by Hank Davis
I woke myself up by speaking aloud, “There’s no place like home; there’s no place like home.” Then when I recognized her, I said, “Oh, Auntie Em, it’s you.” I looked around the room and saw the farmhands and others next to my bed, and I said, “You and you…and you were all there. But you’re no longer Tin-man Robot, Judge Oz and Susan the Sea Lion, you’re all regular human people now.”
The judge, Judge Oz in my dazed mind, looked bemused. “Auntie Em, Judge Oz?” he parroted.
“I guess I’m her,” said a feminine voice. “I’m certainly not one of the other three he named. Oh, I’ll be right back,” she said, “I need to take care of a misunderstanding urgently.”
I opened my eyes to catch sight of the lady but all I saw was a whoosh and a blur as the dais holding her retreated into the fog. The scene before me was my real nightmare rather than my dream of a long-ago place in a black and white world named Kansas. I wanted to go back to my dream, so I closed my eyes again.
“Wake up,” demanded Perri shaking me. “The judge has a dozen more cases to expedite. Get up; let him know you’re okay so he can move on.”
I stood up, and the judge now looked upon me in a way I found kindly, but with mollusk people, you never know. He moved his soft mouth around making his flutter-language. Perri interpreted: “The judge would like to have a meeting with you later. It’s about future work; he has become a fan of your art. Here’s his card.” Perri touched the chip-tattoo on my wrist and contact information was exchanged between me and the judge. Then off we flew on our magic carpet ride for further processing.
“Before I woke up fully I thought I heard what sounded like a woman back there. Was that just part of my dream?” I asked Perri.
“We’ll be meeting up with her soon. She goes by the name of Queen Catherine. As per your okaying it, I hired her team to do some investigating for me. Your sketchbooks, the record of your activities, are what saved you, though. She did the footwork, so to speak, getting further evidence needed to guarantee our not guilty verdict. She’s a determined, hard-working creature with a tremendous brain. I think it’s best that she explain it all to you. We’ll meet her in my office.”
Having heard Perri’s description, my mind saw Queen Catherine quite literally as an alien with a bulging and clear domed skull that you could see a veiny, pulsing brain through. No doubt she was almost all head and traveled about on some sort of contraption with eight metal legs. And, in my mind, she wears an ostentatious crown befitting a monarch.
Perri left Dr. Susan and me in his office. I went to change my clothes and freshen up in an adjoining room. Removing my killing suit made me feel like a human larvae pulling loose of its cocoon. Once free, I could continue my existence transformed, metamorphosed into a better me, with a genuinely transcendent outlook. This time, I promised myself, I’d live my life in a fuller, less shallow, way. As I put back on my regular clothes, I thought, right, I bet everyone tells themselves that after a near-death experience. While I was still shirtless, a squat robot rolled out of the wall. It extended to me a warm, wet hand towel. I rubbed my face and torso with it and then I took a proffered fluffy towel to dry off. Perri was indeed one to think of the little creature comforts his clients might need. Maybe he isn’t such a bad fellow after all.
Waiting for me in the greeting room of Perri’s office was Queen Catherine or what had to be her. I’d describe her as a brain in a custard bowl with six, not eight, insectlike legs to carry her around. She even had the crown atop her brain’s dome, but it was less garish than I’d imagined. I looked around for Perri and didn’t see him. Dr. Susan seemed comfortable with this strange being’s presence, so I was too. “It’s nice to meet you, Queen Catherine. Sorry to have mistaken you for Auntie Em earlier,” I said as a joke, my way of setting a friendly tone. She sat there in silence like she was dead. I looked for the slightest bit of pulsation, some sense of blood flow, in her very nicely displayed brain and saw none.
Then the door to Perri’s office slid open with a swish and a woman walked in. “Sorry, sorry, I had to go to the bathroom. Did I miss anything?”
All I could do was stare.
You know the kind of actress in a movie who walks into a room and all eyes are instantly on her: she’s vivacious, captivating, alluring and devastatingly enchanting? Well, this lady before me is the actress they hired to stand next to the leading lady to make her look even more gorgeous.
