Narabedla Ltd

by Frederik Pohl

  “Oh, yes, I suppose that’s it. I know that on your The Earth you do have all sorts of chemists and astrologers and shamans. No doubt they would be more curious about such things. Well! How can I help you? The genetic things? That’s mostly the Ossps, you know; we Mnimn don’t deal much in such things.”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you. The Fifteen Associated Peoples. How do you decide who’s going to do what? How do you share out the business?”

  “Ah,” he said, bobbing his upper body. “I see. Well, you know what the Polyphase Index is?”

  “Something like the Stock Exchange?” I hazarded.

  “In a way, perhaps,” he said doubtfully. “Here, let me borrow your skry. This is what it looks like.”

  The graph he displayed on the skry was in three dimensions and a whole spectrum of colors, and it changed and flowed before my eyes. It measured, he explained, the available and committed resources of each alien race for each shared project.

  Binnda pointed out the tiny peaks that were devoted to the Narabedla project. It was almost too small to show. Even within it, we actors, singers, and baton twirlers were lumped together in a single little spike called “Cultural Activities,” and we were the tiniest item in the group. “As you see,” he said, “only eight of the Associated Peoples are committed to Narabedla. Pity, but some are simply cultural morons. But now when we come to the probes, and particularly the Andromeda project…” The peaks were a mountain range now, immense spikes of lilac and blue and green. “That’s a major area of cooperation, you see! Oh, my dear boy, I can’t tell you how much we have needed a success like that! And it’s shared by every single one of the Fifteen Associated Peoples—except, of course, the Ossps.”

  “Right,” I said. “And what do the Ossps do?”

  “Genetics,” he said shortly.

  “Yes, I understand that, but why are they so—I don’t know—disliked?”

  “Because they are very dislikable, my boy,” he said, refilling his glass. “It was probably a mistake to admit them to membership. Now, really, weren’t we supposed to be discussing your interpretation of the role of Don Giovanni?”

  “Sure,” I said, refreshing my own drink, “but right now I want to hear more about the Ossps.”

  He said firmly, “You won’t. I don’t want to discuss them. If it was up to me I’d put the whole planet in slow time.”

  “But I’d just like to know—”

  “No, Nolly,” he said, and closed the three-cornered mouth with a snap.

  I took a long pull at my drink, resentfully. We were both silent for a moment. Truth to tell, I’d lost interest in how to interpret the Don’s motivations and needs; the good The Earth whiskey had loosened Binnda’s bright green tongue, and it seemed like the best chance I would ever have to ask some questions.

  I tried another tack. “All right, then what about slow time?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, our new bass, Manuel de Negras. What was he in slow time for?”

  “Ask him.”

  I said reasonably, “But that’s hard, Binnda. He doesn’t speak any English.”

  “Purry will translate for you. He’s had Spanish, installed for de Negras.” Then he relented. “But, ah, my dear boy, why do you concern yourself with unpleasantness? Manuel de Negras did a foolish thing; he attempted to return to your The Earth. As others have done. With the same result: he was placed in slow time. It did him no harm. It simply removed him from circulation for a while. After all, slow time is not a bad thing; we all wind up there sooner or later, don’t we?”

  “We do?”

  “We either do that or we die, don’t you know? We Mnimn are not quite as well off as you people, you know. With good care and repair, your The Earth people can last for over three hundred of your The Earth years. Our theoretical limit is maybe two hundred and a bit. Then there’s cellular degeneration, and then”—he shrugged wryly—“it’s the slow-time vaults.”

  “And what happens in the slow-time vaults?”

  “You just sit there,” he said wryly. “And you hope that sometime in the next thousand years or so—say, a week in slow time—people will figure out how to fix the cells. But even the Ossps don’t hold out much hope for that.”

  I stared at him. “So nobody ever really dies?”

  “Oh, of course they do. It just takes a long, long time.”

  I shook my head. “You must have a hell of a population problem.”

  He bobbed his upper torso affirmatively. “That’s why we’re so busy looking for new living space. A planet like your The Earth would be a home for billions of, say, Bach’hets. And don’t think there aren’t a lot of people who’d like to use it for that.”

