Hello, Dr. Benson?


Yes. Who is this?


Dr. Hamish Heraldo Stuyvesant Benson III?


Well, my friends call me Stu -- who IS this?


THE Dr. Benson, the world-famous microbiologist, not just some plausible-sounding facsimile of the same?


Is this a crank call?


They are coming for you.


Who's coming for me?


They should be there in 5 seconds, 4 seconds, 3 seconds, 2 seconds, 1 second...




Yes! I told ya so! Psych! Who's the man? Ha ha!


WHO's that at the door?


You'll have to come with us, Mr. Benson.


Oh, will I, now?


Come on, double time.


But WHY? Who are you people? What is the meaning of this?


We can't answer your questions. Suffice it to say that we're a large group of important-looking men with deep voices and we've driven here in brand-new undercover vehicles, complete with flashing lights and sirens.


So what?


Well, surely we couldn't be putting on this expensive display of ours unless we had a real good reason for doing so -- certainly not in THIS anemic economy. I mean, this is an Armani suit I'm wearing, for God's sake. And those vehicles over there are 2008 --


2009.


Those are 2009 Jeep Grand Cherokees with all the trimmings.


Well, I don't know.


We can't be hit-men, right? because a hit-man would have shot you by now -- not to mention the fact that a mobster wouldn't publicize their presence like this by blasting all these sirens and then lining up this seemingly endless contingent of undercover vehicles in front of your house, all of them conspicuously brand-new or nearly so.


Okay, fine, I'm walking toward these brand-new cars of yours, but only under protest, you understand, since you STILL haven't even told me who you are.


sighs: Okay, I'll give you a hint: We're with the government.


Yeah? What government?


The U.S. government, of course. That's it, keep walking: the fancy aforementioned vehicles are right in front of you. Pretty impressive, huh? Mine is a 6-cylinder baby with a top-of-the-line 420 horsepower V8!


But why -- who --


Okay, look, Mr. Benson: We're a part of Homeland Security, okay? Of course, if it comes to that, the whole government's a part of Homeland Security these days.


Spit it out.


We're supposed to take you to the Nuclear Lab in Los Alamos, okay? That's all we know. Really.


That's right. Don't know much about geometry, that's for sure.


Don't know much about the French I took, I can tell you that.


But what about my troubled 5-year-old son back inside my house who has yet to get over his mother's recent death in a car accident for which he inwardly blames me, although with a little time and effort on my part, I'm hoping to reunite the two of us once again -- ideally before this summer is out -- in a henceforth unbreakable bond of filial affection built on trust and mutual respect?


Don't you have somebody you can leave him with?


You don't have kids, do you, Mr. G-Man?



Well, now that you mention it, I do see my next-door neighbor Madge over there, getting an eyeful of this spectacle over by the yellow crime tape that you've strewn so lavishly about my yard for some unknown reason --speaking of which, I do hope that somebody's going to get that stuff out of here before I get back: I take pride in my lawn, you know-- It's a big patch by city standards, and by heaven, I'll have it looking good!

Yo, Madge, I see you're getting an eyeful over there, ya nosey parker, you. Listen, can you watch my troubled but no-doubt redeemable son Peter for me while I go down to Los Alamos and clear up some apparently terrible but as-yet unspecified crisis for the government?


What government?


Don't worry: I've already checked. I'll be working for the good old U.S. of A.


Doing what?


I don't know -- in fact, THEY don't even seem to know. You know these government lackeys, Madge.


Hey, watch it!


But I'm sure it's all official: Just look at the suits that they're wearing. And you see those Grand Cherokees: They say they're all brand-new, or just about. Anyway, as has been pointed out to me, they're far too numerous to be mobsters.


But you have no idea what's going on?


It will surely have something to do with my field of molecular biology in which I have -- credit where credit's due -- somewhat -- ahem! -- distinguished myself over the past decade, aye, from my attention-grabbing professorial stint at Harvard to my not-insignificant advisory role at Ventner Labs during the very year -- call it coincidence if you will, Madge, but it's fact all the same -- in which they made their first initial breakthroughs upon which their ultimate unraveling of the first human genome was to be so integrally based.

