by Jerry
Bobby looked off into the western sunset, his eyes dreamy. His voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Yes, Skeeter, I found it. Gee, but it’s a wonderful ship. It came from a far ways from here, Skeeter, and it can fly back—if you know how!”
Skeeter raised a shaggy eyebrow. “That so? How do you reckon that, son?”
“She showed me, Skeeter, the little girl. Gosh, but she’s pretty . . .”
The old man looked questioningly up at the boy. “What girl, Bobby?”
“Why the girl in the picture!”
“Oh,” Skeeter said. “Too bad they never released that picture. Yep, she’s a mighty pert little miss. Saw her many times myself when they were shooting the scenes. Hair black as a raven.”
Bobby frowned. “Her hair isn’t black, Skeeter, it’s gold. And what do you mean about shooting the scenes—and who didn’t release them?”
Skeeter shrugged. “Reckon I can’t tell you much about that, son. Better ask your daddy, he knows more about that picture than I do. He directed it.”
Bobby looked off across the desert into the sunset. Daddy . . . picture . . . scenes . . . black as a raven . . .
“What’s the matter, son?” Skeeter asked.’
“Nothing,” Bobby murmured. “I better get home now. Mom will be worrying.”
Skeeter watched him ride off down the trail. He scratched his beard with the stem of the corncob. “Can’t quite figure him out,” he muttered.
THE party was all ready in progress.
Bobby could hear the people laughing and talking in the front part of the house. He heard the clink of glasses and the slow tempo of a waltz from the victrola. He looked sullenly at his food from the kitchen table. He wasn’t hungry.
“Oh, there you are, Bobby.”
Henry Kincaid came through the swinging door into the kitchen. Bobby looked up.
“Hello, dad.”
“Is that all you have to say, Bobby? You don’t seem very glad to see me!” his father said, sitting down opposite the boy.
“Dad,” Bobby fumbled with his fork. “Skeeter said something about the ship . . .”
“Ship? Oh, that. What about the ship, Bobby?”
Bobby raised wistful eyes. “He said that you were directing a picture—with a little girl—and the ship. Is that true, dad?”
Henry Kincaid nodded. “That’s right, son. That’s the only reason I’ve let you go wandering out there on the desert. I had that ship specially built for a fantasy film. It was just a prop that we used in a number of scenes. But the producer cancelled the film at the last minute and it wasn’t released. Why do you ask?”
Bobby was close to tears. His eyes were brimming. “Th-then it won’t fly—it won’t take me to see—her?”
His father frowned. “What are you talking about, Bobby? Of course it won’t fly, you’re old enough to know that—it’s just a prop!”
Bobby looked down at his plate to hide the wetness in his eyes. His father leaned over and patted his shoulder.
“But I’ve got a surprise for you, Bobby. I’ve got some time to myself now, and you, mom and I are going up to Arrowhead in the morning for a holiday! How does that sound?”
Bobby didn’t answer.
“And do you remember how I promised you an airplane to play with? Well, I’m having it shipped up to Arrowhead for you. How do you like that?”
Bobby didn’t answer.
“What’s the matter, Bobby? Aren’t you glad? . . .”
Bobby looked up. The tears were gone. His little face was white and drawn. “It’s got to fly. I know it will fly. She wouldn’t lie to me!” he said savagely.
“Bobby—what—”
Bobby dropped his fork with a clatter and ran up the backstairs to his room . . .
THE party was over, the guests departed. Henry Kincaid yawned across the veranda toward his wife.
“I’m glad that’s over. I’m so tired I could sleep standing up.”
Myra Kincaid smiled. “Why don’t you hurry off to bed? I’ll be up in a few minutes. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us in the morning. Did you tell Bobby?”
He nodded. “I did, and he didn’t seem pleased at all. That damned prop ship seems to have some kind of interest for him. Think I’ll look in on him upstairs. Haven’t heard a peep out of him since supper.”
Upstairs, he walked slowly along the hall toward Bobby’s room. Outside the door he stretched again. Then he opened the door and looked into the room.
