The Givers by Radrook

     It had been a momentous occasion when The Givers landed on New York's Central Park's Great Lawn in their spaceship that resembled a light-pulsating, silver orb. It had also been a shock to our national security since radar had failed to detect the craft as it slowly descended and became visible to thousands of New Yorkers who had stopped whatever they had been doing and stared in awe.

     By the time F-15’s had been scrambled and all defense systems placed on high alert, the ship had already landed and been surrounded by a curious crowd. Soon they were joined by the police who hastily set up a cordoned area around the craft and strove to keep the people at what they termed a safer distance.

     Then the National Guard appeared, helicopters swirled above, and jets streamed across the sky, while the airwaves buzzed with the news of the alien arrival. Within an hour, the whole world knew what New Yorkers had just learned, we were not alone in the universe.

     Was there fear? Of course we feared. What? with all the films about grotesque monsters coming to do us harm? Damned right we feared. But that fear was quickly dispelled when the silver orb's aperture opened and they stepped out into the summer sunlight. Instead of the dreaded tentacled monsters depicted by HG Wells in his novel War of the Worlds, these were humanoid only different from us in some minor details such as height.

     True, being twelve feet tall on average, they towered over us all. But not in an overbearing manner, but in a non abrasive benign way that boded nothing evil. The rest of their appearance was just as benign, large puppy-like blue eyes, sallow skin, and light brown wavy hair, gaunt and kind of anemic looking. But most endearing of all was the reason that they provided for their visit.

     “We are here to give.” they had smilingly responded when asked.

     This was immediately followed by a cure for cancer and how to restore the function of the spinal cord to those who were paralyzed. Soon they were hailed as benefactors, and their residence in Central Park was officially permitted.

     Yet, we wanted to know their motives. When we first questioned them about their motives, they would blanch, lower their eyes, and only with great effort be able to enunciate their thoughts. So it became the general consensus not to inquire too much or too deeply into the motives of their gift-giving at first lest they become disgruntled and decide to leave. Instead, we decided to extract all the benefits that we could from these noble visitors, and only then would we pursue our inquiry in whatever way necessary to extract other information.

     During the initial days of their arrival, as the news of their curing abilities and gift giving spread, people from all over the world converged on New York city. Each had his own agenda. Some sought miraculous cures. Others, scientists, came in search of a solution to a theoretical equation that had evaded their grasp. Some religious souls were convinced that it was the second coming and were there to worship.

     But soon, after a religious fanatic attempted to attack one of the givers accusing him of being Satan, the area had been cordoned off and only pre-approved few were allowed access to the circus-like tent that had been set up some five-hundred feet from the craft specifically for the gift granting purposes. These of course were immediately hustled away by security guards to some distant location where they could be interrogated and the nature of the gift they had received examined for its universal applicability.

     The US government, of course, had labeled it a necessity for national security.In order to ease the public's apprehensions, the small white silk-tent had been located within a semi circle of pink and white flowering Japanese cherry-blossom trees with the full approval of the aliens who looked on with paternal smiles on their tranquil faces. Within that tent, scientists and diplomats would come and go and there was always an alien there to provide answers and respond to requests.

     But such an ostentatious display didn't assuage everyone's doubts. My novelist wife, for one, was adamantly suspicious from the start. In fact, all her recent attention seemed to be focused solely on the aliens, and I had begun to worry about her mental health.

    "How's your novel going dear?" I asked, as I wolfed down my breakfast before going to work. She didn't respond but kept the binoculars focused at the craft visible from our apartment's twenty-fifth floor window.

     "What a farce!"She finally responded as in a daze after a long silence. Then she served me several more pieces of bacon from the frying pan. She was usually at her computer keyboard struggling to meet some editorial deadline at this time of day, but seemed somehow unable to concentrate with the alien craft so near.

     "So many people with so much hope but only those who can bring us a national advantage are allowed to go in." Her pale hand shook as she served me the coffee causing some to spill on the white tablecloth.

     "Sorry!" she said distractedly.

     "Well honey, what do you expect? Imagine if one of those terrorists got a hold of some super weapon or a technology that can lead to a super weapon? Then what?"

     "You really think that the aliens are that gullible, do you?"

