Space Stations

FIRST CONTACT CAFÉ by Irene Radford

A SCREECH from the station monitors stabbed through the perceptions of Ab’nere Ll’byr Wyn’th (pronounced Abner Labyrinth in that new language working its way around the space station). She tongued a control built into her dentalia. One of the ten screens built into her spectacles that nearly reached her earlobes displayed the scene from A 108, the ammonia atmosphere arm close to the hub of Labyrinth, her space station, where gravity was low.

She gasped in horror as she watched a nearly transparent Pentapod, its visible heart beating a rapid and erratic rhythm even for a Pentapod, fling a spindly barstool over its head into the mirror behind the bar. Ab’nere’s Number Eight Son—fathered by an ammonia breather and thus possessing gills to breathe a veritable cocktail of different atmospheres—ducked out of the way of the stool, arms shielding his neck and those vulnerable gills from shattering glass. His daughter and her spouse flung aside their trays filled with noxious drinks only an ammonia breather could love and dove beneath the tables they had been serving. The silica and lead globules filled with liquid and vaporous chemicals smashed into walls. Before the rainbow puddles slid to the floor, two patrons slammed their arm joints, simultaneously, into the offender’s mid-region.

The first combatant stumbled backward. He collided with yet another patron. That being’s drink flew out of his hand. The splashee’s foot jerked into a delicate leg joint of yet another patron. This next victim retaliated by breaking a drink globule over the nearest head—that of Number Eight Son.

Before Ab’nere could blink, all twenty imbibers in the bar had joined the fray. Flippers and pseudopods lashed out. Limbs tangled and internal organs pulsed. Defenders leaped aside and slammed into no longer innocent bystanders.

One of them landed upon the portal iris. It buckled. The air lock behind it hissed. An attacker launched himself at the door. The lock shattered under the combined weight and thrust.

The fight spilled into the corridor. Only one more air lock separated them from the hub.

If the ammonia leaked into the hub, containment could prove difficult.

Ab’nere fought the panic rising in her gorge. She carried new life—not yet discernable to any but herself. This eighteenth offspring had been fathered by a Magma Giant. The heavy metal content in its blood was particularly vulnerable to contamination from ammonia.

“Number Eight Son!” Ab’nere shouted over the com link buried in yet another of her one hundred ten teeth.

No answer. Her offspring remained hidden safely behind the bar.

“Number Eight, I did not incur untold debt with the bankers of D’Or to build this station just so those spacers could tear it apart. Get out there and end this brawl.”

“Mother, they are ammonia breathers. What else do you expect from them,” her offspring protested.

“Do not make me close down this oxygen/nitrogen/hydrogen bar just to come settle a brawl you are too timid to end.” Not that she would risk the new child in the ammonia arm of the space station. “I will lose a valuable first contact fee if I do.”

“But, Mother…”

“You are no better than your father. Now get out there and do something. I have just written you out of my will.”

“Honored Mother, I will do as you bid. At great peril to myself. But only so that your displeasure with me does not affect the welfare of your grandchildren. And a new great grandchild.” Just as verbose as his father, too!

“The damages will come out of your portion of my estate. If I write you back into my will.” At the same time Ab’nere preened at the news that yet another descendant was on the way. The ammonia line might lack concentration and reliability, but they were amazing breeders.

She always enjoyed reunions with her eighth spouse.

Then she ground her dental work together, at great risk to her various controls and links about the station.

What would the new species think of Labyrinth! Brawls threatening to mix atmospheres, cowardly progeny, toxic drinks too near the air locks.

“I have provided a safe, friendly place for species to make contact, negotiate trade, and solve mutual problems,” she nearly screamed at her negligent son. “And you jeopardize it all.”

The monitor in her spectacles showed her offspring wading into the midst of the brawl.

His smooth skin, a legacy from Ab’nere’s Labyrinthine ancestry, protected him from scrapes and bruises better than the thin membranes of the ammonia breathers. Number Eight had also inherited Ab’nere’s squat figure without indentations or protrusions that might offer convenient handholds to enemies in one-on-one combat. But his ears were pitifully small, they only folded to meet at his flat nose, not overlap and cover his entire face.

