lest its little personality be damaged in some way. One must be kind to the natives, old boyâbeneath one to behave otherwise, donchaknow.
Sometimes, when Kony was sitting around, shaking a little, trying to recover some of his self-respect so heâd be able to go out again the next time, the grotesque hilarity of it would strike him. All those years in the past spent dreading the marauders from outer space, the monsters that would subjugate Terra and make her peoples their slaves! It was funny. Because the Aliens, no matter which part of the Interstellar Consortium they had been sent from in their mysterious rotation of duty, had no more interest in taking over Earth and its colonies than the United States government would have had in subjugating an Appalachian pig farm and persimmon grove. Earth was a reservation planet, a place where dear little primitives lived in quaint but deplorable squalor. Earth was not to subjugate; Earth was to help , to the very limited extent that Terrans could be trusted not to hurt themselves or others with the Alien knowledge and the Alien gadgets.
Here we come! Kony thought giddily, as they stopped to let the conference room door recognize them, announce them, and iris open to let them in. Kony B. Flagg and Antony Quentin Fordle, Special Ambassadors, Department of Analysis & Translation, Top Secret Section, Foreign Service Division, State Department, Government of the United States of America, Planet Earth. Here we come! Little naked heathen ignorant savages, strutting our stuff, rattling our beads . . . . He swallowed bile, as always, and that meant that he entered the conference room with foul breath, as always. With Antony Fordle it was sweat; something about the repulsion and degradation he felt would activatein his metabolism a chemical that turned his otherwise ordinary human perspiration to a musky reekâwhich would gradually permeate the room in spite of the air exchange systemâs most valiant efforts. Here we come, Kony thought, with our different but equally appalling primitive stinks! Chop chop. He put on his most icily contemptuous facial expression, for his own benefitâit certainly would not impress the Aliensâand stepped into the room, ready to do his duty.
This time, if the briefing had not been flawed, thereâd be one Alien that was the real thing and one that was a robot simulacrum. No way to tell which was which probably, though D.A.T. folklore was that if you were good enough you could spot the simulack by the pupils of its eyes. Kony had never spotted one yet; he waited until he was told. The Aliens were scrupulous about telling you things like that. âI am X, Robot Simulacrum of Y, who speaks for Planet Z.â And then you knew where you were, and it didnât matter one diddly anyway.
The real thing turned out to be in the seat on the left, the simulack on the right. And they were both polite versions, able and willing to speak Panglish, which would make this easier. Both nodded genteel appreciation of the ritual greetings and salutations in their respective native languages offered by the speech synthesizers, which had been programmed by the Lingoes. (Who Kony hated more than he hated the Aliens; because the Lingoes were family in this context, and when your family turns on you, itâs much worse than when strangers do it.) Refreshments emerged from a slot in the wall and floated over the small conference table on a gravytrain; it waited while Kony and Antony made their selections, playing a folktune while it hovered near them. Then national anthems were piped in, and holos of the relevant flags were made to wave at the center of the table; opening speeches, taped for convenience, were played. Every possible effort was made to help the Earthlings feel comfortable, and it was all torture. And when at long last the end of the introductory ceremonies was reached, and the session formally began, it was as abrupt as the
Sometimes, when Kony was sitting around, shaking a little, trying to recover some of his self-respect so heâd be able to go out again the next time, the grotesque hilarity of it would strike him. All those years in the past spent dreading the marauders from outer space, the monsters that would subjugate Terra and make her peoples their slaves! It was funny. Because the Aliens, no matter which part of the Interstellar Consortium they had been sent from in their mysterious rotation of duty, had no more interest in taking over Earth and its colonies than the United States government would have had in subjugating an Appalachian pig farm and persimmon grove. Earth was a reservation planet, a place where dear little primitives lived in quaint but deplorable squalor. Earth was not to subjugate; Earth was to help , to the very limited extent that Terrans could be trusted not to hurt themselves or others with the Alien knowledge and the Alien gadgets.
Here we come! Kony thought giddily, as they stopped to let the conference room door recognize them, announce them, and iris open to let them in. Kony B. Flagg and Antony Quentin Fordle, Special Ambassadors, Department of Analysis & Translation, Top Secret Section, Foreign Service Division, State Department, Government of the United States of America, Planet Earth. Here we come! Little naked heathen ignorant savages, strutting our stuff, rattling our beads . . . . He swallowed bile, as always, and that meant that he entered the conference room with foul breath, as always. With Antony Fordle it was sweat; something about the repulsion and degradation he felt would activatein his metabolism a chemical that turned his otherwise ordinary human perspiration to a musky reekâwhich would gradually permeate the room in spite of the air exchange systemâs most valiant efforts. Here we come, Kony thought, with our different but equally appalling primitive stinks! Chop chop. He put on his most icily contemptuous facial expression, for his own benefitâit certainly would not impress the Aliensâand stepped into the room, ready to do his duty.
This time, if the briefing had not been flawed, thereâd be one Alien that was the real thing and one that was a robot simulacrum. No way to tell which was which probably, though D.A.T. folklore was that if you were good enough you could spot the simulack by the pupils of its eyes. Kony had never spotted one yet; he waited until he was told. The Aliens were scrupulous about telling you things like that. âI am X, Robot Simulacrum of Y, who speaks for Planet Z.â And then you knew where you were, and it didnât matter one diddly anyway.
The real thing turned out to be in the seat on the left, the simulack on the right. And they were both polite versions, able and willing to speak Panglish, which would make this easier. Both nodded genteel appreciation of the ritual greetings and salutations in their respective native languages offered by the speech synthesizers, which had been programmed by the Lingoes. (Who Kony hated more than he hated the Aliens; because the Lingoes were family in this context, and when your family turns on you, itâs much worse than when strangers do it.) Refreshments emerged from a slot in the wall and floated over the small conference table on a gravytrain; it waited while Kony and Antony made their selections, playing a folktune while it hovered near them. Then national anthems were piped in, and holos of the relevant flags were made to wave at the center of the table; opening speeches, taped for convenience, were played. Every possible effort was made to help the Earthlings feel comfortable, and it was all torture. And when at long last the end of the introductory ceremonies was reached, and the session formally began, it was as abrupt as the
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