by E. M. Foner
“As you wish,” the ambassador replied with a shrug. “How many of your failings shall I recount?”
“I’m not interested in my personal failings, I mean, not right now, anyway. I want to hear what issues you have with my species as a whole.”
The Grenouthian stared at her, drumming his hands on his belly while he gave the issue some thought. Finally, he shook his head like a team captain refusing a signal sent in by a coach from the sidelines, and asked, “Who matches orange with blue?”
“Excuse me?”
“I consider myself a well-educated individual with broad taste in art, but pairing colors like red and green or yellow and purple? When I visited your home, the artwork you displayed triggered my regurgitation reflex before I could find the waste facility. I was forced to unload my lunch in what appeared to be a receptacle for dirty clothes.”
“You were the one who threw up in my laundry hamper? I remember that. And you say it was because you didn’t like my reproductions of the impressionists? Renoir, Monet and Van Gogh are my artistic heroes!”
“Reproductions? You mean there are more of them out there?” The ambassador’s short white fur stood on end. “I suppose I shouldn’t make such a big deal about it since I know that your species has difficulty detecting contrast. A studio engineer once told me it has to do with the poor sensitivity of your photoreceptors. I understand that you can’t even discern colors at moderate lighting levels.”
“So first we’re tone deaf and now we’re color blind?” Kelly would have risen from her chair if the ambassador had provided one, but instead she simply turned on her heel and stalked out through a space in the hedge.
“Not that way,” the ambassador called after her. “They’re watering.”
Kelly rushed through the sprinkler, realized that she was lost, and recalling what Joe had once told her about mazes, began making left turns at every opening. After surprising several young bunnies who were smoking something from a hookah, she gave up and subvoced Libby for help.
“Continue straight until the third opening and then turn right,” the Stryx librarian instructed her. “Now stay in the center of the track until the fourth opening on the left…good…your immediate right…and there.”
Kelly emerged in the reception area, damp, but relieved she hadn’t required a rescue from the Grenouthians. Back in the lift tube, she gave the Frunge embassy for her destination, and then asked Libby, “How come turning left every time didn’t work?”
“It would have, eventually, but it’s only a method of last resort. I brought you out of the maze using the most direct route.”
“Ah, I get it. Libby, the Grenouthian ambassador said that my art made him sick.”
“Duly noted. Czeros is still in a meeting, but he always finishes early.”
“Because early is on time,” Kelly parroted.
“That would be the general sentiment shared by the advanced species.”
After she’d exited the lift tube, the ambassador strolled casually down the corridor of the Frunge deck, looking at boutique displays. By the time she reached the embassy, Czeros was just seeing off a Horten, who was wearing a suit that probably cost more than Kelly earned in a year. The Horten looked right through her as they passed, but the Frunge ambassador appeared to be genuinely pleased to see her.
“Unpleasant fellow, that advocate,” Czeros commented as he led Kelly to his office. “Has he been around to see you yet?”
“No. Who is he?”
“A paid representative for the main pirate organization on the Sharf/Horten frontier.”
“You mean a lobbyist?”
“That’s another way of putting it, I suppose, though from his presentation, it’s clear that his background is in litigation. I’m afraid we’ll be seeing more of him in the future.”
“I’m not even thinking about the piracy issue right now. I was recently told that humans have no talent for multi-tasking,” Kelly replied sarcastically.
“I suspect it’s been a long day for both of us,” Czeros said. As soon as they reached his office, he poured the EarthCent ambassador a glass of wine over her objection that it was still morning on human time. He drained his own glass and refilled it before asking, “How can I help you with the review?”
“You’re supposed to tell me about any issues the Frunge have with humanity. The Stryx refused to give us details about what to expect, so I prepared on the assumption that the other species would complain about trade issues, the special toll structure for Earth products, things like that. Instead, it seems that the fundamental problem is who we are.”
