It's STILL Not a Yuletide Fic...
It wasn’t the first time Shermie had felt regret. Oh, he didn’t feel bad about giving up the toymaking. No, that was never for him. Too confining, too repetitive. His family had long rebelled against the stifling atmosphere of the workshop. Years ago, his great-uncle had opened the Pole’s first dental practice, and the ice, so to speak, had been broken. Before long, Aunt Hermione had built a kiln, while her sister Ermeline was publishing her own literary magazine and her baby brother Herbert had begun practicing to become a barrista. But Shermie had grown up longing for excitement, adventure, even danger, and in the wake of the assault on the Pole a few Christmases back, he’d seen the chance to get up from the bench and take on the role he’d always wanted.
But the ensuing years had proved to him that security work wasn’t all he’d dreamed it would be. Oh, sure, there was the occasional enraged bull walrus that had to be discouraged from entering the compound, and there had been that one polar bear that he’d actually had to kill before it broke down the door of the dormitory-it was all you could do once they’d developed a taste for elf-but for the most part, he wasn’t really needed. The compound was secured by extreme cold and six months of darkness at a time. There wasn’t much use at all for an elf with a gun.
But here he was, out on perimeter duty once more, looking up into a dark sky full of snow, wishing he’d had the foresight to sign on with the Secret Service, or maybe with some rich sheik with a palatial estate on the Red Sea… ah, that would be the life…
And suddenly he realized he wasn’t alone.
“Who goes there?” he barked.
***
Doctor Roger Fleming crept through the darkness toward the twinkling lights. “I was right!” he cried into the darkness. “It’s the workshop of none other than Santa Claus! What luck! To think, that after all these years of getting coal in my stocking, this year I might get-atmospherium!” He laughed. “But he’ll be suspicious if I arrive here alone… Well, I hate to repeat myself, but I’ll just have to use the transformer ray to make myself a companion-but wait!” He paused. “Where will I find forest animals here? On the frigid ice of the polar ice shelf? I’ll be lucky to find even one, let alone four!”
As if in answer to his cry, there was a loud snort from nearby. Peering around the corner of the building, Fleming was unsurprised to discover another kind of structure: a pen. And standing in the snow within it were eight tiny reindeer.
***
“Let’s try that one more time,” said Shermie, the sights of his gun never leaving the face of the strangely dressed stranger-well, a little lower than the face, truth be told.
“As I have already told you, my wife, Turgasso, and I are here to enlist the aid of Santa Claus, as you call him.”
“Why should Santa help you?”
“Why, he is the giver of gifts,” said the stranger’s wife. “Surely this aid we request is a gift of the sort that the giver of gifts would willingly give.”
Shermie eyed them up and down. Yes, the green leotards… the helmets… the antennae… it all fit. “Are you two Martians?”
“Of course not!” said the stranger. “Do you Earthlings know nothing?”
***
“You are as lovely as Animala, your predecessor,” said Fleming to the beautiful woman now standing in the pen, her luxuriant brown hair waving in the frigid Arctic blast. “But because you are made from reindeer, rather than from forest animals, I shall give you a new name. To us, you and me, you shall be Reindeeria! But among others, from whom we must conceal your true nature, your name shall be-Clarice!”
“Snort,” said Reindeeria, and stamped her tiny feet in the snow.
***
“C’mon, march!” barked Shermie, gesturing with his gun barrel. “You Martians sure have a lot of nerve. Did you think you could get to Santa twice? We’ve still got that big robot you brought the last time you tried this.”
“What robot? Who said anything about a robot? Did you mention a robot, my wife?”
“I do not like to talk about a robot, Kr-my husband.”
“Oh, sure, play dumb if you want, but I’m telling you, that thing’s serving coffee in the canteen to this day.”
***
“Hello,” said Fleming to the plump, apple-cheeked old woman who had opened the door. “My name is Dr. Victor McCloud, and this is my wife, Clarice. We were exploring the polar regions when our plane broke down, and we were hoping we might use your phone.”
“Well, goodness me, don’t stand there on the stoop!” cried the little woman. “Come inside this instant and get warm! Why, you’ll catch your death.”
“Ha ha ha! How ironic that you would say that,” said Fleming, laughing broadly. “But perhaps I’ve said too much. Thank our hostess, Clarice.”
“Always agree,” said Reindeeria blankly.
“Well, it would hardly be the Christmas spirit to leave two unlucky travelers at our door when we’re warm and busy inside,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Claus.”
