Sunday, December 11, 2022

Twenty years ago today. RIP, Dad.

 Author's Note: I wrote this ten years ago, on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of my father's death. Like his memory, it has withstood the test of time. I have slightly updated it for today, December 11, 2022, the 20th anniversary of his death. Read the original here.

Roger L. Miller as a boy, early 1920s.

My Dad and Airplanes

by G. Wayne Miller

I live near an airport. Depending on wind direction and other variables, planes sometimes pass directly over my house as they climb into the sky. If I’m outside, I always look up, marveling at the wonder of flight. I’ve witnessed many amazing developments -- the end of the Cold War, the advent of the digital world, for example -- but except perhaps for space travel, which of course is rooted at Kitty Hawk, none can compare.

I also always think of my father, Roger L. Miller, who died 20 years ago today.

Dad was a boy on May 20, 1927, when Charles Lindbergh took off in a single-engine plane from a field near New York City. Thirty-three-and-a-half hours later, he landed in Paris. That boy from a small Massachusetts town who became my father was astounded, like people all over the world. Lindbergh’s pioneering Atlantic crossing inspired him to get into aviation, and he wanted to do big things, maybe captain a plane or even head an airline. But the Great Depression, which forced him from college, diminished that dream. He drove a school bus to pay for trade school, where he became an airplane mechanic, which was his job as a wartime Navy enlisted man and during his entire civilian career. On this modest salary, he and my mother raised a family, sacrificing material things they surely desired.

My father was a smart and gentle man, not prone to harsh judgment, fond of a joke, a lover of newspapers and gardening and birds, chickadees especially. He was robust until a stroke in his 80s sent him to a nursing home, but I never heard him complain during those final, decrepit years. The last time I saw him conscious, he was reading his beloved Boston Globe, his old reading glasses uneven on his nose, from a hospital bed. The morning sun was shining through the window and for a moment, I held the unrealistic hope that he would make it through this latest distress. He died four days later, quietly, I am told. I was not there.

Like others who have lost loved ones, there are conversations I never had with my Dad that I probably should have. But near the end, we did say we loved each other, which was rare (he was, after all, a Yankee). I smoothed his brow and kissed him goodbye.

So on this 20th anniversary, I have no deep regrets. But I do have two impossible wishes.

My first is that Dad could have heard my eulogy, which I began writing that morning by his hospital bed. It spoke of quiet wisdom he imparted to his children, and of the respect and affection family and others held for him. In his modest way, he would have liked to hear it, I bet, for such praise was scarce when he was alive. But that is not how the story goes. We die and leave only memories, a strictly one-way experience. 

My second wish would be to tell Dad how his only son has fared in the last 20 years. I know he would have empathy for some bad times I went through and be proud that I made it. He would be happy that I found a woman I love, Yolanda, my wife now for four years and my best friend for more than a decade: someone, like him, who loves gardening and birds. He would be pleased that my three wonderful children, Rachel, Katy and Cal, are making their way in the world; and that he now has three great-granddaughters, Bella, Livvie and Viv, wonderful girls all. In his humble way, he would be honored to know how frequently I, my sister Mary Lynne and my children remember and miss him. He would be saddened to learn that my other sister, his younger daughter, Lynda, died in 2015. But that is not how the story goes, either. We send thoughts to the dead, but the experience is one-way. We treasure photographs, but they do not speak.

Lately, I have been poring through boxes of black-and-white prints handed down from Dad’s side of my family. I am lucky to have them, more so that they were taken in the pre-digital age -- for I can touch them, as the people captured in them surely themselves did so long ago. I can imagine what they might say, if in fact they could speak.

Some of the scenes are unfamiliar to me: sailboats on a bay, a stream in winter, a couple posing on a hill, the woman dressed in fur-trimmed coat. But I recognize the house, which my grandfather, after whom I am named (George), built with his farmer’s hands; the coal stove that still heated the kitchen when I visited as a child; the birdhouses and flower gardens, which my sweet grandmother lovingly tended. I recognize my father, my uncle and my aunts, just children then in the 1920s. I peer at Dad in these portraits (he seems always to be smiling!), and the resemblance to photos of me at that age is startling, though I suppose it should not be.

A plane will fly over my house today, I am certain. When it does, I will go outside and think of young Dad, amazed that someone had taken the controls of an airplane in America and stepped out in France. A boy with a smile, his life all ahead of him.

My dad, second from top, with two of his sisters and his brother.

Dad, near the end of his life.

Monday, November 14, 2022

Please welcome Ocean State Stories!

I closed my November 4, 2022, farewell to The Providence Journal promising word soon of “adventures that await.”

Ten days later, I am thrilled to announce I have become director of Ocean State Stories, a new media outlet serving Rhode Island residents that will be devoted to long-form journalism about issues of importance to the many diverse communities that together comprise our state.

Based at Salve Regina University’s Pell Center in Newport – a place I know well, having been a visiting fellow since 2012 -- Ocean State Stories will be free (and clickbait-free), answering only to the highest standards of my profession.

The icing on this cake?

That I will be working full-time with the great Pell Center staff, all of whom share the mission of bettering the common good. As the university declares, “Salve Regina welcomes people of all beliefs, seeking wisdom and promoting universal justice.”

And thus, to paraphrase Mark Twain, I am happy to confirm that reports of my retirement were an exaggeration!

Read more at this link and stay tuned for further details as we move toward our launch early in 2023. 

Friday, November 4, 2022

One chapter ends, another begins


After 41 years and nine days at The Providence Journal, I completed my final shift on Friday, November 4, 2022. I left voluntarily, after deep reflection.

Last day at my newsroom desk. Photo by Michael Delaney.

During my long tenure, I was privileged to work with (and mentor) some of America's finest journalists, a few still at The Projo and others deceased, retired, or moved on to other opportunities. I owe all of them a huge debt of gratitude. I count many as friends. 

Writing for the paper brought me to places and people I never could have known otherwise -- publicly prominent people such as sociologist and author Tricia Rose, Civil Rights leader and Martin Luther King. Jr. associate Bernard LaFayette Jr., researcher and emergency room physician Dr. Megan L. Ranney, and White House COVID-19 Response Coordinator Dr. Ashish Jha, and the far more numerous and diverse folk from all walks of life who did not have such prominence but whose circumstances, challenges, and triumphs reflected the rainbow of humanity.

So thanks to all of these people in the thousands of stories I wrote starting in October 1981. Stories that included breaking news, profiles, health and medical pieces (including primary Journal coverage of the coronavirus pandemic from January 2020 to October 2022), and my journalistic passion since 1983: mental health and developmental and intellectual disabilities. 

My first story: Oct. 28, 1981

Over the decades, I won many awards and honors, including being a member of the Journal team that was a Pultizer Public Service finalist for our coverage of the devastating 2003 Station nightclub fire.

The Journal was the launchpad for my non-fiction book career and even helped further my fiction writing, with several stories that were published in the long-gone Sunday magazine.

And it was also the launchpad for my visiting fellowship at the Pell Center at Salve Regina University, my founding and directorship of the Story in the Public Square program, and my position as co-host and co-executive producer of the multiple national Telly Award-winning PBS/SiriusXM show "Story in the Public Square," and much more. 

And so, departing is bittersweet. 

Bitter remembering all that was so good and now is behind. 

Sweet contemplating the adventures that await. 

Stay tuned for details about them as they are announced, and they will be soon!

75 Fountain St., Providence R.I., on my last day.

Saturday, September 24, 2022

Remarks at the Sept. 24, 2022, Memorial Celebration of William Hardy Hendren III, M.D., held at Massachusetts General Hospital.

