by Jean Rabe
“Oh, big fan, sir, we loves us your show out here. That’s me talkin’, by the way.”
“Ahhh, who else would it be?”
And then, Edgars led the producer around a corner into a much larger area. As they entered, Richards’ eyes moved from spot to spot in lightning bursts, taking in the seemingly never-ending arrays of lights, switches, relays and a thousand and one other unintelligible bits of electronics, until they hit one thing which arrested his attention completely.
The thing which, speaking through Harlin Edgars, said, “That, Mr. Richards, would be me.” As the producer stared at the massive alien creature seated off to his left, Edgars’ voice came to him.
“We’re a telepathic race. To get to jawin’ with others, we need to work through translators. But don’t worry none, no harm is done to these subjects.”
Edgars winked at the producer, then said: “He means me. And yeah, like he said, I’m fine as corn before weevil season. But lemme let him get back to what he needs to be sayin’.”
“Who,” asked Richards, turning from Edgars to the alien, “exactly is it to whom I’m speaking?”
“Telepathics, they sorta have that hive mentality thing goin’, so he told me to just go ahead and pick a name for him, so I’ve been callin’ him ‘Klaatu.’ You might as well, too.”
The two Earthmen smiled one to the other, then Richards, pulling forth his wireless, turned toward the alien presence, but held the mike toward Edgars, asking, “Well, sir, welcome to earth. Might I ask what we can do for you?”
“We of the Pan-Galactic League of Suns’ve been watchin’ you ever since you began explodin’ nuclear weapons. Now, understand, we don’t care if you just can’t help but destroy yourselves—that is your business, after all—but it is our policy to try and help our rural neighbors out when their situations get desperate like yours.”
“With all due respect, Klaatu,” answered Richards, his chest puffing slightly as he found himself speaking with pride on behalf of all humanity, unconsciously overplaying the part much like the comedian who gets to play Hamlet. “I think we’re going to come through this phase of our history unscathed. I’ll admit things have looked tense in the past, but the human race has pretty much seen the error of its ways when it comes to atomic power, and—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Klaatu, “Lord love a duck, but I’d hope you all could handle a little problem like nuclear conflagration. Naw, I was referrin’ to the civilization destroyer that came into your lives right after you commenced to splitin’ atoms and the such.” When Richards merely stared blankly, Klaatu moved a portion of itself which seemed to indicate patient frustration while Edgars said, “Television.”
When the producer merely blinked, struggling desperately to comprehend the alien’s meaning, the visitor continued, causing Edgars to explain. “Ohhhh, mass communications always seems like a good idea to everyone at first. Every school child will be introduced to all the classics, blahblahblah, but it don’t ever last. Before you know it, sure as prom night means pregnancies, commerce rears its relentless head, and things just cascade downhill after that.”
Richards cut in, “Thanks to the media, and its constant focus on the minutiae of life, the folks here in the middle of nowhere know as much about what’s going on as anyone. TV shrinks the world, shows peoples once strange to each other how little difference there is between them and others ... it, I mean—”
“I knows you means well, Marv, but you can’t see the big picture like’n we can, beings how we got alla galactic history to view. Now, believe it or not, there ain’t one race o’beings ever what wiped themselves out ’cause they discovered this or that ultimate weapon. But, television, that’s different. It challenges folks too much. Lets ’em see things what they don’t wanta see, or want their kids seein’, stuff that upsets what they were taught by their folks, or in church. I mean, a lotta worlds what coulda survived discoverin’ mass drivers or flesh cannons just went to hell in a handbasket after some crackpot bunch of worshipful fanatics got a load of some heathen ways what they couldn’t tolerate.”
And at that moment, Marvin Richards sat down on the deck beneath him, disillusioned—shattered. He had no arguments for the massive, twelve-limbed, hairless telepathic potato in the intergalactic driver’s seat off to his left. As much as he wanted to, needed to, disagree with Klaatu, he found he could not. In all honesty, an absolutely crippling characteristic for any producer, Richards had to admit he had pondered such things himself.
