Worms and Other Alien Encounters

Worms

and Other Alien Encounters

By Robert P. Hansen

Copyright 2014 by Robert P. Hansen

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Acknowledgments

Armistice copyright 2000 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in Startling Science Stories #32.

Crepe Myrtle and the Little Man copyright 2000 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in Startling Science Stories #30.

Exodus copyright 2003 by the University of Northern Iowa. Originally published in the 2003 issue of Inner Weather.

The Janitor Cleans House! copyright 1999 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in Startling Science Stories #29.

Knowledge is Power copyright 2000 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in Classic Pulp Fiction Stories #62.

The Negotiation copyright 2013 by Robert P. Hansen. Originally published in the Sept. issue of The Fifth Dimension.

Plague copyright 2000 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in Alien Worlds: Beyond Space & Time #9.

Stranded copyright 2013 by Robert P. Hansen. Originally published in the June issue of The Fifth Dimension.

Sturgeon’s General Warning: Too Much Science Fiction May Be Hazardous to Your Health copyright 2000 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in Startling Science Stories #31.

Washishisha copyright 2011 by Robert P. Hansen. Originally published in the December 2011 issue of The Fifth Dimension.

Worms copyright 1999 by Fading Shadows, Inc. Originally published in Exciting UFO Stories #5.

Cover copyright 2014 by Heartland Book Design.

Special thanks to Ronda Swolley, of Mystic Memories Copy Editing, for the copy edit.

Dedication

To Eleanor, without

whose encouragement

many of the stories

in this collection

would not exist.

Many thanks!

Preface

Why would aliens visit earth? I asked myself that question early in my writing career and rejected the more benign responses like They want to be our friends! or They want to help us progress toward a new age of Enlightenment! because, well, an advanced alien species encountering us would hardly be impressed; quite the contrary. After all, they would be advanced, as in dramatically superior to us. I also didn’t want to have them show up to blow us to bits (which they could easily do, being superior to us), since that’s been a bit overdone since H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds. So I thought about it, came up with a few plausible responses that fell between these two extremes and wrote some stories for the ones that seemed to make the most sense. This collection is mostly a product of exploring alien encounters of this sort, with a sprinkling of stories set in space thrown in for good measure.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Worms

Sturgeon’s General Warning: Too Much Science Fiction May Be Hazardous to Your Health

Plague

Exodus

Stranded

Washishisha

Mock Turtle

In Medias Res

Crepe Myrtle and the Little Man

The Janitor Cleans House!

Hero

Armistice

Harrison’s Folly

Assessment Protocols

The Negotiation

Knowledge is Power

Mistaken Identity

An Uninvited Guest

The Story of Ted

Connect With Me

Additional Titles

Worms

Worms. That’s what brought them here. Worms. I know it sounds odd, but it’s true. Really. I’m a worm-broker—at least, that’s what they call me. I only owned one bait-house in Tennessee when they came—now I have sixty. They bought every worm I had—and paid in gold. So, I started buying worms from other bait-houses. They bought all those worms from me, too. Soon I was rich. All because of worms.

It was early summer when they showed up. Fishing season was well underway, so I had plenty of worms on hand. Or so I thought. I’ll never forget that first Tuesday—or was it Wednesday? Can’t remember—when I was locking up shop for the night. From nowhere, someone said, Worms and I nearly leapt from my shoes before I realized there was somebody standing in the shadows. What? I called, trying to give myself time to recover. Who’s there? Talking shadows are unnerving.

Someone stepped half-way out of the shadows, stopped, and backed up again before I could get a good look at them. There were two of them, wearing a pair of overalls of some sort. Black overalls; all black. They stayed in the shadows and one of them repeated, Worms.

Sorry, I’m closed, I said, turning to walk home.

Worms, the other one said, louder, throwing a coin on the ground in front of me. A gold coin—but not from here. Egyptian? Maybe. It didn’t matter; it was gold. It tasted like gold.

Well, I smiled, How many do you want?

Worms, they said, again, throwing down another coin.

I shrugged and brought them worms until I didn’t have any more left. One hundred fifteen dozen worms, give or take a few. They didn’t even ask for change, all they wanted was a box to put them in. Then I had to set it in the shadows—they wouldn’t come out under the light.

