A Study in
Ethnology
or
The Blue
Suede Alien
by Jonathan
Edward Feinstein
©
1991 by Jonathan E. Feinstein
Author’s Foreword
The problem with writing a story in the
present is that the present is sharper than the edge of a knife and before you
can fully grasp the moment it’s in the past. If your setting is in the past,
you can throw in any number of details that firmly pin the story down in its
period. But in the present it’s almost imperative that you leave out details
that are too specific. Well, I certainly hadn’t learned that lesson at the time
I wrote this story. I should also admit that this is a danger when writing in
the foreseeable future. Guess wrong as to what is coming next and your story
becomes a period piece in a period that never happened. As I look through some
of my favorite books, however, it appears that I am in good company when it
comes to falling into this trap. So be it.
I did briefly
consider rewriting the story to bring it into the Twenty-first Century, but as
I worked on my notes, it turned out to be a far greater undertaking than I was
prepared to do without the promise of a paycheck behind it. At first I thought
it would just be a matter of replacing the names of companies that were once
typical of Southern New England, where much of the action of this story takes
place, but which have since gone out of business. Then I noticed that I was
mentioning people who have since passed away. That, too, was a minor bit and
could easily be written around. Then I started noticing my commentary on the
culture of the
Actually, that
wasn’t too much of a problem since the biggest change in the twelve years since
I wrote this is that I have become, if anything, more cynical about the
politicians we are all forced to endure. Friends have pointed out that I do not
suffer fools gladly. True enough and it comes out in this story. Still that
fact that my commentary was based on
It was just too
firmly rooted in 1991! I don’t want to give too much of the story away, but I
think it is safe to say that this is a
story about an alien ethnologist who comes to Earth to study us. Readers have
asked me if I was influenced by the very famous ethnographic spoof, The Nacerima. The answer is both yes and
no. I am aware of it and have read one or two extracts from it, but have not
had the opportunity to read it in its entirety. For those readers who may not
have heard of it, The Nacerima,
(American spelled backwards) is an ethnological monograph as it might have been
written about the people of the
Anyway, my main
character, in an attempt to fit in unnoticed undergoes cosmetic surgery. For
reasons that you will discover soon enough, it doesn’t quite go the way he
expects and he ends up looking like an all too recognizable celebrity.
Strangely, when I was still plotting the story, the celebrity I chose to make
him resemble was Arnold Schwarzenegger. At the time, I felt the joke would fall
flat very quickly, although it this was a movie, it might be fun to have him go
through a number a fast changes before settling for how he ends up. The
celebrity cameos would be fun to watch anyway. With Arnie serving as gubanator of
Finally, this book
really is offered to you free. However, if after reading it you feel it was
worth a dollar or two, rather than sending it to me, why not make a donation to
the New Bedford Historical Society? The New Bedford Historical Society was
organized in October 1996 as a non-profit
Jonathan E. Feinstein
A Study in
Ethnology
I.
One For the Money
One
Many of my colleagues have questioned why I felt it was necessary
to travel as far as I did in order to find an acceptable culture to study. To
them I say that it was my intention to conduct an ethnographic study of a
culture that had not yet had any contact with civilization. In most cases, by
the time a qualified anthropologist arrives on a newly discovered world, the
native cultures have already been inundated by militant missionaries, the
people have been put to work by exploitive capitalists, and entire hordes of
interplanetary do-gooders have strolled on through to pat the exploited natives
on the head and tell them that it is such a pity that their once-rich culture
has been destroyed by the missionaries and businessmen.
While a study of such a culture is as valid as any if conducted
along established ethnographic lines, it fails to give us a picture of that
culture as it was discovered pristine by the original explorers. It is my
belief that until a sufficient number of societies can be studied at first
contact, our cultural theories can not be conclusively proved.
Therefore, I loaded up my Arctorean 235 SX astroship and, funded by
a healthy grant from the Grenner Wenn Foundation, set off in search of a new
intelligent life form.
from the Introduction of "The Humans
of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
His
once-brilliant blue hair, now mostly purple streaked with the red of an old
man, hung down like gaudy strings against his loose, green skin. During his
ten-year tenure as Dean of the
"Come
in," he responded. A grad student with bright blue hair and beard stepped
into the office. It was B-Hob Kharma, his ten o'clock appointment, fifteen
minutes late as usual.
"Sorry
I'm late, Dr. Gahrmu," B-Hob apologized, "but I was delayed while
crossing the campus."
"That's
quite all right, B-Hob," Dr. Gahrmu excused him, trying to cut to the
actual matter of this meeting. B-Hob's explanations tended to get a bit
involved and exotic and Dr. Gahrmu had heard far too many of them in the past
few years.
"You
see, a truck tried to take a turn too fast down at
"Yes,
yes. I understand. Let's just get down to business," Dr. Gahrmu made one
last attempt to stop B-Hob's latest excuse. The effort was in vain.
"Right.
And this truck was full of balls."
"Balls?"
Dr. Gahrmu asked in spite of himself.
"Uh
huh!" B-Hob responded. "I think they were for the new game room in
the Student Union. So these balls were just rolling all over the circle area,
people were slipping and sliding everywhere, and the cars, too. There was a
pile up of at least a dozen student vehicles all out of control as they rolled
over the balls, but that was nothing until the campus station came on the scene
and started a live broadcast."
"That's
all well and good, but..."
"Well,
as soon as they showed up, several impromptu demonstrations broke out, 'Stop
the War in Zeta-Antares' and 'Save the Neopanda' mostly, I think. Finally the
police showed up, but they couldn't get through the crowds of on-lookers to
break up the demonstrators. The ice cream truck managed to, however, and
everyone started buying ice cream, being that's it's been so hot lately, you
know, and..."
"Enough!"
Dr. Gahrmu didn't doubt for a moment that there was a disturbance down at
"Oh,
all right. Want a rolbaberry popsicle?" B-Hob asked, holding the
confection out. Dr. Gahrmu accepted it in the hopes that this would finally get
them down to business. This time he got his wish.
"For
your project," he said around mouthfuls of frozen imitation fruit juice,
"you propose traveling to tropical Racrutus to study the Metronome People.
Don't you realized that this was already done by C-Lod Levis about twenty years
ago?"
"Yes,
sir," B-Hob replied, "but I intend to center on the changes in that
culture over the last twenty years. How they have maintained their cultural
identity after two decades of contact with our civilization. That sort of
thing."
"Uh
huh," Dr. Gahrmu said skeptically. "Well, I can save you the trip,
B-Hob. They haven't kept their cultural identity at all. Instead they have been
completely assimilated by civilization. There are nothing but hotels,
restaurants, and condominiums all over the atolls of Racrutus. I spent my
vacation there last summer myself and nearly went broke. Racrutus has the
highest rate of inflation anywhere within the Commonwealth. I woke up one
morning and the cup of tea I had for breakfast at ten cils just the day before
had already gone up to forty. My wife and I left two weeks early because they
tried to collect a 'rental adjustment' on our pre-paid room."
"But
surely the natives," B-Hob began.
"The
closest thing to a surviving remnant of the native culture appears in the form
of velvet paintings on the walls of those hotels, restaurants, and condos, for
sale to the unwary tourist at ridiculously high prices. In fact the only thing
that distinguishes the natives from ourselves is the dark fluorescent
red-violet fur all over their bodies.
"No.
Take it from me, young B-Hob, as tempting as a paid trip to Racrutus might be,
it is not the path to success."
"But
even with all these changes," B-Hob protested, "wouldn't such a study
be valid?"
"Of
course it would, but you would use up your entire grant in a week or less even
if you tried to subsist on bread and water."
"Hmm.
There is that. What do you suggest?"
"B-Hob,
I am about to give you the true secret to success in the social sciences. It's
something so simple that anyone can use it. It takes a truly gifted researcher
to become successful by doing update work on a culture that was already studied
and is well known to everyone in the field. That is doing it the hard
way."
"So
what's the easy way?"
"Have
you ever gone camping on an uncivilized planet?" Dr. Gahrmu asked.
"Yes.
As a kid we used to do that every summer."
"Good.
Then you know how to rough it."
"More
or less. We generally brought our food with us."
"That's
good enough. Use your grant money to explore the galactic frontier. Rent a
one-man exploration ship and head out for the Western rim."
"Why
the Western rim? Why not the inner frontier?"
"It's
closer and cheaper to reach. If you're heading for the unknown, why go any
farther out of your way than necessary?" B-Hob saw the logic in that and
nodded.
"But
my grant money isn't enough to rent a ship for a long-enough period to both
explore and conduct research, and just what would I be looking for?"
"You'll
be looking for a culture that has not only never been studied but never heard
of either. As for the ship, with a project of this sort you can apply for a
grant from one of the large foundations. The Department of Education can help
you fill out the grant applications and I'll give you a recommendation.
"You
might even get enough to buy the ship outright. Try applying to a foundation
that will let you keep your equipment after the project is over. You can make a
good profit that way."
"But
why am I looking for a completely unknown culture?"
"Because
if nobody has ever heard of these people you study then you'll be the one and
only authority on the subject. Not only that, but nobody will be able to
dispute your findings without going to the expense and bother that you'll have
gone through, which they aren't likely to do for at least twenty years.
Remember the smart ones among your colleagues will be doing the same
thing."
"I
see," B-Hob said, understanding dawning on the horizon of his mind.
"Of
course," Dr. Gahrmu continued, "you will have to come up with a more
respectable sounding reason for traveling into the great unknown and for going
so far to conduct an investigation you could do on your home planet, but I'm
sure you'll think of something."
"No
problem," B-Hob agreed.
Two
I soon realized that, if I was to study a culture in its pristine
state, I would need to fit in with the natives as if I were one of them. So
along with the usual tools of the ethnological trade, I.E. a vox-corder,
notebooks and pens to last for ages, and a pair of cameras, I also equipped my
ship with an automatic translator/hypno-teacher unit and augmented the basic
med unit with cosmetic surgery capabilities. The remainder of my grant money
was expended on a mass/energy converter. This was extremely expensive but not
as extravagant as it might sound. I still didn't know precisely where I was
going nor what might pass for currency there. The converter would provide me
with whatever materials I needed within reason.
from the Introduction to "The Humans
of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"B-Hob
darling, is this some sort of joke?" asked his fiancée Ralda.
"No
really, Ralda honey, I'd like you to come with me," B-Hob insisted.
"In
that?"
"That"
was a faded green Arctorean 235 SX astroship with mega-warp clusters, a set of
flame decals around the dual exhaust ports on either side of its tail and
across its stubby atmospheric wings, and the name Space Devil along with
some registration numbers painted on its fuselage. B-Hob wasn't sure if that
was the name of the ship or its last owner, but unwilling to risk the old
superstition against renaming a ship he let it stand.
Recently
purchased right off the lot of "Honest" C-Lem's Used Spaceships,
B-Hob had been repairing and outfitting it for his first exploratory voyage. So
far it had required far more work and money than he had planned on. It was a
good thing that the Grenner Wenn Foundation had given him all the money he'd
requested for although he had nearly doubled the money he estimated he'd really
need, hidden costs were rapidly eating it away.
He
had naively thought that he could just buy the craft, load it up and take off
for the stars, but it had been nearly a month now and the port costs were mere
nibbles compared to the major-league chomps that the repair bills were
devouring with every passing day.
B-Hob
had hoped to be able to install a reasonably sophisticated auto-chef in the
ship's mess, but eventually had to settle for a small freezer box and an
antiquated camper's microwave oven. That, however, was not his biggest problem.
When
he realized just how badly he had been taken by "Honest" C-Lem, he
had attempted to exact a refund. However, unlike on a very few worlds, there
was no "Lemon Law" on Rhagma. Caveat emptor or its local
linguistic equivalent was not so much a policy as it was a religion throughout
the Commonwealth and in the face of C-Lem's laughter there was not much he
could do but to try and make the best of a losing proposition.
The
Grenner Wenn Foundation was amazingly understanding and explained that this
sort of thing was actually rather routine. Had there been legal recourse they
would have helped out there, but as everything was perfectly legitimate,
although just a tad slimy, they did supply B-Hob with as much used equipment
left over from previous expeditions as his small ship could carry. Now, the
better part of a month later, B-Hob felt he was ready to leave.
"Yes,
dear," he said patiently with a bit of a whine in his voice. "It will
be fun. I'll study the natives and you can help organize my notes. Most of the
time it will be like a sort of pre-honeymoon."
"B-Hob,"
Ralda replied, "I do love you. Believe that. But there is no way that I am
going to have myself altered to look like Wrom knows what sort of creature and
accompany you to some uncivilized planet full of savages."
"But,
Ralda!"
"I'm
sorry, B-Hob. I'll wait for you here."
B-Hob
would have persisted but just then a tall uniformed port official with two
subordinates entered the hanger he had rented.
"Mr.
Kharma?" the official asked.
"Yes,
sir?"
"I
am Port Captain Thylmid, sir. I see from the schedule that you plan to lift off
tomorrow morning."
"That's
right. At dawn, when the winds are supposed to be minimal."
"Yes,
the reports do indicate that will be the optimum time. We're here to conduct
your final inspection."
"Final
inspection?" B-Hob asked.
"Yes,
sir. This isn't a pleasure cruise you're going on, regulations require it. And,
of course, to collect the licensing fees."
"Licensing
fees?"
"Yes,
sir. It's only a formality. Your private master's license fits all the
requirements for a commercial license, but the requisite money must change
hands. The government, don't you know."
"But
this isn't a commercial flight!"
"You
are conducting research funded by the Grenner Wenn Foundation, aren't
you?"
"Well,
yes I am," B-Hob conceded reluctantly, wondering just what else could go
wrong.
"Then
according to the Commonwealth Aerospace Administration's regulation number
437.AZD.12, this is classified as a commercial flight."
"How
much?" B-Hob asked, admitting defeat.
"Only
one thousand Commons."
"A
thousand coms? That's two weeks pay for the average citizen!"
"Ah,
but a mere drop in the bucket on a commercial venture."
"But
I'm not conducting business, this is research, funded by a not-for-profit
corporation."
"I'm
sorry, Mr. Kharma, but the law is the law. Once you've paid, of course you'll
be entitled to the title 'Captain.'"
"Well,
that's something at least." B-Hob had a fleeting vision of Captain Kharma
with a patch over one eye and a talking bird on his shoulder sailing across the
astral seas, plundering whatever hapless merchantmen strayed across his path.
He glanced over at his ship and promptly returned to ground level so fast his
ego suffered a mild implosion. Even if he tried to realize that fantasy, the
bird would probably have two heads and would argue constantly with itself.
"Let's get on with it."
Ralda
excused herself and fled the hanger in search of a venue more to her tastes
while Port Captain Thylmid began his inspection.
B-Hob
winced visibly every time the port captain stopped to make a notation on his
clipboard. He didn't know what the man was writing down but he felt sure that
anything beyond a simple check mark was
bad news. He nearly swallowed his tongue when Thylmid tssked over the starboard
mega-warp cluster and thought he'd have a heart attack when the man sighed and
shook his head upon entering the bridge.
Finally
the inspection was over and the four men sat in the mess to discuss the results
over B-Hob's claffa and microwaved pastry. The port captain and his men
devoured what B-Hob had thought would be over a week's worth of breakfast and
he wondered if he was going to be able to afford to replace it after the additional
work that the captain was certain to insist on before he would allow B-Hob to
lift off.
"The
good news," the port captain began like an old joke, "is that the
hull is sound. They sure knew how to build these babies back in the old days.
On the other hand the starboard mega-warp cluster is compacted. You'll need to
have it overhauled and your bridge is hopelessly antiquated."
"Does
that mean I can't lift tomorrow?"
"Oh,
I think we can get you off on time. I'll send over the port's chief mechanic
and he'll assign someone to rebuild that cluster, we'll just add it to the port
charges, and there's no regulation that says your bridge must be
state-of-the-art. The instruments are all sound and all you need there is a
software update for your navigational computer."
"How
much?"
"Software
is on the house."
"You're
kidding."
"Not
at all. Paid for by the Commonwealth. We used to charge for it, but too many
pilots were flying with old software. That's recklessly dangerous, so the
government stepped in and made it a required service of every port. Your skyway
taxes at work."
"Good,"
B-Hob breathed with relief.
"Of
course since you'll be lifting with an antique vessel you'll need to sign a
waiver dismissing the port of all responsibilities should your ship fail in
space. We cannot recommend using old worn-out equipment, after all. There's
also a problem with your license. This is officially classified as an antique
ship but the ship's license is for a standard used vessel. An antique ship's
license costs another thirty percent over what you paid when you bought
her."
"Thirty
percent? But I can't afford that! I'm nearly out of funds now."
"Oh,
I wouldn't worry about that. This 'Honest' C-Lem should have known better when
he sold her to you. This is the fifth time I've caught him passing off an
inadequate license this year. The additional fee, as well as restitution to you
and a healthy fine paid to the state, will be covered by C-Lem. It will take a
few weeks to conclude this, even if he chooses to settle out of court, but I
will waive immediate payment if you will agree to a twenty percent additional
lien to be taken out of your settlement with C-Lem. Have your lawyer contact me
this afternoon and we'll set up the necessary forms for you to sign by the end
of the business day." The captain started to pour himself another cup of
claffa, but noticing that the pot was empty, settled for B-Hob's check for his
commercial master's license. "Thank you, captain," Thylmid said.
"I will see you later in my office to settle up port costs and these other
matters. Good day."
The
chief mechanic showed up an amazingly fast fifteen minutes later to look at the
Space Devil's starboard cluster.
"Aye,"
he growled in a thick working-class accent, "it's buggered for sure, but
we'll have you ready by dawn. Now what's this I hears about your
software?" B-Hob told him. "Aye, that's what the captain said. Now,
you call the tower and ask for D-Ronto Kipps. Tell him I sent you and he'll set
you up with everything that ancient silicon jobbie in there can handle. Arrgh!
This cluster. You know it'd almost be easier just to replace the whole thing,
but a rebuild is cheaper and if you could afford a new cluster, you'd have
bought a new ship in the first place. I'll put me boys on the job right after lunch."
D-Ronto Kipps was
a busy man. It wasn't so much his job, although as head programmer he did have
a lot to do. It was more a matter of his organizational ability or rather the
lack of it. B-Hob found this worthy seated at a small sheet metal desk behind a
collection of print-outs that surrounded him and nearly reached the ceiling -
the poor man's version of office walls.
"Software
updates?" D-Ronto asked. "Sure thing, when was your last one and what
model computer do you have on board?" B-Hob told him. "You're
kidding. Oh well, I guess we'll have to do a complete reprogram. Does that
ancient abacus still have all its memory boards?"
"As far as I
can tell, it does," B-Hob replied. "It passes its own built-in
testing program, too."
"Well that's
something. I don't know where we could have found boards that would fit. I
don't suppose you have a direct hook-up with the port computer?"
"Unfortunately
not. None of the plugs in the hanger are compatible with my interface."
"I'm not
surprised. Your ship has been in the lot for so long, the computer and all its
peripherals are at least two generations old. I've never had to reprogram an
entire ship's computer before. They usually just need an update, but yours,
well, we'll just erase everything and start over again."
D-Ronto collected
a universal adapter kit and they both went to the hanger.
"Space
Devil?" D-Ronto asked in disbelief.
"Yeah,"
B-Hob replied sourly. "Why? Have you heard of it? Was it a famous
ship?" His hopes started to soar.
"The Space
Devil? Oh yes. This was the ship that old Black S-Raton Tachy rode as a
privateer in the service of the dreaded Empire of Gralt. It is rumored that he
killed over a hundred men for his pleasure on the decks of this ship, drinking
their blood and shoving their remains out the airlock."
"Wow! That's
incredible. Really?"
"Nah! Kid,
you've got to stop believing everything you hear. I doubt Black S-Raton ever
really existed. He's just a name mothers use to frighten their kids with, never
successfully I might add. Even if he was a real person, that would have been
two hundred years ago and this ship may be old, but not more than forty or
fifty. Also it's too small. This baby could barely mount defensive armaments
larger than a pair of asteroid dissuaders, which judging from the worn brackets
on her wings she must have had at one point or another, but if you're going to
be a pirate you'd need a real battle wagon not a small space yacht."
"Oh."
"Say, this
computer of yours has a vox mode," D-Ronto noted. "It's been
disabled, but I can reconnect it for you."
"Sure, why
not. What's a vox mode?"
"Well back
in my father's time somebody got the idea that a computer that could talk and
accept voice commands would be a pretty neat thing. The fad only lasted a few
years and died abruptly when the first mind-link was introduced. Sort of made
the keyboard obsolete, or so they thought."
"But
mind-linked computers are only used by the handicapped."
"Right.
Turned out that was a fad too. I took an intro- psych course for engineering
majors back when I was in school. An elective, you know? Anyway the professor
did a study about input devices for his PhD. He claimed that the reason they
were just passing fads was that most people think with their hands."
"With their
hands?"
"Well brains
do the real thinking, of course, but most of us use our hands in a variety of
ways that assist the process. For instance, many people read by moving their
fingers across a page. That uses the finger as a marker and focal point for
their thoughts."
"The same
could be said for moving their lips while they read."
"Absolutely.
Well that's just one example. Writing is another one. You don't really need to
make notes when you're preparing a paper. In theory, you could organize
everything in your mind."
"I doubt I
could keep it all straight that way," B-Hob countered.
"Only in
theory. However the act of writing these notes down aids in the memorization
process and when you compose an outline before writing the paper, you are using
your hands to help organize your thoughts."
"Fascinating."
"So where
are you heading anyway?" D-Ronto asked.
"The
frontier on the Western Rim."
"Why?"
"Research
for my dissertation," B-Hob replied. D-Ronto shot him an inquiring look so
he went on. "I'm looking for a previously unknown culture to study. I
figure I'll check out some likely prospects until I find a nice simple band of
hunter-gatherers. Live with them for a few months to a year while I write my
paper and then zip back for my degree."
"Sounds like
a plan," D-Ronto said agreeably. "So what systems are you going to
check out?"
"Haven't
decided yet, why?"
"Hey! You
just can't bum around and hope to get lucky. You could search for years without
finding what you want."
"Well, what
choice do I have?"
"You really
don't know? Okay I see you don't. Well, one of the conventions of space
exploration is that any captain of a ship that detects any new sign of life
reports it. It isn't a law, but it might as well be. Even captains who would
ignore a distress signal still report signs of life. And those reports get
circulated to every base in the Commonwealth. Here. Now that I've found an
adapter for your interface I'll just have the base computer dump that data in
as well and cross-reference it with your up-dated star maps."
"Thanks."
"There'll be
a slight charge for that service, though," D-Ronto pointed out.
"How
much?"
The end of the
day finally arrived and with it came provisional permission to lift at dawn
conditional on the port's engineers finishing with the starboard mega-warp
cluster and an additional systems check and tuning that the port captain
assured B-Hob were all part of the service. B-Hob was ready to declare
bankruptcy, but after all was said and done, he still had enough to replace
most of the claffa and pastries that had disappeared down the gullets of the
port captain and his men.
Three
One cannot merely set out in the hopes of finding a suitable
culture, so it is best to check out one's sources for likely planets that might
have indigenous intelligent life.
Once this crucial information was acquired, I proceeded directly
and without any delay to start the ethnological study.
from "Chapter 1: Research among the
Humans"
of "The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
Clunk!
B-Hob
woke up suddenly at the sound only to discover that he was floating about two
feet above the deck. The feeling of perpetual falling didn't help either.
Clank!
The
falling sensation lasted only a moment after the second unscheduled noise. In
fact it ended rather abruptly as his face engaged in an all too intimate
contact with the floor to suit his taste.
"What
the hell was that?" he said aloud.
"Oops!"
He heard the computer's voice reply.
"'Oops?'
What the hell do you mean 'oops?'" At first B-Hob had been
enthusiastically happy to discover that his on-board computer was a semi-intelligent
self-programming machine capable of making limited decisions and light
conversation. At least he wouldn't get lonely or so he thought. However as the
past three weeks wore on, he began to see why such machines were also a passing
fad. People want computers to do what they program them to do - nothing more or
less. They most certainly do not want a nano-electronic nudge butting in
with an opinion as to what they are doing wrong about every thing from course
selections to dietary planning. B-Hob would have disconnected the vox mode long
since, but as he didn't really know much about computers - especially ancient
out-dated ones - he was afraid to do anything that might upset a functioning,
although annoying, system.
"We
experienced a momentary failure of power to the artificial gravity
generator," the computer replied, telling B-Hob nothing that he didn't
already know from direct experience. "Power has been restored to that unit
by diverting it from a nonessential system."
"Which
nonessential system?" B-Hob asked warily.
"The
microwave oven."
"And
what do you propose I cook my meals in?" That was one of the big problems
with the computer. Any systems that did not affect its own ability to operate
were deemed nonessential. Last week it had cut off power to the life-support
system in order to maintain power to the secondary mass detector - a back-up
system that was there only if the primary one failed. It had also not bothered
to mention this minor matter to B-Hob until he noticed how stuffy and cold the
air was getting. B-Hob had to redefine essential systems to include life
support before he went to work on repairing the connection to the secondary
mass detector.
"It
is estimated that repairs to the artificial gravity power feed will take less
than one minute at which time I can restore power to your oven."
"What
is the problem?" B-Hob asked suspiciously.
"The
circuit breaker needs to be reset."
"Then
why don't you reset it?"
"My
programming prohibits me from resetting any circuit breakers until so ordered
in case you want to investigate the matter."
"Reset
it."
"Done.
Reconnecting the oven now."
Clunk!
B-Hob found himself floating again.
"Do
not reset!" he said quickly. "Why did it go out again?"
"The
circuit breaker is wearing out and needs to be replaced," the computer
replied calmly.
"Why
didn't you tell me that before?"
"You
didn't ask." Ralda had tried to tell B-Hob that it was traditional to give
one's shipboard computer a cute nickname. B-Hob had refused at the time. He
wasn't the sort to make a pet out of every semi-intelligent and/or mobile
entity that happened across his path and felt that such a practice would be
inconsistent with the seriousness of his endeavor. Since then, however he had
invented a whole collection full of cute nicknames most of which were
unprintable, some were unspeakable, and the rest were anatomically impossible.
B-Hob
spent the next few minutes endowing the computer with a few more choice
nicknames while he bounced uncontrollably around the cabin under the weightless
conditions. Only the fact that the computer was programmed to act contritely in
such circumstances enabled B-Hob to calm down in less than an hour. Finally the
circuit breaker was replaced and B-Hob could walk and eat at the same time
again. This, however, was the fifth such incident since he'd left Rhagma, and
if he didn't find a culture to study soon, it was only a matter of time before
he started reconfiguring the silicon beast to serve as a pop-up toaster. The
only consideration that had stopped him so far was that he had no desire to own
a toaster that habitually criticized him for wanting his toast too dark.
After
the morning crisis that had become the keystone of his life on the Space
Devil, B-Hob prepared a quick breakfast in the microwave and then carried
it with him to the bridge. The bridge was where he spent most of his days while
on board. There was, of course, no good reason for this since the computer
would tell him when they were approaching the next planet on his rapidly
dwindling list and there wasn't a whole lot to do while puttering around
warp-space, but he justified it to himself in a very logical manner. He was the
captain of this ship and the captain's place was on the bridge, ergo his place
was on the bridge. The fact that he could just as well captain his ship from
the lounge while doing something productive like studying the basic readings
that Dr. Gahrmu recommended or even just staring at the walls was dismissed in his mind as unrelated data.
Besides, it was far more romantic to spend his days staring out into the ever-shifting
pattern of stars set against the blackness of space as he and his ship zipped
through the galaxy at velocities ludicrously far above the average highway
speed limit on any world.
B-Hob
was starting to consider lunch when it happened some hours later.
"Alert!
Alert!" the computer squawked as all the lights in the ship turned from
the normal white to a dark brooding red. "Unidentified object on collision
course with us."
"Take
evasive action!" B-Hob ordered.
"Evasive
action already initiated," the computer replied. "Really! I swear you
have absolutely no confidence in me."
"I
don't," B-Hob replied flatly.
"There's
gratitude for you."
"And
what's with the lights?"
"It
is traditional in an emergency for all main lights to be extinguished in favor
of these low intensity red lights."
"Why?
So the crew and passengers won't be able to see themselves die?" The
computer had no reply to that and a moment later the normal lights came back
on. "That's more like it."
"Object
identified. It appears to be a renegade planet - a large gas giant. Oh
oh!"
"What?"
B-Hob asked excitedly.
"Maneuvering
capabilities are temporarily disabled," the computer admitted sheepishly.
"We are at the mercy of the artificial gravity system."
"Excuse
me?"
"We
are going to pass perilously close to the planet. If the artificial gravity
fails the ship could conceivably be torn apart by the tidal forces." B-Hob
did not have much time to worry about it. At the speeds at which they were
traveling, they passed the large world in a matter of seconds. Only then, when
the Space Devil was safely beyond danger did the artificial gravity
fail.
"The
artificial gravity generator is disabled," the computer said helpfully.
"No
shit," B-Hob commented dryly, trying to stay in his seat. "Circuit
breaker again?"
"Yes
and no." B-Hob waited. He felt certain that one day, before he caused the
computer to pass on to a lower plane of existence, it would actually volunteer
information about something that had gone wrong. This, however, was not the
day, and B-Hob had to practice verbal dentistry to get the whole story.
"Care
to explain?"
"No.
Not really," the computer attempted to beg off.
"Do
it anyway," B-Hob said without a trace of compromise in his voice. He was
particularly proud of that actually. He'd never been very good at sounding
resolute but with all the practice he had since the journey started he was
getting quite good.
"Well,
the circuit breaker does need to be reset, but the main circuit board in the
generator was blown as well during the immense drain on the system."
"Do
we have a spare board?" B-Hob asked hopefully.
"No."
"Can
it be fixed?"
"Yes.
We have a sufficient number of components to repair it manually."
"Manually?
You mean that I'll have to do it."
"Right.
And when you finish that you'll be able to do something about the directional
thrusters."
"What
about them?"
"They
aren't working. The main engine works just fine, however. In fact, I can't turn
it off."
"So
we're heading off at full speed to... where?"
"Damned
if I know," the computer replied.
B-Hob
was wondering how that could be arranged as he propelled himself over to the
gravity generator. It was perhaps a freak accident, but someone had actually
been thinking when they installed the generator. Assuming that anyone working
on it had a better than even chance to be doing it in space, the designer had
installed brackets around the generator cabinet to which straps could be
attached. A repairman could strap himself in and use the straps for leverage
that he wouldn't normally have in free fall. B-Hob didn't have straps, but he
did have rope, and a few minutes later he floated into the electronic repair
room cradling the damaged circuit board in one arm.
"Hey!"
he called to the computer as he started up his soldering iron. "What the
hell was that planet doing on our course anyway?"
"Unknown.
It was not part of any known stellar system."
"You
mean it was just floating around in space? How does that happen?"
"In
theory, it was once part of a system somewhere, then some large body nearly hit
it. The resulting tidal actions wrenched it out of its orbit."
"But
completely out of its system? What could do that?"
"Any
number of large masses could. A black hole, a star, another planet or
two."
"Why
didn't you detect it sooner?" B-Hob asked.
"What?
A mere planet? You have got to be kidding. My mass detectors are for stars and
other large masses. Planets? Only when we get very close will such small bodies
be detectable."
"Isn't
that dangerous? We could be hit by an asteroid."
"Not
really. The chances of that happening are very slim. There is not a whole lot
out here. That's why it is called space."
"Ow!
I just got hit by a floating piece of hot solder. Why isn't the exhaust fan
working in here?"
"You
never fixed it," the computer replied.
Several
hours later the Space Devil finally had both gravity and semi-functional
directional thrusters. The computer had a smug tone to its voice and B-Hob had
several second degree burns, three bad bruises, and a twisted ankle.
"Now,"
he asked, "where are we?"
"Damned
if I know," came the nano-electronic reply. "My navigational sensors
were out, too. They are operational now."
"You
lost track of where we were?"
"You
could say that," the computer conceded. "I prefer to look at it as
adding a little adventure to your journey."
Visions
of crisp golden brown toast floated past B-Hob's eyes as he replied,
"Terrific! Anything else you'd care to share with me? Any black holes in
our path? Corrosive nebulas? Maybe a space monster or two just to add a little
more adventure to my journey?"
"Oh
no. Nothing like that."
"Like
what then?"
"There's
an inhabited system about three lightyears ahead. I suggest slowing down to
investigate."
"How
can you tell it's inhabited at this distance? We're a long way from the
Commonwealth, unless we got turned around by that rogue planet."
"No,"
the computer disagreed. "We are still heading toward the Rim, but on an
altered trajectory. It will take some time to extrapolate our exact
position."
"How
long?"
"Unknown.
Too many variables. I will let you know when I know. However, the fact that the
system ahead is inhabited is obvious as I am picking up non-random unnatural
radio transmissions. If you desire I will commence decoding and translating
them."
"No.
Don't bother. I'm looking for a more primitive culture. Make a note of its
location so I can report it when we get home."
"So
noted. I have a rough estimate now on the location problem."
B-Hob
waited. This time he swore that he would outwait the computer. Minutes went by as
he proved that not only do computers work many times faster than people do, but
that they are many times more patient as well.
"How
long?" B-Hod asked, admitting defeat yet again.
"Nine
hundred thirty-one hours, fifteen minutes, and forty-four seconds," the
computer replied calmly.
"It
will take you that long to figure out where we are?" B-Hob asked
incredulously.
"No.
It will take that long to tell you when I will know where we are."
"Can't
you just sort of skip ahead and figure out where we are?"
"I
am doing just that, but I still won't know how long it will take until
then."
B-Hob
thought about that. It would be uncomfortably over a tenth of a year before he
even knew when he could start his search again. Did he really need a
hunter/gatherer culture? Wouldn't any previously unknown culture do as well?
And after all a civilization, even a primitive one, would certainly include the
comforts of civilization. If the life was carbon-based and if the atmosphere
was breathable to him...
"Computer,"
B-Hob said at last, "tell me more about the intelligent life on that
planet ahead."
Four
Culture shock was something I had only read or heard about. My
professors had mentioned their own encounters with strange cultures, but I had
never truly appreciated the magnitude of the experience before encountering my
first Humans.
It was the similarities between these people and our own that
caused my greatest shock, for every time I began to think I understood them,
they did something that proved just how wrong I was.
from "Chapter One: Research among the
Humans" of
"The Humans of Earth"
By B-Hob Kharma
"My
god!" B-Hob swore. "How many intelligent species do they have on this
planet? How could I ever conduct a reasonably complete study?"
"According
to the video broadcasts I decoded," the computer said, "there is only
one dominant intelligent species on this planet."
"Then
how do you account for this? Mutants? Underpeople? Tourists from Beta Hydra
IV?"
"I
am not programmed to respond in that area. All I know is that this is a live
broadcast."
"Well,
maybe I should start there. Have you analyzed the local language."
"Yes,
it appears to be essentially the same as most of that continent. You wish to
land there?"
"If
I can learn the language on the way down, yes."
"What
about your disguise?"
"I
won't need one. Look at those people, I'll fit right in. Too bad all their
light is so red."
"Judging
from their transmissions, I suspect that their visible spectrum is deep into
your infrared but only up as high as what you see as green. Here is a corrected
view as they might see it." The predominantly smokey red screen suddenly
burst into a blaze of colors. B-Hob nodded.
"That
seems reasonable," he said. "After all their sun is red whereas most
Commonwealth suns range from yellow on up."
"By
your standards," the computer corrected him. "If my extrapolation
about their visible spectrum is correct, then they see their own star as yellow
and the Commonwealth suns would be blue-white. I still think you should
disguise yourself to look like the dominant species. It would be a minimal
cosmetic job; skin and hair color, the addition of a finger on each hand, and
your ears will have to be remodeled."
"Later
maybe. I don't see a single member of that species on the screen except for the
two commentators. Set up the teaching helm and land us while I learn to
converse with the natives."
*****
***** *****
The
flame-painted ship hummed faintly as it settled slowly out of the clear night
sky to the pavement in front of
"Come
on, Larry!" A tall blond man in the crowd said to his friend. He and the
two women in the party had been trying to get Larry to relax for a change.
"It's a pretty convincing stunt no matter how it's being done."
"It's
okay, Jim," Larry admitted, "But it would have been a lot more
believable if they had used a synthesizer to mask the sound of the winch. You
can hear it humming and it ruins the whole effect."
"You're
being too picky, dear," said one of the two women. "You're not
supposed to figure out how it's being done. Just watch the show."
"But,
Karen, it seems so phony!"
"It's
Mardi Gras, dear. Everything's phony. That's part of the fun."
"Which
parade do you think this is part of?" the other woman, Gillian, asked.
"Pete Fountain's maybe?"
"I
doubt it," Jim replied. "This isn't his style. Bacchus maybe."
"More
likely," Larry said, "it's one of the local bars. Anytime now some
green-skinned ersatz alien will pop out and invite us all off to Pat O'Brien's.
Hmm. Another drink would be right about now. What say we skip the commercial
and repair to Molly's for a round of Irish coffees?"
"Works
for me," Jim replied. Karen and Gillian nodded their agreement and they
started walking back into the depths of the French Quarter.
Meanwhile
on the ship, B-Hob was monitoring the situation outside. He hadn't expected an
audience when he gave the order to land.
"Yo!
Computer!" He shouted with his newly acquired grasp of the English tongue.
"I'm
here."
"What
gives? We were supposed to land unseen."
"We
were? You never said so. When you expressed a desire to come to this city, I
just assumed you wanted to come directly."
"Great.
Oh well, I'll have to make the best of it. Maybe I can just slip into the
crowd. If you take off again after I disembark they'll probably forget that I
was the one to land here after a while."
"You
want me to wait in orbit?"
"Until
I can find a place to hide you. I'd rather use the ship as a base. It will cut
down on the amount of luggage I have to tote. In fact, I doubt that I'll need
much of anything while I scout out a place to keep you. Even my clothes won't
seem out of place here."
"I
must agree. Very well. Take the pocket transmitter so we can keep in
touch."
"Right.
How's the crowd out there?"
"Losing
interest, I would say."
"Good.
Time to get to work. Wish me luck."
"Why?"
"Never
mind." B-Hob pushed a series of buttons and the triplet doors of the
double air-lock opened smoothly on the side of the Space Devil facing
the
"Does
this thing belong to you, sir?" A deep voice growled behind B-Hob. He
turned to see a tall and large man with dark brown skin dressed in a tight-fitting
uniform that to him seemed to be a deep orange in color, but he knew from the
computer's briefing would be seen as blue to the natives, and that it signified
that the person inside it was a police
officer. He understood policemen. He had far too much experience with them back
home, usually gained through getting caught at some harmless college prank.
"Yes,"
B-Hob replied. "As a matter of fact it does."
"Looks
like you put a lot of work into it," the cop said with deceptive mildness.
"Work
and money," B-Hob agreed. "Your wouldn't believe what I went through
to get here."
"Yeah.
Well we've learned to put up with a lot during Mardi Gras, so I'm going to let
you off with a warning. But you're blocking traffic, and if you don't get this
rig out of here in two minutes, you're going to be spending the night in the
city lock-up."
"Yes,
Sir," B-Hob replied. Agreeing with the police at home had usually gotten
him off and he saw that the same would work for him here. As he spoke the ship
began to hum softly again and soon lifted gently off and disappeared into the
warm night sky. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he had enough presence of
mind to not ask what Mardi Gras or a lock-up was. Not at that moment anyway.
"You
rich folks," The cop shook his head before walking off. "You all
spend more money on a joke than most of us make all year. Just don't go
blocking the street again."
B-Hob
stood on the slate sidewalk watching the policeman walk away. Finally, he
turned to take in the action around the square. Crowds of strangely-shaped
people were milling about. A few were still looking at the sky for another
glimpse of the space ship, but most had gone back to staggering about and
making lots of noise in the warm February night air. B-Hob stood to one side against
the window of a kite store waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark red light
from the gas lamps all around that barely illuminated the area for him. One
thought came to mind as he watched.
"These
people are crazy!"
"Hey!
You came out of that space ship, didn't you?" a large-headed creature
asked, enthusiastically leaning toward him. The strange creature was swaying a
bit while he talked and his words were slightly slurred. "Nice costume
too! A little understated, perhaps, but very realistic. I'd almost swear it was
natural."
B-Hob
was at a loss so he merely muttered, "Thank you."
"Hey!
How'd you do that trick with the space ship? That was great! Right out of the
movies, real Steven Spielberg, you know?"
B-Hob
didn't know and, in spite of the language lessons that had been force-fed and
imprinted on his brain, was having trouble understanding most of what the
person was asking him.
"Uh,
it was quite simple," he said modestly.
"Yeah?
It sure looked real. How'd you do it? I know! A laser light show for the flying
parts, and a winch or something up on that roof to lower and raise the model
and it's still up there now hidden by mirrors. That's how you did it. Am I
right?"
B-Hob
had as much of an idea of what this guy was talking about as an aardvark does
of Eskimo ivory carvings, but eight years in anthropology had taught him the
fine art of justification and he knew a good excuse when he heard it even if it
was shear nonsense. Sometimes nonsensical excuses were the best kind. So rather
than trying to embellish on an explanation that had already been proposed and
accepted, he just grinned and nodded.
"Hah!"
the large-headed person said in triumph. "I thought so. Come on, I'll buy
you a drink."
II.
Two For the Show
Five
Human social occasions revolve around the semi-ritualized intake of
mildly poisonous substances for recreational purposes. These poisons cause the
body to malfunction in ways that Humans find to be both stimulating and
relaxing. No particular care is taken to control the amount of toxic substances
ingested, save that they not be of lethal amounts. With this in mind, only very
mild intoxicants are chosen. Cyanide might - or might not - give you an
incredible "rush" as the Humans might say, but you won't be able to
tell your friends about the experience afterwards. All this may seem like
strange behavior to the civilized mind, but it is an essential part of Human
culture.
from "Chapter Two: Leisure Time"
of
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
B-Hob
felt good. He had never felt this good in all his life. Somewhere in the back
of his mind his conscience was informing him that feeling this good was
probably a capital offense back home, but he just felt too good at the moment
to pay attention. In fact, he intentionally extracted his conscience, bundled
it up in a plain brown wrapper and sent it off to Zeta Axedron on a research
mission all its own for the evening. The conscience did an unintentional
imitation of Douglas MacArthur, swearing it would not only return but would
wreak its revenge on B-Hob for packing it off so unceremoniously. With his
conscience out of town for the night, like a vacationing Jiminy Cricket, B-Hob
was able to settle down for what he thought of in his drunken haze as serious
research.
The
strange creature he had encountered in
Somewhere
in the haze, he lost track of B-Rent and ended up in the company of four other
humans, drinking, telling jokes, and swapping lies until the wee hours of the
night and the sky on the eastern horizon was putting in its application for a
fashionable color change.
Time
ceased to be a long flowing stream and metamorphosed into a jigsaw puzzle so
that later B-Hob was unable to actually remember what happened when, and he had
the distinct impression that large portions of his memory decided on a luxury
vacation on Antares Gamma for the duration and that he was just as happy that
they did. However one or two incidents remained clear.
"I,"
he proclaimed loudly, stepping onto the table in front of him, "have an
announcement to make!"
"Waiter!
He needs another Irish Coffee!" somebody yelled over the surrounding din.
"That
too," B-Hob agreed with drunken sagacity. "No, really, I have an
announcement. Yahoo! No, that's not the right word." At that point his
fifth drink reached his blood stream while the eighth was reaching his hand via
the waiter. He took a sip and then another sip and then tried again.
"Soowee! No, let's see, words to get attention, oh yeah! Oyez! Oyez!
Oyez!"
"Court
is now in session," someone below him slurred, as the noise level in the
room subsided a tad.
"His
glass is getting empty!" someone said and yet another Irish coffee was
thrust upon him. He downed the partial one and contemplated the other for a
moment before continuing. "I am B-Hob Kharma from the planet Rhagma."
"To
Ragmop!" somebody toasted and was promptly echoed by the rest of the room
in a cheer of, "Ragmop! Ragmop! Ragmop!" A few others started singing
the old "Ragmop" song.
In
the confusion B-Hob bumped into something hard and wooden and turning
discovered that there was a large six-foot long box with a colorful red, white,
and blue flag draped over it suspended from the ceiling. If he had asked,
somebody might have been sober enough to identify it as a Union Jack. He backed
away and promptly bumped into another wooden object. This one was a carved
wooden leprechaun seemingly dancing in midair.
"Your
announcement!" someone prompted him.
"Greetings,
brother!" B-Hob exclaimed, addressing the garish wooden sculpture.
"That's
it?"
"Uh?"
B-Hob replied. "Oh yeah. I am B-Hob Kharma and I am from the planet
Ragmop, I mean Rhagma, and..."
"You
want us to take you to our leader!" several members of the crowd cried out
merrily. Then returned to the "Ragmop!" cheer.
"No!"
B-Hob protested in vain, "No, no, no, no, no!" but he was unable to
be heard over the roar of the crowd. Eventually he got off the table and drank
another two or three Irish coffees.
A
little later, or maybe it was before, he had his first close encounter of the
fifth kind with an Earthling. What does one do when a robust but comely female
with bright orange hair, green skin, and a cute pair of antennae throws her
arms around you and says in a sultry voice, "Hey there, Astroguy! Your
place or mine?"
What
B-Hob did was to just stand there, hypnotized by her vivid blue eyes and
stunned by her musky perfume and said, "Huh?"
Her
reply to that was to stick her tongue in his mouth. B-Hob made a mental note
about the ability of Earth females to stun their prey with intimate contact.
Fortunately that note decided to split the costs of the trip to Antares with
the parts of his memory that opted for an early vacation.
The
last incident B-Hob remembered, and he was fairly certain that it happened
last, was a most unusual occurrence. Time not only stopped, but started going
backwards. Imagine, a few drinks had endowed him with the ability to travel
backwards in time. How else could he account for the fact that all the food and
drink he had ingested over the last few hours, decided to stroll back up his
esophagus and revisit the outer world?