Thanks, Will, and thanks Jay, Pat, Jim, Kathy, Terry and Craig. And a big hello to Eleanor, Doug and Nancy, Linda, Rob, David and Astrid, and Charlotte and James, two of the grandchildren of Hardy and Eleanor who are here.

From the moment I first met Hardy more than three decades ago, on a visit to the Hendren home in Duxbury, I knew I was in the presence of an extraordinary human being. Whether by means of magic, divine intervention or just luck, a relationship was born that would prove professionally rewarding to me.

My 1993 biography of Hardy, “The Work of Human Hands,” launched my non-fiction book career – a career that also brought me, thanks to Hardy, to Walt Lillehei, father of Craig and the man who pioneered open-heart surgery, as recounted in my book “King of Hearts.”

But as great as the professional rewards have been, the personal rewards have been an even bigger blessing – one that everyone who has known the Hendrens has also shared. Eleanor and Hardy became dear friends, opening their lives to me and my family, including my son, Calvin, who is Hardy’s godson. We shared many laughs and stories and, as time went on, lots of memories.

So let me get a bit deeper into the personal.

And by personal, I mean the person who was William Hardy Hendren III.

In medical circles, this person earned the nickname of “Hardly Human” for what might correctly be called the superpowers he took with him into the operating room.

Here was a surgeon who could fix the unfixable and cure the incurable, sometimes during marathon operations that lasted 24 hours or more. Hardy saved and bettered untold thousands of lives during one of the most amazing runs in the history of the healing sciences. We will hear from [the father of] one of his patients, Keith Fox, in a moment.

But while “Hardly Human” works well enough as a description of the surgeon, there is a better one, I think, to describe the person.

And that is “Wholly Human” -- as in “thoroughly,” “completely,” or, as my trusty Roget’s Thesaurus declares, “in full measure.”

Allow me to give you a sense of that full measure.

I’ll start with Saltines. As Jim O’Neill just told us, hardy loved Saltines.

One Sunday long ago, I was visiting Hardy in Duxbury. Eleanor was away, but she had left freshly made soup, which Hardy and I were eager to eat for lunch. Hardy ladled a bowl for each of us, then announced he wanted Saltines to accompany the soup.

For some reason he did not explain, he wanted them warm.

So he put a bunch of them, still encased in cellophane, into the microwave and pressed on.

Full-power on.

I watched as the crackers circled inside the machine, horrified but not saying anything. This person was a master of technology, at least of the medical kind, so maybe he knew something I didn't.

He did not.

Soon enough, the cellophane ignited and we had a blazing fire. Smoke billowed and alarms sounded.

Hardy looked momentarily puzzled, but then, always cool under pressure, he removed the crackers with an oven mitt and walked them to the sink, where he extinguished the flames.

We sat down then to eat Eleanor's soup. The Saltines this time were room-temperature.


Hardy, of course, taught generations of doctors. I had no desire to become one, except, perhaps, vicariously, so there was nothing he would have taught me there.

But he did teach or re-teach me many things – among them, the importance of truth and generosity and the need to sometimes laugh at one’s self. Every time I retold the Saltines story, Hardy always roared.

Another lesson I learned from Hardy was how to cut a sandwich with scissors.

This lesson occurred during another long day at Children's when, between operations, we went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat. We both ordered sandwiches – I forget what kind – and brought them back to the surgeon’s lounge.

Which was no dining room. No knives, forks or spoons that I could see.

The sandwiches were large and I was mentally wrestling with the mess I would make tearing mine apart when Hardy came to the rescue. He happened to be carrying a pair of his gold-plated surgical scissors – the ones that Dorothy Enos so carefully kept – and with them, he cut my sandwich, then his, and began to eat.

I was amazed – so amazed that I didn’t ask if the scissors were clean, but trusting Hardy – you could always trust Hardy – I knew they were.

At home, I have since cut sandwiches with kitchen shears, and also string cheese and haddock filets -- sometimes to the amusement of observers but usually with a look that says, “Have you lost your blanking mind?”

To which I say: "I learned from the best."

As in, the best person.


I mentioned Hardy and Eleanor's generosity, and I could cite many examples of their largesse, but lacking the time, here is one: They offered their house to me for a week when they were away so that I could complete the final draft of "King of Hearts" in writerly solitude. It was an incredible week, and not just creatively, for I had the honor of sleeping in a guestroom that had been their late daughter's bedroom.

Let me close with one last story of Hardy, this wholly human person. While researching and writing "The Work of Human Hands," I spent many days in Duxbury going through Hardy's records and documents and photos. On one of those days -- it was a fine early autumn day not unlike today -- he asked if I wanted a ride on the back of his motorcycle.

I did.

We headed out from King Caesar Road, destination undeclared. After a while, Hardy turned off the main road into a church parking lot. We got off his bike and he led me to the cemetery in back.

And there was the grave of Sandy, his and Eleanor's first child, who became a nurse and worked with Hardy at The General when he was chief of pediatric surgery here.

We stood in silence and I was saddened thinking about the tragedy that Hardy and Eleanor and their other children had experienced.


The only other time I have been to that cemetery was this past March, when, after Hardy's funeral, his ashes were placed in the ground next to Sandy, who died of complications of diabetes in 1984 at the age of 37, here in Mass. General Hospital.

During that March service, I was privileged to throw sand from Eleanor and Hardy's favorite beach onto Hardy. And I, like others, was invited to say a few words.

On the verge of tears, I recalled what Hardy said one time when I asked how he never tired during those crazy long days in his OR, where he was working his wonders.

He said: "Don't forget, there's a great big rest at the end."

Rest in peace, Hardy. The world will never see another person like you.

W. Hardy Hendren III, M.D. Memorial Celebration

MGH O’Keefe Auditorium    September 24, 11 AM – 1 PM

Program Photo History of the Life of W. Hardy Hendren, III

Welcome                                                                 Keith Lillemoe, MD


American College of Surgeons Icons in Surgery Video            


Remarks/Recollections                                             Jay Vacanti, MD

                                                                                    (In the video)


Medical                                                                      Patricia Donahoe MD


                                                                                    James O’Neill, MD                                                                                                                       


                                                                 Kathryn Anderson, MD                                                                                                                                                                           

                                                                                    Terry Hensle, MD


                                                                                    Craig Lillehei, MD   


Author                                                                       G. Wayne Miller


Patient                                                                  Keith Fox                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Family                                                                        William G. Hendren, MD                                                       


Minister                                                                      Father Daniel Dice                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

“Thanks for the Memories”


Closing remarks                                                        Allan Goldstein, MD



Retire to Russell Museum for reception 1 – 2 pm

Thursday, September 15, 2022

The (future) King and I

In late-summer 1986, the young Prince Charles visited Harvard to speak at the school's 350th anniversary celebration. I was among the journalists who covered the visit -- and attended a private party with the now King Charles III at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston. Herewith my reports:

Faculty member Emily D. T. Vermeule with Prince Charles,
 350th celebration of Harvard's founding.

From the September 3, 1986, Providence Journal:

                                        The Prince Meets the Duke

                                                                 By G. Wayne Miller

The jet was waved to a stop, the engines were killed and the rear door opened. The British ambassador bounded on board. In a minute, he reappeared. There was a pause. Gathered on the Logan Airport tarmac, a dozen VIPs waited. Behind them, the mock colonial militia stood at attention. On the roof of a nearby hangar, a police sharpshooter scanned the proceedings. A motorcade of Jaguars and a gray Rolls was ready, engines idling.

 Prince Charles stepped into the early evening and a small knot of invited well-wishers cheered.