Well, one tries, Madge, one tries.


All right, get in the car, Big Brains.




Peter goes to bed at 8:00, by the way.


Please, Mr. Benson.


Don't let him tell you differently.


All right.


And no snacks in bed, Madge. It's our little rule.


Please!


And frisk him for gerbils before you let him set foot in your house. The child -- God love him, to be sure, Madge -- has been a regular Damien from Omen II ever since you-know-what happened to you-know-whom.


You mean ever since his poor mother died in that car wreck that you had nothing to do with although he still blames you for it because his heart's been torn and he has to lash out somewhere?


I couldn't have said it better myself.


In the car, now! Please!


But good luck, all the same. Okay, okay: easy on the threads. This may not be an Armani suit, but then some of us aren't paid big bucks to stand around and look misleadingly important.


Okay, the Bluebottle is in. Proceeding to rendezvous 3.


Oh, now, don't tell me that my government code name is 'Bluebottle.' That's disgusting!


Well, it's probably an allusion to test tubes -- you know, microbiologist, test tubes, bottle?


Fancy naming me for a dung-eating blow-fly!


Listen, the department that makes up those code names is very low-level: To be honest, they probably didn't even realize that Bluebottle referred to a fly, dung-eating or otherwise.


Well, no doubt you're rounding up other scientists, too. I'd like to find out what nicknames THEY'VE been saddled with.


Like he says, that's not our department.


They're probably not all as good-natured as me. Wait till they find out that the code name given them by the U.S. government is something like 'Head Louse' or 'Tapeworm'!






I am not sure what is going on, my friends. I was making shampoo the hair, when these men in suits are kicking of the door to my bathroom.


Why they call us work with them? Lu-Wong not understand.


Wait a minute, what have we all got in common, guys?


Apart from our over-the-top and almost offensively stereotypical accents, ya mean, mate?


Well, if it wasn't for me personally, chaps, I'd be tempted to say that we were all lousy dressers. Oh, dear me! What a collection of shreds and patches! My, my!


You're one to talk, Mr. Prime Minister. You're wearing pajamas!


Well, if they surprise me in bed, they can scarcely expect to find me in an evening jacket.


Well --


Still, these are the finest in pure suede jacquard silk pajamas from Alfani, complete with top pocket, elastic drawstring waistband, and a contemporary geometric print.




Wait a minute: How many folks in here like myself are extremely intelligent and -- as it were -- sort of cutting-edge scientists, you know, really pushing the envelope in their particular fields?




I knew it! I for my part am an extremely intelligent microbiologist. How about you guys?


And I find myself sparkling with more than my fair share of brilliance in the arena of modern geophysics.


You don't say?


If Ranji is lying, Ranji is dying.


And I sabe the very last word when it comes to the biological origins of aquatic life in endangered desert ecosystems.




And I, well... .

Everyone, impatiently: YES?


Oh, nothing. I merely discovered the 118th element of the Periodic Table, that's all, a certain new noble gas called ununoctium.


Whatever. The point is, we're all bleedin' corkers on the scientific front.


But not all passengers raise hand.


Yes, you, sir: So you're NOT a scientist like the rest of us, then?


No.


So what DO you do?


Oh, nothing.


Come on, spill the beans. It should give us some insight into why they're rounding us up like this and shuttling us down to Los Alamos in this poorly insulated truck. Speaking of which, is it just me, or is it getting dashed cold in here now that the sun has gone down?


Yes. Please to tell us what your job is.


That's Okay, I'm good.


Don't be modest, mate. We all obviously have big important jobs, but we have to admit the fact freely and openly in order to find some common thread in our various apparently top-tier talents.


Well, if you must know...

Everyone, eagerly: YES?


Oh, I work at a McDonald's restaurant in Chesapeake, Virginia, okay? Are you happy now?!


Wow. Talk about an outlier stat: That is Way off the map. The man just blew the curve when it comes to our little detective game here.


Not to worry: I sure this man manage whole region worth of McDonald's restaurants. Am I right?


No such luck.


Surely, you're at least a district manager.


Look, I'm a lowly grease jockey, okay? End of story!


