by E. M. Foner
“Entertainment,” the Grenouthian ambassador answered him. “It appears that members of the nascent Human Empire have their priorities straight after all.”
“Four, four, four. Gimme more,” Shaina chanted. “Four thousand to chair the working group for entertainment. Thirty-five hundred is the bid, let’s have—Four,” she cried, seeing an excited Dollnick InstaSitter pointing at somebody with all four arms.
“But their votes are all worth the same in the end,” Kelly protested. “If somebody wants to influence our future, a hundred-cred seat on the working group for trade carries the same weight in the voting as a four-thousand cred chair for the entertainment working group.”
“That’s an excellent observation,” the Thark ambassador praised her. “My work teaching you about investments must be paying off because you’ve identified an inefficiency in your working group market.”
“You’re looking for investments?” the Grenouthian inquired. He showed remarkable agility for his bulk, slipping in between the Drazen and the Thark. “Why didn’t you come to me? Investing is my middle name.”
“Do Grenouthians even have names?” Kelly asked.
“It’s just a saying. I know how your money must be piling up because my single point in the Stone Soup production is creating a river of cash. You have ten times that from the show, not to mention the cookbook royalties and all of the branding and certification money.”
“I’m a little embarrassed about the whole certification thing,” the EarthCent ambassador admitted. “I do try to sample the food products we certify, but they’re piling up in the embassy kitchenette.”
“If we all put our heads together, I’m sure we can find a worthy investing opportunity for your cash,” the Grenouthian ambassador said, waggling his ears at the other ambassadors.
“You mean, a worthy investment opportunity for EarthCent’s cash.”
“Yes, of course. I know you to be far too intelligent of a sentient to get caught up in market fashions, so I assume you’re looking for a long-term investment that will grow your capital while providing flexibility if you should need funds for important, er, Human stuff.”
“You’ve read my mind exactly,” Kelly enthused. “I don’t understand why it should be so hard. Just a second,” she said and fished her diary and the pencil out of her purse. “All right, go ahead.”
“You’re already working with the Dollnicks?” the Grenouthian ambassador demanded when he saw the cover of Kelly’s paperback.
“No, it’s just a notebook.”
“May I?”
Kelly reluctantly handed over the paperback and the pencil, while in the background, Shaina sold the last seat for the entertainment working group and began the auction for the Department of Health.
“I’ve definitely seen this picture before,” the Grenouthian ambassador mused, staring at the bare-chested Dollnick on the cover. “Could this be from a prospectus for a terraforming project, Crute?”
“I believe it’s from a popular romance series, the Trillionaire Prince, or something of the sort,” the Dollnick ambassador replied. “My secretary reads them.”
“The cover is just to hold the pages together,” Kelly protested. “Really. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“All right,” the Grenouthian ambassador said, flipping to a blank page. He rested the spine of the paperback on the much-shorter Thark ambassador’s shoulder and drew a five-pointed star with quick strokes. Then he labeled each point in fine alien printing.
“Nice hand,” Bork commented.
“I won a penmanship award in school,” the bunny replied, and then showed the page to Kelly without returning the book. “My clan follows a system known as Five Star Investing. In each—”
“There’s only one star,” Crute interrupted. “You should call it Five-Pointed-Star Investing.”
“Semantics. Each point of the star carries equal weight in our decision-making process, and we don’t invest in a new idea unless the total reaches a minimum of eighty points. For example, if each element of a new proposition scores fifteen out of twenty, which I believe is a solid passing grade by Human standards, the total is only seventy-five, and we keep our gold in our pouches.”
The Verlock ambassador, who had been slow to his feet, now crowded in behind Kelly to look at the notebook. “But your system does not guaranty success,” he observed. “If four elements of the business plan are scored at twenty, the fifth could be scored at zero, and your money would be lost.”
“I’m sorry,” Kelly apologized. “I can’t read that script. What is it?”
“I thought it was Humanese,” the Grenouthian ambassador said, clearly taken aback. “Srythlan?”
“It’s Alt,” the Verlock ambassador told him. “I picked it up myself because I was taken by the clean lines and compact expression. It’s easy to confuse Humans with Alts if you don’t pay close attention to the head size.”
“So what does it say?” Kelly asked again.
“Let me see that,” Bork said, claiming the paperback and the pencil from his colleague. “The point at the top is safety,” he translated, printing the English word in the block letters of a draftsman, “moving clockwise we have required capital, return on investment, market dominance, and personnel.”
“So you’re talking about starting a business,” Kelly surmised.
“Or participating in an existing business,” the Grenouthian ambassador said. “I thought you were interested in investing.”
“I am. I just hoped it would be more like opening a bank account.”
“Investing in the right immersive production is better than money in a bank.”
“You haven’t refuted my point,” Srythlan said. “What if a production scores twenty on four elements and zero for the last?”
“That’s impossible,” the Grenouthian retorted. “Try assigning points at random and see what happens.”
“If safety is assigned zero points, meaning a one hundred percent chance you’ll lose your capital—oh, I see.”
“What do you see?” Kelly asked the Verlock ambassador.
