Chapter 10

 

Wayne Milburn was the first saucer "expert" to call, but he wasn't the last. I may get around to describing some of the others in detail eventually, but I have to say that my general impression of these people isn't favorable. In fact, I'd be willing to venture that most of them are several bricks shy of a load. There may be some serious researchers among all the flakes, but by and large your typical UFO investigator, "scientifically trained, technically sophisticated, serious in intent and purpose" . . . or so reads the Ohio Skywatch Network charter (I have it here) . . . is an eccentric in the grand tradition; or, to put it less kindly, a raving nut case with a less than robust sense of reality. I don't think I'm being unfair. I've been reading about these guys.

These guys will believe anything you tell them. (There are few women in this field, I noted.) When they go out in the field they bring all their fancy paraphernalia: Geiger counters, magnetometers, oscilloscopes, photon multipliers, radio direction finders, etc., etc., and it all sounds pretty impressive. But it's mostly show. Sure, they know how to calibrate their instruments and use them, and they gather all sorts of data that show up as numbers on screens and squiggles on paper and blotches on still more screens; data which, I suppose, they take home and process the living bejesus out of.

Technical sophistication they have in abundance. What they don't have a lot of is plain old common sense.

Rather than sketch the general contours of this mentality, however, I'll simply direct your attention to the strange case of Wayne Milburn.

 

It didn't take an hour to get into Keynesville by bike, but I wanted some leeway. I wanted to check this guy out first, look over where he lived, case the joint. You can never tell about people these days. Bizarre behavior seems more commonplace than ever, and old Wayne did not come highly recommended in the normality department. I had deduced that right off the bat.

Keynesville is a small old farming town that a bunch of suburbs and shopping malls have sprung up around like mushrooms. There are lots of recent housing developments surrounding the old sections, and Wayne lived in one of these latter.

The street was typically small town, right out of Sherwood Anderson or Sinclair Lewis, lined with oak and beech and a few horse chestnut trees. The turn-of-the-century houses were mostly two or two and a half stories with clapboard siding painted white or blue-gray, stately and prim, prosperous but not ostentatious. Middle class to the core. I pedaled up to the address, stood my bike up on its kickstand, and looked the place over.

This one had gone a little to seed, needed a paint job. A hanging jungle of sucker vines had colonized the entire north side of the house. The forsythia along the front side sprouted wildly, and the lawn needed mowing. There were stacks of boxes and piles of odd junk on the porch, and from the look of the weathering I guessed the stuff had been there a while.

For all that, however, the place didn't look spooky, didn't fit the part of the lair of some ax murderer. Satisfied that my life wasn't in danger, I went to the front door and pressed the doorbell button. Nothing happened, so I knocked.

A while passed before the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a flower print dress and a checked apron. She had gray hair and wrinkles around her gray eyes; I put her age at around fifty-five. She smiled pleasantly and asked who I was, and I told her I was supposed to see Wayne.

"He's where he usually is, down in his haunt in the cellar. Sometimes I think he lives there. You can go around back or come through the house."

"I'll go around back."

After a trip through high grass and wild weeds, negotiating en route with a gate that didn't want to open, I arrived at the cellar entrance, a back door to what looked like an addition. I knocked.

I heard a voice yell, but couldn't make it out. I knocked again and this time I clearly heard, "Come on in, it's not locked—and watch your step!"

I went in.

The door immediately gave onto steep wooden steps that went down to a cluttered but semifinished basement: fake wood paneling and plywood covered the walls, and fluorescent light fixtures illuminated the place fairly well. A door in the far wall led off to other, darker sections of the cellar.

The back and side walls were covered with elaborate tiers of metal shelving, and on this framework sat every conceivable communications device known to man. There was a wide assortment of CB radios, police scanners, shortwave sets, walkie-talkies, cellular phones, conventional phones, computers, and what looked like an intercom or two, along with amplifiers, tuners, and other auxiliary gear.

I approached this display of electronic clutter. A man was seated at a desk nestled in a U-shaped declivity among the racks, his back to me, talking into one of about a dozen microphones.

