Bud Webster - The Three Labours of Bubba.pdf - Bud Webster - widez2

The Three Labors of Bubba

by Bud Webster

"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 clearing-house 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 had

the odd blink of electricity, but Chez Pritchert remained up and running throughout, drawing energy from

a GreenHouse(tm) 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. "Okay, 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 back yard, 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 Pritchert?" 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 unsteady hand, Bubba grabbed his chair, eyes never leaving the furry

creature standing unsteadily not fifteen feet away. He swallowed audibly.

"I knew I shouldn't have painted `STOP AND BE FRIENDLY' on the goddam 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 goddam 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.

Bubba plugged the filter and lens in place and set Mike on a shelf where he had an unobstructed view of

the alien.

Aside from being covered in fur, it was wearing a harness made from some sort of synthetic, plain and

undecorated except for some sort of insignia or badge where it crossed its broad chest. The alien's face

was mostly hairless and wrinkled like a shar-pei's, with a single nostril.

"Well, I can identify the species, at least," Mike said. "He's a Thunt."

At this, the alien opened its eyes and looked from Bubba to Mike in interest.

"All I know," Mike said after deliberation, "is that they are a forest-evolved species, intelligent and

sophisticated. One inhabited planet, one mining colony. I don't know much more about them; they didn't

fall within the sphere of the Parliament's interest, and we had little reason to communicate with each

other. They don't travel much outside their own system, and never, in my experience, this far from

home."

Bubba sighed. "Musta had a reason to, then, and I doubt we'll like it much."

The chair creaked warningly as the alien began to stir. The alien's eyes were buried deep in the folds of

his face. Clear and brown, they met Bubba's without blinking. Whatever else was true, the alien was

certainly intelligent -- highly so, if Mike's comment about the ship's range was valid.

Bubba broke the silence.

"Wanna beer?" he said, his voice steadier than his hands. "I'm partial to Anchor Steam m'self, but I got

some imported stuff, too."

There was an answering rumble as the alien cleared its throat. "I understand `beer'. Yes, that would be

pleasant."

"You got it." He walked into the kitchen past the figure on the floor and got two bottles out of the

refrigerator. "Glass?"

"No. Thank you."

"Ah, a real man. Here y'go."

The alien looked quizzically at the bottle, then at Bubba.

"Just twist the top off, like this." Bubba opened his bottle and took a drink. The alien tried to copy the

movement and twisted the neck off the bottle, spilling beer on himself and the floor.

The effect of this was immediate; he leapt up and began furiously brushing at himself.

"Hang on, big fella," Bubba said, tossing him a towel, "use this."

The alien caught it in mid-air, then gingerly mopped at the beer. "I am sorry," he said in agitation. "I must .

. . do you have somewhere I can wash myself?"

After a moment's thought, Bubba said, "Through that door," pointing to the entrance to the garage.

"I must say," Mike said quietly as the alien stepped toward the door, "you seem to be taking this very

well."

"You kiddin'?" Bubba replied out of the corner of his mouth, "I'm this close to losin' m'fudge, but I've got

a guest to see to."

He followed the alien out into the garage area, instructed him to stand over the drain and strip off his

harness. He then handed him the hose and explained how to use the spray nozzle.

While the alien was busy washing himself, Bubba (trying hard to hold his breath) took the one-piece

garment, rinsed it out thoroughly in the basin, then threw it in the dryer.

When the alien was finished washing, he showed him the hot-air gun; in moments, the odor of wet fur

was gone, and the large creature, made even bulkier by the blow-dry, sighed in relief.

"Better now?" Bubba asked, grinning.

"Yes. I am much distressed that I soiled your floor. We are . . . I do not like to be soiled."

"Don't fret, kitchen floors always need mopping -- especially the way I cook." Just then a buzzer

sounded; the harness was dry, and the alien gratefully put it back on and re-attached the badge.

"So, you're a Thunt," Bubba said casually as they went back into the kitchen. He opened another beer

for the big alien, who sat gingerly in the chair.

The alien thought for a moment. "I am a Thunt, yes," it said, looking from Bubba to Mike, "although I am

not sure how you knew this."

"Right. Well, that toaster with the attitude over there is an artificial intelligence I picked up in a swap with

a couple of good ol' boys who were having engine trouble." He looked back at the alien. "He's not from

around here, but he's real square little feller. Well, rectangular, anyhow. Don't be too impressed, though;

he's just encyclopedic, not omnipotent."

The Thunt nodded. "An Intelligence. We have those, although the configuration is different. My name," he

said, "is V'rinn, son of Bish, son of Prath, son of Lan, daughter of Leens, daughter of Stel, son of Rinn."

"Well, that's a mouthful. So, what brings you to the Commonwealth of Virginia?"

"Your name is known to me from two functionaries of the Nishian Parliament, for whom you did a

service. The `good ol' boys' you mentioned, undoubtedly. They spoke to me of you at a refueling depot

near Thuntun."

Bubba shrugged. "Yeah, well, I was always real popular at the truck stops."

"I have come in hope that you can aid me as you did them. I am guilty of what my people consider a

serious crime, one which I am unable -- and unwilling -- to correct, and for which I stand to lose a great

deal."

"Seems like a pretty harsh thing to do for making a mistake, old son. You fool around with the King's

daughter or something?"

"Explain?"

Bubba looked slightly flustered. "Well, what I meant is . . . did you make an attempt to seduce . . . ?"

"I understand," the Thunt interrupted, shaking his head. "No. Our body chemistry isn't geared for

recreational coitus."

"Hmmm . . . Break a law, then?"

Now it was the Thunt's turn to look uncomfortable. "The laws of Thuntun are complex and harsh, but

based on a single Principle: Do Not Shame Your Progenitors."

"And I guess you've done something that embarrassed your folks?"

Bud Webster - The Three Labours of Bubba.pdf

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