 He didn’t say much - not that the crowd could have heard it over the roar of jets taking off. But he did shake hands. He shook Governor, (sometimes known as the Duke) Dukakis’s hand. He shook Mayor Raymond Flynn’s hand. He shook Ambassador Antony Acland’s hand. He shook the hand of Francis Burr, the chief marshal of Harvard University, which is celebrating its 350th anniversary this week, and which invited the prince to speak tomorrow at a convocation.

When introductions were over, the militias, fifers and drummers began to play the national anthem.  Accompanied by Dukakis, the prince passed in review. He was impeccably attired in blue shirt and dark suit.  His face, which many say is handsome, showed no emotion. He seemed humorless. On how many occasions has the prince, who has been around the world countless times, had to review the local colors?

 It was different when he got to the crowd of Union Jack-waving spectators, many of them British. Charles broke into a big smile, and he waded fearlessly into the mob, enthusiastically grasping every hand he could reach.

“It was so marvelous,” Helena Nultey, a British employee of the British Consulate, would later say. Nultey was one of the lucky ones: She got a piece of the prince. Sixty-two years old, and it was her first meeting.

“Such a handsome man. So charming. So much better looking than in photos. This is one of the most exciting moments of my life.”

 Another few minutes, and Charles was gone - whisked away by motorcade to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where he is spending two nights on his first visit to Boston. He will be alone, as his family stayed behind at Balmoral, a royal castle.

 If yesterday’s welcome was fleeting, it nonetheless was a reminder of what royalty in the age of congresses and parliaments and dictatorships still can be. Ceremony, in a word. Carefully coordinated ceremony that goes off like clockwork. Even the prince’s jet was on schedule.

Like him or not, Charles is the real thing, not some nouveau-riche opportunist who made his money in shopping malls and then managed to buy a title on Europe’s phony pedigree market.

Centuries-old monarchy

The prince, 37, the heir to his mother, Queen Elizabeth II, is part of a monarchy that traces its roots to William the Conqueror. As such, he is related to just about any English king you might name off the top of your head - all those Henrys, Edwards, Georges, Richards, many of whom wound up in Shakespeare. Queen Victoria was his great-great-great grandmother.

He doesn’t have a last name, but Charles Philip Arthur George, as he was christened, has more titles than you could ever hope to buy: Duke of Cornwall, Earl of Chester, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick and Baron Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, Chairman of the Royal Jubilee Trusts, to name a few.

Naturally, he’ entitled to respect - even here in America, which got rid of one of his ancestors a couple of hundred years ago. Earlier, by phone and during a press conference, the consulate staff gave reporters tips for being with the prince. On introduction, for instance, he is addressed as His Royal Highness - HRH, as the consulate refers to him in its news releases. Subsequently, he may be called “Sir.” And one never independently extends one’s hand to HRH; one waits until he offers his, and if for some reason he doesn’t, tough luck. In America, a bow is optional.

No contact with public

Not that many people yesterday had a chance to practice their protocol. Except for a small reception last night at the Ritz, to which reporters were invited only on condition that they not report any conversation with Charles, the prince had virtually no contact with the public.

Also from the September 3, 1986, Providence Journal:

                        No secrets here: HRH is a man who knows how to meet the press

                                                                By G. Wayne Miller

“As you are probably already aware,” the note from the British Consulate began, “His Royal Highness has asked for an opportunity to meet some of the working correspondents who will be covering the visit.

“The reception will be a purely social and informal event, by personal invitation only. It will be wholly off the record. No cameras, microphones or notebooks will be allowed. No reference should be made subsequently to specifics of any conversation with His Royal Highness.”

 Fine. We agreed to the ground rules of last night’s reception at the Ritz-Carlton - who could pass up the chance to meet Prince Charles? And HRH, as he is sometimes known, will be be pleased to learn that we’re not about to divulge any of his deepest, darkest secrets.

 Actually, no secrets were confided - but without breaking our word, we feel we can report that:

 * There were about 50 guests, and except for a handful of Scotland Yard’s finest, almost all were reporters. Surprisingly, there were almost no names - excluding HRH, of course.

 * The caviar, sliced fresh salmon and foie gras were delectable. They were served by waiters who wore white gloves.

 * HRH drank a single martini, with a single olive.

 * He wore a dark two-piece suit and a blue shirt. It was not an Oxford collar, but it was cotton. This is one dapper dresser. No surprise there. As others have remarked, he does indeed seem more handsome in person than in pictures.

 * Charles smiles easily, talks pleasantly and went out of his way to mingle with the crowd. His questions showed a knowledge of America and an enthusiasm for his position as prince. And why not?

From the September 5, 1986, Providence Journal:

                                            Harvard’s 350th: A Royal Occasion

                                                                    By G. Wayne Miller

Harvard, an institution for far longer than America has been a republic, congratulated itself yesterday on its 350th birthday with a convocation flavored by all the colorful pageantry the nation’s oldest and wealthiest university could muster.

 As it does for graduations, the university transformed that most revered of academic places, Harvard Yard, into a flag-filled amphitheater. During the two hours that it overflowed with an estimated 15,000 people - many dressed in top hat and tails or cap and gown - a bell pealed, a band played, anthems were sung, prayers were offered and  speeches were delivered.

 Yesterday’s ceremony was but part of a week’s celebration that will cost about $1 million. It was a spectacle worthy of royalty - and royalty there was, in the person of Britain’s future king, Prince Charles, who delivered a main address that began with humor and ended with a standing ovation.

 Like others who spoke before him - Yale president Benno C. Schmidt Jr. and Massachusetts Institute of Technology head Paul E. Gray among them - Charles paid tribute to Harvard, whose graduates and professors over the years have had a tremendous influence on politics, science, medicine, business and the arts.

“After all,” the prince observed,  “[Harvard] has produced a cornucopia of leaders for the United States in many fields, not to mention the fact that six Harvard men have become president.”

 After making a joke or two about Yale, Harvard’s perennial rival, the prince became serious. And he turned away from Harvard for a moment to issue America and all of its schools a challenge - the challenge of educating young men and women as moral beings with a sense of spirituality and decency.

“While we have been right to demand the kind of technical education relevant to the needs of the 20th Century, it would appear that we have forgotten that when all is said and done, a good man - as the Greeks would say - is a nobler work than a good technologist.

“We should never lose sight of the fact that to avert disaster, we have not only to teach men to make things, but also to produce people who have control over the things they make.”

 After a round of applause, he continued:

“Never has it been more important to recognize the imbalance that has seeped into our lives and deprived us of a sense of meaning because the emphasis has been too one-sided and has concentrated on the development of the intellect to the detriment of the spirit.

“Surely it is important that in the headlong rush of mankind to conquer space, to compete with nature, to harness the fragile environment, we do not let our children slip away into a world dominated entirely by sophisticated technology - but rather teach them that to live on this world is no easy matter without standards to live by.”

Wednesday, July 13, 2022

"This Little Bug" -- A bonus story with a pandemic touch from "Traces of Mary"

Herewith a short story -- free for the read -- that is set at a time of pandemic, with a twist of the extraterrestrial, one of the themes from my 20th book, "Traces of Mary," available in print, Kindle and audio editions. The reviews for "Traces" have been awesome!

                                BUY "TRACES OF MARY"

                            THIS LITTLE BUG

This time, I walk.

I start early, emerging from my subway sleep nest by 5 a.m. in order to greet the first commuters. So many busy people in the big city. So many hard-working mothers and fathers. So many young people embarked on their careers. So many big shots, major domos, people of substance and weight, the movers and shakers of society here in and around Boston, Massachusetts.

