It was he who, taking the madman’s place, had directed the retreat of that army after having wrapped himself up in the monkey skin. So much did he resemble an ape, that gallant warrior, that he had deceived the monkeys themselves. So he had only to appear for them to follow him.
It was indeed the idea of a genius, and it well merited the award to him of the Cross of the Order of St. George.
As for Gil Braltar, the United Kingdom gave him, for cash down, to a Barnum, who soon made his fortune exhibiting him in the towns of the Old and the New World. He even let it be supposed, that Barnum, that it was not the Wild Man of San Miguel whom he was exhibiting, but General MacKackmale himself.
The episode had certainly been a lesson for the government of Her Gracious Majesty. They realized that if Gibraltar could not be taken by man it was at the mercy of the apes. And that is why England, always practical, decided that in future it would send to the Rock only the ugliest of its generals, so that the monkeys could be deceived again.
This simple precaution will secure it for ever the ownership of Gibraltar.
<
~ * ~
AVRAM DAVIDSON
It’s fitting that Avram Davidson should use the device of a tape-recorded interview in his latest story; for surely few writers can reproduce dialog with such tape-like fidelity. Most accounts of saucer sightings and contacts with Ufonians are patently hoaxes or frauds; but now and then one seems marked by at least subjective sincerity, like the narratives of Orfeo M. Angelucci (the secret of the saucebs, Amherst, 1955) and Truman Bethurum (aboard a flying saucer, DeVorss, 1954). Even these sincerely intentioned tales may, however, fail to reach the public in precisely factual form—as witness the fate of
THE GRANTHA SIGHTING
There weRe visitors, of course—there were visitors pretty nearly every night nowadays. The side road had never had such traffic. Emma Towns threw the door open and welcomed them, beaming. Walt was there behind her, smiling in his usual shy way.
“Hello there, Emma,” Joe Trobridge said. “Won’t let me call her ‘Mrs. Towns,’ you know,” he explained to his friends. They went into the warm kitchen of the farmhouse. “This is Si Haffner, this is Miss Anderson, this is Lou DelBello— all members of the Unexplained Aerial Phenomena Coordinators, too. And this gentleman,” he added, when the other three had finished shaking hands, “is Mr. Tom Knuble.”
“Just call me Long Tom,” said Long Tom.
Emma said, “Oh, not the radio man? Really? Well, my goodness!”
“Tom would like to make some tape recordings from here,” Joe explained. “To replay on his program. If you don’t mind, that is?”
Why of course they didn’t mind. And they made the visitors sit right down and they put hot coffee on the table, and tea and home-baked bread and some of Emma’s preserves and some of Walt’s scuppernong wine, and sandwiches, because they were sure their visitors must be tired and hungry after that long drive.
“This is mighty nice of you,” Long Tom said. “And very tasty.” The Townses beamed, and urged him to take more. Joe cleared his throat.
“This must be at least the fifth or sixth time I’ve been up here,” he said. “As well as people I’ve told they could come up—”
“Any time—” said Emma.
“Any friends—” said Walt.
Joe half-smiled, half-chuckled. A slight trace of what might have been embarrassment was in the sound. “Well, from what I hear, you always put out a spread like this no matter who comes, and I . . . we . . . well . . .”
Miss Anderson came to his rescue. “We talked it over coming up,” she said. “And we feel and we are agreed that you are so helpful and accommodating and in every way,” she floundered.
“So we want to pay for the refreshments which is the least we can do,” Lou DelBello intervened. The visitors nodded and said, Absolutely. Only Right.
Walt and Emma looked at each other. Either the idea had never occurred to them or they were excellent actors. “Oh, no!” said Walt. “Oh, we wouldn’t think of it,” said Emma.
They were glad to, she said. It was their privilege. And nothing could induce them to take a cent.
Long Tom put down his cup. “I understand that you wouldn’t take any payment for newspaper stories or posing for photographs, either,” he said. The Townses shook their heads. “In short—wait a minute, let’s get these tapes rolling. . ..
“Now, Mr. and Mrs. Walter F. Towns up here in Paviour’s Bridge, New York,” he continued after a moment, having started the recording machine, “I understand that you have both refused to commercialize in any way your experiences on the third of October, is that right? Never taken any money—AP, UP, Life magazine, Journal-American—wouldn’t accept payment, is that right, Mr. and Mrs. Walter F. Towns up here in Paviour’s Bridge, New York?”
Emma and Walt urged each other with nods of the head to speak first into the whizzing-rolling device, wound up saying together, “That’s No we right didn’t.”
“I would just like to say— Oh excuse me, Tom—” Lou began.
“No, go right ahead—”
“I would just like—”
“This is Lou DelBello, you folks out there on the party line: Lou. Del. Bello. Who is up here in Paviour’s Bridge, New York, at the Walter F. Townses’, along with Miss Jo Anderson, Si Haffner, and Joe Trobridge—as well as myself, Long Tom—all members of that interesting organization you’ve heard of before on our five-hour conversations over Station WRO, sometimes called familiarly the Flying Saucer Club, but known officially as the Unexplained Aerial Phenomena Coordinating Corps. Well. Quite a mouthful. And we are up here accepting the very gracious hospitality of Walt and Emma, who are going to tell us, in their own words, just exactly, what, it was that happened on the famous night of October third, known as the October Third Sighting or the Grantha Incident; go right ahead, Lou DelBello.”