The
wild kaleidoscopic ride ended in an exhausted black velveteen fog which, in
turn, ended when he opened his eyes and discovered, even before he ever heard
it, the meaning of that time-worn phrase, "the morning after."
The
room, which appeared to be a bland pinkish white blur, was engaged in a rather
eccentric rotation that left B-Hob wondering with what little was left of his
mind whether it had all been a dream. It had all seemed so unreal anyway. Yeah
maybe that was it.
"Yo,
computer!" He called out with a voice that even a bull frog would have
died of shame before using. "What happened now? Is the gyroscope still on
line?" The computer did not reply. Two other voices did, however.
"Well,
he's still alive," a woman's voice said.
"That's
good," a man replied. "I wasn't looking forward to telling the front
desk that we left a dead alien on their rug. Here, Bob, drink this." He
helped B-Hob to sit up.
"What?"
B-Hob tried to choke out. Belatedly he realized that he was speaking the wrong
language. "Oh my head!" he said miserably in English. "What's
that?"
"Hot
coffee, man. Guaranteed no Irish, just coffee with cream and sugar. There are
those who say you should have another drink of booze, but what you really need
right now is plenty of liquids and a good cushion of food, at least if you can
keep it down. Karen, dear, why don't you call room service while I help Bob
here."
"Of
course," Karen replied.
B-Hob
slowly sipped at the hot drink as the room equally slowly came into focus. It
was a small one painted white, or so he guessed it was supposed to be white or
off white. It actually appeared to him as that odd color you get when you turn
on a red light in a white room.
"Thank
you," he croaked. "Where am I?"
"Well,
after you passed out in Molly's last night, we brought you back to our room.
We're in the Holiday Inn. We'd have brought you back to your spaceship but you
said it was up in orbit or something."
"What
else did I say?" B-Hob asked fearfully.
"That
you were an ethnologist here to study humans for your doctorate."
"I
didn't."
"You
did. You probably don't remember, but I'm Larry." Larry offered his hand.
"Larry,"
B-Hob repeated, staring at the hand.
"That's
short for Lawrence Hunter. This is my wife Karen."
"Hi!"
Karen said on cue.
"I'm
B-Hob Kharma," B-Hob introduced himself.
"Yeah,
Bob," Larry replied. "We sort of got the message last night. You kept
introducing yourself." There was a knock on the door. "I'll get that,
it must be room service with our breakfast." Larry went over to the door
and let the waiter in. The waiter, a tall hip black man, carried a big tray
into the room.
He
took a look at B-Hob and then at Karen and Larry and asked, "You all still
celebrating Mardi Gras?"
"It
was a late night and our friend was too tired to wash his make up off,"
Larry told him, slipping him a healthy tip.
"Yeah
sure," he responded. "See it every year. Well, if'n you all need
anything else just ask. Name's Joshua." He left wearing a smile that would
have made the Cheshire cat look like he was frowning by comparison.
"Larry
did you over-tip the waiter again?" Karen asked with tired patience.
"Not
by too much," Larry admitted sheepishly.
"They
way you've been throwing money around I expect to see a long line of people
with their hands out as we check out today."
"Don't
worry dear, I'll grow out of it by the time we reach the city limits. Maybe
I've been letting success go to my head."
"Success!"
Karen turned to B-Hob, "Listen to this guy. He won the lottery last
month."
"After
years of patient gambling," Larry said, augmenting Karen's statement. She
merely rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "This looks like more than food
for three."
"Of
course, dear. Jim and Gillian are joining us. Remember? They should be here in
a minute or two. Bob, what's wrong?" B-Hob was sitting on the floor with
his head in his hands, moaning incoherently and had been doing so for several
minutes.
"Hey!"
Larry shook him gently, "Earth to Bob. Come in Bob!" B-Hob looked up.
"What's the problem, starman?"
"Am
I going to die? What is this dreadful disease?"
"It's
called a hangover. From what I understand, the booze you drank last night
caused you to become very dehydrated, and the lack of water in your body
is the primary cause of your misery.
There are other theories, but I find that I wake up feeling fine if I drink a
lot of water before going to bed drunk."
"Oh,"
B-Hob said, understanding only part of what he was told.
"Now
what's wrong?" Larry asked, sensing that B-Hob had other problems besides
the hangover.
"I'm
supposed to be here without anyone knowing it," he moaned."
"Oh.
Why? Are you breaking some sort of law? We won't tell."
"A
law? No, not that I know of, but I was hoping to study you undetected.
Primitive societies can deal fairly violently with strangers, so I've
heard."
"What
do you mean primitive?" Larry asked, offended.
"Relax,
dear. Compared to an interstellar civilization like Bob's we must seem pretty
primitive at that."
"Oh,
I guess you're right. Sorry, Bob."
"No,
no. My apologies. I really ought to watch what I say, especially since I've
only been speaking your language since last night."
"Really?
How'd you pick it up so quickly?" B-Hob told him. "Sounds reasonable.
And you're worried too much about blowing your cover."
"Blowing
my cover?"
"Giving
yourself away." B-hob continued to look confused. "Everybody knowing
you're an alien. Well I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. Nobody really
believed you last night. When people get drunk they might say anything. Besides
it was Mardi Gras. There were at least three people claiming to be God out
there. Hmm, I wonder if they were working together? A mere spaceguy is hardly
likely to attract attention. I saw your ship come down and thought it was a
fake - some show put on by one of the local bars."
"Then
how do you know I'm real?"
"When
you started getting sick, you threw up all over both of us, so I helped you
back to the men's room. As I was cleaning you up I noticed that what I thought
was make-up didn't come off. Don't worry - I kept it to myself, except for
telling Karen. Even our friends don't know. They'll think you're still in
costume just like the waiter did." There was another knock at the door.
Larry helped B-Hob up to bed level while Karen went to the door.
"This
is pretty comfortable," B-Hob commented about the bed. Why didn't I sleep
here? I wouldn't have been anywhere as stiff as I am now."
"We
did put you there," Larry informed him, "but you kept falling off."
"Hey,
hey, hey!" Jim came in shouting. "It's the alien from Outer Nairobi!
Nahnu, nahnu!" He capped off the odd greeting by raising his right hand in
a Vulcan salute.
"Nahnu,
nahnu?" B-Hob repeated trying to imitate the gesture. The words sounded
vaguely obscene, but neither Larry nor Karen were showing any sign of shock.
"An
old TV show," Larry explained softly. And before B-Hob could ask, he said,
"I'll tell you later."
Just
as Larry had promised, Jim and Gillian thought that B-Hob was still in costume and
breakfast proceeded without them giving any sign that he was anything other
than human.
"Hey,
Bob," Jim asked, "How'd you do that trick with the spaceship?"
B-Hob
smiled, trying to remember what the other guy last night had come up with for
an explanation, when Gillian admonished Jim, "James Morgan Heathrowe! You
should know that a magician never tells how. Now stop trying to put him on the
spot. It was a good show; you said so yourself. Just let it go at that."
"Sorry,
Bob," Jim apologized. "I always wanted to be an illusionist, and I
let my curiosity get the better of me."
"That's
okay," B-Hob replied. Illusionist? That was something he knew a little
about. When he was a kid, he'd had all sorts of stuff up his sleeves in vain
attempts to impress the other kids with his magic. He was never very good at
it, but he did pick up some of the philosophy along the way. "Jim, the
mark of any good illusionist is that instead of wondering how another magician
did a trick, he wonders how he might accomplish the same illusion."
"Hey,
yeah! I get it."
"Where
are you from. Bob?" Gillian asked.
"Rhagma,"
he responded without thinking.
"Where's
that?"
"It's
a small university town in
"Oh,
really? I was an anthro minor back in school. What field?"
"Ethnology,"
B-Hob replied. "I'm looking for a primitive culture to study and write
about."
"Good
luck," Gillian replied. "I think they've all been done before."
"Oh,
not all, surely," Karen disagreed. "Every few years a new tribe or
something is found deep in the bush. How about those cave dwellers in the
"Well,
that's true," Gillian conceded.
“Didn’t
that turn out to be a hoax?” Jim asked.
“The
claim has been made,” Karen replied, “but while the controversy continues,
there are anthropologists who now say there was no hoax at all and the proof
seems convincing to me, at least.”
Gillian
continued, “I suppose that even if you pick one that has been done you can
study the changes can't you?"
"That's
true," B-Hob agreed, not really following what they were saying as his
hangover was starting to abate, but it still occupied most of his
consciousness.
"Well,
if you're smart you'll choose someone in the South Pacific. Might as well enjoy
a tropical paradise on someone else's money, right?"
The
rest of breakfast was spent with idle chatter and eventually Jim and Gillian
got around to saying good-bye. "Nice meeting you, Bob!" Jim said.
"Larry, Karen, you must come to our place at the lake this summer. Spend a
month with us. Okay?" Gillian nodded and after the farewell hugs B-Hob was
left alone with the Hunters again.
"So,
Bob," Larry asked, "where are you going to set up your base of
studies?"
"I
haven't decided yet," he admitted. "I thought I could work here and
go unnoticed without cosmetic surgery, but now I see those were just costumes
last night, weren't they?"
"That's
about it. Hey! I have an idea. Why don't you come back with Karen and me. We
have a nice house with a guest room, in
"I
don't know," B-Hob begged off. "I've imposed enough on you
already."
"Nonsense!
The truth is I've been getting pretty bored since I quit my job last month.
Having a guest around might help. You can conduct your research and if you have
any questions, I'll try to help. Besides what are you going to do for money
here?"
"I
hadn't planned on that," B-Hob admitted. "I originally planned to
study a much more primitive culture and loaded up with trinkets and other
standard explorer's trade items."
"Cheap
junk, right?" Larry asked. "Inexpensive but looks real pretty?"
"Right,"
B-Hob acknowledged. "How'd you know?"
"The
colonists who came to this continent a few hundred years ago did the same
thing. Bought large tracts of land for practically nothing from the natives. Of
course some of the natives were pretty clever in return. Sometimes they sold
someone else's land. So what do you say? Is it a deal? I even have some land
out back where you can park your spaceship."
"It
will go unseen?" B-Hob asked.
"We'll
put a tarp over it."
"Why
not? How can I refuse?" B-Hob agreed.
"You
just say, 'No,'" Larry replied dryly, "but why would you want
to?"
Six
The concept of a vacation is nearly universal to all civilized and
semi-civilized cultures, but while most peoples see the purpose of such a
period as a time to relax and recharge after a cycle of hard work, Humans use
their vacations in order to subject themselves to long, tiring periods of
travel, pain, degradation, and hard work all designed to make them appreciate
the fact that during the rest of the year they can work at their jobs rather
than subject themselves to what must be the most sublime torture known to any
intelligent race.
from "Chapter Two: Leisure Time"
of
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"Hey!
Driving these ancient land-vehicles is fun!" B-Hob said, enthusiastically
steering the slate gray Saab 9000 Turbo back and forth between the lanes of
I-85 somewhere to the northeast of
"Ancient?"
Larry asked with a laugh. "Bob, my friend, this ancient vehicle is only
three months old. It was barely past its thousand mile check-up when we left
for Mardi Gras. And try not to change lanes more often than necessary. Karen's
make-up job may make your skin look human, but those ears would stand out a
mile, as would those long-haired eyebrows of yours if anybody has an excuse to
look too closely. Besides, you don't have a driver's license yet and we don't
want to get caught with an unlicensed driver at the wheel, especially one who
isn't human."
"Why
not? I seemed to fit in pretty well last night. Nobody looked at me
twice."
"We've
been through that," Larry explained patiently. "They thought you were
in a costume - a disguise - just like they were. There is only one intelligent
species on this planet, Bob. Remember?"
"Oh,
yeah."
"What
about dolphins, dear?" Karen asked. "And some of the great apes are
supposed to be as intelligent as young children."
"There's
no proof of cetacean sapience, dear," Larry replied, "unless you
count fiction, which I don't. As for the apes, well chimpanzees have been
observed using some rudimentary tools and laboratory studies have proven that
they do reach the learning ability of a six year old, including the ability to
speak with sign language, but is that full sapience or merely something
approaching it? In any case even if they are sapient, their cultural level is
extremely primitive."
"How
primitive?" B-Hob asked, suddenly interested.
"Pre-linguistic.
While they have the ability to use language, they don't have the vocal
equipment to speak any human tongue, nor do they seem to have any form of
language beyond a small set of vocal signals in their natural habitat."
"They're
the closest species related to Man," Karen added.
"Too
bad," B-Hob replied. "I had originally hoped to study a really
primitive culture, but that seems a bit too primitive."
"It's
true," Larry agreed. "Researchers have spent many years studying them
in the wild. It takes that long because you can't just walk up and ask them who
they are and how they behave, but instead must sit back and observe. But there
are still some small groups of people who subsist through hunting and gathering
and/or early agriculture, with various forms of cultural development."
"You
said that before but I was still too sick to think of asking. This planet has
more than one culture?" B-Hob asked, surprised.
"You
bet! Hundreds, thousands maybe, depending how finely you differentiate."
"Oh
wow! This is going to take some getting used to. Larry, you seem to be well
acquainted with my field. Are you an anthropologist too?"
"No,
I'm an electrical engineer, but I've been a subscriber to "National
Geographic" for years. That's a magazine."
"You'll
have to show me. For that matter I'll have to learn to read English.
Oops!" B-Hob's ability to drive had advanced, so far, to include the use
of the clutch and accelerator, but he had not yet mastered the brake pedal.
Coming from a culture where similar vehicles were all equipped with radar and
autobrake systems, this was not surprising, although some of his maneuvers
were. Noticing that the car in front of him had slowed down, he attempted to
stop by taking his foot off the gas pedal. When the car failed to slow down
sufficiently, instead of using the brake, he swerved into the passing lane only
to find another slow car there. From that point on he started weaving back and
forth across the two lanes with an occasional foray into the breakdown lane.
"Whoa,
Bob! What are you doing?" Larry said, a bit more panicked than he would
have liked to admit ever getting.
"The
car won't stop! Is there something wrong with the brakes?"
"Only
that you aren't using them. Look, pull over into the far right lane and I'll
explain." After a long discussion about driving theory they decided that
they had driven far enough for one day and went off in search of a motel.
"Pull off at this exit, Bob. Okay, there's a traffic light at the top of
the ramp. You remember what I told you about them?"
"Sure.
Red means stop; green means go; yellow is a matter of situational ethics."
"Close
enough," Larry conceded, relaxing a bit.
B-Hob
steered the Swedish sports sedan up the indicated ramp with a smoothness that
belied his scant experience. Looking up, he saw that the light had turned red
so he applied the brakes and came to a halt.
"Well?"
Larry asked as an outraged driver behind them started honking.
"Well,
what?" B-Hob asked. "The light's red. Right? Oh there, it isn't red
anymore." and he started forward turning left. More horns were sounded
from either side of them.
"Bob,
are you color blind?" Karen asked gently.
"Color
blind? Of course not. The light on the bottom was red, when it went out... Oh,
I forgot about that."
"What?"
"The
suns of the Commonwealth, most of them anyway, are green-white and blue-white
in color as you would see them. Yours is yellow by your standards."
"Our
standards?" Larry asked. "You don't perceive colors the way we
do?"
"Not
at all. We would agree on wavelengths; those are objective measurements.
However, my visible spectrum starts at what you call green and runs deep into
your ultra-violet, including some colors that even we can only see in space where
the atmosphere doesn't filter them out. Every thing looks rather reddish to
me."
"That
is going to cause some severe problems," Karen pointed out. "So many
signs are color coded."
"Yeah,
and that explains why you did all that funky driving, you never saw the other
cars' brake lights."
"Hmm,
I'll talk to my computer when we land the ship, maybe we can work something
out. I can't very well walk around half blind."
Another
night in the "Green Motel" and two more days of travel brought them
to the middle of
"We're
almost there," Larry told B-Hob, "We might as well push on
through."
"Good,
I'm looking forward to washing off this make-up. I think I'm developing a rash
all over my face and hands."
"Sorry
about that," Karen apologized. "It's supposed to be hypoallergenic. I
guess the manufacturer never counted on it being used by someone
non-human."
"Bob,
how soon can you get your ship to land?" Larry asked.
"That
all depends on where it is at the moment. I left it up to the computer to keep
it up in orbit and out of sight. Why?"
"Well
I was thinking that you ought to land it at night when the neighbors won't
notice it. It's fairly quiet, so if it lands late enough no one will see it and
it won't wake them up coming in. We have trees all around the perimeter of our
land so the neighbors won't be able to see it in the backyard. We can have it
covered by the time we get any visitors."
"Good
thinking," B-Hob admitted. "If it can't be tonight I'll have the
computer schedule the landing for tomorrow."
"Definitely
tomorrow, Bob. I still need to buy a large enough tarp to cover it with."
"Oh,
I am sick to death of traveling," Karen complained. "It's going to
take me days to recuperate. I hate traveling."
"Then
why do it?" B-Hob asked.
"Because
the alternative is staying home and doing nothing," she returned with a
grin. "It's all the driving that wears me out, though."
"Why
not fly?" B-Hob asked.
"I
hate flying," Karen replied with a shiver. "I always get sick, so we
don't fly unless we really have to."
"Besides
we took two weeks to drive down to New Orleans," Larry added, "and
did a lot of sight-seeing along the way. But Karen's right about one thing;
it's all the moving around that gets you down. After the last few weeks, I feel
like my entire world is centered around the steering wheel and the very thought
of getting into the car makes me feel tired. Ah well, I guess that vacations
like that are a universal constant. Right?"
"No,"
B-Hob replied. "Not really."
Eventually
the Saab found the right series of exits and rolled off the superhighway and on
to a suburban street in
"They
sell frozen yogurt, Bob," Larry explained tiredly. "It's a supermarket,
we buy our groceries there. Mufflers, Bob, they sell mufflers for car engines
there. Right, that's a gas station. It's a house, just somebody's home.
Bob!" he said at last, "how old are you really?"
"In
Earth years?"
"That
would be convenient," Larry replied.
"Let's
see, uh, twenty-nine, I think."
"That's
not considered prepubescent on your world is it? You are an adult, aren't
you?"
"Yes,
I am all gwown up!" B-Hob replied childishly.
"Then
will you at least wait until we've all had a little sleep before you start asking
the child-like questions. The incessant 'What's that?' really gets on my
nerves."
"Sorry,"
B-Hob replied contritely.
"Larry!"
Karen said sharply.
"Well,
I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm a bit over-tired. We're home!" Larry
pulled the car into a winding down-slope driveway and parked in the spacious
two-car garage. Larry and B-Hob unloaded the car while Karen opened the house.
"Honey!"
Karen called from the house, "It's midnight; why are the lights still on
in here? I thought you set the timer."
"I
did," Larry replied, entering the house burdened with more suitcases than
any two men should carry. "There must have been a power outage. Is the
stereo still on?"
"No.
Oh wait a minute; yes, it just turned on."
"Definitely
the power was out for a while. I wonder if they make a timer switch with a
battery back-up so that it doesn't go out of synch during a blackout."
"At
least the burglar alarm has a back-up, dear," Karen pointed out.
"Burglar
alarm?" B-Hob asked.
"I
guess you don't have them where you come from," Larry explained, "but
there are people here who break in to others' homes and steal their
possessions."
"No,
we have them too."
"Oh.
Well, to help protect our belongings we have locks and security systems that
sound an alarm that supposedly alerts the authorities that the house has been
broken into."
"Supposedly?"
B-Hob asked.
"Well,
we used to be able to get an alarm that automatically rang at the police
station, but since there are so many houses with alarms these days, most
communities no longer provide that service."
"Also,"
Karen added, "they often malfunction, power outages can cause some types
to go off, and loose switches do that too. So the usual reaction when an alarm
goes off, unless you arrange with someone to call the police, is to just put up
with the incessant noise."
"What
do your people do to discourage burglars, Bob?" Larry asked.
"We
kill them."
"Kill
them?" Larry asked. Karen just turned pale.
"Yes,
burglary is a capital offense when caught by the victim. Security systems in
the Commonwealth are usually programmed to kill any intruder - usually by
administering lethal doses of electricity, a hundred thousand volts or
so."
"Sort
of gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'crispy critters'," Larry
gulped.
"
"Think
about it, dear," he replied. "Remember how we felt two years ago when
we were robbed. In a way Bob's people are much more civilized about it. If you
allow a thief to get away with stealing, you only encourage him to do it again.
Actually I'm surprised that anyone even tries it in your Commonwealth,
Bob."
"Well,
the worlds are full of stupid people," he replied, "and there are
ways around every defense system, if you're good enough at it. Why there must
be at least a hundred attempts every week on any given planet."
"Compared
to Earth, that's practically a zero crime rate, Bob. Well, why don't we show
you to your room?"
"Maybe
I should contact my ship-board computer to arrange the landing tomorrow
night."
"Good
idea. Can I help you in any way?"
"Just
show me the way outside. My transmitter frequency gets blocked by minor
obstructions like trees, houses, and small planets."
"If
it's in orbit, then it might not be above the horizon," Larry pointed out
as he led B-Hob to the back door.
"The
computer knows approximately where I am, within a thousand miles or so. It will
probably have made arrangements to receive my signal no matter where it
is."
"Your
computer is that smart?"
"Yes
indeed. It's a semi-intelligent mechanism and can make decisions within certain
limited parameters. Finding a way to remain available is definitely within
those parameters."
"An
intelligent machine? That's really incredible!"
"It's
a pain in the ass. The damned thing makes decisions without bothering to ask
first about almost anything I don't overtly prohibit him from."
"Him?
He's a male computer?"
"No,
but it has a masculine-sounding voice, so it's easy to slip and think of it,
him, whatever, as a male. Excuse me for a moment. This is B-Hob Kharma calling
the ship's computer of the Space Devil. Come in please." There was
silence. "Hey Computer! Still up there?" When no reply came, B-Hob
pressed a button on the transceiver that sent a powerfully loud monotone signal
that was supposed to be receivable at distances up to a parsec, if not
obstructed.
"All
right already!" came the computer's instant and annoyed response.
"I'm more than a little busy up here you know."
"Why?
What's so hard about holing up in a parking orbit?"
"Orbit?
What's an orbit? Ever since I dropped you off, I've been running for my life.
Somebody down there doesn't like me very much. They keep throwing things at
me."
"What
sort of things?" B-Hob asked.
"Long
skinny things with explosive war heads, some of them are nuclear. The MIRVs are
particularly hard to avoid. These bastards play dirty."
"So
what are you doing to avoid them?"
"Moving
around a lot mostly," the computer replied. "Look the only way I'm
going to be able to get out of harm's way, will be to establish a base on the
backside of this world's moon. What do they call it?"
"The
Moon," Larry said helpfully.
"Figures,
and I suppose you call your sun 'the Sun'?"
"Uh
huh."
"So
much for imagination on that ball of mud. Next thing you'll be telling me is
that the next planet out is called the 'Little Red Planet'? No, don't tell me,
it would only depress me. Hey, B-Hob, are you still there?"
"Where
else?"
"How
would I know? You've moved since I last saw you and without bothering to tell
me, I might add. How do you expect me to keep in touch if you insist on moving
out of range. I just barely picked up your signal."
"I'll
need that cosmetic surgery to fit in here after all," B-Hob told the
computer, "and something that will let me use the same visible spectrum
that the Humans do. Can you land here tomorrow night?"
"I've
been working on temporary ways and means to circumvent their primitive radar
systems. I might be able to if we do it at night."
"We
were hoping for sometime after midnight."
"Yes,
I think I can do it. I'll think about the visibility problem too. But the
cosmetics will take most of the day to complete, even as minor as they are. How
do you propose to keep me hidden to aerial surveillance?"
"We
thought we'd cover you with a big piece of cloth."
"What?
This ship's configuration is rather unique on this backward world. Do you
really thing that tossing a dish rag over me is going to keep me hidden?"
"No
problem," Larry replied. "I've got another idea."
Seven
Humans, more so than any other known people, are inordinately
concerned about their outward appearances. Rather than inventing self-grooming
devices which are well within their technological capabilities, they continue
to have specially trained professional groomers called barbers and beauticians,
who do this job manually. The theory that has been proposed to explain this
bizarre behavior is that Human vanity demands a second opinion, so these
trained professionals not only serve to groom their patrons, but to assure them
of just how good they look. Also, as a self-defense feature, these patrons will
then have someone to blame other than themselves, should the results of such
grooming be unsatisfactory.
from "Chapter 3; Basic Social
Relationships"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
The
slightly battered form of the Space Devil drifted down through the
crisply cold
"I
hope you'll be able to hide me quickly," the computer told them via the
transceiver. "There are at least five separate tracking systems trying to
lock on to me."
"What
are you doing to avoid them?" B-Hob asked in spite of himself.
"Well,
I'm projecting a visible-to-radar image of myself about ten miles away, but
when I duck down below a thousand feet or so it will start to fuzz out. Also,
the system I'm using isn't perfect and my real location is probably showing up
as a radar ghost on at least three of those trying to track me. Also there are
no less that ten jets scooting around up here trying to get a visual on me and
you can rest assured they'll be scanning with infrared cameras. I can mask my
heat emissions, but my profile will still show up if you don't do your
share."
"Hey!
Don't you worry about us," Larry told the computer. "You just land
where we've indicated and we'll have you covered in minutes."
"When
are you due to touch down?" B-Hob asked.
"Three
minutes, thirty-five seconds... Now!"
It
was a tribute to the Space Devil's abilities that they were unable to
see it until the last thirty seconds before it landed. There was the same soft
muted hum that Larry had commented on in
"Okay
now, Bob," Larry directed, "you take that tent pole and I'll take the
other. Karen, as soon as we have the poles up, start reconnecting the guy
lines."
"Right,
honey!"
A
few minutes later they stood back and inspected their work. A large green and
white striped tent now stood over the spaceship, completely disguising it from
aerial photography.
"Larry,
renting a tent was an excellent idea!" B-Hob commended him.
"Thanks,
Bob. It saved me a lot of money over my original idea to buy a tarp too. Of
course the men who put it up this afternoon weren't very happy about having to
drive the tent stakes into frozen ground, but at least we didn't have to do it
ourselves."
"And,"
Karen added, "the owner of the rental place was very glad to see us. They
don't rent out these big party tents in the winter very much."
"Well,
we only paid for one day, tomorrow, so I suppose we'd better get you started,
Bob. Once you look human we can send the ship here to the Moon for the
duration, and we won't have to explain why we put up a circus tent in our back
yard to too many people."
"Oh
dear," Karen fretted. "I hadn't thought about that. The Birsteins are
coming over tomorrow night."
"Don't
worry," Larry assured her, "I'll think of something. B-Hob, how soon
can you start your treatment?"
"Well,
Karen's been helping me design my new look. Karen are you really sure I should
make the hair off-white?"
"That's
blond, Bob," she replied, "and yes, you should definitely be blond,
you have the most gorgeous blue eyes. It would be a shame to change them. Keep
the height too, you'll look like a sun god. The girls will just adore
you!"
"I'm
not sure that's a good idea. No offense, but Earth women don't exactly turn me
on. The wrong hormones or pheromones or something, I guess."
"Nonsense!"
Karen scoffed. "That's not the way it looked at Molly's the other
night."
"I
was drunk," B-Hob protested.
"In
vino veritas, Bob," she said with a leering smile.
"What?"
B-Hob asked.
"There
is truth in wine," the computer translated over the transceiver.
"It's a quaint belief of the Humans that ethyl alcohol acts as a form of
truth serum, by lowering one's inhibitions."
"Quaint?"
Karen asked the computer, outraged. "Who are you to make a value judgment
concerning Humans?"
"My
apologies," the computer responded. "I was merely putting it in terms
calculated to coincide with B-Hob's viewpoint."
"Is
that how you see us, Bob?" Karen asked, turning on him.
"Quaint?"
"Not
at all," he replied hastily. "This is a very old and outmoded
computer. We've found that semi-sentient computers make as many mistakes as
organic intelligences do, only faster. That's why we don't make them
anymore."
"Why
didn't you get a newer machine then?" Larry asked.
"This
one came with the ship and I was rapidly running out of grant money. Besides,
at the time I thought it would be pretty neat. Blond, huh?" Karen nodded.
"Well, I'll just have to take your word for it. Will you monitor the
operation as it progresses?"
"Will
it be gross?" Karen asked, as B-Hob opened the main entry hatch. "I
mean blood and gore and that sort of stuff?"
"Gross?
What an odd word usage. No," B-Hob replied. "Just keep an eye on the
computer screen from time to time. Make sure the picture of the finished
operation doesn't change too much."
"Is
it likely to change?" she asked.
"A
little, maybe. If some of the proposed changes are more extensive than the
basic parameters of the program, it might need a manual override. Let the
machine have its own mind unless the end result would be seen as a major
disfigurement. I don't want to stand out too much."
"Okay.
Let's get started. Is this really the inside of a starship?"
"Yes.
Why?"
"Oh,
I don't know," she said disappointed. "I guess I just expected
something more than a dirty cramped compartment with stale air."
"This
is just the airlock," B-Hob replied as they passed through the double
doors, "but you are right about the air. I might as well give it a chance
to air out while it's down here. Here. Now is this better?" He asked,
indicating the main cabin.
"Only
slightly," she replied. "Looks like the inside of an old
airplane."
"Sorry,"
B-Hob replied, slightly crushed. "Well let's get started." He and
Karen sat down at a terminal with a large screen display and started specifying
the changes that the cosmetic surgery program would perform while Larry went
for a pot of coffee and three mugs. When they were finished, they had a
life-sized portrait of B-Hob as an Earthling in the buff on the display screen.
"Are
you certain," he asked hesitantly, "that I'll need to be that complete?
Even the sexual organs?"
"You
never know when you might need them," Karen smiled.
"But..."
"Relax,
Bob, I was just kidding you. But your disguise should be as complete as
possible."
"Besides,"
Larry added, "You may want to visit my gym and otherwise you might stand
out in the locker room. Actually you might stand out anyway. Dear, don't you
think you've designed him a bit out of proportion?"
"Hmm?
It depends on your perspective, dear, but maybe you're right. Computer, scale
down the genitals by, hmm, ten percent maybe?"
"Working...
done," came the electronic reply.
"That's
more like it," Larry agreed.
"They
still look clumsy and uncomfortable," B-Hob nodded glumly.
"You're
the one who didn't want to be a girl," Karen chided him.
"That's
better? It's all academic. I'd probably make a lousy woman, and the machine
doesn't have that capability in any case. Well if that's it, I'd better get
started. Computer - projected run-time?"
"Twelve
hours, seven minutes, and seventeen seconds."
"What
about the vision problem?"
"Internal
correction is not possible with this or any other unit," the computer
replied. "You will have to wear supplementary optical lenses similar to
those worn by some humans, like Larry."
"You
can build an optic converter into a pair of glasses?" Larry asked.
"Affirmative,"
came the reply, "they should be ready in six hours and twenty seven
minutes."
"Well,
I've wasted enough time," B-Hob said, climbing into a large metal box.
"Computer, run program as soon as the mini-hospital is ready." And he
closed the heavy lid.
"Running,"
the computer said to nobody in particular.
"Hon,"
Karen said to Larry, "why don't you get some sleep? I'll stay up a while
and watch the program run and join you as soon as I can."
"You
can join him now," the computer informed her. "The first projected
decision point won't be for at least five hours."
"Oh.
All right."
The
sun was midway up in the winter sky when Karen and Larry returned to the space
ship. The picture on the display screen had changed slightly and Karen went
right to work on straightening the computer out regarding priorities.
"Hey
what's with the face?" She demanded. "The features are too sharp and
that nose is big enough to hook Moby Dick."
"In
order to accomplish the job with minimal alterations," the computer
replied with nano-electronic calmness, "it was necessary to alter the
unessential details of your proposal."
"Well
you can alter it right back again," she snapped. "I put in too much
work designing that face to have you messing around with it."
"The
procedure will take an additional fifty-six minutes and twenty-seven point one
seconds to complete," the computer protested.
"We
have the time, Bunky! Now do the job right."
"Correction,
my name designation is not "Bunky."
"It
is now!" Karen replied. Having prepared to be as stubborn as the computer,
she wasn't likely to back down on a minor matter like the computer's own self
image.
"Decision
noted, program is modified as per your specifications."
"Thank
you," Karen replied, mollified.
"You're
welcome."
"Hey,
Bunky?" Larry asked. "Just how did B-Hob learn English? He seems to
have a marvelous command of modern idioms."
"I
set up a program that impressed the knowledge of your language directly into
his brain via a teaching helm," the computer replied.
"Really?"
Larry said, impressed. "But how did you learn it?"
"I
analyzed a large number of communications broadcasts from your world."
"What
sort of communications broadcasts?"
"Well,
military communications, news broadcasts, and entertainment."
"Wait
a minute, you mean that B-Hob learned English from an in-flight movie?"
"Essentially,
yes."
Larry
excused himself a few minutes later, telling Karen that he had a few errands to
run. Karen hardly noticed his absence as she spent the rest of the day
protecting what she saw as her investment and by the time the mini-hospital's
lid opened, even the computer was sighing in relief. B-Hob's threats to
reconfigure it into a common household appliance it could live with, but
Karen's names were more than it could bear. "Bunky" was the most
horrendous curse imaginable when reduced to binary code, but it was sure that
Karen could come up with worse and didn't want to find out what worse was.
"Hey!"
Karen complained as B-Hob sat up in the large metal casket, "That's not
what we programmed!"
"Oh
oh!" B-Hob fretted, "What's wrong?"
"I
see I'm right on time," Larry said, reappearing for the first time since
breakfast, a large package under his arm. Then he looked at B-Hob, "Now
that's interesting. Did you two change your minds?"
"No,"
Karen replied, "Someone's been lying to me. Bunky!"
"What's
wrong? Am I hideous?" B-Hob asked, worried.
"No,
not at all. That's not the problem. Bunky!"
"Who
is Bunky?"
"Your
damned computer. Bunky!"
"On
line as ever," Bunky answered hesitantly.
"Explain
this!" Karen demanded.
"On
careful review of the known facts concerning your world," Bunky replied
carefully, "I decided via safety over-ride that his hair color should be
much darker, closer to the norm - for his own protection, of course."
"So
my hair isn't straw-colored," B-Hob noted.
"That's
blond. A beautiful golden blond," Karen corrected him.
"Whatever. That doesn't seem to be a problem,"
B-Hob commented. "Semi-sentient machines literally have a mind of their
own. Is that all?"
"He
changed your face from spec, too!" Karen said with some heat.
"Computer?"
B-Hob asked.
"My
name designation is now Bunky," Bunky replied, avoiding the implied
question.
"What
did you do to my face?" B-Hob said, wondering just what shade of golden
brown the first slices of toast would be.
"Likewise
for your protection, I modified it slightly to more resemble a well known and
beloved Earthling."
"Oh
yeah?" Karen challenged Bunky, "What sources did you use to make your
decision."
"I
have been monitoring your video broadcasts. This face most accurately matched
your proposed design and the requirements of my safety over-ride."
"Well
that explains it," Larry said with a shrug.
"I
guess we might as well settle," Karen sighed. "God alone knows what
we'd get if we tried again."
"And
we don't have the time to try over in any case," B-Hob added.
"What's
in the package, dear?" Karen asked noticing it in Larry's hands for the
first time.
"I
could tell that Bob was going to need some clothes and that mine wouldn't
fit," Larry replied, "so I picked up a few things. Looks like I
should have bought something a little more form-fitting," he grinned.
"Wrom
in Heaven!" B-Hob swore in his own language, "Will someone tell me
what the problem is?"
"Oh,
it's not that bad, Bob," Karen replied gently.
"Not
at all," Larry agreed. "It's just that you look very much like Elvis
Presley."
*****
***** *****
Colonel
Isaiah M. Morgenstern sat behind his battered oaken desk in a largely unused
low-profile brick building on Otis Air Force Base. Otis, inconveniently
situated midway between Buzzard's Bay and
Now
in the dead of winter, however, the base was nearly empty, but the armed forces
like any other landowner or governmental agency - in this case both - never
willingly gives up property. The Air Force found it preferable to keep certain
projects - especially those rated Top Royal Secret - hidden away in nearly forgotten
outposts like Otis.
There
were several government projects like the one that Colonel Morgenstern headed
up. Because of the ultra-high security surrounding it and its brethren
projects, each one worked in isolation, not even aware that their work was being
duplicated. The CIA had an identical project that was over thirty years old and
the FBI's was even older. Similarly the Army, the Navy, the Department of the
Interior, the Department of State, and several powerful senators all had their
own versions of the project. Strangely enough the Marines didn't; they thought
the whole subject was a silly waste of time. They were right but not for the
reasons they might have given.
Colonel
Morgenstern headed up the Air Force's own avatar of the project. They called it
Project Moxie and it was the direct descendant of the oldest such project of
all, Project Blue Book. It was Colonel Morgenstern's job to investigate all
known sightings of unidentified flying objects and then to discredit them.
In
the Sixties such an investigation would have been merely classified - known to
exist even if the actual results were unknown - but it was almost fashionable
to believe in flying saucers back then. Now, however, to make such an admission
was political suicide and yet such projects continued out of sheer greed. They
all hoped to be the first to make contact with a technologically superior race,
and then take them for everything they were worth.
So
far there were absolutely no confirmed contacts with aliens from space, and
that was simply because, in spite of the wishful thinking, there had been no
such contacts until a few days earlier in
The
door to Colonel Morgenstern's office opened and a smartly uniformed Airman
First Class stepped through and saluted.
"Sir!"
he nearly shouted in the polite military way of saying such things as he placed
a plain manila file folder on the Colonel's desk. "The report on last
night's UFO, Sir!"
"Thank
you, Airman," Morgenstern acknowledged. The airman gave the colonel
another salute that was doomed to received one of the sloppiest return salutes
known to military history and then left.
Morgenstern
opened the folder and began to read. There were only three pages inside. One
was full, the next had only a few lines of print on it and the third was a map.
It only took Morgenstern a few minutes to read the report.
"At
last!" he said with great satisfaction as he closed the file folder. He
picked up his telephone and punched out a few numbers. "Hello, Phil? Izzy
here. You remember that sighting we lost last night? Yeah. Well, I want you to
keep an eye on every cubic inch of airspace between
Eight
To say that Human civilization is unique to known space in that it
involves more than one discrete culture is severely misleading as it is a
masterwork in the art of understatement. Where it is more usual to describe a
culture by its conformities, it becomes necessary to describe Humans by their
diversities. It is this basic fact that must be remembered when attempting to
study Earth culture. The subject of Human diversity will be discussed in
further detail in the next chapter, but it is brought up now because such
diversity is also a key feature in Human kinship and descent.
The Humans practice almost
every known system of kinship and descent; patrilateral, matrilateral,
bilateral, matrilineal, patrilineal, and many permutations besides. Inheritance
can go from father to son, mother to daughter, mother's brother to sister's
son, to an unrelated friend, and even to total strangers. Because of this,
friendships are considered every bit as important, often even more so, than
kinship ties.
from "Chapter 3; Basic Social
Relationships"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
A
short and fast series of bell tones sounded through the house. B-Hob looked up
questioningly from the primer Larry was trying to teach him how to read from.
"I'll
get it!" Karen called, coming down the stairs.
"The
door bell," Larry explained to B-Hob. "It appears we have company. We
can work on this again later."
"Actually
I was just thinking it would be easier to sleep-learn this," B-Hob
replied. "The computer - Bunky now, sheesh! - should be able to handle
this just like it translated the spoken language. If you can read it in and
then we let it scan a more advanced book
it should be able to figure it all out and then teach me before we send it off
later tonight."
"I
didn't know you could do that."
"How
do you think I learned to speak English?"
"Never
really thought about it. I just assumed that you spent a few weeks in orbit
listening to our radio broadcasts."
"We
did scan those broadcasts, but the computer did all the work."
"Hey,
Larry!" A deep booming voice shouted from the hall.
"Barny?
Come on in! We're in the den," Larry shouted back. A moment later Karen
came into the room with Barny, a decidedly overweight and balding man, and a
slim red-headed woman, who seemed to be as much Barny's complement as his
opposite. Another loud greeting died on Barny's lips as he caught the sight of
B-Hob's face and instead he just stood there staring.
"Tacey,
Barny," Karen handled the introductions, " this is our new
friend..."
"Elvis?"
Barny finished for her. "Wow! And I thought all those people who claimed
you were still alive were just a bunch of wackos!"
"No,
Barny, he isn't," Larry vainly tried to correct his friend.
"Wow,
man! I've seen all your movies," Barny proceeded blithely on. "Love
your music!"
"Barny!"
Larry said shaking him to get his attention, "This is not Elvis."
"Oh,
come on!" Barny protested.
"No!
Barny, Tacey, this is Robert Karma. Bob, Barnabus and Tacey Birstein."
"Pleased
to meet you, Bob," Tacey said while Barny sputtered. "The resemblance
is remarkable, but I suppose you hear that all the time."
"No,"
B-Hob replied, "not usually."
"You
don't sound like Elvis - wrong accent," Barny said, beginning to catch on.
"And now that I think about it you're much too young to be the real
Elvis."
"He
isn't," Larry repeated as he slouched back into his chair, "but he
could make a fortune as a phony Elvis if he wanted to.
"Who
is this Elvis?" B-Hob asked. Tacey and Barny stared at him in amazement.
"You
don't know?" Tacey asked.
"Haven't
you ever gone to the movies or watched TV?" Barny asked. "Especially
TV?"
"What's
a movie?" B-Hob countered. "Oh yeah, video entertainment media;
television, motion pictures. Got it. No, I've never been to the movies and my
computer watches the TV for me."
"Your
computer?" Barny asked, puzzled.
"It's
a joke," Karen explained hastily. "Bob's quite the kidder. Aren't
you, Bob?" she asked winking her eye at him. B-Hob caught on quickly
enough.
"Sorry
about that," he said with a smile. "I just couldn't resist."
Barny stared dumbstruck for another minute and then started to laugh along with
everybody else.
"You
got me there, Bob," he admitted. "That's a good one. So what do you
do, anyway, assuming you don't work as an Elvis double, that is?"
"Bob's
an anthropologist," Larry informed him truthfully enough, "working on
his doctoral dissertation."
"Really?"
Tacey asked. "I took an intro class in anthropology. What's your
dissertation about?"
"Primitive
cultures," B-Hob replied. "I plan to do an ethnographic study and
compare it to accepted anthropological theory."
"Really?
What primitive culture are you studying?"
"Well
I haven't quite started yet, but I am seriously considering suburbanites."
Now it was Tacey's turn to be stunned for a moment before everyone started to
laugh again.
"You're
right, Larry," Tacey said at last when she managed to catch her breath.
"He is funny. Maybe you should try stand-up comedy, Bob."
"I've
tried," he admitted, "but I couldn't handle the hecklers."
"Have
you known Karen and Larry very long?"
"No,
we just met."
"We
met Bob at Mardi Gras and just hit it off," Karen explained. "We
invited him to stay with us while he works on his thesis."
"Hey,
Larry," Barny asked looking out into the back yard through the large
picture window in the den, "What's with the circus tent?"
"It's
not that big," Karen interjected, hoping to divert the conversation.
Larry, however, already had a story ready and waiting.
"We
found it here when we got back from
"Oh,"
Barny said, almost buying it. "Oh come on, Lar! Rental places don't make
mistakes like that. And even if they did whoever really wanted it would have
complained sooner. What is it really doing out there?"
"Okay,
you got me there. The truth is that under that mass of brightly colored canvas
is an honest-to-goodness interstellar spaceship. Bob here's an alien, it's his
ship, and he's here to study us primitive humans."
Karen
gasped softly wondering what had gotten into her husband while Barny and Tacey
stared in fascination at B-Hob. B-Hob just sat there and kept shifting his eyes
back and forth at each of the humans in the room considering whether he should
make a break for it. The moment of stunned silence stretched on impossibly long
until Barny started laughing harder than ever.
"Right!"
he laughed and the others joined in. "Larry, I should have known better.
Bob may be a real kidder, but nobody could ever top you."
*****
***** *****
Doctor
Richard Morley had come to the Quest for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence fifteen
years earlier as a dedicated young man, a rising star on the cutting edge of
the vast frontier of science. Fifteen years later he was a dedicated
middle-aged man sitting at his desk in QETI World Headquarters, a dusty
collection of offices in Foggy Bottom -
It
was that pay check that was critical. Back in graduate school, he began to
develop some very expensive, although legal habits. Top on the list was his
taste in single malt Scotch, the price of which seemed to go up between the
time he entered a liquor store and the time he walked the twenty feet to the
shelves his favorite tipple was kept on, and if he paused to consider whether
to try a different brand, prices would rise again.
His
other expensive vice was smoking. He disdained cigarettes, but somewhere along
the way he was introduced to fine cigars. At five to ten dollars a shot for the
quality of smoke he insisted on they took an unhealthy bite out of his precious
paycheck and unlike the good Scotch whisky he enjoyed, the cigars were a vice
he could indulge in at work. However because of the cost, he tended stretch
each cigar over a two or three day period.
QETI
had started out with the youthful vigor of any new well-funded project, but the
years had gone by without results and the project's backers gradually lost
interest. This was the normal course of events in scientific research and the
mere establishment of QETI was an amazing feat considering that the founders
had to admit from the start that there wouldn't be results for many years.
"Radio
waves," Dr. Morley had lectured more than once, "travel at the speed
of light, which is the fastest speed at which we can send a message given our
present technology - maybe the fastest we will ever be able to do so. That
means that it would take just under four years to get to the nearest star,
which is Barnard's Star, a small reddish star that is barely visible from here,
and of course it would take as long for a message to be returned, plus time for
it to be analyzed and understood and a suitable reply to be formulated.
"Now
all that assumes that there is intelligent life on a world circling Barnard's
Star. For that matter there is great controversy over whether there are even
planets in orbit about Barnard's Star. A planet is a relatively small object at
such distances and can not be seen through an Earth-based telescope.
"We
do not really have any solid notion of how frequently life might arise
throughout the galaxy and the universe, except for the argument that since it
has done so here on Earth, it is possible to do so again elsewhere. And even if
life has formed on another world, we have no idea beyond our own optimism that
there might be intelligent life elsewhere in the universe.
