Jerry Swerdlow Saves the World
								by Lee Gruenfeld *
	Seven men and four women sat in stony silence as Stuart Klonski 
made his pitch.They always sat in stony silence, because it was intimidating. 
If you didn’t believe in your idea enough to strut it proudly in front of 
recalcitrant supervisors, you had no business pushing it at all. If it was a good 
idea, and you just happened to have a shy and retiring personality, you were 
shit out of luck because you’d wither like a discarded peach in front of these 
guys.
	“It’s a diagnostic system,”  Klonski was saying, mustering up as much 
self-confidence as he could reasonably fake without it being obvious. “For 
refrigerators.”
	“Ghrpfnk,” snorted Esther Pineal, loud enough so Klonski could hear 
her but not loud enough so anyone could actually call her on it. It might have 
been simply the clearing of normal nocturnal mucosal detritus, this being early 
in the morning.
	Klonski hesitated only briefly. “Way it’s designed, there’s nothing 
could go wrong with a modern refrigerator that it wouldn’t catch even before 
Suzy Homemaker knew it was happening.”
	Fred "Fuzzy" Fitzweiler, chairman of the board, looked around quickly to 
see which of the females present would take umbrage at the blatantly sexist 
epithet, and was pleased to see no reaction of any kind. After all, several 
million Suzy Homemakers paid the overly-inflated salaries of everybody in this 
room, and they all had a pretty solid notion of which side of their cracker the 
caviar was on. Here at Cottage Grove American Home Industries, a seven-
billion dollar manufacturer that specialized in using spin-offs from its nuclear 
weapons operation to keep its consumer products division awash in useful 
tools for the modern home, the only regret was that they hadn’t dreamed up 
ring around the collar or don’t squeeze the toilet paper before the competition 
had.
	“Say, for example, the water supply to the ice-maker gets cut off 
somehow — ”
	“How?” asked a voice from a distant corner of the conference table.
	“How?” Klonski echoed.
	The voice from the back stayed silent; surely Klonski understood How?
	“Well, uh, the pipe gets blocked, say, or water pressure throughout the 
whole house drops…”
	“So you figure, what:  there’s no water in the house and the first thing 
everybody’s gonna get excited about is they got no ice?”
	“Swerdlow,” Fitzweiler intervened smoothly, “let’s get the whole big 
picture here, the entire conceptual framework, before we start zeroing in on 
the fine details, eh?”
	Jerry Swerdlow shrugged his reluctant acquiescence but Fitzweiler had 
already motioned for Klonski to go on. Esther Pineal, who autonomically 
embraced whatever Jerry Swerdlow rejected, smiled and sat forward, nodding 
encouragingly at Klonski who, thus emboldened, proceeded.
	“A fan blows in the freezer, a capacitance monitoring circuit signals 
instantly. Maybe the bulb blows…no problem:  the diagnostic center checks 
for filament resistance every thirty seconds and lights up if the bulb burns out!”
	“So you put juice through a cold bulb twice a minute; you figure maybe 
that’s gonna have a beneficial effect on its life — ”
	“Swerdlow!” admonished Vinny Gilhooley of the light bulb division. 
“Give the man a chance, whaddya say?”
	“Whole thing’s got battery backup,” Klonski persisted in some 
agitation. “Main power goes, no problem. Diagnostic center keeps on 
running!”
	“What’s it gonna check on, there’s no power going to the ‘fridge!” 

Swerdlow demanded.
	“I like it!” said Tiffany Amber Rosenzweig from marketing. “Greatest 
leap in domestic technology since the microwaveable ice cream sun— “
	“Me too!” cried Amos Finnegan, manufacturing, reaching for the 
prototype sitting in front of Klonski. He picked it up in his hands and turned it 
over a few times. “Get this down to a single integrated circuit, couple cheap 
LED’s for lights…”  He looked up at Fitzweiler. “Knock ’em out for under a 
buck a unit.”
	“We gonna include batteries?” asked Maria Gonzuaga, package design.
	“You nuts?” replied Bill Sell’em-their-own-desk Wusterman, VP of 
sales. “What, a guy buys a new refrigerator, he can’t afford two double A’s 
from Radio Shack?”
	“Hey!” protested Garrison Thistlewaithe, battery division.
	“Sorry, This,” Wusterman said. “You know what I mean.”
	Fitzweiler was all smiles and fingers thumping excitedly on the table, 
but there was also a hint of pained reluctance about him. “Research?” he 
finally managed to inquire, weakly.