Then she noticed the hem of his uniform robe was torn. He tripped on it, scrabbling for balance in the low gravity. An impolite amount of his thin legs (as spindly as his father’s and not at all as attractive as Ab’nere’s sturdier limbs) gaped through the hole in his garment. In his forward sprawl Number Eight flew between a Pentapod and a gelatinous, red-and-white Porgeusa who were beating at each other with broken glassware. The two separated, gasping for breath.

Number Eight tried the same ploy to separate other combatants with little effect. The energy fueling the fight continued to build. She set down her towel and the glass she had polished too many times. “Number Eight Son,” she called through the link. “My honor as a Labyrinthine trader is called into question. Contain this brawl.”

Number Eight Son picked himself up off the floor and peered into the two-way monitor.

He sported several bright green bruises around his eyes that clashed with his usually beautiful yellow/brown skin. “I shall try, Mother.”

“Do not just try. Do!” Ab’nere shook her head in dismay. Bad enough that she had to worry that the child she carried might possess enough of its father’s DNA to be born weighing more than she did. Her entire station was at risk if the ammonia leaked out.

She took several deep, calming breaths. Then she inflated the cost of the damages and medical bills by a factor of three—the only way to keep the bankers of D’Or from finding too much profit aboard the space station and trying to tack on extra interest.

She really did not want to close this bar before the infant species made his appearance.

Ab’nere’s reputation, not to mention her various bank accounts, and the infant in her womb were at stake.

She pinched her towel with two of her three digits of one paw and a fresh glass in the other. Not that she needed to polish the drinking vessels, the TurboSteam® spat out clean, shiny, sanitized containers no matter which species had drooled into them. The time-honored activity made her look busy while she waited for the next set of customers.

An infant species just making its first venture into space, and a Glug.

She checked the computer’s schedule. Both species had missed their appointment by seventeen centags. An unforgivable breach of etiquette. This did not bode well. Did not this new species realize that all of its future trade agreements and diplomatic alliances revolved around this first meeting at the Labyrinth?

And the Glug. The greedy methane eaters came and went on a schedule understood only by other Glugs.

The infant in her womb twisted and upset her digestion. She folded one ear across her mouth to hide her burp.

She did not need this added worry.

When she had made verbal arrangements for this meeting with the infant species, their representative had promptly named Labyrinth “First Contact Cafi,” stating blithely:

“Yeah, we have them back home.” Whatever that meant?

Within centags of that communication, all thirty-seven species in residence had adopted the name. For sixty-five million trade agreements the station had been Labyrinth.

No more.

This new language could not disappear into the galactic polyglot fast enough.

Ab’nere looked over the bar to make sure a diminutive being had not crept in unnoticed; though preliminary communications indicated the new species was taller than most bipedal quadrupeds in this sector. Species had been known to lie about themselves to keep others from thinking about them in terms of lunch.

The etiquette Ab’nere had codified strictly forbade the question, “Are you edible?” Still, it happened. The granite giants of Magma Prime—like her latest spouse and the father of her eighteenth child—were voracious feeders on anything mineral, sentient or no. And the silicon globules of N’w Sson Hoos’seh had been known to slurp unsuspecting planets dry, leaving desiccated corpses for the Vulturians of Go Bae. Still, most of the fleshy carbon-based species avoided harvesting each other.

She understood why species just venturing beyond their own solar system for the first time liked a neutral meeting point before giving out their home address. They also liked a sense of quiet privacy while they labored through the first delicate negotiations with others. Ab’nere acted as a neutral referee between alien prejudices, preconceptions, needs, attitudes, and languages.

And Ab’nere earned a very generous fee for providing the service and the meeting place.

Most of the time. The brawl in A 108 threatened the first contact as well as the fee.

(Each quarter cycle when the loan payments came due, the bankers of D’Or looked closer and closer at her bookkeeping. She had to work harder and harder at hiding the true numbers. She refused to allow them to increase her debt in direct proportion to the profit margin.)

A brief look into the monitor showed the fight in A 108 winding down. Ab’nere should not have worried. Ammonia breathers did not have the concentration to sustain anything long enough to incur real damage.

Except perhaps mating. Then they lost interest as soon as gestation could be confirmed.

Just as well. Ab’nere did not appreciate interference from any of her eighteen spouses in the raising of her offspring.

Males just did not appreciate that no matter what species they came from, Ab’nere’s children were always fully Labyrinthians. The other species rarely contributed more to the genetic makeup than a useful trait like ammonia gills, or heavy gravity adaptability.

