The Alien MEGAPACK®

by Talmage Powell

  “I hate eggs,” Georgie said.

  Lou, who was beginning to feel the same way, started for his car. Susie ran after him. “You forgot your lunch.” She handed him six hard-boiled eggs.

  In the park, where he went to eat lunch, Lou traded three of the eggs for a loaf of bread. He’d struck up an acquaintance with a baker’s helper.

  * * * *

  It was getting so that Lou automatically woke up at 3 a.m. He lay in silent darkness for a while, then heard a succession of soft plopping sounds on the roof. He pulled on his bathrobe and went outdoors. The lawn seemed to be covered with ping-pong balls. No, bigger—they were white but each was the size of a kid’s high bouncer. When he picked one up it gave in his hand as a rubber ball did. Lou shook his head and went back to bed.

  In the morning, he was awake before Susie. He went out and threw one of the round white things against the stone steps. Instead of bouncing it smashed. A red and white liquid spilled out. In the few hours since the things had fallen their casings had become brittle, like eggshells.

  Lou was dismayed. He felt his egg-based economy beginning to crack wide open.

  He bent down to sniff at the thing he had smashed. The liquid had a meaty, nourishing smell.

  He gathered up a handful of the spheres and took them to the kitchen. He cracked their shells and fried them in a pan; a delicious aroma filled the air. Cooked, their consistency was that of Welsh rabbit. Tasted, they were reminiscent of lobster. He nibbled cautiously at first, then ate hungrily.

  The members of the South Waterford Rumple Club, to whom Lou communicated his discovery, were almost as happy with the rain of lobster meat as they had been with the alien’s original money drop, and soon the entire country was enjoying free high-protein meals. Some connoisseurs claimed that the food from the sky tasted like squid.

  The connoisseurs turned out to be prophets. The trouble with the alien eggs was that, if kept, they hatched out octopi. The little creatures looked just like the description of the aliens given by the man from the Fish and Wildlife Service. They had pseudopods and bright orange mandibles.

  The question of whether they could be eaten after they hatched was academic for two reasons. They didn’t wait around to be captured. They moved on their eight legs more swiftly than spiders and were always just out of reach. In the second place, the aliens now flew over every day, punctually at 3 a.m., dropping a new batch. People soon learned how to tell the fresh eggs from the day-old ones. Off-white freckles on them indicated that they were new and edible. When the freckles faded the eggs were ready to hatch.

  As the octopi grew—and they grew fast—the federal government sent troops to seal off South Waterford. But this was a futile precaution because South Waterford was now only twenty-four hours ahead of the rest of the country, and all the government got was a preview of the end.

  Lou Aramis, after breakfasting heartily on lobster-like (or squid-like) egg meat, stepped out on his lawn to gather up a few more freckled spheres. He forgot his mission when he saw a fully grown creature hanging by two of its eight tentacles from the lowest branch of his catalpa tree. One of the other six tentacles beckoned Lou closer. The intelligent eyes of the thing were appraising him.

  Lou, unable to resist the bidding, went to within arm’s length. He felt neither fear nor repugnance as the alien creature reached out a tentacle and laid it on his shoulder. It might have been a caress, or a dubbing to knighthood, or the gesture of a master to a worthy slave.

  The alien spoke, and there were overtones which suggested to Lou that similar scenes were taking place all over South Waterford and would be repeated twenty-four hours later throughout the United States.

  His particular alien said to him: “I think we can use you.” Lou knew then as surely as if it had been explained to him by the League of Women Voters, or by the President himself, that both pronouns were in the plural.

  Lou Aramis felt proud. He said: “Of course we’ll do what has to be done, together.”

  It was only natural. Outwardly, he was still Lou Aramis, upright terrestrial biped. But thanks to his recent diet, he was starting to think like an orange-mandibled alien squid.

  THE TEACHER FROM MARS, by Eando Binder

  Originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, February 1941.

  The afternoon Rocket Express train from Chicago came into the station, and I stepped off. It was a warm spring day. The little town of Elkhart, Indiana sprawled lazily under the golden sunshine. I trudged along quiet, tree-shaded streets toward Caslon Preparatory School for Boys.

