The Sirens of Space (5 page)

“
Emissary
sir
,” the Terran replied in its own language.
“
Conferring is
contentment.
”

“
Like health, conferring
of mine is joyful
,” Zatar responded, returning the
bow. To his horror, he realized that his memory was failing him and
he was running out of rote responses. Trying not to panic, he tried
to clear his mind by listening to the sands whipping against the
side of their dwelling. But the thought of the cold, pelting winds
merely made him shudder and seemed to keep the words from rising in
his brain. Finally, the distraction itself unclogged his mental
faculties, and another Terran phrase popped into his
head.

“
Pray, your title what
grows, plus
?”

Zatar winced; he knew that he had said it
wrong, but hoped he had come close enough for his guest to
understand. Talking in this strange tongue was quite exhilarating,
he realized, but it seemed that much of the excitement came from
never being quite sure what he was saying. As far as he could tell,
Terrans strung words together randomly, with no discernable
pattern, and in the past he often created confusion whenever he
tried to follow conventional rules of syntax. He sighed with relief
upon hearing a familiar voice come to his rescue.

“
His name is
Khu’ukh of Waashkho
.”

It was Munshi. She had changed into more
formal attire—a dark blue tunic and long, flowing gown—and her skin
no longer pulsed with the cold. The ambassador had rarely been
gladder to see anyone in his life.

“
But you are doing so well,” she said,
obviously enjoying herself. “Please, do not stop on my
account.”

Zatar was not amused.

“Khu’ukh
,”
mumbled
the
ambassador, struggling with the pronunciation and feeling quite
ignored as Munshi and the Terran chatted unintelligibly.

“
You know what it means, do you not?”
asked Munshi. Her laughing eyes told Zatar that he could ignore the
question without loss, but curiosity triumphed over his sense of
dignity.

He exhaled loudly, frustrated that his
reputation among the High Council offered no immunity from teasing
by his own kind. As with most men, his curiosity never failed to
provide amusement for the mischievous females around him, who
seemed to delight in showing their casual irreverence toward any of
his accomplishments.

“
I hope the cold has not stripped your
sense of irony,” she continued wryly. “For the word
‘
khu’ukh
’ denotes the Terran
equivalent of an apprentice Crutchtan chef.”

Zatar laughed loudly, soon joined by Munshi.
Neither noticed the look of concern that clouded the Terran’s face,
for neither could tell that their good spirits sounded to him as if
they were choking. But as the moments passed their visitor relaxed,
sensing that his new friends were in no real danger. Soon his eyes
resumed wandering impatiently around the room.

“
A propitious omen for our Crutchtan
friends,” Zatar said at last. “But I suppose if we tell them, they
will celebrate their good fortune until the stars grow
horns.”

They both shared another long laugh, until
they were interrupted by the Terran. Zatar tried to follow the
conversation, but quickly lost its gist—something about returning
to school when they were pensioners, he thought. It hardly
surprised him when Munshi’s translation came out differently.

“
Khu’ukh of
Waashkho
suggests proceeding to the library, where we
can talk in more relaxed surroundings,” Munshi related. “He can
stay only briefly today, but promises to return if we invite him.
He thinks that quiet conversation may do more to further
understanding than all manner of diplomatic yammering.”

“
Your friend is very wise,” said
Zatar, bowing solemnly to both in turn. “Tell the kitchen to
prepare their finest refreshments. Our guest should feel welcome,
and you may tell him that we wish him to stay as long as he wishes
and look forward to his return with eager anticipation.”

As the three made their way toward the next
room, Zatar noticed the rest of the staff peeking from behind every
available wall, like children who have forgotten their manners.
Women chuckled at the curiosity of their men, he thought, but they
were every bit as bad. Still, he realized that he could not keep
them from intruding, and hoped that the prying did not offend their
guest.

