Analog SFF, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Mr. Sanders here trusted you. You took that faith and you flushed it, so to speak, right on down. Now, I'm not gonna prosecute you, and I'm not going to stand here for longer than is necessary to make sure you understand that you've thrown away something you may never be able to get back. You're young, you'll get past this, but don't ever think you didn't do wrong.” He put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Do you see what I'm talkin’ about?"

  The boy looked him in the eye. “I'm sorry I screwed up, Mr. Sanders. I let you down. I'm sorry.” He stood up straight. “You're right, mister, and I'll do what I have to to make it up to you."

  Bubba smiled. “You just did, boy. Now, go and sin no more—at least until the weekend.” The teenager walked away slowly, carrying his uniform jacket.

  “Mr. Sanders,” Bubba said quietly. “He don't seem like a bad kid. Any chance...?"

  Sanders looked dour. “Maybe. I'll keep an eye on him. If it looks like he's shaping up, I'll reconsider."

  “That'd be a good thing. I don't think he meant any harm."

  The two Virginians stowed their scooters and pulled themselves into the cab. Kermit waited for his friend to drive out of the warehouse and asked, “Hey, Bubs, what happened to that kid back there? Did you paint the Rover with something sticky, or what?"

  “Nope,” the older man said with a grin. “It's a side effect of the stasis field that I had Mike set up just in case. See, nothing can get in or out of the field unless I turn it off, but he added a one-way gripper field at the surface. It's activated by mass, and he set it so it wouldn't collect bugs and dirt. The more you struggle, the tighter it grabs you. Mike calls it ‘an attractor interface,’ I just call it the Tar Baby Field."

  They drove on silently for an hour or so, stopping at a burger joint for breakfast.

  “You're being awfully quiet this morning,” Kermit said, sipping his coffee. “Come to think of it, you didn't say much last night. You feeling all right, or is it just that stupid guard?"

  “Kermit,” Bubba said quietly as he drove away from the burger joint. “I think we're gonna have some company. We been followed for the past day or so."

  “Is this a ‘don't look now’ situation?"

  “I don't think it matters. There ain't no way in hell I can shake ‘em in this thing, we stick out like something that sticks out a long way. I hope it ain't trouble, but I suspect it might be."

  “Well, hell! Call the state police, or the sheriff, or something."

  Bubba shook his head. “Don't know any of ‘em up here. I don't think it'll be any kind of ‘guns and ammo’ trouble, but I wouldn't be surprised if ... Shit!” The flatbed came around a corner on the narrow road only to face a line of vehicles stretched across in front of them. Bubba braked to a halt, cut the engine, and got out. About a dozen people were standing behind the line of cars, none of them in uniform; this was not, apparently, a police roadblock, but something less official.

  Bubba stood beside the cab of the tow truck, arms across his chest, and looked them over. One young man dressed in well-worn jeans and a flannel shirt who was carrying a small video camera and seemed to be the leader asked in a loud voice, “Are you Bubba Pritchert, president of the Saucer Nuts of America?"

  Bubba took his time answering. “I might could be,” he said at last, his eyes narrowed. “Is there some way in which I might be of some service to you ladies and gentlemen?"

  “Oh, God,” Kermit muttered, shifting in his seat to get a better look. “They went and pissed him off."

  “Yes,” the man answered. “We represent the Joint Unidentified Flying Objects Collective. We've been investigating you, and we believe you own, and are currently operating, a UFO. Is this true?"

  Bubba spat at his feet. “Youngster, does that look like a goddam flying saucer?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the flatbed. “If I had a goddam flying saucer, would I be driving this hunk of rolling iron?"

  The man was a little taken aback. A woman to his right whispered urgently to him. He nodded and stepped forward. “Then we believe that you're transporting an alien craft, possibly the Roswell wreckage, to a secret base in Maryland. Or Langley. Furthermore, we believe that you're working for a covert government agency whose only purpose is to keep the American public ignorant of possible alien conspiracies."

  “Hell, you people can sure believe a shitload of crazy stuff at...” he looked at his watch, “...9:07 A.M. in the morning. And truth be told, your average American does a satisfactory job of keepin’ hisself ignorant. This here is a tow truck, and I'm a tow truck driver. Now, ain't you got anything better to do than stop a man while in pursuit of his trade?"

