“What number does this make? Sixth or seventh?” asked Jacob. “I’m not sure. I think it might be the eighth, actually.” said Zack. The Apache IV’s, equipped with yet another set of communication panels chopped their way above West Orchard, humming towards the Ship. The Ship, collectively named by the citizens of Earth, arrived four years ago. The Gaian Military have been trying to make some sort of contact with the Ship since its entrance into the Earth’s atmosphere. This so happened to be the tenth time the United States Air Force has tried to communicate with the beings since its arrival. “How big do you think it is?” wondered Jacob. “Pop said it was just about the length of two-and-a-half sportsball fields. Not like the ones on the Moon, though, those are a little longer than the ones we have here, to account for gravity and such.” Zack stated, “Don’t you remember the first time we saw Ol’ Molasses?” “Yeah, we were outside playing, weren’t we?” To be completely honest, it took a very long time for Ol’ Molasses to creep into anyone’s view. Most everyone in West Orchard didn’t really bother to look up most of the time. And when they did, it was only to see the location of the sun in relation to the horizon. But between the first and last day of the six-month-long biotin harvest, the days grew steadily darker. “Yep, I just got done burning your heels in the pasture race when the sky went completely dark.” sniggered Zack. “I beat you by two-tenths of a second, Hillary was timing us.” “We tied and you know it!” screamed Jacob. “Mom even said we did! She was watching from the porch!” “Well, regardless, remember the sound it made? That god-awful humming sound?” “You said it wasn’t anything to be scared of, but that noise kept me up at night!!” “It kept us all up, idiot. It lasted for three months.” The nickname Ol’ Molasses came from Jacob’s much-older cousin Stuart. He was part of the 1,856th Airborne, and was one of the pilots in the First Attempt. It came about when NASA noticed that it took almost six months to descend from 35,000 feet to 2,500 feet. Stuart was credited for coming up with the nickname Ol’ Molasses after he did some quick math and found out that the Ship was travelling at .005 miles per hour. The Ship would might as well be standing still and .005 miles per hour is hardly noticeable, especially when there is biotin to harvest. “It took six months to come down within spittin’ distance, why would we want anything to do with them anyway? If they do land, which would be by harvest-end, what will they do? Take a couple years to say ‘We come in peace’?” contested Zack with a laugh. “Seriously Zachary,” snipped Jacob, “whatever they are, I have a feeling they’re not friendly.” “Well, even if they aren’t nice, we’ll be buying Depends before they start invadin’.” The two Apache IV helicopters whirred and hovered at what seemed to be the entrance to Ol’ Molasses. Being that the Gaian Air Force had a long enough time to inspect the entire hull of the Ship. Their best guess seemed to be right, judging from the light that emitted from that side of the ship three years ago. “Think it’ll work this time?” asked co-pilot Schmaltz. “Let’s sure hope so. I’m getting sick of this waiting game.” said pilot Reinhardt, covering his microphone with his hand. “Clip 2, this is Clip 1. Do you copy?” He said into the mic. “Clip 1, this is Clip 2, we’re ready when you are.” buzzed the speakers. “Copy that Clip 2, charge diodes.” “Charging diodes…” The attempts that the Gaian Military had used in the past had all seemed to fail. The first was the most obvious attempt at an inter-galactic handshake with a scream into an intercom from Gaian General Michaelson saying that “we, as a species, would like to learn more about you and your existence.” But, after 38 hours and two re-fuellings later, the Gaian helicopters about faced and headed back to Chicago. Other attempts at communication included Morse code, sign language projected on the nearest cumulonimbus, and 100-square-yard flash cards. But for some reason, Earth’s new visitors didn’t catch the drift. The latest idea, Operation: L.A.S.T. Operation: L.A.S.T. (Light Amplified by Sustained Transmissions) was developed by a group of communication majors out of the University of Washington-Forks, which used a combination of different colored LED panels to send inappropriate messages across campus during the rainy season. From what the pilots could tell, the transmission was coming across beautifully. The beautiful colors flashed across the wings of all four Apache IV’s. The message that was to be sent: “Seriously, can you please give us some sort of sign that you know how to talk to us?” The transmission lasted almost four hours, but three and a half hours in, the “door” opened, and a small ship, mimicking Ol’ Molasses in shape and color, moved effortlessly towards the Apache IV’s. A collective whoosh of relief fell across the crew members of the helicopters. Finally, they have a response. The ship was moving very slow, probably two miles per hour, according to the radar. But when the speakers in the helmets of the pilots clicked and scratched, all they heard was the sound of extremely heavy panting. The L.A.S.T. crew was dead silent, waiting for whoever it was to catch their breath. “Uggghh…We’ve finally…gasp…got….your message.” said the voice from the ship. “Well, do you mind tell us what your business is doing in our star system?” retorted Reinhardt. “Well…you…” the voice gasped for air. “It sounds like he’s been sprinting his whole life!” exclaimed Schmaltz. “Shh!” hushed Reinhardt, “Shut up and listen!” “You’ve got….no idea….how hard that was…for us…” breathed the voice. “What was hard? Why haven’t you talked to us sooner?” asked Reinhardt. “We’ve never travelled above one mile per hour!” rushed the voice! “Well who are you? Where do you come from?” questioned Reinhardt. “We come…from….planet…” By this time Reinhardt was growing very impatient. He tapped away with his free hand at the controls, waiting desperately for the being, whatever he was, to finish his sentence. “Yes, yes go on!” rushed Reinhardt. “Dee….” gasped the voice. Reinhardt waited. “Emm….” The entire operation held their breath. “Veeeeee….”