The news that the US is closing a switchboard especially manned to communicate with possible intelligent beings in outer space, has come as a relief to the Martians, little. green men and certainly to me.
I have enough trouble with earthly switch boards jammed with people in the outer suburbs without some garrulous interstellar gremlin dispensing unintelligible gossip about his stars and strife or his great gamma.
Surely this switch-board was an unwise thing, an Invitation to invade us verbally. There’s nothing like a switchboard, terrestrial or interstellar to attract the talkative.
The switchboards that I know are either jammed, gone to lunch or the number isn’t answering.
Imagine the galactic gabfest that could have been initiated. The Americans are talkative enough but you don’t know what’s lurking out there waiting to chatter the world into submission.
That’s if they don’t get the engaged signal or the wrong department or find that their person is on long service leave.
However, I do have some secret tapes leaked to me by a concerned answering service.
“I have Earth on the line now, oh Masterful Co-ordinator of the Universe.”
“Hullo Earth, this is the most Masterful Co-ordinator of the Universe, Planner of Planets, Commissioner of Comets and Prime Minister of the Infinite.”
“Who do you want sir, The President, the CIA, CHOGM, Mal or the Don Lane show?”
Please interpret. This is a significant moment. Galaxy is speaking to galaxy, star to star, I am the Knight of the Nebula the Excavator of Back Holes.”
“Say, are you something on television? Hey, you’re from Mork and Mindy. Hold on a moment please. Yes Hullo. Yes. No this isn’t the President’s jellybean detail. Hang on I’ve got some freak on with a big mouthful of a title.”
The tape here blurs. Then an Outer Space voice.
“Noble sire the Earthling has crossed our lines. We are now connected to some kind of terrestrial conflict. A warrior is speaking…
“Now Glenelg is driving forward but the Maples are flying. Tackling without possession. And the crowd goes wild…”
The voice of the Outer Space operator again:
“Sire, there are many communication systems on Earth. We are now in a new area…”
“Hullo it’s me Pat. Did you hear about HER? And about him. I’m not the one to listen to idle gossip, mind you, but how could she? Oh Max, bone lazy, over weight and he thinks I can’t see him sleeping behind the humus. But getting back to HER.”
Here the tape quietens, rustles a little. One waits for the voice across light years, surging past the streaming tails of comets and the blazing holocausts of new stars. It comes at last, sounding a little hopeless.
“Sire, let us make one last effort to attract planet Earth. Let us try one more communication system”
“So be it.”
Silence, static, then a droning voice “And I would like to ask the Honourable Member for Wombat Flat, that’s if he could wake up for half a moment… (order, order) … Mr. Speaker, I repeat that at this point of time I would like to ask the Honourable Member if this totally ill-conceived piece of legislation that would make a ratbag vomit…(order, order).”
The uproar dies. The voices fade.
The voice of the Great Co-ordinator again:
“Cancel the Earth call. Oh, that hot number on Venus, could you try her again?”
After all, there always be someone ringing heavenly bodies, won’t there?
Max Fatchen