Operation Crimson Storm. Robert Reginald
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“Off and on,” I said. “They’re never the same, and they’re hard to describe. Some of them are so strange that it’s as if I’ve been transported to Never-Never Land.”
“It must be the Martians.”
“That’s what I thought too, but some of these dreams, Mindon, some of them can’t possibly be scenes from or in Mars. They’re just too weird. I mean, we’re talking about floating giants and bizarre colors and fiery vistas, all in vivid, three-dimensional forms. It doesn’t fit.”
“Then what could they be?”
“I really have no idea,” I said, “but some of the others are having them too. It has to mean something, although damned if I know what. And why me?”
Geoff Alexander then pulled himself over to us.
“What is this goop, anyway?” he asked, holding up a plastic squeeze bottle of something that looked like a cross between oatmeal and the “green slime.”
“Some kind of puréed vegetable?” Mindon said.
“It’s neither vegetable nor animal nor mineral,” I said, “and it doesn’t taste very good either.”
“You would have thought that, having traveled all this distance, we could have done something a little better than gory goo or grokky glop,” Geoff said.
“Yeah,” we both chimed in.
“We were just talking about Alex’s dreams,” Mindon said. “Has anyone made an effort to record these things or compare them in any way?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I said.
“Well, maybe they ought to. Maybe the Martians or whoever are trying to tell us something. Maybe this is the way they communicate.”
“I can’t believe that. It would be terribly inefficient, among other things, and from what I observed of the aliens on Earth, they were always efficient.”
“Still.”
“Let’s bring it up at the next Council meeting,” Geoff said, putting his container away. “Gad, I can’t take any more of this crap. Nothing but the green grog morning, noon, and night. At this pace, I’m going to lose weight, guys.”
“Yeah,” we all said in unison, and then we went our separate ways again.
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