It was empty.
“Bobby!” he called out sharply. There was no answer. He walked out into the hall and called again. “Bobby!”
Downstairs Myra Kincaid came in from the porch. “What’s wrong?” she called up.
Her husband came running down the stairs. “Bobby isn’t in his room!”
She frowned. “What? But that’s impossible. Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” he snapped. “I tell you he’s not there!”
They ran out on the veranda and looked out across the moonlit yard. It was empty.
“Bobby!” Henry Kincaid called sharply.
There was no reply. Over by the stables a light was on in the caretaker’s house. The door opened.
“Were you calling, Mr. Kincaid?”
Henry Kincaid shouted across the yard. “Have you seen Bobby anywhere, Mike?”
Mike shouted back. “Yes, sir, he saddled Ginger about an hour or so back. Said something about a ship and he’d forgotten something. Said you had told him he could go.”
Henry Kincaid swore in the darkness. Myra moved alongside him.
“Did you hear that, Henry? He’s out in the desert—at night! He went to that ship of yours! Henry, I’m frightened!”
He took her arm grimly.
“Come on, we’ll take the station wagon. I don’t like this any more than you do. The boy might lose his way out there. If it hadn’t been for that old hermit he wouldn’t have gotten these ideas in his head!”
THE Moon shone full and clear on the trail. Down it, the Kincaid station wagon jounced at high speed. A trail of dust swept up behind it and spread over the sand like a cloud.
Henry Kincaid gripped the wheel tightly in his hands. He peered ahead in the glare of the headlights. Beside him his wife sat, her fingers knotted together helplessly. A building loomed ahead.
“That’s Skeeter’s shack,” he announced. “Bobby might have stopped there.”
He braked the car alongside the shack and honked loudly on the horn. A few moments later Skeeter came through the door, rubbing his eyes in the glare of the car lights.
“Hello?” he called out.
“It’s Henry Kincaid—I’m looking for Bobby, did he come by here an hour or so ago?”
Skeeter scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Well now, that’s a mighty peculiar thing, Mr. Kincaid. Seems like I did hear a horse beating past here, but I didn’t think much about it. You say it was Bobby?”
“Yes, yes.” Kincaid snapped impatiently. “He snuck out of the house while we were giving a party. I think he’s gone out to that old prop ship. I thought you might have seen him.” Skeeter shook his head. “Bobby shouldn’t go out on the desert at night like this. Mind if I come along? I can show you just where that ship is, case you’ve forgot.”
Kincaid shrugged. “All right, get in the back. Hurry up!”
Skeeter shuffled into the car scratching his beard. “Guess maybe I shouldn’t have told him about it, Mr. Kincaid, but I didn’t see no harm in it . . .”
Kincaid drove rapidly. The headlights cut a swath in the gloom along the trail. They drove in silence.
Skeeter was peering intently through the windshield at the trail. Ahead of him, Henry Kincaid pointed.
“Where does that trail lead?” Skeeter looked at a narrow path of hoof marks off to the left of the road.
“Can’t recall ever seeing them before,” he replied. “That’s funny . . .” They drove on. Minutes later Myra Kincaid stiffened in the front seat.
There it was, a rusted hulk of metal, rising lonely in the moonlight. Kincaid shot the car off the trail onto the loose sand. He held grimly onto the wheel and braked the car beside the hulk.
“I don’t see Ginger.” he muttered. They hurried from the car.
“Bobby!” Kincaid called sharply. His voice faded over the sand. There was no answer. They stood waiting.
Skeeter mumbled in the gloom. Kincaid looked at him.
“What did you say?”
SKEETER pointed at the ground around them. “Mr. Kincaid, I reckon Bobby ain’t never been here—there ain’t nary a footprint or a hoof mark around this ship!”
“But that’s impossible!” Kincaid replied. “All he’s been talking about is this ship! You yourself told him where to find it! Where else could he have gone?”
Skeeter was running h i s fingers through his beard. Suddenly he stiffened. “Mr. Kincaid—you remember that little trail off to the left of the road backaways?”
