Sam Boone's Appeal to Common Scents

Illustration by Kelly Freas

The acrid smell of the morning wake-up call pulled Sam Boone from a deep sleep. For a second only, the bitter smell reminded him of the mornings he had enjoyed a coffee and croissant at the Place Mal du Blanc in romantic New Orleans, back on Earth. He sighed, memories of mercurial Mimi and intense Ingrid lingered a moment at the fringes of his mind, the gentle caress of their hands on his…

Abruptly Sam came fully awake as a cadre of Scrofulosans crawled unheedingly across his chest, some occasionally brushing his face with their feathery antennae in curiosity. Sam rolled out of the path of the marching aliens and began untangling himself from his makeshift bed, a mismatched arrangement he had assembled from his kit to soften the floor of the passageway where he’d slept.

The silence of the aliens’ passage was broken only by the chitinous clicking of the Scrofulosans’ limbs rubbing against one another and scrabbling against the hard floor. Sam knew that their apparent silence was an illusion, since the Scrofulosans were constantly babbling on and on about the things that mattered most to them; religion, food, prayer, food, and what Halene/ether-four inhaled from Brimstone/whiff-of-sulfide the other night. The rank scent of their discussions wafted over him like the redolent stink of an open cesspool. How had he ever let Ahbbbb, his Pequodista agent, talk him into taking this stinking assignment?

“Hmmmm mmm mmmmbmmm,” Ahbbbb had hummed to him, the wormlike appendages on her head beating the sounds on the inflated membranes at her neck. “An easy job, one you can wrap up in a few days. It’s just a simple dispute over land rights, nothing complicated.” That was just before she stuffed him onto a small Earth freighter at StarPort One, Earth’s interstellar commerce hub.

The starport hardly lived up to its prestigious name since it was only used by the few departing humans outbound on one of Earth’s tiny ships. Most of the arriving Galactics simply parked their ships in orbit and flitted down to the principal tourist attractions by themselves, ignoring the costly, overly engineered, and woefully inadequate StarPort One, which didn’t even have a decent phloomb generator, for heaven’s sake!

Interstellar tourism was the primary source of Earth’s extra-solar revenues, which is to say hard Glax currency. Aliens came from throughout the Galaxy to see the wondrous sights that Earth had to offer, places incomparable to any other in the civilized Universe. Disneyland, Hoboken, and Kawasaki’s Sushi Bar and Ribs were the most sought after sights, although, it was reported by some of Earth’s returning traders, many of the Galactics were not keen on their young being exposed to such bad art, gross pornography, and wasteful pleasures as these three attractions. Which of the three had which attribute attached to it was still being argued extensively throughout the globe. Questioning the Galactics directly did no good whatsoever; most of the visiting aliens were unwilling to discuss humanity’s pointed questions on the matter. Some even blushed.

Nothing else on Earth seemed to attract the aliens in such numbers as these three famous/infamous sites. The exceptions were the few extraterrestrial scholars who apparently enjoyed going through Earth’s remaining bookstores, taking great and obvious delight in discovering back issues of Home Beautiful, Pipefitters’ Monthly, and Hustler. “Two percent,” they offered for every issue they could find and plunked down hard-edged Glax credits, more than enough to buy a shipment of the galactic technology that Earth desperately wanted. Even though no one had really understood what the “2 percent” meant they nevertheless accepted the offers as the scholars went off, clutching their purchases tightly in their various appendages.

Eventually boatloads of Glax currency started arriving, 2-percent royalty payments for the magazines which, Earth eventually learned, were the funniest things the galactic community had read in centuries—a record-busting mega-hit on every planet where they were shown! Booksellers around the world dug up every copy of every magazine they could find and began marketing them in earnest.

The fad for exotic literature paled after a few years, replaced by an avid and unaccountable interest in Reywas terminals, an Adanac novelty. In the meantime, humanity had discovered that they possessed certain skills much sought after by the Galactics: certain humans were seemingly able to craft agreements with a skill that left the alien races both amazed and astounded. As a result, there was a constant demand for those who had the vast knowledge and specialized training required, people who could face a host of strange beings without trembling and fear, and who would venture to far places. Sam Boone counted himself lucky to be among that tiny fraction of humanity who were chosen, even if his qualifications may have been more than somewhat dubious.

His claustrophobic time on the cramped Earth freighter, which was carrying a few thousand copies of Boy’s Life and a dozen gross of “NudieVue” swizzle sticks to a prospective client a few light-years away, was mercifully short. As soon as they reached the first extra-solar transfer station, Sam had been hustled to a Phlegmatian vessel of indeterminate age and, judging by its slapdash appearance, doubtful reliability. Sam climbed aboard with grave misgivings—there really wasn’t any option.

The Phlegmatians turned out to be a crew of scaly, horn-nosed creatures whose main pastime seemed to involve staring at each other for hours at a time, occasionally flicking their tongues. Sam theorized that the tongue-flicking was done solely to indicate that they were still alive, since they were otherwise immobile.

On alternative nights, the crew would project large holograms of other, scaly, horn-nosed Phlegmatians sitting around staring at each other. After a mercifully few hours of each such pointless dramatization, the show would be over and the projector shut off. Afterwards, the crew hissed at each other—Sssss ssst sss—“Wonderful depth,” his translator had interpreted their alien voices. “Quite rococo,” another would suggest, “although lacking traditional values.” Once, during a particularly long and immobile performance, a ripple of sibilant hisses ran through the crew, even before the show was over; “Innovative,” “Subtly sublime,” and “A post-aesthetic wonder.” Such was the exciting, glamorous thrill of galactic travel.

He managed to endure the five miserable weeks of staring and tongue-flicking and listening to the crew’s endless analyses of various shows involving other, equally immobile lizards, before he’d reached Scrofulous Five. “Thank God that that’s over,” he remarked as he pulled his kit together and made his way out of the vessel, thinking that nothing, nothing could be worse. He decided that he would have to insist that Ahbbbb book him only on luxury ships in the future instead of traveling on the cheap ships.

As he stepped from the hatch the stench of the Scrofulosan station nearly overpowered him. It smelled like a ripe garbage pit, overlaid with the delicate aroma of industrial waste. At first he thought that, perhaps, there was a problem with the atmospheric systems. But no, none of the hundreds of small, one meter tall, sticklike aliens seemed to be racing about in panic, nor did their jerky actions indicate that they were particularly alarmed, although how one could tell where aliens were concerned was ever in doubt.

One of the Scrofulosans crawled from the milling crowd and stopped before him, silently staring up through its three simple and two compound eyes. Some of its teeming companions crawled unheedingly over it as they hastened on their errands. Sam rocked back on his heels from the powerful septic smell that emanated from the creature. No sooner had his nose recovered than the alien squirted a second wave of rank mist.