“Diversity of thought,” said Klaatu/Edgars, “it’s a real good thing on paper. But it’s gotta come slow like, know what I mean? You look at say, oh I don’t know ... homosexuality. Now there’s a tornado in a blender. On the one hand, don’t hurt nobody, and any world facin’ overpopulation like you all, hell, you’d think you’d be makin’ it mandatory, or at least givin’ out prizes. But, once the cat’s outta the bag, then boom—every self-important little naybob has gotta throw their two cents in, and before you know it, there’s people gettin’ beheaded for havin’ a good decoratin’ sense.”
Richards could say nothing. He thought of how other countries around the world had condemned America for its permissiveness, for its toleration. He had never personally fought for the rights of gays, blacks, women, the handicapped or anyone else. But it was so simple to take pride in being a part of something for which others had struggled and even died, it kept one oblivious to the fear and terror motivating those opposed to such movements.
“And television,” he told himself, “just shoves it in people’s faces.”
“Gettin’ the idea,” said Edgars, apparently needing no prompting from Klaatu, “ain’t ya?”
“But,” said Richards aloud, staring at the alien creature so close by, “what can we do about it?”
“I was hopin’ you’d ask.”
Three Weeks Later
“Wonderful show, Marv, top notch. Out of the park.”
“It’s all to your credit, Mr. Binghamton. We couldn’t have done it without your leadership.”
Marvin Richards stood in the winner’s circle of executives, basking in the ratings smashing glow of the most recent episode of Challenge. Their coverage of the events in Biglet had dominated their time slot, knocking even the HBO premiere of Bikinied Supermodels and the World’s Cutest Puppies on Ice into the dustbin. The show’s cast and crew knew the brass were truly happy, for the party catered in their honor had not only limitless champagne and shrimp the size of doughnuts, but they had allowed salt and butter to be placed on the tables as if they belonged there, and even condoned public displays of nicotine.
Doing her job, Lora managed to get Richards out of the room and safely away from the biggest of the brass before his love affair with well-aged Scotch placed the wrong clever remark within his grasp. Settling him in the swivel chair within his office, the one he so adored mainly because it was more expensive than the one in Carl Binghamton’s office, Lora Dean looked her boss over, making certain he could be left alone for a moment without causing himself some manner of grievous harm, then asked, “You going to be all right, chief?”
And within his mind, the producer actually gave the question the pondering it deserved. It had been a hell of a deal he had cooked up with Klaatu. He and Edgars would be returned, Edgars’ memories of what had transpired between them erased along with Richards’ audio recordings. Electrical output from the alien craft would scramble most of the film footage taken out in the alfalfa, but not every spec of it. That the producer would be allowed to show the world—and that was not all.
For some time to come Richards would be fed advance information which would allow Challenge camera crews to be on the spot for more chances to film UFOs of all manner.
As Klaatu had told him, through Edgars, of course:
“The thing you gotta remember about television is, of itself it is not evil. It’s like guns or intellectual curiosity; it all depends on whose hands are controllin’ it.”
And so, Marvin Richard
s, working hand in hand with the Pan-Galactic League of Suns, would reveal the presence of a larger universe to his audience, and the rest of humanity, every few weeks—making ratings history, certainly, but also getting across the idea that perhaps there was more to existence than many had previously imagined. Whether people’s minds were expanded by the idea that they were not alone in the universe, or it made them overlook old hatreds because of the possibility of an even bigger outsider to fear than they had ever known before, such interventions had worked on a thousand worlds. And it would work on the Earth, as well.
Given time.
It would be, Richards knew, a risky game. And a solitary one, for he and he alone would know what he was doing. And, the producer thought, as he stared at his executive assistant, wondering what it would be like to be admired by a woman like her, that was the way it had to be. The League picked one person when they intervened in a world’s personal affairs and that was it. If word got out, if things went wrong, if speculation became fact, the deal was off.