One of them picked up the box and the other one said, Tomorrow, and the first one finished with, Worms. Then they were gone and I needed to find some worms. Lots of worms. Fast.

It took half the night and all the next day for me to round up the worms. I checked under all the usual rocks and debris. I watered the lawn and grabbed some more. I called all the local boys who supplied me with worms and told them I’d pay extra for rush delivery—all they could find. Then I bought all the worms I dared from the local bait-houses. So, when they showed up the next night, I had about three hundred dozen worms all boxed up and ready to go. This time, they tossed a handful of coins on the ground—ten in all—and said, More, tomorrow.

I made some phone calls, sold a few of the coins, and was soon buying worms from three counties. I was careful, though, and didn’t buy too many worms from any one dealer or sent somebody else to buy them for me. It wouldn’t have paid for them to find out what was going on. I went through five thousand dozen—and they still wanted more. So I got curious about what they were doing with all those worms and, that night, I followed them to their spaceship. Yep, that’s right, space—ship. They knew I was there, too. They asked me in—not in words, mind you, but I knew what they meant. It was weird. Real weird. Kind of a tingling in my forehead that pulled me toward the ship’s door—and through it.

Inside, there were all kinds of shiny metal things but not any lights that I could see. A glowing metal bar was on the wall every now and then but it didn’t help me very much. It was like walking in twilight. A bit chilly, too. And empty. I followed the corridor until I heard some noise—then I stopped.

Come, one of them called. So I walked through a doorway and into a small room with a table, chairs, and the familiar smell of worms. And aliens. Two of them.

Worms, one of them said, stepping away from the table. There they were; my worms, wriggling around in dishes full of some kind of goo. They offered me some but I declined, telling them I raised the worms and couldn’t possibly eat them, too. It didn’t stop them, though; they were hungry. For worms. My worms.

We talked a little bit, then. Sort of. I talked, they replied in my head. I don’t know how they did it, but it gave me a headache. Anyway, it seems that worms are a highly prized delicacy on their world—kind of like caviar or escargot here on Earth. (I wouldn’t eat them, either!) Anyway, they’d been coming to Earth every now and then to get a fresh supply. It had gotten a bit risky, lately, though; with all the technological advances us Earthlings have made, they had to be careful. They couldn’t harvest them themselves anymore, the way they used to do, so they bought them from me. Of course, with the increase in danger, the worms were at a premium on their planet and they were going to make a lot of money when they got back home. That was good for me, too.

That pretty much sums up my little talk with the aliens. Then I left their ship, went home, thought about it for a while, shrugged, and went to bed. Why should I care about what happened to my worms? Eaten by fish or alien, what difference did it make? Simple: fish didn’t pay in gold. So, I bought more worms and sold them to the aliens, too.

It went on for about two months and then, one night, they didn’t show up. I tried to find them, but their ship was gone. So I had worms. Lots and lots of worms.

Damned aliens, anyway.

Sturgeon’s General Warning: Too Much Science Fiction May Be Hazardous to Your Health

Try to Imagine:

You work the graveyard shift at a convenience store. Which store? It doesn’t matter; it’s one of the prototypical regional chains in Podunk, U.S.A. Got it in mind? Lots of aisles with over-priced candy, food, beer, sodas, toilet paper, lighters—everything a traveler might need, all stacked in neat little rows gathering dust. You’re in Podunk, U.S.A., remember? Not much ever happens in Podunk.

All right. Graveyard has a few short peaks of business—and lots of long, dry valleys. The first peak is when the second-shifters get off work; the second is the influx of drunks when the bars close; then the third shift lunch-break; and, finally, the early risers. The rest of the time, it’s the stragglers, the woe-be-gone, the between-stops truckers, and the sightseers from down South who get lost. You might see three or four people in an hour. Might. It’s BORING. Oh, you’ve got to balance the books and clean the place and that will eat up an hour or two each night—which leaves about four or five hours of doldrums. Just to keep from falling asleep, you have to do something—like reading science fiction. Asimov, Vance, Zelazny (blending into fantasy, just for a change of pace), a little Heinlein to perk up the middle-of-the-week blues, and short stories on the weekend because you never know what might happen.