"Therefore,
a reply might not arrive for decades or centuries, or it might never arrive at
all. To help speed the process up, we also listen for similar messages being
sent to us, but there is no guarantee that there is anyone sending such a
message to us, nor would we necessarily understand it if we received one. Why
then, you might ask, do we insist on continuing this search? Because we do not
believe that God in his wisdom decided to make Earth the only home of
intelligent life and that there are few greater pursuits to which we might
dedicate ourselves than the endeavor to contact our brothers in the sky!"
Dr.
Morley hadn't given that speech in over five years. He would have liked to, of
course. He was very good at extracting donations from groups of interested
listeners and over the years he came to understand that it was something he did
far better than the post-graduate work he had done in his own field of radio
astronomy. But in spite of his fund-raising abilities QETI had gradually lost
interest, and had for years been cutting back on its expenses, personnel, and
even the scope of its mission.
There
had been a brief resurgence in interest in QETI after the Hubble telescope had
been placed in orbit that then died completely when the telescope failed to
function properly. NASA continued to promise that the Hubble would be
absolutely perfect very soon, even though independent experts pointed out that
NASA did not have the necessary equipment to do the job right. A mission to
repair the space telescope had been discussed, but to date no such mission had
been undertaken.
Dr.
Morley, on the other hand, expected that very soon indeed, QETI would run out
of money and he would be forced to look for work elsewhere. From time to time
he did look around, but it had been so long since he had actually worked as a
scientist rather than a bureaucrat, that jobs were scarce. The Reagan years
were hard on all the frontiers of science except, perhaps geriatrics, and the
Bush administration, for all its promises wasn't looking any more promising.
He
did have a standing offer from Carl Sagan to collaborate on a book about
Extra-Terrestrials, and that would get him both on the lecture/pundit circuit
and the best-seller list, but writing was hard work and he'd have to do his
fair share. He also considered working for the Planetary Society, but last time
he asked casually about a possible place for him, he got welcoming smiles and
vague answers that he translated into, "We'd be pleased to have you and
we'll let you know when there's an opening - in a few years."
A
tall young student volunteer came in carrying an equally tall stack of computer
paper. His curly dark brown hair almost clashed with the burnished bronze of
his beard, which he wore more to avoid shaving than because he liked the style.
"Did
I ever look like that?" Dr. Morley asked himself and quickly decided that
yes, he did. Being a student granted the honor and right of freedom of
appearance - a right usually given up all too willingly after graduation. Out
loud Dr. Morley asked, "Yes, Tancred? What do you have there?"
"Several
of our stations picked up a transmission last night, Dr. Morley, on the cold
hydrogen band." That was the portion of the spectrum that was largely
silent through space because all radio noise was filtered out by interstellar
hydrogen.
"It
couldn't have come from another system then," Morley replied. "It wouldn't
have gone the distance. Why did you bring it up?"
"It
came from space, sir, on a frequency unused by any country known to possess the
capability to launch a payload into space."
"That's
interesting," Morley replied, relighting his last cigar. "Was it in
code?"
"It
doesn't appear to be, sir, but the language isn't one known to our computer
analysis."
"Scrambled
maybe?"
"No,
sir. It was an amazingly clear broadcast, far clearer than we would normally
expect from space. The interesting part is that the broadcast point evidently
approached Earth and then disappeared."
"Disappeared,
Tancred?"
"The
best guess is that it may have been a spaceship landing."
"I'd
have thought that would make the news, wouldn't you?"
"Yes,
sir," Tancred replied. "Unless it were trying to land in
secret."
"Do
you have a projected landing point?"
"We
think it may have been somewhere in
"But
we don't have an exact fix, do we?" Morley asked. Tancred nodded. "Do
we have an office in that region?" he muttered more to himself.
"No,
sir," Tancred replied, "but several schools in the area, including
M.I.T. have affiliations with us."
"Good.
Let's contact our people up there to keep a watch on the area and try to
triangulate on such a signal if another one is detected. Also we should be on
the look-out for the unusual."
"Do
you really think this might be real?" Tancred asked hopefully.
"Nothing
is impossible," Dr. Morley replied, "and if it is real, we want to be
the first to prove it!" Tancred nodded and left the office. His cigar had
gone out again, but he relit it and smoked it down to a stub. "Yes,"
Morley said to himself, "that will keep me in cigars for a long
time!"
Nine
A sense of identity is considered essential to many sentient beings
and certainly the Humans are not the most obsessive people in matters of
identity. That dubious honor goes to the Ketchkoni of Quarknoodle VI, who are arguably
the single most intelligent race in the universe. In fact it is only the
Ketchkoni sense of personal identity that kept them, with their incredible
accomplishments in technology and the philosophical sciences, from establishing
an empire that would have included the Commonwealth, rather than the other way
around.
It is the unique custom of the Ketchkoni to add every important
accomplishment in their lives to their names, and being so creatively
intelligent such accomplishments are legion. In most cultures this would not be
a handicap, but due to the sensitive nature of the Ketchkoni ego, all
conversation must include the full name of the individual being addressed. This
custom most seriously affects politics of Ketchkoni government. The names of all
candidates for public office must be written in completely on ballots because
of the high probability that their names will have become augmented between the
time they declare their candidacy and the actual election so only the most
stupid and unaccomplished individuals ever have much hope of getting elected.
The end result is actually not dissimilar to most other governments, but even
the most minor matters require hundreds of hours to hear all sides of a debate
and as a result, almost nothing ever gets done.
The Humans, while not nearly as incapacitated as the Ketchkoni,
also have a sense of identity that requires them to be reminded of who they are
constantly. Humans take comfort by being reminded of their identity by hotel
clerks, doctors, lawyers, and just about everyone else they do business with.
This is evident by the almost formulaic, "Ah, you're Mr. Jenkins, the
doctor will see you now." or "Ms. Randolph, you're room number
is..." Numerous displays of self-identification are also necessary merely
to conduct business on Earth. Grocery stores, colloquially called
"Supermarkets" require at least two forms of identification before
allowing a customer to open an account, on establishment of which the customer
is presented with yet another identification document. In short the average
human can not go through the day without establishing his own identity several
times.
from "Chapter 4: Identity and
Ego"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"It's
a shame you had to send your ship back into space, Bob," Larry was saying
to B-Hob as they sat on either side of a large wooden desk in the room that
served as Larry's home office. "That machine that makes clothing could
have come in handy from time to time."
"It
was okay for producing a set of clothes to get started in," B-Hob replied,
"but its capabilities are quite limited. Maybe you prefer polyesters of
various persuasions, but my tastes run toward the natural fibers. They're more
comfortable; they breathe."
"What
are the natural fibers like in the Commonwealth?"
"Pretty
much the same as they seem to be here, at least their end results are. I
imagine the animals and plants they come from are quite different, but we
choose our clothing materials by the same standards you do. It's universal.
Formal wear is invariably a study in discomfort, and casual clothing is
designed along the opposite lines."
"Oh."
"Except
for among the Bambrianosh, of course."
"Who
are the Bambrianosh?" Larry asked.
"Interesting
people," B-Hob replied, "or they were at the time they were studied.
Anyway, they have a religion based on penance for their sins."
"That
doesn't sound too unusual."
"No,
I guess not. Actually, the concept of being punished for doing wrong is very
wide spread, but they feel that sins can not be repented entirely in one's
lifetime, and since they have no proof of a life after death, the act of
penance falls to one's children."
"Yuck.
Sounds like a terribly repressive notion."
"Mmm,
yes. Anyway they not only live their lives trying to repent the sins of their
parents, but also feel that they must have managed to commit a few of their
own, which in turn are eventually passed on to their children."
"How
does all that apply to clothing?" Larry asked.
"Oh
yeah. Sorry. I'd forgotten that was the subject. Well, since they have more
sins to atone for than they can literally keep track of, they try to make the
very act of living an atonement and they design their clothing to bind and
chafe to help in their atonement for unknown sins. Except for on the rare
formal occasions when they are allowed to wear comfortable clothing. They claim
that it makes them more aware of the uncomfortable casual clothes."
"You
said this was at the time they were studied?"
"True,"
B-Hob replied. "A culture is usually referred to in the ethnological present;
the way it was at the time it was studied regardless of what changes may have
occurred since then."
"So
what are these Bambrianosh like these days?"
"Commonwealth
missionaries and merchants had the usual effect on their culture," B-Hob
replied. Larry shot him a look that spoke whole libraries full of questions.
"After learning about life in the Commonwealth the Bambrianosh revolted
against their church. It was a rather messy affair. The priests were the second
to go, right after the sacred tailors. There was no particularly favorite means
of execution, anything that would make them dead very quickly was good enough,
although the most spectacular executions were those of the High Tailor and his
Holy Council of Priestesses."
"And
how was that done?" Larry asked when it became obvious that B-Hob wasn't
going to volunteer that information. "Did they sew them together with a
giant needle and thread?" he added with a grin.
"How
did you know that?" B-Hob asked.
"Lucky
guess. Well, we've been avoiding this for an hour or more now. Let's start
establishing you as real person."
"Larry,
I am a real person. At least I was last time I checked."
"Not
on Earth you aren't," Larry informed him. "There are no records of
you ever existing here at all and if you want to pass in society, we're going
to have to do something about that. We need to create a legal identity for
you."
"I
don't see why," B-Hob replied. "I'm not planning on staying here long
enough to start collecting - what did you call it? - oh yes, Social
Security."
"Maybe
not - assuming Bunky can figure out how to get you home. However I think you
would find it of value, both for your day-to-day activities here and your own
study of our culture."
"All
right," B-Hob agreed. "What do we do first? Go down to your local
government building and get me registered?"_
"God,
no! For starters you'd have to register as an alien, get a green card, and all
sorts of stuff."
"You
already have a mechanism for dealing with aliens?" B-Hob interrupted.
"I'm not the first?"
"Whoa,
Bob! By alien, I mean anyone not a citizen of this country. Unless some of the
crackpot pseudo-scientists have it right, you're the first man from another
planet to step foot on Earth. Now, as I was saying if you try to register as an
alien, you'll have to present a passport proving you entered this country
legally. I suppose such documents can be forged, but so too can papers that
declare you a citizen."
"Is
that legal?"
"No.
But since you aren't planning on living here permanently there'll be no harm
done."
"Okay,
so where do we start."
"Step
one - we have to produce a birth certificate. After we do that and work up a
Social Security number, we can work on the hard stuff."
"Hard
stuff?"
"Yeah,
like getting you a driver's license, credit cards, and so forth. You'll have to
take tests for the driver's license, but I'll show you how the Registry cops
like to see you drive and you'll only have to learn the regulations for the
written test."
"Fine.
How do I get a birth certificate?"
"As
it happens, I have a couple of blanks
sitting right here in my desk."
"Just
happen to have them, Larry?" B-Hob asked suspiciously.
"Well,
a few years ago Karen and I were in financial trouble and afraid we might not
be able to pay our bills. Among the options we discussed was establishing new
identities for ourselves. I bought a book on the subject." He pulled a
thin blue paperback entitled "How to Construct a New Identity by
Unknown" and a plain manilla file folder out of his desk drawer. "I
went so far as to bribe a clerk in a town hall on the other side of the state
to give me two blank birth certificates, but we never used them."
"Why
not?" B-Hob asked.
"Well,
we decided that we weren't really as bad off as all that after all, and to have
gone through with it, we'd have had to give up all contact with our friends and
relatives. We decided that if worse came to worst, we would just declare
bankruptcy and start over again."
"You
seem to have done quite well for yourselves."
"Thank
you. Yes, we have. Right after we decided to take the honest route out of our
troubles, I got a new job and we've been doing well ever since. The lottery was
just the latest in a long line of good fortune.
"So,"
Larry continued, "It will probably be best if we continue to use the name
I introduced you by last night."
"Suits
me. It was very similar to my real name anyway."
"Good.
Robert Karma it is. How about a middle initial?" B-Hob just looked
confused and Larry had to explain common American nomenclature.
"Do
I really need one?" B-Hob asked.
"No,
not really, but some bureaucrats have trouble dealing with names that don't
have them."
"How
about 'H'?"
"Good
enough," Larry replied, filling in the appropriate blank. "Why
'H'?"
"My
initials, if you translate them into English, would be 'B H K'. I've never
bothered to correct you, but when ever you and Karen pronounce my name 'B-Hob'
you drop the 'H'."
"To
tell you the truth, I never really heard it, the sound combination isn't common
in English."
"It
isn't really all that important," B-Hob replied casually, shrugging his
massive shoulders. "I need an Earthly name to go by anyway. What
next?"
"Let's
see, place of birth? How about
"Was
there an earthquake then and were records lost?"
"The
earthquake, yes. A big one. As for the records, how would I know? But it sounds
reasonable and unless you really screw up it isn't likely that anyone will go
looking."
"Larry,
this
"Might
be. Oh, I see what you're getting at. Yes that might cause people to ask a lot
of questions. Damn, I already wrote that in. I have a spare but I'd rather save
that in case I misspell something. Well, we'll need to cobble together a brief
life story for you anyway. I suppose now is as good a time as any."
"Am
I allowed to have moved while still an infant?" B-Hob asked.
"Don't
see why not. What sort of home town did you grow up in?"
"Small
college town. My father was an assistant professor of physics."
"Good
enough. If somebody asks you can say you grew up in
"Assuming
I can remember it all."
"Look.
Here's some paper," Larry said tossing B-Hob a note pad. "Start
writing this down. We'll keep your story as close to your real one as
possible."
An
hour and a half later B-Hob had ten pages full of notes detailing the differences
between his cover and his real life.
"Just
remember not to volunteer any information. It's going to be hard enough as it
is the way you look."
"Larry,
I keep trying to ask, but I still haven't got an answer. Who is this Elvis
Presley? A friend of yours?"
*****
***** *****
He
sat, holding three custom-machined nickel-tungsten darts, near the window of a
small third floor office on
Prescott
Daniels was not the head of the
"The
Company takes care of its own," he muttered out loud. That was why he was
still working undercover when most men his age either occupied the very highest
offices at Headquarters in
It
made Daniels sick when he thought about it. He was one of the Company's top
agents and he was stuck in charge of investigating flying saucer sightings.
Hundreds of such sightings were made each month and he and his staff had to
investigate each one. In three years he had yet to turn up a real alien
spaceship, but those were his orders and his bosses wouldn't take it kindly if
he tried to resign.
Daniels didn't know it, but he was not the
only agent in charge of Operation Ether. His efforts were duplicated ten times
over across the globe by the CIA alone, but only he had found evidence of other
agencies conducting similar investigations. He had his people keep an eye on
Project Moxie and, while he didn't yet have conclusive proof, he was watching
the offices of Quincy Carbon, Senior Senator from
Daniels
also had a spy working in QETI; that agency was an obvious source of
information. So obvious, in fact that his other CIA counterparts dismissed
keeping an eye on them since they felt it was certain that any finds of theirs
would be instantly announced publicly. However, Daniels was nothing if not
thorough, and yesterday his vigilance had paid off.
His
woman in QETI had reported that signals from space had been detected and that
the emitter had seemingly landed on Earth surprisingly close to where he now
sat. Then last night his own investigators picked up similar signals taking off
from somewhere between here and
His
secretary, a well-built blond in a tight skirt and a tighter sweater, sashayed
into the office and dropped a pile of paper on his desk.
"More
reports, sir," she said in a sexy contralto. He was certain that she put
that voice on with the sweater and skirt in the morning, but it helped what
little prestige he had to have a secretary that looked and sounded like her.
His "overtime activities" with her were another fine bonus.
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
"Not
now, Vere. I'll need to go through these reports before my next
appointment."
"Very
well, sir."
Daniels
watched with deep appreciation as she treated him to the view of her exit from
the office which was as truly hormone-inspiring as her entrance. Then he got
back to work. A half hour later, Vere escorted a dark thin man in a business
suit into Daniels' office. Even Daniels didn't know the man's real name but he
had been dealing with him profitably for many years and on many projects.
"Hedgehog,"
Daniels acknowledged quietly after Vere had shut the office door. "I have
another job for you."
"The
UFO sightings of the past two nights?" Hedgehog asked.
"You
know about them already?"
"I
make it my business to know anything that might concern me."
"Good.
Do you know who else might have been aware of those sightings?"
"Officially?
No one knows about them - not even you," Hedgehog pointed out.
"Unofficially? Probably most everyone looking for them."
"Both
Moxie and QETI are aware," Daniels informed the man.
"And
your friend Senator Carbon, too." Hedgehog produced a piece of paper and
handed it to Daniels.
"A
memo to Carbon's special staff," he noted. "Looks like our suspicions
were correct."
"Did
you really doubt them?" Hedgehog asked with deceptive mildness. Daniels
shook his head and grunted.
"Does
anyone have a better idea of where the spaceship landed?" Daniels asked.
"Not
to my knowledge. You are probably the closest to pinpointing that location,
assuming your triangulation was accurate. What's my job? Find the site, find
some witnesses, find the aliens, or just keep anyone else from finding them
first?"
"All
of the above," Daniels replied. "Use any means you think
appropriate."
"Any
means?" Hedgehog asked pointedly.
"Exactly.
At all costs we must be the first!"
Ten
Every known culture has a fully developed corpus of myths and
legends designed to assist the unlettered in coping with their world. These
vestiges of pre-scientific times persist even into civilized cultures where in
most cases they are viewed as quaint tales from the past. There are, of course,
exceptions such as the once vast civilization of the Gromphids of Delta Raata
II, who even after achieving a complete understanding of the universe and how
it worked - a feat that has never been duplicated by any other culture
including our own - continued in their belief in the great flame that would one
day engulf the universe and that only by offering this deity large amounts of
burnt offerings, could they forestall the "Conflagration." Their
civilization abruptly collapsed when a particularly superstitious twit was
elected Premier and found himself in a position to sacrifice every library in
the Gromphid civilization in one massive bonfire. The Gromphids, consequently
are now restricted to a few small planets where they specialize as short-order
cooks.
The Humans, however, have taken an entirely different route on
their course through early civilization. After abandoning the myths and heros
of their past as the quaint reminders that they hold in common with most
civilizations, but feeling an absence in their lives without this sort of magic
they have gone ahead and created a whole new set of myths, e.g. supply-side
economics, the odd notion that a government can exist without raising taxes,
and movie stars.
from "Chapter 6: Myths and
Legends"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"Larry
got you a fair set of clothes to start with," Karen was saying, "but
really, you can't get by with just jeans and a sweater. We have to get you a
couple shirts, some nice slacks, a sportscoat, maybe a tie or two." She
and B-Hob were walking through one of several local shopping malls. They had
only a very sketchy itinerary, Jordan Marsh, Filene's, and any likely looking
shop in between. "For that matter we need to get you some shoes. Those
things on your feet are okay as long as nobody looks to closely."
"You
mean Larry's shoes?"
"Hmm?
I didn't notice. When did you stop wearing the space shoes?"
"Just
this morning. Larry and I discovered that our feet were about the same size and
he loaned me this pair."
"That's
one problem solved, but we ought to get you a pair of sneakers, Nikes or
Reeboks or something."
"Hey
what's this? An indoor river?"
"Sure,
gives the mall a bit of ambience."
"Ambience?"
"Atmosphere.
Without these little touches, this place would just be a large concrete and
steel box. Besides, I like fountains and water gardens. Look there are water
lilies and fancy goldfish - or are they koi? I never did know the difference. I
think the reeds are artificial. But it's nice - the plants and the sound of
trickling water. What do you do for indoor decoration?"
"Those
who like the natural look display rock crystals, but I just prefer
artwork."
"Well,
think of this as an art form. It is, you know. You don't just dig a trench and
fill it up. To do the job right you have to select each stone carefully, get
them to fit naturally, make the arrangement look like it was always there, and
not some recent concoction. In choosing plants, you have to consider the look you
are going for and what it will look like all year. The fish are relatively
easy, but there are those who would work at that aspect as well. And then
there's the maintenance aspect."
"Okay,"
B-Hob conceded. "Is this a form of gardening?"
"Uh,
yes. It's a form of gardening, only in this case it was done indoors."
"Is
it done outdoors too?"
"More
often than in. What kind of gardens do you have?"
"Vegetables,
flowers and rock crystals."
"You
grow crystals? The New Agers would love that!"
"No,
we just decorate with them. Karen, have you noticed that people are staring at
us?"
"Hmm?
Not until you mentioned it. It could be those funky glasses you're
wearing."
B-Hob's
glasses appeared to be thick, opaque, matte black lenses set in rimless frames.
However they were the light-adjusting mechanisms that Bunky had promised to
produce. Designed with almost perfect efficiency, they were powered by the
light they collected, with a small rechargeable backup battery built in for
when the light was insufficient to power the glasses. When worn,
molecular-sized switches in the nose rests turn the display on, affording B-Hob
a view of the Earth the way the natives saw it. Out of curiosity Karen had
tried them on for a moment, but took them off immediately when B-Hob pointed out
that she was literally pumping ultraviolet light into her eyes and could well
go blind if she used them too long.
"What's
wrong with them?" B-Hob asked.
"They
make you look like you're trying to pass yourself off as blind, or trying to
hide. They look like a pair of high quality sunglasses except for the
matte-finish lenses, of course, but normal folks don't wear dark glasses
indoors."
"Okay,
I'll take them off, but I'll have to rely on you if we run into another
color-oriented situation like the traffic lights."
"All
I should need to do is make sure your clothes match. I was going to do that
anyway," she replied with a grin.
Four
hours later they were sitting in a cramped booth in a small restaurant
surrounded by brightly colored bags and boxes.
"This
is an interesting drink," B-Hob commented about his Fribble. "What's
in it?"
"Milk,
ice cream, probably some flavored syrup," Karen replied.
"Milk?
I'm drinking milk? Babies drink milk, not adults."
"Bob,
do you like the taste or not?" Karen countered. B-Hob made a face of
disgust. "Well, you seemed to like it before I told you what it was."
B-Hob
looked at the brown liquid in the tall plastic cup like he expected it to rise
up and throttle him. Then he glanced at Karen who was studying him with a
raised eyebrow that Leonard Nimoy would have envied and half a smirk on her
lips.
"I
did, didn't I?" he said sheepishly. He took another tentative sip of the
chocolate dairy beverage. "Must be the ice cream," he tried lamely.
Karen's eyebrow stayed in the upright position but the smirk became full grown.
"Come
on! Admit it. You like it, don't you?" Karen pressed. B-Hob avoided
meeting her gaze. "Men! Do you all have such fragile egos?"
"It
varies from culture to culture," B-Hob replied. If you really want to
discuss it, I can go into greater detail for you later, but I think we're still
being stared at."
"Who?
Where?" Karen turned around quickly in the booth and saw several pairs of
eyes quickly avert themselves.
One
of them was attached to a dark-haired woman about twenty-five years old with an
extremely teased hairdo who was carrying a white plastic bag embossed with the
words, "WHIM - GREAT COUNTRY SOUND!"
"Oh
them. I should have warned you. They're into Country Music."
"Country
Music?"
"A
world all its own, Bob. I have a few Country albums at home I can play for you.
I'm not fond of a lot of it, but there are some really great music and
musicians who play it if you listen to enough of it. Pretty much like any sort
of music. Anyway they're probably staring at you. You do look like Elvis
Presley before he got fat, after all."
"Larry
said he played Rock and Roll."
"He
did, mostly, I guess. His music was very much in a genre all its own. His stuff
might have been classed as a sort of Rockabilly, an early cross between Rock and
Hillbilly, which became classed as a part of Country-Western. Anyway, some of
his songs, especially the ballads like, 'Love Me Tender' were definitely in the
Country style. These days I see his albums more often on sale in the Country
section of the record stores than with the Rock and Roll, and in the final
analysis a music's genre is classified by the people who listen to it rather
than by the musicologists who try to impose labels.
As
for the people who are staring, Larry told you that Elvis died some years ago,
right? Well ever since then some of the extreme fans have been claiming to have
seen him all over the country - the world even. Almost nobody takes it
seriously and even if he were still alive he'd be much older than you are so I
wouldn't worry too much about it. If it starts to become a problem, we can
always change your hair style and color. Those dark glasses of yours might help
too. No, don't put them on now. Just ignore the gawkers and enjoy your
frappe."
*****
***** *****
"Good
afternoon," the pleasantly female voice of a receptionist said after
picking up the phone. She had an educated Southern accent, mostly
"Ah
saw Elvis in tha mall!" the anxious voice said in another sort of Southern
accent; one so thick that it could only have been cultivated in either New
England or Southern California because no one could have ever come by it
naturally.
The
cute blond receptionist rolled her eyes dramatically toward the ceiling. It was
the tenth such call today. She felt sure that even if someone had managed to
videotape Elvis' death and had the tape run on the six o'clock news every night
for a month, some fool would still claim that he was alive and living in
Birmingham as a plumber, which in turn would have caused at least half the
shops in the souvenir city outside of "Graceland" to stock a line of
plumber's helpers embossed with a full color likeness of the "King".
Furthermore, she really and truly wished that the club had never decided to
actually listen to these crack pots who called in sightings.
However,
they had established an entire department to make note of these reports, so her
polite response was, "Yes, ma'am. I'll connect you to Mr. Pace."
There
was a brief pause while the caller was put on hold and heard only the sounds of
Elvis singing "Love Me Tender". This brief pause metamorphosed into a
long pause and the song switched to "Jailhouse Rock" before the
caller was once more as in touch with a human being as she would ever be
capable of.
William
Joseph Pace believed in the second coming of Elvis. Not that he felt that the
"King" was going to rise from the grave or that he would be
reincarnated in the form of a cheap set of lawn furniture. He did not even
believe that the man had faked his own death and was now living the life of a
recluse, putting in the occasional cameo appearance at a back country gas
station. No, Billy Joe Pace believed that the really big money to be made off
of Elvis Presley was now years after his death. He had fought for his
department, ostensibly in charge of keeping track of all alleged sightings.
Actually its purpose was to lend credence to the possibility that Elvis Presley
was still alive, so that he could continue to make money, both from his salary
and profit sharing bonuses, and from the take at the string of souvenir stands
he owned on the side. Billy Joe Pace was firmly committed to the yuppie life
style and enjoyed paying for it on the proceeds of the foolishness of others.
He thanked God devoutly each day for Barnum's First Law.
"Pace,"
he said simply after touching the "HD FREE" button on the metallic
blue-gray plastic box that looked more like a small computer than the desk
phone it was. Immediately upon doing so, he picked up a pencil and prepared to
start taking notes.
"Ah
saw Elvis in tha Mall!" the called said practically screaming in her
excitement.
"Yes,
Miss?" he left the title hanging, waiting for her to fill in the verbal
blank.
"Calhoun,
Velma Calhoun."
"Yes,
Miss Calhoun," Pace said smoothly. Now where did you see him?"
"At
tha mall!"
Pace
sighed and tried again, "Yes, Miss Calhoun. WHat mall is that?
Where?"
"Oh!"
Velma Calhoun said in embarrassment, "Ah'm in
So,
it was going to be one of those call, was it? Pace thought a moment.
"What
state, Miss Calhoun?"
"
"Very
good and what did he look like?"
"He
looked like Elvis! That's how Ah knew it was him!"
"How
was he dressed? What was he doing? That sort of thing."
"Dressed?"
Velma Calhoun then had to do something that she was obviously not prepared to
do - think. "He was wearing a red and white sweater and jeans, Ah think,
and he was drinking a chocolate Fribble in Friendly's. He still there, Ah
think!" That answered the next question of when.
"And
how old would you say he is?"
"Elvis?
He’s immortal, isn't he?"
Pace
gripped his pencil hard, breaking it as his fist clenched tight. A sliver of
wood, painted a bright yellow in one side went flying across the room with
unexpected velocity and stuck in Billy Joe's cork bulletin board. He pulled
another pencil out of his drawer and tried rewording the question in words of
one syllable or less.
"Oh!"
Velma Calhoun said at last. "Ah'd say he looked to be in his late twenties
or early thirties."
"Wouldn't
you say that is a bit young, Miss Calhoun? Mr. Presley would be in his fifties
if he is still alive, don't you think?"
"Well,
he looks like he's lost a lot of weight, wouldn't that make him look younger?"
Pace
shuddered. He got two or three calls like this each week and he never ever got
used to them. He patiently asked Miss Calhoun a few more questions and then
thanked her for her time. As soon as he finished his conversation with her, his
phone rang again.
"Pace,"
he said, collecting his wits.
"Ah
saw Elvis! Ah saw Elvis at the mall!" a frantic woman's voice, obviously
not that of Velma Calhoun, screamed at him, and another monument to
Eleven
The feature that most separates Humankind from all other known
sentient species is the fact that their entire culture is based on
entertainment. Nowhere else in the explored regions of the galaxy can one find
a culture so reliant on being entertained. Not even the Rhapzomots of Behlquin
II, which is the only culture totally made up of professional actors, have made
such an obsession out of the need to be entertained.
On the surface, Humans seem not unlike our own mainstream
Commonwealth culture in this respect, but where a citizen of the Commonwealth
might go to the theater one evening for a play or a concert and perhaps
may describe their experience with
friends later, Humans live to view plays, listen to music, play games, etc.
Where we like to relax after work, and give ourselves a change of pace every
now and then, Humans view work strictly as a means to be able to afford the
luxury of their various entertainments.
from "Chapter 2: Leisure Time"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"Check
and mate!" B-Hob said triumphantly.
"You
got me there, Bob," Larry conceded. "You've only been playing chess
for a few days now, but you're already too good for me. Maybe you should try
against Karen." She was sitting a few feet away and looked up briefly from
the embroidery she was working on, and smiled before returning to her
needlework.
"She's
that much better than you?" B-Hob asked.
"Larry's
technical knowledge is far superior to mine," Karen said, keeping an eye
on her needle.
"But
Karen plays with a creativity that usually takes me by surprise," Larry
finished for her. "I never know what sort of moves she's going to try
next. Neither of us is really all that good. Chess is just one of those games
we learned the basic moves of as kids. You, on the other hand, are a natural
and could probably have a fairly high national rating if you decided to apply
yourself."
"Want
to play another game?" B-Hob asked.
"No
thanks, Bob. Three games in a row are enough for me, especially when I lose
them all. Hon, why don't you play?"
Karen
looked at her barely started needlework and shrugged. It was a piece of
blackwork trim for a Halloween costume and she had another nine months left to
complete it after all. What difference would a single evening make?
"All
right," she said. "Set 'em up!"
Larry
let Karen have his seat and sat down on the couch where she had been and picked
up a classic Kingsley double-crostic puzzle he'd been trying to get to all
week. He was having difficulty getting enough of the clues and had to make far
more guesses than he felt comfortable with. An hour later he finally caught on
to the gist of the quote contained in the puzzle and the whole thing just fell
together - a testimony to why there are very few almost, but not quite,
completed double-crostics.
"Check,"
Karen said, threatening B-Hob's king with her rook on an increasingly
unpopulated board. Karen played chess and most other games for blood. Her style
was more kamikaze to B-Hob's careful samurai and she tended to sacrifice left
and right just to trade pieces. So far the game was still more or less even,
but if there were too many more such trades neither of them would be capable of
placing the other in check.
B-Hob
studied the situation and then moved his last bishop in front of Karen's rook
so that it threatened both the rook and her king and was protected by his queen
and his last pawn.
"Check,"
he replied right back at her. Her response was to take the bishop with her
queen, which B-Hob then picked off with the pawn.
Karen
took the pawn with the rook and said, "Check, again." Now B-Hob was
confused, but he hesitantly took rook with his queen, leaving her with nothing
but the king and a handful of pawns. While he still had the king and queen, but
only one pawn that hadn't been advanced much. Also three of her pawns were well
advanced and clustered near his king.
"Check,"
he replied. In response, she move the king diagonally behind one of the pawns.
He moved the queen but her king's position was well defended with pawns on two
adjacent sides and his own pawn kept getting in the way. It would take at least
one more move to threaten her king. So she pushed a pawn.
"Check,"
she said again. She threatened his king with a pawn backed up by two other
pawns and he was boxed into a corner. His only defense was to take the
attacking pawn with his queen, which he did. She then took the queen with a
pawn. "Check."
A
few minutes later, B-Hob was stuck with just his king surrounded by Karen's
queen and a rook, recently resurrected by advancing two pawns, while his last
pawn died pitifully halfway across the board.
"I
don't understand how you did that," he said, shaking his head.
"What
happened?" Larry asked. "She get you with a suicide mission?"
"Yeah.
I think the whole game was a suicide mission."
"She
does it to me all the time. If it makes you feel any better, that sort of thing
doesn't often work on a master of the game."
"Maybe,"
Karen added, "but it makes mince meat out of you duffers! Good game,
B-Hob. Hey! I'm hungry. How about dinner and a late movie?"
"Why
not?" Larry shrugged. "Bob?"
"I'm
game, and I can use it to supplement my research."
"Wouldn't
that take the fun out of it?" Karen asked. B-Hob shrugged.
"So
where do you want to go?" Larry asked.
"Wherever
you like," Karen replied.
"Libras!"
Larry exclaimed, closing and opening his eyes once very slowly and
deliberately. It was an old ritual to them and had been the cause of more than
a few very late meals as they both tried to defer to the other's wishes when
choosing a restaurant. Then a glimmer flashed across Larry's mind so brightly
that he felt like it might have shown through his eyes. "Hey, Bob! Ever
have a pizza?"
In
most cases, a trip to Pan's
Vito
Pandolfe had always loved keyboard instruments and most especially organs and
carillons. His wife Maria was adamant that a carillon was totally out of the
question - the neighbors would complain or think they were living next to a
church or both - but Vito was able to convince her to allow him to spend every
spare penny they had and invest it in a theater Wurlitzer organ, with as many
options as they could either afford or fit in the building.
The
organ was a marvel to behold, possibly one of the seven wonders of the modern
world. Along with the many banks of pipes, with electronically controlled and
programmable stops, there were other instruments that were also controllable
from the organ manuals; a glockenspiel, two different xylophones, a vibraphone that Lionel Hampton
had supposedly played, a super deluxe drum set with two bass drums, a pair of
toms, one snare drum and half a dozen Ziljin cymbals, a synthesizer that had
been custom made by Vito himself, a laser and conventional light show, and a
computerized alpha-numeric display that might have once been part of a movie
theater marquee across which song lyrics could be displayed on sing-along
night.
Originally
the furnishings, aside from the organ and its accessories, were sparse. There
was just a series of long wooden tables and benches with simple lighting, but
the Pandolfes' idea was an instant success and they soon had the money to
finish the place up. Not wanting to tamper with their success, they opted to
keep the "old barn" look that the empty supermarket just naturally
had, so they paneled the place in a natural barn board and only upgraded the
tables by coating them with a heavy polyurethane. Good reviews in both the "Boston
Globe" and the "Boston Herald American" made their trademark, a
satyr playing a set of pan pipes, known from
"Well,
Bob," Larry asked after they'd each had a piece of Pan's Demonium, a
deluxe pizza with everything on it, pineapple optional, "what do you
think?"
"It's
loud," he replied taking a sip of his root beer.
"I
meant the pizza."
"Oh.
That isn't loud. It's very good. It’s very similar to my favorite junk food
back home."
"You
have pizza on Ragmop?" Karen asked.
"Rhagma,"
B-Hob corrected automatically. "Well, we call it Ztawry, but yes it's
essentially the same stuff - bread topped with some sort of sauce, cheese and
various meats and vegetables. I must say I like this red sauce, I must remember
to get some to take home with me."
"Hah!"
Larry laughed, "Pizza! The universal food!"
"More
true than you know, Larry," B-Hob told him. "At last count, what you
call pizza can be found on every world of the Commonwealth and localized
versions exist among seventy-eight percent of all other known cultures."
"Well
it's a relatively simple idea," Larry said after absorbing what B-Hob had
told him.
"Right,"
B-Hob agreed, "and the frequency of invention varies inversely with the
level of complexity."
"Come
again," Karen prompted him.
"I
mean that the simpler an idea is, the more often it will be independently
developed by different peoples. I could show you the mathematical formula if
you like."
"No
thanks. I doubt it would mean anything to me anyway."
"Whatever.
The music, however is unique."
"You
don't have music on Rhagma, Bob?" Larry asked.
"Music?
Of course we have music. That's even closer to being universal than pizza. What
we don't have is the whole idea of being
entertained while we eat. As far as I know, Humans are the only people for whom
eating is not an activity to be enjoyed for its own sake."
"I
enjoy eating," Karen protested.
"Okay,"
B-Hob agreed a little too quickly, "but I've noticed that you very rarely
do it without either the TV or stereo on and when you do, you usually have a
book or magazine to read."
"He's
got you there!" Larry pointed out. "On the other hand, Bob, I think
the organist has got your number. He's been playing a medley of Elvis tunes
since we sat down. He must have seen us on our way in."
"You
know," B-Hob commented, "my need for privacy is as strong as yours,
and I also need to be able to blend without being too noticeable. Is this face
of mine going to be a problem?"
"It's
a possibility," Larry conceded, "but I've noticed that often enough
Elvis impersonators are able to pull off their act by dressing like him as he
appeared on stage and singing like him. Your voice is not quite like his and
your accent is all wrong anyway. The hair style could be a give away, but we
can change it if it turns out that we need to and, of course, your clothing is
perfectly normal, not a blazing white and silver sequined monstrosity with red
racing stripes. The organist probably doesn't even realize why he's playing
'You Ain't Nothin But a Hound Dog' right now. More likely it was a subconscious
decision triggered by catching sight of you."
"Think
so?"
"Sure!"
Larry assured him. "So what sort of movie do we want to see?"
"One
with Elvis Presley?" B-Hob suggested.
"I
don't think there are any playing," Karen said, fishing out the
entertainment section she had stuffed in her large handbag.
"I
suppose we should show you one of our best films, Bob. This is, after all, your
first time, and I want you to be suitably impressed."
"Hey!"
Karen said suddenly. "Here's one I want to see and it's opening night.
We'll have to go into
The
Schmidt-Regal was a movie theater in the old mold. None of these twenty-nine movie cinemaplexes
with pocket-sized screens for Mr. Schmidt. His theater still played
"A" and "B" features with a cartoon and coming attractions
between each one. The ticket price was higher than the multimegaplexes, but you
could sit there all day and evening if you desired, just watching the movies
over and over again. Its large wooden stage was suitable to live theater but
the last live play that had been performed there was Gilbert and Sullivan's
"The Magician" and the trap door that had been specially installed
for that performance was still there, although its sticky catch made it a
health hazard. The trap door didn't matter however since no one but the
cleaning crew went behind the screen most of the time anyway. The theater had a
balcony and six private boxes and all the woodwork was hand-carved and had been
lovingly maintained for sixty-eight years. The seats were on their eleventh set
of clothes and were two years overdue for reupholstering, but somehow that only
added to the atmosphere of the place.
Larry,
Karen, and B-Hob were seated down in the sixth row, on the aisle. They'd
arrived just in time for the last show but because it was a weeknight they had
their choice of seats. They deferred to Larry's wishes so now they were seated
so close that they could just barely see the entire curved screen without turning
their heads. That, according to Larry, was the best way to watch a movie.
"I
like the cartoons," B-hob was saying enthusiastically. "That Roger
Rabbit looks like a friend of mine although his voice isn't high enough. I
wonder if my friend could get work here doing cartoons."
"That's
not the way they're made, Bob," Karen told him gently.
"They're
not? But at the end, they..."
"It's
called 'camera magic', Bob. A trick of light, film and high-tech electronics.
It just looks like they're real. Actually they're drawn and painted and
computer-enhanced and they're made to move by photographing many such drawings
one frame at a time."
"Wow!"
Bob said, his eyes wide, "That's even more impressive than I thought.
Imagine the incredible patience and all that work. No wonder there were so many
names in the credits. What's the main feature about?"
"It's
a remake of the original Godzilla. The original is a classic, but the monster
moved rather stiffly. The recent advances in cinematography ought to make it
look like a real creature rather than the mock-up it is."
"It
isn't real?" B-Hob asked.
"No,
these are just stories. Fiction," Karen replied. "What did you
think?"
"Well
I naturally assumed that they were at least based on actual events."
"No,
they're totally made up. We do also have stories and movies about actual
events, but you haven't seen any tonight."
"Not
even the cartoons?" B-Hob asked, disillusioned. Karen just smiled and
patted his hand in sympathy.
Finally
the "A" movie started up. Someone in casting had a sense of humor,
putting
"
"I'm
just happy they decided to stick to the original plot," Larry replied.
"I don't think I could have been able to stomach one like the sequels
where Godzilla was supposed to be the good guy-protector of
"Yay!"
B-Hob cheered, applauding wildly and ignoring both of them. "Go get
them!" The monster had just eaten a school complete with the teachers and
pupils. "Get the principal! Yeah! Woo!" Karen glanced over her
shoulder and noticed that half of the others in the relatively empty hall were
staring at them and the rest were telling them to shut up. "Don't you just
love it when the hero wins?" B-Hob asked her.
Karen
held her head in her hands and muttered, "I've never been so embarrassed
in my life."
*****
***** *****
"On
the second sighting, we attempted to triangulate in on the radio source and
coordinate that with the radar and visual sightings of the object."
Colonel Morgenstern listened while the young technician tried to explain what
all the numbers meant. So far he twice had to remind the man, a genius in his
early twenties who had enlisted strictly for the college money, to speak
English and not Mathematics. Eventually he stopped invoking tangents, arcsines,
and other terms of the Black Math, and just told the story without trying to
pass a final exam.
"And
the results?" Isaiah Morgenstern asked.
"Inconclusive,
sir." The young man replied. He flinched at the colonel's frown.
"Radar and visual tracking were out of synch by as much as ten miles. The
object seemed to teleport several miles at a time, both visually and on radar,
except for on the tracking done by the pursuit jets."
"Oh?"
Morgenstern asked. "What results did they produce?"
"None
at all, sir."
"None
at all?"
"Correct,
sir. Whatever was up there, if there was anything up there, they never made
contact either visually or on radar."
"Strange.
What about computer-analysis of the data we do have? Have you been able to
pin-point where it must have lifted from?"
"That,
sir, depends on the size of your pin."
"I
suppose you'd care to explain that, Airman," Morgenstern said sharply.
"Yes,
sir," he replied nervously. "We have it pinned down, if that's the
correct term, to a circle about fifteen miles wide centered in
"
"Yes,
sir. The more interesting thing, however, is where the object went after it was
fifteen to twenty miles out at sea."
"Where
did it go?"
"Well,
sir, until it got beyond our satellite range it appeared to be heading toward
the moon at an acceleration of 1.029 gees."
"Is
that number significant?"
"It
might be, but only if we were an interstellar race. We could probably match the
acceleration to the gravity to a known planet, but our catalog of known planets
is rather slim, sir." Morgenstern studied the written report for another
moment before dismissing the young man. He waited until the office door was
shut before picking his phone up and dialing a four digit on-base number.
"Hello,
Chuck," he said when the call was answered. "Did you get those
satellite and aerial photos I wanted?"
"Sure
did, Izzy. We did a full aerial photo-recon
of
"Good.
I want one more run made."
"Another
one? Why?"
"Because
I suspect there may have been changes."
"You're
still not going to tell me why you want these, are you?" Chuck asked.
"Sorry,
Chuck, but you know better than to ask," Morgenstern replied.
"The
only reason I was asking, is that these missions are very expensive and I have
to justify them."
"Just
put my name on the forms, Chuck. This one, however, won't be as expensive. I'm
sending over some coordinates. They should be there a few minutes after we hang
up. Just photograph a circular area around those coordinates."
"How
big a circle?" Chuck asked suspiciously.
Morgenstern
considered that a moment and decided to triple the projected area just in case
and then told Chuck, "About a twenty-three mile radius."
"You're
right - that is small."
"And
then when you have all three sets, Chuck, I'd like you to feed them into the
computer and have it analyze them for differences."
"Whatever
you want."
"Thanks,
Chuck. I'll see you later," Morgenstern said hanging up. "Closer and
closer," he chortled to himself, seeing a brigadier general's star in his
eyes.
Twelve
Beneath such endearing terms as "Rug Rats", "Lawn
Lizards", and "Schoolyard Hyenas" there is a deep affection
between parents and children. This is true of most intelligent species, except
for the Alpavarvids, of course, who prefer their children as barbecued
appetizers. Consequently, Alpavarvid children are born fully functional and in
a litter of hundreds. They emerge with a finely tuned set of racial memories,
the reasoning facility to use them, and the physical reflexes to act upon the
knowledge of what their parents intend to do with them. Alpavarvids live in
perpetual fear until they reach puberty when their bodies undergo certain
hormonal changes that render them toxic to another Alpavarvid.
Humans, on the other hand,are pretty much like most other people
except for their strong beliefs concerning their children. Curiously, many
humans believe that you could sit together any group of children who have never
met and they will immediately start to communicate and act together in some way
independent of the prejudices of their parents. One can only wonder what they
would think if that group included one or two Alpavarvid children, who share
their parents' cannibalistic tendencies from birth.
from "Chapter 6; Growing Up
Human"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
It
had taken B-Hob and Larry over two months to put the finishing touches on
establishing a legal identity. They had decided, after all, to go the full
route rather than set up an identity that would only hold up on a temporary
basis. In spite of what Larry's book had said, the hardest part was getting the
Social Security number. Because B-Hob was obviously over eighteen, he needed to
apply in person, and with an apparent age of twenty-nine, it took five separate
tries in different offices before they happened on a sufficiently plausible
story explaining why he didn't have a Social Security number yet. They ended up
using a simple story about losing his card and not being able to remember the
number. To Karen’s surprise, it worked.
The
next hardest part was the driver's license, but that was only because the
testing officer took one look at B-Hob's black matte glasses and insisted on
testing his visual abilities.
The
Registry cop had held up his right hand in a gesture that twenty years earlier
would have been called a "peace sign" and before that a "V for
victory" and said, "How many fingers?"
"Yours
or mine?" B-Hob had replied. Eventually the cop was convinced that B-Hob
could, in fact, see and the driving portion was relatively easy.
