The Hippies Took Us To The Stars
Its name was a mental picture of a sunset on a specific day with cultural meaning to it plus personal memories of its family and the memory of three smells, almost like three tones of music, which we had no true parallel for. Pepper, lemon, and hot stone would be close but insultingly far off.
Without telepathy, we could not communicate.
The problem with human minds was the lack of a broadcaster organ like the aliens had. Using some organ graft technology on a stem scaffolding and a bucketload of immunosuppressants, Stevenson cloned one and joined some of those strange tube structures onto a lab mouse.
The alien’s reaction was to turn hot pink and to dance its feet yellow feet around like a horse on ice. It immediately hit the mice with a hot bank of information about its purpose here and the poor little mouse’s head exploded.
Obviously a success. Obviously human trials were the next step.
The problem with this level of the experiment was the human subject. We couldn’t use a death row inmate because who knows what his brain would broadcast to the alien? The same went for the mental hospitals we sometimes used. We couldn’t risk the best minds in our studio because of the work that would be lost if a head exploded.
We had to settle on reaching out discreetly in our local circles to a human that was loving, tender, fun, and into undergoing surgery to talk to aliens.
We found Alan. Alan smoked a lot of weed and had blue glasses. He sold high-grade marijuana to some of the scientists. It was slightly embarrassing when three of us realized we had the same dealer. He drove to the lab in twenty minutes and signed every form and waiver we put in front of him.
It took four days but the graft was a success. The tubular accordions hanging off of either side of Alan’s newly-shaved head pulsed and slackened wetly like lungs from a child with four probing flowers tasting the air like each ear was wearing a uterus.
The alien turned mint green this time and shuddered something that was either orgasm or shock. It knelt on the floor gasping through its sunflower heads and the smell of something between strawberries and rain wafted through the lab.
It composed itself and stood back up, straight backed this time, like a centaur dancer standing at military attention.
“Hello,” said Alan, turning towards us. “Thank you. This volunteer human knows my name now and can be my spokesperson. I know of your world intimately from him and I want to know more. If you can provide us with more spokespeople and minds to communicate with, we will give you the secrets of star travel and alchemy you need to heal this planet or leave it. Please provide as many as you can.”
Alan sagged. When he raised his head back up, his eyes were focused and clear and his own again.
“I have to make some calls.” He said. “I know about a hundred people that can be here in less than two hours.”
We gave him our phones.
That’s how the hippies took us to the stars.
tags
Without telepathy, we could not communicate.
The problem with human minds was the lack of a broadcaster organ like the aliens had. Using some organ graft technology on a stem scaffolding and a bucketload of immunosuppressants, Stevenson cloned one and joined some of those strange tube structures onto a lab mouse.
The alien’s reaction was to turn hot pink and to dance its feet yellow feet around like a horse on ice. It immediately hit the mice with a hot bank of information about its purpose here and the poor little mouse’s head exploded.
Obviously a success. Obviously human trials were the next step.
The problem with this level of the experiment was the human subject. We couldn’t use a death row inmate because who knows what his brain would broadcast to the alien? The same went for the mental hospitals we sometimes used. We couldn’t risk the best minds in our studio because of the work that would be lost if a head exploded.
We had to settle on reaching out discreetly in our local circles to a human that was loving, tender, fun, and into undergoing surgery to talk to aliens.
We found Alan. Alan smoked a lot of weed and had blue glasses. He sold high-grade marijuana to some of the scientists. It was slightly embarrassing when three of us realized we had the same dealer. He drove to the lab in twenty minutes and signed every form and waiver we put in front of him.
It took four days but the graft was a success. The tubular accordions hanging off of either side of Alan’s newly-shaved head pulsed and slackened wetly like lungs from a child with four probing flowers tasting the air like each ear was wearing a uterus.
The alien turned mint green this time and shuddered something that was either orgasm or shock. It knelt on the floor gasping through its sunflower heads and the smell of something between strawberries and rain wafted through the lab.
It composed itself and stood back up, straight backed this time, like a centaur dancer standing at military attention.
“Hello,” said Alan, turning towards us. “Thank you. This volunteer human knows my name now and can be my spokesperson. I know of your world intimately from him and I want to know more. If you can provide us with more spokespeople and minds to communicate with, we will give you the secrets of star travel and alchemy you need to heal this planet or leave it. Please provide as many as you can.”
Alan sagged. When he raised his head back up, his eyes were focused and clear and his own again.
“I have to make some calls.” He said. “I know about a hundred people that can be here in less than two hours.”
We gave him our phones.
That’s how the hippies took us to the stars.
tags