Hawaiian U.F.O. Aliens

by Mel Gilden

  The things that looked like board games would tell you what you and your friends were really like, and what you could expect from the future. Your money full refunded if you weren't satisfied, and if you could find the guy who'd sold it to you after he'd changed his name and his sex and moved to a higher plane of existence, or maybe just to a different state.

  One guy, dressed in crushed purple velvet and enough rings for four hands, was selling tapes and sheet music that had been dictated to him by Bach. Bach had been better at composition when he was alive. The tape this guy was playing sounded as if he'd recorded an air conditioner in a bowling alley.

  A round, ruddy woman with a cloud of white hair was laughing a lot and selling mementos of DEMETRIUS, THE DOG FROM ATLANTIS. The backs of photos of a primitive-looking glass statue of something with four legs and a snout explained that Demetrius had been carved by the simple native craftsmen of the Lost Continent of Atlantis. Why it was lost was never mentioned, but the woman had evidently found it in her backyard out in Pomona. The original dog was not moulded from glass, but carved from mystic crystal. The dog, she said, was still alive after ten thousand years.

  I picked up one of the glass dogs she had for sale and said, 'They don't look very lively to me.'

  I was a very silly boy. She laughed as if I'd complimented her chocolate cake and said, 'These are just glass replicas.'

  'Does your original move much?'

  'No. But then, what do you expect from a crystal dog?'

  'Depends on what I paid for him. For what you're charging, I'd expect him to do windows and speak French. At the very least.'

  The laughter bubbled away from her, leaving an old, dry, predatory woman who said, 'You'll never get anywhere with an attitude like that.' I didn't even have a chance to grunt and walk away before she reignited the smile on her face for the next guy who strolled by.

  There was a lot more. I could have had my palm read either by eye or by machine, I could have had my handwriting analysed, I could have had my past lives charted, or signed up to have my nodes retuned, or made an appointment to have my chakras detoxed. None of it was any crazier than three ice cubes on a hot griddle, but then, the dealers' room was a big place, and I'd probably missed the really good stuff.

  I hadn't seen Gone-out Backson in the dealers' room, so I dragged Bill back out into the lobby where a guy stuck a sheet of paper into my hand and walked on. The paper told me that for only one hundred fifty dollars, I could attend a lecture on how we could encourage people from space to help change the Earth. At the top of the paper was a very dark, fuzzy picture of something with a big head and glowing eyes. It could as easily have been a picture of me or the front end of a Chevrolet.

  At the moment I had bigger problems than how to change the Earth, and I needed a little help myself. Then I saw a pale-blue suit. It brought out the blue of Gone-out Backson's eyes. Something glinted on his tie. Even from across the room I knew what it was, but I walked in his direction anyway.

  Chapter 17

  Like Circles That Cross In The Night

  BILL and I weaved our way among members of a big crowd that had gathered near the escalator. In the centre of it, Gone-out Backson stood about arm's length from a perfectly normal-looking woman, aiming an electronic gadget at her. A corkscrew thing on the front of the gadget seemed mighty disappointed about something, because its stiff length pointed at her toes.

  Gone-out spoke loudly, but otherwise as if he were a doctor, and he and the woman were alone. He said, 'You see, you are tired because your aura is diffuse. You must learn to concentrate it,' he clutched his hand at his chest, 'and allow it to fill your body with energy. Try this.' He pulled a crystal necklace from his pocket and hung it around the woman's neck. He backed off a few yards, then approached the woman again, his corkscrew still sagging. He was a lot further away than arm's length when the corkscrew suddenly rose until it was parallel with the floor. The audience moaned as if Gone-out had just done a triple back somersault.

  'You see,' he said. 'The crystal acts as a lens to focus your energy.'

  The woman's eyes were moist with tears. She wiped some of them away with the back of a hand. 'I feel wonderful,' she said as she fondled the crystal. 'I need this crystal.'

  'Of course you do,' Gone-out said. 'Please keep it with my compliments.' He looked around and raised his voice. 'If I can be of service to anyone else, I will be in the dealers' room at table 703.'

