Literature

by Robert Chansky

Copyright (c)1989

Charles Pennet always felt a particular pleasure when he pulled the cover over his ancient typewriter and went to the cupboard to fix himself the usual post-novel drink. It was a great reward, that drink; the stuff that had almost finished him once before now became his reward for a job well done. Nowadays he allowed himself the alcohol only after the finish of a novel. Cause to celebrate, as always.

Charles Pennet wrote dirty books. Pornography was his life.

There was a demand for it, and he seemed to have a talent, or so his many editors told him, and as long as that demand and talent coincided, he would continue with his chosen line.

Oh, there was the occasional twinge of guilt-- not for what he did of course, for Charles was a pragmatic man, but for what he did not do; A real book, real literature, something to be proud of, a profession that he didn't have to hide away beneath his many pseudonyms. Indeed, he had started several serious books, only to give up, frustrated. Each quickly became boring without the added flavor, so to speak, that was Charles' unique style. And his books, after all, had paid for the house he lived in, kept him well fed and with a hefty bank account. He had done quite well for himself.

One might think it odd that Charles never actually did many of the things he wrote of in his many books and articles. He lived a very sheltered life. But that was fine with him. (What was that author's name, the woman who lived out in the moors in England and wrote?-- Well, it didn't matter.) Charles was in company with a lot of authors, writing about the human experience while too busy to join in. The only difference between he and they being the experiences he wrote about.

Another ritual consisted of bundling the manuscript up for a stop at the library-- photocopying it all was an expensive, but necessary, task, or so his lawyer told him. The industry was very cutthroat. A few big rubber bands kept it together nicely. Charles was engaged in this when there was a knock at the door.

Unfortunately Charles was the type of person who never used the small peephole provided for them to see potential criminals before letting them in. He opened the door wide, and wondered why there seemed to be nobody there, when he chanced to look down and beheld the creature.

Through the miracle of human perception, Charles was instantly able to determine that the creature before him was an alien. Not of this Earth. Not, one would suppose, from anywhere nearby at all.

The alien looked like a boulder. It was about three feet high, mostly round, in fact spherical, and a reddish-brown that might have looked almost comforting on a familiar object such as a rotten tomato. Its skin was wrinkled and worn, like an old leather jacket. Eyestalks sprouted from its right and left flanks, aimed at Charles. What looked like a tentacle sprouted from the side of the boulder (being careful not to get in the way of its eye) aiming a gun-- not a streamlined raygun, but a functional Colt .45-- directly at Charles. He backed away.

The alien rolled after him. To do this it flattened an area of itself facing Charles, so that it would tumble into the cavity thus created. The eyestalks on both sides of the creature rotated slightly but did not waver from him. Neither did the tentacle with the gun.

Another tentacle made an appearance. This one emerged (from behind the other eyestalk) wrapped around a square black box, grilled at one end. Squeaks and incomprehensible noises came from the creature, and from the box came a voice.

``You,'' it said, ``are Charles Pennet.'' The box sounded electronic, with irregular pauses between its words.

Charles swallowed. If given a few minutes, he might have said something, either to confirm or deny his name. Neither of these options presented themselves.

``There is something which you will do for me.'' The alien rolled further into the room without asking for an invitation. Yet another tentacle emerged from the same side of its body as the first to snake around the doorknob and pull it shut.

Charles was not sure how to react to the alien. His life had been very structured, very ordered, until now. The alien's presence offended him, in a way he could not really describe, not even to himself. Just as if a total stranger had nudged him with an unwanted elbow, the alien was an intrusion into his life, one he didn't really want, not just now. Charles felt a kind of anger rising inside him.

``Now wait a minute. Wait a minute--'' He said, though there was really nothing he could think of to say to the creature.

It didn't care. Something reached out from the creature and pushed at his mind. Charles sank to the floor. He could see and hear, but he could not move. At least he didn't think he could move; it just seemed like moving so much as a finger didn't appeal to him at all. Laying as he was on the floor seemed, in the absence of other ideas, an excellent option. Anything else was not to be considered.

``My place of origin,'' the alien explained, ``is known as Cetella. My name is unpronounceable and not important. What you will do for me is.'' The alien rolled closer to him, giving him the full benefit of a body odor that reminded him of egg salad, as it explained.

Charles had just finished a particularly explicit novel for which he had real hopes just before he was contacted by the Cetellan alien, who had developed a taste for human books.

The Cetellan idea of literature was not at all the same as the human idea of literature. But some of their scrawlings intrigued it greatly. As it pored with glassy eyes over the mass of data the ship's computer had translated for it, it had found, here and there, something that piqued its interest.

