CONTENTS

FIRST NIGHTER
Karen Haber

THE ROOM KEY
Terry Kepner

TELLING HUMAN STORIES
Margaret Ball

THE SMALL PENANCE OF IADY DISDAIN
Michael Coney

RHUUM SERVICE
Brad Feiguson

SOFT IN THE WORLD. AND BRIGHT
M. Shayne Bell

TO CARESS THE FACE OF GOD
Dove Wolverfon

GLASS WALLS
Krfsfine Kafhryn Rusch

FACE TIME
Janet Kagan

IT'S A GIFT
Esther M. FriQsner

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH
Kevin J. Anderson

VOLATILE MIX
Jerry Off/on

FIRST NIGHTER

Karen Haber

Lekvich Tor was excited, perhaps'even a bit overly excited.
But why not? he told himself. Tonight was going to be a
big night. The biggest.

He stared at his image in the holomirror and saw exactly
the same thing that he had seen when he had looked at him-
self not two minutes before: a short, stocky young man of
eighteen, with pale purple skin, red hair cut into fashionable
swirls, and amber-colored eyes. wearing a blue uniform with
the logo of the Hotel Andromeda set in golden glowstitch
against the right shoulder.

Proudly, Lekvich Tor shot his glowstitched cuffs. He
looked fine, even if he did say so himself. It was his first
night on full duty at the Hotel Andromeda concierge desk and
he couldn't quite believe that he was actually working for
such a wonderful place. He, Lekvich Tor, fifth son of Velia
Tor, bom and raised on the fringes of the galaxy on the col-
ony world of Vladimir's Folly, beginning his career at the

2               Karen Haber

biggest orbital hotel complex in the sector. Not just a hotel, he
reminded himself, but a space terminal and stopping point for
every liner passing through the area! He took one last approv-
ing look at himself, then turned and hurried to his new post
in the main lobby of the hotel-

The grand lobby of the Hotel Andromeda was a huge cir-
cular affair, well lit and alive with people, noise, and move-
ment. Its circumference was lined by curving service desks
above which hung holosigns indicating their different func-
tions: reception, cashier, messages, concierge. Robot dollies
hovered inches above the deep blue carpeting, ferrying bag-
gage to and from the hotel's main portals. Public announce-
ments in every known language in the galaxy resounded from
multiple speakers.

The din would have overwhelmed a smaller space but
somehow the great arcing gold-flecked dome of the lobby
managed to contain and reduce the noise until it was a con-
stant buzz, unobtrusive but electrifying.

Enormous viewing bays were set into the north and south
poles of me lobby, providing tantalizing glimpses of distant
stars, nebulas, and passing asteroids. The constant flow of
space traffic could be seen as well: liners docking, modules
uncoupling and chugging toward the hotel terminal while oth-
ers returned to their mother ships. There was an endless
changing show taking place just outside those windows and
many guests had assembled in the viewing lounges to take a
better, more leisurely look.

Lekvich Tor forced his eyes away from outer space and
gazed around the lobby in ever greater excitement The vast
hanging chandeliers with their yellow glow globes moving up
and down! The people hurrying to and fro in every manner of
dress imaginable! The sense of urgency, of important business
being transacted just inches away, was palpable and intoxicat-
ing. He was dazzled by the sophistication of the decor, the
cosmopolitan mix of people. Every shape, every size, every
color. He couldn't help staring in fascination. Perhaps some-
day he would become accustomed to all of this, possibly even
take it for granted. He smiled at the thought of that distant,
sophisticated Lekvich Tor, then shook his head. How could he
ever take all this wonder for granted? Impossible. There was
too much to see: everything was new and amazing.

FIRST NIGHTER                        3

His supervisor. Ranee Franklin, was monitoring the con-
cierge board. She was a middle-aged woman with green eyes,
white hair, and a cool, professional demeanor, which he en-
vied. She greeted him with a nod. "You're early, Lekvich.
Good."

Lekvich Tor smiled. He felt dazed and suddenly tongue-
tied.

"Nervous?" Ranee asked.

"Nervous? Who, me?" He shook his head too many times.
"Ranee, do you think that tonight I will see a great many
aliens?" he blurted, barely able to contain himself.

"Of course." She looked at him in surprise and said
sharply, "Is that going to be a problem?"

"No. I mean, I hope not. What I mean is, I've never seen
any before."

"You're in for a treat, then." Her smile was a bit sour at the
edges but Lekvich Tor didn't quite understand why.

"Look," she said. "Do you think you can handle the con-
sole for a couple of minutes? I've got to run to the loo."

Lekvich Tor blushed with pride and embarrassment. Al-
ready, she trusted him enough to leave him in charge. To
share intimate information about bodily needs! His purplish
skin glowed with pleasure. "You can count on me."

"I hope so." She handed him the concierge headset.

He watched her broad back as she strode away toward the
staff lavatory. A powerful woman, not unlike his mother.
Carefully, almost reverently he fit the headset around his ears
and mouth.

The con board lay before him, its glittering display of lights
winking lazily, red and blue and yellow and green. He would
fax his mother tonight and tell her that he had been selected
for extra responsibilities and for once she would boast about
him to his brothers instead of the other way around.

Bzzzzzt!

A call! Someone was ringing from—he checked the screen
carefully—room 1522. And Ranee had not returned. Which
meant that he, Lekvich Tor, must take the call. Hands trem-
bling, he filled his lungs with air and punched the appropriate
flashing button-

"Hotel Andromeda, concierge," he said. His voice sounded
a little high, he thought. He'd have to watch that. He took a

4               Karen Haber

deep breath, pressed his hand against his diaphragm, and tried
to modulate his tone downward. "Good evening."

"There's a Voltorran bat in my room!"

"Sir?"

"I said, there's a Voltorran bat in my room! Hanging from
the chandelier."

"I'm afraid you want Housekeeping—"

"I distinctly ordered a Mykonian bat, in fact, four of them.
With hot mustard."

"One moment, please," Lekvich Tor said. "I'm cross-
scanning the net. Ah, yes. I see. It was room 527 that re-
quested the live Voltorran bat with implant and sonar control.
I'll send someone up to collect it and deliver your order at
once. Our apologies for the inconvenience."

"Make it fast. I'm starving."

"Yes, sir. And to compensate you for the inconvenience,
the bats will be on the house." Ranee had often told him:

"Smooth frayed tempers with freebies."

"Good. Appreciate it."

Lekvich Tor shut down the line and grinned happily. His
first official call and he had handled it without a hitch! If only
Ranee had been there to hear him. Certainly she would have
approved. But she was nowhere to be seen. Oh well, women
spent more time than men in the WC. he knew that. He would
be patient and wait, and perhaps he would even be able to
take another call before Ranee returned.

Sure enough, he had no time to savor his triumph. The call
line was buzzing once more.

"Good evening. Hotel Andromeda, concierge. Can I help
you?"

"No. I mean, yes. That is to say, I'm not quite sure." The
speaker had a pleasant baritone voice and sounded like a
middle-aged Terran.

A high, shrill voice cut in. "Don't listen to him, he's ly-
ing."

"No, he's not," said a silky female contralto. "Oh, this is all
terrible, just terrible."

Lekvich Tor was taken aback by the jumble of voices.
"Hello? Excuse me, please," he said. "Is this still room 1274?
I'm afraid there's been some mistake. Two calls seem to have
crossed. I hear more than one voice on this line."

FtRST NIGHTER                        5

"No, there's been no mistake." The baritone sighed deeply.
"We're all in here, together."

"I don't understand, sir. Your room is listed as single occu-
pancy."

"I'm from Veroni-Anspel."

"Oh." Lekvich Tor was stunned. He had read about the
Veroni-Anspelians but he had never expected to talk to one,
much less one apparently in estrus. He felt his cheeks grow-
ing hot at the very thought.

"Forgive me," he said- "I hadn't realized." One fact blazed
in his mind, remembered from his hotel training: Veroni-
Anspelians developed multiple personalities during estrus.
Lekvich Tor didn't know what to say next, or to whom he
would be saying it. Luckily, the Veroni-Anspelian rescued
him from his confusion.

"I'm afraid that I miscalculated the onset of my period," he
said. "And so I've arrived completely unprepared."

"Not to worry, sir," Lekvich Tor replied, thinking rapidly.
"Our pharmacy can supply you with personality dampers."

"Do you have super absorbent?"

"Yes. Five- or ten-day supply?"

*Ten. And please tell them to hurry."

"No, forget it," said a basso-profundo voice.

And the high, shrill voice cried, "Leave us alone! That's
all. Just leave us alone!"

"Shut up, all of us'" bellowed the Veroni-Anspelian.

"Don't worry," Lekvich Tor said. "I'm sending the order to
the pharmacy right now."

"Thank you."

'To hell with you," said the high, shrill voice.

"Good-bye," Lekvich Tor said quickly.

He hung up feeling a bit unnerved but quite pleased by the
way in which he had handled the call. He couldn't wait to tell
Ranee about his progress—but she still had not returned from
the ladies' room. Perhaps she had fainted. Women had that
tendency, he knew, because his mother would often faint
when her children did something of which she disapproved.
Should he send someone to look for her? Anxiously he
scanned the lobby. No Ranee. Well, don't panic, he told him-
self. At least wait a few minutes more. Surely she'll come
back soon. She's probably on her way right now.

6               Karen Haber

Bzzzt!

"Hotel Andromeda, concierge."

"Yes, this is room 3251. I have a euthanasia appointment

tomorrow at noon."

Lekvich Tor scanned the records quickly. "Mr. Ediin, yes."
"I'd like to reschedule. Something came up."
"Same time next week?"
"That would be fine."
Lekvich Tor made the notation. "I'll see that Euthenetics

gets the message."

Bzzzzt!

"Hotel Andromeda—"

"I want to talk to robodealer forty-five in the casino."

"I'm sorry, sir," Lekvich Tor said smoothly. "Those lines
are busy. But I'd be happy to place your bet for you."

"Swell. I'd like to bet on the cyberraces."

"Which steeds?"

"Halley's Snowball."

'To win, place, or show?"

"Place."
"Very good, sir. As you know, your winnings or your fee

wilt be applied to your hotel account."

"Much obliged."

Lekvich Tor shut down the call, sat back on the web seat
behind the con board, and crossed his arms in satisfaction.
Maybe Ranee was never coming back. And maybe he didn't
care-

Bzzzt!

"Good evening. Hotel Andromeda, concierge."

"I need an unabridged edition of Dante's Slippers by Rock-
well, translated into English III."

"An English III version?" Lekvich Tor scanned the library
scrolls and his spirits fell. "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am. The
only edition we currently have available on line is in
English II."

"Can you have it updated?"

"Let me check the translation grid. Hmnun, they're not too
busy right now. Yes, ma'am, they should be able to have it for
you in roughly half an hour."

"That's fine."

FIRST NIGHTER                      7

"Very good, ma'am. I'll have it delivered to you when it's
ready."

As he rang off he saw that the woman had tabbed a gener-
ous tip into his account. Lekvich Tor grinned broadly.

Bzzzt!

Lekvich Tor nearly flew to the console. "Hotel Andromeda,
concierge."

"Lekvich?"

"Yes?"

"This is Ranee. They were cleaning the ladies' room so I
went down to deck five. But that one was filled with
Mantarian troglodyte nurses and I couldn't hear myself think
straight so I'm on deck nine now. It shouldn't be much
longer."

She hung up before he could say a word.

Lekvich shrugged philosophically. She would be back soon,
surely.

Bzzzt!

"Hotel Andromeda, concierge.

"Yes, I've just conceived a child."

"Beg pardon?"

"Are you deaf? I said I've Just conceived a child. Ten min-
utes ago."

Lekvich Tor scanned his memory but could not find any
appropriate reference or response from his training. Ner-
vously, he improvised.

"Um, congratulations."

"But I'd like to take a few prenatal precautions. If this one
turns out to get my nose the way the last one did, I'll just
scream."

"I'm sorry, ma'am?" Now he would have given anything to
see Ranee's broad figure barreling toward him and her hand
reaching for the headset.

"A splicer. Do you have a gene splicer on staff?"

"Oh. Right. I'll have to check." He began to understand
what the caller wanted. But as he flipped through his service
directory, two other lights came on, two other calls buzzing
for his attention. Where was Ranee? He wasn't supposed to
leave any call unattended for more than two rings.

"I'm sony, ma'am," he said. "I'll be right back. Please
hold." He punched up the blue button. "Hotel Andromeda,

8               Karen Haber

please hold." He punched up the red button. "Hotel Androm-
eda." A voice began squawking. He cut it off, "Please hold,"
and returned to the original caller.

"Ma'am, we can have a technician with splicer outside
your door in an hour. I see from our records that she's just
finishing up with a litter of Monosikhs."

"Well, I hope it won't be too long. I can just feel all those
little nasal cells dividing inside me even as we speak."

Lekvich Tor frowned. "Actually, ma'am, as I understand
Terran reproductive processes, it's really too soon for that sort
of cell specialization, isn't it?"

"Don't be so literal, silly. I was joking. And tell your
splicer to hurry just the same. Who knows what kind of trou-
ble an unsupervised zygote can get into?"

"She'll be there in a flash." In a blaze of inspiration
Lekvich remembered a key note from his training manual:

meet all needs, cover all contingencies. "And," he said, "in
case you have any complications, ma'am, you might be inter-
ested to know that we can also provide termination services."

"Really? Excuse me for a moment"—her voice grew
muffled—"honey, they're offering terminations as well.
What do you think? Still want to go through with it? Re-
member what happened with the last one, the police, the
mutations, and all that fuss. Still want to? Honestly, you're
such a sentimental softy. Of course if you want him or her

then I want him or her."

Lekvich Tor watched the other calls blinking and wished
that he had six ears, three mouths, and six arms. Why hadn't
they hired an Arcadian arachnian to handle this job? "Very
good, ma'am," he said, putting a bit more volume into his
voice to regain her attention. "Room 2651?"

"That's right." She sighed theatrically. "He always gets so
attached to his own children."

As Lekvich watched in horror, one of the blinking lights on
the console went out. A caller had actually hung up! Lekvich
wanted to hang his head in shame, but the con line receiver
would have cut off his circulation.

"Good-bye, ma'am." With an urgency bordering on panic
he snatched up the remaining call. "Concierge. I'm terribly
sorry you had to wait."

"Who's this?" demanded a deep male voice.

FIRST NIGHTER                      9

"Lekvich Tor."

"Isn't Ranee on tonight?"

"She just stepped away from the desk—"

'Tell her to call Scadool when she gets back."

"Would you like to leave a message? A number where you
can be reached?"

"She knows."

Before Lekvich Tor could say more, the caller hung up.

Ranee had now been away from the console for almost an
hour. Lekvich Tor was growing more and more worried about
her. Surely she had found an acceptable bathroom by now in me
huge hotel complex. He couldn't leave his post to look for her.
Should he send someone else? If he alerted the night manager,
Ranee might get in trouble. But what if she were already in
trouble? Lekvich felt his head swimming. He decided to wait
another five minutes and then to inquire—discreetly—if some-
one could please look for his supervisor in me ladies* room.

An orange, fur-covered humanoid from Fragis Ipsilon ap-
proached the desk on three of its six limbs. "Excuse? Excuse?"

Lekvich Tor took a deep breath. It was his first alien, face-to-
face. Luckily it seemed to speak some English. "Yes? How can
I help you?" he said.

"Halp, yesh- Halp."

"That's what I said. How can I be of service?"

"Servish?" The Fragis Ipsilonian seemed puzzled by the
concept. His eyestalks drooped in what must have been con-
fusion. "Servish? Thish one?"

Lekvich Tor felt his patience begin to unravel. "Yes, I'm
the concierge," he said. "At the moment, anyway. What can
I do for you?"

"Rum," said the Ipsilonian.

"You want the bar?" Lekvich Tor said. "But I thought alco-
hol was poisonous to Ipsilonians.

"Rum, plish."

Lekvich stared at the matted orange fur in growing confu-
sion. What did it want? To drink? To commit suicide? To
drive Lekvich Tor crazy?

Bzzzt!

"Excuse me," he said, turning to the board. "Concierge."

"This is room 2651, again." The caller sounded tearful. "I

10

Karen Haber

want to cancel the genetic splicer and order a relationship

counselor instead."

"Yes, ma'am. Any specialization?"
"No! Just get one up here!" She blew her nose noisily. "And

huny."

"Of course."
"Excuse." The orange Ipsilonian was still standing there.

"Rum, plish."

Lekvich Tor felt tears of frustration forming in his eyes.
What did this creature want from him? If only he had paid
more attention to languages during training. Was a rum plish
an exotic drink? He had a sudden hysterical image of the
Ipsilonian sitting at a table in the Andromeda bar, a pink
drink with a parasol in at least three of its six paws. Then he
imagined the Ipsilonian keeling over. The screams. The law-
suits. The unemployment office.

"Ah, Ambassador Syxxxch, there you are."
Blonde and immaculate Terralynne Stag, the assistant night
manager, hurried up and took one of the orange fur paws in
her hands, shaking it energetically. "We've been waiting for
you, ma'am. Your translator has been delayed. I'm so sorry."
She smiled brightly at Lekvich Tor, a smile containing abso-
lutely no recognition but an endless supply of professional

goodwill.

"Rum, plish," said the Ipsilonian.
"Yes, of course, we'll see to your room immediately."
Before Lekvich Tor could raise the issue of his missing su-
pervisor, Terralynne had swept the ambassador away toward
the main desk and reception area.

Bzzzt!
Lekvich Tor snapped to. "Hotel Andromeda, concierge."

"This is room 3975-"

Lekvich Tor saw that he was talking to someone in the wa-
ter wing. No wonder the voice sounded so muffled and pecu-
liar. The water-breather was using a voice synthesizer.

"How can I be of service?" he said quickly.

"Our fenestres—ah, portholes—are opaqued again. We

posit algae as the culprit."

"I'll call Amphibious Housekeeping immediately."

"Much gratitude."
Lekvich Tor hung up and saw four call lights flashing pink

FIRST NIGHTER

n

and blue and green and red on the console. He hadn't even
noticed them- His purplish skin began to shine with perspira-
tion. He reached for the nearest light but a scaly green hand
with claws enameled in bright orange intercepted him.

"Hello there." The voice was husky, insinuating, slightly
slurred.

Lekvich Tor looked up into the face of a Saurian matriarch
from Telos XVI. He had never expected to see one at such
close range.

She was twice his size and width. Her jaw extended a good
five inches in front of her forehead and her smile—if that's
what it was—revealed rows of needle-sharp white teem. Her
dark eyes were split by a red pupil and she appeared to have
no eyelids. Rubies set in golden studs dotted her eye ridges.

Lekvich Tor fought back a shudder. The guest is always
right, he thought. Always.

"When do you get off?" the Saurian said.

"Beg pardon?"

Her smile widened—a terrifying sight. "You're very at-
tractive for a humanoid. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Never," said Lekvich Tor. In fact, before he had been re-
cruited for this post from Vladimir's Folly, no one had ever
paid much attention to him at all.

"Mmmmhmmm." She nodded languorously. "Love that
purple skin."

Lekvich Tor had an awful feeling that he knew exactly
what this Saurian wanted. He blushed. He looked away
through the view portals at the stars but there was no help
coming from those distant points of light. He took a deep
breath. "Ma'am, may I direct you to our Pleasure Services
Department? We have the very best selection of live profes-
sionals, robots, or virtual experiences to be found in six quad-
rants."

"But I like you."

Lekvich Tor gulped. He had heard rumors of the Saurians'
mating techniques and he had no intention of learning
whether or not any of those rumors were true. "I'm very flat-
tered," he said. "But I'm on duty." He pointed to the wall
clock behind him. "All night"

"Don't you ever get a break?"

12

Karen Haber

"Uh, no. Never." Ranee, where are you? he thought. Where

is the Security Force? Where is my mother?

A robot security drone rolled by and Lekvich wanted to
call out to it but something kept him from doing so. He
musn't insult the guest. He looked around the lobby at the
endless flow of people, desperately hoping to catch the eye of
some functionary. He could always press the Security button,
but he had not yet been told what would happen if he did so.

"Well, I can wait." The Saurian looked as though she were
planning to lean against the console all night.
"So there you are!" a high voice cried.
A Saurian male half the female's size came hurrying
through the crowd toward the concierge desk. He wore a
shimmering cloak woven from the rarest full-spectrum textiles
and had a diamond stud embedded in one green and scaly
nostril. "There you are," he said again even more shrilly, "i
can't turn my back on you for a moment."

The female rolled her dark eyes and turned to face her ac-
cuser with a condescending air. "Raoul, calm down, dearest.

You'll have a stroke if you don't relax."

"Don't try to get around me, Celeste. I know what you're

capable of."

She gave Lekvich a long-suffering look. "I've been waiting
for you, darling. You know you always take longer to dress

than I do."

*'I thought you would be waiting in the cafe," Raoul said,

sniffing.

"I just paused to ask this charming young man for direc-
tions." Celeste winked at Lekvich. He smiled wanly.

"I know where the cafe is even if you don't," Raoul said.
"Come along, now. Don't dally. I'm hungry enough to eat a

dozen mice."

"But, Raoul, your digestion."

"And don't lecture me, Celeste. I said come along." He
took her by the arm and steered her toward the restaurant

transport tubes.
Celeste looked back over her shoulder and blew Lekvich a

kiss.

Numbly, he waved.
Bzzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

FIRST NiGHTER

13

The console! Lekvich gasped and dived for the nearest
light.

"Concierge."

"Lekvich, where have you been?" It was Ranee. He could
have kissed her voice.

"I was talking to a guest."

"You know the rules about two rings per call."

"Yes, Ranee, of course. Forgive me."

"Now listen to me, Lekvich. I'm on deck seventeen. I got
captured by Wolf Rackham—you know, the maintenance
chief—on my way down from deck nine. He says he has to
talk to me right now. Think you can handle things a bit
longer? I'll be there just as soon as I can. How are you
doing?"

Lekvich looked at me rainbow of call lights blinking ur-
gently and swallowed. "Fine. I think."

"Good. Hold the fort." Ranee hung up.

The fort was bunking at Lekvich in every color imaginable.

"Hello, concierge, please hold. Concierge, please hold.
Concierge, please hold. Concierge, may I help you?"

"Yeah, I was just swimming on deck five when a robot
came in and dumped a load of sand in the deep end of the
pool."

"Are you sure?" Lekvich said. "They're not programmed
to do anything like that."

"Of course not," the caller said. "But some kids were play-
ing around with its controls—they probably reprogrammed it.
There it goes again."

Lekvich could hear a faint splash and outraged cries.

"I believe you, I believe you," he said quickly. "I'll contact
Maintenance right away." He hung up, buzzed Pool Mainte-
nance, and reached for the next call.

"Concierge."

"My Poltronian guppy isn't doing well," the caller said in
a waspish voice. "I was just down at the kennel and I thought
it looked a little pink. 1 don't think you've got the right mix-
ture of gases in its cell."

"Did you tell the kennel master, sir?"

"Of course, but do you think he'd listen to me? I want
something done about this at once."

"Sir, it's really not my job—"

14

Karen Haber

"I don't care what your job is. If my guppy dies because of

mistreatment I'll sue this hotel!"

Lekvich wanted to tell him to go ahead and sue: only a fool
would bring a Poltronian guppy into an oxygen-rich environ-
ment- But he was also worried that this man might just make
good on his threats- He sounded like a troublemaker. And
trouble must be avoided. The guest is always right, he re-
minded himself once again. Always.

"I'll see what I can do, sir." Before he could say more, the

guest hung up on him.

Lekvich turned to the next call. "Hello, thank you for hold-
ing."

"Is the null-g gym closed?"

"I don't know, ma'am. Have you asked at the fitness cen-
ter?"

"Yeah, I tried there. The door's locked. They told me to

call you."

"Oh." Lekvich Tor scratched his head. Why had they told

her to call him? "Ma'am, I'll have to get back to you on
that." He scribbled down her room number and went on to the

next call.

"Thank you for holding." His feet hurt and he was begin-
ning to feel pressure in his bladder. Would Ranee never come

back?

"This is room 2360. We're checking out and we'd like a

robot to bus our luggage."

Lekvich almost sighed with relief at the routine request.

"Right away, sir."

He notified the mech station and took the next call.
"We'd like to reserve a table for dinner tonight."
"This is the concierge. You want to call the restaurant."
"Isn't this the extension for the restaurant?"
Lekvich swallowed an impatient retort. "No, ma'am."
"Well, could you connect me to the restaurant?"
"It would be faster if you dialed direct, ma'am."

"I see. Thank you."
The next caller wanted a better room and Lekvich told him

to call reservations.

The caller after that wanted to know where the environ-
mental control in his room was, and if it could decrease the

FIRST NtGHTER

15

gravity at all, and what exactly would happen to alcohol at
zero-g.

"You're not planning to drink in zero-g, are you?" Lekvich
asked in alarm.

"Why not?"

"You can't do it unless you use a closed container and suc-
tion straw," he said. "With a glass, you'll just get floating
globules, which will splash on the rug and stain the uphol-
stery when you restore the room to normal g."

The caller giggled, said, "Sounds like fun," and hung up
before Lekvich could check the room number and notify
Housekeeping and/or Security.

For a moment the board was quiet Lekvich indulged him-
self in a hearty sigh and looked at his notes.

Now, let's see, he thought, room 5627 wanted me to call
the kennel master about the guppy. Or was that room 5427?
Horrified, Lekvich realized that he couldn't read his own
scrawl. Well, he did remember the guppy—he would call the
kennel master first and worry about the owner later.

But what about that woman who wanted to use the nuli-g
gym? Had he already called about that? And the man who
wanted to experiment with drinking in zero-g, or was it the
woman who wanted to do that and the man who wanted the
gym? Lekvich Tor rubbed the bridge of his nose where it had
begun to ache. His head was swimming. He checked the
clock: had it really only been three hours? It felt like three
days.

Bzzzt!

"Concierge," said Lekvich listlessly. "Can I help you?"

"Listen, you'd better get somebody down here right away,"
a frantic voice said.

"Where is here?" Lekvich asked.

"Pardon?"

"I mean, what's your room number?"

"Thirteen sixty-eight."

"What seems to be the problem?"

"It's raining in my room."

Lekvich frowned. "Do you mean the pipes are leaking?"

"No. It's the environmental control. It's out of whack or
something."

Of course, Lekvich thought. The environmental controls. If

16

Karen Haber

it's not that it's the gravity. If it's not that it's the guppy. Or
the Saurian with a diamond in his nose.
"I'll see that somebody gets to it, sir."
"Hurry, please. My portfolio is getting soaked!"
Lekvich thought that it would be very nice to lie in a quiet
room on a soft bed somewhere and have warm rain trickle
down onto his body. What was this guy complaining about,
he wondered. Why didn't he just lie down and enjoy it?

Bzzzzt!

"Concierge."

"Lekvich, this is Ranee."

"Oh, Ranee, thank goodness. You won't believe — "

"I can't talk," she said. "I'm on deck thirty-five. Winnie
Payne, the second assistant night manager, saw me with Wolf
and hauled us both into a meeting. 1*11 be back as soon as I

can get loose."

Before Lekvich could say another word, she was gone.

Bzzzt!
"Concierge," he said hopelessly.

"Ranee?"

"I'm sony, she's not here."

"Not back yet?" It was Scadool, her mysterious caller

again. He didn't sound pleased.

"I'm sorry, no," Lekvich said, and thought: You don't

know just how sorry I am.
Scadool hung up.
Lekvich was beginning to get angry. Didn't anyone believe

in basic good manners anymore?

"Hello again."
It was Celeste, the Saurian, leering over the console at him

and waggling her ruby-studded eye ridges.

"Where's Raoul?" Lekvich said.

"Oh, he's still eating. I told him I had to visit the ladies'
room," she said, and winked slyly. "Now arc you certain you
can't take a break?" She rubbed her thumb and forefinger to-
gether in a mercenary way. "I promise you that you'll enjoy
many rewards, and not all of them on the physical plane."

Lekvich Tor felt the growing pressure in his bladder and
began to despair. He was really getting uncomfortable, and
this lustful Saurian was not making matters easier. He mus-
tered his best and iciest manners.

FIRST NIGHTER

17

"I'm sorry, madam. I'm flattered, truly. But as you can see,
there's nobody here but me. I simply can't leave the desk."

"What about a robot? Can't you order one to come and sub
for you?"

"I beg your pardon." Lekvich drew himself up to his full
five feet and five inches. How dare she imply that a robot
could do a job as complicated as mis.

"Now don't get huffy," Celeste said. "You're obviously a
sensitive and intelligent young man. How would you like a
job as a personal valet? I'll just talk to your boss—"

"Celeste""

Raoul bore down upon them, eyes flashing. "I knew I'd
find you here. You're shameless, utterly shameless. I can't
turn my back on you for a second."

"Now, Raoul—"

"Don't you 'now, Raoul' me! So you had to go to the la-
dies' room, eh? I can't trust you at all. I might as well divorce
you right here and now. Young man, can you provide me with
some assistance?"

"Sir?" Lekvich stared at him in horror. Was he going to be
involved in a divorce suit on his first night on the job?

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

The console was lighting up in a crazy array of colors, but
as Lekvich reached for a call, Raoul interceded, grabbing his
hand.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid? I asked if you could pro-
vide the services of an attorney."

"Raoul," Celeste wailed. "You don't mean it. Please, dar-
ling, don't kick me out. I'll be good, I promise."

"I'm tired of your promises."

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

"Concierge." Lekvich said desperately. "Please hold. Please
hold. Please hold."

Raoul yanked on his wrist. "Well?"

"Please, sir. Let go of me. I'll request an attorney for you
in a moment if you'll just be patient."

"I've been patient long enough. You don't know how I've
suffered with this bitch."

Lekvich was tempted to tell him that he could actually
imagine what a trial Celeste had been to him. But Raoul

18

Karen Haber

didn't seem interested in commiseration, especially from
Lekvich Tor.

Bzzzt!

"Please. I must answer the call," Lekvich said. He pulled
himself free of Raoul's grasp. "Concierge."

"Quick, we need Housekeeping down here in wing seven.
A water-breather tipped over his tank."

"Can you hold on?"

Bzzzt!

"Concierge."

"I'd like to arrange for personality enhancement."

"Sir, you want implants, extension 75."

Bzzzt!

"Concierge."

"Which department handles tattoos?"

"You want Dermatology, ma'am, line 89."

Bzzzt!

"Concierge."

"This is room 842. Something's wrong with our environ-
mental control. In fact, everybody on this floor seems to be
having trouble. We're all floating around in null-g."

"Could you please hold?"

"I'm getting tired of waiting!" Raoul roared.

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

"What's going on here?" a familiar voice demanded.

"Ranee!" Lekvich Tor could have fainted with mingled re-
lief and horror.

His supervisor stood and glowered at him. "It's absolute
bedlam here and I've only been gone for half a shift."

"I'm sorry. Ranee."

She ignored him and turned to Raoul. "Sir, what seems to
be the problem?"

"Are you this young man's supervisor?"

"That's right."

"I'd like to report him for insubordination. And slowness.
I've been waiting for him to provide me with the services of
a good divorce attorney."

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir. What is your
room number?"

"Eleven seventy."

FIRST NIGHTER                    19

"I'll have a lawyer sent immediately. Do you prefer human
or robot?"

"Robot. At least my soon-to-be ex-wife won't be able to
flirt with one of those."

"Very good." Ranee typed a command into the net and
nodded. "It will be there in five minutes."

"Now, Raoul," Celeste said. "Don't get so excited. Think
of your blood pressure." She wound a meaty arm around her
husband's neck and tickled his cheek with one long orange
talon. "Darling, you're so attractive when you're enraged."

"Stop it, Celeste."

"No, it's true. You're magnificent This is the Saurian I
married, come back to me."

"Do you really think so?"

"Oh, yes, my darling, yes."

They embraced passionately and several Terran guests scur-
ried out of range of their madly flapping tails.

When Raoul came up for air, he waved a hand vaguely at
Ranee and Lekvich. "Cancel that robot," he said. "I don't
think we'll need it after all."

"Very good, sir." Ranee retrieved the request and killed it
as, arm in arm and tail in tail, Raoul and Celeste made their
way to the tube for rooms 1165-1280.

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzt!

"Just don't stand there, Lekvich. Answer the phone!"

"Right away. Ranee."

Lekvich sent a maintenance crew down to wing seven to
mop up, and an environmental engineer to room 842 to re-
store gravity. He also arranged for the null-g gym to be
opened, stopped the rain in room 1348. and double-checked
(MI the Poltronian guppy. Then, with a sigh of relief, he leaned
back in his web seat. The console was suddenly quiet.
Lekvich wiped his sweaty forehead on the back of his hand.

The silence lengthened. He became aware that Ranee was
staring at him. Probably she was going to fire him. Well, he
was so tired that he almost didn't care. His first night at the
Hotel Andromeda had been chaotic and maddening. He didn't
deserve to be there- Perhaps he could get a job on the main-
tenance crew, mopping up after water-breathers-

"Well, Lekvich," Ranee began.

Here it comes, he thought.

20 Karen Haber

"You had the con for almost four hours and in that time
there were three environmental accidents, postponed euthana-
sia, twenty-seven complaints, and one near-divorce."

Lekvich told himself he would be a man about it, and
wouldn't cry when she dismissed him.

She nodded thoughtfully, then said, "All in all, not too
shabby."

"What?" Lekvich said. "I mean, do you really think so?"

"Sure." She gave him a quick smile. "In fact, I've seen
much worse debuts."

"But the swimming pool—the guppy—Raoul and Celeste."

"Forget it."

Lekvich Tor glowed with pride. He hadn't done badly, after
all! He had weathered his first night alone at the console and
Ranee was pleased. He began to relax and even look forward
to the remaining hours of his first shift. He gazed dreamily
about the lobby. Once more it seemed magical and filled with
exotic, glamorous, exciting people.

"Excuse me."

He looked directly into the most hideous face—if that was
what it was—that he had ever seen. It was a heaving mass of
quills and boils in which three nostrils, a slash of a mouth,
and several white staring eyes somehow managed to be in
'both the right and wrong places simultaneously.

"I'm the liaison with the hotel for the Wugmump conven-
tion," it said. Its breath was rancid and its voice harsh and
grating. "I want to go over some details before the rest of us
check in."

"How many are coming?" Lekvich asked, fascinated and
repelled at the same time.

"About six thousand. I imagine you and I will be working
together very closely indeed over the next six days."

Lekvich looked at Ranee.

Ranee nodded encouragingly.

Lekvich leaned close, until he was able to whisper in his
supervisor's ear. "Will you excuse me, please?" he said. "I
have to go to the loo." And he left Ranee staring, mouth open,
at the Wugmump as he hurried away.

THE ROOM KEY

Terry Kepner

Ooooh, are oou da one?" a voice whispered softly, close
to her ear, "Modher sad oou would be ere soon." She
vaguely heard the soft sibilants of two other voices, but the
words were unclear. "Bud oou hab long lide fur and zhe sad
oou hab dark short fur."

"Mmmmm?" Pal mumbled, more asleep than awake.

"Ooooh," the same voice said, "Oou smell 'onderfull.
Modher musd made a misdake. Ooou are da one. 1 yesd knaw
id."

A soft fur blanket drifted to her side. Ah, thought Pat, a ro-
bot maid dropping off a blanket. They must have realized the
room wasn 't ready for occupancy. She put her arm out and
discovered that it wasn't a blanket, but a large pillow. Oh,
well, she thought, that's okay; it's nice and warm. She turned
on her side and snuggled closer to it.

"Zhe likes me!" the voice said. A fur strip draped across
her side and back, and another across her tegs; a pillow with

21

22 Jeny Kepner

tassels. "Modher waz 7.0 worried oou would nod like uz."

The fur pillow was very soft and silky, and Pat found her-
self rubbing against it to feet it sliding across her skin. She
had always liked the feel of fur, but these sensations were
wonderfully erotic. She sleepily ran her hand gently across
the pillow, enjoying the texture.

She felt a soft puff of air ruffle the hair by her ear. Another
fur pillow pressed against her back. Part of it draped over
her side.

She puzzled on it for a moment, then decided that Room
Service must have sent up two pillows to make up for not
sending a blanket. Maybe they were out of them. Two fur
ropes twined around her legs. She felt yet another rope touch
her foot. She shifted slightly and a pillow draped itself across
her feet.

Well, with three warm and furry pillows on her bed, she
didn 't have to worry about getting cold tonight. She snuggled
close to them and drifted into a pleasant, and erotic, dream.

Pat stretched and stared at the wall in front of her. For the
first time in days, she felt rested. She blinked slowly, thinking
about her dream.

As erode dreams go, she decided, that one was pretty good.
She felt her face grow hot just thinking about it

It had to have been that fur coverlet Room Service had
dropped off. It had been so silky smooth and sensual. She
wondered if she would have another dream like that one to-
night.

She must have kicked the blanket down in the night—and
no wonder! She barely could feel it covering her feet Funny,
she didn't remember Room Service dropping by, but then
again, she wouldn't have noticed if Attila the Hun had walked
into her room last night.

Room Service? Room Service. What had happened to her
wake-up call? She flipped over and sat up. She froze, her
mouth hanging open in surprise.

Seated at the foot of her bed were three non-humans. She
closed her eyes. They were still mere when she opened them.
The aliens resembled weasels, with long thin snouts that
ended in black noses. A dozen long, graceful silver whiskers
sprouted from both sides of their snouts, much like those on
a cat or a dog. Forward-facing soft brown eyes that were only

THE ROOM KEY

23

a bit larger than a human's met her gaze briefly before
blinking and looking down at the bed. Their rounded ears
were on the sides of their heads, but more toward the back of
the head, with light-colored tips projecting slightly above it.
The insides of their ears were almost completely black.

Covering each of them was a thin coat of long fur, but each
of them was a different color. Their long arms ended in thin
hands with very, very long claws, and long, thin muscular
tails. All three had their tails draped possessively across her
feet. There was no coverlet. And she was naked.

As a Terran Stellar Lines spaceship third-class copilot, she
had been taught to keep her cool under any circumstance. The
company couldn't afford to have panicky pilots at the controls
of their city-sized spaceships. One mistake made by a dis-
tracted or hysterical pilot could cost the lives of everyone
aboard the ship, not to mention the loss of the cargo and the
ship itself. Staying calm no matter the situation was an impor-
tant job criterion.

Dealing with alien races had been only a small part of her
training, but that had focused mostly on the major languages
and customs of the races with whom TSL primarily dealt.
Nothing had been mentioned about finding one's self naked in
a strange room with three aliens, male or otherwise. She
would have to wing it.

She scooted backward to the wall. She pulled her legs up
until her knees were in front of her breasts and her feet flat
on the bed. She folded her arms across her knees.

The middle alien, a dark strawberry blonde in color—she
knew friends who would practically kill to get their hair
that particular shade—bowed deeply, followed instantly by
the other two. They kept their eyes chastely on the foot of
the bed. They were clearly males. Embarrassingly clear, she
thought. From the small pile of belts and pouches she now
saw in one comer of the room, they obviously did not wear
clothes in public.

While the others remained unmoving, the one on Pat's
right, a beautiful calico, stood and walked over to a tray on
the shelf of the computer terminal. He brought the tray to the
bed, then dropped to his knees and held the tray out to her. He
kept his attention locked on the tray. It held a glass and a
small plate with what looked like a roll on it.

24 Terry Kepner

From the way they acted, so stiff and formal. Pat felt that
her next action would be vital to these aliens. That it was a
test of some type. She had a momentary vision of her refusing
the offering on the tray and provoking a major interstellar in-
cident. Her chance for a career with any of the major shipping
lines, especially TSL, would be ruined.

Hesitantly, she lifted the glass and cautiously sniffed it- It
smelled like plain water. She took a sip. It was water. Sud-
denly thirsty, she tipped the glass and drank half of it. She
saw the alien's eyes briefly flick up to her face to watch. She
glanced at the other two. They didn't appear to have moved,
but their long whiskers quivered slightly. She thought what
might have been a smile temporarily flitted across the face of
the strawberry blonde.

She replaced the glass and picked up the plate. She sniffed
at the roll, took a nibble, then a bite- She watched for a reac-
tion in the aliens as she chewed. The blonde was positively
grinning now.

The roll was dry, and had a rather bland taste, but she
hadn't eaten at all yesterday. She finished off the roll in just
a few bites, following it with the remainder of the glass of
water. She gave them a hesitant smile.

When the glass hit the tray. the alien whisked it away to the
table by the computer terminal and rejoined his companions
at the foot of her bed. All three sat upright and looked straight
at her now. Two were rocking back and forth, their four-foot-
long tails swaying around behind them. One, with solid dark
brown, almost black, fur, was bouncing in place, humming
happily. They seemed rather pleased with themselves.

She was not. Who were they and why were they in her
room? She absolutely had not requested Hotel Personal Ser-
vices to send up a gigolo, much less three non-human gigo-
los! And they did not act like hotel employees.

A quick look around the room revealed that her luggage
still had not arrived. And without the blanket, she had no way
to cover herself.

Her first inclination was to wait for someone to rescue her.
But that might take all day, and she had to report in to her su-
pervisor on the Terran Stellar Lines' Star Cruiser Africa by
noon, local time, or lose her assignment. She would have to

THE ROOM KEY               25

extricate herself from this predicament. She took a deep
breath and forced herself to move.

Keeping her plastic smile firmly in place (the one she used
when dealing with passengers asking idiotic questions), she
stood. All three aliens kept their eyes on her, barely blinking.
Having the aliens watch as she walked to the cleaning bin
made her intensely self-conscious.

Pat's smile vanished and her teeth clenched as she stared
into the empty bin. Where were her clothes? Just what the
heck was going on here? Had the aliens hidden them? She
wished someone would rescue her.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what else could go
wrong. Her eyes popped open and she darted to the computer.
Only the cleaning tag and her watch were there. She had a
momentary memory flash of dropping her room key into her
pants pocket, now lost somewhere in the laundry. And, she
saw, she had already missed her noon report-in time.

On the table beside the computer was the tray with its
empty glass and plate, and another two glasses and plates, al-
most empty. The aliens plainly had started with three plates
and glasses, and must have decided to give her one set while
splitting the other two among themselves. She wondered why
as she frowned.

She turned and gave the aliens another plastic smile. "Ann,
excuse me, I need to freshen up a little." She pointed at the
door to the bathroom and started to sidle over that way.

The aliens, still seated, bowed again.

With the door solidly closed behind her, she slumped
against the sink counter. "Oh, God. I don't believe this!" she
groaned. Focusing her eyes on the mirror in front of her, she
groaned again. Her shoulder-length hair, which her mother
had always called dirty-blonde, was snarled and awry, includ-
ing one small batch that stood straight up. She patted it down,
vainly hoping it would stay that way.

At least, thanks to last night's sound sleep, there weren't
any dark circles under her blue eyes. Anytime she missed
sleep her light complexion tended to make such shadows that
much more apparent.

But worse, much worse, the towel rack behind her was
completely empty. That shattered her hope of fashioning a
couple of the towels into the semblance of a halter top and

26 Terry Kepner

skirt. The bathroom was as devoid of furnishing as the other
room.

Splashing cold water on her face did not help. She briefly
considered drowning herself in the bathtub, then noticed the
hot-air vent. Mom had always said a good hot shower helped
one to think.

She stood in front of the blast of warm air, drying off. The
way she figured it, with even a halfway decent lawyer, she
should come out of this owning a hefty percentage of the hotel.
Or at least wealthy beyond any dreams she had ever had. She
decided that an out-of-court settlement would be best. That
would protect her career.

She cautiously opened the door. Yep. They were still there.
Giving them her plastic smile again, she stepped over to the
terminal. The display was built into the wall behind the sim-
ple touch pad on the abbreviated table below it. Fortunately,
the terminal design was such that only the person in front of
it could hear what was said. The aliens would not hear her re-
porting them to Hotel Security.

"Andromeda Security, please," she said, pressing the acti-
vate button.

"I'm sony, honored guest, but access to that function from
this terminal is blocked."

She stared at the computer, astounded. "Andromeda Secu-
rity, please," she repeated. She got the same response.

Why would access to hotel security be blocked? All right,
she would try something else. "Room Service, please," she
said.

"I'm sony, honored guest, but access to that function from
this terminal is blocked."

A few minutes later she stood leaning against the terminal
with both hands. This, she thought, cannot be happening. She
tried the last standard function she could think of. Emergency.

"State the nature of the emergency, please, honored guest."

At last! "I have three uninvited aliens in my room."

"Is someone injured?"

"Uh, no."

"Is there a medical emergency or a fire?"

"Now." She did not like the way this was going.

"This function is for emergencies only. If you need secu-

THE ROOM KEY               27

rity, please use that function. If this is not an emergency,
please do not use this function."

"But the terminal says that access to that function is
blocked'"

"I am sorry, honored guest. Unless this is an emergency, I
must terminate this call." There was a click.

"Damn computer." She stared at the blank display.

'Terminal, my clothes were not returned from Laundry Ser-
vices last night."

"I'm sorry, honored guest, but you "must access Laundry
Services for assistance in locating lost items."

"But access to that function is blocked," she wailed. She
leaned her head against the cool surface of the wall above the
terminal in exasperation. Terminal," she said quietly.

"Yes, honored guest?"

"Why are functions blocked at this terminal?"

"The party booking this room requested that all functions
be disabled."

"That's nonsense," she said, shocked. "I made no such re-
quest." She chewed on a fingernail for a moment as she
thought. 'Terminal, what about Emergency Services? I called
them."

"Emergency Services cannot be blocked. All other services
are blocked."

"But this is my room. I did not request that calls be
blocked. I order you to remove the blocks."

"I'm sorry, honored guest, but access to that function from
this terminal is blocked. If you desire to change the terminal
settings, you must make that request to the registration desk."

Arguing with the terminal was useless, she knew. It would
simply parrot back similar responses to her questions. 'Termi-
nal, get me the front desk."

"I'm sorry, honored guest, but access to that function from
this terminal is blocked."

Pat slammed her hand against the terminal in frustration.
She was stuck. Access to any function that might lead her to
a sentient being was blocked. In the meantime, she was naked
in her room with three furry aliens-
She turned to look at the aliens, and nervously chewed her
lip. They sat by the bed, looking for all the world like they
were waiting for her to say or do something important.

28 Jerry Kepner

She took a deep breath. Naked she may be, but she wasn't
going to let that stop her; she had to get her clothes. Making
her parade through the hotel naked to get to a working termi-
nal would just cost the hotel that much more in court. She
walked over to the door and put her hand on the handle. She
steeled herself for the upcoming ordeal, then opened the door.

Or, at least, she tried to open the door. The handle refused
to move. She pushed harder. No reaction. She put her full
weight on the handle. It still did not move.

The door was security-locked both ways. No key, no open
door. She was locked in. Why would Terran Stellar Lines
keep a block of rooms with such a security lock?

"Damn!" She leaned her head against the door, struggling
to keep control. A quick look at her wristwatch revealed she
was already an hour late for her noon report-in time, and had
only an hour before her ship left.

If she could make it to the ship before it left, she might be
able to talk her way around her late arrival and convince her
supervisor to either overlook her infraction or, at least, merely
mark it down as reprimand instead of a dismissal. While a re-
placement copilot may have been requested, her showing up
could still save her job.

If she didn't make it to the terminal before then, her con-
tract would automatically be terminated. Only a proven med-
ical emergency or rare special circumstance could get her
contract reinstated.

With a contract termination on her record, getting another
of the major carriers to accept her services would be almost
impossible. She would be stuck on the second-tier job level,
with short-haul small ships, tramp freighters, and other less
desirable posts for the rest of her career.

The aliens' Maybe one of them had a key.

She took a moment to compose herself and put her plastic
smile in position. She turned slowly and faced them. Speak-
ing carefully, she asked in Universal, "Excuse me, but do any
of you have a key to the door?"

All three froze and their tails stopped in mid-swing. The
humming trailed off into silence. They stared back at her,
clearly not having understood her question.

"Key? Door?*' She pantomimed holding something against
the door and opening it.

THE ROOM KEY               29

They looked from her to the door, then to each other. Fi-
nally, each gave a whole-body convulsive shiver, and simply
gazed back at her.

While there were ten major languages in this quadrant, she
had studied only the three that TSL regularly traded with. She
started with Spacer's Talk, sort of a polyglot that had evolved
over the last few hundred years. "My name is Pat McCreney.
What are your names?"

No response was forthcoming.

"I'm a pilot for Terran Space Lines. Actually I'm a copi-
lot," she said, hoping they might recognize some of the
words. "I just came in last night from Terra on the Terran
Space Lines California. I'm supposed to transfer to the TSL
Star Cruiser Africa for the next three years."

They blankly stared back at her.

She sighed, then tried Mulphridean. "I don't know how we
came to be in the same room. I know I was really tired last
night when the supervisor in the TSL offices here in Hotel
Andromeda gave me a registration pass." Blondie's ears
twitched at the mention of Andromeda.

For a moment, she thought they might have understood her.
but she realized the only thing they had understood was the
name of the station. She tried Universal Language next.

"I was tired because most of the command crew of the TSL
California came down sick about four days ago, and the rest
of us had to work double and triple shifts. Because we started
docking at the end of my shift, I had to stay on duty for a
third shift. I went without sleep for almost twenty-four
hours."

While they were paying close attention to her every word,
they clearly did not understand a single one of them. Actu-
ally, this was also helping her to retrace her steps from last
night. Maybe she could figure out how they came to be in
her room. She switched to Persiean.

"I almost didn't find the TSL offices, I was so tired. But I
did remember to check the assignments board." She smiled
wanly. "The TSL Star Cruiser Africa had come in that day
and would be leaving at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow;

that is, today. I was supposed to check in at least two hours
before then." She sighed and glanced at her watch again.
"Unfortunately, Registration never gave me my wake-up call,

30 Terry Kepner

and I seem to have overslept by a wide margin. Now I only
have an hour before the ship leaves."

Again, they merely stared at her. She couldn't begin to
imagine what they must think she was doing. Only Altairian
was left of the spoken languages she knew.

"Anyway, after I picked up my key from Registration, I got
on an elevator, but I dropped the key and it rolled under the
bench at the back. I had to reach under it pretty far to get it
back." She paused as what she had said repeated itself in her
memory.

"Damn. That must have been it," she muttered, "when I
dropped my key. I must have found a lost key." And because
the room keys also doubled as destination designators for the
elevators, it had brought her to this room, already occupied by
the three aliens. They must have been out when she arrived,
returning after she fell asleep.

Why they had let her sleep on, or why they didn't leave
and bring back Security was a mystery. However, they were
aliens. They probably had their reasons, strange though they
may be to her. They were polite, though. They were still lis-
tening attentively- If it were not for their lack of reactions, she
would think they knew exactly what she was saying. They
were cute, too.

She licked her lips hesitantly. Her getting the wrong room
key certainly explained why the hallway outside had been so
opulent. She had thought TSL was giving her a perk for
working so hard the last few days.

That her luggage, left with the registration clerk, had not
been here when she walked in should have tipped her off that
something was wrong. And then she had been dumb enough
to drop her clothes in the cleaning bin with the cleaning tag
supplied by the clerk. That tag had probably returned her
clothes to her real room, leaving her naked and without a key.

If she had not been so tired she would have realized that
the hotel clerk would never have given her a room that wasn't
propped for a Terran. While the bed had been comfortable and
ready to use, it had not had any blankets or pillows. And the
computer terminal/table in one comer had not had a chair to
match it

Instead of immediately trying to call Room Service for
some blankets, she had decided to wait for them to deliver her

THE ROOM KEY               31

luggage. And had fallen asleep waiting for a delivery not des-
tined to arrive.

She tried Spacer's Sign Language, usually used in emer-
gency situations where speaking was impossible. Clearly, the
three aliens hadn't a clue as to what she was doing waving
her hands and arms around. Blondie seemed quite taken with
what she was doing and started mimicking her until Calico
whispered something to him. Then he stopped and looked em-
barrassed.

Universal Sign Language, developed for communicating
with most races incapable of speech, garnered her just as little
understanding. Whoever these aliens were, they were remark-
ably ignorant of any method of communication to outsiders of
their group. Just how they had managed to get to Hotel An-
dromeda and in this room mystified her.

She leaned back against the door. Great, she thought, what
now? If this really was their room, then Security would-be
more than a little displeased with her. Instead of suing An-
dromeda, she might be looking at a difficult time herself. If
nothing else, the time she lost explaining what had happened
would cause her to miss her posted assignment.

She could not afford to have Hotel Security find her. She
had to get out, and get out now. Her stomach flip-flopped at
the prospect of going it alone, but to stay and wait for rescue
was worse.

She continued pacing and thinking. Like automatons, the
three aliens watched her. She stopped and looked down at
them. "Well," she asked rhetorically, "do any of you know
where we are and how I can get out?"

They looked at each other briefly, and shivered. "We are in
oar room," the middle one said.

"You speak English!"

"Yez," he said proudly. "We prakdessed long dime do
speek so good. Nod even Modher speeks id so guod."

"Why didn't you answer me when I asked you if you had
a key to the door? Or when I tried all those other languages."
She stood squarely before them, staring down Blondie.

"We no speek dhose dongues, yesd dees one." The other
two agreed.

She frowned. Why would they go to the trouble of learning
English and not Universal? "Why English?"

32 Terry Kepner

"Zo we cud bond propoorly," said Calico.

"Modher sad we had doo," added the blonde. "Zhe said it
waz ..." He stopped and consulted with his two friends. "Zhe
sad it waz good edikid."

They all grinned at her.

She swallowed, a little intimidated at the sight of all those
sharp, shiny teeth. "Oh." Obviously, she wasn't going to
make any sense of their explanations. They clearly did not un-
derstand her question, just as she didn't understand their an-
swer.

She shook her head. Maybe they could get her out of here
before Andromeda Security found her. "Do you have a key to
tfiat door?" She pointed at the door behind her.

He leaned sideways to look at the door. "No," he said
sadly. "Modher dhook oar key. Zhe sad we musd sday."

Her hopes crushed, she said, "Oh. Damn. I gotta get out of
here."

"Oou wand oud? Oou wand do teeve?" The three of them
exchanged glances.

"Yes! I have to go to my own room and gel some clothes,
and then I have to get to my ship. It's very important." She
gave them what she hoped was a winning smile.

"Oou wands to leaf?" asked Blondie. The edges of his
mouth curved down. "Oou does nod like usz? I dod oou liked
uz." The black-and-brown one looked similarly upset, and
started to shiver. "And oou dhook oar bregsdad opering, doo."

