by Gen LaGreca
I stared in disbelief at menu selections that contained more meat in one portion than I had been allowed in a year. I saw people around me eating steak, an item almost unheard of among the common people on Asteron. Our leaders told us that if they could not provide a particular food, like steak, to everyone, then it was only fair that no one should have it. Asteronians left the table with illusions of virtue, but the customers of Big Eats left with full stomachs.
Robots shaped like metallic humans with large heads and monitors on their chests attended the tables. A few actual human supervisors observed the goings-on and also interacted with the customers. The robots had long arms, each with two elbows, that reached into compartments in their backs and aided in serving the tables. Their mouths consisted of electronic screens displaying a range of emotions, with the default setting being a smile. Red aprons were painted on their metal torsos, with pockets containing bottles labeled mustard, mayo, steak sauce. These nimble devices wore name badges: Whiz Kid, Big Head, Brain Man. People spoke to them, and they replied.
I heard a female say to one of them, “Hey, Genius, this soup is cold.”
The device replied, “You’re unhappy with your soup? Is that correct?”
“Yes,” the female confirmed.
The screen display that formed the robot’s smiling mouth drooped downward into a frown, as the electronic creature replied, “I’m sorry. I’ll get you another one right away.”
A mass of circuitry named Genius was sorry for cold soup, I thought, astonished, while I remembered how live humans across the galaxy showed no such frowns at causing far greater . . . discomforts. Were they really living? I asked myself, wondering what ingredient on a planet’s menu made human life possible.
People dropped money into slots on the robots, and to my amazement, the devices thanked them—just as the male alien in the crate had thanked me when I brought him water! My thoughts raced back to that odd incident across the galaxy when I had received a gold coin. Had Feran’s boxed humanoid come from Earth? I had barely glanced at the coin when the alien gave it to me, and I was in darkness when I later hid it in my shoe. A chronic fear of its being discovered had made me obsessed with concealing, rather than studying, the coin, so it had remained hidden under my inner sole. Now, I reached down into my shoe and retrieved it. To my amazement, imprinted on the sparkling gold piece was a sphere with swirling patterns of land and sea, and above it the word Earth. I realized why the name of my new planet sounded familiar to me. I ran my fingers contentedly over the coin and could not wait to show Kristin my Earth money!
While music played, people talked, dishes clanged, and a monitor near my table broadcasted a news program, I struggled to absorb this symphony of sound. The news described a war in Cosmona, with refugees fleeing to Earth. A newscaster interviewed a few of them, confirming what I had read in the pamphlet. The Cosmonans were humanoid, although some of them were too small-limbed, large-faced, and hairy to be what Kristin called Homo sapiens. Then I saw other Cosmonan refugees who looked more like Earthlings. All of them spoke, in English, of oppressive conditions on their planet. Surely I could have come from that kind of place, I thought.
My fascination with this new setting was interrupted when two males in uniform sat down at the table next to me. My eyes gravitated to the word on their badges: police. I tensed at the sight of the weapons protruding from their holsters. I wanted to change my table, but I dared not get up for fear of attracting the guards’ attention. I mentally rehearsed an exit plan should I need to leave suddenly.
Using one of its elongated hands with pronged fingers, a robot named Doc reached into a compartment behind his back for a basket of bread and served it to the guards.
The next news segment showed the mayor of Rising Tide making an announcement about an upcoming election and encouraging people to vote. Kristin had explained Earthlings’ voting to me when we spoke about our ages. She was twenty and had voted in recent years. Although we ignored birth dates on Asteron, I estimated that I was twenty-one in Earth years. I could also vote, she informed me, when I became a citizen.
Just then I spotted Kristin at the entrance. Her shiny redwood hair tumbled about her face as she looked around, located me, and walked toward my table. She waved to people wearing MAS emblems like hers on their shirts. Kristin glanced across the guards’ table to the one beyond it where her co-workers were eating and said a few words to them. She was about to join me but paused when she noticed the mayor on the monitor.
“After careful thought, I have made my decision. I will run for reelection as the mayor of Rising Tide!”
“I don’t think he should be mayor again,” Kristin shouted to her co-workers, her voice carrying over the police officers.
“Kristin!” I whispered. I reached out to grab her arm, but she had already raised it and was gesturing in the air. Instead I grabbed a tall glass bottle on the table labeled “chili sauce.”
“I ask the citizens of Rising Tide for their vote,” the mayor added.
“I’m not voting for him!” declared Kristin to her co-workers, almost hitting the officers’ heads with her gestures. “He spends too much money.”
I saw the policemen looking straight at Kristin, but what I felt were the menacing eyes on the prowling bodies that always watched me, waiting . . . hoping. I saw a robed male on a stage speak to a man standing beside his coffin, charging him with expressing ideas that contradicted those of established authority. The crime was treason. The man was young.
“Have you been inside the new city hall yet?” Kristin persisted. “You’d think it was a palace. I don’t think it’s right for a public servant to work in such luxury with the people’s money.”