And it had decided, fatefully, that here was money to be made.

Regretfully, humans being who they are, and Cetellans being what they are, it was necessary that some adjustments be made before anything of a potential money-making nature was introduced to the Cetellan culture at large.

And the alien, whose name is unpronounceable by a human as well as unprintable by any human typesetter, had thought of a way. A way that involved as little work for it as possible.

Charles wanted to hide in a corner somewhere and gibber. He somehow remained standing. ``What... what am I supposed to do?''

The gun, and the tentacle that held it, Occupied Charles' full attention, to the point that he had not heard much of what the alien was saying. Now he forced himself to listen.

``It has taken me some time to find you. There is-- some literature which you will-- translate for me.'' The electronic voice paused before certain words, possibly because of its translator which had to look them up. ``You will change only certain species-specific passages, as I have machines to translate to my own language. I will leave you books and materials to help you.'' Then it waited for him to speak.

``I don't understand this. You're... an alien!''

``Human powers of perception are most impressive.''

``What... what if I refuse?''

This question was obvious, and the boulder appeared to have worked it out beforehand. ``You have ten seconds to accept. otherwise, a-- virus will be introduced into your-- biosphere which will render it lifeless. This is your incentive to work for me. Remember it, and do not doubt that I will do as I say.''

It paused. ``Very well,'' it said. It produced another device, like a small computer, from somewhere inside its actual body, Charles supposed. ``This machine is -- pro- grammed with translations of an anatomy text of my race, and another book which will help you with what you are to do. The tentacle dropped the machine on Charles' desk nine feet away. ``You are to translate this book.'' The book slapped down next to the other machine. ``I will return in seven days. If the book has not been translated by that time, or if you have contacted -- authorities of your -- government in an attempt to avoid this task, the virus of which I spoke will be immediately vented into your planet's biosphere. I will leave now.''

``Wha... wait, you can't--... ''

The alien turned to face him by spiraling like a top. ``Remember,'' it said, ``that you are translating the litera- ture into a different culture, and not language, as my dev- ices can manage that. Also remember to preserve the origi- nal... flavor... for which the writing was intended.''

The creature quivered, and began, ponderously, to roll across Charles' floor. One of its tentacles (this made a total of four; he wondered how many it had) opened the door for its owner. The creature rolled heavily down Charles' walkway into the dark, oblivious to its surround- ings, to a car waiting for it. Charles could see through the open door that the interior of the car had been removed, its windows artificially darkened. The car was cavernous inside. Charles watched the alien as it rolled aboard, lowering its vehicle with its weight.

Charles shut his door. He had seen an alien. He had actually seen an alien.

It sounded like some stupid science fiction story.

The Cetellan's car drove off. Would it really destroy the Earth, or was it a bluff?

Charles went to his desk to examine the machine the alien had given him. It seemed very simple; in fact instructions were written in English on the front. He figured out how to call up the anatomy text. He summoned the other, and discovered that it seemed to be the alien equivalent of a sexual self-help book. It was very detailed, and fascinating to someone in Charles' profession.

The title of the terrestrial book on his study, an ordinary hardcover, caught his attention. It was, he found, Lady Chatterly's Lover. This was the literature the Cetellan wanted him to translate.

The alien had not left unobserved. A Mrs. Edith Cummings lived next door to him, not knowing (of course) his exact occupation. Mrs. Cummings was an ardent Christian fundamentalist, her thoughts never straying from purity and good faith. She had always kept an eye on Charles, ever since he'd moved in. He was an easy man not to trust. There had been something shiftless about him, like he didn't really belong in this quiet upper-class neighborhood.

And a chance look out her kitchen window, to investigate that strange car parked before her neighbor's house, proved her suspicions correct.

Charles was keeping strange company, indeed.

Aliens.

She decided that this would do with some looking into.

All night and the next day the furious tapping of Charles' typewriter reached Mrs. Cummings' ears incessantly. Eventually the next afternoon the typing came to a halt, and she looked up from her knitting. A quick glance across her front yard told her that Charles had left the house. The time, she thought, was now.

Walking slowly (so as not to arouse suspicion), she headed out of her own abode toward her neighbor's. She tried the door, and found that it was unlocked. Probably going out for something to eat, she thought.

Mrs. Cummings never wasted time. She examined drawers, closets, under beds. Charles' shower and bath did not escape her scrutiny. Eventually she got to the bookshelf, and was, predictably, shocked. ``Filth!'' she cried.

