Bud Webster - Bringing It All Back Home.pdf - Bud Webster - widez2

BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME

by BUD WEBSTER

* * * *

Illustrated by William Warren

Any job needs the right people to do it, and conventional qualifications are

not necessarily the best way to pick them.

* * * *

So what’s the verdict, Bubba?” The voice, although not unquestionably

electronic, had a distinctly nonhuman timbre. It emanated from a small, flat

box, rather like an Etch A Sketch, propped up against a particularly ugly lamp

made from a small stuffed alligator. “Are we going to be on television?”

“Don’t look like it, Mike.” Sixtyish but still burly rather than fat, Bubba

Pritchert brushed his hand through his short, salt-and-pepper hair and sighed

as he looked at the letter in front of him. “Jamie and Adam went to bat for

us, but that wasn’t enough to make the cable suits change their minds.” He

shrugged. “Oh, well, we’d have had to relocate to California, and I been there

once. Didn’t care for it. I don’t suppose it’s changed all that much in the

past forty-five years or so.”

“I’d have thought that an experienced jackleg mechanic, an artificial

intelligence, and an abnormally strong alien would have been a powerful asset

to the Mythbusters, Bubba.”

“Me too,” he shrugged, “but I think it was that ‘alien’ thing that got to

them.” Bubba shook his head. “Damn. Hoss is gonna be real disappointed. He

loves that show.” Hoss, the alien in question, was a Thunt, a humanoid alien

with more in common with a Shar-Pei than a terrestrial from the neck up; Bubba

had befriended him several years before and had been adopted into his clan.[1]

He laced his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “I was looking

forward to building a faster-than-light drive at M-5, too.”

[FOOTNOTE 1: See “The Three Labors of Bubba” in the June 1996 Analog.]

“Dream on, future-boy. It would be easier to build a time machine from stone

knives and bearskins.”

“There you go with that pop-culture stuff again. Don’t you have anything

better to do than watch reruns on TV?”

“Until we come up with a way to make me a lot more mobile than I am now, it’s

about all I can do,” the Nishian artificial intelligence said.

“Well, as the technology stands right now, your choices are to be a hovercraft

or a helicopter. Or with skinny little legs and arms like that lightbulb guy

from the Gyro Gearloose comics,” Bubba said thoughtfully. “Any way you look at

it, you’d be kickin’ up dust.” He shook his head. “I was hopin’, what with

Jamie’s experience buildin’ robots, that I could talk him into helpin’ out.

Ain’t gonna happen now, looks like.”

“I told you that you should have mentioned the work you did for NASA in

1973....”

“Now, Mike,” Bubba interrupted, “I didn’t do all that much, just made a couple

of suggestions about how to put a square peg in a round hole with a few

judicious whacks of a big hammer, is all.”

“Perhaps, but they called you, didn’t they?”

“They didn’t, Mahlon did. Saucer Nut Number Six-Sixty-Six, he was, our first

rocket scientist—though he hated bein’ called that. He was working at JPL when

all that happened, and he figured I might have some ideas about how to fudge

the CO2 filters.” He scratched the back of his head. “Might’ve helped a

little, I s’pose, but they did all the hard work. They were the heroes.” He

frowned. “I really miss Mahlon, he was cool as a moose and almost as fuzzy.”

The phone rang. Bubba’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Hmph! Maybe the

Discovery Channel changed their minds.” He picked up the handset and answered.

“Yellow? The Prit-CHARD residence, mechanic of the house speaking.”

“Bubba, you’ve got to stop watching those Britcoms. They’re having an

unfortunate effect on you.” The voice on the other end of the phone was brisk,

but not brusque.

“Hey, Kirby! What’s shakin’, homey?”

“I believe the correct answer to that is ‘nothing but the leaves on the

trees,’“ the lawyer replied, “so let’s take it as said.”

“Stipulated, counselor,” Bubba said. “Whassup?”

“I’ve been contacted by one of the media people at the Smithsonian.

Apparently,” Kirby said wryly, “word of your, er, exotic personal conveyance

has spread.”

“And...?”

“National Air and Space wants to hire you for a very special job.”

“Oh, do they?” Bubba drawled. “Tell me more.”

“I’m sending you e-mail about it even as we speak.”

“And I’m downloading it now,” Mike said.

“The wonders of a DSL connection. It’s a little complicated, Bubba, but I

don’t think it’s anything you can’t handle. And in point of fact, I doubt

there’s anyone else who can handle it.”

