Obscurocious

Obscurocious by Ray Aldridge

(«Whatdunits» Anthology 1992)

Ray Aldridge is a relatively new writer, but his name is no stranger to those who peruse the Nebula ballots, and his first novel has just come out to enthusiastic notices.

A chlorine-breathing ambassador from the Sirius system is found dead in his hotel room in an orbiting, multi-environmental hotel. He is alone in his room, the door is locked, and there are no marks on the body. The Sirius system is at peace, but they have a formidable military force, and since the hotel is owned and run by humans, they have given the human authorities twenty-four hours to solve the problem before declaring war.

1. Was he murdered or did he die from some other cause?

2. If he was murdered, how was he murdered, who did it, and what might the motive be?

* * *

The nameless messenger had come to Natty Looper an hour ago, terrified and carrying the chop of the Osiris Grand Hotel's security chief. The messenger had revealed nothing of the matter to be discussed, but he displayed the sort of barely-suppressed hysteria that Natty associated with major disasters. He had handed over a huge retainer, collected Natty's mark on a nondisclosure form, and left without a single informative word.

From the size of the retainer, Natty suspected that he was about to be asked to perform some impossible feat of detection. Find a way to save the universe or halt inflation. Find an honest person.

Natty Looper waited patiently, under the watchful gaze of a heavily-armed receptionist. He recrossed his legs, adjusted the straps of his ancient and authentic coveralls, scratched at one hairy shoulder. He did these things in a measured and unhurried manner, hoping to conceal a slight degree of nervous anticipation.

He sighed and got up, causing the receptionist to recoil fastidiously, as if she expected Natty to commit some unspeakably uncouth act. Spit tobaccy on the carpet. Ask for the outhouse. Comb a bird's nest out of his beard.

Natty sighed again, and wandered over to the great observation port that curved halfway around the reception area. He stood looking down at the old Earth below, at her deserts and still-blue seas, at her scattered fading patches of green. He looked up at the main hull of the hotel, which stretched forward of his vantage point for several kilometers, a mirror-smooth alloy surface dotted with thousands of glowing windows, nav lights, illuminated signs. In the middle distance, twenty kilometers past the Osiris, he could see the gleam of the small habitat where he kept an apartment–for those happy times when business brought him up to the Orbital Domains.

«Purty,» Natty said to himself. Several of the nearest signs sensed his regard and rotated their image planes toward him; he found himself looking at a trailer for a performance of the Original Kachinadroid Dancers, an ad for a pheromonic hair tonic, and an ad for a new memory stimulant–»Now You Too Can Remember Those Important Things You Were Too Stupid to Notice When They Happened!»

Against the blackness of space, a huge free-floating holofield ran an advertisement detailing the delights of vacationing in the Caribee Enclave. A delicately beautiful woman balanced a huge hat on her head, and smiled at Natty. The hat was full of an implausible amount of tropical fruit; the woman reached up and plucked a banana. She peeled the banana in a languidly suggestive manner.

Natty turned away, just as the receptionist rose and said,. «You may go in now, Mr. Looper.»

He nodded pleasantly as he passed the receptionist, who looked as if she were holding her breath, just in case Natty smelled bad.

Natty walked along the fortified ingress, passing three sets of blast doors, which opened before him and closed behind him. The corridor doglegged twice before he reached the office.

The Osiris security chief rose behind her desk to greet him; her henchman was already standing. «Mr. Looper, welcome,» she said in a pleasingly soft voice. She was slender, she wore her long black hair in a tied-back cluster of thick braids, and her green eyes had a Eurasian tilt. She wore an expression of professional nonchalance.

From an array of subtle signs–a tightness around the eyes, an artificial stillness, the way her bloodless hands gripped the edge of her desk–he could see that she was very frightened. «I'm Annadelle Rostov,» she said.

He thought her dangerously attractive–but who wasn't beautiful, in the Orbital Domains? He reminded himself that the Osiris Grand. was a small autonomous kingdom, and that this woman was its Lord High Executioner. He shook her hand gently and said «Howdy,» as politeness demanded. As he held her hand, a moment longer than was entirely polite, her smile grew marginally warmer. «Call me Natty, Miz Rostov. Everybody else does.»