“Then this really is Santa’s workshop? Remarkable!” said Fleming.
“Oh, it certainly is. And we’re still working round the clock getting ready for Christmas Eve, but I’m sure we can find time to get the two of you a hot drink.” She began to lead them down the hallway, then turned back and looked sidelong at Reindeeria. “Have we met before, dear? You seem familiar somehow.”
“Snort,” said Reindeeria.
***
“There, you see?” said Shermie, gesturing with his gun butt toward Torg’s head. “Serving coffee, just like I said.” And so it was. When their old coffee urn had rusted through due to some of Uncle Herbert’s less successful espresso experiments, he had suggested that the robot’s head be pressed into service, and it had worked beautifully-you could almost believe Torg’s head had been meant for that very purpose. “Still think you can get your mitts on Santa?”
“Mitts? We have no mitts. And we have no robots! We have long passed the days when our menial labor was performed by mechanical devices!”
“My husband speaks truly,” said the stranger’s wife. “Our history tells of distant days when such devices were constructed, but we have no need of them, thanks to the miracle of atomic mutation.”
“There! You see that we are no robot-makers. Now take us to Santa so that we may-you!”
***
Fleming and Reindeeria stepped into the big warm room just behind Mrs. Claus, basking in the warmth of the room. Fleming unzipped his jacket and moved toward an enormous coffee urn with all the practiced skill of any academic, but he saw that others were already there to get coffee. One was a diminutive creature with pointed ears, shoes that turned up at the toes, and a large black gun. “One of Santa’s Little Helpers!” he breathed to himself. “But where are the Marvans?”
For whatever the little man’s companions were, they were clearly not from the alien planet Marva. Instead of crisp silver boiler suits, they wore tight green leotards, and their heads appeared swollen and helmet-like, with two long antennae jutting upward. “They look almost like television sets!” marveled Fleming to himself.
“You!” cried the strange green man.
“Hello,” said Fleming, extending a hand. “I am Dr. Victor McCloud, and this is my wife Clarice.”
“Snort,” said Reindeeria.
“My goodness!” said Mrs. Claus. “What a coincidence that you should arrive at the same time as these other guests!”
“Yes,” said Fleming, looking around him. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were still other guests somewhere.” The strange man was looking at him, bewildered, then at his strange green female companion, then back at Fleming. “I don’t believe I caught your names?”
“You did not catch them before?” said the stranger. “They were thrown to you some time ago.”
“My husband,” said his female companion slowly and clearly. “It is plain that this Earth man has never before seen people like us. It would be wise and courteous for us to give him our names, which are completely unlike the names of people he has seen before.”
“But of course. I am… Bannonmar, and this is my wife, Turgassomar.”
“How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Mar?” said Mrs. Claus, stepping forward. “I’m Mrs. Claus. I hope Shermie here has offered you something hot to drink.”
“No trouble there, Mrs. C,” said the little helper. “But I’m not done questioning these two yet. I found them on the perimeter, and they say they need the Big Guy’s help. They claim they’re not Martians, but I’m not so sure.”
“Martians!” said Fleming. “Ha ha ha ha ha! But of course. Now I understand. The miracle of atmospherium is known to all advanced civilizations-not merely our own.”
“You speak truly, Dr. Victor McCloud, as you call yourself. The scientific wonders of atmospherium are well-known to our scientists. Why, small amounts of it can even be used in transformer rays of the sort you carry at your side.”
“What?” cried the little helper, and suddenly his gun was leveled directly at Fleming’s heart-or slightly lower, truth be told.
“Oh, Shermie, don’t point that thing at our guests,” said Mrs. Claus.
“I’m not moving it until he puts that transformer ray down,” said Shermie.
“Transformer ray?” said Fleming desperately. “Why, this is merely a caulking gun! I use it during flights to keep the cockpit pressurized, don’t I, Clarice?”
“Always agree.”
“Don’t listen to him!” said Turgassomar. “That is unquestionably a transformer ray.”
“Oh, come now, Shermie,” said Fleming. “You’d take the word of a Martian over that of a scientist?”
“What? You are Martians!” cried Shermie, and turned his gun toward the green-clad strangers.
And that was the opening Fleming had been waiting for. Swiftly, he turned the transformer ray on Shermie, and bathed in its alien glow, the elf was instantly transformed into a tiny red-nosed reindeer!
“Rowr,” said Reindeeria sharply.
