Saucer of Jam

When the alien space ship arrived – chock-full of impressive technology, enough to convince even the most paranoid skeptic that this was the Real Deal – humans of all stripes and persuasions were falling over one another to get a gander at the craft, its inhabitants, and whatever else was going on.

Twitter's stock split (again), the web lit up 24/7, and news people never seemed to go to bed. Maybe, as some suggested, the aliens had taught them how to clone themselves, complete with perfect hairdos. The aliens (or rather, the androids they had sent in their places) appeared to be teaching important people a lot of things: new products appeared on the market, at reasonable introductory prices, there were rumours of medical advances, including a cure for the common cold, and the airwaves were full of startling images of the aliens' homeworld, which looked like a realtor's paradise.

Of course, only world leaders got to talk to the androids, who explained patiently (as androids are built for patience) that yes, they (or rather, their flesh-and-blood creators) had been monitoring Earth for a very long time, were big fans, in fact, and knew as much as the next rabid fan about the place's history, habits, and general quirks. Just ask them. In fact, they modestly supposed they might even know more about the running of the planet than the average local inhabitant. Though they didn't like to brag. The androids proved this, right off, by asking for the world leaders and media darlings by name. They even knew all the trivia from the comic books and scifi blockbusters.

Anybody who wasn't a world leader or media star (the androids appeared interested in construction tycoons with bad hairpieces and political ambitions, as well as over-muscled and/or scantily-clad movie folk) just had to be satisfied with the day-and-night coverage of everything from the latest glimpse of the interior of the ship (mauve, surprising choice) to endless discussions of Lady Dada's wardrobe malfunction at the android-attended Oscars. (The androids appeared only mildly interested, leading to speculation that the androids' bosses were similarly equipped.) As usual, hoi polloi sat and gossiped while the major players did whatever major players did.

Finally, after the usual high-level talks, the following facts emerged:


The aliens' homeworld had plenty of room for new settlement, and was issuing invitations.
Only the best, brightest, most gifted – meaning the well-heeled and famous – need apply.

In other words, business as usual. People expressed opinions on Facebook ('Like! Like! Like!') and collected collectibles commemorating the hotly-anticipated day of departure. Ratings had never been higher.

***

When Jim Garrity presented his media pass (www.homeopapenews.com, a modest start- up whose bricks-and-mortar assets consisted of a desktop and an outdated 4-in-1 printer in the corner of his living room), the guard at the gate grunted rudely and pointed vaguely in the direction of the holding area for insignificant press types. Jim clutched his second-hand notebook computer as he shouldered his way into his bleacher seat, but could not suppress a moue of distaste at the shabby treatment.

'The problem with you,' remarked a voice at his elbow, 'is that you still think you count as a person.'

Jim swivelled in annoyance to the speaker, who turned out to be a short man with wiry red hair, who grinned up at him, showing crooked teeth. 'I do count as a person,' Jim protested. 'So do you. So does everybody.'

The little man shook his head vehemently. 'Nope,' he said emphatically. 'That's where you're wrong, my friend. We don't count. We've never counted – not to them.' He pointed in the direction of the tarmac outside the bleacher area, where the gleaming spaceship stood, doors wide open to receive the well-escorted line of beautifully-dressed prominence proceeding up the red carpet – hands empty, of course, as their luggage had been sent ahead. That's what they had People for. Jim snorted as he watched Lady Dada wave to the many fans who'd come to see her off. To their disappointment, her wardrobe failed to malfunction, but she was still gorgeous.

'I don't suppose they could take everybody,' he remarked. 'Of course they'd take the movers and shakers. The people who...' he stopped.

'The people who count?' The little man chuckled. 'See what I mean? You've been indoctrinated since birth, only you don't know it. Somebody told you that you didn't count. And you believed him.' Jim waved the pest away (while involuntarily thinking, 'my father, my mother, my teachers'), and after paying an exorbitant $15 for a Coke (it was a warm day, and the concessionaires knew how much the traffic would bear), he settled in to follow the ceremonies, take pictures, and blog like all the others. Jim could type and watch at the same time, and did so. The boarding took hours – it was meant to, to allow each and every celebrity his or her red-carpet moment – and there were intervals of entertainment, mostly musical, from B-Listers who obviously felt that, although they hadn't been issued a ticket, they could comfort themselves in the knowledge that, the A-Listers away, they might get a few more gigs than usual. Jim listened, watched, noted in the usual style. (The British Royal Family is well-represented today, having flown to the Launch Site here in Baja California early this morning...the Queen is wearing a tasteful ensemble in, need we say, royal blue, as she leans on the arm of her granddaughter-in-law, who lives up to her reputation as one of the world's best-dressed women in a stunning outfit of...)

