Martians in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  Maybe it was time to talk to the experts, I thought without enthusiasm. Arthur Sageman was supposed to be a hotshot in such matters, and Hayden McMasterson had implied he could explain away the paranormal in cozy, comforting terms. Jules Channel was roaming around town, but I wasn’t sure I wanted another dose of his asperity until I had a reasonable idea or two. Lucy Fernclift seemed more perturbed than insightful.

  I walked down the road to Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. Arthur Sageman and his contingent were noticeably absent from the group gathered in the bar, but Hayden McMasterson was not. I was disappointed when I came across the dance floor and heard him say, “So there is proof that aliens are present, and have been since the time of the upheavals in the Earth’s crust that dragged the lost continent of Atlantis beneath the sea. These upheavals were the result of a shift in the Earth’s electromagnetic field because iron is an important element in the composition of the tectonic plates.”

  Estelle snorted. “Are you saying there are aliens living under the sea?”

  “That is the basis of the intraterrestrial hypothesis,” he said, graciously gesturing for me to join his impromptu seminar. “As I told Chief Hanks yesterday, ufologists like Sageman are obsessed with the idea that aliens have crossed incomprehensibly vast distances in order to toy with our primitive civilization. They want you to accept that a highly advanced civilization with the technology to supersede the speed of light has chosen to make contact with drunken fishermen in Mississippi and sheep farmers in New Mexico, as opposed to the salient figures of authority like the President of the United States.”

  “Maybe they’re Republicans,” Ruby Bee said as she came whipping through the kitchen doors, steamy plates in her hands and her expression guileless. This resulted in much guffawing from the rednecks perched on stools along the bar, most likely because it was the first remark they’d been able to understand in several minutes. I bit back a smile and leaned over the bar to get myself a glass of beer. From within the kitchen I could smell the intoxicating aromas of fried pork chops, biscuits, and apple pie. My animal instincts, if not my expectations, had been right on the button.

  Hayden waited grimly until things settled down. “Then allow me to ask you some questions, madam. How can vehicles that have traveled through a continuum of time and space subsequently crash without viable cause? Why would these aliens act as if they’re afraid of us? What could they possibly hope to learn from us—when we’ve traveled no farther than our own moon and failed to find a cure for the common cold?”

  “Could be they’re after Ruby Bee’s recipe for peach cobbler,” suggested a scruffy man in overalls and a Red Man cap. Again, this was well received, and I could see Hayden McMasterson’s blood pressure creeping upward.

  Estelle waved her hand. “I do believe I’m still waiting to hear about these aliens that live under the sea. Are you saying they’re responsible for the crop circles?”

  “As I explained in The Vanquished Dynasty, aliens have been here since the first seeds of life were sown in the Garden of Eden by a superior race. The Star People now reside beneath the crust but sometimes venture among us. They realize we are not sufficiently evolved to interact with them, so they assume our approximate density and shape.”

  Dahlia Buchanon, who was sitting in the back booth, came close to emptying the joint with a strangled yelp. After everybody’d resumed his or her seat and stopped hyperventilating, she said with great intensity, “And they look just like real people?”

  Hayden squinted at her. “Yes, but they are here to help us as we approach the crossroads of total annihilation or an evolutionary leap. Rather than burst into our reality and cause us acute psychological trauma, they have been making known their presence in small yet increasingly complex phases. The crop circles, for instance, may be their way of communicating with us.”

  “Those three circles? What’d they mean?” demanded Dahlia. Even though her face was shadowy, her round white eyes were visible.

  “I’m here to attempt to interpret their message,” he replied smoothly. “Sageman wants fragmentary physical evidence that he can distort into a thesis for his next book. I want to tell the truth.”

  I didn’t much care for the expressions on the faces of those staring at him. There was way too much wonder and not nearly enough incredulity. If I didn’t come up with some rational explanations before too long, most of the town would have lifetime subscriptions to the tabloids and be worrying about the odds that Elvis might drop by some evening at suppertime.

