“I Can See Clearly Now The HURAZ Have Been!”

There are many ancient races in the universe: ancient enough to have answered most of life's questions and found solutions to most of life's problems. Unfortunately, when they reach this point in their evolution, many decide to share their knowledge with other less advanced races, whether they want it, or have asked for it, or not. Maybe it’s intellectual arrogance, just showing off; maybe it's impatience - like, 'come on, you guys, do this and you'll save loads of mistakes and lots of suffering'; then again, it could just be a desire to hold out a helping hand to others less fortunate than yourself. Whatever the motivation, the result for the inhabitants of the planet, Poona, couldn't have been worse. But I’m getting ahead of myself

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“It ain’t fair.”

“It’s ridiculous! I mean: we don’t even look like brothers. Paul’s two years older than me and he acts like a kid all the time. Like he’s retarded or something. He always wears black, too – or mostly black – even when it’s a hundred degrees! Mom just shrugs it off. “He looks at the world different to the rest of us,” she says. What does Dad say? “Nothin’,” that’s what! He went out one day for some beer and never came back. I’ve had to be the man of the house since I was twelve. I had to grow up fast, be responsible. I never had time for skateboards, street hockey or shit like that. I had chores to do. Mow the lawn, fix the roof, or paint the garage door, while he just sat up in that room of his, that no one ever gets to look inside, reading some stupid text book till all hours. Now I’m eighteen, and Mom’s married again, you’d think I’d be getting some time to myself, wouldn’t you, but, no, he drags his freaky ass along behind me everywhere I go. He has no job, no car, and definitely no class and yet the girls are all over him. They can’t help themselves. They want to mother him. He just sits there with his head between their tits while they stroke his neck and make stupid cooing sounds. I swear he’s got a huge grin on his face, but you can’t see it, jammed in there like it is. It makes me puke!

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“It’s a cheap trick. But it always works.”   

The book seemed to fall open to the page about the candle, almost deliberately, like it was trying to tell them something. It normally lay closed, on a lectern in the opposite corner of the room to the one in which a table stood with a glass case upon it. Inside the case was a large, red candle. George Stewart had been running his hand along the corner bookcases when he brushed against the lectern. He had turned, taken hold of the heavily embossed cover and flipped it open. Oddly, though the page had been selected at random, the illustration before him was identical to the candle in the case.

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“Red Light”.

“Goddammit!” he screamed as he stood on the brakes, bringing the Blazer to a shuddering halt. He slammed his fist into the steering wheel and glared at the red stoplight. “I swear the ‘mothers’ do that on purpose,” he growled.

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