Uncanny Tales

by Robert Sheckley

  The Ladies’ Auxiliary gave out the food, and they had a collection point just beyond, where everyone paid what they could. I dropped in a Synestrian bill that I had just been paid in for a novelette. A lot of people came around to look at the bill and there was a lot of ooing and aahing, because Synestrian bills are really pretty, though they’re so thick you can’t fold them and put them in your billfold and so they tend to make an unsightly bulge in your pocket.

  One of the men from the Big Red composite cruised over and looked at my Synestrian bill. He held it up to the light and watched the shapes and colors chase each other.

  “That’s mighty pretty,” he said. “You ever think of framing it and hanging it on the wall?”

  “I was just about to think about that,” I said.

  He decided he wanted the bill and asked me how much I wanted for it. I quoted him a price about three times its value in USA currency. He was delighted with the price. Holding the bill carefully by one corner, he sniffed at it delicately.

  “That’s pretty good,” he said.

  Now that I thought about it, I realized that Synestrian money did have a good smell.

  “These are prime bills,” I assured him.

  He sniffed again. “You ever eat one of these?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. The notion had never occurred to me.

  He nibbled at a corner. “Delicious!”

  Seeing him enjoying himself like that got me jealous. I wanted a taste myself. But it was his bill now. I had sold it to him. All I had was bland old American currency.

  I searched through my pockets. I was clean out of Synestrian bills. I didn’t even have one left to hang on my wall back home, and I certainly didn’t have one to eat.

  It was just one more reminder for me of how life had changed since the aliens had come.

  And then I noticed Rimb, melding all by herself in a corner, and she looked so cute doing it that I went over to join her.

  Dukakis and the Aliens

  Do you remember Michael Dukakis? This story, written for Mike Resnick’s anthology “Alternate Presidents,” explores Dukakis learning what is actually going on. An alternate reality for an alternate president.

  Dukakis had always known that first day in the White House was going to be weird. But he could never have guessed how weird. The strangeness began as soon as he was alone in the Oval Office. He sat down in the big presidential command chair and closed his eyes, just for a moment, to dream again the dream that had come true—himself, President, sitting in the Oval Office, the highest office on the planet, and almost certainly the whole solar system with all its asteroids and comets… .

  “Mr. President, sir?”

  Dukakis’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t even heard anyone come in. Rubber-soled shoes, he supposed. But he hadn’t even heard the door open. He’d left word everyone was to leave him alone until he called for them. And now here was this guy, early thirties, balding, leaning anxiously over him. The guy’s dark hair was cut short and parted on the left. He wore a dark blue suit. There was a small white flower in his buttonhole.

  “Yes, what is it?” Dukakis asked. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Watkins, sir,” the man said. “One of your new Secret Service guards.”

  “Yes, Watkins, what can I do for you?”

  “Sir, there are certain matters of state secrecy that we members of the presidential bodyguard are sworn to divulge to the new president as soon as he is physically inside the Oval Office.”

  “Must that be right now?” Dukakis asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “You can understand our hurry, Mr. President. There are matters of highest importance of which the public is not really informed. Not even the inner circle of advisors and experts knows everything, and certainly not all the details. The only person who knows it all is the president. He is the final arbiter, the place where the buck stops, the man who has to at last decide what should be done.”

  “Done about what?” Dukakis asked.

  “That is for you to decide, sir, after I have divulged to you what is arguably the biggest secret of this or any administration in the past or even into the foreseeable future.”

  Dukakis laughed. “What is it? Are you going to introduce me to little green aliens?”

  Watkins paled visibly. “Has someone already gotten to you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Dukakis said. “I was making a joke.”

  “The aliens are no joke,” Watkins said. “Come with me, sir, and I’ll take you to them.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The aliens, sir. I’m taking you now to meet them.”

  “Not now,” Dukakis said. “I’m really not up for aliens. And I’m supposed to meet the President of Nigeria in fifteen minutes.”

