The Last Christmas On Earth

EPISODE III-7

Margareth was sitting with her back numb and her hands resting on her knees together, and not knowing what to do to spend the time she kept on adjusting the hem of her skirt with nervous gestures. The evening before, the President's men had parked her at the luxurious Crowne Plaza Hotel instead of taking her directly to their destination. At the sight of all that pomp, she had said that she would be satisfied with something even cheaper. Ross had laughed and told her not to worry because Uncle Sam would take care of the bill. That same morning they had returned to pick her up early and escorted her to the Pentagon, and by crossing that mythical gate Margareth had discovered she was very excited, because she knew that some of the most fertile minds on the planet were working in there. But due to a series of setbacks the President had not yet been able to receive her and now that she no longer even knew how many hours she was waiting seated in that anteroom, her enthusiasm was again diminishing.

Her idea of a "hit and run" followed by a quick return to her research and, above all, the attempt to be forgiven by her friend Louise, had given way to annoyance and anxiety that were devouring her, inside. Although she was one of the world's leading experts in ancient languages, she was also a simple country girl who did not like to be away from the safety of her world, especially if she had been forcibly torn from her world. As she returned to ask herself once again what the President might want from her, three men and a woman entered the room. Apparently, they were conversing amiably, but you could see a mile away that they were as tense as she was. The girl immediately recognized three of them because they frequently participated in various television programs as experts, these were Professors Erasmus Wayne, archaeologist, John Litterman, astronomer, and Lia Robson, biotechnologist. Looking at him better, she recognized the young and very famous architect Jacob Summerfield almost immediately, so she wondered what she was doing among all those luminaries and she found herself slightly disappointed, because until then she had thought that the one with the President would have been a double meeting, just the President and her. They looked at her curiously for a long moment, then hinted discreetly and sat down.

"Who is that girl?" Lia asked Jacob in a whisper, while Wayne and Litterman continued their conversation about the last Superbowl. Jacob shrugged. In fact, despite having passed her thirties, Margareth looked like a little girl in every way, above all because of her minute features and her way of dressing a little naive. Her hypothesis that the President needed some personal advice about his private collection crumbled; the resulting prospect of having to confront those monsters of intelligence in some way made her feel uncomfortable. To hide her embarrassment, she adjusted the hem of her skirt once more under her very white knees and began to look at the photographs hanging on the walls, depicting past American presidents.

"Miss Turner?" A secretary suddenly appeared after a few minutes. In response, Margareth jumped to her feet.

"The President is ready to receive you," the woman informed her. She politely signaled to follow her and she obeyed. Until then, Margareth had only seen the President on TV, who had seemed a strong, dynamic and charismatic man, but when the door opened she found him with his back bent forward and his arms stretched out on the desk: he was mulling over something with his gaze fixed on an invisible point. The secretary noticed that she was troubled and gave her an encouraging smile. Margareth crossed the threshold, hesitating, the door closed behind her and she crossed the immense office to stop hesitantly just in front of the large desk.

"Mr. President," she murmured, undecided whether to mimic a bow or not, he raised his head and for a moment looked around as if wondering where the hell he was, then he shook himself and stood up.

"Please excuse me, Miss Turner, I was lost in thought," he hastened to justify himself by welcoming her. "Come on in," he said then, shaking his hand vigorously.

"It's okay ... I'm honored to be here," she said without taking a step.

"Sit down, unfortunately, I fear it won't be a short conversation," he informed her, letting himself fall back on the armchair with tired gestures. "After almost a day waiting, and I apologize for this, you will be curious to know why you are here," he added.

"Actually ..." the girl automatically replied, but in reality, the feeling that had prevailed in her for a while was a great desire to run away and return to her beloved and dusty archives. The President straightened up and pulled a file to him that he had previously prepared on one side of the desk, flipped some pages by pinching them until he found what he was looking for and turned it to her. "Do you believe these beings really exist?" He asked point-blank. Margareth's eyes widened in surprise, she looked at the sketch that reproduced an alien of Gray race and took a moment to think about it.

"The studies I have conducted so far suggest that, probably over the millennia, people with superior technology and culture have continued to show themselves to the human being, and sometimes even to interact with us. Some texts of all the ancient civilizations speak about it, some in allegorical or metaphorical form identifying such beings with angels or demons, or gods, others in a much more direct way, giving to their works the aspect of a real historical report," she answered as if she were giving a lesson to her students, amazed by her own mastery of language and the fact that she had not jammed. She took a breath and continued. "I do not have the tools to establish with certainty that this is true, but from the elements in my possession, I can certainly say that according to these cultures, there have been creatures descended from heaven on board of what we would today call spaceships," she concluded. Meanwhile, she had unknowingly resumed tormenting the hem of her skirt.

