by Roger Bourke White Jr., copyright 2010
This is a light-hearted story about a young Earthman and an alien, struggling together to make an interstellar trade deal that is valuable and profitable. Here, mankind and aliens “go Star Trek” on us—they have undefined ways of quickly talking and moving from star system to star system.
I paused for a moment to admire the statue. It was a real statue—tons of brass and granite—just like the old days. Even the kids that came by were impressed. They instinctively gravitated to the polished steps and ledges. Mothers would follow, issuing their equally instinctive warnings, but the statue is quite safe and quite accessible.
Yes, the Ministry of Interstellar Trade controlled money, and they weren’t afraid to show it. I chuckled to myself thinking about the scandal of that statue. It depicted Commander Wartly taking his first step on Pluto two years ago. That was honorable enough, but the statue was finished before Wartly had taken the step!
The Traders had come just after his launch. He went into deep sleep knowing he would be the first, and rather than disappoint him and the millions of people who witnessed his launch and knew what was going to happen, we saw to it that he was. It was a concession to our pre-Trader-contact past when intra-solar system travel was a long and hazardous process. Wartly was the last of the breed.
Thanks to Trader technology, we built a couple ships twenty years after Wartly left that raced him to Pluto. One of them even intercepted Wartly’s fleet and did some checkups and maintenance before it zoomed ahead to await their arrival at the planet. They didn’t bother to wake Wartly—just made sure he, the ships, and the crew were OK.
By the time Wartly arrived and woke up, unmanned probes had surveyed Pluto and Charon down to meter-across resolution and done a thorough resource analysis. The follow-up expeditions let him land first, but they told him where—which is why the artist could start making the statue weeks before Wartly even woke.
They let Wartly land first, but the scientists and colonizers who had come on Trader technology ships were down and established two days later. Wartly’s landing was such old news when it happened, that the Ministry decided to unveil the statue concurrently with the historic event it commemorated to give it some current interest. Kind of gutsy, considering they didn’t really see what happened until four hours later when the signals arrived from Pluto. After that, they made Wartly governor. I don’t know why. He was fifty years behind the times, but I guess tradition again. The people there felt he had the experience so he should run the show.
I passed the statue and headed for my office. Yes, our contact with the Traders has made quite a difference. In the atrium a holo poster floated announcing “2059–2109. Celebrating fifty years of Trader contact.” Fifty years? It seems we’re just getting through the preliminaries.
Why is it taking so long? Well, it took ten years just to get the Traders to come inside Pluto’s orbit. They broadcast to let us know they were out there, then waited while we sorted things out here on Earth to prepare for their arrival. It took that long. When first contact was made, half the population wanted to send out the marines—even though we had no idea where to send them or even how to get that far out. For a couple years defense budgets skyrocketed. When it became clear that the Traders wouldn’t even get close until we got our act together peacefully, things settled down.
Once the negotiations started, it became clear that we were a low-cost labor source for them. They traded us technology so we could use it to make useful goods for them. They showed us how to build intrasolar-system space engines, and we build them by the hundreds now—half for us and half for the Traders. They organized technical institutes; we sent engineering students; the graduates now translate Trader specifications into solar system factories.
This system has worked well. And it’s worked well thanks to us. I’m part of the Ministry of Interstellar Trade. We’ve prevented the Traders from doing to us what some of our European predecessors did to our African, South American and Asian predecessors: take advantage of their ignorance to negotiate exorbitant deals. Well, at least we like to think we have. Who knows what’s up those alien sleeves?
Which brings me to my job today. Over the years we’ve come to believe that the Traders are handling us with kid gloves: They don’t show us a thing that we don’t think of first. About a year ago some skin-headed professor took this idea public, and in spite of our past good work, we’ve started getting pilloried by the media. They wanted to dismember the Ministry monopoly and let free market forces participate: “privatize” Trader negotiations so advancements can flow faster.
The Ministry response has been to expand and hire people like me. I’m part of the new Agricultural Life Forms Section of the Consumer Trade Goods Department of the Trade Expansion Division within the Ministry. Our division is charged with expanding our trade relations beyond the technology-for-finished-products stage. I’m here in this very nice office with my new M.B.A. diploma to show that “privatization”, and its potential for abuse, isn’t necessary for expanding the scope of Trader-Solar System activities.
I turn on the screen to reach Gork Tag, my Trader liaison. “All right, Gork, what have you got for me today?”
“Ah, Mr. Curio, right to business, as usual. So unlike Mr. Amir who likes to make what I think you call ‘small talk’ first. You Terrans are all so delightfully different.”
I look carefully at Gork in the screen. His purple leaves look more greenish today.
For some reason I blurt. “If I may ask, how do you tell us apart, Gork? Do you see differences?”
“See? As in visualize using electro-magnetic radiation? No, I know you by your voice. Our sight organs are quite undeveloped compared to yours. If you were close I would also distinguish you by the trace chemicals you emit—your smell—and, this is even harder to describe in your language, your textures.”
“You mean, how I feel?”
“How you feel on your outside, yes.”