The Magma Giants were an unknown quantity as sires. She should not worry about the size of her child. Every one of her offspring had weighed the same at birth and grown to equal her in height. Still…

The docking manifest showed the infant species arriving at Oxygen/nitrogen/hydrogen 3—about halfway to the end of that spoke and therefore at a mid level gravity. A huge ugly ship that had to slow its rotation to dock. Until they completed that delicate operation, the spacers would be without gravity. Their FTL drive was primitive, probably their first. Must have taken several of their years to reach Labyrinth. Had they resorted to suspended animation to survive the long trip? Ab’nere shuddered at the thought of the primitive travel mode.

Civilized species did not subject their people to such dangerous indignities.

“Number Six Daughter, please open ONH 321 for the isolated use of the new arrivals. Provide fermented grains and distilled spirits for their consumption while they await completion of first contact.”

“Honored Mother, do we truly wish to encourage the consumption of distilled sprits?”

Number Six had the audacity to ask.

If the ammonia breathers drank toxic chemicals, this infant species polluted themselves at higher levels (much as their language had already polluted Labyrinth).

“These infants will either abandon liquor while in space or they will not survive as a species long enough to become a threat to civilization,” Ab’nere replied. “Do not question my orders, Number Six. I have watched species rise and fall a dozen times over during the past two hundred five cycles. I know how to run this station.”

She really needed to supervise the mopping up in A 108, 109 and now up to A 112, and make sure the computer recorded Ab’nere’s estimated repair costs rather than actual numbers. Instead, she waited on a very late infant species and an elder who should know better. Etiquette had been breached by all parties involved.

This mode of affairs must not continue. Etiquette ran Labyrinth and kept misunderstandings to a minimum. She firmly believed that her etiquette prevented war.

A new screen on her spectacles flashed an alarm. “Number Fifteen Son,” she called.

“Aquatic 893 just lost three points of pressure. You must swim in and check for leaks.”

“Oh, Mother, I was just going to bathe,” came the rebellious reply.

“There is plenty of water for bathing in the aquatic arm. And I can see ice forming around portal HO 891C. You must seal that leak now.”

“Can’t you do it, Mother?”

“Not if you want to continue living on this station!”

Number Fifteen sighed as if the weight of the universe rested on his shoulders. Then he shuffled along to his assignment.

Ab’nere kept a corner of one lens reserved for Number Fifteen and his minor repair. Like his father, he could repair anything and breathed HO liquids as readily as OH gases. But he was of an age to question everything and withdraw into his own head for amusement to the exclusion of all else.

A Glug, oozed into ONH 323, rotating its midsection to indicate its search for a new contact. Frequent visitors like the Glugs had terminal jacks wired directly into their brains. The creature bellied up to the bar—that is if the amorphous blobs of sludge had a belly—and plugged in to the translation port of the central system.

Those species not interested in hardwiring their brains usually carried portable jacks that fitted in or over whatever passed for ears.

Ab’nere prided herself on not needing a jack. She learned the new languages as quickly as communications opened up new worlds. Each of her eighteen mates had communicated in a different manner, some of them most interestingly.

But then Labyrinthines tended to have DNA as flexible as their tongues, their ears, and their double-jointed limbs.

“Methane, straight up. Double shot,” the Glug ordered.

Ab’nere suspected this one was Ghoul’gam’esth, their chief negotiator. Glugs were a communal species. What one ate, thought, suffered, the rest of the colony thought, suffered, ate. Identifying any individual proved a challenge to non-Glugs. Only slight differences in coloration separated them. Shape and size constantly varied within each individual. If this one was the Ghoul, then they sent the big guns for the negotiation, showing a bit of desperation. Methane was getting harder to find in its raw state. The greedy Glugs recklessly sought out infant species in search of new sources of their primary food. Often they violated contamination protocols in their never-ending quest for methane. (Galactic scientists had yet to figure out how the species thrived on methane but breathed oxygen.) Rumor had it, this new infant species had an excess of excrement that broke down into large amounts of methane. (Most inefficient.) A trade agreement would benefit them all.

And Ab’nere would collect the commission on the trade agreement, and the docking fees for the transfer of cargo, and library fees for dispensing information on both species. Not to mention what the traders spent on comestibles and ingestibles.

