Introduction
Ignacio Covarrubias was born in Bahía Blanca, Argentina in 1915. He wrote for such newspapers like El Hogar, Clarín and Crítica before he started writing for Leoplán in 1951, an Argentine literary and journalistic magazine. Under both his real name and the pseudonym Mario Gallardo, Covarrubias wrote a number of true crime report types of non-fiction, as well as other non-fiction pieces on other subjects. The name Mario Gallardo would appear as the main character in his only novel "Nadie Sale Vivo"/"No One Gets Out Alive" (1952) a detective novel, which Mariano Buscaglia describes as "more in common with the style of hard-boiled police stories and film noir than with the British detective school." Mario Gallardo also appears as a different character in another story he wrote ("Rehearsal for death"/"Ensayo para la muerte") that was published in Leoplán (1953, #451), and it would appear that he continued to write these kinds of police dramatization type pieces for Leoplán until his death in 1961.
Of most interest to science fiction and to this particular story, Covarrubias published the article "El Gran Problema: Los Platos Voladores"/"The Great Problem: Flying Saucers" in the Nov 3rd 1954 issue of Leoplán (#489) which discusses, among other things, the June 24, 1947 Kenneth Arnold incident, where Arnold, a private pilot, claimed to see nine UFOs flying at speeds greater than 1,200 MPH. This was one of the first modern UFO sightings and was the incident which led to the widespread press usage of the term "flying saucer".
"Saturnino Fernández, Hero" was Covarrubias' only work of science fiction and was published in Más Allá #27, August 1955 and illustrated by Alvará.
For more information on Covarrubias, see Mariano Buscaglia's, article "Ignacio Covarrubias, pólvora literaria" in Cuaderno De La BN, 2022 #28:
https://www.bn.gov.ar/micrositios/admin_assets/issues/files/389167dffe70d122c610385b4c270481.pdf
For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)" and "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures".
For complete scans of Más Allá, including the illustrations, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/
Saturnino Fernández, Hero
On the 12th of December 1956, Saturnino Fernández abandoned the "Crítica"'s editorial department at 18:00, and crossed the street to the "Whisky Bar", situated opposite, where he commenced drinking to his health, a practice he had been invariably performing for 30 years. As a general rule, he would drink two or three glasses of beer, passing afterwards to vermouth, and then continue with whatever else would present itself. By midnight, his tongue was stammering, but his mind, filled with a celestial serenity, felt that the body to which it was attached was capable of doing anything.
In such a happy state of mind, he slept until mid-morning, at which time he had breakfast with a couple of aspirin and prepared himself for his day job as a reporter. It was a methodical, if not measured, life, and with such a singular regime he hoped to reach one hundred years of age, based on clear scientific reasoning:
- "Everything is better preserved in alcohol."
But that very night - the 12th of December - would bring about singular changes in his destiny, would cause his death and would make him famous in world history, marking his name as a milestone between the past and the future and creating nothing less than the "World Government", an endeavour which had previously frustrated all the theorists and all the politicians, from Alexander the Great to Attila, from Genghis Khan to Mahatma Gandhi, and all of their various methods.
* * *
That night, so many things happened that to narrate them with any certain logic results in difficulty. The 12th of December, Buenos Aires - and especially the Avenida de Mayo - was hot as hell. Conversely, it was cold as hell in Greenland. At the "Project Bronx" naval air base, a location undetermined due to military censorship at the Pentagon, Washington, pilot Dave Richardson took flight in a "Flash" retro-propulsion aircraft, with eight turbojets and capable of reaching "Mach 3", that is, three times the speed of sound.
He vertically ascended up to 10,000 meters and was confined in a pressure compensating suit, inhaling oxygen from special tubes, on a flight that was to be purely routine, intended solely to test a new fuselage de-icing system.
Dave crossed the supersonic barrier, flipped his controls and continued flying straight ahead on an east-northeast heading while communicating with base.
- "Altitude, 10,000; speed, Mach 3; normal flight; outside temperature, 36 degrees below zero..."
His words were monotonously reaching the base when suddenly his tone of voice shifted. His expression became tense, those monitoring the test flight heard exclamations that were inappropriate for a pilot in the air - especially since in the event of an accident he could die with them in his mouth, which was not advisable for the soul, since his body wouldn't be recovered - and at first, they thought that the unfortunate Richardson had gone mad.
