A. R. Yngve - Alien Beach.pdf - A. R. Yngve - widez2

A.R.Yngve

ALIENBEACH

Chapter One

DAY 1

"You're not listening to me," the woman told the soldier. She was right; he did hear her, but he wasn't

listening. The soldier lay staring at the tiny black-and-white TV set before the bed. The newscast was

hurried, stunned, as if the Second Coming had happened without warning. The soldier was initially testy

enough to shout at the woman to shut up, but in the next few seconds he didn't care to. Transfixed by the

small screen, he took in the breaking news. "The signals are being received from a point off the plane of

our solar system, at a distance twice that to Mars. World-famous astrophysicist Carl Sayers, known for

his work to find extraterrestrial intelligence, has gathered with other scientists at the Jet Propulsion

Laboratory inPasadena , the NASA command-and-monitoring station for deep-space probes, to study

the signals. "Professor Sayers could finally give this comment to the CNN just a minute ago…” "We

have now established, beyond all reasonable doubt, that this is not a hoax. The TV broadcast comes

from an extraterrestrial source, extremely strong and with tremendous bandwidth; that's why it shows up

on so many of the world's stations. The source is a moving transmission disk, with a diameter of…

roughly, a thousand kilometers. And from the way the signal increases in intensity, we have calculated

that the disk is approaching the Earth with decreasing speed. "We now have reason to believe, that the

disk is in fact an enormously huge solar sail, made up of very, very thin metal foil, which is slowing down

as it moves into an orbit…parallel to that of Mars. It will probably settle in orbit, in the wake of Mars,

where it will be shielded from the solar wind - kind of a port in a cosmic mistral, if you like. "And

according to the alien broadcast, a smaller ship will leave the solar sail and orbit the Moon while awaiting

our invitation to visit Earth. I cannot express to you the excitement I feel, as do all my colleagues here at

the JPL. This is... this is..." The excited scientist obviously hadn't slept very well for the last few 24

hours; neither had the soldier. The headaches were still interrupting his nights - despite the booze, the

women, and the pills. The soldier's head was a little less heavy this morning, and he felt like getting some

more sleep - but the news of the alien TV broadcast pestered his brain, not with the dull pain of

headache but with the rush of anticipation. He couldn't remember being this excited since the war. The

woman, next to him in the bed, gave him an impatient push. "What's the matter, soldier? You want me to

go?" He sighed, rubbing his temples, avoiding her sharp voice and stare. "Yes," he groaned. "Go. I don't

know you." She pulled back strands of black hair from her tanned face and leaned closer to him, her soft

hands trying to gently pull his gaze from the TV. "But we just met," she said softly into his ear. "I want to

get to know you better..." He turned to face her, and gave her an angry look. No you don't, he thought,

and she let go - as if she had heard his thoughts. Without a word, the woman gathered her clothes and

began to dress. From the other side of the half-closed window shutters, the street was teeming and

clamoring with human life. The soldier had not wanted to be part of such life for the last two years. He

had been drifting around theMiddle East since the war, in permanent early retirement, going nowhere,

until this morning when his life got a purpose again. Struck by instant epiphany after the TV news, he now

knew that he had to learn everything he could about the aliens. And then, just maybe, get a chance to see

them. And then - he couldn't picture what next. Already, mocking his noble intentions, the thirst for

booze, pills, whatever, was setting in. When the fully clothed woman closed the door behind her, he

watched some more TV. "The strangest features of the Sirian broadcast is its wondrous clarity and

briefness. Even a child can understand it; the smallest satellite disk on a house is sufficient to receive it.

Videotape and CD copies of the main message, running ninety minutes long until repeated, must already

exist in millions of households all over the world. "The broadcast has been on the air only since

yesterday, and already many viewers have asked us: isn’t ninety minutes too much of a coincidence?

