Alien
by George O. Smith
The telephone rang and the
lieutenant of police Timothy McDowell grunted. He put down his
magazine, and hastily covered the partially-clad damsel on the front
cover before he answered the ringing phone.
"McDowell," he grunted.
"McDowell," came the
voice in his ear. "I think ye'd better come overe here."
"What's up?"
"Been a riot at McCarthy's
on Boylston Street."
"That's nothing new,"
growled McDowell, "excepting sometimes it's Hennesey's on
Dartmouth or Kelley's on Massachusetts."
"Yeah, but this is
different."
"Whut's so different about a
riot in a jernt like McCarthy's on a street like Boylston?"
"Well, the witnesses say it
wuz started by a guy wearin' feathers instead uv hair."
"A bird, you mean."
"Naw. 'Twas a big fella,
according to tales. A huge guy that refused to take off his hat and
they made a fuss. They offered to toss him out until he uncovered,
and when he did, here was this full head of feathers. There was a
general titter that roared up into a full laugh. The guy got mad."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. He got mad and made a
few swings. 'Twas quite a riot."
"What did McCarthy expect –
a dance? When a guy gets laughed at for having feathers instead of
hair. … Holy St. Patrick! Feathers, did ye say?"
"Yup."
"Look, O'Leary,"
growled McDowell angrily, "you've not been drinkin' yourself,
have ye?"
"Nary a drop, lieutenant."
"So this bird takes off his
hat and shows feathers. The crowd laughs and he gets mad. Then what?"
"Well, he tossed the
bartender through the plate glass window, clipped McCarthy on the
button and tossed him across the bar and wrecked about fifteen
hundred dollars worth of fine Irish whiskey. Then he sort of picked
up Eddy, the bouncer, and hit Pete, the waiter, with him. Then,
having started and finished his own riot, the guy takes his drink,
downs it, and stamps out, slamming the door hard enough to break the
glass."
"Some character,"
glowed McDowell, admiringly. "But what am I supposed to do?"
"McCarthy wants to swear out
a warrant for the guy. But before we do, I want to know more about
this whole thing. First off, what's a man doing wearing feathers
instead of honest hair?"
"Ask him," grunted
McDowell.
"Shall I issue the warrant?"
"Yeah – disturbing the
peace. He did that, anyway. And if it's some advertising stunt –
this feathers business – I'll have some wiseacre in jail in the
morning. Look, O'Leary, I'll meet you at McCarthy's in ten minutes."
He hung up the phone and snapped the button on his communicator.
"Doc?" he barked. "Come
along if you want to. We've got us a guy wearing feathers instead of
hair!"
"Trick," growled the
doctor. "Go away. No one can grow feathers instead of hair."
"That's why I want you
along. Come on, Doc. This is an order!"
"Confound you and your
orders." He hung up angrily, and the lieutenant heard him
breaking up the poker game as he snapped his own switch closed.
* * * * *
It was ten minutes to the second
when the car pulled up before McCarthy's. O'Leary was already inside,
talking to a man holding a chunk of raw beef to his eye.
"Now," said McDowell,
entering with the doctor on his heels, "what's this about
feathers?"
"Swear it, lieutenant. An' I
want the devil clapped in jail where he belongs."
"Sure now," said
McDowell in a mollifying tone, "and you can prove them feathers
were really growin'?"
"Sure," snapped
McCarthy. "Here!" and he handed Lieutenant McDowell
something slightly bloody. It was a bit of skin, to which was
attached three tiny feathers. "Just before he bopped me I got me
hands in his scalp to see if they wuz real. They wuz, because they
came hard and he howled and went madman."
McDowell handed the specimen to
Doc. "Examine it, Doc. One, are they real feathers? Two, is that
real human skin, and three, is that human blood?"
"That'll take time,"
said the doctor looking at the bloody bit. "Bet that hurts,
though."
"Hurts?" grunted
McDowell. "So what?"
"By which I mean that he'll
be visiting a doctor or a hospital for treatment. That's no
home-remedy job!"