«And I'm Annadelle,» she said, sinking back into her chair.

The henchman was a huge man, whose hard face seemed set in a perpetual glower. He did not return Natty's nod.

«This is my assistant and personal guardian,» Annadelle said. «He prefers not to use a name. Nor does he speak.»

Natty shrugged. «Fine by me.» He sank into a deep upholstered couch, which jackknifed his tall gangly body into an awkward position. He decided to ignore the discomfort.

She made a gesture and a thumping music filled the air, chopping away at «Okie From Muscogee.»

Natty winced visibly. She waved her hand again and the music cut off.

«I thought you might be more comfortable with music from your own Enclave,» she said, apologetically.

«Well, I appreciate the thought, Annadelle, but I ain't much of a fan of that cowkicker music. Heard too much of it as an impressionable youth, I guess.» If she weren't eager to discuss the job, Natty Looper was willing to make small talk. «Buncha mean old drunks, singing through their nose hairs, all 'bout how their babies done left 'em–no damn wonder–and they feel like homemade shit, which is approximately what they look like, in most cases.»

He was overstating the case, but not by much. Any talented new performers who did not hew to the narrow esthetic standards of the Appalachian Enclave had to choose between starvation and emigration to one of the few eclectic Enclaves. Or else they changed their music to conform. «Oh, it ain't all that bad,» he admitted. «But you know what I mean.»

«I suppose so,» she said, and Natty thought that she might have been amused, were she less worried. «I should have known better. After all, you specialize in investigations across Enclave lines, so you're bound to have broader tastes than your fellow Appalachians.»

There was just a hint of condescension in her manner, so Natty grinned and said, «Oh, only in some respects. Why, I can chug 'shine with the best of 'em. Ain't nothing I like better'n possum pie.» He waggled his bare feet. «Cut my toenails ever six months, whether they needs it or not.»

She laughed, and it was a far more pleasant sound than he had expected. «All right, Natty; I take your point. Now, let's get to business.» She swiveled her chair and touched a dataslate built into her desktop. A screen on the far wall lit.

A Sirian bull's chitinous gray face filled the screen; his crimson scalp tattoos indicated a noble lineage and a high military rank. A brassy light gleamed on the alien features. The tiny silver eyes glowed with some intense emotion.

«He's a little pissed off, ain't he?» said Natty.

«Correct. This is Eternal General Lisefgethmeor. We received this transmission some five hours ago.»

The image jolted into life and the bull showed his long incisors. «Earth cowards! Attention! Your doom is upon you. You have destroyed a great soul; now you will pay with your world's life!» The bull paused, seemed almost to be panting with rage.

«Dramatic feller,» Natty observed, but Annadelle said nothing.

The bull continued. «When we arrive, our ships will burn your world to black glass.» The monstrous face writhed; he turned his head as if someone had spoken off-camera. «Unless you can somehow prove to my complete satisfaction that you did not murder Ambassador Trafdechwanelter.»

The screen went black.

Natty scratched at his beard. «Can he do it?»

«Probably. They've done it to other worlds. The Enclaves can't field much of a defense force. The Orbitals are even more vulnerable. If we had more time, if the Sirian fleet weren't so close... we could probably recall enough convoy cruisers to deal with them. But even if the Sirian fleet doesn't burn Earth black, a lot of people are going to die.» She shrugged, a bizarre gesture, under the circumstances.

Natty felt a smothering fear, which he struggled to hold in check. The Sirians, he now remembered, were a militantly xenophobic race, with a reputation for «cleansing» the home worlds of races they found offensive. «How long afore they get here?»

«A little over sixteen hours.»

«Holy batshit,» said Natty.

«I couldn't agree more,» said Annadelle Rostov.

* * *

«We need you,» she said, after a while.

A silence ensued, a silence which Natty finally broke. «What the hell can /do?»

