Jim Baen's Universe

Introducing: Stories by new authors

Common Ground

Written by Mackey Chandler

Illustrated by Mike Rooth

After years of patiently straining to catch a cosmic whisper, the first alien radio signal heard by humanity was blasted at the com dish on the International Space Station from meters away.

Sergei Vasilevich Dvoinikov had finished the official traffic for the day and was speaking with his wife when he was cut off and the speaker spewed a burst of strange tones. The pattern to the noise didn't register the first time at all. It was odd, like somebody attempting a turkey call on a clarinet. His tour with the two Americans was making him comfortably bilingual, so he carefully grabbed the pull handle for removing the radio unit from the rack with his left hand and firmly smacked it with his right fist, repeating the magic restorative phrase—"useless piece of crap"— between each thump. When the English incantation failed, he sighed and pressed the button that would run the self-diagnostic program for the unit. In seconds it informed him that the radio and supporting systems were in perfect condition with no failures or errors despite the abuse. That left nothing to do but call Jed Yoho the American, who was not sleeping and conveniently the most experienced with electronics, to ask his help.

"Cowboy!" Sergei yelled. "Is Japanese radio. Is not supposed to bust. Help me figure out what's wrong with friggin' hunk of junk." The mic was still open.

Jed's voice came through the open hatch. "Maybe it isn't tracking. Have you checked that the dish is pointed at a ground station, Sergei?"

"Diagnostic checks that, too. Lying piece of shit says all is well."

"Let me pop in the observation blister. Maybe the miserable thing finally fell off." The sounds of Jed moving around were audible through the open hatch over the steady drone of cooling fans and ventilation that never let up. Sergei gave the unit another half-hearted smack, more to pass the time than with any real hope.

Jed's voice came loudly from the other module with a hollow ring like from the end of a great pipe. "Holy shit!"

That didn't worry Sergei. The silence that followed did.

"You okay, Jed?" There was no reply. "Talk to me, cowboy!" He was more worried about the continued silence than any radio trouble. He twisted around on his left-handed grip and lined up for a quick jump for the hatch.

"Get me a camera, now!" Jed roared from the next module. Jed was commander, but Sergei had never heard such a tone of voice from the easygoing American. He switched objectives and instead jumped over to the equipment cabinets and withdrew a case with a Canon digital SLR. Turning it on, he pressed a button and checked the battery strength in the viewfinder. The bar showed almost a full charge.

Just then the radio put forth a fresh batch of the odd tones.

"Oh my God, that's him on the radio!" Jed yelled, which left Sergei puzzled. Allen was sleeping and there wasn't anyone else on board. "Turn it up, turn it up, and where's that camera?"

"Coming," Sergei yelled, rushing back to turn the volume up to full, then to the hatch edge to pull himself through. In the space beyond, Jed's torso and legs dangled through the grab hold ring surrounding the observation bubble. He was stuffed into the clear bubble just short of his elbows. One arm reached down blindly with his hand spread wide anxious for the camera. Sergei pushed it into his hand and Jed pulled it up into the blister without a word of thanks. His body hanging out twisted around as Jed positioned himself and worked the camera. Sergei heard several faint beeps as the camera took still frames. Then Jed emerged and swung aside, his face still showing he was deeply shocked by something.

"Wake Allen up. Tell him to hustle. If he tries to take time for more than a piss, grab him and drag him here."

"Yes, sir," Sergei acknowledged, and fled for the sleeping module. If Jed was so shook up he thought both of them together could drag Allen anywhere he didn't want to go while half awake, Sergei wasn't about to argue. It was shear fantasy. Allen was big and fast, and grumpy when he woke up. But when Sergei shook Allen awake, it was the look on Sergei's face that made Allen peel out of his sleep sack and hurry without argument.

Jed was still verifying he had good files in the camera when they returned. "Get in there," he ordered, pointing at the observation bubble. "You were designated mission specialist for this contingency."

"For what?" Allen asked, still foggy.

