Sam accepted the bundle from the alien with some trepidation, unsure of whether it would be proper to accept gifts from one side or another. Still, he was intrigued as to what the Scrofulosans would consider a proper “gift” (a.k.a. “a bribe”). Interesting, he mused; perhaps the Mephitisites would do likewise to maintain their perceived position? Avarice suddenly became such a warm, exciting possibility that Sam felt ashamed of himself. He quickly shoved the bundle into his carry-all so that the Mephitisites would not see it when they returned. “Thank you,” he whispered.
The afternoon’s negotiations achieved nothing except to fill the room with the rotten stench of suspicion.
The Scrofulosan gift was puzzling. Inside the bundle of obscenely smelly rags was an indescribable lump of… something that looked as if it were pieces of chewed bark and swamp moss, embedded in what looked suspiciously like odoriferous excrement. Yes, Sam concluded after sniffing at the thing’s uneven surface, it even smelled like cow dung! He turned the object over and over, trying to discern what it could possibly be.
Neither Sslowa nor the other Rix were any help. They told him they had glimpsed such objects elsewhere, always in very private Scrofulosan places, but, since they weren’t mechanical, the Rix had no curiosity about them.
“Did you like our gift?” Chlorine/blend-of-sage asked shyly the following morning.
“It is very lovely,” Sam equivocated. “I appreciate it very much.”
“Ah, wonderful,” Chlorine answered, obviously pleased with his response. “We were concerned that you would not have the sensitivity to understand. I smell that we underestimated your abilities once again. I can’t wait to sniff your every reaction.”
“Perhaps when we have some more time,” Sam replied, heading toward the negotiation room as he swore under his breath. Damn, what was that gift? He was going to be terribly embarrassed if he didn’t figure it out, and soon.
The day’s sessions became especially heated, driving the Mephitisites in a cloud of angry mist. As the Scrofulosans began to respond Flatula whipped out a can from under its skirt, pointed at the Scrofulosans, and sprayed. Sam didn’t know what to do—was this some weapon, some deadly virus, some noxious gas? Then a strange sensation overcame him. For the first time in weeks there was no odor to the room. He looked around at the confusion among the Scrofulosans who were gesturing futilely at each other and shaking their appendages at the Mephitisites. “Deodorant,” Flatula belched and laughed, “that should teach them to argue!” Whatever it was, it effectively brought the negotiations to a definite halt.
While everyone was waiting for the deodorant to wear off, Sam headed for the local phloomb-driven ansible. It was about time to update Ahbbbb about his progress, or lack of it. When she heard of what had transpired to date her attitude moved up a notch from her normal state of mild concern to the more troubling one of deeply disturbed. Sam expected that if he didn’t wind this assignment up soon, then there was some point in the not too distant future where she would no doubt escalate to the sheer panic mode. He had to prevent that. Ahbbbb’s response to a panic situation usually meant no end of trouble. He well remembered what had happened when she had become involved in the tense situation between the Kittchiikoostrans and the Sphagers. It had taken weeks for his hair to grow back.
“Not to worry,” Sam assured the Pequodista. “I’m positive that once I figure out how to create an environment of trust and mutual respect the issue will resolve itself.” Actually, at the rate things were going, he’d be lucky if this didn’t escalate into war. “Trust me,” he finished, hoping for a miracle.
Ahbbbb’s response was less than supportive.
The Scrofulosan gift continued to confound Sam. Perhaps, he thought, Flatula would be able to provide some insight on it. He picked it up by the least repulsive corner and carried it to the common room where the Mephitisites usually assembled for their evening soirees. He intended to be back, secure in his little room, before that gourmand event began.
He was unprepared for Flatula’s response when it saw the object.
WHOOSH! WHOOOOOOOOSH; “Remarkable! I had no idea that these insignificant creatures had such resources! No expectation that they shared our interests. Perhaps we have misjudged them entirely. Oh, this is quite breathtaking!”
“Then it has some sort of value?” Sam interrupted the large alien whose exhalations were becoming overpowering. From the way that Flatula was reacting Sam knew that his translator must be missing a lot of the pheromonic intensity of the alien’s exclamations.
“Value? Oh, this is absolutely without price. I doubt that I’d have enough Glax credit to pay for such a treasure, although, if you are willing to sell…” The Mephitisite delicately suggested as it caressed the lump with its pseudopod while passing its antennae over and around it. “Priceless!” it whispered. “Lovely.” Flatula let out a loud WHOOOOSH-WHOOSH. “Frowlzing, definitely frowlzing,” it said.
“You can’t stay here with this,” Flatula suddenly said in a rush as it glanced around. “I am afraid that many of our people might not have the restraint that I have. They might even be driven to do you harm to gain possession. Come with me to my den. We can hide it there, where I can protect it.”
From the way the Mephitisite was ogling the object Sam felt less than comfortable about the offer. “I think I will go back to the city,” he remarked. “Could you call Sslowa for me?” He had to ask three times before Flatula stopped offering its help and left to make the call. In the meantime, mindful of the warning, he shoved the lump under his jacket.
The haste with which the Rix escorted Sam back to the crowded hallways of the Scrofulosan city made him uneasy. “Never seen a Mephitisite so worked up,” the Rix remarked as they trundled the translator along. “Practically slobbering with hunger, if I’m any judge. What did you do; offer him your ugly body?”
“No, I just showed him that damned gift,” he replied, and he still hadn’t a clue as to what it was.
One evening Chlorine/blend-of-sage sat with Sam near the conference room. The conference room was one of the few places where they were out of the ever-present traffic. Sam had decided that he felt a lot more comfortable being as far as possible away from Flatula for the time being. “That gift of yours,” Sam began warily. “It is very lovely’.”
“So you mentioned before,” Chlorine answered. “And I am still interested in learning of your alien perceptions.” No help there.
“Quite interesting, too,” Sam added, still hoping for some clue.
“Yes, it does have a long history, as you no doubt could observe for yourself. Even your smelling appendage must be able to discern that.”
“Of course, very venerable. Anyone can see that.”
Chlorine started in surprise. “You said ‘venerable’! I had no idea that you had such depths,” it exclaimed. “Oh, this is most wonderful. The priests will be pleased when I tell them of this.”
Aha! So this thing had some sort of religious significance, Sam thought. “I don’t understand how your priests could bear to part with it,” he stated, hoping to elicit further disclosures.
“We didn’t have to apply much pressure,” Chlorine admitted. “When we explained that we had to best any bribe that those hateful Mephitisites might offer, why, they immediately suggested giving you their best. You have no idea how pleased we are that you understand its meaning. We suspected that few heathen aliens had the sensitivity to appreciate such art.”