Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

Sas came down the airlock tube next—the locking disk could be engaged from either side of the iris. By the time he was down, Don had already made his way over to the dead thing. Its rusty color seemed good confirming evidence that Mars was indeed the being’s original home. The creature was about a meter and a half tall, and, if there had been any doubt about its intelligence, that was dispelled now. The Martian wore clothes— apparently not for protection, but rather for convenience; the translucent garment covering part of its abdomen was rich with pockets and pouches. Still, the body showed signs of having suffered a massive decompression; innards had partially burst out through various seams in the exoskeleton.

While Don continued to examine the being—the first alien lifeform ever seen by a human—Sas poked around the room. “Don!” he shouted.

Don reluctantly left the Martian and glided over to Sas, who was pointing through an open archway.

The underground complex went on and on. And Martian bodies were everywhere.

“Wow,” said Sas. “Wow.”

Don tried to activate the radio circuit to Earth, but he wasn’t able to pick up the beacon signal from Mission Control. Of course not: this facility had operated a massive radio telescope; it would be shielded to prevent interference with the antenna. Don and Sas made their way up the airlock tube and out to the surface. There they had no trouble acquiring the beacon.

“Mission Control,” said Don. “Tell Chuck Zakarian we hope he has a good time down on Mars’s surface—although, given all the wind erosion that goes on there, I doubt he’ll find much. But that’s okay, Houston; we’ll make up for that. You see, it seems we’re not the first crew to occupy …” He paused, the perfect name coming to him at last. “… Mike Collins Station.”

The Good Doctor

There’s a tradition in science fiction of short-short stories that build up to a horrendous pun in the last line; the most famous of these are the “Ferdinand Feghoot” tales by Reginald Bretnor (written under the anagrammatic pen name Grendel Briarton). In the late 1980s, I perpetrated one of these myself, and it was published as my third appearance in Amazing Stories, the world’s oldest SF magazine, which was founded by Hugo Gernsback, after whom the Hugo Awards are named.

* * *

“There’s a new patient here to see you, Dr. Butcher,” said the pleasant contralto over the intercom.

Shaggy eyebrows above craggy countenance lifted in mild irritation. “Well, what is it? Human? Dolphin? Quint?”

“It’s a Kogloo, sir.”

“A Kogloo! Send it in.” A Kogloo on Earth was about as rare as a current magazine chip in Butcher’s waiting room. The hunched human ushered the barrel-shaped being into his office. “What can I do for you?”

“Doctor, doctor, I is terrible problem.” The words were thick, but, to its credit, the Kogloo was working without a translator. “I try to writing Skience Fiction, no?”

“So?”

“So this!” The Kogloo upended a satchel over Butcher’s already cluttered desk. Countless cards and pieces of paper cascaded out.

“Rejection slips?” Butcher grunted. He had his own collection from The Lancet. “Unless you’ve got writer’s cramp, I can’t help you.”

“No, please.” The alien’s tripartite mandible popped the P. “I write good, in mine own language, no?” Butcher had heard that the big four SF chips had Kogloonian editions now. “I send novella to Amazing—they love it! They even buy! Effing SF is eating out of my foot. Analog, the same. But that other one—!” The Kogloo waved its antennae expressively. “Bah, they no want.”

“Look,” said Butcher, annoyance honing his words. “I’m an M.D., a medical doctor. This is out of—”

“Please! I decide to come to Earth. I want to meet man whose name is in the title, no? But trip out is very, very bad!”

“Now see here!” Dr. Butcher’s doctor had warned him to watch his blood pressure. “I’m a busy man—”

“But here is even worse! Flyer, boat, tram, tube train, is all the same.”

Butcher exploded. “This is not a travel agency! I’m a doctor, understand. A doctor! I treat sickness and injuries. Now, unless you have a medical problem—”

The Kogloo bashed its forehead on the desktop in the traditional gesture of excitement. “Yes! Yes! Every time I get into vehicle, I very uncomfortable. I embarrass myself and anger driver.” A sigh. “I afraid I never get to where that title man is.”

Butcher’s eyes widened in comprehension. “I think I see what’s causing your troubles …”

The Kogloo nodded vigorously. “Doctor, I sick as I move!”

Ineluctable