- "Dead ahead, I see a strange ship! I think it's a flying saucer! Like those in 1951! It's rushing forward... I can't see it anymore... Damn! Another... and another... at 190 degrees in formation... there are dozens... the sky is covered... I almost hit one... it had a celestial luminosity...a velocity of Mach 20... it's terrifying! Hey, son of a bitch... it almost ripped my wing off! They're dropping something. They look like snowflakes... or cotton... No, they look like whitish feathers... Watch out below! Sound the alarm! Alarm...!"
He was never heard from or seen again. Dave Richardson, according to historians, was the first victim.
* * *
Lord Evanston, Seventh-day Adventist, was also a teetotaler in addition to being the British governor of Singapore. On December 12th, 1956, he found himself on the veranda of the government house talking with his wife, while they both drank a refreshing glass of lime juice - imported from England, of course - and commented on the events of the day.
- "I think that Sir David should be more careful with his personnel. It seems his new valet is a communist and that's rather perilous, especially so in Malaya."
At that very moment, it was 23:01, a strange shower of something resembling white feathers fell into the residence's garden. It was not inert matter, however. As they fell, they began to drag themselves along as if they were leaves pushed by the wind to form small piles that little by little, took on a spherical shape the size of a soccer ball.
Lord Davidson stood with his hand up high with his glass raised and his mouth open. Lady Davidson looked at him in horror.
- "What's wrong, darling...?"
She couldn't finish the sentence, frozen like the wax figures in Madame Tussaud's Museum.
* * *
"Tovarish Bulganin," said Molotov, "the situation is untenable. The North Americans are arming themselves, as are we. When shall we commence with the war? I feel this spring would be most suitable. Our atomic bomb stockpiles..."
Bulganin smiled with his entire mouth, with good humor and mischief.
He then went over to one of the Kremlin's double-paned glass windows to watch the snow falling in one of the inner courtyards. The spectacle so captivated him that he wasn't listening to Molotov anymore.
- "Eh, Tovarish, what are you doing?" - Molotov shouted.
- "Look... look at that..."
Among the snowflakes, something else was falling, somewhat larger, but also slowly, and could be seen in the glow from the spotlights, illuminated to prevent any surprises, and were forming a spherical shape by grouping together.
- "What is that? Could it be the new weapons that our intelligence serv...?"
No one finished speaking. They remained petrified. It was 23:06 on the night of December 12th, 1956.
* * *
That night, at exactly 23:00 local time - always local time! - the re-elected President of the United States, Dwight Eisenhower - with the slogan "I like Ike again" - was about to put on his slippers in his White House bedroom, while chatting with his wife Mamie.
- "I hate the winter," Mamie said.
- "Mamie, don't talk like that," Ike said. "I wish winter would last for the rest of our lives. I think that next spring things'll go from bad to worse. Everytime I see the falling snow, it makes me happy."
He adjusted the belt on his robe and before turning off the light, he brought his face closer to the window. And there he remained, nose pressed against the fogged-up glass. Mamie was reclined on the bed with her eyes open and didn't notice anything.
* * *
He heard screams and saw a bunch of people running from side to side, looking up at the sky.
- "What's happening?"
Suddenly, everything fell silent. Bus #164 drove up onto the sidewalk and swept away all the tables that were installed there. There were three or four dead and several injured. Nobody moved. Those who suffered the impact fell, the rest remained motionless. Saturnino Fernández asked the bartender for another drink. The bartender - José Antonio López, a Spaniard of 21 years with two residences in the country - was standing with his cocktail shaker in the air, eyes and mouth open, frozen in astonishment while in the middle of mixing a dry San Martín.
Along the Avenida de Mayo, strange balls of white down were starting to come into view. Saturnino scratched his head. With a shaky stride, yes, but a calm mind, he tried to lift up a wounded man who wasn't moaning in pain, even though his head was bleeding profusely. He was unsuccessful and called for help from a paralyzed passerby, which seemed to go unheard.
And so, he decided that he should face the situation calmly. He returned to the bar, stepped over the counter and grabbed a bottle from which he took a long pull, without the need to use a glass.
- "Eh... what's happening?"
A drunken voice from the back called out to him.
- "Bring me a drink, comrade."
It was a bearded fellow with bloodshot eyes who was demanding more to drink. Saturnino joined the bearded man and they both finished off the bottle while discussing the situation.
- "It seems to me" - said the bearded man - "that you're really drunk."
- "Certainly, that I am," replied Saturnino. "But, that doesn't stop me from seeing these white balls. And all Avenida de Mayo's paralyzed. Noones moving. It's gotta be some kinda plague."
