Three

do?”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll find a way to rejoin you.”

  The Captain marches smartly down a corridor toward the Commander’s office, the paper bag in his hand. Unnoticed by the Captain who is thinking only of his meeting with the Commander, Feena slips into an office off the hallway. Now the Captain stands in the Commander’s soaring quarters. He has placed the bag containing the head on his boss’ giant desk.

  “Well done, Captain,” says the Commander. “You have fully exceptionalized yourself by rescuing this object. You may complete the assigned task by destroying it.”

  The captain takes back the bag with Jome’s head and waits to be dismissed. We see that the stove-pipe creature is still hanging like an old stained raincoat on a hat tree by the door. One of its eyes is trained on this scene, its eyebrow raised slightly. The Commander waves the Captain away, turns and notices the eye. “What do you want? I have rejected you,” he whispers angrily. “I no longer listen to you.” But he pauses, thinking, turns back to the Captain and says: “I have changed my mind. I will dispose of the bag myself. You are dismissed.” He takes it from him and dumps it back on the desk. The Captain bows and leaves the Commander’s presence.

  “What is it?” he asks impatiently of the limp puppet. “You are embarrassing me. You made me change my mind. I must not be seen to change my mind about anything.”

  “What about the Code?” the puppet says. “You need to retrieve it.”

  “The Code? Yes, yes, of course. I hardly need you to remind me. I will extract it and, then, afterwards destroy the head.”

  “And what about the head’s mission?” The Commander grunts his annoyance. “Wasn’t he supposed to make contact with the humans by pretending to be their ally?” asks the gas pump puppet. “To attract a Candidate.”

  “Correct,” says the Commander. “But I did not expect him to become a battle casualty.” He plays with his goatee. “Still I wonder if he did find a Candidate.”

  “Interrogate him, Supreme One.”

  “Sometimes I really hate your advice.”

  “Even though you need it and use it.”

  The Commander removes Jome’s head from the bag and places it on the desk. It falls over. He sets it upright again. The frayed tangle of wiring trails out from the neck as a look of distaste crosses his face. Jome’s eyes are closed, his expression unreadable. “I need to interrogate you,” says the Commander. “I give you permission to use telepathy to communicate with me.”

  Jome’s eyes stay closed. There is no sign that he hears what the Commander is saying. “Did you find a Candidate before you were---disabled?” The head is silent. The Commander is becoming edgy with anger as he strides to his desk and flips on an electronic viewing screen.

  “I am looking at your Code readings, and I see a faint image.” He stares at it more closely. “The image appears to be a young girl--a human one. Is she your Candidate?” The head says nothing. “I would have preferred a male. What’s her name?” The head continues to be silent.

  The Commander’s fury at being frustrated in this manner is building rapidly. Now he explodes. “I do not need you! I can guess you have been corrupted by this human girl.” He slams his fist into Jome’s head, and it rolls onto the floor. “I will find another Candidate. It will be easy. Meantime I consign you to the furnace to be destroyed without a trace.” He gives the head a hard kick with his boot, and it rolls across the room.

  Suddenly, a voice cries out. “Commander! The asteroid! There’s something on it. It’s moving.” It’s the balloon freak warning him. The Commander rushes to the window to focus the telescope on the moon’s companion, the “second” moon.

  The head continues to roll—right towards the door of the office, which opens slightly to let it slip through. Speeding down the hall, it hits a ridge in the floor and bounces upward into the air. As it starts to fall downward, Feena is there to catch it. “I have you,” she whispers and pulls Jome’s head in close to her.

  The Commander searches the surface of the asteroid with the telescope. He detects no movement, no change. “What do you mean something’s moving on it,” he cries out. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Either there was something on the surface or something was passing in front of it,” says the car wash phantom--draped over the hat tree like an old beach towel. “Or maybe it was an object landing on it. I swear I saw something.”

  “You can’t see anything without the telescope,” says the Commander. “Anyway I don’t choose to listen to you any more. Your job here is over and done.” He takes another hurried look through the eye-piece. He is suddenly urgent. “Wait! Do you think it was the Inspector’s space ship you saw?”

