by Alan James
Colonel Waterman swallowed as the lead hit the tarmac with the dull sound of a zinc war-penny. Then looking side to side and waving his hands with open palms forward, he addressed everyone within ear-shot.
“Everyone, and I mean everyone,” the second everyone being aimed, with a quick glance at one of the men manning a fifty on the jeep to the right of Kelly, “I want no … I repeat … absolutely no weapons discharged without my orders. No talking, no loud noises, and no sudden movements of any kind by anybody. So help me, I’ll shoot the first man that disobeys these orders. Lieutenant Bailey,” he said looking for his aide. “Where in the hell is … Oh, there you are,” he said as the young Lieutenant came out from behind the far hangar door. “Bailey, pull yourself together man, and get a couple corpsmen to clean up what’s left of the sergeant. The rest of you, clear a way to hangar two and if I can get our visitor to follow me, I don’t want anyone but Lieutenant Bailey and a single corpsman to follow us in … no exceptions … got that?” he said with authority.
“Yes Sir,” came multiple answers from all directions.
The colonel stared at Kelly for a moment, then asked, “Are you injured?”
Kelly stood without expression. He would let the colonel puzzle over the situation for awhile.
“Your shoulder,” Waterman asked reaching with his left hand and touching his own right shoulder, “are you hurt?”
Kelly let him stew for just a few seconds more, then taking on an understanding expression, he raised his right hand with pointer and middle finger extended, and shook them back and forth as if answering in the negative.
“Ah, good,” the colonel said with a relieved, yet puzzled look. He found it hard to believe he had just watched this visitor take an ACP round at close range, and he was now standing in front of him, apparently unharmed.
At a loss for his next line, the colonel stepped to one side, and pointing with his right hand he passed his left hand across his body at waist level, beckoning Kelly to walk with him into the hangar. It reminded Kelly of the vision that his friend Cory Brickman had presented to him on his first night back at the trailer in Marana. ‘Here we go again,’ he thought, ‘into another dark hallway.’
As he took his first step he noticed, with no outward trepidation, that he no longer had toes. It was as if he was wearing hospital slippers that had become a part of his feet. “Oh God no,” he nearly said out loud, then, checking himself, he breathed a quick sigh of relief as he saw his package, still hanging there.
‘No more changes,’ he thought to his Brother, ‘no more changes without checking with me first.’
“But Kelly, it is only eliminating the superfluous.”
‘Hey,’ he thought loudly, ‘I will decide what is superfluous.’
***
Kelly scanned the inside of the hangar as they walked through the large doors. It was laid out much like those back at Marana, except that the entire eastern quarter of this one was partitioned into what looked like offices. As the colonel bade Kelly to turn toward the open door to the first partition, he saw the title, Colonel Waterman stenciled above the portal. Under the name was a nicely painted picture of a skunk he had seen in a cartoon when he was younger. ‘Mascot?’ he thought.
Waterman walked through the door then turned and held it open wide for Kelly. “Bailey,” he said quietly, “inside with me … corpsman, stand-by right where you are until I call for you, understand?”
“Yes Sir, Colonel Watermen, Sir.”
As the colonel closed the door and moved behind his desk, he offered a chair to Kelly. Deciding to stand instead, Kelly shook the same two fingers he had used earlier, to answer in the negative, and then watched as the Colonel (somewhat agitated) and Lieutenant Bailey each took a seat (Bailey to his right, next to the door).
As Waterman made himself as comfortable as he could with Kelly towering over him, he leaned forward as if to start the conversation, but a commotion outside his office window drew his gaze away from Kelly. It looked like half his command had decided that they didn’t want to miss out on this interview with the alien. Soldiers had lined themselves up three and four deep and none of them seemed ashamed to be looking through their Colonel’s private office windows.
“Bailey, see to that, will you?”
