Transreal Trilogy: Secret of Life, White Light, Saucer Wisdom

by Rudy Rucker

  “That’s true, you used to be really out of it. We were already in Louisville on your birthday. It was the day we moved in. Your tenth birthday.” Caldwell continued thumbing absently through the old photos. “Look at this picture. It’s the flying wing!”

  Gray and black stipple of lawn, a stark tree ramifying up, faint cloud patterns, and there, floating in the sky, a sliver-black aircraft. It has no fuselage or tail-gear—it is simply a wing, a stubby boomerang, a fat, warped pancake. Windows dot its leading edge—scores of windows.

  “Do you remember, Conrad? You were with me. I tried to tell Pop about it, but he… Damn! I’d forgotten that I took a picture of it! Let me see it again!”

  The two brothers pored over the picture of the flying wing. Assuming all those portholes were normal size, the thing had to be hundreds of feet across.

  “I’ve still never heard of a plane like that,” said Caldwell wonderingly. “I know they built some small flying wings, but never anything like this. You know, I bet I could sell this picture to Aviation Magazine!”

  “Don’t do that,” said Conrad. His voice came out flat and strange.

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “It’s my picture.”

  “Hell it is.”

  “Give it to me!” Conrad snatched the picture away from Caldwell and ran upstairs. Caldwell didn’t bother chasing him.

  Alone in his room, Conrad studied the flying-wing photo for a long time. It could easily be a flying saucer. The flying saucer that beamed me down. The day the Bungers moved to Louisville. The flame-people beamed me down in Skelton’s hog pen and hypnotized the Bungers, new in town, and with no living relatives. When I came “home,” the Bungers threw a tenth birthday party for me. The saucer hung around for a while, and Caldwell took its picture.

  Conrad’s mother was tapping on his door. He put the picture in his wallet.

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “Dinner’s ready! We’re having roast beef!”

  The three others were sitting at the dining table, exactly as they had been sitting the first time Conrad saw them, March 22, 1956.

  The saucer makes a terrible noise, a deep slow flutter. The whole house is shaking, but no one cries out. The mind-rays have frozen them in place. It is a Norman Rockwell tableau. Pop is at one end of the oval table. He is carving a roast beef. Light glares off his glasses. Mom is at the other end of the table. She is pouring coffee and smiling at Caldwell. She wears pearls. Caldwell holds his plate out for the red meat. He is gangly, with a wide, grinning mouth. The rumbling of the saucer-drive builds in frequency, and the little family begins to glow. Their minds are being reprogrammed. The door opens, and Conrad approaches the table, carrying a cake with ten lit candles—

  “Conrad! Are you with us, my boy?” Pop was staring at him, a half-smile on his face.

  “He’s probably stoned,” chortled Caldwell. “Don’t you think Conrad should get a haircut, Pop?” He helped himself to some gravy.

  Mr. Bunger proudly took in the sight of his big sons. “Look at these two birds, Lucy! Our boys! How was it in Germany, Caldwell? How was it on the ramparts of the Free World?”

  “It was a blast. We only had to work a few hours a day—listening to East German radio broadcasts, and the rest of the time—”

  “You drank booze and chased women. I shudder to think. This is what my taxes go for, Lucy. A strong national defense. I have some of these career men in my congregation—colonels and generals—and they’re always moaning about all the lazy people on welfare. ‘You’re on welfare, too,’ I tell them. ‘The army is a huge middle-class welfare system.’”

  “Pop’s turned into a real radical,” Conrad told Caldwell. Mr. Bunger’s good humor was contagious. “He wants to go picket the White House.”

  “Hey, hey, LBJ,” chanted their father in his cracked old voice. “How many kids did you kill today?”

  “Really, Caldwell,” protested Mrs. Bunger. “That’s enough. Stop this nonsense and let the children eat.”

  “Great food, Mom,” said young Caldwell, taking another baked potato. “Isn’t Mom a good cook, Conrad?”

  “Shore is,” agreed Conrad. This was reality, too. One way or another, these were his people. “I’ve been to New York, and to Paris, France, and I ain’t never et vittles the like of these.”

  “Did you know Conrad’s getting married, Mom?”

