The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Gee,” said Jake Camden, “I wonder which alternative has your vote, Davis!”

  “Jake, be quiet,” said Marsha Manning. “Go on, Lowell. Please. I know that Jake has probably heard this before, but I certainly haven’t and I find it fascinating.”

  Davis nodded. His face had assumed a totally serious cast; clearly he was very enrapt in his thoughts and feelings on this matter. His voice held conviction too; Marsha had absolutely no doubt about the sincerity of what he was saying. She was fascinated by this man. He had so much positive energy about him, not in a particularly charismatic way, but in a solid, earthy manner. Salt and gourmet seasoning of the Earth.

  Still, she had to wonder if it was all him—she’d downed three large glasses of wine already, and was most of the way through a fourth. It was just so delicious and the company was so good, and she was just so annoyed that Everett Scarborough would let his pride prevent him from being here, and she liked the release from anxiety the wine gave her so much, that she’d just sipped away at it, heedless.

  Besides, she had a bed to sleep in tonight, right? Right! Let Everett Scarborough rot out there in that mammoth mobile pensioner’s coffin.

  The remains of their meal lay scattered about the table, quiche crusts, salad bits, rinds of French bread. It had all tasted terrific—fresh, home-cooked, and with that special extra dash that gets thrown into the mix by gourmet preparation. Camden had simply wolfed his down, whereas she had savored each morsel, even as she savored the conversation with this interesting if decidedly unusual man.

  She became so involved with the conversation, in fact, that she hardly noticed that Davis was pouring her another glass of wine, and then another, and then bringing up more bottles. She was so intrigued by his manner and by what he had to say that she didn’t object when Jake Camden’s glass somehow always seemed to be half-empty. Not that it seemed to matter much anymore, anyway. The alcoholic haze that had penetrated her through and through seemed to prevent anything from mattering much. Anything except the words that dripped from this handsome man’s mouth like those proverbial pearls of wisdom.

  Fascinating? Did she say that she found Lowell Davis’ words fascinating? No, they were much more than merely fascinating—they were absolutely entrancing!

  “Why, thank you, Marsha. I do intend to go on. Some people say I go on and on... But I think I have important things to say, so I just want to make myself heard.” He took another short sip of wine and then plunged into his lecture. “It’s been the crux of not just my meager nonfiction, you know. It’s been the soul of my fiction as well. Life on other planets in this universe. Intelligent life!”

  “Right. I told her,” said Camden. “But more specifically, intelligent life visiting Earth and buzzing around in flying saucers. “

  “Oh, hardly ever flying saucers, Jake. Only in Nocturnal and The Alabaster did I make the Visitors’ mode of travel the conventional flying saucer—and then, in each of those, I did use the saucers more as metaphors than as actual possibilities. You see, I do try to make spaceships scientifically feasible, Marsha. No, mostly I don’t concentrate on the objective, empirical, and I must say often downright silly supposed facts of extraterrestrial visitation like saucers, men in black, conspiracies, that whole mythology. I personally believe that all of that junk serves as distractions from a very central fact. A fact that I return to again and again. Not only is there intelligent life other than us in the universe, but they’ve been observing us, traveling amongst us, perhaps even influencing our history—for centuries, perhaps, but most likely just in the past hundred or so years.”

  “Yes,” said Marsha. “Jake was saying as much earlier. But what proof do you have of that?”

  “Proof? Well, I’ve got a couple of filing cabinets’ worth of documents and cut-out newspaper items, along with notes from investigators’ journals, photographs, blah-blah-blah. Oh, and a whole room’s worth of books and movies on the subject. But you know, we could sift through all that and dissect it for years and what will happen? Not much. Because it’s not really proof. It’s just evidence, and much of it, I suspect, is bogus. Which is why it’s so easy for people like Klass and Scarborough to destroy with such delicious delight. This is the reason why all the people who’ve been beating their drums about flying saucers and abductions and what-have-you are on the wrong track. Oh maybe about two or three percent of their evidence is correct and real and incredibly wonderful. But the question is, which three percent? I think it’s very much like philosophers and scientists trying to prove the existence of God... when the basic existence of God for every man comes in personal experience here—” he tapped his head. “Here—” he touched his eyes “And here—” he patted his heart. “Oh, don’t mistake me... I like to trot out facts as much as the next man. But that’s not my main stock in trade. That’s why I like to work with fiction. With fiction, you can tell the truth by lying. With fiction, you can talk about the range of possibilities of Visitors, all the ramifications, psychological, spiritual, sociological, and political—without being called on the carpet and asked to present dismal facts.”