  Watkins made an expression of concern. “I had hoped, sir, that we could do this expeditiously.”

  “What about next Tuesday, between ten and eleven, for the aliens?” Dukakis asked.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be soon enough for them,” Watkins said.

  Dukakis laughed, then noticed that Watkins was not laughing. Dukakis’s face resumed its familiar lugubrious non-smiling lines. He asked, jokingly, but in a tone that one could take seriously, too, if one wanted to, “What do we care what will or will not be soon enough for them?”

  “I’m afraid we care very much,” Watkins said. “This is a matter of the utmost urgency. Please come with me, Mr. President. There are some people you need to meet. I suppose ‘people’ is the correct word.”

  Dukakis stirred uneasily. This first Secret Service briefing wasn’t going the way he had anticipated. Why hadn’t anyone told him about this alien thing? He felt out of his depth.

  “I’d like to call in my advisors,” Dukakis said.

  “We’d prefer you didn’t,” Watkins said. “Not yet. You can consult with them after you’ve learned about the alien matter. But not before. You must be briefed first so that you can decide how much to tell your advisors.”

  “I don’t understand what it is I’m being briefed on,” Dukakis said.

  “You will very shortly,” Watkins said. “If we may just proceed…”

  The Secret Service man seemed to be familiar with the Oval Office. He walked to a tall closet and unlocked it with a key from his pocket. Dukakis looked in over his shoulder. There was a long row of suits hanging on a rack. Watkins pushed them aside, revealing, behind them, the open-framed ironwork of a small elevator.

  “I didn’t know this was here,” Dukakis said.

  Watkins smiled. “You weren’t supposed to. Not until now.”

  Watkins opened the gate. Dukakis walked into the elevator. Watkins came in behind him and closed the gate. Dukakis went to the switchboard. There were four floors listed.

  “Which one should I press?” Dukakis asked.

  “None of them,” Watkins said. “These just go to the parking garages under the White House.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” Using a Swiss Army knife, Watkins pried at the panel. It came loose. Behind it was a single red button caged in a wire holder. Watkins took off the wire container.

  “Now you can press it,” he said to Dukakis.

  Dukakis pressed the red button. There was a soft hum of machinery. The elevator began to move down, then sideways. It picked up speed alarmingly.

  “What’s powering this thing?” Dukakis asked.

  “Tesla coil,” Watkins said.

  “Never heard of it,” Dukakis said.

  “The full technology has never been released to the public.”

  “Why not, if it’s so good?”

  “That’s part of what we’ll be explaining to you, sir.”

  “Where are we going?” Dukakis asked.

  “To the secret installation under Dulces, New Mexico.”

  “New Mexico? But that’s thousands of miles away!”

  “Two thousand and seven miles from Washington, to be exact. But magnet
ic induction travel like we’re doing is very rapid.”

  “You said the secret base?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t know we had any secret base there.”

  “We don’t, strictly speaking. We have an Air Force base. The aliens, however, have a secret base under ours.”

  “Underneath? You mean under the ground?”

  “Yes, sir. There are nine underground levels to it.”

  “That’s a big underground city,” Dukakis said.

  “Yes, it is, sir.”

  Watkins felt along the wall of the elevator, pressed two small buttons. Cushioned seats unfolded into existence. A secret bar opened from the wall.

  “You’ve got everything in here!” Dukakis said admiringly.

  “Even a fax machine. Though we’re traveling so fast as to make use of one unnecessary.”

  Dukakis made himself comfortable. Watkins opened one of the floor panels and took out lunch. Dukakis thought the turkey sandwiches were a little dry, but they were pretty tasty; real turkey breast, not that pressed stuff. A bottle of High Sierra Beer washed it down nicely. Whoever stocked this place knew his beer, Dukakis decided.

