In the Time of Man

Chapter 15

(I will have the final chapters of this novel completed and posted here in the next few weeks and will turn it into a single file for download, fairly quickly. I will also begin the work of recording the full manuscript for an audiobook to be available.

I was pondering writing about the Super Tuesday primaries but there is no real news, even in Texas. It appears our governor is very close to knocking off enough state reps in primaries with his out-of-state millions that he will likely have the votes he needs to send your tax money to Christian schools with his voucher program next legislature. All the results are not yet in but things do not look grand. - JM)

Becky Acuna was surprised to see Elliot Anders barging in on the end of a news conference with a professional athlete but the last 24 hours had been markedly unusual compared to her usual daily life in journalism. She knew Anders’ book on the Great Pyramid was on most bestseller lists but she had no clue how that might be relevant to anything Johnny Eddington had just shared with the public.

“If you’ll give me just a moment please,” Anders said as he opened a hard-sided briefcase on top of the podium. “I’ll explain everything.”

In the back of the ballroom, a CNN reporter stared into her live camera and began to relate the Eddington news conference in hushed tones using the contrived and somber tenor television correspondents adopt to convey great drama. Other reporters were pushing aside their folding chairs and a few crews had begun taking down light stands along the edge of the room. Conversations were increasing in volume and with each minute it was becoming more difficult for Elliot Anders to recapture attention. 

“Here it is.” Anders practically shouted from the dais and most of the reporters and photographers turned to see him holding up a tiny USB jump drive. “Believe me. You want to see this.”

Anders, Becky had decided when she saw him on KSUN-TV, was an odd-looking man but he did not lack presence and confidence. She had seen a portion of his interview with Michelle May and had been disappointed when she had been distracted by Mike Burke’s constant complaining.        

"Tell us again who you are, sir." An ABC News correspondent with unfortunate skin wanted everyone to understand she had considerably more important tasks on her agenda, regardless of who was commandeering the room.

"I'm sorry. I beg your pardon. My name is Elliot Anders. I am sort of an anthropologist and sociologist and maybe a bit of an archaeologist."

“Sort of?” the ABC woman asked. “How do you become a ‘sort of’ anthropologist or anything else?”

“Just bear with me a few seconds longer.” Elliot had worked his way over to the computer that had played highlights of Johnny Eddington’s greatest moments on a baseball field. He plugged his thumb drive into a port and quickly opened the video files as they appeared on screen and then hurried back to the podium.

Initially, Becky was unable to determine what was being displayed. Uncle Pierre shrugged his shoulders and asked her if he should record the scene and she nodded affirmatively. There appeared to be a small canyon and a surrounding rock formation that had been treated with special effects to make it glow or pulsate red.

“What you are looking at is a natural formation in Mali, Africa,” Elliot Anders explained.  “It is located along the Cliff’s of Bandiagara near the Dogon tribal village of Yougo Dogouru.”

“What’s happening there? Up on the screen? And why in the hell are you showing us this?”vA wire service correspondent, slouching against the far wall, shouted at Anders.

“It’s a phenomenon we do not completely understand,” Elliot answered.  That rock is glowing and shimmering red on its own. The Dogon tribe refers to this formation as the Yougo Rock.”

Becky stepped out from behind Uncle Pierre and his camera. “Dr. Anders, you might want to tell us who the Dogon are and what is the relevance of this Yougo Rock.  We’re all on a pretty serious deadline with this other story.”

“Certainly. Certainly. The Dogon are a tribe along the Niger River in Mali who have claimed for centuries to have knowledge given to them by visitors from the Sirius Star System. Their oral histories, a portion of which have been confirmed by modern science, say this intelligence was given to them by their god Nommo, who arrived in their villages from Sirius, thousands of years ago. What Nommo told them about an invisible dark star in the Sirius System, and its 50 year orbit, was finally proved to be accurate by modern science decades ago; except the Dogon have been telling this story to the outside world since they first encountered English missionaries around 1800. The glowing of the Yougo Rock is supposed to signify the impending return of Nommo.”

“Oh Christ.” A correspondent from FOX News standing next to Becky and Uncle Pierre began to complain. “What in the hell does this have to do with anything? I am not a fan of science fiction.”

Elliot Anders had heard the complaint. “I’m not certain but I think it could be connected to what you’ve heard here today and other important matters you may not have heard about. Bear with me. When Nommo first appeared before the Dogon, they celebrated with what is called a Sigui Ceremony, which is a mask ritual. It only happens every 60 years and has never been seen by the outside world.  These masks and totems were modeled by the tribe on the face of Nommo. If you’ll watch the screen up there, you’ll see one of them appear, momentarily and then a video of the Sigui ceremony.”

