“We save their civilization, they reciprocate by joining the Federation . . .” Nick’s mouth fell open as he realized the implications. “Holy shit.”
Morgan nodded and stood up to signal the end of the interview.
“I know you can handle this,” he said, putting his arm around the younger man's shoulder and steering him toward the door. “And by the way,” he added as Nick was leaving, “the next time you miss a press release like you did yesterday, you’re fired.”
“Terrible accident on my way to work . . .” Nick began.
Morgan laughed and pushed him out the door.
II
Words and numbers began to run around the cylinder at the center of the giant dome which was the Sifra-Messa spaceport. Nick read the printout with relief: the connecting shuttle from TGA flight 49803—the flight carrying the emissary from Alta-Ty—would be arriving on schedule. Thank goodness for that. He had been hanging around the spaceport all morning, drinking stimu-caffs, browsing at the magasette stand, inspecting spaceport mementos and souvenirs, and growing more and more nervous every minute. Silently he rehearsed the speech he had prepared as though it were a litany:
The Mutagen Corporation and the people of Sifra-Messa and of all the other planets in the Federation of Worlds extend to you their warmest welcomes . . .
Aliens were common on Sifra-Messa, but they kept to themselves and humans did little to encourage socializing. Incredibly, Nick had never before had dealings with one, aside from asking for the correct time, or for change of a credit bill. His inexperience made him all the more anxious. What if he slipped and made reference to one of those ugly, stupid cliches about aliens eating their children or popping out their eyeballs? He would have to be careful indeed.
Transgressions were particularly likely because the Alta-Tys had such an elaborate code of manners. According to a microfiche he had been reading (“Our Friends the Alta-Tyberians, Their Habits and Customs”), when a meeting took place between strangers a little ballet was performed before either party spoke a word. This included hand gestures, back bends, bows in which forehead scraped floor: they must have been extremely supple. When Nick tried imitating one of the illustrations in the microfiche, he nearly slipped a disc. He hoped the Alta-Ty would be understanding about the breach of manners.
. . . planets in the Federation of Worlds extend to you their warmest welcomes, and express every certainty that the genetic technology of the free galaxy will. . . .
One of the rituals, Nick noted with relief, was very similar to a human custom: that of the host giving a present to the visitor. The microfiche even described an appropriate gift, a rala-senaya—a huge brush used to comb the cottony fur which covered their bodies. The backs of the brushes traditionally featured colorful scenes from Alta-Ty folktales. Nick had the modeling department at Mutagen build one and decorate it with a human and an Alta-Ty united by a double helix—the Mutagen logo. He carried it now in a box under his arm.
More information was appearing on the cylinder: passengers from flight 49803 had cleared DeContam and Customs and were entering the central dome through Gate 12. Nick ran a hand through his thick black hair and hurried to the gate, where a crowd was already beginning to form.
. . . certainty that the genetic technology of the free galaxy will find a speedy solution to the terrible tragedy which . . .
The entrance iris was dilating; the passengers, space-weary after six months on board a cramped ship, were filing through the gate.
. . . the terrible tragedy which has befallen your people. ... The Mutagen Corporation and the people of Si-fra Messa and of all the other planets . . .
They were mostly pilgrims who, after years of watching their favorite Lifestylers on holovision, were now determined to see them in person. They came in tour groups led by smiling guides, and it was easy to tell whom they worshipped: followers of Squire Stolid wore hats shaped like obelisks, followers of Lex Largesse, gloves like huge hands. Followers of Lady Lovelorn dragged their feet and lowered their eyes, except to frown at the followers of twin ‘stylers Gloss ’if Glitter, who were giggling and grabbing at one another lasciviously.
Then there were men in business capes, lawyers and accountants and the others who kept the administrative end of Mutagen in order, representatives from other corporations with Mutagen accounts, and Federation tax auditors. Most were human, but Nick noticed a sprinkling of aliens: Rooliks, the craftiest businessmen in the galaxy, armed, no doubt, with wild investment schemes for Mutagen capital; a few tiny Wheezops who might be in for a size adjustment; five creatures with faces like fried eggs; and a willowy female whose skin glittered with blue scintillae.
No Alta-Tyberians.
Nick waited a half hour more with mounting dread. Then he hunted up the flight steward and asked if there had been no Alta-Tyberians on board.
“Only Ms. Hasannah.” The steward pointed to the willowy blue female, who was standing near the entrance iris, wearing an expression which might, on a human, indicate extreme irritation.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “She can’t be an Alta-Ty—they’re all hairy, like bears.”
“Just the males,” the steward said, laughing.
“Oh my God,” Nick said, remembering this fact.
He thanked the steward and, summoning all his courage, charm and tact, approached the Alta-Ty.
“The Mutagen Corporation and the people of Sifra-Messa and of all the other planets in the—”
“You are from Mutagen?” Her English was perfect, but her voice scraped like an overtightened fiddle string. “I have been waiting one half hour. I sent a tachygram with the time of my arrival. I assume you did not get it.”
“No, I did. But—”
“Then why were you not here waiting? Tell me that, please? I have been six months in space, on ships, off ships, at least I should be granted some common courtesy here, where my people are prepared to spend so many millions of credits, don’t you think?”
“I’m terribly sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” He couldn’t think straight; his mind was numb with panic. For a lack of something else to do he handed her the package he was carrying.
“Please . . . accept this . . . ?”
She looked at him for a minute; then her face softened and she said in a surprisingly mellow voice, “Thank you.”
When she reached for it Nick noticed the cryogenic briefcase clipped to her wrist. It must have contained, under extreme refrigeration, the sperm samples and ovum, the future of her planet. No wonder she was overwrought. To have that responsibility . . .
“You must understand the strain I have felt,” she said, tearing away the paper. “I’m sorry if I have been a trifle . . .”
“Look, it’s perfectly all right. I understand completely.”
She opened the box. For an instant she looked puzzled; then the fury came back tenfold.
“What is this?” she hissed. “A humorous frolic at my expense? Dear sir, in case you do not know, I am a female, not a male!”
“There was no way to tell. .
She thrust the package back into his hands, turned and marched to the baggage pickup.
III
The MagLev cab sped along a copper ribbon inlaid in a graceful concrete arch, one of many that spanned the city. Powerful electromagnets supercooled in a helium bath to — 450° F. held the car inches above the roadway, allowing it to slip along frictionless at fabulous speeds. Forward momentum was supplied by a linear induction motor and supplemented, at the passenger’s request, by the thrust of a hydrogen booster.