“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Joe said. “Nobody ever believes a word we print. Or at any rate, no one does who matters.” He’d used the line before, but it wasn’t true. While government agencies might not actually believe what was printed in the tabloids, Joe knew they sometimes checked out articles. One of the funniest stories Joe had ever heard came from a buddy who worked for the Sun. He’d been in Oregon when a team of Federal agents had gotten lost searching for Bigfoot. The story had never seen print, of course; some things were a little too hot for even a tabloid to handle.

  This might be one of them, but Joe thought he could get at least one good story in before official secrecy closed Sam off from the world and his special customers. Too bad for Sam, but it could put the human race in touch with the stars. For all the surface cynicism that came with his job, Joe was a romantic, and he had gone to work for National News Probe because he wanted to believe in their stories, the offbeat, odd things that said there was a little magic left in the world. In it, and out of it. Joe couldn’t take his eyes off the spaceships outside. Real spaceships.

  And real aliens. Joe stiffened as he saw two men approaching the barbed wire fence. They looked like shoe salesmen, but as they ducked through the fence and passed the light-bend, their appearance shifted. They didn’t look like monsters or bugs; if Joe had seen a picture of them, he would have thought they were animals from Earth that he just didn’t happen to recognize. There were a lot of species he didn’t know. But they weren’t animals.

  Behind him, Sam spoke again. His voice sounded almost sad. “You may be right, Joe, but I’m afraid I can’t take a chance. I ain’t letting anyone wreck my business. I can’t let you print that story. I’m sorry.”

  His voice was so genuinely remorseful Joe almost reassured him it was okay, he didn’t have to apologize. Instead, Joe tried to turn and found he couldn’t move. He was stuck, staring out the window and watching the animal-shaped aliens approach. Sam moved around to where Joe could see him. He held up a short metal tube. It looked like a weapon; it must have frozen him.

  “You really think I could do business here for twelve years and not have some problems?” Sam asked, shaking his head dolefully. “I hate it when this happens, but like I told you, I ain’t letting nobody ruin this. I got me enough saved up, almost, to take that vacation on Mars I been wanting for years. They got a nice little resort colony there, lot of different races of aliens go there.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” Joe whispered. “Now, don’t go getting afraid,” Sam said, “no one’s gonna hurt you. They always need new humans for research, but it’s more like answering questions, taking polls and such; they don’t cut people up.” The door opened, and the two aliens came in. Sam waved to them and said, “Sorry to call you fellas out like this, but I figured this wouldn’t wait. Guy’s a tabloid reporter.”

  The alien on the left spoke. “No trouble, Sam.” Despite the hooves and hide, he sounded like a Texan. “We’ll run him over to Mars right away and arrange for transshipment.”

  “Now don’t be afraid,” Sam told Joe again as the two aliens picked him up. “You said you was interested in UFOs. You’re going to get to see a lot of them, now.”

  Joe tried to shake his head, but he was still frozen. As they carried him toward one of the conventionally saucershaped ships, his main emotion was not fear, or anger, or regret. It was frustration.

  It was the greatest story of his career, but someone else would have to write it now.

  Tabloid reporter abducted by UFO aliens!

  Danny’s Excellent Adventure!

  by Greg Cox

  Gone But Not Forgotten. What is it about our former Vice President that proved so inspirational?

  At least Danny’s story is in the capable hands of Greg Cox, who has this to say for himself: “After perusing too many issues of the Weekly World News, Greg Cox abandoned a promising career as a skid row phlebotomist to pursue a sordid life of writing and editing. Medical experts have pronounced his brain irreparably rotted; he is currently confined to the North Wing of Tor Books in New York.”

  Oh yes, and he’s writing Devil in the Sky, a Star Trek: Deep Space 9 novel, with John Gregory Betancourt.

  “I didn’t live in this century.”

  —J. Danforth Quayle

  “I think he was telling the truth,” Ratio says.

  “Huh?” I reply. We’re having our weekly lunch at the Aloha Diner in midtown Manhattan, sitting in one of the rear booths and sipping our complimentary glasses of ice water while we wait for the Greek waiter to deliver our meals. Ratio leans across the table toward me, his eyes wide behind his tinted spectacles, his voice hushed with the import of this latest revelation. I hadn’t seen him this excited since he’d claimed to have met Grace Kelly’s ghost during an astral voyage—and found out that Princess Di was the reincarnation of Lee Harvey Oswald. Oh boy, I think. This is going to be good.