“Now, I want no more nonsense from the rest of you,” Fleming barked. “If I see any, you can join him in the pen outside!”
“Oh, poor Shermie,” said Mrs. Claus.
“Quiet, old woman,” said Fleming. “Now, my Martian friends, we will proceed to your spaceship so you can give me my Christmas present-atmospherium, and plenty of it! Move!”
But before either of the Martians could begin their march to the ship, suddenly the door to the canteen swung open, and there, framed in the light from the hallway, was the jolly fat man himself, Santa Claus.
“Oh, there you are, dear! Something’s happened to the reindeer! The pen is empty, and we’ve only got-” Suddenly his twinkling eyes fell on the transformed Shermie. “Well, there’s Rudolph, anyway. What on Earth is going on in here?”
“Better to ask what on Mars is going on in here, Mr. Claus,” said Fleming, smiling broadly. “I’ve taken care of your little helper, and if you make a wrong move, I’ll turn your wife into a penguin.”
“A penguin?” said Bannonmar. “But this makes no sense. There are no penguins in this hemisphere. We are thousands of your Earth miles from any region where a penguin might be found.”
“Shut up, Martian!” cried Fleming, brandishing the transformer ray at him. And then suddenly there was a blast of pain and a sizzling sound. The room spun and Fleming found himself lying on the floor of the canteen, unable to move, but gazing up at a scowling Santa, who carried in his right hand a taser, still sparking.
“I said it years ago,” said Santa. “Nobody’s breaking into my workshop again.”
“Oh, thank heavens you’re safe, dear!” cried Mrs. Claus. “That awful man turned Shermie into a reindeer!”
“It is good that you are here, Santa,” said Bannonmar. “Now you can help us save our children!”
“Ohhhhh, no,” said Santa, holding up the taser menacingly. “I’m going nowhere. If you need someone to help you with delivering toys, you’ll have to find someone else.”
“Toys?” said Reindeeria. “Deliver… toys… yes. Reindeeria can deliver… toys.”
“You would help us?” said Turgassomar. “Oh, Kro-Bar, for now there is no need to maintain the pretense that you are called Bannonmar, my eyes are unaccountably filled with tears, as they so often seem to be when we are offered assistance.”
“Yes, Lattis my wife, now no longer known as Turgassomar, it is good to know that there can be sharing like this among people of all planets. And we have something to share with you, as well, Santa, if you will permit me.” He gestured toward the fallen transformer gun. Santa nodded, keeping his taser raised, and Kro-Bar slowly lifted the gun, turned it on the tiny reindeer, and transformed Shermie back into an elf.
“Rowr?” said Reindeeria.
“Holy crap!” said Shermie.
“Well,” said Santa. “That’s more like it. But now I have no reindeer at all.”
“I think,” said the one called Lattis, looking down pointedly at the helpless Fleming, “that we have something else to share with you.”
***
“Goodbye, Santa! Goodbye Mrs. Claus and Shermie the Elf! May the most joyous of Christmases be yours!” called the aliens from the hatchway of their ship.
“Goodbye Kro-Bar and Lattis! Goodbye Reindeeria!” called Santa in reply. “Bring joy and peace to the children of Mars-uh, Marva, I mean.”
The ship fired its rockets and blasted off into the night sky, fading to a tiny star. Shermie yawned and scratched his head. “Well, that was one strange Christmas Eve. I wonder what happened to our real reindeer?”
“I also wonder,” said Santa, fixing the bit in the mouth of one of his new team. “But at least that transformer ray gave us some handy substitutes.”
***
“Oh, Paul!” said Betty. “Do you hear that?”
“If you mean, do I hear the prancing and pawing of little hooves, then I’d say yes, Betty, I sure do. Come on, let’s take a look!”
And sure enough, once Paul and Betty had wrapped themselves in their robes, rushed out onto the lawn, and gazed up to the housetop, they saw the beloved figure perched atop the chimney, brushing soot from his fur cuffs.
“Merry Christmas, Armstrongs!” cried Santa.
“Merry Christmas, Santa!” they replied.
“You’ll find a new dress for you under the tree, Betty. And for you, Paul, more atmospherium!”
“Oh, what wonderful gifts, Santa!” said Betty.
“Give our best to Mrs. Claus and your little helpers!” called Paul.
“Ho ho ho! Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” cried Santa, and like a rocket, the sleigh sprang into the night sky.
“Hmm,” said Betty. “I wonder.”
