“How'd it go?"
“'Bout the usual, I guess. Ain't gonna keep their money."
Kermit nodded thoughtfully. “Why doesn't that surprise me?"
“Don't worry, I'll get you your pay. Take a check?"
“From you? Don't make me laugh.” He hopped down from the back of the truck. “Forget it, Bubs. I wouldn't have missed this for the world. Got the keys?"
Bubba pulled the heavy ring out of his pocket and tossed them over. Kermit caught them in mid air. He opened the door of the cab and pulled himself in. “See you back at the house,” he said, starting the engine.
“Plan to stay for dinner,” Bubba called as he pulled away. “I'm gonna make espresso."
“Excuse me, Bubba,” came a voice from behind him. He turned to see the reporter and photographer from Richmond.
“Howdy, boys."
The reporter looked at him intently, notebook folded away in his hand, pencil in his shirt pocket. “Well, you did it. Leaving aside for the moment that you flew that weird-looking thing to the Moon, you've accomplished something that very few men ever do: you made your dream come true. How does it feel?"
“What's your name, son?” Bubba asked.
“Ted Michaels. This,” he pointed to the photographer, “is Danny Allen. We're from the Progress-Dispatch."
Bubba nodded. “Yeah, I recognize you from the day we left.” He was silent for a long moment, frowning down at the floor of the hangar. “I don't know, Ted. I wish I could give you boys a sound bite, or something pithy to quote in your paper, but I can't.” He spread his hands helplessly. “It's ... it's a little like when you get your first real kiss, I guess. It's exciting as hell while it's happening, a completely new experience, and you'll remember it all your life. But afterwards you know that from then on, everything else that happens to you is going to have to stand up to that experience. When it's just your first kiss,” he continued, “it's not so bad. I mean, you're gonna get plenty more, and it's mostly a little thing in the Grand Scheme. But this...” He shook his head. “I'm not sure there's anywhere to go from here. And that's kind of ... I dunno, almost sad."
“Yeah. Yeah, I can understand that.” The reporter cocked his head to one side. “You're not at all what you seem to be, are you? I mean, you play the part well, you sure had me fooled. But you're no redneck, Bubba—Mr. Pritchert.” Bubba just grinned at him. “I'm not sure just what you are, but there's a story in you. Maybe more than one."
“Well, boys, you'll just have to come to Central Garage to write it, now, won't you?"
“Would we be welcome? I've heard about your problems with the tabloids. We're not paparazzi, you know."
“If you were, I doubt you'd have got through the front gate,” Bubba said, then he got serious. “Listen, let me ask you something,” he said. “Besides you and Flash there, how many press would you say there were in that room this afternoon?"
The reporter looked thoughtful. “A half dozen I recognized, one or two more I didn't."
“How many of them were national?"
Ted shrugged. “None of them, really. I mean, we all go out on the wires, or get picked up by the major cable networks that are interested, but we're still not much more than stringers at best. Why?"
“Think about it. I flew to the Moon in my own spaceship. I picked up the Lunar Rover left behind on the Moon by the crew of Apollo 15 and brought it back home, and made the round trip in under five hours.” He shook his head. “Where was CNN? Where was MSNBC? NPR? Hell, where was Fox? I'da thought they'd have eaten this up."
The reporter frowned at the floor. “Yeah, I know. You're right. We should have had to fight for a place to stand back there.” He shrugged again. “But it's science stuff, Bubba. People don't get as excited about it as they used to. They're more interested in wars and terrorism and interviews with whichever bozo got voted off the night before. That stuff is ‘sexy.’ Science is out of fashion.” He spoke with no little bitterness.
“We have a science reporter at the paper. You know what her last big story was? When a bunch of cartoon characters came to the local Science Museum. Not a story about the exhibits, mind you, just a story about a bunch of teenagers dressed like the Power-Puff Girls and Scooby-Doo entertaining the kids.” He snorted ruefully. “That's what my editor considers a science writer's purview. Most of the press corps, the heavy hitters, are either covering those trapped miners in West Virginia or the American Idol tour."
