Mike Resnick - I, Alien

Silver hair flecked with black and brown. Clear hazel eyes. A tilt to his head and a negligent stride as he eased inside my office.

He halted, letting the door slide closed behind him. He struck a pose, eyed me a moment, then yawned.

Ah. That kind of skeptic.

I arched a brow at him, waiting. When he didn’t offer anything beyond a stare replete with self-indulgence, I smiled and began the game. And the game within the game.

Incense, lighted. A candle brought to flame. Silks and velvets and carpets; an endless supply of cushions. They expect certain trappings in this line of work, and if I want to really get into their heads I have to live up to those expectations.

Lastly, the cards. I took them from the casket, from the scarf, and set them down on the table with its green cloth. I looked at him again, studied him, the attitude, the arrogance—and turned up the Knight of Cups.

“So,” I said, “it begins.”

Now he moved. With an elegant stride of no wasted effort, he arranged himself in the chair across from me. The stare was fixed and unwavering.

His nails were long. With a skilled flexing of tendons he flicked the pile of cards set on the table before him. They toppled, slid, spilled in a river of painted pasteboard across the green surface.

Commentary. Or challenge. Oh, yes, they love their games.

“You must think of a question,” I said.

He blinked, unimpressed—and clearly disinclined to answer.

Inwardly I sighed. Handsome, young, elegant, in-eluctably self-confident. So typical of his kind.

My turn to move quickly, with no wasted effort. The next card, turned up to cover the King of Cups. I opened my mouth to speak—and the card blanked.

I managed not to gasp. Wondered if he’d think it was some stunt J was pulling. Or had someone snuck into my office last night and replaced my cards with another set? That would suggest someone—maybe even he—had learned my true purpose. (Sidebar: Nobody likes to discover they’re the subject of a study, after all)

I shot him a quick searching glance from lowered lids, raising my pheromone levels to distract him. (Sidebar: trust me, it’s worked before, even with a few of you.) He merely stared back at me, undistracted. Patience personified.

With economical haste, I worked my way through the balance of the deck: covering, crossing, crowning.

And all of them went blank.

My mouth dried. I summoned the slang. “Okay,” I said, “give. What’s the scoop?”

One slow, casual blink. Then he leaned forward, hooked a nail beneath the edge of the card that had once been the King of Cups, and flicked it from under the other.

He yawned. Displayed teeth in a feral grin. Fixed me again with a stare. “You should know better,” he said. “I and my kind make our own fortunes.”

And with a disdainfully high hook in his tail, the cat jumped down from the chair and sauntered out of my office.

I MADE MY WAY into what the Terrans had dubbed the Drones Club, the refectory of the Selection Center to which I had been assigned. Some of you are no doubt aware that “Drones” is one of the numerous—and often rude—appellations the Terrans have given us Hripirt. Unlike many of my colleagues, I see no point in taking offense at these jibes. They aren’t a bad race, not compared to some. My assignment, screening potential Terrans to find those best suited to journey to Hripirt, is largely a pleasant one. The Terrans tried submitting lists of candidates chosen by their governments, but our leaders quickly rejected those. As if we’d let just anybody visit our home, without meeting proper criteria and being able to contribute to our society!

That was one reason I enjoyed relaxing in the refectory after a long day evaluating humans. It was exclusive even by our standards, and offered a fine array of both Hripirt and Terran food. I hadn’t gotten much past the entryway when someone noticed what I was wearing. “By the spoon of my great-aunt, Mullnor, what is that you’ve got on your foretabs?”

Such a screeching voice could only belong to one Hripirt: Bingokk. He was at his customary table, feasting on the usual greasy lavender mound of frobrill eggs. I don’t know why he goes to the added expense of ordering them. Terran chicken eggs aren’t that different in texture, and the fried salty pig-meat that often accompanies them is quite tasty.

His noisy remark caused everyone in the refectory to stare at me. Afttabs buzzed far above the level of ordinary conversation; one could understand why the rare human visitors had deemed this a Drones Club.

I addressed the room at large. “They are an example of a Terran handicraft called knitting, purchased from a human in my survey region. I find them quite fetching.” I removed one with a finger-tentacle, waved it about, then slid it back on. The articles are small, and shaped rather like right angles, so they fit nicely on my foretabs. As foretabs are relatively useless appendages, the covers do not interfere with communication, as they would if placed on afttabs. My demonstration concluded, I joined Bingokk and his shipmate, Delip, at their table.

“That is most intriguing,” Delip said. “When I first saw you, I was reminded of those long-gone days when rebellious youths tattooed their foretabs or had glimmer-nodes surgically attached to them, all for the sake of gaining attention.”

Bingokk began coughing loudly and turned his face away from the table, but not before I noticed the thin line of scar tissue on his foretabs. He is vain, as well as extravagant. Why should anyone care what youthful follies he once perpetrated? To save him further embarrassment, I asked Delip how his meal was. He is partial to Terran black beans, cooked in the style of some tropical island, as am I.

“Do not order them today, Mullnor,” he said. “They taste scorched.”

Heeding his advice, I logged an order of Terran pastries called crumpets with several pots of jam. I am especially fond of orange marmalade, and have shipped a container back home for my many relatives.

“How goes your screening?” Bingokk asked me, his ears swiveling forward with interest. It was common knowledge he has started gambling pools based on when the selections would be finalized. He truly is incorrigible in his various appetites. Our leaders were wise to forbid him to visit the city of Las Vegas, for fear of what chaos might ensue.

“Very well. I think I am ready to register my choice.”

“So soon?” he howled. “But you were still reviewing three different groups only last week! How can you be ready to recommend a human? From which group did you make your selection?”

An angry low hum sounded from a nearby table. “Stop that racket immediately, Bingokk, or I shall fine you for violating the decorum of this establishment.” The rather slight Hripirt, an individual unknown to me, glared venomously, then knocked back a large glass of fermented azot juice. The murmur of his afttabs continued to broadcast his annoyance, despite Bingokk’s feeble attempt at looking apologetic.

“What’s the matter with that fellow? I asked.

“Depression,” Delip said. “He despairs of ever finding a suitable candidate. There are many, he says, who score well on duplicity and slyness, but they uniformly lack common sense.”

“What is his region?” I asked.

“Washington, District of Columbia, United States,” Bingokk said through a mouthful of eggs. He also muttered something indistinct about my family background which I carefully pretended I did not hear.

“Strange,” I said. “Washington is a major population center, as is your region, Delip. New York, is it not?”