Dogon in Sigui Masks

Almost at the instant Anders stopped speaking and turned to face the wall screen, a giant visage covered its entire twelve by fifteen foot surface. A large, ponderous forehead was separated from the narrow, lower portion of the head by black, almond-shaped eyes wrapping almost around to the side of the skull like a pair of skiing goggles. The chin was sharply pointed; the mouth appeared as a slit and the nose two tiny holes. Laughter appeared to be the universal response to the image.              

“So, that’s, Nommo, eh? That’s the face of the Dogon’s god?” A radio anchorman Becky always thought was in love with the sound of his own voice was standing and looking around the room to make sure people were listening. “I think I’ve seen that guy in a few movies. He’s on the cover of some books, too.” 

Half of the reporters and photographers in the room were laughing. A few hotel staffers, waiting by the door for the event to end so they could start cleaning, also smiled.

“That’s precisely my point,” Elliot Anders said as he pointed at the broadcaster. “That face has become a part of world culture over the course of the past 25 years but it has been a part of the Dogon culture for thousands of years. That guy up there on the screen is the first carved Dogon totem. I found him in a cave where they store century’s worth of totems and masks of Nommo. I’m guessing the one you all are looking at is close to 3000 years old.”

“So what,” one of the cameramen yelled from the risers. “I still don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

A few other reporters grunted concurrence with the cameraman and Anders put his hand out to signify he wanted them to stop. “Just give me a few more minutes and I’ll try to put all of this together for you.”

“Make it fast,” the radio newscaster said. “I don’t think the beliefs of a tribe in remote Africa is really something my listeners care about.”

They were his listeners, Becky thought, not the radio station’s. Why, she wondered, was broadcasting full of such needy types?

“All right. All right,” Elliot Anders said. “First, I think between the glowing Yougo Rock and that mask you see up on the wall we have final, definitive proof of a second intelligence in our world.”

“Or not,” Uncle Pierre whispered to Becky. “Where is he going with this?”

“I don’t know. Listen,” Becky said.

Two rows from the front, Becky watched a local TV anchor, wearing his studio makeup, as he rose and indignantly stalked from the room. Anders said nothing as the man passed.

“This is no longer theory,” Elliot Anders resumed. “This is fact. And it was corroborated on television in this city not that many days ago by a Nobel Laureate, Dr. Barton Crawford.”

Becky realized her peers were looking at her concerning her story, though not one of them had yet asked her a question, personally.

“Dr. Crawford said unequivocally that he has encountered evidence and accumulated data that proves to him that there is advanced technology functioning in our world, which goes beyond, he pointed out, anything that humans have ever created.”

“Okay, say we buy what you are saying, professor.” The Republic’s sports writer was using a civil tone. “I still don’t get how this takes us to Johnny Eddington.”

“I understand,” Anders answered. “Here’s how. Barton Crawford reached his conclusion based upon what he saw in doing research on mutilated cattle. He was doing pathology studies to discover the origin of a new disease, which may very well be the sickness that is plaguing Mr. Eddington. I think the news story I saw the other night gave it a name but I don’t remember it.”

Becky knew what Anders had already concluded. She was not, however, willing to ask the question central to his logic. Fortunately, no one needed to pose any questions because Anders was determined to leave no doubt about his thinking.

“Based upon Dr. Crawford’s research with cattle, I believe that whoever has this advanced technology may very well be responsible for either accidentally causing, or more likely creating this disease with intent. My own research would suggest that this technology does not originate on this planet.”

Anders’ notions were met with silence. A few people shook their heads, almost in disgust.

The Associated Press reporter focused immediately on a part of Anders’ claims. “What are you saying about technology? You suggested this was possibly created, sir. Who creates diseases and why?”

“Anyone who wants to develop deadly weapons is one possibility,” Elliot said. “Maybe this was intended as a biological weapon and it got out of the lab. That’s not impossible. Maybe it was intended to get out by interests within the government or elsewhere who might have decided there are too many people in the world and some of us have to go before environmental collapse.”

“Wait a minute, Dr. Anders,” Becky interjected. “Is it this ‘other intelligence’ you have cited that’s responsible or is the government involved?” 

Becky Acuna was fairly well-convinced that the government had assassinated Barton Crawford, although neither Anders nor anyone else in the Phoenix media was yet aware that the scientist had been killed, as far as she knew.

“I don’t know either way,” Anders said. “I tend to shy away from conspiracy theories, especially when they involve the government. I just don’t think there has ever been the level of competence needed in the government’s bureaucracies to get things done and keep methods a secret.”

“So, that guy up there on the wall, professor,” the radio newscaster interrupted.“He’s flying around in his advanced model aircraft and giving people shots to make them sick and die?”

