My car door closed with a soft ca-thunk.  Another
          happy day at the happy office was over, complete,
          finished, and somehow survived.  Customer complaints,
          parts out of tolerance, a project that would take six
          weeks to complete if I hurried tossed on my desk by the
          boss on his way out to the golf course at noon, and a
          meeting with an unbearably verbose salesman bent on
          selling me unnecessary equipment at exorbitant prices.

              I was glad to be home.

              I was following the walk to the steps leading to my
          back door, my book-laden briefcase pulling at my fingers.

              I took stock of the evening as I trudged toward the
          house.  It was too late to replace the broken window in
          the garage.  This morning's overflowing trashcan is still
          overflowing, let it go until tomorrow.  Changing the oil
          in the car tonight was too much to even think about.  Even
          the dust on my shoes could wait another day.

              Sunshine dodged a cloud for a moment.  This section of
          sidewalk needs replaced someday too, I thought.  Something
          flashed, making me half-step and stumble to avoid it.

              Obviously metal, it gleamed rainbow colors, like a
          small piece of well-polished stainless steel dipped in
          oil.  Maybe it was something that had fallen from my
          daughter's bike.

              "Oh goody," I said, "something else needs fixed."

              Bending, I reached for it, to put it in my pocket so
          it wouldn't get lost before I reattached it, wherever it
          went.

              It moved!

              "Honey!"  I shouted, taking the back steps two at a
          time, my briefcase released somewhere in between. "Quick!
          I need an iron box!  With a lid!  And a lock!  Do the kids
          have any miniature electronic toys?"

              "Why no," she said, reaching into a cupboard. "Why?"

              "Then we've been invaded!" I panted.  "Probably
          extraterrestrials traveling on reduced fuel through
          self-miniaturization!  I read about it once!  Assimov or
          Vonnegut or somebody.  Where's that iron box?  Do we maybe
          have one lined with lead?"  I remembered the words `death
          ray'.  Orson Wells, maybe.