Most of what we think we know about ghosts and specters and hauntings comes squarely from fiction. Credible accounts of so-called “real” hauntings are uniformly dull. They usually amount to nothing more than a series of odd occurrences — strange noises, lights that come on unexpectedly, shapes glimpsed out of the corner of our eyes. Most of these occurrences probably have a very mundane explanation, but for argument’s sake, let’s say that phantoms are the cause of such things. This should give us a good indicator of what real ghosts can actually do in the physical world. In short, there is no reason to believe that ghosts, if they exist, can do much more than stir the air and make some noise.
Which brings us to Martians, or visitors from some other planet. Scientific principles support the idea that there must be life elsewhere in the universe. An experiment is considered successful only if it can be repeated, and since we don’t dispute that life has occurred on our world, then it stands to reason that life is not a singular occurrence. We might also suppose that intelligent life on some other worlds might have gotten an earlier start than it did here, and that their technology is advanced enough to set sail among the stars.
But the level of technological advancement required to make such a leap also would, we can safely assume, be accompanied by a similar degree of ethical and cultural advancement. Anthropologists and ethnographers studying primitive cultures recognize the importance of not interfering with the activities of the people they study. We should expect that a species capable of traveling between the planets would almost certainly be advanced enough to know not to interfere in the activities of our relatively primitive culture. So, ultimately, we can consider the Martians-as-kidnappers scenario to be one of the less likely choices.
Though it may not be much comfort, the mundane explanations for your brother’s misfortune seem much more plausible. If there’s a silver lining, it’s in the fact that a simple explanation, such as your brother and his friend running away, is much more likely to result in a successful resolution, than would one of the more incredible possibilities.
DD: Thanks Bill and Jim for your questions. Next week, Dr. Newcombe will talk about rocket-powered backpacks, and whether it is possible to travel back in time.
Coming soon!
The Clarion is proud to present a new series: The Real Adventures of Dodge Dalton!
Written by the legendary author “Lightning” Rod Lafayette.
Chapter 1—A Rough Day at the Office
“What the hell is this?”
David Dalton — known to most by the nickname “Dodge”—seldom used curses in the course of everyday conversation, and ordinarily would have reckoned it absolutely unthinkable in the presence of the man who signed his paychecks, but this was one of those rare occasions when he felt perfectly justified in doing so. In recent months, he had squared off against some of the most evil men on the planet, but he could not recall being as angry at them as he was at his editor, Max Beardsley. He slammed the Sunday edition, which had gone out all across the city the previous day, down on the other man’s desk and then slammed his fist down as well.
“The Real Adventures of Dodge Dalton? And that hack, Lafayette? What the hell are you trying to pull?”
Beardsley, who looked kind of like a bulldog, with a reputation to match, seemed uncharacteristically timid in the face of the verbal onslaught. Part of that may have been due to the fact that Dodge Dalton was no cub reporter, but rather an immensely popular writer of both fact and fiction. Mostly though, it was because of who had followed Dodge into the office, a towering mountain of man known to an adoring public as “Hurricane” Hurley.
For more than three years, Dodge and Hurricane had collaborated to write a serial ostensibly based on the latter’s adventures with a team of heroes fighting various criminal threats around the globe. The six-foot, six-inch Hurley had supplied the raw, unrefined stories, and Dodge had used his skill as a wordsmith to turn them into gold, in the form of a weekly feature. The Adventures of Captain Falcon had not only raised the readership of The Clarion — a daily tabloid with a reputation of being an excellent paper in which to wrap fish, and not much else — but had ultimately been syndicated nationally. It had only been in recent months that Dodge had learned that Hurley’s stories weren’t as fictitious as he had first believed. This incredible discovery had come when a diabolical villain had abducted the President and demanded to meet Captain Falcon in a duel of honor, leading Dodge to embark on an epic adventure of his own to find the absent namesake of the stories. In so doing, Dodge had earned the undying loyalty of Brian “Hurricane” Hurley. Hurricane would follow Dodge into Hell itself — in fact, he had done exactly that on more than one occasion — so there was little question that he had Dodge’s back here in the Clarion editor’s office.
Not that Dodge needed any help with Max Beardsley. The sandy-haired athletically built Dodge could hold his own in a battle of wits as easily as in any life or death struggle. He had paid his dues as a sportswriter and illustrator long before taking on the Captain Falcon adventures, and there was little question that his skills and reputation could get him any job he wanted. The problem was, he didn’t want just any job.
The editor placed his hands, palms down, on the desk, and tried to smile around the stub of the unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. “Dodge, m’boy, you’re looking at this all wrong.”
“Show me how to look at it right, Max, because from where I’m standing, I can’t see past how much it stinks.”
Beardsley sighed. “They were great stories, Dodge, but they’re yesterday’s news, if you’ll pardon the expression. It’s time for Captain Falcon to…hand off the ball, so to speak.”
“How can you even suggest that? Falcon has never been more popular.”
“It’s not Falcon that’s popular, Dodge. It’s you. They read the stories because of you.”
“He’s got a point there,” Hurricane rumbled.
Dodge shot his friend a look that no other man would have dared, but returned his stare to the editor. “So you mean to stop running the Falcon stories in the Clarion? Fine, I’ll just take them somewhere else.”
A faint twitch at the corner of the editor’s mouth suggested that he was trying not to smile, and for the first time, Dodge got the sense that Beardsley was one step ahead of him. He took the cigar from his lips and jabbed it at Dodge. “You do realize that we hold the copyrights to the character.”
“Then I’ll start a new series. And I’ll sue to keep you from using my name in Lafayette’s abomination.”
“Your name?” This time, Beardsley didn’t try to hide his condescending grin. “Your name is David Dalton, not ‘Dodge.’ And we’ve secured the rights to that character as well.”
Dodge leaned over the desk until he was almost nose to nose with the editor. “You don’t want to play this game, Max. There are other papers in this town that will be more than happy to help me ruin you.”
Beardsley spread his hands. “Dodge, at least hear what I’ve got to offer.”
“Your offer? You’re shutting down my story at the peak of its popularity and…and libeling me with this ridiculous ‘Real Adventures’ nonsense. What could you possibly have to offer me that would make this better?”
“Well, for starters, we’ll pay you just to be yourself. Make a few public appearances now and then to promote the new series, and I’ll pay you — and you as well, Mr. Hurley — as much as you’re making right now.”