It was an excellent world, rich masses of soil infused with plentiful water.  Life readings were phenomenal.  There was even a species of bipeds displaying rudimentary intelligence by constantly showering space with primitive audiovisual broadcasts.  According to translations derived from these signals, their label for this precious vessel of Life was rather quaint—Earth—meaning dirt.

            Delighted with the findings, Clytheray could barely maintain shape.  The poignant aroma of excitement filled the tiny space vessel until, worn out from such powerful emotional flavor, the explorer oozed over the edge of his-her cradle like a flaccid mollusk too big for its shell.  Soon Clytheray would present the Mandates of Colonization to the bipeds below and fulfill his-her destiny as colony Regenerator.  Ah, to savor the organic headiness of fertile ground after so long...

    In contrast to the turmoil in Bob Ingraham’s gut, the late April day was brilliantly adorned with azure skies, green pastures, and fresh-turned fields.  He held the creature at bay with a pitchfork, choking back a mixture of bile and terror.  In all his forty years as a farmer, he had never seen, nor smelled, anything like it.  Even last season’s stillborn calf couldn’t match this miasma.

            At first he thought it was a walrus, but the shape just didn’t add up to his recollections.  There were no flippers.  Instead, the upper torso flared like a stingray’s.  The way the creature held its body upright made him think it could be the biggest slug he’d ever seen, but no slug ever sported a layer of crab-like claws on its underbelly, or eyes like black kidney beans turned on end.  A nearly uncontrollable urge to run quaked through his knees.

            Clytheray smelled the bitter tang of the Earthling’s anxiety.  It was time to attempt communication before the subject fled on those ungainly, stick-like appendages.  Extrapolations had shown that this particular biped was certainly the planetary leader based on multiple variables such as climate, soil conditions, cultural norms and known territorial habits of primate species elsewhere in the galaxy.  The fact that it holds a pointed scepter confirms this observation.  Primates tend to let their most aggressive communal members take over the choicest locations, and this was the richest portion of the planet.

Applying his-her thoughts to the translator, Clytheray willed the device to form correct speech patterns for the Earthling to hear.  The design had worked for millennia with hundreds of sentient beings on as many lush planets.  However, only lower orders of life required verbal communication; thus, it was a difficult task fraught with imperfection.  So much more could be said with the color, flavor and smell of mucoidal secretion.

            One of the waving claws abruptly tossed what appeared to be a moldy rock at Bob’s feet.  The creature’s slow, repetitive bowing seemed to imply that Bob was supposed to retrieve the fuzzy object.  The farmer eyed the rock dubiously—bent to fetch it—careful to keep his pitchfork trained on the creature as he stooped.  When his fingers gripped the rough olive surface, a loud burp erupted from it.  Dropping the rock with a yelp, he back-peddled a few steps.  The rock just lay where it fell, burping repeatedly, like a schoolboy trying to impress his peers by doing something uncouth.

            The farmer stroked the coarse bristles of his short beard, a habitual gesture usually reserved for quiet contemplation while rocking on the back porch after a hard day in the fields.  Wincing as a few hairs pulled free under his nervous fingers, Bob forced the turmoil in his mind away by sheer will.  Eventually, the pounding of his heart in his ears abated enough for him to realize the rock was actually talking.  Nevertheless, it sounded as if someone really was trying to speak in the middle of a burp.  Clamping down on a tinge of hysteria, Bob cocked his head to listen, the rock tentatively held at arm’s length.

“Are—you—the—boss—of—this—soil?”

Clytheray had really asked, “Are you the leader of Earth?

“Y—yeah, uh, I’m the owner of this here property, if that’s what you mean,” replied Bob, astonished to be talking to a rock.  The creature had a very obvious mouth, large and round with pale, thick lips, yet those lips hadn’t moved.  Maybe the thing was a ventriloquist.  A spurt of nervous giggles at the stray thought actually helped Bob summon the courage needed to ask, “Who—or what—are you?”

            The response that came to Clytheray was, “Yes.  I am the leader.  Who are you?”  Delighted, he-she replied, “I am Clytheray, authorized agent of my faraway home world, Botth.  I want to gain permission to colonize this planet under the terms set forth in the Mandates of Colonization, stored within this translation device.  To access the terms, simply state your wish to this sensitive communication aid.”

            Stabbing the pitchfork into the ground to free a hand, Bob pushed up the edge of his broad-brimmed straw hat to scratch behind his ear.  He couldn’t believe what he had just heard.  The creature’s name was Boss Clyde.  It was from somewhere called Planaria, which was a long way off, and it wanted to plow his field for him.  He simply needed to wish for it to happen and it would.  Without thinking, Bob mumbled, “Why don’t you get to it then?  I ain’t got all day to hang around jawing about the weather.”

            “Permission granted,” relayed the translator.  Clytheray rejoiced at his-her success.  He-she had been afraid the Earthling wouldn’t understand the Mandates and squelch the transaction.  Quickly, Clytheray sent the binding words before the Earthling could change his mind: “Touch the translator as a sign of goodwill and acceptance of the Mandates.”

