Story Sampler

  * * * * *

  The trip to the apartment complex didn’t take very long, but his discussion with the frantic Ms. Lange did. She was rightly concerned, since he had contacted her about her daughter’s disappearance before she—or anyone else—had even noticed she was gone. Then she had gone through her contact list calling everyone who could potentially know where she could be. By the time we had arrived, she had finished her calls and was quite angry. I understood her anger, and before I could think better, I offered my heartfelt and sincere condolences. I almost told her I had killed her, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Instead, I told her I had seen the thing that had taken her daughter, and that she had been killed by it. Needless to say, that extended the conversation.

  Then Detective Green ushered me out of the room and asked me if I were crazy. “There is no evidence—“

  “Aside from what I saw,” I interrupted.

  “What you saw?” he growled. “What you saw?” Then he was pulling me uncomfortably down the hallway to the elevator, a crotchety old device that sounds like a Rube Goldberg concoction. He said nothing else until we were outside, and he was hustling me toward the alley. I tried to keep up, but he was moving too fast, and I stumbled. He barely paused long enough to hold me up and half-carry me to its entrance.

  My cane grew warmer as we approached, and I felt it pulling at my hand like a dowsing rod. He noticed, and pulled up short. “Where is it?” he demanded gruffly.

  “There,” I said, letting my cane point him in the right direction. “Slowly!” I protested as he bulldozed forward. He slowed down some, and when we passed the midway point, I moved closer to the exterior wall of the apartment complex. I couldn’t see the apartment complex, of course, but I could see the hole. It was a gaping black hole surrounded by lesser shades of gray. I stopped about five feet from it and raised my hand, letting the cane have its will with me.

  My arm began tingling.

  I stepped forward, and he gasped. I half-smiled. It must have been frightening to see the tip of the cane disappear. “This way,” I said, moving forward another step. “Take my hand,” I added, holding my left hand out. “You need to stay in contact with me if you want to go through.”

  He was reluctant, and I stood as still as I could, resisting the pull of the cane until he finally gave me his hand and stepped forward to stand beside me.

  “You may want to close your eyes,” I added, taking the last inevitable step toward the opening and allowing it to take me—us—in its grip. The folding process began, and after a few seconds, we were through.

  The colors were all around us.

  The polyp was reaching out, devouring the cane. Finding it inedible, it began searching for something else. I stepped aside and gave Detective Green a gentle shove forward. As he screamed, an unsavory thought ran through my mind.

  I’m the bait…

  Natural Selection

  David Jaeger eased his 2015 Toyota Prius into the first available spot near the entrance of The Intrepid Catholic Clinic, put it in park, and shut off the engine. His wife, head bowed, hands folded, moved her lips in silent prayer, and he respectfully lowered his head and waited. At length, she took a deep breath and they both quietly said, “Amen.”

  He opened his door, got out—it was a warm, sunny morning—and walked around the front of the car to open her door for her. She smiled, eased her long legs through the open door, ducked, pried herself out—with his help—and unfolded herself. Once outside, she stretched, smiled down at her husband, and said, “Thank you, dear.” She resembled a warped wooden matchstick—tall, slender, topped off with brilliant red hair that shone like flame where the sunlight ignited it—cloaked in a loose-fitting sky blue blouse and navy blue slacks. The slight bulge in her midsection was barely noticeable, except to those who knew her well. The crucifix, small and unobtrusive, glittered as it settled on her chest, just between her modest breasts. She glanced at her watch, licked her lips, and said, “We’re a bit early.”

  He nodded and took her hand in his. “I know,” he said. “We’ll have to wait.” Beside her, he looked short and fat, even though he was nearly six feet tall and was well within his BMI scale. He had carefully manicured collar-length, feathered brown hair and wore a sleek black business suit—expensive but not outlandish—that screamed middle management. “Well,” he added, stepping onto the curb, “we may as well go in.” She nodded, falling in beside him, their strides melding into a long-familiar rhythm. He paused with his hand on the door handle, and looked into her troubled brown eyes. “Whatever the results,” he said quietly. “Whatever the results, God will see us through.”

  “I know,” she said, forcing a smile. “But,” she said, her lower lip quivering, “what if it’s positive?”

  “We’ve been through that a hundred times,” he said, somewhat impatiently. “We’ll deal with that when—if—the time comes.”

  There was a gentle push on the door from inside, and they separated to allow the couple coming out to pass between them. It was an Hispanic couple. He was standing a bit away from her, his eyes ahead of him, ignoring both of them as he passed. His wife, slower, more deliberate, eyes downcast, lifted her gaze—her eyes were puffy and red—and half-smiled. “Excuse us,” she said politely, then lowered her gaze again.