	Jerry Swerdlow, who had remained quiet as ordered during the 
remainder of Klonski’s presentation, sniffled and thumbed his lip for a few 
seconds. “Klonski,” he said at last, shifting in his seat and putting his elbows 
on the table, “lemme ask you something.”
	“Shoot!” said Klonski amiably, ready for anything now. Several in the 
room winced at his unfortunate choice of words regarding a pending inquiry 
from Research.
	Swerdlow nodded. “When’s the last time you saw a refrigerator go on 
the fritz?”
	Klonski raised his eyebrows slightly. “You mean me, personally?”
	“Yeah, you.”
	Klonski scrunched up his face in thought, anxious to convey that he 
considered all potential negatives carefully, like the truly objective professional 
he was. “You mean, a refrigerator of my own, or…”
	“I mean, when’s the last time you ever saw anything ever go bad on any 
refrigerator, ever, no matter whose it was.”
	“Ah.”  Klonski nodded vigorously, communicating his clear grasp of 
the question. He kept on nodding until he said, “Can’t think of one, offhand.”
	“You couldn’t think of one, you stood on your head ‘til next Tuesday.” 
Swerdlow looked around. “Refrigerators, they’re like telephones used to be, 
before de-reg fucked ‘em up. ‘Fridge runs fifty years, nothing ever goes 
wrong.”
	“What about the bulbs?”  Esther Pineal asked.
	“What about the bulbs!” Swerdlow shot back. “You open the door, 
it’s dark, the bulb is burned out!”
	“But you get no advanced warning!” insisted Rosenzweig. “With the 
diagnostic system, you know in advance it’s going to be dark in there!”
	Swerdlow blinked at her several times, but before he could think of an 
appropriate way to phrase a response to her inanity, Fitzweiler jumped in. 
“Rosenzweig, how much can we bump the price, we stick this thing in a unit?”
	Rosenzweig tilted her head to one side. “Fancy lights, little glowing 
labels…”
	“Might could add four bits to the production cost,” Finnegan warned.
	Rosenzweig absorbed this intelligence, then announced, “Hunnerd 
bucks, we advertise it right.”
	An enormous smile began to form on Fitzweiler’s face, but Gilhooley 
cut it off. “Wait a minute.”  He turned to Klonski. “What happens, the 
diagnostic center itself goes poop?”
	“Huh?” Klonski replied, buying time to think.
	“Yeah,” Finnegan said, frowning. “Then what?  We build in a self-
monitoring device, that’s gonna bump the cost.”
	Rosenzweig slumped back on her seat, dejection deeply etched in her 
features. Fitzweiler exhaled loudly and glared at Klonski. Similar reactions 
befell most of the others.
	“The hell difference does it make?” Jerry Swerdlow asked of no one in 
particular.
	Gilhooley looked at him, then at the others, who were similarly looking 
around the conference table.
	Fitzweiler, suddenly alert, nudged his chin toward Swerdlow, urging 
him to elaborate.
	“I said, what difference does it make?”
	Seeing a decided lack of comprehension on the faces of his colleagues, 
he went on. “I told you: nothing ever goes wrong with a ‘fridge. So if the 
diagnostic center goes kerblooey, who’s gonna know?”
	Fitzweiler sat with his jaw hanging open, sensing but not seeing a 
renewal of the elation that had earlier enveloped the room. He had to struggle 
to suppress tears from springing up in his eyes:  a righteous pain in the ass, that 
Swerdlow, but worth every cent he paid him, which was twice what he paid 
the next highest salaried person in the room, excluding himself, of course.
	“Fucking brilliant,” Thistlewaithe said quietly, shaking his head in 
admiration.
	Swerdlow looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. “We done 
here?”
	
