Carl Hausman certainly looked at ease. His three-piece navy blue suit added the necessary conservative touch to his light pink silk shirt, white-on-blue striped tie and scarlet handkerchief. Adding gray to his temples and unnecessary black-framed glasses accentuated his image of solid professionalism. Today he even drove the Cadillac instead of the Corvette. It was if he was calling on the CEO of a major international corporation.

Instead of the conquerors of Earth.

The Krieke victory had been a marvel of simplicity. They arrived, met with various world leaders, claimed the planet in their name and it was over. No death rays, poison gasses, no violent confrontation of any sort. There had been resistance, of course, but nothing worked. Missiles wouldn't fire, planes wouldn't fly, guns of any type were inoperative, computers wouldn't even boot up and the various God of the various religions wouldn't or couldn't strike them dead.

The Krieke rules of occupation were equally concise. Krieke delegations were established in every capitol of every major nation (smaller ones were served on a rotating basis). Once a month, a contribution in precious metals was collected from the various world powers. Otherwise the nations were pretty much allowed to do as they pleased except go to war against one another (inner border conflicts were ignored).

The occupation was entering its fifth year when Hausman was contacted. No explanation and no excuses, just the order to meet with the Krieke representatives on a specific date and time. So now he was parking his car in front of the abandoned UN Building, still confused but also excited about meeting with the masters of Earth. He nodded as he stepped from his car and retrieved his laptop. The Krieke had chosen to make their headquarters here, a choice he applauded. In fact it was one he would have recommended if he were in charge of the account. Which, if this meeting went according to his wildest dreams, he would be.

Hausman tried to maintain a confident spring in his step when he entered, but it was nearly impossible. Especially when he was immediately met by the Krieke. Few Earthmen beyond leaders of nations had met their conquerors personally, fewer even than had met the elder Howard Hughes. And the physical differences between the races were intimidating. The Krieke were nearly eight feet tall and built much like a barrel. They had the further advantage of possessing three arms and legs, a mouth where their stomach should be, and three eyestalks poking through a crown of spindly hair. The Krieke Hausman met said nothing, merely started walking toward the rear of the building. He followed in silence and was eventually ushered into a room. Inside, three other Krieke stood quietly around a table. His guide left immediately and Hausman began to fidget. The opening speech he had rehearsed so diligently now appeared as ludicrous as a failed reality TV show.

After a long silence, one of the Krieke spoke. "Seat yourself."

Hausman sat on eggs as he placed his laptop on the table. Damn, I'm as nervous as a cub on his first cold call! He was relieved the men at his club couldn't see him now.

The Krieke spoke again. Its voice was a cross between a creaking door and thunder. "You are in charge of public revelations?"

Hausman swallowed heavily before replying. "Public relations. Yes. My firm, I should say. Advertising and promotions of all types, actually. We represent some of the most important and largest firms in the world. Last year alone our billings were nearly $1 billion, with a gross ..."

"Your point is made. We know this already, which is why we summoned you. We need your advice."

Need? Hausman shivered, and not because of the chill in the room. The Krieke, he was beginning to realize, preferred a cool climate. "Then you can be assured that all the resources of Hausman/Kline Worldwide are at your service. Whatever your advertising needs are, we can fulfill them."

"Advertising. Is that what we need?"

"Absolutely." For the first time he allowed himself to smile. "Everyone needs advertising. That is what makes the world go round. Without it we wouldn't have a free press or free television. Would you pay to see what's on the tube every night? Of course not! No one would."

"Your race is even more backward than I ever considered. But no matter. You know your peoples better than we know. That is why we questioned your assistance."

We're going to have to hire you a good speechwriter. "You've contacted the right person. Our worldwide resources ..."

"Enough. How can you help us?"

This is more like it. Now Hausman began to feel comfortable. "Let's start at the beginning. What is your marketing problem?"

"We are the owners of your planet. As with other conquered races, we have met with resistance. We desire that to desist. It interferes with our profitability."

