Mike Resnick - I, Alien

I scooped the last globs from the bottom of the jar of strawberry preserves and started on the plum jam. Bingokk’s financial troubles were no concern of mine. “One odd thing happened when I surveyed this group,” I commented. “There is apparently a famous fictional piece in which the aliens arrived on Terra and took away humans, intending to cook them on their home world. At the gathering, people kept asking me if I was there ‘to serve man,’ and laughing rather nervously.”

“That is not odd, Mullnor, it’s disgusting,” said Delip. “What a concept! I am relieved you did not choose from this group of candidates.”

“So you picked one of the ornithologists,” Bingokk said gloomily. “I never would have expected it.”

“They are not accredited experts on avian species,” I said. “Merely well-educated enthusiasts. They journey into undeveloped areas, looking for birds.”

“Then what do they do with them?” Delip asked.

I didn’t answer immediately. I was watching the little server chatting with yet another diner and giving a demonstration of the foretab-covers. Most amusing.

“They don’t do anything. They count the different species,” I finally said. “It is a pleasant pastime.”

Delip mused, “Well, perhaps this is a good test of the Terrans, to see how they fare in the wilderness in which they evolved.”

Poor Delip. She obviously did not pay attention to the human history lessons. Terrans evolved on another land mass altogether different from this one. I chose not to reveal her ignorance, but merely said, “No, they only stay for brief periods in the wildlife regions, so it is not indicative of their survival skills.”

“Which one did you pick?” Bingokk asked. “I must know.”

I trilled lightly. “I shall describe my final four candidates, all of them high scorers for intelligence and common sense. You tell me which one I chose on the basis of the other factors. Come, we shall have a wager.” I slid my unit toward his.

“Very well! Maybe a chance to get some of my losses back!”

“The first was the group’s leader, Joe. He is a strong man of middle years, well respected by the others. He organized the trip, as he has done many times before. This included scheduling transport—the site was some distance from the organization’s headquarters. When one individual damaged her optical equipment, he developed an ingenious solution to her problem.

“The second candidate was the youngest, a teen-aged boy named Spencer. He proved the best at identifying bird species, made numerous realistic sketches of the creatures, but generally was silent. He spent the entire bus journey playing with a small gaming unit and wore a shirt emblazoned ‘New York Knicks.’

“The third was another middle-aged man, this one called Mort. Mort showed an inconsistent ability to identify birds, often loudly proclaiming a sighting was of a particular species, only to be corrected by Spencer or Joe. I mention him only because of an incident at the end of the trek.

“I explained to the humans that while the fresh mountain air and unspoiled surroundings were delightful, I found their hobby rather pointless. I then demonstrated the Sense-Surround feature of my unit, and provided them with an exact total of the avian species in the area: twenty-one Stellar’s Jays, thirty-eight California quail, nineteen white-breasted nuthatches, and so on.”

“What did Mort do that was of interest?” asked Delip.

“He approached me, wanting to buy my unit. Claimed he would win the Birding World Series with it, an event of competitive bird-counting.”

Bingokk zzurbed: “Ah, avarice! Good score!”

“The final candidate, a woman named Agnes, was elderly, but in good health. She regaled me with tales of her many grandchildren, and spent the long journey creating clothes for the smallest ones. As the organization’s secretary, she kept track of the birds they identified, and planned to publish the list for the members who could not attend the trek.

“So, which human did I select?”

“Spencer, Joe, and Agnes displayed creativity,” said Delip. “Mort, obviously, was the only candidate to show avarice. I would pick Joe, for overall qualities.”

“I would choose Spencer,” said Bingokk. “Talented youths often make good candidates, and those who play with gaming units often exhibit other useful characteristics.”

Now it was Delip’s turn to blat derisively. “Ah, but Mullnor said the boy wore a New York Knicks shirt. He is undoubtedly a sports fanatic, and this negates all his other good attributes.”

“You are both wrong,” I said, shoving my unit at him. “Pay up, Bingokk. I chose Agnes.”

He yowled and buzzed, and the Washington fellow got up and left. “Why, Mullnor! It makes no sense, and you are esteemed among screeners.”

I slid a tentacle into my travel-sack and pulled out another pair of Agnes’s hand-knitted booties and placed them on my foretabs. “Don’t forget, we evaluate Terrans on what they can contribute to Hripirt society. Agnes claims she can knit many pairs of these foretab-covers each day. She and I have already registered our trading firm, Earth Socks, and have some seventy orders pending.” Perhaps more, given that I transmitted the relevant information to the server’s unit and she had shown hers to at least four diners.

Bingokk abruptly cut off his buzzing. “You astound me, Mullnor. I must go.”

“Where do you suppose he’s going in such a rush?” Delip asked.

“If I had to guess, I’d say he was going to survey his candidates for knitting ability. Pass the last jar of apple butter, if you will.”

I DON’T WANT TO go, I said. Let someone else do this. Not me. I never wanted it. Please don’t make me—

Ah, they said, you will change the world. The needle twinkled. And the world certainly needs changing; we have had enough of this.

But, I said. Speaking as I did “(speech” of course is a converted term for what I did). But no, not what? They said. No change so great ever started with one so small. The syringe poised, hovering lovingly.

Until we understand what we are doing, I said.

We understand, they said. The syringe struck. I was propelled into the River of Memory. Swimming along its currents.

Was that how it happened? It is my best approximation. It must have been something like that as the Priests methodically unlocked and sent me on. Surely it would not have been in silence; surely I would not have gone without protest. And yet who is to know? Out of circumstances we create consequence, link a chain of events to a source, even if that source is a dream. A dream from which I will awaken safe and warm, no enclosure, no lessons, no orientation, no Priests, no mission, only circumstance itself.

Circumstance, I can handle. Haven’t I always? That is why they chose me, but perhaps I was not chosen, maybe it was just a dream that I was taken to change the world.

A dream that I begged for this cup to pass (my capacity for protest was inexhaustible then), a dream that my plea was ignored, a dream that I found myself—

—Falling, falling and rolling and tumbling and bouncing, bounce and jounce, tumble and jump, roll and folderol, surrounded by the thick, viscous, oily fluid. So they did it after all, they really did make me go and it had worked, the protocols correct.

—And disbelieving to that last scoop, swoop, loop, and whoop, I thought they would desist, that someone else would be taken to prowl the darkness. But no, no passing cup, so there I was falling and rising in that tunnel, propelled by rhythmic pulsation.

Thump. Thump: it’s dark, I said, and I miss my—