Later, in 2014, I mentioned that I was working on a 20,000 word story that was originally called the Sessily Trilogy. In 2016, I called that story "The Dead Widower Society"; another type of First Contact story in which it is discovered that an alien has secretly been living on Earth. I had been "saving" that story for possible inclusion in A Search Beyond, but during the past six months I went in another direction. The first part of the "Sessily Trilogy" is below, on this page.
The Case of the Arlesheim Elf
The publicity stunt that revealed the Elf's existence was designed to conceal another, deeper mystery, so there are two layers to this story. For reasons that will become clear, I question the wisdom of publishing this account of how Isaac Asimov exposed the secrets of the Arlesheim Elf and the last alien on Earth. However, Noah asked that I publish this now. How could I reject the request of such a famous biblical figure in his time of need?
I
first heard about the Arlesheim Elf while driving through the Rocky
Mountains on my usual long-haul run. I'd been working as a truck
driver ever since giving up alien-derived nanite components of my endosymbiont. The radio was a
welcome distraction from the turmoil of my thoughts which otherwise
would turn to my troubles with the women I was dating, one lady in
each city at the two ends of my route.
After
listening to news reports about the Elf, I decided that I had to fly
to Europe. Immediately. I drove to the nearest airport and spent my
debit card account down to $23.17 by paying for airline tickets and a
one night hotel reservation in Switzerland. I knew that by abandoning
my loaded truck at the airport I'd never again get work as a driver.
The Mission Collaborators |
A few
disreputable web publications suggested that a living member of Homo
floresiensis had been found in
Switzerland, but the sensationalistic theories collapsed quickly
under their own weight and were swept out of the next day's news
cycle. Reporting quickly shifted from speculation about the Elf to
news stories about cases of Ebola virus infection spreading out of
Africa.
Stalking Asimov |
While
driving to the airport, I tried to understand why the unconscious
part of my mind had linked the Elf to old memories of Asimov. I
already knew that Isaac Asimov, as a time traveler, had played an
important role in creating our universe. As I would soon learn, he
continues to help the people of Earth struggle towards the stars.
My
personal interactions with Asimov began many years ago when I was
quite young. Thinking back over my many interactions with the good
doctor, I well remember something he said to me when I met him at a
science fiction convention in 1977. One short sentence that was so
pregnant with meaning.
At
the convention, Asimov and I were in a small group of writers and
fans discussing great science fiction authors. Mention was made of
Robert Heinlein's fictional character Lazarus Long, a long-lived
product of selective breeding and rejuvenation treatments.
I was
desperately trying to say something provocative that would attract
Asimov's attention. I'd read much of Asimov's published work
including his guide to the Bible. I suggested (rather jokingly) that
long-lived biblical figures like Noah must have been genetically
engineered to have long life spans.
Asimov
looked at me and seemed to focus his eyes on my face for the first
time. He said, "Space travel and long lives naturally go
hand-in-hand."
1977
was the year when the Cambridge City Council in Massachusetts was
trying to ban recombinant DNA research. The people of Earth were just
starting to think about genetic engineering, but Asimov was already
imagining ways to alter our genes and create newly designed versions
of human beings.
A
typical science fiction fan, upon hearing Asimov's statement, most
likely would have suspected that Asimov was alluding to his own
stories about the "Spacers", humans of the not too distant
future who he had described as having long lives and living on the
"Spacer worlds" several dozen light years from Earth. The
free wheeling group conversation that day in 1977 quickly moved on to
other topics, but Asimov's words had triggered in my mind thoughts
about Asimov's past, thoughts that arose from a bundle of
nanite-generated memories that had been implanted in my brain.
Overseers |
The
memory nanites in my brain were from our previous Reality, an
alternate version of the universe, now lost in Deep Time. The Asimov
of our current Reality had never been abducted by aliens and had
never encountered a dying positronic robot desperate to insert its
memory nanites into a new host body. Still, our
Asimov seemed to have uncanny (theoretical?) insight into genetic
modifications of the human organism that, unbeknownst to him, aliens
had already long ago experimented with.
Eventually,
when I got to know him better, I provoked Asimov into assuming that I
was delusional. I told him some of the secret history of Earth,
including the fact that humans were artificially crafted and brought
into being by aliens. Sadly, Asimov thought I was a UFO-crazed loony.
