"I've been drinking the nectar of the gods. My Hera, you're properly
married to Zeus. I've my own little Greeks descended from Icarus."
She pretended a hopeless sag of her pretty shoulders. "Wouldn't you
just settle for a worldly martini?"
"I will, yes. But first a divine kiss."
I sipped at my martini and lounged in a terrace chair watching the
golden evening slant across the beautiful hills of our ranch. I
dreamed. I would invent a euphonious set of words to match the Basic
English vocabulary and teach it to them as their language. They would
have their own crafts and live in small tree houses.
I would teach them legends: that they had come from the stars, that
they had subsequently watched the first red men and then the first
white men enter these hills.
When they were able to take care of themselves, I would turn them
loose. There would be volpla colonies all up and down the Coast before
anyone suspected. One day, somebody would see a volpla. The newspapers
would laugh.
Then someone authoritative would find a colony and observe them. He
would conclude, "I am convinced that they have a language and speak it
intelligently."
The government would issue denials. Reporters would "expose the truth"
and ask, "Where have these aliens come from?" The government would
reluctantly admit the facts. Linguists would observe at close quarters
and learn the simple volpla language. Then would come the legends.
Volpla wisdom would become a cult--and of all forms of comedy, cults, I
think, are the funniest.
* * * * *
"Darling, are you listening to me?" my wife asked with impatient
patience.
"What? Sure. Certainly."
"You didn't hear a word. You just sit there and grin into space." She
got up and poured me another martini. "Here, maybe this will sober you
up."