257. Writing

It is uncertain as to whether I have mentioned this, but C.W. exhibits a tendency toward imitation. I think it is part of the training he received on Falloonia prior to coming here. Anyway, he sometimes goes to great lengths to imitate things he sees Earthlings do.

For example: he remains impressed by the fact that I have written a book and am on the verge of completing another. Evidently, reading is considered an admirable pastime on his home planet.

"How would a species that doesn't read ever expect to explore our marvelous galaxy?" he says. Good point.

So it was no surprise when I caught him, or at least him as Johnny Ray, the adolescent student, busily blasting away at my computer and muttering to himself.

"There you go," he said to the computer, "thrust it in and rotate. That'll make her scream. She loves it."

"C.W.," I said, yelling to get his attention. "What are you doing? Mrs. V can hear you."

"Now she's moaning," he said, ignoring me. "You got her motor purring now. She'll take you anywhere you want. Oh baby, baby."

"Johnny Ray, " I said. "Stop it."

That finally got his attention. He evidently wasn't answering to "C.W." today.

"Wait one," he said, "This gal is hot and ready to go."

"Stop it," I said. "What are you doing."

He finally looked up at me. "Writing," was all he said.

"I can see that," I said, "but what are you writing?"

"A novel."

"About what?"

"A time machine," he said. "It's creator has just inserted the rod that energizes its engine and it is becoming operational."

I covered my face with my hands. "And where did you get the idea for a novel? And what is it about, other than a time machine?"

"From reading the news," he said, "and it is about victors and victims."

"As in?"

He leaned back and smiled. "It's about the future."

"I thought that might be the case," I said. "What about the future?"

"It's like this," he said. "The powerful class has eliminated education and intellectual curiosity from among the victim class."

"Now where did you get that idea?"

He ignored me and continued. "And they have created a race that just prances around clueless all day, never questioning their fate or purpose, totally trusting in a mysterious higher power."

"And?"

"The power class becomes so depraved from all that unrestrained power that they even hate the illuminating power of sunlight and have taken to living underground."

"I see," I said. "Would you be interested ..."

He interrupted me. "That's not the best part."

"Oh?"

"No, the ruling demons feast on the helpless above-grounders, since food can't grow underground. It's a metaphor for symbiotic relationships among the classes: pleasure and sustenance and all that. Bound to be a best-seller." He leaned back and crossed his arms.

"I hate to tell you that it's already been done," I said.

"What, taking education from the masses, disempowering them, and devouring them?"

"Well," I said, "we'll talk about that later. What I mean is ... that book has been written."

"It's what?"

"Afraid so, by a man named H.G. Wells, back in the late 1800s."

Earthlings need to remember that their
future rests completely in their hands. - C.W.

His face fell. "Drats," was all he said.

"Sorry," I said.

"No sweat," he said. "I have a backup plan."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. A novel about a bunch of animals with no moral foundation other than self-enrichment taking over your farm and running it."

"Oh," I said, "that sounds like a good one. Go for it."


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