  “I think he’s from the future,” Ratio explains. The air-conditioning is out, and a bead of sweat works its way down from Ratio’s aluminum skullcap to the collar of his glow-in-the-dark, cross-covered, anti-vampire T-shirt. “I think the Vice President is a time traveler!”

  “Come again?” Sometimes I think Ratio’s from another dimension himself, but I don’t mind. He makes for good copy, especially if the paper you write for isn’t too picky about its sources. And The Weekly Exposure, “The Nation’s Nose for News,” has more astrologers on call than Nancy Reagan ever did. Me, I didn’t need psychic powers, just a good imagination and a few colorful acquaintances.

  Like my current lunch date. His parents named him Horatio, but he shortened it to Ratio, like that’s an improvement. He used to work at the paper, too, a few years ago, but he got canned for spending too much time out-of-body. Fortunately, his folks left him money as well as a silly moniker. He’s given me some of my best headlines, though, like CROP CIRCLES CURE CANCER and MICHAEL LANDON RETURNS FROM LITTLE HOUSE IN THE SKY . . . TO LEAD TEENAGE WEREWOLF ONTO HIGHWAY TO HEAVEN.

  Hey, it’s a living.

  “Think about it,” Ratio continues. “Suppose you want to observe firsthand the most crucial events of the late twentieth century, but don’t want to risk doing anything that might change the course of history. You couldn’t choose a better job to have than Vice President!”

  “Hmmm. You’ve got a point there,” I admit, as I pull out a pad and pencil and start taking notes. “Still . . . Dan Quayle, Time Cadet?”

  “But it’s the only thing that makes sense!” Ratio pelts my face with a gentle spray of saliva. I reach discreetly for a napkin. “My best guess is that they replaced the real Quayle right before the nomination. How else do you explain his apparent unfamiliarity with history, geography, even the English language as it’s currently spoken? I’m figuring he must have been inadequately briefed.”

  I start to prod him for examples, but it’s not necessary. Ratio’s on a roll. “I mean, look at the record. He says that the Holocaust was a dark chapter in American history, he says that Mars has a breathable atmosphere. . . .” Ratio pauses, and I can practically see a new idea taking root behind his chartreuse lenses. “Wow, you think they’ve terraformed Mars by the thirtieth century?”

  Now, I’ve always thought that the best sensationalism contains a token pretense at skepticism, a bit of quasi-journalistic seasoning to make the silliness more credible, so I decide to play sanity’s advocate for a bit. “Okay, maybe he’s a time traveler,” I suggest, “or maybe he’s just a moron who spells ‘potato’ with an E.”

  Ratio isn’t discouraged. “Perhaps that’s how it’s spelled where he comes from! Languages change over time. If you were dropped back into Merrie Olde England, I’ll bet thee thine spelling wouldst sucketh.”

  “Fine,” I concede, “and ‘Happy Camper’ is probably a standard honorific in futureworld. But try this on for size . . . the whole idea is to observe and not do anything significant, right?”

  “Of course,” Ratio agrees. “In fact, in November 1988, Quayle said, and I quote: 7 deserve respect for the things I did not do. ’ Why, that’s practically the Time Traveler’s Oath!” ‘

  “Er, right, but my point is that everything you’ve said so far would make sense if this were still, say, 1992. If he were just this do-nothing veep who said dopey things sometimes. But, pal, read the paper these days. Quayle’s all over the place, campaigning and making policy. The man’s probably going to be elected President in November. Don’t tell me that’s not interfering with history.”

  Ratio falls silent for a moment. “You’re right,” he says slowly, “. . . unless . . . oh, my God! . . . he’s gone renegade!” Our waiter finally arrives with two cheeseburgers, an egg cream, and a large ginger ale; despite its name, the closest the Aloha comes to Hawaiian cuisine is a pineapple sundae. Ratio ignores the food. He’s practically shouting now, as heads turn in our direction and I try to shrink into my seat. The life of an investigative reporter is sometimes embarrassing.