But think, old boy: Surely there is another aspect to this life of yours. Don't tell me you live, breathe, and EAT hamburgers!


You don't suppose that they've hired him to feed us scientists on the cheap while we're trying to save the world, do you?




Okay, okay: It was just a thought.


Well, I did attain some notoriety, mainly in the local papers several years ago -- culminating, in fact, in a short feel-good interview segment on CBS Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt -- for my ability to talk to animals -- you know, kind of like a horse whisperer, except that I could also communicate to some extent with dogs, cats, and various farm animals.


Aha! So you're a horse whisperer, are you? The plot thickens.


All right, everybody out: Follow me into the compound. Remember: No cell phones or pagers allowed inside, unless you feel that you personally are too important to follow the rules, of course, say you fancy yourself a Nitzschean Uberman on account of your untoward mental powers -- in which case, you'd better hide such items very ingeniously indeed, or I can guarantee you that the egghead-scorning Joe Sixpacks who are guarding the gates here tonight will take great joy in confiscating your electronic property, holding it up triumphantly for everyone to see, and shouting in the most derisive voice imaginable: "So, this is what they teach you guys in those high-falutin colleges of yours!" -- or spiteful words to that effect.

Are you kidding, I KNOW these guys: They still haven't forgiven me for going back to school last year and getting my GED!




I'm glad all you scientists could make it.


What about me?


What, you? You're the guy that works at Arby's, right?


No, sir, he works at McDonald's.


Oh, right.


We called him here because he has this intuitive ability to talk with species that aren't human.


Oho! So you're telling me that he used to work the all-night drive-thru at McDonald's? Ha ha! Get it?




I'm referring humorously, of course, to the no-doubt beastly sorts of customers that one would presumably have to deal with at such hours of the night and in such a venue...



Ahem, yes, well...



Unfortunately, however, that's the last one-liner you'll get out of me until we solve the problem that I am about to reveal to you. Gentlemen, look at this video screen. Tell me what you see.




: Well, I'll be an endangered pygmy owl living in a saguaro cactus, it looks like a curvaceous babe in an almost inappropriately skimpy bathing suit! Ooh, mama!


, suddenly befuddled: Oh, dear! Ahem. Wilson, who's been using this projector recently?! I keep telling you guys that this a-v equipment is for official use only!

My apologies, gentlemen, on behalf of some anonymous jokester here at the labs -- I honestly don't know HOW that picture got into this machine.

Now, if you'll bear with me a moment, I'll show you the video of the REAL problem that we have called you here to help us with today. And...

Ta-da! What do you make of THAT, gentlemen?


It looks like a big rock coming toward the earth at a great speed.


Precisely. It's some sort of HUGE asteroid -- and I do mean HUGE, gentlemen: as in gi-freakin'-normous, in fact!


And what happen if honorable object hit earth?


Honorable object blast us all to kingdom come.








Well, what are you waiting for, gentlemen? Stop gaping at the admittedly hypnotizing spectacle before you and get to work on a plan to save the planet from complete anihilation!


How much time do we have until impact?


Well, let me check my Mickey Mouse here, gentlemen... The big hand's on the eight, little hand on the one... That gives us 60 minutes tops.



Scientists: 60 minutes?!


Gentlemen, may I remind you that we are all professionals here -- with the obvious exception of our self-confessed grease jockey who seems to have some vague credentials as a sort of modernday Dr. Doolittle.


All right, now, Dr. Philips! Surely you didn't wake me up and drag me here just to make fun of my lowly status as a Mickey D employee?


No, of course not. We're after your dog-whispering skills.


Dog-whispering skills? What makes you think that the aliens -- should there be any, of course -- actually have canines -- or pets of ANY kind, for that matter?


Idiot! I'm not after your specific ability to talk to dogs: Jeez! I'm after your generic ability to talk to other species in general.


Oh, right. So you mean I could talk to the aliens for you guys and maybe even translate its responses for you.


Exactly.


Should any aliens show up, of course.


Exactly. Now, then:

Ideas, gentlemen?


Has the Pentagon tried launching a missile at it?


Do chickens have lips?


But let me guess, the rock was too big to destroy -- and even if they did destroy it, the debris of the explosion would probably still smash our poor earth into a massive collection of itty-bitty smithereens.