Sam checked his universal translator to see if it was working properly. The device was the absolute cutting edge of linguistic technology. It automatically translated hundreds of languages into standard Glax, providing flawless two-way translations of human languages into Glax, with only a single exposure to a native speaker, with amazing ease. Ahbbbb had managed to obtain one for him at considerable cost, a price he was quite willing to pay back out of his earnings as negotiator. If this job went well he’d only owe her another two million before it would be entirely his.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to work at all that well with the few aliens he’d encountered. While the translations were somewhat understandable, they tended to sound like pidgin Glax. Still, it was a wonderful device, without which he would be unable to function.

Even though both of the translator’s arms were stiff, which meant that it was drawing power from the local phloomb generator, no sound was coming through his earpiece. He gave the translator a sharp thump, hoping to jiggle something inside. He cranked the volume control as far as it would go, for the Scrofulosan was obviously trying to communicate with him and he could hear nothing.

S-sssss- ssss-ss. Ss’s ssss s! hissed one of the Phlegmatians who was staring at him from a nearby wall; “Help not. Here is Odor-eaters,” the translator blurted too loudly, nearly deafening Sam. Sam puzzled at his erstwhile crewmate’s words for a few seconds before it dawned on him that these Scrofulosans must communicate by smell—that was why the station reeked to high heaven! The pervasive smell must be their equivalent of a crowd’s hubbub!

The Scrofulosan apparently had given up on getting a response and motioned with one of its eight limbs for Sam to follow. He picked up his kit, flicked his inadequate tongue at the still-staring Phlegmatian, and followed his alien escort.

Moments later, Sam was aboard a shuttle headed for the surface of Scrofulous Five. The small shuttle was crammed to capacity with Scrofulosans who apparently took no notice of who was crawling over whom, or whose foot was in which eye. Sam tried to hold his breath the entire trip. The shuttle was even more malodorous than the station.

Scrofulous Five turned out to be a fetid and overheated planet redolent of swamp gas and other scents the human nose had not evolved to endure. But there was little time to study the depressingly foggy view from the landing grid as his escort whisked him into a tunnel that led to an underground warren. Along the way they passed an endless stream of other Scrofulosans, crawling over one another as they scurried on their busy errands. Sam hadn’t seen so much frenetic activity since he kicked an anthill.

Eventually Sam’s escort led him into a chamber where they joined a larger group. There were at least a dozen of them. The Scrofulosans’ bodies were so alike that Sam could discern not a hairsbreadth of difference between them.

In their midst stood an assembly of tubes and pipes, canisters and tanks, switches and valves that looked like a not-so-miniature, haphazardly-constructed chemical factory. Hanging from one arm of the complicated device was an earpiece similar to the one on his translator.

A small creature hopped around the device like a cricket on speed, its appendages flicking switches, turning knobs, adjusting valves, and, in general, looking like a one-alien-band. Clii—ccc-kkk, clickedy-click, it chirped as Sam’s translator converted it to Glax. “About time got you hire, mud-per-son. Attend the high gloss.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam replied as his translator produced a series of loud clicks. The tiny creature jerked back and covered the two white patches on its abdomen with its forelimbs.

CLIII-CCK CLICK! the little creature screamed. “SHOUT NOT! Poor soundings wring pleasure from my life.”

Sam surmised that the white patches must be thoracic tympunums, the creature’s equivalent of ears. Before he could react, the cricket scurried over and snatched Sam’s translator from his shoulder, yanking the earpiece so hard that Sam felt his ear had been detached.

“Hey, watch that!” Sam yelled as the creature opened the translator’s casing and stared inside.

Click? Cliiicccckkk, click-clickedy! the little alien said, and threw Sam’s translator onto the ground. It bounced with the sickening sound of broken glass and shattered metal as Sam looked on with horror—that was two million down the tubes! How would he ever replace it? He bent to scrape together the pieces as the tiny alien hopped behind the strange machine. It emerged a moment later with a small silver box no larger than Sam’s hand. With a twist of the leads the cricket attached Sam’s earpiece to the device and handed it back. Click, click, clickedy, the alien began. Click…

Carefully Sam put the earpiece into his ear and heard the translation; “… most disgusting piece of Pequodista crap I’ve ever seen. Why are you using such a museum piece anyway, Earth-thing? Damn thing only handles the audio languages, and only a few hundred of those! Really good for nothing, a child’s toy! Is Earth that poor that they have to buy translators that are a Glizzatina a dozen?” A Glizzatina was the lowest denomination of the Galactic currency, whose face value was actually less than the value of the metal used to coin it.

“It’s the best I thought I could get,” he stammered, and heard his translator chirp a softer response than before. Had Ahbbbb’s translator really been that worthless?

“Now you are in much better voice,” the little alien replied. “More melodic, anyway. Keep the device, Earth-thing; I’d rather not hear the noise that crude monstrosity you brought with you produced. And don’t worry about the price, I’ll scrape the Scrofulosans’ or the Mephitisites’ accounts for it.”

Sam was amazed at the quality of the new translations and wondered at the honesty of his agent in naming the outlandish price for the worthless “piece of Pequodista crap.” Perhaps he should not be so trusting of her in the future? “Thanks,” he said.

That done, he pointed at the strange machine in the center of the chamber. “Now, what is this thing?” he asked, “and who are you?”

Cliiii-ck! Clickedy, click… the alien responded quickly as it leaped to adjust a valve on the strange device. “Name’s Sslowa—senior Rix engineer! I’m with the Scrofulous Five engineering group. We were instructed to build this scent translator for you, since you were reported to have a rather inadequate nose. It converts the pheromonic essences of the Scrofulosans’ and the Mephitisites’ languages to sounds that you can hear.”

Sam warily considered the machine for a moment, taking in the tanks that must contain the bases for the scents, the tubes, nozzles, and various appliances in between. He tentatively placed the machine’s earpiece into his other ear as another noisome assault of essence-du-sewer washed over him.

A string of tinny words in clear, standard Glax came from the translator; “Ugly, evil-smelling, deaf-beast from Earth, the rightful owners of Scrofulous welcome you to the beauty and wonders of their city.”

“And the same to you,” Sam replied and watched in amazement as the scent translator belched out an aroma of onions and gasoline toward the assembled Scrofulosans.

“I am Chlorine/blend-of-sage, your guide, deaf-beast,” the alien who apparently had been his escort wafted. “It is my duty to assist you, to help you in any way in your masterful undertaking.”

Sam pointed at the machine. “I guess that I have to use this, er, thing to translate all of the time.” He wondered how he would lug the huge thing around. A quick heft indicated that it must weigh at least thirty kilos, and probably a top-heavy thirty at that. He searched for a set of handholds or straps, but found none. Maybe he could have the Rix engineer—what was its name, Sslowa?—install some?

“I’ll need help to get this to my quarters,” the machine wheezed and belched in response to his Glax.

There was a flurry of consternation among the Scrofulosans. They tangled together in a knot of limbs and torsos amidst a cloud of indescribable effluent too complex to be translated. “What do you mean ‘quarters’?” one of them finally wafted back at him.

“It’s a place to sleep, to change clothes, to do, er, private things,” Sam answered and waited while the machine huffed and puffed the translation.