  They gazed after the couple for a moment, then their hands instinctively linked as he caught the door and held it open. Once inside, he exhaled slowly, deliberately, and they crossed the short distance to the receptionist’s desk. Jesus looked kindly down at them from above the receptionist desk, and he surreptitiously crossed himself.

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asked from behind the counter. She was young, still in the trainee habit, with a dimpled smile and innocent blue eyes.

  “We have an appointment,” he said. “The Jaegers. They have the results,” he added, unnecessarily.

  The receptionist smiled—kindly, like Jesus—and turned her attention to the computer screen just below the counter edge. “Yes,” she said. “You’re Dr. Richards’ 2:00 p.m. appointment.” She made a few keystrokes. “You’re a bit early,” she added. “It will be a few minutes.”

  “That’s all right,” his wife said.

  “You can wait in there,” she said gesturing to an open area to the left. There were several love seats, artfully arranged to allow a modicum of privacy amid the congestion of the waiting room. Small tables stood between pairs of them, and on each table were two copies of the Bible. Reproductive prints of the Last Supper, the Creation of Adam, and a pieta hung from three of the walls, while the fourth was a large plate-glass window. There were two couples sitting together, quietly talking or praying.

  “Thank you,” David said, ushering his wife into one of the open love seats. It was a comfortable seat, well-cushioned, forgiving, intimate. They waited in silence, each entertaining their own thoughts, their eyes examining the contours of the tile floor.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jaeger,” a voice intruded upon them. She was an elderly woman, probably near retirement, a bit frumpy, little makeup. A white smock—pristine at a distance, but as she neared, the remnants of an old coffee stain shaped like a crooked, bleeding comma came into focus; her name tag—RITA—was a bit tilted in her vain attempt to cover the bulk of the stain.

  Mr. Jaeger kept his eyes sternly focused on his wife’s white knuckles smothering his hand.

  “Yes?” his wife asked, lifting her gaze to meet Rita’s indiscernible hazel eyes, somewhat magnified by Rita’s thick glasses.

  “Dr. Richards will see you now,” Rita said, her voice a deep alto. “If you will come this way,” she said, turning authoritatively.

  Mrs. Jaeger, the muscles of her jaws twitching, was the first to stand, dragging her husband’s arm with her. A moment later, he forced himself to stand, and they followed Rita down a corridor. It was a familiar corridor, the one they had been escorted down when they had come in for the amniocentesis. Several doors were closed, some had tiny blue lights on
them while others had green or red. They had expected to be ushered into one of the ones with a green light, but Rita led them around the end of the corridor and down a second hallway. They turned, again, at the end of that hallway, and into a dead end. It was fairly short, with two doors on either side. Three of the doors were open with green lights; the other was closed with a red light on.

  Rita led them to the last door on the right, opposite the closed door, and gestured them in.

  It wasn’t the typical doctor’s office room. There were no examination tables covered in a white sheet and plastic, no sink, no cupboards or drawers, no gadgets of any sort. There was a small table with a few chairs around it. A few pamphlets were neatly arranged on the table—almost obsessively so. An inverted five gallon water bottle with little paper cups waited just inside the doorway. It still had that antiseptic smell that pervades clinics. “Dr. Richards will be in to see you shortly,” Rita said, turning on the blue light and slowly shutting the door.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Jaeger said, her voice quavering in her ears, a bit too high-pitched, a bit too grating. She smiled, until the door was shut, then leaned into her husband. He squeezed her shoulder, gently, the gesture saying much more than the “I know,” he whispered a few moments later. He repeated it, again, more for himself, this time.

  After a long moment, they separated and moved to sit at the table. Mr. Jaeger looked at the pamphlets, read a few titles, and quickly turned them over. His wife clutched her crucifix and sat quickly down.

  “What if it’s positive,” she said plaintively, her fingertip nudging one of the overturned pamphlets.

  “God willing,” he said quietly, “It won’t be.”

  She lowered her gaze and repeated, barely audible, “But what if it is?”

  He sighed. “We’ve gone over it a thousand times,” he said.

  “I know, but… What if our baby has it?” She looked up, her eyes troubled, hopeful, uncertain, scared, pleading—the same wild concoction of emotions that had plagued them since the day of the test.

  He frowned. “Well,” he said after a few moments, glancing down at the pamphlets. “We’ll have to decide that when we have to decide that.”