Bubba stared at him. “That sucks. The second part, anyway."
“You'll get no argument from me."
“Well, hell. Maybe this will fire up some of those kids to do something at the science museum other than gape at giant mice in pants."
“Stranger things have happened,” Ted stated pointedly.
“Yep, and just this past week, too. What the hell, son, come on up to Central Garage. I ain't gonna run from you, just give me some notice so I can have the chili ready."
“Uh, Ted? We're losing the light pretty fast.” The photographer was squinting at the sun where it hovered just above the horizon.
“Yeah, right, Danny. Mr. Pritchert, you ran out on us pretty fast at the launch site...."
Bubba snorted. “Don't I know it. Scared the pluperfect hell out of m'self."
“Well, then, how about letting us get a few shots when you take off?"
“No problem. C'mon, let's find out where they've got the old girl stashed."
Mike was already installed in his control-board slot, his body once again stowed carefully. “C'mon, Mikey,” Bubba said. “We got an audience. Let's dance for ‘em."
“We can do that."
A few minutes later, as the reporter gaped and the photographer took shot after eager shot, Bubba did his best to make it worth their while, repeating their earlier performance with Marty Breen of the FAA. Then, he and Mike took the Fireball XL-5 up to cruising altitude and headed for home.
“Bubba,” Mike said when they were well on their way. “I never did thank you for seeing that I got some mobility. I appreciate it, I really do."
“S'no big thing, Mikey,” Bubba said. “You've long since earned it, and I needed you to be able to help out on this one anyway. Seemed to be a reasonable enough request that they come up with something to get you around better."
“It's more than that, though. I've been connected to starships and fighters, even what you would call shuttles and airbuses, but this is the first time I've ever had anyone even consider giving me the simple ability to move three feet to the left under my own power. Not to mention being able to scratch. If I had an itch."
Bubba looked over at the two cameras on top of Mike's head. “Mike, you're my friend. You have been since you and your Nishian coworkers dropped in on me back about a dozen years ago. You are, in many ways, the best friend I've ever had.” Bubba turned back to the screen where the image of the Bowl-A-Rama grew larger. “A man takes care of his friends."
“Well, thank you."
“You're welcome."
* * * *
When they finally got back home and stowed the scout ship back in the garage, they found a pile of mail inside the door. Mostly circulars and credit card offers, there were also newsletters, magazines, several packages, at least a dozen catalogs, and a few letters. Bubba sorted through it all while Mike trundled over the doorsill loaded down with luggage.
“So, what did you get up to while you were in quarantine, Mikey?” Bubba asked while tossing the junk mail into a recycling bin.
“Well, there was data to collate, and conversations to transcribe. I was able to add some little information to that already collected by your own scientists, although they're far more interested in what makes your ship fly than in anything else."
“And were you able to enlighten them?"
There was a momentary pause. “Actually, no. I know very little about Thuntic technology, and this one apparently represents a quantum leap in the application of various propulsion and guidance systems, as well as in
the areas of inertia and acceleration. I did run a number of deep diagnostic tests, and informed them that any attempts to physically pry into the internal workings of the ship would result in a massive release of energy in the form of light, heat, and air displacement."
“'Jamie like big boom,’ huh? And did they believe you?"
“Enough of them did, and the ones who didn't made it fairly clear that they could be relied upon in exchange for ‘consideration.’”
“And that would be...?"
“They want a ride."
Bubba laughed long and loud. “Okay, I think we can do that. Say,” he said in surprise as he looked closely at the hand-addressed label on a padded envelope, “here's a name I don't know. Wonder who it is?"
“There you go with the ‘wonder’ stuff again,” Mike said as he dropped the suitcases near the stairs. “Open it and find out."
