The Case of the Little Green Men

by Mack Reynolds

  “Oh. I thought you meant something else. No. No, I’m not.”

  She moved a shoulder and said sadly, “I didn’t think you were.”

  Not knowing how to take that, I let it go and entered the auditorium.

  There must have been a good two hundred persons present at that stage, about one quarter of them female. Possibly twenty-five or thirty were in costume. And when I say costume, I mean exactly that. My Flash Gordon pal was conservative. Half a dozen I could more or less make out — no more. A red devil, complete with trident and tail and horns; an Arabian Djinn with a scimitar as long as his leg; a vampire with a long black cloak and a white face well equipped with fangs. The others were more intricate. There was, for instance, what probably was meant to be a spider-man from Saturn, or some such; a child must have been in that costume, since the spider-man was only about four and a half feet tall.

  Next to me was standing a man with one of the transparent plastic raincoats the women are wearing currently over his head. Through the top of the raincoat were sticking half a dozen tremendous darning needles. I tried to figure it out, watching him from the side of my eyes, but it wouldn’t come.

  Finally, I indicated the get-up and said, “Buddy, what goes on?”

  He said, “The masquerade starts tonight and some of us are already in costume.”

  I couldn’t stand it any longer. I said, “What are you supposed to be?”

  He stared at me, combining haughtiness and contempt for my ignorance. “I’m a pre-natal engram.”

  “Come again?”

  “A pre-natal engram. Haven’t you read dianetics?”

  “I haven’t even heard of it.”

  He snorted disgustedly, said, “You didn’t look clear to me,” and stalked away.

  I looked about the hall. Along the sides were erected a score or so of tables loaded with books and magazines. Some had signs advertising this or that publishing house. I only recognized one or two of the names. I found out later that the science-fantasy field has a half-dozen or more small publishers of its own.

  I began to stalk around easily, wondering what it was that Roget and Maddigan thought I might be able to find here. The books on the table were stacked in neat piles; most of them had covers on the loudish side. They seemed to be fairly well done otherwise.

  I stopped at one table on which there were at least twenty-five different publications and picked up one of them at random. Without Sorcery, by Theodore Sturgeon. It was a collection of shorts which had evidently been reprinted from original magazine stories.

  A youngster next to me gushed, “Don’t you think Sturgeon is wonderful?”

  “Uh?” I grunted at him. Then, “Oh, oh sure. He’s out of this world.” I put the book down and went on to the next exhibit. This table was loaded with old magazines, scores of them. The owner was busily arguing with half a dozen potential customers at once. I picked up one of the publications and thumbed through it. It was pretty well worn, the date was 1939, the cover was gruesome, and the title of the magazine was Unknown.

  The table’s proprietor said, “Trying to complete your collection?”

  “Not exactly,” I told him. Something else seemed to be in order, so I asked, “What’s the price on this?” reaching in my pocket for some change. I figured that I’d look more authentic wandering around the hall if I was carrying a magazine with me.

  “Three dollars,” he told me.

  I glared at him indignantly. “You batty? This magazine is falling apart; it’s more than ten years old.”

  He took it from my hand with as little gentleness as was consistent with the magazine’s condition, and glared back. “That’s the issue in which Sinister Barrier was first — ”

  “All right, all right,” I cut him off, “keep it.” I got on to the next table before he assaulted me.

  It was piled principally with anthologies. Big Book of Science Fiction, edited by Groff Conklin, The Best Science Fiction Stories of 1950, edited by Bleiler and Dikty, Men Against the Stars, Adventures in Time and Space, My Best Science Fiction Story. There must have been at least twenty of them. I thumbed through two or three. A dozen or so authors seemed to predominate: Ray Bradbury, A. E. Van Vogt, Robert Heinlein, Henry Kuttner, Fredric Brown, Eric Frank Russell, Cleve Cartmill.

  I had begun to skim through a story entitled Rat Race by John and Dorothy de Courcy when a voice said, “Hello, Knight. Finding anything of interest?” I looked up at Art Roget. He had his Jimmy Stewart grin back again.

