This in itself makes him uncomfortable.
Whoever might be watching Ingar would consider sending a tape to "Al Amarja's Funniest Surveillance Videos". Left alone with himself and the room, he gradually relaxes, his arms hanging freely, shoulders drooping, and his entire body sags down. His eyelid slide half-way down and a malicious grin. reminicent of a killer whale who just ate a dozen seals, grows on his face. Then he snaps back, all the muscles on his body tense (like a person who has had a thin stream of ice cold water poured down his neck) and he slaps himself over his abdomen, saying: "No this is not a nice place. I do not enjoy being in this room. I am nervous, tense. This place scares me." He looks frantically around. Then he returns to a more or less normal pose. The entire process repeats itself twice more.
After around ten minutes of his lonely wait, a section of the ceiling swings downward without warning. Framed in the opening, in apparent defiance of the laws of gravity, is the self-same C&I caseworker who had arrived for the others. Behind him is the self same office, everyone going about their tasks as before. Staring down at Ingar, the man's face betrays no hint of surprise, but he does pause long enough to reach off to one "side" of the opening and retrieve a rope ladder, which he tosses into the room.
Ingar looks at the proceedings with no apparent surprise. Then, startled by his lack of surprise, he tenses up. Then, using his rather limited acting ability he puts on a look of apparent surprise, and says, "why, the law of gravity..."
"Mr. Ingar Forn? Mr. Forn, please follow me. Your C&I case worker is ready for your interview." The man prudently takes a couple of steps backwards to give Ingar room to climb up the ladder.
"Tough guy, eh?" mutters Ingar to no one in particular. He moves over to the rope ladder, stretches his arms upwards, grasps a high rung on the ladder, and begins pulling himself upwards, using only his arms. When he reaches the top, he slides over the edge like a seal coming up of an ice hole (he was considered a decent hakapik wielder in his youth), and once his entire body is on the floor, he rolls over on his back, raises himself to a seated position, and uses some nearby furniture or a helping hand to pull himself upright.
The doorway (or hatchway) slams closed just as Ingar pops through it, leaving him with the distinct impression that he has just spent some time trapped in an M.C. Escher drawing. The C&I employee watches impassively as Ingar levers himself to his feet, though the conversation level in the office drops dramatically as other C&I workers stop and stare. The employee who's desk Ingar uses to lever himself to his feet seems particularly aghast.
Unperturbed, the employee with the clipboard does not even pause long enough to see if Ingar manages to make it to his feet. "Go through the door to your right, marked 'Interviews' and proceed down the hallway to interview cubicle 3, which will be the second door on your right. Your caseworker will meet you there. Please do not wander about."
The man stands there, emitting an aura of profound tedium and minutia fixation that only a long, long, LONG stint in the civil service can produce. Strangely, he doesn't look that old. Perhaps he's just good at what he does.
Ingar smiles a shy smile, goes through the door on his right, and follows his instructions.
Ingar stoops his head and enters the C&I office. The office itself is lit like a smoggy sunset, the musty orange/yellow/brown/what-color-is-that wallpaper, and aged wainscotting dimly lit by low-wattage bulbs. Ingar enters. Oh no. This is just like his mother's house. He shudders.
Straightening, Ingar notices that the ceiling is exactly one inch shorter than he is... by banging his head lightly against it. He resolves to refrain from straightening fully, as this seems to be a course of action which is mutually beneficial to both his head and the ceiling. In other words, he stoops forwards somewhat.
Cigarette smoke floats gracefully through the air, pushed along by a small, ancient rotating fan on the window sill behind the wooden desk. From behind that desk a man pulls his feet down and removes his grey fedora, revealing short red-blond hair. Something about the shadows in the room keep his face from being completely lit, no matter how he turns it. He is dressed in blue pinstriped pants, grey bracers, a shirt that might have been white several years ago, and a loosened blue bowtie with yellow polka-dots.
He reaches out a hand, making no move to come out from behind the desk. "Engar Foorn?" he asks in a Scottish brough.
"Yes. I am he." answers Ingar.
Ingar offers a smile, which looks sort of like a heavy duty Russki zipper, the kind used to close exterior pockets on Russian armoured vehicles. In other words, his long teeth are reminicent of metal splints, and his smile looks like it should not really exist anywhere in the waking world.