The Asimov of this Reality was an innocent earthling until I
needlessly involved him in other-worldly affairs.
Asterothropes |
She
admitted that as an Asterothrope she expected to live considerably
longer than the typical Earth human, but Asterothrope females tended
to "wear out" quickly under the strain of their designed
function, which was having many children. However, she did tell me
that an Asterothrope hermaphrodite might live as long as a thousand
years.
My
mother was 43 when she arrived by time travel in the 20th century
where she lived about 90 years and had four children. Two of those
children were born in the previous Reality and two in this Reality,
her last pregnancy coming when she was at least 85 years old.
Thomas' mother travels into the past |
I
mention all this because when I worked with Asimov on the case of the
Arlesheim Elf, he used techniques such as radiometric dating to
verify that the Elf is over 5,000 years old. The great age of the Elf
is only one of the wonderful discoveries that Asimov made while
investigating the alien physiology of the Elf. However, before I can
further unfold this story, and in order for you to understand how
Asimov was on hand and available to help solve the case, I must take
you even further back into Deep Time.
Reality Chain |
At
the point in Deep Time when I first saw Asimov, I did not realize
that I was talking to Dr. Asimov. He was disguised, having taken the
place of John Campbell as the editor of Astounding
magazine.
Asimov
had been sent on a time travel mission into his own past. Knowing the
date and cause of Campbell's early death, Asimov rightly decided that
there was a golden opportunity for his time-traveling self to assume
Campbell's editorial role at the most influential pulp science
fiction magazine of that time. In so doing, the time traveling "older
Asimov" became the mentor for his younger self and in that way
Asimov provided an early boost to his own writing career.
On
that day when I first met Asimov, I was still just a boy, a
precocious writer of science fiction stories. My parents had brought
me from our home in Wales to the sprawling metropolis of New York
City. In that Reality, the great city of New York was located in Virginia. My father dropped off my mother and I for a meeting in
Campbell's office. Dad then took my sister shopping and we all
planned to meet later for lunch at Katz's Delicatessen... but I must control my wandering thoughts, even if the Arlesheim elf is always connected in my mind to food and events in New York City.....
Cecilie
Flying
to Europe, on my quest to find the Elf, I had to change planes at JFK
airport in New York City. Walking through the JFK international
terminal, I was thinking about the years of my youth that I had spent
in New York City and how that city compared to the New York City of
this Reality. I was looking for a comfortable place to spend the rest
of my layover between flights when I turned a corner and spied a
small sign for "Ben's Deli".
elf phone |
The
entrance to the deli was almost hidden behind a big red and white
Swissair advertising poster. Inside the restaurant, I felt
transported back to the 1950s. There wasn't a single computer or cell
phone in sight, just people seated, eating and chatting at the small
tables. A waitress immediately guided me to a chair. She said,
"Sorry, but we're busy, as usual. I can squeeze you in over
here. What's your name, sir?"
Judging
by her accent, it sounded like the waitress was from New Zealand or
possibly Australia. Just for amusement, I let my Welsh background
tinge my own speech and I replied, "Thomas."
The
waitress spoke briskly to a young woman sitting at a small round
table for two that was positioned over next to a window providing a
view towards the sea. "This gentleman is Thomas. Thank you for
sharing the table." She asked me, "Drink?"
Pharism |
I ordered tea and sat down. The woman said, "I'm Cecilie." She had been reading a book which she set down on the table. She was just a wisp of a girl, weighing only about half as much as I. The title of the book was Pharism: Alastor 458.
Cecilie
casually asked, "Where are you off to?"
I was
too startled by the book to reply in a civil manner. I demanded,
"Where did you get that book?"
She
tapped a finger on the book and giggled, "Strange you should
ask. It’s a gift from a friend, part of a six book series,
actually."
For a
moment my head seemed to spin and I flashed back to my bad old days
when I had to struggle to distinguish reality from nanite-generated
memories. In the previous Reality there had been a book called
Pharism: Alastor 458,
but no such book existed in this Reality -or so I thought. In this
version of the universe, the Alastor Cluster series includes only
three short novels. I closed my eyes and massaged my brow. I
wondered: had another Reality Change occurred?
With
concern in her voice, Cecilie asked, "Are you alright?"
