Arthur Zagat - The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IX

He was conversing rapidly in Terran with the chattering natives who milled about them. Although Tarb had been an honors student in Terran back at school, she found herself unable to understand more than an occasional word of what they said. Then she remembered that they were not at the world capital, Ottawa, but another community, New York. Undoubtedly they were all speaking some provincial dialect peculiar to the locality.

And nobody at all booed in appreciation, although, she told herself sternly, she really couldn’t have expected them to. Standards of beauty were different in different solar systems. At least they were picking up as souvenirs some of the feathers she’d shed in her tumble, which showed they took an interest.

Stet turned back to her. “These are fellow-members of the press.”

She was able to catch enough of what he said next in Terran to understand that she was being formally introduced to the aboriginal journalists. Although you could never call the natives attractive, with their squat figures and curiously atrophied vestigial wings—arms, she reminded herself—they were very Fizboid in appearance and, with their winglessness cloaked, could have creditably passed for singed Fizbians.

Moreover, they seemed friendly; at any rate, the sounds they uttered were welcoming. She began to make the three ritual entrechats, but Stat stopped her. “Just smile at them; that’ll be enough.”

It didn’t seem like enough, but he was the boss.

“Thank the stars we’re through with that,” he sighed, as they finally were able to escape their confrères and get into the taxi. “I suppose,” he added, wriggling inside the clumsy Terrestrial jacket which, cut to fit over his wings, did nothing either to improve his figure or to make him look like a native, “it was as much of an ordeal for you as for me.”

“Well, I am a little bewildered by it all,” Tarb admitted, settling herself as comfortably as possible on the seat cushions.

“No, don’t do that!” he cried. “Here people don’t crouch on seats. They sit,” he explained in a kindlier tone. “Like this.”

“You mean I have to bend myself in that clumsy way?”

He nodded. “In public, at least.”

“But it’s so hard on the wings. I’m losing feathers foot over claw.”

“Yes, but you could….” He stopped. “Well, anyhow, remember we have to comply with local customs. You see, the Terrestrials have those things called arms instead of legs. That is, they have legs, but they use them only for walking.”

She sighed. “I’d read about the arms, but I had no idea the natives would be so—so primitive as to actually use them.”

“Considering they had no wings, it was very clever of them to make use of the vestigial appendages,” he said hotly. “If you take their physical limitations into account, they’ve done a marvelous job with their little planet. They can’t fly; they have very little sense of balance; their vision is exceedingly poor—yet, in spite of all that, they have achieved a quite remarkable degree of civilization.” He gestured toward the horizontal building arrangements visible through the window. “Why, you could almost call those streets. As a matter of fact, the natives do.”

At the moment, she could take an interest in Terrestrial civilization only as it affected her personally. “But I’ll be able to relax in the office, won’t I?”

“To a certain extent,” he replied cautiously. “You see, we have to use a good deal of native help because—well, our facilities are limited….”

“Oh,” she said.

Then she remembered that she was on Terra at least partly to demonstrate the pluck of Fizbian femininity. Back on Fizbus, most of the Times executives had been dead set against having a woman sent out as Drosmig’s assistant. But Grupe, the Grand Editor, had overruled them. “Time we broke with tradition,” he had said. He’d felt she could do the job, and, by the stars, she would justify his faith in her!

“Sounds like rather a lark,” she said hollowly.

Stet brightened. “That’s the girl!” His eyes, she noticed, were emerald shading into turquoise, like his crest. “I certainly hope you’ll like it here. Very wise of Grupe to send a woman instead of a man, after all. Women,” he went on quickly, “are so much better at working up the human interest angle. And Drosmig is out of commission most of the time, so it’s you who’ll actually be in charge of ‘Helpfully Yours.’”

She herself in charge of the column that had achieved interstellar fame in three short years! Basically, it had been designed to give guidance, advice and, if necessary, comfort to those Fizbians who found themselves living on Terra, for the Fizbus Times had stood for public service from time immemorial. As Grupe had put it, “We don’t run this paper for ourselves, Tarb, but for our readers. And the same applies to our Terrestrial edition.”

With the growing development of trade and cultural relations between the two planets, the Fizbians on Earth were an ever-increasing number. But they were not the only readers of “Helpfully Yours.” Reprinted in the parent paper, it was read with edification and pleasure all over Fizbus. Everyone wanted to learn more about the ancient and other-worldly Terran culture.

The handbook, A Brief Introduction to Terrestrial Manners and Mores, owed much of its content to “Helpfully Yours.” A grateful, almost fulsome, introductory note had said so. But the column truly deserved all the praise that had been lavished upon it by the handbook. How well she had studied the thoughtful letters that filled it and the excellent and well-reasoned advice—erring, if it erred at all, on the side of overtolerance—that had been given in return. Of course, on Earth, spiritual adjustment apparently was more important than the physical; you could tell that from the questions that were asked. A number of the letters had been reprinted in an appendix to the manual.

New York

Dear Senbot Drosmig:

When in contact with Terrestrial culture, I find myself constantly overawed and weighed down by the knowledge of my own inadequacy. I cannot seem to appreciate the local art forms as disseminated by the juke box, the comic strip, the tabloid.

How can I help myself toward a greater understanding?

Hopefully yours,

Gnurmis Plitt

Dear Mr. Plitt:

Remember, Orkv was not excavated in a week. It took the Terrestrials many centuries to develop their exquisite and esoteric art forms. How can you expect to comprehend them in a few short years? Expose yourself to their art. Work, study, meditate.

Understanding will come, I promise you.

Helpfully yours,

Senbot Drosmig

Paris

Dear Senbot Drosmig:

To think that I am enjoying the benefits of Terra while my wife and little ones are forced to remain on Fizbus makes my heart ache. Surely it is not fair that I should have so much and they so little. Imagine the inestimable advantage to the fledgling of even a short contact with Terrestrial culture!

Why cannot my loved ones come to join me so that we can share all these wonderful spiritual experiences and be enriched by them together?

Poignantly yours,

Tpooly N’Ox

Dear Mr. N’Ox:

After all, it has been only five years since Fizbian spaceships first came into contact with Terra. In keeping with our usual colonial policy—so inappropriate and anachronistic when applied to a well-developed civilization like Terra’s—at first only males are allowed to go to the new world until it is made certain over a period of years that the planet is safe for mothers and future mothers of Fizbus.