  Mrs. Bunger stopped eating and put on her glasses. She looked quizzical and excited. “Is that true, Conrad? You’re going to marry Audrey?”

  “Caldwell, I’m going to kill you.” Caldwell’s eyes were squeezed into happy slits. He loved putting his little brother on the spot.

  “Have you thought about getting an engagement ring?” continued Mrs. Bunger. “You should cash in your savings bonds.”

  “Slow down,” cried Conrad. “Is there such a rush to get rid of me?”

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Bunger. “But if you do want to marry Audrey after college, we certainly won’t stand in your way.”

  “What does this Audrey look like anyway?” asked Caldwell, stunned by the success of his gambit.

  “She’s very nice,” said Mrs. Bunger. “She came here for Easter.”

  “Can’t we talk about something else?” said Conrad. This was agony. Even if he did come from a flying saucer, the Bungers sure knew how to act like relatives.

  “Why don’t we talk about how Caldwell got kicked out of college?”

  “Now, Conrad.”

  “Which of you boys wants more roast beef?”

  Lying in bed that night, Conrad mulled over the day’s revelations. The picture of the flying saucer. The memory flash of how he’d come into the Bungers’ lives. Subconsciously, he must have known it all along. Why else would he have always talked so much about UFOs? Why else would he have gone around saying he came from a flying saucer? But up till today, he’d never suspected it might actually be true.

  I am an alien. Conrad felt his chest and legs, his face and genitals. Sick horror filled him as he imagined his body splitting open to disgorge a bug-eyed squid-creature from Dimension Z.

  But that wasn’t what the aliens—what Conrad—really looked like. Those dreams of the flame-people, those were true dreams. They were creatures of energy, beings of light. That much seemed certain.

  Thinking back on the dreams, Conrad tried to remember more. There was usually a feeling of being forced to leave. Pushed down into a body on Earth. But why?

  Why did they send me here? Could it be a kind of punishment? But life was—on the whole—sweet. It was fun to be human: to think, and fuck, and drink, and do things—it was fun to be alive. This was no punishment. But why else would they have sent him here?

  The secret of life. The secret of human life. Conrad considered his years-long obsession with this notion. For some reason the flame-people were unwilling—or unable—to appear directly on Earth. What they knew of humanity would be gleaned from radio and TV. It was probably the spreading shell of Earth’s old broadcasts that had attracted the flame-people in the first place.

  They’d sent Conrad to find out what it’s like. They’d equipped him with his strange powers—flight, shrinking, and maybe others—to make sure that he would be here a good long time. Sooner or later they would come get him. He would remember the old language of the energy-dance and tell them just how it felt to be human. He would tell them the deeper truths that never get mentioned on TV. Fine. But this left one question.

  How much longer do I have?

  Conrad drifted into uneasy sleep. He dreamed his old flame-person dream, and then he dreamed of the mysterious crystal that Cornelius Skelton kept on his mantel.

  Chapter 18: Thursday, August 4, 1966

  “Let’s you and me drive to Louisville tomorrow, Conrad.”

  “What for?”

  “Kicks, man. Kicks.�
�

  Caldwell had to shout to make himself heard over the hot, beating wind. They were speeding along in his new green MG convertible, on their way back from an evening’s drinking in D.C. Caldwell had managed to get the car for $700 down, and con man that he was, he hadn’t even actually paid the $700 yet.

  “That’s what I always want to ask Pop,” Caldwell was shouting now. “Sure Jesus is great, but what did he do for kicks?”

  “I wouldn’t mind going to Louisville,” said Conrad, still thinking about Caldwell’s proposal. “Maybe we could get some nooky there. And it’d be great to see Hank. I could probably sleep at his house. But where would you stay?”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’m the one with all the rich friends. I’ll find a place for both of us, if you like. It’ll be fun, huh, bro?”

  For the last few days, Conrad had been waiting for Caldwell to ask why he’d grabbed the flying-wing picture. But Caldwell seemed to have forgotten all about it. He just seemed glad that Conrad was finally old enough to really talk to.

  Mr. and Mrs. Bunger—Caldwell referred to them as “the ancients”—gave the trip their grudging blessing. Mrs. Bunger told the boys to be sure to look up this or that old family friend; and Mr. Bunger gave them each $100.

