Angry Young Spaceman (31 page)

I wondered if Jinya had even heard of Luddix. We went into the building and up two ramps, and walking through the curvy, angle-less white halls I felt like I was in the round vein of some giant snowman. I swerved from side to side, enjoying the feel of the slopes under my feet until Jinya hit me. “Be serious,” she mock-scolded.

There was a professor out in the hall talking to a student. “
You must be more diligent,
” he was saying, his back to us.

“Hello!” greeted Jinya.

A weathered-looking Octavian with a turtleneck turned around. The student hurried off.

“Hello,” he said, his eyes wide and watery, offering me a tentacle.

I shook it solemnly and greeted him in Octavian.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but then gestured us into his office.

He turned to me again, like he was checking to see if I’d vanished.

“I was very surprise to hear that there was a native speaker in Plangyo,” he said with polished English. “I am gleeful to meet you. You are the first Earthling I have met. Are you surprise?”

I took the seat he offered, a long cushioned bench that Jinya also settled on. “I am surprised,” I said. “Your English is excellent.”

He laughed, made a deprecating gesture. “It’s horrible.”

“‘Horrible’ is an excellent word.”

He said a few words to Jinya that I missed and she nodded and left.

“
So you understand Octavian?
” he said before I could enquire about her sudden dismissal.

“
Yes, I can speak and understand much Octavian.
”

He looked impressed. “The government believes that the offworlder cannot speak Octavian fluently,” he said, looking around the room.

I wondered if he was worried about being overheard. “Is it better to speak Octavian or English?” I looked around the room, too, and noticed a porkpie hat hanging on a hook.

“Whatever?” he said. He folded his tentacles. “Some words are easy in Octavian, but some are very hard. Because—”

I cut him off. “
I take your hand, I am full of happiness.
” “Hand” needed the
thoc
and “happiness” needed the
op
.

He laughed suddenly at this. His eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. “It is very cunning.” He folded his tentacles again.

He sat there for a second, nodding and smiling. I was at a bit of a loss. I didn’t know what I expected — I had only thought it through as far as this, telling an authority figure. He had a lot of things I assumed he would — a wise look about the eyes, age — but didn’t expect him to have a porkpie hat.

“I like your hat,” I said.

He grinned, and reached out, popped it off the hook and fluidly passed it down a succession of tentacles until it was close enough to place it on his head at a rakish angle.

I laughed, and Jinya came in carrying tea.

“What?” she said, and then giggled at the professor.

“You think I am very handsome?” he said, his eyes wide.

“No!”

He sighed and grinned and hung it up with the effortless-lightning passing. “I am very sorry Sam, but I only have Zazzimurg tea. Before I had some coffee but it is all gone.”

I hid my disappointment. “I like Zazzimurg.”

“The problem with your Octavian is that some people will say it is not real, not genuine,” he said, back to business.

“They will say it is a trick,” I agreed. “Because I use my hand.”

He nodded, taking his tea from Jinya with sincere thanks. I was glad to hear the politeness, since it bothered me that Jinya was expected to get the tea — even if she wasn’t really necessary for the conversation.

“It is real, I think,” said Jinya, handing me my tea. I took the kettle from her and poured hers. The professor made impressed noises about my politeness, which I denied.

“I agree. You use your hand, not a machine.” He rubbed his chin with a tentacle. “But some Octavians will not like.” He shrugged. “But it will make us more modern, I think.”

I was about to protest the use of the word modern in a completely positive sense when the professor burst out of his reverie suddenly. “I have a bright idea!” he said. “My friend is a professor for Octavian culture. We can go to see him.”

He started to refer to his schedule to set up a time for a meeting, and it felt good. I had begun to feel like this wasn’t nearly as significant as 9/3 had hinted at, but now that we were arranging an appointment it felt like it just might be real.

eighteen

The yellow oval of gelatinous substance quivered slightly. I peeled it off with two fingers and popped it into my mouth.

“
It is delicious!
” I said and smiled at the cooking teacher.

“
It’s not like Earth food, I fear
,” she said, offering one to another teacher.

