Calculating God

  “That’s one explanation,” I said quietly.

  “It is the most sensible. Do humans not subscribe to a principle that says the simplest explanation is the most preferable?”

  I nodded. “We call it Occam’s razor.”

  “The explanation that it was God’s will posits one cause for all the mass extinctions; that makes it preferable.”

  “Well, I suppose, if…”—dammitall, I know I should have just been polite, just nodded and smiled, the way I do when the occasional religious nut accosts me in the Dinosaur Gallery and demands to know how Noah’s flood fits in, but I felt I had to speak up—“…if you believe in God.”

  Hollus’s eyestalks moved to what seemed to be their maximal extent, as if he was regarding me from both sides simultaneously. “Are you the most senior paleontologist at this institution?” he asked.

  “I’m the department head, yes.”

  “There is no paleontologist with more experience?”

  I frowned. “Well, there’s Jonesy, the senior invertebrate curator. He’s damn near as old as some of his specimens.”

  “Perhaps I should speak with him.”

  “If you like. But what’s wrong?”

  “I know from your television that there is much ambivalence about God in this part of your planet, at least among the general public, but I am surprised to hear that someone in your position is not personally convinced of the existence of the creator.”

  “Well, then, Jonesy’s not your man; he’s on the board of CSICOP.”

  “Sky cop?”

  “The Committee for Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal. He definitely doesn’t believe in God.”

  “I am stunned,” said Hollus, and his eyes turned away from me, examining the posters on my office wall—a Gurche, a Czerkas, and two Kishes.

  “We tend to consider religion a personal matter,” I said gently. “The very nature of faith is that one cannot be factually sure about it.”

  “I do not speak of matters of faith,” said Hollus, turning his eyes back toward me. “Rather, I speak of verifiable scientific fact. That we live in a created universe is apparent to anyone with sufficient intelligence and information.”

  I wasn’t really offended, but I was surprised; previously, I’d only heard similar comments from so-called creation scientists. “You’ll find many religious people here at the ROM,” I said. “Raghubir, whom you met down in the lobby, for instance. But even he wouldn’t say that the existence of God is a scientific fact.”

  “Then it will fall to me to educate you in this,” said Hollus.

  Oh, joy. “If you think it’s necessary.”

  “It is if you are to help me in my work. My opinion is not a minority one; the existence of God is a fundamental part of the science of both Beta Hydri and Delta Pavonis.”

  “Many humans believe that such questions are outside the scope of science.”

  Hollus regarded me again, as if I were failing some test. “Nothing is outside the scope of science,” he said firmly—a position I did not, in fact, disagree with. But we rapidly parted company again: “The primary goal of modern science,” he continued, “is to discover why God has behaved as he has and to determine his methods. We do not believe—what is the term you use?—we do not believe that he simply waves his hands and wishes things into existence. We live in a universe of physics, and he must have used quantifiable physical processes to accomplish his ends. If he has indeed been guiding the broad stokes of evolution on at least three worlds, then we must ask how? And why? What is he trying to accomplish? We need to—”

  At that moment, the door to my office opened, revealing silver-haired, long-faced Christine Dorati, the museum’s director and president. “What the devil is that?” she said, pointing a bony finger at Hollus.

  * * *

  2

  C

  hristine Dorati’s question stopped me cold. Everything had been happening so quickly, I hadn’t had time to really consider how momentous all this was. The first verified extraterrestrial visitor to Earth had dropped by, and instead of alerting the authorities—or even my boss Christine—I was sitting around with the being, indulging in the kind of bull session university students have late at night.

  But before I could reply, Hollus had turned around to face Dr. Dorati; he rotated his spherical body by shifting each of his six legs to the left.

  “Greetings,” he said. “My” “name” “is” “Hol” “lus.” The two syllables of the name overlapped slightly, one mouth starting up before the other had quite finished.