	They didn’t come suddenly, or without warning. First indications 
were via interference on radio telescopes aimed at that particular part of the 
sky, and were quickly confirmed by ground based radar all over the northern 
hemisphere. That’s pretty much what got people excited in the first place, that 
the invaders were so self-confident they made no effort to conceal themselves.
	There were fifty-two ships in all. They’d started out as fifty-three, one 
of them, the advance scout, having burned up spectacularly somewhere over 
Angmakssalik, Greenland. A flurry of intense ionic emissions followed, 
apparently frantic attempts by the main body to brake their momentum prior to 
entering the atmosphere. There was a brief glow as the first ship behind the 
scout struck the ionosphere, but it faded out as the vessel skipped back off into 
space, having come in at too shallow an angle. Reversing direction and 
applying ion thrust, it came in slowly on its second pass and joined the rest of 
the ships as they settled into the thicker air and took up positions around the 
globe.
	The usual arguments raged below as to whether these were friendlies or 
hostiles, a rancorous debate that was ended quickly upon the fiery 
disappearance of Cosmoledo Island off the northern coast of Madagascar 
following its illumination by a bluish-green beam emanating from one of the 
larger ships in the hovering fleet. Upon the brief diminution, owing to the 
shock of the catastrophe, of the frenetic radio and television waves that had 
been zipping around the planet earth, a broadcast was sent down from a 
different ship that popped up, audio only, on radios that happened to be tuned 
to 92.3 FM or 940 AM, and televisions playing Channel 9. The video signal 
was left alone, so that it took people watching reruns of Petticoat Junction a 
few moments to realize that the soundtrack didn’t match the visual action.
	“People of this planet, we demand your immediate surrender. Our 
civilization is ten thousand of your years older than yours, and your punny 
technology is no match for our superior weaponry, as the destruction of that 
small highland amply remonstrated. There is no escape. You must surrender. 
You have one earth day.”
	