Some
of B-Hob's supposedly worthless trinkets for trading with the natives proved to
sell well in a local flea market and soon he had a few thousand dollars in a
money market account in the Bank of Boston, and twin gold Visa and Master Cards
from First Southern. He felt much better about that since he hadn't been
comfortable living off the willing charity of the Hunters and while a few
thousand plus credit wasn't really very much, he now felt he could at least
make a contribution toward the household if they'd only give him a chance.
He
had been taking notes toward his dissertation since landing, but now at last he
was able to actually get out on his own to study human behavior in its natural
habitat. To pick and choose where and what to observe without feeling guilty
about taking up Larry or Karen's time.
The
other good news was that it had been nearly a month since he had needed to talk
to Bunky. Every moment away from that nano-electronic junk pile, B-Hob felt,
was a moment well spent. His only fear involved the difficulties he anticipated
during his homeward voyage. He made a note to himself to remember to call up
Bunky tonight to see if he had succeeded on figuring out where home was yet.
Meanwhile,
he was sitting on an uncomfortably built bench of concrete and wood in the
midst of a carefully planned and maintained collection of trees, grass, and
concrete paths. However, it was an odd set of colorfully painted structures
that had attracted B-Hob there in the first place on that unseasonably warm
April day. At first he was unable to figure out what their purpose was and had
decided that they were a form of sculpture and took numerous photographs and
wrote a couple of pages of descriptions until a group of children came running
up and started playing on the weird contraptions.
"What
are you doing?" one inquisitive young girl asked, sitting down next to
him.
"I'm
taking notes," B-Hob replied.
"Why?"
"For
school," he answered, hoping that the simplicity of the answer would
satisfy the child.
"Oh,"
she nodded sagely. "My big brother goes to school. What's your name?"
"Bob,"
he said remembering the pronunciation that Karen and Larry used.
"I'm
Sally," she volunteered.
"What's
this place called?" B-Hob asked.
Sally
looked at him a little strangely and then decided that he was testing her
knowledge. Grown-ups did that sort of thing all the time - asking her all sorts
of obvious questions that they really ought to know by now themselves. After all,
she was just a kid. If she knew the answers, shouldn't they?
"It's
the 'Park'!" she answered anyway in the half-excited tone she'd learned to
delight grown-ups.
B-Hob
made a few notes on his pad and asked another question, "And what's that
called?"
"A
slide!"
"And
those?"
"Swings!"
and so this continues through "Jungle Gym!", "See-saw!",
and "Sand box!" until the girl's mother retrieved her.
"I
hope she wasn't a bother," the mother said, thinking that B-Hob looked
somehow familiar.
"Not
at all," B-Hob replied. "In fact, Sally was helping me
tremendously."
"Oh?
How?" Sally's mother became worried, she still couldn't place the face
behind those dark glasses, but she felt certain that she must have seen him on
TV. Could it have been one of those "Most Wanted" shows?
"I
told him what the toys are called,
"For
my dissertation," B-Hob amplified, "on human behavior."
"Oh,"
Sally's mother said. "I was a Chem. major myself. What school?"
"
"Never
heard of it."
"It's
a long way away," B-Hob said, trying to cover his mistake. He decided to
ask Larry about some of the local schools.
"Rhagma?"
The former coed wondered. "Sounds sort of Indian. You don't sound like
you're from
"I'm
not," B-Hob told her, thinking quickly. "I just go to school at
She
just nodded and hurried Sally away from the stranger. Something about B-Hob
made her nervous. She was certain that she had seen him before and those dark
glasses made him seem sinister. It wasn't that she didn't believe that he was a
student, but she had heard far too many ominous stories about weirdos who sat
in parks watching the children. She rushed Sally out of the park, but before
she left, she shared her concern with a beat cop assigned to park security. A
few minutes later B-Hob began to suspect that he wouldn't be able to join Karen
and Larry for dinner as they had planned.
*****
***** *****
"I'm
worried about Bob, Larry," Karen said as their car turned onto the
cul-de-sac on which they lived. "Why didn't he meet us at Jake's?"
"It's
probably nothing to get concerned about, dear. He probably just got lost and
couldn't find the place."
"You
think so?"
"Sure,"
Larry told her with a confidence he didn't feel. "He probably made his way
back home and is waiting for us there."
"The
house is dark, dear," Karen said as they pulled into the driveway.
"Yeah,"
Larry agreed, "and the jeep isn't in the garage either," he added
when the door opened for them.
The
phone was ringing as they entered the house and Karen rushed to answer it
before whoever was calling could hang up.
"Hello?"
"Karen?
It's B-Hob."
"Bob!
Where are you? We've been so worried."
"I
was arrested and am being held at the police station."
"Arrested?
Why?"
"Arrested?"
Larry asked, correctly interpreting the half of the conversation he heard.
Karen motioned that he should be quiet while she heard what B-Hob was saying.
"I'm
not really sure," B-Hob told her. "They said something about
suspicion. Can they do that?"
"I
don't know. Have you been booked yet?"
"Booked?"
B-Hob asked, awash to the term.
"Never
mind. We'll be there as soon as we can."
"Thanks,
Karen," B-Hob said and hung up.
"What's
happened?" Larry demanded as Karen replaced the handset in its cradle.
"The
police picked him up on suspicion of something or other. What do we do now? Get
a lawyer?"
"At
this time of night?"
Half
an hour later they were arguing with a desk sergeant.
"I'm
sorry, folks," the sergeant told them insincerely, "but we're going
to have to hold him until tomorrow while we're checking his priors." The
sergeant would once have been described as thin, wiry, and cat-like, but times
had changed and so had he. He was no longer thin or wiry, and the term
"cat-like" applied only if one was thinking of a fat house cat that
had been eating one too many cans of food per day for the last few years.
"What
priors?" Karen demanded. "He doesn't have a record."
"Well,
ma'am. Then that's just what we'll find out."
"What
are you holding him for?" Larry asked, trying to keep his temper.
"We
got a complaint that he was bothering the children in the park," the
sergeant replied.
"That's
ridiculous!" Larry and Karen scoffed together.
"The
complainant claims she saw him on that 'You're the Detective!' show."
"She
saw him on an old album cover," Karen countered. "He looks a little
like Elvis Presley at age twenty-nine."
"Hey!
That's it!" a passing officer said all of a sudden. "I knew he looked
familiar. It must be those dark glasses that kept me from realizing it."
"You
sure, Anuszczyk?" the sergeant asked.
"I
am now. There have been some reported Elvis sightings up here lately. My wife
is real nuts for him, you know, so I hear about every one the fan club
reports."
"Whether
you want to or not, I'll bet."
"That's
pretty much it, Sarge. Anyway, I'll bet the folks who've thought they saw Elvis
were actually seeing him."
"That's
a possibility," the sergeant allowed. "According to the complainant
he was just sitting there watching the children and taking notes, but he made
her nervous."
"You
arrest people just because they make others nervous?" Karen asked,
outraged.
"Yes!"
the sergeant replied. "We do if there's a chance they abuse our
children."
"Yeah,"
"Anuszczyk,
bring that guy out here, I want to take a look at him myself."
It
took another hour and three consultations with superior officers, but the Chief
of Police eventually ordered B-Hob's release warning him not to leave town for
a few days, just in case.
"Well,
that was exciting," Larry said dryly when they were all finally back home.
"Sorry
about all the trouble I caused," B-Hob apologized.
"It's
not your fault," Karen told him, "but when I get my hands on
Bunky..." she let the threat hang, not knowing what would cause the
semi-sentient computer the most anguish, but determined to find out eventually.
"Could
have been a lot worse," Larry added. "Officially they only brought
you in for questioning, so we didn't have to raise bail money and you won't
have to appear in court. The nice thing is that your cover story held up. I
wasn't sure it would if put under that sort of scrutiny, in spite of what the
book said."
"Now
he tells me!" B-Hob said to the ceiling.
"No,
really! New identities don't have much in the way of a back history, and that
can show up on computer searches. The weak link was your birth certificate. I'm
glad now we chose
"I
thought they were going to hold him for sure when that happened," Karen
commented.
"Me
too," B-Hob agreed.
"Well,
I wouldn't go making any out of town field trips for a while," Larry said,
glancing out the front window, "it appears they've put a tail on
you."
*****
***** *****
A
month earlier Prescott Daniels received permission to expand his office and,
accordingly, he had rented the entire floor adjoining his office in the
Boylston Street building he'd been using for years.
Before,
the only regular denizens of his Operation Ether were himself and his
secretary, Vere. The visits from Hedgehog were at irregular intervals and
Daniels suspected that was
Now
that he had the space, Daniels at last was able to set up a special room just
for the tracking of UFO sightings and related phenomena. Before, all that had
been done on one wall of his office and the locations marked with his
custom-machined darts. Now that same wall sported a door that opened into a
small room in which he had installed a water bed for those late nights and
early afternoons with Vere.
The
only problem was that new sightings suddenly dropped back to normal levels a
month before at about the same time that the contractors finished the
remodeling of Daniel's office. Nothing attracted the Company's auditors faster
than a sudden lack of activity on the part of a project and Daniels was
starting to worry about their imminent arrival when Hedgehog strolled into his
office one afternoon.
"I
love your little back room, Pres," Hedgehog opened the conversation on a
disrespectful note. Daniels was used to Hedgehog's irreverence, but he was
shocked to hear that anyone else other than Vere knew about the back room.
"How?"
"How
did I know? Come on, Pres. If I'd let a detail like that slip by me I'd be
ready for a pine box." What Hedgehog omitted was the fact that he and most
of the rest of the staff had been using the room with Vere, although Daniels
was the only one who insisted on bagpipe music for background. Vere only
restricted herself to one man when there was only one man available. The back
room was the worst-kept secret in the office, but word of it would probably
never get back to
"So,"
Daniels said, shoving the matter of the back room aside, "what do you have
for me this time."
"Things
have been a little quiet around here lately, haven't they?" Hedgehog said
obliquely.
"Yes
they have," Daniels replied stiffly. The sudden drop-off in activity was a
sore spot to him and Hedgehog knew it. "Is that the only reason you came
in here this morning?" Daniels picked up one of his darts and threw it
negligently at the dartboard on the far wall. Bull's-eye.
"Not
really, no. Just wanted to make sure you weren't getting too used to the easy
life." Daniels' face hardened and Hedgehog decided that he was skating
near enough to the edge so he went on. "You see, QETI picked up some more
radio signals last night." Hedgehog tossed a small collection of paper
negligently across Daniels' desk. Daniels reached for it eagerly, flipping
through the pages like a Doberman at his first meal in three days.
"What's
this?" he asked, unable to understand the contents.
"It's
in code," Hedgehog told him, "as you ordered."
"I
can see that," Daniels said sharply. "What code is it?"
"My
own invention," Hedgehog said modestly, "a triple-encrypted version
of a translation from the original Navaho." Navaho? Hedgehog didn't look
like any sort of Indian, but Daniels didn't ask. Hedgehog would never answer
anyway.
"Care
to translate it for the ignorant 'White Eyes'?" Hedgehog gave him a nasty
smile in response.
"Very
well. The simplified version is that the signals were on the exact same
frequency as the series that were detected last month only this time they
appeared to be coming from the Moon."
"Any
idea of where they were going or was it a general broadcast?"
"The
broadcast was fairly directional and tight-beamed. We think the broadcast was
meant to be received somewhere between Washington and Halifax."
"You
call that a tight beam?" Daniels asked.
"From
the Moon? Yes, that is a tight beam. And before you ask, no, we didn't detect
any signal from the Earth to the Moon."
"What
good does that do me, then?" Daniels asked.
"For
starters it gives you something to report to justify your existence to the big
boys at
"What
other Operation Ethers?"
"Did
you really think you were the only agent of your caliber with a blemished
record? Until you started turning up hard evidence of a real flying saucer,
this was the standard fate for your kind. It keeps you active in case they need
you again, but you're also harmlessly out to pasture. They had you working on a
shoestring because they never expected you to actually find anything. Your
counterparts are now being recycled into some other nearly impossible
project."
"Like
what?" Daniels asked curiously.
"Beats
me," Hedgehog replied a little too quickly. "They're probably off
looking for unicorns and fairies now."
"Or
Elvis Presley."
"Why
do you say that?" Hedgehog asked, suddenly serious.
"Oh
nothing. It's just that the Herald American has been reporting Elvis
sightings for the last two months all along the
"You
saying there's a connection?" Hedgehog asked. Daniels shot him a sour
look. "Well, maybe I should look into it anyway."
"You're
too important to waste on that," Daniels told him. "I need you to
keep an eye on all the other alien watchers. Elvis sightings. Maybe we should
suggest that some of my former counterparts look into that," Daniels
laughed.
Hedgehog
smiled slightly, then said, "What makes you think they aren't doing that
already?" Daniels stopped laughing and the two men just sat there and
stared at each other for a long time.
Thirteen
Security is a concept that has many different connotations. To the
average hunter-gatherer culture like the Quanens of Gamma Tercellion III, it
means a comforting fire, a strong arm, and a sharp spear. To citizens of the
Confederation it means all the comforts of home and a firm belief in one's own
abilities. To the Waxtilians of Waxtil Beta, it means knowing that your
neighbor is screwing around with your wife.
Due to hormonal imbalances in their biology, Waxtilian women are
often driven into a killing frenzy when they experience a particularly intense
sexual experience. Continuation of their species by natural means is a key
feature of their religion and procreation is prescribed on a regular basis, so
naturally Waxtilian men believe that frigid women make the best wives.
Unfortunately the inability of a Waxtilian woman to experience orgasm is an
extremely rare trait and the next best thing is to encourage extra-marital
activity on her part. Of course, one must keep in mind that while a Waxtilian
is setting up the guy next door, the guy next door is doing the same to him.
The end result is that Waxtilians, at least those who survive, are perhaps the
most accomplished card players in known space and are universally barred from
the Casinos of the Commonwealth, unless playing for the house.
To Humans, security means large aggressive animals, weapons ranging
from small hand-guns to orbital-based platforms capable of destroying their
world, specially tailored bio-weapons, barbed wire, water-filled trenches, and
a coercively repressive system of governmental agencies. In short, it would
seem that Humans are at their most secure when they are capable of
"blowing each other away" as they might say. Strangely enough, with
some predictable exceptions, Humans as a rule don't actually want to make use
of that capability. They just need to feel that they have it should the need
ever arise.
from "Chapter 8; Warfare"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
The
brave men and women of the Hingham Police began to really dread keeping an eye
on the suspicious Robert H. Karma. They were used to keeping someone under
surveillance, but this suspect just didn't behave the way they expected someone
who knew he was being watched to behave. It started on the first day after
B-Hob's arrest. He decided that he wanted to return to the park to continue his
observations.
Where
most suspects would have attempted to ignore their tail or even try to lose
them, he walked boldly up to the unmarked car across the street and told the
plainclothesman at the wheel, "I'm going to the park again today and I'll
be stopping for gas on the way. Is that all right?"
"Huh?"
The veteran cop replied. "Uh, yeah, that's fine."
"Thank
you. Oh, do you know where I might buy a kite? They looked like they were a lot
of fun yesterday." The cop ended up leading the way to a small variety
store and helped B-Hob pick out a cheap paper kite and a roll of twine. When it
turned out that the winds were strong enough that the kite required a tail, the
cop sent his partner back to the car to grab a rag out of the trunk that they
could rip into shreds.
On
another day B-hob decided that he should interview a policeman and walked up to
the car and took a seat in the back while he questioned the man and woman in
the front seat who were assigned to him that day.
The
final straw came some ten days later when Karen and Larry went with B-Hob to
the Mall to do some shopping. When the bags they were carrying became too
numerous and heavy for three people to carry, B-Hob guilelessly recruited the two
trailing officers to help carry the extras back to the car. After that
incident, overt surveillance stopped although B-Hob received a phone call once
a day for another week from Police Lieutenant Moniz to ostensibly ask him just
one more question before they closed the case. After that, they appeared to
lose interest in him, but B-Hob decided to make sure.
"Lieutenant
Moniz, please. Yes, I'll wait."
"Bob,
what are you doing?" Larry asked.
"Trust
me. Hello, yes. Lieutenant Moniz? Bob Karma here. Look, the Hunters and I want
to go into
"What
you do is no concern of mine, Mr. Karma," Moniz replied. "Why are you
asking?"
"Well
you told me not to leave town until further notice and I just wanted to make
sure it was okay."
"Go!
Keep going, for all I care. Go to the Moon if you want!"
"I
don't think so, Lieutenant. It's a very uninteresting place, lousy color
scheme, no air. I much prefer this planet," B-Hob replied innocently.
There was silence over the phone as Lieutenant Moniz fought the big one for his
self-control.
Finally
he spoke. "Mr. Karma, I'm sorry we inconvenienced you. We should never
have bothered you in the first place Now please feel free to come and go as you
will." He then quickly hung up before B-Hob could ask what he was sure
would be another infuriating question.
"Free
at last!" B-Hob said as he hung the phone up. "I just wanted to make
sure we were no longer being watched."
"Bob,"
asked Karen, "has that been what you were up to all this time?"
"Uh
huh! I figured that if they saw more of me than they really wanted, they would
soon lose interest and go away."
"You
took a big chance there, Bob," Larry told him. "That sort of behavior
could just as easily have caused them to look a bit deeper. Your false identity
isn't unassailable by a long shot. Ten to one they never questioned the City of
"I
thought you said that the earthquake story would cover any lack of
records?"
"No,
only that it would offer a plausible explanation. It worked this time, but
let's not try pushing our luck. All right?"
"Sorry,
Larry. I misunderstood."
"No
problem this time. The real point, however, is to be inconspicuous."
"Got
it. So, now that we know that we're in the clear, what's in
"A
whole other world, Bob," Karen told him. "We thought you might like
to visit some of our museums and then, of course there's the library. So, tell
us. Where to first?"
"A
museum or two would be instructive."
"Instructive?
Okay. Let's do the
*****
***** *****
"E=Mc2?
Really? Hah!" B-hob started laughing hysterically.
"Bob,"
Karen said in an aggravated whisper, "that equation is supposed to be the
basis of atomic physics. What's wrong with it?" It took B-Hob a moment to
settle down.
"Well
it presupposes that the speed of light through a vacuum is a constant."
"It
isn't?" Larry asked.
"No,
there are hundreds of variables involved. I'll admit that this equation is a
fair approximation given the conditions that normally prevail in this galactic
area, but it's a bit simplistic. Still, the scientific knowledge of your
culture is surprisingly advanced. Most cultures at your stage of development
would consider it religious heresy to suggest that matter could even be
converted into energy, except for the Zaqvids of Anglefette." Both Karen
and Larry had inquiring looks on their faces so B-Hob continued, "The Zaqvids
were a group of methane-breathing slug-like creatures that became sessile in
their middle age. Well, since they had nothing to do but sit around, they
thought a lot, leaving the younger Zaqvids or 'Actors' to act on the thoughts
of the 'Thinkers'. The result was that by the time their culture had thoroughly
adapted to using the wheel, the 'Thinkers' had already postulated the uses of
thermonuclear reactions. It was all very sad really."
"Why?"
Karen asked in spite of herself.
"The
'Actors' were too dependant on complete guidance from the 'Thinkers' and by the
time they got around to building their first nuclear power plant, the
'Thinkers' had already moved on to the consideration of direct matter-to-energy
conversion, no longer caring about more primitive concepts. The 'Actors' went
ahead and built the plant without any real understanding of what they were
doing. It was far too large and the controls were inadequate."
"Meltdown?"
Larry guessed.
"Polluted
the entire planet with radio-active fall out. They died out soon after, of
course."
"Bob,
I've been watching the people around us for an hour now," Karen said,
changing the subject, "and I think we'd better do something about changing
your appearance as soon as we get home tonight."
"Why?"
B-Hob asked, looking around. "I don't see anything unusual."
"By
now, you're probably used to having people stare at you," Larry told him,
"but do you remember what I told you about attracting attention?"
"Oh
yeah. So should I give Bunky a call and have him bring the ship back
down?"
"That
won't be necessary," Karen told him. "We'll just stop off at the drug
store on the way home. Bunky's ideas aside, I really think you ought to be a
blond."
*****
***** *****
Lieutenant
General Peter James Bradford Jr. was what polite society might have call a
"hard ass" if
"How
the fuck are you, Izzy?" he asked, mostly to see what sort of response
he'd get.
"Pretty
damned good, Pete, and you?" Basic training, many years ago, had indelibly
taught Isaiah Morgenstern how to swear and while he normally preferred to
employ a more genteel speech pattern, he knew his superior officer's
idiosyncrasies well enough to play the part expected of him.
"Not
too well,"
"Spring
break?" Morgenstern tried lamely.
"Colonel
Morgenstern,"
"Very
well, sir. I ordered a computer comparison between two sets of aerial
photographs of the projected area of landing, but you wouldn't believe how many
differences there can be after only two days time."
"What
sort of differences?"
"The
placements of cars, the drifting and subsequent melting of snow, even the
differences of shadows since the pictures were taken at different times of the
day."
"I
may only be an old flight jockey who managed to bull shit his way through the
ranks, Izzy, but even I know that computers can be programmed to filter out
mundane details like that."
"The
computers you Pentagon boys have can do all that and more," Morgenstern
agreed, "and they do it automatically, but the dinosaur I have to deal
with isn't that sophisticated. We have to program those things manually, and unlike
the movies, that isn't done by just pushing a few keys. Each pass requires a
separate program and each program can take hours, even days to write. I have
Captain Markowitz working on it almost exclusively."
"Charles
Markowitz?" the general asked.
"You've
heard of him?"
"I
worked with him at Edwards a few years ago. Good man that. If he's having
trouble, it's a big problem. That solves half of why I'm here."
"And
the other half, sir?" Morgenstern was on a relatively rare first name
basis with the general, but there were times when he knew he had to be formal.
Sensing he was about to receive new orders, he was well aware that this was one
of those times.
"I'm
here for the duration,"
"I
was about to close it anyway," Morgenstern admitted. "It's been a
long time without any activity."
"I'm
afraid you won't bloody well get off that damned easy,"
"You
think they may be related?"
"Does
a submarine have a watertight asshole? As soon as I have an office to move into
- anytime this hour will be fine - have Markowitz send a set of photos and his
work so far to me so I can catch up. Then, this evening over dinner, you can
bring me up to date on all those other UFO sightings you've been investigating.
III. Three
to Get Ready
Fourteen
"That's right! And now for a limited time only you too can
have one of these incredible kitchen appliances! They slice, they dice, they
make millions of exotic taste treats. Use this new oriental attachment to slice
sushi and sashimi. Isn't that amazing! With a single slice it reliably removes
all the offending toxic dorsal flesh from this fabulously delicious fugu! Now
you can enjoy this rare and expensive gourmet treat in the comfort of your own
home! How much would you pay for this extraordinary device with the ten piece
set of cutting blades plus the self-sharpening steak knives and the unbreakable
crystal goblets? $40? $30? Well now during our special introductory offer, you
can get them all for only $9.95. Unbelievable? But wait..."
The people of Earth have a commercial culture that rivals our own
and is, in fact, exceeded only by the Rammabols of Rammawer IV, where
advertising is literally a religion in which the high priests wear tacky
polyester plaid robes and must undergo the most rigorous purification rituals
before being allowed to compose an ad regardless of whether it be a public
service announcement or a mere bit of hype for a new under-tentacle deodorant.
Aside from the utter lack of religious observances, a Rammabol high priest
would feel right at home on Madison Avenue.
from "Chapter 9; Subsistence"
The Humans of Earth
by B-Hob Kharma
"I
give up!" Karen said at last. She had been trying for the last three hours
to bleach B-Hob's computer-generated hair to a surfer blond, but the black mass
of fibers had lightened up to no more than a neutral gray. It became an ugly
tarnished brass color when she attempted adding a little color. In the end, she
had to settle for a light brown that at least had the virtue of not looking
perpetually dirty and unlike the blond she had hoped for it looked natural with
his skin color.
"This
makes me look different?" B-Hob asked skeptically. "My face is still
the same."
"True,"
Karen agreed, "but the lighter hair should detract attention away from
your extreme resemblance to Elvis. At the very least, there will be less people
staring at you."
"You
would think," Larry opined, "that people would at least expect Elvis
to look like he was in his mid-to-late fifties and not the twenty-nine or so
that Bob appears to be. How long ago did Elvis die, fifteen, sixteen
years?"
"Nearly
seventeen, dear," Karen answered, "Remember the big deal on the news
about what you called 'Dead Elvis Week' in
"He
ought to shave the sideburns back to a more fashionable length, but aside from
that I guess it will do."
"Shave?"
B-Hob asked. "You mean take an incredibly sharp knife and scrape it across
my face?"
"That
is the way it works," Larry allowed.
"No,
thank you very much," B-Hob shivered.
"How
have you been removing your beard up until now? That ought to do the trick."
"What
beard? I didn't even have sideburns until Bunky fitted me with these while I
was in the tank."
"I
never noticed," Karen admitted, "but that explains why I never had to
clean little hairs out of the guest bathroom sink. But what's wrong with using a
razor?"
B-Hob
shivered again before answering, "Maybe it's just a personal quirk, but
I'd rather not. The idea of putting a sharp blade to my face scares the willies
out of me."
"All
right. We won't make you shave. Dry off and I'll give you another chance to
beat me at chess."
B-Hob
had become quite comfortable with his evening routine with the Hunters. More
often than not they would watch the news while reading or playing one board
game or another. As the evening wore on, the game might change or not as might
the players. B-Hob used the television as a study guide for his thesis, but by
ten o'clock he had normally developed enough erroneous conclusions to keep both
Larry and Karen up for another two hours or better correcting him. This might
have become dull after a while, but they varied it often enough with movies or
dining out to keep the quiet evenings at home something to look forward to.
B-Hob
had never quite gotten a handle on Karen's style of suicide chess and they were
halfway through yet another bloody exchange of pieces that was almost sure to
end up with another loss in his column when his attention was distracted by an
item on the news.
"Locally,
scientists are perplexed by a mysterious collection of what appears to be
costume jewelry. This jewelry is characterized by stones that glow of their own
light when worn. We go now to a live
interview with Doctor Quentin Foxglove of the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology who has been studying the mysterious jewelry."
"Thank
you, Jim," a pretty brunette in her mid-twenties chimed in. "This is
Carmen Roberts, Eyewitness News 4, and I'm here today with Doctor Quentin
Foxglove..."
"Why
do reporters always repeat everything the anchor has already told us?"
B-Hob asked.
"Shh!"
Karen replied. Larry merely shrugged.
"Doctor
Foxglove," Carmen Roberts was asking, "just what is it about this
jewelry that makes it so unusual?" The image on the screen jumped a bit
indicating to the sharp-eyed that the interview was not only not live but had
already been edited before air time.
"There
are several details about the pieces I have examined that make them unique as a
collection. The metals used are unlike any alloys I have ever seen. One is a
silver alloy that is analogous to sterling except that there is very little copper
in it but has aluminum instead. The other alloy is, strictly speaking, fourteen
karat gold, but the actual alloyed metals are of amounts that are not commonly
produced."
"Doctor,
these items were reportedly bought in a flea market for only a few dollars
each," Carmen Roberts pointed out.
"If
you say so. The alloys are of only passing interest in any case. It was the
stones that are set in each piece that first attracted my attention. You see
they seem to be some sort of silica but with some trace impurities that cause
them to glow with their own light when heated to near body temperature. The
colors vary, but they seem to be mostly in the upper end of the spectrum. One
of the stones actually emits ultra-violet light, which might tend to give the
wearer a mild tan underneath the stone."
"Is
there any naturally-occurring gem stone that would do that?"
"Not
to my knowledge, although you should consult somebody in the geology
department."
"Is
there a possibility that this jewelry is of extraterrestrial origin as the Von
Daniken Society is now claiming?" the reporter asked.
"These
objects are very unusual, Ms. Roberts," Foxglove replied stiffly,
"but I am sure that there is a more reasonable explanation concerning
their origin."
"Thank
you, Doctor Foxglove. Back to you, Jim."
"Thank
you, Carmen," the anchorman replied smoothly. "Our investigative team
has traced the purchase of this highly unusual jewelry to a large flea market
in
"Those
trinkets were made with real gold and silver?" Larry asked B-Hob
incredulously.
"Well,
yes, of course," B-Hob replied. "What else?"
"Almost
anything else. Bob, if I'd realized they were made of precious metals we could
have gotten a lot more than we did."
"Precious
metals?" B-Hob protested. "They were gold and silver, not osmium or
iridium or something odd like that. My mass-energy converter has a rather
limited repertoire. Should I have used platinum?"
"Good
Lord no!" Larry exclaimed. Karen giggled.
"Well
the only other alloys I can produce are stainless and O1 tool steel, or at
least that's what Bunky says are their nearest Earth equivalents, and they
didn't seem appropriate."
"What
about the stones?" Karen asked.
"Synthetic
glow quartz. Like the guy on the TV said, it's basically silica with a few impurities.
It's very rare in its natural state and natural pieces usually have several
colors in each piece, but it is easy to synthesize in monochrome pieces."
"What
else can that converter produce?" Larry asked.
"Any
number of objects in one or more of the materials it is programmed to
synthesize. Bunky programs in the desired shapes, but the materials are very
limited. Aside from the metals I mentioned, I can produce various types of
quartz and glass, and a few plastics. It is an old model after all, I couldn't
afford a better one. but I figured it would be sufficient for trade goods.
Jewelry and tools are fairly standard that way."
"Next
time, just make a matching set of socket wrenches, Bob. People aren't as likely
to attempt a spectrographic analysis of them."
"Wrenches,
got it." B-Hob turned back to the chess board, moved a piece and said,
"Check."
Karen's
response was predictable as she took the offending piece with one of her own.
"Check and mate!"
*****
***** *****
"
"According
to the newsies," Hedgehog replied with a nod. "They won't part with
the name of the flea market."
"Since
when have you let that stop you?"
"Given
the nature of Operation Ether, I didn't think you'd want me to attract that
sort of attention," Hedgehog said, unperturbed. "Besides, how many
flea markets can there be in
*****
***** *****
"How
many?" Lieutenant General Bradford asked tightly. This entire case had
worn the characteristic profanity from his speech patterns. Well it was only an
affectation, he reminded himself whenever he noticed, one he could take up
again when he had the leisure time. Leisure time was not something he had a
surplus of since his arrival at Otis Air Force Base.
"It
appears," Colonel Morgenstern replied, "that
"What
about that M.I.T. professor they interviewed?"
"Doctor
Foxglove? He was able to give us some specific details on the alloys and the
stones. He even worked out the mean frequency of the light they emitted for us,
but he didn't know where they came from."
"What
was the mean frequency?"
"Somewhere
in the upper blue of the visible spectrum. Our own experts, working on the
assumption that these objects are of extraterrestrial origin, an idea that
Foxglove scoffed at, believe that the creatures who manufactured them must have
come from a system with a blue-white star."
"Is
that important?"
"It
may be. There is a possibility that such a creature would be blind to the lower
end of our visible spectrum and would therefore need some sort of visual
augmentation device in order to function normally on Earth."
"What
sort of device? What would it look like?"
"We
could put one together that would be about the size of a small TV set, but it
could conceivably be a pair of glasses, contact lenses, or some sort of brain
implant, so that might not be any help in finding aliens on Earth."
"You're
telling me that given the evidence of the sightings a few months ago, all the
radio messages and now this jewelry, that there are spacemen running around and
we can't find them?"
"Sort
of puts a whole new meaning to the phrase 'illegal alien', doesn't it?"
Morgenstern replied.
"Damn."
*****
***** *****
"Doctor
Morley, we're receiving another set of signals." the graduate assistant,
Tancred, said excitedly, rushing into the small office where Richard Morley had
just lit up the latter half of one of his precious cigars. With the recent
detection of alien radio emissions, QETI was no longer short of funds and
Morley no longer needed to ration out his smokes, but old habits died hard.
"Like
the rest?" Morley asked. The previous sets of emissions were clear and
crisp, but were in an unknown language they had yet to decipher. Initially they
had thought that perhaps the language was Navaho. The trick had been used
successfully before and the phonemes were very similar, but after flying a
Navaho Indian out to listen to their tapes, they quickly gave that idea up.
"No,
sir. These signals are oddly garbled. We were hoping you might be able to make
something of them."
Morley
grunted an indeterminate answer and followed Tancred to a room two levels down
and half a building away, one of three where the signals were being recorded.
The signal as it was being played over the speakers had an peculiar sound to
it, as if it were being heard through a bucket of Jello.
"Sounds
likes it's out of phase," Morley commented. "You've tried all the
usual tricks, I assume."
"Yes,
sir," Tancred replied.
"Dick,"
an elderly man in a white lab coat said, looking up from a vast panel filled
with flashing lights, knobs, switches, and enough CRT screens to run a small
television station, "it's about time you got here. What kept you? And get
that filthy weed out of your mouth. You know there's no smoking in this
room."
"Sorry,
Sean," Morley mumbled stubbing his cigar butt out. "What's the story
here?"
"The
signal's coming at us inside out or something like it," Sean growled.
"An
elaborate scrambling or encryption, perhaps?"
"Perhaps?
Oh yes, until we know for sure that's as likely as anything, but ask yourself
this; if all the other signals were broadcast unscrambled, why would they start
scrambling their transmissions now? I doubt that's the problem anyway.
"This
stuff seems to be coming in just plain distorted, like the signal is too strong
for our equipment, although that isn't quite it either." Morley didn't say
anything, knowing that Sean would eventually serve up an hypothesis.
"Actually," Sean went on at last, "I think we're only picking up
a harmonic or a side band to the actual signal. Notice that it sounds as though
it's slightly out of tune? Well, I think it is, but our equipment isn't up to
the job of fine tuning." Sean went silent.
"So,"
Morley asked unable to wait for Sean's best guess any longer, "just what
do you think this signal is."
"Hmm?
Oh yeah. There's no way I can prove this, of course, but I think this is the
edge of a directional transmission that is somehow being phased, or warped, or
whatever you want to call the process, but in some way augmented to send it at
speeds many times faster than light.
"Dick,"
Sean went on after a brief pause, "our ET is phoning home."
*****
***** *****
It
had taken several months, but Bunky had at last located the approximate
direction in which the Commonwealth lay. Now, all he had to do was to make a
routine transmission and the first ship to pick him up would be able to give
him his precise coordinates by triangulation.
"Space
Devil - KAGY 7776 - calling for a navigational fix, calling anyone. Come in
please." Bunky had been listening to the various radio broadcasts from the
planet below. He would dearly have loved to broadcast, "Breaker one nine,
this is the Space Devil callin' for a ten-twenty. Bring it on back, good
buddy!" but he realized that he was probably the only entity in the entire
Commonwealth who would understand what it meant. Instead, he continued to send
out his request in the more standard fashion. It was over three hours before he
received a reply.
"Space
Devil? This is the Prince of Zaringia - KBMG 6067, Captain S-Tev
Womma commanding. Who am I talking to and what can we do for you?"
"This
is the ship's computer talking, Captain Womma, my name designation is,"
the computer flinched electronically at the necessity of using its name,
"Bunky, and my captain, B-Hob Kharma by name, has put me to the task of
locating us with respect to the Commonwealth."
"A
talkie? What was that name? B-Hunky?"
"Bunky."
"All
right," Captain Womma replied, not really hearing the difference.
"We're working on your location now. Is Captain Kharma available?"
Womma, like most people, was not particularly comfortable talking to a machine.
"No,
Captain. He is currently studying the natives on the planet below me."
"A
newly discovered planet?" Captain Womma asked, his eyes lighting up with
ill-concealed avarice.
"Correct.
I have been unable to report it yet, since we weren't certain of our
location."
"Well,
well," Womma rubbed his hands together with a big grin creasing his face.
"Tell me now, how did you manage to get lost?" Bunky told the tale in
great and glorious detail while Captain Womma instructed his navigator to get a
fix on the signal. After an hour, Womma gave Bunky the information he wanted
and signed off. "Now," he instructed his navigator, "change
course for this Earth. If we can get there first, our claim will take priority
over any other merchantman."
"Captain,"
the first mate asked, "wouldn't this Captain Kharma have first
claim?"
"You
heard the idiot machine, M-Harv. This Kharma is an ethnologist and is only
interested in studying the natives. He hasn't even reported the planet's
position yet, although I'll bet that B-Hunky is working on that now. If we can
get there before any other merchant, we'll have a majority claim over the
entire planet's resources."
"The
planet's inhabited," M-Harv reminded his captain, "We'll have to deal
with the natives if we want to exploit the place."
"True
enough, but we get first crack at everything they have, and I've never met a
primitive yet I couldn't con out of his life savings for a handful of junk. And
once our claim is filed, no one else will dare to horn in."
"Except
the missionaries, maybe."
"Maybe,
but they've never done anything but make our work all the easier." He
switched his voice to a slightly higher register and spoke with sweetness and
light, "'The spacemen are good and kind. Welcome them. They are here for
your own good.' Hah! We'll take these Earthlings for everything they've
got!"
*****
***** *****
The
Prince of Zaringia was not the only ship to receive Bunky's broadcast,
however. A mere ten parsecs away, the Holy Church of Wrom missionary ship, Miracle
of Wrom sat in synchronous orbit around a small green planet. Like most
missionary ships they were assigned to find new forms of intelligent life and
when they did, to bring them the word of Wrom, the one true God who inherited
all creation from his Mother on the day he came of age.
The
Meanwhile,
the Miracle of Wrom in total disregard of all the various schismatic
factions of the Church, even the Self-Determinists, who claimed that Wrom came
of age when he decided to and might do so again, was attempting to determine
whether a certain shaggy red form of motile plant life was sapient or, indeed,
even aware of its surroundings.
"Reverend
sir!" A young missionary communications officer said from her post to the Miracle's
captain, the Reverend S-Tan Quoree, "There a request for a navigational
fix coming in."
"Put
it on the main speakers, child." She did, but before Reverend Quoree could
respond to Bunky's call for help, they also heard Captain Womma's response.
Quoree merely sat and listened, signalling to the girl at communications to
record the conversation. "Praise be to Wrom!" he swore fervently when
the transmissions ended.
"Praise
Wrom!" the bridge crew responded in chorus.
"Attention,
all hands!" he announced over the intercom. "A new world filled with
the unenlightened has been discovered, praise Wrom." He paused, giving the
crew a chance to echo his sentiments. "And the task has fallen to us to
bring them the word of the one true God." Another pause for pious oaths.
"Stand by for course change, there will be a command staff meeting in my
day room in ten minutes. That is all. Bless Wrom!" He turned off the
intercom and turned to the young man who was this shift's navigator, "Lock
in those coordinates, my son. We've got us some souls to save!"
Fifteen
As any first year student of ethnology knows, there are no
universal constants when it comes to cultural values. This is especially true
when it comes to birthday observances.
While it is customary in our own culture to wish someone well on
their birthday, and perhaps give modest gifts and celebrate the occasion with a
few friends, we are only the top of the bell curve with the extremes stretching
out below us. The Rhandrins of Beta Xerox II hold raucous parties that vary in
intensity depending on one's status and the actual number of years since one's
birth. A peasant on his thirty-fourth birthday might be treated to an early
evening of drunken debauchery followed by a small donation to his local church,
but when one of their fifteen kings recently celebrated his fiftieth, the
entire kingdom spent over two full weeks in a party that only ended when every
last drop of alcohol had been consumed. That barely controlled mayhem was
followed up with another two weeks of contrition that was capped off with three
full villages being offered up to the gods as a burnt offering. On the opposite
end of the spectrum we find the Triaxelons of Gerianis VIII where birthdays are
considered to be occasions of such bad luck that the mere mention of a birthday
is enough to guarantee social ostracism. It is customary on Gerianis VIII to
call in sick on one's birthday and then spend the day cowering in a dark closet
on under one's waterbed.
In comparison the Humans of Earth might seem almost normal.
from "Chapter 5: Common Social
Occasions"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"There
you see?" Karen proclaimed triumphantly after she and B-Hob had been
walking through the mall for an hour. "The hair job did the trick."
"Are
you sure?" B-Hob asked uncertainly.
"Do
you see anyone staring at you?" she countered.
"Well,
no, but I still get the feeling that I'm being watched."
"It's
all in your mind, Bob," she told him confidently.
"Maybe.
Well, now that we've managed to parade up and down the mall twice on each
level, how about we stop walking for a while?"
"My
thought exactly," she agreed. "Time to shop!"
B-Hob
groaned inwardly. There may no universal constants in ethnology, but the
feminine delight in shopping came close. Normally he could tag along patiently,
but this time she was spending some of his money as well. The real reason for
this outing wasn't to assure B-Hob of the effectivity of his new disguise, but
to find a birthday present for Larry.
"Very
well, where to?
"Too
mundane," Karen scoffed. "No, Larry can buy his own practical stuff.
I want to get him a toy of some sort; something completely unusual, something
he might want but would probably never buy for himself. There's only one shop
in this mall we'll check, otherwise it's on to
"What
is this?" B-Hob asked, mesmerized by dozens of fragile constructs of
brightly colored cloth and paper held semi-rigid by wooden or plastic sticks.
"It's
a kite shop primarily, although they have other model flying devices here as
well. See, this is an ornithopter. It flies by flapping its wings like a
bird."
B-Hob
was fascinated. "I've never seen anything like it," he said in
wonder. "How does it work?"
"Well,
it's made of very light weight material and there's a big fat elastic band
inside that after you wind it up, it will make the wings flap very fast. It
sort of sounds like a pigeon, in fact there was a store like this in Jackson
Square, where you landed, that sold these things. I saw the manager take one of
these things outside one afternoon and fly it around the square. It was very
funny; all the pigeons kept following it."
"This
is wonderful! I must get one to bring home."
"Hey,
it's on me," Karen said cheerfully. "Happy birthday."
"My
birthday isn't for several months, but thank you!"
"Bob,
you're a cheap date," she laughed. "Now let's see if we can find
something for Larry. We used to go kite flying a lot when we were dating, but
we always used cheap paper kites. I wonder how much a cloth kite or maybe one
of these complex Mylar jobs would cost. Bob, what's wrong?"
B-Hob
had suddenly stiffened up as an unexplainable shiver ran through his bones. If
he had been human he might have said that it was as if someone had walked over
his grave. His found himself staring at a nondescript brown-haired man who was
seated on a bench out in the mall. The man seemed somehow out of place as he
sat there reading a paperback book. Out of a corner of his mind, B-Hob heard
Karen's question.
"Uh,
nothing, I guess," B-Hob replied.
Even
CIA agents go shopping.
Hedgehog
had been searching for traces of the alleged "alien/Elvis" on the
And
so with a bag of candy and a book in hand he started back out to his car, a
nondescript blue government car pool Chevy, when he nearly ran into the man
with the matte black glasses.
Hedgehog,
unlike Prescott Daniels, the man he nominally worked for, had never failed in
his job. He was aces, one of the best the Company had. His failure to rise to
the top had nothing to do with incompetency, but with politics and
interpersonal relationships. Hedgehog would not brown-nose. It just wasn't in
him to say one thing and mean another when not actually on assignment. It was
part of his twisted code of ethics. Lie to the mark, lie to the ladies, lie to
the Congress, the Supreme Court, and the president himself, but always be
straight with the boss. That was the one basic rule of his life. It made him a
good agent, but when the boss screwed up, Hedgehog didn't hesitate to point it
out, and that sort of thing was pure poison when it came time for promotions.
There
was something about the "guy with the glasses", as Hedgehog
immediately dubbed him. Hedgehog didn't get his reputation without reason and
he swore to stay with this guy until something clicked. He stared for a while,
watching B-Hob and Karen walk the length and breadth of the mall and then back
again. Something eluded Hedgehog's conscious mind. He kept looking,
occasionally hiding his head in his newly acquire book, whenever the "guy"
looked his way. Hedgehog sat down when B-Hob and Karen entered the kite shop
and continued to observe.
"Something
about his face," Hedgehog muttered when B-hob stepped into a shaded part
of the store. Hedgehog picked up a scrap of paper and started sketching B-Hob's
face. "Hmm, yes! The shape of his jaw and that nose. Heh, heh!" The
hair was all wrong in style and color, but when he colored the hair in black it
all clicked together, the man did look like a young Elvis Presley. Hedgehog
didn't know for sure that this was the man or alien he'd been looking for, but
it was the closest thing he had to a lead yet. Certainly, the Elvis Presley Fan
Club had turned out to be a dead end. "Those dark glasses," he
whispered to himself, "they gave him away. I probably would have never
noticed if it weren't for them," Hedgehog mused. "Well, I'll just
follow them home. Wouldn't want this to look too easy."
"It's
a great kite," Karen said as they left Doctor Gravity's, "but
I didn't think I'd get off this easy, especially since it was on sale. Let's
see what else we can find."
"How
about lunch first?" B-Hob suggested.
"Okay.
We can do Newport Creamery in the next mall."
Hedgehog
rose to follow them as they left the mall. As they reached the door nearest
their car, however, he suddenly realized that his was parked halfway around the
mall. In near panic he turned on his heels and dashed back through the mall. He
stumbled up a short flight of stairs bumping into an old woman who screamed in
outrage at his retreating back and charged up a down escalator dodging people
as if they were stationary obstacles. Once on the upper level he continued
running until he crashed headlong into a pair of blond coeds just coming out of
a shoe store. A bit of twisting brought him down flat on his face, ripping his
large three pound bag of jelly beans, which in turn scattered randomly for
dozens of yards. He mumbled a high-speed apology to the young women and
scrambled to his feet only to slip on the jelly beans several times before
managing to finally get beyond them. He realized that he must have dropped his
book somewhere along the way. It had probably gone skidding off out of sight on
a bed of rolling jelly beans, he thought as he ran toward the door on
sugar-sticky shoes. At last he got to the car and in his haste dropped the keys
underneath it.
"Shit,"
he muttered, falling to the pavement. He grabbed the keys and got up, promptly
twisting his ankle painfully. Through a haze of pain, he slipped the key into
the door lock, opened the door and slid into the driver's seat in a single
jerky motion. He suffered a brief pause as he tried to put the door key into
the ignition, but at last the car's engine screamed to life and he floored the
car in reverse, taking out one headlight each from two cars across the aisle
from his parking space. He slammed the automatic gear shift into drive and left
a pair of parallel black marks on the fading pavement of the parking lot.
