The monster's paw was heavy and very strong. It was hairy and it tickled. Homer opened his mouth to scream, but his tongue dried up and his throat closed and he couldn't make a sound. The jack handle slipped from his numb fingers and clattered to the floor.
For a long moment, he stood there in the grip of the hairy monster and he supposed it had a face, but he could not see the face, for the hair grew all over it and drooped down where its face should be. The monster was a large one, with massive chest and shoulders that tapered down to a slim, athletic waist. Frightened as he was, Homer still could not keep from thinking that it looked a lot like an English sheepdog with a wrestler's body.
And all the while, there was something rolling on the floor and moaning.
Then the hairy monster said, in halting, stumbling syllables: "You Mister Jackson, you are not?" Homer made a croaking sound.
"I apologize," the monster told him. "I very poor at your words. I work on your planet survey, but not so good with words." He motioned at the thing moaning and rolling on the floor. "That was good with words."
The hairy hand dropped from Homer's shoulder. "That," it said, gesturing at the floor again, "your Mister Steen."
"What is wrong with him?" Homer blurted out. "Is he sick or something?"
"He die himself," the monster said.
"You mean he's dying and you're just standing there…"
"No, no. Hehow do you word it right?he unlive himself."
"You mean he's killing himself? Committing suicide?"
"Yes," the monster said. "He does it very well. Do you no agree?"
"But you can't…"
"He take great pride in it. He make spectacular. He jus starting now. He work up to grand finale. You must stay and watch. It be something to remember."
"No, thank you," Homer said faintly.
Homer turned to go, but the monster put out a hairy paw an, stopped him. "You must not be afraid of us. I stay half myself, allright? Could change entirely into human, but much trouble. Good enough this way?"
"It's all tight," said Homer.
"We owe you debt," the monster said. "This Mister Steen of yours got things all scrambled up."
"I'll say he did," said Homer feelingly.
"He just a stumblebum. Bungler. He likewise is a joker."
"Joker?"
"Clown? Wise guy? You knowhe made the joke. Sometimes very sly joke, but stupid just the same." The monster leaned forward to peer into Homer's face. "Your planet, it has its jokers, too?"
"Yes, indeed," Homer said. "There's one down the hall from me. His name is Gabby Wilson."
"So you understand then. A joker not too bad if that is all he is. But take a joker who makes mistakes and that is most bad. You have name for it. Smart aleck?"
"That's the name," said Homer.
"We make projects for the planets, for very many planets. We try to make each project fit the planet. The kind that will help the planet, the kind it needs the most."
"Like foreign aid," Homer supplied.
"So this bungler," said the monster, his voice rising in forthright and honest wrath, "this smart aleck, this nincompoop, this Mister Steen of yours, what do you think he does? He came to Earth as project managerand he brings wrong plan! He is like that other times, going off not cocked. But this, it is too much. Final straw."
"You mean this Happy Acres business was never meant for Earth, but for some other planet?"
The monster draped his arm around Homer's shoulder in a gesture of understanding and affection. "That exactly what he do. No need of Happy Acres here. You still have room enough for all your people. No need to double up."
"But, sir," said Homer earnestly, "it is a swell idea. It has possibilities."
"Other things you need much worse, my friend. We have better plan for you."
Homer couldn't decide whether he liked the way the monster talked about the better plan. "What other plan?" he asked.
"That is topmost secret. To make project big success, it must be done so that the natives think they the ones who do it. And that", the monster said, gesturing toward the floor, "is where this silly obscenity failed in second place. He let you find out what was going on."
"But there were all the other people, too," Homer protested. "All the people in the shops. The bank president and the gateman and…"
"All of them is us," the monster explained. "Them the crew that came with Mister Steen."
"But they were so human-looking! They looked exactly like us!"
"They play it straight. This ape, he ham it up."
"But they dressed like us and they wore shoes…"
"The shoes was more joke," the monster said furiously. "Your Mister Steen, he know how to make himself a human like the rest of them. But he wear his shoes wrong to get you humans'your humans'there is a word for it."
"Goat?"
"That is it! He wear them wrong to get your humans' goat. And he make outrageous deal with you and he watch you worry and he rejoice greatly and think himself superior and smart because he that kind of clown. That, I tell you, is no way to treat anyone. That is no true-blue friendship. But your Mister Steen, he was plain jerk. Let us go and watch him suffer."
"No," said Homer, horrified.
"You no like this dying?"
"It's inhuman."
"Of course, inhuman. We not humans, us. It is a way we have, a social law. He make himself a fool. He make bonehead blunder. He must dead himself. He must do it good. Great honour, do it good. He bungle everything in life, he must not bungle dying. He forever heel if he do."
Homer shivered, listening to the anguish of the alien on the floor, sick at stomach and giddy in the green flood of alien light.
"Now it is to end," said the alien. "We wipe out project. It was nonsensical mistake. We will take it all away."
"You can't mean that!" argued Homer. "We need it. We could make use of it. Just show us the principle."
"No," the monster said.
"But if you wipe out the project, there'll be all these people…"
"Sorry."
"They'll murder me! I was the one who leased the houses to them…"
"Too bad," the monster said.
"And all that money in the bank! A quarter of a million dollars, more than a quarter of a million dollars! It will be wiped out!"
"You have human money in bank?"
"I did. I suppose that's too bad, too."
"We can pay you off. Mister Steen make a lot of money. He store it over there." He pointed to the far wall. "You see that pile of bags? You take all that you can carry."
"Money?" Homer asked.
"Good money."
"All I can carry?" insisted Homer, nailing it down tight. "And you will let me leave?"
"We do you wrong," the monster said. "This fix it just a little?"
"I'll tell the world," said Homer, with enthusiasm.
Steen was becoming noisier. He had changed into his alien form and now he rolled upon the floor, knotted up and writhing.
Homer walked wide around him to get to the farther wall. He hefted down the bags and they were fairly heavy. He could take two at least, he figured. He hoisted two on his back, then piled on the third. He barely made it back across the room.
The monster watched him with some admiration. "You like money, huh?"
"You bet," Homer panted. "Everyone likes money." He set the bags down by the door.
"You sure you not stay and watch? It get good directly. It be amusing, maybe even interesting."
Homer held down a rising shudder. "No, thank you very much."
The monster helped him get the bags on his shoulder. "I hold the door for you."
"Thank you," said Homer. "Good day to you and thanks for everything."