by Jimmy Guieu
In the axial observation cabin, in front of the exit airlock, Kariven was saying goodbye to his new friends. Yuln and Zimko raised their right hands and the explorer did the same.
“See you soon, Jean,” the blonde Polarian girl smiled at him.
“Really?” the explorer suddenly felt an inexplicable nostalgia at the idea of leaving these beings from another planet.
“Really,” Yuln assured him, widening her adorable smile. “We’ll always know where to reach you even at the ends of the world… which is not very far for us. I registered your wavelength. Lost in the middle of New York, London or Paris, I’ll know where and how to contact you.”
“See you soon, Yuln, and thank you, Zimko, for revealing the Mark to me. I hope I can prove myself worthy of your trust.”
“I’m sure of that, Kariven. The Mark that you bear will be the best letter of introduction to your brothers of the New Race.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Ha! There you are!” Dormoy barked when Kariven entered their room in the Hollywood Hotel.
The anthropologist waved a little hello and straightaway turned to Angelvin, “I don’t have any more cigarettes, Robert. Can you give me one from the pack you stole out my towel?”
The young ethnographer raised his hand to his pocket, then froze in amazement. Dormoy could not get over it either. Kariven was enjoying every second of his joke. Mimicking Angelvin’s angry tone that he had seen on the tele-projector, he repeated the words heard in the spaceship: “The creep! Where could he have got to?... No need to wonder any longer, Robert, I’m going to tell you.”
And he told his dumbfounded friends about the extraordinary adventure he had just been through with the Man from Outer Space.
Angelvin poured himself a healthy dose of whiskey and gulped it down before saying, “I have the feeling that our vacation came to an end tonight at the Mocambo. What are we going to do?”
“Sleep, boys, things will look better in the morning.”
For the third time the telephone rang in Kariven’s room. He propped himself up groggily on one elbow, yawned unconsciously and picked up. “Jean Kariven here… Yes, please wait half an hour. Thank you.”
He hung up and knocked on the connecting door to his friends’ room.
“Hey, wake up! We’ve got a visitor waiting in the lobby. It’s an emergency.”
He turned on the television and went to get ready. Half an hour later the three explorers, ready and raring to go, welcomed their morning caller to their richly furnished sitting room.
The man, around 30 years-old, was tall, brown-haired, with a lively, not unfriendly face. He wore a pearl gray gabardine suit with a double-breasted coat, a white shirt and a brightly colored tie. He looked at the three hosts one by one and then turned to the anthropologist.
“Mr. Kariven, no doubt?”
The latter nodded his head and introduced his friends, wondering where he had seen this man before. The stranger smiled kindly and slowly raised his hand, palm open to the three Frenchmen. Kariven, calm but wary, rapidly scrutinized the palm of the weird visitor. The natural lines of the hand clearly formed the Mark. The explorer relaxed and in turn raised his right hand to respond to the greeting that the Polarian had taught him.
“My name’s Marlow, John Marlow,” the visitor declared. “President of the Flying Saucer Research Organization.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Marlow. I remember now where I saw you. You spoke last night at the Third International Conference on Flying Saucers.”
“That’s right, Mr. Kariven. But first can you call the police immediately and ask whether your car has been found?”
“Good Lord!” the anthropologist slapped his forehead.
“Don’t be alarmed,” the American said. “What was left of your Kaiser was completely disintegrated by Zimko after you came back here to Los Angeles. There was no question of leaving such glaring evidence on the road, as deserted as it was. But to avoid any unpleasant surprise resulting from the investigation in progress, we’ve anticipated what’s to come. To cover you in case the four people in the car wrote down your license plate when Yuln’s spaceship came to fetch you, I had to inform the police that your car was stolen.