I
forced my eyes open and tried to smile, "I just haven't slept
for two days...I'm fine." Cecilie looked as if she did not
believe I was fine.
The
waitress returned with my tea and a turkey sandwich for Cecilie. I
ordered a sandwich for myself and said to Cecilie, "Please,
eat."
She
gazed out the window at the pale light of that fall evening and said,
"I'm in no hurry."
I
sipped the tea and said, "To answer your question, I'm on my way
to Europe."
She
said, "As am I. I'm to cover this Elf nonsense."
I
asked, "You're a reporter?"
"I
work for the Port Jefferson Echo.
Usually I write reviews of books and theatrical events, but I grabbed
this opportunity to get some paid vacation in Switzerland." We
quickly confirmed that we would be on the same flight to Europe.
I had
not eaten more than a small bag of nuts in over twenty hours and
Cecilie noticed me looking at her sandwich. She pushed the plate
towards me, "Go ahead and eat. We ordered the same thing."
"Thanks,
I've been on the run all day." For a minute we both ate. She
gazed again out the window and thoughtfully chewed on a dill pickle.
The
waitress brought my sandwich and there was not enough room on the
small table for the second plate until I picked up Cecilie's book. I
could not resist looking inside. She asked, "Are you a Vance
fan?"
I
nodded, "Very much so." Reading, I discovered that this
version of Pharism
did not contain exactly the same story as the book of that name that
had existed in the previous Reality. However, the writing in this
book was clearly in Vance's distinctive prose style.
Cecilie
let me read for a few pages then she asked, "I don't mean to pry
into your personal affairs, but why are you going to Switzerland?"
I
handed the book to her and she tucked it away in the pocket of her
jacket. Struggling to find a good way to explain my interest in the
Elf, I started talking about my past.
When
I was a young boy, my father thought that my obsessive writing of
science fiction stories was a silly waste of time. However, my mother
fully supported my artistic endeavors.
Miners of Earth |
Due
to an indiscretion of Campbell's wife (before she learned that she
much preferred living with her "new husband"),
Asimov/Campbell had attracted the suspicions of Overseers, so there
was an Observer robot stationed on Earth and specifically programmed
to keep watch over Asimov.
When
my mother and I showed up for our appointment with the man we knew as
Campbell, with my body carrying some of my mother's advanced
Asterothrope nanites, the Observer went into its pre-programmed
aggressive "cleanup mode". One of the jobs of Observers is
to vacuum up stray nanites that might have originated from
Interventionist agents operating illegally on Earth. Since I was a
hybrid and only half Asterothrope, I was not adequately skilled in
containing my swarm of nanites. The Observer robot detected my nanite
leak and sprang into action.
Before
I was aware of what was happening, the Observer robot and my mother
were engaged in a deadly battle while their nanorobotic swarms fought
for dominance. Of course, as an Asterothrope from the far future, my
mother's advanced nanites won that battle. However, my mother was
then in a hurry to flee Campbell's office, knowing that an Overseer
had been summoned by the robot and trouble would soon arrive.
My
mother was, at that point in Deep Time, using the name Trysta Iwedon,
the cover name she had used since arriving for her time travel
mission in the 20th century. Trysta was desperate to not leave behind
any clues about herself for possible Overseer analysis. She quickly
extracted all the nanites from the inactivated Observer robot. She
particularly wanted to obtain all the robot's nanites that might
carry memories.
During
the battle of nanites, both that humaniform Observer robot and
Asimov/Campbell had collapsed and fallen to the floor. I myself had
been dazed by the initial wave of nanites sent into my body by the
attacking robot, but Trysta had been able to protect me from serious
harm.
During
their high speed but invisible struggle with the robot, Trysta's
nanorobotic probes made an interesting discovery. Sent out from
Trysta in "search mode", her hunting and seeking probes
detected an unexpected swarm of advanced nanites inside the body of
Asimov/Campbell. One of the jobs of those nanites was to provide
Asimov with his disguise: the physical appearance and voice pattern
of the former editor of Astounding,
the long-dead Campbell. Trysta faced the problem of how to quickly
contain, preserve and carry away all the memory nanites that she
collected from both the robot and Asimov.
Her
solution was to slip those nanites into my body and hope that I could
slink away unnoticed while she drew the attention of any Overseers
who might respond to the distress signal that had gone out from the
Observer robot. With no time for goodbyes and just a few seconds to
arrange a point of rendezvous, I was sent off on my own into the
wilds of New York with Trysta expecting to rejoin me later that day.
