Moonstruck. Part 19

Flickering flames, familiar surroundings, comfort food . . . she plopped back into her arm chair. Cultural force-feeding notwithstanding, she really did know her immersion in Krulchukor social structures and conventions was invaluable. It had to be, didn't it?

Think, woman.

She found a memory instead of a thought: Kyle dismissing her plot summaries as "Chick flicks on steroids." Real helpful.

Or was it?"It's only a movie." Those were among Swelk's first words to Kyle. Only a Krulchukor movie. A movie directed by Rualf, as were, supposedly, all the films Darlene had been lamenting. What sense did the coming apocalypse make as a Rualf film?

More, even, than Revenge of the Subconscious, the film in which humanity was unwillingly starring would have spectacular visual effects. Wide distribution of Galactic orbs finally made sense-no self-respecting Krulchukor movie could get by on explosions. It needed pathos. Heads of state and their orbs would be vaporized when the missiles. .h.i.t . . . but the troupe could continue scanning orbs in the countryside. Plenty of poignancy and social interest as chaos and fallout spread.

It was a stunning insight. s.h.i.+vering, Darlene reclaimed the afghan earlier cast aside. She knew there was something else here, some other implication waiting to be recognized.

When it finally came to her, she actually clapped her hands in glee. * * *

Britt was the product of old money and a multigenerational tradition of public service. His mother was a past national-society president of the DAR. A deep social chasm separated the landmark Arledge mansion from Darlene's humble home.

When enlightenment struck, well past midnight, she didn't hesitate to drive over. Time truly was of the

essence.

"It's all right, Bill," Britt told the Secret Service agent who answered her knock. Instead of the silk pajamas and velvet smoking jacket she'd envisioned, her host wore a plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt over cargo pants.

She must have looked surprised. "And I put them on one leg at a time."

He led her into a sitting room, then cut short her nervous visual search. "No orbs in the house. No

gadgets in this room that could possibly be tapped. Daily bug searches. What can I get you to drink?"

"Nothing, thanks." Darlene was glad he had a fire going. His burnt real logs. She stood by the hearth, arms outstretched to warm her hands. "You know that tea party we're planning for a few days from now?

"I think I know an easier way for the partygoers to get in."

CHAPTER 26.

Rualf rapped confidently at the cabin door behind which, he had good reason to suspect, the captain was asleep. One extremity of his raised limb held an ornately carved flask; a second extremity clasped matching goblets.

"What is it?" Grelben's voice was groggy and abrupt, as if to disprove the cinematic convention that all s.h.i.+ps' captains woke instantly.

"I have good news, Captain." Excellent news. Long-awaited news. "And some vintage k'vath to toast it."The door swung open. Grelben's posture of annoyance vanished as he noticed the near-legendary label on the bottle. "Come in."

"It has been a long road." Rualf carefully decanted two servings of the foaming green elixir. "Here is to the next road. To the road home, and wealth at our journey's end."

One eye widened in curious suspicion. "You seem to be leaving out a few details."

"May I use your computer?" Receiving a grunt of a.s.sent, Rualf continued. "Intercepts file for the American president. Conversation tagged 'almost there.' "

The hologram that leapt into being featured two familiar humans. The office where they met was, as if a

parody of Krulchukor perfection, oval in shape. "The President and his chief advisor. Watch."

"This must be held in absolute confidence, Britt," said the President. He sat behind a ma.s.sive desk, his image clearly captured by an orb. A scrolling ring of text interpreted the facial expression and stance as denoting extreme levels of tension and weariness. Swelk's artificially intelligent translation program continued to learn. "There's something I need done that requires the utmost discretion. You'll get lots of opposition, but I trust you to make it happen anyway."

"Of course, Mr. President."

The President waved one of his freakish upper limbs. The translator called the gesticulation dismissive.

"It's just us, Britt, and we've no time for formality."

"Fine, Harold. What is this about?" Curiosity and worry, speculated the text caption.

"Art and history. It's about culture. It's about preserving our heritage."

"I have to say, Harold, this is rather mysterious."

"Watch," interjected Rualf. "I could not have scripted this moment in a million years."

The President swiveled his chair to look out the window behind his desk. The orb lost its direct

view-but the leader's strong profile and haunted expression were captured perfectly in reflection on the gla.s.s. Behind and through that image could be seen a towering stone obelisk. Robeson's reflected chin trembled. "In a matter of days it all ends, Britt. The somewhat-sane Russians are losing control. The lunatics who are taking over will hit us with everything. We'll defend ourselves. Between us, we'll reduce it all to so much radioactive rubble.

"There must be something left to remember us by. Something to teach the survivors-if nuclear winter

doesn't kill everyone-that once we were great."

"Visually, that is just perfect." Rualf pointed into the hologram. "That tall monument, whatever it is. It reaches to the sky like a satiric symbol of the potential these poor ill-fated creatures did not live to

fulfill." He savored his use of the past tense, considering the humans' doom already determined.

