Tom sighed. “Fine. They’re tourists.”
“Who are they?”
“Pretty much who you think they are. Politicians, scientists, the billionaires who fund us. Certain notable dignitaries. A few others.”
“I see you trying to skip past some embarrassments there with the phrase a few others.”
“You should let me.”
“Not a chance. Spill.”
“Last year, a certain president’s large adult sons came over.”
My eyes narrowed at Tom. “They. Did. Not.”
“They did,” Tom confirmed. “We kind of had no choice on that.”
“And?”
“They wanted to hunt a kaiju.”
“You should have let them.”
“It was tempting,” Tom said. “To be fair, they’re not the only ones who have ever asked. One time, a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff wanted to bring over an M1 Abrams to do it.” I stared. “That’s a tank,” Tom added.
“I know what it is,” I said. “I’m wondering why he thought that would work.”
“Once he got here he figured out why it wasn’t a great idea. Which is one reason why we do bring them here. So they get it, and get what we’re doing here.”
“How many tourists does this place get?”
“Globally or in North America?”
“Either?”
“For North America we get a few dozen a year. I think other continents do similar numbers.”
“So, conservatively, a couple of hundred non-KPS people a year visit Kaiju Earth.”
“That sounds about right. A lot of them are repeat visitors, but yeah.”
I made a face. “How … how is all of this still secret?”
“Nearly everyone who visits has a security clearance. They know how it works.”
I looked at Tom blankly. “Large. Adult. Sons,” I said.
“And for everyone else, I mean, what are they going to say? That they’ve been to an alternate dimension where Godzilla-size creatures are real? No one’s going to believe that.”
“They might if they take selfies and video.”
“We take their phones before they cross over,” Tom said. “And even if they did sneak something through, you’ve seen the pictures and video we take. Screamingly low-production value. It looks like what some high schooler can do with Photoshop and After Effects.”
“You have a lot riding on shitty video quality, Tom.”
“No, we have a lot riding on improbability. We’re like Area 51 that way.”
I blinked. “Wait. Area 51 is real?”
Tom looked annoyed. “I don’t know. I’m saying that even if it was, the idea of it is already so deep into our common culture that the reality of it is completely swamped by the Hollywood version of it. Remember when you interviewed, and you were asked what you thought about science fiction?”
“Sure.”
“We ask that question because the people who watch Godzilla movies and Jurassic Park movies are fundamentally better prepared for the reality of this place. Our brains already have a model for it so we don’t blow a fuse when we come over. Well, it works the other way, too. If we’re so used to a fictional version of something, it makes it easier to deny the existence of the real version.”
“That’s some next-level-conspiracy thinking there, Tom.”
Tom nodded. “Granted. Human brains are bullshit. But it’s also how we’ve been able to hide this place more or less in plain sight. There are other things we have to do, of course. We can’t send everything we need through Thule Air Base because eventually it becomes obvious there’s too much traffic to a supposedly dead camp in the interior of Greenland, even if there’s an official sanction and a treaty with various nations. As one example. But by and large, we keep it under wraps. It’s too ridiculous to believe.”
“It’s a reverse lampshade,” I said.
“I don’t know what ‘lampshade’ means here, much less its reverse.”
“It’s a literary term. It means calling attention to something improbable, acknowledging its improbability in the text, and then moving on.”
“And that works?”
“More than you might think.”
“I suppose it might,” Tom said. “Anyway. Yes, we have tourists. Yes, it would be better in many ways if we didn’t. But inasmuch as we do have them, it makes sense to work them to our advantage. Which is why I’m talking to you, Jamie.”