John Whorfin:
When?
Lectroids:
Real soon!
10:00 P.M.—A special advance recon patrol led by Pinky Carruthers boards Casper Lindley’s helicopter. Scooter will remain behind. As we prepare to roll toward Yoyodyne, a second helicopter appears overhead, bringing the Secretary of Defense. Immediately upon arrival, he attempts to bring his entourage aboard but finds his way barred at gunpoint by Perfect Tommy.
Perfect Tommy:
Only you, Mr. Secretary. Those are the orders.
Secretary of Defense:
Who the hell are you?
Perfect Tommy:
Perfect Tommy.
Reno:
And I’m Reno.
Secretary of Defense:
Reno who?
Reno:
Reno Nevada.
Secretary of Defense:
Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Perfect Tommy and Mr. Reno Nevada. I’m the secretary of Defense, the eyes and ears of the President of the United States of America! In loco presidentis! Which means I’m in charge here!
Perfect Tommy:
No, you’re not.
Reno:
Let’s go.
Secretary of Defense:
Where’s Buckaroo?
Reno:
He’s at Yoyodyne.
Secretary of Defense:
Then I’ll go to Yoyodyne myself. I’ll see what the hell is going on. I sure as hell can’t get the time of day from you bozos.
(The Secretary starts to return to his helicopter when Perfect Tommy jumps him from behind and pulls him back to the bus, to the speechless shock of his retinue and bodyguards. Waving his Israeli Uzi in their direction, he forces the Secretary of Defense on board, and I order the doors closed behind them. We are off. There certainly is no turning back now, if ever there was.)
10:15 P.M.—* *(Obviously a postdated entry, as will be all references to B. Banzai during this time apart from us at Yoyodyne.) Buckaroo has been strapped into the “chair of delight,”* another of the Lectroids’ torture devices. *(So-called because to the Lectroids massive electrical shocks were a source of great pleasure. Among themselves, they used the chair for recreational purposes, much as we might use a sauna.) A modified electric chair with a rheostat, hooked up to a lie detector, the function of the queer contrivance is to send electric jolts through B. Banzai whenever the polygraph deems his answer to a given question to be false. In front of him, standing at a blackboard filled with mathematical equations, is Whorfin-as-Lizardo. Every time he alters an equation, he asks Buckaroo Banzai whether the new version is correct. If B. Banzai does not reply or states other than the truth according to the machine, he receives another agonizing shock to his system. There is one exchange of dialogue in particular which B. Banzai has recalled and which I find particularly telling. I offer it here as indicative of his “grace under pressure”:
John Whorfin:
Where is the crucial missing circuit?
Buckaroo Banzai:
The crucial missing circuit is in your head, Whorfin.
John Whorfin:
“Whorfin—?” How did you know my secret identity?
Buckaroo Banzai:
John Emdall spilled the beans.
According to Buckaroo, the look on John Whorfin-as-Lizardo’s face* was one to be treasured. He was thoroughly shaken. *(Remember, reader, John Whorfin’s Lectroid body was still in the Eighth Dimension. Unlike the other Lectroids, he did not appear to Buckaroo as anything but the human form of Dr. Lizardo, appearing as a human also to his fellow creatures.)
10:16 P.M.—(Penny Priddy’s note)—“The fire was building beneath me. I could smell it inside the contraption, as well as feel its hot tongues lapping at the underside of my cradle which they had begun to rock, resulting in excruciating pain as the points of the spikes cut into me. They kept asking me about the OVERTHRUSTER, questions I did not understand; and yet as they continued to ask me and the pain grew nearly unbearable, I thought how easy it would be to tell them about the OVERTHRUSTER in my purse . . . no more questions, no more torture in that terrible cradle . . . perhaps death, but no more torture. I have been asked by many interviewers since, if it did not occur to me just to give the Lectroids the OVERTHRUSTER. I always answer the same: of course it occurred to me. I am only human; I am not a superwoman. But without knowing their motives, I knew they were nonetheless evil, and I wanted also to prove something, I suspect . . . not just to the other members of the Banzai organization but to myself above all . . . so that when the pain increased in intensity and I felt like giving in to them, I remembered what Mrs. Johnson had said about Wu-shu (sic), that Oriental discipline of putting mind over matter, mind over pain. She had said that with sufficient control of the mind, a person can walk barefoot through burning coals, can lie on daggers, can even whirl around on the point of a spear and not be harmed. So I devoted my time in the hellish blackness of the torture cradle to thinking in terms of Wu-shu, putting the pain as far as possible out of my mind, concentrating all my mental powers on specific parts of my body where the pain was most severe. I tried to imagine myself as impregnable steel, asbestos-coated, impervious to heat and metal. I cannot say I became a Wu-shu master in a couple of hours, but I can say this: had it not been for my efforts at Wu-shu I am certain I would not be around today.”
