Alien Contact (18 page)

The woman is still admiring the spires that she can see in the distance. Finally she asks who built them, as if they are too beautiful to have been created by Antareans.

“The artisans and craftsmen of my race built everything you will see today,” I answer.

“All by yourselves?”

“Is it so difficult for you to believe?” I ask gently.

“No,” she says defensively. “Of course not. It’s just that there’s so
much…
”

“Kalimetra was not created in a day or a year, or even a millennium,” I point out. “It is the cumulative achievement of 43 Antarean Dynasties.”

“So we’re in the 43rd Dynasty now?” she asks.

It was Zelorean IX who officially declared Kalimetra to be the Eternal City. Neither war nor insurrection had ever threatened its stability, and even the towering temples of his forefathers gave every promise of lasting for all eternity. It was a Golden Age, and he could see no reason why it should not go on forever…

“The last absolute ruler of the 43rd Dynasty has been dust for almost three thousand years,” I explain. “Since then we have been governed by a series of conquerors, each alien race superseding the last.”

“Thank goodness they didn’t destroy your buildings,” says the woman, turning to admire a water fountain, which for some reason appears to her to be a mystical alien artifact. She is about to take a holo when the child restrains her.

“It’s just a goddamned water bubbler, Ma,” he says.

“But it’s fascinating,” she says. “Imagine what kind of beings used it in ages past.”

“Thirsty ones,” says the bored child.

She ignores him and turns back to me. “As I was saying, it must be criminal to rob the galaxy of such treasures.”

“Yeah, well
somebody
destroyed some buildings around here,” interjects the child, who seems intent on proving someone wrong about something. “Remember the hole in the ground we saw over that way?” He points in the direction of the Footprint. “Looks like a bomb crater to me.”

“You are mistaken,” I explain, leading them over to it. “It has always been there.”

“It’s just a big sinkhole,” says the man, totally unimpressed.

“It is worshipped by my people as the Footprint of God,” I explain. “Once, many eons ago, Kalimetra was in the throes of a years-long drought. Finally Jorvash, our greatest priest, offered his own life if God would bring the rains. God replied that it would not rain until He wept again, and we had not yet suffered enough to bring forth His tears of compassion. But He promised that He would strike a bargain with Jorvash.” I pause for effect, but the man is lighting another cigar and the child is concentrating on his pocket computer. “The next morning Jorvash was found dead inside his temple, while God had created this depression with His foot and filled it with water. It sustained us until He finally wept again.”

The woman seems flustered. “Um…I hate to ask,” she finally says, “but could you repeat that story? My recorder wasn’t on.”

The man looks uncomfortable. “She’s always forgetting to turn the damned thing on,” he explains, and flips me a coin. “For your trouble.”

Lobilia was the greatest poet in the history of Antares III. Although he died during the 23rd Dynasty, most of his work survived him. But his masterpiece, “The Long Night of the Exile”—the epic of Bagata’s Exile and his triumphant Return—was lost forever.

Though he was his race’s most famous bard, Lobilia himself was illiterate, unable even to write his own name. He created his poetry extemporaneously, embellishing upon it with each retelling. He recited his epic just once, and was so satisfied with its form that he refused to repeat it for the scribes who were waiting for a final version and hadn’t written it down
.

“Thank you,” says the woman, deactivating the recorder after I finish. She pauses. “Can I buy a book with some more of your quaint folk legends?”

I decide not to explain the difference between a folk legend and an article of belief. “They are for sale in the gift shop of your hotel,” I reply.

“You don’t have enough books?” mutters the man.

She glares at him, but says nothing, and I lead them to the Tomb, which always impresses visitors.

“This is the Tomb of Bedorian V, the greatest ruler of the 37th Dynasty,” I say. “Bedorian was a commoner, a simple farmer who deposed the notorious Maelastri XII, himself a mighty warrior who was the last ruler of the 36th Dynasty. It was Bedorian who decreed universal education for all Antareans.”

“What did you have before that?”

“Our females were not allowed the privilege of literacy until Bedorian’s reign.”

“How did this guy finally die?” asks the man, who doesn’t really care but is unwilling to let the woman ask all the questions.

“Bedorian was assassinated by one of his followers,” I reply.

“A male, no doubt,” says the woman wryly.

“Before he died,” I continue, “he united three warring states without fighting a single battle, decreed that all Antareans should use a common language, and outlawed the worship of
kreneks
.”

