I stopped and turned. “Sure.”
She looked uncertain. “Normally, I don’t concern myself with the affairs of my guests—they don’t stay long enough. I get all types, including some nonhumans. But… the Doctor’s a singer. I’d always thought they don’t like us much. But he’s been perfectly pleasant, polite, and quiet. He seems different than I’ve been led to believe. Do you know why?”
She wouldn’t have been satisfied with the simple “No” that almost came from my lips. And being rather ignorant on the matter myself, all I could do was reassure her and hope I wasn’t wrong. “I can’t really say. This is our first meeting. I know he’s an academic, and I don’t think he’s up to anything nefarious.”
She smiled again. “Thank you. I’ve always gone by my own experience—not judging things based on other folks’ say-so. If the other singers are like him, they’ll be welcome in my house.” And she turned back to the comp.
I went up the stairs, found the door, and knocked.
A voice called out, “Come in, please, Mr. Bradden.”
I opened the door, and met my first Aaul’inah. I had learned somewhat about them at university and also done some refresher reading in the last week. So I wasn’t too surprised to find that “Dr.” Aly’wanshus was pretty much a textbook example of the Aaul’inah.
He stood about five and a half feet tall and was covered from top to bottom by a tan-colored pelt that wasn’t quite fur or quite feathers. His eyes were set to the sides of a wide nasal passage, and appeared to operate independently of one another, much like Earth chameleons. His lips were fleshy, and the upper hung down over his mouth when he wasn’t speaking. His arms and legs appeared to be slightly shorter than ours, but I knew the joints were far more supple than my own.
The Doctor held out a six-fingered hand and grasped my own in a hearty handshake. “Welcome to my rooms. I am so thrilled to have you here.” His voice was fluid and clear, and seemed to have little trouble with the English words. There remained an undertone of music, even when not speaking his own language.
The handshake ended, long enough to express eagerness, short enough to prove he understood when to stop.
“A pleasure to finally meet you, ‘Doctor’ Aly’wanshus.” I stated honestly.
He, for lack of a better word, smiled. “I’ll not trouble you with the proper pronunciation, Mr. Bradden. Please have a seat.”
Thanking him, I took the offered seat. I noticed as he took the one opposite that the motion seemed at once both graceful and awkward for him. No doubt the result of some time accustoming himself to human furniture.
“I notice you hesitate when you say my title. One can almost hear the quotation marks from my message around it. You wonder, perhaps, why they appear there?” He appeared quite relaxed and comfortable with me.
While I was nervous at meeting my first Aaul’inah, professional and personal curiosity overwhelmed that. I nodded. “I did wonder.”
Again, that smile. “Quite understandable. Although I am not a medical doctor, nor do I have any advanced degrees from a human collegium, that is the nearest title your language has to express my position in my culture.” The smile seemed to dim.
“The nearest, but not exact, yes?” I asked. “Should we be using some more prestigious title for you?”
The smile faded. “No, ‘Doctor’ is fine. As you will learn, I hold two positions in my society. Being an educator is my chosen life’s work. But there is another more difficult task that I must undertake.”
His voice and manner changed, becoming more forceful. “Mr. Bradden, I have read or listened to a great deal of human literature. Of all I have read, the science fiction stories you published attracted me the most. Explorers going out beyond their own known universe, seeking whatever is out there for good or ill. Those stories spoke to me—made me realize that I was doing something similar. I felt this story, Beyond Here, waiting to come out. As one of my kind who desires contact with humans, the title is somewhat meaningful to me. And so I dictated it. As my time at the collegium drew to a close, I decided to submit my work to you.”
I was puzzled. “I’m not so familiar with your people. Is your book somehow related to this ‘task’ you mentioned?”
“No. And yes, I suppose,” he responded, suddenly revealing four small budlike ears that erupted from the pelt at the sides of his head. “But I will get to that. Your language is quite simple, compared to our own, and I learned the spoken and written forms quickly. But, for me, it was only natural to dictate my book in my own language. And I am quite happy to have your attention. It is my situation that constantly reasserts itself in my mind, distracting me from our literary discussion.”
“Your situation?”
He gave a quick birdlike nod. “I should like to explain. I assume you have the usual human familiarity with my people? Basic external physiology? General language sonotype?”
“Yes.”
His ears settled back a bit as he began to tap his cheek with one finger. In a human, I could have taken it for thoughtfulness or nervousness; in him, I had no idea.
“Before we discuss my novel—and I am very interested to hear from you on that—I am going to tell you something about my people. I will hope that you are as trustworthy and discreet as Randall.”
I couldn’t help myself. I blurted out, “My father! You know my father?”
His smile returned. “Yes. And from your reaction, I know now that he has been trustworthy and discreet. We met at the collegium, but I will tell you more of that shortly. I only ask that you permit me to finish what I have to say before asking any questions.”
If his novel wasn’t enough to make me adhere to his request—and I assure you it was—Dr. Aly’wanshus of Aaul’in had a willingly captive audience now.
He began:
“My people have believed for many millennia that we were alone in the universe. In truth, we have never even contemplated the existence of other beings or systems beyond our own. Unlike humans, who have long had a tradition of literature that speculates about other life and worlds, we have no literature of the fantastic—no true literature at all. Writing is limited strictly to religious purposes for recording certain important events.
“Believing ourselves the only intelligent life in the universe, we have developed a philosophy of life, a religion, if you will. We have always believed that the universe is a deity—the Unali’wahnah. Everything in the universe, which we believed consisted of only the few planets of our solar system, our two moons and sun, make up the physical being of Unali’wahnah.
“We believe that we, the Aaul’inah, are the very mind of Unali’wahnah. As though each of us is one ‘brain cell’ of It. Thus, every action we take, every statement we make, every interaction we conduct, is a function of the thoughts of Unali’wahnah. This is why, were you to visit our world, you would see that most things are quite peaceful, orderly, and deliberate. After all, who would wish to disrupt the thoughts of a god?
“And so it was for countless millennia… until your ship came.
“We had developed technology, as innovation is seen as the maturing of Unali’wahnah. One of our advances was space travel. Some two hundred or so of your years ago, it was decided by our leadership council that we would reach out to the moons, for as part of Unali’wahnah’s mind, the Aaul’inah should have a presence there. And so it was that we had ships to turn the Chicago away.
“It was fear that made us do so. Genuine, all-encompassing fear. Suddenly, after so long alone, another part of Unali’wahnah—a part that should not exist—had come to us. And when we sent it away, it left and didn’t come back. As the action of the mind of Unali’wahnah, our people should have automatically perceived this as a correct action. But, there was concern that we might have mistakenly denied Unali’wahnah another part of Its maturation.