The question prompted a few hoots, louder laughs, and a jeer or two. The news conference was slipping out of control. Becky felt sympathy for the scientist, who she previously thought had his share of media savvy after she had seen him on Desert View. 

“As I said, I don’t know. I know from my own research and what Dr. Crawford has acknowledged is that there is another intelligence. Crawford also said he was working on a secret project related to a deadly disease. How much evidence do you need?”

“More than a carved artifact from a primitive tribe, professor.” The commenter was the bureau chief from People Magazine. Becky never liked the guy because he was a frumpy slob who still managed to condescend to everyone except the celebrities he pursued. 

“I mean, I’m not trying to be impertinent,” he continued. “But you can’t come in here and throw a slide show on the wall and try to get us to take you seriously as a researcher who has confirmed the existence of other intelligent life, much less believe you when you say we are getting exposed to some powerful, killing disease. You can understand that, can’t you? Isn’t other intelligent life supposed to be the second greatest story ever told? I’m not sure you’re the guy who is supposed to deliver that news.”

“Maybe not,” Elliot sighed. “But what I can’t understand is why none of you ever look at data and evidence or other possibilities beyond the conventional. You want it simple. You don’t want to confront your own belief systems or those of your viewers. I think the time has arrived for that to happen and the evidence is in front of you to give you a basis to begin your own investigations.”

The challenge went unanswered. Becky noticed people were getting up from their seats and moving toward the door. She heard camera plates clicking again as photojournalists released them from their tripods. The noise level rose exponentially as the video of the Sigui drinking bouts and the Dogon wearing fish head masks appeared on screen.

“Hey, look,” someone said. “That must be their religion. Putting on Halloween masks, getting drunk, and line dancing.”

Elliot Anders ignored the insult and leaned over to the microphone. “I’ll be available up front if anyone has any further questions and my business card is on the table there in case you want to contact me for any type of follow up.”

Uncle Pierre, who was painfully slow and meticulous with taking down and storing his gear, was among the last to clear the riser. Becky had watched the dais to see if anyone picked up a card from Elliot Anders or stopped to talk. Everyone walked past as though he were a part of the cleaning crew entering the ballroom. 

Becky was waiting along the wall when Uncle Pierre stepped off of the camera platform. They were the last two journalists in the ballroom. Uncle Pierre, his camera strap over his shoulder, nodded to Becky indicating he was going to have a few words with Elliot Anders, who had turned his back as he picked up his business cards and put them in his briefcase.

“Don’t worry about it, professor.” Uncle Pierre patted the scientist on the shoulder.  “It happens to every prophet.”

The radio newscaster with the hung over cowboy voice stuck his head back into the ballroom.

“Uh, professor, I did have one more question,” he said. “This was a sanctioned event by the hotel, right?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Certainly the previous news conference was.”

“Oh great. Can you validate parking?”

                        *                                  *                                  *

He wished he had never turned on his television. Elliot Anders walked back into his casita and dropped his briefcase on the table with a loud whack. If he had just left the TV off he would have never seen the bulletin about a news conference in the Biltmore with the famous baseball player. Elliot knew it was a national story and reporters from all across the country would be there and they would not likely gather with equal interest if he were to call his own news conference to announce his Dogon findings.

“I blew it,” he thought. “I should have been well-prepared.”

Elliot went to the mini-bar and grabbed two small bottles of gin and a tonic water and mixed a drink. The unavoidable truth facing him was that he ought to return to Africa and wrap up the Dogon project and write another book and forget about being hailed as the man whose findings redefined human history. He sat at his desk, flipped open his laptop, and sipped the bitter gin. After logging onto the Internet, he found his airline’s homepage and looked for a flight from Phoenix to London and then onto Dakar, Senegal. The ticket was pre-paid and open-ended so all he needed to do was pick a seat. 

There was a 4 p.m. non-stop from Phoenix to London the next day and he entered his confirmation number. Dragging his cursor over the seating map, he found an aisle spot and clicked to confirm. Text appeared and asked, “Confirm seats for next flight?”  Elliot clicked okay and a seat map for the 757 down to Senegal popped up.  Below the outline of the aircraft’s fuselage, 20 point text in red blared the advisory, “See agent.”

“What in the hell is this about?” He wondered. Maybe that flight was cancelled for reasons of low passenger load; it happened sometimes when traveling to Africa. He considered staying a day or two in London and resuming his trip later in the week but when he checked all of the departures for Dakar, Elliot confronted the same urgent message on screen. In fact, after logging onto the Web sites of other carriers, he discovered that all of their flights to Africa bore the same announcement.