“The elements balance each other. For safety to be zero in the eighty point scenario, required capital would score twenty, meaning there would be no money at risk.”
“Exactly,” the Grenouthian ambassador said. “Right now, Stone Soup is so popular that the network is looking under every rock for a spin-off, if you’ll excuse the pun. Now, let’s say we take it up a notch by creating a cooking show with chefs competing to make recipes from the All Species Cookbook ingredients.”
“Cookbook Wars,” Czeros suggested.
“Perfect,” the Grenouthian said, recapturing Kelly’s notebook from Bork. “I’m not going to claim it’s a sure thing without testing the concept on focus groups, but I’d estimate eighteen points for safety. Srythlan?”
“Eighteen points sounds reasonable.”
“For capital required, everything is already in place with our network except a dedicated set, so we’ll call it nineteen points. Return on investment, well you’ve seen the results from Stone Soup, so that’s a big two-oh. As for market dominance, is anybody aware of a current cross-culture cooking wars show?”
“There’s something from off the tunnel network that’s kind of interesting,” the Fillinduck ambassador spoke up. “I’ve only seen smuggled copies, but it’s from Floppsie space, and they use cooking tournaments to settle interspecies border disputes, so it’s basically a substitute for war.”
“Ouch,” the Grenouthian ambassador said. “So if we make a big splash, all of a sudden we’ll be up against tough competition from pirated content.”
“Why would it matter?” Kelly asked. “It seems pretty unlikely that species from a section of the galaxy that doesn’t even have relations with the tunnel network would share our food base.”
“Nobody actually eats the stuff on competition cooking shows. It’s all about the visuals, and they’ll have interesting ingredients we’ve never seen before. E
ven though we could slot the new show in immediately following Stone Soup, I’m only going to score market dominance at ten, which leaves us with personnel.”
“Celebrity Dollnick chefs are well paid,” Crute pointed out.
“I suppose there’s that. You see,” the Grenouthian ambassador continued, addressing himself to Kelly, “we could use no-name chefs, but that would decrease our safety margin. So even though we’ll have no trouble at all finding personnel, I’m going to score it at fifteen. Who’s been keeping track?”
“Eighty-two,” the Thark ambassador announced a split second before Srythlan.
“So it’s a go,” the bunny said, returning Kelly’s notebook. “Tell me how much you want to invest and I’ll take care of the details.”
“Can I think about it?” she asked.
“Take as long as you want, but unlike a seat on the Human Empire’s working group for health, a hot property like this won’t be available forever.”
Twelve
“The cooler will automatically ping us if the sandwiches start running out, but you’ll have to judge the cookie demand for yourself,” the Gem caterer told the EarthCent ambassador’s son. She extended a tab. “Please swipe your acknowledgment.”
“I can tell you based on the last two days that I’ll be out of cookies by mid-afternoon,” Samuel said after complying with the request. “This whole business with the Human Empire has really raised the profile of the tradeshow with all of the species.”
“Then I’ll send somebody by right after lunch to top you up.”
“Didn’t I deliver a gross of cubed mangos with raspberry sauce to you at the lounge for the observers last night?” the second Gem said to Samuel. “How can you be working for both the Humans and the Vergallians?”
“I have a full-time job at the Vergallian embassy, but we’re mainly shutdown for Jubilee, so I’m on loan to EarthCent when I’m not working at this booth,” Samuel explained.
“Ping us if you think of anything else,” the first clone said. “We have lots of deliveries to make.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean everybody else is giving away free food. I count on the cookies and sandwiches to keep people here long enough for me to swipe their badges and make my pitch.”
“Queens must be a hard sell to free peoples, though I hear the Alts are pretty happy with their results,” the clone observed. “And don’t worry about losing foot traffic. Everybody else on my list is just getting a few of this or that so it must be for their own lunch. You’re lucky all the sales reps don’t come here and eat your food.”
“Good point,” Samuel acknowledged. He double-checked that there were enough bottled drinks to last for a while in the ice tub and rearranged the glossy brochures for newly opened Vergallian worlds. “At least I have something concrete to promote this year,” he muttered to himself.
“May I?” asked a woman in her mid-thirties, pointing at the tray of cookies that was still covered with cling film.
“Be my guest. And drop a card in the fishbowl to win a free trip to Aarden.”
“And to end up on the Vergallian embassy’s marketing list, no doubt,” the woman said, but she dropped a plastic chit in the fishbowl. “Isn’t Aarden a Fleet world? Your name tag indicates that you’re representing the Empire of a Hundred Worlds.”
“Relations have improved and Fleet agreed to co-promote,” Samuel said. “I’ve never been to Aarden myself, but I understand they host one of the largest sovereign human communities. Now that the Empire of a Hundred Worlds is experimenting with the open world concept, we’ll look to them as our model.”
“Interesting. I’m here representing the Timble Documentary Performers Union—we have a booth where you can sign up for a vacation that includes work as an extra.” There was a loud chime. “That’s the opening bell so I better get back,” she said, and left without ever having told Samuel her name.