Saturnino, arm in arm with the bearded man, began to walk around the city. After a while, they seized a car, removed the paralyzed driver, and drove off swerving. Neither of them was an experienced driver, but when the car stopped, or crashed into some obstacle, they would commandeer another one.
Every now and then, they also stopped to go down into a bar, with all the people paralyzed, and commandeer a few bottles, an essential reserve of fuel. Until, little by little, with the logic of the perpetually inebriated, they came to a terrifying conclusion.
- "Hey, beard guy," Saturnino said, "do you see how the city's paralyzed?"
- "I do" - the bearded man replied with a laconic, breathless tone.
- "And so far, who's not affected?"
- "Us two."
- "Except for us, all the others we've found still moving are the drunks."
- "That's right."
- "And to that... cheers!"
Without any homeopathic moderation, both adhered to the treatment from the power of the bottle. And very soon they connected the paralysis of the city with the white balls that were everywhere. In the streets, in the squares, on various balconies.
- "What we have to do is destroy these things," Saturnino decided.
Their hands got to work. They started in the Plaza del Congreso. First by kicking, and then by a municipal streetsweeper, they made a huge pile of the balls of down and set them on fire. The pile burned magnificently. Then another and another. At dawn, tired, they continued their work.
But they had recruited a hundred drunks who, with shaky stride, dedicated themselves to the labor, encouraged by constant drinks. Saturnino and the bearded man went back and forth from the nearest bars to various improvised stalls, replenishing them with booze. And after two days, after clearing an area of approximately six blocks, they saw with astonishment that the paralyzed people were beginning to revive.
Those who showed signs of movement were immediately recruited, after being given a dose of a stimulating drink, and once they were thoroughly drunk, they too were thrown into the fight.
The fight in Buenos Aires lasted nine days, and then in geometric proportion, Saturnino and the bearded man's recruits were transformed from patrols into regiments, from regiments into divisions, from divisions into army corps. They staggered, hiccupped, and dozed for a bit, always with glass in hand and armed with plenty of drinks, they continued their advance.
After conquering the city, the interior of the country was reconquered and expeditions were launched to the rest of the world.
* * *
In zigzagging planes flown by drunken pilots, Saturnino's shock troops set out waving a flag that displayed the figure of Liberty with a Phrygian cap and a bottle in her hand.
They reached other cities and the other countries. America was liberated first, then Europe; little by little, the men of the bottle cleansed the world.
The case was studied at the Paris Academy of Sciences, at the US Atomic Energy Commission, and at the Lenin Research Center in Moscow. An international commission of experts pronounced its dictum:
"Unidentified devices from space released a material onto Earth that has not yet been fully analyzed, but of which samples are kept, that paralyzes the minds of human beings. With such simple weapons, the invaders could have easily taken over the Earth. They did not calculate, however, that the minds of people affected by alcohol were thereby immunized to such harmful effluvia. The blood, with a high alcohol content, kept them from falling defeated, their minds, accustomed to the wine's vapors, were able to function normally."
Historians have praised the magnificent figure of the hero and martyr Saturnino, who gloriously fell in the defense of our planet as a result of cirrhosis of the liver, complicated in his last agonizing hours by apocalyptic visions from delirium tremens of the highest order.
* * *
One month later, on January 12th, 1957, Bulganin and Eisenhower were having lunch "somewhere in Europe." Vodka and whiskey were circulated, of course, as a "preventative" against any further invasion. But from that lunch, and from many others, the World Government arose, borders were erased and flying alongside the flags of every country was the flag of Liberty with the bottle.
Humanity was united against the space invaders and toasted to harmony and peace. There was, it's true, a time of great mass emigration, as many people believed that life was better there than here.
Then balance was restored and everything ran smoothly. Most of the military budget was allocated towards the fabulous distilleries and to the statue of Saturnino Fernández, with his ascetic face and his glass raised to the sky, as a challenge to the otherworldly strangers, and is venerated and admired everywhere.
From where I'm writing these lines, I can see his silhouette in the middle of the square. It's 23:00 and I'm finished. I'm going to drink half a bottle of whisky and then I'm going home.
First, I must be a little intoxicated, otherwise I'll be stopped by the police. Sobriety is a serious violation in our new, peaceful, kind, wonderful world.
Bs. Aires, December 12, 1959. (Written for the International Bulletin of Historical Studies, special commemorative issue on Saturnino Fernández, Apostle of the Bottle.)
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