You see, I walk.

I walk from the Park Street subway down Tremont to Chinatown, then up Washington, past City Hall, through Quincy Marketplace to the over-priced waterfront, back through the banking district and over to the Common and Garden and Back Bay in time for the midday shoppers. At dinner time, depending on the weather, I walk through the Prudential Center and Copley Place. On occasion, I walk through the train and bus stations and over to Boston Logan International Airport, where I comb my hair, walk erect, and act on my best behavior, attracting little attention to myself.

All day and into the summer night, I walk.

I walk and I breathe—always breathing, deeply satisfying breaths, in-out, in-out, in-out, with particular strength on the exhalation, a refreshing vigorous breathing even though I allow myself a smoke every now and then. When I breathe, I feel that familiar yet still-strange tickle in my lungs, and I smile. I know it can’t hurt me, what’s been living patiently there inside me.

So many thousands go by, an endless river, and I walk.

Some are still wearing their pandemic masks. Others, perhaps fully vaccinated and believing they are immune to COVID but knowing nothing of the far deadlier bug with which I am most intimately acquainted, revel in the so-called freedom that going maskless allows after lockdowns and a year and a half of hell.

Scum, they say, those that speak.



Get lost. Get a job. Get out of my way. Get bent. Yuck. Gross. Fuck you.

There was a fleeting time early in the pandemic when the public expressed empathy for me and my kind, dropping dollar bills at my feet that I declined to accept and wishing me well. Or was that not empathy but fear? Whatever, goodwill gave way to hostility as the vaccination rates rose, hospitalizations and deaths declined, and Massachusetts opened up.

When you speak and cast evil eyes now, I do not answer.

But it makes me grin, knowing what I know, knowing that you are completely ignorant.

Yes, I am a forbearing and extremely patient man.

It is good to be alive. In my own way, I am having a ball. You may find that difficult to believe, looking at my clothing, my beard, the shoes, the bundle I carry, but it is true. It is good to walk, to have that occasional cigarette, to drink heartily from that bottle and enjoy. It is good to be free, to have my health, such as it is, good to be able to breathe.

It is good to be alone.

It is good to be in the city, surrounded by so many.

I consider all of you my friends. I hate you with a passion that does not abate, yet you are my friends. A paradox, you say. The world is full of them. The sun that rises in the morning must sink in the evening. From the dead of winter the springtime flowers. In the eye of a storm, the calm. Paradox, my friends, the natural order of things.

Or are you so blind that you cannot see?

You will recall the childhood saying that sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

How true it is.

Your words roll off me, but your physical remonstrances hurt, if not yet actually fractured bones. I have been beaten and mugged, by young punks mostly. I have been chased, cornered, locked up overnight by the cops. I have fought back, but in my own way and on my own terms.

Terms that are favorable only to me, as you shall soon discover.

I admit I am not a pretty sight. I do have plans to clean things up.

Still, I know what I am, the nasty side of mankind still living in caves. I myself lived cave-like once, in the not-too-distant past.

And yet, that is not the half of it.

Has it always been this way? you may silently ask yourselves as you pass me by, disgust written on your faces and in the way you cross streets to avoid me. You should know better than that. You with the stylish clothes, the kids and the gas-guzzling SUVs, the 401(k)s and bank accounts, the country clubs and Cape Cod and Berkshire weekends, and the neat, ordered lives that are about to be ripped asunder in ways that will make COVID seem like the common cold—you, my friends, should know better than that.

No one is always this way, or any way. Motion is inevitable, the only constant being change. Didn’t Hegel teach us that? Marx and Darwin? Everyone is born. Everyone crawls before walking, burbles before speaking, scribbles before writing. Everyone loves, and in turn feels love, somewhere, no matter how faint or brief or enduring. Everyone has a past, and there is good in that past, and there is bad, too, not always in equal proportions.

I walk.

I walk because I want to be with you, because I have something for you. I walk because of what you, fellow members of this species called homo sapiens, have done for me. I want to pay you back.

Not necessary, you protest? What was due has been paid?

Oh, but I insist.

So I walk, always on the move. I walk into the crowded lobbies of hotels and convention centers, and through the crowds outside Fenway Park. Like the good people at the airport and the bus and train stations, they will return home, whether home be Boston or California or England or India or China or Japan or Australia. They will not know it, will never retrospectively trace it back to me, but they will carry a lasting memory of a so-called homeless man in Boston.

Let me tell you a little story.

I think there are things you should know, the next time you encounter me and the stench of my breath, which you attribute, only partially correctly, to cigarettes and booze.

The story begins, as many do, in the long-ago and far-away. I was a much younger man then, a deeply respected man, if I may be immodest. I was, in fact, a scientist, and I was called a doctor for the PhD I carried after my name. Specifically, I was a climatologist, a widely published and scientifically daring one, and my specialty was the conditions of weather and astronomy that produce glaciers. My theories of orbital inclination (that is, the changing angles with which the Earth over the millennia has faced the sun) had revolutionized our basic understanding of the Ice Ages and I had recently co-authored what was then the definitive text on the subject.

More recently, as carbon emissions rose and the planet warmed and the ice caps began to melt, I established myself as an international respected climate-change authority.

Therefore, I was honored, but not surprised, when I was invited to join Polar 2020.

Chances are you have never heard of the Polar 2020 expedition. There is no good reason that you should have. The pandemic ravaged the earth, Trump was president, Biden hoped to beat him in the election, Putin still blustered, and on and on and on. No, Polar 2020 rated only a small mention in a wire story that ran in a few papers and websites and got no TV coverage that I saw. But this bothered none of the scientists who formed our party, and I doubt it made any difference to the seamen and officers who manned our ship, the RV Arctic Maiden, either. Almost without exception, the most significant work in science is conducted in methodical and decidedly non-romantic fashion, hardly the stuff of front-page headlines.

Do not imagine, however, that this was your run-of-the-mill scientific junket.

This was a multi-million-dollar effort, years in the planning, supported by private funds and congressional grants, and it would be many more years before our best universities and scholarly institutions would sift and sort their way through the incredible wealth of data with which we expected to return. Never had there been such a mission planned for the Arctic. Byrd and Peary could only have dreamed of what we were determined to do. The spectrum of interests was, perhaps, for a single mission, unique. There were scientists with expertise in glaciation, zoology, ultraviolet radiation, meteorology, geology, microbiology, internal medicine, immunology—yes, the explorers themselves were to be subjects of unprecedented research. The eventual result, we were confident, would be not only a deeper understanding of the Arctic, but also of mankind itself as it faced its greatest peril in recorded history.

Until, that is, what I am about to relate to you.

So, on an unusually hot day in late June 2020, we left Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. We departed without fanfare, only immediate family members bidding us farewell. I kissed my wife and three teenage children, promised to FaceTime regularly, and we were off.

Please forgive my immodesty, but everyone on that ship as it sailed into Vineyard and Nantucket Sound and then the open Atlantic did have great expectations. Personally, I, a fifty-two-year-old man, harbored dreams of a Nobel Prize—or at least, finally, a nomination.

The irony of the day’s sultry weather presented did not escape us.

In another week we were to be plunged into the northern extremes of Greenland, that most misnamed of lands. True, it would be summer there when we arrived, with daylight around the clock, and afternoon temperatures rising well into the balmy 50s—but Arctic summers are notoriously short, as fleeting and ultimately as disappointing as a former lover’s kiss, if I may be so poetic. Within two months of our arrival, along toward the end of August, the mercury would begin to plummet, the snow would begin, and we would be locked into an Arctic winter—granted, one less harsh than in decades before. We planned to stay almost a year, returning in May 2021, when the ice had released what would then have become our captive ship.