I didn't get the drift of the conversation, distracted as I was by everything around me. The racks weren't the only item of interest. Competing for attention was the rest of the place and the interesting junk in it. Against the walls stood rows of doorless old refrigerators holding many a quaint and curious item, most of which would be hard to describe. Oddments, doodads, thingamajigs—old electric motors, maybe, half-disassembled. I walked around and looked at everything while he continued talking.

Finally the conversation wound up, and the guy—Wayne Milburn, I presumed—pushed the desk microphone away.

He turned and looked at me. He wasn't as young as I figured but he was still in his twenties, maybe early thirties. He had a bush of thick black hair and a heavy beard shadow, and wore thick glasses. His face was full, chin a bit weak, and he sported a crimson pimple or two, though his face wasn't teen-pimply.

His expression was strange. He looked as though he had a grave and momentous announcement to make; but underneath was a smirk.

"Things are approaching a panic situation," he intoned. He gave it sort of a dramatic reading.

This produced in me an equally strange effect. A fireworks burst of possibilities flashed through my mind. Something was happening, some disaster had just happened and he had learned about it over the CB radio—

Well, my secret was out. The police had shown up at the house just after I left and taken Zorg and Flez away.

Blog had landed on the White House lawn and demanded that Earth give up Zorg and Flez.

No, I hadn't forgotten about Blog, and was in fact still pondering, in the back of my mind, the question of who or what Blog could be. Moreover, as the smart pills gave me the ability to gain perspective on things, I started to worry.

But now things were approaching a panic situation. Great, wonderful.

"What is it?" I said breathlessly.

"Bigfoot."

"I—" I probably did a classic comic take. "Huh?"

"Haven't you been hearing about all the sightings? We're in the middle of one of the biggest Bigfoot flaps ever."

I exhaled a cloud of relief. "Oh," I said.

"It's been hectic here, let me tell you," Milburn went on. "Calls have been pouring in from all over the Midwest. It's been sighted in fourteen counties in Ohio alone."

"What's been sighted?"

"Didn't I say? Bigfoot."

"Oh. You're a Bigfoot expert, then, not flying saucers?"

He poked a finger in my direction. "We've proved that Bigfoot and UFOs are related. Proved it. I have hard evidence . . . incontrovertible evidence that links them."

"No kidding. Bigfoots. . . er, Bigfeet are space aliens?"

"We don't really know," Milburn told me. "They may be biots."

"Yeah? What're those?"

"Biological robots, artificial creatures. Androids."

"What are they supposed to do?"

"We're not quite sure," Milburn said with a frown. "It's a mystery. Remember the movie The Day the Earth Stood Still?"

"Uh-huh, I think."

"Remember Gort, the robot? Klatuu barada nicto, and all that? The Bigfoots and the saucer occupants may have some kind of symbiotic relationship. The Bigfoots might even be in control."

"No kidding. That's really something." I nodded, profoundly impressed by these startling revelations.

"You bet That's what we do in Oz Net."

"In what?"

"Ohio Skywatch Network. We call it OSNet for short. You know, Oz, Wizard of Oz?"

"Right. What exactly do you do in OSNet?"

"We gather data and come up with theories, hypotheses, and then we go into the field after more data that either proves or disproves the hypotheses. It's very scientific. We're not a bunch of saucer cultists going around making wild claims. We have science and technology backing us up. We're not saucer nuts." Milburn gravely shook his head.

"You're not saucer nuts." I just as gravely shook my head.

"No. The field is rife with loonies. Crazy people who don't know reality from their fantasies. And hoaxers. We've exposed any number of out-and-out bamboozlers. Con artists."

I was wondering if I'd buy a used saucer from Wayne Milburn. Yeah, I guess I would, I thought. There was something sincere about him.

"Say, how old are you?" Milburn wanted to know.

"Thirteen. Why, am I too young?"

Milbum laughed. "Oh, no, sometimes kids make the best witnesses. They haven't learned to hold back for fear of ridicule. That's what keeps most people from reporting strange phenomena, you know. Fear, plain fear of the neighbors laughing."

My neighbors didn't laugh, I thought. They finked on us.

"So, what can I do for you?" Milburn said.

