Walter Stickle and the Galactic Rangers, page 2
“Captain,” said Sparks, “the Keldarians send their thanks, and we are receiving a message from Ranger Command.”
“On screen.”
The battle-scarred face of Gandor, leader of the Galactic Rangers, appeared on the view screen. Gandor had been their leader for as long as any Ranger could remember. He preferred to remain in flight form at all times because he honored the old ways. They called him the old man, though never to his face. Name a war, and he had led the Rangers in it. “Captain Kleeg, your message has been received,” he said. “Well done.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kleeg bowed. “Our course and ETA on Argon are being transmitted to Ranger Command now. It will be good to be home again.”
“I have new orders for you,” the old man said.
“Yes sir?”
“A mission to Beta Sector.”
“With all due respect, sir, we’re halfway across the galaxy. Isn’t there a closer ship? And what of our prisoner?”
“Don’t worry about the Goldotti.”
“What can be more important than a possible resurgence of the Goldotti? Sir, if they have somehow infected another world…”
Gandor silenced Kleeg with a raised hand. “We have reason to believe that an old nemesis of ours is hiding on a primitive planet there.”
When Gandor named the one in hiding, Kleeg’s face darkened and shimmered. “Is this information reliable?”
“The Division of Mathematics calculates the probability at near one hundred percent.”
“Very well, sir. We will divert now.”
“All possible speed, Kleeg. This may be our last chance. Further instructions to follow on an intermediate rendezvous with Scout Ship Gamma to offload your prisoner, Gandor out.”
“Understood, sir. Kleeg out.”
The screen reverted to its view of space with the planet Keldar rotating below.
“Navigator, set new course. Divert all power not designated to essential systems to the forward shields. Give me 1.5 maximum safe speed on my mark.”
The technology behind the view screen sounds simple when explained during a tour of the Space Port on Argon. To the tourist, it essentially takes an image captured by lens, digitizes it, enlarges it, and displays it on a wall. What is not explained on the tour is that during faster-than-light travel, there is no actual light available to create the image of stars and planets flying by the ship. There is only darkness in the void of the compressed space created inside the physical space in which the ship “travels.” The Rangers call it “dark space.” To alleviate the disorientation that would be caused by the lack of a visual representation of travel through dark space, the ship’s computer provides a simulation of stars and planets and movement based on known starting coordinates, known planet and star positions, and rate of speed. This works well enough when traveling at speeds up to maximum safe speed. At speeds above that, the image is an inaccurate blur because neither the ship’s computers nor the ship’s imaging system can keep up with the positional changes of the vessel, which is why such speeds are deemed unsafe. A ship traveling through dark space without proper positioning could collide with an object too large for its shields to deflect. A ship leaving compressed space at such speeds could materialize inside a planet, a sun, or a black hole.
“Sir?” said First Officer Gak. “Congress of Planets Article 3.05.01 specifically states that maximum safe speed shall not be exceeded except in cases of dire emergency.”
“I know the regulations, First Officer. We have our orders.”
“Course set and all non-essential power diverted to the shields, Captain,” said Klaxon.
“Execute.”
A Keldarian Decapod broke the surface of the Great Northern Ocean and turned a stalked eye skyward as Scout Ship Alpha blinked out of orbit upon leaving normal space to begin its journey to Earth.
Chapter 2
At exactly 6:03 a.m., on a planet the dominant indigenous species call Earth, in a town named Pitville, New Jersey, in the United States of America, the alarm clock on Walter Stickle’s nightstand began to buzz. He opened his eyes and sat up in bed as he did every workday morning. He stared at his neighbor’s floodlights beaming through the bedroom window just like they always did, and he wondered, just as he always did, why they left them on all night long and how much electricity they were wasting by doing so. He slid into the slippers that he left on the floor in exactly the same spot every night before going to bed, put on his robe that he always hung neatly on a plastic hanger on his closet door, and by 6:05 a.m. was in the bathroom. He brushed his teeth with an electric toothbrush until it shut off automatically as it always did after the recommended brushing time, washed his face vigorously until he could feel his skin tingling just as the dermatologist said it should, and brushed his hair with no more or less than ten strokes, because that was what his barber had said was needed to bring out the shine. Any less and it would be left dull, any more and it would look greasy.
