He enjoyed the films of Charlie Chaplin so much that he copied them all so he could watch them at home at his own leisure. Then, he discovered Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton and did the same. Then when the small screen became very popular with the human race, he found more talents to copy, like the zany antics of that crazy redhead, Lucy, and the western adventures of Hopalong Cassidy.
Curator Bancus worked diligently, collecting everything he could on this little planet. He marveled at how far the human race had come when they sent the first artificial satellite into orbit on top of that controlled explosion. And he truly felt sad for them when, in the human year of 1959, a little Beechcraft Bonanza aircraft crashed in Iowa killing the three talented musicians it carried.
One night, in Their year of 4045, Aggister Bancus was home enjoying dinner and watching one of his many copies of human entertainment. Just about the time Lucy was begging Ricky to be in his Hollywood picture, Aggister Bancus got a communication.
A catastrophe.
A fire.
It was never determined how exactly the fire started or why the fire suppression system did not activate. But forty-five percent of the Great Antiquities Museum’s artifacts were lost in the blaze. Objects of Their past. And the past of others. Including the immense collection of files in the “Anthology of Worlds” computer. All that millennia of collecting and filing was lost, in what was later known as The Great Fire of 4045.
Technicians spent countless hours retrieving files from the charred remains of the “Anthology” computer. Some files were lost forever, some fragmented. Fortunately, the files that were completely lost were of worlds that had been friends of Theirs for many, many years. So, the loss was not badly felt.
But for the human race, ninety-eight percent of their file was gone. And, if it wasn’t for one technician, nothing would have been left. After working several days and nights he was finally able to extract a sub-folder from the “Arts and Entertainment”file. This little folder was all They had on the human race. This little folder was all the reference They could retrieve. This little sub-folder from the “Arts and Entertainment” file was not the many plays penned by William Shakespeare or the complete collection of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Nor was it the macabre writings of Edgar Allan Poe. Instead, it was an obscure little folder entitled, “The Worst Cinematic Productions of The Human Race - 1935 to 1959.”
After the Great Fire of 4045 all interest in the human race, and their little planet they called Earth, was put aside. And after a very long while, forgotten altogether. After all, they were only a third class world.
That all changed, eight months ago.
Chapter Three
The eerie red glow of the computer's oscillating lasers danced rhythmically off the walls of the science lab. The shadows from the two agents leapt quickly back and forth from wall to wall. Then, the lasers abruptly turned off.
The commander looked at his partner and announced, “Ah! There we go. We are now speaking the language of the indigenous people we must infiltrate. With all the vernacular and modern slang needed to move unnoticed among their populace.”
“And for the record,” his partner said, “I’m confirming that I too am speaking the same language and hearing and comprehending everything you speak.” He looked at the commander with satisfaction. “The Replication Computer is functioning normally.” He looked over his computer console then announced, “We’ve entered the solar system. Second stage of entry should commence in approximately fifteen minutes.”
“Good, we’re right on schedule,” the commander said. “Then let's proceed to the next stage and replicate ourselves into the human form.”
Again his partner touched the screen and activated the computer. And again it hummed and emitted the lasers, striking them as before. This time the beam widened the width of their bodies and started to oscillate from head to foot.
They started to change. Spiraling strands of DNA started to restructure. Muscles took on different shapes. Cells began to metabolically take on new forms. Bone started to twist, tissue to reshaped. Their skin changed to a different shade of hue. They felt no pain but could feel their bodies transforming. Then, as before, the beam abruptly turned off. The transformations were complete.
The commander looked down at his hand. Much different from the one he was used to. He brought his hand up and touched his newly formed face. He could not help but grin. He felt the curvature of his smiling mouth. The tip of his nose, ears, the smaller eyes. And then something strange. Hair above each eye. What an odd thing! They had both studied the one and only folder they had on the human race, but still he could not believe it.
He continued to explore. His fingers touched his forehead, then something unfamiliar to his race. Thick hair upon his head. Not the anemic strands that are genetically found within their race, but thick, black, wavy collar length hair, combed straight back with the part over his left eye.
The commander could not hold his elation, “I am a human male! Look at me. I’m a human. . .” He stopped in mid-sentence and hooked a thumb into his waistband. Pulled his uniform trousers outward and peered in. He gave a disgusted look and said, “Yes, I am definitely a human male.”
“Th, then . . . what the hell am I?”
The commander heard the quiver and fear in his partner's voice. He looked over to him, then to the floor where he was standing. “OH, MY!” he said loudly, not being able to hide the shock in his voice. “Oh! I mean I . . . I’m not sure?” His partner was definitely not a human male, or female for that matter.
“What am I?” his partner asked. “What the hell happened to me? This isn’t right!”
“Now,