Walking beside the Terran, he found his eyes
drawn, as always, to the exquisitely pointed Terran snout. It was
the most striking feature on the otherwise fathomless Terran face.
Why any intelligent creature needed such extended nostrils baffled
scientists in all corners of the Grand Alliance. Asking its
function would be impolite, of course, but Zatar recalled reading
that most biologists back home thought it showed a transitional
phase in Terran evolution: when the early Terran ancestors first
left the trees, they theorized, they needed long snouts to dig for
roots and grubs. Their omnivore’s mouth supported this theory, but
Zatar wondered why the earliest Terrans would use their nose
instead of their hands. He agreed with the dissenters: obviously,
it had something to do with mating.

As they arrived in the study, Munshi told
the Terran that, in his honor, they would be serving one of the few
Terran delicacies that refined palates throughout the Grand
Alliance found irresistible. Terran Ambrosia, they called it. Soon
three large pitchers arrived from the kitchen, and the three new
friends sat on soft, satin pillows on the floor to toast each other
and exchange insights and impressions about themselves and their
cultures.

Khu’ukh of Waashkho
smiled and told his hosts that he was grateful for their
hospitality. He lacked the heart to tell them that he hated what
Terrans called “prune juice.”

* * *

In a seedy
part of town, a
door creaked open and a half-drunken spacer staggered through the
threshold.

“
Caw! Look whut the cat dragged
in.”

Cyrus McGee shot his brother a sullen,
menacing look with the eye that was not swollen shut. Every bruise
on his body pulsed in aching unison. His face was puffed, and dried
blood caked his scruffy beard. He slammed the hotel room door and
hobbled to his bed.

The room was circular and dark, lighted only
by the lamp on Mason McGee’s night stand. The ceiling was tiled
with grimy mirrors, many of them cracked, some of them missing.
Dust covered the floor, and the musty odor of stale sweat filled
the air.

Mason was determined not to laugh, no matter
how pathetic his brother looked. Cyrus had warned him, in his most
patronizing big brother tones, not to leave the hotel alone. Big
brother deserved to come back with his face as raw as hamburger.
But he knew from painful experience that, once aroused, Cyrus’ mean
streak lingered for hours. Mason was not about to snicker his way
into a fight. He reached into the provisions bag for some ointment
to give his brother.

Cyrus snatched the ointment tubes without a
word. He sat quietly on his bed and began tending his wounds.
Hatred still raged in his heart. He would talk when he was damn
ready, and not one second before.

Mason was about to return to his
entertainment tapes when a knock came to the door.

“
Room service” called a husky, female
voice.

Mason grinned ravenously. “Door’s unlocked,”
he howled. Cyrus grunted disagreeably.

A tall, dark woman entered the room and
locked the door behind her. She wore form-fitting coveralls and a
brightly colored scarf. A generous layer of powder and rouge
covered most of the wrinkles on her face. Thirty years old, she
looked as tired as Earth, and her eyes were weary and sad. But her
deep red lips parted in a lusty smile, and the thick scent of
jasmine soon captured the room.

“
Sorry bein late, gents,” she
shrugged, “but we’re two girls down t’night an runnin way behind.”
With a flurry of short, bold strokes she shed her coveralls.
Underneath she wore a pink halter top lined with brilliant blue
feathers and tight fitting black slacks. Her raven black hair fell
in gentle flows across her bare shoulders.

Mason, sitting on his bed and leaning
against the cold, concrete wall, drooled like a lovesick schoolboy.
No matter how cold and dreary they were, he thought, the hotels on
Ishtar knew how to make a man feel welcome.

“
What’s with him?” asked the woman,
pointing at the miserable heap of flesh on the next bed. Cyrus was
shaking his head and mumbling—something about Cozzies and turtle
shells—but the other two couldn’t quite make it out.

Mason dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
“Don’t never mind him,” he told her. “He’ll be all right by the
time you leave. Just a hard night is all.” The two of them
laughed.

“
I’m sure he’ll come around when it’s
his turn,” she leered.