  I put the book back and we shook hands. “Just looking around, getting the lay of the land,” I told him.

  He said, “What did you think of the Zimmer affair?” We moved over to one side, out of earshot of the milling fans.

  “I don’t know,” I said impatiently. “I don’t get it. Did you read that report I sent you and Maddigan?”

  He nodded and remained silent as though he expected me to say something. I said, “That’s all I know. I put it all in the report.”

  “Do you think the extra-terrestrials actually fired a heat ray at Les?” He sounded eager, as though hoping I’d say yes.

  I disappointed him. “No, I don’t,” I said.

  “Well, what do you think? What conclusion did you come to?”

  I stared out over the convention hall. I didn’t have an answer for him — not really. I said, “I haven’t come to a conclusion. I don’t know enough about what’s going on.” I paused a minute, then asked, “Listen, did you subscribe to Harry Shulman’s little magazine?”

  Roget shook his head and began to say something, but I cut him off.

  “How come?” I protested. “You belonged to the same club, you used to issue one together — ”

  He explained, “There’re probably fifty or more fanzines being published in the United States alone, not to speak of Canada, England, Australia, and a few odds and ends of other countries. I take about ten of these. I can’t afford any more. I didn’t particularly like Off-Trail Fantasy; Harry was always getting worked up about this, that, or the other thing. At any rate, I didn’t subscribe. I get McCain’s Wastebasket, Don Day’s Fanscient, and …”

  “All right. You didn’t happen, just by chance, to see a copy of the current Off-Trail Fantasy? Possibly someone else had one.…”

  “No, I don’t think it’s out yet.”

  I said absently, “He had the new issue stashed away in his cellar ready for mailing. Somebody stole them all, burgled the house since his death.”

  “What!” he ejaculated. If I’d suddenly grown antlers, he couldn’t have looked more surprised.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Possibly tied up in that magazine is the motive — the real motive for Harry’s death.”

  His mouth was sagging; he snapped it shut and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know at all. Knight, when Maddigan first suggested hiring you, I thought the whole idea ridiculous. It’s all right making a hobby of investigating the possibility of alien life, but to take it that seriously — ”

  “That’s what Ross Maddigan said,” I muttered.

  “Well, that’s how I felt at first. It was just ridiculous that James Maddigan should spend his good money hiring a detective.”

  “All right,” I said, “but now?”

  Art Roget rubbed his chin, as though checking on his morning shave. “Now I don’t know, Knight. It just piles up too much. I’ve been thinking it over, and over and over again, and the only thing that makes sense is that there are extra-terrestrials here on earth, anxious to keep us in the dark about their activities.”

  We stood there another ten minutes, silent most of the time, both of us thinking. Abstractedly, Roget pointed out a half-dozen of the science fiction celebrities about the hall; abstractedly, I listened to what he said.

  Finally, “Somebody said Bob Carr was here; maybe we ought to talk to him,” Roget said.

  “Who’s Bob Carr?”

  “Haven’t met him myself, but he’s a fan who’s really
hepped on the possibility of alien life forms; he’s done a lot of articles about it.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I think Ross mentioned him. Doesn’t he come from the Middle West somewhere?”

  “Ummm,” he answered, looking out over the crowd. “I think Ross knows him; if we could locate Ross he could introduce us. It might be a good idea to go to one of the rooms and bat the breeze with him for a while.”

  I looked around for Ross Maddigan too. He didn’t seem to be present, unless, of course, he was under one of the costumes. Off hand, Ross didn’t appear to me a guy who’d get himself up in costume, at least not this early in the day.

  But I spotted somebody I did want to see. I said to Roget, “Listen, suppose you try and scout him out. I’ll wander around here looking for him.”

  “Okay,” he said, “there isn’t any particular hurry.” He wedged himself into the crowd and was off.

  I set off in another direction, making my way toward Julie Sharp who stood, cool and amused, at the entrance to the hall.