  “You don’t have to spend it all, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, Pop. We’ll be good.”

  “Just be sure to come back in one piece.”

  They took Route 50 through West Virginia, and picked up Route 42 in Cincinnati. Taking turns at the wheel, they made it straight through in fourteen hours—which meant they hit Louisville a little after midnight Friday night. Somehow they hadn’t gotten around to calling ahead.

  “Where are we going to sleep, Caldwell? Which one of your rich friends’ parents do you want to wake up?”

  “I thought you said we could stay at Larsen’s.”

  As chance would have it, Hank was still up, playing with his shortwave radio. Over the years, he’d packed a whole wallful of equipment into his bedroom. His greatest score to date was the time he’d picked up a transmission from a ship in McMurdo Sound, Antarctica. Conrad tapped on his window, and Hank hurried to the door.

  “Why, come on in! It’s the rompin’, stompin’ Bunger boys! How you been, Caldwell, you get out of the army all right?”

  “Well, they told me if I reenlisted I’d get a promotion, and seven dollars twenty cents a week extra—”

  “But you passed it up. Wise move. Conrad, good to see you, buddy. Louisville’s been dead without you. Hey—you know who else is back in town?”

  “Who?”

  “Dee Decca.” Hank grinned and rolled his eyes for emphasis. “She’s been askin’ about you, Conrad; she’s hot to trot.”

  “I remember her,” put in Caldwell. “A dark-haired girl who wore sweatshirts? Smoked a lot? Not too good-looking?”

  “That’s the one,” said Hank. “Only now she’s smokin’ pot.”

  “This sounds better all the time,” said Conrad. “Any chance of a beer?”

  “My birthday’s not till next week, but Caldwell here’s over twenty-one, and the liquor store up at the shopping center’s open till three. I see no obstacle to an efficacious implementation.”

  “Let’s rock and roll.”

  They picked up three sixes of Falls City and went cruising with the MG’s top down. Caldwell drove, Hank took the passenger seat, and Conrad squeezed into the jump seat with the beer. At one in the morning, it was still seventy-five degrees.

  “Where’s Dee staying?” Conrad wanted to know.

  “At Sue Pohlboggen’s.”

  “I’m not going there,” said Caldwell flatly. “I want to see some real women, not these hippie-dippie chicks Conrad hangs out with. You know of any parties tonight, Hank?”

  “I heard Tacy Leggett’s havin’ a blow-out. Wasn’t her kid brother Donny a Chevalier boy?”

  “Tacy!” screamed Caldwell. “Tacy Leggett!” He executed a U-turn and headed for River Road.

  “Be careful on the Leggetts’ driveway,” cautioned Conrad.

  “That’s right,” chimed in Hank. “Conrad stacked up your mom’s VW there Derby Day senior year.”

  “My baby brother did that?”

  “You missed all the excitement,” said Hank. “Spending four years in the army. Four years! Dumb pud.”

  “Laugh it up, guys. You’re the ones going to Vietnam.”

  Tacy Leggett’s party was still jumping. Otis Redding and Wilson Pickett blasting, cars all over the yard, people dancing by the pool. The pool had spotlights in it. Tacy recognized Caldwell at once. She held her mouth open and squealed, and then she threw her slim arms around him.

  “Cal’well! Mah little soldier-boy! How you beeyun?”

  Donny Leggett wasn’t there. Most of the guests were Caldwell’s age: straights with real jobs. Neckties, even. There was an outdoor bar set up, with a white-coated black man mixing drinks. Hank and Conrad drifted that way.

  “Peppermint schnapps, Paunch?”

  “Gin and tonic.”

  They got their drinks and sat down by the pool. Clinking glasses, they grinned, remembering the time they’d snuck up here and raided Mr. Leggett’s liquor cabinet.

  “Where’s Audrey this summer?” asked Hank after they’d toasted several other high-school escapades.

  “Back in Geneva. I was gonna go, but I couldn’t face digging basements again.”

  “She’s a real nice girl. That was fun seeing you all in the Rail that night.”