Things did not go as planned.
At
that point in my autobiographical story, we heard the boarding call
for our flight to Switzerland. Cecilie said, "Let me pay for
that amazing story." She paid for both of our meals and, since I
wanted to save my $23.17 for use as spending money in Switzerland, I
gave her no argument.
We
went to our gate and were soon boarding our flight. I heard a ticket
agent call Cecilie "Ms. Vedra". I found my seat and stowed
my small bag in the overhead compartment. It was now dark outside and
I slumped against the bulkhead in exhaustion, looking out the window
at the lights of the airport. I might have quickly fallen asleep, but
I sat there puzzling over the inexplicable existence a Cecilie, with
her name identical to that of a fictional character from a Vance
novel popped out of Deep Time, her physical appearance matching that
of the fictional character, and, adding insult to injury, I'd found
her carrying a copy of a second Vance novel from Deep Time. Worried
that I was in some odd time warp, I found it impossible to sleep.
During
a departure delay, I was not entirely surprised when Cecilie sat
herself down in the seat next to mine. She asked, "So, what
happened after you were separated from your parents?" With her
sparkling eyes fixed upon me, I continued with the story of my great
adventure in New York City.
After
leaving Campbell's office and separating from Trysta, I did not see
my mother again for many years. An Overseer had responded quickly to
the Observer robot's distress signal. Trysta first led the Overseer
away from me then she used her shape-shifting ability to help make
possible a narrow escape from New York City. I was left behind, on my
own in the big city.
During
the critical phase of Trysta's desperate attempt to escape, my father
gave himself up to the Overseers as a sacrificial decoy, allowing
Trysta to slip out of the city. She took my sister off to their new
life, a life spent hiding in Australia. My father was taken as a
prisoner to the Moon.
My
young mind was nearly overwhelmed by the shock of absorbing all those
nanites that had for so long resided either inside Asimov or inside
an Observer robot. Now inside my brain, the nanites from Asimov and
those of the robot fought a battle for dominance. For a decade I was
shuffled through the public mental health hospitals of New York, not
really sure if I was the time traveling Isaac Asimov, an alien hybrid
boy named Thomas, or a robot from the Moon.
With
the help of a young doctor named Janet Jeppson, I slowly formed a new
functioning mind. Eventually I was able to leave behind my years as a
ward of the State of Virginia. When I began my new life, I was still
a story writer, but my nanite-ravaged mind preferred fantasy over
science fiction.
When
I began publishing my stories they attracted the attention of Trysta
who could recognize my writing style. By the time when we were
finally reunited, I had sorted through the memories that had been
carried into my mind by the nanites from Asimov and the robot. With
the help of those memory nanites, I already understood the basic
outline of Earth's secret history and I insisted that Trysta tell me
the truth about her own non-human biological nature.
Cecilie
interrupted me and said, "I wonder if I've ever read any of your
stories. I don’t recall hearing of a book called Miners
of Earth." She asked, "Was
it ever published?"
For a
few minutes we were distracted by the routine of takeoff, then I
replied to Cecilie's question.
I
explained, "I wrote Miners of
Earth in another Reality, an
alternate timeline that I think of as the Ekcolir Reality, named in
honor of my biological father." For a moment I looked out the
window at the stars and tried to imagine where the artificial life
version of my long-dead father might be.
I
turned back to face Cecilie and for the tenth time I marveled at how
closely her appearance matched the description of Vance's character
named Cecilie Vedra. And how had Vance's novel Pharism
been slipped into the present Reality? Maybe there was only one
possible way Pharism
could exist in our universe: in the same way that I, if I chose to do
so, could resurrect my own novels from Deep Time and rewrite my own
books once again in this Reality. But even if the author of Pharism
had arrived from out of Deep Time and was now living in this Reality,
how could he possibly bring into existence a living version of a
fictional character?
Cecilie
said, "You're a fun story teller, Thomas. You make me want to
believe in the existence of alternate Realities." She reached
out and gently placed her hand on my cheek. She asked, "Are you
too tired to continue?"
I
said nothing to Cecilie about my spinning thoughts and the mystery of
her own existence. Collecting my wits, I continued with my story
about events in the Ekcolir Reality.