The President gave her a big smile.

"Relax Miss Turner, this is not an exam! I don't want to seem too intrusive, but I know everything about you, starting with your brilliant degree thesis at the Chicago Institute until your most recent successes, conceiving a unique code for the translation of ancient texts, found in antipodes between them like those of Rapa Nui and Mohenjo Daro."

"But then what ..." she said confused.

"Right now I simply need to know if you, intimately, are firmly convinced of the existence of aliens or not."

She looked at him bewildered because she thought she had already answered.

"Well," she declared then more simply, "I think if I suddenly found myself in front of an alien I would die of fear, but I wouldn't be surprised by them. So yes, I think extraterrestrials do really exist."

"Well, even if this is not exactly the way I would have liked to hear it, I find your open-mindedness very encouraging to face the journey that we will have to undertake ... obviously, if you will give us your willingness," the President explained smiling at her again. She nodded without being too much convinced, smiling in turn. Immediately afterward, she told herself that perhaps it was the case to ask him about which trip he was talking about, but the answer came before she could ask the question.

"Soon we and those gentlemen who were waiting out there with you, in the company of some other higher caliber mind, will have to discuss some very important questions and make decisions of vital importance. Follow me, please," he concluded, standing up.

When James entered Elen's office, it was past 6 pm. "Finally a whole day without problems ..." he began to say.

"You said well: finally ..." agreed Helen. "Today my biggest problem was convincing Larry to destroy all the material because there will be no science fiction case at all," she added.

"And how did he react?"

"Not well, I'd say," answered Helen, slightly displeased.

"Don't feel sorry, I'm sure he'll forgive you."

"You say?"

"I am sure, I do not understand how you are not yet aware that man dotes on you. You rather, how do you feel?"

"Very relieved, seriously ... I just hope it's really all over."

"And your finger?"

"It would seem better too," Helen lied without showing it. "I hope it heals quickly, so the last memory of all this abstruse affair will disappear, too. How is your son?" She then asked him, wondering once again how it was possible that Harry, having ridden his bike for a while, he had not contracted that infection. But she had already come to the conclusion that she had been attacked by that virus, or whatever it was, because it had penetrated through the cut she had on her fingertip. While Harry had returned home perfectly healthy because the virus had not found any gateway to his body. As for the mummies, then, she thought they must have been invested in full by a cloud of that stuff. So they must have breathed it in deeply, meeting easily imaginable consequences.

"From time to time Harry continues to behave in a strange way, but he probably just needs more time." Said James and Helen nodded satisfied.

"S. & S.?" He suggested winking to her, without noticing that he had just dusted off the language of when they were boys. That acronym was part of their secret vocabulary and stood for "Shirt and Short", the clothing for jogging, and they used it when one was proposing the other to run through the fields.

"And where'd you get this from? It was since when we were young that you didn't propose it to me," she commented. He expressed a smile and a shrug.

"Sorry, but I'm too tired, it has been three nights and three days that I don't get a night of proper sleep and a meal."

"You're right ... how about a Bud?"

"It sounds much better ... as long as we don't talk about work."

"Deal," James announced, holding out his hand. "I'll be waiting for you to finish your turnout in the parking lot."

"I'll be there."

The room dedicated to "special meetings" was semi dim, it had low ceilings and soundproof walls and without windows. At its center hung a futuristic video projection device, large tables were arranged in a horseshoe shape and furnished with very uncomfortable chairs. While trying to find an acceptable position, Margareth thought that the interior designer had chosen them on purpose, to prevent someone from falling asleep during the meetings. Once she had settled in, she opened the file placed under her nose and scanned it quickly. She closed the file and began to stare at the President, who meanwhile had placed at the table in the center of the horseshoe and had again assumed a tormented expression. The door opened and a man appeared, judging by his likeness, he must have been in his seventies; he crossed the room, step by step joined the President.

"Good evening, Professor," he greeted him, standing up in respect, then turned on the microphone and introduced him to the audience. "This gentleman is Professor Hamilton, former Majestic top-level agent and current Director of the UFOs Phenomena Study Center. I am willingly omitting his numerous degrees and certificates because it would take me hours, but please pay close attention to what he will say, because as I told you he will talk about extremely important matters," he announced. Then he turned to him and nodded, the man started fiddling with a remote control until the lights went out and the projector turned on. The first image materialized on the screen was that of a Crop Circle, followed by the photography of the Baghdad Battery and those of the Nazca Lines, that of the Astronaut of Palenque and finally that of an ancient bas-relief depicting a helicopter, found in the Temple of Abydos dedicated to the god Osiris. At the end of that brief review of images, Hamilton took the floor.