  Before I had gone far, I was discovered by the children playing here and there. With the dogs, they formed a shrill, raucous procession behind me. Some of the dogs growled, as they might at a wild animal. Housewives looked from their windows and gasped.

  So the rumors they had heard were true. The new teacher at Caslon was a Martian!

  I suppose I am grotesquely alien to human eyes, extremely tall and incredibly thin. In fact, I am seven feet tall, with what have often been described as broomstick arms and spindly legs. On an otherwise scrawny body, only the Martian chest is filled out, in comparison with Earth people. I was dressed in a cotton kimona that dangled from my narrow shoulders to my bony ankles. Chinese style, I understand.

  Thus far I am pseudo-human. For the rest, a Martian is alien, from the Earth viewpoint. Two long tentacles from the back of my shoulders hang to my knees, appendages that have not vanished in Martian evolution like the human tail. The top of my skull is bulging and hairless, except for a fringe of silver-white fur above large conch-shaped ears. Two wide-set owlish eyes, a generous nose and a tiny mouth complete my features. All my skin is leathery and tanned a deep mahogany by the Sun of our cloudless Martian skies.

  Timidly I stopped before the gates of Caslon Prep and looked within the grounds. The spectacles on my large nose were cup-shaped and of tinted glass that cut down the unnatural glare of the brighter, hotter Sun. I felt my shoulders drooping wearily from the tug of more than twice the gravity to which I was conditioned.

  Luckily, however, I had brought leg-braces. Concealed by my long robe, they were ingenious devices of light metal, bracing the legs against strain. They had been expensive—no less than forty dhupecs—but they were worth even that much.

  Gripping my cane and duffle-bag, I prepared to step into the sanctuary of the school grounds. It looked so green and inviting in there, like a canalside park. It would be a relief to escape from those Earth children. They had taken to tossing pebbles at me, and some of the canines had snapped at my heels. Of course I didn’t blame them, nor must I resent the unwelcome stares I had felt all around me, from adult Earthlings. After all, I was an alien.

  I stepped forward, between the gates. At least here, in the school that had hired me to teach, I would be accepted in a more friendly fashion.… Ssss!

  The hiss of a thousand snakes filled the air. I reacted violently, dropping my bag and clamping my two hands around my upraised cane. For a moment I was back on Mars, surrounded by a nest of killer-snakes from the vast deserts. I must beat them off with my cane!

  But wait. This was Earth, where snakes were a minor class of creature, and mainly harmless. I relaxed, then, panting. The horrible, icy fear drained away. Perhaps you human beings can never quite know the paralyzing dread we have of snakes.

  Then I heard a new sound, one that cheered me somewhat.

  A group of about fifty laughing boys trooped into view, from where they had been hidden behind the stone wall circling Caslon’s campus. They had made the hissing sound, as a boyish prank. How foolish of me to let go of my nerves, I thought wryly.

  I smiled at the group in greeting, for these were the boys I would teach.

  “I am Professor Mun Zeerohs, your new teacher,” I introduced myself in what, compared with the human tone, is a reedy voice. “The Sunshine upon you. Or, in your Earthly greeting,
I am happy to meet you.”

  Grins answered me. And then murmurs arose.

  “It talks, fellows.”

  “Up from the canals!”

  “Is that thing alive?”

  One of the boys stepped forward. He was about sixteen, with blue eyes that were mocking.

  “I’m Tom Blaine, senior classman. Tell me, sir, is it true that Mars is inhabited?”

  It was rather a cruel reception, though merely another prank. I waved my two tentacles in distress for a moment, hardly knowing what to do or say next.

  “Boys! Gentlemen!”

  A grown man with gray hair came hurrying up from one of the buildings. The boys parted to let him through. He extended a hand to me, introducing himself.

  “Robert Graham, Dean of Caslon. You’re Professor Mun Zeerohs, of course.” He turned, facing the group reprovingly. “This is your new instructor, gentlemen. He will teach interplanetary history and the Martian language.”