“I’ll look it over,” Bubba said. “Meanwhile, when you gonna come back down for

the Urbanna Oyster Fest? You’ve missed it the past few years.”

“If I can get out from under these congressional hearings, I’ll be there this

year. I’m certainly not going to let you get them all. I’ll let you know when

I know.” They said their good-byes and rang off.

Bubba sat back in his overstuffed chair and picked thoughtfully at the frayed

piping around the arm. It was late afternoon in Central Garage, and the early

fall sun came through the living room window, tickling the array of toys on

the shelves that lined the walls. Magazines and newspapers covered every flat

surface in the room, and the hallways leading into the other rooms were lined

with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In a rack by the television were dozens of

DVDs ranging from classic screwball comedies to last year’s monster fantasy

epic.

“Got it, Bubba,” Mike said, “along with three hundred other messages. How many

mailing lists are you on, anyway?”

“Oh, one or two, I guess. It’s all research.”

“‘SpaceGhostFan’ is research?”

Bubba looked hurt. “Hey, it’s a great show, Mike. Don’t it remind you of

home?”

The little box snorted static. “As if. Anyway, here it is.”

Bubba read the words scrolling across the screen. “Well, don’t that beat all,”

he said in wonder. “What do you think, Mike?”

“Well, it’s certainly within your range of skills, and it won’t take us nearly

as long to make the round trip as they would.”

“Any foreseeable snags?”

“Oh, only a hundred or so. Clearances, licenses, permits, fees ... not to

mention the fact that you’ve never flown to the Moon—at least, not that I know

of.”

“Nope, not yet, anyway. Think I’ll have to get shots?”

“Frankly, Bubba, I don’t know what kind of restrictions the government is

going to put in your way. Shots are probably the least of your worries.”

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “It ain’t your butt.” He stared at the

ceiling and a slow smile spread over his face. “Bringing the first Lunar Rover

back from the Moon. The ultimate tow job.” He laughed aloud. “Well, dip me in

dog shit.”

* * * *

“You have to do it, Bubba,” Mike said. “You know you have to.”

Bubba nodded. “Oh, I’m gonna take the gig, all right. Just remains to be seen

how the contract gets writ. Don’t wanna soak ‘em, but we’re talkin’ about some

pretty serious mileage here.” He rubbed his hands together. “Might even be

able to get some ‘considerations.’ It’d be so cool to have a Moon rock, or one

of the flags, or something like that. But,” he sat up straight and picked up a

pencil, “Mom taught me it don’t pay to get too greedy.”

“I’m sure they’ll be as generous as they can be. And take it from me, a rock

is a rock.”

Bubba shook his head slowly. “No. Not to me, Mike. See, this stuff is no big

deal to you. You been there, done that, and got the T-shirt—assuming you could

wear it. To me, it’s solid gold, a gem of purest ray serene.”

“Now who’s making obscure references?”

Bubba peered at the little screen over his reading glasses. “You’d prefer I

quote from Astroboy?”

“Astroboy, Aristotle, Alfred E. Neuman; it’s all the same to me. It’s not my

culture.”

“That mean you gonna give up watching TV?”

“Right after sweeps.”

Bubba laughed. “As Eleanor of Aquitaine said, ‘There’ll be pork in the

treetops come morning.’”

The contract arrived by courier the next day. It was thick, almost one hundred

pages. “Son of a bitch,” Bubba said in wonder. “Hell, even Kirby’d choke on

this thing. Wonder what’s so god-awful involved in this that we can’t just

say, ‘We the undersigned do hereby agree’?”

“You know better than that. This is a government contract. Everything has to

be tied down in triplicate.”

“I guess so, Mike, but all this,” he waved the sheaf of papers, “just seems so

unnecessary. I ain’t gonna steal it from ‘em and sell it to a chop shop. All I

want is to be able to say I did it and get a little promotional use from it,

and they already agreed to that.” He tossed it on the table. “I dunno, Mike.

Maybe things were different when you were with the Nishian Parliament ... “[2]

[FOOTNOTE 2: See “Bubba Pritchert and the Space Aliens” in the July/August

1994 Analog.]

“They weren’t.”

“...but all this hoop-de-doo about a simple tow job is, well, it’s draconian,

is what it is.”

“Er, Bubba, that statement doesn’t make sense.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but I always wanted to use ‘draconian’ in a

sentence.” He rustled the pages in frustration. “Shit on a stick. I ain’t

gonna ‘grand theft’ nothing, I just want the gig. Anyway, who could want

anything more than to go to the Moon, for the love of Pete?”