"O.K.," smiled McDowell
cheerfully. "Now look, McCarthy. We'll get right on it. You've
got your warrant and can prefer charges. Meanwhile there's nothing I
can do here. We'll go back to the station and go to work."
"How about the damages?"
growled the owner.
"I'm a policeman, not a
civil lawyer," returned McDowell. "Take it to court when we
catch our – bird."
"A fine force we got,"
grumbled McCarthy belligerently.
McDowell grunted angrily and
turned to O'Leary. "He don't like us," he said.
"McCarthy, have you been
closing promptly at midnight on Saturday night?" demanded
O'Leary. "That's a bad law to break, you know."
"I've been lawful,"
returned the barkeep. "And I'll watch me step in the future."
McDowell laughed and he and the
Doc left the place.
* * * * *
Back
at the station, reporters met them with questions. McDowell held up a
hand. "Look, boys," he said with a grin, "this may be
something you can print. It may also be an attempt to ridicule the
force. I'll tell you this much: There was a guy apparently wearing
feathers instead of hair that started a riot in McCarthy's on
Boylston a little while ago. Now if you'll hold off phoning that in
until we check, we'll tell you whether the guy was wearing feathers –
or growing
them!
Also – whether he was human. Mind waiting?"
"We'll wait," came the
chorused reply.
"Whatcha going to use for
lead?" asked one reporter of another.
"I don't know yet. It
depends whether he was having a frat initiation or was really one of
our fine feathered friends."
McDowell followed the doctor in –
and the reporters followed the lieutenant in. Gag or not, thought
McDowell, these guys will be as good to me as I am to them. And if it
is a gag, we'll show 'em that we know how to find out about such,
anyway.
Doc ignored the room teeming with
people, and went to work. He made test after test, and then pored
through a couple of volumes from his bookcase. Finally he gave that
up and faced the group, casting a glance at McDowell.
McDowell said: "This is off
the record until I find out what he's got to say. If it's O.K., you
get it first hand, O.K.?"
The reporters nodded.
Doc cleared his throat. "The
skin is human – so is the blood. Indications are the feathers were
growing out of the skin, not merely inserted."
"You're certain?"
gasped one reporter.
"I'm reasonably sure,"
qualified the doctor. "Skin ... well, skin has certain tests to
prove it. This stuff is human skin, I'm certain. It couldn't be
anything else. The feathers – I tried to classify them, but it will
take a professional ornithologist to do that."
"But Doc," queried the
reporter, "if that's human skin, how can feathers be growing out
of it?"
"Ask me another," said
the doctor, puzzled.
"Huh," grunted the
reporter. "Man from – ?" He shut his trap but quick, but
the words carried enough connotation.
"Look," said McDowell,
"you can use that Man from Mars gag if you want to, but don't
say we said so. It's your own idea, see?"
"Right, lieutenant,"
they said, happy to get this much. It would make a bit of reading,
this item.
"Now," said McDowell.
"Doc and I are going over to Professor Meredith's place and ask
him if he knows what kind of feathers these are."
One reporter spoke up quickly.
"I'm holding mine until we get Meredith's report," he said.
"And I've got a station wagon outside. Come on, lieutenant and
Doc – and any of you mugs that want to ride along."
There was a grand rush for the
door.
* * * * *
Professor Meredith looked the
feather over carefully, classifying it as best he could. He sorted
through several books, consulted many notes of his own, and made
careful counts of the spines-per-inch along the shaft of the feather.
He noted its coloring carefully and called for a general statement as
to the color, size, and general shape of the feather.
"This is done somewhat like
you file fingerprints," he told the lieutenant. "But here
at home I'm stumped. I've never seen that kind before. However, over
at the university we have a punched-card sorter. We can run through
all known birds and see if any of the feathers agree with this
specimen."
This time they took Professor
Meredith along with them. Using official sanction, the professor
opened the laboratory and entered the building. It was three hours
later that the professor made his official statement to the police
and to the press.
"This feather is not known
to the scientific world," he said. "However, it does exist,
and that proves that the scientific world does not know everything
there is. I would say, however, that the animal from which this came
is not known in any regular part of the civilized world."
"Explain that, Professor
Meredith," requested McDowell.
