The ambassador waved that off and leaned forward. “You are Boatswain’s Mate Aviation Second Class John Howland Peters, are you not?”
Peters drew back a little. The Grallt’s face was more nearly obscene than horrid, but it was going to be a while before he could get that close without flinching. “Yes, sir.”
“Ah. ‘John Howland Peters’ is your personal name, and the rest of it specifies your place in your hierarchy, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Peters saw something in Todd’s eyes, looked around out the port. The trees around the exercise field were dropping away with no fuss or feeling of motion, like watching a movie. There was another arrowhead on Gell’s side; the pilot had it clutched in his left hand and was moving it with careful precision, and the one in front of Peters moved in sympathy. “Uh, shouldn’t we be fastening seat belts or something?”
“Not necessary. In this situation the appropriate form of address is ‘Peters,’ correct?”
“Uh, yes, sir, that’s correct.” Nothing was visible out the windshield but blue sky. Peters gripped the arms of his seat firmly, but the shuttle might have been sitting on the ground if it hadn’t been for the views ahead and out the window at his side, the latter showing a line of horizon that dipped and swayed over blue sea.
“As I thought,” said the Ambassador, and shifted his attention to the younger sailor. “And you are Electronics Technician Aviation Third Class Kevin Todd, correct?”
Todd started, looked away from the window, and flinched as Peters had. “Yes, sir, that’s right.” The sky outside was noticeably darker.
“Ah. Peters and Todd, I am Dreelig. Our custom is to have only a single name. Please do not say ‘sir’ to me. The formal address is most confusing.” The Ambassador relaxed noticeably. “You have already met Gell, the pilot. My own profession is in some ways more complex. Your people describe it as ‘Ambassador,’ as you heard, but that word correctly means a post of much more importance than I truly hold. You might say ‘translator’ or even ‘salesman.’ Call me Dreelig.”
“Yes, sir, uh, I mean yes, Dreelig,” Peters stammered. The sky outside was deep purple, almost black, and stars were starting to come out. Out the left window the horizon was distinctly curved, a sharp white line at the top, grading to blue below. He had seen it in pictures but had never expected to see it for real.
“Do you understand why you are here?” Dreelig asked.
The shuttle was rotating slowly to the right, and the horizon disappeared. Stars appeared, first looking fairly normal in a black sky, then more and more filling in the gaps until the view was all stars, like a faint overspray of white paint on a black surface. The rotation continued, bringing the Earth back into view, and Peters felt a moment of vertigo as his point of view changed. All his life, that had been down; suddenly it was over there, a difference he hadn’t expected and wasn’t sure he liked.
He looked away from the window. “The call for volunteers said maintenance an’ preparation for deployment of Space Detachment One. I figured it meant cleanin’ and paintin’, gettin’ the berthin’ compartments shipshape.”
Dreelig nodded. “That’s correct as far as it goes,” he said, “but you two are also something of an experiment for us.”
Neither sailor responded. Peters couldn’t; his gut was roiling in a way that had nothing to do with the motion of the shuttle, which still wasn’t perceptible. The view outside was nothing but stars drifting slowly by, downward from his point of view.
“Your hierarchy is more complex than it seemed at first,” Dreelig went on. “The technicians are having difficulties, and we on the negotiating team have noted problems as well. One of the technicians suggested that it might be useful to build relationships with individuals at a lower level, so as to gain insight into the workings of the system, and after some discussion we decided to try it. You are here as the result.”
“Hunh,” Peters managed. Todd said nothing.
Dreelig produced a complex facial expression, the corners of his mouth stretching outward, the two points where his upper lips met his facial cleft pulled up to expose white teeth. Beaver, Peters thought. “Don’t be concerned,” the Grallt went on. “Your duties will be as you expected for the most part; we intend to observe and ask questions. For now, relax. It will be some time before we arrive at the ship.” He exchanged a few words of babble with the pilot, then sat back and adjusted his seat to an almost fully reclining position.
Gell said “Peters,” quite distinctly, and followed it with liquid babble, waving at the arrowhead on his side. Peters looked around at Dreelig, who said, “Gell is offering you an opportunity to operate the dli. If you would like to try, grasp the andli, the thing on the end of the rod, there.”
“Me? Drive a spaceship?”
“No, no, this is only a dli, I think you would say ‘shuttle.’ It is very simple to operate. Grasp the andli and try it.”
Peters took the arrowhead gingerly, a bit awkward because it was most convenient to his left hand. It was cool, smooth metal by the feel, and when he moved it slightly the crosses on the two dials in front of him moved. “What am I doing?” he asked plaintively. “I can’t feel anything.”
Dreelig said something to the pilot, who made a short choppy sound in his throat and pressed one of the black buttons, holding it in for a slow count of three. One of the gauges moved, stopping close to the center position, and at the same time Peters felt strange, light and a little dizzy. “Gell has reduced the setting of the—” the word Dreelig used was long and complex, and somehow didn’t sound quite like the babble he and Gell used together. “The, ah, gravity is somewhat less, as you will note, and when the dli accelerates you will feel it a bit. Gell says it is a technique often used in teaching.”
“Tell him thanks.”
Peters quickly got the general idea. Twisting the arrowhead caused roll, pitch, and yaw; the right-hand cross moved in reverse sympathy. Pushing it forward and back caused acceleration in that direction; ditto for side to side and up and down, with the left-hand cross tracking that. He played with it for a little while, not trying any sudden or extreme moves. “I hope I don’t have to do anything complicated,” he said worriedly.
Dreelig relayed that to Gell, who made the short sound again and babbled back. “Gell says you are doing very well. Perhaps you can, ah, I believe the word is ‘dock.’ Perhaps you can dock the dli aboard the ship.”
“I don’t reckon that’s a good idea,” said Peters, pulling his hand away from the controller. “Tell Gell thank you, but I ain’t ready to be a dlee pilot just yet.”
This time Dreelig made the sound; evidently it was the Grallt form of laughter, because when he relayed Peters’s comment to Gell the pilot made it too. He took the controller, though, and waved toward Peters before thumbing another button. The gauge went back to the left and normal weight returned.
Todd was more adventurous when he got his chance, having the shuttle—the dlee, Peters reminded himself—swinging about vigorously at one point. That didn’t seem to bother Gell, who leaned back in his seat, arms folded in a relaxed attitude. “No, I’m not ready to try landing it,” Todd said when he was ready to relinquish the control. “Ask me again after a little more practice.”
Dreelig translated that; both Grallt gave their chopping laugh, and Gell set the gravity back to normal and took the controls. A bright spot was visible in the distance, brighter than any of the stars and moving, very slightly but visibly.