Still dogged and game, Lou went ahead. “I would just like to say that in speaking of that very gracious hospitality that Walt and Emma have refused to take one red cent for so much as a sandwich or a cup of coffee. To all the visitors up here, I mean. So that certainly should take care of in advance of any charges or even the mention of, ah, commercialism.”
Long Tom paused with a piece of home-baked bread and apple butter halfway into his mouth and gestured to Joe Trobridge.
“Yes, Lou,” Joe leaped into the breach, “the same people who didn’t believe Columbus and are now so scornful of all the various and innumerable U.A.P. sightings, well, the same type people, I mean—some certain individuals who shall be nameless who have been suggesting that the Grantha Incident is just a trick, or maybe the Townses and myself are in business together—”
Miss Anderson said, “The Cloth-Like Substance, you mean, Joe?”
Long Tom swallowed, wiped his mouth. “Well, I didn’t know they made apple butter like that any more, Emma,” he said. “Yessir folks out there on the party line, the Townses up here in Paviour’s Bridge, New York, are poultry farmers by profession but any time Emma wants to go into the preserves business she can sure count on me to—”
Joe interrupted. “I’d just like to clear up one point, Tom-”
“Why sure, Joe, go right ahead. This is the Long Tom Show, you folks out there on the party line. Five hours of talk and music on Station WRO . . .” Si Haffner for the first time spoke up: “I understand this Cloth-Like Substance is still refusing or rather I should say defying analysis in the laboratories; is that right, Joe?”
Joe said it certainly was. This Cloth-Like Substance, he reminded the listeners-to-be, was left behind at the Townses’ after the October Third Sighting. It was soft, it was absorbent, it was non-inflammable; and it resembled nothing known to our terrestrial science. He had tried to analyze it in his own lab, but, failing to do so, he had turned it over to the General Chemical Company. So far even they, with their vastly superior facilities, were unable to say just what it was. And while in a way he was flattered tha
t some people thought well maybe he was in cahoots with an outfit like GenChem, well—
“Yessir,” said Long Tim; “just let me tell you folks out there on the party line that there is nothing like this chicken-salad sandwich that Mrs. Emma F. Towns puts up out here in Paviour’s Bridge, New York. Wonderful. But I would like you to tell us in your own words, Emma, just what exactly did happen that certain night of October third, known to some as the Grantha Incident. Tell us in your own words.”
Emma said, “Well.”
“Tell us what kind of a day it was. What was the first thing you did?”
Emma said, “Well…”
~ * ~
The first thing she did was to get up and heat the mash for the chicks. Not that she minded getting up that early. Some people who’d lived in the city and talked of settling down on a little poultry farm, when it actually came to it, they found they didn’t care for it too much. But not Emma. No; it wasn’t the hours she minded.
And it wasn’t the work. She liked work. The house was well built, it was easy to keep warm, it had a lovely view. But it was so far away from everybody. Even the mailman left his deliveries way down at the bottom of the hill. There was the radio, there was the television, but—when you came right down to it—who came to the house? The man who delivered the feed. The man who collected the eggs. And that was all.
The day passed like every other day. Scatter cracked corn. Regular feeding. Scatter sawdust. Clean out from under the wiring. Mix the oats and the clarified buttermilk. Sardine oil. Collect the eggs. Wash them. Pack them. And, of course, while the chickens had to eat, so did the Townses.
No, there was nothing unusual about the day. Until about—
~ * ~
“—about five o’clock, I think it was,” Emma said.
“Nothing unusual had happened previous to this?” Long Tom asked. “You had no warning?”
Emma said No, none.
“I would just like to say—” Joe Trobridge began.
“Well, now just a min—” Tom cut in.
“I just want to clear up one point,” Joe said. “Now, prior to the time I arrived at your doorstep that night, had you ever seen or heard of me before, Emma?”
“No, never.”
“That’s all I wanted to say. I just wanted to clear up that point.”
“You got that, did you, all you folks out there on the party line?” inquired Long Tom. “They. had. never, seen, or heard, of each other, before. And then, Emma, you were about to say, about five o’clock?”
~ * ~
About five o’clock, when the dark was falling, Emma first noticed the cloud. She called it to Walt’s attention. It was a funny-looking cloud. For a long time it didn’t move, although the other clouds did. And then—as the bright reds of the sunset turned maroon, magenta, purple—the cloud slowly came down from the sky and hovered about ten feet over the Townses’ front yard.
“Walt, there is something very funny about that cloud,” said Emma.
“I don’t believe it’s no cloud,” Walt declared. “Listen to that noise, would you.” It came from the . . . cloud—thing-whatever it was: a rattling muffled sort of noise, and an angry barking sort of noise. The air grew very dark.