He wobbles towards the desk, and then extends his hand in an downwards curve, first quickly, then rather slowly, and at last at a more or less normal pace. His hand is slick, wet and soft, and yet he grips the man's hand with great force. He relaxes his grip immediately, to the almost non-existent (like grabbing a day-old dead fish, you know?) saying:
"err... sorry! Terribly sorry! Mr. Case Officer! ...hello.
Kindly excuse my somewhat peculiar mannerisms, I am a little bit -mh- nervous,
you see, about this place... and the interview. Oh, well - I am glad
to see you keep a relaxed attitude about it - casual code of dress and
all - good for the applicants' state of mind. Helps me, anyway.
Well. Hm. What do you want to know, really?" This small
speech is expelled without drawing breath once.
Ingar moves his lips without sound for a second, frowns and then inhales mightily - drawing in the cigarette smog with no apparent discomfort. The he speaks, smoke floating out his mouth and nose, his voice a guttural bass: "I have found my presence to have a somewhat unsettling effect on the majority of the people I meet, yes - It is rather inconvenient..."
"Take a seat, Mr. Foorn. Stick o'gum? Ye like gum, doancha, Mr. Foorn? Took a stick o' gum from that little gairl, didn't ye?"
Ingar's voice hurtles up to a tenor. "In truth, I -" looking embarrased he returns to his customary deep baritone "- do not find gum all that satisfying, but such small gestures of good will are wonderful when made sincerely." His breathing comes at normal intervals now, but each interval is slightly different in length. It is like listening to a clock which continually changes its rhythm slightly.
"Take a seat. Bligh, Mr. Foorn, what are ye, a yeti? A member of the Yetinsi? Follower of "Bob" Dobbs, are ye? Do ye like little gairls, Mr. Foorn? TAKE A SEAT."
Ingar sits down with great force; finding no chair, he rests his butt on the desk. Agent Goodness seems entirely nonplussed by Ingar resting himself on the edge of the desk.
"My name is Agent Goodness, Mr. Foorn. Now then, thair's naught to be nairvous aboot, Mr. Foorn. Just a few semple questions and ye can be off, enjoyin' yer holiday."
Agent Goodness picks up a clipboard and a pen. "Fairst things fairst. Justify your existance in fifty words or less. You are not allowed to use the letter "I" in yer response. Take yer time, Mr. Foorn. I can count."
Ingar frowns slightly and then states rapidly: "To be - to defy the state of naught. Forn seeks to serve the humans race, Forn be useful. He seeks to reach knowledge of the self, and enjoy as much as can be enjoyed... Lack of vowel hurts word-supply and thereby grammar. "
"...and thereby grammar. Forty one, forty two, forty three. Very nice, Mr. Foorn. And how," asks Agent Goodness, exhaling menthol smoke as he speaks, "Do you propose to sairv the "humans race"? And come t'that, you yerself air na human, oh yes, I kin tell."
After some discomforted, meaningless sounds, Ingar replies in a shaky voice "Are you implying that you doubt my humanity?"
The Scottman reaches into a pouch at his side, takes out a small red lozenge, and pops it into his mouth. He flips a page on his clipboard. "This next question is rather impoortant.
"What exactly air ye, Mr. Foorn?"
"What do you mean? I am a Norwegian citizen and holder of a doctorate in psychology, licenced to work as a clinical psychologist. My genes, and thus my physiology may not be quite normal, but that has a perfectly rational explanation, and is no reason to cast any doubt whatsoever over my basic human nature. You see - my home place is far north, and quite near the Russian border. The Russians have been storing both nuclear waste and nuclear, biological and chemical weapons on the Kola peninsula. These things have never been stored securely..."
"Ah," says agent Goodness, raising an eyebrow calmly. "So now, let me see. Causasian, Afro-Amairican, Ayzheean... ah yes. Mutant." He moves to check a box. "Mutant, aye?" He pauses. "Eh, yer no' radioactive at the moment, are ye, Mr. Foorn? A little extra bubbly in yer Coca Kola?"
"Yes, I am slightly radioactive, but no more than that passive smoking is a greater cancer hazard than me. Say - does that thing really have a separate checkbox for 'mutant'? By the way, I feel that the term 'genetically challenged' is somewhat less demeaning than 'mutant'."