How come the alien solar-sail wasn’t detected long before? Wouldn’t this and other odd things indicate

that the broadcast is a fraud? At a closer look, there are elements in its narrative structure which seem

inspired by 1950s’ TV shows and broadcast films. Strange as this may seem, it is not overly strange -

since the extraterrestrials claim to have had their sights set on Earth when they picked up and decoded

our early wide-band broadcasts. Being more advanced, and encountering their first messages from our

emerging technological civilization, they responded in kind…in both NTSC and PAL signals. "Long will

future generations of humans watch that historical first broadcast over and over: moving, somewhat jerky

black-and-white photographic pictures, accompanied by written, clumsy English subtexts and simple sign

language, carrying the Sirians' intent to mankind. And they will reminisce how with it, the fantastic

suddenly became mundane; alien visitors from space became a daily chatting topic, like Iranian missiles

or the greenhouse effect..." The pundits were already turning the event into an excuse for endless media

navel-gazing. Painstakingly, the soldier got up from bed and stumbled into the shower. Amphibians from

space, he thought. Bet they don't have to take showers. Bet they don't feel dirty, foul, exhausted all the

time. The soldier cried as he thought so, but he stayed in the shower to escape seeing or feeling the tears

on his face. A while later, when the sun stood at the zenith, the soldier left his hotel-room and went out

into the bustling city. Situated on an island off the coast of thePersian Gulf , this garrison town was

something of a freezone in the Arab world. Here were bars which served alcohol to infidel soldiers -

though not as many bars nor infidels for the past few years, since terrorists had started putting pressure

on Filipino barmaids to hide their legs and arms from sight. He brought a Walkman radio with him, so

that he could follow any further news about the Sirians. Resting the small headphones around his neck, he

cranked up the volume to hear it over the prayer-calls. Above the city, the tall, newly-built minarets

spread their wailing, two-note message through loudspeakers: "God is greater... there is no god but

God..." The soldier suppressed a smile of sudden ironic insight. He thought: A call from the sky. Looks

like the competition is thickening, God. What will all these people think, they who go on pilgrimage to

kiss a rock that fell from space, ages ago? Would they kiss an alien spaceship too? The soldier wandered

into the street-corner café near his hotel. Earlier, the regular Arab customers used to give him hostile

looks - after all, he still wore some of his old uniform - but after a few months they had gotten used to the

brooding foreigner. This morning, the soldier was almost completely ignored; the men inside were caught

up watching the TV set above the counter. Unsurprisingly, they were watching CNN as well. The soldier

overheard bits of the conversation, and though his Arabic was shaky he understood them well: "They

look almost human." "They're amphibians, they say." "Imagine. Like a National Geographic team from

space!" "What if they bring disease with them?" "I'm not afraid." "Yes you are. We all are." "We've got

missiles too, don't we? And the Iranians, and the Israelis too... they could come to good use after all."

"Let them come. If they try anything...ffchh...boom!" "Maybe the angels are coming. Inshallah." "Angels

with - ugh! - arms like snakes! You're talking nonsense!" "Monsters. Demons. It's the end of the

world."“Aw, shut up!” "It must be a fraud. The Jews set it up to undermine our faith." "The demons are

coming from hell, in the guise of angels." "Naah, it's nothing but actors in rubber suits... look, you can

almost see the zippers!" "Aha, like that American show, 'X-Files'..." "To hell with 'X-Files'. This is for

real!" The bravest customer, a suave youngster with leanings toward Western culture and clothing, turned

to look at the soldier - as if he alone possessed an understanding the older men lacked. The soldier had

sat down in his regular corner at the end of the counter, drinking the strong local coffee, eating late

breakfast, watching the TV news. The young Arab touched the soldier's sleeve, addressing him with

serious intent. With an ill grace, the soldier gave him half a red-eyed look. "Hey, amrikani. What do you

say?” The young man gestured toward the TV screen. “Is this an American bluff?" The soldier felt

vaguely accused by the youngster's tone of voice, and he didn't like the dark stares from some of the

older customers. He made an averting gesture - couldn't think clearly. He had nothing in common with

these people, he was an alien here. And the land he used to call "home" had become an alien world of

artificial people obsessed with health, money, silicon, steroids, and happiness pills. The soldier couldn't

answer the Arab's question. He could only think of one thing to say, but aimed at the sky: Take me away

from here. Take me anywhere, but away from this planet. Which of course would have sounded stupid.

