This, the first of a series of Francis Beckett’s short stories published by Oxford University Press, appeared in The Young Oxford Book of Aliens (OUP, 1998).
Judgement Day
By Francis Beckett
M'rek materialised in London's West End. At once, an uncomfortable feeling at the base of his spine told him that his unfamiliar human body wanted to dispose of its waste products. Those fools in Technical Section! He'd told them: make sure you drain the body before I use it.
Of course, they'd not had much time. There was a panic on. Earth-based agents had come up with an alarming report. Any moment the dominant Earth species was expected to develop a Doomsday Bomb. M'rek had to gauge whether the species was mature enough never to use it. Otherwise the planet would have to be eliminated. Technical Section gave him the best equipment they could come up with in a hurry. Research Section gave him a list of words and phrases which they thought would get him by in London in the late 1990s.
Among the crowds, M'rek spotted a short, stout, youngish woman in a dark blue uniform. He dodged through the dense crowd, towered over her and said:
"I say, old bean, where's the nearest khasi?"
The traffic warden's small, round face stared up at him. Surely, thought M'rek, every Londoner knew a khasi was a toilet. He himself remembered the word from the last time he had used a human body, in 1945. He also remembered the human body's warning signs. Any minute, the one he was wearing was going to spill its contents over the pavement. He badly wanted the woman to help him out, and not just for his own comfort. If the first human he met saw a fellow creature in M'rek's sort of distress and refused to help him., the Intergalactic Federation would certainly draw some sinister conclusions.
She took in the shoulder length hair; the bottle green crushed velvet trousers, narrow at the top, which spread out into huge flares just above the bright green sandals; the wild beard; the flowered shirt open half way down to reveal a huge silver medallion over a hairy chest. She could see beads of sweat on his forehead, his legs going backwards and forwards in a kind of agitated dance.
"Khasi!" The man was bending over her now. She remembered how her father, a regular soldier, used the word, and hoped she remembered correctly what it meant. She pointed a trembling hand and whispered "Leicester Square".
"Takes all sorts" shouted the old man selling evening newspapers in front of a hoarding which read ENGLAND LOSES THE ASHES TO AUSTRALIA, as the strange man walked awkwardly but rapidly down Regent Street. Meanwhile M'rek, with that part of his mind which he could spare from clenching his bowel muscles, was recalling his last visit to this city.
Back in 1945, there had been a sudden panic at Federation HQ. The dominant Earth species had dropped an atomic bomb, and the head of Planning Section sent for M'rek and told him: "They're only at Emotional Level 2." And M'rek knew that was serious. Generally, when a species has advanced to Technology Level 5, and can destroy its planet, it has also advanced at least to Emotional Level 3, which means it can be trusted never to use it.
M'rek had had to decide whether humans were going to reach Emotional Level 3 before they reached Technology Level 6 and could destroy solar systems. He was to decide whether the planet lived or died. He had spent a week in London. He learned that a great and terrible war had just ended. He listened to talk of creating a better world. He reported back that this race would soon be safe. But had he been wrong? Alarm bells were ringing again, this time more urgently.
He ran into Leicester Square, his human body in acute discomfort, but his Federation brain clearly remembering the grim words of the Head of Planning Section. "You have one Earth day. If you bring evidence that they're emotionally near Level 3, fine. If you don't, we eliminate the place five minutes after your return." A few minutes of fire and terror, and it would be as though Earth had never existed. Demolition Section avoided unnecessary suffering, but M'rek knew that during those few minutes, all living creatures on the planet would suffer indescribable terror and agony. Please let there be evidence of emotional development, he muttered, as he ran down the narrow staircase to the gentleman's lavatory.
The automatic doors were shut. M'rek stared round wildly as he searched his pockets for a coin, but Technical Section had only given him banknotes. Two young, thick-set men in tee shirts, with close-cropped hair and tattoos on their muscular arms, pushed past him as they came out of the toilet. M'rek chose another of Research Section's speech options. "G'day, cobber, strewth, could you lend a bloke a buck for the dunny?"
Could this species be so lost to compassion that the men would refuse to help him? As they advanced towards him, their fists rolled into menacing balls, M'rek started to feel that there might be no hope: Demolition Section would have to do its worst. The bigger of the two put his face close to M'rek's and said: "You Ozzies make me sick. Just because you win a lousy game of cricket." And M'rek felt his arms suddenly pinioned behind his back, while the squat, brutal looking man in front prepared to punch him. M'rek threw a thought stunner at them, paralysing them for the few seconds it took to rummage through their pockets and find the necessary coin. When he came out, relieved in body but more perturbed in mind, they were still there, frozen for a few more seconds in aggressive attitudes. There was little evidence there that this species could reach Emotional Level 3, he thought. But perhaps he was looking in the wrong place. He would go to one of his old haunts, where in 1945 he had found the care and the friendship he sought.
A few minutes walk from Leicester Square, there is a big old pub with sawdust on the floor. In 1945 M'rek had found both the beer and the company good. At the end of the evening, everyone had linked arms and sung. The song seemed mostly to consist of the words "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when" endlessly repeated, but they sang it with such affection for each other that M'rek was convinced the species was growing up.