She sat back, and took a deep breath. She looked older than she had; her voice was small and weary. «Probably not much, Natty. But I have to try everything, and you have a reputation for being able to understand alien cultures. You've been successful in a lot of strange places, for a country boy. You've infiltrated Enclaves as diverse as HighRise City and the Yucatan Empire, you've collected bounties on body jumpers in Coastville and Baja Alabama. You were the lead investigator in the group that uncovered the Iberian Conspiracy.»

«Yeah, but...»

«Some of the Enclaves are very strange, Natty. I want your perspective. I have a dead Ambassador in a locked, environmentally-sealed room. No one could have murdered him, but he's dead. The Sirians don't understand suicide as a concept... so I got nowhere with the General when I tried to tell him that the Ambassador must have killed himself. Will you take a look?»

Natty rubbed at his eyes. «What you need are xenobiologists. Xenoanthropologists. Xenocriminologists. Xenopsychometricians.»

«I have them, Natty. They're crawling over the data like maggots, hundreds of them. Every government agency in the Enclaves and the Orbital Domains has at least one expert working on the problem. They're not coming up with any new ideas.»

«Well,» he said, finally. «Can't hurt to take a look, I guess. But if the Earth gets burnt to a crisp, it ain't my fault. Hear?»

* * *

She cued a recording of the Ambassador's suite, taken through remote spycams. «We haven't unlocked the suite yet. If all else fails, we'll show the suite to the General and ask him to tell us how we murdered the Ambassador. It may delay him... though probably not. The Sirians don't have a high curiosity quotient, I understand.» She touched her desk.

Natty watched as the spycam floated through the spartan interior of the Ambassador's rooms. The floors were bare metal, the walls a featureless white.

«Right homey,» Natty commented.

«He was a warrior monk, before he joined their diplomatic corps. Very ascetic,» said Annadelle.

The camera turned a corner and revealed a small comm room, equipped with an all-band holotank. On an uncomfortable-looking haircloth prayer rug, the Ambassador's corpse lay, already far gone into the peculiar decay typical of chlorine-breathing life forms, all puffed up like over-leavened bread and beginning to crumble into powder. The Ambassador was on his back, upper arms flung wide, lower hands clutching his crotch.

His spraddled tentacles were tangled around the base of the holotank.

«Cause of death?»

«Unknown. We have good scans of the body, but there's no sign of violence. The corpse was already somewhat broken down when we discovered it during a periodic spycam surveillance, so maybe we're missing something subtle. But as far as we can tell, he just stopped breathing.»

«So, who was he calling?» Natty asked.

Annadelle shrugged. «That's the big question, I think. We're working on it, but as a Very Important Diplomatic Personage, the Ambassador had an extremely good privacy module on his datastream access, and it's going to take time to break his codes. Right now we're digging out the calls one at a time.»

« 'Calls'?»

«Yes. He made three calls in the waking period before his death. We've identified the first call. We expect to get the second within the next ten hours.»

«And the third?»

She shook her head sadly. «Not before the General arrives, unless we get much luckier than we expect.» Natty looked at her. «You think the last call kilt him?»

«Yes.»

«But how? I reckon his tank was filtered against any deadly resonances. Right? And Sirians don't kill themselves, you say? So it wasn't like he got holt of Dial-a-Dread and got depressed.»

«No, his tank was completely filtered against destructive resonances. But I'm sure something bad showed up in his tank. I just don't know what.» She glared at the screen, eyes like cold stones.

She turned those frozen eyes on him. «The Ambassador's safety was my responsibility.»

«We ain't dead yet. Give me a nice room here, with a tank as good as the Ambassador's. Give me your security data–locks, surveillance systems, filter parameters, environmental lockins–and let me pick it over. I figger you're right–no way he coulda been murdered–but I'll feel better if I see the stuff with my own beady littie eyes.»

«All right.»

«And... you got a record of that first call he made? Good. Gimme that, too.»

As he stood to go, clutching a handful of datawafers, he said, as if to himself, «Obscurocious.»

«What?» asked Annadelle Rostov.

«Oh. That's one of them hillbilly coinages. Sorta like 'ferocious obscure.' Or 'atrocious obscure.' Bodacious obscure. Or if we're talking 'bout lawyers it means 'loquacious obscure'.» He winked, and her henchman bared his large teeth.