  She was wearing a dark-blue sheer wool dress which went far to remind you of her figure, but which, by its very simplicity, denied it was doing it. There were pearls at her throat and one at each lobe of her ears. The dab of blue cloth on the edge of her head was a hat.

  “Hello,” I told her, “thought you weren’t enough of a fan to wind up here.”

  She arched her eyebrow at me, behind her king-size, swash-shaped glasses. “And how about you?” Her voice was as softly throaty as I’d remembered it.

  I grinned at her. “I’m working.”

  I led her to one side, where we could hear ourselves think. She said, “I have the afternoon off, so I thought I’d drop in for an hour or so. Ross said these conventions are a lot of fun. Which reminds me, have you seen him?”

  I shook my head. “I was trying to find Ross myself.”

  She said idly, but with an imp peering from within velvet-blue eyes, “Found any little green men yet?”

  I said, “How did you know I was looking for little green men? Besides, everybody tells me they aren’t necessarily green.”

  She laughed under her breath. “Ross told me. What color are they?”

  I played it serious. “Nobody knows; purple maybe.”

  “You ought to be ashamed, taking money for such a job.”

  “Don’t I know it?” I growled. “Trouble is, I need the dough too badly to have scruples. How far can a guy sink, Julie?”

  She finished her search of the hall. “I recognize a few of them here, but I don’t see Ross. Possibly he’s down at the bar.”

  “The bar?”

  Julie turned her eyes back to me. “These conventions, so Ross tells me, are just one long binge — at least for a good many of the attenders. Especially the professionals, I suspect.”

  “But they don’t have a bar in here.”

  She said, “There’s one next door at the Bigelow. Most of the fans have taken rooms there; that is, the ones from out of town. In fact, I believe Ross has a room too, just so he’ll be handy for the four days of the convention — save him from going back and forth from home.”

  “All right, let’s go.” I took her by the arm and led her toward the door. Her flesh, warm beneath my hand, was softly feminine — the warmth spread through my body and I felt my mouth go dry. This girl really had it — and in very large quantities.

  As we walked down the steps, we passed the little spider-man I’d noticed earlier and Julie said, “Heavens, what a cute little fellow.”

  He looked back over his shoulder and leered. “You ain’t so bad yourself, baby.” Our spider-man was only four and a half feet tall, but his voice was that of a grown man. He added, “How you comin’, Jeb?”

  It was Tiny! He’d gone on before I got over my surprise.

  Julie looked after him and laughed. “He seemed to know you,” she said questioningly.

  “My newsdealer,” I told her. “I didn’t recognize him at first. He used to be with a carnival.” I brought the subject back to a point we’d let drop. “Why should the professionals go in for more liquid refreshment than the others?”

  We were passing jabbering groups of fans as we progressed toward the Bigelow and its oasis. Most of them were arguing heatedly. I was beginning to get used to the fact that the fen took their science fiction seriously.

  Julie Sharp didn’t really know. “But I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that on the average the fans are a good deal more earnest about this than the professionals. For the fan, it’s the big thing in life, deadly earnest; for the pro, it’s a living, and most people are able to get rather philosophical about their manner of making a living.”

  We reached the lobby, went out into the street, and headed along the sidewalk toward the Bigelow. There was a street entrance to the cocktail lounge, and we saved ourselves a trip through the hotel foyer.

  The lounge was well filled, all the tables being taken, but we found two stools. Among the bartender’s patrons were two or three costumed fans. At the tables, the arguments were going on heatedly about science fiction versus fantasy; writer Van Vogt versus writer Heinlein; illustrator Hannes Bok versus illustrator Cartier; Astounding versus Planet. The lone bartender needed help; he was dashing around with all the verve of a whirling dervish in a revolving door, but he was losing out. It wasn’t just a matter of beer and straight shots with an occasional Tom Collins order. They wanted a John Brown’s Body, a couple of Zombies and half a dozen other of the more intricate concoctions. One costumed fan, already well into his cups, was loudly demanding a Martian woji.

  I looked at Julie, who was laughing at it all. “Let’s make it simple for him,” I suggested.