“
It has unique taste,
” I said. “
Did you cook?
”

She chuckled. “
Of course! It would be foolish to buy it when it’s so easy to make.
”

“Sam
,
” said Mrs. Pling, and proceeded to tell me that it wasn’t
cook
, it was
bake.
I nodded patiently and tried to remember how much I had appreciated her English conversation at the beginning.

It was interesting how my understanding of the psychic map of the staff room had changed since I had learned Octavian. How the pretty teachers in the back did nothing but gossip and giggle at the gym teacher’s dumb jokes. How the dumb jokes of the older gym teacher went over much better than the younger one’s, and how the younger teacher was clearly bitter about it. How he took out his bitterness on the gawky history teacher, who had an almost supernaturally relaxed attitude. How he was the only one that got along well with both the clerical workers and the principal. How the principal’s slackness was appreciated by most of the teachers, since he was correspondingly undemanding of them.

The bell played its little tune and Mr. Zik returned. I let him sit down before I pounced.

“I am buying a ticket today for my holiday,” I said. “I have to go to the travel agency.”

Mr. Zik nodded. “We will go together.”

“No, I can take the bus,” I said. I wasn’t just saying that. I knew from talking to my workshop students that my holiday wasn’t just strange by Octavian standards — it was extravagant. I didn’t want to involve Mr. Zik when it may antagonize him at some level. “I just need directions.”

“I cannot give you directions, Sam,” Mr. Zik said with a smile. “My map is in my saucer. So I will have to take you in my saucer.” A student came in, showed something to Mr. Zik. Mr. Zik stamped it carefully and handed it back with a word of praise.

“My vacation isn’t very important so I don’t want to cause you trouble.”

“It is no trouble. It is near my home.”

I looked at him sharply. “And your wife won’t be upset?” I knew Mrs. Zik prepared the dinner, which was usually the case on Octavia.

“I will call! Don’t worry.” He adjusted something on his desk that was askew. The bell chimed.

I got my stuff and checked to see which class I was teaching next. Oh great — the dumb kids. It had gotten easier since I could tell which ones were cursing me out, but it hadn’t gotten easy.

“Well, thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome, a lot,” said Mr. Zik with a wave.

***

We luckily found a parking spot on top of a pile that was only four high. I was still amazed at how much more space-efficient saucers were — where there were 20 saucers here, it would have been enough space for four, five floaters max back home. Some of the best real estate in the universe was wasted to keep the floater companies in business. Stupid Earthlings.

And the mapping function was far better, too, getting us there lickity-split. Stupid Earthlings.

The travel agency was decorated in Stupid Earthling style, but since my planet’s the one associated with space travel I suppose that’s understandable. Just not likeable. The seats were comfortable, though, and had armrests. I was probably the first — and perhaps the last — person with elbows to use them.

There seemed to be a bit of a controversy as to who was going to serve us, so I took in the posters on the wall beside me. Most of them were for Octavian destinations, but one of them showed a gleaming spaceship rocketing through The Mysterious and Inexpensive Neb Galaxy! I studied the poster, which was cheaply made with the only moving image the unconvincing rocket fire, and decided it must have been made specifically for an Octavian market.

“No, it is a not-good place,” said a smiling travel agent when he saw what I was looking at. I wondered if he would have said the same to a naive Octavian in a lower price bracket. My own smile was consequently brief.

“I’m interested in booking a flight to Pleasureworld 33.”

“How long?” he asked, his tentacle wavering over his pad.

“Three weeks,” I said, looking guiltily at the impassive Mr. Zik. He only got two weeks since he had to use the other week for more training.

I told him the dates and he gave me a price.

Mr. Zik let out a surprised whistle. It was a few more creds than I had counted on, but not too many more. Mr. Zik obviously thought it was pricey, and I smiled inwardly imagining what he’d think if he knew about my daily-increasing student loan.

“
It is not a special price for offworlders?
” challenged Mr. Zik.

The agent, wounded, denied it.

I looked at Mr. Zik and shrugged. “OK,” I said to the agent.

“OK!” he chimed.