  Before I could decide where to begin my attack on his preposterous theory, the plot thickened. Sageman and the two women from Little Rock came into the bar and grill and froze as they recognized Hayden. Seconds later Jules Channel and Lucy Fernclift entered and went through the same routine. On their heels was Brian Quint, although he evinced minimal surprise at seeing Hayden and a great deal of distress at seeing the two tabloid reporters standing together. It almost looked as though we had a ménage à sept in the making, although I was reluctant to predict the specific couplings.

  I took a swallow of beer and waited to see what any of them would do next. Ruby Bee’s sudden intake of breath was hard to miss. The scruffy fellow stuck his nose in the scalloped potatoes. Estelle eased off the stool and edged toward the ladies’ room, where I supposed she thought she’d be safe if a barroom brawl broke out.

  “Oh, Dr. Sageman,” Dahlia said, her voice hiccupy with anxiety, “I was hoping you’d show up sooner or later. Please won’t you hypnotize me? I was abducted by the aliens, and I have proof I’m having their baby!” She began to howl in a manner that rivaled the fabled banshees.

  The tension dissipated. It was the first time I could remember that I’d ever been grateful to Dahlia. I was pretty sure it’d be the last.

  “Five dollars iffen you want to take a look,” Raz repeated to each person straggling up the hill, “and fifteen to take pictures.” By now he had so many jars filled with dollar bills that he dint know what he was gonna do. He also had promises from the two tabloid reporters that he and Marjorie would have their picture on the front covers. The first thing he’d do was have ’em framed and hang ’em in the front room. Visitin’ kinfolk would be flabbergasted, and rightly so.

  And it was all on account of three circles down in the cornfield. It was almost as rib-ticklin’ as the time his cousin Cootie Buchanon had been caught crossing the state line with two cases of hooch in the bed of the truck and a goat named Evangeline sitting beside him in the cab. Marjorie was particularly fond of that story.

  Arthur Sageman chortled as they drove back to Maggody. “I certainly nonplussed McMasterson when I identified the underlying fallacy of his theory, didn’t I? I could tell the interviewer was impressed, and poor old McMasterson looked as though I’d hailed on his parade. A fine moment for the ETH movement, wouldn’t you say?”

  Brian dutifully agreed as he pulled into the parking lot of the Flamingo Motel. He wasn’t sure Arthur’s disposition would remain so gleeful after he saw the segment on the news, in that all six minutes consisted of sputters of outrage, puerile insults, and, toward the end, bodily assault. The interviewer had looked more appalled than anything else, but she’d promised to try to get in touch with the production office of Strange Stories since her station was an affiliate.

  Arthur adjusted the rearview mirror in order to smooth down his hair. “I’d planned to spend the evening working on my Houston speech. However, Rosemary is running out of abduction stories, and there’s something oddly promising about this local girl with her droopy eyes and aura of repressed sexual frustration. It’s challenging to envision someone of her magnitude being swept up in a beam of light, but I’ve never been one to doubt the efficacy of a superior civilization.”

  Brian cut off the engine and, while Arthur continued to fuss with his hair, knocked on Cynthia’s door. She and Rosemary came outside.

  Arthur climbed out of the car and said, “I shall work in my room the remainder of the afternoon. Later
Brian and I will go to the spot next to the creek where the craft landed last night so that I can supervise the placement of the equipment. Cynthia, you’ll need to follow us in Rosemary’s car in order to bring me back here. We’ll leave as soon as my interview has been shown on the local news.”

  Cynthia gave him a surprised look. “You’re not staying? I would have thought you’d want to be there in case our extraterrestrial friends return. You’re the person most qualified to welcome them to our planet. Surely even those from the far reaches of the universe are familiar with your reputation, Arthur.”

  “Oh, they are,” Rosemary added, hopping up and down like an anemic cheerleader. “They questioned me about you, wanting to know if you were sincere in your belief that they come to us in a spirit of harmony and love. I assured them that you were.”