Jim stopped to stretch while a boy band sang the new charity song, God Bless the Earth, copies of which were on sale at the gate. As he did so, he noticed that the little man beside him had neither laptop nor camera, and appeared to be taking in all the action without paying particular attention to it. He hadn't even bought a programme. This made Jim curious.

'Hey, buddy,' he ventured. 'What outfit are you with? You don't seem to be taking any notes. Don't you blog?'

The little man winked and tapped his forehead, an oddly endearing gesture. 'It's all up here,' he explained. 'The people who sent me just want my impressions, you know. They can get the rest from the web.'

Jim shrugged. 'Nice job,' was all he had to say to that.

The man stuck out his hand. 'I'm Gabe, by the way,' he said, and of course Jim replied with his name. It turned out that Gabe, while unencumbered by the tools of the paparazzo's, reporter's, or indeed any other trade, had brought something better – namely, sandwiches, which he proposed to share with Jim. As the two munched away at surprisingly tasty hoagies (Gabe explained that he'd flown in from Philadelphia), the two chatted about this and that, as the floor show below continued with a 'farewell clip show' of popular scenes from the award-winning stars who were about to be going...well, out into the stars themselves.

Gabe mused. 'Nice thing about these bleachers,' he commented. 'I don't see many wasps or ants.'

Jim thought. 'Probably because the whole set-up was just put here for the launch.' Gabe nodded.

'I imagine you're right,' he said. 'You know, where I come from, we used to have a lot of trouble with wasps at picnics.' He chuckled. 'Doesn't it just get your nanny when you're trying to eat, and those biting insects get between you and your potato salad?'

Jim had to agree. 'I know what you mean. Not much you can do about it, though. If you spray 'em, the poison will get into your own food.'

Gabe laughed. 'That's true. But we knew a better trick than that.' Seeing that Jim looked interested, Gabe went on. 'We just set a saucer of jam about 100 yards or so away. The wasps would always go after the jam, and leave our picnic alone. They drown in the sticky stuff, too.' Jim decided that Gabe was a pretty practical fellow, as well as generous with his hoagies, and they got along well for the rest of the afternoon, all through the launching ceremony, in which the national anthems of 26 nations were performed by mass choirs. Finally, when it was all over, and the ship itself was only a distant point on the twilight horizon, the two new friends adjourned to the least fashionable (and therefore least crowded) bar they could find, and drank to friendship before heading back to their hotels.

***

Somehow, it was Gabe Jim thought of when he saw the news a few weeks later – images from orbital telescopes which had captured the moment when the spaceship from Earth was supposed to be launched into the aliens' captive wormhole.

The moment, not to put too fine a point on it, when the spaceship full of Earth's most important and newsworthy citizens blew up. Brightly and soundlessly and finally, somewhere on the edge of the solar system. Jim stopped to reflect, along with all the other citizens of Earth, on the loss of so many of the planet's political, military, economic, and society elite.

***

The next time Jim thought about Gabe was when he saw him on television the day after the explosion.

Gabe was getting out of the other spaceship, you see, the one that had people in it rather than androids.

Somebody was calling Gabe 'Commander Gabriel', and the little redhead was explaining what the new offer was. They'd brought a lot of nice things, you see, and were looking forward to getting to know folk...

Somehow, Jim was sure the new offer involved good food.

And that in this scheme, everyone counted.

Xenos

I'm crying, and I can't stop.

I've been crying for three days, now, ever since they brought me up here to the mother ship. I've tried to stop - it isn't manly, and it isn't dignified - but I can't. They are kind - bring me meals, and a sedative so I can sleep nights. Might as well call it night, though here in orbit it doesn't seem to matter much, just eight hours in twenty-four.

Eight hours that I go quiet, and forget about it all, and don't dream, thank goodness. It must be getting on their nerves, all this crying, but they're so polite. They never mention it.

I know what will happen if I can't stop, though.

When SETI informed us that there were, indeed, 'aliens' from other worlds - that they'd received Communications from Out There - I was as excited as everyone, I suppose. Particularly as I realised I stood a good chance of being among the welcoming party when they finally got here.

They'd apparently intercepted Voyager, and been as excited as we would have been. Only, they had warp speed capabilities, and could come visit. They sent us a calling card - proof that they knew pi, and had language, and music...

Oh, that music. We were surprised, having sent Beethoven and Chuck Berry. They sent a single-voice recording - no instruments - that, well, made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. In a good way, of course. It's just that every person who heard it had exactly the same feeling - as if the tune were so obvious, somehow, as if you couldn't believe you'd never heard it before (though you hadn't), but having heard it, you couldn't imagine the world without it.

