Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space (19 page)

They could hear someone calling from outside the saucer. Doll pressed a button and a porthole opened. She peered down. ‘It’s that keck-bag again,’ she reported.

Baby rolled her eyes. ‘Better let him in. Otherwise, he’ll just stand out there bellowing and drive us all nuts.’

Doll sighed. She fiddled with a few more buttons, and the saucer exhaled its magical stairway. Ebola struggled up, unable to get a firm grip on the shifting and ethereal steps.

‘Hi, Eb.’ Baby felt she ought at least to be nice to Ebola. She wasn’t the least bit interested in him. She still could not
imagine performing even a teeny weeny sexual experiment upon Eb, what with his collection of ugly silver skull rings setting off the black hair on his pale knuckles, the awful corsetting of his paunch in the tight black leather, and his coke-snorter’s habit of constantly jerking his head back while sniffling and touching the tip of his nose with his forefinger. If this was love, and he insisted it was, she wanted no part of it. She did enjoy his tales of life as a big-time international rock star, however. She was also happy to satisfy him on one level, for Ebola desired to be as thoroughly abased by her as he had abased thousands of groupies in his time. It was all rather karmic, really.

By the time Eb launched himself into the rumpus room, he was huffing and puffing. ‘Polish my boots, Eb,’ she greeted him. Without even stopping to catch his breath, he fell gratefully to the floor, tongue out, and began with the heel.

‘I could do a tattoo for you if you want,’ Doll offered to Baby, ignoring the homuncule at her feet. ‘We’ve got time.’ Doll loved doing tattoos. She practised on all the Earthlings. By the time Doll packed up her kit, Baby had a shooting star zinging its way around her left bicep, and a rendering of the mothership on her right, adorned with hearts and ribbons and the word ‘Mum’.

Ebola, having finished her boots, watched the tattooing with tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sharing your pain,’ he informed Baby. ‘I really am. I’m here for you, Baby.’

‘It’s been real-o-rama, Eb,’ Baby replied, indifferently. ‘But we’ve got to be in Newtown in about half an hour.’

‘You spend
all
your time in Newtown,’ Eb whined.

‘Yeah, well, we’ve got a gig tonight.’

Ebola jumped up and down, squealing with delight. ‘Can I come?’ he begged. ‘Can I come?’ Doll shook
her head decisively. He burst into tears.

Baby telepathed Doll, ‘Now look what you’ve done. The guy’s more sentimental than a Guns N’ Roses ballad.’

‘There, there,’ Baby comforted. ‘We need you to guard the saucer, Eb. It means a lot to us. You just sit there by the pool, and don’t let it out of your sight, okay?’ She tickled him under his hairy chin. He made a brave effort to smile as a little stream of snot fought its way through the stubble to reach his upper lip. ‘Good boy, Eb,’ she praised. ‘We’ll see you later. We’ve got to find out what Lati’s doing.’ She signalled to Doll and they zapped Ebola back to poolside.

Entering Lati’s room was like walking into a blizzard of clothes. Lati was going through her wardrobe at the speed of light, trying things on, pulling them off, throwing them into the air, retrieving something from the bottom of the pile and starting all over. A gabble of abductees perched on her Reinvigoration Platform offering spirited and mutually contradictory sartorial advice of which Lati cheerfully took no notice whatsoever. In the end, she donned her favourite Bonds t-shirt, jeans and Converse all-stars, looked into the mirror and grinned. ‘That’s it,’ she concluded.

Most of the abductees, including Larry, who hadn’t left Galgal since being kidnapped nearly three weeks earlier, were coming to the gig. They were almost more excited than the girls.

‘Yorp!’ Just as they were about to leave, Revor came running up to Baby and nipped at her ankles.

‘Go away, Rev. You can’t come. They don’t allow pets in the Sandringham. Enough. Off.’ She kicked out her leg and sent him flying. Revor landed upside down with his back against the wall and his head sideways on the floor,
looking like some demented yogi.

