car pool

By ROSEL GEORGE BROWN

Certainly alien children ought to be fed ... but to human kids?

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

"Happy birthday to you," we all sang, except Gail, of course, who was still screaming, though not as loud.

"Well, now," I said jovially, glancing nervously about at the other air traffic, "what else can we all sing?" The singing seemed to be working nicely. They had stopped swatting each other with their lunch boxes and my experienced ear told me Gail was by this time forcing herself to scream. This should be the prelude to giving up and enjoying herself.

"Boing down in Texas in eighteen-ninety," Billy began, "Davy, Davy Eisenhower...."

"A-B-C-D-E—" sang Jacob.

"Dere was a little 'elicopter red and blue," Meli chirped, "flew along de air-ways—"

The rest came through unidentifiably.

"Ba-ba-ba," said a faint voice. Gail had given up. I longed for ears in the back of my head because victory was mine and all I needed to do was reinforce it with a little friendly conversation.

"Yes, dear?" I asked her encouragingly.

"Ba-ba-ba," was all I could make out.

"Yes, indeed. That Gail likes to go to Playplace."

"Ba-ba-ba!" A little irritable. She was trying to say something important. "Ba-ba-ba!"

I signaled for an emergency hover, turned around and presented my ear.

"Me eat de crus' of de toas'," Gail said. She beamed.

I beamed.

We managed to reach Playplace without incident, except for a man who called me an obscenity. The children and I, however, called him a great, big alligator head and on the whole, I think, we won. After all, how can a man possibly be right when faced with a woman and eight tiny 

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