Transcendental by James Gunn Page B

to the process,” Riley said and moved off to the group that contained the weasel, the Sirian, and the Alpha Centauran. All the members of the group guardedly turned toward him. “Their posture suggests the possibility of violence,” Riley’s pedia said. Riley held his hands in front of him, palms up. “I join you in your excellent choice of Tordor as representative,” he said.
    The galactics relaxed.
    “Tell me how you chose him,” Riley said.
    “Some choices are not choices,” the weasel said in his characteristic whine.
    “So obvious they require no thought?”
    “These persons have learned to live in peace by thinking clearly.”
    Riley again felt surprised at the eloquence of the alien, so different from the lingua galatica pidgin he had grown used to. Either the aliens were becoming more adept or his pedia was becoming more skillful as examples accumulated; or perhaps the aliens had been concealing their sophistication behind a pretense of patois. “Without emotion?” he asked.
    “With logic.”
    “Forgive a poor, hotheaded, ignorant human,” Riley said, hoping that irony didn’t translate, “but perhaps you could tell me why you are here on this pilgrimage.”
    “In this matter, this person can speak only for itself,” the weasel said. “This person comes from an ill-favored planet where life is hard and cunning is essential. Logic tells this person that evolution has pushed its people into blind alleys. Transcendentalism offers these persons a way out.”
    “And you?” Riley asked, turning to the Sirian. “If you will forgive my inexperience?”
    The Sirian opened its eyes. “Inexperience is correctable; ignorance is teachable; effrontery is unforgivable.”
    “I am a poor, ignorant—” Riley began again
    “My native world is the daughter of two suns,” the Sirian broke in, as if to cut off a repetition of Riley’s self-abasement. “And thus my people are drawn in two directions—one hot blue and near and one yellow and distant. We live in the near blue but we long for the remote yellow. Somehow this dichotomy must be resolved.”
    Riley would have turned next to the coffin-shaped alien, hoping to get beyond the enigma of its existence, but the ship’s communicator announced the next Jump, and a moment later the illusion of transcending reality began again.
    *   *   *
    Tordor returned an hour later, escorted by two battered guards. Tordor was unmarked but indignant. “You may expel me from your company,” he said, “but you will have to deal with me before this voyage is over.”
    As soon as the guards had left and the hatch had been locked behind them, Riley spoke. “I gather that you did not get along.”
    “They would not talk to me,” Tordor said loud enough for everyone to hear. “They would not answer my questions. They would not let me go where I needed to go. Finally I confronted the captain, and he refused to discipline his subordinates. I could not do my job.”
    In a lower voice that only Riley and Asha could hear, he added, “The captain agreed that I was not the right representative.”
    “What shall we do?” asked the weasel.
    “We will have to make a more practical choice. This being”—Tordor pointed at Riley— “is the captain’s species and shares the captain’s language and experience. He can come and go freely and learn what we cannot.
    “Because he is human we distrust him. His kind has not yet earned our respect, much less our trust. We do not know what they may do, or why. But I have learned that we must trust if we are to earn our reward. And so I ask that you name this being your representative.”
    The passengers milled around before the weasel turned toward Riley, Tordor, and Asha once more and the weasel-like alien said, “We agree.”
    Tordor spoke only to Riley and Asha once more. “It had to be this way. First they must see that their choice is impractical. Second they must learn to accept what they cannot change. It is a