  Christine was a full-time administrator now. Years ago, when she’d been an active researcher, her field had been textiles; Hollus’s unearthly origins might therefore not have been obvious to her. “Is this a joke?” she said.

  “Not” “at” “all,” replied the alien, in his strange stereophonic voice. “I am a”—his eyes looked briefly at me, as if acknowledging that he was quoting something I’d said earlier—“think of me as a visiting scholar.”

  “Visiting from where?” asked Christine.

  “Beta Hydri,” said Hollus.

  “Where’s that?” asked Christine. She had a big, horsey mouth and had to make a conscious effort to close her lips over her teeth.

  “It’s another star,” I said. “Hollus, this is Dr. Christine Dorati, the ROM’s director.”

  “Another star?” said Christine, cutting off Hollus’s response. “Come on, Tom. Security called me and said there was some kind of prank going on, and—”

  “Have you not seen my spaceship?” asked Hollus.

  “Your spaceship?” Christine and I said in unison.

  “I landed outside that building with the hemispherical roof.”

  Christine came into the room, squeezed past Hollus, and pushed the speaker-phone button on my Nortel desk set. She then tapped out an internal extension on the keypad. “Gunther?” she said. Gunther was the security officer at the staff entrance, located off the alley between the museum and the planetarium. “It’s Dr. Dorati here. Do me a favor: step outside and tell me what you can see out front of the planetarium.”

  “You mean the spaceship?” asked Gunther’s voice, through the speaker. “I’ve already seen it. There’s a huge crowd around it now.”

  Christine clicked off the phone without remembering to say goodbye. She looked at the alien. Doubtless she could see its torso expanding and contracting as it breathed.

  “What—um, what do you want?” asked Christine.

  “I am doing some paleontological research,” said Hollus. Surprisingly, the word paleontological—quite a mouthful, even for a human—wasn’t split between his two speaking slits; I still hadn’t figured out the rules governing the switchover.

  “I have to tell someone about this,” said Christine, almost to herself. “I have to notify the authorities.”

  “Who are the appropriate authorities in a case like this?” I asked.

  Christine looked at me as if surprised that I’d heard what she’d said. “The police? The RCMP? The Ministry of External Affairs? I don’t know. It’s too bad they shut down the planetarium; there might have been someone there who would have known. Still, maybe I should ask Chen.” Donald Chen was the ROM’s staff astronomer.

  “You can notify anyone you wish,” said Hollus. “But please do not make a fuss about my presence. It will just interfere with my work.”

  “Are you the only alien on Earth right now?” asked Christine. “Or are others of your kind visiting other people?”

  “I am the only one currently on the planet’s surface,” Hollus said, “although more will be coming down shortly. There are thirty-four individuals in the crew of our mothership, which is in synchronous orbit around your planet.”

  “Synchronous above what?” asked Christine. “Toronto?”

  “Synchronous orbits have to be above the equator,” I said. “You can’t have one over Toronto.”

  Hollus turned his eyestalks in my direc
tion; perhaps I was going up in his esteem. “That is right. But since this place was our first goal, the ship is in orbit along the same line of longitude. I believe the country directly beneath it is called Ecuador.”

  “Thirty-four aliens,” said Christine, as if trying to digest the idea.

  “Correct,” replied Hollus. “Half are Forhilnors like me, and the other half are Wreeds.”

  Excitement coursed through me. Getting to examine a life-form from one different ecosystem was staggering; to get to examine lifeforms from two would be amazing. In previous years, when I’d been well, I’d taught a course on evolution at the University of Toronto, but everything we knew about how evolution worked was based on one sample. If we could—

  “I’m not sure who to call,” said Christine again. “Hell, I’m not sure who would believe me if I did call.”

  Just then my phone rang. I picked up the handset. It was Indira Salaam, Christine’s executive assistant. I passed the phone to her.

  “Yes,” Christine said into the mouthpiece. “No, I’ll stay here. Can you bring them up? Great. Bye.” She handed the phone back to me. “Toronto’s finest are on their way up.”

