Rocket Boy and the Geek Girls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  Ship had also found an engineering position and several programming slots with a large company that seemed to be doing research in space travel. “You are an above average speaker of machine language at home.“

  “But I don’t know the languages their computers speak, Ship.“

  “I do, and what I know, I can teach you.“

  “Why bother?“ Qtzl asked, feeling useless. “You take the job. I’ll just... putter. Maybe explore the area.“ He conjured an image of himself as the intrepid explorer, charting alien territory.

  Ship quickly dismantled it. “Qtzl, it would be extremely unwise for you to leave this domicile without my Field Remote. You simply would not survive. There are large, wild lifeforms in the surrounding woodlands.“

  “You said there were only small lifeforms in the surrounding woodlands.“

  “I have revised my assessment. There are large lifeforms. Four-legged. And they move in packs of three to ten individuals. Some roam quite close to this domicile.“

  Qtzl gave up the idea of exploring, intrepidly or otherwise.

  Ship fabricated and sent a sterling résumé based on a combination of Qtzl’s expertise (a rather limited set) and its own. A week passed without positive response. All of the prospective employers insisted on interviews; three told Ship it was over-qualified.

  “This is more difficult than I anticipated,“ Ship admitted.

  Qtzl fanned his neck frill in frustration. “We have,“ he noted, “a limited amount of food left.“

  “However,“ Ship continued, as if Qtzl hadn’t spoken, “I have found another employment opportunity. This one requests a résumé, a photo, and published clips from anywhere in the United States.“

  “United states...?“

  “A group of sovereign or semi-sovereign provinces which function as part of a federation founded upon the principles —“

  “What’s a ‘photo?’“

  Ship idled momentarily. “A two dimensional representation of a person rendered on paper in a chromatic medium?“

  “Published ‘clips’... is that like aired writings?“ Qtzl’s interest was piqued. He’d exhibited a flair for both prose and lyric during his school days. In fact, he’d won a number of essay contests and had aired a few pieces of short fiction and philosophy. Not that anyone had noticed...

  Ship emitted the mechanical equivalent of a sigh. “The advertisement is from a city newspaper. A large one, judging from the estimation of its readership. They need a ‘columnist’ — that is, one who writes prose of philosophical bent and gives advice to the readers.“

  Qtzl twitched his crest. “I am filled with philosophy, but advice? About what?“

  “It does not say,“ said Ship.

  “I need a... ’photo,’ you called it.“

  “Very good, Qtzl. Yes, ‘photo.’ You need one. And some examples of your prose.“

  “You have that in your database.“

  “Indeed. Shall I select a cross-section of your philosophical meanders?“

  As Ship’s AI system was not programmed for wry humor, Qtzl was sure he must have imagined the barb. “Do that,“ he directed, feeling somewhat more buoyant. “I’ll find a ‘photo’ somewhere. They’re all over the backs of these ... ‘books.’“ During his rambling exploration, he had found a volume with a representation of an Earth personage in shades of gray. He located it now, and carefully excised it from the book’s glossy wrapping, using a foraged utility blade. By the time he had finished, Ship had produced several pieces of his finest commentary, and had come across sample advice columns in the newspaper’s online archives.

  “It is called ‘Ask Angela,’“ said Ship. “In it, a reader asks a question and Angela provides the answer.“

  “What sort of question?“

  “For example, this female complains that after the birth of their first young, her mate has ceased to accord her the attention due her. She is uncertain what to do to recapture his interest.“

  “And what advice does Angela give?“

  “She tells the female to decrease her weight and revitalize her... assets. This is an approximation, of course. This will, according to Angela, put something called ‘pizzazz’ back into the relationship.“

  “That’s terrible advice! How can decreasing her body weight possibly increase her powers of attraction? A female is supposed to gain weight when she produces young. It’s the natural indication of her elevated status. Doesn’t this society have a Mating Codex? This female should sue for Breach of Attraction!“

  “I am uncertain how this society handles their domestic matters. Perhaps the bearing of young is not as highly regarded here as it is at home.“

  “Nonsense. The society will not survive long that devalues its young.“ Qtzl stood and began to pace. “I shall not only tender my ‘published clips,’“ he decided, “I shall give a real answer to this question. Ship, read me the entire column.“

  Ship did, and Qtzl gave his own opinion about mates with wandering attention and the merits of a matron’s physique. He recommended legal action only as a last resort, suggesting that some remedial classes in couplehood might bolster the mate’s flagging attention span.

