And up they went, those saucers all, off up the underground runway.
It was night-time now and the Californian sky was sprinkled over with stars. Were there worlds up there, one might wonder, with folk like us looking out at our sun and wondering, just wondering, were there folk like them down here? Well, perhaps, or then, perhaps not. Perhaps the Universe is nothing more than a great construction kit, given by God to his offspring and awaiting the day when his offspring will grow tired of it just sitting there and pack it up and put it back into its box.
Or is there really no Universe at all? Is it just an illusion, a dream, which, when the dreamer awakes, will cease to be?
Or perhaps the world is just an apple turning silently in space. Or a great big onion. Or a melting pot. Or perhaps, as has been mooted in many a public drinking house, some time after the ten-o’clock watershed, the real truth is that …
“Weeeeeee!” went the remaining Eddie as his lead craft shot up through the opening in the desert floor and into the star-speckled sky. “Now this is a rush!”
And up came the other craft one by one, up into that sky.
“Full speed ahead,” cried the remaining Eddie. “Make me proud of you, ladies.”
And aboard all the craft, the chicken crews did duckings and cacklings and such.
“And such a night,” said Wellington Bellis, standing in the doorway of Tinto’s and looking up at the dark and star-sprinkled sky. “Hardly the night for an Apocalypse, I think you will agree, my dear.” And his perished rubber arm strayed about the waist of Amelie. And laughing policemen peering out from the bar counter nudged each other, did lewd winkings and made suggestive remarks.
“Now, I just want to make this clear,” said Tinto, “in case any of you lot are thinking of truncheoning me senseless, I am not a super-criminal. I am a barman. And to prove this, I propose that I waive normal licensing hours on this occasion and continue to serve you fellows until all of you are too drunk to do any arresting at all. In fact, until you all agree that you are my bestest friends. What say you to this?”
The laughing policemen laughed some more and ordered further drinks.
“I don’t suppose you have any drink in the glove compartment?” Police Chief Sam asked the helicopter pilot, “because, by God, I could use some.”
“Certainly not,” the pilot replied. “That would be most unprofessional. We pilots never drink on the job. We do a bit of Charlie, of course, but who doesn’t? Piloting a helicopter is a very stressful job, what with all those power lines you might crash into and everything. I always have a couple of lines before I go up.”
“Got any left?” Sam asked.
“In the glovey, help yourself.”
“Why, thank you … Oh my God, what is he doing now?”
He, the robot Jack, was doing what one would expect of him. He was bothering other road users. The great big truck with its highly dangerous cargo swerved from lane to lane on the highway, swiping cars to left and right. “So,” said Sydney Greenstreet to Marilyn Monroe, whom he was driving home after the meal they’d just had together, “my agent says that the producers are very pleased with my performance so far. They thought that the scene where we were taken hostage at the Golden Chicken Headquarters might well be the one that earns me an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor.”
“Did he say anything about me?” asked Marilyn.
“He said you were okay.”
“Okay?”
“That’s a compliment coming from him, dear. Oh, and they’re changing the name of the movie now – did you hear that? They’re calling it The Toyminator, whatever that means. And we’re to do one last scene together. I have the revised script right here.”
Sydney handed Marilyn the revised script.
And she read it. “‘While driving home after a night out at the Golden Chicken Diner, where they enjoyed the Big Bird Munchie Special with extra fries on the side, the merits of which they are discussing whilst marveling at the special qualities of the giveaway clockwork pianist toy, they are run off the road by a speeding Sulphuric Acid Truck.’”
“I said no to that bit,” said Sydney. “That’s work for a stunt double, I told my agent.”
Marilyn perused the script. “There isn’t any actual dialogue,” she said. “It simply reads, ‘They scream.’”
“I know – it’s outrageous, isn’t it?”
And then Sydney and Marilyn were run off the road by a speeding Sulphuric Acid Truck.
They screamed.
And out into the desert went that truck. And after it in hot pursuit came many a black-and-white. And overhead now came Sam Maggott’s ’copter, all thrashing blades and bawling Sam.
And so on and suchlike.
And …
“Whoa!” went the helicopter pilot. “Would you take a look at that?”
And Sam looked up and Sam looked out and Sam said, “What is that?”
“That and those!” The pilot made a troubled face. “They’re coming towards us … They’re flying saucers. Oh my God – and oh!”
And the fleet of saucers swept over the helicopter, spinning it all around. And on the desert highway below the robot Jack saw the saucers, slammed on the brakes of the big truck and swung it around.
“Going without me, eh?” he went. “Well, that’s not fair for a start.”
On-rushing police cars swerved and smote one another. The big truck ploughed through several of these, mashing them fiercely to this side and the other.
“Get back after him,” cried Sam. Hanging on for the dearest of life, as the helicopter clung to the air. “Get after him and get after those flying saucers.”
“This really is a job for the Air Force now,” said the helicopter pilot. “Although in all truth, I’m prepared to have a go at them myself. I’ve been applying to be a space pilot for years, but I keep getting kicked back. If I could take out a few flying saucers, I’ll just bet that NASA will give me a chance.”
“You go for it,” said Sam. “I’ve lost the plot good and proper now anyway. I didn’t even notice you were black – I thought you were from Arkansas.”
“What is all this Arkansas business anyway?” asked the pilot as he steered the helicopter around in pursuit of the departing truck and similarly departing saucers. “Some kind of lame running gag, do you think?”
“Like all that stuff that weirdo Jack told us about following the American Dream? Before he turned into a robot, of course.”
“Well, he did say he was from England. And as all we Americans know, the English have no sense of humour.”
“Well, I’m glad we’ve got all that out of the way,” said Sam. “On with the chase, if you will, Mister Pilot.”
“Ten-four, Chief, ten-four.”
And on flew the flying saucers, low now over the outer suburbs of LA. The bits that tourists never see. Many gap-toothed fellows called Joe-Bob, who sat upon their verandas drinking from earthenware demijohns and smoking corncob pipes, viewed the saucers’ passing. And many shook their dandruffed heads and said things to the effect that they were not in the least surprised, as they’d been abducted so many times, but could find none to believe them.
“Onward, onward!” cried the remaining Eddie. “On through The Second Big O.”
And as there had been no apparent response from the Air Force, which was a shame because a really decent UFO/Air Force battle outclasses ground-based explosions, shoot-outs and car chases (no matter how extreme and prolonged) any old day of the week (with the obvious exclusion of Tuesdays), Sam’s pilot said, “Check this out!” and pressed certain buttons on his dashboard.