10:17 P.M.—I see my first space creature in its natural form—John Parker. Brutally offensive to these eyes, but at least the antidote works as advertised. The Secretary of Defense is becoming more hysterical, refuses even to try the antidote to see whether we are telling the truth . . . can talk only of his Truncheon sub hunter-killer, as Tommy and I finalize our battle plan. Using Scooter Lindley’s invaluable aerial photographs and the company blueprints, as well as John Parker’s uncanny insight for these things, the plan is as follows: three teams invade Yoyodyne . . .Tommy’s team, my team, and a third group of the volunteer Blue Blazes led by Mrs. Johnson. Tommy’s group and my group will converge on an unmarked building on the northeast edge of the camp, believed to be the principal living quarters and bivouac of the creatures. Entering stealthily, the plan is to kill as many as possible while they are still half-stunned. That is the work of the moment. It is dirty, unappealing business, but it must be done. Once we have decimated their numbers, we move on to the principal objective, which must be Whorfin and the Panther ship. Mrs. Johnson’s team and Casper Lindley in the chopper will create myriad diversions to distract the creatures, while we burst upon those inside Hangar 23 (John Parker’s choice as the hangar housing the Panther ship) with the speed and force of a tornado. “What is to be our watchword?” says Tommy. “ ‘Dark and Silent,’ ” I answer, “if anyone asks.” “What’s my job?” asks Scooter Lindley. “Can I go with Mrs. Johnson?” “Afraid not, Scooter,” I say. “We need you to stay on the bus and man the radio.” “The radio?” he protests. “Who’s gonna call on the radio at a time like this? You guys are all out fighting.” “The President might call—or John Whorfin,” I reply. “It’s very important that somebody answer if they do.” Reluctantly, Scooter agrees. Someone shouts that we are approaching Yoyodyne. Some of the newer interns are visibly trembling. But it is the waiting that is the worst. It is time we faced the menace at last, or the waiting alone will do us in.
10:20 P.M.—Pinky Carruthers’s recon team parachutes undetected into Yoyodyne under cover of darkness and immediately fans out, investigating and identifying buildings according to our special system of pictographs.* *(Using a special paint that is visible only through a night scope, Pinky’s patrol marks the sides of buildings within Yoyodyne in the following manner:)
10:22 P.M.—The bus arrives at the main gate of Yoyodyne. The Secretary demands to be let off so he can call John Bigbooté from the guard post. Thinking that it might work to our advantage, I order the bus door opened but direct Tommy to follow him.
10:24 P.M.—While Tommy and the Secretary of Defense divert the guards (in the Secreta
ry’s case unwittingly), I give the signal to leave the bus. The rest of Tommy’s team, led by John Parker, is first off, and then the Blue Blazes under the command of Mrs. Johnson. Finally, it is our turn, and as we silently scramble under cover of darkness, I hear the faint noise of Casper Lindley’s chopper overhead. He has been scouting the area, and we communicate by Go-Phone once my team huddles together safely fifty yards inside the perimeter. “A lot of foot traffic in and out of Hangar 23,” he reports. “A load of materials pulled up there about ten minutes ago.” “Right,” I acknowledge. “After we take care of the bivouac, that’s our next stop.” “You want some excitement?” he asks. “Not yet,” I reply. “I’ll let you know. Wait’ll they know were here.” “Roger.” Getting our bearings, we move forward in darkness, communicating with John Parker of Tommy’s team and Mrs. Johnson. So far, all is well. No alarms. “Dark and Silent.”
