The president, however, was actually in his study in the family living quarters watching a John Wayne Western on television. He liked the fact that the Duke didn’t suffer fools or take any sass, unlike the president, who was surrounded by fools and listened to copious amounts of bullshit day in and day out.
He also liked the way that John Wayne kicked ass. Very satisfying.
When the movie ended he turned off the idiot box and sat thinking about all the asses he would like to kick. That line of reasoning took him to Egg Cantrell, Rip and Charley, and that toad Adam Solo. Boy, would he like to take them out behind the woodshed. Especially Egg, with his smashed computer trick. That was low-down mean! The Duke would have drilled him.
Finally the president began to turn the situation over in his mind. He wondered where the Cantrells and Pine and Solo might just happen to be. Were they still in orbit? He picked up the phone and was soon speaking to O’Reilly.
“Where’s Cantrell’s saucer?”
“Haven’t heard a thing, Mr. President. Space Command will keep us advised. D.C. police say they don’t have enough officers to control the crowd in the streets, which is still growing. Nearly a half million, they think. Right now we’re talking to the army, bringing in troops. We’re also bringing in every federal cop we can find, stripping the office buildings and museums bare. We’re afraid if the aliens land the crowd will surge right through the fences onto the White House grounds. It’ll be an out-of-control mob; people might get trampled. The aliens might react violently in self-defense.”
“That would certainly be exciting. But do you really think sane people would want to get close to an alien?”
“There aren’t any sane people out there in the streets.” O’Reilly’s credentials as a pessimist were impeccable.
“Doesn’t anybody ever watch War of the Worlds these days?” the president muttered.
The chief of staff ignored that comment. “Before the aliens arrive, Fox and CNN would like exclusive interviews with you.”
“About what?”
“Your diplomatic strategy. How will you communicate with the aliens if they don’t speak English? Will you ask for the superdrugs that extend life? Will you—”
“No interviews. Tell the press secretary to schmooze the bastards. He gets paid for that.”
“Sir, the political staffers seem to think—”
“That’s an illusion. They haven’t had a thought in years. They are good at pretending.”
“And then there is the matter of protocol. The alien ambassador—”
“For God’s sake, O’Reilly!”
The president hung up. Ate two more Rolaids, turned the TV back on and flipped over to the Western Channel to see what was airing there. Aha! An episode of Gunsmoke. The president liked Matt Dillon too.
Johnny Murkowsky and Harrison Douglas were leading an army. A small army, it is true, but an army nonetheless. Eight men, armed to the teeth. They looked like extras in an action movie: lean, mean and ready to kill somebody, with lots of tattoos and mustaches and bulging muscles. All wore pistols and knives. Submachine guns and bags of spare magazines were tucked under their seats. The warriors lay sprawled across the center aisle seats of the big Boeing, reading comic books and playing computer games on their iPads.
They looked like Attila’s Huns, and Johnny Murk liked that. Yet he felt a nagging sense of unease. Something wasn’t right. It took him fifteen minutes to figure out what it was. He had forgotten Heidi. He had left her sleeping on a couch at the airport.
He had a bad moment. Johnny Murk needed sex three times a day, regardless, and he paid Heidi well to provide it. What was he going to do? His white count would build … and build and build … Could he go on?
“Get some rest,” Douglas told him, pulling at his sleeve. “We’re going to need every ounce of smarts we have to outthink that alien creep Solo and those Cantrells.”
“Hmm,” Johnny Murk said distractedly.
Douglas had known since takeoff that Heidi was missing. Now, through Sherlockian logic, he concluded her absence was bothering Murkowsky.
“Get some sleep,” Douglas advised his fellow pharma pirate. “Some rest for your poor little pecker will do it good.”
Their big Boeing was high over the Pacific, in and out of clouds. In the cockpit the crew watched the GPS and computers and talked of inconsequential things as the plane bored into the opaque night. The moguls made themselves comfortable in First Class and were soon snoring loudly, Johnny Murk dreaming of the pleasures of the flesh, Harrison Douglas dreaming of money. Back aft, some of their Huns drifted off to the land of Nod dreaming of violence and blood and personal catharsis.
As both the night and the drug moguls’ chartered Boeing 747 raced across the Pacific toward Australia, the four saucer adventurers ate dinner at the outback saloon and began thinking about sleep even though the jackaroos were buying the drinks and the sheilas were all agog. Egg slipped off to bed down in the saucer.
Charley and Rip sat trying to drink as little as possible amid a crowd of Aussies pouring the beer down. At the bar Adam Solo entertained a dozen men and women by singing. He sang the old Irish songs and he sang Italian opera. He had a superb baritone voice; soon everyone in the room was silent and listening. More beer was put in front of him. At the end of a song Solo paused and drained the mug. Then he went on, now singing classic Spanish love songs.
“He really loves life,” Charley whispered to Rip, squeezing his hand.
“Yes,” Rip muttered, slightly surprised. “The amazing thing is how he absorbs the best of what is around him and appreciates it.”
“Why is that amazing?”
Rip glanced at Charley. “A rapist and killer connoisseur.”
Charley rolled her eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, “while he has the crowd.”
They sneaked off. The sun had set and the stars were out. Only a whisper of wind stirred the air.
As they walked toward the saucer holding hands, Rip said, “What will happen when the mother ship arrives?”
“Well, Solo will go winging out of our lives, and they’ll zoom off to another planet to check the DNA library.”
“We’re going to have to get rid of both saucers,” Rip said with conviction in his voice. “Give them back to the aliens. If their computers are gone, maybe you and I and Egg can keep living on this rock.”
“What kind of people will the aliens be?”
Rip hadn’t thought much about it. “Like Solo, I guess.”
“Meeting them will be the biggest adventure of our lives,” Charley Pine said, throwing her head back to take in the stars. It seemed as if Rip’s discovery of the saucer in the Sahara Desert just a little over a year ago had somehow been leading to such a meeting. Travelers between the stars. People from another star system, perhaps even another galaxy. People out there … coming here!
“We’re like the Indians on the beach who first saw the sails of Columbus’ ships on the horizon, coming closer,” Rip mused. “All the speculation, all the dreaming, all the wonder…”
When he fell silent Charley squeezed his hand and said, “I wouldn’t repeat that Columbus-and-the-Indians analogy if I were you,” she said lightly. “A lot of people think the Indians would have been better off if Columbus had stayed home.”
“You know what I mean.”
She put her head on his shoulder and he held her as they both gazed at the stars.
The saucer’s hatch was closed, no doubt to keep out the curious, and presumably Egg was asleep. Rip opened the hatch and stuck his head inside. He could hear Egg snoring. He slithered in, got his and Charley’s sleeping bags and passed them out to her. Then he climbed down, closed the hatch and latched it.