	Secretary of the Interior Patricia Levine said, “This is really terrible 
English.”  She looked up from a transcript of the alien broadcast. “Punny?”  
She glanced around the table. “Meant puny, didn’t they?  And remonstrated, 
well…”
	“It’s an invasion, Patricia, not a goddamned spelling bee.” President of 
the United States Johns Pickford drummed his fingers impatiently, waiting for 
some response from the rest of his Cabinet.
	“Was it the same in all the other languages?” asked Allen Chesterson, 
Commerce.
	“There was only the one, Al.” Timothy McElwain, Secretary of 
Defense sat forward, anxious to contribute. “Just the one broadcast, same for 
everybody.”
	“What makes ‘em think everybody on this planet speaks English?” 
mused Quentin Fine, the president’s chief of staff.
	“That’s how brilliant they are, see?” answered McElwain. “They 
figured out that English is the lingua franca of the whole planet. Why waste 
time, when there’s people all over the place speak English and can translate for 
the foreigners?”
	“They’re not foreigners where they live, Timothy,” Joseph Canseco, 
Transportation, shot back huffily.
	“You all gonna sit around bullshitting much longer, or should I just go 
surrender right now?”
	“How would you do that, Mr. President?” asked Levine.
	President Pickford looked at her queerly. “I didn’t really mean it, 
Patricia.”
	“No, what I’m saying, suppose you did. How would you go about it?”
	“I don’t get it,” Fine said, picking up on the president’s annoyance and 
adopting it as his own.
	“Wait, I see what she means,” McElwain jumped in. “They didn’t tell 
us how to signal surrender. If we gave up, how do we let ‘em know?”
	“What the hell difference does it make!”  Pickford thundered. “We’re 
not giving up!”
	He looked around at the averted eyes surrounding the table. “Are we?” 
he ventured timidly.
	“We don’t even know what it means to give up,” Canseco put forth. 
“What happens?”
	“Obviously, they don’t annihilate us,”  said Chesterson. “They wanted 
to do that, the hell’s the sense of waiting for us to surrender?”
	“Good point,” agreed Marguerita Toomey, HUD. “So what do they 
want:  make us all slaves?”
	“We don’t even know they want to stay here,” said Jason Fullerton, 
attorney general. “Maybe we’re supposed to give ‘em something.”
	“Like what?” asked Chesterson.
	“How the hell should I know?  Maybe some natural resource they don’t 
have on their own planet.”
	“What if it’s water?” asked Levine. “All our fresh water?  What then?”
	“Might as well kill us all, they take our fresh water,” said Toomey 
sadly.
	“Not water,” McElwain assured her. “How they gonna carry that much 
water?  You know how much water weighs?”
	“You saw their technology,” Canseco countered. “They took out an 
entire island!”
	“Not much of an island,” Chesterson mused out loud.
	“How do we know that’s the biggest they could’a done?”  McElwain 
shaped his question as a challenge:  How big a chance you wanna take?
	“Why don’t we just ask ‘em,” Toomey proposed.
	McElwain chuckled as he sat back, and several of the others joined in 
his condescension as Toomey’s face turned red.
	“The hell’s so funny?” she insisted. “Can’t we negotiate? What’s 
wrong with that?”
	A low, soft rumble rolled through the room. When it had passed, the 
people around the table looked at each other, none needing to voice their 
concern over what it might have been.
	Someone knocked at the door, and it opened to reveal the president’s 
private secretary. “Message for Secretary McElwain,” she said apologetically, 
and Pickford made a waving motion.
	Behind her, a uniformed aide rushed in and handed a pink While-You-
Were-Out message slip to McElwain, who read it and nodded at the aide, who 
forgot that the Secretary of Defense was a civilian and saluted smartly before 
he departed.
	McElwain shook his head and read the message again, shaking his head 
in dismay until Pickford said, “Oh, for Chrissakes, Timmy:  you gonna tell us 
what’s so important they hadda interrupt a Cabinet meeting?”
	“Macquarie,” McElwain intoned dramatically, then paused.
	Pickford looked like he was about to wring the Secretary’s neck. 
“What,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “is Macquarie?”
	“You might better ask,” McElwain replied, “what was Macquarie.”
	“It’s an island between New Zealand and Antarctica,” Levine said. 
“What, they pop that one, too?”
	McElwain nodded, and shot Toomey an angry look. “So much for 
negotiating, Madame Secretary.” Like it was her own personal fault Macquarie 
got vaporized.
	Before Toomey could react, Pickford cut her off. “Well, that’s it, then. 
We gotta hit back. What’ve we got we can fight with, Tim?”
	McElwain forgot his theatrics as he looked at Pickford in genuine 
shock. “Are you serious, Mr. President?  You heard those guys, saw what 
they can do…!”
	He looked around the room desperately and came half out of his seat. 
“Ten thousand years more advanced than us!  I’m prepared to fight Cubans 
and Africans, not aliens!”
	McElwain fought for control and settled back down. “Maybe if 
you’d’a approved my budget request…”
	“Conventional weaponry isn’t going to do it,” Chief of Staff Fine 
offered.
	“What about nukes?” Chesterson asked.
	“They’re all sitting in landfills,” McElwain sneered derisively. 
“Disarmament, see?  Left us high and dry in our moment of crisis.”
	“What good would they do anyway?” Pickford said, ignoring the 
sarcasm. “You saw what they can do.”
	McElwain shrugged. “Big deal. We got rid a couple islands in the 
fifties with the big H.”
	Patricia Levine got up and stepped over to the window, looking 
upward at one of the ships hovering some miles above. At this distance she 
couldn’t make out the singes and obvious scars on the hull that had shown up 
in telephoto shots made by NASA. “Seems to me those boys have seen some 
action.”
	“Technology or not,” Jason Fullerton said, “they’re not indestructible. 
They can still burn. Didn’t one of ‘em go up in smoke on the way in?”
	“True,” Pickford agreed, stroking his chin. “But what do we do about 
it?”
	“Okay, here’s the deal,” McElwain began, suddenly animated. “First 
we need to make a careful assessment of the situation, make sure we know all 
the — ”
	“We got fifty-two alien ships are gonna vaporize us in sixteen hours, 
we don’t either do what they want or destroy ‘em,” said Patricia Levine. 
“There’s your sit-rep. Now what?”
	McElwain, scowling, shriveled a little and clammed up.
	“Private sector,” Canseco said.
	“Say what?” Pickford asked.
	“Corporate America, Mr. President. Give ‘em a challenge — ”
	“…and enough money…”  Chesterson of Commerce added, quickly 
comprehending the transportation secretary’s drift.
	“And enough money,” Canseco agreed, “they’ll figure out a way. They 
always do.”
	“Which company?” Toomey asked.
	Pickford grinned as he nodded his understanding. “All of ‘em,” he 
answered.
	