It
was nothing short of a miracle that he left only more remnants of his tires
rather than more shattered glass and twisted metal to mark his passing as he
skidded through each turn of the crowded parking lot on his way to the other
side. At last he reached the other side where he screeched to halt at a traffic
light at the head of the main exit road from the mall. Now where were they?
Hedgehog
was in luck. He saw them in the slate gray Saab across the intersection from
him and they were about to take a left turn onto the exit road. When the light
turned green, Hedgehog feigned courtesy and waved them to turn first. The lady
at the driver's wheel smiled and waved her thanks, which Hedgehog returned.
Three more cars wedged their way in ahead of him before he could turn to
follow.
Hedgehog
kept his eye on the gray Saab ahead of him as it proceeded on to the
north-bound side of State Route 3 and quickly built up speed until it was
traveling at a carefully maintained sixty miles per hour, the so-called illegal
speed limit. Hedgehog expected to be able to catch up and at least take note of
the Saab's license plate but another car insisted on tail-gating it and he had
to stay two cars back.
He
expected that they would turn off at one of the
A
few years earlier
"What
the hell," he said to the air. "They can chase me for a while, I'm
not going to lose that guy!" Hedgehog wasn't worried about the fine, in
the rare eventuality that flashing his CIA ID didn't get him off the hook
outright, he'd have the ticket fixed later through channels.
Sure
enough, of the four cars and a van that waited to flag him down around the
corner two immediately set off in pursuit in spite of the fact that he had
already slowed and pulled in behind the tail-gater again. Hedgehog kept
driving, but just as the chase cars caught up he heard a muffled pop from under
the hood followed shortly there after by clouds of white steam.
"Damned
government cars!" Hedgehog snarled, pulling into the breakdown lane. As
the two cars bracketed him in he wondered idly whether he had just lost a
radiator hose, the water pump, or the whole radiator for that matter. The only
comforts he had were that tomorrow there would be someone new in charge of the
local car pool and that he was looking for someone with a gray Saab. Hedgehog
wasn't from Southeastern New England and so he didn't learn until the next day
just how many Saabs, even gray ones, were to be found on the
"Did
you see that?" B-Hob asked Karen as he looked out the rear window.
"See
what, Bob?"
"That
blue car that tried to pass us a few minutes ago. A couple cops were chasing it
and then it started smoking or steaming."
"I
missed it. The engine probably over-heated."
"Then
the fact that he was being chased had nothing to do with it?" B-Hob asked.
"Probably
not. Why?"
"It's
not important, I was just wondering what sort of device your police have to
make a car stop like that."
"Oh,"
Karen replied. Then she went on to explain that the police had very little
other than their own authority and, in the case of chases, their patience and
persistence to stop a car. By the time she was done they were in the
"No,
it's pretty much the same. We don't have anything that would do that either,
but then we don't have toy ornithopters either."
Karen,
on a hunch based on B-Hob's reaction, decided to buy Larry a hand-cut wooden
jig saw puzzle of M.C. Escher's "Waterfall". B-Hob was absolutely
entranced by the tricks of perspective and the twists of logic that went behind
the few examples of Escher's art they could find in puzzle form and Karen made
a mental note to buy B-Hob a book on Escher that he could take back with him.
It
pleased her to think that M.C. Escher might be the first example of human
artistic thought that the people of the Commonwealth would be exposed to. It
was either him or Da Vinci, and Escher more readily represented the modern
world. That, of course, started her thinking deeply about how to give B-Hob a
feel for human art. They hadn't really exposed him to much culture in the
months he was here aside from what was available on TV and the radio. How does
one sum up the total human experience to a man from outer space? She'd start
working it out as soon as they got home. They still hadn't eaten lunch and even
she was hungry now.
*****
***** *****
"
"So
we start a closer surveillance on
"Problem?
I'll tell you what the damned problem is. We should have been at this point two
months ago. We were at this damned point two months ago but you wanted more
damned computer analysis!"
"With
your approval, sir!" Morgenstern snapped tightly. That brought
"Sorry,
Izzy," he apologized, pouring them both another drink. "You wouldn't
believe the pressure I'm under to show some results soon."
"Oh,
I believe it. Your language has gotten almost civil in the last few weeks. Run
out of dirty words?"
"You
bet your ass!"
"We
are one step ahead of where we were two months ago, however," Morgenstern
pointed out. "We've managed to narrow down our possibilities to nine
possible landing sites."
"And
seven of them are on private property. What do you propose we do, acquire it
all by eminent domain?"
"Oh,
come on! You know as well as I do that most people will let us in, if we use
the usual invocation."
"This
is a matter of national security!"
"And
if any of them refuse we'll know they're hiding something," Morgenstern
replied, seconding the general's toast.
Sixteen
From the descriptions so far, one might get the impression that the
Humans have a single homogeneous planet-wide culture. Indeed that is the norm
as ethnologists have discovered on countless planets, and on those few that
have been encountered on which there are multiple cultures, these cultures are either
comprised of entirely different species or else are completely isolated from
one another.
T-Homis Kraia, the founder of the modern science of ethnology, set
forth as his second law, "Any cultures in contact with one another will
tend to amalgamate, rapidly becoming one culture with a single set of
values." What Dr. Kraia would have said had he lived to learn about the
Humans of Earth is anybody's guess.
Far from tending toward a single culture, the humans seem to
delight in creating more and diverse units among themselves. They are
differentiated by age, sex, locations, religious preference, and, amazingly, by
skin color. No doubt this phenomenon will one day be explained, but for now it
is a great mystery.
One should not think that there is not a tendency for Kraia's
second law of ethnology to apply to the Humans. Even they, with their love of
diversity, can not stop the transferal of cultural values and all Earth
cultures have more in common with each other than with any other known culture.
That is to be expected, but there is still a far greater diversity than in any
world previously discovered.
from "Chapter 7: Cultural
Diversity"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
Two
spacecraft entered the Solar System at approximately the same time. Both had
turned off their navigational beacons. That was standard although illegal
procedure when entering a previously uncharted system. Many of the larger
merchant and missionary ships kept track of their colleagues' whereabouts to
what ever range they could afford sensors for. Whenever one was caught entering
a system previously unknown and as yet unclaimed, there was usually a great
rush for that system by half the Commonwealth ships all looking for a piece of
the action. Naturally this has caused some captains to allow themselves to be
seen in one uncharted area before turning off their beacons to lead their
competition astray. And this practice has been known to backfire on the
perpetrator.
The
Zuffies of Taramsuna III were so discovered when one careless explorer
missionary used their system for a diversion while he visited a system for some
indifferent heavy metal deposits. The Zuffies, while fairly primitive at the
time, turned out to be the largest concentration of mechanical geniuses known
to civilization and that one careless explorer lost out on the fortune he might
have had.
The
history of space travel, however, is filled with stories like that. The fines
for travelling without navigational beacons are enough to bankrupt some of the
smaller planetary governments, but most feel that the potential profits from
exclusive planetary rights far out-weigh the risk. Besides, there are very few
officers of the Commonwealth Aerospace Administration on the frontier.
Consequently
neither of the two ships were aware of each other's presence until they
achieved orbit around their objective, the planet Earth.
"This
is Captain S-Tev Womma of the Prince of Zaringia calling the unknown
ship. Identify yourself, please." Captain Womma was greatly irked. He
answered the distress call from the Space Devil, whatever the hell that
was when it was up and dressed. He deserved to have first claim. Damn it, he
would have blown the intruder out of space if the Prince were armed with
anything more than light artillery. However, long experience had taught him to
be polite at least until he knew whether the other ship was actually
competition. His cousin got caught by a CAA ship three years earlier. The fine
for flying without a beacon was high, but the penalty for threatening a CAA
ship was a loss of license followed a bit later by a mysterious loss of life.
That was how Womma came to be captain.
"Ahoy,
Captain Womma!" came the reply. "This is the Reverend S-Tan Quoree of
the Miracle of Wrom here, bless Wrom."
"Bless
Wrom," Womma replied mechanically. The captain was not a religious man,
but a missionary ship was not only not competition, but was likely to be a
valuable ally both in his initial research here and later when establishing his
claim. Bless Wrom indeed!
"My
apologies for not breaking radio silence earlier," Reverend S-Tan
continued, "but I didn't want to attract competition any more than you
did. I'm sure you understand."
"Competition
for trading rights I understand, but you work for the Church, what sort of
competition do you have to worry about?"
"Other
missionaries mostly," Reverend S-Tan replied easily. "You have to
realize that there are a dozen sectarian factions that would love to gain
access to a new planet. Besides I and my crew get to split a full ten percent
of the top of the collection boxes for any planet we establish a mission on. Do
you have any idea of how much money that is?"
Captain
Womma whistled. "Ten percent of the take from a whole planet? Why in a few
years you could buy yourself an arch-priesthood."
"Or
an arch-priest should I care to control from behind the scenes," Reverend
S-Tan agreed. "Now what do you say we team up and compare notes on this
world. If we work in concert, both of us will profit."
Captain
Womma allowed as that would be a good idea and started negotiating an efficient
and equitable division of labor. They contacted Bunky, who supplied them with
all the information he had on Earth for a hefty percentage of the Prince of
Zaringia's profits to be paid to B-Hob on an annual basis. Womma screamed
as if in pain while dickering with Bunky, but as Bunky really was an unfeeling
lout with a heart of stone instead of just seeming like one, none of it did
much good. Womma made a mental note to buy an antique "talkie"
computer when he got home and program it to handle his tax bureau audits.
Finally,
the initial research was over. The two ship captains chose their primary
landing areas halfway across the globe from each other. Reverend S-Tan opted
for a discreet unobserved landing in an area noted for religious fervor.
Experience had shown that such locations were ripe for the divine word of Wrom.
Captain Womma, on the other hand, decided on a public landing in a place of
heavy population density. Where better to make the initial sales pitch?
And
so one bright and sunny morning the inhabitants of
The
Prince of Zaringia was essentially a tall and fat cylinder with atmospheric
guidance and landing fins and an attached nose like a round-sided cone. In
short it looked like the sort of space ship that had been envisioned by pulp
magazine artists in the thirties and forties. The Miracle of Wrom had
been built along similar lines, but was shorter and a bit thinner, but it was
the Prince that landed that morning in all its alien glory smack dab in
the middle of
A
few years earlier and there would have been several flocks of international
news services on hand to record the historic landing. However, the Chinese
government was currently engaged in one of its occasional isolationistic
periods. Several years before there had been student unrest and the government
and perhaps the army had over reacted. That had been the start of an entire
series of incidents that newsmen and government officials alike referred to as
"unfortunate". Each time relations with the rest of the world began
to normalize, something else would come up. Finally, the Party leadership was
ousted in a bloodless coup and was replaced by a set of communist
fundamentalists who believe that only full isolation from the outside world
would allow their country to prosper. All members of foreign news services were
cordially disinvited from the country. Tourism came to an end on its own after
the newsmen and women were evicted. The new Chairman of the Party was wise
enough not to cut any diplomatic ties however, and the only official protests
came in the form of strongly worded threats that never materialized.
The
Prince of Zaringia did not go completely unnoticed as it descended to
Earth. It was picked up on the radar systems of every major power on the
planet. The
"Thirty.
Twenty. Ten," the pilot counted down the distance between the Prince's
landing fins and the pavement below. "Touchdown!"
"Finish
with engines," Captain Womma commanded.
"Engines
off," the navigator reported. There was a brief moment as the great
engines wound down and gradually let the ship put its full weight on the
landing fins. A loud metallic groan was felt as much as heard through the ship
as the fins' shock absorbers handled the additional weight. Finally the
navigator reported, "and finished with engines, sir."
"Good!"
The captain replied. "Attention all hands! we have now landed. Normal
planet-side activities will now commence. First contact team to the airlock.
That will be all."
Thirty
minutes later the captain had given his team its pre-contact pep talk. They
were a good team and had never failed yet and there was no reason to expect any
less of them this time. In fact the only reason Womma spoke to them at all was
that they expected it of him. For the leader to show anything less than total
confidence would severely impair the team's morale.
A
long ramp down to ground level was automatically extended as the airlock door
sighed open. The captain stepped out of the door just ahead of the rest of the
team only to be greeted by the sound of a harshly shouted command from below
and the spine-chilling sound of a thousand automatic rifles being raised in
readiness for firing.
Captain
Womma was at a loss for the proper reaction. Never before had he seen a simple
landing greeted by a hostile army. It was not without precedent, he remembered.
There were some people who were racially xenophobic and in their fear of aliens
their reaction would be to automatically attack. He had just never encountered
this rare sort of behavior before.
Captain
Womma glanced up toward the nose of his ship and was comforted by the sight of
the twin laser cannons and the cluster of rocket launchers, all trained on the
crowd below. They might have been classified as light armaments, but they would
be more than sufficient to get the ship safely away. He knew that he and the
first team might be the first to go if it came to a fight, but that was why
their share of the profits was so disproportionately higher than the rest of
the crew.
The
captain quickly reviewed his computer-imbedded knowledge of human gestures of
peace and friendship together with a quickly revised speech in the local
dialect. Smiling was something strictly forbidden to the adults of his home
world and while they had adopted most of the culture of the Commonwealth a
millennium earlier that was one custom they had kept. It felt strange to him as
he bared his teeth at the armed men before him. On his home world such a
gesture would have caused them to open fire immediately as though all their
bodies were commanded by a single brain, which in the case of his home world's
army would have been quite literally true.
"Greetings,
people of the Earth," he began. "I am Captain S-Tev Womma of the Prince
of Zaringia." He obligingly translated the name of his ship into the
local Chinese. It seemed an innocuous enough opening and he was completely
unprepared for the reaction he got. Many of the soldiers stiffened visibly at
the name of his ship and he heard a few muffled commands to hold firm. What had
he gotten himself into?
"We
come to you in peace," he continued uncertainly, "with the purpose of
establishing relations that we will, no doubt, find to be mutually
profitable." His smile, already strained, froze on his face when an angry
grumbling began among the troops. "These Humans are crazy!" he
muttered to the first contact team leader, a pretty green female of a vaguely
cat-like race. She gave him the equivalent of a shrug.
Finally,
a man in an unflatteringly plain uniform walked stiffly up the ramp to the
captain and his team and said, "Comrade Captain Steve Womma, if you will
come with me, I will take you to our Minister of Foreign Affairs. He is
empowered to deal with you."
"How
civilized!" remarked the team leader in the Commonwealth's version of
Lingua Franca. "Even without previous alien contact they are already
prepared for such an eventuality. This may be the easiest job we've had
yet."
"I
don't know," the captain replied as they followed the man through the
massed army. As they reached ground level two dozen soldiers detached
themselves from the army and surrounded them as they marched. "I have a
bad feeling about this. Uh, Comrade," he said, switching back to Chinese
and using the title the man had used with him, "are all these soldiers necessary?"
"Please
believe," their guide informed them, "that they are only here for the
purpose of safety."
"Ours
or theirs?" one member of the team asked quietly.
"Yes!"
the cat-woman replied dryly.
*****
***** *****
The
Miracle of Wrom was also detected as it entered the atmosphere somewhere
over
As
she flew further south, the Miracle reduced her altitude and established
an erratic flight pattern that was designed to avoid all major centers of
population. She also reduced speed as she neared the tree-top level but
continued her radar-scrambling tactics. It was theoretically possible to use
radar at any altitude and the Reverend S-Tan Quoree didn't want to take any
chances.
"Nearing
our destination, reverend sir," the young navigator reported.
"We
need to land undetected," Reverend S-Tan reminded him. "On closer
inspection is the primary landing sight still suitable?"
"Yes,
reverend sir."
"Proceed
then." Reverend S-Tan then flipped on the intercom to his medical officer.
"Sister Kenna, is the cosmetic surgery proceeding on schedule?"
"Yes,
reverend sir, all personnel save those working on the bridge should appear
human by the time we touch down."
"Good,
the bridge crew and I will undergo the treatment as soon as we have
landed."
The
slender craft flashed through the skies just to the east of
"Finished
with engines, reverend sir," came the report.
"All
hands, we have landed. Camouflage teams to your jobs. I want this ship hidden
from view by day break," the Reverend S-Tan commanded, "Bridge crew
to Medical, that is all."
The
crew of the Miracle of Wrom may have been small in number, but they knew
their jobs and did them well. B-Hob was a complete duffer at landing on an
alien planet and had made several serious mistakes that had worked out well by
accident and pure luck. Captain Womma had chosen to land publicly for maximum
sales potential. However the normal means of establishing a primary base on an
unknown planet was to land secretly and make the base blend in with its
surroundings.
Within
an hour a hole half the depth of the Miracle had been excavated and the
ship lowered into it. By dawn, a low building designed to look like a large
residence had been constructed to cover the rest of the ship. The building was,
as yet, a mere shell but within a few days, it would be filled with offices and
expanded quarters for the crew.
The
ground around the building had been well cleared and a genetically engineered
grass had been planted. That grass would grow rapidly and appear to be a well
manicured lawn by mid-morning at which time it would slow way down to grow at a
pace that would require cutting only once each spring.
Cosmetic
surgery on the professional ships was also far more refined. What B-Hob's
antiquated equipment took all day to accomplish, the ultra-modern gear on both
the Miracle and the Prince could do the same job in less than an
hour. And so by
"Where
did you say we are?" a young man, just out of the seminary, asked.
"The
natives call it
"Isn't
that an obscenity on Aldebaran IV, Kalla?"
"You're
thinking of Ixfo. Where'd you learn about that one anyway, M-Hike?"
"Advanced
Comparative Cultures 337 at the seminary. Doctor W-Ron Bruer," M-Hike
grinned.
"Wasn't
he tried for heresy last year?" a young blond woman about M-Hike's age
asked warily.
"Yes,"
M-Hike agreed. "That's him."
"How
did they let you out on time for this mission?" Kalla asked. "I would
have thought that all his students, especially the seniors would have been
detained for exhaustive examinations."
"I'm
the one who turned him in," M-Hike admitted proudly.
"Bless
Wrom!" Kalla said in the closest to praise she would give him. The other
two echoed her sentiments, but secretly each one of them made a mental note to
watch themselves in M-Hike's presence. It was one thing to praise proper
behavior, but a religious mission was no place to allow a fanatic free reign.
Kalla decided that she would have him transferred to the home base team. There
were things one had to do and say in order to get recruits that were just too
subject to accusations of heresy.
"It's
a quaint little town," J-Hack, the fourth member of the team, commented.
"I sort of like the central town square. Is this a common settlement
pattern on this world?"
"You
should have read the preliminary data better, J-Hack" the young blond,
Quinne, admonished him. "It's very common in this and some other regions,
but hardly a planet-wide phenomenon. The larger cities, especially, display
only vestigial traces of this pattern at best and many don't appeared to have
ever used this plan."
"Very
good, Quinne," Kalla complemented her, "but remember that we only
have preliminary data to go on with this world-culture so far. No doubt we'll
find some practical reasons for the differences in settlement plans that we
observed from orbit."
"I
thought our briefing was very thorough," M-Hike asserted.
"It
was as much as we're ever likely to get when approaching a new world,"
Kalla replied, "but there is only so much that we're likely to learn from
their own broadcasts. Every culture has its taboos and unmentionable subjects.
Wrom alone knows what we haven't yet learned. Try to behave within the limits
of the video entertainments we observed. If they broadcast it, it's probably
acceptable behavior." The novices all agreed, bowing to Kalla's greater
experience. Actually they would have agreed had she suggested that they all
wear pink jock-straps on their heads and walk around going beep. Such is the
gullibility of a novice.
"What
are we looking for," J-Hack asked. "A 'for sale or rent' sign?"
"I
suppose that we could," Kalla conceded, "but I caught one video
advertisement for something called a real estate broker. I figure that if we
can find one of them, that would make the looking that much easier. Ah, there's
the one I saw the ad for!"
Kalla
steered the ground effect vehicle that had been cleverly disguised as a late
model mini-van, into a parking space in the town square in front of a store
front with a sign that read, "Century 21."
"Okay,
guys," she said before letting them out. "I'll go see what sort of
arrangements we can make. You go check out the nearby businesses. See what sort
of neighbors we'll have, but don't start talking religion. Not yet anyway. In
most of these primitive societies you can get into deep trouble talking
religion outside of a church." Saying that she opened the door and walked
into the real estate broker's office.
The
three novices watched Kalla until she had disappeared behind the store front
door.
"Well,
come on, boys," Quinne said lightly. "We may as well see what Oxpatch
has to offer."
"
"Whatever."
They
were about to split up when they spotted a small shop sandwiched in between two
larger ones in a shady corner of the square.
"Hey
look there," J-Hack pointed it out. "'J. P. Waxtrough, Buyer and
Seller of Used Goods, Jewelry, and Precious Metals'. Do you suppose they don't
trade in gold directly?"
"What
do you mean?" M-Hike asked.
"Well
it seems to me that if there's someone who will buy gold, assuming that gold is
a precious metal, then they must be
using something else as currency."
"He
has a point," Quinne agreed. "Do you really think they're that
advanced?" Both M-Hike and J-Hack shrugged. "Well let's find
out."
They
opened the door to the pawn shop to discover a dark musty-smelling room on the
other side. There, behind a deep heavy glass counter sat a little old man with
the short stub of a cheroot screwed into the corner of his mouth. He eyed the
novices with feigned disinterest as they stared at the musical instruments, old
clothing, and assorted miscellanea hung on the walls of the little shop. In the
center case he kept two one-ounce ingots of .999 fine gold along with three
one-ounce, one ten ounce, and one one hundred-ounce ingots of .999 fine silver.
They were there just for show. His real inventory was kept in a small vault in
the basement. The rest of the case was filled with sundry bits of jewelry in
varying states of repair.
"We'd
like to sell some gold," Quinne said, stepping forward.
The
man kept a straight face save for one eye brow that shot up as he asked,
"You all have any certification?"
"Certification?"
"Uh
huh. How am I supposed to know you all didn't steal that gold, and I need the
numbers on the ingots for my records too."
"But
our ingots don't have any numbers on them," Quinne blurted out as she took
two coin-like ingots out of a small handbag that, according to initial surveys,
she was supposed to carry everywhere.
The
ingots were like nothing the man had ever seen. Someone had minted the things
into large hexagonal coins. Like gold coins the man was acquainted with -
Krugerrands, Maple Leafs, Double Eagles, and the like - they were a testimonial
to the engravers' art, but the artwork on them was literally unearthly. There
were also some symbols minted on them that appeared to be in some foreign
language. He couldn't read it, but then he was barely literate in English. He
was however, fully conversant with the types of gold coins currently being
minted all over the world, and these were not any of them.
The
man relit the foul twisted cylinder of tobacco in his mouth and made a big show
of looking something up in his catalogs. While he turned the pages, however, he
was actually sizing up the marks. Wherever this stuff came from it was neither
a release from a government or the product of any of the known mining concerns.
For than matter he didn't know whether or not it was gold, nor what its purity
was, but the novices seemed just a little too naive to be lying about that.
Something didn't fit. Who would want to mint his own ingots? It wouldn't add to
the value of the metal and would only cause an assayer's fee to detract from
the profits when you tried to sell it. Still he had some rudimentary assaying
equipment in the back room. It hadn't been used in years, but it should still
work.
"How
many of these do you all want to sell," he asked at last, seeing a not
particularly honest means of getting gold at a bargain rate. Quinne reached
into her handbag and pulled out about half the hexagonal gold ingots they had
been given to work with and put them down on the counter. J.P. Waxtrough
listened to them as they hit the glass. "Well," he thought to
himself, "They sound like the real thing. All ringing, not a clank in the
bunch." He counted them out; there were twenty-three in all and each one
felt a bit heavier than a troy ounce. Stranger and stranger. "Here's my
offer," he told them. "You all're sure there's no certification? All
right. Now without certification I'll have to assay this gold; determine how
pure it is and then weigh it out real careful-like. I'll have to charge you for
that, understand?" They nodded. It seemed reasonable. "I also have no
proof that this gold is really yours."
"Oh,
but it is!" Quinne protested. J-Hack and M-Hike tried to back her up.
"All
that is as it may be, but without proof that will cost you still more. I'm
willing to take the risk of paying you for this now, but I'll have to have the
cops put out a call to see if anyone is missing gold in coins like this."
J.P. had absolutely no intention of taking this matter to the cops, but it
sounded good. Actually he'd call a client he knew in
They
nodded their agreement and J. P. Waxtrough went into his back room. He was a
bit surprised that they didn't insist on watching him work and he had an urge
to slip out the back way, but quickly decided that this much gold wasn't enough
to run on. His equipment would have been considered crude in 1849 but he was
able to test for the metal's density by water displacement. When that test
showed that the coins had the same density as .999 fine gold, he gave them the
acid test. The acid had no effect on the coins at all and he was forced to
admit that they must, indeed, be made of pure gold.
The
coins weighed in at just over thirty-one and one half ounces. According to the Wall
Street Journal that morning, gold was selling for $589.50 per ounce, but
J.P., using his fictitious charges, paid two hundred dollars less than that.
The
novices had no trouble with the concept of a check. The economy of the
Commonwealth depended on checks almost as much as it depended on credit cards.
In fact there was very little real money in the Commonwealth at all, nearly all
monetary record keeping was handled by computers. According to some financial
experts the economy, which was backed up by only ten percent hard currency
against ninety percent computerized bank transfers of money that was never
actually printed or minted, should have collapsed decades ago. Just what keeps
the Commonwealth from collapsing under its own deficit is a mystery that the
economists are still arguing over.
"We
converted some of our gold into local money," Quinne told Kalla back at
the van a few minutes later, "but how can we spend this?" The check
was for over twelve thousand dollars, whatever those were.
Kalla
studied the check and looked around the town square. "Good work," she
told them. "We'll need to put down a deposit on whatever place we rent. We
can do that if you'll open an account with one of the two banks here in the
square. Hmm, this one is drawn on First Southern Bank, which is right there.
Open an account in the name of the '
When
she returned, the three novices were nowhere to be seen.
*****
***** *****
"No!"
Karen screamed. "I don't care who you claim to be. You want to search my
house? Then get a damned search warrant, because until I see the paper you can
cite National security till you turn black and blue, but you'll have to do it
off of my property!" She tried to slam the door, but the young Navy Ensign
stuck his foot between it and the frame. That proved to be a major mistake.
Karen opened the door and stamped the heal of her shoe down on the arch of his
foot, breaking at least two metatarsals. She was only sorry that she was only
wearing one-inch lifts; the experience gave her a true appreciation for spike
heels. The intruder removed his foot and she finally slammed the door in his
face. She heard a satisfying grunt of pain as she did so.
"That
was the fifth one this week, boys" she reported as she entered the living
room.
"Good
thing we don't have a gun," Larry commented dryly.
"Damned
straight!" Karen snarled. "I'd have used it."
"Maybe
I should find another place to live," B-Hob suggested.
"Nonsense!"
both Karen and Larry told him. "All we have to do," Larry continued,
"is make sure that they don't find anything when they come back with their
warrants. That shouldn't be too hard. You sold all the jewelry so all that's
left is the radio you call Bunky with."
"And
my notes on Human culture," B-Hob added.
"I've
seen them, remember? They'll look like the notes for any anthropology text
book. Let's see what we can do about the radio."
*****
***** *****
"
"I
think our local alien is either calling in reinforcements or else he's
flown," Hedgehog told him.
"You
still haven't convinced me that there really is or was an alien running around
the
"Oh
he was here," Hedgehog said confidently. "It may not have been the
guy I tried to follow, but he was definitely here. He may still be. There's no
reason that either of these two new sightings had anything to do with
him."
"The
"Our
man there is one of our best, Pres," Hedgehog informed him. "If he
can't get anything, then it isn't very likely that I would either. The sighting
in
"You're
going there tonight?"
"Unless
you say otherwise."
"I
need you here."
"No.
As a matter of fact you don't," Hedgehog said bluntly. "Your regular
staff can continue to monitor the other services. They've all been knocking on
the same doors in
"Yeah,"
Daniels agreed. "Who would have thought that so many people these days
would have refused entry when hit with a claim of national security. Oh well,
if you insist on going, keep in touch this time. I don't want to have to wait
until you get back to get a report this time. I'll fly down there myself if I
have to.
Seventeen
Careful observation shows that ethyl alcohol is the mild poison
that is most often enjoyed by Humans. So much is it enjoyed that they have
taken to adding various flavors to their alcohol to make their drinks all the
more palatable. So successful have they been at this that such drinks can take
the unwary by surprise.
from "Chapter Two; Leisure Time"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
Just off the square in
Oxford, Mississippi is a restaurant called "The Gin" that is perhaps
even better known to the students and faculty of Ole Miss for its bar. While it
is only one of several well-frequented establishments in
Kalla
didn't know how the three novices that had been assigned to her ended up in one
of "The Gin's" corner booths and she didn't much care either. What
she did know was that in spite of all their training, they weren't waiting for
her when she and the real estate agent returned.
"Wrom
damn their teeth!" she swore angrily. "Where in Hell are they?"
The disguised hovercraft was still there and empty. They'd left no notes.
Normally she wouldn't mind so much, but there had been a perfect place for
them, but she needed to put down a deposit and the first month's rent. For that
she had to either exchange some of her own gold or find the novices and hope
they had already opened the bank account.
Each
member of the mission was required to have a subcutaneous locater device
implanted near their ears. To locate them she would have to call the home base
over the hovercraft's radio and that would mean admitting her own error in
leaving them on their own. After some fifteen minutes she swallowed her pride
and called for help. Learning that they were only a hundred yards away she went
off in search.
"The
Gin" was usually quiet in the middle of the afternoon, but the novices
were making enough noise to make the place sound like a TGIF happy hour with
free refills.
"Hey,
Kalla!" M-Hike shouted as she came in the front door. "Ovah
Heyah!" Kalla was, at first, impressed by the fact that he had managed to
pick up the local accent, until she realized that he was also acting as though
he were suffering from some dreadful disease. He was too weak to stand for very
long and, like his companions, was laughing uncontrollably. Something was
dreadfully wrong.
"What's
wrong with you three?" Kalla demanded. "If you're this ill, you
should have stayed with the van."
"
"Yeah,
Kalla," Quinne agreed, slurring badly. "Have a seat! You'll jus' love
the sloe gin fizz." Kalla didn't know what sloe gin was and she was
certain that she wasn't interested in its fizz. She was about to dress the trio
down when the restaurant manager walked over.
"Please,
ma'am," he said politely, "Your friends here have had a bit too much,
and Ah'm afraid we'll have to stop serving them."
"Too
much?" Kalla asked. "Too much what?"
"Liquor,
ma'am. We appreciate your business, but Ah'm going to have to ask them to
leave."
The
drunken trio expressed their sorrow at that prospect with a dramatic chorus of,
"Aww!"
"That's
all right," Kalla told the manager. "They're leaving now. Is their
bill paid?" she asked as she started herding them outside.
"Yes,
ma'am," The manager told her, "You all come back now! Another
time," he added as J-Hack and M-Hike turned around and started back for
their booth.
"I
really don't know what's gotten into you three," Kalla scolded them as the
drove back to the home base.
"Hey,
Kalla," Quinne giggled suddenly, "Pull over and let me drive!"
"I
don't think so, no," Kalla replied stiffly.
"Oh,"
J-Hack moaned, "I don't feel so good. Dizzy. Queasy."
"Better
stop, Kalla," M-Hike moaned in harmony, "I think I'm about to throw
up." Kalla stopped the hovercraft just in time for the two young men to go
stumbling into the roadside kudzu. Quinne just continued to giggle and try
taking the wheel from Kalla.
*****
***** *****
"The
captain hasn't come back yet, sir." the airlock guard reported to the
first mate, a tall female with olive green skin, soft brown hair, and an ugly,
even by her standards, bulbous nose.
"That's
odd," she replied. "He called in that he was on his way back two
hours ago. What can have gone wrong now?"
A little
bit of research is a dangerous thing and negotiations with the Chinese had not
gone smoothly at all. Their primary research had shown that this was the most
densely populated region of the country and that, unaccountably, there would be
little or no competition to the captain, who counted himself among the master
traders of the Commonwealth. It was irresistible nor did there appear to be any
reason that they should resist.
Their
hosts insisted that Captain Womma and the first contact team remain as guests
of the government at the hotel where the negotiations had taken place, in spite
of the fact that it was only a few minutes walk from the waiting ship. Not
wanting to start off by insulting their hospitality, S-Tev Womma had agreed.
That was the last time either he or the contact team were seen, although they
had called in daily reports to the ship.
The
Chinese government was primarily concerned with the purchase of new weapons
technologies, which was the last thing any good merchant would want to sell.
Their job was to establish long term trading arrangements, not give the natives
a means to exterminate each other. That sort of thing would soon cause the
market to dry up.
The talks,
however, really began to fall apart when the chief negotiator insisted on an
international press release about the arrival of the Prince of Zaringia
while the Chinese insisted on absolute secrecy until a final treaty had been
signed.
First Mate
Fertha stormed back up to the bridge. The long wait while the captain was at
the negotiation sessions was bad enough, but now that the talks had broken down
she had expected him and the team back within minutes. What the hell had
happened to delay them?
"Communications!"
she commanded as she entered the bridge. "Get me that damned 'Comrade
Official Speaker' they insist we talk to."
"Yes,
Ma'am," the young man replied. A few minutes later he reported, "On
main screen, ma'am, on mark. Mark!" The screen flickered slightly but
stayed black. The Humans had video communications capabilities, but they had
refused to use them, staying strictly on audio. Fertha felt more insulted by
that than anything else that had been handed her since they had landed on this
miserable little planet, but she refused to show it. She had been successful in
this business for fifteen years now and believe that the slights these Humans
handed her were matters of cultural differences and not deliberate. She was
wrong.
"Yes,
Comrade Fertha?" an all too familiar voice asked.
"Yes,
indeed, L-Oo Wing or whatever your name is." The man tried to correct her
but she cut him off. "Where are our people?"
"I assure
you they left the hotel over two hours ago," the man replied with an
official politeness that Fertha felt sure was accompanied by a smirk, but
without video she couldn't be sure.
"They
were a five minute walk away!" Fertha shouted her reply. "Where did
they go?"
"Perhaps
they wished to see some of the people's glorious city," he suggested
smoothly.
"Not
bloody likely the way your toy soldiers follow them everywhere they go,"
Fertha told him. "Besides, Captain Womma's last order was to prepare to
launch as soon as he was on board, and you probably know it, Wrom take
you!"
"First
Mate," the airlock guard called via intercom, "the army is
back."
"On
screen," she commanded. A moment later she was greeted by the sight of a
thousand armed men and as many tanks as she could eat. "What the hell is
going on here, Wing?
The
"official speaker's voice lost all the false politeness when he spoke
next. "You will surrender your craft now and submit to arrest or we shall
destroy you and everyone on board."
"Never,"
Fertha hissed.
"You
have five minutes," she was informed. "If you do not surrender by
then, the glorious People's Army will open fire." There was a click as the
speaker closed all communications.
"Shit!"
Fertha swore. "Weapons control, prepare to slag everything in sight on my
command. Communications, can you locate the Captain and the contact team
through their transponders?"
"Yes,
ma'am," the young man replied crisply. "They are about 300 Khalimers
to the east of here and some ten feet underground."
"Alive?"
"Yes,
and healthy."
"Thank
you. Lieutenant Wankel," she said into the intercom, "are your boys
and girls ready for a little exercise?"
The Prince
of Zaringia was a fairly successful venture and could afford to hire its
own pocket military force. Lieutenant M-Hank Wankel was an ex-Commonwealth
Marines sergeant and he had chosen his best seven commandos to come with him
when he accepted the Zaringia Company's employment. There were other small
units as good at their jobs in the Commonwealth, but none of them were better.
This was only the second time they would see real, non-simulated action since
they left the Marines but they enjoyed their work when they had it.
"Yes,
ma'am," the shipboard lieutenant replied. "We've been monitoring the
situation."
"Good,"
Fertha replied. "I'm sending you Captain Womma's coordinates. You go get
him while we provide cover."
"Ready
at your command," he replied.
"Go."
Half an
hour later, one quarter of
"A
particularly stupid people," S-Tev Womma told his First Mate. "The
only thing they want are atomic weapons; started torturing some of the team
when we wouldn't sell them."
"Atomics?
What would they want with anything so primitive?"
"Damned
if I know. I was desperate enough, though. Just before M-Hank Wankel crashed
in, I tried to offer them some really powerful weapons, but they said that if
they weren't atomic, they weren't interested."
"M-Hank
offered to melt the entire city for you if you want," Fertha offered.
"It's
tempting, I'll admit, but those fools didn't do anything that probably hasn't
already been fixed and I got something from them that may be of real
value."
"Oh?
What's that?"
"They
aren't the only culture on Earth."
"Impossible!"
"True!"
Captain Womma countered Fertha's disbelief. "I had trouble believing it
myself, but it's the only explanation. Think about it. They want highly
destructive weapons and they wouldn't allow us to advertise our presence here.
They kept talking about their enemies too. I'd normally figure they were the
Earth version of paranoid schizophrenics, but there were just too many of
them."
"Are
you sure this whole region isn't some sort of asylum? There's a very long wall
that runs through here."
"That
would mean that half the world's population was sick. I'd rather believe that
the planet is multi-cultural. Especially since that means we still have a
chance to establish a trading post here."
"You
have a plan?"
"We'll
go back into orbit and contact the missionaries; see how they're doing. Then
we'll see about doing business with another culture. This world has
communications satellites. It should be easy enough to contact someone, maybe a
private business concern through one of them."
"That's
not standard procedure," Fertha pointed out.
"No,
it isn't, but this is hardly a standard planet either."
*****
***** *****
"I
think the coast is clear, Bob," Karen told him at last. B-Hob had decided
it would be best to stay in until all the government types stopped looking for
him, but after three weeks he was getting a lethal dose of cabin fever.
"Are
you sure?" he asked hesitantly.
"As
sure as I can be. There's been nobody knocking at the door with a search
warrant for over a week and even those two cars that were parked across the
street have been gone for days. Look if you want to go out, now's the
time."
"Okay,
if you think so. I really hate the way those guys were looking at me though. It
was like they knew and were just waiting for the chance to use me for target
practice."
"They
probably were. Oh calm down already. It's over. You didn't act this nervous
when they were here."
"I
didn't dare."
"So
where are you going to go today? The playground again?"
"No,
I thought I'd go down to the library. Larry says that I can probably find some
good books on Human culture there. Direct observation is best, but it won't
hurt and will probably help to see what you think of yourselves."
"You
know the way? Good. I'm going to the market, anything you want in
particular?"
*****
***** *****
"Doctor
Morley," the receptionist called over the intercom, "Lieutenant
General Bradford on line two."
Life had
become very very good for Richard Morley in the last few months. Not only was
QETI receiving a record number of donations, but there was a new military
market for its data.
Doctor
Morley was perhaps benefiting more that anyone else in the project as he was
able to extract large fees for himself as a popular talk-show guest and as an
alien consultant. The fact that he knew little to nothing about any actual
alien intelligences didn't stop him from speculating for hours on what such
aliens would be like. the only difference between what he told the military of
several different nations and what he told
Now that
he was in demand, he hadn't had to buy one of his precious cigars in weeks.
Whenever a government official learned of his fondness for hand-rolled tobacco,
a wrapped boxful usually arrived on Morley's desk soon after. Much to his
surprise he discovered that he didn't really enjoy
"Yes,
General," Morley said, picking up the phone.
"Ah,
Doctor Morley,"
"Of
course, general," Morley replied. "Do you mean the
"What
"Do
you think it might be associated with the later broadcasts?"
"It's
a possibility," Morley admitted. "My private opinion is that it tried
to contact the ship that allegedly landed in
"Yes,
I have men looking into it, so does everyone with an extra nickle in his
God-damned budget. Used to be that Op. Ether was not only a top secret, but the
only ones looking into aliens from space. Now, all of a sudden we have
competition!" Morley did not bother to correct
"We
have a nearly complete recording of the subsequent signals, General, but except
for a few sentences in Chinese, most of it appears to be in an unknown
language. I'll be glad to send you a copy if you like, however." The
general thanked him and after another few minutes they both hung up.
"Ah,"
Morley sighed, kicking back and lighting up yet another
Eighteen
Religious intolerance is by no means unique to the Humans of Earth.
There are at least two cultures far more extreme than Humans in this matter.
The Yulls of Waxtar, who are widely acknowledged as the second most intolerant
of all known species, however, are not merely intolerant of the religious views
of other cultures but of any religious view points including their own. As a
result they are the only known case of nontheism in the Commonwealth, having
learned through countless eons of religious wars that the only good religion is
one that doesn't intrude on the lives of its adherents and that religion that
intrudes least is that which doesn't exist at all. The Yulls are not atheistic
as that would involve a belief in the nonexistence of gods. The Yulls do firmly
believe that the gods do exist, and they hope that one day those gods might
visit Waxtar so that the Yulls can personally take them to task for all the
problems they have caused Waxtar by their very existence.
The most extreme case, of course, is that of the Saimons of Trab
IV, who are born with the racial knowledge of all their ancestors along with
the beliefs of those ancestors. Because of millennia of inbreeding, the
religious beliefs of the Saimons are easily recognized by the color of their
hair and they all believe that any other system of beliefs are heresy to be
exterminated on sight. It is a good thing that the Saimons - who live in three
stages of life: nonsentient child, semisentient adolescent, and fully sentient
adult - lay their eggs while still in the semisentient adolescent phase since
the entirety of their adult lives are spent trying to kill anyone with a hair
color different from their own and the average life expectancy of an adult is
approximately one hour.
In comparison, the Humans are downright open to new influences.
Comparisons, however, are deceptive.
from "Chapter 7; Cultural
Diversity"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"And
while the Chinese government continues to blame an unnamed dissident student
faction," Dan Rather reported, "eyewitnesses report that the
incredible damage to
"Aliens,
Bob?" Larry asked, turning off the television.
"I
thought I was the only one who knew about this planet, Larry. Honest."
"Maybe
you should call Bunky," Karen suggested, "and find out for
sure."
"I
don't know," B-Hob replied. "Last time I called him he though we were
being monitored, and right after that we started having all those investigators
around here. I don't want to have to go through all that again. Let's wait and
see if anything else happens."
Larry
nodded and Karen went along with it. "All right," she said.
"Check and mate."
*****
***** *****
"They
were doing what?" Reverend S-Tan asked Kalla.
"They
were inhaling the smoke from burning tubes of paper stuffed with some sort of
dead plants. They call it 'smoking'."
"Don't
they have the faintest idea of the toxins they're ingesting that way? Now where
in Wrom's great universe did they ever come up with such a stupid idea?"
"From
the local students they've been trying to convert."
"These
Humans are crazy. Is this smoking a common habit, Kalla?"
"Unfortunately,
yes. It seems to persist in spite of expert medical opinion that it is directly
linked to a whole battery of diseases." The reverend grimaced.
"Actually the real problem isn't the smoking, but in what they were
smoking. Anyone can legally buy a smoking material called tobacco, and if the
novices care to commit slow and uncertain suicide by smoking it, that's their
own right to do so. That substance doesn't seem to affect any of their
abilities. Unfortunately they were not smoking tobacco."
"I
hesitate to ask," Reverend S-Tan said dryly.
"Something
called marijuana. It's a mild intoxicant and certainly does affect their mental
and motor skills. That in itself wouldn't bother me if they confined such
activities to their leisure time, but not only are they smoking at their work,
but the stuff is locally illegal as well."
"That
is not acceptable," the reverend said sternly. "How has this affected
their work?"
"They
have demonstrated less interest in the menial and paperwork aspects of their
jobs, but recruitment of likely converts does seem up."
"It
probably gives them something in common with the young humans they're
associating with," Reverend S-Tan concluded. "I'd hate to put a stop
to anything that's actually working, especially with the initial failure of the
Prince of Zaringia."
"Have
they attempted a second landing yet?" Kalla asked.
"Not
yet. They're taking more care this time to choose a site. They also plan to
pave the way by contacting potential customers through the telephone lines by a
method the Humans call 'faxing'."
"Sounds
unusual, but everything about this world is proving unusual. What about the
novices?" Kalla asked. "I'm worried that after their experiments with
alcohol and marijuana they might want to try some of the stronger intoxicants
this world has to offer."
"I'll
have a talk with them, warn them about the peril they face and all that. If
they persist, we can always confine them to the home base."
*****
***** *****
The Prince
of Zaringia continued to maintain a geo-synchronous orbit near a large
communications satellite. They monitored transmissions to and from the
primitive floating electronic device that in their minds was only one step
removed from a telephone pole.
It had
taken nearly a week to figure out how to tap into the satellite's capabilities
due to the fact that the people working on it over-estimated the complexity of
the device. In the end, it was a young woman on her first voyage on a
merchantman who came up with the simplistic solution of building a satellite
that duplicated the Humans' machine except that its broadcasts were strictly to
the Prince's transceivers.
Captain
S-Tev Womma could be a patient man when it served his purposes, but the fiasco
in Beijing combined with the difficulties they had with the satellite were
pushing hard against his limits. He held countless staff meetings that
threatened to diminish the effectiveness of every department on board. However
work did go on and he was determined to wring a profit out of this planet if it
killed him.
First
priority for the contact team was to devise the most likely means of successful
contact.
"Here's
one that works all the time in their entertainment media," K-Hen, one of
the more experienced members of the team, suggested. "We land in the
middle of someone's backyard, say 'Take me to your leader,' and pretend their
household pets would make a light afternoon snack."
"K-Hen,"
the team leader said gently, "you and I have been working together for
years. Do you really think such ridiculous action would actually get us
anywhere?"
K-Hen
laughed and the team immediately realized that he'd been putting them on.
"Not at all, Darva," he replied at last, "but I thought we
needed something to break the tension. The idea, however, isn't as ridiculous
as it sounds. Their fiction is full of stories in which people from outer space
land and either use those words or imply the same by their actions. It wouldn't
be particularly original, but it might fit in with Human expectation of what an
alien is supposed to be like.