  A groan went up. I knew why, of course. The Martian tongue has two case endings to every one in Latin.

  “Now, gentlemen, this is for your own good,” Dean Graham continued sternly. “Remember your manners. I’m sure you’ll like our new professor—”

  “I’m sure we won’t!” It was Tom Blaine again. Behind him, an air of hostility replaced the less worrisome mockery. “We’ve never had a Martian teacher before, and we don’t want one!”

  “Don’t want one?” The dean was more aghast than I.

  “My father says Martians are cowards,” Tom Blaine continued loudly. “He ought to know. He’s in the Space Patrol. He says that in the War, the Martians captured Earthmen and cut them to pieces slowly. First their hands, then—”

  “Nonsense!” Dean Graham snapped. “Besides, the War is over. Martians are in the Space Patrol, too. Now no more argument. Go to your dormitory. Professor Zeerohs will begin conducting class tomorrow morning. Oscar, take the professor’s bag to his quarters.”

  Oscar, the school’s menial robot, obediently stalked forward and picked up the bag. Somehow, I felt almost a warm tide of friendship for the robot. In his mechanical, rudimentary reflex mind, it was all the same to him—Martian or Earthman. He made no discrimination against me, as these human boys did.

  As Oscar turned, Tom Blaine stood as though to block the way. Having his orders, the robot brushed past him. A metal elbow accidentally jabbed the boy in the ribs. Deciding against grabbing the bag away from steel fingers, Tom Blaine picked up a stone and flung it clanging against the robot’s metal body. Another dent was added to the many I could see over Oscar’s shiny form.

  The rebellion was over—for the time being.

  I realized that the boys were still hostile as I followed the dean to his rooms. My shoulders seemed to droop a little more.

  “Don’t mind them,” the dean was saying apologetically. “They’re usually outspoken at that age. They’ve never had a Martian teacher before, you see.”

  “Why have you engaged one for the first time?” I asked.

  Graham answered half patronizingly, half respectfully.

  “Many other schools have tried Martian teachers, and found them highly satisfactory.” He didn’t think it necessary to add, “And cheaper.”

  I sighed. Times had been hard on Mars lately, with so many dust storms raging up and down the canal regions, withering the crops. This post on Earth, though at a meager salary, was better than utter poverty. I was old and could live cheaply. Quite a few Martians had been drifting to Earth, since the War. By nature, we are docile, industrious, intelligent, and make dependable teachers, engineers, chemists artists.

  “They always haze the new teachers,” Dean Graham said, smiling uneasily. “Your first class is at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Interplanetary History.”

  Freshened after a night’s sleep, I entered the class room with enthusiasm for my new job. A hundred cold, unfriendly eyes watched me with terrifying intensity.

  “Good morning,” I greeted as warmly as I could.

  “Good morning, Professor Zero!” a chorus bellowed back, startling me.

  So the hazing campaign was still on. No, I wouldn’t correct them. After all, even the Martian children I had taught had invariably tagged me with that name.

  I glanced around the room, approving its high windows and controlled sunlight. My eyes came to rest on the blackboard behind me. A chalk drawing occupied its space. It depicted, with some skill, a Martian crouching behind an Earthman. Both were members of the Space Patrol and apparently were battling some space desperado. It was young Tom Blaine’s work, no doubt. His father claimed all Martians to be cowards and weaklings.

  My leathery face showed little of my feelings as I erased the humiliating sketch. Ignoring the snickers behind me, I grasped two pieces of chalk in both tentacles, writing with one and listing dates with the other.

  1945—Discovery of anti-grav force, on Earth

  1955—First space flight

  1978—Earthmen claim all planets

  1992—Pioneer-wave to Mars

  2011—Rebellion and war

  2019—Mars wins freedom

  2040—Earth-Mars relations friendly today

  “Interplanetary History,” I began my lecture, “centers about these dates and events. Not till Nineteen fifty-five were Earth people assured that intelligent beings had built the mysterious canals of Mars. Nor were we Martians positive till then that the so-called Winking Lights of your cities at night denoted the handiwork of thinking creatures.