  Most of the people moved away, but some of them crowded around Gone-out and began to ask him questions about which kinds of rocks would be good for which parts of their bodies. As Gone-out spoke of quartz, carnelian, and topaz, my breakfast began to back up on me. Bill nodded at what Gone-out was saying and announced, 'It must be true, I'm full of semiconducting silicon.'

  Gone-out's head snapped in our direction, and those pale blue eyes took us in. He wasn't surprised to see us, or even very interested, but those blue eyes knew everything about us there was to know. Despite this, he didn't look any less like a lizard than he had the day before. He said, 'That's all for now, my friends. I'll see you in the dealers' room at table 703.'

  As the hard cases began to drift away, Gone-out walked to us, the honk on his tie picking up a lot of light. He said, 'You haven't found Medium Rare.'

  'No. But I've met a lot of her friends.'

  Maybe he didn't like my tone, because he sneered as he said, 'For a man from beyond, you are a very poor believer.'

  'I've been working on it,' I said, 'but nothing seems to help.'

  Gone-out smiled coolly and said, 'As the reincarnation of Raymond Chandler, I appreciate your bold wit. Let's go into the bar and await Medium Rare's arrival.'

  'What about your customers?'

  'They'll wait,' Gone-out said.

  'And like it, I suppose.'

  'I suppose,' Gone-out said as if it were no concern of his.

  He was stopped by fans not more than a dozen times as we walked to a corner of the lobby littered with couches and overstuffed chairs. They were done in the same flowered pattern as the walls and the carpeting. The hotel management had probably paid somebody a lot of money to think of doing that.

  Gone-out Backson sat on a couch near enough the flow of traffic to keep an eye on it, yet far enough away that we had an illusion of privacy. Our order was taken by a thin, well-used blonde in a green outfit that showed her legs went all the way up. She came back a minute later with Gone-out's brandy and my beer, then waited to see who would be the sport. Gone-out said, 'If you are running true to form, your bank balance is trying to walk under a duck.'

  I nodded, and he grandly paid the bill as if he were buying me an artificial kidney. The blonde took the money without a word, and Gone-out watched across the top of his brandy glass as she walked away.

  We sat in polite, friendly silence sipping our various brewskis. Gone-out was thinking about something beyond that room. Either that, or he really enjoyed his brandy.

  Men and women strolled by with determination, or involved in animated conversation, or with no more on their minds than Demetrius, the Dog from Atlantis had on his. They were all neat and clean, and from the looks of things could afford the time and money to indulge in a little low-grade metaphysics. They might even have had enough time and money that they could afford to believe in it. If Gone-out wanted to browse in other people's wallets, he picked the right wallets.

  Gone-out said, 'I can't tell if you don't approve of me, or if you just talk like that because you're preoccupied with Chandler.'

  'If I'm really not of this Earth, as you say, then I have a right to either one.'

  Gone-out nodded long enough that I was sure he was thinking about something else. Suddenly, he almost slipped onto one knee and pleaded, 'Teach me. You are wiser than I. Teach me.'

  'Sure,' I said. 'Everybody wants a bank account that's able to walk under a duck. Lesson one is "Don't whine".'

  'I wasn't—'

  He was interrupted by the arrival of a large w
hite shape whose voice boomed from the bottom of a deep, nasty well:

  'Ah. Here we all are, then.' He bowed to each of us. 'Good to see you again, Gone-out.' Avoirdupois took Gone-out's hand in both of his, and shook it. Without letting go of Gone-out, he went on, 'And you too, Mr Marlowe. I warned you that our paths might cross again.' He chuckled down in his warm inside cupboards as if the crossing of our paths pleased him very much. 'Though I must admit I am surprised you know each other.' He smiled. 'I would not have expected the two of you to run in the same circles.'

  'Circles cross,' I said. 'Just like paths,' I said.

  More deep, dark laughter. 'Right you are, Mr Marlowe. Right you are. It was certain to happen sooner or later.' He leaned close to me, his eyes big and round and said, 'Have you made any progress with the small matter we discussed earlier?'

  'What matter was that?'