«No offense meant, iffen you're a lawyer,» said Natty, and then he left.

* * *

The suite to which the henchman conveyed Natty Looper was a very comfortable one, with three pleasant rooms and a view of Earth. He stood and looked down at his world, wondering if it would see another day as a living planet.

It occurred to him that he was as safe as any human in the system, for the moment. The Osiris catered to aliens of all sorts; the management specialized in providing comfortable accommodations for even the most eccentric life forms. There were probably more aliens currently in residence than humans, and so the Sirians would probably spare the Osiris during the first assault.

He felt no great relief; peeking into the future, he foresaw Sirian heavy troopers smashing in doors and dragging out the hotel's human guests.

He shuddered. He had to make an effort to stop thinking about the consequences of failure.

So he sat down and fed the datawafers into the holo tank.

Two hours later he was certain that Annadelle Rostov was correct. There was no way the Ambassador could have been murdered. The locks were perfect, untouched. Untouchable, short of thermonuclear lances or other means of violent persuasion. The elaborate measures taken to safeguard the integrity of the Ambassador's environment precluded poisons, shock-filaments, hyperfibrillators, gas macros, neural resonators, feral microbodies, nanojects, suppressive radiants... all the tools of the modern assassin.

So it was suicide. Except that the Sirians, according to Annadelle, didn't understand the concept. Why was that? He sighed. Time to learn what he could about the Sirians.

* * *

The narrator was a woman from HighRise City; she spoke slowly and carefully. «The Sirians are that rarity among sapient races: a precisely determinate species. The length of their lives is fixed at birth; the scale pattern on the dorsal plates of a hatchling Sirian indicates its potential life span with an accuracy of plus or minus ten Standard days.»

Natty Looper paused the recording and called up the Ambassador's biodata. Perhaps the Ambassador had simply reached the end of his span. After a moment, he shook his head. The Ambassador's age had been verified thoroughly–apparently the Sirians weren't above using the natural demise of a diplomat as an excuse to attack the host world.

No, the Ambassador still had a dozen unused years left on his longevity meter.

However, Natty was starting to understand why the Sirians didn't understand the concept of suicide.

He sat back, and tried to imagine what it would be like to know exactly when he would shuffle off the clay. How would he live his life? Natty usually enjoyed that sort of philosophical musing; his ability to put himself in strange shoes had been his greatest asset, had led him to a rewarding career, had allowed to live at least part of his life in the Orbital Domains, above the stultifying and regressive cultures of the Enclaves. But suddenly it occurred to him that he and all the other humans in the Solar System had suddenly become members of a precisely determinate species.

«Back to work,» he told himself, and restarted the datawafer.

The narrator turned to a large flatscreen, on which an image of a male Sirian was projected. With a light pointer, she indicated the squat skull; the almost-human arrangement of eyes, flat nose, wide lipless mouth; the heavy upper arms; the delicate lower arms, with their long many-jointed fingers; the four tentacular psuedolegs. The image revolved slowly, then froze, again facing the camera.

«Note the armoring scales and lack of external genitalia. The Sirians evolved in a marshy, high energy environment, beset with numerous small, fast predators. On their world of origin, the narrow equatorial band of habitable lands was for the most part a featureless swamp. There were very few places of refuge available–only a few remnant basalt cores lifting above the ooze. They had no trees in which to take refuge, no caves, no hills. This perhaps accounts for their unusual reproductive strategy.»

The screen image changed, to show a creature that only superficially resembled the male Sirian. It was low and broad, something like an animated green-brown rug, with numerous small psuedolegs showing at its margins. It had no discernible features, other than a scattering of large wet pores in its upper surface.

«The Sirian female,» said the HighRise woman. «Researchers have not been allowed to closely examine any individuals of this gender, but it is suspected that they have no higher brain functions, and exist only as a bridge between generations. For every female hatched, slightly more than a thousand males are hatched. On the home world, the females spent their lives clinging to the rare stone outcroppings above the marsh. The males competed violently for the privilege of breeding the female; only a maximum of sixteen males succeeded. Immediately after breeding, these successful males expired. A fully gravid female produced approximately sixty-four thousand eggs. The hatchlings were initially nourished by the decay of their mother's body, after which the males dropped off the relative safety of the breeding crags into the swamp. The females remained.