  “The exploring Earthmen of the last century found only the Martians equal to them in intelligence. Earth has its great cities, and Mars has its great canal-system, built ten thousand Martian years ago. Civilization began on Mars fifty centuries previous to that, before the first glimmering of it on Earth—”

  “See, fellows?” Tom Blaine interrupted loudly. “I told you all they like to do is rub that in.” He became mockingly polite. “Please, sir, may I ask why you brilliant Martians had to wait for Earthmen to open up space travel?”

  I was shocked, but managed to answer patiently.

  “We ran out of metal deposits for building, keeping our canals in repair. Our history has been a constant struggle against the danger of extinction. In fact, when Earth pioneers migrated in Nineteen ninety-two, it was just in time to patch up the canals and stave off a tremendous famine for Mars.”

  “And that was the appreciation Earth got,” the boy charged bitterly. “Rebellion!”

  “You forget that the Earth pioneers on Mars started the rebellion against taxation, and fought side by side with us—”

  “They were traitors,” he stated bluntly.

  I hurdled the point, and continued the lecture.

  “Mars won its independence after a nine-year struggle—”

  Again I was interrupted.

  “Not won. Earth granted independence, though it could have won easily.”

  “At any rate,” I resumed quietly, “Earth and Mars today, in Twenty-forty, are amicable, and have forgotten that episode.”

  “We haven’t forgotten!” Tom Blaine cried angrily. “Every true Earthman despises Martians.”

  He sat down amidst a murmur of defiant approval from the others. I knew my tentacles hung limply. How aggressive and intolerant Earth people were! It accounted for their domination of the Solar System. A vigorous, pushing race, they sneered at the Martian ideals of peaceful culture. Their pirates, legal and otherwise, still roamed the spaceways for loot.

  Young Tom Blaine was representative of the race. He was determined to make things so miserable here for me that I would quit. He was the leader of the upper-class boys. Strange, that Earthpeople always follow one who is not wise, but merely compelling. There would have to be a test of authority, I told myself with a sinking heart.

  “I am the teacher,” I remind
ed him. “You are the pupil, Mr. Blaine.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” he retorted in false humility. “But you’d better teach history right, Professor Nothing, or not at all!”

  I hastily switched to the Martian language.

  “The Martian language as is well known, is today the official language of science and trade,” I went on guardedly. “Through long usage, the tongue has become perfected. Official Earth English is comparatively cumbersome. For instance, the series of words meaning exaggerated size—big, large, great, huge, enormous, mighty, cyclopean, gargantuan. Is ‘big’ more than ‘large’, or less? You cannot tell. In Martian, there is one root, with a definite progression of size suffixes.”

  I wrote on the blackboard. bol, bola, bob, bolo, bolu—bolas, bobs, bolos, bolus—bolasa, bolisi, boloso, bolusu.

  “Martian is a scientific language, you see.”

  “Bragging again,” sneered a voice. An eraser sailed toward me just as I turned from the board. It struck full in my face in a cloud of chalk-dust. As if at a signal, a barrage of erasers flew at me. They had been sneaked previously from the boards around the classroom. I stood helplessly, desperately warding off the missile with my tentacles. The boys were yelling and hooting, excited by the sport.

  The pandemonium abruptly stopped as Oscar stumped into the room. His mechanical eyes took in the scene without emotion. One belated eraser flew toward him. His steel arm reflexively raised, caught it, then hurled it back with stunning force. To a robot, anything that came toward it must be returned, unless otherwise commanded. Tom Blaine yelped as the eraser bounced off his forehead.

  “Dean Graham,” said Oscar like a phonograph, “wants to know if everything is going along smoothly.”

  I could see the boys hold their breaths. Oscar went the rounds daily, asking that routine question in all the classes. If this disturbance were reported, the boys would lose an afternoon of freedom.

  “Everything is well,” I murmured, though for a moment I was sadly tempted to take revenge. “You may go, Oscar.”