Here Comes Civilization: The Complete Science Fiction of William Tenn Volume II by William Tenn Page A
Authors: William Tenn
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gimmicked up with Popular Appeal—and I do mean Popular —as "Andy and Dandy."
Those two fictional snails crept into the heart of America like a virus infection; overnight, everybody was talking about their anthropomorphic antics, repeating their quotable running gags and adjuring each other not to miss the next show. ("You can't miss it, Steve; it's on every channel anyway. Right after supper.") I had the tie-ins, too: Andy and Dandy dolls for the girls, snail scooters for the boys, everything from pictures on cocktail glasses to kitchen decalcomanias. Of course, a lot of the tie-ins didn't come off the production line till after the Big Announcement.
When we gave the handouts to the newspapers, we "suggested" what headlines to use. They had a choice of ten. Even The New York Times was forced to shriek "REAL ANDY AND DANDY BLOW IN FROM BETELGEUSE," and under that a four-column cut of blonde Baby Ann Joyce with the snails.
Baby Ann had been flown out from Hollywood for the photograph. The cut showed her standing between the two aliens and clutching an eyestalk of each in her trusting, chubby hands.
The nicknames stuck. Those two slimy intellectuals from another star became even more important than the youthful evangelist who was currently being sued for bigamy.
Andy and Dandy had a ticker-tape reception in New York. They obligingly laid a cornerstone for the University of Chicago's new library. They posed for the newsreels everywhere, surrounded by Florida oranges, Idaho potatoes, Milwaukee beer. They were magnificently cooperative.
From time to time, I wondered what they thought of us. They had no facial expressions, which was scarcely odd since they had no faces. Their long eyestalks swung this way and that as they rode down shrieking Broadway in the back seat of the Mayor's car; their gelatinous body-foot would heave periodically and the mouth under it make a smacking noise, but when the photographers suggested that they curl around the barely clad beauties, the time video rigged up a Malibu Beach show, Andy and Dandy wriggled over and complied without a word. Which is more than I can say for the barely clad beauties.
And when the winning pitcher presented them with an autographed baseball at that year's World Series, they bowed gravely, their pink shell-tops glistening in the sunlight, and said throatily into the battery of microphones: "We're the happiest fans in the universe!"
The country went wild over them.
"But we can't keep them here," Trowson predicted. "Did you read about the debate in the U.N. General Assembly yesterday? We were accused of making secret alliances with nonhuman aggressors against the best interests of our own species."
I shrugged. "Well, let them go overseas. I don't think anyone else will be more successful extracting information from them than we were."
Professor Trowson wriggled his short body up on a corner of his desk. He lifted a folder of typewritten notes and grimaced as if his tongue was wrapped in wool.
"Four months of careful questioning," he grumbled. "Four months of painstaking interrogation by trained sociologists using every free moment the aliens had, which admittedly wasn't much. Four months of organized investigation, of careful data-sifting." He dropped the folder disgustedly to the desk and some of the pages splashed out. "And we know more about the social structure of Atlantis than Betelgeuse IX."
We were in the wing of the Pentagon assigned to what the brass hats, in their own cute way, had christened Mission Encyclopedia. I strolled across the large, sunny office and glanced at the very latest organizational wall-chart. I pointed to a small rectangle labeled "Power Source Subsection" depending via a straight line from a larger rectangle marked "Alien Physical Science Inquiry Section." In the small rectangle, very finely printed, were the names of an army major, a WAC corporal, and Drs. Lopez, Vinthe and Mainzer.
"How're they doing?" I asked.
"Not much better,
Those two fictional snails crept into the heart of America like a virus infection; overnight, everybody was talking about their anthropomorphic antics, repeating their quotable running gags and adjuring each other not to miss the next show. ("You can't miss it, Steve; it's on every channel anyway. Right after supper.") I had the tie-ins, too: Andy and Dandy dolls for the girls, snail scooters for the boys, everything from pictures on cocktail glasses to kitchen decalcomanias. Of course, a lot of the tie-ins didn't come off the production line till after the Big Announcement.
When we gave the handouts to the newspapers, we "suggested" what headlines to use. They had a choice of ten. Even The New York Times was forced to shriek "REAL ANDY AND DANDY BLOW IN FROM BETELGEUSE," and under that a four-column cut of blonde Baby Ann Joyce with the snails.
Baby Ann had been flown out from Hollywood for the photograph. The cut showed her standing between the two aliens and clutching an eyestalk of each in her trusting, chubby hands.
The nicknames stuck. Those two slimy intellectuals from another star became even more important than the youthful evangelist who was currently being sued for bigamy.
Andy and Dandy had a ticker-tape reception in New York. They obligingly laid a cornerstone for the University of Chicago's new library. They posed for the newsreels everywhere, surrounded by Florida oranges, Idaho potatoes, Milwaukee beer. They were magnificently cooperative.
From time to time, I wondered what they thought of us. They had no facial expressions, which was scarcely odd since they had no faces. Their long eyestalks swung this way and that as they rode down shrieking Broadway in the back seat of the Mayor's car; their gelatinous body-foot would heave periodically and the mouth under it make a smacking noise, but when the photographers suggested that they curl around the barely clad beauties, the time video rigged up a Malibu Beach show, Andy and Dandy wriggled over and complied without a word. Which is more than I can say for the barely clad beauties.
And when the winning pitcher presented them with an autographed baseball at that year's World Series, they bowed gravely, their pink shell-tops glistening in the sunlight, and said throatily into the battery of microphones: "We're the happiest fans in the universe!"
The country went wild over them.
"But we can't keep them here," Trowson predicted. "Did you read about the debate in the U.N. General Assembly yesterday? We were accused of making secret alliances with nonhuman aggressors against the best interests of our own species."
I shrugged. "Well, let them go overseas. I don't think anyone else will be more successful extracting information from them than we were."
Professor Trowson wriggled his short body up on a corner of his desk. He lifted a folder of typewritten notes and grimaced as if his tongue was wrapped in wool.
"Four months of careful questioning," he grumbled. "Four months of painstaking interrogation by trained sociologists using every free moment the aliens had, which admittedly wasn't much. Four months of organized investigation, of careful data-sifting." He dropped the folder disgustedly to the desk and some of the pages splashed out. "And we know more about the social structure of Atlantis than Betelgeuse IX."
We were in the wing of the Pentagon assigned to what the brass hats, in their own cute way, had christened Mission Encyclopedia. I strolled across the large, sunny office and glanced at the very latest organizational wall-chart. I pointed to a small rectangle labeled "Power Source Subsection" depending via a straight line from a larger rectangle marked "Alien Physical Science Inquiry Section." In the small rectangle, very finely printed, were the names of an army major, a WAC corporal, and Drs. Lopez, Vinthe and Mainzer.
"How're they doing?" I asked.
"Not much better,
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