SFFH: Article
The great expanse of lawn had been immaculately trimmed, not one
blade of fescue out of place. Surrounding the twenty acres of
ceremonial greensward were flower after flower in precise rows–roses,
tulips, lilies, daffodils, geraniums–transplanted for the momentous
occasion, each representing the finest modern horticulture had
to offer. In the middle of all this was an octagonal-shaped tarmac
where the shuttle would be touching down shortly. Hundreds of
miles above (so we’d been told) was the lightship that had brought
our visitors from so very, very far away.
I was just one of the thousands in the crowd–all of us curious
to witness First Contact firsthand. Since I was a member of the
hoi polloi, I didn’t have a ringside seat, though near the tarmac
seating had been set up for the politicians, captains of industry
and other distinguished guests. So far away was the President
that, though I could see the black-suited secret service agents
flanking him, I couldn’t make out his face. Fortunately, huge
video screens had been erected at intervals around the greensward,
and several video crews were atop cranes to capture the upcoming
Event. It was certain that those of us back here in the one-dollar
seats (actually we were standing) wouldn’t be able to make out
the alien ambassador without such technological forethought.
Everyone was in their Sunday best, as it were. A woman in front
of me was wearing a cheery sun dress patterned with flowers; a
brand-new hat crowned her recently coifed (obviously for this
occasion) hair. It wasn’t until she spoke that I got the impression
that this probably wasn’t her normal appearance. “Some sort of
shapeshifters, the TV said,” she drawled to the man beside her.
“What the hell’s a shapeshifter anyway?” Her pumps were also new,
and by the way she was wobbling, I could tell she wasn’t used
to high heels.
“It means they can change their shape at will,” said the man beside
her. “Take on the appearance of anything or anybody they want.”
He too was gussied up for the occasion, wearing a brown suit that
hugged him a little too tightly. One got the feeling that upon
olfactory inspection, the scent of mothballs would flood the nasal
passages.
“Not exactly,” said the man in the seersucker in front of them,
turning. He had a carnation on his lapel that looked too perfect
to be real. “From what I understand they have merely chosen forms
that are like our own. It’s an involved process that takes weeks,
and then their minds are transferred into these ‘human’”–thin
fingers curled to close the word in quotes–“bodies. But it’s not
like they can transform themselves before our very eyes. Experts
say that they are choosing forms that most likely mirror our own.
What they think the typical Earth person looks like.”
“I wonder what this ambassador from outer space will look like,”
the wobbling woman said.
“Probably much like the President,” said the first man.
“Oh,” said the second man, “I was hoping he’d look rather like
me.” He offered a supercilious grin as he ran a finger along the
arm of his seersucker jacket.
This was how it’d been since we had learned about the aliens’
impending arrival. America wasn’t the only country that the aliens
were sending ambassadors to. At various locations around the globe,
people were gathered in scenes like this to meet the ambassadors
from the stars. London, Moscow, Paris, Münich, Cairo, Beijing,
New Delhi and Tokyo were all scheduled for their own First Contact
ceremony, and, it was assumed, each ambassador would most likely
take the form of the people he, she, or it was about to meet.
Speculations abounded. Would the ambassador to England wear a
monocle? Would the ambassador to Egypt wear a turban? No one knew.
What everyone did know, however, was that company was coming to
dinner. Very special, prestigious company. Consequently, the world
had taken on a new face. Here in America everyone had mown their
lawns, washed their cars, and gone out and bought a new outfit
for the Event. Even I, who usually didn’t go in for such nonsense,
had put on my best jeans and a clean, collared shirt. Proper decorum
had spread like a contagion.
I guess all in all it wasn’t such a bad thing. People were treating
each other differently as a result. Those who’d normally displayed
prejudices against those different than themselves had discovered
a new sense of Political Correctness. Disparate groups, be they
ethnic, social, class-oriented or sexual-persuasion-oriented,
were embracing one another with open arms in an attempt to show
these visitors how evolved we people of Earth truly were. And
though it was a refreshing sight, I did feel that after the aliens
were among us and we’d grown used to their presence, many would
go back to throwing bricks and hurling insults at one another.
It’s hard to escape generations of bigotry just because someone
important comes to dinner.
And then it happened–
Descending from the sky was the ambassador’s shuttle. The crowd
moaned in awe as the dark pinpoint above grew in size. At first
it looked oval in shape, but as it descended further it appeared
as if it were an inverted ice cream cone. Landing struts extended
as it silently–a silence that was almost frightening due to its
incongruity to the huge craft–touched down. Then a ramp extended
and a small figure strode down the incline.
I looked to one of the giant video screens to see the ambassador
better. But the camera crews were having problems with the video,
and the image on the large screen was a blurry jumble, though
through the P.A. system footsteps were audible. By the time the
alien had reached the tarmac, however, the video crews had solved
their technical difficulties, and the image of the ambassador
was solid, in focus.
Everyone stood there in silence, unable to believe what they were
seeing. No, he didn’t look like the President. Nor was he short
and gray with a big head and slits for eyes. Nor was he a tall
spindly creature with arms that were way too long.
What did he look like? Well, he definitely looked human. He was
a short, overweight, balding man with bandy legs. His huge, hairy
belly and belly button were protruding below a too-tight T-shirt
that said: I ONLY CAME FOR THE FREE BEER! in bold letters. He
didn’t look like he was in need of a brew, however, because in
one hand he held up a can of ale, and in the other he lugged a
six pack.
At this point I half expected him to say something profound like,
“Greetings, good people of Earth,” or “This is the first day of
a long, prosperous friendship,” or possibly the old standby, “We
come in peace.” But he didn’t say anything. He merely took a big
gulp of his beer (excess dribbling down his chin), swallowed,
and then let out a loud belch.
Born in 1957, Marshall Payne has led a colorful life. He has worked as a touring musician, music producer, sound technician, a salesman, and a waiter. In 1999 he committed himself to speculative fiction and has never looked back. Since then he has written over fifty short stories and seven novels, the last three he’s looking to publish. (The first four were merely for practice.) When not writing, he likes to watch Spurs basketball with his cat C.C. and eat popcorn. Fiction of his has appeared in print and online in
The Sword Review April 2006, and online on
Nanobison. He is also a reviewer for
Tangent Short Fiction Review. He can be reached at marshallpayne@mail.com.
Illustration by Matthew Laznicka of Basement Productions. Colorization by Dan C. Rinnert.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any informational storage or retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
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