As Bailey stood and moved toward one of the windows, presumably to yell his orders at the men outside, the Colonel re-directed him, “For Christ’s sake Bailey, go outside and take care of it,” he said, rolling his eyes at Kelly (as if he fully expected this alien standing in front of him to understand human facial expressions).
Kelly stared at him and then let his chrome eyes follow the young officer out of the room.
The two men stared at one another for a moment and then Waterman finally decided he would give it another try. This time, however, he leaned back in his chair, thinking that the less confrontational he might appear, the better.
“Sir,” he said softly, having no idea whether this creature in front of him would understand a word he was speaking. His concentration was suddenly broken as Lieutenant Bailey made a clumsy, door banging, re-entry into the office.
“Christ man, do you think you could act a little less like a shave-tail in the officer’s mess.”
“Yes Sir … sorry Sir,” he stammered as he spun to catch the roll-shade that shot up and slapped itself against the window five or six times before coming to a halt.
As Bailey finally seated himself, the Colonel continued, “Sir, I hardly know where to start,” he smiled, “do you need medical assistance?” he said pointing to Kelly’s right shoulder, still concerned that this alien visitor might be injured.
Kelly, playing his part, gave him a questioning look, then raising his eyebrows while reaching for his shoulder, and figuring he was going to have to speak sooner or later anyway, answered, “I do not require medical assistance.” He let some inflection with just a little intonation seep out as he spoke. He wanted to make the Colonel feel he was talking with something other than a machine.
“Oh, good,” Waterman leaned forward, “you can speak.”
Kelly stared as the Colonel continued:
“Would you like food … are you hungry?”
When Kelly sat quietly, Waterman moved his hand to his mouth, making the universal eat sign.
Again Kelly raised his eyebrows in question, then, waiting what he thought was the proper amount of time, and almost smiling as if suddenly understanding, he said, “I do not require sustenance.” And then, almost in the same breath, he thought to himself, ‘Damn it! That was a mistake. I’d kill for any kind of a sandwich and a cold glass of milk.’
“You don’t eat … at all?” the Colonel queried.
“Not at this time,” Kelly said, deciding to leave his options open.
Waterman paused for a moment and then his eye was caught by a quick hand movement from Lieutenant Bailey, who was waving as if he were in grade school and trying to attract his teacher’s attention.
“What is it Bailey?” he asked, disgruntled with the interruption, but not wanting to take the chance that the Lieutenant might have something important to say.
“Sir, ask him if he has a name … Sir … ask him what he is called … Sir.”
“Yes, yes Bailey,” Waterman said gruffly, waving his hand for Bailey to shut up, “that was my next question.”
‘Oh Boy,’ Kelly thought, ‘a name.’
He hadn’t given that any consideration at all: what to call himself. The only thing that came to mind was the Stuckey’s uniform he had put on the day before. He remembered looking down and seeing the mechanics name embroidered above the breast pocket. “Lee Roy” it read, and, without giving the Colonel a chance to ask his question, he looked first at the Lieutenant then back at the man behind the desk.
“I am called YorEel.”
PRELUDE TO A BATTLE
Colonel Waterman looked at his young Lieutenant, who was smiling, having just received an answer to
a question he had just offered.
“Mister YorEel,” Waterman said, turning to Kelly once again, having given his subordinate an obligatory half smile, “is that your first name?”
“That is my name,” Kelly hesitated, and then toying with the Colonel, “and you are called ColWaterman … and the other is LtBailey.”
As Waterman struggled to find a way to answer without possibly offending his visitor, Kelly continued, “It is there, on your coverings … the little piece of gold colored metal … it says ColWaterman,” then turning toward the junior officer, “and his says LtBailey.”
“Oh,” Waterman said, with some amusement, “No Sir, these are our designations of rank.”