“You may sleep wherever you wish, like any other civilized being. We are all but hands of the great God, and God does not hide his hands,” Chlorine/blend-of-sage suggested. “We have no restrictions on where you might choose to sleep, although, er,” the alien coughed a slightly bluish cloud of vapor, “we would prefer that you stay out of the main corridors as much as possible so that your ugliness does not disrupt the aesthetics of our city.

“But now we do not understand what you mean by ‘private things.’ Is this another part of quarters?”

“No quarters?” Sam asked plaintively and tried to remember what Ahbbbb had told him about the concept of privacy among the Scrofulosans. Damn, when would he learn to pay attention to her briefings? First the business about communicating by scent and now this. What other surprises were in store?

As he pondered how to explain what he meant by private things he heard a low roar in the distance, as if a faucet had been opened. The Scrofulosans turned as one and prostrated themselves on the ground, all facing in the direction of the sound. When the sound had faded away, moments later, the group turned again to Sam. “We are pleased that you have come to help us,” one of them whiffed. “It is about time someone put these upstart, alien Mephitisites in their rightful place.”

“I agree, most honored Offal/taint-of-mustard,” Chlorine/blend-of-sage injected smoothly as it stepped forward and touched Sam’s arm. “It has been a terrible trial for us. Especially after our dear ancestors spent their lives taming this joyful and beautiful environment. Ten generations underwent terrible deprivations to build this wonderful city, enduring hardships beyond measure so that we, their descendants, could enjoy the comforts and beauty that you see around you.”

Sam looked around the glowing, dripping, mildew-encrusted walls, the damp floor, and the dank, rough-hewn recesses extending in all directions. “Lovely,” he responded dryly.

“It was my great-great-great grandaunt that put down the first scent trail to the God Hole,” Offal/taint-of-mustard took up the thread where Chlorine had left off. “And now, that trail is daily dishonored by those horrible, terrible aliens who act as if they have rights to the planet we claimed first.” Her diatribe sputtered off in a mist of putrid squirts.

“I will try,” Sam responded softly, “but I cannot make any commitments without hearing both sides.” Best, he thought, to hear what the Mephitisites had to say. In the meantime, perhaps he could get the Rix, Sslowa, to get the monster translating machine fixed so he could carry it, before the little alien scurried off on another project.

The acrid smell of the morning wake-up call had scarcely faded when Chlorine/blend-of-sage appeared. “Did the deaf-beast rest well?” it puffed as it casually scraped a hunk of slimy growth from the tunnel’s wall and stuffed it into its mouth.

“Sure did, nothing I like better than being a doormat for a parade of stinking aliens all night.” The translator chugged his reply slowly as Sam pulled on a dry outfit and ran his fingers through his hair. Why the hell should he do more—how would these aliens know the difference anyway since they’d never seen a human before? Who knew, maybe a little body odor would even help. “Let’s get the negotiations started,” he said as he hefted the awkward scent factory onto his back. “Bring my kit along, would you?”

They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred meters when a huge, slimy, slug-like alien approached. It was the first Mephitisite he had seen since arrival. Sam was fascinated at the way the ragged edges of the creature’s apron of skin nearest the ground flapped as the huge alien leaped. He could hear a fluttering sound as it drew near. A little cloud of mist blew away to either side with each bound.

Whoosh-phlattttt-blah-blah whoosh, the approaching alien retched as it modulated the air flow. “It is not * to curry ** with the *,” Sam’s new silver translator interpreted the exhalations smoothly into standard Glax. “* were not notified of the * arrival, * were not told of * needs, * were not given the * to offer the * of wind.” The Mephitisite flopped to a halt in front of them, its four feathery antennae waving in circular patterns.

It took a moment for Sam to remember that half of whatever the Mephitisites said was expressed pheromonically and the other half audibly. He shoved the earpiece of the scent translator into place quickly, so as not to miss any more of the conversation.

“Wretched beast of the damned, defiler of the Universe, I didn’t expect you to arrive so early,” Chlorine/blend-of-sage exuded angrily, filling the surrounding atmosphere with the rich smell of methane. “I was merely taking this deaf-beast to our meeting place. I was not currying favor.”

The Mephitisite rippled the skinlike apron along its side with the sound of tearing cloth. “You are carrying its luggage, are you not? I must assume that you are being deliberately subservient, acting as a wretched beast of burden simply to gain some sort of obligation from the Earth-thing.” Sam had some momentary disorientation as the translation alternated from ear to ear. Things were apparently audible and actions and descriptors were scent-based. It was an interesting linguistic adaptation.

The Mephitisite sniffed—a mighty inhalation that dried the floor for meters to either side, and turned its (head?) toward Sam. It let out a blast that sounded like a Bronx raspberry and smelled like an elephant house in August. “I am Flatula, the right honorable representative of those Mephitisites who have settled this gorgeous planet,” it introduced itself. The thing spoke with such pomposity that Sam imagined, had the alien been a Prussian, it would have clicked its boot heels, had it any heels to click.

“Are you the new Speaker for the Mephitisites, detestable being from the stars?” Chlorine/blend-of-sage reeked a cloud of inquiry. “Is that why you have come?”

Flatula jumped back with a blast of air. “Hardly,” it protested. “I merely wanted to ensure that this Earth-thing was familiar with our position in this matter.” A long, slender pseudopod extended toward the burden on Sam’s back. “If you will permit me,” Flatula said as it took the weight of the chemical factory off of Sam’s back. “Now, dearest Chlorine/blend-of-sage, we can proceed as equals. We are now both beasts of burden.”

Since the Mephitisite’s grasp of the translator had pulled the earpiece away Sam could not understand Chlorine/blend-of-sage’s reply but, judging by the aroma that poisoned the air, it wasn’t nice.

At issue, as best as Sam could determine, given the ambiguities and difficulties in converting their aromatic languages to Glax, was that the Scrofulosans stated a prior claim to this planet while the Mephitisites said they had bought settlement rights for their colony fair and square. Both sides contended that the other was being unreasonable.

According to his universal handbook, another item Ahbbbb charged him dearly for, the Mephitisites were well known for sharp trading, planetary redevelopment, and rather catholic palates. Their single, alleged character flaw was an occasional alleged genocide, but, the handbook said in a tiny footnote, only on the outer fringes of the Hegemony, only when no officer of the Court was nearby, and only where proof of what they had done was never possible, largely because of the singular lack of living witnesses, particularly among the genocides.

The Scrofulosans were, as Sam began to understand, a prolific species that was obviously as long on dumb as they were short on deodorant. Some of their ancestors had ceded a portion of the planet away to the Mephitisites for a handful of Galactic beads and twenty Glax credits. Their descendants now regretted the bargain and wanted the Mephitisites off their planet.

Through the Rix, Sslowa, he had learned that the Mephitisite delegation also had a rather nasty habit that didn’t make the guidebooks. On occasion they would eat one of their number, usually the current Speaker. In between times they simply nibbled on one another. It was a slug thing, the Rix said, he probably wouldn’t understand. Sam assumed that their appetites might make continuity of negotiations somewhat difficult—it would be hard for him to establish more than a temporary relationship with a Speaker who was also a potential entree.

