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machines they worked with. There was no sign of
Centauri, though he thought he saw a half-familiar shape vanishing around a
far corner.
He ran, waving and yelling, and not looking where he was going. Fortunately,
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the alien he ran into was no
Bodati.
5
It was quite humanoid, though completely hairless. The rounded skull and the
face with its deep-set yellowish eyes was covered by a thick orange-yellow
crust that reminded Alex of desert ponds months after scorching heat had
caused them to dry and crack. He was tall (the "he" another sexual presumption
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on Alex's part which turned out to be correct) and, thankfully, devoid of
tentacles.
"I'm sorry," Alex apologized. There was no sign of Centauri now, and no way of
knowing which way he'd gone.
"This is a restricted area, off limits to . . ." The alien stopped in
mid-sentence, examining Alex more closely as they both knelt to re cover
Alex's clothes and the small handful of components the tall being had been
carrying.
"I don't recognize your species," he said.
"Human." Alex stared at a six-inch-long something that filled his hand. It
looked like a cross between an oversized ballpoint pen and an electric
toothbrush. He suspected it was neither, and handed it over.
"From Earth," he added.
"Earth what?"
"Just Earth. We like to keep things simple."
I don't believe I'm having this conversation, he told himself. I don't believe
a bit of it.
"That's a uniform." The alien gestured with a thick-skinned hand at Alex's
bundle of clothing.
"Yeah." Alex gathered it up. As he rearranged it in his arms, the alien caught
sight of the insignia on the front. His manner changed abruptly.
"Pardon me, Starfighter. I am Navigator/Systems Operator Grig. At your
service, sir."
He performed an awkward salute which Alex found interesting to observe but
impossible to duplicate.
So he took the thick hand and shook it instead. Grig inspected his freed limb
thoughtfully.
"Curious custom."
"We like it."
"Individualistic yet intimate, this personal physical contact. Never cared
much for it myself, but everyone is entitled to his own mode of greeting,
isn't he?"
"If you say so, Grig." Alex nodded toward the line of silent gunstars. "You
fly those?"
"Me, fly? You mean as an attack pilot? Dear me, no. I am a Navigator and
Systems Operator. I run the ship during combat, thus freeing the piloting
Starfighters to do what they do best fight."
"Your job sounds tougher than the other."
"Not in the least. I have only mechanical problems to deal with, instead of
mental ones. You are named?"
"Sorry. I'm Alex Rogan."
"Two names?"
"That's our custom."
"Naming does vary from system to system, culture to culture. I find the use of
more than one name unnecessarily duplicitous, though there are those species
who make use of a dozen names or more."
"Hate to have to sign my name like that." Alex studied his new acquaintance.
Grig was more than polite;
he was downright deferential. He also struck Alex as straightforward, honest
and devoid of guile. Maybe this was his chance to get a straight answer or two
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to some questions.
"Listen, Grig, maybe you can help me out. See, I was playing this game back
home, a videogame, and this guy comes along, only he's no guy. He's an alien,
a non-human. I get into his car, only it's no car, it's a spaceship, and
there's been a biggggg mistake somewhere along the line."
Grig stared back at him. "My friend, you sound very confused."
"That's the understatement of the century, Navigator."
"You said there'd been a mistake. What kind of mistake?"
"I don't belong here. I thought I'd won some kind of big prize or something
for reaching a score of a million on the game. I thought maybe we were going
to go to the downtown motel to discuss it. Then I
thought maybe I'd have to go into L.A. or something to accept it. So I end up
going a lot farther, and there's no prize." He indicated the pile of clothing.
"I can't put these on. You called me a Starfighter. I'm no Starfighter, just a
kid."
"Starfighter ability is not a function of age, Alex Rogan."
"Just Alex."
"Alex, then. It is a matter of a special combination of unusual talents
courage, flexibility under stress, the ability to make rapid decisions while
under great pressure, reflexology, mental acuity, determination and
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more. I am not qualified to enumerate all of them, much less to explain. But
you were brought here to be a Starfighter, it would seem, and you have been
issued the uniform."
Alex shook his head violently. "Uh-uh. Not a chance. I'm not putting this on.
I don't belong here. I told you, it's all been a big mistake."
Now Grig appeared uncertain. "Am I to understand that you are actually
declining the honor of becoming a Starfighter?"
"You got it." Alex said it with a relieved sigh, pleased to at last have made
his point to someone.
"Besides, how can you call it an honor when the ambassador from the League
refers to it as belonging to
'primitives'?"
"Because a talent is rare does not make it less valuable, Alex. We have
artists who utilize primitive techniques. That does not make their art less
valid. There are concertiflows who design musical superstructures based on
motifs thousands of years old. Their flows are no less effective for that."
"Well, mine is," Alex insisted stubbornly. "I don't belong here."
"Extraordinary. Unheard of. Not for your presence to be a mistake, but for you
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