What to Believe

by Thomas J. Keller

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

part 2 of 4

“Suppose this is phony and no one comes?” said Schwartzman. “What if this is, as most of us think, some kind of deception, some pre-pubescent kids with rich parents and access to good communications equipment?”

“Yeah,” said someone at the end of the table. “That message didn’t inspire awe or induce fear. It’s so bad they’d have cut it from an Ed Wood script.”

Iafrate strummed his stubby fingers on the table. “If it’s some kind of subterfuge we go to Plan B. We fake it. This opportunity is too good to pass up.” He leaned forward. “That’s your challenge, Angela; if no one shows up, you make it real.”

Angela stared at him.

“I mean it,” Iafrate said. “Find a suitable locale, prepare appropriate dialogue and fashion the aliens and the event itself so that there’s no doubt; a totally credible piece of stagecraft that will hold up under the most intense scrutiny. No one can ever know. I want all this wound up before I talk to Doggett in a month.”

Angela, face expressionless, brought her hand slowly to her forehead in an ironic salute.

* * *

Farley Doggett needed something, anything, to jump-start his ratings. He wished the aliens were real because of the viewer potential.

An unspoken consensus had formed that it was all some kind of government disinformation or immense practical joke. Even the radio talk shows, the tabloids and the twenty-four hour cable news networks had turned to other subjects.

* * *

Pawky adjusted to the soft muted light. An elderly white-gloved bald-headed man in a morning coat stepped forward from his place by a credenza and in a surprisingly youthful voice asked, “Good morning, Mr. Enoch. May I get you some coffee, sir? I believe you take it black, do you not?” Pawky nodded. “Please make yourself comfortable,” the man said, easing him toward an empty chair, “I shall return shortly.”

“Good to see you,” Kawma Suran said. “Shall we get things going?”

Pawky surveyed the room: impeccably furnished, understated, and extraordinarily expensive. He turned slightly to his left and saw a well-dressed woman with no visible neck. His nose twitched. What’s going on here? That’s Donna... He looked around. And that’s Clark... And that’s Bret... Are they trying to disguise themselves? I sense... chemicals?

He felt an urge to be calm and relaxed. He shook it off. Whatever it is, it doesn’t work on me. There’s enough wealth in this room to buy half the North American continent. What’s going on?

Kawma interrupted his musings. “As we go along, Mr. Enoch, please don’t hesitate to ask questions.”

Pawky felt her eyes on him. He sensed a signal to be inquisitive. “Each of you seems familiar to me, but...” He pretended to waver. “I guess you should tell me why I’m here.” He sat back as the waiter placed coffee, bagels and Danish on the table in front of him.

“Normally, you’d recognize us; as individuals we are well known,” Kawma said. “For this meeting we prefer anonymity. We are a select group, Mr. Enoch. Our DNA is different, yet we have been on this planet as long as your species.” She paused to sip from her cup. “We have remained hidden from humanity since the time of Noah, who thought us devil’s spawn and sought to drown us in the flood.”

What the hell! Underneath his calm, Pawky jerked. What is this, a joke, a sucker play? Pretend outrage, see where it takes me. “First the so-called aliens and now you? OK, what do you call yourselves?” he said. He reached for a pastry.

The man across from him answered. The cultured English upper class voice, the Alfred E. Newman looks, and the commanding manner struck a familiar chord. “We have had many names,” the man said. “Some cultures called us shades or genies, or angels or the old ones. Not so long ago they called us vampires or werewolves. We are none of these.” His gesture was elegantly dismissive. “We are neither preternatural nor predatory, merely divergent from Homo sapiens.”

He grinned and Pawky felt a sense of delight and happiness wash over him. He resisted and it ceased. “And superior. We are Homo vomero. For the past seventy years or so we have called ourselves the Kranstons.” His lip curled upward. “As for the message from outer space, we can’t be so indifferent. We must prepare for any alternative.”

“What we want you to do, Mr. Enoch,” said Clark, pushing his cup to the side, “is tell us whether we should reveal ourselves or remain hidden. We sought you because of your efforts at the Blather Group; especially your client Montressor’s products, their cigarettes, beer and high fat snacks. Quite remarkable. ‘Life’s little enjoyments, partaken to ease the strain of modern living. The pleasure is good at twice the price’.” He laughed gruffly. “Marvelously disingenuous.”