While the officers were distracted looking at Kristin, I concealed the bottle of chili sauce behind me, gripping it tightly by the neck. But I must calm down! This matter cannot be as it appears to me, I tried to reassure myself. But my fears cried out louder. Kristin might have a voice when dealing with civilians, like her flower manager or flying instructor, but the two armed men here were the law! This was different. Kristin was spouting subversive remarks against an official that these guards were armed to protect. My eyes moved nervously from one officer to the other. I was ready to leap, strike them, and then grab Kristin and run out the door.
“I think the mayor should be replaced!” declared Kristin. Then, satisfied with having shared her traitorous viewpoint, she turned to me, smiled, and was about to sit. Suddenly one of the officers rose and stepped toward her. In a flash I was on my feet, my body wedged between hers and his. My wild eyes faced the guard, while my right hand, clutching the bottle behind me, faced Kristin. I felt her nails dig into my hand, trying to take the bottle from me, but my fingers refused to budge.
“Oh, uh . . . hi . . . Officer Hodges.” My behavior had removed the steadiness from her voice. “This is Alex. He’s new around here.”
He smiled broadly, crinkle lines appearing around his eyes, and he raised an open hand to grip mine. I released the bottle into Kristin’s clutch because I had to free my hand for grasping the officer’s. I struggled to find my voice so I could offer a greeting.
“Hello, Alex. Nice to meet you.” The guard grasped my hand firmly, and then he turned to Kristin. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry we are that Dr. Merrett is too busy to attend this year’s Reckoning Day air show. I don’t want to disturb him, seeing as he’s busy, so I wonder if you could give him a message from all of us on the force. Tell him that if he finds time at the last minute, he shouldn’t hesitate to call us. We’ll be happy to reserve a place for him in the pavilion.”
“I sure will. I’ll let him know you said that.”
“Thanks.” The smiling guard then returned to his table, his weapon looking dusty from lack of use.
I sat, or rather Kristin gripped my shoulders and pushed me down. “Alexander! You’re . . . you’re . . .” She stood over me, speechless.
“Crazy,” I said, assisting her in finding the r
ight word.
“That goes without saying! And you’re . . . I don’t like to say it, but you’re . . .”
“Disturbed.”
“Without a doubt! But what I mean is I was wrong to tell you about a job with MAS. You’re not ready to go to work. You’re dangerous.”
“No! I admit to being crazy and disturbed, but Kristin, believe me—I am not dangerous. I did not strike anyone.”
“Not yet.”
“Kristin, I want to be a space pilot more than anything. If you insist, I will be forced to agree not to intervene, even if you should be flogged right in front of me.”
She looked disappointed. “Could you really watch me being—what word did you use?—flogged?”
“I could try to.”
“Without rescuing me?” She frowned.
“Maybe it is unlikely,” I had to admit.
Her expressive face brightened again with a smile, but Kristin tried to suppress it. Sitting down next to me, she searched my face with eyes that held real fear, if not real anger. “Tell me, please, why you were about to hit Officer Hodges with a bottle. Tell me, so maybe I can understand what you saw that was frightening in a room full of people eating and having a good time.”
I thought of the publisher of seditious material standing tall on a wooden stage, with eyes whose flames would be extinguished in an instant to stare coldly for all of eternity. I rubbed my hands over my own eyes to wipe away that sight. “Kristin, I was afraid that the officer with the gun would . . . hurt you.”
“Why?” She asked incredulously.
“You wanted to overthrow the government.”
“Huh?”
“You wanted to replace the mayor. You expressed views that threaten his rule. I have seen people punished . . . severely . . . for that. You made your traitorous remarks in full, brazen hearing of the police. Indeed, you nearly leaned into their food.”
She shook her head at me. “That’s not how things work here.”
“But you cannot criticize a public official. Kristin, you cannot refuse to obey your mayor.”
“But I don’t obey him.” She waved her hand, dismissing the notion. “I mean we’re the citizens. He works for us.”
I stared at her, trying to understand.
“I realize you just got here, and you have a lot of new things to get used to. It’s not fair to expect you to handle a complex job—”
“Expect me to, Kristin. Expect it.”
“But I can’t recommend you to my boss, and then have you be a loose cannon.”
“Then I will be a tied cannon, a very well-fastened one!”
“Look, why don’t we put this job interview off for a few weeks . . . or months? That’ll give you time—”
“Kristin, I swear I will change my thoughts! I will alter them immediately. If I am hired and I become disturbed just once more, I will ask permission to leave the company, if I am allowed to do that.”
“Of course you can leave! Do you think you’re a—” Her hands covered her mouth in horror. Her voice whispered incredulously. “Is . . . that . . . what you were?”
“Kristin, if the matter of my interview is settled, then I have many questions to ask before your feeding time is over.” I quickly changed the subject. “Who is Dr. Merrett, the man the officer referred to? Is he connected to Merrett Aerospace Systems?”
“Dr. Charles Merrett is the president of MAS. He owns the company.”
“And how are those guards involved with your air show on the Reckoning Day?”
“The air show is a fund-raiser for the city. MAS helps the city by donating the pilots and planes for the show. Other companies donate the food. The police sell the tickets and run the show.”
“Why should the officer ask you to convey his message to Dr. Merrett?”