“I’m sure that’s not case,” Czeros said, sipping his wine. “I find humans to be fine company, and I’ve heard nothing but good things from Vrazel, who moved his wing-set factory to your world.”
“Thank you, Czeros,” Kelly said, allowing herself to relax a little and taking a sip of the wine, which was an Earth export. “The truth is, I feel a little bad about the way I left Bork’s office after he told me that the Drazens take issue with our singing.”
“Complaining about singing does seem a bit petty,” said the Frunge ambassador, who had aspired to becoming a vocalist in his youth. “If he had to pick on something, you’d think it would be the odor, since their sense of smell is so much more acute than our own.”
“Odor?”
Czeros stiffened like a tree, and then he nervously refilled his glass even though it wasn’t empty yet. “I hear that your cultural attaché is expecting a baby and I have a budget to purchase small gifts for alien diplomats. Perhaps you could help me pick something out?”
“What odor, Czeros?”
“It’s really a small matter, not worth mentioning at all,” the Frunge diplomat protested. “I believe Lynx mentioned her child will be a boy, so I was thinking about something in the way of…”
“WHAT ODOR, CZEROS?”
The alien ambassador slumped in his chair and knuckled his forehead, apparently feeling the need to apologize in advance for what he was about to say.
“It’s not entirely unpleasant, really. Humans give off a characteristic scent that reminds one of, uh, the forest in the spring.”
“Oh, that’s good, then. You mean like buds and flowers?”
Czeros shook the wine bottle over his glass, trying to coax out a few more drops, and muttered something under his breath that sounded to Kelly like, “regeneration, cycle of life, creating warmth.”
“Wait a minute. Are you talking about dead leaves and rotting vegetation?”
“It’s a bit strong in crowds, but I just use my filter plugs,” Czeros admitted. “The truth is, I find your natural odor easier on the nose than some of the artificial scents your people put on to try to attract one another.”
“We stink? And we stink worse when we try not to stink?”
“You’re taking this entirely the wrong way,” Czeros protested. He reached across the desk for Kelly’s hand, but she had already lurched to her feet.
“Thank you for the wine and the feedback, Ambassador. I’d stay to chat, but I wouldn’t want to prolong your suffering.”
“Kelly!” Czeros called after the departing ambassador. “I’ll put in my nose plugs. Oh, grains,” he swore, and then spoke at the communications device integrated in his UV desk lamp. “Get me Bork. Bork? I blew it. Yeah, I let something slip about the smell. What? No, I wouldn’t bring up the other thing under torture. All right. You ping Crute and I’ll try to talk some sense into Abeva. I don’t know, maybe she’ll keep her mouth shut in return for supporting the Vergallian position in this piracy mess.”
By the time Kelly reached the lift tube, she was feeling utterly deflated. “Take me home,” she instructed the capsule, before reporting in to the Stryx librarian. “Libby. The Frunge think we smell bad.”
“Duly noted. Are you giving up for the day? You’re almost halfway through the feedback section of the review, and I can get you in with the Vergallian ambassador if you’d like.”
“The new one
? I’ve forgotten her name already.”
“Abeva.”
“You know what? She’s the one I’ve been dreading the most, so let’s get this over with.”
“Appointment confirmed, rerouting your capsule.”
“Is all of this really necessary, Libby? You must have known what objections the other species were going to raise, and none of it is stuff we can do anything about.”
“Good luck with Abeva,” the omnipresent Stryx replied.
Kelly exited the capsule and turned down the corridor towards the Vergallian embassy. The last time she had been there it was to accompany the Lood emissary from the Cayl Empire, who had spat a stream of some substance on the ornate doors. Perhaps the Vergallians had learned something from that episode because the doors were wide open when she arrived.
“The ambassador is in her office,” a bored looking Vergallian male manning the reception desk informed her. “Oh, you have to check your weapons.”
“I don’t have any,” Kelly replied, rather taken aback by the demand.
“Not even an honor dagger?” the Vergallian asked. “You can keep that, you know. I’m just curious.”