Hausman nodded. "We have dealt with similar situations in the past. Perhaps you are familiar with Golden Glow Cosmetics? Their line of rouges and blushes was proven to cause facial lesions. It was Hausman/Kline who came up with the slogan 'No Pain, No Gain' and saved the company from bankruptcy! We can do the same for you."

"How?"

"You have angered quite a few people, you know. We'll need to develop a complete international marketing program, including focus groups and extensive research. Then we'll need a budget."

"Budget? Why is that necessary? We own everything."

"Perhaps. But I can't go to NBC and buy network time on your sayso. I have to have greenbacks. Plus we have development costs, talent costs, creative costs, agency commissions and so on. This is going to be the largest marketing program ever undertaken and it will require a substantial outlay of time, effort and money to alter the long-held beliefs of a hell of a lot of people."

The Krieke talked briefly among themselves, then one spoke to Hausman. "You can do this?"

"Of course. We've been doing it for years."

"It is necessary we retain profitability. Your planet offers little for us."

"I can assure you you will see a substantial increase on your bottom line."

"We will try as you speak."

"Excellent. Then let us begin." Hausman turned on his laptop and started his PowerPoint presentation.

The campaign started slowly. Several press releases touting the kindness of the Krieke (Hausman couldn't believe the difficulty in placing them) were first. Next were selected live appearances.

"Why the opening of a shopping place in Oshkosh?" they asked when he broached the issue.

"The personal touch. Let the common people know who you are, how you are concerned about them."

"We are not interested in common peoples. We are only concerned about profits."

Hausman shook his head. "But once they realize how lovable you are, they'll be on your side."

"It is unnecessary."

"You have to start somewhere. You have been holed up like monks, you know."

"Why don't they come to us?"

"Moving Oshkosh here would be cost prohibitive."

"You have a point. We shall go."

It was a disaster. The only people who showed up (besides Hausman, the developers, the merchants and one Kreike) were pickets. The Krieke spent the afternoon standing inside a gaily decorated booth offering free autographed photos. "Where are your peoples?" it asked several times.

"I told you we had to start somewhere. You can't build Rome in a day, you know."

"Why not?"

Hausman looked at the developers and shrugged.

They weren't happy, either. Only a hefty sum had persuaded them to invite the Krieke. Now the merchants were panicking, and only airtight leases prevented the developers from doing the same. "We'll never get customers in here now," one said.

Hausman smiled broadly and patted him on the back. "Come on now. Look at all the publicity you're getting. Believe me, people will be flocking here in no time."

"To tear it down," one merchant said. "The Black Death would have given us as much publicity. And probably better. I told you we should have hired Happy the Clown."

Hausman remained upbeat. "You don't understand the situation. History is being made today. This is the first time the common man has had the opportunity to meet his alien benefactors in person."

"Interesting choice of words. Perhaps the common man has more common sense than you give him credit for," another merchant offered.

"Nonsense," and Hausman was ready to debate the issue when the Krieke interrupted.

"Mr. Hausman, we shall leave. We have much to discuss." With a sinking feeling, Hausman concurred.

Despite the Oshkosh failure, Hausman persisted. A children's hospital in Manila. A paper plant in Sao Paolo. The Little League World Series. And on and on.

And there was progress ...of a sort. Humans didn't exactly avoid the functions the Krieke attended, they just ignored them. But at least they saw the aliens. Occasional news stories, even though the filler kind, began to appear. Hausman knew they were turning the corner when the first t-shirts hit the market.

"This is a good thing?" The Krieke were examining a toy replica of themselves. It was one of several being offered to the public. It was advertised to do everything the Krieke did. Except conquer.

"Exactly," Hausman said with great enthusiasm. "You are now as much a household word as Xerox, Scotch tape and Trojans. Do you realize they are considering a Saturday morning cartoon show featuring you? This is the kind of positive exposure we've been working for. 'Hollywood Squares' may be next!"

"Your peoples will work better for us? There will be no more troubles?"

