UFOs in the daily Press:

THE GOOD OLD WAY

MARTIANS IN CHAMBLIGNY

by LE BAREUZAI

Mr. Garreau,

SCUSE ME if I bother you, but you absolutely must hear about this business, and since everyone who sees flying saucers writes to you, well, I'm putting pen to paper too - hoping that folks from other places might have seen my Martians and help you trace the route they took.

Because, you see, there were Martians in Chambligny. Right on the edge, maybe, but still on our commune's land - nobody can deny that. Les Comottes, that's Chambligny territory.

And there were two of us who saw them - old Charles, our village elder (we call him "Old Charles"), and yours truly, Bibi.

In the village, people don't believe us. You get it - they're jealous! Why Charles and me, and not them? It gets under their skin.

So they say:

- Why would Martians be interested in vineyards?

- Well, if they're civilized, why wouldn't they be?

But why Chambligny instead of Ladois, Chambolle, Vougeot, or Meloisey? Yeah, why Chambligny?

And why not Chambligny, if you please?

Bam! That shuts them right up.

Ha!

Same with city folks. They can't stomach that no saucer ever lands on Place Darcy or in the Arquebuse Garden in Dijon (or Place de la Concorde in Paris, for that matter), or even flies over their "beautiful city."

But that's how it is: if Martians have rustic tastes, what do you expect me to do about it?

And why don't they ever go over Switzerland? Or why don't the Commies or the Chinese see them, while everywhere else the skies are crowded with them - and we French, in that regard, seem to be the spoiled children of the galaxy?

Go figure those strange birds! They've got their ways, not ours - and reasons we can't begin to guess.

Anyway, they took an interest in Chambligny, because as I was saying, Mr. Garreau, they landed there. I can show you the exact spot, though the marks have disappeared.

So forget the gossip and listen to the full story of our adventure.

Ah, pardon! First I should tell you that Mr. Rebouillat - the press correspondent for Chambligny, whom you surely know as a colleague - well, that fellow sent us packing when we woke him up around one in the morning right after the event to tell him the news. He was barely polite - practically called us drunk! Said Old Charles was a senile fool and me an unserious man. That lout! If that's how he keeps the paper informed, no wonder there's never any news about our village!

Anyway.

We'd been over at Maurice's place in Pernagy, just chatting about this and that - the harvest had just ended. You know how it goes: one thing leads to another, you stay for a drink, time flies before you even notice.

It's nice to be among friends.

Listen - without badmouthing her (she's got her good sides and her bad, like everyone), I was more at ease than if my old lady had been there. Surprised? For a moment I felt young again - back when I was a dashing young buck (as Caloune would say).

Fine young buck, sure! At over eighty!

Anyway - well fed, well drunk, well smoked, well talked - after eleven o'clock, off we went. On foot, mind you, even though Maurice offered us a ride. We figured the walk would do us good. (And lucky we did - if we'd taken the car, we'd have missed our Martians!)

The night was clear and a bit chilly. You could bet on morning frost as sure as two and two make four.

So there we were, arm in arm like conscripts (those from last week or a century ago, all the same), singing old marching songs from our army days.

Old Charles had a slight buzz on, but barely - just a bit of wind in the sails. Doesn't take much for him these days.

Me, I was as clear-headed as I am now writing this to you at eight in the morning.

Anyway, our testimonies line up perfectly, which wouldn't be the case if we'd been drunk.

We were walking along peacefully near Les Comottes, at Mr. Renaud's vineyard - just before the fallow field that used to belong to old Mouillebec (who sold it for peanuts to Mulot) - when old Charles suddenly stops and says:

- "How about a quick pee?" (Pardon my French, but that's what he said.)

- "As you like."

So we turned toward the ditch on the right, facing Beaune, and while, ahem, watering the soil, we chatted about tomorrow's weather. Not too cloudy - maybe nice. After five good minutes, as we were just finishing, we turned around - and holy smokes! What do we see about a hundred meters away? A saucer, sitting right there in the field!