"I can sympethize wi' tha', Mr. Foorn, but the form, ye see, is na interested in "Political Correctedness". The form, it's, eh, inanimate. Na' capable of rational thought, right? I can tell me desk tha' I prefer Jamison's to John Player Special, it's still na' gonna buy me shot."
"Yes. Yes. I am aware of that - but you might make a suggestion to your superior, about suitable amendments to the form."
Goodness makes a few markings on the form, then studies it for a moment. "Yer doin' fine, Mr. Foorn. Jest a few more questions, an' off ye go. Would ye like a drink?" He hold up a bottle containing a brown liquid.
"No, thank you very much."
"Now then, this... you, eh, do you have anything inside yer head we should be aware of? Can ye make things float, or explode, or make people wanna take their clothes off in public an' dance the tarentella? It's na goin' ta effect yer entry, mind, bu' we do need to know."
"Oh. I see that Al-Amarja take psychic powers more seriously than most nations. Well, as experiments have indicated, it is likely that many people have latent psychic abilities, but I cannot say that I am aware of any in myself."
Agent Goodness nods, looking a bit disappointed. "Mm... mmhmm... Y'see, the thing is, Mr. Foorn, you, eh, yer makin' the Powers Tha' Be rather, eh, nairvous. Ye kin say yer all normal, jus' a funny lookin' bairger in from, ehm, Noorway an tha', but, eh, they seem t'think there's somethin' aboot ye beyond yer... unique appearance." He leans forward conspiratorily, picks up the phone and covers the mouthpiece.
"Tell 'em what they want t'know, Mr. Foorn. People... disappear sometimes, y'know? Withoot a trace an' all that. Ye gotta give me something t'take back with me, or ye may not be walkin' oot of this interview, if ye follow me." He looks pained, and his eyes dart back and forth momentarily before replacing the phone on its hook.
"Wh-wh-what? Y-y-y-you mean to threaten me? I am shocked! While I concede that we all do have a history, my sole motivation for going to Al-Amarja is to find some peace and quiet, and acceptance in a multi-ethnic community. I am through with all those other things. I never wanted part of them anyway! I like humans. They are nice(!) Tell your superiors that if I intended to do what they feared, I'd be headed for one of the polar areas right now! I'm not supposed to do the Mediterranean, that's one of my older brothers! My motives are as pure as the most deeply buried layers of the Jostedal glacier! One cannot chose one's family, but one can run away!" Ingar started this speech "seated" on the desk, and speaking in a quiet monotone voice, but by the time he finishes, he is clutching opposite sides of the desk - leaning forwards over it to face agent Goodness, and shouting in a warbling scream, his face a vivid purple, and his long teeth all-too-visible. His gums and tongue seem to have gone a stark black.
And agent Goodness' hand begins moving towards his desk drawer, his face tensing as he hopes this does not become an "Incident" that would require complicated paperwork...
As Ingar finally shuts up, he stands frozen for a while, and then a crease of discomfort grows on his forehead. He looks at the agent Goodness, at his own hands, and then lurches backwards, and in a very quiet, saddened voice says quickly, "Oh my. I seem to have gotten a bit carried away. Terribly sorry. Terribly sorry. Of course I'll pay for the damage to your desk. Just a bit tense. All the old troubles coming back to me - you see? Terribly sorry. Terribly..."
Agent Goodness relaxes and rises, moving around the desk. He gently takes Ingar's arm, and steers him to the wall, where he pulls him down to a sitting position, and then sits beside him. The clipboard with the forms remains on the desk.
"Mr. Foorn," Goodness says calmly, "Come here. Have a seat. It's all right." He pats the big man's arm.
Ingar, still not bending at the legs, slides down the wall to land with a slight thump. His upper body tilts forward somewhat, and then he leans back towards the wall.
"You sound like someone who could use a friend to talk to, Mr. Foorn. Engar. Tell ol' Scotch the trouble. S tairt from the beginnin'. What "other things" are ye naught doin'? Ye like humans, aye, they're nice. What of you? What's up at the poles, then? And yer brother? Ye can talk t'me, Engar. What are ye running from? What 'old troubles?' I kin help ye, Engar, bu' I need to know what's troubling you."
Ingar looks pathetically at him, with his cow-like eyes, and offers a slight, shy smile, his lips shut tightly to hide his grotesque teeth. The agent offers Ingar a cigarette and takes one for himself. Ingar absent-mindedly chews and swallows the cigarette.
