Mike Resnick - I, Alien

Delip’s snout wrinkled in the affirmative. “Perhaps his candidates demonstrate the herd-animal mentality of the ones I encountered on the thoroughfare called Broadway. Many of them dress the same, act the same, and stand in the same endless lines for performances of live actors.”

Bingokk smirked. “It’s not so entertaining watching dead ones.”

His comment reminded me of the worst planet I ever surveyed: the sentient race, who resembled Terran peapods, had made decomposition into a religious cult. We found no suitable candidate there, and it smelled terrible. We left after one of the natives killed a Hripirt solely to see her rot. This, however, is not a pleasant subject to discuss at a meal, so I remained silent. Unlike Bingokk, I know the meaning of restraint.

“Most of our jokes about Terran entertainment are well-deserved,” Delip said, spooning up some beans. “But one of these shows amused me, though not for the same reasons the humans liked it.”

I gave a short blat with my afttabs, but not loud enough to disturb the noise-sensitive fellow. “Call the medical forces; Delip is clearly ill.”

Bingokk shoved aside his empty plate. “I don’t know which bothers me more: Delip enjoying human entertainment, or Mullnor attempting humor.”

“Let me explain,” Delip said. “This particular entertainment involved the humans dressing as small domesticated beasts and cavorting in a heap of garbage.”

“Are you certain the Advance Teams screened this race for suitability?” Bingokk asked. “They sound delusional.”

Although I hated the notion of agreeing with the disreputable Bingokk on anything, I had to concur. “How is animal-mimicry a form of entertainment? I mean, aside from foolish characters who can pucker up and snort like wild gronkree, hoping to induce laughter at dull parties.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Bingokk’s afttabs relax in mid-pucker. He is as predictable as the Terran satellite’s cycle.

“The show is more complex than that,” Delip admitted. “The actors playing beasts represent human characteristics, such as vanity, gluttony, and so on.”

“Ah, it is a morality piece, such as Tipli the Humble wrote!” I said. My cousin is a noted scholar of ancient literature, so I am reasonably familiar with it.

Bingokk, obviously sulking, took out his all-purpose unit and flicked his finger-tentacles over it. I suspect he was revising the odds on his Candidate Selection Pool. “Humans portraying animals who act like humans. Madness! I truly hope I find my candidate soon, and can leave this planet.”

Delip, well-accustomed to her shipmate’s tantrums, ignored him. I do not know how she endured them on the long voyage to Terra. My patience will survive occasional encounters with him, but not daily ones.

She continued: “The beasts parade before their Elder, hoping to be chosen to ascend to animal paradise, or so a devotee of the actors informed me, for it had made little sense to me. She explained their characteristics determined which one is selected, and this amused me, for it seemed so similar to our job of screening the candidates for the voyage back home.”

Delip is a pleasant being, but every so often, she falls prey to flights of fancy, and this, I fear, was one of them. For while certain personality traits are common to sentient beings—without them, civilized life would not exist—others differ from race to race. We Hripirt had already learned that while we share much with Terrans, we value some characteristics that they view with distaste. Some of their religions even regard them as moral crimes. For Delip to equate our search with a silly Terran entertainment showed poor judgment.

A young Hripirt, her foretabs still velvety, brought my order of crumpets and jam. “I hope this is satisfactory, Screener Mullnor,” she said. Her afttabs were faintly humming, so I knew she wasn’t finished. Highly unusual, for here at the refectory, the staff interferes with members as little as possible. Serve and scoot, that’s the policy.

Still, I thought I knew what was coming, and I was right. The little thing hummed louder and asked, “If you don’t mind, Screener, could you tell me where you got the Terran handicrafts you are wearing? I’d love to purchase a pair for myself.”

“Perhaps we could come to a financial arrangement,” I said.

The server practically trilled. “Oh, thank you, Screener!” She looked around, probably to check if her supervisor was watching, then presented her all-purpose unit. I produced mine, and, as she was eager, we completed the transaction in moments. She slid the human articles onto her foretabs and scurried back into the kitchen.

Delip’s afttabs murmured humorously. “I fear you may have started a trend, Mullnor.”

“I’ve no objection to making a small profit from the foolishness of youth,” I said, sampling the crumpets. They were nicely done, and I quite enjoyed the boy-senberry jam, a new flavor for me. I logged a note to order some.

Bingokk continued messing about with his unit. Finally, he put it down and blatted sharply. “I still can’t figure it out. You must tell me how you came to a decision so quickly. As I had it, you were screening three groups, each with twelve to twenty individuals. How did you narrow it down?”

“Last Sunday, I immediately eliminated the entire group known as the San Fernando Valley Rowdy Riotous Raider Nation on the basis of irrational behavior.”

“An entire nation consisting of a few entities?” asked Delip.

“They do not comprise a recognized state. They are supporters of an athletic team.”

Both Delip and Bingokk zzurbed in understanding.

Our leaders prepared special lessons on Terran sporting rituals, mandatory viewing for all Screeners. I found them appalling. Had I had my way, the Rowdy Raider adherents would never have made it onto a shortlist for screening, but then, I confess to being something of an elitist.

“I did not mind their outlandish face-painting and peculiar garb,” I said, “but while at the sporting event, they all became ‘drunk and disorderly,’ violating numerous local laws. Nor, I discovered, were these their first infractions. Obviously, I could not select a lawbreaker as a candidate.”

“No, for if they break their own laws, they might not respect ours,” said Delip.

Bingokk waved his tentacles. “And the next group you eliminated?”

I hummed pleasantly, remembering. “A gathering of fans and authors of speculative fiction. I enjoyed being with them; of all humans, they are most at ease facing the reality of visitors from another world.”

“So why did you not make your selection from there?” Bingokk asked. The low desperate tone of his afttabs made me wonder just how detailed his pools were. Perhaps he was not merely wagering on which of us would make our selections quickly, but from which of our focus groups we would choose.

“They scored extremely well on intelligence and creativity; some of the authors had also high marks for cunning, avarice, and duplicity—you should hear some of the wrangling they engage in regarding their internal political offices and awards. But they showed too much individualism and initiative. Our leaders want visitors who are not herd-beasts, like those Delip encountered, but neither do they want Terrans too inclined to stray from the path and explore on their own. Finally, they are definitely unusual sorts, even among humans, and not truly representative of the species.”

Bingokk blatted, “I should have known you’d be this stuffy! When will I ever learn?” He pounded his unit on the table until the Washington-screener began buzzing again and the server, her pretty pink-garbed foretabs twitching, motioned for him to stop.