He marched to the bar. The young barman was dressed, not in the homely sleeveless jersey which he remembered, but in some sort of sinister black uniform. M'rek thought for a moment and said:
"Eee bah gum lad, pint o' mild, reet bonny lad." The pub fell silent. Then, slowly, the few drinkers - men in grey suits with jugs of beer, women in black suits with padded shoulders and glasses of wine - returned to their own drinks and their own talk. Except for one - a young man seated by the bar, sipping a glass of sparkling water and looking at M'rek with bright, keen eyes. A young man whose gaze, M'rek now realised, was frank and steady, whose smile, when he caught M'rek's eye, was mischievous and knowing, whose suit seemed clean and pressed, as though he looked after himself, and whose face seemed open and honest, as though he cared for others.
M'rek remembered another young man, half a century ago, in that very spot. A young man who had bought him beer for his thirst, and showed him a wall, away from prying eyes, against which they companionably disposed of their liquid waste. A young man who had talked about how they were going to make society better, and who had convinced M'rek that this planet must be spared.
Now, 50 years later, another young man beckoned M'rek onto the bar stool beside him and said: "What part of the world are you from, my friend?"
M'rek took a deep draft of his beer and remembered, just for a moment, the strange feeling you get in a human body when you give it alcohol. He said: "Cornwall. 'Appen."
"Don't sound like Cornwall to me." The young man's eyes rested briefly on M'rek's medallion. Then he said: "In our trade you don't want everyone to know where you're from." The wide smile twinkled and the perfect teeth gleamed. He bought M'rek a new glass of beer. M'rek felt almost overcome with gratitude, sure now that he had found the good man who could prove the emotional maturity of the species. The man said, quietly and confidentially: "What do your punters want? E? Tammys? Jellies? Crack? Tabs? Say the word. Look, you're not being set up and I'm not Old Bill. You've got the capital - that medallion's worth thousands. Ten thousand K buys all your punters enough drugs to make you very rich."
"Drugs?" In his sudden passion, M'rek forgot what accent to use. "I don't want drugs. I want food, and drink, and love."
"Right." The young man looked as though a lifetime's search was over. "Stick with me and you can have food and drink coming out of your ears. You can have new clothes for every hour in the day. Even love, you can even afford that."
M'rek poured his new pint of beer over the man's head and walked unsteadily out of the door. The young man tried to smirk at the barman, but for a few seconds found himself unaccountably unable to move.
A light rain had started, and the reflections of dozens of dancing signs jumped out at M'rek from the wet pavement. He shivered, took from his bag Technical Section's great black cape, and threw the empty bag into the nearest shopfront. A sudden movement from the shopfront made him turn back quickly. An old woman dressed in rags was on her hands and knees, running her hands hopefully over every part of the bag's interior.
He watched her for an hour. Men and women walked past, talking and laughing, sheltering from the rain under umbrellas, and every so often the old woman called out, in a flat, featureless voice: "Spare some change?" They pretended not to hear her. Midnight passed, fewer people walked by, and the old woman lay down in the shop front. She rolled M'rek's soft bag into a pillow, pulled a tattered overcoat around her, and slept.
The intergalactic agent walked the streets of central London, shivering beneath his flowing black cape and slowly soaking to the skin from the light but cold and persistent rain. Most shopfronts contained at least one derelict like the old lady, and often more than one. The occasional gleaming car sped down the street, spraying water over him, its windows wound tight to keep the rain out and the pounding music in, as remote from the humanity on those streets as if they were at Intergalactic HQ. At first light he took a bus to one of the city's suburbs.
Molly was late. She arrived at the supermarket as she arrived at most places, breathless because running didn't suit her. Tall, slim and elegant she wasn't.
"Is the promotion still on?" she said to the man who stood outside. He turned slowly and watched her. At last he said: "I dinna ken."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry. I mean, I've no idea at all. Is it important?" From his accent she knew he was a Londoner.
"Up to 9.30 you get two packets of cereal for the price of one. Want an apple?" She dredged to the bottom of an enormous carrier bag and produced two apples.
"That's very kind" said the stranger, and he seemed to mean it. "You're here to buy food?"
"No, I'm too late, look, they're taking the sign down. Ah, well. It's onto the other supermarket."
It seemed natural to her that the strange man should fall into step beside her.
"Seb - that's my oldest, he's 14 - his mates have all got this special sort of bike, and they're laughing at himbecause he hasn't, but I can't send my old man to ask for a rise again, last time, the boss gave him such a rocket, he was shaking for a week." She burst into hearty, contented laughter.
"So" the man persisted. "You are going to buy food."
"Well" said Molly "I've got this loyalty card. If I spend £25 I get 50 points on my loyalty card, and 450 points are worth £2 off any own-brand purchases. Now, at the other supermarket, my £25 only gets me 30 points and 500 points gets you £1.50 off whatever's on special offer any Thursday. So unless there's a special promotion, like the cereals, I'm better off where we're going now."
"I don't understand."
"Except for the scratchcards."
"Scratchcards?"
"So long as you have the loyalty card and you spend more than £25 in any month, you get a free scratchcard, and if you have the right combination of symbols your name goes into a draw for a new car. But you have to ring this number and give them the name and address of one friend who might like to receive their promotional material."
The man looked at her, and for the first time she noticed the medallion on his chest. She didn't mind. She never had been fashionable, and she liked men with hairy chests.
"Is that how shopping for food works here?" he asked.
"Well, it does if you're poor."
For a moment she thought she saw a look of infinite sadness pass over his hairy face. Then, suddenly and disconcertingly, he faded away. The last thing to disappear was the medallion. A minute later she heard a deep rumble, coming, it seemed, from hundreds of miles beneath her, but she took no notice. No point in being late.