Dean Koontz - One Door Away From Heaven

"Why would they want a cow anyway?" asks the Frodo believer.

"Milk," suggests the pale young woman. "Perhaps their planet has suffered a partial ecological breakdown entirely from natural causes, a collapse in some segments of the food chain."

"No, no, they'd be technologically advanced enough to clone their native species," says a professorial man with a larger pipe than the one the woman smokes, "whatever's equivalent to a cow on their planet. They'd repopulate their herds that way. They would never introduce an off-planet species."

"Maybe they're just hungry for a good cheeseburger," says a florid-faced man with a can of beer in one hand and a half-finished hot dog in the other.

A few people laugh; however, the pale young woman, who is pretty in a tragic-dying heroine way, takes deep offense and glowers the smile right off the florid man's face, "If they can travel across the galaxy, they're an advanced intelligence, which means vegetarians."

Summoning what socializing skills he possesses, Curtis says, "Or they might use the cow as a host for biologically engineered weapons. They could implant eight or ten embryos in the cow's body cavity, return her to the meadow, and while the embryos mature into viable specimens, no one would realize what was inside Clara. Then one day, the cow would experience an Ebola-virus type biological meltdown, and out of the disintegrating carcass would come eight or ten insectile-form soldiers, each as big as a German shepherd, which would be a large enough force to wipe out a town of one thousand people in less than twelve hours."

Everyone stares at Curtis.

He realizes at once that he has strayed from the spirit of the conversation or has violated a protocol of behavior among UFO buffs, but he doesn't grasp the nature of his offense. Struggling to recover from this faux pas, he says, "Well, okay, maybe they would be reptile form instead of insectile form, in which case they would need sixteen hours to wipe out a town of one thousand, because the reptile form is a less efficient killing machine than the insectile form."

This refinement of his point fails to win any friends among those gathered in the circle. Their expressions still range between puzzlement and annoyance.

In fact, the pale young woman turns on him with a glower as severe as the one with which she silenced the man holding the hot dog. "Advanced intelligences don't have our flaws. They don't destroy their ecologies. They don't wage war or eat the flesh of animals." She directs her liquid-nitrogen stare on the pipe smokers. "They do not use tobacco-type products." She focuses again on Curtis, her eyes so cold that he feels as if he might go into cryogenic suspension if she keeps him in her sights too long. "They have no prejudices based on race or gender, or anything else. They never despoil their bodies with high-fat foods, refined sugar, and caffeine. They don't lie and cheat, they don't wage war, as I've said, and they certainly don't incubate giant killer insects inside cows."

"Well, it's a big universe," says Curtis in what he imagines to be a conciliatory tone, "and fortunately most of the worst types I'm talking about haven't gotten around to this end of it."

The young woman's face pales further and her eyes become icier, as if additional refrigeration coils have activated in her head.

"Of course, I'm only speculating," Curtis quickly adds. "I don't know for a fact any more than the rest of you."

Before Curtis can be frozen solid by the snakeless Medusa, Mr. Neary intervenes. "Son, you ought to spend a bunch less time playin' those violent sci-fi video games. They've stuffed your head full of sick nonsense. We're talkin' reality here, not those blood-soaked fantasies Hollywood spews out to pollute young minds like yours."

Those gathered around the dead zone express their agreement, and one of them asks, "Mr. Neary, were you scared when the ETs came back for you?"

"Sir, I was naturally concerned, but not truly scared. That was six months after Clara floated away, which is why we have two contact vigils here each year, on the anniversaries. By the way, some folks say they would come here just for my wife's homemade cookies, so be sure you try 'em. Of course, this year, it's three vigils — this one impromptu because of what's going on right this minute, over there." Standing taller, wearing his African-explorer clothes with even greater authority, he points east, past the end of the meadow, toward the land that rises beyond a scattering of trees. "The uproar across the border in Utah, which you and I know has nothin' whatsoever to do with no drug lords, regardless what the government says."

Neary's statement gives rise to expressions of a mutual distrust of the government from many in the growing crowd gathered around the dead zone.

Curtis seizes upon this shared sentiment as a way to redeem himself with these people and to polish his inadequate socializing skills. He steps off the grass onto the barren chalky earth and raises his voice to declare, "Gov'ment! Rule-makin', power-crazy, know-no thin' bunch of lily-livered skunks in bald-faced shirts!"

He senses that his declaration fails to win for him the immediate embrace of the assemblage.

His words have caused the group to fall silent again.

Assuming that their silence arises from their need to digest his words rather than from any disagreement with what he's said, he gives them more reason to welcome him into their community. "Call me a hog an' butcher me for bacon, but don't you ever tell me the gov'ment ain't a land-crazy, dirt-grabbin' tyrant!"

Old Yeller drops to the ground and rolls onto her back, exposing her belly to the crowd, because she thinks that Curtis's socializing requires an expression of submission to avoid violence.

He's quite sure that Old Yeller misapprehends the mood of these people. The dog's senses and preternatural perceptions are reliable in many matters, but human social interaction is far too complex for accurate analysis merely by scent and instinct. Admittedly, the pale young woman's face hardens into an ice sculpture at the mention of bacon, but the others appear to have the open-mouthed expression of people absorbing a well-spoken truth.

Consequently, even as Old Yeller timidly exposes her belly, Curtis spouts more of what these folks want to hear, while hitching himself in a circle, mimicking the gimpy movement that made Gabby so endearing: "Gov'ment! Tax collectors, land grabbers, nosey do-gooders more self-righteous than any Bible-poundin' preacher ever born! Stink-bug-lovin' gov'ment bastards!"

The dog is whimpering now.

Surveying the encircling ufologists, Curtis sees not one smile, but several looks of astonishment and numerous frowns, and even what seem to be a few expressions of pity.

"Son," says Mr. Neary, "I figure your folks aren't amongst this group, or they'd be whuppin' your butt for this performance. Now you go find 'em and you stay with 'em the rest of the time you're here, or I'll have to insist that you and your family accept a refund and vacate the meadow."

Oh, Lord, maybe he's never going to get the hang of being Curtis Hammond. He blinks back tears, as much because he has embarrassed his sister-become as because he's somehow made a fool of himself.

"Mr. Neary, sir," he pleads with utmost sincerity, "I am not some sassy-assed, spit-in-the-eye malefactor."

'This assurance, although it could not be more truthful or more well-intentioned, inexplicably causes Mr. Neary's face to redden into a dark and ominous mask. "That's enough, young man."

In one last desperate effort to make amends, Curtis says, "Mr. Neary, sir, I'm not quite right. I've been told by a beautiful immensity of a lady that I'm too sweet for this world. If you asked me whether I was stupid or somethin', I'd have to say I was stupid. I'm a not-quite-right, too-sweet, stupid Gump, is what I am."