"Alien contact."

Allen searched Jed's face, and then Sergei's, to see if it was a joke. There was no humor on Jed's face, and a glance told him Sergei was shocked too, so he grabbed the hold ring and swung into the bubble without any more protests. Allen's eyes focused to look for something in the distance. Instead, there was a huge mass blocking almost the entire view of the Earth. He blinked a couple times, brain working to grasp the proper perspective. The sucker was big and close. Too close to be comfortable. Rock-throwing distance. In the middle was a clear bubble a bit bigger than his own with someone looking back. He had no doubt that it was a someone not a something. The large intelligent eyes were looking back at him with interest. It looked birdlike at first glance, patterned in bright colors like a parrot. No, he thought, looking at the head—more like an owl, with both big eyes looking forward instead of on each side like a parrot. His hand come up unbidden and, abandoning all the planned protocols for first contact, he waved. In zero G you don't wave like a dog wagging its tail. That sort of motion whips your attached body back and forth in an unpleasant reaction. Instead he held his hand palm out and wiggled all his fingers in a rippling motion. The cute sort of wave a four-year-old might do. It was stupidly dangerous. There was no telling what any gesture might mean to an alien culture. The alien held up a big but delicate hand and rotated it back and forth like a radar dish sweeping. Allen laughed out loud and got a concerned, "What's going on?" from Jed.

"You know the funny little twisty wave the Queen does in England? The sort of wave you do to keep from hurting your wrist?"

"Yeah?"

"Our buddy does the same thing."

"You wave back?"

"Uh, I sort of started it."

"Nooo, Allen, you can't do that. It could mean anything. You might have just surrendered the station or insulted his momma. We're supposed to start with abstracts. Numbers first."

"Jed, the instructions we got were very general. They didn't know if an alien would be anything like us. I mean, it could have been something like a giant clam. This guy has hands and eyes. He talks and he's symmetrical like us. We should be able to understand each other," he insisted.

The radio gave another burst of sound. This time Allen saw the alien open its beak. It wasn't any seed eater, that was for sure. It had the hooked powerful bill of a raptor. There were big nostrils at the back of the beak, with a slight ridge around the openings and a ring of fluffy fur or feathers around the base that looked soft, and another big ruff of contrasting feathers ringed the neck like a collar. His blast of sound getting no response, the alien started repeating back what Sergei had transmitted unthinking on the radio, unaware it had been listening— "useless piece of crap"—then it visibly strained, beak opening wide, to do a passable imitation of a fist smacking into the radio housing. It was clearly coming from the alien's beak, but it sounded like a recording.

"Uh-oh. This is going to get really confusing if we don't straighten it out fast," the big American muttered. Allen held both hands up flat and interrupted: "Wait!" The alien stopped and blinked solemnly at him.

Allen pointed at himself. "Allen," he said. Would the alien understand?

The alien pointed across at him. "Allen," it said with Allen's exact voice and inflection. It was clearly speaking, his beak moving, not a recording. The creature was a perfect mimic.

"This is too easy," he mumbled. The alien cocked his head.

"Finger," Allen continued, holding his right index finger up. Then he turned his hand around hiding his thumb and wiggled all his fingers. "Fingers."

The alien started to lift a hand and seemed to think better of it.

Allen made a fist and wiggled a solitary thumb. "Thumb."

The alien curled its three fingers down on a palm and extended a hand, wiggling a thumb on either side of the single hand.

"Thumbsss," it declared, clearly excited. A collar of yellow swelled against the green body. There were bits of blue and red around the head, too. The big eyes were bright with other mixed colors.

"Thumbs," Allen agreed, waving both of his.

"You can't just take it upon yourself to do a first contact without any help," Jed protested from outside the dome, tugging on Allen's ankle. "We have a procedures manual you're supposed to follow and the first thing is to contact control."

"I have a big-assed starship right in front of my dish blocking me from asking for any help. What do you want me to do? Wave him away? Tell him to move it or get a parking ticket?"