"It is a small feather –
fully grown. It is in an advanced stage of evolution. Feathers, you
know, evolved from scales and we can tell how far they have come. It
must come from a small bird, which is also evidenced by the fact that
it is not known to man. There are places in the backwaters of the
Amazon where man has not been, and certain spots in Africa and the
part of the world near Malaya. Oceania, and others."
"May
we quote you on this, professor?" asked the Press.
"Why – yes. But tell me
now, where did you get that feather?"
McDowell explained. And Professor
Meredith gasped. "I'll revise my statements," he said with
a smile. "This feather is not known to exist in the scientific
world. If the story is true, that this feather emerged from the scalp
of a man, it is a scientific curiosity that would startle the world –
and make a mint for the owner in any freak show."
The
reporter from the Press
said: "Professor, you state that this feather is not known to
the scientific world. Is there any chance that this – creature –
is utterly alien?"
"Since the disclosure of the
affair at Hiroshima and Nagasaki," smiled the professor, "a
lot of people have been thinking in terms of attaining the stars –
interplanetary travel. As a member of a certain society known as the
Forteans, one of our big questions has been this: If interplanetary
travel is possible, why hasn't someone visited us? Gentlemen, I'd not
like to hear myself quoted as giving the idea too much credulence,
but it is something to ponder."
That
did it. There was another general rush for the car. There was a wild
ride following, in which the man from the Press
displayed that he had two things – a careful disregard for traffic
laws, plus illegal ownership of a siren. But they delivered Professor
Meredith to his home, the policemen to their station, and then the
party broke up heading for their respective telephones.
Three hours later Lieutenant
McDowell was reading a headline stating: "Hub of world to be Hub
of Universe?"
* * * * *
McDowell groaned. "Everything
happens to Boston, and everything in Boston happens on Boylston
Street. And everything that happens on Boylston Street happens to
me."
Doc smiled sourly. "Now
what?"
"We've canvassed the medical
profession from Brookline to Everett, including the boys on Scollay
Square and a bouquet of fellows who aren't too squeamish about their
income. Not a sign. Furthermore, that feather specimen was
telephotoed to the more-complete libraries at New York, Chicago,
Washington, and Berkeley. The Audubon Society has been consulted, as
well as have most of the big ornithologists in the world. The sum
total is this:
"That feather is strictly
unlike anything known. The skin is human – or as one dermatologist
put it, is as human as possible considering that it is growing
feathers instead of hair. The blood is the same story."
Doc nodded. "Now what?"
he repeated, though the sense of his words was different.
"We
wait. Boy, there's a big scareline in all the papers. The Press
is
hinting that the guy is from outer space, having been told that there
were intelligent humans here by that series of atom bomb explosions."
"If we were really
intelligent, we could get along with one another without atom bombs,"
grunted the Doc.
"Well,
the Sphere
claims that the character is a mutant resulting from atom bomb
radiation by-products, or something. He quotes the trouble that the
photographic manufacturers are having with radioactive specks in
their plants. The Tribune
goes even further. He thinks the guy is an advance spy for an
invasion from outer space, because his gang of feather-bearing humans
are afraid to leave any world run loose with atom bombs.
"The
ultraconservative Events
even goes so far as to question the possibility of a feather-bearing
man growing to full manhood without having some record of it. Based
on that premise, they build an outer space yarn about it, too."
Doc grunted. "Used to be
invasions from Mars," he said.
"They're smarter now,"
explained McDowell. "Seems as how the bright boys claim that
life of humanoid varieties couldn't evolve on any planet of this
system but the Earth. Therefore if it is alien, it must come from one
of the stars. If it came from Mars it would be green worms, or
seven-legged octopuses. Venus, they claim, would probably sprout
dinosaurs or a gang of talking walleyed pike. Spinach, I calls it."
Doc smiled. "Notice that
none of 'em is claiming that they have the truth? It's all conjecture
so far."
"Trouble is that I'm the
fall guy," complained McDowell. "It landed in my lap and
now I'm it – expected to unravel it myself or be the laughingstock
of the country, Canada, and the affiliations of the Associated
Press."