Hopefully, the bankers had not heard of this infant yet and would not know how to compute the trade agreement to their own benefit. How long could Ab’nere keep it hidden?

About as long as she could hide a pregnancy by a Magma Giant. But for now, both were her secrets.

She placed an enclosed globule of methane with a straw and a bright green swizzle stick in the shape of a plumbing plunger on the bar where the Glug could reach it. The useless decoration added refinement to the noxious brew. The new species liked useless ornamentation, too.

A tendril of sluggish brown mass wove up to the bar. The vessel disappeared within. A moment later it reappeared. The Glug expanded to three times its normal size, becoming a denser brown. Ab’nere ducked behind the bar, bracing herself. The Glug belched like a thunderclap followed by a gush of air as strong as the atmosphere from an entire arm of the station rushing to fill a vacuum. The accompanying stench had been known to revive those on the brink of passing on—or cause healthy athletes to drop into a dead faint. The automatic air scrubbers kicked in. Ab’nere emerged from her crouch with a misting bottle. She sprayed the space around the Glug to make sure the odors died an ignoble death. Her favorite acidic sweet smell, the computer said the infant species called mint, replaced the stench of the Glug. Actually this “mint” smelled a lot like the pernicious “sweet on the tongue” or sott plant that had started on Ab’nere’s home world and grew on every known oxygen atmosphere planet, with or without gravity. A horticulturist had once told Ab’nere that if she wanted to start an herb garden in Labyrinth’s hydroponics lab, she should plant a little sott and step out of the way.

“Another, please.” The Glug’s voice appeared on the translation monitor even as Ab’nere’s mind processed the grunts and moans into language.

Ab’nere set out another double shot of methane, keying in a nice tip for herself on the Glug’s tab.

She had just cleansed the next belch when the door whooshed open. A tall, loose-jointed being ambled in. Its lower limbs were encased in a sturdy fabric of dark blue with hints of white in a complex and interesting weave. A finer fabric in a complementary paler shade of the same weave covered its upper body. It removed a large head covering made from some kind of animal leather. It had an amazingly small head for the size of the body. Not much brain capacity there. Pale fur with golden highlights tumbled to where the creature’s neck and arm joints met. It shook the mane so that it flowed tangle free halfway down its back. But its paws and face were not furred. Curious.

And those lumpy organs on its chest? Could the infants have sent a female to negotiate for them? These negotiations could become fierce.

Ab’nere prepared to double her fee.

The infant’s bright eyes, that matched the clothing in color, moved restlessly (warily?), searching the room. Its gaze lighted on Ab’nere. Something akin to lightning flashed across the eyes and it curved a narrow facial opening upward. It bared no dentalia.

Good. It had at least read the first page of the etiquette book.

“Howdy!” the being nearly shouted. A violation of etiquette rule #57A, no need to raise one’s voice with the translator jacks.

Ab’nere ran the greeting through her vocabulary. Nothing computed in her head. She keyed the computer to check with vernacular references.

The explanation scrolled across the screen. “Howdy: a contracted form of ‘how do you do.’ An accepted polite greeting in portions of the central sector of the northern continent of the western hemisphere.”

Great. Not only was the language unstructured and incredibly illogical, it varied from region to region. Maybe she should jack in now and avoid a headache.

The infant’s pointed-toe boots with slightly elevated heels made little clicking sounds against the ceramic floor. Ab’nere clenched her jaw. Etiquette rule number 57B, no untoward noise while moving. This might distract from full comprehension of speech.

“This here the ‘First Contact Cafi’?” the being asked as it moved toward the bar in that curiously graceful, loose-jointed procedure.

Ab’nere contained her distaste at the new name for her beloved Labyrinth.

At least the infant spoke at a lower volume now. It enunciated each word slowly, drawing out many of the syllables. Another politeness to make certain the computer and listeners understood the language.

The infant species plunked its head covering on the bar and spun it. A curious device of two equilateral triangles, one with the apex up, and the other with the apex pointing down, adorned the front. The geometrical symbol of a six-pointed star had been adopted by every space faring nation as an indicator for star systems that supported planets and civilizations capable of space travel. Rather arrogant of the infant species to sport this design on its first excursion into civilized space.

