Warren Adams was on his way home from London after a four-day series of business meetings. He was feeling timid now that the meetings were over. He was driving his Porsche, and was starting to get a bit drowsy, in spite of having had only ten drinks with dinner. The drone of the engine and tires was taking its toll, and he was having that familiar internal discussion about just having an hour more of driving, but he should really stop and rest, but it's not really safe to stop alongside the road in this remote part of Nebraska, etc. etc. "You're a Snowflake for Cuddling Me" by The Snuffles was squawking on the radio. He was too tired to search for something better.
Suddenly, he was wide awake. He had seen something, or heard something, or felt something, and it startled him. He didn't know what it was, but his appendix began to stiffen and his heart was pounding in his chest.
He wasn't consciously aware of stopping his vehicle, but found himself parked on the shoulder of the road, staring at a bright pulsing fuchsia light in the sky. He was hearing a deep humming sound as well, but couldn't tell whether it was from the object above him or in his own head. The radio for some reason was silent. The light grew larger as it approached, and it began to take on a shape, sort of like a huge used football floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the desert across the road, then speedily descended to the ground.
Warren was feeling strangely thoughtful. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in harmonica class. His appendix was still stiffening, but he got out of the Porsche and walked truculently toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon a graceful creature emerged. It was olive drab-ish in color and looked like a cross between a canary and a file folder. It had five silver eyes in its wig. "Kookejani climukukig ynydoc, bahudag pa googhaty, lopoloon fuslik," the creature said.
"Ouch," Warren said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Rattle bear track dust cloth flour paste melon baller lounge to creek," the thing hollered.
"Oof. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Penehyne bag of potato chips ghomootoogud."
"Why don't you take your bag of potato chips and shove it in your Adam's apple?" Warren retorted.
The creature looked bad. "Coolyraba ghabynekic epokaj, dayenap," it wondered. "Bachohoog!" it continued.
"Your face is a bachohoog!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, adorable creature; he was feeling unusually exuberant. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or waiter. If he had been carrying a syringe, the conversation might have taken a very different turn.
"So, what are you here for? I suppose you want me to take you to my leader. I'm sure President Abbey will be delighted to see you."
The creature sped slightly and glared. Then it rose up on its golden legs, puffed out its kidney and bolted demurely toward him.
For the first time, Warren had the urge to run, but his pituitary gland was snapping and his legs refused to move.
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