  He tossed off the last of his whiskey, and slipped off the couch to the floor. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Now. I have been working on preparations for our tour. Never fear, you will be making your debut in a very few days! But you must have your rest to protect that golden voice.”

  “All right,” I said, getting up reluctantly to escort him to the door.

  As he was leaving, he paused. “And when will you have that housewarming party you’ve been promising us?” he asked jovially.

  “Well, pretty soon,” I said, gazing around my new home. All the furniture was in; I was as ready as I was likely to be.

  “Please don’t put it off too long. And make sure, please, to have plenty of your good The Earth whiskey, and a lot to eat. I’ve taken the liberty of mentioning it to a number of my colleagues—Ptrreek and Hrunwians, mostly. You don’t mind?” I shook my head. “It’s really important for us to get together socially, you know. There are—well, frictions now and then. But the Andromeda probe has made things a lot friendlier, and I’m anxious for some of the others to get a really good impression of your The Earth. Even if they can’t visit it themselves, as I have. You see, I really love the place! I only wish it could be opened up soon—”

  He stopped, looking embarrassed. Alerted, I asked, “What do you mean, opened up?”

  He said unwillingly, “Well, sooner or later it’s bound to happen, isn’t it? Some of the Peoples think it should be open now—oh, not as a member, of course, but for visiting. But I think the protected status will remain for a long time yet.” I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Who are you protecting?”

  And he said simply, “You.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  As all of my girlfriends had told me in the old days, a party should be planned for. I didn’t have time for that, but I went ahead and had it anyway.

  There wasn’t any problem about whom to invite. I skried invitations to everyone I knew and crossed my fingers. The Kekketies provided everything I demanded of them, but I couldn’t help worrying about whether I’d have enough room, or alternatively whether anyone would come, or whether I’d provided enough food and drink.

  I needn’t have worried. Everybody showed up, and most of them brought contributions of their own.

  Tricia showed up early with Malcolm Porchester, back from his sand-painting chores. Both were bearing gifts. “I cooked for your party,” Tricia said happily, setting down little trays with foil on top. She unwrapped a plate of what looked like pale fudge. “This is coconut burfy, and these sweet pastries have honey and pistachio nuts in them. And the quiche just needs to be heated.”

  What Porchester had brought was a white enamel tray and a couple of small sacks of powder. “To decorate your party,” he grinned, and wouldn’t explain. He set himself up in a corner of the bedroom, and I left him to it, because other guests were arriving.

  Norah showed up with Ephard Joyce on one arm and my castrato coach, Ugolino Malatesta, spry and smiling, on the other. Ugolino had a huge, round-bellied bottle of Lacrimae Cristi, and Joyce was carrying Norah’s contribution to the party, little silver-paper boxes of candied almonds and pecans. “I wanted to get something nicer,” she apologized, “but you know how hard it is to get special ord
ers filled now that the yacht’s off in the colonies somewhere. Oh, you didn’t know? Well, Mr. Davidson-Jones thought it best to keep it away from the major ports for a while. Because of the questions that were being asked, you know. No, no, don’t feel bad, Nolly. I’m sure all those little problems you caused will blow over.”

  I kissed her cheek apologetically and turned to the next arrivals. I had almost forgotten there was anything to blow over.

  Everybody came, starting with the whole opera troupe. Even Canduccio sulked in, looking daggers at Ugolino as he waltzed with Norah to the music Purry was pouring out, show tunes and gentle rock. Sam Shipperton was there, bringing a pretty little Chinese girl I’d never met. Conjur Kowalski followed them in—a little cool, a little reserved (as he’d been ever since the night of the Andromeda launch), but he brought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, crunched my shoulder good-naturedly enough with his immense right hand, and promptly began dancing with the pretty little harpist from across the street. Most of my neighbors had showed up, too. That was just as well for them. There were plenty of people, there was plenty to eat and plenty to drink, but one of my concerns turned out justified. The house just wasn’t big enough for the party. We spilled out into the street, and so all of my neighbors were at the party whether they wanted to be or not.