«Most of the other males succumbed to the violence of the breeding competition. Those males that did not compete were the only sapient links between generations, and because of their determinate life span, this overlap was minimal. Xenoanthropologists generally agree that this biological impediment to communication between the generations is the major reason that the Sirians took such a long time to achieve a technological civilization.»

Natty touched the Pause button. Had the Ambassador somehow met with a horny female of his species? It seemed unlikely. He twitched the holotank onto another informational track, and found out that at the time of his death, the Ambassador had been the only member of his species in the system.

He scratched his head. The datawafer still held vast quantities of information about the Sirians–their biology, social norms, hierarchies, technologies. Much of it would be gibberish to Natty Looper's unspecialized ears. Perhaps he should switch to another tack; he could always come back to the experts.

He called up the Ambassador's first call.

The recording contained both sides of the conversation, as was usual in calls made by Very Important Creatures such as the Sirian diplomat. Natty watched the Ambassador punch in the number; then the tank split into two image fields.

The connection was nearly instantaneous. The second image field filled with a pulsating mandala in scintillating silver and glorious gold; celestial music filled the room, high and pure. It swelled to a brief crescendo, fell sweetly away, and then an androgynous angel spoke.

«Greetings, seeker after wisdom. You have reached Gods Unlimited, where all sapient beings are welcome to drink deep from the healing waters of faith. How may we serve you?»

The Ambassador grunted, and Natty thought he could read the Sirian's alien expression. The Ambassador was disgusted.

«You may serve me by showing me your wares, thereby demonstrating the vile weakness, the astounding credulity, the unforgivable sentimentality of your corrupt species.» The Sirian spoke with a well-practiced air of cold implacability.

A floating personage appeared in the center of the mandala; a young woman with large breasts and a luminous halo. «Skeptics are even more welcome than any other supplicants,» she murmured.

«An end to these platitudes!» the Sirian roared. «Show me this madness humans call religion!»

«Patience, patience,» she said. «God is essentially unknowable, not to mention invisible. Before you can experience your personal epiphany, we must design a suitable mythic focus for your faith.»

«Patience!» roared the Ambassador. «Patience? I have no patience! Time slips away; the rate never slows for an instant, and we are all soon enough slime at the bottom of the World Muck. Show me your wares, or I will name you a fraud of the terminal sort, the sort that begs for instant expungement.»

A tiny frown creased the young woman's perfect brow. «You must attempt tranquillity, seeker after wisdom. Our computers are working at their best speed; we've assigned your case our highest priority. But you are the first member of your species to visit the All-Shrine, so the process of development cannot be instantaneous. Soon... soon we will show you the perfect and highest expression of Sirian godliness–as determined by our deificatory system, which as you probably know has the most advanced software in the human worlds!»

The Ambassador opened his mouth to fulminate again, but a harmonious chime sounded, and the young woman said, «Ah! We're ready. Watch, keep an open mind, and you will doubtless achieve transfiguration.»

She faded from the holotank, replaced by a murky darkness, broken only by drifting wisps of phosphorescent gas.

A voice began to speak in the harsh clicking Sirian language. Natty listened without comprehension, but then a slider bar opened at the bottom of the holotank, and a translation in small red letters appeared: In the beginning was the Muck.

Natty smiled, and fast-forwarded the image, to a sequence in which a golden light began to paint the tops of the birthing-crags. A cacophony of unpleasant sounds bubbled forth: untidy slurps, sucking noises, wet plops. Presumably this was inspirational Sirian music.

When the birthing crags began to grow beards and to develop large mournful eyes, the Ambassador roared with outrage. «Obscene!» he shrieked, spitting large greenish globules of phlegm against the camera lens. «Unendurable! When we sanitize the unfortunate world that evolved you, you miserable insignificant fraudulent pornographers, you'll be the first to bum.»

He slapped the cutoff switch.