Kelly gave a somewhat knowing nod, “I understand this notion of rank. We use it ourselves from time to time.” He looked at the Lieutenant then back at the Colonel, “So, you are Col, and you hold the rank of a Waterman, and you,” he turned again, “are Lt and your rank is that of a Bailey,” he continued quickly, “I understand the rank of Waterman, and why you appear to be in charge here in this arid and inhospitable desert of a place, but you Lt, just what are the duties of a Bailey?”
As Bailey started to open his mouth, the Colonel waved him quiet again, “Bailey, I’ll handle this.” Then to Kelly, and seemingly in a hurry, “Mr. YorEel, not that it makes a great deal of difference, for you may call me anything that pleases you, but, this first part,” he pointed to the Col. on his name tag, “is my rank. My full name is Colonel Harold Thomas Waterman.”
Kelly stared at Waterman for a moment then turned to the young man sitting by the door, “And is your name so long and complicated also?”
Again the Lieutenant tried to answer but was waved down. The colonel was becoming short of temper. He needed this conversation to move along much more quickly than it was. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he turned from the cowering Bailey and spoke to Kelly in a somewhat subdued, but on the verge of exploding, voice, “Mr. … YorEel, these things, our names, our ranks,” he searched for words, “they are trivial things … wouldn’t you agree?” And then without giving Kelly a chance to answer, “We have much more important things to talk about, for, you see …,”
Kelly interrupted, “Mister Col, I sense an urgency about you. Why is this?” he asked, smiling inside, for he knew that this man’s General was on his way to this place, and the poor colonel was making an attempt at a little coup. He was, in the next hour, hoping to bundle this space-man and his flying saucer into a neat little package that he could hand off to his superior and move himself up the promotion ladder, much like every other long-in-the-tooth lifer in any branch of the military. As Waterman began to speak again, Kelly again interrupted, “Mister Col,” and this time it was he who leaned forward, “where are you keeping my Brothers?”
The Colonel sat straight in his chair, looked quickly at Bailey and then back at Kelly, “Mr. YorEel, I assure you, there are no more of your kind on this base … I assure you Sir,” he reiterated.
With that, Kelly stepped forward and the Colonel stood quickly, not being sure just what this alien’s intentions were. Kelly made his way around the edge of Waterman’s desk and continued to the row of windows where the soldiers had been previously lined up for a look at the goings-on in inside. Waterman’s right hand had found its way to the Colt forty-five semi-auto on his hip and Kelly glanced at it casually. Looking the colonel in the eyes, he said, “Col Waterman, you saw what little effect your weapons had on me earlier. Would you really be so foolish as to try to use that on me?”
“For self-protection … yes I would, Sir.”
Kelly raised his right hand, palm toward the Colonel, as if assuring him that there was no need for any sort of violence at this time, and then closing all his fingers except for his pointer, he turned slowly, finally pointing to the foothills on the east side of the valley.
“My Brothers are there, in those hills … inside those hills.” Then, turning to the Colonel again, “You will take me to see them … now!”
Colonel Waterman was at a loss, and clearly, he felt at a disadvantage. He had thought, for one reason or another, that this conversation would take a much different course. He had envisioned this alien: nearly helpless; lost on a strange planet; and surely overwhelmed by his superior forces, would be somewhat of a push-over. ‘What made this … creature,’ he wondered, ‘think that it held the upper hand here?’
Attempting to regain control of this situation (if he ever really was in control of this situation) he turned to his Lieutenant, “Bailey, bring both jeeps into the hangar and have them cover this office door with their fifties.”
“Yes Sir,” Bailey said sheepishly, looking at Kelly as if asking his permission to leave.
“Now Bailey!” the Colonel almost yelled.
“Do you want me back in here, Sir?” the young man’s voice trembled, hoping the Colonel would give him leave to hide behind anything big and heavy out in the hangar.
“Yes I want you back in here, why wouldn’t I?” he said, calming slightly. Then, turning to Kelly, “Mister YorEel, you must understand, I am trying to conduct this interrogation …”
Kelly’s eyes raised and the Colonel reacted immediately.
