“I’ll need help to get this to my quarters,” the machine wheezed and belched in response to his Glax.
There was a flurry of consternation among the Scrofulosans. They tangled together in a knot of limbs and torsos amidst a cloud of indescribable effluent too complex to be translated. “What do you mean ‘quarters’?” one of them finally wafted back at him.
“It’s a place to sleep, to change clothes, to do, er, private things,” Sam answered and waited while the machine huffed and puffed the translation.
“You may sleep wherever you wish, like any other civilized being. We are all but hands of the great God, and God does not hide his hands,” Chlorine/blend-of-sage suggested. “We have no restrictions on where you might choose to sleep, although, er,” the alien coughed a slightly bluish cloud of vapor, “we would prefer that you stay out of the main corridors as much as possible so that your ugliness does not disrupt the aesthetics of our city.
“But now we do not understand what you mean by ‘private things.’ Is this another part of quarters?”
“No quarters?” Sam asked plaintively and tried to remember what Ahbbbb had told him about the concept of privacy among the Scrofulosans. Damn, when would he learn to pay attention to her briefings? First the business about communicating by scent and now this. What other surprises were in store?
As he pondered how to explain what he meant by private things he heard a low roar in the distance, as if a faucet had been opened. The Scrofulosans turned as one and prostrated themselves on the ground, all facing in the direction of the sound. When the sound had faded away, moments later, the group turned again to Sam. “We are pleased that you have come to help us,” one of them whiffed. “It is about time someone put these upstart, alien Mephitisites in their rightful place.”
“I agree, most honored Offal/taint-of-mustard,” Chlorine/blend-of-sage injected smoothly as it stepped forward and touched Sam’s arm. “It has been a terrible trial for us. Especially after our dear ancestors spent their lives taming this joyful and beautiful environment. Ten generations underwent terrible deprivations to build this wonderful city, enduring hardships beyond measure so that we, their descendants, could enjoy the comforts and beauty that you see around you.”
Sam looked around the glowing, dripping, mildew-encrusted walls, the damp floor, and the dank, rough-hewn recesses extending in all directions. “Lovely,” he responded dryly.
“It was my great-great-great grandaunt that put down the first scent trail to the God Hole,” Offal/taint-of-mustard took up the thread where Chlorine had left off. “And now, that trail is daily dishonored by those horrible, terrible aliens who act as if they have rights to the planet we claimed first.” Her diatribe sputtered off in a mist of putrid squirts.
“I will try,” Sam responded softly, “but I cannot make any commitments without hearing both sides.” Best, he thought, to hear what the Mephitisites had to say. In the meantime, perhaps he could get the Rix, Sslowa, to get the monster translating machine fixed so he could carry it, before the little alien scurried off on another project.
The acrid smell of the morning wake-up call had scarcely faded when Chlorine/blend-of-sage appeared. “Did the deaf-beast rest well?” it puffed as it casually scraped a hunk of slimy growth from the tunnel’s wall and stuffed it into its mouth.
“Sure did, nothing I like better than being a doormat for a parade of stinking aliens all night.” The translator chugged his reply slowly as Sam pulled on a dry outfit and ran his fingers through his hair. Why the hell should he do more—how would these aliens know the difference anyway since they’d never seen a human before? Who knew, maybe a little body odor would even help. “Let’s get the negotiations started,” he said as he hefted the awkward scent factory onto his back. “Bring my kit along, would you?”
They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred meters when a huge, slimy, slug-like alien approached. It was the first Mephitisite he had seen since arrival. Sam was fascinated at the way the ragged edges of the creature’s apron of skin nearest the ground flapped as the huge alien leaped. He could hear a fluttering sound as it drew near. A little cloud of mist blew away to either side with each bound.
Whoosh-phlattttt-blah-blah whoosh, the approaching alien retched as it modulated the air flow. “It is not * to curry ** with the *,” Sam’s new silver translator interpreted the exhalations smoothly into standard Glax. “* were not notified of the * arrival, * were not told of * needs, * were not given the * to offer the * of wind.” The Mephitisite flopped to a halt in front of them, its four feathery antennae waving in circular patterns.
It took a moment for Sam to remember that half of whatever the Mephitisites said was expressed pheromonically and the other half audibly. He shoved the earpiece of the scent translator into place quickly, so as not to miss any more of the conversation.
“Wretched beast of the damned, defiler of the Universe, I didn’t expect you to arrive so early,” Chlorine/blend-of-sage exuded angrily, filling the surrounding atmosphere with the rich smell of methane. “I was merely taking this deaf-beast to our meeting place. I was not currying favor.”
The Mephitisite rippled the skinlike apron along its side with the sound of tearing cloth. “You are carrying its luggage, are you not? I must assume that you are being deliberately subservient, acting as a wretched beast of burden simply to gain some sort of obligation from the Earth-thing.” Sam had some momentary disorientation as the translation alternated from ear to ear. Things were apparently audible and actions and descriptors were scent-based. It was an interesting linguistic adaptation.
The Mephitisite sniffed—a mighty inhalation that dried the floor for meters to either side, and turned its (head?) toward Sam. It let out a blast that sounded like a Bronx raspberry and smelled like an elephant house in August. “I am Flatula, the right honorable representative of those Mephitisites who have settled this gorgeous planet,” it introduced itself. The thing spoke with such pomposity that Sam imagined, had the alien been a Prussian, it would have clicked its boot heels, had it any heels to click.
“Are you the new Speaker for the Mephitisites, detestable being from the stars?” Chlorine/blend-of-sage reeked a cloud of inquiry. “Is that why you have come?”
Flatula jumped back with a blast of air. “Hardly,” it protested. “I merely wanted to ensure that this Earth-thing was familiar with our position in this matter.” A long, slender pseudopod extended toward the burden on Sam’s back. “If you will permit me,” Flatula said as it took the weight of the chemical factory off of Sam’s back. “Now, dearest Chlorine/blend-of-sage, we can proceed as equals. We are now both beasts of burden.”
Since the Mephitisite’s grasp of the translator had pulled the earpiece away Sam could not understand Chlorine/blend-of-sage’s reply but, judging by the aroma that poisoned the air, it wasn’t nice.
At issue, as best as Sam could determine, given the ambiguities and difficulties in converting their aromatic languages to Glax, was that the Scrofulosans stated a prior claim to this planet while the Mephitisites said they had bought settlement rights for their colony fair and square. Both sides contended that the other was being unreasonable.
According to his universal handbook, another item Ahbbbb charged him dearly for, the Mephitisites were well known for sharp trading, planetary redevelopment, and rather catholic palates. Their single, alleged character flaw was an occasional alleged genocide, but, the handbook said in a tiny footnote, only on the outer fringes of the Hegemony, only when no officer of the Court was nearby, and only where proof of what they had done was never possible, largely because of the singular lack of living witnesses, particularly among the genocides.