  “The power must have gone to his head,” my companion raves, oblivious to the stares from the rest of the lunchers. “He’s gone beyond his mission parameters, violating the Temporal Prime Directive in a mad attempt to seize control of our era. Dan Quayle’s become a threat to the entire spacetime continuum!”

  Okay, that’s it. I have more than enough for a good story, I decide. Now if I can just shut this lunatic up, before our friendly waiter throws us out. “Calm down, buddy,” I whisper urgently. “If he has broken the rules, then won’t the Time Police or somebody do something about it?”

  “Oh,” Ratio says. He takes a deep breath and I push his burger toward him. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “So,” I ask my coworker, “you think Dukakis has a chance?” We left the Exposure’s offices over an hour ago, but I’m in no hurry to get back to work. Ratio hesitates, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s zoning out again. He’s going to get fired if he doesn’t knock that off soon.

  Turns out he was just thinking. “I don’t know,” he says. “Clarence Thomas is certainly a surprising pick for Bush’s running mate. I’ve never heard of him before, but he’s supposedly got the right conservative credentials.” Ratio takes a gulp of ginger ale, then stares at me strangely. “Wow, I’m having the most incredible case of deja vu.”

  “Hold that thought,” I tell him. “Maybe there’s a story in it.”

  And if not, I’ll make one up.

  Royal Tiff Yields Face of Jesus!

  by Esther M. Friesner

  When I complained to my coeditor about the dearth of Nessie stories in this book, he said he saw nothing wrong with my supplying the lack.

  I want you to know that That Unfortunate Business in the British royal family happened after I wrote this. I am therefor currently working on a story in which a poor-but-honest anthology editor wins the Lottery.

  The distraught young woman pounded frantically on the cottage door. Rainwater streamed down her face, plastering her once-impeccably coiffed hair flat as an otter’s coat. She was too exhausted to bother pushing her bedraggled blonde locks out of her eyes. Between assaults on the door, she used both hands to hold together the briar-torn rags of her sacrificial robe. She had lost everything but her sense of propriety.

  The rain pelted through the bare branches of the surrounding woodland, peppering the surface of the nearby lake. In such a downpour, it was difficult to distinguish sounds. The young woman beat at the cottage door again, but her ears were filled with the thunder of pursuing footsteps and the hammering of her own heart.

  “Coming, coming, no need to batter the whole blessed house down.” A warm, cheery voice from within at last answered the woman’s wild tattoo. The cottage door opened to reveal an old hag who looked as if she had stepped straight out of a fairy tale. Gap-toothed, she grinned at her unexpected caller and said, “Well, yours is one famous face I didn’t think to see in the flesh, although there is the pantry floor . . . never could make up my mind about whether that was you or Madonna . . . Ah well, never mind. My name is Mrs. Betram Coombs; the widow Coombs, I suppose I should say, but do call me Daisy. Would you care to come in?”

  The young woman could only stare. Refuge at last. But for how long? came the shuddering thought. She could hardly dare to imagine; she would never again dare to hope.

  The beldame was making gentle, welcoming gestures with her knotty hands. “Come in, my dear, come in,” she encouraged. “I know you, right enough, but you needn’t fear. Religious questions have always stuck crosswise in my craw. Live and let live, that’s my motto. Oh, do come in! You’re perfectly safe here; I won’t give you away.”

  The younger woman straightened her shoulders. Some of the old royal poise returned. “I thank you for your kind offer of hos—of hos—” Her recent ordeal proved too much. She accepted the invitation to enter by fainting across the hag’s doorstep.

  She came to in a bruised old plush armchair with a cool cloth on her forehead and a ginger tomcat in her lap. Her ruined robes had been removed. She was naked beneath a ‘ musty blanket of undyed wool. A grand blaze of hardwood logs in the fireplace before her stole the last of the chill from her bones. The hag was seated in a matching armchair across from her, knitting a woolly jumper the color of mud.

  “So you’re awake, eh?” Daisy gave her a merry smile, apple cheeks held fast in a net of fine wrinkles. “Then I suppose it’s past time I made you a proper greeting.” She laid aside her knitting, rose to her feet, toddled across the hearth rug, and amid a symphony of creaking bones and popping joints, she made her visitor a deep curtsey.