	They’d started two hours ago with glee in their hearts and 
anticipation in their corporate bank account. A no-bid, cost-plus, heavy bonus 
and open equipment procurement contract from the US government. Sure, it 
was all or nothing — produce and get it all, fail and get nothing, or even die at 
the hands of the invaders — and sure, all their competitors had the same deal, 
but after all this was Cottage Grove American Home Industries, recipient of 
the Home Appliance Innovator of the Year Award (known affectionately as the 
“Oster”) for their groundbreaking Model 470 side-by-side frost-free with the 
exclusive Sans Souci diagnostic center display. What problem couldn’t they 
solve?
	But they’d been at it for two hours, and hadn’t a clue as to how to go 
about defeating the aliens.
	“They’re showing it again,”  Finnegan said, pointing at the television 
playing mutely on the side wall. Several hours earlier, CNN had reported that 
two dozen aliens had descended in a small transport from one of the ships 
hovering twenty miles above the town of Busanga in southern Zaire. Shaky 
home video shot by a wildlife researcher from nearby Kolwezi showed the 
beat-up little craft, about the size of a bloated DC-9 without wings, descending 
in a choking cloud of dust and loose twigs, dents and charred areas clearly 
evident on its dull surface. Some beings about five feet tall scurried out, so 
heavily clad in thickly layered spacesuits that there was little to suggest their 
physiognomy other than that they were bi-pedal, had at least two arms each, 
and a head thrusting out of what would have been their chests had they been 
human.
	They’d seen it half a dozen times already, the talent gathered in the 
Cottage Grove American Home Industries board room. How the aliens, 
holding cylindrical objects looking vaguely like cheerleading megaphones, had 
stormed a dilapidated hardware store, gathering up an odd assortment of 
goods, including brass curtain rod hangers, blank keys, trowels, cans of spray 
paint, hacksaw blades, funnels, metal toilet paper holders and faucets until a 
slightly larger one of their crew had lumbered out of the ship, grabbed the 
nearest marauder and smacked him across what looked like a shoulder, sending 
him sprawling to the floor and causing the others to freeze in their tracks.
	From somewhere in the crowd of human onlookers came a giggle, and 
the new crew member turned toward the sound, aimed his megaphone and 
made some small movement with what was probably a hand. A thin, bluish-
green ray of light shot out of the device, spreading as it hit the crowd and 
causing the eight or so people in its way to explode in a hail of charcoal that 
soon lay smoldering at the feet of those remaining unharmed. The point of 
view of the videocamera then shifted toward the ground, as though whoever 
had been using it had lost interest in continuing the documentary while running 
away.
	“Anybody got any other ideas?” Fitzweiler ventured.
	“You realize what this means,” said Gilhooley of the light bulb division.
	“Shit.”  Chairman of the Board Fitzweiler was too savvy a businessman 
not to recognize when no alternatives were available. He swiveled around to 
the credenza behind him, and punched a button on his intercom.
	“Get Swerdlow in here!” he growled at his secretary.
	
	Jerry Swerdlow quietly reviewed the photos arrayed across the 
conference table. When the protracted silence grew uncomfortable, Esther 
Pineal said,  “Nobody seems to know what those tiny bits of silver are.”  She 
pointed to a telescopic photo of the hull of one of the smaller ships.
	Tiffany Amber Rosenzweig said, “Thinking is, it’s some kind of ion 
recovery mechanism, to reduce power losses as they travel across — ”
	“Or short-range communication antennae,” Amos Finnegan said, “so 
they can talk to each other without being over — ”
	“It’s duct tape,” said Jerry Swerdlow, not otherwise interrupting the 
flow of his examination of the pictures.
	Garrison Thistlewaithe, slack-jawed, turned to Finnegan. “Whud he 
say?”
	“Thought he said duct tape,”  Finnegan answered.
	“’S’what is sounded like to me,” Thistlewaithe agreed. “Fuzzy?”
	Fitzweiler frowned. “What was that, Swerdlow?”
	The head of Research looked up at the chairman. “Duct tape.”
	Pineal drew her head back, as though reluctant even to breathe the 
same air as Jerry Swerdlow. “On a spaceship?”
	“Why not?”  Swerdlow answered. “Long as you don’t go through 
somebody’s atmosphere too fast, it oughta work pretty good.”
	“You gotta be kidding me,” Finnegan said.
	“Good enough for a 747, why not a spaceship?”
	“747, my pink behind,” Rosenzweig snorted.
	“Next time you climb aboard one,” Swerdlow said evenly, “especially 
an old one, take a close look at the leading edge of the wing.”  He smiled 
mean-spiritedly as Rosenzweig, head of marketing and proud holder of 
platinum status in several frequent flyer clubs, blanched.
	The amateur videotape was being played on CNN yet again. Swerdlow 
muttered something to himself as they watched.
	“Whuwazzat?” Finnegan asked him.
	“Ten thousand years,” Swerdlow repeated, echoing the aliens’ 
declaration of how much more advanced their culture was than our own.
	“How’re we supposed to go up against that?”  Thistlewaithe asked, 
mostly to himself.
	Swerdlow cocked his head to one side as he watched the scene unfold 
on the television. “Get me one’a those,” he said, pointing to the screen.
	“One’a what?” Fitzweiler asked.
	“One’a those megaphone thingies,” Swerdlow answered.
	“How we s’ppoza to do that, Swerdlow?” Finnegan said acidly.
	Swerdlow turned to him for the first time during the meeting. “No 
idea,” he said, as though surprised someone should even ask him such a 
question.
	Then he addressed himself to Fitzweiler. “Just get me one,” he 
repeated, and walked out of the room.
	
