Frederik Pohl - O Pioneer!

“Oh, Shammy, I never will learn it, really. Just a couple of words like ‘I hope you’re having a nice day.’ That’s their chief agronomist who just said hello; his kids were playing with the ones next door and we got friendly. Are you feeling more relaxed now?”

He was more amused than annoyed. “Are we on that again? I’m not nervous.”

“Of course not,” she said comfortably. “After all, Mariam Vardersehn did it for two years, and anything she can do you can do better… Oh, and Shammy? Did I tell you? I want to see if I can finish my college courses.”

“Here?”

“Oh, yes. Olse Hagbarth says there’s an extension program I can use, and Ex-Earth will pick up the tuition. Olse says I can even quit my job at the beauty shop because they’ll throw in a stipend.”

She looked as though she expected congratulations, so Giyt provided them. “That’s wonderful,” he said, patting her arm.

“Isn’t it? I think I’ll switch my major, though. There’s not much call for a business-management degree here.”

“Good idea,” Giyt said approvingly, and squinted at the sun now just at the horizon. “I think it’s time we turned back.” He put his arm around her shoulders as they started home, silent again while he tried to analyze just how he felt about all this. Rina had never before asked his opinion about anything she chose to do before she did it. Was that part of what it meant to be “married”? And did it mean that he was expected to consult her, too?

After dinner Rina fixed him a hot toddy and went off to her studies. Giyt sat down at his terminal for some real relaxing.

But although he sampled some of his favorite programs—a really good documentary on Genghis Khan; another on Alexander’s father, Philip of Macedon, almost as impressive a conqueror as his better-known son—what he was really thinking about was Rina. Rina, who had always got straight As in every course she took and was evidently on her way to getting more. Rina, who was a model mayor’s wife, making friends among all, or almost all, the varieties of weird eeties, and for that matter humans, who lived in this place. Rina, who had never been a mother but was already a well-loved honorary aunt for the kids of the couple next door. Rina, who had never been a housewife in her life, either, but had mastered immediately, almost instinctively, the operation of the dust-sucker that whooshed their house dean and the cryptic settings of the dishwasher, the washing machine, and the stove . . . and while she was doing all these things, nevertheless still had time to do all the other things that were needed to keep Giyt himself content.

Rina. Who had suddenly become so big a part of Giyt’s life that he could no longer imagine a life without her.

Giyt had trouble diagnosing this new feeling he seemed to be having about her. It wasn’t exactly “love.” There was no change there. He had recognized some time earlier that he probably loved Rina, more or less, within the general meaning of the term as he understood it.

This new feeling was something else. It wasn’t merely friendship, either. He came to the astonishing conclusion that it was largely, of all things, pride. He was proud of the way his, ah, his wife was coping so wonderfully and rapidly with the demands of this bizarre new place he had brought her to.

It took him a while to identify the feeling, because it was so unfamiliar to him. Giyt could not remember that he had ever before been proud of any other person in his life.

The Hexagon—the place where all six of the colonizing races, human and eetie, got together to talk over whatever interests they had in common and, in particular, to stop disagreements before they got started—was larger and fancier than Evesham Giyt had expected. Each species had its own special place: chairs for the bipeds, a pretty little artificial tree for the Kalkaboos to perch in, a kind of couch for the Centaurians, and a two-meter-long cushion, with internal plumbing to keep it warm and damp, for the use of the Slugs.

As Giyt walked in for his first meeting, all five of the other leaders rose to welcome him—the ones that were physically able to rise, anyway. There was an unexpected spatter of applause from the eight or ten people, almost all humans, sparsely occupying the chairs and chair equivalents that were set aside for the use of the audience, whenever there happened to be one. The Centaurian female—the translator in his ear gave her name as Mrs. Brownbenttalon—was taking her turn in the regular rotation as president for the week, and so she made a speech of greeting. Of course Giyt could make nothing of the squeaks and squeals that came from her pursy little mouth, but his translation phone duly rendered it for him in English—well, more or less English: “The total of us who are not from the planet Earth human are overcomely delighted, Large Male Giyt, to have you participate us in our unceasing struggle to ensure no hitting and the getting of along.” To ensure peace and friendship, Giyt corrected for himself, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at those translation programs.

She went on from there, giving Giyt time to look around. He had never before seen all six of Tupelo’s colonial races in the same place. Mrs. Brownbenttalon, whose Centaurian title was Divinely Elected Savior, looked more or less like a curly-haired anteater, nearly two meters long as she crouched on her cushions. Mr. Brownbenttalon, her main husband, was a tiny thing the size of a chipmunk, and he was crawling around in her fur and whispering in her ear as she spoke. The Delt General Manager was listening intently, sucking on his fingers—maybe, Giyt thought, because of embarrassment over his recent behavior at the mass. In the doll-sized armchair of the Petty-Primes their Responsible One was lackadaisically sprawled and staring uninterestedly at the ceiling. The High Champion of the Kalkaboos was tucked into a fork of its tree, but listening intently with its immense elephant ears. And the Principal Slug was, well, a slug; and if it was showing any sign at all of what was going through its mind, Giyt could not detect it.

When Mrs. Brownbenttalon finished her speech Giyt, feeling foolish but nevertheless obliged to do so, offered a few words in response. All he said was that he was honored to be selected and hoped he would do credit to this body that was responsible for maintaining order on Tupelo. Giyt knew it wasn’t a particularly great speech. He didn’t expect an ovation, but all the same he was surprised at the chill of the response. The Delt took his fingers out of his mouth to peer at him reprovingly, and even the Slug twitched.

But no one said anything, and then Mrs. Brownbenttalon got down to business. She reported to the commission that the power plant on Energy Island, six kilometers across the strait, was going to need expansion, and each home planet would be required to supply funds and materials for the job. Additional farmland had been cleared on the far side of their own island, and each race was entitled to 3.962 hectares for its own purposes, the particular allotment for each to be determined by a random drawing—after which, of course, they could swap back and forth as much as they liked. The weather satellites had detected no approaching storms large enough to require special precautions for at least the next few weeks. All this information, she pointed out, was in their datastores already, so if they would simply move to accept the reports as rendered? They did. Then she paused, while Mr. Brownbenttalon whispered urgently in her ear, and twisted around to look at Giyt. “Great misery I have,” she declared, “for necessity disimproving your nuptial night participation here with irritating complaints, but Delta Pavonis guys raise problem of conflicting interests. You speak now, Delta Pavonis guy.” The Delt took his fingers out of his mouth again and began to bark at Giyt. Giyt was willing to do his best to get along with these alien freaks, even the Slugs. But he couldn’t honestly say that he cared much for the Delts. For one thing, he thought they were unnecessarily ugly, with pop eyes that stared out in all directions from the top corners of their inverted-triangle heads. (Did the first humans call them Delts because of the name of their star, or for the Greek-letter shape of their faces? Giyt didn’t know.) The Delts also smelled, well, distinctly rancid, even in the thoroughly air-conditioned confines of the Hexagon. And they had the reputation of being a nuisance.