10:28 P.M.—As the Secretary of Defense demands to speak to John Bigbooté, one of the guards reaches for the phone, leaving Tommy no choice but to act. Taking his favorite Wetterling gun from under his coat, he blasts both creatures cleanly through the throats and, rips the phones from the wall, leaving the dumbfounded Secretary of Defense to stare in sudden terror at the dying creatures on the floor, their human camouflage fading away before his very eyes. “Tommy!” he screams. “Wait for me!” But Tommy is gone like a shadow, joining up with John Parker and a dozen black-faced interns. “Let’s go in,” Tommy says over his Go-Phone.
10:33 P.M.—We enter the building believed to be the creatures’ bivouac only to find it deserted, at least on the surface, leading me for an instant to ask the obvious question, “Could they have left already?” “Don’t worry,” said John Parker over Tommy’s Go-Phone. “Lectroids live underground.”
10:40 P.M.—After a brief descent through a secret tunnel uncovered by John Parker, we (or any human beings) visit the harrowing world of the Lectroids for the first time . . . an underground enclave with pervasive dampness and filth, unvented odors which can make a man sick merely by inhaling them . . . everywhere dark spaces carved out of the earth, as we make our way in single file down the stone steps that seem to lead on and on without end. Having to crouch to avoid striking our heads on the low ceilings, unable to see even the man ahead of us, testing every foot of the way, we advance toward a sound the likes of which I’ve never heard before. “Lectroids!” John Parker whispers over the Go-Phone. “We have caught them sleeping!” So that is what that singularly loathsome sound is. They are snoring like the living dead! We continue our journey deeper info the fetid ground, hands on weapons which have probably mildewed by now. How will we fight in this kind of place? No room to maneuver. Unclimbable walls. Is this where the last battle of our race will be decided, among jostling bodies, men advancing inch by inch, feeling their way? Is this where we have finally brought our precious burden of our world’s fate, only to entomb it along with ourselves? I look at my watch. How long has it been since we entered this bottomless pit with the stench of death, real or imagined, everywhere? It is only five minutes. Like a man in a dream, I have lost all sense of time.
10:46 P.M.—Our first encounter with a Lectroid underground. I do not even see it happen, but the word quickly spreads. John Parker has saved Perfect Tommy’s life. A Lectroid has dropped from a hole in the ceiling onto Tommy’s back, but John Parker has slain the beast with his strangely curved blade, swinging the terrible crescent against the Lectroid’s throat. But how many more lurk about? Overhead . . . underneath? Has he alerted the main body? Are they waiting for us?
10:50 P.M.—An amazing sight meets our dilated eyes, a sight so unexpected that our group is literally stopped in its tracks . . . dozens of glittering Lectroids, glowing in the dark, all seemingly asleep and cold with numbness. Unless it is my imagination at play, the room, a low-arched gallery, the “atrium” of their underground villa, is positively frigid. Some of the creatures sleep dangling from the ceiling in hammocklike webs while others are to be found literally underfoot! Still others lie on basket-lounges as if basking in the sun! They are everywhere like hibernating bears, their “snoring” raising a fearsome din, and yet . . . for some reason I am reminded of a dimly lit taproom I once stepped into by mistake in Marseilles. I recall as if it were yesterday the sensation of the rising hairs on the back of my neck as I realized too late what I had gotten myself into . . . Chinese coolies, Lascars, and ferocious Algerian women turning to scrutinize me as if I were from another world, their expressions hardening ominously as they scanned my face . . . I had escaped from that unpleasantness, but not until after a stabbing affray, and now my heart beats as fast again, the hairs standing to attention on the back of my neck once more. Oppressed by a strange foreboding, I feel eyes looking at us, the eyes of cats in the rayless night. John Parker attempts to inspire us to attack, “before they sense us.” Already something like that is occurring. The Lectroids have begun to chatter, still in their sleep, but the air begins to throb. “Kill them!” says John Parker. Of course we agree, but how does one shoot a sleeping target, even a Lectroid? Then without waiting for us, John Parker leaps into a mass of Lectroids; a whirling form with animal swiftness, he slits the throats of the sleeping