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“You’re not human, are you?” Butch said.
The young man opened his beer. “No.”
“But you’re in better shape than she was.”
“That one was badly hurt. You saved her life. I think it was what you call ‘luck.’ You could just as easily have injected her with something that would have killed her.”
“But the EpiPen worked,” I said.
“Is that what you call it? Epi? EpiPen?”
“Short for epinephrine. So I guess it was an allergy that knocked her down.”
“Could have been a bee sting,” Butch said, and shrugged. “Do you know what bees are?”
“Yes. You also gave her your breath. That was the actual saving. Breath is life. More than life.”
“I did what we were taught. Laird would have done the same.”
I like to think that was true.
The young man took a sip of beer. “May I take the can when I go?”
Butch sat on the arm of one of our two old easy chairs. “Well, old man, you’ll be robbing me of the nickel deposit, but under the circumstances, sure. Only because you’re from another planet, you understand.”
Our visitor smiled the way people do when they understand it’s a joke but don’t get the point of it. He had no accent, certainly not a Downeast twang, but I got the clear sense of a man who was speaking a learned language. He opened his bag. There was no zipper. He just ran his finger down its length and it opened. He popped the Bud can inside.
“Most people wouldn’t have done what you did. Most would have run away.”
Butch shrugged. “Instinct. And a little training, I guess. Laird and me are in the local volunteer fire department. Do you get that?”
“You halt combustion before it can spread.”
“I guess that’s one way of putting it.”
The young man dipped into his bag and brought out something that looked like a spectacle case. It was gray, with a silver shape like a sine wave embossed on the lid. He held it in his lap. He repeated, “Most people wouldn’t have done what you did. We owe you. For Ylla.”
I knew that name, and although he pronounced it Yella, I knew the correct spelling. And I could see by his eyes that he knew I knew.
“That’s from The Martian Chronicles. But you’re not from Mars, sir, are you?”
He smiled. “Not at all. Nor are we here because we lust for Earth women.”
Butch put his beer down carefully, as if a hard bump might shatter the can. “You’re reading our minds.”
“Sometimes. Not always. It’s like this.” With one finger he traced the wave shape on the gray case. “Thoughts don’t matter to us. They come, they pass, they are replaced by others. Ephemera. We are more interested in the engine that drives them. To intelligent creatures that is what’s… central? Powerful? Meaningful? I don’t know the correct word. Perhaps you don’t have one.”
“Primal?” I said.
He nodded, smiled, and sipped his beer. “Yes. Primal. Good.”
“Where do you come from?” Butch asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why do you come?”
“That’s a more interesting question, and because you saved Ylla, I will answer it. We gather.”
