And then came the call. Not a call, precisely, for the only address Ship had left the newspaper was an electronic one. They wanted Qtzl—or rather, they wanted someone named—
“Arlen?”
“They apparently thought ‘Arlene’ was what they refer to as a ‘typo.’ I am not certain why they came to that conclusion. They want to know your last name and phone number. They wish to speak to you directly.”
“I has anticipationed them,” said Qtzl in what he imagined to be perfect American. “I has been studying them lingo.”
Ship was silent for a moment, then said, “Perhaps I shall tell them you are away and will call them back in several days. I believe that should be enough time to remedy your lamentable lack of language skills.”
Three days later Qtzl spoke to the newspaper’s managing editor. He was nervous, most especially when the man asked, “Where’re you from? Originally, I mean.”
“Uh,” ad-libbed Qtzl, “why do you ask?”
“Oh, your accent. I can’t quite place it. French, is it?”
French. Qtzl glanced feverishly at Ship’s remote self, stationed, as always, by the computer. The screen flashed to life and began to display information. French: Native of an autonomous provincial unit called France which lies across a large body of salty water from these shores.
“Ah, yes. Er, French, well…”
“No, wait… Canadian, isn’t it?”
The computer screen cleared and displayed one word—“yes.”
“How—how perceptive of you. Yes, indeed. I’m from, er…” He squinted at the screen. “Canada. Yes, um, Winnipeg to be exact.”
“Of course! Quebecois! I should have guessed. That explains why your name doesn’t sound quite French. ‘Quet-zell’—am I pronouncing that right?”
“Ket-zell,” Qtzl corrected him, eyes still on the computer. “It’s, er, Belgian. I’m—ah—third-generation Canadian.” He rolled his eyes. How would he ever keep all this straight?
“Why,” he asked Ship later, “didn’t we just say ‘yes’ to French?”
“Because then I would have been required to tutor you in the language. Teaching you American has consumed enough of my processing time.”
Qtzl did not let Ship’s cool derision deflate him. He had passed. He had pretended to be an Earth person—Human, they called themselves—and passed.
“Now,” Ship continued, “we’ll need a bank account in which your new employer can deposit your wages. We will also need a ‘credit’ account on which to charge your purchases. I shall take care of these details.”
“And I,” said Qtzl, “will bring home the xuti.”
In the next several days the letters arrived over the network to print neatly on the borrowed computer’s output device. Qtzl was to select the ones he found most interesting (though his new employer did offer suggestions), answer them and send them back with replies attached. A simpler job, Qtzl could not have imagined. Despite his first impression, the humans were not nearly so alien as he had thought, although it was clear their society possessed its share of peculiarities.
Dear Arlen,
A while back, I sent my friend—I’ll call her “Sue”—a chain letter*. I’ve always thought of Sue as a good friend, but she broke the chain! In two months she has yet to send the letter to the people targeted by her list! I’m not superstitious or anything, so I’m not afraid I’ll have bad luck because Sue broke the chain, but Vm really irked that she’d be so irresponsible. I don’t know which makes me madder, her laziness or her lack of loyalty to me as a friend.
My sister says I should nag** her about this. Should I? My husband says I should break off our friendship before anything bad happens. What do you think?
Ship’s memo: *Please see attached notes on the term “chain mail” or “chain letter.” I construe from these materials that chain mail is associated both with extremes in fortune and with protection from harm—from ill fortune, one must assume. Evidently, sending the chain mail along to the “target” intact engages protective function, while severing the chain disables it, thus calling down a curse on the hapless recipient. **For your information, a “nag” is a colloquial term for a hoofed quadruped of doubtful quality, usually referred to as a “horse,” scientific term, equus.
Dear Steamed,
It sounds as if chain mail is quite dangerous. I’m surprised it is legal. I am equally surprised that you would send such dangerous materials to someone you consider a close friend. You are obviously a foolhardy human being, and I think you owe your friend, Sue, an apology. On the other hand, she would seem to owe you some remuneration for the broken chain.
By the way, I think you should consider sending letters made of some less inimical material—I am told paper is a suitable medium.
I would also recommend against turning Sue into a horse. It sounds as if that process might be difficult to undo and would only compound your folly.
“Your employer called.”
Qtzl looked up from the book he was reading—one of a series about the inhabitants of a planet named Mars which, if the story could be believed, was this planet’s next orbit neighbor.
“And?”
“He likes the column. He referred to it as ‘kitschy.’ ”
“What’s that?”
“I am not certain. I could find no reference to it in the dictionaries at my disposal. It is most certainly positive. He also wishes to know if you wish to use the photograph we sent or mail him another. He indicates that a photo used for publication needs to be of a higher quality than the one we sent. He requires a scanned image of the original ‘black and white glossy.’ ”
“What is an ‘original black and white glossy?”
“The photo we sent was evidently a second- or third-generation print. We need to find an original photograph.”
“But I liked that one. I liked the way the person’s fur grew all around its face. It looked almost the same upside down as it did right-side up.”
“Mr. Barnett says he must have an original photograph either mailed or scanned and downloaded. I suggest we find such a photograph.”
Qtzl searched. He searched the bookshelves, the desk drawers, the closets. When that failed to turn up any sort of ‘black and white glossy,’ he turned to a tall cabinet in a corner of the computer room. It was not a pleasant task; the cabinet was overflowing with sheets of cellulose, paper and semi-transparent flimsies all crammed into brightly colored covers of a thicker material. After sustaining a number of small, painful cuts to his digits, Qtzl found a red folder that bore the title “Cover Shots.” This turned out to be just what he was looking for.
“Look!” he told Ship, holding the folder open for the Remote to see. “This is the most extraordinary bit of luck! Not only are there photos here, but they are very like the one of the human whose picture is on some of the books I’ve been reading.”
Ship looked. “Qtzl, the photo in your left hand is the original of the picture we have already sent.”