creatures. But now the room is in an uproar, the creatures buzzing excitedly, opening their eyes. I thrill at John Parker’s daring. He canters coolly into the middle of their enclave, killing as he goes, throwing half-awake Lectroids left and right like rats. Suddenly they are all over him. attacking in a frenzied convulsion! And not just there, but behind us! Shifty eves and claws suddenly springing for our throats! We open fire! They keep coming until our shots find their marks. I blow the eyes out of one, and he keeps stumbling forward, only sniffing me out, his “hand” jerking upward and deflecting my weapon. We fall to the floor of the dark cavern with a rending crash, fighting in the gloom, his poisoned barbs against my knife. He opens his mouth, fires the screaming tiny missiles in short staccato bursts. I dodge, plunge my knife into him repeatedly, pieces of his scaly armor adhering to my blade as I finally shove it through the “gap” in his carapace and feel the life gurgle out of him in a long undulation. Suddenly I look up and there are two more bellowing frantically and charging directly for me. Having dropped my gun in the darkness, I order them to halt, and, astonishingly, they do! I at once make a run for it, and they, furious at being left behind, grumble and pad after me! If they weren’t so deadly, these monsters would be comical; but alas, the agonizing moans of several of our fighters startle me back to reality. This is war. A dying Lectroid bites my leg, whilst an intern sobs and shakes with terror, in the grip of two of the creatures who are literally tearing him apart. The sound of his own bones breaking mercifully causes him to faint. I can do nothing but watch him die, as I have my own battle to fight.
The reader will pardon my abrupt manner and will perhaps understand why I profess to be frankly puzzled by the continuing hunger of the reading public to know ever more details about our battle with the Lectroids. I have been nearly strangled, I have been stabbed, I have seen a man decapitated, I have seen a crazed man pull his own brains out. I have seen Hanoi Xan at the Majestic Hotel in New York City wearing a Mongolian shaman’s net made entirely of middle joints of the index fingers of the swordbearing arms of fallen warriors and would have killed him without qualm could I have gotten off a clean shot. But I have never felt the slightest desire to hear tales of men in battle. It is my conviction that readers who find entertainment in such bloody events deserve to sample the experience firsthand; I daresay their taste in literature would change.
I could spend hours discussing our struggle with the Lectroids; but at the risk of causing an outbreak of acute mania, I will not. It was a nightmare I do not choose to relive, and so will condense my notes further.
11:14 P.M.—The battle has raged nearly twenty minutes. We have cut off the Lectroids’ retreat and have begun to get the knack of killing them. They know this and begin to take cover instead of coming right at us, making our job mo
re time-consuming. What we still do not know is whether an alarm has been sounded. Finally, we make a last rush at them, overcoming the little improvised fort they have built for themselves and wiping them out to a “man.” We have various dead and wounded. Among our dead, Mustang Sally, Deputy Dan, and the brilliant geneticist Evermore.
11:20 P.M.—Miraculously, above ground all is calm; they still have not been alerted to our presence. We proceed to Hangar 23. I notify Casper and Mrs. Johnson to hold off creating any extraneous excitement.
11:22 P.M.—(the Secretary of Defense’s testimony before joint Senate-House committee hearing looking into the entire Yoyodyne affair)—“After my friend Perfect Tommy killed the two rodents at the guard house, I realized there was something to what I’d heard already from Buckaroo Banzai, and so, wanting to get at the bottom of it, I walked to the corporate building, where I found the office of John Bigbooté. When I asked him about the Truncheon bomber, he used abusive language and tried to kill me. His words were, I believe, ‘It’s not my planet, monkey boy.’ ”
Congressman Ronald Dellums:
(Dem. Calif.) He didn’t say anything about copping a deal?
Secretary of Defense:
You mean to turn Whorfin in?
Congressman Dellums:
Right.
Secretary of Defense:
No, he just said it wasn’t his planet. I don’t think he was aware at the time that the Hong Kong Cavaliers had the place under siege.
Congressman Dellums:
He was just in a bad mood.
Secretary of Defense:
Right, because of Whorfin. I think they all must have realized the party was over.
The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Page 20