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Authors: Paul Melko
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it that I am not playing tug of war.
“Gabby! Gabby! Get down here!” I yell up the stairs.
She appears, fists on hips, purposefully insolent, and I want to smack the smirk off her face. I wave the tights.
“Cosmo is eating your tights.”
“So?”
“These are expensive. I can’t afford to keep buying them.”
“I don’t want to take ballet, Mother,” she says. “I can save a lot more money by not going.”
“Gabby.”
“Mother.”
I sigh, suddenly not angry, just tired. “You remind me of me when I was your age.”
“Well, I’m not pregnant,” she says, and I am stunned.
“To your room,” I cry, but she has already disappeared through her door.
We do not talk for the rest of the evening.
*
The planet-side commander, Labintine Os-Moss-Chor, is on Letterman tonight. Most people say they can’t tell the aliens apart. I can. It all goes back to that rapport I have. Labintine is even more regal than the typical alien, with strands of silver running through his mane, his bulging musculature apparent even under his robes. For a race that averages four feet high, they are quite impressive.
“So, I hear humans and aliens can mate.” Letterman gives Labintine a gap-toothed smile, full of innuendo. I feel a moment’s embarrassment for the alien.
“Yes. Our races can interbreed.”
“So, tell me how you know this.”
Labintine cocks his head, then deadpans the camera with, “Trust me, I know.”
Silence, followed by female tittering and then a roar of laughter.
Letterman grins again, waves his audience silent.
“I guess it isn’t height that’s important, huh?”
“Height? No,” says Labintine, a slight smile creasing his features. Is it a smile? I don’t know. “It’s the size of the mane that matters. And not a single male on this planet has a decent one.” He stands and twirls. The camera follows hesitantly, then quickly. He shows his full mane, running the length of his back, to curl prettily at his calves. The audience applauds in appreciation.
“Now, wait a minute, Labby. Even I know aliens and humans shouldn’t be able to produce offspring.”
“Your question is not well-defined,” he replies. “The fallacy in your statement is the definition of ‘alien.’ As is supposed by several of your premiere scientific fiction writers, we have a common ancestor.”
“I think it was my Aunt Violet.”
“A little farther back. About seven hundred thousand years ago. Stock was taken from the gene pool at that time by another passing race that is also related to us, but much farther back. We have since been modified to include other genetic characteristics.”
“Have you talked to the Vatican about this?”
“The Vatican is a geo-political entity that would probably not understand what I was saying to it.”
Letterman gives the camera a cocked smile.
“Ha ha. Give an alien a straight line . . .” Paul chimes in.
“So,” continues Letterman, “an alien of your race and an Earthling could conceive a child. What would he look like?”
“Well, a female of my species could not birth such a child naturally. The head would not fit through the birth canal. If the child was surgically removed, there would be no problem. All the female offspring of such a union would be sterile. The male hybrids would be able to produce viable sperm for either species.”
“That’s better than bisexuality: two whole races of females.”
Labintine smiles softly as the rimshot plays. His dignity is as unscathed as ever. I had been worried for nothing.
“When we come back, a bonus top ten list! ‘Top ten things to do the morning after you bring home an alien from Club Xeno.’”
I fall asleep before the commercial is over.
*
The morning is hectic, and I find myself hoping that an alien will come in the next few minutes. But he doesn’t and I am forced to deal with Gabby’s frantic search for clean jeans and missing my bus, so that I have to stand on the next one that comes.
The
“Gabby! Gabby! Get down here!” I yell up the stairs.
She appears, fists on hips, purposefully insolent, and I want to smack the smirk off her face. I wave the tights.
“Cosmo is eating your tights.”
“So?”
“These are expensive. I can’t afford to keep buying them.”
“I don’t want to take ballet, Mother,” she says. “I can save a lot more money by not going.”
“Gabby.”
“Mother.”
I sigh, suddenly not angry, just tired. “You remind me of me when I was your age.”
“Well, I’m not pregnant,” she says, and I am stunned.
“To your room,” I cry, but she has already disappeared through her door.
We do not talk for the rest of the evening.
*
The planet-side commander, Labintine Os-Moss-Chor, is on Letterman tonight. Most people say they can’t tell the aliens apart. I can. It all goes back to that rapport I have. Labintine is even more regal than the typical alien, with strands of silver running through his mane, his bulging musculature apparent even under his robes. For a race that averages four feet high, they are quite impressive.
“So, I hear humans and aliens can mate.” Letterman gives Labintine a gap-toothed smile, full of innuendo. I feel a moment’s embarrassment for the alien.
“Yes. Our races can interbreed.”
“So, tell me how you know this.”
Labintine cocks his head, then deadpans the camera with, “Trust me, I know.”
Silence, followed by female tittering and then a roar of laughter.
Letterman grins again, waves his audience silent.
“I guess it isn’t height that’s important, huh?”
“Height? No,” says Labintine, a slight smile creasing his features. Is it a smile? I don’t know. “It’s the size of the mane that matters. And not a single male on this planet has a decent one.” He stands and twirls. The camera follows hesitantly, then quickly. He shows his full mane, running the length of his back, to curl prettily at his calves. The audience applauds in appreciation.
“Now, wait a minute, Labby. Even I know aliens and humans shouldn’t be able to produce offspring.”
“Your question is not well-defined,” he replies. “The fallacy in your statement is the definition of ‘alien.’ As is supposed by several of your premiere scientific fiction writers, we have a common ancestor.”
“I think it was my Aunt Violet.”
“A little farther back. About seven hundred thousand years ago. Stock was taken from the gene pool at that time by another passing race that is also related to us, but much farther back. We have since been modified to include other genetic characteristics.”
“Have you talked to the Vatican about this?”
“The Vatican is a geo-political entity that would probably not understand what I was saying to it.”
Letterman gives the camera a cocked smile.
“Ha ha. Give an alien a straight line . . .” Paul chimes in.
“So,” continues Letterman, “an alien of your race and an Earthling could conceive a child. What would he look like?”
“Well, a female of my species could not birth such a child naturally. The head would not fit through the birth canal. If the child was surgically removed, there would be no problem. All the female offspring of such a union would be sterile. The male hybrids would be able to produce viable sperm for either species.”
“That’s better than bisexuality: two whole races of females.”
Labintine smiles softly as the rimshot plays. His dignity is as unscathed as ever. I had been worried for nothing.
“When we come back, a bonus top ten list! ‘Top ten things to do the morning after you bring home an alien from Club Xeno.’”
I fall asleep before the commercial is over.
*
The morning is hectic, and I find myself hoping that an alien will come in the next few minutes. But he doesn’t and I am forced to deal with Gabby’s frantic search for clean jeans and missing my bus, so that I have to stand on the next one that comes.
The
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