  “Toronto’s finest what?” asked Hollus.

  “The police,” I said, replacing the handset.

  Hollus said nothing. Christine looked at me. “Someone called in the story of the spaceship and its alien pilot who had walked into the museum.”

  Soon, two uniformed officers arrived, escorted by Indira. All three stood in the doorway, mouths agape. One of the cops was scrawny; the other quite stocky—the gracile and robust forms of Homo constableus, side by side, right there in my office.

  “It must be a fake,” said the skinny cop to his partner.

  “Why does everyone keep assuming that?” asked Hollus. “You humans seem to have a profound capacity for ignoring obvious evidence.” His two crystalline eyes looked pointedly at me.

  “Which of you is the museum’s director?” asked the brawny cop.

  “I am,” said Christine. “Christine Dorati.”

  “Well, ma’am, what do you think we should do?”

  Christine shrugged. “Is the spaceship blocking traffic?”

  “No,” said the cop. “It’s entirely on the planetarium grounds, but…”

  “Yes?”

  “But, well, something like this should be reported.”

  “I agree,” said Christine. “But to whom?”

  My desk phone rang again. This time it was Indira’s assistant—they can’t keep the planetarium open, but assistants have assistants. “Hello, Perry,” I said. “Just a sec.” I handed the phone to Indira.

  “Yes?” she said. “I see. Umm, hang on a second.” She looked at her boss. “CITY-TV is here,” she said. “They want to see the alien.” CITY-TV was a local station known for its in-your-face news; its slogan was simply “Everywhere!”

  Christine turned toward the two cops to see if they were going to object. They looked at each other and exchanged small shrugs. “Well, we can’t bring any more people up here,” said Christine. “Tom’s office won’t take it.” She turned to Hollus. “Would you mind coming down to the Rotunda again?”

  Hollus bobbed up and down, but I don’t think it was a sign of agreement. “I am eager to get on with my research,” he said.

  “You’ll have to speak to other people at some point,” replied Christine. “Might as well get it over with.”

  “Very well,” said Hollus, sounding awfully reluctant.

  The thickset cop spoke into the microphone attached to the shoulder of his uniform, presumably talking to someone back at the station. Meanwhile, we all marched down the corridor toward the elevator. We had to go down in two loads: Hollus, Christine, and me in the first one; Indira and the two cops in the second. We waited for them on the ground floor, then made our way out into the museum’s vaulted lobby.

  CITY-TV calls its camerapersons—all young, all hip—“videographers.” There was one waiting, all right, as well as quite a crowd of spectators, standing around in anticipation of the return of the alien. The videographer, a Native Canadian man with black hair tied in a ponytail—surged forward. Christine, ever the politician, tried to step into his camera’s field of view, but he simply wanted to shoot Hollus from as many angles as possible—CITY-TV was notorious for what my brother-in-law calls “out-of-body-cam.”

  I noticed one of the cops had his hand resting on his holster; I rather imagine their supervisor had told them to protect the alien at all costs.

  Finally, Hollus’s patience was exhausted. “Surely” “that” “is” “enough,” he said to the guy from CITY-TV.

  That the alien could speak English astounded the crowd; most of them had arrived after Hollus and I had spoken in the lobby. Suddenly the videographer started peppering the alien with questions: “Where are you from?” “What’s your mission?” “How long did it take you to get here?” Hollus did his best to answer—although he never mentioned God—but, after a few minutes, two men in dark-blue business suits entered my field of view, one black and one white. They observed the alien for a short time, then the white one stepped forward and said, “Excuse me.” He had a Québecois accent.

  Hollus apparently didn’t hear; he went on answering the videographer’s questions.

  “Excuse me,” said the man again, much louder.

  Hollus moved aside. “I am sorry,” said the alien. “Did you wish to get by?”

  “No,” said the man. “I want to speak to you. We’re from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service; I’d like you to come with us.”