     "I don't know," I gulped down the rest of the coffee, went to the closet and put on my trench coat.

     "But I bet they can read our intentions."

     "That's just the problem Frank"

     "What's the problem?" I turned just as I had reached our apartment door. I was already late for work at the dental lab, and since the aliens had arrived, traffic would make it a one-hour struggle to cover the distance I usually traveled in fifteen minutes. So I definitely didn't want to get bogged down in some technical conversation. As far as I was concerned, the aliens could do their thing and I did my thing. I didn't mess with them, they didn't mess with me, and all would be OK with the universe.

     "The problem is that they are cunningly forcing us to work in the dark." She was once again at the window looking through her binoculars as she spoke. For a moment, I marveled on how her auburn hair reflected the sunlight. It graced her statement with a certain ethereal air of authority. As if she were a divine messenger inspired by some higher power that wanted me to know a truth. I shunted the feeling aside as just mere superstition caused by my overactive imagination. Maybe her parents’ religiosity was rubbing off on me.

     Or maybe all the fuzz with the aliens was beginning to get on my nerves. Whatever it was, I didn't like it. I had always been a practical person and Bernice's religiosity was always a bone of contention between us.

     Funny how she always managed to weasel it into every Sci fi novel she wrote. Funnier still how she found a readership anyway. Me? I kept aloof from it all. As neutral as Nehru as my late father used to say whenever faced with international controversies he read or heard on the news media.

     "You don't really think that the government is in cahoots with these aliens to do us in, now do you hon? Not a bad idea for one of your next Sci fi novels though, right?" I said hoping that she would agree.

     "I mean how do we know they aren't faking that communication problem they seem to have?" she continued as if in a trance and ignoring what I had said.

     "Why are they OK until we ask them about their population numbers?" She spoke while energetically adjusting her binoculars to get a better focus on the scene below.

     "Beats me hon. Maybe it's just the way that their brains are hardwired? Your the Sci fi writer you tell me!"

     "CTR brain scans show no such anomalies Frank. Don't you keep up with the news?"

     "Well. there we go! They let themselves be scanned. Next they'll give us a book saying "To serve Man" and off we go to be the main course on their menu!"

     "You really think that s funny Frank?"

    I had obviously pushed the wrong button with that one and I knew where this was heading so I hurriedly tried to polish off the rest of my breakfast so I could be on my way.

     "Sorry hon! My bad." I said sheepishly in a way that always calmed her down.

     "Then if questioned too much about motives." she continued, "their responses get increasingly cryptic and if pushed they go into their

     "Leave us alone or we will become deathly ill act. Don't you find that rather weird Frank?"

     I had to admit to myself if not to her that despite my efforts to stay neutral I indeed find it weird. But what could we do? The government had adopted the don't-look-a-gift-horse-in-the mouth policy and all counterarguments were summarily dismissed as counterproductive.

     The thing was to milk the aliens for all they were worth and when the udder ran dry-then we would begin to ask questions. I could have stayed and argued all day but arguing didn't pay the rent so I just couldn't afford to get bogged down in a philosophical conversation that would solve nothing.

    After all, the way I saw it, it wasn't my job to keep tabs on these aliens, it was the government's and they seemed to have a pretty good handle on it. So why worry. If it's not broke don't fix as the saying goes.

     "What do you propose we do then hon? Nuke em?"

     And having gotten in that last remark I quickly left before she could respond.

     Things at work hadn't been the same either since the arrival. As much as we tried to concentrate on full dentures, partials, crowns, bridges, investing and articulations, we all seemed like mindless zombies in a daze ever since the monumental event intruded into our consciousness with the force of a battering ram. After all, who would have imagined several months back that just within an hour's ride there would be beings who had traveled billions of miles to get here.

     Who were they? Already they had cured cancer. What else would they do? As we worked we spoke about these things in hushed tones since our supervisor had prohibited the distracting conversations when he noticed productivity taking a nose-dive.

    It was aliens this, and aliens that, and there were partials dentures that were badly polished or a bicuspid set out of alignment. Everyone's nerves were jittery, and one technician fell off his high stool and broke an arm when the tech next to him sneezed. So we were forced to whisper our conversations always keeping an eye out for the boss.

