Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  Speechless in Tulsa

  Ship’s note: *A goose is a large aquatic fowl which makes a sound not unlike one of your sneezes and whose natural gait is a waddle. **Since Speechless is not explicit about what variety of buns to which the brother-in-law applied the goose, we can assume only that they were a baked foodstuff made of flour, milk and eggs (perhaps goose eggs?).

  oOo

  Dear Speechless,

  I think you should most certainly tell your husband about the incident. He may well wonder why there is goose down in his baked goods. Telling the truth may be embarrassing, but it will save you from having to fabricate a lie.

  As to your brother-in-law — shame on him! I believe you should confront him and allow him to make restitution for his peculiar behavior. I would suggest the least he could do would be to bake your family some fresh buns!

  By the way, I have been reading a lot about human psychology and it sounds to me as if you might have something called multiple personality disorder. Nothing to be alarmed about, I’m sure — in fact, it sounds as if it might be quite entertaining to have several personalities at your disposal — but I would recommend that you make an appointment to see a psychiatrist before the little voice in your head advises you to do something dangerous.

  oOo

  “The groceries have arrived.“

  Qtzl was slow to emerge from the Stan Schell novel he was engrossed in. He made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and turned the page.

  “Your taste in literature seems to have lodged in a rut,“ Ship observed. “Is that not another Stan Schell novel?“

  “I like the way he deals with alien races. Quite enlightened for someone who’s never met any.“

  “He is a science fiction writer,“ said Ship, as if that alone was supposed to deter Qtzl from reading his work. “That is an ‘escapist literary form about unlikely characters from implausible futures thrown into impossible situations.’“

  “Such as being stranded on an alien world?“

  Ship persisted. “He is not considered to be one of the ‘greats.’ He is, I believe they say, firmly mid-list.“

  “And what do the ‘greats’ write about?“

  “War, sex, death... bullfights.“

  “Ffsstt,“ said Qtzl, “I shall go get the groceries.“ He padded downstairs, the soft, orange material of the leggings he was wearing puddling comfortably around his feet. The delivery boy had left the box of groceries in its usual place under the back awning. All Qtzl had to do was lean out of the door and get it. He peered through the long, transparent panes. He slid back the door, stepped out and picked up the box, pausing for just a moment to close his eyes and breathe in the sweet, tangy air.

  He loved that smell. There wasn’t anything on his world quite like it. Ship had determined that it originated from the sap of the trees that towered around the house. He had decided that when he left, a box of those spiky seed pods they dropped everywhere would come with him.

  The snap of a twig and a chuff of sound brought Qtzl to sudden focus on the world around him. There, just beyond the deck where he stood, right up against the side of the house, a group of native quadrupeds stood and stared at him. Their black-lipped mouths were full of the flowering blooms that had appeared all around the alien domicile and though they seemed frozen with surprise, their jaws never ceased moving.

  “Sh-sh-sh,“ hissed Qtzl, box clutched in his quaking arms, crest flat to his head. “Sh-sh-ship!“

  Ship took an eternity to respond. Meanwhile, Qtzl shook harder; his crest was all but clamped to his head; more blossoms disappeared into the all-devouring mouths of the alien lifeforms. At last, the FRU’s blessed hum could be heard behind him.

  “Yes, Qtzl?“

  “Are... are these carnivores?“

  “No. Herbivores.“

  His crest relaxed. “Are they... people?“

  “No, Qtzl. They are called ‘deer’. A peculiar lifeform variously celebrated and despised. My research indicates horticulturists hunt them because of their dietary cravings.“

  Crest merely quivering now, Qtzl carried his box into the house with as much dignity as he could muster.

  “Qtzl,“ Ship said when he had stowed the groceries and returned to his book, “they want to syndicate you.“

  His crest flattened again. “They what?“

  “We have been approached by a national newspaper syndicate. They wish to purchase your column for distribution to all of their publications. This is a good thing, Qtzl. This will hasten my repair.“

  Qtzl glanced at the pile of letters he was scheduled to read that day. The one on top, like many others he received these days, was not asking for advice, but thanking him for advice already given. National syndication. “Will I be famous, Ship?“

  “I believe so.“

  Qtzl wrinkled his nose and whistled softly through the flattened slits. How strange if he should gain on this alien world what had so far eluded him completely at home. His fondest dreams to the contrary, none took his philosophical meanderings seriously, nor read his poetry in klatch shops, nor hummed his songs as they went about their business. Not even members of his immediate family would take his advice. “Life,“ he murmured, “is full of strange turns.“

  oOo

  Kerwin Frees had narrowed his search to a small valley between two low ridges. It was rural — even for the Tahoe area — but he was hopeful that among the clusters of summer homes and isolated retreats someone had seen something.