  There were current newspapers in a little rack. Dukakis read for a while, then tried to figure out the rate of speed they were traveling at. But he couldn’t work it out. Looking at his watch, he saw they had been in the elevator for almost two hours.

  He looked at Watkins. Watkins, seated opposite him, had his hands clasped behind his neck and was rocking gently back and forth.

  Dukakis was not amused by the whole situation. But he had begun to wonder if this might be some sort of plot. He thought about old political rivalries. He thought about the Soviets, and the Mafia. Was someone out to get him? Was he being paranoid? Where did paranoia end and prudence begin?

  At last the elevator came to a stop. Watkins opened the door.

  Outside there was a long corridor.

  “Now we walk,” Watkins said. “I’m sorry about that, but this part of the transportation system hasn’t been completed yet. I don’t need to tell you who’s behind the delay.”

  Dukakis didn’t know what Watkins was talking about but decided not to ask. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Dulces, New Mexico. Underneath it, I mean. In the topmost level of the alien underground base.”

  “But what are we here for?”

  “They need to know your decision, Mr. President.”

  “On what?”

  “Well, sir, that’s what the briefing will be all about.”

  They walked down a tunnel-like corridor. It had curving sides, and there were lights recessed into the ceiling. The walls seemed to be made of polished aluminum. There was a soft hum, as of machinery somewhere behind the walls.

  Dukakis was getting a little more nervous now. He knew he shouldn’t have come out here without a bodyguard. And he ought to have checked up on Watkins before following him blindly like this, all the way to New Mexico. If only he’d had a day or two in office to accustom himself to command! He hoped he didn’t end up paying for being too easygoing.

  They continued down the long tubular hallway with the little lights spaced at three-foot intervals in the ceiling. Neither was saying anything.

  After a while Dukakis could see a door at the end of the hall. There was a guard standing in front of it. The guard was very tall, and he was dressed in a dark blue uniform with crimson and gold epaulets. Dukakis made a mental note to find out what branch of the service the guard belonged to. His uniform was not familiar. Dukakis noted also that the man’s face was a featureless blank.

  “Who is that guy?” Dukakis asked in a whisper.

  “Oh, he’s one of the Synthetics,” Watkins said. “Don’t worry, he’s on our side.”

  They stopped in front of the guard.

  “May we pass?” Watkins asked.

  “Just a minute,” the guard said. He was holding an odd-shaped handgun with a flaring bell-shaped muzzle. “Papers, please.”

  Watkins took two plastic-enclosed folders from one of his inside pockets and handed them to the guard.

  The guard glanced at them, nodded. “Now I must perform the physical inspection.”

  “Certainly not!” Watkins said. “Not on him. He’s the President!”

  “I have my orders,” the guard said. “You know what they say: in the Goblin Universe, anyone can wear anyone’s face.”

  “But this place is fully shielded against intrusion.”

  “That’s what they thought at Ada, Oklahoma,” the guard said.

  “Oh,” Watkins said. “I had forgotten.”

  “Please, sir, don’t make me use force.”

  “Oh, very well.” Watkins turned to Dukakis. “It’s just a formality, sir. He needs to look up your nostrils with a little instrument.”

  “I don’t entirely understand—” Dukakis gasped as the guard seized him, pulled him forward. It seemed best not to resist. The guard tilted Dukakis’s head back with one hand and shone a small light up his nostrils with the other. He peered into both nostrils, then turned off his light and released Dukakis.

  “You may proceed,” the guard said.

  Dukakis was still stunned. Watkins pulled him down the corridor. The two men walked along in silence for a while, until the guard was out of sight.

  “What was that all about?” Dukakis asked.

  “He was looking for implants, sir,” Watkins said.

  “What are implants?”

  “Controlling devices put directly into the brain. They insert them up the nostril, sir, into an area near the optic nerve. Implanted subjects have no control over their actions.”

  Dukakis frowned. “I do not believe the nostril connects directly with the optic nerve area.”