Kincaid nodded nervously. “What about it?”
“Well now, I can’t recollect any trail like that hereabouts. A horse, like Ginger could have made a trail like that . . .”
Kincaid swore. “By God, you’re right. Come on Myra!”
They tumbled back in the station wagon. Back on the road, eyes peering feverishly through the windshield. Beside him, Kincaid heard his wife gently sobbing. He set his teeth.
There it was, the trail. Skeeter pointed a long bony finger at it as Kincaid shot the car off the road. The sand was loose and the car swerved as the rear wheels bit in. Kincaid felt sweat beading his face.
The minutes sped by. Kincaid gripped the wheel tightly in his hands as he guided the car along the dimly revealed trail. The lights of the car were twin beams of light stabbing through the darkness.
And then Myra Kincaid sobbed hysterically.
“Ginger! Henry, there’s Ginger!”
He peered intently and heard Skeeter swear behind him.
“Damned if it ain’t! That’s him all right!”
“The trail ends here too!” Henry Kincaid said wearily. “We’ve found him!”
They piled from the car. Ginger, hobbled in the sand ahead, whinnied plaintively.
“Bobby!” Kincaid called out.
There was no answer. He gripped his wife’s arm tightly as they looked frantically about. Skeeter shuffled up behind them.
“Can’t understand it. There ain’t no ship here, this ain’t the way I told him to go. I—”
He broke off in mid-sentence. He was staring ahead, where tiny footprints were legible in the sand. The Kincaids saw them too. But they weren’t looking at just the footprints.
“Ship?” Kincaid muttered strangely.
“Ship?”
They were looking at a deep tapering depression in the sand, with the footprints guiding around the edges of it. Footprints that had walked up to something, up to it and around it. At one end of the depression the sand was scorched and blasted away.
Skeeter stared dumbly.
“Don’t rightly reckon I understand this,” he muttered. “Bobby said he found the ship. Said there was a little girl . . .”
He looked off into the night suddenly remembering.
“He said she had gold hair—but I remember plain as day her hair was raven black!”
The stars twinkled down into his eyes. “Reckon I never saw that little girl, Bobby,” he whispered.
SON OF THE SUN
Millen Cooke
WE ARE already here, among you. Some of us have always been here, with you, yet apart from you, watching, and occasionally guiding you whenever the opportunity arose. Now, however, our numbers have been increased in preparation for a further step in the development of your planet: a step of which you are not yet aware, although it has been hinted at frequently enough in the parables of your prophets, who have garbled whatever inspiration they have been able to receive. Sometimes they were ignorant. Sometimes they were unable to translate clearly the concepts implanted in their minds. Sometimes they were cautious, and to insure the preservation of the information they wished to place upon record in the world, they spoke in metaphors and symbols.
We have been confused with the gods of many world-religions, although we are not gods, but your own fellow creatures; as you will learn directly before many more years have passed. You will find records of our presence in the mysterious symbols of ancient Egypt, where we made ourselves known in, order to accomplish certain ends. Our principal, symbol appears in the religious art of your present civilization and occupies a position of importance upon the great seal of your country. It has been preserved in certain secret societies founded originally to keep alive the knowledge of our existence and our intentions toward mankind.
We have left you certain landmarks, placed carefully in different parts of the globe, but most prominently in Egypt where we established our headquarters upon the occasion of our last overt, or as you would say, public, appearance. At that time the foundations of your present civilization were “laid in the earth,” and the most ancient of your known landmarks established by means that would appear as miraculous to you now as they did to the pre-Egyptians, so many thousands of years ago. Since that time the whole art of building in stone has become symbolic, to many of you, of the work in hand—the building of the human race toward its perfection.
Your ancestors knew us. in those days as preceptors and as friends. Now, through your own efforts, you have almost reached, in your majority; a new step on the long ladder of your liberation. You have been constantly aided by our watchful “inspiration,” and hindered only by the difficulties natural to your processes of physical and moral development, for the so-called “forces of evil and darkness” have always been recruited from among the ranks of your own humanity—a circumstance for which you would be exceedingly grateful if you possessed full knowledge of conditions in the universe.
