“Aren’t you cold?” the hose man asked.
The boy shrugged and said nothing.
And that topic was dropped. “Yeah, this ship came a long ways,” the litter man reported. “I sure hope they didn’t mean to do this.”
“Do what?” asked his friend.
“Hurt people.”
Something here was wrong. Bloch looked back at the Buick and the sun, waiting to figure out what was bothering him. But it didn’t happen. Then he looked at the spaceship again. The shininess had vanished, the crust dull and opaque except where little lines caught the last of the day’s light.
Once again, Bloch started forward.
The two men told him to be careful, but then both of them walked beside the sixteen-year-old.
“Something’s happening,” the hose man said.
“It is,” his buddy agreed.
As if to prove them right, a chunk of the crust fell away, hitting the ground with a light ringing sound.
Bloch was suddenly alone.
Radio newscasters were talking about blackouts on the East Coast and citizens not panicking, and some crackly voice said that it was a beautiful night in Moscow, no lights working but ten centimeters of new snow shining under a cold crescent moon. Then a government voice interrupted the poetry. U.S. military units were on heightened alert, he said. Bloch thought of his brother as he knelt, gingerly touching the warm, glassy and almost weightless shard of blackened crust. Another two pieces fell free, one jagged fissure running between the holes. Probe or cannon ball or whatever, the object was beginning to shatter.
People retreated to where they felt safe, calling to the big boy who insisted on standing beside the visitor.
Bloch pushed his face inside the nearest gap.
A bright green eye looked out at him.
Swinging the sore elbow, Bloch shattered a very big piece of the featherweight egg case.
“Beautiful,” bystanders said. “Lovely.”
The screaming woman found a quieter voice. “Isn’t she sweet?” she asked. “What a darling.”
“She?” the hose man said doubtfully.
“Look at her,” the woman said. “Isn’t that a she?”
“Looks girlish to me,” the litter man agreed.
The alien body was dark gray and long and streamlined, slick to the eye like a finely-grained stone polished to where it shone in the reflected light. It seemed to be lying on its back. Complex appendages looked like meaty fins, but with fingers that managed to move, four hands clasping at the air and then at one another. The fluked tail could have been found on a dolphin, and the face would have been happy on a seal—a whiskerless round-faced seal with a huge mouth pulled into a magnificent grin. But half of the face and most of the animal’s character was focused on those two enormous eyes, round with iridescent green irises and perfect black pupils bright enough to reflect Bloch’s curious face.
The egg’s interior was lined with cables and odd machines and masses of golden fibers, and the alien was near the bottom, lying inside a ceramic bowl filled with a desiccated blood-colored gelatin. The body was too big for the bowl, and it moved slowly and stiffly, pressing against the bone-white sides.
“Stay back,” bystanders implored.
But as soon as people backed away, others pushed close, wrestling for the best view.
The screaming woman touched Bloch. “Did she say something?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“She wants to talk,” the woman insisted.
That seemed like a silly idea, and the boy nearly laughed. But that’s when the seal’s mouth opened and one plaintive word carried over the astonished crowd.
“Help,” the alien begged.
People fell silent.
Then from far away, a man’s voice shouted, “Hey, Bloch.”
A short portly figure was working his way through the crowd. Bloch hurried back to meet Mr. Rightly. His teacher was younger than he looked, bald and bearded with white in the whiskers. His big glasses needed a bigger nose to rest on, and he pushed the glasses against his face while staring at the egg and the backs of strangers. “I heard about the crash,” he said, smiling in a guarded way. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Did you see it come down?”
“No, but I heard it.”
“What’s inside?”
“The pilot, I think.”
“An alien?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Rightly was the perfect teacher for bright but easily disenchanted teenagers. A Masters in biology gave him credibility, and he was smarter than his degree. The man had an infectious humor and a pleasant voice, and Bloch would do almost anything for him, whether moving furniture after school or ushering him ahead to meet the ET.
“Come on, sir.”
Nobody in front of them felt shoved. Nobody was offended or tried to resist. But one after another, bodies felt themselves being set a couple feet to the side, and the big mannish child was past them, offering little apologies while a fellow in dark slacks and a wrinkled dress shirt walked close behind.
To the last row, Bloch said, “Please get back. We’ve got a scientist here.”
That was enough reason to surrender their places, if only barely.
The alien’s face had changed in the last moments. The smile remained, but the eyes were less bright. And the voice was weaker than before, quietly moaning one clear word.
“Dying.”
Mr. Rightly blinked in shock. “What did you just say?”
The creature watched them, saying nothing.
“Where did you come from?” the litter man asked.
The mouth opened, revealing yellow teeth rooted in wide pink gums. A broad tongue emerged, and the lower jaw worked against some pain that made the entire body spasm. Then again, with deep feeling, the alien said to everybody, “Help.”
“Can you breathe?” Mr. Right asked. Then he looked at Bloch, nervously yanking at the beard. What if they were watching the creature suffocate?
But then it made a simple request. “Water,” it said. “My life needs water, please, please.”
“Of course, of course,” said the screaming woman, her voice back to its comfortable volume. Everyone for half a block heard her declare, “She’s a beached whale. We need to get her in water.”
Murmurs of concern pushed through the crowd.
“Freshwater or salt,” Mr. Rightly asked.
Everybody fell silent. Everybody heard a creaking noise as one of the front paddle-arms extended, allowing the longest of the stubby, distinctly child-like fingers to point downhill, and then a feeble, pitiful voice said, “Hurry,” it said. “Help me, please. Please.”
Dozens of strangers fell into this unexpected task, this critical mercy. The hose man returned, eager to spray the alien as if watering roses. But the crashed ship was still warm on the outside, and what would water do to the machinery? Pender Slough was waiting at the bottom of the hill—a series of head-deep pools linked by slow, clay- infused runoff. With that goal in hand, the group fell into enthusiastic discussions about methods and priorities. Camps formed, each with its loudest expert as well as a person or two who tried making bridges with others. Mr. Rightly didn’t join any conversation. He stared at the alien, one hand coming up at regular intervals, pushing at the glasses that never quit trying to slide off the distracted face. Then he turned to the others, one hand held high. “Not
