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  Chapter 9

  When Philippe walked out into the hallway, he saw George’s stocky form in the doorway of his office. The doctor turned around, spotted Philippe, and grabbed his arm.

  “Come with me,” he said, his voice alive with excitement.

  He steered Philippe down to the infirmary. The isolation suite was glassed-in, and in it, on a table, lay the Hosts’ bag and seven small identical items. They were gnarled and pale blue—like bits of blue driftwood.

  “I think I know what they are,” said George. “Actually, I checked with Max, so I know I know what they are. But I figured it out first.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” said Philippe.

  George launched into a long explanation, most of which Philippe couldn’t follow. He got eventually got George to perform his own translation, and the gist of it was that these were the translation devices used by the Hosts. What really excited George was that their workings indicated certain things about the aliens’ physiognomy that he found extremely interesting and that Philippe found completely incomprehensible.

  Philippe kept trying to reflect George’s excitement, since the doctor had obviously worked quite hard and had very likely made some major scientific discoveries. But apparently his acting skills were not up to the job, because the doctor suddenly brought himself up short. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” said Philippe. “It’s not like I don’t value science, but I was never very good at it, and I’m just completely lost here.”

  “You look kind of distracted, too,” said George.

  “Oh, I just patched things up with Shanti,” said Philippe.

  “That can be stressful,” the doctor replied with a smile. Philippe laughed, but George put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a more somber look. “Seriously, it can be—living in close quarters like we do, conflicts are bound to happen. If you need some help with stress management, that’s a big part of what I do as MO.”

  Philippe was puzzled. “I thought your specialty was emergency medicine.”

  “Sure, that’s my formal training,” said George. “But really—when you’re in the Special Forces, you’re dealing with a healthy, young population outfitted with the best armor and weaponry on the planet. So the actual emergencies are few and far between. Even in combat situations I usually spend more time patching up the other side.

  “The issues our soldiers face tend to be more psychological—the emotional impact of combat, coping with these types of open-ended small-group missions where you’re stuck with the same people day after day, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, OK,” said Philippe.

  “So I can help with a lot of things: visualization, meditation, breathing exercises. Plus,” he said with a sly smile, “I’m told I give an excellent massage.”

  Philippe could feel the blood rushing to his face. “I, um, I, uh, you know that I’m not on the roster, right?”

  George cocked a black, bushy eyebrow. “I can read, Trang,” he said.

  Philippe apologized and left.

  He did not hear from the Hosts over the next couple of days, so Philippe spent his time roaming the common area, two soldiers always within sight. He talked to a number of aliens, including the two Cyclopes he had met before.

  Since Ptuk-Ptik had mentioned that Cyclopes names were translatable, Philippe asked those two their names, which were Endless Courage and Brave Loyalty. They were slightly different in color and build, so it was possible for Philippe to tell them apart—once he knew who he was talking to. The problem was that the Cyclopes in general looked very similar to Philippe, and he wasn’t at all sure he would be able to identify either Endless Courage or Brave Loyalty if he came across one of them alone or with some other Cyclopes. Indeed, when Philippe ran into Endless Courage and Brave Loyalty for the third time since his arrival on the station, he had no idea who they were. Fortunately, they mentioned their earlier talk before Philippe made a potentially offensive gaffe.

  Their body language was impossible to read, but their words conveyed annoyance—Endless Courage in particular nagged Philippe to have a formal meeting with the Cyclopes as soon as possible. The situation was not improved when Philippe said that he was reluctant to pressure the Hosts; Endless Courage once again suggested that the humans not rely on the Hosts for help and dismissed Philippe’s concerns that he might offend them.

  Philippe also spent time observing the limited trade that went through the station. None of the planets traded directly with each other; they all used the station as a trading post. This was largely a practical matter: No species had developed ships fast enough to travel from one solar system to another in any reasonable amount of time, so they had to use the portals to the station.

  In addition, while it was not entirely unheard of for an alien to visit another’s planet, concerns about disease and security made such direct visits rarities. The trade through the station tended to be restricted to things like minerals and chemical compounds—items that were both valuable and compact—rather than agricultural products or technology, which presumably carried a higher risk of contamination.

  During that time, Philippe saw the Magic Man only twice, in quick succession. The first time occurred just as Philippe was stepping on an elevator platform. He spotted the alien, said “Hello!” and waved. And when he stepped off the elevator, three floors up, the second sighting occurred, because the Magic Man was standing right there.

  “Did you wish to speak with me?” said the Magic Man.

  “Wow, that was fast!” said Philippe, surprised. “How did you do that?”

  “I moved,” said the Magic Man. “Did you wish to speak with me?”

  “I wanted to say hello and see how you were doing,” said Philippe.

  “I understand,” said the Magic Man, and walked away.

  When Philippe was just about to pester the Hosts about his next meeting, he got a message that Max was waiting at the door. Max, with much elaborate phrasing and a detectable air of irritation, asked Philippe to come visit him and Moritz the next day. Philippe expressed his utmost gratitude for the invitation and his profound pleasure in accepting it.