By
the point in the Ekcolir Reality when my mother finally found me, her
expectations for me and the future course of my life had changed. By
using advanced alien technology that allowed her to view the future,
Trysta had seen the role that I would play in the next and Final Reality of Earth. She told me nothing about my future, but for the
first time she spoke openly to me about her mysterious past (which,
through the wonders of time travel, actually took place far in the
future).
I was
not entirely surprised to learn that my mother was a member of a
non-human species, the Asterothropes. I had grown up with constant
exposure to some nanite-assisted telepathic contact with Trysta's
mind, although information mostly flowed from her conscious mind into
the unconscious part of my brain.
From
a very early age I knew that my mother kept secrets, not the least of
which was the identity of my father. I grew up having to call my
biological father "Uncle Bill". That was a good deal: I had
two great fathers.
My
biological father's real name was Ekcolir and he was an Ek'col. The
Ek'col are a special human variant that had been designed and crafted
to be inter-fertile with Trysta. The Ek'col are part human, crafted
as a special mixture of human, Asterothrope and Preland genes.
I now
finally arrive in this story at my introduction of the mysterious
Prelands. As we flew across the Atlantic, Cecilie continued listening
to my account with bemused good humor. As a boy, I was often praised
for my imagination and creativity. As an adult, things changed, and
I've often been viewed as a delusional crank. Judging by the looks of
surprise and amusement that alternately swept across her face while
she listened to my story, Cecilie seemed to be struggling to decide
if I should be humored or shunned as a possibly dangerous hospital
escapee with serious mental health problems.
I
explained to Cecilie that about seven million years ago, some
primates were taken off of Earth and domesticated on worlds of the
galactic core. That domesticated ape tribe was forced through an
artificial selection process which resulted in rapid evolution and
the first steps towards producing a new primate species, the
Prelands.
The
meddling Nereid Interventionists were made use of as the means to
keep a constant stream of Preland gene combinations flowing back to
Earth from the galactic core. Eventually that gene flow and the harsh
consequences of natural selection that were enforced by the
environment of Earth resulted in the appearance of the human species.
In a sense, humans are a tentative, wannabe variety of Preland.
By
the time when the human species arose on Earth, the Prelands were a
distinct species (more accurately, given their diversity on multiple
worlds of the Core, a new primate clade). Prelands are quite
different from any creature that has ever evolved on Earth.
As
hermaphrodites, Preland reproductive physiology has been extensively
modified and altered from the original mammalian pattern. The alien
beings who designed and crafted the Prelands had a long-range plan
for Earth. Their plan was to maintain the relentless flow of Preland
gene combinations being sent to Earth. Had that process continued
unabated, eventually humans would have been slowly transformed into a
new type of Preland, hermaphroditic, mute, telepathic and adapted to
the purposes of the alien Huaoshy.
Observer Base |
At
that point in my tale, I paused and Cecilie thought that my story was
over. I could have gone on, sharing more of Earth's secret history,
but I was dead tired. She asked, "Thomas, how much of this crazy
story is true?" I shrugged and tried to drift off into sleep.
I was
two years into my retirement, two years during which I'd been trying
to forget about the secret history of Earth and learning to live like
a normal earthling. However, I could not ignore the existence of the
Elf. First Contact with the Buld had been a bust: most of the
population of Earth had completely failed to notice that momentous
event. During that flight to Europe I kept imagining the possibility
that the Elf might finally provide earthlings with convincing
evidence of alien visitors on this planet.
Why
had Cecilie suddenly appeared out of Deep Time? Was it possible that
what the world needed was a trained newspaper writer, a professional
communicator, someone who could expertly explain to earthlings the
facts about how alien beings have crafted our species and influenced
the course of human civilization?
I was
very tired and I wanted to sleep but my eyes popped open. Cecilie was
still watching me. I asked, "Are you going to tell me where you
got that book, Pharism?"
She
explained, "My boy friend gave me the whole six volume Alastor
set as a birthday present. But he was almost as weird about it as you
are. Apparently he was surprised to find it available online."
She gave a delicate shrug and reclined her seat back.