Slowly, teasingly, she walked toward Mason,
her eyes fixed on his dimpled cheeks and smooth, whiskerless face,
her long fingers dancing along the feathered fringe of her top. The
younger McGee swung his legs onto the bed and eased his head onto
the pillow.

In his corner of the room, Cyrus grudgingly
admitted defeat. Nothing would stop his face from aching, he told
himself. Nothing but time. The lizards’ turn would come, soon
enough; there was no sense wasting the present fretting about the
past. He picked up a stool and moved to the center of the room,
where the view was better.

My day will come again, he thought to
himself. And revenge was sweetest when savored through the
bitterness of anticipation. Soon, he was dismissing such thoughts
from his head. He could use some cheering up, and their hostess was
starting to undress.

THE GENTLE WHINE of the tracking station’s
generators faded under the ventilator’s steady hiss. To the
twelve-man crew of the Quarter Watch it was unnoticed white noise,
especially when more pressing matters commanded their
attention.

“
Christ, what a disaster.”

“
This is getting ridiculous—eh,
Chief?”

“
Shut up and deal,” said Yeoman Chief
Huslander, the shift leader. The Chief was in no mood for small
talk. Dropping two hundred credits in one sitting to a tyro was no
laughing matter. He had his reputation to think of, quite aside
from his money. If he didn’t recoup his losses by watch change,
he’d be the laughing stock of the base. Even Commander Ashton had
never cleaned him out so thoroughly. And, for an officer, Ashton
knew how to play cards.

It was a while before anyone noticed the
flashing yellow light atop Monitor Six. The computer had caught a
hailing signal from a Crutchtan chaser hovering barely past the
Neutral Zone. Erupting into purposeful chaos, Huslander’s shift
raced to their stations. The yeoman hurried to the control desk to
acknowledge the signal. One crewman went directly to Number Six to
engage the manual controls; the others assumed positions at the
support station, trying to get a fix on the chaser’s position and
watching the remaining screens.

Huslander pushed the yellow switch on his
control panel, then hit the terminal’s transmit key. Instantly, a
message flashed into a receiver on Starbase 117:

ATS 8—BEGIN RECEIPT ALIEN TX: MORE TO
FOLLOW.

He logged the time and activated the
speaker. “Commander Ashton,” he said, his voice coursing throughout
the base. “Please come to the control room.”

* * *

Lt. Commander
Jeremy
Ashton walked briskly down the central corridor. He was a tall man,
with a Ceresian’s light brown skin and tightly curled hair. As
Executive Officer on the frigate
R. B.
Fuller
, he’d let his subordinates call him “Mr. A,” at
least as long as the skipper was out of earshot. A third-generation
CosGuarder, and his family’s first Academy graduate, he favored an
enlightened, liberal style of command, aiming to lead by example
rather than intimidation. Bright and conscientious, he’d compiled
an outstanding service record aboard the frigate. But upon
promotion to lieutenant commander he hadn’t gotten what he wanted
more than anything else. Instead of his own ship, he was given
command of a tiny, lonely outpost on the edge of nowhere, with
nothing but space, stars, and interstellar rubble for light years
in all directions. In silent protest he’d grown a beard—short,
well-trimmed, and becoming, but entirely non-regulation—and his men
loved him for it.

Today, Jeremy’s mind was not on his job.
He’d requested a transfer again. It was his third request, but
before retiring from the service Admiral Folino at the starbase
strongly hinted that Jeremy was nearing the top of the promotion
list, and promotion to full commander usually meant a rotation of
duty. A new posting would do much to lift his flagging spirits, he
told himself. In his heart, he knew that everyone had dues to pay,
but after five cosmic months in a tracking station—more than a full
solar year, by the old calendar—he’d come to hate his current
assignment. The change, any change, would do him good, and as long
as he was dreaming, he would let his imagination soar. He’d already
asked for deep space duty. A sleek, fast cruiser would do quite
nicely, he told himself a hundred times. But he would settle for
anything, from a rusting old freight hauler to a lowly escort, if
it would get him away from here.