“Well, as the technology stands right now, your choices are to be a hovercraft or a helicopter. Or with skinny little legs and arms like that lightbulb guy from the Gyro Gearloose comics,” Bubba said thoughtfully. “Any way you look at it, you'd be kickin’ up dust.” He shook his head. “I was hopin', what with Jamie's experience buildin’ robots, that I could talk him into helpin’ out. Ain't gonna happen now, looks like."
“I told you that you should have mentioned the work you did for NASA in 1973...."
“Now, Mike,” Bubba interrupted, “I didn't do all that much, just made a couple of suggestions about how to put a square peg in a round hole with a few judicious whacks of a big hammer, is all."
“Perhaps, but they called you, didn't they?"
“They didn't, Mahlon did. Saucer Nut Number Six-Sixty-Six, he was, our first rocket scientist—though he hated bein’ called that. He was working at JPL when all that happened, and he figured I might have some ideas about how to fudge the CO2 filters.” He scratched the back of his head. “Might've helped a little, I s'pose, but they did all the hard work. They were the heroes.” He frowned. “I really miss Mahlon, he was cool as a moose and almost as fuzzy."
The phone rang. Bubba's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Hmph! Maybe the Discovery Channel changed their minds.” He picked up the handset and answered. “Yellow? The Prit-CHARD residence, mechanic of the house speaking."
“Bubba, you've got to stop watching those Britcoms. They're having an unfortunate effect on you.” The voice on the other end of the phone was brisk, but not brusque.
“Hey, Kirby! What's shakin', homey?"
“I believe the correct answer to that is ‘nothing but the leaves on the trees,'” the lawyer replied, “so let's take it as said."
“Stipulated, counselor,” Bubba said. “Whassup?"
“I've been contacted by one of the media people at the Smithsonian. Apparently,” Kirby said wryly, “word of your, er, exotic personal conveyance has spread."
“And...?"
“National Air and Space wants to hire you for a very special job."
“Oh, do they?” Bubba drawled. “Tell me more."
“I'm sending you e-mail about it even as we speak."
“And I'm downloading it now,” Mike said.
“The wonders of a DSL connection. It's a little complicated, Bubba, but I don't think it's anything you can't handle. And in point of fact, I doubt there's anyone else who can handle it."
“I'll look it over,” Bubba said. “Meanwhile, when you gonna come back down for the Urbanna Oyster Fest? You've missed it the past few years."
“If I can get out from under these congressional hearings, I'll be there this year. I'm certainly not going to let you get them all. I'll let you know when I know.” They said their good-byes and rang off.
Bubba sat back in his overstuffed chair and picked thoughtfully at the frayed piping around the arm. It was late afternoon in Central Garage, and the early fall sun came through the living room window, tickling the array of toys on the shelves that lined the walls. Magazines and newspapers covered every flat surface in the room, and the hallways leading into the other rooms were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In a rack by the television were dozens of DVDs ranging from classic screwball comedies to last year's monster fantasy epic.
“Got it, Bubba,” Mike said, “along with three hundred other messages. How many mailing lists are you on, anyway?"
“Oh, one or two, I guess. It's all research."
“'SpaceGhostFan’ is research?"
Bubba looked hurt. “Hey, it's a great show, Mike. Don't it remind you of home?"
The little box snorted static. “As if. Anyway, here it is."
Bubba read the words scrolling across the screen. “Well, don't that beat all,” he said in wonder. “What do you think, Mike?"
“Well, it's certainly within your range of skills, and it won't take us nearly as long to make the round trip as they would."
“Any foreseeable snags?"
“Oh, only a hundred or so. Clearances, licenses, permits, fees ... not to mention the fact that you've never flown to the Moon—at least, not that I know of."
“Nope, not yet, anyway. Think I'll have to get shots?"
“Frankly, Bubba, I don't know what kind of restrictions the government is going to put in your way. Shots are probably the least of your worries."
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “It ain't your butt.” He stared at the ceiling and a slow smile spread over his face. “Bringing the first Lunar Rover back from the Moon. The ultimate tow job.” He laughed aloud. “Well, dip me in dog shit."
