Getting the story approved took longer than writing it. First, his editor had to pass it up the line to the editor-in-chief, and from there to the publisher. Then the publisher wanted to see what the company’s attorney had to say about it, which meant yet another delay. Meanwhile, William cobbled together websites for as many of his “sources” as he could manage, especially the elusive Xander Hollyfield. That way, he could field inquiries from other news outlets, once the story got moving. Practical joking had never been for the lazy.
Finally, though, he found himself in a conference room overlooking Farragut Square.
“You have got to be kidding,” the attorney said. Not that this was a surprise. Farragut Square was named for the admiral who cried, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead,” but if attorneys had their way, no news outlet would write about anything more controversial than the best new dessert recipes. Even then they’d be afraid of being sued by someone’s grandmother.
“That’s kind of the idea—” William started, but his editor-in-chief cut him off.
“Will our insurance cover it?”
“Sure. But they’re guaranteed to raise your rates. If you’re determined to run the thing, why not make it more obvious it’s a joke?”
“That won’t work,” the editor-in-chief said.
“Why not?”
The editor-in-chief hesitated, and for a moment William thought he was going to explain about Kemrit, turtles, and the looming spludge. But nobody trusts lawyers. They have even less of a sense of humor than politicians. “It’s probably better you don’t know.”
Thanks to all the delays, the story didn’t make it out until the evening blogfeed. But maybe that was for the better. The slow start meant it simmered overnight and by morning half the news outlets on the planet had it, elaborating as they went. One even had two Nobel laureates and a bestselling author commenting on how this proved why biotechnology needed greater regulatory controls. “Someday they’ll turn the whole world into green goo,” the author said, “and not just the frogs.”
But nobody seemed to be connecting it with the aliens. That day’s baby exchange proceeded as planned, and this time William didn’t need to ask if it had shrunk. Compared to pictures from only a few days before, it was not only thinner, but shorter.
Briefly, William wondered if he was too late. Or worse, had played into the aliens’ hands. After all, he was giving them an example of human carelessness they could use in accusing us of mishandling the baby. But that made no sense. The turtle joke was intended to make us squirm over something that wasn’t our fault. Besides, the frog in the picture was deformed, not shrunken.
Not that William had much time to think about Kemrit. He was too busy both fanning the flames of his story and putting out unexpected fires.
The first problem was that Americans, who’d never been all that fond of vegetables, were reverting to French fries and onion rings. Anything that wasn’t green. To counter that, he trucked out another imaginary source, Guy Herrero, a “pigmentologist” at the Pacific Rim Research Fund’s division of advanced botanical studies.
“The disease affects only green pigments,” William had Herrero say. “Humans can’t get it.”
Nor was the entire biosphere about to be destroyed. “Only the limiest green of lime-green organisms are involved,” he quoted the reliable Xander Hollyfield as saying, still from the seclusion of rural Jamaica. “Unless you’re the color of that frog or a Key lime, you could roll in the stuff and nothing much would happen.”
By this time, the story was taking on a life of its own. At first, it was mostly environmental and anti-biotech groups whose blogs and tweets were alive with hand-wringing about how human meddling was wrecking yet one more element of Gaian Earth. But there was also an announcement from the World Federation of Circus Clowns that, just to be on the safe side, green face paint would no longer be used until it could be certified prion-safe.
By the third day, the aliens finally seemed to be taking note. The baby exchange was perfunctory, with no bouncing, few words, and an apparent reluctance to touch the returning baby.
It was time to administer the coup de grace. Green Prion Goes Airborne, William wrote the following day:
Green cancer is spreading far faster than a frog can hop.
Although the disease is still confined to remote regions, it appears to be moving through the American Southwest along the path of the prevailing winds, and is expected to reach the Eastern Seaboard by the end of the week.
Zoos and aquariums are already taking precautions to protect their greenest specimens. Lime growers have nothing to fear except a possible increase in the market value of their crop, offset, perhaps, by an increase in insect pests once eaten by frogs.
Accompanying the story was a weather map, showing the likely spread of the prion, with one plume headed straight at D.C. As an aside, he added a second plume, originating from a second laboratory, in the Seychelles Islands, where monsoon winds would soon send it toward India.
The next morning, the aliens didn’t emerge from their spaceships. Two hours later, both vessels powered up and rose into the sky.
William and his editor watched in silence. “What about the baby?” the editor asked.
William shrugged. “I told you, it’s not a baby.”
Then, right on cue, the television feed was interrupted by a green face. “We sorry we must leave so soon,” it said. Male or female was hard to tell in the close-up. “Keep Kemrit, a gift from our species to yours. If he not grow bumpy, maybe we return with other gifts.” Then with a half-hearted nano-nano, the alien went off the air. Moments later the spaceship vanished.
William was still trying both to catch up on sleep and convince people to eat their vegetables again, when a message was forwarded from several of his fake websites. Help needed (URGENT), read the subject line. With an addendum: And yes, I know it was a hoax.
William’s stomach clenched as he opened it. But it wasn’t an accusation. “You’re story’s obviously phony,” the email began. “I’d know that guy Hollyfield if he really existed. But how the hell did you know that a color prion could jump species like that? We’ve been working with fresh-blanched broccoli, trying to preserve that super-green color, and we’re starting to see some weird things out on the lawn…”
William reached for the keyboard, then drew back. How do you beat a practical joker? Was he talking to humans or aliens? Reprisal or ecological disaster?
Suddenly he felt very tired. The fate of the world might depend on him getting this one right. He reached for the keys again, then again changed his mind. Practical jokes really weren’t for the lazy.