  “I wish we never did that damned test,” she blurted, biting her lip.

  He nodded, slowly. “I know,” he said. She had been reluctant from the start, but he had told her that it would be better to know, and he repeated it. “At least we’ll know.” He reached out and took her hand gently between his. “Regardless of what it is, we’ll know what we’ll have to do.”

  They sat in silence, their forehead leaning against each other. After what seemed like an eternity, the door handle turned, startling them. It opened, slowly, and Dr. Richards entered, closing it softly behind her.

  “Good afternoon,” Dr. Richards began, leaning against the door.

  They nodded, and David said, “Hello Dr. Richards.”

  “We have the results,” she began, leaning against the closed door. Dr. Richards was short, about five two, brunette, dressed in a white smock that did little to tarnish her voluptuous figure. She held a clipboard against her chest, her arms folded defensively around it, and her brows furrowed. “Are you sure you want to know them?” She asked.

  Mrs. Jaeger gulped, turned pale, slid her hand from between her husband’s and guided it slowly to her crucifix, rolling it gently between her fingertips.

  He cringed, his fingers following her hand for a moment before falling flat on the table.

  Mr. Jaeger nodded, slowly, deliberately. “Yes,” he added, bracing himself.

  Dr. Richards nodded. “Mrs. Jaeger?”

  Mrs. Jaeger gulped, her hand dropping from her crucifix to settling gently, protectively on her abdomen. She took a deep breath and squawked a feeble, “yes.”

  “All right, then,” Dr. Richards said. “The test results are positive.” She paused, then her voice softened and she added, unnecessarily, “He will be gay.”

  Mrs. Jaeger sobbed, her hands moving up to her mouth as she attempted to retain some composure. “No,” she said behind her clenched, crumpled fingers. “It has to be wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jaeger,” Dr. Richards replied, “but the test is 100 percent accurate. He has the combination of genes that has been conclusively linked to homosexuality. Everyone with this combination of genes is gay.”

  Mr. Jaeger nodded, blinking rapidly, and rasped, “Thank you doctor,” he said. “May we have a few moments?”

  “Of course,” Dr. Richards said, turning and opening the door. Before closing it, she switched the light to red and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes to discuss your options.” The door slid shut quietly behind her.

  “Oh Davy, he’s gay. Our baby’s gay.” She sobbed.

  “Options,” he directed his anger toward the door. “What options?” he barked. “Abortion? That’s murder. A gay son? That’s an abomination. How do we choose between them?” A few moments passed, then, as the tears began to flow, he repeated, “How do we choose?”

  Several more seconds passed before Mrs. Jaeger, tears streaming down her cheeks, said, “Because,” she gulped, reaching for the nearest pamphlet with a shaky hand and turning it slowly over. The title was, My Baby’s Gay: Now What?

  She took a deep breath and finished, “Because we must.”

  Code 13 B

  The Granger Bee tumbled through space like a dead leaf caught in the currents of a river. Its trajectory had been—and continued to be—a low earth orbit, unless it ran full tilt into the Pacific Ocean before it pulled up. According to The Scavenger II navigation computer, whatever it would do would happen in three days, four hours, and sixteen minutes.

  “Jonah?” Captain Jasmine Gray said with a twisted sense of optimistic sadness.

  “No response to queries, Ma’am,” Lieutenant Jonah Tway replied.

  “Life signs?” Captain Gray continued. A part of her always hoped there would be, but when a ship did a ballet dance like that…

  “Negative, Ma’am. It appears to be a derelict.”

  Captain Gray sighed. “Very well,” she said, “Match her speed, trajectory, and rotational vectors.” The Scavenger II began to twist in a rhythmic fashion, and Captain Gray fought back the instinctive twinge of queasiness.

  “There, Captain!” Ensign Lev Latovski said. “It looks like a meteorite strike.”

  “Yes,” Captain Gray said, “It definitely collided with something.” There was a hole in the hull—a relatively small one, but even small holes could be disastrous in space, especially when it opened up the bridge like this one had.

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Tway said, “We’ve received confirmation from Space Central. They lost contact with the Granger Bee two weeks ago. Shall I report that we found it?”

  Captain Gray shook her head. “Not yet. Let’s find out if there are any survivors, first. You and Lev suit up and check it out.”

  “Yes Ma’am,” they replied in unison.

  After they had left the bridge and were replaced, Captain Gray nudged the intercom button and said, “Michelle?”

  “Captain?”

  “Prepare for departure on a salvage mission.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, preparations are already underway.”