  “C’mon, c’mon—I know we’ve had this argument before, Davis, but really!” Camden reached out for the bottle of wine, and a voice in the back of Marsha’s head nattered something about suggesting that the man put a plug on his drinking. But then, total indifference blocked that suggestion handily. Besides, she had no intention of stopping her drinking. She was having far too good a time. Besides, what harm would it do? Jake would drink too much, talk a lot, and then pass out. “I mean, granted in my position as UFO editor for the Intruder, I printed totally ludicrous facts. But how can you expect people to even start to believe you if you don’t have facts.”

  “Jake, you’re quite right if you’re talking about bookkeeping or history or science. But this kind of territory is not what I’m dealing with. Like I say, we could talk facts for a very long time indeed. Argue, dispute, debate. I think, however, that in this kind of discussion... and certainly in the province of fiction, we’re dealing with the almost mystical areas of faith. “

  Boy, Marsha could certainly see why this man and Everett Scarborough locked horns! “You’re saying that your theories of alien occupation of Earth are entirely religious.”

  “No. Actually, they aren’t.”

  Camden laughed almost jubilantly. “This is where old Davis gets himself into the nut category. He’s a contactee. “

  Marsha was surprised. A contactee? Did that mean that this erudite, interesting man was actually just like all the rest of the people who claimed to have been taken on board flying saucers for powwows with Jesus?

  But when she turned to check this out with Davis, she saw that the man looked infinitely pained.

  “You’ve been on a flying saucer?” The challenging words seemed to issue from her mouth of their own accord.

  “No, no, of course not.” He sighed. “I really would prefer not to be called a contactee, Jake. That lumps me in with all the loonies. I may be eccentric in my way—but I am most definitely not a loony!”

  “Well, hell, man! What am I supposed to call you? You claim that you talk to them.”

  “Them? The aliens, you mean?” Marsha queried.

  “I would have preferred to present this in my own fashion,” said Davis, glaring at Camden but not without amusement. “At the very start of my career as a science fiction writer, I wrote a book called Star Landing. It was about a group of aliens who came to earth after World War II and the explosion of the atomic bomb for, well, I suppose disarmament talks... after a secret investigation, on the aliens’ part, into human culture and the political situation. It wasn’t at all popular. In fact, it sold very poorly and got a lot of bad reviews in science fiction magazines as being too fringe.”

  “Fringe?”

  “Nut culture,” explained Camden. “You have to understand that most science fiction sorts don’t consider themselves as cultist, strange, or freaky. Although many of them are just t
hat.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t seem a weirdo in any sense, Lowell!”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, my dear.” Davis patted her hand and then brushed it in such a way so as to cause pleasant tingles to shoot up her ann. “I don’t think I am either. I just do what I feel I must. But let me continue my narrative. Not long after the publication of Star Landing, I received a phone call. The voice was deep, authoritative, riveting. ‘Regarding your recent novel,’ said the man, ‘you are close. Thank you. Continue your excellent efforts. We, perhaps, will talk again.’

  “Now, normally, I would have considered it just a crank call. But I had an unlisted phone number! I tried to forget it, but simply couldn’t. It haunted me. I thought—my goodness, what if I did strike some sort of cosmic nerve? What if this was a voice from somewhere Out There?”

  “Out there—as in, from another planet?”

