While the uncertainty principle metaphorically explains why it might be difficult to pinpoint Ashley Cooper’s exact location as the car accelerated away, one should not confuse the limitations of wave-particle measurement with the efficient observer error.
Still following what he had thought to be the Cooper girl's dangerously reckless path through the backstreets, Dr. Vickers had been dismayed to find that the loud exhaust he had been following had been one of those obnoxious black SUVs. Even more upsetting to him was that just after he discovered this deception, the SUV turned on flashing lights, and sirens. It sped off towards the highway, presumably to intercept Cooper girl and her passenger before he could. Dr. Vickers watched as the black hot rod raced out of town at speeds his Aerostar couldn’t hope to achieve. The atmosphere became insufferable as the air was filled with shrieking sirens, snarling exhausts, squealing tires, and the resulting dust storm. Moments later, the air grew still again and the unwitting tourists returned to their loping afternoon commute with an exciting anecdote to later recall.
Dr. Vickers had been pursuing the young ladies with the windows down so that he could hear them. In the rapid evacuation of the Smith and Johnson family reunion, he had become undone. Tired, sweaty, and chewing grit, Dr. Vickers changed his directional signal, turning left, to stop by the museum briefly. He decided it best to compose himself, and possibly have a quick cup of tea, to settle his nerves and plan his next move.
The parking lot in front of the museum was fairly empty, except for a few nail salon clients and a large, rented panel van parked in the south corner. Although new and otherwise undamaged, the cargo portion seemed slightly twisted and noticeably askew. Dr. Vickers didn’t bother to pull around back, as he normally might if he were opening, but rather pulled straight into the front parking space, in flagrant violation of the tenant's parking agreement.
Dr. Vickers walked through the front doors but didn’t bother turning on the lights. He wouldn’t be there long and didn’t want to invite any curious interlopers. He pressed the start button on the electric kettle, chose an Earl Grey, and draped the bag in his mug, carefully looping the string around the handle to ensure that the paper label, and worse, the tiny metal staple, did not slip into his cup. He noted that his fingers trembled slightly. That she had the saucer was now certain, and Rixy had, for whatever reason, just handed her the missing piece.
Rixy's poorly timed awakening was inconvenient to Dr. Kenneth Vickers for more than the obvious reasons. Of course, he shouldn't have given away the piece. Of course. But having had some time to consider the situation, Dr. Vickers couldn't help but recognize the unfairness of it all, first that he had been forced to become his brother's keeper, and now he would be responsible for the rehabilitation of a man who had been all but a mannequin for so many decades. Dr. Kenneth Vickers concluded that he would have to discuss Rixy's options with him, now that he was awake. Rixy could apply for some government assistance, or possibly an extended care living facility – to get the professional attention his medically miraculous case deserved, of course. Once Dr. Vickers had secured the chip and artifact, there would be ample income, undoubtedly.
He poured a small amount of cream in the bottom of his teacup, and just a half teaspoonful of sugar, then, changing his mind, and diet be damned, the whole teaspoon. For fifty years he had been waiting for Rixy to give him that piece —a game of keep-away that had lasted fifty years! — and then Rixy just blithely tossed it away to some little street urchin who came by for an afternoon visit.
As the kettle began to warm, it made a low burbling noise. The Extraterrestrial Museum —his damn extraterrestrial museum that he had built to research the saucer crash that had nearly killed him and put his older brother in a catatonic state fifty years prior! — was blissfully quiet, even the sounds of the highway fading away slightly, like distant ocean waves.
Dr. Vickers stared thoughtfully towards the corner of the room where a framed B-movie poster advertised a bombshell blonde in a red dress collapsing into the arms of a square-shouldered, chiseled-jaw sort of man, pointing a pistol at some horrific invader. He remembered Jack that way. The old guy came back from the war with a bad leg and something to prove, and he was the only one who believed Kent.
As a child, Kent took Jack to look for the saucer, hoping that they could find it together, but Jack finally gave up; he said it “didn’t want to be found yet.” Those were his exact words: “I guess it doesn't want to be found yet.” As if the saucer had a will. At the time, Kent had been certain that he would grow up to be like Jack, but now Jack was an old man tending a gas station and Kent was the man with the gun in his hand. Jack still complained about unleaded fuel while Kent had finally succeeded in finding the saucer.
What the young Miss Nash had failed to consider was how very small the town of Arroyo Grande was. Although she may have eluded him thus far, it was only a matter of time before they inevitably had to return to the impound lot by way of the central highway. Miss Nash did not yet understand how critically important that particular object was to his research. She and her little friends had found some fun bit of trash to play with, a novelty from the wash. Even if they did have the piece that Rixy had clung to – still playing keep away after decades! – they lacked the scientific expertise to even begin to understand such a complex and, yes, – alien! – technology. They couldn't begin to comprehend the alien systems any more than a chimpanzee with the keys to a car.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
A thin smile arched Dr. Vickers' bristling mustache ever so slightly. He found this chiseled noir hero image humorous; that this barbaric fatalistic fantasy is what these uneducated fools in the sixties had fetishized for an extraterrestrial investigator. A scientist with a gun. How silly. He smirked and let slip a slight chuckle, or sob, alone in this sideshow museum, where he had played carnival barker to the masses, biding his time until he could unearth the saucer and show them all. Jack knew where it was, but he had quit. Kent Vickers doesn’t quit.