    "Hey Frank pss! pss! Frank!" Mike Sylvester the plaster man in the crown and bridge department working across from me was trying to catch my attention.

     "Did you hear man?"

    "Hear what man?” I responded in the same vernacular.

     “The cabrones solved it, that's what." Mike had a forlorn look fit for a funeral on his young Erick Estrada-like face .

    "Solved what?"

     "Chess!"

     Not being a chess player myself, I really didn't know what he meant. But not wanting to seem ignorant, I went along.

     "A real shame isn't it? I said nonchalantly as I deftly positioned a full upper and lower on an articulator, added the plaster o Paris, and smoothed everything out with a wet spatula.

     "Sure it's a shame. Whose gonna wanna play now that we know that the starting positions for white and black all lead to a forced draw?"

     "Oh I get it. They messed up your fun by showing you how simple the game is!"

     "That's not the point carnal!"

     I never fully understood why Mike used those Mexican barrio expressions since he was of Cuban Puerto Rican descent, but-hey, no skin off my nose. So I just went with the flow and made like I didn't notice.

     "What's the point then Mike?" I placed the articulated model to one side and began mixing the yellow artificial stone with water to pour the impressions that I'd arranged in front of me in an horizontal line.

    "The point is that at the grandmaster level, they know now that it should always be a draw, essay.I mean, patzers don't care. But top-notch Grandmaster interest is now zilch. Already they're talking about disbanding FIDE and canceling international championship candidate tournaments. "

    "Now why would the aliens do something like that? I said nonchalantly as I positioned a full upper and lower on an articulator, poured the plaster o Paris, on the upper part and smoothed everything out with a wet spatula.

    "Why?" Mike’s face had turned beat red, and his already large brown eyes bulged from behind his protective goggles."

     He stood there with the same yellow radio headphones he'd been wearing ever since he'd been hired, the ones with the antenna, but in view of the subject he now seemed creepy.

    "I'll tell you why," he continued, "because some pato pinche imbecile asked them to solve it! That's why?"

     "Well you can't blame a chess player-"

     "It wasn't a chess player conyo!" he didn't whisper. As if to emphasize his frustration, he removed the yellow headphones and slammed the, against the work-bench.

     "It was a chess player's vieja, cabron!"

     Seeing my confusion, he went on to explain.

     "This neglected frustrated bimbo he'd married who envied his success. Wanted to ruin it for him."

     "OK gotcha!"

    “You what?"

     "Said I understood you Mike! Now I want to get back to work."

    Mike had stood there glaring at me from across the plaster bench in his white knee-length plaster-encrusted work apron and for a split of a second I thought he was about to hurl one of the iron investment flasks at my head.

     Then he suddenly relaxed, took a deep breath, and went back to grinding and trimming plaster models. But after hurriedly grinding two more models in a furious frenzy, teeth clenched and muttering curses under his breath in Spanish, he suddenly turned off the machine and said:

     "You know, I just had a few more ELO points to go before I got to national master. But those conyos de madre had to come all this way just to ruin it for me!"

    "Sylvester! Frank" the boss called out to us from his office right in the middle of our conversation. We figured he was going to bawl us out for talking about the aliens while we worked. But the expression on his face wasn't anger-it was profound grief typical of those at funerals where the attendees know that it's all over, and that resistance to the inevitable is useless.

     "Have a seat," he said

     "I'm giving both of you your severance checks!"

     "Severance checks?" I said.

    "Listen Mr. Gallagher, we were just..."

     "No no, Frank. It has nothing to do with what you did or didn't do."

     "Then why are we being fired? Carajo!" Sylvester said in his strong Spanish accent.

     "Who said anything about being fired?"

     "Then why are we being laid off"

     "Your not being laid off Frank!"

     "Then what's going on?"

     "Well, I've been mulling it over in my head for these last few days trying to figure out how to tell you.

    You see, there is this new mouthwash that the aliens have just given us. Just one swish and no more cavities. No cavities no dentists. No dentists? No us! Get it? It's all over. Estimates are that we had better seek another means of employment because as far as a growing customer base-it s gone," he said this last part with in a high pitched voice followed by a brief hysterical chuckle.

