message, because the Centaurian Dawn is almost upon us … it is time to prepare the way!’
‘And how do you do that?’
‘Well,’ she said, lowering her voice and coming nearer, ‘… you may not know this, but some earthlings are actually Centaurians. That was one of the things Prima discovered in the code.’
‘Prima?’
‘Walter Beamish changed his name to Prima Centaurus … so other Centaurians would be able to find him. Our mission is to identify the true Centaurians and get them all together for the Centaurian Dawn.’
‘I see.’
At that moment I noticed that the Searcher had arrived and was about to be accosted by the male half of the toothpaste twins.
‘Would you like to see the film?’
‘What? Oh … sure,’ I said, and she led me into the space ship where two or three others were already seated, writing.
‘This is just a little questionnaire we ask you to fill out,’ she said, handing me a sheet of paper. ‘It helps us to gauge your Alpha Index.’
‘My what?’
‘Your Alpha Index.’
She further lowered her voice, motioned me into one of the chairs and sat very close.
‘Many people have some Centaurian genes … as you’ll learn from the film … but Prima tells us there are actually Centaurian purebloods, who have been teleported here especially for the Centaurian Dawn. But the teleportation process makes them amnesic … they lose all knowledge of their true identity and purpose. We’re desperate to find them … they’re very special and the Dawn can’t happen without them. Who knows? You might be Centaurian!’
With that she left, to recast the net, and I turned my attention to the questionnaire.
Question 1: Have you ever been aware of yourself as somehow different?
There was lots of space to answer, but I simply wrote: Yes — despite the overwhelming temptation to amuse myself. Maybe later.
Question 2: Have you ever felt that there is something fundamental missing in your life?
They weren’t trying very hard to distinguish the true Centaurians from every other paranoid, schizophrenic, self-worshipping loony toon out there — which is obviously the whole point. I wonder when they’re going to ask for money?
But again, I wrote: Yes — to make them happy.
Question 3: Are there gaps in your memory from your earliest years?
Aha! This is where the unfulfilled bottom feeders prick up their ears. I could almost hear the cogs clunking into place in the brains around me. ‘Why yes … there are gaps in my memory. I can’t remember the first years of my life at all … how strange I’ve never thought about that before!’
I thought about writing that down but I just wrote: Yes, and underlined it for good measure, subtly emphasising my Centaurian potential and exploitability.
OPTIONAL SECTION
The following questions are demographic and are needed to help us establish the patterns of Centaurian settlement across the planet, but as they are of a personal nature, we understand if you would prefer not to answer.
By way of explanation, our studies have clearly shown two constant factors:
• that true Centaurians tend to be in the higher income groups; and
• that true Centaurians from the lower income groups tend to move quickly into the higher income groups as soon as they become aware of themselves as Centaurians.
We can’t explain why this is so, but income remains our best indicator of true Centaurian status. We are NOT interested in your money — we just want to know whether you might be Centaurian.
Question 4: What is your occupation?
Question 5: What were your annual earnings for each of the last three years?
Now they’re getting serious. I was tempted to write Investigative Journalist for Question 4, but settled for Writer (most wackos think they’re writers), and after some thought, I put $600k per annum (approx) for Question 5. (In fact, I’d made substantially more than that, but it should be enough to get me on the Centaurian callback list.)
Question 6: Would you be interested in learning more about the Centaurian Society of Interstellar Beings (Earth Chapter)?
If yes, there was a place for your name and contact details. I put my name down as Cosmo Solanis, but gave Xeno’s address and phone number. I was grinning to myself at the thought of Xeno answering the door to the Centaurians, when the Searcher entered the inner sanctum with an expression of profound, sepulchral awe. She listened earnestly to Maia’s Colgate colleague and gave the questionnaire her total attention, but suddenly the lights dimmed, and a sighing sirenic music swelled. The movie, Homo Tarot, commenced, with the Searcher watching avidly — as I watched her.
•
On the train back to Hornsby to collect my car, I picked up a copy of the local North Shore rag, which someone had stuffed down the side of the seat. The front few pages were all dedicated to the sensational developments in Galston Gorge, and even featured a letter to the editor which, purportedly, had been written by the killer. Very amusing but certainly a hoax, I would have said.
I folded the paper and reflected on my successful day. I was no longer trailing the Searcher. I knew where she lived.
After the movie, we’d been obliged to hand in our questionnaires, and I had timed my move to make sure that I was directly behind the Searcher, and was thus able to see her name and address in the moment before I placed my own form on top of hers. She was Melanie Arthur of 42 Dent Street, Hornsby Heights. She didn’t know it yet, but her life was about to get much more interesting.
I picked up my car at Hornsby station and considered driving over to have a look at her house, but decided there was no point in the dark. Besides, I didn’t want to spoil the anticipation.
Twenty minutes later, as I pulled into my driveway, the headlights played over a figure in black sitting on the stairs. The garage door opened automatically and I shot through into the light, hitting the button to lower the door before I’d come to a halt, but there had still been ample time for the figure in black to stroll into my fortress.
‘How’s it goin’, Morgen?’
‘Not bad, Xeno,’ I said, fighting off the bourgeois butterflies — I didn’t like him coming into my world unannounced.
‘What’ve you got for me?
Xeno held out a large brown paper parcel, from which the most heavenly scent was rising. ‘I’ll say one thing for Beljean coffee,’ he grinned, ‘it’s a lot harder to get than heroin.’