	The megaphone lay on a worktable in the Research department. 
Smoke drifted up from the badly-gnawed cigar sticking out the mouth of full-
bird colonel Rock "Thumper" Mulgrew, who squinted icily at Jerry Swerdlow.
	“Fifty good men,” he said around his cigar for the third time. “Damned 
good men, y’hear what I’m sayin’?”
	“How could I not hear you, you said it three times already,” Swerdlow 
answered, not taking his eyes off the ray gun.
	“Well they were!” Mulgrew shouted, the air before him filling with 
flayed bits of tobacco that shot from his mouth as he spoke. “Ever’ 
goddamned one of ‘em!”
	“I’ve no doubt,” Swerdlow said as he stepped forward and reached a 
hand out toward the megaphone.
	Mulgrew grabbed his wrist. “You figure this thing was worth it, 
Swedlow?”
	The researcher sighed. “Swerdlow,” he said in exasperation.
	“Whatever.”  Mulgrew let go of his wrist — reluctantly, it seemed — 
and bent forward, turning his head to look up into Swerdlow’s eyes. “You 
think about them men, Swedlow. You think about them dying for this thing 
you said you needed so badly.”
	With one last murderous glance at the people standing around the 
worktable, Mulgrew retreated and took up a position at a nearby computer 
workstation, rocking his M-16 idly back and forth.
	Fitzweiler sidled up to Swerdlow and whispered,  “Was it, Swerdlow?”
	“Was it what?”
	“Was it worth all those men?”
	“Won’t know ‘til we’ve had a look, will we?”  And with that, he set to 
work.
	Thirty minutes later he had it apart, and laid his tools down, placing his 
hands on the table and leaning his weight on them as he contemplated the inner 
workings of the device.
	“Well, what is it?” Mulgrew said as he picked up his weapon and came 
forward.
	“It’s a piece of shit, is what it is,” Swerdlow answered.
	“The hell is that supposed t’mean?” Mulgrew demanded.
	“Just what it says. I mean, look at this thing:  bad insulation, shoddy 
workmanship…”
	“Ain’t gonna get no Oster, that’s a big fer sure,” Finnegan said, 
grinning, then thought better of it as his lame attempt at humor fell flat.
	“Yeah, well this piece’a shit killed fifty’a my men,” Mulgrew growled. 
“You seen what it can do. On television…”
	Swerdlow nodded. “Yeah. But it oughta be able to do a whole lot 
more.”
	“You got an idea, Jerry?’ Fitzweiler asked hopefully.
	“Oh yeah,” Swerdlow answered, smiling for the first time in anybody’s 
memory.
	He looked up, as though seeing through the ceiling. “Ten thousand 
years,” he said to himself, shaking his head.
	
	“We gotta get ’em down lower,” said General Stirling.
	“Whaddya mean, lower?” asked Amos Finnegan.
	“They’re up at a hunnerd thousand feet. Can’t hit nothin’ up that 
high.”
	“Shit.”  Chairman of the Board Fuzzy Fitzweiler saw a cool hundred 
million go flying out the window.
	“Damned right, shit,” Stirling said. “Whaddya think, we contracted for 
some half-ass solution?  We want the whole package!”
	Dejection filled the room.
	“Ground all the planes,” said Jerry Swerdlow.
	“Come again? What planes? Whaddya mean, all?”
	“All the planes in the world.”  Swerdlow looked at his watch. “Every 
damned one of ‘em.”  He looked at Stirling. “Now.”
	Stirling got on the phone and spent ten precious minutes blabbering to 
a host of officials, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What about 
commercial flights out over the ocean?”
	“Shoot ‘em down.”
	“With what?”
	“Military fighters.”
	“Then what about the fighters?”
	“Tell ‘em to ditch.”
	Stirling gave the order, then hung up. “Now what?”
	“We wait for them to contact us.”
	