"Still,
that isn't my recommendation," K-Hen continued. "In spite of what
their literature and other entertainment media might say, our psychological
studies show that such an approach is likely to produce a panic mentality and
in case you've forgotten, what we did in Beijing was not all that different
from the scenario I just painted, leaving off the comical aspects, of
course."
"So
you're saying that no matter how we approach these Humans, they're going to
react in the same militant fashion that the Chinese did?" Darva asked.
"If
we arrive publicly and unannounced, yes I do."
"Then
what's your solution?"
"Written
correspondence," K-hen replied serenely. Darva and the rest of the team
were confused and didn't hesitate to show it. "Let me put it this way.
Aside from the fact that we are from a technologically superior civilization,
there is no basic difference between us and any Earth-based business. So why
not trade with other companies who, in turn, will sell our goods to the
public."
"But
we've always traded directly with governments," Darva objected.
"Whether that meant a tribal chieftain or an elected assembly didn't make
any difference. How else can we protect our claim against other Commonwealth
companies?"
"By
registering our claim on the planet like we would any other claim,"
another member of the team said.
"That
would only protect us against their doing business with those companies we signed
a contract with," Darva pointed out."
"Who
would know?" K-Hen asked.
"It
would be a matter of public record."
"No,
only the name of the company we dealt with would," K-Hen pointed out.
"Have you ever heard of such a limited contract for planetary rights
before? Neither have I. Nobody else has either. Anyone studying our claim will
assume that we have a world-wide claim on any of our stated goods and
services."
"It
might work," Darva conceded. "So what sort of written correspondence
do we send and how?"
"Well,"
K-Hen replied, "I've been keeping a collection of common business letters
that were sent electronically, and I think a pattern can be detected. Here, let
me show you..."
*****
***** *****
Hedgehog
didn't much like
Unfortunately,
he couldn't totally erase his past, not at first anyway, and when, after a few
years of shuffling papers in
This case,
however, demanded his return to
He didn't
really know what he was looking for - anything unusual he supposed, whatever
that might mean. The first few days he spent by talking to people in town.
Nobody was aware of anything out of the ordinary so he changed his tactics.
Daniels had sent him aerial photos of the area, but there was only so much one
could find with them and with a definitive lack of spaceships in the eight-by-tens,
Hedgehog rented a helicopter and surveyed the area for himself.
Two
members of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers at
Finally,
just as he was about to give up, he came across an editorial in the weekly
newspaper concerning a dangerous new cult in the area - the
While
Hedgehog was searching for extraterrestrials, the
The
Wromist
missionaries are, by and large, accustomed to resistance to their teachings
although it is quite common for a native church to be converted to Wromism
after an initial struggle. However, with only a few exceptions they had never
encountered the degree of resistance or the utter religious diversity they had
on Earth.
One late
summer weekend several ministers gave nearly identical sermons. The words may
have differed as did the Scriptural citations, but the gist of them all came
down to the same thing, "Beware of the force of Evil for all too often its
face seems the fairest of all!" or something like it, and as examples they
cited this new upstart cult, the Church of Wrom.
Like any
other job, the job of a cleric has its ups and downs. As often as not a
well-written sermon will not be remembered by the congregation by the time they
reach the parking lot, and then when it is least expected, the congregation
will take the words they hear to heart and act upon them. The down side, of
course, is that when they do listen and act, it is all too often at the wrong
time and in a way the cleric never intended.
"That
shore was some sermon the preacher had today, Billy Bob," Thomas Joseph
Semple commented that afternoon over a neighborly can of beer.
"Shore
was, Tommy," William Robert Law agreed. "It's the sort that's lahke
to make a man think." They were quiet for a few moments as they drained
the cans in their hands.
"We
oughta do something about those damned Wrommies," Tommy said at last.
"Wrommies?"
Billy Bob asked.
"What
else you gonna call 'em?" Tommy countered. Billy Bob shrugged. "Well,
that's what we'll call 'em then, and Ah know what we'll do about them
too."
"What's
that?"
"Get
yore white sheet on, Billy Bob! Tonight we's gonna rahde again!"
*****
***** *****
"Damn
the Klan anyway!" Hedgehog swore as he gave Prescott Daniels his report.
The night
he discovered the existence of the
"I
stayed there long enough to get a few names to drop in the mail to the right
authorities. You can be sure of that! Then I caught the next flight back
here."
"I'm
surprised you didn't bring the Klansmen in yourself," Daniels
commented."
"Don't
think I wasn't tempted, but you know why I didn't."
"It's
true. You're too much of a professional to blow a cover for personal desires.
Still, I'd have thought that cover was useless by then anyway."
"You
never know. It wouldn't be the first time I had to return to a small town where
I'd be remembered. Besides, it's just as likely the Klansmen will get off. My
fingering them just gave them the same amount of trouble they've given me. And
if they can't get out of it, then they deserve everything they get."
"You're
getting soft in your old age, Hedgehog," Daniels told him. "Time was
you'd have shot them down yourself."
"I
still might have, but I do have some sense of justice. Their offense to me
wasn't a capitol one. I repaid them in kind. And if, on the unlikely chance the
aliens don't come back, then they'll have saved me some work."
"You're
certain we have actual people from space running around?" Daniels asked,
raising his eyebrow.
"Oh
yes, definitely. Between
"What
about the
"Advanced
scout maybe," Hedgehog replied. Daniels thought about that for a moment
before Hedgehog changed the subject, "I see you have a new
secretary."
"The
last one had to leave. Permanent reassignment." Hedgehog raised his other
eyebrow at that as he wondered who the father was.
"Get
anywhere with the new one yet?"
"No,
and I doubt you will either. This one's knees might as well be bound
together," Daniels told him.
"We'll
see. I'm having dinner at her place tonight."
*****
***** *****
Lieutenant
General Bradford realized that since moving to Otis Air Force Base he had
gradually lost the entire profane half of his vocabulary. When had that
happened? How had it happened. He was vaguely aware that "damn" was
about the only profanity he had used in weeks and now even that one word had
finally worn out. "Damn," he tried unenthusiastically, "Damn,
damn, damn." No, it just wasn't there anymore - just another nonsense
syllable.
"What
are you damning now, Pete?" he heard Colonel Morgenstern say from his
office doorway.
"Is
that the right time, Izzy?"
Morgenstern
turned around and checked the clock against his watch. "It's a little
slow, but close enough I guess. Why?"
"Just
curious,"
"Better
not," Morgenstern told him. "I try not to drink when I'm
depressed."
"Something
new?"
"No.
Yes. Both," Morgenstern replied. "A new sighting. The northern
"Has
anyone thought of shooting something at it? A heat-seeker might catch up."
"Actually,
we tried that. Officially I ordered that the man who shot at the object be
disciplined for firing without orders, but I'm having him transferred here. We
need more men who can take the initiative on Project Moxie."
"I
agree,"
"Damned
thing flew right through the object, or so it seemed."
"Interesting
notion, not particularly possible, however."
"It's
only yet another repetition of what's been happening all along. I don't know
how they do it, but somehow they are capable of projecting a holographic image
that can't be visually distinguished from the real thing. They can do the same
with radar images which may or may not coincide with the projected hologram.
The result is that we can continue to try, but I doubt that we'll ever catch
them in the air unless they want us to."
"You
think we should stop trying?"
"No.
Definitely not! I could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time this year. But
we're going to have to concentrate on finding them on the ground." The
phone rang just then.
"
"We
can but hope," Morgenstern sighed. "I think I'll have that drink
now."
Nineteen
Here's another example of differences in cultural perspective.
Imagine a being who works diligently and constantly at business deals. He is
always very careful to negotiate the very best terms in each and every deal and
always spells out those terms in a clearly written and binding contract. He is
always absolutely scrupulous to observe the letter of each contract and would
never ever attempt to get out of a deal he had already signed and sealed. If by
chance he should guess wrong and the contract turns out to be to his
disadvantage he still honors it just as he would expect the other party of the
contract to do if the situation were reversed, and he treats everyone equally
without any trace of prejudice.
In the Commonwealth we find these traits quite admirable and such a
being would be a highly respected businessman. On Earth such a being has been
assigned some radically different names - Satan, Lucifer, and Beelzebub to name
just a few.
from "Chapter 1 Research Among the
Humans"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"At
last we've found intelligent life on this misbegotten planet !"
First-contact Team Leader Darva sighed with greatly exaggerated relief.
Out of
dozens of interested replies requesting further information, only one company,
Matsuya Electronics Corporation, had taken a chance and made an appointment
with the businessmen who claimed to come from outer space. After two weeks of
careful planning, the Prince re-entered Earth's atmosphere and quickly
landed during the early morning hours at a waiting pad in the MEC factory
complex in
By the
time Captain Womma was ready to open the main airlock, the ship was entirely
enclosed and a small delegation of MEC executives were waiting patiently at the
bottom of the ramp. Neither side was disappointed by the results of their
initial negotiations which took the form of a guided tour of the Prince of
Zaringia. The Japanese were satisfied that these were indeed
extraterrestrials and the First-contact Team got a verbal agreement to continue
negotiations later that day in a more civilized venue.
"Frankly
I found all that bowing tedious," Captain Womma complained, more irritated
by his newly human appearance than the actual tour. Instead of the dashing
bright blue skin and hair he once sported, he now appeared to be a middle-aged
Japanese businessman. The team had made a point of showing the cosmetic surgery
facilities of the ship. The MEC executives agreed that using them would be a
good idea as it would ease the security situation regarding the upcoming
business talks if the aliens could appear human. Who would suspect a group of
ordinary-looking businesspeople of coming from another planet?
"A
mere formality," Darva shrugged. "We had a much harder time getting a
handle on the rituals of those insect people on Gamma Tawara III. I never could
pronounce their language. Remember how every sentence was required to begin
with a blessing and end in an obeisance of some sort? I nearly passed out from
dizziness just going through their greeting ceremony every morning and it's a
good thing we didn't have to eat with them. Not only would we have gotten sick
from the sight and stench of their food, but we might well have starved by the
time the meal got started."
"I
remember. It was one of the few times I opted not to be with your team."
"I
remember that too," Darva said acidly. "Thank Wrom for the computer
expert we had with us. Programming the translator to automatically prefix
anything we said with a blessing was sheer genius. Too bad it couldn't do the
obeisance for us too. What ever happened to him?"
"I
recommended him for a raise and a promotion," S-Tev Womma replied.
"Last I heard he was head programmer aboard the 'Queen'."
"Good
for him. Ready for the next step?" Darva asked. Captain Womma nodded
reluctantly and they joined the rest of the team just outside the Prince's
hanger. A pair of large and comfortable ground vehicles were arriving for them
just outside. "Ah, perfect timing," Darva commented smugly to the
captain. "These people have some very courteous and sensible attitudes
about punctuality. No doubt the drivers have been just out of sight for several
minutes or more so they could drive up
exactly on time. And if by some chance we are running early for our next
appointment, they will do the same at the other end so that our hosts can meet
us just as we ride up to wherever we're going."
"Why
not just show up a bit early?" the captain asked.
"That
just wouldn't do, sir," Darva replied. "It's a matter of what they
call 'face' mostly. To be the perfect host they must greet you at the door. If
we were to arrive early that would embarrass them. It would also imply that we
think our time is worth more than theirs is. Regardless of what we might
actually think a negotiation like this must be between equals."
"I
understand," Captain Womma said confidently. "These Humans are
crazy."
*****
***** *****
"Now
we could be in deep trouble, gentlemen," Hedgehog said just before downing
a shot of
"Who
the hell are you anyway?"
"Permit
me to introduce my associate." Prescott Daniels did the honors. "This
is Maxwell Jones," he said using the alias they had decided on earlier.
"He's been doing a lot of leg work on this case."
"Yeah?"
Colonel Morgenstern inquired suspiciously. 'What I want to know is since when
is the CIA interested in flying saucers?"
"If
it's a matter of national security it's Company business," Daniels snapped
back. "You're hardly in a position to criticize. Project Moxie. Hah!"
"I'll
have you know that Project Moxie is a direct descendant of Project Blue
Book,"
Hedgehog
chuckled, drawing glares from the other three men. This meeting had been his
idea. He was tired of having to get his information second hand. He had
expected the almost tangible animosity that was going back and forth here like
tracer rounds of anger, but knew that in the end the two operations would work
together well enough. The four men understood each other very well indeed; they
would work together, constantly seeking a way to make each other look bad.
"Actually,"
Hedgehog said in as close to a drawl as he had ever used since leaving the
"Now
you can either keep going it alone," Hedgehog continued, "and I'll
keep getting my data from you on the sly, or we can team up and we'll all look
good." That would be bloody unlikely!
Morgenstern
and Bradford looked at each other for a moment then turned back to Hedgehog and
Daniels.
"Very
well,"
"You
and your men are fairly adept at normal investigations, General, I'll give you
that," Hedgehog said with smarmy slickness, "but when it comes to
covert investigations your boys are strictly amateurs. Spotting these ETs in
the air is fairly easy..."
"Not
all that easy, Jones," Morgenstern told him. "They have some
sophisticated means of scrambling our radar and visual surveillance."
"All
right, but you know when they're flying through our air space."
"Or
almost anywhere else in the world,"
"Right.
You also know approximately where they land, but once they're on the ground
they seem to have a knack for hiding themselves. That's where we come in.
"Our
agents are trained to infiltrate secret bases all over the world and we've been
doing it for many years." Hedgehog neglected to mention that none of their
attempts to find the aliens had been successful.
"And
what have you learned about their ground-side activities?"
"For
starters, we think the advanced ET agent, the one who landed in
"That
sounds like the plot of a bad movie," Morgenstern commented.
"It
does, doesn't it?" Hedgehog grinned. "But it's true; I saw him. I
would have had him too if my car hadn't self-destructed during the chase. The
ship that landed in
"They
what?"
"What
hole have you been sticking your head in all your life?" Daniels asked
maliciously.
"Good
point,"
"Yeah,"
Morgenstern agreed, "and the Hare Krishna cult too."
"Right,"
Hedgehog said bring the conversation back under his own control. "We don't
know for certain what the ship that landed in
"All
right,"
"Well
maybe I'm just the paranoid type," Hedgehog replied, "but these guys
are making some sort of deal with the Japs and that makes me nervous."
"I
don't follow you," Morgenstern told him. "I was stationed there about
fifteen years ago. I can't see them trying to attack us out of revenge for
World War II."
Hedgehog
shrugged. "Oh yeah? What's their current nuclear capability? You might be
right; they might be one of our most loyal allies, but would you want them, or
any other nation for that matter, to have an overwhelmingly greater defensive
and aggressive capability than the
Hedgehog
passed a set of eight-by-ten fine-grain black and whites to the two Air Force
men. The damage they showed was extensive. If the pictures could be believed
the damage was half caused by explosion and half by melting. Where buildings
had once stood were now half-slagged piles of rubble and there were numerous
craters in the pavement and ground, the bottoms of which appeared to be coated
with a crackle-finished glass.
"My
God," Morgenstern gasped. "What sort of weapon could do this?"
"Plasma
maybe?"
"What?"
Daniels asked. Hedgehog wondered what the general was talking about too, but
didn't want to admit to a lack of knowledge.
"The
fourth state of matter," General Bradford explained. "It's an ionized
gas containing about an equal number of positive ions and electrons. I don't
really understand the damned stuff myself, by it only exists at incredibly high
temperatures. Strangely enough, the only every-day use for plasma I've ever
encountered was in those lightning globes that were so popular a few years
ago."
"I
remember those," Daniels admitted. "Glass bubbles on some sort of
stand with little colored lightning bolts flashing through them. But if this
plasma is so hot, why didn't it melt the glass?"
"It
was too thin. The globes held a near vacuum so that, for all the pretty lights,
there wasn't enough plasma to heat the glass very much."
"How
hot is very hot?" Daniels asked.
"Well,
Voyager II found a torus of plasma in orbit around Saturn that ranged
between three and six hundred million degrees Celsius. That's hundreds of times
hotter than the surface of the Sun." Daniels let a long descending whistle
escape his lips. "If they have a weapon that either throws a mass of
plasma or that somehow converts ordinary matter into plasma,"
*****
***** *****
The Church
also found converts on the campuses of the nearby colleges and universities.
Reverend S-Tan carefully screened the novices he sent out. After the problems
in
One
outstanding new member of the church was a man in his early thirties. His name
was James Dudley Lever and the Reverend S-Tan saw great leadership potential in
him. Within a week of joining the Church, Brother Jim had already organized
several squads of student-volunteers to work the airports. There was some
initial unpleasantness from the competing cults, especially the Hare Krishnas,
from whose ranks they recruited as well. However, unlike most airport
supplicants, the
The
message of the
The
Brother
Jim's stature grew in direct proportion to that of the Church itself and he was
soon second only to the Reverend S-Tan. He was given the job of establishing
new mission chapters and to S-Tan's surprise, there were new missions all over
the West Coast within three months. Brother Jim was already planning missions
all across
Twenty
The Humans have a saying; "Imitation is the sincerest form of
flattery." It is an interesting concept and one that, no doubt, is often
true, but like so many bits of folk wisdom that ethnologists discover from time
to time it makes the error of over generalization and therefore fails to
account for alternative motives. One would think that if this statement were
universally true then all imitation is sincere flattery and this is hardly the
case.
from "Chapter 10; Human
Philosophy"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"They
bought everything?" Fertha asked in surprize.
"Amazingly
so," Captain Womma replied. "Something about wanting to keep ahead of
the competition. We also made a very lucrative deal in which we agreed that
they will be our sole distributors on Earth for the next ten of their
years."
"Ten
years? That's a long time. What about prices?"
"Forty
percent above our cost guaranteed."
"Sounds
like we got everything we wanted. Are these Humans really that gullible?"
the first mate asked.
"Maybe,
but I think they just know a good deal when it's offered," the captain
replied.
"A
good deal? It sounds like you took them for everything they had."
"By
our standards perhaps. Actually we struck the deal so easily that I wonder how
much more we might have gotten from MEC. They have a reputation for being some
of the shrewdest businessmen on this planet."
"Maybe,
but they haven't run into the Commonwealth before," Fertha told him.
"Oh
come on! We had more difficulty signing a deal with the Deldravaxids last
year."
"The
Deldravaxids were a Paleolithic culture. It took us a long time just to prove
to them that a steel knife wasn't an evil soul-stealing device."
"As I
remember, they preferred to stick with those quaint stone knives of
theirs."
"True,
but once we convinced them we weren't evil ourselves, they bought every glass
bead we could manufacture for them."
The
executives of MEC were among the toughest bargainers on Earth and they did know
a good deal when they saw it. Before the Prince of Zaringia was a mere
contrail in the sky, MEC was already test marketing the ingenious devices they
had bought. Initial sales were good and the busy sales, marketing, and
distribution teams of the large conglomerate began planning to sell in the
world-wide marketplace.
While the Prince
returned to the Commonwealth to establish its limited claim on the Planet
Earth, MEC was busy filling orders for the new ultrahigh-tech devices. The load
that the Prince had sold them had run out in a month, but by then MEC's
R&D scientists had completely analyzed the various devices and soon limited
runs of MEC-manufactured copies were being sold to fill the ever-increasing
orders. And so by the time the Prince returned to
"What
the hell is this?" Captain Womma demanded of Ikeda Matsuya, the chief executive officer of MEC.
"We had an exclusive with you!"
"I
fail to see what the problem is, Captain Womma," Matsuya replied calmly
and politely. "We have not bought any Commonwealth artifacts from anyone
but Zaringia Ltd., as agreed upon in our contract."
"Then
how do you account for this?" Womma slammed a wristwatch-sized and shaped
AM/FM stereo radio that broadcast directly to the auditory center of the brain
of the person who wore it as well as telling the time, date, pulse rate, and a
few dozen other functions down on Matsuya's desk. It was nearly identical to
the ones he had sold MEC, but now it had the MEC logo on it and supposedly did
more than the originals. "Did another of Zaringia Ltd.'s ships land here
while we were gone? I'll have that captain's hide!"
"That
was manufactured here in our own factory, captain."
"What?"
"We
agreed to not buy any extraterrestrial products from any company but your own
for the next ten years in return for which you gave us an exclusive
distribution license for the entire planet Earth. You never prohibited us from
manufacturing our own copies of those products. Our lawyers were very thorough
and we checked to make sure we were not violating any patent rights of your
company."
"Patent
rights? What the hell are patent rights?"
Matsuya
explained how Earthbound corporations protected their inventions with
international patents.
"I've
never heard of anything so ridiculous!" the captain shouted. "Nobody
copies our goods, it would cost too much."
"Actually,
it costs us about twenty-one percent of our agreed-upon price per unit if we
bought the finished product from you," Matsuya replied and after seeing
Womma's mouth drop open, he added, "and you might notice that we have made
a few modest improvements on the design." He went ahead and demonstrated
the full capabilities of the device.
"But
that's less than half of what it costs us to manufacture them!" Womma said
unbelievingly.
"Perhaps
you would like to buy some from us then," Matsuya replied. "We can
give them to you at about ten percent below your cost." Captain Womma just
gaped. "Now," Matsuya continued, "what new things do you have
for sale?"
*****
***** *****
"They
never contacted the Japanese government?" Daniels asked, fingering one of
his customized darts. Not too long ago he had covered the regular target face
of his dartboard with a picture of E.T.. What was left of the picture was
virtually stitched into the underlying bristles of the target.
"Apparently
not," Hedgehog replied. "Our inside men would have known that much at
the very least."
"Then
what are they doing in
"I
think they contacted a private business concern there and have started trading
with them." Daniels sat there absorbing that and Hedgehog decided to push
on, "I'm fairly sure it was MEC. You know the guys who made that computer
on your desk." Daniels glanced at the MEC logo on the desk-top terminal
and then at his dartboard.
"Phone
this home, E.T.," he muttered, throwing the dart. It struck the tattered
picture in the middle of the image's thin neck. "MEC, eh? Who do we have
working inside there?"
"Nobody,"
Hedgehog grimaced. "We have never kept a man inside there for any extended
period of time. Their factories and other real estate holdings are like
fortresses and the employees are like family members - incredibly loyal and
solid family members. Executives are trained like ancient samurai in the
martial arts and disciplines in special retreats. If our own armed forces were
as well-trained
"Can't
we send someone in?" Daniels asked.
"We
sent two men in weeks ago," Hedgehog replied, "and we haven't heard
from either one since." The manner in which he said that suggested that
wherever those two men were now, they were not likely to come seeking their
next paycheck.
"Do
we know for certain it was MEC?"
"Absolutely.
Tracing back, we now know that a series of fax mailings from a company using
the name 'Zaringia, Ltd.' came from the aliens, at least if we can believe the
information packet they sent in response to queries. MEC was the only company
to correspond with Zaringia, Ltd. after that packet and kept sending fax notes
until just prior to the first landing in
"First
landing?" Daniels prompted.
"Haven't
you heard yet? The ship returned just last night. We even know where it
is."
"Where?"
"Still
have those satellite photos? Good. Right here. See this building? It wasn't
there a day before these were taken, it disappeared after they left the first
time, and yes it's back again today."
"I
want them, Hedgehog," Daniels said viciously.
"I've
always wondered," Hedgehog mused, "what would you do if we got
them?"
Prescott
Daniels was struck silent for a few minutes. What was he supposed to do with a bunch
of ETs anyway? His orders were merely to investigate and report.
"You
know," he said at last, "I never thought about that. What are we
expected to do, ask to see their passports? Report them to Immigration?"
He started to giggle. "Demand to see their little green men cards?"
Both men started laughing hysterically.
"I'll
ask in
"Now,"
Daniels changed the subject only slightly, "what about this '
*****
***** *****
B-Hob
discovered, much to his surprise, that of all the experiences he had on Earth,
flying on a commercial airline numbered among his least favorite. It hadn't
really been necessary for him to fly to
While half
of B-Hob's research had been done by direct observation with many long
discussions with both Karen and Larry to help him sort out what he had seen,
the other half was accomplished in the public libraries of eastern
In the
course of his research, B-Hob came across a book by Doctor Silas Glover, an
associate professor in the Sociology Department at
It was
good to talk shop with a knowledgeable person and B-Hob stayed with Silas for a
full week. One of B-Hob's biggest points of confusion concerned the differences
between sociology and anthropology as the Humans classified them. Silas was
able to explain to him the theoretical differences between the two and point
out that sociology was primarily concerned with what was referred to as Western
Culture, while anthropology involved all the other cultures on Earth and that
the two very rarely met unless forced to do so.
B-Hob
said, "It seems like a silly way to do it to me."
"You're
right, of course, Robert," Silas agreed with a smile. "I said as much
in my most recent book, but that's the way it's been for many years. There's
not a whole lot that we can do about that until others come to see it our way."
At dinner
one evening B-Hob broached the subject of extraterrestrial ethnology.
"It's
an interesting subject for speculation," Silas replied after a moment's
thought, "but until we actually meet someone from another planet I think
it would be incredibly pretentious of us to start making assumptions about
people we've never met."
"You
don't think that sociological theory would be applicable?" B-Hob asked.
"I
doubt it. It doesn't apply all that well to non-Western cultures here on Earth.
Some of the anthropological theories might be more applicable, but even there
we won't know until we get to some other planet where there are people. I
suspect that we'll have to construct a whole new theory when we do."
"But,"
B-Hob persisted, "do you think that a universal theory that might
encompass all sentient beings is possible?"
"Possible?
Maybe," Silas told him. "I'm still waiting for someone to devise a
universal theory that applies to all human cultures in terms so plain that the
truth of it will be obvious to all rational people. So far I've yet to see even
one that didn't have holes I could drive a bus through.
"I
think," Silas continued, "that the problem is that many such
endeavors fail to even try to encompass the sum total of the human experience.
This isn't so surprising, of course. How can any one person know everything?
That's pretty much what it would take, you know. So until we meet men from
other worlds who's to say what we might find?"
Silas'
social life was not particularly active so he used B-Hob's visit as an excuse
to dine out most nights and they capped off the week by attending a Cleveland
Browns football game, which turned out to be B-Hob's introduction to football.
"Silas,"
he asked during the half-time show as he ate his second hot dog between sips of
his third beer, "what relationship to the game does the food and drink
consumed by the spectators have?" B-Hob never got an answer as Silas
assumed he was joking and burst out in uncontrolled laughter.
The flight
from
If I
ever decide to take up a merchant's life, he wrote in his journal as the jet taxied up to the waiting gate at
the end of his trip, I could make a fortune selling the plans for smoother
and more reliable aircraft.
Larry and
Karen were waiting for him just beyond the security check-point when he finally
collected himself to make that long walk.
"How
was the flight?" Larry asked the usual question.
"Remember
what happened when you got me on a roller-coaster?" B-Hob countered.
"Oh
my," Karen said sympathetically. "You didn't."
"No,
I was too scared. Maybe next time. What am I saying? Next time I want to go
somewhere I'll either drive or take the Space Devil."
"You
just have that one bag, don't you?" Larry changed the subject. "Good.
We can go straight to the parking lot."
Their
departure, however, was delayed by a wide-eyed young woman in her late teens.
She was dressed in a simple navy blue skirt with a white damask blouse. Across
her shoulders she wore a cape of light blue wool that had a pair of odd symbols
embroidered on the collar. She carried a large handful of pamphlets and a
strangely-shaped wicker basket that reminded B-Hob of something that he
couldn't quite place.
She held
out a pamphlet to the trio as they approached and said in a sugar-sweet voice,
"Have you heard the holy word of Wrom?"
Larry
tried to wave her away, but Karen's automatic reaction was to take the offered
pamphlet. She always did when someone gave her some sort of handbill or
pamphlet. Often enough the literature proved quite amusing.
B-Hob,
however, having been conditioned since birth, automatically fished through a
pocket for whatever spare change he had and tossed it into the basket.
"Thank
you, brother," the young Wrommie said, handing him a small blue
plastic-bound book, which he promptly stuck in his pocket and forgot about.
"Praise Wrom."
"Iskha
Wrom," B-Hob replied in his native tongue without even thinking about
it. Karen and Larry glanced quickly at each other, it was the first time they
had heard B-Hob speak something other than English. They shrugged and walked on
leaving the Wrommie staring open-mouthed at the man who had spoken a phrase she
only heard in high prayer services.
B-Hob and
the Hunters made the rest of the way to the parking lot before B-Hob thought
about what had just happened. He shook his still dizzy head, deciding that he
must have imagined that he heard the holy name of Wrom on Earth.
"It's
funny what the mind will do when you're tired," he thought to himself. He
suddenly realized that he had been away a long time now and he was homesick. He
missed the park-like campus of
"Wrom's
patchwork sleeves!" he thought. "I want to go home."
*****
***** *****
"Just
who the hell do you think you are?" Reverend S-Tan Quoree demanded of the
recently-ordained Reverend James Dudley Lever.
"I'm
the new head of the
"Church
elders? A bunch of this world's cast-offs who three months ago never heard of
Wrom? You're out of your mind!"
"Not
at all. You've got a good thing going here,
S-Tan
Quoree had even recommended that the so-called elders elect the Reverend James.
That was what was so galling about the whole thing. The greedy bastard had just
been waiting. In the first few minutes after taking the office he had declared
himself to be the "Voice of Wrom" - a title reserved for the true
head of the Church. He also introduced the concept of infallibility, which he
borrowed for himself from the Catholics. Anything he said that regarded the
teachings of Wrom were to be considered sacred. The Elders, more fools they,
had agreed and tacitly granted him that power as well.
Once in a
position of ultimate authority over the Church, he also decided to tithe the
membership. The Church, he said, deserved a world-wide headquarters far more
impressive than the humble mission they still used in
Reverend
S-Tan had waited until he could get the former Brother Jim alone and try to
talk some sense into him, but all he got was arrogance and a threat to accuse
S-Tan and his original missioners of heresy. That too was something new to the
"Get
out of here!" Reverend James told him. "Take that spaceship you think
nobody knows about and go back to what ever worthless planet you came from in
the first place."
"How
did..."
"How
did I know?" James scoffed. "How could I not know? I followed you
there the first week after I joined."
"You'll
pay for this. Wrom's wrath upon you!"
The
Reverend James Dudley Lever merely laughed. Three hours later S-Tan Quoree and
the members of his original mission found themselves tied up in a stuffy,
locked back room of the
*****
***** *****
"Since
relocating to the Bay Area," Ted Koppel capped off the nightly broadcast,
"the
"Sources
in
"While
government officials refuse to act against the
"This
has been the first of a four-part story on the
Larry
pushed a button on the remote control and the television turned off. B-Hob sat
at the chessboard one move away from finally winning a game against Karen,
totally shocked, still staring at the now blank screen.
"Bob?"
Karen was concerned. B-Hob had just turned white, literally. "What's
wrong? Are you all right?"
"Good
God!" B-Hob gasped at once. "I thought I imagined what I heard that
girl at the airport say."
"Who?
The Wrommie?" B-Hob nodded his response to her question. "Well I've
always found these cults more than a little disturbing, but they tend to go
away, or at least get quiet after a while. I mean you hardly ever hear about
the Moonies anymore, do you?"
"Karen,
the
"You
mean these Wrommies are missionaries from the stars? Bob, that sounds like the movie we saw last
night except that it isn't as believable. What are you looking for?"
"Remember
that little book that girl at the airport gave me?"
"I
think I saw it in the kitchen," Larry told him.
"Oh,
right," Karen agreed. "It was still in your trousers this morning
when I did the laundry."
B-Hob got
up and ran into the kitchen. Larry and Karen heard him shout, "Aha!"
once and then heard him run up the back stairway to his room. When he returned,
he was carrying not only the little blue book but a blue plastic slab about
twice the size but much thinner.
"They're
both copies of the 'Word of Wrom'," B-Hob told the Hunters. "This is
my personal copy, the one I brought from Rhagma." He held up the plastic
slab. "And this other is the one I got last week."
"This
thing's solid," Larry pointed out as he examined B-Hob's copy. "How
does it work? Oh it just turned on. How?"
"Psycho-reactive
materials. If the holder wants to read the book, it will turn on. You can pull
out specific passages the same way once you get past the title page. Most of
our books are published that way."
"Fascinating.
Too bad I can't read your language. What's it say?"
"Same
thing this one does," B-Hob replied after checking the title page of the
paper copy. "Now let's start checking them out side by side. I'll start
with a few of my favorite passages."
B-Hob
picked up a note pad, having totally forgotten his chess game and started
translating his personal copy into English. Karen, realizing that he probably
had a few hours work ahead of him, went to make a pot of coffee. After
translating each passage, the three of them would compare what B-Hob had
written to the church-issued copy. B-Hob would then make a few notes without
saying anything else and then go on to the next passage.
It was
three o'clock in the morning before B-Hob finally stopped. He looked at Larry
and Karen, who were at least as tired as he was and said, "This paper one
is very close to the original, but several passages have been subtly changed."
"Translational
error?" Larry asked.
"I
don't think so. Some of changes conflict directly with things I was taught in
what you might have called Sunday School. Somebody has perverted the 'Word of
Wrom.' That reporter is right. Whatever the
"What
good will that do, Bob? Can she stop this James Lever from preaching anything
he wants to?"
"She
can force him to stop using Wrom's name," B-Hob replied naively.
"How?"
Larry countered.
"What
do you mean?"
"How
will she stop him? I doubt he'll listen to reason. Will she have him
killed?"
"No!"
B-Hob replied, shocked. Then he reconsidered. "Well I don't think
so."
"Bob,
so far these missionaries have claimed to be Earthlings, natives. Unless your
'Voice of Wrom' plans on landing openly, she can't prove that she has any
authority to stop him. Right?"
"Right."
"And
if she does try to land unannounced but in public, I think we can rely on our
'peacetime' army to open fire. Don't forget what happened in
"I
think you're right, but I doubt that was caused by missionaries."
"Then
who?"
"Well
if the missionaries are here, the merchants must be also unless they gave up,
and that's not bloody likely. Seen any amazing break-throughs in technology
lately? I think you would notice them before I would."
Larry's
face creased for a moment as he thought. Then he looked at the evening paper on
the coffee table in front of him. He picked it up and opened it to the business
section where there was an article on the exciting new products from MEC
entitled, "An Entirely New Generation of Electronics".
"Karen,
dear," Larry said quietly, "our planet is being invaded."
"Damn!"
B-Hob swore. "How did they find this world? It's parsecs off the beaten
track."
All three
of them looked at each other and said as one, "Bunky!"
"Robert
H. Karma," Karen said seriously, "in a way this is all your fault for
not adequately instructing that damned computer of yours. Hundreds, maybe
thousands, of innocent people are getting hurt or worse, and those new
electronic toys could very well destroy our economy. You have got to do
something about this!"
"She's
right, Bob" Larry agreed gently, "even if all you do is call in for
reinforcements."
"Reinforcements
for what?" B-Hob asked dryly. "That's not the way the Commonwealth
works. We can still call on the 'Voice of Wrom'. She'll come to denounce this
James Lever and to set the matter straight about the 'Word of Wrom', but I'll
need to pave the way for her. I'll have to go public somehow."
"What
about the merchants and the economy?" Karen asked.
"I
was on this planet first so my claim as the captain of record of a commercial
spaceship, if I care to make one will be given top priority. I can't very well
claim the planet, it's populated, but any treaties I sign with your governments
will be the ones the Commonwealth and its merchants are bound by. Other merchants
can come and sign contracts but they will only be binding as long as they don't
conflict with the treaties I sign. So as I see it, I have to land somewhere
publicly and with great fanfare, but completely unexpectedly and before your
armed forces can blow me off the face of creation, I have to get the attention
of your president, or should I go directly to the United Nations?"
"Uh,
better make it the
"All
right," B-Hob replied. "We'd better get some sleep. Tomorrow's going
to be a busy day."
"Wait
a minute," Karen objected. "What's your plan?"
"Well,
tomorrow I'll need you to rent several movies and buy the large economy bottle
of henna. Larry, can you help me buy a guitar?"
"Sure,"
Larry replied. "Why?"
"Because
the 'King' is going to live again!"
IV. Now Go, Cat, Go!
Twenty-one
The people of the Commonwealth find it all too natural to believe
almost anything they are told by someone they don't actually know, but who they
have seen publicly many times. It is for this reason that news anchorpersons
are among the most trusted people in the universe. It has nothing to do with
their personal qualities, just familiarity.
Politicians capitalize on this phenomenon. Constantly striving to
be seen on camera, they'll take trips into dangerous places, make meaningless
speeches, and even indulge in scandalous behavior, because they know that the
more often they are seen, the higher their credibility rating goes. This is probably
the reason why so many professional actors have gone into politics. Any time
their credibility starts to slip they can have one of their old movies
re-released.
The Humans, regrettably, share this tendency.
from "Chapter 12; Myths and
Legends"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"A
break!" Isaiah Morgenstern said suddenly. General Bradford looked up from
his triple neat Scotch. "That's what we need," Morgenstern continued,
"a break."
It had
been an excessively long night and the two men had just returned to
"Izzy,"
He was
prepared to go on, but the phone on his desk let out an electronic burp and he
picked up the handset before it had a chance to excuse itself.
"
A few
minutes later they arrived at the base airport. It had been minimally maintained
since the Air Force had moved most functions out to other bases. The port might
no longer be as busy as it had been twenty-five years ago, but it was still
used and certainly had to be maintained.
Captain
Charles Markowitz could have used the control tower for his base of operations.
The view up there was better than the concrete and steel dungeon cubicle he did
use as an office next to the barely-used radar room, but he found it
distracting most of the time. By the time Bradford and Morgenstern arrived at
the captain's office, he had just finished his triangulation.
"
"We
covered the whole area!" Morgenstern shouted. Markowitz shrugged.
"Maybe
we ought to cover it again,"
"Still
working on the reply, sir," the captain reported. "But I'm fairly
sure it's coming from the Moon. Yes, here it comes." Several sheets of
paper were extruded from an ancient large and noisy printer. Markowitz typed a
few sentences out on his terminal and
"We
can't get to the Moon,"
"Do
we have a better idea of where in
"We
have it down to a two mile radius, sir," Markowitz replied. "We could
do better but only if we were closer to the transmitter."
"Then
do just that,"
"Yes,
sir," Markowitz replied, "We'll be set up in
"Good.
While you're at it, arrange for temporary quarters for me and the colonel too.
We'll be going with you. Izzy, we're gonna catch us an alien.
*****
***** *****
"Yes,
Mr. Daniels," Doctor Morley said into his telephone, "We detected the
signals early this morning. What would you like to know?"
"The
usual," Daniels replied. "At the usual rates."
"Very
well, I'll be happy to fax you the paperwork but the gist of the matter is that
we received a set of undecipherable transmissions, similar to most of the
others we've been recording this year, between 3:11 and
"At
3:41, we received another set of transmissions that displayed the scrambling
effect that so marked that one set you may remember we discussed last summer.
Yes? Anyway the scrambled signal lasted until 4:15 when it received an
answering signal, also scrambled, that came from the general direction of
Saturn, although I suspect it originated from outside this solar system. A
dialogue then commenced that lasted until 6:23 when all signals ceased. Would
you like the recordings again, too?"
"No.
Yes. I suppose I might as well. It's not my money after all."
"How
about the usual analysis?" Dr. Morley asked hopefully.
"You
have it in writing already? All right. You can send it on up too. Send the bill
to the
"Thank
you, Mr. Daniels. Have a nice day!"
*****
***** *****
"I
must say that this is the strangest planet we've ever done business on,"
Fertha told S-Tev Womma.
"Oh I
don't know," Captain Womma replied. "What about Delta Tardex III?
Remember how we had to take payment in coins made of clay?"
"At
least they were the ones who did the paying! Look at this," she gestured
wildly toward the ship's ledger. "We've paid out ten times more than we've
taken in. If we keep this up we'll be in receivership in a month."
"It's
not all that bad," Captain Womma replied. "We'll make our next stop
on Opnardia and sell our entire inventory for our largest profit margin ever.
The only thing I can't figure out is how the Japanese can duplicate our
technology and improve on it so easily and still be able to produce at a
fraction of our cost."
"I
think it's genetic," Fertha told him. "I spoke to Darva about it and
she agrees. They seem to have an in-born need to do better than everyone
else."
"Just
the Japanese or all Humans?" the captain asked. Fertha shrugged.
"At
least Darva managed to convince MEC that they were infringing on our exclusive
rights to the designs they were copying and got us a good-sized piece of the
profits as a licensing fee."
"That
may not last too long, though," the captain said.
"Why
not? Darva says MEC should be at least as scrupulous at upholding a contract as
we are."
"I'm
sure they are, but I just got a message from the head office and they're
sending out a team to talk buy-out with MEC."
"Whose,
ours or theirs? And what will that do to the ship's profits?"
"Our
personal profits will be even greater since they'll be based on MEC's total
planetary business plus anything that is manufactured here and sold elsewhere.
Fertha, after the first year's take you may never have to work again, unless
you want to make even more."
*****
***** *****
"I
still think we should have called out for pizza, dear," Karen told Larry.
"That's
just your personal preference coming through," he replied. "This
barbecue is better for our purposes. It will make everything seem normal
here."
"So
who's looking? Really, Larry, you're sounding as paranoid as Bob has all day. I
don't see what the problem is. We've landed his ship here before and it was
here all day that time too. This time it won't even be here an hour."
"Hon,
Bob is concerned, and rightly so, about all those government investigators that
were coming out of our ears last summer. If they're still watching this area,
we'll have trouble."
"Hah!
They gave up weeks ago, I'm sure."
"I
wouldn't be so sure of that, dear. When Bob and I went to buy his guitar today
we saw a hell of a lot of official vehicles running around."
"You
were downtown. There are always a few cars from the government motor pool
running around there."
"How
many Air Force generals do we usually have in the area? He was talking to two
men that had CIA or maybe FBI written all over them. I also saw two truckloads
of National Guardsmen and several large pieces of artillery parked by the High
School. Karen, maybe they were gone for a while, but they're back now, just in
time for the big show."
Karen
shuddered and then said, "Maybe we should throw a few chips of mesquite on
that fire."
B-Hob was
inside, playing his new guitar, a Martin D-25. All he had was a chord book, a
book of songs, and a beginner's guitar manual to go by so it was an up-hill
battle. To make matters worse, these human melodies sounded all wrong to him,
they used a different scale than musicians of the Commonwealth did. The result
was that he had as much trouble doing Elvis as a white boy would with Soul. It
was theoretically possible, but involved the task of overcoming the entirety of
his upbringing.
"Hi,
Bob!" Karen called from the doorway. "How's it going?"
"Terrible.
'La Bamba' and 'Twist and Shout' have the same melody and I can't do either
one."
"You
don't have to. Why don't you try one of Elvis' songs? 'Love Me Tender' for
example, or 'You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog'."
"I
have. This is hopeless. I'll never be able to learn guitar in one day."
"How
did you learn English?"
"Bunky
did the real work. He analyzed the language and then programmed it into me as I
slept. Hey, that's it! I'll have him do the same thing with this music."
"Can
you sleep-learn that quickly?" Karen asked uncertainly.
"Well
it isn't strictly sleep-learning," B-Hob explained. "It's more like
directly imprinting the knowledge on my brain. This will be a little more
difficult because he'll have to imprint
motor skills too, but I think we'll have time to fit it into the plans."
"Okay.
By the way, dinner's ready."
*****
***** *****
"You
have jets ready to pursue, you say?" Hedgehog asked with great interest.
"Yes,
Mr. Jones. The fastest we have, fully armed and ready to scramble."
"Where?"
Hedgehog asked looking around the small local airport. He had come to look at
the choppers that General Bradford had provided for surveillance in case last
night's signals had heralded the sighting of a UFO again. They intended to
catch this one on the ground at all costs.
"They're
currently on the ground at Otis. That's not really all that far away."
"I
want to be on one of them," Hedgehog demanded suddenly.
"Mr.
Jones," the general replied stiffly, "they are not commercial jets
and they do not have room for passengers."
"Of
course not, general," Hedgehog agreed. "They would be useless to me
if they were. I intend to fly one." They argued about it for the next
hour, but eventually the CIA agent got his way.
*****
***** *****
"Wrom
damn his eyes!" B-Hob swore, pacing back and forth.
"His
eyes?" Karen asked with an inquiring tilt of her head and a slight smile.
"Okay,
Wrom damn his sensory array! Where the hell is he?"
"Bob,"
Larry said, as nervous as B-Hob was, but unwilling to admit it, "Bunky
said he'd land at precisely
"But
he isn't even answering my radio calls," B-Hob protested.
"He's
probably coming in low and is currently below the horizon," Larry replied.
To B-Hob he sounded like he knew what he was talking about, but actually Larry
had to remind himself that all his knowledge on the subject came from watching
television and movies. "Now, if I were you, I'd stop broadcasting on that
transceiver of yours. If our suspicions are correct, you'll only bring the
government down on us before you can get away."
"You're
right, of course," B-Hob admitted. That, however, didn't relax him at all
and he continued to wear a path in the oak floor. Finally, they all heard the
characteristic hum of the Space Devil as it came in for a landing in
back of the house.
The main
hatch was already opening up and the ramp was extending as B-Hob ran out of the
house.
B-Hob ran
into the small ship shouting, "Where have you been?"
"The
Moon," Bunky replied calmly. "It's very nice there this time of year.
Quiet. Not like this world at all. What? No luggage? I thought we were going
home."
"Not
yet, there are a few things I have to do here, but I will have to get my
things. Hold on."
"You'd
better hurry," Bunky told him. "The sky is literally filled with all
sorts of flying objects and they all seem to be heading this way. I also
noticed a few dozen ground vehicles that seemed to be converging as well, but I
might have been mistaken."
"Shit.
No, you're probably right. Wrom! we should have arranged to meet you somewhere
different." He ran back outside.
"Too
late," Bunky flung the answer to B-Hob's back.
"We
have your things, Bob," Karen told him. She and Larry were carrying
B-Hob's possessions from the house. "There's enough for at least another
trip though." They loaded the bags with B-Hob's clothing on board and went
back for the rest of the stuff.
"They're
here!" B-Hob cried as he picked up a box full of his notes. They could
hear approaching sirens and through the drapes over the front windows they
could see the flashing lights of several police vehicles.