Then, one night, in the middle of Enemy Mine, you hear this whirly kind of noise, like when you were a kid twirling a yo-yo around your head as fast as it could go. Only, this whirly noise is right outside the store, and it’s much, much louder. You turn, expecting to see one of those fancy new-fangled helicopters you’ve been reading about. The black ones. Then you see it.

Your first thought is about Dracons. The mental picture you’ve drawn from Longyear’s descriptive prose is still very fresh in your mind. You see one of their ships gently setting down by the gas pumps and—

And you realize there really is a ship there, and something is emerging from it. Only, it’s not a Dracon ship. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if Davidge is going to come to your rescue—but only for a moment. If there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that Davidge won’t be saving you. These aren’t Dracons.

Two creatures detach themselves from the hull of the cauliflower-shaped craft, unfold their limbs—each one has three—and ooze their way up to the door like a water spider gliding on the surface tension of a puddle. One is about twice the size of the other—perhaps four feet tall—and you have a fleeting burst of confidence that you could take them if you had to. Then you get a good look at them as the larger one grabs the door handle with a six-inch talon and pulls it open. So much for overpowering them. Next option, please.

The smaller one enters first, bounding about on its three legs, its rotating eyestalks taking in everything. You are standing behind the counter with your back tightly pressed against the cigarette rack. As the aliens approach, you see that they have ridges of bone down their front, each one sprouting something that looks like a heap of spaghetti. They stand there and, out of sheer habit, you say, Welcome to—

You almost say Earth, but you stop yourself before the cliché slips out. You finish with a lame, oft-repeated, How may I help you?

Glagnock Trishnu, the larger one says; its voice deep and sonorous, coming from somewhere you can’t see.

Huh? You stutter. I-I don’t understand.

Glagnock Trishnu, the larger one repeats. As if it should suddenly be clear, it adds, Artenni.

Artenni! Artenni! the little one coos, hopping from one leg to another and another, almost knocking off the counter display. This week, it’s Marlboro Man.

Now, in a brief moment of interstellar understanding—perhaps the first in human history—you know what Glagnock Trishnu means. You point and say, Down the aisle, first door on your left. You watch the little alien run out of sight, and a few minutes later, you hear the familiar sound of the toilet flushing. Then the little one is bounding back into view.

Nutui, the larger one says. Nutui, the little one echoes as they walk out the door. A few moments later, they reattach themselves to their ship and it leaves. You go outside to watch, but they’re already out of sight. You stand there for a while, shrug, and go back inside. You walk past the counter and head for the storeroom to get the mop, just in case the alien made a mess. On your way past the counter, your eyes fall upon the abandoned story, and you pause. You reach out to pick up the magazine, glance at the page you were reading. Davidge, Dracons, Zamiss—all of it has taken on a different character; it’s suddenly more real.

With a shudder, you toss the magazine in the trashcan by the door and think, no more Sci-Fi for me! A quick glance at the stars confirms your decision. You see all kinds, you mutter to yourself. You shake your head and shuffle toward the bathroom, wondering what kind of mess you’ll find.

I think, you say to yourself, I’ll start reading mysteries. Nice, safe mysteries.

Plague

The complaints are becoming excessive, Minister, H’Juri’s assistant stated, pointing at the muted screen in the corner. These Earthers are becoming a nuisance.

Understandable, S’Gashi, the Minister of Communication replied. "How are the web technicians progressing? What is the projected date for nullifying the interference?

At present, S’Gashi replied, scraping his paws on the soft earth, it is projected to be accomplished within a few solar cycles.

H’Juri nodded, patting the ground with exasperation. It cannot be helped, then. Very well, S’Gashi, inform the Unity of the situation—perhaps other research can be more fruitful.

Yes, Minister, S’Gashi scratched the ground and rose to leave. At once!

When S’Gashi had gone, H’Juri stared at the odd images scampering about on the communications screen. They are strange, are they not? the old Minister muttered, turning the volume back on.

L’Ci! the Earther called D’Zi screamed at the Earther called L’Ci and she scampered into the domicile with haste.

A strange species, indeed, he muttered, punching the code for the Ministry of Science.

Ah, H’Juri, the familiar face of P’Dana’s assistant appeared. He rapidly scarped the ground, leaving two sets of gouges for a considerable distance. P’Dana will speak with you at once.