“Because Charles Merrett is my father.”
As I was absorbing this information, the computer terminal at our table asked for our order.
“I’ll have the Ultimate Sub with the works, a chocolate milk shake, and French fries,” Kristin replied.
The computer repeated the order and flashed images of the items on the screen.
“And make it the 300-calorie version today.” She turned to me. “That costs extra. It cuts out a lot of calories to keep your weight down,” she explained.
Then the computer asked for my order.
“Bread.”
“Is that all?” Kristin asked.
“I do not eat your food.”
“Bring him a piece of cheesecake too,” Kristin told the computer, “and make his food with the full amount of calories.”
The computer repeated the order and signed off.
“Kristin, do all Earthlings know their fathers?”
“Of course. Our parents have us and raise us. Then when we’re old enough, we go out on our own.”
“Why do parents raise their offspring?”
“Don’t you know about families?” she asked, astonished.
“Not very much.”
I waited while she looked at the ceiling, pondering her reply. “Our parents raise us because they enjoy watching us grow up and they care about what happens to us. You see, children are more than offspring, as you put it. Animals have offspring and walk away from them. But humans have children, who are a part of them, so the children are . . . special in some way.”
I thought of a female with golden hair humming music by a lake, and of a fierce struggle to protect something that was special in some way.
“Alex, why do you stare so intensely?”
“Do you know your mother?”
Her eyes dropped. “I did,” she said sadly. “I lived with my mom and dad at our house. We were so happy. But she died almost three years ago.” Her eyes closed for a moment against a pain that suddenly surfaced. I placed a consoling hand over hers, because I knew how she felt about losing someone special.
A robot soon brought our food. Kristin described her Ultimate Sub, layer by layer. It was a precarious mountain of meat, cheese, and vegetables jammed between two thick slices of bread. I feared she would be permanently disfigured when her mouth stretched to take a bite out of this monstrous concoction.
“Why are Earthlings so fascinated with their feeding?”
“Take a bite and find out,” she said, holding the frightful object out to me, but I recoiled. “And we don’t call it feeding, unless we’re talking about what birds do. People eat or dine, and we have meals, not feeding times.”
Earthlings set their activities apart from the lower animals. I wondered why such distinctions were vanishing from the same language on Asteron.
I consumed the bread served to me. Then after some prodding by Kristin, I poked at the wedge on my plate called cheesecake. I placed a tiny piece of it on my fork, raised it to my mouth, studied it, then cautiously tasted it.
“Alex! Are you okay? Your eyes look wild and crazy!”
I took another, more ambitious bite. I thought of the fireworks exploding in the sky when the alien Alexander performed his home run, because I now felt as if similar sparks were exploding inside my mouth. A great upheaval was occurring, a bursting of taste sensations I had never known I could experience. I took another bite. I closed my eyes in deep contentment. I also realized that I was quite hungry.
“Do you like our food?”
“Yes, I definitely prefer dining to feeding.”
So pleased was I with this cheesecake that I consumed the entire ration. Kristin ordered another for me, which I also dispatched with ease.
When the robot asked for payment, I showed Kristin my coin. “An Earthling . . . visitor . . . to my planet gave this to me after I got him a cup of water.”
Kristin eyed the coin. “Wow, that’s some tip! It’s a five-dollar gold piece. You’re almost rich, Alex.” I dropped my coin into a slot in the robot’s chest marked “payment.” Then I picked up several smaller gold and silver coins that dropped into a tray labeled “change.”
After we left Bi
g Eats, I found myself irresistibly reaching into my pocket to shake the coins and to hear the jingle of my first real possessions. Kristin explained that the entrance to MAS was nearby, and we headed toward it. We had barely walked a block when I doubled over with a sudden, violent pain ripping my insides.
“Alex! What’s wrong?”
“My stomach! I cannot digest Earthling food. I am going to die!”
With my arm draped around her shoulder, Kristin led me a short distance to a cylindrical steel booth on the street called Quick Fix. She explained that Quick Fix stations, common all around town, were well-equipped, portable medical-treatment facilities.
“You go inside, the instruments scan you, and then they tell you what’s wrong and what to do. If you need a doctor fast, they call one to fly here and pick you up right away. Now go in, Alex. Be quick! I’ll wait here,” she said, guiding me into the booth.
Before she slid the curved door closed, I lifted her chin until her eyes met mine, and I whispered gravely, “Good-bye, Kristin.”
Once locked inside the silver capsule, I heard buzzes and hums; I saw lights; I answered the questions of a computer that had a compassionate voice. Within minutes the door slid open. “Here’s the diagnosis,” Kristin said, grabbing the paper that had dropped into a slot outside. The document read: “stomachache.” Quick Fix dispensed tablets, which I promptly swallowed with the water it provided, and I listened to its assurances that I would feel better in minutes.
“You see, Kristin, I am different from Earthlings, different inside. I knew this.” My voice was heavy with disappointment.
“Hey, wait,” she said, scanning the report. “According to this, you just went too fast. Quick Fix says you have to introduce foods slowly, because apparently, you haven’t had much of them. But it says you’re completely capable of digesting the food you ate.”
