Robert Sheckley: Shall We Have a Llittle Talk?

Thelanding was a piece of cake despite gravitational vagaries produced by two suns and six moons. Low-level cloud cover could have given him some trouble if Jackson had been coming in visually. But he considered that to be kid stuff. It was better and safer to plug in the computer and lean back and enjoy the ride.

The cloud cover broke up at two thousand feet. Jackson was able to confirm his earlier sighting: there was a city down there, just as sure as sure.

He was in one of the world's loneliest jobs; but his line of work, paradoxically enough, required an extremely gregarious man. Because of this built-in contradiction, Jackson was in the habit of talking to himself. Most of the men in his line of work did. Jackson would talk to anyone, human or alien, no matter what their size or shape or colour.

It was what he was paid to do, and what he had to do anyhow. He talked when he was alone on the long interstellar runs, and he talked even more when he was with someone or something that would talk back. He figured he was lucky to be paid for his compulsions.

'And not just paid, either,' he reminded himself. 'Well paid, and with a bonus arrangement on top of that. And furthermore, this feels like my lucky planet. I feel like I could get rich on this one - unless they kill me down there, of course.'

The lonely flights between the planets and the imminence of death were the only disadvantages of this job; but if the work weren't hazardous and difficult, the pay wouldn't be so good.

Would they kill him? You could never tell. Alien life forms were unpredictable - just like humans, only more so.

'But I don't think they'll kill me,' Jackson said. 'I just feel downright lucky today.'

This simple philosophy had sustained him for years, across the endless lonely miles of space, and in and out of ten, twelve, twenty planets. He saw no reason to change his outlook now.

The ship landed. Jackson switched the status controls to standby.

He checked the analyser for oxygen and trace-element content in the atmosphere, and took a quick survey of the local micro-organisms. The place was viable. He leaned back in his chair and waited. It didn't take long, of course, They - the locals, indigenes, autochthons, whatever you wanted to call them - came out of their city to look at the spaceship. And Jackson looked through the port at them.

'Well now,' he said. 'Seems like the alien life forms in this neck of the woods are honest-to-Joe humanoids. That means a five-thousand-dollar bonus for old Uncle Jackson.'

The inhabitants of the city were bipedal monocephaloids. They had the appropriate number of fingers, noses, eyes, ears and mouths. Their skin was a flesh-coloured beige, their lips were a faded red, their hair was black, brown, or red.

'Shucks, they're just like home folks!' Jackson said. 'Hell, I ought to get an extra bonus for that. Humanoid-issimus, eh?'

The aliens wore clothes. Some of them carried elaborately carved lengths of wood like swagger sticks. The women decorated themselves with carved and enamelled ornaments. At a flying guess, Jackson ranked them about equivalent to Late Bronze Age on Earth.

The talked and gestured among themselves. Their language was, of course, incomprehensible to Jackson; but that didn't matter. The important thing was that they had a language and that their speech sounds could be produced by his vocal apparatus.

'Not like on that heavy planet last year,' Jackson said. 'Those supersonic sons of bitches! I had to wear special earphones and mike, and it was a hundred and ten in the shade.'

The aliens were waiting for him, and Jackson knew it. That first moment of actual contact - it always was a nervous business.

That's when they were most apt to let you have it.

Reluctantly he moved to the hatch, undogged it, rubbed his eyes, and cleared his throat. He managed to produce a smile. He told himself, 'Don't get sweaty; 'member, you're just a little old interstellar wanderer - kind of galactic vagabond - to extend the hand of friendship and all that jazz. You've just dropped in for a little talk, nothing more. Keep on believing that, sweety, and the extraterrestrial Johns will believe right along with you. Remember Jackson's Law: all intelligent life forms share the divine faculty of gullibility; which means that the triple-tongued Thung of Orangus V can be conned out of his skin just as Joe Doakes of St Paul.'

And so, wearing a brave, artificial little smile, Jackson swung the port open and stepped out to have a little talk.

'Well now, how y'all?' Jackson asked at once, just to hear the sound of his own voice.

The nearest aliens shrank away from him. Nearly all of them were frowning. Several of the younger ones carried bronze knives in a forearm scabbard. These were clumsy weapons, but as effective as anything ever invented. The aliens started to draw.

'Now take it easy,' Jackson said, keeping his voice light and unalarmed.

They drew their knives and began to edge forward. Jackson stood his ground, waiting, ready to bolt through the hatch like a jet-propelled jackrabbit, hoping he could make it.

Then a third man (might as well call them 'men', Jackson decided) stepped in front of the belligerent two. This one was older. He spoke rapidly. He gestured. The two with the knives looked.

'That's right,' Jackson said encouragingly. 'Take a good look. Heap big spaceship. Plenty strong medicine. Vehicle of great power, fabricated by a real advanced technology. Sort of makes you stop and think, doesn't it?'

It did.

The aliens had stopped; and if not thinking, they were at least doing a great deal of talking. They pointed at the ship, then back at their city.

'You're getting the idea,' Jackson told them. 'Power speaks a universal language, eh, cousins?'

He had been witness to many of these scenes on many different planets. He could nearly write their dialogue for them. It usually went like this:

Intruder lands in outlandish space vehicle, thereby eliciting (1) curiosity, (2) fear and (3) hostility. After some minutes of awed contemplation, one autochthon usually says to his friend: 'Hey, that damned metal thing packs one hell of a lot of power.'

'You're right, Herbie,' his friend Fred, the second autochthon, replies.

'You bet I'm right,' Herbie says. 'And hell, with that much power and technology and stuff, this son-of-a-gun could like enslave us. I mean he really could.'

'You've hit it, Herbie, that's just exactly what could happen.'

'So what I say,' Herbie continues, 'I say, let's not take any risks. I mean, sure , he looks friendly enough, but he's just got too damned much power, and that's not right. And right now is the best chance we'll ever get to take him on account of he's just standing there waiting for like an ovation or something. So let's put this bastard out of his misery, and then we can talk the whole thing over and see how it stacks up situationwise.'

'By Jesus, I'm with you!' cries Fred. Others signify their assent.

'Good for you, lads,' cries Herbie. 'Let's wade in and take this alien joker like now!'

So they start to make their move; but suddenly, at the last second, Old Doc, (the third autochthon) intervenes, saying, 'Hold it a minute, boys, we can't do it like that. For one thing, we got laws around here—'

'To hell with that,' says Fred (a born troublemaker and somewhat simple to boot).

'—and aside from the laws, it would be just too damned dangerous for us.'

'Me 'n' Fred here ain't scared,' says valiant Herb. 'Maybe you better go take in a movie or something, Doc. Us guys'll handle this.'