Because it never occurred to them. When the thrice-ignorant fools who surveyed this world did so, they reported no cities by the sea. I am certain they never bothered to look.
I staggered from the water and collapsed on the beach. I was fortunate it was early morning, and the beach was almost deserted. There was no one to see my humiliation.
But as I regained my breath, I noticed there were a few swimmers out there. No, wait, not swimming. They were balanced on long narrow boards, balanced on the very crests of the waves surging to shore, balanced like dancers.
My jaw dropped. My people have never even dreamed of such a thing. These people call it “surfing.”
I inquire at the library. “I wonder if you can help me. I’d like to learn about the history of surfing, and I don’t really know where to begin.” When I explain I was inspired watching the surfers at the nearby beach, the librarian laughs.
“Oh, we don’t have serious surfing here—those are just baby waves. I think a tape of last year’s Hawaiian championships has just come back in . . .” The helpful librarian brings me audiovisual records of surfing contests held in other parts of the world. I’m astounded when I view them. The local waves are indeed just “babies,” and the surfers I saw are far from expert. The award-winning surfers do things I wouldn’t have believed possible. Of course, I find the size of the waves they’re riding almost impossible to believe as well, but the librarian assures me these are factual records, no trickery involved.
“Not like that new movie—I hear they used a lot of special effects in that one to make the waves look so huge.”
Movies? Special effects? I decide to leave that for another day. I want to view the sequence called “shooting the curl” again.
There is clearly more to this species than I realized.
I wander the streets. Fortunately, the weather is mild this time of year and I can sleep outdoors, provided I stay out of the way of others. I am equipped with food concentrates and there are public water sources. But this is only a short-term solution; I need a place to store my equipment and belongings, to archive my research records, and—most importantly— to have a little solitude and be able to meditate. It is only by merest chance that I am lucky enough to stumble into a niche where I can support myself and study this culture more closely.
I see a street performer, who entertains the passing crowd; in return they drop money into a basket at his feet. He’s a conjurer—misleading the audience by the skill of his hands and his clever patter. I realize my gadgets will be useful after all. It appears magic tricks can be entertaining, even if the culture no longer believes in magic ... or at least claims it doesn’t. And a street performer doesn’t need an elaborate background history.
I become a magician. My tricks with lights and smokes and colors fascinate them, and they pay well, far better than I expected. They come again and again, bringing friends. I discover, to my relief, I don’t have to talk. Indeed, my silence seems to add to my mystique. And I learn, also to my relief, that my evasive answers to questions after my performances are considered entirely appropriate. No one really wants to know how it’s done.
My Supervisor is pleased with my inventiveness. “Well done, Student Candidate! I believe your achievement is unique—an illusionist in a technological society. Continue your research—this will make a fine presentation at the next colloquium. Communication ending.”
Research. I should be spending much of my time studying this world’s past and present knowledge. Its history, its science and art, everything about it. But there’s so much knowledge. I could spend far more than a tenth-span just assimilating the knowledge of the one library near the apartment I now rent, let alone every library in the city. I could spend a lifetime.
I like performing; it’s much more fun than doing research. It’s rewarding to see the awe on the faces of the audience and hear the delight in their laughter at the climax of a trick. Children are the most fun of all. Their eyes grow huge and they squeal with joy and clap their hands. I find it impossible to resist them.
I watch my spectators carefully, and learn better pacing and timing. I begin to study magicians and the history of illusions in the library, and try to develop better tricks. I become a fixture among the street performers and begin to make friends. I have the usual cover story ready: a traveler from a distant country, learning about this one. Friendships form easily in this culture; apparently there is nothing like the cautious negotiation of mutual obligations that accompanies such a relationship on my world.
I have become such a fixture, in fact, that I’m beginning to recognize some of the regular attendees of my performances. The other artists tease me—they say I have a “fan following.” (The concept is new to me, and I learn it has nothing to do with devices for moving air.) These “fans” strike up friendly conversations with me. One of them invites me “to the bar for a drink.” I accept, somewhat nervously.
My nervousness was unnecessary. Bars are fascinating; there’s no equivalent on my world. There, one can have relaxed social interaction with close family members of the same age cohort, but not with those of different ages—and certainly not with complete strangers in a public place. Let alone while ingesting intoxicants. I would never have believed that a social species could be so casual about such things.
But here ... I can go into the Overtime Bar and Benny, the owner and bartender, will yell a greeting over the din of the chat and broadcasts, and have my favorite beer—I’ve become very fond of Coors, an extraordinary brew—waiting for me by the time I sit down. There are always people ready to discuss anything, from politics to sports to entertainment to local gossip to, well, anything. Invaluable for a cultural anthropologist. All I need to do is listen and pay for an occasional round of beers. Everyone loves a good listener; I’m one of the most popular regulars in the place.
