class. When the fog lifted, he saw a thing peering inquisitively down at him. It was about the height of an ordinary human, but with shimmery, iridescent skin. It was bald and had black, almond-shaped eyes, slits for ears.
It spoke.
"Kaloo?"
Banion stared philosophically. He was versed in every protocol. He knew the correct address for an archbishop of Canterbury, retired Supreme Court justice, wife or daughter of an earl. What was the proper form here? "How do you do?" didn't sound quite right.
"Kaloo?" he ventured. The rational thought intruded that he might well be out of his mind with fear. He felt incredibly weary, too tired to register any emotion. It reminded him of the intravenous injection they'd given him when he'd gone into the hospital for the colonoscopy.
Another one. It was speaking to him. "Mooka."
"Mooka," Banion replied. He didn't feel half bad, really. It was a pleasant wooziness, almost ... euphoric. He tried to raise his arms, in the process discovering that his wrists were attached to the table he was lying on. His brain flashed him a panic signal. The euphoria ebbed. He rattled his wrists, feeling metal. Not good, said the brain.
"Look here," he demanded, "what's going on?"
"Wooga bakak."
"Do you speak English?"
"Kreek maku feeto."
"Do? You? Speak? English?" Useless. It was like being in the Third World, where you had to shout to make yourself understood. If they were going to travel billions of light-years or however far they'd come, to land on golf courses, they might have devoted a little of their superior technology to studying the local language. Surely they could listen to tapes on their way here. Repeat, please: "Take me to your leader." "Ha. Lo."
Was it saying hello? All right, not the Gettysburg Address, but a start.
"Ha-lo," said Banion. "My. Name. Is. Jack."
"Kamu."
"You Kamu?" said Banion, now struggling to keep it together, straining at his wrist straps. "Me Jack."
Amidst this witty repartee, Banion felt a distinct chill and, looking down at his feet, noticed two things: he was naked, and his ankles were also fastened to the table, with his legs spread apart in a way that reminded him unencouragingly of a dozen movie scenes, with the sound of a cackling villain in the background holding some gruesome weapon.
"Can I" - he wriggled - "help you in some way?" The third thing approached toward his legs. It was holding something that did not bode pleasant. Banion stared. "Whoa. Hold on."
Banion tried to sit up, in the process discovering there was a strap across his chest.
"Now see here - I'm an American citizen!" Still the thing approached.
"Hey, the president is coming to dinner at my house next week!" Banion came to.
He looked up and saw the trunks of trees stretching up into a sky the color of late afternoon. The cheep cheep of a cricket made him yelp with fear.
He was alone.
He was dressed.
He took a deep breath. Instead of the piney scent of forest, he tasted ammonia and cinnamon.
He shuddered again, stumbled like a drunken man to a tree, leaning on it for support. He was at the edge of a clearing. He walked into it and leaned over to examine the grass. There were three circular spots where the grass was flattened, each about a yard wide. Yes, that was right. The craft had been resting on struts. These must have been where the . ..
"Easy," he told himself, as if preparing to tee off. It all had to have been some kind of neurological episode. You've been working hard. Too many synapses firing at the same time. You came into the forest looking for the balls. You tripped. You hit your forehead. Yes, that was it. And you had a weird, very weird, dream.
He felt his forehead, hoping to find a lump. He found it smooth and bumpless. And he had no headache. But, focusing on this aspect of his self-diagnosis, he became aware that he did feel pain somewhere else. A distinctly uncomfortable feeling that reminded him of how he'd felt after the colonoscopy, a feeling of
It spoke.
"Kaloo?"
Banion stared philosophically. He was versed in every protocol. He knew the correct address for an archbishop of Canterbury, retired Supreme Court justice, wife or daughter of an earl. What was the proper form here? "How do you do?" didn't sound quite right.
"Kaloo?" he ventured. The rational thought intruded that he might well be out of his mind with fear. He felt incredibly weary, too tired to register any emotion. It reminded him of the intravenous injection they'd given him when he'd gone into the hospital for the colonoscopy.
Another one. It was speaking to him. "Mooka."
"Mooka," Banion replied. He didn't feel half bad, really. It was a pleasant wooziness, almost ... euphoric. He tried to raise his arms, in the process discovering that his wrists were attached to the table he was lying on. His brain flashed him a panic signal. The euphoria ebbed. He rattled his wrists, feeling metal. Not good, said the brain.
"Look here," he demanded, "what's going on?"
"Wooga bakak."
"Do you speak English?"
"Kreek maku feeto."
"Do? You? Speak? English?" Useless. It was like being in the Third World, where you had to shout to make yourself understood. If they were going to travel billions of light-years or however far they'd come, to land on golf courses, they might have devoted a little of their superior technology to studying the local language. Surely they could listen to tapes on their way here. Repeat, please: "Take me to your leader." "Ha. Lo."
Was it saying hello? All right, not the Gettysburg Address, but a start.
"Ha-lo," said Banion. "My. Name. Is. Jack."
"Kamu."
"You Kamu?" said Banion, now struggling to keep it together, straining at his wrist straps. "Me Jack."
Amidst this witty repartee, Banion felt a distinct chill and, looking down at his feet, noticed two things: he was naked, and his ankles were also fastened to the table, with his legs spread apart in a way that reminded him unencouragingly of a dozen movie scenes, with the sound of a cackling villain in the background holding some gruesome weapon.
"Can I" - he wriggled - "help you in some way?" The third thing approached toward his legs. It was holding something that did not bode pleasant. Banion stared. "Whoa. Hold on."
Banion tried to sit up, in the process discovering there was a strap across his chest.
"Now see here - I'm an American citizen!" Still the thing approached.
"Hey, the president is coming to dinner at my house next week!" Banion came to.
He looked up and saw the trunks of trees stretching up into a sky the color of late afternoon. The cheep cheep of a cricket made him yelp with fear.
He was alone.
He was dressed.
He took a deep breath. Instead of the piney scent of forest, he tasted ammonia and cinnamon.
He shuddered again, stumbled like a drunken man to a tree, leaning on it for support. He was at the edge of a clearing. He walked into it and leaned over to examine the grass. There were three circular spots where the grass was flattened, each about a yard wide. Yes, that was right. The craft had been resting on struts. These must have been where the . ..
"Easy," he told himself, as if preparing to tee off. It all had to have been some kind of neurological episode. You've been working hard. Too many synapses firing at the same time. You came into the forest looking for the balls. You tripped. You hit your forehead. Yes, that was it. And you had a weird, very weird, dream.
He felt his forehead, hoping to find a lump. He found it smooth and bumpless. And he had no headache. But, focusing on this aspect of his self-diagnosis, he became aware that he did feel pain somewhere else. A distinctly uncomfortable feeling that reminded him of how he'd felt after the colonoscopy, a feeling of
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