* * * *
“You have to do it, Bubba,” Mike said. “You know you have to."
Bubba nodded. “Oh, I'm gonna take the gig, all right. Just remains to be seen how the contract gets writ. Don't wanna soak ‘em, but we're talkin’ about some pretty serious mileage here.” He rubbed his hands together. “Might even be able to get some ‘considerations.’ It'd be so cool to have a Moon rock, or one of the flags, or something like that. But,” he sat up straight and picked up a pencil, “Mom taught me it don't pay to get too greedy."
“I'm sure they'll be as generous as they can be. And take it from me, a rock is a rock."
Bubba shook his head slowly. “No. Not to me, Mike. See, this stuff is no big deal to you. You been there, done that, and got the T-shirt—assuming you could wear it. To me, it's solid gold, a gem of purest ray serene."
"Now who's making obscure references?"
Bubba peered at the little screen over his reading glasses. “You'd prefer I quote from Astroboy?"
“Astroboy, Aristotle, Alfred E. Neuman; it's all the same to me. It's not my culture."
“That mean you gonna give up watching TV?"
“Right after sweeps."
Bubba laughed. “As Eleanor of Aquitaine said, ‘There'll be pork in the treetops come morning.’”
The contract arrived by courier the next day. It was thick, almost one hundred pages. “Son of a bitch," Bubba said in wonder. “Hell, even Kirby'd choke on this thing. Wonder what's so god-awful involved in this that we can't just say, ‘We the undersigned do hereby agree'?"
“You know better than that. This is a government contract. Everything has to be tied down in triplicate."
“I guess so, Mike, but all this,” he waved the sheaf of papers, “just seems so unnecessary. I ain't gonna steal it from ‘em and sell it to a chop shop. All I want is to be able to say I did it and get a little promotional use from it, and they already agreed to that.” He tossed it on the table. “I dunno, Mike. Maybe things were different when you were with the Nishian Parliament ... “[2]
[FOOTNOTE 2: See “Bubba Pritchert and the Space Aliens” in the July/August 1994 Analog.]
“They weren't."
“...but all this hoop-de-doo about a simple tow job is, well, it's draconian, is what it is."
“Er, Bubba, that statement doesn't make sense."
He shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but I always wanted to use ‘draconian’ in a sentence.” He rustled the pages in frustration. “Shit on a stick. I ain't gonna ‘grand theft’ nothing, I just want the gig. Anyway, who could want anything more than to go to the Moon, for the love of Pete?"
“I'll look it over,” Mike said. “I'm not admitted to the bar here, but I've got access to every online legal database. If there's something wonky, I'll run it past Kirby. Between the two of us, I think we can catch any problems."
“I trust you. Check and see if there's anything in there that says I can't grab a moon rock or two for myself, will you?"
“Just a second ... no. The only proscription is against profiting directly from anything you retrieve."
“In other words, I can bring it back, but I can't sell it on eBay."
“Correct. You can, however, use any unclassified aspects of this project as promotional material."
Bubba nodded thoughtfully. “And then there's the lecture and ta
lk show circuit, county fairs ... Might even be a book in it, you never know."
“Bubba, you've never written a word in your life."
“Well, there's that guy up in Richmond. I understand he'll write damn near anything for a buck."
“That hack? He writes sci fi. You want a real writer."
“Mikey, old top, that is real writin'."
Artificial intelligences, even those created by alien cultures and subsequently acquired by retired Virginia auto mechanics, cannot sigh. They have no lungs, no need to breathe, no diaphragm with which to push air past relaxed vocal cords, assuming they had vocal cords, which they don't.
Mike sighed. “Whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say."
The scout ship made almost no sound as it swooped through the open front doors of the garage, past the empty bays, and back out the rear doors. And again, and again. And again. Each time, it cleared the ground and structure by mere inches. A small crowd had gathered to watch, ooh-ing and ah-ing as Bubba Pritchert practiced flying in preparation for his trip to the Moon.
After making numerous loops into the garage and back out, a King William County patrol car drove up and a tall, thin, uniformed man got out, stretched, and settled his hat on his balding head. Reaching back down into the car, he brought out a microphone and thumbed it.