From Woods Hole, we put in at St. John’s, then continued on to Godthaab, Greenland, where we took on board a handful of Danish scientists who were making the journey with us. From Godthaab, we steamed north, along the shore of Baffin Island, where we observed the icebergs to be multiplying in both number and size. We put in a day and a night in Thule, a truly tiny and dreary outpost, then proceeded north again, until our captain found suitable moorage in a fjord extending like a skeletal finger off Kane Basin. The ice had grown even thicker, and the fog was nearly impenetrable at times. We would safely go no further, our captain informed us, and there was universal assent that Kane Basin suited our various needs to a T.

It took the better part of two days to unload our supplies and equipment and establish our base camp on a sheet of rock overlooking a glacier. Ours was not a geographical expedition, of course—the vastness of Greenland by then had long since been charted and mapped—but an exercise in information-gathering and experimentation that could, for the most part, be conducted from a single camp. Naturally, there would be outcamps and selected journeys inland, of two- or three-week’s duration. For these, we had along two dozen Huskies and traditional Eskimo sleds—this at the insistence of our Danish hosts who, for reasons we did not attempt to fathom, were soured on snowmobiles.

The first weeks were a period of industry and good cheer amongst our party, which had taken residence in a series of tents erected behind the comparative shelter of a series of boulders. There is a certain savage beauty to the Arctic summer, and that beauty, combined with the endless day, was like a tonic. For it is summer when the wildflowers bloom, the lemmings and ermine and arctic hare prowl, when whatever other limited flora and fauna there is in this unforgiving territory explodes in crowning celebration of the cycle of life. Then, too, there was the almost daily display of aurora borealis, or northern lights, which paints its ghostly rainbow across the sky like the backdrop to some haunted dream.

As for me, I was intent on rainfall collection, pollen analysis, color spectrometry, ice coring—especially the latter. An entire history of weather is captured in the layers of ice that comprise a glacier, and a simple hand-auger-driven core, although time-consuming and sweat-inducing and muscle-tiring, is worth its proverbial weight in gold. My colleagues were plunged into their various and sundry labors, and there was the unspoken but certain feeling that what we had successfully embarked upon was an expedition bound for inclusion in the ranks of all-time great Arctic ventures, if such is the way to describe a legacy that predates Eric the Red.

Winter’s arrival did nothing to disturb the camaraderie that had developed amongst us. If anything, it served to strengthen the bonds that had grown, and which now joined us together like the close-knit family we had in fact become. The snow was virtually non-stop, as those of us who were newcomers to this land had been told to anticipate. The wind was a harsh master, and the temperatures were soon similarly uncooperative. By the beginning of October, it was rare indeed the day when the mercury could be coaxed above zero degrees Centigrade.

But it was not weather, or the onset of the Arctic night (which, as you may know, lasts twenty-four hours a day) that began to change the temperament of our party toward the beginning of January.

No, it was not that. Christmas had come, and we had celebrated it with an evening of old-fashioned caroling and a rare dinner of reindeer steak with gravy, a Danish custom on this largest of Denmark’s islands. Those of us who so desired had Zoomed and FaceTimed with our families.

No, it was the discovery at Outcamp 3 that would eventually bring ugly turmoil to Polar 2020.

Outcamp 3 had been set up some four kilometers inland by the microbiology folks, who were in pursuit of various strains of bacteria known only to this region and its equally inhospitable twin, Antarctica. It was little more than a single tent, this particular outcamp, and it was not manned on a continual basis, only as the dictates of microbiology demanded. Dave Heddon was the head of the microbiology contingent, which numbered exactly three, including Dave. He was a subdued man, introspective yet not glum, a powerful, broad-shouldered father of two young boys who looked for all the world like a starting NFL defensive lineman.

But he was a scientist—tops in his field, or so was the glow of his reputation—and he possessed that deliberate and calm way of speaking, so wonderfully rare, that is immediately soothing and almost therapeutic to those who hear it.

And that’s how I knew something was up the evening of January 24, when he returned from three days at Outcamp 3.

I was alone in the chow tent, finishing off a cup of freeze-dried coffee, when Dave walked in, his beard twinkling with frost and his boots glazed with ice. In place of that calm voice was an imposter, a voice that fairly crackled with excitement. Remember, Dave Heddon was a man of unusual emotional maturity and control. I had learned that listening to him describe how much he missed his two young boys, but how sacrifices must sometimes be made in the name of science—and now, now he was speaking like a teenager high on weed.

“Out there,” he began, sipping on the steaming coffee I had brought him, “I think we have discovered extraterrestrial life.”

“What?” I asked.

“What we found by Outcamp 3,” he said. “Frozen. And perfectly preserved, or so it would appear.”

“What?” I repeated, persisting in my ignorance. “What have you found?”

“Alien life. Twelve beings. From where, is anybody’s guess. But definitely not of this world. You’ll know that as soon as you see their… their heads.”

And then, his voice still tinged with excitement, he went on to relate the events of the last two days at Outcamp 3. How he and one of his party, Joanne White, had set off the first day to gather samples on the agar plates they carried in special aluminum boxes. How they had wandered perhaps 200 meters north of the camp through an unusually strong, snowless wind when they happened upon… shall I call them beings, as Dave did?… and the wreckage of a vehicle they initially believed to be constructed of steel.

“We had reached the peak of a rise,” Dave recalled, “and were descending the other side when our lights picked up what we first assumed was another rise, albeit one irregularly contoured. Thinking little of it, we moved closer, our lights stabbing the pitch. As we approached, the rise took on a distinctly different shape. Or shapes, I should say, for there were several.

“The most prominent was a rockpile, roughly the size of a large automobile. It looked as if it may have been erected, however crudely, for purposes of shelter. Off to one side was a circle of blackened stones that appeared to have once enclosed a fire. Moving closer still, we got our first indistinct look at the… beings, four of them, sprawled in various contorted postures around the stones.

“Of course, the term ‘beings’ had not occurred to us then. Standing from the distance we were, and under such unsatisfactory light conditions, we assumed we had found the remains of earlier human explorers—the frozen cadavers of the unfortunate members of whatever ill-fated party it had been. Many of the early European and American pioneers of this region, as you know, never came home, and were never found.

“And who would have thought otherwise? The forms we were surveying were of human size and appeared to have the human compliment of limbs—two arms, two legs—and they were clothed in mammalian fur not the least bit incongruous for this cruel environment. Arctic hare was my guess. Of the four forms, no faces were visible. Not then. It seemed that their heads were unusually large, but that was difficult to ascertain. They had died in the same position, on their stomachs, faces into the snow.”

Dave stopped. He beckoned for more coffee and I willingly obliged him. Never have I been so transfixed by a story as then.

“Wasn’t there a feeling of perturbation, observing such a scene?” I said softly. “Even assuming, as you say you did, that they were early explorers of this vast wasteland.”

“Indeed there was that feeling,” Dave continued. “I don’t know how long we stood there, staring, contemplating, trying fervently to put the pieces together, in all honesty more than a little scared. Ms. White and I are microbiologists, Robert, as I need not remind you. Perhaps someone better versed in anthropology or paleontology or medicine might have felt differently, but we, frankly, were most uneasy standing there.

“After an indeterminate period—it probably was a matter of mere minutes, although it seemed an eternity—Joanne and I moved closer. I think we felt it simultaneously—the heat coming from that camp, if camp is indeed what that place was for them. It wasn’t a suffocating, tropical heat, but the zone surrounding the beings was several degrees warmer than the ambient temperature. We could feel it on our faces.