“What are
kreneks?”

“They are poisonous reptiles. They killed many worshippers in nameless, obscene ceremonies before Bedorian V came to power.”

“Yeah?” says the child, alert again. “What were they like?”

“What is obscene to one being is simply boring to another,” I say. “Terrans find them dull.” Which is not true, but I have no desire to watch the child snicker as I describe the rituals.

“What a shame,” says the woman, though her voice sounds relieved. “Still, you certainly seem to know your history.”

I want to answer that I just make up the stories. But I am afraid if I say it, she will believe it.

“Where did you learn all this stuff?” she continues.

“To become a licensed guide,” I reply, “an Antarean must undergo fourteen years of study, and must also speak a minimum of four alien languages fluently. Terran is always one of the four.”

“That’s some set of credentials,” comments the man. “I made it through one year of dental school and quit.”

And yet, it is you who are paying me.

“I’m surprised you don’t work at one of the local universities,” he continues.

“I did once.”

Which is true. But I have my family to feed—and tourists’ tips, however small and grudgingly given, are still greater than my salary as a teacher.

A
rapu
—an Antarean child—insinuates his way between myself and my clients. Scarcely more than an infant, he is dressed in rags, and his face is smudged with dirt. There are open sores on the reticulated plates of his skin, and his golden eyes water constantly. He begs plaintively for credits in his native tongue. When there is no response, he extends his hand in what has become a universal gesture that says:
You are rich. I am poor and hungry. Give me money.

“Yours?” asks the man, frowning, as his wife takes half a dozen holos in quick succession.

“No, he is not mine.”

“What is he doing here?”

“He lives in the street,” I answer, my compassion for the
rapu
alternating with my humiliation at having to explain his presence and situation. “He is asking for coins so that he and his mother will not go hungry tonight.”

I look at the
rapu
and think sadly:
Timing is everything. Once, long ago, we strode across our world like gods. You would not have gone hungry in any of the 43 Dynasties.

The human child looks at his Antarean counterpart. I wonder if he realizes how fortunate he is. His face gives no reflection of his thoughts; perhaps he has none. Finally he picks his nose and goes back to manipulating his computer.

The man stares at the
rapu
for a moment, then flips him a two-credit coin. The
rapu
catches it, bows and blesses the man, and runs off. We watch him go. He raises the coin above his head, yelling happily—and a moment later, we are surrounded by twenty more street urchins, all filthy, all hungry, all begging for coins.

“Enough’s enough!” says the man irritably. “Tell them to get the hell out of here and go home, Herman.”

“They live here,” I explain gently.

“Right here?” demands the man. He stomps the ground with his foot, and the nearest
rapus
jump back in fright. “On this spot? Okay, then tell them to stay here where they live and not follow us.”

I explain to the
rapus
in our own tongue that these tourists will not give them coins.

“Then we will go to the ugly pink hotel where all the Men stay and rob their rooms.”

“That is none of my concern,” I say. “But if you are caught, it will go hard with you.”

The oldest of the urchins smiles at my warning.

“If we are caught, they will lock us up, and because it is a jail they will have to feed us, and we will be protected from the rain and the cold—it is far better than being here.”

I have no answer for
rapus
whose only ambition is to be warm and dry and well-fed, but merely shrug. They run off, laughing and singing, as if they are human children off to play some game.

“Damned aliens!” mutters the man.

“That is incorrect,” I say.

“Oh?”

“A matter of semantics,” I point out gently.
“They
are indigenous.
You
are the aliens.”

“Well, they could do with some lessons in behavior from us aliens, then,” he growls.

We walk up the long ramp to the Tomb and are about to enter it, when the woman stops.

“I’d like a holo of the three of you standing in the entrance,” she announces. She smiles at me. “Just to prove to our friends we were here, and that we met a real Antarean.”

The man walks over and stands on one side of me. The child reluctantly moves to my other side.

“Now put your arm around Herman,” says the woman.

The child steps back, and I see a mixture of contempt and disgust on his face. “I’ll pose with it, but I won’t
touch
it!”

“You do what your mother says!” snaps the man.

“No way!” says the child, stalking sulkily back down the ramp. “You want to hug him, you go ahead!”

“You listen to me, young man!” says the man, but the child does not stop or give any indication that he has heard, and soon he disappears behind a temple.