“I’ll look it over,” Mike said. “I’m not admitted to the bar here, but I’ve

got access to every online legal database. If there’s something wonky, I’ll

run it past Kirby. Between the two of us, I think we can catch any problems.”

“I trust you. Check and see if there’s anything in there that says I can’t

grab a moon rock or two for myself, will you?”

“Just a second ... no. The only proscription is against profiting directly

from anything you retrieve.”

“In other words, I can bring it back, but I can’t sell it on eBay.”

“Correct. You can, however, use any unclassified aspects of this project as

promotional material.”

Bubba nodded thoughtfully. “And then there’s the lecture and talk show

circuit, county fairs ... Might even be a book in it, you never know.”

“Bubba, you’ve never written a word in your life.”

“Well, there’s that guy up in Richmond. I understand he’ll write damn near

anything for a buck.”

“That hack? He writes sci fi. You want a real writer.”

“Mikey, old top, that is real writin’.”

Artificial intelligences, even those created by alien cultures and

subsequently acquired by retired Virginia auto mechanics, cannot sigh. They

have no lungs, no need to breathe, no diaphragm with which to push air past

relaxed vocal cords, assuming they had vocal cords, which they don’t.

Mike sighed. “Whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say.”

The scout ship made almost no sound as it swooped through the open front doors

of the garage, past the empty bays, and back out the rear doors. And again,

and again. And again. Each time, it cleared the ground and structure by mere

inches. A small crowd had gathered to watch, ooh-ing and ah-ing as Bubba

Pritchert practiced flying in preparation for his trip to the Moon.

After making numerous loops into the garage and back out, a King William

County patrol car drove up and a tall, thin, uniformed man got out, stretched,

and settled his hat on his balding head. Reaching back down into the car, he

brought out a microphone and thumbed it.

“Edgar Allan Poe Hudgins Pritchert.” His voice crackled through the

loudspeaker on the roof of the car. “This is Deputy Sheriff Lester Beason.

Please ground your vehicle. We need to speak to you.” He waited, but the

saucer only looped through the garage again. A smaller man in a tailored suit

slid out of the patrol car on the passenger side and brushed at his suit

jacket.

“Well, officer?” he said in clipped tones. “Is he coming down?”

The deputy sighed. “I’m trying, sir, but I’d like to remind you that he is in

a flying saucer.”

“I’m well aware of that, Deputy. That’s why I’m here.” He straightened his

lapels. “Can you try a little harder, please?”

The tall man sighed again. “Yes, sir.” He thumbed the microphone again and

spoke in a louder voice. “Mr. Pritchert, I’m afraid I have to order you to

land your aircraft, or whatever the hell it is. There’s a man from the

government here to talk to you.”

Still the saucer flew overhead, zigzagging and rolling to the evident delight

of the crowd.

The government man sighed. “Really, Deputy. Isn’t there something...?”

“What do you want me to do, Mr. Breen?” Beason snapped. “Shoot him down? Damn

it, Bubba!” he shouted into the mic. “Will you put that thing in the garage

and shut it down?”

The saucer came to a dead halt just overhead, and there was a click as a

hidden speaker was activated. “I’ve had it in the garage a dozen times or

more, Lester,” came Bubba’s voice. “Why ain’t you locked the doors?” With that

the saucer swooped into the garage and stopped dead in the air just inside; it

spun lazily and settled gently to the floor. It was bigger than it had looked

outdoors, almost filling the double-width doorway and standing a good ten feet

high. With a low hiss a panel in the side slid up, and a short ramp extended

to the floor. Bubba stepped out of the craft and the ramp and panel closed

behind him.

“Yo, Deppity. How’s Big Lester?”

Beason cleared his throat uneasily. “Dad’s fine, Bubba. Sends his best, but he

says he’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t fly that thing over his deer stand.

You’re scaring the game.”

Bubba shrugged. “Oughtn’t to be jack-lighting ‘em, then. They gotta have some

chance, don’t they?”

“Has he been doing that again?” Beason was clearly angry. “Goddamit, I told

him...”

“Deputy Beason,” the young man interrupted sharply. “Can we please get down to

business? I’ve come a long way, and this is important.”

“Yeah, okay. Bubba, this here is Mr. Martin Breen from the FAA. He needs to

talk to you about your ... about that thing you’ve been flying around in.”

Bubba extended his hand. “Mr. Breen, nice to meet you.”