  His laughter gathered like rocks rolling down hill. 'You are a caution, sir, that is certain. But perhaps you are right. This is no place to speak of such things.' Gone-out was smiling politely at us, following the conversation, waiting for someone to tell him what was going on. Avoirdupois hurrumphed. As he sat down, he put his hand on Gone-out's knee and said, 'It is of no consequence, Gone-out, I assure you. How have you been, my dear boy?'

  'I've been fine.'

  Avoirdupois grunted and said, 'No need to be circumspect with me, sir. No, indeed not. If I know you, you are still wasting your time with Medium Rare.'

  Gone-out pressed his lips together.

  'You mistake me, sir. Your life is your own. I only observe that a woman like Medium Rare, whose methods were old when the Dark Ages were but a twinkle in the eye of Time, if I may describe them in so metaphorical a fashion, has no place at a modern, scientific New Age-type convention such as this. And, if I may say so, someone with your talents might do better following another master.'

  'Medium Rare sees all, knows all, tells all. She is the beginning and the end. She is—'

  '—at the very least the Serpent of Time biting its own tail? You disappoint me, sir. Really you do. Quoting such rubbish.' Avoirdupois laughed until I thought something inside his rotund body had shaken loose. But he suddenly became serious and shrugged.

  'Your jokes are not welcome here,' Gone-out said. 'One may sometimes say things in jest that one would not dare to say any other way. But, I will admit, that is neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is that Mr Marlowe can find out for himself which of us is correct. Even as we speak, Medium Rare is erecting her tent in a questionable neighbourhood of the dealers' room—space 1204.'

  Gone-out snapped his fingers and said, 'That was the disturbance in the ether I felt.'

  'To be sure, my boy. To be sure. Shall we leave Mr Marlowe to his work?

  Tersely, Gone-out said, 'You seem very eager to have Mr Marlowe visit Medium Rare.'

  Avoirdupois surprised me. He laughed and shrugged, both at once. 'While there is no sport in a sure thing, it can sometimes have its uses.'

  I stood up and said, 'I'll bet you guys would be even more interesting if you actually had a subject to talk about.'

  Avoirdupois laughed and said, 'You are a corker, sir, and make no mistake.'

  Gone-out just winked at me broadly.

  As I walked back into the dealer's room, I felt as if I'd been wrapped up with a big red bow, and it had been done by experts.

  Chapter 18

  I Paint What I See

  THE dealer's room was busier than it had been before, but the people walking through it were just as interested in form without substance. Bill was fascinated by everything he saw. I tried not to get caught up in the idea that maybe all these people with their crystals and organic colour generators and electronic spirit cleaners knew something that I didn't.

  I could have told them I was not of this Earth. Maybe they would have let me in for free, and set me up with my own lecture. Maybe. But maybe too much reality would not be good for business; facts are more convenient if you just make them up. Maybe hope just came in strange packages. We didn't know everything, not even on T'toom.

  I found Medium Rare's travelling show set up in a room I had not yet visited. Traffic was light. Avoirdupois had been right about the neighbourhood, anyway.

  On one side of Medium Rare's tent was a woman who claimed that in past lives she had been every one of the monarchs of England. The woman was selling her book as a public service to set the record straight. On the other side of the tent was a slim old party dressed all in white, even down to his white pencil of a beard. He was demonstrating what he described as a magic wand. It looked like the finger of a crystalline skeleton. He said it could sweep the bad vibrations out of your house.

  Medium Rare's tent was something to see. It was worth the drive to the airport. Just sitting there staked to the carpet, it swooped like a bird on the wing. It was a violent pattern of red, yellow, and blue that actually made the pattern of flowers in the carpet look restful.

  Long tables pulled the eye back to the door flap of the tent. On the tables stood paintings of various sizes, some not much bigger than my hand, others big enough to surf on, and many sizes in between. The paintings were of places not of this Earth, or not of anyplace on Earth that I had ever seen or heard of. One showed twin blue moons without a hair out of place looking down on a landscape of such intense red desolation as to be terrifying. Another showed green land that rolled away to cliffs of hulking breastlike shapes. In the foreground were small yellow huts. A third showed spiders with big eyes and hands crawling over a silver object that might have been a machine; either that or an egg laid by a toaster. All the paintings were like that: lyrical and colourful, and full of images so alien they made you uneasy even when you didn't know what you were looking at.

