First Contact Read Online Free PDF Page B

might think Earth is a giant junkyard.”
    “Seriously, though,” David said. “Why would they come now? We’ve been transmitting messages into space for almost a hundred years and listening for responses all the while. What has happened recently that’s special?”
    “Nuclear weapons?” Ralph suggested.
    “The first atomic weapon was detonated more than sixty years ago,” David said.
    “Space travel?”
    “The Russians launched a human into space in nineteen sixty-one.”
    “So what then?”
    “It’s just as likely something sociological as technological,” David said. “It’s exciting to be alive for this, and more exciting still to have a front-row seat.”
    Ralph said, “I hope it’s not like that Twilight Zone episode where the Kanamits come to Earth because they want to harvest humans. That story always creeped me out.”
    “‘To Serve Man,’” David said. “I loved that episode.”
    Martha Jones cut them off. “I hate to interrupt your little sci-fi convention, but the President is coming.”
     
    T HE P RESIDENT ENTERED, FOLLOWED by the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Advisor, and finally Len Carlson. Everyone stood.
    “Please sit down,” the President said. They sat and awaited his guidance.
    “Ralph,” the President said, “do you have my lunch?”
    Ralph took the ham and Swiss sub to the President. The President opened the wrapper and stared disapprovingly at the sandwich.
    “There’s hardly any meat on this,” he said. “Did you bother to check this?”
    “I did, sir. The sandwich seemed fine to me, Mr. President.”
    “How can it be fine? There’s barely any meat.” The President removed the top slice of bread and thumbed through the sandwich.
    “There are only four slices of meat here.”
    “Sir, I believe there have always been exactly four slices of meat. That is the company policy.”
    “I could have sworn there used to be more.”
    “I don’t believe so, sir.”
    “Well, is there any way to get more meat?”
    “Yes, sir. You can pay two dollars and fifty cents more for an extra-thick sandwich.”
    “Then let’s do that in the future. Can you take care of that, Ralph?”
    “Yes, Mr. President.”
    Ralph ran a quick calculation in his head. The President’s directive would cost him approximately seven hundred dollars overthe next year, and something on the order of three thousand more if the President won reelection.
    “All right, folks,” the President said between bites, “what are we going to do about this alien nonsense?” He had a dab of mayonnaise on his chin. No one pointed it out.
    The Secretary of Defense spoke first.
    “Sir, our satellites have not detected any sign of weapons. Nevertheless, I have placed the military on alert. I recommend you issue a directive bringing us to our highest state of readiness.”
    “So ordered.”
    Joe Quimble raised his hand. “Mr. President, with all respect, that may not be necessary. The aliens have done nothing to suggest any hostile intention. Our actions may send the wrong signal. Mobilizing the military could be misinterpreted.”
    “Point noted,” said the President. “But there’s no reason to take any chances. You know what Jack Frost said, ‘Good Fences Make Good Neighbors.’”
    Here followed the most awkward of silences, which only Martha Jones had the nerve to break. “Sir,” she said, “you have a spot of mayonnaise on your chin.”
    The President wiped it off. “Mr. Secretary of State, what say you?”
    The Secretary of State went way back with the President, even further than Lois Dundersinger did, all the way back to the President’s days as sanitation commissioner, when he, the Secretary, was starting what would later become the largest chicken-feed company in the United States.
    “Sir,” the Secretary said, “our allies are looking to us for guidance. The nations of the world are waiting to see what we will do before they choose their course of