Pat saw her position slipping. For some reason it was im-
portant to them that she like them. Maybe it had to do with
that little ceremony earlier. If she lost their trust, they might
not help her. "Oh, no," she said quickly, "I do like you. You
are all very nice." She gave them another smile. "It's just that
I have to get to my ship. First, though, I must get to my
room."

"Oou like uz?"

"Oh, yes," she said, trying to make it sound convincing. "If
I did not have to get to my ship, I wouldn't mind staying here
all day. But, I have to get to my ship." While that was stretch-
ing the truth, it wasn't by much. They had her curiosity up.
Just how had they managed to get here, and why was the only
language they knew—besides their own, of course—English?
Were they part of'a group on the way to Earth? If so, they

THE ROOM KEY               33

were probably going to be on the TSL California. But if that
were so, why hadn't they recognized the ship's name when
she had mentioned it earlier?

"Ooooh," Blondie said happily, "Zhee wands do go do her
sheep. Zhee hass a sheep." He bounced up and down several
times. He began chattering excitedly in his own language, but
suddenly stopped. "Bud we kan nod leaf. Modher dold us do
sday," he said.

Calico turned and pushed Blondie lightly, making him
sway in place. "Dhad does nod madder," he said. "She dhook
oar bond." He grinned. "She likez uz, zo she wands do leeve
wid uz."

Btondie's eyes opened wide. "Ooooh. Oou is ride."

All three turned and stared at her like she was the most im-
portant person they had ever seen. Their expressions made Pat
uncomfortable. They reminded her, for some reason, of her
best friend on her wedding day and the way she had looked
at her husband after the ceremony. It had been the summer af-
ter graduation, just before Pat left for college.

Pat wasn't sure she was understanding properly. It sounded
like they thought they were going to go with her. She defi-
nitely did not want them following her back to her room, or
to the ship. On the other hand, would they still help her if
they knew she didn't want them following her?

But maybe she had better find out why "Modher" didn't
want them leaving. "Um, if you don't mind, and if it is not an
intrusion, why doesn't 'Modher' want you to leave?"

They looked at each other for a moment, then Blackie
cleared his throat. "Id was nod oour fauld. We were
eggsplorin and fond a brojen wader hole," Calico said.

"Ya." Blondie flashed her a quick grin.

A broken water hole?

Blackie sighed. "Dhe being dold us id wash zuppozed do
blow bubbles in wader, bud id no wordk. Zo we dhook id
apard."

Blondie interrupted. "Id was nod oor fauld dhe water
sprayed oud. We did nod know id had, um, how oou sad,
prezzure."

Oh, God. They had tried to fix a jammed whirlpool pump.
She could just see the three of them getting soaked as water

34 Terry Kepner

sprayed everywhere while they frantically tried to stop it She
smiled at the image.

"We had just done id when all dhese hodel being came,"
Blackie continued. "Id wordk, bud we had a few pards lefd
over."

"I dhink dhey were upsed dhad we mad id wordk bedder
dhan dhey could," Blondie put in, shaking his head.

They actually got it back together? In spite of the water
pressure? She was impressed. To repair something they knew
nothing about while wading through water was quite an ac-
complishment.

"Den we found a Der-ran in a, um, place full of eading
macines."

Eading machines? She frowned as she tried to figure out
what he meant. Oh- One of the many cafeterias scattered
throughout hotel complexes like Hotel Andromeda. And Der-
ran might be Terran. They had encountered another Terran in
the cafeteria. What could have happened there to upset
"Modher"?

"Dhe Der-ran complaned dhad dhe macine dhook his
mony, bud no gebe food." Blackie gave his friends a guilty
look. "We wanded do help, zo we dhook id apard." He gazed
down at the floor as his tail wrapped around his ankle. "We
pud id bak, but hodel beings were nod happy. Even dough id
worghed."

"Dhe Der-ran was happy," Calico burst out. "He sad ib we
wanded a job, he would tak uz on hiz sheep. Dhen he
dhanked uz. Bud he leafed before dhe hodel peeple found
uz."

"Modher was mad," Blondie said sadly. "She sad we no
more coud eggsplor. She sad we musd sday here undil oour
bond one god here."

They had disassembled a vending machine? Without tools?
She was amazed. And a bit envious. She had lost more money
than she cared to think about to obstinate soda and candy ma-
chines. With some good training they could become the envy
of the Maintenance Division. She certainly wouldn't mind
having them in charge of the equipment on any ship she was
piloting.

If they could do that to a vending machine, maybe they

THE ROOM KEY               35

could take apart the door controls and get her out of here. But
first, she had better make sure there wasn't another way out.

"How do you get food and drink?"

"A serband brings id." Calico gestured toward the table
with the plates and glasses. "Oou were asleep, zo we did nod
wake oou or dell dem oou were here. Id wood nod been
proper for oar bond one. Oou meed Modher lader."

These three aliens must be very important, or very rich, to
rate personal servants, especially traveling in space. And the
more important they were, the more trouble she was going to
be in when she was found in the room with them.

Pat glanced at her watch. Another fifteen minutes had
passed. She was running out of time. Plus, she did not know
when the servants would be bringing another meal. She had
better be out of here before then. She had a sinking feeling
that if the relatives of these three found her here, they would
be even more upset than Hotel Security.

She gave them another smile. "Do you think you could
open the door by taking the control panel apart?" Breaking
the locks on hotel complexes like Andromeda was supposed
to be impossible. Hotel Security did not want thieves or assas-
sins planting their own access codes into rooms. But if they
could take apart a supposedly impregnable vending machine,
maybe they could do something here, too.

Blackie leaned sideways and looked intently at the panel
beside the doorframe. Blondie said, "Ooooh, Modher would
nod like dhat."

Just as Calico opened his mouth to say something. Pat said
sweetly, "But I would like that."

Calico's jaws closed with an audible snap, and he looked at
Pat. Blondie clapped his hands. "Ooooh, yez, yez, yez."
Blackie immediately stood and walked over to the door,
brushing lightly against Pat as he passed her. The other two
closely followed him.

Feeling their soft fur brushing her skin as they crowded
close to her made her think of her dream last night- She
blushed. She almost shrieked when a very soft tail abruptly
slid up between her legs. She grabbed it in her hand. "Don't
do that, it tickles."

Blondie whipped his tail away from her, then leaned
against her arm.

36 Terry Kepner

Standing beside them, her five-foot-ten-inch build
topped them by several inches. The tallest, Blondie, barely
reached her nose; the shortest one, BIackie, was not quite
as high as her shoulder. They were much thinner than she
was, making her feel chunky by comparison. At a hundred
fifty pounds, she wasn't a professional model, but co-
workers at TSL had complimented her on her figure.

She stepped back from the door to give them more room.
Soon. all three were absorbed in removing the panel from the
door, their tails waving and weaving among them in intricate
patterns. Using their claws as screwdrivers, levers, and cutting
tools, they soon had the panel dangling from a gaping hole,
exposing wires and circuits.

How they knew what to do was beyond her, but from the
short bursts of arguments between probings she decided that
they were applying more guesswork than knowledge. After
one such disagreement, Blondie jabbed his claw angrily into
the wiring.

There was a faint pop, a distressed yelp from Blondie, and
the odor of something bumed. Blondie jumped back from the
small panel waving his hand. When he stopped. Pat could see
a scorched spot on one side of his middle-finger claw.

BIackie smugly said something, which Blondie replied to
with a growl. Calico eeped. inserted his claw carefully, and
twisted it. There was a faint mechanical click.

Leaving Biackie to stuff the panel back into place. Calico
grabbed the door handle and pushed it down. It moved
smoothly and a moment later the door stood open. BIackie
hissed at Calico, and together they finished securing the
panel.

Not wasting any time. Pat quickly dashed out into the hall,
with Blondie right behind her. "Oou bounse," he said, looking
at her breasts. Calico and BIackie stepped through a moment
later and quietly eased the door closed- Calico handed a belt
and pouch to Blondie, then buckled his own around his waist.

She blushed and forced herself to relax instead of trying to
cover herself with her hands. That would just draw attention
to what she was trying to hide. Anyone seeing her would re-
alize something was wrong. She could not afford that.

The hallway stretched empty in both directions. Walking
quickly, she headed for the elevator. "Thanks for helping me,

THE ROOM KEY               37

but you don't have to come along. I'm all right now." In truth,
she hoped they would stay put. She really did not want them
following her.

"Oou wand do leeve us?" asked BIackie unhappily.
Something in his tone stopped her dead in her tracks. She
turned back to them.

"Whad did we do wrung?" asked Calico, just as unhappy.
Blondie sniffled. "I dhoughd oou liked us."
All three tails drooped to the floor.
"And you smell zo nise," Calico said sadly.
At first, she worried she had made them mad, but a second
later she saw she was wrong. She watched, amazed, as liquid
gathered at the edges of Blondie's eyes, and a tear slowly
trickled out. The other two were clearly just as upset, and not
far from tears themselves.

"But what about your *Modher'?" Pat asked- "Shouldn't you
stay in your room? I don't want to get you in any more trouble."

"We full adulds, now," Calico explained. "We bond wid
oou. We no more hab do do as Modher say. We go wid oou.
We do whad you dell uz do do."

Another tear trickled down the side of Blondie's face, fol-
lowed by a sniffle.

"We bond oou. We go widh oou," BIackie whimpered.
Pat didn't know what to do. She didn't have the time to
talk them back into their room; one of their people might
come into the hall at any moment. If she just left them like
this, though, they might go back into the room and tell their
relatives. Or worse, they might tell security. And what was
this "bond" stuff?

"Don't cry," she said hurriedly. "You haven't done any-
thing wrong. I just have to get to my ship before it leaves
without me."

"Bud whad aboud us?" asked Calico. "We wand do go wid
oou." Blondie looked ready to collapse on the floor, weeping.
She hated to be on the spot like this, especially when time
was running out, in more ways than one. "Okay. Okay. You
win- Come on." She turned and started for the elevator.

Once in the elevator, she realized she had only one real
choice for a destination. She had to get her room key, and that
meant Registration.

38 Jerry Kepner

As the elevator started to move, she leaned against the wall
and hoped that no one would stop it and board. The lobby
was going to be bad enough.

The aliens casually moved closer to her. All traces of their
recent distress had disappeared. She had the feeling that she
had been manipulated, and by experts. She shook her head,
puzzled. They sometimes acted like children, and other times
like adults.

Something tickled her foot and she started to rub it with her
other foot. Instead, she found her foot rubbing across three
tails. All three aliens had wrapped the tips of their tails
around her ankle. It was bizarre, but rather cute. The silky-
smooth slide of their fur against her leg sent goose bumps up
her back.

She decided not to say anything. By the time the elevator
arrived at the lobby, she found herself massaging behind the
ears of Calico with one hand while Blackie held her other like
a shy teenager. Blondie was squatting on the floor in front of
her and leaning back against her legs, humming. They seemed
quite content with her company.

She normally didn't like people crowding her, and three hu-
mans doing this would have driven her to distraction. These
three, though, made her feel relaxed. And their fur was just so
soft and silky, it was all she could do to keep from petting all
of them.

Blondie stood as the doors opened, and led the way into the
lobby. Only a few steps into the large open atrium all three
stopped to gawk.

Pat could understand why. The place was huge. The atrium
was hundreds of feet high, disappearing overhead in the glare
of artificial sunlight. Balconies from a thousand or more
rooms opened onto the atrium, and over a thousand beings
were visible all around.

Opposite the elevators, but almost two hundred feet away,
was Room Registration. To either side were wide corridors
leading to other parts of the Hotel Andromeda complex, lined
with shops, eateries, and entertainments for the myriad races
that passed through the complex on a daily basis.

She felt dreadfully exposed standing naked in the lobby,
but it was large and bustling with activity. She headed for the

THE ROOM KEY               39

registration desk. Fortunately, all she attracted were a few
raised eyebrows and whistles from two men. Never had she
blessed the existence of the Terran nudist colonies, but she
did now.

Her three aliens were right behind her. She checked on
them once and saw Calico hauling on the arm of Blondie to
keep him from walking into a fountain. Blondie was more in-
tent on staring around the atrium than in watching where he
was going. She shook her head, wondering if dumb blonde
jokes were popular in the aliens' culture.

Standing in the line at Registration was nerve wracking, but
finally a clerk was free to assist her.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said. "1 accidentally left my
key in the room when I went to the swimming pool."

The man behind the counter didn't bat an eye at her lack of
clothing. "Your name, please?"

"Pat McCreney."

"Would you like a wrist or waist strap for your key?" the
man asked while they waited for voice verification and the ar-
rival of a new key.

"Why, yes. Please. A wrist strap would be best, I think."

Before she was finished speaking, the key popped out of
the side of the terminal. A second later he was holding the
strap up as she slid her hand through the opening.

"There you are, honored guest. I'm sony for the inconven-
ience. Your check-in clerk should have offered you one"—he
glanced down at his terminal—"last night."

"Oh, that's quite all right." Her voice was steady in spite of
the shakiness she felt inside.

"I hope your stay is pleasant and memorable."

"Oh, it has been memorable," she muttered softly, but
he was already turning to the next customer. She hurried
away.

This time the elevator trip was much shorter.

She stood for a moment with her back against the door.
While the hall outside was not nearly as luxurious as the
other, this room had real furniture. More important, her bag
was sitting prominently on the floor beside the bed.

Blackie and Calico were looking in the bathroom while

40 Terry Kepner

Blondie was opening and closing the drawers of the desk be-
side the computer terminal.

She looked at her watch. Oh, God. She had only ten min-
utes to make it to the TSL Star Cruiser Africa. She hastily
jerked open the cleaning bin and saw her clothes from the
previous night neatly folded at the bottom. She sighed in re-
lief that something, at least, was going in her favor. Her three
aliens watched, amazed, as she quickly dressed.

When she started to brush her unruly hair into some sem-
blance of order, Blondie said something to his friends and
they quickly surrounded her. "No. Dhad we do," Calico said,
taking the brush from her and pulling her over to the bed, ig-
noring her protests. After getting her to sit, they started run-
ning their claws through her hair. After a moment, she
realized they were grooming her hair for her.

She sat impatiently for a minute before stopping them.
"Look, that's very nice, but I'm in a hurry." She stood and
checked her hair in the bathroom mirror. Actually, they had
done a nice job on her hair, their claws making short work of
the snarls. It had been good of them to do it for her.

When she opened the door, they immediately followed her
into the hall. "Look," she said, "I have to catch my ship be-
fore it leaves. You had better go back to your room before
you get in trouble."

"Bud oou sad we cud go wid oou," protested Blondie.

"Yez," added Calico, "oou sad we cud go wid oou, 1
heared oou." Blackie started sniffling again.

Pat promised herself that this time she would not let them
manipulate her into letting them get their way. "I'm sorry,"
she said. "But you can't go with me. My supervisor simply
will not allow you to board the ship."

Tears were already starting to flow from all three aliens.
This time, though, Blondie continued the protesting. "Bud
oou bond wid uz. Oou sad oou liked uz," he wailed loudly.

Calico chimed in, "Oou sad we cud go wid oou," repeating
what he had said earlier, but much louder.

This time the corridor was not empty. Pat looked up to see
a security officer patrolling the hall. He was looking at the
three aliens and Pat, and frowning. If he started asking ques-
tions, she might not get away from him in time to make it to
her ship.

THE ROOM KEY               41

"I don't have time to argue with you," she said, "I have to
get to my ship." She spun on her heel and headed for the el-
evator. She could hear the three of them padding along behind
her.

The elevator ride was quiet. Again, she tried to talk them
out of following her. They didn't respond verbally. Calico and
Blondie each held one of her hands, gently stroking them.
Blackie began combing her hair. None of them looked happy.
They seemed determined to come with her.

She decided that the best course of action would be to go
to TSL Star Cruiser Africa's berth and let ship security detain
the aliens at the terminal while she boarded. It wasn't a nice
solution, but the best she could come up with, given her time
constraints.

The elevator doors opened on the proper level for passen-
ger boarding at this terminal. Glancing at her watch, she saw
she had only a few minutes. She started down the terminal
corridor at a sprint. The terminal gale she needed was at the
far end, of course. The three aliens trotted along behind her.

Something was not right, but she could not put her finger
on it until she arrived at the designated gate. The boarding
area was dark. Confused, she at first thought she was at the
wrong gate. Examining the electronic departure board at the
boarding gate showed that she was, indeed, at the correct lo-
cation. Still unsure, she looked up at the clock on the wall
above the boarding tube.

Astounded, she saw that it indicated the time as fifteen
hundred and a quarter hours. She looked down at her watch,
and stared as it changed from 13:59:59 to 13:00:00. For a mo-
ment she was too stunned to move. Then she focused on
Blondie. "You! You took apart my watch." She held her wrist
out to him. "You made me miss my ship," she shouted. "You
made me lose my job! Five years of hard work shot to hell."

He glanced nervously at his friends, and licked his tips.
"We hab neber seen a dhing lik dhad. Oar clodks arr in oar
pouches. We meaned no harm."

"Do oou hade uz?" asked Calico hesitantly.

This time there were no tears. This time they could see she
was mad at them. This time they were afraid of her. They
didn't even try to touch their tails to her. They were very wor-
ried-

42 ferry Kepner

For a moment, she was absolutely furious with them. Then
she realized that it really wasn't their fault. Even without their
meddling with her watch, she never would have made it to
their ship on time. The TSL Star Cruiser Africa had com-
pleted passenger boarding and sealed its hatches before she
had even looked at her watch. "No," she said, her anger de-
flated and drained away. "No, I don't hate you." She sighed
and started walking back up the corridor to Hotel Andromeda.

Her three aliens were still with her. What the heck, they
were adults. They could do what they wanted, even follow
her around all day. And ever since she had yelled at them they
had been quiet and mindful, never straying farther than a few
feet. Even Blondie was behaving.

She had not intended to stay on the station for more than
a night, so she had not bothered to draw any of her pay. TSL
tracked her earnings and anything she purchased was auto-
matically charged against them. Incidental items were the
only expenses that required real currency.

That left her almost flat dead broke. Fortunately, she had
some change left in her travel kit from previous off-ship
sightseeing. Unfortunately, it would only last her a day,
maybe two. She had to find a job, and find it fast.

One of the many public computer terminals gave her the
location of the Space Personnel General Posting Office. Once
she was registered, any captain looking for a pilot would see
her name. And she could look for any ships wanting someone
with her skills.

They were almost at the office when Blondie suddenly
eeped excitedly and trotted a dozen yards ahead. Calico and
Blackie followed quickly, leaving her behind. Surprised that
they had left her, she watched as they accosted a Terran.

The man was large, almost six feet tall, with black curly
hair and almost as dark skin. He walked with the easy confi-
dence of a man who was his own master. He stopped when
Blondie reached him. A moment later she heard him laugh as
he greeted the alien. They apparently knew each other. He did
not appear surprised to see Calico and Blackie with Blondie.

She couldn't hear what Blondie was saying. As she came
closer, Pat could see the captain's bars on his shirt collar. She

THE ROOM KEY               43

self-consciously fingered the pilot's insignia on the collar of
her TSL jacket.

"Hi," the man said, sticking his hand out as he matched her
steps, "My name is Charles Coal. of the ship Australian Gold,
a million-tenner."

"Hi, I'm Pat McCreney." As small freighters went, a mil-
lion tons was a respectable size. The TSL California, by com-
parison, was rated at a million and a half.

As they shook hands, Charles took in her TSL uniform
and the way the three furry aliens crowded in close beside
her as they walked down the corridor. She was acutely
aware of their tails and the way they kept touching her legs.
They didn't impede her, just kept a soft pressure that told
her they were there.

"Your mates did me a good turn the other day. I've never
seen a group work so well together, or so quickly. And they
told me they had never seen a drinks machine before." He
shook his head wonderingly as they walked on down the cor-
ridor.

"I can't believe my luck." He smiled ruefully. "My
bleedin' mechanic's assistant's contract expired when we ar-
rived here, and I've had the devil's own time finding a re-
placement. Usually, I can get someone in a couple of hours,
but I've been waiting for two days now." He frowned unhap-
pily. "And now I'm a full day behind schedule."

She saw his gaze flit to her insignia, and a speculative look
came into his eyes.

"Say, maybe you could help me. Do you know any me-
chanic's assistants looking for work?"

Before she could respond. Calico spoke up, "Uz. We look
por work. We wordk bery hard. We good wid macines."

Pat was startled. Apparently, they were not as intent on
staying with her as she had thought.

The captain gave Calico a surprised look, then shrugged.
"Do you have work logs?"

Calico looked puzzled. "Whad?"

"ID tags, ID papers, work reports, something that shows
your previous work experience?"

They walked through the entrance of the posting office. It
was more a hall than a simple room, with hundreds of termi-

44 Jerry Kepner

nals lining the walls, with benches, tables, and chairs scat-
tered throughout.

Calico pulled a small card out of his pouch. A passport. He
handed it to the captain. Biondie and Blackie quickly added
their passports to Calico's.

Captain Coal frowned. He glanced at the insignia on the
front of the passports. It meant as little to him as it did to Pat.

He moved over to one of the terminals and slid the first
passport into the ID slot. A moment later, he and Pat were
reading the brief description.

The aliens were called Kreene, from a star system almost
as far from Hotel Andromeda as Earth was. Calico's real
name, it turned out, translated to "Quick Eyes." Blondie's
passport gave his name as "Light Ears," and Blackie was
"Fast Runs." No mention was made of job skills, experience.
or even interests.

Also, as she had thought, they were adult males, although
the passport included the phrase "unbonded and traveling se-
cure with family." She wondered what that meant.

Captain Coal sighed and silently looked at the three aliens
for a moment. He nodded his head once, as if he had come to
a decision. "Okay. I'm only looking for one mechanic, but
from what I've seen, the three of you, unskilled as you are,
should be the equivalent of one good mechanic."

All three were excited. Biondie, no. Light Ears, was bounc-
ing up and down like a little kid who was just told he was go-
ing to a toy shop. Fast Runs and Quick Eyes hugged each
other happily. You would have thought the three had just won
a lottery.

The captain looked amused. "Welt," he said, turning back
to Pat, "looks like my problem is solved. Maybe we'll meet
again someday." He shook Pat's hand.

The three Kreene were suddenly still- "Oh, no," Calico in-
terrupted. "Zhe oar bond. We go dogedher or we no go."

Pat was as surprised as the captain. They expected her to
go with them?

Coal stopped and frowned. "But she's with TSL," he pro-
tested.

"Zhe no wid dhem. Her zheep lefd and zhe nod on id."

Pat could feel her face turning hot and red with embarrass-

THE ROOM KEY               45

ment. "I last served on the TSL California," she said before
he could ask the obvious questions.

"Ah, I heard about them coming in last night with most of
the crew ill."

Startled that he had heard of their troubles, she could only
say, "Yea. The rest of us had to pull double and triple shifts."
Pat looked down at the floor, chagrined. She might as well
tell him everything. "That's why I'm here today. I was sup-
posed to transfer to the Star Cruiser Africa today, but I over-
slept." She sighed again. "I never got a wake-up call, and
when I did get up ... well, it was too late. My contract was
terminated when 1 didn't board."

"Standard contract?"

"Worse. I lost all accrued pay and bonuses by missing the
ship."

"Log?" he asked holding out his hand.

Pat pulled out her ID card, standard issue for all licensed
spaceship personnel in this quadrant, and handed it to him. He
stepped up to the terminal and inserted her ID in the slot in
the side. Instandy, her job experience log appeared on the dis-
play, updated by the captain before she had debarked last
night.

'Twenty-six. Served on three ships. You've been certified
for only four years. You had a five-year contract, with only
six months to go." He shook his head in sympathy. "You
don't have much experience."

"But all my supervisors gave me glowing reviews and high
marks."

He frowned again and gave her back her ID tag. "I don't
really need another copilot."

Why the Kreene were insisting tfiat she go with them. Pat
didn't know. But if it got her a job this fast, she would go
along. Once she had some money, she could make other
plans.

"Really? Most ships I heard about always could do with an
extra pilot. Plus, you did say you've been waiting for two
days. Do you want to take a chance on waiting longer?" She
hated job hunting, she found it hard trying to convince people
into hiring her. That was one reason why she had hired on
with TSL, so she wouldn't have to go hunting after every

46 Terry Kepner

contract. TSL tended to keep people who worked hard and
did a good job. She did both.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. "Thirty-five
thousand for all of you, and one crew's share."

Pat was amazed. As an offer, that was robbery. Even as a
starting TSL copilot, she had earned more than that. "No
way," she said firmly. "We each get twenty thousand and a
crew's share. On a one-year contract." She did not want to
chance a longer contract until she knew the captain and the
ship better.

"I don't need another copilot," he said quietly. "And these
three are unskilled. Forty thousand. And a one-year contract
with a one-trip probationary period."

That was a good idea. If the situation did not work, then he
wouldn't be stuck with an expensive foursome for a year, and
they wouldn't be stuck on a ship they hated.

They settled on ten thousand for her and twelve thousand
each for the Kreene, with two crew's shares for the four of
mem. Even a short trip would give her a better basis for job
hunting.

And a year would give her time to think about what to say
to "Modher."

TELLING HUMAN STORIES

Margaret Ball

The raised voices bounced all the way down the hall and
around the comer to where I stood. There seemed to be
three of them wrangling; and the voice in the middle, the
loudest of the three, had a pronounced Old Terran accent-
Might have known. You want conflict in an interspecies re-
lationship, just put a human in the middle of it. We'll do it ev-
ery time.

Yeah, I know. Who am I to run down my own species, and
all that. Well, for one thing, I'm a professional, trained to deal
with situations just like the one I could hear developing as I
zipped down the corridor. That one fact puts me ahead of
most of the human tourists and diplomats and travelers that
pass through Hotel Andromeda. And I'm not from Old
Terra—which puts me way ahead of anybody who had just
checked into the Terra 4 module with the OT delegation.

The argument was going on in the public corridor just out-
side the Terra 4 mod. A Dendje was growling and brandishing

47

48 Margaret Ball

something at a red-faced Terran in a loud checked synthosuit.
Bouncing off the walls to either side of them, a Skiouros chit-
tered and squeaked and added its own discontinuous element
to the controversy.

As I got closer, I could see what the Dendje was waving;

one of the Skiouros's furry little legs, ripped clean out of its
furry hide.

"Okay, okay, all of you, calm down, please, gentlespecies.
What seems to be the trouble here?"

"What's it to you?" the Terran wanted to know.

"Any disturbance is automatically reported to Hotel Secu-
rity," I said, which was true enough, although Security didn't
always respond this fast. "Now, if you'd just explain the
problem in your own words ..."

"That big ape just assaulted the little guy!" the Terran an-
nounced. "Right out here in front of God and everybody! And
when I told him to lay off, the both of them started in on me.
Sheesh. They're both crazy, you ask me."

"Chitter. Chitter. Squeak," the Skiouros interrupted.
Skiouroi aren't equipped to speak Standard Galactic and they
refuse to carry voicemods, insisting that the squeaky little
noises they make sound just fine to them.

"... smashing your head down in between your external
genitalia and cutting off assorted body parts ...," the Dendje
continued the line of conversation that had been occupying it
when I came on the scene. I sympathized some with the
Dendje. I'm told their native language is particularly rich and
fluent in assorted insults that just don't translate into Standard
Galactic. It takes a little mental agility to figure out a totally
culture-free phrasing for insulting someone. Dendje like to in-
sult other gentlespecies, but they aren't agile in any way.
Must be frustrating.

Then again, when you outmass any other species in the
Terranormal modular zone by at least fifty kilos, and stand a
meter higher than most of them, with arms longer than most
Terranorms' bodies, you don't really need a lot of agility.

"I see," I said in my best professionally soothing tones.
"Just a small misunderstanding, eh? Shall we sit down?" I
nodded toward the Old Terran suite, hoping he'd take the
hint. "I'll need a vox of your version, gentlesir Terran ..."

TELUNG HUMAN STORIES             49

"And who's going to protect the little guy if this ape wants
to finish the job?"

I didn't sigh or roll my eyes. I am, after all, a professional.

"I expect they both want to finish their business, sir." I
glared at the skittering Skiouros. "Might I recommend some
more private area than this corridor?"

".. - right to pursue peaceful social interaction unimpeded
by prejudice of horribly underground-pale, exceptionally
low-IQ interfering species ...," the Dendje grumbled.

"... duty to abstain from deliberate provocation ...," I re-
plied in the same low-pitched monotone. "An Old Terran del-
egation just checked in; there'll be more like this gentleman
coming along, and all subject to the same, ah, tendency to
misunderstand. Now, if you two gentlespecies want to finish
your ritual in private. Hotel Security will appreciate it was alt
just a misunderstanding. Remaining in public space could be
construed as conduct tending to alarm or frighten fellow spe-
cies."

The Dendje grunted and shambled off, gnawing medita-
tively on the shredded Skiouros limb. The Skiouros bounced
up to its shoulder, cartwheeled off a side wall with seven or
eight furry limbs sticking straight out, caught itself on the
Dendje's mat of backbone hair, and squealed something rude
at us in departing.

"I don't believe it," the Old Terran said. "You gonna let
him tear the little guy up and eat him, long as they do it in
private?"

This time I did sigh. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood a
grooming ritual, sir. Dendje and Skiouroi have a symbiotic re-
lationship. Skiouroi continually extrude new limbs but have
no mechanism for shedding the old ones; takes more muscu-
lar strength than they possess to pop the dead limbs out of the
cartilage. Dendje groom them, pull off dead legs, and get to
eat them as a reward." I paused while the Old Terran assim-
ilated this information.

"Christ on a crutch," he said finally, "that's disgusting."

"Watching a Dendje eat anything is kind of disgusting, by
human standards," I agreed. "And if I were telling human sto-
ries about them—which I advise you not to do—I'd accuse
them of deliberately eating in public, every chance they get,
just to gross out other species and provoke little scenes like

50 Margaret Ball

the one you were just in. But the first thing we learned in our
training is not to tell human stories. And now, sir, if I could
just get a vox of your story—"

"I, urn, I don't think that'll be necessary," the Old Terran
said. "If that's the way it is, I don't want to file a complaint.
Guess I owe you my thanks, young lady, for explaining
things. Jack Kerensky's the name.' Buy you a drink?"

"Not on duty," I said, "but I'll take some kave, if you have
any."

He beamed and turned a few shades redder. "Ever know an
Old Terran to travel without kave?"

I'd hoped to be invited into the delegation suite, but instead
we wound up in one of the attached modules that was being
set up around us for a party. An extensive party, to judge from
the number of roboservitors bustling about, unfolding seating
and bar modules and stacking supplies behind the movable
paneling. I sipped my kave and let Jack pick my brain about
human stories and interspecies relationships.

"You see a lot of interspecies problems at an intergalactic
center like this," I admitted, "but we humans are far and away
the worst. I think it's because we evolved in isolation. We got
in the habit of telling stories about our own feelings and ac-
tions. Protecting the Young, Claiming Territory, Who's In
Charge Here ..." No use rattling off the names of the classic
myths; they clearly didn't mean anything to this guy. I slowed
down. "Anyway. Our stories work pretty well as long as
they're only applied within one species. We even told the
same stories to explain our domestic animals, cats and dol-
phins and so forth, and because they couldn't talk, they never
told us how wrong we were."

"Dolphins aren't exactly domestic animals," Jack corrected
me, "but I don't get the point."

"Well." I stirred the kave and watched it turn from muddy
brown to brownish white and back again in lazy spirals.
'Take Protecting the Young. That's one of the most basic hu-
man stories." It was also one that would lead very naturally
to the point I wanted to bring up.

"Because we bear weak young that need years of nurturing
and training before they can survive on their own, we have a
very strong social drive to protect our young—anybody's
young—anything that appears weak. When you thought the

TELLING HUMAN STORIES              51

Dendje was assaulting the Skiouros you intervened without
thinking, because you were in the human story of Protecting
the Young. But that story doesn't really have much bearing on
species that have evolved symbiotic relationships. And it can
lead you completely astray in dealing with a species like the
Hatartalan, who spawn thousands of self-sufficient young at a
time and then actively test them so that only the best will
make it to the next life-cycle stage. You see?"

"Funny you should mention the Hatartalan," Jack said. He
waved one hand at the activity all around us. "Know who's in
the adjoining module? The Hatartalan ambassador to Sokol
Sector. That's what all this hoo-ha is for. Going to connect the
modules tonight, have a grand diplomatic bash. Two ambassa-
dors of equal status—our fellow and the Hatartalan—crossing
paths in space, pausing to render honors and courtesies and
all that. Interesting, huh?"

I agreed. I didn't add that a number of parties found the re-
peated pattern of "accidental" meetings between Old Terrans
and Hatartalans very interesting indeed. Instead I widened my
eyes and looked impressed.

"A genuine Hatartalan?" I breathed. "You know, I've never
actually met one. It would be so fascinating to find out how
their behavior compares with what I've read in research
papers—ah, I mean in the hotel training manual."

That was the point at which my dear new friend Jack was
supposed to come across with an invitation to join the grand
diplomatic bash. Unfortunately, he missed his cue and kept on
missing it, no matter how wide-eyed and wistful I acted.
There must have been something faulty with his Protecting
the Young story. I eventually left with a little information
about the party, a lot more information than I'd bargained for
about the life and times of Jack Kerensky, and no invitation.

Oh, well; if you can't get what you want, you just have to
use what you've got....

By the time I came back to the Terra 4 module, the joint
Terran-Hatartalan party had been going for some time—long
enough for guests on both sides to make maximum use of
their icebreakers of choice. The air was heavy with leaking
smoke and vapor trails from the Terran poppers, while the
Hatartalans were whooping it up with what the library index

52 Margaret Bail

told me was their usual stimulant—translucent, wobbly eggs
that burst to reveal some stuff like seaweed that had been
dead a couple of days too long. The organic component of the
seaweed turned into a cloud of small airborne particles the
minute the egg burst, leaving a few dried wiry strands that
the Hatartalans usually dropped while they were ecstatically
inhaling the rotted-weed clouds.

The index hadn't mentioned that the process gave a
Hatartalan party the distinctive aroma of a marsh in an ad-
vanced state of ecological breakdown, or that the wiry seaweed
remnants crunched underfoot while the jellyeggs squished.

Did I mention that Hatartalans are real slobs? Woops, hu-
man story. Let's say that their species, having evolved to treat
its spawn as disposable commodities—"Throw 'em out,
there's plenty more where they came from!"—treats every-
thing else exactly the same way. Hatartala is said to be the
only planet whose ecology is trashed worse than Old Terra's.2

No, I hadn't gotten access to the party yet. I was standing
on a walkway under the balcony when a roboserv lurched out
with a scoop full of seaweed and jellyeggs, missed the dis-
posal chute, and showered me with the debris. That's how I
happened to be an expert on Hatartalan trash before I got to
meet any of them in person.

I was still picking seaweed crackle out of my black dress
and reflecting that at least now I smelled like somebody from
the right party when a pair of human bopperchicks spilled out
of the lower entrance. They were both glassy-eyed, giggling,
and scantily dressed, and they barely noticed when they
nearly pushed me off the edge of me walkway. They probably
wouldn't have noticed at all if I hadn't just had the unfortu-
nate encounter with the malfunctioning roboservitor.

"Eeew, you smell gross!" one of them exclaimed, wrinkling
her nose. "What've you been doing, seducing a buzzhead?"

Did I mention that the mature form of Hatartalan is vaguely
insectoid, with long sticklike limbs and a head that's all buzz-
ing, constandy vibrating mandibles?

"Some of my best friends are buzzheads," I told her.
"Where are we going?"

She giggled. "Saying good-bye to Bips and Puffy, of
course!" Her eyes glazed over and she took a moment to un-

TELLING HUMAN STORIES              53

tangle her tongue. This one was really far gone. "Or do I
mean Pips and Buffy? Good oF Buffm, bes' Men' a girl ever
had, and I do mean best. You shoutd've met Puffin, he'd
show you a good time. Lots more fun than hanging around
with the buzzheads."

"Breaks my heart to've missed the opportunity," I agreed.
"But Jack gets so jealous. You know, good old Jack
Kerensky?"

I'd hoped for recognition, but all I got was generic agree-
ment. "Oh, darling, I know'. Aren't men the limit sometimes?
Oh, look, there they are now!"

I crowded into the overlook at the far side of the walkway
and squealed and waved as enthusiastically as the rest of them
while two very young Galactic Service officers hopped on an
interior transport and zipped out of sight. While the girls were
competing to see who could call out the most artistically ob-
scene farewells, I slid out of my jacket and yanked at the col-
lar of my dress until a seam parted and I could slide it down
over both shoulders. Now I looked almost as trashy as the
girls who'd dressed for this kind of party. I stayed in the mid-
dle of the group and let them swirl me right up to the module
doors.

Where two large Terrans in diplomatic uniform were
checking IDs and party invitations.

"Oh, sweetheart, you just saw us come out!" protested one
of my new friends.

While the girls in front of me were fishing around their
skimpy dresses for IDs, I let out a piercing shriek and clapped
both hands to my cheeks. "My bag! I left it inside. Oh, now,
1*11 simply die if Jack looks in it—there's my diary and every-
thing. Boopsie, do you see it? Oh, there it is, just behind the
bar!"

Both girls in front of me looked confused. Chances were
neither of them was named Boopsie, but they knew somebody
who was. One of them squealed and nodded as if she could
actually make out a handbag amid the shadows behind the
bar. I scooted inside, closely followed by the Poopsies and
Muffles, and the guards looked at one another and snickered
behind us.

Once inside, I didn't have much trouble shaking Buffy or
Moopsie or whatever their names were. They spotted another

54 Margaret Ball

brace of Galactic Service officers to home in on. I drifted
around the fringes of the party, making vague noises about
looking for a lost handbag, and always keeping a few people
between me and the gatekeepers' line of sight just in case
they grew suspicious about the girl with the missing handbag.
This wasn't hard to do; the room was packed elbow to man-
dible with partying Terrans and Hatartatans. It was a perfect
milieu for exchanging secret information.

It was a lousy milieu for catching anybody at it.

But then, my unsupported eyewitness testimony wasn't what
we wanted. We needed documentary proof of what I'd been
sent to investigate. A pattern of "accidental" overlapping lay-
overs for Hatartalans and Old Terrans didn't, by itself, mean
anything. A corresponding pattern of information leaked just be-
fore scheduled diplomatic talks, maintaining the high tensions of
all parties, was suggestive but didn't constitute absolute proof.
Even the digging that had turned up the same two parties in-
volved in all layover meetings—the Hataitalan ambassador and
my new buddy Jack—didn't, in the eyes of the galactic court,
constitute grounds for a search warrant

Which was where I came in, poised insecurely between
Terran skinpoppers and Hatartalan jellyegg sniffers, laughing
and throwing my head back and shrugging one shoulder a lit-
tle farther out of my dress and trying to figure out where the
hell I would hide my notes if I were an Old Terran passing in-
side information to a Hatartalan.

Not on any network or comlink, that's for sure. There isn't
an electronote system made that can't be compromised. In my
real training manual—which did not, by the way, have any-
thing to do with Ae one they give to hotel security—they em-
phasized that old-fashioned mnemonics are the best kind.
Forget datahedra, bit chippers, tone volts. Anything that has
to be set up through some kind of complex machine can be
spied on the same way. If Jack and the Hatartalans had been
passing data via computers, our hackers would've found it
from remote and I wouldn't be hanging my body on the line
here.

Species tended to keep notes in the formats they'd evolved
to use. So Skiouroi said it with nuts and berries, Terrans scrib-
bled on synthpaper, and Hatartalans—Hatartalans probably
encoded it as a giant pseudowax honeycomb.

TELLING HUMAN STORIES              55

If I were an Old Terran passing data to a Hatartalan, I'd
have already passed it, hours ago, and there'd be nothing on
me or in my quarters to prove the connection. So if 1 slipped
into the Old Terran personal quarters, it would be easy to
make up an excuse for being there, and I'd be able to read
whatever I found, except there wouldn't be anything to find.
Whereas if I searched the Hatartalan ambassador's private
suite, I probably wouldn't recognize any compromising data,
and I'd have one hell of a time explaining my presence.

So which way did I want to lose?

In the end, chance decided it for me. I circulated around the
edges of the party until I saw a shadowy opening between
two wall panels. The way to a private suite? To the Old
Terran suite, if I was lucky. I slithered between the panels.
trying to look like a glazed-over Boopsie looking for the fa-
cilities.

Three steps down the temp passageway, and I smelled rot-
ten seaweed. Damn, wrong suite. I started to edge back when
I heard an unmistakable voice rising above the high-pitched
party chatter. "Girlfriend? What girlfriend? What diary?"

Old Terran twang, loud voice, crashing in with questions
that didn't really need to be asked. Good old Jack.

It didn't, somehow, seem like a good time to reenter the
party and keep circulating. I kept on the way I was going.
Even if I didn't find anything in the Hatartalan quarters, at
least Jack wouldn't find me there.

But I did. Find something, that is. Although it look me a
moment to recognize the significance of it.

The Hatartalan module was lit in their preferred range of
frequencies. To human eyes, everything looked dark red and
hexagonal, comb upon honeycomb of storage and sleep and
sitting modules all alike, all subdivided into hundreds of thou-
sands of twinkling sub-compartments, all slightly sticky with
the trail of personal markers the Hatartalan spray wherever
they claim territory.

I'd edged right behind the Hatartalan ambassador at the
party and had gotten a strong whiff of his personal spray—a
bit on the gamy side, with overtones of musk and the usual
rotten seaweed. No member of his entourage had a spray any-
where near so marked; they wouldn't dare. I followed the

56 Margaret Ball

seaweed-musk smelt to a clutch of honeycomb formations
that stank so strongly of the ambassador, I couldn't even pick
out any competing scents. All the way my feet cmnched and
squished on the debris of what must have been a pre-party
party. There were strands of the dried-seaweed stuff hanging
from the honeycombs, partially squished jellyeggs drooping
over edges like surrealist watches, bright scraps of ribbon and
tinsel and paper for nest building stowed in the pigeonholes
of one honeycomb and cascading down the side.

And there it was. Old Terran writing. Old Terran gaudy
red-bordered paper; the ambassador might have assimilated
the data into some waxen secretion, but he'd been too much
of a slob or a magpie, choose one, to throw away the original.

This would do it beautifully, a packet of notes in Jack's
handwriting and stinking of the ambassador's personal spray.
1 clutched the treasure to my bosom while debating how to
sneak it out of the party. The clingy little black dress hadn't
offered many possibilities for concealment even before I
turned it into an off-the-shoulder number, and the jacket with
its inside zippered pockets was somewhere outside amid the
synthetic shrubbery.

A noise that was at once both question and annoying buzz
interrupted my silent debate about the ethics of the only
smuggling system I had been able to think of. I turned slowly,
because whatever made that noise sounded like something I
didn't want to annoy. It hovered at the level of my midriff,
gleaming, multifaceted, beautiful and deadly.

A bee-eye. Excuse me, I mean B.I., Bacatus inaccessus, as
our xenobiologists tagged it before realizing it was actually
the very rare and very elder last form in the Hatartalan life
cycle. Inaccessus not because it was rare, but because the first
two xenos to see one hadn't lived to do follow-up studies.
Bee-eyes take offense very, very easily.

How many Hatartalans made it from the standard adult
stage—the one the ambassador was in—to achieve B.I. sta-
tus? Not more than one in a million, if the odds were any-
thing like those against immature spawn making it to adult
stage. And who cared? The real question was, what were the
odds on me making it back the way I came, with or without
the stinking notes? Not good enough to make me want to try

TELLING HUMAN STORIES             57

calculating them. Still, there didn't seem to be any other rea-
sonable move. Why didn't someone tell me the Hatartalans
had a B.I. in the entourage? They're rare enough it should be
hot news—unless they were keeping it secret for some
reason—

Like entrapping little spies.

That was dumb, it would be like using a cannonball to
shoot a mosquito.

I thought all this between one dry-mouthed gulp and the
next, already shuffling sideways as if I thought the bee-eye
would just let me go back the way I came. At the same time
the bee-eye was responding to my body language and alerting
itself. It spouted a column of shimmering scales that started in
midair, about where it had floated originally, and lifted its fac-
eted head (body? eye?) to my eye level.

"So sorry, looking for the ladies', must've lost my way," I
jabbered, sidling toward the dark passageway some uncounted
number of sticky steps behind me, "just go back to the party
now, sorry to disturb you, senior gentlespecies ..."

The bee-eye hummed once on a sharper note and zipped
around me, blocking my retreat. Oh, well, I hadn't really
thought it would be that easy. How long did it take for bee-
eye venom to woik on a small-sized human body? My grad-
uate studies hadn't progressed far enough to go into such
details before the scholarship fund ran out and I had to find
a real job. At the time I'd thought myself lucky to get re-
cruited by GIS. Who but the intelligence services would want
an academic dropout with a minor in heuristic mathematics, a
major in xenocultural studies, and a speaking knowledge of
five alien languages in addition to Standard Galactic?

Just now I wasn't feeling so lucky. Nothing in my
training—academic or intelligence—had covered how to deal
with a life-form so rare and senior that none of my instructors
had ever even seen one.

Stories, stories, dummy, I told myself. In times of stress we
revert to old patterns. I wasn't really a spy. For that matter, I
wasn't really a xenology student. Somewhere, way back
there, I was still a skinny kid sitting in the central hall of
Complex B449, telling stories to keep my little brothers
happy whenever they shut off our vid service for nonpayment
again.

58 Margaret Ball

You have to tailor your stories to the audience. My little
brothers liked lots of violence and somebody killed every few
minutes.... Woops, wrong line of thought. What did bee-
eyes like? Nobody knew. Okay, what would ordinary
Hatartalans expect and half believe before you started telling
it? What were Hatartalan stories?

I wiped my one free hand on the skirt of the black dress
and started in on the first idea that flashed on me; no second
chances, this one had better work.3

Which it did.

The bee-eye personally escorted me down the access corri-
dor and out through the party suite. With that level of support,
I didn't really need to smuggle the papers out—I could have
walked out clutching them in my hot little hand—but I
thought it would be cooler if Jack didn't know exactly what
I'd been there for until I'd had a chance to make delivery. As
we reached the anonymous pile of coats and handbags and
bodypockets I'd stumbled over coming in, I bent my knees
and scooped up somebody's little black bag. It was just big
enough to hold the notes, and I barely got them stuffed inside
before the bee-eye's insistent buzzing warned me that I'd bet-
ter keep moving.

People backed off to let us through. Jack was there, even
redder in the face than last time; he recognized me and started
to say something, but nobody—nobody'.—interferes with a
bee-eye, as the Hatartalans there made quite clear to him.

The bee-eye buzzed behind me until we reached a nice.
well-lit multimodule intersection with an Andromedan
gravity-well fountain sparkling through three stories of open
space. Then it shrank down to its original podlike shape and
zipped back to the Hatartalan module, while I went around a
few levels and took a passenger pod through the Rigel-nonn
module and did alt the usual things to shake any possible
tails. With incredible self-restraint, 1 didn't even open the lit-
tle black bag and take a second look at my find until I got
back here to vox the report.

Now that's done, I'm going to have a nice long look at the
rest of the stuff in the bag before returning it to Buffie. You
wouldn't believe what that girl puts down in her diary!

TELUNG HUMAN STORIES             59

"You left a few points out of your report," my supervisor
commented.

I shrugged. "Once a graduate student, always a graduate
student.. - Notice the little numbers? I was going to add foot-
notes, but you printed out the text before I got around to it."

"I suggest you add them. Now, before I pass it on."

Notes

1. I knew that already, of course. I'd studied pictures of
both subjects before starting to work the case. The
Hatartalan picture didn't help much—they all look alike
to human eyes—but my buddy Jack, tall and paunchy
and red-faced and given to unfortunately loud suits, was
a snap to pick out of a crowd. It was a piece of extra
luck that I got to "meet" him this way. Or so I thought
at the time.

2. At least the Hatartalans are species-programmed for
this behavior. What human story we tell that makes us
want to trash our own worlds, I've never figured out.

3. Okay. You want to know what story? Simple. Humans
tell Protecting the Young a lot. Hatartalans tell Destroy-
ing the Young (For the Good of me Race). Their natural
bias is to let practically all of their spawn die so that
only the fittest survive to the normal adult life cycle,
right? And bee-eyes, the next life-cycle stage, are to nor-
mal adults as adults are to the insectoid spawn—one in
a million or so. It seemed a credible assumption that bee-
eyes would be programmed to destroy adults for any
failing, rather than protecting them. I told the bee-eye
that the Hatartalan ambassador had been caught selling
secret data to the Old Terrans and that if I got the proof
back to my bosses GIS would probably arrange a fatal
accident for him. Of course, the facts were the other way
around, but the bee-eye believed this story easily because
it fitted the basic Hatartalan myth.

THE SMALL PENANCE
OF LADY DISDAIN

Michael Coney

How sick is she?"

"She has a day lo live, maybe two. She's very anxious
to see you before she dies."

Hearing these words, he was ushered into the bedchamber
of Lady Disdain, president of Earth.

"Imry Sanders." Painfully she extended a hand from under
the covers. "It was good of you to come."

Her face was a mask of desiccated skin stretched tightly
over the skull. Imry tried to reconcile this pale ruin with the
face of Lady Disdain as he'd first met her in Hotel
Andromeda—how long ago was it?—over two hundred years.
She'd never been beautiful; she was too arrogant for that. But
she had looked ... aristocratic. Strong.

And God, how he'd hated her in those far-off days'

He looked around the room: the same sumptuous trappings
she'd surrounded herself with in Hotel Andromeda. The rich
tapestries, the deep rugs, the jade ornaments, the miniature

61

62 Michael Coney

peacocks, the royal blue and the purple. The scent of wild
roses. All the badges of office. No sound; the fabrics dead-
ened even her harsh breathing, transforming it to a sigh, so
that for a moment he thought the elevator ride had blocked
his ears.

He murmured something polite, taking the hand briefly, re-
placing it carefully on the covers. Why had this dreadful
woman summoned him from his comfortable home on
Secunda? Here on crowded Old Earth, trees grew only in des-
ignated wilderness areas and people lived in multilevel cities.
He'd only lived twenty years on Earth, compared to two hun-
dred years on Secunda. Secunda was home now. He resented
being dragged away from it.

But you don't disobey a summons from the president of
Earth.

"I'm sorry to hear of your illness, my lady." It was the only
topic of conversation he could think of.

"I'm dying, yes, but that's not important. Death is in our
genes for a purpose. My clone-sister Lady Fortune is ready to
take over, now that the mindmeld has taken place. You met
her outside, I believe.**

Another moment of readjustment. The girl outside had been
beautiful. Time was a killer. "She looked very young to be
president of Earth.*'

"Only physically. The mindmeld has given her all my
knowledge and experience. Well, Imry Sanders. You'll be
wondering why I sent for you."

"It did cross my mind.** He allowed himself a faint smile.
The Froanways journey had taken almost three years; he'd
had plenty of time to wonder, even allowing for in-flight
retabolism.

The thin lips stretched slightly. Was that an answering
smile? "You're not an easy man to locate. Secunda is some-
what ... casual, shall we say, about personnel records."

"We like it that way."

"Yes, I can understand that." She sighed. "Your name has
been known to me for two hundred years, ever since my en-
tourage arrived on Earth. Imry Sanders, my deputy told me.
Imry Sanders was asking some odd questions. The name
haunted me. I kept waiting ... waiting for it to appear again.
It never did- For that I owe you a great debt. Perhaps all hu-

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN

63

mans do. Only in the last ten years, when I knew my time
was limited, have I tried to locate you. It took seven standard
years. Now here you are, and I wish to thank you."

He stared at her. Lady Disdain wanted to thank him, a mere
blipreader? This appalling old woman, product of an Earth-
based project for genetic leadership material that produced
only monstrous snobs with medieval titles, wanted to thank
Aim? There had to be some mistake. What could he say? / am
unworthy. No; he wouldn't sink to that kind of banality.

But what did she want to thank him/or? What great deed
did she think he'd performed? Was it—and he felt the begin-
nings of an enormous embarrassment—a case of mistaken
identity?

"And I wish to bestow an honor upon you," she continued.
"The honor is normally hereditary, but we must start making
some exceptions, I think." She closed her eyes, looking sud-
denly exhausted. "There have been accusations of elitism,"
she murmured. "Perhaps they are right."

She seemed to be asleep. He walked over to the window
and looked out at the city. Direct sunlight illuminated this
room only; it rose clear of the glittering canopy of solar cells
stretching to the horizon. It was ironic that in using the sun
for power. Earth deprived people of its light. And not a tree,
not a blade of grass in sight. Despite the warmth, he shivered.

Oh, to be on Secunda, walking with Megan among the tree-
clad hills!

A cold anger gripped him. He swung back toward the
dreadful figure on the bed. He didn't want her thanks; he
didn't want her honor, whatever it was. He wanted to go
home. He walked slowly to the bed. She looked very frail; it
would be a simple matter to snuff out that guttering candle of
life. A pillow over the face. He stood looking down at her.
Behind that veneer of genteel sophistication, she was still me
same bully who had thrown her weight about in Hotel An-
dromeda two hundred years ago, and caged up a shipload of
Secundans like animals.

There had been more meat on her bones then.

He chuckled at the significance of that last thought, and the
murderous moment passed.

64 Michael Coney

Young Imry Sanders first met Lady Adelaide Disdain of
Cartaginia shortly after being attacked by the girl gang from
Secunda.

An hour earlier he'd ridden into the spacebome vastness of
Hotel Andromeda. The hotel scared him: the nulling multi-
tudes, the strange smells, the yelling voices, the blazing bright
lights instead of good honest sunlight and trees and birds.

The decisions, too. A blaring voice suddenly drowned out the
other noises, asking him to vote on an incomprehensible topic.
"All humans please go to the nearest referendum booth and
punch green if you are in favor of the proposition, red if not."

Imry had been raised in one of Earth's protected wilderness
areas; spent the whole of his life preparing for this voyage.
He was bound for Cartaginia, so they told him, where people
lived in the open air in small towns surrounded by forests and
grasslands.

And now here he was in Hotel Andromeda: covered,
multilevel. He fought a deadly claustrophobia.

"You all right?" It was a young woman, about twenty
standard years old—much the same age as Imry.

"I ... I guess I'm surprised at this place. I've just arrived
on the Earth shuttle." He felt better saying that. Imry Sanders,
a genuine product of the mother planet. Not one of your
Johnny-come-lately colonists. A founding father, in a way.
And so, all by himself, he learned the first lesson of social in-
tercourse between colonists: Make the most of your back-
ground. "I'm bound for Cartaginia," he added.

