Arthur Zagat - The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IX

But Stet Zarnon himself, the celebrated and capable editor of the Terran edition of The Fizbus Times, has taken up your cause, and I promise you that eventually your loved ones will be able to join you.

Meanwhile, work, study, meditate.

Helpfully yours,

Senbot Drosmig

Ottawa

Dear Senbot Drosmig:

Having just completed a two-year tour of duty on Earth as part of a diplomatic mission, I am regretfully leaving this fair planet. What books, what objects of art, what, in short, souvenirs shall I take back to Fizbus which will give our people some small idea of Earth’s rich cultural heritage and, at the same time, serve as useful and appropriate gifts for my friends and relatives back Home?

Inquiringly yours,

Solgus Zagroot

Dear Mr. Zagroot:

Take back nothing but your memories. They will be your best souvenirs.

Out of context, any other mementos might convey little, if anything, of the true beauty and advanced spirituality of Terrestrial culture, and you might cheapen them were you to use them crassly as souvenirs. Furthermore, it is possible that you, in your ignorance, might unwittingly select some items that give a distorted and false idea of our extrafizbian friends.

The Fizbian-Earth Cultural Commission, sponsored by The Fizbian Times, in conjunction with the consulate, is preparing a vast program of cultural interchange. Leave it to them to do the great work, for you can be sure they will do it well.

And be sure to tell your fellow-laborers in the diplomatic vineyards that it is wiser not to send unapproved Terran souvenirs back Home. They might cause a fatal misunderstanding between the two worlds. Tell them to spend their time on Earth in working, studying and meditating, rather than shopping.

Helpfully yours,

Senbot Drosmig

And now she—Tarb Morfatch—herself was going to be the guiding spirit that brought enlightenment and uplift to countless thousands on Terra and millions on Fizbus. Her name wouldn’t appear on the columns, but the reward of having helped should be enough. Besides, Drosmig was due to retire soon. If she proved herself competent, she would take over the column entirely and get the byline. Grupe had promised faithfully.

But what, she wondered, had put Drosmig “out of commission”?

The taxi drew up before a building with a vulgar number of floors showing above ground.

“Ah—before we—er—meet the others,” Stet suggested, twitching his crest, “I was wondering whether you would care to—er—have dinner with me tonight?”

This roused Tarb from her speculations. “Oh, I’d love to!” A date with the boss right away!

Stet fumbled in his garments for appropriate tokens with which to pay the driver. “You—you’re not engaged or anything back Home, Miss Morfatch?”

“Why, no,” she said. “It so happens that I’m not.”

“Splendid!” He made an abortive gesture with his leg, then let her get out of the taxi by herself. “It makes the natives stare,” he explained abashedly.

“But why shouldn’t they?” she asked, wondering whether to laugh or not. “How could they help but stare? We are different.” He must be joking. She ventured a smile.

He smiled back, but made no reply.

The pavement was hard under her thinly covered soles. Now that walking looked as if it would present a problem, the ban on wing use loomed more threateningly. She had, of course, walked before—on wet days when her wings were waterlogged or in high winds or when she had surface business. However, the sidewalks on Fizbus were soft and resilient. Now she understood why the Terrestrials wore such crippling foot armor, but that didn’t make her feel any better about it.

A box-shaped machine took the two Fizbians up to the twentieth story in twice the time it would have taken them to fly the same distance. Tarb supposed that the offices were in an attic instead of a basement because exchange difficulties forced the Times to such economy. She wondered ruefully whether her own expense account would also suffer.

But it was no time to worry about such sordid matters; most important right now was making a favorable impression on her co-workers. She did want them to like her.

Taking out her compact, she carefully polished her eyeballs. The man at the controls of the machine practically performed a ritual entrechat.

“Don’t do that!” Stet ordered in a harsh whisper.

“But why not?” she asked, unable to restrain a trace of belligerence from her voice. He hadn’t been very polite himself. “The handbook said respectable Terran women make up in public. Why shouldn’t I?”

He sighed. “It’ll take time for you to catch on, I suppose. There’s a lot the handbook doesn’t—can’t—cover. You’ll find the setup here rather different from on Fizbus,” he went on as he kicked open the door neatly lettered THE FIZBUS TIMES in both Fizbian and Terran. “We’ve found it expedient to follow the local newspaper practice. For instance—” he indicated a small green-feathered man seated at a desk just beyond the railing that bisected the room horizontally—“we have a Copy Editor.”

“What does he do?” she asked, confused.

“He copies news from the other papers, of course.”

“And what are you doing tonight, Miss Morfatch?” the Copy Editor asked, springing up from his desk to execute the three ritual entrechats with somewhat more verve than was absolutely necessary.

“Having dinner with me,” Stet said quickly.

“Pulling rank, eh, old bird? Well, we’ll see whether position or sterling worth will win out in the end.”

As the rest of the staff crowded around Tarb, leaping and booing as appreciatively as any girl could want, she managed to snatch a rapid look around. The place wasn’t really so very much different from a Fizbian newsroom, once she got over the oddity of going across, not up and down, with the desks—queerly shaped but undeniably desks—arranged side by side instead of one over the other. There were chairs and stools, no perches, but that was to be expected in a wingless society. And it was noisy. Even though the little machines had stopped clattering when she came in, a distant roaring continued, as if, concealed somewhere close by, larger, more sinister machines continued their work. A peculiar smell hung in the air—not unpleasant, exactly, but strange.

She sniffed inquiringly.

“Ink,” Stet said.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, some stuff the boys in the back shop use. The feature writers,” he went on quickly, before she could ask what the “back shop” was, “have private offices where they can perch in comfort.”

He led the way down a corridor, opening doors. “Our drama editor.” He indicated a middle-aged man with faded blue feathers, who hung head downward from his perch. “On the lobster-trick last night writing a review, so he’s catching fifty-one twinkles now.”

“Enchanted, Miss Morfatch,” the critic said, opening one bright eye. “By a curious chance, it so happens that tonight I have two tickets to—”

“Tonight she’s going out with me.”

“Well, I can get tickets to any play, any night. And you haven’t laughed unless you’ve seen a Terrestrial drama. Just say the word, chick.”

Stet got Tarb out of the office and slammed the door shut. “Over here is the office of our food editor,” he said, breathing hard, “whom you’ll be expected to give a claw to now and then, since your jobs overlap. Can’t introduce you to him right now, though, because he’s in the hospital with ptomaine poisoning. And this is the office you’ll share with Drosmig.”

Stet opened the door.

Underneath the perch, Senbot Drosmig, dean of Fizbian journalists, lay on the rug in a sodden stupor, letters to the editor scattered thickly over his shriveled person. The whole room reeked unmistakably of caffeine.