  I recognized two of the paintings. But the one that frightened me the most, oddly enough, was the most familiar. It was very familiar, indeed. Medium Rare and I would have to talk about that picture. Yes, we would.

  Between the place where the long tables met, just in front of the door flap of the tent, sat a woman. When I first saw her, she was gaping at me as if I were something long lost that had surprised her with a visit. A glass ball stood on a golden tripod on the card table before her. She wore a long blue dress that looked as if it had been riveted together from old jeans. Her white blouse puffed and billowed as if she had not so much put it on as sprayed it from a whipped cream can. Around her shiny golden head was a scarf that matched the tent. Peeking under the scarf was a headband. Medium Rare was a robot. A Surfing Samurai Robot.

  'Wow,' said Bill as he tried to crawl into one of the paintings.

  Meanwhile, I walked up to Medium Rare. She peered at me so hard I imagined her little robotic eyeballs were bulging, though I was probably wrong about that. She was still catching flies with her mouth.

  'Medium Rare?' I said.

  She nodded.

  'I'm Zoot Marlowe, a private detective. I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

  'You are not of this Earth,' Medium Rare said. Her voice was musical and had the lilt of someplace far from Southern California, but not as far away as the subjects of those paintings, not nearly that far. It was a lilt I'd heard in old black and white horror movies.

  'That seems to be the consensus among the livelier element.' Not funny, but quick. About right for the circumstances.

  Medium Rare said, 'Have we met?'

  It was a funny question, considering what I'd been through lately. I said, 'Not exactly, but I feel as if I already know you.'

  'Yes,' she said. 'I should have foreseen this.'

  'You mean extrapolate?' Bill said.

  'No,' she said calmly. 'I should have predicted this meeting using my psychic powers.'

  'Robots don't have psychic powers.'

  'I'm a robot. I have psychic powers. Therefore robots have psychic powers.'

  The logic of Medium Rare's answer seemed to bother Bill. 'Erk!' he said. 'Erk!' His legs shot up inside him like a window shade, a
nd he sat there vibrating on his shiny round bottom.

  'Sit,' Medium Rare said, indicating a folding chair with a sweep of her hand. I found that Medium Rare swept her hands a great deal when she talked. They dramatically blocked out words and pictures in the air. Tying her hands behind her back would probably have been as good as a muzzle.

  I sat. People drifted past, barely glancing at the paintings. Some of them seemed embarrassed to be seen in their vicinity. I had Medium Rare to myself, and she had me.

  'Tell me about the paintings,' I said. I hadn't planned to start with that question, but I hadn't planned on being that shaken, either.

  She said, 'I have a spirit guide named Rupee Begonia.'

  Bill said, 'Robots don't have spirit guides.'

  'You really upset him,' I said. 'Or what looks like upset, anyway.'

  'He is a simple robot,' Medium Rare said. 'He will assimilate the data eventually, and no longer be upset.'

  'Erk!' Bill said.

  I waited. A little girl stopped and looked at a painting, and her mother dragged her away.

  Medium Rare said, 'Over the years, Rupee Begonia has led me to many planets not yet known to the beings of this sphere. I paint what I see. One of the planets is inhabited by creatures like you.'

  I nodded. The familiar picture had been of a slaberingeo grazing in an abo forest on T'toom. If she were a fake, she was damned good and would do till the real thing came along.

  'The fools don't believe me. They say I am old-fashioned. I say they are fakes, with their machines and their science. Not everything in the Universe can be explained by science as the beings of this sphere understand it. "The science of any sufficiently advanced race is indistinguishable from magic."'

  'So I've heard.'

  'It is common enough wisdom if you know where to look.' She smiled wistfully, as if remembering when she was young, when she was just a can opener, maybe. 'Most people don't bother. They are too busy figuring up their next scam.' She shrugged. 'It is of no consequence, except to those who lose their shirts paying off charlatans.' All those lost shirts made her sad.