The only thing they didn't send was a picture of themselves, the way we had. And that gave us pause for thought.

When the people on our end of the phone realised the Xenans, as they called themselves (they managed to send messages to us in our major languages, being better at that, too, it seemed, than we were), were headed our way and would arrive within months, we on the reception committee started preparing. We mapped out sightseeing tours, arranged for security, the whole nine yards. We even knew what we wanted to say: Welcome, hope you come in peace for all Beingkind, that sort of thing.

What worried us most, however - and what took up most of our practice time - was controlling our reaction to the way the aliens were likely to look. After all, the last thing we wanted to do was to spoil the first impression we'd make on these lovely people - who had travelled lightyears to see us, after all, and who had sent some very nice presents ahead of them, including the solution to the Riemann Hypothesis - by recoiling in horror from their slimy tentacles, or compound eyes, or hairy, apelike bodies.

So we practised. Hiring actors in prosthetic makeup, we practised making our speeches without blinking in front of science fiction's most imaginative monsters. This was sometimes hard just because they made us laugh. Less easy were the mock state dinners. Keeping one's rubber chicken down while one's neighbour dug into a bowl of juicy grubs covered in tomato sauce was a job for the stout of heart. We remembered it was for humanity, and we persevered until we could smile and inquire politely if the motor oil was a good year.

Sociologists, psychologists, philosophers, even theologians lectured us about the possible differences in outlook between ourselves and our guests. Linguists warned us about pronouns, ethologists about body language. After months of preparation, we felt ourselves ready.

How wrong we were.

The young (?) Xenan female - I know she is female, from her short hair, and her dress, and the timbre of her voice - who has just brought me a delicious aloo palak seemed encouraged to see me writing.

'Why, how wonderful, Dr Bhabha.' She stretched out her hand, as if to touch my shoulder, but when I involuntarily shrank back withdrew it. 'I hope you enjoy your meal.'

I can eat and cry, I have found. But the food is delicious. It is always delicious - each meal the best I have ever tasted.

The shock of their arrival - their technological superiority, their knowledge of us, their appearance - was compounded by the horrendous news they brought. There was no question about it - Earth had only a short time to live. Events which even they could not prevent would lead to our sun's going supernova before its time. We had only two decades to prepare the mass evacuation.

The Xenans have been gracious, helpful, and utterly kind. (They are unfailingly kind.) They have made their vast resources available to us. They have promised us homes on their inhabited worlds. Such worlds are few and far between, it seems. This is not a gift to be weighed lightly. It is the gift of survival for the race of humanity.

Why can't I stop crying? My own survival depends upon it. If I learn to stop, I might save others. The others who can't stop crying, and who, if they can't, will not be able to make the journey.

For at the end of the journey are Xenans.

When the first delegation - four males, two females - stepped to the designated meeting platform, symbolically chosen at Cape Canaveral, the spot from which the first humans had left to go to the moon, we understood our mistake - and the revelation was devastating. For me, for so many of us.

The world was watching, of course. I believe that the satellite television audience was the highest for any event in history. After a few words of greeting, the leader stepped back, and a male and a female stepped forward, and, with the most gracious of smiles, began to disrobe, apparently both to satisfy our natural curiosity and to allay our fears about weapons. To show trust.

How misplaced was that trust, I wonder? What we saw destroyed our hearts.

Two Xenans, the male and female distinguished mainly by slight differences in their musculature, by different dress and hair style. Bipedal, bilateral symmetry, binocular vision, hair on their heads, none on their bodies.

But - they glowed. And they were beautiful. Every inch of their skin glistened, every muscle rippled with perfection. There were no unsightly blemishes. There were no visible sexual organs.

They were human - almost.

They were better than human. They were perfect. And at that moment, I believe, the heart went out of me - and out of so many who were watching.

Of course, those who were not in the room could not smell the newcomers, as I could. The odour was pleasant, not overwhelming. And indescribable. Nothing on Earth had ever smelled like that, and yet - it was perfect. Once one had encountered that scent, one could never imagine being without it.

The Xenans are as good as they are beautiful. They are concerned that their presence disturbs some of us so greatly that - should we not be able to overcome our reaction - we will have to be left behind on a doomed world. For the Xenans know of no worlds which are not already inhabited. By themselves. They are willing to share.

I have said that they know of no other worlds, but this is not quite true. The Xenans have asked me to write this account, bare as it is, for a particular reason. They have discovered another inhabited planet, some distance from here, and are sending a team even now to contact them, for they fear yet another disaster in the making, and the need for yet another rescue attempt. They would rather die than not try to save them. And yet, they fear rejection.

