“Where do any of them?” He relaxed. “How are things at the bank working out?”
“They’re nice enough people,” it said, quickly. “No real challenge, though. A few times a day I haul out a language to calm down a customer. Walk him through a document or just help with numbers. The job description said ‘international relations,’ and I suppose that’s technically true.”
“Apia’s smaller than you thought it would be?”
It shrugged. “I read up on it. No real surprises … except you guys. I expected a bigger deal.”
“Well, it’s only fifty people. We had a pretty low profile until a couple of weeks ago.”
“Your space alien. That made the front page in Honolulu. You found her?” It closed its eyes and shook its head. “Sorry. Mustn’t pry.”
“No; I wish we had. Love to spring that on the tabloids.”
“You don’t believe it’s in a secret wing in the Air Force hospital in Pago Pago?”
“No, it’s locked up in Roswell, New Mexico.” He laughed. “Before your time.” The changeling had been there twice, actually, as a juggling dwarf and an anthropology graduate student.
So Monday they were going to reveal the artifact’s coded response— or at least the fact that it had responded. The changeling wondered how that would change its situation, and what it could do before then to help its chances for the job.
Russell offered a possibility. “You work tomorrow?”
“No, everybody goes to church. Except me.”
“I’m off, too. You want to bike somewhere for a picnic?”
“God, I haven’t ridden a bike since college. Give it a try, though. I guess I could rent one someplace.”
“Oh, I have a spare.” He scratched his chin. “I usually go out to Fatumes Pool or Fagaloa Bay on Sunday, but that’s a little far if you’re not used to it. We ought to just tool around, see some local sights, wind up at Palolo or the project for a picnic and a swim.”
“Does the reef go over that far?”
“No, it’s just a white-sand swimming beach. The local kids like it. We even set out a shark barrier last week.”
“You get a lot of sharks?”
“Just takes one. A big hammerhead attacked a boat in the shallows—bit a hole in the hull!—and so the family, the aiga that technically owns the land the project’s on, asked whether we’d cooperate in putting a barrier up to protect swimmers. Just a wide- mesh net”—he sketched a six-inch square with his fingers—“to keep out really big fish. We bought it and they provided the manpower.”
An interesting challenge, the changeling thought. A hammerhead could pretend it was a dolphin and jump over it. “That sounds good. They have picnic tables and all?”
He nodded. “A grill. Let’s be American—I know a place with fairly convincing hot dogs. I’ll pick some up this afternoon and put them in the office fridge.”
They made arrangements to meet at the Vaiala Beach Cottages in the morning, bring a bathing suit, and she went back to her air- conditioned bank.
As he pedaled off toward the butcher shop, Russell thought about what he was getting into. He couldn’t afford an actual girlfriend; he had to be “available” for the Rae-alien’s return. That was one element of their plans to trap the creature, because when it returned it was likely to repeat the previous strategy, and try to seduce Russell. Or maybe Jack or Jan. Anybody new who came into their lives would have to pass the DNA test.
He toyed with the idea of arguing to the others that maybe the alien had figured out a way to manufacture DNA, so he should continue to pursue Sharon even though she’d passed the test—all in the name of science, of course.
—45—
Russell knew he wasn’t the only one in passionate pursuit of the alien. But he didn’t know that his competition was more formidable than the CIA agents who were just now becoming interested in Sharon.
The chameleon had been in and out of Apia ever since he knew they had a vehicle from another planet. If there was anybody else like him on Earth, he would be drawn here, too.
The changeling also had spent much of its human life looking for another changeling. It saw the meeting as a kind of reunion— “together again for the first time.” They could sit down and talk, and perhaps together solve the mystery of their origin.
The chameleon, on the other hand, was not interested in mysteries. He was interested in eliminating competition.
He wasn’t stupid. Over the millennia he had often attained his culture’s highest degree of education. He knew that his desire to destroy the competition was not rational. But it was programmed into every cell of his body; it was what he had instead of the urge to reproduce. And sexual desire was a pale flame beside his passion to destroy, to protect himself.
On his own terms it was easy to rationalize: if the creature was like him, their first meeting would be short and brutal. Best strike first. No human could kill him, but no human knew how profoundly damaged he would have to be in order to actually die.
He did know and had to presume his competitor would as well.
—46—
The changeling regretted the impulse that had made it say it hadn’t ridden a bike in years. It had been riding since before Russell was born, and simulating clumsiness on a single-speed Schwinn was an Oscar-level performance.
“How you doing up there?” She was leading them up Logan Road, not too hilly and no traffic, Sunday morning.
“I’m getting the hang of it.” She stood up to crest the hills, and felt the gentle pressure of eyetracks on her butt. Maybe it shouldn’t have worn the form-fitting jogging outfit, which got some disapproving stares from people on their way to church. But it certainly kept Russell’s attention.
“All downhill from here. Just keep bearing to your left.”
“Yeah, I’ve run this way. The project’s down after the second light, V-something Road.”
“Vaiala-vini. We’ll make you a Samoan yet.”
“As long as I don’t have to like breadfruit.”
“Fuata. We’ll start out with hot dogs and move our way down the food chain. After turkey tails and mutton flaps, you’ll be begging for fuata.”
“Oh, I’ve got a freezer full of turkey tails. Deep-fried, you can’t beat ’em.” They laughed together, but there was an edge to it. They both knew the Samoan diet had been transformed by Western intrusion, all for the worse. Turkey tails and Big Macs, mutton flaps and corned beef—there weren’t many natives over thirty who were lean and heart-healthy.
Russell waved at the guard as they went through the project gate. They dropped the bikes, no locks, in front of the main building, and raided his office fridge for hot dogs and beer, and put them in a foam cooler. He found charcoal in a utility locker and went out to start the fire while Sharon changed.
She studied her body in the ladies’ room mirror and made a few minor adjustments here and there. She knew she had Russell hooked. The question was whether to reel him in. It might be better to play a waiting game, and let Michelle get closer to delivery.
Or maybe force the issue. Get Russ in bed, and see what comes up.
It was a nice bright red thong bikini. The changeling pulled out a few pinches of excess pubic hair and ate them. It arranged the top so it just showed the wing tips of the hummingbird tattoo. It slightly deepened its lumbar dimples, a feature she remembered Russell noticing in her Rae incarnation.
It closed in for the kill, first wrapping a lavalava around its waist. It could wear the revealing suit as long as at least its toes were in the water, but Samoans weren’t happy about insensitive tourists flaunting their charms on the way there.