A Small Matter of Distinction

W. E. Lopez

The junior senator from Virginia rapped his gavel several times and remonstrated, “Mr. Parker, may I remind you that you were sworn before the break for lunch and still remain so? Now, would you please answer the question put to you, ‘Are you now, or have you ever been, employed by any covert agency of the United States government?’”

Of course, I couldn’t truthfully answer that question. To admit to the investigating body that there existed a secret agency answerable only to the President, something all had long suspected, would lead to political chaos across the nation. Everyone still believed there existed a system of checks and balances that kept our government from trampling over the rights of its citizens. I tried stalling and bluffing, not lying but not telling the whole truth.

“My paychecks are signed by the US Treasurer, which means I work for the government,” I admitted. “I’m a communications technician third grade working for NASA. While NASA could be involved in covert work for the government, that is beyond the limits of my knowledge and I am unable to comment on that.”

“Harold Parker,” the senator from my home state of Iowa said, “do you mean to claim you did not spend two hours in my office only three weeks ago, and tell me that aliens were in the process of invading the earth?”

“No sir,” I told him. “It is my firm belief that there are alien life forms already walking among us, and more are on the way.”

“And what do you expect their intentions to be?” the senator from New Mexico asked.

“I am not gifted with telepathy, Senator. I do not know their intentions. It is my conclusion, however, that if they were friendly emissaries, they would make their presence known and introduce them selves to the best scientific minds available. On the other hand, should they have hostile intentions, they would quite naturally conduct their activities in secrecy. Scouting the lay of the land, you might call it.”

My hand on my thigh touched the solid form in my pants pocket. It was a plastic gun, from the innermost shelves of “The Black Hole,” the nickname by which we referred to the agency where I really worked. The body was high density plastic, to avoid the metal detectors at the door of the meeting room. The barrel and five bullets for the .25 caliber automatic were cleverly disguised as functional writing instruments so they could be inspected, but their true purpose hidden from prying security agents.

“Mr. Parker,” the senator from Virginia said again. “This committee cannot interest itself in your beliefs, we must have facts upon which to base our decisions. You don’t appear to have any facts to bring to the attention of this committee, do you?”

“No, sir. The aliens have been very good at covering their tracks.”

“While on the other hand, we have a renowned radio astronomer about to testify that he has no knowledge of these alleged aliens, and no scientific reason to believe your fantastic claims.”

“An absence of data can allow one to reach a correct conclusion, in some cases, Senator. Will you admit that there exists not one shred of legally admissible evidence to support the existence of a man called Jesus Christ, or that he ever lived, yet half the world fervently believes in Him?”

“Irrelevant,” Mr. Parker. “Jesus Christ is not the subject of this inquiry.”

“I’m merely pointing out a parallel, Senator.”

The senator glanced left and right at his fellow committee members. “I think we’ve exhausted Mr. Parker’s limited knowledge,” he said. “You may be excused, Mr. Parker.”

As I rose to leave the witness table, the committee head called his next witness. “Dr. Farrell, will you favor us with your knowledge and experience as a doctor and expert in radio astronomy?”

I knew the senator’s intentions. To further his goal of making me appear foolish, he was bringing in an “expert” to bolster his assertion that alien’s do not exist. The government has been using that tactic for decades with Project Bluebook, much of which is still classified despite the official government line that there is no scientifically acceptable proof that aliens or UFOs do exist.

I was about to share my own version of ‘proof’ with the committee. As Dr. Farrell rose and began moving toward the witness table, the senator momentarily turned his head to make a humorous remark to one of his colleagues. I chose that moment to pull my plastic gun and fire two, twenty-five caliber bullets into the phony doctor. He slumped over the wooden rail separating the reporters and spectators from the committee proceedings, but not before everyone could see the spreading stains of blood on his chest, blood with a decidedly blue color, while flash bulbs popped from every angle.

Pivoting on my heel I took aim at the senator, only six or seven yards away, and pumped two shots into him. Again, the assembled spectators could easily see the blue blood spurting from his wounds and more flashbulbs popped.

Although my actions had taken just a few seconds, four security guards quickly flanked me and pinned my arms to my side as they confiscated the pistol. “You’re done for now, Parker. The murder of a United States senator will get your neck stretched for sure.”

Calmly, I replied, “I believe ‘murder’ is defined as the unlawful taking of a human life. Judging by the blue color of the senator’s blood, I doubt if he could ever be considered ‘human.’ At the most, you can probably charge me with the illegal possession and discharge of a fire arm in the Senate hearing rooms and make it stick.”

“Hey! The senator is still alive!” an aide shouted.

We all moved closer to the dying alien. With a substantial effort, his breathing labored, he gasped and splattered blue ichor on those nearest. “We sent you an emissary two thousand years ago and you destroyed him too! Won’t you humans ever grow to maturity?”

* * *

Main Entry: ichor
Pronunciation: 'I-"kor, -k&r
Function: noun
Etymology: Greek ichOr
Date: 15th century
1 : a thin watery or blood-tinged discharge
2 : an ethereal fluid taking the place of blood in the veins of the ancient Greek gods
- ichor·ous /-k&-r&s/ adjective