“Folks like to think they make their own decisions,’specially in a backwater like this. You just up and tell’em somethin’, they’re just gonna resist. You find a way to prove somethin’ to ’em they wanta resist, they’ll nail ya to a tree.”
To which Edgars himself added, “Hell, you know that last part’s true.”
Staring at his lovely assistant, understanding that as long as he had to continue to play the role of self-absorbed showmeister he would never be able to win her affections, Richards wondered for the briefest of moments whether it was all worth it. Balancing the possible fate of humanity against his own happiness, he sighed, then did the thing which, a month earlier, he would never have believed himself capable.
“Am I going to be all right,” he said back to his lovely Lora, “Oh, probably. But I doubt I’ll enjoy it.”
Smiling at what she thought was one of Richards’ typical comments, she blew him a kiss of congratulations he wished could be so much more. Then as she closed the door he pulled a bottle of Glenfiddich from his bottom desk drawer and began pouring himself a tall one, reflecting all the while on just how blissful ignorance must be.
SULLY’S SOLUTION
Kelly Swails
Kelly Swails is a clinical microbiologist by day and a writer by night. Her short fiction has appeared in several anthologies. When she’s not working or writing, she and her husband wrangle a houseful of cats. She was born and raised in the boonies of west central Illinois, and no matter where life takes her, a part of her will always be a country girl. You can find her on the web at www.kellyswails.com.
The old bell above the door jangled as I entered Maddie’s Diner. The smell of grease and cooked meat and biscuits hit me like a nose full of heaven, and my stomach rumbled. A bunch of farmers nursed their coffee at the big table by the window while a teenage girl waited tables. One of the farmers greeted me by tipping his chin as I slid onto my usual seat at the counter.
“Mornin’, Sheriff,” he said. His skin had that baked-potato look, brown and wrinkled and rough. It wasn’t that long ago that I played high school football with his son. It still sounded weird to hear him use my title.
“That it is, Tom,” I said. I felt tired in a way that couldn’t be cured by extra shuteye, and I resisted the urge to rub my eyes. “How about that rain we got last night?”
Tom snorted. “Gauge said two inches,” he said. “Might as well have been six for all the corn that’ll get picked this week. My fields are swamped.”
“Shoulda had your crops out last week like the rest of us,” another farmer said.
“Might have if I didn’t have twice the land,” he said, and the table began to bicker.
The farmers around Rockton might be a quiet bunch, but a comment about the weather always made for a good debate. I made a sympathetic noise and turned to the menu on my placemat.
“Your usual, Randy?” Amanda said as she poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of me. Amanda was a redhead on the plump side of average with the sort of features that belonged on a fifties pin-up girl. In grade school I used to pull her pigtails and tell her she had cooties, secretly wishing the whole time she’d kiss me on the cheek. It never happened, but it didn’t stop me from trying.
“Sure,” I said, then changed my mind. “Wait. How’s the gravy this morning?”
“Darn near perfect,” she said. “Maddie must have been in a good mood.”
“Biscuits and gravy, then.” I put my thumb into the waistband of my pants. Too much room. Bet I’ve lost another five pounds since I checked. “Full order.”
“Oh, stop pretending you need to watch your figure,” she said as she walked to the kitchen window to slip my order to Maddie. Her expression turned serious. “You need to keep up your strength.” Her eyes moved to my bald head.
“Yeah,” I said as I ran a hand over my smooth scalp. Cancer and its treatment was no walk in the woods, but losing my usual high-and-tight haircut had been rougher than I thought it’d be. I cried as I watched the little hairs circle down the drain during my morning shower. Some of the guys said it made me look badass. I thought it just made me look sick.
“Didn’t see you at the game Friday,” she said.
“I was there,” I said. If Rockton football were a religion, the Rockton-Ford game was a high holy day. Nobody on the force gets that night off work, least of all the sheriff.
“So you saw Wharton break the passing record,” she said.