Breen took his hand gingerly and shook it exactly twice. His hand was cool and

dry. “Yes. Well. Mr. Pritchert, I am a field investigator for the FAA. You’ve

been operating an unidentified flying object.”

“Naw, it ain’t. I can identify it. See?” He pointed to a plate riveted to the

side of the saucer that read, “The USS Right Honorable Fireball XL-5. She’s

got her own nameplate and everything.” Breen just stared at him. “Okay, Mr.

Breen. Let’s go in the house where we can be comfortable.”

“Bubba,” the deputy said. “I gotta get back on duty. I’ll have a talk with my

dad.”

Bubba nodded. “Give him m’best.” He turned to Breen. “C’mon, Mr. Breen. It

don’t smell anywhere near as bad in the living room.”

“Actually,” Breen said as they stepped outside, “I didn’t notice any smell at

all. I was surprised.”

“Yeah, I try to keep things pretty clean. A little sawdust, a little orange

cleaner, a couple hundred Air-Wicks...” Bubba locked the garage doors behind

them. A sign hung in the window of one of them, and he turned it around so

that it read, “Pritchert’s Automotive Performance Center. Next Week: Grease!”

As they entered the house, Breen looked around at the books and toys without

comment, although he seemed a little uneasy. Bubba noticed this, but from what

he’d seen, he figured that, like a lot of government people, he was probably

uneasy most everywhere. He seated Breen on the sofa with the bay window at his

back. “Mr. Breen, what can I get you? I’ve got several kinds of tea; Delaware

birch beer, and some good old Virginny ginger ale. Plus,” he added with a

wink, “I got a six-pack of Anchor Steam beer I ain’t popped open yet.”

“Uh, no thank you, Mr. Pritchert. I’m ‘on the clock,’ as it were. I would like

to try one of those birch beers, though.”

“You got it, friend. You want a glass?”

“No sir, no need to bother with that.”

“Ah, a real buckeroo. I like that in a Fed.” He went to the kitchen and

brought back not only two bottles of the Amish-brewed beverage, but a can of

mixed nuts from the Virginia Diner. He set them on the low table between them

and sat back in the Comfy Chair.

“Now,” he said after taking a pull off the bottle and chasing it with a small

handful of nuts. “What can I do for the F-Double-A?”

“We need to discuss your aircraft, Mr. Pritchert, in terms of FAA regulations.

You have an unusual craft. Very unusual. I just saw it do some very ...

unusual things, and as you have plans to take it up into commercial flight

lanes, it’s necessary for us to certify it.” He reached into his briefcase and

pulled out a thick file. “You may not be aware of it, but you’ve been under

government surveillance ever since you took possession of your craft.

Bubba leaned forward, intent and serious. “Tell me about this surveillance.

I’m not surprised, of course, but I can’t say I much like the idea.”

Breen cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. We, of course, although we haven’t had

reason to contact you since you’ve stayed in ultralight ranges. But please

understand that it’s our job to monitor all aircraft in order to ensure the

safety of the public.”

“We’ll deal with that later, Mr. Breen. Who else?”

Breen fidgeted nervously in his chair. “The FBI. You must have suspected it. I

mean, you have an exotic aircraft—a ‘flying saucer,’ if you will—of unknown

origin that uses unknown, possibly alien, technology. That’s pretty high

profile. They investigate everything.”

“It’s not unknown, I know perfectly well where it came from. The XL-5 came

from a grateful family on a planet called Thuntin.” He waved a hand vaguely

upward. “Way the hell out there somewheres. I did a job for ‘em, and it was

satisfactory, so they gave me a flying saucer as a present. If anybody wanted

to know about it, all they had to do was ask.”

“Perhaps they thought you wouldn’t be forthcoming. The thinking in the

intelligence community can sometimes be Byzantine.”

Bubba nodded. “Yeah, that figures. Who else?”

“NSA, of course. They’re champing at the bit to get to you, but we convinced

them to let us get this straight before they leapt on you like starving

wolves.”

“I can hardly wait. Maybe they can explain to me how the damn thing works. I

sure as hell can’t figure it out.”

Breen shrugged. “I don’t know for certain, of course, but we heard that there

was some activity up at Langley. And there are other, less public agencies who

have expressed an interest. DARPA, for one.”

“DARPA? Oh, great!” Bubba said, throwing his hands up in the air. “That’s all

I need, is gray-ops spooks running around the neighborhood askin’ questions

about my politics. That’s as bad as those goddam tabloid assholes.” He stood

Bud Webster - Bringing It All Back Home.pdf

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