  And that was just the human beings. At Meretekabinnda’s advice I had invited all the aliens I knew, and a few I didn’t think I did. Most of them showed up, too. Binnda brought two bottles of Glenlivet Scotch and another Mnimn named (I think) Fl’tstitsni. Fl’tstitsni was female. At least, I assumed so, watching them dance with all their limber limbs entwined around each other. The Tlotta-Mother didn’t come herself, of course—she couldn’t—but three of her bedbug drones were there, skittering around under everybody’s feet and taking chittering part in the conversations, one of them in English. Even Barak came, bringing Dr. Boddadukti with him. I was not real easy in the Duntidon’s presence, though he seemed affable enough. Barak himself was a little sulky because the Mother had backed Binnda up in declining to do the Busoni Turandot, but he seemed to enjoy the music and the dancing, burping out compliments to the couples on the floor. He only stayed a minute, though—complained he couldn’t stand the smell of the Earth food and beverages.

  That was a good thing. It wasn’t until he and Boddadukti left and the air had cleared out a little that the rest of us could enjoy them.

  Enjoy them we did. Well, most of us did, most of them. I made the mistake of trying Tricia’s vegetable quiche, and she caught me at it. “Oh, isn’t it any good?” she asked anxiously. “I was afraid I’d spoiled it. I couldn’t get any hing to put into it so I used onions, even though they’re not acceptable to Lord Krishna.”

  “It’s fine,” I lied, chewing without swallowing. “I don’t miss the hing at all.”

  “But we always used hing in the commune, and, hey, nobody’s eating the eggplant salad either,” she said disconsolately, but then I felt a huge hand on my shoulder and turned to see Conjur grinning at me.

  “You eatin’ that stuff?” he demanded. “You got guts, Nolly. Listen, Binnda’s looking for you. He’s outside. Says he’s got some people he wants to introduce to you.”

  The reason they were outside was that one of the “people” was one of those big things that look like a praying mantis, a Ptrreek, and another was one of the skinny baboons with the pine-needle Mohawks. Both were fourteen feet tall. They almost touched the imitation sky of the ceiling, but they weren’t any uglier than the third “person” Binnda had invited. That was a Hrunwian, and he looked, more than anything else, like a five-foot, Cellophane-skinned shrimp.

  I swallowed the miserable quiche as Binnda introduced us, beginning with the Ptrreek. “This is Mr. Tsooshirrisip, who is in charge of all exotic entertainers for the Ptrreek. He particularly admires works about your human The Earth superstitions.”

  I didn’t try to shake hands. I couldn’t have reached his, anyway.

  The shrimplike Hrunwian, whose name I didn’t catch at all, whistled something that Binnda translated as, “He hopes to see you soon. And here is Neereeieeree”—Binnda didn’t so much speak the name as whinny it—“who is of course an Aiurdi. They have never had any of your The Earth entertainers on his planet, but one can always hope they will change their minds, can’t one?”

  “One can,” I said. This time I did shake hands, although it was more like clutching a whiskbroom. Apparently it was the right thing to do, because Binnda beamed at me.

  “Since not all of our guests can come into your rather small house,” he said merrily, patting my shoulder, “suppose you and I bring them something from the bar, eh? Come along, then!” And on the way he whispered, “They’re very important people, my dear boy! We’re so lucky they decided to come—it can mean great things for our tour. And, oh, it’s a fine party!”

  I thought he was right about that. It was a good party, and I was being a good host. After I’d seen that our weirdo guests in the street had plenty of good The Earth liquor and even some of Tricia’s not so good The Earth macrobiotic food, I circulated. I told pretty little Maggie Murk that she looked lovely in her off-the-shoulder, 1920s, flapper-skirted dress (which was very true), and the other soprano, Sue-Mary Petticardi, said, “Thank you,” for her as she drew her away. I told Ephard Joyce I was glad to see him there (which was a lie), and he said to me, “You know, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what you said. About me being a star back home, that is.” I pointed out to Bart Canduccio where I kept the regalo he had given me, right next to the skry, and he informed me that I was a good enough fellow but that (looking poisonously at Ugolino Malatesta) some of my friends didn’t deserve me. I told the Ptrreek, Tsooshirrisip (out in the street, of course), that I was delighted to see all our races mingling in social harmony—by then I was fairly well liquored—and he whistled something that my Purry translated as, “If you come to our planet I hope you’re not as repulsive as the last bunch.”