  “You don't deny it, then? You are carrying an alien spacecraft on the back of that truck?” The people behind the line of cars began talking among themselves excitedly, some pointing to the truck and the tarp-covered object it held.

  Bubba narrowed his eyes, his jaw set and the muscles in his forearms flexing. “Boy, who are you? What's your name?"

  The man hesitated before answering. “My name is Terry Skinner, but I don't see what..."

  “Hah! I remember you, you applied for membership in SauNA back about a year ago, didn't you?"

  “As a matter of fact..."

  “Turned you down flat, too, didn't I? And do you remember why? Because you take this shit too damn seriously, that's why. Kermit,” he called out to his companion. “What's SauNA Rule 4?"

  “'Don't take yourself so damn seriously,'” Kermit called out from the cab of the truck.

  “Damn right. Now, Mr. Skinner, I'm sure you and your friends here mean well, but this is just about the stupidest thing I've ever seen anybody do. What if I'd been armed? What if I was working for some black-ops agency? Don't you think they'd be monitorin’ me the whole way? Don't you think they'd be armed?"

  “Well,” the young man replied, “we do have video cameras.” He waved his in the air.

  “And you expected the bullets to bounce off the lenses? Christ, boy, you are just about as together as a busted bottle of BBs. You want to know what I'm carrying? Come on and look. All of you come on over here.” He strode to the back of the truck and began undoing the ropes that held down the tarp. “Kermit, gimme a hand here, if you will.” Kermit jumped out and went to the other side.

  The crowd gathered cautiously around the truck, muttering nervously among themselves. Skinner and one other man kept their cameras pointed directly and unwaveringly at the vehicle as the two older men worked to undo the ties.

  Finally Bubba undid the last rope and turned to the crowd. “Bring them cameras up here,” he called out. “Get ‘em nice and close. You want to know what we've been hauling across the countryside? Here it is.” And he swept the tarp aside.

  There was silence; the cameras were running, but the only movement was the group leaning forward to get a closer look. Off in the distance, a diesel locomotive horn sounded, thin and lonely.

  “What the hell is that?" said a painfully thin woman.

  “Beats me,” one of the men with a video camera said. “But it's not a UFO. It's some kind of ... I dunno, go-cart, or something."

  “It's not a go-cart, Albert,” Skinner said with more than a little exasperation. “It's one of those things they drove around on the Moon in."

  “What,” the woman who'd spoken to him earlier said. “The Lunar Rover? That's crazy, Terry! The Lunar Rover is up on the Moon!"

  “I know that, Sheila, don't you think I know that?"

  “Well, how the hell is this guy,” she pointed at Bubba, “supposed to have gone to the Moon to get it? And why in God's name would he be driving it across the country?"

  “I don't know,” Skinner said angrily. “How am I supposed to know that? I thought he had a UFO somewhere; for all I know he could have gone to the damn Moon and gotten this thing."

  “Oh, get real. If he had a UFO, he'd have just flown whatever the hell this thing is wherever the hell he wanted to go, he wouldn't be driving it.” She turned around
and started walking back to the cars. “God, I don't believe you sometimes, Terry. You drag us out here, you tell us this tall story about some redneck with his own flying saucer, and you talk us into breaking I don't know how many laws just so you can get back at him for not letting you join his stupid club.” She kicked at a rock and sent it skittering across the road. “All for something that even if it was real, is something we made. Aliens, my ass."

  Skinner ran after her. “Sheila, wait! It's not like that at all!” And off he scampered, trying desperately to keep up.

  The other videographer, a brawny, red-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard, was looking closely at the Rover. He turned and eyed Bubba speculatively. “That's not a replica, is it?” Bubba just smiled. “Okay, never mind. Sorry to have bothered you.” He started away, but Bubba called out to him.

  “Hey, you. C'mere a minute.” Bubba reached into his front pocket and pulled out his wallet. He found a card and handed it to the man. “That's my address back in Virginia. Lemme hear from you, there's always room in SauNA for a reasonably observant human being."