Jed sighed. "I'll get my laptop and keep track of what you're doing." By the time Jed came back with Sergei, they had gone beyond one finger, two fingers, and the alien held up three fingers in anticipation of the next numeral. After that it just held up one more digit in succession until Allen had counted off ten for it.

The alien held up a thumb. "Thumb."

"Thumb," Allen agreed, lifting one of his.

"Finger," the alien spoke like a challenge, holding the thumb out again. Allen felt a thrill at the brilliant ploy. It was a deliberate error, he was sure.

"No," he refuted, lifting a thumb and naming it.

"Thumb." The alien changed its statement, holding the correct one up this time.

"Yes, thumb."

"Finger," it tested, holding a single middle digit up. It gave a whole new meaning to being flipped the bird.

"Yes," Allen agreed without elaboration.

"Finger," the alien asserted, holding up a thumb.

"No," Allen corrected, waiting for it to expand on the idea.

"No finger?" asked the alien, holding up a thumb.

"Not finger," Allen explained holding up a thumb. "Is finger," he added holding up the proper digit.

This progressed until Allen put his hands up again and went back to the first word the alien should know: "Wait," and held very still for a moment. Then he ducked out and discovered Jed and Sergei sharing a laptop and a take-hold strap. They had a voice recognition program running and a vocabulary list in another window.

"I want you both to introduce yourselves. Just point at yourself and say your name. It might think Allen is our word for human."

At a gesture from his commander, Sergei went first and told his name. He hesitated, trying to engrave the sight of the alien in his memory, but he knew he wasn't the right person to be giving it English lessons, so he ducked back out and deferred to Jed.

After Jed named himself, the alien pointed at itself and let out a warble that sounded like a cell phone ringing. Jed ducked his head down and asked Allen, "Get me my micro-recorder off my desk, will you?"

The alien was fairly patient, just cocking it's head now and then while they waited. When Allen returned he pressed the small recorder into Jed's hand. The commander cleared it to use, finger poised to start it recording.

"Jed," he reminded the alien, pointing at himself. Then he pointed across at the other and hit Record. The alien pointed at itself and repeated the warble.

Jed hit Stop and held the recorder up, making sure the volume was turned up. He pointed to the alien and pressed Play. The machine repeated the warble. The beak opened and then closed without a sound. Then the big eyes blinked twice. "Yes," it agreed. "Wait," it added with the appropriate gesture. When he returned he had a laptop computer that could have been from Radio Shack if the keys had only been a bit bigger and fewer. He stuck a finger in his beak, wiping it on the end of a small cylinder and pressing the cylinder on the inside of his clear bubble. It stuck. With a little fiddling he soon had a video feed of himself on the screen from the little camera.

"Guys, pass the laptop up. You won't believe this shit, but he has one over there that looks so much like ours it's scary. If it had a Toshiba logo on it, you'd never look at it twice."

The laptop was a tight fit. He didn't have as much room in his bubble as the alien, and he suspected Allen couldn't have fit with the computer. When he got the computer up where it could be seen, the alien got visibly excited. Jamming his head against the dome, he finally managed to get the computer open with the screen tucked under his chin and the corners against the clear dome. Reaching in awkwardly from the side, he got the cam above the screen activated When the picture facing him showed his ship and his own image looking back at him, the alien used more of its own speech. It pointed at its screen and then back across at the humans.

"I think it wants to send us video," Jed called out to his mates. "Can you scan and see if it's transmitting anything that might be video?"

"Why don't you turn the wireless on?" Allen suggested. "Maybe it could detect that."

"Come on. What are the chances it'd have a compatible system?" Jed asked.

"Hey, if its people have a lot of experience at meeting strangers, the computer might be set up to scan and configure itself. But hold on a minute until Sergei shuts off the wireless node on our onboard system. I'd let it in the laptop's files, but I sure as hell don't want it messing with our environmental or attitude controls. Crap, I don't even want it snooping through my e-mails. Bad enough Houston can look at 'em."