By 6:15 a.m. he was dressed in the same gray suit, white shirt, blue tie, and black oxfords that he wore to work every day. Not that he only had one suit, shirt, tie and pair of shoes. He had three of exactly the same suit, five of the same shirt, five of the same color tie, and as a result of going wild one day at a sale in the Paylittle shoe store in town, had two pairs of black oxford shoes and one pair of brown, though he almost never wore the brown ones.
His breakfast consisted of a bowl of cold cereal which he ate standing at the kitchen window watching the street for the paperboy. For three-and-a-half years, he had eaten the same brand of cereal the same way every day, and just as he had for three-and-a-half years when he was washing out the bowl in the sink, he heard the thunk of the newspaper against the porch screen door. That was his signal, and just like every other morning for three-and-a-half years, he was out the door and on his way to work at exactly 6:30 a.m.
It was a normal day in Pitville, New Jersey, but most days were normal there. The sun was coming up as it did every day, the town was just beginning to stir from a good night’s sleep, the train was sounding its horn as it arrived at the Pitville station on time, the bus to Dantford was leaving right on schedule, and the town hall clock was striking the half hour precisely in sync with the U.S. Naval Observatory Clock in Washington, D.C. Everything that happened in Pitville happened because it was supposed to, just that way. Nothing was out of the ordinary, nothing was unusual, and the people there liked it like that.
In fact, for the last ten years, Pitville had been named the most average town in the country. Its mean income was precisely the national average, its unemployment rate, its ratio of males to females, whites to blacks, young to old, all average, average, average. Statisticians referred to it as the “Pitville Number” when quoting any particular average for the media. What was the average number of pizza places per capita? Give them the Pitville Number. That was always a safe bet. Pitville was a normal town in every respect where normal things happened to normal people, people like Walter Stickle.
Walter worked for the Social Security Administration where he was a claims representative. He had finished training three-and-a-half years before and was assigned to the district office in Pitville immediately thereafter. It only made sense. Walter was from Pitville, born and raised there, lived there all his life. He knew the town, knew what made it tick, knew the area, and knew the people. That made him the best at what he did — helping others. He was so good at it that he’d won outstanding service awards three years running at work and was a shoe-in to win a fourth that year. Even the town had recognized his commitment to helping others and had bestowed upon him the Outstanding Citizen of the Year award at the Fourth of July parade that year. It had made all the papers and he’d been interviewed on national news in the spot at the end where they close the half-hour coverage of the depressing state of the world with an upbeat story of American life.
Walter liked helping. It made him feel good. It made him feel important that he was doing something worthwhile. He liked it so much that he had not missed a day of work in three-and-a-half years. He’d accumulated over thirty days of sick time and thirty days of vacation and had not used a day of them. He never got sick, never got sick and tired enough to fake being sick, and had no particular inclination to travel, though as a boy he had always dreamed of going into outer space.
It had been both his fascination and obsession. Growing up, he watched any TV show that claimed to be science fiction and saw every sci-fi movie that came out at least twice. He built model rockets, even blew one up once by accident when he tried to get it to lift off using a firecracker — his brother’s idea, naturally. He read and saved sci-fi comic books and cut out and pasted into albums every sci-fi comic strip that he could lay his hands on. He had amassed quite a collection of sci-fi action figures and still kept them in his bedroom on a bookcase except for his current favorites, which he placed on the windowsill in the kitchen to keep him company while he ate breakfast. Going into space had been his childhood dream, but somewhere along the line, he had grown up and discovered that he didn’t have the “right stuff” to be an astronaut. So, he gave up on his dream of going into outer space. Now, he was happy going to work every day. That was his adventure.