This woman was the plainest creature I’d ever seen. She wore the drabbest of suits, her vanilla hair hung flat, the curves of her body were exceedingly pedestrian, on her bland face were round-rimmed spectacles, and she stood all of what was the average height of a human female. HUMAN. I was, in an instant, head-over-heels in love with her, with her stunning, run-of-the-mill normalcy. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I must have startled you; my name is Jane Lane. I’m Queen Catherine’s assistant and interpreter.” At that, she touched the side of her head where there was a slim piece of metal that facilitated direct mental communication between her and the queen. “I see that you two have met.” Ah, I now knew that voice. She was the Auntie Em in my dream.
Weakly I said, “It’s nice to meet you too Plain Jane, uh, I mean Lame Dame, no, no, sorry, Jane Lane. You can call me Scribbler, that’s my nickname. I’m sure you know my full real name. It’s likely on the intelli-slate that you’re holding…in your hand there, the one holding the intelli-slate,” I babbled on, and to stop myself, I blurted out, “You’re human!”
“Oh, you poor man, you’ve had a terrible day, haven’t you? Come, sit down so we can go over everything.” She took my hand—I’d not had actual, genuine, authentic human contact in more than a decade and it was thrilling, exhilarating, electric—and led me to a chair. Her skin was so, so soft, so pleasant to touch; she was my angel of ordinary, flamboyancy’s antithesis, the very kind of everyday being I most desperately needed in my far too outlandish life.
Dr. Susan liked her too. She rubbed against Jane’s calf. I felt a tinge of jealousy when Jane stroked the multi-creature’s head in response. I far more needed Jane’s touch than Dr. Susan did, but I buried that rash desire.
As I sat, I noticed my sketchbooks on top of Perri’s desk. My face went red when I saw one opened to the page of the drawing I’d done of the exotic/erotic head-eating monster I’d been in lust with only the night before. Would Jane be envious? Even as I thought that, I knew how ridiculous the idea was.
“Queen Catherine has asked me to explain to you how you were, uh, seduced by this charlatan,” said Jane. My face now glowed a full-on crimson. “Pardon the following ‘joke,’ my boss considers herself something of a humorist: How do you know when you can make a fool of a human male? Answer: When he has a dick.”
I stood and took a bow, accepting this known weakness of my gender. Belying her drab exterior, Jane smiled with such a warming brilliance that it sparked a nova in my chest. Everything I’d been through today was worth it only for the chance of meeting this everyday Aphrodite.
“Yes, ahem,” Jane pulled at her collar. She was clearly feeling a bit uncomfortable with what she was about to interpret, “this alien, with her titillating drawings, engaged you in sensual fantasies, and then she guided you to draw out an execution order for her planet’s prime minister. Because all Sketchers are registered and identified by their art, she couldn’t do the art herself; she had to trick you into it. Note the red star above the face…”
“Wait, don’t touch that—it’s deadly!” I reached out to grab her hand but I was too late, her finger ran right across the poison red mark. Now that Jane would die, I felt like touching the red and taking my own life as well. We’d die together like Romeo and Juliet.
“No,” said Jane with a guffaw, “not deadly anymore, we neutralized it.” Upon seeing the horror on my face, she looked on me with concern. “Oh, my, you were really worried about me, weren’t you? That’s quite, uh, endearing.”
Jane gestured for me to sit back down and her voice returned
to business. “Moving on: that red star is the emblem attached to the acting prime minister to denote her office. The woman you drew became her exact double with some physical manipulation. They could’ve easily put out an execution order on the prime minister on their own, it didn’t even have to be a drawing, but they needed a scapegoat, and the schemers considered someone of our human species—being one of the smaller minorities in this part of the galaxy—an excellent choice for a fall guy. You draw extraordinarily accurately, so that made you the absolute perfect choice.”
“Why did she have me draw the skull next to her head, though?” I asked.
“What you just asked is what made Perri’s case for your defense so convincing. You don’t see symbols. In your mind, everything is what it is. Your profession prides itself on this. Sketchers are literal thinkers; you’re trained to be that way. You see a skull as the bones of a head, not as a metaphor for death. For the Garbos’ culture, it’s a clear message to kill the person depicted next to the skull. It helped that they broadcasted the death reward in hundreds of languages as well. Perri argued that, based on the other drawings in your sketchbooks, on how decidedly literal they are, you’d never use such a symbol or, for that matter, anything allegorical as all Sketchers are trained not to do for better communication between species.”