  “Yes. I mean, why not? This country, this culture, is so locked into a narrow view of reality! Your average citizen believes the pabulum that is fed to him in schools! So I thought to myself then, Lowell—don’t dismiss this call right away. Just put it on the back shelf of your mind and see what happens. Take your literary efforts to where they care to go—explore the possibilities. And then if you get any more calls from Mr. X...”

  “Hey!” called Jake. “What an original name!”

  Davis chuckled and smiled congenially. “Yes, isn’t it? But it serves its purpose. Would you care for some more wine, my dear?”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” said Marsha, extending her hand with her glass. Davis obligingly poured. “So did you hear from the caller again?”

  “Not for several years. But that one call had unleashed a great deal of thought on my part and my extrapolations grew. And I started getting more and better critical attention. I felt absolutely exploding with inspiration! Come—would you like to see my books and articles? They’re in my study.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Do we have to walk?”

  “My golf cart’s on the blink, I’m afraid.”

  “Darn.” Still, when they got to their feet, Jake got up as well. For Marsha’s part, she felt a little bit dizzy, but more in a pleasantly giddy way than anything else.

  Davis led them down a corridor covered with attractive paintings, and clicked on the light of a well-appointed office. It was filled with everything imaginable for a modern writer’s office—from state of the art computer to laser printer, copier, and FAX machine. The room was also filled with framed covers of all of Lowell Davis’s numerous books.

  “Over here,” said Davis. He gestured to bookshelves in front of the desk. “Now, up to this point here it was all my inspiration. But then, when I got past this book here, Clarion of the Stars... I got another call.”

  “Mr. X?”

  “None other. We talked for a long time. He told me what was right and wrong with my extrapolations about the future and visitations to the planet Earth. He told me that aliens indeed had come to Earth secretly to survey, evaluate, and then contact and educate. But then, there were problems. Secret forces of governments hunted them. Reevaluations were made. And then readjustments to plans. Now, I would normally not have listened to such a monologue. I am not exactly the most open author for criticism. But this was an exceptional individual... He knew astounding things. And even if it wasn’t true, it was stuff that I could use! And he was giving it to me for free!

  “Naturally, I had to use my excellent literary ability to make it into the art it presently became... nonetheless, I cannot discount the value of the contributions of my caller.

  “Nor did he stop there. He called regularly after that. I asked if there was somewhere I could send my work in manuscript form for an evaluation, but he demurred. No. He just wanted to handle it this way.”

  “Did you ask him who the hell he was? And where he was from?” asked Jake.

  “Oh, indeed I did! But he said he preferred to remain anonymous... And he often even referred to himself in the third person and to the whole operation as being hypothetical. I’ve referred to this story in my nonfiction books—which is why I’ve gotten a slight reputation as a kook. “

  “You don’t seem like a kook to me at all,” said Marsha.

  “Thank you so much for the vote of confidence,” said Davis with gentle sarcasm. “Now then, why don’t we go back out to the sitting room and enjoy some music and this lovely company.”

  As she was leaving the room, Marsha looked down at her glass of wine and was surprised to find that it was almost empty. She’d been gulping it! She really should slow down, she thought to herself.

  “Right,” said Camden, weaving his way back out to the sitting room with them. “And it was those nonfiction books that really caught the UFO community’s attention... And the flak from Everett Scarborough. “

  “More wine. Marsha?” said Davis, seeing the state of her glass.

  “No, I better not. “

  “Okay. Just let me know when you need some. Now, as I was saying—”

  Davis was interrupted by a knocking at the door.

  “Hmmm. I wonder who that could be! Don’t get too many visitors at this hour here in this part of town!” He went to the foyer, opened the door.

  “I’ve got a good guess,” said Camden.

  Marsha Manning followed him just enough to get a view of the door.

  Davis opened it, and a blast of fresh cool forest air curled in.

  Standing there, looking quite unhappy, was Everett Scarborough.

  Chapter 12

  It only took an hour for Everett Scarborough to get over his sulk, but considerably longer to drum up the nerve to actually go and knock on the door of a nemesis’s home.