     "And who was the hijo de puta who asked the aliens for that gift?"

     "I don't know," the boss said as he sat with shoulders drooping as if he carried the full burden on his shoulders.

     "Probably someone who hates dentists or going through the trouble of having his teeth drilled. Of course, taking out the dentists takes us out with them. In fact, it makes host of industris and job related to dentistry, unnecessary, doesn’t it? In any case, here is your severance check with a bonus to tide you through as you get yourself another job. "

     He swiveled his black leather chair and faced the wide window that overlooked Time Square thirty floors below.

     "Ironic isn't it?" we heard him say as we walked out to pack our few personal belongings and head for home.

    It was outwardly same Time Square I had driven through for the last ten years but now its gaudy flashing neon lights and hustling crowds didn't carry the same carefree exuberance. I turned on the car radio for some music, and most of the stations were reporting the latest on alien gifts.

     But not all reports were positive. Now and then, a brief statement about some religious fanatic jumping off a high building or being caught attempting to harm the aliens was reported briefly before the positives were once again resumed. The announcer went on about alien know-how getting rid of hunger via matter synthesizers which would produce all the food necessary at the push of a button.

     Why hire a chef when a synthesizer could do it more economically and better? No more police force needed because soon each adult would be neurologically rewired to think only in a law-abiding way. That would eliminate law-enforcement agency jobs.

     True, these were all plans at the moment and only the knowledge necessary for implementing those plans were being provided. But at the rate things were going, it wouldn’t be long before all human society was totally changed into what? That question stuck with me as I put pedal to the metal on the highway bordering the Hudson River.

     Across the dark waters was New Jersey. Why hadn't they gone there instead? Perhaps they wanted to be as close to the United Nations headquarters as possible. Yet they had taken little interest in formalities. In fact, they had insisted on remaining close to their ship. So temporary housing had been set up for the scientists’ interviews. The lines of people making requests were tolerated because the aliens insisted that the common people be allowed to make requests. So it had been a reluctant concession in order to keep communication channels opened.

     However, no one could leave the grounds until he had been thoroughly interrogated and the nature of the gift ascertained. Gifts considered too important to be left in the hands of untrained individuals, were immeditely confiscated. Others considered unimportant militarily or commercially, were permitted to remain the sole possession of the asker albeit under strict supervision of local authorities. Direct requests for military purposes, the aliens had rejecte as inappropriate, and that had put us at ease.

     I was approaching the Joe DiMaggio Highway 59th street exit-ramp so I got on the right lane. Soon after, I was on Fifth-avenue heading for my plush Manhattan apartment with its privileged overlooking Central Park.

     The streets were well-lit, but they were virtually isolated since the curfew went into effect at six. This they thought would make insuring alien safety easier for the already-strained police and military forces that had been deployed on a twenty-four hour basis.

     All along the Central Park perimeter now stood watch-towers with armed guards at every thousand feet. Flood-lights were scanning the intervening spaces. All approaches to the alien ship, except those approved by the government, had been booby trapped with land mines. All persons with criminal records forcefully removed from the surrounding housing complexes. All to assure that the bonanza of gifts could be milked for all it was worth.

     All this despite even though very little had been revealed about alien motives. Nothing was known of their culture or their point of origin since every attempt at communication had ceased as the answers provided made absolutely no sense from our human standpoint.

     “Where are you from?” the human interrogators had asked.

     "Out there," they would respond.

     "Well we know that! I mean specifically what planet?"

    "The planet from whence we proceed!"

     "Well of course, but what is its location. Our galaxy? Another? Here, point it out on this star chart.”

     The alien would respond by spreading out his fingers over the whole map and smiling benignly.

     The conclusion was that they were either saying that they were from everywhere or else simply didn’t understand the notion of being from somewhere. After months of this unproductive back-and-forth, all efforts of that nature were considered useless and discontinued Instead, questions focused on their gifts ad their motives for giving.

     "Why do you choose to give?"

     "Because we are givers."

     "But the motive?"

     "No reason is needed in order to give.”

    "What do you GAIN from giving?"

     "It is our purpose!"

    "But why?"

     "Because we are givers!"

     So that line of reasoning was also dismissed.

