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Outback sunshine penetrated the linen blinds and stretched out across Jacob, casting stripes of shadow at his feet. He laced up his boots and filled the pockets of his cargo shorts with his keys and wallet and strapped in the nickel-plated pistol Patel had left for him on the bedside table. Underneath it was this message: For the non-friendlies. Clipped to the note was a Polaroid photo of a sand-colored snake coiling itself around a shovel, held upright by a headless man in mud-dipped boots. The man was arcing away, retracting his vital organs as he strained to steady the shovel. Shortly after arriving in Australia, Jacob purchased several lightweight neck scarves at a provisional chain forty miles away in Coober Pedy. He was wearing one now, and he thought it paired nicely with his trail shorts and heavy boots. The house, installed alongside a range of Australian red rock, was a luxury multilevel constructed mostly of glass. It sat atop a relatively lush plateau with a wide view of another ridge and an expanse of desert below. In the kitchen, Molly was washing a mixing bowl. Victoria sat at the table hunched over cereal, an open canister of raw sugar beside her. Jacob pinched her lightly at the scruff of the neck. The nearest town is forty miles away. Apart from the rancher who lived on the other side of the ridge, whose house was arranged at such an angle that neither neighbor had a view of the other, Patel lived alone on an island. An island in a bay of rising red rocks, surrounded by a dozen other immensities, looped inside a horizon of fire. It looked like sea anemone attached to a plastic tube filled with red liquid. Out by the pool? You should drink that sangria. It seems pointless out here in this heat all by ourselves. But who can forgo the ritual? Molly and Victoria had decorated the bronzed statue of Galileo in the courtyard with strands of large, colorful bulbs and placed a Santa hat on his head. She shook it and it unfurled. How nasty is she? God only knows. He allowed himself to imagine for a moment Iris Patel standing in the kitchen naked but for these plum vectors pointing to her inevitable triangle, her long black braid bisecting her shoulder blades, maybe holding a carton of orange juice, shaking it absentmindedly. She waved to them sleepily from the other side of the glass wall. Jacob noticed where her yellow bikini narrowed to a tiny, thrilling bulge and how, above that, prominent hipbones delicately strained the fabric. Molly had taken in a gulp of air, not a gasp but enough for Jacob to notice, before waving back stiffly. Victoria fidgeted while trying to look away. She trudged back and took the sponge-wand from her mother and began scrubbing her mud-colored bowl with halting, jerky motions. The emus were beginning to crowd the patio outside the kitchen, ready for breakfast. She rapped on the glass. They belong to an ancient race of giants. Ferocious, stupid, groaning giants. She lifted her arms and made claws with her hands. Soapy water streamed toward her elbows, soaking the sleeves of her nightshirt. Flesh-eating giants! Jacob called Patel both times, leaving a message. His daughter cackled in uneven bursts. Her high, sweet-prickle laugh. She took off around the kitchen in a high-kneed lope. Giant crushes skulls! Frankly, Jacob was a little afraid of his daughter. Fear was the only word for it. And on top of that, at times he felt toward her a latent, gentle repulsion of which he was deeply ashamed. She read quickly, turning pages loudly, attacking books. Debris that came around the same time every year, oddly, corresponding with the emu egg harvest. Jacob was relieved she was gone. She made him feel helpless. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed he could only love his daughter in repose. It just is. Molly was drunk. It was her way of dealing with the unpredictable atmosphere over the South Pacific. At forty, his wife was terminally exhausted. Her once-smooth forehead had blossomed a rippling edifice of tension. The beautiful white skin along her jaw line had come loose. This is the way she came to us. What if she needs Dr. What then? She kept pulling them out, cut limes, a seemingly endless supply, from the shadows of her giant purse. Thin bangles ringed her freckled wrists and two sculpted earbuds dangled from her neck. Her narrow, surprised mouth hung open, a streak of red hair slung across it. This belief had compelled him to take their daughter to over forty specialists in less than three years. Six years ago, when their daughter was ten, Molly had gone to wake her only to find her bed empty. She had on pink, tiger-striped pajamas. Palm fronds had brought up welts on her arms. When he found her, his first reaction was anger. An irrational yet, he assured himself, nearly universal response. It seized him for a moment, long enough for him to yank his daughter by the arm and bring her to standing with some force. Then Jacob was released into a shimmering, God-praising euphoria. He sensed a distant kernel of knowledge within the ecstasy of this moment. There was something essential he was overlooking, some data lay unconsidered, and this knowledge, he felt, belonged to those very first moments. Shadows hung here and there on her pale little face and she was rolling her eyes upward, flashing him queasy crescents of bloodshot white. Molly had been out canvassing the neighborhood. By the time she returned, breathless and wild-eyed, Victoria had recovered herself. She sat quietly, letting them rub Calamine lotion on her. Jacob tried to explain to Molly what had transpired by the sago palm. Like black ice on the highway, flat glass. Like a trapped animal. All of it. None of it