Bingo.



Well, talk amongst yourselves, people. Talk amongst yourselves! You've got a problem to solve. I'll be in the canteen, tanking up on some all-too-necessary caffeine if you guys need me over the coming vital hour.






Well, it's been nice at least casually knowing you guys, but it looks like we are all going to bite some serious dust in t-minus 4, 3, 2, 1...



Huh? What? When? Where?


Hey, what gives? We're not all smashed up into a massive collection of itty-bitty smithereens! I want my money back! not.




What's that, Mr. President? Would you guys keep the celebration down a little? I'm trying to talk to the President of the United States over here! How's that, Sir? The rock -- which now seems more like a luminescent bubble, you say, or even a spherical spaceship of sorts -- landed gently in Central Park in New York City, where it's now surrounded by the 5th Stryker Battalion of the U.S. Army, and you want our advice on whether they should bomb the thing to kingdom come, just in case?

All right, give us a half-hour, sir, and I'll call you back with our official, as it were, extremely eggheaded decision on the matter. Yes, 30 minutes. Thank you. Bye now.


But we're scientists, not ethicists.


I know, I know -- but we don't have time to rush back out and kidnap a bunch of world-renowned philosophers, so we'll just have to hope that some of you guys' scientific smarts will resonate across the curriculum, so to speak.


Across the --


Sorry to interruption you, but AAAAAAAH!


What do you mean by AAAAAAH, Ranji?


AAAAAAAH!!!


Oh, great: Now you've set Benson off.




Great. Now it appears that only I am remaining calm. What in blazes are you guys screaming about?!


Look at the screen, you idiot!


What? Oh, my --

NOW I get it: You guys are right: AAAAAAAAAAAH!




Now where did that guy from Arby's get to!


That's McDonald's, sir!


I'm over here screaming, sir. Now where was I? Oh, yes: AAAAH!


Quiet, you fool, I've got a job for you: We need you to go talk to this creature in Central Park, stat, before some trigger happy green suiter busts his cap out of a misguided sense of patriotism.


Do you really think they would do that, sir?


There's no doubt about it, Benson, always assuming, of course, that the alien in question has a cap to bust in the first place. I mean, I support our troops as much as the next politically correct bureaucrat, but with thousands of boots on the ground in Central Park, somebody is bound to get an itchy trigger finger.


There is being just one problem, Sahib.


Enough with the phony accents, already, you guys: The world is in danger here!


Oh, right, sorry. It's just that we're almost 3,000 miles away from NYC out here. How is Jake going to get there in time to tell our boys -- and I, too, support our troops, by the way -- to stand down?


Admiral Matson!

Matson: Uh, that's Sergeant Matson, sir.


Fly this grease jockey to Central Park in your F117 Nighthawk.

Matson: Now, sir?


No, sir, next Thursday morning at 7:30 A.M... Of course NOW, you fool! We've got to find out what this alien wants before we give the troops the green light to blast him -- on the off-chance that he comes in peace, you understand.




Benson, go with him.


Why me?


We need at least one massive brain on site to figure out what that creature is made of.


Oh. Why, ahem, thank you, sir. Glad to do my government service.


Besides, you live in NYC, right? I mean, that's where you were earlier today when we kidnapped you in the name of humanity.


Right.


Well, let's just say that I've read your bio and it just so happens that I have my OWN recalcitrant 5-year-old son with whom I've grown alienated lately over the suddden loss of HIS mother --


Oh. Well... I'm, uh... sorry to hear that.


Although in my case, the lady in question isn't dead but rather has eloped with another man, although naturally we don't tell junior that.


Um... okay...


Well, it's probably sentimental of me, but maybe if your son sees you playing some pivotal role in saving the world out there, you two will bond again -- you know how kids worship super-heroes and guys who wear the big white hats -- at which point I myself might derive some vicarious encouragement from your success that will help me get back in the good graces of my own currently disobedient but basically good-hearted child.


Sir, General Marshall is calling from Central Park. He says the alien seems to be getting ready to speak.


Tell the General to stall the thing until Ronald McDonald here gets there!


Hey! The name is Jake!