“No, I don’t carry a dagger. Why would I need weapons on a Stryx station?”
“Interesting,” the receptionist commented. “Down the hall to the large gold door at the end.”
Kelly found the ambassador’s office without a problem, but the door was closed. She wasted a minute looking for a buzzer, then tried an experimental rap with her knuckles, but it was like knocking on the door of a bank vault. Unwilling to return to the reception desk, she subvoced for help.
“Libby? Can you ping Abeva for me without her knowing that you did it? Otherwise, all I’ll get out of her is a lecture on us being Stryx pets.”
“She’ll wonder how you cracked her code,” the Stryx said, sounding amused. “Bypassing the Vergallian security layers and patching you through.”
“Ambassador?” Kelly’s implant did an excellent job translating the note of surprise in Abeva’s voice. “I don’t recall giving you my personal access code.”
“I’m sure you’re aware of my ties to EarthCent Intelligence,” Kelly subvoced in reply. “I just arrived at your office but the door is closed. Early is on time, you know.”
The door opened inward, and Kelly strode into the Vergallian ambassador’s office. The décor was surprisingly utilitarian, with the exception of lifelike paintings of the three most beautiful toddlers that the EarthCent ambassador had ever seen. She couldn’t help wondering if the portraits were reproductions from some famous Vergallian artist.
“Be seated.” Abeva spoke without rising and pointed to the chair in front of her desk. “I understand you are here gathering criticisms for the Stryx.”
“I’ve visited the Drazens, Grenouthians and Frunge already this morning, and I thought I’d get you out of the way while I’m already in a bad mood.” Even as the words were coming out, Kelly couldn’t believe what she was saying. It was as if she had been drugged, or—“Did you just dose me with pheromones?”
“My office, my rules,” Abeva replied sweetly. “Nothing harmful, I assure you. I just thought I’d save myself a little trouble trying to wade through your diplomatic twaddle and get to the truth. It sounds to me like you are displeased with the assessments so far.”
“I’ve been told that humans smell bad, have no artistic sensibility, and can’t carry a tune,” Kelly heard herself saying before she could consider her response. “What would you like to add to the list?”
“Well, well. It appears that honesty is the order of the day on Union Station.” Abeva placed her elbows on the desk, bridged her hands together, and regarded Kelly over the steeple formed by the fingers. “You lack grace.”
“What? Are you talking about religious salvation or physical coordination?”
Abeva frowned in frustration. “You also lack a workable language for carrying out intelligent conversations. Obviously I’m talking about physical grace. Just look at the way you’re sitting! It’s a miracle that you aren’t all crooked from bad posture by the time you reach middle age.”
“Slouching feels wonderful, not that you’d ever know,” Kelly replied pugnaciously. “It beats walking around like you have a broom handle…”
“You’re right,” Abeva interrupted. “I wouldn’t know. But I have heard that Astria’s Academy of Dance has already enrolled millions on your Earth, and that the instructors are forced to spend valuable lesson time teaching the students how to walk properly before they can start on basic dance steps. I’ll have to remember to send them a suggestion to offer a course on how to sit up straight.”
“My son and his partner placed fifth in the Regional Vergallian Ballroom Dancing competition last cycle,” Kelly retorted. “And they don’t practice eight hours a day, either.”
“I’m well aware of the achievements of your son and Vivian Oxford,” Abeva replied with a tight smile. “We are not without our own intelligence service, and I’ve been briefed on your son’s connection with young Queen Ailia. Our chief dance analyst has reviewed the competition video and has staked his reputation that Queen Ailia is somehow teaching your son advanced ballroom techniques through an unknown communications technology.”
“Your intelligence service has a dance analyst?”
“Your intelligence service doesn’t have dance analysts?” Abeva sounded even more surprised than she had when Kelly reached her with a direct ping. “It’s one of our larger departments. In any case, the grace displayed by your son and his partner just proves that the rest of you are capable of doing better, which makes it even more irritating. The other species sometimes mistake Humans for Vergallians, and your sloth reflects badly upon us. Couldn’t you at least practice walking at home with a book on your head?”