  “Perhaps,” says the car wash thing. “We will know soon enough.”

  The commander begins to look panicky.

  “You are more beautiful than ever,” says the head telepathically, now nestled in Feena’s arms.

  “Sh-h-h, she says. I’ve got to figure out how to get us out of here, Jome--and get you back your body.”

  “No,” he says. “First, you must meet the Inspector. That is the reason I chose you. It’s part of my assignment.”

  “Chose me? Your assignment? What’s all this about?” He has become extremely somber. “Can’t you tell me?” she asks. “Who’s this Inspector?”

  “Feena,” says Jome’s head from deep inside her mind, “you may be the only reason the earth can survive the Inspector’s visit.” He proceeds to explain who the Inspector is and why he’s coming—to check out Earth’s preparations for the Visitors from Zyllaton. “He is acutely intelligent, and he has vast powers. He is also dangerous. He could destroy us all in a flash. Only a human can hope to outsmart him, only a human can make him think our preparations for the Visitors are in perfect order. And most important of all, only a human like yourself can hope to make him think you’re a maton and not a human.

  “And why is that important?”

  “Because he thinks all the humans were destroyed in the war. He doesn’t know your kind still inhabit the Earth. The Commander has misled him.”

  “It sounds like maybe he better not meet me. If I fail, he’ll destroy me first.”“

  “No, he must meet you. You must make him think you’re a maton and be his guide while he’s here. Above all, he must never guess that you’re human. Now hide me inside this desk, and I’ll give you pointers on how to act like a maton as you go along.”

  “From inside the desk?” she asks, trying to stifle a giggle.

  “Why not,” he says. “But first, we must try you out on the Commander. If he likes you, perhaps, the Inspector will, too. Remember, a flat monotone is best. No human intonations.”

  “This is laughable,” she says. She tries a metallic monotone. “When in the course of human events it becomes necessary to---” She collapses into laughter. “He’s never going to believe me.”

  “It’s okay. You’re passable. Always remember, you’re not human; you’re a maton.”

  Trying to affect a slightly wooden gait—the way she’s seen matons walk---she approaches the open door of the Commander’s office. She starts to go in.

  “No, don’t,” Jome cries out sharply inside her head but not so the Commander can hear him.

  “If the door’s open, why can’t I just walk in?” she says.

  “That’s what a human might do,” he says. “If you’re a maton, you must show deference at all times. Knock first. Then, go in when he summons you---and be your charming, lovely self.”

  “You won’t be with me?” The idea of being alone with the Commander unnerves her.

  “Don’t worry. I will still be with you. I will hear all. But the Commander will not hear anything.”

  She proceeds now to knock on the Commander’s door.

  “Come in,” he shouts. He is at first taken aback when Feena walks in.
“I was expecting a different gender,” he says.

  Feena tries hard to be hesitant, even a little awkward. “I am Feena, your new assistant, sir,” she says shyly. “I have been instructed to do your bidding.”

  He nods and smiles. “You must be the Candidate---the one Jome chose for me before he—became disabled.”

  “The Commander is buying off on you,” says Jome in her head.

  “He thinks you’ll be fine.”

  “You really are quite lovely,” says the Commander. “You will make an excellent guide for the Inspector.”

  “Whatever you wish,” she says.

  “Nicely done,” says Jome. “This is going better than I thought it would.”

  “When is your visitor expected?” she asks.

  “That’s a little presumptuous for a maton to ask,” says Jome.

  The Supreme One looks at her in surprise.

  “Be careful,” whispers Jome inside her head. “You need to be modest---a bit unsure of yourself.”

  “When will he be here? Very soon---” the Commander starts to say.

  “I am here,” says a brusque, disembodied voice in the room. A blurry figure appears from nothing right in front of them and comes tremblingly into sharp focus. The look of him surprises her. He has on what seems like a very ancient, musty-smelling military uniform that maybe Napoleon might recognize. It barely fits his pudgy form. On his head is a funny little green pillbox hat with a wide black brim in front.

  Feena can’t help wanting to smile but manages not