i feel i must give this one a little bit of setup... the UK honors program combined humanities, literature, writing, and all sorts of other liberal arts type stuff into a series of four one-semester colloquia, in which a professor sat around talking with fifteen or so students. the first semester involved the ancient world, the second the dark ages, the third the renaissance, and the fourth the modern world. my sophomore year i took the fourth UK honors colloquium with john greenway. we talked about jazz music and science fiction and computers, and a ``new'' literary form called the premise story (around which almost all science fiction is based). one of his writing assignments to us was to write a premise story. of course, since i was (and am) a complete ham, i cheesed mine up and went for drolly absurd humor rather than any sort of serious science fiction. i would've had to laugh at myself too much if i'd tried writing an honest and serious sci-fi piece...
this is complete and uncut, with every bit of the i'm-a-cocky-20-year-old pretentiousness intact. i find it very stilted and awkward... but it still makes me laugh. frighteningly enough, i'm working on a re-write...
Scott Arrington
HON 202
Dr. Greenway
February 27, 1995
A premise story, loosely based on a few ideas tossed around in class, and largely based on a vivid imagination. (Assignment #3, with a healthy dose of the artistic license clause.)
``Dammit, where's my fire-stick?''
Not in the breast pocket, not in the usual right front pants pocket, not on the dash, not in the ready bag, not even in the flight suit's ``essential stuff'' pocket could he find his buck-fifty Bic disposable lighter. Some things just blow one's mind, and the mysterious disappearing act of life's most mundane objects never failed to baffle Hank. He merely wanted to congratulate himself on reaching the outskirts of the solar system, solo, but he couldn't find something as simple as a cigarette lighter.
Shrugging in concession he shoved in the in-dash lighter. ``God bless re-issue models,'' he thought. This 1955 DeSoto reissue was one of the best ideas General Motors had since the demise of the combustion engine; the elegant, classic body, roomy interior, chrome, commanding presence, enormous tail fins that even double as stabilizers for intra-atmospheric maneuvers, and a kind of handling with which the normal omega class ships just couldn't compete --- replete with in-dash lighters.
Hank found the car in a junker lot, of course. No one in his right mind would want such a ship these days, what with the energy crisis and all; no one but Hank. The swashbuckling scoundrel couldn't resist the idea of cruising the vacuum in a souped-up piece of junk. Once he gambled up enough money to replace the impulse motors with an ion drive, he sped out onto the spaceways in the pink hulk, to see what his new baby could do. After getting used to the horrible transmission, he wound up out here, past Pluto, ignoring the persistent and indignant radio calls from the traffic controllers, who petulantly demanded to know what the hell he though he was doing beyond the scope of their despotic dominion.
The lighter popped out presently; Hank clumsily pulled it from its socket and set its ember-orange filament to the dry shreds of leaf and paper hanging from his lips. Soon he realized that the archaic device had distracted him from piloting for a good few minutes, and he nervously scanned the surrounding starfield for patrol cars. From the corner of his eyes he thought he spied a ship tailing him, but it was only his tail fins. ``This beast is going to take some getting used to.'' As he leaned over to the passenger side to excavate a bottle of beer from the glovebox, his fuzzbuster shrieked maniacally from the rearview mirror. He jerked bolt upright to see a flash of running lights streak by and disappear. ``That was no cop car. Who would buzz a DeSoto in the outskirts of the solar system?'' He spied a moving light, just in time to see it turn towards him and careen by again at blinding speed.
``Alright, that's a challenge!''
Hank kicked the clutch, shoved the 8-ball-topped gearshift forward and laid rubber in the sky. Star stretched into brilliant arcs as he accelerated in a graceful, tight curve, melting back to points as he homed in on a straight course; the straps of the seatbelt groaned under his G-force-amplified weight as they strained to keep him from sliding across the slick vinyl bench seat, but the beer bottles, sunglasses, and other occupants of the dash slammed joyfully into the ceiling as he nosed down. He had locked onto this joker and wasn't about to lose him again.
The ion drive strained at the redline and he shifted into fifth gear. When his drag-racing competitor made a long left arc in the distance, Hank saw his opening. He set an intercept course, and soon closed to within a few hundred meters. The speeding bullet bore no markings, and its metallic surface gleamed like a mirror. Hank pulled alongside, still a good thirty meters on the inside of the other's sweeping arc, and noticed his steering wheel tugging ever more strongly to the port side.