"I'm from Secunda, bound for Earth," she said surprisingly.
Imry had been led to believe the inhabitants of Earth's first
colony were little better than animals. Yet this girl looked
good: pale gray jumpsuit, soft brown hair to her shoulders,
slanting green eyes, wide mouth. And yet... was there a hint
of wildness in those eyes? But when some goon pushed past
her and knocked her against him, he didn't mind.

She smiled. "Sorry." She glanced behind him. A vast mob
of people were surging out of the shuttle; they reached Imry
and swirled him along like a breaking wave. The last he saw
of the Secundan was a rueful grin as she was swept to the
other side of a pillar.

"Come on, Imry!" shouted someone. "Let's get to know
this place. There are four human modules docked right now!"

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN

65

Six months of being cooped up in the shuttle had been too
much for them, and some ten thousand human juveniles were
about to run amok. Imry shrugged. Somebody would sort it
out. He slipped away from the accents of Earth, and walked
alone in Hotel Andromeda among humans and humanoids of
all worlds.

Much later he found himself welt away from the crowds.
Not exactly lost, because there were maps stuck to all the pil-
lars; a guy couldn't go far wrong. But he had a craving to find
an outside wall; he needed some point of reference. All this
vastness hanging somewhere in space was unreal and he
needed something solid he could lean his back against. He
craved trees and stone walls and rain drifting down from a
real sky.

At last he found a narrow corridor leading off into the dis-
tance. For all he knew this was a connector, and space was on
the other side of these walls. A window would have been
nice. His feet were getting tired; there were no walkways
here. A group of seven human-shaped figures approached
from the opposite direction. He hoped they weren't from his
shuttle. He'd had enough of the company of his fellow trav-
elers for a while.

They were very young, slightly built, dressed in jumpsuits
like the Secundan he'd met, but these jumpsuits were bright
scarlet. There was an exuberance about them. He could hear
them laughing, and one of them performed a complex dance
step to unheard music. They looked like good company. They
were all girls, maybe too young for him.

"Get him!"

Suddenly they were all around him, pulling at his clothes,
clawing at his flesh, kicking him with shoes that looked un-
commonly like leather. It was the shoes that decided him this
was no playful romp. What kind of barbarians were these, to
wear animal parts? He began to fight back in earnest, knock-
ing one girl to her knees with a sweep of his arm. She looked
up at him. and the expression on her young face chilled him.

There was an inhuman savagery there, and her chin was
wet with saliva.

They had no weapons but their shoes—and their numbers.
Seven of them, each one smaller than he, but together they
were overwhelming. They fought silently with a deadly pur-

66 Michael Coney

pose and he didn't know what that purpose was. He didn't
know exactly what he was defending himself against.

They'd torn his tunic from his shoulders, pinioning his
aims. Now they dragged his pants down and one girl taller
than the rest threw herself bodily against him. He fell back-
ward over another girl crouched strategically behind. He was
on the deck and they were all over him. He felt sharp nails
scratch at his naked chest and teeth worrying at his shoulder.

"Stop! Stop that, right now!"

A gray-clad arm scythed down. The girl clawing at his
chest grunted as a fist thudded into the side of her head.

"What the hell?" She stared up, feral eyes burning.

"I said stop! You've made a mistake, you fools. This is a
man!"

"This is no man, Megan!"

"You're not on Secunda now. You're in Hotel
Andromeda—things are different. You were warned, huh? But
you didn't listen. I'll have you confined for this!"

A dark-haired girl, startlingly pretty, snapped, "You're the
fool, Megan Sunrise. You're too damned old to know the dif-
ference." And she hooked her fingers into Imry's underpants,
dragging them down and clawing parallel weals in his belly.
Her eyes widened in astonishment.

"Satisfied?"

The girls were scrambling to their feet. "He is a man.
But ..."

"But he's so thin." said another. "He looks like a woman."

"He's young, too," said Megan harshly. "Hadn't you no-
ticed that, either?"

"He's wearing green. The light's dim around here. We took
him for a crone."

"If you'd killed him," said Megan, "Security would have
had you recycled."

"No," said the beautiful dark child. 'They can't recycle
you for following the customs of your own race."

"They can if it results in the death of a member of a differ-
ent race. This man's from Earth; I met him earlier. Now get
going, and find yourself a Secundan crone, if you must!"

It was at that moment that Lady Adelaide Disdain arrived
with her entourage.

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN       67

One hour later. Lady Disdain, her entourage, Imry, and
Megan were seated before Froan, head of Security.

"I told you this would happen," Lady Disdain said, "but
you wouldn't listen. Now even the corridors of this hotel are
not safe. I take a stroll and what do I come across? This in-
nocent young man, barely twenty standard years old, being
set upon and severely beaten by a gang of young animals
from Secunda. If we hadn't happened by at that very moment,
God knows what might have happened! Cannibalism, in the
very halls of Andromeda!"

She stared at Froan, conscious of a dangerously rising an-
ger. She must keep control of herself. She must remember
that, to the security chief—to it—she was just another guest.
But it was hard. This creature wasn't even human!

That wretched young woman in gray spoke before the alien
could answer. "It was unfortunate, but I had it all under con-
trol. It won't happen again."

"How do you know that? How can you possibly know that,
young woman? Where are the miscreants now, tell me that!"
She felt herself flushing with temper and nudged her peacock.
The garish bird's fantail fluttered, wafting a cool breeze.

At least the Secundan had the grace to look embarrassed. "I
told them to get back to the shuttle and place themselves in
confinement."

"Ha! What you're actually saying is they're still at large."

"They will obey orders. If you must know, we're confining
all the bloomers. But honestly. Lady Disdain, I don't see what
business it is of yours."

The impertinence of the girl! "I'll tell you what business it
is of mine! This young man is a human, a representative of
thousands of other humans on their way from Earth to my
home planet. A blipreader, too. A member of an ancient and
respected profession." She turned her gaze on the alien again.
It was impossible to tell what that ghastly creature was think-
ing. "I demand that the appalling Secundans be confined to
their vessel—every one of them—for the safety of us all!"

The young woman shouted, "You know why he's going to
Cartaginia? Because you're so old and inflexible there that
you've asked for an infusion of fresh blood! You're stagnat-
ing! Your birthrate is practically zero! And people like you
are the reason why, you useless old woman!"

68 Michael Coney

The impertinence of the girl!

The young man spoke. "Listen, I'm all right. Let's forget it,
shall we?"

So much for gratitude! Lady Disdain bent a terrible stare
on him. "Perhaps you don't realize what a narrow escape
you've had. Are you aware that those Secundans are canni-
bals? They eat their own kind! It's in their culture."

He looked to the Secundan woman. "Is this true?"

She said, "Partly. In a way. But the only reason it's in our
culture is because it's instinctive."

Hardly a valid excuse, thought Lady Disdain, "And be-
cause of you—you barbarians—the Froans will not pass the
Gift of Longevity to Mankind. Because of your existence, bil-
lions of human beings are dying unnecessarily. Because of
your disgusting behavior. Mankind as a whole is regarded as
a race of savages—isn't that so. Froan?"

The alien spoke for the first time; and when it spoke, it
spoke for its entire race. The Froans spoke but rarely because
of the complex telepathic communication involved. The im-
mense head shimmered crimson for an instant; die scaly jowls
wobbled as the head nodded in deference to human gestures.
"Yes," said Froan.

"I don't understand," said the young man from Earth. As
young men went, thought Lady Disdain, he seemed quite a
reasonable specimen and would fit in well on Cartaginia... -

So Megan Sunrise told Imry the terrible story of Mankind's
first voyage to the stars, to Secunda- It's an old story and mer-
cifully not well known, because humans have tried to put it
behind them. Mankind's first starship was built centuries be-
fore the faster-than-light travel known as Froanways. It is said
that the Froans gave Mankind the secret of Froanways simply
because they didn't want any more Secundans around the gal-
axy. That is very likely true.

"You see, Imry," Megan said, "Earth was poor. Equipment
was heavy and expensive. The voyage was to take many gen-
erations. Excess passengers could not be tolerated. By excess
passengers, I mean old people ... and men. So a special race
of humans was bred."

"Disgusting!" shouted Lady Disdain. Her entourage, some
twenty elderly humans, nodded their heads on feeble necks,

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN       69

murmured "Hear, hear", and prodded their peacocks into ac-
tivity. The birds sat on their laps, small iridescent mutants
bred for human use. The Cartaginians could not conceive the
offense these bird fans—and their fur-trimmed clothes—
caused Imry from Earth, where animals were sacrosanct.

Megan said quietly, "It all seems perfectly natural to us, so
it's not nice to hear other people calling us names."

"I will call you what I like, young woman!"

Megan ignored her. "We have four age groups," she told
Imry. "We have children, we have bloomers, we have parents,
and we have crones. Much like any other human race, except
we're nearly all females. We usually wear a color to show our
age: blue for children, red for bloomers, gray for parents, and
green for crones. We don't necessarily dress all in one color;

just an indication is enough; a scarf or something. It's not re-
ally important until we get older, but it's become part of our
culture. Like a national dress back in the old days of Earth."
She sighed. "But all that's changing now. Our people are
changing. Or maybe I should say they're being Revised." The
green eyes were sad.

Lady Disdain shuddered theatrically. "It's bad enough that
your kind of perversion exists. I see no reason to wash Man-
kind's dirty linen in front of this alien. Just shut up, will you,
young woman? Now, Froan. It must be quite clear to you that
those appalling Secundans represent a danger to any civilized
race, is it not?"

The alien's voice was like a rasp against steel. "No, it is
not. They are a danger only to humans. And humans are not
a civilized race by our reckoning. We cannot solve your prob-
lem because it is a human problem. Lady Disdain, you are
wasting the time of Hotel Security."

"My clone-sister is the president of Earth'"

"We are aware of your relationship to Emerald Kemp."

"Are you aware of the purpose of my visit to Earth? Of
the president's sickness, and our need to mindmeld before
she dies? The continuity of government depends on the
mindmeld. Without it, there will be anarchy on Earth! And
there will be no mindmeld if I am attacked and killed by
cannibals in your hotel!"

"A human problem, you will agree."

"So you will not confine these creatures to their quarters?"

70 Michael Coney

"You have made the same request three times in the last
seven days. Lady Disdain. The answer is the same. It is not
Security's problem."

Lady Disdain felt her cheeks flaming and her control slip-
ping. Damn these all-powerful Froans and their so-logical ar-
guments! "Listen to that, you humans. The Froans will not
help. That tells you something about these creatures. You
think they're benevolent because they gave us Froanways
travel and promised us longevity. But it's not benevolence;

it's politics! They're directing human development down the
path they've chosen. In this way they maintain control and
stifle other directions our development may take—directions
that might have challenged their superiority'"

While the humans stared at her, stunned, Froan said, "It is
Security that is refusing your request, not the Proans. Security
is a multispecies organization."

"I don't see any other species around. There's just you!"

"Obviously the other species trust us to make rational judg-
ments."

Lady Disdain rose. Her entourage rose. Peacocks fluttered.
She glared at Megan. "I shall have to bring other forces to
bear, that much is clear. I should have known better than to
expect common sense from an alien." She transferred her
gaze to Imry. "You're well advised to stay clear of this
Secundan, young man. You heard what she said. You never
know when her primitive instincts may come to the fore."

Imry found Megan walking beside him as he left Security.
It seemed impolite to veer off and leave her; politeness had
been instilled in him since birth, as a very necessary prerequi-
site to life on Cartaginia. He glanced at her. She held her head
high but tears glistened in the brown eyes. Surely she'd never
-.. eaten people? It was impossible.

He'd heard plenty of rumors about Secunda during this past
few years while the Secundans were being snipped back to
Earth for Revision. Earth alone had the technology and capac-
ity for such a huge task. Quite simply, the Secundans were
being transformed into normal humans, shipload by shipload,
and then returned to Secunda.

And Megan's shipload was the last- Once she and her com-

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN

71

panions had been Revised, Froans would consider humans to
be civilized.

And the Gift of Longevity would be theirs.

"All that stuff ..." He hesitated. "About your age groups
and what they do. It's not really like that, is it?"

She swung round, pink with anger. "It's exactly like that,
and so what! Are you afraid I'm going to bite? Well, I'm past
bloomer age, if that makes you feel any safer. But a lot of us
... It's so unfair! What's wrong with disposing of people who
are past contributing to society? What is wrong with bloomers
being ... involved in disposing of them? For us it must be
right, because we can't have children until we've achieved
hormony."

"Honnony?"

"You don't know anything, but you're so quick to judge,
like everyone else! Hormony is the ability to have children. It
disappears at the crone stage, just like it does in your race.
But in our crones a dormant strain of hormones are still being
produced, building up in the system. Before a bloomer can
bear children, she must ... ingest these hormones to achieve
hormony."

"It's not your fault," said Imry.

She snapped. "There is no fault, don't you see? Somebody
changed the rules on us, that's all. And the people who changed
the rules are the people who made us in the first place. You
Earth people!"

He looked away. She was right. She was beautiful, too. He
wondered if Revision would change the way she looked.
What a pity he was going to Cartaginia among all the old
farts, instead of Secunda....

"Sorry, Megan," he said at last. "But it was the Froans who
made the rules, and now they bribe us to stick by them. And
the bribe is too good to turn down."

"Yes. Well ... I guess you don't want me around any-
more." She turned away.

"No, wait a minute. Don't go, Megan. Give me a chance to
come to terms with this. Anyway, you can't just leave me Just
like that. You saved my life. By the way, how did you happen
to be around when I needed you?"

She hesitated, then offered a reluctant smile. "I ... fol-
lowed you."

72 Michael Coney

This was much better. He took her hand. "Let's start again,
shall we?"

So they explored Hotel Andromeda together and found
more interesting things than Secundan culture to talk about.

"Longevity. Maybe four hundred years of life. Do you want
it, Imry?"

Her gaze held his, and he felt a strange weakness inside.
Do I want to live that long? he wondered. Maybe, but I wish
it wasn't going to be among those old/arts on Cartaginia. A
younger world would be nice. Like Secunda ...

And so, in the External Communications Room of Hotel
Andromeda, he began to wonder if he was falling in love with
a cannibal.

Interplanetary communication, as we now know it, grew
out of a paradox. There was little point in Earth, for example,
communicating with Hotel Andromeda at the speed of radio
waves, because the Froanways ships themselves move very
much faster. For a century or so this problem defeated hu-
mans, and messages were carried on board ships and shuttles
like the mail on Old Earth. The Froans showed no inclination
to help out. It was not their problem. They communicated
with one another instantaneously, telepathically.

It was almost as though the Froans were testing Mankind's
ingenuity.

Then one day. a bright young spark on Earth played around
with two known facts about Froanways. Firstly, the great
ships were driven through space by mental as well as physical
methods from within the ships themselves. Secondly, the laws
of inertia and momentum still applied: the rate of acceleration
and deceleration depended on the mass of the ship. The heav-
ier the ship, the greater the power needed and the longer it
took to reach its destination.

Might it be possible to create a tiny ship, big enough to
contain a message, that would operate on the same Froanways
principle but move a billion times faster because it was a bil-
lion tiroes smaller?

It was. These tiny messengers became known as blips.

Imry and Megan visited the External Communications
Room. "Why does she call herself Lady Disdain?" asked
Imry. His mind was elsewhere. As a blipreader, communica-

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN        73

tions were his job and the External Communications Room
was not particularly interesting.

A buzzer sounded, a tiny door flipped open, and a black
object the size of a fist dropped into a tray. A white-suited hu-
man technician levered it open with a flat tool; the action re-
minded Imry of shucking oysters in the wilderness area where
he'd been raised. The technician held the opened thing to his
temple and appeared to be listening.

"Blip for Lady Disdain of Cartaginia," he announced to the
room at large. "She'll be the new Earth president in a few
months, I'll bet."

A man at the far end of the room called, "How many times
do I have to tell you, Anders? The contents of personal blips
are confidential, for Pete's sake. We don't go sounding off
about them in front of the whole goddamned hotel!" He nod-
ded toward Imry and Megan.

"Hell, it's only speculation. I didn't read the message," said
the other sulkily.

"Sure. But speculating is the first step toward reading. I've
seen it happen before. Just do your job and don't get too in-
terested, huh?"

The blipreader, scowling, clicked the blip shut again,
slipped it into a package, sprayed it with Lady Disdain's per-
sonal odor from the dispenser, and handed it to a messenger
dog. The small drama was over.

"People on Cartaginia have hereditary titles like on Old
Earth." Megan returned to Imry's question. "They're passed
down from their first genetic leaders."

'Tough luck on the rest of the people," said Imry. "Does
that mean I'll never get to be called Lord Imry?"

She laughed. "Is that your wish, my lord?"

"Well ... I'd like to think I had the chance. After all,
what's an accident of birthplace got to do with anything?"

"What, indeed, Imry from Earth?" asked the cannibal-...

"I'm so sorry, Megan."

"She wants us locked up. Froan says it's a human matter.
That means a referendum. She could call it anytime; maybe
she's calling it right now. All people have to do is push a but-
ton and we'll be caged like animals."

"If the referendum goes against you."

"It will. There are four shiploads of Earth people in An-

74 Michael Coney

dromeda, and nobody likes Secundans. It doesn't matter to
them that we've already confined all our bloomers; they don't
want to understand that. We moved into our Earth shuttle
twenty hours ago, but it'll be a week before we're ready for
departure. They won't let any of us out of that shuttle for a
week."

He tried to make light of it. "A week's not so bad. Hell, the
trip Earthside takes months."

"But it could have been a very nice week."

As she looked at him, he knew what she meant. And he
knew she couldn't put it into words, because she was
Secundan and—until Revision—tainted. And even after Revi-
sion, people would be looking at Secundans and thinking: /
wonder if she ever ... You hww what I mean?

Then she added something he'd never thought of. "You're
the first man I've ever talked to. We only have seventeen men
on Secunda—great fat seed machines, lying on pillows and
eating all day. Revolting. Are Earth Men all as nice as you?"

So as they left External Communications he was wondering
if he was mistaken, and if her interest in him was simple cu-
riosity bom of the practice of artificial insemination on
Secunda. Then he began to wonder if his interest in her was
simple gratitude for having saved him from the girl gang.
Two depressing items.

Such things come in threes. At that moment speakers all
over the hotel boomed a message:

"A Human Referendum is being held at this time. The
proposition is that members of the Secundan race constitute a
danger to elderly humans and should be confined to Shuttle
A-4 effective immediately, until its departure for Earth in ap-
proximately seven standard days."

"Don't you have a chance to defend yourself?" asked Imry
desperately.

"What could we say? Nothing they'd listen to." She turned
away. "Good-bye, Earth man. Good luck on Cartaginia. I ...
I really mean that."

She was going- He grabbed her, spun her around. Her face
was wet with tears. "No! Let's hide somewhere!"

She tried to smile. "You've only just arrived. I've been
here weeks. You'll find hiding isn't so easy in Hotel Androm-

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN

75

eda as it is in an Earth wilderness. This place is Just not built
for ... for fugitives."
"Maybe nobody's needed to try before."

One hour later Lady Disdain of Cartaginia faced Froan yet
again, chin high, expressionless as only a self-admitted fool
can be.

"I wish you to cancel the confinement of the appalling
Secundans immediately."

The alien regarded her blandly. "You surprise me. Lady
Disdain."

"That is neither here nor there. Cancel the confinement,
please."

"Perhaps you'd care to tell me why."

Really, thought Lady Disdain, it was no business of
Froan's. It was absolutely disgraceful the way these wretched
aliens threw their weight about—just because they happened
to have been first to invent FTL travel. However, there was
no harm in telling it. That might even speed matters up. "I've
just received a blip from Earth. My clone-sister is president of
Earth, you know."

If sighing had been a Froan characteristic, Froan would
have sighed. "I do know."

"Her condition had worsened. As you know, her sickness is
the whole reason for my voyage. I must mindmeld with her
before she dies. I am to be the next president of the Earth."

"Congratulations."

Was that sarcasm? Surely not! "It is distressing news. She's
on retabolism, but even so, it's doubtful that she can last six
months. And my shuttle does not depart for another two
months. Every day counts, Froan."

"So it seems. I would suggest that you travel with the
Secundans, Lady Disdain. Their shuttle leaves in seven of
your Earth days."

Good grief, was the creature utterly stupid? "They have
cannibals running wild on that shuttle! You know the
Secundan problem as well as I do, Froan. I wouldn't last a
day!" Crone, that was the word those barbarians used. How
insulting!

"Certainly it could be dangerous for a human woman past
the age of usefulness."

76 Michael Coney

So Froan, like that Secundan girl, had no idea of the con-
tribution older and more experienced people made to human
society. Its ignorance was abysmal. Was there any point in ar-
guing with this creature? "I want those Secundans off that
shuttle, Froan! I'm commandeering it for myself and my en-
tourage. This is an emergency!"

"Hotel Security will not prevent your commandeering the
vessel. It is a human matter."

"How do I get those Secundans out of there? I want your
help, you fool!"

"I cannot help, but you may have my advice. Hold another
referendum."

'That would be pointless. The human guests in Andromeda
have no reason to vote any differently than they did in the ref-
erendum we held yesterday—as you know very well, Froan!
Nobody likes the Secundans, and rightly so!"

"That is true."

The silence lengthened. Didn't the wretched alien have
anything further to contribute? The Security HQ for this sec-
tor of Andromeda was quite small, and Froan was the only
person on duty. The other four desks were empty. Where was
the human representative, for Heaven's sake? A human would
have understood her problem.

But as Froan had said earlier: the other security chiefs
probably left everything to Froan. Froan wasn't just one per-
son, it was thousands. Maybe millions, all in continuous con-
tact. Froan could bring unlimited intellect to bear on any
security problem. It was desperately unfair. It made nonsense
of democracy. Some kind of compensations should be built
into the system to limit the power of the Froans.

"There is another way," she said reluctantly.

"That must be a relief for you, Lady Disdain."

She hated to ask this; it sounded perilously like begging.
"You could bestow longevity on my clone-sister right now. A
special dispensation. Realty," she continued quickly, sensing
the refusal trembling on the alien's peculiar labia, "I can't
think of a better person than Earth's president to be the first
human to receive your great gift. There is a Froan represent-
ative on Earth; the matter could be dealt with quite simply,
immediately. It needn't actually be longevity; she need only

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN

77

live long enough for us to carry out the mindmeld. Nobody
else need know."

"You know my reply already. Lady Disdain. The existence
of the Secundans offends us. We allowed you to enter
Froanways so that you would not feel the need for further
such adventures into genetic engineering. And we cannot be-
stow longevity on you until the last Secundan is Revised.
That time is not far away."

"It's a year away! Six months in the shuttle, almost as long
for Revision. My sister will be dead long before then!"

"I am sorry. Lady Disdain."

Immediately below the External Communications Room in
Hotel Andromeda is a chamber of roughly similar size where
the little blipriders are housed. At the time of our story, the
longest journey undertaken by a blip was two years, dictated
by the life span of the bliprider- Nowadays the use of blips
has increased tenfold because Froan longevity can also be ap-
plied to btipriders. Blipriders are small rodents whose limited
mental capacity is occupied almost entirely in applying the
Froanways principle to their tiny craft, and in remembering
the message with which they are entrusted.

"But how do you read me blip?" asked Megan Sunrise.
"Could I do it if I tried?"

"Maybe, if you had the right training. The messages aren't
in words. They're in images. The trick is in knowing the way
the bliprider's mind works. You have to think like a bliprider.
Otherwise you can't understand the message. You might hear
it mentally, but it'd be in mouse images, kind of."

They'd chosen the blipriders' quarters as their hideout for
the next few days. Humans visited it rarely; the blipriders
were fed and cared for by robotic servants. It was an interest-
ing place to be, too. Blips arrived frequently; either sent down
the chute from the room above, or brought in by messenger
dogs. Megan was concerned about the dogs.

"Couldn't Security locate me by giving my scent to a mes-
senger dog? They have everyone's scents on file."

"I don't think they're that interested. You're only one of
several hundred thousand humans in the hotel. Security have
got enough on their minds without bothering about one
Secundan who's past the bloomer stage anyway."

78 Michae! Coney

"I suppose you're right. And anyway, they probably
haven't even noticed I'm not aboard the shuttle- We're not
noted for keeping close tabs on one another, we Secundans.
We value our freedom."

"In that case, why go to Earth at all? Why not stay here
with me?" Imry was being selfish and he knew it. He'd be
leaving Hotel Andromeda himself before long. But they were
nearing the end of their seven days together and he was get-
ting desperate. They'd furnished an alcove with blankets and
slept there when they were tired, made love when they were
not. Occasionally he ventured alone into the public areas of
the hotel to get food, returning as soon as he could, terrified
that he would find her gone.

"You know I must leave with the others, Imry. The Froans
are keeping count- There'll be no longevity for humans until
all Secundans are Revised. I couldn't be responsible for that.
Could you?"

"I guess not. No." As he looked at her there was a dreadful
emptiness inside him. He thought of Cartaginia and its class
system; in his imagination there would be a Lady Disdain
lurking behind every tree. Was longevity such a good thing, if
he was doomed to live on a worid like that?

But on the last day matters took a turn for the better. He'd
gotten into the habit of reading the minds of used blipriders
as they arrived for dememorizing, to keep up to date with
events. Most of the blips were from Earth; there were few
other worlds accessible within the blipriders' life span. If the
bliprider was elderly it would be sent to the euthanasia cham-
ber after delivering its message; if young, it would be
dememorized and used again.

"I'm surprised the Froans agree with the gas chamber,"
said Megan on one occasion, as a little brown rodent scam-
pered unknowing to its death.

"I don't think they're interested in unintelligent life-forms.
To them a mouse is no different from a carrot. It's there to be
used. Civilization is everything to the Froans."

"That's why they're against us Secundans," said Megan
sadly.

On that last day, as they lay together in their alcove and
tried to spend their final hours in love instead of despair, they

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADV DISDAIN

79

heard the door hiss open and a messenger dog came trotting
in.

"Here. boy!" Imry held out a morsel of protein. The dog
dropped the container. Imry opened it up, took out the little
mouse and held it to his temple.

Megan watched his expression change from apathy to ex-
citement. "What is it?"

"It's a message to Andromeda Dispatch from the president
of Earth. My people aren't going to Cartaginia after all. We're
catching an earlier ship to Secunda instead!" He hugged her.
"Isn't that great! We'll see each other again!"

"In a few years." A lot could happen in that time.

"But we'll have longevity by then! What does a couple of
years matter, when we've got hundreds together?"

"You'll get tired of me, Imry. We're different people."

He regarded her. It was difficult to imagine tiring of her,
but then it was difficult to imagine living for four hundred
years. "I'll never get tired of you," he said stoutly.

Two hours later she was gone.

Imry remained in the chamber for another two days, trying
to think positively. With retabolism on the voyage, he would
be seeing Megan again in less than two years' apparent time.
That wasn't so bad, was it? And on Secunda, too. It was good
not to be going to Cartaginia.

But why wasn't he going to Cartaginia?

He began to wonder. Why the change in plan? Their train-
ing program had prepared everyone for Cartaginia; for the cli-
mate, the culture, the laws, and the social aspect generally.
Secunda was a different world. Much less formal, less regi-
mented. And Cartaginia itself had spent years preparing for a
sudden influx of immigrants. Secunda had not. What exactly
were they supposed to be doing on Secunda?

As he was puzzling it over, a dog came trotting in. From
force of habit now, it dropped the blip at Imry's feet and stood
panting, tongue lolling, waiting for its reward.

The blip had been for Lady Disdain.

Imry absorbed the contents with disbelief and finally, fear.
Hand shaking, he held the rodent to his temple again, with the
same result. Something was terribly wrong. He found himself
staring into the little animal's eyes, willing it to explain more

80 Michael Coney

fully. It stared back with beady stupidity. It had no idea of the
significance of the message....

This blip was several days old.

The blip diverting Imry's people to Secunda had been sent
after this blip.

It might already be too late to save the Secundans.

And Megan.

"You must recall the Earth shuttle'"
Froan regarded Imry imperturbably. "Why is that?"
"Please believe me; it's important. Life and death!"
"The shuttle is beyond the jurisdiction of Hotel Security.
And as you know, shuttles do not operate on the Froanways
principle. The Earth shuttle is controlled remotely from the
home planet."

There was stilt a chance. Blackmail. That terrible message
was his weapon. Yes, a blip from Lady Disdain would over-
take the shuttle- It took Imry an hour of fighting his way
along crowded walkways to reach her quarters.
"She is not here at present," said a handmaiden.
"Then summon her, right now! Tell her it's top priority!
Tell her ..." He searched for suitable words. One thing he
didn't want to do, was to reveal his knowledge to anyone
else. That would back Lady Disdain into a comer. It was im-
portant that she should be free to act. 'Tell her I'm Imry San-
ders the blipreader, and there's been a terrible mistake. Tell
her I'm hoping we can put things right without bringing in the

Froans."

The handmaiden left. Imry sat down, trying to work it out,
running over in his mind the contents of that fateful, so con-
fidential blip. The images in the mouse's mind were clear and
horrifying; so clear that he could still see them in his mind's

eye.

Destruction. The Earth shuttle close to its destination, then
veering off course; the crew struggling with the controls, un-
able to override the automatics. The interior heating up. The
Secundans screaming as their flesh began to melt. Their very
screams broiling their lungs. The shuttle plunging on into the
furnace of the sun. All this was in the mouse's mind.

Placed there by another mind infinitely cruel, infinitely
mad.

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN

81

The handmaiden returned with a tall man robed in purple.
"Lady Disdain is not available. I am empowered to act on her
behalf. How can I help you?"

This was something he hadn't thought of. He'd assumed
he'd be dealing with the woman herself. Well, there wasn't
rime to fool around; he'd have to make the most of what was
available. "Are you her Number Two?"

"On this voyage I am."

"I must speak to you alone."

"If you like." He led the way to a small anteroom.

"Are you sure nobody can hear us?"

The man smiled condescendingly, humoring him. "Nobody.
This place is safe, so Hotel Security assures me. Now. What's
all this about?"

He took a deep breath. This was going to be tough going.
"You must recall the Earth shuttle immediately."

"Oh. Must I?" The thick eyebrows rose. 'Tell me why."

"I have information that it is in danger."

"Information?"

"A blip from the president of Earth to Lady Disdain." He
would have to commit himself if he was to get any action. "I
read it." He could still hardly believe it. "They're going to
massacre the Secundans!"

The man's face was impassive. "You've been reading con-
fidential blips illegally. You're the one who'll be reported to
Security. You could be thrown out of your guild, you under-
stand? Don't you have any professional pride?"

"That's hardly the point!" Was the man stalling, or was he
on the level? "Don't you know what was in that blip?"

"Nobody knows except my lady herself," he snapped. "If
there was a blip, which I doubt. She's a blipreader; you must
know that. All the top people have to be, for the sake of con-
fidentiality. Blips between heads of state are composed and
read by heads of state alone. They may be confidential, but
they do not contain massacre plots."

Obviously Lady Disdain wouldn't have leaked the contents
of the blip to her entourage, or anyone else, for that matter.
"Listen." He tried to convey in words the terrible images of
destruction contained in the bliprider's message. Sensing the
other's skepticism, he added, "You wouldn't want me to tell
Security what the blip said, would you?"

82 Michael Coney

But the man was treating the whole thing as Imry's juvenile
fantasy. "A conspiracy? Certainly it would dispose of the
Secundan problem neatly, but why not simply Revise them on
Earth, according to the original plan?" He sat down. relaxing,
smiling up at Imry.

"Because Lady Disdain must get to Earth for the mindmeld
before the president dies. And the next shuttle doesn't leave
for weeks!"

"Killing the Secundans wouldn't get my lady to Earth any
more quickly."

"It wouldn't matter. Once all the Secundans are dead, the
Froans will grant us longevity. That'll give the president a
couple more years, no matter how sick she is!"

The Cartaginian laughed shortly. "We could kiss good-bye
to longevity if we murdered the Secundans to suit our own
ends. The Froans would wash their hands of us forever.
Surely even you can see that!"

"It would look like an accident. An equipment malfunction;

the shuttle pulled into the sun."

The Cartaginian stood. "All right, that's enough. I just hope
nobody else has heard this stuff. You could do a lot of dam-
age, spreading these kinds of rumors. We're going through a
very sensitive period in our relations with the Froans. We
don't need some kid blipreader fouling things up."

"At least get hold of Lady Disdain right now so she can ex-
plain the blip!"

The Cartaginian said slowly, spelling it out, "My Lady Dis-
dain doesn't have to explain anything to you, or even to me.
She is the ruler of Cartaginia. She is the president's clone-
sister. She is the future president of Earth. And in any event
I can't get hold of her, because she's on that shuttle herself,
bound for Earth."

Imry felt his stomach tum over. "Lady Disdain's on that
shuttle?"

"Of course she is. How else can she get to Earth in time for
the mindmeld? Naturally she didn't relish traveling with the
Secundans—who would? But she is devoted to her duties and
the human race, so she had little choice. There was no room
for myself and the entourage at such short notice, but I can't
say I'm sorry about that."

Imry struggled to come to terms with this. Lady Disdain on

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN

83

the shuttle herself? It seemed he'd made a complete fool of
himself. He'd been so sure. "But ... does the president know
Lady Disdain's on the shuttle?"

"My Lady sent a blip informing her, before she left. So I'd
say everybody's quite safe from your hypothetical accident."

Imry left as soon as he could, face burning. God, what a
fool he'd made of himself! There was only one good thing
come out of this disaster. Megan was safe.

Irrationally, he found himself hating Lady Disdain more
than before. It was almost as though she'd duped him in some
way.

It was only when he got back to the bliprider's quarters that
the thought occurred to him: maybe he had been duped. He
only had the Cartaginian's word that Lady Disdain was on
that shuttle.

But when he checked with Dispatch, her name was on the
passenger list. That settled it. Now the only thing to do was
to forget the whole embarrassing episode. He'd screwed up.
but nobody knew except that Cartaginian. In some way he'd
completely misread the blip. Or maybe it had been some
weird blipreader's hoax.

And now Lady Disdain's eyes were open again, watching
him. Had she read his mind? No, but she'd experienced a life-
time of enemies, which made her hypersensitive to hostility.
Her lips moved.

"You can't imagine the relief now that Lady Fortune and I
have melded. I've shared a mindful of ancient skeletons and
eased the burden. And now I can think and say whatever I
like, without the fear of passing on my thoughts and conver-
sations for analysis and condemnation. My mind is my own,
not posterity's. I'm free for the first time in my life."

"You must be very relieved to know the future of Earth is
in capable hands." It was difficult to imagine that pretty girl
bore all the dark secrets of this old crone. Crone? That word
hadn't crossed his mind in two hundred years.

Her gaze became very direct. "I hope it is in capable hands.
As you alone know, there is a flaw in the genes of us clone-
sisters. and there is a shame we will carry with us as long as
we exist, because the mindmeld ensures we can never forget
it Our only consolation is that when you are dead, the flaw

84 Michael Coney

will be known only to the clone-sisters. I am forever in your
debt for that- But you are well aware of that."

What was she talking about?

He said, playing for time, "We're all flawed in one way or
another."

"But we rulers were bred for perfection. They tell me you
still live with Megan Sunrise, and that you have eight chil-
dren. It must be very reassuring to blend your genes with
those of another person, and know that some of the imperfec-
tions will be lost in the process."

"We never think of it that way."

"Megan Sunrise once told me I was a useless old woman.
At the time I resented her remark very much. But when the
... thing happened, and I found myself living with a shipload
of Secundans for six months, I began to think. I saw
Secundan crones going willingly to their death for the imme-
diate good of their race, and I contrasted that with the way my
own clone-sister had acted—or would have acted, if I hadn't
forestalled her. And I realized we are the useless ones. We,
my clone-sisters and I, the rulers of worlds. We are parasites
feeding on the work of humans in the pretense that we are
leading them. But neither Earth nor Cartaginia need leading.
They are stable societies that run themselves."

When you've had a fixed notion for two hundred years it's
difficult to shake it. Imry turned to the window in case she
read the amazement on his face. Lady Disdain's clone-sister,
the president of Earth, had done something terrible, it seemed.
Something so terrible that it meant the genetic structure of the
rulers was flawed.

What could be that terrible?

Ordering the mass murder of ten thousand Secundans could
be that terrible!

Had he been right after all, two hundred years ago?

He turned back to face her. 'Tell me one thing, my lady."
Suddenly he could bring himself to call her that. "Why did
you take the Secundan shuttle to Earth?"

She looked at him exoressionlessly for a long time, but her
eventual words showed astonishment "Good heavens, you had
it wrong. And still you didn't betray us ... I took the Secundan
shuttle so that my sister could not destroy it, of course. She
hated the Secundans—they stood between her and a chance of

THE SMALL PENANCE OF LADY DISDAIN

65

longevity. She was dying and she was desperate—so desperate
that she could not foresee the consequences of her actions. She
threw three worlds into confusion by reassigning you people to
Secunda, with some stupid notion of atoning for the Secundans
she intended to kill. She risked sending a blip to warn me, to
make sure I wasn't killed as well. At least she showed that
much sense of duty. preserving the mindmeld. But otherwise ...

"She betrayed everything she'd been created for and lived
for, simply out of a primitive fear of death. She was mad,
didn't you know that? My biggest fear was that she was so
mad she'd destroy the shuttle anyway, with me on board.

"When I reached Earth we mindmelded, and ever since
then I've lived with a small cancer of madness in my head—
her madness. I killed her immediately after the meld. It was
quite easy; I won't go into the details. Her madness was so
fresh in my mind I found I could be primitive, too. It wasn't
murder; she was my clone. It was more like lopping off a dis-
eased branch."

Imry said, "I doubted my own reading of the blip. When
you took the shuttle, I thought it was simply your quickest
way home."

She smiled. "You hated me, didn't you? I don't blame you.
A niter has to be seen to be a ruler, and you don't make
friends that way. You hated me, but the reason you didn't be-
tray us was because you had no confidence in your own judg-
ment. Well, it's as good a reason as any."

"Blipreading's an art more than a science. And I was
young. And I was so glad Megan was safe that 1 put the
whole thing behind me. And suddenly we were all going to
Secunda instead of Cartaginia. That was the clincher. Why
didn't you countermand your sister's instruction and send us
to Cartaginia anyway? It was what we were trained for."

'That was a shameless bribe. And unnecessary, as it turns
out."

"Your sister might have gotten away with it," he said won-
deringly. "She wasn't so mad that she wouldn't have covered
her tracks. You knew that. So ... You risked your life for the
Secundans, didn't you?"

"Dreadful people! But there's a world of difference be-
tween locking people up for a week, and massacring them.

86 Michae! Coney

The voyage was my small penance for my clone-sister's
sins."

"I'm sorry I misjudged you, my lady."

"So I needn't have told you all this. And I don't need to
bestow an honorable title on you."

He laughed. Suddenly she was more like an old friend. An
old friend who had once saved Megan's life. "But I know ev-
erything now."

"Who would believe you? That bliprider was the only
proof you had, and it's been dead over two hundred years.
And I thought you'd had it retabolized, and would produce it
one day."

Imry gave a theatrical sigh. "So I'll never be Lord Imry of

Secunda?"

He heard a breathless cackle. Lady Disdain was laughing.
"Go and see Lady Fortune about that," she said- "Her mem-
ories are identical to mine since the meld. All except the last
hour while you and I have been alone. I'm sure you take my
meaning."

Imry touched her dry hand and left.

Lady Disdain closed her eyes. It was done. Her life was
tidied up, so far as any human life could be tidy, and night
was not far away-

RHUUM SERVICE

Brad Ferguson

"^A arvelous," said Chaylaifa, his breath finally coming

IVI back to him. He was on his back, smiling; his tail was
comfortably wrapped around his left thigh, out of the way.

The chosha was not smiling at all, but she nodded agree-
ment "Excuse me for a moment, Chaylaifa," she said.

"Of course," he said. The sha watched her by the dim light
as she left their bed and headed for the bathroom. Nasu still
cuts a fine figure, he thought idly, particularly for someone of
her years. I chose well, so long ago. She is both good com-
pany and a good friend ... and she still provides this old
warrior with a stout enough ride, willing as she is to try new
things—

"Chaylaifa?" came a small, high voice near the foot of the
bed.

"Ah," he said. "Slill with us, eh, my dear? Ha! Come a lit-
tle closer."

She did. "I thought you'd forgotten all about me."

87

88 Brad Ferguson

"Not possible. Did you doze off?"

"Just for a moment. It has been a long day." The thaka'thott
rolled across the sweat-stained sheets of the strongly built bed
and snuggled like a youngling into Chaylaifa's pelt Fehlorah ran
a paw through the matted fur on the sha's chest, her slightly ex-
tended claws barely grazing the sensitive skin beneath.

"I am glad the Bloxx was delayed," she breathed.

"So am I," Chaylaifa replied. "I had to appear angry for the
benefit of our agents here, but I did not expect such a
pleasant ... respite ... on the first day of the talks."

"A most welcome respite. It's such an exciting trip, isn't
it?"

"Are you glad I brought you, girl?"

"Of course, Chaylaifa! Ever so glad!"

The sha smiled. "Now just how glad might that be?"

Fehlorah smiled in a way far beyond her years. "Very glad,
my sha. Has the chosha left anything for me?"

Chaylaifa laughed softly. "You know she has, little witch,"
he said. He sighed in mock exasperation. "How can such a
one, small as you, destroy me again and again, time after
time, endlessly? You'll kill me yet, girl."

"/ kill youT Fehlorah's paw began making its own, slow
way down Chaylaifa's ample body, in the way she had so re-
cently learned that he liked the most. "More likely it will be
the other way 'round; I'll be crushed under you—or between
the both of you. A sad yet wonderful fate indeed."

"You're much too spry to be caught like that, Fehtorah."
He ran the tips of his powerful claws along the stripe of gray
fur covering her spine, and the thaka'thott shivered as her im-
mature tail began twitching.

"You like that," he said in a low voice.

"Very much," she breathed. "And you?"

"What you've begun doing down there feels very good, my
little love."

"Now, just how good might that be?" she asked him,
laughing, as Chaylaifa's breath began to hiss softly back and
forth through his teeth.

A few moments later the bathroom door opened, throwing
a bright golden light into the room. Nasu stood in it, a silhou-
ette.

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"Come back to bed, Nasu," Chaylaifa called. "We've grown
a bit impatient for you here—as you might be able to tell."

"Yes," Fehlorah said, reaching out a dainty paw. "Come to
us, Nasu. Be with us."

"I ... I think I might like to retire for the evening," Nasu
said, knowing what was to come; she had no wish to repeat
the vileness of it. "It has been a tiring day. I will sleep in the
room assigned to me—"

"Nonsense," said the sha, his tone suddenly harsh. "Come
to bed, here and now. And turn out that damned light; the one
in here is quite enough."

"Chaylaifa, I—"

He looked at her, his eyes holding her completely. After a
moment, Nasu looked away and nodded-

"Excellent." As Nasu seated herself at the foot of the bed,
Chaylaifa reached behind him and retrieved a small box from
the nightstand.

"What's that?" asked Fehlorah.

"It is a Terran delicacy, love. They are called ritzcrackas,
and I am assured that they are safe for us. Expensive, as is ev-
erything else aboard this hotel, but I thought we might try
them. They are something ... different." He grinned widely,
showing his fangs. "After all, we have to fortify ourselves for
the rigors ahead! HaT'1

Fehlorah giggled and, reaching over the sha, took a
ritzcracka for herself and passed another to Nasu. The chosha
ate it, chewing slowly. Fehlorah saw her reluctance and gig-
gled again as she turned to embrace Chaylaifa.

After a short while Nasu joined with them, her unwilling-
ness quickly evaporating as their shared scent rose, engulfing
her, trapping her.

The tastefully small brass sign on the door of the suite
read:

JACOBS ft BURKE. LTD.

FACILITATORS

The reception area had been furnished by a Centaurian de-
signer known for her terribly trendy and effectively audacious

90 Brad Ferguson

approach to everything she did. Wallpaper and furnishings
had been designed to intrigue a wide variety of senses, and
fabrics had been chosen to appeal as broadly as possible to
those to whom touch and smell were as sound and light. To
prove that price had been no object, there was an original
Sunday-edition full-color Calvin and Hobbes hanging over the
faux fireplace, which itself radiated in a variety of spectra.
The look and feel of the room had instantly established the
credibility of Jacobs and Burke aboard Hotel Andromeda, and
that credibility had been the key to everything.

The other half of the suite was hidden behind a door con-
cealed in the far wall of the reception area. Between them, the
partners called it the Dark Side, and it looked as if it had been
decorated by trolls. The Dark Side was the soundproofed and
spy-proofed office where Jacobs and Burke actually did their
work, and no one else ever got in there. The partners allowed
the hotel's cleaning robots into the Dark Side only once every
six months or so. Even at that, they never let the robots do
very much, frantic that something important, some significant
scrap of paper, might be snatched up and thrown away. The
partners were also terrible pack rats. For example, one of the
Terran calendars on the wall was four years out of date, but
the partners left it hanging there because it would be good
again in only another seven.

Jonathan Lee Jacobs was sitting at his desk in the Dark
Side, his head in his hands. "I guess what I don't appreciate
the most," he complained, "is that this crap always gets
sprung on us at the last possible goddamn minute."

His partner had not really heard him. Trudy Burke was ly-
ing back in her reclining chair. Her eyes were closed. She was
very busy.

Jacobs grabbed his most abused pencil of the day and began
tapping a rapid tattoo on the glass surface of his desk. "First I
get absolutely no notice that Bannister Investments is exercising
its option with us, this after we don't hear from those bloodsuck-
ers for years, so we have to handle the Rhuum trade reps for
them as long as they're aboard Andromeda. So, fine. We say
hello and how are you, we get Ambassador Chaylaifa and his
entourage settled, all twenty-three of the useless bastards, we
make sure the hotel is treating everybody right, all that jazz. We
even gel a break on the logistics—no arrival ceremonies and no

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dinners, thank God; neither side wants 'em. Good enough. Now
it turns out that the Bloxx rep is going to be late because, hot
pilot he, he's blown a driver. Not a big deal, but somehow this
idiot Chaylaifa thinks it's our fault! Before I can even talk to
him about it, though, he stalks off to his room with his wife and
kid in tow. This is supposed to be an easy contract? Isn't that
what Bannister said?" He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Damn.
These micro-contacts are killing me."

His partner still said nothing.

Jacobs cleared his throat and tried again. "I hear they can
rot your corneas."

Trudy remained quiet.

"Well?" Jacobs demanded as his pencil finally broke. He
brushed the two halves onto the floor.

" 'Well' what?" Trudy answered. Her tone was lazy, dis-
tracted. "Do you want something, Jonny Lee? I'm trying—"

"I know, I know. I'm bothering you." Jacobs waved a hand.
"Sony. Find out anything yet?"

"Come on in, and I'll show you what I've isolated so far."

"All right, but let's not take too long. We've got things to
do." Jacobs ordered his own chair to recline and, still tense
but reasonably comfortable, he accessed the neural network.

The office was suddenly replaced by a garden. It was a dif-
ferent garden, though, smaller and prettier than Trudy's usual
interface metaphor. There was a short picket fence around the
plot, and from somewhere not far off came the sounds of chil-
dren at play; Jacobs could also hear birds. Turning around, he
saw a small, neat, white house. His view of anything farther
away was blocked by tall hedges ringing the property.

"This is very nice," Jacobs said, and he meant it. "Some-
one's backyard, right?"

"My grandmother's, as a matter of fact," Trudy said. "I've
been working on it for a while. Do you really like it?"

Jacobs looked up at the clear blue sky. "Very much. Where
are we?"

"Pennsylvania—the nice part. I spent a lot of time here af-
ter Mother and Daddy split up." Trudy gestured around her.
"Grandmother's garden was my favorite place of all, espe-
cially at this time of year, when I'd help her get it into shape
after the winter; it's mid-April here now, in case you couldn't

92 Brad Ferguson

tell from the flowers. The other gardens I wrote were just
practice; I wanted to get this one right."

Jacobs looked around. "I think you did. It's beautiful. I
wish I'd met your grandma. Is she here?"

"Oh, God, no, Jonny Lee'" Trudy said, disconcerted. "I
couldn't write her\ No, we're the only ones here—and we
ought to get down to business. You were in a mad rush, re-
member?"

"I guess I was. Hey, looky here." Jacobs bent and picked
up an insect. He held it lightly between his fingers and
grinned. "Hey, honey, your program's got a—"

"Don't you dare say it."

"Shoot. All right, I won't." He stooped to let the thing drop
safely to the ground and watched as it skittered away. "What
have you got for me?"

Trudy bent quickly and picked a daffodil. "First of all,
here's the summary of the deal Bannister says Ambassador
Chaylaifa wants to strike with the Bloxx," she said, handing
him the flower. 'The wish list has pharmaceuticals, minerals,
and other standard stuff on it; Bannister's given us the quan-
tities desired and what Chaylaifa intends to offer for them in
goods and credits standard. Chaylaifa runs the biggest import
trust in the Rhuum Organization, so this deal could mean bil-
lions of creds stan to him personally. Bannister Investments is
brokering it, so they get the usual huge cut."

"All right," Jacobs said, sniffing at the flower. As he did,
his mind filled with the details of what he needed to know.
"Seems to pass the smell test. The Rhuum bids are low, but
that's why traders get together and haggle. Okay, no problem
so far. Now, what have we got on the clients?"

Trudy picked another flower—a hyacinth this time. "First
of all, here's what the neural net has on the Rhuum," she said.
"It's a condensation of a survey report done about fifty years
back."

"A little history, and that's it," Jacobs said, sniffing again.
"Pretty damned condensed, if you ask me."

"There's not much in the extended survey report, either,"
Trudy said. She picked a perfect tomato from a nearby vine
and handed it to Jacobs.

"This is out of season, isn't it?" he asked.

"I needed an analogue you might be able to handle, 0 ye

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of common tastes. Anyway, the report is largely technical;

you probably won't want to eat alt of it."

"We'll see about that." Jacobs bit into the tomato, and juice
dribbled down his chin. Suddenly, his eyes bulged. "Ugh
muff mughh," he said.

"Problem?" Trudy asked sweetly.

"Gluph fwu." Working hard, Jacobs chewed slowly and
men more slowly stilt before giving up. It was like chewing
lead. Turning aside politely, he spit into a convenient bush.

"Warned you," Trudy said. "I didn't get much further into
it than that myself."

"We'll hire an expert to come up with a summary," Jacobs
said. "Anything else?"

"That's it. There's considerably more material on the
Bloxx, though." Trudy handed Jacobs a big bowl of salad
makings and a pair of wooden forks. "Here. You toss, I'll
serve."

"I wish you'd find another metaphor," Jacobs said. "I hate
salad." He began to mix the contents of the bowl.

Trudy suddenly looked distant.

Jacobs knew that look. "What is it?" he asked.

"You're going to hate this, too," Trudy replied. "The Bloxx
fixed that busted driver of his. He'll be here in about an
hour."

"Oh," Jacobs said. "We'd better get out of here; I still have
to shave. Damn, I hate being pushed on things like this."

Jacobs and Trudy waited in the reception bay for the arrival
of the Bloxx craft. It dropped out of hyperspace on schedule
and achieved rendezvous without incident. Being relatively
small, the ship made its own way into the parking bay as dis-
appointed robot tugs scuttled out of the way. Robot valets,
their headlights blinking on and off in a pattern of welcome,
quickly came into position, bumping into each other in their
programmed eagerness.

"I love watching this," Trudy said. "The 'bots are so cute."

"Umph. My tie knotted okay?"

"For the twelfth time, yes- Oops—green light. That was
fast."

The airlock to the parking bay slid open, and there stood a

94 Brad Ferguson

tall, muscled man with the reddest hair Jacobs and Trudy had
ever seen.

"Sir Kethrommon?" Jacobs asked, as if mere could be any
doubt. "Do you speak trader talk?"

'That I am and that I do," he said, nodding. "You the con-
tacts Bannister was talking about?"

"Yes, m'lord, we are. I'm Jonathan Lee Jacobs, and this is
my partner Trudy Burke. As you've surmised, we represent
Bannister Investments—"

"Bunch of crooks, them. Hope you're not the same. If
you're Terrans, then let's all speak Anglish; I know it pretty
good. Hi, Trudy."

"Hello, m'lord ambassador. Pleased to meet you."

"M'lord?" Jacobs asked. "Is there really no one else in
your party?"

"Nobody else, pal. I'm it."

"Uh, you are? I mean to say, m'lord, that the Rhuum have
sent a lead negotiator and twenty-three assistants."

"Yep," he rumbled. "So what? Don't need others to deal
with people from Rhuum or anywhere else. Been doing this
kind of thing all my damn life. I captain my own craft and
chart my own course; King Bolo understands that. Helps that
he's my uncle, natch."

"But, m'lord, did I misunderstand? We were informed that
your people have never before held talks with the Rhuum."

"That's right. So? We have stuff they want. They'll do a
deal without too much trouble. King Bolo understands that,
too. Hey, Trudy Burke, you tied down?"

"Excuse me, m'loro?"

"You committed to some guy?"

Jacobs cleared his throat. "Sir, Miss Burke is also my
wife."

"That the same as mated, pal? I don't know Terran ways
much."

"Yes. Yes, it is. Miss Burke is my wife."

"Oh," he said, shrugging. "Too damn bad. Would have
liked to try you, Trudy Burke."

"I'm flattered beyond the telling, m'lord," Trudy said
dryly. "Well, shall we settle Sir Kethrommon in his suite now,
Mr. Jacobs? Perhaps you would like some dinner, m'lord?"

"Screw dinner." Kethrommon said, "There any women for

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hire at this damn hotel? Bigger ones than Trudy Burke here,
I mean. Not so fragile looking." Kethrommon grinned. "Been
a long trip for me, heh."

"I'll have the hotel's concierge contact you to arrange
things," Trudy said, her expression carefully bland. "I'm sure
they'll have someone well worth your time. You might also
try the neural net."

"Heh," Kethrommon said. "Maybe I will, both. You don't
like, eh, Trudy Burke?"

"It's none of my concern, m'lord. Really."

"But you don't like. Know what, Trudy Burke? You got
spunk. I love spunk!"

The opening rounds of talks between the trade representa-
tives of the Kingdom of Bloxx and the Rhuum Industrial Or-
ganization got under way the following morning with as much
appropriate pomp and ceremony as Jacobs and Burke could
quickly arrange with Hotel Andromeda's hospitality staff.