"Okay," Sergei called from the connector. "I pulled network card to be sure. Go ahead and fire her up, Jed."

Jed folded the computer shut and struggled to turn it around for the alien to see the screen. It was tight against his chest and he had to reach in from the sides to peck with a single finger at the keyboard and mouse. He clicked on the network icon and activated the wireless. It showed a dead connection. He looked over the top of the screen, wondering if the alien would understand he was being invited to make a connection. The alien made the gesture for "wait". About thirty seconds went by and the icon came up on the screen showing they had a connection. It was slow, just a gig a second, but data was flowing in steadily. A cartoon figure very much like their visitor appeared on screen and started to go quickly through the words they had already established. The real visitor in the other bubble seemed satisfied with its cartoon version taking over and withdrew from the dome into his ship. "Well, that was easy," Jed told his shipmates.

Jed backed out of the bubble, joining Allen and Sergei with the laptop, but stayed right under the dome, scared he'd lose the signal. "It went back into its ship. I wish I had enough words to ask it to move it out of the way. I guess we'll just have to keep talking to his avatar here," he gestured at the screen, "until we can. It may take a while, so I think we should get back into a routine covering our essential duties and keep one of us working with the computer." Jed was commander, so his assessment was more than a suggestion. "Allen, you lost the last bit of your sleep period. Do you need more to function, or can I send Sergei off to sleep?"

"I couldn't sleep unless you knocked me out. I'm up for taking a turn at the computer if you'll let me."

"Fine, and I'll get some pix of the ship out there. As much as I can, without going EV. Then I have some environmental maintenance that shouldn't wait. You call us if anything really scary comes up in this program."

"Like what?"

"Well, if it wants us to surrender Earth to the Galactic Union or something. Anything involving it coming on board or moving the station. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," Allen replied with unusual formality.

Halfway through the work shift, the computer started interrupting the training program with questions about English words and phrases from radio and television. It was obviously multitasking, sampling all sorts of transmissions from Earth below to understand words and phrases. Some of the samples it asked about sounded suspiciously like cell phone intercepts. The questions kept getting more reasonable and detailed with unbelievable rapidity. By the end of the shift it was attempting slang and asking questions about regional dialects and use of foreign words. At some point the alien program stopped using their voices; Allen hadn't noticed right away. When Jed came back, Allen was exhausted and happy to have him take over. Right away the program asked, "Y'all from da South, ain't ya, cracker?" Allen then had to detail the depth of differences both linguistic and cultural between the Southwest and the Deep South.

With the conversation getting very extemporaneous, and the number of stops to clarify meanings much fewer, Jed made something clear.

"You know, I don't mean to offend, but it's impossible for us to say your name. I mean, there might be somebody on Earth who's really good at bird calls and can copy it, because that's what it sounds like, but the average human doesn't stand a chance of making a sound like that."

"Yes, I figured that out as soon as you used a recorder instead of repeating back from your own beak, er . . . mouth, that is. I'd be happy to give you a database of our language, but I'm guessing the only way you'll ever speak it is using a computer to translate for you. Why don't you just call me George? And when you say anything to me, figure you are talking to the alien not the computer program. For all practical purposes that's true. George seems to be a fairly innocuous name that doesn't carry any negative thoughts. I don't see it being used as a joke or a curse on the net or in broadcast right now."

"Oh, you got online okay from orbit? Gee, there's a lot of crap there that might be real confusing to you. I see some sites while surfing that look like they were made by another species instead of humans. How'd you hack in? Off satellite?"

"No, I put a drone down and am online with free public wireless in Ann Arbor. I understand hacking in is frowned upon. No point pissing somebody off before I even set talon on the planet. So now I'm GeorgeA@Michtel.com. I applied for a bank account online. When my MasterCard comes I'm going to pay for more bandwidth than the free pipe."