I
looked around the cabin and saw that almost everyone was trying to
sleep. I wished that I could have drifted off, but my mind was
swirling with thoughts of Vance and Asimov and the strange
borderlands between alternate Realities and between reality and
fiction. What was I to think of Cecilie Vedra, a flesh and blood
woman in this Reality who had the name and physical features of a
fictional Vance character from Deep Time? Could a fictional character
in a past Reality be brought into existence by a Reality Change? I
resisted the temptation I felt for telling Cecilie that a character
in a Vance novel of the Ekcolir Reality shared her name. I sat there
spinning hypotheses about how time travel might explain the
appearance of the Vance novel Pharism
in our Reality.
The Foundation Reality |
That
robot, a positronic robot, critically damaged in the spaceship
accident, sent its memory nanites into Asimov's brain. That chance
event, a case of Asimov being in the wrong place at the wrong time,
led to his becoming a time traveler. But that is another story that
has already been told elsewhere. I believe that time travel is no
longer possible in our present Reality, so I'll leave the twisty time
travel details out of this story.
Suffice
it to say, when I reached Arlesheim, I said goodbye to Cecilie and
almost immediately ran into Isaac Asimov. We had both booked a room
at Hotel Coop Tagungszentrum in Muttenz, not far from the
headquarters of Space Energy Missions where the "elf" had
been found.
Asimov
noticed me and he breezily said, "Long time no see, Thomas."
It
was a bit of a shock for me when I turned and saw who had spoken to
me in New York-tainted English. Isaac Asimov had tragically died some
20 years previously, but the Asimov there before me looked like a
young man of 25. My first guess was that I had encountered a time
traveling incarnation of Asimov, but that was not the case.
Asimov
stood to the side while I finished checking into the hotel then he
took my room key, handed it to a porter and told her to take my bag
to my room. Being Asimov, he also had to tell the pretty girl to stop
by his room later in the evening so that she could have her chance to
spend some time with the most fascinating man then on Earth.
Something
in the way he said "then on Earth" triggered alarms in my
mind, but he was rushing me out the door to his car. As he began to
drive he said, "I assume you want to hitch a ride with me out to
Space Energy Missions."
I
soon was in fear of death when I observed how poor a driver Asimov
is. In the first minute of our ride we narrowly avoided several
collisions. After buckling into my passenger restraint system and
while holding on for dear life, I finally found my tongue and
muttered, "According to your autobiography, when you move to
Boston you will learn how to drive."
Asimov
laughed and said, "Been there, done that. With the swarms of
medical nanites that I now carry in my body, I've lost my fear of
driving." Asimov was rapidly taking us out of town and up into
the hills.
I
could well believe That Asimov lacked fear as he sped along, seeming
not to care about the painted line that was there, dividing the
winding road into two sides. I had to say, "I'm surprised, and
somewhat terrified, to see you."
He
nodded knowingly, "Of course, of course, but let's not talk
about me." He got right to the point. "What do you make of
this mysterious Arlesheim Elf? There is a truly inspired article in
this morning's Le News
comparing the Elf to Frankenstein's monster."
Unwilling
to give voice to the confused speculations that swirled in my
thoughts, I simply replied, "I'm in the dark. I don't trust
anything I've heard from the press. Based on the garbled descriptions
of the Elf, I suspect it is an alien, not a monster."
Asimov
gave a brief nod. "Lucky for us, I have access to reliable
information. The police will soon end the media circus and move the
Elf safely out of range of the television cameras. The police raid
will take place soon and they plan to secretly transfer the Elf to
Witzwil."
I
asked, "Witzwill?"
"A
Swiss detention center." Asimov slowed the car as we approached
a police road block that was holding back a throng of reporters at
the entrance of a driveway that branched off from the highway. Asimov
honked the car's horn and moved through the milling reporters and
nosed right up to the police barricade. Cecilie was there, among the
other reporters. She seemed to look at me with dismay and I nodded to
her rather sheepishly.
Asimov
rolled down his window and flashed an ID card at the guards. The
barricade was opened up and we were waved on past.
It
took Asimov another minute to go up the long driveway and park the
car. The main office building loomed over us, a modernistic blob of
glass and steel that had long outraged local residents. The
architectural monstrosities that were the dozen or so buildings on
the Space Energy Missions campus had been tolerated, situated as they
are, out of town and mostly out of sight, because of the promise of
high-paying jobs. The company had gone out of business a few years
earlier when its top officers jumped onboard the Buld spaceship and
abandoned Earth. That had been the precipitating event leading to my
own retirement.
