Crackers. I haven't heard that expression in twenty years.
I have to smile. "I don't think you're crackers, Stacy."
She's pleased. "Maybe we can have coffee together after Dr. Stoon's talk."
"I'd enjoy that," I reply.
Dr. Stoon enters a short time afterward. He is a big burly man, of Slavic descent, with dark piercing eyes. His age, like Stacy's, is difficult to pinpoint. He could be thirty-five, or ten years older. He moves as if he owns the room, as if every eye should be on him. After a brief introduction, he is at the podium, overpowering it with his bulk and attitude. His voice, when he speaks, is gruff and unpleasant. Yet he sounds smart, like someone who knows more than he is saying.
And his words sound strikingly familiar.
"There are two kinds of beings in this creation," he says. "Those who strive for perfection and those who submit to chaos. It is the same in outer space as it is on this worldthere is no difference. We either choose to be masters of our destinies, or we let the fates rule us. I am speaking now about power, and you might wonder what power has to do with a lecture on UFOs. I tell you it has everything to do with our space brothers. Each night we look to the heavens, waiting for them to arrive. But why should they come if we haven't made a choice in our own lives? But when we do make the choice, the right choice, to be important in the galactic scheme of things, then they will know. They will come to us at the most unexpected time, and fill our hands and minds with knowledge we cannot begin to imagine."
Stacy leans over and speaks in my ear. "Sounds like a bit of an evangelist, doesn't he?"
"Yeah. He talks without saying anything specific."
Stacy nodded. "But look at the people in this room. They are spellbound. Dr. Stoon doesn't have to say anything to have the effect he wants."
Stacy misunderstands me, but her point is well made. Dr. Stoon is one of those people who draws others in, smothers them. Even though he's not being specific, he touches on issues Suzamaand that's who she will always be to mealso explained. Yet his bias is from the other side, even though nothing he says sounds intrinsically negative.
He continues in a loud voice.
"We have to open our minds fully to the truth that we control our own futures, while at the same time we must accept that there are powers above us that are willing to help us if we align our thinking with theirs. Who are our space brothers? They are us a thousand years from now. They are strong. And for us to be strong we must cut offall that weakens us as a people. Here I have to speak on a matter that is almost considered a blasphemy in our society, and yet it is the single most important issue regarding our survival. We are literally drowning in the shallow end of our gene pool. Who is reproducing at the most rapid rate in our world? The uneducated and the foolish. But how did our space brothers reach their exalted state? By casting out the foolish. Our genes are our only treasure. We must plan their use, and use the planthe plan our brothers are waiting to give us."
Again Stacy leans over and whispers in my ear.
"Sounds like Hitler to me," she says.
I smile. "But he's not blaming any specific group for mankind's woes."
"Isn't he?" Stacy asks, and her question is worth contemplating.
Dr. Stoon speaks for another half hour, and at the end of that time he doesn't accept questionsprobably because no one would know what to ask him. I certainly wouldn't. Yet his words have affected me, not so much by their content, but by their resonance. I don't know, however, if the effect is a good one. His lecture was divisive; nothing he said could be used to bring people together for the common good. Another might say that was not true. Such was the strength and weakness of his talk.
When he finishes I wander toward the front, where he stands chatting with what appear to be old friends. But when his eyes meet mine, he momentarily freezes, and then quickly turns away. He excuses himself from his group and walks briskly toward the exit.
I walk after him.
In the parking lot he climbs in his car and races out onto the road, heading for the desert. Naturally I follow him. He must know I am tailing him. At this time of day, a half hour after dusk, we are the only ones on this narrow road that runs perpendicular to the main highway. Within twenty minutes we are deep in the desert, with the city only a glow on the horizon. The stars come out. Dr. Stoon is driving fast, but now it is possible he may not know I am behind him. I have turned off my headlights. I don't need them, of course, but maybe he doesn't either.
Ten minutes later he suddenly swerves off the road and drives across the sand toward a massive hill that is more reminiscent of Utah's Zion National Park than Phoenix's backyard. The hill is more a stone cathedral, built around a symmetrical interior. The rough terrain is hard on Dr. Stoon's BMW but my Jeep loves the challenge.