“Did Mr. Amir mention you look different today? I was wondering, are you well?”
“How amazingly perceptive this sight organ of yours is! This must be why you do so well manufacturing. This optical virtue gives you an innate sense for precision that we can barely conceptualize.
“As for your question. Why, yes, I’m very well, thank you. I feel I will be going to seed soon. It is a wonderful time for us Traders. In fact, it’s likely I will be replaced soon here at the trading position. Seeding is a time of rapture. Wonderful, but not a good time for clear-headed trading.”
“Well, it sounds like congratulations are in order. In the meantime, let’s get back to our discussions about Hereford cattle. You’ve seen the specifications I sent you?”
“Yes I have, Mr. Curio. But I’m not quite sure what we’re supposed to do with this chemical factory you call a cow. Why not just gene splice what we need out of bacterial mats the way we do now? It certainly seems a lot easier than trying to tool up to cultivate grass and dozens of other organisms to sustain this one organism. Cattle-raising and the markets for cattle by-products seem much better suited to Terran conditions than anything we can create.”
“But have you considered.…”
*****
I finished dinner silently. The day had not gone well. After a few hours of review with Gork Tag, it became clear that the major Earth crops were major here because they were well-adapted to Earth conditions. From cows and sheep needing grass to hippopotamuses needing water, it seemed like any agricultural animal needed a support “tail” that would be hard to duplicate anywhere but Earth. We decided to break while I had dinner and time to think.
I went into my office at home, deep in thought. I turned on the viewer. Bandit, the most affectionate of the family cats, jumped up on the desk intent on getting “pats.” Bandit was very insistent, and as the viewer came to life, I was obliging him by rubbing his ears and neck as he had his feet on my chest and was licking my mustache.
“Ah, is that one of your offspring, Mr. Curio?”
I chuckled. “No, Gork, but a good guess. This is Bandit, a family cat.”
Bandit put on a good show. He pranced around the desk as I stroked his back and tail, then rolled over so I could scratch his belly. The purr was almost deafening.
I looked back at the screen. Gork Tag was fascinated.
“What are you doing to this … ‘cat’ … is it?” he asked.
“I’m patting it. He enjoys getting patted, and I enjoy patting him. He is covered with a soft fuzzy fur and his purr sounds nice.”
“I hear that you are both enjoying it. Does this cat enjoy getting ‘patted’ by everyone?”
There was something different in Gork Tag’s voice. The talk of cows and pigs and such earlier had been business-like. I could sense even with my limited acoustic perception that this was different. I thrilled.
“Well, everyone in the family can pat Bandit. He will even tolerate the dog, but the dog doesn’t pat him, only people do.”
“The dog?”
“Another animal that people like to pat, would you like to see him?”
“You keep these animals just to touch them? You don’t consume them?”
“That’s right. These animals are called pets.”
“And you raise them to touch them and listen to them?”
“That’s right. And to watch them.”
“Mr. Curio, I’m so glad you invited me to your home! Here is something we can talk further about!”
*****
It was in the pre-dawn darkness, hours ago, that I passed the statue today. It’s the big day when Gork Tag and I make our presentation to the full Trade Expansion Acceptance Committee. If the committee says yes, then I’ve, we’ve, opened another multi-million dollar trade channel. Gork Tag is on the viewer as I begin my summary presentation.
“Gentlemen, it may seem a little odd that this new trade channel should be under the Agriculture section, but we are dealing with an alien race. We can’t expect to interface with them solely in ways that are traditionally suited to human-human needs.
“As Gork Tag has pointed out to me time and time again, our traditional agriculture with its goal of producing nutritious foods is well-suited only to Terran conditions. The Traders have access to many other, many more efficient, ways of producing nutrition. Agriculture is important to us only because we’ve invested generations of capital and knowledge to develop it into the form we have now.”
“Mr. Curio,” a hand was waving in the audience, “how come the Traders haven’t shared these other technologies with us?”
“I’ll take this one,” said Gork Tag, “The most important reason is that your nutrition-producing industries are well-suited to your needs. It is rarely easy to transfer nutrition technologies.
“The second is that if a transferred nutrition technology does prove successful, it almost always means severe social dislocations. Witness the dislocations caused just by the moving of your indigenous technologies from place to place.”
There were mumbles of approval in the audience.
The speaker looked around, then retreated, “None the less, Mr. Curio, this is something you should pursue further when it’s appropriate.”
“We are, sir, that is our main goal. In the meantime, we have come up with an area that promises immediate rewards, minimal social disruption, minimal capital investment, and it should help relieve the media pressure to widen our relations.”
I motion. An assistant wheels in a cart with a covered box on it.
“Gentlemen, the answer to all these needs lies in this box. What we have here is an agriculture product that isn’t a nutrition system. It’s a pleasure system; an entertainment system with the potential for infinite variety.
“To us this commodity seems commonplace. But to our good friends, the Traders, this is an exciting concept. Gentlemen, let me show you a sample of what, with your approval, will be the newest Trader-Solar System market.”