“Yes,” he confirmed to the three Frenchmen, “I pretended to be you, Kariven, this morning around 3:30 am and called the police with your license plate number and make of the car. Zimko told me to do it because after the incident at the Mocambo the special agents of Project Blue Book14—the government’s ‘Flying Saucer Commission’—are on red alert. Read this,” he held out a special edition (a rather unusual thing) of the Herald Express, the big evening newspaper.
The bold headline with six columns underneath read:
A FLYING SAUCER HAS LANDED NEAR UPLAND
This morning around 3 am four passengers in a car returning from San Bernardino saw a huge, round contraption on the ground, glowing, some say green, others blue. According to the eyewitnesses—who want to remain anonymous—two men were standing near this thing. When they saw the car coming they ran into the flying saucer that slowly rose up, carrying away its mysterious pilots dressed in dark suits. One of the witnesses even thought these “men” were wearing tuxedos! On the side of the road, not far from the spot where they claim to have seen the flying saucer take off, they found, apparently, a cream-colored Kaiser sliced diagonally but the missing half could not be found.
When our reporter got to the location, after interviewing the four people (still in shock from the experience) he found no evidence of any of this. The mysteriously severed Kaiser was not there, if it ever had been. On the other hand, a palm tree was found cut off approximately three feet from the ground. The tree was not found. The grass, however, in the ditch by the road, as well as the yuccas around the site of the “incident” were mowed down. The ground, strangely enough, was flattened as smooth as a highway blacktop.
We’ll leave the “witnesses” to answer for their allegations and put this away in the always inexplicable file of flying saucers.
“The article’s pretty funny,” Marlow commented. “But it doesn’t say whether the witnesses got the license number of your car. If they did…”
At this very moment someone knocked on the door. Kariven put a finger to his lips and nodded to Marlow to go into Angelvin’s room. The American slipped away silently.
Another knock, louder this time. From the next room where Kariven’s two friends had gone, Dormoy tried to play it cool and shouted, “Jean, someone’s knocking on your door!”
Kariven muted the television and loosened his tie, calling out, “Come in!”
The door opened and two men entered, wearing dark suits and gray felt hats. “Mr. Jean Kariven?” one of them asked.
Redoing his tie the anthropologist nodded. The two men simultaneously reached for their pocket and pulled out a badge with a number in the middle. Around the edge was engraved Special Branch of the Air Technical Intelligence.
“What can I do for you?” the slightly surprised explorer asked.
“Do you own a cream-colored Kaiser with the California license plate TTX 137 953?”15
“Indeed I do. Did you find it?”
“That’s police business,” one of the agents replied. “Do you mind telling us under what circumstances your car was stolen?”
“Gladly. I’d left it not far from the hotel last night and when I came out of the Flying Saucer Convention that was held here, I was going to take a drive to the countryside with my friend John Marlow, who had invited me to the event. We decided to talk a walk instead and talk together, which we did until 3:30 in the morning.”
“Where’d you go?”
Kariven frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “My God, we walked down Sunset Boulevard all the way to Benedict Canyon Road where we wandered around, talking and smoking leisurely. When we got back to Hollywood Boulevard, near the hotel, my car, which I was supposed to take to meet my friends Dormoy and Angelvin at the Mocambo, had disappeared. So, I called t
he police to report it. When I got here, my friends were coming back… very disappointed with their night out,” he smiled ambiguously.
Someone else knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Kariven raised his voice.
Marlow, who had snuck out of the next room, strolled in. “Hello, Kariven,” he said, then pretended to be surprised. “Excuse me, I thought you were alone. I…”
“Come on in, Johnny,” the explorer went to shake his hand. “These gentlemen…”
“Hold on,” one of the special agents broke in while holding Kariven back politely but firmly. “Where were you, Mr. Marlow, last night between 9 pm and 4 am?”
Marlow put on his surprised face again and repeated exactly what he had heard from his hiding place, thus verifying Kariven’s alibi. The agents looked at each other and pursed their lips. They muttered something and left, hoping the anthropologist would find his car soon.