  The next day, Philippe, Mo, and Sucre went to the Hosts’ living area. Sucre, who had promised not to prevent people from entering, stood just outside the door, while Mo went in with Philippe to meet the Hosts.

  “We feel very sad, because we believe we have failed you,” said Moritz, after they exchanged greetings.

  “Don’t say that,” said Philippe. “You have done so much for us.”

  “But there is a problem with scheduling the meetings,” said Moritz.

  “A small problem,” said Max.

  “A significant problem,” said Moritz.

  “Please, tell me what this problem is,” said Philippe. “I’m sure that together, we can resolve it.”

  “We had hoped that we could have you meet with the species in the order in which they came to the station,” said Moritz. “But we fear that this is not possible.”

  “The White Spiders and the Magic Man will not respond to our requests, which is typical of their manner,” said Max. “The Blobbos wish to meet with you, but again as is typical of their manner, they do not wish to meet with you in their living area because of security concerns.”

  “We are terribly sorry, but unless you wish to wait for the White Spiders or the Magic Man to respond, or for the Blobbos to agree to meet with you in their living area—” began Moritz.

  “Which would involve a very long wait, reflecting upon their historic patterns of behavior,” Max interjected.

  “—then we must alter the order and begin contacting the Pincushions or the Cyclopes,” Moritz finished.

  “That would be acceptable,” said Philippe. “I am happy to meet the Blobbos wherever they are comfortable meeting with me. I wish to meet as many species as possible, and if I fail to meet with one species, I do not think that should prevent me f
rom meeting with the others. In addition, the Cyclopes have been asking me to meet with them, so I would like to do so as soon as possible.”

  “I do not think that would be wise,” said Moritz. “The Cyclopes arrived at the station after the Pincushions and the Blobbos, so I think the proper order would be: Blobbos, Pincushions, and Cyclopes.”

  “I respectfully disagree,” said Max. “If the Cyclopes wish to meet the human diplomat quickly, then I think it is our duty as friends to the Cyclopes and as friends to the humans to arrange for such a meeting first.”

  “I do not think we should further act in opposition to the natural order,” said Moritz.

  Max looked exasperated. “I think it is more important for us to behave in a manner consistent with our fundamental purpose, and not to damage that purpose in order to uphold this order, which is not natural but is instead an artificial creation, as is demonstrated by the fact that it is never possible to maintain this order.”

  “How can you possibly believe—” Moritz’s translated voice, as always, was bland in Philippe’s ear, but he could see the aggravation of both Hosts growing into anger.

  “Gentlemen,” he interrupted. “If I may express my desires in this matter? Am I correct in assuming that you have already contacted the Blobbos?”

  “You are,” said Moritz.

  “So try to arrange a meeting with them first, so that they don’t form the opinion that I am offended by their refusal to meet with me in their living quarters. As soon as you can, contact both the Cyclopes and the Pincushions, and I will meet first with whichever species is available to meet first. Is that acceptable?”

  “Yes,” said Max.

  “Is that acceptable to you, Moritz?” Philippe asked Moritz.

  “Yes,” said Moritz.

  “I thank you again for your invaluable assistance. The entire human race appreciates your help,” said Philippe.

  He went back into the common area and was promptly waylaid by a Pincushion who had a very complicated question regarding human locomotion that was apparently inspired by a somewhat garbled account of their visit to the Snake Boys. Whatever the Pincushion was asking, the translators were not quite up to the task, so Philippe wound up explaining all the possible modes of human transport, from walking to crawling to climbing to acrobatics.

  There were several other Pincushions nearby. Philippe noticed that they were exchanging genetic material, and he didn’t know whether he should be embarrassed about that or not.

  The first Pincushion, apparently satisfied, took his leave and joined the orgy. Philippe realized that he had forgotten to tell him about swimming when Max hurried up to him.

  “I apologize for the fact of that meeting,” said Max. “I am afraid that Moritz can be overly rigid.”

  “I am always happy to meet with you,” Philippe replied.

  “It was not necessary. We could have served you more efficiently by contacting people that historically have been responsive and eager to meet new people, rather than following this irrational order.” Max looked perturbed.

  “I get the feeling that you two have had many disagreements about this,” said Philippe.

  “We have indeed, our wife is always complaining about it,” he said. “I believe that if something is not mentioned in the sacred texts, then we should not behave as though it is sacred. But Moritz believes that one can extrapolate and extend sacredness to sanctify all elements of life.”

  He gave a weird dip of his legs that Philippe somehow recognized as a sign of exasperation.

  “That is how Moritz historically behaves. He wishes to be sacred in all his actions, which is a laudable goal. But we also have a saying—I do not know if this will translate—that if you try to use all six hands, your belly will touch the ground.”

  “Which is a bad thing?” Philippe asked.

  “It is neither comfortable nor hygienic. It means that if you try to be perfect, you will cause your own imperfection.”

  Philippe nodded. “We have a similar saying, although it applies more to the need to be practical. The saying is: ‘Keep both feet on the ground.’”