The ambassador sounded so sincere in her criticism that Kelly couldn’t help feeling a little ashamed, though perhaps that was an effect of the pheromones as well.
“As long as we’re being honest with one another, is there anything about humans you don’t find objectionable?”
Abeva stood and walked slowly to the three portraits displayed on the wall. “You mentioned that one of the ambassadors accused you of having bad taste in art. What do you make of these?”
“They’re so beautiful,” Kelly said, unable to control her tongue. “I thought maybe they were reproductions that were sold with the frames.”
The Vergallian ambassador laughed until tears began running down her perfectly sculpted face. “No, they’re my children. Our tradition is to have portraits painted for presentation to the mother at the second naming ceremony. My oldest girl is on her third or fourth career—I lose track—and my son is in the Imperial Fleet, but Aciva recently turned three,” she concluded, bestowing a gentle air-pat on the blonde hair of the most recent portrait. “It’s a difficult age for Vergallian children.”
“She looks like a little angel,” Kelly said honestly.
“Yes, I suppose she does. You asked me if there is anything about Humans which I don’t find objectionable. Before moving from my world to Union Station, I would have been forced to disappoint you, but I’ve discovered there is one Human innovation for which I thank the stars.”
“Disposable diapers?” Kelly guessed.
“InstaSitter.”
Thirteen
Thomas approached the open hatch of the old Grenouthian lifeboat where Joe, Paul, and Kevin were puzzling over a device resembling an oversized candelabrum made of quartz.
“Can I borrow Kevin for a few minutes?” Thomas asked, leaning into the opening.
“We’re just waiting around for Jeeves to come tell us if we can break this thing down without blowing a hole in the station,” Joe replied. “If you need a hand with something, Paul or I can come along as well.”
“I just wanted to introduce Kevin to somebody, plus pitch him on the Lynx thing,” the artificial person said. “And you know we can always use more stringers.”
<
br /> “What’s a stringer?” Kevin asked, swinging himself out of the opening.
“Sort of a casual spy,” Thomas explained. “It doesn’t rise to the level of part-time work, and there’s no regular income, though EarthCent Intelligence will subsidize your expenses if you add certain destinations to your trading itinerary. It’s mainly about knowing who to contact if you come across anything of strategic interest, how to recognize important developments, plus a little tradecraft for communications.”
“And what’s with the lynx you mentioned?” Kevin looked around cautiously as they strolled towards the training camp area. “I have a hard time believing that Beowulf would tolerate a wildcat in Mac’s Bones.”
“Lynx was the first human agent recruited by EarthCent Intelligence. She and I were partners until we got promoted out of the field. Lynx was a trader for ten years before joining up, and she’s always handled that part of the training for us, but she’ll be out on maternity leave when the next class of recruits starts through the camp. Blythe told me that you’ve been on the trading circuit for practically your whole life, so we thought you might be willing to do a bit of teaching. We pay top dollar for adjunct faculty.”
“I’ve never taught anything,” Kevin admitted. “Everything I know about galactic politics and military alliances I learned from reading the Galactic Free Press.”
“Don’t worry about any of that. Your job would be teaching them the basics of trading, starting from blanket etiquette, on up through how to drive a bargain. An agent who can’t make a profit trading may as well skip the cover story altogether.”
“Maybe I could do that much. Do all of your spies masquerade as traders in alien space?”
“No, but trading and journalism are the best cover stories. We used to lose half of our recruits to the Galactic Free Press after a few years, so we started training reporters for them, and now the traffic flows both ways. The trainees you’ll see today are journalists, so they don’t get the extra trading classes.”
The sound of clashing steel caught Kevin’s attention, and he turned to watch two figures exchanging a flurry of attacks and parries with training foils. “Isn’t that Clive’s daughter?” he asked. “She can’t be old enough to be training as an agent.”