  He had mapped a course that took him on a rough circuit of the area, going door-to-door. Not many doors opened. This time of year, most of the summer homes were awaiting their occupants, while the ski lodges had just bid their owners good-bye. Of the few people he spoke to, only two had actually seen the blazing trail of light. One, out for a late night walk, had seen it reflected in the water of a large pond; the other, an insomniac, had glimpsed it as it passed over a skylight. A handful more claimed to have been awakened by something — some noise or tremor or explosion — and had assumed it to be thunder or a stray jet.

  Still, he was able to determine approximately where the ‘meteorite’ had skimmed the tree tops. It was pushing twilight when he pulled his car into a little cul-de-sac called Perelandra Circle — an ironic and downright un-Tahoe-ish name. There was one cabin in the cul-de-sac.

  As he pulled into the drive, he was startled by movement on the roof. He glanced up, but caught only a flash of turquoise above the ridgepole. If it was raccoon, they’d taken to dressing up for their nocturnal forays. There was no car in the drive, but a light was on inside. It was extinguished even as he approached the front door. He knocked, he rang, he knocked again. He tried to peer through a front window. He thought he saw movement in the darkened room, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Probably a kid, he thought, or a woman, left alone and waiting for parent or partner to come back from the store. “Hey!“ he called. “I just want to ask a couple of questions about a meteorite fall we had a while back. I’m a... an astronomy student and I was hoping I might find it. It’d really help my grades.“

  There was a long silence, then, a voice just on the other side of the front door said, “Meteorite?“

  “Yes. It was April 16th. At about 1 AM.“

  “It fell near here?“

  “Very near. Possibly in that little valley behind your house. Did you see it?“

  “No. I’m sorry. I did not see it. I was... asleep.“

  Kerwin Frees muzzled his frustration and asked, “Did you hear anything then? I talked to several people in the area who said something woke them — like thunder or a jet going over.“

  Now the silence was profound. Then, Kerwin Frees imagined he heard murmuring on the opposite side of the door. “Do you think you might open the door? It’s kind of hard to communicate like this. I’m not dangerous.“

  “Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t do that.“

  “I understand. So did you? Hear anything?“

  �
�I heard nothing. We had not taken occupancy of the house just yet.“

  Frees frowned. “A minute ago, you said you were asleep. Now you say you weren’t in the area?“

  “We were, as you say, ‘in the area.’“ It was a different voice — much more confident. “We were not in the house at that time. We were camping across the valley.“

  “You still might have heard something.“

  “We did not.“

  It was a strange interview, Kerwin Frees thought later, as he drove home in the dark. A very strange interview. He let his imagination run with it; he had stumbled across a hostage situation, or one side of a love triangle, or someone who had broken into the house and was using it without the owner’s knowledge.

  The more he thought about it, the more this last idea stuck with Kerwin Frees. He decided he would call the sheriff’s department in the morning and suggest that the house might bear watching. Could just be kids using the place as a party spot, or it could be someone a lot more sinister. He wasn’t prone to poking his nose into other folks’ affairs, and he didn’t feature himself as a good Samaritan, but he might be able to keep some poor schmuck from walking into a very sticky situation.

  oOo

  Stan Schell was tired. In fact, he was exhausted. It was day ten of a two month book tour and he sat in a titanic Barnes and Noble in Sacramento wishing he was browsing for books instead of sitting behind his signing table praying the cluster of newcomers by the front door had come to see him. Still, he was grateful to be here; the other stops he’d made so far had been in small town specialty stores that had barely enough room in them for the signing table, let alone the two or three people who might show up to have him sign a book.

  Working on his second latte from a neighboring bistro, he caught himself pondering who had first noticed that books and espresso go together like bagels and cream cheese, and realized he was hopelessly bored. And depressed. And exposed. He was between two sale tables, in conspicuous view. He’d signed a few books — might even sign a few more — but mostly he’d sat under the flickering glances of browsers, trying not to read their thoughts. Sometimes people would stop, pick up a book and indulge in pleasantries, such as informing him that they didn’t read science fiction in a tone of voice that suggested they didn’t understand why anyone would.

  At the bottom of the latte, he decided he’d had it with trying to look interested and interesting. He pulled a newspaper from his briefcase and pretended to be looking at the ad for his signing. Then he gave up all pretense and turned the page. An audible sigh escaped him — and went completely unnoticed by the flock of shoppers around the sale tables. The section he held — the section the promotions manager had given him because his ad was in it — was inhabited by gossip columns, allegedly witty and urbane commentaries, and advice to the lovelorn.

  Stan glanced surreptitiously around. He seemed to have become such a fixture over the last two hours that people had ceased to notice him. He turned his eyes back to the paper. His mind was desperate for something to do. He read ‘Dear Abby.’ Then he read ‘Miss Manners.’ Then he turned the page and met himself face to face.