“Now that you mention it, I remember that pirates supposedly used a skull and crossbones as their symbol on their flags. I never understood that. Weren’t they in search of treasure, not partial skeletons?” I said a bit perplexed by this.
“Exactly,” said Jane smiling back at me but not explaining. Then she went on to say in a kindly way, with what seemed like admiration, “You’re such a natural at thinking with only precise pictures, it’s surprising that you ever learned to talk, read and write.”
“Funny you should say that. According to my parents, I didn’t speak a word before I was six, despite a special language coach and several psychologists hired to assess me. Then one day at the dinner table I said, ‘My soup is far too salty.’ My parents dropped their spoons and stared at me in amazement. Then they asked me why it was today that I chose to speak, and I said, ‘Everything has been fine up until now.’”
“You are indeed a strange fellow, and you’re most certainly full of crap.”
Jane cleared her throat, then continued with her explanation of the con job that had nearly put me to death: “The conspirators expected you’d die of the poison, but instead you were arrested, charged with conspiracy to commit murder and incarcerated. While you were jailed they’d emptied your bank account and exhausted your credit to pay the assassins. They were then satisfied that you’d certainly be found guilty and die for their crimes one way or another. Pretty neat trick, eh?”
“The word diabolical comes to mind. How did they, the conspirators, get access to all of my accounts?”
“That’s a rather lurid tale. Let’s just say that one of your, uh, unconventional paramours helped them get what they needed to do it. Let me remind you that I’m interpreting for Queen Catherine when I add, with all your (she insisted I put it this way) sex-ventures that perhaps we should put you in quarantine for a dozen years to see what grows on you.” Jane leaned in to whisper, “She thinks that’s funny.”
“I’ll have myself dipped in iodine and swim through a pool of antibiotics. That should do it,” I suggested. Again, Queen Catherine’s brain sparkled with color at my quip. Jane showed no similar reaction. She only looked worried for me.
“A couple of other things: we helped the authorities catch several of the people involved in this plot, and that came with a rather substantial reward, so we’re waiving our fee. Finally, the Garbos, the alien type you encountered at the Sketcher symposium, the females don’t eat the male’s heads after sex. She just drew that to quiet your rampant coital yearning. Just so you know,” said Jane raising an eyebrow with wry meaning that she then explained, “Sexually speaking though, she’d most certainly have eaten you alive.”
I had a few more questions for Jane, but Perri came in. “Perri,” I said, “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life. I’m entirely in your debt.” I walked over to shake his hard, mechanical hand vigorously.
“Very good, Mr. Laudent Fridolupe Granger, it was my pleasure. I understand your accounts are presently locked due to them being compromised, so you have my permission to take your time in paying me.” He then handed me my bill printed out on an elegant sheet of what looked like parchment. It was weirdly anachronistic, but robots are known for their love for archaic and grandiose displays.
Perri had carefully itemized out the bill, noting his hours spent on each task. His memory of all he’d done on my behalf not only seemed thorough but rather…exaggerated. One item line caught my interest. “You charged me a hundred and fifty-two solar-reigns for the warm wet towel?”
“I believe you used two towels,” corrected Perri. “Also, note the laundry fee below that.”
“Coffee at sixty solar-reigns a cup? For that dubious swill? You charged me over two thousand to rent the goddamn execution suit, I get charged for my own obliteration inside a portable disintegration chamber?”
“Well, I have to make up for all the times I rented it when the client couldn’t pay due to them being gassed and vaporized before I was able to present my bill. That should make that fee far more understandable. Also, the dry-cleaning cost for the sweat-inundated thing you wore was substantial,” countered Perri. “I just noticed I forgot to charge you the extra fee to print your bill on faux-parchment.” With that my robot lawyer made all the good feelings I had for him dissolve away.
Barely containing my displeasure, I scanned to the bottom of the bill and saw the shocking astronomical total. “PERRI!” I yelled, “You batshit bag of bolts, I’m not paying this outrageous sum!”