So I am writing this for you, the peoples of another world, whose name I cannot pronounce, and of whose nature I am ignorant. This is my hope for you:

I hope that you are green. That you have six arms, or three eyes each. I hope that you move by flying, or hopping, or that you live under water. I hope that you communicate by grunts, or sign language, or elaborate dance. I hope you have three genders.

I hope, above all, that your sense of beauty, and proportion, is not as ours. For then your rescuers will appear to you as pleasant, though possibly ungainly, beings, who are welcome for the help they offer. And not, as in our case, as a curse.

For I have seen the future - and it is not us. The humans of Earth may be rescued from death, but they will never achieve their potential. For the others will always be there, so lovely, so clever, and so kind....

If I can't stop crying, I can't go. If I can't go, I will mourn for the rest of my life, however short it is. For I will never be able to forget the sight of their faces, the sound of their voices, the kind look in their eyes.

If I tore my own eyes out, I could not.

The Xenans have agreed to send this, along with a photograph of myself, ahead of them. Your need is not so great. It may be possible to save your world without alien interference. You have more time than we did.

Choose wisely, my friends.

Yours,

Rajiv Bhabha,
Secretary General,
The United Nations of the Planet Earth

Tinfoil Hats and YOU

Trivia question for my readers (all two of you): Who invented the tinfoil hat?
If you said Nigel from Brightling, you'd be wrong, but I would love you for it.
According to that ultra-reliable source, Wikipedia, the tinfoil hat was first mentioned in despatches in a science-fiction story by Julian Huxley...in 1927. Thus the custom of tinfoil-hatting is of august and hoary antiquity.
As I have now been taunted past endurance on the subject, I have decided to expand the franchise. Read on for a discussion of...

Tinfoil Hats and You

 The first question is not, 'Will the tinfoil hat preserve what is left of my sanity?' but the more pressing and important, 'Will the tinfoil hat give me "hat hair"?' Yes, definitely. Well, maybe. My older female relatives are able to avoid 'hat hair' by the use of strong hairspray. A good deal of vinyl acetate, liberally applied to the surface of the coiffure, should prove steadfast against the pressure of the tinfoil if not pressed down too hard. In this respect, a cost/risk/fashion victim assessment should be made by the wearer.

Our less hirsute brethren should note that should the tinfoil fail to keep the bald head warm enough, the hat can be lined with cotton wool, felt, or even dog combings for a cosier feel. Like its life-saving cousin, duct tape, tinfoil is now available in a variety of fashion colours, although tinfoil has yet to feature at that pinnacle of US industrial chic, the high school prom. (Note its popularity in that couture-conscious steel town, Pittsburgh.)

The next question is, 'Do tinfoil hats do what is claimed for them?' Yes, indubitably. The tinfoil hat creates a sort of Faraday cage around the wearer's head, thus shielding the brain from those harmful rays beamed at one by evil governments and aliens from Area 51. The thickness of the tinfoil influences the quality of frequencies blocked – double or even triple layers are recommended. The arrangement of the hat is key to protecting vital parts of the brain. Those who favour the Napoleonic over the Nelson configuration point out that it is important to cover the temporal lobes in order to avoid hearing unpleasant voices (although to avoid hearing boy bands, it may be necessary to move to the Antarctic). Others recommend crimping the tinfoil to add knobs – and simply changing channels on the interlopers. Nigel favours a number of fashion looks – he is a more advanced sort of tinfoil-hat wearer, and believes that the purpose of the hat is to prevent the government from hearing his thoughts, which are copyrighted.

Some students of the tinfoil hat are fond of pointing out that for some energy sources, incorrect arrangement of the hat might lead to its funnelling the unwanted information toward the brain. We would ask them not to say this too loudly.

There is also the all-important question of etiquette. Removing the hat in the presence of a lady, while chivalrous, might expose the wearer to unnecessary danger. We recommend a jaunty twirling of the knobs over the ears (or, in the case of the Nelson Version, over the forehead), to indicate that while one is no fool, one is also, first and foremost, a gentleman.

Should the tinfoil hat be worn while being presented at Court? Yes, certainly. When receiving Birthday Honours, it is practically de rigueur – provided one has been to the correct haberdasher (look for the Royal Patent).

In these uncertain times, the most important question of all remains – can so simple a substance as tinfoil alone stand between us and the constant bombardment of dangerous and idiotic notions beamed into our brains by malevolent powers?

Perhaps not. But it is a start.