“Edgar Allan Poe Hudgins Pritchert.” His voice crackled through the loudspeaker on the roof of the car. “This is Deputy Sheriff Lester Beason. Please ground your vehicle. We need to speak to you.” He waited, but the saucer only looped through the garage again. A smaller man in a tailored suit slid out of the patrol car on the passenger side and brushed at his suit jacket.
“Well, officer?” he said in clipped tones. “Is he coming down?"
The deputy sighed. “I'm trying, sir, but I'd like to remind you that he is in a flying saucer."
“I'm well aware of that, Deputy. That's why I'm here.” He straightened his lapels. “Can you try a little harder, please?"
The tall man sighed again. “Yes, sir.” He thumbed the microphone again and spoke in a louder voice. “Mr. Pritchert, I'm afraid I have to order you to land your aircraft, or whatever the hell it is. There's a man from the government here to talk to you."
Still the saucer flew overhead, zigzagging and rolling to the evident delight of the crowd.
The government man sighed. “Really, Deputy. Isn't there something...?"
“What do you want me to do, Mr. Breen?” Beason snapped. “Shoot him down? Damn it, Bubba!” he shouted into the mic. “Will you put that thing in the garage and shut it down?"
The saucer came to a dead halt just overhead, and there was a click as a hidden speaker was activated. “I've had it in the garage a dozen times or more, Lester,” came Bubba's voice. “Why ain't you locked the doors?” With that the saucer swooped into the garage and stopped dead in the air just inside; it spun lazily and settled gently to the floor. It was bigger than it had looked outdoors, almost filling the double-width doorway and standing a good ten feet high. With a low hiss a panel in the side slid up, and a short ramp extended to the floor. Bubba stepped out of the craft and the ramp and panel closed behind him.
“Yo, Deppity. How's Big Lester?"
Beason cleared his throat uneasily. “Dad's fine, Bubba. Sends his best, but he says he'd appreciate it if you wouldn't fly that thing over his deer stand. You're scaring the game."
Bubba shrugged. “Oughtn't to be jack-lighting ‘em, then. They gotta have some chance, don't they?"
“Has he been doing that again?” Beason was clearly angry. “Goddamit, I told him..."
“Deputy Beason,” the young man interrupted sharply. “Can we please get down to business? I've come a long way, and this is important."
“Yeah, okay. Bubba, this here is Mr. Martin Breen from the FAA. He needs to talk to you about your ... about that thing you've been flying around in."
Bubba extended his hand. “Mr. Breen, nice to meet you."
Breen took his hand gingerly and shook it exactly twice. His hand was cool and dry. “Yes. Well. Mr. Pritchert, I am a field investigator for the FAA. You've been operating an unidentified flying object."
“Naw, it ain't. I can identify it. See?” He pointed to a plate riveted to the side of the saucer that read, “The USS Right Honorable Fireball XL-5. She's got her own nameplate and everything.” Breen just stared at him. “Okay, Mr. Breen. Let's go in the house where we can be comfortable."
“Bubba,” the deputy said. “I gotta get back on duty. I'll have a talk with my dad."
Bubba nodded. “Give him m'best.” He turned to Breen. “C'mon, Mr. Breen. It don't smell anywhere near as bad in the living room."
“Actually,” Breen said as they stepped outside, “I didn't notice any smell at all. I was surprised."
“Yeah, I try to keep things pretty clean. A little sawdust, a little orange cleaner, a couple hundred Air-Wicks...” Bubba locked the garage doors behind them. A sign hung in the window of one of them, and he turned it around so that it read, “Pritchert's Automotive Performance Center. Next Week: Grease!"
As they entered the house, Breen looked around at the books and toys without comment, although he seemed a little uneasy. Bubba noticed this, but from what he'd seen, he figured that, like a lot of government people, he was probably uneasy most everywhere. He seated Breen on the sofa with the bay window at his back. “Mr. Breen, what can I get you? I've got several kinds of tea; Delaware birch beer, and some good old Virginny ginger ale. Plus,” he added with a wink, “I got a six-pack of Anchor Steam beer I ain't popped open yet."
