Morgan waited for the thanks. When none came he went on: “I can understand why you’re angry. I heard about the scene at the spaceport. But Nicky, this is a job—it’s not personal—and sometimes to do your job well you’ve got to swallow your pride.” He put another candy in his mouth and chewed noisily. “You can't just tell an interstellar emissary that you don’t feel like seeing her. Ms. Hasannah’s a very sensitive lady.”
“She’s a cunt,” Nick muttered.
“Maybe, but sensitive—and she was deeply hurt. She’s holed up in her hotel room and won’t talk to anybody. If it was up to me I’d say fuck her, but the men upstairs are busting my balls. They think this has the makings of a galactic incident. As a favor to me, Nicky. . . ?”
When Hali returned the next day he agreed to see her. He heard the rap of her heels entering the room, but no more sounds were forthcoming. Soon he began to wonder if she had changed her mind and crept away.
“Hello?” he said. “Are you there?”
Still nothing.
Painfully he raised his head to see the room. Sunlight streamed in a window, drawing a diagonal stripe across her form. As she watched him, tears spilled soundlessly from the corners of her great almond eyes. She looked so vulnerable, his resentment was replaced by an urge to comfort.
“Did you get the samples to the coldroom?”
“Yes.” It was a small, choked sound. She seemed to be suffering each of his burns, over and over again.
“Look, don’t cry, I’m perfectly all—hey! What are you doing?”
The waterbed sloshed as she knelt upon it, and the waves tipped Nick back and forth. Because of the electroanesthesia he felt only the itch; but he knew from the ripping sound that she was peeling away the sheets of synthetic skin.
“Don’t do that, you’ll open the wounds!” He tried to push her away, but he was weak and stiff-jointed and the roll of the waterbed swallowed up his motions. “Nurse!” he called in desperation. “Nurse, help me!”
“Hush,” Hali said. “It will only take a moment.”
Dear God, Nick thought, she's going to kill me, it’s some weird Alta-Tyberian ritual, killing people to take them out of their pain. And there he was, helpless as a babe. “Nurse!” he screamed. “Goddammit . .
“Get away!” the nurse screeched, bustling into the room. “Get away from him . . . nobody’s allowed to touch those dressings except Dr. Ornstein . . . get away this instant . .
Flustered, she hesitated. She looked as though she wanted to grab Hali physically but was afraid of touching the sparkling blue skin. Instead she poked the intercom and called, shrill-voiced and shaky, for the doctor.
On her way to the door, Hali paused to glare at the nurse. “You are unspeakably rude.” she said, “even for a human.”
Seconds after she left, Dr. Ornstein came bounding in.
“What’s the commotion?”
“I saw it all,” the nurse babbled. “The alien was rubbing her fingers on his wounds, and she tore off the synthi-skin. I tried to stop her but she wouldn't pay any attention . . .”
“Please, Ms. Hoening, try to calm yourself.”
He went over to the bed and began to examine Nick’s burns. Nick heard him draw in his breath and murmur, “Incredible.”
“What?” Nick said. “What happened?” Although he already had a suspicion.
Later that day when they removed the electroanesthesia filament from his spine. Nick felt no pain. He reached behind and found his skin smooth, scarless. Next morning, still baffled but satisfied after numerous batteries of tests, Dr. Ornstein released him with a perfect bill of health.
V
Nick sent a note to Hali’s hotel inviting her to a tour of Mutagen Labs and a progress report on the Alta-Ty problem. The information, he reasoned, would be so important she’d have to accept. Then he would have an opportunity to try to apologize for the disgraceful scene in the hospital. It looked to him as though their relationship was fast becoming a jumble of misinterpreted signals and responses overreacted to. He prayed he could make peace now while there was still a possibility of communication.
He was delighted to receive a message of her consent. He arrived at her doorstep wearing his best dress cape and carrying a bouquet of exquisite black orchids. Before ringing he ran a mental double-check; he couldn’t afford another slipup. Everything seemed proper—right day, right time, lovely flowers—but what if flowers were an insult on Alta-Ty? What if they were given only to the crippled, or only on the occasion of a disaster, or only as the consolation for some great failure?
Take the risk or stand on the doorstep all day. He combed his hair with his fingers and rang.
Hali opened the door. She was wearing a dress of crinkly orange fabric, with sleeves that reached almost to the floor and spread like butterfly wings when she turned. They both began to speak at once.
“I must apologize—” she said.
“Please forgive—” he said.
Then they both laughed. It was the first time Nick had heard her laugh, and he liked it.
“I brought you these.”
“Oh thank you, how very beautiful . .
Nick relaxed. Flowers, apparently, were a universal compliment.
She admired the delicate scrolls of the orchids, the black velvet texture. She held them to her nose and inhaled deeply, then she took a bite off one and chewed, a thoughtful wrinkle on her brow. Her teeth were thick and flat and moved from side to side with a grinding motion. Presently she beamed.
“Delicious! I shouldn't, you know, I’m getting so fat. . .”
“You don’t look fat to me.” In fact he doubted if she weighed more than thirty-five kilograms.
“You fib.”
“No, honestly. And how often do you get to eat foreign foods?”
“True. I will banish my worries.”
“Good,” Nick said.
“Would you like some?” She held up the remaining flowers.
“No, please. Enjoy.”
Blissfully she took another bite. Then she asked Nick to excuse her while she finished her makeup, and retired to the bedroom. Nick, for want of something better to do, flicked on the holovision and sprawled across a lounger. A face appeared, a youthful sixty-year-old with crinkly eyes and a toothsome smile. The face was deeply lined and every line spelled kindness and concern over pressing moral issues. He was the father for whom, in this age of practical parthenogenesis, every man yearned. He was Johnny Quog, the Peace Party candidate for Federation president. And this must be, Nick concluded with a yawn, yet another political advertisement; the election was only weeks away. He kept watching through sheer apathy.
There are those among us today who are ashamed to be called human. They say we have destroyed ancient alien civilizations by imposing our own culture and morality. To them I say. Hogwash! I’m proud to be a human! And I don’t ihink there’s a race in the galaxy that couldn’t benefit from a taste of old-fashioned human ways. I say, if alien ra?es are benefiting from our wealth and technology, then don’t they owe us something in return? As president, I shall propose a program of galactic acculturation— “Who is that?” Hali asked. She was standing behind Nick, ready to go.
“The next president of the Federation.” He stood up and switched off the set.
“I think he is paranoid.”
“Oh?” Nick smiled. It amused him to see this glorified messenger from an insignificant world criticizing a man who would soon be the principal figure in galactic politics. “Why do you think so?”
She ticked the reasons off on her fingers.
“The racial chauvinism, the desire to impose his own values on all others. His—what do you call it?—his folksiness; it is conspiratorial. It implies a ‘you and I against them’ situation. Yes, I believe he is a very dangerous man.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. Our government has been a stable democracy since 1776, and I don’t think Johnny Quog is going to be the man to upset it.”