“Why did you choose me?” I asked Hanu?.
“I have surveyed Earth from its orbit, skinny human. I have studied your history and learned your languages. Yet, having accessed all knowledge, I do not seem to understand. My original intent was to study you for a day or two, observe your habits. But access into your memory trapped me. I wished to know more, always. The great human specimen, an ideal subject.”
“If you say so.”
“Your question, of course, is what you can receive from me.”
“A hair sample. Blood sample. Anything you can give. The greatest gift would be for you to come to Earth.”
“Humanry does not inspire the trust required,” Hanu? said. “There is no benefit for my tribe. And I regret I cannot give you a piece of myself. The body cannot be violated. It is the law.”
“Is there nothing we could exchange?”
“Let us begin with the two of us—the awareness of single beings—and see where our cohabitation takes us.”
I nodded, and bit into the burrito. Could Hanu? presently read my thoughts of desperation? Czech astronaut discovers intelligent life in Space. The Czech president is the first world leader to shake hands with the extraterrestrial, and gives him a tour of the Prague Castle. State heads overwhelm the Prague airport with their aircrafts and stand in line to meet the new life-form. Hanu? agrees to noninvasive research by Czech scientists, and his organic functions lead to stunning advances in biology and medicine. The question of God’s death is debated more hotly than ever. Atheists reaffirm his nonexistence; Catholics speak against the demon spreading Satan’s deception. I am at the center of it all. Hanu? refuses to travel anywhere without my company.
“Do not hope for such things, skinny human,” Hanu? said, “though I must ask—is it possible to share more of Earth’s hazelnut?”
After making another wrap, I slid my hand inside the jar and the tortilla package to confirm that the ingredients I had used for Hanu? were truly vanishing. Madness remained an option, despite everything. That night, I slept without needing medication.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, I was scheduled to engage with selected citizens in a videoblog session. The first barrage of questions was business as usual—my religious beliefs, my opinion on wasting taxpayers’ money on the mission, the workings of Space toilets. The last question of the day came from a young man, a university type, with thin-lensed eyeglasses and a lisp. His awkward throat-clearing reminded me of my old university friends, those manic beings racing through downtown Prague with backpacks and McDonald’s sacks in hand, always frantic, always fidgeting, their hyperactive disorders a manifestation of sincere beliefs that they will, they must change the world. As soon as the young man asked his question, Petr’s eyes widened in horror on the second screen. It was obvious that the young man had lied about his question during the prescreening. His inquiry was number one on Central’s blacklist.
“How often do you think about dying due to mission failure?” he asked. “Does it make you feel anxious, or numb?”
I looked at Petr. He fondled his forehead and nodded weakly. The question had been posed, and cutting the live feed would only make it obvious to the nation that secrets were being kept, narratives manipulated, public perception controlled. No, in a democracy, a raised question resonates with a never-ending echo. I was to answer.
“When I think about death,” I said, “I think of a sun-covered porch in the mountains. I take a sip of hot rum. I take a bite of cheesecake, and I ask the woman I love to sit on my lap. Then, death.”
The ease with which I invented this false fantasy sent guilt aches into my head. The moderator announced the end of the session and the screen went dark, and I imagined the young man being roughly escorted outside the Central headquarters. Petr apologized, but I waved it off. My duties to the public were fulfilled for the day, and I’d stripped into my underpants and set out to find Hanu?.
“Other humans look up to you, skinny human,” Hanu? noted over our next dinner session, “as if you are the Elder of your tribe.”
TIME BECAME CHOPPY, like a scratched cassette tape. Tasks took longer to complete, I was always behind schedule, and lyrics from songs whose rhythm I had long forgotten returned to my mind and would not leave. It was as if the closer proximity to Venus was bringing about time warps, slowing my brain functions to a crawl while harvesting the most useless of memories—information that had no practical purpose, those simple pieces of living, like scraps of fabric that do not become part of the dress and are left littering the floor.
I checked email obsessively. Another update from the ministry arrived:
… cannot determine whether subject is engaged in sexual relationship with male acquaintance, Zdeněk K., age 37, slightly overweight but good-natured and clean-faced with secure job as bank teller…
… apartment does not allow visual access to determine nature of meetings. Ministry is able to order deep surveillance, which would allow agent to access apartment when empty, gather evidence such as semen…
… subject purchased a package of peanuts and frozen stir-fry, resulting in a cleverly rigged kung pao…
… living a seemingly peaceful, ordinary life, as if she has taken on another identity…
… motives remain largely a mystery, deep surveillance recommended.
I replied with Deep surveillance a go, thanks. I gave Hanu? the rest of my dinner, sick with shame. She had run off and begun living elsewhere, anonymous, or so she had hoped. I felt no happiness over her seeming satisfaction, her peace in solitude—my mind was filled only with vanity, a thirst for reassurance, guesses about what I had done to drive her away. Could I get Central to force her to communicate with me? But such imposed communication wouldn’t be worth anything. No, I would have to be patient.
A FEW DAYS into our dinner tradition, Hanu? started following me around on my Chopra preparation tasks. As I ventured into the small chamber that contained Ferda, the cosmic dust collector and the crucial component of the Chopra mission, he asked whether he could assist. I unfastened the thick screws securing the outside shell of Ferda’s grating and removed the layer of metal protecting the finer design of the filters inside the bulky cube. Hanu?’s eyes traveled wildly between me and the grating I held, the tips of his legs touching the underside of his belly. He was always eager to help, to hold a piece of human technology. When I extended the grating toward him, with a smile he offered a leg as a temporary holder. I could see the filters now, pads covered in sticky silicone meant to capture particles, the pads themselves attached to rails that would eventually guide them back inside the ship for manual analysis.
“Skinny human, may I ask a question that could cause emotional distress?”