I lift the cover and reveal Bandit in a wire cage. He looks a little nervous, but I’ve brought him here a couple times before so he doesn’t panic. Calmingly, I stroke him, then pick him up and put his throat next to the mike. Soon the drone of a deep purr fills the room.
Gork Tag speaks. “Gentlemen, this creature, a creature bred to such perfection for affection, is a significant attainment. We Traders are interested. We understand that there are several other Terran organisms that can be ‘pets’ as you call them. We see a market here. We have selected some organisms that we think you will enjoy as ‘pets’, too.”
My ears fill with the applause. The exotic pet trade is about to be launched, and I will be the Director in charge. Not a bad start for a wet-behind-the-ears M.B.A.!
*****
Six months ago the first pair of cats were crated up and sent off. The traders got the best: pedigreed Persians from a family of known purrers. In return we got two alikoxinons—nicknamed imps—the creatures that Traders had selected from a galaxy of worlds to be our first exotic pet.
The two imps were exotic. They were a foot long, three pounds, and hexapedal. They had extensible necks like a turtle and big, black, dewy eyes. Their skin was most unusual: it consisted of layers of soft, delicate membrane covering a tough turtle-like back. The imps could be patted, and when they were, the membrane would release a beautiful, distinctively fresh, scent.
“Long ago the membrane was a chemical defense, much like your skunk has. The harshness has been bred out of the odor,” Gork Tag informed me.
The imps could also groom. They would climb around a person using their six legs and muscular fingers to comb and braid hair or give a distinctive, out-of-this-world massage.
For six weeks the imps had been studied in the labs. Now for six weeks they’d been given run of the house. Bandit and Sargon, the white German Shepherd, were both curious at first, and it took a while to get them to back off the imps. The cats wanted to play until they found the imps to be too slow moving and turtle-like to be of much interest. The dog wanted to sniff and paw. But this dog and cat were used to new pets coming into the household, and the imps were accepted by them within a week. In short it looked like the Traders had done us Terrans well once again.
It was the last night of the final quarantine, as I was talking with Gork Tag from home, that the honeymoon ended. Lucky, one of the imps, was massaging my neck.
“Gork,” I said, “these imps are terrific. I hope you’ve got a bunch ready to ship. By the way, how old is Lucky, here?”
“Why don’t you ask Lucky yourself?”
“What?”
There was a quiet soothing whisper in my ear as Lucky nuzzled it. “One hundred six years.”
“Shit!”
I jumped out of my seat. Lucky went flying. It landed on the floor, spun slowly, then struggled to right itself. I backed away.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gork Tag.
“Did you teach these imps anything about Earth before they came?”
“No.”
I pointed accusingly. “It—an extraterrestrial—learned English and our culture in six weeks, all by itself?”
Lucky was eyeing me.
“Yes, it’s possible. They are very intelligent and you’ve been treating it very well. Why … Mr. Curio, I’ve never heard you sound so distressed? Are you ill?”
“We’re about to let loose an alien creature on Earth that’s maybe ten times as intelligent as us, and you don’t see a problem?”
Lucky and I were staring each other down. I’d never noticed before how sinister its eyes looked.
“No.”
“Well, I do.”
I looked around and grabbed a crystal ball I kept as a paper weight. “Lucky, I’m sure you understand me. I want you and Patches to both get back in your cage, right now. Do you understand?”
Lucky said not a word. He walked straight into the cage. Seconds later, Patches came from one of the other rooms and followed Lucky into the cage. Breathing heavily, I bolted the door and double-secured the lock.
“Christ, telepathic too,” I muttered. My heart was slowing a bit as I turned to the viewer. “Gork, what sort of hook were you trying to throw us?”
“Hook?”
“You send a highly intelligent race here posing as pets. What were they going to do, spread and grow for a while as pets, then take us over? Turn us into slaves? I thought you Traders liked what we humans were doing for you? What happened to all the benefits of our cooperation you keep talking about?”
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you want intelligent pets? How else are they going to understand what you want and need? The imps seemed to being doing splendidly at pleasing you. … Wait, are you saying these cats you’ve sent aren’t as intelligent as you are?”
“Of course not. Nothing on Earth is.”
“How provincial. Excuse me, I didn’t mean to insult you. … Wait! You mean these cats you sent us may not come instantly when called?”
“Only if you’ve trained them to. Otherwise they’ll go wild. Cats are quite independent. Here on Earth they’re noted for it.”
“You said ‘grow and take over’. … How often do these cats of yours breed?”
“Oh, two or three times a year producing four to six kittens. Why?”
“Each cat can do this?”
“Half can. The female cats.”
“By the Gods! You’ve sent us an uncontrollable carnivore that eats the small herbivores that spread our seeds! And now you’re telling me it reproduces with a geometric growth pattern? That’s attempted genocide, Earthman! You will be hearing from our lawyers!”
I sighed. I thought of Wartly’s statue. Maybe there’s more to this pioneering business than I’ve been giving the old geezer credit for, and I guess this is how one dries up behind the ears in a real hurry.
In space, no one hears you gasp … in surprise.
The End