Qtzl held up one of the photos. “Are you sure? Perhaps it’s merely ethnocentricity on our part. You know the old saying—‘all aliens look alike.’ ”
“First, Qtzl, being a machine intelligence, I am not prone to ethnocentricity. Second, my optics are far more sensitive than your own. This is not only the same person, it is the identical photograph.”
Qtzl was amazed. The Deity had favored him with yet another miracle. “Relief! I was wondering how we were to explain to Mr. Barnett that I now looked like someone else.”
“I am given to understand,” Ship said, “that inhabitants of this planet change their physical appearance quite liberally by surgical means. Moreover, some writers use photographs that do not accurately represent them to their readers. It is possible that this photograph does not portray this… Stanley Schell. Put the photograph on the desk, Qtzl, and allow me to digitize the image.”
“Why didn’t you let me take the call from Mr. Barnett?” Qtzl asked as the FRU glided to hover above the picture.
“You were sunning yourself on the roof.”
“You could have called me in.”
“No need. I was perfectly capable of handling the situation. I explained that I am your secretary, Fru Shipley. The photo is sent. Your first column will appear in the Sunday issue. Credits have already been deposited to your account. At the current rate of pay I estimate it will take approximately eight month’s wages to purchase and process the materials necessary for my repair.”
“Eight months!”
“We must also purchase provisions, Qtzl. You are not a hunter. Therefore, we will need to shop at the local food depository.”
“And how are we supposed to do that? I’ve read National Geographic. I’ve seen ‘Godzilla versus Gamera’ and ‘War of the Worlds’; I look like a giant lizard and you look like a miniature Martian.”
“They deliver,” said Ship. “Our first groceries will arrive this afternoon at exactly three hours, post meridian. I suggest we stay out of sight. Now, should you not return to reading your mail? A number of people are seeking your advice today.”
Dear Arlen,
I feel a little funny writing to a column about this, but I don’t have anyone else to turn to. After our annual New Year’s Eve party my husband’s sister and her husband were the last to leave. As we were saying our good-byes at the door, my brother-in-law (I’ll call him Fred) slipped up behind me and goosed* my buns**! I’m torn—should I tell my husband? Part of me wants to, but this little voice in my head insists it will ruin his relationship with Fred and hurt his sister very badly.
Ship’s note: *A goose is a large aquatic fowl which makes a sound not unlike one of your sneezes and whose natural gait is a waddle. **Since Speechless is not explicit about what variety of buns to which the brother-in-law applied the goose, we can assume only that they were a baked foodstuff made of flour, milk, and eggs (perhaps goose eggs?).
Dear Speechless,
I think you should most certainly tell your husband about the incident. He may well wonder why there is goose down in his baked goods. Telling the truth may be embarrassing, but it will save you from having to fabricate a lie.
As to your brother-in-law—shame on him! I believe you should confront him and allow him to make restitution for his peculiar behavior. I would suggest the least he could do would be to bake your family some fresh buns!
By the way, I have been reading a lot about human psychology and it sounds to me as if you might have something called multiple personality disorder. Nothing to be alarmed about, I’m sure—in fact, it sounds as if it might be quite entertaining to have several personalities at your disposal—but I would recommend that you make an appointment to see a psychiatrist before the little voice in your head advises you to do something dangerous.
“The groceries have arrived.”
Qtzl was slow to emerge from the Stan Schell novel he was engrossed in. He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and turned the page.
“Your taste in literature seems to have lodged in a rut,” Ship observed. “Is that not another Stan Schell novel?”
“I like the way he deals with alien races. Quite enlightened for someone who’s never met any.”
“He is a science fiction writer,” said Ship, as if that alone was supposed to deter Qtzl from reading his work. “That is an ‘escapist literary form about unlikely characters from implausible futures thrown into impossible situations.’ ”
“Such as being stranded on an alien world?”
Ship persisted. “He is not considered to be one of the greats.’ He is, I believe they say, firmly mid-list.”
“And what do the ‘greats’ write about?”
“War, sex, death… bullfights.”
“Ffsstt,” said Qtzl, “I’ll go get the groceries.” He padded downstairs, the soft, orange material of the leggings he was wearing puddling comfortably around his feet. The delivery boy had left the box of groceries in its usual place under the back awning. All Qtzl had to do was lean out of the door and get it. He peered through the transparent sliding doors. He slid back the door, stepped out and picked up the box, pausing for just a moment to close his eyes and breathe in the sweet, tangy air.
He loved that smell. There wasn’t anything on his world quite like it. Ship had determined that it originated from the sap of the trees that towered around the house. He had decided that when he left, a box of those spiky seed pods they dropped everywhere would come with him.
The snap of a twig and a chuff of sound brought Qtzl to sudden focus on the world around him. There, just beyond the deck where he stood, right up against the side of the house, a group of native life-forms stood and stared at him. Their black-lipped mouths were full of the flowering blooms that had appeared all around the alien domicile and though they seemed frozen with surprise, their jaws continued to move.
“Sh-sh-sh,” hissed Qtzl, clutching the box in his quaking arms, his crest flat to his head. “Sh-sh-ship!”
It took an eternity for Ship to respond. Qtzl shook harder; his crest got flatter and turned purple; more blossoms disappeared into the black mouths of the life-forms. At last, the FRU’s blessed hum could be heard behind him.
“Yes, Qtzl?”
“Are… are these carnivores?”
“No. Herbivores.”
His crest relaxed. “Are they… people?”
“No, Qtzl. They are called deer.’ A peculiar life-form variously celebrated and hated. My research indicates horticulturists hunt them because of their dietary cravings.”
Crest merely quivering now, Qtzl took his box of groceries back into the house. He put the groceries away; the FRU returned to the computer room.
“By the way,” it said when he appeared there a moment later and returned to his book, “they want to syndicate you.”
Qtzl’s crest flattened again. “They what?”
“We have been approached by a national newspaper syndicate. They wish to purchase your column for distribution to all of their publications. This is a good thing, Qtzl. This will hasten my repair.”
Qtzl glanced at the pile of letters he was scheduled to read that day. The one on top, like many others he received these days, was not asking for advice, but thanking him for advice already given. National syndication. “Will I be famous, Ship?”
“I believe so.”
Qtzl wrinkled his nose and whistled softly through the flattened slits. How strange if he should gain on this alien world what had so far eluded him completely at home. His fondest dreams to the contrary, no one took his philosophical meanderings seriously, or read his poetry in klatch shops, or hummed his songs as they went about their business. Not even members of his immediate family would take his advice. “Life,” he murmured, “is full of strange turns.”