I now know what movies are: a flat, nondimensional audiovisual projection; holographic projection is still in its infancy. This species is ingenious, I have to admit; it never occurred to me that one could use such projections to record fictional stories. Movies are a very popular form of entertainment in this society, and there are dozens available in a variety of genres at any time. I plan to sample each genre at least once. The one I saw today is classified as an “action picture”; apparently this involves much gunfire and racing about in automobiles. Why automobiles—and not bicycles, which would seem to me to be a more accurate measure of the stamina and determination, and thus the heroism, of the characters involved—is not clear to me. My new-found friends at the Overtime tell me that if I want to see special effects, I should sample the latest in the “science fiction” or “fantasy” genres; I’m not sure of the distinction between the two.
My Supervisor interrupts me as I am enthusiastically describing the latest Trek film. She is displeased with me. “You should be studying the culture, not immersing yourself in it, Student Candidate. By all means, attend one of these . .. movies. Attend several. Entertainments, particularly fiction entertainments, reveal much about a culture’s values and way of life, far more than their creators recognize. The assumptions behind the fiction’s underpinnings; the styles of dress, adornment, transport, housing ...”
Despite the expense, the Supervisor is carried away into lecture mode, lectures I have heard many times through my student career. I find my attention drifting. There is a new James Bond film coming, and a popular young actor is taking over the legendary role. There’s been a lot of discussion about it at the Overtime, with much speculation as to how he will handle the character. Will he have the sly, double-entendre charm of Roger Moore? The more serious and subtle sophistication of Pierce Brosnan? The bluntly honest and somewhat primitive style of the original, Sean Connery? I’m a Brosnan fan myself, but I’m looking forward to seeing how the new actor interprets the famous spy.
It opens next week—I can’t wait to see it.
* * *
“Hey—I’ve got a spare ticket to today’s game.
Want to go see your very first baseball game? It’s the season opener.” Dave, one of my fellow buskers, makes the invitation. I haven’t any idea what “baseball” is, but of course I accept; a study opportunity like this is invaluable.
It’s as unlike the dignified sporting events on my own world as could be imagined. Attendees wear the colors of the team they support, of course, but in a wild variety of fashions. Some of them actually paint their face and body in team colors—unthinkable in my species, but I admit having fur is a barrier to such a form of self-expression; this species has generally hairless skin. (I wasn’t able to determine whether paint is acceptable in lieu of clothing in this social situation. This society has taboos about dress and undress that are utterly confusing.)
The din is incredible. There is noisy music. There is shouting. There are announcements about players and their statistics. People react loudly to the play on the field—some even have portable amplification devices to make certain they are heard. There are vendors hawking food, beverages, and mementos. And to my shock, complete strangers will assist in such transactions by passing money or purchases back and forth the packed rows of spectators.
Despite such apparent chaos, I find the crowd around me is genial, and happily willing to explain the game to a newcomer. Though the finer points elude me, I do learn the city’s team is called the Giants (though Giant what, I don’t know), and that they’re doing well in “the pennant race,” whatever that might be. We cheer and applaud when a player performs well, and shout rudely at the officials when we disagree with their officiating. At first I’m reluctant to be so discourteous, but am assured by my companions that this is all part of the game, and indeed, the officials seem to take no notice. I get so involved that I find myself on my feet, shouting with everyone else, when a Giants’ player hits the gaming-winning “home-ee.”
I had a wonderful time. The next time I go, I’m buying myself a team jersey.
“Student Candidate, you have spent enough time studying this culture. It is time you moved on to another.”
“But—”
The Supervisor ignores my protests. “You’ve become fond of these natives and their style of life. I warned you about this before you departed—it’s a common reaction for a student’s first time in the field, though I had not expected it of someone as gifted as you. Remember, these beings are not friends, they are study subjects. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Supervisor.”
“Good. Make plans to move on. Let me know within three local days what your destination will be. Communication ending.”
I’m upset. I find my way to the ocean and watch as the full moon rises over the waters, brilliant even in the light-washed sky.
I don’t want to leave this city. It is heresy to disagree with one’s Supervisor, but she’s wrong: I do have friends here. Heck, I have fans here.
I take out the Link and stare at it. Then I put it back in my pocket and look out at the crashing waves for a long time.
Much is expected of me. I am a Prime. Always, I have been given the first choice at meals, the first choice of playthings, of worship position on holy days. I have been allowed to choose which course of study to follow. I have been given first choice of mates.
But “choice” for me is not the same as it is for these busy, chaotic, noisy human beings. For them, choice really is a choice. Even so simple a thing as food: any individual here may choose a meal, any meal, at any of a myriad of eateries catering to a wide range of tastes and income levels.
My choices were not like that. Clan and caste, honor and obligation, all form ever-narrowing circles limiting my range of choices.
Here, life partners select each other. My selection was limited to Primes of appropriate age from appropriate clans. And my parents and the Mother Supreme discussed my preferences—they care for me and want me to be happy. But far more than my personal happiness is at stake in this. Political alliances play a role; status of the particular clan of a candidate; financial means; and of prime importance, fertility, for children are the foundation of a clan. It turned out that my “choice” and I were not compatible.