Quick, Lieutenant: Time waits for no unlikely superhero! Get Benson and the Grease Jockey to New York City NOW!






Madge! What are you doing here -- with my son Peter beside you, no less! How you doing, sport?


Well, this is a big event, John. I had to see it in person -- and I thought Peter should see it, too, as a sort of cultural field trip. I know how you're always stressing education with this young man.


That's the last time I leave a child with you, Madge: Fancy bringing a five-year-old out to get a personal glimpse of Armageddon.




But the aliens may be friendly. Look at that guy, he looks like my husband's golfing buddy, right down to the striped jersey turtleneck sweater. You don't suppose that there's a Gap store in outer space, do you?


Jake! Oh, where is that guy with the bogus Southern accent? Yo, French Fry! -- Great! We just flew here from New Mexico and suddenly he disappears.


Relax. I'm right behind you, feverishly reciting my rosary.


There's no time for selfishly saving your soul, Jake: quick, go talk to the alien person/thing over there.


The alien person/thing, huh? -- Some brainiac! Humph!


He's probably getting impatient just standing there. He's apparently been trying to get a word in edgewise for the last three hours, but the General keeps "shushing" him, as per the directions of the Las Alamos Administrator.


I think the alien is getting impatient, all right. He seemed all friendly and relaxed when he first came out of that rock-like spaceship, but after being shushed continuously for an hour or so, you could tell that he was really starting to steam up inside -- although he was obviously also making a valiant attempt to disguise the fact with a sort of increasingly sickly "smile" on his face. Still, you could just tell he was infuriated -- in fact, he appears ready to blow his alien top any second now, so if you've got somebody here that can speak to him in his own language to calm him down, you'd better bring him out now.


That's your cue, Jake: Go on, you horse whisperer you. Say something friendly to our alien visitor there.


, approaching creature, timidly:

Ahem, um, uh...


Well, go on! This is not time to get stage fright.


Yo-blik-yadda-yadda-bling.


Now, come here, Peter: Isn't this exciting? Your father was sent here to help save the world, eh? Pretty neat, huh?


Oh, I GUESS so! But what's that guy doing out there with the alien.


Oh, that's my new friend, Jake, from McDonald's. He's trying to talk to this creature from outer space.


Awesome!


I'll say it's awesome, son! We're the first human beings to see a real alien from outer space!


No, I mean it's awesome that that guy works at McDonald's. I bet he can get us free Fun Meals and stuff!


Well, yes, maybe -- but what about the Spaceman? Surely, he's awesome, too, as you put it. But then I suppose he scares you a little, huh? Well, it's okay to be honest about such things. Even a big man like myself is a little afraid right now, I have to admit it, so we can't expect a young child like yourself to --


I'm gonna take a picture of the alien on my cell phone!


I mean, it's okay to be scared -- Hey, where are you going? Peter, come back here or you're grounded for a week!








Oh, Peter! My child! I almost lost you!


I'm sorry, dad! I'll never disobey you again!




You called me 'dad'!


Well, what does he USUALLY call you, then?


Oh, I don't know: 'Stupid,' 'Jackass,', 'Hey, You!' -- but he hasn't called me 'Dad' since his mom -- oh, son!


I hate to spoil this emotional scene, but this manikin thing looks like it's getting ready to stomp us all to death, notwithstanding his recent act of mercy in sparing young Peter here.


Speak to the alien again, Jake. Apologize for the camera flash. Tell him that it's an earthly custom or something.


Well, okay. Here goes nothing:




What does that mean, precisely?


I'm trying to ask him if he comes in peace, but I appear to be losing my golden touch here -- funny: these lines have worked before, both on dogs AND cats...


I understood you perfectly, Mr. Jake person.




What's more, I do 'come in peace' as you put it.


Whew! Oh, that's a relief, huh, son?


Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Klaatu Vann DarDar III, from the 27th Obertron of Fomar, in the Sombrero Galaxy, catalog designation m104, within the constellation that you humans somewhat quaintly refer to as 'Virgo.'




What's that, Peter? Well, I don't know, I'll ask him.


Hey, I thought it was MY job to talk to the alien!