Hausman always wondered what the "troubles" were, but the Krieke never elaborated. Probably best he didn't know, he had finally concluded. "Just wait until we get you on TV. Testimonials are coming, I can feel them coming!"

"These things take us away from important work."

"Believe me, if you think you're busy now, just wait!"

He was right about that. A ripple became a flood as companies came begging for final proof that their products were indeed out of this world. The Krieke tried beer (disgusting), jeans (delicious), colognes, cigarettes, paper towels and cars. They co-hosted "Saturday Night Live" and three talk shows. They appeared in two series and a made-for-TV movie.

They weren't happy.

"Your peoples do this all the time? No wonder they are so backward."

Hausman and several Krieke were on a flight from New York to San Antonio. The Krieke never used their own craft for travel, citing expense. "Only the successful ones," he replied. "The price of fame. But also one of the rewards. I tell you, you guys are becoming the biggest thing since Justin Timberlake!"

"He is one of your religious leaders?"

"To some. Now I need your signatures," and he pulled a raft of contracts from his briefcase.

The sit-com was a success. So were the toys and TV appearances. The time was right, Hausman decided, for the advertising to truly begin.

The commercials blanketed the dial. Excerpts of the Krieke at a children's hospital, doing an interview, eating a hot dog, enjoying a symphony: all were melded with the underlying message that the Krieke loved humanity, that they had come to help and protect mankind. The money for commercial creation and placement earned Hausman's firm (and Hausman) substantial profits. For him, it was the best of all worlds.

Until the Krieke summoned him once again. Hausman was startled when he entered the UN building. Normally nearly deserted, this time it appeared Krieke were everywhere. A population explosion? he wondered as he made his way down a hallway.

The Krieke delegation wasted no time. "We must reevaluate our activities," one said as soon as he entered the meeting room.

He forced himself to remain calm and confident. What he and his company had done for the Krieke was right. "In what way?"

"You said advertising would help us. You said we would have no more troubles. You said we would increase profits."

"And that's what happened! Have you looked at the Neilsons lately? We get points from your show, you know. Your album shipped double platinum!"

"But we're not making money." The spokesman for the Krieke slammed one of its appendages on the table. It was the first sign of emotion Hausman had ever seen them demonstrate. "You see the number of our peoples when you come? Are they soldiers? Are they businesspeoples? Are they scientists? Tourists?

"None of them, Mr. Hausman. They are clerks! Simple clerks brought here to keep our accounts correct. Do you know how expensive it was to summon them? How much we must pay for them to stay here?"

Hausman frowned. "Why not hire humans?"

"Your peoples are not smart enough. And it's not just here. Every one of our centers had to triple their staff just to lose ground slowly. You understand why?"

Hausman never enjoyed rhetorical questions unless they were his own. He dutifully shook his head.

"Your advertising."

"Now just one moment!" Hausman allowed himself to get angry. Sometimes as an account executive, he knew it was necessary to show the client who's boss. This was one of those times. "Our work has accomplished exactly what you wanted. Are you threatened by revolt any longer? No. You can even walk through Central Park without getting mugged. Everyone loves you. They think you're, well, cute. At least the kids. Sure, it will take time for some adults to get over your arrival, but in twenty years no one will remember any other way. And if you want to argue creativity, just let me tell you we won three Clios for our TV spots alone. You can't make me believe we've failed you."

The Krieke was unmoved. "Profits, Mr. Hausman. The bottom line is profits. Your work costs money. Our trips cost money. Bringing in more of our peoples costs money. But do you know what the final problem is? Your peoples. They won't leave us alone! China has an argument with Russia over a meaningless plot of land. They want us to mediate. A manufacturer has a new product coming out; he seeks our advice. Scientists, doctors, police, educators; we've even been asked to become reproduction counselors."

"Marriage. Marriage counselors," Hausman corrected without thinking.

"Matters not. Instead of your peoples turning to their governments or themselves, they come to us. This is impossible!"

Hausman made a moue. "The hostage syndrome. The victim identifies eventually with the kidnapper. Happens all the time. We'll just take a different tack with our advertising, that's all."

