Real Men Don't Bark at Fire Hydrants Part 16

"Perimeter alert," barked one of the Hydrans as the other abruptly dove for the s.p.a.ceship's interior.

"She's the gunner," said Clem Padiddlepopper.

They could now hear the sound of tires on the dirt road that linked the camo tent and what it concealed with the outer world.

The "b.u.t.terfly" flapped over the trees, under the tent, and into the saucer's entrance.

The distinctive shape of a police car emerged from the woods. Its lights were not flashing, and its siren was silent.

Behind it was another, and behind that a cab.

When it was clear that nothing else was coming, the gunner Hydran rejoined her companion in the saucer's entrance. At the same time a third Hydran appeared from behind the s.p.a.ceship, looked around, and began walking toward the crowd.

The three cars drew up abreast not far from the Bug. From one squad car emerged the fat and thin cops who had first told Mickey to lay off. What were their names? he asked himself. Abe and Custer?

The second squad car proved to hold three of the cops who had invaded Mickey's apartment and tied him and Rocky to chairs. Ronnie and the redhead and the ape.

"Where's Quayleedum?" asked Rocky.

He was in the back seat of the cab, sandwiched between two Bullwinkles. The backwards singer rode shotgun. The cabby was an Elvis.

The cops were not wearing their guns. Indeed, their manner now seemed far more patient and long-suffering than aggressive.

As soon as the backwards singer was out of the cab, he pointed a rigid finger at Mickey. "You, sir," he said, "are a nayp ni eth tub. If Clem hadn't fetched you out here, I'd have had to cancel this group's tour."

Mickey looked at the Bullwinkles and the Elvis. "So they're aliens too."

"What did you think they were?"

"But why the..."

"Real horns," said Clem. "But the Elvises..." He shrugged.

"They're not all real," said the backwards singer. "A few are fake, and when they take theirs off, everybody believes they're all fake. Neat, huh?" Then he glared at Mickey. "As long as no one spills the garbanzos."

"He won't," said the ape cop Rocky had dubbed Bonzo on their first meeting.

"He knows what we'll do to him if he does."

"No, you won't," said Clem. "Your job is our folks, and you haven't been doing it. Or I wouldn't have to keep breaking up arguments with the Hydrans.

You're letting our customers get too conspicuous."

Kilroy snorted. "So who notices? One bag lady and a writer no one could possibly believe."

"They might notice," said Clem. "Or believe. We can't afford even a bag lady and a UFO nut."

Kilroy snorted again. The Hydran who had joined them away from the saucer barked.

"Right," said Clem. He withdrew a bit from the squat alien, as if he had just noticed its presence. So did several others.

"Don't act so high and mighty, a.s.sholes," said the Hydran. He turned toward Rocky. "They think they're funny. Call me Stover."

Clem looked at Mickey as if he wished he could ignore Stover. "The only ones we can be sure no one will notice are the Rigellians," he said. "They're gourmets who look like giant slugs."

"How could anybody not notice?" Rocky was making a disgusted face.

"They're behind that restaurant, the Willow Wallow."

"The one where they throw the leftovers against the wall?"

He nodded. "Or under it, rather. In the bas.e.m.e.nt, in tanks. The staff uses a liquid containing digestive enzymes to wash the food down to them, and they absorb it through their skins."

The thin cop, Custer, was scratching Kilroy behind the ears. The doggy, even though he was an intelligent alien, seemed to be enjoying the attention.

"Want to thank you for your help," Custer said.

"He tipped you guys too, did he?" said Mickey.

"Of course," said fat Abe. "He's no tourist. He's one of us. Secret Agent Ought Ought Seven and a Arf."

"I still don't think you needed to bother," said Kilroy. "Earthlings are too good at missing things that don't fit their preconceptions. They just call it weird and pretend it doesn't exist. Or they think someone's making a movie, which means it isn't real."

"However," said the redheaded cop. "Some Earthlings are more perceptive.

You tour people have got to keep your clients less conspicuous, or we'll be forced to declare Earth off limits no matter how popular a holiday spot it is becoming."

The humanoids and doggies from the saucer seemed about to erupt in protest, but Mickey b.u.t.ted in. "No," he said. "Kilroy's right. People just don't pay attention, or they don't believe what doesn't fit, or they reinterpret it until it does fit."

When the humanoids looked skeptical, he added, "Clem had the right idea when he set up 'Strange America.' If you make the prizes bigger and spin off an imitation or two, everyone will be out on the streets with camcorders, looking for weird behavior, and no one will even think of aliens. Not even the tabloids."

"Why not?" someone growled. "They love..."

The redhead interrupted. "Okay," she said. "Give it a try. Six months. But no more Hydrans. And you..." She was indicating Mickey. "No book. Not about the alien paintings in Syktyvkar, and not about us."

Mickey felt like he was about to explode, but before he could make any noise other than a startled hiss, Stover barked, "No." The other Hydrans were still keeping their distance. "We just sit there on the edge of the road, watching the world go by. We don't do anything wrong."

"But people bark at you," said Clem.

"And you've been lucky," said Ronnie. "Just think how fast the beans will spill if there's a fire and someone tries to hook a hose to you. The least you have to do is find a different disguise."

"The Alpha Pictans are the only ones skinny enough to be parking meters.

And we're not fat enough for mailboxes."

"Dress up like hobbits or dwarves," said Rocky. "And wear name tags. People will think you're attending a science fiction convention."

Mickey finally managed to squeeze a word in. "But what about me?" he cried.

"You're shutting me up. And that's hardly fair. All I did was keep my eyes open."

Of all the faces that surrounded him, only Rocky's seemed the least bit sympathetic. He grunted sourly. "Not that I could write the same old stuff anyway. Too much of it is true for me to say it's not, and my editors would think I'd gone round the bend if I told the truth. G.o.d help me if I wrote up the last few days!"

"Hmm." Clem's expression was softening just a little. "Do you think you could write a guidebook?"