“What, darling?”
“I had the strangest sensation, Paul. That those reindeer were… looking at me. Almost as if they… recognized me somehow.” She shook her strawberry-blonde head. “Oh, well.”
***
And Dr. Roger Fleming, streaking across the sky, shrugged his antlers and looked forward to a good bale of hay. He just hoped Santa wouldn’t break out that whip again next year.
But the ensuing years had proved to him that security work wasn’t all he’d dreamed it would be. Oh, sure, there was the occasional enraged bull walrus that had to be discouraged from entering the compound, and there had been that one polar bear that he’d actually had to kill before it broke down the door of the dormitory-it was all you could do once they’d developed a taste for elf-but for the most part, he wasn’t really needed. The compound was secured by extreme cold and six months of darkness at a time. There wasn’t much use at all for an elf with a gun.
But here he was, out on perimeter duty once more, looking up into a dark sky full of snow, wishing he’d had the foresight to sign on with the Secret Service, or maybe with some rich sheik with a palatial estate on the Red Sea… ah, that would be the life…
And suddenly he realized he wasn’t alone.
“Who goes there?” he barked.
***
Doctor Roger Fleming crept through the darkness toward the twinkling lights. “I was right!” he cried into the darkness. “It’s the workshop of none other than Santa Claus! What luck! To think, that after all these years of getting coal in my stocking, this year I might get-atmospherium!” He laughed. “But he’ll be suspicious if I arrive here alone… Well, I hate to repeat myself, but I’ll just have to use the transformer ray to make myself a companion-but wait!” He paused. “Where will I find forest animals here? On the frigid ice of the polar ice shelf? I’ll be lucky to find even one, let alone four!”
As if in answer to his cry, there was a loud snort from nearby. Peering around the corner of the building, Fleming was unsurprised to discover another kind of structure: a pen. And standing in the snow within it were eight tiny reindeer.
***
“Let’s try that one more time,” said Shermie, the sights of his gun never leaving the face of the strangely dressed stranger-well, a little lower than the face, truth be told.
“As I have already told you, my wife, Turgasso, and I are here to enlist the aid of Santa Claus, as you call him.”
“Why should Santa help you?”
“Why, he is the giver of gifts,” said the stranger’s wife. “Surely this aid we request is a gift of the sort that the giver of gifts would willingly give.”
Shermie eyed them up and down. Yes, the green leotards… the helmets… the antennae… it all fit. “Are you two Martians?”
“Of course not!” said the stranger. “Do you Earthlings know nothing?”
***
“You are as lovely as Animala, your predecessor,” said Fleming to the beautiful woman now standing in the pen, her luxuriant brown hair waving in the frigid Arctic blast. “But because you are made from reindeer, rather than from forest animals, I shall give you a new name. To us, you and me, you shall be Reindeeria! But among others, from whom we must conceal your true nature, your name shall be-Clarice!”
“Snort,” said Reindeeria, and stamped her tiny feet in the snow.
***
“C’mon, march!” barked Shermie, gesturing with his gun barrel. “You Martians sure have a lot of nerve. Did you think you could get to Santa twice? We’ve still got that big robot you brought the last time you tried this.”
“What robot? Who said anything about a robot? Did you mention a robot, my wife?”
“I do not like to talk about a robot, Kr-my husband.”
“Oh, sure, play dumb if you want, but I’m telling you, that thing’s serving coffee in the canteen to this day.”
***
“Hello,” said Fleming to the plump, apple-cheeked old woman who had opened the door. “My name is Dr. Victor McCloud, and this is my wife, Clarice. We were exploring the polar regions when our plane broke down, and we were hoping we might use your phone.”
“Well, goodness me, don’t stand there on the stoop!” cried the little woman. “Come inside this instant and get warm! Why, you’ll catch your death.”
“Ha ha ha! How ironic that you would say that,” said Fleming, laughing broadly. “But perhaps I’ve said too much. Thank our hostess, Clarice.”
“Always agree,” said Reindeeria blankly.
“Well, it would hardly be the Christmas spirit to leave two unlucky travelers at our door when we’re warm and busy inside,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Claus.”
“Then this really is Santa’s workshop? Remarkable!” said Fleming.
“Oh, it certainly is. And we’re still working round the clock getting ready for Christmas Eve, but I’m sure we can find time to get the two of you a hot drink.” She began to lead them down the hallway, then turned back and looked sidelong at Reindeeria. “Have we met before, dear? You seem familiar somehow.”