So he looked down at his plate and kept his mouth shut.

One elderly man with a hookah at his table stopped puffing to say: "He's homesick. Go home to Mars,

amrikani!" Everyone laughed. The soldier nodded toward the joker with a faint smile. "Home... phone

home," he said in nasal English. Only the young Arab seemed to get the joke; he fell silent, as if he

understood its underlying meaning. The soldier stood up and walked out of the café. He had to struggle

uphill now, if he was to get anywhere with his newly found aim in life. First of all, he must avoid just going

through the old drinking routine. The urge was there all right, to buy the cheapest illegal liquor and get

drunk in the afternoon. His headache, forgotten for almost half an hour, was returning... he could no

longer tell, whether it was withdrawal or the war injury that was the source. He stood there in the hot,

dusty street, people jostling by, fingering his forehead, fighting the old numb thirst for booze, looking

around with unseeing eyes. He moved his right tentacle toward his jaw, and wondered what had

happened to his stubble... his jaw had never felt so large and smooth... The headache grew stronger - he

groaned with pain, squinting - and the blue-green waves roared crashing through the street. As he

crouched, he saw his feet: flat, long, and gray, making little flapping sounds as he staggered through the

wet, white sand. His gaze shot upward. The sun turned green (natural or filtered through the

atmosphere?), outshining its tiny white companion star. He opened his mouth and screamed. "Gnnh…

chiskr-r-r... chiskr-r-r... chis chiptl mmer-r-r-lleee!!" The soldier collapsed in the street. The passing

citizens stared at the fallen Westerner, amazed at his inhuman gibberish. A few men rushed out of the café

and leaned down to see what had happened. The soldier lay unconscious but seemingly in turmoil - his

arms and legs made strange, almost undulating movements, as if he attempted to dance. Or swim. "He's

having an epileptic fit," one of the café-goers said. "Get this man to the American military hospital.

Hurry!" A pen was wedged between the soldier's jaws; the café owner called for a taxi on his cellular

phone. Within a minute, the men could carry the soldier into the passenger seat. He had ceased moving

now, and lay limp in the seat as the car drove him through the streets of the city.

Chapter Two

Astrophysics professor Carl Sayers stirred from an uneasy sleep; after a moment's confusion, he got his

bearings. He had dozed off in his guest office at the JPL headquarters. Back at the old JPL

atPasadena,California , he mused - all the old days spent here, designing space probes, following their

orbits through the Solar System, paying off at last. Someone knocked on the door; he shouted at the

caller to come in. "Did I wake you up?" asked biologist-anthropologist Ann Meadbouré as she entered

the provisional office. He recognized her slight, crisp French accent from the phone. Carl made a

sleepy-sly face as he straightened in his armchair, yawning. His own voice, when he answered, still

carried traces of the oldBrooklyn accent: "Hi, Ann... question is, why didn't you wake me when you

arrived?" The younger woman smiled; she was still carrying the bag with the airline tags on it, but she had

arrived almost an hour before. "The staff were going to wake you up, but I told them you deserved some

rest. I'm rather tired myself, what with the flight fromSri Lanka ." Carl brightened up at mentioning of the

island. "How is Arthur doing now? I bet he wanted to follow you on this job." Ann slumped down on the

sofa next to Carl's desk. The office was one of several with a panoramic window overlooking the

command central, which was now crowded with scientists. A horde of journalists was camping outside

the building, and Ann had had to push and elbow her way past them. As they talked, Ann noticed some

other newcomers out in the command central. They waved at Ann, and she waved back. "Yes, he and

the rest of the world. But he's getting to be too old and sick for travel now. Poor Arthur! The first contact

is finally happening, and he can't board the space-shuttle to come and greet them." Carl groaned, holding

his gray, shaggy head between his hands. "Don't say it! I'm the one who wrote that stupid book about a