Fluthth, the Mephitisite Speaker du jour, started the first series of sessions with a lengthy, stomach-turning, and loud belch of redolent gas that would have rattled the windows, had there been any in this underground burrow. Apparently Flatula was one of the more personable, polite, and relatively clean-speaking members of their group. Sam could barely bear to be near the other Mephitisites as they ranted on and on about the rights they had legally purchased, so vile was the smell of their outpourings.

Sslowa, who had appointed itself as Sam’s unofficial aide-de-camp, would softly explain whatever nuances his complicated machine missed. The Rix, through long association with both races, was able to suggest meanings that Sam’s translator could not.

Offal/taint-of-mustard, as leader of the Scrofulosans, would always wait until Fluthth was finished before clicking her mandibles and squirting the haze of chemical mist that explained the Scrofulosan point of view. The windy flatulence of the Mephitisite delegation, combined with the odors produced by the Scrofulosans, usually left the negotiation room smelling like an open sewer.

Sam frequently had to excuse himself to get some fresh air. In the dank Scrofulosan city such “fresh air” was any atmosphere having a hydrogen sulfide and methane concentration somewhat less than lethal to humans, but thankfully absent of the many other unpleasant congeners that made the negotiations so difficult to bear.

“What is wrong?” Sam asked Sslovva during one of the breaks several days later. “You don’t seem to be your normal, chipper self today.”

Click, Sslowa started to reply slowly. “It is Sslinno, one of the engineers, Earth-Sam. He has been sounding very nice lately. I am starting to think that it is no accident that I find his melody so pleasing.”

Sam smiled. Even here in the depths of the galactic, dark love or lust managed to rear its pretty head, or whatever the local equivalent was. Although how the Rix told each other apart was something he had not determined. As far as he could tell, all of the Rix were alike as peas in a pod. It was, however a surprise to find out that Sslovva was female. “Hey, go for it,” he advised with a smile.

“Do you think so?” the Rix replied. “I mean, it is such a dangerous step. I’d hate to be wrong in my assumption. I would like to live out my normal lifespan.”

Dangerous? “Why, is your admirer married to someone who might be jealous?” Sam asked. “I mean, flirting is one thing, but messing around with someone who is…”

“What is ‘married’?” Sslowa interrupted with a puzzled note in its clicking. As Sam painstakingly explained the honored Earthly practice and what it meant, the little Rix began leaping around the corridor, bouncing off the walls at all angles. Clickedy-clickedy. Cl! ICK; “Heh, heh, heh. That is the damnedest thing I have ever heard! Wait until I tell the others about this, they won’t believe me! Scatter’s children, but you Earth beings are weird!”

“If that isn’t a problem,” Sam continued haughtily, trying to preserve some dignity by ignoring the alien’s laughing dance, “then why did you say it was so dangerous?”

Sslowa settled down. “Ah, it is dangerous because I am not completely certain that Sslinno is a male,” she responded. “If I make myself vulnerable to his tune and HE is not what HE seems then SHE will kill me.”

“Whoa. Why would he, or she, or whatever,” he added just to be sure, “make eyes at you otherwise?” Deep inside he wondered if some aliens could be… naw, it wasn’t possible.

“Is the way we mate,” Sslowa responded. “Males attract females by making their melody pleasing. But when we become female we sometimes make our melody pleasing to other females to lure them unknowingly to a vulnerable position where we can attack with deadly force. It reduces the competition.”

“But,” Sam sputtered, “would someone on your engineering team actually kill you? I mean, isn’t that just a tiny bit counterproductive?”

The Rix stood on its back legs and scratched at its thorax. “Do you think so? Hmmm, perhaps I should talk to my teammates about that aspect. Maybe that is why we have become so few in number these past years.”

Sam suddenly began to have doubts about the intelligence of this particular race and then shrugged. It didn’t matter—after all, they were just engineers. “Well, what are you going to do?” he asked.

“I will do the only sensible thing that I can, Earth-Sam. I will make a male melody pleasing to Sslinno. Then, if SHE responds it is I who will be the victor. I will then have whatever males remain for myself!” The Rix hopped off with a final Clickedy-click; “Thank you for the help, Earth-Sam. Thank you. I will ‘go for it!’ as you say.”

Sam was speechless. Maybe he’d better keep his mouth shut until he learned the customs. No telling what trouble he might cause otherwise.

Whooosh-phlaat, ka-blooie; “I despair of ever reaching an agreement with these stupid aliens,” Flatula remarked during a breather in the discussions.

Sam had tried to find someplace where he could be by himself for a few moments, a nearly impossible task given the continual and pervasive presence of the Scrofulosans who swarmed everywhere, crawling over each other like ants. Despite that, he did manage to find an alcove where blissful solitude reigned for a few moments, until Flatula entered on a cushion of fetid air.

“There must be some basis for agreement,” Sam responded carefully, not certain of which delicate nuances he was missing this far from Sslowa’s help. “They will come around, just as you must alter your, er, stance. That is the way that accord is achieved.”

“One must be ever careful with these lesser races,” the Mephitisite continued. “They are so ignorant of the proper ways of commerce. So poor, too poor to properly treat a frowlzing being such as yourself in the manner appropriate to its taste. I assure you that we would not be so impolite, were we but given the chance.”

Sam was astounded. Was Flatula actually trying to bribe him or was he misunderstanding the alien? Perhaps this was merely a plea for equity—to give the Mephitisites an equal chance to house and care for him. Best to steer a politic course. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.

WHOOOSHHHH! “Very gratified that you see things in their proper context frowlzing Earth-thing! Yes, yes. We will have your things moved to our facilities immediately. Tonight you will have your own ‘quarters’—quite different from these,” the alien snorted loudly, raising a cloud of choking, foul-smelling mist, “dreadful accommodations.”

Thank God, Sam thought to himself. It would be nice to be able to go to sleep without worrying about a horde of tiny aliens using you for a rug during the night. It would be nice to have some privacy for a change.

The Scrofulosans were less than enthusiastic when they heard about Sam’s forthcoming move. “Have we offended you in some way?” they wafted at him. “Have we been less than gracious in allowing you access to our glorious city? Or have these,” there was a dreadful smell that nearly made Sam pass out, it was so foul, “despicable creatures bribed you in some way?”

“I have not been bribed,” Sam responded with indignation. “In my position one must remain impartial. I merely feel that both sides should have equal opportunity to extend their complete hospitality.”

Offal/taint-of-mustard jerked back, scrambling over four of its fellows in a jittering panic. “We do not want you at risk. We do not want you to be replaced. What if they ask you to dinner?”

This was getting very confusing. He had no idea that etiquette was so important among the Galactics. Perhaps he should ask the little Rix to tell him some more about the Mephitisite dining manners. Wouldn’t want to pick up the wrong fork or something and embarrass himself, he thought.