His eyes danced in the dim room, glimmering with the reflected light of passing chrome and windshields on the highway. His eyes, which had seemed slowly drained of vigor over the decades, crackled the pale refracted green of tempered glass shards. The kettle burbled ecstatically behind him.
These barbarians had no idea what they were dealing with. They couldn't possibly understand the endless boons to the scientific community, the potential growth for humanity as a whole! A space-faring people would have the secrets to zero-point energy! This technology, in the right hands, could save the human race hundreds, —maybe thousands! — of years' worth of research and development for the private sector. If the military got their hands on this saucer, —his damn saucer! — they would only build more guns and bombs, but bigger ones. Einstein was right about that at least, his inconclusive field notes on the specialized theory of relativity be damned.
The electric kettle reached a full, rolling boil and clicked off, leaving the doctor in the peace of his collected research, a collection still missing one vital piece — the actual saucer. Dr. Vickers regarded the B movie poster, steeling his resolve. He smiled and nodded to himself, and casually walked back to pour the hot water. Deciding to freshen up before his next foray, he chuckled softly to himself and watched the steam gently rising.
With a few moments to allow his tea to steep, he strolled down the hall, loosening his bow tie and the top few buttons of his shirt. He should wash his face. He chuckled again. It was important to look presentable. Strolling down the hall he stopped abruptly, and, as if he had just remembered something, stepped into his office in search of something fairly specific which happened to be hidden in a small, neatly engraved white oak box, not unlike a cigar box. Setting it gingerly on his immaculately organized desk, he flipped the latch and opened it slowly to reveal his father's WWII service pistol.
Lifting the black pistol from its velvet bed, he was again impressed with the weight and solidity of the thing. In his hand, it seemed to take on an added gravitas and finality. He took a moment to inspect the weapon, admiring the cool, oil-gleaming black metal and used the soft swaddling cloth to wipe the protective oil from the barrel and handle, affectionately stroking the hardened steel barrel. The bastards at the university had mocked his research and stolen his work, — his work! — and that was fine, that was just fine. That was all theoretical. But this — this! — this was a practical application. This was the real thing, finally! He nodded, and an unsettling smile bristled behind his dark mustache.
Ensuring that his father's service revolver was still loaded, he slid it casually into the pocket of his slacks, where it dangled satisfactorily against his thigh. He patted his pocket contentedly and returned to refreshing himself.
He wouldn't use it, of course — he didn't have to! — he would just let them know that he had it. That should suffice. They were good children, after all. Unsupervised, yes, but Ms. Nash was an adept student. They simply didn't understand the importance of that — what did the greasy delinquent call it? Oh yes, 'scrap from the wash'. How arrogant of the little criminal. — If necessary, it would be fine to shoot the tow truck driver. He was an ex-convict.
He was only a few moments rinsing his face in the restroom sink when he heard the weak mechanical chime of the front door and realized that he had failed to lock it. Unfortunately, the museum had attracted its first guest of the day. Expecting some nosey tourist asking the price of a novelty keychain, he found some sweaty junkie in coveralls, his hands and wrists splotched in paint spray. And the intolerably sweaty man in the paint-stained coveralls brought his children with him! A pair of young trick-or-treaters peered at Dr. Vickers from behind the junkie.
“Vickers! Jesus, Vickers! Thank God! I can't tell you- I mean, I just don't think-” his head jerked, glancing about the museum, “I'm just glad you're alright! I can't get through to anybody and I started to worry, you know? These guys are fucking serious!” His head wobbled around on his neck, eyes practically bobbling out of their sockets. He grabbed Dr. Vickers' shoulder out of desperation.
Quite obviously, this junkie was on what the kids might call a “bad trip.” Bothered beyond mortal patience, and feeling sullied by the deranged junkie's mere existence, Dr. Vickers began to tremble, himself. He hadn't even taken the time to button his shirt or settle his tie. He hadn't even time to take the first sip of tea, and this, this fetid sack of effluvium had stolen even that from him, with his little junkie children trick or treating, even! Dr. Vickers reached slowly into his right pocket, withdrawing the pistol. His voice was exceptionally calm as he spoke, and in small words so that this degenerate could not possibly misunderstand the purpose of the gun: “Get your hand off of me.”
The junkie, quick to take a hint, raised his hands and backed away slowly. “But Vickers…”
Upon hearing his name, Dr. Kent Vickers cocked the hammer of the gun with his thumb, unaware that as calm as he might have felt, he didn’t look so good. He had met quite enough new people recently, and he was not eager to make any new friends. “Kindly leave my museum,” he said.
Snagging a ninja under one arm, and a princess in the other, the junkie fell backward out the door. He stunned a pedestrian walking by and managed to stammer: “He's got a gun!” before scrambling away.
Peering calmly out the door, Dr. Vickers watched the stinking drug addict and his wretched children as they scrambled into the slightly off-kilter rented panel van. Glancing back to the shopping mall parking lot, he discovered the salon owner sweeping the sidewalk in front of her shop with a cheap plastic broom.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Tran!” He called cheerily. Mrs. Tran nodded and waved politely before ducking back into her salon. Dr. Vickers let his hands rest against the pistol in his front pocket.
Poor Miss Nash. She underestimated what a small-town Arroyo Grande was. While she may not even be with her little boyfriend, he would undoubtedly find her soon. Dr. Vickers’ mustache bristled. All he had to do was follow the skinny little delinquent in the dented red pickup truck.
