“You’ve got to give me the next shot at making contact.”

  I had been making the same request for hours. This time, Green and the fellow from the White House looked at each other.

  The President’s guy shrugged.

  “All right. Give it your best shot.”

  ᚖ

  They dropped me off a block from the Georgetown Alien. We knew where it was heading because someone had just sold out the head of NASA’s Advanced Projects Division – a woman whose passion for space exploration was so great that she had remained a Planetary Society member, and now might pay for it with her life. She was number fourteen on the MER list.

  I stepped out of the government van, wired and bugged to the gills. The Emergency Task Force could advise me through a button in one ear, listening to every word I said.

  Not that they expected much to be achieved this time. No other envoy had succeeded, why should I?

  It came around the street corner at a lope, trailed by truckloads of marshals and reporters. Most people scattered as soon as they caught sight of the creature with its iridescent-green winglets always turned sunward... though I glimpsed several individuals lingering bravely to jeer as it passed by. One or two seemed to have longing looks, as if tempted to run alongside for a while, as we had seen on TV – offering information in exchange for treasure. But this one seemed purposeful, as if it already knew what it needed, for now.

  Anyway, word was crisscrossing the country, ever since Lawrence. The last three people to sell information had been caught and beaten by vigilantes, while police looked the other way. So the Anti-Collaboration Bill appeared unnecessary, after all. Ad hoc justice was doing the job.

  That made what I was about to do even more dangerous.

  As the alien drew near, running straight toward me, I couldn’t help flashing back to that long ago morning at the Cape. Just this Tuesday? It felt like eons – or five minutes – since I stood in shock over Bill Nye’s smoldering form.

  How did I talk myself into this?

  Prior envoys had tried all sorts of techniques. Blocking a Martian’s path. Holding up placards. Or making formal declamations ‘in the name of humanity.’

  Instead of doing any of these things, I stepped slightly to one side. As the creature sped past, I spoke in a low voice.

  “You have caused me personal injury. I demand compensation.”

  ᚖ

  It skidded to a halt like some cartoon character, raising a creditable screech against the pavement and swiveling with uncanny agility toward me.

  They seem superior in nearly all ways, I thought, trying not to shake. What makes me imagine I can pull this off?

  The Martian towered over me, standing close enough to touch, if I dared. Those shimmering solar collectors fluttered near, looming gorgeous, like enveloping webs. Or the wings spread by some magical bird of prey.

  “What personal injury have I caused you? Explain.”

  My larynx threatened to shut down as I flashed on the creatures’ propensity for quick violence. But I managed to croak.

  “You must pay me for that information.”

  The viridian parasols flared and shimmered. Tilting its humanoid head, the alien appeared taken aback... or at least surprised.

  “It is not customary to pay an accuser in order to learn a grievance. If you wish to make a claim, speak.”

  “That’s the problem, then,” I said carefully. “Our customs here must be different than yours.”

  Talk about an understatement. But the alien did not respond. Instead, it just stood there, looking down at me.

  I recalled how one of the members of the Contact Committee had described them as ‘super-intelligent but apparently devoid of curiosity.’ Or at least curiosity about matters human. Clearly it was up to me to prod a reply, or else this attempt would end just like all the others, with the visitor turning contemptuously away, hurrying about its bloody business.

  “Is the concept of cultural difference difficult for you to grasp? Your culture and people must be very old.”

  I was guessing, of course. A shot in the dark.

  “You are attempting to extract information without payment,” it replied. An accusation, and true enough. But I shook my head.

  “I am engaging in a sophisticated human process called conversation. Information is exchanged between individuals in larger quantities, without formal negotiation over each datum. Instead, each party maintains a general sense that information flows are roughly equal, overall... or beneficially reciprocal.”

  The creature seemed to ponder for several long seconds. The photosynthetic wings drew back a little.

  “This may explain why humans talk so much, in their television and radio broadcasts. Most of the content appears syntactically useless – void of practical value – except perhaps as indicator material, tracking the value exchange process itself.”

  “A valid presumption.” Though rigid, they weren’t stupid.

  “Nevertheless, the procedure seems crude. Highly inefficient.”

  “Yes, inefficient. And yet, there are advantages. I note, for example, that you have just made a free statement in reply to one of my own. Both of us offered information without striking a deal or trading explicit economic payments. In other words, you have just engaged in a conversational exchange.

  “To the best of my knowledge, it’s the first time that a Martian has done so, since you people arrived.”

  In my left ear, I heard an excited buzz of commentary from experts on the Contact Team, as they tried to verify this. From their encouraging comments, it seemed they were happy with me, so far. I was on a good track.

  “Notice is taken,” the alien replied. “I find it discomforting to engage in a process in which reciprocal value remains so... inexplicit.” Then, after another pause. “I voluntarily offer that commentary about my discomfort, speculating that you will reciprocate by answering a question, according to this vague custom of conversation.”