was right. And when eventually told, by what seemed to him sheer process of elimination, that Victoria had bipolar disorder, Molly settled into the news with a casualness that always gnawed at him. All elevation was behind him now, and in front only horizon. The aborigines called this place The Dead Flats. A breeze blew in dusty belches, and he had to reposition his scarf several times to cover his mouth and nose. Pagbir Patel, radio astronomer and astrophysicist, was in the Seychelles sequestering Iris, his latest bride. And with that support Patel was able to develop the most accurate, powerful, interstellar messaging system to date. He called this invention The Patel Laser. His team sent messages into space comprised of frequency-modulated radio waves, a method largely unchanged since the Johnson administration. They targeted certain star systems and aimed a cheap binary message in their general direction, a message meant to approximate—should it ever be reconstructed by actual extraterrestrials—a crude human form. His two books became bestsellers. His house was featured in Architectural Digest. It was this last fact that convinced Molly to make the trip. At the entrance to the SETI station, a young soldier in a glass booth waved him on. This was, after all, a government facility, a fact that still amazed him. The Australians, instead of using large, unwieldy dishes for listening in outer space, used fields of small ones. They could enhance the sensitivity of the array by increasing the size of the dish field. Patel could monitor three million stars at once. Jacob drove up to the building on a crackling dirt road that cut two wide expanses of limestone. The terrain had formed from white, concentrically layered ooids and in the morning light, the tiny spheres shimmered and flashed. On either side of him, the dishes hummed with a satisfying exuberance, their shallow white bowls pointed at the sky. All his life, his thoughts had inevitably meandered toward some paradox of the ever-expanding cosmos. And he considered the pristine skies of the southern hemisphere as somehow belonging to a better class of universe. Here was an unaccustomed celestial spread under which a man like Jacob could really dream. He parked the jeep next to a dusty red Prius. The sticker in the back window depicted the customary inverted egg-shaped alien head and the caption: Be Alert: The Universe Needs More Lerts. As usual, the cosmos had crackled with sound, which computers waded through at lightning speed, looking for pattern, for something purposeful. Jacob fantasized, of course, that the big moment might happen on his watch. He checked the progress of the Patel Laser. Most transmissions took anywhere from two to ten days to complete, depending on complexity. It tightened a signal into focused wavelengths which, when cast into deep space, spread only a few hundred kilometers. The miniature waves passed quickly through each point and could carry complex messages mostly intact. The result was an elegant transmission, a missive in keeping with the abilities of modern Earth. Jacob initialed the reports and walked out to the hallway. Several prominent researchers with grants in astrophysics, optics, and acoustics had labs at the station. It was with these two men that Jacob was united in secrecy. The secret was one that had cost the Australian government over a hundred thousand dollars, and if it were to get out, would surely cost Pagbir Patel his lab. The ideal earthling. The physicality of the Australians still caught Jacob off guard. Click had a meaty laugh, and the buoyant and immense man seemed to find everything about Jacob funny. Feng smiled and moved in closer, making uncomfortably thorough eye contact with Jacob. Click gave them both a smart smack on the back. She had a round, thoughtful face and the tanned, muscular confidence of an Australian. Her black hair usually hung in one thick, braided rope, which she occasionally coiled at the nape of her neck and secured with ornate wooden sticks. In October, Patel asked Iris to marry him. A flaming expanse of sunset and desert was splayed out before them, and maybe it was the whiskey, but Jacob had even teared up a bit at this bold love-gestalt. The man did, after all, invent the laser. No, it was just that the transmission was far too illicit, too private. It was an unpleasant contradiction. Jacob imagined, in a Rod Serling twist, a spaceship touching down on Earth a hundred years from now and unloading an army of Irises made up especially for the occasion. It was later that afternoon, while Jacob was out inspecting the dish field, amid the kettledrum droning of an active universe, that his cell phone rang. We had turkey at Thanksgiving. I mean, is it safe for her? Mom told me what Patel did to her. Sending her into space. He immediately felt the fire from an old strain of poison that he carried in his blood, the hot anger he reserved for Molly and her boozy lack of boundaries. Like a love poem, but from a scientist. Later that evening, Jacob arrived to find the front door open. Several emus were lingering by the doorway, clicking away on their ridiculous dinosaur feet. On the other side of the glass, Jacob found the emus somewhat charming. But inside the house, bird became monster. The thing was shaking its horrent feathers, backing away from Jacob with a satisfied strut. It took a sudden step toward him, and Jacob nearly punched it in its Donald Duck snout, but instead he maneuvered around it and flipped on the light switch. The glass house filled with light, and the bird ran three long-legged steps out the front door and into the courtyard where Galileo sat alert on his stone perch, gilded with Christmas spirit, peering into the night through