The Speaker for the Mephitisites belched angrily when it heard the Scrofulosan s question. “We have no such intentions of aesthetically editing the frowlzing Earth-thing. It will not be invited to dine with us. Besides, it is so scrawny and small—probably tastes terrible, too. Oh, no offense intended,” it added in a malodorous aside to Sam.

Or maybe Mephitisite table manners were something he should not be too eager to acquire after all, Sam thought. Where the hell was the Rix anyway? He had to know what he had let himself in for!

When Sslowa arrived a few hours later Sam saw that the tiny alien remained in her blue funk. Her clicks were desultory, hardly any crispness whatever. He suspected that the prospect of a tryst with Sslinno was at the root of her problem.

“Didn’t you make the male sounds?” he asked when he had a chance. “Or did you chicken out?”

The little Rix responded carefully. “Things have gotten very bad, friend Earth-Sam. I waited until only Sslinno and I were within speaking range and then did the male melody, as I said I would. 1 was not prepared for the response—not a bit. Sslinno responded with the most beautiful female melody that I have ever heard. Oh Sam, it nearly broke my hearts to resist that call, it was so lovely.”

“Wait a minute,” Sam protested. “I thought that you said that you were a female. Then how could you…?”

The Rix chirped sadly; “I thought so too, much to my regret. Now I am not so sure. The response was so lovely to my ears that I think that I must really be a male. It is such an indeterminate thing for us, you know. That is, until it is time.”

Sam tried to reason it out. “If Sslinno is really a female and it turns out that you are a male then why not, er, consummate the relationship?”

Every limb of the Rix sagged. Cliiiiiiccccckkkkk, it wailed despondently. “But what if she is really a male making a female call to lure me? Our males are equally deadly about reducing the competition.”

Sam wondered if Ann Landers ever had this problem. How in the hell did any little Rix get produced if there was this much uncertainty and predation in their mating rituals?

“So what will you do now? Will you go back to the female tune you started with?”

“Alas, but I cannot. That would confuse matters greatly. It seems that we two have carried our courtship too far to go back to where we started. I must weave a strategy that will minimize the risk to myself.”

“Why don’t you just say the hell with it and walk away? I certainly don’t want to lose you just as negotiations seem to be moving forward.”

“I cannot stop the courtship, Earth-Sam. I must continue until Sslinno and I have decided what our relationship is to be.” Slowly the little creature dragged itself down the corridor to rejoin the dating game with its possibly deceptive sweetheart.

The Mephitisite accommodations were certainly different from the open hallways of the Scrofulosans, Sam observed as he took in the slimy walls that pressed so close on either side. The Mephitisites, he had discovered, liked to fit snugly inside their little dens with the walls pressing close against their bodies. The horny carapace that he had noticed on the rear of each served as a door once they were inside, blocking any other access and protecting them.

After showing him to his digs, the Mephitisite took Sam on a brief tour of their burrow. Sam could discern little difference between the array of slimy passages that they followed, nor could he fathom the awe with which they approached a filthy pit of noisome fluids.

“This,” Flatula whooshed as a few of its companions gathered at the edge of the pit, “is the only reason that we wish to remain on this abysmal planet.” Sam looked at the pit, observing the smooth surface of the brownish fluid. Long moments passed as nothing happened, and then, just as the distant roar of God’s Hole could be faintly heard, tiny black spots began to appear on the surface of the pool. To Sam it looked as if an oil leak had sprung somewhere below. One of the spots spread rapidly until it was barely distinguishable from the rest of the surface.

The Mephitisites surrounding the pool were in a flurry of activity as they tried to scoop up the spots before they disappeared. They’d managed to capture only a few precious drops before the spots stopped appearing. Sam took a sniff of one of the containers and jerked back from the revolting stench.

“Whew, why do you bother?” he asked.

“You do not find it pleasant? How strange—you creatures must have a very restricted palate,” the Mephitisite responded. “This condiment is our primary export. It is in great demand elsewhere. You have no idea of the exquisite flavor it adds to… but I shouldn’t bore you with such culinary matters. Let me just say that this tiny bit is the most valuable commodity we have—sufficient to support our settlers—even though we reserve half of the production for ourselves. Now, come, let me show you the slime molds. After that we’ll visit the dears in the nursery—and don’t worry, we’ve enough safeguards to protect ourselves.”

That evening Sam huddled in his narrow room while the Mephitisites dined. From what he could hear the Mephitisite dinner was a horror of slobbering sounds and airy screams. Sam looked askance at each forkful of the meal they had fixed for him, checking each morsel to make sure that it had no intention of screaming in protest before shoveling it into his mouth. The distant screams had abated by the time he’d finished his meal and were replaced by much more disturbing sucking, slithering sounds from the dining area. With a shudder, he prepared for sleep.

Sslowa had driven pins into the walls to allow Sam to rig a hammock, which could serve both as his bed and as storage for his kit. Sam discovered that he couldn’t rest easy. He was fearful that some goo-sated Mephitisite would see the unblocked doorway, forget about the tiny human inside, and squeeze in, crushing Sam in the process. Perhaps being a doormat for the Scrofulosans hadn’t been so bad after all.

In the morning a new Speaker had been selected. Flatula and other members of the delegation also had a few additional chewed-out notches in their aprons. All appeared somewhat reduced in size.

Sam was very glad he hadn’t been invited to dinner.

Offal/taint-of-mustard and the other Scrofulosans stayed behind while the Mephitisites left the room for a private conference after a particularly pungent exchange of arguments.

“We have something for you,” Of-fal/taint-of-mustard exuded softly. Another of the Scrofulosans scurried up and handed the leader a tightly tied bundle. “A small gift, to show our respect for your efforts, deaf-beast.”

Sam accepted the bundle from the alien with some trepidation, unsure of whether it would be proper to accept gifts from one side or another. Still, he was intrigued as to what the Scrofulosans would consider a proper “gift” (a.k.a. “a bribe”). Interesting, he mused; perhaps the Mephitisites would do likewise to maintain their perceived position? Avarice suddenly became such a warm, exciting possibility that Sam felt ashamed of himself. He quickly shoved the bundle into his carry-all so that the Mephitisites would not see it when they returned. “Thank you,” he whispered.

The afternoon’s negotiations achieved nothing except to fill the room with the rotten stench of suspicion.

The Scrofulosan gift was puzzling. Inside the bundle of obscenely smelly rags was an indescribable lump of… something that looked as if it were pieces of chewed bark and swamp moss, embedded in what looked suspiciously like odoriferous excrement. Yes, Sam concluded after sniffing at the thing’s uneven surface, it even smelled like cow dung! He turned the object over and over, trying to discern what it could possibly be.

Neither Sslowa nor the other Rix were any help. They told him they had glimpsed such objects elsewhere, always in very private Scrofulosan places, but, since they weren’t mechanical, the Rix had no curiosity about them.

“Did you like our gift?” Chlorine/blend-of-sage asked shyly the following morning.

