Book 1: 3rd World Products, Inc.

by Ed Howdershelt

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  Abintra Press

  www.abintrapress.tripod.com

  Copyright ©2003 by Ed Howdershelt

  First published via Abintra Press

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Chapter One

  The ship arrived one Tuesday afternoon while I was on my way to see if I could fix Harriet Fisher's computer one more time. I was parked in construction traffic on northbound US-19, trying to find a last few drops in my coffee mug, when a spot of bright light flashed across the eastern sky. It came to an abrupt halt apparently directly overhead, then seemed to grow somewhat larger.

  My first thought was that something had exploded up there. I looked away quickly, dropping my empty cup and covering my eyes. After a few moments I cautiously uncovered and looked for enough maneuvering room to get my car off the road. Once I'd managed to pull over onto the grass I looked up again. The bright spot was still growing, but it didn't seem all that much larger than before.

  Others began noticing the bright spot, too, probably because I was standing outside my car and looking up at it. When the flagman started waving cars through the intersection, the line ahead of me moved. The line behind me didn't.

  The bright spot was now low enough that the object causing it was becoming visible around it. It was a glistening sphere that reflected sunlight at you like a spot-mirror, and it was huge. Looking at it was like trying to see into the car in front of you in traffic when the sun was glaring off their rear window. All you get are spots in your eyes and a headache.

  Since I already had a small headache, I decided that the sphere would either be there later or it wouldn't. We'd be invaded or not, visited or not, contacted or not.

  Whatever happened, staring slack-jawed at the UFO would serve no purpose. I got back in my car and took advantage of the stalled traffic around me by driving up to the flagman and beeping the horn. He glanced at me. I indicated I wanted to proceed, and he barely looked around before waving me through.

  I started to turn on my car radio, then decided not to bother. They wouldn't know any more than anyone else at this point.

  Harriet excitedly let me in and I went to work on her computer while she peered out a window through her ex-husband's binoculars and prattled endlessly about the thing in the sky.

  There wasn't much left of her original computer to fix, really. I'd already replaced almost everything but the motherboard in the cranky antique, but Harriet was one of those 'drive it until the wheels fall off' people. Until it died or she did, she'd be calling me periodically to ‘make it go again'.

  Half an hour later the computer was working again and I was thirty bucks richer with nothing else on my day's agenda, so I drove home and dug out my own binoculars for another look at the thing in the sky. The binoculars were no help. Even through tinted lenses it still appeared to be a featureless silver ball.

  I put the binoculars on the melodeon, got a beer, and turned on the TV for the first time in days. The news was full of pictures no better than my view with the binoculars and much speculation by people who should have known better than to say anything at all. I left the TV on in case somebody might say something intelligent and got on the Internet with my computer.

  When I found nothing on the net better than what was on the TV about the ship, I went to work on my WiccaWorks.com pages, tweaking and tightening the new HTML and pictures for loading speed and best display.

  Some weather guy on TV said that radar had placed the ship about eighty miles from shore and a mile above the gulf. He even gave the latitude and longitude, then cutesy news crew banter took over and I tuned out.

  The phone rang and I almost ignored it, but having just completed work on Harriet's box, I thought it might be her with a question, so I answered it.

  It was Sharon, my business partner in WiccaWorks, and she was excited as hell about the ship. She and her husband, Allen, were going to drive out to the beach to have a closer look at it later. Did I want to go along?

  I told her to have a good time and cautioned her not to expect being a few miles closer to improve the view much.

  Don't get me wrong, people. I knew it was a momentous occasion for the world. It just wasn't a particularly momentous occasion for me. It ranked with news that the President might be coming to town. Great. Wunnerful. Do let me know if he or she wants to drop by for coffee.

  Other reports of UFO's traditionally had them dancing around the sky and eventually disappearing as quickly and mysteriously as they'd arrived. According to a TV reporter, this UFO had apparently whizzed around the skies of the world and then parked motionless in the sky just off the Gulf coast of Florida.

  For once, at least, nobody official tried to deny the existence of UFO's. There the damned thing was, looking as if you could almost reach out and touch it, an act which nobody seemed dull-witted enough to attempt.

  Much of my first hours home were spent answering phone calls from relatives and others who quickly realized that Spring Hill was on the part of the Florida coast nearest to the ship. I could tell them nothing that they couldn't get from the news media and quickly tired of answering the phone.

  If you just take a phone off the hook it makes obnoxious noises for a while and will do so every time you use the phone, hang up, then take it off the hook again. I cut an old phone cable, twisted the red and green wires together to cause a busy signal, and plugged it into a two-hole adapter. Between my outgoing calls there would be telephonic silence.

  Over the next few days the military declared the area around the ship to be a restricted zone, did fly-bys, and parked a number of good-sized ships in the area.

  Nothing they or anyone else did appeared to evoke any sort of response from the ship, but they had an effect on the local economy, which started booming because of off-duty military personnel and day-trippers coming to see the ship.