He scurried off to the back room so quickly I worried a little. I didn’t want to bother going around to a few agents, although I would have on Earth — I just figured if I could do it quickly and easily, then it was worth it.

***

An hour later, we were still waiting there. My elbows were getting sore.

I looked at the poster for Pleasureworld, reminding myself how good it would be when I got there. It was a beach party, complete with dancing, eating, and a pair of suns. It was a classy piece of promotion — it lasted for twenty fun minutes before restarting. It looked real, too.

My eye caught a pair of Earthlings who I’d missed the first time. The tiny figures snuck off behind a tree and started snogging each other’s brains out. I watched, wondering if the poster makers had noticed it, and if so — why didn’t they make it more obvious?

A pretty, distressed female was standing in front of us and I quickly looked away from the poster. The agent who had originally served us had — after apologizing about the delay to our less-and-less tolerant selves — started sending her out. The first delay was to check my legality with the governmental authorities. The second delay was to confirm my existence with the bank.

“
Blood
,” she said, a lower lip trembling. She had a scalpel in her tentacle, which she stretched towards me. I pushed back my chair and she let her tentacles flop dead, defeated.

“
We need your blood for the machine
,” she explained, which didn’t make me feel any better.

“
To confirm his identity?
” Mr. Zik asked calmly.

“
Yes. To the bank. Usually we use oogma-print, but...
”

“
Oogma?
” I asked Mr. Zik.

He lifted the tentacle — the sex one — and I remembered how he had signed for the toilet with it.

Unwilling to attempt a penis-print, I grabbed the scalpel and nicked my hand. Still, it was pretty ridiculous — any Octavian who could successfully impersonate me deserved the honour. I handed it back to her and she ran to the back room, face screwed up in disgust as it dripped to the ground.

I sighed. “I’m sorry about this. I didn’t think it would take so long. Oh! Did you call your wife?”

“Yes,” he said. “But maybe I should call her again. “

He tweaked his wristphone and after a while a mousy woman with glasses answered. It was the first time I’d seen his wife, and I was touched by the similarity between them. I leant into the wristphone’s vid range and called out an apology, and she seemed so shocked I felt silly.

I leaned back in my chair as Mr. Zik continued his conversation, and didn’t look over at the stupid Pleasureworld poster — it better be worth it, but I knew it probably wouldn’t be. I wished I hadn’t let Matthew and Hugh talk us into going there when I would have been happier checking out planets nearby that weren’t Ultimate Tourist Destinations. Maybe Jinya could have afforded to go then...

The first agent came out, his smile a shield. He mumbled an apology and passed me a small gold cylinder — it was awkward, because he didn’t really know how my hand worked, and my impatience made it even more so.

There were the governmental twined snakes at the tip of it — perhaps that’s why it had taken so long, I didn’t know they needed that much official approval. I wiped off the sucker marks left by a very nervous Octavian and relented a bit. He stood there, twining and untwining the tips of his tentacles.

“
Thank you for your service,
” I said, using the honourific.

We started to leave and I waved my little cylinder at the female agent. “Bye-bye!”

A startled smile.

Mr. Zik tapped the saucer door, and it rose. “I am very sorry, Sam,” he said as he climbed up.

I thought I’d misheard him. “What?”

He snapped into the chair and started the saucer up, his tentacles flying over the controls like he was absently playing a fugue to cheer himself up. “I am sorry.”

“For what?!”

“Bleecause... they are Octavian. You will have blad impression of Octavia.”

“
You’re brain-soft!
” I exclaimed.

“Ssss-sss-ss,” he laughed ruefully. He puffed the saucers on top off, and slipped out of the pile.

“No, it’s... I don’t pay attention to them. You give me a great impression of Octavia. You’ve been an excellent host.”

He tilted his head to the side, neither a nod or a shake.

I was seized by the desire to make it clear that I was sincere, yet I felt suffocated by the multiple layers of the habitual Octavian politeness. “Many Octavians, when they help me, are very loud. They say, ‘Look at me, I am helping the offworlder, look at me!’” My voice spiked, because I was excited, I was figuring this out for the first time.