DreamerFi =========
A huge spaceship descended through the warm evening air, quietly, without fuss, its long legs unlocking in a smooth ballet of technology.
It alighted gently on the ground, and what little hum it had generated died away, as if lulled by the evening calm.
A ramp extended itself.
Light streamed out.
A tall figure appeared silhouetted in the hatchway. It walked down the ramp and stood in front of me.
'John Sinteur?' it said.
I knodded.
'John Sinteur, born Johannnes Willem Sinteur, but called John for no readily apparent reason? I want to be sure I've got the right one.'
I nodded again, having difficulty with my jaw. My mouth kept falling open.
It was alien, very alien. It had a peculiar alien tallness, a peculiar alien flattened head, peculiar slitty alien eyes, extravagantly draped golden robes with a peculiarly alien collar design, and pale grey-green alien skin which had about it that lustrous sheen which most green faces can only acquire with plenty of exercise and very expensive soap. Hollywood would have loved it.
The creature frowned briefly and consulted what appeared to be some species of clipboard which he was holding in his thin and spindly alien hand. It spoke again.
'Man, did you mess up. You're a fool you know. Sinteur, you're a silly noodle.'
Up to this moment I had been unable to speak, baffled as I was by the alien. His words forced the speaking centers of my brain into action.
'And who do you think you are? You're a wanker, a belgium, you are a tosspot, you are a very tiny piece of turd. You... Would you like to discuss it over a good meal?' I suddenly decided I wasn't going to spoil the thing Woomera and Jodrell Bank had been looking for for years.
The alien flunpered his ears in surprise. Flunpering is something you can only do when you have pointed ears, which might be the reason why this is the first time you encounter this word. Leonard Nimoy is very good at it.
'You're the first one ever to say a thing like that. I accept.'
'Good. Lets go to Milliways.'
'Hmm. That means I've got to regoogolate the fibilizer first. Well, why not.'
The waiter lighted the candles on our table.
'Would you like to meat the dish of the day?' the waiter said.
'Sure,' I said, 'or to use an old joke: lets meat the meat.'
The waiter walked away.
'Let's talk,' I said, 'Who are you?'
'I,' said the alien, taking a sip from his Ouisghian Zodah, 'I am Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged.'
'Infinitely Prolonged?'
'Yes. Well, there was this accident with an irrational particle accelerator, a liquid lunch and a pair of rubber bands. I will live for ever.'
'Sounds boring.'
'It is. So I decided to insult everbody personally to releave the monotony. But who are you?'
'Well,' I said, 'you already know my name. My address is Brahmslaan 95, 2324 AD Leiden, The Netherlands. My e-mail address is a bit more difficult. I don't have my own account (yet), but any mail send to Hotblack will certainly reach me. AERTS@HLERUL5 it is.'
'Who's Hotblack? The Disaster Area guy?'
'Yes. A real cool frood. He used the nick Grunt until recently, and I would be using the nick Doc. Grunt&Doc fitted perfectly in the ten-character-maximum.'
The waiter arrived with the dish of the day. It was a chicken, alive.
'Can I interest you in some of my parts?' cackled the chicken.
I checked it carefully. It was large enough for both of us.
'Yes. We'll take all of you. But can you lay some eggs first? We would like to have an omelet.'
'Certainly sir.'
'But make it quick. We're hungry.'
'Do you still use the nick Doc nowadays?' said Wowbagger.
'No. It wouldn't fit with Hotblack and somebody else is using the Doc nick already. Nowadays I use DreamerFi.'
'DreamerFi? From the Dreamer Fithp? Footfall by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle?'
'Yes! You know it?'
'Didn't I tell you I live forever? Plenty of time to know everything. But you will have to remind me, I only read it twenty-seven times.'
'It's the old theme of aliens invading Earth. The government invites a bunch of Science Fiction writers to the NORAD in Colorado Springs. They are the 'Threat Team', there to analyse the aliens. They call themselves Dreamer Fithp for the alien word for herd. Fi indicates a single member of a herd.'
'So I take it you're writing Science Fiction then.
'Well, trying to. Otherwise I wouldn't be using the nick.'
'Of course.'
'But since Fithp is plural for Fi, and there's only one of me, I decided...'
The waiter interrupted us.
'John Sinteur? A phone call for you.'
'OK, hand it to me.'
'John? You there?'
The voice sounded very familiar.
'Hi mum! Wait a sec.'
I covered the phone with my hand.
'Wow, give me that Streetmentioner book please?'
He handed it over. I leafed through it until I saw what I was looking for.
I talked to the phone again. My mother had always insisted on using correct grammar, although she never used it herself.
'Hi again mum. What wasoll you have been calling for?'
'I heard you are having a good dinner. So I guess you won't be home early?'
'I don't think I havan been going to be home on-when early, yes.'
'Do you remember we are leaving very early tomorrow? Don't make it too late.'
'That's OK. Shall I have been re-bringan something nice for you? A souvenir?'
'If you like. Look, the telephone bill is getting out of hand. See you!' The line went dead.
'Well Wowbagger, what were we talking about?'
'You like writing. What else do you do?'
'Oh, well, I do HEAO-BI, last year. Form of college. I read a lot, play darts, heckle IBM PC's and owners, generally: I like having fun. This means I will be doing a large variety of things, usually because I like them, and not because I have to. If somebody says 'But you simply must...' I go take a walk.'
'Of course.'
'And I collect comic strips...' Wowbagger interrupted me.
'The Super-Hero type?'
'No, of course not. Dutch and Belgium comic strips are beyond that as a Ferrari Testarossa is beyond a horse. Oh, and I love Tex Avery cartoons.' Suddenly I saw someone familiar. 'Er,' I added, 'is that Zaphod Beeblebrox over there, the guy with the even number of heads in the messy cloths?'
Wowbagger turned and looked in the direction I pointed.
'Yes.'
'Wow! You think I can get an autograph?'
'He's probably too drunk. Pity his name starts with a Z. Well, I'm really looking forward to insulting him.'
From this point the conversation began to loose consistency, due to a large supply of Aldebaran liqueurs, jynnan tonnyx and jam pain. So I summarize the rest of the evening:
Length: 1.76, eyes blue-green, hair brown. I don't know how old I am, I stopped celebrating my birthday. I was born june 4th, 1965. Start counting.
I like: using a Mac, creating computer art, writing science fiction (Campbellian Science Fiction mostly, with some 'modern' influences, and I'm not afraid of some comedy), listening to music (all sorts: JM Jarre, Dire straits, Marillion , Queen, Herbie Hancock, Paul Simon, Ravel, etc etc.).
I recently discovered I really LIKE writing. Sometimes they just have to lock me in my room with my word-processor and shove the food in with a large stick. So if you don't mind reading letters and answering every one of them (until one of us gets sick of it and tells the other to eat the address), just try me.
Ultimate goal in life: walking on the moon, living in the year 2100, but above all have fun. The chances of finding out what is really going on in the Universe are so remote that I think the best thing to do is hang on and have a good time.
Ultimate Answer: forty-two (you could have guessed it).
Favourite statement: that anything can be obvious, is not at all obvious.
Least favourite one: when everything has gone from bad to worse, the cycle will repeat itself.
What really boggles me:
Why people would want to make a political career.
Why people think violence is an answer.
Why you are still reading this.