  “This weather calls for beer, anyway,” she agreed.

  I told the harassed bartender, “Two beers, please.”

  He said from the heart, “Thanks, folks,” as he popped the tops off the bottles of Bud. He added wistfully, “I been in the business twenty years, but what the hell’s a John Brown’s Body? — Pardon my language, miss.”

  Julie told him seriously, “I don’t blame you.”

  I dropped a dollar bill onto the bar, but he was too harried to make change. He dashed off to take more orders, and to pull a shaker of frozen daiquiris from his mixer.

  Julie sipped her beer and said, “He must feel like he’s in a den of Bems.”

  “Den of what?”

  She said, “You know, Jeb, that’s how I first spotted you at Ross’s party as not really being a fan. You didn’t know what a Bem was.”

  “All right, so you spotted me. I still don’t know.”

  “A bug-eyed monster.”

  I took a swallow of the beer and looked back at her. “I don’t think I got that.”

  She laughed, that light laugh of hers. “Jeb, I think your greatest charm is that you usually don’t quite get it. Well, anyway, in science fiction stories when the writers are trying to describe an alien life form, they almost invariably dream up some horrible-looking creature which the fans dub Bems, bug-eyed monsters.”

  “All right,” I conceded, “I don’t know how we got side-tracked like this. Didn’t we come looking for Ross?”

  “Ross isn’t here,” she said; then the imp was in her eyes again. “Do you really want to find him?”

  I ran my eyes about the place as though just noting the fact. “You’re right,” I told her; “let’s have another drink and figure out what we ought to do about it.” I motioned to the bartender and made circular motions with my hand over our glasses. He nodded and in another couple of minutes had fresh ones before us.

  “Jeb,” Julie said, “some nice girl ought to take you in hand.”

  “I’m available,” I told her eagerly.

  Just then a bellhop stuck his head in the door and called, “Mr. Knight. Paging Mr. Knight. Mr. Knight.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I swore inwardly, but looked over at the bellboy and called, “That’s me.”

  The bellboy was no boy; h
e was at least thirty and his bored cynicism, acquired over the years, had begun to bring out highlights of sophistication, craftiness and misanthropy in his face. He came closer to be handy for a tip and said, “Phone call, Mr. Knight.”

  “All right,” I said. I turned back to Julie. “Would you mind waiting here? Only be a minute.”

  She smiled. “Not at all.”

  I followed the bellhop to the lobby and he indicated the house phones which were sheltered in a small alcove to one side of the reservation desk. “You can take it here,” he said. I slipped him a dime. He scowled at it, pocketed it, and left without thanks. What was he expecting — did I look like a movie star?

  I took up one of the half-dozen phones and said, “This is Jeb Knight; there was a call for me.”

  The operator whined, “Just a moment, please.”

  A new voice said, “Good afternoon; Maddigan and Maddigan.” There was the sound of typewriters in the background, and the voice was that of one of James Maddigan’s office girls. I remembered her tone.

  “This is Jeb Knight,” I told her.

  “One moment, please, I’ll connect you with Mr. Maddigan.” There was another click and Maddigan’s worried voice said, “Knight?”

  “Speaking, Mr. Maddigan. What can I do for you?”

  “How’s the convention going?”

  “All right, I guess,” I told him. “This is my first, so I can hardly compare them.”

  “I’ll be through here at the office in possibly two hours and shall come down immediately. Are there many in attendance?”

  “Couple of hundred or so, I’d say.” I wondered if he’d called me to find out how the convention was being attended, to check on whether I was really here earning my dough, or what.

  He said, “Knight, I thought of something after I conversed with you last. You’ll recall you wished to know whether or not I subscribed to Harry Shulman’s fanzine?”

  “Yes.”

  “It has just occurred to me that Ross does. My nephew Ross. Possibly he has a copy of the current issue.”

  “I doubt it,” I said thoughtfully. “It looks as though the whole edition was there in Harry’s cellar except, of course, for the single copy he gave me.”