	The phone rang, and General Stirling picked it up. He listened, then 
held the handset to his chest. “They just called the president.”
	Swerdlow nodded. “Tell him to give ‘em this number and hang up.”
	A minute later the phone rang, and Swerdlow picked it up. Stirling hit 
the speakerphone button. “Swerdlow.”
	“Why have all your aeroplanes gone from the atmosphere?”
	“Are you kidding?”
	“No, I am Zortron. What happened to the aeroplanes?”
	“Why, the chronosynclastic infidibulum, of course!”  Swerdlow said, 
incredulity lacing his voice.
	They heard muffled but excited chattering over the speakerphone, then 
Zortron came back on. “What is the chrono-, the chrono-”
	Swerdlow laughed into the phone as loudly as he could. “Stay above 
three thousand feet for another ten minutes,” he said, “and you’ll find out!”
	Then he slammed down the phone and stood up, walking toward the 
window. Eight minutes later he looked at his watch, then looked back out the 
window and nodded approvingly.
	The others gathered around to see the two ships visible from this 
location suddenly grow large in their vision as they descended rapidly.
	Swerdlow shook his head, and snorted contemptuously. “Get started, 
General,” he said. Stirling leapt for the phone and a few seconds later was 
busy shouting orders as fast as he could.
	Swerdlow looked back out the window at the two ships coming into 
view.
	“Assholes,” he said, and went to get a cup of coffee.
	
	Three thousand feet above the sleepy Uruguayan town of Parada 
Liebigs just outside of Mercedes, Lt. Cmdr. Jesus Chi-Chi los Panados armed 
the missiles slung beneath the wings of his F-16 Fighting Falcon and crossed 
himself three times. Sweat creased his upper lip as the great alien ship hove 
into view, and panic seized his heart as it began to slowly swing around, a 
hatch beginning to open in its hull.
	A few seconds later, the hatch was within four degrees of facing him 
head on, and he noted his distance on the heads-up display — 15,000 feet — 
and his closing speed — Mach 1.4. The ship seemed to fill his entire field of 
vision as it stopped rotating and the hatch was fully opened, the barrel of 
something like a giant cannon aiming right at him. His weapons console 
chirped and bleeped as the display flickered, trying to get a fix on the exact 
spot he’d been briefed to target, but it hadn’t locked in just yet.
	His gaze flew back and forth between the display and the opening hatch 
— still no lock — and then he saw a brief flash of light from somewhere 
behind the cannon. Cursing loudly, and still with no lock on the target, he 
slammed his hand down on the stick-mounted trigger anyway, and both 
Sidewinder missiles ignited and dropped from beneath his wings, the effluent 
from their engines momentarily blinding him. As the smoke cleared, he could 
see both weapons shrieking toward the ship at a staggering rate of speed even 
as the lights behind the cannon stopped flashing, grew brighter, then stabilized. 
He knew in that moment that the charge powering the giant ray gun had 
reached max energy and it was about to fire.
	Instinctively, he covered his face with both arms as he screamed, but 
the absurdly bright flash snaked its way to his eyes anyway and he prayed to 
the Virgin. Fervently. And he seemed to be getting through more words of it 
than he’d anticipated, so he chanced a glance out his windscreen just as the 
second Sidewinder made contact with the hull.
	Huge pieces of the ships skin were flying outward, followed quickly by 
great shards of the interior fittings, most of them glowing with a plasma aura. 
Explosions began dotting what remained of the hull until the whole ship was 
fully engulfed in a cataclysmic series of eruptions. At that point, maybe three 
seconds following the first missile hit, whatever had been holding the craft aloft 
failed, and it plunged precipitously, trailing fire and smoke and debris until 
finally crashing to the ground, the pieces still falling down meeting new ejecta 
shooting upward. Shortly after that, even the fastest moving chunks slowed 
their climb and dropped back, leaving a smoldering, glowing pile of junk on the 
rain forest below.
	Lt. Cmdr. los Panados blinked several times. “Huh,” he said, then 
became aware of the radio crackling insistently in his headset.
	“Report!  Report!”
	Los Panados got control of his voice before keying the microphone. 
“Splash one,” he said calmly. “Returning to base.”
	Colonel Francisco Durain, piloting one of the dozen other F-16s that 
had been flying just behind Los Panados, slammed his hand down on the 
console in front of him. “Lucky bastard!” he hissed, shutting off his gun 
cameras and jerking the stick over violently to head his craft back home, both 
Sidewinders still intact under his wings.
	