  Some people panicked and left the area as if that would somehow save them from the probable capabilities of a ship that could travel between the stars. This being an area well-stocked with retirees, it wasn't surprising that a few extra heart attacks were recorded before the weekend.

  A number of people threw UFO parties on the beach for the rest of the week. Most of the parties were of a tone similar to hurricane parties, rife with the undertone of impending doom as people used booze, drugs, and an undercurrent of simple fear to excuse their excesses.

  Give people a few days to get used to something and they'll start trying to find the humor of a situation. All the usual tourist jokes were rewritten appropriately and entrepreneurs began hawking “alien” tee-shirts and bumper stickers.

  By then the beaches were packed with gawkers, UFO enthusiasts, and religious nuts who were waiting to either die, to be saved, or to be picked up by the aliens.

  At a number of points along the beaches you could buy a thirty-second look at the ship through someone's telescope. Prices varied tremendously, but even the twenty-dollar waiting lines were long.

  Everybody had theories about why the ship had arrived, but predictably enough, there seemed to be only two main camps of opinion. Some people thought a benign and helpful race of aliens intended to dispense information that would save us from ourselves. Others thought that when the ship's doors opened the world would come to an end.

  When Dave Cooke called me around seven Fr
iday night to bitch about the pool tournament at Crabbit's Pub having been canceled, I told him I'd drop in anyway for a few games.

  At the bar, Dave asked me what I thought, then interrupted and proceeded to tell me what he thought, which is typical behavior for Dave. He figured it was a colony ship and that we were like the Indians when the Mayflower arrived.

  He summed it all up with “...All of which means goodbye to us. We'll either be annihilated or assimilated if we don't become part of their menu."

  The bartender, Susie, said she thought that the aliens were here to invite us to join them in space exploration. Dave just stared at her as if she was nuts. She told him he was always too negative and asked what I thought.

  "Yeah. Sure. He's too negative,” I said. I handed her my empty bottle and she deftly swapped it for a full one.

  After a sip, I said, “And maybe you're too positive, Susie. Why would these aliens have any reason to do or be what any of us might expect or want? Why would they want or need our help to explore?"

  I took another sip of beer and said, “Figure that before they made it into space they had to become the top of their food chain, and all that, just as we have. A non-competitive species wouldn't be flitting around in space at all or hanging over our Gulf of Mexico in a big silver ball."

  Susie cocked a hip and said, “Which means what..? It sounds as if you think Dave's right."

  "Could be. These may be alien Pizarros and we may be the Incas. Or it could be that they want to establish a way-station or a base in this chunk of space. Or it could be they're just explorers, like our archaeologists and anthropologists, and they've come here to study us. Hell, they may only want to see if we have anything worth trading. It doesn't really matter."

  Both of them stared at me incredulously.

  Susie exclaimed, “Say what? Why the hell doesn't it matter?"

  I asked, “Well? What's the point in guessing? They'll be whatever they are and we'll find out soon enough. What could we do against that thing that wouldn't be just as dangerous for us? Nukes? Do we want fallout drifting over Central Florida? All we can do is wait and see what they want with us."

  Neither of them said anything for a time, then Susie went to refill a customer's mug. I watched her walk away.

  Hot pants to encourage tips. Legs worth the exposure. Trim and tight and everything right. Except maybe the makeup. Susie always used a bit too much eye makeup. Sometimes she looked like a raccoon.

  A guy, apparently in his late twenties, was sitting on the other side of the bar, watching us and presumably listening to us as well. He confirmed this by getting up and making his way around the bar to our area.

  He pulled up a stool on our side and said, “If you want to know what the public thinks, spend some time in a bar, right? Hi, I'm Gary."

  He didn't extend a hand to shake, instead holding his beer in his right hand.

  "I'm Dave,” said Dave, watching him move in and sit down before either of us invited him to join us. “Make yourself at home, I guess."

  "I'm Ed,” I said. “Don't mind him, he growls at all strangers. How long have you been guarding that beer? It doesn't look very cold."

  "A while. Probably an hour or so. I'm not much of a drinker, but I needed some time out of the ... uhm, office."

  Gary had an unusual slight accent. I couldn't place it at all, and I've heard most of them. He was about my height, six-two, and close to two hundred pounds. Medium brown hair, gray eyes. Department-store sneakers, blue jeans, and one of those ubiquitous “alien” tee-shirts the hucksters were selling. No tan, but not pale, either. Tourist? Office worker?

  Dave was curious, too.

  "So, where you from, Gary?” he asked, “You a tourist? You haven't been getting much sun lately."

  Gary looked hesitant to comment, but managed, “I haven't been getting out much for a while."

  Dave made a face and said, “Oh, hell, of course. My cousin looked like you every time he got back. Submarine duty. Half the U.S. Navy is parked a few miles offshore. You're probably stationed on one of those ships out there, aren't you?"

  Gary gave a wry grin and nodded. “One of those ships. I can't really talk about what's going on out there, though."

  Dave said, “Yeah, I know how it is. That's the military. If they don't know anything, they won't tell you. If they do know anything they won't tell you. Been there. Done that."

