Madonna and the Starship (9781616961220) by James Morrow Page B

works?”
    â€œNot lately,” said the kid, unhelpfully. “We built one last year, remember?”
    â€œA good experiment is always worth repeating.”
    From the darkness beyond the attic set, a voice rang out. “‘Equality and justice for creatures of all races, colors, creeds, tentacle types, and eyeball arrays’! A most peculiar imperative!”
    I froze. A beguiling scent reached my nostrils. The aliens might look like lobsters, but they smelled like Hershey bars. Lips twitching, feelers trembling, the skinny one ambled onto the attic set, then shrugged off its trench coat and laid its slouch hat atop the Motorola. Facing me squarely, the creature dipped its triclopean head in a deferential gesture.
    â€œO Uncle Wonder, we apologize for our temporal miscalculation. But as Brock Barton once said, ‘Better late than never.’”
    â€œHoly mazackers!” exclaimed Andy.
    The broadcast TV image had provided no clue to my visitor’s scale—it was taller than I’d anticipated: an eight-footer at least. A necklace dangled from the seam between its head and thorax, bearing a pendant resembling the golden statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center.
    â€œI am Wulawand, of the gender you call female.”
    A squeaky-wheeled tea trolley rolled onto the set, pushed by the fat lobster, easily seven feet tall, its slouch hat and trench coat secured in a claw. The conveyance held an object the size of a lampshade, hidden by a gold lamé cloth.
    Flinging down its hat and coat, the fat alien bowed before Andy. “Greetings, Master Andrew. How privileged I feel to make your acquaintance. My name is Volavont, of the male gender.”
    â€œAm I on camera two or camera three?” asked Wulawand.
    â€œThree,” I replied. “Note the tally light.”
    Wulawand faced the appropriate lens. “Boys and girls of Planet Earth, you cannot imagine how fortunate you are. Back on Qualimosa, a terrible civil war rages between the regiments of reason and the battalions of irrationality.”
    Andy tugged on my sleeve and whispered, “What’s she talking about?”
    â€œAlas, you cannot argue with a religious revelation, children,” said Volavont, adding his plump face to the camera-three midshot. “A revelation is always true. Otherwise it would be something else.”
    â€œIt might be a spittoon, for example,” said Wulawand in a caustic tone, “or a stomach pump, or a venereal disease.” She emitted a squonk, squonk, squonk sound that I took to be the Qualimosan equivalent of laughter.
    Fearful that the broadcast was about to take a controversial turn, I pointed to the veiled object and proclaimed, “With profound humility and deep appreciation, I accept this award!”
    â€œBut here on Earth revelation has been routed,” Wulawand persisted, “thanks in no small measure to Uncle Wonder, who cleanses your minds of metaphysics every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon!”
    â€œMaybe we should build that battery now,” Andy suggested.
    â€œI’ve never received an award before,” I said, whereupon Wulawand seized the gold lamé cloth and pulled it away.
    The Zorningorg Prize was as glorious an alien artifact as any Andromeda writer might ever hope to contemplate. Five triangular mirrors sloped upward from a pentagonal base to form a pyramidal prism. A rotating, spherical gem commanded the apex, furiously ejecting shafts of crimson, violet, and amber light. As I gazed into the nearest triangle, my mind entered a gallery of kaleidoscopic images that made the expressionist sets in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari seem like two-page spreads from Better Homes and Gardens .
    â€œBoys and girls, I wish you all had color TVs!” I exclaimed, vertiginous with rapture. “If only you could see what I see!”
    â€œThe Zorningorg Committee hired three of our planet’s most renowned artists to design