Bud Webster - The Three Labors of Bubba

Illustration by Alan M. Clark

“This is, you realize, complete hogwash.” The voice came from a small box propped against a telephone on the only flat surface in the room not covered in books. “Space, Gravity, and the Flying Saucer, indeed. There’s no actual craft in my records that looks or operates like anything in these diagrams.”

“Doubtless, Mike, but ain’t it wonderful hogwash?” Bubba tapped his finger against the cover of the book in question. “It’s a valuable addition to the SauNA database.”

Bubba Pritchert, gentleman mechanic of Virginia and president/founder of the Saucer Nuts of America, had created something of a clearinghouse for pre-1965 UFO literature. In an attempt to document the early days of the saucer craze, he had begun accumulating books, magazines, and smearily mimeographed pamphlets by the hundreds; some were found through antiquarian book dealers (who were delighted to be shut of them), but most came from the SauNA membership. Eventually, he bought a scanner, and began setting up an on-line library that could be accessed by anyone.

“Leonard Cramp was a crackpot,” Mike replied, “with an intuitive grasp of the fundamental pseudo-scientific method: propose a conclusion, and then tailor the facts to fit. Somehow I expected your Saucer Nuts of America library to be less… speculative.”

Bubba shrugged. “Hey, you wanted to read this stuff. Besides, until you came along, speculation was all I had. Personally, I think you just like to argue.”

“A battle of wits with a human? And one only half-armed, at that? Hah.”

Glancing around idly, Bubba muttered, “I wonder if that bulk eraser would work on an artificial intelligence…?”

“Just kidding,” Mike said quickly.

Bubba grinned savagely. “Thought you might have been.”

It had been raining in Central Garage for two days, while a storm made up its mind whether or not to amble away off the coast of Virginia. Those residents not yet disconnected from the power grid had the odd blink of electricity, but Chez Pritchert remained up and running throughout, drawing energy from a GreenHouse™ fusion generator. Bubba had been carefully cleaning the lens of a charge-coupled device when the conversation started.

“Seriously, Bubba,” said Mike, “How much credence do you put in this stuff?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Mike. Most of this is pretty improbable, knowing what we know about the planets in the neighborhood. I just never thought that the only data you needed to make up your mind about something was the evidence that supported your contentions.” He picked up the lens and began polishing it again. “Now, I believe that Cramp believed what he was writing about, but the mechanical problems alone—”

“Just a second… just a second…” Mike interrupted. “I’m detecting some kind of energy displacement close by.”

“Probably just Clint Miller’s milch-cows venting methane,” Bubba replied. “ ‘Odorless,’ my butt.”

“It’s electromagnetic, but steady. Not pulsed. Nothing I’m familiar with.”

“Hell, I thought you knew everything,” Bubba replied, peering out the window at the dark.

“I’m encyclopedic, not omnipotent.”

Bubba rose from the desk. “OK, how close?”

“Close. Within 100 meters.”

“Well, dip me in dogshit!” Now Bubba could hear the rattling of the corrugated roof over the garage area, whether from the storm or the EM activity he couldn’t say.

“Quickly Bubba. Activate the security system-rear cameras.”

“You got it.” Bubba scrambled to slap the switches that connected Mike to the backyard surveillance cameras. “What’s up?”

“Not up, down. In your backyard, to be precise. Unknown vehicle, possibly a scoutship—not a deep-space craft. No bigger than a van. How it got here is beyond me. Sorry, Bubba,” Mike continued, “it took out the cherry tree.”

“Damn! What the hell’s goin’ on, Mike?”

“I can’t answer that. Save your questions for the occupant—it should be at your back door about now.”

“Huh!” Bubba grunted as his kitchen door shook under a single blow. “Is it dangerous?”

“Had it wanted to come in uninvited, it would simply have eaten the door; it’s big, Bubba.”

Bubba reached out and gingerly turned the knob. Standing well out of the way, he pulled the door open.

The doorway was filled from side to side as well as top to bottom, the body of the alien blocking what little light came in from outside.

“Are you… Bubba Pritchett?” it asked in a deep and husky voice.

“Uh… yeah, I am.”

“I have come… quite a long way. I need your help very badly.” It swayed, then began crumpling at the knees. The smell of wet fur filled the room.

Hastily, Bubba said, “Would you like to sit down?”

Still swaying, the alien nodded slowly. “That would be preferable to collapse, yes.”

Bubba backed away from the alien until his hip bumped the desk.

“It would seem,” Mike said, “that you’re having another close encounter.”

Bubba said, catching his breath, “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

“Whatever.”

Feeling behind him with one un-steady hand, Bubba grabbed his chair, eyes never leaving the furry creature standing shakily not fifteen feet away. He swallowed audibly.

“I knew I shouldn’t have painted ‘STOP AND BE FRIENDLY’ on the goddamn roof,” he said as he carried the heavy chair to the kitchen. The alien sat carefully, but gratefully, closing its eyes in near-exhaustion.

“I doubt it could have read it, even if you had,” Mike replied. “Although it does appear that it came looking for you.”

“Oh, bad choice of words, Mike. That’s what guys named Nunzio do when you lose at the track!”

“ ‘Sought you out’?”

“Better.” Bubba took a deep breath. “Well, we let it in the house. What the hell do we do with it now?”

“Bathe it?”

Bubba glared at him. “ You wanna clean out the drain?”

“I was joking. I can’t smell wet fur, but you can.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the least of my worries.”

“I suspect that it will tell us why it’s here once it catches its breath. In the meantime, disconnect the outside cameras. There’s nothing more to be seen out there.”

Bubba turned off the outside cameras. “Oh, no, not a thing,” he muttered. “Just a broke-down cherry tree and another goddamn flying saucer, is all. Hell, nobody’ll notice that.”

“Hmm. There is that. You’ll have to cover it; the garage bays are full.”

“Great. Hope I’ve got a tarp big enough.” He left through the still-open door, grabbing a jacket off a hook on his way.

The wind had died down considerably, so spreading the tarp was less of a problem than it might have been. Boxy and angular, the ship reminded Bubba of photos he’d seen of stealth aircraft; with that configuration it looked like it might be radar-invisible, but on the ground next to a splintered tree, it would be as conspicuous in the light of day as a hearse at a birthday party.

He staked the tarp to the ground and returned to the house.

“Right, that’s done. What now?”

“Is the filter ready? This is a perfect field-test.” Several weeks previously, Mike had acquired a tunable liquid-crystal filter from a correspondent at JPL. A fellow-SauNAn and master solder-jock had rigged it to work with a ccd from an old surveillance set-up; Mike could switch wavelengths to cover the visible spectrum and then some, giving him full-color, if monocular, vision.