That was one reason I enjoyed relaxing in the refectory after a long day evaluating humans. It was exclusive even by our standards, and offered a fine array of both Hripirt and Terran food. I hadn’t gotten much past the entryway when someone noticed what I was wearing. “By the spoon of my great-aunt, Mullnor, what is that you’ve got on your foretabs?”
Such a screeching voice could only belong to one Hripirt: Bingokk. He was at his customary table, feasting on the usual greasy lavender mound of frobrill eggs. I don’t know why he goes to the added expense of ordering them. Terran chicken eggs aren’t that different in texture, and the fried salty pig-meat that often accompanies them is quite tasty.
His noisy remark caused everyone in the refectory to stare at me. Afttabs buzzed far above the level of ordinary conversation; one could understand why the rare human visitors had deemed this a Drones Club.
I addressed the room at large. “They are an example of a Terran handicraft called knitting, purchased from a human in my survey region. I find them quite fetching.” I removed one with a finger-tentacle, waved it about, then slid it back on. The articles are small, and shaped rather like right angles, so they fit nicely on my foretabs. As foretabs are relatively useless appendages, the covers do not interfere with communication, as they would if placed on afttabs. My demonstration concluded, I joined Bingokk and his shipmate, Delip, at their table.
“That is most intriguing,” Delip said. “When I first saw you, I was reminded of those long-gone days when rebellious youths tattooed their foretabs or had glimmer-nodes surgically attached to them, all for the sake of gaining attention.”
Bingokk began coughing loudly and turned his face away from the table, but not before I noticed the thin line of scar tissue on his foretabs. He is vain, as well as extravagant. Why should anyone care what youthful follies he once perpetrated? To save him further embarrassment, I asked Delip how his meal was. He is partial to Terran black beans, cooked in the style of some tropical island, as am I.
“Do not order them today, Mullnor,” he said. “They taste scorched.”
Heeding his advice, I logged an order of Terran pastries called crumpets with several pots of jam. I am especially fond of orange marmalade, and have shipped a container back home for my many relatives.
“How goes your screening?” Bingokk asked me, his ears swiveling forward with interest. It was common knowledge he has started gambling pools based on when the selections would be finalized. He truly is incorrigible in his various appetites. Our leaders were wise to forbid him to visit the city of Las Vegas, for fear of what chaos might ensue.
“Very well. I think I am ready to register my choice.”
“So soon?” he howled. “But you were still reviewing three different groups only last week! How can you be ready to recommend a human? From which group did you make your selection?”
An angry low hum sounded from a nearby table. “Stop that racket immediately, Bingokk, or I shall fine you for violating the decorum of this establishment.” The rather slight Hripirt, an individual unknown to me, glared venomously, then knocked back a large glass of fermented azot juice. The murmur of his afttabs continued to broadcast his annoyance, despite Bingokk’s feeble attempt at looking apologetic.
“What’s the matter with that fellow? I asked.
“Depression,” Delip said. “He despairs of ever finding a suitable candidate. There are many, he says, who score well on duplicity and slyness, but they uniformly lack common sense.”
“What is his region?” I asked.
“Washington, District of Columbia, United States,” Bingokk said through a mouthful of eggs. He also muttered something indistinct about my family background which I carefully pretended I did not hear.
“Strange,” I said. “Washington is a major population center, as is your region, Delip. New York, is it not?”
Delip’s snout wrinkled in the affirmative. “Perhaps his candidates demonstrate the herd-animal mentality of the ones I encountered on the thoroughfare called Broadway. Many of them dress the same, act the same, and stand in the same endless lines for performances of live actors.”
Bingokk smirked. “It’s not so entertaining watching dead ones.”
His comment reminded me of the worst planet I ever surveyed: the sentient race, who resembled Terran peapods, had made decomposition into a religious cult. We found no suitable candidate there, and it smelled terrible. We left after one of the natives killed a Hripirt solely to see her rot. This, however, is not a pleasant subject to discuss at a meal, so I remained silent. Unlike Bingokk, I know the meaning of restraint.
“Most of our jokes about Terran entertainment are well-deserved,” Delip said, spooning up some beans. “But one of these shows amused me, though not for the same reasons the humans liked it.”
I gave a short blat with my afttabs, but not loud enough to disturb the noise-sensitive fellow. “Call the medical forces; Delip is clearly ill.”
Bingokk shoved aside his empty plate. “I don’t know which bothers me more: Delip enjoying human entertainment, or Mullnor attempting humor.”
“Let me explain,” Delip said. “This particular entertainment involved the humans dressing as small domesticated beasts and cavorting in a heap of garbage.”
“Are you certain the Advance Teams screened this race for suitability?” Bingokk asked. “They sound delusional.”
Although I hated the notion of agreeing with the disreputable Bingokk on anything, I had to concur. “How is animal-mimicry a form of entertainment? I mean, aside from foolish characters who can pucker up and snort like wild gronkree, hoping to induce laughter at dull parties.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Bingokk’s afttabs relax in mid-pucker. He is as predictable as the Terran satellite’s cycle.
“The show is more complex than that,” Delip admitted. “The actors playing beasts represent human characteristics, such as vanity, gluttony, and so on.”
“Ah, it is a morality piece, such as Tipli the Humble wrote!” I said. My cousin is a noted scholar of ancient literature, so I am reasonably familiar with it.
Bingokk, obviously sulking, took out his all-purpose unit and flicked his finger-tentacles over it. I suspect he was revising the odds on his Candidate Selection Pool. “Humans portraying animals who act like humans. Madness! I truly hope I find my candidate soon, and can leave this planet.”
Delip, well-accustomed to her shipmate’s tantrums, ignored him. I do not know how she endured them on the long voyage to Terra. My patience will survive occasional encounters with him, but not daily ones.
She continued: “The beasts parade before their Elder, hoping to be chosen to ascend to animal paradise, or so a devotee of the actors informed me, for it had made little sense to me. She explained their characteristics determined which one is selected, and this amused me, for it seemed so similar to our job of screening the candidates for the voyage back home.”
Delip is a pleasant being, but every so often, she falls prey to flights of fancy, and this, I fear, was one of them. For while certain personality traits are common to sentient beings—without them, civilized life would not exist—others differ from race to race. We Hripirt had already learned that while we share much with Terrans, we value some characteristics that they view with distaste. Some of their religions even regard them as moral crimes. For Delip to equate our search with a silly Terran entertainment showed poor judgment.