"Your MasterCard? You're really adapting quickly. What did you do for a Social Security Number? And, uh—where are you having it sent? We don't get mail delivery up here—very often."

"It's going to George Alien. I thought about sending it to a homeless shelter but worried that might look bad. I hope you don't mind. I had it sent to your address. You were in the white pages and Sergei and Allen weren't. You'll have to help me make a deposit and activate the account. The Social Security number I got from a website that helps people from the Mexican nation adopt to living in your country. There was a whole list of usable numbers. Do you think that will work okay?" When Jed didn't reply for a while, George sounded worried. "I didn't insult you somehow, did I?"

"That's okay. What the hell, why not, George?" Allen decided the complexities of illegal immigrants and green cards were more than he wanted to explain right now. At the rate George was drinking in data, he'd figure it out himself within a few days. "My vet thinks it's cute to send his bill out in my dog's name, so now I get credit card offers addressed to my terrier. I guess there's room in the mailbox for you, too. I'll warn you, though, you can't get rid of these people once they start sending you garbage. Wait and see."

"Well, when I go down I really would appreciate some help dealing with things. I'm also going to have to go to the courthouse to register a DBA, or form a corporation. That's a real strange concept to me. I see a lot of places I want to visit. You know—play the tourist a bit. Were any of you planning on going down to the planet soon?"

"Well, no. We were going to be up here another four months or so. They don't have a supply and crew launch scheduled before then. But I imagine you showing up is going to change things. There's going to be a lot of excitement about your visit, you know. That brings up something we have been waiting to ask you. You're parked right in front of our antennas, and they are probably going nuts down below not hearing from us. Do you think we could keep this link active, but maybe scoot your ship out of the way a tad, so we could talk to our people? We're going to have to do that if we're to arrange a visit like you're asking. If we stay out of contact too long, some of the idiots down below may think something bad is going on."

"I'm glad that won't be a surprise. I'm monitoring the traffic, and they already are getting a little excited down there. They've seen my ship with telescopes, and some of their conclusions are just crazy. I was hoping we could do a conference call and you guys could introduce me and let them know I haven't eaten anyone or implanted brain-devouring parasites in your bodies. If maybe one of you would volunteer to go down with me, I'd be happy to pay you to be my guide. I can tell you how to make some neat stuff worth a lot of your money. I think the phrase is 'you'd be set.' I can run you down and lift a new crew on my shuttle if you're not ready to bring one up. I've got an empty shuttle hold big enough to lift one of your spaceships, if you'd like."

"That's really nice, but the way our rules work it will be very hard for us personally to profit from meeting you. It would be considered part of our job—our duty as officers in our service. I'm not even sure they will want to allow you to just wander around out in public. They may be scared that you'll have some disease that will spread. For that matter, aren't you afraid you might catch something of ours?"

"Jed, give me some credit for not being stupid. I've visited dozens of worlds and met lots of aliens. You'd stand a better chance of trading disease with a lobster. If they get all huffy about it, we'll just tell them we'll ask the Swiss if I can visit there. From what I've been reading, they seem like a very practical people. I need to stock up on some things before I leave and it doesn't really matter where I buy them. I'd have thought since your people had the only station in orbit you'd be more—progressive. But the offer still stands to be my tour guide even if I have to deal with somebody other than the Americans. I'd hate to take another day or two to learn German or French. Wouldn't you consider working for me if I can offer opportunities your current position can't?"

"Okay, George, let me talk it over with Allen and Sergei. Sergei is Russian, you know. There are other partners besides Americans in this station, but he probably won't recommend dealing with Russians. It can get complicated traveling there, even for a simple foreigner. Allen is married with kids, so he might pass on showing you around. Just being up here is a difficult separation from his family. I'm single and wouldn't have any problem having you as a houseguest if you don't need some fancy environmental stuff. I won't even worry if you ruin the carpets."