first contact! And imagine... they, the Sirians, may have actually seen parts of the film on TV! I feel like

the greatest dork in the universe." Ann reached forward to pat his hand, but didn't quite reach it. "Don't

be so hard on yourself, Carl. I'm... I'm sure they haven't seen it. PityHollywood instead, with their

invasion movies." He chuckled, his face wrinkling into a sardonic grin. Carl was pushing sixty-five and

getting rather thin, but he still hadn’t lost the childish twinkle in his eye; the hawkish nose was yet instantly

recognizable. Carl Sayers' face had, through the years, become something of a public media icon -

especially in the last few years after Hollywood made a movie of his book about contact with aliens.

However, his lifelong commitment had never really changed. After the first excitement of the alien

message, he had cleared his head with new resolve: he would not let the greatest moment of his life turn

into a media circus. It was his long media experience plus his devotion that had made him the focus of the

recent events; as newly appointed head of NASA's Extraterrestrial Contact Team, he was determined to

keep the media at a strict distance from the aliens. Carl had insisted on bringing Ann Meadbouré to the

project, since she had shown a similar devotion and was a friend though he hadn’t seen much of her -

Arthur, the old SF writer and a mutual acquaintance, could vouch for her skilled research in

dolphin-human communication. Now their commitment would be put to the ultimate test - they would be

allowed to communicate with real-life aliens.

He stood up and shook hands with Ann, who gave him a hug. "I really appreciate that you would join

us," he began, hoping he didn't sound too friendly - Ann looked younger than her thirty-five years, and

was quite beautiful in a very French, elegant sense of the word. Her short-cropped blond hair framed her

symmetric features and clear gray eyes - they had been covered by ugly glasses the last time he had seen

her, but now she seemed to be wearing contact-lenses. "Don't be silly, Carl," she said with surprising

self-control in her voice, "I'm one of the lucky few and I know it. When do we all meet up?" "Please, Ann

- I must save my energy for the big briefing tomorrow. I know how hard it is to relax now. You know

what I did when NASA first called me about the alien transmission? I thought it was a damned joke and

hung up on them!"

Ann almost laughed as she rummaged through her bags for cigarettes, listening to Carl without looking at

him. "It seemed like a joke then, because I thought such a huge transmitter in space would show up in the

telescopes, years before it came this close! And intelligent life, more advanced than our own, coming

from a double-star system that is only one billion years old? It defies belief! Planets just plain can't hold

stable orbits in a double-star system for long enough that life can originate. Their planet would be thrown

out into the cold or swallowed by one of the two stars!" Ann couldn't remember the last time she had

seen Carl so upset. She said: "They must be thousands of years ahead of us, you know. Maybe they can

do things we can only dream of yet." She lit a cigarette and drew the poisonous, acrid smoke into her

lungs. Ann had quit weeks ago, saving a pack to test her willpower. The moment she had seen the Sirian

TV broadcast, she took up smoking again - the irony of which now escaped her somehow. She had to

work constantly to keep her outer persona cool and detached, to control the threatening confusion and

chaos building up inside her head... The older scientist paused, paced in no particular direction, stopping

at the window. She thanked the god she didn’t believe in, that Carl didn’t notice how nervous she really

was. Carl's lined face, as he looked out at the command central outside, was reflected in the glass so that

Ann glimpsed the vast, exhausting awe he felt. He looked not happy, not sad, but overpowered...

mentally flattened. "No," he said, voice husky with exertion. "Tens of thousands, perhaps even a hundred

thousand years ahead. They can understand us, the way we understand monkeys. Question is... how can

we possibly understand them, or even be sure we do?" Carl frowned. A half-conscious thought that had

begun when he saw Ann up close, suddenly cleared. She had made herself prettier not for him, not for

the other scientists - but for the aliens. Ceremony, he had forgotten ceremony. If they should all dress up

for the occasion? "Isn’t your wife here?” Ann asked - Carl’s wife usually worked close to him, them both

being scientists and devoted to each other as well as their work. Carl explained, a little awkwardly: "We,

uh, decided that one of us should stay behind with the family, just in case there was a danger of exposure

to alien microbes." It was the truth, yet he feared people would misinterpret it. Then the phone rang, and

all of a sudden Carl had a million other things to deal with.