Starship pilots usually take long arcs to compensate for steering difficulties caused by the curved space of gravity wells, but out here in the void the closest gravity well surrounds Pluto, which right now occupied the far side of its orbit. Only a planet could exert a force strong enough to tug so hard on a ship with as much inertial momentum as the DeSoto got from those gargantuan tail fins. Though no one knew of any such object in this region at all, nor could Hank deny the pulling on his car. He decided to play it safe, and manhandled his craft into orbit ten meters behind his mysterious companion. Now he plainly saw the nameplate on the rear of his competitor's vehicle: Delorean.
Fascinated, Hank edged closer, hanging back slightly so as to avoid the leading craft's rocket exhaust. However, to his surprise, he noticed that this Delorean bore the basic body shape and name, but was not modified with rocket engines; indeed, Hank saw no hint of any interplanetary grade propulsion device. He stared in wonder at what appeared to be a perfect, land-bound motor car --- even its wheels were spinning! Hank strained his gaze to peer into the metal monstrosity's rearview mirror at its driver, but at that moment its the left turn signal flashed once, and the sleek silver auto shot away in a blink.
Hank's eyes crossed and his head spun. ``What kind of motor could a ship that small possibly have to outrun an ion drive?'' He pulled down the visor, locked in the neutron afterburners, stomped the accelerator the rest of the way to the floor, and felt his eyelids pull away from their moist orbs. ``I'm not lettin' 'im get away now!'' His eyes still bore the streaked negative traces of the light left by the exiting Delorean, burned into his retinae like the green spots left by flashbulbs.
Judging by the path and odd behavior of the DeSoto, there had to be a planet nearby; the question was, ``where?'' Taking time to reflect for a moment, Hank sensed a vague memory of a theory that claimed our solar system contained a tenth planet out beyond Pluto, something to do with the sums of masses and the balance and harmony of Kepler's something-or-other; but the elusive rock never came out of hiding, and the theory faded into obscurity. ``Looks like maybe I finally found it.'' Since Nature has her own way of revealing the locations of her larger inhabitants, visible or invisible,Hank pulled the stick into neutral and let Planet X's gravitational field pull him home.
Sure enough, a few hours and several beers later he and the DeSoto had accelerated considerably in a heading 30o starboard and 50o down from the heading at which he began coasting. The computer's navigational projection system pin-pointed the planet's size and location, and he headed there at half throttle. The alleged planet still hid from view, though the computer chirped that it lay well within visual range. Soon a shiny speckmaterialized at the edge of the front windshield, a spaceborne Delorean, obviously speeding toward the same missing planet for which Hank now searched. Before his very eyes the space dead ahead warbled like the surface of a swimming pool, and then resettled bearing the image of a large yellow and green planet with three square satellites. ``A planet with a cloaking device?'' Hank breathed incredulously. The steel-bodied sedan spiraled toward the dimly lit surface, and the gaping earthling in his pink DeSoto, grabbing his only chance, did the same.
He slowed down as the car began to enter the atmosphere, to save the pink paint job from the searing heat of air friction. Once through the ionosphere he switched to his scanners to look around, but from out of nowhere came a squad of speeding Deloreans who surrounded him and fired laser blasts across his hood. Blue light filled the cab of his car, and then all went black.
He awoke in a long, straight-walled hall with a high, vaulted ceiling. At the far end sat a small, robed figure with no face, in a ridiculously over-sized chair on a plastic dais. The figure beckoned Hank forth, but stayed seated. When Hank stood directly before the dais, the being raised its smooth, perfectly spherical blue head and spoke in a voice that did not emanate from any capital orifice.
``I see you have discovered our hideout, brave space traveler. For millenia we have reveled in the knowledge that our kind comprise the only intelligent life in the galaxy, and hiding ourselves from the ravages of any lesser yet more egotistical race. Yes, your own is just one such species. Look not so indignant. Yes, though we do look down upon you peons, you provide us with great entertainment. What other race could consistently act the fool so whole-heartedly?''
A look of revelation crossed Hank's visage. ``You mean all those UFO sightings --- were they you?''
Had the spectre a face, it would've smiled. ``No, no, you fool, we would not dare act so blatantly; we act with the great subtlety that befits our superiority.'' The pompous pea-head pushed himself up with a plastic cane. ``What is your name, astronaut?''
``Hank.''
``Yes, I know. Come, Hangq. Allow me to how you the Great Secrets of the Universe before your execution.'' The diminutive humanoid waddled to an archway behind the throne, beckoning the befuddled earthling to follow. The arch led to a grand, circular chamber bathed in eerie blue light. The portal through which they entered opened onto a ledge about thirty meters above an iridescent floor. The shimmering light on the walls resembled the reflections of light from the surface of water. The floor shifted and moved constantly, spinning in some places, and flickering in others. A boom suspended a platform over the flowing surface, and on the platform stood three more of the black-ball-headed, robed figures. Hank knew that form from somewhere, but could not recall where. What he watched the beings do, however, shocked him more than anything he had ever seen. One of the beings reached into a swirling sector of the fluid ground, and pulled out an argyle sock. Reaching into a spot a few centimeters to the side, it retrieved a red sock, the kind with the darker toe and heel. Next came a black stocking, three different styles of black tube socks, and even a lace-topped pink footie. The malicious obsidian-capped harvester tore the toe from one ill-fated article of footwear and replaced it whence it came. The second worker had a similar job reaping a healthy crop of disposable lighters of all colors. The third fiend culled ball-point pens from the rich garden.