  “And I will reciprocate,” I replied, “by attempting to answer your question... assuming that the question-and-answer are of similarly low value. Your discomfort is, after all, of little importance to me. I will not answer high-value questions without payment.”

  “Understood. I commence with my question. This method of information exchange – this technique called conversation – is it an example of what you call a cultural difference?”

  I concentrated hard, shaping sentences in hope that the Martian would find all this interesting enough to stay and chat a while.

  “It is. We have had a great many cultural differences within the human species, therefore the notion is very familiar to us. We expect even wider cultural gaps between species from different planets.

  “You, on the other hand, despite your great agility and impressive mental powers, appear to find the very concept of cultural difference difficult. Even disturbing. Am I correct in concluding that you Martians have been homogeneous for a long time?”

  Another excited buzz erupted in my ear, as our experts discussed this.

  “Homogeneous. Similar. Same. Uniform. In comparison to human beings...” I could almost hear the synapses – or Martian equivalents – surge and grind. “This datum may be of great value to you, but I will risk that value against the vague possibility of recompense via conversation. Yes. By comparison to the young and ever-changing life forms of Earth, my species has been optimized for a long time.”

  “Optimized. Hm. For how long?”

  Tension seemed to fill the tall body in front of me. This was clearly excruciatingly difficult, grappling with concepts long taken for-granted.

  “You have asked two consecutive questions. Nevertheless, I shall answer.

  “Optimization at near-perfection occurred two-hundred and thirty nine million of your years ago.”

  The noise in my ear was positively painful as members of the Contact team reacted. Surprise. Consternation. But above all joy that at last something was being learned.
>
  So far, my handlers seemed happy with the way things were going.

  I did not expect that to last.

  “Now answer a question of mine,” the Martian said. “Explain to me how this method called ‘conversation’ will help me to achieve my goal on this planet.”

  Damn if this guy wasn’t single-minded.

  “That question will be difficult to answer without knowing more about your goal. You appear to have come to Earth with a mission to kill people. I assume you have some grievance against those who were listed on the disks that were carried by the Mars Exploration Rovers.”

  Silence. I tried again.

  “You make no accusation against these people when you kill them, so accusations are optional. You only accuse when you want compensation, by payment of some value. But the only thing that earthlings seem able to pay with is their lives. We don’t have anything else that you want.

  “So this is all about revenge, isn’t it? Revenge that’s direct. Personal.”

  The Martian took one step back. The parasol wings flared again.

  “Instead of answering my question, you have posed a question of your own.”

  “B-but I’m just trying to narrow down how to answer. In conversation you first clarify –”

  “Human style conversation appears to have no value. I will end this experiment in twenty seconds.”

  Desperation filled me. Clearly these creatures communicated with each other – buying and selling information by radio or some other channel our experts hadn’t found. If I failed in this attempt, word would spread among Martians. Perhaps no other would stop to chat, ever.

  A few blocks away, the next phase of this tragedy was already under preparation, as men with heavy weapons made ready to intervene with deadly force, the next time an American citizen was killed. Driven by rapidly shifting public opinion, momentum was building toward war.

  I couldn’t let it come to that. During the last urgent seconds that I had the creature’s attention, even as it started to turn away, I quickly pulled out a paper envelope and blurted –

  “You may be right about conversation. So let’s make it a business deal, after all.

  “I have here the locations of the first hundred people on that list. Up to the minute. You could sell the info to your fellow Martians, sorted geographically, so they can hunt more efficiently than before.

  “Moreover, I can show you how to keep getting such information, evading all attempts at interference.”

  The screech in my left ear was so loud that I had to tear out the button-speaker. I guess I must have exceeded my official authority as a negotiator.

  The rest of the monitoring gear followed, crushed under my foot as I watched the alien carefully.

  It opened one of those seamless flesh-pockets, dipping into the limitless supply of nuggets and diamonds... but stopped when I waved a hand. The Martian seemed to comprehend my gesture of refusal at once. We had gone beyond such trifles.

  “State your price,” it said.

  ᚖ

  Time passes quickly when you’re having fun.

  I lay on a cot, tasting blood through the broken stumps of two teeth, when word came to my jail cell that the first of my payments had arrived.

  Wages for selling out a fellow human, a fellow American. The first of a hundred. Possibly many more.

  “We weren’t able to move everybody in time,” Senator Green said when I was finally dragged before the Emergency Committee. “Three more were killed in the last hour. Thanks to you.”

  He expected an answer, but I had learned from the Martians. Conversation is inefficient. Any comment I made would be superfluous.

  “We fixed the mistake that let you access the protection database,” said the President’s representative. “The location of threatened individuals will be more secure.”

  I shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “We will protect our citizens.”

  That roused me a bit, in curiosity.

  “How? By hiding four million people? By fighting?”

  A general pounded the table. “If necessary, yes! They must be taught to respect us. Our laws and our lives.”

  “Very stirring,” I answered. “How’s that going?”