Adorning the shelf were an uncountable number of books and magazines, their content easily identifiable by the racy pictures on the front. Mrs. Cummings was familiar with many of the titles, as she had participated in a book rally (burning) in which they had been prominently featured. This time, she examined the authors. The names all seemed to have something in common. Chuck Penn... C. Penter... all the names sounded very nearly like her neighbor, Charles Pennet.

Suddenly it dawned on her. He had written them. HE was the author of this... this...

``Filth!'' she said again, louder this time. In fact Charles was the reason the P section in many adult bookstores was disproportionately large.

Mrs. Cummings examined the typewriter and the paper that lay inside it, and unknowingly became the first Cetellan literary critic.

     She saw him again, in the garden.  Just to touch him, she thought. Just
     to stroke his tight, calloused skin would be heaven... suddenly she 
     stopped. She realized her dorsal tentacle was fully extended!  What 
     would her husband say, if he knew?  But... on the other hand, what 
     would he say?

Her first thought was to burn it-- burn it all! But then--

No, she thought. She would wait. The police would never understand.

Mrs. Cummings tried to put everything back where it had been, and after reading through the contents of the Cetellan reading machine, exited Charles' house barely five minutes before he returned.

Charles knew it was the alien even before he heard the car door open. It was late again, and exactly one week after its first appearance. He was not too nervous. He had done what it demanded of him, finished the manuscript. The boulder would not sterilize the planet, and then all of this would be behind him.

This time it did not bother with knocking. The door swung wide, and closed again.

He looked up, and there was the alien. It still aimed the gun at him. Charles wondered where it had gotten it from.

``You have done what I wish.'' A statement, not a question.

``Yes.''

``Give me the manuscript.'' Charles handed the pages to the alien, which put them in a case and concealed it inside itself.

``You're not going to kill everybody?''

In response the alien produced two more hardcovers, placing them on the same corner of Charles' study again. He suddenly felt very sick. He had stayed up three nights... ``I will return,'' the Cetellan said, ``in six days. If this literature is not translated in the same manner as the previous sample I gave to you, I will sterilize--''

At that moment Charles' front door exploded inward, as though by some artillery burst. The doorknob sailed across the room, burying itself in the opposite wall. A woman entered, an old woman. She was carrying a shotgun. ``Mrs. Cummings!'' Charles said, astonished.

Mrs. Cummings saw the Cetellan, and her eyes took on a angry reddish color as she swung her weapon around toward it. ``Filth mongerer!'' he thought she shouted. This seemed to be all too fast for the alien to use its mind-push or the .45. She fired.

The boulder seemed to explode gore all over the room and Mrs. Cummings. Shredded typewriter paper flew every- where, the work of the last week scattered all over the room and spattered with what passed for alien blood. Charles, shocked but still retaining his senses, tried to shrink from her view, looking for a way to get past her without being killed.

From his knowledge of Cetellan anatomy Charles figured the alien would not be easily killed by a gun like that, as its thick braincase was approximately in its middle and little else but muscle outside that. But Mrs. Cummings seemed to know that too. She took the alien's .45 from the floor and proceeded to pump the center of the bleeding mass full of bullets until the gun was out, then dropped it.

Charles' rear doorknob poked him in the small of his back. He reached behind himself to open it, then saw the old woman had her shotgun on him now. ``Don't you move,'' she said. Ice coated his stomach. ``It was you,'' she said. ``You wrote that... that... ''

The word exploded, ``Filth!'' and the gun would have as well, but it only clicked. Two shots. Charles pushed his way past the woman, grabbed the alien's book and vacated the premises.

The alien body made an incredible media sensation when it was discovered, and Mrs. Cummings became an unwitting instant hero. Charles, who had changed his name so many times that it was almost a habit for him, managed to avoid the persistent reporters and the net of government agents trying to track him, until the sensation died down. Eventually he found another house-- smaller but much more isolated-- and bought a typewriter.

Cautiously, he checked the dead alien's sex-and-anatomy book, and was pleased to find it still operative. It was time to go to work.

Of course he'd have to find one of the Cetellans again, but perhaps they would find him. They would deal with him on his own terms this time. There was a new demand, and Charles Prendergast intended to fill it.

Robert Chansky is a CIS major due to graduate from UC Santa Cruz next year or whenever. This is, he says, one of the few stories he's managed to finish. He's currently working on a UNIX game called "Galactic Bloodshed", a multi-player Empire-like game of interstellar war.

He can be reached at smq@ucscb.ucsc.edu