A Personal History of the Alien Controversy
Steve M. Benner
Copyright Steve M. Benner 2008
It is hard to remember a time when the aliens weren't here. It's only been a decade since their first landing back in 2021, and yet it seems like they've been here my entire life. In the good old days, race, tribe, religion, sexual preference, or hairstyle was used to identify the fractious groups that comprised our society. I had always imagined that the arrival of sentient alien beings, whether conquerors or benefactors, would unite mankind into that fictitious brotherhood that we've historically found uncomfortable. Obviously, I was wrong. Since I am writing this as my personal recollection of this historic event, I guess the best thing to do is to start at the point at which I became involved.
My name is Mack D. Wharton, and I work as a field investigator for the Office of Scientific Investigations (OSI), which is a branch of the Commerce Department. I have degrees in biology, engineering, and physics, some from very reputable correspondence schools. I also have a knack for being in the right place at the wrong time.
One sunny day ten years ago, I was doing my usual excellent job studying the case of a genetically enhanced boy terrorizing a town in Utah. I had finally figured out a way to get out of the assignment, when I got the innocuous call from my boss that began this ongoing episode of the Twilight Zone.
Frank Martins was seated behind his oversized oak desk, cluttered with the detritus of twenty-five years as a middle manager. He was well on his way to sixty, balding, and overweight. He was a bear of a man that didn’t really speak so much as bellow. It was always a good idea to not sit too close to him. I personally felt he should have retired years earlier, but that was because I wanted his job. I sat down directly in front of his desk and tried to look interested. He looked up and at me and smiled that smile that meant I was in for something really crappy. "Mack, I want you to go up to the panhandle of Maryland and check out some reports of a spaceship landing."
"Come on, Frank, this is just another of those stupid trips into the backwoods to listen to stories about strange lights in the sky and alien abductions, usually associated with moonshine and a wish to get on the Newsnet. Can't you send that new guy—ah, what's his name, Pen or Gin? I'm getting too old for these wild goose chases into the back country." Actually, I was only 42 at the time and in excellent shape (at least that's how I remember myself).
"There seems to be more to this one. That's a good idea to send Glen, though. Why don’t you take him along as your assistant? You can teach him the ropes."
"Uh, let me get this right, Frank. You want me to be a baby-sitter, instructor, and investigator all at the same time, all the way out in Lyme-Disease, Maryland."
"Yep."
"Any way I can get out of this?"
"Um, not really."
"What if I promise to stop calling you a 'Civil Serpent' behind your back?" I didn’t really call him that, it just sounded good. I actually called him much worse names. It was hard for me to imagine what I would have called him if I hadn’t liked him.
"That's tempting, but I need my best man for this. However, since he's busy, I'm sending you. Get the file from Janet on your way out. Good luck."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
I left his office feeling severely put-upon. I had done about fifty of these investigations over the previous five years, and by this point they'd become pretty routine. I would question the witnesses, visit the landing site, look at the pictures, take samples of this and that, take readings with Geiger counters, magnetometers, etc., sample the local alcohol to capture the mood, and sleep as much as possible. Most of my reports concluded that the cause was mass hysteria or swamp gas or the planet Venus or weather balloons—or just outright lies.
Admittedly, every once in a great while, there would be a case that defied explanation. These would get filed in the "Unknown--Possible ET" folder for future reference. But I'd become too much of a cynic by then to believe in life from other worlds; plus I had way too much trouble with life on this world. Anyway, I could not figure out why anything with enough intelligence to visit Earth, would actually visit Earth intentionally. I was right, but the key word was “intentionally.”
Early the next morning, I picked Glen Hobbart up at his home, and we drove to western Maryland in my car. Glen looked like a geek. His hair was slicked back, and he wore those dark-framed glasses that no one ever wore anymore. He was handsome in an intelligent, cute way. But the most disturbing thing about him was that he was 24 and still lived with his parents. What a dork. The baby sitter comment was coming back to haunt me.
Glen was new to the OSI, which meant he still had plenty of energy and idealism left. I liked that, because that meant it would be easy to get him to do most of the work. I told him he was getting invaluable field experience.
Around noon, we pulled into a gasoline station just outside Cumberland. We needed to fuel up and to get directions to the town of Jasper. This was the epicenter of the sighting, and we already knew how to get there, but it was always a good idea to question some of the local yokels to get the scoop on current gossip.
The guy that worked the station had the demeanor of a grade school dropout and fewer front teeth than a professional hockey player. As I pumped the gas, I asked him, "How do I get to Jasper from here?"
"Lots'a people been askin’ directions to Jasper past few days. Ya'll goin’ to see the alien spaceship?"
I looked at him with mock surprise, "What alien spaceship?"
He seemed eager to tell his story to someone, and, after minimal prompting, he admitted, "Uh, my folks live up near, uh, Jasper, and they've been seein’ some mighty strange thangs. Uh, might be one of them thar spaceships crashed up thar, uh, couple days ago. Folks up thar been acting strange ever since. Yeh, strange."
I was tempted to ask him how he could tell the difference. He continued on with more hearsay details, and by the time he’d finished his story, I had come to the conclusion that his mother and father were at least first cousins and that he had been working around gasoline fumes too long.
Glen and I arrived at Jasper in the early evening, having spent the afternoon traveling down country roads with speed limits of 25 mph or less. Jasper was one of those rural towns that put up a "Historic District" sign. This usually meant that the town was way past its prime, and rather than modernize it, the town fathers chose to call it "historic." The streets were narrow, with darkened-red brick houses crowding the sidewalk. The power lines were aboveground on poles that were placed every 40 feet or so. The overall impression was one of age, decay, and claustrophobia. Yet for a pre-Civil War town, it was amazing how many local stores rented movies. It really added to that sense of history. It also indicated a serious lack of nightlife.
We went to the only hotel in town, but when we asked at the front desk, we discovered that it was already filled up, probably for the first time in its existence. The hotel looked older than the surrounding mountains and in worse shape, but the prices matched that of a fine hotel in a large city–a clear example of market forces at work. The hotel clerk said that some of the townspeople were taking in boarders for about half the price per night at the hotel and recommended a couple places for us to try. He probably got a kickback. We went to the first house he recommended, where we met a woman name Martha Simmington. About 55 years old, she had white hair, a rotund figure, and a pleasant attitude. She said she had two bedrooms for a far more reasonable price than the hotel, and it included breakfast and dinner. Having little choice, we quickly agreed and moved our suitcases in. Glen and I decided to clean up and have
dinner there and not wander out that night. Anyway, I figured dinner might prove interesting.
Around 6:30 that evening, dinner was served at a large table in the dining room. Counting Glen and myself, there were five seated around the table. We introduced ourselves without mentioning our jobs. Two of the other men were Martha's sons, John and Jeff. The boys were in their twenties and were wearing worn jeans and woolen shirts. They looked like they had just come from the field. Their hands appeared to be the only part of them that was clean. The other man, Conrad Millhouse, was staying at the house, like us, and had come for the same reason--to investigate the alien stories. He was about fifty years old and stocky, with the look of an accountant. The dinner was boarding-house style–Mrs. Simmington put the dishes on the table, and the diners served themselves. Having grown up on a farm, this was nothing new to me, and I managed to get enough to eat. I have fortunately risen far above my roots, but some things one never forgets. Glen was somewhat shy and urban, which meant he was polite during the meal and hungry after. In any case, the food was great, and the dinner conversation proved even better.
I looked over at Conrad. "So what brings you to Jasper?"
Conrad
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