part of something larger than yourselves. To weave what it means to be human into what it means to be a thousand other things.”
I thought for a moment, but the only question I could think to ask was the one I had asked so many times already. “Why?”
“Because,” said the alien, “that’s the only real way that civilizations survive. They go on by being . . . a note in the symphony. A leaf on the tree.”
“But,” I said, “if we do that, we won’t be us anymore. Not the way we were before.”
It nodded again. “You will not be the same. But that’s the choice that every civilization faces eventually. You can embrace a diversity where you’re part of a larger picture, or hold fast to what you see as purity . . . and die alone.” It pointed at the cloud of stars in the image, which was still growing and growing as the apparent camera moved ever farther from Earth. “Maintaining an unchanging culture is the most destructive form of nostalgia.”
George abruptly stopped, and that frighteningly huge smile returned to its face as it held out a three-fingered hand my way. “Come with me if you want to live.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “And if I don’t?”
Semi-shrug. “Climb in the box and go home.”
“Where I tell them what?”
“Anything you want. Tell them everything we said.” George rocked on its bench, causing the board to creak again. “That woman you met before coming here? The woman from the playing field?”
“Yes?”
“She made her decision quite quickly. She’s already back and talking to the FBI. A lot of people around the world are doing something similar.”
“But . . . won’t that make a difference? I mean, if everyone knows what you said, won’t that help? Maybe we can still stop things from falling apart.”
“You would think so,” said George. “That’s not our experience, but hey, maybe it will. We’re not perfect. We know your history, but we can’t be one hundred percent certain of your future. Maybe our coming here really will save the whole ugly mess.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“No.” He leaned toward me even more. “Come with us, Doc.”
“And do what?”
“This,” he said. “Think of this as a job interview, although you’ve already got the job if you want it. This is what we do.”
“Who is we?”
“A coalition of almost eleven thousand civilizations from over four thousand species lucky enough to be found before they had the chance to off themselves. A million billion people who sat in that chair and answered yes when they were asked this question.” George stopped, and this time the smile was somehow softer. “Well, not literally that chair. Not all of us would fit.”
Then I sat for a long time. Several minutes at least. George didn’t try to hurry me as I thought through everything that had happened, everything that had been said. “This isn’t first contact,” I said. “It’s last contact.”
“That’s true,” said George. “Though, actually, I’m sure this isn’t the last time we’ll be visiting Earth.”
“It’s not?”
“Not at all. A planet like this . . . there’s another billion years where it could turn out new civilizations. I’m sure we’ll be back this way in ten thousand years, or a hundred, to make the same offer to someone else. They might even be human.” The alien looked at me with its small dark eyes. “But they won’t be you, Doc. We’ve already saved everything we can of your people. Including you, if you’ll come.”
“And all that will be left of us is some scrap of our culture spread into a bigger culture, like . . . an intergalactic Taco Bell.”
George exploded in a series of uh, uh, uh sounds so loud it made me jump in my chair. A few seconds passed before it settled down enough to reply. “First of all, we’re just in this one galaxy. Second, don’t knock the Bell, Doc. They give good value for the dollar.”
“But you know what I mean.”
“I do,” it said. “And