“We love people who have no conscience,” said Bret. “The rest of your client list, the fast food chains, coal generators, timber and oil interests, are all under attack by people who want to tell you how to live your life. You’re extremely resourceful and inadequately principled; that’s why the Blather Group is at the top of our list.”

Pawky put down his cup. “What would you gain from revealing yourselves? You look like any one of a dozen people.”

A Wall Street Journal lowered. The man’s face seemed young and unlined but had disconcertingly large selfish lips framed by dirty blond hair. “We may, but we’re not, Mr. Enoch.”

Pawky did not recognize him but knew that the icy and remote attitude and unblinking eyes should instill fear.

The man’s eyes softened, communicating an overwhelming sense of friendliness. Once again, Pawky resisted the effect. “We possess an enhanced sixth sense, which only now are your researchers beginning to understand. It is dormant and underdeveloped or non-existent in humanity. As perhaps you subconsciously grasp, Mr. Enoch, we communicate not just with words, but chemically. And we can control.”

“How?” said Pawky, intrigued.

“Science uses the word pheromones,” he continued, “to describe this ability in the animal kingdom. It is called charisma or sex appeal in those humans who have some small measure of it.” He delicately wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Our abilities give us positions of wealth, power and influence. We Kranstons constitute a fraction of the world’s population and, like any good minority group should, we cooperate and coordinate.”

Pawky glanced out the window. The muted light from traffic in the still-dark morning lent a surreal quality to what he’d just heard.

They’re famous, I know them, he thought. He’d felt their abilities and accepted the truth of what they’d said. I’m immune. He suppressed the insight. “Why can’t you just continue to use your powers?”

“Human society is becoming more remote from one another,” said Clark. “There is this simulated intimacy; everything from a distance. Video conferencing, long distance telephone calls, cell phones with video. Most of your TV shows strive for a feeling of community; a feeling that you the viewer are part of this über family.”

“All artificial of course,” said Bret, “Everyone’s withdrawn from genuine in-person participation. No one actually wants to get together. Unfortunately, our powers are effective only at relatively short distances.”

“I see,” said Pawky. “You view as dangerous the twin trends of sophisticated data gathering and the growing depersonalization of industrial society. And you’re just unsure enough about the message not to dismiss the possibility of aliens.”

They nodded in agreement.

He took a sip of his coffee. “What about politics? Are you Kranstons in politics?”

“Usually we give legitimacy and appeal to those who unwittingly front for us,” said Clark.

“In the political arena we are the trusted advisors, the chiefs of staffs, the shapers of positions and determiners of policy.” Anna inclined her head. “We find that works very well for us. We assert ourselves in commerce. It gives us wealth; wealth gives us power. Even better, it gives us privacy and allows us to maintain the way for our kind.”

“We’ve set up a fund, The La Mont Foundation for the financial support of your efforts,” said Kawma.

Pawky wondered whether to tell them that their pheromones didn’t affect him. No, we’ll hold that in reserve for some future time, he thought. “Why not one of your own kind?”

“We want a human’s perspective,” said Clark, “someone who’s ruthless enough to work for our ends. We know that no one at the Blather Group is a Kranston.” He gave one of his public smiles, “therefore no light would fall on us should things get out of hand.”

“So,” Pawky said, “you want the Blather Group to act as some kind of Masters of Disinformation; to challenge, delay, subvert and thwart any effort that might lead to your exposure. Or if the wind blows right, have sudden discoveries made that detect this capability and publicize the hell out of them. And in the event that the aliens are real you want the possibility of a united front.”

They all indicated agreement. Their pheromones signaled enthusiasm and concurrence.

“Intriguing,” said Pawky. “I imagine that when I leave here I’ll forget everything. That’s the conundrum. Do you have a solution?”

“We do,” said Kawma. “I’ll leave you with the mental suggestion to forget all of this. If we decide to move forward with your organization, I’ll come to your office. When we meet you’ll recall everything. We want to see if the alien visit pans out. We’ll want to move quickly after that.”