The next step is to turn off the television news.

For all you DIYers out there, we offer Nigel's open-source tinfoil hat below. Measure your cranium, acquire a roll of tinfoil in your favourite colour, and may the Force be with you.

Progressive Dinner



The longest way round is oft
the shortest way home.


A "progressive dinner" is an old American custom in which a group of people have different courses of a meal at different homes. In this story, the venue of the meal doesn't change - but there's a progressive aspect to the dining experience. ;) Cicero's isn't there any more - at least, I couldn't find it on google. Google street view will allow one to take a virtual tour of Forbes Ave, however.
Put your antennae down.

In which our heroes are brave, as usual

RAT-A-TAT-TAT....

The corridor of the battleprobe – typical Serenellian design, old, bulky, exuding a general air of malicious militarism – echoed with the sound of plasma bullets, while the accompanying flashes of tracer turned the ugly gunmetal walls an uglier puke green in spurts. Arpad glanced around as he fired, and spotted Arvid doing his patented one-and-a-half millisecond reload. He shouted – the only way to make himself heard above the din.

"To the airlock! Fifteen seconds to detonation!" Arvid's helmet bobbed in acknowledgement, and they ran.

They made it, just in time. The Galactic Police cruiser was jumping into warp when the rogue probe's career of marauding, murder, and general mayhem ended with a hideous bang – a visual one, at least, on the vidscreen, though space doesn't run to talkies. General A'no"iANS gave the two troopers a thumbs-up.

"Good work, you two. As always. There's a reception laid on in the Deck 3 mess. See you there." He winked. "I wouldn't be surprised if there were a couple of citations for you in this day's work."

They changed out of combat gear and into standard uniform. Striding down the corridor, Arpad whispered to Arvid, "Are you looking forward to this dinner?"

Arvid grimaced. "Reconstituted freeze-dried tahacoes and a canned speech about truth, justice, and the Galactic Way? What do you think?"

Arpad grinned. "Then come with me. I know a great little eatery you haven't been to yet."

Arvid flashed his buddy a grateful look. "Swell idea. If I never eat another candied-chili-filled tahaco, it will be too soon."

He would have said more – about the last six months' assignment, about the Serenellians' irritating habit of trying to claim star systems that did not belong to them, about the lousy cuisine in this sector – but Arpad had grabbed his (Arvid's) arm, twisted a dial on his (Arpad's) wrist, and the entire scene had shimmered out of existence...

...to be replaced by something completely different.

In which our heroes drink something interesting

The ground was solid, the street was full of traffic, and the hour was blue. Arvid gazed around in appreciation.

"Where are we?"

Arpad checked his wrist device. "Earth, North America, a city called Pittsburgh. 1970 is their year, never mind ours. You'll like it, promise."

Arvid turned around and looked –up. Way up. "That's not your 'little eatery', is it?"

Arpad followed his gaze. "No, silly, that's the university building. 42 storeys. All they have is a hamburg joint in the subbasement. Come with me – wait!" He hissed. "Drop the antennae! Nobody wears them here. It's a hair-only zone. Lots of hair, though." Arvid dutifully lowered his cerebral appendages, and Arpad steered them both down the street, labelled at its corners "Forbes Ave", while Arvid admired the interesting beings. One of them tried to sell him something called The Fair Witness– a sort of blog made from paper – while another made what seemed to pass for music on a stringed box.

Ignoring the strains of one, two, three, what are we fighting for?, Arvid asked anxiously, "Are we dressed okay? They seem to wear a lot of tribal beads."

Arpad shrugged. "We're okay. The beads are optional. This is one corner of the universe where jeans and t-shirts that say 'Galactic Police Force' are not going to raise eyebrows." They meandered through the evening student crowd, past quaint, small shops peddling books, antique (well, maybe not) sound-producing equipment, and ceramic "gifts" intended, no doubt, as insulting messages to one's bitterest enemies. Arvid gawked. In one window, a man was tossing dough into the air under a sign that boasted, 'Flying pizza. You order 'em, we fly 'em.' He pointed to a set of yellow arches over one building. "Did you want to eat there? It says something about hamburgs."

Arpad waved this away. "No. Definitely not. The man who invented that poison should have been spaced. Here we are, the ne plus ultra of fine dining, my friend." He beamed as he pointed to the sign above the entrance: CICERO'S.

Before they could go in, Arvid had another question. "What about this?" He pointed to the small, discreet-er sign beside the door:

No shirt

No shoes

No service

Arpad explained. "To eat here, it is necessary to cover both the upper body and the feet. It is a law."

Arvid scratched his head, causing his antennae to appear briefly. "But what if..."