  “That must be a significant problem for bipeds,” said Max, his irritation about Moritz suddenly eclipsed by curiosity. “I hope this comment does not offend you, but I am surprised that you do not fall more, to the front or to the back. You must have exceptional balance. It is said that at least one human can walk upside down.”

  “On his hands,” said Philippe, putting out his hands and making hand-walking gestures for clarity. “But he is a very special individual.”

  “On his hands—I see,” said Max, looking bemused. “That is not what I thought was meant by what was said.”

  “Walking on your hands would not be difficult for you,” said Philippe.

  “No, that is what I am doing now. But it is more difficult to walk on only the two front hands—” Max did so for a short while, lifting his back end up into the air.

  “Be careful—don’t hurt yourself,” said Philippe.

  “Such an action is unlikely to cause pain, although I appreciate your concern,” Max replied, lowering himself back down to the ground. “Thank you for conversing with me. I now must leave to attend to other business.”

  “It was a pleasure to talk to you, as always,” Philippe said.

  Max followed a visiting Cyclops into the Hosts’ living area, the doorway of which was only a couple of meters from where Philippe was standing. Philippe looked around, wondering whether he should find a few other aliens to chat with. There were a quite a number of Pincushions about, as well as the ubiquitous Swimmer drones. Then he saw a multicolored, semi-transparent shape that was formed like a Host but didn’t move like one.

  He walked over. It was facing the other way—Philippe wondered if that really mattered, but he decided to go with appearances, and he walked around so that he was standing in front of its face. “The Magic Man, I presume?” he said.

  The “Host” blurred and reformed into the smiling face and body of a respected elder statesman. “I am the Magic Man,” he said, in that affectless voice.

  “We met earlier. I am the human diplomat, Philippe Trang.”

  “I am aware of your identity,” said the Magic Man.

  Just keep trying, Philippe thought.

  “I am hoping to meet with representatives of all the species on this ship in order to become better acquainted with them,” said Philippe. “I was hoping that you and I could arrange a meeting, perhaps in your living quarters, if that is acceptable to you?”

  “If you do that, you will die,” the Magic Man said. The smile on his face was unchanged.

  “If I meet with you, I will die?” asked Philippe.

  “If you meet with me in my living quarters, you will die.”

  Philippe decided against interpreting that as a threat, but he cast an eye out for Sucre and Mo. Luckily they were several meters away; even more luckily, they were out of earshot, engaged in a lively conversation with a Snake Boy.

  “What in your living quarters will kill me?” asked Philippe.

  “The living quarters will kill you,” said the Magic Man. His smile was beginning to creep Philippe out.

  “I have protective gear that will enable me to survive in a wide variety of atmospheres,” said Philippe, hoping that would resolve the matter.

  “There is no atmosphere,” said the alien.

  “No atmosphere? In your living quarters?” Philippe echoed.

  “There is no atmosphere in my living quarters. It is open.”

  “Open to space?” Philippe asked, suddenly comprehending.

  “Yes, open to space.”

  Philippe took a deep breath. He wondered briefly if the SFers could arrange for him to meet in the vacuum of space, but quickly decided that he should suggest an alternative meeting place.

  “Would you consider—” he began.

  Just then, the shrieking began.

  It was a high-pitched ululation that seemed to come
from everywhere. It was loud, shutting out all other sounds and all thought.

  The noise exploded into Philippe’s brain, but he also felt the shrieking like a seizure going through his body. It was panic, cold panic, rising from his feet through his gut into his fingers.

  It meant death, certain destruction. It screamed Run! Hide!

  Without thinking Philippe ran to the nearest wall as the Pincushions around him fled. Philippe ducked down next to the wall, crouching on his knees and covering his head with both hands.

  He felt his torso straighten out and his legs shift as his suit went into hard mode. Sucre and Mo must have—he didn’t finish the thought but looked up for a brief moment, hoping to see them, hoping against hope that they were all right.

  What he saw appalled him. The Magic Man was standing there—just standing there—in the virtually empty common area, that daft smile upon his face. There was a noise from the Hosts’ living area, and like a child in the middle of a busy street who has no idea of the danger, the Magic Man twisted the top half of his body around, keeping his feet where they were, to see what it was.

  I can’t let him die, the thought flashed through Philippe’s brain.

  Staying low, keeping his hands over his head, he ran over to where the Magic Man was standing. He heard Sucre and Mo screaming his name, screaming for him to get back. He tried to grab the hem of the Magic Man’s coat to drag him back to the wall, but it wasn’t really a coat and his fingers couldn’t get a grip, they just slid off the alien’s yielding body.

  The Magic Man twisted further to face him, the same damned smile on his face. And then a burst of light came at him from behind. He exploded into a million tiny fragments.

  The golden light slammed into Philippe, throwing him onto his back.

  Everything went black.

  He could feel, hear nothing—but the burst was still there. Philippe watched, perplexed, as the golden light slowly coalesced into a shape against the overwhelming darkness.

  It was a Host. He was there, looking down at Philippe. He was gold and glowing and gazed reassuringly at Philippe.

  “Don’t worry,” the Host said to Philippe. “You will live.”

  And that was all he knew.