Mike Resnick - I, Alien

“And some just expect the teacher to do everything?”

He pulled his shoulders up and then let them fall again. “It’s their way.”

“I do not understand. Perhaps it is because among my people, we don’t even have parents.”

“You don’t?”

“Not in the way you define them. Yes, every child is born of a genetic father and a genetic mother. But the children of every community are pooled together, and cared for by one particular caste. It is the caste of which I am a part.”

He leaned back and stared at me. “Xerpers, may I ask you a personal question?”

“That is why I am here.”

“Are you male or female?”

“I am currently male. I will become female again in approximately three of your planet’s years.”

He nodded. “That may explain why you Tenjant have a different perspective on teaching and parenting than we do.”

“Perhaps. But it does not help me deal with John.”

He expelled air. “Look. Any teacher will tell you that in every class, there’s always one kid who makes teaching the class almost impossible. He’s disruptive, annoying, difficult to control—”

“That describes John perfectly.”

He nodded. “Well, take out that kid, and poof! Guess what? The class runs much better.” He shook his head. “The only problem, of course, is that we can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“We’re a public school, Xerpers. We have to instruct all children, for the public good.”

“But what if the public good is served in a different way?”

“It just doesn’t work that way among humans, Xerpers. Sorry.”

“Mr. Greenberger, please listen. I have read over your materials on what you call discipline. None of the techniques have proven to be effective.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Then use your own techniques, damn it.”

Instinctively, I bared my teeth, then I relaxed. “Pardon?”

“Sorry; I forgot that you guys don’t like cursing.” He paused, apparently waiting for something. Finally, I figured it out.

“It is all right,” I said.

“Thanks,” he replied. “But my main point is still valid.”

“I should use my own techniques to maintain discipline.”

He nodded. “You know why the program was created, don’t you? Cultural exchange. It’s a two-way street. The idea is for you to apply your culture’s techniques to teaching our children, as well as learning our techniques so you can bring them back to your home world.”

“Let me just confirm this. I am expected to use Tenjant teaching techniques?”

“Expected?” He barked a laugh. “Heck, you’re encouraged! Whatever works, man, whatever works.”

I pondered this new information for a moment. “I understand.”

“Good. Let me know how it turns out.”

“Good morning, children.”

Almost in unison, the class replied, “Good morning, Mr. Fromlilo.” The only one who did not was John, who sat in his seat, with his right index finger digging into his left nostril. He removed some of the dried mucous from his nose and placed it in a small ball on his desk.

“I have been told to teach you more of my race, of our customs. For example, how many of you have parents?”

Every child’s hand went up.

“How many of you would like to get rid of your parents?”

The children giggled now, John loudest of all.

“Well, among the Tenjant, we do not have parents.”

“You don’t?” asked Gabriel.

“Not in the same way as among you humans. My people do have children, but the children are given over to a specific caste for rearing and education. I am a member of that caste.”

Gerald raised his hand. “Yes, Gerald?”

“Is that why you’re our teacher?”

“Yes, it is. But I am more than just a teacher. I am a Nor-Shantr

The children laughed, and Gerald asked, “What does that mean?”

“It means that I am more than what you Earth people call a teacher. The members of my caste and I raise the children and improve our race by practicing a form of culling the herd.”

Another hand went up. “Yes, Jennifer?”

“What does culling mean?”

“Allow me to demonstrate. May I have a volunteer?”

Quite a few hands went up, including that of John’s. I called John to the front of the room.

“Watch carefully,” I said, “and you will learn of one of the many differences between the humans and the Tenjant.”

As I had done countless times in the past, I loosened my jaw, stretching my face as wide as I could. I grabbed John by his waist and shoved him into my mouth.

“Hey!” he shouted.

He squirmed as he went in, but of course the strength of the human child was no match for my own. I pushed him down my throat and swallowed him in one gulp.

With John eliminated, I expelled excess gas from my digestion chamber. “That is culling. It is the way my race improves itself. And now I share it with you.”

Silence.

“Are there any questions?”

The silence continued; the blissful, beautiful silence.

I grabbed my stylus and began writing on the screenboard.

“Then,” I said, “let us learn.”

HERE’S THE OLD woman again. She peers over the side of the rowboat, her white hair framing a face wrinkled by years and the rippling water. She calls me by that name, the one I detest. Nessie, she whispers. She knows that I can easily hear quiet sounds, and that the loud ones hurt.

That awful name is the same one that the tourists use, as they stand on the viewing platform, or slog along the shore, with their tour buses fuming in the parking lot. So, even though the old woman leaves a gift behind, I begin my plunge into the deep trench of Loch Ness, ignoring her.

At the last minute, I have to admit I’m curious about what she’s brought this time. In a slow-motion fall through the water is a wooden machine with a round face, and numbers around the perimeter. As it sinks past me, it is still ticking. Just before it hits bottom, I snatch it with my jaws. It will make a fine addition to my collection, which includes coffee pots, beer bottles, fishing rods, old shoes, a nine metal vase, and various items that remain unidentified. After so long among these creatures, I have their names for most things, but not always their purposes. For example, the iron tray with a handle is a frying pan (whatever frying means). The shoes are obvious. I’ve seen them on tourists. Once I found an oval white chair with a hole in it. Since it was too big to lift with my jaws, I left it where it lay. I wonder what they’d make of that at Home.

But this ticking machine… as I swim home with it, I conclude that it is a device for marking the passage of time. The creatures are haunted by time. They bemoan its swift passage, but are surrounded by instruments to remind them of what is being lost. For myself, I have no need of reminding. It has been a long age since my exile. To be more accurate, it has been 10 12picoseconds. I am rounding the numbers for simplicity, so as not to be obsessed with counting.

I deposit the time passage device next to the metal vase the old woman gave me last year. And near the representation (under glass) of her and the old man, in a nicely wrought silver frame. Nearby is my nautical collection including a mooring swivel, belaying pin, lanyard, an old deck lantern, and various anchors (not all of which I came by fairly, I’ll admit). There is also a ship’s mast, from the old days when I was stronger and could carry such things. I used to sort the entire collection by what I was planning to bring Home and what could be left behind. Back when I thought I was going Home.

The time passage device has stopped ticking now. Just as well. The smallest unit of time it counts is seconds—to my taste, far too gross an interval. A surprising lapse for such a semi-intelligent species.