He did. He read:
* * * *
Dear Mr. Pritchert,
We met about a week ago out in the middle of nowhere, and you gave me your card and an invitation to write, so here I am.
I would like to apologize for Terry. He means well, but he doesn't know when enough is enough, and he's a little too close to wearing a tin-foil hat to suit me.
I'm enclosing the tape I shot of our encounter as a show of good faith. There's certainly nothing on it for you to be ashamed of, but I wanted you to know that I know there are more important things in our little subculture besides accumulating “evidence."
Hoping this finds you well, yours sincerely,
Stanley Parker
* * * *
“Well, don't that beat all. Mike, I think we've found the newest SauNA member. We still got some of those decoder badges around?"
“A whole box of them. We'll take care of it next week."
“Sure, after I've gotten on the other side of a whole bunch of sleep."
“I did manage to do one other thing while I was quarantined."
“Yeah? What?"
“I contacted Pieter de Waal through what you might call diplomatic channels. I've recorded a message from him to you. Would you like to see it?"
Bubba sat thoughtfully for a moment, not moving or speaking. Finally he said, “'See it?’ It's on video?"
“The equivalent. Here.” Mike's arm reached into his “chest” and pulled out a small translucent square, an inch on a side and a quarter of that in thickness, and laid it on the table in front of his human friend. “It will activate automatically when you say your name aloud, and then do what you tell it within reason. I'm going to go wash the dishes. Or something.” He rolled out of the room.
Bubba felt old. Older than he should have, anyway. He was tired, his back hurt, and his sense of wonder was seriously overloaded. So much had happened in the past weeks, and he wasn't at all sure that he was ready for what literally lay before him. Nevertheless, there it was, and it would have to be dealt with sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.
“Bubba Pritchert.” Nothing happened. He leaned closer to the table and repeated his name; still nothing. Clearing his throat, he said in a slightly louder voice, “Edgar Allan Poe Hudgins Pritchert.” Nothing. Then he smiled and said in a normal voice, “Hudge Pritchert."
The square blinked, then flashed. As it did, the figure of a tall, thin man of about sixty appeared on the table, seemingly about two feet tall. It spoke, and his soft Dutch accent sent a wave of nostalgia through the recipient.
“This is a message for my young friend, Hudge,” it began. “Although at this point, you and I are quite of an age, are we not?” The figure chuckled. “As you see, I am still here, although I may not say exactly where. It is of no importance, in any case.” de Waal's image gestured and a comfortable-looking chair moved into place behind him. He sat, reached outside the limits of the recording and leaned back, now holding a bottle. He sipped, then smiled. “Amish birch beer, Hudge. There really is nothing else like it anywhere in the known universe."
Bubba wished for some of his own, but was now reluctant to either leave the room or ask Mike to bring him something. He listened on.
“When the Intelligence you've named Mike contacted me, I was unsure as to what to do. You see, we're not encouraged to make contact with those whom we've left behind, for reasons that should be obvious.” The image shrugged. “It is not forbidden, either—little is forbidden, here—but the distances involved make communication with family and friends problematical in the extreme. Without an intermediary, like your Mike, it is all but impossible, and it's vital that Earth remain unaware of the existence of...” de Waal gestured with a hand, taking in everything around him. “Well, everything here, and dozens of other places like this scattered all around the galaxy, at least for a little longer."
de Waal took another sip. “Many years ago, when you and I met, Hudge, I was only new in the employ of the Council. My job was simple: to find, and if possible, recruit, humans who were willing and able to comprehend the enormity of the universe around them; who were ready, in my opinion, to make the leap from ignorance to awareness. You struck me as such, but circumstances prevented me from revealing my true purpose to you."
Bubba nodded to himself, recalling with no little pain the untimely death of his younger sister, gone now these forty-eight years, and the chasm it created between him and his family.
“But, since I could not intrude on your grief, and since I could not give you back all that you had lost, I was still able to give you something back—your faith, your belief.” Bubba smiled, recalling the UFO he'd seen that night in the desert, flashing and strobing and making weird noises. Yep, that had done it, all right.