The presidential aide had recoiled in shock, settled heavily into a chair, then recovered his wits. "What do you want me to do? What can I do?""Gather-very discreetly-some of our national treasures: art, archives, artifacts. Have it taken for safekeeping somewhere unlikely to be bombed." The President spun back towards his confidant. The interpretive subt.i.tle announced: great sadness. "But on the remote chance I'm too pessimistic, you mustdo this behind the scenes. Worse than the panic publicity would cause is the probable interpretation by the Russians. They could misinterpret that we were evacuating our cities in preparation for our own first strike. I don't want to goad them into launching."

Britt rocked in his chair. "There are always museum exhibits on tour between cities; some of those should be easy to waylay. And I've read that much of any museum's collection is not on display, but warehoused or in labs for study. It should be possible to quietly pack up and move some nonpublic parts of collections."

"That sounds excellent." The President's lips briefly curved upward. The translator advised: feigned good cheer. "Maybe a few of the most precious items on permanent exhibit, like the Const.i.tution and the Declaration of Independence, can be withdrawn under pretense of doing some restorative work."

"I'll do what I can, Harold."

"I depend on it, Britt."

"Freeze," commanded Rualf. "This is what was missing." To Grelben's puzzled gaze, he added, "It was

going to be a good film-but not artistic. Not important. Our audience had no reason yet to really care about the humans. But this . . . this striving against all odds for immortality. How can the audience not love that?"

Grelben grunted. "I leave such matters to you."

As you should. Keeping his self-approval to himself, Rualf struck a dramatic pose. "You know what would be even better?"

"What?"

"An ironic success. Imagine the F'thk rescuing a few human trinkets. I see the humans, as they die,

taking comfort that some of their artifacts have been removed from Earth to preserve their memory." Rualf was overcome with the majesty of his artistic vision. "I love it."

* * * In a tumultuous scene, the Krul heroine overcame her aspirations of personal fame. Her family embraced her. Credits rolled. Music swelled. At least Swelk called it music . . . the repertoire of the Krul's translation software did not extend to cross-species harmonic subst.i.tutions. Darlene's private description for the film's audio accompaniment was the enthusiastic stirring of a large bag of broken gla.s.s. The soprano counterpoint suggested that the mixing was performed with the bare limb of the musician.

Despite the predictability and aural a.s.sault, Darlene could not help but smile. In a flash of synergy, or serendipity, or gestalt, or epiphany, or . . . her insight was multicultural and by rights ought to be known by a hundred names. Earth had been plunged into danger to produce a film-and the filmmaker's artistic sensibilities would prove to be his undoing and Earth's salvation. There was a symmetry here that she couldn't get over. G.o.d bless these awful movies.

It would have been perfect to share her discovery with Kyle, but he was off helping strategize the upcoming attack on the maser satellites. It felt so good to know she was truly contributing. She could even watch the alien movies now without wincing.

As if reading Darlene's mind, Swelk asked, "What did you think of that show?"

"I enjoyed it," Darlene lied tactfully. Now could she un.o.btrusively redirect the discussion? She thought she saw an opening by which Swelk could validate her thinking. She wasn't after a sanity check so much as a fine-tuning. "I was taken with the emotional wealth of the final scene. It seems like Rualf likes to end all his films with an intense personal climax like that." Did the translator handle tones of voice?

Darlene didn't know, but just in case, she made an extra effort to sound casual. "Am I correct in remembering that we're watching a complete collection of his works?"

"So I was told." Blackie and Stripes dependably fled the vicinity of Krulchukor music. Now that the film was over, the kittens were back. Swelk, sunk deep into a beanbag chair, now devoted an entire limb to each pet. Each kitten was on its back, stomach bared, purring loudly at the ma.s.saging of nine digits.

"Rualf, unlike his heroine, continues to appreciate attention. I would be very surprised if he omitted any of his films. At the least, these must be the movies of which he is most satisfied. Why?"

"It occurred to me to wonder about the movie Rualf is now making. Worldwide ruin and destruction don't seem to give Rualf the type of ending he always goes for." Darlene strove for nonchalance. "I'm no expert on Krulchukor cinema, but it seems the new film is"-what term had she used with Britt? Oh yes-"dramatically deficient. It lacks personal realization."

"I see." The atonality of the translation implied anything but understanding."Here's a crazy thought." Hopefully not. Hopefully this thought was entirely sane. At Darlene's urging, Earth's one shot at surprising the aliens relied on this idea. She forced a casual laugh. "I don't know why I'm even thinking about this. It's not like Earth's interests lie in the structure of Rualf's film. I'm just reacting to watching so many of his past projects.

"Wouldn't the movie be more consistent with Rualf's approach if humans did something altruistic before

the end? If, before they perished, they made some n.o.ble gesture? If they acted-of course, tragically too

late-for the betterment of all?""It would indeed. That finale would almost certainly appeal to Rualf. But the artistry of the film is hardly Earth's biggest concern." Swelk paused in her ministering to the kittens. "Or am I wrong? Have circ.u.mstances become so dire that you seek immortality in a great film?"

"Hardly," said Darlene. She was feeling pretty smug at the confirmation the little Krul had provided.

"My fondest hope is that Rualf never finishes his film."