“Snort,” said Reindeeria.
***
“There, you see?” said Shermie, gesturing with his gun butt toward Torg’s head. “Serving coffee, just like I said.” And so it was. When their old coffee urn had rusted through due to some of Uncle Herbert’s less successful espresso experiments, he had suggested that the robot’s head be pressed into service, and it had worked beautifully-you could almost believe Torg’s head had been meant for that very purpose. “Still think you can get your mitts on Santa?”
“Mitts? We have no mitts. And we have no robots! We have long passed the days when our menial labor was performed by mechanical devices!”
“My husband speaks truly,” said the stranger’s wife. “Our history tells of distant days when such devices were constructed, but we have no need of them, thanks to the miracle of atomic mutation.”
“There! You see that we are no robot-makers. Now take us to Santa so that we may-you!”
***
Fleming and Reindeeria stepped into the big warm room just behind Mrs. Claus, basking in the warmth of the room. Fleming unzipped his jacket and moved toward an enormous coffee urn with all the practiced skill of any academic, but he saw that others were already there to get coffee. One was a diminutive creature with pointed ears, shoes that turned up at the toes, and a large black gun. “One of Santa’s Little Helpers!” he breathed to himself. “But where are the Marvans?”
For whatever the little man’s companions were, they were clearly not from the alien planet Marva. Instead of crisp silver boiler suits, they wore tight green leotards, and their heads appeared swollen and helmet-like, with two long antennae jutting upward. “They look almost like television sets!” marveled Fleming to himself.
“You!” cried the strange green man.
“Hello,” said Fleming, extending a hand. “I am Dr. Victor McCloud, and this is my wife Clarice.”
“Snort,” said Reindeeria.
“My goodness!” said Mrs. Claus. “What a coincidence that you should arrive at the same time as these other guests!”
“Yes,” said Fleming, looking around him. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were still other guests somewhere.” The strange man was looking at him, bewildered, then at his strange green female companion, then back at Fleming. “I don’t believe I caught your names?”
“You did not catch them before?” said the stranger. “They were thrown to you some time ago.”
“My husband,” said his female companion slowly and clearly. “It is plain that this Earth man has never before seen people like us. It would be wise and courteous for us to give him our names, which are completely unlike the names of people he has seen before.”
“But of course. I am… Bannonmar, and this is my wife, Turgassomar.”
“How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Mar?” said Mrs. Claus, stepping forward. “I’m Mrs. Claus. I hope Shermie here has offered you something hot to drink.”
“No trouble there, Mrs. C,” said the little helper. “But I’m not done questioning these two yet. I found them on the perimeter, and they say they need the Big Guy’s help. They claim they’re not Martians, but I’m not so sure.”
“Martians!” said Fleming. “Ha ha ha ha ha! But of course. Now I understand. The miracle of atmospherium is known to all advanced civilizations-not merely our own.”
“You speak truly, Dr. Victor McCloud, as you call yourself. The scientific wonders of atmospherium are well-known to our scientists. Why, small amounts of it can even be used in transformer rays of the sort you carry at your side.”
“What?” cried the little helper, and suddenly his gun was leveled directly at Fleming’s heart-or slightly lower, truth be told.
“Oh, Shermie, don’t point that thing at our guests,” said Mrs. Claus.
“I’m not moving it until he puts that transformer ray down,” said Shermie.
“Transformer ray?” said Fleming desperately. “Why, this is merely a caulking gun! I use it during flights to keep the cockpit pressurized, don’t I, Clarice?”
“Always agree.”
“Don’t listen to him!” said Turgassomar. “That is unquestionably a transformer ray.”
“Oh, come now, Shermie,” said Fleming. “You’d take the word of a Martian over that of a scientist?”
“What? You are Martians!” cried Shermie, and turned his gun toward the green-clad strangers.
And that was the opening Fleming had been waiting for. Swiftly, he turned the transformer ray on Shermie, and bathed in its alien glow, the elf was instantly transformed into a tiny red-nosed reindeer!
“Rowr,” said Reindeeria sharply.
“Now, I want no more nonsense from the rest of you,” Fleming barked. “If I see any, you can join him in the pen outside!”
“Oh, poor Shermie,” said Mrs. Claus.
“Quiet, old woman,” said Fleming. “Now, my Martian friends, we will proceed to your spaceship so you can give me my Christmas present-atmospherium, and plenty of it! Move!”