“Just as I feared,” Marlow said, “those four people got the license number of your Kaiser, Kariven. Otherwise how can you explain that agents from the Air Technical Intelligence are on the trail? A simple stolen car is a matter for the police, not the government’s Saucer Commission attached to the Pentagon. I don’t know if they swallowed your little story but we should watch out from now on. These guys are hard-nosed and not easily fooled. All the secret services are on the lookout since that famous November 20, 195216. They’re working hard to track down beings that come from another planet but are completely lost at sea, not knowing exactly who these beings are or what their intentions are. They know now what some of them look like—the Denebians with green, scaly skin—but they still have no idea that some Polarians, our friends, are already living on Earth.
“However, I strongly suspect that these agents from the ATIC are making a connection 1: between the incident at the Mocambo where your friends Dormoy and Angelvin were present, and 2: your stolen car found sliced in two then disappeared, and 3: your own interest in flying saucers. Because it was obviously impossible for us to hide the fact that you attended the Flying Saucer Convention last night at the hotel.”
“OK, we have to be careful. But there’s no proof that I have anything to do with what happened last night,” Kariven remarked.
“And that’s good,” Marlow concluded. “After Zimko dropped you off at the Country Club, he gave me his orders by metal suggestion. His telepathic communication is extraordinarily clear. When you get one some day you’ll think you were really hearing a voice, a clear, distinct voice talking inside your head. It’s always a surprise, the first time, but you’ll get used to it. The weird supernatural powers of the Polarians allow them to communicate by telepathy, to talk with others next to them or far away but also to intercept thoughts of another and all this at the same time.
“Now, let’s get down to the business at hand. You have to leave the United States within 48 hours and go back to Europe. Zimko’s orders. You’re going to operate in France where you’ll receive instructions soon after you arrive. The American west is my theater of operation,” he laughed, “and there are seven of us in the USA that belong to the Earth-Polarian Alliance. You, Kariven, and your friends have to return to France where a member of the Alliance will contact you. An important work is waiting for you. It’s up to us to find the representatives of the New Race and reveal to them the profound meaning of the Mark they bear on their hands. You’ll have to enroll them in our peaceful, defensive organization. Zimko and the other Polarians on Earth will help us in this just as we have to help them.
“In the interests of the human race we will assist the Polarians… We, the pioneers of the Future Civilization, bearers of the Mark of Knowledge.
“I won’t go so far as to say that our mission is dangerous, for the moment at least. However, we have to worry about being spotted some day if the Denebians learn the meaning of the Mark, the stigmata of Homo Superior. But in fact, and paradoxically, it’s humans right now that we have to watch out for. The man on the street as well as the scientist, being so self-centered and sometimes obsessed by sacrosanct theories—even though they’re old and stale—might spread false ideas to reassure the public about the so-called non-existence of flying saucers.
“When the authorities become aware of the reality of flying saucers, they will quickly see that there are peaceful and hostile sides. Their general appearance is identical and the two types won’t be able to be told apart… except in the case of an attack. And in that case the enemy always flees, escaping at terrifying speeds from our jet fighters that can’t go so fast. How can we warn the population without throwing them into a panic? A very delicate situation not yet ironed out… and for good reason.”
Kariven’s ears suddenly pricked up and he turned up the television. On the screen a hand had just passed a piece of paper to the anchorman who announced:
“Dear viewers, here’s some breaking news about the Flying Saucer. After a careful investigation by the police it appears that the four people in the car who reported that they saw a flying saucer at dawn were rather… tipsy. The good folks were coming back from a family party and had drunk a lot. Moreover, it’s been proven that at 3:30 am—the time when they saw this so-called disc—a weather balloon was in fact in the sky over that area. It was launched by the High Atmosphere Study division of the Mount Wilson observatory and drifted slowly over the highway, causing this very unintentional and unreasonable scare in the passengers from San Bernardino.