* * * * *
The phone rang, and McDowell
groaned. "Some other guy wanting to climb on the wagon with us.
Been ringing all morning, from one screwbell or another with
theories, ideas, un-helpful suggestions as to how to trap the alien,
and so forth. My own opinion is to treat him nice, apologize for our
rather fool behavior, and see that he don't take a bad statement home
with him. If he tells 'em about us from what he's seen – Hello,"
he bawled into the phone.
"I am Mrs. Donovan, on
Tremont Street. I wanted to report that the fellow with the feathers
on his head used to pass my window every morning on his way to work."
"Fine," said McDowell,
unconvinced. "Will you answer me three questions?"
"Certainly."
"First, how do you know –
seems he never took his hat off?"
"Well, he was large and he
acted suspicious –"
"Sure," growled
McDowell, hanging up the phone.
He turned again to Doc. "It's
been like this. People who think they've seen him; people who are
sure they've had him in for lunch, almost. Yet they missed calling
about a character growing feathers instead of hair until there's a
big fuss – just as though a guy with a head covered with feathers
was quite the ordinary thing until he takes a swing at a guy in a
saloon."
Doc said: "You've canvassed
all the medics in Boston and environs?"
"In another hour we'll have
all the medics in Massachusetts. Give us six hours and we'll have 'em
all over New England and part of Canada, New York, and the fish along
the Atlantic Ocean."
"Have you tried the
non-medics?"
"Meaning?"
"Chiropodists, and the like.
They aren't listed in the Medical Register, but they will often take
care of a cut or scrape."
McDowell laughed. "Just like
a stranger to go to a foot specialist to get a ripped scalp taken
care of."
"Well, it is farfetched, but
might be."
"I'm going to have the boys
chalk all sorts, and we'll follow up with the pharmacists. Does that
feather-headed bird know how much money he's costing the city, I
wonder?" McDowell gritted his teeth a bit as the phone rang
again. "I wonder what this one has to say," he snarled, and
then barked: "McDowell," into the instrument.
"I have just seen the
feather-headed man on Huntington Avenue," replied a gruff voice.
"This is Dr. Muldoon, and I'm in a drugstore on the corner of
Huntington and Massachusetts."
"You've seen him? How did
you know?"
"His hat blew off as he came
out of the subway entrance here."
"Subway -?"
The doctor chuckled. "The
Boston Elevated, they call it. He headed toward Symphony Hall just a
moment ago – after collecting his hat."
"How many people were
there?"
"Maybe a dozen. They all
faded out of sight because they're a bit scared of that alien-star
rumor. He grabbed his hat rather quickly, though, and hurried out of
the way as I came here to telephone."
"Stay there," snapped
McDowell, "and I'll be right over."
McDowell and Doc jumped into the
car and went off with the siren screaming. McDowell cursed a traffic
jam at Copley Square and took the corner on one and one-half wheels
into Huntington. They ignored the red light halfway up Huntington,
and they skidded to a stop at Massachusetts Avenue to see a portly
gentleman standing on the corner. He wasted no time, but jumped in
the car and introduced himself as Dr. Muldoon.
"He went this way,"
pointed the doctor. The car turned roughly and started down the
street. They combed the rabbit-warren of streets there with no sign
of the feather-headed man at all.
McDowell finally gave up. "There
are a million rooming houses in this neighborhood," he said
sorrowfully. "He could lose himself in any one of them."
"I'm sorry," said the
doctor. "It's funny that this cut scalp hasn't caused him to
turn up somewhere."
"That's what we'd hoped
for," said McDowell. "But either the guy is treating
himself or he's got an illegal medic to do the job."
"From what you say – a
piece of scalp ripped loose – it is nothing to fool around with.
How big was the piece?"
"About as big as a
fingernail," grinned McDowell.
"Most dangerous. He might
die of infection."
"I wonder if he knows that?"
"I wouldn't know," said
Dr. Muldoon.
"Well, I've combed the
doctors. Now I'm going after the dermatologists, chiropodists,
osteopaths, and pharmacists. I might as well take a swing at the
chiropractors, too, and maybe hit that institution down on Huntington
near Massachusetts. They might know about him."