  Gary seemed to relax visibly.

  He asked me, “Did you mean all that? About it not mattering why the space ship is here? You don't seem very concerned."

  "What's the point in being overly concerned? They'll be whatever they are."

  "And if they aren't friendly? What then?"

  "Play it by ear. I don't have to assume the worst, Gary. There are enough people already doing that. Others will assume the best. I won't do that, either. I won't assume at all. I'll just watch and wait."

  Dave asked Gary, “What do you think about all this?"

  Gary sat back a bit, then said, “I'd like to think they're friendly."

  Dave laughed and said, “Well, they haven't done anything except hang around; speaking of which, I need to get going. Nancy wants me to take her to the beach tonight. One of her friends is having an all-night party."

  He yelled a goodnight to Susie and headed for the door.

  As Dave was walking out, I asked Gary if he had any quarters. He looked at me blankly for a moment. I pointed at the pool tables and told Susie I wanted two bucks’ worth of quarters. Gary added a couple of bucks to mine and when we had the change we took our beers to one of the tables near the pool tables.

  We were alone in the poolroom. I fed the table and racked the balls, then went to pick out a cue stick. Gary took a moment to put his beer on a coaster, then ambled over as I rolled a few sticks on the table. He seemed to be watching my actions intently while trying not to show it. I asked if he'd ever played pool before.

  "No, I haven't,” said Gary. “I've never had an opportunity to learn the game."

  Handing him one of the straighter sticks I'd found, I said, “I guess ships would tend to move too much for pool."

  Gary looked at me oddly but only nodded in response.

  I broke the rack and made three stripes before I got a bad bounce. When I stepped away from the table Gary stepped up to it and began aiming at one of the striped balls.

  "Hold it, Gary. Those are mine. Yours don't have stripes."

  He actually looked apologetic.

  "Sorry,” he said, then he then began lining up to shoot the eight into a very close side pocket.

  "Hold it again, Gary. The eight ball goes in last, after we've sunk all the other balls."

  He looked up at me and said again, “Sorry.” Straightening up, he asked, “Is there anything else I should know?"

  I laughed. “Yeah, but they're just minor details, like not hitting my ball first when you shoot at one of yours. For now, just shoot anything that isn't a stripe or an eight. Get the feel of using the stick."

  He nodded and aimed at the four ball. I noticed that he held the stick precisely as I had, letting the stick slide on his thumbnail instead of wrapping a finger over the top. He poked the cue ball and seemed vastly surprised when the four didn't go in the corner pocket. I told him why he'd missed.

  "Control is in the back of the stick, Gary. Don't let it waffle back and forth or up and down when you shoot. Watch."

  The cue ball was only a foot from the rail, so this time I shot one-handed, simply laying the stick on the table and nudging the cue ball to knock the twelve in the side. The cue ball stopped rolling near the rail, so I used a one-handed shot again on the nine.

  Gary asked, “Why did you begin the game using both hands?"

  "I didn't, really. I used one hand on the break, but in my next three shots the cue ball was too far from the rail or too close to other balls, so I had to use my left hand as a guide."

  There was a lot of table between the balls on my next shot. I shot too hard when
I tried to put backspin on the cue ball to keep it from following the ten into the pocket. My ten ball rattled inside the pocket and climbed back out and the cue ball stopped less than a foot from the table-end rail.

  Gary laid his stick on the table and eyeballed a corner shot for the six ball, then poked the cue ball. His six ball rolled two feet or so and dropped neatly into the corner. He smiled and walked around the table for his next shot, again aiming one-handed. It went in.

  "You're right, Ed. It's much easier this way."

  "Some people would argue that opinion. You'll still want to become familiar with using both hands,” I said. “Some shots really require it and some people don't react well to strangers who do things in non-standard ways. They'll think they're being hustled."

  Gary missed his next shot when one ball barely touched another and skewed a bit off-course. He looked up and shrugged.

  "Hustled?” he asked.

  "Why doesn't it surprise me that you don't know what a hustler is? That's what they call someone much better at a game who shows up to play, especially if they're playing for drinks or money. People can get ugly about that."

  Gary looked mildly confused. “Why should someone's skill at a game cause others to become upset?"

  "You really don't get out much, do you? Trust me on this. They can and do become upset if they think the stranger is too much better than the other players. Never let them push you into playing for money until they've seen you play. A drink, maybe, but not money. At least they can't say later that they weren't told."

  I finished that game and we started another game as we talked. Gary seemed to know a little about damned near everything, but only that very little about any specific topic, and it usually sounded as if he were reciting memorized facts.

  When I tried expanding the conversation a bit concerning upcoming elections, he seemed to know the names and parties, but appeared to have no opinions. He said that his time aboard ship had made it hard to keep up with things.

  His shooting skill improved greatly rather quickly, but I still managed to win three of the five more games we played. Toward the end of the third game he didn't miss any more easy shots and damned few of the harder ones. I said nothing about the unusual speed at which he learned to shoot pool.