‘You’re a strange bean, Rev,’ said Lati. ‘Catch ya later.’

All I wanted was a lift to Newtown. Unfair as.

Weary eyes peered out of a face that was an asymmetric wreck of blue wrinkly skin, bright green lips and fat orange ears. The eyes stared at a control panel glowing nuclear green, upon which spiralled endless patterns. In the next seat hunched a smaller creature, with the face of a mutant dog and bobbing antennae a foot long, also fixated on a small screen. The third chair was filled by a lumpish beast with simian features topped by a propeller beanie.

Aubrey, a middle-aged Earthling of ordinary appearance, entered the room carrying a tray loaded with scones and tea. He put it down on the console, espied the mutant canine, and threw up his hands in horror. ‘I married a monster from outer space!’ he exclaimed, bending over to nibble on its ear. The dog glanced at her watch, picked up a stick upon which was mounted a small flying saucer and spun it round. The whirling disc shone blue and green and yellow. ‘Teatime,’ she announced, lifting her mask. The others followed suit, and soon they were all fanging appreciatively into the scones.

It was 31 October, and the scientists on duty at Project Beam Me Up, Beam Me Down were celebrating Halloween. Beam Me Up, Beam Me Down was the nickname Professor Luella Skye-Walker and her colleagues had given to a task that was, on a quotidian basis, almost excruciatingly dull, but which had the potential to lead to the most exciting scientific discovery ever. Well, Earthling scientific discovery anyway. They were at Parkes
monitoring the very same large satellite dish pictured on those old $50 notes. The satellite dish that was methodically eavesdropping on several hundred stars in the galactic ‘hood to see if anyone out there had anything to say.

‘Obi-Wan Kenobi,’ the cosmic ape greeted Luella’s. husband, swallowing a scone. ‘This is a treat.’

‘Pleasure,’ replied Aubrey. ‘So, how many radio channels have you checked today?’

‘24 million, give or take ten thousand.’

‘Any talkback yet?’

‘Nup, but I can see it now,’ Jason said. ‘With our luck, we’d finally make contact and it would be with an extraterrestrial John Laws.’

The blue skinned alien, otherwise known as Aaron, was reaching for the strawberry jam when he happened to glance back at his screen. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘I think we’ve got something.’

‘Well I’ll be…’ Plates clattered to the floor, scattering scones and cream.

Ten minutes later, having run a check on ‘Elmer’ (the Follow-Up Detection Device—FUDD), Luella looked up from her equipment, white as a ghost.

‘What is it?’ Aaron was almost beside himself.

Her face twisted into a funny little smile. ‘I think they just said, “Hello, Mum”.’

Jake’s orange Kombi chugged and clunked its way up King Street in Newtown. She lurched to a stop in front of the Sando. ‘Good girl, Kate.’ He patted the dash and praised her for making the distance.

The girls piled out noisily. Lati elbowed Doll who,
upon seeing what Lati saw, grabbed Baby by the wrist. They all stared excitedly as Gregory the barman chalked in ‘Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space’ just under ‘Bosnia’.

‘Hey, hey,’ flirted Gregory, looking up, ‘it’s my favourite purple people-eater.’

‘How do you know I’m a people-eater?’ teased Baby, raising an alarm in Jake’s chest.

‘G’day, Gregory,’ Jake loomed. ‘Don’t let us interrupt you.’

‘Interrupt away,’ smarmed Gregory, checking out Doll and Lati. ‘These girls can interrupt me anytime.’

‘That’s us, you know,’ Lati said importantly, pointing to the name of the band.

‘Is it?’. Gregory whistled. ‘Now I’m
really
looking forward to tonight. Funny I’ve never heard of you before. Where d’ya usually play?’

‘Their place,’ Baby replied, jerking a thumb at the boys.

‘I bet,’ smirked Gregory.