After three thousand years, Arpad knew what was coming. "If you only wear a shirt and shoes, you get arrested. This is a prudish planet. Come on, I'm starving." And he opened the door.

The interior was underlit, comfortable, with leather seats in the booths. Arvid could not resist touching the fuzzy red-and-gold wallpaper, so he didn't. Arpad muttered something about "Early Cathouse", and then a gum-chewing waitress in a pale green uniform turned up, pulling a pencil from behind her ear. (Arpad knew what Arvid was thinking, and gave him a dirty look before he asked about antennae.)

"What'll y'uns have to drink?"

Arpad looked around, and thought fast. "Er, two Censored Marys¹, please." The waitress looked blank.

"Sorry. We don't got none of them fancy drinks in here. I can get you whiskey sours, though."

"Sounds good."

"Irish, Scotch, or bourbon?"

"Irish, please. Rocks." While the waitress was off getting the drinks, they studied the menu. Arvid wanted to know how the currency converted – and then wanted to know why these people were giving food away. Arpad explained about the current lack of inflation, then what inflation was, and had just about got to the Orionian Platinum Panic of '03 when the whiskey sours arrived, cold, tart, and inviting. They accepted the invitation, ordered Number Three on the menu – salad, steak, well-done (no starship trooper ever eats rare meat, he's seen too much), baked potato (after explanation of tubers to Arvid), green beans, and ice cream for dessert. The waitress went off to process this. Arvid sipped his iced drink, surprised at the flavours. Arpad was about to tell a Pittsburgh joke – he'd just remembered one – when a persistent beeping began in Arvid's left rear pocket. "Oh, fnark."

Arpad reached across and grabbed Arvid by the arm before he could complete the fatal move of bringing out his mobile. "Not here," he hissed. "The only person on this planet who has one of those right now is the star of a cheap scifi vid. In there." He jerked his head in the direction of a door marked "Men".

Arvid looked at it curiously. "What do they do in there?"

"You don't want to know. Just go in there and answer it." Arvid obeyed, scooting into the room with his pocket still beeping softly. Within thirty seconds, a middle-aged man with a shirt that said "Len" emerged and made his way, somewhat unsteadily, to the bar.

"You wouldn't believe what that guy's doin' in there. He's talkin' on a little-bitty phone." The bartender rolled his eyes and set another beer in front of him. Arvid slid back into the booth.

"Bad news, I'm afraid. They need us in Sector 9. And before you ask, no, they need us now. Something about a mad professor, and temporospatial simultaneity."

Arpad sighed, they took last sips of drinks, clasped arms, and vanished.

In which our heroes return for salad

The incident in the Farradisic Asteroid Belt, involving (as it did) a galaxy-renowned scientist gone off the deep end, a time-scoop device in urgent need of repair, and the possible end of civilisation as everybody knew it, took longer than Arvid and Arpad liked. So it was a few months later when they rematerialised in the booth at Cicero's.

Nobody noticed this except Len, who was amazingly perceptive for someone with his bibulous habits. The bartender waved away his protests, and wiped up spilled Iron City².

Since no time had passed, their drinks were still cold, and since Arvid and Arpad were bored with manganochutney and fermented pulpa, they went down a treat. More were ordered, and the salad course arrived.

Arvid looked at it dubiously. "Er, Arpad, I don't like to complain, but we've just travelled quite a lot of light-years for what appears to be a wedge of iceberg lettuce topped with some sort of thick, pink sauce with tiny bits in."

"Arvid, my lad, this is true. Those bits are the reason it is called Thousand Island Dressing – or, at least, I think so. This is a simple Terran dish. But when you consider that this iceberg lettuce is the best iceberg lettuce in the known universe..."

Arvid nodded. Arvid tasted. Arvid's eyes lit up. "You're right! This is amazing iceberg lettuce." They enjoyed this treat in silence, and anticipated steaks...

Unfortunately, at this point, the mobile (silenced by a wary Arvid) began vibrating violently, and the troopers had to link arms before the next round of drinks arrived.

In which it is shown that one man's meat is another's invitation to join a support group

The Horsehead Nebula Uprising is, of course, infamous, and since the details are in all the standard interactive history courses, we will omit them here. Suffice it to say that Arvid and Arpad were heartily tired of alkali deserts, multi-dimensional warfare, and the acrid taste of dried megamarsupial. They slipped into their seats at Cicero's, salivating at the idea of charred bovine.

"Hey!" yelled Len. "They did it again. Those two blonds back there. They shimmered."

"Oh, yeah? Shimmered?" groused the bartender. "You are flagged, buddy. Don't be so nebby. Leave those guys alone." And Len's Iron City tab was closed for the evening.