On this particular day, Walter walked the ten blocks to work holding the Pitville Times in his left hand away from his body as he always did, not wanting to get newspaper ink on his jacket. That freed his right hand to greet everyone he passed, starting with the grade school kids on the corner: Billy, Jenny, Frank, and Biff. They were waiting for the school bus, not overly happy that it was summer and school was still in session, but Pitville was building a new, bigger school and running the old one on split sessions until construction was finished. That meant classes ran nearly year round — not a popular decision with the younger set. Walter and the kids had become friends of sorts the Halloween before when they toilet-papered his house, he had caught them red-handed, and he didn’t rat them out. That made him cool in their eyes. That morning, they exchanged waves. That was about all Walter could ever get out of them that early in the morning, but that was normal for kids.
Then, there was Mrs. Giamotti, the old Italian lady who ran the corner store. She invariably seemed to be hanging the day’s cheeses and meats in the window when Walter went by, and he always stopped to chat and buy bagels, doughnuts, or Danish just to see how she was doing. On this particular morning, her back was sore and her left knee aching, but she was happy that her daughter had called the previous night. Walter bought two bagels and a doughnut.
Then, there was Jack Weathers, the policeman who walked the morning beat and was always on the corner of Elm and Poplar at that hour to greet Walter. That morning, they talked about last night’s little league baseball game. Jack was a big fan of the Pitville Pirates. His boys were grown, but he still went to every home game. They had gotten thumped again by Dantford — not a pretty sight. Walter had a doughnut for him to ease the pain.
And of course, there was Ralph Minton, the retired army sergeant who threw out his garbage every morning at 6:45 a.m. as an excuse to tell Walter what the weather was going to be that day. Walter was never in the military, but his dad was. Mr. Minton liked that and liked to talk about the good old days. Sergeant Minton predicted another beautiful day in Pitville.
There were others, many others. Walter knew all of their names, and they all knew Walter, and by the time he got to work at 6:59 a.m., he had said “hello” to more people than most would in a week, but that was normal for Walter.
As usual, he was the first to arrive at the district office. He unlocked the door and propped it open to let out yesterday’s smells, mainly of stale smoke from people who snuck a puff or two in the waiting room though the sign clearly read, “No Smoking.” He started the coffee, made sure all the toilets were flushed, straightened up the waiting room, even though that was the cleaning lady’s job, and sat down at his desk to read the paper. His office was one of several in an area separated from the waiting room by a door, so applicants and beneficiaries could have privacy when discussing their cases.
After a brief look at the front page, Walter went right to the comics. That’s how he’d grown up. That was the section prized and fought over by the four Stickle children, and even though he now had his own paper delivered to his house, things hadn’t changed much. Once his co-workers began arriving, the comics would be up for grabs, just like when he was a kid.
Walter’s favorite was Galactic Rangers. Captain Kleeg, First Officer Gak, Communications Officer Sparks, and Navigator Klaxon occupied the action figure place of honor on his kitchen windowsill. Galactic Rangers was a twenty-first century version of the Texas Rangers that he used to watch on TV when he was a kid. The difference was that these Rangers were not from Earth and definitely not cowboys. They were from a far away gas planet called Argon, where they had a secret base on the third moon. They were the guardians of law and order in the galaxy, their sworn mission to protect the innocent and serve justice to criminals. That usually meant many outer space battles and plenty of ray guns and explosions. They wore red and yellow superhero uniforms and carried all kinds of high-tech devices on their belts. The best part was that most people were unaware that they even existed. As ethereal beings from a gas planet, they were able to assume various physical forms once acclimated to a particular world, so if they chose, they could blend in with any indigenous population while in pursuit of intergalactic criminals and just as easily disappear into history and legend when the job was done. They were the unsung heroes of the galaxy whose only reward was the knowledge that they were helping others, just like unsung hero, Walter Stickle, claims representative of the Social Security Administration.