	The same basic scene was repeated at fifty-one other locations 
around the globe. Over Bandar Seri Begawan, one of only two cities in the 
sultanate of Brunei, a Harrier jump jet had been pulverized by a ray-gun blast 
before the pilot could get off a shot, but the alien ship had been knocked down 
by one of the other Harriers in the formation. Two Mirage fighters had been 
lost over Perigeux in the Dordogne region of France, and an F-15 never made 
it back from Valencia, Portugal.
	In addition, a large number of people were killed as the dying 
spaceships fell on their towns and villages. All in all, there were about four 
thousand deaths and eleven thousand injuries, including the eighteen men 
Thumper Mulgrew lost while retrieving the “hand”-held ray-gun. But in the 
process, the entire invading fleet had been handily destroyed.
	The top scientist at the Department of Defense-funded energy 
department got on the phone, so excited he could barely speak. “Just think of 
it,”  he blubbered. “Think of it!  There have to be some salvageable pieces in 
the wreckage!  Think of what we can learn!”
	At the other end, Jerry Swerdlow yawned.
	“I wouldn’t bother,” he said, and hung up.
	
	“I don’t get it,” General Stirling said, confusion deeply etched into his 
features.
	“Me neither,” Fuzzy Fitzweiler answered in a rare moment of candor, 
then caught himself. “We still get paid, don’t we?”
	“Deal’s a deal,” the general responded. “But I don’t get it.”
	The door opened and Jerry Swerdlow stormed in. “Now what!” he 
demanded irritably.
	“We don’t get it,” Fitzweiler said.
	“Get what?”
	“Was like shooting Iraqis in a barrel,” Stirling said. “All that advanced 
technology, spaceships and shit…how was it possible?”
	“They were idiots,” Swerdlow said. “We through here?  I got a lot of 
— ”
	“Whaddya mean, idiots?” Stirling demanded. “Their civilization was 
ten thousand years older than ours!”
	Swerdlow exhaled resignedly, and dropped into a seat. “Lemme ask 
you a question, Stirling:  where do you figure we’re gonna be in ten thousand 
years?  Technology-wise, I’m saying.”
	Stirling sat upright. “How the hell should I know?  Way things are 
moving, I don’t even know where we’ll be in ten years!”
	Swerdlow shrugged and seemed to consider his answer. “Okay. You 
figure we’ll be traipsing around the solar system?”
	An easy one. “Undoubtedly.”
	“Figure we’ll have some pretty neat weapons?”
	“Of course.”
	“And defensive systems to match?”
	“Certainly. What’s your point?”
	Swerdlow leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them briskly 
with both hands. “These guys, these aliens, they’re running around in 
spaceships look like entries in a soapbox derby. They only figure out one of 
our languages, and botch that up pretty good. First thing they do, they set foot 
on earth, they run into a hardware store and start grabbing up useless shit on 
account of it’s shiny.”
	“Probably needed them to repair some — ”
	“They didn’t need shit, Stirling. They were grabbing trinkets. 
Souvenirs. That ray-gun we boosted from ‘em?  Seen better work in a high 
school shop class. For Chrissakes, their first ship burned up in the atmosphere!  
What kinda brains it take to figure out you don’t hit air at forty thousand per?  
They tell us to surrender but don’t tell us how, they got giant ray-guns that’re 
useless at low altitude because they can’t aim ‘em when they’re that big, just 
shoot straight down…”  Swerdlow smiled again. “And we get ‘em to come 
down practically to the ground by handing ‘em some cockamamie bushwah 
about the chronosynclastic infidibulum, for Chrissakes!”
	Fitzweiler and Stirling exchanged glances.
	The general spoke first. “But they came across enormous distances…”
	“What the hell did you expect…golf carts?  Sure, they made some 
progress. Hell, trial and error alone over ten thousand years, a goddamned 
monkey could probably build an airplane…”
	Swerdlow suddenly seemed to get lost in his own thoughts. He was 
considering if he hadn’t just hit upon the secret of human evolution itself.
	Stirling frowned. “So what you’re telling us — ”
	“They’re stupid, general!”  Swerdlow shouted. “Dummies!  Ten 
thousand extra years of noodle time and they’re still putting duct tape on their 
freakin’ ships!”
	Silence engulfed the room as Stirling and Fitzweiler considered 
Swerdlow’s thesis.
	“Huh,” the general muttered after it finally sank in.
	And thus did Jerry Swerdlow save the world.
	From idiots.
	
		
																	
* © Copyright 1997 by Steeplechase Run, Inc – All Rights Reserved

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