The steaks were everything the two travellers had hoped for – succulent, well-marbled, robust. The baked potato, complete with sour cream, butter, and chives, startled Arvid with the subtlety of its flavour. The green beans were, well, tasty. They chewed in silence, enjoying the ambience and the novelty of good dining.

The mobile had the good sense not to go off until they'd eaten the last bite. Otherwise, they might have damaged government property.

In which it is shown that some things are worth waiting for

Long and arduous was the trek of the Galluminids. Many, many years of police escort were required until this spacefaring race – its migration of paramount importance to stellar peace – had at last reached its new haven in Geminid City. The Galluminids are a hospitable species. They gladly share their daily ration of halli halli rice, sometimes enlivened with a dollop of seya sauce. The sacrifices of the Galactic Police were appreciated. They gave them medals and a parade.

Thus it was that Arpad and Arvid arrived again at Cicero's, weary, weary of the galaxy and all its problems, to enjoy their (just) desserts.

Len stared at them, opened his mouth, closed it again, and headed in a zig-zag for the door.

The waitress appeared. "Y'uns decide what ice cream you wanted?"

Arpad looked at her hopefully. "Butter pecan?" She nodded and left.

They sipped the last of their drinks in peace (because, contrary to orders, they had turned the mobile off). The ice cream arrived – two small, shallow bowls, each containing a single round scoop of frozen deliciousness with real pecans in. They picked up spoons, tasted.

And smiled.

"This is fantastic," said Arvid. "It's just...just...fantastic." Arpad nodded.



The siren call of Iron City beer


"Like I said, the food on Earth is the best in all the 7,000 worlds." Arvid agreed.

The bill came to a modest $8.80. Arpad left a good tip.

And slowly, oh so slowly, savouring the moment, the two troopers walked out into the deepening city night.

"Arvid? Have you ever seen a celluloid movie? I think there's one playing down the street..."

Contact

Four thousand, two hundred and 17 steps from his house to the river. Zarah knew - he had counted them many times. He knew exactly how to make those steps come out even while chanting the hymn, up the long, gradual slope, ignoring the calls of his camels who, rising early, would soon be looking for food and water. His deep-blue turban wound with exactly fourteen twists of the cloth, his robe folded in the manner prescribed by the seers.

He would reach the river exactly at dawn.

When he entered the water, the rising sun would strike his purified body. He hoped, he prayed, that this would be the day he had spent his thirty years of life preparing for.

He hoped, he prayed, that on this day Enlightenment would come.

---

'Ouch!' Jake Vohman jerked irritably at the helmet, readjusting the headset. 'Do I have to wear all this gear? The poor guy will run screaming down the hill. I am a walking cliché.' He rolled his eyes as he lurched around the ship's control room, arms stretched out in parody of some forgotten scifi horror. 'Take. Me. To. Your. Leader,' he intoned.

Technical Chief Uri Ma'az slapped Vohman on the rear with a cleaning rag, and spun the tall, blond man around. 'Hold still,' he sighed, tugging at the helmet until it came off. He took the device to the bench to adjust the padding, calling over his shoulder, 'We have been through all that. This,' He held up the helmet, 'is the only way you can talk to him. We have to use mind-to-mind transmission. And he has to be in the water for it to work.'

Shaking shaggy locks, Vohman collapsed into a swivel chair, which he proceeded to destructively test. 'I know the drill. I show up, do my We-Come-in-Peace routine, and give him the message, using the Universal Translator over there.' He grinned toothily, knowing what was coming.

Ma'az rounded on him in exasperation. 'How many times do I gotta tell you? There is no such meshugenah thing as a universal translator, goyische kop. You can't translate ideas from one language to another when the other guy don't have words for what you've got to say...' He rubbed his chin as he studied the state-of-the-art device, and then nodded as he found the precise words. 'It's a DIT machine, is what it is. Direct Information Transfer, mind to mind.'

He turned to Vohman, who was already getting into the rest of his gear - antigravity belt over a white Fleet-issue jumpsuit, packet of mints in the pocket in case the early-morning air hit his sinuses the wrong way. (It wouldn't do to have a coughing fit in the middle of a Pronouncement.) The short, stocky Ma'az pointed a finger at Vohman, at six-foot-four an imposing specimen, one they hoped would meet the expectations of a worshipper of the Divine and Perfect.

'Remember. Keep your mind clear and on-task. Any and every little stray thought - say, what's for dinner in the mess tonight, what that girl on Reda thinks of you, whatever - will get magnified.' He ran his hands through wiry hair. 'Etymologies are treacherous. Sound associations leak through. If you don't want 'em starting a frog cult, don't think about Rana, get it?'