“Body too big for efficient space travel,” the Glug muttered and disconnected from the language computer with a little belch that hardly stank at all.

“Maybe inefficient for conservation of resources aboard ship, but an estimable source of methane,” Ab’nere replied sotto voce in Glug. She gave him another double shot of methane on the house.

The Glug downed the drink and contained his belch—he must be nearing saturation. Or was too intimidated by the infant to properly digest. He shifted into a different amorphous shape rather than reply.

He made a curious form that invited the infant to perch atop him.

“Welcome to Labyrinth. You have found your appointment,” Ab’nere replied to the infant. She tried to imitate the up-curving facial gesture. She could not manage it without revealing a few teeth. Definitely bad form.

“Lexie du Prei, Abilene, Texas, in the good ole US of A. That’s on Earth. Folks just call me ‘Sexy.’” She thrust out a slender paw as if it expected physical touch.

Another breach. Rule number 23. No offer of physical contact on first meeting.

The paw remained outthrust, all four digits straight and stacked neatly one atop the other. The opposable thumb sticking out at a right angle must make it very dexterous.

Ab’nere stared at it with envy. Her own three-digit paw managed quite well, especially with suckers on each digit, but one more and an opposable would be ever so useful in manipulating glasses and counting credits at the same time. Perhaps her next mate should be from this infant species.

Ab’nere drew a deep breath and slowly extended her own forelimb with its suddenly inadequate three digits. She brushed flat surfaces, skin to skin. The being from Earth wrapped its digits around hers in a warm clasp. A curious feeling of well-being coiled up Ab’nere’s forelimb. The curving mouth gesture came more naturally to her.

Ab’nere gave her name in both her own language and the infant species’ according to appropriate protocol. The Glug appeared inert, removed from the language interface and therefore the proceedings.

Initial negotiations fell to Ab’nere. Not the first time she had stepped in. Mentally she added another ten percent to her fee.

Lexie du Preh folded her limbs to perch on the nearest object—The Ghoul. She leaned against the bar, both forelimb joints resting on the polished surface. Ab’nere grimaced at the cloudy marks its body heat left there.

“Sorry I’m late, Abner. But I went up to the observation bubble on this spoke to make sure my ship was locked down tight and I kinda got lost looking out at the stars. That sure is a purity view you got there.”

Purrty: colloquial form of pretty, slightly less than beautiful, the computer prompted Ab’nere.

“Your space station looks like a tin can with straws sticking out of it at odd angles from space. I got the lay of the land a bit. But, you know, from five million klicks away, it’s just another little blip on the sensors. I like looking at the stars better. You got quite a view here.”

“Yes, the view can be entrancing.” Ab’nere eyed Lexie du Preh’s stool and foot placement suspiciously. A bubble of mirth almost escaped her mouth. But that would be impolite to all parties involved.

Ab’nere served her new client a beer, one of the brews specified in preliminary communications. Actually fermented grain mixtures seemed to be a universal beverage; along with fermented fruits and vegetables—even the Glugs’ methane was a

fermentation of a sort. Only infant species indulged in distilled spirits and then not for long. Strong alcohol rotted brains and produced hallucinations faster in space.

At the last moment she remembered to plunk a pink parasol into the foamy head of the beer.

Lexie du Preh curved her mouth upward again and drained most of her beer in one long swallow. She held the parasol against the side of the drinking vessel with one of those marvelously jointed digits. Then she wiped her mouth daintily with a square of pristine white cloth she removed from her pocket. Some sort of floppy thread decoration edged the piece.

Ab’nere suddenly lusted after the attractive adornment.

Something in the delicacy of the gesture and the cloth did not mesh with the crude image the infant projected. Ab’nere watched Lexie du Preh more closely.

“But I see that I’m not the only pardner ridin’ in late,” Lexie du Preh said.

Pardner: colloquial of partner, used to indicate acquaintanceship or similarity of profession rather than those engaged in an actual partnership.

Ridin’. Ab’nere keyed into the computer quickly.

Ridin’: colloquial of riding, a euphemism for any kind of transport.

Lexie du Preh looked around the seemingly empty bar once more. “So, tell me, woman to woman, what can I expect from these Glugs? Are they canny as rattlers?”

Shrewd negotiators, the computer translated in shorthand.

Uh-oh, even the language program was succumbing to the infant’s abbreviated speech.

