How I Conquered Your Planet Read Online Free PDF Page A

as a shooting gallery target. All I had
in my pockets were a comb, a couple of clues, and some stuff I stole from the
carnival.
    The carnie had no information to offer that might help unravel
the mystery. Some people had driven up and offered him a free target. That was
all he knew about it.
    I left the carnival grounds and began walking the streets,
looking for some clue as to my identity. I didn’t see any statues of me, or see
my face on any stamps, and nobody was bowing down to me, so that reinforced my
theory that I wasn’t that important.
    I must have stopped at every Information Booth in town, but
none of them had any information about me. I wondered how those places managed
to stay in business.
    At one point I wandered through a factory which seemed to have
been built just to endanger me. There were giant saw blades, pounding mallets,
huge drills, and mechanical arms that tried to pull me to pieces when I went by
them on the conveyor belt. I nearly got killed in there. I wondered what that
factory was trying to make. I never did find out.
    Finally, as I was heading back to the carnival to see if I
could get my old target job back, I ran into some people who knew me! It was a
group of teenage kids. They said my name was Frank Burly. I liked it. It was a
good solid descriptive name for a frank and burly guy like me, I felt. I asked
them what I did for a living, and they said I was their servant.
    A couple of weeks later, while I was scrubbing the floors for
the young masters, the doorbell rang.
    “ Junior Purple Gang Headquarters,” I told the visitors
efficiently. “May I ask who’s calling?”
    It was a young man and woman who seemed to know me: Dottie and
Chuck Steak.
    “ Frank Burly!” shrieked Dottie. “What are you doing here? Why
are you wearing that butler’s uniform?”
    I explained that I had always worked here. I had always worn
this uniform. I had been born into slavery to these fine young men.
    Instead of saying “Oh, that explains that then.” Or “Oh, yeah,
that’s right. Now we remember.” Dottie and Chuck both looked accusingly at the
young masters who had just entered the room.
    One of them looked a little ashamed when he was confronted with
what he had done, but the others looked defiant, or just laughed.
    My new friends told me I was a well known detective, not a
servant, and escorted me back to my office.
    When I arrived, the Gremlin was sitting at what I was told was
my desk, talking on my phone, and wearing one of my suits. He quickly resumed
his position at his secretarial desk and watched me curiously.
    So now I was back where I was supposed to be, but I still
couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do.
    My friends knew what to do, because they had seen it on every
TV show ever filmed. A sharp blow, or brutal clout, to the head with some sort
of blunt instrument was what was needed to bring back my memory. That’s the
real danger of television you never read about. Teaching people crap like that.
    Over the next week, they hit my head with everything from ball
peen hammers to television sets. Anything that would raise a lump. They even
tried hitting me with a product that was specially designed for hitting people
on the head that they saw on TV for $19.95. Unfortunately, it fell apart after
the first hit, but they did get a free Tongue Yanker with their order.
    To everybody’s surprise, none of these medical treatments
worked. I was starting to remember a few things, but the memories all had to do
with being hit on the head.
    But friends never give up. Not when there’s still something
left they can hit you with.
    Finally, when they had started backing different kinds of cars
over my head, to see if one of those would work, my brain, in an obvious attempt
at self-preservation, started remembering things. In a rush, it all came back
to me. I remembered my misspent youth, my misspent middle age, and the time I
was misspending now. I also remembered the meeting I had blundered