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'But fellows； I'm here to tell you that the grayboys have been messing with us since the late nineteen…forties； and I have been messing with them since the late nineteen…seventies； and I can tell you that just because a fellow es walking toward you with his hands raised saying I surrender； that doesn't mean； praise Jesus； that he doesn't have a pint of nitroglycerine shoved up his ass。 Now the big old smart goldfish who go swimming around in the think…tanks； most of those guys say the grayboys came when we started lighting off atomic and hydrogen bombs； that they came to that the way bugs e to a buglight。 I don't know about that； I am not a thinker； I leave the thinking to others； leave it to the cabbage； cabbage got the head on him； as the saying goes； but there's nothing wrong with my eyes； fellows； and I tell you those grayboy sons of bitches are as harmless as a wolf in a henhouse。 We have taken a good many of them over the years； but not one has lived。 When they die； their corpses depose rapidly and turn into exactly the sort of stuff you see down there； what you lads call Plpley fungus。 Sometimes they explode。 Got that？ They explode。 The fungus they carry … or maybe it's the fungus that's in charge； some of the think…tank goldfish believe that might be the case … dies easily enough unless it gets on a living host； I say again living host； and the host it seems to like the best； fellows； praise Jesus； is good old homo sap。 Once you've got it so much as under the nail of your little finger； it's Katie bar the door and Homer run for home。'
This was not precisely the truth … not precisely anywhere near the truth； as a matter of fact … but nobody fought for you as ferociously as a scared soldier。 This Kurtz knew from experience。
'Boys； our little gray buddies are telepathic； and they seem to pass this ability on to us through the air。 We catch it even when we don't catch the fungus； and while you might think a little mind…reading could be fun； the sort of thing that would make you the life of the party； I can tell you what lies a little farther down that road： schizophrenia； paranoia； separation from reality； and total I say again TOTAL FUCKING INSANITY。 The think…tank boys； God bless em； believe that this telepathy is relatively short…acting right now； but I don't have to tell you what could happen in that regard if the grayboys are allowed to settle in and be fortable。 I want you fellows to listen to what I'm going to say now very carefully want you to listen as if your lives depended on it； all right？ When they take us； boys … say again； when they take us … and you all know there have been abductions； most people who claim to have been abducted by aliens are lying through their asshole neurotic teeth； but not all … those who are let go have often undergone implants。 Some are nothing but instruments … transmitters； perhaps； or monitors of some sort … but some are living things which eat their hosts； grow fat； and then tear them apart。 These implants have been put in place by the very creatures you see down there； milling around all naked and innocent。 They claim there's no infection among them even though we know they are infected right up the ying…yang and the old wazoo and everywhere else。 I have seen these things at work for twenty…five years or more； and I tell you this is it； this is the invasion； this is the Super Bowl of Super Bowls； and you fellows are on defense。 They are not helpless little ETs； boys； waiting around for someone to give them a New England TEL phone card so they can phone home； they are a disease。 They are cancer； praise Jesus； and boys； we're one big hot radioactive shot of chemotherapy。 Do you hear me； boys？' No affirmatives this time。 No rogers； no I…copy…thats。 Raw cheers； nervous and neurotic； jigging with eagerness。 The link bulged with them。
'Cancer； boys。 They are cancer。 That's the best I can put it； although as you know； I'm no talker。 Owen； do you copy？'
'Copy； boss。' Flat。 Flat and calm； damn him。 Well； let him be cool。 Let him be cool while he still could。 Owen Underhill was all finished。 Kurtz raised the paper hat and looked at it admiringly。 Owen Underhill was over。
'What is it down there； Owen？ What is it shuffling around that ship？ What is it forgot to put on their pants and their shoes before they left the house this morning？'
'Cancer； boss。'
'That's right。 Now you give the order and in we go。 Sing it out； Owen。' And； with great deliberation； knowing that the men in the gunships would be watching him （never had he given such a sermon； never； and not a word of it preplanned； unless in his dreams）； he turned his own hat around backward。
7
Owen watched Tony Edwards turn his Mets cap around so that the bill pointed down the nape of his neck； heard Bryson and Bertinelli racking the 。50s； and understood this was really happening。 They were going hot。 He could get in the car and ride or stand in the road and get run down。 Those were the only choices Kurtz had left him。
And there was something more； something bad he remembered from long ago； when he had been … what？ Eight？ Seven？ Maybe even younger。 He had been out on the lawn of his house； the one in Paducah； his father still at work； his mother off somewhere； probably at the Grace Baptist； getting ready for one of her endless bake sales （unlike Kurtz； when Randi Underhill said praise Jesus； she meant it）； and an ambulance had pulled up next door； at the Rapeloews'。 No siren； but lots of flashing lights。 Two men in jumpsuits very much like the coverall Owen now wore had gone running up the Rapeloews' walk； unfolding a gleaming stretcher。 Never even breaking stride。 It was like a magic trick。
Less than ten minutes later they were back out with Mrs Rapeloew on the stretcher。 Her eyes had been closed。 Mr Rapeloew came along behind her； not even bothering to close the door。 Mr Rapeloew； who was Owen's Daddy's age； looked suddenly as old as a grampy。 It was another magic trick。 Mr Rapeloew glanced to his right as the men loaded his wife into the ambulance and saw Owen kneeling on his lawn in his short pants and playing with his ball。 They say it was a stroke！ Mr Rapeloew called。 St Mary's Memorial！ Tell your mother； Owen！ And then he climbed into the back of the ambulance and the ambulance drove away。 For the next five minutes or so Owen continued to play with his hall； throwing it up and catching it； but in between throws and catches he kept looking at the door Mr Rapeloew had left open and thinking he ought to close it。 That closing it would be what his mother called a Christian Act of Charity。
Finally he got up and crossed to the Rapeloews' lawn。 The Rapeloews had been good to him。 Nothing really special （'Nothing to get up in the night and write home about；' his mother would have said）； but Mrs Rapeloew made lots of cookies and always remembered to save him some； many were the bowls of frosting and cookie…dough he had scraped clean in chubby； cheery Mrs Rapeloew's kitchen。 And Mr Rapeloew had shown him how to make paper airplanes that really flew。 Three different kinds。 So the Rapeloews deserved charity； Christian charity； but when he stepped through the open door of the Rapeloews' house； he had known perfectly well that Christian charity wasn't the reason he was there。 Doing Christian charity did not make your dingus hard。
For five minutes … or maybe it was fifteen minutes or half an hour； the time passed like time in a dream … Owen had just walked around in the Rapeloews' house； doing nothing； but all the time his dingus had been just as hard as a rock； so hard it throbbed like a second heartbeat； and you would think something like that would hurt； but it hadn't； it had felt good； and all these years later he recognized that silent wandering for what it had been： foreplay； The fact that he had nothing against the Rapeloews； that he in fact liked the Rapeloews； somehow made it even better。 If he was caught （he never was）； he could say I dunno if asked why he did it； and be telling the God's honest。
Not that he did so much。 In the downstairs bathroom he found a toothbrush with Dick printed on it。 Dick was Mr Rapeloew's name。 Owen tried to piss on the bristles of Mr Rapeloew's