"Are you scared I'll frighten his kids? I've seen your cartoons. I mean, how threatening can I be next to those monsters or a purple dinosaur? I'm much prettier colors," he insisted, fluffing the ruff of yellow around his neck.

****

The computer screen at NASA-Houston showed a conference call, the three astronauts on one side and the feathered alien on the other. The screen at the space station displayed the alien on one side and the head of NASA, Bernard Sepulveda, on the other. Nobody called him Bernie. He usually insisted on being called Doctor Sepulveda. He didn't look happy.

"How do you come to speak English, Mr. George?"

"Just George. We don't do mister. I guess you could call me Mr. Alien, if you must. Your—" he hesitated, "—associates here have coached me for almost two full days. And I have a very versatile computer that could talk with them and listen to a number of radio sources and compare everything and assemble a vocabulary and grammar and feed it to me. I haven't memorized most of the words yet. When we talk the computer runs ahead, whispering in my ear, making suggestions and correcting me after I speak. That's even though my brain is wired, as I have read you people say as a metaphor, to remember sounds. No biggie. You have your own talents. I have mine. Your language is fairly straightforward. Although it about drove me ape-shit batty that you say eleven, twelve, thirteen, instead of ten-one, ten-two, ten-three, or even tensy-one, tensy-two, ya know? It's a wonder your youth will accept it without rebelling."

"Oh, they rebel sure enough, but they tend to favor other causes." Jed grinned.

"I'm sure we'll have many quirks and customs that will amuse you," Bernard agreed, grinding his teeth. It was obvious he didn't like George very much, or Jed for that matter. "I don't believe anyone can learn a language in a couple of days. You must have been listening much longer. But leaving aside why you'd deceive us about that for other agencies to pursue, right now let's consider your status as a visitor. I've consulted with my counterpoint administrator at Citizenship and Naturalization, and we are both confident that all the rules and legal provisions already exist to properly handle your case. Once you appear before a court and seek entry, we'll start processing your plea to have your political entity recognized for visa application purposes. That is, assuming you aren't seeking refugee status?" Getting no response, he hurried along. "Considering the biological isolation problems, we can do that by a video link. We used to release aliens whose status was undetermined pending a hearing, but that had so many problems we discontinued the practice. In your case that seems especially prudent given the public health questions your unique status brings to the table. We'll require you remain in Level Five isolation in a remote area, with a very limited number of volunteers having contact. However the President has expressed an interest in having a video conference with you once we have clear communications with no danger of misunderstandings or cultural offense. Most of the people aware of you are not yet appraised of your facility with languages." He smiled, a wry little disbelieving smile. "Once we have a full workup of biologicals and allergy hazards, both ways, we can consider allowing you contact with various academics and researchers who have an interest."

"Take me to your leader," George deadpanned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have no further wish to converse with you, Sepulveda. It's obvious you are a maladjusted bureaucratic asshole. You're already offensive with your smug conviction that I've lied to you. All I really want from you now is to connect me to President Rice. If she won't agree to treat me like a tourist instead of a lab specimen, and a disease vector, maybe the Swiss will welcome me. I'm starting to see why this quaint little planet isn't a famous tourist destination surrounded by clouds of spaceships dropping happy vacationers off. I'm guessing your sort would welcome us with a huge orbital parking fee and a full body cavity search on landing to make sure we don't have any Nova bombs."

"You can call her yourself since you're so sure of our culture and language after two days," Sepulveda raged, with his face bright red. "I'll resign my position and go to the press before I'll be responsible for you spreading plague among the population." He shared his glare with the astronauts' and paused as if he expected an argument. "Besides questionable motives, it's obvious your kind have no concept of public order and proper decorum." He reached forward and stabbed the connection off.

"Was that last part directed to you or me?" Jed asked. Everybody shrugged, even George.

"Is there really such a thing as a Nova bomb?" Allen asked.

"Shit, yeah. Heinlein wrote about them in Starship Troopers—would I make something like that up?" George sounded offended. "Hey, you guys have Rice's number?"

