Biznap and Corebait had managed to locate a television to watch. They wanted to monitor the local news for reports on anything bizarre. Biznap needed clues if he was going to execute his mission swiftly. The monitoring device was in the middle of an ornately decorated room. An excess of doilies graced the polished wooden furniture. Overstuffed chairs and sofas were covered with plastic dust covers. The whole room was guarded by one small Lassie-animal that registered on Corebait’s sensors as being near-sighted, mostly deaf, and highly flatulent. It was extremely aged for its species.
Corebait opened a screen window so that he and his commander might both climb into the room. The little guardian sniffed at the air and added more odor to the atmosphere to express his nervous puzzlement.
“What do we do if an Earth primate is in residence here?”
“Have your sensors picked someone up?”
“Nothing I can accurately interpret. I’m not a psychic super-genius like that Mr. Spock fellow with the pointy ears.”
“Well, if someone is here, just stay silent. We’re invisible to Earth primates who don’t know what signs to look for.”
Ceramic figurines from the mantelpiece began to float magically through the air. Corebait was examining little Dutch boys, Buster Browns, and Snow White with her seven dwarves. The guardian Lassie was staring myopically at his own reflection in a piece of hearthside brass. Biznap noticed a large mirror mounted on the wall for purposes he was unaware of. It was a well-tooled device, however, flawlessly executed and perfectly silvered on the back. He turned off his cloaking field for just a moment so that he might admire his fine Telleron features. He had cool blue eyes and an aquiline profile. His chin was much more firm and well-defined than that of the average toad-faced Telleron.
“Jiminy Christmas!” hollered the widow Castille as she dragged her electric vacuum sweeper out of the hall closet and into the drawing room. She picked up a handy curtain attachment and fell to bonking the alien intruder on the back and shoulders with it, showing the ferocity and determination of a samurai warrior defending his home province.
Harmony Castille was a small, dour church lady with no sense of humor and no tolerance for mess and disorder of any kind. She had white hair done up in a bun, dramatically out of style. Her dress was a green, flowered affair that proper, church-going women had adopted as their proper uniform back in the Sixties. It was light, sensible, and loose-fitting enough to allow for a great deal of athletic action which she was applying vigorously to reducing Commander Biznap to a pile of chopped steak.
Corebait had not been as truthful about his sensor readings as he should have been. He’d not read the human presence correctly because of Mrs. Castille’s pacemaker. The electronic device had confused the signature of her bioelectric radiance. And Corebait was certainly no Mr. Spock. He had, however, registered considerable movement indications from the hall closet, and simply decided to ignore them. He readied his molecular disintegrator in order to fix the problem. It was known among Corebait’s friends as emergency procedure B. “If you don’t know what to do, skortch it.”
Mister Lafayette, the aged poodle with severe stomach gas, had suddenly become aware of the intruders when his mistress attacked. Immediately he launched an ill-timed and poorly aimed assault that fixed four ancient fangs into the meatiest part of Mrs. Castille’s ankle.
Harmony Castille reached down for the sudden pain in her leg at the very same moment that Corebait pulled the trigger. A blue beam of exotic energy passed neatly over the top of Mrs. Castille’s gray-haired bun and reflected perfectly off the wall mirror behind her.
Corebait never actually became visible, but Telleron-shaped electrical flashes revealed where the Sindalusian Fmoog had been only milliseconds before. The room filled with the sort of smell you get when you put an alligator-skin handbag in a microwave and nuke it until it burns.
Harmony Castille was surprised by the sudden thud of the skortch ray pistol as it landed next to the hand she used to squeeze the ancient poodle’s throat. She picked up the weapon and pointed it at the green-skinned intruder. She kicked Lafayette deftly with her good leg and booted him out of harm’s way.
“Now, Mr. Spaceman! You are my prisoner. I used to be a Sunday school teacher, about thirty year’s worth. I know how to handle hooligans!”
Catch a Falling Star 