"Well, I thought you wanted to interview me."

"Yeah, right. You're. . .?"

"Drew Hayes."

"Hayes, right, right. Didn't think you'd show, really. Thought you were just blowing me off on the phone, there."

"No," I said. "I thought I should talk to somebody about this, someone who knows more than I do about these things."

It was true that this was in the back of my mind. Seeing Milburn in his kooky element now, though, I was entertaining doubts.

"You should talk with somebody."

Milburn swiveled around and flipped a switch or two, then got up and fetched from the metal shelves a handful of gear. It was, he said, a wireless microphone, radio-linked to a tape recorder that was now running. He pinned the tiny mike on my shirt collar and hung the other gadget, the transmitter, from the belt of my jeans.

"There, that should do it Just speak naturally. Here, have a seat."

He extricated a battered wooden chair from some debris.

I sat. "Okay, what do you want me to say?"

Milburn reseated himself at his master console. "Well, whatever you want Now . . . uh . . . let's see, you're a contactee, right?"

"I'm the—We're the family that has aliens living with us."

"Right, I knew that, but I just want to state things for the record. This is a document, you understand. Okay, we're still rolling. Now . . ."

"What are you going to do with the tape?" I demanded.

"Huh? It'll go into the archives, after it's been analyzed and. . . you know, collated, and stuff. Okay, I want to ask you some questions. First, give your full name and address."

I did.

"Okay," Milburn said, "When and where did you first see the aliens, who, you say, are now living with you? By the way, you live with your family, right? Mother and dad? Sisters, brothers?"

I told him all that, leaving out the part about Nathan and Mom not being married.

"Good, good," Milbum said. "Great. Now, in your own words and to the best of your ability, describe what took place the first time that you had these Close Encounters."

Milburn gave me an expectant look. The smirk was just part of his basic facial expression, I decided.

My, those glasses were thick. The guy was as blind as a bat. How many UFO's could he have seen personally? Not many, was my conjecture.

"Uh . . . okay." I took a deep breath, and began.

I spilled the beans, basically, told him everything, holding nothing back. Maybe I embellished a little in spots, and it could be that I nipped and tucked in other places, for brevity's sake; but essentially I gave him the whole story.

He absorbed it all enthusiastically, jotting down a few notes on a legal pad affixed to a clipboard.

"Great, great. This is really nice stuff. Now, have Zork and Phlegm ever said—"

"Zorg and Flez."

"Yeah. They've never said where they're from? What planet?"

"No, though I gather it's a long way off. Light-years."

"Right. You know a little about astronomy, then?"

I nodded. "Sure, a little."

"Yeah, they could be from another galaxy entirely," Milburn said. "Who knows? Great."

Next he asked me questions about weather conditions at the time of the sighting and if any power lines were near. I made up answers. In the middle of an interstellar visitation, who the heck would notice how humid it was or have a clue as to the barometric pressure? And who would care?

Power lines. Sure, there might have been some nearby. But it was dark, Wayne. Dark. Like, no light? These were silly questions.

"Okay," Milburn said. "Now, you say that these aliens, the ones you picked up on the road, are still living with you, and have been for the past . . . how long has it been?"

"Since July."

"Since July. Okay, it's nearly October. And they periodically go out in their flying saucer . . . uh, which they keep . . ." He kept scribbling.

"In a duffel bag," I finished for him.

"In a . . . duffel. . ."

Boy, this guy liked to scribble, too, but he was slower than the reporter.

"Bag," I helped. It sounded even more ridiculous when you said it slowly.

"Bag . . . Yeah. Okay, well, that's something new. Never had a report quite like this before. You know, collapsible saucer, and all. That's pretty unique."

"There can be only one degree of uniqueness," I informed him.

"Yeah." He was looking at his notes and nodding.

I think he was losing interest.

"Were there any markings on the craft? You know, signs, symbols?"

"Nope."

"And the color was. . . did you say?"

"Greenish gray."

"Greenish gray. Uh-huh. No markings of any kind?"

"No markings."

"None?"

"None."