“That’s when it occurred to me how unusual it was that snow had not drifted over the whole site. Obviously, the heat, whatever its origin, had been sufficient to keep the site clear. Protected, as it were, from the elements for a period of time.

“By this point, neither Joanne nor I were talking. This feeling of perturbation you have alluded to was beginning to intensify. Even before we turned one of them over to look at a face, we both knew something about this site was terribly strange. And I don’t mean the fact that death had visited. Certainly, that was gruesome. But this feeling—by the second, it grew stronger. Not fear exactly. No, it was closer to the sort of nervous excitement I imagine Howard Carter felt on first entering Tutankhamen’s burial vault.”

There was a pause.

“I see by your look I’m having difficulty conveying those feelings,” Dave said.

“Hardly,” I said. “You are doing an admirable job.”

“Naturally, our curiosity was too much to contain. Just as Carter could not control the urge to gaze upon Tutankhamen’s visage, neither could we curtail our desire to see the faces of these… at that point, we still believed they were human, you understand. Having some scant knowledge of earlier discoveries of camps, I believed it was possible that we would see a perfectly preserved face. Pained and having suffered, no doubt, but preserved in a condition allowing transport to a more appropriate final resting place—a family cemetery, for example.

“We moved to within inches of one of them. We could see then that its head was much larger than it should have been, but we were too rattled to dwell on that incongruity. It took both of us to roll that one over. The body itself was frozen solid, of course, and it was heavy, and the job was complicated by the poor light. Finally, after trying various positions and leverages, we managed to turn it onto its back. I had placed my flashlight down to free both hands, so it was Joanne who first illuminated the face.

“I was sure I would faint. My knees went weak. For instead of the human face I had been expecting, there was something one only encounters in nightmares. There was no forehead, no nose, no ears—only a single eye, the compound eye of an insect such as the common dragonfly, grossly exaggerated in size. Worse, it seemed as if that eye were still experiencing vision.”

“Dear God!” I exclaimed.

“I say that because there was a purplish iridescence emanating from that eye. But it was not a constant color or intensity of color, far from it. For the few seconds we stared at it, it seemed to be changing hue, from purple to blue to yellow—to be pulsating, as if it were electrically charged, or had been irradiated, or was radioactive. Almost like—like it could still see us, whatever it was. Naturally, it couldn’t, but that was the overwhelming impression.”

Suddenly, I was cold. I drew my coat closer around me, to negligible effect.

“I know how all of this must sound,” Dave continued, “like a script to a Hollywood movie, but you and everyone else will have the opportunity to see for yourselves, I am sure. I assume every effort will be made to recover all four beings.”

“You assume correctly,” I said. An incredible discovery such as this could only lead to intense study and investigation.

I noticed that Dave was tapping his fingers, as if still trying to fully comprehend what he had seen, without great success.

“Where was I?” he finally said.

“You were describing the face.”

“Yes, the face. After seeing that, there ensued another period of near-complete silence—nothing but the wind, and the whistling noise it made passing over the rocks. Joanne looked at me and I returned her look, but we said nothing. I am sure you are wondering if I was frightened. In fact, I was, I will admit—but only to a minor degree. Because despite whatever low level of energy remained active within its eye, which presumably was its nerve center, I was convinced it was dead. Frozen, probably for years, possibly for decades, there seemed no way it could have survived.

“So it is understandable that after our initial surprise began to fade, we succumbed to curiosity. From being to being we went, turning each of the four over, examining each, taking mental notes. As near as we could determine, they were identical—the same approximate size, same number of limbs, same compound eye. If, indeed, there were differences of gender or age, they were not discernible from our inspection.

“It was not until after we had examined each of the beings that we happened upon the vehicle. It was secluded on the far side of the rock pile, deliberately, I suspect, to protect it from wind and storms. It would not surprise me to learn that the pile was erected specifically to protect it from the elements in the hope, one might guess, that it might someday be repaired for a return trip home.

“By that point, a hypothesis was beginning to emerge. Namely, that these beings, whoever they were and wherever they were from, had been stranded there by accident or mishap or mechanical malfunction—and maybe by something as simple as running out of fuel. Quite conceivably, they were awaiting a rescue mission that never happened. That would explain why they had built their camp, and why they had died in it. It would explain how they had come to hunt the arctic hare whose fur they made into the coats they were wearing when death overcame them. And it would explain the fires they burned from the few scraps of vegetation they had been able to forage back toward the coast. Because no matter how technologically advanced they were, I was convinced that they were warm-blooded creatures dependent on the interior environment that was their means of transportation. Once that was lost to them, it was only a question of time before they—so fragile as they must have been—succumbed to the elements. Particularly if they were stranded here in the dead of winter, as is my strong suspicion.

“In any event, we found the vehicle—or what I suppose is their vehicle until proved otherwise. If you have ever watched certain movies or TV shows, you may have some conception of what a so-called spaceship is supposed to look like: shaped like a cigar or a pie, large in size. This is nothing like that. To begin, it is in the shape of a perfect cube. It is small, about seven feet per side, with a seating arrangement that maximized all available space, I suspect the four could fit inside with little difficulty. Based on our cursory look, I would hazard that it is made of stainless steel or some steel-like material manufactured in the place they come from. There are no markings, no lights, no windows or portholes, and only the outline of a door. I think other members of our team will be tempted to open it once we have retrieved it—that is, if salvage is feasible with the equipment we have.”

The remainder of Dave’s account chronicled how he and his colleague had spent another hour at the site, probing and sifting through the snow for other artifacts. Strangely, there were none, none that could be found, anyway—no tools, no lights, no sleeping bags or tents, no food supplies, no utensils or scraps that would indicate food had ever been prepared or eaten at the site. In fact, Dave recounted, the entrails and meat of the hares they had made into coats had been left untouched. These findings, he noted, reinforced his hypothesis that they were fragile beings—beings that perhaps were unable to eat the kind of food available in this sparse environment, if they ate at all and didn’t subsist on some form of energy unknown to us. Beings that were of a higher order, unquestionably—but beings ill-equipped to handle Arctic cold.

Seeing that their battery power was running low and recognizing that their original mission of collecting microbiological samples was still incomplete, Dave and Joanne left the site—but not before determining to their mutual satisfaction that they would be able to find it again.

“Truly, it’s an awesome discovery,” I said when Dave was done.

“I think you understate the case,” he said, with a smile. “Next to this, King Tutankhamun would be but a sideshow in the long history of discoveries. Think of it, Robert! Extraterrestrial life, perfectly preserved! Along with the vehicle in which they traversed the universe. There’s simply no telling how this could revolutionize any number of fields. Aeronautics. Physics. Biology. I could go on. It will be years before the full impact of this is understood and implemented!”

Needless to say, word of the discovery spread through the main camp in no time.

A meeting was convened the next morning, and all but a handful of our party was in attendance. After allowing Dave and Joanne to retell their story, attention turned to the logistics of retrieving the beings and their vehicle. A crew would leave that afternoon to do the preliminary work, and the hope was that the beings could be brought to base camp the next day, with the vehicle to follow within a week—the latter timetable depending, of course, on its weight, the difficulty of building a suitable contrivance to move it, and the power of the Danes’ trusted Huskies, which had proven themselves all winter in whatever tasks had been put to them. It was further agreed that a special tent would be erected solely for the purpose of studying the beings. A separate tent would house the vehicle.

