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I said nothing.
"You are a writer," Toby-alien said.
I was surprised by this approach. I don't know what I had been expecting, but
I certainly hadn't anticipated this. "No."
"You've written a book."
"One book. That doesn't make me a writer."
"Nevertheless, you can write. You can put these curious little symbols down on
paper, order your ideas, convey your impressions and emotions to others of
your kind."
Reluctantly, I said, "Yes."
"And perhaps to us."
"You killed my wife."
"That is beside the point."
"It is the point."
The alien's mandibles worked furiously, and its amber eyes regarded me with
unknowable intent. Through Toby he said: "We cannot know what you are thinking
by stepping into your mind. Your fear is so intense it blocks out your
thoughts. But we want to know what you perceive of your existence and of the
universe. We want to understand what evolu tionary level you represent.
Therefore, we wish you . to put your thoughts into writing. We will read the
writing through the eyes of your son and interpret your worthiness from the
content thereof."
"My worthiness?" I said.
"You will write another book."
"About what?"
"You will write about us, about all that has hap pened here at Timberlake Farm
during the last sev eral days," Toby-alien said. "Then we will learn how you
perceive us, and we will be able to put this affair in the proper
perspective."
"No."
"No?"
"I won't write a book."
"You will write a book."
"You killed my wife."
"What does that matter?"
"Are you crazy?"
"We do not understand the concept of mental instability."
"Because you're all crazy and you have nothing sane to compare yourselves to,"
I said.
"You will write a book," Toby-alien said, and as he spoke he began to twitch.
Spittle bubbled at the corners of his mouth.
"What are you doing to him?" I demanded.
"Nothing," the alien said through the boy. "But we find it difficult to use
even a child. Such a strange species. He resists my thought control, and from
time to time he throws fits much like those people you call epileptics."
"If I write the book, will you let Toby and me live? Will you go away from
this world?"
"You will write a book."
"I need that promise."
"You will write a book."
As Toby began to twitch even more violently, I surrendered. "Okay. I'll write
the book. I'll put it all down in print. Just don't torture the boy."
"I am not torturing him. This spasm is simply an uncontrollable psychological
reaction to my presence in his mind."
"You say you're using him as a tool for communi cation-but you're not speaking
with his vocabulary."
"For the brief moments we were in your mind, your wife's mind, and the minds
of the Johnsons, we absorbed all of your language. The boy is not a
dictionary, just a translator and loud speaker."
"You killed the Johnsons."
"That does not matter."
"For God's sake!"
"Death does not matter."
"It's all that matters."
"Curious."
"I'll write the book," I said, slumping back in the chair.
"In three earth days."
"I can do it," I said. "I won't worry about style or grammar or punctuation.
I'll just get the raw emo tion down, the emotion and the fact."
"You will write a book."
"My typewriter is an electric model," I said. And then I realized that the
lights were on. Not the heat, of course, for they couldn't tolerate it. But
that would be turned on after they left.
"We have repaired the generator. Now we will leave you to your work."
They took Toby with them when they left. I watched them until they disappeared
into the woods. Would I ever see him again?
On my way back to the den, I passed a photograph of Connie. It was in a silver
frame on top of the piano. She played the piano well; I could almost hear her
music. And the sight of her face was like a punch in the stomach. I doubled
over and went to my knees and wept loudly.
Death is not mutable.
Death is not beatable.
Death is not cheatable.
Death is not a joke.
Death is real and final.
But the world is a madhouse.
Remember that. Don't take it seriously.
I don't know how long I remained on my knees, my head on the floor, weeping. A
long time. Perhaps hours. When I finally got up, my chest ached and my throat
was sore and my eyes burned.
But when I did get up I went into the den and rolled a sheet of paper into the
typewriter. I would write the book. Somehow, I would hold myself to gether
long enough to write the book. Connie was gone forever. But Toby was still
alive. There was not much chance that they would let me have him or that they
would let us live, but I had to hold onto even the frailest thread of hope.
And so I kept tell ing myself: If you write the book, maybe you'll save
yourself and Toby. And so I began to type.
26.
It's finished.
In three days I have written one hundred and eighty manuscript pages, and I am
burnt out. I slept only one night out of three and took perhaps four or five
one-hour naps. I have gotten through this ordeal with the aid of a fifth of
Wild Turkey bourbon, a box of No-Doz caffeine tablets, and several bennies
(prescribed for me in the days when I suffered bouts of lethargy and
depression, just after I got out of the sanitarium). Bourbon, caffeine, and
speed: that is not a good combination, not good at all. I stagger when I walk,
and I can't think clearly any more.
But it's finished.
I will get up from this desk in a few minutes and go into the living room and
sit down to wait for them. Somehow they will know that the book is written.
What they expect to learn from it, I do not under stand. It is obvious to me
that our races are so ter ribly different-physiologically and psychologically-
that no one book, no one man's explanations can ever bridge the gulf between
us. They will study the text I have prepared, will be puzzled by it-and then,
will they kill us?
It's finished.
Now let's finish the rest of it.
Come on, you bastards.
EPILOGUE
Some time during my lonely vigil I fell asleep on the couch. I didn't dream.
But when I woke up, muttering to myself and wiping imaginary cobwebs from my
face, there were two nightmares in the liv ing room with me: two of the aliens
stood before me with Toby between them.
The air was chilly. They had turned off the heat ing system long before they'd
entered the house. I shivered uncontrollably.
I sat up and rubbed at my eyes and grimaced at the awful taste in my mouth.
"It's finished," I told them.
As before they spoke to me through Toby. "We have read the manuscript."
"Already?"
"You have slept for more than twelve hours."
"Oh." I stood up, no longer intimidated by them. My face was within inches of
one alien's clacking mandibles. "Have you learned anything from it?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"You would not understand."
"Try me."
"There are no concepts in your language-or mind."
"I see." But I didn't.
"Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Johnson cannot be re stored. That was a mistake of ours.
But he did kill one of us first," Toby-alien said.
Having a bit of trouble adjusting to the sudden change of topics, I said,
"Well . . . What are you saying this for? Are you trying to absolve yourselves
of guilt?"
"We do not comprehend the concept of guilt," Toby-alien said. "We merely wish,
for whatever rea sons, to set the record straight."
"Why are you on earth?"
"You could not understand."
"Why did you kill the horses-and strip them of flesh?"
"You have no concept of our motivations or purposes-and we barely understand
the bizarre behavior you display."
I was getting nowhere fast, but the questions came compulsively. "Did you
understand, at the start, that we were intelligent creatures?"
"We don't believe you are intelligent creatures," Toby-alien said as mandibles
rattled noisily on both sides of him.
"What?"
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