“It is very lovely,” Sam equivocated. “I appreciate it very much.”

“Ah, wonderful,” Chlorine answered, obviously pleased with his response. “We were concerned that you would not have the sensitivity to understand. I smell that we underestimated your abilities once again. I can’t wait to sniff your every reaction.”

“Perhaps when we have some more time,” Sam replied, heading toward the negotiation room as he swore under his breath. Damn, what was that gift? He was going to be terribly embarrassed if he didn’t figure it out, and soon.

The day’s sessions became especially heated, driving the Mephitisites in a cloud of angry mist. As the Scrofulosans began to respond Flatula whipped out a can from under its skirt, pointed at the Scrofulosans, and sprayed. Sam didn’t know what to do—was this some weapon, some deadly virus, some noxious gas? Then a strange sensation overcame him. For the first time in weeks there was no odor to the room. He looked around at the confusion among the Scrofulosans who were gesturing futilely at each other and shaking their appendages at the Mephitisites. “Deodorant,” Flatula belched and laughed, “that should teach them to argue!” Whatever it was, it effectively brought the negotiations to a definite halt.

While everyone was waiting for the deodorant to wear off, Sam headed for the local phloomb-driven ansible. It was about time to update Ahbbbb about his progress, or lack of it. When she heard of what had transpired to date her attitude moved up a notch from her normal state of mild concern to the more troubling one of deeply disturbed. Sam expected that if he didn’t wind this assignment up soon, then there was some point in the not too distant future where she would no doubt escalate to the sheer panic mode. He had to prevent that. Ahbbbb’s response to a panic situation usually meant no end of trouble. He well remembered what had happened when she had become involved in the tense situation between the Kittchiikoostrans and the Sphagers. It had taken weeks for his hair to grow back.

“Not to worry,” Sam assured the Pequodista. “I’m positive that once I figure out how to create an environment of trust and mutual respect the issue will resolve itself.” Actually, at the rate things were going, he’d be lucky if this didn’t escalate into war. “Trust me,” he finished, hoping for a miracle.

Ahbbbb’s response was less than supportive.

The Scrofulosan gift continued to confound Sam. Perhaps, he thought, Flatula would be able to provide some insight on it. He picked it up by the least repulsive corner and carried it to the common room where the Mephitisites usually assembled for their evening soirees. He intended to be back, secure in his little room, before that gourmand event began.

He was unprepared for Flatula’s response when it saw the object.

WHOOSH! WHOOOOOOOOSH; “Remarkable! I had no idea that these insignificant creatures had such resources! No expectation that they shared our interests. Perhaps we have misjudged them entirely. Oh, this is quite breathtaking!”

“Then it has some sort of value?” Sam interrupted the large alien whose exhalations were becoming overpowering. From the way that Flatula was reacting Sam knew that his translator must be missing a lot of the pheromonic intensity of the alien’s exclamations.

“Value? Oh, this is absolutely without price. I doubt that I’d have enough Glax credit to pay for such a treasure, although, if you are willing to sell…” The Mephitisite delicately suggested as it caressed the lump with its pseudopod while passing its antennae over and around it. “Priceless!” it whispered. “Lovely.” Flatula let out a loud WHOOOOSH-WHOOSH. “Frowlzing, definitely frowlzing,” it said.

“You can’t stay here with this,” Flatula suddenly said in a rush as it glanced around. “I am afraid that many of our people might not have the restraint that I have. They might even be driven to do you harm to gain possession. Come with me to my den. We can hide it there, where I can protect it.”

From the way the Mephitisite was ogling the object Sam felt less than comfortable about the offer. “I think I will go back to the city,” he remarked. “Could you call Sslowa for me?” He had to ask three times before Flatula stopped offering its help and left to make the call. In the meantime, mindful of the warning, he shoved the lump under his jacket.

The haste with which the Rix escorted Sam back to the crowded hallways of the Scrofulosan city made him uneasy. “Never seen a Mephitisite so worked up,” the Rix remarked as they trundled the translator along. “Practically slobbering with hunger, if I’m any judge. What did you do; offer him your ugly body?”

“No, I just showed him that damned gift,” he replied, and he still hadn’t a clue as to what it was.

One evening Chlorine/blend-of-sage sat with Sam near the conference room. The conference room was one of the few places where they were out of the ever-present traffic. Sam had decided that he felt a lot more comfortable being as far as possible away from Flatula for the time being. “That gift of yours,” Sam began warily. “It is very lovely’.”

“So you mentioned before,” Chlorine answered. “And I am still interested in learning of your alien perceptions.” No help there.

“Quite interesting, too,” Sam added, still hoping for some clue.

“Yes, it does have a long history, as you no doubt could observe for yourself. Even your smelling appendage must be able to discern that.”

“Of course, very venerable. Anyone can see that.”

Chlorine started in surprise. “You said ‘venerable’! I had no idea that you had such depths,” it exclaimed. “Oh, this is most wonderful. The priests will be pleased when I tell them of this.”

Aha! So this thing had some sort of religious significance, Sam thought. “I don’t understand how your priests could bear to part with it,” he stated, hoping to elicit further disclosures.

“We didn’t have to apply much pressure,” Chlorine admitted. “When we explained that we had to best any bribe that those hateful Mephitisites might offer, why, they immediately suggested giving you their best. You have no idea how pleased we are that you understand its meaning. We suspected that few heathen aliens had the sensitivity to appreciate such art.”

Sam sat up suddenly. Wait a moment, had Chlorine said “art”? What the hell was so artistic about a lump of excrement? And what did art have to do with priests? “I hope they are not upset over losing it.” Sam probed.

“Oh, they will have one of their artisans create another. It is only the gathering of material that takes so much effort. You must understand how that is.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed, “so very expensive to collect.” What the hell was it? He was getting rather compulsive over the question; out of all proportion, which meant that, down deep, his subconscious must attach some importance to this piece of junk.

The day’s negotiations got off to a bad start when Offal insisted that the Mephitisites be frisked for weapons before entering the city. Things went downhill after that and, once again, the negotiations were stalled. Sam decided to ask Sslowa if it could suggest a way around the impasse. Perhaps it knew something that would help. For some reason the little Rix hadn’t shown up as usual.

When Sam found Sslovva it was sulking in one of the corridors. Clearly, the Rix was not at her—or was it his?—best. The tiny creature was limping along, as if held down by some great weight. “I take it that the courtship is not progressing well,” Sam prompted.

The Rix gave a desolate click. “It is terrible, Earth-Sam. I had hoped that Sslinno and I would reach some sort of resolution, but, alas, that was not to be.”

“You still do not know whether you are male or female, whether he or she is a she or a he?”

“Oh, you have such a perfect understanding, Earth-Sam. Would that I had your penetrating intellect. You are right, the issue between us remains unresolved, at least as far as my life is concerned. In other matters I am afraid that resolution is very prominent.” The Rix turned about and showed what had emerged from the rear of its thorax.

