Frederik Pohl - O Pioneer!

A whirring behind him made him turn to see a doll-sized Petty-Prime cart drawing up. The Responsible One leaned out. “Apologies for not offering ride to portal,” he squeaked, “but you observe inadequate space in passenger side this my vehicle.” He seemed to be making a pleasantry, so Giyt tried one in response.

“It’s my fault for having too much growth hormone in my system,” he said.

The Petty-Prime gazed at him blankly for a moment, then exhaled in a soft, uncomprehending sigh. “Anyway,” he said, “express regret for potential for no longer sharing Joint Governance Commission duties, perhaps.” He waved a small paw and accelerated his cart away.

Whatever he meant by that. Giyt really had to get at those translation programs one day soon, he told himself, and then remembered that maybe he wouldn’t be present to have to worry about such things very much longer. Meanwhile, he had VIPs to greet.

When he got back to the square the keepers of the security switches were lounging by their posts, Hagbarth included, and a large group of Slugs were hooting one of their mournful hymns nearby. Other mayors were arriving, too. Mrs. Brownbenttalon poked her snout out of her can and beckoned to him. “My husband here say to tell you congratulations on excellent fall you took for new Kalkaboo stinky High Champion,” she said. “I share sentiment. Extremely well done, I say!”

“Thanks,” he said, nodding at the tiny male in his wife’s neck fur. “I hope I’m not late.”

“Be commoded, Large Male Giyt. Is last-minute decision of Slugs to arrive early, laster-minute to be somewhat later, typical Slug thing.” She paused to listen as her husband chittered in her ear. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Have sorrow about unfortunate forthcoming event—no, waiting a bit now, no time for discussing bad news. Hear warning dingle.”

The chime had sounded to announce the imminent arrival of the leaders. As Mrs. Brownbenttalon flopped out of her cart the waiting Slug delegation redoubled their hooting, the people at the security switches came to attention, and the golden glow began to surround the portal as the field built up.

Then it was all very quick. The chamber door opened. There was the pop of expelled air from inside, the glow cleared, and two large Slugs appeared, eye stalks waving. They were immediately surrounded by Tupelo’s own Slug delegation, escorted to the waiting damp-controlled carts, and borne away.

Giyt blinked after them. “That’s it?” he asked.

“That is the all of the it,” Mrs. Brownbenttalon confirmed, already getting back into the cart that had brought her. “No orations. No shaking of hands, no sniffing of noses, nothing like that. Only all us dignitaries required properly physically present here at time of peace treaty delegation arriving or will take offense. Is a Slug thing,” she added, looking around and lowering her voice. “Delts are even worse and, hey, you know all about Kalkaboos from own self’s experience already, right? Esteemed Giyt wife possess wisdom creating associations only with Petty-Primes and Centaurians such as self. Presume former-mentioned esteemed wife presently condoling.”

“Condoling?”

He heard a tiny chittering as Mr. Brownbenttalon poked his nose out of his wife’s neck fur and spoke confidentially into her ear. “Oh, is understood,” she said to Giyt. “You don’t know yet. Well, you hearing soon enough, only not from us. Centaurians don’t like telling bad news. We hope for seeing you in more happy time. Good-bye.”

On the way home Giyt reflected on yet another cryptic utterance. He couldn’t tell how much of the mystery was due to deficiencies in the translation programs and how much to simple eetie weirdness; but as the cart approached his house he got a hint of what Mrs. Brownbenttalon had been talking about. There were Petty-Prime kits playing happily in the mud of the de Mir yard with the younger de Mir children, and on the de Mir porch was their mother, with both of the de Mirs and his own wife, talking earnestly to each other while the children played. As Rina caught sight of Giyt she excused herself and came toward him, looking worried.

He was peering over her shoulder at the Petty-Prime female. “Isn’t that the wife of your farming friend?”

“Ex-wife, actually; they change partners a lot, I understand. But they’re friendly, and he told her something she came hurrying over to tell me. It’s Hoak Hagbarth, Shammy. He’s circulating a recall petition for you. He doesn’t want you to be mayor anymore.”

If there was one experience that Evesham Giyt definitely did not want to have as mayor, it was being fired. If his term of office had come to its scheduled end, he could have walked away happily. He might even be willing to peacefully resign; in fact, that thought had crossed his mind more than once. But to be kicked out? No, that was something else entirely. It was unacceptable. It didn’t take Giyt long to find out why they hadn’t seen the recall petition on the net. Someone had, not very expertly, cut the Giyts and the de Mirs out of the basic loop, so that all that came to their personal screens was a censored version of what went to the whole community. Once Giyt had an idea of what to look for, he located it in less than half an hour and created a detour around the block.

Then he studied the petition with growing distaste. It wasn’t very specific. There wasn’t anything that actually said that Rina had once been a prostitute or that accused Giyt himself of any serious misdeeds. But in and among all the whereases—presumably Olse Hagbarth’s work, or Lieutenant Cristl’s—there were a lot of words and phrases like malfeasance and prejudicial conduct, and what they all added up to was that the people who signed the petition were asking for a special election to be held to kick Evesham Giyt out of his job as mayor.

Rina came in, and peered over his shoulder. “Lunch is ready,” she announced, counting the names. “Seventy-six signatures,” she said thoughtfully. “They need twenty-four more to make it count.”

He turned to gaze at her. “How do you know that?”

“I looked it up, of course. It’s what the regulations say: a recall petition must be signed by at least ten percent of the voting citizens, and that’s a hundred. You know what I think, Shammy? I think they’re having trouble getting the hundred. There are a lot of people who like you.”

But there were a lot who didn’t, too. While he was eating his lunch Giyt studied the signatures on the hard copy, trying to fit a face to each name. More than half the members of the fire company had signed. So had, he estimated, a majority of the various people who had asked him for favors at one time or another and been turned down. So had the former mayor and her husband, and all those were easy enough, if not pleasant, to understand. But there were at least a dozen signatures that Giyt hardly recognized. Certainly he could not remember ever having done anything to offend them.