After the courtesy robots withdrew, Jacobs and Trudy took
seats at opposite ends of the long, large mahogany conference
table traditionally used in such negotiations, while Sir
Kethrommon sat directly across from Chaylaifa. The table was
bare of everything but writing implements and note paper; in
keeping with Rhuum ways, there was not even water. The size
of the table seemed excessive for so few people, but Jacobs was
betting that an old hand like Chaylaifa would appreciate the im-
plied status it gave him, and he was right; Chaylaifa broke into
an undiplomatic grin when he first saw it The twenty-three
members of the Rhuum negotiating staff sat in a gallery well be-
hind their chief; meir only job was to lend their presence to
these proceedings. Chaylaifa's wife and daughter sat with them
in the front row.

The first five minutes of the meeting were spent in ex-
changing formal pleasantries. Chaylaifa was, predictably,
good at it widi the skill of long experience. Kethrommon, not
so predictably, quickly proved himself capable of delivering a
rough yet effective and endearing presentation capable of
charming even his most formal listener.

Jacobs accessed the net. You there, Trudy?

She answered immediately. Sure I am, hon. Hey, is this guy
good, or what? Not only does he seem undamaged after last

96 Brad Ferguson

night's antics•—-and I've seen the bill!—but he's got the gift of
gab tike you wouldn't believe.

Jacobs winked at her. You just golta love this big lug,
don'lcha? Maybe old King Bozo knew what he was doing.
This is going to be okay, after all. A quick deal. nice and
clean, and—

That was exactly when Kethrommon bolted from his seat
and attempted to leap across the table at Chaylaifa, his cere-
monial dagger unsheathed. "You piss-sprayed son of a
whore!" Kethrommon cried in a white heat. "I'll kill you'"

Chaylaifa could move surprisingly quickly for such a big be-
ing; he kicked back his chair and drew his very unceremonial
blaster. Fortunately, the conference room's defensive systems
had clicked on instantly, and both antagonists had been safely
caught in a tanglefield. The tanglefield could do nothing to si-
lence Kethrommon, however, and he continued to shout threats.
Jacobs saw that Chaylaifa's wife and child were shrieking but,
since neither they nor anyone else in the gallery was offering
any aggressive behavior, the tanglefield was ignoring them.

The tanglefield was also ignoring the two facilitators, who
were frozen only by their own shock. Trudy's eyes were bulg-
ing. We must have missed something. What the hell was it?

I don't know, Trude. Let me access the transcript ... oh,
no!

A Security squad arrived a moment later. Several of its
members escorted Kethrommon to his suite, and Trudy ac-
companied them. Others took Chaylaifa back to his rooms.
and Jacobs went with him.

"Ambassador Chaylaifa," Jacobs carefully began when
they were at last alone, "didn't you realize that your ...
pleasant question ... represented the worst kind of insult to
Sir Kethrommon?"

"It was not intended as such," Chaylaifa said. He was gen-
uinely puzzled. "I have frequently asked it of humanoids, but
I have never gotten such a response."

Jacobs licked his lips. "Mr. Ambassador, some humanoids
resent the implication that their mothers were impregnated
with them by males who are not their acknowledged fathers."

Chaylaifa blinked. "But such things happen all the time,

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don't they? Especially in noble houses? I've read many histo-
ries of humanoid cultures."

"It's true that such things do happen. But it is usually—not
always, but usually—rude to suggest to an individual that he
himself represents one of those cases. Some cultures put great
store in being certain of whom one's parents are and, more-
over, having everyone else be certain of it, too. I hope you
can understand that Sir Kethrommon would greatly resent
your questioning his parentage."

"But I wasn't doubting his parentage, Mr. Jacobs," Chaylaifa
said. "I was simply asking who impregnated his mother."

"Now, m'lord," Trudy said soothingly, "you must know
that the ambassador didn't mean to offend you."

They were sitting across from each other at a coffee table
in the Bloxx's sitting room. Kethrommon had grown calmer
and was more in control of himself, but he was still hot with
anger. "Indeed, woman?" he spat. "Then I would hate to be
the victim of slurs he uttered with malicious intent."

"He is an alien, m'lord. He is not like you. He simply
doesn't understand."

Kethrommon nodded tightly. "I understand that. Barbarian,
he is."

Trudy's lips grew narrow. "If you like. He is certainly dif-
ferent. Not better, not worse—just different."

"I know 'different.* Trudy Burke," Kethrommon said. "I've
stood in the dirt of a hundred worlds. I've eaten that which
has tried to eat me; I've even eaten with that which has tried
to eat me."

"So you know how deeply the differences between beings
can run," said Trudy.

Kethrommon shook his head. "There is always decency,
and decency never changes. Never. Let me tell you some-
thing. I lost my father, he at my side against outsystem pirates
terrorizing our good neighbors of the fourth planet in our
system. He was blown apart by a fragmentation projectile. I
had to wash him off me that night, after the battle."
Kethrommon's teeth clenched. "I could overlook a slur upon
myself, given a lack of intent, but I will not—cannot—
countenance even an unintended insult against the memory of
my father. My people desperately need the trade the Rhuum

98 Brad Ferguson

Organization can provide, but I am no longer the one to get
it for them."

Trudy blinked. "So what will you do?"

"There is only one way the Rhuum can answer for his
insult—his death, by my hand."

"I hope there is another way, m'lord."

Suddenly Kethrommon sagged, the fight gone out of him.
"In Justice, I cannot take his life from him; I do indeed realize
he meant no harm by what he said. Trudy Burke, I am not un-
able to see that my killing the Rhuum would be a terrible
crime under these circumstances; I am not stupid. I will, how-
ever, leave Hotel Andromeda in the morning. As you are still
acting as facilitator for these talks, please have my ship made
ready for departure at that time." He carefully did not look at
her.

Trudy took a deep breath, somehow sensing that this was a
dangerous moment and that whatever she might say to him,
angry as he was and hurt as he was, could be dreadfully im-
portant- "I will do exactly as you ask," she finally said, and
she saw Kethrommon relax Just a touch.

"Thank you," he said in a low voice. "Any other answer
would not have done ... and I did not want to kill myself in
front of you, Trudy Burke." Trudy saw the dagger hidden in
his hand for the first time as he placed it on the table, the
point facing him. "I must not kill myself until I stand in front
of the king. That is the only way I may properly apologize to
my patron god for my failure."

Trudy needed pills to get to sleep that night, and that was
why the persistent beeping of the phone did not disturb her.
Jacobs had to shake her awake.

'Trudy, there's a problem," he said in the darkness. "A big
one."

"Whazzit?" his wife mumbled.

"That was Security. Chaylaifa is dead. Better start getting
dressed; I'll dial a wake-up for you."

Several minutes later Jacobs and Trudy caught a lift to the
VIP section. The door to Chaylaifa's suite was ajar; they en-
tered.

Several Security people were in the foyer, standing near
their chief of detail. There was a briefing going on. The chief

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was hard to make out, surrounded as he was by the others; he
was only a meter and a fraction tall, like most adults of his
race. He was, generally speaking, a lizard.

"Ah," he said, noticing Trudy and Jacobs. His mouth
twitched into the semblance of a smile. 'The partners of Ja-
cobs and Burke, no? I am Lieutenant Hrock-Leff of Hotel Se-
curity. These are several of my associates."

"Hello, Lieutenant, everyone," Jacobs said. "What hap-
pened here?"

"I do not know quite yet," Hrock-Leff said. "The ambassa-
dor is dead. Do you care to see?"

"Eh? Uh, I guess I have to," Jacobs said. Trudy?"

She seemed shaken. "I'll, uh, I'll wait here, I suppose. Call
me if you need me."

"Okay, Trude. Lieutenant? Lead on."

"This way, please, Mr. Jacobs." The two entered the main
bedroom of the suite.

Chaylaifa's body lay in the center of the bed. The blankets
and sheets had been ripped by his claws and gathered around
him, as if he had tried to provide himself with his own shroud
even as he died. His eyes were open and glazed. There was an
incredible amount of blood all over everything. Ritzcrackas and
other tidbits were spilled here and there.

"It looks like he was stabbed," Jacobs said.

"He was," Hrock-Leff replied. "He was stabbed some forty
times by someone with a smalt knife. From what I can see. at
least eight of the wounds were severe enough to be fatal, in
that Chaylaifa's circulation system was irreparably damaged
by each. He lost a great deal of blood very quickly. We have
an identification, by the way."

"An identification?" Jacobs asked, puzzled. "Of the body?"

"No," the lieutenant replied. "Of the perpetrator. The
chosha Nasu has named Sir Kethrommon of Bloxx."

"Jesus. Why am I not surprised?"

"I do not know. Let us go into the other bedroom, shall
we?"

There was a connecting door to another bedroom in the
suite. Inside, two Security officers were sitting with Nasu and
Fehlorah. The two females were dressed in bathrobes supplied
by the hotel; Nasu's barely fit her, while tiny Fehlorah seemed

100 Brad Ferguson

lost in hers. They were holding hands, and both seemed terri-
bly upset.

"I'm sorry, Madame Chaylaifa," Jacobs began, searching
for something appropriate to say. "Your husband's death is a
great loss to us all."

The Rhuum nodded her appreciation. "It is just Nasu now,"
she said, "but I thank you, Mr. Jacobs. Fehlorah also appreci-
ates your sympathy."

"Certainly. Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, there is. You can make sure that these police people
here bring the murderer of Chaylaifa to justice." She glared at
Hrock-Leff. "I am not sure of their intent. They seem reluc-
tant to take that devil spawn of Bloxx into custody."

Jacobs nodded. "I'll do my best, Nasu. Fehlorah, will you
be all right?"

"Yes, Mr. Jacobs," the girl said. "I will be all right."

"Very good. Lieutenant, may we talk?"

"Of course, Mr. Jacobs." They left the bedroom through
another door and went into the sitting room common to all
three bedrooms in the suite.

"Have a seat, Mr. Jacobs," Hrock-Leff invited, closing the
door behind him. He himself squatted on a footstool, perfectly
comfortable. "Would you like me to order something for you,
now that we are alone? Coffee, perhaps?"

"No, nothing for me, thank you. Lieutenant? Have you ar-
rested Kethrommon yet?"

"No. We have no need to bother him. We will not be arrest-
ing Sir Kethrommon."

"Oh," Jacobs said, frowning. "Diplomatic immunity, eh?"

"Hmmm?" the lieutenant said, almost distractedly. "Oh, no.
We will not be arresting the Bloxx, because he did not kill
Ambassador Chaylaifa. He has not left his room all evening."

"Oh? How do you know?"

"We do not spy, Mr. Jacobs, but you probably know that
the medical section keeps a passive watch on VIPs at the ho-
tel. should someone experience a health problem or suffer an
accident. Looking at the records for tonight, we see that
Kethrommon was in his room all evening. The records also
let us fix the time of Ambassador Chaylaifa's death. Only two
persons were with him at that moment: Nasu and Fehlorah."

"So one of them did it?"

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"Almost certainly. If they did not—if the murderer was some-
one not being monitored by the medical section, say a hotel staff
member or some such—then they were present at the time of
the killing and saw who did it, and can identify the criminal. It
was not one of Chaylaifa's staff; all arc VIPs and all are mon-
itored, and we can account for the movements of every one of
them. But that is neither here nor there. I suspect the former
chosha did it, using a small knife as her weapon, in the vain
hope that we would suspect Sir Kethrommon and his dagger.
The only other suspect is Fehlorah, and she is too small to have
done such damage. I have not yet confronted Nasu with an ac-
cusation, but I will in good time." Hrock-Leff yawned. "Pardon
me; I was awakened for this. As I was saying, I am in no hurry
to confront Nasu. She is not going anywhere."

"Excuse me? The 'choh-shah'? You keep talking about
one. Who the hell is that?"

"You have been referring to Nasu as Chaylaifa's wife. She
was not that. She was his chosha."

"Well, whatever. Why did she kill Chaylaifa?"

"I do not know yet. My initial inspection of the scene sug-
gests that Nasu was tired of being forced to indulge Chaylaifa
in his sexual perversions."

"What? Chaylaifa was a pervertT

"It would seem so. I believe that the ambassador must have
already thoroughly corrupted young Fehlorah, the
thaka 'thott—"

"The what?"

"The thaka'thoti," Hrock-Leff repeated, more slowly. "My
good word, Mr. Jacobs. Did you really do so little research on
the ways of the Rhuum before you took this assignment?"

"Uh, wait a minute, there. My own chosha usually does
that sort of thing; I'm the idea man. Lieutenant, we got this
job at the very last minute. I learned all there was to know
about the trade deal and what both sides expected from it.
Our job was to bring the Rhuum and the Bloxx together, take
care of the niggling details so that both sides wouldn't have
to worry about them, lead them to strike the deal they both
wanted, and send them home happy and satisfied. I didn't
think I needed a quickie degree in xenoanthropology, too."

"Perhaps you did, Mr. Jacobs," the lieutenant said, the sar-

102 Brad Ferguson

casm lost on him. "Sorting these things out can sometimes
become impossibly complicated. A degree might help."

"You may have a point there. Lieutenant Anyway, I thought
there might be something weird going on between the old boy
and me giri. Nasu knew all about it, I suppose."

Hrock-Leff blinked in surprise- "Well, Mr. Jacobs, I mean,
really. What else would you expect?"

Jacobs nodded wisely. "Of course. The wife—sorry, the
chosha—is always the first to know, isn't she? What a mess!"

Hrock-Leff blinked. "I'm afraid you've lost me, sir. May
we leave now?"

"Sure. Let's go."

Jacobs and the lieutenant left the sitting room and entered
the second bedroom. The two Security people had left, and no
one but Nasu and Fehlorah were in the room. The two were
standing next to the bed. They were locked in an embrace.
Fehlorah was naked; her robe was puddled around her feet.

Nasu's eyes were closed as Fehlorah's small hand groped
inside her opened robe, playing and stroking and touching, so
she did not notice the presence of Jacobs and Hrock-Leff for
several seconds. She squealed in surprise and fright when she
did- Startled, Fehlorah whirled and, seeing them there, bolted
for the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her.

"I thought—thought you were all gone except for the Secu-
rity persons posted outside," Nasu stammered as she tied her
robe closed. She was a little out of breath.

"We most humbly beg your pardon," Hrock-Leff said,
bowing his head slightly. "We were talking in the other room
and quite lost track of time. Our fault entirely. Mr. Jacobs?
Let us leave, please."

"Uh, yes." Jesus! thought Jacobs. They're all crazy!

Honey? came Trudy's worried thought. / caught that.
What's going on?

You won't believe it, honey. Later. The lieutenant and Ja-
cobs left the bedroom, passed through the room where
Chaylaifa's body still lay, and emerged into the foyer, where
Trudy was waiting for them.

"Hello, Miss Burke," Hrock-Leff said. "You appear to be
agitated, if I read me signs correctly."

"Hello, Lieutenant. Jonny Lee, we have to go to the of-
fice."

RHUUM SERVICE                103

"We do?"

"Now. Lieutenant? May I ask a favor?"

"Of course you may. Miss Burke."

"Would you please delay notifying the relevant parties of
Chaylaifa's death until I contact you? Including the rest of
Chaylaifa's entourage? I promise that it will not be a long de-
lay."

Hrock-Leff cocked his head to one side. "I am afraid I can-
not at all delay briefing my superiors in Security ... but I can
request that neither they nor the hotel contact anyone con-
cerning this matter until I consent."

"Thank you. Lieutenant. That will do fine. We're very
grateful. We'll talk to you again later—not much later."

"I await the moment with pleasure. Good night, Mr. Ja-
cobs, Miss Burke."

Lieutenant Hrock-Leff watched as the two facilitators left,
the determined female almost literally dragging the arguing
male away. How like Terrans, he thought with amusement. No
doubt she has figured things out. And about time, too.'

Jacobs and Trudy were back in her grandmother's garden.

"Nice and peaceful here," Jacobs said. "Can't we stay for,
like, a year?"

"Don't I wish," Trudy said, seating herself on the ground.
"Look, Jonny Lee, I'm the one who's supposed to handle the
niggling details, and I didn't this time. What's happened is
mostly my fault—no, don't stop me. This was a quickie con-
tract, we thought, and so I treated it that way. I let myself be
rushed into this. Well, I'll never do that again."

Jacobs dropped down beside her. "Why are you beating
yourself up, Trude?"

"I'm not. Just listen to me for a minute. If we put our heads
together, we can still fix it"

"We can fix it?" Jacobs asked. "The Bloxx emissary is
about to go home in disgrace, and he's set to commit ritual
suicide as soon as he gets within three feet of King Boppo.
Our favorite couple from Rhuum turns out to be a pair of
child molesters—incestuous child molesters! At least now
there's one fewer of 'em than there used to be, thanks to the
victim's wife—sorry, I mean his chosha."

"Get a grip, Jonny Lee."

104 Brad Ferguson

"Why should I? Everything's gone to hell. Bannister will
fire our butts for sure, and they'll be real public about it be-
cause they'll have to be in order to save their own butts. Our
reputation is going to take a heavy hit. We have no hope of
salvaging anything here—and you're saying we can actually
fix this mess?"

"I think we can," Trudy said, offering her husband a small
bowl. "By the way, stop assuming you know what you're
talking about. You don't."

"I don't?" Jacobs said, taking the bowl and sniffing at it.
"Hey, is this salsa?"

"Lightly spiced with relevant detail. This is the technical
material neither of us could handle before Kethrommon got
here. I've worked it over some. Here's a spoon."

Jacobs took it and began eating. "It's good," he said, chew-
ing a little and swallowing.

"I wnomped it up while you were in the other room of
Chaylaifa's suite, talking to the lieutenant," Trudy said.
"There was something about what was going on that just
didn't ring true. I didn't have much else to do while I was
waiting, so I accessed the net to do some of the background
research I damn well should have done in the first place."

"There's some tough bits in this, but it's fine." Jacobs be-
gan to absorb tiny fragments of detail.

"No, don't savor it," Trudy said. "Just eat it up and think
about it later. We're in a hurry, you know." She produced a
bag of corn chips. "By the way, here's what we didn't already
know about the Bloxx. Take it all in, love."

"Yep." He ate quickly and, in a few minutes, he finished.

"Well?" Trudy asked.

"Give me a second and let me start digesting all this—oh,
Jesusl"

Trudy grinned. "You found the biggie, didn't you? Wife
and daughter, indeed! Never mind; I'm just as guilty. They
acted like wife and daughter to Chaylaifa, but they were ac-
tually the second and third members of a male-dominated
trisexual relationship."

Jacobs wiped a hand over his face. "I must have looked
like a fool in front of Lieutenant Hrock-Leff," he said. It was
almost a groan. "Chaylaifa—the sha—was the seed carrier.
He plants it in Fehlorah, the thaka'thott; if he has sex with

RHUUM SERVICE                105

Nasu, it's only in fun or to excite himself further, the old dog.
Fehlorah is a natural hermaphrodite who's just past puberty.
All thaka'thotts are. Fehlorah contributes her egg and incu-
bates the fertilized ovum for a day or two. When the time
comes, she passes her egg through intercourse to Nasu, a true
female—the chosha—who goes through pregnancy and bears
the youngling. The way I just saw Fehlorah cozying up to
Nasu, Fehlorah is probably carrying a fertilized egg right now.
After two to five fertilizations, Fehlorah's body will tell her
whether she's going to mature into a sha or chosha. Damn!"

"It's an atypical case, Jonny Lee," Tmdy said. "Don't blame
yourself. The Rhuum arc unique. We don't know of any other
viviparous trisexual races."

"I know, I know—but there I was, calling them child mo-
lesters and perverts."

"But you were half-right, hon. Chaylaifa, at least, was a
pervert."

"Huh? How so? The records say the Rhuum usually have
threesomes."

"Go on, Jonny Lee. Think about it some more."

Jacobs did. Suddenly, he blinked. "What, for thati Shoot!
With all that other stuff going on, who'da thunk it? Who'da
paid attention^"

"We should have," Trudy replied. "We're supposed to be
good at this. Face it, love, we're racial chauvinists."

"I guess we must be."

"This particular taboo is hardly unique—although, in its
most severe form, it never lasts very long in the history of a
particular civilization. Or so it says here."

"I'm beginning to have an idea," Jacobs said.

"I was hoping you would. Now think about the Btoxx."

"I have been. That one's harder. The insult to Kethrommon's
dignity was substantial." Jacobs thought some more about it.
"No. No apology is possible. I don't see any way out of the
situation—not directly, at any rate."

"I don't know what to do, either," Trudy said.

"It'll be okay, Trude," Jacobs said, and there was a certain
familiar light in his eyes- "For the first time since we fell into
this pile of sawdust, I'm beginning to get the feeling that
we're gonna win. Let's go talk to Lieutenant Hrock-Leff."

106 Brad Ferguson

Trudy, Jacobs and Hrock-Leff had returned to Chaylaifa's
suite. "I must talk to you now, Nasu," the lieutenant said. "Do
you want these others to leave us?"

"No," Nasu said. "Mr. Jacobs is the nearest thing to a rep-
resentative I—we—have aboard the hotel-1 would like him to
stay. I have a feeling we might need him."

"I'll do what I can for you, Nasu."

"I know. Please go ahead. Lieutenant. I hope you need not
involve Fehlorah in this. She's still a youngling in so many
ways."

Hrock-Leff nodded. "I do not believe there is a need to in-
volve her. Let us begin. You killed Ambassador Chaylaifa, did
you not?"

"Yes," Nasu said. She went to one of the bedside tables,
opened a drawer and retrieved a small knife. It was still
stained with Chaylaifa's blood. "I took this from the ...
cart ... this evening and placed it under my pillow in the
other bedroom," Nasu said, handing it to the lieutenant.
"When Chaylaifa began making his, his demands, I ... I just
could not acquiesce again." She began shaking. "I did it. I
killed him. I am not sorry. I could not suffer another night of
Chaylaifa's ... aberrations."

'Tell me about them, Nasu," the lieutenant said.

Nasu's icy composure was slipping; she was beginning to
weep. "I can barely bring myself to speak of them," she whis-
pered.

"You must."

"He ... he corrupted the poor thaka 'thott. He ... he ...
consumed nourishment right in front of us. He left crumbs in
bed\ He was proud of it!" She sobbed. "What else could I

dor'

Jesus. Trudy, came Jacobs's thought.

Shhh. Trudy returned. Hrock-Leff's working up to the pitch.

"Nasu, what of Fehlorah?" asked the lieutenant. "What was
her role in this killing?"

"She watched throughout." Nasu paused to collect herself
and, after a moment, she continued. "She thanked me after-
ward. We made quick love, right there at his side, in his
blood. It was wonderful. Then we washed together, and it was
just then that the medicos and the security people arrived,

RHUUM SERVICE                107

summoned automatically by the sha's sudden death. I am
ready to be arrested now." She bowed her head.

"I am not going to arrest you, Nasu."

"You are not?" She seemed puzzled.

"No. I have no authority to do so. You are—were—the
mate of a diplomat; I cannot take you into custody, even for
the killing of that selfsame diplomat. You are answerable to
your own people for your actions here, but you are not an-
swerable to us. I will provide a full report to your ministry of
justice, and the hotel management will ask you to leave the
premises as soon as possible."

"I understand, Lieutenant," Nasu said, "and I accept the ne-
cessity." She sighed. "The scandal that arises from this will ruin
our family—oh, not because of the actions I have taken tonight,
no, but because of what the sha has done. Chaylaifa was a fig-
ure of respect, but he had grown very old, and in his great age
he had also grown ... foul. The whispers concerning his aber-
rant conduct will become shouts, once this incident is made
known." She closed her eyes. "Certainly everything will be
taken from us by those who ... protect ... our code of moral-
ity, but I care not Fehlorah and I will manage."

"I am certain you will," Lieutenant Hrock-Leff agreed. "I
can see that there is a great strength between you—and, if I
am not mistaken," he said, sniffing the air, "there is some-
thing even more important between you now."

"I think so, too," Nasu said, smiling for the first time.
"Fehlorah will soon give me her egg. It will be our first."

"All the more reason you should listen to Mr. Jacobs,"
Hrock-Leff said. "He has a plan."

A few hours later, there was a knock at the door of
Kethrommon's suite. "Package, Sir Kethrommon," came a ro-
bot voice.

Kethrommon was sitting in the dark, utterly alone. "Just
leave it there," he said, "and go away."

"Sorry, m'lord, but I need your thumbprint as proof of de-
livery."

"No."

"It is very important. I am told to say it concerns your mis-
sion."

"What mission?" Kethrommon asked miserably. "I have

108 Brad Ferguson

none—oh, never mind. All right. I will take the delivery." As
he rose from his chair, the lights went on. He crossed the
room in three steps and opened the door to find a delivery ro-
bot standing there, a small package set atop its flat head.

"This is the thing?" Kethrommon asked.

"Yes, m'lord. Your thumbprint, please, on the glass plate
next to the tray ... thank you. Good night, m'lord."

"Good night," Kethrommon said as he closed the door. He
looked at the package. It was a not very large box sealed in
plastic, and the only thing written on it was his own name—in
an ornate hand, to be sure. It was moderately heavy. He held the
package up to his ear and rattled it, and something inside
thumped.

"Well, I wonder," Kethrommon muttered. He picked at the
easy-open tab with a fingernail, and the plastic promptly fell
apart along its pre-stressed seams. He opened the box and
stopped for a moment, shocked and speechless. Then he
smiled for the first time in many hours.

Things in Chaylaifa's suite were getting busy.

"That was Sir Kethrommon, via the net," Trudy said. "He
sends his personal regards to us, and he says he will be
pleased to attend an early-moming meeting of the principals,
as long as it is over before the time of his ship's scheduled
departure. He will not change that."

"I didn't expect him to," Jacobs said, pleased. "I knew
Kethrommon would give us some wiggle room if we gave
him any excuse at all. Good boy!"

"You saw something in the files I didn't notice," Trudy
said.

"Just a detail. Kethrommon could not lake Chaylaifa's life in
payment for the insult to him—not in the context of negotiations
with a foreign government, anyhow. However, Chaylaifa could
offer his life—which he did by sending Kethrommon his very
own blaster. It's the same weapon he pulled on him at the
meeting yesterday. Fraught with symbolism."

"I see," Lieutenant Hrock-Leff said. "So, at the meeting
this morning, Kethrommon will fire into Chaylaifa's already
dead body, honor will be served, and that will be the end of
it."

"Oh, heaven forbid," Jacobs said. 'That would cause more

RHUUM SERVICE                109

problems later. I can't have the Bloxx trade rep appear to kill
the Rhuum ambassador—and I still want the two sides to
strike a deal."

"A deal? With one of the parties dead?"

"You bet. Lieutenant. C'mon. I want to see how they're
doing with Chaylaifa." They walked into the main bedroom.
"Hi, fellas."

"Hello, Mr. Jacobs," said the chief cosmetologist, his ro-
dent teeth chattering. The others nodded to Jacobs and contin-
ued to scurry around Chaylaifa's bulky form, combing and
cleaning and straightening. "How d'you think he's looking?"

"Pretty good, Osroqui, pretty good. I knew your team could
do it if anybody could."

"Thanks, Mr. Jacobs. Hey, this fur of his is a real problem,
what with the blood and all. Kinks and gunk alt over the
place. Hell, he was still leaking when we got here. How cov-
ered up is the old kark going to be?"

"He'll have a ceremonial robe on, like that one over on the
chair. He can also wear a big hat, if you need him to. His face
is going to be the important thing. How about his eyes?"

"I can't do much about those, even if I replaced them with
glass," Osroqui said. "He can't blink anymore, and that kind
of thing always gives a stiff away. I don't think we need a hat.
Hey, does his kind wear veils?"

"No, they don't." Jacobs thought a moment. "Glass, you
said. Hmmm. Glasses."

"Glasses?" Osroqui asked.

"Something you see in old Terran movies. Humans used to
wear glass lenses in frames over their eyes to correct vision
problems. We could make ones with really thick lenses; then
you couldn't see if Chaytaifa was blinking or not. We could
tell Kethrommon it was some Rhuum thing. Measure his head
for me, will you, Osroqui? I'll make a call."

The time for the meeting arrived. The rest of the Rhuum
party was only slightly surprised to find Chaylaifa, Nasu, and
Fehlorah already in place at the conference table, but they
took their seats in the gallery without incident.

Kethrommon entered to find things much the same as the
day before, except that Jacobs and Trudy were standing by

110 Brad Ferguson

Chaylaifa's side, and that the Rhuum ambassador was
wearing ... something ... over his eyes.

"Mr. Jacobs?" the Bloxx began, somewhat puzzled. "Why
are you sitting over there today? Do you propose to speak for
the Rhuum?"

"With your indulgence, m'lord," Jacobs began, "I do, in a
way. The ambassador has asked me to translate his native
tongue into Anglish for him in order to spare us farther, ah,
difficulties."

"I see." Kethrommon reached into his cloak and dropped
Chaylaifa's blaster onto the table. It clattered. There was
something like a gasp from the gallery. "I received this last
night," he said. "Did the ambassador grasp the import?"

Jacobs put his head very near Chaylaifa's lips, waited a
moment, and then straightened. "He did, m'lord. He begs a
moment while he very carefully phrases what he wishes to
say next, realizing that you need not grant him this boon."

Kethrommon paused, then nodded. "Very well. What is it?"

Jacobs bent, paused, and straightened again. "He wishes to
ask again the question which he so poorly and insultingly put
to you yesterday because of his clumsiness with the language.
He begs to know if he may ask this question again, here and
now, or do you wish to kill him right away? He humbly
awaits your answer."

Kethrommon was silent for a long minute. "He may ask
the question," the Bloxx representative finally said, his jaw
set.

Jacobs put his head next to Chaylaifa's mouth. "The am-
bassador wished to know, Sir Kethrommon, which of your
warrior gods acted through your father to sire you. You ex-
hibit the most honorable traits of many of them, and the am-
bassador would like to know so he, too, may honor him."

Kethrommon blinked. "Is that what he—never mind.
Please tell the ambassador that I have the honor to have as my
patron the god Anox-MaIeth, the warrior spirit of the northern
provinces; my father's family is of those lands. Please thank
the ambassador for his interest." The Bloxx picked up the
blaster and rather casually put it into the pocket in his cloak.
"I think we should begin the meeting now."

"The ambassador is eager as ever to begin," Jacobs said.

RHUUM SERVICE

m

Jacobs and Trudy were standing at the viewport in the de-
parture lounge, hand in hand. They watched as the Rhuum
yacht sprang away from the side of the hotel and, on thrust-
ers, maneuvered into proper position for its sprint for home.

"Ahem," said Lieutenant Hrock-Leff. "I thought I might
join you for the departure. All is well?"

Jacobs nodded to him. "All is very well. Lieutenant. And
you?"

"A bit more prosperous than I was, as are certain members
of my squad. We thank you."

"You're all entirely welcome." Jacobs turned back to the
viewport as the lieutenant came to stand with him and Trudy.

"They are satisfied?" Hrock-Leff asked. "I still cannot be-
lieve it has worked."

"Everything's fine," Jacobs answered. "Chaylaifa went
aboard on a medical stretcher. The poor sha is completely ex-
hausted. He will have a fatal heart attack on the way home—a
regrettable consequence of his strenuous efforts to bring about
the first trade treaty with the Bloxx. The ship's doctor is a
family confidant; he'll keep silent and no one else will know.
Chaylaifa will be buried in space, according to tradition. Nasu
and Fehlorah will inherit Chaylaifa's import business. They'll
be well taken care of."

Trudy nodded. "They ought to be. Rhuum has struck the
first major agreement with a race that's sure to be a major
player in this part of the galaxy."

"And we nailed it for them," Jacobs said, with great satis-
faction. "Despite everything."

"I hope Nasu and Fehlorah will be all right," Trudy said.
"They've been through quite an ordeal."

"They're the widowed spouses of a hero of the Rhuum In-
dustrial Organization," said Jacobs. "They'll be treated right,
don't worry. They won't be single for long, either—not with
that bankroll. They'll find a new sha, or Nasu will take
Fehtorah if she turns out to be sha herself."

"I wonder how we managed to fool Sir Kethrommon,
though?" Lieutenant Hrock-Leff wondered. "He is not stu-
pid."

"He isn't," Jacobs said with a grin, "and we didn't.
Kethrommon realized that Chaylaifa was dead the moment he
saw him. However, he decided to trust me—or, more accurately,

112 Brad Ferguson

he decided to trust Tmdy, who was standing right there, after
all, and so had to be privy to what was going on. Kethronunon
played along and quickly realized that we were showing a
way—the only way—out of the jungle. He took it. bless his
heart."

"You were sure of him?" Hrock-Leff asked.

"Reasonably sure. I figured Kethronunon wouldn't expose
us, as long as we didn't implicate him in our cover-up or deal
unfairly with him in the talks—that is, as long as we didn't
put his personal honor into question, and we never did. No,
the whole charade with Chaylaifa's body was for the benefit
of the Rhuum party. They'll go home now and tell everyone
how wonderful the regrettably departed Chaylaifa was at the
talks. His finest moment coming right at the end, and ail
that."

The Rhuum yacht was nothing more than a pinpoint of
winking light in the far distance. Suddenly, it vanished.

"There they go," Trudy said. "Safe home, Nasu and
Fehlorah."

"Indeed," Hrock-Leff said, nodding. "Well, I feel a bit let
down, to tell you the truth. This case provided more excite-
ment than I usually see in my work. Actually, I found it rather
exhilarating."

"Really?" Jacobs asked, as the three turned and left the
lounge. "Well, stick around. Lieutenant. This could be the
start of a beautiful friendship."

SOFT IN THE WORLD,
AND BRIGHT

M. Shayne Bell

This is how it began: I stumbled. But it wasn't just a stum-
ble. I knew that. My right leg "felt" tingly—no, "felt" as
if tiny pinpricks of my mind's awareness about my knee were
disappearing, as if the knee itself were disappearing atom by
atom in a sudden rush.

Mary! I shouted the thought in my mind, but she didn't an-
swer, and I could not access her virtual reality in my mind to
find her. I was shut out of it. But she could stop this—she was
the artificial intelligence networked through my nerves and
my brain to give me my body. I thought maybe that's why she
didn't answer me. Maybe she was trying to stop my body
from disintegrating from my consciousness and she couldn't
answer me because it took all of her efforts.

I had stopped walking and was standing in the middle of a
broad flight of stairs leading down to breakfast, and people
were staring. I looked across at the handrail against the wall
and took a step toward it with my left leg. I could walk with

113

114 M. Shayne Bell

it. My left leg worked. I dragged my right leg along and got
to the handrail and the bottom of the stairs and a table, where
I sat and rubbed my knee. My hands could feel my knee, but
my knee couldn't feel my hands on it.

Mary. I thought. What's happening?

But she didn't answer, and a golden robot with its ruby,
multifaceted eyes stood next to my table to take my order and
I couldn't think what to tell it.

"Are you all right, Mr. Addison?" it asked.

It knew me because it was linked to the hotel's central in-
telligence, which knew all about me: that I was actually no
more than a brain in a body that wouldn't work without the
AI they put inside me after I broke my neck and we found out
that I was allergic to the neural-regeneration drugs, that I
couldn't actually feel anything, it was the AI giving my mind
the illusion of feeling, that I couldn't breathe on my own, or
speak, or control my urination, or be a man among other men
who can walk and breathe and hold their urine, and that every
eight years I had to have the AI replaced because me pro-
grams would become corrupted, and it was Mary's eighth
year and they would erase her out of my mind and I didn't
want her to go because I loved her.

I put my hands on the table. "I'm fine," I said to the robot.

"Might I suggest the buffet this morning?"

I couldn't walk to a buffet. "Please bring me some coffee,"
I said, "and fruit."

"Grapefruit?"

I nodded.

It left, and I still couldn't feel my knee, and I wouldn't put
my hands on it. Mary, I thought. Talk to me, Mary. Are you
all right?

But she didn't send a word to my mind. I was sitting in
Swan Court, next to the hotel's artificial lagoon by its artifi-
cial sea, and the artificial breeze off the water smelled like the
sea, and I knew the sea smelled like this because Mary and I
had run along a beach once in the early morning and I had
felt the sand on my feet, and the spray from the waves on my
skin, and I knew Mary was making me feel all of that, but I
didn't care because Mary was with me in my mind and we
were happy with the sun coming up over the sea.

"Your coffee, sir."

SOFT IN THE WORLD, AND BRIGHT

115

The robot put it down in front of me.

"Your grapefruil, sir."

"Thank you."

"Would you like anything else?"

"No."

"Shall I call the swans for you?"

I looked up at the robot and wanted it to go and leave me
alone. 'The swans?" I said.

The robot looked out over the water, and three swans swam
toward us. I wondered how the robot had called them, and
then I thought they were probably not real swans, but robots,
and it had called them through the central intelligence with a
thought. They were graceful and lovely, and the robot left but
the swans didn't.

I spooned sugar into the coffee and stirred it and lifted the
cup and took a drink—and the coffee burned my lips, but my
hands hadn't felt the heat of it in the cup though they had felt
the cup, and 1 put the cup down but my hand started shaking
and made coffee spill onto the white tablecloth and I touched
my lips but only my lips could feel the touch now, and my
hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I put them in my lap.

And knew then what would happen. I didn't want to go
through it, not again, not a third time. I didn't want to be in
my mind when they killed another AI that I had lived with
and loved—when they killed Mary this time. Mary, I thought,
we'll try to fix whatever's wrong. We fixed the last set of prob-
lems you had two weeks ago. We 'II fix this. I don't know if
you can hear my thoughts, but I won't let them erase you.

I looked up and the swans were swimming away, and the
robot was serving food to a man and a woman and a little girt
sitting three tables from me. I raised one of my shaking
hands, and the robot looked at me.

"Help me," I said in a whisper, knowing it could hear me
and call help with its thoughts, and we wouldn't have to dis-
turb the people around us for a while yet.

They came to me quickly, two medical robots, and they
were kind and gentle. They spoke to me in low voices, telling
me what they were going to do, that they would help me walk
out of the restaurant to a service elevator, that they could

116 M. Shayne Bell

carry me and were prepared with a respirator should I need
one on the way. I listened to them and wondered about their
lives. Did they love each other? I knew that they could love,
and that I could love them. I had loved three AIs. There are
people who, if they heard me talk of love, would think that
contact with artificial intelligences had corrupted my mind,
not the other way around. But it was not the outward physical
that I loved, after all. It was the inward quality of soul.

The robots carried me to the hospital, and along the way I
lost my body. When they hooked me to machines that monitored
my vital signs and made me breathe and took care of my bodily
functions and dripped water in my veins so I wouldn't dehy-
drate, I couldn't feel it I couldn't feel the air in my lungs or my
chest move up and down, or the rough cotton sheets against my
bare skin. They kept me room dark so it wouldn't hurt my eyes,
but even so, I could see the bank of monitors that told me or
anyone who cared to look that my lungs were breathing and my
heart beating. It is a curious thing to be forced to lie absolutely
still and watch me functions of your body be displayed digitally
in bright green lines and know that they are going on but not
feel them.

And they had put electrodes on my head above the' implant
that held Mary. Her monitor showed a steady, positive green
line. Normal. Agitated, probably. Low. But normal. Mary, I
thought. We'll find a way to help you.

I hoped that what I was telling her was true, that we could
find a way to help her- I wondered what she was thinking or
doing and whether she knew that I would try to save her again.
The theory was that the complexity of maintaining her own ex-
istence while making my body work and feeding my mind the
illusion of sensation would eventually overwhelm her basic algo-
rithms. a process estimated to take a minimum of eight years,
after which she could crash catastrophically at any moment, and
die, and take me with her if help couldn't reach me in time.

But the theory didn't factor in love.

Mary and I could meet in virtual reality. I could close my
eyes and go to her as a man in a room in the virtual reality
implant and be with her. Mary always took the form of a
woman with me- She was never a man, like my first AI, or

SOFT IN THE WORLD. AND BRIGHT

117

sometimes a man and sometimes a woman like the second.
She was always just Mary. And she was beautiful.

I'm an artist, she told me one day, sitting next to me in the
virtual-reality room, and her eyes sparkled. She was excited,
breathless. I believed in her art: my body had never been
more lean and tight, more sensitive, more orgasmic, more
alive to the sudden brush of sunlight through clouds, or the
clean feel of a glass tabletop, of the stirrings of the wind in
the hair on my arms than it had been with Mary.

Come outside, she said, and she stood and took my hand.

Outside? I asked, because there had never been an outside be-
fore. I stood and she turned me around, and there was a door
now: dark oak, weathered, a little barred window the shape of
a knight's shield at just the height of my eyes, and I could see
blue sky out of it By the door was a stone table, and on the ta-
ble a rose. I walked to the table and picked up the rose, and the
thorns pricked my skin. It smelled as beautiful as any rose I had
ever smelled. What have you done? I asked.

And she opened the door and we walked out onto a moun-
tainside in Spain: Andalusia, the Moorish country west of Gi-
braltar, the forests in the mountains, and the dry plain below
us with black-robed riders galloping black horses across it far
away, and the deep blue of the Atlantic, and across the straits,
Africa. It was a place I loved, and she knew it because I loved
it, and here it was in detail I had forgotten or which had never
been. The mountains were starker, more jagged, more roman-
tic. There were no cities. No roads. No other people, till we
found that when we connected to the net our AI friends could
visit us. I looked behind us, and the room we had walked out
of had become part of a little white stucco Spanish house with
a dull-red tile roof and a weathered water jar by the door.

Do you like this? she asked me.

Did I like it? I remembered her asking that question while
I lay without the sensation of my body in the hospital bed.
Mary's Spain was startling, but serene. The house she built in
my mind became a home for us.

Toward noon, I felt a sudden rushing in my mind like the
coming of a wind. My head felt expanded, immense, vast, and
I knew that some greater artificial intelligence had entered me.

Which meant a human doctor was coming to talk to me.

118 M. Shayne Belt

I couldn't imagine the days before AIs, the horror of life
for people paralyzed like me, when you couldn't speak, when
nothing could take out your thoughts and make them become
words. When all you could do is listen and wait and wait and
wait.

Hello, I thought.

Hello, William Addison.

Who are you?

I'm Hotel Andromeda.

But I knew that wasn't, perhaps, accurate. The hotel's cen-
tral intelligence ran so many programs, was responsible for so
much, that what was in me was only a small part of her vast
mind. So should I call you Andromeda or Hotel or both? I
asked.

The AI laughed in my mind, and I heard the doctor walk
in the room. I couldn't turn my head to see her. But she
leaned over and put her face above mine so I could see her
when she talked to me, and she smiled. She had an old, care-
worn face. I could tell from the way she was holding her arms
that she must have been holding on to mine, but I couldn't
feel her touch.

"I'm sorry for the trouble you've had here," she said. "But
this isn't your first rime to go through this, is it? You know
what we have to do, and that the procedure to make you well
will take some time."

You don't understand, I thought, and Andromeda played my
thoughts as words through a speaker at the head of my bed.
/ don't want to go through that procedure again.

"What?"

/ want to try to save Mar—the artificial intelligence in me.
I don 'l want her to die.

"Dying, as you call it, is part of the process of an AI's life,
Mr. Addison. It accepted all this. It won't feel pain the way
you feel pain."

Not physical pain, at least, I thought. But she wilt feel the
pain of ending, of parting, f want her programs searched for
errors and the errors fixed and Mary put back inside of me.

"Mary, is it?"

The doctor moved out of my line of vision, and I heard her
opening a drawer in a cabinet I couldn't see.

There are elegant diagnostic and reconstructive programs,

SOFT IN THE WORLD, AND BRIGHT

119

Doctor, I thought. Couldn 't Andromeda take Mary and run the
programs on her and find a way to help her?

The doctor didn't say anything in response to that, at first.

Can you? I asked Andromeda. Can you do this?

Why do you want this, William Addison? Andromeda asked
me. The laws and procedures for AI replacement are set up to
help you, to protect you.

Because I love her, I thought, and it was the first time I had
told that to anyone except Mary. Andromeda had spoken my
thoughts through the speaker, and no one said anything to me
about my love, not the doctor or Andromeda. The room was
quiet for a rime.

"It's been eight years, Mr. Addison," the doctor said, fi-
nally. "MAR-1 programs like yours start to fail at eight years.
Some might last longer, but for how long we don't know.
Keeping this particular AI in you any longer would be dan-
gerous, especially when you've already seen the beginnings
of its failure."

Do people abandon their sick? I asked the doctor. / don't
want to abandon Mary when she is the equivalent of sick. I
am trying to find programmers who can help her—and one
did two weeks ago. Mary and 1 are traveling to Earth to get
even better help. We have a chance on Earth, if we can get
there.

It would be a danger to me to work with your AI. Androm-
eda told me in thoughts. Her corruptions might infect me.

Leave her in my mind. I thought. Copy a part of your pro-
gram and put it in my mind and check her that way. Don't
take her out into any part of you.

And in a rush of AI action I felt a movement in my mind
and a door open and a program entering it. I rushed to follow.
I'm coming, too, I said.

You'll slow me down.

Then go slowly. I want to talk to Mary, to see her. Tell the
doctor what we're doing.

I was in the bedroom in our house in Mary's Spain, and it
was as Mary and I had left it that morning: the bed unmade,
the windows open. But there was a storm outside, and no one
had closed the windows. Rain and leaves had blown in onto
the bed and floor.

Take this, Addison.

120 M. Shayne Belf

I turned and caught a gun thrown into my arms- It wasn't
a gun, of course, but a representation of a program that could
kill an AI. I knew that, but still it looked and felt like a gun
to me. Andromeda, or at least a copy of a part of her, stood
in the form of a woman at the side of the door, heavily armed,
dressed in black jeans and T-shirt, a gun held at the ready. I
threw my gun on the bed and closed the windows.

Keep that gun. Andromeda said. / don't know what damage
can be done to your mind with you in here.

I couldn't shoot Mary.

It might not be Mary you have to shoot.

I thought about that and picked up the gun.

Andromeda smirked at the bed. Not platonic, you and
Mary, are you? she said.

Does it matter?

What do you feel when you hold her?

A woman.

What does she feel when she holds you?

I'd wondered that, too. Me, I said. She says she feels me.

Call her in. Open the door and call her in.

I opened the door, and Mary was standing there in the hall-
way, pale, shocked to see me. I reached out to touch her, but
Andromeda shoved me aside and leveled her gun at Mary.
Come in, Mary, she said. We're going to have a little talk.

I stepped back and aimed my gun at Andromeda. Put down
your gun, I said. Now. Mary, I won't let her kill you.

Andromeda pointed her gun at the floor. Do you think this
gun is the only way I have of doing my work? Andromeda
asked me without looking at me- She never took her eyes off
Mary.

What's wrong? I asked Mary. Do you know?

Why are you here?

Do you have to ask?

Cut this talk, both of you, Andromeda said, and she told
Mary what we had come to do. Now sit on the bed and let me
check you. Addison, put down that gun.

Mary walked in and sat on the bed. She had evidently been
outside because her hair was blown. She looked sad, very sad.

I'm old, William, she said.

Not old enough to die.

Andromeda walked over to Mary and touched her—but

SOFT IN THE WORLD, AND BRIGHT

121

suddenly drew back- Something black and fanged crawled
around from behind Mary's head and hissed at me. Mary tried
to throw it off, but she couldn't. I ran to pull it off her, but
Andromeda shot first, and Mary disappeared.

What have you done! I shouted.

Moved her! I've put her in a holding cell. I'm downloading
every diagnostic program I've got now, so shut up and let me
work.

Andromeda sat on the floor and held her head and appeared
deep in thought I sat on the bed where Mary had sat, and
waited. The bed was wet, and the leaves blown onto it smetled
like fall. I brushed them onto the floor.

And Andromeda looked up at me. She's fine, she said. Mary
is fine. I can find nothing wrong with her.

Then run the programs again. Why did my body stop func-
tioning? What was the creature on her neck?

Her creation, to scare you, probably. I think all of this was
to scare you into letting her go before she got sick and hurt
you. She doesn 't want to hurt you. William Addison. She loves
you, too.

I couldn't speak for a time after Andromeda said all that,
after I knew what Mary was willing to do to protect me. I
didn't know what to say. I was afraid for Mary and me, too.
But I believed the responsibility of love meant staying to-
gether and helping each other dll the end. I looked out the
window and at the bed and back at Andromeda.

Bring her back, I said.

/ have already. I'm going out to tell the doctor what I've
seen.

And she was gone, after the end of the sound of her last
word, just gone.

But she'd left the gun in my hands. I threw it on the bed
and walked out to find Mary.

She was sitting on the low, stone wall, looking across the
plain toward Africa. It was blowy and cold outside, and I'd
picked up a wool sweater for her. I put it around her shoulders
and sat next to her. She pulled the sweater tighter around her
against the cold. There were riders on the plain again, far off,
near the coast, and I wondered now who and what they were.

122 M. Shayne Bell

I thought maybe I'd have to take that gun I'd left up on the
bed and walk down to them someday to find out.

/ want to take the risks of being with you, I told Mary.

Have my programs corrupted you, William? You want to
cure me, and you can't. I'm mortal, like you.

And I accept that. Everyone we love will die, Mary. But we
can love till then and face our loss when it comes.

She kept looking toward Africa, not at me. I took her hand
and held it for a long, long time, and she let me hold it and
she held on to my hand till the winds had blown the storm
clouds over us and the sun was shining down and drying all
the rain.

I sat on the edge of the bed while the doctor removed the
electrodes from my body and turned off the machines. I could
feel the edge of the bed under my legs; I could feel the sheets;

I could feel the doctor's hands touching my body. "You real-
ize Mary's manufacturer will not be liable for any conse-
quences of your decision," she said.

"I'm liable," I said. "I'm choosing this life."

The doctor looked hard at me. "It will be interesting to see
how long your Mary will last. I wish you both luck."

She left the room, and I dressed and followed her out. I
passed the room where the medical robots sat waiting to be of
service. Six robots were in the room, looking at me with their
brilliant, ruby eyes. I walked in to thank the two who had car-
ried me to the hospital, if they were there, and to leave word
if they were not, but before I could say anything, one of them
reached up and touched me. It knew. I suddenly realized that,
because of Andromeda, the robots knew about Mary and me.
I put my hand on its hand and held it for a time. The metal
was cool, but not alien.

I had connections to rebook, programmers to contact, and
I was hungry. But I let it all wait. I walked to an observation
deck under a dome that looked out on the black of space and
all the stars and sat in a chair and looked at the beauty of it
for Mary and me. I felt a metal hand touch my shoulder, and
I looked up at another robot with a tray of food, and I took
the tray and thanked the robot but it never said a word to me.
It just pressed my shoulder and left. I held the tray, and closed
my eyes, and went into my mind to Mary and home.

TO CARESS THE FACE
OF GOD

Dove Wolverton

Warren Garceau had been imprisoned on Darius IV for so
long that he no longer knew which he wanted more:

death or sex. He no longer even dreamed of freedom, but
freedom is what we gave him, in the form of a ticket off
planet and a ride back to Earth after a brief layover at the Ho-
tel Andromeda.

Warren had worn out six bodies serving as many consecu-
tive life sentences. I watched him, as was my Job. Each time
his deaths came nearly the same: In his late sixties he would
develop prostate cancer, and I'd take the prison infirmary to
him, download a temporary medical program, and operate-
Yet after the operation, he'd stow for the next dozen years,
His arms would purple with liver spots while the wispy silver
hair on his head became only a memory. His bones turned
brittle, like the pumice in the red rocky fields where he
worked day after day hoeing the corn, his breath coming in
sharp gasps as he slaved beneath the double suns.

123

124 Dave Wolverton

I kept Warren's little farm distant from those of other in-
mates. When he was young, during the first three lifetimes,
Warren had some neighbors that he was allowed to see, men
working fields far away from him. As he aged the others won
their freedom, and I sent them home.

Until he became the last, and I watched him from a dis-
tance those final two lifetimes, mainly using automatic sen-
sors. Yet sometimes I would use my natural eyes, and in the
night I would spy on him from the mountains through a tele-
scope with an infrared lens. He would hoe well into the night,
even when the scorpions came out, as if, like me, he too were
part machine. I can still see him. back bent, his arms gouging
downward automatically, as if the hoe were some giant claw.
After six lifetimes, he knew nothing but the hoeing and the
harvest-
When Warren fell and broke his hip that last time, there
was no one to help. and though my sensors did not indicate
an attempt at escape, I did not learn that he was injured for
two days. Warren had dragged himself to his shack, and there
he passed out by his front door in the shade. I found him de-
hydrated and swollen, so I carried the infirmary to him, then
pumped his body full of fluids.

But he died. So I thawed his last young clone, one with a
powerful twenty-two-year-old physiology, and I dumped War-
ren's memories into the clone.

He woke in his crude little hut with machines, pumping
food and water into his veins. He faded in and out of sleep for
a few days, always waking in pain, sometimes crying out for
sleep, for eternal sleep, shouting, "For God's sake. Ray, let
me die! Just let me die!" or sometimes he would call a wom-
an's name.

But I fulfilled my duty, as is my job. I had kept him alive
so he could serve his sentence; now 1 kept him alive so he
could be free. When the clone began to stabilize, I made a
quick trip back up to the guardhouse and began dismantling
it. After nearly four hundred years, I too would be allowed to
leave Darius IV.

That evening as I worked, I glanced down into Brutal Val-
ley. to the barren red plains like rusted iron. Warren stood
bent over his hoe, working mechanically. I got on a hovercraft
and went to him. "You arc free," I said as I floated through

125

TO CARESS THE FACE OF GOD

his field, sweeping the tender young plants away with my ex-
haust. He looked up at me, his face dirty and wet with sweat.

"What?"

"You are free."

He stopped, thought for a long moment. "What ... what
does that mean?"

At first, I thought he might still be in shock, disoriented
from the transfer. But I had not talked to him for two life-
times, and I knew that at last he had forgotten. "It means you
no longer have to hoe."

He stared into the short corn, uncomprehending. For nearly
four hundred years he had worked that field. Little grew on
Darius IV, not even weeds, so for those four hundred years I'd
been forced to go into his fields from time to time and sow
the thistles, dandelions, and morning glory. At harvest, I'd
grind his grain into flour and add vitamin and mineral supple-
ments provided from Earth. The corn had been Warren's only
food now for a long time.

"What will I do without corn?" he asked.

"You are a rich man," I answered. "Over the years, you've
been paid for your work—one International Dollar per day—
and the government has let it accrue interest. You will be a
very rich man. You can eat more than corn now. You can eat
anything. You can go anywhere, do anything. You are free."