  The man took the card and nodded, then joined the others as they made their way back to their cars. “Good luck,” he called back over his shoulder. “And thanks."

  Bubba and Kermit retied the tarp without speaking, then got back into the truck. The others had moved on, and the road was no longer blocked. Bubba started the engine, then turned to his passenger.

  “Kermit, my lad, this reminds me of something an old Army sergeant I knew used to say: ‘They is none so blind as them as has they heads stuck up they asses.’ Here endeth the lesson.” And off they drove.

  And the curious security guard and the unbelieving True Believers were the sixth day.

  * * * *

  DAY SEVEN

  Wheeling, West Virginia

  to the Paul E. Garber Preservation, Restoration, and Storage Facility,

  Suitland, Maryland

  Total estimated time:

  5 hours and 0 minutes

  Total distance: 305.48 miles

  * * * *

  The two men played “Casting Call,” a game that Bubba had devised. The object was to recast an existing movie, play or television show with characters from another. Thus, when Bubba challenged Kermit to cast Shakespeare's “Hamlet” with the characters from Green Acres, Kermit thought long and hard. The result: Hank Kimball, Hamlet; Lisa Douglas, Ophelia; Mr. Haney, the King's Ghost; Sam Drucker, Claudius; Oliver Douglas, Laertes; Fred Ziffel, Horatio; Doris Ziffel, Queen Gertrude; Arnold the pig, Polonius; and Alf and Ralph Monroe as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

  It passed the time. And the Ziffels and the Douglases were the seventh day.

  They pulled through the gate at the Garber Facility and were met by a man in coveralls who checked their IDs carefully, then jumped into an electric cart and said, “Follow me.” They drove for several minutes past pre-fab hangars, finally pulling into a large building. The doors ran down behind them, closing off the light from outside.

  Lawler was waiting for them, along with a number of technicians and military types. Bubba and Kermit jumped down from the cab of the tow truck and went to meet him. Introductions were made, and the three moved to a folding table that had been set up with refreshments.

  “Have a nice drive?” Lawler asked, slicing a pear with his pocketknife.

  “Not too bad,” Bubba replied as he filled a plate with chicken salad and baked beans. “A couple of incidents you might call ‘interesting’ in the Chinese sense."

  Lawler nodded. “We'll want to de-brief you about those. How was it otherwise?"

  Bubba grinned. “Picked up a Mexican stuffed-frog band in Nevada."

  “Three-man or five?"

  “Five. What's the point otherwise?"

  “You are so right,” Lawler said. “Can I see it?"

  “Maybe later.” He nudged Lawler with his elbow. “I got two. Want one? Seems fair to me. I get a moon rock, you get stuffed frogs."

  Lawler's eyes lit up. “You serious?” Bubba winked at him. “I have just the place for it in my office,” Lawler said, “on the shelf next to my Pogo cup."

  Lawler walked over to the tow truck. Technicians had carefully pulled off the tarp, set up a hydraulic hoist, and were preparing to loosen the chains that held the Rover to the bed. “So. This is it.” He reached out to run his hand along the structure, but his fingers stopped as soon as he touched it. “Hmm. It seems that..."

  “Wait wait wait wait,” Bubba said, hurrying over. “Lemme shut off the Tar Baby ... the attractor interface. Here.” He threw the switch, and Lawler was able to let go.

  “Now, that was interesting,” he said. “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the technicians, “if you please."

  Slowly, almost reverently the techs unhooked the chains and lifted the Rover off the back of the truck, moved it to one side and lowered it. “That's it,” one of the older men said quietly. “We're good.” He looked at Bubba and Kermit where they stood with Lawler, and said, “Thank you for bringing her home."

  Bubba smiled wryly. “I was gonna say something funny, like ‘Here she is, one owner and the highest mileage on Earth,’ but I think I won't. You're welcome, sir. I'm glad I could be of service.” He turned to Lawler again. “Well, let's go do that debriefing thing you was talking about."

  “Right this way, gentlemen."

