The Day The Aliens Came
Robert Sheckley.
One day a man came to my door. He didn't quite look like a man, although he did
walk on two feet. There was something wrong with his face. It looked as though it had
been melted in an oven and then hastily frozen. I later learned that this expression was
quite common among the group of aliens called Synesters, and was considered by them
a look of especial beauty. The Melted Look, they called it, and it was often featured in
their beauty contests. “I hear you're a writer,” he said.
I said that was so. Why lie about a thing like that?
“Isn't that a bit of luck,” he said. “I'm a story buyer.”
“No kidding,” I said.
“Have you got any stories you want to sell?” He was very direct. I decided to be
similarly so.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“OK,” he said. “I'm sure glad of that. This is a strange city for me. Strange planet, too,
come to think of it. But it's the city aspect that's most unsettling. Different customs, all
that sort of thing. As soon as I got here, I said to myself, “Traveling's great, but where
am I going to find someone to sell me stories?”
“It's a problem,” I admitted.
“Well,” he said, “let's get right to it because there's a lot to do. I'd like to begin with a
ten thousand word novelette.”
“You've as good as got it,” I told him. “When do you want it?”
“I need it by then end of the week.”
“What are we talking about in terms of money, if you'll excuse the expression?”
“I'll pay you a thousand dollars for a ten thousand word novelette. I was told that was
standard pay for a writer in this part of Earth. This is Earth, isn't it?”
“It's Earth, and your thousand dollars is acceptable. Just tell me what I'm supposed to
write about.”
“I'll leave that up to you. After all, you're the writer.”
“Damn right I am,” I said. “so you don't care what it's about?”
“Not in the slightest. After all, I'm not going to read it.”
“Makes sense, “ I said. “Why should you care?” I didn't want to pursue that line of
inquiry any further. I assumed that someone was going to read it. That's what usually
happens with novelettes.
“What rights are you buying?” I asked, since it's important to be professional about
these matters.
“First and second Synestrian,” he said. “And of course I retain Synestrian movie rights
although I'll pay you fifty percent of the net if I get a film sale.”
“Is that likely?” I asked.
“Hard to say,” he said. “As far we're concerned, Earth is new literary territory.”
“In that case, let's make my cut sixty-forty.”
“I won't argue,” he said. “Not this time. Later you may find me very tough.
Who knows what I'll be like? For me this is a whole new frankfurter.” I let that pass.
An occasional lapse in English doesn't make an alien an ignoramus.
I got my story done in a week and brought it in to the Synester's office in the old MGM
building on Broadway. I handed him the story and he waved me to a seat while he read
it.
“It's pretty good,” he said after a while. “I like it pretty well.”
“Oh, good,” I said.
“But I want some changes.”
“Oh,” I said. “What specifically did you have in mind?”
“Well,” the Synester said, “this character you have in here, Alice.”
“Yes, Alice,” I said, though I couldn't quite remember writing an Alice into the story.
Could he be referring to Alsace, the province in France? I decided not to question him.
№sense appearing dumb on my own story.