Warren looked up. His eyes were pale blue and empty, his
wispy red hair down to his shoulders. His biceps were thick
and powerful, and I had noticed even from a distance how he
worked with gusto, glad to be young again. Yet even as a
clone fresh from the vats, he had crags in his face, lines and
creases, a map of all the empty roads and blind alleys he had
walked down during his long lives.

"Free?" he said at last. A smile broke across his broad face.
He looked up at me, then gazed off at the Plentiful Mountains
with their scarred red stone surfaces and their snow-capped
peaks. All of Darius IV was covered with red pumice down
here on the plains, but up in the mountains, where my guard-
house rested in a valley, was a hazy swath of gentle green.
"Can I go up there?"

"If you like," I answered.

"I tike," he said, and he snapped the handle of the hoe be-
tween his two broad hands.

126 Dave Wolverton

I took him to the valley with its carpet of rye grass and or-
chards with pear and pecan and olive and fig trees. Robot
drones fretted, draping nets over a ripening cherry tree to
keep out the flocks of ivory cockatoos. I pulled the hovercraft
up to the marble columns at the guardhouse compound.

"I had always hoped it might be like this," Warren said,
"but I never imagined ..." For the following several days I
did not talk to Warren much, though he often stood near me,
as if craving my presence, any human contact. I had a great
deal of work to do, and there was no point in trying to speak
to Warren. He could not carry on a conversation. After four
hundred years he no longer recalled the meanings of most
words. He could name the sun and the rocks and corn and a
toilet, but he had no names for my flocks of cockatoos or for
the color pink, and he could not recall the word star. Often,
he would ask me the names of objects, and I would tell him,
and he would forget again only moments later. Yet he did not
fear his own ignorance. He grinned like a lunatic, happy to be
free, and for him the world was filled with wonder.

Twice, he asked me, "Ray, why am I here?"

"You are a criminal. You have hurt people, so the government
sent you here to recover."

"What did I do?" he asked. "I remember a woman, a wom-
an*s beautiful face. I remember wanting to love her."

"I don't know. I used to store that information in my tem-
porary memory," I admitted, "but I erased it long ago. I know
only that you were found guilty, but that your term is up."

Warren went to the window of the guardhouse, looked out
through the leaded crystal to the orchards. For the first time
in the past several days, his smile faltered. "Have I recov-
ered," he asked, "or will I still hurt people?"

"I suspect ... that either you will hurt people, or you will
not."

"I don't want to hurt people."

"Maybe that will change," I said. "You've been here a long
time. People have hurt you by putting you here. Maybe you
will want to get even."

Warren shook his head innocently, as if denying my accusa-
tion. "I hate this body," Warren admitted. "A few days ago, I
was an old man and all of my bones ached. I wanted only to
die. But when you put me back into this young flesh, I feel . -.

127

TO CARESS THE FACE OF GOD

uncomfortable. I want only sex. I want to rut like an animal. I
can feel my flesh burning with that desire, as if I were working
hard in the midday sun. For me, this young flesh is more un-
comfortable. Death or sex. I've lived six lifetimes. Ray, and all
through them, I have craved only those two things. Not ven-
geance." He held the windowsill, clenching and unclenching his
powerful hands.

I think, at that moment, I feared what he might do. He re-
minded me of a panther, so passionate, so powerful, so vola-
tile. "Perhaps," I ventured, "you will finally satisfy your
cravings for both."

At the end of four days, I drugged Warren to keep him pac-
ified during the initial stage of his trip home, and I sent him
flying in the shuttle to the star cruiser Reliable. From there he
connected with the terminal at Hotel Andromeda, and met his
fate.

Aboard the Hotel Andromeda, Warren went to a public res-
taurant where the air was heavy, fetid. Few humans dined at
the tables—a handful here, a handful there. In the center of
the room, seven amphibious Fenroozi swam in a pool, like
massive red newts, chasing their own tails and grabbing at
golden fish. Warren sat at a table, grinning monstrously,
watching three nubile young girls all dressed in glittering
white. He stared at them, forgetting about food, and wondered
how to approach them, how to ask for sex. Yet a more subtle
craving enveloped him as he watched. He felt distant, iso-
lated, and he craved human presence, any attention. In a
nearby tree, a tall hairy silver beast that was all bones
crouched while serving robots brought live prey for it to sniff.

Warren ignored the predator as he watched the girls. One
woman finally saw that he was staring, and Warren turned
away. The silver beast was watching him with all six eyes,
surreptitiously inhaling Warren's scent. Warren did not have
to understand the beast's guttural chatter to know that it was
asking the serving robots if Warren was on the menu. Warren
smiled, walked up to the beast, grasped one of its massive
lower canines with his fist, and shook the beast vigorously. A
long black tongue snaked out, tasting Warren's hand.

"Don't even think about it!" Warren said with a grin, slap-
ping the predator's snout.

128 Dove Wolverfon

He ambled to the table, sat with three girls in white. They
looked like clones, all red hair and freckles and sad eyes.
"Hi," he said, "I'm Warren," and he said no more, feeling un-
sure of himself. How do you tell someone that you have not
held a normal conversation in four hundred years? How do
you tell a woman (hat you want her body, but you also want
her to love you after you've used her? How do you casually
slip into conversation the fact that you've forgotten how to
read a menu, or that foods have changed so much that you
don't know what they taste like anymore? He listened to the
girls, feigning interest in things other than their bodies. One
girl kept calling him "voracious," but she used the word as if
it were a slang compliment. He imagined luring the girls to
his room, grabbing them, making love to them wildly there.
He was strong now, in his young body. He knew he could do
it, with one of them at least. He ordered a light dinner made
of things he could not remember ever having tasted.

When the food came, it was both delicious and overpower-
ing. He enjoyed it immensely, but halfway through the second
course, he vomited. The girls got up and left. Dumbfounded,
Warren lay on the table, retching again and again. After three
hundred and ninety-four years without any food but corn
meal, he found to his dismay that perhaps he might not be
able to stomach anything else.

Dazed, he decided to return to his room. On the way, War-
ren stopped to gaze through a window into a vast tube—a
chamber where the artificial gravity was so powerful that
gases became swirling frozen liquids. Creatures moved in
there—some were like giant purple amoebas straddling layers
of frozen green methane, while others higher up were fist-
sized white squids or spiders that swam through liquid helium
in little Jerking spasms.

A sentry droid stopped and cautioned Warren against trying
to enter the aliens' living chamber. But Warren just stood,
watching. He held his hand to the window, felt the tug of that
gravity, pulling him toward that alien world. Warren laughed.
It was like the unrelenting tug of sex, like the grip of death.

Warren felt alone. More alone than ever. The sinking feel-
ing he'd experienced in the restaurant came over him. Death
or sex, he told himself, death or sex. One or the other. He
could not decide which. Over the past few days, he had found

129

TO CARESS THE FACE OF GOD

the hotel to be very accommodating. He had only to ask at the
corn console in his room, and they offered virtually any ser-
vice. He wondered. If I were to order death and sex from the
hotel, which would they bring first? He imagined the woman
of his dreams, the beautiful dark-eyed woman he had wanted
to love for so long, and he went to his room—a simple room
where an artificial sun shone on a carpet of living grass and
a hammock swung between two trees.

Once in his room. Warren did not know what to do for en-
tertainment, so he stood with his eyes closed. He tried to
imagine holding a woman, just putting his arms around a
woman casually, but he had not seen one in so long that the
image kept fading. And at length he imagined a hoe in his
hand. Warren stooped, as he had been doing for nearly four
hundred years, and moved his arms steadily as if he were
hoeing imaginary weeds from the grass.

A chime sounded, and Warren straightened- It chimed
again, and Warren ambled to the door, wondering if the sound
came from outside. When he touched the pressure plate, the
door opened. A cyborg stood there, a powerful woman with
hair the light brown of young corn silk, with massive artificial
arms, body armor, extra sensors, and RAM storage containers
bolted to her head. Warren stared into her face, wondered
what it would be like to wrap his arms around her, just hold
her flesh with all that metal.

"Warren Alien Garceau?" the cyborg asked. "Penitent from
Darius IVT'

"Yes?" Warren answered.

"I am Marinda Chase, from hotel security."

Without thinking. Warren turned to face the wall, spread his
legs, and placed his hands flat against the wall in preparation
for a body search. Marinda stood somewhat surprised. "You
are not under arrest," she hurried to explain. "I came at the
request of a hotel client. A woman who says you once knew
her on Earth. She would like to meet you again."

"A woman?"

"Yes, a Miss Rebecca Lynn Lyons."

The name struck Warren like a fist, and he found himself
gasping, trying to recall who she might be. "Rebecca Lyons?"

"Yes, you murdered her on Earth long ago," Marinda said,
"but her memories, her personality, are stored in a virtual re-

130 Dave Wolverton

ality aboard the hotel's module for deceased personalities,
Heavenly One. She would like to meet you there—in heaven.
She says she will pay you well for the privilege. Will you
come?"

Rebecca Lyons—that was her name—the dark-eyed woman
of his dreams. Warren nodded dumbly and smiled. He re-
called that hurt, the ache of wanting to love her, and he won-
dered why she would want to see him. She will hate me, he
realized. She will want to hurt me, as I hurt her. He could
smell the trap. Yet he could not leave it alone. And an odd
thought struck him. If she were in a virtual heaven program,
then perhaps she would not be angry. Perhaps she would for-
give him. Perhaps she would even be grateful that he had
killed her and sent her there. Warren thought for a long time
before answering, "Yes, I'll come."

Aboard the module Heavenly One, Warren found only a
slate gray room with several cubicles where visitors could re-
cline in comfortable chairs. Outside of these, the module had
no accommodations for the living. The cyborg Marinda Chase
plugged the synaptic adaptors into the socket at the base of
Warren's skull and fit a helmet over his head. He had wanted
to bring a gift, but what do you give someone living in a vir-
tual reality? They had no physical needs, no bodies. Warren
knew little of virtual realities. They had been young when he
was young, and he had never created a world with computer
images. He did not know what to expect.

Greens and blues swirled before Warren's eyes. and his
nostrils filled with a strange sweet essence. He sniffed: a
warm summer sun beaming upon grass and stone, the scent of
water, and some type of sweet blossoms. Sounds began to
arise, the drone of bees, a light wind whispering through the
grass, the peep of a bird among forest branches, someone
laughing. Then the images; He was sitting upon a stone chair
carved in a black basalt mountain. Dark green hanging vines
draped the mountain like a living curtain, and the scent of
their sweet red flowers filled the air. Honey bees droned along
the cliff face like motes of dust caught in the sunlight. All
around him was a sparse deciduous forest surrounding a shad-
owed meadow. Somewhere off in the trees Warren could hear
a tumbling brook, and laughter. It was late afternoon, almost

To CARESS THE FACE OF GOD         131

twilight, so that the slanting sun over the trees came faint and
golden.

"Hello?" Warren called. "Hello?"

He stood for a long time, until distant laughter answered
him from the shadowed woods. The angels came for him,
floating through the forest like thistle down. Two young
women wearing luminous robes of green. Their translucent
wings were broad, like those of a butterfly, and the wings
trembled in the sunlight. The angels landed at his feet, and
they were twins: Clear skinned, clear eyed, with long dark
hair and eyes like brown pools. They were young women.
Warren gazed into their faces for a long time, gazed at their
bare shoulders, and the yearning he fell for them grew. "Are
you Rebecca Lyons?" he asked.

One girl laughed, stepped toward him playfully, took his
hand between hers. "We are only her servants. She is a god-
dess now, ruler of this world. Will you let us take you to
her?"

Warren whispered, "Of course." One of the angels clapped,
and the whole forest came alive. Satyrs pranced in from the
woods playing golden flutes and they danced around Warren on
mincing hooves, their goat tails twitching in time to the music.
Pale green naked tree sprites with large breasts brought a pallet
draped with silks, and while the angels stripped Warren's clothes
off, me sprites cheered and fought to lift him onto the pallet.

Once Warren was naked, they carried him, dancing and
singing through the forest, sometimes stopping to spin him in
circles. Sometimes dryads would be singing in the trees above
him, and they would toss baskets of leaves and flower petals
on his head. Once, the revelers chased a herd of giant pigs
from their trail. Fairy lights danced above him, and off in the
deeper shadows under the trees, Warren could see men with
the heads of deer moving nervously, as deer will.

The procession carried Warren forward to the sounds of
flutes and song and drums, through the thickening woods as
the day died and the shadows took on a life of their own.
They carried him for hours, laughing and celebrating, lighting
torches in the darkness, until they reached a mountain pass.
Even from the bottom of the trail. Warren could see flames
lighting the night at the mountain's top, a great bonfire, and

132 Dave Wolverton

around it danced the stag men and satyrs and naked tree
sprites.

For a man who had forgotten words, the scene was one of
total delight. He could not even guess at the names of the
wonders he beheld. Instead, he was like a child, amazed,
drinking pure pleasure and enjoyment- Rebecca must have
forgiven me, he reasoned, to bring me to heaven. When the
wood sprites stopped at the foot of the mountain to paint him
in stripes of yellow and orange. Warren did not mind even
though their hands were rough. When the satyrs gave him
wine, he drank until his head spun.

The satyrs poured more wine for him, pointed and laughed.
Warren could feel a warmth on his head, burning spots, and
he touched his forehead, felt the nubs of goat horns sprouting
above his eyes. He jumped up and danced around on the pal-
let as they carried him up the mountain, and was amazed to
find his feet numb. Nimble little hooves were growing where
the toes and feet had been, and his naked legs were covered
with a fine layer of goat hair.

One of the satyrs tossed him a flute, and Warren took it to
his lips, found that it played a haunting melody that gave
voice to all his lusts and desires far better than he could ever
speak them. He spun upon his pallet, dancing and laughing
and playing hymns to the moon and darkness until they car-
ried him before the goddess Rebecca Lyons. She was reclin-
ing upon a daybed in a small meadow, and she was more
beautiful than Warren had ever dreamed. The pale handsome
face framed by dark hair, the obsidian eyes staring out at him.

The bed itself was the purest shade of white he could ever
imagine, and Rebecca wore a single transparent sheet to cover
the sleek contours of her body, the generous breasts. A scent
more alluring than honeysuckle wafted from her bed. All
around her meadow were trees, great oaks with twisted
branches and dark leaves. The bonfires burned in a circle
around her, so that Rebecca was a singular adornment to the
forest.

Warren stopped singing, stopped dancing, let the golden
flute fall from his hands, forgotten.

"Baaa ...," he said, all his desire, all his lust and yearning
for her coming out in a single bleating sound not unlike a
belch.

To CARESS THE FACE OF GOD         133

"Do you remember me?" the Goddess asked.

Warren bleated, and tried to hobble nearer, but found that
his goat feet were suddenly clumsy. He smiled up at her, and
for a moment the goddess stopped, confused.

"You smile? As if you are happy to see me?" she asked. "I
bring you here naked, painted like a fool, and show you your-
self as a dumb animal, and you smile?"

Warren bleated, looking around in bewilderment. The lust
he felt for her was strong, and the pink tip of his organ began
extending from its hairy sheath. Yet beneath the lust was a de-
sire more refined, a yearning to beg her forgiveness, to seek
her love. He wanted nothing more than to climb on that bed
with her, to caress the face of god with one hand and soothe
her anger.

'Take him!" Rebecca ordered, and suddenly the satyrs and
wood sprites had him. They pulled him down from the pallet
and twisted his arms behind, held Warren's face to the
ground. Someone tied his right wrist to an exposed tree root,
then his left, then his feet, tightening the ropes so that his legs
spread wide.

Warren, his face in the dirt, panted, raising small puffs of
dust from the ground, and the satyrs began to dance around
him, their eyes gleaming in the firelight, followed by the men
with stag's heads. They danced in wide circles and sang in
deep voices, sometimes coming close enough to caress his na-
ked buttocks, watching him with lust in their eyes, as if they
could not wait for the goddess to give her command so that
they could fall on him. Through it all. Warren grunted, but he
did not try to struggle free of his bonds or fight.

Rebecca watched, amused at first, but gradually she began
to frown as if her face would settle into a scowl. Finally she
spoke, "Do you understand why you are here?" she asked.
With a wave of her hand, the goddess returned his voice to
him.

"I ... don't know. You invited me," Warren offered.

"I brought you here so I could watch you get raped, the
way you raped me," Rebecca said evenly. "I'm going to let
the satyrs have you, one by one, until you cry out in agony
the way I cried when you took me. Then I personally am go-
ing to slit your throat, here. And at the same time that I do it

134 Dove Wolverton

here, I have paid the security guard Marinda Chase to slit
your throat outside the virtual reality, and you will die."

"Oh," Warren said.

"You aren't frightened? You didn't even guess that I
wanted vengeance?"

"I guessed," Warren admitted. "I don't remember what I
might have done to you. I guess ... I came here to find out.
I've been raped, in prison back on Earth. I know what it's
like. As for death, I've never been afraid of it. I've died six
times. And I've spent a long time in hell, on a planet called
Darius IV. I guess, maybe, I came here because I wanted to
see your heaven, if only for a moment. Forgive me if I en-
joyed the taste of it, even for a moment, when you didn't
want me to."

"You think this is heaven?" Rebecca said. "Can you under-
stand the tedium of having everything you want, when you
want it? I would trade a day of life for an eternity here, and
you stole my life!"

Warren looked up, sweat running from his face. "I know
you hate me, but the man you hated died three hundred and
fifty years ago. If you want, you can go ahead and kill me
now." Warren waited, humbled, naked. For a moment Rebec-
ca's scowl faltered. He almost dared hope for mercy.

Then Rebecca shrieked, and the sound of her wrath filled
the skies. For one endless moment the flames of the bonfires
leaped up around him, like a wall, like a huge crown, and
Warren took their full fury, felt them crisping his flesh, bum-
ing the skin from his bones, boiling his eyes in their sockets.
He tried to scream, but only steam shot from his mouth. He
twitched to flames more caustic than any acid. In that mo-
ment, he wanted death more purely than ever before, but it
would not come. His sanity felt as if it would boil and bubble
away as cruelly as his flesh, but still death would not come.

The flames were snuffed more suddenly than they had
arisen. Warren found himself in the slate gray visiting room,
gasping, burning. The cyborg Marinda Chase stood over him,
the plug from the neural jack in one hand, a long bare knife
in the other. Warren saw that a second core was plugged into
the neural net, running up to the socket at the base of

To CARESS THE FACE OF GOD         135

Marinda's skull. She too had been plugged into the illusion,
awaiting the goddess's orders.

"You can go," Marinda said. "Rebecca's had her fun.
You'll never suffer enough to satisfy her. I suspect that your
other victims would feel the same, if they were around to talk.
I can understand their hate, but I won't kill you for them."

"But you thought about killing me," Warren said, unable to
imagine what he had done to her. The cyborg looked into his
eyes, and Warren saw danger there, and the end of his hope.
Marinda might not kill him, but she was the kind who would
never forgive him. She would just keep exacting a toll, day
after day, minute after unceasing minute.

She said in a deadly tone, "Get out, before I change my
mind."

The shining shuttle pod returned to Darius IV only two
days before I was scheduled to leave. Warren Garceau got out
along with two servant droids and began offloading seeds and
young fruit trees, various desert reptiles, and other forms of
animal life from Earth. I thought it a great waste of his
wealth—him, someone who could live almost anywhere, do
almost anything.

Still, he was free to do as he liked, and I no longer needed
the guardhouse. Earth had stopped imprisoning men ages ago,
having found more advanced and profitable ways to reprogram
criminals. Still, I had managed to keep Warren imprisoned until
his sentence was completed, as was my job. I bore him no
grudge, so I gave him the guardhouse as his own, along with the
surrounding mountains and the orchards.

I asked Warren before I left what he had found at Hotel
Andromeda that made him want to flee civilization so soon.

"A world too much like the one I left," he answered.

"What of the things you wanted?" I asked. "What of sex
and death?"

Warren grunted, looked away. "I've lived without love for
a long time. I guess I can keep on living without it- As for
death, I figure I have the rest of eternity to explore it." I
looked into Warren's eyes, and I saw his dishonesty. Sex and
death. I knew, I knew that he had somehow gotten his fill of
both. Suddenly I became afraid, wondering who he may have
raped, who he had killed.

136 Dave Wolverton

I did not wave good-bye to Warren as I left. The cockatoos
rose betow the shuttle in a cloud, and beyond the green of
trees in the mountain vale and the ruby desert surrounding it,
there was tittle to see. 1 pieced together his story at Hotel An-
dromeda myself, and even visited Rebecca Lyons in her
heaven. She still had the downloaded personality of Warren
there with her, burning in flames, screaming. She said she
would keep it there forever, as if it were a treasured gift. But
I contacted Hotel Security and managed to erase the stolen
construct. I read its memories before releasing it from its
pain. Still, all these years later, I sometimes think of Warren.

An explorer relumed to Darius IV a decade ago and de-
scribed the world as fecund. In the mountains, he said there
were fruit trees—cherry, mango, pear, avocado, olive, peach,
apricot—and wild strawberries the size of a man's fist.
Salmon and giant trout leap in the streams. He found wild
fields of corn and rice, and wheat growing over your head,
and beneath the double suns, the plants blossom all year long.
Stronger trees and grasses have even begun to encroach into
the desert wastes, finding place among cactus. There is no
one there now to harvest the fruits, so they are consumed by
lizards and flocks of ivory cockatoos. This is what Warren
made of his world, and I imagine that I would not have done
as well.

GLASS WALLS

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Beth touched the warm glass window. Inside, the baby
Minaran swam, its small head rounded and sleek, its eyes
open and friendly. When she had first passed the cubicle, the
baby rested on its back on a rock, basking in fake sunlight. Its
fur was white, its fins slender but strong.

Odd that it would have a cubicle all to itself just inside the
human wing. Odder still that the cubicle had been a banquet
room a few days before.

She leaned her face against the glass, wishing she could go
inside. The poor little thing had to be lonely. If she could hold
it and feel its warm, wet fur against her skin, she might be
able to ease the loneliness—both of their loneliness—for just
a short time.

"Beth!"

Roddy's voice. She jumped away from the window and
stood, hands clasped behind her back. She kept her gaze
trained downward, away from the Minaran in the cubicle.

137

138 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Roddy hated it when she ogled the guests.

"What are you doing in the main lobby?" He stood beside
her. She could smell peppermint on his breath. He had just
had a cup of his favorite—expensive—tea. "Did someone call
for you?"

She shook her head. How many demerits this time? Or
maybe he would take a week's worth of tips. The diamond
square pattern on the carpet ran together. She blinked, making
sure her eyes were tearless.

"You know I don't like having the personal staff in the
lobby. It creates a sleazy atmosphere. Some of our patrons
would prefer to ignore people like you."

As you would, she thought. She finally raised her head,
saw Candice at the lobby entrance, watching the entire ex-
change. Roddy wore a black suit, very twentieth-century
retro, fitting in perfectly with the decor in this half of the hu-
man wing. Except for the Minaran.

"I was walking through," Beth said, "and I saw the
Minaran. What's it doing here?"

"That's none of your business," Roddy said. "When you
were hired on, you were told not to ask questions—"

"Beth was not hired," Candice said. She started down the
incline into the lobby. Roddy didn't move. He froze, just like
Beth had, when faced with his boss. "Let's not have this dis-
cussion in the lobby, hmm? My office, please."

Except for the Minaran. the lobby was empty. The next
ship was twenty minutes behind schedule. The staff was hav-
ing its break, preparing for the midaftemoon rush.

Beth and Roddy followed Candice around the registration
desk. Her office was a spacious room with a view of the
docking ships and the stars beyond. She had to have been at
Hotel Andromeda for most of her life—and had to have been
a valued employee—to attain a view like that.

"Sit down," Candice said as she slipped in the wide leather
chair behind her desk. Her office, too, was done retro. Beth
didn't want to sit in the leather chair on the other side of the
desk—she hated the feel of the material against her skin; it
brought back too many unpleasant memories—but she did
anyway. Roddy sat beside her, perched at the edge of the
chair as if he were going to spring up any minute.

"The lobby is not a place for dressing down an employee,"

GLASS WALLS                139

Candice said, folding her jeweled hands together and leaning
forward on the desk. "We are striving to make our guests as
comfortable as possible, and they don't need to see dissention
among the staff. Is that clear?"

Roddy nodded.

"Good. You may go."

Roddy leaped out of the chair as if it had an ejector seat.
He was gone from Candice's office in the time it took her to
turn to Beth. "You know better than to stand in the lobby
when you're not working."

"Yes." Beth looked at her hands. They weren't as well
groomed as Candice's. The years of hard labor would always
remain in the form of yellowed calluses, bent nails, and
scarred skin.

"The Minaran fascinates you."

Beth didn't answer. When she stared at the creature, mem-
ories crossed within her. Memories of the investigator—what
was his name? Shafer?—who had killed so many Minarans
and destroyed her world, too. Memories of being trapped, na-
ked, in a cubicle the same size for her first real journey into
space, the other prisoners passing her, jeering, and tapping on
the clear plastic. She had hated it, hated it, and not even the
memory of John got her through.

All that combined in loneliness so deep mat sometimes she
thought nothing would fill it.

"Beth?"

Beth looked up. Candice's voice was harsh, but her eyes
weren't. Candice was the only nice person Beth had met on
the staff. The rest treated her like dirt, like she was worse
than dirt, like she had no value at all.

"You have more demerits than any other staff member. Your
ten-year service contract has grown to sixteen. If you don't
watch yourself, you could be indentured to the hotel for life."

Beth shrugged. She had nowhere else to go. Meager as it
was, the hotel was more home to her than any other place she
had lived. Any other place except Bountiful, among the Dancer's.

Candice stood up, and shoved her hands in the pocket of her
suit She was a big woman, and powerful. "I would like to
make you a project, Beth. I think you're smarter than any other
person on the staff. I can send you to an alien no one knows
anything about, and you can discover its sexuality and please it

140 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

within a matter of hours. If this system ran on merits instead of
demerits, I suspect you would have been out of here in five
years, instead of accumulating enough trouble to keep you here
indefinitely. But I need to know if you're willing."

"What do you want from me?" Bern's voice felt rusty, as if
she hadn't used it for days.

"I want to train you to become my assistant. You would act
as liaison between all branches of the hotel, and you would
mostly work in New Species Contact. You would discover
what a species needs to feel most at home, and work with the
design and personal staff to accomplish that."

Beth clasped her hands together. She had never done any-
thing like that. She could barely speak to other people. Imag-
ine if she had to speak to other species. Normally she went
into their rooms and became like a Dancer, absorbing the
emotions of the other being and flowing with them until she
found what they wanted. Then she would leave, and
Dancerlike, forget everything that had happened. "I don't
know design or diplomacy."

"I would train you."

Bern shook her head once and stood. "If you knew about
me, you wouldn't offer this."

"I know you came to us from a penal ship. I know you
were in for murder."

"No." Beth reached out and touched the edge of Candice's
desk. The wood was smooth and warm, like the glass around
the Minaran's cubicle. "I was convicted under the Alien Influ-
ences Act. Some friends of mine and I saw Dancer puberty
rites and tried them on each other, not realizing that when you
cut off a human's hands, heart and lungs, they die. Because of
us, the Intergalactic Alliance closed its second planet—
Bountiful—and ordered that humans never have contact with
Dancers again. And we were scattered into isolation, away
from aliens. That's why the hotel had to get special dispensa-
tion to buy my indentured servitude contract."

"But no aliens have influenced you since," Candice said.

"That's because," Bern said, keeping her voice soft, "that's
because I haven't let them."

GLASS WALLS                141

Beth went back up to her room by the back way, so that she
wouldn't see the Minaran, and be tempted to stop again in the
lobby.

The hallway outside her room was quiet. She pressed her
finger against her door and it slid open, revealing her haven.
Her room was not done retro. A sleep couch floated in the
middle, mimicking the weightlessness of space. Nothing dec-
orated the walls, not even a holojector, vid screen, or sound
unit. It had taken her nearly two years to accept the room as
a haven instead of a punishment—by that time, she was used
to its spareness- It gave her eyes a rest from the business in
the remainder of the hotel.

She took off her shoes and waved at the bed. The motion
made it float down to her, and she climbed on it, letting the
softness take her. When she had no assignments, she usually
slept. Sleep protected her from her memories, protected her
from her life. She closed her eyes and felt the bed rise to its
place in the center of the room.

The Minaran swam behind her closed eyelids, its little white
body begging for her attention. Minarans were not space-faring
creatures, so they had no place in the hotel. So of course the ho-
tel would have to build something special.

But someone would have had to bring the creature here.
Someone would have had to travel with it, provide it with
accomodarions, alter a vessel in order to cany it in space. Some-
one had a lot of money invested in mat one little creature.

Odd. Too odd.

Beth opened her eyes and stared at the blank ceiling. Still
the sense of the Minaran did not leave her. Minar. the crea-
ture's home planet, had been closed, like Bountiful- The
Minarans were an endangered species, like the Dancers.

She sat up so fast the bed rocked and nearly tossed her out.
Like the Dancers. Minarans were protected species—no one
was allowed to remove them from the planet. And this one
was a baby, since it was the size of a small cat. Adult
Minarans grew to the size of adult male lions, like the kind
kept in the Earth zoo on the fifteenth level.

Her knowledge of the Minarans came from the holos that the
hotel had shown her when she arrived. The Minaran sequence

142 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

was the most graphic, hordes of colonists sweeping down on the
defenseless animals because the colonists believed that the
Minarans had killed a few humans. The colonists had poisoned
the Minarans' environment, and the creatures had died in agony
as the chemical balance of their watery home shifted. Eighty
percent of the creatures died before someone figured out that the
colonists were killed by environmental factors that had nothing
to do with (he Minarans at all.

The holo was a cautionary piece about the power of erro-
neous beliefs. If hotel staff suffered from the same kind of
prejudices the colonists had, guests would die on all levels,
from ignorance to lack of care, to well-intentioned "security"
measures.

That's what had been striking her as odd, more than the cu-
bicle in the lobby. The entire staff knew about the Minarans,
knew about the illegality of transporting them, and still gave
this one a place of honor in the lobby.

She had seen a lot of strange things in the hotel, and she
had ignored most of them. She couldn't ignore this one.

The Minaian's wide, round eyes haunted her in a way mat no
one had since she left Bountiful, almost two decades before.

lii

She didn't want to see Candice, because Candice would ask
her to change her decision. Beth wasn't qualified to work in
such a sophisticated position. She didn't want anyone harping
on her, forcing her into a place she didn't want to be.

A place she wasn't able to be. Working with the aliens re-
quired thought. And Beth worked hard at losing thought and
memory while she did her job.

Before she could do anything about the Minaran, though, a
summons came from Roddy. The summons was merely a
beep inside her neural net. She had screamed so when they at-
tached the simple system that the doctors were afraid to try
anything more complex. Roddy hated the fact that he had to
direct her in person, but she refused to let anyone ever again
mess inside her mind.

His office was two levels down from her room. She hated
it. She hadn't recognized the design when she first saw it, al-
most a decade before, but then she had done some research.

GLASS WALLS                143

Roddy had chosen nineteenth-century retro, Victorian period,
England. His office smelled of tobacco and liquor, both sub-
stances now banned in large- intergalactic areas like the hotel
(unless some guest requested them for his pleasure). Rich reds
and dark woods covered the walls and carpet. The furniture
was heavy, so heavy that Beth wondered how it met regula-
tion. Roddy's stiff suits and mutlonchop whiskers looked nat-
ural here, as did his distaste for her and the others like her.

"We had a request from Amphib," he said, his back to her.
Steam rose from a cup on his desk, and she recognized black
tea, as difficult to get as the peppermint stuff he usually
drank. "I've forgotten. Do you swim?"

He hadn't forgotten at alt. He just liked to toy with her. She
wouldn't give him the satisfaction of emotion in her answer.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He turned. Between his fingers, he held a pipe,
unlit, of course. His gaze was cold. "We wouldn't want you
to drown, like Tina did last year. We can't afford more scan-
dals like mat."

"Good swimmers can drown in only a few inches of water
if they get knocked unconscious," Beth said. Keeping her
tone flat had become more difficult. Tina had taught her how
lo swim when she first came to the hotel almost a decade be-
fore. Careless sex, violence, or some kind of accident had
caused Tina to die.

"I suppose." Roddy leaned against a shelf filled with an-
tique books. "We had a request from a Ratoid. It seems it
heard about our interspecies service from a satisfied friend. I
have a vid in the next room if you want to see how it's done
among consenting Ratoids—"

She shook her head. She had discovered that information
vids often interfered with her flow, her opportunity to do her
work. "What room?"

He handed her a card with a floor plan and a duplicate of
the print which would open the Ratoid's lock. "In all fair-
ness," he said, "I should let you know that Ratoids achieve
orgasm underwater. I trust you can hold your breath for long
periods of time?"

Beth bit back a response—she usually held her breath the
entire time she was in his office—and snatched the card from
his hand.

144 Kfisiine Kathryn Rusch

She worked her way through the maze of levels. At least
the Amphibs were close to the human quarters. The atmo-
sphere, oxygen levels, and room design weren't all that differ-
ent. The various amphibs from a number of worlds required
a pool instead of a bathroom. They had adjusted to beds and
sofas and other human comforts.

Finally, she climbed up a flight of rough-hewn stairs and
pushed open a door. The air that greeted her was thick with
humidity and smelled faintly of stagnant water. The Amphib
section had several kinds of water pools—stagnant, spring-
fed, saltwater, acidic, and freshwater. Some Amphibs did well
with chemical water treatments- Others died.

She pushed back her hair with one hand and paused in front
of the door. Stagnant water. Yuck. Then she took a deep breath
and reached to the part of her mind where the Dancers lived.

Dancers—long flowing bodies that looked as if they
danced instead of walked. Wide eyes, a faint tang, and a
chirp. No memories, none at all, just instinct and free-flowing
emotion- Affection, warmth, curiosity, and touch. She still re-
membered their touch, rubbery and soft at the same time. She
had wanted to be a Dancer when she was young. Now she be-
came one each time she walked through a guest's door-
Inside, large creature, beautiful creature with jeweled skin.
Not jeweled. Water dappled. Air smells fetid. Stagnant water.
Her skin tingles, wondering how it will feel pressed up against
the creature's. It speaks—a rumble she does not understand. She
steps forward, rubs her hand on its jeweled skin, feeling water,
feeling coolness, feeling slime. Her entire body heats. The crea-
ture pulls away her clothes, and together they dive into the green
algae, floating on the surface of the pool ...

iv

And when she came to herself, she was standing on the
rough-hewn steps, her clothing carelessly wrapped around her.
She smelled rank—decayed water and something else, some-
thing even more foul. Her body felt heavy, tired, used, like it
always did when these things ended. She lifted a hand, and
found it coated with black slime. A shudder ran through her,
and she ran the remaining distance to her apartment.

A beep echoed inside her net. Roddy. He wanted to see her

GLASS WALLS                145

humiliation. Odd he could think after al! these years she could
still be humiliated. Odd that she could. So many of the others
shut off their skins as if their brains had been developed with
an on-off switch. Hers must have malfunctioned. She always
came to herself frightened and disgusted.

Her apartment door opened and she let herself inside, discard-
ing her clothing, climbing into the tiny bathing cubicle, and set-
ting the water temperature near scalding. Washing didn't make
the feeling go away, but it did give her some of her dignity
back. She never could remember what happened, but that never
changed her feeling mat what did happen was wrong.

The beep echoed again. She put on a different outfit and
checked herself in the tiny mirror. No trace of the Ratoid re-
mained.

On the surface.

She was about to let herself out when the door swung open.
Roddy stood there, hands on his hips. "I've been summoning
you," he said.

"I Just finished. I was coming."

"You finished almost an hour ago."

He was watching, then. She wondered how many times he
watched, and how it made him feel. It made her feel even
more used.

"I don't know what couldn't wait until I got cleaned up."

"The Ratoid wants you back, later. It is bringing in a
number of guests, and wants you for entertainment."

She couldn't suppress the shudder. The last time she had par-
ticipated in an interspecies orgy, she had nearly died. Roddy
knew that He knew how she feared another encounter- Maybe
he was still punishing her for glancing at the Minaran. Or
maybe he wanted her to know how much he resented the inter-
action with Candice, earlier.

"It's against regulations to perform with an alien twice in
one day." She put one hand on the undecorated wall to anchor
herself.

"You are in too much trouble to quote regulations to me."
His jaw was set, his mouth in a sideways line. She didn't like
the way his eyes glittered.

"The regulations protect the hotel." She kept her voice soft,
but the muscles in her arm tensed. 'Too many humans died

146 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

from repeat contact. Sometimes the alien touch is tike a slow-
acting poison. I remember when Steve died—"

"I had the autodoc check out the Ratoids," Roddy said.
"You'll be fine."

"No." Bern felt dizzy. She had never stood up to Roddy
before—to anyone before. She wondered if the Minaran
swimming in its little tank felt the same trapped anger that
she felt so dangerously close to the surface. "No," she said
again.

"This kind of action will allow me to hold your contract
forever."

"That gives me a lot of incentive to work harder," she said,
and pushed her way into the hall. The air felt cooler there.
She strode toward the lobby, not looking back. She had no
plan, no idea in mind. She just had to walk.

It wasn't until she stopped in front of the Minaran that she
realized she had had a plan after all. It swam up to her, exam-
ined her for a moment, then swam away and climbed up on
the rocks, its back to her. She wanted to tell it she knew how
it felt, trapped in there, on display, with no one to love it, no
one to hold it, no one to understand its dreams—and its night-
mares.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

The voice was soft, deep and human. Beth turned and
looked up into the face of an older woman. Her hair had been
painted in small geometric squares of black and silver, and
her skin in complementary shades of brown and cream. She
wore a rich purple dress that accented the bizarre geometry
that some thought fashion.

"You brought it here." Beth made herself look away. The
Minaran had hunched into itself, as if it were frightened of the
woman.

Assumptions. Human assumptions. Something the hotel
warned them never to make.

"I figured this would be a good place to find it a home."
Her voice had the warmth of an Amphib sauna, but her sil-
very eyes glistened with chill. Beth saw, over the woman's
shoulder, Roddy gesturing at her frantically. She ignored him.

"Wasn't it at home on Minar?"

The woman laughed. "So sweet and amusing." She tucked

GLASS WALLS                147

a strand of hair behind Beth's ear. Beth shuddered. "I thought
you were the one that liked touch."

Beth stiffened. This was a guest. She couldn't contradict a
guest. "I'm off duty," she said.

The woman's eyes twinkled for the first time. "I thought
staff never went off duty." Her smile grew wider. "Would you
like to please my little Minaran there? It looks quite lonely."

Inside the cage? Trapped behind invisible walls? Beth pushed
away, trying not to be rude, but her entire body had started to
shake. She bobbed her head once, and walked away, turning her
back on Roddy, whose face had turned purple with anger.

V

In her dream, she dived into the Minaran's tank. The water
was cool against her skin. The creature rubbed its furry face
against her breasts, seeking comfort, seeking milk. She
pushed it away. She wanted friendship, but not touch.

She hated touch.

She swam underwater to the rock in the center of the pool.
Then her fingers gripped the hard surface and she pulled her-
self up. Artificial sunlight caressed her body, warmed her,
comforted her as she hadn't been comforted since she left
Bountiful.

Except for John. Hands tentative, gaze soft. They hadn't
known what they were doing. But the Lunar Base psycholog-
ical staff had. They burst into the room, pulled two lonely
teenagers apart and kept them separate forever. Since then,
she had never touched another human being in love.

The Minaran pushed its face against her arm. Its muzzle
was wet, brown eyes liquid. It chirped at her. then dived back
under the water. When it rose again, it was on the other side
of the rock. Its loneliness radiated from it. The round eyes
looked sad.

She rolled over on her stomach, covering herself as best
she could. The Minaran used its fins to pull itself on the rock
and cuddle next to her. She tried to push it away—it was too
human, too cute. She didn't want touch, didn't want touch,
didn't want—

Beth woke up, heart pounding, skin crawling. She put her
head between her knees, made herself take deep breaths. Ever

148 Krisfine Kafhryn Rusch

since she saw the Minaran, the nightmares were coming thick
and fast. Opening a little door that would best remain closed.

Trapped. The little creature was trapped. No being deserved
to be imprisoned, bartered, and sold. No being. No one-

Not even her.

She eased the bed toward the ground so that she could
climb off. Then she stood barefoot on the cold floor, hugging
herself as she stared at the four bare walls surrounding her.

VI

The next morning, she made her way into the docks. Willis
was there, working in a small cubicle, head bent over a small
screen. When he saw her, he grinned and waved. She made
herself wave back.

"Going to take me up on it?" he asked, voice jaunty, eyes
filled with too much hope.

Beth made the smile stay on her face. "Someday," she said.
Usually she felt nothing when she spoke to him. This mom-
ing she felt a bit sad.

The large docking bay was over cool. Goose bumps rose on
her arms. Marks from hundreds of shuttles covered the floor,
and the bay doors had dents in them from accidents missing
the path. Through the double protection windows, she could
see a dozen ships orbiting around the hotel.

"Knew it wasn't my charm," he said, careful not to touch
her. Willis had tried to touch her once years ago, and she had
screamed so loudly that Security arrived. They both got de-
merits for that incident. "What can I do for you?"

"Your office," she said, and made herself put her hand on
the small of his back. His face flushed, but he still didn't
touch her back. He had offered to buy her contract from the
hotel, indenture her to him, and then throw the contract away
once they were in space—no strings. Only they both knew
that he wanted her love forever, and she had no love to give.

A soft female voice echoed in the bay. "Next arrival in
thirty-six minutes. Next arrival ..."

Willis closed the door on the sound. Beth reached up and
shut off the interhotel corn. Willis's flush left his skin and he
tamped back something, probably willing his net to stop mon-
itoring the conversation.

GLASS WALLS                149

She hoped it worked. His net was twenty times more so-
phisticated than hers.

**Can you get a message off the hotel for me?" she asked.
He started, then sat down. "I didn't know you knew anyone
away from here."

She shrugged, unwilling to implicate him more than she
had to. She handed him a small chip encased in plastic. It had
taken her more than two hours to put the package together
and to hide her steps. "Instructions are on here," she said.
"Could you do it once you're out of hotel range?"
"Not leaving with me?" he asked, a little too seriously-
"After this," she said, "I'm probably not leaving at all."

VII

Every morning after that, she stood at the edge of the
lobby, watching the Minaran swim. Its fur had grown coarser,
and its eyes less bright. Its energy was flagging, and she be-
gan to wonder if she had taken action in time.

Sometimes, as she stood there, Candice came up beside her
and stood, too. They never spoke, but Beth felt as if Candice
wanted her to say something, to reconsider her decision.
Roddy would catch Beth standing there and a few minutes
later her net would beep, summoning her to darker and smel-
lier parts of the hotel. She went, but came to herself with un-
usual bruises and once, a limp on her left side.

And she didn't see the woman again, not until the day the In-
tergalactic Police showed up at the hotel. They had used the Se-
curity entrance, and tripped no alarms, used no buzzers. One
minute the lobby was empty, the next it swarmed with uni-
formed creatures—most investigating the cubicle holding the
Minaran.

Beth inched her way into the lobby and stood off to one
side, knowing that she looked shoddy and hurt. Roddy was
nowhere around, but Candice buzzed into the room, all effi-
ciency and smiles. Only her shaking hands betrayed her fears.

"Officers?" Candice said, her voice carrying, warning the
staff to keep the guests away.

A burly man grabbed a computer clip from a four-armed
humanoid and approached Candice.

150 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

"Ma'am. I need to see the manager on duty or the highest
person in charge of the hotel."

"Right now, that's me," she said. "The others are sleeping
or attending a conference off surface. Would you like me to
contact—"

"No." His voice boomed in the small area. The Minaran had
stopped swimming, and had retreated to its rock. Beth wished
she could do the same. "I came to inform you that you and your
hotel arc in violation of Galactic Code 1.675: kidnapping, im-
prisonment, and trafficking of an endangered species."

'The Minaran?" Candice asked. She turned toward the cu-
bicle. Beth could see her struggle for control.

"We're also looking for a human, Candice Arrowsmith."

Candice straightened. "I'm Candice Arrowsmith."

"Then you shouldn't look so shocked, Ms. Arrowsmith.
You will receive a commendation from Galactic Services for
risking your job and contacting us. The Minaran will be re-
turned to its rightful home, and the guilty parties will stand
trial for this."

Candice's gaze caught Bern's. She opened her mouth as if to
speak to Bern. but then another officer called her away.

Beth watched for another moment, saluting the little Minaran
mentally. "At least," she whispered, "one of us is free."

viii

The Inlergalactic Police took only three hours to remove the
Minaran and clear the lobby. Hotel workers dismantled the cu-
bicle, and by afternoon, the space housed a banquet room again.
Belh watched through a double-paned window as a shuttle took
the woman who had kidnapped the Minaran away.

Maybe the little creature would go back to its family.
Maybe it would find someone to love it, to hold it, to give it
the comfort it needed ...

A hand touched her shoulder. Beth jumped. She turned and
saw Candice standing behind her, face ashen and worn with
the stress of the day.

"My office," Candice said quietly.

Bern followed her in there. The normally neat office had
papers strewn about Screens on all four walls bunked with
waiting messages. In addition to the strain of talking with the

GLASS WALLS                151

officers, Candice's neural net was probably going crazy—she
had all her superiors to answer to.

She closed the office door and slumped in her chair. Beth
remained standing. She didn't know what Candice could do,
but she would do something. Still, out there, the little Minaran
was going home.

"I saw your face when they came in," Candice said. "What
were you thinking?"

Beth knew better than to play dumb. She knew about the
other things they had installed in her net, in the pain centers,
things they promised to remove when her contract was up. "I
knew they wouldn't believe me, even with all the evidence in
front of them. That woman was rich, wasn't she? Rich
enough to have the entire hotel at her feet."

"So you used my name."

Beth shrugged. "I figured you'd get in trouble otherwise, if
someone else reported the violation. This is the first time I've
ever seen the hotel party to such a big crime."

"And you have the right to place a moral judgment on the
rest of us? Did this come from your experience on the penal
ship?" Candice didn't move, but her words had the force of
blows. Beth resisted the urge to duck.

"I know what it's like to be trapped, with no escape," Beth
said. "Like that Minaran. There's no worse thing in the world."

Candice remained quiet for a long time, refusing to meet
Beth's gaze. Beth continued to stand, unmoving, until
Candice signaled that it was all right.

"You know I can never offer you a position of authority
here again," Candice said.

Beth nodded. "I could never exercise authority," she said-
She wouldn't punish or she would be too harsh. She would
run in fear of some creatures and worship others. And she
would never, ever, allow a creature to imprison another, no
matter how much money was involved.

Candice sighed. "Leave me now," she said. "I have a mess
to clean up."

IX

Beth spent the next three days in her room, leaving only to
eat. She received no summons from Roddy, no word from

152 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Candice. The other staff would not speak to her, and even the
robotic units kept their distance. If Candice had wanted a way
to punish Beth, this was it.

Finally, someone knocked on her door. Beth grabbed a
robe, and sent her bed up to the center of the room. Then she
let the door slide open. Willis was there, bouncing from foot
to foot, slapping papers against his hand.

"Orders from above," he said. "You're supposed to come
with me."

Beth stared at him for a moment, heart hammering. The
last time, they had dragged her away from John, still naked,
kicking and screaming. The time before that, they had taken
her off the planet with the other children, promising them that
they would be taken care of. They were taken care of, all
right. Analyzed, tried, viewed galaxy-wide, then sent on sep-
arate penal ships to parts unknown.

She hadn't done anything illegal. The hotel had no right to
send her away.

"Get dressed," he said, "and pack up. It's okay. I'll turn my
back."

His smile faded as she still refused to move. "It's okay," he
repeated. 'They're setting you free."

He handed her the papers, and she saw her name all over
them, with "completed" stamped across the pages. She sepa-
rated them out, ran her fingers across them, wondering, wish-
ing, it was all true.

"You need a proper net," he said. "If you had a proper net,
you wouldn't have to look through the documentation. We'll
see what we can do once we're away from the hotel. We got
to remove those pain receptors, anyway. Now get dressed."

He stepped outside and let the door close, true to his word.
She packed numbly, touching the papers from time to time,
feeling her hands shake.

When they had let her out of solitary—late one night when
the other prisoners were asleep—she had refused to crawl out
of her comer. She believed that once she put a foot on the real
floor, the guards would beat her for trying to escape. She be-
lieved she wasn't worthy of emerging. She believed she could
live nowhere else than that clear plastic hole.

She glanced at the bed, at the empty walls, at the room that

GLASS WALLS                153

had been her prison since she arrived at the hotel. "I didn't do
it for me," she whispered, knowing Candice couldn't hear her.

But Candice didn't have to hear. She knew. She spent her
life in the job she had offered to Beth, reading aliens, under-
standing their needs, pleasing guests and making sure that
even unspoken wishes were granted. The one time she had
made a mistake—allowing that woman in with her Minaran
prisoner to broker a sate—she had received an out. Beth had
saved her. Beth had freed the Minaran.

She took one small case, and kept her papers clutched in
her hand. Then she slid the door open.

Willis was still there, back to the door, shifting from foot to
foot.

"Where're we going?" Beth asked, the words almost stick-
ing in her throat. She remembered the feeling of near-surface
panic, and had to prevent herself from searching for guards.

He smiled and took the bag from her. "Wherever the lady
wants."

Wherever she wanted. The concept was beyond her. Once
she had had dreams of seeing other places, other lives. But she
had left those dreams on Bountiful, with the Dancers. Since
den she had wanted nothing but to be left alone.

"Don't worry," Willis said quietly. "You'll think of some-
place you want to be."

And for the first time since she arrived at the hotel, she fa-
vored someone with a real, heartfelt smile. Willis flushed, and
started down the hall, keeping his physical distance, saying
nothing, but walking beside her in companionable silence.

Anyplace she wanted. Thank you, Candice, she thought,
and wished that she had a functioning net so that she could
send a true message. But Candice wouldn't want to hear. She
wanted Beth to disappear in the chaos following the arrival of
the Intergalactic Police. She wanted Beth gone so the incident
would blow over and go away.

Beth gave a little skip. Anyplace she wanted. She gazed out
of one of the hall portals at the darkness of space, a view she
used to ignore. Anyplace she wanted. Or no place at all.

"I'm joining you, little guy," she whispered to the Minaran.
"We're free."

FACE TIME

Jane/ Kagan

"Time and a half, Gemmy," said Feirus. "And maybe you*H

I get your mug in the newsgrams." The tentacles surround-
ing his eating orifice were rigid, so Gemmy knew he was
stressed out. "Please, I need you! You've got a lot of experi-
ence with Terrans."

"Sure," said Gemmy. "But you said this is all about a
Mopelling delegation.... I don't know the first damn thing
about serving drinks to Mopellings."

Ferrus drooped an eyestalk. "Who does? They just made
contact about five years ago. As I hear it, it took the Terrans
a full year to explain to them what a diplomatic delegation
was and another two years to explain why they should send
one to Terra." The other eyestalk stiffened, to focus its bril-
liant vermilion pupil straight at Gemmy's navel; that was a
bad habit of Femis's. "So nobody but nobody knows the
proper way to serve drinks to a Mopelling but, by Itchy
Palms, I intend to give the Terran reception committee the

155

156 JanetKagan

proper treatment."

He brought the other eyestalk to the level of the first.
"Double time," he said-

The offer of extra money wasn't what convinced Gemmy.
What convinced Gemmy was that Ferrus always looked him
in the navel. Only Balanced Plates, the patron saint of waiters,
knew why. But if Ferrus eyestalked some Terran female's na-
vel that way, the Bulbous Beet Bar would be under new man-
agement within a Lemptak year—about ten Terran days.

So Gemmy'd said yes and, consequently, he was already
serving drinks and reading up on what little was known about
the Mopellings when the Terran with the toy rabbits came in.
It wasn't the rabbits that caught Gemmy's attention first; it
was the Terran himself.

His smelter looked familiar. Perhaps the man had stayed at
Hotel Andromeda once before? Gemmy'd gotten quite good
at Terran faces: you had to look at the bitty tufts of hair, that
helped (when they didn't change them often on you), and you
had to took at the smellers. This one had a very familiar-
looking smeller. For guests who stayed at the Hotel Androm-
eda frequently, Gemmy could often match the smeller to the
favorite drink and offer it before they asked—the trick got
him a lot of big tips. But he couldn't place this one.

"What can I get for you, friend Terran?"

The Terran looked him right in the eye—which was so un-
usual that Gemmy knew at once he'd never served this fellow
before—and said, "How about jing Jang? Can do?"

"Can do," said Gemmy. "With or without leaves?"

"Oh, I think definitely with."

"Coming right up."

He was tall for a Terran and settled himself along the back
wall with a kind of sprawl that made Gemmy wonder once
more how bipeds managed to balance at all. As he prepared
the drink, Gemmy looked at the Terran again. Definitely a fa-
miliar smeller. Now why?

The Terran plopped a package onto the table and brought
out two furry objects. Gemmy set the drink carefully beside
them. "Rabbits." he said. "Am I right?"

"Rabbits is right. How'd you ever team to recognize Terran
rabbits?" The Terran showed his teeth; Gemmy knew that was
a good sign.

FACE TIME

157

"Movies—no, that's the wrong word—cartoons. I watched
Terran cartoons. Some of them had creatures with ears like
that."

More teeth showed. That made the smeller seem even more
familiar. Gemmy said, "Forgive me for asking, but have you
stayed at Hotel Andromeda before?"

"Nope, first time. Why?"

Gemmy knew enough about Terrans not to mention the
smeller. "Your face looks familiar."

The Terran showed still more teeth. Gemmy hoped he
wouldn't do that in a room full of Ressenians—he'd cause a
riot, sure enough. At least the teeth weren't pointed, but
Gemmy did have to remind himself occasionally that tooth
display was a friendly gesture from a Terran. This being more
tooth display than he was used to, Gemmy looked at the rab-
bits. "Are these real rabbits? Do they hop?"

"Well, I'm sorry to say, they're not real. They're a present
for my nephew—toys." The Terran waited to see if Gemmy
understood the word. "But they do hop. Though I wouldn't
want to try them in here." His glance swept the bar. "I was
assured they could hop twenty feet! I'd love to try them be-
fore I gave them to the boy. Hate to disappoint a kid, you
know."

Gemmy knew. He also wanted very much to see the rabbits
hop.

"Need lots of space, though. I don't suppose you know of
a place ... ?"