****

Within six hours they were sitting with the President. Whatever other qualities she lacked, decisiveness was not one of them. Their meeting was going so smoothly, President Rice felt free to offer, "If you'll be here long enough, I'd love to have a State Dinner for you." She seemed to mean it, not as a duty, but looking forward to it. Sepulveda would have choked to hear that.

George's landing shuttle was sitting at Andrews, and he'd promised to run a new crew up to the station after meeting the President. Leaving the station crewless for a few hours without an elaborate shutdown had NASA sweating, but a direct order from the President had ended that controversy. If the Russians wanted another astronaut to go up with them, they'd better hustle.

Sergei's inclusion tonight had already upset both White House security and the Russians, who had expected he would return home directly. He had made clear he now had other plans. President Rice seemed totally unconcerned about anyone who wanted to be upset. "That includes you three," she made clear to the astronauts upon her decisive invitation. On the way down, Jed had pictured them all seated in the Oval Office. Instead they were all in a much more intimate setting, in the private quarters, on comfortable upholstered seats surrounding a low table with a coffee service. He knew for sure that was special, because when Rice had informed the staff to serve them upstairs, after greeting them in the public rooms, here three pairs of eyebrows had climbed in genuine surprise. It was better than good—it was vindication when they'd wondered if their careers were ruined.

George was wearing a big pair of slightly tinted glasses like computer gamer spex. Instead of looking bizarre, it somehow made him seem less alien. He was a fellow artifact user. He handled a cup and saucer like a pro, which was very interesting with a beak. The alien's lower body was more massive than they had expected, tapering out in a counter balance that suggested he would be a strong runner. The legs were not the bare thin form of a modern bird, but more like movies had depicted for a Velociraptor.

"As long as you don't want me dressed in Colonel Sander's secret recipe," George joked. "I've already been roasted once today."

The President stopped smiling and frowned. "What am I going to do about that man?" she asked seriously. When President Rice frowned with those electric eyes, even George showed signs of discomfort. Please don't do anything for me," George urged her. "If you start firing people who offend me, then we'll be creating a group of people who hate me and perhaps have a grudge against my people if more should happen along. One thing my people are pretty good at, besides remembering sounds, is getting along. And I'm sure the less I stick my beak in your business, the better we'll get along. Honestly, your system put Sepulveda there. If you put his number two man in his job, isn't it just a crap shoot whether the guy will be any better? You don't really have time to get to know the fellow, do you? I mean, for one agency head you couldn't invite him to hang around you for weeks or months and really get to know what he's like, could you?"

"God, no. There aren't enough hours in the day. I'd never get through interviewing all the agency heads before my term was over. Nothing would ever get done. Is that what your people do?" she asked perceptively. "Do all your executives know their subordinates intimately? Are you birdlike by being flock creatures, too?"

George made a little squawk, which he turned into a laugh. "No, we're more like hawks. Territorial, and given to enjoying solitude like I am, traveling alone now. But all sapients share certain basic qualities we don't see vary much. Especially bisexual ones. I—uh, guess I haven't mentioned that. I'm male, otherwise I'd be Georgette or something. Anyway, we're so solitary we didn't develop big organizations until we developed com. And when we have a team running something, we tend to hire a whole team that has been together for a long time. We rarely assemble a new team for something important. And we'd consider four years not long enough to tell if they were going to do a decent job or not. If we had a team running a company or a mine, or designing software, we'd give them the equivalent of twenty of your years before we started bugging them about a performance review."

The President's eyes jerked wider. "Then you live a hell of a lot longer than us."

"Damn, I can see how you got your job," George admitted. "You jump way ahead from a datum. I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to quite yet."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing that's all you're really going to want to talk about now, until you're sure you know enough to master the technology—right?"

The President looked like she wanted to deny it, but then dropped the innocent face and admitted, "Yeah, but wouldn't you do the same?"

"Probably. Anybody with a brain would. So you get some researchers, your best guys who know both nuclear