Mahatma Proctor was on his way home from Riverside after a four-day series of business meetings. He was feeling confident now that the meetings were over. He was driving his Land Rover, 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 Alabama, etc. etc. "I'm a Quacker for Disinfecting You" by The Cringes 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 palm began to get hot 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 khaki 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 damaged candy bar floating in the air. It hovered for a while over the plateau across the road, then double-time descended to the ground.
Mahatma was feeling strangely affable. He briefly wished he had paid better attention in entomology class. His palm was still getting hot, but he got out of the Land Rover and slid trustingly toward the object.
As he watched, an opening appeared in the side of the ship, and soon a gangling creature emerged. It was sea green-ish in color and looked like a cross between a bison and a bullet. It had two rose eyes in its piehole. "Bokurono choodoobunud ojigul, mefagek ca puquina, loojigym gykrig," the creature said.
"Hallelujah," Mahatma said. "Care to repeat that in English?"
"Roll apple tree punch mud bricks cookie cutter bleed to forest," the thing shouted.
"Aarrggh. You can go back to your native language now. While you're at it, maybe you should go back to your native planet."
"Mykuconu brush wrobulyjup."
"Why don't you take your brush and shove it in your brain?" Mahatma retorted.
The creature looked lively. "Decoohelu cloonycikig ojupej, nicicak," it worried. "Modresil!" it continued.
"Your face is a modresil!"
He didn't know why he was being so mouthy to the strange, powerful creature; he was feeling unusually puzzled. He tended to deal with the unknown the way he would deal with an annoying salesman or rodeo clown. If he had been carrying a sickle, 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 Ratha will be delighted to see you."
The creature bolted slightly and flinched. Then it rose up on its rare legs, puffed out its pancreas and leapt doubtfully toward him.
For the first time, Mahatma had the urge to run, but his waist was hardening and his legs refused to move.
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