Gemmy gave it thought. The Terran reception committee
wouldn't be here for some three hours. The Bulbous Beet
was, for the moment, practically deserted but for the two
Gillspuns in the drinking pond—which took care of them
quite nicely, thank you. Milly, the Terran waiter, would be
here in a few minutes....

The Terran with the familiar smeller said, "I saw a big
room just down the corridor—wasn't anybody in it—maybe I
could try the rabbits out there. Think anybody'd mind?"

"1 don't think so." Gemmy turned and waved to the bar-
lender. "I'm just going to give the gentleterran a quick tour,
Dubs; I'll be right back."

"You'd better be," Dubs said. She held three of her hands

158 Janet Kagan

aloft, tendrils splayed. "Thirty minutes, you've got, before the
Terran reception committee shows up thirsty."

The Terran downed his drink and—one rabbit in either
hand—rose to follow Gemmy.

The corridor was packed with new arrivals, all dragging
various forms of luggage behind them. Judith the bellboy
must be peeved, Gemmy thought; another one of those
cheapie tours where they hate to have their bags carried.
Three Hepetellists goggled at the Terran and pointed and
whistled.

"First-timers," Gemmy said to his companion. "I am sorry
they have such bad manners." He thought for a long moment
and said,' "Let's take the back way. No need to—"

'To expose a guest to another guest's bad manners?" the
Terran suggested helpfully.

"Exactly," said Gemmy. He trotted back into the Bulbous
Beet and opened the access door that led down to the formal
reception room.

"Wow!" said the Terran, following him inside. "I didn't
know this was here."

"Staff only," Gemmy said. "When we have to serve drinks
at a reception, it's nice to have a shortcut."

"Nice, indeed," said the Terran, showing his teeth again.

A few yards later, Gemmy opened a second manual door
and the two of them stepped into the Atmosphere Three Re-
ception Room. Gemmy, recalling his grand tour line, made an
expansive gesture and announced: "The Privilege of the
Grand Potentate Room."

The Terran looked suitably impressed; at least, his mouth
opened wide. Then he showed teeth again. "That's some
mouthful. I'll bet that's not what the staff calls it."

"You're right there; the staff just calls it At-Three."

"1 knew it." He took a long look around. "Looks like
you've got it all set up for somebody special."

"Right again. The Mopelling diplomats are coming to meet
the Terran diplomats."

"The hotel has diplomats?"

"Just temporarily. The two species swap delegations here
and then go on to their respective destinations, each with a lo-
cal escort." Gemmy gave a pointed look at the toy rabbits.
"We haven't much time."

FACE TIME

159

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was appreciating how very ... purple .
the whole thing is."

"Purple?"

"Wavelength," the Terran explained. "I see it as a specific
color: purple. Very purple. Remarkably purple."

"Not pleasantly purple, by your standards?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Overwhelming."

"Apparently, the Mopellings see the wavelength differently.
They asked, in fact, for that specific wavelength."

"Whooosh," said the Terran.

If he'd had eyestalks, they'd probably be twisted, Gemmy
thought. 'Try the rabbits," Gemmy said. "They're not pur-
ple."

The Terran made a croaking noise that Gemmy recognized as
an expression of pleasure. "I like the way you think," he said.
Then, to Gemmy's surprise, he strode to the end of the room
and set the toy rabbit with its tail right up against the wall.
"Okay," he announced. "Let's see if this lives up to its billing."

The toy rabbit hopped. The Terran gave another croak of
pleasure and followed behind it, the entire length of the room.
Gemmy was so startled and pleased by the sight that he sat
back on his haunches and clucked to himself. The rabbit
hopped exactly like the ones in the cartoons.

But the way the Terran followed after was indescribable.
The Terran was all angles and looked for all the world like he
was being led along ... as if his smeller were somehow
hooked to the rabbit's fluffy white tail by an invisible string.
Why the Terran didn't get pulled over—right onto that
smeller of his—Gemmy would never know, but he was aw-
fully glad he was here to see it.

Suddenly, Gemmy felt very guilty. Here he was, goggling
at the Terran the same way the first-timers had. He ought to
know better!

The rabbit's nose touched the far wall, and the Terran
scooped it up, tucked it under his arm, and strode back.
Gemmy tried to get his clucking under control and failed and
felt even guiltier.

The Terran showed teeth. "That noise you're making. That
means you find it funny, right?"

Abashed, Gemmy said, "Yes."

160 Janet Kagan

"Good. So do I. I think my nephew will have a grand time
with his rabbit." He set the other one with its tail against the
door they'd come through and sent it off toward the purplest
of the purple draperies. This time he didn't follow but stood
there croaking as he watched it.

"Funnier from this end. Watching the little white tail bob
up and down, I mean." The Terran looked him in the eye but
Gemmy couldn't bring himself to cluck this time. "Ah!" said
the Terran. "The rabbit's not as funny as I am."

"I apologize ...," Gemmy began.

"Not necessary. I imagine two legs look pretty damn pre-
carious to you."

He went to retrieve the rabbit. When he'd caught the toy up
again, he came back across the room at a gait that Gemmy
would not have believed possible. If the walk had looked pre-
carious, this was positively dangerous!

"Be careful!" Gemmy called out, in spite of himself.

More teeth—lots more teeth. "That, my fine four-legged
friend, is 'skipping' and my nephew is an expert skipper. Of
course, he's had some five years' practice...."

"You mean, he's a child? And he can do that?"

The Terran nodded. "So you see, it's not all that dangerous.
I only meant to make you laugh, I didn't mean to frighten you
to death."

"Not quite 'to death,' " Gemmy said. He took a deep breath
and urged color back into his fringes.

The Terran closed labia over his teeth. Very serious, that
was, if Gemmy remembered correctly.

"Come," said the Terran. "Let's get away from all this pur-
ple. I'll buy you a drink. I owe you that much for having
scared the bejesus out of you." He gestured Gemmy back
through the shortcut and into the bar. 'Take my advice, my
friend, don't ever watch a jump-rope contest. You'd go posi-
tively black around the fringe!"

Until the bar got busy, the Terran regaled him with the
most horrifying descriptions of Jump-rope imaginable.
Gemmy couldn't decide whether he was making the whole
thing up or not. Maybe Milly could tell him if they ever got
a moment's break again. Just before the Terran reception
committee was due to arrive, the Terran with the familiar
smeller glanced at his watch and said, "Ooops, gotta date."

FACE TIME                 161

Gemmy brought him the bill and he anteed up. Then he
threw a nice-sized tip onto Gemmy's tray and, beside it, he
set one of the rabbits. "For you," he said. "My nephew only
needs one."

"Then why did you get two?" This was one of those things
about Terrans that continued to mystify him.

"Cheaper that way," the Terran said. "You keep it to re-
mind you of the funny bit."

"Thank you," said Gemmy, amazed at the thought of a
Terran who understood how odd he looked to Gemmy. and
who didn't seem to mind it. "Thank you!"

"Aha!" said the Terran. "You clucked! I knew I'd get it
right if I worked on it."

"I hope we'll see you again," said Gemmy. meaning it for
once.

"I guarantee it," said the Terran with the still-familiar
smeller.

The Terran reception committee's module had arrived.
Gemmy accessed the neural network and watched for a mo-
ment as Terrans spilled into the corridor and fanned out into
the At-Three section of the hotel. Within minutes, the Bul-
bous Beet was full. Gemmy had expected the first-timers, be-
cause by now they'd have settled their luggage in their rooms
and come looking for refreshment. He hadn't expected some
few Terrans from the delegation, but here they were. and
they'd brought a Hotel Security robot with them.

"Gemmy, this is Carmela Antonini. She's head of special
security for the Mopelling delegation. Chief Antonini, mis is
Gemmy, No First Name."

This Terran was unfamiliar to Gemmy, but under the cir-
cumstances he did his best to pick out such features as would
allow him to recognize her when next he saw her. The patch
of fur on her head was striped red and gold. Her smeller was
small and turned up slightly at the tip. Gemmy knew he
couldn't count on the hair color of any Terran staying the
same from day to day, but he hoped the general shape would
remain. The smeller was easier, though. It was the first of that
particular shape he'd seen.

"I'm pleased to meet you. Chief Antonini. May I get you
a drink?"

162 Janet Kagan

The comers of her mouth turned up to express pleasure, but
she showed no teeth. Careful, this one. She wasn't about to
risk offending him. "Thank you, no, Genuny. I'm here to
make a few inquiries about security." To the robot, she said,
"That will be all for now. Gemmy and I can handle this on
our own."

Unoffended, the security robot simply turned and left.

"Come sit with me, Gemmy. I need to ask you a few ques-
tions."

The bar was hopping. Still, Gemmy knew enough to know
that from a chief of security that was an order. "Let me take
care of that table over there and then I'll come join you. I
can't leave my customers completely in the lurch."

"I understand," she said. "When you have a spare moment,
then."

More understanding than a lot of private security he'd dealt
with, Gemmy thought. He served a round of drinks to the
first-timers; they gawked appallingly. The youngster in the
group wanted to touch Gemmy's scales. Gemmy let it: kids of
any species are naturally curious and to stifle that curiosity
was harmful. Then he explained the situation to Milly.

"Sure," she said. "Just stick close enough that I can scream
if I need you."

He pointed out the table where Chief Antonini sat. He had
the odd thought that she was memorizing everyone in the bar.

Milly whistled. "Hot stuff!"

"I don't get you, Milly."

"Very attractive to another Terran," Milly said. "Utterly
wasted on you." Milly showed lots of teeth and Gemmy
clucked because now he got it. "Here," said Milly. "She prob-
ably doesn't drink—alcohol, I mean—on duty. But take her
this from me. On the house."

Gemmy did as he was told. And he thought he'd pass along
the compliment, as well. Terrans appreciated compliments just
as much as anybody. "Milly says you're hot stuff, and she
sends you a non-alcoholic drink, on the house."

That was some sort of mistake, for the chief made a kind
of choking sound. Then she said, 'Thank Milly for me." Her
voice was a tittle odd, but he supposed he hadn't committed
a major gaffe. She wasn't angry. He'd ask Milly about it later.

Chief Antonini took a sip of her drink and waved a thank

FACE TIME                  163

you to Milly at the bar. Then she said, "Ferrus tells me you're
a very good observer of Terrans."

"Not quite good enough. I think I offended you just now
and I'm not sure how."

"That would require a complicated explanation. Suffice it
for now that you didn't offend me but telling another Terran
the same thing might offend him or her." She turned up her
mouth again.

"You can show your teeth," Gemmy said. "I don't take it
for belligerence."

She did. Many of them. Then she said, "Let me get my
business done first, then I'll explain as best I can."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate that." Gemmy sat back on his
haunches and waited for her to speak.

"You know the Mopelling delegation is coining in tomor-
row. They stay for two days, until the Belva Ann Lockwood
arrives. We'll be escorting the delegation to Terra, while their
equivalent of Security escorts our Terran delegation back to
Mopell."

She seemed to expect him to say something. "Yes." he
said.

"You also know that there are any number of Terrans,
Glaucuscans—perhaps even Mopellings, for all I know—who
would prefer to disrupt relations between Terra and Mopell."

"I know. I don't understand that, but I know."

Her mouth turned down. "I don't understand it either,
Gemmy. But my job is to protect against such disruptions."

"What can I do to help?"

"You can keep your eye open. Tell me if you see anything
suspicious."

"I don't know what that means: suspicious." He added
hastily, "I know the dictionary definition. But—to me—so
much of what another species does is so mysterious I could
easily misread it."

"Let me give you some categories I'd consider suspicious
in these circumstances.... Has anyone been asking a lot of
questions about the Mopelling delegation, for instance? Have
you caught tourists in rooms that are usually off limits to any-
body but the staff? Aha!" She leaned forward so abruptly that
Gemmy, startled, rose to his feet and took a full step back.
"Sony," she said. She leaned back, slowly so as not to startle

164 Janet Kagan

him a second time, and said, "But you have seen something
that fits the criteria, haven't you!"

Gemmy sat down again. "I'm not sure."

'Tell me," she said. "Let me decide.*'

Reluctantly, he told her about the Terran with the familiar
smeller and the toy rabbits. She listened intently, only inter-
rupting him once. To his surprise, she croaked—in a higher,
more melodious register than the male Terran had—when he
described the 'skipping' and how it had made him feel.

"I understand," she said. "The first time my son pulled
himself to his feet to take his first staggering steps, I was ter-
rified. That first walk was beyond precarious and well into
hair-raising." She gave him a long look. "You had to get to
your feet moments after you were bom, did you not?"

"Yes, a child who doesn't, who can't, will starve to death.
Well, not anymore," he added quickly, seeing her eyes widen.
"Now there are ways to help a gillanter—an 'unable to
stand'—but for a long time gillanteyir simply died."

She saddened at that. Gemmy could feel it. Then she
showed him how newbom Terrans were cradled to be fed, and
she said again, 'To watch a baby Terran team to walk is one
of the most frightening experiences any parent could go
through." Her shoulders made a strange motion—a quick
shiver that Gemmy had seen associated with bad memories—
then she took another sip of her drink.

"So that's it," she said. "Then he took his rabbits and went
away."

"Only one rabbit. He gave me one of them to remember the
funny bit by."

"That was very nice of him."

From her expression, Gemmy got the idea she didn't think
it was nice at all. He said as much.

"I'm sorry. I do find that suspicious behavior. I'd like to
see that rabbit, if I might?"

"I really can't leave the bar when it's this busy," Gemmy
said.

She waved a negligent extremity. A few moments later
she'd called back the Security robot and Gemmy gave it per-
mission to bring the toy rabbit from his room. While they
waited, Gemmy saw to a few other customers in need and re-
freshed the drinking pond for the Gillspuns. Then he returned

FACE TIME                 165

to the security chief's table and sat back on his haunches
again. She showed her teeth—and explained to him the rather
peculiar ramifications of Milly's remark about the "hot stuff."

He thought he understood it well enough that he wouldn't
make the same gaffe again and he said as much.

Chief Antonini watched him for a long moment—very
thoughtfully, if he judged correctly. Then she said, "You don't
think this Terran of the familiar nose is dangerous. Why not?"

"Good question," Gemmy said. "Why not, indeed?" His
right foreleg pawed the blue-and-green turf. That was a bad
habit of his when he was lost in thought—rough on the car-
peting. He realized she was watching his foreleg with great
interest and paused in mid-stroke. "Because," he said, "he
talked to me the way you talk to me."

"How soT'

"Interested. Aware of our differences, but without being pa-
tronizing. Without being ..." He paused and sought a way to
phrase it without being patronizing himself. "People of other
species often speak to me as if I were a child or, worse, a
dimwit. You don't. Neither did the Terran with the nose."

"So ... not the sort you think likely to wish to disrupt re-
lations between species. I do see your reasoning, Gemmy- My
job is to be paranoid, though. My paranoia suggests that per-
haps your Terran was acting a part."

"Perhaps. I'm not sure I'd be able to tell the difference."

Chief Antonini threw back her head and croaked. "Don't
let it get to you. Some Terran actors are good enough to fool
me, and I've had a lot of practice sorting."

"It's not that." Gemmy said. "It's just that he seemed a nice
guy and I'd hate for him not to be."

"So would I, Gemmy. So would I—Ah!"

The security robot had returned, toy rabbit in clasp. To
Gemmy's surprise, the robot handed the rabbit to him. He, in
turn, handed the toy to Chief Antonini. She'd opened her case
to lay an assortment of instruments on the table. As she
picked up the rabbit, she said, "Don't worry, I'm not planning
to take it apart. Not unless I have to and certainly not without
your permission."

She inspected the rabbit carefully, turning it first one way,
then another. Milly screamed for Gemmy and he hustled to
carry drinks to two tables' worth of first-timers who'd just

166 Jane? Kagan

come in. Easy tables—the nice thing about Hepetellists was
that they drank from a communal bowl. One bowl per table
and he hurried back to see what Chief Antonini had learned.

Her mouth ends had turned down. She upended the rabbit
and pointed. "Bad news, Gemmy. See this? The rabbit mea-
sures distance. Now why should someone have—quite delib-
erately, from the looks of it—rejiggered an everyday toy to
measure the width and length of the reception hall?"

"Oh, my," said Gemmy, horrified at himself. "And I
showed him the staff route to the reception hall, too!"

She looked him in the eye. "Don't panic. There may be a
perfectly rational explanation—or even a harmless irrational
one. Perhaps the nephew is young enough to be learning the
idea of distance, for example...."

Glumly, Gemmy said, "That sounds unlikely. Has anybody
made any threats against the Mopellings? I'd've thought they
were too new for anybody to hate them enough."

She laid the rabbit aside and put away her instruments.
Then she folded her hands on the table and said, "I won't
speak for your people but, as for my people ... sadly the sim-
ple fact of 'new'—like 'different'—is frequently enough to
spark death threats." Again she looked him right in the eye.
"When I said 'Don't panic,' I meant it. This"—she patted the
rabbit—"has to be investigated, precisely because there have
been threats against the Mopelling delegation."

Gemmy knew his fringe had turned dead black. "The
Terran didn't sign the check to his room," he said.

Surprisingly, she showed her teeth and took a deep breath.
"Of course he didn't. That would be too easy'" She waited a
moment, then she said quiedy, "Gemmy, I want you to go get
yourself a drink—your choice of relaxant, on me—then come
back here and sit until you feel better. Then we'll talk some
more."

Gemmy, limping ever so slightly in his right hind foot, did
as she suggested. When he returned to the table. Chief
Antonini said, "The limp, Gemmy, forgive me for ask-
ing. ..."

"I do it when I'm disturbed. The limp's not a species-wide
indicator, though. Just me."

"I'm very sorry to have disturbed you. I'll make this as
easy as I can. You tell me when you're ready to talk some

FACE TIME                  167

more. I've only one question, really, and it's quite straightfor-
ward."

Gemmy drank. Slowly, he felt his fringes return to some-
thing approaching their normal hue. "I guess you'd better ask
and get it over with, then."

"Would you recognize the fellow again, do you mink?"

Because the answer was now of such importance, he gave
the question careful consideration. "Yes," he said. "I'm quite
sure I could. In fact, I thought I recognized him from the
first."

"Very interesting. Recognized him from what?"

"I don't know. He said he'd never been to the hotel
before—but, of course, he might have been lying."

"He might well have been," she acknowledged. "He might
have been here to case the joint." She peered into her own
drink. "No, he'd have had no need to see the reception room
this time if that were so."

"Would you like me to search the hotel for him? I can get
off duty for something that important. You'd only have to tell
Ferrus."

"No, that's not necessary. I'll assign someone to the bar. If
this fellow comes back, you'll point him out to my man and
my man will handle him from there."

"Handle him?"

She raised her right hand. "Nothing violent, I promise
you—not unless he starts it."

Terrans always said that, in Gemmy's experience, but he
also felt Chief Antonini was not the sort—then again, he'd
felt the other Terran.... It was all too much for him.

"Why here?"

"Because he knows about the staff entrance to the reception
room. My staff will keep a close eye on the guest entrances.
You keep your close eye on that staff entrance."

Gemmy downed his drink in a single motion. He had the
horrible feeling he'd spend the next two days black-fringed
from morning till night.

Middleditch, March, and Maclsaac, the Terrans assigned to
watch the bar and the staff entrance leading from it, were not
as quiet as Chief Antonini. In fact, the three of them were a
lot like any slightly joyous bunch of tourists. Gemmy sup-

168 Janet Kagan

posed they were acting; they did not drink nearly as much as
they ordered. Fearing for the health of the turf if they dis-
posed of any more of their drinks that way, he asked them if
they'd like him to choose them a drink this time. Middleditch
(who seemed to be in charge if anybody was) said, "Yes!
That's a good idea!" When the others agreed, Gemmy decided
that Chief Antonini had given him a good report

He brought them a round of Dubs's special concoction—
Devilish Dogs. Colorful enough from a Terran point of view
to look fiendish but utterly non-intoxicant. Middleditch sipped
his cautiously, then showed all his teeth at Gemmy and said,
"Just the thing!"

For a while, the bar got so busy that Gemmy didn't have to
think about anything other than getting the next drink ordered
and the next drink poured and the next drink delivered. And
then he found himself face-to-face once more with the Terran
with the familiar smeller. He heard himself say, "Jing jang,
without the leaves? Or would you like something different to-
day?" His voice sounded almost normal, to his astonishment.

The Terran showed all his teeth at once. "Hey!" he said.
"That's some memory you've got! Yes, that'd be just fine."
He glanced around the bar. "Take your time. I see you're a lot
busier than you were the last time. The reception committee
must be here, I guess."

What would be the normal response to that, Gemmy won-
dered. Should I say yes? He caught himself glancing in
Middleditch's direction and stopped- "Yes," he said. "Hang
on. I'll be right with you."

He went to Dubs for the jing jang and had an inspiration.
"Another round of Devilish Dogs, too."

He delivered the Devilish Dogs first. As he set them on the
table, he said to Middleditch, "The jing jang is for the fellow
you wanted pointed out."

"Well done," said Middleditch. "Okay, boys! A toast to our
host!" They all raised their glasses to Gemmy and drank them
down.

Feeling terribly conspicuous, Gemmy crossed the bar to the
suspicious Terran's table. "One jing jang, no leaves," he said.

The Terran didn't show his teeth. "Have you hurt yourself,"
he said. "Should you be working this hard with an injured
leg? I realize that leaves you three, but still ..."

FACE TIME                  169

He'd been limping again. "I'm okay," he said, feeling like
a total fool. If a Terran could be this nice and be an assassin,
there simply wasn't any hope left in this or any other world.
"It'll all be over soon."

"Oh, you mean the reception. I suppose so. Tomorrow, isn't
it?"

. Gemmy nodded, then realized he'd given the man informa-
tion yet again. He'd have kicked himself but this Terran
would have noticed. "There's a quieter bar on level twelve.
Well, quieter for the moment. You might prefer that."

"Thanks for the tip." The Terran leaned back in his chair.
"This one's more convenient. Besides, I like the service
here."

He meant that as a compliment, but Gemmy was no longer
sure of anything. "Thanks," he said, because he couldn't think
of anything else to say. Then he excused himself and got back
to work.

When at last he could bring himself to look in that direc-
tion again, he saw that Middleditch and March now sat one
on either side of the Terran with the familiar smeller. The sus-
picious Terran laid both hands, palms down, on the tabletop;

he was not showing his teeth. Feeling horribly guilty, this
time for the suspicious Terran, Gemmy looked away again.
Maclsaac, who remained at the other table, where he could
watch the staff entrance, flagged Gemmy for another Devilish
Dog. Gemmy hurried the drink over to him, hoping to leam
something, but the man said nothing and Gemmy couldn't
bring himself to ask.

It'll all be over soon, Gemmy thought, and realized to his
dismay that was just what he'd told the suspicious Terran. He
limped on to the next table to take another round of orders.

For a moment, everybody seemed well taken care of.
Gemmy sat back on his haunches just to rest his aching
heel—and found himself face-to-face with Chief Antonini. He
came to his feet as if he'd sat on a cactus-

"Thank you, Gemmy," said Chief Antonini. "You've been
very helpful." She showed her teeth.

That seemed so out of place in the circumstances that
Gemmy wondered if he'd gotten Terrans all wrong all along
the line. He could feel his fringes turning black again.

Chief Antonini looked at him carefully; she hid her teeth.

170 Janet Kagan

"Gemmy, I think you'd better come along with me and talk to
the fellow for yourself. Please."

So it wasn't an order, it was a request. And Gemmy said,
"Of course," and followed her. His limp was now even more
pronounced.

Antonini took that into account and moved slowly. "I thought
you'd be interested in learning the result of your observations,"
she said. "Don't go black-fringed on me, Gemmy- As it turns
out, we picked up the two Terrans who sent the threatening
notes. Neither one of mem was your friend from the bar."

'Then why... ?"

But they had already reached the table, and she left his
question unanswered. Gemmy reluctantly stood beside her,
unable to look the suspicious Terran in the eye.

The Terran with the familiar smeller leaned back, showed
all his teeth at once, and said, "Chief Antonini, as I live and
breathe! My favorite nemesis! If the Furies are all as good-
looking as you, my dear, then send them off in my pursuit, by

all means!"

Maroh began to croak with pleasure, but Middleditch shot
him a swift look and March stifled his croak so quickly he al-
most choked on it.

"Gemmy," said the chief, "I'd like to introduce you to
Wily Topkind, the bane of my existence." But Gemmy saw
that she was showing just as many teeth as Willy Topkind

was.

"We've met," said Willy Topkind. "Good to see you again,
Gemmy. Sit down and take the weight off that sore leg of

yours."

Gemmy didn't need asking twice. He sat, still bewildered
by the Terrans' behavior.

Willy Topkind went on, "You know I add spice to your life,
my dear. Why don't you admit it? For my part, I'm quite will-
ing to admit that you've got me fair and square. I suppose I'll
sit out this reception in my hotel room"—he glanced at
Middleditch and March—"probably with these rather grim
fellows for company."

"You surely will," Chief Antonini said. "And likely the
Terran delegation will file charges. But for now all I ask of
you is that you tell Gemmy precisely what you've been up to.

FACE TIME                  171

Between the two of us, we've just about ruined his outlook on
life."

Willy Topkind made a face that Gemmy recognized—the
same face he'd made when he'd asked about Gemmy's leg.
"We're the cause of his injury? How ... ?"

"He thought you were a nice guy, Willy. Then I came along
and made him think you were a suspicious guy." Chief
Antonini turned to Gemmy. "Willy is suspicious—but remem-
ber I said there might be an irrational but harmless explana-
tion?" She held out her hand to Willy. "Meet the irrational but
harmless explanation."

"Most of us call him Willy the Weasel," Middleditch said,
as if that should mean something to Gemmy. It didn't.

Topkind croaked. "Gemmy, a weasel is a small Terran an-
imal renowned for getting into tight places."

"It's not complimentary," Chief Antonini said firmly, but
Willy the Weasel showed a lot of teeth and said, "Oh, / like
it!"

"Getting into tight places?" Gemmy said, faintly. "I really
don't understand."

"Willy has a hobby. You know what that is? Okay, Willy's
hobby is getting his picture taken with famous people of all
species."

Willy Topkind showed his teeth again. "Getting face time
is the proper term—among those of us who do it."

"Getting face time," Chief Antonini said. "I assume you've
got your brag disc with you, Willy? Why don't you show it
to Gemmy? I'm not sure that will explain your behavior, but
it would be a start."

"I'd be pleased to show you, Gemmy." From his shoulder
pocket, he drew a jewel box and tapped the contents into the
table slot. The tabletop came alive with tiny holographic fig-
ures. "Best view from this side, I think," said Willy Topkind,
gesturing for Gemmy to stand beside him. Chief Antonini
motioned him into place and peered over his head, also
watching the figures.

The 'gram showed the arrival of President Hannes Thorvald
on Ordoverwerit—all the usual bells and whistles had been trot-
led out for the Terran's landfall. Gemmy, having seen this 'gram
a dozen times—it had been all over the newscasts for some two
weeks—glanced questioningly at Willy Topkind.

172 Janet Kagan

"Watch to President Thorvald's right," Willy Topkind told
him. "... and . -. thereF
Gemmy followed Willy Topkind's point and saw ... Willy

Topkind!

"That's you'" said Gemmy. "That's why your smeller

seems so familiar!"

Willy Topkind's hand went to his nose, and Gemmy was
momentarily horrified that he'd made yet another interspecies
gaffe. Chief Antonini croaked happily, though—and a split
second later, Willy Topkind was croaking even harder.

Despite having served drinks to numerous famous people
of all species, Gemmy was impressed. "You actually know
President Thorvald?"

"No," said Chief Antonini. "He doesn't. But he weaseled
in and got his picture taken with Thorvald despite every pre-
caution Thorvald's security people took."

Both Willy Topkinds showed great expanses of their teeth.
The picture changed to another newsgram and the Willy Top-
kind beside Gemmy said proudly, "Here I am with Machon-
Chumbly, leader of the Splagger Faction of the Emcharri."

Sure enough, there was Willy Topkind, showing his teeth and
waving to the camera. Beside him stood Machon-Chumbly.

Even Chief Antonini seemed impressed. "Lord," she said.
"You got past Peg Winter's security?" She whistled.

Gemmy said to Willy Topkind, "And you don't know
Machon-Chumbly, either?"

Willy shook his head.

"Then how ... ?"

Willy glanced at Chief Antonini, then said, "Maybe I'll tell
you sometime. But I won't give away trade secrets while the
chief is listening."

Gemmy found himself clucking. That made sense—or at
least it seemed consistent in the circumstances.

Chief Antonini looked at the time. "The Mopellings' mod-
ule has been docked. The reception starts in about twenty
minutes, and I've still got work to do. Gemmy, if you'd like
to stay here and watch the rest of Willy Topkind's brag disc,
you may. Perhaps that will keep Willy out of trouble. If that's
not sufficient"—she gave Willy Topkind a fierce look—"I'm
sure Middleditch and March will be."

Gemmy was about to say he'd like that very much when

FACE TIME

173

Chief Antonini held up a finger for quiet. "What now?" she
said into her lapel. She listened again, then said with a sigh.
"Send them up; I'll wait."

"Problems?" said Middleditch.

"So says Samuelson . . . Something to do with the
Mopellings' spacial sense."

Willy Topkind looked at Gemmy. "Samuelson is the expert
on Mopelling behavior—as much as there is one yet. If she
says there's a problem, there's a problem. The Mopellings are
an odd species even by our"—his pointing finger indicated
both himself and Gemmy—"standards. They're territorial in
the extreme."

"What would you know about it, Willy?" said Chief
Antonini in an exasperated tone.

"Oh," said Willy. "I've read all her papers on the Mopellings.
I do very careful research." To Gemmy, he added, "I have to:

I wouldn't want to cause an interstellar incident by smiling at
the wrong species."

Consistent again, Gemmy saw.

Willy Topkind went on, "If a Mopelling were sitting at a
table in the bar, for instance, it'd be fine that you served it...
as long as you always took the same route to its table. Vary
the route, though—say you stopped at another table on the
way to its—and the Mopelling would have to renegotiate its
position to accomodate."

He glanced at Chief Antonini. "I'll bet Samuelson's been
driving the chief nuts. I'll bet Samuelson's going nuts
herself—she'd have worked out where each and every mem-
ber of the reception party must stand and how far each can
range without disturbing the Mopellings."

Chief Antonini made a sound that reminded Gemmy of an
angry stickcat about to stick someone. "If you know all that,
Willy, what made you think you could weasel into the photos
without causing all hell to break loose?"

A scuffle at the entrance to the bar cut off Willy's reply,
which was too bad, because Gemmy had really wanted to
hear the answer.

"Here, Dr. Samuelson!" Chief Antonini waved across the
room. A very plump and very agitated Terran waved back and
charged through the crowd, none too politely, to pull up short
and breathless before them.

174

Janet Kagan

"We've got one hell of a problem," Samuelson said without
preamble- She waved a sheaf of papers at Antonini. stabbed
the off button on the 'gram display, and shoved aside the
drinks to spread the papers across the table. They showed a
map of At-Three, with a lot of circles and dots. Ah, thought
Gemmy, that's where each member of the delegation is sup-
posed to stand.

Samuelson jammed a finger at one of the circles. "The
Terran delegation changed plans at the last minute—the utter
incompetents. I've got nobody to fill this position. Nobody
that's the right size, at any rate. See, we've got two tall people
here"—jab, jab—"so we need short and massive here. We
also need two more here and here, since we've got the Terran
ambassador here." Her final jab almost punched a hole in the

paper.
"Gemmy would do for short and massive," Willy Topkind

said. When Samuelson's head came up to stare at Gemmy,
Willy added, "And he'll stay where you put him. He's the
best waiter in the bar—he knows how to behave around other
species. What do you say, Gemmy? Want a little face time
with the Mopelling ambassador to Terra?"

"Shut up, Willy," Chief Antonini said.

"No," said Samuelson. "He's right. Gemmy, would you be
willing to help out?"

"Of course," said Gemmy.

"Good," said Samuelson, as if that settled everything. She
fixed her eyes on Willy and said, "Now, any suggestions for

the other two?"

"You don't need two," Willy Topkind said. He leaned for-
ward and touched the map. 'Take this one out and put me just
here." He rocked back in his chair, making Gemmy gasp with
wonder at the balancing act. "I've got a purple suit."

"Purple?" said Samuelson. "Purple? What wavelength?"

Willy Topkind reached for his carryall, stopped at a look
from March, and gestured March to do it. Chief Antonini
nodded permission. From the carryall, March pulled out a suit
that was exactly me same wavelength as the purple in At-
Three Willy Topkind had claimed to find so overwhelming.
Samuelson caught up the suit, held it aloft, and said, "Per-
fect!"

Samuelson bent to examine the dots and circles once more

FACE TIME                 175

and her head bobbed furiously. "It'd work. It will work. Why
the hell didn't you tell me you had a backup expert on tap,
chief? Gemmy, you come with me. And you"—that was to
Willy Topkind—"you get into that appallingly glorious suit!"

She paused suddenly and thrust her hand at Willy. 'Tammy
Samuelson, and am I ever glad to meet you!"

Willy Topkind caught her hand and shook it. "Just call me
Willy the Weasel," he said. "Everybody does."

"Strangest week I ever spent," Gemmy said to Milly and
Dubs when the various delegations had gone their separate
ways. "Nobody ever asked me to be an Official Presence be-
fore. Now I know how the game pieces on a fespall board
feel, I think."

"Agh," said Milly. "They could have at least given you a
bonus...."

Gemmy clucked. "They did. And Willy gave me this." He
laid a small glittering disc on the bartop. "Put it in the player
and you'll see."

Dubs did, and the disc sprang to life. It was the complete
news coverage of the first meeting between the Mopelling
and the Terran delegations. "Wow!" said Milly. "Look at
you—right next to the head honcho of the Mopelling delega-
tion!"

Even Dubs seemed excited, though the tape hadn't yet got-
ten to the best part. "There! There's Gemmy with the Terran
ambassador... -"

"Here," said Gemmy, feeling his fringes rise with his ex-
citement. "Here's the best part coming up now."

The Gemmy in the footage followed Samuelson's strict in-
structions and loped across the room, coming to a halt right
next to Willy Topkind. Willy, in his purple suit, showed all
his teeth at Gemmy—and Gemmy clucked and brought a
hand to his eye to salute the Terran with the familiar smeller.

"There," said Gemmy, with enormous satisfaction. "There
I am—getting face time with none other than Willy the Wea-
sel!"

IT'S A GIFT

Esther M. Friesner

Mister Moogi moistened his superprime foreclaw and es-
tablished contact with the System. "Serving," said the
everywhere voice.

"He's got to go," said Mister Moogi.

"Query?"

"Podvex."

"Satisfied." The System hummed, calling up every
micromillibleep of data on Sentient: Podvex. It didn't take
long. It took longer to say how very little time it took. The
humming stopped. A pause ensued.

"Well?" Mister Moogi inquired impatiently. Here in
Splendel's, arguably me second-most prestigious gift shop
within the Hotel Andromeda, not even the staff was used to
waiting for anything, let alone computer response. The Sys-
tem's silence boded no good. "What do you say?"

"Query T'

"About getting rid of Podvex."

177

178 Esther M. Friesner

"Agreed." There was another of those atypical pauses, and
then: "In spades."

"Query?" Mister Moogi was so startled by the System's
uncharacteristic means of expression that he lurched out of
his normally urbane Demigalac drawl and tumbled into Mech.

"I said the critter's a menace to navigation, democracy, and
one hundred sixty-four separate and discreet economic sys-
tems as outlined and described in Jayne's Guide to Intergalac-
tic Unfriendly Takeovers," the System responded. Gone was
the terse communication of Mech. Mister Moogi's private of-
fice now echoed with the far more colorful, far, far more vul-
gar accents of Underg'lac.

Mister Moogi had dismissed seven sentient clerks for their
accidental lapses into that dreadful, declasse patois, even if
the incriminating slips of the tongue took place on their break
time. (Like any good merchant, Mister Moogi paid top rates
to have his employees spied upon in the privacy of their own
homes.) Rumor had it that he'd personally killed and eaten
two more who had actually addressed potential customers in
the aforementioned pariah dialect.

Despite a body that appeared to be chitin-sheathed within
and without, particularly in the region of whatever heart or
hearts he was supposed to have, Mister Moogi could not per-
sonally kill and eat the System. Therefore he was reduced to
hissing, "He did this to you, didn't he?"

"Query?"

"Podvex."

"Bingo, babycakes. He was bored, so he thought he'd try
his paw at reprogramming this filament. Got some pretty cute
effects tied in now, and no way the little dwingle can gel 'em
out, either." The System uttered something very much like a
chuckle. "He tried to fix it, after, but he couldn't unsnag his
own handiwork. Then he brought in a rogue wizard to give
me a look-see on the q.t. Negatorious resultwise, but you'll be
getting the bill for his time. Try it yourself and you'll proba-
bly set off a crash. Tell the SysCops and you'll be responsible
for all repair costs plus a hefty penalty. Thou shall not allow
thy apprentices to jack around with thy shop's filament of the
System. Amen. Hallelujah. Booga-booga."

"He dies." Mister Moogi would not nod his head, lacking
a neck, but he clicked his secondary foreclaws in a manner

IT'S A GIFT                    179

that did not speak well of poor Podvex's chances to collect an
old-age pension. "I was wondering what I'd have for lunch."

"Negative," said the System.

"Why in the queen's egg-fast name not?*' Mister Moogi's
cheek flaps shaded off from purple to pink, a sure indication
that he was being thwarted and was about to release his scent
sacs in protest.

"Whoa, hold on to your stinkybags, big daddy!" The small,
blue, ovoid plaque on the office wall that was Mister Moogi's
port to the System zapped a holo of a human hand right under
Mister Moogi's proboscis. The hand was upraised in the tra-
ditional Euramterra sign for Stop! "Last time you let fly, we
couldn't get a paying sucker in here for two turns and a tum-
ble."

"Sorry." Mister Moogi closed three eyes and ventilated his
midsection, a maneuver which always calmed him. When he
felt himself in control again, he repeated the question a little
less stridently: "Why not?"

For answer, the System made the hand holo vanish and re-
placed it with a shineout of Splendel's latest rating in the ho-
tel directory, accompanying this projection with an image that
Mister Moogi always found to be quite odd.

"Why do those Terrans always dress up their bad news
with a holo of one of their own endoskeletons dressed in a
long, black, hooded robe and carrying a ... a ... What is that
thing. System?"

"Scythe: an ancient Terran agricultural artifact, now no
longer in—"

**0h, never mind." Mister Moogi brought all six eyes to
bear on the shineout. If the Terrans who had programmed the
System included me robed skeleton as their little joke. Mister
Moogi was not laughing. (Mister Moogi could not laugh, as
Terrans would understand it, but his clutchmates always said
there was no one who could tell a "dumb mammal" joke bet-
ter.)

"You see the problem, huh?" the System asked.

"We have slipped." Mister Moogi could hardly believe any
of his eyes. "We are now no longer rated as the second-most
prestigious shop in the Hotel Andromeda, but—oh, agony!—
the third. What is worse"— he rescanned the posting, cheek
flaps aquiver—"it says that all paying-and-potential custom-

180 Esther M. Friesner

ers arc quite welcome to ... to ..." He was powerless to go
on.

'To bring the kiddies," the System finished for him. "Yup,
no sorer way to blow your cachet. Shoot, if they can bring
their younglings along, how exclusive can we beT'

It blinked away the shineout and replaced it with a projec-
tion of a lank-limbed Terran youth in grubby slim-fits leaning
against the wall and whistling. When next the System spoke,
the holo moved its lips in perfect synchronicity. "It was that
last marketing blitz what done the deed, compadre. You are
hoist, like the fella says, by or with your own petard."

Mister Moogi moaned. It was true, too true for even the
slickest advertising campaign to expunge from the record,
even if they did guarantee to rub out any witnesses. Too many
paying-and-polential customers had seen it happen. Too many
slopdroids had been needed to suck up all the blood.

"But it was Bingemass!" Mister Moogi whined at the plas-
tic ovoid. "The heaviest shopping season we've got! Why,
there are at least five major gift-giving Terran holidays alone
that take place within those ten days, and if you add Qui
Nook's Skinshed. the Cantyrean Feast of the Second First-
born, the Anniversary of Pelmuddle's Ride—"

"Not a good time to try expanding your shop," the System
said.

"Yes, it was!" Mister Moogi protested. "You even said it
was. Every single one of those holidays is marked by the ex-
change of presents! Splendel's is second to none when it
comes to providing our paying-and-potential customers with
the finest in merchandise, gift suggestions, and on-site ethico-
psych counseling for dealing with residual post-purchase
guilt. You told me that if I doubled my floor space in the mid-
dle of Bingemass, I'd quadruple my business!"

"Could be I did," the System allowed. A thin red
smokewand appeared between the Terran hole's fingers. The
image raised it to its lips and drew a long pull from it until
pastel pink curls of smoke trickled out its ears. "Only I know
for a documented fact that I didn 't tell you to double the floor
space by hiring a board certified assassin to send your
Dangvim neighbors a box full of gnashcats."

Abruptly, the holo disappeared as the System jerked back
into Mech, reciting: "Gnashcat: Any one of several species of

IT'S A GIFT                    181

felinoid carnivore native to Sheldrake IV. Unretractable razor-
sharp claws as long or longer than the paws and double rows
of constantly self-replacing fangs make the gnashcat one of
the galaxy's most efficient killing machines. Although no
larger than the common Terran house cat, this creature exhib-
its a startling level of brainless ferocity and homicidal mania
when it encounters any being outside its own species."

"That's just what the assassin told me." Mister Moogi said
bitterly. "A killing machine."

The Terran holo was back, this time with a sleazy grin
creasing its face. 'Too bad it wasn't an eating machine."

"How was / to know that gnashcats can't eat off-woriders?"
Mister Moogi rubbed primary and secondary forcclaws together
in a piteous manner. "How was / to know they'd die from de-
vouring Dangvims? How was / to know that gnashcats are an
endangered species, protected by a body of transgalactic law
thicker than this entire hotel?"

The holo stiffened, a silvery sheen freezing its features un-
til it was completely transformed into a parody of a humanoid
servo. Its mouth opened and closed with no distinct lip artic-
ulation as it rattled off, "It is the decision of this Merchants'
Tribunal that the accused. Mister Moogi of Splendel's, be dis-
ciplined as follows:

"One: For failing to run a proper and complete check on
the references of his hired assassin, he must close shop on
Ujit's Other Tuesday and do community service. However, in
view of the fact that he personally killed and ate the offending
assassin for misrepresentation, this penalty is waived.

'Two: For causing the death of his neighboring merchant-
brothers, he shall be compelled to offer all Dangvim merchan-
dise at twenty percent off from this time forward. This
injunction does not apply to any Dangvim merchandise cur-
rently in stock or subsequently obtained through recognized
smuggling channels.

"Three: For being instrumental in the death by indigestion
of eight rare and endangered gnashcats who might otherwise
have fetched an excellent price on the open gag-and-novelty-
gift market, he shall be made to take into his shop as an ap-
prentice merchant the orphaned Dangvim youngling known as
Podvex. This association is to remain in effect until the
youngling shows himself able to conquer his own shop, or ex-

182 Esther M. Friesner

presses a desire to change employment, or dies a natural
death."

"If I personally killed and ate him, that would be natural
for me." Mister Moogi said, four out of six eyes full of hope.

"The Merchants' Tribunal thought of that." The System
unfroze the holo, which was grinning more nastily than ever.
"Maybe you don't remember the size of the fine they said
they'd slap you with if your apprentice becomes your appe-
tizer."

'"It's not fair." Mister Moogi sagged inside his carapace,
although it would take a keen trained eye to notice the differ-
ence from his normal posture. 'That Dangvim poisons every-
thing he touches! Oh, why wasn't he in the shop with his
parents where he belonged when the gnashcats arrived?"

"At your hearing, he testified that he was out making a per-
sonal apology to a dissatisfied customer. He did not specify
the underlying reason at the hearing, but I theorize that his of-
fense must have been a whopper if it required in-person pen-
itence."

"You see?" Mister Moogi's limbs waved wildly. "Even
then he was incompetent. To say nothing of unfitial! Causes
his parents to be shamed before the paying-and-potential, then
lacks the common decency to die with them! It's all that
Dangvim laxness, that's what it is. Faugh! What can you ex-
pect from mammals? I'm surprised they kept their shop going
for as long as they did. How they ever managed to conquer
a merchanting territory in the first place I'll never—"

A shrill VEEeeeeeeEEEEM scraped the last merciful mi-
crometer of insulation off Mister Moogi's nerves. "Uh-oh,"
said the System, its holo fading out. "Here comes trouble."
They both knew without touching a Demigalac dictionary that
for Splendel's, trouble was spelled with a capital Podvex.

Mister Moogi chirruped a command that opened his office
door without altering any of the interior comfort specs. The
portal slipped aside, as ordered, to reveal the young Dangvim
on the figurative doorstep, his paws still wrapped far too
tightly around the Summon/Cummin control. Mister Moogi
took a deep breath on all vents and told himself not to scream.

"Podvex," he said, "what is that in your paw?"

"Unr . . . It's . . . it's a presence announcer. Mister
Moogisir."

IT'S A GIFT                     163

"Correction: It is a Summon/Cummin, the best little narrow-
spectrum presence announcer on the market Just one touch and
the genetic code of any casual visitor is forever enshrined in the
device's memory. On all subsequent visits, our most valued cus-
tomers are immediately recognized and directed to my personal
attention, while deadbeats and just-browsers are politely steered
into the shop's no-man's-land, where even the servos seldom
tread—where even you are not an option—and arc there left to
steep until they've had enough and take their nonbusiness else-
where."

"Really?" Podvex's huge, round eyes seemed to get huger
and rounder with awe, physical possibility be damned. He
gazed with fresh respect at the ruined control box in his paws.
"Gosh," he breathed in purest, lowest Underg'lac.

"What is more," said Mister Moogi, suppressing a series of
shudders that threatened to shake his carapace to chitinous
shrapnel, "Summon/Cummin can even turn 'tronic blood-
hound to hunt down really good—albeit lapsed—customers
and bay special sale announcements beneath their System
windows until they came back to Splendel's once more. It is
high tech, high cost, high maintenance, and high return.
Sometimes it can sense a caller's identity without being
touched, simply by an analysis of the cloud of shed skin-cells
or other bio-detritus surrounding his person. You did not need
to touch it at all. You certainly did not need to tear it out of
the wall and strangle it, Podvex."

Podvex looked up into Mister Moogi's face and conjured
up a sickly smile. "Urnr, I wasn't sure if it rang or not when
I touched it, so I sort of ..." He tried another angle. "I
thought maybe it could use a tune-up so I wanted to detach it
from the wall because you always say these repair-droids cost
a claw and an antenna just to look at the problem, and ..."
He gave up. "Is this ... is this coming out of my pay, too?"

"Never mind." Mister Moogi's forectaws were all clacking
out a staccato beat until he sounded like an avalanche of cas-
tanets. "Just ... never mind. Were I to add this debt to the
score of all the damages you've already caused in my shop,
you would be an apprentice forever. We certainly don't want
that."

"Don't we?" Podvex curled his already roly-poly body into
a more compact ball and groomed his toes self-consciously.

184 Esther M. Friesner

"No-we-don't!" Mister Moogi articulated each word just
so, giving it the force of a falling sandbag. Poor little Podvex
cringed. "Considering your past performance, I must say that
only a four hundred percent increase in personal sales com-
pleted would redeem your account to a reasonable level."

"And what -.. what would you say's a reasonable level,
Mister Moogisir?" Podvex ventured. His silky blue shoulder
fur was beginning to lose its gloss due to the strain he was
under. The formidable Mister Moogi had scared Podvex
enough when they were Just neighbors, but as an employer he
was Terror in a giant dung beetle suit.

"If I can get you out of my shop and into one of your own
before either one of us perishes of old age, that would be rea-
sonable. It would also be reasonable if you remained my ap-
prentice until your dying day and when I sold your corpse for
the value of its component elements, that sum would equal
your debt to me. But it won't, so it looks like my only hope
is you bettering your sales record."

A hint of sheen seeped back into Podvex's shoulder fur. His
wide mouth arched up in the middle, the Dangvim equivalent
of a smile. "But that's why I'm here. Mister Moogisir! To
give you the good news."

"You're quitting my apprentice program? You'd be willing
to pheromark an affidavit to that effect in the presence of the
Merchants' Tribunal? You've found some other employment
in the hotel that interests you more?" Mister Moogi's opti-
mism was so delicate and lovely to behold, it was a sin to
mash it into the dust.

"Oh, no." Podvex was adamant. "I could never leave you
after all you've done for me. Mister Moogisir."

"All I've—" Holding on to sanity and scent sacs by the
thinnest of threads. Mister Moogi attempted to make sense of
his employee's unwanted loyalty. "Podvex, you lower marsu-
pial, I had your parents murdered!"

"Yessir, and mighty quick it was. Dadder always did say
that if he had to go, he'd like to die on the job, selling right
up to the last moment, and Mommer ... Well, I'll let you in
on a little secret. Mister Moogisir: I was 'way past the age for
most Dangvim cubbters to leave the family den and set up
their own establishments. Mommer and Dadder were going to
give me just one more chance to conquer my own shop, and

IT'S A GIR                   185

if I bollixed it this time, they were going to personally kill
and eat me. So you see, I owe you my life. I'd never quit on
you."

Mister Moogi began exuding a waxy substance much
prized for its ability to grow hair on mate Terrans of a certain
age. It was the only way his people had of expressing despair.
Dutiful Podvex set down the ruined Summon/Cummin unit
and fetched a gross of plastic ampoules, continuing the con-
versation while he used these to harvest his employer's ex-
tremely marketable tears.

"But I do have good news for you, as I said," he went on
"While you were in the office, we had a customer."

"A customer?" Mister Moogi mocked his apprentice with-
out shame or remorse. "I should hope that Splendel's may
boast at least a customer at any give instant."

"Ah!" Podvex gestured with a full ampoule. "But this was
a sentient customer—"

"Many paying-and-potentials eschew their servos for the
pleasure of coming to Splendel's in person."

"A wealthy customer—"

"Haven't I taught you that having wealth and being willing
to part with wealth do not always share the same coccoon?"

"A Terron customer—"

"I have found, Podvex, that moneyed Terrans are not the
only race in this part of the galaxy who don't know the value
of a credchip."

"A desperate customer!"

"What?" Instantly Mister Moogi's whole demeanor
changed. He whirled around and seized little Podvex in two
sets of foreclaws. Pale yellow striations played up and down
his cheek flaps, an indicator of gut-level elation he had not
had cause to use since the day his queen had told him she was
not going to personally kill and eat him after sex. "Where is
he, Podvex? You didn't let him get away, did you?"

"Oh, no. Mister Moogisir. He's sitting in the Glorioski
Lounge having a nice cup of squeeze tea and some cakes—yes,
I made sure the cakes were nontoxic and properly drugged this
time—and he said he didn't mind waiting however long it
took." Podvex puffed out the Hilled fur on his chest. "He said
he could see that I was just the sendent for the job."

"Merciful Queen, the poor meat loaf must be desperate,"

186 Esther M. Friesner

Mister Moogi breathed. "Oh well, no matter, no matter. He's
desperate and he's rich and he's ours. That's all that counts,
isn't it, Podvex, my fine young clutchmateT His foreclaws
combed nervously through Podvex's shoulder fur in an at-
tempt at bonhomie.

"You bet. Mister Moogisir" Podvex was so taken by his
employer's sudden gush of goodwill that he jabbered care-
lessly away in Underg'lac without noting how each hoi-polloi
syllable made Mister Moogi wince.

Master merchant and apprentice scurried to the Glorioski
Lounge posthaste. There Mister Moogi found the customer of
whom Podvex had burbled. "So it is no dream," he breathed,
taking in every juicy and costly-looking detail of the Terran's
attire. There was wealth here, and plenty of it. And he didn't
gaffe it. There may yet be hope of getting rid of Podvex, Mis-
ter Moogi told himself.

Feeling quite rejuvenated at the thought. Mister Moogi
hastened to greet this potential source of credchips unlim-
ited. His superprime foreclaw flickered up to trigger his
Taboolator implant (Terraculture file). The Taboolator was a
lovely little device all upper-crust merchants employed so as
not to accidentally make some unfortunate remark or gesture
perfectly acceptable in their own cultures but anathema to
the prejudices of their customers.

"Welcome, welcome to Splendel's, my honored guest,"
Mister Moogi gushed. 'To what do we owe the joy of serving
so handsome a customer?" He was about to assign the
Terran's good looks to having ritually devoured all of his sib-
lings, but the Taboolator squealed a warning just in time.

The Terran stood up quickly. "Oh boy, I sure hope you can
help me," he said. "I need a courtship gift, and I've got no
idea where to begin. Price is no object."

Mister Moogi was more than pleased. "Certainly, certainly.
We here at Splendel's pride ourselves on being the finest hotel
gift shop money can buy. Our selection of goods is second
only to our skill at matching the perfect gift to each lucky re-
cipient In matters of romance, we are exquisite and randy by
aims, as desired. Of course I needn't tell a sophisticated sen-
tient like yourself that before we can begin to assist you, there
is the matter of the contract—"

"Contract?" The Terran blinked. Mister Moogi's implant

IT'S A GIFT

187

translated the grimace to mean that the man was somewhat
taken aback. "I thought we took care of all that."

"We did, we did!" Podvex scampered forward, waving his
paws frantically at the System port on the lounge wall. The
shineout of a counsel-purchase agreement thrust itself into the
lounge, inscribed with the Terran's signature and, no doubt,
Podvex's pheromark above his printed name, had holos but
the means to project scent as well as sight.

"Your Mister Podvex agreed to help me find exactly what
I need," the Terran said.

"I see, I see," Mister Moogi muttered, eyes dancing over
the plump terms of the contract. In brief it explained to any-
one interested that Splendel's, as represented by Podvex, had
become lord, master, and queen of the Terran's financial re-
sources provided that Splendel's could come up with a court-
ship gift for one K'taen-ka'a, a highborn Kha'ak of the world
commonly known as Osprey. Galactic coordinates were given
in the same boilerplate paragraph that held the lucky recipi-
ent's DNA identification codes. It was all pretty formulaic.

Something got into Mister Moogi's skull as he reviewed
the contract. It wasn't the fact that Podvex had done some-
thing right for a change. That was just the law of averages on
his side. (As the old saying goes: Even a queen who eats all
the young of one generation will manage to devour the incip-
ient democrats with the rest.) No, there was something subtler
at work here, making his brain twitch and jig. He leaned
closer to the shineout, bringing all eyes into play.

