I, Alien

NATURAL SELECTION by Laura Frankos

I MADE MY WAY into what the Terrans had dubbed the Drones Club, the refectory of the Selection Center to which I had been assigned. Some of you are no doubt aware that “Drones” is one of the numerous—and often rude—appellations the Terrans have given us Hripirt. Unlike many of my colleagues, I see no point in taking offense at these jibes. They aren’t a bad race, not compared to some. My assignment, screening potential Terrans to find those best suited to journey to Hripirt, is largely a pleasant one. The Terrans tried submitting lists of candidates chosen by their governments, but our leaders quickly rejected those. As if we’d let just anybody visit our home, without meeting proper criteria and being able to contribute to our society!

That was one reason I enjoyed relaxing in the refectory after a long day evaluating humans. It was exclusive even by our standards, and offered a fine array of both Hripirt and Terran food. I hadn’t gotten much past the entryway when someone noticed what I was wearing. “By the spoon of my great-aunt, Mullnor, what is that you’ve got on your foretabs?”

Such a screeching voice could only belong to one Hripirt: Bingokk. He was at his customary table, feasting on the usual greasy lavender mound of frobrill eggs. I don’t know why he goes to the added expense of ordering them. Terran chicken eggs aren’t that different in texture, and the fried salty pig-meat that often accompanies them is quite tasty.

His noisy remark caused everyone in the refectory to stare at me. Afttabs buzzed far above the level of ordinary conversation; one could understand why the rare human visitors had deemed this a Drones Club.

I addressed the room at large. “They are an example of a Terran handicraft called knitting, purchased from a human in my survey region. I find them quite fetching.” I removed one with a finger-tentacle, waved it about, then slid it back on. The articles are small, and shaped rather like right angles, so they fit nicely on my foretabs. As foretabs are relatively useless appendages, the covers do not interfere with communication, as they would if placed on afttabs. My demonstration concluded, I joined Bingokk and his shipmate, Delip, at their table.

“That is most intriguing,” Delip said. “When I first saw you, I was reminded of those long-gone days when rebellious youths tattooed their foretabs or had glimmer-nodes surgically attached to them, all for the sake of gaining attention.”

Bingokk began coughing loudly and turned his face away from the table, but not before I noticed the thin line of scar tissue on his foretabs. He is vain, as well as extravagant. Why should anyone care what youthful follies he once perpetrated? To save him further embarrassment, I asked Delip how his meal was. He is partial to Terran black beans, cooked in the style of some tropical island, as am I.

“Do not order them today, Mullnor,” he said. “They taste scorched.”

Heeding his advice, I logged an order of Terran pastries called crumpets with several pots of jam. I am especially fond of orange marmalade, and have shipped a container back home for my many relatives.

“How goes your screening?” Bingokk asked me, his ears swiveling forward with interest. It was common knowledge he has started gambling pools based on when the selections would be finalized. He truly is incorrigible in his various appetites. Our leaders were wise to forbid him to visit the city of Las Vegas, for fear of what chaos might ensue.

“Very well. I think I am ready to register my choice.”

“So soon?” he howled. “But you were still reviewing three different groups only last week! How can you be ready to recommend a human? From which group did you make your selection?”

An angry low hum sounded from a nearby table. “Stop that racket immediately, Bingokk, or I shall fine you for violating the decorum of this establishment.” The rather slight Hripirt, an individual unknown to me, glared venomously, then knocked back a large glass of fermented azot juice. The murmur of his afttabs continued to broadcast his annoyance, despite Bingokk’s feeble attempt at looking apologetic.

“What’s the matter with that fellow? I asked.

“Depression,” Delip said. “He despairs of ever finding a suitable candidate. There are many, he says, who score well on duplicity and slyness, but they uniformly lack common sense.”

“What is his region?” I asked.

“Washington, District of Columbia, United States,” Bingokk said through a mouthful of eggs. He also muttered something indistinct about my family background which I carefully pretended I did not hear.

“Strange,” I said. “Washington is a major population center, as is your region, Delip. New York, is it not?”

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.

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.”