  It wasn’t that the interior of the Winnebago was uncomfortable; far from it. The place had all the amenities of home, right up to a huge battery supplying lights, a stereo tape system, a TV/radio, and a small library of books and magazines. However, as his luck lately was wont to have it, the tape selection had neither jazz nor classical music but rather Wayne Newton, Dean Martin, and Mantovanni albums; the only thing the TV could pick up was a local UHF station screening of Godzilla Versus Mothra; the only radio was top-40 rock; the magazines were old Reader’s Digests, and the books were a complete set of Robert Ludlum’s novels, with a couple of Judith Krantz’s thrown in for spite, with not even a Mac MacKenzie book thrown in for literary redemption. Either the Others had a terrible sense of humor, or John Keel, the paranormal investigator, was right about who was behind all the strange things that happened in this world.

  John Keel. Now why had he thought about that guy? Maybe because he was parked in an RV outside another oddball writer’s house.

  Everett Scarborough sat on an uncomfortable mattress, thumbing through a Reader’s Digest article on pepping up your married love life while the badly dubbed Japanese monster movie hummed and fluttered faintly in the background for company. He finished the flat remainder of a beer, then went and got himself another one. The empty Coors can clacked into a paper bag beside four others; the one in his hand was the last of a six-pack, and Scarborough had been so steamed with this whole ridiculous situation that he’d only just begun to feel the alcohol—thank God! He cracked the top, sipped down the spume, and went back to the bunk. Even though the place was large enough, he felt rather claustrophobic. The smell of today’s breakfast bacon still hung in the air, along with the remains of smoke from a cigarette that Camden must have sneaked in the can—Marsha made him smoke outside.

  John Keel’s theories kept rolling in Scarborough’s head. Keel was a prominent UFO writer whose books included The Mothman Prophecies and The Eighth Tower. He was the one screwball UFOoI writer whom Scarborough had found not only readable and interesting, but a halfway decent writer—until Streiber anyway. And Keel at least had a sense of humor. Although he had basically blown the man’s presented evidence apart in his own books and articles, Keel was the only credulous writer Scarborough ha
d actually encouraged people to read, with the caveat of course that much of what he wrote was nonsense, and his theories were probably the wackiest of all.

  Now, though, Everett Scarborough wasn’t so sure...

  What Keel hypothesized principally was that UFOs were only the latest of a series of phenomena upon the Earth that started with fairies and pixies in medieval times, and included such present-day creatures as the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, and the Abominable Snowman. All these paranormal occurrences were the efforts of some extradimensional cosmic prankster intent on giving mankind’s collective unconscious a hotfoot. Scarborough had called Keel an “entertaining and convincing writer who deserves to be read along with the best science fiction writers; although that is what the man actually writes, calling it fact—wild and woolly science fiction.”

  Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  After all, once he got past the trauma of this entire experience and could look on it with some kind of perspective, this whole thing could be seen as some tragic prank pulled upon a proud, self-satisfied man. Yes, if there was indeed a joker in the great dimensional netherworld, guiding these events, then he must be watching this spectacle of Doctor Everett Scarborough parked outside of Lowell Edmund Davis’s house in a Winnebago with a great deal of perverse glee.

  Scarborough threw the Reader’s Digest across the room and gulped down half the Coors can.

  Dammit, he thought, as the resultant belch shuddered through him. What the hell was he doing out here anyway, stewing in his juices while Marsha and Camden were having a high old time inside that beautiful house with Lowell Davis. Earlier, he had fancied he’d heard laughter; and when he’d poked his head out of the door, looking up at that demi-castle upon the hill, he knew he heard music. Damned fine house too, clearly influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright and yet with its own architectural nuances. Scarborough knew from his reading that Davis had designed the thing himself; had it built to his own specifications in order to have such features as the satellite dish and personal observatory, but he’d never bothered to check for pictures of it. This place definitely showed intelligence; Scarborough had to admit that. Too, Davis really wasn’t such a bad writer; Scarborough had actually enjoyed some of his earlier fiction before those two books and their altercations had sullied the fiction’s memory for him.