“Do you think we should put on the lights?” Emma said. Walt grunted. And the—whatever it was—came down with a lurching motion and hit the sod with a clonk. It was suddenly lit up by a ring of lights, which went out again almost at once, went on, went out. Then there was a long silence.
A clatter. A rattle. And again, the barking sound.
“Sounds like someone’s cussing, almost. Somehow,” Walt said.
“I am going to put on the light,” said Emma. And she did. The noise stopped. Emma put on her sweater. “Come out on the porch with me,” she said. They opened the door and stepped out on the porch. They looked over at the . . . thing. It sat on the ground about fifty feet away.
“Is anything wrong?” Emma called. “Yoo-hoo! Anything wrong?”
There was a slither and a clatter. The lights went on again in the thing and there was now an opening in it and two figures in the opening. One of them started forward, the other reached out a—was that an arm?—but the first figure barked angrily and it drew back. And there was another sound now, a sort of yelping noise, as the first figure walked towards the house and the second figure followed it.
“A man and his wife,” said Emma. Walt observed they were dressed light, considering the time of year.
“That’s really nothing but what you might call, well, bloomers, that they got on, though they are long and they do reach up high.”
“Sssshh! Hello, there. My name is Mrs. Towns and this is my husband, Mr. Towns. You folks in any trouble?”
The folks halted some distance away. Even at that distance it was possible to see that they were much shorter and broader than the Townses.
“Why, you’ll catch your death out there with no coats on!” Emma exclaimed. “You’re all blue!” Actually, it was a sort of blue-green, but she didn’t want to embarrass them. “Come in, come on in,” she gestured. They came on in. The yelping noise began again. “There. Now isn’t it warmer?” Emma closed the door.
From the crook of her—was it an arm? It couldn’t be anything else—one of the figures lifted up the source of the yelping. Emma peered at it.
“Well, my goodness!” Emma said. She and Walt exchanged glances. “Isn’t it just the picture of its father!” she said. An expression which might have been a smile passed over the faces of the two figures.
The first figure reached into its garment and produced an oval container, offered it, withdrew it as a petulant yelp was heard. The figure looked at Emma, barked diffidently.
“Why, don’t you know what she’s saying, Walt?” Emma asked.
Walt squirmed. “It seems like I do, but I know I couldn’t, hardly,” he said.
Emma was half-indignant. “Why, you can, too. She’s saying: ‘The car broke down and I wonder if I might warm the baby’s bottle?’ That’s what she’s saying.—Of course you may. You just come along into the kitchen.”
Walt scratched his ear, looked at the second figure. It looked at him.
“Why, I guess I’d better go along back with you,” Walt said, “and take a look at your engine. That was a bad rattle you got there.”
~ * ~
It was perhaps half an hour later that they returned. “Got it fixed all right now,” Walt said. “Loose umpus on the hootenanny . . . Baby OK?”
“Sshh . . . it’s asleep. All it wanted was a warm bottle and a clean diaper.”
There was a silence. Then everyone was talking (or barking) at once—of course, in low tones. “Oh, glad to do it, glad to be of help,” said Emma. “Any time . . . and whenever you happen to be around this way, why just you drop in and see us. Sorry you can’t stay.”
“Sure thing,” Walt seconded. “That’s right.”
Emma said, “It’s so lonely up here. We hardly ever have any visitors at all. . . . Goodby! Goodby, now!” And finally the visitors closed the opening in their vehicle.
“Hope the umpus stays fixed in the hootenanny . . .” There was a burst of pyrotechnic colors, a rattling noise, and a volley of muffled barks. “It didn’t,” Walt said. “Hear him cussing!” The rattling ceased, the colors faded into a white mist. “Got it now . . . look at those lights go round and round . . . there they go. Wherever it is they’re going,” he concluded, uncertainly. They closed the door. Emma sighed.
“It was nice having someone to visit with,” she said. “Heaven only knows how long it will be before anyone else comes here.”
~ * ~
It was exactly three hours and five minutes. Two automobiles came tearing up the road and screamed to a stop. People got out, ran pounding up the path, knocked at the door. Walt answered.
At first they all talked at once, then all fell silent. Finally, one man said, “I’m Joe Trobridge of the U.A.P.C.C.—the Unexplained Aerial— Listen, a sighti
ng was reported in this vicinity! Did you see it? A flying saucer? Huh?”
Walt nodded slowly. “So that’s what it was,” he said. “I thought it was some kind of a airship.”
Trobridge’s face lit up. Everyone began to babble again. Then Trobridge said, “You saw it? Was it close? What? SHUT UP, EVERYBODY! On your front lawn? What’d they look like? What-?”
Walt pursed his mouth. “I’ll tell ya,” he began. “They were blue.”
“Blue?” exclaimed Trobridge.
“Well . . .” Walt’s tone was that of a man willing to stretch a point. “Maybe it was green.”
“Green!”
“Well, which was it?” someone demanded. “Blue or green?”
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