“You were, however, well on your way to being one of the more qualified of those I'd encountered over the years, for all your youth and inexperience. So, your name went on a list of those to be watched and kept track of, with the idea of someday approaching you in the open."
“Huh!” Bubba exclaimed, recalling that Mike had hinted at something of the like back when they'd first met. He wasn't at all sure he liked being on anyone's list, no matter what the reason, but so far this hadn't turned out too badly.
de Waal's image continued. “Rest easy, Hudge. You were not spied on. We merely ‘kept tabs,’ as you say. Your life was in no way interfered with. However, when a pair of Nishian caseworkers—the ones you dubbed Stan and Ollie, I believe—ran into some minor difficulty with their ship, your name came up.” de Waal smiled and sipped his root beer. “I was able to give them a first-hand account of your willingness to help strangers, and so contact was made.
“It was part of our plan to ensure that you had access to information about certain technologies and knowledge of other civilizations. What was unplanned was the manner in which this was made possible. None of us foresaw that you would end up in possession of an Intelligence, nor that it—I suppose I should say ‘he'—would become a trusted companion. A friend.” de Waal closed his eyes. “This should not have come as a surprise, especially to me. I recall with pleasure how warmly you accepted the friendship of an aging stranger, and your friend Mike speaks of your friendship with great pride.
“I say all that, Hudge, to lead to this: we would like you to join us here. You have shown both an affinity and an aptitude for solving problems, even when they involve aliens, and that talent is highly valuable to us. We need more people who can cope, as you have, with the knowledge that they are not alone in the universe, and for whom that revelation is a cause for joy and not fear.” Bubba's breath caught. This was ... well, it damn sure wasn't anything he'd expected.
“Stop, please.” The recording paused, the image motionless. Bubba sat back, trying to take in what he could of this new information. Jesus! What the hell had he gotten himself into fifty years ago in that God-forsaken desert? All this because he fixed some piece-of-crap English bike? It was too much for him right now.
He stood, then walked to the kitchen on legs slightly unsteady. As he figured, Mike was nowhere to be seen. He got a co
ld bottle of Anchor Steam, then went outside.
The night was clear, the stars almost painfully bright. How many? How many of them had planets, how many of the planets had life, and how many of those were looking up as he was, wondering the same? Was there Another out there somewhere, a retired mechanic perhaps, facing the same doubts he was?
No, he thought. Screw this. It didn't matter how many planets, how many civilizations. It didn't matter if he was the only one staring up at the night sky or one of thousands. That would all take care of itself—or not; either way, it was a meaningless complication. What mattered right now was that he had a message from an old friend and a cold bottle of beer and an intense curiosity that all the burnout in the world couldn't dim. His questions could wait. He went back in the house and sat down at the table.
“Okay,” he said, taking a big pull on the Anchor Steam. “Show me more."
The image came back to life. “It is not easy, Hudge, but then you're no stranger to hard work. And there are benefits over and above the obvious ones.” de Waal spread his hands. “Look at me. I was born in 1898, and have aged not at all since you and I met. Nor am I likely to fall ill. When I die, it will be because I have chosen to after a productive life, and I will go gently into that Good Night. Plus,” the image smiled impishly, “you will have an unlimited opportunity to learn. Here are the finest teachers, the finest facilities, and the perfect surroundings in which to resume your education."
He sighed. “If I have regrets, they are for those I left behind; family, friends, the places and things I may never see again. This should be a factor in any decision you make. I know you were far away from your family all those years ago, and I know there were circumstances that kept you apart from them.” de Waal stood. “If you decide to join us, I urge you to mend what fences you can, and say what good-byes you can. I did not, and I am sorry. I hope to hear from you soon, friend Hudge, and whatever decision you make, I wish you well.” The recording ended.
Analog SFF, July-August 2007 Page 40