  “Yeah. I want to talk to you some more about the flying saucer thing.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “It’s really true, Hank. Look at this.” Conrad took the flying-wing picture out of his wallet.

  “Could be a saucer,” agreed Hank after a brief inspection. “Or it could be a plane heading toward the camera. Where’d you get it?”

  “Caldwell took it, out in our front yard on my tenth birthday.”

  Hank shook his head impatiently. “I don’t see why it’s so all-fired important for you to think you’re from a flying saucer, Conrad. Your folks aren’t that bad. You act like a kid who thinks he’s an adopted prince.”

  “But—”

  “And what if I did swallow the whole story? Then what? A flying saucer puts you here to find out what it’s like to be human. So what? For all practical purposes, you’re still just crazy Conrad. You say you have superpowers—but if all they can ever do is save your life, they’re not going to mean anything to me. It doesn’t connect to anything, Conrad. Old man Skelton still writes UFO letters to the Louisville Times, but nobody takes it seriously. His friends all tease him about it.”

  “Old man Skelton!” exclaimed Conrad. “That’s it! We’ll sneak in there tonight and steal that crystal he has. I’ve been dreaming about it ever since I found this picture. Maybe I can use the crystal for a definitive proof!”

  Hank sipped his drink and gave a slow laugh of appreciation. “OK. Another Bunger-Larsen caper. Just like old times. But I’m not going to get caught holding the bag on this one. You do the sneaking. Old Skelton shot him a robber just last year, I do recall.”

  “Don’t worry, Hank, I’ll go in. Mr. Skelton can’t hurt me. I’ll just shrink if I have to. I wonder if Caldwell’s ready to hit the road.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  The party was breaking up now, but Caldwell and Tacy were still slow-dancing by the pool. As Conrad approached them, he could sense the working of Caldwell’s keen mind.

  With a sudden lurch, Caldwell managed to pull himself and Tacy into the pool. Great splashing and laughter.

  “Ooh, Cal’well, you all right, hunneh?”

  “Sure.” Caldwell grinned, his eyes slits. “A little chilly, though. And these are the only clothes I brought.”

  “Ah can toss yoah clothes into ou
r dryer. Can you wait that looong?”

  Caldwell gave Conrad a meaningful glance.

  “I really have to get back to Hank’s,” offered Conrad. “He promised his mom he’d be back by—”

  “I can’t ride in the car all wet like this,” snapped Caldwell. Another signaling glance.

  “Well…uh, I wonder if you could maybe stay here for a while and I’ll come back for you? Could you give me your keys?”

  “All right. But drive carefully.” All the other guests were gone now. Still in the water, Tacy and Caldwell kept touching each other.

  “Cal’well can sleep in the gues’ room, Conrad. You just go home and call us tomorrah mornin’.”

  The two brothers exchanged smiles. Everything was working out perfectly. Hank and Conrad got in the MG.

  “Hey, Hank, you want me to show you how I slalomed this hill that time?”

  “Go, Bo Diddley.”

  It was three in the morning by the time they went creeping up to old Cornelius Skelton’s farmhouse. Conrad had tied his handkerchief over his face, bandit-style; and Hank was carrying the tire iron from the MG. Conrad took the tire iron and began prying at one of Skelton’s windows. Hank lent his force, and the window latch gave with a sudden snap and clatter.

  The two boys crouched and froze, waiting for a reaction. But all was quiet: Skelton’s big brick house, the rolling pastureland, the distant suburban split-levels, the thin crescent moon overhead.

  They’d popped open one of the dining room windows. Right in there, not more than fifteen feet off, Conrad could make out a dark patch—the big fireplace, with the mantel where the famous crystal always sat.

  “I’m goin’ back to the car,” whispered Hank. They’d left it around a bend in the driveway. “After you’ve been in there a minute, I’ll back her up for a fast getaway.”

  “Good. Cover the license plate with one of the bags the beer came in. And don’t leave any empties on the ground. Fingerprints.”

  “Right. And don’t you go in there with that tire iron. Armed robbery.”

  Conrad handed the tire iron over, and Hank melted into the night. Conrad inched the window the rest of the way up, being careful not to touch the panes. He kept pausing and listening, poised to take flight. Nothing.