     Finally they decided to simply accept the gifts and the givers as an unexplainable phenomenon, and gain whatever they could from the cultural intercourse and this had been the result. A world where motivations were being reduced incrementally and I began to wonder if indeed these were really benefactors or something far more sinister.

    Once home, I found Bernice prostrate on the bedroom bed with a half bottle of scotch on the bedroom table. Her state-of-the-art computer lay in pieces strewn all over the plush, blue carpet and the hammer that she'd used still dangled from one pale, limp hand.

     The TV she had been watching, was blaring in the living room, spewing out data about the marvels that the aliens were offering mankind. How they were slowly changing human society one gift at a time into a long-sought utopia. It continued waxing melodic about farmers no longer needing to put in hours of work, About how farming machinery and fertilizers were no longer necessary.

     How deserts would soon be turned into veritable gardens, and urban overcrowding would soon become a thing of the past. How all diseases would soon be eradicated, and how physicians would become obsolete. Learning? A cerebral-altering pill would soon provide all knowledge necessary to make anyone a doctor, lawyer, physicist.

     Universities? They too would become obsolete along with their professors, high school and elementary school teachers. Physicists need no longer ponder the seemingly unsolvable mysteries of the universe since the answers were there to be known simply by asking. No need to study long hours, to research, to explore.

     No need to extend human reach into the vast, inscrutable vastness of the unknown and grapple stubbornly with its uncertainties until they yielded their secrets. Warp drive? Know-how would be provided upon request.

     Secrets of teleportation? Soon to be provided as well. No need to drive, fly, or strive to make better machines that could take us places faster and in greater comfort. What for when you could simply step into a tele-porter, input destination, and be there in a microsecond? A brave new world indeed! The instructions had already been provided for all these things and their reality was just around the corner.

     As I looked at Bernice I wondered whether she had not been right after all. Whether there was indeed some insidious reason for all this, this.... Yes, those thoughts did cross my mind and momentarily made me feel a deep shame-the shame of the ingrate who should never doubt the motives of his benefactor. Yet the thoughts lingered, all this, this, this insanity. I had almost thought but refused to acknowledge it.

     I berated myself for having entertained the suspicious concept. Instead I strove to see the goodwill, the benefits. But at the base of my Herculean efforts the vile suspicion lurked like a hydra about to pounce until I finally succumbed. Madness! I stood there looking at Bernice and who had previously been a happy, healthy productive citizen lain out on the couch.

     There was Sylvester, former chess player and hopeful master now a bitter mess. How many others were succumbing to this pernicious motive corroding psychological effect? If indeed the effect was widespread, then why did the government not intervene? Then it dawned on me. Of course the government would keep it a secret. The lust for power was too great. The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to send in requests that could eventually be turned to military advantage too tantalizing.

     How many in those long lines of seemingly innocent requesters were actually genuine? How many were actually government agents or had been paid a lofty sum just to make a specific request?

     It was all becoming clear now and I wished I could tell Bernice that I finally saw the light. But she was out of commission for the night and I decided to let her sleep it off until morning. Then I'd recommend we relocate to where that accursed Orb wasn't within our viewing distance. ‘The farther the better,' I thought, as I sat before the TV screen with its constant propaganda about how blessed we all were and how grateful we should all be to The Givers.

     Nothing seemed to be beyond the alien Givers' ken and the more they gave the happier and more robust they grew. In fact, they appeared twice as exuberantly healthy now than when they had landed. Even their white attire now shone with a radiance of pure snow and their once sallow complexion had been replaced by a reddish tint and the lines on their faces indicating suffering and age had all but disappeared, "Strange how they thrive on giving!" I thought. There is more happiness in giving than there is in receiving.

     I remembered the scripture quite well from my catechism days.

     True, but what if the happiness of the giver harms the receiver? What if these aliens were really emotional parasites that sucked the living will from their victims as they went from planet to planet leaving behind the remnants of what had once been vibrant society in irreversible psychological ruin?

'     A Sci fi novel like that would be a blockbuster,' I thought. But I was no writer, and this wasn't Sci fi. So I took the half-filled bottle of scotch, went to the window and poured myself a drink. Then I raised the goblet and uttered a bitter toast to the alien ship and its Givers below.


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