Thank God, Sam thought to himself. It would be nice to be able to go to sleep without worrying about a horde of tiny aliens using you for a rug during the night. It would be nice to have some privacy for a change.
The Scrofulosans were less than enthusiastic when they heard about Sam’s forthcoming move. “Have we offended you in some way?” they wafted at him. “Have we been less than gracious in allowing you access to our glorious city? Or have these,” there was a dreadful smell that nearly made Sam pass out, it was so foul, “despicable creatures bribed you in some way?”
“I have not been bribed,” Sam responded with indignation. “In my position one must remain impartial. I merely feel that both sides should have equal opportunity to extend their complete hospitality.”
Offal/taint-of-mustard jerked back, scrambling over four of its fellows in a jittering panic. “We do not want you at risk. We do not want you to be replaced. What if they ask you to dinner?”
This was getting very confusing. He had no idea that etiquette was so important among the Galactics. Perhaps he should ask the little Rix to tell him some more about the Mephitisite dining manners. Wouldn’t want to pick up the wrong fork or something and embarrass himself, he thought.
The Speaker for the Mephitisites belched angrily when it heard the Scrofulosan s question. “We have no such intentions of aesthetically editing the frowlzing Earth-thing. It will not be invited to dine with us. Besides, it is so scrawny and small—probably tastes terrible, too. Oh, no offense intended,” it added in a malodorous aside to Sam.
Or maybe Mephitisite table manners were something he should not be too eager to acquire after all, Sam thought. Where the hell was the Rix anyway? He had to know what he had let himself in for!
When Sslowa arrived a few hours later Sam saw that the tiny alien remained in her blue funk. Her clicks were desultory, hardly any crispness whatever. He suspected that the prospect of a tryst with Sslinno was at the root of her problem.
“Didn’t you make the male sounds?” he asked when he had a chance. “Or did you chicken out?”
The little Rix responded carefully. “Things have gotten very bad, friend Earth-Sam. I waited until only Sslinno and I were within speaking range and then did the male melody, as I said I would. 1 was not prepared for the response—not a bit. Sslinno responded with the most beautiful female melody that I have ever heard. Oh Sam, it nearly broke my hearts to resist that call, it was so lovely.”
“Wait a minute,” Sam protested. “I thought that you said that you were a female. Then how could you…?”
The Rix chirped sadly; “I thought so too, much to my regret. Now I am not so sure. The response was so lovely to my ears that I think that I must really be a male. It is such an indeterminate thing for us, you know. That is, until it is time.”
Sam tried to reason it out. “If Sslinno is really a female and it turns out that you are a male then why not, er, consummate the relationship?”
Every limb of the Rix sagged. Cliiiiiiccccckkkkk, it wailed despondently. “But what if she is really a male making a female call to lure me? Our males are equally deadly about reducing the competition.”
Sam wondered if Ann Landers ever had this problem. How in the hell did any little Rix get produced if there was this much uncertainty and predation in their mating rituals?
“So what will you do now? Will you go back to the female tune you started with?”
“Alas, but I cannot. That would confuse matters greatly. It seems that we two have carried our courtship too far to go back to where we started. I must weave a strategy that will minimize the risk to myself.”
“Why don’t you just say the hell with it and walk away? I certainly don’t want to lose you just as negotiations seem to be moving forward.”
“I cannot stop the courtship, Earth-Sam. I must continue until Sslinno and I have decided what our relationship is to be.” Slowly the little creature dragged itself down the corridor to rejoin the dating game with its possibly deceptive sweetheart.
The Mephitisite accommodations were certainly different from the open hallways of the Scrofulosans, Sam observed as he took in the slimy walls that pressed so close on either side. The Mephitisites, he had discovered, liked to fit snugly inside their little dens with the walls pressing close against their bodies. The horny carapace that he had noticed on the rear of each served as a door once they were inside, blocking any other access and protecting them.
After showing him to his digs, the Mephitisite took Sam on a brief tour of their burrow. Sam could discern little difference between the array of slimy passages that they followed, nor could he fathom the awe with which they approached a filthy pit of noisome fluids.
“This,” Flatula whooshed as a few of its companions gathered at the edge of the pit, “is the only reason that we wish to remain on this abysmal planet.” Sam looked at the pit, observing the smooth surface of the brownish fluid. Long moments passed as nothing happened, and then, just as the distant roar of God’s Hole could be faintly heard, tiny black spots began to appear on the surface of the pool. To Sam it looked as if an oil leak had sprung somewhere below. One of the spots spread rapidly until it was barely distinguishable from the rest of the surface.
The Mephitisites surrounding the pool were in a flurry of activity as they tried to scoop up the spots before they disappeared. They’d managed to capture only a few precious drops before the spots stopped appearing. Sam took a sniff of one of the containers and jerked back from the revolting stench.
“Whew, why do you bother?” he asked.
“You do not find it pleasant? How strange—you creatures must have a very restricted palate,” the Mephitisite responded. “This condiment is our primary export. It is in great demand elsewhere. You have no idea of the exquisite flavor it adds to… but I shouldn’t bore you with such culinary matters. Let me just say that this tiny bit is the most valuable commodity we have—sufficient to support our settlers—even though we reserve half of the production for ourselves. Now, come, let me show you the slime molds. After that we’ll visit the dears in the nursery—and don’t worry, we’ve enough safeguards to protect ourselves.”
That evening Sam huddled in his narrow room while the Mephitisites dined. From what he could hear the Mephitisite dinner was a horror of slobbering sounds and airy screams. Sam looked askance at each forkful of the meal they had fixed for him, checking each morsel to make sure that it had no intention of screaming in protest before shoveling it into his mouth. The distant screams had abated by the time he’d finished his meal and were replaced by much more disturbing sucking, slithering sounds from the dining area. With a shudder, he prepared for sleep.
Sslowa had driven pins into the walls to allow Sam to rig a hammock, which could serve both as his bed and as storage for his kit. Sam discovered that he couldn’t rest easy. He was fearful that some goo-sated Mephitisite would see the unblocked doorway, forget about the tiny human inside, and squeeze in, crushing Sam in the process. Perhaps being a doormat for the Scrofulosans hadn’t been so bad after all.
In the morning a new Speaker had been selected. Flatula and other members of the delegation also had a few additional chewed-out notches in their aprons. All appeared somewhat reduced in size.
Sam was very glad he hadn’t been invited to dinner.
Offal/taint-of-mustard and the other Scrofulosans stayed behind while the Mephitisites left the room for a private conference after a particularly pungent exchange of arguments.
“We have something for you,” Of-fal/taint-of-mustard exuded softly. Another of the Scrofulosans scurried up and handed the leader a tightly tied bundle. “A small gift, to show our respect for your efforts, deaf-beast.”