“Quack, quack, quack,” barked Dr. Susan Calvin, who was aroused by the commotion.
“Hold on,” said Jane who walked over to Perri. “Scribbler works for us now.” As she waved her hand towards me and turned to give me a wink. “As such he should get a twenty-five percent discount on your fee. Furthermore, as Queen Catherine has just reminded me, we’ve withdrawn our fee for the investigation. Can I see the bill?” she asked extending her hand towards me, so I gave it to her. “Ah, I see it here under ‘Special Services.’ Let me draw a line right through that.” She did so with a pen. “Also, this doesn’t apply, nor these other three items now.” Jane drew lines through them as well. “Please add up the new total for us,” she asked as she handed Perri the bill.
Jane’s defense of me made me love her even more. She is the girl for me; I decided this now without any reservation.
“Mmm,” grumbled Perri. “Okay, how’s this look?” he asked in a perturbed yet resigned manner.
“If you take another ten percent off, Queen Catherine would be happy to pay the bill in its entirety now.” Jane then held her intelli-slate to me and said, “Sign this contract, as we’ve already agreed,” and she gave me another wink, “to become our illustrator-communicator, and art investigator, so you can work off your debt to us.” I happily made the deal because I knew I would now work beside Jane. That would be heaven.
Throughout all of this, Jane had been leafing through my recently returned sketchbooks. It pleased me to see her smile, laugh, grimace and look thoughtfully at my work. More than anything, that’s what an artist wants, a reaction, no matter what, even bringing someone to tears, but she saw something more in my work than that. “Perri, look at this, please,” asked Jane as she turned the page toward him, “what do you see?”
“I see three Gordons on vacation, sitting on the beach. They seem to be enjoying tropical drinks. Am I missing something?” the robot asked.
Jane responded with an order: “Activate protocol, retrieve data: #Y1013130.” Perri made a ding sound in response and stiffened. “Do you recognize any of these Gordons? Access all court databases.”
“Searching—searching,” said Perri more robo
tically than usual. “Yes, all three were convicted of slave trading and sentenced to fifty to seventy-five years hard labor. They should presently be serving that time. The sketch must’ve been done before they were convicted. Let’s see, that was twenty years ago…”
“Perri, exit search,” ordered Jane. Perri returned to full awareness with that. “Based on the date on this drawing,” Jane pointed to it. “it seems these Gordons have escaped, or they were never imprisoned at all. Scribbler’s work for us is already paying off. These three were part of our investigation, but because they were supposedly in prison, we discounted them. This mystery has grown considerably.”
“That’s an exclusive club where I drew them. I was only let in because I’m an artist, and a card-carrying, professional Sketcher, and, as you know aliens love artists, they can’t say no to us. Isn’t this great,” I said, to point out my added value to the team.
“Queen Catherine is concerned that if we don’t all get to work on hunting down these criminals right away that there may be more murders,” said Jane. “You’re likely still on the hit list of the conspirators, Scribbler, so you have a vested interest here.”
I sat down hard when a shiver went through me; I felt as if was wearing the awful Obliteration Suit again. Then the feeling passed, and I looked up to plain Jane and smiled. With her there I’d happily walk through the valley of the shadow of death, all would be well—I will fear no evil.
Yes, Death, Perri had saved me from his scythe. I decided to be the better man, swallowed my pride and, before leaving his office, I made sure to apologize for my earlier outburst and respectfully thank Perri one more time. He seemed genuinely appreciative of this. Despite that, it was good to know I’d not have to see this annoying robot again.
* * *
The next day I received a message from someone I’d nearly forgotten, someone who’d been in my life for the briefest of times—yet, he’d changed my life in the most profound manner. For a minute I stared at the name—Jerry Sam. His note requested that we meet at the Franklin Center Hotel. Seeing his name completely out of context, I thought, who is Jerry Sam? Then it came to me—the salesman who tested me after I’d submitted my art to the Super Art School all those many years ago. My mind flashed back to his sad face on the day I’d rocketed away from earth. This invitation had me more than intrigued. Why would he contact me now? I, of course, accepted his invite. What reasonably curious person wouldn’t?