``What horrible evil is this?'' cried Hank. His host merely pointed to a deck at the edge of the room, on which stood a large pillar. Another mysterious figure pitched the cargo of socks, lighters and pens into a furnace-like maw at the pillar's base. Also on the deck, a worker, whose head was red rather than black, chose certain pens from the baskets, and put these into a different stack. To his horror, Hank watched these rescued pens grow and metamorphose into creatures just like the workers, just like the egotist who had led him into this room. His guide drew him through another archway, into a room with another eerie floor. In this room stood another large pillar-furnace, from which the workers drew forth armloads of wire coat hangers, and strewed them liberally across the vista, which absorbed them greedily.
``We are a civilized, superior race,'' began the guide, at length; ``who have decided for the present on a rather mischevious and fulfilling diversion. These two rooms are linked through the fourth dimension to all the washers and dryers, pen holders, pockets, dresser tops, and closets on your planet. Our workers have for centuries removed lighters, single socks, pens, combs, guitar picks, bobby pins, keys, scissors, remote controllers, tubes of lipstick, and other mundane items out from under the noses of you arrogant human beings. Sometimes we replace them, or move them about in a person's house, but often we put them into The Machine and turn them into wire hangers, which we then place indiscriminantly into closets as you see here.'' Hank's eyes grew wide with understanding; he now knew the secret of Where the Socks Go. ``But why?'' he begged, in tears. ``Who are you?''
``Why? Ennui. We're superior, you wouldn't understand.'' Somehow, the blank face bore a smug expression. ``We change ourselves into a form which your, ahem, `scientists' use to write. In that way, you see, we've been spying on you for ages, to discern whether your kind have any intelligence. Yes, my poor fool, we call ourselves the Bic people. Our powers are far beyond your comprehension, and for that reason we shall stay forever unknown to your pitiful race, our playthings No, they can never know of the tenth planet in their solar system --- and so you shall die.''
Suddenly, Hand was dragged from his feet by a multitude of gloved hands. ``Bic! I knew it, I knew I knew these guys from someplace! They're the Bic guys, just like the drawings on the pens and the lighters! There's now way I'm going to die at the hands of cartoon characters!''
Wrenching free his right arm, he knocked aside a few of the miniscule marauders, drew his pistol (which his captors had so kindly left with him), and fired three shots into the press. Ink splattered everywhere, and he ran. Following the glyphs on the walls as best he could, clearing a path with his magnum everywhere he went, he soon found the impound lot which held his DeSoto. He ran to the driver's door, only to find it locked. His keys --- gone! He shuddered at the irony of such a predictable turn. ``I'm sorry baby, I haven't got a choice,'' he cried to his car as he leveled his pistol at the lock --- boom --- and yanked open the door. Sliding in, he grabbed a handful of wires from under the dash, twisted together the exact pair and the vehicle shuddered to life. He waited until some of the little monsters ran up behind the car, then revved the drive and threw it in gear, melting several of the goons in his superheated exhaust as he tore from the hanger.
In less than a minute the DeSoto had cleared the gravitational horizon of planet Bic, at the expense of its bright pink paint job.In his rearview mirror, Hank saw two squads of Deloreans fanning out in intercept patters. He pushed the DeSoto for all she was worth, and then a little more, but still they gained on him. In the midst of the flight, as they jetted past Uranus, he saw a movement in the seat next to him. His lost Bic lighter had reappeared, metamorphosing into a Bic goon. Hank slammed the steering column and the ship dropped out from under the uninvited alien, who now slammed into the roof. Danger had infiltrated his car, and Hank lost his senses. Digging frantically in his pockets, he found his old orange metal Zippo lighter, and with its wind-proof flame melted the Bic to death.
Presently he rounded Saturn in the sling-shot course, and the DeSoto's hulking weight helped it begin to pull away from the pack. Then engine whined and moaned mournfully. As he stepped on the clutch to shift into fifth, the transmission jammed, and the motor sputtered and died. Only then did Hank remember his great-grandfather's tales about the tempermental cars of yore. Luckily, Hank wasn't watching the rearview mirror when the Deloreans' torpedoes came upon him.