  “Where to?”

  “To a safer place, where you can talk to the right people.” He paused. “There is a protocol for this sort of thing, although it took a few minutes to find it. The prime minister is already on his way to the airport in Ottawa, and we’re about to notify the U.S. president.”

  “No, I am sorry,” said Hollus. His eyestalks swiveled around, looking at the octagonal lobby and all the people in it before settling back on the federal agents. “I came here to do paleontological research. I am glad to say hello to your prime minister, of course, if he wants to drop by, but the only reason I revealed my presence was so that I could talk to Dr. Jericho here.” He indicated me with one of his arms, and the videographer swung to shoot me. I must say, I felt rather pumped.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the French-Canadian CSIS man. “But we really have to do it this way.”

  “You are not listening,” said Hollus. “I refuse to go. I am here to do important work, and I wish to continue it.”

  The two CSIS agents looked at each other. Finally, the black man spoke; he had a slight Jamaican accent. “Look, you’re supposed to say, ‘Take me to your leader.’ You’re supposed to want to meet with the authorities.”

  “Why?” asked Hollus.

  The agents looked at each other again. “Why?” repeated the white one. “Because that’s the way it’s done.”

  Hollus’s two eyes converged on the man. “I rather suspect I have more experience at this than you do,” he said softly.

  The white federal agent pulled out a small handgun. “I really do have to insist,” he said.

  The cops now moved forward. “We’ll have to see some identification,” said the burlier of the two policemen.

  The black CSIS agent obliged; I had no idea what a CSIS ID was supposed to look like, but the police officers seemed satisfied and backed off.

  “Now,” said the black man. “Please do come with us.”

  “I am quite sure you will not use that weapon,” said Hollus, “so doubtless I will get my way.”

  “We have orders,” said the white agent.

  “No doubt you do. And no doubt your superiors will understand that you were unable to fulfill them.” Hollus indicated the videographer, who was madly scrambling to change tapes. “The record will show that you insisted, I declined, and that was the end of the matter.”

  “This is no way to trea
t a guest,” shouted a woman from the crowd. That seemed to be a popular sentiment: several people voiced their affirmation.

  “We’re trying to protect the alien,” said the white CSIS man.

  “Like hell,” said a male museum patron. “I’ve seen The X-Files. If you walk out of here with him, no regular person will ever see him again.”

  “Leave him alone!” added an elderly man with a European accent.

  The agents looked at the videographer, and the black one pointed out a security camera to the white one. Doubtless they wished none of this was being recorded.

  “Politely,” said Hollus, “you are not going to prevail.”

  “But, well, surely you won’t object to us having an observer present?” said the black agent. “Someone to make sure no harm comes to you?”

  “I have no concerns in that area,” said Hollus.

  Christine stepped forward at this point. “I’m the museum’s president and director,” she said to the two CSIS men. Then she turned to Hollus. “I’m sure you can understand that we’d like to have a record, a chronicle, of your visit here. If you don’t mind, we will at least have a cameraperson accompany you and Dr. Jericho.” The CITY-TV guy surged forward; it was quite clear that he’d be happy to volunteer for the job.

  “But I do mind,” said Hollus. “Dr. Dorati, on my world, only criminals are subject to constant observation; would you consent to someone watching you all day long as you worked?”

  “Well, I—” said Christine.

  “Nor will I,” said Hollus. “I am grateful for your hospitality, but—you, there,” he pointed at the videographer. “You are the representative of a media outlet; allow me to make a plea.” Hollus paused for a second while the Native Canadian adjusted his camera angle. “I am looking for unfettered access to a comprehensive collection of fossils,” said Hollus, speaking loudly. “In exchange, I will share information my people have gathered, when I think it is appropriate and fair. If there is another museum that will offer me what I seek, I will gladly appear there instead. Simply—”

  “No,” said Christine, rushing forward. “No, that won’t be necessary. Of course, we’ll cooperate any way we can.”