            “Please—accept—this—rock—as—a—token—of—our—appreciation,” stated the translator.

Unsure of what the creature expected, and not wanting to create offense, Bob Ingraham bravely stuffed the greenish-gray rock into the large chest pocket of his overalls.  Immediately, a puddle of clear mucus formed under the creature.  It turned on its pointy tail and drove into the soil, claws working furiously.  Dirt churned up as if a giant gopher was making tunnels under a garden.  The air filled with a nauseatingly sweet odor mingled with that of freshly tilled soil.

            The sight and smell nearly scared Bob’s farmer-johns off!  Every fiber of his body screamed how unnatural that was, dirt flying every which way and all.   He couldn’t allow some space creature from Planaria to tear up his land.  How could he have told that thing to dig around on his property?  Well, he’d put a stop to it right now!

            Leaving the pitchfork quivering in the soil like the tail of a frightened squirrel, Bob sprinted for Big Red.  It was the fastest he had crossed a field in twenty years, since that swarm of honeybees thought he was the only tree within five square acres.  Leaping into the cockpit of the large tractor, he quickly adjusted the attached disk harrow for its deepest bite, and in a belch of oily smoke, drove the roaring vehicle into the field after the Planarian.

            It was plain which way the creature was headed by watching the dirt being heaped as it traversed the field.  Bob Ingraham increased the throttle of the great Massey Ferguson, which lurched unsteadily onto the creature’s path.  The sharp round blades of the disk harrow cut deeply into the rich Idaho soil, upturning neat rows.  To Bob’s relief, Big Red quickly overtook the alien.

            Suddenly, the stone in Bob’s pocket shrieked.  He glanced over his shoulder to see multiple blobs of flesh wriggling on the ground.  Almost before the tractor could choke to a halt, he climbed down and trudged over to view the mangled Planarian.  Dismay washed through him as he realized it wasn’t dead.  The creature’s pieces were instead visibly coalescing into smaller versions of itself!

The forgotten translator belched again, slightly muffled where it nestled in the farmer’s pocket.

“Thank—you—for—helping—in—our—renewal!”

What Clytheray had actually tried to convey was, “We appreciate your confidence in our ability to fulfill the Mandates of Colonization by assisting in our Regeneration.”

At once, all the little creatures dug themselves into the ground.  Only puddles of iridescent slime remained, yet even that sank into the soil before Bob’s eyes.  Time and again he crisscrossed the field with Big Red, chopping and dicing, until finally it was too dark to see the furrows.

            <<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>

            Sheriff Leroy Winston guffawed, “Now, Ingraham, you expect me to believe a ten-foot earthworm dug up your field?”  Sweat flowed from his pudgy cheeks like rain off a slicker as he made little clawing motions in the air.  “Well, it seems to be gone now.  Tell you what, if it comes back, call the animal control people.  They’ll probably want to catch it for whale bait.”  The sheriff crammed himself behind the wheel of his gunmetal patrol car and sped off, gravel and laughter slinging in all directions.

            It had taken more than a week for Sheriff Winston to drop by on a “non-emergency.”  Biting off an epithet over the insulting visit, Bob stooped once more to test the soil, like he had done each day since the creature and its little offspring had disappeared.  Grabbing up a moist handful, he sifted some between his fingers, mashed the rest in his palm, and sniffed it.  Nothing appeared to be wrong.  In fact, the nutrient-laden brown granules looked and smelled richer than ever.  It would be a great year for potatoes.

            A strange hissing filled the air.  Bob stood up anxiously.  It was a sound he had heard before.  Abruptly, the ground slid away from his boots; he stumbled backwards but managed to keep his feet.  A bowl-shaped indentation yawned before him and out sprang the Planarian, fully re-grown!

            “Greetings,” burped the rock.

Bob had kept the translator in his pocket just in case the creature returned.  He grabbed it out.

“Your—land—is—good—we—like—it.  We—must—spread—out—much.  Please—touch—the—rock—for—increasing.”

Clytheray had really said, “The soil here is excellent, better than we hoped.  Our colony has grown exponentially and needs more space.  With your permission we will enlarge the area of Regeneration.  Apply your mind to the translator in answer.”

            Bob’s thoughts were in turmoil.  What did the creature mean by “spread out much?”  Did it want to till more land?  Well, that wasn’t going to happen.  Aloud, he said, “You ain’t gonna do no more plowing, Mr. Boss Clyde.  Tell you what, I think you’d best head on outta here!  If you don’t, I suspect we have bombs or something that’ll wipe you and your little critters out!  Now go on—git!”

            The translator projected, “Do churn, space explorer Clytheray of Botth, I say.  If you do not start soon, perhaps your little relatives will die as if they were blasted.”  Of course, the gesticulation flung at Clytheray was a useless simian idiosyncrasy, but he-she could detect the tinge of excitement wafting around the Earthling leader.  Elation filled Clytheray at his-her continued good fortune!  This colony was going to be one of the best in the last thousand years... 

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