[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine October 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
/
The aliens were quite impressed by Earth's technical
marvels--they found them just delicious!
Sugardale three miles, the state highway sign said. Dexter Foote turned
into the side road that the arrow indicated.
He had no way of knowing it at the time, but by his action he condemned
his new convertible to a fate worse than death.
The side road meandered down a long slope into a wooded hollow where a
breeze born of cool bowers and shaded brooks made the July afternoon
heat less oppressive. A quantity of the pique that had been with him
ever since setting forth from the city departed. There were worse
assignments, after all, than writing up a fallen star.
Abruptly he applied the brakes and brought the convertible to a
screeching halt. His blue eyes started from his boyish face.
Well they might. The two Humpty Dumptyish creatures squatting in the
middle of the road were as big as heavy tanks and, judging from their
"skin tone," were constructed of similar material. They had arms like
jointed cranes and legs like articulated girders. Their scissors-like
mouths were slightly open, exposing maws the hue of an open hearth at
tapping time. Either they were all body and no head, or all head and no
body. Whichever was the case, they had both eyes and ears. The former
had something of the aspect of peek holes in a furnace door, while the
latter brought to mind lopsided Tv antennae.
As Dexter watched, the foremost of the two metallic monsters advanced
upon the convertible and began licking the chrome off the grill with a
long, tong-like tongue. Meanwhile, its companion circled to the rear
and took a big bite out of the trunk. There was an awesome CRUNCH! and
the convertible gave a convulsive shudder.
At this point, Dexter got out and ran. More accurately, he jumped
out and ran. A hundred feet down the road, he stopped and turned. He
was just in time to see monster No. 1 bite off the right headlight.
CRUNCH! Not to be outdone, monster No. 2 bit off the right taillight.
CRUNCH-CRUNCH! An acrid odor affronted Dexter's nostrils, and he
discerned a faint yellow haze hovering about the convertible. The
rear wheels went in two bites. The 250 H.P. motor required three.
CRUNCH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH! The upholstery caught fire and began to burn. A
gout of flame shot up as the gas tank exploded. Far from discouraging
the two monsters, the resultant inferno merely served to whet their
appetites. CRUNCH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH!
Dexter's shoulders sagged, and the spot next to his heart that the
convertible had shared with his best girl gave a spasmodic twinge.
Removing his suitcoat and slinging it over his shoulder, he turned his
back on the grisly repast and set out sadly for Sugardale.
He had not gone far before his stalled thought-processes got into gear
again.
* * * * *
The falling star he had been assigned by his editor to write up had
been an unusually brilliant one according to the report the paper
had received. Maybe its unusualness did not stop there. Maybe it was
something more than a mere meteorite. Certainly the two monsters could
not be classified as local woodland creatures.
All of which was fine as far as copy was concerned. But it didn't bring
his convertible back.
Presently he saw two sizable deposits of slag at the side of the road,
and approaching them more closely, he discovered that they were still
warm. Could they be the remains of a previously devoured automobile? he
wondered. What an ignominious fate indeed to overtake a car! He looked
at the two deposits once more before moving on. All he could think of
were two piles of elephant dung.
A mile and half later, he emerged in a small valley that sported a
handful of houses, a scattering of business places, a church or two
and a goodly number of trees. A roadside sign informed him that he
had reached his destination, that its population was 350, and that
its speed limit was 20 mph. The population, however, was nowhere in
evidence, and the speed limit seemed silly in view of the absence of
cars.
A scared-looking housewife, upon whose door he knocked, told him
he'd probably find the local minion of the law at the Sugardale Inn,
"sucking up beer the way he always is when he should be out earning
his money." The Inn turned out to be a sagging three-story structure
in desperate need of a paint-job. There was a model A sedan parked
in front of it, the first automobile Dexter had seen. Formerly the
establishment had provided a haven for weary travelers. Now it provided
a haven for contented cockroaches. Its _fin de si├Ęcle_ bar was a
collector's item, and standing at it, one foot propped on the brass
bar-rail, was a lone customer. He was tall and thin, and somewhere in
his sixties, and he was wearing blue denim trousers and a blue chambray
shirt. There was a lackluster badge pinned on the fading shirtfront,
and a beat-up sombrero sat atop the graying head.
"Sheriff Jeremiah Smith at your service," he said calmly when Dexter
dashed up to him. He took a sip from the schooner of beer that sat on
the bar before him. "Got troubles, have you, young man?"
"My car," Dexter said. "I was driving along the road and--"
"Got ate up, did it? Well, it's not the first one to get ate up around
here." Jeremiah Smith faced the doorway that led to the lobby. "Mrs.
Creasy, get this young man a beer," he called.
A plump middle-aged woman whose dark hair fell down over her eyes like
a thicket came into sight behind the bar. She flicked a cockroach off
the drain-board with an expert forefinger, drew Dexter a schooner and
set it before him. Jeremiah Smith paid for it. "Drink her down, young
man," he said. "I know how _I'd_ feel if _my_ car got ate up."
Manfully, Dexter dispatched half the contents of the schooner, after
which he introduced himself and explained the nature of his mission
to Sugardale. "I never figured on anything like this, though," he
concluded.
"You must have made it through just before the road-block was set up,"
Jeremiah said. "You were lucky."