Natty sat before the dark holotank for a few minutes, musing. Already he sensed a pattern, or at least the glimmering of a purpose. The Ambassador seemed a volatile being, and he seemed to be very eager to find reasons to hate humans.

The holotank chimed. Annadelle's anxious face filled the interior, and for some reason Natty was reminded of an ancient pre-Emergence film, in which a wicked witch conjures the image of a young girl into a great glass globe. Annadelle was a grown woman, but there was a similar air of worried innocence about her.

«Natty,» she said. «We have the second call. I'm sending a copy.»

«Good,» he answered.

She hesitated. «Do you have anything? Anything at all?»

«Well. Tell me this, iffen you can. Do you think the Sirians were jest looking for an excuse? To fry us?»

«Oh, of course. They're the most xenophobic space-faring race we've met with yet. But they have to have a good reason, or the civilized races would see to it that they got bombed back to the swamp.»

«Religious insults ain't a good enough excuse, I take it?»

«Heavens no, Natty. If that were an acceptable reason to go to war, the universe would long ago have been blown to kingdom come. So to speak.»

He liked it that she retained her wit, even in such grim circumstances. An interesting woman.

«I see. No, I ain't got nothing useful yet, jest some supposins and suspicions. Shoot me that second recording, and I'll get on with it.»

«All right.»

* * *

Natty watched as the Ambassador punched in the next number.

The destination field filled with a thousand hues, mingling and diverging in a whirling explosion of color. Atonal music, harsh and compelling, shuddered forth.

The image field flickered and coalesced, revealing a man with tangled spangle-braids and deep brooding eyes. «Interior Explorations Inc.,» he said, in a resonant baritone. «How may we aid you in your psychic travels?»

The Ambassador leaned forward, his jaw jutting aggressively. «In that respect, I am sufficiently well-traveled. But show me your wares anyway, death merchant.»

The spokesman scowled, and the transmitted image was enhanced so that his eyes glowed with dark red light. « 'Death merchant'? You got an attitude problem, scaly dude. We don't sell death; quite the contrary. We sell dckets to your interior landscape–psychoactive chemicals tailored to your particular needs, whatever they may be.»

The Ambassador snorted dismissively. «I know you, monstrous creature. Your chemicals promise paradise, but deliver hell. This I know from the holodramas produced by your own regulatory agencies.»

«You believe everything you see on the datastream, then?» Now the spokesman had an unpleasant edge to his voice, and a sneer curled his lip.

The Ambassador seemed to swell. «Intolerable! You will pay for this disrespect, worm of corruption. But first, show me what you can offer one of my exalted species. Then I will schedule your humiliation and destruction, as is proper.»

The spokesman sighed. «Whatever, scaly dude. Let me run up a few parameters, and then I'll get back to you, okay.»

He cut the connection.

Natty was puzzled. No deliveries had been made to the Ambassador's suite; so much was certain. Either the druggists had failed to come up with a suitable high for the Ambassador, or he had died before they had synthesized a suitable compound.

In any case, it seemed a dead end.

Natty sat back and stretched. There was a pattern here, if only he could see it.

He sighed. So far it seemed that the Ambassador was exploring all the weaknesses of human beings, hoping to find something so disgusting that the other space-faring races couldn't object to a bit of racial prophylaxis.

He closed his eyes, and tried to make his mind empty. Something tickled at him, the ghost of an idea.

And then he had it.

* * *

Natty called Annadelle. «Iffen I can tell you who the Ambassador talked to last, can you get a recording of the call afore the General gets here?»

«Yes,» she said. Natty could see that she wanted to believe there was hope.

He laughed, and a huge smile of relief stretched his face, almost painfully. «It's going to be okay, Annadelle. No kidding.»

* * *

Annadelle's henchman hurried General Lisefgethmeor along the corridor, occasionally nudging the Sirian with a huge punch-gun. The General wore self-contained armor, a helmet in the semblance of some toothy predator, and spike-knee boots.

Natty and Annadelle followed a few paces behind.