Jake, annoyed, extended a possessive hand towards Baby’s back. A charge passed between them, strong enough to knock Jake off the kerb. He nearly crashed into two girls with pink crewcuts who were so impressed with his acrobatic display that they gave him the finger. Trying to act as if nothing had happened, Jake brushed himself off and addressed Baby and the others in a voice he hoped was not shaking. ‘Gregory works the bar. You have to be nice to him, cuz he hands over our money at the end of the night. But not too nice.’

Torquil, grunting with exertion, was hauling the drums out of the van and placing them on the pavement. ‘Careful, they’re heavy,’ he warned Doll, who picked up
the entire kit and carried it into the pub as though it were a handbag. Torquil was still trying to slide shut the generic Fucked Kombi Door when Doll reappeared and waved him aside. She stretched the metal frame with her bare hands, slipped the door back into its slot, slammed it shut and re-adjusted the frame.

‘You,’ palpitated Torquil, ‘are a
groover
.’

Kate the Kombi was thinking the same thing.

Observed with idle curiosity by a handful of drinkers who’d been at the bar since early that arvo, the bands began setting up on the makeshift stage—strips of carpet laid over thin boards balanced on a great array of milk crates, all crammed up in one corner and shaped to accommodate the overwhelming central bar. Lati, Doll and the twins finished first, and went to the back room to play some pinball. Jake and Baby knelt at the front of the stage, plugging in the guitar pedals. ‘What’s that one called?’ she asked.

‘Tube screamer.’

Baby hooted with laughter. ‘Tube screamer?
Tube
screamer?’

‘I better get some gaffer tape,’ mumbled Jake, feeling uncharacteristically embarrassed. ‘If you go wild it’s better to have the cables taped to the stage.’ He fled.

Baby was still giggling to herself when an intense young man wearing jeans and a black Frenzel Rhomb t-shirt advanced upon her with squeaking sneakers and a vague air of menace. His long lank hair was gathered in a loose ponytail at the back. The great clutch of keys, Maglite torch and mobile phone jangling from his studded belt made him seem like some sort of rock n roll prison warden. He came to a halt about a metre from where she knelt. Staring emotionlessly into her eyes, he raised his
hands and clapped sharply. And again. And once more.

Baby raised her hands and clapped back.

Mr Frenzel shook his head dismissively. ‘You don’t do that. I do that.’

‘Who are you and why do you do that?’ Baby wasn’t sure whether to grab her crotch in greeting or not. From the response she got on the street, she’d gathered it wasn’t always appropriate. Earthlings were so complicated. On Nufon, whenever you met someone, you simply put your hands on your hips, bent over to the left and stamped your right hoof twice. The all-occasions greeting. Here it was ‘Wanna suck my cock?’ one minute, ‘How are you today, Ma’am?’ the next, and now clapping. How was anyone supposed to negotiate this social maze?

‘I’m testing the resonant frequency in the room,’ explained the hand-clapper self-importantly. ‘I’m Henry. The mixer.’

‘Mixer?’ said Baby. Her translation chip was giving her: non-alcoholic component of a cocktail; kitchen gadget; a person adept at mingling. ‘Are you adept at mingling then? Or are you just a tonic?’

Henry raised an eyebrow. He knew it wasn’t said aloud these days, but Henry believed the proper place of chicks in rock n roll was in front of the stage, screaming at the band. Or chatting up the mixer. Sucking in his cheeks to deepen his expression of grave misgiving, he retreated to the mixing board, flicked a few switches and adjusted the faders. Then he rubber-soled back over to the stage.

Glancing at the amp, Henry shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re using a Marshall,’ he said. ‘It’s such a rock n roll cliche. I mean, Little Richard, Jimi Hendrix, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam—I reckon everything sounds the same with a Marshall.’

‘But what—’

‘I know, I know, most amps only go to ten and Marshall goes to eleven. I’ve seen
Spinal Tap
too. Frankly, if you want my advice, I’d use one of the lesser known brands if I were you. You’re looking for a distinctive sound, aren’t you? Take Sovtek for instance,’ Henry steamrolled on. ‘Made in Russia from old tank parts. Or so they say. I like to believe it.’