The XO-76 Mindwarp “Bookmobile” touched down on page 89 of Charles Dickens’s Best Stories (Hanover House, 1959) with its usual finesse, which is to say that all the bit characters who watched it crash into an unluckily placed fruit stand
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Felix counted down the seconds as he adjusted his glasses and glanced at his clipboard.
Sloppy notations filled the margins: Displays bitterness and regret. Reluctant to engage. Replies with Humbug when upset. Bright red letters reading Unchangeable branded the top of the file.
A
Ebenezer Scrooge hated many things, including Christmas, carolers, cheer, children, and the words “limited-time offer.”
Oh, and one more thing—chaos. As in what happened when his router suddenly gifted him a high-pitched whine and then died. An overheating his cold existence was not familiar with. His orderly life was abruptly unplugged.
Accountant Barnaby Rudge plunks a thick file folder onto my desk. “I’m finished with Pickwick’s papers, Mr. Scrooge.”
“About time.” I pull a leather-bound ledger from the drawer. “Now process Dombey & Son.”
“Certainly—there’s just one thing.”
I scowl. “Do you still have great expectations of going home early for Christmas? Humbug!
Therrus eyed the snacks neatly aligned on the table and considered grabbing something before deciding that he was too nervous to find the food appealing. For now, he should just make his way to a corner. He turned and nearly collided with a young woman, almost sending the snacks on her plate tumbling.
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The corpse on the table had a melted eye socket, no pulse, and a sticky note on its forehead that read: Don’t eat Carl’s yogurt.
Mariana Vale adjusted her gloves. “You’re contaminating a crime scene, Luke.”
Luke James, wearing two left shoes, a NASA hoodie, and a baseball cap that read “Rebel Alliance Flight School,”
Today was the day that Therrus would see a ghost. Or maybe Bigfoot. He hadn’t decided which one to look for first. Since coming to Earth two months ago, he’d heard humans voice a variety of opinions about creatures that may or may not exist.
To better understand this fascinating aspect of human culture,
Therrus wanted to hate the cold.
Thick snow spilled over the tops of his snow boots, soaking his socks and numbing his shins and feet. The frigid air assaulted him, stinging his hidden scales and causing his holographically projected skin to turn bright red. He took a deep breath, the wintry Connecticut chill sharp in his lungs
For Therrus, another day began with total irritation.
He was already like a volcano, ready to explode even from the smallest microscopic provocation. Such permanent irritation had long become habitual for him, because the Earth Initiative demanded he send weekly reports.
He hated preparing these reports, so he did not do so.
“Ag shame skat, they’re full. These trips are very popular you know.” The motherly receptionist patted Therrus’ arm. “I can sign you up for the next trip, though. It’s on…” She flipped through a large book. “May 4th. Next Tuesday.”
Therrus fumbled with his glasses, trying to make sense of her heavy accent. Shame? Had
The woman at the front desk eyed Therrus, then pointed at his sunglasses. “It might be bright outside, but don’t expect much sunshine from old Bulver. He doesn’t like reporters, Mr. James.”
Therrus, reveling in the ring of his adopted Earth name, replied with a bow. “Fear not, madam. I am only here to help.”
“You, too?”
Therrus ignored the she-human who spoke although he couldn’t help noting her voice was young-sounding, wry, and almost laughing, but with an edge of something else.
Something what? Didn’t concern him. The number one rule for Civarans visiting Earth: do not under any circumstances engage with the humans.
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