As it developed, recovering the beings and their vehicle took only a few hours, and we had everything safely in camp by dinner the following day. The explanation for this unanticipated expediency was at once simple but baffling: the vehicle, which we had assumed weighed tons, actually weighed less. In fact, much to the amazement of our mechanical crew, we found that three of us could lift it, and a single Huskie could haul it once it had been secured to a sled. Whatever alloy had gone into its construction, it was not iron or aluminum or steel—or any material known to mankind, for that matter, as subsequent tests would reveal.

Almost immediately, the physicians, led by Dr. Bruce C. Hazlett, the expedition’s surgeon and medical chairman, began their autopsies. They worked virtually around the clock, fueled, as they were, by the same adrenalin coursing through all of us. They were meticulous in their work, for they well knew that a legion of scientists back in the States would want their own opportunities for research once we had returned with our find. It was slow work, painstakingly documented by extensive notetaking, videotaping, and photography, but by the end of the first week the doctors had learned a tremendous amount—and had been confronted with an equally impressive number of mysteries and inconsistencies.

Dr. Hazlett’s team discovered, for example, that the beings’ skin was similar to human skin, having the same number of layers and composed of cells similar in structure and apparently serving the same functions—protection from infection, regulation of internal temperature, retention of vital fluids. Our medical staff was able to document the muscles, ligaments, and skeleton, all of which suggested the beings had walked in an upright manner. There were no toes on the feet, and no hair on their heads or anywhere else on their bodies, but as one member of our party noted, those features are already all but vestigial in homo sapiens itself.

I suppose none of us were surprised to learn that Alpha, Beta, Kappa, and Epsilon, as we had taken to calling them, possessed brains nearly twice the size of their human counterparts. Their spines, too, were approximately double human size, with a capacity for twice the volume of nervous tissue. As for the eyes—those haunting eyes, which none save the doctors chose to look directly into for very long—they were indeed the source of radiation, of an intensity, fortunately, that was too low to be of danger to us. Its purpose, however, remained an open question, one that we on Polar 2020 could answer. That would require more advanced technology and specialists we did not have on board.

And so that question and many besides were left to subsequent endeavors.

What did they eat? A particularly vexing puzzle, for there was no stomach or intestines. Did they eat at all, or exist on some non-organic form of energy? Did they speak, or was communication accomplished in some far more sophisticated mode, as we suspected? They indeed had mouths and tongues, but the muscles of the tongue, the doctors concluded, were only crudely developed, and where vocal cords should have been there was nothing. How did they reproduce? There was no evidence of sex organs and no indication of differences between the genders—if, in fact, two genders were represented.

Alpha, Beta, Kappa, and Epsilon were carbon copies of each other, or so it seemed.

Our technicians were unsuccessful in their efforts to penetrate the quartet’s vehicle, for it resisted all attempts to puncture, drill, pry, or bang open. Unquestionably, their vehicle held clues as to the origin and nature of the beings—and what quantum leaps in technology might be possible after the vehicle’s secrets we could only guess. It was not too wild to dare to believe that the vehicle might even provide useful to our nation in keeping the edge in the new arms race developing between the U.S. and China.

Alas, those exciting developments were destined to wait until later.

The weeks passed and the excitement over Alpha, Beta, Kappa, and Epsilon subsided. Spring was approaching, and although in that clime spring promises only the return of weak sunlight and temperatures only occasionally above freezing, something that could legitimately be called spring fever had us in our grip. Even excepting our alien finds—they themselves were destined to make the name Polar 2020 a household word, I was confident—our expedition had been a tremendous success, more so than anyone had dreamed during the months of planning preceding it. My own endeavors had borne fruit beyond my expectations, and with no small measure of pride in my achievements, I looked forward to authoring and co-authoring several major papers upon my return to the halls of academia.

It was the last week of April, nearly a month before we had planned to depart Greenland, that Dave and Joanne became sick.

Curiously, they both took ill the same day, and at approximately the same hour, late morning. But beyond that coincidence, nothing about their initial complaints raised an eyebrow. Without exception, all of us experienced sickness since our arrival on the island—and Joanne’s and Dave’s symptoms matched those of the flu that had spread through the camp earlier in the year. Headache, stomach cramps, fever, annoying cases of diarrhea—yes, their symptoms fit those of an ordinary viral infection. Seeing that their business was microbes, I, for one, simply assumed that Dave and Joanne had contracted their bugs in the course of their work.

By the third day, it was becoming clear that their malady was not commonplace. Instead of improving, or moderating, or at the very least stabilizing, their conditions had worsened. Their fevers had intensified, and with temperatures threatening to break 107 degrees, they had started to have auditory and visual hallucinations. Had we been in an equatorial zone and not an arctic one, Dr. Hazlett said, there would have been a suspicion of malaria. But malaria was not their diagnosis, nor could the doctors come up with one that satisfied them.

What was most disturbing was that their sickness did not respond to antibiotics or any of the other treatments the doctors tried.

At 10:25 p.m. on May 2, after having lapsed into a fevered frenzy that had forced us to bind his ankles and wrists and strap him to a stretcher in the camp’s sick bay, Dave died of heart failure. Three hours later, in the early part of May 3, and following a similar period of extreme agitation, Joanne also succumbed. Their deaths plunged us into severe depression. Everyone had been following the course of Dave’s and Joanne’s health, particularly in their last three or four days, and the knowledge that they were gone devastated us.

What was even more chilling were the fevers a handful of others were beginning to report even as Dave and Joanne lay on their deathbeds.

By May 6, nearly half the camp was experiencing the same symptoms. Whatever the cause, we were witnessing an epidemic we could not curtail. That was indisputable. During an emergency meeting of the remaining healthy crew, it was decided that Polar 2020 must be immediately terminated and we would return to the U.S., more than two months ahead of schedule. In the time it would take to break camp, the sick were to be quarantined and the healthy were to take rigid precautions in the handling of food and water.

Six more expeditioners—I need not name them—had died by the morning we pulled anchor and steamed back out through the ice-clogged waters of Kane Basin. Like Dave and Joanne, the bodies of the deceased were placed in refrigerated storage on the Arctic Maiden for the journey to home and proper burial. Autopsies, of course, had been performed on Dave and Joanne, and they were performed on the next six, as well. The manner of death in every case, Dr. Hazlett reported, was heart failure induced by prolonged fever and dehydration. As to the cause of the fevers—that was surmised to be viral in nature, although Polar 2020 lacked the expertise and technology needed to isolate or positively identify the villain virus.

I was hardly the only person as yet unaffected by the disease who began to believe that its advent must be associated with the discovery of the beings—who, ironically, were being kept in the same cold storage as the human dead for the trip south.

True, our first contact with them had been three months before the onset of Dave and Joanne’s distress. But as those two scientists themselves would have been quick to observe, some microbes have an incubation period in humans of weeks or months or even years—consider syphilis, as only one example among many, whose tertiary effects may be delayed as long as three decades after contact. Perhaps the beings had not been overcome by cold, after all, I thought; perhaps it had been a virus, one they had brought with them, or been infected with on their arrival here. If so, that virus had remained inactive, but lethally alive, in Greenland’s cold.

As might be imagined, we were in regular contact with the authorities during our trip south from Greenland. Our situation, from what I could gather talking to the captain and Dr. Hazlett, was being monitored with growing concern in certain circles in Washington. By the time we had reached the northern coast of Maine, plans had been formulated for a Navy helicopter to fly several of the government’s infectious disease specialists out to our ship for an on-site inspection.

We did not blink at this announcement. Naturally, it would be necessary to take the proper steps to ensure our arrival would not contaminate the population at large. These specialists would assist in the planning, we assumed, and no doubt would take tissue and fluid specimens from the shipboard autopsies so as to commence their own investigation without further delay.