“… this interview,” he corrected himself, “in an atmosphere of friendship” he paused, “of good (and he knew it sounded pretty stupid, even as it left his lips) planetary relations. You must understand, Sir, I have a plane full of superior officers on the way here at this very minute, and I can assure you that I am a much easier person to deal with than any of them. Please Mr. YorEel, I am trying my best to be your friend. These men who are coming will use weapons much more powerful than the one used on you outside.”
Kelly, once again let Waterman stew, then, “What is it you want from me?”
Waterman’s eyes brightened in a state of apprehensive anticipation. He leaned forward, speaking matter-of-factly, “We need to know things … things like: what is the source of power for your saucer; what weapons do you carry, other than those conventional guns you have mounted; what was that pressure wave device you hit us with; where are you from; why are you here, and most important of all: are you, or your race … hostile.”
Kelly paused, as if thinking, “And if I give you all this,” he asked softly, “then … you will take me to my Brothers?”
Knowing full well that he had no intentions of doing anything of the sort, the Colonel answered with a smile, “Of course Mister YorEel, of course,” and with a hand motion, he offered Kelly a seat again. Kelly moved to the chair, but still preferring to stand, waved his two fingers in the negative once more. Waterman was again put off. He loved sitting behind his huge oak desk, playing the part of the big-shot; and he disliked, immensely, having someone refuse to sit, only to end up hovering over him in his own office. He decided to remain standing.
“Some of your questions are easily answered,” Kelly started, “some are not. I can answer two of them in the same sentence. As to why we are here and our intentions: we are explorers. As to where we are from, well, there are no words in your language that could possibly be used to give our home world a name. Simply pick any word you like and we will agree to call it that. Any galactic coordinates that I might give you, to find our home-world, would be meaningless, for you have nothing to take reference from. If you have a picture of this galaxy, our galaxy,” he smiled, “I could perhaps point to the place, if that would be sufficient.” Kelly looked at the colonel questioningly.
“Perhaps at a later time,” Waterman said gruffly, waving Kelly to continue, “Please, tell me about the power source.”
“Ah yes, the power source, and the weapon I used,” he continued (knowing he had no knowledge of the process by which the disc produced the force that drove the soldiers back). He figured his line of BS was working well for him so far, so, he threw some more. “This is even harder to explain than where we are from. You see, unless you can understand the mathematics, the
physics, the particle theory, the …” Kelly stopped, then looking at Waterman as if searching for words that simply didn’t exist, he asked, “Sir, do you have primitives on your planet?”
“What? … primitives? What do you mean by primitives?”
“Is there no place on this planet where there exists a race that is not as advanced as yours?”
Waterman thought for a moment, wanting answers much faster than they were coming, “Yes, yes of course, we have pockets of primitive people in places all over the Earth.”
With a smile on his chrome lips Kelly continued, “Good, good Col Waterman. Then please, in your own words, as if I were one of your primitives, explain to me how the propulsion system works on one of the aircraft that attacked me earlier.” As Waterman stammered for his answer, Kelly spoke again, “You see my dilemma, do you not? If I were to try to explain the process by which we obtain power from the high-end elements contained in my ship, some of which do not even exist on your planet, it would be as if I were, and I mean no disrespect Col Waterman, as if I were talking to one of your primitives. You do see that, don’t you?”
“We have scientists, mathematicians, who will be able to understand you, I am sure.”
“Are these scientists here on this base … now?”
“No, they are not,” Waterman said with a noticeable redness now showing in his cheeks. He could tell that this conversation no longer held the hope of delivering a nice neat package to General Macon. “Bailey,” he yelled, “get in here … bring two MP’s with you. Mister YorEel,” he said, turning back to face Kelly, “I am truly sorry, but you apparently don’t understand that your cooperation here is mandatory.” He held an open hand to Kelly, feigning friendship. “Sir, I am trying my best to make this as easy on you as possible, can’t you see that?”