He seemed a bit disappointed by this. "Well, that seems to be everything. This is a fairly unusual report. We've had all kinds over the years—aliens coming to visit, staying for tea or something, but never any . . . you know, live-in aliens."

"Boarding aliens," I offered.

"Yeah, no boarding aliens. Are they . . . I mean, are they paying you anything for this?"

"No."

"And you're feeding them?"

"No. I guess it should be 'rooming aliens,' because they don't eat our food."

"They brought their own food?"

"I've never seen them eat, really," I confessed. It was true. "I don't know exactly how they survive. Their ship, though, can do anything. I'd bet that it synthesizes food for them."

"Right!" Milbum said, methodically scrawling again. He liked that. "Great."

Right then I noticed something, a sign above the racks, big as life, announcing that this was BIGFOOT CONTROL.

Bigfoot Control.

I sighed.

"Another unusual thing," Milburn said, "is the way your aliens look. We don't get many completely human-looking aliens these days. Used to, back in the nineteen-fifties. But recently UFO occupants have tended to be sort of weird-looking."

"Tell me something," I said. "How did you find out about us?"

"OSNet. Reports have been coming in all summer about some alien presence in the area. There have been any number of sightings of your aliens' saucer. And then came the rumors about aliens living with a family. But accounts conflicted about which family it was. There was this one family up in . . . I forget where the heck they were. Anyway, I'm glad we had this interview, because when the talk show people called up—"

"Talk show people?"

"Yeah. I forget the guy's name . . . I never watch TV much."

"Deveaux Marsten?"

"Yeah, that one. They're going to do a show about UFO's in this area and they wanted me to be in on it. I said sure, and they said they'd call back. But they haven't yet."

"We're supposed to be on that show. My family."

"No kidding?" Milburn said.

I was puzzled. "You mean you didn't know? Then how did you know we were the family with the aliens?"

"Some woman who lives across from you called up and said you were the ones, so I looked up your number in the phone book."

Mrs. Carey strikes a blow for Earth vs. the flying saucers. Small world.

"I haven't seen any Bigfeet, by the way," I said.

"What? Oh, yeah. You haven't? Well, not all saucer sightings have a Bigfoot connection. I never said that, I just meant that—"

"What is all this stuff down here?" I said, suddenly rising.

"Oh, I like to tinker," Wayne said.

A genuine basement crank inventor. Actually, I kind of liked the big guy. He was kooky, but friendly and completely harmless. And his naive enthusiasm was kind of . . . well, charming in a way.

He showed me various projects. In a far corner of the basement he was reassembling a Model T engine.

"Hard to get parts," he said. "If you buy them from the specialty parts dealers, the ones that deal in antique stuff, you pay through the nose. I like to go out to junk yards and search."

"Junk yards still have car parts from the nineteen-twenties?"

"Oh, those Model T's lasted well into the fifties in some places."

"Uh-huh. What's this?"

"That's a letterpress printer. I publish a couple of newsletters. Hand-set type."

There was other print hardware: several mimeograph machines, an outmoded wet-copy copier (inoperative), and an ancient hectograph.

It went on and on, this catalog from a white elephant sale, this endless flea market. The place was full of interesting, quirky stuff.

Then there was the depository of UFO "evidence." Also Bigfoot "specimens."

Specimens?

"Hair samples, mostly," Milbum said, sifting through a bin holding plastic bags full of fuzz. "And stool."

"Stool."

"Dung. Shit."

"You have a collection of Bigfoot shit?"

"Yeah, probably the most extensive collection in the East. Here's the most recent sample. Comes from a farm near Cincinnati."

He brought out a pail with some dark matter in it.

I bent and peered down. It looked like shit, all right.

I had no further questions for Mr. Wayne Milburn, and he had none for me.

After delivering me from the radio mike rig, he thanked me for the interview. I said, hey, no problem.

As I was going up the steps he called out, "You know, you're pretty intelligent for your age."

"Thanks."

"By the way, you should come to one of our meetings. OSNet, I mean. We meet every Thursday night at St. Pamphylia's church hall."

"St. Pamphylia. Right. Well, so long."

"See you, Drew. Come back anytime."

"Thanks. Bye."

I left.