You have lately achieved the means of destroying yourselves. Do not be hasty in your self-congratulation. Yours is not the first civilization to have achieved—and used—such means. Yours, will hot be the first civilization to be offered the means of preventing that destruction and proceeding, in the full glory of its accumulated knowledge, to establish, an era of enlightenment upon the earth.
However, if you do accept the means offered you, and if you do establish such a “millennium” upon the basis of your present accomplishments, yours will be the first civilization to do so. Always, before, the knowledge, the techniques, the instructions, have become the possessions of a chosen few: a few who chose themselves by their own open-minded and clear-sighted realization of “the shapes of things to come.” They endeavored to pass on their knowledge in the best possible form, and by the most enduring means at their command. In a sense they succeeded, but in another sense their failure equalled their success. Human acceptance is, to a very large extent, measurable by human experience. Succeeding generations, who never knew our actual presence, translated the teachings of their elders in the terms of their own experience. For instance, a cross-sectional drawing, much simplified and stylized by many copyings, of one of our traveling machines, became the “Eye of Horus,” and then other eyes of other gods. Finally, the ancient symbol that was once an accurate representation of an important mechanical, device, has been given surprising connotations by the modern priesthood of psychology.
The important fact is, however, that we are here, among you, and that you, as a world-race, will know it before very much longer! The time is almost ripe, but as with all ripening things, the process may not be hurried artificially without danger of damaging the fruit. There is a right time for every action, and the right time for our revelation of ourselves to your era is approaching.
SOME of you have seen our “advance guard” already. You have met us often in the streets of your cities, and you have not noticed us. But when we flash through your skies in the anci
ent, traditional vehicles, you are amazed and those oh you who open your mouths and tell of what you have seen are accounted dupes and fools. Actually you are prophets, seers in the true sense of the word. You in Kansas and Oklahoma, you in Oregon and in California, and Idaho, who know what you have seen: do not be dismayed by meteorologists. Their business is the weather. One of you says “I saw a torpedo-shaped object.” Others report “disk-like objects,” some of you say “spherical objects,” or “platter-like objects.” You are all reporting correctly and accurately what you saw, and in most cases you. are describing the same sort of vehicle.
The “golden disk”—now confused with the solar disk and made a part and parcel of religion—even in your own times. The “discus,” hurled sunward by the Grecian—and your own—athletes. The “eye of Horus,” and the other eyes of symbology, alchemical and otherwise. Our mechanical means of transportation.
Now that the art of manufacturing plastic materials has reached a certain perfection among you, perhaps you can imagine a material, almost transparent to the rays of ordinary visible light, yet strong enough to endure the stresses of extremely rapid flight. Look again at the great nebulae, and think of the construction of your own galaxy, and behold the universal examples of what we have found to be the perfect shape for an object which is to travel through what you still fondly refer to as “empty” space.
In the center of the discus, gyroscopically controlled within a central sphere of the same transparent material, our control room revolve freely, accommodating themselves and us to flat or edgewise flight. Both methods are suited to your atmosphere, and when we convert abruptly from one to the other, as we are sometimes obliged to do, and you are watching, our machines seem suddenly to appear—or to disappear. At our possible speeds your eyes, Untrained and unprepared for the maneuver, do make mistakes—but not the mistakes your scientists so often accuse them of making.
We pass over your hilltops in horizontal flight. You see and report a torpedo-shaped object. We pass over, in formation, flying vertically “edge-on,” and you report a series of disk-shaped, platter-like objects, or perhaps a sphere. Or we go over at night, jet-slits glowing, and you see an orange disk. In any event, you see us, and in any event, we do not care. If we chose to remain invisible, we could do so, easily, and, in fact, we have done so almost without exception for hundreds of years. But you must become accustomed to our shapes in your skies, for one day they will be familiar, friendly, and reassuring sights.
