Kerwin Frees poured out the remains of his beer, tossed the can into the recycle bin in his trunk, and shut himself into his car with his CB radio.
Qtzl slept curled in a large cupshaped chair. He did not sleep easily or well, and was up before daybreak exploring his borrowed lodgings and pondering his predicament. On his own, he came up with the idea that Ship s Field Remote Unit should scan the foodstuffs in the alien’s larder, and he found what looked vaguely like a computer in a cozy, cluttered chamber. The FRU confirmed the find. It was a computer of sorts, and was connected to some sort of alien network. Munching on some dry, crumbly white squares Ship had deemed edible, Qtzl watched the FRU (which looked, appropriately, like Ship in miniature) put the alien artifact through its paces.
“The machine incorporates no intelligence,” Ship told him after exciting the boxy alien unit into a series of bleeps and chitters. “It models reality in simple binary languages which are relatively nimble, but not exceptionally powerful.… The network to which it is connected,” Ship added after a long pause, “is, however, rather extensive. If you will allow me the time, Qtzl, I can explore the pathways. Perhaps I can determine a means of procuring the materials necessary for the repair of my transport module.”
Qtzl allowed the time, and used it to his own purposes. Sometime in the middle of a fitful nap, Qtzl wakened to Ship’s strident desire to share its findings.
“This society functions on a free-market system not unlike our own. I have located sources for the materials you need, and can arrange to have them delivered to this place.”
“How?”
“Quite simply by placing orders into the computers of the various sellers. I already have experimented with such a tactic. The computers, lacking intelligence, do not question my addition of spurious orders.”
“But… how will we pay for it?”
“We have nothing with which to pay for it,” said Ship patiently.
“But that’s stealing,” Qtzl objected. “I won’t steal.”
“Then you will not get home.”
“Stealing is reprehensible.”
“Then we have a moral dilemma.”
Qtzl rolled his neck frill and waved his arms in a gesture he hoped looked more impassioned than frantic. “Options! I need options.”
“If you had some sort of legal tender, you could purchase the materials, and I could then place the orders legitimately.”
“Good! What tender?”
“Apparently, this society functions with a multi-leveled equivalency system. Precious metals are the actual units of value; however, one does not use them directly in bartering.”
Qtzl’s momentary relief flagged. “You mean, I can’t just go dig up some ores and do business?”
“Apparently not. The second tier of exchange involves chits called ‘money’ or ‘currency,’ which occur in a multitude of denominations and which are symbolic of the actual units of value. There is then a third level of exchange called ‘credit’ which exists solely as electronic information and which is symbolic, in its turn, of the currency. As nearly as I am able to determine, most business is conducted without any physical exchange of real property. All transactions are controlled by computers… which makes their lack of sophistication beneficial,” it added after a moment.
Qtzl pondered this, then decided it behooved him to ask, “In order to purchase our materials, what must I have?”
“You must have an accumulation of this symbolic data in an institution known as a ‘bank.’ ”
There was no Tlvian equivalent for the word, so Ship simply said it in the language of the builders of the network. “Bank.” It was a perfectly ugly word, Qtzl thought, sounding approximately like someone choking on vetshmil.
“And how,” he asked, “does one acquire these symbolic units of value?”
“One works. When one works, one’s employer deposits these symbolic units of value into the aforementioned ‘bank.’ The problem, of course, is that each employed individual is known to the system by a unique code which includes a name and a number.”
Qtzl had not thought it possible for Ship to sound perplexed or uncertain. He revised that estimation now, and was far from happy about it.
Meteorite. That was what the police, the late-night news, and the next morning’s newspaper labeled it. The only people who suspected it was anything else were fringers—crazies that used citizen band and the Web alike to report everything from abductions to Elvis sightings. It wasn’t long before a simple arc of light had been transmuted into a dozen or more close encounters of various kinds, including detailed (and wildly different) descriptions of the aliens.
Kerwin Frees was an experienced hand at this. He knew how to read between the lines, how to suck an atom of truth out of many gross tons of fiction. He took careful notes of each description of the earthfall, paying special attention to where the correspondent claimed to be at the time of the sighting. If he was lucky he would be able to use the information to triangulate and fix the landing site.
“What are these?” Qtzl asked, staring at the screenful of scribbles Ship presented to him.
“These are job listings. People seeking employees let their needs be known by posting them on this Network. It is fascinating, Qtzl,” Ship added, sounding almost enthusiastic. “These people are quite literate. They run the machines. The machines do not run them. Nowhere have I found a machine that is a decision-maker; they are merely implementers.”
Qtzl was too lost in his own miseries to care about the state of machine intelligence on this alien world. “I can’t read them,” he said glumly. “It might as well be the scratchings of zik-ziks.”
“I can read them,” said Ship. “What sort of job would you like?”
“Academic.”
Ship’s FRU uttered a mechanical grunt. “An academic position? How are you qualified for such a thing? You’ve never held a job, and it would be arrogant to assume you could teach the natives based only on your perception of superiority.”
“I meant,” Qtzl interrupted, “that what kind of job I’d like is academic. I can’t apply for any job. I can’t appear in person. After all, I don’t exactly look like a native, do I?”
“No, you do not. Therefore it will be necessary to obtain a position which does not require your personal attendance.”
“Oh, certainly. And how am I to undergo the Sizing-Up without making a personal appearance?”
“I am not certain that this society observes that ritual.” Ship was silent for a moment, then came back with a series of job listings highlighted on the computer screen. “Here, for example, are a number of entries which simply say, ‘send resume to’ what I assume are surface coordinates. Several even allow electronic submissions.”
Qtzl felt a stirring of interest. “So, assuming we find a job for which I’m qualified—then we tender my qualifications electronically?”
“Precisely.”
Qtzl ruffled his neck frill in agreement. “Then let’s find me a job that requires no personal appearances and which will pay well enough to cover the necessary purchases in a reasonable length of time.”
Ship went to work immediately, which put it out of communication with Qtzl for an inordinate amount of time. Bored and fidgety, he resumed his exploration of the alien abode. He was afraid to go outside—even with Ship monitoring his every move—so he settled for a further tour of his absent host’s belongings. In a small adjunct to the sleep chamber, he found some interesting garments which, for lack of anything better to do, he tried on. Standing before a reflective glass, Qtzl was admiring how the color of the robe he wore set off the turquoise of his skin when Ship beeped him. Hiking the long skirts, he hurried into the computer room.