Mike Resnick - I, Alien

My disappointment was bitter when I awoke and realized where I truly was. I envy the natives here their ability to release unhappiness in what they call “crying.”

Perhaps my scholarship advisers were correct about me. They felt I was too full of myself, particularly when I tried to turn down this assignment. It was unheard of, they told me sternly, for a candidate at my scholarship level to turn down two possible planet assignments, let alone three. My Supervisor was blunt: “May I remind you, Student Candidate, that you’ve already turned down the first two species offered to you for study? I would certainly have serious reservations about continuing as your Supervisor if you were to turn this down for reasons as frivolous as your previous excuses.”

Frivolous! I had gritted my teeth, raging inwardly at that. Spending the next tenth of my life in a protective atmospheric suit to study a possibly emergent intelligent life-form at the bottom of an ammonia sea had not struck me as worthwhile, no matter how many hardships those in my chosen profession have endured over the slow eons of accumulation of knowledge. I had exercised my option and turned down the first assignment.

The second offering was even worse. Granted, the species lived in an oxygen atmosphere, though the overall planetary climate was uncomfortably warm to my people. But the Tsaavii had been studied to death already. While I could undoubtedly contribute to the already large scholarly literature written about the race, it wouldn’t be the ground-breaking work I knew I was capable of, that was expected of me. I wanted— indeed, needed—to make a splash, capture scholarly awards for advancing the understanding of the development of technological society. Justify my parents’ faith in me, my clan’s financial investment in my education, the expectations of my sibs and cohort.

Refusing a third planet without an excellent reason— by which they meant a sun-about-to-go-nova type of reason—and I’d have a serious problem continuing my work in cultural anthropology; indeed, I might even be expelled.

They didn’t consider my reason excellent enough.

“A survey was performed there eight hundred primary rotations ago. No civilization is going to change drastically in so short a time. There is no evidence whatsoever to indicate that this species is developing technologically at a greater rate than any previously known technology-using species.”

Just who did I think I was, questioning the accepted wisdom of my field—me, a mere student, of limited experience. What made me think that this new species was so different from the dozens of other known, thoroughly-studied species?

Somehow, “gut instinct” hadn’t seemed a particularly politic answer at that moment.

It’s cold comfort to me now to know that my fears were absolutely justified—the preliminary survey was even more out of date than I had feared. The rate of change of this society is staggering. It’s grim satisfaction to know that, in learning this, I’ve already made a significant discovery—and I haven’t even begun my initial research. I plan on saying a very loud (and most scientifically phrased) “I told you so” when I face my final exam board.

I am woefully unprepared. The trinkets and toys I’m equipped with, suitable for a pre-mechanized society, are totally unsuitable for a culture at this level of development. Instead of early explorations into metal smelting, these people are essaying their first steps into molecular-level manipulation of biotechnology. My gadgets are useless—simple devices intended to startle and amaze a hostile group just long enough to allow me to escape, or to lure a timid folk from hiding, nothing more. Such things are as out of place here as a medicine woman with her healing broths and spirit chants would be in one of this city’s hospitals.

And I don’t like my body. It’s weak and clumsy now. I have to be so careful when I move in this awkward, heavy gravity. And only two hands! It amazes me the natives were able to develop any sort of technology at all. At least they have opposable digits on both hands.

My Supervisor isn’t particularly sympathetic to my situation. “I would think you’d be delighted, Student Candidate. This is the opportunity you said you were waiting for, a chance to make a significant contribution to our field. You have an entire world’s worth of development at your feet. A tenth-span certainly will not be long enough”—I clench the communication Link in my hand—”but it will serve as a beginning. You had best make the very most of your every moment there. Communication ending.”

Communication is expensive and must be kept brief. Perhaps it’s just as well. One does not gain honor by being disrespectful to one’s Supervisor. And I must not forget, I am representing my species at the prestigious institute of learning I attend. The Mother Supreme pointed this out to me during my audience with her just before I left.

“Very few of us have ventured off-planet. Do not forget that you are an ambassador, even though you do not bear the formal title. For many—indeed, perhaps most—of the species you come into contact with, you will be the first of our kind they have ever met. Conduct yourself with dignity and bring us honor.”

I bowed before her and backed out of her presence, grateful that protocol did not permit me to speak.

My Supervisor is of the school of thought that believes in interaction with a species, provided there is no interference with the society. Thus, I underwent extensive—though reversible—surgery to adapt my body to the conditions on this world, so that I may breathe and move unassisted. Surgery that also changes my appearance so that I blend in with the species I’m studying.

Of course such surgery is costly—as will be the procedure to restore my natural form. Be sure my parents made this clear to me.

“We’re having to borrow heavily against our Family shares to pay for this,” grumbled my father. “I don’t see why you need to be operated on in the first place. Don’t most cultural anthropologists use skin projectors?”

I patiently explain, yet again. “My Supervisor feels it’s vital to her technique of close study of other peoples. ‘There’s no substitute for real interaction,’ she keeps saying.”

“Sounds like a typical scholar to me. No head for finance… no experience of the real world…” His grumbles die away.

“She’s one of the foremost experts in the field,” I say. “I’m extremely lucky that she agreed to accept me.” My parents, concerned but supportive after my first refusal—my clan is known for its indulgence of its young—had been gravely displeased after my second refusal, so there really was no choice left for me.

“Yes, and an extremely high Supervisor’s Fee she charges, too. You’d damned well better win some of those academic awards you talk about and bring us honor.”

“Of course he will,” says my mother soothingly. “He’s our son. He’s always lived up to our expectations and beyond.” She beams proudly. “And he will again.”

Yes, I will. I will be a dutiful child and do well. My father complains about expense but it’s pure ritual. I’m expected eventually to make good on all the loans and fees that are paid out on my behalf. Duty and obligation, over and over, the watch-words of my culture.

Maybe that’s why I went into this field of study— to learn about other societies and see if they’re any freer. The crushing burden I owe my parents and my clan…

These are unworthy thoughts and I’m glad my family is not privy to them. I should not be having such selfish feelings. A mature individual is able to school his feelings, focus on his duties, and take satisfaction from fulfilling his obligations. Obviously I have a long way to go to reach maturity.