  The general flushed without answering. No need. In my cell I’d watched TV footage from the slaughter in Seattle, when a National Guard armored company fought in the streets with heavy weapons, battling to protect a billionaire bookseller and space aficionado from a single lanky alien. This time, the Martian departed the Battle of 12th Avenue with a temporary limp... quite an accomplishment... though several tank crews died to achieve it. Along with the prominent book dealer.

  Proportional punishment. Twenty brave men for one briefly inconvenient wound.

  “I hope you at least took my advice about badges,” I said, wincing as one of my broken teeth twinged.

  The general glowered. But Senator Green nodded. “The soldiers wore no identifying markings. You still haven’t explained why –”

  “Why we should take advice from a collaborator and accomplice in cold blooded murder!” interjected the fellow from the White House. His attitude reflected a keen political sense of rising public will. The beating I received upon being arrested was a mere taste of what would happen if I were released onto the street. Vigilantes would spare nothing larger than a hangnail.

  “Why listen to me? Maybe because I’m the only one who seems to have a clue what’s going on.”

  This time, the whole Committee lapsed into sullen quiet. You could scoop their hatred with a shovel.

  “So.” I broke the silence. Somebody had to. “Will anybody explain why I’m here? Why did you send for me?

  “Wait,” I continued, holding up a hand. “Let me guess the reason.

  “They keep their word. They honor their debts.

  “I’ve been paid.”

  Tight-lipped, grudgingly, Senator Green nodded to an assistant, who turned on a fancy live-access screen nearby. “A new web site appeared on the internet, twenty minutes ago. We can’t trace the source. It contained only this video clip.”

  The screen flickered – a glitch at our end, I figure, since Earthling network technology would seem trivial to these ancient, advanced beings. When the static cleared, there stood a creature from another planet. One whose brain and form had already been “optimized” before our ancestors split off from dinosaurs.

  It spoke rapidly and with characteristic efficiency – haloed by the iridescent-green fans, or wings, that fed it directly from the sun.

  “The assistance proved helpful in accomplishing my immediate goal. I have also benefitted by selling updated location information to others of my kind.

  “Despite this, some hunters report being inconvenienced by the clever evasiveness of those they seek. It appears increasingly likely that targets are being aided by other humans.

  “I wish to know more about non-listed humans who interfere. I will pay for information about them. Their reasons for interfering. And for assistance adding their names to our List.”

  This was my first time watching the video. Everyone else in the room must have already seen it, many times. Even so, that last sentence drew a murmur of dismay.

  “If you can help to identify those who interfere, contact me using the code words that you established,” the Martian continued. “Meanwhile, the assistance received so far has proved valuable. Hence, I will now pay the first installment of the agreed-upon price.”

  I felt tension all around. Despite grueling interrogation, I had refused to explain what passed between me and the alien that morning, after I tore off the monitoring devices.

  “You asked specific questions, requesting that I post answers on the crude planetary network. I deem that your help so far merits three answers. I will post more if success continues to result from your assistance.”

  In other words, further rewards would flow if the envelope that I handed over, early this morning, helped aliens to murder even more p
eople in a long chain.

  “Question Number One. Why have I come to Earth – a barbaric and unpleasant place – in search of human beings to kill?

  “Answer. As you surmised, the motive is vengeance – a concept which human beings appear to understand, though in a typically gross and primitive manner, absent all subtlety, persistence, esthetics or depth.

  “Someone of great importance to me died as a direct result of the arrival of a Mars Exploration Rover. Under the Calculus of Reprisal, I seek redress from those responsible. I shall exact payment from a sufficiently large number of humans to restore balance. At present that figure is eighty-nine thousand and seventy three – subject to change.”

  It was my turn to gasp, at the appalling number. Was that how small we seemed to them? Intelligent enough to be held accountable, yet not worthy of conversation. Bright enough to be punished, but only satisfying in large quantities.

  One solace. Whatever calamity had come to Mars on that space probe, inadvertently wreaking harm – perhaps some terrestrial plague that took them by surprise – it did not slaughter millions as I had envisioned. Just forty, possibly fifty, or so of those ancient ones must have died. Maybe the same number as our invaders. Did each one come to avenge a single – loved one – by leaving a bloody swathe of dead humans?

  The creature held up two fingers – an eerily humanlike gesture. “Second question. What form of cooperative enterprise constructed the interplanetary vessel that brought me here?

  “Answer. Our craft was built by a collaborative association of the aggrieved. Sharing nearly identical motives, a number of us gathered – using ancient and long-dormant skills – in order to cross space, achieve vengeance and restore balance. Such collusion is distasteful. But imperative need overcame natural aversion.

  “It has become apparent to me that Earthlings form collaborative associations with disgusting readiness, and hew to those associations rigidly. Like the association of four million that sent the deadly Mars Exploration Rover. This cultural difference merits study. I will pay for further information about –”

  “Stop!”

  At my shout, the assistant tapped a key to freeze playback. Onscreen, the Martian remained motionless, warped slightly by video clutter.