  Arthur attempted a modest laugh. “Of course I am, Rosemary, but I feel it’s more important to do what I can to help that poor, tortured girl. Besides, it may not be the right time to experience a close encounter of the third kind with this unknown race. The fact that they caused the explosion last night might imply they’re—”

  “Hostile,” murmured Brian, “or dangerous?”

  “Neither hostile nor dangerous,” Arthur said sharply, wishing he sounded bolder and more confident. “In Communications with the Universal Community, I made a very compelling argument that the extraterrestrials are unresolved how best to initiate contact until they’ve completed an extensive psychological profile of our species via abductions. Brian will make a perfect emissary, and I can better serve our cause by finding out if the girl has had previous interactions in this locale. If she has, it will give us insights into the incidents.”

  “She’s very excited,” said Rosemary. “She went home to take a nap in preparation for the session. Should I call her to set a time?”

  Refusing to acknowledge the awakening gleam of cynicism in Cynthia’s eyes, Arthur began to issue orders. “Yes, tell her to be here at eight o’clock sharp. I suspect she’ll feel more comfortable if you’re present to offer encouragement. Cynthia, we’ll need to use your room since mine is cluttered with important papers, all the computer equipment, files, notes, and so forth. Brian, see if you can buy extra videocassettes at that supermarket across the road. Should anything of an anomalous nature take place tonight, we must have documentation.” He patted his now-perfect hair. “I have an idea tonight is going to be filled with adventure, don’t you?”

  Rosemary winked, Cynthia blinked, and Brian nodded.

  As I locked the front door of the PD, I noticed Jules and Lucy were deep in conversation with my landlord. Roy was slouched in his favorite cane-bottomed rocking chair out in front of the store, but I could tell that he was agitated and that the tabloid reporters were enthralled with what he was saying. I had a gut feeling he wasn’t reciting poetry.

  “What’s up?” I said as I walked across the road.

  Roy took a drink of something I doubted was iced tea, wiped his mouth, and waited until I’d joined them. “I meant to come over earlier and tell you about it, Arly,” he said apologetically. “Then some tourists from Connecticut showed up, and I got busy with them. By the time they left with two boxes of depression glass and that repulsive faux marble cherub, I’d plum forgot the whole thing.”

  “What whole thing?”

  “Last night about eleven I was driving back here from the picture show in Farberville. As I went past the Assembly Hall, I happened to glance down County One-oh-two. There was a funny little light that appeared to be flying all around that pasture between Estelle’s and Earl Buchanon’s houses. You know where I mean?”

  I glanced at Jules and Lucy, who were busy scribbling notes. “Was it orange?” I asked Roy.

  He took another drink, then leaned back and closed his eyes. “Nope, it was white. I decided to take a closer look, so I drove down the road a short piece, stopped, and rolled down the window. Before I could get a fix on it, that damn thing came diving straight at me. Somehow I got the window rolled up, but my hands were shaking so hard I liked to never have got my truck in reverse. It chased me all the way back to the road. It’s pure luck I didn’t run down Estelle’s sign or end up in a ditch.”

  “How big was this light?” asked Lucy.

  “It’s hard to say. When I first saw it, it was off in the pasture. I don’t reckon it was bigger than one of those little penlights, but I can’t say for sure because I don’t know how close it really was.”

  “Did it make any sound?” asked Jules.

  “I might have heard a buzzing noise, but I wouldn’t swear to it. It’s hard to recall the particulars when you’re backing up a narrow dirt road at thirty miles an hour. My neck’s still kinked.”

  I was getting tired of allowing the reporters to conduct the investigation. “Think back, Roy,” I said. “There was heavy fog down on County One-oh-two last night, and things may have looked spooky because of the distortion. Couldn’t you have seen a planet or a particularly bright star and convinced yourself it was moving?”

  “Sure, Arly, and then I convinced myself it was darting around the truck the whole time I was weaving up the road. I convinced myself it was coming after me like a hornet. After all, I just got off the watermelon truck and I ain’t never seen fog.”

  I took the glass out of his hand and took a swig. “Sorry,” I said as I returned it to him, then screwed up my face as the cheap whiskey caught up with me. It was not his usual brand. “It’s just that I’m having a hard time with all this crazy stuff.”

