Bubba Pritchert and the Space Aliens
by Bud Webster
Illustration by William R. Warren, Jr.
Bubba knew there was something peculiar going on when the flying saucer dropped down behind the Bowl-a-Rama. He’d been sitting on the front steps of the Eat’n’Run nursing a bottle of Anchor Steam, munching an occasional peanut and enjoying the late night air when the sky overhead lit up and he heard a sound like air escaping from a tire.
Everybody else in the little town of Central Garage was over at the VFW hall for the Bean Supper and Dance, except for Bubba and a few other misfits who couldn’t get dates, didn’t like beans, or hated to dance, so he knew the chances of anybody else seeing the thing land were slim. He threw back the rest of the beer, folded the peanuts carefully in their bag, and wiped his hands on his overalls before getting up and making his way to the Bowl-a-Rama parking lot.
It was a pretty thing, all smooth lines and curves, and it looked like it could go like white on rice when you put your foot in it, but Bubba figured there was only one reason for this thing to be in a bowling alley parking lot this close to midnight on a Saturday: engine trouble.
Hands in plain view, he strolled up to the saucer, rapped sharply on the side, and waited. After a moment, a panel slid back from a viewport, and two faces peered out anxiously. Bubba grinned at them.
“Evenin’. How’s Elvis?”
They looked at each other, then disappeared. The panel closed.
Bubba stepped back a bit, figuring they’d be out soon enough. There was still at least another hour left before the dance broke up, and he wasn’t one to rush things.
Sure enough, a few minutes later a hatch opened and two very humanlike figures stepped out onto a platform, one a bit shorter than the other.
The three looked at each other. The aliens saw a largish human, with a scraggly beard and short salt-and-pepper hair sticking out from under a cap emblazoned with the letters “CASE.” Bubba saw two humanoids dressed in smooth, well-fitted jumpsuits with small insignia in the center of what he assumed were their chests. They were fidgeting.
Their primary non-human characteristics seemed to consist of a bifurcated upper lip and a flattish nose with what appeared to be one large nostril. What cranial hair they had seemed to be either fine fur or feathers. They were conferring over something that looked like a small Etch-a-Sketch. Their discussion became more heated, and they glanced in his direction from time to time. Bubba smiled and nodded, idly jingling the change in his pockets.
Finally, the shorter one nudged the other forward a little with his elbow. The taller one cleared his throat and spoke in a clear, if slightly nervous, voice.
“Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
Bubba shook his head, smiling regretfully, and there was another, shorter argument.
“Ĉu vi parolas Esperanto?”
“Nope. Never could get the hang of it. You boys ain’t from around here, are you?”
Again, a hurried conference over the little screen. The smaller one stepped up and said, “We-fella camap, spik yu tudak. Numbawan Boss send us, wokabout planty longway tru Sky.” He pointed at the saucer. “Big Silver Bird b’long us, him sick-fella.” He licked his odd lips, and they looked at Bubba expectantly.
“Nope, don’t speak that Melanesian stuff either. You boys talk any English?”
“Ah, Ang-lish! Si! Uh, yes.”
“Then we would seem to have an avenue of communications here. I ’spect we’d best capitalize on it.”
“Yes. Catalyze.”
“Damn right. First thing is to get your Silver Bird here out of Big Dave’s parking lot before Deputy Beeson calls me to haul it off.”
“Is not for flying without much working. Wheels have no.”
“No problem, I got a flatbed.”
The two exchanged a quizzical glance. “Is not for sleeping?”
Bubba grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll work on your Bird there while you boys work on your syntax. I mainly do racing stock, but I’ll give her a try.”
With help from both of the aliens, Bubba got their ship on the flatbed and into the garage without anyone else seeing them. He used his biggest chain hoist to pick it up, drove the truck out from under, and set it down on his tallest blocks. Absentmindedly wiping his still pretty clean hands on an old rag—he did this often when thinking—he walked beneath it, examining the undercarriage.
“How’s this sucker work, anyhow?”
The taller of the two pointed to a row of movable slats. “This sucker use ground effect for lift up, impulse drive do rest. See?”
“Ground effect? You’d need a hell of a lot of fans to lift this thing.”
The alien shook his head. “Mass have not, when under power.”
“You boys got inertialess drive? Don’t that beat all. We ain’t got past internal combustion, ourselves. I don’t much care for the noise, and I hate the stink and fumes, but it keeps me working.” Bubba shook his head in admiration. “You got some kind of owner’s manual for this rig?”
The smaller alien handed him the screen, after making a few adjustments. “You ask query, it talk back in Anglish.”
Bubba took it. “Well, don’t that beat all.” He held the screen close to his face. “You got any idea what kind of problem these boys might be having?” he asked in a loud voice.
“Speculation is inconclusive without a direct analysis of the on-board systems. Direct analysis may be accomplished by inserting this unit in any maintenance slot. You don’t have to shout, you know. I can hear you.”
“Don’t that beat… hmph.” Bubba shook his head again. He found a slot the right size for the screen to fit, and gingerly pushed it in. The unit clicked twice, then peeped.
“Direct analysis completed.”
He pulled it out, scratching his head in confusion over the symbols and formulae now scrolling past. “Don’t know as how any of this voodoo is going to give me too much help, here. Can you translate it?”
“If your system uses a binary code of some sort, I can analyze the data structures and adapt my operating system. If you have a computer with a suitable interface and the proper software, I can download the files and perform the conversion.”
“That’s a big ten-four. I got a 486 with 32 megs RAM, disk space out the wazoo, a high-dollar CAD program, and all the engineering tables you’ll need. Interface might be a problem, though, if all you have is that slot setup.” He thought for a moment. “Might could call in a good buddy. Past his bedtime, but he wouldn’t miss this for anything. Let me just set these ol’ boys up with something to keep ’em occupied, and I’ll make a phone call.”
Bubba led the two aliens into his living room, sat them down on the couch, and turned on the television. “You’re in luck, gentlemen. I got a 15-foot dish on top of this building, and you got a choice of pretty much anything from ‘Shakespeare On Ice’ to ‘Cooking With Mice.’ Help yourself,” he added, handing them the remote. “Just push this little button here to change the channel.”
Leaving them to entertain themselves, he dialed a number from the kitchen phone, letting it ring a dozen or so times. After a while it was picked up and a sleepy voice said, “I hope this is worth it.”
“Evenin’, Woody. How’s it hang-in’?”
There was a pause on the other end. “You know how much I hate that nickname, Bubba.”
“Got your attention, didn’t it? Listen, I got a situation here, old son. I need you to bring your toolbox out here, pronto monto.”
“You’re joking, right? It’s almost an hour to get out there, not to mention that I was, until a few minutes ago, more or less fast asleep.”
“Kermit, it’s SauNA business.”