned to the window. “I see mountains, a storm, lightning. I’m not sure I understand the question.”

The Althoran sounded as though it was humoring a child. “I asked you ‘When’ do you see, not what.”

“Okay, I’ll play along. As far as I know, I see now. ‘When’ do you see? The future?” Simmons immediately hoped that the Translator would miss the sarcasm in his voice.

The first response from the Translator might have been a snort. “Not the future Simmons, the past. You do understand that different energy waves travel at different speeds, don’t you Investigator?” the reciprocal sarcasm was obvious, and Simmons regretted his earlier remark. “Observe that flash of lightning. Now wait.”

It took about five seconds, and Simmons knew what the Althoran was going to say before it happened. “Thunder!” he blurted.

“Yes. The sound wave of the thunder arrives much later than the light wave of the lightning. Each defines the same event, but in a different way and a different time. Both define an event that has already occurred.”

Understanding dawned. “That’s how you perceive things, isn’t it? For you, each kind of input is a distinct event.”

Simmons thought of those old dubbed Japanese movies, where the pictures and soundtrack were always out of sync. He found it hard to imagine living like that.

The Ambassador continued, “Althora is a world of enclosed spaces. My people evolved underground. In our tunnels, there is no place where sound and light could be so far removed from each other as your thunder and lightning. Your cities are madhouses of input. On Earth, Althorans are bombarded by chaos.”

Simmons considered that. “So how do you cope? As Ambassador, you attend public functions. Althorans are part of business in several industries on Earth. I’ve never heard of any problems.”

The Ambassador seemed to hesitate. “When we are young, it is not such an issue. We adapt. When we are young, we relish the cacophony of input a world such as yours provides. It is like a drug. However, I am not young Simmons. I prefer the quiet, and have long since learned to selectively tune out any input which I do not need at any given moment.”

When the Ambassador stopped talking, Simmons was at a loss. What was the Althoran telling him? Suddenly he got it. “Are you saying that when you were talking to Lamont, you were blind?” he asked incredulously.

“That is correct, Ray Simmons. I was listening to the Translator and was not looking at what you consider the visible spectrum of light at all. As light moves faster than sound, by the time I reacted to Lamont’s scream, there was nothing to see.”

Simmons thought about that. There was something else. “Okay, let’s say that I accept that you didn’t see the killer initially. He must have still been in the room. How long did it take you to ‘see’ Lamont?”

“Perhaps a half second.” The Ambassador’s reply was terse.

Simmons considered. Add maybe a second for the Translator to work. Still not enough time for a killer to exit the room. “Ambassador, there is still a piece missing here. I think you had better tell me the rest.”

The Translator interpreted the Ambassador’s reaction as a sigh. “Are you old as a member of your race Simmons?” Ray shook his head. At least, he didn’t consider himself old. “That is well. The days when I stood in the middle of one of your markets and became drunk on its input are long past. I no longer examine data and see the correlations that exist in the minute fluctuations of wavelengths.” The Ambassador paused, then went on. “When our senses are strong, Investigator, an Althoran can sense for long distances, farther than a human being. But it is a strain for us. As we age, we return to the way we were when we lived in our tunnels, and we do not sense very far at all.”

The Ambassador stopped, and Simmons could imagine a very old man, reminiscing about the heady, rowdy days of his youth. “How far can you see?” he prompted quietly.

“Less than five feet.” The anguish was plain in the Translator’s response. “Forgive me Simmons, but I could not see the murderer who was probably standing right there, laughing at an old fool.”

---

Before seating himself in front of the Deputy Director’s desk, Simmons helped himself to one of the very expensive cigars from the intricately carved humidor that graced one corner of Carmen Ramone’s desk. He didn’t smoke. He just liked to use the gesture as a way to remind her of the adventure they had shared that resulted in it being there.

She just gave him her habitual momentary glare before relaxing into a smile. “Well, Ray, you’ve done it again. Case solved, criminal awaiting deportation, even a potential new trade deal between Earth and Althora. Who would have thought we’d ever be selling glasses to a race that can see more kinds of light than I’ve ever dreamed of? And if the newly promoted Supreme Trade Ambassador has anything to say about it, you’ll receive a medal to boot.”

Ray Simmons smiled back at his boss. “Well, they’re not exactly glasses of course, but they do enhance some input so that Althorans can see farther.”

When she just waited, he continued. “Actually, once I understood the Ambassador’s limitations, it was easy. Since he obviously wasn’t publicizing his condition, we checked back through all of his contacts for medical personnel who had connections to other worlds bidding on the asteroid deal, and voila. The Pholanx nurse who did his checkup turned out to be the concubine of the Pholanx Trade Commissioner.”

“Well,” Carmen said, “Pholanx is obviously out of the bidding, with their trade ambassador under house arrest for murder. But I’m not sure I see why the Ambassador’s nearsightedness helped solve anything.”

“Simple, boss. The Ambassador had to switch from one kind of input, as he calls it, to another when he heard Lamont scream. Rather like when a human looks up from a book. As you get older, it takes longer for your eyes to refocus to see things farther away. All the murderer had to do was move fast enough to stay out of focus.”

“And the Pholanx are that fast?” she asked.

Ray’s smile broadened. “During our interview, the nurse gave me a demonstration.” He paused. “Yes, they are that fast.”

Carmen Ramone knew when to change the subject. “Yes, of course. You look particularly well dressed this evening. Plans?”

Investigative Consultant Ray Simmons, ET Specialist rose from his chair, replaced the cigar, and started for the door. “All in the line of duty. A little interplanetary diplomatic work. The Supreme Trade Ambassador for Althora, his Pholanxian nurse, and I are going to the Morani Opera.”

By the time she reacted, the cigar bounced harmlessly off the door he had just exited.