“Woo… woman?” Ab’nere gasped. “You can tell I am female?” She looked at her blunt, hairless body that only reached Lexie du Preh’s shoulder. She was clad in her customary asexual robe that covered her from shoulder to heel. Polite species did not flaunt sexuality.

Only selected mates could tell the sex of a Labyrinthine, and then only by smell during estrus. All relationships were built on asexual friendship before mating could even be considered.

“Shoot, honey, I can tell you’ve got a bun in the oven, and ain’t no man kin do that!”

“No one knows that yet. Not even the father. Are you a telepath? Your visitor profile did not mention telepathic abilities.”

“Nah. No hoodoo voodoo thought waves. Don’t believe much in that stuff. Every once in a while we’ll get a throwback who can see some strange stuff that ain’t really there. But we haven’t figured out how to make them breed true or train those we can verify. We just rely on observation. There’s something in the attitude toward life that makes us both female and new mamas. I got one incubatin’ myself, due in about seven of our moon cycles. We’re kindred spirits.”

“Kindred spirits,” Ab’nere repeated dully, not certain she wanted to pursue this relationship any further. Lexie du Preh had jumped from an interesting primitive to a formidable observer in one quantum leap.

“So, tell me: what am I up against?” Lexie du Preh asked.

“The Glugs consume methane. That is the primary objective of all of their trade agreements.” Preliminary contacts should have established that.

“Methane. Sure. We got enough chicken shit and hog poop to feed their whole planet for a year or two. But what can we get from these living sewage disposal plants that would benefit us?”

“What do you need.”

“Tech advice. That ship we built moves faster than anything we’ve ever had. But from what I’ve seen of the ships docked around the First Contact Cafi, it’s a slug. If we want to become a presence in the galaxy, we got to have some speed.”

Ab’nere suspected that an Earther presence in the galaxy just might prove dangerous to all concerned.

She made a calculated decision. Profits came from alliances with the strongest races.

“The Glugs have access to a better FTL drive than you have.”

“Sure they don’t just propel themselves by belching a little volatile gas?”

Both Lexie du Preh and Ab’nere spread their mouths upward at the image.

“The Glugs have invented many wonderful things in their quest for new food sources.”

Ab’nere kept her demeanor sober as she leaned forward confidentially. Keeping one eye on the computer terminal to make sure the Glug hadn’t jacked in to eavesdrop, she whispered, “Frankly, I don’t like the Glugs. They stink. Right now their odor upsets the baby. That violates several rules of etiquette. I’d like to see your people get the best deal they can.”

She repeated the same phrase in every negotiation she handled regardless of her personal preferences. Etiquette and profit sometimes did not mesh.

“Sure ’nuff, honey. I grew up on the chicken ranch. I know what I’m dealing with. Now how much shit can we unload for a new FTL drive?”

Ab’nere told her.

“That much?”

“Will that impoverish you?”

“Ah, I don’t think so. But it will be a stretch. Might have to start mining the cattle ranches as well as the hog farms for that much. What about an artificial gravity. How much would that cost? We could cut the size of the ship down by fifty percent if we didn’t depend upon rotation. Or increase the cargo holds by that much if we kept the same size. Think the Glugs would let us have that?”

Ab’nere prodded the Glug with a judicious jolt of electricity from the floor beneath it.

The Glug jacked in. It replied to Ab’nere silently by way of the machine.

“Oh, I think the Glugs can appreciate your request. But they’d want at least fifty percent more for the fil-grav than the FTL.”

“Now that might present a bit of a hardship. We’d have to increase our herds, but you only get prime methane from animals at their peak of youth and strength. We’ll have to slaughter the aging critters to make way for young’uns. And what do we do with all those carcasses? We’ll have to,” shudder, “eat them.”

“Yes that could present a hardship,” Ab’nere agreed. Secretly she checked the Glug’s connection to the computer. He had shuddered in disgust right along with Lexie du Preh.

The Ghoul might prove more generous than usual. Or be more desperate.

“And what about fodder for all them critters,” Lexie du Preh continued. We’ll have to divert expensive grain supplies from human consumption to feeding chickens and pigs, and bulls. That ain’t going to go over too big with some folks back home.”

The Glug sent several rapid communications through his Jack with instructions.

“What kind of grains?” Ab’nere asked.