But before either of the Martians could begin their march to the ship, suddenly the door to the canteen swung open, and there, framed in the light from the hallway, was the jolly fat man himself, Santa Claus.
“Oh, there you are, dear! Something’s happened to the reindeer! The pen is empty, and we’ve only got-” Suddenly his twinkling eyes fell on the transformed Shermie. “Well, there’s Rudolph, anyway. What on Earth is going on in here?”
“Better to ask what on Mars is going on in here, Mr. Claus,” said Fleming, smiling broadly. “I’ve taken care of your little helper, and if you make a wrong move, I’ll turn your wife into a penguin.”
“A penguin?” said Bannonmar. “But this makes no sense. There are no penguins in this hemisphere. We are thousands of your Earth miles from any region where a penguin might be found.”
“Shut up, Martian!” cried Fleming, brandishing the transformer ray at him. And then suddenly there was a blast of pain and a sizzling sound. The room spun and Fleming found himself lying on the floor of the canteen, unable to move, but gazing up at a scowling Santa, who carried in his right hand a taser, still sparking.
“I said it years ago,” said Santa. “Nobody’s breaking into my workshop again.”
“Oh, thank heavens you’re safe, dear!” cried Mrs. Claus. “That awful man turned Shermie into a reindeer!”
“It is good that you are here, Santa,” said Bannonmar. “Now you can help us save our children!”
“Ohhhhh, no,” said Santa, holding up the taser menacingly. “I’m going nowhere. If you need someone to help you with delivering toys, you’ll have to find someone else.”
“Toys?” said Reindeeria. “Deliver… toys… yes. Reindeeria can deliver… toys.”
“You would help us?” said Turgassomar. “Oh, Kro-Bar, for now there is no need to maintain the pretense that you are called Bannonmar, my eyes are unaccountably filled with tears, as they so often seem to be when we are offered assistance.”
“Yes, Lattis my wife, now no longer known as Turgassomar, it is good to know that there can be sharing like this among people of all planets. And we have something to share with you, as well, Santa, if you will permit me.” He gestured toward the fallen transformer gun. Santa nodded, keeping his taser raised, and Kro-Bar slowly lifted the gun, turned it on the tiny reindeer, and transformed Shermie back into an elf.
“Rowr?” said Reindeeria.
“Holy crap!” said Shermie.
“Well,” said Santa. “That’s more like it. But now I have no reindeer at all.”
“I think,” said the one called Lattis, looking down pointedly at the helpless Fleming, “that we have something else to share with you.”
***
“Goodbye, Santa! Goodbye Mrs. Claus and Shermie the Elf! May the most joyous of Christmases be yours!” called the aliens from the hatchway of their ship.
“Goodbye Kro-Bar and Lattis! Goodbye Reindeeria!” called Santa in reply. “Bring joy and peace to the children of Mars-uh, Marva, I mean.”
The ship fired its rockets and blasted off into the night sky, fading to a tiny star. Shermie yawned and scratched his head. “Well, that was one strange Christmas Eve. I wonder what happened to our real reindeer?”
“I also wonder,” said Santa, fixing the bit in the mouth of one of his new team. “But at least that transformer ray gave us some handy substitutes.”
***
“Oh, Paul!” said Betty. “Do you hear that?”
“If you mean, do I hear the prancing and pawing of little hooves, then I’d say yes, Betty, I sure do. Come on, let’s take a look!”
And sure enough, once Paul and Betty had wrapped themselves in their robes, rushed out onto the lawn, and gazed up to the housetop, they saw the beloved figure perched atop the chimney, brushing soot from his fur cuffs.
“Merry Christmas, Armstrongs!” cried Santa.
“Merry Christmas, Santa!” they replied.
“You’ll find a new dress for you under the tree, Betty. And for you, Paul, more atmospherium!”
“Oh, what wonderful gifts, Santa!” said Betty.
“Give our best to Mrs. Claus and your little helpers!” called Paul.
“Ho ho ho! Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” cried Santa, and like a rocket, the sleigh sprang into the night sky.
“Hmm,” said Betty. “I wonder.”
“What, darling?”
“I had the strangest sensation, Paul. That those reindeer were… looking at me. Almost as if they… recognized me somehow.” She shook her strawberry-blonde head. “Oh, well.”
***
And Dr. Roger Fleming, streaking across the sky, shrugged his antlers and looked forward to a good bale of hay. He just hoped Santa wouldn’t break out that whip again next year.