his long, thin eyepiece. A shriek erupted from the kitchen behind him. Jacob turned to see the largest of the emus, a generously feathered bird Patel called Floop, clicking toward him. It was an abominable, shaggy troll on stilts, fitted with oversized armored claws. The bird looked straight at Jacob and took another wobbly step in his direction. He knew they could reach a top speed of thirty miles an hour, and despite his sloppy start, Floop seemed intent on using the long hallway between him and Jacob to work himself up to that. Confusion anesthetized Jacob. He flattened himself against the wall. But before it could reach him, the bird lost control and went down on the marble floor, its legs splayed on either side. Floop began squawking and warbling. His calls were stirring up a cacophony from the birds in the courtyard. Their booming grunts quickly gathered into a great symphony of discord. From within their chaotic calls, Jacob thought he could discern a pattern, a rhythm that hinted at language. He edged down the hallway, sliding against the wall. A reddish-black foam had gathered on its lips. The bird let loose a wild, guttural whoop that succeeded in blasting Jacob back a few steps. Floop hoisted himself up, his jointed legs reassembling and straightening with impossible agility. Once upright, he flapped his tiny, useless wings. All luck, no aim. Jacob had kept his eyes closed. The massive animal managed an elegant death. He looked at Jacob with inquisitive, intelligent confusion before collapsing, beak first, his heavy body first thudding then skidding a few feet across the marble before settling inches from Jacob. Two bloody feathers took an independent trajectory and landed on his boot. It took him a moment to register that the kitchen phone had been ringing. His chest felt heavy, fear-sodden. He let the metal wall unit trill several more times before stepping over Floop and walking down the hall to pick up the receiver in the kitchen. Your wife made her way here on foot. She wants to speak with you, mate. I think she tried to poison that bird. You fucking man. You shot my bird! I saw you. Victoria was standing on the white carpet, holding the other extension, staring at him. She began hopping lightly on her toes, little jittery elevations, lifting her heels. Jacob felt sure he was going to be sick. He could see her mouth moving, but still he found it difficult to believe the words were actually coming from her. Do you hear me? You melt girls down and feed them to the space men. You fuck. He looked back across the courtyard at Victoria, who was smiling now, still hopping. It was the last day of December, and Jacob was on the night shift. Two more days and they would be on a plane back home to Utah. Patel, still in the Seychelles, emailed photos of him and Iris on a diving boat. Victoria was in the glass house with Molly, sleeping all day. The psychiatrist in Coober Pedy had spoken to Dr. Pollock back in Utah, and everyone agreed that her medicine would need adjusting and that Pollock should be the one to do it. Jacob pulled up the diagnostics on the Patel Laser. The email came in at AM. The username was thehalcyontiger yahoo. The subject line: The Ideal Earthling. It read:. There are, as is the case with most Earthlings, unfortunate trouble spots. Of course, we can heal her. And all like her. But then again, so can you. However, it will be at least 1. You are, as your actions demonstrate, still misdirecting your attention. We are once again offering our assistance. Should you choose to accept our guidance at this critical time, as your predecessors have done before you, you will find us at the southernmost tip of Praslin Island during the March equinox. We have something to ask, a small favor, in return. It was unsigned. Jacob minimized the screen. He took a beer from the fridge and drank it down. Jacob answered. Jacob was nearly running down the hall and, once in the office, slammed the door behind him. Can you believe it? I thought I was going crazy. What are you going to do? I could be shut down. Then static. Are you kidding me? And ruin her honeymoon? Hell no. One of the two. Then the sound of something moving, wind or water. Patel was back. What we received tonight was not a message from aliens. It was an email, from an asshole. Just an email from an asshole. Probably Click. And he has it out for Iris. The next morning, Jacob arrived to find Molly and Victoria on the sofa, a modern, uncomfortable expanse of linen cushion supported by steel bars. She just walks around touching things and I follow her. He sat between them, taking Victoria by the wrist and placing her hand in his lap. It moved easily, independent from her frozen body. Her hair was greasy and hung limply over her forehead. I found someone, a specialist. One last thing I want to try. Is that okay, baby? She nodded. But we may need to come back this way, Molly. If it looks promising, we may need to come back in March. Jacob went out to the courtyard. The sky was clear. A lone emu approached, warbling with interest. The rainy season would be here soon, and the emus would move to a small ranch in town. The Christmas lights still hung from Galileo. Jacob began unwrapping them gently. This was beneath you. He looked back through the house at Molly and Victoria in the living room. From this view, all was perfect. From here, they were ideal. Susan White Norman is a fiction writer and teacher. She teaches at Southern Methodist University in Dallas. It is my understanding that the aborigines revere these birds. What the hell, Molly? The birds. Jacob, I was so afraid. It read: Dr. What time is it there? It could have been me. I gotta go. From E.
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