Um, hello? Dude, the alien speaks English, okay? Your services are obviously no longer required here.


Yeah, beat it, Potato Cakes. My pops has obviously got things under control now.


Now, Jake: where did you EVER learn to talk like that? Madge, what have you been teaching this child of mine while I was away?!


Right, what's going on here? Excuse my late arrival, by the way, I'm afraid I overslept -- but not to worry, I'm going to court-martial my alarm clock the minute we get back to base.


Scientist Benson at your service, sir, from Brooklyn via Los Alamos. The alien here is apparently friendly. So much so, in fact, that... Well, watch this, General:

Yo, Klaatu, friend: my son was wondering if he could get your autograph?




Well, realign my Army bases! Would you look at that! This alien creature is actually signing an autograph for this young child here. Still, we'd better warn the creature about the flashbulbs that the army of reporters are bound to be employing once the news hounds crash through the yellow police tape around Central Park.


Don't worry, General: I'll tell him to watch out for the flash bulbs.


YOU'LL tell him?


Yeah. I speak alien, see? Watch:




And a Yabba-Dabba-Doo to you, too, Earthling! Ha ha!


Oh, very funny, Klaatu! This alien understands me perfectly well when I speak his language: he's just feigning ignorance in order to play along with all the other humans because he realizes that they've all joined in a conspiracy here to mock me!




Speaking of yellow police tape, we'd better go home quick, Peter, and make sure that this morning's stormtroopers -- er, I mean this morning's fine government officials -- have cleaned up every trace of their presence -- besides, it's past your bedtime, young man! Madge, I told you that it was lights out at 8:00. Here is it 9:00, and you've got my son out gawking at what might have turned out to be some very dangerous aliens, indeed.


Aw, pa, I ain't tired!


You AREN'T tired, son.


See? You even agree with me.


Why, you --


Aw, let me stay!


Now, son, you'd better do what your father says. He is an American Hero after all.


Oh... I guess so...




Oh, somebody get me some handkerchiefs: They're bonding, just like I predicted: Benson and his confused but ultimately good-hearted son are bonding!


Oh, this is such a bore. Why are you keeping us here if we're no longer needed, Dr. Philips?


What? Oh, yes. Sorry about that.

Attention, all kidnapped smart people: You may now return to your homes. All kidnapped smart people: You may now return to your homes. And as always, thank you for helping -- or at least for being apparently WILLING to help -- your friendly United States government.


Confucius say -- or rather Confucius reiterate implicit query of entire academic team gathered here at Los Alamos after what appears to be an entirely wasted day -- Why government call us in first place?!


Good question, Lu. Assistant Wilson, why did we call these guys here in the first place? I'm sure we had SOME good reason.


We thought that we might need some scientific analyses performed on the double -- you know, of alien body parts and the like -- hence the showy kidnappings. Now, however, that the alien appears friendly, we can perform all the necessary tests and procedures on the creatures in question in our own good time -- that is to say, in government time, 9:00 to 5:00, Monday through Friday, never mind if it takes us months, or even years to do so: Your Tax Dollars at Work, ladies and gentlemen. Your tax Dollars at work.


You mean THEIR tax dollars at work, don't you, Wilson? I'm from England, after all -- nay, even stereotypically so.


We're accountable to the taxpayer here at Los Alamos, and we can't pay a bunch of eggheads like yourself top-dollar to give us overnight answers, when we have our own staff of salaried employees who could probably crank out the same analytic goods in under a month.


What he said.


Unless, of course, the fate of the Free World were at stake -- which, as you can see on the screen there, is no longer the case. Why, bless us, this Klaatu character is even signing autographs out there for a bunch of confused but basically good-hearted children!


Yes, but please to give us air fare before we leave.


Airfare? I thought you guys were doing this for your government.




Oh, very well. Sergeant Stetson, cut them a check! Humph! Airfare indeed! Search for deals, though! I want no direct flights, unless there's no other option -- or in the unlikely case that you can prove that such a flight would actually be the most cost-effective means of travel. I'm going to be grilled by an OMB committee member in Washington next week, and I don't want to have to explain any first-class tickets to that panel of notoriously jaundiced-eyed skinflints. Oops, I didn't say that: I'll deny it if asked.