  “I realize that, sir. They have to drill a tiny laser hole and then put in the insert.”

  “Who is this ‘They’? Who does this?”

  “We’re not entirely sure,” Watkins said. “At first we thought it was the Zeta Reticulis Grays, but now we’re not. We suspect the implanting to be the work of advance elements of reptiloids from Draco. There’s still a chance it’s being done by the Grays, however, since no one has seen a reptiloid on Earth and lived to report it.”

  “Who are these Grays?” Dukakis asked.

  Watkins smiled ironically. “We used to think they were our friends. Now some of us are having second thoughts about working with them. But please don’t tell them I said so.” Watkins glanced at his watch. “Damn! We’re really late! And there’s miles of corridor ahead. But I think there’s a shortcut around here somewhere… .”

  Watkins felt along the wall, found a place, pushed it. A section of the wall slid out, revealing another, smaller passageway.

  It was dark inside. Dukakis looked at Watkins questioningly. “Please don’t balk now,” Watkins said. “We simply have to do it.” Dukakis grimaced, shrugged, and followed Watkins into the hole.

  They walked along in the dark for a while. Then the corridor widened out and there were low lights set into the walls. By this dim glow Dukakis could make out that they were in a large room furnished with big vats, bathtubs, and stone tables.

  “What sort of place is this?” Dukakis asked.

  “Well, it’s a sort of workshop,” Watkins said. “I’m sorry I have to bring you through here, sir, but we are in a hurry.”

  As Dukakis’s eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw there were hooks set into the low stone ceiling. From those hooks hung chunks of meat, still dripping with blood. Dukakis could see coils of entrails hanging over several hooks. Some of the chunks of meat were entire torsos, thighs, hams, buttocks. All or most of them appeared to be human. As he became aware of this, the rank, rotting smell of the meat rose up and assailed his nostrils.

  “Ugh!” cried Dukakis.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Watkins said, handing the president a handkerchief that had been impregnated with a strong perfume.

  “Those dripping t
hings hanging from the hooks…”

  “I know, sir. It doesn’t look good. I’m sorry we had to come this way.”

  They came to a row of white porcelain bathtubs. Each was filled with what seemed to be a noisome and horrific experiment. In one, there was a headless male torso, and from the region of its stomach a hand was growing. The other tubs contained similar necrotic apparitions.

  “Gawk,” Dukakis said, retching.

  Watkins shook his head and in a grim voice said, “It is what comes of aliens using the Earth as a dumping ground for genetic engineering projects from all over the galaxy for all these years. We’ve complained about it, sir.”

  Farther on they passed a big vat seven feet deep, ten yards long by five yards wide. In it were hunks of meat, both animal and human—haunches, shoulders, hands. Splashing around among the hunks of meat were small gray men. They seemed to be having a good time. They were playing a sort of volleyball with human heads.

  Dukakis mastered himself. “Who is responsible for this atrocity?”

  Watkins said grimly, “It seems to be the work of the Short Grays of Zeta Reticuli. The other Grays, the tall ones, rely on glandular secretions and follow a much less messy procedure. It’s those damned Short Grays who like to bathe in the stuff, even though it isn’t strictly necessary for their survival.”

  “It’s not?” Dukakis said.

  “No, sir. They could take care of their bodily needs much more quietly by a mincing of human and animal parts painted onto their vital organs with a fine-haired brush. But no, they insist on bathing with the human parts.”

  “But why?” Dukakis asked.

  “They give many reasons, but the chief thing seems to be to serve their perverted sense of humor.”

  “You mean they find this sort of thing funny?” Dukakis asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid so. They start giggling as soon as they get into the vat. When they push the first floating parts aside, they begin to get their first bursts of hysterical laughter.”

  “But that’s horrible!”

  “It is a sure sign of their alienness,” Watkins said. “Aliens don’t have much regard for things that are sacred to us humans, like our bodies.”