McDowell looked up at the
second-story offices that bordered Massachusetts Avenue between
Huntington and Boylston and shook his head. "A million doctors,
dentists, and what-nots. And what is a follicologist?"
"A hair specialist."
"A what?" exploded
McDowell. He jammed on the brakes with a hundred and seventy pounds
of man aided with some muscle-effort against the back of the seat.
The police car put its nose down and stopped. But quick. Traffic
piled up and horns blasted notice of impatience until McDowell jumped
out, signaled to a traffic cop to unsnarl the mess. Then McDowell
raced into the office.
* * * * *
He paused at the door marked:
Clarence O'Toole, Follicologist. McDowell paused, listening, for two
voices were coming through the door. One was rumbling, low. The other
was in a familiar brogue.
"But this hurts,"
complained the rumble.
"Naturally. Any scalping
hurts. But money will ease any hurt."
"But where's this money?"
"You are to get ten percent
of my profit for a year. That plus a good head of hair. Isn't that
enough?"
"Ordinarily, yes. But I'm in
a jam, now. The police are looking for me with blood in their eyes."
"Now, surrender yourself,"
said the brogue. "Go to this Lieutenant McDowell. Explain the
error. Tell them that you were afraid, that you'd been hiding because
of the ridicule attendant to the feathers on your scalp. Then go to
the press and demand satisfaction for their ridicule, libel; throw
the book at them. That will get us the publicity we want, and as soon
as the thing is explained, people will come in droves. But first you
can explain to McDowell –"
"And start now!"
exploded McDowell, bursting in angrily. He pointed the business-end
of his revolver at them and waved them back. "Sit down," he
barked. "And talk!"
"It was him," accused
the feather-headed one. "He wanted me to do this – to get into
an argument. To get publicity. He can grow hair – I've been as bald
as an onion."
"Sure," drawled
McDowell. "The jury will decide." He turned to O'Toole.
"Are you a doctor?"
"I am not a licensed Doctor
of Medicine."
"We'll see if what you are
doing can be turned into a charge of practicing with no license."
"I'm not practicing
medicine. I'm a follicologist."
"Yeah? Then what's this
feather-business all about?"
"Simple. Evolution has
caused every genus, every specimen of life to pass upward from the
sea. Hair is evolved from scales and feathers evolved also from
scales.
"Now," continued
O'Toole, "baldness is attributed to lack of nourishment for the
hair on the scalp. It dies. The same thing often occurs in
agriculture –”
"What has farming to do with
hair-growing?" demanded McDowell.
"I was coming to that. When
wheat will grow no longer in a field, they plant it with corn. It is
called 'Rotation of Crops.' Similarly, I cause a change in the
growth-output of the scalp. It starts off with a light covering of
scales, evolves into feathers in a few days, and the feathers evolve
to completion. This takes seven weeks. After this time, the feathers
die because of the differences in evolutionary ending of the host.
Then, with the scalp renewed by the so-called Rotation of Crops."
"Uh-huh. Well, we'll let the
jury decide!"
Two months elapsed before O'Toole
came to trial. But meantime, the judge took a vacation and returned
with a luxuriant growth of hair on his head. The jury was not cited
for contempt of court even though most of them insisted on keeping
their hats on during proceedings. O'Toole had a good lawyer.
And Judge Murphy beamed down over
the bench and said: "O'Toole, you are guilty, but sentence is
suspended indefinitely. Just don't get into trouble again, that's
all. And gentlemen, Lieutenant McDowell, Dr. Muldoon, and Sergeant
O'Leary, I commend all of your work and will direct that you, Mr.
McCarthy, be recompensed. As for you," he said to the
ex-featherhead. "Mr. William B. Windsor, we have no use for
foreigners -"
Mr. Windsor never got a chance to
state that he was no foreigner; his mother was a Clancy.
You can check out George O. Smith's wikipedia page here
This story is taken from Project Gutenberg. The etext was produced from Outstanding Science Fiction October 1946. For legal reasons the following statement must be included: (This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).
