The last Pulse occurred in 5642,
the one before that in 5632, the one before that in 5622, and
so on. But each Pulse had come a minute or so earlier than the
last, and one was left with the inevitable conclusion that they
were increasing in frequency. We knew with the surety of atomic
decay that the time would come when, at least for a while, they
could be enjoyed annually. That is, until the frequency increased
on the order of once every ten days, then once every ten seconds—and
what would happen when they reached that undefinable pitch? For
now though, it was enough that they occurred once every ten years.
The occasion of the most recent Pulse was savored with
great delight among the younger folks, who possessed
a near-limitless quantity of nerve in the face of such
a great unknown. Most of these kids are too young to
remember the insurgence of the ungodly black Slicks,
who may seem tame now that they’ve all found their own
tranquility wrapped in thick striation around and up
the trunks of the nation’s conifers (came the now-famous
line “How about bark? Does anyone here remember the color
of bark?” which was most likely never uttered at all)
but were hellish on their arrival, oily and eyeless.
And most of the kids do not remember, although their
parents and their grandparents retell it with rising
alarm in their voices, the tremendous outpouring of chunky
red sand that came bubbling in great gobs out of the
Pulse—and that had to be carted in teeming truckloads
to the top of Mount Aura. There’s a reminder of the occasion
every winter when the summit burns bloody just before
the onset of twilight.
And certainly none of them know the name Dr. Albert
Difkind, although their horsehair strands—intercranial
carbon nanotubing to you and I—could probably have the
information in mind faster than you or I could look it
up the old way. But ever since Difkind centralized the
location of the Pulse using nothing more than a couple
of Casimir plates, a light gas gun, and an ampule of
pure sodium, kids gather at the Difkind spot on the night
of the twenty-fourth and they wait. Sometimes they join
hands and sing. Sometimes they sing without joining hands.
Sometimes they tell crude jokes which they follow with
crude laughter. Their method of enjoyment has changed,
but the enjoyment itself is timeless. And even those
who come away bruised and scratched have a happy and
wonderful time.
But the real joy is in the weeks before, when the excited
anticipation of whatever may arrive via the next Pulse
is enough to start the heart pumping hurried hot blood
through the extremities. Some of the older ones say that
the time should not be rushed. That the days and weeks
preceding the Pulse should be a time of reflection and
quiet servitude to the senses. That the time before is
merely time to suppress anxiety, for that is what strengthens
the spirit. But try telling that to the hordes of kids
whose behavior changes in the same way that dawn changes
night into day—wholly, pervasively through the atmosphere.
The Pulse cannot come soon enough for them. And I say
let them be. They don’t want their parents watching them
anyway. If we stay far enough away, we can enjoy it with
them. But I doubt we can enjoy it as much as they do,
with aeons of life ahead of them, aeons of Pulses refreshing
their world over and over again.
Dr. Difkind said there would one day be a way to keep
track of the ever-changing origin of the Pulse. This
footnote in his research was quickly forgotten (I don’t
need to tell you it was forgotten on purpose, do I?),
but there is a movement—a small one, but a movement nonetheless—to
resurrect Difkind’s methods so that we may prepare ourselves
more rigorously for whatever may arrive.
But I say, as my children do, that imagination is the
only thing that is to be prepared rigorously, and that
is all.
And so the time finally came after many dark weeks breathing
frozen, smoky air. It culminated in a feverous, bustling
last week of hurried meetings—as if the people greeting
each other had only seconds to do so and would link up
with them via horsehair at some later time—perhaps after
the Pulse but not now, for heaven’s sake, not now, we’ll
see you after the Pulse.
After the Pulse. There would be an after. That there
had been so many afters since the first Pulse was cause
for much joy.
And so my children went to the Difkind spot and joined
the rest of the folks who stood around all wrapped up
in layers like fat pastries. And as they waited, wind-blown,
red-cheeked yet hot in their clothes, some of them sang,
and the song caught on the way the tops of trees catch
on to the song of a gale.
And the Pulse came.
As it had in the past, it started with a point. A dot
of something in the few micrometers of space between
the two metal plates. As the plates automatically collapsed
on the instant amid a suppressed cheer, the dot swelled
into a sphere until it reached the Difkind radius.
And what was to come through, came through.
An influx of briny-smelling things with many segmented
legs, each rippling body the size and color of a walnut.
Within minutes, a smell like a stray dog steeped in pickle
juice pervaded the entire area. The crowd moved like
a receding tide to allow them entrance into our world.
Some of the things expired quickly. Somewhere on our
planet was a place capable of sustaining them, which
is why the Pulse chose Earth over anywhere else. They
would find that place soon. But it was necessary for
the weaker ones to die off quickly due to their inability
to adapt. Better for their future and ours. Some people
in the crowd wept for them. Some of the more adventurous
bared their arms and touched the frozen ground, inviting
the surviving ones to scuttle up and nestle flat against
steaming skin.
A few stayed and broke out in song. The rest dispersed
and left the skittering things to find their way in the
cold. That was the Pulse that year.
We welcomed our boy and girl back into the warmth and
comfort of home, and after they’d unwrapped themselves
they came to us. And we held them as they shook with
sobs, and we didn’t think of letting go.
The next night they downloaded some stuff about the
ancient rites of Christmas. It was hard not having a
horsehair strand to connect with them. And it was harder
to consider the fact that some of the information might
have been kept in mind and not shared aloud. But they
told us some things about it. And we sipped our chocolate
and laughed and cried around a ceremonial conifer, its
trunk smooth and striped with oily black.