  “I’ve heard it,” he said. “That’s all anybody was talking about at the barbershop this morning. But lemme tell you something, Arly: What I saw wasn’t one of those mysterious orange lights, any more than it was a star. It was something altogether different.”

  Jules put his notebook in his pocket and said, “Mr. Stiver, could I talk you into letting me take some pictures of you pointing at the pasture? I can’t promise they’ll make the Weekly Examiner, but if they do, we’ll pay you fifty dollars.”

  “The Probe can pay seventy-five,” Lucy said valiantly.

  Roy emptied his glass and stood up. “I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna lock up and go have a couple of beers at Ruby Bee’s. Afterward I reckon I’ll spend the evening in my room, listening to Beethoven and drinking the remainder of this whiskey.”

  I turned around and went back to the PD to write up a report. If an alien had stepped out from behind a building, I’d have shot him/her/it on the spot.

  “I thought you’d be busier tonight,” Estelle said as she climbed onto her stool and automatically reached for the pretzel basket. “Where is everybody?”

  Ruby Bee considered pointing out the sheer stupidity of the question but instead sighed and said, “Over at Raz Buchanon’s, of course. After everything that’s happened there, I’m surprised the tour buses haven’t started rolling in. I hear he’s raised the price of admission three times today.” She glumly assessed the crowd, which consisted of two young married couples in one booth, some strangers eating supper in another, and Jim Bob, Larry Joe Lambertino, and Roy Stiver working on a pitcher in the far corner. Nobody’d put a quarter in the jukebox for a long while, and the ambiance was about as exciting as a canning demonstration at a 4-H club meeting. “There were a goodly number of folks at happy hour, but when it started getting dark, they all left to go watch for flying saucers and shiny white creatures to come out of the woods.”

  “Did Arly find out any more about those orange lights everybody saw last night?”

  “Nobody at the National Guard or the Farberville airport had any suggestions. She called a weatherman in Little Rock and asked him if they could have been weather balloons or stars, but he didn’t think so. If she’s talked to anyone else, she hasn’t bothered to tell me. She didn’t show up for supper, even though I went to the trouble of putting aside a piece of lemon icebox pie especially for her. How’s that for gratitude?”

  “I watched the loca
l news earlier,” Estelle said. She paused to reposition a bobby pin, then made sure the spit curls were evenly spaced across her forehead before continuing. “Dr. Sageman said the lights were alien spaceships similar to some seen in one of those South American countries. Dr. McMasterson said they weren’t anything more mysterious than clouds catching the last sunlight from the far side of the ridge. Before the interviewer could spit out a word, they were rolling on the floor like a couple of lady, mud wrestlers.”

  “It’s funny the way they act around each other, ain’t it? After all, they both believe in aliens. They may disagree on where the aliens come from or how they pop up unexpectedly, but you’d think they could work out something.” She was going to expound when she saw Cynthia Dodder enter the barroom. “Come join us,” she called.

  Cynthia took the stool beside Estelle. “Dr. Sageman has appropriated my motel room for his session. He, Rosemary, and the girl are liable to be there for several hours. I sat in the car for a while, but then it began to grow chilly and I’d left my sweater in the room.”

  “You poor thing,” Ruby Bee said, herself having been the victim of gross ingratitude. “Let me get you some hot coffee and a piece of lemon icebox pie.”

  Estelle moistened her vermilion lips and tried to figure out how to broach the subject tactfully. She finally gave up and said, “What happens in these sessions, anyway? Does he put Dahlia into a trance by swinging a watch back and forth?”

  “Not at all,” Cynthia said as she accepted a cup of coffee from Ruby Bee. “I’ve operated the tape recorder in numerous sessions in the last ten years, particularly those with Rosemary and other members of UFORIA. Dr. Sageman has the subject lie down and relax, then creates a mental image of an elevator ascending within a towering skyscraper. When the subject is sufficiently attuned to the image, the elevator doors open and a scene is revealed.”