“I heard about it. I was too busy keeping seniors from selling joints to eighth graders under the bleachers to see it.”
She laughed as Maddie handed her a steaming plate heaped with food. “Josh is a hell of a quarterback. I’m glad he got out of his slump. For a while there I thought this season would suck, but his mom came in the other day and said he’s getting scholarship offers, so I guess whatever he’s doing is working.” She set it in front of me and wiped her fingers on the towel that permanently hung over her shoulder. “You hear about Sully?”
I sighed. Jim Sullivan lived in a well-kept trailer out in the country between Rockton and Minford. He kept to himself and didn’t come into town much, but even so, he managed to have a fair amount of traffic around his place. Put it all together and you get a rumor factory that made my job that much harder. Two more acres to the south and he’d be another county’s problem.
“What about him?” I tried to keep my words modulated.
“Had a bunch of kids out at his place last night,” she said. “His neighbor Trina was in here this morning and said the racket got so bad she almost called you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She thinks Sully’s running a meth lab.” Her tone told me that she agreed.
I blew on a bite of breakfast before eating it. I moaned as the fat and carbs mingled on my tongue. “My God, Maddie,” I called around the mouthful of food. “Amanda was right, this is perfection.”
Maddie peered out the window. Even though she scowled and said “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she sounded pleased.
“So what about Sully?” Amanda said.
I took a sip of coffee. I didn’t really think that Sully cooked anything except food at his trailer, but I knew if I ignored Amanda by tomorrow morning I’d be labeled as the Sheriff Who Looked the Other Way. “I’ll go check it out,” I said.
The drive out to Sully’s was a quiet one, the only noise being my tires splashing through an occasional puddle. Last night’s rain had washed the fall pollen out of the air and chased every cloud from the sky. The beauty of the day didn’t keep me from ruminating about Sully.
He’d been a year ahead of me in school. He was a loner and didn’t play football or any other sports. That had bugged me. What kind of guy doesn’t like sports? He always had his nose buried in a book or was squirreled away in the library. He attracted the girls, including my junior-year girlfriend Laura Winkle. She broke up with me to go out with Sully, saying something about sensitivity and intellect and my lack thereof. Looking
back, she’d been right.
Anytime I saw Sully in town now, he looked uncomfortable and out-of-sorts, as though he couldn’t wait to get back to his place. I didn’t know if it was being around people or if he just didn’t like Rockton. Why would someone who clearly didn’t like a town or its people choose to live there?
I pulled into his driveway and let the engine idle as I looked around. Several deep tire tracks in the mud on the front lawn told me there had been cars in and out of here during or after the rain. Sully’s trailer had a clean exterior free of rust or loose bits, and a large garden took up most of the back yard. Mums with blooms the size of my fist grew by the front steps, and a decorative post that read “Sullivan Manor” stood by the mailbox. Everything looked so meticulously groomed that I wondered if Sully was gay. Best not to voice that concern. Rockton’s rumor mill would have him hung out to dry before lunch.
My joints creaked as I left my cruiser. Cancer’s a funny thing—I’d felt fine before my diagnosis, but now that I was in the middle of treatment, I felt like an eighty-year-old. I picked my way through the muddy yard, taking care not to turn an ankle, before knocking on the door. “Police,” I said as though he hadn’t seen me coming down the road.
Sully opened the door, his tall frame filling the space. “I might have known you’d be here before noon,” he said, not unkindly.
“Got a minute, Jim?” I said.
“Like coffee?”
“If it’s hot and black, then yes.” I followed him inside to the kitchen and looked around in that casual way they can’t teach you at the training institute. Jim owned a double-wide, so the living room and kitchen were spacious by trailer standards. The carpeting had been vacuumed recently, and none of the shelves or electronics showed any dust. The clean and tidy kitchen counters held only a knife rack and a coffee pot just finishing a brew. Either Jim expected company or he always kept his place neat. I’d seen a few meth labs in my time and they didn’t look like this. I let out a small breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
