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The 1st of June dawned pink and cloudy. Emmet had been driving fares around town all night. Soon he'd shuttle a few executives to the airport, and then at eight o'clock, he would flee to start his new life as a published author. Hot damn. A happy feeling swelled inside him. He grinned to himself, unable to contain the delight.
At eight o'clock, and turned in the meter receipts and climbed in his own car. Marvelous. Driving homeãa person at last. The streets were no longer desolate, far from it ã so many things were going on! A pretty mother pushed a baby carriage. Kids walked to school dressed in little designer jeans, carrying Ninja Turtles lunch pails. Girls waited for buses with their short skirts flaring in the breeze. A hundred Mexican day laborers slouched on a dilapidated corner hoping for fortune to smile in the form of a boss man with a ditch digging job.
Just a normal day, Emmet reminded himself. No use breaking any routines. He fed the fish, watching critically as they completed the castle swim, then hopped into a hot shower. The phone rang while he was stepping into his new tan slacks.
"Congratulations, Emmet," Gridley Shumacher's deep voice boomed across the country. "You're published! Books are on their way to citizens. You lucky prick!"
When somebody calls you a lucky prick, they generally mean it. Shumacher evidently feels he's doing me a big favor. But hell, he is. The guy took a chance on me when no one else would. And if there's any glory, I'll get it, not Shumacher. The world will think of him as a businessman, crass or enlightened, depending on how much money he makes.
"I guess I am a lucky prick," Emmet admitted, seeking to put Shumacher at ease.
"Aah, you're not a prick. Sorry I said that; but goddamn, did I tell you how good these reviews are coming back? I can't believe it! The science fiction guy on the Globe gave you a fantastic review! He thinks you're brilliant, I guess. I ordered a five thousand overrun, just in case he's right. We might have a seller here, Emmet."
"Great," Emmet replied, feeling that a good review was his due, but pleased none-the-less. "The LA reviews haven't come in yet?"
"Small potatoes," Shumacher informed him, typically East Coast in his bearing. The publishing world seemed blithely unaware that Los Angeles and the West had a huge market potential. "I'm going to move straight into foreign rights and reprints. It sure looks like a home run from here. Get ready for some talk shows. Say, when am I going to get a new book from you?"
"I'm working on one," Emmet lied.
"Good, keep at it. Have a great day, Mr. Author. Got to run, the other line is flashing." The connection broke at the same moment that Emmet's doorbell rang. Emmet cracked the door, ready to slam it shut if Reggie's goons were waiting with ballbats. He saw instead two strange looking men. Nearest the door, a pudgy man in a baggy suit was smiling tensely. Beside him stood a midget dressed in an Ivy League blazer and cream colored slacks. Both held identical plaid overnight bags.
"Congratulations, Mr. Suckerfield," the midget said in a slightly crystallized voice. "We are proud of you. You performed very admirably."
"Good heavens," Emmet replied, sloughing off the somewhat backhanded compliment. "The world is beating a path to my door." But he smiled, relishing the fame even if it was from a neighborhood committee. "You're not from a newspaper or something, are you?" Emmet asked, suddenly wondering if the plaid cases were camera cases.
"May we come in?" the full-sized one asked. "There is much to discuss."
"Oh, well sure. Come in." Emmet stepped back into the living room. The newsmen followed him, looking around the apartment. Emmet noted that the little fellow wasn't a midget at all, but simply a very tiny young man. About the size of a jockey, actually. Maybe they were from the Hollywood Park literary wing.
"I am Sarr R'Tangele," the tike said, formally. The little fellow was standing at attention. "This is my associate, Mandillo Sprut." Sprut nodded uncomfortably and shifted his weight. R'Tangele bowed from the waist.
"You're who..?!" Emmet blurted. A smile started to form on his lips. He'd heard about the raft of science fiction fans who followed their favorite authors around. Some of them were pretty weird. This must be a budding fan club. It was kind of charming, but how had they gotten a copy of the book?
"Yes, I am Sarr R'Tangeleãthe transfer programmer." The little man seemed totally serious. "Is Venus here, or may we see her soon?"
"Venus..?" Suckerfield asked, feeling a bit apprehensive.
The kid was completely deadpan, but his eyes flicked compulsively around the apartment, searching everywhere. Emmet wished he would ease up a little.
Mandillo Sprut pulled a bottle of Martel cognac from his bag. "One should always have a drink to success," he said. "And the book cover, by the way, looks absolutely gorgeous."
"Venus is, perhaps, a bit too thin," Sarr remarked, sitting on the couch. He eyed the aquarium, where the goldfish swam lazily. "Oh, they keep shigits here, too. Wonderful." He took a step toward the fish tank.
"I believe they're pets," Mandillo Spurt suggested, hastily. "Oh," Sarr said.
Emmet looked suspiciously at the fellows. He'd been up all night. They were obviously putting him on, but he was too tired to appreciate it. He was, however, very sure that he didn't like the invasion of privacy. "Who are you?" Emmet asked. "I think maybe I should see some credentials if you're from the press."
"You're a bit non-plused by our sudden arrival, I expect," Sarr said, soothingly. "But I assure you that I understand English very admirably. Please have no fear. I can only state that we are inexorably twisted into one another's fate. I am indeed the Sarr R'Tangele whom you wrote of, hailing from the Gangamma Tornando, which you have mistakenly called Torano. We've come to retrieve Venus M'Gnapt."
Mercifully, the phone rang. Emmet excused himself to pick it up.
"Well, well, so the day has finally arrived..!" Roberta Weinstein's sultry voice came over the wire.
"So it seems," Emmet replied, hesitantly. His head was spinning uncomfortably.
"Did I wake you..?"
"Maybe I am dreaming..."
"It does seem like a dream come true, doesn't it? All that work finally paid off."