H’Juri politely scratched the ground with one paw, deferentially awaiting the appearance of P’Dana. When he appeared, they exchanged the usual greeting of brothers and H’Juri asked, Tell me, my brother, how fare the understandings?

P’Dana’s proboscis snapped out, snaring a large insect from the sky. As he munched, he said, They are a most curious species, my brother, most curious, indeed. I have only recently discovered that they have an underutilized supply of insects that they fail to propagate. Perhaps even a greater variety than our own! It appears they have a fetish for mammalian flesh and vegetative matter and fail to capitalize on them as a splendid dietary resource. Most distressing. I recommended to the Chief of Ministry that we do not make contact.

Ah, H’Juri murmured. A pity. They are, as you say, a most curious species.

* * * * *

A dozen solar cycles later, the Minister of Resources interrupted all transmissions of the interstellar communications web to announce that it was true, R’Ndus IV had been severely decimated by the L’Gana virus. It is only a matter of time, he said, before their entire food supply will be destroyed. R’Ndus III has also been affected, though less severely, thanks to the quick response in establishing quarantine. Even so, the food supply has been reduced by nearly half. Unless we can circumvent the effect of the L’Gana virus, it is inevitable; with four planets of the Unity already dangerously depleted, a large percentage of our people will die.

After the broadcast, H’Juri sat for a time, resting his paws on the ground, palms up, signifying submission to the inevitable. When his brother called, he whispered, P’Dana, my brother, is there nothing to be done?

P’Dana gently scratched the ground with one paw, rolling a clod of dirt between his claws. My brother, he said at last, let us not abandon hope. It is true the L’Gana virus is destroying R’Ndus III and IV and has already crippled I’Lian I and P’Duris VI, but our own planet will be spared the starvation.

It is not for us that I weep, my brother. Is there not something that can be done for our brethren who die?

H’Juri, P’Dana said, digging his claws into the ground. Do you recall the Earther interference?

Indeed, H’Juri replied. After the web technicians developed the blocking device, I have kept certain links open to receive their transmissions. I have been understanding them ever since.

Then, do you recall my informing you of the teeming supply of insects? P’Dana paused long enough for H’Juri to signal his remembrance. Perhaps we would be able to find a species that could withstand the L’Gana virus. I will be discussing this with the Chief of Ministry, shortly.

* * * * *

A satellite, surely, Alexi Levitov said, pointing to a stream of light cascading toward the Anderson’s field. But I haven’t heard of any in that state of decay.

No, Adrian O’Donnell replied, watching the stream of light change direction, level out, and lightly touch down. I don’t think it’s a satellite. Shouldn’t we investigate?

It’s not our duty, he replied. We’re desk jockeys, remember? I’ll call the home office.

Where’s your adventurous spirit, Lev? Adrian asked. Let’s take a look, first. It might be nothing.

But—

Look, Lev, this is my home; I have to find out what’s landed over there. Besides, the Anderson’s will be calling over here any moment—they known I’m here. It was true, too—she was surprised they hadn’t already called. Perhaps they were sleeping—it was late, after all.

All right, you win, Alexi said. But just a look—and not a close look, either. I’ll call it in on the way over. Deal? Lev had already taken out his cell phone, so Adrian shrugged and started walking toward the car. About ten minutes later, they pulled off into the Anderson’s cornfield, parked the car, and got out.

The field was sprouting up nicely; the corn stalks were about waste-high and, being dressed in shorts and T-shirt, Lev was getting nicked by their long, sharp leaves. Adrian was, too, but she wasn’t griping about it—she had grown up on these farms and knew how to minimize the damage. The ship was at the far side of the field, and a bright light beamed out from one end of it. Something was standing where the light left the ship, but it wasn’t watching them. Lev stopped, whispering a description into the phone, but Adrian moved cautiously forward.

When she was within thirty feet or so, she was able to see the creature better, and for all intents and purposes, it looked like a five-foot tall anteater. It was bipedal, pear-shaped, had a proboscis-like elongated snout, and was plucking moths out of the air with great skill. One thing was for certain: it wasn’t human.

Welcome to Earth, Adrian said. It was a cliché, she knew, but what else should