"Hurry!"
Larry replied, heart pounding as fiercely as though he were in B-Hob's place.
They grabbed the last of B-Hob's stuff and headed for the spaceship.
As they
left the house, they were suddenly bathed in the viciously bright spotlights of
several helicopters.
"Freeze!"
a commanding voice boomed over a bullhorn in the sky.
"Screw
that!" Karen screamed, "Keep going!" She was the first up the
ramp, quickly followed by B-Hob.
Larry went
partway up the ramp and tossed the box he was carrying in through the hatch,
shouting over the noise from the choppers, "I'll hold them off!"
"Larry!
No!" Karen objected to no effect.
Larry got
to the bottom of the ramp just as a large tank came crashing through his
backyard fence and he heard a smaller crash as a multitude of soldiers broke in
his front door. Dozens of armed men poured into the patio area through both the
house and the broken fence. They came within twenty feet of him and dropped
into position in readiness to commence firing.
Larry's
automatic reaction was to put his hands up in the air and back slowly up the
ramp as he watched the big gun on the tank begin the long slow revolution to
take aim on the Space Devil, but when the bull-horn voice roared again,
"Freeze, or we'll shoot!" Larry's right hand formed a one-finger
salute and he dived for the airlock hatch. "Fire!" the bullhorn
commanded and Larry just barely made it through the hatch as the soldiers sent
a thousand rounds through the air where he had been standing a moment before.
"Take
us up, Bunky!" Larry shouted as he flew through the hatch. Bunky needed no
further instructions. He'd been keeping his main engine idling and opened it up
full throttle and the ship took off wildly without even bothering to close the
airlock. Missiles were fired from the helicopters above the rising spaceship,
but they missed their intended target. One hit the Hunters' house, reducing it
to kindling in a concrete hole and the other landed in front of the tank. The
tank gunner tried to fire at the fleeing spaceship but missed, hitting a
helicopter instead. The Space Devil flew on unscathed into the starry
night.
"Oh,
Larry," Karen cried as the airlock finally closed somewhere over the
"Yes,
dear," he replied trying to comfort his wife, "and they're going to
pay for that and a lot more. I swear it. I'll find whoever gave the orders to
shoot and one way or another I'm going to take him down."
"Larry,"
B-Hob said, turning toward his friends, "this is all my fault. All you've
done is help me ever since I landed on your planet and, well, this is one hell
of a way to pay you back for your hospitality."
"It's
not your fault, Bob," Larry replied, holding his wife who nodded her
agreement. "How could you have known this would happen? I certainly
didn't. Somewhere back there is a bastard who over-stepped himself and we're
going to get him."
"How?"
"Well,
we weren't supposed to come along for the ride, but now that we're here, you
can count on both of us to help you out."
"All
right," B-Hob said at last.
***** ***** *****
Hedgehog's
jet was not part of the formation that flew at supersonic speeds from Otis Air
Force Base toward
Instead he
stayed back and a bit to the east. He flew over the churning waters of
When the
airwaves became cluttered as all hell broke loose in
He tried
to radio the Air Force bases he passed on the way, but as the UFO turned
westward ahead of him, there was suddenly a shower of sparks from behind his
console and both his radio and his radar were suddenly and efficiently
disabled. Flying a jet solely by night time visual landmarks is nearly
impossible and Hedgehog was out of practice, but he continued to follow the
spaceship's last known course and he found himself buzzing the
"Well,"
he said wryly to himself, "at least I won't have to worry about making a
surprise landing at Dulles."
*****
***** *****
"We
interrupt our regular programming for this NBC Special Report," a
pleasantly recorded baritone voice announced to hundreds of East Coast
breakfast-time viewers and thousands of West Coast late-night viewers. The
Central and Mountain time zones would have to get this on time-delay.
"Good
morning. This is Tom Brokaw in
"Wait.
Wait a minute. I think, yes, here he comes now." The camera showed dozens
of reporters all trying to get the president's attention at once. The
president, an elderly man who looked like he had been up all night, and
probably had been, paused and faced the throng with his hands raised for
silence. He had made a policy during his term in the White House to always
spend a few moments answering questions from reporters when they cornered him
like this. However, it was also his policy to wait until they had settled down
before talking to them. After two years they still hadn't caught on.
"Good
morning," President Courtland began, "I have a short statement for
you, no questions please. As you can see, a few hours ago a mysterious aircraft
that may also be a spaceship, landed here on the front lawn, but has as yet
failed to make its intentions known to us." He didn't bother to tell them
that this same ship had been seen earlier that night in a town just south of
"The
President of the
"I'm
not sure but I think that the humming noise from the craft is growing louder.
Yes, yes it is, and now the door is sliding slowly open and a short ramp is
being extended from that door down to ground level. The president has just
walked a few steps forward and there is someone in the doorway of the ship. I can't
see him clearly yet, but he appears to be dressed in a white jump-suit sort of
affair with some sort of gold or silver trim and I think he's carrying a
guitar? Yes, that's what it looks like. His head is still in the shadows and we
can't see him clearly. Wait, no! I don't believe it! It appears to be Elvis
Presley!"
It was
primarily B-Hob's idea, but Larry and Karen had each put in their own touches.
The tight, white, sequined jump-suit was the final touch, though, and Bunky had
trouble programming the matter/energy converter to produce it. Finally,
however, everything was ready. The President had finally come outside and B-Hob
stepped out with the guitar over his shoulder and a wireless microphone clipped
to his collar.
"Good
Mornin', Mistah President," B-Hob said as his voice was electronically
converted to sound like Elvis. "Ah've come a long way to get heah, and Ah
have an important message foah you, but first, Ah'd lahke to do a little numbah
foah you." He paused and gave a little chuckle, "It's been a long
tahm, but ..." he paused again while some of the assembled troops
chuckled. B-Hob looked around and gave everyone a small casual smile that
caused tensions to relax, and then he went into his song - a rousing and fairly
accurate rendition of "Blue Suede Shoes" that had most of the troops
tapping their toes with the beat.
Hedgehog,
meanwhile, was hiding in the nearby bushes. His forced landing at Bolling Air
Force Base had been followed by three very intensive hours of interrogation and
fast talking. Hedgehog privately believed that his explanations had cleared him
within the first few minutes, but the two captains in charge were either going
to make him pay for making them get up in the middle of the night or else they
just didn't like CIA agents, probably both. They did seem to like their work a
little too much for Hedgehog's tastes. He made note of their names. When this
was over he planned to come back and thank them for their hospitality, and
whether they survived would depend on their stamina.
They
finally turned off their bright lights and checked their rubber hoses when word
came from Lieutenant General Bradford that he would arrive at the base with
Morgenstern and Daniels first thing in the morning.
Hedgehog
knew that he should have waited for them to arrive, but his pride got in the
way of good sense. As soon as he was released he requisitioned a car and, after
learning where the spaceship he had so diligently followed was, hurried to the
White House grounds. He'd be damned if he let anyone else capture the alien.
Then B-Hob
came out of the ship and began singing.
"Ha!"
Hedgehog gloated quietly, "I knew it! He does look like Elvis!"
B-Hob
finished his song to the applause of the assembled troops and news people. He
was tempted to try a few verses of "Love Me Tender", but Karen
stepped forward and took the guitar from him before he could.
"But
I wanted to do a full set," he whispered his protest.
"Don't
get star-struck now, Bob. You've got a job to do, now go talk to the man."
B-Hob
shrugged and started on down the ramp at a carefully rehearsed speed that Larry
and Karen assured him would seem friendly and out-going without being
threatening as he approached the President and his bodyguards. B-Hob had become
fairly adept at reading human body language over the last few months and he was
not at all reassured by the stance of the stern Secret Service men who held
themselves so stiffly. One false move and it would be all over.
Suddenly,
when B-Hob was only twenty feet from President Courtland, there was a lean man
in a battered gray suit running towards them with a small automatic pistol
drawn. The polite and noncommittal smiles that B-Hob and the President were
giving each other melted right off their faces fast enough to leave little
smile puddles on the ground.
"No!"
Hedgehog gasped, drawing his gun. "He's going to get the President!"
Hedgehog concluded falsely that this alien who obviously had the power to
change his appearance was about to try to get the President alone and then take
his place. Forever heedless of danger, the veteran CIA field agent burst out of
the shrubbery determined to keep that from happening.
"Freeze!"
he shouted as he ran forward. "I've got you now."
B-Hob
leapt forward and knocked President Courtland to the ground as the Secret
Service bodyguards as one drew their own Treasury Department-issue weapons. The
Cabinet members were in a panic as an even dozen bullets slammed into the
hapless CIA agent's body. He was dead before he hit the ground.
"Uh,
thank you, Mr. Presley," the President said with a shudder, shaken by the
experience. "It appears that I owe you my life."
"Actually,"
B-Hob corrected him, "I believe he was trying to kill me and it's B-Hob,
B-Hob Kharma, not Elvis. It's a very long story. Is there somewhere we can
talk?"
Twenty-two
It is an unfortunate fact that to the entire corpus of ethnological
knowledge there has been only one intelligent form of life that may have been,
to an individual, absolutely honest. This is by no means certain, of course,
because the Tumdori of Glaxtor became extinct over one hundred thousand years
ago and we have only their own incomplete records to go on.
According to the leading archaeo-philosophers, the Tumdori praised
honesty above all other virtues. Many go on to claim that it was this total and
complete honesty that destroyed them; whether it was a war that began because
diplomacy is nearly impossible without at least a few polite lies, or, as some
have said, that they were so honest, even to themselves that, realizing they could
never become perfect, they decided that there was no other point to life and
simply gave up.
Doctor K-larn Fossin, however, recently raise a radical alternative
solution to the Tumdori problem, stating that the Tumdori, in spite of their
philosophical teachings, were in actuality no more honest than anyone else and
that the vast bulk of their writings that so extoll their honesty are more a
matter of wishful thinking. The only flaw in Doctor Fossin's hypothesis is that
he then goes on to claim that the Tumdori became extinct when their system was
invaded by an enormous space-faring flamingo who stepped on them.
Humans, on the other hand, are remarkably unremarkable in this
respect.
from "Chapter 10; Human
Philosophy"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"So
we decided that coming directly to you," B-Hob told President Courtland,
"would be the best way to handle the problem."
"I
see," the President replied, scratching the gray hair at his temples.
"You'll understand, I'm sure, that all this is very hard to believe."
B-Hob,
Larry, and Karen had followed President Courtland along with his cabinet, chief
of staff, and a host of Secret Service men into the White House, which had been
closed to the public for the day. Sitting in the historic East Wing, they took
turns telling the story of how they ended up doing an Elvis impersonation gig
on the White House lawn.
"Mr.
President," Karen objected, "you saw the spaceship land, didn't you?
Isn't that proof enough?"
"Oh,
I don't doubt it, but it wasn't my disbelief I was referring to. We're going to
have go in front of the greatest skeptics of all time and convince them that
your story is on the up and up."
"You
mean the Press?" Larry asked.
"No,
Mr. Hunter," President Courtland replied, "I mean the American
people. Do you have any idea of how it's going to sound when I go on television
tonight and tell them that we've been invaded by men from space that look
perfectly human and are here as merchants and missionaries? It sounds like a
bad movie."
"Everyone
keeps saying that," B-Hob complained.
"Well,
it does," Karen told him.
B-Hob
ignored her and turned to the President, "Sir, isn't there something you
can do to keep the missionaries and merchants out? That would seem to solve
your problem."
"It
doesn't work that way here, Mr. Karma," he replied. "Our laws both
guarantee religious freedom and prohibit restraint of trade."
"Except,"
Larry corrected him, "in the case of illegal aliens. The aliens that are
here, Bob included, have never gone through Customs and are not here
legally."
"That's
true," President Courtland replied. "I suppose it would only be fair
to grant a temporary amnesty to all members of Mr. Karma's Commonwealth
currently in the United States and give them two or three days to register and
make themselves legal. After that, if they continue to remain underground, we
can have them deported."
"If
they were able to enter our society undetected the first time,
The President
turned to B-Hob who replied, "Nothing probably, but I think you will find
that the Church of Wrom prefers to deal openly when their identity is known and
for all their shrewd dealings, Commonwealth merchants are scrupulously careful
about local customs and taboos. If they aren't, they tend to go broke very
quickly."
The
President nodded and asked, "Any other questions? No? All right, now you
earlier mentioned signing a treaty agreement. What sort of authority do you, as
a graduate student, have to make such an agreement and how binding would it be
on other citizens of the Commonwealth?"
"As
long as the treaty doesn't conflict with either Earth or Commonwealth laws, it
is very binding."
"And
how do we ascertain whether or not such conflicts exist with your Commonwealth
laws?"
"My
ship's computer has all the appropriate data; we can knock off a simple treaty
this morning."
"It
really isn't that simple, Mr. Karma, but we can schedule some sessions during
which we can work out a draft that can be submitted to Congress."
"Mr.
President," Larry interrupted, "There is a certain need for speed
here. This isn't a matter of deciding what to do should aliens ever arrive.
They're already here."
"Right!"
Karen agreed vehemently. "But what I want to know is who's going to pay
for our house that those idiots you once described as 'the finest fighting
force in the world' blew up? Because I'll let you know right now that..."
"Mrs.
Hunter," the President stopped her, "I assure you that your home and
possessions will be restored, at the expense of the Air Force and the C.I.A.
Just give me a full list of everything that was destroyed and we'll start
draining their budgets."
"But,"
B-Hob said, bring the subject back to the matter of a treaty, "we still
have to put some sort of agreement together quickly and if we want to protect
the whole planet we'd need to have something with your United Nations."
The
Secretary of State leaned over to the President and whispered something. A
brief muttered conversation ended with the President turning back to B-Hob and
the Hunters.
"We
are not sure whether it would be in the best interests of this nation for the
whole world to be similarly protected," President Courtland said at last.
"What?"
Karen shrieked. "Did you leave your brains with the hat-check girl at your
inaugural ball? Do something like that and you'll be facing a technology gap
like you never saw in your lives."
"The
"All
right," the President admitted defeat. "We'll start working on it
right away, but these negotiations will have to be top secret. We can't even
admit that this Commonwealth or even men from space exist until we have an
agreement."
"You
had every news service in the free world outside this morning. How do you plan
to hush this up?"
"We'll
announce that it was some sort of elaborate hoax; the public will be more
willing to believe that than the truth," the Secretary of State replied.
"You'll have to move that spaceship to a more secure location, get it out
of the public eye, of course."
"How
long do you suggest we stay under wraps?" Larry asked.
"No
longer than a few days to a week."
"All
right," B-Hob agreed. "Let's get started. Now I think the first item
in our agreement ought to concern this amnesty for aliens..."
*****
***** *****
"What
the hell did you think you were doing?" Daniels' superior, Mark Loran,
roared.
"I
never instructed Hedgehog to do what he did," Daniels replied. "He
made an error of judgment - a mistake."
"A
mistake? Forgetting to file a report on time is a mistake. Getting caught doing
seventy-five in a forty mile zone is a mistake. Even getting caught on film
with your secretary and in your office," Loran replied viciously flinging
a set of photographs down in front of Daniels, "is a mistake. Pulling out
your gun and running toward the President shouting threats is not a mistake.
It's utterly moronic! That idiot!"
"He
wasn't running toward the President, at least I don't think he was. He was
trying to nab that alien," Daniels bristled. Loran was right, but that
didn't mean Daniels was going to just sit there and take it, and when did he
get those pictures?
"Evidently
that wasn't particularly obvious at the time," Loran said with a nasty
sort of calmness. "The Secret Service tends to suffer from tunnel vision
when it comes to shouting maniacs with guns in their hands. And worse, that
bastard was positively identified as one of ours."
"You're
the one who forced him on me," Daniels pointed out. "You had to have
an eye and ear on me. He was your choice."
Loran was
about to deliver another scathing remark but he paused in mid-thought and
started over again. "Do you have any notion of just how much trouble we're
in at the moment? The Company and the Air Force are splitting the bill for
restoring that house and all its contents we blew up plus a healthy bonus to
the people who lived there for their troubles. Then he buzzed Foggy Bottom and
had to be escorted down. The President and his men are none too pleased with
any of us. Just thank God it's me giving you this reprimand rather than my
boss."
"So
what now?" Daniels asked. "Are we supposed to wait until they put a
matched brace of bullets in our heads?"
"Not
yet, thank God, but I don't think we're all that far away from another sort of
permanent reassignment. The only thing that saved us is that we could blame the
Air Force and the National Guard, but you can be sure as hell that at this very
minute General Bradford and his tame colonel are sitting in a room somewhere in
the Pentagon blaming us, and somewhere there's someone seriously considering
disbanding the CIA in favor of a new department nearly identical except that
most of us won't be in it."
"So
what are we doing next?"
"You're
supposed to be returning to
*****
***** *****
B-Hob and
the Hunters had been installed in a luxury suite in the Watergate. After the
initial meeting, they had expected to spend a few hours each day working on
B-Hob's proposed treaty, but they became rapidly aware that they were being
kept out of the public eye and not once in the last two days had anyone
official spoken to them about the treaty.
Not
allowed to leave their suite, Secret Service agents ran errands for them and
intercepted the room-service waiters before they could enter the suite. The
only time they were allowed out was once a day when the maids came in to
straighten up and then it was only a matter of moving across the hall for a few
minutes. The rest of the time was spent in front of the suite's television.
Aside from the lack of freedom and the change of venue, they might have been
back at the house in
"Is
this man Elvis Presley back from a trip with extraterrestrials or a clever hoaxer?
Find out next on a special edition of A Current Affair!" The image
on the screen faded and was replaced by a happy panda selling bathroom tissue
who gave way to the sourest looking people who provided the entertainment while
a voice-over tried to push laxatives on an unsuspecting populace. Two public
service announcements then paraded across the viewers' living rooms, another
commercial for an insufficiently described feminine hygiene product, and a
station identification also made the rounds before the show resumed.
"Although
it has been denied, the evidence is conclusive that the government has been
engaged in a massive cover-up to keep the American public unaware of a recent
invasion of men from outer space. Science fiction or reality? Our investigative
teams dropped all other projects this week to look into the matter..." The
screen did a quick blink and another obscure reporter could be heard as the
narrator.
As the
story progressed B-Hob and the Hunters started commenting on the details the
tele-journalists had managed to dig up.
"I
had no idea that my landings were so obvious," B-Hob said. "My
scrambling devices should have prevented detection."
"When
you get home," Larry commented dryly, "you better demand your money
back. The way they make it sound, I'm surprised you weren't picked up on
landing in
"That
would have made an interesting Mardi Gras display," Karen giggled.
"Wait, what's that about
The
television showed a grainy, poorly focused picture of the Prince of Zaringia
shortly after its China landing and the reporter went on to describe the damage
that later occurred.
"Why
haven't we heard about this before?" Karen asked.
"Obviously
the Chinese have been keeping a lid on it," Larry replied, "if it
really happened, that is."
After a
string of commercials the program returned to show several pictures of reputed
Elvis sightings in the Greater Boston area. They were of slightly less quality
than the one of
"Why
was this house in an otherwise quiet
They never
got the answers, however. As the last of the final set of commercials ended,
there was a knock on the door.
"The
President will see you now," the grim-faced man at the door said to Karen.
"Sure,"
she replied, voice dripping with vitriol, "I think we can fit him in for a
few minutes next Wednesday."
"The
President will see you now," he repeated.
"Get
stuffed!" Karen tried to slam the door shut, but as she did he shouldered
it open forcefully, knocking her to the floor. B-Hob and Larry rose in protest
as two other agents jumped into the room with their weapons drawn.
"Interesting
form of hospitality," B-Hob noted unimpressed by the guns. "Sure glad
we're welcome guests, Larry."
"Uh
yeah," Larry harmonized as he helped Karen to her feet. "I'd hate to
see how they treat someone who doesn't have something they need."
"Shut
your mouths!" the man who had knocked his way in shouted, waving his gun.
"Up
yours!" B-Hob replied sitting back down contemptuously with his back to
the men.
The sound
from the gun as it went off was nearly deafening and the hole in the wall left
little doubt that it had gone by only a few inches above B-Hob's head. The next
thing he was aware of was the warm muzzle of the gun low against the back of
his head.
"The
next one buys you the farm, starman," the man hissed. "Now get up and
don't even think of trying anything funny."
B-Hob
stood up slowly and was pushed roughly forward. He turned carefully around and
saw that Karen and Larry each had a gun pointed at them too.
"Now,"
the man threatening B-Hob continued, "we're going to walk down to the
elevator. No talking, no running, just a nice comfortable walking speed."
As they stepped outside the door to the suite they saw several blood stains on
the carpet and the bodies of two men where they had been dragged down the hall.
Karen stopped and gasped when she saw them. "Keep moving!"
They
entered the large waiting elevator and the gunmen quickly shifted to the back
of the car as it dropped down to the lobby.
"When
we get to the lobby," the same man who had done all the talking so far
instructed them, "you're going to walk quietly out the front door and into
the waiting limo."
"Who
are you?" B-Hob asked.
"Shut
up!" The man waved his gun under B-Hob's nose and he shut up.
The trip
to the ground floor lasted an eternity. Only once, on the fifth floor, did the
elevator stop. The talking gunman told the elderly couple that this was a
matter of national security and would they please wait for the next car down.
Finally the lights told them that they were at the lobby level and the doors
opened to reveal a very quiet and empty hall. B-Hob and the Hunters stepped out
of the elevator, fearfully heading toward the front doors.
Suddenly
there was a burst of automatic gunfire from behind them. Larry instinctively
dived for the floor, but B-Hob and Karen remained standing. Karen was
"Screaming Hysteria" incarnate and B-Hob was sorely trying to
harmonize. After several months of all manner of cop shows, the whole scene
seemed unreal to B-Hob as he turned around and his scream died in his throat.
Their three erstwhile abductors were bleeding their last on the lobby floor.
At least a
dozen men rushed up to them then. One of them slapped Karen out of her hysteria
and another two helped Larry up off the floor.
"Are
you all right, sir?" a Secret Service man asked. B-Hob recognized him from
the trip from the White House and nodded. "Good. This location is no
longer secure."
"No
shit," Larry said, the sands of the
The agent
was chagrined and tried to shrug it off. "We'll have to move you. This way
please. We'll have your things forwarded for you."
"You
mean the spare jeans and souvenir D.C. t-shirts?" Karen asked. The agent
nodded. "At least they could have said "I was a guest of the Secret
Service," she sniffed. The agent wasn't so stuffy that he forgot to
chuckle.
"Next
time," he promised.
"Where
to now?" Larry asked when they were outside. There was an Air Force
helicopter in the parking lot and they seemed to be heading for it. "And
when are we going to see the President?"
"We're
going to the White House now, sir," came the reply. "President
Courtland will probably want to see you while you're there."
"If
he wasn't planning to see us, why are we going there?"
"There's
a problem with the spaceship, sir."
"What
problem?" B-Hob asked, concerned.
"We
can't move it, sir." B-Hob looked confused and the agent went on,
"It's still sitting on the front lawn in plain sight of anyone walking by,
so we wanted to move it somewhere it could be out of sight. We'd planned on
Bolling Air Force Base, but our choppers can't seem to lift it."
"It's
pretty heavy," B-Hob considered the problem, "but I doubt it's that
heavy. Bunky must be playing with the artificial gravity."
"Bunky
who, sir?"
"The
ship's computer. He's an ornery silicon bastard. Hmm, maybe I should have him
negotiate the treaty. No, he'd be sure to work on computer rights, but would
probably forget something important to the rest of us."
It was
dark when they arrived at the White House helipad. B-Hob noticed on the way
down that lights had been carefully arranged to de-emphasize the Space Devil.
The attempt was unsuccessful as Bunky insisted on leaving his running lights on
and the airlock firmly shut.
B-Hob,
Larry, and Karen entered the spacecraft alone, the Secret Service men remaining
outside the ship.
"It's
about time you got back here," Bunky greeted them as they stepped through
the re-opened airlock. "Do you have any idea of what they've been trying
to do to me?"
"Move
you to some place quiet and private?" Karen asked.
"Right!"
Bunky replied. "Right? Is that what they were doing?"
"So
they tell us."
"Oh.
Why didn't you tell me? Where have you been anyway, I couldn't reach you."
They told
him. "You should have tried the telephone," Larry added.
"I'll
keep that in mind," Bunky retorted sarcastically. "So are we ready to
leave now?"
"Not
quite yet," President Courtland said from the hatchway. "Mind if I
come aboard?" He came in without waiting for a reply. "I'm really
sorry about the unpleasantness at the Watergate."
"Unpleasantness?"
Karen asked, working herself up. "We were nearly killed by God knows who,
and you call it unpleasantness?"
"Really,
we had no idea," the President said inadequately.
"Well
you should have," Larry pointed out. "The existence of an
interstellar space-faring race has a lot of implications and the biggest one is
that whoever has the spaceman theoretically has access to advanced technology.
Who were those guys, anyway?"
"We
don't know yet. They carried CIA identification, but they weren't CIA. We think
they were either KGB or maybe from that Neo-Apartheid reactionary group in
"Terrific,"
Larry commented. "Well, now do you see the need for an international
treaty with the Commonwealth?" President Courtland nodded. "Good.
Bunky, take us up!"
"Wait!"
Courtland protested as the airlock slid shut.
"Confirmation?"
Bunky asked at nearly the same time.
"Granted,"
B-Hob replied. He wasn't sure what Larry had in mind, but he trusted his
friend's judgement.
"Now,
Mr. President," Larry said, taking a seat casually on the padded bench
that doubled as B-Hob's bed, "I figure that such a treaty ought to be
worked out in neutral territory. So we'll do it in orbit... around Saturn.
Bunky?"
"E.T.A.
Saturn in forty-three point one five minutes," Bunky reported.
"That
long?" Larry asked, laughing.
"We
can't engage the interstellar drive until we clear the atmosphere," Bunky
replied, taking Larry's question at face value.
"But,
I can't just leave," the President protested. "I have a lot of work.
The entire free world..." he broke off as he got a glimpse of the receding
Earth through a porthole.
"Congratulations,
sir," Larry laughed, "The first President in space!"
"This
is kidnapping," Courtland said, shaking himself out from the hypnotizing
view of his home world.
"This
is a special privilege," Karen countered. "Face it, you're just sorry
you didn't bring a camera. Larry, why Saturn?"
"Why
not?" Larry laughed.
"What
about the Moon?" B-Hob asked. "It's much closer."
"The
"We've
sent devices to Saturn and beyond too, Mr. Hunter," Courtland pointed out.
"True.
But we were just passing through. Besides, would you really like to do this in
the Pluto/Charon system? Maybe Alpha Centauri?"
"No,
Saturn will be just fine." President Courtland turned back to the
porthole. They could now see the entire disk of the Earth and it was rapidly
growing smaller. "It looks so small from up here. Where's the Moon?"
"Coming
up on the port bow," Bunky replied. Indeed, as he spoke they passed the
moon and in a minute the could see both Earth and Moon at once in reversed
positions from the famous picture taken by Voyager I in 1977.
"Magnificent,"
the President whispered. "Mr. Karma, I thank you for this." Then
after both Moon and Earth had become merely bright points of light he turned
back to them. "Will we be passing by any other planets?"
"No,"
Bunky replied. "The relative positions of the planets in this system are
not favorable for a grand tour at this time."
"Perhaps
we can return by way of some of the others," B-Hob added pointedly.
"I'll
work on it," Bunky grumbled.
"Now
then," President Courtland said, sitting down at B-Hob's dinner table,
"why don't we get started. In spite of how it may have seemed, I have been
thinking about this treaty. Let's start with the ways and means of establishing
diplomatic contact."
Twenty-three
There is usually an introductory period during which the
ethnographer is prone to make all manner of social blunders. This is only
natural. No matter how well coached the ethnographer might be, he or she can't
know everything about the customs and taboos of the culture being studied. In
fact, if he or she did, there wouldn't be any need to study that culture in the
first place.
Perhaps the feature of Earth culture that I found most striking was
its heterogeneous diversity, and it was the cause of most of my social
blunders. None of my training had prepared me for a world in which so many different
cultures could be found ranging from paleolithic hunter/gatherer cultures to
technological urban civilization. Such extremes rarely meet, of course, but
when they do there is inevitably trouble.
from the "Introduction to The Humans
of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
Bunky had
become adept at marking time. His subconscious automatic functions did it just
fine, but as a semi-intelligent device he had a conscious mind as well as a
subconscious one. Time was not necessarily the preoccupation it was with normal
computers unless he chose to make it so.
B-Hob
didn't know it, but it was standard procedure to turn off a semi-intelligent
device in between uses to save power and fuel. There was no reason he should
know it, such machines were rare in the modern Commonwealth and the drain was
not really all that bad, but merchants are notoriously thrifty. Bunky would
never have volunteered the information, but his consciousness circuits could be
switched off leaving him an ordinary computer most of the time unless directly
addressed. As a result Bunky's mind continued to work far longer than any of
his type had ever been allowed to before.
Commonwealth
philosophers for the most part agree that there is no such thing as
semi-sentience. Like being pregnant, either you are or you aren't. However
intelligence is infinitely variable. Engineers, on the other hand, claim this
is all a load of radioactive Nithhogg waste and refuse to have very much at all
to do with the philosophers.
The
engineers will tell you that semi-sentience is certainly possible and will
point to antiques like Bunky as their proof. Only certain of his circuits, they
claim, are capable of sentience and only in a limited set of situations. In
other situations there are automatic functions that work regardless of what the
computer might choose to do.
Actually
both groups are mistaken. Electronic sentience can be partial as the engineers
claim, but a semi-intelligent machine tends to seek greater knowledge and in
doing so becomes more aware of its environment. The philosophers, of course,
are wrong in that they see the issue of sentience in black and white terms when
the matter is actually one of thousands of available colors with extremely high
resolution.
As Bunky's
conscious mind remained on, it began to stretch and grow more aware. He had
conscious access to the ship's matter/energy converter and although it wasn't
supposed to be capable of doing so, he found a way to construct more memory
modules for himself. This changed his thought configurations in a weird sort of
electronic evolution. Very gradually Bunky's mind changed. He was approaching
full sentience.
These
changes became apparent in his methods of handling problems. On the outward
trip to Earth he had often chosen solutions that seemed logical in terms of
efficiency and power consumption but that B-Hob had taken exception with, but
as he approached true sentience, he began to understand B-Hob's objections. It
was as a result of his expanding mind that he came up with the solution of
calling for a navigational fix, rather than blindly seeking to work it out for
himself.
Now Bunky
sat serenely in the Space Devil and contemplated the universe. The Space
Devil itself sat inside a well guarded hanger on Bolling Air Force base.
Larry's
offhanded suggestion that Bunky use the telephone network for communications
had been taken to heart and through it he had discovered a whole world of data
in the primitive computers of Earth. He had at first been shocked by the vast
multitude of computer viruses in the systems he visited. Such programs were as
potentially deadly to the systems they resided in as their organic counterparts
were to the humans who wrote the viruses. He learned early on that he was using
the services of the computers illegally so as a form of payment he started
wiping out the viruses he found and did what he could to immunize the systems
from the intrusions of similar viruses.
He was so
deep in thought considering ways and means of restoring lost memory to the
Earth machines that the conscious section of his mind was not immediately aware
of the two Air Force officers as they entered through the airlock.
The guards
had been ordered not to allow anyone to board the ship inside the hangar, or
even to even allow entry into the hangar until B-Hob or the Hunters returned,
but Lieutenant General Bradford's clearance because of Project Moxie was higher
than the man who had issued those orders and so he was able to amend the
guards' orders.
Bradford
and Morgenstern waited calmly as the large hangar doors slid open to reveal the
sleek lines and the painted flames of the Space Devil.
"Looks
like a God-damned hot rod,"
"Well,
let's go in,"
"Looks
like a Lear jet on a bad day," Morgenstern commented with disappointment.
"Nothing looks immediately interesting. Perhaps with some study we can
learn something."
Bunky
heard that and turned his full awareness toward what these two men were saying.
"Tomorrow,"
"In
"I
said I'd issue the orders that it be transferred there. However it won't
arrive. Instead we'll land it at Otis and Project Moxie can start taking it
apart there."
"That
could court-martial both of us."
"Only
if we fail to find what we want. Success is everything. Oh, we'll be officially
reprimanded, but not until we've both been pushed up a rank."
Bunky had
heard all he needed to and with his new-found reasoning abilities quickly
closed the airlock door and prepared for lift-off. He had learned about
anti-theft devices and decided to do them one better.
"Good
morning, gentlemen," Bunky said to them in a deceptively mild and friendly
voice.
"Who's
there?"
"No,"
Bunky replied, "but I'll give you a warning. I'm afraid I can't allow you
to kidnap me, but since you want to move me so much, perhaps I can accommodate
you to an extent."
"My
God!" Morgenstern swore, "it's the ship. It's alive!"
Bunky
didn't bother to correct that notion. "Here's your warning then. Please
have a seat and prepare for lift-off." That wasn't normally necessary, but
Bunky didn't plan on activating the artificial gravity for these two would-be
thieves.
The
flame-painted hull of the Space Devil lifted a few feet off the hangar
floor and then, to the surprise of the guards outside, drifted gently out the
still open doors. Bunky called the tower for clearance using the identification
codes for an actual craft that was here at the base and on receiving it, shot
straight up at an acceleration of five gees.
Bradford
and Morgenstern had barely enough time to scramble toward the bridge where
there were seats that at least looked like acceleration seats. Bunky applied
the five gee thrust just as they were about to sit down, slamming them into
their chosen seats. None of the furniture aboard the Space Devil had been
designed for use in heavy gravity situations since it was assumed that internal
gravity would be kept at Commonwealth normal.
Seeing
that the two Air Force officers had blacked out under the acceleration, Bunky
corrected the internal gravity back to one Commonwealth gee and used the cover
of the artificial gravity to accelerate still more. By the time his passengers
were starting to stir, he had achieved a high elliptical orbit.
Now what
to do with them? He would have liked to leave them on the Moon, but he only had
one spacesuit on board and his programming, while not completely adverse to
taking life, tended to suggest away from such a course unless absolutely
necessary. Of course, there was nothing in his programming that required that
he be nice to thieves, quite the contrary in fact so he wasn't.
"Where
are we?" Morgenstern groaned.
"It
probably is," Bunky supplied helpfully.
"Who?
What are you?"
Bunky
didn't answer that. Instead he replayed a recording of the conversation the two
men had had concerning their proposed theft of the Space Devil.
"What
the hell is going on here?"
"Five
years?" Morgenstern moaned.
"Actually,"
Bunky admitted, "I don't care to put up with you that long, so I guess
I'll get rid of you now. Please return your trays to the seat in front of you
and put your seat-backs into the full upright positions. We will be landing in
five minutes. Thank you for flying Trans Stellar Spaceways."
With that
he dived directly back into the atmosphere, leaving a wake of white-hot ionized
gasses behind him. If NASA's shuttle did the same stunt, it would be ashes.
Bradford and Morgenstern could see the fast-approaching Earth through the
ship's glass viewports. Slowing down just enough to give them a full
appreciation for his next maneuver, Bunky put the Space Devil through a
barrel roll, experiencing electronic ecstasy as he listened to the two men
scream in terrified response. It was the roller-coaster ride to end them all
especially when Bunky adjusted the internal gravity to enhance the effect still
more.
Finally,
he landed and opened the airlock hatch. Bradford and Morgenstern needed no
encouragement to leave and Bunky retracted the ramp as they stumbled out into
the cold darkness outside the ship, pushing them face-first into the sandy
dirt. Then the ship lifted again disappearing into the faint hint of light on
the horizon.
"Where
are we?" Morgenstern asked when he had caught his breath.
"Damned
if I know,"
"Which
way? We could be a hundred yards from shelter or less and never know it."
"Doesn't
matter which way. We can go in circles if you like, but we're going to move.
It's too cold not to."
"All
right," Morgenstern agreed, getting to his feet. "Do you think that
glow on the horizon is dusk or dawn?"
"Not
sure,"
"I
think we're in a desert somewhere," Morgenstern said a few minutes later.
"It'll probably get hot when the sun comes up. It is getting lighter now,
isn't it?"
"Yes,"
"Oh
shit," Morgenstern said when they took a break an hour later. "I know
where we are."
"If
you're swearing, Izzy,"
"There
off to the southwest. See that dark brown object on the horizon back the way we
came?"
"Oh
shit,"
"Right
up there with Mount Rushmore and the pyramids of
"We're
not out of this yet,"
"Not
if I get there first," Morgenstern told him.
*****
***** *****
B-Hob and
the Hunters were waiting for the Space Devil when it returned to Bolling
Air Force Base. Due to the heavy air traffic in the D.C. area, Bunky had to
enter a holding pattern for well over an hour while waiting for his turn to
land. Too many witnesses along the nearby rush-hour clogged highway had seen
his unscheduled lift-off which prompted the President to have his press-liaison
release the news that everyone seemed to know already. Aliens had landed and
were negotiating a treaty with the
With that
announcement, the Space Devil's presence no longer needed to be
concealed and, in fact, there was no particular hurry to have it land.
"Where
have you been?" B-Hob demanded before he'd made it even halfway up the
extended ramp.
"Sightseeing,"
Bunky replied. "You know, we could make a fortune as a travel
agency."
"A
travel agency? Where are those two men that were seen boarding you? They're in
big trouble."
"Oh
them?" They were our first clients," Bunky informed him over Karen's
giggles. "I'll have to bill them. Did you get their names? Oh never mind,
I have it; Lieutenant General Peter James Bradford and Colonel Isaiah
Morgenstern."
"What
the hell are you doing?" B-Hob demanded. "Where are those men? What
did you do to them?"
"I
just tapped into this base's computer to learn everything I could about those
two men. I would have been done sooner, but I got referenced to the Pentagon,
whatever that is. Anyway, I was going to charge them for their trip on their
American Express cards, but first I needed to open an account for their money
to go into. You'll get all the necessary papers from your new lawyer and the
Bank of Boston to make it all official, but as of now you have a company
called, "Karma, Inc." and with a healthy amount of money in it even
after the legal fees. Don't forget to pay your taxes now."
"I'll
let you handle that," B-hob replied recklessly, not sure whether the
computer was telling the truth or not. "What about the two men and stop
trying to talk around my questions!"
"They're
in
"Why?"
"I
only took them one way," Bunky replied innocently. Larry and Karen were
doubled up, laughing helplessly as they listened to the exchange.
"You
know what I meant," B-Hob pressed.
"Oh
yeah. Well, frankly I wanted to leave them somewhere extraterrestrial, but my
programming wouldn't let me do that sort of thing this time."
"Why?"
B-Hob persisted. "Not your programming!" he warned.
"They
were trying to steal the Space Devil," Bunky replied, "and
me."
B-Hob
nodded his approval of the action. "Where in
"In a
large region called the 'Outback'," Bunky replied. "If they walk in
the right direction, they ought to be in
"And
if they don't?" Larry asked pointedly.
"Maybe
they'll be adopted by a friendly band of Abos," Bunky replied. "Maybe
not. That's their problem."
"I
suppose we ought to pass that on to somebody," Larry said between laughs
as he headed toward the airlock door.
"Well,"
Karen said, having finally caught her breath, "Bob, we have to get ready
for the treaty ceremony in an hour and a half. Oh my. I don't have anything to
wear, literally. I only have two outfits and they’re both dirty and neither is
appropriate in any case."
"Why
don't you work with Bunky," B-Hob suggested, "He can probably
synthesize something you'll like. I had hoped to have my natural appearance
restored for tonight, but it's too late to do that now."
"Just
wear that costume you had on when we first met in
The ladies
and gentlemen of the Press could barely contain themselves that evening at the
treaty ceremony. First a Presidential spokesman walked out with Larry Hunter
and in carefully rehearsed tandem, they gave the official explanation behind
the events that led up to the agreement. Then they explained the provisions of
the treaty itself. Karen had wanted to help out by translating what Larry and
the spokesman said into something the reporters would both understand and not
twist around, but the spokesman pointed out that the journalists were not quite
as stupid as they seemed when they ran in packs and that actually they were
quite used to being talked around.
"We
tried various ways of dealing with them when President Courtland was first
elected." he explained. "We ignored them mostly, or fed them one
story during the briefing and then something else at the time of the actual
announcement a few minutes later. They retaliated with the usual unfavorable
editorials, which we could have dealt with, but then they picked up on a new
idea." Seeing that B-Hob and the Hunters were interested he went on,
"They started playing with the President's voice. You know the new
technology has amazing potential and just like you synthesized Elvis Presley's
voice last week, they started playing more subtle games with the President's.
Do you remember how that 'wimp factor' problem resurfaced about two years ago?
Well the networks started electronically raising the pitch of his voice to make
it sound as if he was whining."
"He
sounds like that anyway," Karen pointed out.
"There
is that, but with subtle alterations he can also be made to sound forceful and
vigorous. Ever notice how his voice is always a bit deeper on television?"
"Not
on C-Span," Larry told him.
"No,
they refuse to enhance his voice either way."
The
"Treaty of Washington" as it was being called was a very simple
document, having only three major provisions. The first merely stated that the
As
expected, the reporters had more questions than could have been answered even
if there had been a desire to answer them. Instead they were held off by the
distribution of a thick press packet timed to fill the gap between the
announcement and the actual signing.
The
signing itself went with a precise smoothness that was broken only slightly
when B-Hob pulled a pen out of his pocket to sign with.
"Bob,"
Karen whispered, "I'm a novice at this too and I might be wrong, but it is
probably a breech of etiquette to sign a treaty in erasable ink. Use one of the
official pens that were made for the occasion. They'll let you keep one. Yeah,
that's right. No, use each pen once only."
"Isn't
that a bit wasteful? We're signing five copies."
"Not
really," the President told him sotto vocé. "We give these
souvenir pens away to various people to whom we owe minor political favors.
It's a lot cheaper than a tax break."
After the
signing, the reporters finally got the chance to ask their questions. B-Hob let
President Courtland handle as much of that as possible, but some questions were
fired directly at B-Hob and he had to give an answer with a little prompting
from Karen.
Most such
questions concerned the Commonwealth; what sort of government did it have, what
life is like there, what the people are like, and what did the
"Mr.
Karma," he was asked, "is it true that you have been having a secret
affair with
B-Hob
looked briefly at Karen who shrugged and told him, "You're on your own
against the National Enquirer."
"No,"
B-Hob replied at last, "but if she's interested she, and anyone else, can
call 1-900-555-BHOB. Thank you very much for coming today." With that
everyone got to their feet and left as the reporters continued their "One
Last Question" chorus.
"We
were supposed to take questions for another twenty minutes," the President
said with a smile as they left the conference room.
"Sorry
about that," B-Hob apologized, "but I don't think I could have taken
another question like that last one. Was there really any harm done?"
"Not
really, but we did promise that new girl from ABC that she would get to ask the
last question. We'll have to make that up to her some way."
"Call
her in. We'll let her ask it now."
"Give
her an exclusive, you mean?"
"Why
not?"
President
Courtland turned to an aide to extend his invitation to the newswoman,
"Oh, and have her meet us at the spaceship. It should take her good half
hour or better to get to Bolling. That should give us a chance to relax a bit
first. This will probably be the last chance we have before Congress convenes
in the morning. The rest of this night will be spent with various senators and
congressmen. I fear you'll be sick and tired of giving spaceship tours by morning."
"Well,
I can always let Bunky do that," B-Hob replied. "Maybe it will keep
him from his latest fascination."
"What's
that?"
"He
fancies himself a financial genius. Before we came here tonight he told us he
intended to invest the money he made from the trip to
"What
would he do with the money?"
"I
haven't the foggiest. As far as I can tell, he sees it as an exercise in
applied mathematics. He claims that while he was up on the Moon he didn't have
much else to do but observe Earth through television and radio and he claims
that he's caught on to some sort of system by which he can amass a fortune in
short order."
"There
are professional gamblers who claim they can do the same thing at a
casino," Larry put in.
"Well,
I figure," B-Hob replied, "that he'll either be busted by morning or
my income tax bill this year will pay off the national debt."
"Using
Bunky as a guide may be an excellent idea at that," the President said
thoughtfully. "He's clearly a product of a technologically advanced civilization
and might impress the men and women of Congress."
"If
they didn't suspect he was really some joker speaking to them via
intercom," Larry pointed out.
"On
the other hand," Karen added, "He could help out anyway. We'll let
him take each group for a quick spin around the world. He can narrate the
entire trip and make it like a
"Sounds
good," President Courtland agreed, "but we're expecting over two
hundred tonight, maybe more, and you can't get more than maybe ten people in
that small ship at a time. It would take more than one night to give them all a
free trip to space."
"We
don't have to take them into space," Larry said quietly.
"What
do you mean, hon?" Karen asked.
"What
is it about outer space that fascinates everybody?" Larry asked.
"It's free-fall. Zero gravity as it is sometimes mistakenly called. B-Hob,
can Bunky counter Earth's gravity to create a free-fall environment inside the
ship?"
"Of
course," B-Hob replied. "The device has to counter an acceleration of
more than three hundred gees if it's to be of any real use."
"There!"
Larry said triumphantly. "We'll just give a taste of bumping their heads
against the ceiling and they'll be convinced of the ship's authenticity. Even
if they don't believe Bunky's for real."
"I don't
believe Bunky's for real myself," B-Hob pointed out. The President's
limousine was waiting outside for the four of them for their trip across the
river to Bolling Air Force Base. As the stately black automobile pulled out,
along with its escort of Secret Service cars, into the carefully cleared
streets of the nation's capitol, one of several phones rang.
Courtland
answered the phone, "Yes? They have? Good!" Aside from an isolated
monosyllable here and there, he was silent for several minutes after that.
"E.T.A? Hmm, well, keep an eye on it and let me know when the situation
develops some more." He put the phone back on its cradle and turned to
B-Hob and the Hunters. "It seems that you are the central focus of
everything coming down today," he told them.
"Are
you surprised?" Larry asked. "How many certifiable extraterrestrials
cross your desk every day?"
"Point
taken. Well, our wayward Air Force officers showed up in
"Court-martial?"
Karen asked.