“Presuming you select us, how can we do the job?”

“We’ve developed cologne, soap and other products that carry the necessary pheromones,” said a man Pawky did not recognize. “Wear it and you remember. We make all of our humans use them. They contain an inhibitor which prevents revealing our secrets.”

* * *

After Pawky left, Clark stood and said, “Is he fit for our undertaking?” A scent of affirmation came back to him.

“There’s something not quite right about him,” said Anna. “He has presence; that is undeniable. Physically he’s unusually pale and thin, as if he was ill. Yet he acts robust. And I sensed a differentness.”

“The day I met with him I did not project,” said Kawma. “I wanted to observe him in his own environment. I shall do some additional checking on him.”

“Please do,” said Clark, turning to his colleagues. “I think we all agree that he is perfect because he possesses exceptional professional skills, has no scruples and will do anything for money. That does not mean we become overconfident and trust him. Let us see what happens if the aliens land.”

They scented their concurrence.

* * *

“So, how’d it go? Who’s the client?” Menti Brum, Pawky’s partner, stuck his head into Pawky’s office.

Pawky flipped through the morning mail, handed several envelopes back to Ed Flaherty, the agency’s elderly mail room clerk and said, “What if I told you, Menti, that there’s a race, not quite human, but native to this planet, which has controlled humanity in one way or another for millennia by use of a sixth sense whereby they dispense chemical pheromones that make any human within range ready and willing to do their bidding?”

Ed Flaherty snickered, “If you’d gone to Catholic school and were taught by nuns you’d believe it in a heartbeat, young man.” He cackled and pushed his mail cart into the hallway.

Menti looked at Pawky. “Close the door, Menti,” Pawky said.

“You were laying it on thick for old Ed’s benefit, weren’t you?” Menti took a seat across from Pawky.

“No.”

“Muthah!”

“It’s true,” Pawky said. “These beings, they call themselves Kranstons, have evaded detection for all of human recorded time.”

“Will their checks bounce?”

Pawky laughed, “Not likely.” He gave Menti a detailed account of the meeting, including which Kranstons were present.

“Impressive. Do we take the account?”

“Ah, Menti, ever the practical one. They’re waiting to see what the aliens do. This is an account we most definitely want. If they want exposure we can mount a smarm offensive on their behalf. We can watch and be rewarded at the same time.”

“I understand their concern about technical and social problems,” said Menti. “Some people would rather phone than visit. No matter what kind of a perverse, deviant changeling you are, you can have countless chums out there and they don’t need to be in your neighborhood.” He chuckled. “To take an extreme example, enter ‘People that have sex with roosters using salad oil’ on a search engine and the computer will more than likely say, ‘Specify Foghorn or Leghorn and brand of salad oil’. All kinds of people can come together while they remain apart. Now there’s a blueprint for an ideal society.”

* * *

Farley Doggett sensed the network management buzzards circling and was pondering career alternatives when his intercom lit.

“It’s Dom Iafrate,” said Nick. Farley had met Iafrate and, of course, knew him by reputation. Should I waste my time? Maybe. I could use a few laughs.

“I’ll take it.” He punched the flashing button. “Dom, how are you? What’s up?”

“Farley, I know you’re busy but I need to see you today about a once in a lifetime opportunity...”

“Hey, Dom, I’d love to get together but with everything that’s going on I’m kind of tight.”

Bull, thought Iafrate. “Farley, if you think what I have to discuss with you is not worth the time and is not topical and won’t juice your ratings, I’ll give fifty thousand dollars in your name to any charity you wish. I can be at your office in ten minutes. Then give me just five minutes. OK?”

Intrigued despite himself, Doggett relented.

Fifteen minutes and thirty seconds later, he said to Iafrate, “Personally, I think this alien thing’s a hoax. You know what they’re saying, Dom, that if the aliens ever do show up they’ll see a world at war fighting over the privilege to hear them tell humanity to stop doing something. But you’re telling me that ten companies have already committed $100 million dollars apiece to sponsor this?”

“Yes.”

“Well, who are they?”

To be continued...