Sam gasped in surprise. A shaft nearly half the alien’s length protruded from the tip of its thorax. It appeared triangular in cross section, with rather sharp-looking, serrated edges. The wicked-looking appendage looked as if it could slice through steel. “What the hell is that?” he exclaimed in wonder. “Are you getting ready to fight or something?”

The Rix turned back to face Sam. “Fight? Would that it were that easy. No, this is what happens when the male in me is awakened. This is the instrument with which I will consummate this affair.”

“I guess that you’ve determined that the object of your affection really is a female. Well, looks like you and Sslinno are going to have a hell of a weekend.” Suddenly Sam had a new appreciation of what the Rix had meant by the affair being dangerous if one chose wrong. Of course, he added ruefully, that might be only marginally preferable to choosing right!

Click-clickedy-click; “You do not yet understand. I have assumed no such thing. Whether my precious Sslinno is male or female is not in question. Since my body has clearly chosen to assume the male role, I must take whatever fate deals me. The biological imperatives are too great to resist. Tonight, the issue between Sslinno and I will be resolved, one way or the other.”

Sam felt pity for the poor thing. “Don’t you have any other options?” he asked. “Must you risk your life just for… ah… a night of love?”

“It is so, Earth-Sam. I have no choice. Once the courtship reaches this last plateau there is no turning back. I have assumed the male role and must meet my lover as nature intended. For good or ill, I am committed.”

Sam recalled saying much the same thing on the eve of his first marriage, and it proved only slightly less disastrous than this might turn out to be. “Well,” he advised somberly, “in matters of the heart there’s always a time when the delights of romance overcome your natural aversion to danger. When that happens all you can do is go with the flow and let nature take its path.”

“Good advice, friend Earth-Sam. I thank you.”

“And I wish you luck, Sslovva,” Sam said sympathetically as the Rix went off, dragging his newly-grown equipment with him.

After all of the discussions and despite every remedy Sam could think of, the Mephitisites were unwilling to relinquish the rights to the lands ceded to them by the Scrofulosans’ ancestors.

“You accepted our original bid,” the Mephitisites argued, “Your people took what we offered. I recall how pleased your people were, at the time. Acted as if you had gotten the better edge of the deal.”

The Scrofulosan descendants, on the other hand, remained intransigent that the Mephitisites depart the planet.

“Our poor ancestors didn’t understand the value of the worthless things that you offered. You took advantage of their naïveté,” Offal accused with a sniff.

Sam could sympathize with that. For a while he had thought the cheap translator that Ahbbbb had given him was the most wonderful device in creation, that is until Sslowa set him straight.

Then he realized what the Mephitisite Speaker du jour had said. “Wait a minute,” he yelled as the machine huffed and wheezed to keep up with his rapid speech. “How could you remember their reaction if it was so many generations ago? How old are you anyway?”

“Why, forty of your years,” the sluggish alien replied with an abrupt blast of wind. “I was a first-level trader at that time, you understand—a huge child, not the gracefully edited adult you see before you.”

Sam turned to the Scrofulosan delegation. “You told me that this place had been held by you for generations! You said that it was your great-etcetera-grandaunts who laid down the first scent trails to the God Hole. You said that this was your ancestral home. Now it appears that you only settled this place a few years ago!”

Offal responded quickly. “I do not understand why you are so upset. You seem to have a firm grasp of the facts.”

How could he have a firm grasp of the facts in the face of the absurd statements they had just made? “But, but…,” he began, when an idea suddenly occurred to him. “How old are you?” he demanded, pointing at Offal.

“Nearly two of your years!” Offal replied proudly in a little puff of pepper, “and still as spry as ever! However, I will retire as soon as this sordid business is straightened out. Then I will be free to spend my final days in peaceful communion with the wondrous effluent of our God.”

Sam sat abruptly. He’d assumed that the Scrofulosans had held this place nearly forever. He had thought that the Mephitisites were the intruders. Now, it looked like they had made their agreement when the planet was largely undeveloped and space not a problem. Now it looked as if it were the Scrofulosans who were the greedy ones, wanting the entire planet for themselves. How was he going to find some common ground?

Sam decided to take a few days off and see the sights. Perhaps he could get an idea of how to proceed from the current impasse if he learned more about the planet. Chlorine was all too pleased to show him the wonders of the city: the mildew farms, the lovely fungus caverns, the breathtaking (literally) city library, and the great, awesome, slime pits. But the sticklike alien saved the best of the natural wonders for last.

Sam realized that he should have visited the God Hole when he first arrived. After all, it was the center of the devout Scrofulosans’ religion—their holy of holies, in a manner of speaking. The God Hole turned out to be a volcanic fumarole that, regular as clockwork, belched forth a gross mixture of hydrogen, sulfur, nitrogen, and ammonia, interspersed with fragments of whatever strange minerals had been created in this planet’s mantle. The Hole was the source of the frequent roaring sounds that cued every Scrofulosan to prostrate themselves. It was their equivalent of Mount Fuji, the Holy See, and Buddha’s Tree.

Along with the effluvia thrown from the fumarole were globs of dreadful black goo that smelled pretty rank, but somewhat familiar, although he couldn’t place it. Of course, considering the number of rotten smells he’d encountered since arriving, it was no surprise that he should be confused over one or another. The expelled gobs would roll downhill, gathering soil to their sticky surfaces until, by the time they reached the bottom they became appreciable-sized boulders.

Eager Scrofulosans scurried about immediately after each eruption, using baskets on long poles to catch as many of the globs as they could before they hit the ground. Wait a minute; hadn’t Chlorine said they were priests? Suddenly, a connection clicked and he recalled why the smell was familiar. These globs smelled like the oily residue the Mephitisites collected in their pool. What was even more important was that it was also the aromatic component of that hideous gift—these globs must be the stuff to which their priests added the other junk. The gift wasn’t just art—it was religious art, Sam realized. And their art was literally a gift from God.

And he knew how to use that gift.

Phluttt-two, the new Speaker for the Mephitisites, had just inhaled to begin the traditional opening complaint when Sam interrupted. “I think the time to come to an agreement is at hand,” he declared.

Both sets of the aliens drew back, as Sam violated the protocols that had been established. Offal prepared to join the sputtering Phluttt-two in protest when Sam pulled a bundle out of his kit and placed it on the table.

“One of the first principles of negotiation is to know what you want, and what you are willing to give in return. Now, it has occurred to me that both of you are wanting, but neither is willing to give. Both of you are unwilling to bend because there is something here that you value highly. Isn’t that true?” There were reluctant sniffs of grudging agreement from both sides as Sam continued.

“What if I were to show something that was of great value to one of you, something that you would be willing to pay any price to possess? Would you then agree to a settlement?”

“Preposterous,” Offal wafted. “These creatures have nothing that would make us abandon our homes, our city, our planet!”

“Ridiculous,” belched Phluttt-two. “There is nothing that these creatures could offer that would make us—Where did you get THAT!” All of the Mephitisites gathered around the package that Sam had unwrapped as Phluttt-two was venting.