  He was simultaneously non-plused and pleased. Evidently the paper had run an article on the hometown boy as well as the paid ad. His eyes brought into focus the two words that appeared next to his face on the page. Ask Arlen. His gaze dropped to the text below. Dear Arlen, it said, I feel funny writing to a column about this... .

  “Excuse me, but could you sign my books, please?“

  “Huh?“ Mouth still hanging open, eyes possibly bugged out, Stan looked up into the face of a fan. She smiled shyly and proffered two of his novels for him to sign — a paperback and the hardback that would go out of print in a month, barring divine intervention. He dropped the mystery back into the briefcase and scrambled for his pen. “That’s what I’m here for,“ he said and smiled.

  The girl cocked her head and looked at him as he imagined Alice must have once looked at the White Rabbit. “You’re the guy that writes that advice column, aren’t you? Ask Arlen?“

  He stared blankly at the fly leaf of the hard back, once again meeting his own black and white gaze. “Looks that way,“ he said and signed his name.

  When he visited the offices of The Bee, Ted Barnett’s face lit up in recognition. “Well, if it isn’t my star columnist.“

  “No,“ said Stan, “it’s not,“ and proceeded to confuse the hell out of him.

  At the end of an hour interview he knew that Ted Barnett did not read science fiction and that his star columnist was punctual, easy-going, undemanding, and transacted all business over the Internet. He’d never missed a deadline. He had a unique slant on life (something Stan had already gleaned from a perusal of the column), and was from Canada.

  Stan also knew the columnist’s e-mail address. He was surprised to find he’d known it before he entered Barnett’s office — it was the local in-box of his summer house in South Shore Tahoe. It rather looked as if he was going to have to take a trip upstate. He did not request that his photo be removed from the column, nor did he, to Barnett’s obvious relief, insist that the column be suspended. He could not have said why he did not do those things, although he suspected unhealthy curiosity and a fascination with the bizarre (which had contributed to his delinquency as a writer) were somehow involved.

  oOo

  “It seems,“ said Ship, “that our descent did not go unnoticed.“

  “Should we be concerned?“ asked Qtzl around a mouthful of cheese puffs. “The human thought we were a natural occurrence.“

  “One he is particularly interested in. If he locates the exact earthfall of this ‘occurrence,’ he will find... me. He is already very close.“

  Qtzl’s crest pulled itself tightly against his head. He felt a strong urge to hiss. “What can we do?“

  “Very little, Qtzl. We cannot move me.“

  “You’re well camouflaged.“

  “To your eyes perhaps. Who knows how well camouflaged a human will find me?“

  oOo

  Kerwin Frees was not a wealthy man by any stretch of even an impoverished imagination. He kept a bit in savings for the all too frequent rainy day and had a few investments. He lived frugally on a teacher’s salary during the school season so he could afford to chase UFOs the rest of the year. Now he dipped into savings to do something that would most assuredly cause his colleagues to doubt his sanity. He rented a helicopter to fly over the sixty or so acres he’d targeted as the most likely place for the UFO to have come to earth. To make the sort of showy splash it had in the midnight sky, it would have to have been of a size that couldn’t fail to disturb even the densest forest. He started the pilot at one end of the target valley and asked him to take a zigzag course down the length of it, flying as low as was safe, practical and legal.

  The pilot, for his part, was close-mouthed and taciturn, not even asking his client what they were doing, until they were making their third dog-leg over the forested slopes, Frees peering intensely into the greenery below, camera clutched in his hands. “Exactly what is it we’re looking for?“

  “I’m not sure... exactly.“ That was the truth. Did he keep his eyes peeled for a flash of sunlight on metal? For a burnt swathe of forest? For a few flattened trees? Yes, all of the above. “Something unusual.“

  “Unusual as in what... Sasquatch?“

  “What? Oh. Oh, no. Nothing like that. I’m an astronomy buff. A meteorite fell out here a while back. It’d be great if I could find it.“

  “Wouldn’t that have been on the news?“

  “It was.“

  “Huh. Missed it, I guess. Not that I pay much attention to things like that. Ball lightning — now that’s something I’m interested in.“ The pilot, suddenly garrulous, proceeded to regale him with a series of ball lightning stories, and Frees, guiltily interested, listened to them.

  Somewhere in the middle of the third or fourth tale — one in which the pilot suspected the lightning of owning
some form of primordial intelligence, Frees suddenly lost the thread of narration. His eyes had found something unusual: flattened treetops pointed as eloquently as any arrow to a long scar in the bare earth to their east. The scar ended in a dense thicket of brush. He took a flurry of photographs.

  “What?“ asked the pilot. “You see something?“

  “Something. Could you get us closer to that... that scar in the ground down there? There — just beyond those broken trees.“

  The pilot whistled. “See what you mean.“ He heeled the ’copter over and headed back around for second, lower pass.