"Are you home? Could I call you back in a few minutes?" He hung up and turned back to the midget and his henchman.
"What exactly made you fellows stop at my house?" he asked. "If this is a cute sales pitch, or a fan club, I'm extremely busy this morning. If you wouldn't mind leaving, I'd like to get on with my work." He opened the door.
"But, Emmet, didn't you understand..? We really are here to find Venus. By the way, where is she?" Sarr inquired. "Is she in the next room by some happy coincidence?" The little fellow's neck muscles stretched in anticipation.
Mandillo Sprut, too, seemed anxious. His eyes strayed toward the bedroom.
"Venus..?" Emmet marveled. "Of course, she's not here! She's a book character, just like Sarr is! What are you, nut cases..?"
"Told you," Mandillo Sprut muttered to Sarr. "Mr. Suckerfield, please bear with us. We are in the gravest of situations. Obviously, you met a girl somewhere, who related this story to you. It is critical that we find her. Can you please tell us where she is, now, if you know. Or where you saw her. She has amnesia and is in desperate danger."
"We don't know that she's in danger," Sarr corrected.
"If she doesn't know who she is, what would you call it, mild discomfort?" Sprut glowered down at the little man. "And while we're at it, why are you so little? It makes me nervous."
Sarr reddened. "I must have looked up the wrong planet. I know I set the dials for total normalcy. And don't attack me again! I'm this way while I'm here and there's nothing to do about it. I can't pop back from an emergency leave to change my body!"
Emmet rubbed his chin. "I think I'll just make a quick phone call," he said, backing toward the phone.
"Please don't call the police..!" Mandillo Sprut begged. "See what you've done," he snipped at Sarr. "I told you we should write a letter first."
"Time is critical..! What if he didn't respond to a stupid letter? How much longer do you think the Senator will be fooled by your poorly written reports..?"
Mandillo Sprut hissed though his clenched teeth. "I saved the transcript of you ordering me to fake those reports. And I don't think we're making a very good impression on Mr. Suckerfield." He turned to Emmet and smiled tiredly. "Please forgive me," he said. "We really are from another civilization. I, myself, have been on your planet for nine years. I like it very much and I have never had a speck of trouble until I ran into this fellow, who I'm afraid is my superior. We really are in serious, personal trouble due to his blundering. Fortunately, we have found youãthe only person on Earth who is able to help us. As a science fiction writer, I'm hoping you can view this as a great opportunities for research. Please, please, help us find Venus..!" Sprut held up the Cognac bottle. "Do you have glasses? We really should celebrate the publication of your book."
"I haven't had any sleep," Emmet explained, stallingãhoping this would start to make sense.
"And frankly, this is all seeming very strange to me. What was your name again..?" "Sprut. Mandillo Sprut."
Emmet sized up the duo, supposing he could bodily throw them out, if it came to that. But what if they knew karate, or what if they were escaped loonies? Nah, too strange for loonies. Maybe they really are space men.
"Are you saying you're space men, and you just happened to land at my door?"
"Yes, yes, you would say we are space men; although to us, everyone is a space man," Sarr answered, soberly.
"Except space women," Mandillo Sprut chuckled, trying to be light and amusing. Sarr smirked at him.
"I don't want to appear too stodgy, Mr. Sprut, but I'm afraid I'll have to have some proof..or something. Your story is rather far fetched, to say the least. I suppose you came down in a flying saucer or some space craft? I'd like to see it, and I don't mean a photograph."
Sarr shrugged good-naturedly. "Of course. It's not as complicated as you think." The little guy led Emmet to the front window and pointed out a tan Buick with California license plates. He smiled. Obviously, the guy was some kind of low level joker.
Emmet chuckled, hoping he'd get the joke pretty soon.
"I believe Mandillo has a hover craft moored in a neutral density field on the dark side of your Moon. Would you be interested in seeing that..?"
"I guess so..." Emmet answered.
"Good. We'll take you up, if you agree to help us find the girl."
Emmet backed up a step, his body language communicating that he wasn't ready for a space voyage. "I just want to see it," Emmet tweeted.
"You can't. It's at neutral density. I told you that."
"How very convenient," Emmet said, trying to regain the advantage.
"Ground locked," Sarr commented sourly to Mandillo Sprut. "It's the very worst aspect of this culture, all the reports say so. No imagination. No joie de vivre."
"What..?" Emmet glared.
"He means that the people of Earth are very stable," Sprut said, soothingly. "Most cultures of your age have long since gone spacing. I find your land-lockedness a charming trait, myself, and there have been some sound historical reasons for it, I might add."
"Fine. I'll go see your space ship, if you have one. I'm taking a chance on being abducted into outer space, I suppose." Emmet discovered that calling the midget's bluff was kind of exhilarating. "And what are you going to do for me in return?"
"We've already done quite a lot, Mr. Suckerfield."
"Like what..?
"Well, a member of our race wrote your book, for one thing." Sarr smiled a condescending smile.
Emmet's mouth fell open. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he stammered. "I talked to no one about those ideas. They just came into my head."
"Oh, dear," Sarr R'Tangele said. He wrung his little hands in a worried manner.
Han McIvor was having a normal day at Pauli's 76 Station on San Mateo Boulevard across from Bob's Big Boy. Pumping gas was quite within his ability; in fact, he was good at it. And he had a natural talent for washing windows. Not a car escaped from the gas bay with spotty windows when he was on duty. He could squeegee any car, front and back, before five dollars had pumped in. Then while the tank was topping off, he polished the streaks off with a paper towel.
Pauli didn't like the added expense of the paper towels, but Han got several cars out of each oneãand Pauli got lots of return customers, so he kept buying them. Han liked the blue towels because they were more professional looking and they deposited no lint.