“Just like a Grenouthian,” the EarthCent ambassador’s son muttered to himself.
The first wave of tradeshow visitors surged down the aisle, shoveling freebies into their swag bags. Most of them glanced at the ‘Vergallian Open Worlds’ sign draped across the front of the booth and hurried past, but a serious-looking couple in their early twenties turned in.
“Help yourselves to a cookie,” Samuel said. “We have Union Station Springs water on ice as well.”
“Not - here - for - the - freebies,” the woman replied slowly. “Seeking - new - open - world.”
“The two of you grew up in a Verlock academy community?” Samuel guessed from the stocky woman’s speech pattern.
“Academy - head - says - we’re - ready - to - graduate,” she confirmed.
“Looks - interesting,” the man said, flipping through the Atien brochure. “Are - there - volcanoes?”
“I didn’t see any in the brochure, but they wouldn’t be considered an attraction for most people,” Samuel said. “Vergallian worlds are tech-ban, you know, and volcanic activity tends to have a negative impact on agriculture.”
“Thanks - anyway,” the man said, and the couple shuffled off towards the next booth.
A pair of Sharf observers brandishing custom embroidered swag bags were the next visitors to the Vergallian embassy’s booth.
“I’m not taking a metal splinter out of your thumb again,” Samuel immediately said to the female. “You can go to the clinic.”
“Why are you working here?” the male Sharf asked. “Did the Human Empire fire you?”
“I hope it wasn’t because of my complaint,” the female added.
“You complained about me?” Samuel asked in disbelief.
“If I’d known you were going to be so clumsy with the tweezers, I would have dug the splinter out myself.”
“Nice looking world,” the male said, flipping through the Atien brochure. “How many of us are you trying to recruit?”
“We’re advertising for Human communities that want to establish—” Samuel began.
“You’re discriminating against Sharf?” the observer interrupted, raising his voice and drawing looks from passersby.
“Since when do Sharf move to open worlds to work in agriculture? We’re recruiting Humans because they don’t have an inventory of livable worlds of their own to colonize.”
While the male argued with Samuel, the female Sharf pulled the rest of the cling film off the cookie tray and used it to wrap a stack of a dozen chocolate chip cookies, which she deposited in her bespoke swag bag. “Stop teasing him, Hvadi,” she said. “It’s clear that the short-necked species don’t have a sense of humor.”
“Thanks for stopping in,” Samuel called after their bony backs as they walked away. The rest of the morning went much the same, but he did harvest a good crop of business cards during the lunch hour when people crowded the booth for free sandwiches. Just as the traffic was slowing down again, a modestly dressed woman of indeterminate age approached.
“Excuse me,” she said, looking Samuel up and down. “It appears to me that you’re as human as I am.”
“I’m employed by the Vergallian embassy. How may I help you?”
“My name is Lisbeth Townes and I’m here representing my community. We live in the Old Way, and it’s becoming harder and harder to protect our youth from invasive technology on Earth. An itinerant blacksmith we sometimes employ reported that Vergallian tech-ban worlds are opening themselves to immigration.”
“Yes, but how did you get here if you don’t use technology?”
“We aren’t Luddites, young man,” she said, sweeping her white linen shawl back over her shoulder. “Followers of the Old Way farm without modern machinery and live without connection to the power grid. Manual labor for healthy lives is our motto.”
“We have brochures from three worlds that would certainly meet your criteria, ma’am.” Samuel picked up one of each and handed them over. “You should know that the Vergallian tech-ban isn’t absolute, and human mercenaries taking work on those worlds are allowed to bring
along teacher bots.”
“We teach the old-fashioned way, in classrooms,” Lisbeth said dismissively as she leafed through the brochures. “Very pretty. Would we have to swear fealty to the queen?”
“Not under the open world arrangement. Can I scan your badge?” he asked, pointing at her tradeshow pass.
“For my contact information? I don’t imagine the Vergallians would know what to do with an Earth mailing address. We only get the post once a week as is.”
“We have an, er, relationship with Astria’s Academy of Dance, which has hundreds of locations on Earth,” Samuel said, omitting the fact that the chain was a well-known front for Vergallian Intelligence. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to act as middlemen for any correspondence. Could I ask if there are other communities like yours on Earth?”
“People who follow the Old Way? We have dozens of affiliates, and I’ll be reporting at our annual convention after I return. If the Vergallians don’t discriminate against religious people, there are hundreds more well-established communities that take a similar approach to life and farming, though their reasons are somewhat more spiritual than our own. I know that when somebody in my community needs a barn built, we always bring in an Amish framing crew.”
After Lisbeth moved on, Samuel took the time to transcribe the highlights of their conversation on his tab and mark it for the highest priority follow-up. Then he took advantage of a lull to wolf down a few random sandwich halves left over from the lunch rush.
“Caught you red-handed,” Aabina said as she entered the booth. “I knew there had to be a reason you were willing to do this job, other than loyalty to my mother.”
Samuel swallowed the last bite of sandwich, and then asked, “Who’s babysitting the observers?”
“Exactly,” Aabina said with a mischievous grin.