  Scanning the photo of the Earth person for transmission, Ship said, “And what is the name of your alter-ego, Qtzl? I do not think Qtzl Fhuuii is a common name here.“

  “Well, I think it should sound something like that other one, er, ‘Ask Angela.’“

  “‘Ask’ is a verb meaning to inquire. Angela is a name suggesting the columnist is a saintly being from the next world sent back to this plane to intercede on behalf of others.“

  Qtzl was impressed. “All that in three syllables! Is there a word in this economical language for a saintly being from another world who’s stranded on this one?“

  “Alien. Also known colloquially as an ‘ET.’“

  “Well then. That’s it. ‘Ask Alien.’“

  “I do not think we wish to call attention to your... non-local origins.“

  Qtzl’s feelings were hurt. “Well, then you suggest something.“

  Accordingly, Ship reviewed databases of common names beginning with the letter ‘A’ and came up with ‘Arlene.’ Close to ‘alien,’ but not close enough to draw suspicion.

  Ship dispatched the packet to the newspaper and Qtzl began an expectant wait. While he waited, he returned to the transport module to assess the damage and began the painful process of learning the natives’ difficult language. “All gutturals,“ he complained. “It’s enough to give a person a sore throat.“

  By the end of another week, Qtzl had managed to read a book or two. It was challenging; even Ship was at a loss over certain words and concepts, and Qtzl began to suspect that he had stepped into a very strange world indeed, much like his favorite childhood story of Qalss in Tuiifooshand.

  A decaday and myriad résumés later, Qtzl had read a variety of books — mostly of a type called ‘science fiction.’ It was not without its counterpart on his own world — every people, he suspected, dreamed of other peoples on other worlds. He also learned how to play computer games and developed a taste for something called ‘cheese puffs,’ which was one thing his borrowed cupboards seemed to contain in abundance.

  And then came the call. Not a call, precisely, for the only address Ship had left the newspaper was an electronic one. They wanted Qtzl — or rather, they wanted someone named —

  “Arlen?“

  “They apparently thought ‘Arlene’ was what they refer to as a ‘typo.’ I am not certain why they came to that conclusion. They want to know your last name and phone number. They wish to speak to you directly.“

  “I has anticipationed them,“ said Qtzl in what he imagined to be perfect American. “I has been studying them lingo.“

  Ship was silent for a moment, then said, “Perhaps I shall tell them you are away and will call them back in several days. I believe that should be enough time to remedy your lamentable lack of language skills.“

  Thre
e days later Qtzl spoke to the newspaper’s managing editor. He was nervous, most especially when the man asked, “Where’re you from? Originally, I mean.“

  “Uh,“ ad-libbed Qtzl, “why do you ask?“

  “Oh, your accent. I can’t quite place it. French, is it?“

  French. Qtzl glanced feverishly at Ship’s remote self, stationed, as always, by the computer. The screen flashed to life and began to display information. French: Native of an autonomous provincial unit called France which lies across a large body of salty water from these shores.

  “Ah, yes. Er, French, well...“

  “No, wait... Canadian, isn’t it? Quebecois?

  The computer screen cleared and displayed instructions.

  “No, um, Winnipeg actually.“

  “Ah. That explains why your name doesn’t sound quite French. ‘Quet-zell — am I pronouncing that right?“

  “Ket-zell,“ Qtzl corrected him, eyes still on the computer. “It’s, er, Belgian. I’m — ah — third generation Canadian.“ He rolled his eyes. How would he ever keep all this straight?

  “Why,“ he asked Ship later, “didn’t we just say ‘yes’ to French or Quebecois?“

  “Because then I would have been required to tutor you in French. Teaching you American has consumed enough of my processing time.“

  Qtzl did not let Ship’s cool derision deflate him. He had passed. He had pretended to be an Earth person — Human, they called themselves — and passed.

  “Now,“ Ship continued, “we’ll need a bank account in which your new employer can deposit your wages. We will also need a ‘credit’ account on which to charge your purchases. I shall take care of these details.“

  “And I,“ said Qtzl, “will bring home the xuti.“

  In the next several days the letters arrived over the network to print neatly on the borrowed computer’s output device. Qtzl was to select the ones he found most interesting (though his new employer did offer suggestions), answer them and send them back with replies attached. A simpler job, Qtzl could not have imagined. Despite his first impression, the humans were not nearly so alien as he had thought, although it was clear their society possessed its share of peculiarities.

  oOo

  Dear Arlen,

  A while back, I sent my friend — I’ll call her “Sue“ — a chain-letter*. I’ve always thought of Sue as a good friend, but she broke the chain! In two months she has yet to send the letter to the people targeted by her list! I’m not superstitious or anything, so I’m not afraid I’ll have bad luck because Sue broke the chain, but I’m really irked that she’d be so irresponsible. I don’t know which makes me madder, her laziness or her lack of loyalty to me as a friend.

  My sister says I should nag** her about this. Should I? My husband says I should break off our friendship before anything bad happens. What do you think?