After
parking the car, Asimov pulled a heavy suitcase from the trunk then
we walked towards the Space Energy Missions main entrance.
As we
crossed the parking lot I asked, "How do you know what the
police have planned?" I later learned that Asimov had nanite
probes strategically positioned that constantly monitored the police
command center.
Before
Asimov could answer me, we were intercepted by a running policeman
who shouted, " Arrêt! Halt!"
Asimov
again held up his identification card and the police officer
immediately nodded and left us to ourselves. I asked, "Who are
you pretending to be?"
He
chuckled and showed me his fake I.D. "Agent Henderson of the
NSA." Avoiding the sliding doors, Asimov pushed through the
manual door that was set just to the right side of the main entrance.
Space Energy Missions had long been out of business so the power was
off and the building smelled of stale air and floor wax. Light
flooded in through the high atrium's windows.
Using
French, German and English, Asimov proceeded to talk his way past
more police officers and into the heart of the building. I tagged
along trying to look harmless. When we came up behind a soldier
laying in a dim corridor, a sharp shooter rifle there on the floor at
the ready, Asimov led me into an office. He went to the side bar and
opened a bottle of brandy, poured us each a glass and then he eased
into the soft chair behind the desk and threw his feet up on the
desk. After sniffing the brandy, he said, "We have time for a
chat."
I
settled into a chair and took several sips of the liquor while
various questions and ejaculations competed in my mind to gain
control of my speech centers. Finally I said, "You're mighty
spry for a man twenty years dead."
Asimov
sighed and heaved a mighty shrug. "My death was not as terminal
as my obituary might have led you to believe."
I
stammered, "So, you did die? You are dead?"
He
grimaced at my crude language. "I was duplicated while being
teleported, so I'm only half dead." Asimov jabbed himself in the
chest with a thumb, "This half is doing quite well. Deprived of
medical nanites, my lesser half had no chance to survive."
I'd
never known Asimov in his youth, so I felt like I was talking to a
photograph of the young Asimov before his meteoric rise to fame as a
writer and the later ghastly rise of his mutton chops. I commented,
"Spatially you seem like half the man you used to be and
temporally about one quarter of the age you must now be."
He
nodded and rubbed his naked chin. "I like being young. I
stupidly wasted my youth, but I'm making up for that now."
I
asked, "Nanites?"
"Yes,
nanites are the secret of my youthful appearance. And, to my
surprise, my nanite probes find you
to now be strangely naked and not a single alien nanite residing in your
body." His eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Are you my old
adversary? If you really are Thomas then what happened to your
special nanites?"
I was
saddened to hear myself referred to as an adversary. "You don't
recognize me?"
"When
I saw you, I deduced that you must be Thomas, but I've spent time
with Parthney and I know that in addition to him there have been many
other clones of Thomas. Are you Thomas or a clone impersonator of
Thomas?"
"I
am Thomas. I simply gave up my nanites."
"Well,
wait until old age catches you and then you'll regret not having
those nanites for their medical function, if nothing else. It is not
fun getting old."
I am
nervous about no longer having my own built-in medical repair system,
but I shrugged and said, "I'll always have my good Asterothrope
genes: I don't age quickly."
Asimov
swirled his glass and said, "I have one more personal question
for you. I'm not sure that I've ever seen the true and natural bodily
form of a Thomas clone. Are you male, hermaphrodite or best put in
some new hybrid category?"
I
shrugged. "I've also never seen a clone of me that had been
allowed to develop without developmental control nantites being present to sculpt the
bodily form. However, I'm male. Some of my clones have fathered
children, including Parthney."
Asimov
tried to continue his line of personal questions. "Why did you
never have any children?"
Only
a Kac'hin female could bear my children, and there were no Kac'hin on
Earth. I replied, "You've exceeded your limit on personal
questions. What makes you think I've never fathered any children?"
Asimov
chuckled, "Intuition.....I spent considerable time with Parthney
and you long ago acquainted me with your writing obsession. I'm
guessing that you, like Parthney, suffer from an innate dedication to
your art. Parthney is devoted to his music, but he also suffers from
having little interest in the fairer sex."
"Suffers?"
Asimov
nodded. "I suspect you have the same problem."