In the center of the table was a fresh sculpture that Sam had brought from the factory near the God Hole, reeking in all of its odoriferous glory, adding its own peculiar stench to the room. “I would say that a steady supply of these might make leaving the planet to the Scrofulosans mighty tempting, wouldn’t it?”

WHOOOOOSH, WHOOOOSH, WHOOOSH!! “Naturally it would depend upon the quantities—oh my, but this is exquisite—and the quality of any—oh lord, this is so GOOD—and the price that might be asked.” Phluttt sputtered in a slobbery finish.

“I would say that delivery of a dozen or so of these every week would be a fair price, wouldn’t you say?”

“A dozen a week! Oh my, uh, could you make that two dozen—and one immediately. As a matter of fact, we’ll take this one with us.” Some of the Mephitisites were already hustling toward the door with the lump of black glop. “Sorry that we can’t stay. We have a rather sudden dinner appointment. Good-bye!” Phluttt exclaimed as it raced to catch up with the crowd.

The Scrofulosans stood stock still, amazed at this sudden turn of events. Offal was nearly knocked scentless at the swift agreement. “Done!” Offal squirted at the Speakers’ retreating back and turned to Sam.

“God works in mysterious ways. Who could have expected that such vile creatures shared our religion? Yes, deaf-beast from Earth, now that you have revealed their true natures we will provide whatever it takes. It makes me proud to think that the Mephitisites will leave to spread God’s message far and wide. Two dozen, no, we will deliver three dozen each week.”

“Better give them the two dozen for the rights and demand Glax credits for anything else,” Sam advised, pleased at their enthusiasm to work within the agreement he had defined.

“Sell our religious artifacts!” Chlorine reeked sulfurously. “That is a violation of—how much do you think we could get?”

“I’d say you’d better charge at least fifty Glax credits apiece, not a Glizzatina less! I’ll give you odds that they’ll pay, too.”

“Fifty?” Offal momentarily lost her control at the prospect of sudden wealth and spurted the scent of violets. Sam realized that the Scrofulosan must have really been overcome to have emitted such a sweet fragrance. “Fifty credits would be enough to buy a small starship, with change left over for a freighter,” Offal wafted in shock. “We can afford to settle other planets! We can spread our God to the far reaches of the Galaxy!”

Sam could hardly wait.

Judging from their reactions the next day, both sides obviously felt that they had screwed the other royally—it was the best type of agreement. The surviving and badly tattered Mephitisites, including the new Speaker, who staggered to the meeting the next morning, were overjoyed to verify that they would receive a steady supply of Scrofulosan religious artifacts once they had their population off of the planet.

The Scrofulosans were happy that they would finally have their planet to themselves. The monetary arrangements Sam arranged were nice, too.

Chlorine visited Sam just before he left for the ship that awaited him in orbit overhead. Ahbbbb had booked him on a Dimannian luxury liner. “It has the very finest of accommodations,” she’d hummed during their last ansible call. After the last few weeks on Scrofulous Five anything that was dry and lacked distinct aromas would be a welcome change as far as Sam was concerned. Luxurious accommodations would be a bonus that he felt he richly deserved.

The Scrofulosan presented him a small package. “It is a special reward for all you have done for us, deaf-beast. It is our way of showing how much we appreciate your fine job of achieving accord between us and bringing those alien Mephitisites to God.” The gift was obviously another of the damned sculptures.

“I shall treasure it always,” he said. He hadn’t the heart to tell Chlorine the truth about the Mephitisites’ use of the objects. As the new Speaker, Phluttt-two so succinctly belched, just before departing eagerly for his final gourmet dinner; Whoosh-phlatt-blah-blah-whoosh, blah-blaat! which had translated as “A superbly delicious condiment—especially when lightly frowlzed!”

Sslovva had not been around for several days and Sam began to fear the worst. He had to admit that he had grown to like the little fellow and hated the idea that the tiny Rix could have made a fatal error in the pursuit of love. As he waited to board the ship he occasionally saw one of the Rix hopping along a passageway, but was never close enough to determine whether it was Sslowa or not.

So he was doubly surprised to see the tiny Rix just as he started to squeeze himself through the narrow, diamond-shaped Dimannian airlock. “Where have you been?” Sam asked by way of greeting. “I was getting worried about you. Didn’t think I’d see you before I left.”

CLICK! “I wouldn’t have let you get away without thanking you for your sage advice, Earth-Sam. As a result of my decision I feel wonderful. It was the most moving experience of my life. Oh, I cannot believe how unfulfilled I was before this happened, how limited were my horizons, how—”

“OK, OK, so you got laid and it felt great. How did the little lady, Sslinno, come out?” Sam could only guess what the poor thing had gone through—something appropriate to the nightmares of the New Victorians, he imagined.

“Sslinno? Oh, she is fine, a little tired perhaps, but what can you expect after laying all of those eggs and building that glorious, unbelievably sexy incubator.”

“Incubator? Eggs? I thought that you two, er, that is…” Sam stumbled for a moment and then decided that the direct approach was best. “How did you do it?” he asked, point blank.

The Rix hopped back. “Why Sam, that is a very personal question. However, since you shared your own ridiculous mating practices with me, I will tell you. We only did it the normal way, after all, this was the first time for both of us!”

Oh yeah, Sam thought, remembering the wicked looking thing that Sslowa had grown in preparation for his tryst, and what would the “normal” way be?

Sslowa continued; “After Sslinno confirmed to me that she was in the female phase, she proved it by laying a beautiful clutch of eggs and then building an incubator over them, striving her utmost to make it impenetrable. Oh, Earth-Sam, it was the most wonderful, beautiful assemblage ever created; it had solid ceramic coatings, steel structural supports, and a ferroconcrete core with a titanium cap. As I watched it grow I felt myself become increasingly excited; this was one formidable female, one worthy of my attentions. The lust in me was nearly irresistible.

“Then, after she placed the final cap on the incubator, she did the challenge dance and dared me to assault it. She danced around for hours, defending the nest, moving with agility to block my every feint, working me up to the point that I thought I would explode. Finally, I could stand it no longer and, leaping over her to surmount the nest with a strength that I did not know I possessed, I found the single weak point, drilled into it, and snapped off my positor to seal the breach and fertilize our brood. Sslinno sang the submission song when I broke free and I did the victory dance in response. It was the most wonderful, fulfilling experience of my life.” Sam sighed; as on Earth, descriptions of the actual event turned out to be such a disappointment. “So, after a while I guess there will be a couple of little Rix from you two?”

“A couple? No, Earth-Sam, if what I suspect is true about the potency that we both felt, then Scrofulous Five will have a new contingent of Rix engineers within a year—probably a hundred or more. Our group will once again be back to full strength! Thank you Earth-Sam, thank you for your sage advice.”

Such were the ways of love among the Galactics, Sam thought as he said his farewells and quickly struggled through the hatch.

He just hoped that he could get inside before Sslovva asked him to be the godfather.