"There will be no more advertising. We are cutting our loses."

Hausman shivered, and this was definitely not from the temperature. "You can't do that. That's the worst thing you can do." He knew his voice was rising, but it was the right time for it. "Studies show that time after time, when a company cuts back on its marketing during an economic downturn, they lose even more and never recover market share when the economy rebounds. You can't pull the plug now!"

"We must. There is no alternative."

For the first time, another Krieke spoke. "You must see our perspective. We don't want slaves. The more autonomy we grant a planet, the less costly it is to run. That is why we came to you. But your peoples don't want autonomy, they don't want responsibility. They want us to do everything for them. That cannot be."

Hausman made one more attempt. "I'll admit I'm no sociologist, but it seems to me ..."

"It seems to us that we made a mistake in hiring you. That is irrevocable. If the situation does not improve soon, we will have to take drastic measures. There is no other way."

For the first time, Hausman felt real fear as he imagined the possibilities.

It was nearly a year before Hausman was again summoned by the Krieke. This time he found the building nearly empty and for a moment he held hope. It vanished when he entered the meeting room.

There was only one Krieke present. "I will be short," it began. Which, considering their height, Hausman considered a poor choice of words. "We have found it no longer profitable to retain control of this planet. Our accountants predict we cannot reclaim our original investment unless we completely enslave your world. Even then, it would require 3.92 of our centuries. That is too long to wait."

Hausman loosened his tie as he suddenly found it hard to swallow. "What do you propose to do?"

"The only practical thing. We are leaving. Most of my peoples already have. We want you to tell your peoples for us."

And they did. Hausman dutifully handled the press release, then sat numbly in his office as the radio broadcast the departure of the last ship to cheering crowds. He was still staring blankly at his desk when his secretary rang.

"The President is here to see you," she said with a trace of awe.

Hausman was still finding it hard to concentrate. "The president of what?"

"The United States, of course! He's here, in this very office. With some reporters and camera crews. He wants to talk to you."

He sighed. He was in no mood to work. "Send him in."

"I can't. There's too many people. You'll have to come out here."

"Fine." Hausman stood and checked the mirror on the wall automatically. None of this mattered but he would go along with the gag. He opened the door ...

... and was instantly blinded by flashbulbs and camera lights. The entire room was filled with reporters and cameras and microphones, all pointed at him.

A tall man who looked somehow familiar approached with an outstretched hand. "Mr. Hausman," he grabbed Hausman's limp right arm and shook heartily. "You can't imagine how pleased I am to meet you. I must apologize for the informality, but we've had so little warning. Fred, do you have that medal with you?"

A man stepped forward while searching through his pockets. Finally he produced a small box. The President of the United States grabbed it and opened it quickly. "In our appreciation of your efforts to remove the chains of bondage forced upon us by the dreaded Krieke," he said, pinning the medal on Hausman's lapel. Then he put his arm around Hausman and smiled for the cameras.

A host of microphones were thrust in Hausman's face. "How do you feel at this moment?" one of the reporters asked.

Hausman looked in confusion at the horde. "How the hell do you think I feel? I lost the account!"

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Author Bio

Patrick Welch received a B.A. and M.A. in English from Bowling Green State University. Proving the value of a liberal education, he has worked variously as a musician, dock worker, insurance salesman, full-time and substitute teacher, free-lance writer and assistant store manager.

He has published more than forty stories in e-zines and the small press. Currently, he also has two books available from Twilight Times Books, The Casebook of Doakes and Haig and The Thirteenth Magician.

Westchester Station (a fantasy novel) is available from Double Dragon Ebook. Other completed books include The Body Shop, Before/Beyond (an anthology of science fiction and fantasy stories) and Brendell; Apprentice Thief.

Visit Patrick's web site.

Read other stories by Patrick Welch
Demon in a Box -- DF
Demon in a Box (light background)
Second Stage -- SF
Tiny Losses -- F
The Joining -- F
Cryptic Chronicles -- F

Check out his author interview.

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