  A few minutes later, Lieutenant Tway’s voice came through the ship intercom. “Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  “You can scratch the salvage plans.”

  Captain Gray frowned, “Survivors?”

  “No, Captain,” Lieutenant Tway said. “They’re all dead; the ship’s life support system was damaged in the collision.”

  Captain Gray’s frown deepened. “Jonah, if there are no survivors, what is to stop us from claiming salvage rights?”

  “Um,” Jonah hesitated. “Code 13 B.”

  Captain Gray’s eyebrows twitched upward as she repeated, “Code 13 B?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. This is a Commission matter. Of course, we’ll have to tow it in…”

  At cost,
Captain Gray finished for him. “Why?” she said, pressing her fingertips to her lips. “Mister Tway, there hasn’t been a violation of Code 13 B in over fifty years, not since the death penalty was attached to it. I don’t know of any spacefarers who are stupid enough to take a risk like that these days.”

  “Nevertheless,” Lieutenant Tway said, “the destruction of the ship was not due to a meteorite. The ship struck a diaper, and it has identitags attached to it.”

  Captain Gray stared forward for a long moment, then said, “All right, Lieutenant, can you stabilize it?”

  “I believe so, Ma’am. It will take a few minutes.”

  “Very well. How many bodies?”

  “Seven.”

  Seven dead, she thought. That should never have happened. “Bring their names, secure the bodies, and seal the ship when you finish. Cut its engines and we’ll tow it in with grapples. I’ll contact Space Central and alert Commission to the situation. Make it snappy—we wouldn’t want to disturb the evidence any more than we already have.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Captain?” Ensign Liza Lauderman asked after Captain Gray finished her report.

  “Yes, Liz?”

  “What’s Code 13 B?”

  Captain Gray turned toward the youngest member of her crew. “Don’t they teach it at the academies anymore?”

  The ensign shook her head. “No, Ma’am.”

  “Code 13 B,” Captain Gray said, “is the law prohibiting littering in space. Since the debris continues to move at the rate in which it is expelled from the ship, it becomes a space hazard with the potential to do what happened to the Granger Bee. Even soft debris is dangerous, since it freezes immediately. Now that the reclamation units are mandatory on all space faring vessels, whatever refuse is made is recycled. Now, there’s no need to clutter up space with garbage. Hence, the punishment is severe for those who violate it.”

  “Oh,” Ensign Lauderman said, turning to stare at the crippled derelict slowly tumbling over on the view screen.

  Worms

  Worms. That’s what brought them here. Worms. I know it sounds odd, but it’s true. Really. I’m a worm-broker—at least, that’s what they call me. I only owned one bait-house in Tennessee when they came—now I have sixty. They bought every worm I had—and paid in gold. So, I started buying worms from other bait-houses. They bought all those worms from me, too. Soon I was rich. All because of worms.

  It was early summer when they showed up. Fishing season was well underway, so I had plenty of worms on hand. Or so I thought. I’ll never forget that first Tuesday—or was it Wednesday? Can’t remember—when I was locking up shop for the night. From nowhere, someone said, “Worms” and I nearly leapt from my shoes before I realized there was somebody standing in the shadows. “What?” I called, trying to give myself time to recover. “Who’s there?” Talking shadows are unnerving.

  Someone stepped half-way out of the shadows, stopped, and backed up again before I could get a good look at them. There were two of them, wearing a pair of overalls of some sort. Black overalls; all black. They stayed in the shadows and one of them repeated, “Worms.”

  “Sorry, I’m closed,” I said, turning to walk home.

  “Worms,” the other one said, louder, throwing a coin on the ground in front of me. A gold coin—but not from here. Egyptian? Maybe. It didn’t matter; it was gold. It tasted like gold.

  “Well,” I smiled, “How many do you want?”

  “Worms,” they said, again, throwing down another coin.

  I shrugged and brought them worms until I didn’t have any more left. One hundred fifteen dozen worms, give or take a few. They didn’t even ask for change, all they wanted was a box to put them in. Then I had to set it in the shadows—they wouldn’t come out under the light.

  One of them picked up the box and the other one said, “Tomorrow,” and the first one finished with, “Worms.” Then they were gone and I needed to find some worms. Lots of worms. Fast.

  It took half the night and all the next day for me to round up the worms. I checked under all the usual rocks and debris. I watered the lawn and grabbed some more. I called all the local boys who supplied me with worms and told them I’d pay extra for rush delivery—all they could find. Then I bought all the worms I dared from the local bait-houses. So, when they showed up the next night, I had about three hundred dozen worms all boxed up and ready to go. This time, they tossed a handful of coins on the ground—ten in all—and said, “More, tomorrow.”