  They made their way to the front of the hangar, where a dais and podium had been set up. Several suits, whom Bubba figured to be various NASA and Smithsonian officials, were already present. He spotted their chief lawyer, too, looking enigmatic. Members of the press were there as well, including the team from the Richmond paper, who definitely looked interested this time.

  Lawler stepped up to the podium. “If I may have your attention,” he said over the steady mutter of voices in the room. “I'd like to introduce Mr. Edgar Allan Poe Hudgins Pritchert, who, at great risk to himself and no little time and trouble, has successfully recovered the Apollo 15 Lunar Rover from its most recent parking space on the Moon. Bubba, step up here and say a few words.” He held out his hand and waved toward the podium.

  Nervously, Bubba approached the microphone. He looked around the room, realizing that this was a completely different ball game than it had been a week before. Back home, he knew the faces. Here, he didn't really know anybody. He cleared his throat.

  Near the back of the room, the Progress-Dispatch reporter caught his eye and nodded slightly, pencil poised over his notebook. Bubba shook himself mentally, and leaned toward the mic.

  “Afternoon, folks,” he said. “I'm not really used to talkin’ to such a dignified and well-dressed bunch, but I'll do what I can. I was asked by the good people at National Air and Space to do a job for them, and I did it.” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “She's right back there in the garage. The Lunar Rover, that is."

  The applause started slowly, but built until almost everyone in the room was clapping, including some of the press. Bubba held up his hands, and it quieted.

  “No big deal, I just had the right equipment for the job, and I'm happy to have been able to help. Thank you.” He stepped back.

  Lawler moved forward and said, “We've got a little ceremony we'd like to perform, and then we'll take some questions from you gentlemen of the press who somehow found your way in here.” There were a few chuckles at this. He turned to Bubba. “Mr. Pritchert, you've done us a profound service, and completed it well. To show our appreciation, we'd like to make you a lifetime member of the James Smithson Society, at the Guild level, with all rights and privileges that entails. You will also,” he continued over the smattering of applause, “be given lifetime membership in the National Air and Space Museum, as a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird Member, with all the rights and privileges that entails.” There was more applause, and Bubba looked more than a little croggled.

  “Last, but not least, we present our check for your agreed-upon fee, with any and all taxes paid in full."

  Bubba
took the check and looked at it. Then he stepped back to the microphone and spoke.

  “Mr. Lawler, all you other folks, I ... I want to thank you. More than it's easy for me to say. I am proud and thrilled to accept membership in your associations, especially at the lofty heights you've seen fit to present to me.” He shook his head. “And now,” he laid the check on the podium in front of him, “this. It's too much.

  “Y'see,” he continued, “a week ago I flew to the Moon. I walked, however briefly, in the footsteps of giants. I have been somewhere few others have been, have seen something few others have seen. I have realized a dream that goes back so far into my childhood that I can't recall not having it.” He looked at Lawler. “I know we negotiated for this long and hard, and we caused your legal staff no end of trouble.” The head of the legal department shrugged. “But I look at this check now, and ... well, what with realizin’ my life-long dream and all, it just ain't...” He paused, then drew himself up and looked out at those present. “It isn't right for me to have had all that and keep the money, too."

  There was a shuffling of feet in the room, an undercurrent of unease. Several of the suits looked at him darkly.

  “Now, I know you got bookkeeping to do on this,” Bubba went on. “It's been earmarked, and it'd most likely cost as much to put it back in the bank as it's written for. So how about this: I'm gonna take this check and sign it over to some organization or other that will use it to help raise awareness of the space program amongst school kids. That okay?"

  Cameras flashed, and several of the reporters clamored to ask questions. Before anything else could be said, though, Lawler spoke into the microphone.

  “I find that perfectly acceptable, and I'm certain that my people will agree. There are already several programs devoted to just that purpose. I will, in fact, match it with my own funds.” More flashes popped.

  “So will I,” the chief lawyer called out. Within moments, three others in the room offered matching funds, and in the ensuing commotion, Bubba managed to slip out and make his way back through the hangar.

  The Rover was gone, taken to quarantine (a formality, as the stasis field Mike had encased it with was still in effect) for a week. The truck was still there, looking strangely empty without its cargo. Kermit was stretched out on the deck, hands behind his head.