I
suppose Asimov was correct, at least about the younger version of me
that he had known. One of the things I had tried to change since
getting rid of my nanites was in the area of relations with women. I
muttered, "I've been working to get over that."
Asimov
let that matter drop. "Speaking of children and good genes,
where is your lovely mother? I'd actually hoped she might show up
here. Instead, you returned to my life like a bad penny."
Knowledge
of Asimov's (allbeit an Asimov of an earlier Reality) lusty thoughts
about my mother was one of the first shocks I'd received upon
obtaining Asimov's memory nanites right after Trysta had transferred
them into me. Trying to ignore Asimov's attempts to irritate me, I
gave a simple reply to his question. "Her artificial life
analog, Syon, has gone off on a mission into outer space with Kach
and Parthney."
Asimov
slammed down his empty glass on the desk. "Damn! I was invited
by Many Sails
to go on that new voyage with Parthney. I might have agreed to go
along had I known that Syon would be onboard."
"Contain
your disappointment. She was escorted by Rilocke." Rilocke was
the adopted name used by Ekcolir once he'd entered into his second
life as an artificial life form.
Asimov
muttered, with sarcasm dripping, "Ah, so the star-crossed lovers
were finally reunited?"
"Indeed."
Although Asimov seemed not to want to talk about his own past
adventures in space, I could not contain my curiosity about how he
had spent the past 20 years. I asked, "So, you know Many
Sails?"
Just
then, there was the sound of a helicopter outside and Asimov looked
out the window. Briefly he surveyed the activity in the parking lot
then poured himself more brandy.
Asimov
turned back towards me and seemed to be reflecting upon his memories.
After a quiet pause he replied, "Upon being duplicated, this
half of me was sent to Klyz, in the galactic core. Eventually I met
up with Kach and Parthney and we went to the Andromeda galaxy aboard
the God Boat,
a sister ship of Many Sails.
When I finally returned to Earth, Many
Sails had completed her mission here.
By then I'd physically returned to my youth and I was reluctant to go
on another space trip and abandon the universe's largest collection
of young women, here on Earth."
I
could well imagine that Asimov would not have been able to resist
using advanced nanite technology to rejuvenate his body. Still, in
light of Asimov's healthy ego, one mystery remained. "Why do you
keep your return to Earth a secret?"
Asimov
explained, "I thought about publicly announcing my return, but
first I consulted with my family. Why bring a flood of unwelcome
press attention upon them? So, I started a new writing career, mostly
centered on mystery stories." The sound of a siren came from
outside. Asimov briefly looked through the window and glanced out
into the parking lot. Again seeing nothing that provoked his concern,
he turned his attention back to me and he asked, "What have you
been up to?"
I
tried to reply with a concise answer, "I'm trying to live as a
normal Earthling."
"Good
luck with that, after everything you've been through." It almost
sounded like he was sorry for me. He asked, "Do you still
write?"
I
explained, "When I gave up my nanites I lost my hypergraphic
compulsion."
"How
sad. I still love writing. In fact....." Asimov pulled out his
wallet and extracted from it a business card. He flipped me the card,
which in golden letters on a black background said: Dead Widower Society. On the back was a URL. Asimov continued, "I'm about to
publish-"
We
were interrupted by the sound of someone running down the corridor.
Asimov grabbed the suitcase and shouted, "Show time!" He
opened the office door, ran out into the hallway and continued
running on past the military sniper.
I
stepped out into the corridor. Reluctant to follow the charging
Asimov into a possible line of fire, I soon lost sight of him in the
dimly lit corridor.
I
tucked Asimov's business card into my pocket, wondering what the Dead
Widower Society was. I turned and went back along the hallway the way
we had come and made my way out of the building and back to Asimov's
car. A black helicopter rose from the roof of the building and zoomed
off into the sky, soon disappearing over the horizon.
A
minute later Asimov came strolling back to the car, still lugging the
heavy suitcase. He opened the back door and stowed the suitcase in on
the back seat.
I
strapped myself into the front passenger seat and Asimov drove out of
the parking lot and down the driveway. I asked, "What happened?"
Asimov
casually replied, "Thomas, meet Cyndir." He jerked his
thumb back over his shoulder.
I
looked at the back seat and saw a small humanoid alien: the Arlesheim
Elf.
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