  I made some phone calls, sold a few of the coins, and was soon buying worms from three counties. I was careful, though, and didn’t buy too many worms from any one dealer or sent somebody else to buy them for me. It wouldn’t have paid for them to find out what was going on. I went through five thousand dozen—and they still wanted more. So I got curious about what they were doing with all those worms and, that night, I followed them to their spaceship. Yep, that’s right, space—ship. They knew I was there, too. They asked me in—not in words, mind you, but I knew what they meant. It was weird. Real weird. Kind of a tingling in my forehead that pulled me toward the ship’s door—and through it.

  Inside, there were all kinds of shiny metal things but not any lights that I could see. A glowing metal bar was on the wall every now and then but it didn’t help me very much. It was like walking in twilight. A bit chilly, too. And empty. I followed the corridor until I heard some noise—then I stopped.

  “Come,” one of them called. So I walked through a doorway and into a small room with a table, chairs, and the familiar smell of worms. And aliens. Two of them.

  “Worms,” one of them said, stepping away from the table. There they were; my worms, wriggling around in dishes full of some kind of goo. They offered me some but I declined, telling them I raised the worms and couldn’t possibly eat them, too. It didn’t stop them, though; they were hungry. For worms. My worms.

  We talked a little bit, then. Sort of. I talked, they replied in my head. I don’t know how they did it, but it gave me a headache. Anyway, it seems that worms are a highly prized delicacy on their world—kind of like caviar or escargot here on Earth. (I wouldn’t eat them, either!) Anyway, they’d been coming to Earth every now and then to get a fresh supply. It had gotten a bit risky, lately, though; with all the technological advances us Earthlings have made, they had to be careful. They couldn’t harvest them themselves anymore, the way they used to do, so they bought them from me. Of course, with the increase in danger, the worms were at a premium on their planet and they were going to make a lot of money when they got back home. That was good for me, too.

  That pretty much sums up my little talk with the aliens. Then I left their ship, went home, thought about it for a while, shrugged, and went to bed. Why should I care about what happened to my worms? Eaten by fish or alien, what difference did it make? Simple: fish didn’t pay in gold. So, I bought more worms and sold them to the aliens, too.

  It went on for about two months and then, one night, they didn’t show up. I tried to find them, but their ship was gone. So I had worms. Lots and lots of worms.

  Damned aliens, anyway.

  Sturgeon’s General Warning: Too Much Science Fiction May Be Hazardous to Your Health

  Try to Imagine:

  You work the graveyard shift at a convenience store. Which store? It doesn’t matter; it’s one of the prototypical regional chains in Podunk, U.S.A. Got it in mind? Lots of aisles with over-priced candy, food, beer, sodas, toilet paper, lighters—everything a traveler might need, all stacked in neat little rows gathering dust. You’re in Podunk, U.S.A., remember? Not much ever happens in Podunk.

  All right. Graveyard has a few short peaks of business—and lots of long, dry valleys. The first peak is when the second-shifters get off work; the second is the influx of drunks when the bars close; then the third shift lunch-break; and, finally, the early risers. The rest of the time, it’s the stragglers, the woe-be-gone, the between-stops truckers, and the sightseers from down So
uth who get lost. You might see three or four people in an hour. Might. It’s BORING. Oh, you’ve got to balance the books and clean the place and that will eat up an hour or two each night—which leaves about four or five hours of doldrums. Just to keep from falling asleep, you have to do something—like reading science fiction. Asimov, Vance, Zelazny (blending into fantasy, just for a change of pace), a little Heinlein to perk up the middle-of-the-week blues, and short stories on the weekend because you never know what might happen.

  Then, one night, in the middle of Enemy Mine, you hear this whirly kind of noise, like when you were a kid twirling a yo-yo around your head as fast as it could go. Only, this whirly noise is right outside the store, and it’s much, much louder. You turn, expecting to see one of those fancy new-fangled helicopters you’ve been reading about. The black ones. Then you see it.

  Your first thought is about Dracons. The mental picture you’ve drawn from Longyear’s descriptive prose is still very fresh in your mind. You see one of their ships gently setting down by the gas pumps and—

  And you realize there really is a ship there, and something is emerging from it. Only, it’s not a Dracon ship. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if Davidge is going to come to your rescue—but only for a moment. If there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that Davidge won’t be saving you. These aren’t Dracons.