Ingar mutters, "If you do not know of the poles and my h-h--h-alf -"
he chokes and swallows, "b-b-brothers, it is better that you remain ignorant.
For your health, you see? You are such a nice person, I would not
like to see you harmed because of my words. Your superiors will probably
understand what I am referring to. I do not want any trouble.
I am a kind of refugee, you see? There are those who would force
a destiny upon me. As for that disappearing stuff, you might remind
them that those who harm my kin rarely, if ever, come to good ends, but
rather die cursing the day of their birthf... All I want is to be
a quasi-normal, productive citizen. To hide and live my life in peace.
Is that so b-b-bad?"
"No. We really cannot"
Agent Goodness walks back to his desk, picks up his clipboard and, as if an afterthought, pulls in idex card from his Rolodex. Ingar's gaze follow him all the way, as if the sitting giant was some kind of monstrous puppy.
"All right, Engar, we've all got a past here, an' I kin see no reason why that should bar ye from enterin' our fine land." He walks back over to Ingar, sits next to him, hands him two forms pulled from the clipboard and a pen.
"Ye just need sign a couple of forms, an' yer good t' go. This fairst one, it's yer C&I form. That's Customs and Immigration. Says ye haven't come to destroy our way o' life, na bringin' any drugs, contraband, explosives, Rheses monkeys, et cetera. Sign it here." He points.
Ingar smiles shyly and signs.
"This other one, it's yer CPC form. It means Caseworker Proxy of Confidentiality. It means I've interviewed ye, and have decided to take responsibility for ye while yair here. Think aboot this fer a moment, Engar. If ye've come to do damage, yer na only riskin' yerself, but me as well. Sign that one here," he points again, "An' here."
With a solemn expression, Ingar says "I assure you that I will try my very best to be worthy of your confidence." Then he smiles a bit again.
"This last thing, it's an address. Fer a friend o'mine. Her name is Mrs. Brinker. I think ye need moor than me as a friend, Engar, an' Mrs. Brinker is the best o' the best. The sweetest old lady ye'll ever meet, she is. She'll give ye a big hug, and some cookies unless I miss my guess."
Ingar's posture, gaze and face all express a mixture of joy and disbelief. His odor does it's best to express the unholy union of a painter and a butcher. "Oh. Thank you. It is so nice to have friends. Will I get to see you again?"
Agent Goodness chuckles. Ingar giggles a little. "She'll take care tha' ye come t' no hairm, at least until ye get yer bearings. It's an odd place out there, Engar." He chuckles and shakes his head. "Bu' I wouldn't trade this place fer all the whiskey in the world."
Agent Goodness helps Ingar to his feet, levering him up with the help of the wall, and pats him on his massive back as he leads him towards the door.
"Where should I go next? When do I get my luggage back?" asks the giant.
"We'll meet again, me large friend, doan'cha worry none. Fer now, ye go and see a bit o'the island, and mind ye, watch yerself. Doon't come t' no hairm 'til I see ye again."
"Till we meet again then." Ingar walks gingerly out, smiling and humming a little, a sort of waltz, the tones of which sound completely atonal, but really are not. He whispers in Norwegian: "It is so nice to have friends." A bit more of seemingly-atonal waltz. "Perhaps this place will give me the opportunity to be accepted as a normal citizen."
Goodness shakes Ingars hand, gently this time, and closes the door to his office. Walking to his desk, he sits down, files the C&I paper, and looks carefully at Ingar's signature on the Center for Paranormal Control form. He smiles.
"Gotcha, ye great big freak."
As Special Agent Goodness reviews his paperwork with all the satisfaction of a job well done, the telephone on his desk rings. He reaches over and picks it up.
"Goodness," he says into the receiver.
"Special Agent Goodness?" asks a voice on the other end, in complete disregard for his introduction.
"Aye," Goodness responds wearily (at this point in his career he is well used to such things).
"We have another situation in C&I, and they've requested backup. Not really our department - simple murder case, but its right down the hall from your present location. The Chief wants you to lend a hand. Briefing cubicle 13."
"Aye," responds Special Agent Goodness, but the line is dead before
he can finish. With a shake of his head he slips Ingar Forn's paperwork
into his briefcase and steps out into the hall. He easily finds cubicle
13, takes a moment to compose himself, then firmly turns the knob and looks
in.
To Be Continued...