  Steamed in Amarillo

  Ship’s memo: *Please see attached notes on the term “chain mail“ or “chain letter.“ I construe from these materials that chain mail is associated both with extremes in fortune and with protection from harm — from ill fortune, one must assume. Evidently, sending the chain mail along to the ‘target’ intact engages protective function, while severing the chain disables it, thus calling down a curse on the hapless recipient. **For your information, a “nag“ is a colloquial term for a hoofed quadruped of doubtful quality, usually referred to as a “horse,“ scientific term, equus.

  oOo

  Dear Steamed,

  It sounds as if chain mail is quite dangerous. I’m surprised it is legal. I am equally surprised that you would send such dangerous materials to someone you consider a close friend. You are obviously a foolhardy human being, and I think you owe your friend, Sue, an apology. On the other hand, she would seem to owe you some remuneration for the broken chain.

  By the way, I think you should consider sending letters made of some less inimical material — I am told paper is a suitable medium.

  I would also recommend against turning Sue into a horse. It sounds as if that process might be difficult to undo and would only compound your folly.

  oOo

  “Your employer called.“

  Qtzl looked up from the book he was reading — one of a series about the inhabitants of a planet named Mars which, if the story could be believed, was this planet’s next orbit neighbor.

  “And?“

  “He likes the column. He referred to it as ‘kitschy.’“

  “What’s that?“

  “I am not certain. I could find no reference to it in the dictionaries at my disposal. It is most certainly positive. He also wishes to know if you wish to use the photograph we sent or mail him another. He indicates that a photo used for publication needs to be of a higher quality than the one we sent. He requires a scanned image of the original ‘black and white glossy.’“

  “What is an ‘original black and white glossy?’“

  “The photo we sent was evidently a second or third generation print. We need to find an original photograph.“

  “But I liked that one. I liked the way the person’s fur grew all around its face. It looked almost the same upside down as it did right-side up.“

  “Mr. Barnett says he must have an original photograph either mailed or scanned and downloaded. I suggest we find such a photograph.“

  Qtzl searched. He searched the bookshelves, the desk drawers, the closets. When that failed to turn up any sort of ‘black and white glossy,’ he turned to a tall cabinet in a corner of the computer room. It was not a pleasant task; the cabinet was overflowing with sheets of cellulose, paper and semi-transparent flimsies all crammed into brightly colored covers of a thicker material. After sustaining a number of small, painful cuts to his digits, Qtzl found a red folder that bore the title “Cover Shots.“ This turned out to be just what he was looking for.

  “Look!“ he told Ship, holding the folder open for the Remote to see. “This is the most extra-ordinary bit of luck! Not only are there photos here, but they are very like the one of the human whose picture is on some of the books I’ve been reading.“

  Ship looked. “Qtzl, the photo in your left hand is the original of the picture we have already sent.“

  Qtzl held up one of the photos. “Are you sure? Perhaps it’s merely ethnocentricity on our part. You know the old saying — ’all aliens look alike.’“

  “First, Qtzl, being a machine intelligence, I am not prone to ethnocentricity. Second, my optics are far more sensitive than your own. This is not only the same person, it is the identical photograph.“

  Qtzl was amazed. The Deity had favored him with yet another miracle. “Relief! I was wondering how we were to explain to Mr. Barnett that I now looked like someone else.“

  “I am given to understand,“ Ship said, “that inhabitants of this planet change their physical appearance quite liberally by surgical means. Moreover, some writers use photographs that do not accurately represent them to their readers. It is possible that this photograph does not portray this... Stanley Schell. Put the photograph on the desk, Qtzl, and allow me to digitize the image.“

  “Why didn’t you let me take the call from Mr. Barnett?“ Qtzl asked as the FRU glided to hover above the picture.

  “You were sunning yourself on the roof.“

  “You could have called me in.“

  “No need. I was perfectly capable of handling the situation. I explained that I am your secretary, Fru Shipley. The photo is sent. Your first column will appear in the Sunday issue. Credits have already been deposited to your account. At the current rate of pay I estimate it will take approximately eight month’s wages to purchase and process the materials necessary for my repair.“

  “Eight months!“

  “We must also purchase provisions, Qtzl. You are not a hunter. Therefore, we will need to shop at the local food depository.“

  “And how are we supposed to do that? I’ve read National Geographic. I’ve seen ‘Godzilla versus Gamera’ and ‘War of t
he Worlds’; I look like a giant lizard and you look like a miniature Martian.“

  “They deliver,“ said Ship. “Our first groceries will arrive this afternoon at exactly three hours, post meridian. I suggest we stay out of sight. Now, should you not return to reading your mail? A number of people are seeking your advice today.“

  oOo

  Dear Arlen,

  I feel a little funny writing to a column about this, but I don’t have anyone else to turn to. After our annual New Year’s Eve party my husband’s sister and her husband were the last to leave. As we were saying our good-byes at the door, my brother-in-law (I’ll call him Fred) slipped up behind me and goosed* my buns**! I’m torn — should I tell my husband? Part of me wants to, but this little voice in my head insists it will ruin his relationship with Fred and hurt his sister very badly.