“Uh, no thank you, Mr. Pritchert. I'm ‘on the clock,’ as it were. I would like to try one of those birch beers, though."
“You got it, friend. You want a glass?"
“No sir, no need to bother with that."
“Ah, a real buckeroo. I like that in a Fed.” He went to the kitchen and brought back not only two bottles of the Amish-brewed beverage, but a can of mixed nuts from the Virginia Diner. He set them on the low table between them and sat back in the Comfy Chair.
“Now,” he said after taking a pull off the bottle and chasing it with a small handful of nuts. “What can I do for the F-Double-A?"
“We need to discuss your aircraft, Mr. Pritchert, in terms of FAA regulations. You have an unusual craft. Very unusual. I just saw it do some very ... unusual things, and as you have plans to take it up into commercial flight lanes, it's necessary for us to certify it.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick file. “You may not be aware of it, but you've been under government surveillance ever since you took possession of your craft.
Bubba leaned forward, intent and serious. “Tell me about this surveillance. I'm not surprised, of course, but I can't say I much like the idea."
Breen cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. We, of course, although we haven't had reason to contact you since you've stayed in ultralight ranges. But please understand that it's our job to monitor all aircraft in order to ensure the safety of the public."
“We'll deal with that later, Mr. Breen. Who else?"
Breen fidgeted nervously in his chair. “The FBI. You must have suspected it. I mean, you have an exotic aircraft—a ‘flying saucer,’ if you will—of unknown origin that uses unknown, possibly alien, technology. That's pretty high profile. They investigate everything."
“It's not unknown, I know perfectly well where it came from. The XL-5 came from a grateful family on a planet called Thuntin.” He waved a hand vaguely upward. “Way the hell out there somewheres. I did a job for ‘em, and it was satisfactory, so they gave me a flying saucer as a present. If anybody wanted to know about it, all they had to do was ask."
“Perhaps they thought you wouldn't be forthcoming. The thinking in the intelligence community can sometimes be Byzantine."
Bubba nodded. “Yeah, that figures. Who else?"
“NSA, of course. They're champing at the bit to get to you, but we convinced them to let us get this straight before
they leapt on you like starving wolves."
“I can hardly wait. Maybe they can explain to me how the damn thing works. I sure as hell can't figure it out."
Breen shrugged. “I don't know for certain, of course, but we heard that there was some activity up at Langley. And there are other, less public agencies who have expressed an interest. DARPA, for one."
“DARPA? Oh, great!” Bubba said, throwing his hands up in the air. “That's all I need, is gray-ops spooks running around the neighborhood askin’ questions about my politics. That's as bad as those goddam tabloid assholes.” He stood and began pacing. “Damn! I knew this was going to happen. Why didn't they just come to me? I ain't hiding anything, I'd of been happy to let ‘em look at the damn thing all they wanted to. Hey, wait a minute!” He paused and turned to Breen with a frown. “What the hell are the NSA and CIA doing in this? They're not supposed to operate domestically."
“Mr. Pritchert. You have a functional flying saucer."
Bubba scratched the back of his head and grimaced. “Okay, point taken."
“There's more. Both NASA and the Smithsonian contacted us several months ago with the idea that they might want to hire you. Since they knew that you couldn't take the job without an Administration classification, they asked us to do some research before they approached you.” Breen shrugged. “That's why I'm here. I had to see the aircraft myself in order to make a final determination. My job, first and foremost,” he continued in a serious voice, “is to make sure that public safety is addressed and secured, Mr. Pritchert. I can't let you take that craft into commercial flight lanes without certain knowledge that there's no danger to life or limb."
“I can help you there,” Bubba said. “I may not know how the Fireball gets off the ground, but I can put her through her paces.” He stood. “You hungry? There's a really terrific place not far from Richmond International that serves good ol’ home cookin'. It's Wednesday, and the special is meatloaf."
“Well, I was planning to eat at the motel...."
“Nah, can't let you do that. Sean's a nice enough kid, but he can't cook for squat. C'mon, it's my treat."
Analog SFF, July-August 2007 Page 33