“Furthermore, we can say that no trace of any car accident has been found on the road. As for the palm tree that was so ‘mysteriously’ severed, it was done by a team of road workers who were repairing the highway yesterday. There you have it. Nothing to fear from this new ‘gag’ that was so hastily called a UFO. It was nothing but a weather balloon, a big, flying bag and not invaders from Mars or Venus.
“And now for some excellent recipes from Aunt Euphrasia…”
Kariven turned the TV off and shrugged. “A weather balloon. And that’s the kind of nonsense the authorities in every country have been using to blind the public since 1947. Sensible people who have seen flying saucers are ridiculed if they have the courage to tell the newspapers about the events they witnessed. They turn them into drunks or dreamers if they don’t accuse them of hysteria or pranks. The few journalists who haven’t hesitated to take a bold position and publish their belief in the extra-terrestrial origins of flying saucers are won over or criticized by the scientists, sincere but ignorant of the facts, or by their narrow-minded colleagues. The Denebians, those space pirates, must be laughing at the incredible extent of human stupidity. Why are they shy about spying on the industrial centers, the atomic laboratories and the war games of Earthlings since officially their existence is denied by the very ones who would sound the alarm?”
Marlow had to force himself to hold back his bitterness. “It’s no use ranting against man’s blindness. The events that threaten this world will see to it, someday soon unfortunately, that their eyes will be opened. We have a mission to fulfill, the weirdest, most sensitive mission that’s ever been. We have to stay in the shadows for the time being and let the Secret Services stumble around every country. Some of their agents bear the Mark but don’t know what it means. Because of their specialization they’d refuse to admit what we can reveal to them. The time has not yet come but it will. On that day, the big day, everybody on Earth will have to admit their stupid blindness. Above all they will have to wipe the slate clean of their petty squabbles and join forces to face the invaders coming from outer space… Unless they act before we, men of the Future Race, and the Polarian Agents have set up the Alliance and the first phase of its top-secret plan… The details of this ‘operation’ under the innocent name of Project Blue Moon will be communicated to you at the appropriate time. Remember this name, Project Blue Moon,” he insisted.
“That’s easy to remember,” Angelvin figured. “Every jazz fan knows the famous song Blue Moon.”
“This song will also have its r
ole to play,” Marlow smiled enigmatically. “And now, my friends, I wish you luck. Get ready to leave. You have to be in France 24 hours from now. Tomorrow morning get on the ionocruiser Shooting Star that takes off at 8 am sharp. You’ll be in Paris at 10:30 pm17 and all you have to do is wait. Take the fraternal greeting of the Alliance members to your French friends and any Englishmen you come in contact with. Our countries have to save the world with the potent support of our Polarian brothers.”
The American took three tickets out of his wallet with the names of the three explorers.
“Here are your seats reserved on the Shooting Star at 8 am. Bon voyage, my friends.”
He raised his right hand, imitated by his three hosts, and walked out.
“What kind of crazy adventure have we got ourselves mixed up in?” Dormoy wondered aloud. “Now we have to leave California… and its pretty girls. Last night at the Mocambo I met one who…”
“Yes, we know,” Angelvin cut in. “Go tell your lady love that you’ve been called back to France by your grandmother and then come back and pack your bags. Unless you’d rather leave us behind,” he said with a straight face.
“Don’t even think about it! Besides, a little action will do us good. We were starting to get rusty.”
The telephone rang. Dormoy picked it up, listened for a few seconds and replied, “I’ll get him for you…” Putting his hand over the mouthpiece he whispered, “It’s for you, Kariven. The cops want to talk to you.”
Kariven blinked slowly to thank him and took the phone. “Hello… yes… that’s me… yes… that’s right…”
The longer the invisible man on the other end of the line talked, the more his face expressed utter surprise. He answered calmly, forcing himself to sound pleased with what the policeman told him. “Thank you,” he ended up saying, “and congratulations to your organization for all the hard work you did. I’ll be there shortly.”