DAY 2

The next morning, the newly-formed ECT gathered in the lab’s Von Karman Auditorium for their first

big meeting: a dozen people, mostly astronomers and specialists in the fields of biology and spaceflight.

Also present at the meeting were the NASA chief, the U.S. Air Force Joint Chief Of Staff, the Vice

President, and the head of the National Security Council. All three visitors sat in the background and

kept silent, perhaps out of insecurity in the new situation; they listened intently to what the team had to

say. A cameraman from the White House was filming the entire meeting, so that the President and the

U.N. Security Council could follow it from the United Nations Headquarters in New York. Other guests

connected via the camera link were various scientists, NASA staff, and Ann's friend Arthur back in Sri

Lanka. Carl Sayers, standing at the conference room's small lectern, introduced the people present and

made some formal notices about discretion - then he went on to his main speech. "I assume that you have

seen the Sirian message already; it's all over the world, and they will surely keep repeating it until we

respond. Well, as we speak the President and the U.N. Security Council are discussing the next step. I'm

pretty sure most heads of state are eager to get their hands on alien technology, so they won't refuse the

Sirians a visit altogether. "Now, NASA's preliminary plan is as follows. First, we establish a certain

frequency and stick to it, so that the aliens... er, Sirians are clear about who they should listen to -

remember, almost anyone can send something they might receive with their big disk! "Then we send a

radio message on several frequencies, making it clear that they are welcome - as long as we decide the

conditions of their visit. They must not spread alien microorganisms or other uncontrollable life forms into

our system, so personal contact will be difficult. I assume we can work something out, or that the Sirians

have some kind of solution... "The first close encounter will have to take place on neutral ground: close

enough to make it soon, but not too close to Earth. I have suggested the surface of the Moon, and the

President has declared his support of the idea." He nodded toward the camera, and flashed a quick

smile. "Now, who will be the first to meet the Sirian envoy in person? Not me, I'm afraid..." The scientists

laughed, greatly relieved by the joke at such a time. "It will in all likelihood be an American astronaut,

shuttled over from our space station, who will be appointed Earth Ambassador. A great honor. "The

Sirians have mentioned a first, personal meeting in their message, but they weren't precise about the

conditions. How should the initial communication proceed? We don't know. Can they speak our

language, since they have taped our own TV and radio broadcasts since at least the 1950s? We don't

know. Do they have complex rules of conduct, which we must learn before we can risk a close

encounter? We don't know. Should we hold them off as long as possible, and stick to

telecommunication? We don't know. And, of course, how many of them are there on that mothership?

We don’t know." A scientist on the second row couldn't contain his thoughts. "What if someone outside

NASA gets to hold the meeting first, or... or tries to intervene?" he asked. Carl Sayers gave the anxious

caller a grave stare. "Remember that the President, and the entire U.N. Security Council, is watching this.

There is an exceedingly small risk that some rogue state - we shouldn't be pointing fingers here - is

planning a pre-emptive missile strike on the Sirians. I should warn anyone with such ideas, that the Sirians

may expect to be attacked. Don't forget, they have seen our TV. They know what we are capable of, so

they shouldn't come here defenseless..." An uncomfortable moment came over the people in the room, a

sense of collective shame. For all its supposed intelligence, mankind had until now dismissed the idea that

they were being overheard by beings of a superior civilization. Unless the content of the world's TV

broadcasts had been censored overnight, images of war, starvation, crime and pornography were yet

available to the Sirian receiver-transmitter disk. Ann Meadbouré, the anthropologist, broke the silence.

"There is no reason for panic," she told the assembly, standing up. "Everything in the Sirian message and

behavior is non-violent. They act like scientists, they come only to study - not to interfere, or to build

permanent settlements, or form alliances, or in any way judge us. There is no..." She hesitated

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