  “Welcome, Your Majesty,” she said.

  “Don’t call me that!” The younger woman’s hands clapped themselves to her ears at the hated words. “In God’s name, I beg you!”

  Daisy cocked her head to one side. “Oh dear,” she remarked. “Which god would that be, then?”

  “I am still a Christian.” The younger woman sighed. “It gave him the final excuse he needed.”

  “To be sure, to be sure.” The crone set her knitting aside. “I don’t hold with such things myself. When they burned the Guys on November 5 in my day, there wasn’t anyone inside ’em. Not on purpose, anyway. Still, you must admit, the new program of government subsidized human sacrifice certainly has had a good effect on the economy. Unemployment’s been quite reduced, for one, and the level of emigration—”

  “If you throw enough victims into bogs as part of your regular Sunday services, and bum some more on major holidays, eventually you are bound to have just the number of people left you need to fill what situation vacancies there are.” The younger woman’s tone was scornful and bitter. “And if you declare it an act of both treason and heresy to want to leave this country, of course people will stop trying to do it.”

  “Particularly when the penalty for treason or heresy is being chucked into one of them bogs,” Daisy completed her guest’s thought. “I know. Well, never mind all that, dearie!” She clapped gnarled hands to knobby knees and stood up. “Whatever your faith or mine, it won’t stop us from enjoying a nice cup of tea.”

  The younger woman moved her legs tentatively, earning her a glance of supreme contempt from the tomcat before he leaped to the floor and stalked off, tail high. On shaky feet she followed her aged hostess from the fireside to a trim little white-clothed table that had been set for tea. It was at once comforting and terrifying to see such an artifact of the commonplace after her husband’s—conversion? revolution? insanity?—had knocked most of Britain’s fine old traditions into a cocked hat. The real horror was how readily the people had followed his lead once they saw the results.

  “Luck,” she muttered to herself as she pulled a chair up to the tea table. “Blind coincidence. Things might’ve gotten better for the country on their own just then. The Americans didn’t throw their whole House of Lords—I mean, Congress—into any stupid bog, and their economy perked up the same as ours.”

  Daisy glanced up at her guest. “Did you say something, dearie?” She was settling a blue and white striped tea cozy over the squat brown crockery teapot.

  “I was trying to determine who was the bigger loony: My husband for turning the whole blessed country Druid or the British people for letting him.”

  The hag chuckled. “Ah, you’re just upset. As well you might be, I’m sure. Personally I don’t favor any government or religion that allows a man to chuck his wife, mother of his children, into some smelly old bog just because they can’t get along. In my day we tried to work out our matrimonial differences. My Bertie was no prize, heaven knows. However, I wouldn’t go so far as to call His Majesty a loony. No more than history ever called Henry VIII mad. Oh, selfish, yes, and a spoiled brat, and a bully into the bargain, but he wasn’t crazy. He only wanted his own way, and he was willing to use any excuse he could to get it and still look noble. The cow.”

  For the first time in ages, the younger woman laughed. Her hostess leaned forward to pour. That was when she saw it and screamed.

  “Mercy, child!” Old Daisy sat back in her chair with an audible thump. “Whatever’s set you off so?”

  “Don’t—don’t you see it?” The younger woman pointed desperately at the cozy-shrouded teapot. “It’s a miracle!”

  “What, this old thing?” The old lady turned the teapot this way and that. “Just a simple striped knitting pattern, really, quite popular when I was a girl. There’s a variation where you can knit in a picture of a dear little kitten, but I never had the—”

  “That’s no kitten!” her guest exclaimed, beside herself. “That’s Elvis Presley!”

  “Oh?” Daisy studied the tea cozy from a number of angles. “Ah, yes. So it is. Silly me, I thought Mr. Presley only manifested on my plain green cozy—and the dented saucepan—and two of the antimacassars—and sometimes on my spare upper plate when I can’t find my usual brand of tooth powder at the market—but the blue and white striped cozy has always shown the face of John Lennon.” She frowned at the clear outline of the one and only American King’s profile. “Hmph. It’s he, right enough. As if he hasn’t taken up enough places in this house, to go and usurp that poor dear murdered British boy’s sole station—Isn’t that just like a Yank!”