“Oh, Shmish. Oh, Shmish. Oh, great Shmish . . . ”
So chanted several of the prescreeners as they lifted up their hands, fingers waggling, before lowering their foreheads to their workplace carpet.
On the monitor before them, the object of their devotion stood paused at the end of his most recent transmission.
“Oh great Shmish, we see thee,” intoned the worshippers.
“Oh great Shmish, we revere thee.
“Oh great Shmish, we bow down before thee.
“Our day is fulfilled.”
“I know I shouldn’t wish it on him,” observed an oboist from his workstation, “but I hope he never gets put on any meds.”
“No meds! No meds!” begged the bowers, finger-waggling some more.
“But wait,” said Melody, at once amused and puzzled. “There’s something I still don’t understand. How can the Shmish think he’s going to be taken from some rendezvous point, when he’s not allowed to reveal his location?”
“Unbelievable,” answered an unwelcome voice. “Claims to want a job, but isn’t willing to spend two minutes familiarizing herself with the site.”
No, it wasn’t Jeffery. It was the hunky sculptor, Grant McAllister. But he was doing such a great imitation of his boss, making himself all stiff and nervous and nasal, that he delighted everyone around him.
Well, almost everyone.
“I most certainly have familiarized myself with the site,” said Melody. “What? You think I should have read through every screen?”
“No,” he said, “just the first one.”
“I saw the first one. It disses Facebook. Something like, who wants to check up on somebody you knew in high school when you could be meeting Yog from Zog, who will take you ion surfing or something through the something-or-other nebula. Something like that.”
“No, that’s the second screen.”
“No, it’s the first screen. I paid attention, Grant.”
“No you didn’t, Melody, because if you did you’d know”—he turned his monitor towards her and typed in ComeTakeMe.com—“that this is the first screen.”
And he was right, if it was fair to count a screen that displayed only six words.
Humans enter here, said three of them.
Extraterrestrials enter here, said the others.
“Oh, that,” said Melody.
“Yes, that,” said Grant. “And you’re going to tell me you didn't check out the alien option?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I had like 50,000 rules to memorize and couldn’t be bothered with some lame-ass joke screen.”
“Lame-ass? It’s brilliant.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Instead of continuing to argue, Grant clicked on “Extraterrestrials Enter Here,” and Melody saw blocks of text and, above them, a salutation.
“Dear Sir, Madam, Both or Other,” the letter began.
If you are reading this, then obviously we here at ComeTakeMe.com have made a few correct assumptions. First, that you exist. Second, that you have taken an interest in our planet. And third, that having discovered our internet, you have also found the one site on it created especially for you.
Melody looked at Grant. “A corporation came up with this?”
“No, some sci-fi guy somewhere did,” he said. “CorpInc bought it from him when they realized how many people would come to gawk and mock. Keep going.”
The letter continued.
Do you know that there are those among us who would like nothing better than to escape the confines of their world? Who would cooperate wholeheartedly with your vital and no doubt beneficial investigations? It’s true! And now, thanks to our internet, we can recruit these extraordinary individuals for your consideration.Just imagine: No longer will you have to trouble yourselves with the sort of limited person who objects to being conveyed, however briefly, from their planet. From now on, you can allow the fearful, the hysterical and the unimaginative to sleep away undisturbed, while you are welcomed at safe, prearranged locations by humans who consider meeting you the high point of their existence.How do you arrange such a meeting? It’s easy. Just follow these four simple steps:
1. Find a human you like from among those presenting themselves here on ComeTakeMe.com.
2. Estimate your human’s mass.3. Leave a quantity of the element platinum approximately equal to that mass in a concealed location on the eastern seaboard of the North American continent (see map) and notify us of the location here, along with the identity of your human.4. Follow the directions that we will leave at the same location when we pick up the platinum.And that’s all there is to it. Why do we request the platinum? Merely for the safety of our Earthlings, who require assurance they are making contact with genuine extraterrestrial entities like yourselves. Fortunately, platinum on our world is rare, whereas platinum beyond its atmosphere is abundant. So, by leaving us one smallish chunk of this stable, non-toxic material, easily obtainable from millions of nearby asteroids, you can remove all doubt as to your identity. And we can then provide you with a rendezvous point for your human. All our subscribers inform us of such rendezvous points when they enroll.
“OK, I get it,” said Melody, finishing the letter. “The Shmish is going to his rendezvous point”—she surveyed the room for telltale expressions—“because someone told him his platinum arrived.”
“Oh, no,” said Grant in a horrified tone. “The space cadets must never be told their platinum has arrived, even if it's already selling for millions. Otherwise they might show up at their rendezvous points with reporters and scientists, which would piss off the aliens no end.”
“Well then I’m really confused,” said Melody. “If no one is ever told their platinum arrived, why would anyone go to their rendezvous point?”
“They just have to go at the times they announce in their videos, on the chance the aliens will come get them,” said Grant.
“Even if it means making a lot of futile trips?”
“Actually, it definitely means making futile trips,” said the potter. Grant shot her a look but she continued anyway. “Come on, Grant. She might as well know. See, Melody, we kind of doubt anyone reads the messages from the supposed aliens. We think they’re automatically deleted.”
“Certainly no one in this office has ever seen one,” said an actor.
“And you’d think there’d be a few,” said a writer. “From practical jokers at least. Trying to send us on wild goose chases.”
“But that’s terrible,” said Melody.
“No, it isn’t,” said the writer. “Who wants to go on wild goose chases?”
“But it is,” said Melody. “It’s fraud, whether you believe in aliens or not. We—this company—is putting people to a lot of trouble, and for what? For nothing.”
She looked about, at the ten apparently cool, creative co-workers she'd been hoping to get to know, yet who somehow couldn’t see her point, and finally gave up. Gave up and, reluctantly, stood up.
“Sorry, guys,” she said. “This isn’t for me.”
“But Melody!” said Grant.
“Sorry, it just isn’t.”
“But Melody. Look.”
“At what?”
“At him.”
From halfway across the room, she saw that he was pointing at her monitor.
“What about him?”
“Look.”
She did—they all did—and observed the Shmish still frozen at the triumphant conclusion of his most recent broadcast.
“Look at that apartment—those pipes,” said Grant. “Now look at that smile. How could anyone with a life like that have a smile like that without a dream to keep them going? That’s what we give him, Melody—what you give him. If he didn’t have it, what would he have?”