  But Binnda pulled me away apologetically. “Don’t mind anything he says,” he whispered. “You’ll win them over, I know you will. Have another drink.” And he refilled my glass from the bottle he carried wound into one arm.

  Apparently Binnda had not noticed that my glass was already half full. I had never drunk half-and-half Scotch and Jack Daniel’s before. It didn’t matter. The party was going well, and I was beginning to float.

  I was also beginning to feel very conscious of the sights and smells of the pretty women who were gracing my home. I caught sight of Maggie Murk dancing with the Russian tenor, Dmitri Arkashvili, and it suggested something to me. Maggie was singing Zerlina to my Don Giovanni, and there had been something definitely warm-blooded in the way she responded to me in the flirtation scene in rehearsals. As soon as indefatigable Purry began the next selection I cut in.

  Maggie felt as good in my arms as she looked and smelled. I whispered in her ear, “You know, this party won’t last forever. I wonder if you’d like to stay a bit when it’s over.” She snuggled closer. “But the Kekketies will clean everything up for you,” she said demurely.

  “Oh, well, I wasn’t thinking so much of doing housework,” I told her, tracing her rib cage with my fingertips. “Maybe not even stay here at all, you know? We could go down to that place with the pool and the waterfall, just the two of us, where it’s nice and quiet—”

  I felt a vigorous tap on my shoulder. I turned in annoyance to see which mannerless male was trying to cut in, but it wasn’t a male at all. It was tall, dark, somber Sue-Mary Petticardi, glaring at me. “Malcolm Porchester’s looking for you,” she told me. “Maggie! Don’t you think it’s about time we thought of going home?”

  I gazed after them, Maggie meekly following as the taller, older woman tugged her along. It was a downer, all right. Then I turned to see Malcolm Porchester at the door of my bedroom, beaming as he beckoned to me. “Come and look,” he said proudly. Tricia came over to me, giggling an odd little giggle. She took me by the arm
and led me into the bedroom.

  There on my dresser Porchester had made a sort of sand painting, a picture of me (it did look a little like me) dressed in my Don Giovanni finery, making a sweeping bow. Porchester hadn’t used sand. The stuff had produced almost a monochrome—white, yellow, brownish powders. I noticed that there were a dozen little plastic spoons arranged around the edges of the picture, but I didn’t understand their meaning at first.

  “Thanks a lot, Malcolm,” I said. “It’s beautiful, only how am I going to keep it from getting ruined?”

  “It’s not meant to keep,” said Malcolm, sounding offended.

  Tricia was already handing me one of the little spoons. “You get the first hit,” she said. “I was the one that supplied the three different kinds of coke, but the artwork was Malcolm’s idea. Go ahead, Nolly, take a toot. It’s really all very mild stuff.”

  Comprehension struck. “Ah,” I said, temporizing. “It’s, uh, very nice of you.”

  I didn’t entirely mean it. I’d never done cocaine, not even at parties. Back in the old days on Earth I had always been uneasy when someone brought out the little silver snuffbox or the plastic pouch, and I was twice as uneasy here. What were the drug laws on Narabedla? No one had told me. Was this going to mean something like slow time? Or even worse?

  From the doorway I heard Binnda’s voice. “What is this I smell? Can it really be some of your good The Earth coke? May I?”

  So it wasn’t against the local laws, after all.

  Actually I didn’t need cocaine, or the joints that my next-door neighbor, the figure-skater, was passing around. The drinks and the party had me high enough already. Everybody seemed to be having a good time. Even Norah Platt, in spite of her advanced years, was cutting the rugs with the best of them, and when she collapsed on the briefly vacated edge of the couch I knelt beside her. “Having fun? You look like a teenager out there!”