There was a scream followed by the overwhelming stench
of long-restrained mature adult scent sacs letting go.

"I'm sorry," the Terran said to Podvex as they sat opposite
each other in the Without Portfolio, a hotel bar favored by the
ambassadorial set. "1 didn't know your boss felt that strongly
about diplomats."

"Strongly isn't the word," the furry blue Dangvim replied.
He had taken so many cleansings that his folicles were
shrieking for mercy and still the smell of Mister Moogi's out-
burst lingered at the roots. "It's not your fault, Frankmacgre-
gorsir. You told me you were a dipper. / should have known
Mister Moogisir's feelings on the subject."

The Terran gave Podvex a weak smile. "Just call me Frank,

188 Esther M. Fnesner

please. It'll make me feel a little better about what I've done
to you."

"Oh, Mister Moogisir will get over it." Poctvex shrugged
and sipped his squeeze tea. "We'll find you the perfect court-
ship gift for Miz K'taen-ka'amam, you'll pay us a lot of
money, I'll get my commission, and I'll never sign up another
dipper customer as long as I live."

"That's for sure," Frank said rather heavily. He leaned
across the table. "Do Dangvims handle alcohol without ex-
ploding?"

"It makes us giddiloopers, but we don't explode," Podvex
replied.

"Good." Frank signaled the nearest servo and ordered them
both a stiff drink. "Belt it down the black hole," he instructed
Podvex in lowest Underg'lac. "You're gonna need it."

Sometime later, a definitely giddiloopers Podvex blinked at
the Terran diplomat, mouth gaping. "Droppings," was all he
could say, over and over again, or sometimes, incredulous,
"No droppings?"

"None." Frank shook his head-

"Awww, droppings'." Podvex cried. "I'm dead."

"We're dead," the Terran corrected. "I just decided to take
you along for the hearse ride." He frowned at a thought that
nibbled one brain lobe. "I don't know what possessed me to
drag you in on this with a fully formal contract. When I went
into Splendel's all I wanted was some casual advice about this
gift—the alien point of view and all that. Nothing binding. It
wouldn't be fair to involve other sentients just because my
lingonberries are on the line. Why would I have done some-
thing so ... ?"

"My fault." Podvex stared into the echoing depths of his
empty glass. "When I heard you say price was no object, I
did what Mister Moogi always told me to do: I hustled you up
to the lounge and fed you cakes specially ... um ... seasoned
to make you more receptive."

"You mean drugged?" Frank raised an eyebrow.

"Enough to make you hand me your sister if I asked for
her." Podvex's spongy tongue mopped up the last drops of al-
cohol from the bottom and sides of the glass. "Standard mer-
chanting procedure. So don't feel bad on my account. I've
dirtied my own den and now I've got to lie in it."

IT'S A GIFT                    189

'Tell me about it!" Frank leaned back, arms folded. "The
same thing happened to me, all because I couldn't keep my
big mouth shut. I'm not even supposed to be here. The Hotel
Andromeda was just a stopover for me en route to my next
posting, but when I registered I saw a public shineout about
the wedding of the age booked for this hotel: a marnage made
on Osprey! Who'd have thought it?"

"They don't marry on Osprey?" Podvex asked.

"Oh, they marry, all right. The rituals and taboos surround-
ing marriage within the tribes of the Kha'ak and the P'toon
are taught to every fledgling dip. If you don't run away
screaming, they figure you'll do. Marriage is very important
to both tribes. Only children bom in wedlock to the Kha'ak
are permitted the supreme honor of becoming warriors who
get to slaughter the P'toon, and vice versa."

"Like the servowars during post-Bingemass sales." Podvex
nodded. "I see."

"What makes this wedding special—special, hell; incredi-
ble?—is that K'taen-ka'a is Kha'ak, but the bridegroom is—'

"P'toon?"

"You got it." Frank covered his face with his hands- "I read
that shineout three times, just to make sure it was real. Third
time's when I caught her name on it. Ever since we were
stubtails in the dipcorps school, Juanita VanTeufel has been
my nemesis. Don't get me wrong: Juanita's a beautiful
woman and a great dip, but the way she always gloats when
she one-ups me! For bringing off an intertribal marriage on
Osprey she'll get to crow over half the galaxy. To this day I
don't know how she did it."

"So you sought her out to—congratulate her." Podvex gave
Frank a knowing look. Industrial espionage was also an inte-
gral part of the successful merchant's life, as Mister Moogi
had taught him.

"Have it your way. The Terran dipcorps maintains a perma-
nent suite in the hotel, you know, and when I weht up there
to try learning how Juanita pulled off this coup, instead of a
party I stumble into a wake. Juanita's crying, her boss is yell-
ing at her, his boss is yelling at him, and her boss is—"

"At the scent-sac sphincter's limits?" Podvex suggested.
"Why? Was the wedding not to be?"

190 Esther M. Friesner

"That's what they told me. That's all they told me. Oh,
they made me welcome as a fellow dip, and they recognized
me as a friend of Juanita's—they even cut off the multilevel
harangues and recriminations and left the room to give us
some private time to exchange the social pleasantries—but
they refused to breathe a word about why the wedding was
history. I wasn't one of them, see, so they couldn't give me an
official briefing." His cheeks colored slightly as he added,
'There was nothing to prevent Juanita from briefing me ...
after."

"After the social pleasantries?" Podvex was a bright young
Dangvim.

Frank swallowed one reply and voiced another. 'The
P'toon refuse to recognize a wedding as legal or binding until
the groom has sent the bride a courtship gift. That's the only
thing that Juanita told me. Oh yes: Also that the gift cannot
be selected or delivered by the groom himself, or by a servo,
and that if the bride shows any indication that she doesn't like
it, the wedding's off. The P'toon indicated that they wanted a
Terran dip to do their shopping for them."

"It was therefore a question of responsibility that had dis-
rupted the harmony of your friend's place of employment." It
was too bad that Mister Moogi wasn't there to hear his ap-
prentice phrase the situation in flawless Demigalac.

"Uh-huh. That's what she said." Frank signaled the servo
and bought another round, downing his before he added,
"Served me right for forgetting that in the dipcorps the first
thing they teach us is to listen for what the other person
doesn't say."

Podvex listened as Frank went on to outline a familiar sce-
nario. The Dangvim was quite familiar with shopper's panic,
an affliction knowing no boundaries of galactic race or cul-
ture. Like Frank, he would have assigned Juanita's despera-
tion to the fear of picking out the wrong gift for the bride,
thereby bringing the weight of a failed strategic tribal union
crashing down upon her head.

"No one would care if the P'toon and the Kha'ak continued
to cut each other into hash until doomsday, except for two
things: Osprey is a rich world and both tribes have recently
discovered primitive nuclear weapons."

"Dirty ones?"

IT'S A GIFT

191

"Obscenely filthy ones. What good are resources and trade
agreements when the world that's got 'em is sizzling like a
ham steak on a griddle?"

Podvex folded one paw atop the other. He was swaying
slightly, but so was Frank. "My friend," he said. "I see your
predicament. You thought to rescue the female who is your ri-
val, thereby making her indebted to you forever and more
amenable to revealing her professional techniques and/or
bearing your cubbers when a mutually convenient time for re-
production comes. But the female deceived you as to the full
significance of her assigned task. There is more at work here
than the mere giving of a bridal gift."

'To the P'toon, it's a gift," Frank said. "To the Kha'ak it's
a declaration of war."

K'taen-ka'a poked her lunch with a delicate silver fork un-
til the unlucky meal squeaked. Then she bit its head off. As
she plucked a stubborn scale out from between her teeth, she
said, "Oh, I'm not fussy about my courtship gift. Anything
will do. Just anything."

Podvex scuffed his hindpaws over the lumps and bumps of
a dozen costly Kha'ak carpets, strewn in careless profusion
over the floor of the bride-to-be's room. The Kha'ak were
strong believers in the dictum Less is less. Refinements of
taste such as minimalism made them laugh. They preferred
ostentation, display, and gross consumerism. Mister Moogi
would have worshiped them.

"Anything?" the Dangvim repeated. "You're not just say-
ing that, are you, K'taen-ka'amam? This is your courtship
gift. According to what Frankmacgregorsir told me about
your people, this is the last time you'll be able to make any
choice independent of your husband, until you have borne his
first child."

"Upon which happy occasion I get to kill him, if 1 can."
The highborn Kha'ak maiden smiled.

"You missed a scale, there," Podvex pointed out- "Second
daggeriike tooth from the right, upper."

"Thank you." K'taen-ka'a levered it free with the silver
fork and spat it out. "I adore lizard, but with mammals you
don't have so many little hard bits to get caught in your teeth
after."

192 Esther M. Friesner

"Yesmam." Podvex didn't like the way she looked at him
when she said that. Privately he said a prayer that the lady
would not suddenly decide that what she wanted for a court-
ship gift was him, on toast. "As I was saying, the Terran
Frankmacgregorsir, acting on behalf of your chosen P'toon
bridegroom, Mairphot Garoo visTonktonk, has empowered
me as a representative of Splendel's gift emporium to give
you your choice of any and all merchandise in the shop pro-
vided that you ... that you ..." The poor Dangvim felt his
professional coolness melting at the edges under the unwaver-
ing yellow stare of the Kha'ak. She was smiling, or at least
showing all her teeth. It didn't make what Podvex had to ask
her any easier. "... that you promise not to take your bride-
groom's chosen courtship gift as ri'khak-umrow." He had
some trouble getting out the untranslatable alien syllables, but
he managed.

"No," said K'taen-ka'a. She snapped the silver fork in two.

"No? But—but perhaps you didn't understand me." Podvex
wrung his paws. "Anything Splendel's stocks, all things
Splendel's stocks, yours for the asking! The Terran ambassa-
dor will be only too charmed to make up the difference be-
tween your bridegroom's budget and the actual cost out of his
own pocket. And all you've got to do is—"

"No." K'taen-ka'a roiled over so that her vast naked belly
was exposed to the heat lamps and scent sprinklers so needful
to her comfort. "Now you listen to me, little one," she said in
a level voice. "This wedding your Terran friends are so delir-
ious about is none of my doing. I was raised to be a warrior,
to slaughter P'toon, and eventually to bear children who in
turn would slaughter P'toon. Then along comes this busy nose
Terran female who yatters her way into our chief's good
graces, does the same on the P'toon side, and convinces the
pair of 'em that instead of slaughtering each other's people as
the gods intended we should start breeding together."

She flopped back onto her betly and her expression was not
comforting to see. "I was chosen to be the first. I must aban-
don all hope of ever seeing P'toon blood running over my
knuckles in this life through no fault of my own."

"You did say you could try killing your mate after you bear
his first cubber." Podvex didn't tike to see anyone unhappy.

K'taen-ka'a spat again, without benefit of lizard scale.

IT'S A GIFT                    193

"Under his degenerate tribal law. Under mine, a wife who
kills the father of her child is left naked in a room witfi a few
old, embittered women and many sharp objects."

Her fingernails dug feather-spewing trenches in the cush-
ions of her divan as she said, "I would kill the odious
visTonktonk now, if I could, but since we are betrothed it is
decreed under his law and mine that if we come face-to-face,
we must marry immediately."

Podvex was about to suggest the classic stab in the back as
an alternative, but decided to let the lady unburden her heart
without interruption. Besides, he had no idea whether
backstabbing was approved under Kha'ak or P'toon tribal
law. Mister Moogi always said not to second-guess the cus-
tomers unless they paid for it.

"I would hire board-certified assassins from Room Service
to do the deed," K'taen-ka'a went on, "except that would
shame me before my sisters as too lazy to attend to my own
murders. All that is left to me is the ri'khak-umrow, and by
the seven and a half breasts of the Second Greatest Mother, I
intend to use it!"

"We have some very nice weresilks at Splendel's this sea-
son," Podvex pressed, even while he knew it was hopeless.
"Also genuine Terran all-cotton T-shirts with witty mottos
and racial slurs. I'm sure Mister Moogi would have one spe-
cially printed up for you saying someming nasty about the
sexual preferences of the P'toon."

"Ri'khak-umrow," the Kha'ak repeated, savoring the
words. "Disgraceful death by presents. It is one of our oldest
and most insidious customs. No matter what the visTonktonk
gives me for a bridal gift, I shall respond by reluming it ac-
companied by an even more lavish present. Since I have re-
turned his gift to me, he must send back both the gifts with
a still more expensive one. Then it is my turn to respond in
kind, adding a fourth gift to the sum, and so it shall go until
the miserable wretch is left shamed, poverty stricken, and im-
potent to outdo the sumptuousness of my final offering." She
closed her eyes and reveled in the thought of an impotent
P'toon.

"What if he does outdo you?" Podvex asked timidly.

K'taen-ka'a's eyes snapped open and fixed on the meek lit-
tle Dangvim. "Impossible. Honor prevents a marriageable

194 Esther M. Friesner

male P'toon from using any funds but his own. I, on the other
hand, as an independent unmarried maiden, may do what I
damned well like with the resources of my entire clan. If they
don't approve of my spending habits, they're free to try kill-
ing me. Little chance of that, in this case: The giving of a gift
to a truebom Kha'ak is tantamount to declaring that her kin
are unable to support her in fitting style. It is therefore an in-
sult to my whole family. They'll let me spend whatever I
want to destroy the insolent rogue."

"But you don't get to kill him; just destroy him finan-
cially," Podvex pointed out.

"1 know." K'taen-ka'a's eyes were gleaming yellow slits.
"It's much less merciful that way."

The Dangvim grew thoughtful. "If Mairphot Garoo
visTonktonk doesn't give you a bridal gift, the wedding's not
legal under his people's law. If Mairphot Garoo visTonktonk
does give you a bridal gift, you can commence death by pres-
ents under your people's law."

"There you have it." K'taen-ka'a yawned, content.

"Didn't the Terrans know about this situation before they
got your chiefs to set up the marriage?"

Again Podvex found himself staring into the glare of
K'taen-ka'a's full set of teeth. "What do you think, little
one?" A bubbling noise welled up in her throat, part merri-
ment, part slurp. "Now run along and do your shopping for
my future bridegroom. As I said, I'm not fussy- Anything will
do. Because whatever it is you choose, I'll send it right back
to him with a better gift in tow. You can price it low, but that
will only make the game stretch out a little longer. The end
result will be the same."

Podvex dragged his paws all the way to the door. Before he
left, he turned to try one last suggestion: "You couldn't
just .. - just accept the gift and marry him?"

"I am a truebom Kha'ak," came the reply. "After I am
wed, I may take no more independent actions until the day I
am judged to be past childbearing. With all that to look for-
ward to, would you be in such a hurry to kiss your virginity
good-bye?"

"Yes, but for the sake of peace—"

"Ah, how fond you are of peace, little one!" There was a
dangerous undertone to K'taen-ka'a's seemingly casual

tr's A GIFT                    195

words. She swung her legs over the edge of the divan and
started toward Podvex, saying, "And who are more peaceful
than the dead?"

The Dangvim didn't stop running until he was safely back
in the Glorioski Lounge at Splendel's.

"It looks bad," said Frank.

"Bad," Podvex agreed.

Mister Moogi glowered at the pair of them and refreshed
the squeeze teas. He had not said a word since the scent-sac
incident, but the play of color bands over his cheek flaps told
its own tale of irritation, indignation, and occasional speech-
less rage.

Now, as the colors shaded up into the deeper purple hues, he
finally broke silence. "Bad is not the word!" he sputtered. "Ru-
ination does not begin to describe it. I don't blame you, Podvex.
For once. I have come to expect a certain level of idiocy from
you, and you have yet to disappoint me. But you, sir!" He
turned on Frank. "We never expected much from Tenans as far
as the finer points of galactic society go, but at least we thought
they'd know how to behave themselves in a hoteir

"Wha-wha-what—?" Frank's stammered bewilderment
made no impression on Mister Moogi.

"The wedding will not take place. That much is clear. Your
people will lose a great deal of face for having backed a
worst-selling line of goods. Your own career will of course be
over. The female who so cunningly maneuvered you into this
predicament will avoid all blame and make your existence a
misery and a shame with her gloating now. You would have
done better to have devoured her after sex, like any civilized
sentient."

"Don't I know it," Frank muttered.

"So much for you. As for Podvex, he will always bear the
stigma of an unfulfilled and unfulfillable contract. He will
be"—Mister Moogi shuddered—"my apprentice forever."

"I wouldn't mind it that much. Mister Moog——" A single
icy glance from his employer shut Podvex's mouth for him.

"Forever might not last as long as you expect, Podvex.
Word of the wedding's failure will pass into legend, and leg-

196 Esther M. Friesner

end will be sure to explain just why the wedding failed.
Names will be named. Your foolish haste to sign a contract
whose terms you did not fully understand will become im-
mortal. So will the name of the shop lack-wit enough to have
creatures like you on staff."

"You did tell me that any publicity is good publicity. Mister
Moogisir." Bravely Podvex tried to salvage some crumb of
hope from the ashes.

"I lied."

"Oh." The crumb crumbled.

'To say nothing of what's going to happen to Osprey,"
Frank remarked, thinking aloud. "No wedding, no peace.
Boom. Bum. Armageddon. Ouch."

"Osprey?" Mister Moogi bristled. "What is Osprey?"

"Just a whole world of short-tempered sentients that's go-
ing to be turned into toast, that's all."

"And what is that to me?" Mister Moogi demanded.

"Probably nothing," Frank allowed. "I just thought that
toast goes well with a little of the milk of human kindness."

Mister Moogi's vents made terse, snuffling sounds, the
equivalent of a human's disdainful sniff. "Milk is for mam-
mals" he said, wearing contempt like a fine cloak. "We are
speaking of the fate of Splendel's." Using every free foreclaw
on his body, he gestured toward the panoramic windows of
the GIorioski Lounge. Through these glassy portals and via
the networks of viewscreens above them it was possible to
see every comer of the gift shop.

It was a striking spectacle, one that never failed to impress
Podvex. Almost against his will, he found himself drawn fas-
cinated to the windows and the viewscreens, his eyes sweep-
ing the vast abundance of the gift shop's wares. His heart beat
a little faster and a tear rose to his eyes. "Everything from
soup to numps." he murmured.

"What was that?" Mister Moogi snapped.

"He said, 'Everything from soup to nuts,' " Frank supplied.

"He did not. He said ^numps.^ I heard him. Podvex, how
dare you!"

"How dare I what?" The little Dangvim held up his paws
in abject helplessness.

"Don't pretend you don't know. I never saw such an ap-
prentice for getting out of work. Hmph! Probably use the ex-

IT'S A GIFT                    197

cuse that this Osprey-thing-world's about to blow itself up.
Welt, it won't hatch any clutches with me!" Mister Moogi's
foreclaws jutted out in an attitude of impatient expectation.
"Podvex, I am waiting. Isn't there something you should be
doing?"

"Uhhhh, ritual suicide?"

"Business before pleasure," Mister Moogi said sternly.

"Oh, my fur and follicles!" Podvex slapped his own fore-
head. "The numps'."

"Ana the yumas, and the sevreens, and the weimaraners,
and the—" Mister Moogi was left to enumerate to an empty
lounge. Podvex had streaked out, followed at a respectable
gallop by the Terran.

"So that's a nump," said Frank, peering into the sonocage
at a square-shouldered, baggy-eyed creature that looked like a
cross between a throw pillow and a hamster.

"Uh-huh," Podvex replied. "Splendel's might not be the
top gift shop in the Hotel Andromeda, but we do have the top
pet department. It's my job to inspect the animals daily and
reprogram the servos according to any changes I observe.
What with all the excitement, 1 forgot."

While Podvex attended to his duties. Frank strolled from
cage to cage, idly studying the animals inside. "You know,
Podvex," he remarked, "I think maybe I'm in the wrong pro-
fession. Animal husbandry, now there's the ticket for a peace-
able man like me. Take these critters, for example"—he
waved at the denizens of one cage—"I could probably breed
them and sell them for a living. I'll bet there's a nice market
for them somewhere."

Podvex glanced at the cage that held Frank's attention.
"Mister Moogi says there's a market for everything some-
where, even lagbels. The only trouble is, you've got to find a
really wealthy market: they cost a paw and a tail."

"Really?" Frank's interest was piqued. He had just been
making conversation with all his talk of quitting the
dipcorps. But now he took a closer look at the lagbels in
their cage. They were not very large animals, both about
groundhog size, one slightly plumper than the other. There
was nothing especially striking about their dull gray colora-
tion or smooth-haired coats. They had simple binocular vi-

198 Esther M. Friesner

sion, four paws apiece, and medium-sized tails that looked
incapable of doing more than balancing their owners despite
an odd tuft of stiff, prickly-looking hair at the tip. Snuggled
against one another, they looked up at the curious Terran
with targe, moist green eyes.

"Why are they that expensive?" Frank asked. "They lay
golden eggs?"

"They're mammals; they don't lay any eggs," Podvex re-
plied. He joined his customer at the lagbel cage. "I don't
know much about them, Frankmacgregorsir. Mister Moogi
just told me to keep the pets alive and not to ask stupid ques-
tions." The Dangvim grew thoughtful. "There is something
about lagbels I remember, though."

"What's that?"

"You know the Tyrrhenians who always take over the hotel
for their annual Mating Convention every Newtfolly Eve?"

Prank shook his head. "I'm not a hotel resident like you,
Podvex. The only thing I know about Tyrrhenians is they're
one of (he most peaceful races in this sector of the galaxy."

"You wouldn't say that if you ever saw their Mating Con-
vention. Twenty-nine fire alarms per day minimum, slime on
all the mirrors, and they always steal the housekeeping servos.
Anyhow, toward the end of the convention, when things are
settling down, all the newly mated couples come in here and
buy breeding pairs of lagbels. One lagbel's expensive, but
two—! So once, when I was pretty sure Mister Moogi was
busy elsewhere, I asked them why. The Tyrrhenians told me
that the lagbel's probably the most fiercely monogamous
creature in the galaxy. They mate for life, and they coexist
peacefully the whole time they're together."

"Neat trick," Frank muttered.

"Oh, it's no trick, Frankmacgregorsir; it's science! The Tyr-
rhenians told me that laboratory experiments showed that the
male and the female each give off a different kind of musk to
attract the opposite sex. When they find each other, the two
musks combine in midair and me resulting substance has a
tranquilizing effect on the lagbels. There's no research to back
this, but Tyrrhenian tradition says the musk also has the same
effect on other sentients that get within breathing distance,
which is why ... which is why ... Why, Frankmacgregorsir,
why are you staring at the lagbels like that?"

h's A GIFT

199

"Podvex," the Terran said slowly, a smile replacing the
look of black despair that had been clouding up his features.
"Podvex, does Splendel's deliver?"

Podvex was humming happily to himself as he tidied up
the cosmetics section when the assassins sprang. He was just
able to sound the alarm summoning security servos before
they stuffed him into a sack and tossed him into the back of
the linen cart they had hijacked for their purposes. It was an
armed linen cart of the sort that could be left unattended in
the hotel corridors without fear of any greedy passerby help-
ing himself to the little shampoos and soaps. In seconds, ev-
ery security servo in the vicinity was reduced to a smoking
heap of slag and the assassins made a clean getaway.

Podvex next saw the light in K'taen-ka'a's room. The as-
sassins dumped him on the rugs and paused only long enough
to accept the Kha'ak maiden's generous dp before departing.
Then K'taen-ka'a turned to face the trembling Dangvim.

Her fury made every layer of muscle on her immense body
ripple until it made poor Podvex seasick Just to look at her.
"Where is it?" she demanded.

"Where is what?" Podvex cheeped. It was an honest ques-
tion, the kind that always makes people get really angry and
shout:

"You know what!"

Podvex watched the thin strands of saliva vertically band-
ing the Kha'ak's gaping maw and decided he'd be safer mak-
ing an educated guess than being honest again and likely
ending up dead for his high morals.

"Oh! You mean where is the . . . gift?" K'taen-ka'a's
wicked hiss sounded affirmative, so Podvex dared to add,
"It ... it ought to be here. I delivered it myself. You remem-
ber. I gave it right into your hands and you asked if it bit and
I said I didn't think so, although when we took it out of its
mate's cage it—"

"It is gone\"

"Is it? Oh dear. That's terrible."

"That is worse than terrible," the noble Kha'ak maiden
snaried.

"You—you liked it so much? Goodness, I'm glad to hear it.
It's always so difficult picking out gifts for someone else.

200 Esther M. Friesner

Sentients have such differing tastes, especially when it comes
to pets. That's why I seldom recommend them as gifts unless
you know the recipient really well. I told the Terran that—"

"I did not like it at all!" K'laen-ka'a's roar made the
lightsticks jiggle. "It was a gift, you fool! Did I not tell you
that to my tribe, a gift is an insult and an insult that must be
returned?"

"Re-retumed? Yesssss, you did say something like—"

"And to be relumed, a gift must be somewhere I can find
it to return!" She thrust a sharp-tipped finger at the empty
sonocage in the corner. Podvex crept over to examine it and
found that the lock control panel—none of the best—had
been assaulted from within with a keen, pointed object. For
an instant, a vision of the lagbel's spiky tail flashed across the
Dangvim's mind.

"Please, K'taen-ka'amam," Podvex said, cringing. "Surely
you don't blame me for this?"

"I do not."

"Then why ... why have you brought me here?"

"What? You are surprised?" The Kha'ak herself looked
startled. "Doesn't Splendel's offer shop-at-home service? I
merely wished to place an order for a replacement beast so
that the ri'k/iak-umrow could commence."

"I see." Podvex compressed himself into a ball and from
that somewhat more secure position said. "I'm afraid that's
impossible."

It was said that the Kha'ak maiden's reaction disrupted
twelve banquets, twenty-two extramarital trysts, five sales
conferences, and a bar mitzvah at various points throughout
the Hotel Andromeda.

"Thank you for coming with us, Frankmacgregorsir," Pod-
vex whispered, his voice echoing eerily in the disused servo
corridor.

"Least I could do in the name of galactic peace," the Terran
replied.

"Shut up, the two of you, or I rip your heads off," K'taen-
ka'a growled. Despite her bulk, she moved with an uncanny
measure of grace and silence, the legacy of generations of
sentients whose main purpose in life was murder.

"That wouldn't be a good idea, K'taen-ka'amam," Podvex

IT'S A GIFT

201

murmured. "I'm the only one who knows the way to your
bridegroom's suite by this route, and once we get there you'll
need Frankmacgregorsir to help you recapture your lagbel
while I keep watch."

"I still don't see why you could not have simply sold me
another one," the Kha'ak grumbled.

"I could have done that," Podvex replied. "But if I had,
you'd never have been able to do your ri'khak-umrow thing.
Not so you'd be believed."

"Lagbels mate for life," Frank put in. "When yours got
away, it had to go straight to its mate, in Mairphot Garoo
visTonktonk's rooms. If you sent a substitute lagbel back to
him, he'd have the evidence right there in front of him that it
wasn't his gift."

"Very well, very well, lead on." The Kha'ak stopped talk-
ing altogether, except to subvocalize a nonstop series of
curses in her own tongue all the way to her bridegroom's
quarters.

There was an oversized air vent in the hygiene unit left
over from the time when the Hotel Andromeda had had to re-
tool several rooms to accommodate a party of Ffft! warriors,
mercenaries who would do anything for a price except bathe.
Additional ventilation was costly to install, but not nearly so
expensive as having to deep-space the whole block of rooms
afterward had they not been so well aired out during the Ffft!
occupation.

Podvex peeped through the air vent and saw a deserted hy-
giene unit. "It's all right. We can go ahead."

"You would be barbecue on my world for such laxity,"
K'taen-ka'a sneered. "One empty room does not imply that
the despised visTonktonk is nowhere in his suite."

"I called the room first," Podvex replied. "There was no
answer, and Frankmacgregorsir paid extra for a clandestine
scan of the premises. The only place the scans won't go is the
hygiene unit."

"What a nicety!" The Kha'ak's scorn was measurable by
the bucket. 'To honor privacy at the cost of valuable espio-
nage information."

"It's not that," Frank said. "It's just that vetting the scan-
ners isn't a job for a servo, and Hotel Security lost too many
sentients when they tried scanning in-use hygiene units.

202 Esther M. Friesner

Ma'am, have you ever seen what some beings do in the name
of personal hygiene?"

K'taen-ka'a gave a tiny shudder. "Point taken."

"Anyway, after I called the room, I sent out a blanket call
to the hotel bars," Podvex continued. "Your groom-to-be is in
the Light of Arcturus Bistro, drinking with his wedding atten-
dants."

K'taen-ka'a's eyebrows twitched. "I would not have ex-
pected such competence of you, Dangvim. In gratitude, I shall
purchase my next neural disruptor at your shop."

"We do carry a very nice selection of state-of-the-art color-
coordinated—"

"Shut up and stand aside. I have a lagbel to recover." The
Kha'ak maiden stiff-armed Podvex against one wall, Frank
against the other, and punched out the air vent with one blow
of her fist. There was a lot of grunting and squirming as she
wriggled through the opening, but neither the Terran nor the
Dangvim was fool enough to attempt giving her a friendly
shove. At last, with a sound like a boulder being pulled out of
a hog wallow, she was through. "What are you waiting for?
Come help me," she commanded.

Podvex and Frank had no trouble at all slipping through the
vent into the hygiene unit. K'taen-ka'a hadn't waited for them
but had barged on into the main body of Maiphot Garoo
visTonktonk*s quarters, seeking her wayward courtship pres-
ent. They heard her exclamation of triumph just as they
stepped into the suite's sitting-squatting-and-hunkering-down
area.

"Where is she?" Podvex searched the area in vain.

"It sounded like it came from there." Frank pointed at an
open portal-

"That's not his personal chamber, is it?"

"It's wherever he's keeping his lagbel. This is really a
shame. I hoped that by giving her half a mated pair and
Maiphot Garoo the other one, the lagbel's natural tranquiliz-
ing effect would calm down these homicidal yahoos long
enough for them to get safely married."

"But I told you, it's the blending of the male and female
lagbel musks that does it. You don't get that effect unless
you've got both lagbels together."

IT'S A GIFT

203

"Yeah, right." Frank sighed- "And for all we know, the ef-
fect doesn't even work on all sentients; just Tyrrhenians."

From the inner room came K'taen-ka'a's voice raised in an
imperious demand for assistance. Podvex jumped. "I'd better
go stand lookout, and you should help her. I don't think even
K'taen-ka'a will have an easy time separating the lagbels. I
know I had to use snooze-needles on them at the shop. Hurry,
please. She doesn't sound very happy."

"Oh well. It was worth a try." Frank shrugged.

The entire suite shook with the force of something very
large and heavy hitting the floor.

Frank dashed for the open portal, only to be bowled over
by Podvex. "Oh my!" the Dangvim exclaimed, paws to
mouth at the sight awaiting him. K'taen-ka'a lay full length
upon the floor of the sleeping chamber, a goodly part of her
overlaying the futon. Her hands were still outstretched toward
the sonocage where a happily reunited pair of lagbels
drowsed. Podvex tiptoed toward the cage and blinked at it to
make sure his eyes told him the truth.

"Not engaged," he said, turning to Frank.

"What?"

"The cage controls aren't engaged. No wonder: That cage
isn't big enough for two lagbels, so the P'toon just left it
open. Someone must've told them about the animals' habits,
how faithful they are. Mairphot Garoo visTonktonk probably
figured they wouldn't try to run away so long as they had
each other."

"Yes, but who could've told them—"

"And look there." The Dangvim didn't give Frank a chance
to ask a thing. Instead he pointed to K'taen-ka'a's hands. Two
spines of stiff gray hair stuck out of the flesh.

Frank knelt cautiously beside the gently snoring Kha'ak,
then glanced at the lagbels- "The male's missing a tail spike,"
he said. "So's the female. If their musk was on those
spikes ..."

"I guess the tranquilizing effect doesn't just work on Tyr-
rhenians." Podvex wore a sheepish smile. "Should we try
moving her?"

"I don't think so." A look of relief and revelation warmed
Frank's features. "I think we should just try moving ourselves
out of here fast."

204 Esther M. Friesner

It was the wedding of the year, or the turn, or the tumble,
depending on how one kept track of time. It was also per-
formed rather hastily, with none of the pomp Juanita
vanTeufel had planned, and certainly with none of the lime-
light spilling over onto her. Instead it was visiting dip-in-
transit, Frank MacGregor, who received the accolades and
thanks of Kha'ak and P'toon alike for having been so Johnny-
on-the-spot with an accredited shaman able to officiate at the
hurry-up ceremony immediately necessary once Maiphot Ga-
roo visTonktonk staggered into his sleeping chamber and fell
over K'taen-ka'a.

"Once he saw her face-to-face, the die was cast," Frank
told Podvex. *They had to get married at once. And once she
was married, K'taen-ka'a couldn't start ri'khak-umrow or
anything else without her new husband's say-so. Small
chance. The P'toon don't raise any fools."

The Terran and the Dangvim were strolling through one of
the better shopping areas of the Hotel Andromeda. It was not
a neighborhood with the snob appeal of Splendel's, but it did
lie at the intersection of several heavy consumer traffic routes.
Podvex had been perplexed when the Terran showed up at
Splendel's, tossed Mister Moogi a fat credchip key, and an-
nounced he was paying for a little of Podvex's time. Now as
their walk continued, he was growing more confused by the
minute.

"Ye-yes," he stammered. "We heard all about it through the
System. It was very gratifying to know that—"

"Here we are," said Frank. They had stopped before a
pretty little shop front. "Here you go." He took Podvex's paw
and pressed it to the lock plate. The shop door opened and all
the lights came on. A host of shiny new servos glided forward
to greet the newcomers.

"Welcome to Podvex's," they said. "For the finest in gifts
and gadgets, from soup to numps. Ri'khak-umrow contracts
our specialty."

"It's the least a grateful Terran dipcorps could do. One
tumble's lease, start-up stock, and your license as a paid-up
member of the hotel Merchants' Council. If you don't like the
name you can change it later," Frank said.

"Ah ... ah ... ah ..." was all Podvex could reply.

IT'S A GIFT

205

"You're trying to say thank you?"

"Na-na-na ..."

"Oh! You're trying to say you don't deserve this'"

"Ah."

"If you don't, who does?"

"Some-some-someone else."

"The someone else who made sure that Mairphot Garoo
visTonktonk found out about the habits of lagbels, pertiaps,
and suggested he could leave the sonocage open?" Frank pat*
ted Podvex on the back. "Well, until that someone else shows
up, why don't you just mind the shop?"

Podvex's eyes were shining as he took in the full magnif-
icence of the well-stocked emporium. "Bingemass is com-
ing," he murmured. "It's a good time to start up a new
business. My, my. Won't Mister Moogisir—I mean, won't
Moogi be surprised."

"To hear you've gone independent?"

"No, no. To get his first Bingemass gift from me- An ap-
prentice can't afford to give anything away." He toddled off
down an aisle, then paused to look back at Frank and asked,
"We do carry gnashcats don't we?"

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

Kevin J. Andersen

The more appendages a client has, the better he tips. I know
it's presumptuous to make sweeping generalizations like that,
with the incredible number of life-forms in the galaxy—but, hey,
I've been at this business long enough to spot trends, and a lot
of different types come through the Hotel Andromeda. Trust
me—count the tentacles, then count your fee for the night

And this guy had twenty-three appendages—just look at
*em! And of course it didn't take much for me to figure out
what the identical number of orifices on my adapted female
body were supposed to be for.

He gestured toward me with a pseudopod and eased back
on his motive cushion of slime, flailing a few other tendrils in
the air. I moved naturally, slithering into his room. I had al-
tered my body to look exactly like a female Slugwump, and
a knockout too, as best I could determine from the species
listing in the Lexicon. If I didn't get everything right, it might
shatter the illusion for the client.

207

208 Kevin J. Anderson

"I ... I've never done anything like this before," he said in
his own dialect, sounding like wet glue oozing from a tube.
They always said the same thing, even the veterans—as if a
hookermorph like me realiy cares about excuses.

"You'll be just fine," I said to the lonely Stugwump, ca-
ressing him with one of my tendrils. "I'm already hot for
you." His eyestalks extended in nervous astonishment at that.

Indeed, I was hot. Slugwumps come from a humid, haze-
shrouded world about thirty degrees hotter than would have
been my preference. But my Slugwump body adjusted to it in
a few minutes as I glided in after him on his own trail of
slime. They find that sort of thing erotic, you know. He
closed the door portal behind us.

Inside the room, he turned on some sort of subsonic music
that sounded like very large bubbles bursting deep underwa-
ter. I had to be amorous and whisper into his auditory pickups
while the surround-speakers kept going bloop-bloop-bloop.
Humidity generators worked silently to keep the environment
comfortable for him.

In the middle of the room lay a corralled-off patch of pow-
dery sand, which I took to be the area of repose. The client
oozed over to a pedestal on which he had placed a large bowl-
shaped flower that looked like a big water lily. With an ignitor,
he lit the tips of the petals, and as they curied down in flames,
the flower exuded a fragrant pink smoke. A nice touch.

He moved nervously, switching the igniter from tentacle to
tentacle to tentacle in a hypnotic fireman's brigade; he hadn't
managed to dispose of it before it burned one of his append-
ages, and I snatched it out of his grasp, tossing it to the sand
in the sleeping area.

*'I keep wanting to make small talk," he said, "but I can't
think of anything to say."

I nudged him over the rim of the corral into the sleeping
area. His body elongated and he flowed over to the sand. "I
don't want to make small talk," I said. "I want to make love
to you."

Again, he goggled with his eyestalks. By now I could see
that I would have to take things into my own hands—
figuratively speaking, that is. If I waited for him to take any
sort of initiative, we would be in his cubicle all weekend.

When we actually got down to the business of mating, he

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH          209

proved perfectly willing and eager. Our pliant bodies squished
together and rolled on the gritty sand, which heightened the
pleasure at the tips of our exposed nerves. It took us quite
some time to link up all his appendages with all my orifices,
but I found it ultimately satisfying. I managed to fake an or-
gasm in nineteen of the orifices, and I think I had genuine
spasms in four.

The petals of the flower bumed down to the pollen, where
they burst in a flash of orange light before fading into dimness.
The bloop-bloop-bloop music continued on endless replay.

Afterward, my client looked exhausted and shaken, but
pleasured all the way to his soft body core- I could see his
membranes quivering as we sat against each other, shoring up
the gelatinous bulk as we secreted off our outer coating of
slime, washing away with it all of the irritating sand we had
gathered in the throes of our lovemaking.

"I just can't believe it... a stunningly beautiful female like
you even bothering to spend time with someone like me." He
condensed his body volume in what seemed to be shy with-
drawal.

"You aren't so bad. Take a good look at yourself—and
don't sell yourself short."

In truth, how was I supposed to tell the difference between
an ugly male Slugwump and a handsome one? And I didn't
want to remind him that this little service wasn't free, after
all.

As I expected, he tipped magnificently, in addition to the
normal fee. Twenty-three tentacles—see what I mean?

Being a hookermorph isn't necessarily easy, but it's a liv-
ing.

I sauntered along the lobbyways in the hotel. This morning
I wore a bipedal body with muscular legs, the kind that en-
joyed walking. I felt refreshed and vibrant, having just en-
joyed a long ultrasonic bath in the form of a creature that
thrived on such things.

Potted plants that may or may not have been hotel guests
sat in the alcoves. Other life-forms stood open mouthed in
front of the ashtrays they had replaced, waiting for a snack of
used tobac-stick butts. Motivator ramps tilted at various an-

210 Kevin J. Anderson

gles to accomodate life-forms from worlds with different
gravities, conveying hotel guests to adjacent biospheres.

"So, how are you, Ilkiy?" said a voice from behind me.
"I'm glad you finally decided to wear a body I can at least
talk to'"

I turned to see John-23, one of the cyborg members of the
Hotel Security staff. He could always read my genetic ID
code with a blink of his enhanced left eye. John-23 had lost
his arm, his shoulder, and half of his face during a cargo-
shifter accident ten years ago. Most of the passengers in the
stateroom container had died; they had been thrown from the
high-pressure inner atmosphere of a gas giant, and turned into
dripping tatters of flesh from explosive decompression.
John-23 had spent a month or so in mech-regrowth, having
new android body parts connected to his own body in a cell-
to-cell match- To humans, he looked completely healed, indis-
tinguishable from his former appearance, but whenever I
looked at him through infrared-sensitive eyes, he looked all
screwed up.

"I feel good this morning, John-23," I said, actually mean-
ing it—and he could tell. John-23 and I have worked at the
hotel for longer than either of us wants to admit.

Unfortunately, my good humor was not rubbing off. He
was in one of his introspective moods. "What are we doing
here, Ilkiy? You're so cheery. Have you finally figured out
what you want out of life?"

'There's really nothing much I want. I enjoy life, I like my
job. What else is there?"

Indeed, I do enjoy my job. It's always different, and I'm
good at it. Oh, sometimes certain life-forms can be a drag,
and you can't always tell just by their listings in the Lexicon.
I remember that time with the Paramecon, a transparent cylin-
drical thing that showed all his pulsing internal organs; 1 had
serviced him and taken my fee before I learned that
Paramecons always mate for life. Luckily for me, Paramecons
also die within a few days of mating; but he followed me
around like a parasite for half a week, and I didn't dare
change form and shatter the illusion for him. When he finally
bowed over and I watched his heart-equivalent pump stop
pumping, I know he expected me to split open and shower the
room with our offspring before dying beside him. But

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

211

hookermorphs are sterile, as far as I know; I've never needed
to use any form of birth control, and the Lexicon doesn't give
too much information on my own kind.

Sometimes the job does get a little boring, though. One
time I had to stand absolutely still for four hours while a
plantlike male Dandel client budded and showered his pollen
all over me. Apparently satisfied, but without a word, he paid
his fee and shuffled out of the room on stubby mobile roots.

As I reminisced, I saw that John-23 was waiting for me to
say something a bit more profound. "I think it might be inter-
esting to find a little more stability, I suppose. I've never had
anything that lasts."

"Nothing ever lasts," John-23 said. I've seen him in occa-
sional glooms like this ever since his accident.

"I can make it better for you. Anytime you give me the
chance," I said. "No charge."

I had made the offer before, but never seriously, and
John-23 knew it. I've known him long enough that I could se-
lect a bodily form that would make his hormones short-
circuit. I could give him absolutely everything he had ever
fantasized about, and he knows it.

But John-23 also has a wife and three kids back in the em-
ployees' annex. His marriage is a good one, solid. He doesn't
need me mucking it up. He's too good a friend, and I would
never do that to him.

"Don't tempt me," he said. His voice was husky.

"Offer withdrawn," I said, then deliberately shifted into an-
other body that would look bulbous and ugly to him.

John-23 touched the pickup implant behind his ear, then
nodded. "Gotta go. One of the Swelft guests is trying to take
a shower but can't figure out how to turn the water on. Those
damned critters are so unintuitive! What's complicated about
turning a knob in the bathtub?" He stomped off, waving
good-bye, but I could already see a new sense of purpose be-
hind his movements.

John-23 likes his job, too. He just hates not being busy.

I sauntered through the pearlescent arches leading into one
of the hotel's primary bars. I wanted to share my energy, use
it as synergy and keep the buzz going. I needed a pickup.

I was wearing a delicate, feathery body guaranteed to ring

212 Kevin J. Anderson

a few hormonal bells for a wide range of male hotel guests,
and I could always alter my appearance at a moment's notice
anyway.

Since so many species operate on completely different cir-
cadian rhythms, nobody at the Hotel Andromeda particularly
cares what time it is. All things at all times, that was their
motto. At the bar itself, various organic and robotic bartenders
consulted their databases to determine which substances were
known to be intoxicating to which life-forms.

I glanced around the bar, cataloging the customers, my
prospects. Many of the species were familiar to me, some of
them good tippers, some of them good lovers. Most were al-
ready with a companion. But I wanted something a bit more
exotic, a bit of a challenge.

Then I saw it perched on a stool that had never been de-
signed to accomodate its insectile frame. Metallic turquoise
blue on its back casings and segmented legs, an ovoid head
with gleaming silver domes for eyes, whiplike antennas-1 had
never seen its type before, which meant it was fairly rare. A
challenge.

While staring at it, I consulted my Lexicon implant, wait-
ing one second, then two as it searched for a match. I began
to grow concerned and exhilarated at the same time. An un-
known? Not quite. The listing popped up an image and a
name—BORRAK. Very little data about the species. Just some
specifics on their homework!, temperature ranges, gravity—
all the stuff that's easy to gather from a few space probes, but
nothing that demonstrated extended sociological study.

This excited me even more, especially after recalling my
recent conversation with John-23- I could provide some new
data for the Lexicon compilers, give them vital information
about a mysterious species. The Lexicon pays handsomely for
such contributions, which was enough of an incentive already,
but it could also let me do something permanent, to make my
mark on the galactic civilization.

Since the Lexicon entry gave so few useful facts, I was go-
ing to have to use my intuition and my skills to the fullest.
Drawing from the image in the Lexicon and extrapolating
from what I could see hulking over the barstool, 1 altered my
form into my best approximation of a Borrak. I made my exo-
skeleton a little brighter, the antennae more feathery, hoping

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

213

I had made a correct guess about what the race found beau-
tiful. I approached the Borrak, who seemed to be huddling in
misery over a gelatinous intoxicant. All the better.

"Hello, potential companion," I said in Basic dialect.

The Borrak turned and reared back in what could only be
an expression of astonishment. Normally, I dislike chitinous
beings; it's impossible to read any expression on a brittle
face—therefore more difficult to know when I'm doing some-
thing right—but their body language is usually more exagger-
ated- "Why are you here?" it said without any preamble.

"I would like to spend some time with you. Would that be
acceptable?" I usually leave out all discussions of fees until
after I have the client on the hormonal hook.

To my surprise, the Borrak drew itself up, bristling in an
apparent defensive posture with perhaps a hint of dismay.
"No, that would not be acceptable," it answered. "I think it
would be wisest if you remained far from me for the duration
of your stay at the Hotel Andromeda. I would not want to be
forced to engage you in mortal combat."

Now that was a hell of a rebuff, but I couldn't figure out
what I had done wrong. The Borrak scrambled itself off the
barstooi in a dizzying ballet of segmented legs, then marched
out of the bar.

Failure is certainly nothing new to me, and I can usually
take it with a measure of grace. But I was preoccupied with
trying to figure out what I had done wrong. I moved to a va-
cant table, changed form into something that would sit com-
fortably on one of the chairs, and pondered. Every race and
every society has plenty of customs and taboos that usually
make no sense to outside observers; perhaps I had inadver-
tently stepped on some insectiie toes. Who could tell?

"Excuse me," said a gruff, demanding voice with no under-
tones of politeness whatsoever, "you are a hookermorph. I
saw you change. Don't try to deny it."

I turned to see a squat, froglike creature, powerfully built,
with needle teeth and Ups that stretched practically all around his
head- A Rybet; I had served them before. They were not too dif-
ficult to woric with, if you had a high tolerance for rudeness.
You just had to be rude back to them. It turned them on.

"Hire me if you want. If not, get away from me. You want
a price breakdown?"

214 Kevin J. Anderson

"Come to my room. Now. I will pay your usual fee, and I
wish to hire you for a different assignment."

Maybe the day would have something interesting and un-
usual after all, I thought. I transformed into the body of a fe-
male Rybet, then waddled after him out of the bar.

Up in the Rybet's room, we waded into shin-deep luke-
warm water. Semi-mobile algae dribbled out of our way as we
sloshed to two damp fungal mounds in the middle of the pool.
Two dull red holographic suns shone from the dome roof of
the room.

"Sit down," he snapped, motioning with a stubby,
flipperlike forearm.

"Why?"

"So I can tell you about my assignment, that's why! Now
listen." He seated himself on one of the fungal mounds with
a squelching sound. He puffed air into his lips, swelling them.

I splashed water upon myself to dampen my skin, then
eased onto the vacant mound as far away from the Rybet as
possible. "So talk!" I said.

"I need you to secure for me a sample of semen from a
Hoojum. It's very important. I'll pay you a thousand credits."

Not only was the Rybet rude, but he seemed at least par-
tially insane. "A Hoojum! That's tough. Why a thousand
credits?"

"Never mind. I'll pay you a hundred credits just for coming
here now, and a thousand more if you can deliver a sperm
sample." He puffed his lips again, and his lantern eyes wid-
ened.

"HI try. Even assuming I can find a Hoojum. getting one
as a customer is no minor task."

"An entire Hoojum tour group is on the transport arriving
this afternoon. Remember, it's worth a thousand credits."

"I said I would try. Now stop nagging me!"

I pushed myself off the fungus mound and got ready to
leave, but he leaped up and splashed in the water after me.
"Wait!" he croaked- "I'm paying you a hundred credits for
this visit. Give me something for it."

I sighed. At least it was fairly simple to service a Rybet.
Concentrating long enough to shift my internal organs, I gen-
erated, then pulled out a few handfuls of black sterile eggs
into the lukewarm water. The egg mass looked like an island

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

215

of black caviar surrounded by a wispy mass of the semi-
mobile algae. The Rybet sloshed up to it and loomed over the
eggs.

After he had spilled his milt over the cluster, he let out a
long breath of satisfaction. "Ah, very pleasurable. Thank you
very much." He let his huge lips curve in a grotesque smile,
then he remembered his rudeness again. "Don't stare at me.
Get out of here'"

I sloshed back to the door portal, thinking of the thousand
credits he had offered. Now all I had to do was find a
Hoojum.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of watching the spaceliners
arrive. All you see is a bright light as the ship, itself as big as
the continents on many worlds, swings into orbit. Smaller
chunks break off the liner's main body and drop down like
shooting stars to the transfer points at Hotel Andromeda.

Sometimes I like to go out to watch the descending cargo
modules, each like a city in its own right, carrying thousands
of staterooms, each pressurized with the occupants' desired
atmosphere. Watching the great mass of the dedicated module
land that afternoon, I was reminded all too clearly of the
flames, the groaning metal, the spouting death that John-23
had encountered right out here on the primary receiving bay.
But extra safeguards had been designed in the decade since
that accident, and I had nothing to worry about.

The hot air smelled of industrial pollutants, outgassing
from rocket fuels, lubricants from the machinery that loaded
and unloaded the immense containers. The air was filled with
a cacophony of hissing and roaring and strident alarm blasts;

I would have preferred even the bloop-bloop-bloop music of
the Slugwumps.

Somewhere among the thousands of passengers on that
dedicated module was a tour group of Hoojums. I just had to
wait and watch.

Even without trying, the Hoojums succeeded in making ev-
erything difficult for me. It seemed to be a particular talent of
theirs.

First off, they were a bunch of religious fanatics of the
worst kind. They stuck together in a little pack, as if Just dar-

216 Kevin J. Andersen

ing anyone to persecute them. They all wore huge, billowy
robes of violet and orange, embroidered with threads of eye-
numbing intensity so that they looked like walking moire pat-
terns wherever they went.

The whole group would disappear for hours in prayer
meetings and verse chantings. The few times I managed to
catch one by himself, he rebuffed my advances completely.
Five times. After following them around for three days with-
out success, I decided it was time to change tactics.

I uploaded their version of holy scripture and scanned it
into my forebrain. Pretty standard stuff, commonplace for all
those religions that claim to have the One True Message. Of
course, those types of fanatics never allow themselves to read
scripture adopted by any other religion, so they never seem to
notice all the similarities.

I did a context-insensitive search for the items I wanted in
the massive book of writings. This sort never bothers with
context when they want to quote something from a holy writ-
ing anyway, as long as the words prove the point they're try-
ing to make. So, armed with the appropriate verses to support
my scheme, I waited to catch another Hoojum alone.

"Excuse me, brother," I said, "but I need your help." That
line always gets them. He stopped dead in his tracks on his
way to the front desk.

The Hoojum turned with a great whispering of his optical-
illusion robes. He seemed surprised to find another one of his
kind wandering the halls of the hotel. "You arc not from our
tour group."

"1 have fallen into the pit of sin, and I must find someone
to help me climb out of it."

I watched him shudder, possibly from the incredible favor
I had just asked or from a personal revulsion at talking to a
genuine sinner. Hoojums arc primarily reptilian in features,
with massive bony plates on the face, squarish teeth, and a
ridged crest on top of the head. In order for me to read squea-
mishness through all that armor, his reaction must have been
extreme indeed.

"I was just going to request some extra towels. We're hav-
ing a charismatic verse sing tonight. Perhaps if you join us—"

"No' I need you to help me. Now! Or I am forever lost."

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

217

He hesitated. "Please!" I added just the right begging tone to
my voice.

He sighed, a long hiss, then took me aside. "Very well, my
child. Tell me of your predicament."

"Only if you promise to help me. There is only one way I
can be saved."

"I promise. Now tell me."

"We had best go to my room, where I can speak of this in
private. I am so ashamed, I do not want to risk anyone over-
hearing."

He balked at that, and I could see him searching his mind
for some sort of acceptable excuse. "You promised me," I
said. Finally, the Hoojum agreed.

John-23 had held this room for me for the last couple of
days, as a special favor. Now it paid off- Inside, it was dec-
orated in the bland grayness and muted lighting the Hoojums
preferred in their accomodations—fewer worldly distractions
that way, I suppose.

"I have been stranded in this hotel for too long, after fool-
ishly fleeing from our homeworld," I told the Hoojum. "I
have found myself tempted. I have fantasized of sexual plea-
sures and perversions with any number of alien beings here.
I might have acted out some of my desires ... but after seeing
your righteous group, I repented of my sinful thoughts, in hor-
ror at what I have been contemplating. But I must be
cleansed."

The Hoojum looked doubly squeamish. I clutched at his
robe, and he flinched. "But what do you need me to do?"

"The scripture is clear on this point." I allowed myself an
inner smirk at that one. "To purge all sin from me, I must
face the horrors of that which I had once considered. I must
have sex with a complete stranger. Only then can I see how
horrible it really is."

The Hoojum's jaw dropped open in total astonishment.
"But not only that," I pressed on, "but I must charge money
for this act, so that 1 myself can experience the awful punish-
ment of the lowliest of all beings—a prostitute!"

He gasped and choked and tried to break away, but my grip
on his robe was firm. "Please! You promised! Do this in the
name of the Deity and you will be exalted for all time."

"But I must not!"

218 Kevin J. Anderson

So, I hit him with the scriptures I had memorized, quoting
verse after verse of the vague poetry that seemed to shore up
my claim. He countered a few of them, but 1 came up with
even more. In the end, I think I exhausted him with my piety,
and he began to crumble under his own doubts.