Vohman patted his tech chief on the shoulder, then gave it a squeeze. 'Don't worry. I'll keep it simple. Just let them know, we're on their side, what we want them to do.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'My thoughts will be pyoo-ah, free from concupiscence...' He reached for the helmet.

Ma'az strapped him into his harness for the journey planetside, wondering privately where this amoretz got his vocabulary from. 'And don't forget - they need to know that the guy from SOSHIA will contact them. To trust him.'

Vohman rolled his eyes one more time as he pulled on his helmet, talking into it to test the mike. 'Okay, yeah. In a few thousand years, somebody from the Special Office for Spatial Harmonics and Intertemporal Affairs will be along. Tell him Uri sent you.' He held up a confirmatory thumb to match Uri's as he stepped into the landing craft.

---

Vohman floated above the water, his hands held out wide, both in what he hoped was a sign of harmlessness and to keep his equipment out of the water. It was necessary for his contactee to be partially immersed - the liquid aided the transmission of thought waves - but it would not be a good idea to get Uri's components wet.

The dark little man below him didn't seem fazed by all the gear. He stretched out his hands in imitation of the gesture, grinning from ear to ear as he stood in the flowing river, the rising sun glinting off the water droplets in his curly beard. Vohman cleared his throat, cursed himself for a fool, then cleared his mind before turning on the transmitter.

'Er, hello, Friend. I come in peace.' Wider grin from local, obviously having the time of his life. Encouraged, Jake went on. 'I bring a message from...' Oh, smeg, who should he say he was from? What would Uri say? He gulped, fearing a cerebral faux pas, but the little man just nodded eagerly.

'Oh, yes, Blessed One, I love you, too, and like you I worship the Creator. May I ask your name, please?'

Blink. Oh, well, no harm in that. Now for the message. Jake went on to reassure the contactee that they were not in the religion business. Nobody wanted sacrifice, especially not of people or animals. Desperately not thinking of a frog at this point.

'We're just like you, really, only we have this trick with time. Don't worry about it, but we want you folks to get the full experience when you finally join us. Which means learning good citizenship. You'd help us a lot if you'd pass that message on, because we can only come back in a hop, skip, and a jump, you see. Hyperspace is kind of imprecise...er, don't worry about it...but there's something we need you to do for a sign to the rest of the team, that we've talked to you...'

He was losing the signal, he could tell in spite of the man's continued smiling and nodding, as the sun rose higher, attenuating the frequency. He had better be fast.

'Towards the target date, somebody from SOSHIA will contact you. Trust him, pass it along, please...' Lamely, 'Tell him, er, Uri Ma'az said hi.' Leaning over - a tricky manoeuvre, Vohman touched his contactee briefly on the neck with the device he held in his palm, hoping this gesture would be interpreted as a benediction, as apparently it was.

Vohman waved goodbye, and wished the other fellow luck as he turned off the transmitter and activated his cloaking device so that he could get to his shuttle without being seen.

'I hope we get better at this, ' he thought as he pulled off his helmet and strapped himself into the pilot's seat. 'I hope that guy doesn't get in too much trouble. Oh, well - we'll find out next hyperjump, now, won't we?'

Lt Vohman of the Confederation Space/Time Corps punched in the coordinates that would take him home aboard the CSS Merkavah. As he sat back, letting the autopilot do its job, he wiped nervous sweat from his face and studied the vial in his hand.

Ha, got you in the resurrection databank, my friend, you're a keeper...now, won't you be surprised?

---

Thus spoke Zarathusht, Zarah-of-the-Camels, to his followers:

'Ahura Mazda has spoken: We are starseed, we are his children.

'Abandon the old religion. Offer no sacrifice to stock and stone. Worship in the heart. Worship by right thought and action alone.

'This have I heard from Ahura Mazda's servant, Vohu Mana, which means Good Thought:

'At the end of days, we will join him in the wonderful new world. Only right action will prepare us to live fully in that world.

'Do justice, love mercy, heed the words of Vohu Mana.

'At the end of time, one will come, the Soshiant. He is from Ahura Mazda. He will reorder things so that we may leave this world behind and go to the next.

'Here is our sign...'

Zarathustra met with quite a lot of opposition to his teachings. He won only 22 converts in his lifetime. Approximately three and a half millennia later his followers still numbered only 200,000 on a planet of billions.

These followers kept faith, however, tried to live good lives, and did what their founder had asked in the name of his friend Vohu Mana:

To light a fire in a dark place.