He picked up the phone and dialed the toll free number for British Airways, which was his airline for both legs of his trip. After almost ten minutes on hold, he was finally connected to an agent.

“Yes,” Elliot said. “Can you clear up a problem I have with my reservation?”

“I’ll try, sir.” The agent’s voice was pleasing and without an accent. “May I have your confirmation code, please?”

Elliot read off the sequence of numbers and letters and heard the agent keying them into his computer.

“Oh, you’re booked for Africa, sir?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m sorry. At this time, I can only confirm your flight as far as London.”

“Why is that? Is there a problem of some sort with my ticket?”

“No, sir. Your ticket is fine.”

“Well, what’s the problem then?”

“I’m afraid I am limited in what I can say,” the agent said.

“Well, say what you can say, then. This is getting a bit frustrating. I’m just trying to get back to my work.”

“I understand, sir. BA was given a week by the UK government to remove all of its equipment from Africa. Two days ago we got an official statement from Downing Street that any airline flying out of the UK to Africa, as of 48 hours ago, would not be cleared to land upon the aircraft’s return. As a result, BA has cancelled all outbound flights to Africa.”

“What? What is that about?”

“I’ve told you all that I know, sir.”

“Do you know if other airlines are offering any flights into Africa?”

“I don’t know of any. If there are any, they are operating as one way flights because there was something on the CNN Internet site this morning that said no flights from Africa will be allowed to land in the United Kingdom for the foreseeable future.”

“And you don’t know what’s causing this embargo?” Elliot asked. “You’re not keeping anything from me?”

“No, sir.”

“Uh, thank you.”

“Thank you for calling British Airways, sir.”

Even before he had hung up the phone, Elliot was worrying about Phil Traynor. He had no clue how to get his assistant out of Africa or even if he needed to leave. What could be happening that would cause airlines to shut down lucrative African routes?  Elliot opened a suitcase to grab the satellite phone and went out on the veranda to dial Phil Traynor. The hollow ring rolled over and clicked as it made the sat switch and he waited for Phil to answer, hoping the graduate student had left the phone on and charged to accommodate their time difference.

“Hello?” Elliot heard a slow, rolling echo of Traynor’s voice.

“Phil.  It’s Elliot. Are you awake?”

“Not really.”

 “Well, get awake. I have to tell you something.”

 Traynor’s voice picked up a hint of energy. “Did you roll out the video of the Dogon and the sigui masks, Dr. Anders?”

“I did.”

“How’d it go?”

“I blew it, Phil. I should have waited. I should have written a paper, gone to symposia, lectured, whatever. But I didn’t.”

“What was the reaction?”

“What you’d expect. Not good. But listen, Phil, that’s not why I called. Have you heard anything about flights to Africa being grounded?”

“You know where I am, Dr. Anders. I only hear about millet beer and big fish in the river and Nommo, who I am starting to think is a pretty slow god. What’s going on?”

“I just tried to confirm my flight into Dakar and British Airways said it was not flying to Africa till further notice and the government in the UK was not allowing any flights from Africa to land on British soil. What the hell is that all about?”

Traynor was quiet on the other end of the conversation and Elliot heard the connection as it crackled and faded slightly. “I don’t know, Dr. Anders. But I check the newspaper Web sites in South Africa and Cairo and a few of the bigger places and lately there have been stories about the famine and how it might not be just famine.”

“What do you mean, Phil?”

“Like we had talked about before that people might be getting some sickness that can’t be controlled and everyone is mistaking for starvation. The papers are saying there are just too many people falling over dead for it to be famine. They think it might be a disease but nobody knows.”

“You mentioned that when the Muslims came through. But nothing had been reported. There’s certainly nothing about it in the papers here, Phil,” Elliot said. “I did see something on the news here in Phoenix the other night about government research on some virus in the states but I don’t see how that could be connected.”

“Dr. Anders,” Phil sounded somber to Elliot. “Do you think it’s possible the airline thing is some kind of a quarantine?”

“I don’t see how that’s possible, Phil. I’m sure they’ll start flying again soon. You certainly can’t quarantine an entire continent.”

“Maybe not,” Phil Traynor answered. “But maybe they’ve decided to try.”

“Let’s hope not, Phil. Good god, let’s hope not.”

Elliot hung up promising to find out the facts and help his assistant return to the states but he had no idea where to get accurate information. Across from his casita, golfers were rolling down a deep green fairway in their electric cart and tilting back beers, laughing and smiling. A breeze lifted the scent of bougainvillea in his direction and Elliot breathed in its sweetness. The sky was classic Arizona summer blue and he heard the laughter of children splashing in the hotel pool.  Elliot Anders thought the world just then was a very beautiful place and he found it quite easy to convince himself nothing at all was wrong.