Stories Complete, page 18
“Naturally,” Hodges agreed. He motioned to his assistant who was regarding the proceedings with frank curiosity.
“Get this character out of here,” he said crisply.
Jeff Morrison didn’t budge.
“I don’t think we should do that, boss,” he said.
“Oh don’t you, really?”
“No, sir. At least not till we find out if he really is an alien.”
“Him! An alien? Oh come off it. You don’t think he really is from—from—from—”
“From Carinae III,” the man in shorts supplied.
“Look at him!” Hodges screamed. “Does he look like he comes from another star system?”
“I don’t know,” Jeff Morrison said. “How does someone from another star system look?”
“All right. So let’s be practical. The point is—”
“The point is,” the assistant interrupted, “that you ran an editorial that bid welcome to any alien who wished to contact you in the editorial offices of STRANGE WORLDS. So until we prove beyond a doubt that Mr. Krith is an impostor I think we owe him the courtesy of assuming that he’s what he claims to be.”
Chuck Hodges frowned. Deliberately he turned toward the flabby figure of the man in Bermuda shorts who was in the act of lighting a singularly Earth-type cigarette. He bowed.
“My humblest apologies, Mr. Krith,” he announced with thinly veiled sarcasm. “Rest secure in the knowledge that my assistant and I have no doubts whatsoever that you are a true bonafide resident of Carinae III.”
The self-confessed alien nodded gravely.
Jeff Morrison coughed.
And from somewhere near the door a voice said: “Is this really on the level, Mr. Hodges?”
Hodges wheeled toward the door which had been left ajar at the time of Krith’s dramatic entrance. The man standing in the threshold was rail-thin. He had blue eyes and gray hair that was just beginning to turn gray at the temples. He wore gray gabardine trousers and a pinstripe sport jacket.
“Who the hell are you?” Hodges demanded. “The virgins of Sirius Six?”
“Hardly,” the man in the doorway said drily. “I’m McCarthy from Universal News Service.”
Chuck Hodges’ mouth opened and closed four times in an outburst of silence. Then the reporter jerked an index finger at Krith.
“You say this guy’s an alien—from where?”
“From Carinae III,” Krith supplied. “Actually I’ve been here some time but—”
“I’m not asking you,” McCarthy snapped. “I’m asking him!”
“Well, you see we ran an editorial,” Hodges said.
“I know that, Mr. Hodges. That’s not news anymore. What I want to know about now is him.”
“What about him?”
“Is he—or isn’t he?”
“Is he or isn’t he what?”
“Is he an alien, or isn’t he? Say what’s the matter with you guys? I thought magazine editors were supposed to be bright.”
“We’re keeping an open mind,” Jeff Morrison said finally.
“But you said you were convinced this guy was from—”
“From Carinae III,” Krith said. “It’s a star system of twelve planets approximately 103.754 light years from here.”
The reporter allowed his gaze to travel from Krith’s partially bald head to the seams of his Bermuda shorts and back gain. “Say,” he said suddenly. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”
Krith derricked himself up from the edge of the desk. “That’s quite unlikely, Mr. McCarthy,” he said aloofly. “Unless, of course, you’ve been to Carinae III.”
The reporter scratched his head. “Did you say your name was . . . Krith?”
“That is correct,” the man in the shorts said. “Of course you understand that your pronunciation is phonetic.”
McCarthy’s face snapped to alertness. “Yes,” he said. “Yes of course. It is phonetic, isn’t it? Only the last time I heard it, it was Chris—Chris Christianson they called you. And it wasn’t in Carinae III either, it was in Kansas City, Missouri where you were arrested for elevating a papier-mache flying saucer over the city by means of two dozen carnival balloons!”
For just a moment the man in the shorts met the reporters stare. Then his shoulders sagged in an expression of complete and utter futility.
McCarthy jerked his chin at the retreating figure just as it disappeared through the door. “Old Chris is a crackpot,” he announced. “Pulls stuff like this all over the country. Funny part of it is that there’s always people who’ll fall for it. Take you for instance—actually believing he was from someplace in outer space.”
“Now wait a minute!” Hodges objected. “You’re not going to print that, are you?”
“Why not? You said it, didn’t you? I heard you say it.”
“But you don’t understand. Publicity like this. It’d break me. Anyhow I didn’t really mean that I was taken in by him.”
“You didn’t?”
“No! In fact this whole stunt of inviting the aliens up here was just a stunt to build up circulation. We don’t really believe in aliens, do we, Jeff?”
Jeff shook his head.
McCarthy allowed his eyes to travel over the space pictures that lined the wall. “Tell you what,” he said. “I like science fiction, and because I like it, I don’t feel I should turn in any story that might embarrass you and possibly hurt your business. . . . So suppose we forget the whole thing?”
Hodges didn’t bother to conceal the sigh of relief that escaped his lips. “Thanks, Mr. McCarthy,” he said. “And if there’s anything I can ever do for you. . . . Say how about an autographed Kelly Freas painting before you go?”
The reporter smiled. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.
Hodges hacked up a laugh. “Aliens!” he said. “I wish I had one of those proton blasters so I could blast every one of them clean out of the galaxy!”
“Yes,” McCarthy said. “I can see how you feel. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
After the reporter had closed the door behind him, Hodges turned to his assistant.
“Nice guy,” he said.
Jeff Morrison nodded. “Nice guy,” he agreed.
“Where did he say he was from?” the editor asked.
“You mean where did he work?”
“That’s right.”
“He said he worked for Universal—that was it: Universal News Service.”
“Who are they?” Hodges asked.
“I don’t know,” Jeff said. “I don’t believe there is a Universal News Service. . . . Unless—”
Together they walked to the open window that commanded a view of the street.
But there was no one in sight.
Jack Lewis, Stories Complete