The General snarled over his massive shoulder. «You can kill me if you like, but a thousand other bulls will step forward to take vengeance. And as a martyr to our great cause, my frozen zygotes will impregnate many females. A new permaglass breeding tower will be raised in my name. I have no fear of you puny creatures!»

Annadelle spoke soothingly. «No violence is intended toward your impressive person, General. As we said, we have determined the cause of the Ambassador's death to be accidental. We merely wish you to witness our proofs. We deeply appreciate your presence here; it will prevent a great deal of unnecessary bloodshed on both sides.»

The General's only response was a skeptical rumble.

* * *

They sat the General down before a large holotank, in a nmall theater reserved for VIP screenings.

«I cannot imagine what you think you can show me.»

«Probly not,» said Natty Looper.

The General turned and glared at him. «Who is this offensive bumpkin?»

«This is the investigator who discovered the cause of death,» said Annadelle. «But now, give your attention to the tank, if you will.»

The General grunted. But he returned his small eyes to the tank.

* * *

The Ambassador tapped at his terminal.

The tank responded with a display of squirming, naked human bodies, a complicated tangle of flesh, framing the words: Hygienic Fantasies Unlimited.

«Disgusting,» said the Ambassador.

«Disgusting,» echoed the watching General.

The logo was replaced by a man and woman locked in a complicated sexual posture. «How may we assist you?» said the woman breathlessly. She seemed marginally less involved in the act; the man was red-faced and his eyes were glazed.

* * *

They watched the Ambassador contemptuously explain his requirements, they watched the progression of images that evolved in the holotank's image field, as the Hygienic computers tailored the experience to the Sirian ideal. They watched the Ambassador grow pale and silent.

They watched the Sirian female undulate against the basalt.

At the bottom of the image field, a slider bar ran the translation of the slurps and warbles that now emanated from the tank: GIVE IT TO ME BABY GIVE IT TO ME.

Natty cut off the recording, before the General could succumb to the culminating heaves and hisses.

He was for a moment concerned that he had not acted quickly enough; the General was almost motionless, except for a palsied waggle of his head, which slowly ceased.

Eventually Annadelle broke the silence. «I hope you will agree that the Ambassador's death was an unfortunate accident. Of course, you may choose to sue Hygienic Fantasies in civil court. A case might be made for negligence, or even reckless endangerment.»

The General darted a smoldering look at her. «You think this makes any difference? You have murdered a great soul; the weapon you used is irrelevant. We will burn the Earth clean with even greater enthusiasm than before.»

Annadelle shook her head, smiling. «No one forced the Ambassador to employ Hygienic; if you sue, their lawyers will argue that he knew the danger and made no effort to avoid it. But this is irrelevant. You will not attack the Earth or any habitats of the Orbital Domains.»

«And why not?» The General rose abrupdy, shook himself. He seemed slightly less impressive to Natty Looper; judging from his painfully stooped posture, he now suffered from an unimaginably intense case of the blue balls.

Annadelle gestured and her henchman drew the curtains from a huge observation port, which looked out into space.

All the animated signs, whether attached to habitats or free-floating, displayed the images of wriggling female Sirians. Thousands of them.

The General gasped. The henchman pulled the curtains shut.

«If you attempt to attack us, not the slightest remnant of your fleet will survive.» Annadelle's voice had gone metallic.

«We do not fear death,» the General grated. «We carry planet-bursters; if necessary we will blind ourselves and attack on autopilot. We are not the weaklings you take us for.»

«No? Then think about this. No matter how many of us you kill, a few human ships will survive. We know where your home world lies. The clouds that lie above the World Muck would make excellent projection substrates. Do you get my drift?»

* * *

When the last Sirian vessel had passed beyond the Oort Cloud, Natty Looper received another summons to Annadelle Rostov's office.

Her henchman seemed to be elsewhere.

She greeted him with an apparently genuine warmth and signed over his large performance bonus with cheerful gratitude.

She did not immediately usher him to the door, and he regarded her with a frankly speculative expression.

«What?» she asked. A little color rose in her cheeks; she deemed very appealing. But also very dangerous.

«Oh, nothing,» he said finally.

At that moment he felt a tiny pang of sympathy for the General.