Just after noon on May 11, the helicopter touched down on a makeshift flight deck the crew had cleared by rearranging some of the equipment and booms aft of the pilothouse. I was unnerved by who disembarked: men dressed in Hazmat suits and breathing from air tanks on their backs. More disturbing still was what they carried: not equipment for collecting specimens, but military-issue M249 light machine guns. I asked one man why it was necessary to be armed, and he replied that this team by regulation was routinely armed, whether on a friendly mission such as ours, or on a Specials Forces mission in some war.

The men in white spoke briefly with the captain and Dr. Hazlett, then were led below to where the bodies were being stored. In less than five minutes, they returned, but not empty-handed. With the help of several of our crew members, the men in white had brought topside the bodies of the beings, wrapped tightly in canvas. They also carried steel canisters containing autopsy specimens from our human victims. It took little time to load them into the cargo bin of the helicopter, which had kept its door sealed while the beings had been brought up. Next, a line was attached from the helicopter to the space vehicle, which we had encircled with cable and lashed to the deck.

Before we knew it, the helicopter was gone—and with it, Alpha, Beta, Kappa, Epsilon, and their vehicle.

At dawn the day after the helicopter visit, a U.S. Navy frigate appeared on the horizon and broadcast a brief radio message ordering us to remain at our present position, some seventy miles due east of Jonesport, Maine, until further notice. The frigate, the USS Sam Houston, then steamed approximately two miles upwind of the Arctic Maiden, where it took up a watch it was careful to maintain. Like the Arctic Maiden, Sam Houston’s captain informed our own skipper that the frigate was to remain in the area awaiting further word from the authorities as to the time, place, and manner of our return home.

Our instructions by now were originating in the highest levels of the Biden Administration, which we learned had mobilized a crisis team of epidemiologists and public health experts led by Anthony Fauci. The number-one concern, of course, was the public-health threat we represented—concern about a possible pandemic on top of a pandemic—and while we on the Arctic Maiden were becoming increasingly panicked about our own fate, I think even the sickest among us could appreciate the administration’s grave concern. Although we were not privy to the details of deliberations concerning us, this much was conveyed to us through the Sam Houston: arrangements were being made to quarantine the remaining members of our party in abandoned barracks at the old Brunswick Naval Air Station, north of Portland, Maine.

A week we waited, conditions on board the Arctic Maiden deteriorating almost by the minute. There was one other helicopter visit—to drop supplies of morphine sulfate requested by Dr. Hazlett to ease the discomfort of our most seriously ill—but otherwise we were as disconnected from civilization as we had been in Greenland. It was during this week that morale disintegrated. It was during this week that six more died, and all but two of us began to show at least the beginning symptoms of the disease—the two being Dr. Hazlett and myself.

In their fevered states, the survivors took to wandering the ship, talking to themselves, gesticulating at imaginary foes, uttering vituperative and profane language, accusing their colleagues of the most reprehensible behaviors. Of a more frightening magnitude were the altercations that spontaneously began to erupt among the crew and the scientists. The word nightmare does not adequately describe this week, and I spent much of it together with Dr. Hazlett barricaded inside my cabin, venturing out only to procure food.

On the seventh day, those few sailors who had stayed faithful to their posts abandoned them. Until then, they had managed to maneuver the ship so it stayed roughly within the two-mile radius allowed by the Sam Houston. On the seventh day, they shut down the engines, locked their hysterical captain into his wardroom, and left the ship to drift. A group of five then took to a lifeboat, lowered themselves into the water, and headed off in a westerly direction.

A storm was brewing but they had traveled a distance when the Sam Houston fired a missile that sank them.

So you’d like to know what happened next, wouldn’t you? You people who scorn me now as I walk among you, inhaling and exhaling deeply, this most highly transmissible of all germs I carry spreading widely, then doing what it is programmed to do: replicate and kill.

Long story short, I saw the explosion that sank the lifeboat and knew what was next. In a sort of modern take on the Titanic, I lowered myself off the ship into another lifeboat moments later. I had barely moved to safety when the Sam Houston sank our ship with a second missile.

The storm intensified soon after, which may explain why the Houston could not find me. Or perhaps the captain concluded no one could survive such a storm—a true Nor’easter that sent several vessels larger than a rubber-hulled dinghy to the bottom—and never initiated a search. Whatever, I am sure there was an investigation. That captain’s stripes, I bet, have been stripped.

In any event, miraculously I did survive the storm. For several days I drifted, until the lifeboat came ashore at Bar Harbor, Maine, where I broke into a car whose owner, apparently a forgetful sort, had left her pocketbook in view. I stole her cash, enough for the bus trip back to Cape Cod with plenty left over for the inevitable contingencies.

I had hoped my wife and children would be ecstatic when I reached my home, but they were anything but. Federal agents had prepared for every possibility, even the one-in-a-million chance that I or someone else had survived the sinking of the Arctic Maiden. Families, friends, and colleagues had been instructed to call if anyone showed up. Police patrolled.

“I’m sorry, honey, I have no choice,” my wife said, closing the door.

I was about to plead with her when I heard sirens.

More days and bus rides brought me to Boston, the nearest big city. Easier to hide there, not that I would be easily recognizable now, given how long I had gone without a shave or haircut, or even a shower or change of clothing. I place no trust in homeless centers, however well-intentioned their operators may be.

Let me leave you with a few facts and questions for you to ponder.

The questions first.

Did Alpha, Beta, Kappa, and Epsilon know what they carried? Clearly, they were immune, but did they know? If they did, were they on a mission to destroy a species they held, correctly, to be a threat to Planet Earth—and, with Bezos and Branson and NASA seeking to colonize space, planets, and systems beyond? If they did not, why had they come?

Ultimately, these are esoteric questions. What happened, happened. What is, is.

Now, the facts.

Unlike the coronavirus, this one spreads equally well indoors or out. Thrives in all temperatures, from sub-freezing to extreme climate-change hot. Requires an almost infinitesimally low virus load and overwhelms the immune system quickly. To the researchers, I say: good luck with your vaccines. Pfizer and Moderna got their COVID products in months, but you won’t even have weeks with this particular bug. Even if big pharma did, what is the guarantee they could succeed? This one came from far beyond. I would be surprised if the laws of our science applied.

By the way, good luck Fauci and CDC and FDA and WHO.

In my lighter moments, I imagine this virus rejoices, for stripped to its essentials, what is the purpose of any life form but to reproduce, in this case to propagate its RNA so that it sees another tomorrow.

Shall we give it a name? SuperCOVID? The media types would love that, in the brief period before the Apocalypse. COVID-Ultimate? Alien variant? Shall there be a national naming contest before time runs out?

Or how about a reality show! The Virus is Right, say. American Virus. Dire Jeopardy. Dancing with the Extraterrestrials.



It is important that I maintain a sense of humor.

And keep things in perspective.

Because while this little bug has arguably made me a tad daffy, it cannot kill me, for I am lucky to have developed immunity. The scientist in me knows I belong to a very small cohort—that .000001 or less percent who will survive as our species largely departs the planet, leaving it to heal from the wars and industrialization and hatred and anger that so plague it.

How will I subsist, you may rightly ask?

As I do already: with food from dumpsters. As the population plummets, I will find sustenance from the food left behind in stores and warehouses. Canned goods have a shelf life measured in years. And after that, I shall partake of Mother Earth’s bounty, the berries and grains and fish and wildlife that sustained our ancestors eons ago.

Yes, I will be fine.

I may even, should opportunity arise, decide to procreate.