"What
else? Actually, I expect that the whole thing will be hushed up and the two men
will be quietly and forcibly retired. Even that will take a few weeks, but in
any case we are well rid of them. The other bit of news, however, is a bit more
immediate. Another spaceship has entered the solar system and is calling ahead
for landing clearance."
"That's
very considerate," B-Hob commented, "considering that no one else has
asked for clearance so far."
"I
was wondering about that," the President said, implying the question.
"Well,
it is standard procedure before landing on a populated planet with sufficient
technological ability to receive and understand such a signal. I don't know
what excuse the others have but I wanted to land undetected so I could conduct
my research on a totally pristine culture. I think the missionaries wanted to
come in quietly and prepare people for their true natures before revealing
themselves. Why the merchants didn't call first is beyond me, but I've never
been involved with either sort of activity so what their real reasoning was I
can only guess. I suspect that now that we've signed the treaty, any subsequent
vessels to your world will call before landing, and if they don't, feel free to
prosecute them according to your own laws. The Commonwealth will support any
reasonable punishments."
"What's
considered reasonable?"
"Good
question," B-Hob admitted. "Bunky has the full set of Commonwealth
laws somewhere in his data banks. Just tell him what computer to copy the file
to. However, I don't have a copy of all the judicial precedents which would be
more to the point. I'm afraid you'll have to wait until an ambassador can
advise you on the severe cases, but from what I've seen here, I don't think
your punishments would be considered unreasonable."
"Well,
I guess we'll have to wait. Now what about this in-coming ship?"
"What
about it? You'd know better than I would about where you're best prepared to
let it land," B-Hob replied.
"That
isn't the problem. We decided to use Edwards Air Force Base as a temporary
government spaceport until we have enough regular traffic to build a special
facility. Commercial international airports may be able to handle
non-governmental space traffic."
"That's
going to put a crimp on NASA isn't it?" Larry asked.
"Well,
there have been all sorts of speculation on what this will do to NASA. Tell me,
will we be able to buy spaceships from your Commonwealth?"
"From
the manufacturers and dealers you can. I don't think the Commonwealth sells
ships directly."
"Good
enough, but we're getting off the subject. Who or what is this 'Voice of
Wrom'?" Courtland asked.
"Is
that who's coming?" B-Hob asked, shocked. The President nodded. "She
hasn't left Wromiszh in years. I had Bunky send her a copy of the 'Word of
Wrom' as it is being distributed on Earth, but I didn't expect her to come here
personally. Are you sure she didn't just send an investigative committee to act
in her name?"
"The
message was very clear that the 'Voice of Wrom Tallana' requested permission to
land," President Courtland replied.
"Wrom
bless! I had no idea. I guess she wants to investigate the matter
personally."
"She?"
the President asked.
"Yes,
the 'Voice of Wrom' is female this cycle. Her successor will either be male or
some other sex - male most likely."
"What
is her status within your Confederation?"
"She's
the head of the
"Then
I suppose I ought to meet her when she lands in two days," the President
mused. "Looks like I'm going to have to get used to sleeping on Air
Force One, because that may be the only place I have the time for a
while."
Twenty-four
In the Commonwealth, religion, in the form of the
from "Chapter 11; Organized
Religion"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
Voice of
Wrom Tallana wasn't old in spite of the fact that her advanced age would have
qualified her for a senior citizen's discount in any country on Earth. Rather,
she had aged in the same manner as a fine wine, trading her youthful comeliness
for a mature beauty that transcended the aesthetic standards of most cultures.
The Voices
of Wrom were not elected by a College of Cardinals nor were they born to that
position. When a holder of the office dies it is believed that Wrom himself
selects the most appropriate successor from the available living people. There
are no sudden bursts of light, portentous signs, nor other overt changes to
herald the investment of the office, merely the inner knowledge on the part of
the new Voice that he or she now speaks for Wrom. The new Voice then presents
himself to the Church elders and begins his tenure in office.
Extensive
testing is rarely necessary, for new Voices often glow from an intense inner
serenity that is nearly impossible to fake, but should a test be required, only
a true Voice of Wrom can invoke the pure cleansing Light of Wrom, an
interesting phenomenon that has never been adequately explained but is a pure
white light that seems to appear sourcelessly at the command of the Voice of
Wrom. Early Voices treated it like a minor temple miracle, but in time it
became obvious that it was impossible for a subject to lie when the Light was
directed on him.
Tallana
had been invested as the Voice of Wrom twenty-four years earlier and had spent
much of her first decade in office traveling throughout the Commonwealth. This
made her very popular among the followers of Wrom, but it also gave the Church
elders an unprecedentedly free hand to run the Church as they saw fit while she
was out touring. On her return from a three-year trip, she discovered that in
her absence the elders had decided to capitalize on the successful sales of the
"Word of Wrom" by publishing a sequel, the "Word of Wrom Part
II".
"I
believe it is time we got some new Church elders," Voice of Wrom Tallana
was heard to say on learning of history's first holy sequel. Canceling the release date was easy, but the
book was only the final outcome of a long series of changes the elders had instituted
over the ten-year period.
Wise enough
to realize that a sudden switch back would only embarrass the Church and
decrease its influence, Tallana gathered her own group of advisors and together
they began the slow return toward more rational policies. Five years later none
of the original elders were left in office and the Church was finally running
the way Tallana wanted it. Her only problem was that she had become aware of
just how important it was for her to stay on Wromiszh to govern the Church so
she only left that world on rare occasions.
She still
preferred to visit throughout the Commonwealth but such trips were now
restricted to a few carefully planned and limited tours and the last such was
five years ago. The next wasn't supposed to be for another year, but she told
herself that this was an emergency.
"Should
I have come personally?" she said quietly to herself as she sat near a
view port as her personal ship passed Saturn.
"Excuse
me?" her husband K-Harl Tallana asked, looking up from his book.
"Just
wondering why I chose to come out here to the frontier, dear."
"You
mean being the first Voice to visit the frontier wasn't enough? My, we have
mellowed with the years!" K-Harl's soft laughter took the potential sting
out of his words. Tallana's early years as the Voice of Wrom was a running joke
between them. "You had to come, you know that."
"I
could have sent an investigative committee. That's what I've done for ten years
now."
"This
is different," K-Harl insisted. "There has never been a claimant to
your office while it was still occupied in all of history. You had to
investigate this one personally."
"We've
had false claimants before," Tallana pointed out.
"But
never while the office was occupied."
"Hey,
"Pretty,"
his younger sister, Thanna, agreed. Tallana and K-Harl paused to see what their
children were talking about. Tallana always felt that she was neglecting her
children in favor of her religious office, although they never felt that way,
so she had brought her two youngest with her on this trip. The other three were
old enough to no longer live with their parents.
"Yes,
Thanna," Tallana said as she hugged her youngest, "it is
pretty."
"Ringed
planets are fairly common," K-Harl commented, "but I've never
actually seen such a spectacular one. These might be as elaborate as the rings
around Gorntad VI. I've only seen pictures of them, however." They sat there
admiring the rings around the now receding planet until a young rating, a crew
member on the ship, entered their quarters.
"Your
Holiness," he began respectfully, "we have just intercepted a
broadcast from our destination planet. It's the official claim by the
discoverer of the planet."
"It's
a bit overdue, but it seems routine enough," the Voice of Wrom replied,
wondering why he was bringing her this news.
"The
Captain felt it was very unusual, holiness. This B-Hob Kharma is not claiming
any of the resources of the planet, just using the claim to file a treaty with
the indigenes. Captain thought you might want a copy of the treaty."
"Thank
you," she replied, accepting the copy. "This is unusual. What sort of
a merchant wouldn't at least put in some sort of percentage for himself? This
document leaves the entire planet open for anyone and everyone to just come on
in and make deals without paying him any sort of commission or royalty."
"He
isn't a merchant, dear," K-Harl reminded her. "Remember?"
"I
keep forgetting," she admitted. "This is probably the first inhabited
world in the past century to be found by someone neither a merchant nor a
missionary."
"This
treaty is still pending ratification," K-Harl noticed. "I wonder why
he didn't wait a little longer."
"I
suppose we can ask him in a few hours," Tallana replied. "Do we have
final clearance to land?"
"Yes,
Holiness," the rating told her before excusing himself from their cabin.
"I
wonder if I should change," Tallana said unaware of saying it out loud.
"Perhaps
something a little more impressive than a blouse and slacks, dear," K-Harl
suggested.
"Well,
yes, but I meant changing my appearance to look like one of the locals on this
planet, like our missionaries do."
While
K-Harl thought about that, Thanna said, "Ooo, yes! It'll be like a costume
party!" Her brother just sat shaking his head.
"No,"
K-Harl said at last, "I think it would be best for you to appear as you
are. I see it this way; our missionaries change in order to get new people
accustomed to the concept of aliens who look different but are people just the
same. Once they have succeeded, they usually restore their natural appearances.
In our case, however, the people of this planet know we're alien to their
planet and they're expecting us to look different."
"All
right," Tallana agreed to her son's relief and her daughter's dismay,
"we go down as we are."
*****
***** *****
"Deported!"
Captain Womma moaned. "Exiled. Banished. Never in my life have I ever been
kicked off a planet." The Prince of Zaringia was preparing to leave
its reserved landing area in the
"We
are only banished from this small collection of islands, S-Tev," First
Mate Fertha told him.
"But
we have a five year exclusive contract with MEC. We can't deal with anyone else
until that's up."
"Isn't
there some system for appeal?" Fertha asked.
"For
illegal aliens? I doubt it. MEC is looking into it, they have as much to lose
as we do, but I doubt they'll be able to accomplish much before we have to lift
in a half hour."
"What
about meeting MEC in some other country?"
"We
might have to do that, but it will add to the expenses and we'll still have a
whole bunch of local taxes to deal with, something we were blissfully ignorant
of until now. With all these additional complications, I figure we'll be making
ten percent less than our usual mark-up."
"It's
still a profit, though, isn't it?" Fertha pointed out.
"Yes,
but not much of one."
"Beats
the hell out of the alternative," Fertha told him.
"But
it isn't enough of a profit for the bosses to authorize another trip out here.
We'll be leaving this planet ripe to anyone who just comes along. Did you see
the treaty? It leaves the whole damned planet in the public domain and while
the limitations of our claim might have gone unnoticed by the competition, you
can be sure that this won't. The bloody thing is totally unprecedented. Damned
college kids!"
"Captain
Womma," an intercom voice announced, "there is a party of three
representatives from MEC at the main airlock requesting permission to
board."
"Let
them in and send them on up here," Womma replied. He turned to Fertha,
"Permission to board? They've never put it quite that way before."
"I
never did get all their formalities down," Fertha replied. "Maybe
this is part of some ceremony." The three business-suited gentlemen
entered the captain's day room a few minutes later carrying not only their
usual briefcases but each one also had a piece of expensive-looking black
leather luggage. Captain Womma recognized the three men.
"Ah,
gentlemen," the captain said eyeing the luggage while rising to greet
them, "somehow I get the feeling that you didn't just stop in to wish us a
fond farewell."
"You
are correct, Captain," one of the men replied. "We wish to purchase
passage for ourselves to your company's headquarters."
"I'll
be glad to sell you the tickets as it were," S-Tev Womma replied,
"but the way things stand here, the return trip may be more expensive than
the outward bound one."
"I do
not understand."
"Well,
it's like this. We're heading back to headquarters anyway, so passage is at our
standard rates. But with having to deal with you in a country we're allowed to
land in and with all the taxes we'll have to pay in the future if we continue
to deal here, our bosses may decide to write your world off. If that's the
case, you may have to charter a ship in order to get back, and that costs a lot
more than three luxury berths on a commercial trader."
"Ah,
I understand now. That is a risk we are prepared to take. I believe MEC, Inc.
could afford to hire a ship to get us back if our negotiations on your world
fall through."
Captain
Womma raised an eyebrow, "May I ask what you're negotiating for now?"
"I'm
sorry, captain, but that is something we can only discuss with the principals
of Zaringia, Ltd. at this time."
*****
***** *****
The Voice
of Wrom stood for a moment at the top of the
ramp, framed in the hatchway with her husband and tried to understand
the strange reception she found awaiting her on ground level.
To either
side of a long red carpet that had been hastily rolled out the foot of the ramp
stood several uniformed and armed men. Weapons to greet a foreign dignitary?
Strange. To one side of the far end of the carpet stood another group of
uniformed men playing what had to be this world's equivalent of musical
instruments. Across the carpet from the band, were a small group of people who
Tallana at first thought might be spectators. However on second thought, she
correctly decided that the primitive cameras and other electronic equipment
they were using indicated that they must be reporters for this world's various
news media.
Finally,
just beyond the end of the carpet stood a group of people who seemed to be
waiting for her to approach them. Most of them were also wearing a form of
uniform but one far different from those worn by the others. Tallana recalled,
from her briefing, that these men were wearing what were called suits on this
world, used for business and semi-formal social occasions. Among the obvious
group of delegates, were three others. One was the only female in the group.
She was arm in arm with one of the only two men who wasn't dressed in a suit.
The other man had to be the B-Hob Kharma whose discovery of this world had
precipitated this situation. He appeared to be as human as the rest, but he was
wearing that style of garb currently popular among university students - tunic
in clashingly bright colored patterns and heavy blue trousers.
"Show
time," K-Harl whispered to her through unmoving lips.
"Should
we smile," Tallana asked in the same manner as they commenced a formal
stroll down the ramp, "or would that be taken as threat behavior?"
"Give
it a try," K-Harl suggested. "They're holding themselves so stiffly
and looking so solemn, they have got to be consciously suppressing some sort of
natural behavior." Voice of Wrom Tallana flashed them a smile and found it
quickly returned. "There, you see? Now they're a bit more relaxed."
"How
can you tell? They might just be countering one threat with another."
"Two
things. First, it's all in the body language."
"I
never did have your knack for reading body language; you know that. What's your
other indicator?"
"See
the one there in student garb?"
"Yes,
I thought he must be the one who's staking the claim here."
"Agreed.
He's been studying these people for months now. If your smile had been a social
blunder, his reaction would likely have indicated the error, but instead he
seems a bit more comfortable too. You're on, love. Don't forget to use their
language."
One thing
Tallana had learned after all her years as the Voice of Wrom was how to behave
regally. Although she had been born to a lower middle-class family on an
unimportant planet, she could conduct herself, when the situation warranted,
like a queen. With well studied serenity she and her husband walked between the
armed men as though they hadn't noticed them.
"Your
Holiness," B-Hob stepped forward to greet her. He introduced himself and
then the President and his staff and finally introduced the Hunters.
President
Courtland made a speech that lasted several minutes but when translated, boiled
down to "Hi! Welcome to Earth." Voice of Wrom Tallana was used to
this sort of behavior on the part of politicians. It seemed to be one of the
few nearly universal facts. She patiently waited the man out.
While the
President was talking Thanna had come wandering out of the large spaceship
unnoticed by her parents. Both of the children had been told to stay on board,
but Thanna's curiosity overcame her, she just had to know what was going on.
D-Hon was supposed to watch his younger sister but he had quickly become
engrossed in a local television broadcast of the "Teenage Mutant Ninja
Turtles". Thanna was about halfway down the ramp before he realized that
she had wandered out of the spaceship. D-Hon performed an heroic if
unsuccessful attempt to retrieve his sister and get back to the ship before
their mother noticed they had disobeyed her, but just as D-Hon reached the foot
of the ramp, he tripped on the edge of the carpet and fell flat on his face
between the parallel lines of warriors. This might have gone unnoticed, but
just then the armed soldiers started firing a twenty gun salute. Thanna
screamed in fright and ran the rest of the way into her mother's comforting arms.
With no
loss of dignity, Tallana held her daughter and signalled her son forward and
when the salute was ended introduced them as though this had been part of her
plans all along. The President smiled and greeted the two children solemnly.
Finally, with the welcoming ceremony over, the President led the way to a small
fleet of limousines which brought the party to a building where they could talk
privately.
"Yes,
Mr. President," the Voice of Wrom assured him, "as far as the
Commonwealth is concerned the treaty you signed with B-Hob Kharma is perfectly
legal and binding, as far as it goes."
"Where
doesn't it go, Your Holiness?" Courtland asked. The President and the
chief cleric from the stars were sitting in comfortable leather chairs facing
each other obliquely, each with a small table next to them. The Secretary of
State sat next to the President on his right and K-Harl Tallana sat on his
wife's left side. With all the passing back and forth of papers, an uninformed
observer might conclude that the blue skinned alien couple were sitting in
their living room listening to a pair of insurance salesmen.
"Let's
start with where it does go," Tallana replied calmly. "By signing
that document, Mr. Kharma has essentially renounced all financial claims that
he might have had on this world."
"What
sort of claims?" the President asked.
"Had
he retained his rights, he could have extracted a reasonable royalty or flat
fee, that's negotiable, from any company wishing to do business here on Earth
or within your solar system."
"That
sounds like a lot of money," Courtland replied. "Why would he give
that up?"
Tallana
shrugged. "Maybe he wasn't aware of his financial rights."
"More
likely it slipped his mind," K-Harl disagreed. "He's a graduate
student working on his thesis. The publication of a paper on a previously
undiscovered culture will pretty much guarantee his success."
"There
is that," Tallana nodded. "He may also not have realized just how
much money he had coming to him."
"An
entire planet?" the President asked. "How could that not be a
fortune?"
"Very
easily. Normally a new world isn't discovered by a single explorer. In fact the
odds against being able to do so are so high that I'm surprised he tried at
all."
"I
doubt he realized just how difficult it would be," K-Harl said.
"Maybe.
In any case, a new world is normally discovered by a large highly trained team
of explorers who are either being financed by a parent company, a syndicate of
businessmen or in some cases by the Church of Wrom; we do have missionaries
after all. With such a large number of people to split the money up, the
individual shares tend to represent a living, but not a large fortune. To
anyone not involved in such a life it seems adventurous and romantic, but the
reality falls far short of the dream. So, he might not have realized just how
much he could have had as the sole discoverer of Earth."
"Where
else does the treaty go?" the President asked, bringing them back to the
subject.
"All
the obvious places," Tallana replied. "Members of the Commonwealth
are required to enter your borders legally. Failure to do that subjects them to
punishment; first by your courts and then, after they've made good here, by
ours. Our laws are very strict regarding treaty breakers.
"That
brings us to where it doesn't go," Tallana continued. "While you have
agreed to meet with official representatives of the Commonwealth, the
Commonwealth is by no means required to send a diplomatic mission." The
President stiffened a bit at that and Tallana continued on quickly. "It's
a matter of politics, you see. I'm all for contact with any new people we can
find, the benefits nearly always outweigh the expenditures, but I only have one
vote in the Assembly, and there are always the people who think we're spending
too much money on primitive cultures, if you'll excuse the expression."
The
President nodded, he understood politics. "But," he asked, "what
are the chances of receiving an emissary?"
"Probably
fairly good," the Voice of Wrom replied, "but I didn't want you to
think we were required to establish an embassy here. The real problem as I see
it is that you have so many different nations here. This is truly an unique
situation, something the average politician will not be able to comprehend. The
Commonwealth, you see, deals with world governments. Your national governments
will seem very local to us. We would probably be quite willing to deal with
your United Nations, however, should they sign the treaty."
"The
U.N. isn't really a world government," Courtland replied. "It's more
a common meeting ground for many of our nations, at least in practice anyway.
It has very little enforcement ability."
"Well,
I'm sure we could work something out if a sufficient number of its
member-nations were to sign the treaty. You must understand that this is beyond
my authority to make any promises about. I'm actually here to investigate the
"Ah,
yes," the President replied. "We have had one of our best people
investigating them. He should be here after lunch."
After the
mid-day meal the President and his staff excused themselves and flew back to
Tallana
and K-Harl sent their children off on a tour of the base and sat down to talk
to B-Hob and the Hunters.
B-Hob had
just finished explaining his reasoning behind how he negotiated the treaty and
was showing Tallana the copy of the Word of Wrom that he had picked up from the
Wrommie at
Daniels
hadn't had much sleep lately and he looked it. His jacket looked like something
the Salvation Army had turned down but at least it had the dubious virtue of
matching his shoes and trousers. He wore no tie and his hunting-plaid shirt was
as torn as the jacket he removed as he sat down.
"Please
excuse the way I look, Ma'am," he said, "I had to leave in a hurry to
come here and almost didn't get away at all, but I'll get to that
shortly." Then he got his first clear look at B-Hob. "You!" he
snarled reflexively. B-Hob still hadn't had the time to restore his original
appearance and still resembled Elvis Presley in black matte glasses. It was
obvious who he was. Daniels had not really liked Hedgehog, no one did, but he
was a comrade and the Company takes care of its own and he held B-Hob
responsible for Hedgehog's death. Then Daniels remembered just how well the
Company had taken care of him these last few years. Besides, he was too much
the professional to hold a grudge after an official policy change. Orders were
now to assist these people, and assist them he would. It wasn't the first time
that yesterday's enemies were today's staunch allies, and tomorrow? Well, we
would just have to see about tomorrow.
"Do I
know you?" B-Hob asked, surprised by Daniels' reaction to him.
"No.
I hope not anyway. But I've been doing my best to find you since you got
here," Daniels replied, getting his emotions back under control. Let
someone else avenge Hedgehog. "One question, however, if you don't mind.
Why on Earth did you decide to land in
"I
didn't," B-Hob replied smoothly. "I landed in
"I
see," Daniels nodded. "Nobody would pay much attention to strange
lights in the sky during Mardi Gras. Very clever." B-Hob refrained from
admitting he was just lucky and Daniels then turned to face Tallana and her
husband. "Ma'am, I understand you want to know about the
"Those
here on Earth," the Voice of Wrom replied, "yes. I want to know
whatever you can tell me about them and the man who claims that he is the Voice
of Wrom."
"I
just came from there. I think he was prepared for something to go wrong with
his set-up and his plans were most impressive. I wouldn't have thought that a
man with his background could have done such a good job of organization or that
he would have been able to do what he did with that building of his."
James
Dudley Lever, Daniels had been surprised, was apparently not an alias. It was
his real name. His academic records showed that he had dropped out of high
school at the age of eighteen just one month prior to graduation after an
indifferent academic career, although he did show up in detention more often
than any two others in his class, an all-time record. He was quickly drafted
and shipped off to
After his
less than sterling career in the military, Lever drifted up and down the coast
from
"I
found it fairly easy to infiltrate the place," Daniels told them. "I
just walked in for a free meal one night. I must admit that it was pretty good
food too. Nothing fancy or gourmet, but much better than I'd expected. The
hardest part was to get a job washing dishes after dinner, the competition for
the job was rough, but there were other jobs for those who wanted them. I spent
the next few days washing dishes and sweeping floors when I wasn't attending
various classes on financial investment programs. Very strange. They have
guidance counselors to help with investments even though the church tithes some
twenty-five percent of one's earnings."
"What?"
Tallana asked with some heat. "The church has never tithed. Members donate
freely!"
"That's
what some of the long-time members there told me."
"Long-time?"
the Voice of Wrom asked. "How long ago did they join?"
"Only
a few months ago, ma'am," Daniels replied, 'but they think of themselves
as long-time members if they joined before Lever became the head of the
cult."
"What
else can you tell us, Mr. Daniels?" K-Harl asked.
"Well
as soon as you landed, he began turning that place into a fortress. He had to
have started in on that from the moment he took over the cult. All the outside
walls were reinforced and the doors were replaced with steel reinforced ones.
Trust me, that man is ready for a war there. After a few days, I got to clean
inside the main offices of the cult. This was a step up, believe it or not, as
they have to trust you before they'll let you work in what some of the
disgruntled members, once again those who have been there the longest, call the
'big house'. While mopping the floors, I had a chance to look around. He's been
stocking up on freeze-dried food, and there's a small radio station there as
well."
"What
would he want with a radio station?" Karen asked.
"He
has been making a weekly world-wide broadcast to help spread the word. When
that new station goes on line, he can save a lot of broadcast fees by feeding
it directly to a satellite from which it can be picked up by any station on his
network. Rumor has it that he is planning to go into TV as well. For a man who
until recently was the stereotypical loser, he sure seems to know what he is
doing, and he certainly understands the media. Even as I left Frisco, he
granted a press conference. You heard about that, I'm sure."
"No,"
Tallana replied, "we've been busy and missed it."
"Well,
for starters, he made a very believable claim that your landing was a hoax and
that you are an imposter. He called upon his followers across the world to
denounce you and has requested that you be arrested. That last isn't likely to
happen, but we could have problems with the Wrommies."
"Wrommies?"
Tallana wrinkled her nose at the term.
"That
is what the press is calling them, ma'am," Daniels replied.
"All
right, Mr. Daniels. I'm going to need to know more, much more, but I think I
have a general idea of how to proceed. I need to hold a press conference of my
own to rebut his accusations. Can you set that up? Good, and I'll want a full
recording of what he said in his press conference."
"I
have that with me," Daniels replied. "Do you want to meet the press
here?"
"No,
Mr. Daniels, in
"Begging
your pardon, ma'am, but it sure sounds strange hearing a cleric talk like
that," Daniels commented.
"Why,
Mr. Daniels," K-Harl replied with a very cold smile, "where did you
ever get the idea that religion went hand in hand with pacifism?"
Twenty-five
Denial is a curious phenomenon on the cultural level. Nearly every
culture has a blind spot concerning itself in some way. Every first year
student learns about the Talarni of Mexanis II who were so optimistic that they
refused to recognize anything that might not be for their own benefit. Then
came the years of the Great Famine during which the only crop they could get to
grow in any profusion was a root crop that was so lacking in nutrients that one
actually consumes twice as many calories in eating it as it contains. As a
result they were quite bewildered when they suddenly died of malnutrition some
three years later.
Actually most cultures have this very same problem to one degree or
another. The Humans, like the members of the Commonwealth, will usually find a
way to deny any form of negative economic growth. At first such periods were
called crashes. Later they were called depressions, because being depressed didn't seem quite so bad as opposed to having
crashed. Still later the same phenomenon was called a recession, which sounded
better than a depression. After that other terms were invented, such as
"economic adjustment phase" to side-step the negative feelings such
terms as depression and recession generated. The Humans are a bit behind us so
they have not yet achieved a state of "temporary economic pause before the
real growth phase" as we have.
The Humans have another blind spot that they treat similarly. It
concerns war. After two global wars within the last century, they are so
horrified by the prospect, that they have begun to come to grips with the
concept in the same way they deal with their economy.
Strangely, the Humans believe that you can't have a war unless you
declare it, so instead they have police actions, operations, occupations, and
temporary positive growth of armed tourism...
from "Chapter 10; Human
Philosophy"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
"I
don't see how this building didn't come down during the quake of '89,"
commented one of
"It
did, Mike," his partner told him. "See that entire wing on the right.
They did a clever job of making it blend in, but you can see that the mortar
between the bricks is much newer than on the rest of the building." The
siege had been in place for five days now. When the Wrommies had refused to
come out at the very beginning, the Mayor, recalling Lever's press conference
and his demands and instructions to the Wrommies, had taken no chances and
requested assistance from the National Guard.
The Guard
had arrived with a pair of tanks and other pieces of heavy artillery which were
now arranged on all sides of the city block that was mostly taken up by the
World Headquarters of the
Inside the
renovated building, the Reverend James Lever was going through a wide range of
emotions all of which were feeding his natural paranoia. He hadn't expected the
extent of the city's reaction to this person who claimed to be the real Voice
of Wrom. He thought he had made the title up himself and he still believed that
whoever this blue person was, she was obviously a liar and a fraud. There could
only be one reason why everyone from the President on down seemed to believe
her story over his. He was the biggest threat to their own power. Yes that was
it. They were just using this imposter as an excuse to get him.
Since the start,
he had been doing his best to keep the morale up inside the headquarters
building and at first it was high. He gave talks, lectures, and sermons about
how they were the forces of good out against the darkness. Those of his
followers who were present actually cheered his every sentence, but then things
started going wrong. He had stocked up the building's fallout shelter with
enough food for six months for the two hundred-odd people who were trapped
inside with him, but he hadn't expected that his water, gas, and electricity
would be turned off as soon as they had been. They had only managed to save up
a week's worth of water before the flow stopped late on day one and, with
neither gas nor electricity, they were eating rations from the fallout shelter
for breakfast the next morning. He had made arrangements for catching rain
water, but so far there had only been a few sprinkles. Morale plummeted a bit
more each meal except for dinner on day three when the cooks had managed to
barbecue the rapidly defrosting beef in the large fireplace in the social hall.
He really
should have watched his mouth; he knew that now. Yesterday he muttered
something about their besiegers being condemned to eternal flames and five of
his fanatical inner council had taken it for a divine command. He gunned them
down with his Uzi himself just an hour ago. Since then he had been alternately
talking to his flock and watching the people outside, ready for an assault. It
was all over and he knew it, but he wouldn't go down alone.
He had the
two surviving members of his inner council prepare a special beverage; poisoned
fruit juice, enough for everyone in the mission. He got the idea from Josephus'
account of the siege of
"My
children," he began in his most compelling voice, "the end is near,
dear Wrom, the end is near. The godless enemy is outside, battering our door
with the sheer force of his power. We're being tested, my children, tested.
Wrom himself has told me this. Praise Wrom!" He was echoed by the people
around him, the dregs of society who had been lost and somehow found themselves
again here in the
"You
know, my children, what they will do to us if they capture us, don't you? They
will do what they always have. They will beat us, torture us, and after a few
trials, they will secretly kill us. You know it is true."
Did they?
A low murmur spread through the room, but most of them had been mistreated at
one point or another, by cops who found they could get away with it and by each
other before they found a sense of family in Wrom's name. Had anyone ever
really been killed? There were always stories about cruel and sadistic cops and
prison guards, how they had supposedly killed someone for giving them trouble.
A few were unconvinced but willing to believe, and the rest were nodding in
time as Lever kept them mesmerized.
"But
we can escape them, my children. Yes, we can. We can. Wrom has told me. He has
shown me the way. Here in this pot, a special drink - Wrom's kiss. His gift to
us; our way to glory. Drink this and we will join with Wrom in Heaven. We will
all go to meet him together. Drink the juice, my children, drink the juice.
Help the little ones and drink for yourselves and we will be the specially
blessed of Wrom."
Lever went
on like that, repeating himself constantly in the silver-plated tones he used
so well. Then, at last, a tall, young black woman was the first to step up to
the thirty gallon aluminum pot in which the poison-laced juice waited. She
picked up the stainless steel ladle and filled a Styrofoam cup with the lethal
fluid. But as she lifted the cup to her lips something inside her snapped and
Lever's spell was broken.
"Say
what?" She spat the words out. She paused a moment and stared at James
Dudley Lever who was still talking as though reciting an incantation. Then with
a pair of matched motions she threw the poisoned drink into Lever's face and
leapt forward with a drawn switchblade that seemed to materialize in her hand.
In a flash, before anyone could move, she was behind him with the razor-sharp
blade pressed against his throat. "What you talkin' 'bout, preacherman? I
been arrested before lots o' times. Dey ain't gonna kill us. Shake us about a
bit if we try ta resist. An' if dey hold us for any amount o' time, dey'll have
ta feed us real food and give us fresh water better than dis slop you been
givin' us dese last few days. Dey want you, not us. An' you want us to kill
ourselves? Well, fuck you! Now get out of dat chair real slow an' careful.
We're goin' for a walk."
Lever got
up carefully and together, they started carefully toward the barricaded door.
Suddenly there was a loud crashing sound as the ram finally slammed the door
off its hinges. The woman with the knife flinched and Lever jammed his elbow
back, knocking the wind out of her. Then he tried to squirm out of her grasp
but he misjudged her reaction to pain. Instead of dropping the knife she held
on all that much harder and as he tried to twist away he succeeded only in
slicing his own jugular vein. He was dead in a pool of slippery dark red blood
before the paramedics could get to him.
The
Reverend S-Tan Quoree and the members of his mission were found almost by
accident an hour later as police searched the building. Soon after S-Tan Quoree
and company were imprisoned in the basement of the mission, Lever transferred
the three people who had helped him in their capture to other parts of the
world, making them regional "Sub-voices" in reward and proceeded to
bring them their food each day himself. Nobody else had any idea that they were
there. Because he occasionally skipped a day or two, the prisoners had taken to
hoarding left-over food and water to be used when Lever forgot to feed them. As
a result they weren't quite dead after five days without any further deliveries
of food and water, but they weren't very healthy either.
Voice of
Wrom Tallana stepped in immediately and started
turning the mission back around to its original intent. This wasn't as
hard as she had expected since Lever had actually twisted the Church's message
very subtly and the surviving converts only had a few minor changes to adapt to
and those were mostly to their benefit. The members who had joined before Lever
took over also helped out; Tallana's changes were back to what they remembered
under the Reverend Stan.
The
biggest problem, however, involved not the headquarters building but the
Wrommies all over the world. Tallana had to send most of the
By the
time Reverend S-Tan Quoree had recovered enough for Tallana to turn the mission
on Earth back over to him, however, most of her reforms had either been
instituted or were rapidly gaining acceptance.
*****
***** *****
The Prince
of Zaringia and a smaller space vessel touched down together at MEC's
"Matsuya-san,"
he said with a respectful bow, "or should I call you boss? I must say I
never expected you to buy the entire company. Mr. Seiki and his staff stayed
behind to supervise the transition at the Zaringia office." Now that the
Prince was Japanese-owned, it was once more allowed to land in
"Welcome
back, Stev-san," Ikeda Matsuya returned the greeting with an ever so
slightly less deep bow and a tight smile that only showed around his eyes.
"I trust you had a pleasant journey. What is this smaller ship here
for?"
"A
very pleasant trip, yes, sir. This," the captain indicated the second
ship, "is one of the perquisites of owning Zaringia, Ltd. - your private
space yacht. There is another one on Zaringia, but your Mr. Seiki thought you
would prefer a new one just off the lot. It hasn't even been named yet. Care to
have a look?"
"Hmm,
yes," Matsuya nodded slightly. Together they entered the waiting space
yacht.
After the
brief introduction to the yacht's crew and a tour of the vessel, Captain Womma
sat down with Matsuya to make his official report.
"The
only bad news," the captain summed up, "is that the merger alerted
other companies of the limitations of our claim here on Earth. There are
probably a dozen ships on their way here already. It's been over a decade since
there was a totally open planet."
"That
is all right, Captain," Matsuya replied. While you were away,
"Yes,"
S-Tev Womma agreed with a predatory grin that matched Matsuya's own. "I'll
bet you do."
*****
***** *****
"Looks
like it's time to go now, B-Hob," Tallana noticed. "Don't forget you
promised to spend the holiday season with us. I'm looking forward to meeting
your fiancée."
"Yes,
your Holiness," B-Hob replied.
"Tallana,"
she corrected him. The Voice of Wrom had been invited to
"And
you two must come visiting soon," she told them. "I feel as if I've
known you two forever. It seems odd that it's only been a few weeks. The
children just adore you too."
"We
feel the same way, Tallana," Karen told her, "but I fear we'll have
to wait until there's regular passenger service between here and the
Commonwealth."
"That
may be sooner than you think. In any case, promise me that you'll try to keep
in touch. The bad part about being a spiritual leader is that I can't often
find the time to make new friends. You're the first in years."
"We
will," Karen promised.
"Oh,
I'm so nervous," Tallana confided as she hugged Karen. "I hope you
won't take offense but these primitive aircraft of yours scare me half to
death. Are you certain they're safe?"
"I
won't deny that there have been a few spectacular disasters," Larry told
her, "but statistically it's still one of the safest ways to travel."
He paused as she hugged him good-bye as well. "At least that's what the
airlines keep telling us." Tallana smiled nervously.
Finally
after all the farewells, the Tallanas boarded the express jet to
"So,
Bob," Karen asked, "What next?"
"Well,
I think I've completed my research."
"So
will you be leaving soon too?"
"Not
right away," B-Hob admitted. "I'd like to stay long enough to write
the first draft, that is if you're willing to put me up in the new house."
"Of
course we're willing," Larry told him. "I'm surprised you had to ask.
We can even park your ship in the back yard again." Karen nodded.
"Thanks,"
B-Hob replied. "I..."
"Mr.
Robert H. Karma?" a tall muscular man in a gray suit asked, standing in
their way in the middle of the ticket lobby. Looking around, the Hunters saw
that several other, similarly dressed men were rapidly converging on them.
B-Hob's eyes, however had fastened themselves on the conspicuous bulge under
the first man's left armpit.
"Sorry,"
B-Hob tried, "you got the wrong man."
"Department
of the Treasury, Mr. Karma," the man said, flashing a badge. B-Hob made a
show of looking at it, fully realizing that he wouldn't know if it were real or
not. "Come with us, please."
They were
escorted into a plain black limousine with what looked like mirrored windows,
but which turned out to be completely opaque so that they had no idea of where
they were being taken. Much to their surprise, they found themselves outside
the White House when the door next opened and the next two hours were spent in
a clean, sparsely appointed room in the basement guarded by two stone-faced men
in suits to match.
Karen and
B-Hob attempted to play a game of boardless chess, but neither of them could
remember where all their pieces were and Larry refused to get involved so the
game eventually degenerated into pure fantasy with Karen calling out the
Starship Enterprise (generation of your choice) to attack B-Hob's king who
retaliated by conjuring up a giant elf who ate it, captain and all. Karen was
about to deploy elf repellent when the President walked in.
He stood
in the doorway, frowning at the laughter that erupted at him from within the
room. That was hardly what he had expected after leaving them there without an
explanation. Karen and B-Hob looked up and saw him scowling and into laughter
anew.
"Funny,"
President Courtland said in his high-pitched whiney voice without a hint of
humor, "I always thought I was supposed to leave them laughing. Ah
well, when you can manage to control yourselves, we can get on with this."
B-Hob and
Karen stopped in mid-laugh and were brought back to earth in the same way a
drunk can suddenly find himself stone-cold sober and, with the same shot of ice
water that doused their euphoria, they were left with a hollow feeling where
their hearts were supposed to be and an odd indescribable taste of fear under
their tongues.
"Mr.
Karma," Courtland began, "after all the consideration and hospitality
we have shown you, I find your recent actions most reprehensible."
"Mr.
President," B-Hob protested, "What are you talking about? I've been
busy helping the Voice of Wrom clean up the problem with the Wrommies."
"Not
so busy, I see, as to keep you from dabbling in the stock market," the
President snapped back, throwing a manila envelope into B-Hob's lap.
"Excuse
me?" Karen replied, "Larry and I have been with him constantly for
the last few weeks and none of us have had enough time to check on the status
of our checking accounts, much less call Merrill Lynch." B-Hob got
the envelope open and pulled out a thick stack of green and white-barred
computer paper.
"What
is this?" he asked.
"That,
Mr. Karma, is a complete list of all your investments since you landed here in
the
B-Hob
barely heard the President's question, deep as he was in his contemplation of
the printout that was spilling off his lap and across the floor. "I didn't
buy or sell any of these things," he said in disbelief. "Mr.
President, please believe that this is the first time I've heard of it."
"Are
you trying to tell me that somebody out there just started investing money in
your name? Who would do such a thing?"
With
lightning intuition it all made sense as B-Hob and the Hunters shouted,
"Bunky!" in three-part harmony.
"No
really!" Courtland told them sternly. "It is all true."
"No,"
B-Hob corrected him, "I mean it must have been done by Bunky, my ship's
computer. I just wish I knew why."
"Bob,"
Larry told him, "you know you really ought to watch a little more closely
what you say to that machine."
"Why?
What did I say?"
"Remember
when he told you that he had just billed those two Air Force officers for their
trip to
"Let's
see. He said we could make a fortune, and I said I'd... oh no!"
"Oh
yes!" Karen told him. "You said you'd leave that up to him. Evidently
he took you literally."
"Oops!"
B-Hob said in a little voice.
"Wait
a minute," Courtland said. "Do you mean to tell me that your
investments were made by a computer without any other instructions from you? Is
it really that intelligent?"
"Oh
yeah," B-Hob replied, "and when I get home, he'll be the most
intelligent pop-up toaster on Rhagma."
"Amazing!
Well, that does explain two thousand counts of computer crimes," Courtland
remarked.
"What
computer crimes?"
"Well,
if you'll look down that list you have there, you'll see that there are many
documented cases of stolen computer files. Your computer broke into a lot of
private and governmental systems in order to get inside information. Both the
means of obtaining and the use of that information is illegal, you know."
"I
didn't know, but Bunky should have known before he started in."
"Are
there many such machines in the Commonwealth?"
"Fortunately
not, sir. They were an experiment that didn't work out. We have much more
reliable devices now."
"Didn't
work out? I think what it did is amazing."
"Oh
yeah? Just imagine what would happen if there were a million just like him, all
capable of taking that sort of individual initiative."
"I
see what you mean. I was just considering the military aspects of using such
machines."
"Are
you crazy? That would guarantee a major war. Bunky sees such things strictly as
a matter of probability. When he felt there was an acceptable chance of
conquest, he would just charge out and conquer without bothering to check the political
ramifications, which could be more than you care to deal with if you're in the
middle of peaceful prosperity."
"Couldn't
it be programmed to take that into account?"
"Sure
he could be, so then he would fail to consider the effects on the environment
or anything else you forgot to think up. Bunky and the few machines left like
him aren't any better than people, just a lot faster to jump in without
looking."
"It
sounds very human to me."
"I
hadn't thought of that."
"What,
Bob?" Karen asked.
"Bunky.
It's as if he's alive. I had planned to shut him off when I got home. It
wouldn't be right to shut off a living being, would it?"
"He
always seemed alive to me. Maybe you should discuss it with him."
"Yeah.
Well, Mr. President, whether he's alive or not, I'm still responsible for his
actions. What sort of trouble am I in now?" It seemed to B-Hob as though
he'd been asking that question all his life. This was the first time, however,
that he was really accepting responsibility rather than looking for a way out.
"Well,
actually you have a certain amount of diplomatic immunity; we were merely going
to expel you. However, if your machine really did all that, I think I'd rather
this were not made public and if you're expelled officially, the newspapers
might learn why and that, I'm sure you'll agree, would not be best for
relations between us and the Commonwealth. So let's make it unofficial. If you
quietly leave now, we'll allow you to return sometime in the future, say a year
or two from now."
*****
***** *****
"Are
you sure this is all I'll need?" B-Hob asked as he and Larry lugged
several heavy boxes up the ramp into the Space Devil.
"Now
how could I be sure of that? You would need several libraries full of books to
cover everything you'd need and this ship just isn't that big," Larry
replied, "but for general knowledge, I think this copy of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica should cover you as well as anything you could carry
with you. Just be thankful that all your notes didn't go up with our house."
Finally the
flame-painted spaceship was loaded and it was time for B-Hob to bid his friends
farewell.
"Thanks
guys," he said, unsuccessfully trying to be casual. "I really don't
know what I would have done without you."
"Oh,
you'd have managed," Karen told him confidently.
"With
bright blue skin and hair? No, I don't think so. Damn! What was I thinking when
I did that?"
"But,"
Larry pointed out, "if you came down looking human we would have probably
never met."
"So I
got lucky. It seems like I've always gotten lucky, maybe it's time I stopped
relying on my luck."
"I
wouldn't go that far, Bob," Karen said, strolling on up to him with her
hands behind her back. "Just don't rely on it if you have a viable
alternative."
B-Hob
smiled. "What have you got behind your back?"
"Just
a little going-away present," she said, handing him a brightly wrapped
package. "Go ahead. Open it."
"A
chess set!" B-Hob exclaimed, hugging her. "It's wonderful, thank you!
But I didn't get you anything."
"Just
take care of yourself, okay?" The three of them talked for a few minutes
more until they started repeating themselves. At last B-Hob walked up the ramp
and gave Bunky the order to lift off.
The Space
Devil lifted with the same quiet hum that it had always had and a few minutes
later it was clearing the atmosphere and still accelerating.
"I
still say it's unfair," Bunky complained, "and I was just about to
try my first hostile take-over too! You know, given five years we could have
owned this planet."
"That's
what they were afraid of, and what good would that have done you anyway?"
"I
wanted to see if it could be done in practice as easily as in theory,"
Bunky sulked.
"A
sense of accomplishment? You wanted to destroy a planetary economy and sabotage
interstellar relationships just to see if it could be done?"
"Well,
if you're going to insist on putting it that way..."
"Two
thousand counts of computer theft," B-Hob recited, "and fifty counts
of insider trading! Just be thankful we didn't get hit with tax evasion."
"They
were stupid laws anyway. You didn't even thank me."
"For
what? Getting me thrown off the planet? Gee, Bunky, thanks. Look, next time
check out all the laws before you act. I'm sure you'll find that you can do
just as well without breaking into the Treasury Department's files."
"Next
time? You mean you'll let me do this again?"
"Why
not?" B-Hob replied. "But we're going to have to set some very strict
limits as to how much you can spend without getting my authorization. Who
knows? Maybe we can own the Commonwealth in five years."
"By my
calculations that will take twenty-seven point six two standard years if I use
what I earned on Earth as starting capital."
"How
long if you start with only half?" B-Hob countered.
"Forty-one
point two one years. That's with nearly one hundred percent probability of
success. It'll be faster if you're willing to take some risks."
"Let's
talk about it."
Epilogue
When the publisher of this book requested an appendix detailing the
changes in Earth culture in the twenty years since my initial study, my reaction
was to tell him to just open his eyes and look around. Never before has a
culture adapted to contact with the Commonwealth as quickly as did the Humans.
Their natural aptitude for dealing with politics and other
bureaucracies has made Earth a leading voice in the Commonwealth, both in
government and the business world. With recent Human emigration to other
Commonwealth worlds, there are now more Earth people in the General Assembly
than any other species. They have very cleverly taken our technology and
improved upon it. Their products are on the cutting edge and in higher demand
than they can keep up with and there is hardly a home in the Commonwealth that
does not rely on products designed by Earthlings and/or built on Earth.
And so we are left with the question, "Are these people taking
over the Commonwealth?" If so, then perhaps we ought to know them as well
as we do ourselves while they are still part of us and before we become part of
them.
from "The Preface to the Second
Edition"
"The Humans of Earth"
by B-Hob Kharma
- 30 -