Aliens Aren’t Human
by Bob Shaw
“What a beautiful day!” Kston said in his thin, lisping voice. “How pleasant to be at peace with the cosmos, and to enjoy the companionship of good friends! How wonderful it is to be alive on such a day!”
That was five seconds before the car hit him.
President Johnny Ciano, who was walking across the plaza with the little Dorrinian diplomat, saw the speeding vehicle first. It registered at the edge of his vision as a silver-blue shape which was changing its position with unusual rapidity, and the instinct for self-preservation—ever strong in his family—prompted him to check his stride. The car had swung off the street which formed the plaza’s southern boundary and was hurtling between an ornamental fountain and a soft drinks stand at over a hundred, its magnetic engine emitting an angry whine.
Ciano’s immediate thought was that the vehicle had gone out of control, then he made out the figure of his own cousin—Frankie Ritzo—crouched over the steering wheel, his eyes gleaming like miniature versions of the car’s headlights.
The fool! Ciano thought, turning to warn Kston. The grey-skinned alien had moved ahead of him, oblivious to all danger, and was still prattling happily about the joys of existence when the car swatted him skywards in a parabola which would have cleared a large house. At the top of its trajectory his body struck the outflung arm of a bronze statue, one of a symbolic group, bending it to an unfortunate position in which its owner appeared to be fondling the left breast of the Mother of Creation. Still spinning, the alien’s compact form came down on a marble bench—converting it to a heap of expensive rubble—bounced twice and rolled to a halt amid a knot of elderly female shoppers, several of whom began screaming. The car which had initiated the grotesque sequence slewed its way across the plaza and disappeared into a narrow street on the west side.
“Holy Mary,” Ciano sobbed, running towards the fallen body. “This is terrible! Send for a priest, somebody.”
“A priest will be no use for this job,” Kston said, springing to his feet and picking up a piece of the shattered bench. “Unless, of course, your clergy also serve as stone-masons. Forgive this humble being for not being familiar with human…”
“I’m not talking about the bench.” Ciano gaped at the diplomat’s grey hide which was unmarked and miraculously intact.
“The statue, then.” Kston looked up at the metal sculptures. “This humble being considers that the arrangement has been improved. It’s more symbolic than ever, if you know what this humble being means.”
“I’m talking about you, Kston—I thought you were dead.”
“Dead?” Kston closed one eye, which was his way of showing puzzlement. “How could this humble being die while he is still young?”
“That car was doing at least a hundred when it hit you. I don’t know what you must think of us, Kston, but you can rest assured that no effort will be spared in the search for the driver. We’ll find him no matter how long it takes, and when we do…”
“But this humble being thought your cousin was joining us for lunch?” Kston said mildly.
“My cousin?” Ciano felt both his knees partake of a loose circular motion. “You saw the driver?”
“Yes. It was your cousin Frankie, the Secretary for External Affairs.”
Ciano stared numbly at Kston, and then at the shoppers who had sorted themselves out and were beginning to take an interest in the conversation. “Let’s move on,” he said hastily, his brain racing as he tried to think of a way out of the situation in which his cousin’s assassination attempt had placed him. Ritzo’s lack of finesse had always made him something of an embarrassment to the government of New Sicily, but with this latest piece of crassness he had become a downright liability. Ciano made up his mind that Ritzo would have to be sacrificed, that he was prepared to go as far as a public execution if it would save the top-level talks.
“Are you positive it was Secretary Ritzo?” He made a last effort to save his cousin’s life. “I mean, there are lots of cars just like that one.”
“It was Frankie, all right.” Kston showed his slate-like teeth. “This humble being can see why you put him in charge of External Affairs. It is rare for anybody to show such consideration for a visitor. His car obviously was not designed for playing boost-a-body, and yet he went right ahead and boosted this humble being. He just didn’t care how much damage would be done to his vehicle…and this humble being finds that really heart-warming. Don’t you?”
“Aw…ah,” Ciano said. Even to his own ears the comment seemed to lack incisiveness, but for the moment he was unable to improve on it.
“It’s obvious that Frankie has studied Dorrinian customs and has learned that boost-a-body is one of our favourite games. It was a nice diplomatic gesture, but…” Kston smiled his dark smile again. “This humble being is afraid it doesn’t change his mind about our heavy mineral deposits.”
“I need a drink,” Ciano mumbled. He escorted Kston across the street and into the hotel, owned by his uncle, which had the catering contracts for the Department of Trade. They went straight into the VIP bar, a large room decorated in Earth-style traditional, complete with a high-mounted television set showing sports programmes. Ciano ordered two triple whiskies. While the drinks were being served he covertly examined the Dorrinian, whose physique could best be described as pyramidic humanoid. The grey-skinned body grew steadily wider and thicker from the top of a bald, pointed head to the short, immensely powerful legs which ended in slab-like feet. Kston was nude, but this condition was acceptable to human eyes, partly because his genitals were internal, partly because his smooth hide created the impression he was dressed in a one-piece garment of supertuff.
Ciano examined that hide carefully while sipping his drink and was unable to detect the slightest sign of lacerations or bruises resulting from impacts which would have burst a human body like a ripe tumshi fruit. He guessed that the high gravity on Kston’s home world had led to the evolution of incredibly robust inhabitants; and from there his thoughts went on to the fact that Dorrin was also the only planet in the local system with an adequate supply of elements heavier than iron. Proper development of New Sicily was impossible without access to those elements, but the Dorrinians were adamant about refusing mining rights.
“Listen, Kston,” he said, adding generous quantities of warmth and sincerity to his voice, “there must be something here on New Sicily that your people would like to have.”
Kston blinked to signify agreement. “Indeed yes. Sulphur in particular is prized by our chefs as a condiment, but our supplies are almost exhausted.”
“Then we should be able to work out an exchange deal.”
“This humble being fears not. The word ‘exchange’ implies the existence of two parties, each of which is the sole owner of a commodity.”
Ciano weighed up the comment and failed to see its point. “Well?”
“Well, the Dorrinian viewpoint is that, as this planetary system was our home for millions of years before the first ships arrived from Earth, every resource of every planet in it automatically belongs to us.” The alien diplomat experimentally squeezed the chromed steel rail on the edge of the bar between finger and thumb, producing noticeable dents in it. “We don’t feel disposed towards trading our own property in exchange for our own property.”
“But you didn’t have the necessary space technology until we gave it to you.”
“It would have been developed,” Kston said matter-of-factly. “In any case, this planet is more than adequate recompense for a little technical know-how.”