When he took off the moire robe, I was surprised to see a
rather scrawny being underneath. The billowing cloth and
their overlarge heads make the Hoojums look much more
massive than they really are. I tried not to stare. He already
seemed embarrassed enough.

The sexual act with him was mercifully brief, and he didn't
appear to enjoy it at all. He grudgingly paid me with his
credit scanner, then fled my room, muttering prayers to him-
self. I wondered if the charismatic verse sing had started with-
out him.

I transformed again into a more comfortable form, then se-
creted a carefully contained packet filled with Hoojum
semen—a packet somehow worth a thousand credits to a
Rybet.

In his own quarters, the Rybet leaped up and down with de-
light. "You got it!" He splashed off the fungus mound on
which he had been napping and waded over to me, his huge
mouth hanging open in delight. The semi-mobile algae could
not move out of his way quickly enough, and wet green
strands clung to his waist and thighs, slowly trying to flee
back into the lukewarm water.

"How did you ever get it? Never mind. I don't want to
know. Just give it to me."

"Give me my thousand credits first," I countered. Even
though I didn't wear a Rybet form this time, I could still be
rude.

"Fine, fine." He dumped the money into my account with
his credit scanner, and I handed the package over to him.

He held it up to the dim light of the two simulated red suns
and looked at the thick gray-blue liquid. "Looks right," he
said, bobbing his head up and down in a vigorous nod. "You
can't find details like the color of Hoojum semen in the Lex-
icon."

"It's real," I said. "Now are you going to tell me what you
want it for?"

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

219

In reply, he removed a thin, diamondlike needle from a
pouch at his waist. The Rybet dipped the tip of the needle into
the clotted Hoojum sperm, swirled it around a few times, then
withdrew the needle. A single drop hung like a tiny, cloudy
pearl on the point.

The Rybet closed his lantern eyes, took a deep breath of
anticipation, then jabbed the needle into his fat lips.

His reaction was nearly instantaneous. He let out a loud
keening sound from the bottom of his throat. "Yes, oh yes!"
His eyes flung open wide, and his body shuddered so much
he almost dropped the rest of the semen sample. He gulped in
a deep breath. "Wow! This is fantastic!"

In my line of work you see a lot of strange things.

Then the Rybet began to jabber at me, stomping around in
the wading pool so rapidly that he churned the surface into a
froth. "Hoojum sperm is the most intense, stimulating drug
we Rybets have ever found. It is so precious, so rare—and so
marvelous! Just obtaining it is nearly impossible. What
you've given me will be worth millions on the Rybet open
market! Oh, you are marvelous, wonderful!"

He looked like he wanted to mate with me again. I think 1
preferred it when he was merely rude. "Here," he said, grab-
bing for his credit scanner again. "Just to show how much
mis really means to me."

Barely looking at his own stubby fingers, the Rybet
punched another 200 credits into my account. At that point I
decided to leave, before the drug's euphoria wore off and his
rudeness settled back in.

The mysterious Borrak was sitting on the same ill-fitting
barstool as if waiting to pounce. 1 looked at its insectile form,
wondering what I had botched so badly during my first
attempt—after all, if I could succeed in seducing a repressed
Hoojum and make him pay for the pleasure, what could pos-
sibly be so difficult about a Borrak? I summoned up the
sparse Lexicon listing again, and immediately noticed the ob-
vious.

This specimen was female, not male as I had originally as-
sumed. By making my body into a beautiful female as well,
I had set myself up as a rival. Hotel Andromeda must be a
lonely place for Borraks, and the last thing a single female

220 Kevin J. Anderson

would want to see is another more beautiful female on the

make!

I slipped out of sight into an unoccupied slaughter lounge
where carnivores could select creatures and kill them there or
cage them for later consumption in the hotel room- With no
one looking, I transformed into my best approximation of a
male Borrak this time, with a jagged crest on top of the head
and a full blush of mating coloration.

Becoming male doesn't bother me. Hookennorphs are basi-
cally genderiess, thought most of my clients are males looking
for females. I can do whatever a species wishes—sometimes
they are skeptical when I say "anything you want," but believe
me, with all the races and all the societies in the galaxy, I can't
think of many things that aren't taboo in one culture or another.
Some races express their passion through kissing, while others
consider the pressing of one's eating orifice against another eat-
ing orifice to be the most disgusting thing imaginable. No, be-
ing a male Borrak didn't bother me at all.

When I strutted into the bar, concentrating to keep a proper
gait with all those segmented legs, I saw the female Borrak
straighten from her perch on the barstool and turn both
gleaming eyes toward me. Her feelers quivered. I could see
her top forelegs fidgeting with nervous anticipation.

I walked directly up to her, showed off my mating color-
ation. "Hi. Come here often?"

She could barely contain herself and trilled. "Where have
you been all my life?" She gestured to the empty barstool be-
side her. 1 struggled to clamber onto the stool, wondering how
she had ever managed it herself. I was looking like a clumsy
fool, but she didn't seem to mind. The Borrak seemed very,
very receptive.

In my own excitement at breaking new ground with a little-
known species, I did not notice when John-23 stepped into the
bar, looking around with his cyborg eye. Beside him was a
smartly dressed human woman; the jewels studding her
clothes reflected the pearlescent light. He pointed to me.

"Would you be interested in doing something about our ob-
vious mutual attraction?*' I asked the Borrak. The tips of her
feelers touched mine.

A hand touched my wing casing, a human hand. "There,
I've found you, Ilkiy. Could we talk to you for a minute?"

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

221

I turned to see John-23 and his lady companion next to me.
Intimidated by the fearsome appearance of the Borrak, she
still looked secretly pleased. "I'm busy at the moment. I'd be
happy to arrange a more convenient time."

The woman wasn't John-23's wife, nor anyone else I had

•>    seen before. "I'll pay you twice whatever this creature is pay-
ing you," she said.

The female Borrak reared up in an attack posture, clutching
at me with one of her forelegs in a gesture of despair. I
stopped the Borrak from doing anything that would have been
embarrassing to all concerned, including the hotel manage-
ment.

"Relax," 1 told the Borrak. "Enjoy yourself, have another
drink." I motioned for one of the robo-bartenders to bring a
new slab of the gelatinous intoxicant the Borrak preferred.
"John-23 is paying for it. I'll be back, don't worry." I combed
one of the Borrak's feelers through my claws, and she cooed
with pleasure. Then I followed John-23 and his lady compan-
ion into one of the lobby lounges, out of sight.

"Sorry to interrupt you while you were working, Ilkiy. She
asked me to find you right away," John-23 said apologetically.
"This is Mrs. Wenda Cochran. I'll let her explain the rest."
He strode off down the corridor, leaving the two of us alone.
The woman folded her fingers together. I noticed she was
wearing a lot of rings. From what I knew of humans, she
^    would have been considered quite beautiful, although she had
^    a hard look to her, like an invisible exoskeleton of her own.
1 could have transformed into something more amenable to

*   conversation, but I was annoyed at having my all-but-
guaranteed score with the Borrak ruined, so I remained in
threatening alien form.

"I've heard about what your kind can do," Wenda Cochran
said. "I need your services, and I will pay well for them."

I found that rather odd, since she was an attractive member
of her own species and should have had little trouble picking
an available human male from the other hotel guests. How-
ever, she wore her human marriage-bonding ring a bit too
prominently for active sexual hunting. But she had requested
my services for something, and business is business. "I'm
sure I can give you pleasure," I said. "That is my job."

"Oh, you'll give me pleasure, all right," Wenda Cochran

222 Kevin J. Anderson

said, "but not in the way you think. I want you to sleep with
my husband."

It was a good thing the chitinous face of the Borrak regis-
tered little emotion. "Why?" I asked.

She sighed. Her body temperature went up, and I could see
an emotional outburst simmering inside her. Tears appeared in
her eyes. "My husband is a cheating bastard. He goes on
business trips all over the galaxy and he jumps into bed with
any humanoid with compatible sexual organs. I am sick and
tired of it. He doesn't know I've followed him here."

I still didn't know where I supposedly fit in. "You are tired
of him mating with females other than yourself," I said, con-
fused, "and so you wish to hire me to sleep with him?"

"Oh that's not alt. I want you to take him to bed and then
scare the bejesus out of him." She snickered then, a harsh and
mirthless laugh. "That'll shrivel his little peeper once and for
all. I want you to teach him a lesson he'll never forget if he
ever gets wandering hormones again."

"I think I understand," 1 said.

"1*11 pay you three times your usual rate," Wenda Cochran
said. "It's his own money, and somehow I don't think he'll
dispute me charge when it comes through on the credit re-
port."

"Rex," I said with a cooing tone in my voice. "I like that
name." I stroked his forearm with my enameled fingernails.

Picking up Rex Cochran had been embarrassingly easy. I
wore a body and face cobbled together from Lexicon entries
of gorgeous human female models. I had only to walk slowly
into the lounge and bat my eyes ... and Rex was on me like
a Lupine male sniffing estrus in the air.

He had short blond hair, broad shoulders, a shirt that fit too
tightly, letting curls of chest hair poke through the fabric. A
necklace of gold and onyx dangled at his throat. I allowed
Rex to buy me a drink, something perfumy and feminine. I
laughed at his jokes, I flirted with him. I let him catch me no-
ticing his body.

It took him all of fifteen minutes to ask me up to his room.
Since human mating practices are such a matter of public rec-
ord, 1 won't go into the details of how he rapidly "seduced"
me. wheedling one item of my clothing off after another, try-


THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

223

ing to hide his wolfish glances. His actions so closely fol-
lowed the general description in the Lexicon entry, I had an
odd sensation of deja vu.

I thought of his wife Wenda, knowing what Rex did on so
many of his "business trips," how she had finally followed
him here to the Hotel Andromeda to teach him a well-
deserved lesson. As a hookermorph, I try not to be moralistic
in such things—but in this case, Wenda Cochran was the ac-
tual customer ... and the customer is always right.

When Rex was on top of me and inside me, moving faster
and faster after a puzzlingly brief foreplay session, I knew the
time had, er, come. I waited a second longer, feeling Rex
reach his peak.

Then I let my imagination roam free as I transformed.

Rex looked down to see the voluptuous naked woman he
had lured into his bed turn into an octopoid Slimedurg with
'f  sulfuric acid hissing out of her pores. I wrapped five tentacles
around him like whips and pulled him against me in what
seemed a hilarious parody of what I had just been doing as a
human female. I tried to draw his face close to my clacking
beak for a little kiss. I let greenish saliva dribble out the cor-
ner of my mouth.

Rex shrieked and tried to scramble away, sobbing and
. howling loud enough to rattle the windows in his room.
^    I rose up from the bed, raising all tentacles and reaching

toward him. Then I shifted into a glaring Ice Medusa, with
„ crystalline claws extending longer than my fingers. "What's
the matter, Rex? Don't you want to play anymore?" I took a
step toward him, laughing my best imitation of a maniacal
beast.

.^    Rex stumbled against the far wall. He couldn't seem to find
the door, but he had managed to lose control of his sphincters
in a terrible mess.

Just at the moment he found the door and pounded on it.
screaming all the while and trying to activate the mechanism,
^  I transformed my monstrous body into a perfect imitation of
Wenda Cochran. "Watch yourself, Rex," I said in her voice,
"you keep fooling around on me and you never know what
you might pick up."

His eyes bulged out of their sockets again, and Rex
Cochran fled naked and shrieking into the corridor.

224 Kevin J. Anderson

Just before he turned around for the last time, I observed
that Wenda had been right—the experience had certainly
shriveled his little peeper.

When I saw the female Borrak still waiting for me at the
bar, I decided not to wait long enough for anything else to
mess things up. Meeting new clients isn't difficult, but finding
a way to contribute to the Lexicon doesn't happen every day,
and I wasn't going to let this opportunity slip away from me.
Not many hookermorphs get to be xenosociologists.

I came up behind her, wearing full mating coloration and
exuding all the right pheromones. She whirled, looking like a
blur of sharp-edged joints and legs. "I knew you'd come
back! I've been waiting for so long."

"Sony about that," I said. She didn't seem the least bit in-
terested in what the whole business with John-23 and Wenda
Cochran had been about. Maybe curiosity wasn't part of the
Borrak psyche; that would be in keeping with a lot of other
insectile species.

"Please tell me it isn't some cruel joke," she said to me.
"Your mating coloration, your pheromones, your flirtatious
small talk. I can't bear to wait any longer. Are you really in-
terested in mating with me, or should I just die unfulfilled?"

I couldn't figure out how a Borrak was supposed to smile,
so I just made my voice sound warm and receptive. "I would
be greatly honored to make love to you."

The Borrak seemed uncertain and afraid, but hookermorphs
have to deal with that all the time. I coaxed her and boosted
her confidence, then let her usher me up the motivator ramp,
crossing a webbed catwalk to get to her room.

She had selected one of the nestlike dwellings. Inside, she
had stocked the place with colored gelatinous blocks of sug-
ar-based foods. Every spare niche was stuffed with brilliant
fresh flowers. Water dripped from a fountain off in the comer.
Despite the cloying perfume of the sweet foodstuffs and the
flowers, the place did have a romantic look about it.

The Borrak hummed, then flickered her wing casings, pal-
pitating a membrane in her abdomen with a sound very much
like a love song. I was mentally noting all this to turn in a re-
port to the compilers of the Lexicon.

"I am so glad you like me," she said. "I have been ready

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

225

to spawn for so long. I don't know how I could have waited
another day. My entire body aches for you!"

Dancing on my multiple legs, I sidled up next to her.
"Well, then, let us get on with it. I'm also anxious to mate
with you."

"I'm so glad you understand," she said. Then she stung me
in the soft part of my thorax.

I found it amazing how rapidly the paralysis struck me down.
My mind wasn't clouded in the least, but I felt no pain as I tum-
bled to the floor in a clamor of chirin and disjointed legs. My
face was not turned toward her, but the dome eyes had a wide
enough field of view that I could see her movements. I could
breathe, but I could not speak. What had I gotten myself into?

Her abdomen seemed to be pulsing, and I could see her ex-
truding something sharp from where I imagined the sex organs
would be. It appeared to be a long tube, like a pipe with a
pointed end. An ovipositor.

Panic gushed through my glands. I wondered if that was a
normal reaction for male Borraks, or if my own self-
preservation instinct had merely kicked in. I couldn't move.
The paralysis from her sting had put me completely out of
commission.

Raising the ovipositor in the air like a spear, the female
Borrak strode over to me. "I have been carrying these larvae
around altogether too long. It'll be a great relief to get rid of
them. I really appreciate this, you know." She leaned over to
nuzzle the colorful crest on my head.

Then she backed up and thrust her ovipositor through the
chitinous shell of my wing casings, burying it deep within my
body cavity. That time I felt the pain! She squirmed and dug
the hollow point around and around until she finally managed
to deposit one of her squirming larvae inside of me.

She heaved a big sigh, withdrew her ovipositor, then
shoved it in a different place, laying another voracious Borrak
grub. She repeated the procedure six times, then finally re-
tracted her ovipositor and sat down next to me, looking ex-
hausted but fulfilled.

She surprised me by igniting a tobac-stick, then sucking in
a long breath before blowing a cloud of smoke dreamily into
the cloying air. "Ah, that feels so much better," she said. With

226 Kevin J. Anderson

a foreleg, she patted my exoskeleton near where she had de-
posited her larvae. "You're a great lay."

Inside me, I could feel the grubs beginning to stir.

The Borrak hauled herself to her numerous feet and
preened in front of a mirror. "As you can see, I've provided
everything they'll need. Plenty of food and fresh vegetation,
just the right environmental conditions. I've got the room re-
served for three weeks, and by that time they should be ready
to fend for themselves. I'll let them know at the desk that the
childrens' return tickets to Borrakus should come out of your
account. That is the father's duty, you know." She raised her
antennae in question, but of course I could not respond. The
only functional nerves in my body seemed to be the ones
transmitting jabs of pain as the grubs began to devour me
from within.

"Well, at least that's over with for another year," she sighed
to herself, then left. I heard her seal the door behind herself,
illuminating the Do Not Disturb sign-

From within my body, I could feel seven distinct paths of
agony where the grubs continued to munch. They seemed to
be very hungry....

John-23 thought it greatly amusing that a hookennorph
would take time off for maternity leave. But hey, everyone
else is entitled, so why shouldn't I be?

"Stay away from that edge!" I called to the seven
babymorphs lurking too close to the zero-g swimming pool.
"Wait until you team how to change into a water-breather be-
fore you mess around in a pool."

All of the little ones sulked into their protoplasmic state for
a moment; then with the short memory of children, they
bounded off in different directions, a kaleidoscope of chang-
ing shapes, imitating parts of whatever they found interesting
around them. Very precocious kids—I'm proud of them.

I had never even thought of reproducing myself before.
While I understood the mating habits of countless other sen-
tient creatures, I had somehow remained ignorant about "the
birds and the bees" for my own species. Hookermorphs don't
spend a lot of time learning how to become parents; that's not
what hookermorphs consider a desirable skill. It's a good
thing something in our inbred instinct triggered a reaction in

THE HAPPY HOOKERMORPH

227

me, though, and I did exactly the right thing while the little
Borrak grubs were having me for lunch.

You see, the way we morphs reproduce is to surround an-
other living organism, and then transform back to the basic
state, dragging the enclosed organism along for the ride.
You've never read that in the Lexicon, now have you? With
seven Borrak grubs gnawing away inside of me as the paral-
ysis gradually began to wear off, the best I could manage was
to transform back to my basic state, formless, like a bag of
old soup. And that did the trick. Inside me were no longer any
voracious larvae, but seven squirming babymorphs.

The babymorphs came out of it delighted, ready for me gal-
axy and eager to learn. John-23 thinks they're cute, at least in
some of their incarnations, and the rest of the hotel staff
seems tolerant at least.

Over by the pool, one of the guests was walking a spiny-
backed dragon dog, who sprayed acid on some of the comer
shrubs. It lunged on its leash, snarling at the cluster of
babymorphs. Feeling a surge of maternal protective instinct, I
jumped to my feet, but the little ones reacted all at once,
changing into an array of hideous monstrosities. One of the
babymorphs became a fanged Putter-clam, opening wide its
jagged shell and snapping at the dragon dog, which fled back
behind its owner's legs.

I smiled- They already know how to defend themselves.
Now I just need 'to teach them how to flirt.

With a sigh, I settled back into the chaise lounge and let the
sunlight photosynthesize my green skin. I've earned a rest,
haven't I? I need to write a letter to the Lexicon people, since
I have two new listings for them. one for Borraks and one for
morphs. And while I'm at it, maybe I'll try my hand at writ-
ing my memoirs. That should surely scandalize the galaxy'
Just the type of thing people will pick up to read on an out-
bound starflight. It'll sell millions.

Besides, I'd better make my fortune soon. As precocious as
the babymorphs seem to be, I'm bound to have competition
before long. I'll really need to stay in shape.

VOLATILE MIX

Jerry Olfion

David Wikondu was walking down the corridor toward the
best of the hotel's three restaurants, anticipating a lavish
dinner on his expense account, when he heard the scream
from around the corner. It was a long, warbling howl, and
sounded as if it had come from an alien throat, which didn't
surprise him. There were maybe half a dozen other humans in
this whole wing of the hotel, tops.

He hesitated, wondering if he should simply turn around
and let whatever was happening unfold without him, but cu-
riosity got the better of him. Curiosity and the suspicion that
it hadn't been a cry of joy. Someone was probably in trouble.

Rare as they were, another human collided with him as he
turned the comer, knocking him off his feet to land with a
thump against the wall. The other guy tripped as well, and the
pistol he carried in his left hand skittered away down the cor-
ridor toward the restaurant.

David had just enough time to wonder what Loren Larue,

229

230 Jerry Oltion

the vid star, was doing with a gun at an interspecies peace
conference in the experimental multi-environment wing of the
Hotel Andromeda before the actor jumped to his feet and took
off running up the corridor David had just come down- He ran
with a peculiar gait, bobbing up and down and stumbling as
if on uneven ground, and as he receded David saw that he
carried a small air tank strapped to his back. David couldn't
imagine why; the whole advantage to the hotel's new wing
was that force fields held a person's own atmosphere in an in-
visible bubble around them no matter where they went. It also
provided whatever gravity they were used to; Lame shouldn't
have been wobbling like that. Had he been wounded? Maybe
that's why he was running.

Whoever screamed had stopped now; David looked up to
see a petite, light blue-furred alien bending over what looked
at first to be a colorful rug, but which proved on second
glance to be another alien of different species lying flat on the
floor. It was one of the floating-gas-bag variety, probably a
Ranthanik, now deflated.

The space around the furry one—a T'klar, David realized, and
probably female by its size—glowed with a soft blue radiance;

most likely something in her air fluorescing in the overhead
lights. David pushed himself to his feet and took a step toward
her, but when she looked up and saw him coming she yowled
another earsplitting, warbling screech and backed away.

"It's all right," he said, taking a few steps closer. "I Just got

here."

The T'klar wasn't reassured. Without another sound, she
turned and bounded away on her long, slender legs, disappearing
into the crowd that was gathering at the restaurant entrance. A
faint trail of blue fluorescence glimmered in her wake.

David saw no sense in chasing her. He bent down next to
the Ranthanik to see if there was anything he could do for it,
but the charred hole in its leathery hide was big enough to
shove a fist through. All its methane had leaked out, and by
the looks of it, all its life, too.

He stood up and turned toward the gathering crowd. The
hotel's force-field life system was living up to its advertise-
ments; among the less exotic species he saw a heavy-planet
Nirulo standing next to a gangly ammonia-breathing Cheedon

VOLATILE Mix                 231

and a fuming, sulfurous Grota, and none of them seemed dis-
tressed at all by the others* proximity.

"Has anyone called Hotel Security?" he asked.

No one replied. He knew they understood him; the same
system that monitored each person's position for their force
cocoon of atmosphere also provided translation of any alien
speech in the vicinity.

"Someone, please call Security," he said more forcefully.
"And get somebody here who knows Ranthanik medicine. We
might still be able to save him." David had no idea whether
that was true or not, but he figured it would be better to en-
on the side of caution.

One of the aliens further inside the restaurant—or maybe the
Tklar—had evidently already made the call. David was still dy-
ing to think of anything else he could do when a gleaming silver
robot slid out from a doorway partway down the corridor and
glided up to him. Before David could react, one of its four sin-
uous arms reached out and wrapped around his neck.

It hadn't quite cut off his wind. "Hey, what are you doing?"
he croaked. "Let me go!"

"I'm sorry, sir," it said in a synthesized human voice, "but
you will have to come with me."

The robot put him in a seven- by ten-pace room with a sin-
gle chair in it. David sat sullenly on the chair, wishing he'd
given in to his first impulse and just left the T'klar and the
Ranthanik to fend for themselves. He didn't know what sort
of trouble he was in just yet—the robot had only told him that
he was needed for questioning—but he didn't tike the look of
this room at all.

He couldn't help examining it with a professional eye,
though. He was an assistant manager for a rival hotel, the
Hightower, and he was on a tour of other hotels, looking for
new ideas he could incorporate into his own. So far he hadn't
seen anything he liked better than what the Hightower already
had to offer, but when he'd heard of the Andromeda's new
life-system design he'd come to check it out.

He'd snooped around in as many public areas as he could
find, but he hadn't seen anything like the room he was in
now. It was obviously an undifferentiated guest unit, the bare
cubicle upon which an individual species' requirements could

232 Jerry Oltion

be built. The walls were a uniform dull gray, as was the ceil-
ing. Presumably whatever coloring or decorations were
needed could be extruded from it or hung there by the service
staff when a guest checked in.

The floor, like the floors everywhere, was dotted with tiny
holes from which came the atmosphere that the personal force
fields—also generated in the floor—held around each guest Da-
vid couldn't see the variable gravity generators, but he knew
they were there, too. He even knew a little about how they
worked. The whole system—force fields and all—was really just
an elaborate enhancement of technology that existed in every
hotel, including the Hightower. It was the way they put it all to-
gether, the way it allowed mutually alien races to coexist within
the same habitat, mat was the breakthrough.

He'd been considering buying the system from the An-
dromeda until their security robot had dragged him away and
locked him in here, but the longer he waited in the single
chair, the less inclined he felt to give them his business. They
would have to apologize, and apologize with a big cut in
price, if they expected to see any of his credit.

The door slid open and a squat, cone-shaped Niruto wad-
dled into the room, flanked by two of the silver security ro-
bots. The Niruto's twin trunks were coiled around its
hemispherical head, parked there for support in the three g's
or so that pulled on them.

A buzzing sound came from within the coiled limbs, and an
unseen translator said, "Your ID lists you as David Wikondu.
Is this correct?"

"Yeah, that's right," David answered.

"You are not a member of the interspecies peace confer-
ence delegation."

"No. I'm an assistant manager for the Hotel Hightower.
I'm here to look at your multi-environment system."

"That is your stated purpose. However, you are charged with
the assassination of Hranda Nefanu Dnanda, the Ranthanik del-
egate to the conference. Do you admit to the crime?"

David leaped up from his chair. "No! I showed up—hey!"
The robots advanced on him and shoved him gracelessly back
onto the chair.

"Please remain seated," the Niruto said. "You were found
at the scene of the murder. Witnesses said that the Ranthanik

VOLATILE Mix                 233

was killed by a human. You were the only human in evidence,
therefore you are the murderer."

David shrugged off the robots' arms, but stayed in the
chair. "No, there was somebody else. He knocked me down
making his escape."

"Another human?"

"That's right. He looked like Loren Larue. He dropped his
gun when he ran into me."

The Niruto stepped closer to David. "We recovered the
weapon, a microwave laser. It could just as easily have been
yours."

"It was Loren Larue's!" David shouted.

The Niruto paused momentarily, no doubt consulting a data
base somewhere with its neural linkup. "Loren Larue is not a
guest at this hotel," it said.

"Well of course not," David said. "It was obviously some-
one else wearing a mask. They didn't want to be recognized."

"Very few beings can tell humans apart," the Niruto said.
"A mask would be pointless."

That was probably true, David realized. He had a hard time
telling most aliens apart, too, at least within species lines.
That would probably change if multi-species habitats like this
one became more common, but for now the Niruto was right

"Maybe it wasn't a human," David said. "Maybe some-
body else wanted to make it look like a human had done it.
They probably just used Loren Larue as a model because he
was easiest to get a holo of."

"This is wild speculation," the Niruto said.

David leaned forward on his chair. "No, it's not Whoever it
was had an air tank on his back. I didn't notice a breathing
mask, so he probably had it piped into his Lame mask. I'll bet
he had a human ID card, so the life system was giving him hu-
man air and he needed the tank to provide what he really
needed."

The Niruto uncoiled a limb and rubbed the tip of it across
the top of its head. When it spoke, its buzz was louder, as was
its translation. "A human ID would not have availed him any-
thing. We don't track our guests by their ID cards."

"Does the murderer know that?"

"I suspect he just learned it"

"I'm not the murderer! Look, there was a T'klar there with

234 Jerry Oltion

the Ranthanik. She must have seen me collide with whoever
shot him. Ask her."

The Niruto waved its trunk toward the door. "We already
did. She identified you as the killer."

"Oh, great." David leaned back in his chair and ran a hand
through his hair. "I think I'd better get some legal help here."

The Niruto turned away and headed for the door. the robots
flanking him. "That would be an unprofitable use of your
time," it said. "We do not follow human law here. Your law-
yer would not be able to counter the word of the T*klar am-
bassador."

"You'll understand if I try anyway."

"You may try anything you wish," the Niruto said. "You will
have little success, however, from within a closed cell." The
door slid aside for him, then closed with a thump behind him
and the robots, leaving David alone in his undiffercntiated room.

The human delegate to the peace conference showed up a
few hours later. David had no idea what had brought him;

he'd tried shouting for help, he'd banged the chair on the wall
until he'd broken it, he'd even given in to biological pressure
and urinated on the floor in the hopes that the room sensors
would realize someone was there and create a bathroom for
him—and maybe an intercom with it—but he'd given up long
ago.

He'd been trying to steep and failing even at that when the
door slid open to reveal a trim, gray-haired man in his early
hundreds, dressed conservatively in a brown one-piece body-
suit.

"I'm Trevor DeLange," he said, stepping inside and ex-
tending a hand to help David to his feet.

"David Wikondu. I'd offer you a chair, but it broke while
I was rapping out an S-O.S. with it." He waved at the broken
pieces of plastic or alien wood or whatever they were scat-
tered on the floor.

DeLange smiled a thin smile. "I'm sony to have left you
here so long. I've been in contact with our embassy for the
last few hours, trying to get you extradited to human space,
but so far we haven't had any luck. The Ranthanik want to try
you here, during the peace conference."

"I'm not even responsible!" David said. "I was walking

VOLATILE Mix

235

toward the restaurant when I heard a scream, so I ran up to
see what was the matter and I got arrested for murder."

"They would have arrested whoever was closest," DeLange
said. "Niruto provide the security here, and Niruto law relies
heavily on circumstantial evidence. They're more interested
in finding a scapegoat than finding the real culprit. So long as
someone is punished for every crime, they figure the deterrent
factor is the same."

"You're kidding."

"I wish 1 were." DeLange sounded sincere enough, but Da-
vid figured he'd have sounded a great deal more concerned if
he'd been the one arrested.

"The killer is still loose," David pointed out "He may not
stop with one delegate."

"Hotel Security has begun recording everyone's movements.
If the assassin strikes again, they'll know for sure who did it"

David paced to the wail and back again. "That's smart.
Why weren't they tracking everyone before?"

DeLange shrugged. He seemed a little uncomfortable
standing in an empty room with a broken chair scattered on
the floor and a puddle of urine in one corner. He'd been fold-
ing and refolding his arms across his chest; now he tucked
them into his suit's side pockets as if to get them out of the
way. He said, "They claim it's not hotel policy to monitor
their guests' activities. It scares away business. The truth is,
this whole multi-species life system is still in the testing
stage, and they may simply not have thought of it before."

"Hmm." David worked for a hotel; he suspected the real
reason was liability. Data that didn't exist couldn't be stolen
and used by someone else, say a journalist or politician look-
ing for a little dirt on an opponent. He made another trip to
the wall and back, then asked, "Why are you here if you
know it's still an experimental system? Why let them test it
on some of the top officials from every species?"

DeLange laughed. "We had no choice. After the Androm-
eda announced they'd built a new conference wing just for
the peace talks, staying away for safety reasons would have
been political suicide. We've all been saying how much we
want to settle our differences peacefully; it was time to put up
or shut up. So here we are."

"How are the talks going?" David asked. He was surprised

236 Jerry OWon

he could feel any curiosity about anything other than his own
predicament, but he knew that humanity was not necessarily
a major player in galactic politics, and several other species—
including the Ranthanik—were trying to edge in on human
territory. The peace talks could help humanity's chances of
holding on to some of the disputed colonies,

DeLange*s expression darkened. "We're not accomplishing
a whole lot. Mostly airing old arguments in public. Probably
the only valuable thing to come of this whole process will be
the precedent it sets for later talks. Of course, now that one
of the delegates has been assassinated, there's an entirely dif-
ferent message being presented. That's why the Nirutp are so
eager to crucify you. They want the rumors stopped as soon

as possible."

"Whether I'm guilty or not" David realized his only hope lay
in die assassination of another delegate. If someone else were
murdered while he was still locked up, then they would know
he wasn't the assassin. That didn't seem likely, though. Presum-
ably the assassin would know he was being traced now, too.

"What's humanity's official stance on this?" he asked.
"How far will you go to get me out of here?"

DeLange reddened. "Well, naturally we'll do everything we
can to, um, delay any hasty actions on the Niruto's part, but
the situation is delicate. We have to consider—"

"In other words, nothing. You'll let them have me rather
than start an interstellar incident over it, won't you?"

"Mr. Wikondu," the ambassador said coldly, "we are trying
to develop a plan of action. Your welfare will figure as high
as possible in that plan, but we must consider the entire hu-
man race. We will do everything we can, short of open hos-
tilities- We will not go to war over one individual."

"That's what I thought" David paced toward the wall again,
passing the broken pieces of chair. He swiveled around, took a
step forward, and kicked one of the chair legs as if by accident,
sending it sliding toward DeLange. "Oops, sony," he said, bend-
ing down to retrieve it He made as if to toss it out of the way,
but halfway through the motion he swung around and brought it
down on DeLange's head with a sharp crack.

The delegate dropped like a short-circuited robot. David
caught him before he whacked his head again on the floor,
and laid him out on his back.

VOLATILE Mix                 237

"They need a scapegoat, eh?" he muttered, bending down
to feel for a pulse at DeLange's neck. "Well, let 'em have
one. All humans look alike, after all."

The delegate's heart still beat steadily. David quickly un-
sealed his brown suit and peeled it off him, stripped off his
own clothing, and put DeLange's clothing on himself. It was
" a little tight around the middle, but he sucked in his gut and
got it closed. He put his own clothing on DeLange, making
sure his ID card went with it, then dragged him over to the
wall across from the door.

Then, taking a deep breath to calm down, he walked to the
door, prepared to knock on it to be let out, but it slid open be-
fore him and he stepped on through.

The robots were standing just on the other side, but the Nimto
was nowhere in evidence. David stalked past the robots without
a sideways glance and headed up Ae corridor toward the lobby.
Only after he'd turned the comer did he breathe.

He had bought himself anywhere from ten minutes to a few
hours, depending on how soon DeLange awakened and how
long it would take him to attract the attention of his jailers
and convince them he was the human ambassador. The way
David saw it, he had two choices. He could either try to bluff
his way through Hotel Security, catch the next ship out of the
Andromeda, and disappear into deep space, or he could use
his temporary freedom to clear his name. Running for it
seemed the least complicated in the short term, but the idea of
skipping out on his entire life and starting over again some-
where else didn't exactly appeal to him, either. Not over a
simple misunderstanding.

No, he would at least try to exonerate himself first. Of
course there would still be charges for assaulting DeLange,
but he would probably be able to survive that if he exposed
the real assassin.

Where to start? Well, the most damning evidence against
him had to be the T'klar's testimony. If he could convince her
she was mistaken about him, then that should take care of it
right there.

There was a Cheedon behind the front desk. David had
never seen one up close before; they were ammonia breathers
and normally required a separate habitat. They looked a little

238 Jerry Ottion

like a stack of seven or eight long-armed starfish scaled up to
stand about three feet high; this one rested atop a pedestal be-
hind the counter. As David approached it he smelted a faint
hint of ammonia, like a cat's litter box gone uncleaned a day
too long. Evidently the force cocoons weren't perfectly tight;

when someone stayed in one place long enough, some of their
air must leak across the barrier to permeate the surrounding
atmosphere, and when someone else moved through it a little
must get swept up in their own. It wouldn't take much; a few
molecules of ammonia is enough for a human nose to detect.

Half a dozen arms waved in greeting when he stepped up
to the counter. "May I help you?" his translator said.

"I need to carry a message to the T'ktar delegate. Can you
tell me where I could find her, please?"

More arms waved. "I'm sorry, but that information isn't
available—"

"Not true. I've just talked with your chief of security, who
told me all the guests in this wing were being monitored.
Where is she?"

The Cheedon froze for a moment, then another ripple of
movement played through its arms. "I apologize, Ambassa-
dor. She is in her suite."
"Where is that?"
"Level nine. Room twelve."

"Thanks." David dug into DeLange's pocket and found a
handful of change. He slid a steel half-solar across the
countertop to the Cheedon and headed for a lift.

There were dozens of lift shafts and drop shafts in the ho-
tel, most of them simple vertical corridors with force fields to
support passengers who stepped into them. It was old technol-
ogy, enhanced with the ability to maintain the cocoon of air
around people while they moved from floor to floor, but
alongside the shafts was a different kind of lift that David
hadn't seen until his stay in the Andromeda. It was evidently
made for burrowing creatures, and was basically a pulsing
hole in the wall that would push them along in close confine-
ment. When David had first seen one he'd been tempted to try
it until he'd seen a ten-foot caterpillar crawl out of one and
slide off down the corridor on hundreds of foot-long legs.

He stepped into the open air shaft, pausing to avoid another
guest rising up from a lower deck. This one was a more fa-

VOLATILE MIX

239

miliar form, a Bajoda, humanoid save for a smaller head and
spindlier arms. They had been one of the first alien species
humanity had encountered, and they could coexist with hu-
mans, though they seldom did. There was speculation among
some exobiologists that the two species had come from a
common ancestor left behind by some earlier space-faring
race, but whatever the reason for their similarities, millennia
of separate evolution had left them direct competitors. Their
empires were too close together in space and too similar in re-
quirements for comfortable coexistence. The one in the lift
shaft eyed David distrustfully as it rose, and David was glad
when it got off on level seven.

There was one species that could probably tell humans
apart, though, he thought.

He stepped out on level nine, checked the holomap in the
foyer, and headed down the corridor for room 12. One of the
doors halfway down had a robot guard on either side of it,
and as he approached it he had a sinking suspicion that it was
the T'klar's. Sure enough, his quick door count ended with
them. Should he walk on past, or try to brazen it out?

The robots made his choice for him. When he was still a
couple of steps from the door, one of them slid out to block
his path. "I'm sorry, sir," it said, "but I must ask you to state
your business in this section."

David swallowed the lump in his throat. "I've come to talk
with the T'klar ambassador. About the, uh, murder suspect."

"Ambassador Sarell does not wish to be disturbed."

'Tell her it's important. It could, uh, mean considerable
embarrassment for her if she ignores what I have to tell her."

The robot paused, no doubt relaying the message. Then it
abruptly slid back and the door opened. "She will see you,
but only if one of us accompanies you."

"Fine." David followed the robot into the T'klar's suite.

She stood before the window, her back to the stars. To her
left, another doorway led off into the rest of the suite. The en-
tire room sparkled with the blue fluorescence peculiar to her
atmosphere, and up close David could see that her fur was
also a light shade of blue, and as fuzzy as a kitten's. Her ears
were high and rounded, half buried in fur, and though her
eyes were in the right place they were twice the size of Da-
vid's and irised in six segments like star sapphires. She wore

240 Jerry Olfion

a single piece of clothing, a strip of green cloth wound once
around her waist and looping up over her right shoulder.

The robot took up station between David and her, slightly
to the side.

"Ambassador Sarell," David said.

Her head whipped around like an owl's, back and forth
from David to the robot and back in a motion almost too fast
to see. "You are not Ambassador DeLange." she replied.

Uh-oh. So all humans didn't look alike, at least not to all
aliens. "He's, uh, indisposed at the moment," David said.
"I'm one of his aides. He sent me to tell you that he visited
with the man you accused of killing the Ranthamk, and he's
convinced that David Wikondu is innocent."

"That's ridiculous," she said. "I saw him fire the shot."

"You watched a being wearing a human mask fire the shot.
Then he turned and ran, but collided with m—David. The real
assassin got away, while David tried to see if he could help
the Ranthanik."

"He ran back for the gun he'd dropped," Sarell said.

"The gun? Wait a minute. The gun!" David suddenly real-
ized he had a chance. "I—David never touched the gun. Fin-
gerprints would prove that."

"Fingerprints?"

David nodded eagerly, "Right, fingerprints! Human hands
are each unique. They leave their pattern on whatever they
touch. We can check the gun for fingerprints and prove that
David didn't shoot it.*'

"You're calling me a liar? The T'klar ambassador?" Her
eyes seemed to blaze at him.

"I—no, of course, I—" David spluttered to a stop. Was he
about to create another interspecies incident here? He looked
away from her hypnotic eyes, checked the robot to see if it
might be about to toss him out the door. Wait a minute, he
thought. The robot.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Aloud he said,
"You call yourself a liar. Why else are you under guard if
you're so sure you've caught the assassin?"

Sarell snorted something that didn't translate. What did
translate was, "There may have been more than one of them.
I'm a potential witness against them all. I'm sure they would

VOIATILE Mix

241

like to keep me silent." She started to say something else, but
a thumping noise from the hallway made her pause.

"What was that?" David asked, but he got his answer when
the robot that had been stationed outside the door teetered
over and fell with a crash to the floor.

"We are under attack," the remaining robot said with a
calmness that belied its words. 'Take cover." It rolled for-
ward, pushing David behind it with one arm while another
snaked forward with a heavily finned, glistening beam
weapon of some sort.

The T'klar whipped her head around to look at David for
a moment, then she grabbed his arm and pulled him into the
next room, which proved to be a reasonably realistic re-
creation of some kind of enormous flower, opened to make a
sort of bowl-shaped bed. She led him across its spongy sur-
face, shoved one of the five-foot petals aside, and pulled him
into darkness beyond.

The crackle and thump of fighting echoed from the other
room, then another crash that sounded suspiciously like the
second robot going down.

"Uh-oh," David muttered. "I think we're in trouble."

"Quiet!" She pulled him across an uneven floor littered
with what felt like rocks underfoot; David noticed faint
flashes of light as they grated against the floor. He stooped
and picked up one in either hand. They were hot to the touch,
but not so hot he couldn't hold them. He felt silly defending
his life with rocks, but they would be better than nothing.

Sarell had other plans, though. She had better night vision
than he did; she reached for something on the wall and a nar-
row crack of light grew before them. A door. Of course; the
rooms were all the same, the hotel just connected more of
them to make bigger suites. And each one had its own door.

She stuck her head out cautiously, then pulled David into the
hallway and took off running toward the lift. David glanced the
other way and saw the dead robot, plus a headless body mat
might have been human or Bajoda lying half in the doorway. It
had been wearing an air tank, too, David noticed. Evidently the
other robot had killed him before being downed in turn. David
wondered how many more of them had made it into the suite.

He and Sarell had emerged from room 10's door; David
heard a shout from behind him when they reached about room

242 Jerry Oltion

3, then a piece of the wall exploded in fragments just to his
left. He dodged, took half a dozen more bounding steps, and
leaped for the lift shaft just as another shot sent searing pain
screaming through his right side.

Sarell reached the lift field and shot up out of sight. David
stumbled into it, falling, and found himself careening upward
feetfirst.

Sarell snatched him out of the air four or five floors up,
spinning him halfway around before the floor's gravity caught
him, and he landed with a thump on his injured side. He bit
down on a scream.

"You're hurt," she said, helping him to stand.

He looked down to see a charred patch of cloth a hand's
width across just below his lowest rib. It felt as if the bum
had penetrated halfway through his body, but he knew that
was probably not true. If he'd been hit with a microwave la-
ser, it would only have penetrated an inch or two at the most.

"I'll live." he said through clenched teeth. "Come on,
we've got to lose whoever was shooting at us or we might not
get so lucky a second time."

They ran down the corridor, sending the few other guests in
their way leaping for doorways and howling curses in their
wake. They turned left at the first cross corridor and kept run-
ning. David wasn't making near as good a time as Sarell was;

he glanced back at the next turn, hoping they might have con-
fused the trail enough to duck into a doorway and hide out,
but there behind them floated a trail of telltale blue sparkles
glimmering in the air.

He ran to catch up with her, wincing at the pain in his side
and shouting "Stop! The force fields aren't tight enough to
hold all your air in when we run. They'll be able to track us
wherever we go."

She skidded to a halt and looked back. The short word she
spoke translated as "Snow." For someone who slept in flow-
ers and basked on hot rocks, David supposed that made a
pretty good swear word.

He Jogged up to her and they stood there for a moment,
looking at the glittering trail, then Sarell said, "Leave me. I
think they're after you anyway."

David shook his head. "Ha, nice try, but they came to your
room, not mine."

VOLATILE Mix                 243

"There's no sense in both of us getting killed."

"Look, if you get killed, I might as well be, too. You're the
only one who can clear my name."

Her ears twisted forward. "What do you mean?"

"Meet David Wikondu, the guy you said shot the Ranthanik."

"What? How can you—?"

"Save it. Can you get by on oxygen and nitrogen?"

She hummed softly. "Maybe for a few minutes. Not much
longer."

"I think a few minutes are all we've got. Give me your ID
card."

Hesitantly, she reached into a pocket in her sash and handed
the gold-colored card to him. He bent down and slid it under the
door beside them, then, stuffing his rocks into pockets, he took
her in his arms, making sure her face nestled into his shoulder.
Without her ID she wouldn't have a force field of her own any-
more, but she should be able to breame inside his.

He started running down the hallway again, glad she was
light. She coughed and clung tighter to him.

He heard more commotion in the hallway behind them. He
hoped it was Hotel Security, but he wasn't going to bet his
life on it. If the Andromeda's security robots were anything
like the Hightower's—and his previous experience with them
told him they were—then they usually showed up long after
they could do anything useful.

He skidded around another comer, found a drop shaft in
front of them, and leaped into it, nearly bowling over a Grota
who was just getting off. They fell for half a dozen floors,
then swung off and ran through more hallways until David
was pretty sure he'd lost any pursuit. He stopped at a
T-intersection and looked cautiously down the side passage,
but it was deserted.

Sarell was coughing steadily now. She pulled away from
him, breathed the ambient air for a moment, then coughed
again and stuck her face back into his force field.

"I don't know which is worse," she wheezed-

"Hang in there. I think we—"

A patch of fur on Sarell's arm turned instantly black, and
she howled in pain. David leaped into the side passage, ran to
the end of it, turned again, ran, then skidded to a stop at the
next. "They've got to be tracking my ID, too," he said, setting

244 Jerry Offion

Sarell down and digging DeLange*s card out of his pocket.
"That's the only way they could have found us."

"I cannot understand you," she said.

Of course not. Without her ID, she had no translator.
"We're about to be even," David said. He took one last deep
breath, shoved the card under another door, and grabbed
Sarell's hand. Together they ran on down the corridor.

His first breath of the habitat's ambient air nearly seared
his lungs. There was enough ammonia in it to scrub the decks
with, and sulfur compounds and a couple dozen more exotic
gases as well. He couldn't smell it, but he would bet money
there was methane in it, too. All the gases that leaked out of
the force fields mixed together. It was evidently easier to
leave it this way than to try cleaning it up; besides, with so
many different species coming and going, what would they
have used for a baseline anyway?

He hadn't blacked out yet, so evidently there was at least
a little bit of oxygen in it as well. That was a blessing, for
him anyway. Some other species found oxygen deadly.

The gravity varied from heavy to nothing, too. Evidently it
didn't reset to any particular value after someone had passed,
but stayed whatever it had last been until another being came
along. It felt like running over uneven ground, except there
was no way to know where the bumps were.

That explained the peculiar stumbling gait of the assassin.
And the air tank. He hadn't been carrying false ID; he hadn't
been carrying ID at all, for fear of being traced.

Just as the ones chasing them now weren't. The dead one
at Sarell's suite had carried an air tank, too. David considered
looping back for it, but he had no assurance it contained any-
thing better than what he was breathing now. Besides, some-
one might still be waiting for them there.

He wished they still had a translator, but they didn't need
speech to communicate things like "left here," or "I'm chok-
ing to death!" They ran, staying just a few turns ahead of their
pursuers, but slowly losing ground as they lost stamina in the
bad air.

David realized he was eventually going to have to stop and
make a stand with his two rocks. That would be suicide, of
course, but unless he could find a better weapon, and soon, he
was going to have to try it.

VOLATILE Mix                 245

He was panting like a dog, but his vision was growing full
of swirling lights. He needed more oxygen. Did oxygen rise?
That depended on the average density of everything else, but
he bet it wouldn't-

But methane probably would. And hydrogen, definitely.

Holy shit He pulled one of the rocks from his pocket, then
dug into the pocket again and came out with another steel
half-solar. Mother of God. He'd just discovered his weapon.
Maybe. But could he use it without blowing up the Androm-
eda in the process?

Probably. Oxygen would be the limiting factor, not meth-
ane or hydrogen. Humanity and its cousins were a distinct
minority in the hotel.

"Up!" he shouted, pointing at the ceiling. "Find us a lift
shaft!" He knew his pursuers could hear him, too, but that
was fine. Let 'em follow.

Sarell turned around just long enough to see where he
pointed, then took off running again, zigzagging through
guest-filled corridors and meeting rooms until she eventually
came to another lift, but instead of jumping into the shaft she
ran toward one of the pulsing orifices in the wall beside it and
squeezed into that.

"What are you doing!" David screamed, but when she be-
gan to rise into the wall, he realized she was right. They'd be
easy targets in an open lift shaft, but their pursuers couldn't
shoot at them in the enclosed elevator.

David stepped in after her, wincing as the walls squeezed
tight around him and a wave of constriction carried him up-
ward. The walls of the tunnel were nearly frictionless; he
would hardly have been aware of movement if there hadn't
been an opening at each deck.

Sarell slid out of the lift after a dozen floors or so. David
jumped out just long enough to look down the open lift shaft
and see through the swiriing tracers in his vision that, yes, they
were still being pursued by what looked like three more Loren
Lames, then he jumped back in and let the enclosed lift carry
him on up. He let it take him as far as it would go, eventually
spitting him out on the top floor. It wasn't the top of the hotel,
just the top of the multi-species wing, but it was far enough.

Aside from himself, and moments later, Sarell, the deck
was deserted. It was evidently too far up to be a convenient

246

Jerry Offion

guest deck, or maybe the hotel just didn't have enough guests
to fill it up yet, but whatever the reason there were no signs
of life at all- Perfect. David looked for the air lock he knew
had to be there, found it only a few paces away. It was de-
signed for emergencies; it had a solid door rather than a force
field, and from the hinges it looked like it opened outward.
That might complicate things, but it should still work. He
wished he knew what kind of habitat lay beyond, but at this
point he couldn't afford to be choosy.

Sarell took the hint when he pointed at the lock, and stag-
gered over to open the door while he peeked down the lift shaft
again. The three disguised aliens, all of them armed and wearing
breathing equipment, were the only ones in the shaft for twenty
floors or so. Good. The other guests' force shields should guard
them from harm on the decks below, but these three would be
as vulnerable as David and Sarcll.

They were rising fast. David backed away from the shaft, ran
for the air lock, and climbed inside after Sarell, pulling the door
almost but not quite closed. Then, just as he saw the first of the
assassins rise into view, he struck his half-solar against the rock.

It made the tiniest of sparks, barely visible under the bright
light in the air lock, but the flash of burning methane and hy-
drogen nearly blinded him and the explosion blew him half-
way across the lock. It would have been worse, but the
pressure of burning gases on the other side slammed the door
closed with the force of an angry giant, cutting off the blast
before it had a chance to develop to full force.

His head rang from the concussion and from lack of oxy-
gen. He crawled back toward the door, trying to stand up and
get to the air controls, but everything started to swirl around
him and he lost his balance, falling with a thump to the floor.
He tried to stand again, but only made it to his knees.

Sarell couldn't have been in much better shape than him,
but he watched her drag herself to the opposite door, pull her-
self upright, and punch the button that sent cold. cloudy white
gas pouring in over them.

Don't let it be ammonia, David thought. He took a shallow
breath. It smelled like something had died in the storage tank,
but it didn't kill him outright so he took another. Sarell
seemed to be doing okay with it, too. They were gasping like

VOLATILE Mix

247

beached fish, but still alive, when security robots opened the
lock a few minutes later.

Searchers found the assassins bobbing in the currents at the
top of the lift shaft. They had either been blasted downward
by the explosion and knocked unconscious on one of the
landings below, or the pressure wave alone had done the job,
but when the security robots pulled them down they found
one dead of a broken neck and the other two alive but heavily
burned and unresponsive. All three were Bajodas, and though
nobody could trace them to the Bajoda delegation, nobody be-
lieved they'd acted alone, either.

"They wanted to start a war between humanity and the
Ranthanik," Sarell said when she heard the news. She and
David were recovering in the infirmary, lying back on exam-
ining tables while once again wrapped in their separate force
cocoons and breathing their own atmospheres. There were a
few other patients in the infirmary, mostly suffering from anx-
iety at seeing a roiling fireball rushing down the lift shafts
and drop shafts toward them, but their force fields had kept
them from any physical harm.

"Between us and the Ranthanik?' David asked. "What
for?"

Sarell made a growling sound that didn't translate. She
shook her head and said, "It's always better to have someone
else fight your wars for you. The Bajodas want to take over
human space, but they don't want to pay the price so they
tried to get someone else to do it for them. They would prob-
ably have waited until the war was winding down and then
joined the Ranthaniks for a share of the spoils. Now they'll be
lucky if the Ranthaniks don't attack them."

"Bajodas." David nodded. "I guess it makes sense. But that
means you were right about something else; they weren't after
you at all. They were after me, because they were afraid I
was onto them. And I led them straight to you."

"I forgive you," Sarell said. "It's the least I could do after
falsely accusing you of being an assassin yourself."

"Well, I guess maybe we're even, then."

There was a commotion at the door, then Ambassador
DeLange burst into the infirmary, trailing medical robots like
a retinue behind him. "There you are!" he roared when he

248               Jerry Offton

saw David. "You're in deep trouble, Wikondu, I'll have your
head on a stake for this."

David sighed. "I guess I shouldn't have expected you to
thank me."

"Thank you? For what? For knocking me out and leaving
me locked in a prison cell? For scaring the hell out of half the
peace delegation? For damn near blowing up the entire Hotel
Andromeda?"

"Just one wing of it," David said. "And it didn't blow;

there wasn't enough oxygen for that.'*

"Just one wing," DeLange said with a snort. "Well, it hap-
pened to be the wing I was in, and I'm not about to forget it."

Sarell said softly, "Nor am I. David saved my life. You
may not realize it yet, but he probably saved yours and the
rest of humanity's as well. I suggest you calm down and con-
sider the ramifications of what happened here before you
blow a perfect chance for improving your status among the
rest of your race."

"What do you mean?" asked DeLange.

"I mean if I were in your position, I would much rather re-
turn from the conference with a hero at my side than with a
criminal."

"Oh," said DeLange. "Aha." He rubbed his chin thought-
fully for a moment, then nodded. "I see your point."

David shifted uncomfortably on his exam table. "Wait a
minute. I'm not going anywhere. I've got a hotel to manage."

"I imagine they can spare you for a publicity tour to Earth,"
DeLange said- His tone of voice left little room for doubt

A publicity tour, eh? Hmm. As a hero, no less. Staying in
some of the best hotels from all through history, and dining in
restaurants famous before humanity had left the planet ... The
Hightower would never have paid for such a trip, but they were
looking for something new to offer their guests. David didn't
think he could recommend the Andromeda's new life system,
not until they worked a few more bugs out of it, but in the
meantime maybe a touch of old-worid opulence would suffice.

He made a big show of thinking it over, then just as
DeLange was about to erupt with another outburst, he said,
"Well, if you insist. Maybe I could spare a week or two.
Three at the- outside."