Mildred, the cleaning lady, was not a civil servant like Walter. She had been a homeless, penniless panhandler who lived in the alley behind the office. Local authorities tried many times to relocate Mildred to a shelter in the city, but she kept coming back because she liked it there. For the longest time, Walter brought her something to eat every day because he felt sorry for her, but one day it occurred to him that she might be eligible for Social Security benefits. He talked her into filing a claim. After some checking, they found her baptismal record in an old church in town to prove her age and identity. Her Social Security card, they found in a shoebox that she kept in a stolen Big Mart shopping cart that held her worldly belongings. Walter discovered that, a long time ago, she had worked enough to get benefits. They weren’t much, but they were enough for her to afford a room at Mrs. Pensky’s boarding house and meals at the community center. In gratitude, Mildred insisted on coming in every morning, five days a week, and cleaning the Social Security office’s waiting room for free. It wasn’t exactly kosher, and she didn’t work that hard or do that good a job, after all she was seventy-two years old, but that was all right.
That morning, she was right on time, 7:30 a.m., and she kicked the chair holding the door open out of the way, just like she always did. Mildred didn’t like the draft on her neck no matter what the weather. Walter got up from his desk and came into the waiting room.
“Good morning, Mildred,” he said.
“What’s so good about it? I had cold beans and toast for breakfast.”
Mildred’s only key was to the broom closet. She used it to fetch the push broom.
“I have bagels. Want one?” Walter asked.
Years of living on the street had made Mildred forever suspicious. She wanted to know what kind.
“One raisin and one onion,” Walter said.
“I don’t eat onions. They give me heartburn.”
“But you like raisins. How about that one?”
She push-broomed all the stackable plastic contour chairs into one corner and began sweeping the dirt toward the door to the inner offices.
“Cream cheese?” she asked.
“Butter, too, if you want. You know, maybe you should push that dirt toward the front door so you can just shove it outside. Just an idea.”
“I don’t like drafts. They bother my arthritis.”
“But you’ll have to sweep it up.”
She kept sweeping.
“Okay,” Walter said. “I’ll get the dustpan.” And as he did many mornings, he gave up trying to reason with her, got the dustpan, bent over, and held it while she brushed the dirt and cigarette butts into it. “I don’t understand how people can put their cigarettes out on the floor,” he complained as he usually did when half of the trash was crushed-out cigarettes. “Do they really think the world is their ashtray?”
Mildred was looking at him strangely, even for her.
“What wrong?” he asked.
She pointed to his feet, and he looked down. His left sock was dark blue and the other bright green, and just like that, Walter’s normal day was no longer normal. It was, in fact, very confusing and very not-normal, for Walter did not have any green socks — green didn’t go with anything he owned — nor was he ever in the habit of wearing unmatched socks, especially to work.
He looked at his watch. “I don’t have time to go home and change.”
Mildred just shook her head. “I’m going to have my bagel now and then clean the commodes. I hope you got plenty of cream cheese.”
Walter retreated to his office and sat down with his feet firmly planted behind his desk. There, he went through the facts of the case. That’s how his mind worked. That’s what made him so good at what he did. Fact: He did not own any green socks, and a green sock doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. Fact: He always dressed in the dark. What was the point of turning on the light and wasting energy when everything was already laid out on the guest bed? Fact: He always balled his socks when he did his laundry. The socks on the left side of his sock drawer were blue. The socks on the right were black. That’s how he arranged them. It was neat and orderly. He could understand how he might have chosen a black pair though he had fully intended to wear blue. That had actually happened once when he’d pulled a pair from the middle of the drawer, that he could live with, but there were no green socks in that drawer. Unresolved question: Last night when he laid his clothes out, had he even looked when he’d pulled a pair of socks out of the sock drawer? It was nearly 8:00 a.m. The others would be arriving soon. Plan of action: He had to do something quickly, but what does one do about one green sock and one blue?