I say a hundred meters. Charles swears it was fifty. But excuse me - he didn't see it first, I did! A saucer! A saucer!! A saucer!!!

So I'm sticking with a hundred meters. It looked like a roasting pan, or an egg if you like, or maybe a fat cigar.

Our elder insists it was a red ball. Let's not argue - ball or cigar, we're agreed. Only, I saw it not red, but grayish-blue-green, with a bit of red underneath. It gave off a weird light - well, you know, a light!

Didn't move a bit. Not more than a man getting a shave.

We didn't move either. We were frozen stiff - and with good reason! Mouths hanging open. Old Charles even crossed himself, that's how serious it was.

Then he whispered, clutching my arm:

- "There's another one, look, on the left."

But no, there was just one - and that was plenty!

To tell you the truth, Mr. Garreau, I was scared stiff. I felt shriveled up inside, and cold trickled down between my shoulders.

Me - who, just the Sunday before at Tienne's, had been laughing at folks who believed in saucers (no offense, sir) - I sure had some choice words for myself then!

Still, we pulled ourselves together - after all, we were on our own land, on the commune's soil! So we took a few steps closer to get a better look.

And what do we see but a creature - hideous, said old Charles (though that's not true) - a being as wide as he was tall, head inside a big glass globe, a huge fellow who must've weighed three hundred pounds easy.

What a shock!

So it really was true!

Well, I told myself, Martian or not, let's be polite.

- "Good evening!" I yelled. "How are you?"

- "How are you?" echoed old Charles, trembling.

(Laugh if you like - but that's no small thing for men our age!)

And we stepped forward, hands out like greeting an old friend.

- "You go to the man," whispers Charles, "I'll go to the woman."

(What woman? There was only one Martian outside the saucer, I swear. Maybe there were more inside. Maybe that one bewitched Charles into seeing a lady, who knows?) Anyway, it was a Martian - or Martians.

We didn't have time to figure it out, or even talk, because he zapped us with a Death Ray! We felt strange all over, shivers everywhere, and bam! down we went gently into the ditch, not hurt at all - like when you get dizzy from dancing a waltz, soft and floaty, you know?

After that, nothing. Blank. For both of us. The cold woke me up. I shook Charles awake. We came to. No saucer, no Martians - gone. By my watch, or roughly, we must've been out for about an hour under the influence of the Ray (Death Ray, maybe? Or the Fainting Ray - light dose version, with the Death one at full power!).

No need to tell you we were stunned.

If I'd been alone, I'd have thought I dreamed it. But Charles saw it too. Our stories matched exactly. So...

So we woke up Mr. Rebouillat, who treated us like stray dogs in a bowling alley, as I told you earlier. Then we went to the Pointue so the word would spread, but the old hag called us drunks and threw - well, you can imagine what - at us. (Too bad! Gotta suffer for Science!) The Mayor told us to get lost (politely, for form's sake), said it wasn't his business. So I dropped Charles off at his place and hurried home.

Melanie was still up, worried, knitting. Not exactly welcoming! She even pretended not to hear me when I told her about the saucer. She was listening, sure, but I could see plain as day she didn't believe a word.

That stung, you can imagine.

And not even the next day - even when old Charles confirmed everything - she just thought we were in cahoots to spin her tall tales, answering only with proverbs:

"Birds of a feather flock together."

"Tell me who you walk with..."

"Wolves don't eat each other," she said, making that sour face of hers.

Old blockhead!

As for the village folks, like I said, Mr. Garreau, we couldn't convince them - out of sheer jealousy and stubborn disbelief.

So, come on down to Chambligny with your photographer! I'll give you all the details, and Charles and I will take you to the spot so you can see for yourself.

Yeah, come here! Even if only to make my old lady, the Pointue, the Mayor, and the whole blasted village green with envy. I swear, if you come and write a fine article in the paper - with photos! - Mr. Rebouillat will turn pea-green, sure as sunrise, and his wife too, that proud old peacock! Yeah, and we'll share a good bottle over it!

In hopes that, yours sincerely, and cetera and cetera...