“Corn mostly.”

The computer flashed a visual as well as a description of a plant Ab’nere knew all too well, tall stalks with kernels growing on long tubes. Every civilized planet burned the pernicious monster as a weed that had spread from Ab’nere’s home planet and adapted to every local environment—like sott and Labyrinthians themselves. No one had ever considered eating the kernels of “corn.”

“Perhaps I can strike an additional deal with you. For a fee…”

“What kind of deal?” Lexie du Preh twirled the leather head covering on one forepaw digit, staring at it as if falling into a trance.

“I know a source for this corn you require.”

“We’ll have to test it for DNA compatibility. Don’t want our prime methane producers starvin’ to death on an inert substance.”

“The DNA on my planet has proved most flexible.”

“How so?” Lexie du Preh narrowed her eyes.

Ab’nere had come to think of that expression as calculating. She definitely wanted the genetic advantages an Earther mate would give her offspring.

“Since the people of Labyrinth first ventured into space one thousand cycles ago, sentient beings, livestock, plants, anything native to our world has proved incapable of breeding with other natives. We must crossbreed with the beings we encounter, absorbing their culture, their languages, and their genes. But the offspring always take on the overt characteristics of a Labyrinthine.” Plus a few advantages.

How could she use a very large child of a Magma Giant to boost her profits?

“You think your corn will cross-pollinate with our corn?”

“We have yet to fail.”

“Then I guess we got ourselves a deal.” Once more Lexie du Preh held out her paw for a contact greeting.

“Our surveys indicate your species regards a written contract with signatures as binding.” Ab’nere eyed the slim hand devoid of fur skeptically.

“The lawyer-types back home will require one. But just between you ’n me, friends, women, new mamas, a handshake is as binding as a signature.” Lexie du Preh’s voice took on an edge previously missing.

“And so it is with my people.” Ab’nere clasped her new business partner’s paw with her own, squeezing lightly but firmly.

“Now how do I pay for this here beer? Mighty good beer it is, too.” She finished the last few drops, again dabbing at her mouth with the square of fine cloth and its intriguing edge.

“What kind of currency do you use back on Earth?” Ab’nere asked, even as she added the cost of the beer to the ship’s docking fees—payable in trade with the first exchange of cargoes.

“Mostly we work on a credit system, all handled by the computers. But for casual transactions we use coins.” She dumped a handful of metal disks upon the bar.

“All of these are common metals,” Ab’nere eyed the collection skeptically. “I could consider that square of white cloth with the thread edging, though, for the beer. What besides methane does your world produce in surplus?”

“People.”

Another reason to choose an Earther as a mate. Ab’nere hoped they were as skilled lovers as the ammonia breathers.

“What about more woven textiles of this fineness?” Ab’nere held up the square of white.

“This type of edging might prove useful in paying for the corn.”

Lexie du Preh fingered the curious crossed triangles emblem on her hat. She waited through a long moment.

The Glug asked anxious questions. His silent words on the computer screen nearly danced with glee. He’d get his methane. Ab’nere would turn a pernicious weed into a cash crop. The Earthers would enter into the realm of galactic trade as happy partners.

The silence stretched on for more long moments while Lexie du Preh weighed the cost of the corn against the technological gains. The atmosphere in the bar grew thick.

“Deal,” she said on a deep sigh.

They shook paws again.

“Folks back home will be skeptical of this chicken shit deal. That’s one hell of a high price to pay. But I’ll make ’ern see the value in it.” She handed over the square of cloth reluctantly. “We call this a lace-edged hankie. This one belonged to my Nanna.”

“Then I shall treasure this artifact and record its provenance with care.” Ab’nere patted the hankie with respect. Four digits and an opposable thumb seemed to work wonders with looms her own species could not manage. She imagined woven translucent veils that had nothing to do with the spun webs of the Arachnoids of Arachnia. “I’ll have a contract ready in a few centags. You, the Glug representative, and I will all sign it with three witnesses from neutral species.”

“Sounds good. Say, I’m throwin’ a little party on my ship tonight. The crew deserves a little three-alarm-Texas chili and beer after our trek to the First Contact Cafi. Come along and bring the Glug. If he’s lucky, he might get a sample of some of the best methane ever produced on Earth. A rare treat.”

“For me or the Glug?”