Confucius say, "we are out of here."


It's all about family, you know, Wilson.


How's that, Sir?


What? Oh, nothing. Tomorrow is Saturday, isn't it? I could maybe take junior to the zoo...


Turn the lights out when you leave, sir.


Maybe I could even give him a very simple explanation of the true situation viz. his wayward mother.


It's been real, dude.


Just so he knows that everything is not truly MY fault.


Are you coming, sir? The janitor's ready to lock up this emergency-planning room -- at least until the next potentially catastrophic national security crisis comes down the pike, necessitating the temporary kidnapping of yet another small army of relevantly brainy specialists.


Be right with you.

Note to self: Plan fishing trip for coming weekend. Oh, and at least consider buying a small dog. Or gerbils. YES! Kids love gerbils -- and they're a cinch to clean up after!






What's going to happen to the aliens now, dad?


Oh, nothing, I guess. As improbable as it may seem based on all the horrifying stories that I've read about space invasions like this, it looks like our two species are going to get along just fine -- maybe even patch together some sort of free trade agreement with that funky-sounding home planet of his out in the Sombrero Galaxy or whatever.


Awesome!


Unless...


Unless what, Dad?


Oh, nothing: I was just suddenly worried that our military -- notwithstanding my unconditional support for the troops, of course -- might unintentionally screw up this whole thing. After all, no one's perfect.


What do you mean?


Well, I was just worried that a gun might accidentally discharge in the vicinity of that Klaatu character.


Oh, that would suck. What do you think the aliens would do if that happened?


Well, it's just possible that the Giant manikin would then lumber out of the shadows for a second time and begin squashing everything in sight.


Ya think?


Of course, the real danger would be if Klaatu himself had actually taken a bullet -- at which point he'd probably be unable to tell the manikin to "cease and desist," and before you knew it, the whole world could be squashed flat by that seemingly invincible Goliath.


Bummer, dude.


At which point, the government would have to kidnap smart people like myself for a second time and start dealing with the problem all over again -- this time facing much more ominous odds, however.



Home again, home again, jiggity-jog. Aw, shucks, they took down all the cool police tape! I wanted to put it in my room!


Well, at least you can sleep soundly tonight, Peter. General Marshall obviously knows what he's doing back there at Central Park, so the chances of a gun accidentally discharging on his watch are slim to none.




Oh, great, now THAT's torn it.




What is it, dad?!


Madge, wake up: I need you to continue baby-sitting.




I'll be back as soon as I can --


What? Who? Why?


Or until I save the world-- whichever comes first.


Huh?


Now, son, you behave for Madge. I know we've bonded again tonight and everything, but I'll still be plenty pissed if you sneak any gerbils into Madge's pristine living room.

Now give us a hug before your old superhero pop rushes off to do you proud for a second time in one evening.



Madge, get over here and join us in this tearful embrace, would you?

Oh, look at me, crying like a baby!

Enough of this: I am off!


Bye, dad!


Reconciled at last: I can feel his mother looking down from heaven right now, going: "Yes, that's what I'm talkin' about now!"

Madge, better let him in our house to get some clothes -- but I warn you, you'd better frisk him for gerbils before you let him sally forth into that famously spotless living room of yours.


Just GO, would you? It sounds like that manikin creature is destroying Central Park even as we three stand here blubbering like this!


On second thought, you guys come with me.


Yes!


But why?


It could be that the aliens have soured on humankind.


So?


So, the only way to get ourselves back into their good graces is to show them the loving side of humanity.


Oh, I see: And you think that the sight of our lovey-dovey reunion here could touch the heart of Klaatu, providing, of course, that he's still alive?


Hey, it's worth a shot.


I don't get it, dad.


It's simple, son: You and I are going to write a happy ending to this story. Okay? Would ya like that?


You mean I get to be an American Hero, too, dad?


Like father, like son, young man.


Kewl!


And like next-door neighbor, too, guys! Don't forget ME!


And like next-door neighbor, too, Madge: Like next-door neighbor, too!


Hi-yo, Silver! Away!


Right, seat belts on, everyone...

and then up, up and away!