  Two creatures detach themselves from the hull of the cauliflower-shaped craft, unfold their limbs—each one has three—and ooze their way up to the door like a water spider gliding on the surface tension of a puddle. One is about twice the size of the other—perhaps four feet tall—and you have a fleeting burst of confidence that you could take them if you had to. Then you get a good look at them as the larger one grabs the door handle with a six-inch talon and pulls it open. So much for overpowering them. Next option, please.

  The smaller one enters first, bounding about on its three legs, its rotating eyestalks taking in everything. You are standing behind the counter with your back tightly pressed against the cigarette rack. As the aliens approach, you see that they have ridges of bone down their front, each one sprouting something that looks like a heap of spaghetti. They stand there and, out of sheer habit, you say, “Welcome to—”

  You almost say “Earth,” but you stop yourself before the cliché slips out. You finish with a lame, oft-repeated, “How may I help you?”

  “Glagnock Trishnu,” the larger one says; its voice deep and sonorous, coming from somewhere you can’t see.

  “Huh?” You stutter. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “Glagnock Trishnu,” the larger one repeats. As if it should suddenly be clear, it adds, “Artenni.”

  “Artenni! Artenni!” the little one coos, hopping from one leg to another and another, almost knocking off the counter display. This week, it’s Marlboro Man.

  Now, in a brief moment of interstellar understanding—perhaps the first in human history—you know what “Glagnock Trishnu” means. You point and say, “Down the aisle, first door on your left.” You watch the little alien run out of sight, and a few minutes later, you hear the familiar sound of the toilet flushing. Then the little one is bounding back into view.

  “Nutui,” the larger one says. “Nutui,” the little one echoes as they walk out the door. A few moments later, they reattach themselves to their ship and it leaves. You go outside to watch, but they’re already out of sight. You stand there for a while, shrug, and go back inside. You walk past the counter and head for the storeroom to get the mop, just in case the alien made a mess. On your way past the counter, your eyes fall upon the abandoned story, and you pause. You reach out to pick up the magazine, glance at the page you were reading. Davidge, Dracons, Zamiss—all of it has taken on a different character; it’s suddenly more real.

  With a shudder, you toss the magazine in the trashcan by the door and think, no more Sci-Fi for me! A quick glance at the stars confirms your decision. “You see all kinds,” you mutter to yourself. You shake your head and shuffle toward the bathroom, wondering what kind of mess you’ll find.

  “I think,” you say to yourself, “I’ll start reading mysteries. Nice, safe mysteries.”

  Plague

  “The complaints are becoming excessive, Minister,” H’Juri’s assistant stated, pointing at the muted screen in the corner. “These Earthers are becoming a nuisance.”

  “Understandable, S’Gashi,” the Minister of Communication replied. “How are the web technicians progressing? What is the projected date for nullifying the interference?

  “At present,” S’Gashi replied, scraping his paws on the soft earth, “it is projected to be accomplished within a few solar cycles.”

  H’Juri nodded, patting the ground with exasperation. “It cannot be helped, then. Very well, S’Gashi, inform the Unity of the situation—perhaps other research can be more fruitful.”

  “Yes, Minister,” S’Gashi scratched the ground and rose to leave. “At once!”

  When S’Gashi had gone, H’Juri stared at the odd images scampering about on the communications screen. “They are strange, are they not?” the old Minister muttered, turning the volume back on.

  “L’Ci!” the Earther called D’Zi screamed at the Earther called L’Ci and she scampered into the domicile with haste.

  “A strange species, indeed,” he muttered, punching the code for the Ministry of Science.

  “Ah, H’Juri,” the familiar face of P’Dana’s assistant appeared. He rapidly scarped the ground, leaving two sets of gouges for a considerable distance. “P’Dana will speak with you at once.”

  H’Juri politely scratched the ground with one paw, deferentially awaiting the appearance of P’Dana. When he appeared, they exchanged the usual greeting of brothers and H’Juri asked, “Tell me, my brother, how fare the understandings?”

  P’Dana’s proboscis snapped out, snaring a large insect from the sky. As he munched, he said, “They are a most curious species, my brother, most curious, indeed. I have only recently discovered that they have an underutilized supply of insects that they fail to propagate. Perhaps even a greater variety than our own! It appears they have a fetish for mammalian flesh and vegetative matter and fail to capitalize on them as a splendid dietary resource. Most distressing. I recommended to the Chief of Ministry that we do not make contact.”

  “Ah,” H’Juri murmured. “A pity. They are, as you say, a most curious species.”