The Mother Supreme was gentle with me. “Child”— she used the honorific that meant an especially beloved child, to show that she attached no blame to me—”such incompatibility happens. It is a bitter blow. We will make the necessary regret gifts to the other clan. And you will make another choice.”
Regret gifts. My clan is known for its impeccable courtesy, but naturally rumors immediately circulated that the infertility was my lack and fewer clans were eager to offer candidates. Eventually a suitable mate was found for me. The preliminary ceremonies were performed before I left; our final union will take place when I return. And of course I will have to assume the burden of recompense for the regret gifts—it is the courteous thing to do.
Damn courtesy. Is there no room for me in my life?
“Your disobedience is unheard of, Student Candidate. I insist you move on to another culture at once.” My Supervisor is angry with me. Her crest has even changed color.
“Forgive me, Supervisor.” I use the most respectful tone I can summon. “You are right—I have allowed myself to become fond of this culture. I see now that my objectivity has been compromised, as you feared. I apologize.” I watch carefully and see her intense coloring begin to fade. “I will gather my belongings and records and move on at once.”
“See that you do so, or I will Recall you immediately.”
I realize that I must act quickly or yet another “choice” will be forced upon me. For there is another aspect to Recall—it can be activated at the other end as well. Occasionally, in the long history of the study of other cultures, scholars like myself have “gone native”—a rarity, admittedly, but the institute is meticulous in planning for every contingency. Except surveys, I think wryly.
“It will take me several days to pack my belongings, sever my housing agreement, and arrange transportation. The island archipelago that looks the most intriguing is at some distance from this land mass. I will contact you as soon as I arrive there. Communication ending.”
I go down to the seashore. It’s a stormy day, cold and blustery, with few people on the sand or in the water. I sit on a log and stare out over the steely waves.
I take out the Link. The Recall field is effective at some distance, I have been told, and is tuned to me alone. (It would be unthinkable to accidentally bring along unintended passengers.)
I reach back and hurl it as far as I can into the roaring surf. The currents here are particularly fierce. It will be carried away in the endless roll and beat of tides.
Perhaps I will be thought of as one of those scholars who paid the ultimate price for attempting to enlarge my people’s body of knowledge. My clan will mourn my loss; I was a promising youth tragically snuffed out before I had a chance to fulfill my potential. Other clans will sorrow with my family.
Or perhaps my Supervisor won’t be deceived by the dying of the Link’s signal. She will remember my behavior and report it to the governing board. My parents will be informed that I “went native,” and will be shamed. My disappearance will bring dishonor to my clan.
I realize I don’t care.
A great weight lifts from my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I’m utterly free! No obligations or duties to the endless line of the generations. I feel light and giddy. School’s out!
There’s a Padres verses Giants game this afternoon— an important one in the pennant race. Benny’s pulling two-for-one drafts and offering hot wings to all comers who show up in team colors. I must go home and get my Giants’ cap and jersey.
I may even learn to surf one of these days.
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XENOFORMING EARTH by Tom Gerencer
I
TOOK A MOMENT to construct myself from stray carbon in the atmosphere, since I’d been spending time, the last few days, as patterns in the static electricity across the surface of the television scr
een, the drapes, and every other ungrounded surface in the room, including the cat. Admittedly an incognito method of relaxing, but every time the maid came, I got nervous.
I was on a planet called the Earth, out past Cen-taurus. They had named it after some dirt. I’d arrived there some weeks ago, in the center of a masked implosion, and had quickly set up shop. I’d rented an apartment, bought a car, and had some business cards made up. I’d also altered my entire makeup for the trip.
I’d changed my physiology, my body type, my language, taste in clothes, political opinions, and I had developed a proficiency at gargling. I’d even grafted a mild seafood allergy into my anatomy, just to round the picture out. Still, “a rose by any other name,” or so they say on Earth, and that goes double, I am sure, for aliens.
I’d been sent to catch a criminal. The Naag, to be exact. A purely mental form of life, his ancestors had not been small and furry animals or even large and slimy ones, but catchy songs caught in the heads of other sentient beings. They had evolved from there into entirely independent superegos, in complete control of whatever organisms they decided to possess. Literally, the Naag were a parasitical and highly specialized variety of guilt.
The one I had been sent to catch had claimed to be on Earth spending vacation time “in some of the planet’s magnificent Catholics.” I did not believe a word of that. I knew him all too well. He was a xenoformer. That meant he altered worlds illegally, changing their atmospheres, topographies, and biospheres for large amounts of illicit cash. The Earth was his next target.
It didn’t take me long to find him. He found me, in fact. Broke into my apartment with a borrowed human body and a screwdriver. I stepped out of thin air right behind him and I tapped him on the shoulder.
I, Alien Page 10
