"Hey, lookit the big guy with the funny nose," came a small voice from across the street.
Tusk-anini stopped and peered at the group of local children. A few short blocks from the hotel, the neighborhood had changed rapidly, clearly showing its previous identity as a factory district. The dilapidated building in front of which the children stood bore a sign announcing its condemnation and imminent demolition to make way for Landoor Park.
"Hello," he said. "My name Tusk-anini. You live here?"
The children were whispering to one another, as if uncertain what to do now that they had attracted this strange creature's attention. One of them, bolder than the rest, stepped forward and asked, "Are you a soldier?"
"Not soldier," said Tusk-anini. "Space Legion-we better than soldiers." He strolled across the litter-strewn street, doing his best to appear nonthreatening. For someone who closely resembled a seven-foot-tall warthog, this was somewhat difficult. But the captain had briefed the company about the importance of being friendly with the natives of this world, and Tusk-anini was willing to do his part.
"My name's Bucky, and I'm not scared of you," said the child, scowling up at him from something like half his height.
From behind her another high-pitched voice said, "Her real name's Claudia."
"You shut up, Abdul," said Bucky/Claudia, throwing a hostile glance over her shoulder, then turning back to stare at Tusk-anini. She was wearing the same ragged clothes as her comrades. From the look on her dirty face, she wasn't about to back down from anybody. Tusk-anini decided that she was the leader of this little group.
"You live here, Bucky, or you come to look at me?" he said, dropping down on one knee to put himself closer to the children's face level. He'd discovered that humans found him less intimidating if he sat or knelt to reduce the perceived difference in their heights. There were times when it was useful to appear intimidating, but this wasn't one of them.
"I live over on Hastings Street," said the girl. "My family owns our own whole house." From the way she said it, that was a distinction she was proud of.
"You got candy, mister?" asked another urchin, stepping up next to Bucky. She had a straw-colored shock of hair and intense, large blue eyes that seemed out of proportion with the rest of her face.
"What your name?" asked Tusk-anini, avoiding the question. He didn't have any candy with him, but he could make sure to have some with him the next time he came by. For now, acting friendly would have to be enough.
"That's Cynthia,", said Bucky. "She's my baby sister, but she's all right." She looked at the smaller girl-there was a sort of resemblance, now that Tusk-anini knew to look for it-and said, "Remember Mom told you not to take candy from strange men."
"He's not a man," said Cynthia, with impeccable logic. One or two other children nodded in agreement. Tusk-anini might be a stranger, but he did not fit into any definition of man they considered relevant. Especially if it left open a loophole through which candy might be obtained.
"Tusk-anini no bring candy this time," he said. "Next time I come here, I bring some. But you ask Mom if it OK to take from me. No want her mad at me."
"He talks funny, too." One of the others had evidently decided that failure to bring candy was grounds for pointed commentary on the stranger's differences from local standards of appearance and speech.
"Shut up, Abdul," said Bucky. "He's. an alien. Aliens can't help it if they look and talk funny."
"I don't like him," said Abdul, pouting. "Aliens don't belong here, anyhow."
Tusk-anini was considering whether it would be diplomatic to point out that, except for the miracle of interstellar travel, neither did humans belong here, and that where everyone was an alien it was best to practice tolerance, when the children's attention was distracted by a new arrival on the scene. "Wow, what's that?" said Bucky, her jaw dropping.
Tusk-anini turned to follow the children's gaze, and saw a familiar sight: Spartacus, one of the Synthian legionnaires, had come around the corner and was casually zigzagging down the street on his glide-board. Tusk-anini waved. "Friend Spartacus, come over here," he said.
"Wow, is that your friend?" said Abdul. "What's that thing he's riding?" He seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that the Synthian resembled nothing so much as a large slug in a Legion uniform.
"I am riding a glide-board," said Spartacus. The translator rendered his voice as a rich baritone, with an aristocratic accent that always surprised those meeting him for the first time. It was also an incongruous touch, considering the Synthian's strong populist leanings-but of course these children would have no notion of that.
"Triff," said Bucky. "Can you show us how to ride it?"
"I think I can do better than that," said Spartacus. "If my friend Tusk-anini will help, I think the captain will let us bring several glide-boards along the next time we visit. Then you can all learn how to ride."
"Wow," said Abdul, his eyes growing round. "You guys are really cool."
Tusk-anini chuckled in his warthoggish fashion. Perhaps he wouldn't need to give Abdul that lesson on tolerance, after all. An alien bearing a new toy trumped human chauvinism every time.
Journal #378
Landoor turned out to be not only a welcome change from life on a space station, but an extremely attractive environment in and of itself. As the legionnaires began to explore the city and the surrounding region, they discovered that the nearby beaches and the mountainous northern end of the island were every bit as scenic as the tourist brochures made them appear. The local cuisine, which drew on several Terran traditions, was good enough to offer an attractive alternative to the excellent fare provided by Mess Sergeant Escrima-who eagerly began to add local dishes to his own repertoire.
Escrima looked around the hotel kitchen. From the gleaming equipment on display, and the delicious aromas permeating the air, this was the kitchen of a world-class restaurant. It was a rare Legion mess sergeant who'd had the opportunity to actually prepare food...
Most of the odors were familiar. There was garlic and bay leaf, peppers and onions, tomatoes, the blander aromas of rice and beans in simmering pots. There was also meat, possibly several different kinds, being roasted, grilled, stewed, and sauteed. This last aroma Escrima could not identify, which puzzled him. Evidently it was some indigenous meat. But it was almost unheard of for humans to be able to eat the flesh of a local animal.
Well, he'd find out. He had an appointment with the hotel's head chef-who was somewhat apprehensive about turning his kitchen into a Legion mess hall. Escrima was here to cure him of that preconception.
He walked over and took the lid off a simmering pot for a closer look. The contents was a spicy stew, with savory meat and onions-and more. He was looking around for a spoon to taste a sample when a voice behind him said, "Ah, would you be the Army cook?"
"Not Army, Space Legion," said Escrima, doing his best to keep his voice from snapping at the newcomer, who was dressed in the traditional chef's hat and white apron. "I'm Sergeant Escrima, Food Preparation Specialist E-9, here to inspect the facilities. You've been told that we're going to be sharing the kitchen."
"Yes, Sergeant," said the chef. "This will be a very...ah, interesting...experience, I think."
"You're telling me?" said Escrima. "I got an appetite just walking into this kitchen. If the Legion won't eat this stuff, they ought to be checked for signs of life. I can see there's a whole new cuisine for me to learn. What do you call this dish?"